Identity in the Middle Ages: Approaches from Southwestern Europe 9781641892599

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CARMEN MONOGRAPHS AND STUDIES Series Editors Andrea Vanina Neyra, CONICET, Buenos Aires Jitske Jasperse, Humboldt-Universität, Berlin Kathleen Neal, Monash University Alice Sullivan, University of Michigan Further Information and Publications www.arc-humanities.org/our-series/arc/cvm/

IDENTITY IN THE MIDDLE AGES APPROACHES FROM SOUTHWESTERN EUROPE

Edited by

FLOCEL SABATÉ

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . viii

Foreword FLOCEL SABATÉ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Introduction. Identity in the Middle Ages FLOCEL SABATÉ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 1. Identity as a Historio­graphical Concept JAUME AURELL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

PART ONE: CONSTRUCTING INDIVIDUAL IDENTITY

Chapter 2. Baptismal Names and Identity in the Early Middle Ages IGOR S. FILIPPOV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Chapter 3. Personal Names and Identity in the Iberian Peninsula MOISÉS SELFA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 Chapter 4. Gender and Feminine Identity in the Middle Ages ANA MARIA S. A. RODRIGUES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123

Chapter 5. Identity, Memory, and Autobio­graphical Writing in Twelfth- and Thirteenth-Century French Literature MERITXELL SIMÓ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 Chapter 6. Why Ibn Ḥazm became a Ẓāhirī: Law, Charisma, and the Court MARIBEL FIERRO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Chapter 7. Eunuchs in the Emirate of al-Andalus CRISTINA DE LA PUENTE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

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PART TWO: SOCIAL IDENTITIES

Chapter 8. Identity and Minority Status in Two Legal Traditions JOHN TOLAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 Chapter 9. Medi­eval Peasants’ Image of Themselves in Relation to the Seigneurial Regime PAUL FREEDMAN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 Chapter 10. Chivalric Identity: Arms and Armour, Text and Context NOEL FALLOWS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

Chapter 11. The Emergence of a Bourgeois Urban Identity: Late Medi­eval Catalonia FLOCEL SABATÉ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 Chapter 12. Culture and Marks of Identity among the Social Outcasts and Criminals of Late Medi­eval Spain RICARDO CÓRDOBA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261

PART THREE: IDENTITY AND TERRITORY

Chapter 13. Identity and the Rural Parish in Medi­eval Iberia RAQUEL TORRES JIMÉNEZ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Chapter 14. The Breakdown of Vertical Solidarity among the Late Medi­eval Basque Nobility JOSÉ RAMÓN DÍAZ DE DURANA and ARSENIO DACOSTA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Chapter 15. Identity-Making Discourses in the Kingdom of Sardinia and Corsica and the Giudicato of Arborea LUCIANO GALLINARI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309

Chapter 16. The Crown of Aragon and the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae in the Fourteenth Century: Comparing Institutional Identities ALESSANDRA CIOPPI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329



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PART FOUR: REPRESENTATIVE COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES

Chapter 17. Political Identity and Patrician Power in the City of Burgos during the Fifteenth Century YOLANDA GUERRERO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349 Chapter 18. Fiscal Attitudes and Practices and the Construction of Identity in Late Medi­eval Cuenca JOSÉ ANTONIO JARA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365 Chapter 19. Constructing an Identity: Urban Centres and their Relationship with the Crown of Navarre, 1300–1500 ELOÍSA RAMÍREZ VAQUERO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379 Chapter 20. Celebration of Identity in Thirteenth- to Fifteenth-Century Florence, Milan, and Venice PAOLA VENTRONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407

Chapter 21. Local and “State” Identities in Cities of Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-Century Northern and Central Italy GIORGIO CHITTOLINI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures Figure 13.1: Campo de Calatrava. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 Figure 18.1: Graph of the Growth and Distribution of Expenditure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377

Tables Table 19.1: Good Towns in the order in which they were granted their charters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380 Table 19.2: Towns consulted by the monarch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 386 Table 19.3: Number of Judges appointed to the Good Towns (1254, July) . . . . . . . 391 Table 19.4: Fraternity of Good Towns called to supervise the governor appointed by the Parliament (1254, July 27) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 392 Table 19.5: Fraternity (1283) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 394 Table 19.6: Sequence of assemblies related to the Good Towns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 396 Table 19.7: Assemblies and the Fraternity of Good Towns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401 Table 19.8: Delegations from the Good Towns to Paris for the swearing-in ceremony . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 404 Table 19.9: Agreements from the Meeting held by the Good Towns (1328, April 16) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 405

FOREWORD FLOCEL SABATÉ

Let me begin

by using this foreword to explain briefly the aims and ideas that inspire the present book, both through a substantial introduction analyzing what we understand by identity in the Middle Ages, and through specific studies that deepen our knowledge of relevant aspects of a topic of great political importance today. The “power of identity,” to use the title of the second volume of the study of “The Informacion Age” by socio­logist Manuel Castells,1 has been strongly emphasized during the last decades. Different studies have been devoted to analyze the search for identity in our plural societies, the intertwining of various types and levels of identity, the risks around identity conflicts and, in any case, the rise of identity, with its different meanings, in the articulation of current society.2 Too often history has been used to justify real, recreated, or imagined identities. This is not our aim. Noticing the search for identity in individuals and collectivities throughout history, and looking for new perspectives to reach the core of precedent societies, we adopt identity as an object of analysis, that is, as a challenge to open new ways and tools for historians’ work. Certainly, this book places identity at the centre of a project to better understand medi­eval society. By exploring the multiplicity of personal identities, the ways these were expressed within particular social structures (such as feudalism), and their evolution into formal expressions of collective identity (municipalities, guilds, nations, and so on) we can shed new light on the Middle Ages. A specific legacy of such developments was that by the end of the Middle Ages, a different sense of collective identities, supported by the late medi­eval socio-economic structure, backed in law and by theo­logical, philosophical, and political thought, defined society. What is more, social structures coalesced across diverse elements, including language, group solidarities, and a set of assumed values. We understand that identity occupied that central position in defining medi­eval society with two allied concepts: memory and ideo­logy. The former served to ground identity, while the latter consolidated a coherent common memory and identity. For this reason, this book has two companions devoted to each of these concepts. We think that 1  Manuel Castells, The Information Age. II The Power of Identity (Cam­bridge, MA), 1997.

2  Among others: Will Kymlicka, Multicultural Critizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights (Oxford, 1996); Gerd Baumann, The Multicultural Riddle (New York, London, 1999); Mario Carretero, Documentos de identidad. La construcción de la memoria histórica en un mundo global (Buenos Aires, 2007); Gérard Noiriel, À quoi sert l’identité ‘national’ (Paris, 2007); Chatterje Partha, La nación en tiempo heterogéneo y otros estudios subalternos (Buenos Aires, 2008); Hermenegildo Fernandes, Isabel Castro Henriques, José de Silva Horta, Sergio Campos Matos, ed., Naçâo e identidades. Portugal, os Portugueses e os Outros (Lisbon, 2009); Francesco Remotti, L’ossessione identitaria (Bari, 2010); Diego Bermejo, ed., La identidad en sociedades plurales (Barcelona, 2011); Zygmunt Bauman, Oltre le nazioni. L’Europa tra sovranità e solidarità (Bari, 2012); Francesco Remoti, Contro l’identità (Bari, 2012).

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this is a good path for approaching an understanding of the values and interpretative axes that informed the thinking of women and men in the Middle Ages. This holistic vision requires interdisciplinary approaches, as opposed to academic compartmentalization of history, art history, and the study of languages and literatures. With this in mind, we present a work structured in a particular way, beginning with a long introductory chapter (by Flocel Sabaté) on medi­eval identity. This introduction does not aim to map out identity in its entirety, but rather to provide insights into key aspects of the medi­eval understandings of identity. It frames ensuing discussions by exploring the various ways in which individuals affirmed their notion of identity, always involving the individual’s relation to a group with which they felt solidarity. A sense of one’s own identity involves notions of otherness, and therefore involves both external perceptions and an internal sensibility, and relates to ideas concerning “representativity” (the conditions of a representation, from the French word représentativité). In the Middle Ages, this generated various discourses and cultural displays in order to support particular identities, which generated specific collectively-held memories and descriptions of teleo­logical destiny, associated with particular societies and territories. Having established an overview of identity in the Middle Ages, the introduction is followed by twenty-one focused chapters by leading researchers which delve deeper into specific fields. They share a concern for illuminating medi­eval thought, focusing on concrete cases, and prioritizing examples from southern Europe, a region with a large amount of documentation, but which to date has occupied a relatively minor position in the overall spread of research into the Middle Ages. We acknowledge this emphasis in the title of this book, Identity in the Middle Ages: Approaches from Southwestern Europe, which is offered as a means of enriching study of the Middle Ages. The resulting chapters are organized into four domains representing the four parts in the book, offering, in our view, useful ways of exploring identity. The overall concept is part of a long historio­graphical journey, linked particularly to the return of cultural history in the search for new perspectives with which to develop historical research. That is why we invited Jaume Aurell to launch this volume with an overview of this historio­graphical development. Having provided the historio­graphical framework, we delve deeper into the function of identity in the Middle Ages through four blocks we consider axial: constructing individual identity; social identity; identity and territory; and forms of collective identity. Constructing individual identity is, in fact, one of the vital contributions of the Middle Ages, by defining the individual elements that allow a person to define himself or herself, and this continues today. For instance, adopting a name seems crucial in the perception and assumption of individuality. Igor Filippov provides here a fascinating study of baptismal names and self-identification in the Early Middle Ages. Moisés Selfa goes on to show how names reflect a specific identity in a particular social context. Ana Maria S. A. Rodrigues then shows how the personal identity that one accepts is fundamentally linked to the cultural model of gender. She presents varying degrees of acceptance, by different women, of specific ideals of femininities. At the same time, the awareness of one’s individuality, the struggle between individual and group, was evident for instance in twelfth-century literature, where shared memories might include autobio­graphical



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expressions, as Meritxell Simó shows. The assumption of an identity means the integration of a memory, and Maribel Fierro shows, in Islamic society, how this implies specific religious and legal values. Society supplies models into which individuality can fit, but it can also offer space for exceptions, as in the case of eunuchs in Islamic society, as shown in the chapter by Cristina de la Puente. People were never alone in the Middle Ages. They formed part of a group in which they felt integrated and protected. We therefore need to consider identity in terms of the social group. Given that the rules for social order were based on the majority religion, it was necessary to adopt specific status for minorities when Christians, Jews and Muslims shared a same space, as John Tolan analyzes. At the same time, social identity requires us to understand that appropriate models were generated for each social group. Paul H. Freedman shows us how a specific image of the peasant was created in line with the values of medi­eval society, and accepted by the members of that social group. At the same time, at the other social extreme, a clear chivalric identity was formulated, well enough assumed to be widely reflected in contemporary texts, as Noel Fallows demonstrates. And Flocel Sabaté sketches how the Late Middle Ages supplied the economic, ideo­logical, and cultural framework that gave rise to a specifically bourgeois identity. Social order was achieved by combining these units of collective identity. Conversely, we see these marks of identity in social outcasts in the chapter by Ricardo Córdoba that concludes the second part of this volume. Human activity takes place in a determined space, over which mutual influence is developed. Strong relations between people, territory, and identity arise almost naturally. Hence the third part of this book focuses on identity and territory at different levels: firstly, in the smaller space in which everyday life happens, as Raquel Torres shows when analyzing how medi­eval parishes supported individuals in forming a local community. We see another field for social identity within the lordships, a setting in which José Ramon Díaz de Durana and Arsenio Dacosta show us the rise and consolidation of factions (bandos) from lineage, with their solidarity connections. They were a powerful form of mutual identity, which became very complex and affected all relations, either with other powers or the sovereign, and determined the management of the territory and society. Another very different scenario is derived from the political will to promote identification between territory, population, and certain rulers. This led to interesting discourses in which a common identity tried to fashion a specific memory, as Luciano Gallinari shows for Sardinia. Also in Sardinia, Alessandra Cioppi presents the changes it underwent after its incorporation into the Crown of Aragon: the shaping of a specific identity through the implantation of a particular institutional model. Finally, the Late Middle Ages furnished identities based on representativeness, so much so that it is one of the great legacies of medi­eval society. The rise of the urban patriciate was accompanied by the promotion of a specific identification between the ruling elite, municipal government, and city, as Yolanda Guerrero demonstrates. The increasing assertiveness of cities gave them a dominant position over the surrounding territory and the ability to manage their own resources, not least through taxation. José Antonio Jara shows us how a city could portray a unifying discourse to reinforce its dominant position, which in turn meant the generation of a shared identity. Urban

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power not only assumed a representativeness with which it could address the sovereign on behalf of the municipality, but this in turn affected the profile of sovereignty itself. Thus, urban identity helped model a specific definition of the country, apart from the sovereign, and became a counterpoint in defining a duality between the country and the monarch (a distinction, as Eloísa Ramírez presents, in the case of Navarre, that came to be made between the Kingdom proper and the King). In this framework, the construction of an identity for citizenship needed specific rituals, festivals, and symbols. Shared urban self-expression facilitated social cohesion within a common identity, as outlined in Paola Ventrone’s chapter. The cities then went on to strengthen an identity based on their own social cohesion and projected this over their hinterlands. As a result, urban identity could adopt a social, political, and even the sense of being a “state,” as Giorgio Chittolini shows from cases in central and northern Italy. These are the various of lines of enquiry on the theme of identity in the Middle Ages that have occupied the work of the Consolidated Medi­eval Studies Research Group “Space, Power and Culture,” based at the Uni­ver­sity of Lleida, especially through the research project Identity, Memory and Ideo­logy in the Middle Ages (HAR2009–08598/ HIST) financed by the Spanish government, to link the study of identity, memory, and ideo­logy in the Middle Ages. It was a challenge taken up from an earlier project: Historical Memory: Images of the Middle Ages. The Real World and Recreated Space (BHA2003–00523). Both projects aimed to advance new perspectives on the study of the Middle Ages. Close collaboration with the Institute for Research into Identities and Society (IRIS), based at the Uni­ver­sity of Lleida between 2009 and 2013, worked towards the same objective. The work of its research team and numerous wider scholarly meetings held at Lleida helped to consolidate these objectives. This was also made possible with the support of various complementary projects financed by the Spanish Ministry of Research: Identities (HAR2008–02766–E/HIST); Sacred Voices (FFI2008–03031–E/ FILO); Identities: A Definition (HAR2010–10915–E/HIST); Identities: Definition and Context: A Multidisciplinary Approach (HAR2010–10803–E/HIST); and Hybrid Identities: An Interdisciplinary Vision of the Social World (HAR2011–13084–E). Thanks to these projects, various co-authored books on the subject of identity in the Middle Ages have appeared, bringing together the work of leading researchers from varied fields of study related to the Middle Ages.3 This book builds on prior studies and is, to a large extent, a culmination of the work done previously. In producing, selecting, revising, and bringing to fruition the final texts in this volume, the research projects financed by the Spanish government Feelings, Emotion, and Expressivity (HAR-20163  Publications involving the present volume editor include: Flocel Sabaté, ed., Identitats (Lleida, 2012); Flocel Sabaté and Christian Guilleré, eds., Morpho­logie urbaine et identité sociale dans la ville médiévale hispanique (incorrectly published as Morpho­logie et identité sociale dans la ville médiévale hispanique) (Chambéry, 2012); Flocel Sabaté, ed., L’Edat Mitjana: món real i espai imaginat (Catarroja, 2012); Xavier Terrado and Flocel Sabaté, eds., Les veus del sagrat (Lleida, 2014); Flocel Sabaté, ed., Identities on the Move (Bern, 2014); Flocel Sabaté, ed., Hybrid Identities (Bern, 2014); Flocel Sabaté, ed., Perverse Identities: Identities in Conflict (Bern, 2015); Flocel Sabaté, ed., Conditioned Identities: Wished-for and Unwished-for Identities (Bern, 2015); and Flocel Sabaté, ed., Medi­eval Urban Identity: Health, Economy and Regulation (Newcastle, 2015).



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75028-P) and Power Experienced in the Late Middle Ages: Perception, Representativeness and Expressiveness in the Management and Reception of Power (PID2019-104085GBI00), the ICREA–Academia award to Flocel Sabaté (2016–2020), and supported by Arc Humanities Press’s peer review and pre-press processes, have all been instrumental, for which we are sincerely grateful. We hope that this volume, together with Ideo­logy in the Middle Ages: Approaches from Southwestern Europe and Memory in the Middle Ages: Approaches from Southwestern Europe will illuminate in new depth the links between identity, ideo­logy, and memory in the Middle Ages and open new pathways to how we interrogate and understand the Middle Ages.4

4  Translations into English are generally provided as close to the original text as possible, and the original text and edited source is provided in the notes. We follow the press’s practice as a worldwide publisher in retaining native forms as far as possible. Abbreviations to sources from the Monumenta Germaniae Historica (hereafter MGH) follow the guidelines of the Deutsches Archiv journal: www.mgh.de/fileadmin/Downloads/pdf/DA-Siglenverzeichnis.pdf.

Introduction

IDENTITY IN THE MIDDLE AGES FLOCEL SABATÉ* He had no recollection of anything that he had done. He lies in wait for the beasts in the woods, killing them, and then eating the venison raw. Thus he dwelt in the forest like a madman or a savage, until he came upon a little, low-lying house belonging to a hermit, who was at work clearing his ground. When he saw him coming with nothing on, he could easily perceive that he was not in his right mind; and such was the case, as the hermit very well knew.1

According to the twelfth-century tale by Chrétien de Troyes, the knight Yvain lived wild in the forest, naked, killing animals, and eating raw meat because he did not remember any of his previous acts and had gone mad. So, eating uncooked meat and going without clothes demonstrated behaviour inappropriate for a mentally healthy human being, and if someone adopted this behaviour it was because he had forgotten everything he had done throughout his life and had lost awareness of who he was. He would only revert to behaviour considered normal when he regained the knowledge of who he was, in other words, when he returned to his identity. The starting point is thus the individual’s own identity.

Identity of the Individual

The core of the medi­eval human being was thus identity; being aware of who one was and where one came from and so be able to adopt adequate behaviour and determine a future path in one’s life. Does this suppose an awareness of the individual in itself? It is highly significant that historians do not agree on the elements that indicate an assumption of an individual identity. In fact, there is a whole series of elements that, taken *  This study focuses on the medi­eval West, without going into the analysis of societies and cultures like the Muslim or Jewish that, precisely given their importance, require specific treatment.

1  “Porqant mes ne li sovenoit / De rien que onques e’st feite. / Les bestes par le bois agueite, / Si les ocit; et se manjue / La venison trestote crue. / Et tant conversa el boschage, / Com hom forsenez et salvage, / C’une meison a .i. hermite / Trova, mout basse et mout petite; / Et li hermites essartoit. / Quant vit celui qui nuz estoit, / Bien pot savoir, sanz nul redot, / Qu’il n’ert mie an son san del tot.” Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, Le chevalier au lion, MS H. vv. 2822–34, accessed July 28, 2013, http://www.uottawa.ca/academic/arts/lfa/activities/textes/chevalier-au-lion/NouvPres/A/ H2681-3334.html. The English translation is taken from: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Yvain,_ the_Knight_of_the_Lion/Part_4. Flocel Sabaté ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universitat de Lleida, Spain.

2

Flocel Sabaté

together, especially between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries,2 highlight the progressive growth of awareness of an individual’s personal identity. Firstly, there was the spread of Roman law around Europe in the twelfth century,3 arising from an academic artificiality that guaranteed it would be balanced and fair,4 and this supplied a homogenizing legal basis adaptable to every reality. This set out the legal elements for each unique individual, with his rights, duties, and responsibilities, under relevant legislative bodies, whilst not forgetting, at a lower level, the customs based on the “consent of the individuals themselves.”5 This legal approach forms part of the renewal movement that has become known as a twelfth-century “renaissance”6 and undoubtedly accentuated a perception of the individual, not as a rupture but rather as a development of earlier elements. That is why Nico den Bok insisted that the twelfth century witnessed the seed planted by Boethius in the sixth century come to fruition;7 we should add, though, with Chad Schrock, that the first step was settled by Augustine linking Christianity to a Neoplatonic ecstatic vision through which to reach personal consolation.8 At the same time, it is easy to see the link to the notion of person in Roman law and religion, from where it would easily pass into Christian theo­logy, as highlighted by José Maria Ribas.9 In any case, following Aron Gurevich, the path had already been signposted at the end of the eleventh century through both didactic exempla about experiences and allusions to one’s own knowledge.10 Colin Morris, too, situated a veritable “discovery of the individual” between 1050 and 1200, on the grounds that it was the moment when different aspects of culture and religion emphasized an interior perspective (Know Yourself was the title of a book by Peter Abelard) and the concern for self-awareness (“confession”), intimate feelings (affectio), their shared expression (friendship and love in the troubadours), and personal knowledge (“the portrait”). Likewise, at this period, religion focused on the person of Christ (“the Church was at pains to involve the people in the re-enactment of the cen2  Larry Siedentop presents an even longer evolution, from Antiquity to the Renaissance: Larry Siedentop, Inventing the Individual. The Origins of Western Liberalism (London, 2015), 7–348.

3  André Gouron, “Un assaut en deux vagues: la diffusion du droit romain dans l’Europe du XIIe siècle,” in El dret comú i Catalunya. Actes del Ier Simposi Internacional. Barcelona, 25–26 de maig de 1990, ed. Aquilino Iglesia (Barcelona, 1991), 47–63.

4  Antonio Pérez Martí�n, “El ‘ius commune’: artificio de juristas,” in Història del pensament jurídic, ed. Tomàs de Montagut (Barcelona, 1999), 79–91. 5  Walter Ullmann, The Individual and Society in the Middle Ages (Baltimore, 1966), 60–85.

6  Charles H. Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cam­bridge, MA, 1927); Christopher Brooke, The Twelfth Century Renaissance (London, 1969). 7  Nico den Bok, “Richard de Saint-Victor et la quête de l’indiviualité essentielle. La sagesse de ‘daniélité’,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 123–43.

8  Chad D. Schrock, Consolation in Medi­eval Narrative. Augustian Authority and Open Forms (New York, 2015), 1–33.

9  José Marí�a Ribas, Persona. Desde el derecho romano a la teo­logía cristiana (Granada, 2011), 193–200. 10  Aaron Gurevich, Los orígenes del individualismo europeo (Barcelona, 1994), 176–78.



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tral mysteries of Christ’s life, death and resurrection”), while the position of the individual in society still had to be defined (coinciding with a certain stabilization of the feudal order and urban development), following the cultural codes within each social group (aristocratic elites defined by the values accepted as their own), how this individuality fitted with the existing power structures (“the rapid growth of learning, however, soon posed an acute problem of authority”), and a concern for individual destiny (“eschato­ logy, mystical theo­logy”).11 The opening opportunities become evident in literature, where authors and heroes become properly individualized personalities,12 expressing an “inner awareness” throughout chivalric romance, courtly texts, and the plots of romances.13 As has often been stated, the development of the amorous “I” implied an assumption of individuality with the search for how one fitted into one’s surroundings.14 Moving into the twelfth century, as chivalric and other types of romance emerged, the author became a witness to events about which he contributed his value judgments, emphasizing an outlook and a personal perception of the events narrated.15 Even more strongly, in troubadour-style poetry the individual revealed very personal sentiments and sensations, either amorous or political.16 From the thirteenth century, poetry further accentuated the subjectivity of the individual,17 while the novel often took on the task of reflecting specific individuals and presenting them personally to the reader, a clear step towards giving “the reader the sensation of reading something alive.”18 Subjectivity in literary expression reflects a full awareness of the adoption of personal postures.19 By limiting so-called universals, philosophical and theo­logical debates of the twelfth century defended the singular, in line with the assertion of the individual.20 Authors like Abelard emphasized the individual human being, with their own consciousness and responsibility. As César Raña notes, that would explain why, in the twelfth century, demands like those contained in penitentials reflected a concept of individual responsi11  Colin Morris, The Discovery of the Individual, 1050–1200 (New York, 1972), 96–157. 12  Peter Dronke, Poetic Individuality in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1970).

13  Robert W. Hanning, The Individual in Twelfth-Century Romance (New Haven, 1977), 17–233.

14  Dominique Demartini, “Le discours amoureux dans le Tristan en prose. Miroir et mirage du ‘je’,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 146–65. 15  Jean Charles Payen and Franciscus Nicolaas Maria Diekstra, Le roman (Turnhout, 1975), 24–26.

16  Isabel Grifoll, “The Culture: Clerics and Troubadours,” in The Crown of Aragon, a Singular Mediterranean Empire, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Leiden, Boston, 2017), 145–49.

17  Meritxell Simó, “Becchina versus Beatrice: el paradí�s oní�ric de Cecco Angioleieri,” in Jardines secretos. Estudios en torno al sueño erótico, ed. Julián Acebrón and Pere Solà (Lleida, 2009), 74–75. 18  “Un decidido empeño en dar con ello al lector la sensación de que está leyendo algo vivo.” Cited from Martí�n de Riquer, “En los principios de la novela moderna,” Anthropos. Suplementos 12 (1989): 31. 19  Michel Zink, La subjectivité littéraire autour du siècle de Saint Louis (Paris, 1985).

20  Pedro Abelardo, “Historia ‘calamitatum’,” in Historia “Calamitatum” y otros textos filosóficos, trans. Vidal Peña (Oviedo, 1996), 21–25.

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bility much higher than in earlier centuries.21 This grew stronger over time. Very significantly, the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 imposed the obligation of annual confession on each Christian, a measure that both showed and encouraged the acceptance of a fully individual awareness of one’s acts and behaviour.22 In this sense, the Church’s desire for control and tutelage inherent in this measure provoked, in turn, a greater autonomy for individuals, because, to assume the duty imposed, they had to be responsible for their own acts, careful, and self-aware.23 This theo­logical development in the thirteenth century had a direct impact on the definition of the person as a unique individual, who had to take decisions in line with their own consciences and be responsible, in all its effects, for their actions. This was the conceptual maturity that became, in the words of Alain de Libera, “the epistemic basis on which the theory of man as the subject–agent of thought gradually formed.”24 Realism, culminating in the philosophy and theo­logy of Thomas Aquinas, defined the person, in their uniqueness and responsibility, a culmination of a line of Christian thought from the patristic era and Boethius,25 but one that also integrated the work of Aristotle and Averroes. 21  César Raña, “‘Scito te ipsum.’ La responsabilidad individual y los penitenciales del siglo XII,” Revista Española de Filosofía Medi­eval 18 (2011): 69–80.

22  “All chrono­logies aimed at secondary school students should give great importance to the decision of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) that made annual confession obligatory. The widespread application of this requirement, already in force in some dioceses, modified the religious and psycho­logical life of men and women in the West and weighed heavily on mentalities until the Reformation in the Protestant countries and down to the twentieth century in those that remained Catholic” (Todas las crono­logí�as destinadas a los alumnos de la enseñanza secundaria deberí�an prestar gran relieve a la decisión del concilio de Letrán IV (1215) que hizo obligatoria la confesión anual. La generalización de ese apremio, ya en vigor antes en varias diócesis, modificó la vida religiosa y psicológica de los hombres y mujeres de Occidente y pesó de forma enorme sobre las mentalidades hasta la Reforma en los paí�ses protestantes y hasta el siglo XX en los que permanecieron católicos). Cited from Jean Delumeau, La confesión y el perdón (Madrid, 1990), 15. 23  Peter von Moos, “L’Individu ou les limites de l’institution ecclésiale,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 284–85.

24  “Le socle épistémique sur lequel s’est progressivament constituée la théorie de l’home comme sujet-agent de la pensée.” Cited from Alain de Libera, Archéo­logie du sujet, 1: Naissance du sujet (Paris, 2007), 345.

25  “The great medi­eval scholastics, following the tradition of Christian philosophy and especially the thought of St. Augustine and Boethius, dealt with the problematic of the person, especially concerning themselves with the Mystery of Christ, God-Made–Man. St. Anselm, Alexander of Hales, St. Albert the Great and St. Bonaventure, among others, distinguished the person from mere nature and emphasized personal properties, like unity, singularity, incommunicability, dignity, substantiality, and rationality. However, the first to concern himself directly with the metaphysical basis of the person in his entity and dignity was Aquinas. He stands out among all the medi­eval writers for his speculative construction of a doctrine about the person, that synthesizes and continues earlier ones” (Los grandes escolásticos medi­evales, siguiendo la tradición de la filosofí�a cristiana y especialmente el pensamiento de San Agustí�n y de Boecio, trataron la problemática de la persona, especialmente al ocuparse del misterio de Cristo, el Hombre-Dios. San Anselmo, Alejandro de Hales, San Alberto Magno y San Buenaventura, entre otros, al distinguir la persona de la mera naturaleza insistieron en las propiedades personales, como la unidad, la singularidad, la incomunicabilidad, la dignidad, la substancialidad y la racionalidad. Sin embargo, el primero



This led to:

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the concept of the person with whom all the theo­logical and philosophical tradition has continued to explain since then: an individual substance of a rational nature, having control of his actions (dominium sui actus), who is not simply acting like the others, but by himself, because actions are in the singular.26

The predominance from the thirteenth century of an explanation of religion and the world based on Aristotelian realism continued and, so, according to Aristotle’s hylomorphism, each individual being (ousia) was conceived as a compound of matter and form.27 The full integration of the body and soul of each individual,28 uniting gesture and appearance,29 assumes individual uniqueness, equally expressed in all cultural aspects.30 François-Xavier Putallaz describes the awakening of the individual: “Late thirteenthcentury philosophies all converged on the sense of an irresistible increase of the notion of individuality.”31 This convergence brings together Aristotelian Scholastic Thomism with its opponent, the spiritualism promoted especially by Franciscan authors who aimed at direct knowledge of the soul for themselves, without philosophical intermediaries considered alien to the Christian spirit.32 Concern for spiritual paths to knowledge led to the perception of one’s own individuality with inherent capacity and responsibility. Late medi­eval mysticism has been defined as a personal interior search33 and the religious approaches at the end of the Middle Ages, built around the Devotio Moderna, emphasized personal responsibility and practice.34 Christian religion of this era adopted personal traits for all aspects: the personal life of saints should be imitated and one que se ocupó propiamente de la fundamentación metafí�sica de la persona en su entidad y dignidad fue Santo Tomás. Destaca entre todos los autores medi­evales por la construcción especulativa de una doctrina sobre la persona, que sintetiza y continua las anteriores). Cited from Eudaldo Forment, “Persona y conciencia en Santo Tomás de Aquino,” Revista Española de Filosofía Medi­eval 10 (2003): 276.

26  “Le concept de la personne avec lequel toute la tradition théo­logique et philosophique n’a cessé depuis de s’expliquer: une substance individuelle de nature raisonnable, ayant la maî�trise de ses actes (dominium sui actus), que n’est pas simplement agie comme les autres, mais par elle-même, car les actions sont dans les singuliers.” Cited from De Libera, Archéo­logie du sujet, 345.

27  É� tienne Gilson, El Tomismo. Introducción a la filosofía de Santo Tomás de Aquino (Pamplona, 2002), 247–90; Josep Bobik, Aquinas on Matter and Form and the Elements (Notre Dame, 1998), 1–33. 28  Caroline Walker Bynum, Metamorphosis and Identity (New York, 2001).

29  Ana Isabel Buescu, Joâo Silva de Sousa, and Maria Adelaide Miranda, eds., O corpo e o gesto na Civiliçâo medi­eval (Lisbon, 2006). 30  Donald Maddox, Fictions of Identity in Medi­eval France (Cam­bridge, MA, 2000).

31  “Les philosophies de la fin du XIIIe siècle convergent toutes dans le sens d’une montée irresistible de l’individuel.” Cited from François-Xavier Putallaz, La connaissance de soi au XIIIe siècle. De Matthieu d’Aquasparta à Thierry de Freiburg (Paris, 1991), 393. 32  François-Xavier Putallaz, Insolente liberté. Controverses et condamnations au XIIIe siècle (Fribourg, 1995), 139–62. 33  Victoria Cirlot and Blanca Garí�, La Mirada interior. Escritoras místicas y visionarias en la Edad Media (Barcelona, 1999).

34  Regnerus R. Post, The Modern Devotion: Confrontation with Reformation and Humanism (Leiden, 1968).

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should be particularly attentive to the Vita Christi, with its specific descriptions of the appearance and physical traits of Christ.35 Individual religious concerns culminated with the characteristic broad obsession with a good death felt by everyone at the end of the Middle Ages,36 which almost rendered religion into an expiatory strategy.37 So, each person, impelled by their religion, gained a specific and permanent conscience of himself or herself: in the words of a fourteenth-century devotional Portuguese book: “every day of the world, night or day, man must employ his own reason, just as if he were in front of a judge.”38 At the same time, the different aspects of everyday life that reflected the increase in wealth and social complexity also show increasing individuality: decorative and ornamental uniqueness in domestic or funerary settings, the increase of separate rooms inside homes (including the personal study-chamber), the replacement of collective dormitories for individual cells in some Cistercian monasteries, or greater individualization in service at the table.39 In this context, mental activities, both those that required personal study in one’s cell as well as methods of memorization and logical reasoning, contributed powerfully to increased individual self-awareness.40 The recognition of authorship itself presumes and requires individualization. It can be seen in literary creation, for example, by Petrarch in the care he took to take responsibility for his texts.41 It is not much different in both aspects of artistic expression: the creator and the portrayed. An artist can be satisfied with his work, although in the Early Middle Ages this valuation was considered little more than a mechanical or manual task of limited value. In contrast, we see increasing recognition, from the end of the eleventh century and more so in the Late Middle Ages, that an artist’s work could be useful for the discourse promoted by the holders of power.42 Daniel Russo explains this by contrast35  Sergi Gascón, “Retrat de Jesucrist en les obres d’Eiximenis,” in Miscel·lània ‘in memoriam’ Alfons Serra-Baldó (1909–1993) en el centenari del seu naixement, ed. Lluna Llecha and Lí�dia Anoll (Barcelona, 2011), 217–33.

36  Anónimo, Arte de bien morir y breve confesionario, ed. Francisco Gago (Palma, 1999); Florence Bayard, L’art de bien mourir au XVe siècle. Etude sur les arts du bien mourir au bas Moyen Àge à la lumière d’un “ars moriendi” allemand du XVe siècle (Paris, 1999). 37  Claude Carozzi, Visiones apocalípticas en la Edad Media. El fin del mundo y la salvación del alma (Madrid, 2000), 175–76.

38  “Todo los dias do mundo, assí� aa noyte come aa manhaa, devia homem tomar razõ de si meesmo, assi como se estevesse ante huũ juyz.” Cited from Américo Venâncio Lopes Machado Filho, Um “Flos Sanctorum” trecentista em português (Brasí�lia, 2009), 216.

39  Flocel Sabaté, Vivir y sentir en la Edad Media. El mundo visto con ojos medi­evales (Madrid, 2011), 57. 40  Jacques Verger, “The contribution of medi­eval universities to the birth of individualism and individual thought,” in The Individual in Political Theory and Practice, ed. Janet Coleman (Oxford, 1996), 59–66.

41  É� tienne Anheim, “Une lecture de Pétrarque. Individu, écriture et dévotion,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 180.

42  Alain Erlande-Brandenburg, Le sacre et l’artiste. La création au Moyen Âge, XIVe–XVe siècle (Paris, 2000); Joaquí�n Yarza and Francesc Fité, eds., L’artista-artesà medi­eval a la Corona d’Aragó (Lleida, 1999).



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ing two visual examples: in the mid-ninth century the painter Fredilo wanted to put his name on the work he had just finished in the crypt of Saint-Germain in Auxerre, and could only do so on a corner of the base, amid the architectural elements; in contrast, between the end of the eleventh century and the beginning of the thirteenth, Italian communes competed with each other to attract the leading artists and included their signatures among other elements of ostentation.43 At the same time, we can observe a trend towards the realist portrait, overcoming the predominant isostasy of the twelfth century,44 and in the Late Middle Ages, a realist portrait developed45 that was aimed at ostentation, especially political, whether for the benefit of sovereigns or municipal magistrates. There was a clear will to capture, hold, and display a unique personal image.46 In 1443 in Barcelona, the painter Lluis Dalmau was given instructions to paint with full realism, In correct proportion and measure [...] the image of our Lady, St. Mary sitting in a sumptuous chair with the baby Jesus in her arms [...], the image of the Virgin St. Eulalia patron and unique advocate of the said city taking in her hand the eculeus from her martyrdom [and the] honourable councillors, namely Lord Joan Llull, Lord Francesc Lobet and Lord Joan de Junyent, who have to be represented according to real proportions, and their dress and their respective faces according to those they have.47

Earlier, in the fourteenth century, King Peter IV of Aragon and III of Barcelona (Peter the Ceremonious) had the physical traits of his predecessors investigated in order to reproduce them faithfully, while adapting their clothing to what was supposed to have been worn at the time of the person portrayed.48 These portraits of the dead were designed to endorse the present through historical continuity, emphasizing that individual identity was strengthened when rooted in continuity, in other words, in a present group built on solid precedents. 43  Daniel Russo, “Le nom de l’artiste, entre appurtenance au groupe ete écriture personnelle,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 237–39.

44  Gurevich demonstrated that there was no capacity, in an image to illustrate the Hortus deliciorum at the end of the twelfth century, to individualize and differentiate the depictions of sixty nuns at prayer. Aaron Gurevich, Los orígenes del individualismo europeo (Barcelona, 1994), 9. 45  Miguel Falomir, “Sobre los orí�genes del retrato y la aparición del ‘pintor de corte’ en la España bajomedi­eval,” Boletín de Arte 17 (1996): 177–95. 46  Philippe Braunstein, “Aproximaciones a la intimidad, siglos XIV y XV,” in Historia de la vida privada, ed. Philippe Ariès and Georges Duby (Madrid, 1991), 4:245–57.

47  “En la deguda proporció e mesura, [...] la imatge de nostra dona Santa Maria seen en una sumptuosa cadira ab l’infant Jesús al braç [...], la imatge de la verge Santa Eulàlia patrona e singular advocada de la dita ciutat tenint en la mà lo Eculeo del seu martiri [and the] honorables Consellers ço és mossèn Johan Llull, mossèn Ffranchesch Lobet e mossèn Johan de Junyent [who] han d’estar efigiats segons proporcions e habituts de lurs cossors an les façs axí� pròpies com ells vivents les han.” Cited from Eduard Carbonell and Joan Sureda, Tresors Medi­evals del Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya (Barcelona, 1997), 426.

48  Flocel Sabaté, “L’invisibilità del re e la visibilità della dinastia nella Corona d’Aragona,” in Il principe invisibile. La rappresentazione e la riflessione sul potere tra Medioevo e Rinascimento, ed. Lucia Bertolini, Arturo Calzona, Glauco Maria Cantarella and Stefano Caroti (Turnhout, 2015), 46–48.

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The social and economic dynamic of the Late Middle Ages supplied a setting for businessmen,49 leading nobles,50 and political leaders51 who, in their respective everyday lives,52 lived out norms set by philosophy, law, theo­logy, and spirituality, while displaying the full individual meaning of being human.53 The individual and personal details of each life acquired a referential value, to the extent that more intimate aspects were sometimes considered worthy of inclusion in the accounts books of businesses, which turned into diaries and books of memories of individuals or families: In the author’s mind, his family or affective situation would acquire the same importance as his economic activity and he began to become aware of the possibilities that writing offered to project himself, to “write himself,” creating a text whose purpose was not to manage a business, nor finalizing some self-justifying memory of an administration, but rather the writing in itself, as a form of expression of sentiments and experiences.54

This shows a self-awareness that continued to grow, which is why one can talk about self-fashioning.55 The starting point was within the family. The Meio di Betto e Benedetto suo figlio, a book started in Italian by a father and continued by his son between 1450 and 1489, is an economic collection from the Tuscan countryside, one that sometimes takes on a descriptive tone but continued and preserved the express wish of the son of the original author.56 More explicit is a Catalan book from the barony of Eramprunyà, written over the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries by members of a lesser noble urban lineage from Barcelona. It includes highly personal details for the record, like the parts written in the fifteenth century about the births and birthdates of children and their godparents, or the testimony of their participation in the civil war in the 1460s. This

49  Yves Renouard, Les Hommes d’affaires italiens du Moyen Âge (Paris, 1968); Jean Favier, De l’or et des épices. Naissance de l’homme d’affaires au Moyen Âge (Paris, 1987).

50  Marí�a Concepción Quintanilla, ed., Títulos, grandes del reino y grandeza en la sociedad política (Madrid, 2006).

51  Alain Boureau, La religion de l’état. La construction de la République étatique dans le discours théo­logique de l’Occident (Paris, 2006), 233–87; John Watts, The Making of Polities. Europe, 1300–1500 (Cam­bridge, 2009), 381–425. 52  Jacques Le Goff, ed., El hombre medi­eval (Madrid, 1990).

53  Philippe Ariès and Georges Duby, eds., Historia de la vida privada, 3 vols. (Madrid, 1992).

54  “En la mente del autor, su situación familiar o afectiva adquirí�a la misma importancia que su actividad económica y él comenzaba a tomar conciencia de las posibilidades que la escritura le ofrecí�a de proyectarse a sí� mismo, de ‘escribirse’, creando un texto cuya finalidad no es la gestión de un negocio, ni la creación de una memoria justificativa de una administración sino la escritura misma, como forma de expresión de sentimientos y vivencias.” Cited from Marí�a Luz Mandigorra, “La configuración de la identidad privada: diarios y libros de memorias en la baja edad media,” Historia. Instituciones. Documentos 29 (2002): 218.

55  Dora Bobory, “Being a Chosen One: Self-Consciousness and Self-Fashioning in the Works of Gerolamo Cardano,” Annual of Medi­eval Studies at CEU 9 (2003): 69–92.

56  Duccio Balestraci, La zappa e la retorica. Memorie familiari di un contadino toscano del Quattro­ cento (Florence, 1984), 155–79.



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personal information was mixed with that on properties and the financial and legal developments of the barony.57 In other words, self-awareness formed part of a framework established by a family and its lineage. Attitudes might show an awareness of being accepted but also of what one shared with the family or other individuals of note. However, an individual was not dependent upon sovereign power, unlike those citizens who came to the fore in the French Revolution and were dependent on the state infrastructure in the nineteenth century. The medi­eval individual, by contrast, only made sense inside the group to which he or she belonged.

Identity and Group Solidarity

In the early decades of the thirteenth century, King James I of the Crown of Aragon took military action against the Count of Urgell,58 supporting the claims against him by a girl, a minor and orphan, daughter of a previous count. In doing so, he showed no desire to reinforce royal power but rather justified himself claiming that “God wants there to be kings in this world, and established that this office includes an obligation to defend the rights of those in most need and especially widows and orphans.”59 This Christian duty to protect the poor and weak could invoke justifications from the Church Fathers and the need to help fellow Christians,60 although it was really a mechanism to consolidate royal power by extending the sovereign’s protection to those who lacked any other support; in other words, those who fell outside any solidarity group under which they could seek protection. In reality, in the Middle Ages, nobody was alone. Everyone perceived themselves and was perceived by others to be part of a solidarity group. Thus, the warning by Caroline Walker Bynum when she notes that all historio­graphical talk of the rise of individualism from the twelfth century should be understood as a quest to find one’s own peer group.61 Robert Hanning saw an evolution from the individualizing approaches of the twelfth century to the assumption in the thirteenth of elements that would give cohesion to late medi­eval society: 57  Elena Cantarell, Mireia Comas and Carme Muntaner, eds., El llibre de la Baronia d’Eramprunyà (Lleida, 2011).

58  Flocel Sabaté, “Guerau, Conde de Urgel, vizconde de Cabrera (IV) y de Á� ger (III),” in Diccionario Biográfico Español (Madrid, 2011), 24: 824–26. 59  “Déus volc que en est segle fossen reis, e donà.ls-hi, per aquest ofici, que tinguessin dretura a aquells que mester l’haurien, e especialment a ví�dues e a òrfens.” Cited from Jaume I, Crònica o Llibre dels feits, ed. Ferran Soldevila (Barcelona, 2007), 113 (chap. 36). 60  José Vives, Los padres de la Iglesia (Barcelona, 1982), 412.

61  “My purpose is therefore to place the often discussed ‘discovery of the individual’ in the context of another equally new and important twelfth-century interest to which scholars have paid less attention: a quite self-conscious interest in the process of belonging to groups and filling roles.” Cited from Caroline Walker Bynum, “Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 31, no. 1 (1980): 4–5.

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The full story, and its lesson, testify by their existence and popularity that the thirteenth century’s chivalric vision, in at least one of its most moving manifestations, has abandoned that faith in the primacy and autonomy of individual experience.

Certainly, late medi­eval society was based on the individual within the group: “the subordination of personal desire to the good of the king and the res publica, on justice and honesty in the dealings of all the members with each other.”62 Factions into which towns of medi­eval Europe were divided were made up of “friends and relatives” and their role was to give “help and protection” to their members.63 This was clearly an anthropo­logical notion that was adapted at different times across the Middle Ages.64 Rather than a class-based response, that would group together a segment of the population affected by a particular economic or social pressure, support in the Middle Ages was sought primarily from one’s own solidarity group.65 The different medi­eval forms of protection and help, in all their legal and institutional diversity, should be seen from this anthropo­logical aspect of group solidarity, whether it was feudalism with ties that formalized largely pre-existing links,66 or conflicts between urban factions, with violent responses by groups that were internally united, despite their unstructured appearance.67 One’s primary anchor-point was the family, because this was always a mechanism for widening one’s powerbase to hold and protect domains, rights, and territorial assets. Moreover, everyone was considered to belong to a family group in both a broad and narrow sense.68 It was through cousinage that the early medi­eval aristocracy was strengthened69 and this continued even when cousinage gave way to agnatic lineage (i.e., through the male bloodline) in the central centuries of the Middle Ages.70 All the rhetoric about what constitutes a good knight, so popular in twelfth- and thirteenth-century literature, 62  Robert W. Hanning, The Individual in Twelfth-Century Romance (New Haven, 1979), 242.

63  “Amici et parenti; ajuda e valença.” Cited from Flocel Sabaté, “Les factions dans la vie urbaine de la Catalogne du XIVe siècle,” in Histoire et archéo­logie des terres catalanes au Moyen Âge, ed. Philippe Sénac (Perpignan, 1995), 340–44. 64  Flocel Sabaté, “Els bàndols com a solidaritat en la societat urbana baixmedi­eval,” Afers 30 (1998): 457–72.

65  Flocel Sabaté, “L’augment de l’exigència fiscal en els municipis Catalans al segle XIV: elements de pressió i de resposta,” in Col·loqui Corona, Municipis i Fiscalitat a la Baixa Edat Mitjana, ed. Manuel Sánchez and Antoni Furió (Lleida, 1995), 448–61. 66  Gerard Giordanengo, “‘Le vassal est celui qui a un fief.’ Entre la diversité des apparences et la complexité des évidences,” in Señores, siervos, vasallos en la Alta Edad Media (Actas de la XXVIII Semana de Estudios Medi­evales de Estella. 16 al 20 julio de 2001) (Pamplona, 2002), 75–126.

67  Andrea Zorzi, “‘Iu erat in armis.’ Faide e conflitti tra pratiche sociali e pratiche di governo,” in Origini dello Stato. Processi di formazione statale in Italia fra medioevo ed età moderna, ed. Giorgio Chittolini, Anthony Molho, and Pierangelo Schiera (Bo­logna, 1994), 609–29. 68  Martin Aurell, La noblesse en Occident (Ve–XVe siècle) (Paris, 1996), 43–47 and 63–65.

69  Régine Le Jan, Femmes, pouvoir et société dans le haut Moyen Age (Paris, 2001), 190–238.

70  Dominique Barthélemy, “Parentesco,” in Historia de la vida privada, ed. Philippe Ariès and Georges Duby (Madrid, 1992), 3:96–125.



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made no sense without a basis in a noble family.71 The discours lignager that dominated the Late Middle Ages aimed to give continuity to each patrimony, while also consolidating a vision of the nobility where everyone fitted into their own family group.72 The consolidation of bourgeois lineages led to similar dynamics from the twelfth century onwards, with the aim of preserving patrimonial continuity and the cohesion of the family group.73 From this foundation, the different ways of defining feudal dependence on the one hand,74 or the articulation of urban factions through “supporters and friends” on the other,75 complete a world where perceptions, actions, and responses were always collective, as forms of solidarity between members of the group. The tensions in recognizing emerging local representation facilitated interpretations that are projections of the nineteenth and twentieth-century historians who first studied these phenomena.76 This has hindered the path to understanding them as forms of representativeness and taxation between local elites and their respective lords.77 Developing the Roman ius gentium,78 which led from the twelfth century towards the recognition of municipal government, lords came to accept forms of representation of local groups because these were good interlocutors for demands, especially fiscal ones, from 71  “The theme of the unknown youth prepared to make his name as a knight and to establish a position in society on the basis of his own exploits, without the help of a known and well established familiy reputation, is therefore here combined with a strong emphasis on heredity.” Cited from Elspeth Kennedy, “The Quest for Identity and the Importance of Lineage in Thirteenth-Century French Prose Romance,” in The Ideals and Practice of Medi­eval Knighthood, II: Papers from the Third Strawbery Hill Conference 1986, ed. Christophe Harper-Bill and Ruth Harvey (Wolfeboro, 1988), 75.

72  Joseph Morsel, “La construction sociale des identities dans l’aristocratie franconienne aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Individuation ou identification,” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 91–92. 73  Elisabeth Crouzet-Pavan, “Les élites urbaines: apercus problématiques (France, Angleterre, Italie),” in Les élites urbaines au Moyen Âge. XXVIIe Congrès de la Société des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur Public (Rome, mai 1996) (Rome, 1997), 9–28; Philippe Braustein, “Pour une histoire des élites urbaines: vocabulaire, réalités et representations,” in Les élites urbaines au Moyen Âge (Rome, 1997), 29–38; Flocel Sabaté, “Ejes vertebradores de la oligarquí�a urbana en Cataluña,” Revista d’Història Medi­eval 9 (1998): 127–53.

74  Sverre Bagge, Michael H. Gelting, and Thomas Lindkvist, eds., Feudalism. New Landscapes of Debate (Turnhout, 2011). 75  “Valedors e amics.” Cited from Flocel Sabaté, “Oligarchies and Social Fractures in the Cities of Late Medi­eval Catalonia,” in Oligarchy and Patronage in Late Medi­eval Spanish Urban Society, ed. Marí�a Asenjo-González (Turnhout, 2009), 4–14.

76  Jean Schneider, “Libertés, franchises, communes: les origins aspects d’une mutation,” in Les origines des libertés urbaines. Actes du XVIe Congrès des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur Public (Rouen, 7–8 juin 1985) (Rouen, 1990), 7–29.

77  Elisabeth Magnou-Nortier, “À� l’origine de l’éssor urbain et villageois: le role de la fiscalité et de la paix (XIe–XIIe siècles),” in Les origines des libertés urbaines. Actes du XVIe Congrès des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur Public (Rouen, 7–8 juin 1985) (Rouen, 1990), 143–62. 78  Walter Ullmann, “The Medi­eval Theory of Legal and Illegal Organisations,” Law Quartely Review 60 (1944): 288–89.

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the lord himself.79 In fact, in all requests of a military, fiscal, or other nature, the lord addressed the towns collectively and the latter devised the internal mechanisms they saw fit for the corresponding collection or recruitment. Also, grievances against members of the urban entity were responded to collectively. For instance, the clameur d’haro was a call whereby in the case of a flagrant crime a victim demanded help from all the neighbours, and this was really a call for collective mobilization and action.80 Similarly, if the accused fled and took refuge in a jurisdiction different from the one where the crime was committed, the person affected would demand the backing of the group to which he or she belonged, whether an administrative unit or municipal government, from whom they expected to receive the corresponding legal and, if needed, armed support.81 Such collective responses mobilized an urban group together against other jurisdictions, to reclaim, protect, or avenge the rights and common assets of a member of the group. However, each town was fragmented internally into factions, which had a great impact, because the people trusted this more than the official jurisdiction, which was considered slow (thanks to the development of the Romanist system of guarantees), expensive (through the need to have legal support), and subject to political pressures and influences (if an accused had enough money, he could get changes to the law, exemptions, and remissions).82 In this way, group solidarities clashed with the strengthening of sovereign power under Roman legal models, because people came to question and ignore the ordinary administrative officials and the sovereign authority that justified them and even the divine order that backed them. Accordingly, both the sovereign and the Church countered with arguments to justify attempts to limit acts of vengeance between factions and encourage the population to use official channels of justice. They did not hesitate to invoke God’s will and the role of lords and the purpose of their taxes, to defend and offer justice to their subjects. This was explained as follows in the Catalan town of Valls in 1357: This is the reason why the lords are in towns and castles and why taxes are given to them, because they defend their subjects and give justice against wrongdoers. In reality, the world would quickly fall apart if some could take revenge on others without waiting for the lord to do so.83

79  Max Turull, “‘Universitas,’ ‘commune,’ ‘consilium’: Sur le rôle de la fiscalité dans la naissance et le développement du Conseil (Catalogne, XIIe–XIVe siècles),” in Excerptiomes iuris: Studies in Honor of André Gouron, ed. Bernard Duran Laurent Mayali (Berkeley, 2000), 637–77.

80  Valerie Toureille, “Cri de peur et cri de haine; haro sur le voleur. Cri et crime en France à la fin du Moyen Â� ge,” in Haro! Noël! Oyé! Pratiques du cri au Moyen Âge, ed. Didier Lett and Nicolas Offenstadt (Paris, 2003), 177–78. 81  Flocel Sabaté, El territori de la Catalunya Medi­eval. Percepció de l’espai i divisió territorial al llarg de l’edat Mitjana (Barcelona, 1997), 167–72.

82  Flocel Sabaté, “El veguer a Catalunya. Anàlisi del funcionament de la jurisdicció reial al segle XIV,” Butlletí de la Societat Catalana d’Estudis Històrics 6 (1995): 153–57.

83  “Car per ço són posats los senyors per les Ciutats, per les viles e per los castells e·ls són dades les rendes per tal que deffenen los lurs sotmesos e façen justí�cia dels mals faytors. Car hivaç seria espatgat lo món si los uns se podien pendre venjança dels altres que no sperasen senyor qui u fes.” From Valls, Arxiu Comarcal de l’Alt Camp, Pergamins, 84.



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Recognizing the background and permanence of the factions, efforts were not aimed at destroying them but rather to pacify and, as far as possible, regulate them. Accordingly, the municipal and legal authorities encouraged arbitration, truces, and agreements between parties.84 It was easier to agree collective responses with the ordinary courts at another level, so that from the twelfth century, in the case of a denial of justice, legislation envisaged that the victim’s jurisdiction would be able to proceed against anyone from the jurisdiction of the person to blame, either taking action to seize the assets of anyone from the other jurisdiction85 or, in more serious cases, mobilizing the urban militia, which was always formally convened by the holder of the ordinary jurisdiction.86 In reality, this was a way to combine circles of solidarity, on a case-by-case basis: everyone owed allegiance to their feudal lord, and thus participated in a higher allegiance to the sovereign; or you could look to your faction against opponents within the town, whilst all the townspeople could come together against a neighbouring town from another jurisdiction. The scale of group solidarities could be broadened. In the 1280s, the King of France invaded Roussillon, then under the jurisdiction of the king of Mallorca. Some monks living in Argelers but born in France helped the invaders because, as the abbot told the French monarch, “I and those other monks are from your land and are your subjects, so, lord, we would be upset if you returned (to France) having suffered a great dishonour.”87 A decade later, the Catalan–Aragonese monarch invaded the kingdom of Murcia, a territory under the jurisdiction of the king of Castile but repopulated by Castilians and Catalans. The origins of the people there conditioned their attitude to the invasion, as explained in the chronicle of the Castilian King: The king of Aragon with his host moved and went to the kingdom of Murcia and from advice from those who were from there, who were Catalans, handed over all the towns and castles except Lorca, which was inhabited by Castilians, and also Alcalá and Mula.88

84  Flocel Sabaté, “Les factions dans la vie urbaine de la Catalogne du XIVe siècle,” 356–65.

85  Joaquim Miret i Sans, “Les represàlies a Catalunya en l’edat mitjana,” Revista Jurídica de Catalunya, 30, no. 31 (1925): 289–417. 86  Flocel Sabaté, El sometent a la Catalunya medi­eval (Barcelona, 2007).

87  “Jo e aquests altres monges som naturals de vostra terra e naturals vostres, per què, senyor, a nos dolria molt que vós vos en tornassets ab tan gran deshonor.” Cited from Ramon Muntaner, Crónica, ed. Ferran Soldevila (Barcelona, 2011), 218 (chap. 122).

88  “Movió el rey e Aragón con su hueste e fue al reino de Murcia e por consejos de los de la tierra, que eran catalanes, diéronsele todas las villa e los castillos salvo ende Lorca, que moraban castellanos, e otrosí� Alcalá e Mula.” Cited from “Crónica del Rey Don Fernando Cuarto”, in Crónicas de los reyes de Castilla desde don Alfonso el Sabio hasta los católicos don Fernando y doña Isabel, ed. Cayetano Rosell, 3 vols. (Madrid, 1953), 1:103; Crónica de Fernando IV, ed. Carmen Bení�tez Guerrero (El Puerto de Santamarí�a, 2017), p. 31 (chap. 2).

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This shows an even wider circle of solidarity: sharing the same nation, an idea in the ascendant across Europe, with the respective peoples displaying affective links. As Genicot has written, at that time, “the nation was, then, a growing sentiment.”89 Francesc Eiximenis, the most influential writer in the Crown of Aragon in the fourteenth century,90 given his access to both the royal court91 and the bourgeois elites,92 compared the Catalan nation with others to praise its excellence, focusing on such mundane aspects as drinking or table manners.93 The nation was based on a sum of everyday cultural traits, that King Peter the Ceremonious of Aragon defined as “our manners,”94 among which a shared language stands out,95 as also done in other places in Europe.96 The perception of the nation existed in the classical sense, which enabled a people to be grouped according to birth. Church Fathers and later authors continued this use: for example, the Venerable Bede in the eighth century identified the Angli or gens Anglorum with “our nation” (nostra natio) and expressed a clear sentiment of belonging, uniqueness, and an ability to describe its features, outlining a historical path from its origin to its destiny, and differentiating it from other neighbouring nations, like the natione Saxonum of inhabitants of Sussex.97 In this way, the nature of each nation could be defined, which is why, in the ninth century, Regino of Prüm explained that each nation had its own language, customs, and laws: “the people of the diverse nations are distinguished from each other by their kind of customs, language and law.”98 Mutual contact facilitated 89  “La nación era, pues, un sentimiento naciente.” Cited from Léopold Génicot, Europa en el siglo XIII (Barcelona, 1976), 130. 90  Antoni Riera, ed., Francesc Eiximenis (c. 1330–1409): el context i l’obra d’un gran pensador català medi­eval (Barcelona, 2015).

91  David J. Viera, “Francesc Eiximenis’s Dissension with the Royal House of Aragon,” Journal of Medi­eval History 22, no. 3 (1989): 249–61; David J. Viera, “Francesc Eiximenis and the Royal House of Aragon: A Mutual Dependence,” Catalan Review 3 (1989): 183–89.

92  Josep Hernando, “Obres de Francesc Eiximenis en biblioteques privades de la Barcelona del segle XV,” Arxiu de Textos Catalans Antics 26 (Barcelona, 2007): 385–567 93  Francesc Eiximenis, Terç del Crestià, ed. Martí� de Barcelona and Norbert d’Ordal (Barcelona, 1929–1932), chap. 372; Francesc Eiximenis, Lo Crestià. (Selecció), ed. Albert Hauf (Barcelona, 1983), 147–48.

94  “Les nostres maneres.” Cited from Ricard Albert and Joan Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts catalanes (Barcelona, 1928), 37–38; Pere Miquel Carbonell, Cròniques d’Espanya, ed. Agustí� Alcoberro (Barcelona, 1997), 2:138; Francisco Gimeno Blay, “Escribir, leer, reinar. La experiencia gráfico-textual de Pedro IV el Ceremonioso (1336–1387),” Scrittura e civiltà 22 (1998): 215. 95  Flocel Sabaté, Percepció i identificació dels catalans a l’edat mitjana (Barcelona, 2016), 12–13.

96  Alexander Gieysztor, “‘Gens Polonica’: aux origines d’une conscience nationale,” in Études de Civilisation Médiévale (IX–XII siècles). Mélanges offerts à Edmond-René Labande (Poitiers, 1974), 352. 97  Georges Tugene, L’idée de nation chez Bède le Vénérable (Paris, 2001), 49–160.

98  “Diversae nationes populorum inter se discrepant genere moribus, lingua legibus.” Cited from Reginonis abbatis Prumiensis, “Epistula Reginonis ad Hathonem Archiepiscopum missa,” in Chronicon cum continuatione Treverensi, ed. Fridericus Kurze, MGH SS rer. Ger. 50 (Hannover, 1890), xix–xx at xx.



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easily reinforced stereotypes—“Scots lie” (escotus mentit), “German fury” (furor teutonicus)—to the extent that, in the thirteenth century, authors like Albertus Magnus helped to seek more scientific reasons for the distinction between one and the others, by virtue of climate, the balance of humours, or astral effects.99 This continuity in the perception of groups easily tied into late medi­eval strategies for consolidating power. In their desire to build a superior position, thirteenth-century monarchs worked to articulate power as a pyramid in which they occupied the vertex in each of their domains. Nations fitted perfectly into this pyramid, as Bernard Guenée stated in the case of France.100 In 1369, Peter the Ceremonious of the Crown of Aragon clearly referred to “loving the nation.”101 In so doing he acknowledged the existence of affective motivations for the people,102 who experienced happiness as a single body for successful events like the first ever appointment of a Catalan cardinal—“to our honour and that of our nation.”103 Such a group was prepared even to shed its blood, as a nation, in loyally following the king, as the Catalan bishop Joan Margarit expressed it in the fifteenth century.104 However, in this medi­eval approach to power, the sovereign liked to rule over multiple nations: witness Ferdinand II of Aragon and V of Castile at the end of the Middle Ages,105 or the way the German Empire was very clearly defined in 1356: “The Sublime Sacred Roman Empire has diverse nations, with distinct customs, life and languages, and governments to be controlled.”106 99  Benoî�t Grévin, “Les stéréotypes ‘nationaux.’. Usages rhétoriques et systèmes de pensée dans l’Europe du XIIIe siècle,” in Nation et nations au Moyen Âge. XLIVe Congrès de la Societé des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur Public (Prague, 23 mai–26 mai 2013) (Paris, 2014), 138–48. 100  Bernard Guenée, Occidente durante los siglos XIV y XV. Los Estados (Barcelona, 1973), 58.

101  “Amar la nació.” Cited from Albert and Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts, 37–38; Pere Miquel Carbonell, Cròniques d’Espanya, ed. Agustí� Alcoberro (Barcelona, 1997), 2:138; Francisco Gimeno Blay, “Escribir, leer, reinar. La experiencia gráfico-textual de Pedro IV el Ceremonioso (1336–1387),” Scrittura e civiltà 22 (1998): 215.

102  Flocel Sabaté, “‘Amar la nostra nació,’” in Sardegna e Catalogna “officinae” di identità. Riflessioni storiografiche e propettive di ricerca, ed. Alessandra Cioppi (Cagliari, 2013), 15–63.

103  “Sia honor nostra e de la nostra nació.” Cited from Antoni Rubió y Lluch, Documents per l’història de la Cultura Catalana Mig-eval (Barcelona, 1908), 1:181. 104  “This faithful nation, above all other nations, deserves the preservation of its privilegies, given that it won them by its most faithful bloodshed and throuh its immaculate fidelity” (Aquesta dita fael nació, ultra totes altres, crida la conservació de sos privilegis, així� com aquella qui els ha guanyat ab sa fidelí�sima aspersió de sang e en aquesta sua inmaculada fidelitat). Cited from Albert and Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts, 212.

105  “Each and every one of the merchants’ consuls, whether Catalan, Castilian, or from any other nation in our kingdoms of Spain and any other of our subjects” (Universis et singulis consulibus mercatoribus tam cathalanorum et castellanorum quam etiam quarumvis aliarum naciorum horum nostrorum Hispanie regnorum ac aliorum subditorum nostrorum). Cited from Antonio de la Torre, Documentos sobre relaciones internacionales de los Reyes Católicos, 6 vols. (Barcelona, 1949), 1:145.

106  “Cum sacri Romani celsitudo imperii diversarum nacionum moribus, vita et ydiomate distinctarum leges habeat et gubernacula moderari.” Cited from Gisela Naegle, “Diversité linguistique, identités et mythe de l’empire à la fin du moyen âge,” Revue Française d’Histoire des Idées Politiques 36, no. 2 (2012): 253.

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Recently, Saúl Martí�nez Bermejo has expressed surprise because the social awareness of collective identities like these107 clashes with historio­graphical views of earlier decades, where authors like Hobsbawn and Gellner108 almost ignored nations until their formulation as nation-states in the nineteenth century, while other scholars accepted them but referred to Benedict Anderson’s nuances, the “content” of a nation being more imprecise and imagined than institutional or formal.109 European fears about national constructions and claims110 underscored this. In scholarly discourse, the medi­eval nation could be ignored while believing that “the medi­eval mind did not think in terms of the ‘nation’ and ‘nationalism.’”111 In fact nineteenth-century discourses of national cohesion112 granted a specific113 and essentialist sense114 to a pre-existing reality with a sense that was more descriptive and collective than determinist.115 In the eighteenth century, Rousseau called for society to be based on this reality because he understood it to be more natural to build social cohesion around belonging to a group with similar traits than on alternatives such as dynasties.116 It could not be otherwise if we appreciate the role of collectives in the Ancien régime: whether guilds,117 participatory municipal governments justified by a sense of universitas,118 social constructions to manage the different estates, such as the parlia107  “It is surprising to see such an essentialist and reified notion of the cohesion of Catalan national identity in the thirteenth and fourteeth centuries.” Saúl Martí�nez Bermejo, “Review: Flocel Sabaté and Luis Adâo Fonseca, eds., ‘Catalonia and Portugal: The Iberian Peninsula from the Periphery,’” European History Quaterly 47, no. 1 (2017): 135. 108  Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780. Programme, Myth, Reality (Cam­bridge, 1990); Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms (Oxford, 1983).

109  Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London, 1991).

110  Geoffrey W. S. Barrow, The Anglo-Norman Era in Scottish History (Oxford, 1980), 148; Patrick J. Geary, The Myth of Nations: The Medi­eval Origins of Europe (Princeton, 2002).

111  Alexander J. Motyl, ed., Encyclopedia of Nationalism, 2 vols. (San Diego, 2001), 2:331.

112  Anne-Marie Thiesse, La création des identités nationales. Europe XVIIIe–XIXe siècles (Paris, 1999), 23–158. 113  Stefan Berger, “The Power of National Pasts: Writing National History in Nineteenthand Twentieth-Century Europe,” in Writing the Nation. A Global Perspective, ed. Stefan Berger (Basingstoke, 2007), 30–46.

114  Michael Jeismann, “Nation, Identity, and Enmity. Towards a Theory of Political Identification,” in What is a Nation? Europe 1789–1914, ed. Timothy Baycroft and Mark Hewitson (Oxford, 2006), 17–27; Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood. Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cam­ bridge, 1997), 1–34. 115  Caspar Hirschi, The Origins of Nationalism. An Alternative History from Ancient Rome to Early Modern Germany (Cam­bridge, 2012), 212–20. 116  Anne M. Cohler, Rousseau and Nationalism (New York, 1970), 191–95.

117  Paolo Prodi and Valerio Marchetti, eds., Problemi di identità tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna (Bo­logna, 2001).

118  Pierre Michaud-Quantin, Universitas. Expressions du movement communautaire dans le Moyen Âge latin (Paris, 1970), 201–343.



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ments that arose in the thirteenth century,119 or the overarching sovereigns.120 This was not only a question of the political system being based on negotiation121 but also that medi­eval power in all its aspects was by definition and concept pactist, and its exercise or handling by the sovereign122 depended on potestas and not domination.123 This required the sovereign to work, one way or another, in accordance with the different social forces, which has been described as a “mixed constitution,” or gouvernement mixte.124 Moderate rule by a monarchie tempérée, which Aleksander Gieysztor identified as a legacy of medi­eval power more than an idealized vision, can be seen as a necessary response to the plural and collective reality of medi­eval society.125 This political approach is consistent with a concept of society understood as a sum of groups. The medi­eval concept of community was at the base of the social structure126 and the identity of the individual only made sense within their respective group. As Janet Coleman has emphasized, seventeenth and eighteenth-century thinkers looked to their roots in medi­eval thought when establishing the equation between the “Individual and the Medi­eval State.”127 However, in fact, the medi­eval perception was far from a political community as an agreement by individuals, as was generally repeated after 119  Bertie Wilkinson, The Creation of Medi­eval Parliaments (New York, 1972), 59–109.

120  Antony Black, El pensamiento politico en Europa 1250–1450 (Cam­bridge, 1996), 130–297.

121  Michel Hébert, Parlementer. Assemblées representatives et échange politique en Europe occidentale à la fin du Moyen Âge (Paris, 2014), 81–589.

122  Michel Senellart, Les arts de gouverner. Du “regimen” médiéval au concept de gouvernement (Paris, 1995), 22–31. 123  Philippe Buc, “‘Principes gentium dominantur eorum.’ Princely Power between Legitimacy and Illegitimacy in Twelfth-Century Exegesis,” in Cultures of Power, ed. Thomas N. Bisson (Philadelphia, 1995), 310–25.

124  James Blythe, Ideal Government and the Mixed Constitution in the Middle Ages (Princeton, 1992); Marie Gaille-Nikodimov, ed., Le gouvernement mixte. De l’idéal politique au monstre constitutionnel en Europe (XIIIe–XVIIe siècle) (Saint É� tienne, 2005).

125  “The feudal structures, the regional freedoms, of the communes and the corporations; the exercise of the government and justice under the control of the prince’s council; the assemblies representative of different order. All that is what endowed the European states with the characteristics of a moderate regime, respectful of the law and concerned with establishing the difference between the law and the power that served it” (Les structures féodales, les libertés regionales, communautaires et corporatives, l’exercice du gouvernement et de la justice sous l’égide du Conseil du prince, les assemblées représentatives des différents ordres—voilà ce qui confère aux É� tats européens les traits d’un régime modéré, respectueux du droit et soucieux d’établir la différence entre la loi et le pouvoir qui la sert). Cited from Aleksander Gyesztor, “Campagnes et villes, sociétés et É� tats,” in Les Européens, ed. Hélène Ahrweiller and Maurice Aymard (Paris, 2000), 197.

126  Keith Stringer, “Social and Political Communities in European History: Some Reflections on Recent Studies,” in Nations, Nationalism and Patriotism in the European Pasts, ed. Claus Bjørn, Alexander Grant and Keith J. Stringer (København, 1994), 12–15.

127  Janet Coleman, “The Individual and the Medi­eval State,” in The Individual in Political Theory and Practice, ed. Janet Coleman (Oxford, 1996), 1–34.

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Hobbes in the seventeenth century128 and then established by the French Revolution and in the liberal models of the nineteenth century.129 In the Middle Ages, the identity of the individual only made sense within the group. That is why Alain Boureau remarked: In the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, one can see a remarkable development of systems of individuation, which at the same time and in a single action establish the status of the individual and of the community.130

Boureau’s observation explains how municipal governments could justify themselves in function of the common good.131 This was backed by legal,132 political,133 philosophical,134 and theo­logical reasoning,135 all showing the ideal society as a collective with a pretence of harmony. Notably, the late medi­eval celestial paradise was no longer imagined as a kind of Garden of Eden but rather as an idealized city.136 In this same line, proposals for ideal—utopian—cities flourished and took shape at the end of the Middle Ages and in the Renaissance137 either as a theoretical proposal or as an experiment in the New World.138 They testify to a conception of collective social identity, where the individual only made sense in the group to which he or she belonged.139 In the Middle Ages, identity was, to a great extent, collective, but that does not contradict the perception and worth accorded to the individual, because the latter accepted his or her responsibilities within a collectively assumed framework. So, the individual 128  Pärtel Piirimäe, “The Explanation of Conflict in Hobbes’s Leviathan,” Trames 10, no. 60–65 (2006): 3–21. 129  Josep Olives, “Del pactisme medi­eval al contractualisme modern,” Finestrelles 6 (1994): 238–39.

130  “À� la fin du XIIIe siècle et au début du XIVe, on peut relever un développement remarquable des systèmes d’individuation, qui établissent en même temps et d’un seul geste le statut de l’individu et celui de la communauté.” Cited from Alain Boureau, “L’Individu, sujet de la vérité et suppôt de l’erreur. Connaissance et dissidence dans le monde scolastique (vers 1270-vers 1330),” in L’Individu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 296. 131  Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruaene, ‘De Bono Communi’. The Discourse and Practice of the Common good in the European City (13th–16th c.) (Turnhout, 2010).

132  Walter Ullmann, “The Medi­eval Theory of Legal and Illegal Organisations,” Law Quaterly Review 60 (1944): 288–91. 133  Á� ngel López-Amo, “El pensamiento polí�tico de Eiximeniç, en su tratado de ‘Regiment de prí�nceps’,” Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 17 (1946): 7–139.

134  Ignacio Verdú, “El pensamiento politico en el siglo XIV. De Dante a Marsilio de Padua,” in Actas del II Congreso Nacional de Filosofía Medi­eval, ed. Jorge M. Ayala (Zaragoza, 1996), 523–34.

135  José Comblin and Francisco Javier Calvo, Teo­logía de la ciudad (Estella, 1972), 287.

136  Colleen McDannell and Bernhard Lang, Historia del Cielo (Madrid, 2001), 178–200.

137  Patrick Boucheron, “De la ville idéale à l’utopie urbaine: Filarete et l’urbanisme à Milan au temps des Sforza,” Les Cahiers de Fontenay 69–70 (1993): 53–80.

138  Flocel Sabaté, Fin del mundo y Nuevo mundo. El encaje ideológico entre la Europa medi­eval y la América moderna en Nueva España (siglo XVI) (Mexico City, 2011).

139  Flocel Sabaté, “Utopies i alternatives de vida a l’edat mitjana,” in Utopies i alternatives de vida a l’edat mitjana, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2009), 9–31.



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moved within the limits of the collective. The profile of the group defined one’s limits, always porous but sufficiently clear to mark the bounds of the collective identity. In other words, the assumption of a collective identity also meant recognizing otherness.

Identity and Otherness

The earlier reference to “our manners” as a synonym of “our nation” by King Peter the Ceremonious of the Crown of Aragon in 1369140 implied a set of features of the shared identity, defining implicitly or explicitly the “manners” that characterized those who did not belong to the group: in other words, the Other. The perception of otherness forms an intrinsic part of the definition of one’s identity. To identify oneself against other ways of doing things means being different. It is a characteristic that can even encourage curiosity. At the end of the fourteenth century, when Viscount Ramon de Perellós narrated his journey to St. Patrick’s Purgatory, entering by Station Island on Lough Derg in County Donegal, he wanted to explain how the Irish lived, precisely because their customs and manners were so different and therefore surprising: “Given that their customs and manners are very strange for us, I will tell you, as briefly as I can, something of their characteristics and manners from what I have seen.”141 Similarly, journeys to the East supposed the draw of getting to know surprising places, such as the famous journeys by Marco Polo or William of Rubruck. The latter accepted a commission from Louis IX of France in 1253 to travel to the Orient, invoking a biblical charge: “In Ecclesiasticus it is written about the Wise Man: ‘He travels among the peoples of foreign lands.’”142 Otherness did not mean rejection: quite the contrary, it could suppose an exoticism that made it attractive. This was similar in both Christian and Muslim cultures: Sinbad was encouraged to leave his quiet home because he ardently desired to travel around countries and isles.143 In the twelfth century, Al Zuhrī� explained that, of the seven climates the world is divided into, the first was the centre of what is inhabited, while the others advanced towards the extremes.144 In these distant places fantastic human and non-human beings were found. Through their strangeness, the description of their char140  Flocel Sabaté, “‘Amar la nostra nació,’” in Sardegna e Catalogna “officinae” di identità riflessioni storiografiche e prospetttive di ricerca. Studi in memoria di Roberto Coroneo, ed. Alessandra Cioppi (Cagliari, 2013), 17–18. 141  “Per tal que llurs costumes e maneres són a nosaltres fort estranyes, per lo pus curt que io poré, vos contaré algunes coses de llurs condicions e maneres, de ço que io ne vi.” Cited from Ramon de Perellós, “Viatge del vescomte Ramon de Perellós i de Roda fet al purgatori nomenat de Sant Patrici,” in Novel·les amoroses i morals, ed. Arseni Pacheco and August Bover (Barcelona, 1982), 31.

142  “Nell’Ecclesiastico è scritto riguardo al Sapiente: ‘Attraverserà la terra di populi stranieri.’” Cited from Guglielmo di Rubruc, Viaggio nell’impero dei Mongoli (Genoa, 2002), 3.

143  Anonymous, Los viajes de Simbad el marino y otras historia de Las Mil y una noches (Madrid, 1989), 19. 144  Dolors Bramon, El mundo en el siglo XII. El tratado de al-Zuhri (Sabadell, 1991), 18.

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acteristics and customs,145 certain social and moral certainties of one’s own identity would be questioned.146 Otherness can be a mirror against which to reflect one’s own identity, either to question or reinforce it. Traditional historio­graphy has resorted to France and England in the Hundred Years’ War as an example where their respective national identities were reinforced.147 In reality, in this case, the conflict accentuated traits of cohesion, whereby each side emphasized its own language, and led to English becoming accepted as a language precisely when, in the fifteenth century, its “island mentality,” in Gwilym Dood’s words, was being constructed.148 This could lead to criticism of the character of the others, as in Contamine’s discussion about coolness between the French and the English: As for the French, they were depicted in varied colours which were far from flattering. Foreigners traditionally reproached them for their pride, lightness, carelessness, their love of pleasure. Other grievances were added in the fourteenth century: they explained their failures by their cowardice [...]. By contrast, the English were deemed violent beings, gluttonous, greedy, and coarse, swollen with beer, thirsty for gold and blood, living in a sad, distant, and depressing country.149

Distinguishing between groups was part of the game of identity. Francesc Eiximenis compared the Catalan nation with groups nearby— the French, German, English and Italian, Castilian, and Portuguese—to conclude that among them all, the Catalans had the best table manners: “the Catalan nation was [an] example for all other peoples.”150 This type of confrontation lent itself to political manoeuvres. Peter the Ceremonious, 145  Angelo Arioli, Islario maravilloso. Periplo árabe medi­eval (Madrid, 1989), 27–116.

146  Flocel Sabaté, “Islas en el espí�ritu medi­eval,” in Las islas del fin del mundo. Representación de las Afortunadas en los mapas del Occidente medi­eval (Lleida, 2016), 9–15.

147  “France until then did not live its own singular life but rather the common and general life in the Middle Ages; she was Catholic and feudal more than French. England has repressed her heavily over herself; it has been forced to enter into itself. France has looked for once and again; it has descended to the deepest part of its popular life. And what did it find there? France. She owes it to her enemy for having discovered herself as a nation” (La France jusque-là vivait de la vie commune et générale du Moyen Age autant et plus que de la sienne; elle était catholique et féodale avant d’être française. L’Anglaterre l’a refoulée durement sur elle-même, l’a forcée de rentrer en soi. La France a cherché, a fouillé, elle est descendue au plus profund de sa vie populaire; elle a trouvé, quoi? La France. Elle doit à son ennemi de s’être connue comme nation). Cited from Jules Michelet, Histoire de France, 18 vols. (Lausanne, 1966), 4:77. 148  Gwilym Dood, “The Rise of English, the Decline of French: Supplications to the English Crown, c. 1420–1450,” Speculum 86, no. 1 (2011): 117–46.

149  “Quant aux Français, on les représentait sous des couleurs variées, qui étaient loin d’être toujours flatteuses. Les étrangers leur reprochaient traditionnellement leur orgueil, leur légèreté, leur insouciance, leur amour au plaisir. D’autres griefs vinrent s’ajouter au XIVe siècle: on expliqua leurs échecs par leur lâcheté [...]. A l’opposé, les Anglais étaient réputés des êtres violents, gloutons, cupides et grossiers, enflés de bière, assoiffés d’or et de sang, habitant un triste pays, écarté et maussade.” Cited from Philippe Contamine, Au temps de la guerre de Cent Ans. France et Anglaterre (Paris, 1994), 23–24. 150  “La nació catalana era eximpli de totes les altres gents.” Cited from Eiximenis, Lo Crestià. (Selecció), 148.



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king of the Crown of Aragon, criticized the arbitrariness of the king of Castile while comparing the characteristics of each people, because, as he explained, a behaviour linked to the whim of the king, typical of Castile, would be impossible in Aragon, simply given the social, cultural, and political regime: “our people are free and are not thus subjugated as the people of Castile are.”151 However, the same Aragonese king behind this criticism of Castile applied similar measures in his own country, showing that his motivation was to criticize his Castilian equivalent at a moment of high tension between the two kingdoms.152 Conflict is not inherent in recognizing otherness but rather in the relation intentionally established between identities, reinforced by the collective aspect of each. This is very clear in the conflict caused by the conquest of Sardinia by the Crown of Aragon in the fourteenth century. The opposition to the conquest led by the judge of Arborea did not invoke a conflict between lords but between peoples, between the Sard nation and the Catalan nation. Both sides accepted this concept: in the city of Sassari it was explained that, “the king with the Catalans, in an evil and perverse way, seized the city, taking advantage of the good faith of the Sards, and expelled them with great betrayal, from which damage and destruction have followed”153 while, on the other side, the aim was to “annihilate and destroy the detestable and smug rebellion of the Sard nation.”154 The war-cry repeated by the Sard rebels was “Arborea!, Arborea! Death to the Catalans,”155 thus linking the Catalans to the dynasty that by taking over Arborea claimed legitimacy over Sardinia. However, while the Crown of Aragon expanded across the Mediterranean and others saw them as Catalans, as documents in different countries show, the soldiers who spearheaded these conquests went into combat shouting the name of their dynasty: Aragó! Aragó!156 This was the same in earlier centuries: feudal troops called out the name of the lineage under which they were grouped.157 What led groups into conflict was not their difference, but a specific political or social circumstance, and 151  “El nostre poble és franc e no és així� subjugat com és lo poble de Castella.” Cited from Pere el Cerimoniós, Crònica de Pere III el Cerimoniós, ed. Ferran Soldevila (Barcelona, 2014), 81.

152  Flocel Sabaté, “L’abus de pouvoir dans la Couronne d’Aragon (XIIIe–XIVe siècles): patho­logie, corruption, stratégie ou modèle?,” in La patho­logie du pouvoir: vices, crimes et délits des gouvernants. Antiquité, Moyen Âge, époque moderne (Leiden, 2016), 309–11.

153  “Lo rey ab los Cathalans malvadament e hinigua la levaran sots bona fe als dits sarts e·ls gitaran fora ab gran trayció de que se·n seguí� dan e manquament.” Cited from Francesco Cesare Casula, Carte reali diplomatiche di Giovanni I il Cacciatore, re d’Aragona, riguardanti l’Italia (Padova, 1977), 62. 154  “Aniquilar e abatre la detestable i fàtua rebel·lió de la nació sard.” From Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 2220, fol. 75r.

155  “Arborea!, Arborea! Morgen sos Cathalanos.” Cited from Francesco Cesare Casula, La Sardenya catalano-aragonesa. Perfil històric (Barcelona, 1985), 41.

156  Flocel Sabaté, “Maison et Couronne d’Aragon,” in Histoires, femmes, pouvoirs : Péninsule Ibérique (IXe–XVe siècle). Mélanges offerts au Professeur Georges Martin, ed. Jean-Pierre Jardin, Patricia Rochwert-Zuili and Hélène Thieulin-Pardo (Paris 2018), 768.

157  Flocel Sabaté, “Orden y desorden. La violencia en la cotidianidad bajomedi­eval catalana,” Aragón en la Edad Media 14–15 (1999): 1400–401.

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it was the response mechanism of collective solidarity among groups that led to clashes when tensions were running high. As we have seen, the solution to the conflicts came from arbitrating agreements and not destroying the bonds of solidarity.158 Multiple levels of otherness existed, as many as there were levels of identity, and the respective circumstances defined the level of tension. As mentioned above, the disputes between factions did not prevent those who clashed within a city from collaborating on another level, against another city. Those colliding on this level could fight together for reasons of jurisdictional solidarity: even lords in opposition might share allegiance as a nation under their common sovereign. This went right up to the highest level, European Christendom, identified as a Respublica Christiana.159 But at this point, however, an inassimilable otherness became evident: the religious. In the fourth century, Christianity took command of history, accepting the biblical narrative that was until then Jewish and imposing it on the Roman historical trajectory. From then on, the history of humanity, the history of Christianity, and the history of salvation became one and the same.160 By the eleventh century, the so-called Gregorian Reform infused the Church with greater ideo­logical security and better tools to penetrate society. From this position, doctrine and the ecclesiastical authorities increased intolerance to those considered enemies of the faith, as it was seen in the thirteenth century, against heretics, Muslims, and Jews.161 After converting the entire history of humanity into a linear path from the Creation to Christ’s Second Coming (Parousia), it was easy to predict humanity’s path, or, in other words, predict how close it was to the end.162 This was no idle intellectual curiosity, because the Gospel mission proclaimed that, at the end of time, all society would come together in a single fold: “there will be one flock and one shepherd (John 10:16).”163 The perceived difficulties in reaching that aim spread distress among various Messianic movements in the Late Middle Ages, influenced by the writings of Joachim of Fiore at the end of the twelfth century.164 The thirteenth century became marked by preaching and disputes among those who aimed to convert those, like the Jews, who were deemed to be on the wrong path.165 Both spiritu158  Flocel Sabaté, “Les factions dans la vie urbaine de la Catalogne du XIVe siècle”, 356–65.

159  Aleksander Gyesztor, “Conscience et idéntité occidentales,” in Les Européens, ed. Hélène Ahrweiller and Maurice Aymard (Paris, 2000), 173. 160  Raúl González Salinero, “La idea de ‘Romanitas’ en el pensamiento histórico-polí�tico de Prudencio,” in Toga y daga. Teoría de la praxis de la política en Roma, ed. Gonzalo Bravo and Raül González (Madrid, 2010), 349–50. 161  Jean Flori, Croisade et chevalerie XIe–XIIe siècles (Paris, 1998), 60–63. 162  Karl Löwith, El sentido de la historia (Madrid, 1968), 207–28.

163  “Fiet unum ovile et unus pastor.” Cited from Io. 10: 16. Novum Testamentum Graece et Latine (London, 1963), 263.

164  Gian Luca Potestà, El tiempo del Apocalipsis. Vida de Joaquín de Fiore (Madrid, 2010), 121–390.

165  “The thirteenth century was also an eschato­logical century in which, from Joachim of Fiori to the Franciscan spirituals, from Frederick II to St. Louis, Christianity was preparing for the Antichrist and then the Millennium and finally, the end of the time. However, the conversion of the Jews must precede the end of time, it is an urgent and essential mission” (El siglo XIII es también un



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alist movements in Christianity, attentive to divine will especially according to the warnings of some Franciscan friars,166 and the line based on Aristotelian realism,167 generated fear among the population. Faced with the difficulties that were characteristic of the fourteenth century—bad harvests, pandemics and natural disasters such as earthquakes—people asked what sins of society had angered God,168 as they were reminded by the numerous wandering preachers.169 People had no doubt that God was irritated by society’s tolerance of those like homosexuals who failed to comply with God’s natural order, or those who hated Him, like the Jews,170 who had killed Him on the cross and, guided by continuing deicidal tendencies,171 were led to stab consecrated hosts.172 In his public sermons, the Dominican preacher, Vicenç Ferrer, who was very influential at the end of the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries,173 demanded: That the Jews and Moors be separated, not among the Christians; nor must we support infidel doctors nor purchase groceries from them [infidels], and they should be closed off and walled in, as we have no worse enemies.174

siglo escatológico en el cual, desde Joaquí�n de Fiori a los espirituales franciscanos, desde Federico II a san Luis, la cristiandad se prepara para el Anticristo y luego para el Milenio y, por último, para el fin de los tiempos. Ahora bien, la conversión de los judí�os debe preceder a la consumación de los tiempos, es una misión urgente y esencial). Cited from Jacques Le Goff, Lo maravilloso y lo cotidiano en el Occidente medi­eval (Barcelona, 1985), 127.

166  José Maria Pou, Visionarios, beguinos y fraticelos catalanes (siglos XIII–XV) (Madrid, 1991), 9–512.

167  Gilles Berceville, “Entre lógica y mí�stica. La teo­logí�a universitaria,” in Historia de la teo­logía, ed. Jean-Yves Lacoste (Buenos Aires, 2011), 187–232.

168  “For consenting such sins, pestilence came upon the town and our lord God denied [us] rain and good weather” (per tals pecats a consentir vinguen pestilènçies en la vila e nostre senyor Déu priva pluja e bon temps). Pedro Ibarra, “Elig: Noticia de algunas instituciones y costumbres de la Edad Media,” in III Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón (julio de 1923) (Valencia, 1923), 2:39. 169  Jean-Arnault Dérens, “La predication et la ville: pratiques de la parole et ‘religion civique’ à Montpellier aux XIVe et XVe siècles,” in La predication en Pays d’Oc (XIIe-début XVe siècle) (Toulouse, 1997), 335–62

170  It was similar all over Europe, not just England: “The Jewish villain is simply ‘the other’, who functions to further the plot.” Cited from Henry Ansgar Kelly, “‘The Prioress’s Tale’ in Context: Good and Bad Reports of Non-Christians in Fourteenth-Century England,” in Studies in Medi­eval and Renaissance History 3 (2006): 106.

171  Flocel Sabaté, “Les juifs au Moyen-Â� ge. Les sources catalanes corcernant l’ordre et le désordre,” in Chrétiens et juifs au Moyen Âge: sources pur la recherche d’une relation permanente, ed. Flocel Sabaté and Claude Denjean (Lleida, 2006), 91–136.

172  Elsa Marmursztejn, “Du récit exemplaire au ‘casus’ universitaire: une variation théo­logique sur le thème de la profanation d’hosties par les juifs (1290),” Médiévales 41 (2001): 37–63.

173  Bernard Montagnes, “Prophetisme et eschato­logie dans la prédication méridionale de saint Vincent Ferrier,” in Fin du monde et signes des temps. Visionnaires et prophètes en France méridionale (fin XIIIe–début XVe siècle) (Toulouse, 1992), 331–49; Pedro Cátedra, “Fray Vicente Ferrer y la predicación antijudaica en la campaña castellana (1411–1412),” in “Qu’un sang impur…”: Les Conversos et le pouvoir en Espagne à la fin du moyen âge (Aix-en-Provence, 1997), 19–46.

174  “Que·ls juheus o moros estiguin en apartat, no entre los cristians; ne sostengats metges infidels

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These were not conflicts between Christian, Muslim, or Jewish countries. Muslims and Jews, the worst of enemies at the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth centuries, fell foul of ideo­logical criteria: the inability of Christians to accept inassimilable otherness despite living in the same towns and cities. Fear of the wrath of the anthropomorphized God in a society that had adopted Christianity as its only uniting axis led to acute intolerance of the minorities that were inassimilable for reasons of their religious identity. In the thirteenth century, faced with this situation, Roger Bacon predicted the return to the Roman church of the Orthodox Greeks, the conversion of the Tartars, but the destruction of the Saracens: those who would not convert had to be eliminated.175 The view of infidels as a danger justified measures of moral hygiene, moves to mark out—and discriminate against—these minorities. The Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 imposed such measures, beginning with a badge to be worn by the Jews on their clothing. This was not immediately applied as it depended on the civil authorities. But, during the Late Middle Ages, ecclesiastical authorities called on sovereigns and lords to apply this measure,176 while the preachers spread the word among the general population. Municipal ordinations progressively restricted relations between Christians and Jews177 and, at the same time, forced them to live segregated within their own neighbourhoods.178 Fearful of God’s wrath, the Christian population shared these attitudes: they commemorated festivities like Easter by stoning the houses of Jews; they insulted the Jews, telling them that their ancestors had crucified Jesus and prevented them from touching products that they did not buy in the market, just one example of a growing everyday contempt for them in the Late Middle Ages. At the same time, when a Catalan bailiff investigated gambling, he found Christians and Jews gambling together in the Jewish quarter during festivities like the Christian Easter Week, and the fact that many municipal governments had to reiterate the ban on exchanging products or reinforce the segregation of Jews evidently shows a disregard for these measures and that some contacts between Christians and Jews were maintained.179 ne comprar d’ells vitualles, e que estiguin tanquats e murats, car no havem major enemichs.” Cited from Vicent Ferrer, Sermons, ed. Gret Schib Torra, 6 vols. (Barcelona, 1975), 3:14.

175  Marjorie Reeves, The Influence of Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages. A Study in Joachimism (Oxford, 1969), 399. 176  Solomon Grayzel, The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century. Volume II: 1254–1314 (New York, 1989).

177  Flocel Sabaté, “L’ordenament municipal de la relació amb els jueus a la Catalunya baixmedi­ eval,” in Cristianos y judíos en contacto en la Edad Media. Polémica, conversión dinero y convivencia, ed. Flocel Sabaté and Claude Denjean (Lleida, 2009). 733–804.

178  Flocel Sabaté, “L’espace des minorités ethniques et religieuses: les juifs dans les villes catalanes au bas Moyen Â� ge,” in Morpho­logie urbaine et identité sociale dans la ville médiévale hispanique, ed. Flocel Sabaté and Christian Guilleré (Chambéry, 2012), 231–86.

179  Flocel Sabaté, “Jewish Neighbourhoods in Christian Towns in Fourteenth and Fifteenth Century Catalonia,” in Intrincate Interfaith Networks: Quotidian Jewish–Christian Contacts in the Middle Ages, ed. Ephraim Shoham-Steiner (Turnhout, 2016), 119–47.



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Individual behaviour like this did not alter the overall dynamic of a progressive exclusion of minorities. In many European countries, the incapacity to tolerate the difference represented by the Jews led to their expulsion.180 But the fact that contact persisted means we have to value what we could term frontier relations. In fact, in the Central Middle Ages, the borders of Europe with otherness, both east and west, were not defined by frontiers as boundary-lines but rather by bounds of contact.181 Frontiers were “a living membrane” (une membrane vivante) in the words of Pierre Toubert,182 allowing various levels of contact with Otherness. Similarly, late medi­eval social otherness, within society’s external borders, retained a level of porosity conforming more to reality than the discourse of ideo­logical coherence, even if the latter would end up imposing the norms of behaviour.

External Perceptions and Internal Adoptions

In 732, the Muslims were defeated near Poitiers by Charles Martel at the head of an army made up of men from various origins fighting under the Frankish steward of Austrasia. When the battle was described in the Mozarabic Chronicle a few decades later, it was understood that the combatants were gens Austrie, but synonyms were also sought, perhaps to include troops from other origins, referring to them as gentes septentrionalis and more explicitly to the europenses.183 This text has been widely commented on from different perspectives because it was the first time this adjective was used.184 Above all, however, this mention reflects the perception (from the outside) the chronicler had of all the participants feeling they belonged to the same side due to their origins.185 Almost four centuries later, in 1113, a series of principalities, towns, and trading cities, from Barcelona to Rome, troubled by the Muslim kingdom of Mallorca, banded together to conquer it, and did so under the temporary command of the count of Barcelona. On narrating the feat from Pisa some years later, the men from the northeast of the Iberian Peninsula who accompanied the Barcelonan count were described as “Catalans” (catalanensi).186 This text is also repeatedly mentioned for being the first clear mention 180  Joseph Pérez, Historia de una tragedia. La expulsión de los judíos de España (Barcelona, 1993).

181  David Abulafia and Nora Berend, eds., Medi­eval Frontiers. Concepts and Practices (Burlington, 2002); Stéphane Boissellier and Isabel Cristina Ferreira Fernandes, Entre Islam et Chrétienté. La territorialisation des frontières, XIe–XVIe siècle (Rennes, 2015). 182  Pierre Toubert, “Frontière et frontières: un objet historique,” Castrum 4 (1992): 16.

183  José Eduardo López Pereira, ed., Continuatio Isidoriana Hispana. Crónica mozárabe de 754 (León, 2009), 258. 184  José Antonio Maravall, Estudios de historia del pensamiento español (Madrid, 1973), 470.

185  Flocel Sabaté, “732. La victoire de Charles Martel à la bataille de Poitiers,” in L’Histoire de France vue d’ailleurs, ed. Jean-Noël Jeanneney and Jeanne Guérout (Paris, 2016), 46–53. 186  Carlo Calisse, ed., Liber Maiorichinus de Gestis Pisanorum illustribus (Rome, 1904), 27–123; Enrico Pisano, Liber Maiorichinus de Gestis Pisanorum illustribus, ed. Giuseppe Scalia and Alberto Bartola (Florence, 2017), 184–454.

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of this name.187 With it, the Pisan poet aimed to include a population perceived to have shared cultural and socio-economic traits despite not belonging to one institutional or political unit.188 In both cases, despite the chrono­logical and contextual distance, the external perception meant a common name was applied because the people referred to were perceived to have common traits, although at a lower level many elements would have subdivided the main group into other smaller ones, so people could be linked to different layers of groups. Perception from the outside is an external indication of common traits clear enough to be seen as shared, whilst other lesser circles of identity might also exist. Higher and lower affiliations could be held at the same time and were mutable, as we have seen within towns and then by the town as a whole in a collective action against an opposing group. This was visible in 1315 in Catalonia with the toponymic references “Empúries” or “Cardona” used by those who were defined as subjects of the count of Empúries and the viscount of Cardona, despite not living in these places.189 In any case, the perception carried more weight than the institutional reality. In the second half of the fourteenth century, Catalonia was invaded fifteen times by armies from the other side of the Pyrenees,190 mainly by troops like routiers idle during the Hundred Years’ War.191 As a result, the counts of Armagnac became influential in the Crown of Aragon, even agreeing to the marriage of a daughter to the king’s eldest son,192 which meant that Matha of Armagnac became the wife of the heir to the Crown between 1373 and her death in 1378;193 they were present in various episodes and political intrigues, including the invasion of 1389.194 However, the name Armagnac became sometimes popularly identified more with some uncontrolled invader from the north than with knowledge about the real origin of people from this county. That is why over the last third of 187  Jaume Vidal i Alcover, “Liber Maiorichinus’ (Text, traducció, notes i introducció)” (PhD diss., Universitat de Barcelona, 1976).

188  Flocel Sabaté, “El nacimiento de Cataluña. Mito y realidad,” in Fundamentos medi­evales de los particularismos hispánicos. IX Congreso de Estudios Medi­evales (2003) (Á� vila, 2005), 239–41; Flocel Sabaté, “The Medi­eval Roots of Catalan Identity,” in Historical Analysis of the Catalan Identity (Bern, 2015), 68–71. 189  Flocel Sabaté, El sometent a la Catalunya medi­eval (Barcelona, 2007), 56.

190  Flocel Sabaté, “Companyies estranyes d’armes qui eren entrades en lo Principat.” Catalogne, seconde moitié du XIVe siècle, forthcoming.

191  Among others: Christian Desplat, “Figures de routiers pyrénéens de la première moitié de la guerre de Cent Ans,” Bulletin de la Société des Sciences, Lettes et Arts de Pau 4, no. 2 (1967), 27–49; É� mile Labroue, Le livre de vie. Les seigneurs et les Capitaines du Périgord Blanc au XIVe siècle (1891; repr. Bayac, 1991); Laurent Renaudet, Mercenaires et companies d’aventure: les ‘routiers’ au XIVe et XVe siècles (master’s thesis, Université de Poitiers, 1993); Jacques Faugeras, Perrinet Gressart, redoutable “routier” au service des Anglais et des Bourguignons (Sury-en-Vaux, 1997); Paul-Auguste Allut, Les routiers au XIVe siècle. Les tard-venus et la bataille de Brignais (1859; repr. Paris, 2001). 192  Dominique Barrois, Jean Ier, comte d’Armagnanc (1305–1375), son action et son monde (PhD diss., Université Lille III, 2004), 318–10. 193  À� urea Javierre Mur, Mata d’Armanyac, duquessa de Girona (Barcelona, 1967), 5–61.

194  Rafael Tasis, Joan I, el rei caçador i músic (Barcelona, 1959), 278–82.



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the fourteenth century many references were made in Catalonia to people perceived and defined as Armagnac, for their routier character, but this said little of their true origins north of the Pyrenees.195 The most widespread marker in the perception of population groups is language, and this is often stronger than the person’s jurisdiction. Peoples, nations, and language were used as synonyms by a group of Catalan deputies who, at the end of the fifteenth century, referred to “all peoples and nations: Castilians, Portuguese, French, Gascons, Germans, Provençals, Italians, and of all other languages and peoples.”196 French, Gascons, and Provençals were distinguished, although they all came under the sovereignty of the same king, while Italians were identified as one, despite the fragmentation of the sovereignties to which they belonged. The perception of a group could lead to different denominations depending on context. A good example is how the inhabitants of the central and eastern Mediterranean defined the members of the Crown of Aragon during their expansion. The troops invoked Aragon in battle, not as the homonymous Iberian region but rather as the name of the reigning dynasty;197 however, their opponents described them as Catalans,198 whether they were from Catalonia or other regions of the Crown, like Mallorca or Valencia. The broad use of the name might suggest the greater demo­graphic and political weight of Catalonia in the expansion,199 but primarily to the dominant position that Catalan enjoyed,200 to the extent that Catalan was sometimes applied to people from the same Crown who spoke other languages, like Castilian or Italian.201 This shared perception was dominant,202 which is why current historians complain about not being able, for example, to discern the origins of goods: for the recipients, all the merchandise came from Catalans.203 However, at the same time, this shared perception of men and women 195  Girona, Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Girona, I.1.2.1, lligall 7, llibre 1, fol. 19r.; Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 2014, fols. 24r–25r.

196  “Totes gents e nations castellans, portuguesos, francesos, gascons, tudeschs, prohensals, ytalians e a totes altres lengües e pobles.” Cited from Robert B. Tate, Joan Margarit Pau, cardinalbishop of Gerona. A Bio­graphical Study (Manchester, 1954), 128; Francesc Carreras y Candi, Pere Joan Ferrer militar y senyor del Maresme (Barcelona, 1892), 104. 197  Sabaté, “Maison et Couronne d’Aragon,” 763–77.

198  Flocel Sabaté, Percepció i identificació dels catalans a l’edat mitjana (Barcelona, 2016), 80–97.

199  Vicenzo d’Alessandro, “Spazio geografico e morfo­logie sociali nella Sicilia del basso medioevo,” in Commercio, finanza, funzione pubblica. Stranieri in Sicilia e in Sardegna nei secoli XIII–XV (Naples, 1989), 7.

200  Lola Badia, “Literatura catalana i patronatge reial al segle XV: episodis d’un distanciament,” Pedralbes. Revista d’Història moderna 13, no. 2 (1993): 525–34; Miguel Batllori, La família de los Borja (Madrid, 1999), 164.

201  Nenad Fejič, “Ragusei e spagnoli nel ‘Medio Evo’. Luci ed ombre di un rapporto commerciale,” in Ragusa e il Mediterrarneo. Ruolo e funzioni marinara tra Medioevo ed età Moderna, ed. Antonio di Vittorio (Bari, 1990), 81. 202  Nenad Fejič, Шпанци у дубровнику средњем веку [Spaniards in Dubrovnik in the Middle Ages] (Belgrade, 1988), 114–276.

203  Paulino Iradiel, “Valencia y la expansión mediterránea de la Corona de Aragón,” in En las costas

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from the Crown of Aragon being Catalans could be fine-tuned, and so people may distinguish the Aragonese,204 who spoke their own language (finally displaced by Castilian205), and elsewhere, Catalans and Valencians were also differentiated despite both speaking Catalan.206 Thus, the same population could be defined under several names, the contradiction being merely apparent, because everything depended on context. Meanwhile, a group being referred to could maintain different circles of identity, and apply them appropriately. In the same case of the Crown of Aragon, in 1487 the Mallorcan notary, Pere Llitrà, wrote: “nowhere in the world will you find any other nation as famous for being as passionate as that of the Mallorcans.”207 However, this designation of the Mallorcans as a nation did not prevent the people of the island from considering themselves members of the Catalan nation, because they spoke Catalan and, at the same time, accepted that they were descendents of that nation.208 Similarly, the strong socioeconomic growth of Valencia was accompanied by institutional development, which meant a fuller sense of self-identity.209 This was invoked to counter the supposed weight exerted by Catalonia in the Crown of Aragon,210 though, in other scenarios, Valencia claimed that it was part of the Catalan nation. This was the case in Oriola, a town in the south of the Kingdom of Valencia that belonged ecclesiastically to the bishopric of Cartagena (within the Kingdom of Murcia) and which came under the sovereignty of Castile. The municipal authorities complained in 1433 because both the current bishop and his predecessors, all Castilians, tended to “favour those of [the] Castilian nation, disfavouring those of the Catalan nation.”211 Identity, both for those who perceived it from outside and those who adopted it, was not only a question of concentric circles but also of permeable and porous areas that could be conjugated in a complementary way as circumstances required. There are many such examples. In 1363, Cardinal Gil Albornoz founded the Spanish College of St. del Mediterráneo Occidental. Las ciudades de la Península Ibérica y del reino de Mallorca y el comercio Mediterráneo en la Edad Media, ed. David Abulafia and Blanca Garí� (Barcelona, 1997), 166. 204  Casula, La Sardenya catalano-aragonesa, 64.

205  Guillermo Tomás Faci, El aragonés medi­eval. Lengua y Estado en el reino de Aragón (Zaragoza, 2020), 217-290. 206  Antonio Era, Il Parlamento sardo nel 1481–1485 (Milan, 1995), 178.

207  “No cregau nació al món sia tant notada de esser apassionada com Mallorquins.” Cited from Maria Barceló, Els Llitrà. Una nissaga de notaris a la Mallorca baixmedi­eval (Palma, 2001), 281.

208  Antoni Mas, Esclaus i Catalans. Esclavitut i segregació a Mallorca durant els segles XIV i XV (Palma, 2005), 91–156. 209  Antoni Ferrando, Consciència idiomàtica i nacional dels valencians (Valencia, 1980), 19–186.

210  Agustí� Rubio Vela, El patriciat i la nació. Sobre el particularisme dels valencians en els segles XIV i XV (Castelló de la Plana, Barcelona, 2012), 2:9–37

211  “Favorir als de nació castellana defavorint als de la nació catalana.” Cited from Juan Antoni Barrio Barrio, “‘Per servey de la Corona d’Aragó.’ Identidad urbana y discurso polí�tico en la frontera meridional del reino de Valencia: Orihuela en la Corona de Aragón, ss. XIII–XV,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 61, no. 238 (2011): 460.



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Clement at Bo­logna for students from the different territories of Spain,212 but this did not stop a Spanish nation and another specified as natio Cathelanorum being organized separately within it.213 The permeability could be broad: in the fifteenth century in the city of Mallorca (currently Palma), Portuguese merchants did not have their own consulate, but were served by the consulate of the Castilians, with whom they share neither jurisdiction nor language, but whose kingdoms were neighbours in the Iberian Peninsula, so that the consulate of Castile was willing to serve “all Castilian, Portuguese merchants, or other progeny of Spain.”214 This was not very different from what happened with the different nations in the studia generalia or universities all over Europe from their initial groupings by territorial identities.215 The students fitted into the nation they considered closest to them. This is very clear in the emblematic case of the nations at the Uni­ver­sity of Paris,216 whose groupings took different circumstances and interests into consideration. This breadth sometimes led to tensions, as happened between the English and Picard nations. Between 1356 and 1358, it was ruled that the distinction between these should be defined by language, either lingua theotonica or lingua gallica, and the boundary was the upper Meuse. Geo­graphical demarcation by language would distinguish between the two nations and not their jurisdictional ascriptions, and this would henceforth determine the placing of the students.217 The definition of the university nation by language was based on a high identity-level, because it coincided with the bounds of the Picard language, which at the end of the thirteenth century and during a good part of the fourteenth, was a prestige language used among nobles and bourgeoisie in a highly learned region.218 However, these nations were denoted by the university centres and could reflect outmoded structures no longer in line with the contemporary national perceptions. This was the case of the two nations at Oxford: Borealis and Australis, with the division set by the River Trent,219 212  Baltasar Cuart, “El Colegio de San Clemente de los Españoles de Bolonia en la Edad Moderna. Historiografí�a,” in Universidades clásicas de la Europa Mediterránea: Bolonia, Coimbra y Alcalá. Miscelánea Alfonso IX, ed. Luis E. Rodrí�guez-San Pedro and Juan Luis Polo (Salamanca, 2006), 69–70. 213  Pascual Tamburri, “España en la universidad de Bolonia. vida académica y comunidad nacional (siglos XIII–XIV),” Espacio, tiempo y forma. Serie III: Historia Medi­eval 10 (1997): 296–97.

214  “Tot mercader castellà, portagalès o altre generació d’Espanya.” Cited from István Szászdi León-Borja, “Sobre el consulado castellano de Mallorca en la baja edad media,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia medi­eval 10 (1994–95): 218. 215  Pierre Riché and Jacques Verger, Des nains sur des épaules des géants. Maîtres et élève au Moyen Age (Paris, 2006), 280.

216  Jean-Philippe Genet, La mutation de l’éducation et de la culture médiévales, 2 vols. (Paris, 1999), 1:216–17. 217  Léo Moulin, La vie des étudiants au Moyen Âge (Paris, 1991), 119–29.

218  Serge Lusignan, “Espace géo­graphique et langue. les frontiers du français picard (XIIIe–XVe siècles),” in Construction de l’espace au Moyen Âge: pratiques et représentations. XXXVII Congrès de la Societé des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur Public (Mulhouse, 2–4 Juin 2006) (Paris, 2007), 263–74. 219  Rudolf Stichweh, “Universitätsmitglieder als Fremde in spätmittelalterlichen und früh­ modernen europäischen Gesellschaften,” in Fremde der Gesellschaft. Historische und sozialwissen­

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without taking into consideration the then wider acceptance of an English nation.220 The malleability around the nations is clear in the difficulties, more political than anything else, that arose when the Council of Basel (1414–1418) tried to organize all the participants into five nations: gallicana, italica, anglicana, germanica, hispanica.221 The definitions adopted for the university nations did not prevent students changing from one nation to another, undoubtedly for personal reasons not related to the nation. Apparent contradictions in the definitions of identity were in fact expressions of permeability and porosity. These examples reject rigidity of some legal or administrative definition but rather express the subjectivity inherent in perception (external) and adoption (internal), two aspects of human reasoning that are based on trying to capture coherent traits, while offering flexibility for specific circumstances.

Representation and Social Gradation

The perception and adoption of coherent features and terms that enable us to talk about identity do not endorse an essentialist interpretation but, as we have seen, adaptability to different levels and segments of identity. However, where this adaptation allows speaking in the name of one’s own identity, it adds a representative aspect that contributes powerfully to defining this identity. Representation was a core element in the working of medi­eval power, across many fields, because it meant an elite having to adopt, with no choice, the role of representative of a collective.222 This representativeness fit a participative political system, and so has been signalled as the great contribution of the Middle Ages; Randall says: “The idea of representation in the political sense was not prominent, though it existed in the ancient world, but as a fundamental political principle it is a gift of the Middle Ages to ourselves.”223 Viewed this way, it served as the gateway to participative political systems in municipalities, parliaments, and elsewhere. Any call for representation invokes a presumed underlying identity, but we should consider that representation then encouraged or even brought about cohesion of idenschaftliche Untersuchungen zur Differenzierung von Normalität und Fremdheit, ed. Marie Theres Fögen (Frankfurt am Main, 1991), 178.

220  Andrea Ruddick, English Identity and Political Culture in the Fourteenth Century (Cam­bridge, 2013), 100–82. 221  Caspar Hirschi, The Origins of Nationalism. An Alternative History from Ancient Rome to Early Modern Germany (Cam­bridge, 2012), 81–85.

222  Susan Reynolds wrote: “The richest and most established burgesses or citizens of a town, like the bishops and nobles of a kingdom, were those who were qualified to speak and judge on behalf of the communitiy of which they were perceived as the most solid, respectable, and responsible members. Representation was not a matter of representing individuals (hence the frequent vagueness about who atended or had the right to attend meetings), but of representing communities).” Susan Reynolds, “Medi­eval Urban History and the History of Political Thought,” Urban History Yearbook (Leicester, 1982), 14–23 at 15.

223  Henry John Randall, The Creative Centuries. A Study in Historical Development (London, 1947), 248.



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tity in its quest for self-justification. To start with, representation not only emerged from the group but also the opposite: its members tended to come from a high social sector that claimed to be the representatives of a larger group and speak on its behalf. The elite that took on the representation of the larger collective permanently confused their own interests with those of the group. This is very clear in the privileges the municipal representatives insisted on from their respective sovereigns or the measures parliamentarians demanded: to a great extent they held the interests of their high social group, thus questioning how representative they truly were.224 The mechanisms for co-opting representatives used in the renewal of posts, either implicitly or sometimes in a regulated way, restricted the institutional, political, and social circle to a highly exclusive social group. However, these elites everywhere used the language of representation and its supposed purpose, especially the common good.225 The identity of the group was constantly reinforced and fed by this representativeness. From 1363 onwards in the Crown of Aragon, the parliaments (Corts or Cortes) managed to secure permanent representation – a General Diputation – in each territory (Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia). This involved an elite of the three estates, but closed, which only adopted elective, or cooptation, systems in the fifteenth century.226 However, they always invoked representativeness over their respective territories. In Valencia in 1409, it was explicitly proclaimed that, “the office of the General Diputation represents all the kingdom.”227 This assertion became the main catalyst for the cohesive identity invoked. This representativeness, throughout late medi­eval Europe, adopted various images to help visualize the shared identity, in search of a precise fit between the sovereign and the community of subjects.228 In Catalonia there were those against the king who talked on behalf of the terra (“land”) or the General de Catalunya (“General of Catalonia”), a position that justified the interlocutors but also reinforced the identity and cohesion

224  “Those who think that [medi­eval] cities are democratic institutions in which all have the same opportunities, continue to believe, rightly, that the royal arm represents everyone in reality and not just theoretically; those who, instead, believe, according to the most recent research, that the city is controlled by a minority, will have no difficulty in finding that acts of parliament favour, very frequently, these minorities who primarily represent themselves” (Quienes piensan que las ciudades [medi­evales] son centros democráticos en los que todos tienen las mismas posibilidades, seguirán creyendo, con razón, que el brazo real representa de verdad y no solo teóricamente a todos; los que, en cambio, crean, de acuerdo con las últimas investigaciones, que la ciudad está controlada por una minorí�a, no tendrán la menor dificultad en admitir que los acuerdos de cortes favorecen, con excesiva frecuencia, a estas minorí�as que se representan ante todo a sí� mismas). Cited from José Luis Martí�n, “Las Cortes Medi­evales,” Historia 16 164 (1989): 92. 225  E. Igor Mineo, “Cose in commune e bene commune. L’ideo­logia della comunità in Italia nel tardo medioevo,” in The Languages of Political Society. Western Europe, 14th–17th centuries, ed. Andrea Gamberini, Jean-Philippe Genet, and Andrea Zorzi (Rome, 2011), 39–63.

226  Flocel Sabaté, “Corona de Aragón,” in Historia de España. VIII. La época medi­eval: administra­ ción y gobierno, ed. Pedro Andrés Porras, Eloí�sa Ramí�rez, and Flocel Sabaté (Tres Cantos, 2003), 386–87. 227  “Lo ofici de la Diputació representàs tot lo regne.” Cited from Rosa Muñoz Pomer, Orígenes de la Generalidad Valenciana (Valencia, 1987), 401. 228  Bernard Guenée, Occidente durante los siglos XIV y XV. Los Estados (Barcelona, 1973), 92–96.

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of all the territory invoked.229 The image of the Mystical Body, once secularized,230 had great impact on the political symbo­logy of society in late medi­eval Europe:231 the head was identified with the sovereign,232 and the hands could be interpreted as the so-called popular representatives. So, in 1466, in the midst of the civil war in Catalonia, those who claimed a representative role from their municipal position against the monarch adopted an image of the mystic body coherent with the claimed unity of Catalan territory under the presidency of Barcelona: “Tortosa is the right eye, Perpignan the left, and Barcelona the heart of the mystic heart of Catalonia.”233 Similarly, on Sardinia in the mid-fifteenth century, the judge of Arborea himself justified the previously mentioned rising against the king of Aragon by invoking Sardinian nationalism: the call to gather all Sards together against the Catalan invaders under the king of Aragon, leading to a long struggle always based on the discourse of identity.234 In this way, the judge of Arborea justified his position while also giving meaning to and reinforcing the identity that he claimed to represent.235 In all cases, the invocation of identity by those who stood as representatives supposed a social gradation. Given their own status, the prohoms, or local councillors who represented the municipality, tended to self-identify with higher identity-groups.236 When the consent of the collective had to be obtained for decisions, they tended to ask for the opinion of the “greater part,”237 although often the “best and healthiest part” was more explicitly taken into account, as was established in the Cort of Barcelona in 1383: We establish, desire, and ordain that if we or our successors wish to make some General Constitution or Statute in Catalonia, it must be done with the approval and agreement

229  Flocel Sabaté, “Expressôes da representatividade social na Catalunha tardomedi­eval,” in Identidades e Fronteiras no Medioevo Ibérico, ed. Fátima Regina Fernandes (Curitiba, 2013), 68–79.

230  Ernst Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Medi­eval Political Theo­logy (Princeton, 1957), 195–270. 231  Aquilino Iglesia, “Cos Mí�stic,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 25 (1995): 683–96.

232  José Manuel Nieto Soria, Fundamentos ideológicos del poder real en Castilla (siglos XIII–XVI), (Madrid, 1988), 228.

233  “Tortosa és ull dret, Perpenyà lo squerra e Barchinona lo cor del cors mí�stich de Catalunya.” Cited from Jesús Ernest Martí�nez Ferrando, Pere de Portugal. Rei dels Catalans vist a través dels registres de la seva cancelleria (Barcelona, 1936), 245–46.

234  “Because the Catalan lords wanted to deprive him of his kingdom, which is the reason why the judge impugned these Catalans all the more, the better to defend himself from them” (Quia cathalani domini volebant eum privare regno suo quod tenet propter quod idem iudex impugnat taliter cathalanos ut melius se possit defendere ab eisdem). From Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, Procesos en volumen 3–3, fol. 76r.

235  Luciano Gallinari, “Una società senza cavalleria? Il giudicato di Arborea e la Corona di Aragona tra XIV e XV secolo,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 33, no. 2 (2003): 852–53.

236  Flocel Sabaté, “Ejes vertebradores de la oligarquí�a urbana en Cataluña,” Revista d’Història Medi­eval 9 (1998): 130–40.

237  Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, 221, fol. 84v, among other examples.



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between the ecclesiastic hierarchy, nobles, barons, and citizens of Catalonia or those representing the major and healthier part of them.238

The best and healthiest part of the collective leads us to the medi­eval understanding of human worth, in which people were not thought to have the same value. First, society was divided into estates, which supposed a gradation in all respects, from the ways to apply capital punishment239 to the understanding of everyday life; even physically, the body of a peasant would not absorb food like a noble.240 The gradation continued within each estate. The low respect for statements before a court by prostitutes, vagabonds, and others considered beyond any social class is very clear, and the moral category of a person was always stated before they gave their statement. We see this in some trials at the start of the fifteenth century in Lleida: “that he be neither a vile man, nor of bad repute, nor that he be a poor man, nor that his assets are not worth a hundred pounds, nor that he drinks in taverns, nor is a gambler.”241 In practice, belonging to a collective identity not only made all its members equal but the benefits of this identity were more intense for those who were its representatives than for individuals in a lower category. The sovereign who, when invoking his power, mentioned a particular nation and the popular power that was taking shape in the thirteenth century,242 based both quite explicitly on the recognition of the populus as a political subject, deepening the inheritance from Roman law together with the contributions of late twelfth-century thinkers.243 However, that did not prevent Lucas de Penna from warning that “simple people’s voices are not to be listened to.”244 Almost all late medi­eval and Renaissance political thinkers repeated Aristotle’s warning245 of the power of the people degenerating into democracy246 238  “Item statuimus, volumus et etiam ordinamus quod si nos vel successores nostri constituciones aliquam generalem seu statutum facere voluerimus in Catalonia, illam vel illud faciamus de approbacione et consensu prelatorum baronum militum et civium Catalonie vel ipsis vocatis maioris et sanioris partí�s eorundem.” Cited from Cortes de los antiguos reinos de Aragón y Valencia y Principado de Cataluña. Cortes de Cataluña, 25 vols. (Madrid, 1896), 1/1:145.

239  Flocel Sabaté, “La pena de muerte en la Cataluña bajomedi­eval,” Clío & Crimen 4 (2007): 201–02.

240  Paul Freedman, “Els pagesos medi­eval. Imatge d’ells mateixos en relació amb el règim senyorial,” in L’Edat mitjana. Món real i espai imaginari, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Catarroja, 2012), 95–96. 241  “Que sie home vil ni de mala fama, ni que sie hom pobre, ni quels seus béns no vayllen C sous, ni que begue en tavernes, ni que sie jugador.” From Lleida, Arxiu Municipal de Lleida, Llibre de Crims, 764, fol. 28v.

242  Walter Ullmann, Historia del pensamiento político en la Edad Media (Barcelona, 1983), 190–216. 243  Buc, “‘Principes gentium dominantur,’” 324–26.

244  “Vanae voces populi non sunt audienda.” Cited from Johann Volkmann Bechmann, De pur­ gatione canonica (Bremen, 1686), 24. 245  Aristot. Pol. 4.1292a.

246  Among others, in chrono­logical order: Marsilius of Padua, Le Défenseur de la Paix, ed. Jeannine Quillet (Paris, 1968), 89–92; Francesc Eiximenis, Dotzè del Crestià, ed. Curt Wittlin et al., 2 vols. (Girona, 1986), 2/1:315; Thomas Smith, De Republica Anglorum, ed. Leonard Alston (Cam­bridge, 1906), 9.

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and, in fact, revolts like the one in Seville in 1463 were attributed by contemporary thinkers like Alfonso de Palencia to acts of the mob.247 Being a representative of an identity implied talking on behalf of the collective, but not as a spokesperson of its opinion; quite the contrary, exercising power was understood to be restricted to specific people, as influential thinkers like Eiximenis emphasized at the time,248 and informed by specific civic ideals.249 Representation meant stimulating the identity to adopt a specific position, but also formulating specific traits of each identity. Obviously, this led to certain discourses and expressions of identity.

Discourses and Displays of Identity

“Tell me, maiden, quickly: who are you and from what people; I want to know your nation and your condition.”250 St. Agatha was so addressed by one of her tormentors, Quintian, in an anonymous Catalan theatre play from the sixteenth century. The dimensions that frame a person were clear: everyone belonged to a nation, enjoyed a specific status in an estate and family, and came from a particular lineage. Such dimensions focused then on feudal ties in some cases or an urban faction in others. In any case, everyone participated in a general framework, within which identity had a vital function, as it enabled the individual to be identified and assigned a solidarity group. Accordingly, identity was necessary for the individual and for his or her interlocutor: the former would find the specific framework for their own identity and solidarity and the latter would obtain a definition and frame necessary for fitting the person into society’s structured groups. Those who become representatives of the group therefore become concerned with moulding content, in line with their own interests. This is what happened in the municipal field: the elite who took on local government constantly demanded concessions from their respective lord, all of which they considered adequate and necessary. Their handling of the concessions and the accruing powers led to models of civic identity, as De Hemptinne highlights: The question of the identity of the cities and specifically how urban elites conceived and cherished their identity. To address this issue, it can be very useful to investigate how

247  Alfonso de Palencia, Epístolas Latinas, ed. Robert B. Tate and Rafael Alemany (Bellaterra, 1982), 76.

248  Flocel Sabaté, “El temps de Francesc Eiximenis. Les estructures econòmiques, socials i polí�tiques de la Corona d’Aragó a la segona meitat del segle XIV,” in Francesc Eiximenis (c. 1330–1409): el context i l’obra d’un gran pensador català medi­eval, ed. Antoni Riera (Barcelona, 2015), 131–48.

249  Daniela Romagnoli, “La courtoisie dans la ville: un modèle complexe,” in La Ville et la Cour. Des bonnes et de mauvaises manières, ed. Daniela Romagnoli (Paris, 1991), 25–87.

250  “Digau, donzella, prestament / qui sou vós i de quina gent, / jo vull saber la nació / i la vostra condició.” Cited from Anonymous, “Consueta del misteri de la gloriosa Santa À� gata,” in Teatre medi­ eval i del Renaixement, ed. Josep Massot (Barcelona, 1983), 91.



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medi­eval municipalities managed and used their archives for political, legal, commemorative, and other purposes.251

In the great majority of towns and cities, the authorities selected the documents they considered most important, preserving them in the so-called books of privileges. The selection, under criteria made by those who held local representation, became a selection of the identity to be assimilated and preserved.252 The book of privileges, containing legal guarantees and benefits of all types earned by the town or city, remained an object of display, which is why it was usually elaborately decorated, and comparable to other displays promoted by the same municipal government. Furthermore, not only should a city be protected by walls but these should be sumptuous to honour the city, as stated in Vic in 1391,253 and internal improvements, like the slaughterhouse in Terrassa in 1426, had to be made “for beautifying this city.”254 In 1290, work on the walls near the Porta Camollia in Siena was adapted to avoid harming the beauty of the city: “Great damage was done on the occasion of working on this gate, so that the beauty of the city could not be seen.”255 This was far from unique since, in neighbouring Florence, the aesthetic value of the city was incorporated into the cri251  “La question de l’identité des villes et plus particulièrement à la façon dont les élites urbanes concevaient et chérissaient leur identité. Pour se pencher sur cette question, il pourrait être très utile de faire des enquêtes sur la façon dont les municipalités du Moyen Â� ge géraient et utilisaient leurs archives à des fins politiques, juridiques, commémoratives et autres.” Cited from Thérèse de Hemptinne, “Des sources pour une histoire des villes compare? Essai de typo­logie thématique,” in La ville médiéval en débat, ed. Amélia Aguiar Andrade and Adelaide Millán da Costa (Lisbon, 2013), 27.

252  “The books of privileges are by definition a choice made by those who claim to act on behalf of local representation. The municipal authorities, under their own criteria, choose and emphasize certain documents from the archive that the council builds. Therefore, the books of privileges, in themselves, are an exercise in building a certain memory, a choice very aware of what is considered must not be forgotten in order to properly support local strength. Not coincidentally, the same people simultaneously responsible for this selection of documents also consolidated and promoted the image and power of the population through a range of strategies and resources” (Els llibres de privilegis són per pròpia definició, una selecció efectuada pels qui diuen actuar en nom de la representativitat local. Les autoritats municipals, sota els propis criteris, trien i destaquen uns determinats documents d’entre el conjunt que basteix l’arxiu del consell. Per tant, els llibres de privilegis, en si mateixos, són un exercici de construcció d’una determinada memòria una tria molt conscient d’allò que es considera que cal no oblidar per tal de sostenir adientment el vigor local. No pas casualment, els mateixos responsables d’aquesta selecció documental alhora també estan consolidant i promovent la imatge i el vigor de la població mitjançant una diversitat d’estratègies i recursos). Cited from Flocel Sabaté, “La construcció de la memòria escrita de la ciutat de Balaguer,” in Robert Cuellas Campodarbe, El “Llibre Gros dels Privilegis” de la ciutat de Balaguer (Lleida, 2015), 10–11.

253  Rafel Ginebra, “Les muralles medi­evals de Vic. Notí�cies referents a les portes i als ponts sobre el fossat,” Revista de Vic (1990): 41–47. 254  “Per embelliment de la dita vila.” Cited from Salvador Cardús, Ordinacions de bon govern de la batllia de Terrassa (1299–1625) (Barcelona, 2000), 127.

255  “Occasione dicte porticciuole fiat ibi magnus lutus et etiam non potest videre pulcritudo Civitatis.” Cited from Michael Kucher, “The Use of Water and its Regulation in Medi­eval Siena,” Journal of Urban History 31, no. 4 (2005): 529.

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teria for urban planning.256 This concerned not only monumental public works but the decoration of public spaces and places of municipal representation, all of which must display the power of the city, its position in history, and its commitment to peace, justice, and prosperity, as evident in many French cities, especially those that suffered in the Hundred Years’ War.257 The display of the city through an attractive presentation of its public places formed part of the game of power, as stated in Valencia in 1419: “it must be a political aim to embellish the city’s public places and decorate them, especially in such an emblematic and notable city.”258 By the latter part of the Middle Ages, luxury and ostentation were among the signs of power, and rulers employed them to gain the admiration of their subjects.259 A display of identities, like that of the city or one’s lineage, was part of this aim and any overlap of identities led to competitions and, with that, the accentuation of the elements of ostentation and signification. So, unique distinctive symbols were required. This explains the spread of heraldry from its appearance in the twelfth century;260 it soon took on a clear function in urban individuality, as explained by Brigitte Bedos-Rezak: While the stamp of a noble or churchman indicates a certain social and official position, the stamp of a town indicates an individuality. However, one cannot forget that the stamp of a town, however individual, always refers to a plural person.261

After the appearance of heraldry on military equipment at the end of the eleventh and beginning of the twelfth century, it spread to fulfill the need to define competing solidarity groups, either in battle or tournaments, just like team games for the lesser and middling nobility.262 Heraldic emblems came to symbolize a lineage, plus all those in its solidarity group, thanks to the links of lordship and jurisdiction, which were not merely 256  “The contemporaries of Dante, retaining a distinct aversion, if not disgust, for the urban agglomeration of the past, saw the ultimate solution for any problem regarding urban renewal as dependent on la bellezza, which produced an aesthetic maturity and equilibrium.” Cited from John Muendel, “Medi­eval Urban Renewal. The Communal Mills of the City of Florence, 1351–1382,” Journal of Urban History 17, no. 4 (1991): 364.

257  Christian de Mérindol, “Répresentations du pouvoir urbain: sceaux, décors monumentaux, bibliothèques d’échevinage,” in La ville au Moyen Âge, ed. Noël Coulet and Olivier Guyotjeannin (Paris, 1998), 563–83. 258  “Sia cosa polí�tica enbellir la ciutat de lochs públics e decorar aquella, majorment en aquesta ciutat axí� insigne e notable.” Cited from Marí�a Milagros Cárcel Ortí�, “Vida y urbanismo en la Valen­cia del siglo XV. Regesta documental,” Miscel·lània de Textos Medi­evals 6 (1992): 255.

259  Maria Teresa Ferrer, “Un aragonés consejero de Juan I y de Martí�n el Humano: Francisco de Aranda,” Aragón en la Edad Media 14–15, no. 1 (1999): 541. 260  Michel Pastureau, Figures de l’héraldique (Paris, 1996), 14–15.

261  “Là où le sceau de personne noble ou ecclésiastique marque statut social et officiel, le sceau de ville démarque une individualité. Mais il ne faut pas oublier que le sceau de ville, pour individualité qu’il soit, renvoie à une personne plurielle.” Cited from Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, “Du modèle à l’image: les signes de l’identité urbaine au Moyen Age,” in Le verbe, l’image et les representations de la société urbaine au Moyen Âge, ed. Marc Boone, Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, and Jean-Pierre Sosson (Antwerpen, 2002), 205. 262  Michel Pastoureau, Traité d’héraldique (Paris, 1997), 26–41.



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theoretical, such as when men had to gather for military service or when, at the end of the Middle Ages, the head of the lineage was “at the centre of an important network of clients.”263 So, displays implied attitudes but presented, proudly and ostentatiously, a symbol of identity, a widely understood permanent visual sign.264 When the towns and cities of the Crown of Aragon decided to organize civic events, especially receptions for the monarch, commemoration of his successes or funerals at his death, this always involved heavy expenditure. This was seen as an investment in the political game and so symbols of the city were everywhere: the candles carried in processions, the decoration of banners and cloth at the funeral or on monuments, and other elements all bore the emblem of the city, if need be, beside that of the monarch.265 It profiled the city, so the city coat of arms became omnipresent as a symbol displayed in festivities and leisure activities, for both the town’s own citizens and abroad. This explains why the prominence of the heraldic signs in the festivities at Corpus Christi, processions to plead for divine mercy in the face of adversities, or at entertainments like “the crossbow the city gave to be taken around the city to mark the fair” in Barcelona.266 Indeed, common expenses for the municipal treasury were for weaving or dyeing heraldic signs on torches, cloth for liturgical acts or civic banners, and on musical instruments, saddles, or other objects used in the various celebrations and civic and political ceremonies.267 This was the art of representation: the books of the city also bore its coat of arms. Even more ostentatiously, when municipal representatives went to the Parliament, they carried a prominent sign as a coat of arms. For the General Corts of all the Crown of Aragon held in Monzón in 1383,268 Tortosa municipality decided to pay a local painter for “a sign that was made for the representatives who went to the parliament held in Monzón.”269 This could involve permanent physical signs: the bounds of the municipality of Barcelona were marked by the usual gallows, as a sign of a change of jurisdiction,270 263  “Au centre d’un réseau de clientele important.” Cited from Martin Aurell, La noblesse en Occident (Ve–XVe) (Paris, 1996), 168.

264  “The symbol is a way of thinking and sensibility so usual to the authors of the Middle Ages that they did not feel the need to warn readers of their semantic or didactic intentions, nor always to define the expressions they would use” (Le symbole est un mode de pensée et de sensibilité tellement habituel aux auteurs du Moyen Â� ge qu’ils n’éprouvent guère le besoin de prévenir les lecteurs d leurs intentions sémantiques ou didactiques, ni de toujours definer les termes qu’ils vont employer). Cited from Michel Pastoureau, Une histoire symbolique du Moyen Âge occidental (Paris, 2004), 11. 265  Flocel Sabaté, Lo senyor rei és mort! (Lleida, 1994), 95–106.

266  “La balesta que la ciutat dóna a córrer per la rahó de la fira.” Cited from Flocel Sabaté, “Ciudad e identidad en la Cataluña bajomedi­eval,” in Ante su identidad. La ciudad hispánica en la baja Edad Media, ed. José Antonio Jara Fuente (Murcia, 2013), 195–98. 267  Jacobo Vidal Franquet, El pintor de la ciutat (Tortosa, segles XIV–XVI) (Valls, 2011), 57–263. 268  Josep Maria Sans i Travé, Cort General de Montsó 1382–1384 (Barcelona, 1992).

269  “I senyal que féu als sí�ndihcs qui anaren a les corts de Montsó.” Cited from Vidal, El pintor de la ciutat, 71, 78.

270  Flocel Sabaté, “Les fourches patibulaires en Catalogne au bas Moyen Â� ge,” in Les Fourches

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but when these were repaired in the fifteenth century, they were rebuilt in stone both to ensure longevity and to display the power of the city beside the sovereign, visualized by two coats of arms, the royal one and that of Barcelona, sculpted onto each pillar of each gallows271 —“on each pillar coats of arms were sculpted, that were those of our lord the king and of the city.”272 Naturally, such display required knowledge of symbo­logy and a sense of continuity with both the past and the times to come. In this way, the value of identity lay in its continuity and its durability.

Memory and Identity

In the medi­eval understanding, time started with divine creation. It was impossible to improve on the initial point, which was then spoiled by man’s sin, leading to his expulsion from Paradise, as recalled in the biblical story of Genesis.273 This approach was in line with respect for the past in the Roman tradition, one that preferred to let outdated norms fall into disuse rather than repeal them.274 In fact, Tacitus warned that any change tended to worsen matters: “in all matters the arrangements of the past were better and fairer and […] all changes were for the worse.”275 The medi­eval understanding of time supported this idea that any change was for the worse, as indicated by a Catalan text that refers to the supposed authority of the classical authors: Maximus states that the old man praises the things from the past and complains about those of the present, because our lives continually worsen; our parents’ times were worse than those of our grandparents, and we are worse than our parents, and our children will be more full of vices than we are.276

This being the case, it is no surprise that the discourse of identity required deep and solid roots in origins. The majority of European cities sought their roots in biblical figures, especially descendents of Noah, given that they repopulated the Earth after the bibpatibulaires du Moyen Âge à l’Époque Moderne. Approche interdisciplinaire, accessed August 23, 2013, http://criminocorpus.revues.org/3062. 271  Flocel Sabaté, “Barcelona, a Medi­eval Capital,” European Review 25, no. 1 (2017): 57.

272  “En quiscun pilar foren esculpits senyals, ço és del senyor Rey e de la Ciutat.” From Barcelona, Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Barcelona, Lletres Closes, 1451–1452, fol. 131r. 273  Giordano Berti, Les modes de l’Au-delà (Paris, 2000), 16.

274  Juan de Churruca, “La relatividad del argumento histórico,” in Derecho y argumentación histórica, ed. Teresa Peralta (Lleida, 1999), 22.

275  “Super omnibus negotiis melius atque rectius olim provisum et quae coverterentur in deterius mutari.” Cited from Tac. Ann. 14.43, accessed August 8, 2013, www.thelatinlibrary.com/tacitus/ tac.ann14.shtml; with translation from Complete Works of Tacitus, trans. Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb, (New York, 1942), available online at perseus.tufts.edu.

276  “Diu Maximià que·l hom vell loa les coses passades e blasma les presents per ço com nostra vida pijora contí�nuament, que les edats dels pares són pijors qeu dels avis e nós som pijors que nostres pares e encarre seran nostres fills pus plens de vicis.” Cited from Próspero de Bofarull, Documentos literarios en antigua lengua catalana (siglos XIV y XV) (Barcelona, 1857; repr. 1973), 186.



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lical flood.277 Even more frequent are classical figures that show continuity with Greece and Rome. Special efforts were made to seek connections to Troy through the dispersion and mobility of its different heroes.278 Any such link always helped a sense of cohesion and the profiling of cities. The self-projection of Venice over the Greek region was based on its roots,279 which were imagined to be founded by the Trojan Antenor;280 then at the start of the thirteenth century, it could demonstrate its great importance based on its birth linked to the heroes of Troy.281 The vitality of the city rested on this argument. But it could be adapted during the Middle Ages, as in the case of Paris, where the story of its foundation included origins in Rome or Gaul.282 These narratives were widely accepted, and promoted to stress cities’ historic status: books that supplied detail were sought out and depictions and elements of ephemeral decoration that incorporated this informa277  Ann Moyer, “Distinguishing Florentines, Defining Italians: The Language Question and Cultural Identities in Sixteenth-Century Florence,” Studies in Medi­eval and Renaissance History 3, no. 3 (2006): 136.

278  Colette Beaune, “L’utilisation politique du mythe des origines troyennes en France à la fin du Moyen Â� ge,” in Lectures médiévales de Virgile. Actes du Colloque organisé par l’École Française de Rome (Rome, 25–28 octobre 1982) (Rome, 1985), 331–55. 279  Ernesto Sestan, Italia comunale e signorile (Florence, 1989), 149–57.

280  Eric Cochrane, Historians and Historio­graphy in the Italian Renaissance (Chicago, 1985), 80–81.

281  “Paris has been great since its origins because it is based on a strain of heroes and almost divine kings. This is the legend that arose in the Middle Ages and presents (in many versions, complex, fluffed up, chrono­logically separated by centuries) the Trojans, or rather the descendants of Trojans, settled for a long time in Germania, like Duke Ibor and Duke or King Marcomir, son of King Priam of Austria. This lineage derived from Troy was linked to the fable of a more direct issue, with Francion, Romanized into Francus, son of Hector I, so, grandson of Priam, who would have escaped from Troy at the same time as Aeneas and who came to found the city on the banks of the Seine after a long erratic journey. He named it Paris, in honour of the beautiful Paris Alexander or of a king Paris, a fugitive from Troy with Aeneas and Francion. This initial glory is the explanation and guarantee of the future glory form Paris. These fabulous origins or etymo­logies of Paris began to be fabricated in the Middle Ages by clergymen: the monk Rigord, from the monastery of Saint-Denis, historian of the reign of Philip Augustus in the thirteenth century, and also Raoul de Presles who, in 1371, wrote the Description de Paris sous Charles V” (Paris est grand dès l’origen parce qu’il est rattaché à la souche de héros et de rois presque divins. C’est la légende qui naî�t au Moyen-Â� ge et met en scène (il en existe plusieurs versions complexes, touffues, chrono­logiquement séparées par des siècles) des Troyens, plutôt des decendants de Troyens installés depuis longtemps en Germanie, le duc Ibor, le duc ou le roi Marcomir fils du roi Priam d’Autriche. À� cette descendance dérivée de Troie s’ajoute la fable d’une descente plus directe, avec Francion romanisé parfois en Francus, fils d’Hector et donc petit-fils de Priam, chassé de Troie en même temps qu’É� née et qui vint fonder la ville sur les rives de la Seine après une longe errance et la baptiser Paris, du nom du beau Pâris Alexandre ou un roi Pâris, fuyant Troie avec É� née et Francion. Cette gloire initiale est l’explication, la garantie de la gloire à venir de Paris. Ces origines ou étymo­logies fabuleuses de Paris ont comencé à être fabriquées au MoyenÂ� ge par des clercs: le moine de Saint-Denis Rigord, historien du règne de Philippe-Auguste au XIIIe siècle ou encore Raoul de Presles en 1371 dans la ‘Description de Paris sous Charles V’). Cited from Jean-Pierre A. Bernard, Les deux Paris. Les réprésentations de Paris dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle (Seysell, 2001), 18–19. 282  Bernard, Les deux Paris, 19–20.

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tion were made, as in Reims in 1484 with Romulus and Remus, or in Troyes in 1486 with Hector.283 Assuming a specific memory from the past was a challenge when confronted by certain contemporary conflicts. This was the case in Mantova in the mid-thirteenth century, when its power was accompanied by an assertive adoption and promotion of Virgil, who even appeared on coins minted in the city in 1256.284 Similar in his policy of renewal, although unable to put it into practice, Nicholas Brembre, one of the leaders of the revolts in London in the 1380s, wanted “to restore the city’s ancient name, given to it by Brutus the Trojan, of New Troy or Trinovantum.”285 Cities often played with etymo­logies, particularly German and French ones, trying to link their names with those of classical heroes, including Trojans and Romans.286 Brutus, in fact, has been taken as the founder of England (or Britain),287 similarly as an Old Testament character—Tubal, Noah’s grandson—was alleged to lie at the origin of Spain,288 if necessary reinforced with a character like Geryon from the classical world.289 So, nations too required good origins to support and justify their later splendour. You did not even need to find distant references, as we see in Switzerland with a hero like William Tell,290 Sweden with its brave ancestors,291 or Denmark with good rulers.292 In fact, 283  Christian de Mérindol, “Théatre politique à la fin du Moyen Â� ge: les entrées royales et autres ceremonies, mises au point et nouveaux aperçus,” in Théatre et spectacle hier et aujourd’hui. Moyen Âge et Renaissance. Actes du 115e Congrès National des sociétés savantes (Avignon, 1990). Section d’histoire médiévale et philo­logie (Paris, 1991), 192.

284  Arnold Esch, “L’uso dell’antico nell’ideo­logia papale, imperiale e comunale,” in Roma antica nel Medioevo. Mito, rappresentazioni, sopravvivenze nella ‘Respublica Christiana’ del secoli IX–XIII,” (Milan, 2001), 17.

285  Gervase Rosser, “Myth, image and social process in the English medi­eval town,” Urban History 23, no. 1 (1996): 16.

286  Gisela Naegle, “Divergences et convergences: identities urbaines en France et en Allemagne à la fin du Moyen Â� ge,” Mundos Medi­evales. Espacios, sociedades y poder. Homenaje al Profesor José Ángel García de Cortázar y Ruiz de Aguirre (Santander, 2012), 2:1671–1672. 287  Peter Burke, The Renaissance Sense of the Past (New York, 1969), 72.

288  Marí�a Rosa Lida de Malkiel, “Túbal, primer poblador de España,” Ábaco 3 (1970): 11–48.

289  The influential history written by Father Mariana, at the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth centuries avoided various myths but, in contrast, showed no doubts regarding Tubal and Geryon: “one thing is well known and true, in line with what I have said above, that Tubal came to Spain; the first we can count among the kings of Spain, for being highly renowned in the books of Greeks and Latins, is Geryon, who came from elsewhere to Spain” (averiguada cosa y cierta es, conforme a lo que de suso queda dicho, que Tubal vino a España; el primero que podemos contar entre los reyes de España, por ser muy celebrado en los libros de griegos y latinos, es Gerión, el cual vino de otra parte a España). Cited from Juan Mariana, Historia General de España (Madrid, 1852), 1:11, 12. 290  Jean-François Bergier, Wilhelm Tell. Realität und Mythos (Zürich, 1990), 207–31.

291  Peter Hallbert, “Forntidssagor om kungar och hjältar av,” in Den Svenska historien. 1. Från stenålder till vikingatid, ed. Claës Wannerth (Stockholm, 1998), 182–83.

292  “Now Dan and Angul, with whom the stock of the Danes begins, were begotten of Humble, their father, and were the governors and not only the founders of our people” (Dan igitur et Angul, a



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the aim was to show an important origin, one that backed, justified, and predicted the later development. Many of these explanatory narratives arose when cities and realms in the Middle Ages were growing, but were later adapted and enriched as new or rising European monarchies sought underpinning in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,293 clearly seen in the case of the French.294 Given that, in the Middle Ages, history was understood as linear, from the Creation to the Second Coming of Christ, life was imagined as a journey: “we are all pilgrims who pass along the way,”295 and all events were destined to occur along this path. So, history became a central axis in the understanding of reality. Everything is history, starting with religion, as the widow Queen Violant of the Crown of Aragon explained nonchalantly in 1417: “Christianity is undoubtedly based on the Gospels and the lives of the saints.”296 Examples from the past supplied discourses that served to justify social behaviour. What was important, then, was the historical trajectory, as we see imposed in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in the Leonese chronicles establishing continuity from their ancestors, the Visigoths, and promoting the Leonese monarchy and subsequently the Castilian.297 Histories had to show the path from the origins to the present. Studying the work of authors like Geoffrey of Monmouth with his Historia regum Britanniae, Saxo Grammaticus with his Gesta Danorum, or the monks of Saint-Denis with the Historia regum Francorum in the twelfth century, Bernard Guenée did not hesitate to write that “it was historians who created the nations. There is no nation without a national history.”298 Different rulers used this path to their own ends, as did monarchs aiming to reinforce their power by invoking the earlier successes of their dynasties.299 However, apart from this, in the medi­eval understanding, there was no collective identity without a commonly accepted memory. Identity incorporated this shared path among its distinctive traits and tried to act in line with its memory of its origins and destiny. quibus Danorum coepit origo, patre Humblo procreati, non solum conditores gentes nostrae verum etiam rectore fuere). Cited from Saxo Grammaticus, Historia Danica, ed. Petrus Erasmus Müller and Joannes Matthias Velschow, 2 vols. (Copenhagen, 1839), 1:21.

293  Victoriano Roncero, “Las fuentes humaní�sticas en la historiografí�a quevediana: los reyes primitivos en la ‘España defendida,’” La Perinola 3 (1999): 271–74.

294  Ron E. Asher, National Myths in Renaissance France. Francus, Samothes and the Druids (Edin­ burgh, 1993).

295  “Todos somos romeros que camino pasamos.” Cited from Gonzalo de Berceo, Milagros de Nuestra Señora, ed. Fernando Baños (Barcelona, 2002), 13. 296  “Christianisme per force se trobe en Evangelis ne Vida de Sants.” From Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, reg. 2052, fol. 29v; edited in Jaume Riera, Els poders públics i les sinagogues. Segles XIII–XV (Girona, 2006), 545.

297  Patrick Henriet, “L’espace et le temps hispaniques vus et construits par les clercs (IXe–XIIIe siècle),” in À la recherché de légitimités chrétiennes. Répresentations de l’espace et du temps dans l’Espagne medi­eval (IXe–XIIIe), ed. Patrick Henriet (Madrid, 2003), 98–100.

298  “Fueron los historiadores quienes crearon las naciones. No hay nación sin historia nacional.” Cited from Guenée, Occidente durante los siglos XIV y XV, 65. 299  Sabaté, “L’invisibilità del re,” 35–62.

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The Teleo­logical Destiny of Identity Humans and the different groups they form thus follow the path of history, from the Creation to the Second Coming, following divine destiny. So, a human first must concern himself with not losing track of the path, as Dante reflected: “In the middle of the path of our lives, I found myself in a dark jungle, and I understood that I had lost the right way.”300 The Church supplied the guidelines and administered them. After having taken exclusive control over the afterlife, it reminded the population that only the Church enjoyed the power to interpret and, consequently, the power to direct, pardon, and offer eternal grace. The following appears in the Chanson de la croisade albigeoise: The Cardinal responded: Mother Church tells you expressly, ‘Beware!, don’t feel afraid. Only she has the power to dispense good, the power to defend [her children], the power to pardon [sin]. Serve her humbly and you shall be rewarded.’301

The social model promoted by the Church could be adapted to different socioeconomic stimuli, in periods as diverse as the Early and Late Middle Ages.302 In fact, although a stable and unmoveable social model was invoked, room was left for novitas that improved spirituality and knowledge, as Anselm of Havelberg recognized in the twelfth century.303 But the tension between social reality and humanity’s duty to follow the path to reach the end of times and remain within the Church led to spiritual anguish,304 exacerbated by various millenarian ideas.305 However, mystics like Julian of Norwich showed there was room for hope: “it is true that sin is the cause of all this suffering, but all shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”306 On the other hand, the conflict between the spirit and the material world was overcome, as we saw earlier, by a philosophical realism that spread in the thirteenth cen300  “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita / mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, / che la diritta via era smarrita.” Cited from Dante, “Divina Commedia,” in Tutte le opera (Rome, 1993), 31.

301  “‘Coms’, ditz lo Cardenals, ‘santa Gleiza us somon / Que non aiatz temensa ni mala sospeison, / Qu’ela a poder que·us tola e ha poder que·us don / e poder que·us defenda e poder que·us perdon; / e si bé la sirvetz auretz ne gazerdon.’” Cited from Chanson de la croisade albigeoise (Paris, 1989), 458. 302  Flocel Sabaté, “Natura i societat en la cosmovisió medi­eval europea,” in L’Edat Mitjana. Món real i espai imaginat, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Catarroja – Barcelona, 2012), 46–47.

303  Walter Edyvean, Anselm of Havelberg and the Theo­logy of History (Rome, 1972); Karl F. Morrison, “Anselm of Havelberg: Play and the Dilemma of Historical Progress,” in Religion, Culture and Society in the Early Middle Ages. Studies in Honor of Richard E. Sullivan, ed. Thomas F. X. Noble and John J. Contreni (Kalamazoo, 1987), 219–56.

304  Distressing pessimism can be glimpsed in fifteenth-century authors like Ramon Sibiuda: “We have declared the fall, corruption, perdition, and evil of human nature, and we have considered the state he now lives in. And thus we have knowledge of both the duty and reality of man” (Hem declarat la caiguda, la corrupción, la perdició i el mal de la naturalesa humana, i hem considerat l’estat en què ara viu. I d’aquesta manera tenim coneixement tant del deure com de la realitat de l’home). Cited from Ramon Sibiuda, Llibre de l’home caigut i redimit (Barcelona, 1995), 147. 305  José Guadalajara, Las profecías del Anticristo en la Edad Media (Madrid, 1996), 123–87.

306  Julian of Norwich. Selections from Revelations of Divine Love, ed. Mary C. Earle (Woodstock, 2013), 87.



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tury and which, by incorporating Aristotelian hylomorphism, integrated each element of creation, but duly understood, that is, when seen according to the will with which God created it. This led, coherently, to a determinism in all respects, whether these were sexual relations (i.e., valid if they were destined for reproduction), or matters of the social order. Adapting each estate and every social group to its purpose and mission entailed solid definitions to which the behavioural patterns and group representation were adjusted.307 In reality, the structure of the estates did not derive solely from the social dynamic but was also a natural response by both spirit and body. This is clear, for example, in the character of a person born to be a peasant, and which, however much he tried, he could not change: lumbering, misshapen, and dull, peasants were, as a rule, supposed to be incapable of the passionate spiritual energy that drove chivalric male desire.308 Consequently, everything had an end in itself and things had to be done accordingly; all beings had their places in the divine scheme and in the path of the history of salvation, which coincided with that of humanity. So, it was logical to want to know not only the past evolution of groups and individuals, but also their destiny. Resorting to astro­ logy, especially on an individual level in reading birthdays to determine one’s destiny, can be justified as a way of knowing God’s defined roles for each person and group.309 Prophecies had a more direct impact. These were well rooted and common in the early centuries of the Middle Ages, particularly in Iberia from the eighth century on.310 Without there having been the rupture some authors imagined,311 it is clear that, in the Late Middle Ages, prophets adopted a new tone, now bearing the weight spiritualism had by then achieved312 in kingdoms such as Sicily and the other two royal households of the Crown of Aragon, namely Barcelona and Mallorca.313 Prophetic revelations continued to grow and were part of the tensions behind the Western Schism,314 contributing to consolidating monarchies like the Hispanic in the fifteenth century.315 They entered the 307  Between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, nobles and burghers were distinguished, at least in the literature of poets like those who praised noble values and condemned bourgeois ones: “The supremacy of the knights as Warriors is the theme of all these poets. The folly of trusting low born men is another motif. The contrast drawn between the avarice and riches of the merchants and the carefree ‘largesse’ of the nobles is too frequent to need comment.” Cited from Peter S. Noble, “Knights and Burgesses in the Feudal Epic,” in The Ideal and Practice of Medi­eval Knighthood. Papers from the First and Second Strawberry Hill Conferences, ed. Christopher Harper-Bill and Ruth Harvey (Dover, 1986), 110. 308  Paul Freedman, Images of the Medi­eval Peasant (Stanford, 1999), 159.

309  Flocel Sabaté, “The King’s Power and Astro­logy in the Crown of Aragon” (forthcoming).

310  Adeline Rucquoi, “Mesianismo y milenarismo en la España medi­eval,” Medi­evalismo 8 (1996): 9–31.

311  Jean Delumeau, Mille ans de Bonheur. Une histoire du Paradis (Paris, 1995), 34–35. 312  Francesco Santi, Arnau de Vilanova. L’obra espiritual (Valencia, 1987), 161–241.

313  Martin Aurell, Escatho­logie, spiritualité et politique dans la confédération catalano-aragonaise (1282–1412). Fin du monde et signes des temps. Visionnaires et prophètes en France meridionale (fin XIIIe–debut XVe siècles) (Toulouse, 1992), 191–235.

314  Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS latin 3324, fols. 2r–28r.

315  Alan Deyermond, “La ideo­logí�a del Estado moderno en la literatura española del siglo XV,” in

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sixteenth century with renewed strength, when they would serve monarchies like the French.316 Prophets, in reality, supplied visions intentionally biased in favour of some and against others to serve specific political causes and royal projects,317 being present in practically all the political conflicts of the Late Middle Ages.318 England in the fourteenth century fused different histories, a melding of its current strength, the recovery of its Arthurian memory by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the twelfth century and, with that, a link to the prophecies of Merlin.319 There was a widespread assumption of the influence of the afterlife on fate: arts of divination furnished between two and five percent of the books in the libraries of French and Italian princes in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, a figure that rose spectacularly in some cases, up to twenty percent with Charles V of France.320 In fact, until the 1530s, medi­eval prophecy intervened in all the social and political conflicts in Europe, exemplified by the fragmented and tense Italian scenario.321 While participating in political events, a prophet could also highlight the fate marked out for collectives like nations. Some prophecies could be focused just on monarchs— such as the supposed destiny of the kings of the Crown of Aragon against the infidels that Alfonso the Magnanimous adopted for his actions and pretensions in the Balkans.322 But, in most cases, the success of the monarch announced by a prophecy also conditioned the destiny of the nation. This was so with the kingdom of Castile: as an extension of the Visigoths, Castile’s destiny affected all of Spain.323 Even more clearly, the prophecies that situated the birth of the Portuguese royal dynasty in the divine will to create a realm destined to fight against the infidels foretold the fate of not only the monarchy but Realidades e imágenes del poder. España a fines de la Edad Media, ed. Adeline Rucquoi (Valladolid, 1988), 191–235.

316  Luc Racaut, “A Protestant or Catholic Superstition? Astro­logy and Eschato­logy during the French Wars of Religion,” in Religion and Superstition in Reformation Europe, ed. Helen Parish and William G. Naphy (Manchester, 2002), 157–66. 317  Paola Guerrini, Propaganda politica e profezie figurate nel tardo medioevo (Naples, 1997), 85–86.

318  Catherine Daniel, Les prophéties de Merlin et la culture politique (XIIe–XVIe siècle) (Turnhout, 2006), 218–486. 319  Colette Beaune, “Perceforêt et Merlin. Prophétie, littérature et rumeurs au debut de la guerre de Cent Ans,” in Fin du monde et signes des temps. Visionnaires et prophètes en France méridionale (fin XIIIe–début XVe siècle) (Toulouse, 1992), 237–41.

320  Patrice Boudet, “La papauté d’Avignon et l’astro­logie,” in Fin du monde et signes des temps. Visionnaires et prophètes en France méridionale (fin XIIIe–début XVe siècle) (Toulouse, 1992), 265. 321  Marjorie Reeves, “Pauta y propósito en la historia: los perí�odos de la baja edad media y el Renacimiento,” in La teoría del apocalipsis y los fines del mundo, ed. Malcolm Bull (Mexico City, 1998), 109–32.

322  Momčilo Spremić, “Alfonso il Magnanimo e la sua politica nei Balcani,” in XVI Congresso Internazionale di Storia della Corona d’Aragona. Celebrazioni Alfonsine, ed. Guido d’Agostino and Giulia Buffardi, 2 vols. (Naples, 2000), 1:741–50. 323  Luis Fernández Gallardo, “Lengua e identidad nacional en el pensamiento politico de Alfonso de Cartagena,” E-Spania 13, no. 2 (2012), accessed July 15, 2019, http://e-spania.revues.org/21012.



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also the kingdom and the nation.324 In this sense the Portuguese fifteenth- and sixteenthcentury chronicles show “the miraculous chosen providence of the Portuguese nation.”325 We have seen how identity meant a requirement to discern its contents in line with Christianity, as interpreted by the Church, and a loyalty to its historic path, and if necessary helping it along the different interpretative paths. The link between Church, consolidation of sovereign power, and the doctrine of popular dissemination arose very easily, together contributing to shaping a specific sense for each social group and for society as a whole.

Social Identity and Territory

Identity-groups were initially social, affecting people and their groupings, not based on territories. This is an inheritance from the classical period: for example, in the first century, Tacitus wrote about the “nation of the German people” (Germanorum natione)326 and in the third century, Tertullianus referred to the “nation of the Jewish people” (natione iudaeorum).327 Throughout the Middle Ages, nation continued to be talked about as a particular people. In the twelfth century, Bernard of Clairvaux defined St. Malachy as beginning to the “Ireland nation” (natione quidem Hibernus);328 in the fourteenth century, on crossing to the south of the Pyrenees, the idle routier troops were received as “people from a strange nation,”329 while in the fifteenth, Albertus Magnus was described as a member of the “Suevian nation.”330 This is consistent with the phrase we cited earlier from King Peter the Ceremonious of the Crown Aragon who identified, in 1369, “our nation with our manners,”331 in other words, an amalgam of cultural and practical characteristics rather than a territorial place. So, one could refer to “their 324  “Prince Alfonso was ordained by God so that Portugal will forever remain a kingdom [...]. Everything lets us believe that Our Lord would want and would make so virtuous a Prince over that founded kingdom and kings so virtuous to serve both Him and the Holy Catholic Faith” (Foi o Principe D. Afonso certificado por Deus, de sempre Portugal haver de ser conservado em reino […] Tudo é par crer que nosso Senhor quereria e faria a Principe tāo virtuoso, sobre que fundava reino e reis tāo virtuosos par tanto seu service e da Santa Fé Católica). Cited from Duarte Galvāo, Crónica de D. Afonso Henriques (Lisbon, n.d.), 79–80. 325  “O providencialismo milagroso electivo da naçao portuguesa.” Cited from José Eduardo Reis, Do espírito da utopia: lugares utópicos e eutópicos, tempos proféticos nas culturas literárias portuguesa e inglesa (Lisbon, 2007), 315–497.

326  The Germania of Tacitus, trans. Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodibb (Cam­bridge, 1869), 62. 327  Tertullianus, “De praescriptionibus adversus haeretico,” in Patro­logiae cursus completus, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols. (Paris, 1878), 2:67 (col.).

328  Bernardus Claraevallensis, “Vita S. Malachiae,” in Patro­logiae cursus completus, ed. JacquesPaul Migne, 221 vols. (Paris, 1879) 182:1079 (col.). 329  “Gent de stranya nació.” From Girona, Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Girona, I.1.2.1, fasc. 7, book 1, fol. 18r.

330  “De nació de suesos.” Cited from Pere Miquel Carbonell, Cròniques d’Espanya, ed. Agustí� Alcoberro, 2 vols. (Barcelona, 1997), 2:67.

331  Albert, Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts catalanes, 37–38; Carbonell, Cròniques d’Espanya, 2:138; Gimeno Blay, “Escribir, leer, reinar,” 215.

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nation”332 or to “this nation,”333 to talk about the Jews, or to imagine a generic Indian nation to describe the people recently encountered in the Americas.334 Even as late as the eighteenth century, when José Dí�az de la Vega collated the Memorias piadoses de la Nación Yndiana from various authors, he took care to specify that he was talking about nations with names but no territory: “among all the nations with names, none referred to the things of antiquity more effectively, truthfully, and pointedly than the Indian nation.”335 However, social projection over a territory began to occur. First, the medi­eval urban nuclei—boroughs, towns, and cities—were not dots on some overwhelmingly rural territory: as they grew in scale and complexity,336 they became linked with a hinterland, in a pyramidal line of regional capitals,337 and this completely altered the characteristics of the territory.338 From an early point, a market in the urban centre had “rural customers,”339 who also found services they required in the town or city, and this circle of influence was proportional to the settlement’s power. The progressive enrichment of the mercantile sector of the city generated an elite, who in turn invested in buying urban and rural properties as a store of value.340 This generated a growing link, with interwoven financial ties, to the hinterland, affecting production, and establishing new labour relations, like the work of craftsmen in cities where production was often undertaken in the rural hinterland.341 332  “Ipsorum natio.” Expression used in Provence in 1348. Cited from Claude Denjean, Juliette Sibon, and Claire Soussen, “La nation juive à la fin du Moyen Â� ge. Mythe ou réalité? Fantasme ou utopie?,” in Nation et nations au Moyen Âge. XLIVe Congrès de la Société des Historiens Médiévistes de l’enseignement public (Prague, 23 mai–26 mai 2013) (Paris, 2014), 296. 333  “Aquesta naçión.” Cited from Ó� scar Perea, “Lirica Anticonversa de los siglos XV y XVI: el ‘Credo Glosado contra los Judí�os’, de Juan de Carvajal,” in Violence et identité religieuse dans l’Espagne du XVe au XVIIe siècles, ed. Rica Amrán (Paris, 2011), 317. 334  Jerónimo de Mendieta, Historia eclesiástica Indiana (Barcelona, 2016), 357.

335  “Entre todas las naciones gentilicias, ninguna más eficaz, verí�dica y puntual que la Nación Yndiana en referir las cosas de la antigüedad.” Cited from Georges Baudot, “Les antiquités mexicanes du P. Dí�az de la Vega, O.F.M.,” Mélanges de la Casa de Velázquez 2, no. 1 (1966): 302.

336  For the consolidation beyond the “abortive or very short-lived” foundations, see Maurice Beresford and H. P. R. Finberg, English Medi­eval Boroughs. A Hand-List (Newton Abbot, 1973), 57.

337  First half of Robert E. Dickinson, City and Region. A Geo­graphical Interpretation (London, 1998).

338  English penetration into Ireland through the establishment of cities can serve as a paradigm: they formed another pressure on the Irish to become civilized, that is, urbanized. James Muldoon, Identity on the Medi­eval Irish Frontier. Degenerate Englishmen, Wild Irishmen, Middle Nations (Gainesville, 2003), 75.

339  Christopher Dyer, “The Consumer and the Market in the Later Middle Ages,” Economic History Review, ser. 2, 42 (1989): 325–26.

340  Flocel Sabaté, “The Defection of the Medi­eval Catalonian Bourgeoisie: A Mutation of Values or a Biblio­graphic Myth?,” in Urban Elites and Aristocratic Behaviour in the Spanish Kingdoms at the End of the Middle Ages, ed. Marí�a Asenjo-González (Turnhout, 2013), 118–26.

341  Rodney Hilton, “A Crisis of Feudalism,” in The Brenner Debate, ed. Trevor H. Aston, Charles Harding, and E. Philpin (Cam­bridge, 1975), 136.



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This, in turn, tightened relations between the municipality and the region, touching off the growth of a Europe of city-centred regions.342 As Edward Coleman showed in relation to the Italian communes, this connection did not mean an antagonistic conquest of the hinterland by the city.343 Nor was it by mutual agreement, although the population of the rural area accepted the urban centre as a capital for the services they needed. The analysis of specific cases, like the area around the Catalan city of Girona, shows that, through the urban-rural relationship, the rural area shed its traditional systems of ownership and protection, which were replaced by the rule of urban elites over both production and distribution.344 Thus, the appropriate term here is projection: the interests of the urban elite were projected over the region and extended in accordance with the radius of urban influence. The rural region became linked to its capital, either directly or through various intermediate centres. In fact, some regions took on the name of its city, like the Camp de Tarragona, or a coronym from its urban centre: Yorkshire, Limousin, Berguedà. Some names, like the Besalunès for the area around the Catalan town of Besalú, failed to take root despite being documented at a popular level.345 The root for this was popular perception, which envisaged common links between the city and the hinterland. A socio-economic region, arising from the relations between the urban centre and its surroundings, extended in function of these factors, and did not necessarily overlap with the administrative framework. The overlap of socio-economic and administrative structures led to tense situations in areas like Catalonia: when problems occurred, deals and contracts established in line with the social and economic dynamic did not find adequate legal or judicial support because the parties were from different jurisdictions.346 These situations highlight the importance of self-perception of the territory by the people that inhabited if we want to understand the social ties. In Catalonia, popular late medi­eval names for areas show that people placed greater importance on geo­graphical homogeneity and even the urban capitals than to borders between administrative jurisdictions or dioceses. At a grassroots level, environment and landscape were more important than administrative and political divisions. Catalonia offers examples of this, with people talking regularly about the Urgell to refer to a homogenous area although it had never been part of either the county or diocese of that name.347 This makes sense psycho­ 342  Flocel Sabaté, “Renovación económica y social: el mundo urbano,” in Historia Universal de la Edad Media, ed. Vicente Á� ngel Á� lvarez Palenzuela (Barcelona, 2002), 525–26.

343  Edward Coleman, “The Italian Communes. Recent Work and Current Trends,” Journal of Medi­ eval History 25, no. 4 (1999): 389–90. 344  Josep Fernández i Trabal, Una família catalana medi­eval. Els Bell-lloc de Girona 1267–1533 (Barcelona, 1995), 155–342. 345  Sabaté, El territori de la Catalunya medi­eval, 55.

346  Flocel Sabaté, “Els eixos articuladors del territori medi­eval català,” in V Congrés Internacional d’Història Local de Catalunya. L’estructura territorial de Catalunya. Els eixos cohesionadors de l’espai, ed. Flocel Sabaté, (Barcelona, 2000), 55–68.

347  Flocel Sabaté, “Apropament a una comarca natural: l’Urgell al segle XIV,” Urtx 2 (1990): 50–53.

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logically and geo­graphically,348 and had crucial implications when linking people to an area: in other words, identity and territory. Once a group shared a perception of space, identities became regional, accepted by the people that lived there, also understood and described so by those outside. The homogeneity of the space or the draw of a capital became implicit in the commonly shared perception. One can belong to an administrative unit as well as to a unit perceived on the ground, physically. We see this in descriptions of the location of assets and properties.349 If one wishes to seek attitudes of territorial adhesion, to use Antoine Bailly’s termino­logy,350 rather than referring to some ancestral territory linked to human ritual,351 we should focus instead on a homogeneous space, perceptible as such from the outside and, if it fits comfortably, accepted from the inside.352 The institutional framework could facilitate the cohesion of a region. In England, the leading role of lords in urban growth could then contribute to interweaving the regional projection of the city and the seigneurial domain.353 In any case, regions built around urban capitals reflected the social and economic reality. Administrative structures that really worked were those that did not clash with reality, but adapted to it. Royal power in Catalonia offers a good example: at the start of the fourteenth century, the monarch proclaimed an administrative division of the country, where, for the first time, each place belonged to a royal district known as a “vicariate” (vegueria). This map of royal districts took into account the conditioning factors of physical geo­graphy and administrative gaps, but it adapted royal power to the socio-economic reality, so that the royal districts corresponded to the existing urban capitals. This adaptation of administration to the socio-economic reality guaranteed its durability. Indeed, the Catalan system endured until the eighteenth century.354 In the later centuries of the Middle Ages, when the duke of Burgundy presented his fiscal demands to his subjects in Flanders, the latter invoked various arguments of collective identity from which to begin the negotiation, among which was the defence of “the common law of the land” (tghemeene landrecht).355 Similarly, in Catalonia, municipal governments called on the sovereign to act according to the “law of the land” (dret 348  “Environmental planning is based not so much on the environment as it is but, rather, on the environment as it is perceived.” Cited from Thomas F. Saarinen, Environmental Planning Perception and Behavior (Boston, 1976), 239. 349  Vic, Arxiu del Veguer de Vic, lligall de Registres 28, plec 4, unnumbered.

350  Antoine S. Bailly, La percepción del espacio urbano (Madrid, 1979), 107.

351  John R. Gold, “Territoriality and Human Spatial Behaviour,” Progress in Human Geo­graphy 6, no. 1 (1982): 44–67.

352  In the end, “‘Space’ and ‘place’ are familiar words denoting common experiences.” Cited from Yi-Fu Tuan, Space and Place. The Perspective of Experience (London, 1977), 3. 353  Jean-Philippe Genet, Les îles Britanniques au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2005), 151.

354  Flocel Sabaté, “La divisió territorial de Catalunya: les vegueries,” in Història, política, societat i cultura dels Països Catalans, ed. Borja de Riquer, 12 vols. (Barcelona, 1996–99), 3:304–5.

355  Jan Dumolyn, “Privileges and Novelties. The Political Discourse of the Flemish Cities and Rural Districts in their Negotiations with the Dukes of Burgundy (1384–1506),” Urban History 335, no. 1 (2008): 17.



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de la terra).356 In the same way that the king issued a call to arms “to defend the land” (a defensar la terra) in 1280,357 local representatives also expressed their concern for the land, in an image easily accepted by those who claimed to represent the country.358 Thus, one can speak about a people identified with “the land of Catalonia,”359 as a kind of image that contains the duality of power, uniting the country and the sovereign: “the land before the monarch.”360 Reference to the land formed part of jurisprudence from the thirteenth century, and shows an increasing identification between land and nation. This territorialization of the nation grew in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and enabled the links of collective social cohesion to be transferred to the land; this culminated in a triple identity between land, nation, and state. As Dieter Mertens says: “An attempt is made to saturate ethically and emotionally the idea of nation, that is, to connect moral or legal bonds of fidelity with the nation.”361 This meant stabilizing the people that shared the territory, one that they accepted as theirs,362 even though it may not have originally been theirs.363 Thus strengthened internally, each nation came to identify itself with a particular land: “English identity in the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was inextricably tied up with inhabiting ‘England.’”364 In this way, physical space joined the identifiers of common lineage and culture. In 1409, Master Jerome of Prague identified the members of the Bohemian or Czech nation by their maternal and paternal lineage (sanguis), a common language (lingua), and native soil (patria).365 356  Girona, Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Girona XV.4, lligall 1, llibre 1, fol. 4v. 357  Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 48, fol. 59r.

358  Flocel Sabaté, “L’idéel politique et la nation catalane: la terre, le roi et le mythe des origins,” in La légitimité implicite, ed. Jean-Philippe Genet, 2 vols. (Rome, 2015), 2:113–40 at 120–29.

359  “La terra de Cathalunya.” From Lleida, Arxiu Municipal de Lleida, llibre d’actes 400, fol. 52.

360  “La terra davant del monarca.” Cited from Oriol Oleart, “La terra davant del monarca. Una contribució per a una tipo­logí�a de l’assemblea estamental catalana,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 25, no. 2 (1995): 593.

361  “Viene intrapreso il tentativo di saturare eticamente ed emozionalmente l’idea di nazione, cioè di collegare con la nazione vincoli di fedeltà morali o giuridici.” Cited from Dieter Mertens, Il pensiero politico medi­evale (Bo­logna, 1999), 129.

362  Many examples exist concerning, mobility, migration, and stabilization of a population. We may mention Siberia, although this process began in the sixteenth century and became a generator of the discourse of identity in the nineteenth century, precisely because a population from outside— in this case of Russian origin—was displacing the native people. Despite this origin, over the long term, it generated its own discourse of identity that linked the cultural traits of the people with the territory that they all took as their own. Alvar Jürgenson, “Siberlaste identiteedi kujunemine ja selle üks poliitilisi avaldumisvorme-oblastnike liikumine,” Acta Historica Tallinnensia 11 (2007): 47.

363  The Hungarians, for example, identified with, and gave the name to, the part of the Carpathian Basin where they settled, leaving behind their area of origin around the Volga, distantly remembered as Ungaria Maior, with part of the population remaining there and distinguished as White Hungarians. Sandor László Tóth, “The White and Black Hungarians,” Chronica 9–10 (2009–2010): 14. 364  Ruddick, English Identity and Political Culture, 99.

365  Martin Nejedlý, “Le concept de nation en Bohême au XIVe et au début du XVe siècle,” in Nation

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This definition from Bohemia was designed specifically to mark the difference between Czechs and Germans. In reality, international relations, at diplomatic, military, economic, or any other level, became competitions between nations, with aspects of identity and territory and the corresponding tensions and desires for revenge,366 because the success of one was always to the detriment of the other: “where a nation weakens, the winnings and profits are always taken by other nations.”367 In 1346, the English parliament explicitly accused the king of France of wanting “to destroy and ruin the whole English nation and language.”368 The context made it clear that, in such moments, the lines between kingdoms separated nations and states, because they established a line on each side of which there would be a different military, fiscal, and even cultural identity. Christian Guilleré addresses this regarding the establishment of the new frontier between Roussillon and Le Fenouillèdes in 1258, leaving the former in the Crown of Aragon and the latter within France: In this zone of contact between the two kingdoms, or at least between the kingdom of France and the Aragonese confederation, the places of contact take a linear turn, marked out, at the beginning of the modern era, by real landmarks.369

In reality, the people on one side or the other of the border maintained contact and collaboration.370 However, these were ever more affected by decisions, even of borders being blocked or closed, taken at the centre of each kingdom, for reasons far from the reality of life on the frontier.371 So, the border defined the line of otherness, which, on entering the modern era, was completed with stereotypical views of the neighbours.372

et nations au Moyen Âge. XLIVe Congrès de la Société des Historiens Médiévistes de l’enseignement public (Prague, 23 mai–26 mai 2013) (Paris, 2014), 240–41. 366  Flocel Sabaté, “Identitat i representativitat social a la Catalunya baixmedi­eval,” in El compromís de Casp: negociació o imposició?, ed. À� ngel Casals (Cabrera de Mar, 2013), 79–84.

367  “Allà on una nació defalleixi, sempre los guanys e profits s·en porten altres nacions.” Cited from Damien Coulon, Barcelone et le grand commerce d’Orient au Moyen Âge. Un siècle de relations avec l’Égypte et la Syrie–Palestine (ca. 1330–ca. 1430) (Madrid, 2004), 61. 368  “A destruire et anientier tote la nacion et la lange Engleys.” Cited from Ruddick, English Identity and Political Culture, 1.

369  “Dans cette zone de contact entre les deux royaumes, ou tout au moins entre le royaume de France et la confédération aragonaise, les lieux de contact prenent une tournure linéaire, balisée, au debut de l’époque moderne, par de veritables bornes.” Cited from Christian Guilleré, “Le traité de Corbeil (11 mai 1258),” Paris et Ile-de-France. Mémoires 60 (2009): 334.

370  Flocel Sabaté, “Changement de frontiers et perception de l’alterité en Catalogne (XIIe–XIVe siècles),” in Annexer? Les déplacements de frontières à la fin du Moyen Âge, ed. Stéphane Péquignot and Pierre Savy (Rennes, 2016), 53–59. 371  Miguel Á� ngel Ladero, “Sobre la evolución de las fronteras medi­evales hispánicas (siglos XI al XIV),” in Identidad y representación de la frontera en la España medi­eval (siglos XI–XIV), ed. Carlos de Ayala, Pascal Buresi and Philippe Josserand (Madrid, 2001), 48–49.

372  Bertrand Haan, “L’affirmation d’un sentiment national espagnol face à la France du debut des guerres de Religion,” in Le sentiment national dans l’Europe méridionale aux XVe et XVIIe siècles,



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Thus immersed in permanent competition, the territorial nation required a convincing discourse of support. As the tales by Saint-Denis explain, the French nation is “strong, proud, cruel to its enemies” and also favoured “among all the lands and nations” because it was the first to convert to Christianity, as well as being ruled by kings descended from the noble line of the Trojans.373 The foundations lay in its origins, where a founder had to be identified who justified national unity from the outset and also granted the nation its common name. This is true of France, the founding of which by Francus ensured the link to Troy.374 In other cases there was no need to seek such remote origins: Otger Cataló as the founder of Catalonia together with his companions, the inspiration for leading Catalan families from the end of the Middle Ages, freed the country from the Moors before the arrival of Charlemagne.375 The story of Otger Cataló, dating from the early fifteenth century,376 received many objections, but would not finally be expelled from the history books until the end of the nineteenth century.377 In this way, historians talk about the founding myth, but in its time, it was accepted as a historical truth. Sometimes the consequence was immediate: “[T]hat the English had a link to Brutus was not questioned,” which facilitated the acceptance of English domain over all the British Isles, including the Kingdom of Scotland.378 In other cases, the founding discourse conditioned the internal architecture of the country: in the supposed founding of Catalonia by Otger Cataló, his arrival, accompanied by nine barons, and his immediate pacts with the inhabitants of the cities, prefigured a power based on the estates, nobles, and bourgeoisie, leaving the king in a subsidiary position, as was sought at the time.379 In any case, given the veracity with which these narratives were accepted, there was a desire to add detail, not only for national cohesion, but also for the honourable memory used to justify the subsequent path of history. It is no surprise that, in 1458, Pope Pius II attempted to correct (unsuccessfully) the origins of the ed. Alain Tallon (Madrid, 2007), 75–85; Alexandra Testino-Zafiropoulos, “Representaciones imaginarias de España en Francia en el siglo XVII. Del saber enciclopédico a los relatos de viajes,” in L’imaginaire du territoire en Espage et au Portugal (XVIe–XVIIe siècles), ed. François Delpech (Madrid, 2008), 19–29.

373  “Forte, fière, cruelle envers ses ennemis”; “parmi toutes les terres et les nations.” Cited from Lydwina Scordia, “L’amour du roi est-il une composante politique de la ‘nation France’ au XIIIe siècle?,” in Nation et nations au moyen âge. XLIVe Congrès de la Société des Historiens Médiévistes de l’enseignement public (Prague, 23 mai–26 mai 2013) (Paris, 2014), 217–20. 374  Asher, National Myths in Renaissance, 1–127.

375  Pere Tomic, Històries e conquestes dels reis d’Aragó e comtes de Barcelona (Bagà, 1990), 56–61.

376  Flocel Sabaté, “The Medi­eval Roots of Catalan Identity,” in Historical Analysis of the Catalan Identity, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Bern, 2015), 42–49.

377  Eulàlia Duran, Sobre la mitificació dels orígens històrics nacionals Catalans (Barcelona, 1991), 14–15. 378  Ruddick, English Identity and Political Culture, 171–72.

379  Flocel Sabaté, “La construcción ideo­logical del nacimiento de Cataluña,” in Castilla y el mundo feudal. Homenaje al professor Julio Valdeón, ed. Maria Isabel del Val and Pascual Martí�nez, 3 vols. (Valladolid, 2009), 1:104–05.

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Hungarians,380 ­making them no longer descendants from the Huns: the Hungarians who settled on the banks of the Danube were now to be a Scythian nation, not descended from the Huns, as some had mistakenly believed due to the affinity between their names.381 Affinity of names was the basis for all medi­eval etymo­logical and onomastic deductions and, based on these conclusions, the myths and falsifications justifying supposed coherences and continuities in the identification of identities.382 In this game of collective identities, territorial identifications, and the rise of sovereign power, one can expect the nation as a whole to feel and react emotionally as one. As we have seen, in 1369 in the Crown of Aragon, the king encouraged the people to “love the nation”383 and, in 1454, before parliament, Bishop Margarit linked the expansion of the Crown to the loyal spilling of blood by the Catalan nation.384 When petitions were made to the monarch, it was recognized that the nation should make blood sacrifices for the king. As Horacio Capel wrote, “the starting point for forming territorial awareness is evidently in educating individuals and the influence of certain cultural patterns.”385 By the end of the Middle Ages, several stages still had to be gone through in developing values accepted by society to make it cohesive. The people spilling blood for the nation identified with a territory was not yet required; rather, spilling blood for their sovereign ruling people cohesive as a nation.

Conclusions

The term “identity” is not typical termino­logy in the Middle Ages.386 However, the perspective we obtain from observing medi­eval society historically provides a starting point in the search for the roots of human existence, both as individuals and as elements of the collective. 380  The relation between Hungarians and Huns has been repeated from the tenth to the twentyfirst centuries, used in the discourse of Hungarian identity. Bozóky, “Huns et Hongrois, une seule nation,” 37–50.

381  Lorenzo Hervás, Catálogo de las lenguas de las naciones conocidas, 6 vols. (Madrid, 1800–1805), 3:189–90.

382  Anthony Grafton, Defenders of the Text. The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800 (Cam­bridge, MA, 1991), 103.

383  “Amar la nació.” Cited from Albert, Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts catalanes, 37–38; Carbonell, Cròniques d’Espanya, 2:138; Gimeno Blay, “Escribir, leer, reinar,” 215. 384  Albert and Gassiot, Parlaments a les corts catalanes, 212.

385  “El punto de partida para la formación de la conciencia territorial se encuentra, evidentemente en la educación de los individuos y en la influencia de determinados patrones culturales.” Cited from Horacio Capel, “Percepción del medio y comportamiento geográfico,” Revista de Geografia 7, nos. 1–2 (1973): 123.

386  “Since at least the eighteenth century, the individual expressed his individuality in the term of identity, as a manner of ‘self-continuation’ (Littré) through bio­graphic continuity. In Émile, Rousseau could state that ‘memory extends the sense of identity over all moments of its existence’” (Depuis le XVIIIe siècle au moins, l’indivu exprime sa singularité en terme d’‘identité’, comme une manière de ‘persistance de soi’ (Littré) dans la continuité bio­graphique. Dans l’‘É� mile’, Rousseau a ainsi pu dire



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The evolution of thought and the changing social and economic context in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries hatched clear definitions about the person as an individual with a uniqueness and responsibilities, and this shaped the late medi­eval social, economic, political, and cultural world. However, in the Middle Ages, a sense of the collective was not built by renouncing individual traits in favour of some common elements; instead, the individual tended to acquire meaning within their solidarity group. Such groups were linked and combined according to circumstance and social structure. The affinities commonly perceived from the outside and accepted internally formalized the existence and content of each group. As a result, joint actions may be taken, whether at the level of lineage, urban faction, feudal link, urban solidarity, or national unity. Belonging to a group placed one within a social hierarchy, because the degree of identification and acceptance varied according to the estate and social position. Different groups were categorized differently within medi­eval society; many were represented by an elite, which would also manage the discourse of what it meant to be part of the group. The cohesion inherent in the shared identity was encouraged by the discourses invoked by those who claimed to represent the group’s interests. Cohesion around identity was based on a justification always presented with a historic sense of human life as a journey, with a predestined path used to justify the present. The future track was to be sought in accordance with Christian guidance and a specific mission assigned by God. So, identities worked like concentric circles that could be overlain or combined, depending on the context, the reason one individual could have multiple identifying labels. However, the fact that European identity held belonging to the Christianitas as the highest layer of cohesion imposed clear difficulties of coexistence with the minorities that could never be assimilated due to their religious identity, like Muslims and, more directly in everyday life, Jews. Identity forms part of a chain with two other links, namely memory and ideo­logy. Of these, the former supplied clues to one’s place in the world; the latter, the values to shape and guide one’s life. Without accurate knowledge of the values with which medi­eval society intergrated these links in the chain, we are in danger of slipping into anachronism. Identity is a basic pillar for understanding the human being in the Middle Ages, and so, as we shape a new historio­graphy, one that responds to today’s demands, we must prioritize the study of medi­eval identity.387 We must not project today onto the past, but identify the tools that framed and shaped the medi­eval world as a means of gaining a better knowledge of it.

que ‘la mémoire étend le sentiment de l’identité sur tous les moments de son existence’). Cited from Dominique Iogna-Prat, “La question de l’individu à l’épreuve du moyen âge,” in L’Indivu au Moyen Âge, ed. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat (Paris, 2005), 26. 387  Flocel Sabaté, “Identitats,” in Identitats, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2012), 16–21.

Chapter 1

IDENTITY AS A HISTORIO­GRAPHICAL CONCEPT JAUME AURELL*

The concept of identity, originating from the social sciences, particularly psycho­

logy, and even the experimental sciences, especially psychiatry, has been imported into the historical discipline during recent decades. Therefore, any attempt to define this concept calls for insight into the origin of its creation and consolidation in the disciplinary, academic, and scholarly panorama.1 In this chapter I analyze the growing importance acquired by the concept of identity in historio­graphy. This concept has been defined as “the process of construction of meaning on the basis of a cultural attribute, or a related set of cultural attributes, that is given priority over other sources of meaning.”2 The historio­graphical concept of identity is then closely tied to that of culture, and is therefore linked to the current prevailing historio­graphical trend, the new cultural history. Hence, in recent decades, history has been enhanced by means of incorporating and assimilating the concept of culture, originating from symbolic anthropo­logy, and that of identity, from psycho­logy and psychiatry. This new conceptual marriage has replaced both the grand narratives of postwar paradigms, the most radical postmodernist positions, and the linguistic turn of the 1970s and 1980s. Historio­graphy has ceased to be concerned with analyzing rigid social and economic structures and with the anti-referential excesses of a radical postmodernism, and is increasingly placing greater emphasis on describing, analyzing, and inter*  The author greatly appreciates the help and suggestions of the historians Peter Burke and Pablo Vázquez Gestal during the writing of this chapter. The original version of this chapter was the plenary and introductory address at the meeting on Ideo­logy and Society in the Middle Ages that took place in June, 2014, at the Universitat de Lleida, of which some presentations are mentioned below.

1  Some theoretical reflections on the shaping and definition of the concept of “identity,” and on its role in the history and social sciences are: Steve Rieber, “The Concept of Personal Identity,” Philosophy and Phenomeno­logical Research 58 (1998): 581–94; Jan E. Stets and Peter J. Burke, “Identity Theory and Social Identity Theory,” Social Psycho­logy Quarterly 63 (2000): 224–37; Seldon Stryker and Peter J. Burke, “The Past, Present and Future of an Identity Theory,” Social Psycho­logy Quarterly 63 (2000): 284–97; Peter J. Burke, Timothy J. Owens, Richard T. Serpe, and Peggy A. Thoits, eds., Advances in Identity Theory and Research (New York, 2003); Mark R. Leary, “The Self as an Organizing Construct in the Behavioral and Social Sciences,” in Handbook of Self and Identity, ed. Mark R. Leary and June Price Tangney (New York, 2003), 3–14; Paul du Gay, Jessica Evans, and Peter Redman, eds., Identity (London, 2000).

2  Manuel Castells, The Information Age. Economy, Society and Culture. The Power of Identity (Oxford, 1997), 2:6. Jaume Aurell ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidad de Navarra, Pamplona, Spain.

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preting “the mechanisms created by an individual or social group in order to recognize themselves and be recognized by the rest of the social conglomerate.”3 This approach allows resolution of the trend towards fragmentation in contemporary knowledge with reasonable certainty. Firstly, we must start from the fact that the analysis and application of the concept of identity refers to two key realities in the study of history: individuality (which in much of academic literature written in English is identified by the term “self”) and collectivity. This dual facet of the concept is important, because both individuality and collectivity bring out and emphasize each other according to the historio­graphical moment in time. Broadly speaking, from the 1930s to the 1970s, the historical discipline became polarized in the study of social processes, more linked to the collective, by means of the emergence of trends grouped together by Lawrence Stone under the name of “paradigms”— namely, Marxism, Structuralism, and Quantitativism—in his programmatic article on the revival of narrative in 1979.4 However, from the 1970s, in light of the emergence of movements associated with postmodernism, the new cultural history, microhistory, and the new narrativism, the historical discipline opted for the predominance of individualities over collectivities in its approximation to the past. This bio­graphical—and autobio­graphical—turn fostered a more in-depth exploration of the concept of identity, since it is always anchored in the perception of individual conditions, attitudes, and stances, which then combine to constitute collectivities. The dual facet of the concept of identity—the individual versus the collective, the singular versus the social—represents one of the fundamental goals of any historical investigation. It concerns the interaction between people and societies, and the mechanisms of social identification—whether seen from a socio-economic perspective, as with Marxism and the ‘class’ concept, from a more political perspective which has recently been revitalized with a renewed concept of power — or from a more anthropo­logical and cultural perspective, in which the singular and marginal is afforded greater precedence over the common and global.5 Therefore, whenever an approximation is made to the concept of identity, two facets are to be set apart: that pertaining to the theory on personal “self” identity and that pertaining to identity in its “social” dimension. The first focuses on the study of “role,” specifically on the individuality of the “self” inserted in the group, and the extent to which this “self” corresponds to the general attributes of the social, cultural, racial, ethnic, national, linguistic, or gender group in which it is placed, or whether it features a number of specific points of difference. The second bases its concept of identity on the

3  “Los mecanismos creados por un individuo o grupo social para poder llegar a reconocerse y ser reconocido con respecto al resto del conglomerado social.” Cited from Pablo Vázquez Gestal, “¿Qué le pasó al giro lingüí�stico? De la narratividad a la interpretación en historiografí�a,” Rilce 22 (2006): 237–57, esp. 247. 4  Lawrence Stone, “The Revival of Narrative. Reflections on a New Old History,” Past and Present 85 (1979): 3–24.

5  Paul Freedman and Gabrielle Spiegel, “Medi­evalisms Old and New. The Rediscovery of Alterity in North American Medi­eval Studies,” American Historical Review 103 (1998): 677–704.



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figure of the “group” or the “category,” given that both terms express these same social, cultural, ethnic, national, linguistic, and gender realities, shared by all its members, and perceived as such ad extra, which contributes to heightening the cohesion ad intra. In the realm of identity theory, one of the key concepts is that referred to as salience. This concept refers to how, when, and in which conditions identities are invoked in a given situation. It is thus understood because the concept of salience is so elemental among historians that we are constantly seeking explanations for social and cultural change, political transformations, and the evolution of ideas. Social psycho­logists used the term salience to denote an identity that is called into play, subject to certain conditions in a given historical situation. In psycho­logical theory, it concerns studying the probabilities that an identity will be invoked in a situation and the forms said activation takes.6 From a more individual perspective, this salience is reflected in a psycho­logical process that fosters the influence of an individual in the group, their sense of belonging, how they are perceived by the group, and their specific behaviour within the group.7 This leads to one of the first repercussions engendered by the application of identity theory on the study of history: the prevalence, both from a strictly chrono­logical and conceptual point of view, of individuality over collectivity. Ultimately, it is individualities that form the identity of the group, and their behaviour, their role, depends on the changes undergone by these collective identities. Naturally, these transformations will be more evident in the case of identities whose dimension is more cultural (such as social, religious, linguistic, national, and state groups, etc.) than those that emerge from a common aspect more related to nature, such as race or ethnicity. It is thus understood because the matter of “gender” has sparked a great deal of debate in recent years, since its classification into the first or second category—either as a cultural phenomenon susceptible to chance according to the context or as a natural reality which affords it a series of permanent attributes—largely depends on its historio­graphical approach. In short, the key issue, inextricably linked to questions of identity, in the words of Ernst Breisach, is as follows: “Were class, ethnicity or race entities significantly reflective of special features or conditions of the material world or human physio­logy, or were they pure cultural constructs not dependent on materiality at all?”8 The presence of values inserted in these categories that hinge on something permanent seems evident. Nevertheless, the recognition of these permanent realities in man is compatible, taking into consideration the historical nature of man, with the study of the changes in identity and cultural criteria over time.9 6  Sheldon Stryquer, “Identity Salience and Role Performance,” Journal of Marriage and the Family 4 (1968): 558–64.

7  Penelope Oakes, “The Salience of Social Categories,” in Rediscovering the Social Group, ed. John C. Turner (New York, 1987), 117–41.

8  Ernst Breisach, On the Future of History. The Postmodernist Challenge and Its Aftermath (Chicago, 2003), 152. 9  Ignacio Olábarri, “La resurrección de Mnemósine: historia, memoria e identidad,” in La “Nueva” Historia Cultural. la influencia del postestructualismo y el auge de la interdisciplinariedad, ed. Ignacio Olábarri and Francisco J. Caspistegui (Madrid, 1996), 145–73, esp. 157.

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The same could be said regarding other historical issues under intense debate, such as that surrounding national identity, how it is resolved if its existence is based on purely circumstantial issues, the product of historical development, or whether it also has an essentialist basis. The debate surrounding linguistic identities, while much of their political baggage has fortunately been shed in many parts of the world, has the same theoretical background. Based on these premises, historians have received the identity theory derived from the social sciences with particular interest, especially since the 1980s. What has truly captured their interest is how this theory allows them to identify the cultural and social processes which emerge when an identity is called into play—let us call to mind the phenomenon of hippie culture, for instance, which arose from the cultural and intellectual movements associated with 1968. It was a time of intense upheaval as regards identity, ranging from “depersonalization” processes—the removal of what was specific to the individual that is absorbed by the general conditions of the group—to processes of strengthening individual identity and personality thanks precisely to the sense of belonging to a unified group. Moreover, the historical forms in which the emergence of these individualities is evident ranges from a peaceful and progressive appearance in the social context to more violent and revolutionary manifestations. The entire identity theory is based on the individual’s capacity for reflection, a quality that allows them to regard themselves as an object, and to categorize, classify, and locate themselves in relation to social categories or classifications. This process is called “categorization,” which emphasizes the activity of the subject in its belonging to the group or “identification,” which enhances the perception of the ad extra identity, from outside the subject. It is precisely by means of deploying these processes of “categorization” and “identification” that an identity is formed. We thereby enter into another distinction regarding identity that proves crucial from a historio­graphical point of view. An individual’s sense of belonging to a group can be invoked from an active or passive perspective. When historians opt for the former, personalistic, bio­graphical, and microhistorical approaches prevail, which have imposed themselves on the discipline in association with postmodern movements. When they opt for the latter, a contextualist perspective prevails, hegemonic for much of the twentieth century and associated with Structuralist, Marxist, and Quantitativist trends. Of course, there are always approaches at the intersection or frontier between the two perspectives, and also third ways, made patently clear by means of the dissemination of cultural history in the last twenty years.10 In fact, all this variety of historio­ graphical approximations greatly enhances the historical field. This is evident at first sight by analyzing participants in the conference where this article was first presented. The first seminar was given over to a theoretical approximation to the concept of identity, distinguishing the construction of individual identity from that of collective identity. 10  Victoria E. Bonell and Lynn Hunt, Beyond the Cultural Turn. New Directions in the Study of Society and Culture (Berkeley, 1999), and Lynn Hunt, ed., The New Cultural History (Berkeley, 1989). See also the different volumes those historians gathered in the collection Studies on the History of Society and Culture.



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Subsequently, the conference addressed various interpretations surrounding identities in transit (the problem of immigration is particularly pressing); the relationship between identity and territory (geo­graphy never should have broken off so radically from history); the transformation of identities (a session in which the religious, ethnic, political, and cultural dimensions of “identities” were perfectly combined); and, finally, the problem of identity and alterity, one of the issues currently in historio­graphical vogue, most of all because it directly refers to the subject of marginal and peripheral groups. Identity theory emphasizes the “recognition” of a person as belonging to a social or cultural category, to a group.11 A group is a set of individuals that share a common social identity (objective vision, passive) or that perceive themselves as members of the same category (subjective vision, active).12 Social scientists have always been concerned with constructing permanent categories that would work like signs of belonging to a group, among which emotional factors would be particularly noteworthy.13 From my point of view, we historians have benefited to a greater extent from the identity theory derived from psycho­logy and psychiatry than from this type of categorization that corresponds excessively to a categorial model and an empirical and statistical methodo­logy more specific to the social sciences than the historical discipline. Historians, on account of their specific training and objectives, are always better prepared not to fall into an excessively static vision of identities, which is what I seem to perceive in many of the models employed by psycho­logists and psychiatrists when locating, demarcating, defining, and never better said, identifying identities. For this reason, I have always postulated a dynamic approximation to identities, based on the perception and analysis of the transformation of identities more than on a fixed picture of their characteristics.14 This perspective also allows attention to two realities which have a strong identity component, but which would be excluded in an excessively rigid vision: on the one hand, shared identities, dynamic identities, or identities in transition—well represented in the conference given sessions on “identities in transit” and “identities in mutation”—; and, on the other hand, minority and marginal identities, which are generally characterized as not being “pure identities,” and which were addressed in the final session of the conference under the title of “identity and alterity.” The social sciences, in their approximation to identity, are inclined to empirically research the relationships between the components of a group and their degree of identification with the group.15 The historical discipline, in turn, is more interested in evolu11  Michael Hogg and Dominic Abrams, Social Identifications. A Social Psycho­logy of Intergroup Relations and Group Processes (London, 1988).

12  Jan E. Stets and Peter J. Burke, “Identity Theory and Social Identity Theory,” Social Psycho­logy Quarterly 3 (2000): 224–37, esp. 225. 13  See for instance: Turner, ed., Rediscovering the Social Group.

14  See for instance: Roy F. Baumeister, Identity. Cultural Change and the Struggle for Self (Oxford, 1986); Raymond Martin and John Barresi, The Rise and Fall of Soul and Self. An Intellectual History of Personal Identity (New York, 2006). 15  Naomi Ellemers and Ad van Knippenberg, “Stereotyping in Social Context,” in The Social Psycho­

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tion processes than in a “photo­graphic” analysis, and is therefore more inclined towards a more dynamic vision of analyzing identities. Therefore, it is more capable of describing the transformations of shared values that determine the emergence, development, and decline of groups based on identities. In particular, it analyzes the development of attitudes, mentalities, values, reactions, codes of conduct, and styles of language common to a group.16 It is easy to identify here the various historio­graphical trends which, from the history of mentalities in the 1970s to the current trends related to cultural history, have taken an interest in these issues. Cultural history has thereby recovered, largely thanks to the help of Geertz’s symbolic anthropo­logy, the value of symbols, myths, folklore, manifestations of popular culture, and literary images, subjects replacing those which were hegemonic a generation previously, such as the development of social classes or the predominance of structures over individualities. In this context, the revitalization undergone by political history in recent decades is easily accounted for, not only owing to the revitalization of the bio­graphical genre and the tremendous interest awakened in the history of battles, but also because of its capacity to negotiate with all the fields related to the exercise of power, and its convertibility into influence and authority.17 This new political history is well illustrated by works such as that of Peter Burke entitled The Fabrication of Louis XIV, published in 1992. Burke departed from the traditional means of writing the bio­graphy of a king in an attempt to interpret not the actual life of the king but the construction of the image of the Sun King. He sought to make a contribution to the history of producing, circulating, and receiving symbolic forms, as he proclaims in his introduction.18 As a result, Burke was no longer concerned with analyzing the historic fortune of the king and the development of his government actions, but rather his efforts to self-fashion an identity by means of the multiple visual and representative resources deployed over the course of his reign. The slow but progressive hegemony of the concept of identity in historio­graphy has also encouraged historians to reconsider the active participation and intervention of the human being as an individual and personality—therefore as an identity—in historic processes. The concept of agency was thereby formulated, which, during the 1990s, sparked intense theoretical debate.19 logy of Stereotyping and Group Life, ed. Russell Spears, Penelope J. Oakes, Naomi Ellemers, and Alexander Haslam (Cam­bridge, MA, 1997), 208–35.

16  This aspect has been consolidated as a specific manifestation of the connexion between the linguistic turn and the concept of identity applied to the historical discipline: Donald L. Rubin, ed., Composing Social Identity in Written Language (Hillsdale, 1995); John Edwards, Language, Society and Identity (Oxford, 1985).

17  Ernest Gellner, Culture, Identity and Politics (Cam­bridge, 1987); Kenneth R. Hoover, The Power of Identity: Politics in a New Key (Chatham, 1997); Carol C. Gould and Pasquale Pasquino, eds., Cultural Identity and the Nation-State (Lanham, 2001). 18  Peter Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven, 1992), 1.

19  Vázquez, “¿Qué le pasó al giro lingüí�stico?,” 248; see on its debate: Gerard Delanty, Social Theory in a Changing World: Conceptions of Modernity (Cam­b ridge, 1999), 122–47; Philip Pomper, “Historians and Individual Agency,” History and Theory 35 (1996): 281–308; David



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Another of the great fields of interest for the historical discipline is to the extent to which personal identity is mediated by its surrounding society and culture. Some historians have formulated it by expressing the relationships between man and context or, from a more historio­graphical perspective, between text and context.20 This is certainly an age-old issue, with its heyday in the series of French mono­graphs of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s known as La terre et les hommes.21 However, in the current historio­ graphical panorama, this approach takes on very different forms, manifested primarily by the relevant role of “minorities” in societies, whether they are ethnic, religious, racial, or cultural, a trend to which testimony is found in some of the chapters in this volume, for the conference grouped under the apt concept of “alterity.” Also understood in this manner is the heyday enjoyed in recent years by studies surrounding elite groups, whose representativeness is determined not so much by their quantitative prevalence but by their capacity to produce models that exercise a “disproportionate” influence—if their relative number is considered—on society. Finally, the noteworthy recovery of the bio­graphical and autobio­graphical genres is one of the most expressive manifestations of the influence exerted by the concept of “personal identity” on historio­graphy. Bio­graphy has been recovered not only in its most classic sense but also as it has been practised by “new historicists”—I refer to the movement of “New Historicism,” of clear Anglo-American influence—a generation led by Stephen Greenblatt. From their point of view, literary works are the product of the interaction between society and culture on the one hand, and the self on the other, which is shaped by means of these “dynamic circulations,” to use Foucault’s expression. As pointed out with sharp insight by the Spanish historian Ignacio Olábarri, “their perspective is the product of a symbiosis between self-construction and the social construction of personal identity.”22 Gary Shaw, “Happy in Our Chains? Agency and Language in the Postmodern Age,” in Agency after Postmodernism, ed. David Gary Shaw, thematic issue, History and Theory 41, no. 4 (2001): 1–9.

20  Some examples: Mohsen Ghadessy, ed., Text and Context in Functional Linguistics (Amsterdam, 1999), xi–xvii; Andrew Taylor, Textual Situations. Three Medi­eval Manu­scripts and Their Readers (Philadelphia, 2002); Keith Busby, Codex and Context. Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manu­ script (Amsterdam, 2002).

21  Thomas Bisson, “La terre et les hommes: A Programme Fulfilled?,” French History 14 (2000): 322–45.

22  “Su perspectiva es el producto de una simbiosis entre la auto-construcción y la construcción social de la identidad personal.” Cited from Olábarri, “La resurrección de Mnemósine,” 158. See some examples about the use of the New Historicism: Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance SelfFashioning. From More to Shakespeare (Chicago, 1980); Stephen Greenblatt, “Towards a Poetics of Culture,” in Learning to Curse. Essays in Early Modern Culture (New York, 2007); Catherine Gallagher and Stephen Greenblatt, Practicing New Historicism (Chicago, 2000); Lee Patterson, “Introduction: Critical Historicism and Medi­eval Studies,” in Literary Practice and Social Change in Britain, 1380–1530, ed. Lee Patterson (Berkeley, 1990), 1–14; Brook Thomas, The New Historicism and Other Old-Fashioned Topics (Princeton, 1991); Harold Aram Veeser, ed. The New Historicism Reader (New York, 1994); Kiernan Ryan, New Historicism and Cultural Materialism. A Reader (London, 1996); Jürgen Pieters, Moments of Negotiation. The New Historicism of Stephen Greenblatt (Amsterdam, 2001).

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The autobio­graphical genre, in turn, would have revitalized given the proof of its capacity to reconstruct the self. As described many times by the authors themselves, the practice of autobio­graphy affords them the unique opportunity to “refashion themselves,” to remake their own identity by means of a retrospective account of their own past: “It is myself that I remake,” according to Yeats, which has become a classic line. This revitalization of autobio­graphy maintains perfect harmony with the post-Structuralist reconstruction of individual identity, which would find its origin in the classic autobio­ graphies of the enlightened thinkers Vico, Gibbon, Goethe, and Rousseau. Debates surrounding the historicity or fictionality of autobio­graphy are on the agenda, and this genre has become a privileged field in the negotiations between history and literary criticism. Autobio­graphy is seen as a “double agent,” moving between the historicity that emerges from the “autobio­graphical pact” (Philippe Lejeune) and its strong fictional content, the product of the predominant role of memory, imagination, and narration in its writing process (John Paul Eakin).23 From this point of view, the proliferation of historian autobio­graphies—which some of us like to describe as the “historians’ autobio­ graphical turn”—has always seemed to me to be a phenomenon very symptomatic of the revitalization of this genre, not only as an object of study but also as a practice of historical and historio­graphical value.24 It should suffice to acknowledge the revitalization of these four historio­graphical fields—relationships between the individual and their context, the focus on minorities and groups situated on the fringes of society and culture, the renewed interest in elite groups, and the revitalization of the bio­graphical and autobio­graphical genres—to demonstrate the notable influence exercised by the importation of the concept of “identity” from the social sciences to history. However, in addition, this interest in “identity” has also generated a movement of study towards the “Other,” because if the identity of “self” does not exist, neither does the identity of the “Other” by opposition.25 Much of the emergence of the recent trend of World History—so as not to confuse it with the aspirations of Total History of the most classic analytic historio­graphy—has been caused by this vision of the “Other,” which, among other considerations, has made the historio­ graphy of the Western tradition aware of the need to open itself up to other traditions.26 The zenith of so-called Postcolonial Studies also reflects this interest in world history and in the processes of fashioning new forms of identity, resulting often from the miscegenation of ethnicities and cultures in a very short space of time—such as the creation of Asian Americans, whose second generation corresponds to cultural and iden23  Paul John Eakin, Touching the World. Reference in Autobio­graphy (Princeton, 1992); see also Philippe Lejeune, Le pacte autobio­graphique (Paris, 1975).

24  I have argued the historical and historio­g raphical meaning of historians’ autobio­ graphical writing in Jaume Aurell, Theoretical Perspectives on Historians’ Autobio­graphies. From Documentation to Intervention (London, 2015). 25  Olábarri, “La resurrección de Mnemósine,” 156.

26  Lewis D. Wurgaft, “Identity in a World History. A Postmodern Perspective,” History and Theory 34 (1995): 67–85.



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tity realities entirely different to that of their parents, with their corresponding identity peculiarities, crises, and reconstructions.27 However, it must be specified that a binary and polarized opposition of the “self” with the “Other” leads to an excessively simplistic, now outdated, conception of identity. This is revealed by a great many works seeking to explain the construction of collective identities by means of factors which in the previous historio­graphical generation were considered marginal: the role of wars, battles, violence, and bloodshed as constituent sources of national identities;28 the function of ethnic and racial values, in continuous polarization between unity and multiplicity, in the construction of collective identities;29 the exaltation of national leaders and heroes;30 the role of frontiers;31 the role of memory and historical texts in constructing collective and national identities;32 and the creation and conservation of cultural heritage, in which a noteworthy role is played by manifestations such as the selection and transformation of street names, or the preservation or demolition of commemorative monuments of an event or historical figure with particular symbolic and memorial meaning for a society.33 Finally, the massive historio­graphical production surrounding the problem of the historicity of the Holocaust and its forms of historic representation is also a clear manifestation of the validity of issues related to identity, applied to historio­graphy. The importation of the concept of identity, from the social to even the medical disciplines, such as psychiatry and psycho­logy, has contributed to regenerating genres, themes, and methodo­logies in historio­graphy which had fallen into disuse in the face of the predominance of post-war paradigms. Moreover, renewed interest in identity issues is related to overcoming the most radical phase of postmodernism and the linguistic

27  Patrick C. Hogan, Colonialism and Cultural Identity. Crises of Tradition in the Anglophone Literatures of India, Africa and the Caribbean (Albany, 2000). 28  As is shown in Georges Duby, Le Dimanche de Bouvines, 27 juillet 1214 (Paris, 1973).

29  For the construction of American identity, see for instance the classic study of: Arthur Mann, The One and the Many. Reflections on the American Identity (Chicago, 1984).

30  A subject well analyzed for medi­eval societies, in which the figure of the hero-founder is very important: Christine Marchello-Nizia, “De l’Eneida à l’Eneas. Les Attributs du fondateur,” in Lectures médiévales de Virgile. Actes du colloque organisé par l’École française de Rome (Rome, 25–28 octobre 1982) (Rome, 1985), 251–66; Georges Martin, “Le récit héroï�que castillan (formes, enjeux sémantiques et fonctions socio-culturelles),” in Histoires de l’Espagne médiévale. Historio­ graphie, geste, romancero, ed. Georges Martin (Paris, 1997), 139–52; Isabel de Barros Dias, “Heróis fundadores portugueses em alguns textos da historiografia medi­eval ibérica,” in Imperium Minervae. Studien zur Brasilianischen, Iberischen und Mosambikanischen Literatur, ed. Dietrich Briesemeister and Axel Schönberger (Frankurt am Main, 2003), 89–109; Jean-Marie Moeglin, “La mémoire d’un herós fondateur: Lidéric forestier et comte de Flandre,” in La mémoire du temps au Moyen Age, ed. Agostino Paravicini Bagliani (Florence, 2005), 87–116. 31  Peter Sahlins, Boundaries. The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees (Berkeley, 1989).

32  Pierre Nora, ed., Les lieux de mémoire (Paris, 1984); Davis Lowenthal, The Past as a Foreign Country (Cam­bridge, 1985); Jaume Aurell and Julia Pavón, eds., Rewriting the Middle Ages in the Twentieth Century. 2. National Traditions (Turnhout, 2009). 33  John R. Gillis, ed., Commemorations. The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, 1994); Stéphane Michonneau, Barcelona. memòria i identitat. Monuments, commemoracions i mites (Vic, 2002).

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turn in the historical discipline. The first postmodernism revealed the deception of the metanarratives of post-war historio­graphy, in which certain identities from the end of the twentieth century could not be recognized—many of them minorities but exercising great influence in reality. Self-awareness of the present made it necessary to modify the relationship with the past, thereby changing the ways of making history. Having overcome this first postmodern phase at the turn of the century, historio­ graphy again favours the other side of the coin of semio­logy, placing the emphasis on meaning over meaningful.34 Now the “meaning” of things is of greater concern than its formal aspect or the manner in which it is conveyed. The assimilation of the concept of identity has certainly not been the only constituent in the complex epistemo­logical conglomerate comprised by the new hegemonic historio­graphical trends today. However, its active presence in the current historio­graphical panorama, and its close links with key issues such as memory, ideo­logies, images, power, “agency,” and culture, afford it a prominence which could not have been foreseen some decades ago. Finally, the concept of identity is increasingly grasped as one of the solutions for postmodern trends that seem to be set on a path with no escape from relativism and anti-referentiality. At the same time, identity may act as a bridge between these postmodern trends and new trends, more related to cultural history, which boldly endeavour to give all its referential potentiality back to the historical discipline.35 Once again, it is historical rather than actual historio­graphical problems that have swept historians into changing their methods of representing the past. It is the problems in today’s society, addressed in the midst of transformation, from which historians cannot—and should not—detach themselves, issues that illuminate the paths over which their own discipline must travel.36

34  Vázquez, “¿Qué le pasó al giro lingüí�stico?,” 245 and 247.

35  Stuart Hall, “Introduction: Who Needs Identity,” in Questions of Cultural Identity, ed. Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay (London, 1996), 1–17; and Scott Lash and Jonathan Friedman, “Introduction: Subjectivity and Modernity’s Other,” in Modernity and Identity, ed. Scott Lash and Jonathan Friedman (Oxford, 1992), 1–30. 36  Jörn Rüsen, “La historia, entre modernidad y postmodernidad,” in New History, Nouvelle Histoire. hacia una nueva historia, ed. José Andrés Gallego (Madrid, 1993), 119–37, esp. 121.

Chapter 2

BAPTISMAL NAMES AND IDENTITY IN THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES IGOR S. FILIPPOV*

One’s name is no doubt the most important means of identification a person has.

And as any sign of cultural and social identity, it is open to different perception and interpretation. What is natural and self-evident for a person belonging to one culture may be totally incomprehensible to someone looking at it from the “outside.” This is true even of closely related cultures. For example, many Christians not belonging to the Hispanic world are taken aback when meeting someone called Jesus. Perhaps the same way that Spaniards react to the name Christo, very popular in Bulgaria. In both cases we are dealing with rather recent onomastic developments characteristic of the Modern period. There are reasons to believe that medi­eval Spaniards and Bulgarians would have dismissed the very possibility of such Christian names. But what is a Christian name? Strange as it may seem this is a complicated question, and different Christian communities in different times give very different answers. When asked about it today most people would probably say it is the name of a saint or of a revered character of the Bible, while some might disagree and insist that any name belonging to and meaningful in the Christian culture (such as Angel, Noel, Toussaint, Trinidad, or, let’s say, Chantal and Montserrat) is in fact a Christian name; still others would claim that practically any name could be Christian. Simplifying this problem to some extent, these three approaches are characteristic, respectively, of Orthodox, Catholic, and Protestant (especially Anglo-Saxon Protestant) traditions. Oddly enough this question has not been studied sufficiently, either by specialists in historical onomastics,1

*  Working on this article, the author consulted many colleagues in Russia and abroad. Without their friendly assistance, the author feels this chapter would probably have remained just a project. Following is a list of people to whom he is especially grateful: Sergey Agishev, Ilya Anikyev, Maurice Aymard, Henri Barthès, Pierre-Henri Billy, Monique Bourin, Jean-Pierre Brunterch, Father Vincent Desprez, Paul Freedman, Tatiana Goussarova, Jean Guyon, Djura Hardi, Martin Homza, Aleksander Ivlev, Pavel Kuzenkov, Jean-Loup Lemaî�tre, Jean Le Pottier, Marie-Christine Lefebvre-Becq, Pavel E. Lukin, Nora Malinovska, Stanislav Mereminskiy, Zoya Metlitskaya, Karol Modzelewski, Vadim Prozorov, Flocel Sabaté, Piotr Shamaro, Alexander Sidorov, Vasilina Sidorova, Alexander Tkachenko, Aleksey Tselunov, Fyodor Uspensky, Marie-Dominique Vernet, Vera Yarnykh, and Nina Zhivlova. The author is very much obliged to Patrick Geary and William Klingshirn, who kindly reviewed the text. Finally, he would also like to thank his mentor, the late Yuri Bessmertny, for inviting him into the fascinating world of historical anthroponomy. 1  Henri Leclercq, “Noms propres,” in Dictionnaire d’Archéo­logie chrétienne et de liturgie, 30 vols. (Paris, 1936), 2/2:1481–1553 (cols.); Henri-Irénée Marrou, “Problèmes généraux de l’onomastique

Igor Filippov ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at Lomonosov Moscow State Uni­ver­sity, Russia.

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or by historians of religion,2 mainly—as one can guess—because research into baptismal names is usually conducted in the frame of cultural traditions of a particular Christian community, without due attention to the ways and ideas of other Christians. With all my admiration and gratitude for the wonderful books and articles cited here, I should say plainly that most authors do not recognize the problem itself, let alone study it.

Baptismal Names and Liturgy

In the long run, the difference in the perception of the Christian name is explained by different liturgical customs common to the three traditions mentioned above. Limiting my study to the Middle Ages, I discuss only the Orthodox and the Catholic customs. According to the Rituale Romanum adopted by the Council of Trent, the priest asks the person being baptized (or, in the case of an infant, the person who acts in his or her stead) “By which name are you called?” (Quo nomine vocaris?) and, repeating this name, says: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit” (Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti), thus omitting the neophyte’s name in the baptismal formula itself.3 The choice of name is not regulated; the fact that an chrétienne,” in LʼOnomastique latine, ed. Hans-Georg Pflaum and Noël Duval (Paris, 1977), 431– 35; Anne Lefebvre-Teillard, Le nom. Droit et histoire (Paris, 1990); Monique Bourin and Pascal Chareille, eds., Genèse médiévale de l’anthroponymie moderne, 5 vols. (Tours, 1990–2002); Michael Mitterauer, Ahnen und Heilige. Namengebung in der europäischen Geschichte (Munich, 1993); Monique Bourin, Jean-Marie Martin and François Menant, eds., L’anthroponymie. Document de l’histoire sociale des mondes méditerranéens médiévaux (Rome, 1996); Dieter Geuenich, Wolfgang Haubrichs, and Jörg Jarnut, eds., Nomen et gens. Zur historischen Aussagekraft frühmittelalterlicher Personnennamen (Berlin, 1997); Reinhard Härtel, ed., Personennamen und Identität. Namengebung und Namengebrauch als Anzeiger individueller Bestimmung und gruppenbezogener Zuordnung (Graz, 1997); Stephen Wilson, The Means of Naming. A Social and Cultural History of Personal Naming in Western Europe (London, 1998); Katharine S. B. Keats-Rohan and Christian Settipani, eds., Onomastique et parenté dans l’Occident médiéval (Oxford, 2000); Albrecht Greule and Matthias Springer, eds., Namen des Frühmittelalters als sprachliche Zeugnisse und als Geschichtsquellen (Berlin, 2009); Michael Mitterauer, Traditionen der Namengebung: Namenkunde als interdisziplinares Forschungsgebiet (Vienna, 2011); Steffen Patzold and Karl Ubl, eds., Verwandtschaft, Name und soziale Ordnung (300–1000) (Berlin, 2014); Kathrin Dräger, Fabian Fahlbusch, and Damaris Nübling, eds., Heiligenverehrung und Namengebung (Berlin, 2016).

2  See for example: Arnold Angenendt, Das Frühmittelalter. Die Abendländische Christenheit von 400 bis 900 (Stuttgart, 1990); Jean-Marie Mayeur, Charles Pietri, Luce Pietri, André Vauchez, and Marc Venard, eds., Histoire de Christianisme des origines à nos jours, 14 vols. (Paris, 1992–2001); Peter Cramer, Baptism and Change in the Early Middle Ages, c. 200–c. 1150 (Cam­bridge, 1993); Guy Lobrichon, La religion des laics en Occident. XI–XV siècles (Paris, 1994); Arnold Angenendt, Geschichte der Religiosität im Mittelalter (Darmstadt, 1997); Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom (Oxford, 2003); Bruno Dumézil, Les racines chrétiennes de l’Europe. Conversion et liberté dans les royaumes barbares, V–VIII siècle (Paris, 2005); Matthias Untermann, ed., Religiosität in Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Paderborn, 2011); Elisabeth Vavra, ed., Die Welt und Gott—Gott und die Welt? Zum Verhältnis von Religiosität und Profanität im “christlichen Mittelalter” (Heidelberg, 2019). 3  Rituale Romanum Pauli V. Pontificis Maximi jussu editum et a Benedicto XIV auctum et castigatum (Rome, 1917), 22ff. We find the same formula in the “Rituale” approved by the Second Vatican Council.



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overwhelming majority of Catholics today choose traditional Christian names is determined by their general culture, piety, emotional and social ties with ancestors, relatives, and friends, as well as by common sense. The Church does not go further than to urge the priest, parents, and godparents to avoid names alien to the Christian culture.4 The baptismal formula used in Orthodox Churches (certainly in the Greek and the Russian Orthodox Churches) is different: “The servant of God such and such is baptized in the name of the Father, Amen. And of the Son, Amen. And of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”5 The difference is however less important than it may seem because, at least in former days in the Orthodox East, just as in the Catholic West, the name was announced during a special liturgical order preceding baptism, known as the Reception into the Catechumenate. And it was for the child’s parents to give him or her a name, so during baptism the priest simply repeated it. However, in the Orthodox world, apparently from very remote times, perhaps since Late Antiquity, the name had to be that of a saint or of a saintly character from the Holy Scriptures.6 Also, its inclusion in the baptismal formula led the congregations to believe that it was during baptism that the child or the convert received the Christian name. Furthermore, at least in modern Russia it was thought that name-giving was the prerogative of the priest, who usually made a choice between the names of the saints whose feast day was remembered on the day of the reception or, alternatively, of the baptism itself. True, this did not concern the nobility and the elite in general. The saint whose name was bestowed on the new born was regarded as the person’s heavenly protector, so the saint’s image became an important part of one’s identity. Namesakes were looked upon as people who shared adherence to a particular cult, whereas the day of the saint’s memory came to be known as one’s “guardian angel’s day,” playing a significant role in life: suffice it to say that well into the twentieth century most people in Russia celebrated this day and not their actual birthday. No matter how unlike these two cultural attitudes may be, they both sprang from the rites of the Early Church which, despite numerous regional differences, shared a similar view of baptism and name-giving: it seems that these procedures were hardly connected at all. In fact, the canons are silent about name-giving; so are most Fathers of the Church. Perhaps they thought the issue was transparent, but it well may be that their silence reflects the absence of strict rules. Be that as it may, the ancient treatises on baptism, for example, those written by Tertullian (d. ca. 240) and Augustine of Hippo (d. 430), do not deal at all with name-giving. The same is true of sermons, at least those composed in the Latin part of the Christian world; the texts of Caesarius of Arles may serve as good examples. The Fathers discuss all possible aspects of instructing those aspiring to 4  “Let not the parents, the god-parents and the parish priest bestow [upon the child] a name alien to Christian conscience” (Curent parentes, patrini et parochus ne imponatur nomen a sensu christiano alienum). Cited from Codex Iuris Canonici (Vatican City, 1983), canon 855; available at www.canonlaw.info/1983cic.htm. 5  “Крещается раб Божий� (или раба Божия) имярек во имя Отца, аминь. И Сына, аминь. И Святаго Духа, аминь.” Cited from Требник [Eucho­logium] (Moscow, 2013), 1:51.

6  Alexander Ivanovich Almazov, История чинопоследований крещения и миропомазания [The History of the Sequence of Holy Orders of Baptism and Chrismation] (Kazan, 1884), 124–26, 136–51.

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baptism (Cyril of Jerusalem, d. 386, was especially prominent in this respect): receiving the sign of the cross from a minister, limited participation in church services, religious status, and post-mortal fate should they die before baptism, and so on. Likewise we are given numerous details of preparing for baptism and its procedure: choosing the right age and day, the preceding fasting, undressing, sanctification of the water, its qualities, ablution, how many immersions (one or three) are needed, should baptismal water be poured or sprinkled, the proper religious invocations, the renouncement of Satan, pre- or post-baptismal anointment, the laying on of hands by the priest, putting on new clothes, the ritual drinking of milk and eating of honey, and so on: but not a word about the neophyte’s name. Most important, there was no role for it in the verbal formula of baptism. When referring to the pre-baptismal procedure Augustine says “to give a name,” meaning the insertion of the neophyte’s already existing name in special lists (made in a particular church) of people awaiting baptism and receiving proper instructions, a practice which continued at least until the sixth century.7 It is mentioned in the so called Gelasian Sacramentary traditionally ascribed to Pope Gelasius I (492–494), but compiled as it is thought today about 650 on the basis of earlier liturgical texts.8 This public announcement in a church of the neophyte’s name was the focal point of a rather long procedure, known as catechumenization, of preparing the person for baptism. It was intended in the first place for adults who were educated in the basic facts about the Christian faith, as well as given the necessary instructions about the ritual of baptism itself. Baptism of infants was still rare and was modelled on the baptism of adults, religious instructions being in this case symbolic and parents or godparents acting on the child’s behalf. In both cases the preconization (or public pronouncement) of the person’s name marked his or her first step into the light of the true faith and the first stage of integration into the Christian community; baptism was to follow.9 In practice, however, these procedures were often combined. Much depended on the circumstances. For example, the Church never denied baptism to those who asked for it on the battlefield or on their deathbed. As the numbers of pagans awaiting baptism diminished, the role of the catuchumenate declined, at least as far as infants were concerned, for obviously there was little sense in instructing the new born even in the basics of the 7  Victor Saxer, Les rites de l’initiation chrétienne du II au VI siècle (Spoleto, 1988), 385, citing Augustine’s De fide et operibus, 6.9. See also Jean-Claude Didier, “Saint Augustin et le baptême des enfants dans la tradition de l’É� glise,” Revue d’études augustiniennes et patristiques 2 (1956): 109–29. 8  The Gelasian Sacramentary. Liber Sacramentorum Romanae Ecclesiae, ed. Henry Austin Wilson (Oxford, 1894), 46–47, 110–18 (book I, chap. 30–31, 66–75). The earliest extant manu­script was created in the mid-eighth century. See Eric Palazzo, Histoire des livres liturgiques. Le Moyen Âge, des origines au XIIIe siècle (Paris, 1993).

9  Alois Stenzel, Die Taufe. Eine Genetische Erklärung der Taufliturgie (Innsbruck, 1957); Saxer, Les rites de l’initiation; Jean-Philippe Revel, Traités des sacraments. Vol. I. Baptême et sacramentalité, 2 vols. (Paris, 2004–2005); Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church. History, Theo­logy, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids, 2009); David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval, and Christer Hellholm, eds., Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism. Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity (Berlin, 2011); Lizette Larson-Miller, “Baptism in the Early Medi­eval West: Our Changing Perspective of the Dark Ages,” Studia liturgica 42 (2012): 33–53.



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Christian faith. Also, an effort was made to baptize infants soon after birth lest they be deprived of post-mortal salvation. In their case name-giving was naturally involved, but it was usually considered a secular matter and the responsibility of the family and not of the Church. Bestowing upon the neophyte a specifically Christian name was certainly not an issue most of the Church Fathers considered significant. How then did the strikingly different approaches to the baptismal name, typical of the main Christian communities, come to life? Despite its self-evident importance for the study of Christian culture, this problem has so far received little attention in scholarship. Let us now see what the history of the baptismal name in the Early Middle Ages can tell us.

The Emergence of the Christian Name

Onomastic data confirms that the first Christians were not much concerned with this problem. Suffice it to say that among those mentioned in the Letters of the Apostles we find baptized men and women bearing names of pagan gods or their derivatives: Apollos (1 Cor. 16:12), Epaphroditus (Phil. 14:18), Hermes (Rom. 16:14), Phoebe (Rom. 16:11). These data are corroborated by inscriptions from the Roman catacombs where, among others, we find Christians called Apollo, Bachus, Saturnus, but very rarely by a name we would qualify as Christian.10 No change of name appears to have been required then of an adult undergoing baptism, whereas baptism of infants was only coming into practice and became a custom only from the third century onwards. At about the same time, the new name began to be regarded as a sign of spiritual rebirth, an idea supported by the story of the conversion of Apostle Peter (Matt. 16:17–18, John 1:42), also by the generally accepted interpretation of the less transparent story of Saul becoming Apostle Paul (Acts 13:9). A change of name was considered in many ancient societies as a symbolic act of assuming a new identity; a trace of it can be found in the Old Testament narrative about Abraham and Sarah (Gen. 17:5 and 17:15), which no doubt also influenced early Christians.11 However, no rules on the names fit for Christians yet existed. As far as surviving sources (inscriptions, lists of martyrs, texts of the Fathers—unfortunately the preserved liturgical texts were created somewhat later12) allow us to generalize, we can draw the conclusion that until the end of the fourth century, these were usually not New Testament names. Strangely enough, for a while Old Testament names, such as Daniel, Moses, or Tobias, were more popular. However, gradually the names of the Apostles and other followers of Christ, as well as martyrs, prevailed.13 10  Iiro Kajanto, Onomastic Studies in the Early Christian Inscriptions of Rome and Carthage (Helsinki, 1963); Heikki Solin, “Problèmes de l’onomastique du Bas Empire,” Le monde romain à travers l’épi­graphie. méthodes et pratiques, ed. Janine Desmulliez (Lille, 2005), 271–93.

11  See Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses. The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids, 2006), chaps. 3 and 4. 12  Josef A. Jungmann and Francis A. Brunner, The Mass of the Roman Rite. Its Origins and Development (New York, 1951). 13  Hippolyte Delehaye, Les origines du culte des martyres (Brussels, 1912), 164ff.

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The early Christians also invented new names emphasizing praiseworthy moral qualities hailed by their religion and often stressing the person’s alleged chastity and humility. Limiting the examples to Roman culture, there are Bonifatius, Clement (already in the first century), Innocentius, Pius, Prudentius, Simplicius, etc. Names with similarly-toned meanings, such as Rusticus and Virginia, existed already in the pagan milieu, and Christians gladly adopted them as their own. They also took for names words that signified the rites, feasts, and virtues of their religion or simply notions dear to them. Among these we find Anastasius, Benedictus, Epiphanius, Eulogia, Fides, Martyrius, Pascasia, Redemptus, Restituta, Sabbatius. Some names, such as Donatus, Ignatius, or Natalis were just allusions or perhaps hints to their faith. Subsequently some of the people bearing such names, for example, Epiphanius, bishop of the Cypriot town of Salamis (d. 403), and Epiphanius of Pavia (d. 496), were recognized as saints and these names became truly Christian. In the course of the Middle Ages, new names of this kind were forged, Dominicus and Osanna14 being perhaps the best examples, but in general this manner of creating names fell into abeyance. It regained popularity in the Early Modern period, at least in some countries belonging to the Western Christian tradition. Thus, Spain accepted still more names derived from religious notions or associations; for reasons yet to be explained these are mainly female names: Ascensión, Asunción, Concepción, Dolores, Inmaculada, Mercedes, Trinidad, etc. Names of this type, though on a lower scale, are popular also in Italy: Assunta, Concetta, etc. The stock of British names also knows names of this kind, among them Grace, Trinity, and Verity; sometimes they are called virtue names. Some French names, such as Noel and Toussaint, come to mind as well. In the Orthodox world, the best example is probably Evangelia, quite common in Greece, Bulgaria, and Serbia.15 To my knowledge no person bearing one of these names was ever venerated as a saint, though of course this may happen in the future—as happened with Angela Merici, the founder of the Order of Ursulines, who died in 1540 and was canonized in 1807, or with Virginia Centurione Bracelli, a noblewoman from Genoa, who died in 1651 and was canonized in 2003. A likely candidate is Dolores Rodrí�guez Sopeña (d. 1918), a pious Spanish woman renowned for her assistance to the poor. Returning to Late Antiquity, we can observe that no later than the first half of the third century, another group of Christian names came to life—theophoric (“deity bearing”) names created from Hebrew, Greek, or Latin roots, one of them being the word “God” or its substitutes. The earliest theophoric names used by Christians are of Hebrew origin, for example Emmanuel (“God with us”) and Nathanael (“God has given”), others—such as Theophilus (“Loving God”) and Timothy (“Honouring God”)—seem to be pagan. However, most of the Christian theophoric names were inventions of Christians themselves. Among them we find Greek names such as Theodore (“Gift of God”), Dorotheus (“Gift to 14  Both names are recorded in the Carolingian polyptychs of Saint-Victor-de-Marseille, SaintGermain-des-Prés and Saint-Remi-de Reims. See Marie-Thérèse Morlet, Les noms de personne sur le territoire de l’ancienne Gaule du VI au XII siècle, 3 vols. (Paris, 1972), 2:42, 2:86. 15  According to the Lexikon of Greek Personal Names (www.lgpn.ox.ac.uk), the masculine analogue of this name—Evangelos—is known from Late Antiquity; the name Evangelia appears much later and becomes popular in Modern times.



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God”), Theodosius (“God given,” perhaps a translation of the Hebrew name Nathanael), Theophanes (“manifestation or revelation of God”), Theophilact (“Guarded by God”), and their female analogues: Dorothea, Theodora, Theophania, etc. Other names of this type include Christianus, Christina, and Christophorus, attested already in the first half of the third century. Later, Latin versions of these names appeared, such as Amadeus and Deusdat. We find also brand new Latin theophoric names, of which Quodvultdeus (“What God wills”) is probably the most spectacular. In the course of the third and especially the fourth centuries, New Testament names—John, Mary, Peter, Paul, and Stephen, among others—finally found their way into the Christian community. True, some of them, like Paul and Philip, may not necessarily be connected with the Christian cult, but others usually are. At this point, if not earlier, a custom began to form to take the name of a martyr or of some other holy person. A certain Mary accepted martyrdom in Rome in 256. Сiting Dionysius of Alexandria (d. 265), Eusebius of Caesarea (d. 339) reports that “there are many namesakes of the Apostle John. On account of their love for him, and because they admired and emulated him, and desired to be loved by the Lord as he was, they came to choose his name, just as boys in the families of the faithful are often called Paul or Peter.”16 Likewise, John Chrysostom (d. 407) admonished his flock not to call their children by the first name which occurred to them, nor to give them the names of their ancestors, but rather the names of holy people known for their virtue and faith in God.17 There were of course not only chrono­logical but also regional differences in this respect. In Rome there was a preference for biblical names, whereas in Carthage theophoric names were in favour.18 In the Greek part of the empire, New Testament names seem to have become popular earlier than in the Latin part. However, regardless of geo­graphy, up to the end of the fifth century Christian names or, to be more accurate, names somehow connected with the Christian religion, constituted not more than ten to fifteen percent of all recorded names.19 16  “Πολλοὺ� ς δὲ� ὁ� μωνύ� μους Ἰ�ωά� ννῃ τῷ ἀ� ποστό� λῳ νομί� ζω γεγονέ� ναι͵ οἳ� διὰ� τὴ� ν πρὸ� ς ἐ� κεῖνον ἀ� γά� πην καὶ� τῷ θαυμά� ζειν καὶ� ζηλοῦν ἀ� γαπηθῆναί� τε ὁ� μοί�ως αὐ� τῷ βού� λεσθαι ὑ� πὸ� τοῦ κυρί�ου͵ καὶ� τὴ� ν ἐ� πωνυμί�αν τὴ� ν αὐ� τὴ� ν ἠ� σπά� σαντο͵ ὥ�σπερ καὶ� ὁ� Παῦλος πολὺ� ς καὶ� δὴ� καὶ� ὁ� Πέ� τρος έ� ν τοῖς τῶν πιστῶν παισὶ�ν ὀ� νομά� ζεται.” Cited from Eusèbe de Césarée, Histoire ecclésiastique livres V–VII, ed. Gustave Bardy (Paris, 1955), 207 (Eusebius Pamphilus, Historia ecclesiastica, book 7, chap. 25).

17  “Thus do not give the children the first names which come to the mind, the names of ancestors, grandfathers, names which mark an illustrious birth; give them the names of the saints, of those whose virtues have shone, of those who owe their glory to their confidence, to their strength in the Lord” (Μὴ� τοί�νυν μηδὲ� ἡ� μεῖς τἀ� ς τυχού� σας προσηγορί�ας ἐ� πιτιθῶμεν τοῖς παισὶ�ν μηδὲ� τῶν πά� ππων͵ καὶ� τῶν ἐ� πιπά� ππων͵ καὶ� τῶν πρὸ� ς γέ� νος διαφερό� ντων τὰ� ς ὀ� νομασί� ας αὐ� τοῖς χαριζώ�μεθα͵ ἀ� λλὰ� τῶν ἁ� γί�ων ἀ� νδρῶν τῶν ἀ� ρετῇ διαλαμψά� ντων͵ τῶν πολλὴ� ν παῤ� ῥ� ησί�αν πρὸ� ς τὸ� ν Θεὸ� ν εσχηκό� των). Ioannis Chrysostomi, “Homilia XXI, In capitulo V et VI Genesis”, in his “Opera Omnia,” in Patro­logiae cursus completus. Series graeca, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 166 vols. (Paris, 1862), 53:179 (col.).

18  André Mandouze, ed., Prosopo­graphie de l’Afrique chrétienne (303–533) (Paris, 1982); Charles Pietri, Luce Pietri, and Janine Desmulliez, eds., Prosopo­graphie de l’Italie chrétienne (313–604), 2 vols. (Rome, 1999–2000); Luce Pietri and Marc Heijmans, eds., Prosopo­graphie de la Gaule chrétienne (314–614), 2 vols. (Rome, 2013). 19  Wilson, The Means of Naming, 61.

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It is clear that a Christian name was often not the only name a Christian had. How indeed could a Roman citizen have renounced his official triple name? It should not surprise us that late antique inscriptions make reference to compound names such as “Severus by birth named Pascasius.”20 The polyethnicity of the Roman world also caused many Christians to bear more than one name, one of the religious arguments having been the double name of Mark the Evangelist, whose Hebrew name was John (Acts 12:25 and 15:37). А Christian name was rather for use among co-believers. According to the Passio of St. Balsam, a Palestinian martyr who perished in 311, Balsam (the name is obscure) was his “paternal” name, whereas his spiritual name received at baptism was Peter.21 It is symptomatic that only a few Roman noblemen of the Christian period are known to us by their Christian names. Likewise, the Christian name is hardly ever present among the multiple official names of the late Roman emperors. Theodosius being at the time no more than a pious name, the most evident exception is probably the emperor Flavius Johannes (423–425), a usurper. Gradually, the stock of baptismal names grew as more and more ethnic groups accepted Christianity and some of their representatives were acknowledged as saints. This process started in Antiquity and continued; as a result, numerous pagan names of Celtic, Germanic, Slavic, and other “barbarian” origin eventually came to be regarded as true Christian names. Genevieve of Paris (b. ca. 422) is an early example. We need not enter now the fascinating domain of these names’ semantics as it is not relevant to this chapter. However, it is worth mentioning that some of them were also theophoric, though of pagan origin and initially referred to a pagan deity. This is the case of Oswald—the name of the Northumbrian king (d. 642) venerated subsequently as a saint—because “Os” is a form of the Germanic name Odin; his name can be interpreted as “Odin’s rule.” Less clear is the case of the name Gottfried (“God’s peace”), attested in Bavaria and in the region of Ardennes not later than the mid-seventh century,22 which could belong to both pagan and Christian cultures; the first saint to bear this name or rather its French version—Godefroy of Amiens—died in 1115. Godwin (“God’s friend,” a calque of the Latin name Amicus Dei) is of obvious Christian provenance; abbot Godwin of Stavelot, a monastery near Liège (d. 690), is recognized as a saint. Later names of this type such as Gotthard and Godric also have clear Christian allusions; they were popular, respectively, in Germany and England, thanks to Gotthard of Hildesheim (d. 1038) and Godric 20  “Natu Severus nomine Pascasius.” Cited from Jos Janssens, Vita e morte del cristiano negli epitaffi di Roma anteriori al secolo VII (Rome, 1981), 29, citing: Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae, nova series, ed. Antonio Ferrua and Angelo Silvagni (Vatican City, 1975), 6:78 (document 15895) (463). 21  “Peter alias Balsam was detained in the city of Aulane at the time of persecutions […] and brought to Severus, governor of the province. Severus asked him: How do you call yourself? Peter answered: my paternal name is Balsam, whereas my spiritual name which I accepted in baptism is Peter” (Petrus, qui et Balsamus, cum comprehensus fuisset apud Aulanam civitatem tempore persecutionis […] oblatus est Severo Praesidi. Severus dixit ad eum: Quis diceris? Petrus respondit: Nomine paterno Balsamus dicor, spirituali vero nomine, quod in baptismo accepi, Petrus dicor). Cited from “Acta Sancti Petri Balsami ab Anastasio bibliothecario,” in Acta Sanctorum, Januarii, ed. Jean Bolland and Godfred Henschen, 2 vols. (Brussels, 1965–1966), 1:129. 22  Morlet, Les noms de personne, 1:112.



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of Finchale (d. 1170), a hermit acknowledged as a saint though never actually canonized. The most famous of this group of names—Gottlieb (“Loving God”)—seems to be an Early Modern creation.23 New theophoric names sprang up also in the Romance-speaking milieu. Of these, Salvator is perhaps the most impressive. It probably owes its origin to the cathedral of Oviedo dedicated about 802 to St. Saviour, or maybe to the monastery of St. Saviour in Leyre (Navarra) known to have existed at least from 842. The name is recorded on the Iberian Peninsula starting from the late ninth century, and in Gaul from the beginning of the tenth century.24 Since Slavic theophoric names and Slavic names in general are less known in the West, I will focus on them in more detail. The earliest recorded Slavic theophoric name is probably Bogumil (“Dear to God”), first mentioned by Presbiter Kosmas, a Bulgarian author of the second half of the tenth century, who left us an account about the Bogomils, a heretical sect founded, according to him, somewhat earlier by a certain pope Bogumil.25 This name was not very popular among the Southern Slavs, perhaps exactly because it had been borne by a heresiarch, but it left traces in the sources.26 At least from the mideleventh century, it was known to Poles,27 by the twelfth century also to Czechs.28 My guess is that Bogumil was of pre-Christian origin. At any rate, it does not seem to be a Slavic version of any known Christian name, and this is true of most theophoric names of the Slavs. Brand new theophoric names were created with no prototype in the Greek or Latin name-stock; for example, Boguchwal (“who praises God”), 29 Bogoslav or Boguslav (“who glorifies God”), 30 and Bogomir (“God and 23  Hans Bahlow, Unsere Vorname im Wandel der Jahrhunderte (Limburg an der Lahn, 1965), 40.

24  Jordi Bolós i Masclans and Josep Moran, Repertori d’Antropònims catalans (Barcelona, 1994), 1:473; Cartulaire du chapitre de l’église cathédrale Notre Dame de Nîmes (834–1156), ed. Eugène Germer-Durand (Nî�mes, 1874), 21 (document 10) (905).

25  Mikhail Georgievich Popruzhenko, Святого Козьмы пресвитера слово на еретики и поучение от божественных книг [St. Presbyter Kosmas’ Sermon on Heretics and Admonition from the Holy Books] (Saint Petersburg, 1907), 2. There is an English translation of Kosmas’ text: Presbyter Kosmas, “Sermon Against the Bogomils,” in The Voices of Medi­eval Bulgaria, Seventh–Fifteenth Century. The Records of a Bygone Culture, ed. Kiril Petkov (Leiden, 2008).

26  Milica Grković, Речник личних имена код Срба [A Lexicon of Personal Names of the Serbs] (Belgrade, 1977), 38–39.

27  “Archbishop Bogumylus passed away” (Bogumylus archiepiscopus obiit). Cited from Annales Cracovienses vetusti, ed. Wilhelm Arndt and Ricardo Röpell, MGH SS 19 (Hannover, 1866), 577–78 at 578 (number 1092). 28  “Bogumil.” Cited from Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris regni Bohemiae, ed. Gustav Friedrich (Prague, 1904), 1:114 (document 111) (1130).

29  “Bohuval.” Cited from Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris regni Bohemiae, 1:247 (document 280) (1177); “Bogvalus.” Liber Fundationis claustri Sancta Marie Virginis in Heinrichow, ed. Józef Pater (Wrocław, 1991), 147 (f. s. XII). 30  To my knowledge it is first attested in an inscription found near Novgorod and dated to the first half of the eleventh century. See Savva Mikhailovich Mikheev, “Надпись на каменном кресте из Вой� мериц на реке Мсте в контексте начальной� истории древнерусской� письменности,” [“Inscription on the Stone Cross from Voymeritzy on the River Msta in the Context of the Early History of Ancient Russian Writing,”] Questions of Epi­graphics 6 [Вопросы эпиграфики, выпуск

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peace”).31 In medi­eval Rus the first two names sometimes took diminutive forms: Bogun, Bogunka, Bogush, Bogsha.32 Female names of this type are also known: for example, Bogoslava, Bogusha, Bogina recorded in Dubrovnik in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.33 There were Slavic versions of Greek theophoric names as well; of these Bogdan (“God given”), a translation of Theodosius, was the most popular. As far as I know, it is first attested by John Skylitzes in a report of events in Bulgaria dating to 1018.34 By the mid-eleventh century it made its way to Dalmatia,35 in 1135 we find it in Slovakia,36 a few years later in Poland37 and Czechia.38 In Eastern Slavic lands it makes its first appearance in a 1229 graffito from Galich (southwest Rus, now Ukraine).39 The Slavic calque of Timotheos—Bogoboj (“who honours / fears God”) was much less favoured but used nonetheless, for example, in Dalmatia.40 Medi­eval Slavs also knew at least two names containing the word svat or sviat (“saint”): Svatopluk or Sviatopolk (“saint” plus “levy” or “troop”) and Sviatoslav or Svetoslav (“saint” plus “glory”). The first is attested from ca. 870 in Nitra and Moravia, later also in Poland, Rus, and Pomerania; there is little doubt that it owes its popularity to prince Svatopluk of Moravia (d. 894).41 The second is recorded from the mid-tenth century in Rus and in Croatia; the first two men known to have borne it were prince Svia6] (2012): 7–30. Western Slavs knew it at least by the thirteenth century. See Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris Slovaciae, ed. Richard Marsina (Bratislava, 1971), 1:259–60 (document 366) (1230). 31  Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris Slovaciae, ed. Richard Marsina (Bratislava, 1987), 2:4 (document 1) (1235).

32  Albina Aleksandrovna Medyntseva, Грамотность в Древней Руси по памятникам эпиграфики X–первой половины XIII века [Literacy in Ancient Rus as Reflected in Epi­graphic Sources, Tenth to First Half of the Thirteenth Centuries] (Moscow, 2000), 45–47, citing inscriptions from Polotsk and Old Ryazan of the twelfth to early thirteenth centuries.

33  Dušanka Dinić-Knežević, Положај жена у Дубровнику у 13. и 14. bеку [The Position of the Woman in Dubrovnik in the 13th and 14th Centuries] (Belgrade, 1974), 9, 10, 19, 25, 115.

34  Ioannis Scylitzae, “Synopsis historiarum,” in Corpus fontium historiae byzantinae, ed. Hans Thurn (Berlin, 1973), 5:357, 5:372.

35  Codex diplomaticus regni Croatiae, Dalmatiae et Slavoniae, ed. Marko Kostrenčič, 18 vols. (Zagreb, 1967), 1:184 (document 142) (1085/1086?); 195 (document 156) (1090). See also DinićKnežević, Положај жена у Дубровнику, 12, 99, 177, 182. Female forms of this name, Bogdana and Bogdasha, are also recorded: Dinić-Knežević, Положај жена у Дубровнику, 9, 18, 19. 36  Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris Slovaciae, 1:71 (document 74) (1135).

37  See for example the so called Gnezno bull of Innocent II dated 1136, actually a forgery compiled in Gnezno between 1139 and 1146. The best edition is that by Witold Taszycki in Wiesław Wydra and Wojciech Ryszard Rzepka, eds., Chrestomatia staropolska. Texty do roku 1543 (Wrocław, 1984), 18–19. 38  Codex diplomaticus et epistolaris regni Bohemiae, 1:146 (document 143) (1145).

39  Tatyana Vsevolodovna Rozhdestvenskaya, Древнерусская эпиграфика X–XV веков [Ancient Russian Epi­graphics, Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries] (Saint Petersburg, 1991), 94. 40  Codex diplomaticus regni Croatiae, 1:99 (document 70) (1064), 138 (document 108) (1075).

41  Martin Homza et al., Svätopluk v európskom písomníctve. Štúdie z dejín svätoplukovskej legendy (Bratislava, 2013), 37–46.



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toslav of Rus (d. 972) and king Svetoslav of Croatia (d. ca. 1000). The feminine form— Sviatoslava—was in use in Poland, then also in Czechia. It was the name of a sister of Cnut the Great whose mother, according to a popular version, was from the Piast family.42 However these names, just as the theophoric names discussed above, were not considered as baptismal names, at least in Orthodox lands43. A few words about the fate of Old Testament names, which were, as I mentioned, much in use among the early Christians. In the Middle Ages the names of some revered characters of the Old Testament, mainly those mentioned also in the Gospels, were accepted as proper Christian names. These were mostly the names of the patriarchs and the prophets, but there are unexpected exceptions. Thus, we know of a certain Ithamar, bishop of Rochester (644–657/664), the first Anglo-Saxon to hold an episcopal post; his name, extremely rare among Christians, is that of the youngest son of Aaron the Levite, the brother of Moses (Josh. 24:33).44 In the course of the Middle Ages, many Old Testament names, including those never borne by a saint, found their way into Christian culture and influenced the personal identity of the people called by these names. After all, bearing the name of a biblical patriarch or a prophet or a king, just as a name of a great saint, inevitably changed something in one’s self-perception, especially when most people bore names of little or no importance at all in terms of one’s faith. Biblical names were quite popular among the clergy, both in the West and especially in the East, but laymen used them as well. For a few examples from early medi­eval France, we find a Moses and an Abel in Carolingian Burgundy;45 a David, a Jordan, and a Heliseus, also laymen it appears, in Auvergne at roughly the same time;46 an Isaia and a Joseph in the region of Reims;47 an Adam, an Elias, a Joshua and a Solomon in ninthand tenth-century Languedoc;48 an Israel and a Joseph in tenth-century Poitou;49 and 42  Fyodor Borisovich Uspensky, Скандинавы, варяги, Русь: историко-филологические очерки [Scandinavians, Varangians, Rus: Historical and Philo­logical Essays] (Moscow, 2002), 24–28, 50–52.

43  For more information see Igor S. Filippov, “Patrimonial and Baptismal Names in the Early Medi­eval Slavic World. Comparative Observations,” in Slovakia and Croatia. Historical Parallels and Connections (until 1780), ed. Martin Homza, Ján Lukačka, and Neven Budak (Bratislava, 2013), 390–400. 44  Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. Bertram Colgrave and Roger A. B. Mynors (Oxford, 1969), 154 (book 3, chap. 14). See also Richard Sharpe, “The Naming of Bishop Ithamar,” English Historical Review 117 (2002): 889–94.

45  Chartes et cartulaire de Saint-Bénigne de Dijon, ed. Robert Folz (Dijon, 1986), 1:142 (document 108) (878–879); Recueil des chartes de l’abbaye de Cluny, formé par Auguste Bernard, ed. Alexandre Bruel, (Paris, 1876–1903), 1:55 (document 47) (892). 46  Cartulaire de Brioude (Liber de honoribus Sancto Juliano collatis), ed. Нenri Doniol (ClermontFerrand, 1863), 256 (document 245) (895), 289–90 (document 282) (858); Cartulaire de Sauxillanges, ed. Henri Doniol (Clermont-Ferrand, 1864), 68 (document 35) (954–986). 47  Polyptyque de l’abbaye de Saint-Remi de Reims, ed. Benjamin Guérard (Paris, 1853), 49 (chap. 17), 59 (chap. 18), 79 (chap. 21.5).

48  Cartulaire du chapitre de l’église cathédrale Notre Dame de Nîmes, 61 (document 34) (928), 54 (document 30) (927), 4 (document 1) (876), 35 (document 20) (921). 49  Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Saint-Cyprien de Poitiers, ed. Louis-François-Xavier Rédet (Poitiers, 1874), 85 (document 114) (ca. 970?), 92 (document 130) (963–975).

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an Abraham and an Adam in the same region somewhat later.50 The list which concerns mainly common folk could be easily extended51 but it is more important to note that this fashion affected different strata of society. Thus, the name Manasses was popular in the ninth to tenth centuries among the counts of Dijon, Langres, and Rethel.52 In the Orthodox world the most notorious case is no doubt that of the four brothers who semiofficially ruled Bulgaria from 971 onwards: their names were David, Moses, Aaron, and Samuel.53 Considerably more numerous were of course Old Testament names which in the Middle Ages became names of saints, sometimes with significant consequences for the stock of names of certain countries or regions. Thus, the great popularity of the name David in the Celtic world had little to do with the biblical king; it was connected rather with the cult of St. David, bishop of Minevia (d. 589), adopted later as the patron-saint of Wales. Sometimes we cannot be certain whether a person carrying an Old Testament name was called so in honour of a biblical character or a later saint of the same name. This, for example, is the case of those called Isaac. The name was appreciated by the Byzantine elite of the eleventh and twelfth centuries (there were even two emperors of the period called Isaac, a Komnenos and an Angelos), and not unknown in the West at roughly the same period.54 It was the name not only of the biblical patriarch but also of two important saints—Isaac of Dalmatia (d. 383) and Isaac of Syria (d. about 700).

Eastern and Western Approaches to the Christian Name

In Eastern Christianity, the idea that a person should be baptized with a saint’s name was self-evident in the Middle Ages and persists today. When a pagan was baptized according to the Orthodox rite, he or she automatically assumed a Christian name. Thus, when in 864 the Bulgarian khan Boris became a Christian, he received a new name— Michael, in honour of his godfather, the Byzantine emperor Michael III (842–867). In the same way the Russian prince Vladimir took at baptism (988) the Christian name 50  Chartes et documents pour servir à l’histoire de l’abbaye de Saint-Maixent, ed. Alfred Richard (Poitiers, 1886), 190 (document 157) (1085); Cartulaire de Saint-Jean d’Angély, ed. Georges Musset (Paris-Saintes, 1901), 1:320 (document 260) (ca. 1101). 51  See Morlet, Les noms de personne, vol. 2; Bourin and Chareille, eds., Genèse médiévale, vol. 2, no. 1.

52  Annales Xantenses et Annales Vedastini, ed. Bernhard von Simson, MGH SS rer. Germ. 12 (Hannover, 1909), 75 (894), 82 (900); Richerus Remensis, Historiarum libri quattuor, ed. Hartmut Hoffmann, MGH SS 38 (Hannover, 2000), 84 (book 1, chap. 49), 271 (book 4, chap. 56); Chartes et cartulaire de Saint-Bénigne de Dijon, 1:166 (document 139) (898–908).

53  The basic source is John Skylitzes and his Slavic continuators, first of all Michael Devolskiy; additional data is furnished by inscriptions. See Vasilka Tăpkova-Zaimova, Bulgarians by Birth. The Comitopuls, Emperor Samuel and their Successors According to Historical Sources and the Historio­ graphic Tradition (Leiden, 2017). 54  For example, Richer (Richerus Remensis, Historiarum, 110 (book 2, chap. 17)) mentions a count of Cambrai called Isaac. We find this name also in a number of charters: Claude de Vic and Joseph Vaissette, Histoire générale de Languedoc, vols. 16 (Toulouse, 1875), 2:192 (col.) (document 88) (835); Recueil des chartes de l’abbaye Cluny, 1:99 (document 88) (905).



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Basil—in honour of the emperor Basil II (976–1025), but perhaps also because of the name’s meaning (“king”), which no doubt appealed to him and was not so different from his Slavic name (“possess the world”).55 Both Boris and Vladimir were later venerated as saints under their pagan names.56 One of Vladimir’s sons, Yaroslav (“glory of Yarilo,” the Slavic god of the sun, spring, and fertility), who, after a fratricidal war, became in 1019 the prince of Kyiv and came to be known as Yaroslav the Wise, was baptized as George. Numerous other facts prove this to be the norm in medi­eval Russia. True, we know the baptismal names of only about one in five Russian princes of the pre-Mongolian period (i.e., before 1237), but this is no doubt due to the condition of the sources. It may be asserted that most princes about whom there is sufficient data are known to us by their baptismal names whether or not they also had a pagan name. Until the late eleventh century it was common for the Russian princes to give their sons a dynastic pagan name of Slavic or Scandinavian origin, which played a much more important role than the baptismal name; it was the real public name. The same can be said about Russian princesses, though there is less information about them. Starting from the mid-eleventh century we find princes mentioned in chronicles and other sources only by their baptismal names. One of the early examples is Yuri (i.e., George) the Longarmed (ca. 1090–1157), prince of Vladimir and Suzdal, traditionally regarded as the founder of Moscow. Likewise, his younger brother and his elder son figure in chronicles only under the baptismal name—Andrei. However, Yuri’s younger son, born in 1154, though baptized as Dmitriy, was better known as Vsevolod (“who possesses all”) the Big Nest—for having fathered a very large family. The percentage of princes 55  According to another etymo­logy based on an alternative writing of the name (Volodimer), it means “possess glory.” However, unlike the Slavic mir (“world,” also “peace”) present in many Slavic names, the word mer (“glory”) is attested in Germanic but not in Slavic languages, so this etymo­logy conjectures a rather improbable combination of a Slavic and a Germanic lexeme in one name. It is also significant that there is an old Slavic name, of Polish origin—Wladislaw—, which means “to possess glory.” It is possible however that Vladimir is an early medi­eval Slavic version of some vague ancient Germanic name with no clear traces in the sources. See Saveliy Yakovlevich Senderovich, “К истории восточнославянского имени Владимир,” [“Considerations on the History of the East Slavic Name Vladimir,”] Славяноведение [Slavianovedenie] 2 (2007): 9–16; Svetlana Mihailovna Tolstaya, “К этимологии имени Владимир,” [“Considerations on the Etymo­logy of the Name Vladimir,”] Вопросы ономастики [Questions of Onomastics] 17, no. 1 (2020), 9–29.

56  Neither of the two rulers was ever canonized officially, but it should be noted that in the Orthodox world canonization is a very late institution. In the Byzantine Empire it dates from the mid-fourteenth century; in Russia, Bulgaria, and Serbia only from the sixteenth century. Previously saints were acclaimed by their flock and the local elites. According to recent research there is no clear proof that St. Boris of Bulgaria (unlike his Russian namesake, prince Boris, a son of St. Vladimir, killed in 1015) was venerated in the Middle Ages. See the article “Boris” by Anatoliy Arkadyevich Turilov in the Orthodox Encyclopedia (http:/www.pravenc.ru/text/153131.html). The veneration of St. Vladimir began probably in the second half of the thirteenth century. Several earlier princes called Vladimir were baptized under other names: Basil, John, Peter, etc. See Anna Feliksovna Litvina and Fyodor Borisovich Uspensky, Выбор имени у русских князей в X–XVI вв. Династическая история сквозь призму антропонимики [The Choice of Name among Russian Princes of the Tenth to Sixteenth Centuries. Dynastic History through the Prism of Anthroponomics] (Moscow, 2006), 494–501.

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mentioned in the sources exceptionally by their baptismal names grew slowly starting from the twelfth century so that, for example, none of the princes of Moscow (the first, Daniil, was born in 1261) seem to have had a pagan name, though they are attested in a lateral branch of the family, that of the princes of Serpukhov and Borovsk. However, it was not until the fifteenth century that dynastic pagan names totally disappear in the Ruric dynasty. Among the last to bear them were Oleg of Riazan (ca. 1350–1402), whose Christian name was Jacob, and Yaroslav of Borovsk (1388–1426), baptized as Athanasius.57 Among other noble families, as well as among common folk, baptismal names triumphed over pagan names more or less in the same time, but this question demands more research.58 Similar customs of name-giving persisted in Bulgaria well into the fourteenth century, both in the royal family (Theodore Svetoslav, Ivan Sratsimir, etc.) and among common people.59 The idea that baptism supposes an assumption of a new name was not unknown during the Early Middle Ages in Western Europe. Facts to prove this are rare, but available. Thus, while narrating the baptism of the former king of Wessex, Cædwalla (685–688), who renounced his throne and — desiring to atone for his numerous sins— chose to spend what was left of his life in Rome, Bede wrote that “in baptism” Pope Sergius “gave him the name Peter, so that by name he could join the most blessed prince of the Apostles.”60 There are reasons to believe that the Lombard king Agilulf (590–616) had the Christian name of Paul.61 One of the sons of king Chilperic of Neustria (561–584) was baptized as Samson and the context seems to suggest he had no other name.62 It appears he was named for St. Samson, a Breton bishop who died in 565 and was revered already in his lifetime, and not for the biblical hero. True, it has been argued that the boy’s name was suggested (also?) by the famous story of Samson’s hair—let us recall that the distinctive feature of the Merovingian lineage were long locks. Among the Frankish nobility of the sixth to eighth centuries we occasionally meet people with undoubtedly Christian names, such as Stephen and Gregory, and it well may be that at 57  Litvina and Uspensky, Выбор имени, 199, 429.

58  Vladimir Andreevich Nikonov, Имя и общество [Name and Society] (Moscow, 1974), 35, 40, 46–47. See also Nikolai Michailvich Toupikov, Словарь древне-русских личных собственных имен [Dictionary of Old Russian Personal Names] (Saint Petersburg, 1903). 59  Nikolai P. Kovachev, Българска ономастика [Bulgarian Onomastics] (Sofia, 1987).

60  “Cui etiam tempore baptismatis papa memoratus Petri nomen imposuerat, ut beatissimo apostolorum principi […] etiam nominis ipsius consortio jungeretur.” Cited from Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, 292 (book 5, chap. 7).

61  Gregory of Tours, in his Historia Francorum (Gregorius episcopus Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, ed. Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH SS rer. Merov. 1/1 (Hannover, 1951), 486 (book 10, chap 3) calls king Authari’s successor Paul whereas the “Pro­logus” to the “Edictus Rothari” (Leges Langobardorum, ed. Friedrich Bluhme, MGH LL 4 (Hannover, 1868), 2) and Paul Deacon (Paulus Diaconus, Historia Langobardorum, ed. Ludwig Bethmann and Georg Waitz, MGH SS rer. Lang. 1 (Hannover, 1878), 113 (book 3, chap. 35)) refer to him as Agilulf.

62  “Samson, the younger son of king Chilperic, taken by dysentery and fever, departed from things human” (Samson, filius Chilperici regis iunior, a disenteria et febre conpraehensus, a rebus humanis excessit). Cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 229 (book 5, chap. 22).



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least some of them were named after one of the Roman pontiffs, in particular Stephen II (752–757), the first pope to visit Gaul and to perhaps personally baptize some of his younger namesakes.63 We are informed of course about hundreds of men and women who lived at that time in the Frankish kingdom and had normal Christian names, but they were mostly either clerics who took a new name for the cloth, or Gallo-Roman laymen for whom at least some of these names could have been family rather than baptismal names. For example, Gregory of Tours mentions a certain Ambrosius from Tours and a Desiderius from Bordeaux.64 More indicative in this sense are combinations of a Germanic and a Roman name among barbarians. A good example is furnished by the Vita of St. Aldegundis (fl. seventh century in Hainaut), which refers to a certain “illustrious man Madelgarius known as Vincentius.”65 There is little doubt that in this case Vincentius is a baptismal name. Similar data is available for later centuries. Combinations of a vernacular name of Germanic or Romance origin with a biblical name or a name of a martyr are not uncommon in the French Midi, which I know better than other regions. True, only a few of these examples are transparent and watertight. I shall present three cases referring to relatively well-documented Southern French nobility.

Combinations of Vernacular and Christian Names

First Flodoard, then Richer, mention a count of Vienne by the name Charles Constantine (ca. 901–ca. 962).66 He was the son of the emperor Louis the Blind, the king of Provence and Italy (d. 928) and the Byzantine princess Anne, presumably the daughter of emperor Leo VI.67 Louis nurtured grandiose plans of reviving the Empire, so naming his son both Charles and Constantine was appropriate and symbolic.68 But we cannot exclude that the second name was baptismal; for a son of an Orthodox woman it would have been only natural.69 63  Régine Le Jan, Famille et pouvoir dans le monde franc (VII–X siècle). Essai d’anthroponymie sociale (Paris, 1995), 189–90. 64  Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 283 (book 6, chap. 13) and 417 (book 9, chap. 6).

65  “viro illustri Madelgario cognomento Vincentio... Madelgarius qui et Vincentius.” Cited from “De sancta Aldegunde,” in Acta Sanctorum, Januarii, 2:1036.

66  “Carolo Constantino Ludovici Orbi filio”; “Karolus Constantinus Viennae princeps.” Cited from Flodoardus, Annales, ed. Philippe Lauer (Paris, 1905), 46 (931), 129 (951); “Karolus Constantinus Viennae civitatis princeps.” Cited from Richerus Remensis, Historiarum, 167 (book 2, chap. 98). 67  Christian Settipani, Nos ancêtres de l’Antiquité (Paris, 1991), 7.

68  See Pierre Ganivet, “La consolation de l’Empire. Louis III de Provence, dit ‘l’Aveugle,’ ou les ambitions d’un prince,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 8 (2002): 179–91; Laurent Grimaldi, “Le Viennois du monde carolingien au début des temps féodaux (fin IX–XI siècle),” (PhD diss., Université de Clermont I, 2002), 111–17.

69  There is hardly any doubt that King Philip I of France (1060–1108) owes his name, previously practically unknown in the West, to his mother, the Russian princess Anne, a daughter of Yaroslav the Wise. See Jean Dunbabin, “What is in a Name? Philip, King of France,” Speculum 68 (1993): 949–68. Why he was given this particular name is another question. See Vasilina Sidorova, “The

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In charters, including those issued by his father, he always appears as Charles,70 and this was his official name.71 The second case is that of count Raymond III of Toulouse (d. ca. 944). In one of his charters, otherwise unremarkable, we unexpectedly read: “Raymond […] whose other name, by God’s will, is Ponce.”72 In other extant documents he is called either Raymond (a family name borne for instance by his father) or Ponce. In chronicles he is always named Raymond.73 Jean-Pierre Poly, who has specially studied this case, thinks this represents a sort of flirting by the counts of Toulouse— whose roots were in the North of France— with the local elite, for whom the cult of St. Pontius, a mid-fifth-century bishop of Cimiez,74 was one of the most important, just as the name Ponce was among the most popular.75 In my opinion it could just as well be a baptismal name. In fact, the two hypotheses are certainly compatible. The formula “by God’s will,” quite strange in this context, may be indicative—after all, in this time naming was still a secular, family affair in which the Church did not yet meddle. I therefore assume that in this case Ponce was a baptismal name chosen for reasons so well outlined by Poly. We can only guess why the sources have preserved us the “other” name of the count. Comparable data is rarely found in Southern French charters of the ninth to twelfth centuries, and they number in the thousands. One of the possible explanations is that Raymond was the founder of the important abbey, Saint-Pons-de-Thomière (in the Cévennes, to the east of Mazamet), and in the charters from this abbey Raymond is called Ponce.76 Perhaps in this way the count tried to emphasize his proximity to the Interpretation of News about Rus’ and Bruno of Querfurt’s Mission in the Chronicle of Ademar of Chabannes,” Istroriya 10, no. 10 (2019), available at https://history.jes.su/s207987840008047-0-1/. 70  “dilectus filius noster Karolus comes.” Cited from Recueil des actes des rois de Provence (855–928), ed. René Poupardin (Paris, 1920), 120 (document 68) (927); “dilectissimus filius noster Karolus.” Cited from Recueil des chartes de l’abbaye de Cluny, 1:233 (document 242) (924); 239 (document 247) (ca. 924); 579 (document 622) (943); 611 (document 656) (944).

71  If Albrecht von Stade and some other, later authors are to be believed, similar thoughts inspired the parents of Frederick II Hohenstaufen: emperor Henry VI and Constance, daughter and heir of Roger II of Sicily. It seems that he had three names: Frederick Roger Constantine. See Wolfgang Stürner, Friedrich II. Teil 1. Die Königsherrschaft in Sizilien und Deutschland 1195–1220 (Darmstadt, 2003), 47–49.

72  “Signature of Raymond, duke of Aquitaine, whose other name, by God’s will, is Ponce” (Sign. Raymundi ducis Aquitanorum, cui aliud nutu Dei nomen est Pontii). Cited from Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:173 (col.) (document 62) (936); “I, Raymond alias Ponce […]” (ego Raimundus qui et Pontius […]). Cited from Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:177 (col.) (document 69) (937). 73  Flodoardus, Annales, 53 (932); 90 (944); Richerus Remensis, Historiarum, 92 (book 1, chap. 64); 126 (book 2, chap. 39); 220 (book 3, chap. 92). 74  About this cult see Claude Passet, La passion de Pons de Cimiez. Sources et tradition: les sources manuscrites de la “Passio” de Pons de Cimiez, texte latin et traduction française, les fragments carolingiens de l’Abbaye de Saint Pons, étude et interprétation (Nice, 1977).

75  Jean-Pierre Poly, “L’autre nom du comte Ramon,” in Catalunya i França Meridional a l’entorn de l’any mil (Barcelona, 1991), 66–95. 76  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:173 (col.) (document 67) (936); col. 179 (document



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cult of St. Pontius. It has been suggested that in this monastery he found his last resting place; here he was remembered as Ponce.77 In the charters of his widow, countess Garsinde, he also figures by this name.78 However, in the documents issued by his overlord, King Louis IV d’Outremer,79 by the bishop of Cahors, and by a certain vassal, his namesake,80 he is called Raymond. Other vassals who mention the count in their charters—the viscount of Narbonne Odon and the viscount of Albi Aton81—as well as archbishop Aymery of Narbonne,82 speak of him as Ponce. In the only document where, together with this archbishop, the count presides over a court, he is also named Ponce.83 Evidently his ‘other’ name was quite often used as a sole name. The third case is somewhat different. Duke Guillaume V of Aquitaine (d. 1030) had four sons who survived him: two born in his first marriage—Guillaume VI (1030–1038) and Eudes (1038–1039)—and two born in the third marriage with Agnes of Burgundy, and called Pierre and Guy. One cannot but wonder how the name Pierre found its way here. Perhaps the boy was meant for an ecclesiastical career, but there is no proof for this, and in any case upon the unexpected death of his elder brothers it was his turn to become duke. At this point, however, he chose to assume the dynastic name Guillaume and came to be known as Guillaume VII (1039–1058).84 Meanwhile, his industrious mother, having married into the House of Anjou, made sure that her younger son received an Angevin dynastic name—Geoffroy. However, when Guillaume VII died without male issue, Guy Geoffroy succeeded him under the politically correct name Guillaume; he was Guillaume VIII (1058–1086).85 We are dealing here of course with dynas69) (937); cols. 185–87 (document 74.1) (940); col. 188 (document 74.2) (940); cols. 190–92 (document 77) (942); col. 259 (document 117) (969); col. 272 (document 125) (ca. 972); col. 274 (document 126) (ca. 972).

77  See Martin de Framond, “La succession des comtes de Toulouse autour de l’An Mil (940–1030): reconsidérations,” Annales du Midi 105 (1993): 461–88; Hélène Débax and Martin de Framond, “Les comtes de Toulouse aux X et XI siècles et leurs lieux d’inhumation,” in Le comte de l’An Mil (Toulouse, 1996), 11–45.

78  “I, lady Garcendis countess, who was the wife of lord Ponce […]” (ego domina Garcendis comitissa quae fui uxor domni Pontii comitis […]). Cited from Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:272 (col.) (document 125) (ca. 972); col. 274 (document 126) (ca. 977). 79  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:188 (col.) (document 75) (941).

80  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:157–58 (cols.) (document 55.3) (932); col. 193 (document 78.3) (943).

81  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:148 (col.) (document 50) (924) and col. 191 (document 77) (942). The second charter is heavily interpolated. See Frédéric de Gournay, Le Rouergue au tournant de l’An Mil. De l’ordre carolingien à l’ordre féodal (IX–XI siècle) (Toulouse, 2004), 51. 82  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:281 (col.) (document 127) (977).

83  Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:160–61 (cols.) (document 57) (933).

84  “Guillaume alias Peter called Acer” (Willelmus qui et Petrus, cognomento Acer). Cited from “Chronicon Sancti Maxentii Pictavensis,” in Chroniques des églises d’Anjou, ed. Paul Marchegay and Emile Mabille (Paris, 1869), 400.

85  “Guido, count of Poitiers, and duke of Aquitaine, Guido called in baptism Guillaume” (Guido comes pictavensis, dux et Aquitaniae, Guido dictus in baptismo Guillelmus cognomine). Cited from

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tic names, but this should not overshadow the fact that in this family, too, a combination of a vernacular and a Christian name was possible, just as was a substitution of the latter by another patrimonial name. It is noteworthy that such combinations existed also in the lower social strata; unfortunately, they are less well-reflected in the sources.86 Similar cases took place in other regions of Catholic Europe. For example, Thomas of Split (d. 1268) tells us of late eleventh-century king of Croatia “Demetrius, known as Zvonimir.”87 Even more significant, Demetrius himself acknowledged in his charters that he had also a vernacular name.88 Another famous case is that of the Swedish king Anund Jakob the Coal-Burner (d. 1050).89 The Swedes would not accept a king without a traditional royal name, so in 1019 the prince, although baptized and actually called Jacob, was given the more appropriate pagan name, Anund.

Christians Baptized with a Pagan Name

An overwhelming majority of Western Europeans in the Early Middle Ages and even later appear to have lacked a real baptismal name; at least they left no traces in our sources. The most spectacular cases in this sense are found in Ireland, where, before the arrival of the Anglo-Normans in 1171, and actually well into the thirteenth century, there was no use for special baptismal names; vernacular patrimonial names were evidently considered adequate for all purposes. Despite the deep reverence for St. Patrick (or maybe exactly because of this deep reverence), no Irishman of the time, as far as sources suggest, was called by this name, though names such as Gillaphadraig (“Patrick’s servant”) or Máelpadraig (probably “devoted to Patrick”) are recorded. Biblical names or names Grand cartulaire de la Sauve-Majeure, ed. Charles Higounet and Arlette Higounet-Nadal (Bordeaux, 1996), 47 (document 17) (1087). See also Alfred Richard, Histoire des comtes de Poitou, 778–1204 (Paris, 1903), 1:266–68.

86  “For the soul of my husband Amblard alias Jorius” (pro animo viro meo Amblardo sive Jorio [i.e., George] et pro animas filiorum meorum Stephano, Bernardo, Adalgario sive Jorio). See Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Conques en Rouergue, ed. Gustave Desjardins (Paris, 1879), 7 (document 5) (924); “Bego Stephanus”; “Arnaldus Julianus de Affiniano.” Cited from Marie-Christine Lefebvre-Becq, “Les plus anciennes chartes du monastère de Moissac. Edition critique,” (PhD diss., É� cole de Chartes, 1974), 143 (document 83) (1073); 252 (document 180) (1107).

87  “Demetrius called Suinimir, king of Croatians” (Demetrius cognomento Suinimir, rex Chroatorum). Cited from Thomae archidiaconi Spalatensis Historia Salonitanorum atque Spalatinorum pontificum, ed. János M. Bak (Budapest, 2006), 90 (chap. 16). The chronicler refers to him also as simply Suinimir. The name Zvonimir is a combination of two words: “to ring” or “to chime” and “world.” 88  “I, Demetrius also named Suinimir, by God’s favour duke of Croatia and Dalmatia […]” (Ego Demetrius qui et Suinimir nuncupor, Dei gratia Chroatie Dalmatieque dux […]). Cited from Codex diplomaticus regni Croatiae, 1:139 (document 109) (1075).

89  “Anund […] in faith and grace called by the name Jacob” (Anund […] cognomento fidei et gratiae dictus est Iacobus). Cited from Adam Bremensis, Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, ed. Bernhard Schmeidler, MGH SS rer. Germ. 2 (Hannover, 1917), 119 (book 2, chap. 59). See also Saga Ólafs hins helga Haraldssonar, chap. 94, in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, ed. Finnur Jónsson, 3 vols. (Copenhagen, 1893), 2:162.



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of saints, all-Christian or Celtic, were extremely rare even among the Irish clergy90—a phenomenon still to be explained, but obviously of great cultural importance. Speaking of early medi­eval clerics, it is symptomatic that in other Western European countries as well they are often known to us only by their secular names, though it was an old custom to take a new name when becoming a priest or a monk.91 We know, for example, that St. Willibrord (d. 739), the Anglo-Saxon “apostle of the Frisians,” was a cleric long before Pope Sergius I elevated him in 696 to the rank of bishop as Clement.92 It seems that before this act Willibrord did not have a truly Christian name. Likewise, another Anglo-Saxon, St. Boniface (d. 754), “the apostle of Germany,” in his earlier years was called Winfried, and again there are no reasons to believe that the change of name took place before he assumed the dignity of a bishop.93 Clearly, in this period even entering the clergy was not necessarily accompanied by adopting a Christian name;94 a secular name, often pagan, given by parents or other relatives at birth, was apparently deemed sufficient. Starting from the mid-eighth century an overwhelming majority of English clerics, including bishops, appear in the sources only by their secular Germanic names.95 This may serve as indirect evidence that the majority of Anglo-Saxons managed to do without Christian names. On the continent, the custom of changing names when becoming a cleric seems to have been stronger, but was certainly not the norm. Thus, Witiza, the son of a Visigothic count from Septimania, upon entering orders accepted the name Benedict—no doubt in honour of Benedict of Nursia; we know him as St. Benedict of Aniane (d. 821).96 However, his follower and neighbour, Guillaume of Gellone (d. 806), upon becoming a monk chose to keep his worldly ancestral name—perhaps because it linked him to the house 90  I thank Nina Zhivlova, my colleague at the Moscow State Uni­ver­sity, for this information. Oddly enough this phenomenon is hardly studied at all, perhaps due to insufficient attention to medi­eval Irish personal names in general. Nonetheless see Michael Alphonsus O’Brien, “Old Irish Personal Names. M.A. O’Brien’s ‘Rhŷs Lecture’–Notes, 1957,” ed. Rolf Baumgarten, Celtica 10 (1973): 211–36. 91  An early example is Pope Bonifatius I (418–422), whose mundane name was Jocundus or Secundus. The change of name occurred not when he was nominated the bishop of Rome, but earlier, when he received holy orders.

92  “Willibrord called Clemens” (Uilbrord cognomento Clemens). Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, 303 (book 5, chap. 11). In his will the saint also calls himself by a double name: “I, in God’s name bishop Clemens Willibrord” (ego in Dei nomine Clemens Willibrordus episcopus). Cited from Camille Wampach, Geschichte der Grundherrschaft Echternach im Frühmittelalter (Luxembourg, 1929), 95 (document 39).

93  He is first called Boniface in a 719 letter by Pope Gregory II: Sancti Bonifatii et Lulli epistolae, ed. Michael Tangl, MGH Epp. sel. 1 (Berlin, 1916), 17 (letter 12).

94  Though such cases are known of course. For example: “Berctsigl called Boniface” (Berctgislum, cognomine Bonifacium). Cited from Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, 169 (book 3, chap. 20); “Aeddi called Stephan” (Aeddi cognomento Stephanus). Cited from Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, 205 (book 4, chap. 2). 95  See the prosopo­graphy of pre-Norman England available on-line at www.pase.ac.uk

96  “Abbot of the Aniane monastery Benedict who is called Vitiza” (abbas Benedictus qui vocatur Vitiza monasterii Anianensis). Cited from Chronicon Moissiacense, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 1 (Hannover, 1826), 301 (794).

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of Charlemagne, whose cousin he happened to be. It appears that in the West to change or not to change one’s name when elevated to ecclesiastical rank was a personal choice. Both in the Romance and the Germanic parts of Europe of the early medi­eval period, not only laymen but even clerics bore names of pagan gods and their derivatives. For example, the first Roman pope to change his name when ascending to the throne of St. Peter was John II (533–535), whose secular name was Mercurius.97 True, the Church venerates an early saint of that name who met martyrdom in 250 in Cappadocia,98 but it is basically an Eastern cult popular in particular among Copts, so even if the future pope was called in his honour the pagan connotations of his name were no secret to him or his countrymen. An inscription in the Roman church of San Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in Chains) refers to him as “Pope John named Mercurius.”99 Similar cases are recorded in the Scandinavian world, where names alluding to old Germanic deities were appreciated long after evangelization even among the clergy. According to Snorri Sturluson (d. 1241), it was a priest called Thormod (which probably means “the wrath of Thor”) who in 1000 played the leading role in baptizing the Icelanders.100 There are reasons to believe that in the early medi­eval West, especially among the Germanic peoples, bestowing upon a child a Christian name which would indeed be used in everyday life was a rather exceptional act explained by exceptional circumstances. The above-mentioned Frankish prince Samson was born when his father, Chilperic, besieged in 575 in Tournai, was desperate and probably thought more of God and the saints than of his Merovingian lineage and its specific names. Another prince of this dynasty to bear a biblical name was Daniel, son of Childeric II; he was meant to join the clergy and for most of his life was indeed a monk. To ascend to the throne, he had to take a new name, more fit for a Merovingian king; he is generally known as Chilperic II (715–721).101 Some cases are ambiguous, for example, that of Paul the Deacon (d. 799). It is often said that as a layman he was called Warnefried, but this assertion has no proof in the sources; this was the name of his father, as it is clearly stated in the History of the Lombards,102 and nothing indicates that this was also his own name. The fact that all of his relatives’ names mentioned in the same passage are Germanic leaves room to suggest that the apostolic name was given to him when he became a deacon. However, 97  Angelo di Berardino, Patro­logia, 4. Dal Concilio di Calcedonia (451) a Beda. I Padri latini, (Rome, 1996), 141. This case is not unique. See Peter A. B. Llewellyn, “The Names of the Roman Clergy, 401–1046,” Rivista di storia della Chiesa in Italia 35 (1981): 358. 98  Hippolyte Delehaye, Les légendes grecques des saints militaires (Paris, 1909), 234–42, 243–58.

99  “Salvo papa nostro Iohanne cognomento Mercurio.” Cited from Carl Maria Kaufmann, Handbuch der altchristlichen Epi­graphik (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1917), 383 (image 224).

100  “Saga Ơlafs Tryggvasonar,” in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, 2:427 (chap. 95). See also Erik Henrik Lind, Norsk-isländska dopnamn ock fingerade namn från medeltiden (Uppsala, 1905–1915). I thank my colleague Sergey Agishev for this reference. 101  Liber Historiae Francorum, ed. Bruno Krusch, MGH SS rer. Merov. 2 (Hannover, 1888), 326 (chap. 52). 102  Paulus Diaconus, Historia Langobardorum, 132 (book 4, chap. 37).



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the choice of the name Paul, for reasons yet to be explained very rare at that time in the West,103 but imbued with obvious and highly ambitious connotations, may point to another, just as plausible explanation: that he received this name at baptism as a sign that he was destined for an ecclesiastical career. It was believed that a name could seriously influence one’s destiny, and perhaps this concerned “ecclesiastical names” above all. Thus, after the death of Bruno the Great (965), the younger brother of Otto I, both the archbishop of Co­logne and the duke of Lorraine, the name Bruno became popular in those lands and was given to many boys intended by their families to enter holy orders. By which name (vernacular or baptismal) a person was known in everyday life is a separate question. As far as surviving texts let us judge, Boniface of Mainz and Benedict of Aniane were called by their Christian names, whereas Willibrord was known by his vernacular name. In this context the example of Bruno of Querfurt (d. 1009) presents special interest. He was canonized as St. Boniface, but went down in history as Bruno.104 It is quite obvious that the future apostle of Prussia took the name of the apostle of Germany. But it was exactly the latter’s fame that prohibited Bruno to secure for himself his new name so that even some hagio­graphical texts refer to him as St. Bruno. True, a cleric might be called both by his vernacular and ecclesiastical name. For example, about 1100 in Langres a certain archdeacon appears alternatively as Guido and as Paganus.105 Be that as it may, an overwhelming majority of Western Christians of the Early Middle Ages are known to us only by their secular names, most of these hardly the result of lack of sources. We know a great deal about such figures as Charles the Great, Louis the Pious, and Charles the Bald or Alfred the Great. Yet, there is no trace of a real Christian name for any of them, nor even circumstantial evidence such as a preference for a certain cult. Quite surprisingly the sources of that period are usually silent about their Christian names, even in discussions of their baptism, so that we know only their vernacular names. For example, when Clovis’ wife Chrodehilda baptized their son, she 103  Except in Malta, where from an unclear early date there was a national consensus that the unspecified island where Apostle Paul suffered shipwreck and later preached (Acts 27–28) was in fact Malta. See Joseph Busuttil, Stanley Fiorini and Horatio Caesar Roger Vella, eds., Tristia ex Melitogaudo. Lament in Greek Verse of a XIIth-Century Exile on Gozo (Malta, 2010), liv–lvi.

104  “St. Bruno who is known as Boniface” (Sanctus Bruno, qui cognominatur Bonifacius). Cited from Annales Quedlinburgenses, ed. Martina Giese, MGH SS rer. Germ. 72 (Hannover, 2004), 527 (1009); “Then the blessed Bruno whose acquired name is Boniface” (Beatus itaque Bruno cui adaucto nomine vocabulum est Bonifatius). Cited from Vita et passio Sancti Brunonis episcopi et martyris Querfordensis, ed. Heinz Kauffmann, in MGH SS 30:2 (Leipzig, 1934), 1361: (further on he is called either Bruno or Boniface). The Passio of St. Adalbert (Johannes Canaparius, Passio sancti Adalberti episcopi et martyris, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 4 (Hannover, 1841, 591 (chap. 21)) and Thietmar of Merseburg (Thietmar Merseburgensis, Chronicon, ed. Robert Hotzmann, MGH SS rer. Germ. N. S. 9 (Berlin, 1935), 387 (book 6, chap. 94)) knows him only as Bruno or rather Brun, the Life of Romuald, in whose monastery he took the new name, only as Boniface. Petrus Damianus, “Narratio ex vita Romualdi,” in Acta Sanctorum, Junii, ed. Godfred Henschen, Daniel von Papenbroeck, Franciscus Baertius and Conradus Janningus, 7 vols. (Bruxelles, 1969), 3:909–10.

105  Cartulaire du chapitre cathédral de Langres, ed. Hubert Flammarion (Turnhout, 2004), 61 (document 22) (1088–1098); 279 (document 280) (1125–1133); 142 (document 118) (1142). See notes on pages 143 and 278.

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called him Chlodomer.106 As Clovis was then still a heathen, the initiative came from his wife, the daughter of the Burgundian king Chilperic and an ardent Christian. Whether the boy was also given a Christian name is not clear; perhaps his mother simply did not dare to give her son a name alien to her husband’s family. Things did not change much in Carolingian times. Thus, Astronomus tells us that when Queen Judith gave birth to the future Charles the Bald, her husband, Louis the Pious, wished “at baptism to call him Charles.”107 Likewise, a few generations later Flodoard informs us that “the queen bore king Louis a son who was announced as Charles.”108 Similar attitudes prevailed in other parts of Western Christendom. For example, speaking about St. Adalbert of Prague (d. 997), a Czech by birth, Thietmar of Merseburg says that “at baptism he received the name Vojtéch.”109 It was a pagan Slavic name (a short form of Wojcieslaw—”warrior” and “glory”), which at confirmation the future saint changed in honour of his mentor, archbishop Adalbert of Magdeburg. Similarly, in southwest Europe vernacular names of Germanic, Romance110 and Iberian111 origin usually served as baptismal names. Western accounts about the baptism of adult heathens are for the most part also devoid of any reference to a baptismal name. For example, Gregory of Tours does not say a word about the Christian name of Clovis, nor does Bede—about the Christian name of Aethelbert of Kent, or of Edwin of Northumbria, or of any other Anglo-Saxon. The most famous story of converting a pagan to Christianity that took place in the reign of Charles the Great, the case of the noble Saxon Widukind (785), is also short of any indication

106  “After this she gave birth to another son whom in baptism named Chlodomer” (Post hunc vero genuit alium filium quem baptizatum Chlodomerem vocavit). Cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 75 (book 2, chap. 29). See also Michel Rouche, Clovis (Paris, 1996), 262.

107  “A son was born to him by Queen Judith whom he chose at baptism to call Charles” (natus ei est filius ex Iudith regina, quem tempore baptismi Karolum vocitare placuit). Cited from Astronomus, Vita Hludowici imperatoris, ed. Ernst Tremp, MGH SS rer. Germ. 64 (Hannover, 1995), 422 (chap. 37).

108  “When King Louis was on the Rhone the queen in Laon gave birth to a son who in the catechumenate was called Charles” (Ludowico rege apud Rodomum degente Gerberga regina filium Lauduni peperit qui Karolus ad catezizandum vocitatus est). Cited from Flodoard, Annales Augustani, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 3 (Hannover, 1839), 391. He refers to the younger son of Louis d’Outremer, Charles of Lorraine, “the last Carolingian,” who in 987 failed to uphold his rights to the French crown.

109  “A boy […] who later in the balneum of saint baptism was given the name Woytech” (puer […] cui post in sancti baptismatis lavacro datum est nomen Woytech). Cited from Canaparius, Passio sancti Adalberti, 582 (chap. 2); “Adelbert, the bishop of Bohemians, whose baptismal name is Woytech, took another one at confirmation from the archbishop of Magdeburg” (Adalbertus Boemiorum episcopus, qui nomen quod Woytech sonat in baptismate, aliud in confirmacione percepit ab archiepiscopo Parthenopolitano). Cited from Theitmar Merseburgensis, Chronicon, 165 (book 4, chap. 28 (al. 19)). 110  Such as Aprilis and other names derived from the denominations of the months; they were often given to slaves. See Morlet, Les noms de personne, 2:20. See also a good case study: Å� ke Bergh, Etudes d’anthroponymie provençale. Les noms de personne du polyptyque de Wadalde (a. 814) (Göteborg, 1941).

111  For example Aznar, Bermudo, and Fruela. See Pascual Martí�nez Sopeña, ed., Antroponimia y sociedad. Sistemas de identificación hispano-cristianos del siglo IX al XIII (Valladolid, 1995).



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that a change of name took place; this fact is especially significant because the episode is well-described in the sources.112 Likewise, at the beginning of the twelfth century, Gallus Anonymus does not mention the baptismal name of Miezko, the first Christian ruler of Poland, same as his contemporary, Cosmas of Prague—the baptismal name of Bořivoj, the first Christian prince of Czechia. But the picture is more contradictory than it may at first appear. When just a few years after the conversion of Widukind, two Avar khagans accepted Christianity, they were named Abraham and Theodore.113 Apparently no general rule existed at that time. If some logic is perceptible, it is connected with the region where the event took place. At least Northern and Central Europe about 1000 ce supply us with a number of facts confirming that together with baptism some people received truly Christian names. The case of the Hungarian king Vajk (“hero,” “leader”) who at baptism, some time before 1000, was named Stephen—in Hungarian István—is probably the most notorious114. The Polish king Miezsko II (d. 1034) and his nephew, Cnut the Great, king of Denmark, Norway, and England (d. 1035), both named at baptism in honour of St. Lambert of Liège (d. ca. 705),115 may serve as other examples. The first was known mainly by his Christian name whereas the two latter by their pagan

112  “Widukind, all kind of evil maker and promoter of treason, came with his associates to the palace of Attigny and was baptized there; the lord king accepted him from the font and honoured him with magnificent donations” (Widuchind tot malorum auctor ac perfidie incentor venit cum sociis suis ad Attinacho palacio, et ibidem baptizatus est, et domnus rex suscepit eum a fonte ac donis magnificis honoravit). Cited from Annales Mosellani, ed. Johann Martin Lappenberg, MGH SS 16 (Hannover, 1859), 497 (785). Similar wording is used to describe the conversion of the Danish king Harold, which did not have lasting consequences for Denmark; no Christian name is mentioned either. See Annales Regni Francorum,” ed. Friedrich Kurze, MGH SS rer. Germ. 6. (Hannover, 1895), 169–70 (826).

113  “Khagan, the prince of Huns […] was Christian by the name Theodore” (capcanus, princeps Hunorum […] erat enim capcanus christianus nomine Theodorus). Cited from Annales Regni Fran­ corum, 119–20 (805); “Abraham, the baptized khagan” (Abraham cagonus baptizatus). Cited from Annales Sancti Emmerami Ratisponensis maiores, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 1 (Hannover, 1826), 93 (805). The choice of names is unusual and perhaps points to Eastern Christian influence. See Walter Pohl, “Die Namengebung bei den Awaren,” in Nomen et gens. Zur historischen Aus­ sagekraft frühmittelalterlicher Personennamen, ed. Dieter Geuenich, Wolfgang Haubrichs, and Jörg Jarnut (Berlin, 1997), 84–93. 114  “He baptized the king of Hungary, who was called Gouz, and changing his name called him Stephan” (regem Ungrie baptizavit qui vocabatur Gouz et mutato nomine in baptismo Stephanum vocavit). Cited from Adémar de Chabannes, Chronicon, ed. Pascale Bourgain (Turnhout, 1999), 152 (book 3, chap. 31); “The nation of Hungarians […] whose king, called Stephan at baptism […]” (Ungrorum gens […] quorum regi, Stephano ex baptismate vocato). Cited from Rodulfus Glaber, “Historiarum libri quinque,” in Rodulfus Glaber Opera, ed. John France (Oxford, 1989), 96 (book 3, chap. 2). See also Thietmar of Merseburg, who gives the correct form of Stephan’s pagan name (Waic): Theitmar Merseburgensis, Chronicon, 199 (book 4, chap. 59).

115  Gertrud Thoma, Namensänderung in Herrscherfamilien des mittelalterlichen Europa (Kall­ münz, 1985), 36–39, 45–48; Fyodor Borisovich Uspensky, “Крестильное имя Кнута Великого и пенни короля Этельреда II с изображением Agnus Dei,” [“The Baptismal Name of Cnut the Great and the Penny of Aethelred II with the Image of Agnus Dei,”], Одиссей [Odysseus] (2004): 285–86. Cnut’s baptismal name is mentioned by Adam of Bremen: “Cnut, son of king Swein, renouncing his heathen name took in baptism the name Lambert” (Chnut filius Suein regis abiecto

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names. This, however, was a purely individual and not a national trait: among the heirs and descendents of both Miezsko and István, some were remembered by their pagan names (Boleslaw, Casimir, Wladislaw, Zbigniew, Á� lmos, Béla, Géza), others by their Christian names in their local forms (Leszek, Andras, Imre, Laszlo). This said, we should not overlook the fact that many baptized princes of Central and Northern Europe at this period are known to us only by their pagan names. St. Václav of Czechia and St. Olaf of Norway spring to mind. It should not surprise us of course that adult pagans in the early medi­eval West were occasionally renamed at baptism. Oddly, the new name often was often also pagan. For example, Gregory of Tours mentions a certain Waldo of Bordeaux, a deacon “who, by the way, in baptism was also called Bertramn.”116 The fact that Waldo was baptized under another pagan name117 is recorded by chance, only because a certain bishop Bertramn is mentioned in the same passage. But why was he baptized under another pagan name? Whatever the answer, this approach to name-giving was still alive five centuries later. Thus, an eleventh-century Vita of Marius of Mauriac, a sixth-century saint from Auvergne, which contains three more or less similar passages about baptizing pagans, makes it clear that baptism involved a change of name. Oddly, a Christian name was not given, but simply a new name, in fact sometimes a Germanic name instead of a Roman or even a biblical name!118 Indeed, the most striking fact is that in the West a pagan was often given at baptism another pagan name. When in 878 Alfred the Great baptized the Dane Gutrumn, he chose to call him Aethelstan—no doubt in memory of his elder brother deceased in 851.119 In 911, in France, another Scandinavian, Hrollo alias Rollo, was called at baptism nomine gentilitatis in baptismo Lambertus nomen accepit). Cited from Adam Bremensis, Gesta Hammaburgensis, 112 (scholium 37).

116  “The deacon Waldo, who, by the way, was also baptized as Bertramn” (Waldonem diaconem qui et ipse in baptismo Berthchramnus vocitatus est). Cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 388 (book 8, chap. 22). 117  St. Bertramn was an eighth-century Mercian king.

118  “He paid attention to the symbols of the Christian creed no less than to faith: he who previously was called Salaman was called in baptism by the saint Barnerus” (Christianitatis insignia non minus vita quam credulitate praeferret: qui cum antea esset Salaman nuncupatus a sancto vocatus est in baptismo Barnerus). Cited from “Vita Marii,” Acta Sanctorum, Junii, ed. Godfred Henschen, Daniel von Papenbroeck, Franciscus Baertius, and Conradus Janningus, 7 vols. (Brussels, 1969), 2:117 (chap. 12); “A certain man by the name Stennonius […]. Then [the saint] firmly prohibiting him to tell about the miracle bestowed on him the name Hilperic, natural to the Teutonic language” (Vir quidam nomine Stennonius […]. Tum gesti miraculi publicationem eidem fortiter interdicens locutioni Teutonicae assuetum imposuit illi vocabulum videlicet Hilpericum). Cited from “Vita Marii,” 2:118 (chap. 14).

119  It should be noted that in the story of Gutrumn’s baptism not a word is said about his new name; it is mentioned in connection with his death in 890: “And Gutrumn the Northern king whose baptismal name was Aethelstan died; he was king Alfred’s godson” (⁊ Guðrum se norðerna cyning forðferde, ⁊ þæs fulluhtnama wæs Ǽ� þelstan, se wæs Ǽ� lfredes cyninges godsunu). Cited from AngloSaxon Chronicle, D (890), accessed July 16, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html.



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Robert; this was the name of his godfather, the future French king Robert I (922–923).120 In 974 Swein, the son of the Danish king Harald the Bluetooth, was baptized as Otto— obviously in honour of the German king and emperor Otto II (973–983), his godfather.121 In all three cases the new name was chosen by the godfather or at least with his active involvement.122 In all three cases heathen Scandinavians were baptized under pagan names which, however, were already in use among Christians.123 In fact, all sorts of names soon became possible. In Italy, Southern Gaul, and in Catalonia official documents preserved personal names derived from place-names: examples are Barcelonus, Narbona, Nemausus (i.e., Nimes), and Ravenna, or the names of its inhabitants, such as Avinionus or Tolosanus.124 And why not, one may ask, if the Church

120  “Robert, the duke of the Franks, accepted him from the font of salvation and imposed on him his name and honoured him with great gifts. [In his turn] Robert alias Rollo had his counts and warriors and all his host baptized” (duxque francorum Rotbertus de fonte salvatoris eum suscepit, nomenque suum ei imposuit magnisque muneribus et donis honorifice ditavit. Rotbertus autem, qui et Rollo, comites suos et milites omnemque manum exercitus sui baptizari fecit […]). Cited from Dudo de Saint-Quentin, De moribus et actis primorum Normanniae ducum, ed. Jules Lair (Caen, 1865), 170 (book 2, chap. 30). This Norman was remembered as Rollo, but at least one document, dated to the time of his grandson, duke Richard I (942–996), speaks of him as Robert. See Pierre Bauduin, La première Normandie (X–XI siècles) (Caen, 2004), 134.

121  “Without delay Harold was baptized with his wife Gunhild and [their] little son whom our king, accepting him from the sacred font, gave the name Sweinotto” (Nec mora baptizatus est ipse Haroldus cum uxore Gunhild et filio parvulo, quem rex noster a sacro fonte susceptum Sueinotto vocavit). Cited from Adam Bremensis, Gesta Hammaburgensis, 63–64 (book 2, chap. 3); “People say that Otta keisar was godfather to Swein, konung Harold’s son, and gave him his name, so that in baptism he was named Otta Swein” (Svá segia menn, at Otta keisari gerđi guđsifjar viđ Svein, son Haralds konnungs, ok gaf honum nafn sitt, ok var hann svá skirđr, at hann hét Otta Sveinn). Cited from “Saga Ơlafs Tryggvasonar,” 2:305 (chap. 28). 122  It has been argued that the normal procedure was to be given the name of one’s godfather, but there are reasons to believe that the leading role belonged, in fact, to the birth-father. The following passage from Dhuoda’s manual may serve as proof. While instructing her elder son to take care of the younger, born recently, she mentions chemin faisant that she still does not know the name he is to get at baptism because—as they are both aware—her husband is presently far away from home, and that, for reasons of safety, the child had been taken away to another place: “your little brother whose name he will receive when he is baptized in Christ’s grace I don’t know yet” (fratremque tuum parvulum, cuius modo inscia sum nominis, cum baptismatis in Christo acceperit gratiam). Cited from Dhuoda, Manuel pour mon fils, ed. Pierre Riché (Paris, 1975), 116 (book 1, chap. 7). This passage also shows that, despite church rules, children were not necessarily baptized on the ninth day following the birth. 123  The name Robert became Christian after the canonization in 1070 of Robert, the abbot of Chaise-Dieu (1068); the name Otto after the canonization in 1189 of Otto, bishop of Bamberg (1139). It seems that no Aethelstan was ever declared a saint.

124  “Signed Barcelonus” (S[ignum] Barcelonus) cited from Cartulario de Sant Cugat del Vallés, ed. José Serra Rius, (Barcelona, 1945), 1:8–9 (document 5) (912); “I, Gualafonsus, and my wife Narbona” (ego Gualafonsus et uxor mea Narbona) from Perpignan, Archives Départementales des PyrénéesOrientales, 12 J 25, fol. 13 (898); “Signed Nemausus” (S[ignum] Nemausus) cited from Cartulaire du Chapitre de l’église cathédrale Notre Dame de Nîmes, 54 (document 30) (927); “Ravennus vir clarissimus” cited from Le carte ravennati del secolo undicesimo. Archivio arcivescovile, I (aa. 1001–1024), ed. Ruggero Benericetti (Faenza, 2003), 46 (document 27) (1007); “Avenionus” cited

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accepted Roman and Francis as Christian names? In the same region we find female names derived from the names of patrimonial castles and incipient family names.125 We also encounter names formed from words signifying social status: Cavallarius,126 Vassalus,127 etc. Perhaps they were simply sobriquets deemed sufficient to be used instead of real names, but they were used on their own even in official documents, and this is the main point. No matter how odd semantically the medi­eval names of Southern and Eastern Slavs may seem to the Western reader, such names were hardly possible in their world, at least as official names. Still more important, once accepting Christianity in its Orthodox version they rather quickly took Christian names as meaningful and to be used in public. How can we explain this striking difference of perception of what a Christian name is, between the Orthodox and the Catholics? This question is very poorly studied, perhaps because the difference, known and commented upon in the Middle Ages, is hardly ever mentioned by modern scholars, who usually seem to ignore even the very fact of this difference. It appears that in medi­eval Rus, probably because paganism was not yet totally overcome in the land, the clergy—both the Greek bishops serving there and the Russian clerics—was more attentive to this issue than in the Byzantine empire itself, where pagan names were disappearing as early as the seventh century. In the frame of

from Georges de Manteyer, Les chartes du pays d’Avignon (439–1040) (Mâcon, 1914–1939), 102 (document 58) (968–970); “Peter Gastoni and Tolosanus, his son” (Petrus Gastoni et Tolosanus, eius filius) cited from Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (844–1200), ed. Célestin Douais (Paris-Toulouse, 1887), 317 (document 442) (1154). Aymat Catafau of the Uni­ver­sity of Perpignan is presently preparing an article about this phenomenon in Roussillon in the central and later Middle Ages.

125  “I, Trencavella, daughter of Cecily, vicecountess of Beziers, and I, Gerarld, son of the said Trencavella” (ego Trencavella, filia Cecilie Biterrensis vicecomitisse, et ego Geraldus filius ejusdem Trencavelle) from Montpellier, Archives Départementales de l’Hérault, 9 H 37, 38, document 420 (Cartulaire de Valmagne, unpublished) (1148); I owe this reference to Henri Barthès, who is working on the edition of this cartulary. Until recently it was in a private collection and practically inaccessible to scholars); “Gerald, son of lady Trencavela” (Giraldus filius dominae Trencavele) from Montpellier, Archives Départementales de l’Hérault, 1 Mi 6, document 424 (Cartulaire des Trencavel, unpublished) (1152). However, in the Liber feudorum maior, ed. Francisco Miquel Rossell (Barcelona, 1945), 2:269–70 (document 786) (1110) she is referred to as Ermengarde. See Claudie Duhamel-Amado, Genèse des lignages méridionaux, vol. 1, L’aristocratie languedocienne du X au XII siècle (Toulouse, 2001), 287. 126  “Ponce the elder confirmed, Cavallerius confirmed” (Poncius maior firmavit. Cavallerius firmavit). Cited from Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:291 (col.) (document 133.1) (979). See also Cartulaire de Brioude, 133 (document 142) (887–911), 94 (document 103) (912), 90 (document 100) (916).

127  “Boy named Vassus” (puer nomine Vassus) cited from “Vita Segolenae abbatissae Troclarensis,” in Acta Sanctorum, Julii, ed. Joannis Baptista Sollerius, Joannis Pinius, Guilielmus Cuperus, and Petrus Boschius, 7 vols. (Bruxelles, 1969), 5:635 (chap. 29); “vineyards […] which Bonus Vassalus gave me in pledge” (vineas […] quas Bonus Vassalus mihi pignoravit) cited from Vic, Vaissette, Histoire générale, 5:286 (col.) (document 130) (978); “wrote Bonus Vassalus the monk” (Bonus Vassalus monachus scripsit) cited from Cartulaire de l’abbaye Saint-Victor de Marseille, ed. Benjamin Guérard, Leopold Delisle and Jules Marion, 2 vols. (Paris, 1857), 2:572 (document 1100) (1113).



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the anti-Latin polemic uncoiled after 1054 by the Greek metropolitans of Kyiv Ephraim, George, Nicephorus, and also by the Russian hegumen Theodosius, the Catholics were blamed for naming the newborn not in honour of a saint, but as “the parents choose” (Theodosius). It was stressed (by Ephraim and repeated by Nicephorus) that “Latins” gave their children the names of animals—“lions, wolves, leopards, foxes and even more shameful” ones.128 This was regarded as a deviation from the ancient rite. To my knowledge, Catholic authors never refuted this accusation nor in any way defended the Western way of name-giving. Trying to solve this mystery, we should focus on the fact that it was not uncommon for a medi­eval person to have more than one name intended for use in different circumstances. It seems also that a change of name occurred more often than in our day and due to a larger variety of incentives, and this contributed to the complexity of the phenomenon analyzed here. This means that while studying double (or triple or more) names we should be aware that our speculations are hampered by traps set for us by the sources.

Medi­eval Double Names: Cases to Be Dismissed

To begin, a double name is not exceptionally a creation of a much later tradition and even of modern historio­graphy. Such is the case of Odo (alias Eudes) Henri, Hugues Capet’s youngest brother and the duke of Burgundy (965–1002). In his youth he was a cleric and was called Odo,129 but after the death of his elder brother, duke Otton (956–965), Burgundian counts proclaimed him duke and he was henceforth known as Henri.130 Odo was a family name of the Robertines, but fighting for Burgundy, they sought to emphasize their kinship with the Saxonian dynasty. After all, the mother of both Burgundian dukes was Hadwige, sister of Otton the Great and daughter of Henri the Fowler. We have here a case not of a double name, but of a change of name conditioned by political considerations. Raoul Glaber knows the second duke only as Henri. Under this name he is mentioned in contemporary charters, from Cluny, for example.131 As far as I know, no 128  Igor Sergeevich Chichurov, “Схизма 1054 г. и антилатинская полемика в Киеве (середина XI – начало XII в.),” [“The Schisme of 1054 and the Antilatin Polemic in Kyiv (mid XI–early XII c.),”] Russia Medi­evalis 9 (1997): 48, 52. See also Igor Č� ičurov, “Ein antilateinischer Traktat des Kiever Metropoliten Ephraim im Codex Vaticanus Graecus 828,” in Fontes Minores (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1998), 10: 319–56; О.В. Гладкова, А.С. Демин, Ф.С. Капица, В.М. Кириллин, А.А. Косоруков, Е.Б. Рогачевская, Л.И. Щеголева, Древнерусская литература: Восприятие Запада в XI–XIV вв. [Ancient Russian Literature: the Perception of the West in the XI–XIV c.] (Moscow, 1996), 81–8. 129  “Odo, son of Hugues, who ruled Burgundy, passed away and the rectors of this [land] gave themselves to Hugo and his brother Odo, a cleric” (Otho filius Hugonis qui Burgundiae praeerat obiit et rectores ejusdem [terrae] ad Hugonem et Oddonem clericum fratres ipsius sese convertunt). Cited from Flodoardus, “Annales,” 156, (965).

130  Andrew W. Lewis, Royal Succession in Capetian France. Studies on Familial Order and the State, (Cam­bridge, MA, 1981), 16–27; Yves Sassier, Hugues Capet. Naissance d’une dynastie (Paris, 1987), 135–49.

131  Rodulfus Glaber, “Historiarum,” 48–50 (II.1); 64–66 (II.8); 110 (III.9); Recueil des chartes de l’abbaye de Cluny, 3:565 (document 2484) (999); 4: 4 (document 2800) (1027); 430 (document 3341) (ca. 1050).

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contemporary source calls him Odo Henri, so this double name is a later construction of genealogists and historians. This case has a parallel in Russian history. If some old-time historians are to be believed, Vsevolod, the elder son of Mstislav the Great and the last real prince of Novgorod prior to the proclamation of the city-republic in 1136, was actually called Vsevolod Gavriil. He was indeed baptized by the name of the Archangel, but no contemporary source mentions him under this double name, which appears only in modern times, probably under the influence of liturgical memorial practice.132 It seems that only among the Southern Slavs (Bulgarians, Serbs, Bosnians, Croatians), and for reasons still to be examined, were combinations of a baptismal and a vernacular name used as official double names and recorded in different contemporary sources.133 The names of the Bulgarian kings Gavriil Radomir (d. 1015) and Ivan Vladislav (d. 1018) or of the above-mentioned Demetrius Zvonimir of Croatia (d. 1089) serve as early examples. Serbian rulers of the Nemanich family (few Serbian names of the preceding period are known) practised a combination of the same Christian name, Stephen, with vernacular names of a different origin: so, Stephen Radoslav (d. 1233), Stephen Vladislav (d. 1243), Stephen Urosh (d. 1276), and so forth. Sometimes a double name was the consequence of being born from parents of different ethnic origin. For example, King Aldfrith of Northumbria (685–705), son of King Oswiu and a noble Irish woman called Fina, was known in Ireland as Fina Flann mac Ossu, that is “Flann, son of Fina, son of Oswiu,” a rare combination of a matronymic and a patronymic.134 Similar attitudes prevailed at the opposite end of Europe. Thus, the elder son of Vladimir Monomach of Kiev and Gita, daughter of Harold, the last king of the Anglo-Saxons, the great prince Mstislav (d. 1132), whose name means “vengeance and glory,” was baptized as Theodore, but figures in Scandinavian and German texts as Harald.135 Likewise, according to a late source, his nephew Andrei Bogoliubskiy, prince of Vladimir (d. 1174), had a pagan Turkish name, Kitay, inherited from his mother, a Cuman.136 Double names of this sort are quite often attested in contact zones, for example, on the borders of the Germanic and the Celtic worlds. Thus, according to one of the readings of the “Annals of Ulster” for 731, King Ceolwulf of Northumbria (729–737) was known 132  I thank Fyodor Uspensky for this information.

133  Dimitŭr Kosev and Stanimir Lishev, История на България [The History of Bulgaria], vol. 3, Втора Българска държава [The Second Bulgarian Kingdom] (Sofia, 1982), 424.

134  Colin Ireland, “Idfrith of Northumbria and the Irish genealogies,” Celtica 22 (1991): 64–78, esp. 69, with a reference to: “Altfrith mac Ossa .i. Flann Fí�na la Gaedhelu, ecnaidh, rex Saxonum.” Cited from Withley Stokes, “The Annals of Tigernach. Third Fragment,” Revue Celtique 17 (1896): 219 (Annals of Tigernach for 704). And another reference to: “Fī�na, māthair ī�side Flaind Fī�na meic Ossu Regis Saxonum.” Cited from M. A. O’Brien, Corpus genealogiarum Hiberniae (Dublin, 1962), 135. 135  Alexander Vasilyevich Nazarenko, Древняя Русь на международных путях [Ancient Russia on International Routes] (Moscow, 2001), 585–90; Tatyana Nikolaevna Jackson, Исландские королевские саги о Восточной Европе [Icelandic Royal Sagas about Eastern Europe] (Moscow, 2012), 41, 152, 497, 499, 504. 136  Litvina and Uspensky, Выбор имени, 473–74.



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in Ireland as Eochaid.137 Nothing is known about his Irish roots, but his Irish name was a royal one and was certainly not a calque of his English name, for it is derived from the word “horse” and not “wolf.” Another example of the kind is found in Cornwall where a certain bishop Comoere, alias Wulfsige, whose ethnicity is unfortunately unknown, was active in the second half of the tenth century.138 Similar cases are recorded among Western Slavs, whose elite had many contacts with Germany. Wladislaw Herman, the prince of Poland in 1079–1102 is a good example.139 His second name may have been considered Christian by his parents, but in fact at the time was only a patrimonial vernacular name common to his grandmother’s family. He was named apparently in honour of archbishop Herman II of Co­logne (d. 1056), his father’s maternal uncle. It did not become a saint’s name till centuries later. The name of the Czech king Přemysl Otakar I (d. 1230) whose mother was from Thuringia, is also indicative.140 Many other cases of fascinating double names should be dismissed as irrelevant for our present purpose. Such are of course the names of people who took the cloak, even though they are sometimes (as in the case of Vojtéch Adalbert of Prague) quite revealing and confirm that in the West even a name received at confirmation may have been vernacular and not Christian. Such are also the combinations of official names and nicknames (including children’s nicknames)141 or sobriquets of some sort among which 137  David Peter Kirby, “King Ceolwulf of Northumbria and the Historia Ecclesiastica,” Studia Celtica 14–15 (1979–1980): 168–73.

138  He is mentioned in the manumissions preserved on the margins of the so called “Bodmin Gospel.” In some of them he appears as Wulfsige, in others as Comoere, and only the context permits us to establish that it is the same person. See William Martin Middlewood Picken, “Bishop Wulfsige Comoere: An Unrecognized Tenth-Century Gloss in the Bodmin Gospels,” in A Medi­eval Cornish Miscellany, ed. William Martin Middlewood Picken (Chichester, 2000), 28–33.

139  Gallus Anonymus writing about 1117–1118 refers to him only as Wladislaw: “Wladislaw duke of the Poles” (Polonorum dux Wladizlavus), cited from “Gesta principum Polonorum,” ed. Karol Małcużyński, in Monumenta Poloniae Historica, 6 vols. (Kraków, 1952), 2/1:19; “Wladislaw invaded Pomerania” (Pomoraniam invadit Wladislavus […]) cited from “Gesta principum Polonorum,” 2/2: 66; but some other sources call him by the double name. For example: “duke Wladislaw called Hermann won a victory over Pomeranians at Rechen” (Wladizlaus cognominatus Hermannus dux vicit Pomoranos ad Rechen). Cited from “Annales capituli Cracovienses,” ed. August Bielowski, in Monumenta Poloniae Historica, 6 vols. (Lwow, 1872), 2:796 (1091).

140  Antoni Barciak, “Przemysł czy Otokar? Z problematyki funkcjonowania dwóch imion władców czeskich w XIII wieku (Przemysł Otokar I),” in Cracovia—Polonia—Europa. Studia z dziejów średniowiecza ofiarowane Jerzemu Wyrozumskiemu w sześćdziesiątą piątą rocznicę urodzin i czterdziestolecie pracy naukowej (Kraków, 1995), 419–25.

141  “Cymulus—thus was Emerius called in his childhood” (Cymulum—sic enim vocitare consueverant Emerium in infantia sua) cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 158 (book 4, chap. 26); “[…] in the domain Hebocasiacum […] her mother offered her to Christ in the water of sacred baptism and in the reviving font called her Rusticula after the place of her birth; however all the household called her Marcia” ([…] in agro Hebocasiaco […] quam genetrix ad sacri baptismatis undam Christo obtulit sanciendam eamque in regenerationis fonte ex suo genere Rusticulam vocavit; ab omni vero domus familia Marcia nuncupabatur) cited from Vita Rusticulae, MGH SS rer. Merov. 4 (Hannover, 1902), 337; “Aedelberga […] who by another name was called Tata” (Aedilberga […] quae alio nomine Tatae vocabatur) cited from Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical

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we occasionally find a normal name. This is for example the case of the famous bishop Adalberon of Laon (d. 1030/1031), who, with the light hand of Gerbert of Aurillac (the future pope Sylvester II), was also called Azoline or Asceline.142 It was an ironic allusion to the name of his grandfather, count Gozlin of Bidgau, whose descendants held the main ecclesiastical sees of Lorraine and Champagne: the archbishoprics of Reims and Trier, the bishoprics of Laon, Metz, and Verdun; curiously, all prelates belonging to this family were called Adalberon. Another important group of double names having little to do with baptism is connected with people who left their homeland and, once abroad, married into a new family. An interesting case is Otto Guillaume (ca. 960–1026), a scion of the Ivrean dynasty of the kings of Italy, who, after the triumph of Otto the Great, found himself living with his mother’s family in Gaul. In time he became the count of Burgundy (that is, of the land which was later called Franche Comté), and thanks to a lucky marriage also the count of Macon. In Italy his name was Guillaume but in his new homeland, for reasons still to be understood, he was known as Otto. Some sources mention both his names.143 Quite a few medi­eval princesses who left their countries to be wed in a foreign land also had to change their names—due to a local practice of giving a foreigner a dynastic or simply a culturally more acceptable name. Usually this had nothing to do with a religious ritual. Having in 1002 married the English king Aethelred the Unready (978–1016), Emma, daughter of Richard I of Normandy, received a popular Anglo-Saxon name, Aelfgifu.144 It was a royal name borne by three English queens—the wives of king Edmund (939–946), king Edwig (955–959), and the first wife of king Aethelred himself. King Edmund’s History, 97 (book 2, chap. 9). The second name seems to mean “nice,” “pleasant.”

142  “Bishop Silvester, servant of God’s servants, to Azoline of Laon” (Silvester episcopus, servus servorum Dei Azolino Laudunensi) cited from Lettres de Gerbert (983–997), ed. Julien Havet (Paris, 1889), 241 (Annexe, document 5); “Azoline who is also called Adalberon” (ab Ascelino qui etiam Adalbero vocabatur) cited from Guibert de Nogent, Autobio­graphie, ed. Edmond-René Labande (Paris, 1981)], 286 (III.1).

143  “Signature of count Otto called Guillaume” (S[ignum] Ottonis cognomento Willelmi comitis). Cited from Recueil des chartes de l’abbaye Cluny, 3:760 (document 1736) (ca. 1020); 4:84 (document 2888) (1032–1039). See also Christian Settipani, “Les origines maternelles du comte de Bourgogne Otte-Guillaume,” Annales de Bourgogne 66 (1994): 5–63.

144  The most explicit formula is found in manu­script F of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which, s.a. 1017, tells us about Cnut’s marriage with Aelgifu Emma: “And the King commanded that Aethelred’s widow and Richard’s daughter be fetched for his wife, that was Aelfgive Emma” (And on þysum ylcan geare het se cing feccan Aeđelredes laue Ricardes dohter to cwene, þǽt was Ǽ� lfgive Ymma). Near the first name a glossator wrote: on englisc, and near the second name: on frencisc. The double name of the queen is also mentioned in some other annals (F, years 1002, 1013, 1037, 1051), more often in the English than in the French versions. In other English versions she is called either Aelgifu (for example in D, year 1052) or as Emma (D, year 1023). The mention of her Norman name was to some extent explained by the necessity to distinguish her from another Aelgifu—Cnut’s mistress and mother of king Harold Harefoot (CD, year 1035). In certain annals Emma Aelgifu is referred to only as “count Richard’s daughter,” without any name of her own (C, years 1002, 1013; CDE, year 1017). Igor Filippov, “Baptismal name and self identification in the early Middle Ages,” in Identitats, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2012), 86.



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widow was by then regarded a saint,145 but this does not seem to have been the reason for renaming Emma. Her daughter by Cnut was given a Norse name—Gunhilda (in fact that of her paternal grandmother) but she also had an English name—Etheltrude. Having in 1036 married the future emperor Henry III, she received yet a third, German, name—Kunigunde.146 This, by the way, was the name of emperor Henry II’s widow, who died in 1040 and eventually came to be venerated as a saint. Similarly, the daughter of Malcolm III of Scotland and the English princess Margaret (grandchild of Edmund Ironsides) was baptized as Edith, but after marrying in 1100 the Anglo-Norman king Henry I, was called Matilda147—probably after her mother-inlaw, the late queen Matilda of Flanders. Their daughter, the future queen of England suo nomine, also Matilda, had, according to the Chronicle, an Anglo-Saxon name as well— Aethelic.148 In continental sources Emma and both Matildas are referred to only by their French-Norman names. A second marriage with another foreign prince sometimes meant accepting a new name. The decisive factor in this case was not so much the comparative political weight of the two persons and their families, but rather the degree of similarity or discrepancy of the cultures to which they belonged. Thus, Aethelic–Matilda, who, in 1114 married emperor Henry V, was not obliged to take a third name because the name Matilda was 145  “And he was the son of King Edmund and of St. Aelgiva” (⁊ hi wæron Eadmundes suna cyninges ⁊ Sancte Ǽ� lfgyfe). Cited from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (955), accessed July 16, 2019, http://asc. jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html.

146  “Queen Cunihild by name came to the emperor’s son king Henry; there in the Apostles’ day she accepted the royal crown and having changed her name in benediction was called Cunigund” (filio imperatoris Heinrico regi venit regina Cunihild nomine, quae ibidem in natali apostolorum regalem coronam accepit et mutato nomine in benedictione Cunigund dicta est). Cited from Annales Hildesheimenses, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS rer. Germ. 8 (Hannover, 1878), 40 (1036). It is interesting that benediction is mentioned here in connection with the change of name.

147  “Alan Rufus, count of the Britons, asked King Rufus to give him in marriage Matilda who was previously called Edith, but prevented by death did not succeed” (Alanus enim Rufus, Brittanorum comes, Mathildem, que prius dicta est Edith, in conjungem sibi a rege Rufo requisivit, sed morte praeventus, non obtinuit). Cited from Ordericus Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. Marjorie Chibnall, 6 vols. (Oxford, 1968–1980), 4:272 (book 8, chap. 22); “Queen Matilda who in baptism was named Edith” (Mathildis regina, quae in baptismate Edit dicta fuit). Cited from Ordericus Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, 4:272 (book 12, chap. 1). The first passage (which, by the way, seems to contain a technical mistake commited by Orderic himself, since we have at our disposal the auto­graph of his text: instead of “from king Rufus” (a rege Rufo) we should probably read “from king Melculfo” (a rege Melculfo) because count Alan the Red should have asked the hand of our heroine from her father, king Malcolm III of Scotland, not from William the Red of England) at first sight testifies that in this case the change of name took place before marriage; the second passage at least does not exclude such interpretation. However, it seems more likely that the chronicler departs from the throne name of queen Matilda and explains that previously she was called Edith. Incidentally, according to William of Malmesbury, many Anglo-Norman barons at first mocked this marriage deemed unworthy of the Conqueror’s son and teasingly referred to the royal couple as “Godrick and Godwiga” (Godricum eum et comparam Godgivam appellant). See William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum, ed. Roger A.B. Mynors, Rodney M. Thomson, and Michael Winterbottom, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1998), 1:716 (book 5, chap. 394). 148  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, E (1127), accessed July 16, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/e/e-L.html.

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deeply rooted in the German elite. It was borne, for instance, by her great-great-greatgrandmother (d. 968), the wife of Henry I the Fowler, venerated as a local saint; it was to her that the name Matilda owed its exceptional popularity among the Western European elite—just as the popularity of the name Henry was preset by the dynastic success of her husband. When after her husband’s death Aethelic–Matilda married in 1128 count Geoffroy d’Anjou, there was no question of her assuming a new name either—and not only because of her higher dynastic status, but also because in Northern France she was at home and her name was accepted as absolutely adequate. However, when in 1058 emperor Enrique IV’s sister Judith was given in marriage to king Salamon of Hungary, whose country was only beginning integration into the family of Christian nations, she was bestowed, despite her very high lineage, with a new name—Sophia, obviously considered more in line with the traditions of the Arpad family. This would have been an almost commonplace fact had not, after her husband’s death, Judith–Sophia chosen to marry the Polish prince Wladislaw Herman. In her second marriage she was renamed Maria149—perhaps to distinguish her from her new husband’s first wife, Judith of Bohemia. Moving to another country sometimes led to a change of name with no connection to marriage. Quite often abroad a person’s name might become twisted, even distorted beyond recognition. This affected even some names of all-Christian saints. It is not easy, after all, to discern the biblical name Jeremy in the Irish name Dermot or the name Basil in the Hungarian name László. The transformation of Jacob into James also comes as a surprise to many people. However, abroad one frequently received a totally different name. The testimony of the Anglo-Saxon Orderic, who in Normandy was called Vitalis, is revealing; true, the change of name occurred when he became a monk, not because it was a part of the rite but, as he explains, because his English name “appeared too coarse to the Normans.”150 By the way, it seems that those around him called him exclusively Vitalis, so the double name Orderic Vitalis under which he is known today is again a scholarly construction of later times. When studying medi­eval baptismal names and their coexistence with pagan and other family names we should also dismiss some other cases of double names which have no relation to the problem studied here. Combinations of a personal name with a patronymic, i.e., a father’s name combined with the words “son” or “daughter” or followed by a special suffix, should be mentioned here. Patronymics are especially characteristic of Celts, Scandinavians, and the Eastern Slavs, but not unknown elsewhere, for example, in Spain and the French Midi. In this region, unlike the North and the East of Europe, it is not always easy to distinguish the patronymic from a personal name. The 149  Thoma, Namensänderung, 207–8.

150  “I was given the name Vitalis instead of the English name which appeared too coarse to the Normans; it was changed for a name which belonged to a companion of St. Mauricius whose martyrdom was celebrated then” (Nomen quoque Vitalis pro anglico vocamine quod Normannis absonum censebatur michi impositum est, quod ab uno sodalium sancti Mauricii martiris cuius tunc martirium celebrabatur mutuatum est). Cited from Ordericus Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiastica, 6:554 (book 13, chap. 45).



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father’s name ought to be put in the genitive, but often enough we find it in the nominative. So, instead of Bernardus Raimundi it is not uncommon to encounter in a charter Bernardus Raimundus,151 the more so because in Occitan this double name was probably pronounced something like Bernart Raimon. The problem is further complicated by the fact that in the lists of witnesses (which supply a considerable portion of our anthroponomical data) as well as in some other common situations both the first and the second names are often mentioned in the genitive.152 What is more, sometimes the second name is in the genitive, but is in fact not a patronymic but rather a prototype of the family name. This group of problems is well-studied in the material of Languedoc.153 A significant amount of comparable data has been accumulated concerning Catalonia, Gascony, Navarra, and Provence,154 which permits one to speak about more or less common trends of personal names in southwestern Europe. Here double names of this sort (both elements put in the nominative) became so normal that they gave birth to a peculiar custom, attested best in Catalonia, of altering the sequence of these elements in the names of twins. The case of the two counts of Barcelona—Ramon Berenger and Berenger Ramon (born ca. 1053)—is notorious.

Changing One’s Name: A New Name or Two Names?

Closely related to the problem of double and multiple names is the issue of changing one’s name as a result of not only coming to live in another land, but also of accepting a new faith, adoption into another family (real or virtual), through reverence for a certain cult, admiration for a certain person, or even as a mere fancy.155 This question is well-

151  “For ten solidi which obtained Pontius Arnaldus and for five solidi which obtained Pontius Aremandi” (pro decem solidis quos habuit Pontius Arnaldus necne propter quinque solidos quos habuit Pontius Aremandi). Cited from Cartulaire d’Aniane, ed. Léon Cassan and Edmond Meynia (Mont­ pellier, 1900), 419 (document 295) (1114), 245 (document 104) (1195); 162 (document 24) (1181).

152  “In the presence of the good men Petri Bernardi de Montaniaco and Raymundi Geraldi de Fontes” (in presentia bonorum virorum Petri Bernardi de Montaniaco et Raymundi Geraldi de Fontes). Cited from Cartulaire d’Aniane, 367 (document 239 (1066-1094); 407 (document 282) (1120); 353 (document 222) (1127), 261 (document 118) (1138); 140 (document 6) (1181); 13 (document 13 (1183). 153  Duhamel-Amado, Genèse des lignages méridionaux, 1:281ff.; Patrice Beck, Monique Bourin, and Pascal Chareille, “Nommer au Moyen Age: du surnom au patronyme,” in Le Patronyme. Histoire, anthropo­logie, société, ed. Guy Brunet, Pierre Darlu, and Gianna Zei (Paris, 2001), 13–38.

154  See Régis Saint-Jouan, Le nom de famille en Béarn et ses origines (Paris, 1966); Michel Zimmermann, “Les débuts de la ‘révolution anthroponymique’ en Catalogne (X–XII siècles),” in Mélanges Charles Higounet (Toulouse, 1990), 289–308; Benoî�t Cursente, “Etude sur l’évolution des formes anthroponymiques dans les cartulaires du chapitre métropolitain de Sainte Marie d’Auch (XI–XIII siècles),” in Genèse médiévale de l’anthroponymie, 1:143–78; José Angel Garcia de Cortazar, “Antroponimia en Navarra y Rioja en los siglos X a XII,” in Antroponimia y sociedad, ed. Pascual Martí�nez Sopeña (Valladolid, 1995), 283–96; Florian Mazel, “Noms propres, dévolution du nom et dévolution du pouvoir dans l’aristocratie provençale (milieu X–fin XII siècle),” Provence historique 85 (2003): 131–74. 155  For example, Frederick II Hohenstaufen married two Isabels (daughters of Jean de Brienne, the Latin emperor of Constantinople, and of John Lackland) and had them both renamed Elisabeth!

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studied in the already cited book by Gertrud Thoma, who unfortunately did not pay due attention to the religious aspect of the problem. To be fair, quite a few famous cases of changing one’s name in the Middle Ages were not at all connected with religion. Rather often this type of name-change involved dynastic considerations. A famous example is the adoption of Grimoald, son of the Pippinide maiordomus of Austrasia, also called Grimoald, imposed on the Merovingian king Sigebert III (d. 656). The younger Grimoald took the name Childebert—a family name of the Merovingians—the right thing to do no doubt, but a step which did not help him retain the throne.156 Several decades later another somersault of Frankish politics confirmed the importance of dynastic names for the succession to the throne. As already mentioned, in 715 in order to ascend to the throne of Neustria, later also to the throne of Austrasia, Daniel, the son of king Childeric II, had to take a new name, more appropriate for a long-haired king—Chilperic. In the case of Grimoald–Childebert, we have a poorly masked attempt of usurping both the throne and the throne name. Undisguised usurpation of power was quite often accompanied by assumption of a royal name. This is especially characteristic of medi­eval Scandinavia, where a change of name for a more prestigious, dynastic name (for example, Magnus, often given to illegitimate sons) happened rather often with the aim of vindicating one’s claim to the throne.157 Recent studies of the early medi­eval elites, notably by Régine Le Jan, have shown that name-giving was an important political instrument in the consolidation of the ruling clans and their eventual transformation into feudal lineages.158 A thoughtful namegiving policy helped the lord to adjust his relations with his vassals and his entourage in general. By baptizing the children of his peers and of his subordinates, and participating in giving them a proper name, he could, to some extent, assert his position in society and enlarge his clientele. In most cases we can learn about this only by analyzing the name-stock of the lineages and of their dependants. The monumental study by Claudie Duhamel-Amado, cited above, on the formation of the aristocracy in central Languedoc, furnishes much material to prove this point. Acting as godfather to a foreign prince, especially to a baptized pagan prince, and accepting him in a virtual way into one’s family, as it happened with Gutrumn–Aethelstan, Hrollo–Robert, and Svein–Otto in the West, and Boris–Michael and Vladimir–Basil in the East, had a hidden motive of more or less the same sort, though of course the tangible political consequences of such acts should not be overestimated. Arnold Angenendt has studied this aspect extensively.159

156  This story is well known from textbooks, but sources are rather vague about what actually happened. The most detailed account is given in the 43rd chapter of the Liber historiae Francorum, which, however, does not mention the names involved. The change of Grimoald’s name is not stated in one particular text, but can be deduced from matching several sources. See Thoma, Namensänderung, 134–37. 157  Fyodor Borisovich Uspensky, Имя и власть. Выбор имени как инструмент династической борьбы в средневековой Скандинавии [Name and Power. The Choice of Name as an Instrument of Dynastic Struggle in Medi­eval Scandinavia] (Moscow, 2001). 158  Le Jan, Famille et pouvoir, 179–223.

159  Arnold Angenendt, “Taufe und Politik im frühen Mittelalter,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 7 (1973): 143–68.



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In some cases, the change of name was caused by a change of social status. Thus, when in 956 the Byzantine emperor Roman II chose as his second wife a certain Anastasia, daughter of a tavern keeper, she was given a new name—Theophano. This case is especially interesting because Anastasia was a perfectly Orthodox name quite common among Greeks; her new name may be regarded as dynastic, but perhaps it was also simply a new name which signified a social rebirth. A similar event took place in early Capetian France: when the future king Robert II married Rozala, the daughter of Berengar II of Italy and the widow of count Arnulf II of Flanders, she assumed the name Susanna.160 The significance of this renaming is not quite clear. The name Rosa is known since Roman times, borne by three saints of the third and fourth centuries, and this affected early medi­eval Italian anthroponymy. The name Rozala, however, is not attested otherwise in the sources; perhaps it was simply a diminutive form of Rosa. As for the name Susanna, it was not unknown in Gaul; it was used now and then in Frankish noble families, though not in the family of the Robertines, and did not belong to the group of popular or prestigious names.161 Probably the name Rozala seemed inappropriate for a queen, whereas Susanna was at least a biblical name. Such names were not fashionable at the time (Germanic names prevailed: Adelaide, Ermengarde, Giselle, Matilde, and so on) but they were not exceptional; let me recall that Charles the Bald’s mother was called Judith. I would also not exclude a biblical allusion relevant in the case of a widow who hurried to remarry soon after the death of her husband: the biblical Susanna (Dan. 13), as we know, was a slandered, but acquitted righteous wife. Of course, this is only a suggestion. A change of name was sometimes caused by other political considerations. One of the most striking cases relates to the family of Charles the Great. In 781 his third son Carloman was renamed Pepin and under this name he was proclaimed king of Italy, despite his tender age. We find an intelligible account of this event only in one of the many chrono­graphic texts of this time, in the Annales Mosellani,162 though also in a poetical text by Gotschalk,163 whereas, for example, the Annales Fuldenses tell us that in that year “Charles’ son Pippin was baptized in Rome by Pope Adrian,”164 rather odd for a boy 160  “Balduin, whose mother Rozala was a daughter of Berengar, the king of Italy; after the death of count Arnulf she married Robert, the king of France, and having changed her name to Susanna reigned as queen” (Balduinus, cuius mater Rozala filia fuit Berengarii regis Italiae, quae post mortem Arnulfi principis Roberto regi Francorum nuppsit et Susanna dicta, mutato nomine regina regnavit). Cited from “Vita Bertulfi abbatis Renticensis,” in Acta Ordinis S. Benedicti. Pars prima, ed. Lucas d’Achery and Joannes Mabillon, 6 vols. in 9 (Venice, 1734), 3:52; Richer Remensis (Remensis, Historiarum, 290 (book 4, chap. 87)) knows her only as Susanna. See also Le Jan, Famille et pouvoir, 326, 377.

161  Morlet, Les noms de personne, 2:98–99, 109; Giulio Savio, Monumenta Onomastica Romana Medii Aevi (X–XII sec.) (Rome, 1999), 4:724–29, 1055–56.

162  “King Charles came to Rome and baptized there his son Carloman whom Pope Adrian, having changed [the boy’s] name, called Pippin and anointed him as king over Italy” (perrexit rex Karolus Romam et baptizatus est ibi filius eius, qui vocabatur Karlomannus, quem Adrianus papa mutato nomine vocavit Pippinum et unxit in regem super Italiam). Cited from Annales Mosellani, 497 (781). 163  Poetae latinae aevi Carolini, ed. Ernst Dümmler, MGH Poetae 1 (Berlin, 1881), 95 (lines 23–28).

164  “Pippinus filius Karoli Romae baptizatur ab Adriano pontifice.” Cited from Annales Fuldenses, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 1 (Hannover, 1826), 349 (781).

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of four! The underlying reason for this event has been interpreted in different ways; it seems it was the result of a combination of two political actions: the prevention of Pepin the Hunchback, Charlemagne’s elder son, from inheriting the throne (780) and the search for an optimal name for the future king of Italy. The name Carloman, borne by the late brother and co-ruler of Charlemagne, apparently was regarded as bringing bad luck; at least in Rome, it aroused undesirable associations because the unfortunate king Carloman (d. 771) chose to ally with the Lombards, traditional foes of the Papacy. The name Pepin, on the contrary, recalled Charlemagne’s father, Pepin the Short, who protected the Papacy from the Lombards and handed over the central regions of Italy to the Holy See.165

“Real” Double Names

Turning now to “real” double names, which indeed existed in the Middle Ages, I should admit in the first place that the raison d’être of at least some of them can only be surmised. The most curious examples are double names formed from two pagan names. Such names appear in the texts of Gregory of Tours, who mentions a certain Burgundian duke Guntramn, sometimes calling him Guntramn Boso,166 perhaps to distinguish him from both king Guntrumn and another duke called Boso.167 This explanation, however plausible, should not overshadow the fact that “our” duke had two names. Gregory also mentions a count Gundegisil from Saintes called Dodo,168 and this raises similar questions because Dodo was a rather widespread name found separately also in the History of the Franks. This text contains yet other examples of this type of double name.169 Sporadic cases of people with two pagan names are cited by later authors. Thus, in the Vita of St. Sadalberge (fl. seventh century, from the regions of Langres and Laon), we find her husband named as Blandinus Boso.170 Paul the Deacon mentions a bishop of

165  Peter Classen, “Karl der Grosse und die Thronfolge im Frankreich,” in Festshrift für Hermann Heimpel zum 70. Geburtstag (Göttingen, 1972), 109–34.

166  Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 187 (book 4, chap. 50); 199 (book 5, chap. 4); 291 (book 6, chap. 24); 293 (book 6, chap. 26) (Guntramn); 230 (book 5, chap. 24); 335 (book 7, chap. 14); 353 (book 7, chap. 32); 360 (book 7, chap. 38); 443 (book 9, chap. 23) (Guntramn Boso); 207 (book 5, chap. 14); 225 (book 5, chap. 18); 231–32 (book 5, chap. 25); 358 (book 7, chap. 36); 388 (book 8, chap. 21); 421 (book 9, chap. 8); 424 (book 9, chap. 10) (Guntramn; Guntramn Boso). 167  Gregorius Turonensis, Libri Historiarum X, 361 (book 7, chap. 38); 450 (book 9, chap. 31).

168  “He ordered Gundegisil, the count of Saintes, called Dodo, to assume the post of bishop” (iussit Gundegisilum Sanctonicum comitem cognomento Dodonem episcopum ordinare). Cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 388–89 (book 8, chap. 22).

169  “Vidastis called Avus” (Vidastis cognomento Avus) cited from Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 327–28 (book 7, chap. 3); “Wistrimund called Tatto, citizen of Tours” (Wistrimundi quoque cognomento Tattonis civis Turonici) cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 524 (book 10, chap. 29).

170  “A certain strong man […] Blandin by name who accepted to be called Baso” (vir quidam strenuous […] nomine Blandinus qui cognomentum Baso acceperat) cited from Vita Sadalbergae, ed. Bruno Krusch and W. Levison, MGH SS rer. Merov. 5 (Hannover, 1910), 55 (chap. 10); “He presented […] two young lads of which the elder was called Leuduin otherwise Bodo, the younger Fulculf



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Metz Goeric “who was also called Abbo.”171 Similar cases are known from early medi­eval charters.172 What do we make of these double names? In the light of the information on baptizing by a pagan name, we cannot exclude that an element of these double names is in fact a baptismal name, but there is no proof for this. Another possible explanation for Gaul of the sixth and seventh centuries is that it was an attempt to imitate Roman multi-component names. We might recall that Gregory of Tours’ full name was Georgius Florentius Gregorius.173 Another sixth-century author, the famous poet Fortunatus, an Italian by birth, even had four names: Venantius Honorius Clementinianus Fortunatus, though his contemporaries, including Gregory of Tours, called him simply Fortunatus—at least it is under this name that he usually figures in the sources.174 We deal here not so much with a combination of a “praenomen” and a “nomen” or a “cognomen,” but rather with personal names of elder relatives from both paternal and maternal sides, sometimes with an addition of a baptismal name. In the two cited cases these are probably Gregorius and Clementinianus. This practice could have influenced the Germanic-speaking peoples of that age. However, if we examine the Anglo-Saxon stock of names, which experienced hardly any Roman influence at all, we may need to discard this as the principal hypothesis, as double names of this type were also a feature of early medi­eval England. King Aethelwald of Northumbria (759–765) was also called Aethelwald Moll and simply Moll.175 About King Eadbreacht of Kent (796–798), the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says: “Eadbrecht, whose other name was Praen” and in another entry calls him Praen.176 who was also named Bodo” (duos bonae indolis adolescentulos […] praesentavit, quorum senior Leuduinus cognomento Bodo, iunior vero Fulculfus, qui et ipse alio vocabulo Bodo dicebatur) cited from Vita Sadalbergae, 53 (chap. 4).

171  “After the most blessed Arnulf, the thirty-third [bishop] Goeric who is also known as Abbo, governed the church of Metz” (post beatissimum denique Arnulfum Mettensi ecclesiae Goericus tricesimus, qui et Abbo vocitatus est, praefuit). Cited from Paulus Diaconus, Gesta episcoporum Mettensium, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, MGH SS 2 (Hannover, 1829), 267. 172  This is the case of: “Asig qui et Adalrichus; Basinus qui et Tancradus; Tietzelinus qui et Alfridus.” Cited from Le Jan, Famille et pouvoir, 192–93. 173  Martin Heinzelmann, Gregor von Tours (538–594) (Darmstadt, 1994), 10–21.

174  Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 204; Diaconus, Historia Langobardorum, 79 (book 2, chap. 13). Fortunatus’s full name is known only thanks to the heading in a manu­script containing his writings. See Venance Fortunat, Poèmes, ed. Marc Reydellet (Paris, 1994), 20.

175  “And Moll Aethelwald began to rule in Northumbria” (⁊ Moll Æþelwald fent to rice on Norðhymbrum). Cited from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (759), accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc. jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html; “And Moll the king of the Northumbrians slew Oswin” (⁊ Moll Norþhymbra cyning ofsloh Oswine)cited from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (761), accessed July 17, 2019, http:// asc.jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html; “[the Northumbrians] took Aethelred the son of Moll as their lord” (genamon Æþelred Molles sunu him to hlaforde). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (774), accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html; “And Aethelred the son of Aethelwald again took power” (7 Aeþelred Aþelwaldes sunu eft feng to rice). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (790), accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L.html. 176  “And Edbert who by another name was called Praen became the king of Kent” (⁊ Eadbryht onfeng rice on Cent. þam was oþer noma nemned Præn). Cited from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, A,

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The archbishop of York, Aethelbert (766/67–779/80), mentioned in the Chronicle177 as well as in some later texts from Northern England, was known in Southern England as Coena.178 St. Aelfheah, the bishop of Winchester, then archbishop of Canterbury (d. 1012), was also called Godwin.179 This phenomenon was by no means a prerogative of the Anglo-Saxon elite: in a Wiltshire charter of the late ninth century, we find a certain Aethelhelm Higa, thereafter called simply Higa.180 Rudolf of Fulda mentions that St. Leoba (d. 782), a noble Anglo-Saxon and a relative of St. Boniface, was initially called Thrutgeba.181 It appears that Leoba is a diminutive (meaning “beloved”?) or simply a German version of the name Leofgyth, mentioned in Bonifatius’s letters, but we have no idea why it became the saint’s name.182 Different explanations of this phenomenon are possible. It has been suggested that Praen is no more than a nickname meaning “priest,” for the person in question was ordained; no proof of the latter is given, however.183 I am unwilling to comment on this assumption, but nicknames were indeed very widely used, with the real name or even on their own. In some cases, it is not impossible that we see a combination of a given name with a baptismal name or a name received when entering holy orders; this may have been the case of Aelfheah Godwin. Sometimes a throne name cannot be excluded either, for example, in the case of Aethelwald Moll, who apparently did not belong to the royal Northumbrian family and may have wanted, by taking a royal name, to better assert his position. However, the quantity and the variety of the double names surviving from the Anglo-Saxon period suggest that this phenomenon deserves more consideration. It strikes me that the second name usually belongs to another stylistic type entirely. Thus, Eadbrecht was not called Eadbald, Eadsige, Eadwald, Eadwulfe, or something (794) [796], accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/a/a-L.html. “And took Praen their king” (⁊ gefengun Praen hiera cyning). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, A (796) [798], accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/a/a-L.html. 177  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, D (766, 779), accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/d/d-L. html. 178  See, for example, the letter addressed to him by archbishop Lull of Mainz, a native of Wessex: Sancti Bonifatii et Lulli epistolae, 262–63 (letter 125).

179  “[B]ishop Aelfhead, who by another name was called Godwin” (bisceopes Ælfheages, se ðe oðran naman wæs geciged Godwine). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, A (984), accessed July 17, 2019, http://asc.jebbo.co.uk/a/a-L.html.

180  Cartularium Saxonicum. A Collection of Charters Relating to Anglo-Saxon History, ed. Walter de Gray Birch, 4 vols. (London, 1887), 2:236–37 (document 591). 181  “[…] and gave birth to a daughter called Thrutgeba also named Leoba because she was beloved, for that is the sense of the name in Latin” ([…] et genuit filiam quam vocavit Thrûtgeba, cognomento Leoba, eo quod esset dilecta; hoc enim Latine cognominis hujus interpretatio sonat). Cited from Rudolfus Fuldensis, Vita Leobae abbatissae, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 15/1 (Hannover, 1887), 121–31 at 124 (chap. 6). 182  Elisabeth Okasha, Women’s Names in Old English (Farnham, 2011), 88.

183  John Mitchell Kemble, “The Names, Surnames, and Nicknames of the Anglo-Saxons,” in Proceedings at the Annual Meeting of the Archaeo­logical Institute of Great Britain and Ireland at Winchester, September 1845 (London, 1846), 93.



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similar, but Praen. Which was of course only natural: giving a child a second name that sounds like the first would have been strange. But how did such combinations come into being? It is tempting to assume that double names reflect the peculiarities of the namestock of the person’s paternal and maternal families or—as in the case of Aethelbert Coena—the onomastic traditions of different ethnic groups constituting England. And such cases no doubt occurred. Yet common sense suggests that this explanation is not sufficient. After all, most people of that period usually bred in their own limited circle, within which the stylistic likeness of the names must have been quite strong. Perhaps these names made up of very different elements attracted attention and were memorable, whereas other double names were simply not reflected in the sources. But argument ex silentio is not enough to serve as the basis of a hypothesis. Most of these double names have nothing to do with assuming a baptismal name, and as far as we know neither a new baptism nor any other religious rite was involved. Nevertheless, some double names are the result of such rituals and deserve to be studied more closely.

Christian Names for Converted Jews, Muslims, and Heretics

A heathen accepting Christianity had naturally to be baptized. But as we have seen, in the West, baptism was not necessarily accompanied by the assumption of a Christian name. This is especially curious since a change of name was required when a representative of other Abrahamic religions was accepted into the Christian community. Change of name was obligatory when baptizing a Jew. There are some famous cases such as Jude Ben David ga-Levi from Co­logne, who was subsequently known as Hermann and left us his autobio­graphy,184 or the Spanish physician Petrus Alfonsi, who, prior to his conversion, was known as Mosche Sefardi.185 One cannot be certain that there were no exceptions, but probably the absence of data should be interpreted in this case as such and not as a violation of the norm. In the later Middle Ages, when sources become far more numerous and precise, a change of name was a must.186 But not everywhere. 184  Jean-Claude Schmitt, La conversion d’Hermann le Juif. Autobio­graphie, histoire et fiction (Paris, 2003), 179–206 (chap. 5 “Le baptême et le nom”). 185  See Steven F. Kruger, The Spectral Jew. Conversion and Embodiment in Medi­eval Europe (Minneapolis, 2006). See also Maria del Carmen Garcí�a Herrero, “Por que sepáis todos los nombres,” in Un año en la Historia de Aragón: 1492, ed. Carlos Laliena and Maria del Carmen Garcí�a Herrero (Zaragoza, 1992), 65–74; Asunción Blasco Martinez, “La conversión de judí�os y su repercusión en la sociedad aragonesa durante los primeros años del reinado de Alfonso el Magnánimo,” in La Corona d’Aragona ai tempi di Alfonso II el Magnánimo: i modeli politico-istituzionali, la circolazione degli uomini, delle idee, delli merci, gli influssi sulla società e sul costume, 2 vols. (Naples, 2001), 1:841–59.

186  Gilbert Dahan, Les intellectuеls chrétiens et les juifs au Moyen âge (Paris, 1990); Cecilia Tasca, Gli Ebrei in Sardegna nel XIV secolo: società, cultura, istituzioni (Cagliari, 1992); Danièle Iancu-Agou, Juifs et Néophytes en Provence. L’exemple d’Aix à travers le destin de Régine Abram de Draguignan (1469–1525) (Paris, 2001); Alain Bournet and Aymat Catafau, “Esclaves musulmans et maî�tres chrétiens à Perpignan et en Roussillon au Moyen Age,” in Perpignan. L’histoire des musulmans dans la ville (Perpignan, 2005), 63–83; Claude Denjean, “Les néophytes en Roussillon et en Cerdagne

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At least in Sicily the acceptance of a new name, although common practice, was not always required by the Church.187 Likewise, it was considered self-evident that the baptism of a Muslim presupposed assigning him a new name188—even though Christians shared a number of names with Muslims, to say nothing of Jews. The most important to all three communities was probably the name Jacob. What happened when a heretic was baptized anew is less clear. Actually, this occurrence was rare because it was argued that a person cannot undergo two baptisms, just as it is impossible to be born twice. True, some theo­logians, among them Cyprian of Carthage, (d. 258) insisted that all those who had deviated from the Church ought to be rebaptized. However, most of the Fathers, including St. Stephen, the Roman pope from 253 to 257, who actually excommunicated Cyprian for insisting on this point, held to a much more flexible position, explaining that if a person was baptized in the name of the Holy Trinity (as it is suggested in Mt. 28.19) and then chose to join the Catholic community, he or she did not need to undergo a new baptism.189 Augustine, among others, shared and defended this position. An even more lenient approach came from an interpretation of Acts 2.38, 8.16, 10.48, and 19.5, which tell us that the Apostles had their followers baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. The stumbling block was whether the neophyte’s former understanding of the Trinity was compatible with the teaching of the Church, or in fact so different that the very idea of the Trinity was totally distorted. This position is, in general, outlined in the Constitutiones apostolicae attributed to St. Clement, but composed, as it is thought today, in Syria about 380.190 Gradually the more lenient point of view prevailed. It is reflected in the decisions of the Council of au XVe siècle: réflexions pour une typo­logie,” in L’expulsion des juifs de Provence et de l’Europe méditerranéenne. Exils et conversions (XVe–XVIe siècles), ed. Danièle Iancu-Agou (Paris, 2006), 207–30.

187  Nadia Zeldes, The Former Jews of this Kingdom. Sicilian Converts after the Expulsion, 1492–1516 (Leiden, 2003).

188  John Boswell, The Royal Treasure. Muslim Communities under the Crown of Aragon in the Fourteenth Century (New Haven, 1977), 347, 379; Pierre Guichard, “Anthroponymie des zones de contact entre monde chrétien et monde musulman: de Palerme à Tolède,” in L’Anthroponymie: document de l’histoire sociale des mondes méditerranéens médiévaux. Actes du colloque international organisé par l’Ecole française de Rome avec le concours du GDR 955 du C.N.R.S. “Genèse médiévale de l’anthroponymie moderne” (Rome, 6–8 octobre 1994), ed. Monique Bourin, Jean-Marie Martin, and François Menant (Rome, 1996), 109–22. This approach has been widely studied in France. Here is an interesting example which I owe to Vera Yarnykh: “From these [pious men] they learned sufficiently about the dogmas of the Christian faith and through the font of sacred baptism cleansed themselves in the name of the Holy Trinity; one of them, that is Lamamah, was named Felicius, the other, that is Zephiguira, was called Marcell” (A quibus etiam dogmate christianae fidei sufficienter imbuti fonteque sacris baptismatis in nomine sancti Trinitati abluti, unus eorum, scilicet Lamamach, Felicius vocatus est, alter vero, id est Zephiguira, Marcellus est appellatus). Cited from “Vita Sancti Eusicii,” in Catalogus codicum hagio­graphicorum Latinorum antiquiorum saeculo XVI qui asservantur in Bibliotheca nationali Parisiensi, 3 vols. (Bruxelles, 1890), 2:134 (сhap. 4). 189  Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 380–99.

190  Guillelmus Ü� ltzen, ed., Constitutiones apostolicae (Schwerin, 1853), 246 (book 8, chap. 47, can. 46–50).



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Arles (314), which played an important role in the development of canon law,191 then in the decisions of at least two Oecumenical Councils maintaining, in different wording, that baptism is necessary only if the two confessions in question do not share a similar understanding of the Trinity. In other cases, the rite of confirmation was deemed sufficient, in compliance with the 7th canon of the Second Oecumenical Council of 381 and the 95th canon of the Sixth Oecumenical Council of 680–681. It was also specified that in cases of minor theo­logical distinctions, it was enough to renounce the erroneous beliefs and receive the priest’s benediction. On these grounds even Arians wishing to accept the Nicene version of Christianity were usually required to undergo only confirmation and not baptism.192 Catholic and Orthodox confessions being much closer to one another than either of them to Arianism, confirmation or even a simple benediction, not baptism, were considered necessary when a person sought to join the other community. Attempts to impose a new baptism on a neophyte were rare and looked upon with disapproval. The Council of Constance, for example, analyzed in 1417 such a practice in Poland regarding Orthodox Christians. It was officially condemned by Pope Alexander VI in 1501.193 In the Orthodox world such attempts were also quite rare, considered to be against the canon law, a position clearly stated in the acts of the Constantinople Council of 1484. Subsequently the Catholic Church held to this position without exception, whereas the Orthodox world at least twice deviated from it.194 This is, of course, a problem worth a separate study, so necessarily I limit myself here to exploring only one aspect of this custom: that of assuming a new name which now and then accompanied the change of faith. Such cases are indeed known. Thus Hermenegild, son of the Arian Visigothic king Leovigild, converted to the Nicene Creed some time prior to 586 when he met a martyr’s death, receiving from St. Leander of Seville both the chrism and a new name, John.195 Likewise, after the schism of 1054, converts 191  Charles Munier, ed., Concilia Galliae (314 –506) (Turnhout, 1963), 3–25.

192  Besides Ferguson’s book see Nathan J. Ristuccia, Christianization and Commonwealth in Early Medi­eval Europe (Oxford, 2018).

193  Augustinus Theiner, ed., Vetera monumenta Poloniae et Lithuaniae gentiumque finitimarum historiam illustrantia (Rome, 1861), 283–84 (document 303); “Altitudo divini concili,” in Documenta Pontificum Romanorum historiam Ucraniae illustrantia, ed. Athanasius G. Welykyj (Rome, 1953), 186–88 (document 108). 194  The first episode took place in Russia in 1620 and is linked to the personal attitude of the then Moscow patriarch Philarete, the father of the first Romanov tsar, Michail. Having spent several years in a Polish prison during the Time of Troubles, he returned to Russia violently anti-Catholic and managed to impose his vision on the Russian Church, despite the protests of a number of prominent clergymen, better versed in the canon than their rather worldly pastor. This decision was overruled by the Council of 1655 presided over by patriarch Nikon, again by the Council of 1667. The second episode, for less comprehensible reasons, occurred in 1756 at the Constantinople Council of the Greek Church. The Church of Greece still abides by this decision. See Archimandrite Ambrosius (Pagodin), О чине принятия в Православную Церковь. Исторический обзор [On the Rite of Reception into the Orthodox Church. A Historical Survey], accessed July 17, 2019, http:// www.fatheralexander.org/booklets/russian/baptizm_pogodin.htm. 195  “He was converted to the Catholic creed and, at chrismation, called John” (conversus est ad

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from Western to Eastern Christianity were sometimes required, when being anointed, to take a new name. This is clearly stated in a text from Novgorod written about 1147 known as “Cyric’s Inquiry.”196 Dynastic marriages between royal and princely families belonging to the two parts of Europe sometimes also led to a change of name. Before the schism of 1054, no special religious ritual was required. The case of the Greek princess Theophano, who, in 972, married Otto II, serves as a clear indication; no change of name occurred. The case of the three daughters of Yaroslav the Wise (Anne, Anastasia, and Elisabeth), married to the kings of France, Hungary, and Norway, respectively, supply us with other examples.197 If prior to 1054 a princess crossing the border between Western and Eastern Christianity had to change her name, it had nothing to do with any canonical considerations. It happened rather because the original name was regarded abroad as pagan or improper for other reasons. Thus in 1019 the newly baptized Russians would not accept the name of Yaroslav’s Swedish wife—Ingegerd (born in 1001)— and she came to be called Irene.198 This case is of special interest since Ingegerd was definitely baptized in her homeland (though not as an infant), when, about 1008, her father, Olaf Shötkonung, and his family accepted the Christian faith together. Why she was not given a Christian name, whereas her brother was baptized as Jacob, we can only guess. After 1054 when a princess married from West to East or vice versa, a change of name took place often, though usually the sources are vague about it. For example, when in 1087 Eupraxia, a granddaughter of Yaroslav and Ingegerd, became the wife of emperor Henry IV she had to take a new name, Adelheid, but there is no information that a religious ritual of any sort took place. Similar cases are recorded at the Byzantine court starting in the twelfth century. Perhaps the most notorious is the case of a Hungarian princess known mostly by her pagan name, Piroska, but who was in fact baptized as Priska or Priscilla, after a first-century Christian martyr canonized in 595; the choice of her baptismal name was no doubt influenced by the phonetic proximity with the popu-

legem catholicam ac, dum crismaretur, Johannis est vocitatus). Cited from Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 244 (book 5, chap. 38). In this passage only his baptismal name is mentioned; usually Gregory calls him Hermenegild (Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 287 (book 6, chap. 18); 310 (book 6, chap. 40); 316 (book 6, chap. 43); 390, (book 8, chap. 28)) or speaks about him simply as of Leovigild’s son (Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 295 (book 6, chap. 29); 304 (book 6, chap. 33)). It is worth mentioning that the marriage of the Visigothic princess Brunehild with the Frankish king Sigebert I (567), upon which she accepted Catholicism, does not seem to have led to a name change. See Gregorius Turonensis, Historia Francorum, 160 (book 4, chap. 27).

196  “Вопросы Кирика” [Cyric’s Inquiries], in Русская историческая библиотека, Памятники древнерусского канонического права. Ч. 1. Памятники XI–XV в. [Russian Historical Library, Monuments of Canon Law from Ancient Rus, Part 1: Monuments of the Eleventh to Fifteenth Centuries] (Saint Petersburg, 1880), 6:26–27 (cols.) (title 10). 197  Vasilyevich Nazarenko, Древняя Русь, 568. According to a much later source, Anne, the wife of Henri I of France, was subsequently called Agnes, but it has been shown that this was due to a misunderstanding. See Roger Hallu, Anne de Kiev, reine de France (Rome, 1973), 41–42; Thoma, Namensänderung, 197–98. 198  Litvina and Uspensky, Выбор имени, 566–67.



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lar pagan name, meaning “reddish” in Hungarian.199 Upon becoming in 1104 the wife of the future emperor John II Komnenos, she was renamed Irene and later acclaimed saint by that name. Bertha of Sulzbach, the first wife of his son and successor Manuel, was in 1142 also renamed Irene, and in 1179, when the future Alexis II Komnenos was betrothed to the French princess Agnes, the daughter of Louis VII, she took the name Anne. Some of the Byzantine princesses who, in their turn, married Catholic rulers of the West, were also forced to change their names. For example, Irene, the daughter of Isaac II Angel, in her second marriage with emperor Philip of Swabia (1197), was called Maria. In exceptional cases when Western princes married into the Byzantine imperial family and came to live among the Greeks, they too received a new name. This was the case of Ranieri of Montferrat, husband (1179) of Maria, daughter of Manuel Komnenos and Bertha, who was given the title of Caesar and a more suitable name, John. Change of name never became the rule, even after 1204 when Eastern and Western Christians grew further apart. To give but one example: Anne, the daughter of King Stephen V of Hungary and the first wife of the future emperor Andronikos II, did not change her name at marriage (1273), probably because the Greeks accepted it as a proper Christian name deeply rooted in imperial history. Yet, assuming a new name became more common. In 1284 the second wife of Andronikos II, Yolanta of Montferrat, upon accepting orthodoxy, changed her name to Irene. Likewise, the two foreign wives of Andronikos III took new names: Adelheid of Brunswick in 1318 also became Irene, whereas Giovanna of Savoie in 1326 took the name Anne. It is interesting to note that similar attitudes prevailed when a marriage of an orthodox ruler was arranged with an Armenian princess. Thus, when in 1294 Rita, the daughter of Levon II of Armenia Minor, married Michael IX Palaio­logos, she was renamed Maria. Despite serious differences between the two confessions the question of rebaptism was not evoked, since confirmation was thought to be sufficient. About the same time Rita’s brother, ex-king of Armenia Hetoum II, accepted Catholicism and was given a new name—John.200 Unfortunately, it is not clear what ritual took place. It was only much later, in the modern era, that anointment together with the change of name were considered necessary (though this rule was in no way canonical) in the case of a marriage between a Catholic and an Orthodox person, at least in the Orthodox world. When faced with a similar challenge, Western Christianity usually adopted a more flexible policy, as demonstrated by the story of Theodore I of Monferrat, the son of Andronikos II and Yolanta, who, upon settling in Catholic Italy in 1306, managed to keep his original name and cultural identity. In the East, more rigid attitudes prevailed. Anointment and a new name were the rule in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Russia when Western (always Protestant and never Catholic!) princesses married into the Romanov family. Thus Sophia Augusta Frederica of Anhalt-Zerbst became empress Catherine II. 199  Zoltán Magyar, Az Árpád-ház szentjei (Győr, 2005), 198.

200  Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e del’Oriente Franciscano (Quaracchi, 1906), 1:329. Unfortunately the author does not reveal his source.

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Conclusion

Fragmentary as this data may appear, it points to the fact that different Christian societies of the medi­eval period to some extent shared the idea that a true Christian name ought to be given to a new born or to a neophyte—not necessarily at baptism, but during some religiously meaningful ceremony. It seems, however, that in the West the Christian name, at least in the Early Middle Ages and for some time afterwards, was rarely used in practice, being overshadowed by the conventional vernacular name. As a result, a name rooted in Christian culture and patently linking the baptized person with Christianity became unimportant—to the point that in some cases it was probably never given. This is true of Ireland before the Anglo-Norman invasion of 1171. This is apparently what happened during the baptism of the three Scandinavian heathens mentioned above— Guntrum, Rollo, and Swein—though of course we cannot be certain what words were uttered at the ritual. My guess is that at the bottom of this phenomenon lies the greater flexibility of the Roman Church regarding pagan customs, revealed so well in the tolerant policies of St. Patrick and Gregory the Great or, later, in the famous answers of pope Nicolas I to the questions of the Bulgarian neophyte king Boris, who was alienated from Constantinople, not least by the strictness of Byzantine religious attitudes. Omitting a true Christian name in everyday life or even during baptism was probably considered not too great a sacrifice for the conversion of yet another heathen nation. Evidently a Christian name was regarded unfit or insufficient to meet all the challenges of public and family life and was used mainly in domains somehow connected with religion. At least by the sixth century a conviction seems to have spread in the West that a person could be baptized with a name already borne by a Christian, whether or not it was a genuine Christian name. Only one step separated this position from the idea that it was acceptable to baptize a person under any given name. The fact that church canons had nothing to say about this issue, forcing priests to rely on rather vague and contradictory customs, no doubt helped crystallize this idea. The widespread custom of more than one name (coming from one’s paternal and maternal families, being the result of an adoption, of moving to another country, of accepting a new cult, etc.) contributed greatly to the perception of the baptismal name as simply one of the names everyone used. Another important factor was the cultural proximity of the early medi­eval Germanic nations, which to some extent shared their stock of names and were largely comprehensible to one another. It should not be overlooked that in the Early Middle Ages an overwhelming majority of the Christian neophytes were Germanic and that it was their kinsmen, especially the Franks and the Anglo-Saxons, who evangelized them. It was obviously rather easy to accept a Saxon name like Widukind as one under which a pagan could be baptized, whereas it was unthinkable to accept, for the same purpose, the totally alien names of the Avar khagans, baptized at practically the same time as Widukind. By the time the Catholic missionaries reached the lands of the Western Slavs, a template was formed and it became possible to baptize them under their pagan names as well.



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In some respects, the situation was not very much different among the Eastern and the Southern Slavs, who, with the exception of Slovenians and Croatians, embraced the Orthodox version of Christianity. Here too old pagan names remained the real official names of the people for centuries. However, the Orthodox vision of what a baptismal name stood for and what it meant in religious terms was quite different and this had far-reaching cultural consequences. In short, in the Orthodox East the baptismal name supposed a strong link with the saint whose name was bestowed on the person; the saint was conceived as one’s patron and protector in heaven. As a result, step by step, baptismal names, if not totally supplanted vernacular names (this has not happened even to this day), then they at least become deeply rooted in everyday life and a part of one’s identity. Among Russians and other Eastern Slavs, the vernacular and the baptismal name coexisted for a long time, each employed in the appropriate sphere of activity. Among Bulgarians, Serbs, and Bosnians the two names were often used together—as reflected in official documents, hagio­graphy, chronicles, and inscriptions. It is interesting that this was characteristic also of Croatians whose language was almost the same as Serbian, but who were Catholic. There are examples of similar attitudes among the Western Slavs, also Catholics. On the whole, however, the early medi­eval West developed a different approach to baptismal names. With relatively few exceptions, they were for a long time definitely in the shadow of vernacular names, and this no doubt had a serious impact on the identity of their bearers. By the time baptismal names finally came to the fore—generally in the thirteenth century—vernacular names were accepted as normal Christian names. But as ecclesiastical involvement in family life grew stronger, a compromise was found in the form of a multi-part personal name of which at least one was a true baptismal name linking the person to Christian culture. Yet the emphasis was placed not so much on the name of the heavenly patron or guardian, but on the names of elder relatives, usually from both lines, thus binding the child to his or her kin, sometimes also to godparents, earthly patrons, lords, and protectors of all sorts. Unlike the Orthodox world, which in the Middle Ages witnessed a steady progress of the baptismal name into one’s main, indeed, only name, Western Christianity (and Protestants more obviously than Catholics) gradually developed another conception of the personal name in which the baptismal name was not necessarily the most important or the most often used by the person himself and by others.

Chapter 3

PERSONAL NAMES AND IDENTITY IN THE IBERIAN PENINSULA MOISÉS SELFA

Since antiquity, man has used names to assert his individual identity, which, in turn, distinguished him from his peers. In some cultures, a name was given to a person in accordance with one of their physical or spiritual attributes, and thus it was not bestowed on them at birth, but when they had started to mature or show a certain predisposition or skill. Therefore, it was not a stable name and it could vary throughout the person’s life.1 However, as societies started to evolve culturally, the name given to a person became more in keeping with a wish than a reality, that is to say, a name with symbolic content—which, as religion gained prominence in the history of humanity, was mainly religious—was bestowed on the child at baptism, with the hope that its meaning served as a role model or spiritual inspiration.2 In the biblical world,3 we see how this choice is made before birth and how, when the Lord’s messengers announce to Abraham that his wife Sara, who is an old woman eavesdropping on the conversation, will be a mother, she starts to laugh. It is then that the angels tell Abraham that the child will be called Isaac, which means laughter. This is not a unique case and, as we see in the sacred books of the Jews, there are many other similar onomastic explanations, for example, Moses, which means “saved by the waters.” Therefore, we must keep in mind that in ancient times, an individual’s name was quite original, and that its repetition solely arose from the need to name successive generations. Hence the inspiration for the project that lies behind the present chapter, because the bestowing of a personal name, a first name according to the Christian religion,4 sheds light on each period’s way of thinking and even different family structures. 1  Manuel Palomar, La onomástica personal pre-latina de la antigua Lusitania: estudio lingüístico (Mad­rid, 1957); Joaquí�n Gorrochategui, “Consideraciones sobre la fórmula onomástica y la ex­ presión del origen en algunos textos celtibéricos menores,” in Studia Indogermanica et Palaeo­ hispanica in honorem A. Tovar et L. Michelena. Salamanca: Universidad. Acta Salmanti-censia, Estudios filológicos (Salamanca, 1990), 291–312.

2  Marc Mayer, “El proceso de adopción de la fórmula onomástica romana,” in Palaeohispánica 2 (2002): 189–200. 3  A. Gil Theotonio, “Onomástica bí�blica. La omnipotencia de Dios manifestada en sus nombres,” Miscelánea de Estudios Árabes y Hebraicos. Sección Hebreo 7 (1958): 45–75. 4  Marí�a del Carmen Ansón, “La onomástica cristiana basada en el santoral: bases y criterios para una comprensión de sus repercusiones sociológicas,” Memoria ecclesiae 25 (2004): 725–60.

Moisés Selfa ([email protected]) is Professor Agregat of Didactics of Language and Literature at the Universitat de Lleida, Spain.

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An Approach to a Medi­eval Repertoire of Names in the Iberian Peninsula As Jaime de Salazar Ancha indicates in his Manual de Genealogía Española,5 the Spanish traditional onomastic repertoire is formed primarily from three main sources: Latin, which was common in early Roman Hispanics; Germanic, and specifically Visigoth onomastics; and Jewish, and more particularly biblical, which has entered Spanish onomastics through religious devotion. To a lesser extent we can add to these three types various names of Greek etymo­ logy—originated in medi­eval religious worship—(Gregory, Basil, Athanasius, among others), although they were not as popular as names from the other three sources.6 On the other hand, Muslim onomastics, with the exception of those names to be found among medi­eval Mozarabic,7 held no meaning for Christians and, therefore, as a rule, have not survived into modern times. From the first centuries of the so-called Reconquest (from the eighth century onwards) we possess data that refers to donations of land and privileges to churches and monasteries, in which we find, alongside the names of the kings or lords as grantors, more or less numerous lists of names of witnesses.8 From their study we can extract two important conclusions: the first is that in the times of the Kingdom of Asturias, surnames did not exist or, at least we have not found any evidence that they existed, that is to say, we do not find evidence of what we can define as a family name aimed at distinguishing one person from another.9 The second conclusion is that there is a clear difference between the onomastics of ordinary people and that of the ruling classes.10 In fact, the mass population typically has Latin names, such as Cayo, Mario, Antonio, Honorio, Juliano among men; and Aurea, Marcela, Marina, Julia, and Faustina among women. However, the royal family and the social authorities typically used Germanic names. Therefore, among men we find names like Nuño, Gutierre, Rodrigo, Alfonso, Vermudo, Ramiro, Fruela, Gonzalo, and Hermenegildo; and among women, Elvira, Adosinda, Hermesenda, and Leonor, among others. This does not mean that the ruling class was ethnically Gothic—as it would force us to engage in a polemical question about which we have no in-depth knowledge—but we do wish to highlight the evidence that in the period, the most usual practice, or fashion, was to flaunt names of this origin. 5  Jaime de Salazar Acha, Manual de Genealogía Española (Madrid, 2006), 254.

6  Arminda Lozano Velilla, “Los antropónimos griegos y su presencia en los cultos indí�genas peninsulares,” Studia historica. Historia antigua 6 (1988): 97–106. 7  Helena de Felipe, Identidad y onomástica de los berebéres de Al-Ándalus (Madrid, 1997).

8  Ana Isabel Boullón, Antroponimia medi­eval galega (Berlin, 2014). 9  De Salazar Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 255.

10  Christian Núñez López, “De hispanos a ciudadanos romanos: la guerra como medio de obtención de la ciudadaní�a romana durante el perí�odo republicano,” Revista Universitaria de Historia Militar 7, no. 14 (2018): 85; Ignacio Simón Cornago, “Los alfareros de terra sigillata hispánica con nombre indí�gena,” Palaeohispanica 16 (2016): 95–113.



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From the early to late Middle Ages, and from the Northwestern to Northeastern Iberian Peninsula, we can see that in the Catalan fiscal census (fogatge) dated in 1358, the eight most usual names were, in this order: Pere (Peter), Guillem (William), Bernat (Bernardus), Ramon (Raymond), Arnau (Arnaldus), Berenguer (Berenger), Jaume (James), and Joan (John).11 According to Professor Dieter Kremer, in all cases the use of these names was unrelated to regional preferences of specific localities, but belong to onomastic fashions of the time.12 We can see a similar behaviour in these territories originating from the former Carolingian counties, in which is perceived a greater presence of French names, including Ramon, Ponç, Arnau, Guillem, and Berenguer, which are unusual in the rest of the Iberian Peninsula. Logically, due to Romance dialects, some names, although the same, adopted different forms. Therefore, if Hermenegildo in Gothic became Menendo in Asturias and Galicia, in Catalonia it took the form Armengol; from French-derived forms Ramon, ­Guillem (Guillén), Arnau, Folch, and Guerau.13 Ordinary people generally used the same Hispano-Roman names as the rest of the Peninsula. Onomastic differences can be found in the Basque area, that is, in the early Kingdom of Pamplona and in the Aragonese Pyrenees. Basque–Navarrese society, much more resistant over time to outside influences, remained closed to onomastic changes for centuries. In its structure we find peculiar names, which are not of Germanic origin, and whose etymo­logy is not completely known, being Basque or a Basque-influenced Latin root. We are referring to names such as Sancho, Galindo, Garcí�a, Í�ñigo, Fortún, Velasco, Lope, Aznar, and Jimeno among men, and Urraca, Oneca, Mencí�a, Velasquita, Sancha, and Jimena among women. Two curious practices of unknown origin can be found among women of the time according to extant documentation. The first practice is the use of two names, not as a compound noun, but as a nickname. This is explicitly stated on many occasions: “domna Gontrodo cognominata domna Urraca” or “Muniadomna cognomento domna Mayor.” The second practice we sometimes see is the affixing of the woman’s title to the name as if it were a suffix: Muniadomna, Totadomna, for example.14 This onomastic panorama which, in the eighth to the tenth century is clearly diversified, evolved over the following centuries and ended up crystallizing so that, by the Late Middle Ages,15 it becomes difficult to attribute a specific geo­graphic origin to a person on the basis of his or her name. Therefore, if a Gothic or Latin name could be used at the beginning of the Reconquest to approximately determine the social class of an 11  Enric Moreu-Rey, Antroponímia. Història dels nostres prenoms, cognoms i renoms (Barcelona, 1991), 91.

12  Dieter Kremer, “Quelques impressions de statistique onomastique mediévale,” in Dictionnaire historique des noms de famille romans. Actes del III Col·loqui, ed. Antoni M. Badia i Margarit (Tübingen, 1991), 87. 13  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 256.

14  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 256.

15  Arsenio Dacosta, “Estructura, uso y funciones del nombre en la baja edad media: el ejemplo de los hidalgos vizcaí�nos,” Vasconia 31 (2001): 91–112.

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individual or his geo­graphical origin, as we advance in time this onomastic information will be of less use. In subsequent centuries ordinary people gradually adopted Germanic and Basque–Navarrese names and, in so doing, abandoned the early Hispano-Roman names. What is more, in the thirteenth century, no one in Christian Spain still held the early names marking their ethnic origin.16 The proof lies in the fact that nearly all the surnames that exist today, which are an exact reflection of the Christian names used in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, are mostly composed of early Gothic and Basque names: Fernández, Gutiérrez, Á� lvarez, Ramí�rez, González, Muñoz, Sánchez, López, Garcí�a, and Dí�az, among others in Castilian regions. We simply add to these a few surnames derived from saints of considerable medi­eval devotion such as Domingo, Pedro, Juan, Martí�n, or Bernardo.

The Symbolic Value of Names

A key feature in the choice of a Christian name since the Early Middle Ages is its symbolic value and its obvious use to ascribe each person, especially among the aristocracy, a particular lineage. For this reason, we must emphasize the hereditary nature of given names among the early medi­eval nobility and their transmission within each lineage.17 The value of this onomastic symbolism is such that it was common practice among these classes then, to give the first-born son the name of his paternal grandfather and the second son that of his maternal grandfather. This practice, which could vary when the mother was a wealthy heiress and the father was of lesser importance, was maintained unalterably until the eighteenth century.18 Without a doubt, this onomastic symbolism is why each medi­eval family, especially royal dynasties, have a limited and particular onomastic stock of names.19 Let us now turn to some illustrative examples.20 Firstly, we should note that in the medi­eval Asturian–Leonese dynasty there are a few anthroponyms which are continuously repeated: Fruela, Ramiro, Alfonso, Ordoño, and Vermudo. In the county of Castile, we find Fernando and Gonzalo, and, in Navarre, Í� ñigo, Fortún, Sancho, and Garcí�a. In the county of Barcelona, we find especially Wilfred, Ramon, Borrell, and Berenguer. It is even clearer in other Catalan counties: Hug and Ponç in Empúries; Ramon and Artau in Pallars; Ermengol in Urgell. However, this initial onomastic repertoire expanded over time by marriages between the kings’ and lords’ daughters and the sovereigns of neighbouring dynasties. This explains the addition of names like Sancho and Garcí�a to the Asturian–Leonese dynasty, due to the nuptials between these sovereigns and the Navarrese monarchy, or the addition of the name Fernando through nuptials with a member of the Castilian monarchy. Ramiro and Alfonso, 16  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 257.

17  Inés Calderón Medina, “La antroponimia de la nobleza leonesa plenomedi­eval. Un elemento de construcción de identidad y memoria nobiliaria,” Miscelánea Medi­eval Murciana 35 (2011): 67–88. 18  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 257–58.

19  Robert Fossier, Gente de la Edad Media (Madrid, 2017). 20  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 261.



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names originating in Leon, were introduced into the Navarrese and Aragonese dynasties in the same way. Another feature is that in medi­eval Spain first names are, as elsewhere in Western Europe, inherited from one’s father or mother and rarely respond to other conditions, except for those based on the following exceptions: first, names of devotion which, although not very numerous, generated names of enormous popularity, especially among ordinary people, like Mary, Peter, John, Martin, Bernardus, Salvador, Domingo (spelled and written in the different Latin vernacular forms), and in the fifteenth century, Francis, Anthony and also Joseph, always adapted to different Latin languages in the Iberian Peninsula. Second, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, it became common practice for the Spanish nobility to adopt names from the Arthurian cycles, such as Lancelot, Tristan, Galaor, Lionel, Perceval, and Galvan. Third, as a general rule, all other new names were introduced by marriage. Therefore, their presence provides a valuable clue in the identification of the mother’s family when unknown, helping us to discover its source.

Lineage Names and Surnames

When addressing the concept of onomastic identity in its broad socio-historic sense, we must emphasize the difference between the concepts of lineage and surname.21 The first is a term used by society to distinguish one family from another, while the second is used by each individual because of his attachment to a family. The difference is that a surname is used by an individual as his or her own, whereas the lineage name is attributed by society. In current times, this differentiation does not appear extremely productive, at least in larger cities, because one’s family name and surname tend to be the same. However, in rural settings they are two very different things, and most families in villages were still officially referred to by names unrelated to their surnames. Although this was the common practice in past centuries, it is currently quite exceptional in our society. What is the origin of this onomastic phenomenon? In spite of the fact that a surname is adopted and used by a family, the name of a lineage is imposed by society without the prior consent of those affected, only becoming a surname when those concerned specifically adopt it as such. In an attempt to clarify these differences, we offer the following historical example.22 In modern history the term Trastámara refers to the royal house emanating from Henry “the Merciful” (el de las Mercedes), because he was the Count of Trastámara before rising to the throne. Despite this, neither he nor his descendents took Trastámara as a surname, nor were they aware that they belonged to an entity called the House of Trastámara. So, although it is correct to use Trastámara to refer to all members of the dynasty, it is not correct to use it as their individual surname as it would result in an anachronistic error. 21  Faustino Menéndez Pidal, “El linaje y sus signos de identidad,” in En la España medi­eval, Anejo 1 (2006): 15. 22  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 273.

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The Surname: Its Historical Origin and Development We know that, originally, the surname appeared with the purpose of distinguishing people with the same Christian name. In the beginning, in almost all cultures, people adopted a surname which was usually the father’s name for identification purposes. A few examples are the following: the Greeks used the prefix ides, which gives us pelida Aquiles or atrida Agamemnon; Anglo-Saxons and Scandinavians used the suffix -son (-sen in Danish), which gives us Johnson, Johanson, and the Danish Jensen.23 Turning back to the origin of surnames, extant documentation from the eighth and ninth centuries proves that early Spaniards used nothing more than their Christian names. Sometimes next to this name we find Latin nouns such as scriba, presbiter, nota­ rius, maiordomus, or similar, although these, which did not yet bear a concept similar to a surname, were an expression of a particular feature of an individual, in these cases a nonhereditary trade or rank. However, this indeterminacy started to radically change in the last third of the ninth century, as evidenced by the historical documentation of the period in the Asturian– Leonese Kingdom. At this time, the aristocracy began signing their Christian names followed by the name of their fathers in the Latin genitive and the word filius. We find expressions like the following on parchment: Vermudus Ordonii filius, or Ranimiris Ferdinandi filius. This formula, the most correct and common, soon started to alternate with the loss in many cases of the word filius and with the ending of the paternal name in –z, which is in fact the prototype of the Spanish patronymic surname. This onomastic custom was not a general practice: it was not followed by anyone other than the magnates and those who belonged to the Curia Regia. Ordinary people took a century to adopt this practice. Therefore, one could state that in early times, only the aristocracy was seen to be descendents of ancestors.24 During the tenth century, this patronymic custom which started with the nobility became widespread across all social classes. At the beginning of the eleventh century, most people who appear in documents are generally cited by name, followed by the patronymic corresponding to the name of their father. In the Central Middle Ages in Iberia implementation of the patronymic appeared from the Atlantic coast to the Pyrenees, that is, in Portugal, Galicia, Leon, Castile, Aragon, the Basque Country, and Navarre, as well as in areas of the south of France (such as the early duchy of Gascony). The –ez ending did not however catch on in any of the early Catalan counties where the patronymic in the genitive case was maintained, without change, in Latin documents, with regard to the Christian name, which in Romance were: Arnau, Dalmau, Pons, Guillem (Guillén), Berenguer, and so on.25 Therefore, in Catalonia 23  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 275.

24  Mariel Pérez, “Parentesco, prestigio y poder en la alta edad media: la antroponimia aristocrática en el Reino de León (siglos X y XI),” Estudios de Historia de España 16 (2016): 73–93.

25  Ramon d´Abadal, Catalunya Carolíngia. Els diplomes carolingis a Catalunya (Barcelona, 1926–1952).



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it is not that there were no surnames, but that they did not share the –ez ending common to the rest of the Peninsula. In the Kingdom of Valencia—a Mediterranean territory conquered from Muslims in the thirteenth century by the Crown of Aragon and repopulated mainly by a Catalan-speaking population—linguistic variety produced a characteristic form of the surnames:26 Pérez was Peris in Valencia; Sánchez, Sanchis; Fernández, Ferrandis; similarly, in Portugal, the forms we know today were created: Pires, Sanches, and Soares. In summary, a list of forenames and the main derivative surnames shows this enormous variety: Álvaro – Á� lvarez, Á� lvar

Domingo – Domí�nguez, Mí�nguez Enrique – Enrí�quez, Henrí�quez

Fernando – Fernández, Hernández, Hernando, Ferrán, Ferrando, Ferraz, Ferris, Herrán, Herráiz, Arranz, Arnáez, Arnáiz García – Garcí�a, Garcés

Gonzalo – González, Gonzalvo, Gonzálvez, Gálvez Gutierre – Gutiérrez

Íñigo – Í�ñiguez, Eneco

Jimeno – Jiménez, Ximénez Juan – Juanes, Ibáñez Lope – López

Muñó – Muñoz, Moñiz Nuño – Núñez, Nunes Pedro – Pérez, Peris

Rodrigo – Rodrí�guez, Ruiz, Ruy

Sancho – Sánchez, Sanchiz, Sanz, Sáez, Sáinz, Sáiz Suero – Suárez, Xuárez, Soares, Osórez, Ozores Ramiro – Ramí�rez Vela – Vélez, Velis

Velasco – Velázquez, Vázquez, Baez 26  Enric Guinot, “Entre dues grans migracions antroponí�miques: Canvis i continuï�tats entre l’antro­poní�mia valenciana medi­eval i la del segle XVII en el context de l’expulsió dels moriscos,” in Ono­màstica romànica: antroponímia dels expòsits i etimo­logia toponímica, especialment de València (Valencia, 2017), 481–510.

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From the Patronymic to the Toponymic Name: Mixed Systems The patronymic surname discussed up to this point changed from generation to generation, and therefore did not serve to identify families in general but only individuals. For this reason, it became necessary to create a term to refer to the whole family. Nevertheless, in the second half of the twelfth century, judging by the chronicles, it became common practice to refer to specific lineages using their place of origin. This is a marker taken from a placename, used first by the king to distinguish him from other royals. This marker then became established in upper echelons of medi­eval society and, by the second half of the thirteenth century, is well embedded. If we take for instance a sample between 1211 and 1352 of the main documentation of the city of Balaguer, then a prosperous capital of the county of Urgell in the west of Catalonia, we commonly find this name-structure, which includes the place of origin.27 Here are some examples: Poncius Barchinone (Barcelona), Iacobus Bonasch (probably Benasque), Bernardus Camporrellis (Camporrells), Anthonio Cardona (Cardona then a town capital of a homonymous viscounty), Periconus Casteyllo (Castelló de Farfanya), Raimundus Cervaria (Cervera), Petrus Cervera (Cervera), Arnaldus Gerunda (Girona), Bartolomeus Lerida (Lleida), Raimundus Monte Catano (Montcada) Guillelmus Montechatano (Montcada), Franciscus Oluga (Les Oluges), Arnaldus Pallars (county of the Pallars), Petrus Panades (the region of Penedès, to the west of Barcelona), Arnaldus Sancta Linea (Santa Linya, a village near Balaguer), Peretonus Sancta Linea (Santa Linya), Petrus Sanctalinea (Santa Linya), and Bernardus Segarra (the Segarra, a region in the central west of Catalonia). The use of nicknames was uncommon among the aristocracy, although we may note the case of the Leon nobleman Rodrigo Fernández, nicknamed “the ugly duckling of Valduerna” (el feo de Valduerna), who, seemingly unashamed, often signed documents using his nickname. What is more, one of his sons later appeared as Ramiro Rodrí�guez “Ugly” (Feo), although this nickname did not become a surname.28 In Navarre and Aragon, the use of nicknames among the aristocracy was common practice, so that it was often almost impossible to know the person’s true name.29 For example: “Good Father” (Buen Padre), “One-eyed beard” (Barbatuerta), “Long beard” (Barbaza), Almoravit, Maza, and others. Despite this, very few families took their name from their nickname, with the exception of those cited. In contrast, in Catalonia, this practice was uncommon due to the feudal regime where families generally bore the name of the manor. We then witness the beginning of a new phase in patronymic history, which took on special importance in aristocratic families. Between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries, this new phase consisting in the use of the patronymic as an extension of the Christian name, irrespective of the father’s name: upon birth, each child was given the patro27  Moisés Selfa, “About the Concept of Onomastic Identity: The Privileges’ Parchments of the City of Balaguer (1211–1352),” Imago Temporis Medium Aevum 8 (2014): 140–45. 28  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 279

29  Juan Antonio Frago, “Notas de antroponimia medi­eval navarro-aragonesa,” Cuadernos de investigación filológica 2, no. 1 (1976): 73–84.



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nymic of the person in whose memory they were named. This meant that each family had a certain stock of names, formed by names used by their parents, grandparents, and uncles, from the paternal and maternal line. In this sense, as a general rule each family used names from this repertoire to baptize their descendents and impose on their children the name of their ancestors, as well as the patronymic they used.30 If we look at an example from the Manual de Genealogía Española by Jaime de Salazar Acha,31 we find that the first marquis of Santillana, Don Í�ñigo López de Mendoza, the famous poet, was the son of Admiral Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza who was, in turn, son of Don Pedro González de Mendoza, who died in 1385 in the battle of Aljubarrota, where the Castilians were beaten by the Portuguese. Let us not forget that the marquis was the son of Dona Leonor de la Vega, the daughter of Don Pedro Lasso de la Vega, and that he married a daughter of the Maestre of Santiago Don Lorenzo Suárez de Figueroa. Accordingly, the Marquis of Santillana gave his first son the name Diego Hurtado, his second son, Í�ñigo López, and his third son—the future grand Cardinal de Mendoza—Pedro González. The fourth son was named Lorenzo Suárez, and the fifth Pedro Lasso. And we may note that the marquis had no qualms about baptizing two sons with the same Christian name, who nonetheless had different patronymics. However, what should be stressed here is that this apparent onomastic disorder has a complete internal coherence, because every patronymic corresponds to the person honoured, whose memory is being respected. It is homage to one’s ancestors by means of onomastics.

30  Jaime de Hoz, “Antroponimia y reconstrucción histórica: consideraciones sobre la identi­ficación personal en el paso de la Edad Media a la Moderna en la Corona de Castilla,” Espacio Tiempo y Forma. Serie III, Historia Medi­eval 29 (2016): 401–28. 31  De Salazar y Acha, Manual de Genealogía, 284.

Chapter 4

GENDER AND FEMININE IDENTITY IN THE MIDDLE AGES ANA MARIA S. A. RODRIGUES*

Whereas recent decades

have seen a noticeable increase in articles and books on medi­eval masculinities,1 the same cannot be said regarding femininities.2 The very term “femininity” is problematic, because it has always been associated with essentialist conceptions of womanhood, typical of patriarchal societies. As Michelle Rosaldo has noted, in such societies, to become a man is considered an achievement while “womanhood […] is more of a given for the female”; as such, there are “few ways of expressing the differences among women.”3 However, since the 1960s, both Feminism and Women’s History have challenged these conceptions, demonstrating that femininity is not an intrinsic condition of all people born with female genitals, but rather a social construct.4 Thus, we should not speak of femininity in the singular form, but of plural femininities, *  This chapter is based on the paper presented at the meeting “The Forming of Identity in the Middle Ages,” held at the Uni­ver­sity of Lleida on 8 November 2010.

1  Jonathan Walters, “No More Than a Boy. The Shifting Construction of Masculinity From Ancient Greece to the Middle Ages,” Gender History 5, no. 1 (1993): 20–33; Clare A. Lees, ed., Medi­eval Masculinities. Regarding Men in the Middle Ages (Minneapolis, 1994); Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Bonnie Wheeler, eds., Becoming Male in the Middle Ages (New York, 1997); Jacqueline Murray, ed., Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities. Men in the Medi­eval West (New York, 1999); Dawn M. Hadley, ed., Masculinity in Medi­eval Europe (London, 1999); Ruth Mazo Karras, From Boys to Men. Formation of Masculinity in Medi­eval Europe (Philadelphia, 2003); Pauline Stafford, “The Meaning of Hair in the Anglo-Norman World: Masculinity, Reform, and National Identity,” in Saints, Scholars and Politicians. Gender as a Tool in Medi­eval Studies, ed. Mathilde van Dijk and Renée Nip (Turnhout, 2005), 153–71; Tison Pugh and Marcia Smith Marzec, eds., Men and Masculinities in Chaucer’s. Troilus and Criseyde (Woodbridge, 2008). I myself have elaborated on the theme of masculinities and the possible “third genders” in the Middle Ages in Ana Maria S. A. Rodrigues, “La identidad de género en la Edad Media: una cuestión polémica,” in Identitats, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2012), 43–57. 2  One of the few exceptions is Frederick Kiefer, ed., Masculinities and Femininities in the Middle Ages and Renaissance (Turnhout, 2010).

3  Michelle Zimbalist Rosaldo and Louise Lamphere, eds., Women, Culture, and Society (Stanford, 1974), 28.

4  Mary Nash, “Desde la invisibilidad a la presencia de la mujer en la historia: corrientes historio­ gráficas y marcos conceptuales de la nueva historia de la mujer,” in Nuevas perspectivas sobre la mujer. Actas de las primeras jornadas de investigación interdisciplinaria, ed. Pilar Folguera, 2 vols. (Madrid, 1982), 1:19. Ana Maria S. A. Rodrigues ([email protected]) is Associate Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidade de Lisboa, Portugal.

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varying according to time and civilization,5 as we should be sensitive to the fact that in the same period of time and in the same cultural space there could be varied femininities, resulting from the interaction of gender with other differentiating factors such as religion and ethnicity, class, age, or even the personality of the individual woman, itself a product of the permanent negotiations between each of them (her impulses, her desires, her ability or inability to suppress or sublimate them) and the surrounding society.6 This last aspect is the hardest to perceive, as confessions by medi­eval women so rarely survive, disclosing their private thoughts and intimate conflicts; nevertheless, some do remain that I shall address later. Women’s History has also rescued from oblivion, or from an incorrect attribution of authorship, literary or other writings by women which reveal their notions of what a woman was, or should be.7 Better known, however, are the models that the clerics of medi­eval Western Christian society presented women, to abide by them or to reject them: the models of Eve, the sinner; Mary Magdalene, the repentant sinner; and Mary, the Virgin Mother.8 In this chapter, I argue that, compelling as they might seem, these clerical models were not without ambiguities which allowed Christian women a certain agency and even promoted the empowerment of some of them.9 Likewise, history and literary works offered secular models, both positive and negative, through whose interstices real women found room for varied conducts and a wide scope of roles and functions. No doubt, there were powerful religious and social forces that attempted to impose ideals of femininity on medi­eval women of all ages, origins, and conditions. Nevertheless, these women managed to build their own identities and live, as Nancy Partner puts it, “recognizable human lives adapted to, yet in tension with, the requirements of the social world.”10 There seems to be no need to elaborate in detail on the nature of Eve’s model because it is one Christian women should avoid. In the figure of the original female, mother of all humanity, theo­logians, monks, and priests concentrated all the evil they saw in the 5  As is thoroughly shown in Sherry B. Ortner and Harriet Whitehead, eds., Sexual Meanings. The Cultural Construction of Gender and Sexuality (Cam­bridge, 1981). 6  Nancy Chodorow, “Gender as a Personal and Cultural Construction,” Signs 20, no. 3 (1995): 516–44.

7  Among many others: Peter Dronke, Women Writers of the Middle Ages. A Critical Study of Texts from Perpetua to Marguerite Porete (Cam­bridge, 1984); Karen Cherewatuk and Ulrike Wiethaus, eds., Dear Sister. Medi­eval Women and the Epistolary Genre (Philadelphia, 1993); Danielle RégnierBohler, ed., Voix de Femmes au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2006). 8  Jacques Dalarun, “Regards de clercs,” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:31–54.

9  I will only address Christian women, though there were important religious minorities in some medi­eval European kingdoms; on the condition of Jewish and Islamic women in the Iberian Peninsula, for example, see Enrique Cantera Montenegro, “La mujer judí�a en la España medi­eval,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, serie III: Historia Medi­eval 2 (1989): 37–64; Manuela Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Ándalus (Madrid, 2000); Maria Jesús Fuente, Velos y desvelos. Cristianas, musulmanas y judías en la España medi­eval (Madrid, 2006); Maria Filomena Lopes de Barros, “A mulher muçulmana no Portugal medi­eval,” Clio, n.s., 16–17 (2008): 105–17. 10  Nancy Partner, “No Sex, No Gender,” Speculum 68, nos. 1–2 (1993): 419–43, esp. 432.



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female species. Created after Adam and from his rib—bearing in mind that medi­eval theo­logians preferred the second account of Creation, of priestly tradition (Gen. 1:27), to the first, of Yahvist tradition, which said that God had created the human being in His own image and likeness, as man and woman simultaneously (Gen. 2:21–23)—Eve was guilty of having introduced sin into the world through the serpent’s seduction, and dragging her partner into disobeying the Word of God. For this reason, she was condemned to submit to man and suffer in childbirth (Gen. 3:1–23). From these biblical texts, the Church Fathers and medi­eval writers considered woman to be inferior to man and capable of all sins; at the same time, they devalued motherhood as the result of divine conviction.11 In contrast to Eve, Mary was the positive female role model par excellence, the woman chosen by God to give birth to His son, who came to rescue humanity from the original sin committed at Eve’s instigation. But Mary’s motherhood was unique, because, according to Matthew and Luke, she conceived without sexual contact (Matt. 1:25, Luke 1:34), and by the account in the protoevangelium of James, written in the second century, she continued intact after the birth of Jesus. Some authors, such as Clement of Alexandria in the third century, even argued for her virginity during the birth itself. The dogmas of the divine motherhood and virginity of Mary came to be proclaimed at the Council of Ephesus in 431 and again by the Council of Chalcedon in 451, thereafter becoming part of doctrinal teaching.12 The fact that Mary was presented simultaneously as a virgin and a mother now seems an insoluble contradiction, but women and men of the time saw things differently. The concept of virginity in the Middle Ages was distinct from our own, and changed throughout the period. Only belatedly was vaginal penetration, with the consequent rupture of the hymen, considered the ultimate sexual act, marking the woman’s loss of virginity.13 Formerly, widows and married women, even women with children, were considered virgin when they abstained from having sex.14 It was even believed that bodily integrity could be restored as the result of a life of repentance, mortification, and detachment from the pleasures of the flesh, which explains how Mary Magdalene, considered a prostitute, emerged at the head of the virgins in the litanies of the eleventh century.15 In a liturgical context, the word virgo referred not to a physio­logical state but to a spiritual condition.16 11  Guy Bechtel, As quatro mulheres de Deus: a puta, a bruxa, a santa e a imbecil (Lisbon, 2003), 11–106. 12  Dalarun, “Regards de clercs,” 40.

13  Kathleen Coyne Kelly, Performing Virginity and Testing Chastity in the Middle Ages (London, 2000), 15. 14  Jo Ann McNamara, A New Song. Celibate Women in the First Three Christian Centuries (Bingham­ ton, 1983), 108–09 and 123.

15  Katherine Ludwig Jansen, The Making of the Magdalene. Preaching and Popular Devotion in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, 2000), 287–93.

16  Felice Lifshitz, “Priestly Women, Virginal Men. Litanies and Their Discontents,” in Gender and Christianity in Medi­eval Europe. New Perspectives, ed. Lisa M. Bitel and Felice Lifshitz (Philadelphia, 2007), 89.

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So, Mary Magdalene—who at first glance might seem like a more accessible model for medi­eval women, because she had sinned and, thanks to her repentance and good deeds, had been forgiven—similarly advocated abstention from sex and a life devoted to penance, contemplation, and prayer. In short, for the clergy of the first Christian millennium, the original virginity and one restored through ascesis—that is, chastity—were, in truth, the only two ways to female salvation. But was virginity a model of femininity? A martyr of the early days of Christianity, Blandina (d. 177), who was suspended by her arms and presented to wild animals at the Colosseum, was seen by her fellow martyrs transformed into Christ himself, and unquestionably manly.17 As to Perpetua (d. 203), she had a vision of her own experience in the arena in combat with a gladiator, in which she became a man.18 Bio­graphers of nuns of later periods, such as Rusticula (ca. 556–632) and Rictrude (ca. 614–688), also describe their struggle against temptation and the devil in terms that evoke male sports performed in the arena and the gymnasium.19 All this is consistent with the words of St. Jerome (ca. 340–420), who proclaimed that “[As] long as a woman is for birth and children, she is different from man as body is from soul. But when she wishes to serve Christ more than the world, then she will cease to be a woman and will be called man.”20 This conversion of females into males was not purely spiritual; its physio­ logical consequences were acknowledged. For instance, Gregory the Great (ca. 540–604) reports in his Dialogues the story of Galla, a young Christian woman who lost her husband and decided to remain a widow instead of remarrying; down the years, she grew a beard, seemingly causing no surprise either to her or those around her (Gregory the Great, Dialogues, 4.14). This happened because, due to her victorious struggle against the frailty of her feminine nature, her body developed the heat that, according to the scientists of that time, characterized the body of males and made their hair grow.21 Such a belief may help to explain the wide acceptance of bearded women saints like Wilgefortis, Uncumber, or Liberada.22 Inversely, chaste men were believed to develop female physio­logical characteristics, such as a clearer and smoother skin and less hair, because of the decline of their manly heat.23 17  Rachel Moriarty, “Playing the Man. The Courage of Christian Martyrs, Translated and Transposed,” in Gender and Christian Religion, ed. Robert N. Swanson (Woodbridge, 1998), 8.

18  Joyce Salisbury, Perpetua’s Passion. The Death and Memory of a Young Roman Woman (London, 1997), 107–12.

19  Jo Ann McNamara, John E. Halborg, and E. Gordon Whatley, eds., Sainted Women of the Dark Ages (Durham, 1992), 133 and 209.

20  Barbara Newman, From Virile Woman to Woman Christ. Studies in Medi­eval Religion and Literature, (Philadelphia, 1995), 81 (St. Jerome, Commentary on the Ephesians, 16). 21  Joan Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages. Medicine, Science, and Culture (Cam­ bridge, 1993), 171. 22  On the meaning of bearded saints, see Vern L. Bullough and Bonnie Bullough, Cross Dressing, Sex, and Gender (Philadelphia, 1993), 54–55.

23  Jacqueline Murray, “One Flesh, Two Sexes, Three Genders?,” in Gender and Christianity in Medi­ eval Europe. New Perspectives, ed. Lisa M. Bitel and Felice Lifshitz (Philadelphia, 2007), 45.



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The tonsure and the shaved face of monks symbolized their purity and their control over the physio­logical manifestations of their sex.24 Some authors, such as Robert Swanson and Conrad Leyser, refer to chastity as a form of “ascetic” or “religious masculinity,” though in essays dealing exclusively with male clergy.25 Jo Ann McNamara, who has studied chaste clerics and religious of both sexes, prefers to designate them through the concept of “third gender,” because they experienced their self-control as a sign of obedience to God, humility, and sacrifice, which were thought to be female features, but also of courage and perseverance, which were considered male characteristics.26 According to her, between the triumph of Christianity as the dominant religion in the Roman Empire and the Gregorian reform, hermits and anchorites of both sexes, monks and nuns, living in separate or mixed communities, developed a gender identity that was neither male nor female, but of a third kind, combining features of both.27 This was made possible by the practice of oblation, i.e., children being entrusted to the monasteries at a very early age and being educated there, as Jonas of Bobbio (ca. 600–after 659) suggests. When referring to how Burgundofara (603–645), abbess of the mixed community of Faremoutiers, brought up one Ercantrude, this author states: “Our mother nurtured her so carefully within the convent walls that she could not distinguish between our sexual natures, for she counted male and female the same, female and male just alike.”28 In that world, which so attenuated the differences of sex and gender as to make them irrelevant, some women exercised the sacred ministries of presbyters and deacons.29 Others were abbesses of double monasteries, exercising authority over the men in the community. The heads of nunneries also had liturgical and priestly privileges, as well as secular powers: for example, tenth-century German abbesses were at the head of estates with armies, courts, their own currency, and had the privilege of participating with prelates in the Imperial Diet and ratifying the defender chosen for them by the lord of the monastery.30 As St. Jerome anticipated, women who devoted their lives to Christ were granted the rights and responsibilities of men. However, this did not last long. 24  Robert Mills, “The Significance of the Tonsure,” in Holiness and Masculinity in the Middle Ages, ed. Patricia H. Cullum and Katherine J. Lewis (Cardiff, 2004), 116–18. 25  Robert N. Swanson, “Angels Incarnate. Clergy and Masculinity from Gregorian Reform to the Reformation,” in Masculinity in Medi­eval Europe (London, 1999), 163; and Conrad Leyser, “Masculinity in flux: Nocturnal Emission and the Limits of Celibacy in the Early Middle Ages,” in Masculinity in Medi­eval Europe (London, 1999), 105.

26  Jo Ann McNamara, “Chastity as a Third Gender in the History and Hagio­graphy of Gregory of Tours,” in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed. Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden, 2002), 204. 27  Jo Ann McNamara, “An Unresolved Syllogism. The Search for a Christian Gender System,” in Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities. Men in the Medi­eval West (New York, 1999), 1–24. 28  McNamara et al., Sainted Women, 165.

29  Aimé Georges Martimort, Des Diaconesses. Essai Historique (Rome, 1982), 187–217; Ute E. Eisen, Women Officeholders in Early Christianity. Epi­graphical and Literary Studies (Collegeville, 2000), 128–34 and 182–85.

30  Suzanne Fonay Wemple, “Les traditions romaine, germanique et chrétienne,” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:208–9.

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From the eighth and ninth centuries on, more and more restrictions were progressively imposed on religious women: they were subjected to strict enclosure, forbidden to educate men, and abbesses were banned from giving blessing to the opposite sex and consecrating the members of their own communities.31 By the twelfth century, Innocent III (ca. 1160–1216) abolished the few priestly and liturgical privileges some abbesses still possessed.32 Consecrated virginity no longer allowed women access to a status similar to that of chaste men, who from this point became the only ones who could handle sacred objects and powers, and serve as intermediaries between the faithful and God. This, however, did not empty nunneries: many families of different social levels continued to enclose their daughters in cloisters, as we shall see, to preserve them from the sins of the flesh while waiting for marriage, or because they could not endow them with a sufficient dowry to marry them. Widows, including royal ones, also considered monasteries suitable places to spend the end of their lives honourably, devoting themselves to prayer and good works. But if one of the ways of living the obedient and humble piety associated with women remained indeed within the cloister, female spiritual vitality found other means of expressing itself. The end of the twelfth century saw the emergence of women recluses: single women, orphans, wives of priests, repudiated wives, widows, but also converted heretics and repentant prostitutes aspiring to atone for their sins. As the name suggests, these recluses withdrew from the world, confining themselves in a house or small room where some friend would bring them drink and food. Their renunciation of sex and other pleasures of the flesh was complete. There they devoted themselves in solitude to prayer and mortification, but their reputation for wisdom and holiness would attract many people asking for their advice or prayers.33 Around the same time, in the northern countries, the Beguines appeared: lay women, most of whom had no religious training, who gathered in small communities in urban areas and lived off alms or from the proceeds of their own work, for instance, as weavers. They made no vows, but kept their virginity or their chastity—depending on whether they were single or widowed—and committed themselves to poverty, practised active charity, and had demanding spiritual lives.34 For this, some of them were persecuted by the Church: Marguerite Porete (d. 1310), for example, was condemned to the stake by the Inquisition.35 31  Suzanne Fonay Wemple, “Les traditions romaine,” 205–07.

32  Paulette L’Hermite-Leclerc, “L’ordre féodal (XIe–XIIe siècles),” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:254–55.

33  Paulette L’Hermite-Leclerc, “La réclusion volontaire au Moyen Age: une institution spéci­ fiquement féminine,” in La condición de la mujer en la Edad Media, ed. Yves-René Fonquerne and Alfonso Esteban (Madrid, 1986), 135–54; Anneke B. Mulder-Bakker, “Lame Margaret of Magdeburg: the social function of a medi­eval recluse,” Journal of Medi­eval History 22 (1996): 155–69.

34  Walter Simons, Cities of Ladies. Beguine Communities in the Medi­eval Low Countries, 1200–1565 (Philadelphia, 2001). 35  Danielle Régnier-Bohler, “Introduction to Marguerite Porete. Le miroir des âmes simples et anéanties,” in Voix de Femmes au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2006), 372.



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Marguerite was also a mystic, as was Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) 36 and Elisabeth of Schönau (1129–1165)37 before her, Mechtild of Magdeburg (ca. 1207–ca. 1282/94)38 in her time, and Julian of Norwich (1342/3–after 1416)39 and Margery Kempe (circa 1373–after 1439)40 some decades later. When attempting to evaluate the recorded mystical experiences of women, we must keep in mind that “our corpus has survived a rigorous process of editing and censorship.”41 Indeed, the ecstasies, visions, and revelations of many of them have reached us through the writings of their confessors, who served as mediators between them and the world.42 A few of these women who received an education, such as Hildegard of Bingen, wrote their works themselves, but had to ask for the approval of the pope or other religious authorities, and accordingly practised self-censorship.43 Furthermore, the structure and content of a mystical experience itself was determined by the church, because it offered both the model for spiritual organization for women (isolation in a cloister, a beguinage, or reclusoir) and the disciplinary techno­logies designed to control and subject the body (prayer, vigils, fasting, flagellation, and so forth), that would lead to mystical experience if carried to excess.44 Yet, the acts of self-torture women mystics inflicted upon themselves granted them “the authority to speak and be heard, to have followers, to act as spiritual adviser[s], to heal the sick, and to found convents and hospitals.”45 Again, by chastizing their bodies some women found a unique way of self-expression, gaining an authority only reserved for men. Nevertheless, in a society that considered woman “the quintessence of all fleshly evil,”46 strict control over their bodies’ urges was not demanded of women mystics, Beguines, and nuns solely: it remained one of the most important female values for secu36  Matthew Fox, The Illuminations of Hildegarde of Bingen (Santa Fe, 1985); Barbara J. Newman, “Hildegarde of Bingen: Visions and Validation,” Church History 54 (1985): 163–75; Constant J. Mews, “Hildegard: Gender, Nature and Visionary Experience,” in Hildegarde of Bingen and Gendered Theo­logy in Judeo-Christian Tradition, ed. Julie S. Barton and Constant Mews (Clayton, 1995), 63–80. 37  Kurt Köster, “Das visionäre Werk Elisabeths von Schönau,” Archiv fur mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 4 (1952): 79–119. 38  Elizabeth A. Adersen, The Voices of Mechtild of Magdeburg (Oxford, 2000).

39  Kenneth Leach and Benedicta Ward, eds., Julian Reconsidered (Oxford, 1988); Liz Herbert McAvoy, Authority and the Female Body in Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe (Cam­bridge, 2004). 40  Clarissa W. Atkinson, Mystic and Pilgrim. The Book and Life of Margery Kempe (Ithaca, 1983).

41  Jo Ann McNamara, “The Rhetoric of Orthodoxy. Clerical Authority and Female Innovation in the Struggle With Heresy,” in Maps of Flesh and Light. The Religious Experiences of Medi­eval Women Mystics, ed. Ulrike Wiethaus (Syracuse, 1993), 9. 42  Blanca Garí�, “El confesor de mujeres: ¿Mediador de la palabra femenina en la Edad Media?,” Medi­evalia 11 (1994): 133–41. 43  Jo Ann McNamara, “The Rhetoric of Orthodoxy,” 12–13.

44  Laurie A. Finke, “Mystical Bodies and the Dialogics of Vision,” in Maps of Flesh and Light. The Religious Experiences of Medi­eval Women Mystics, ed. Ulrike Wiethaus (Syracuse, 1993), 35–36. 45  Laurie A. Finke, “Mystical Bodies,” 42.

46  Laurie A. Finke, “Mystical Bodies,” 36.

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lar women as well. Virginity was expected of unmarried women and fidelity demanded of wives, not only for moral reasons, but also because those were the only means then available to ensure the legitimacy of the offspring; on this point, the interests of both the laity and the clergy coincided.47 However, while the clergy insisted on the observation of chastity even within marriage, limiting the times and places “conjugal rights” could be made use of—which had the effect of restricting the possibilities of procreation48— kings and noblemen, on the contrary, were interested in women having many children, especially males, to ensure dynastic succession or the perpetuation of lineages, and did not hesitate in repudiating their wives and marrying again if they remained barren.49 These conflicting demands could cause young noble women some difficulties when the time came to assume their roles in society. This was especially true if they had been entrusted to a monastery as children, not to consecrate their lives to God, but rather to protect them from the dangers of the world until they were to be wed; the fact that they nevertheless created a “third gender” identity made some of them reject the carnal aspects of the marriage bond, or even marriage altogether.50 Even those raised in their family homes or educated at court, having the model of a wife/mother constantly before them, could reflect the same disparity between what was expected of them and their personal inclinations. For example, Princess Joana of Portugal (1452–1490) expressed from an early age her vocation to live as a consecrated virgin, rejecting all marriage alliances proposed by her father, Afonso V (r. 1438–1481). Eventually, she managed to impose on her family her decision to withdraw from the world, entering a nunnery. However, since she was second in the line of succession to the throne, the commons’ representatives in parliament protested and she was not allowed to take vows, remaining as a sort of “dynastic reserve” until her brother John II (r. 1481–1495) had an heir.51 Even if some women had no children, due to their own decision to keep their virginity, to a physical incapacity to procreate, or to the sterility of their husbands, motherhood was nevertheless one of the most essential traits of femininity for all categories of lay women. Today, motherhood is considered to be more than simply giving birth to children, involving also feeding them, caring for them, and educating them. However, in the Middle Ages, queens and noble women in general did not breastfeed their children themselves, entrusting them to wet-nurses of a lower social status, who suckled them together with their own children, or delivered them to other women.52 Similarly, 47  L’Hermite-Leclerc, “L’ordre féodal,” 226–27.

48  Jean-Louis Flandrin, Un temps pour embrasser. Aux origines de la morale sexuelle occidentale (VIe–XIe siècle) (Paris, 1983), 8–71.

49  Georges Duby, Le chevalier, la femme, le prêtre: le mariage dans la France féodale (Paris, 1981), 53–54. 50  L’Hermite-Leclerc, “L’ordre féodal,” 227.

51  Domingos Maurí�cio Gomes dos Santos, “Memorial da mujto excellente Princessa e mujto virtuosa senhora. Ha senhora Iffante Dona Johanna nossa senhora, O mosteiro de Jesus de Aveiro,” in Museu do Dundo, estudos de história (ultramarina e continental): “o mosteiro de Jesus de Aveiro”, ed. Domingos Maurí�cio Gomes dos Santos, 2 vols. (Lisbon, 1967), 2:225–301. 52  Shulamith Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages (London, 1992), 58.



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when royal children grew older, they were entrusted to a master or a nurse,53 and later to tutors, who would be in charge of teaching them basic religious precepts, reading and writing, arithmetic, and the rudiments of Latin. The sons of nobles were also educated from the age of seven outside the family home, by an uncle or lord of their father.54 Daughters were more often left with their mothers and educated by them, as will be seen below. Some authors argue that wet-nurses were employed to accelerate a woman’s recovery of fertility after childbirth and achieve more numerous progeny, while others believe that the many obligations of the ladies of this social stratum, as well as their constant travels, prevented them from breastfeeding, and that situation, in turn, explained their large number of offspring.55 In spite of the distance such practices created between mothers and children during their first and decisive years of life,56 the former showed great affection and concern regarding their offspring, in the care taken in choosing the individuals or institutions that would raise them.57 Gradually, for medical and moral reasons,58 even the women from the upper echelons of society began to suckle their children themselves, as did humbler women for economic motives. Another aspect of femininity common to all women, but with different consequences for each social group, was the notion that to them belonged the management of the household.59 However, it would be wrong to think that this meant exclusively the domestic, “private” space, especially in the upper strata of society. When Charlemagne (r. 768–814), in the capitulary De villis, declared that any orders from the queen to stewards, officials, seneschals, or butlers should be carried out to the letter,60 he was entrusting to the queen not only the management of the royal household, but also some of his sovereign functions. French and English queens, as they were crowned and anointed together with their husbands, were ordained to exercise an office, indeed almost always subsidiary and subordinate, but one that legitimized their authority when they assumed 53  Ana Maria de Almeida Fernandes, “Proles régias criadas em meio rural nos séculos XII e XIII,” in Esparsos de História, ed. Ana Maria de Almeida Fernandes (Porto, 1970), 161–83; Ralph V. Turner, “The Children of Anglo-Saxon Royalty and their Upbringing,” Medi­eval Prosopo­graphy 11, no. 2 (1990): 17–52, esp. 17–44.

54  Georges Duby, “Le modèle courtois,” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:268. 55  Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages, 69–71.

56  Ralph V. Turner, “Eleanor of Aquitaine and Her Children: An Inquiry into Medi­eval Family Attachment,” Journal of Medi­eval History 14 (1988): 321–35, esp. 321–25.

57  Nicholas Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry. The Education of English Kings and Aristocracy, 1066–1530 (London, 1984), 16–17; Barbara A. Hanawalt, “Female Networks for Fostering Lady Lisle’s Daughters,” in Medi­eval Mothering, ed. John Carmi Parsons and Bonnie Wheeler (New York, 1996), 239–58. 58  Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages, 55.

59  Silvana Vecchio, “La bonne épouse,” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:136–37. 60  Fonay Wemple, “Les traditions romaine,” 197.

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the regency on the absence or death of their spouses.61 Iberian queens were even more rarely crowned and anointed than their husbands, but they too ruled in association with them and could replace them in case of need.62 Princesses and infantas learned from their mothers simultaneously the government of their households and of their kingdoms, which enabled them to become queens consort in the event of marrying a foreign sovereign, the most common case, or queens in their own right, if they had no brothers and the law of the kingdom allowed female succession. Though more seldom, this learning could be acquired through the father, if the mother died early and the king, instead of marrying again, placed a daughter in the government. In Portugal, for instance, John I (r. 1385–1433) bestowed on his daughter Isabel (1397–1471) the household and functions of the queen, in 1414, after the death of his wife Phillipa of Lancaster (1360–1415).63 The infanta held that office until her marriage to the Duke of Burgundy, Philippe le Bon (1396–1467), in 1429, later highly esteemed in that duchy for her political wisdom and managerial qualities.64 The situation of noble women was very similar: the management of their households was not limited to ensuring that they were well-provided for and managing the servants, but had much wider implications. Since Carolingian times, aristocrats such as the famous Dhuoda (ca. 803–843) were in charge of the supervision both of the household and the family domains.65 In later times, we still find noble women administering estates, and there were even manuals written on the subject, such as the one Robert Grosseteste (ca. 1168–1253) dedicated to Margaret, widow of the Earl of Lincoln, in the thirteenth century.66 Christine de Pizan (ca. 1364–1430), in her Book of the Three Virtues, dating from the fifteenth century, also gave advice on how princesses and other ladies should perform their duties and manage their manors.67 61  Marion F. Facinger, “A Study of Medi­eval Queenship: Capetian France, 987–1237,” Studies in Medi­eval and Renaissance History 5 (1968): 3–47; Janet L. Nelson, “Early Medi­eval Rites of QueenMaking and the Shaping of Medi­eval Queenship,” in Queens and Queenship in Medi­eval Europe, ed. Anne Duggan (Woodbridge, 2002), 301–15.

62  Theresa Earenfight, “Absent Kings: Queens as Political Partners in the Medi­eval Crown of Aragon,” in Queenship and Political Power in Medi­eval and Early Modern Spain, ed. Theresa Earenfight (Aldershot, 2005), 33–51; Ana Maria S. A. Rodrigues, “The Queen-Consort in Late Medi­ eval Portugal,” in Aspects of Power and Authority in the Middle Ages, ed. Brenda Bolton and Christine Meek (Turnhout, 2007), 131–45.

63  Manuela Santos Silva, “Ó� bidos Terra que foi da Rainha D. Filipa. O senhorio de Ó� bidos de 1415 a 1428,” in A região de Óbidos na época Medi­eval. Estudos, ed. Manuela Santos Silva (Ó� bidos, 1994), 92–93. 64  Monique Sommé, Isabelle de Portugal, duchesse de Bourgogne. Une femme au pouvoir au quinzième siècle (Villeneuve d’Ascq, 1998), 377–435. 65  Fonay Wemple, “Les traditions romaine,” 197.

66  Elisabeth Lamond, ed., Walter of Henley’s Husbandry together with an Anonymous Husbandry, Senechaucie and Robert Grosseteste’s Rules (London, 1890), 121–50.

67  Diane Bornstein, “The Ideal of the Lady of the Manor as Reflected in Christine de Pizan’s ‘Livre des Trois Vertus’,” in Ideals for Women in the Works of Christine de Pizan, ed. Diane Bornstein (Detroit, 1981), 117–29.



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Some women also held judicial powers and even military command, entrusted by their husbands during their absence or inherited from their fathers.68 Although feudal law favoured men, it did not exclude women from inheritance in the absence of male heirs, and currently they are no longer thought to have been simple vehicles for transmitting their fathers’ rights to their husbands or sons, because many actually exercised the pertaining powers. If, on the one hand, documents of the praxis, performed by these very women, allow us to discover more and more queens, duchesses, countesses, and other ladies engaged in tasks of economic management, administration of justice, diplomatic mediation, religious and artistic patronage, and so forth, showing that the femininity of women of this rank was not opposed to, but indeed integrated the exercise of various kinds of power, including sovereign authority,69 on the other, courtly literature and chronicles convey to noble ladies and maidens a much more limited and stereotyped image. Through it, the femininity of these women revealed itself in handiwork and other daily activities (embroidery, reading, “honest conversation,” praying);70 in their participation in the festivals that periodically enlivened castles and palaces, either in an active (playing an instrument, dancing) or passive way (attending jousts, tournaments, feats of arms, or bullfights);71 and in their dress, hairstyle, and accessories, ostentatious displays of the wealth and social position of their fathers or husbands,72 but also means of seducing young men they sought to marry (in the case of unmarried women) or whom they could educate (those already married) through the ritual of courtly love.73 Admittedly, all these were constituent elements in the gender identity of aristocratic females that they acquired from an early age, through their education with their mothers or nurses,74 but these feminine roles were not the only ones.

68  Patricia Humphrey, “Ermessenda of Barcelona. The Status of Her Authority,” in Queens, Regents and Potentates, ed. Theresa M. Vann (Dallas, 1993), 15–35; Karen Nichols, “Women as Rulers: Countesses Jeanne and Marguerite of Flanders (1212–78),” in Queens, Regents and Potentates, ed. Theresa M. Vann (Dallas, 1993), 73–89; Kimberley A. LoPrete, “Adela of Blois: Familial Alliances and Female Lordship,” in Aristocratic Women in Medi­eval France, ed. Theodore Evergates (Philadelphia, 1999), 7–43; Patricia Dark, “‘A Woman of Subtlety and a Man’s Resolution’: Matilda of Boulogne in the Power Struggles of the Anarchy,” in Aspects of Power and Authority in the Middle Ages, ed. Brenda Bolton and Christine Meek (Turnhout, 2007), 147–64. 69  June Hall McCash, ed., The Cultural Patronage of Medi­eval Women (Athens, 1996); Vito Fumagalli, Matilde di Canossa. Potenza e solitudine di una donna del Medioevo (Bo­logna, 1996); Michelle Bubenicek, Quand les femmes gouvernent. Yolande de Flandre, droit et politique au XIVe siècle (Geneva, 2003); Maria del Carmen Pallares Mendes, Ilduara: una aristócrata del siglo X (A Coruña, 2004), among many others.

70  Danielle Régnier-Bohler, “Geste, parole, cloture. les représentations du gynécée dans la lit­ térature médiévale du XIIIe au XVe siècle,” in Mélanges de langue et de littérature médiévales offerts à Alice Planche, ed. Maurice Accarie and Ambroise Queffelec (Paris, 1984), 393–404.

71  Jacques Lemaire, Les visions de la vie de cour dans la littérature française de la fin du Moyen Age (Brussels, 1994).

72  Rachel C. Gibbons, “The Queen as ‘social mannequin’. Consumerism and Expenditure at the Court of Isabeau de Bavaria, 1393–1422,” Journal of Medi­eval History 26, no. 4 (2000): 371–95. 73  Duby, “Le modèle courtois,” 270–71 and 273–74.

74  Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages, 221–22.

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The femininity of bourgeois women similarly expressed itself through motherhood, and they were shut in at home before and after marriage, having their relations with the outer world controlled to ensure the legitimacy of their children, since to merchants the transmission of the family business to their offspring was as important as that of the feodum or estate to the lords.75 This did not prevent a few of them choosing other paths: Christina of Markyate ([1095–1100]–ca. 1155), for example, was born to a family of wealthy merchants that forced her to marry against her will, when she had in secrecy made a vow of virginity. This brought her the support of leading ecclesiastics in her escape from her husband and her family, and she was able to live out her life as a hermit.76 Women of the upper strata of urban society emulated aristocratic ladies in many ways, one of which was to hand their new-borns over to wet-nurses. On the other hand, they did keep their older male and female children at home, as they could attend the public schools found in many towns or be taught by tutors; boys would then continue their learning in a trade school or start an apprenticeship, while girls stayed at home until they got married. In the meantime, the latter learned some social skills similar to those taught to noble young women—conversation, games, dancing, horse riding—and crafts related to the making of clothing, the preparation of food, and the management of the household.77 Indeed, as happened with noble ladies, the women of the urban bourgeoisie were materfamilias who held the government of their households.78 This included, in addition to running the domestic economy, managing the serving staff, whose numbers varied with the chores and the wealth of the family.79 But the activity of these women was not limited to their homes: there is also evidence of urban women who managed property and rents, exercised the trade of merchants, and were involved in business societies. Many did so as their husbands’ heirs and guardians of their minor children to transfer their inheritance to them intact or even enhanced, but others kept on doing so after the children had come of age, which makes us think that professional activity could be an element of their identity, as it was for men.80 75  Cristina Segura, “La sociedad urbana,” in Historia de las Mujeres en España, ed. Elisa Garrido (Madrid, 1997), 187–89. 76  The Life of Christina of Markyate, trans. Charles H. Talbot (Oxford, 2008).

77  Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages, 58 and 225–30.

78  As such, Christine de Pizan also included in her Book of the Three Virtues advice on the way these women, as well as the wives of craftsmen and peasants, should perform their roles. Pizan, “Le Livre des Trois Vertus,” 663–98.

79  Claudia Opitz, “Contraintes et libertés (1250–1500),” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:294.

80  Marí�a Isabel del Val Valdivieso, “Los testamentos como fuente para la historia de las mujeres (el caso de Teresa González de Esquivel y Diego Martí�nez de Heali),” in Protagonistas del pasado. Las mujeres desde la Prehistoria al siglo XX, ed. Marí�a Isabel del Val Valdivieso, Cristina de la Rosa Cubo, Marí�a Jesús Dueñas Cepeda, and Magdalena Santo Tomás Pérez (Valladolid, 2009), 15–35; Marí�a del Carmen Garcí�a Herrero, “Gracia Lanaja: vivir para dejar memoria,” in Vidas de Mujeres del Renacimiento, ed. Ana del Campo Gutiérrez and Blanca Garí� (Barcelona, 2007), 59–86.



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Regarding wives of master craftsmen, their femininity was expressed once more, first and foremost, through motherhood, essential to the transmission of the workshops to children, who should of course be legitimate. Nevertheless, their movements were not as limited as those of the wives of merchants and men of law due to their very circumstances. In addition to the government of their households, which included, besides the domestic servants, the apprentices, they themselves had an active role in the workshop, either in support tasks, in the production itself, or in sale to the public.81 Therefore, they had to keep, necessarily, plenty of contact with the outside world. We have no records of their use of wet-nurses,82 but it is more likely that they nursed and cared for their new borns and older children themselves, together with the apprentices, whose training started between seven and twelve years of age. The girls of this social group were also required to learn, from an early age, the double role of housewives with their mothers, and of artisans with their fathers. However, professional regulations barred women for a long time from being master craftsmen themselves and from keeping their own workshops. Thus, widows without children or maidens who were the sole heiresses of master craftsmen were coveted by apprentices and fellow workers with no means to establish themselves on their own, who knew they had to (re)marry.83 On the other hand, urban trades existed in which female prevalence was the rule. Such professions were the descendants of the domestic chores women had always done, as we can tell from the image of the Carolingian gynoecium given by the capitulary De villis, in which women were engaged in activities related to the production of textiles and clothing—for which they themselves obtained the raw materials and tools (linen, wool, dyes, combs, carders, etc.)—to supplying a palace with food (meat, wine, butter, etc.).84 In the following centuries, the examples of women retailers become ever more numerous: as vendors and shopkeepers, they were engaged in the daily provision of the market with food and goods, which they often produced themselves.85 Women were also employed in textile production, as spinners, weavers, and tailors, and as domestic servants, such as housemaids and wet-nurses.86 81  Françoise Piponnier, “L’univers féminin: espaces et objets,” in Histoire des femmes en Occident, ed. Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1991), 2:346. 82  Shahar, Children in the Middle Ages, 58–59.

83  Segura, “La sociedad urbana,” 198–99 and 206–07. 84  Fonay Wemple, “Les traditions romaine,” 198–99.

85  Maria Helena da Cruz Coelho, “A mulher e o trabalho nas cidades medievais portuguesas,” Revista de História Económica e Social 20 (1987): 45–63; Iria Gonçalves, “Regateiras, padeiras e outras mais na Lisboa medi­eval,” in Lisboa medi­eval. Os rostos da cidade, ed. Luis Krus, Luí�s Filipe Oliveira, and João Luis Fontes (Lisbon, 2007), 1–29. 86  Kay E. Lacey, “Women and Work in Fourteenth and Fifteenth Century London,” in Women and Work in Pre-Industrial England, ed. Lindsey Charles and Lorna Duffin (London, 1985), 24–82; P. J. P. Goldberg, “Female Labour, Service, and Marriage in the Late Medi­eval Urban North,” Northern History, 22 (1986): 18–38; Arnaldo Melo, “Women and Work in the Household Economy: the Social and Linguistic Evidence from Porto, c. 1340–1450,” in The Medi­eval Household in Christian Europe, c. 850–c. 1550. Managing Power, Wealth and the Body, ed. Cordelia Beattie, Anna Maslakovic, and Sarah Rees Jones (Turnhout, 2003), 249–69.

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Little is known about the life conditions of these professionals, who had to work either because their husbands did not earn enough to keep wife and children, or because they were single women or widows with no independent means. Although society still demanded of them, as of all women, that they remained virgin and chaste (the latter), or faithful to their husbands (the former), urban young men—merchants, craftsmen, students—seemed to think that the fact that they had no powerful guardians made them available as sexual objects in individual or collective rape.87 For some of these women, that was the introduction to prostitution.88 Among rural women, the situation of those who owned land was also quite different from that of paid workers. To the former, the transmission of the family inheritance brought with it the same requirements of virginity while single, and fidelity when married, that weighed on the aristocrats and bourgeois women; the latter apparently enjoyed a wider sexual freedom. Due to the nature of the tasks allotted to women farmers—in addition to managing the household, there was feeding the livestock, keeping the kitchen garden, and processing the farm products (producing cheese, textiles, etc.)—89 these were the women who could more easily combine work with their maternal duties. Still, crop specialization brought about by urban development in the later Middle Ages called for a larger labour force, and women began to participate as paid workers in harvesting grain, mowing hay, the vintage, the shearing of sheep, and so forth, yet earning much less than men.90 This forced them to delegate to others, at least temporarily, the care and education of their children. To conclude, from its very beginning the Christian church proposed to women a model of virginity that should make them similar to men. Quite a few Christian women took it seriously and started to spread the word of God, as prophets, to administer sacraments, and when this became no longer possible, turned to caring for the sick and the poor, writing or dictating their visions and teachings, and attracting and advising followers, thus being at best confined to monasteries and at worst accused of heresy and burnt at the stake. From the eleventh century on, though, clerics started to value maternity, which had always been a lay feminine ideal because of the need for social reproduction. Mary, the Virgin Mother, embodied these two contradictory demands, to whom was later added St. Anne, who was supposed to have taught Mary to read, symbolizing the mother who not only gives birth, but also raises and educates her children. For the laity, the woman was also ideally the household manager, busying herself with the supervision or the production of everything necessary for the survival of the family: nourishment, clothing, and so on. Yet, many real women went far beyond these ideals, proving they could also create theo­logy, write poetry and romances, rule kingdoms, and manage affairs, their “feminine frailty” notwithstanding. 87  Karras, From Boys to Men, 148–49.

88  Jacques Rossiaud, La prostitución en el Medievo (Barcelona, 1986), 43–45.

89  Piponnier, “L’univers féminin,” 345–46 and 354; Opitz, “Contraintes et libertés,” 308. 90  Marvis E. Mate, Women in Medi­eval English Society (Cam­bridge, 1999), 27–31.

Chapter 5

IDENTITY, MEMORY, AND AUTOBIO­GRAPHICAL WRITING IN TWELFTH- AND THIRTEENTHCENTURY FRENCH LITERATURE MERITXELL SIMÓ*

Paul Zumthor argued

for the absence, at least until the fifteenth century, of autobio­graphical writing during the Middle Ages, that is, the absence of a discourse of the “I,” whose reality was seen as part of lived experience. Zumthor cited troubadour song as an example of “a mental world where autobio­graphy is out of the question,”1 a poetry of rhetorical formalization in which the statements that structure the song are not even articulated in a logical sequence of progression or causality, but refer, in a self-contained, disconnected manner, to a virtual model present in the public’s memory: the ethical and aesthetic ideal troubadours called fin’amors. The aim of this chapter is to draw attention to a series of twelfth- and thirteenth-century French narrative texts, which, by representing the act of poetic creation on the fictional plane, do in fact link it to the memory of experience gained by a specific subject and to the expression and affirmation of individual identity.2

The Identity of the Individual in Romance Literature

Here a brief introductory reflection on individual identity in medi­eval Romance literature is necessary. In a text dedicated to subjectivity in literature, Charmaine Lee reminded us that medi­eval literature devotes little space to a construction of individual identity, either in the case of epic poetry, which “cannot, because of its own nature, be a *  This chapter derives from the Research Project “Estudio de la canción de mujer en la lí�rica galoro­mánica y germánica y de la figura femenina como constructora del espacio sociopoético trovadoresco (PID2019-108910GB-C21),” funded by the Ministerio de Economia y Competitividad of the Government of Spain, and is included in the works of the research group “Pragmàtica de la literatura a l’Edat Mitjana” (AGAUR 2017SGR 1335).

1  “Un univers mental où l’autobio­graphie est inconceivable.” Cited from Paul Zumthor and Lucia Vaina-Pusca, “Le je de la chanson et le moi du poète chez les premiers trouvères, 1180–1220,” Cana­ dian Review of Comparative Literature/Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée 1 (1974): 9–21.

2  Robert Guiette, “D’une poésie formelle en France au Moyen Age,” Romania Gandensia 8 (1960): 9–23; Roger Dragonetti, La technique poétique des trouvères dans la chanson courtoise (Genova, 1978); Paul Zumthor, Essai de poétique médiévale (Paris, 1972); Paul Zumthor, “Autobio­graphie au Moyen Age?,” in Langue, texte, enigme (Paris, 1975), 165–80. Meritxell Simó ([email protected]) is Professora titular of Romance Philo­logy at the Universitat de Barcelona, Spain.

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personal genre,”3 or in that of lyrical poetry, since the troubadour, despite expressing himself in the first person, sings not so much for a lady to whom he expresses his love as for an audience of troubadours (entenedors) capable of appreciating subtle variations in the expression of an amorous rhetorical code they all know and share. Maria Luisa Meneghetti, for her part, related the scant attention given to individual identity to the general anonymity of literature, at least throughout the twelfth century.4 This is true, particularly if we think of the chanson de geste and the earliest romans antics, narrations in octosyllables inspired by classical epics and still very close to the spirit of the epic matter. The author of a chanson de geste, in adopting the jongleur’s mask, appears as the mere transmitter of the events narrated, while the first romanciers hid behind another mask, that of the translator, taking advantage of the authority emanating from the Latin source. Nor does the character’s individuality take on any more importance in the first Romanesque narratives. The epic hero does not exist other than as the incarnation of collective values which he defends in the only action that confers identity: the heroic deed; and the action, while dominated by the knight of the roman antic, still has a marked collective character despite the occasional introduction of amorous episodes into the plot. Still, we cannot ignore the fact that the emergence of the Breton roman, which turns away from the historical character of the sources written in Latin, and takes its plots from the matter of Britain, namely from the fables inspired by old Celtic myths propagated in their oral form by the Breton jongleurs, came to introduce important changes in the representation of the author and the character. With Chrétien de Troyes, the prime example of this new narrative mode, the roman becomes the embryo of the modern novel, calling itself fiction (fabula) while abandoning the narration of the deeds of groups, and narrating the process of the construction of a character taken from contemporary reality: the knight. The knights of the fiction of Chrétien’s romans ride alone, and alone they confront their adventure, conceived of not as a mere obstacle, but as a form of self-affirmation which leads to the conquest of personal identity through reflection and self-awareness.5 The distance between the epic hero and the knight in the roman is made evident in the words Mario Mancini dedicates to the protagonist of the Chanson de Roland: The sword, his Durendal, bright and holy (claire et santissime), draws Roland forward, to a future always the same; draws him endlessly to conquest, depriving him of the chance to have a moment of concern, of hesitation, of introspection, of thought.6

3  “Non può, per sua natura, essere un genere personale.” Cited from Charmaine Lee, La soggettività nel Medioevo (Manziana, 1996), 3. 4  Maria Luisa Meneghetti, Il Pubblico dei trovatori (Modena, 1984), 237.

5  Georg Lukàcs, Teoría de la novela (Barcelona, 1971), 95.

6  “La spada, la sua Durendal chiara e santissima, claire et santissime, trascina Roland in avanti, un avanti sempre uguale, lo trascina incessantemente alla conquista, gli sottrae ogni momento di riflessione, di esitazione, di oblio di se, di pensiero.” Cited from Mario Mancini, “‘Remembrer’. Roland e Perceval,” in Memoria. Poetica, retorica e filo­logía della memoria, ed. Gianfelice Peron, Zeno Verlato, and Francesco Zambon (Trento, 2004), 27.

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This image of Roland, lacking an internal nature, contrasts with that of the knight of the Breton roman, whom we see stop along his way to give himself up to penser. The paradigmatic image of this thoughtful hero is provided by the famous scene of the trail of drops of blood in the snow from Chrétien de Troyes’ Li contes del graal. The narrative’s protagonist, the young Perceval, stops one day to contemplate how the trail of blood left by a wounded goose has been diluted by the fresh snow. The chromatic impression reminds him of the face of his friend Blancaflor and he then sinks into a state of introspection from which the knights who come to meet him vainly try to draw him out.7 We should remember that this roman, seen by some as a clear precursor of the Bildungsroman, narrates the gradual construction of the subjectivity of an ignorant young man who has grown up isolated in a forest and knows nothing of the world or of himself. In this context, Mancini, in an opportune reference to a study by Daniel Poirion, points out that the colours red and white, which evoke the face of the maiden Blancaflor and absorb the mind of the knight by drawing him into a pensive ecstasy, are also the colours of the drop of blood which runs down the white lance in the scene of the procession of the Grail.8 The image of the pensive hero, then, refers us to the fundamental adventure that Perceval must undertake on the path to an acquisition of identity: the resolution of the enigma of the Grail. By constructing a complex web of significant images, Chrétien invites us to insert the image of the pensive hero contemplating the drops of blood into the narrative architecture of the work (conjoincture) and to regard the path to the adventure leading to the acquisition of identity as a path into the interior of one’s self via introspection and self-awareness. It is not surprising that after these two encounters, this boy, who, when asked about his identity at the beginning of the roman, can only name himself in relative terms (“good son,” “good brother,” “good lord”), then mysteriously discovers his name: “What’s your name, friend? And the boy, who did not know his name, guessed and said it was Perceval the Welshman.”9 This foregrounding of the individual coincides in the history of the roman genre with the emergence of the individual author who lays claim to being the crafter of the text.10 The process is an integral part of the assumption of fictionality that these authors attribute to the Breton fables which inspire them. The figure of the author, eclipsed in the chanson de geste and the roman antic, now moves into the foreground. The beginning of 7  “When Perceval saw the trampled snow where the goose had lain and the blood which had appeared around it, he leant on his lance to contemplate this resemblance, for the blood and the snow together brought to his mind the fresh hues in his beloved’s face; and he thinks so deeply that he becomes lost in his thought” (Quant Percevax vit defoulee / Le noif sor coi la jante jut, / Et le sanc qui entor parut, / Si s’apoia desor sa lance / Por esgarder cele semblance; / Que li sanz et la nois ensamble / La fresche color li resamble / Qui ert en la face s’amie, / Si pense tant que il s’oblie). Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, Le Roman de Perceval ou Le Conte du Graal, ed. Keith Busby (Tübingen, 1993), 179 (vv. 4194–4202). 8  Mancini, “‘Remembrer’. Roland,” 30.

9  “Commant avez vos non, amis? / Et cil qui son non ne savoit / Devine et dit que il avoit / Percevaus li Gualois a non.” Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, Le Roman de Perceval, 150 (vv. 3511–3513). 10  Michel Zink, La Subjectivité littéraire autour du siècle de saint Louis (Paris, 1985), 42–43.

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authorship moves from the source, which Chrétien considers irrelevant,11 and becomes rooted in the work of the writer capable of transforming fable matter dispersed in the chaotic magma of the oral into a narrative structure that articulates a new meaning. The author is the only craftsman and guarantor of this structure, which Chrétien calls “conjoincture.”12 From this artificial order, which the writer imposes on the material by tying up elements dispersed by their nature, a meaning is derived which is left hidden under the cloak of the letter and waiting to be deciphered, such that the new primacy of the writer’s task now moves in parallel with the invention of the reader as interpreter. The knightly class discovers its identity by seeing itself reflected in the protagonist of these new narratives, created and disseminated at court, while the novelist proudly asserts his own.13 Chrétien no longer aspires, as did his predecessors, to contribute to the preservation of the memory of deeds of the ancients: he wants his name to live on in the memories of the coming generations and of this he boasts: “Now I will tell the story / that will always be kept in memory / as long as Christianity exists. / Of this Chrétien is proud.”14 Around the same time and in the same context characterized by the emergence of the Breton roman and the unusual primacy of the work of literary composition, we can observe the first Romance literary representations of what could be considered autobio­ graphical writing.

Marie de France and the Poetics of Remembrance

At the dawn of Romance literature, in the Lais, a collection of twelve narrative poems written by Marie de France at the Anglo-Norman court of Henry II Plantagenet, an unusual primacy is given to the fictional representation of the exercise of poetic composition and reflection on its meaning. The pro­logue to the Lais so often cited and studied begins with the author’s praise for poetic obscurity. Obscurity saves books from oblivion as the reader is forced to respond to the call of the obscure text by glossing it and rereading it (“comment the letter” (gloser la lettre)) and giving it a personal interpretation (“to place the surplus about its sense” (de lur sens, le surplus mettre)).15 Marie goes on 11  In Erec’s pro­logue, Chrétien declares to have used “un conte d’aventure” as a source.

12  This word, from the verb conjoindre, is related to Latin junctura, and to the dispositio in the rhetorical arts (Horace, Satires, Epistles and Ars Poetica (London, 1942), 470 (vv. 242–243)), could be translated as “framework” or “structure.”

13  As Zink argues: “For the reader, the hero is less a model [for behaviour] but rather a selfreflection, asd ambiguous, asd complex, as difficult to understand as himself ” (Le héros est donc pour le lecteur moins un modèle qu’un reflet aussi ambigu, aussi complexe, aussi difficile à déchiffrer que lui-même). Zink, La subjectivité littéraire, 40. 14  “Des or comancerai l’estoire / Que toz jors mais iert en memoire / Tant con durra crestï�antez; / De ce s’est Crestï�ens ventez.” Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, “Erec et Enide,” in Les romans de Chrétien de Troyes édités d’après la copie de Guiot (Bibl. Nat., fr. 794). I: Erec et Enide, ed. Mario Roques (Paris, 1966), 1–2 (vv. 23–25).

15  “It was customary among the ancients (Priscian testifies to this), in the books that they wrote, to express themselves obscurely so that those in later generations, who had to learn them, could

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to expound her narrative project: the remembrance of the Breton lai. She tells us that she has listened to some lais, i.e., pieces of music whose title evokes an ancient Breton lai she wishes to save from oblivion. The title of the lai—often preserved in Gaelic, obscure as a vestige of the legendary Breton past, of the Celtic substratum, alien to the cultural references of the French author—contains the lyrical essence of a story Marie wishes to remembrer.16 Though an arduous effort of composition, the author glosses the title of the lai, and, giving it symbolic or metaphorical value, extracts from it a “fabula,” presented to the reader as a story that has presumably given rise to a musical composition which preserves the memory of it. By virtue of the polysemy of the term, “remembrance” merges two concepts: remembering, and the putting together of what had been dispersed (remembering), a task similar to Chrétien’s conjoincture. By reorganizing the dispersed reminiscences of Breton myths disseminated orally in a new narrative construction with an equally new meaning, Marie de France transforms the Celtic past of legend by adapting it to a new cultural code with which she and her audience identify and in which they recognize themselves: the courtly ethic that developed at the French and Occitan courts in the twelfth century.17 The courtliness of the audience who shared the author’s cultural references permits them to recognize themselves and decode the signs of the obscure writing, which call for interpretation. What is interesting for our discussion is that in Marie de France’s fictional universe the characters also define their identity as courtly subjects through their literary competence. The protagonists of her stories define themselves in terms of their ability to express their identity through poetic symbols and messages that allow them to communicate and recognize one another. A belt and a knot in the shirt, symbolic of the tie between courtly lovers, are the only clues that allow the lovers in Guigemar to recognize one another when they meet after a short separation. In Chievrefeuil, Tristan makes the honeysuckle that can only live entwined around the hazel branch a floral metaphor for his relationship with Ysolt, and leaves the object–symbol in the middle of the path the provide a gloss of the text and, with their own new understanding, supply their latent meaning. The wise men were aware of this, and they knew that, the more time passed, the more subtle would be the meaning of the books, and they would be able to avoid being forgotten” (Custume fu as ancï�ens, / Ceo tes[ti]moine Precï�ens, / Es libres ke jadis feseient / Assez oscurement diseient / Pur ceus ki a venir esteient / Et ki aprendre les deveient, / K’i peüssent gloser la lettre / Et de lur sen le surplus mettre / Li philesophe le saveient / E par eus memes entendoient, / Cum plus trespasserunt le tens, / Plus serreient sutil de sens / Et plus se savreient garder / De ceo k’iert a trespasser). Cited from Marie de France, “Pro­logue,” in Lais de Marie de France, ed. Karl Warnke, trans. Laurence HarfLancner (Paris, 1990), 22 (vv. 9–22):

16  About the musicality of the Breton lais that Marie wants to retain, see Roger Dragonetti, “Le lai narratif de Marie de France: ‘pur quei fu fez, coment e dunt’,” in Littérature, histoire, linguistique. Recueil d’études offert à Bernard Gagnebin (Lausanne, 1973), 31–53.

17  Marie de France anachronistically represents the Bretons, who in ancient times wrote the lais “for exploit, courtesy, and nobleness” (par prüesce, par curteisie e par noblesce) as having the courtly culture that she shares with her readers and her protector, Henry II Plantagenet, the noble and courtly king to whom she presents her lais. Citation from Marie de France, “Equitan,” in Lais de Marie de France, ed. Karl Warnke, trans. Laurence Harf-Lancner (Paris, 1990), 72 (vv. 3–4).

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queen and her party are to take in the conviction that only she will know how to “glosser la lettre.” The characters in the Lais not only formulate obscure messages to recognize one another, but also compose poetic texts to preserve the memory of their personal experience, and thus we can say that they offer us one of the first Romance examples of what we could call autobio­graphical writing. One example is provided by Laostic (The Nightingale), which tells the story of the love experienced by a lady and a knight through a window. The lovers, who live opposite one another, rise during the night and converse from their windows. The husband, suspicious of his wife’s nightly walks, asks for an explanation. She attributes her insomnia to the song of the nightingale. Unable to understand the metaphorical dimension of nightingale’s song, the image of love in the cansó (troubadour song), the husband, interpreting her words literally, kills the nightingale, which brings about the closing of the window and an end to the love story. The lady embroiders the story on a silk cloth in which she shrouds the bird’s body and which she delivers to her lover, who keeps it in a reliquary. The lady’s autobio­graphical writing glosses the symbolism of the nightingale’s song and saves the lovers’ story from the symbolic death that is forgetting by making it a poetic text that will survive in the protected space of memory.18

Memory, Poetic Creation, and the Construction of Identity

Around 1228, Jean Renart composed his unique Roman de la rose, “por remembrance des chansons,” that is, in order to preserve a series of songs by famous French and Occitan troubadours, which he introduced into the roman by way of lyrical insertions. Jean Renart is also addressing an elite audience of entenedors whom he challenges to grasp the relationship between the plot of the novel and songs interpreted by the roman’s characters. A relationship not at all easy to appreciate, as Jean Renart, paraphrasing “the first troubadour” Guilhem de Peitieu, warns us: “a boor would not know how to appreciate it” (vilain nel porroit savoir). The songs are introduced into the plot as a courtly entertainment for feasts and tournaments, but the motifs and themes they evoke in the memory of the audience conversant in the troubadour tradition give rise to a subtle interplay of analogies and contrasts with the narrative situations created by Jean Renart. With an irony very much in keeping with the playful nature of his writing, Jean Renart from time to time has the characters themselves note with surprise the analogy between their experiences and the verses of the songs they hear or interpret.19 18  The lady’s writing, as Francesco Zambon showed in a detailed study, becomes a reflection of Marie de France’s, who turns a musical lai, called The Nightingale, into a poetic text which she presents to the king for posterity. See Francesco Zambon, “Il titolo e la finzione dell’origine nei ‘Lais’ di Maria di Francia,” in Il titolo e il testo, ed. Michele A. Cortelazzo (Padova, 1992), 145–53.

19  After listening to a troubadour song which reflects his own situation, the young emperor Conrad, hero of the romance, surprised, says to his minstrel, Jouglet, that the song seems inspired by his personal experience: “Jouglet, I think that this song was made for me” (Juglet, a droiture / Fu ciz vers fet por moi sans doute). Cited from Jean Renart, Le roman de la Rose ou de Guillaume de Dole, ed. Félix Lecoy (Paris, 1979), 127 (vv. 4141–4142).

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A few years later, Gerbert de Montreuil with his new Roman de la Violette (1235), reorients the fashion introduced by Jean Renart by attributing an expressive function to the songs interpreted by the characters and by turning the troubadour song into an autobio­graphical poetic. Though these are well-known songs, Gerbert de Montreuil eliminates the names of the real authors and, on a fictional level, presents as author the roman’s knightly protagonist, who uses song to evoke a personal experience or to externalize his emotions. The “I” of the song is no longer purely an instantiation of enunciation, but becomes a character in an experiential “I” that attempts to find itself. The narrative projection of the lyrical universe of the fin’amors, which leads to an identification of the troubadour and the lady with the knight and the maiden who are the roman’s main characters, also leads to an interpretation of the cansó, not as a mere rhetorical game, but as an expression of a code of exemplary conduct, of the internalization of an amorous ideal that defines the identity of the courtly lover. In fact, the Roman de la Violette’s plot is nothing more than the narration of the gradual acquisition by the protagonist of an identity as a courtly subject, and memory and poetic creation play a primordial role in this process. The roman’s protagonist, Gerart de Nevers, claiming not to be one of those who love without their love being requited, boasts publicly of his love for his friend Euriaut, uncourtly behaviour which causes him to lose the maiden. Repenting too late and ignorant of the young woman’s whereabouts, Gerart sets out to find her. In combining two narrative approaches, Jean Renart’s lyrical roman and Chrétien de Troyes’ classical Breton roman, Gerbert de Montreuil adopts the structural model of the queste to define the path of initiation that will lead the protagonist to a new identity: that of the fin amant. After going through many adventures that bring knightly qualities into play, but also fidelity and the nature of his love for Euriaut, Gerart will come out transformed by the “queste,” having overcome the deficiencies as a courtly lover that he had paid for with the loss of his beloved. The image of the “wandering knight” (chevalier errant) is combined in the Roman de la Violette with that of the “wondering knight” (chevalier pensif) already sketched with Perceval and the scene with the drops of blood in the snow, lost in the “remembrance” of the internal image, whose preservation is now linked with the gesture of poetic composition. As in the case of Laostic, the literary representation of an autobio­graphical poetics draws on symbolic elements with roots in the troubadour tradition. This is the case, for example, with the symbolism of the birds which, present from the roman’s first scenes,20 plays a major role in the plot’s two fundamental scenes where the amnesiac hero recovers his memory thanks to lyrical song: in the first case after hearing a song, in the second 20  Pointedly, Gerart and Euriaut’s first appearance is linked to a bird: respectively, to a bird of prey and to a songbird. “He sings at a courtly feast holding a bird” (sor son puing tint un oisiel). Cited from Gerbert de Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, ou de Gérard de Nevers, ed. Francisque Michel (Paris, 1834), 11 (v. 161). She sings privately a troubadour song, surrounded by songbirds, a symbolic way of showing that the damsel adheres to the courtly ethos (De Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, 19–20 (vv. 320–331)).

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after interpreting it.21 Though in both scenes the birds play a symbolic role which helps in the deciphering of the meaning of the lyrical citation, it is the second one that interests us here, since it is here we find the insertion of a cansó attributed to the knightly hero that also fulfills a significant narrative function. The cansó interpreted by Gerart is introduced at the roman’s structural core and thus coincides in Chrétien’s model with the crisis that momentarily diverts the hero from his mission and the overcoming of which implies the definitive acquisition of the values in play on the path of the adventure. Gerart ends up with amnesia at the court of the Duke of Co­logne22 as the result of unwittingly drinking a love potion the maiden Aiglente gives him to make him love her. The resolution of the situation comes in the form of the fortuitous arrival of Euriaut’s lark, which has flown off from the maiden’s room in Metz with the ring Gerart had given Euriaut. One morning Gerart goes out hunting with his hawk. While he is contemplating from afar the maiden Aiglente leaning out a window in the castle tower, the singing of a lark reaches his ears. The knight reclines on his mount, experiencing an inexpressible pleasure that he associates with the memory of a perfect love23 and, incapable of repressing the song, he interprets his son poitevin, a designation given to a Frenchified version of the famous opening of Bernart de Ventadorn’s Can vei la lauzeta mover:24 Thinking of Aiglente he began to sing this song from Poitou: When I see the lark beating | its wings in joy against the sun’s rays that it forgets itself and lets itself fall because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, alas! great envy comes to me of those whom I see happy and I marvel that my heart, at the moment, does not melt from desire.25

Before the song ends, Gerart lets his hawk fly. The hawk catches the lark and eats its brain. After contemplating the scene and noticing the ring the lark carries, Gerart regains his memory of Euriaut. The connotations of this episode are rich and quite varied. The hawk, Gerart’s alter ego from the very beginning of the work, feeds on the bird identified since the very first verses with his beloved and with the troubadour’s joi,26 a creature which moreover

21  See Meritxell Simó, La arquitectura del roman courtois con inserciones líricas (Bern, 1999), 170–90. 22  “Ainc d’Euriaut ne li souvint.” Cited from De Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, 175 (v. 3567). 23  “De fine amour li resouvint.” Cited from De Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, 199 (v. 4184).

24  “When I see fluttering the lark with joy against the ray of sunlight, which fainted by the sweetness that pervades its heart, alas!, how big an envy I have of everyone I see happy; I marvel that the heart suddenly doesn’t melt of desire” (Can vei la lauzeta mover / de joi sas alas contral rai / que s’oblid’e·s laissa chazer / per la doussor c’al cor li vai, / ai! Tan grans enveja m’en ve / de cui qu’eu veya jauzion, / meravilhas ai, car desse / lo cor de dezirer no·m fon). Cited from Bernart de Ventadorn, Bernart von Ventadorn, seine Lieder, mit Einleitung und Glossar, ed. Carl Appel (Halle, 1915), 250 (vv. 1–8).

25  “Pour Aiglente talens li vint / De cest son poitevin chanter: / Quant voi la loëte moder / De joi ses eles contrel rai, / Qui s’oblide et laisse cader / Per la douçor qu’al cor li vai, / Diex! tant grant envide mi fai / De li quant vi la jausion! / Mirabillas son cant de se / Lou cor de desier ne fon.” Cited from De Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, 199 (vv. 4182–4194). 26  See note 20.

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carries in its beak the ring, an emblem of fidelity and fin’amors. The motif of the semiallegorical hunt for love, frequent in courtly narrative from Chrétien de Troyes’ Cligès to André le Chapelain’s De Amore, also permit us to interpret the birds as stand-ins for Gerart and Euriaut, which, by correcting the past, suggest a new model of love based on caritas and a self-less exchange.27 And while, as we have mentioned, the motif’s literary reminiscences are rich, we want to highlight the relationship between Euriaut’s lark and the lark alluded to by the famous lines interpreted by the knight. Just as in Laostic the lady’s writing glosses the symbolism of the nightingale as an emblem of love, Bernart de Ventadorn’s song glosses the meaning of the semi-allegorical hunting of the lark. The song which, significantly on the fictional plan, is addressed to Aiglente (v. 4185), expresses a yearning which the person to whom the song is addressed cannot fulfill— the yearning for the plenitude of pleasure, the mystical joi of the “fin’amors” which in Can vei la lauzeta mover takes form in the lark. From the appropriation of the song by the character one can conclude that what Gerart envies (“tant grant envide mi fai”) is “joi.” The song of the lark, by way of contrast, characterizes Gerart’s state of mind, in making the pleasure to which it gives rise seem a painful lack that fills his heart with envy. The first stanza aims to evoke in the listeners’ mind the entirety of Bernart de Ventadorn’s song built wholly on the dialectic between the past—the time of illusion and of “joi”—and the present, the time of disappointment and renunciation. In Bernart de Ventadorn’s composition, it is the lady who has disappointed the troubadour that has generated this antithesis, while in Gerart’s case, the narrative context causes us to identify the two times with two different ladies: the happy past with Euriaut; and the present of disappointment and deception, with Aiglente. Like Bernart de Ventadorn, Gerart has been seduced by a false image that he cannot stop loving because his will has been eliminated. The elimination of his will, attributed in the song to his own narcissistic illusion,28 is linked by the narrative context to the ingestion of a love potion. Roman de la Violette, however, is aimed at a cultural elite, an audience whose courtly identity is measured by a hermeneutic ability that requires not only recognizing Bernart de Ventadorn’s cansó, but also knowing how to read it in light of a complex network of intertextual relationships and how to make the association between this lyrical universe and the fictional universe of the novel constructed by Gerbert de Montreuil. We need to keep in mind here that Can vei la lauzeta mover is part of one of the most famous debates among troubadours, one known as the Tristan–Carestia, a debate which structured, like the episode with which we are dealing, around the motif of the love potion, with suggestions of

27  On the link between troubadour poetry and the theo­logy of caritas as nourishment, and on the conception of eating as a means of moving to the other and to return to the self, transfigured by the ecstatic encounter, see Mario Casella, “Jaufre Rudel,” in Saggi di letteratura provenzale e catalana, ed. Giuseppe Edoardo Sansone (Bari, 1966), 69–115.

28  “I never had control over myself, nor was I mine from the moment she let me see into her eyes, into a mirror that pleases me greatly. Mirror, since I saw myself reflected in you, deep sighs have killed me, for I lost myself just as fair Narcissus lost himself in the fountain” (Anc non agui de me poder / ni no fui meus de l’or’en sai / que·m laisset en sos olhs vezer / en un miralh que mout me plai / miralhs, pus me mirei en te, / m’an mort li sospir de preon, / c’aissi·m perdi com peret se lo bels Narcisus en la fon). Cited from Ventadorn, Bernart von Ventadorn, 251 (vv. 17–20).

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Tristan, involved Bernart de Ventadorn (Can vei la lauzeta mover), Raimbaut d’Aurenga (No chant per auzel ni per flor), and Chrétien de Troyes (D’Amors que m’a tolu a moi) in his capacity as trouvère.29 Bernart de Ventadorn in Can vei la lauzeta mover lamented the helplessness of the lover on realizing he has been deceived, seduced by a false mirage which has eliminated his will, and he addressed the composition to Raimbaut d’Aurenga, a troubadour, who, adopting the senhal Tristan, boasted having abandoned his lady for another30 and of having drunk the potion.31 Seen in this intertextual framework, the lauzeta’s song offers Gerart a mirror in which to recognize himself, though he will only do so when, thanks to Euriaut’s ring, he regains his memory and self-awareness and can decipher the signs of the message contained in his song. It is then that he will rebuke himself (vv. 4274–4275) and set out again on the queste for Euriaut. So, by introducing Bernart de Ventadorn’s cansó at a moment corresponding to the passing of the crisis caused by the potion, Gerbert de Montreuil also seems to be appropriating the response that Chrétien de Troyes (under the pseudonym Carestia) had in the song D’Amors qui m’a tolu a moi given to the two Occitan troubadours. In this song Chrétien expresses his rejection of a love that does not arise from the subject’s free will (“Onques du buvrage en bui / Dont Tristan fu empoisonnez,” vv. 28–29)32 and defends unswerving fidelity to the beloved in the face of any adversity.33 Thus he argued against the position of Raimbaut 29  On this intertextual dialogue between Bernart de Ventadorn’s Can vei la lauzeta mover, Raimbaut d’Aurenga’s No chant per auzel ni per flor, and Chrétien de Troyes’ D’Amors, qui m’a tolu a moi, see Luciano Rossi, “Chrétien de Troyes e i trovatori: Tristan, Linhaure, Carestia,” Vox Romanica 46 (1987): 26–62.

30  “I have now departed from the worst / lady that was ever seen or found, / and I love of this world the fairest / lady, and the most precious one; / and I shall do so till I die: / for I shan’t love aught else / for I believe she is quite fond / of me, as far as I can see” (Ar sui partitz de la pejor / C’anc fos vista ni trobada, / Et am del mon la bellazor / Dompna, e la plus prezada; / E farai ho al mieu viven: / Que d’alres non sui amaire, / Car ieu cre qu’ill a bon talen / Ves mi, segon mon vejaire). Cited from Raimbaut d’Aurenga, The Life and Works of the Troubadour Raimbaut d’Orange, ed. Walter Pattison, (Minneapolis, 1961), 161 (vv. 9–18).

31  Raimbaut d’Aurenga: “Wherever my destiny lies, I make of my lady my master and liege; since I drank of the cup of love, I shall love forever secretly. Tristan, when the noble, fair Isolde gave it to him, couldn’t do otherwise” (De midonz fatz dompn’e seignor / Cals que sia·il destinada. / Car ieu begui de la amor / Ja·us dei amar a celada. / Tristan, qan la·il det Yseus gen / E bela, no·n saup als faire). Cited from Fernando Carmona, Carmen Hernández, and José Antonio Trigueros, eds., Lírica Románica Medi­eval, I: Desde los orígenes hasta finales del siglo XIII (Murcia, 1986), 138 (vv. 25–30).

32  “I never drank of the brew by which Tristan was poisoned; my true heart and good will made me love more than he. You should show me gratitude for nothing forced me to love, except that I believed my eyes through which I have entered the path, which I shall never leave nor renounce” (Onques du buvrage ne bui / Dont Tristan fu enpoisonnez; / Mes plus me fet amer que lui / Fins cuers et bone volentez. / Bien en doit estre miens li grez, / Q’ains de rien esforciez n’en fui / Fors de tant que mes iauz en crui / Par cui sui en la voie entrez / Donc ja n’istrai n’anc n’en recruit). Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, Les chansons courtoises de Chrétien de Troyes, ed. Marie-Claire Zai (Bern, 1974), 455.

33  Chrétien de Troyes: “Heart, if my lady does not love you back / never will you leave her for this: / stay always in her dominion, since you have begun to give her your service / Never, I swear, will you love abundance / do not despair for lack of love / delay sweetens the reward” (Cuers se ma

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d’Aurenga and also that of Bernart de Ventadorn, who, incapable of bearing the suffering of love, announced in Can vei la lauzeta mover his renunciation of song and of his lady.34 The position advocated by Chrétien de Troyes is the tone the roman develops narratively in the Gerart’s “queste” for Euriaut.

From Poet’s Bio­graphy to Autobio­graphical Fiction

Gerbert de Montreuil was imitated by later writers who merged the identities of the knight errant and the courtly poet in the figure of the poet knight, the main character not only of feats of arms, but who through poetic composition reflects on himself and his own experience. These works attribute to the character the composition of the lyrical insertions incorporated in the roman even though the authors are well-known. At the end of the thirteenth century, Jakemes will go one step further and give this technique coherence by turning the protagonist of his Roman du Castelain de Couci into the real author of songs he intersperses in the roman’s plot. The book claims to be the novelized bio­graphy of the Châtelain de Coucy, a celebrated trouvère, to whom Jakemes attributes one of the different versions preserved of the legend of the eaten heart. Earlier, à propos individual identity in Romance literature, we have seen that in the history of the roman genre, self-assertion of the fictional character coincides with selfassertion of the author. We would like to point out in conclusion that the meeting of narrative writing and poetic subjectivity that characterizes these French works is also recognizable in the gradual coming together of the identity of the roman’s author and that of his character, which clears the way for turning the author of the narration himself into its main character. Chrétien de Troyes, in Le Chevalier de la Charrette, had already played at blending his own identity with that of his character in merging Lancelot’s amorous vassalage toward Guinevere with that of his submission to his sponsor, the Countess Marie de Champagne.35 The identification of the author and the character is clearer in Le Bel Inconnu by Renaut de Beaujeu, where the author states that he has composed the roman out of love for his lady and adopts the attitude of the lyrical subject of the dame ne t’a chier / Ja mar por cou t’en partiras: / Tous jours soies en son dangier, / Puis qu’empris et comencié l’as. / Ja, mon los, plenté n’ameras / Ne pour chier tans ne t’esmaier; / Bien adoucist par delayer). Cited from Chrétien de Troyes, Les chansons courtoises, 455.

34  Bernart de Ventadorn: “Since with my lady neither prayers nor mercy nor my rights avail me, and since she is not pleased that I love her, I will never speak of love again. Thus I part from her, and leave; she has killed me, and I answer with death, since she does not retain me. I leave, since she does not hold me back, wretched, into exile, I don’t know where. Tristan, you will have nothing from me, for I depart, wretched, I don’t know where. I stop and cease singing and withdraw from joy and love” (Pus ab midons no·m pot valer / precs ni merces ni·l dreihz qu’eu ai, / ni a leis no ven a placer / qu’eu l’am, ja mais no·lh o dirai. / Aissi·m part de leis e·m recre; / mort m’a, e per mort li respon, / e vau m’en pus ilh no·m rete, / chaitius, en issilh, no sai on. // Tristans, ges no·n auretz de me / qu’eu me’n vau, chaitius, no sai on. / De chantar me gic e·m recre, / e de joi e d’amor m’escon). Cited from Ventadorn, Bernart von Ventadorn, 253–54 (vv. 49–60).

35  Stephen F. Noreiko, “Le Chevalier de la Charrette: prise de conscience d’un ‘fin amant’,” Romania, 94 (1973): 464.

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cansó.36 Gerbert de Montreuil too adopts an attitude close to that of the trobadour’s “I” in the Roman de la Violette when he calls his literary activity serviche and introduces his work as a text inspired by and composed out of love for the Countess Marie de Poitiers.37 It is, however, in the Roman du Castelain de Couci where we find the best example of this adoption by the novelist of the attitude of the lyrical subject of the cansó. Jakemes replaces the dedication to the sponsor with a dedication to the beloved, situates his activity as a novelist in the tradition of the ancient troubadours, and adopts the identity of the lyrical “I,” who writes of love for a lady whose anonymity he carefully guards: Love, which is mainly a way to honestly live, has given me the will to tell a story of very noble deeds, to give joy to the lovers who will want to read or listen (vv. 1–6).38 A long time ago the princes and counts that love dragged to him used to sing and chant with gentle rhymes. They so enhanced love while lamenting their woes.39

Amours, an ethical principle (“the way to live honestly” (voie de vivre honestement)), not only defines the identity of the romancier, but also that of his audience, as is emphasized by the homonymy of conte, which in these first verses has ethical (12), esthetic (4), and social (11) dimensions. The equivalence of loving, composing, and understanding that sustains the trobadour’s poetics is transferred to the novelist’s creation: the conte of the “tres noble affere” Jakemes offers us is aimed at “les amoureus,” the only ones able to act nobly and to appreciate these artistic compositions. We have elsewhere analyzed how the technique of lyrical insertion practised by Jakemes is motivated by the very desire to suggest the identification of the author of the roman with its trouvère protagonist.40 Here we merely wish to show how this process of identification is confirmed and completed by the attribution to the roman’s protagonist of a composition by Jakemes himself. The last song in the work represents a controversial integration in the narrative context into which it is inserted. The Châtelain of Coucy, the victim of his lover’s husband, has been forced to join a crusade and leave his lover far behind. He has been in the Holy Land for two years when he is wounded by a poisoned arrow. Aware that he is about 36  As Paul Zumthor argues à propos the romance’s pro­logue: “The following story (the subject ‘he’) carries a personal goal: directed by an ‘I’ [...] to a lady, he filled from one to the other the function that, in the general courtly signing is that of the song” (Le récit qui suit (de sujet il) procède d’un dessein personnel: adressé par un je […] à une dame, il remplit de l’un à l’autre la fonction qui, dans le grand chant courtois, est celle de la chanson). Cited from Paul Zumthor, Essai de Poétique médiévale (Paris, 1972), 343. The narration that follows (which subject is he) comes from a personal project: addressed by an I […] to a lady, it fulfills, from one to another, the function which, in the troubadour lyric, fulfills the cansó. 37  De Montreuil, Roman de la Violette, 4–5 (vv. 46–64).

38  “Amours, qui es principaument / Voie de vivre honnestement, / M’a donné voloir de retraire / Un conte de tres noble affere / Pour les amoureus esjoï�r / Qui le vorront lire ou oÿr.” Cited from Jakemes, L’histoire du Castelain de Couci et de la Dame de Fayel, ed. G. A. Crapelet (Paris, 1829), 1.

39  “Mais jadis li prince et li conte / Que Amours metoit en son conte / Faisoient cans, dis et partures / En rimes de gentes faitures: / Ensi grascioient Amours, / En complaingnant de lor dolours.” Cited from Jakemes, L’histoire du Castelain de Couci, 1 (vv. 11–16). 40  See Simó, La arquitectura del roman Courtois, 299–339.

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to die, he decides to compose a song “which some good ones will sing” (c’aucuns boins canteroit) (v. 7562):41 Without feigning I want to obey the commands of my lady, in whom I see wisdom and value; I cannot reach to contemplate her beauty; there is nothing worse. Her image is so sweet that Nature could not create it; God gave her a body and face that make my heart overwhelmed with desire and hope. But Danger cannot be with me because it often subjects me to fear. I want to meet Pity, who could give me its immense sweetness. The woes that my heart suffers for the flames of love cannot hurt me, because I love without limits the one who is beautiful beyond limits. If she wanted to help her lover, I would follow her, if, by my truthfulness and my pleas, I could have her give me her mercy, without anger. Now I beg her to look after me, friend who suffer for her, victim of the woes of love. Reason asks that a creature that has so much beauty to have pity, keep humble and help her lover, as honour commands. Haughtiness does not fit with her nobleness: rather must she rather behave like a noble flower.42

The song, in this case a virelai, is a petition for “merci” to the lady to whom the poet declares his love and fidelity, while insisting on his feelings reiterated in the refrain: “sans faindre ….” The difficult semantic integration of this composition in the narrative context has been decried by some critics, among them, Anne Preston Ladd: Song X is so full of cliches that its content would be suitable in many a situation, no matter what the personal feelings of the hero. The poet complains of his suffering, which is a fitting subject—he is a dying man, far from his love. But he implies that he will improve if his lady has pity on him, so that the song has no reference to his real physical suffering. Most of the song is a prise of the lady. Not that the virelai is out of place in the situation, but it would not be incongruous in the place of Songs I or II.43

François Suard goes even further in alleging the discrepancy in theme between this lyrical insertion and the circumstances in the narrative; however, in contrast with Ladd, Suard defends the coherence of its placement at this point in the work, to which he ascribes a different motivation: The case of the “virelai” inserted in verses 7564 ff. is different because the poem’s content opposes clearly to the circumstances of its composition in the narrative perspective

41  Cited from Chanter et lire dans le récit médiéval. La fonction des insertions lyriques dans les oeuvres narratives et didàctiques d’oïl aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles, 2 vols. (Bern, 2010), 1:154.

42  “Sans faindre voel obeï�r / A ma dame, en qui veï�r / Puis sens et valour; / Sa biaute en sourveï�r /Ne me poet asouveÿr / Tant ai plus dolour. / Elle est douce em pourtraiture, / Si croi de fourmer Nature / N’en ot le pooir: / Dius li fist corps et figure, / Par quoi en mon coer figure / Desir et espoir. / Mais dangiers ne poet seï�r / A moi, car souvent seï�r / Me fait en paour. / Pité desire a veï�r: / Bien me poroit pourveï�r / Sa grande douchour. / Sans faindre, etc. // Grietés que mes cuers endure / Tout pour amoureuse ardure, / Ne feroit doloir. / Moi qui aime outre mesure / La tres bielle a desmesure, / S’elle euist voloir / D’aidier son ami, suivir / Le voel, se pour moi suivir / Et par ma clamour / Peusse sans avoir l’aï�r / De li et bien parveï�r / Pardon de savour / Sans faindre, etc. // Or li depri qu’elle ait cure / De moi, ami qui mal cure: / D’amer senc doloir. / Par raison, la creature / Qui tant a gente faiture /Pité doit avoir, / Humillité detenir / Et son ami detenir: / Che li vient d’onnour. / Orgoel n’apiertient tenir / A si franche, ains desteñir / Comme riche flour. / Sans faindre […].” Cited from François Laurent, “Les insertions lyriques dans les romans en vers du XIIIe siècle” (PhD diss., Université de Limoges, 2007), 118 (vv. 7564–7608). 43  Anne Preston Ladd, Lyric Insertions in Thirteenth-Century French Narrative (New Haven, 1973), 204.

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for it is about the hero’s last moments. However, it is not inserted without a motive and, therefore, sloppily. Even deprived of its dramatic context, the poem shows the intentions of Jakemés, and, particularly, his will to associate song and text. His hero, the knight-poet Renaud, celebrates love when dying because someone else is going to later resume his song: “Si s’apensa que il feroit /Ce cant c’aucuns boins canteroit.” This is at the same time about ethics, perpetuating the values of the courtly society, but also about the conception of the discourse, where the text invites to wrap the narration in a lyric tone, and, also, in certain moments, obliges to go over the logic of the narration, without, however, contradicting it openly.44

If “the knight-poet Renaud celebrates the love when it is going to disappear, because one other will afterward take its song,”45 it is undoubtedly a relevant fact that some researchers have postulated Jakemes as the author of this composition. The virelai is not a poetic form common among the “trouvères” of the Châtelain’s generation and this fact, together with the fact that it is a unicum, has led some to believe that, as we have pointed out, it could have been composed by the roman’s author himself. If this is the case, we already know the identity of this other who “reprendra plus tard” the Châtelain’s poetic legacy: Jakemes himself. The inappropriateness of the content of the song, a request for love, to the narrative circumstances indicates that the song is addressed not to the Châtelain’s friend, but to Jakemes’ lady. The author attributes a song of his own creation to the Châtelain and pretends the latter has composed it so that “aucuns boins la cante” (v. 7562). The song can be seen as a “lyrical translation,” as a transfer to Jakemes of the song and of the values inherent in the Châtelain’s lyrical discourse, an idea already suggested in the pro­logue when Jakemes is identified as one of “li bon,” to whom the celebrated “trouvère” now entrusts the continuation of his work; and as the heir to the work of ancient princes and counts who were troubadours of love (“the prince and the count what Love include in their count” (li prince et li conte que Amours metoit en son conte), vv.11–12). The blending of the identity of the author and that of the character in the lyrical “I” of the composition confers to Jakemes’ voice, the auctoritas of the famous trouvère. In addition to the appropriation of the lyrical discourse, there is that of the final gesture toward his friend by the Châtelain, who, immediately after singing the song, asks his

44  “Le cas du virelai inséré aux vers 7564 et suivants est différent, car le contenu du poème… s’oppose nettement aux circonstances de sa composition dans la perspective narrative, puisqu’il s’agit des derniers moments du héros. Il ne s’agit pourtant pas d’un texte inséré gratuitement, et donc maladroitement, dans la narration. Même dégagé du contexte dramatique, le poème atteste la permanence des intentions de Jakemés, et notamment sa volonté d’associer chant et récit. Son héros, le chevalier-poète Renaud, célèbre l’amour alors qu’il va disparaî�tre, parce qu’un autre reprendra plus tard son chant: ‘Si s’apensa que il feroit / Ce cant c’aucuns boins canteroit. Il est à la fois question d’éthique, perpétuant le système de valeurs courtoises, mais aussi de conception du discours, où l’espace du texte invite à marquer le récit d’une tonalité lyrique et même, à certains moments, contraint l’activité poétique à excéder la logique narrative sans toutefois la contredire substantiellement.” Cited from François Suard, “Le Roman du Castelain de Couci et l’esthétique romanesque à la fin du XIIIe siècle,” in ‘Farai chansoneta novele’. Hommage à Jean-Charles Payen. Essais sur la liberté créatrice au Moyen Âge, ed. Jean-Charles Backès (Caen, 1989), 360. 45  “Le chevalier-poète Renaud célèbre l’amour alors qu’il va disparaî�tre, parce qu’un autre reprendra plus tard son chant.” Cited from Suard, “Le Roman du Castelain,” 360.

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squire to rip out his heart and send it to his lady along with, as was the case with the nightingale sent to her lover by the lady in Laostic, a text that explains the gift’s symbolic value. In the epilogue, as a theoretical reflection on love and false lovers that glosses the story’s moral, Jakemes addresses his beloved to express his fidelity and the hope for a reward for his service: Since love has taken me and put me into its service, I have devoted my heart and my understanding to put this story in rhyme to honour my lady. I will let my name be known only to those who guess the riddle; because no one has the right to know it and it would be seen as boasting, hope, or melancholy. But, if the one for whom I have written this book gets to know it, if she likes it, will generously reward me. I entrust myself to her to do her will. In her is my happiness; I sing often to her, loud and whispering, and I will be gladly at her service until death.46

The roman that Jakemes sends to his lady, like the last message sent by the Châtelain to his, contains the author’s heart: “I dedicated my heart and my care to rhyming this story here” (Ai je mis men coer et m’entent / En rimer ceste histore chi) (vv. 8248–8249), while the signature in the acrostic contained in the last verses (vv. 8253–8266) stresses his identification with the subject of the courtly lyric. The blending of the identity of the author and that of the character in the “I” of the last composition and the “I” in the final allusion to the lady as the recipient of the work, implies Jakemes’ desire to become the lyrical subject of the narration. If the gradual identification of the roman’s protagonist with the lyrical subject has led to a text like the Roman du Castelain de Couci, which has no pretensions at being anything other than the bio­graphy of a “trouvère,” the parallel, and likewise gradual, process of identification of the romancier with the protagonist of his roman can be seen as a predecessor of the new genre which appears later in the second half of the fourteenth century: the semi-bio­graphical dit, a first-person narrative in which the author intersperses lyrical poems of his own making,47 and in which the figure of the knight–poet is definitively replaced by the writer clerc.

46  “Et pour ytant k’Amours m’a pris / Et en son siervice m’a mis, / En l’onnour d’unne dame gente / Ai je mis men coer et m’entente / En rimer ceste histore chi. / Et men non nonmerai / aussi, / Si c’on ne s’en piercevera / Qui l’engien trouver ne sara, / J’en sui ciertains, car n’aferoit / A personne qui fait l’aroit, / K’on le tenroit a vanterie, / Espoir, ou a melancolie; / Mais, se celle pour qui fait l’ai / En seit nouvielle, bien le sai, / S’il li plaist, bien guerredonné / Me sera, s’il li vient en gré. / A li m’ottroi et me present, / K’en face son commandement. / En li ai mis tout mon solas, / S’en canc souvent et haut et bas, / Et liement me maintenrai / Pour li tant com jou viverai.” Cited from Kathy M. Krause, “Love is a Mono­logue. The Lack of Courtship in Old French Courtly Narrative,” in Courtly Arts and the Art of Courtliness. Selected Papers from the Eleventh Triennial Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society, Uni­ver­sity of Wisconsin-Madison, 29 July–5 August, ed. Keith Busby and Christopher Kleinhenz (Cam­bridge, 2006), 452 (vv. 8245–8266). 47  On the semi-bio­graphical dit see Jacqueline Cerquiglini, “Le Clerc et l’écriture: le Voir Dit de Guillaume de Machaut et la définiton du ‘dit’,” in Literatur in der Gesellschaft des Spätmittelalters, ed. Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht (Heidelberg, 1980), 151–58.

Chapter 6

WHY IBN ḤAZM BECAME A ẒĀHIRĪ: LAW, CHARISMA, AND THE COURT MARIBEL FIERRO*

This chapter looks at a Muslim polymath, Ibn Ḥazm (384–556 AH/994–1064

CE), in the period after the abolition of the Umayyad caliphate of Córdoba and the formation of many competing polities in the first Taifa period. In spite of his loyalty to the Cordoban Umayyad caliphate, Ibn Ḥazm abandoned Mālikism, the legal school favoured by the Umayyads. Instead, he attached himself to Ẓāhirism, a legal trend based on a literalist approach to the sources of Revelation. I propose in this chapter a new explanation for this move, one that highlights how Ẓāhirism fitted into Ibn Ḥazm’s attempt to preserve the court culture in which he had grown up, with its emphasis on reason and diffidence towards charisma.

Ibn Ḥazm: Political Problems, Legal Solutions

In the medi­eval Islamic West, in the fourth (AH) through the tenth (CE) centuries, Andalusi society was characterized by a strong, long-established state and the support of a powerful network of specialists in religious learning, principally jurists. The collective memory engendered by these specialists provided continuity in religious knowledge (ʽilm) beginning with the arrival of Islam in the Iberian Peninsula in the second through the seventh century up to their own time. This continuity was related to how they managed the knowledge of the Revelation and the prophetic legacy as a means of assuring salvation in the afterlife, for both ruler and the ruled, by leading them along the straight path during this life.1 A different kind of society or societies could be found

*  This chapter is based on the paper read at the meeting Ideo­logy and Society in the Middle Ages held at the Uni­ver­sity of Lleida on 28 June 2014 and written as part of the project Practicing Knowledge. Islamic Societies and their Neighbours, funded by the Humbolt Foundation (Anneliese Maier Award 2014). Later it was presented at the Symposium New Perspectives on al-Andalus. Agents and Objects in the Field of Cultural Production, on 7 April 2017 at the Real Colegio Complutense (Harvard) and published in Hamsa. Journal of Judaic and Islamic Studies 4 (2017–2018): 1–21. The author thanks Hamsa for its kind permission for use here, as well as Christopher Melchert for his comments and Virginia Vázquez for her help.

1  Maribel Fierro and Manuela Marí�n, “La islamización de las ciudades andalusí�es a través de sus ulemas (ss. II/VIII–comienzos s. IV/X),” in Genèse de la ville islamique en al-Andalus et au Maghreb occidental, ed. Patrice Cressier and Mercedes Garcí�a-Arenal (Madrid, 1998), 65–98; Maribel Fierro, “Why and How do Religious Scholars Write about Themselves? The Case of the Islamic West in the Fourth/Tenth Century,” Mélanges de l´Université Saint-Joseph 58 (2005): 403–23.

Maribel Fierro ([email protected]) is Profesora de Investigación of Islamic Studies at the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientí�ficas, Madrid, Spain.

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throughout most of the far western Maghreb (present-day Morocco), where there was no similar network of religious scholars until the Almoravid period and especially during the Almohad period (sixth through the seventh (AH)–twelfth through the thirteenth (CE) centuries) and where it was relatively common to find messianic or saintly figures charged with managing both the sacred sphere and conflicts among tribes. In some cases, these figures were able to provide the initial impetus for the creation of states.2 In al-Andalus, however, these charismatic figures rarely succeeded in forming lasting political structures.3 The reasons for their relative failure are many, among which we may mention the difficulty in recruiting an army in al-Andalus—a task facilitated in North Africa by the tribal context—as well as the existence of a deep anti-charismatic tendency among Andalusi religious scholars.4 This tendency was strongest in the work of one of the most interesting and controversial thinkers in the history of the medi­eval Islamic West, Ibn Ḥazm of Córdoba (d. 456/1064), whose place within Sunni Islam has been the subject of debate because he followed the literalist or Ẓāhirī� school of thought. Ibn Ḥazm is best known as the author of a famous treatise on love and lovers, Ṭawq al-ḥamāma,5 as well as for having written a book that Miguel Así�n Palacios analyzed in his work Historia crítica de las ideas religiosas, which contains a ferocious polemic not only against other religions—especially Judaism and Christianity—but also against Islamic sects that, in the opinion of the author, strayed from the straight path, among them Shiʽi Islam, the quintessentially charismatic variety of Islam.6 Ibn Ḥazm’s oeuvre is not limited to these two works, but also includes books on law, Qur’anic sciences, the 2  Mercedes Garcí�a-Arenal, Messianism and Puritanical Reform. Mahdis of the Muslim West (Leiden, 2006); Mehdi Ghouirgate, L’Ordre almohade (1120–1269): une nouvelle lecture anthropo­logique (Toulouse, 2014). 3  Maribel Fierro, “Doctrinas y movimientos de tipo mesiánico en al-Andalus,” in Milenarismos y milenaristas en la Europa Medi­eval, ed. José Ignacio de la Iglesia Duarte (Logroño, 1999), 159–75; for an extended and updated versión: Maribel Fierro, “Mahdisme et eschato­logie dans al-Andalus,” Mahdisme. Crise et changement dans lʼhistoire du Maroc. Actes de la table ronde organisée à Marrakech par la Faculté des Lettres et des Sciences Humaines de Rabat du 11 au 14 février 1993, ed. Abdelmajid Kaddouri (Rabat, 1994), 47–69.

4  On these differences, see Maribel Fierro, “Entre el Magreb y al-Andalus: la autoridad polí�tica y religiosa en época almorávide,” in Balaguer, 1105. Cruïlla de civilitzacions. Reunió Científica. X Curs d’Estiu Comtat d’Urgell celebrat a Balaguer els dies 13, 14 i 15 de juliol de 2005, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2007), 99–120; citing Ernest Gellner, Muslim Society (Cam­bridge, 1981); Ernest Gellner, Muslim Society (Cam­bridge, 1981) and Saints of the Atlas (Chicago, 1969). On the tendency of Sunni Islam to exclude charisma, see Norman Calder, “The Limits of Islamic Orthodoxy,” in Intellectual Traditions in Islam, ed. Farhad Daftary (London, 2000), 66–86, reproduced in Maribel Fierro, ed., Orthodoxy and Heresy in Islam. Critical Concepts in Religious Studies, 4 vols. (London, 2013). 5  This work is more of a best-seller today than it was in the past, given that there is only one extant manu­script of it. For the numerous editions, translations, and studies, see the biblio­graphy included in Camilla Adang, Maribel Fierro, and Sabine Schmidtke, eds., Ibn Hazm of Cordoba. The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker (Leiden, 2012). 6  Miguel Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba y su Historia Crítica de las ideas religioses, 5 vols. (Madrid, 1928–1932).



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Tradition of the Prophet, history, genealogy, ethics, philosophy, poetry, and much more, so that he is rightly referred to as a polymath.7 Ibn Ḥazm was born into a family whose fortunes were closely tied to the Umayyad dynasty in Córdoba. Although his ancestors—whose ethnic background is unknown, but which most probably was Hispanic—had converted to Islam after 711, when the Iberian Peninsula was conquered by the Muslims,8 one of these ancestors claimed to be of Persian origin, meaning that the conversion to Islam and the patron–client relationship with the Umayyads would have extended back to the period before the conquest of al-Andalus. What was behind this genealogical claim was the right to affirm that the patron–client relationship of the Banū Ḥazm family with the Umayyads was more longstanding than that of those who had converted after the conquest in 711. It was thus a matter of precedence, which was intended to position the Banū Ḥazm family at the top of the hierarchy of other Umayyad clients who worked—like them—in the Cordoban administration.9 Belonging to the group of these clients, the Umayyad mawālī, was not an inconsequential matter, as is clear from the hierarchized position occupied by these mawālī in caliphal ceremonies during the fourth (AH) through the tenth (CE) centuries.10 Undoubtedly influenced by his background and the history of his immediate family, Ibn Ḥazm was an Umayyad legitimist; in other words, for him the Umayyads were the only legitimate rulers, and he fought in word and deed to preserve the Umayyads on the Cordoban throne. He was, moreover, steadfast in his political ideo­logy during the tumultuous times before the abolition of the Umayyad caliphate of Córdoba in the year 422/1031 by a group of prominent Cordobans.11 This time of upheaval had begun with the proclamation of Hishām II as caliph of Córdoba in 366/976. He was a minor and therefore not qualified to rule according to mainstream Sunni legal doctrine, and this fact allowed Ibn Abī� ʽĀ� mir, known as Almanzor, to become the de facto ruler. Almanzor was a Southern Arab who had worked his way up through the Umayyad administration, eventually becoming chamberlain of the young caliph. To bolster his power, he relied on the support of the ṣaqāliba (slaves of mostly Slavic origin), who were linked to him 7  An overview in Adang, Fierro and Schmidtke, Ibn Hazm of Cordoba.

8  According to Josep Puig, “Ibn Ḥazm y el estoicismo representado por Séneca,” Revista del Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Islámicos 27 (1995): 79–96, 83, his family was probably of Berber origin, although I do not know what this assertion is based on. 9  On the debate about the genealogy of Ibn Ḥazm, see Maribel Fierro, “El conde Casio, los Banu Qasi y los linajes godos en al-Andalus,” Studia Historica. Historia Medi­eval 27 (2009): 181–89.

10  Miquel Barceló, “El califa patente: el ceremonial omeya de Córdoba o la escenificación del poder,” in Estructuras y formas del poder en la historia, ed. Reyna Pastor de Togneri, Ian Kieniewivz, Eduardo Garcí�a de Enterrí�a et al. (Salamanca, 1991), 51–71; reproduced in El salón de ʽAbd alRahman III. Madinat al-Zahra, ed. Antonio Vallejo Triano (Córdoba, 1995), 155–75; and in Miquel Barceló, El sol que salió por Occidente. Estudios sobre el estado omeya en al-Andalus (Jaén, 1997), 137–62. English translation in Miquel Barceló, “The Manifest Caliph. Umayyad Ceremony in Córdoba, or the Staging of Power,” in The Formation of al-Andalus, Part 1. History and Society, ed. Manuela Marí�n (Farnham, 1998), 425–56. 11  On the context of this abolition, see David Wasserstein, The Caliphate in the West. An Islamic Political Institution in the Iberian Peninsula (Oxford, 1993).

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through patron–client relationships and whom he employed in various capacities in the administration and palace, whereas for the military he relied mostly on Berber troops imported from North Africa.12 This gave rise to the ʽĀ� mirid system of government, in which the figure of the caliph was left in place, though he was stripped of any de facto power. Almanzor and his son al-Muẓaffar were able to govern without completely alienating the support of the Umayyad legitimists until the death of al-Muẓaffar in 399/1008, when his half-brother ʽAbd al-Raḥmān Sanchuelo had himself proclaimed as the successor of Hishām II. Thus began a period of civil war in which the Berber troops that had arrived from North Africa in the preceding decades played a major part. During a period of more than twenty years, numerous ephemeral Umayyad caliphs succeeded one another on the Cordoban throne, as well as caliphs that were members of another dynasty, the Idrisids-Hammudids, direct descendants of the Prophet Muḥammad, and who had come from the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar and were supported predominantly by Berbers.13 In the meantime, the Iberian Peninsula was being broken up into various independent realms, giving rise to the Taifa kingdoms. Some of these territories were theoretically loyal to the Umayyads, while others opted to proclaim obedience to an imām ʽabd allāh amīr al-mu’minīn, a formula in which “ʽabd allāh” could be understood as a reference to the Abbasid caliph, but also simply as the vague caliphal title “servant of God”; in other words, the formula basically acknowledged caliphal authority without specifying which authority was being referred to.14 Throughout this entire process, Ibn Ḥazm remained loyal to the Umayyads. Once there was no longer any hope of seeing them returned to the throne, Ibn Ḥazm devoted himself to composing an extensive legal work based on Ẓāhirī� legal doctrine—of which he had become an advocate during his years of political struggle—where he strove to present an alternative to the legal school that predominated in al-Andalus up to that time.15 The latter school, called Mālikism, was supported by the Cordoban Umayyad dynasty, whose rulers had designated it as a sort of official doctrine because it was associated with the city of Medina, in other words, with the period in the life of the Prophet when he was also a head of state. This association of the Mālikī� school with Medina allowed the Umayyads in Córdoba to emphasize their independence from the Abbasid caliphate in Baghdad, which had inclined to the other legal school then in existence, the Ḥanafī� school, associated especially with Iraq. But above all, choosing Mālikism allowed the Cordoban Umayyads to present themselves as the heirs of the prophecy, thus rivalling 12  Xavier Ballestin, Al-Mansur y la dawla ʽamiriya: una dinámica de poder y legitimidad en el occidente musulmán medi­eval (Barcelona, 2004).

13  Peter C. Scales, The Fall of the Caliphate of Córdoba. Berbers and Andalusis in Conflict (Leiden, 1994); Marí�a Dolores Rosado Llamas, La dinastía hammudí y el califato en el siglo XI (Málaga, 2008). 14  About this see Wasserstein, The Caliphate in the West; and François Clément, Pouvoir et légi­ timité en Espagne musulmane à lʼépoque des Taifas (Ve/XIe siècle). Lʼimam fictive (Paris, 1997), 245.

15  Camilla Adang, “From Mālikism to Shāfiʽism to Ẓāhirism: the ‘conversions’ of Ibn Ḥazm,” in Con­ versions islamiques. Identités religieuses en Islam méditerranéen, ed. Mercedes Garcí�a-Arenal (Paris, 2001), 73–87.



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the Fatimids, who were Ismāʽī�lī� Shiʽi Muslims and whose founding of a caliphate in North Africa was a blow to Umayyad legitimacy, since the Fatimid imam–caliph was a direct descendant of the Prophet Muḥammad and claimed moreover to possess the Prophet’s charisma. The Mālikī� school and Umayyad government thus went hand in hand in alAndalus, the former helping to bolster the religious legitimacy of the latter.16 Why did Ibn Ḥazm’s steadfast support for Umayyad legitimacy—bordering on fanaticism according to the chronicler Ibn Ḥayyān17—not deter him from abandoning the Mālikī� cause? Why did he not consider this rejection as a betrayal of the Umayyad cause? And why did he choose the literalist or Ẓāhirī� tradition, a marginal doctrine within Sunni Islam? To begin to answer these questions, we should recall that Ibn Ḥazm became interested in religious learning relatively late in his youth (he was born in 384/994). According to his own account, in about 410/1019–20, when he was in Córdoba attending the burial of a friend of his father’s, he realized he did not know the correct way to pray the funeral prayer. This inspired him to study law (fiqh), and after only three years of study with Ibn Daḥḥūn, a Mālikī� teacher, he was able to debate soundly on matters of religion.18 He had thus come late to the study of Mālikism, and, perhaps because of that, it was not difficult for him to give it up, although it is not until ten years later that we can document his conversion to Ẓāhirism, a process that will deepen later on, during his stay in Denia. Ibn Ḥazm was educated at the Umayyad-ʽĀ� mirid court and seemed destined to follow a career path similar to that of his father (d. 402/1012), who was vizier to Almanzor and his sons. In other words, Ibn Ḥazm seemed ordained to work at court, since he had been inculcated in its culture. This was a culture in which poetry, belletristic literature (adab), genealogy, and history were given precedence, while limited attention— only what was absolutely required—was paid to religious learning. Ibn Ḥazm excelled in these profane and humanist branches of learning that he was trained in during his youth. Later, his life and that of his family were greatly disrupted by the crisis in the caliphate, especially the death of Almanzor’s son, al-Muẓaffar (d. 399/1008), the rise of his brother Sanchuelo, the dethroning of Hishām II, and the assumption of Muḥammad al-Mahdī� on 26 April 399/1009. After the assassination of al-Mahdī� and Hishām II’s return to the throne, Ibn Ḥazm’s father was persecuted by the caliph’s new favourite, 16  Maribel Fierro, “La polí�tica religiosa de ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III,” Al-Qanṭara 25 (2004), 119–56; and Maribel Fierro, “Proto-Mālikī�s, Mālikī�s and Reformed Mālikī�s,” in The Islamic School of Law. Evolution, Devolution, and Progress, ed. Peri Bearman, Rudolph Peters, and Frank E. Vogel (Cam­ bridge, MA, 2006), 57–76.

17  Abdel Majid Turki, “L’engagement politique et la théorie du califat d’Ibn Hazm (384/456–994/​ 1063),” Bulletin d’études orientales 30 (1978), 221–251, reprinted in Abdel Majid Turki, Théo­logiens et juristes de l’Espagne musulmane, aspects polémiques (Paris, 1982), 69–99.

18  Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 1:106–07; Emilio Garcí�a Gómez, “Introduction,” in El collar de la paloma. Tratado sobre el amor y los amantes de Ibn Ḥazm de Córdoba, trans. Emilio Garcí�a Gómez, pro­logue by José Ortega y Gasset (Madrid, 1952), 33, who is surprised that Ibn Ḥazm claims not to have known at such a late age how to say the prayer. On Ibn Ḥazm’s teachers, see Muḥammad al-Manūnī�, “Shuyūkh Ibn Ḥazm fī� maqrū’ātihi wa-marwiyyātihi,” al-Manāhil 7 (1976), 241–61.

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the Slavic general Wāḍiḥ, who had him imprisoned and seized his property. His father died during a failed uprising against the Slav, when Ibn Ḥazm was eighteen years old. The following year Córdoba was sacked by Berber troops under Sulaymān al-Mustaʽī�n, and the Banū Ḥazm family was left homeless while the young Ibn Ḥazm was forced to flee Córdoba (404/1013). Bruna Soravia has reconstructed the nearly twenty years that transpired between his flight and the abolition of the Umayyad caliphate in 422/1031 and has shown that, during those years, Ibn Ḥazm moved in the circles of ʽĀ� mirid clients—many of them former slaves or ṣaqāliba—who sought to reconstruct or recover the system put in place by Almanzor, forging and dissolving sundry alliances that could be disadvantageous to the faction to which they belonged.19 To summarize the facts, Ibn Ḥazm made his way to Almerí�a, but he was forced to flee in 407/1016, when the Slavic lord of the city—a member of the ʽĀ� mirid mawālī who had transferred his loyalties to the Hammudid caliph—accused him of plotting on behalf of the Umayyads. After taking refuge in Ḥiṣn al-Qaṣr with Ibn Hudhayl al-Tujī�bī�, he later made his way to Valencia to join the followers of a great-grandson of ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III, who sought to recover the throne of his ancestors. With the title of al-Murtaḍā and with the backing of Khayrān, the ruler of Almerí�a, and al-Mundhir, king of Zaragoza, the Umayyad claimant set out to take Córdoba, whose Hammudid caliph had just been assassinated. Al-Murtaḍā first waged battle against the Zirids in Granada, where Ibn Ḥazm was taken prisoner, and shortly thereafter al-Murtaḍā was killed in Guadix by hired assassins sent by Khayrān. In 409/February–March 1019, Ibn Ḥazm was in Córdoba (it was during this visit that he decided to undertake his study of religious learning). Around the year 412–13/1022 we find him in Játiva. In 414/December 1023, the Cordobans elected ʽAbd al-Raḥmān al-Mustaẓhir as caliph, and he summoned his friends Ibn Ḥazm and his cousin, as well as the famous poet and man of letters Ibn Shuhayd (d. 426/1035),20 whom he appointed viziers. But the new caliph was only on the throne for a month and a half, then executed on 17 January 1024. Again Ibn Ḥazm had to flee Córdoba, though he returned to serve the last Umayyad caliph of the city, Hishām III al-Muʽtadd (420/1029–422/1031), who named him vizier. Hishām III had been living outside Córdoba, in the small Berber kingdom of the Banū Qāsim de Alpuente, where Ibn Ḥazm also took up residency. Al-Mu’tadd followed the practice of ruling through a favourite, in this case Ḥakam al-Qazzāz, a member of a rich and powerful merchant family. Together they attracted support from the ʽĀ� mirid clients, a group made up of people whose social advancement had been concomitant with Almanzor’s political ascent, as well as those Umayyad clients who stood to gain from the form of government established by Almanzor and therefore looked favourably on him. Ibn Ḥazm was part of this group not only as a matter of political conviction,

19  Bruna Soravia, “A Portrait of the ʽĀlim as a Young Man. The Formative Years of Ibn Ḥazm, 404/1013–420/1029,” in Ibn Hazm of Cordoba. The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker, ed. Camilla Adang, Maribel Fierro, and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden, 2012), 25–50. What follows is based primarily on this illuminating study. I have also used: Samir Kaddouri, “Dissimulation des opinions politiques sous contrôle: le cas d’Ibn Ḥazm à Séville,” Al-Qanṭara 35, no. 1 (2014), 135–50. 20  Jorge Lirola Delgado [except work no. 6 by Ignacio Ferrando], “Ibn Š� uhayd, Abū ʽĀ� mir,” in Biblioteca de al-Andalus, vol. 5: De Ibn Saʽāda a Ibn Wuhayb, ed. Jorge Lirola Delgado (Almerí�a, 2007), 403–12, n. 1193.



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but also because of deep ties of friendship and a common culture. Al-Muʽtadd was able to hold on to power for two years before he was deposed (and al-Qazzāz was executed) by a faction that emerged from among the ʽĀ� mirid clients and decided the system had outlived its usefulness and undertook to abolish the Umayyad caliphate.21 Al-Muʽtadd’s ouster put an end to Ibn Ḥazm’s political career. After once more abandoning his native city, he spent the last part of his life wandering here and there throughout al-Andalus. He applied himself to study and to writing his legal and religious work, through which he would articulate his vision of Islamic society, which—as we will see— had no place for any kind of charismatic leadership after the death of the Prophet.22 In his view, the law, understood according to the Ẓāhirī� school, reduced what was ordained and prohibited by Revelation to a minimum and, moreover, subjected Revelation to an interpretation that was carried out in a specific way, to which we will return below. In such a society, there was room for social, cultural, and religious practices that, as we will see in the last part of this study, seem to be in agreement with the interests and tastes of the courtly milieu in which Ibn Ḥazm was brought up; at the same time, from a theo­ logical and doctrinal point of view, he sought to reduce as much as possible the anguish over death and destiny in the afterlife. In the year 429/1038, Ibn Ḥazm was in Almerí�a with Zuhayr, but after the latter’s defeat by Bādī�s de Granada, he was imprisoned. He later offered his services to the rulers of Denia and resided in Mallorca for a time, where he took part in a famous polemic with Mālikī� jurists.23 He left Mallorca, made his way to Denia, then again to Almerí�a between 441/1049 and 445/1053, where he relocated—where his books were burned by al-Muʽtaḍid (433/1042–461/1069)—and finally took refuge in his homeland of Niebla, where he died in 456/1064. Ibn Ḥazm was often at the heart of contemporary political life, especially during his early years, when he still dreamed of the restoration of the Umayyads and worked to make this dream a reality. As we have seen, his father had been one of the men whose rise in social status was made possible by Almanzor, and Ibn Ḥazm moved among people with similar life experiences. His political vision for al-Andalus revolved around an Umayyad caliph surrounded and supported by the group to which he belonged, a group equipped with common political and cultural values, although differences of opinion, both major and minor, did develop. In what follows, I am going to focus on one of these values, the rejection of charisma, which is one of the fundamental components of Ibn Ḥazm’s legal and political doctrine. In order to understand this rejection, we must understand the implications of charisma for Ibn Ḥazm’s world after the collapse of the 21  We will later look at the possible economic motives behind al-Muʽtadd’s overthrow and the decision to put an end to the caliphate.

22  Notwithstanding, he did continue to insist on the need to remember and to exalt the charisma of the Prophet: Linda G. Jones, “Prophetic Performances. Reproducing the Charisma of the Prophet in Medi­eval Islamic Preaching,” in Charisma and Religious Authority. Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Preaching, 1200–1500, ed. Katherine L. Jansen and Miri Rubin (Turnhout, 2010), 19–48. 23  Abdel Magid Turki, Polémiques entre Ibn Ḥazm et Bāğī sur les principes de la loi musulmane, essai sur le littéralisme ẓāhirite et la finalité mālikite (Algiers, 1976).

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Cordoban Umayyad caliphate. This was also the time when Māliki judges and jurists acquired a protagonist role that sometimes led them to becoming rulers, a development examined in the third section. In the final section, I return to Ibn Ḥazm’s family background, and to his deep attachment to the ʽĀ� mirid-Umayyad court, and its cultural and intellectual values, to explain why Ibn Ḥazm abandoned Mālikism.24

The Emergence of Charisma in al-Andalus: The Religious, Political, and Military Contexts

Charisma is understood as that difficult-to-define quality that sets certain individuals apart—sometimes to the extent of their being attributed supernatural powers—such that they are taken as moral examples or possessors of spiritual, religious, or political leadership.25 Ibn Ḥazm considered this charismatic authority to be absolutely confined to the prophets—including the ability to perform miracles or have access to the occult, which even among them was very rare—and naturally he believed that such abilities had come to an end with the death of Muḥammad, the last of the prophets.26 This was a fundamental point in the doctrinal and political struggle pitting the Umayyads against the Fatimids, whose imam–caliph claimed to have inherited the charisma of the Prophet (he had supernatural knowledge and could perform miracles). This charisma helped the Fatimids gain the support of a Berber tribe, the Kutama, who in turn had helped them establish their caliphate in North Africa, still in existence in Ibn Ḥazm’s day, although its capital was moved to Egypt. Even though the political and military threat posed by this caliphate was no longer as acute as in the fourth (AH)/tenth (CE) century, the Fatimids continued to pose a doctrinal threat with their claim to truth and certainty by virtue of following an imam that was a direct delegate of God (khalīfat Allāh). In al-Andalus, the Hammudid caliphs also tried to give a charismatic spin to their genealogical pedigree. For the Sunnis, such audacity implied that the Ismāʽī�lī�s tolerated too much proximity between their imām and the figure of the Prophet. For them, there would never be another prophet, and all those who appeared after the death of Muḥammad were false prophets, like those who had arisen in the Islamic West from very early after the Islamic conquest and who had mobilized certain tribes with their preaching. These figures provide a clear illustration of the process of acculturation of those tribes to the new Islamic religion. Some examples are the prophet of the Barghawāṭa, who possessed a Qur’an in the Berber language, whose followers were settled all along the Atlantic coast of pres-

24  Ibn Ḥazm’s life, works, and times have been the object of many studies on which I am indebted, as reflected in the notes. In this chapter the main aim is not to propose or look for new evidence, but to make better sense of that already known.

25  The standard definition is found in Max Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft (Tubingen, 1922); in the chapter on “Charismatische Herrschaft,” accessed December 13, 2017, at www.textlog. de/7415.html. The work has been translated into numerous languages. 26  Ibn Ḥazm held that even prophets—as human beings, and not angels—were prone to error and thus to correction on the part of God: Camilla Adang, “Reading the Qur’ān with Ibn Ḥazm. The Question of the Sinlessness of the Prophets,” in Controverses sur les écritures canoniques de l’islam, ed. Daniel De Smet and Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (Paris, 2014), 269–96.



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ent-day Morocco, and whose “state” lasted four hundred years (persisting even in Ibn Ḥazm’s day), as well as the prophets of the Ghumāra and of Lisbon, who were active in the time of ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III, bearers of a revelation that brought together ancestral customs formulated in a language akin to that of Islam.27 Ibn Ḥazm also utterly rejected the appeal of esotericism and felt no attraction whatsoever to Sufism or to saintly figures. He condemned the mystics in all religions, asserting that religion has no hidden secrets.28 He was emphatically opposed to the possibility that there were men other than the prophets who could work miracles.29 Not everyone thought like him: during Almanzor’s time there were those in Córdoba who claimed that some human beings were capable of performing extraordinary feats that could alter the normal course of events and therefore manifested a special, direct contact with the divine, whereas others denied such a possibility. This polemic included a debate over whether women prophets had existed.30 One group admitted the possibility, while another rejected the ability of women to receive prophetic inspiration. Ibn Ḥazm sided with the former, since it bolstered his opposition to the existence of saints. In essence, those who asserted that saints could perform miracles cited the example of Mary, who appears in the Qur’an as the receiver of a miracle: since Mary was not a prophet, they argued, her case proved that others besides the prophets could receive from God the gift of miracles. The religious scholars who rejected the miracles of saints—Ibn Ḥazm among them—countered that Mary was indeed a prophet. In the background of this curious polemic was the emergence of charisma as a basis for new kinds of not only religious but also political authority. 27  On these figures, see the studies by Garcí�a Arenal and Fierro mentioned in notes 2 and 3.

28  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal fī l-milal wa-l-ahwāʼ wa-l-niḥal (in the margins al-Milal wa-l-niḥal by al-Shahrastānī�), 5 vols. (Cairo, 1347–48H), 4:21, 138, and 170–71, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 4:175 and 5:55 and 140–41; Arthur Stanley Tritton, “Ibn Ḥazm. The Man and the Thinker,” Islamic Studies 3 (1964), 471–84, 480.

29  He approached this topic by addressing three questions: a) the polemic about who is the best Muslim and whether it is possible to be a better Muslim than the Prophet Muḥammad (Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 4:126–29, 150, and 169–71, and 5:14–18, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:21–25, 88, 138–41, and 182–84); b) the polemic with the Ashʽaris over whether the miracles of the Prophet are proof of the truth of his prophetic mission (Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 4:164, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:124); and c) the polemic over whether men who are not prophets can perform miracles that alter physical nature (Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb alfiṣal, 5:2–11, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:147–75; p. 150 of the translation makes reference to a supposed miracle proclaimed by the Jews of al-Andalus). He also tells us how he exposed the deceptions of a fraudulent miracle worker: Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 1:89–90, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 2:228–29.

30  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 5:12–14, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:175–80. This polemic has been studied by Abdel Magid Turki, “Femmes privilégiées et privilèges féminins dans le système théo­logique et juridique dʼIbn Ḥazm,” in Théo­logiens et juristes de lʼEspagne musulmane, aspects polémiques, ed. Abdel Magid Turki (Paris, 1982), 101–58; Maribel Fierro, “The Polemic about the karāmāt al-awliyāʼ and the Development of Ṣūfism in al-Andalus (4th/10th– 5th/11th Centuries),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 55 (1992), 236–49.

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Although asceticism and piety are documented in al-Andalus from an early date, it is only from the early fourth (AH)/tenth (CE) century that mystic and Sufi trends properly understood began to proliferate. We have some texts from this period, such as those by Ibn Masarra (d. 319/931),31 and thanks to them and other sources we are able to sketch some characteristics of these trends: the belief in the miracles of saints (karāmāt al-awliyāʼ), that saints could surpass the prophets, that saints could be excused from fulfilling religious commandments and even commit prohibited acts, that they saw God and could converse with him, and that the possibility existed of attaining prophecy through spiritual perfection.32 Ibn Ḥazm personally met a Sufi named Muḥammad b. ʽĪ� sā de Elvira, who asserted that the Prophet was not obliged to comply with compulsory almsgiving (zakāt), because the servants of God were exempt from such payments and in consequence neither bequeath nor inherit. Ibn Ḥazm describes him as “an ascetic who lived apart from the world and a homiletic preacher who delivered formless and rambling sermons, with little skill and many errors.” Ibn Ḥazm was concerned principally about the influence that such figures had among the people: regarding one occasion when he stopped to hear the preaching of this Muḥammad b. ʽĪ�sā, he says, “I refrained from disproving him, because the people (al-ʽāmma) were there, and I feared that they would be roused to anger and knock me down.”33 But it is especially his description of an esoteric (Bāṭinī�) community established in Pechina and inspired by Ibn Masarra wherein we clearly perceive the politico-military potential in personalities of this type.34 The leader of the community was Ismāʽī�l b. ʽAbd Allāh al-Ruʽaynī�, whose doctrines show clear Bāṭinī� cosmo­logical influences: he declared that the Throne of God was the Being that ruled the cosmos, for God was too sublime to be attributed any action; he denied the resurrection of bodies; and he affirmed that the world would exist as it was indefinitely, as well as that the gift of prophecy could be acquired by spiritual purification and cleansing. The disciples of Ismāʽī�l al-Ruʽaynī� proclaimed that he knew the language of birds and could predict the future. They considered him their imām, to whom all Muslims owed obedience and should pay the obligatory alms (zakāt); given that unlawfulness extended to all things on Earth, the only thing that Muslims should possess was their daily sustenance; all of Earth belonged to the infidel, whose blood it was lawful to spill and whose property it was permitted to take—with the exception, obviously, of the belongings of the followers of the imam.35

31  On this figure, see Maribel Fierro, ed., Historia de los Autores y Transmisores Andalusíes (HATA), (Madrid, 2014), section 13, no. 4, accessed December 29, 2015, http://kohepocu.cchs.csic.es/ register/to/hata_kohepocu/. The most recent study is by Michael Ebstein, Mysticism and Philosophy in al-Andalus. Ibn Masarra, Ibn al-ʽArabī and the Ismāʽīlī Tradition (Leiden, 2014).

32  In this section, the material is adapted from: Maribel Fierro, “La religión,” in Historia de España fundada por R. Menéndez Pidal, gen. ed. J. M. Jover, vol. 8/1, Los Reinos de Taifas, ed. Marí�a Jesús Viguera (Madrid, 1994), 399–496.

33  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 4:155. A Spanish translation in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:102. Ibn Ḥazm had occasion to hear him in Almerí�a.

34  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, 4:151–52, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 5:91–93. 35  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 4:247–49 and 5:91–93; as well as the study by Miguel Así�n Palacios, Abenmasarra y su escuela. Orígenes de la



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The political and even military implications—though they might be only potential—are clear: taxes were due to the imām of the Masarrī� community, who was also to be obeyed; any property not belonging to the community was illicit whatever its origin; and whosoever was outside of said community was subject to attack by it, since killing them and taking their property were permitted. We do not know if the members of this community in fact acted on these principles or what happened to them in the end, though surely the community must have died out as a result of the disaffection of its members, since Ismāʽī�l b. ʽAbd Allāh al-Ruʽaynī�’s doctrines came to be considered as too extreme for even some of his followers. In any case, it was not the only community with these doctrines or closely related ones. Abū ʽUmar al-Ṭalamankī� (d. 428 or 429/1037), a native of Ṭalamanca (near Madrid), was a member of the same Yemeni tribe as Almanzor and had ties to the ʽĀ� mirid family just like Ibn Ḥazm—whose teacher he was—but in contrast to Ibn Ḥazm, he had devoted himself to religious learning from his youth onward.36 Also unlike Ibn Ḥazm—who was to a large extent self-taught and who never travelled outside the Iberian Peninsula—al-Ṭalamankī� left al-Andalus for his studies, was trained in the foundations of law (uṣūl al-fiqh), and he took an interest in other disciplines that did not attract much attention among the scholars of his day in al-Andalus, such as non-rationalist theo­logy (uṣūl al-diyānāt). He was also a prominent representative of a kind of mysticism that was non-extremist but that went beyond the asceticism accepted by the legal scholars. In effect, on the one hand he refuted Ibn Masarra and the Bāṭinī�s, accusing the former of having arrogated to himself the gift of prophecy; on the other, he defended the possibility and the existence of the miracles of saints. He authored a work on asceticism that unfortunately appears to have been lost, although we can deduce that it proposed a code of conduct based on the life of the Prophet. Al-Ṭalamankī�’s name appears as one of the intermediate links in a mystic chain of transmission extending from al-Ḥasan al-Basrī�, through Fuḍayl b. ʽIyāḍ, to the Andalusi mystic Ibn al-ʽArī�f.37 Al-Ṭalamankī� must have abandoned the capital of the Umayyad caliphate in 403/1012, the year the Berbers entered the city, and like so many of his contemporaries, wandered between various cities in al-Andalus, visiting Almerí�a, Murcia, and Zaragoza, all of which were capitals of Taifa kingdoms connected to the group of ʽĀ� mirid clients. In Zaragoza, a group of fuqahā’ and distinguished personages, among them Umayyad clients, testified against him, accusing him of heresy (khilāf al-sunna) and of having principles similar to those of the early Khawārij (the Harūrī�). These included assenting to the indiscriminate spilling of blood, that is, believing that the need to combat innovators excused the killing of virtuous people in the course of battle. The qāḍī� of the Zaragoza threw his full support filosofía hispano-musulmana (Madrid, 1914), 92–106.

36  On this figure, see Fierro, Historia de los Autores y Transmisores, section 5, no. 149, accessed December 29, 2015, http://kohepocu.cchs.csic.es/register/to/hata_kohepocu. The material here is taken from my conclusions in Maribel Fierro, “El proceso contra Abū ʽUmar al-Ṭalamankī� a través de su vida y de su obra,” Sharq al-Andalus 9 (1992): 93–127. 37  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-fiṣal, translated in Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 4:247–49 and 5:91–93.

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behind al-Ṭalamankī�, convincing the other fuqahā’ to recuse the witnesses and finally declaring him innocent. This took place in the year 425/1034, at a time when the Tujibids, kings of the Taifa kingdom of Zaragoza, still acknowledged the last Umayyad caliph of Córdoba, Hishām III al-Muʽtadd, who had taken refuge in Lérida.38 After being acquitted, al-Ṭalamankī� returned to Ṭalamanca, where he dedicated the remainder of his life to ribāṭ activities (pious retirement to concentrate on devotional and military practices in a frontier area). Although we do not have all of the necessary information for understanding precisely what his doctrines were, al-Ṭalamankī� seems to have come to believe that the imām should be a community’s best Muslim. Such a view might have given rise to the accusation against him of sympathizing with the Khawārij, who also settled the question of who should assume leadership of a community in this way.39 And that is not all: one text that remains quite obscure seems to suggest that a group of followers taking the form of a community (jamāʽa) had gathered around al-Ṭalamankī�, who was recognized as its leader and was given the title of “first of the community” (awwal al-jamāʽa). If we are interpreting this text correctly, we would have here an indication that the religious authority of these kinds of militant ascetic and mystical figures could give rise to political leadership. This is a development that will emerge unambiguously in al-Andalus after the death of Ibn Ḥazm in the figure of the Bāṭinī� Abū l-Qāsim Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn b. Qasī� (d. 546/1151).40 Ibn Qasī�, born in Silves, was of muwallad (local convert) origin and had worked as a tax collector for the Almoravids. A spiritual crisis led him to give up this work, sell his possessions, give away the proceeds in alms, and devote his life to austerity. He travelled for a time around al-Andalus, but never left the Iberian Peninsula and ended up founding a rābiṭa near Silves, where his followers, the murīdūn or Sufi novices, congregated. In Ṣafar 539/August 1144, the Sufi Ibn Qasī� staged a rebellion in the Algarve region leading an army that he had formed from the ranks of his novices. His objective was to oppose the Almoravids, Ṣanhāja Berbers who from their bases in the Sahara conquered the southern part of Morocco, founded the city of Marrakech, and from there spread northward. Having been invited by the Taifa kings to come combat the Christians in alAndalus, the Almoravids eventually overthrew those kings and installed themselves as the new rulers. But the combination of excessive taxation and the Almoravids’ inability to stem the military advances of the Christians led the Andalusis little by little to 38  Abū ʽUmar al-Ṭalamankī� penned an epistle to the people of this city, which unfortunately has not been preserved: in it he may have incited them to fight to restore the Umayyad caliphate in the person of its last representative and urged them to undertake a kind of militant activity that disposed of the customary rules of combat. On these rules, see Khaled Abou El Fadl, “The Rules of Killing at War. An Inquiry into Classical Sources,” The Muslim World 89, no. 2 (1999), 144–57.

39  This is not necessarily incompatible with his possible support for Umayyad legitimism (see previous note): Hishām III al-Muʽtadd arrived in Córdoba humbly dressed without any pomp, which I believe should be understood as an attempt to combine his pedigree with the image of an ascetic; in other words, he was fit to govern not only because he was an Umayyad, but also because he possessed the attributes of piety and devotion.

40  On this figure, see Fierro, Historia de los Autores y Transmisores, section 5, no. 364, accessed December 29, 2015, http://kohepocu.cchs.csic.es/register/to/hata_kohepocu.



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reject the legitimacy of the new government. Ibn Qasī�’s movement was part of this rejection, but after a year in power, he was unseated by a political-military leader, Ibn Wazī�r, who did not claim any religious leadership role. Ibn Qasī� then set out for North Africa, where he sought the support of the Almohads. Having no choice but to recognize Ibn Tūmart as mahdī, he assisted the Almohads in their occupation of the peninsula. They then appointed him governor of Silves. Later, he attempted to break away from them by allying himself with the Christians. His followers apparently disapproved of this change in alliances and killed him in 546/1151. Little is known about Ibn Qasī�’s teachers, but we do know that he had contact with the two most important Sufi thinkers of his day, Ibn al-ʽArī�f of Almerí�a and Ibn Barrajān of Seville. Although he has been associated with al-Ghazālī�, his work, the Kitāb khalʽ al-naʽlayn, shows that he was a Bāṭinī� thinker close to the Ikhwān al-Ṣafāʼ and the Ismāʽī�lī�s, though it cannot be said that he subscribed to classical Sufi thought.41 Again we find in his work various Bāṭinī� cosmo­logical concepts: God and man were originally united and then separated by creation, though they still remain united by the hidden reality of truth that one must attempt to attain. Although a series of spiritual exercises are prescribed, no mention is made of specific stages as with the Sufis. As the initiate succeeds in destroying his selfish desires, prayer becomes less and less necessary. For those who attain the Truth, prayer is irrelevant. His doctrine also has strong eschato­logical themes. He performed miracles, such as making an overnight journey to Mecca, was able to speak in silence and make his desires known, and possessed a supernatural treasure, which first produced Almoravid coins and later his own currency. He taught that an infallible imām (imām maʽṣūm) was so not because of his genealogy, and was legitimate not on account of his efficacy, but due to the qualities of his character. According to Ibn al-Abbār, he called himself al-imām and was endowed with guidance (hidāya). Ibn Qasī� referred to himself and his followers as “strangers” (ghurabāʼ).42 The purpose of militarizing his movement was to overthrow the established Almoravid government through armed struggle. It was easier for a movement like the one launched by Ibn Qasī�, which led to an armed rebellion against the Almoravids, to develop outside of the cities,43 in rural areas where traditional fuqahā’ exercised less religious control and where the state apparatus exercised less politico-military control. As for Ibn Barrajān and Ibn al-ʽArī�f,44 they were summoned to Marrakech by the Almoravid emir in the year 536/1141 and died shortly thereafter under shady circumstances. One source from the seventh (AH)/thirteenth (CE) century attests that Ibn Barrajān was considered an imām in one hundred and thirty towns, which could be an 41  As was shown by Michael Ebstein, “Was Ibn Qasī� a Ṣūfī�?,” Studia Islamica 11 (2015), 196–232.

42  On all of these points, see Josef Dreher, “Lʼimamat dʼIbn Qasī� à Mértola (automne 1144–été 1145): Légitimité dʼune domination soufie?,” Mélanges de l’Institut Dominicain d’Études Orientales du Caire 18 (1988): 195–210; Vincent Lagardère, “La Ṭarī�qa et la Révolte des Murī�dūn en 539H/1144 en Andalus,” Revue de l’Occident Musulman et de la Méditerranée 35 (1983): 165–66. 43  Pierre Guichard, Les musulmans de Valence et la Reconquête (XIe–XIIIe siècles), 2 vols. (Damascus, 1990–1991), 1:106.

44  On these two figures, see Fierro, Historia de los Autores y Transmisores, section 5, nos. 323 and 324, accessed December 29, 2015, http://kohepocu.cchs.csic.es/register/to/hata_kohepocu.

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indication only of his spiritual leadership, rather than of a political rebellion.45 But even if his imamate were only religious, his widespread influence—proof of which is provided by the letters that Ibn al-ʽArī�f addressed to him—must have been seen as dangerous by the political powers at a time when the Almohads were threatening the Almoravids in the Maghreb. The Sufi master possessed certain moral qualities that the religious scholars and fuqahā’ were thought to lack, because of their close contacts with the political rulers, which affected their legitimacy as interpreters of divine law. At the same time, the Sufi master held forth the possibility of a more direct kind of contact between the creator and his creatures; in other words, he possessed a charisma that could be seen as a threat to the Prophet’s charisma.46

The Law and the Qāḍī

Ibn Qasī� rejected both reason and law (fiqh), asserting that prophecy needed to be revitalized periodically by saintliness, a stance that did not win him the support of the fuqahā’. Part of Andalusi society reacted to Ibn Qasī�’s rebellion and declining confidence in the Almoravids by handing political and military power over to the judges or qāḍī�s. Ibn al-Abbār defined the period between the fall of the Almoravids and the Almohad conquest as a time when the judges gained power in al-Andalus, both in the east and in the west (“taʼammarat al-quḍāt fī� bilādihā sharqan wa-gharban”).47 The rule of the judges who seized power in Córdoba, Jaén, Málaga, Murcia, and Valencia was ephemeral, but for a time they were successful in confronting the Almoravids and even raising armies. The most important of them was Ibn Ḥamdī�n in Córdoba, who took the titles of al-Manṣūr bi-llāh and amīr al-muslimīn (Christian chronicles refer to him as “king”), minted currency, and was able to recruit an army. His government was in power for eleven months. The qāḍī�s who gained power during the transitional period between the Almoravids and the Almohads had a precedent in the fifth (AH)/eleventh (CE) century qāḍī�s, who not only gained power during the disintegration of the Umayyad caliphate (fitna), but even in some cases established local dynasties that were relatively long-lasting, as in Silves, Toledo, and especially Seville. Let us take a brief look at these two cases, whose protagonists were contemporaries of Ibn Ḥazm and, in the case of Seville, might even have met him in person. 45  A recent analysis of this question with references to previous studies is that by José Bellver, “ʽAlGhazālī� of al-Andalus’: Ibn Barrajān, Mahdism and the Emergence of Learned Sufism on the Iberian Peninsula,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 133, no. 4 (2013): 659–81. On Ibn Barrajān see now Yousef Casewit, The Mystics of al-Andalus. Ibn Barrajān and Islamic Thought in the Twelfth Century (Cam­bridge, 2017).

46  On this subject, see Javier Albarrán, Veneración y polémica. Muhammad en el cadí ‘Iyāḍ (s. XII) (Madrid, 2015).

47  What follows is based on: Maribel Fierro, “The qāḍī as ruler,” in Saber religioso y poder político. Actas del Simposio Internacional (Granada, 15–18 octubre 1991) (Madrid, 1994), 71–116; and Guichard, Les musulmans de Valence, 1:107–08 and 1:114. See now: Fukuzo Amabe, Urban Autonomy in Medi­eval Islam. Damascus, Aleppo, Cordoba, Toledo, Valencia and Tunis (Leiden, 2016), 85–117.



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In Toledo, Yaʽī�sh b. Muḥammad al-Asadī�—the son of Abū ʽAbd Allāh Muḥammad (d. 391/1000 or 393/1003), an expert in Mālikī� legal literature and in contracts and a member of an important family in Toledo (min bayt ʽilm wa-jalāla wa-riʼāsa)—took power. His father Muḥammad had been a muftī� along with Saʽī�d b. Aḥmad b. Saʽī�d b. Kawthar al-Anṣārī� (d. ca. 400/1009), who is described as an intelligent and wealthy person. Yaʽī�sh b. Muḥammad studied masāʼil with his father and two other Toledo teachers; he also studied in Córdoba and North Africa with a famous Mālikī� jurist, Ibn Abī� Zayd al-Qayrawānī�. After the death of Muḥammad b. Yaʽī�sh and Saʽī�d b. Kawthar, the riʼāsa of Toledo was passed on to Yaʽī�sh and to a son of Saʽī�d, named Abū ʽUmar Aḥmad (d. 403/1012), also famous for his wealth and the splendid treatment he gave to his disciples. Yaʽī�sh surpassed him in religious learning (ʽilm). The riʼāsa seems to refer to the judicial sphere, since Yaʽī�sh and Ibn Kawthar were in charge of judicial sentences (aḥkām) in Toledo. At the beginning of the fitna (400/1009–403/1012), the government was controlled by a Toledan named Ibn Masarra,48 who showed a preference for Yaʽī�sh and sent Aḥmad b. Kawthar into exile in Santarén, where Ibn Masarra had him killed in 403/1012. When, at an unknown date, Ibn Masarra died, Yaʽī�sh was left as the sole ruler of Toledo (ṣāra ilayhi tadbī�r al-riʼāsa). He expelled one of Ibn Masarra’s sons from the city, proof that he did not intend to share power with anyone. The historian Ibn Ḥayyān portrays him in a positive light, saying that he protected religion in Toledo and excelled at governing. Another source describes him as virtuous, upright, and wise, and mentions that he promoted the practices of jihād and pilgrimage and spent lavishly for God (fī� l-sabī�l); he recited the Qur’an and prayed frequently. Yaʽī�sh never adopted the title of raʼīs, preferring to keep the title of faqīh, and dressed in the style of the religious scholars. He did designate his son ʽAbd Allāh as raʼī�s of Toledo, a move that indicates that he intended to keep power in the family. As faqī�h and qāḍī�, Yaʽī�sh was famous for his severity (shidda): he prohibited women from attending funeral processions and banned the milling of a highly refined flour called darmak. The former prohibition was related to the fact that cemeteries were one of the places men and women mingled and might have dealings with one another. The latter prohibition seems to have targeted the wealthier inhabitants of the city, the only ones able to afford this product. These two prohibitions probably didn’t make him very popular. The people of Toledo tired of his government, executed his son (the one to whom he had given the title of raʼī�s), and deposed Yaʽī�sh in 417/1026. He went to Calatayud, where he died in 418/1027, 419/1029 or 427/1035. He had governed for fourteen years. Toledo’s reaction to the fitna was, therefore, to give power to local families, whose prestige derived from their wealth and ʽilm. Religious learning (ʽilm) which was represented by Yaʽī�sh, ended up prevailing over wealth, represented by Ibn Kawthar. Yaʽī�sh attempted to dissociate the figure of the raʼī�s from that of the qāḍī�/faqī�h, although the qāḍī� was the one to name the raʼī�s and was the de facto ruler. As qāḍī�, he attempted to raise the moral standards of society by prohibiting certain practices that affected women’s freedom of movement and the market. There is no evidence of anything comparable to this in other places where judges became rulers, so possibly his attitude should be understood in the context of the documented pietism in 48  This is not the same person as the thinker mentioned in the previous section.

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Toledo and the surrounding region, a ribāṭ area where the precept al-amr bi-l-maʽrūf wa-l-nahy ʽan al-munkar was taken seriously.49 The pietists in Toledo might have supported the rise to power of a figure like Yaʽī�sh, a strict Mālikī� faqī�h who tried to make his society conform to his interpretation of what constituted correct Islamic conduct. The people of Toledo, however, once they had a taste of those policies, got fed up and eventually offered power to a man of the sword, the Berber Ibn Dhī� l-Nūn who had the support of an important local family, the Banū l-Ḥadī�dī�, who not only seem not to have had pietist inclinations, but were also characterized by their support for specialists in the non-Islamic sciences.50 As for Seville, during the period of Hammudid control, the city’s qāḍī� was Abū l-Qāsim Muḥammad b. ʽAbbād (d. 433/1041), whose father, Ismāʽī�l (d. 410/1019), had been appointed qāḍī� by Almanzor and was a member of a family said to own a third of the lands in Seville. In 414/1023, when the caliph al-Qāsim b. Ḥammūd sought refuge in Seville after, having failed in his attempt to take Córdoba, he was denied entry, and the judge Abū l-Qāsim seized power, at first sharing it with other prominent citizens. Later, in 418/1027, a member of the Hammudid dynasty, Yaḥyā b. ʽAlī� b. Ḥammūd, tried to capture Seville, and its inhabitants opted not to resist, instead agreeing to pay him a large sum of money and recognize his sovereignty in exchange for a promise not to allow the Berbers to enter the city. The Hammudid caliph accepted these terms and requested hostages. The qāḍī� Abū l-Qāsim was the only person to respond to this request and handed over his son ʽAbbād, which only enhanced his popularity. The caliph named him governor of Seville, and the city’s inhabitants agreed to obey him. From that point on, he was the true master of the city and stripped power from those who previously had shared it with him, in some cases even expelling them from Seville and confiscating their property. The monies that were no longer paid in tribute to Córdoba were used to raise a mercenary army. In 427/1035, when Yaḥyā b. ʽAlī� b. Ḥammūd attempted to reconquer Seville, but was defeated and killed, Abū l-Qāsim b. ʽAbbād produced a false Umayyad caliph whom he tried to pass off as Hishām II al-Muʼayyad. He had the Friday sermon given in his name and tried to convince the other Taifas to recognize his rule. This was an attempt to reconstruct the system that existed under Almanzor. Abū l-Qāsim b. ʽAbbād was succeeded by his son Abū ʽAmr ʽAbbād (433/1042–461/1068), who went by the title of chamberlain (al-ḥājib)—like Almanzor—and later by a quasi-caliphal title, al-Muʽtaḍid; both titles appear on the coins that he minted. The false Hishām died sometime during his reign and his death was kept secret until 452/1060. That year al-Muʽtaḍid ordered his own name to be declared in the Friday sermon. He was succeeded by his son Abū l-Qāsim Muḥammad (461/1068–484/1091), who reigned as al-Muʽtamid and on whose coins al-imām ʽabd Allāh amīr al-muʼminīn is mentioned, which I understand as

49  Manuela Marí�n, “Los ulemas de Toledo en los siglos IV/X y V/XI,” in Entre el Califato y la Taifa. Mil años del Cristo de la Luz. Actas del Congreso Internacional. Toledo 1999 (Toledo, 2000), 67–96; and Manuela Marí�n, “Ulemas en la Marca Media,” in Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus, ed. Manuela Marí�n and Helena de Felipe (Madrid, 1995), 7: 203–30.

50  Isabel Toral, “Yaḥyà b. al-Ḥadī�dī�, un notable en la corte de los Ḏū l-Nūn de Toledo,” Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus, vol. VI. homenaje a José María Fórneas, ed. Manuela Marí�n, (Madrid, 1995), 395–414.



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an acknowledgement of the idea of the caliphate without making explicit which caliph is being referred to. While Ismāʼī�l—the qāḍī� appointed by Almanzor—had an intellectual background as a faqī�h, his son Abū l-Qāsim b. ʽAbbād served in the post more for political reasons than because of his training. In contrast to what happened in Toledo, in this case wealth was more important than ʽilm. Unlike Yaʽī�sh, Abū l-Qāsim b. ʽAbbād did not attempt to dictate morals and perhaps for that reason he was able to found a dynasty. These judges, as has already been mentioned, tended to be members of important local families, their prominence deriving from wealth or learning, or more often a combination of both, in addition to experience in the city government through serving as judges. One might think that the absence of institutionalized autonomous government in the towns encouraged the qāḍī�s to seize power at times when governmental authority was waning. Although judges were theoretically chosen by the ruler, in practice the choice was generally made from among the prominent inhabitants of a city, and often the latter determined who was elected. This does not mean that, during periods when the ruler’s authority was in decline, there was necessarily a qāḍī� government: there are ample examples to the contrary. There were cities where the position of qāḍī� was virtually hereditary among powerful local families and yet they did not seize power during the fitna; qāḍī�s sometimes remained loyal to the previous authorities or swore obedience to new ones. In other words, a qāḍī� government was only one possibility among many, since power could end up in the hands of governors, military leaders, or viziers. This range of possibilities is what characterized the fitna period that gave rise to the Taifa kingdoms. The position of qāḍī�, however, had some important advantages: the qāḍī� was—according to Islamic political-legal theory—the delegate of the caliph or the sulṭān. As a member of the religious scholars, he was also a delegate or nāʼib of the Prophet. This is clear from the Risāla fī l-qaḍāʼ wa-l-ḥisba by the Sevillian Ibn ʽAbdūn, from the Almoravid period, in which we see a tendency to increase the qāḍī�’s power. Ibn ʽAbdūn—in addition to specifying that qāḍī�s and other magistrates should be of Andalusi origin because this allows them to better understand the concerns of the people and its different social groups—asserts that the judge should control the other authorities—tax collectors and the vizier (wazī�r al-dawla)—as well as attend to the affairs of the government and of the agents of the state (“umūr al-sulṭān wa-l-ʽummāl”). Good government depends on the judge, since the prince (raʼī�s) must consult the judge and the fuqahā’. For Ibn ʽAbdūn, who mentioned neither the caliph nor the imām, the judge is the custos who at the same time custodiet custodes. Ibn ʽAbdūn considered his day to be a period of such extreme corruption (fasād) and disorder (harj) that only a prophet would be able to restore order with the help of God. However, since it was not a time of prophets (recall that Muḥammad was the last of the prophets), the only person qualified to put things in order was a judge (“wa-lā yuṣliḥu hādhihi l-umūr illā nabī� bi-idhn Allāh fa-in lam yakun zaman nabī� fa-l-qāḍī� masʼūl ʽan dhalika kullihi”).51 51  Ibn ʽAbdūn, “Risāla fī� l-qaḍāʼ wa-l-ḥisba,” ed. É� variste Lévi-Provençal, in Thalāth rasāʼil anda­ lusiyya fī ādāb al-ḥisba wa-l-muḥtasib (Cairo, 1955), 1–65; Spanish translation in Emilio Garcí�a Gómez and É� variste Levi-Provençal, Sevilla a comienzos del siglo XII. El tratado de Ibn ʽAbdūn (Sevilla, 1981), 60–182 and 183, para­graph 230.

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Why Ibn Ḥazm Became a Ẓāhirī We have seen how Ibn Ḥazm’s anti-charismatic stance can be explained by the context of his times, when the Umayyads’ greatest enemy was the Fatimids, whose caliphate was based on charismatic leadership and messianism, and when the crisis of Umayyad legitimacy and the development of Muslim society itself encouraged a search for new political and/or religious authority figures. The allure of some of these charismatic figures was based not so much on assuring the implementation and continuity of the Law founded on the Revelation given by God to an Arab prophet—which was fundamentally the model of the Sunni Umayyad caliphate in Córdoba—as on their presenting themselves as inserted into a cosmo­logical worldview that made them mediators between Creator and creation, as well as on the fact that they seemed to promise various means of communicating with the Divinity. That is precisely why charismatic, messianic, and/ or saintly figures had potential for political leadership—as well as military leadership, on account of the devotion they inspired in their followers—which might not ever materialize, but was always latent. We have also seen how judges—as representatives of rulers who appointed them and linked to the Divinity, since they were charged with implementing a law enacted by God—were also potential political figures. In contrast to the rural spheres of influence of some of the other figures (such as the saints and “false” prophets), the political potential of judges was strongest in urban centres, where the figure of the ʽālim—a specialist in religious learning—was also well established. In times of political fragmentation and disorder, the qāḍī� of an Andalusi city could come to fill the power vacuum left by the latest failed ruler and even to found a local dynasty. These qāḍī�s usually represented the prominent inhabitants of the cities, but they also succeeded in attracting the support of the general population, who saw in them protectors of a political order based on the sacred, as well as loyal enforcers of religious law (sharī�ʽa), which many Muslims throughout history have seen as a check against the tyranny of rulers precisely because it is a law that was not formulated by them. These qāḍī�s assumed titles sometimes reminiscent of the caliphs, but they maintained the fiction of ruling in the name of a caliph, though the latter was absent or no one knew exactly who he was. During his lifetime, Ibn Ḥazm witnessed some of these qāḍī�s rise to power, including those in Silves, Toledo, and especially Seville. We do not have any evidence that he disapproved of this development, other than the fact that it was made possible by the disintegration and disappearance of the Umayyad caliphate that he considered the legitimate government of al-Andalus. When he settled in Seville after having been driven out of other cities due to the aversion he inspired in some Mālikī� fuqahā’, Ibn Ḥazm seems to have wanted to secure some measure of stability, and to that end he may have introduced a series of changes into the first draft of his work al-Fiṣal, such as his decision not to attribute directly to himself the doctrine sanctioning rebellion against an unjust imam.52 It didn’t do him much good, though, since he ended up being expelled 52  Kaddouri, “Dissimulation des opinions politiques,” 135–50. On Ibn Ḥazm’s position on this point, see Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought (Cam­bridge, 2000), 390, 511.



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from the city anyway. The ʽAbbādids maintained the fiction of continuity with Umayyad legitimacy by way of acknowledging the false Hishām II, an imposture that Ibn Ḥazm denounced in his work Naqṭ al-ʽarūs in a passage said to have provoked the ire of the king of Seville when Ibn Ḥazm’s enemies called it to his attention, leading al-Muʽtaḍid to order Ibn Ḥazm’s works to be publicly burned.53 According to a different source, Ibn Saʽī�d, the reason for the rift between the Sevillian king and Ibn Ḥazm was the polemic the latter carried on with the Mālikī� jurist and Ashʽarī� theo­logian Abū l-Walī�d al-Bājī� (d. 474/1081).54 In any case, a kingdom that Ibn Ḥazm might have believed was going to afford him some respite closed its gates to him. As for Toledo, it is possible that he would not have been in agreement with the measures taken by its qāḍī�, specifically the prohibition against the participation of women in funeral processions, since one of the points of disagreement between Ibn Ḥazm and his Mālikī� colleagues was precisely that he conceded greater freedom of access to public spaces to women, in particular allowing women to pray in the great mosques, to visit cemeteries, and to participate in funeral retinues.55 The measures taken by the qāḍī� Yaʽī�sh therefore must have seemed illegitimate to him. And we should keep in mind that Ibn Ḥazm preferred to live in areas governed by the former members of the Umayyad-ʽĀ� mirid caliphal administration, so he never seems to have considered either Toledo or Zaragoza. We have seen that Ibn Ḥazm was opposed to charisma, but not to the law. Let us now return to one of the questions we asked at the beginning. Why was Ibn Ḥazm opposed to the Mālikī� school? And why did he eventually choose Ẓāhirism as an alternative?56 In my opinion, and taking into account his career, Ibn Ḥazm rejected Mālikism because he considered it dangerous to concede the field of religious knowledge to the Mālikī� fuqahā’. Such a monopoly of religious learning would allow them to present a unified opposition to the social group that he belonged to by birth and as a matter of culture, that of the Umayyad courtly administration (khidma). He was not alone in perceiving this danger: ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III had sought to ensure some degree of plurality in the legal schools in his territory,57 while Almanzor sought the support of Mālikī� fuqahā’ with Shāfiʽī� tendencies in order to curb the influence of traditional Mālikī� fuqahā’.58 53  In the Naqṭ al-ʽarūs, Ibn Ḥazm denounces the Umayyad caliph proclaimed by the Abbadids as an imposter and mentions the cruelty of al-Muʽtaḍid: Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 1:230 and 2:167–68. 54  See note 24.

55  Camilla Adang, “Women’s Access to Public Space According to al-Muḥallā bi-l-Āthār,” in Writing the Feminine. Women in Arab Sources, ed. Manuela Marí�n and Randi Deguilhem (London, 2002), 75–94. He also allowed women to lead other women in prayer, a doctrine possibly related to what we know about the religious activities of a woman from the family of Córdoba’s Berber qāḍī�, Mundhir b. Saʽī�d al-Ballūṭī� (d. 355/965): Manuela Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Ándalus (Madrid, 2000), 625. 56  On the evolution of Ibn Ḥazm’s doctrine, see the study by Adang, “From Mālikism to Shāfiʽism,” 73–87.

57  Maribel Fierro, “Los cadí�es de Córdoba de ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III (r. 300/912–350/961),” in Estudios Onomástico-Biográficos de al-Andalus. Vol. XVIII. Cadíes y cadiazgo en el Occidente islámico medi­eval, ed. Rachid El Hour (Madrid, 2012), 69–98. 58  This was the case of al-Aṣī�lī� (d. 392/1002): Fierro, Historia de los Autores y Transmisores, section 3, no. 245, accessed December 29, 2015, http://kohepocu.cchs.csic.es/register/to/hata_kohepocu.

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Ibn Ḥazm’s opposition to the Mālikī� school is usually attributed to his intellectual need for rationalism and coherence. Andalusi Mālikism was an heir—like Hanafism—to a particular stage in the development of jurisprudence in which personal opinion (raʼy) played a fundamental role: certain legal decisions were frequently justified by a simple appeal to authority, which could lead to conflicts with other decisions, and this exposed the fact that what was legislated had not been consistently and coherently deduced from the revealed sources according to a rigorous methodo­logy. This practice, moreover, led to a proliferation of divergent opinions that could be dismissed as lacking a solid foundation. Mālikism originated with the charismatic figure of Mālik b. Anas (d. 179/795) and his disciples,59 a fact criticized by Ibn Ḥazm, who pointed out that Mālik was a mere mortal.60 Later jurists attempted to systematize legal methodo­logy, most prominently al-Shāfiʽī� (150/767–204/820), who established the foundations of law as the Qur’an, the Sunna or Tradition of the Prophet, consensus, and a disciplined form of reasoning called qiyās or analogy.61 The Mālikī�s of al-Andalus were generally opposed to these attempts at systematization, and so to confront them Ibn Ḥazm seems to have aspired to construct a legal-religious corpus that was perfectly coherent, to which end he created a method and principles that he seems to have applied in a systematic way, creating a doctrine that combines logic, grammar, law, and theo­logy.62 But Ibn Ḥazm’s need for systematicity and coherence could have led him—as it did others among his contemporaries—to become what I have called a reformed Mālikī�, like Abū ʽUmar b. ʽAbd al-Barr (d. 463/1071), Abū l-Walī�d al-Bājī�, and later Ibn Rushd al-Jadd (d. 520/1126). Ibn Ḥazm made the decision to reject Mālikism outright and subscribe to Ẓāhirism after a short Shāfiʽī� phase. This was a marginal movement, although it had had important adherents in al-Andalus, interestingly among people like him associated with the world of the court and Umayyad supporters.63 Such was the case of Mundhir b. Saʽī�d al-Ballūṭī�, a member of a Berber family who was appointed qāḍī� of Córdoba by ʽAbd al-Raḥmān III. Through this appointment the Umayyad caliph showed his aloofness toward the Fatimids: in opposition to their esotericism or Bāṭinism, he appointed a literalist or Ẓāhirī� judge.64

59  Jonathan Brockopp, “Theorizing Charismatic Authority in Early Islamic Law,” Comparative Islamic Studies 1, no. 2 (2005): 129–58.

60  Camilla Adang, “Restoring the Prophet’s Authority, Rejecting Taqlīd: Ibn Hazm’s ‘Epistle to the One who Shouts from Afar’,” in Religious Knowledge, Authority and Charisma. Islamic and Jewish Perspectives, ed. Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina (Salt Lake City, 2013), 50–63, 280–83; Kaddouri, “Dissimulation des opinions politiques,” 135–50.

61  Ahmed El Shamsy, The Canonization of Islamic Law. A Social and Intellectual History (Cam­ bridge, 2013).

62  See Roger Arnaldez, Grammaire et théo­logie chez Ibn Ḥazm de Cordoue. Essai sur la structure et les conditions de la pensée musulmane (Paris, 1956), 26; and Adang, Fierro, and Schmidtke, Ibn Hazm of Cordoba.

63  The connection of Ẓāhirism with courtly contexts in the East has been pointed out by Christopher Melchert, The Formation of the Sunni Schools of Law. 9th–10th centuries CE (Leiden, 1997), 178–97. 64  See note 16.



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Ẓāhirism is adherence to the doctrine of ẓāhir, that is, a conviction that the texts of the Revelation should be understood in their literal, external, or apparent meaning, without recourse to deductive methods such as reasoning by analogy, which can only introduce an element of human arbitrariness into the divine plan.65 Ẓāhirism is characterized by strict adherence to the “letter” of religious law, without examining the reasons that might be behind a particular prohibition or authorization, behind lawfulness or unlawfulness. The literal interpretation of the Qur’an and the Hadith requires that, when a text has an imperative or prohibitive connotation, the Ẓāhiris must conclude that the act referred to is in absolute terms obligatory (wājib) or prohibited (ḥarām), without nuances. Now, the texts that clearly deal with obligations or prohibitions are relatively few in the Qur’an; and in the case of the Hadith or the Tradition of the Prophet, it is first necessary to establish whether or not a particular tradition is correct. All of this means that the topics covered by express formulations are very few, especially if one takes into account the rejection of reasoning by analogy or qiyās. Ibn Ḥazm’s opposition to qiyās is based on the fact that its use is not mentioned anywhere in the Qur’anic text, that it leads to differences of opinion, and, moreover, that there are limitations to human reason.66 In other words, the conclusions of rational argument cannot be placed on the same level as a revealed text. Reason has to be subject to Revelation: reason is capable of accepting the existence of God, but it is too limited to grasp His essence. There is also no need to inquire into the reasons why a particular law has been given, no need to wonder about the ‘causes’ of divine law, since the only cause is the will of God.67 For example, some of the verses of the Qur’an place a prohibition on the eating of pork, a prohibition without any rational basis, but which must be obeyed without scrutinizing the reasons, merely because it has been revealed. Ibn Ḥazm’s stance can be summarized in the following way: in matters that concern Revelation, truth is only that which has been explicitly established by God or the Prophet or that which consensus recognizes as such. With respect to iŷmāʽ or consensus, Ibn Ḥazm understands it in a limited sense: not all ulamā can be considered competent authorities on juridical questions that are not resolved by the Qur’an and the Tradition of the Prophet; only the consensus of the Companions of the Prophet has authority, and even this is difficult to ascertain.68 Going to the revealed or prophetic text is the only way to be sure one is following God’s will and to avoid subjective human interference in divine lawmaking.69 Ibn 65  Ignaz Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs. Their Doctrine and their History. A Contribution to the History of Islamic Theo­logy, trans. Wolfgang Behn, with an introduction by Camilla Adang (Leiden, 2008); Robert Gleave, Islam and Literalism. Literal Meaning and Interpretation in Islamic Legal Theory (Edinburgh, 2012).

66  All these reasons have been analyzed by Goldziher in his treatment of the work that Ibn Ḥazm wrote in explicit refutation of qiyās, Ibṭāl al-qiyās wa-l-raʼy wa-l-istiḥsān wa-l-taʽlīl.

67  Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 41–42. In the spheres covered by Revelation, there are no acts that are good or bad in themselves, only insofar as they are or are not consistent with what God has ordained or prohibited: Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 150–51. 68  Goldziher, The Ẓāhirīs, 32, 34 and 135; see also Marie Bernand-Baladi, Lʼaccord unanime de la Communauté comme fondement des status légaux de lʼIslam (Paris, 1970).

69  Abdel Magid Turki, “Lʼidée de justice dans la pensée politique musulmane: lʼinterprétation

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Ḥazm’s literalism leads him to reject the metaphorical interpretation developed particularly by Sufis and Shiʽis. His rejection of speculative elements is of a piece with his acceptance of logical arguments, to the point of recommending that the works of Aristotle be employed to establish premises and arrive at correct deductions, formulate appropriate definitions, and carry out other logical operations. Ibn Ḥazm’s system, therefore, does not eliminate reason; rather, it has a rigorously defined and limited role, subordinated to the teachings in God’s message to humankind. Reason should be understood solely as the faculty of understanding necessary for properly fulfilling the commandments of God. For Ibn Ḥazm, logic is the system that allows him to analyze the revealed and prophetic texts in their literality without running the risk of replacing what God meant to say with what man wants Him to say.70 The result of all this is a considerable curtailment not only of what is considered prohibited, but also of the social and religious practices regulated by sharī�ʽa: in Ẓāhirism, the spheres of activity that are free from legal and religious regulation are more numerous than in other legal schools. This fact, in addition to the application of his methodo­ logy, often leads Ibn Ḥazm to some conclusions that conflict with other legal schools and others that are rather peculiar, as demonstrated by some of the studied cases. As we review some of those cases, I will indicate how Ibn Ḥazm’s doctrinal and legal stance can be linked to the circumstances of his bio­graphy. We have seen how Ibn Ḥazm takes his defence of the exceptionalism of the prophets to the extreme, claiming that they are the only ones capable of performing miracles: thus there can be no such thing as miracles produced by Shiʽi imams or saints (awliyāʼ), and the only acknowledged charisma is that of the Prophet. It has also been mentioned that Ibn Ḥazm concedes greater agency to women in the public sphere and considers them entitled to serve as qāḍī�s. Not only women can serve in that capacity, but also slaves,71 who are therefore acknowledged to have a degree of agency that corresponds to the important role they played in the Umayyad-ʽĀ� mirid system. Ibn Ḥazm wrote an epistle in which he concluded that singing is “lawful, although abstaining from song is more praiseworthy, as is the case with all other superfluous but lawful things in the world,” because “when a man thus sets out to amuse his soul and channel it to strengthen his obedience to God […] that does not make him lose his way.”72 Is it possible to imagine a court without poetry and song? Although he considers homosexuality to be prohibited and reproachable, Ibn Ḥazm does not categorize it under zinā, which implies that those who engage in it cannot be sentenced with the death penalty or one hundred lashes; rather they are subject only to a discretional punishment (taʽzī�r). From his treatise on love and lovers and from many other textual references, we know that in the dʼIbn Ḥazm de Cordoue (456/1063),” Studia Islamica 68 (1988): 5–26, 10.

70  See the articles by Rafael Ramón Guerrero and Joep Lameer included in Adang, Fierro, and Schmidtke, Ibn Hazm of Cordoba.

71  Alfonso Carmona, “Le malékisme et les conditions requises pour l’exercice de la judicature,” Islamic Law and Society 7 (2000): 122–58.

72  Elí�as Terés, “La epí�stola sobre el canto con música instrumental, de Ibn Ḥazm de Córdoba,” AlAndalus 36 (1971), 212–13; Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 1:263.



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circles in which Ibn Ḥazm moved there were homosexual relationships and that he was acquainted with those who engaged in them.73 On the other hand, Ibn Ḥazm rejected the validity of a pronouncement attributed to the Prophet according to which legal sanctions established by God were not to be imposed in cases of doubt. It seems that this rejection would lead him to take an extremely severe stance on the imposition of such sanctions, but in fact this is not the case, as the following demonstrates: a man and a woman on a journey have sexual relations and claim to be married, but this is not known for a fact; nonetheless, their word must be accepted owing to the principle of inviolability (ḥurma),74 which protects both Muslims and non-Muslims in their lives and property and which cannot be infringed unless there is absolute certainty, so that no one has the right to question the nature of the couples’ relationship. Only if there is evidence to the contrary can action be taken against them.75 There is consequently no place for censors acting on their own account or for inquisitorial trials against those living in truly Islamic societies. Neither is there a place for paralyzing anguish over the fear of hell: Ibn Ḥazm offers believers, including sinners, wide-ranging prospects for salvation.76 Based on the cases we have reviewed, we can say that Ibn Ḥazm conceived of a society without saints, but also without censors who interfere in the lives of others.77 It was a social conception in which women and slaves could be qāḍī�s, which implies an acknowledgement of their capacity to acquire the religious knowledge necessary for serving in that position; in which music is lawful and those who are especially religious can renounce it without imposing their own scrupulousness on others; in which the transgression of homosexuality does not lead to the death penalty; and above all in which intelligence, a capacity for understanding, and reason are the qualities that determine who is in charge of interpreting the law, which should not be in the hands of those who are content to imitate certain authorities from the past, elevating them above the rest. In other words, Ibn Ḥazm did not want to see a group of fuqahā’ who were followers of legal schools like Mālikism granted authority independent of intellectual merit, because such authority could be used to promote certain doctrines that affected the lives of others, especially the social group to which Ibn Ḥazm belonged. Ibn Ḥazm’s Ẓāhirism thus 73  Camilla Adang, “Ibn Ḥazm on Homosexuality. A Case-Study of Ẓāhirī� Legal Methodo­logy,” AlQanṭara 24 (2003): 5–31; and Camilla Adang, “Love between Men in Tawq al-ḥamāma,” in Estudios Onomástico-Biográficos de al-Andalus. Vol. XIII. Identidades marginales, ed. Cristina de la Puente (Madrid, 2003), 111–46. See also François Clément, “Les homosexuels dans l’Occident musulman médiéval: peut-on parler de minorité?,” in Minorités et régulations sociales en Méditerranée médiévale, ed. Stéphane Boissellier, François Clément, and John Tolan (Rennes, 2010). It has been said that Ibn Ḥazm himself felt the same tendencies.

74  Birgit Krawietz, Die Ḥurma. Schariatrechtlicher Schutz vor Eingriffen in die Körperliche Unversehrtheit nach arabischen fatwas des 20. Jahrhunderts (Berlin, 1991).

75  Ibn Ḥazm, al-Muḥallā, 11 vols. (Cairo, 1348/1929), 9:242–44; Maribel Fierro, “Idraʼū l-ḥudūd bi-l-shubuhāt: When Lawful Violence Meets Doubt,” Hawwa 5, nos. 2–3 (2007): 208–38.

76  Christian Lange, “Ibn Ḥazm on Sins and Salvation,” in Ibn Hazm of Cordoba. The Life and Works of a Controversial Thinker, ed. Camilla Adang, Maribel Fierro, and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden, 2012), 429–54. 77  See also Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong, 496.

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seems to be oriented to defend and protect the values and behaviours characteristic of this group, in two different senses. On the one hand, although this culture was sustained by a few prominent families, when an individual became truly distinguished, it was on account of natural merit—such as “born” poets—or through effort. On the other hand, in that courtly culture, man—with all his longings, affections, imperfections, and desire for perfection—took centre stage. Ibn Ḥazm devoted memorable pages to this view of man in his treatise on love, Ṭawq al-ḥamāma, and in his treatise on ethics, the Kitāb al-akhlāq wa-l-siyar.78 In the latter work, he reminds us that man’s main objective is to avoid anxiety: “I have tried to find one goal, which everyone would agree to be excellent and worthy of being striven after. I have found one only: to be free from anxiety.”79 All of Ibn Ḥazm’s doctrinal positions we have discussed conform to this goal of avoiding anxiety. Man must be anxious to gain salvation in the afterlife, but this anxiety will be more manageable the more the sphere of prohibition is minimize, the broader the categories of what is lawful or morally neutral, and the greater the possibilities for forgiveness from God for transgressions. From this perspective, Ẓāhirism was an effective alternative to the tendency in Mālikism—and other schools—to widen the categories of prohibition and cause believers who were not religious scholars to be more anxious about their fate. Such believers would be overwhelmed not only by their own lack of knowledge about the minutiae of what was right and wrong, but also by the fact that decisions about right and wrong were put in the hands of a group of “specialists.” In summary, Ibn Ḥazm’s adoption of Ẓāhirism might have been motivated by his desire to salvage to whatever degree possible the important features of the world in which he had been raised. This world was threatened by Mālikī� ulamā, whose power had put Almanzor in a difficult position. Recall that was pressured by some Mālikī� fuqahā’ to purge the caliphal library of al-Ḥakam II, and poets and men of letters were persecuted and accused of faithlessness,80 while enjoyable pastimes such as listening to music had come under moral reproach. There was a time when Ibn Ḥazm must have thought he could help to recreate the world that had been lost by curbing the power of these fuqahā’. That was during the reign of Hishām III al-Muʽtadd, when Ibn Ḥazm and his Ẓāhirī� teacher Abū l-Khiyār Masʽūd b. Sulaymān b. Muflit (d. 426/1034) taught classes on Ẓāhirī� doctrine in the great mosque of Córdoba, probably some time between 418/1027 and 420/1029. At around the same time, in 421/1030, Ibn Ḥazm’s friend, Ibn Shuhayd, was charged with publicly condemning the Mālikī�s.81 It hardly seems pos78  Ibn Ḥazm, “Kitāb al-akhlāq wa-l-siyar,” trans. Miguel Así�n Palacios, in Los caracteres y la conducta (Madrid, 1916); English translation by Muhammad Abu Laylah, In Pursuit of Virtue. The Moral Theo­ logy and Psycho­logy of Ibn Hazm Al-Andalusi (384–456 AH 994–1064 AD); with a Translation of His Book Al-Akhlaq Wa’l-Siyar (London, 1990); edition and Spanish translation by Emilio Tornero: Ibn Ḥazm, El libro de los caracteres y las conductas. y epístola sobre el establecimiento del camino de la salvación de manera abreviada, ed. and trans. Emilio Tornero (Madrid, 2007).

79  Ibn Ḥazm, Kitāb al-akhlāq wa-l-siyar, translation in M. Abu Laylah, In Pursuit of Virtue, 121–22; see also Puig, “Ibn Ḥazm y el estoicismo,” 85. See also Qur’an 5:6 and 22:78.

80  Regarding these persecutions, see Maribel Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus durante el periodo omeya (Madrid, 1987), 161–70. 81  Teresa Garulo, La literatura árabe de al-Andalus durante el siglo XI (Madrid, 1998), 86.



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sible that these men could have acted without the support of the caliph, although he was under pressure from those who opposed the Ẓāhirī�s. Hishām III was also facing a critical scarcity of resources due to the civil unrest that weakened Córdoba and the loss of control over most of Andalusi territory. With the help of his vizier, Ḥakam al-Qazzāz, he cast about for any means of raising money: confiscating the monies, jewels, and properties that Abū ‘Ā�mir Ibn al-Muẓaffar left as a pious bequest,82 and likewise the property of the son of a prominent Cordoban family, Ibn Dhakwān. In this desperate search for a source of revenue, Hishām III was able to count on the support of Abū l-Khiyār, described as “a rebel among those who sought to practise law” (mārid min al-mutafaqqihī�n). This Abū l-Khiyār can be no other—as Bruna Soravia has pointed out—than Ibn Ḥazm’s Ẓāhirī� teacher. The policy of seizing property could only have alienated the good will of many who might have initially supported Hishām III. The Mālikī� reacted by pressuring the caliph, who was at that time away from Córdoba at the frontier, and Ibn Ḥazm and his teacher Abū l-Khiyār wound up being expelled from the mosque for teaching Ẓāhirī� doctrines.83 Ibn Dhakwān, one of the injured parties in the confiscations, was a member of one of the prominent Cordoban families that would be decisive in the abolition of the caliphate. The fleeting Ẓāhirī� interlude failed, but Ibn Ḥazm dedicated the rest of his life to recording a description of a society in which he and his allies would have been able to live without nostalgia for what had been lost, where they—and not the Mālikī� fuqahā’— controlled the definition of right and wrong in Islamic terms while leaving ample room for the people to conduct their lives as usual.84

82  Ibn Bassām, al-Dhakhīra fī maḥāsin ahl al-jazīra, ed. Ishān ʽAbbās, 4 vols. in 8 (Beirut, 1975–1979), 1/1:305, and 3/1:519.

83  Abū Ṭālib al-Marwānī� (450H–516H), Kitāb ʽuyūn al-imāma wa-nawāẓir al-siyāsa, ed. Bashshār ʽAwwād Maʽrūf and Ṣalāḥ Muḥammad Jarrār (Tunis, 2010), 65–66. These pages correspond to the passage reproduced by Así�n Palacios, Abenházam de Córdoba, 1:138–39, who cites an anonymous manu­script in the Khalduni Museum in Tunis, about which see Maribel Fierro, “Una fuente perdida sobre los ulemas de al-Andalus: el manuscrito del Museo Jalduní� de Túnez,” Al-Qanṭara 12 (1991): 273–76.

84  For how another courtier, who studied with Ibn Ḥazm, reacted to the new political situation created by the Almoravid intervention, see Kenneth Garden, “From Courtier to Religious Scholar. The Riḥla and Self-Reinvention of Abū Bakr Ibn al-ʽArabī�,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 135, no. 1 (2015): 1–18.

Chapter 7

EUNUCHS IN THE EMIRATE OF AL-ANDALUS CRISTINA DE LA PUENTE*

The perception of identity arises from the knowledge of others, which entails the certainty of the distinctive features of an individual or group. Identity is often defined in different ways in relation to the characteristics the individual or group possesses, as well as in relation to the different groups with which it is related. Identity, even, can be subjective and only perceived by the individual, but that desire to possess a differentiated identity can be an identity feature in itself. Identity and Castration: Eunuchs in the Islamic World

Eunuchs can be considered, without any doubt, a special collective, whose different identity is evident to the naked eye. The sources themselves tell us that the infantile voices of these castrated males allowed them to be identified quickly. Despite this, that sexual ambiguity that allows them to accede, despite being men, to the female rooms, is not the only identity that they possess. Eunuchs are legally slaves and Islamic jurisprudence considers them to be “male adult slaves,” ignoring their castration as a differential element. From the point of view of religious sciences (theo­logy and law), they are men, sometimes “Muslim men.” On the other hand, given that its main social identity characteristic is slavery, it is not its only distinctive feature, since they possess a privileged social status inside the palace. Paradoxically, what could be seen as a negative factor—the destruction of their manhood—gives them rights among palace officials that place them in the highest ranking of civil servants in the service of emirs and caliphs and belong, therefore, to the palace elites. Finally, on some occasions the Arab sources also give the eunuchs an ethnic identity because it is affirmed they had a common geo­ graphical origin. As will be seen later, that geo­graphical origin—in the case of al-Andalus, they were called Saqaliba or Slavs—serves to designate them and euphemistically substitutes for the word “eunuch.” This ethnic identity should also give them a distinctive and characteristic aspect. Given this variety of perspectives, it is worth asking if it is a marginal identity. Eunuchs are men, but they also have some women’s rights; they are slaves, but sometimes they have the power and influence of free men. They are not on the margins of *  The present work was supported by the Research Project “Filo­logí�a árabe: análisis de textos para el estudio del mundo áraboislámico occidental (Al-Andalus y el N. de Á� frica),” (CSIC 201810E019) and Research Project “Género, familia y esclavitud. La esclavitud y el estatus legal en la estructuración de las ‘familias musulmanas’ (ss. VIII-XII)” (PID2019-110663RB-I00). Cristina de la Puente ([email protected]) is Investigadora Cientí�fica in Islamic Studies at the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientí�ficas, Madrid, Spain.

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society, but at the same time they do not respond to the religious ideal of the human being, as conceived in Islam. Another factor makes them different: the fact that, compared to most individuals, they cannot give up their identity as eunuchs. While it is true that in the Middle Ages social mobility was very low, in many other cases there was a hypothetical possibility of changing status. A eunuch, however, could cease to be a slave, but not a eunuch, and his existence, his raison d’être, is linked to the quarterdeck and the court. Outside their walls they become ridiculous beings and their existence has no meaning. We therefore face one of the most complex and paradoxical identities of the premodern era. Arab literature’s most extensive works on eunuchs in the Islamic world are those of Al-Jahiz (ca. 160 AH/776 AD or, hereafter, CE–muharram 255 AH/December 868 or January 869 CE).1 This renowned literate from Basra devoted, on one hand, an extensive section of his work Book of Animals (Kitab al-hayawan) to a theoretical reflexion on human castration and eunuchs.2 On the other, he composed a short treaty titled Book of Dithyramb of Concubines and Ephebes (Kitab al-mufakharat al-jawari wa-l-gilman), which focuses on a debate around virtues—especially sexual ones—of ephebes and concubines.3 As stated by the author, eunuchs are not central in his work. However, he mentions them precisely to cruelly compare their exaggerated defects with the extreme pleasure provided by ephebes and concubines.4 Despite the fact that the content of these works is conditioned by the literary and poetic intentions of their author, both texts provide valuable information on physical and moral characteristics ascribed to them by their contemporaries, as well as on the functions they carried out and those others thought they could occupy. Moreover, the 1  Among the numerous studies on this author, refer, for example, to Charles Pellat, “Al-Gahiz: les nations civilisées et les croyances religieuses,” Journal Asiatique 255 (1967): 65–105; Charles Pellat, “Al-Jahiz,” in ‘Abbasid belles-lettres, ed. Julia Ashtiany, Thomas M. Johnstone, John D. Latham, Robert B. Serjeant, and Gerald Rex Smith (Cam­bridge, 1990), 78–95; Ibrahim Geries, “Le système éthique d’al-Gahiz,” Studia Islamica 56 (1982): 51–68. Special attention should be paid to an article on eunuchs in the work of Al-Jahiz: Abdallah Cheikh Moussa, “Gahiz et les eunuques ou la confusion du même et de l’autre,” Arabica 29 (1982): 184–214, where the author develops a typo­logy of eunuchs in accordance with Al-Jahiz’s work and of reasons for castration: natural, accidental, therapeutic, religious, or commercial. Cheikh Moussa is mainly interested in the arguments used by Al-Jahiz when describing eunuchs, which are, in his opinion, the basis for their discrimination and exclusion. Finally, see also a mono­graph on the subject by Hans Peter Pökel, Der unmännliche Mann. Zur Figuration des Eunuchen im Werk von al-Gahiz (gest. 869) (Würzburg, 2014). 2  See the text on eunuchs in ‘Abd Allah Muhammad Harun, ed., Kitab al-hayawan (Cairo, 1949–50), 106–39 and 163–81 (chap. 1). A fragment of this chapter was translated into Spanish by Miguel Así�n Palacios: “Chapter which deals with the effects which happen to the man after castration and changes they experience the qualities he possessed before being castrated” (Capí�tulo que trata de los efectos que le sobrevienen al hombre, después de la castración, y de los cambios que experimentan las cualidades que poseí�a antes de ser castrado). Cited from Miguel Así�n Palacios, “El ‘Libro de Los Animales’ de Jahiz,” ISIS 14, no. 1 (1930), 42–54. Pellat exhaustively uses this work in the writing of his article “khasi” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1960–205), s.v. “khasi.” 3  This work was translated into French by Chebel Malek, Éphèbes et courtisanes (Paris, 1997).

4  Malek, Éphèbes et courtisanes, 147–51.



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author of Book of Animals tried to systematize his “realistic” observations on castrates’ characteristics in a way that it constitutes a unique testimony not only for his time, but also for future periods. Al-Jahiz develops in this work the issue of human castration as a result of animal castration. After describing the subject of animal testicles, he deals with the question of eunuchs in a direct way and without euphemisms. He describes in detail points as different as types of eunuchs, castration of slaves, and of slaves from different regions of the Islamic world, castration among some Christian monks, physical and intellectual effects of human castration, eunuchs’ qualities, and castration’s usefulness. The author naturally assumes the existence of human castration, knowing it was universally accepted. On the other hand, Al-Jahiz is aware of the fact that castration is not only characteristic of the Islamic world, but existed in other pre-Islamic cultures and among those in other parts of the world.5 Despite this, and although he refers to “eunuchs” in general and mentions the existence of human castration outside the Arab and Islamic world, his thoughts are nearly always based on his own observation of eunuchs. This enriches his chronicle with ethic and moral descriptions, as well as with the enumeration of customs and peculiarities that he ascribed to these individuals. Al-Jahiz pays special attention to the characteristics that distinguish eunuchs from men who were not castrated and who, in his opinion, connected them with women and children in many ways: they possess great voracity, proclivity to crying, and a tendency for frivolous tasks. In other cases, they are compared with other castrated or asexual “animals”: they easily gained weight or lived longer, just like mules. Through his description and the comparison with other human beings, Al-Jahiz shows the place of eunuchs in the court and society of the time. To him, castration was a determinant circumstance for eunuchs’ identity, not only from a sexual point of view, but also from a social perspective. Outside the literary work of Al-Jahiz, exceptionally rich on this issue, there are also references to eunuchs in other genres, although authors have not tried to systematize their content, nor are eunuchs central in chronicles. Moreover, some termino­logical problems make researchers’ work difficult: polysemy of some words as well as an unhelpful use of euphemisms. 5  There is extensive literature on eunuchs in different cultures. See, for example: Peter Browe, Zur Geschichte der Entmannung. Eine Religions- und Rechtsgeschichtliche Studie (Wrocław, 1936); Michel Riquet, La Castration (Paris, 1948); Peter Guyot, Eunuchen als Sklaven und Freigelassenen in der griechisch-römischen Antike (Stuttgart, 1980); Peter Brown, The Body and Society. Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York, 1988); Helga Scholten, Der Eunuch in Kaisernähe. Zur politischen und sozialen Bedeutung des praepositus sacricubiculi im 4. und 5. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1995); Piotr O. Scholz, Eunuchs and Castrati. A Cultural History (Princeton, 2001), in which chap. 7 describes castration in the Islamic world; Shaun Tougher, ed., Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond (London, 2001); Mathew Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch. Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideo­logy in Late Antiquity (Chicago, 2001); Kathryn M. Ringrose, The Perfect Servant. Eunuchs and Social Construction of Gender in Byzantium (Chicago, 2003); Almut Höfert, Matthew M. Mesley, and Serena Tolino (eds.), Celibate and Childless Men in Power. Ruling Eunuchs and Bishops in the Pre-Modern World (London, 2017).

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In Arabic, the words khasi and majbub are used to refer to emasculation and not to the social function carried out by eunuchs.6 The first word, more common than the second, refers to the man who has suffered a partial or total amputation of testicles. The second one, used as synonym for tawash, designates someone who has suffered the complete amputation of his sexual organs. Arab authors, however, are not always as explicit and frequently resort to euphemisms. Often, this keeps us from determining if they are referring to a slave, a free servant, or a eunuch due to the polysemy of numerous words: khadim, ghulam, siqlabi, fata, etc. In the same way, we have to take into account regional and temporal differences of authors when choosing these names. David Ayalon, who carried out an extensive study on eunuchs among mamluks,7 proved that in the Middle East, the word khadim denoted the castrated servant, while in al-Andalus, this term only meant “servant.” If it appeared alone, it did not determine the individual’s characteristics, nor did it clarify if his legal status was free or slave. Moreover, in the Andalusi case, as we will see in these pages, some of these terms, such as the controversial word saqlabi or siqlabi (slave), have led to an important discussion among historians, but no easy solution. To a certain degree, the use of euphemisms derives from the possible moral dilemma Muslims may face by the existence of eunuchs due to the ambiguity with which religious texts treat the issue. While the Qur’an explicitly deals with slavery and even regulates some issues related to this subject, it does not specifically mention eunuchs. Verse 31:24 refers to a man without sexual preference for the feminine sex, before whom women can show themselves without modesty: “such men as attend them, not having sexual desire” (al-tabi‘in ghayr uli-irba) in the translation by Arberry. This refers to the socalled “eunuch by nature,” a man who lacks virility despite not having suffered voluntary or accidental physical amputation. Prophetic traditions refer to eunuchs in different contexts without specifying their permission or prohibition. This lack of definition will affect the jurisprudential interpretation of religious sources. All schools of fiqh seem to agree on the prohibition of castration in accordance with Qur’anic verses 4:118 and 4:119, which state that God’s creations cannot be modified. The interpretation of this verse is not unanimous, for some authors believe it refers to not modifying religion, while others make a more literal interpretation, asking themselves if animals can be castrated. The amputation of 6  The word “eunuch” comes from the Greek εύνοΰχος, composed of ευνή, bed, and the verb εχω, which therefore literally means “the bed keeper” and refers to a fundamental social purpose entrusted to these individuals, the service and supervision of family women.

7  David Ayalon, Outsiders in the Lands of Islam. Mamluks, Mongols and Eunuchs (London, 1988), esp. 67–124 (chap. 3 “On the Eunuchs in Islam”), previously published in David Ayalon, “On the Eunuchs in Islam,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 1 (1979): 67–124. Also see David Ayalon, “The Eunuchs in the Mamluk Sultanate,” in Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet, ed. Miriam RosenAyalon (Jerusalem, 1977), 267–95. On the society of eunuchs that guarded the Prophet’s tomb from the seventh century, see Shaun Marmon, Eunuchs and Sacred Boundaries in Islamic Society (Oxford, 1995). My intention is not to carry out a historical study of society or of the slave condition of these eunuchs, but to focus on this society’s role in the sanctuary’s consecration and in the intercessory function they carried out.



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their male members inspires more legal literature than human amputation.8 At the same time, all schools of jurisprudence (fiqh) accept traffic and trade in castrated men. This has led to castrations being carried out in non-Islamic territory or by members of other religious communities living in Islamic territory. In both cases, amputation is carried out in “hostile” or non-Muslim land (dar al-harb) and not within Islamic territory (dar al-islam), so it is beyond the competence of Islamic jurisprudence.9 Islamic jurisprudence only regulates trade in eunuchs as it regulates commerce of any other type of slave in Islamic territory. For example, in Maliki Law, the main school in al-Andalus, eunuchs are no different to other slaves of male condition in any legal matter, except for chapters on marriage and divorce, where we can say that jurists differentiate two types: completely castrated (majabib), whose marriage is forbidden because it cannot be consummated, and normal eunuchs (khisyan), because they can sometimes have sexual relations. In this last case, their marriage would be valid under certain conditions: that the corresponding dowry has been paid, the consent of the marriage tutor, and, in this exceptional case, the consent of the wife, even if she were virgin.10 Consequently we can say that, except for this final aspect, eunuchs do not have their own legal status, but are considered slaves in legal and doctrinal works. Neither does Islamic jurisprudence perceive the sexual ambiguity echoed by Al-Jahiz when he states that eunuchs were neither men nor women. As for Muslim jurists, eunuchs are clearly men and they must as such be considered and judged in penal, procedural, or commercial issues.

Eunuchs in Andalusi Chronicles

Arabic chronicles, the main source used in this chapter to trace a short history of eunuchs in the Andalusi Umayyad Emirate court, do not generally deal with physical and psycho­logical details of eunuchs, or with the legal justice of human castration.11 The presence of eunuchs in court is implied in these chronicles and they are mentioned in relation to the function they carry out therein.12 As occurs with other individuals—free men, women, children, and others—physical descriptions are exceptional and their personality or moral qualities can only occasionally be reconstructed from chronicles about their Alcázar behaviour. Rarely are they central in a chronicle and occasionally only their 8  Ibn Abi Zayd al-Qayrawani bans, for example, gelding of horses while enabling bovine castration. Léon Bercher, trans., La Risala ou Epïtre sur les élément du dogme et de la loi de l’islam selon le rite mälikite, 5th ed. (Algiers, 1968), 322–23, and does not deal with human castration.

9  Verlinden explains castrations were frequently carried out by Jews, but Verlinden’s assertions on the origin of eunuchs in al-Andalus are a result of occasional mentions from the sources he works with. Although correct, they must be contextualized and completed with available Arabic sources. 10  See more details on the juridical discussion on eunuchs in Cristina de la Puente, “Sin linaje, sin alcurnia, sin hogar: eunucos en al-Andalus en época omeya,” in Identidades marginales (Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus XIII), ed. Cristina de la Puente (Madrid, 2003), 151–53. 11  On this issue, also see De la Puente, “Sin linaje, sin alcurnia,” 147–93.

12  In relation to eunuchs in the Umayyad period, also see Mohamed Meouak, Ṣaqāliba, Eunuques et esclaves à la conquête du pouvoir. géo­graphie et histoire des élites politiques “marginales” dans l’Espagne umayyade (Helsinki, 2004).

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name is preserved together with the appellative of “the eunuch” (al-khasi). Moreover, their names are chosen by someone of the court and respond to matters of fashion and looks: Badr (“full moon”), Masrur (“fortunate”), etc. Because of this, names get repeated during the periods of the emirate and caliphate, making the identification of individuals more difficult.13 I have decided on chrono­logically delimiting this study to the emirate (756–929 CE), for I consider the results representative for us to be able to understand the historical presence of eunuchs in Córdoba’s Alcázar and the functions they carried out, the power they acquired, and the human and political vicissitudes they went through. The enrichment of the Umayyad court during the subsequent caliphate period, which involves greater adornment in protocol and ceremonies, brings about a gradual increase in the numbers of eunuchs. Consequently, there is an increase in their presence in the palace and military reports in the chronicles, but they carry out similar functions to those fulfilled during the emirate. The period of the Umayyad emirate is especially interesting as it is the moment when, imitating the East, different Andalusi institutions are created and developed, among them those related with the Alcázar and its court. At this moment, eunuchs, as well as other palace figures, enter some of these institutions and will play a relevant role in their performance and evolution. On the other hand, the second/eighth and third/ ninth centuries are decisive for the development of Islamic jurisprudence as well as for the issue of slavery. It is a period when the basis for the theoretical conception of slavery is established in the Islamic world. For this study we need to take into account that Andalusi historical sources are palatine annals or works linked to royal power, so they provide little information on social contexts outside the Alcázar’s life. This is the reason we do not know to what extent the wealthy class possessed eunuchs. Very few anecdotes exist: I have found only two episodes outside the Umayyad palace. On one hand, Ibn Hayyan refers to a eunuch from the small village of Shaqunda in the “revolt of the suburb” during the period of al-Hakam I. On the other, the same source, but during the caliphate period, refers to a tragic event of a woman and a eunuch, who, returning home late at night, and finding the door closed, decided to take a boat and cross the Guadalquivir river, despite the fact that it had been raining heavily and the river was high. The chronicler relates that they both drowned and only the boatman survived, a lesson for the townspeople.14 These are isolated chronicles, separated in time, which however seem to show that some families could have used eunuchs to look after their women. In the same way, we might think that, imitating palace life, the number of eunuchs increased from the fourth through the tenth century, but this is mere hypothesis. In any case, the lack of such references must 13  On the names of palace slaves, see Mohamed Meouak, “L’onomastique des personnages d’origine ‘slave’ et ‘affranchie’ en al-Andalus à l’époque califale (IVe/Xe siècle): premières approximations documentaries,” Onoma 31, nos. 1–3 (1992–1993): 17–28.

14  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis fi akhbar balad al-Andalus, ed. ‘Abdurrhman ‘A. al-Hajji (Beirut, 1965), 209–10.



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be attributed to the character of the extant Arab sources and do not prove the existence or non-existence of eunuchs in other urban or rural contexts. In the palace, eunuchs mainly carried out the function of female guardian, as well as page and servant at the court. These tasks brought some of them to the highest positions and the great confidence of emirs and caliphs. Both tasks could be carried out separately or simultaneously and the relationship between them should be considered, for the power the eunuchs acquired sometimes came from their privacy with the court’s women and the confidence placed in them by spouses and concubines. This highlights the facility with which their “asexuality” enabled their entrance in male spaces as well as female ones, a valuable privilege in the Islamic world, which was characterized by strong sexual segregation.

Eunuchs as Guardians of Harems15

Eunuchs had the right to enter harems, spaces reserved for women and family privacy. However, due to their male condition, they could also leave domestic and palatine enclosures, making them the perfect companion or escort for women on their journeys. Numerous anecdotes feature different palace eunuchs in charge of guarding illustrious families arriving in Córdoba. Their mission is usually to accompany the retinue during the reception of embassies or other visitors and take charge of the accompanying women.16 The ease with which they enter forbidden spaces made them magnificent informers. When, for example, Emir Muhammad wanted to know the real state of health of the judge Sulayman ibn Aswad, he sent a eunuch “of the greatest category in his palace.” He could have banned the entrance into the house of any other servant using the argument that there were women whose privacy needed preserving. On the other hand, the emir showed his interest and concern for the ill judge sending not just any servant, but a highly qualified one.17 This capability allowed them to control the information obtained, retaining it, or even hiding it, giving them, with the women, great political power in the palace across all periods. Moments before the death of ‘Abd al-Rahman II in 822 CE, his son Muhammad sent eunuchs to inform him. These same eunuchs hid the emir’s death and secretly met to decide who would succeed him to the throne.18 Eunuchs indirectly became a valued source of information for Arabic chroniclers who, as men, would have never had access to events that occurred in the harem. Chroniclers refer to how eunuchs are their informers, a fact that lends credibility to their chronicles, as they were the only ones able to enter forbidden spaces. Arab historians credit eunuchs with their knowledge of certain facts that occurred in the privacy of the 15  Given the chapter’s thematic structure, we include an Appendix which provides emirs’ chrono­ logy and offers a list of eunuchs in each of the governments mentioned. 16  See Manuela Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Andalus (Madrid, 2000), 224.

17  Ibn Harith al-Khushani, Ta’rikh qudat Qurtuba [Historia de los jueces de Córdoba], ed. and trans. Julián Ribera Tarragó (Madrid, 1914), 186–88 and 150–52. 18  Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Andalus, 569.

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palace. At least, they use them as rhetorical figures to legitimize their chronicles about a private space which no other male member, except the governor, could enter. This way, the historian Ibn Lubaba relates that a palace eunuch, Abu l-Faraj, told him that a book of metrics circulated among the female slaves that they made fun of because they considered it the paradigm of the incomprehensible. It was the book entitled al-Mithal min al-`arud by al-Khalil b. Ahmad, which the Emir `Abd al-Rahman II had received as a gift. The emir was also unable to understand the book well until the courtier `Abbas ibn Firnas explained it to him. This anecdote shows that it is the eunuch who has access to the intimate life of the palace, since he can penetrate both male and female spaces.19 The figure of the eunuch informant is common during the caliphate period: Ibn Hayyan includes another anecdote from al-Qubbashi, who accessed the intrigues of Marjan, the favourite of ‘Abd al-Rahman III, because he was “told by Talal, the palace’s Slav eunuch secretary, one of the most wise, intelligent, and trustworthy slave servants who worked for the harem.”20 Without the tales from these eunuchs, women’s stories would have remained untold. On the other hand, eunuchs were not mere guards or observers provided with the power of words: they could perform physical violence under the sultan’s order or by the authority lent to them by their position. They were also victims of punishments and reprimands when they lost favour. As any other member of the court, they were able to reach positions of great power, but this made them subject to the whims of emirs, rendering their position and even their existence vulnerable. A eunuch of al-Mutarrif, a son of Emir ‘Abd Allah, angered by the intrigues of a chamberlain (hajib), dismissed Sa’id ibn Muhammad ibn al-Salim. For this deed, the eunuch was imprisoned and condemned to one hundred lashes.21 This did not prevent the chamberlain from being replaced by another eunuch, the powerful and influential Badr, who devoted himself unconditionally to his task, without being officially designated hajib, with the title remaining vacant until the emir’s death.22 Eunuchs’ power to inflict violence and their closeness to court figures even occasionally permitted violence against the sovereign. According to historian Ibn al-Qutiyya, a eunuch named Maysur was responsible for the early death of Emir al-Mundhir in Bobastro. The emir reprimanded him for not carrying out one of his duties, threatening him with punishment once he returned to Córdoba. The eunuch took advantage of the fact that the sovereign was injured to apply poisoned cotton on the wound, causing his death. Ibn Hayyan, however, describes a version by Ibn Hazm offering a much different view of what happened. Here, the eunuch was not involved, for this chronicler directly 19  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 130v.

20  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabas fi akhbar balad al-Andalus, ed. Pedro Chalmeta, Federico Corriente and Mahmud Sohb (Madrid, 1979), 8–9. 21  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis fi ta’rikh rijal al-Andalus, ed. Melchor Martí�nez Antuña (Paris, 1937), 5.

22  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, 3:4–5; Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan al-mugrib fi akhbar al-Andalus wa-l-Magrib, ed. Georges S. Colin and É� variste Lévi-Provençal (Leiden, 1948–1951), 2:151. See Mohamed Meouak, Pouvoir souverain, administration centrale et élites politiques dans l’Espagne Umayyade (IIe–IVe–VIIIe–Xe siècles) (Helsinki, 1999), 66–67.



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blamed the emir’s brother, ‘Abd Allah, for his death.23 Ibn Hazm is normally a more accurate historian; it is possible that, in another version, the fratricidal murder is attributed to the eunuch to free the emir of guilt or to add literary glamour to the event. Be that as it may, Maysur is not the only eunuch to intervene in the death of an Andalusi sovereign.24

Pages, Servants, and Ministers25

While their role as guardians is highlighted here, Andalusi eunuchs performed other functions shared with other non-castrated servants. They reached the highest positions in the Umayyad palace, as well as becoming chamberlain (hajib) and minister (wazir), which frequently provided great prestige, wealth, and power. They were accorded great trust and delicate missions, even far away from Córdoba. Chroniclers describe them with a magnificent bearing, which symbolizes the responsibility and power they could acquire, and describe their different possible functions.

Tax Collectors

Eunuchs were frequently entrusted with payment and tax collection, inside as well as outside the court. Several examples exist, such as where Ibn Hayyan tells a humorous anecdote in which a eunuch holds the sovereign’s money: It is said of Ibn al-Shamir26 that he once entertained Emir ‘Abd al-Rahman with a certain anecdote, who later rewarded him with a bag of dirhams. This bag was brought before him by a servant who carried it under his arm, an intelligent man, one of the Emir’s eunuchs. When the poet rushed forward towards him to receive it, the servant asked something

23  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, 3:41. This opinion is ascribed to Ibn Hazm, although this author does not mention it in Ibn Hazm, Naqt al-‘arus, ed. Christian Friedrich Sey, trans. (into Spanish) Luis Seco de Lucena (Valencia, 1974). See É� variste Lévi-Provençal, España musulmana (Madrid, 1950), 214. Ibn ‘Idhari provides different versions: on one occasion he describes the emir’s death as a consequence of an illness and explains that al-Mundhir died before the arrival of his brother, ‘Abd Allah, to replace him in the siege of Bobastro. Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:118. In another passage, however, he mentions poisoning. Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:156. 24  Another eunuch named Maysur killed al-Muqtadir with a poisoned lance; see Ibn Hazm, Naqt al-‘arus, 172/129. 25  See Meouak, Ṣaqāliba, Eunuques et esclaves.

26  On this astro­loger see Elí�as Terés, “Ibn al-Samir, poeta-astrólogo en la corte de ‘Abd al-Rahman II,” Al-Andalus 24, no. 2 (1959): 449–63; Mònica Rius, “La actitud de los emires cordobeses ante los astrólogos: entre la adicción y el rechazo,” in Identidades marginales (Estudios onomásticobiográficos de al-Andalus XIII), ed. Cristina de la Puente (Madrid, 2003), 517–49, esp. 518, 520 and 527–28; and Teresa Garulo, “Poetas primitivos de al-Andalus: ¿marginales o marginados Identidades marginales (Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus XIII), ed. Cristina de la Puente (Madrid, 2003), 551–68, esp. 552–53 and 557. Another anecdote of Muqtabis refers to how the eunuch Nasr asked poet Ibn al-Samir to compose some verses to engrave them on the seal of the Emir ‘Abd al-Rahman II (Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 143v, translated by Mahmud A. Makki and Federico Corriente in Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabas, 182–83). This inscription was continued by all his successors.

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related to his position: “Tell me, where is the moon now?” He answered: “Under your arm, Sir.” And taking it, he made the listeners laugh.27

When the anecdote referred to a far riskier undertaking not limited to a mere intervention or service, the eunuch, central to a particular story, would not normally remain anonymous: Emir [‘Abd al-Rahman II] sent his fata eunuch Shantir to Ibn Maymun, governor of València, to pick up the livestock collection and the fifth (khums). He had reached an agreement with some of the people of these castles to a third of their goods and their people. A fourth and his goods were calculated and he took what had been collected.28

It seems that, during the period of caliph ‘Abd al-Rahman III, there was even a military force among the eunuch officials, its special charge to convey money for the combatant troops in North Africa.29

Eunuchs as Military Escorts

We have already mentioned the function of eunuchs within an army and as military escorts. We know eunuchs accompanied caliphs, not only their wives, as a corps of bodyguards. Ibn Hayyan states in Muqtabis that Emir ‘Abd Allah had ordered building a vaulted passage to join the Alcázar with the mosque. This way, he and his successors would be able to attend prayers without affecting urban life and without fearing an attack. He adds that all Umayyad caliphs were accompanied by their eunuchs through this passage.30 Supposed physical weakness was not an obstacle to using eunuchs in combat. Mansur is the first eunuch mentioned by the sources, the slave of ‘Abd al-Rahman I. According to the North African historian al-Maqqari, he was also the first to occupy the position of hajib in al-Andalus. It is said that he died fighting in the time of al-Hakam I against Christians in the North of Iberia.31 However, we should recognize that, although eunuchs are presented mainly as fighting on behalf of the governor, chronicles mention the opposite. In the time of Emir alHakam I, among those accused of disobedience and later crucified we find a eunuch Masrur from the village of Shaqunda. This is an interesting case because the chronicle presents the eunuch as a free man, or at least does not mention an owner or say he fought for another person. As we will see later, this is not the only significant episode of this emir’s reign, which is very complex from a historio­graphical point of view. Among military eunuchs we should highlight Nasr,32 who occupied a privileged place in court and who was, according to some chroniclers, responsible for the Arab 27  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 155r.

28  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis min anba’ ahl al-Andalus, ed. Mahmud ‘A. Makki (Beirut, 1973), 3. 29  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, 7: 91.

30  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, 5:22–23. 31  See Appendix.

32  Joaquí�n Vallvé, “Nasr, el valido de ‘Abd al-Rahman II,” Al-Qantara 6 (1985): 179–97 and 186–88; Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Andalus, 571–72.



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victory against the Normans of Seville in 230/844–45, which caused great surprise and fear in al-Andalus: He who returned carrying the cut-off heads of God’s infidel enemies, among these governors, gaining fame and having the victory ascribed to him, was eunuch Nasr. He was the favourite of Emir ‘Abd al-Rahman, who extolled and exalted him even more, giving him a magnificent gift. For some days, people crowded in to congratulate him on the victory, and poets recited the victory eulogies and praises they had composed for him.33

Among the missions entrusted to them, those as emissaries or messengers stand out, sometimes to places quite distant from Córdoba. News of an event related to the exile and condemnation of astronomer and astro­loger al-Dabbi by Emir Muhammad where a eunuch horseman appears has survived. Although the chronicle is mainly about powers of prophecy, it is charming and contains valuable information on the image of eunuchs: Muhammad ibn Hafs says, according to Abu ‘Umar ibn ‘Abd Rabbih, according to Ibn al’Adhra’ companion of al-Dabbi, the following: When al-Dabbi met with the governor of Tortosa, and he put him to the test, he found him pleasant and too valuable to kill. He insisted on freeing him, a fact that al-Dabbi dismissed, for he was sure he would never escape from Emir Muhammad and thought the time of his death had inevitably arrived. He told him: “A eunuch horseman will arrive riding a horse of such colour [with an order from the Emir to kill me]. Later a full horseman on a horse of such colour will arrive with orders to preserve my life. He will find me dead.” The governor said: “When I receive the order to kill you, I will wait for the order to save you.” Al-Dabbi answered: “Useless: even if you waited for a year, it would not arrive, and the moment you kill me, then you would receive it.” He then said: “Here you have the sea before you. Embark now and save yourself. Travel to the North African coast. I will apo­logize for your escape, even risking my life.” However, al-Dabbi replied: “None of that will help me, you will see what I predict.” The governor secretly provided him with an equipped boat and put him on board. However, when he was on the high seas, the wind stopped and left him motionless for a month. During that time, a eunuch horseman arrived with the order to kill al-Dabbi just as he had said. He had no choice but to do so, taking him out of the vessel he thought would save him. Just when he had executed him, a full horseman arrived with the order to preserve his life, but he was already dead, causing great sorrow.34

In this story, the eunuch carried bad news while the “full horseman,” a euphemism used for a man not deprived of his male attributes, carried good news. They both rode a different coloured horse, which contributes to visually marking their difference. The presence of eunuchs in the army or in missions where physical force was necessary suggests the risky hypothesis that castrations might have been carried out post adolescence, especially those for eunuchs destined for military tasks. I do not possess any written testimony of this, but it is known that a boy after emasculation suffers alterations in his physical development that would make it difficult to enroll in the army. This is specially so in senior officer positions: their voice does not change, they easily gain weight, and their muscles weaken. 33  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 187v. Also see the chronicle of his victory in Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:87. 34  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 172v–173r.

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Eunuchs who Transgress Boundaries In contrast to the positions previously described, ascribed by historical chronicles, we find a different image of eunuchs in bio­graphical collections written by ulama. Such collections can depict characters as arrogant and shameless. It is possible that this alternative portrayal of eunuchs in other genres derives from the fact that these sources, in contrast to chronicles, are not written to win favour at the court of the emirate or caliphate. Kitab qudat Qurtuba by al-Khushani (d. 361/971) collects different chronicle accounts, showing eunuchs as the emir’s spokesmen outside the palace.35 These eunuchs can represent the sovereign in such a way that he dares to reprimand not only prisoners who are of free status, but also a judge, pressured to pronounce a different sentence than he intended.36 On the one hand, they are represented as powerful characters enjoying the protection and consent of governors, which permits them to transgress limits out of reach for other slaves and servants. On the other, it is possible that allowance was made for their actions out of pity for their mutilation and physical characteristics. These made them comparable with other characters that were patiently tolerated in society: lunatics, jesters, ecstatic saints, and intoxicated individuals, among others. As an example, let us take the episode in which eunuch Hassan intervened in the days of Emir Muhammad to take from Córdoba the sovereign’s response to a group of jurists (fuqaha’) on a legal opinion (fatwa) pronounced in a case of blasphemy. Among the members of this group were the most prestigious jurists of the time: Ibn Habib, Asbag ibn Khalil, ‘Abd al-A’la ibn Wahb, Abu Zayd ibn Ibrahim, and Aban ibn ‘Isa ibn Dinar, as well as magistrate (sahib al-madina) Muhammad ibn al-Salim.37 The eunuch spoke in the emir’s name and informed them not only of his opinion, but also of the decisions and punishments he has taken. Hassan talked to the ulama with such harshness that al-Khushani even commented to another jurist: “[…] he pronounced such crude sentences that they are not even used among criminals, implying that the sovereign thought he was giving a lesson at a nursery school.”38 It is possible that the emir would not have dared talk like this to the ulama of Córdoba, who represented great moral and religious authority, and that he used the eunuch as an emissary to transgress the limits of social correctness and religious orthodoxy. On the other hand, the eunuch who impertinently questions an illustrious character seems a literary motif used to highlight the insolence of these slaves as well as the intelligence of the questioner and the humourous response. Al-Qadi ‘Iyad from Ceuta (d. 544/1149) collected two anecdotes referring to judge Muhammad ibn Yusuf ibn Matruh 35  Al-Khushani, Ta’rikh qudat Qurtuba, 69–70/86–87; 96–97/118–19; 104–5/129. Julián Ribera in his translation into Spanish substituted the word eunuch with euphemisms in Spanish. Fagnan does this in French in his translation of Ibn ‘Idhari’s Bayan. 36  al-Khushani, Ta’rikh qudat Qurtuba, 132/163.

37  See the detailed process in Marí�a Isabel Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus durante el período omeya (Madrid, 1987), 58–63. 38  al-Khushani, Ta’rikh qudat Qurtuba, 104–105/128–129.



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(d. 271/884–5), a famous jurist and disciple among others of Yahya ibn Yahya and Sahnun.39 In the first, a eunuch wanted to make fun of the judge, who suffered from a small limp and was known by the name of al-A‘raj (the ram): It is said that a eunuch asked him: “What is your opinion of the lame ram, is its sacrifice permitted?” He answered: “Yes, in the same way as a similar eunuch.”

Al-Qadi ‘Iyad said: “With this I meant that, although God is wiser, it was a minor limp that did not stop him from walking.”

The second anecdote is similar:

Someone related: a eunuch asked one day about an issue and something about it bothered him, so he told the people around him: “this is one of whom God said: […] break your bonds of kin” (Qur’an, 47:22).

We should note that the judge, by choosing this particular Qur’anic verse, does not exclusively refer to the eunuch’s physical castration, but also to the social amputation he suffers, being uprooted from his family of origin, suffered by all slaves, but also with the impossibility of creating new blood bonds of his own, a quality traditionally linked to male honour.

Eunuchs Undertaking Legal Tasks

The castration of eunuchs and their status as slaves prevented them becoming a qadi since they lacked the capacity to fully act and the physical and moral qualities that a man entering the religious judiciary must possess. However, they could perform administrative tasks related to justice. Emir al-Hakam I introduced the authority to “repress abuse” (mazalim) in al-Andalus, a position first held by the eunuch Masarra.40 Despite the relevance of the office, we should draw attention to the fact that there is no other similar known case. We do not know if Emir al-Hakam chose Masarra to carry out this task because of his lack of familial or tribal links, so he could perform it independently, or if his election was causal. Be that as it may, never again did his successors in government appoint a eunuch for the same position.

Eunuchs as Patrons and Builders

The construction of a mosque or the responsibility of pious works were frequently attributed to eunuchs.41 In this sense they are comparable to some palace concubines 39  Al-Qadi `Iyad, Tartib al-madarik (Rabat, 1970), 4:249 and 250, respectively.

40  Emilio Lafuente Alcántara, ed., Akhbar majmu‘a (Madrid, 1867), 128; and Luis Molina, ed., Dhikr bilad al-Andalus. s. Una descripción anónima de al-Andalus (Madrid, 1983), fol. 2v., 107/136. On the possibility of this eunuch carrying out this task, see Christian Müller, Gerichtspraxis im Stadtstaat Córdoba. Zum Recht der Gesellschaft in einer malikitisch-islamischen Rechtstradition des 5./11. Jahrhunderts (Leiden, 1999), 129n157; and De la Puente, “Sin linaje, sin alcurnia,” 166–68. 41  On eunuchs and patronage, see Glaire D. Anderson, “Concubines, Eunuchs, and Patronage in Early Islamic Córdoba,” in Reassessing the Roles of Women as “Makers” of Medi­eval Art and

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who invested an inheritance, which, thanks to the generosity of their governors, sometimes reached vast sums. Moreover, any possessions of eunuchs and concubines, due to their slave status, were only possessed in usufruct and would return to their owner or his heirs upon the slave’s death. Furthermore, for eunuchs we should reflect that patronage is the only way for them to perpetuate themselves, with no descendants or lineage to carry on their names, an important consideration in the Arab-Islamic world. In central Córdoba, for example, we find “Tarafa Mosque,” built by a eunuch of alHakam I,42 and in the outskirts of the city was “Nasr’s Palatial Residence” (al-munya), built under ‘Abd al-Rahman II by his eunuch vizier, but still enjoyed in the days of Emir ‘Abd Allah.43 As well as the works they voluntarily took on themselves, they were also given the responsibility of leading construction works for the emirs and caliphs. Among other offices, Nasr was involved in building the “Pavilion of Happiness” (Dar al-surur) in the caliphal palace44 and, especially, in the expansion of Córdoba’s Mosque, completed the same year he defeated the Normans.45 As well as Nasr, another eunuch called Masrur is mentioned in expanding the central mosque. It is probable that they carried out all the coordination and managerial tasks of the different architects who worked on both buildings. Ibn Hayyan highlights the favour they enjoyed from the emir and calls them “his two favourite eunuchs”:46 Putting his main eunuch courtesan, Nasr, and his companion, Masrur, in charge of the works, in his insistence on a rapid completion and perfect execution. God aided them with his help, enabling them to reach their objective as he had wanted and traced. Muhammad ibn Ziyad, judge and imam of Córdoba’s prayers, also supervised the works and this extension was one of his good works.47

So, both eunuchs shared this task with the prestigious qadi and imam of the mosque, and such cooperation was far from unusual at the time. We know of many military or political tasks carried out by slaves, not necessarily castrated ones, with free men. It was sufficiently normal that the narrator of the events shows no surprise.48 The praise received by these eunuchs—Nasr and ‘Abbas—and the implied praise for their owner, the emir, does not mean they were exempt from jokes and insults. Ibn Hayyan, describing their tasks as builders, says: Architecture, ed. Therese Martin (Leiden, 2012), 633–69. 42  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 129r.

43  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, 3:8–9.

44  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 164v–165r.

45  Extensive space is devoted to praises for Nasr for his involvement in the extension of the aljama; see for example Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 147r–v. 46  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 147r.

47  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 147r.

48  On a eunuch from a later period, who took part in important constructions, see Virgilio Martí�nez Enamorado, Un hombre para el califato. Ya‘far el Eslavo a partir de un cimacio con grifos (Málaga, 2006).



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A news transmitter of Ahmad ibn Khalid told me, from a reliable source, that God protected Yahya al-Gazal whilst he fought against Córdoba’s jurists (fuqaha’), firing his accurate rhymes. He substituted them for eunuch Nasr, Emir ‘Abd al-Rahman’s favourite, and of decisive influence in his opinion, for not having pleased him on a particular matter, making him the object of an indecent satire, insulting him and his companion ‘Abbas alTabli (“the tax collector”), saying [basit]: I have two verses on Nasr and ‘Abbas, listen to them:

The strong bladder donkey’s penis And prick as a hard rock Is in the bottoms of Nasr, his mother, His father, Abu l-Samaw’al, and the collector ‘Abbas.

He says: Nasr then cut his tongue and went to doctor al-Harrani, friend of ‘Abbas who hated the eunuch, whom he ordered to exclusively drink donkey’s milk for forty days. This way his tongue was cured.49

The Origin of Andalusi Eunuchs

We will need a whole section dedicated to the controversial issue of Andalusi eunuchs, both their ethnic and geo­graphical origin. No reference exists to castrations carried out in Islamic territory, with just one exception, a famous passage referring to Emir al-Hakam I’s government, described by the sources as a particularly despotic and cruel character. Among his merciless acts we find the following: Among the cruellest public sinners we have seen is al-Hakam ibn Hisham who, in his arrogance, castrated the children of his subjects who stood out for their beauty, to take them to his Alcazar as servants. One of them was Tarafa ibn Laqit, brother of ‘Abd alRahman ibn Laqit, after whom Tarafa Mosque was named, in the city of Córdoba. He was of Huwwari lineage, and his father and brother occupied various high positions. Another one was eunuch Nasr, who would become the favourite of his son, Emir ‘Abd al-Rahman, and after whom “al-Munya Nasr” was named. His father was a dhimmi from Carmona, a converted Muslim, who died a few days before his son. Another was Surayj, who gave his name to a mosque in Córdoba, and there were others.50

Although many chroniclers repeat this anecdote, unanimously accepting its credibility, they reveal a tone of scandal and repulsion towards the event. Some of the information, although not explained, is indicative of the magnitude of the narrated action. Moreover, we know of no similar event where the castration of the children of free citizens was ordered: it seems to be wholly exceptional. For its brutality, the event has certain features that have scandalized historians down the ages. In particular, the episode contradicts the known customs in Islamic lands about the acquisition of slaves in general 49  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 134r.

50  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 129r; and Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 2: 15, where he says Nasr’s father was called Abu Shamul (Samuel), which suggests a Jewish or Christian origin. It is also said that his father benefitted from his son’s position until his death, which would imply that castration was either his will or at least was carried out with his consent.

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and eunuchs in particular.51 We know of no castration, other than literary, carried out in dar al-islam by Muslims, even less of fellow Muslims or dhimmis, protected by law, nor even of slaves.52 We do hear of amputations by a Christian count, Rabi’, perhaps to mitigate other Muslims’ responsibility in the violent event. In the same way, chroniclers consider one of ‘Abd al-Rahman II’s first pious acts the crucifixion of Rabi’ for the castrations. This may be intended to show the difference between the emir’s government and his father’s.53 On the other hand, the fifth/eleventh century jurist and writer Ibn Hazm directly linked this episode on castrations with the emir’s reprisals after “the revolt of the suburb” in Córdoba during Ramadan 202/March 818. This may explain the castration of sons of distinguished people, like eunuch Shurayh or eunuch Tarafa, son of Laqit ibn Mansur ibn Hilal ibn al-Hasan ibn al-Azraq al-Muradi, governor of a frontier territory. Above all, it would explain why the victims’ parents were unable to prevent such abuse.54 Ibn Hazm points out another fact relevant for Muslim authors in this event: the conversion to Islam of Nasr’s father before his son’s castration.55 This constitutes a double and flagrant transgression of Islamic laws: the enslavement and subsequent castration of a free individual protected under the law and one who was already Muslim after his father’s conversion.56 The harsh response would give an idea of the fear al-Hakam must have felt from the magnitude of the revolt: not only would the rebels die, but their sons would lose their manliness. These would have been real, but also symbolic, measures 51  On the legal and religious limits of individual slavery in Islam, see Erwin Gräf, “Religiöse und rechtliche Vorstellungen über Kriegsgefangene in Islam und Christentum,” Die Welt des Islams 8 (1962–63): 89–139; on this phenomenon in al-Andalus, see Francisco Vidal Castro, “Poder religioso y cautivos creyentes en la Edad Media. la experiencia islámica,” in Fe, Cautiverio y Liberación. Actas del I Congreso Trinitario de Granada (Granada, 6, 7 y 8 de 1995), ed. Isidro Hernández Delgado (Córdoba, 1996), 73–96; and Cristina de la Puente, “Entre la libertad y la esclavitud: consecuencias legales de la manumisión según el derecho malikí�,” Al-Qantara 21 (2000): 339–60.

52  On the castration of slaves outside Islamic territory and their later import, see Jan S. Hogendorn, “The Location of the “Manufacture” of Eunuchs,” in Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa. A Comparative Study, ed. Toru Miura and John Edward Philips (London, 2000), 41–68; in relation to places where slaves where castrated in the recent period, Otto Meinardus, “The Upper Egyptian Practice of the Making of Eunuchs in the XVIIIth and XIXth Century,” Zeitschrift für Ethno­logie 94 (1969): 47–58.

53  See the article by Manuela Marí�n, “En los márgenes de la ley: el consumo de alcohol en alÁ� ndalus,” in Identidades marginales (Estudios onomástico-biográficos de al-Andalus XIII), ed. Cristina de la Puente (Madrid, 2003), 271–328, esp. 287, for an episode concerning people who drank alcohol, described by ‘Abd al-Rahman II, with a similar moral sense. 54  Vallvé, “Nasr, el valido,” 179. See Ibn Hazm, Jamharat ansab al-‘arab, ed. É� variste Lévi-Provençal (Cairo, 1962), 95–96. 55  Ibn Hazm, Jamharat ansab, 96; and Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 2: 15, insisting on the fact that Nasr’s father was a free dhimmi converted to Islam.

56  We know of free men enslaved, studied by Francisco Vidal, “Sobre la compraventa de hombres libres en los dominios de Ibn Hafsun,” in Homenaje al Profesor Jacinto Bosch Vilá, 2 vols. (Granada, 1991), 1:417–28. However, the legal status of Córdoba’s rebel territory is controversial, for it can be argued from a legal point of view as being dar al-harb (i.e., in a state of war and required to convert) by virtue of it being a rebellious territory.



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to assert his authority in al-Andalus. Despite this, we need to insist on the fact that this castration episode seems to be exceptional, if not unique. Even more complex is the question of the ethnic origins of the eunuchs.57 The issue arises from use of the word saqlabi (“slave”) for a castrated slave. Verlinden argued that there is no evidence for saqaliba in al-Andalus before the fourth/tenth century. However, under ‘Abd al-Rahman II, a century before, the Muqtabis mentions Qasim al-khasi al-saqlabi.58 On the other hand, for Verlinden this appellative was given to slaves of Slavic origin. Lévi-Provençal argued against this for al-Andalus, arguing that the term designated a “white slave” originating from the Christian kingdoms of the Northern Peninsula.59 These were the most easily acquirable slaves thanks to victories achieved during the Umayyad period, making it unnecessary to purchase or import slaves from elsewhere. It would definitely have been more expensive. During the periods of the emirate and caliphate, the terms saqaliba, fityan, and wusafa’ were frequently synonyms.60 Fityan, for example, were not always slaves, but included some free individuals working as servants of the Alcazar. The workers’ slavestatus was almost never specified, not even when the word mawlà was used, an ambiguous word meaning “slave,” “freed,” or “client,” depending on the context. Although sometimes we can intuitively know the status of individuals through onomastics or through the tasks carried out, we lack historical proof. Wasif seems to refer to a courtesan slave, occasionally of lower status than the saqlabi, sometimes translated as “black page,” for this is the meaning it was later given in North Africa, although medi­eval sources do not refer to their colour. A wasif could be a eunuch, and in some cases it is specified he was, although not necessarily so. The same error with respect to the eunuchs’ ethnicity has been made in relation to the so-called ‘abid (literally slaves), translated by historians as “black slaves.”61 Although it is easy to imagine that this error comes from the image of slaves in the twentieth cen57  On the ethnic origins of the slaves in al-Andalus, see Cristina de la Puente, “The Ethnic Origin of Female Slaves in al-Andalus,” in Concubines and Courtesans. Women and Slavery in Islamic History, ed. Matthew Gordon and Katherin Hain (New York, 2017), 124–42.

58  Charles Velinden, L’esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale (Bruges, 1955), 213. On this eunuch, see the Appendix at the end of this chapter. 59  É� variste Lévi-Provençal, Histoire de l’Espagne Musulmane, 2 vols. (Leiden, 1950), 2:124.

60  The translations for saqlabi are different: page, courtesan, slave, etc. Some have even affirmed that they were all eunuchs; see Sato Kentaro, “Slave Elites and the saqaliba in al-Andalus in the Umayyad Period,” in Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa. A Comparative Study, ed. Toru Miura and John Edward Philips (London, 2000), 25–40; and the review by Cristina de la Puente (Cristina de la Puente, “Toru, M. y Philips, J. E. (ed.), Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa. A Comparative Study. Londres-Nueva York: Kegan Paul International, 2000, 248 pp.,” al-Qantara 23, no. 2 (2002): 573–77). On the different categories of court slaves in al-Andalus, see Meouak, Ṣaqāliba, Eunuques et esclaves.

61  Felipe Maí�llo explains in the translation of the third part of the al-Bayan al-Mugrib (Ibn Idhari, La caída del Califato de Córdoba y los Reyes de Taifas. (al-Bayan al-Mugrib), trans. Felipe Maí�llo Salgado [Salamanca, 1993]), that this text ‘abid does not necessarily mean “black slaves.” This applies not only to the rest of Bayan, but to other chronicles.

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tury, none of the sources say they were black. If the slave was black, this was specified with the corresponding adjective. In short, the Andalusi Umayyad court would have enjoyed a hierarchy of positions clearly recognized by their contemporaries. But chroniclers and contemporary writers did not feel the need to explain the various distinctions, making it next to impossible today to understand the nuances and internal structures of the court.

Conclusions about the Legal Status of Eunuchs

Some of the characteristics of eunuchs that appear in historical chronicles are confirmed by their absence from legal sources:62

– Eunuchs were slaves and were almost never differentiated from other slaves in legal matters. – Their number was small, for the functions they carried out only made them useful in palaces or houses of great masters and their price was high.

– The confinement under which they lived prevented them from being involved in litigation and having access to ordinary justice. As with other palace servants, problems had to be resolved internally, which explains why there are no known fatwas where a eunuch appears. Punishments eunuchs receive in the chronicles do not correspond to what was considered legal under Islamic jurisprudence. Often they are arbitrary or extremely severe and, in any case, they do not take into account their legal status as slaves, which would be, from the point of view of religious law, a reason to mitigate the sentence. They are judged as free men with full capacity.

– Their situation was socially and economically privileged, so they did not need to claim anything, save under exceptional circumstances. Their fortune was temporary because the only heir after their death was their owner, so the goods they acquired during their lives reverted on their death to their owner. At the same time, due to their legal status as slaves, their properties could be seized or confiscated if the owner ordered it, provided he accepted responsibility for continuing their maintenance and didn’t abandon them, which would have been considered a crime. – There are no legal cases of disputes over sales, which makes us think that eunuchs were not bought directly but ordered; this did not lead to fraud because their sale was not in a market.

Legal documents offer these insights into eunuchs’ legal status and circumstances, whereas the chronicles offer glimpses into their personal and social status, which may be quite different. One of the most difficult issues to clarify is the reason for human castration, slave possession, and use. Occasionally it is said there was a desire to deprive slaves of family or social ties beyond their owner and that eunuchs would exclusively devote themselves 62  De la Puente, “Sin linaje, sin alcurnia,” 152.



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to their owners’ service. But emasculation is not necessary to get unconditional servitude. Despite the fact that Islamic jurisprudence allows slaves to get married and we know that they started their own families, such a marriage could only be achieved with the owner’s consent. So, if they wished, owners could force slaves to remain celibate. On the other hand, the Arabic sources testify that eunuchs knew how to create their own social networks and that their submission to the emir was not always unconditional. So, their use in the Islamic world must have been conditioned by customs and by fashion, which made them an expensive and coveted object because of their value rather than their real utility. Moreover, the eunuch gets presented as a socially controversial character. On the one hand, their possession implies luxury; on the other, they receive harsh critiques for their appearance and behaviour. This rejection is also due to the fact that a eunuch can be compared with a passive homosexual, who was severely judged in the Islamic world. As we saw earlier, the insults are often aimed at their sexuality. Eunuchs were an indispensable part of palace ceremonies and ornamentation of the Alcázar, or of privileged homes. Their possession was an ostentatious mean of displaying power and wealth. Despite rejection of their sexual state or prevailing prejudices against their moral characteristics, eunuchs were bought and sold in the Islamic world as a social fetish, a luxury object, and a symbol of power. Their closeness to monarchical power gives us more names of eunuch slaves than of any other type of slaves. This is because the peculiarity of their castration as well as the private functions they performed made them worthy of being known, losing the anonymity of nearly all other servants. The sources present them to us dressed in a wealthy and attractive way, constituting an important part of the palace’s opulence. Ibn Hayyan even refers to the hairstyles they wore in his time (fifth/eleventh century), saying when referring to customs introduced by Ziryab in ‘Abd al-Rahman II’s court in the third/ninth century: When he entered al-Andalus, all men and women left their hair long and separated it in the middle of the forehead, letting it cover temples and eyebrows. However, when the posh people saw his hairstyle, as well as his sons’ and wife’s, cut in such a way it did not cover the forehead, equalled with the eyebrows, rounded off around the ears and loose in the temples, as worn today by eunuch servants and distinguished slaves, they loved it and considered it good for their slaves, ordering them to adopt it, as it has been done until today.63

Eunuchs gradually became highly sought-after, expensive slaves whose main function was to show off the sultan’s power. There is no other way to explain the number of almost four thousand eunuchs in Madinat al-zahra’ during the caliphate period.64 From the emirate to the caliphate periods, the numbers increased substantially; at the earlier period they are small in number. 63  Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis, vol. 2, no. 1: 150v.

64  “The number of slaves from al-Zahra’, was 3,950 eunuchs, whose daily portion of meat amounted to 64,000 pounds, without taking into account different types of birds and fish” (El número de los esclavos de al-Zahra’ era de 3,950 eunucos, cuya ración diaria de carne ascendí�a a 16,000 arreldes, sin contar los diversos tipos de aves y pescado). Cited from Molina, Dhikr bilad al-Andalus, 138–39 and 176. These numbers tally with the similarly high number of women in the palace.

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We can also assert from the Andalusi documents that castration was not a punishment. Rather, a eunuch is a slave who suffers amputation to carry out a certain task, not to serve a sentence. The only exceptions are the castrations of Emir al-Hakam I to children from the wealthy classes, but chroniclers ascribe this to the eunuchs’ beauty, not because he wanted to punish them or their families. Only Ibn Hazm linked this event to the revolts of the suburb, and he considers it an exceptional measure. On the contrary, all Arab authors are unanimous in considering this episode exceptionally cruel, condemning it as a merciless act of the emir that exceeded the bounds of Islamic morality. Castration is, above all, presented as a prerequisite for certain tasks that could not be carried out by all slaves, especially caring for the harem, which involved the women maintaining their family honour. Eunuchs’ lack of virility made them potential intermediaries between the male and the female worlds in elite social classes, although it could also be carried out by female slaves with access to both spaces. What female slaves could not do, in contrast to eunuchs, was to block the entrance to intruders. Women may have different ways of influencing people, but violence was not their preserve.65 Maybe eunuchs were a sort of executive branch for the harems, capable of carrying out their commands. One of the advantages of possessing a eunuch was not having to worry about losing them through escape. We know through different testimonies that other slaves frequently escaped and their owners worried about the financial loss. I have found no evidence of any escaped eunuchs, suggesting that what made them stay was not only their socially privileged situation, but also that a successful escape was improbable because they would be so easily identifiable. Not only their physical characteristics would favour their rapid capture, but they were poorly positioned for the “outside” world. They had no family and their physical condition prevented them from starting one. Above all, they were poorly adaptable to a social or work environment different to the one they had known. This may be why we have no evidence of manumitted eunuchs, for their liberation would have been comparable to abandonment. Paradoxically, a eunuch’s dependence on the home to which he belonged enabled a greater mobility beyond it. This explains why they carried out tasks far away from the palace, in frontier territories, where liberty was available if desired. Finally, I wish to highlight the fact that many of the eunuch characteristics described here in the Umayyad period from Arab Andalusi chronicles are not particular to this court nor to the Islamic West. They reflect narratives of eunuchs in other premodern regions. The power acquired by eunuchs due to their relationship with women in the harem, for example, is not an Andalusi characteristic, but common in all places and societies until quite late.66 The same applies to their extra-legal status, and the fact that chronicles offer us fascinating information that contradicts the normative content of Islamic religious sources in what could have been their social, legal, civil, and penal existence.

65  Marí�n, Mujeres en al-Andalus, 597.

66  Jane Hathaway offers a valuable example of political and economic power acquired by the “great black eunuch” during the Ottoman Empire from the final years of the seventeenth century. Jane Hathaway, “The Wealth and influence of an exiled Ottoman Eunuch in Egypt. The Waqf Inventory of `Abbas Agha,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 37 (1994): 293–317.



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Appendix: Eunuchs in Al-Andalus, Emirate Period67 ‘Abd al-Rahman I (emirate 139/756–172/788) Mansur (Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:48; Al-Maqqari, Nafh, 3:45)

Hisham I (r. 172/788–180/796) No eunuch is mentioned.

Al-Hakam I (emirate 180/796–206/822) Masarra (Molina, Dhikr bilad al-Andalus, 107/136; Akhbar majmu‘a, 128) Masrur (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/1:97r; Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:71) Nasr (would become ‘Abd al-Raḥman II’s favourite) Surayj (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/1:129r; and 2/2:15) Tarafa ibn Laqit (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/1:129r; and 2/2:15)

‘Abd al-Rahman II (emirate 206/822–238/852)

Masarra (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/2:17, possibly the same Masarra mentioned during the previous emirate) Masrur (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/1:147r). Nasr (J. Vallvé) Qasim al-khasi al-saqlabi (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/2:17)

Muhammad (emirate 238/852–273/886)

Habib (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/2:109) Hassan al-khasi al-wasif (had also served ‘Abd al-Rahman II: Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 2/2:137 (there is a lacuna in the text); Marqaba, 56)

Al-Mundhir (emirate 273/886–275/888)

Maysur (Ibn al-Qutiyya, Ta’rikh iftitah al-Andalus, 102/87; Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 3:41).

‘Abd Allah (emirate 275/888–912)

Badr al-saqlabi al-wasif al-khasi (Ibn Hayyan, Muqtabis, 3:4–5 and 3:131; Ibn ‘Idhari, Bayan, 2:151 and 2:167.

67  This list has been compiled with reference to Meouak, Pouvoir souverain, 204–11, and De la Puente, “Sin linaje, sin alcurnia,” 162–82, where the reader can find more bio­graphical information on these individuals, as well as eunuchs from the caliphate period.

Chapter 8

IDENTITY AND MINORITY STATUS IN TWO LEGAL TRADITIONS JOHN TOLAN

In the Middle Ages, from Baghdad to Barcelona, we find many minority religious

communities: all over the Muslim world, Jews and Christians lived as dhimmis, protected and subordinated minorities. In Byzantium and all over Latin Europe, Jewish communities lived in a society which alternated between tolerance and persecution of them. Some Muslims lived in Christian kingdoms (in Sicily, in the Latin Orient, and in certain Christian Hispanic kingdoms). The Muslim and Christian sovereigns of the Middle Ages claimed that their power derived from God. Caliphs, emperors, popes, and kings used religious arguments to reinforce and justify their power. These religious ideo­logies expressed the inferiority of all those people who did not proclaim the majority faiths. This religious inferiority consisted of a legal and social subordination but, at the same time, we can find instructions for tolerance towards members of different religions within society in the Christian and Muslim traditions. How can we define the position of the minority in these societies?1 I would like to look at two examples in order to explain how these jurists from the minority communities perceived their subordination. First, the point of view of a Muslim Mufti on whether it is legal for Muslims to reside in Norman Sicily. The second example concerns the view of Pope Gregory IX and his confessor, the canonist Raymond of Penyafort, on legal problems of Christians residing in Tūnis during the thirteenth century. First, let us focus on the Sicilian question. Sicily was conquered by the Normans (1061–1091) partly through alliances with the Muslim Qaids who lived on the island. There were many Muslims in Sicily during the twelfth century: farmers, soldiers, but also many important figures in the court of the king (administrators, officials). 2 The Andalusian traveller Ibn Jubayr (there in 1185) has left us a striking description.3 The document we are interested in is a fatwa, a juridical consultation in which a question is submitted to a mufti, who gives his opinion based on religious and legal 1  For more details on this theme and the biblio­graphy, see John Tolan, “The Social Inferiority of Religious Minorities. Dhimmis and Mudejars,” in Europe and Islam. Fifteen Centuries of History, ed. Henry Laurens, John Tolan and Gilles Veinstein (Princeton, 2013), 49–69.

2  See Alexander Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily. Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London, 2005). 3  Ibn Jubayr, Rihla, the Travels of Ibn Jubayr Edited from a Manu­script in the Uni­ver­sity Library of Leyden, ed. William Wright and Michael Johan De Goeje (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1994).

John Tolan ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Université de Nantes, France.

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sources (and including the opinions of other scholars before him). In the Maghreb, the Malikite legal school prevailed. Al-Wansharisi (fl. sixteenth century) assembled a large collection of fatwas especially from the Andalusian and Maghrebi muftis. Al-Wansharisi included different fatwas by Al-Mazari, who was active in Mahdiyya (in modern Tunisia) and died in 1141. This is everything we know about him except that his kunya (Mazari) would indicate that he or his family were originally from the city of Mazara on Sicily. This could explain his interest in the question put to him.4 At the beginning of the fatwa, someone (we do not know who) says that someone went to see Al-Mazari to ask him the following question: “should we declare admissible, or reject any judgments from Sicily and pronounced by its qadi, as well as the depositions of sworn witnesses, knowing that they are imposed by necessity and that we could not establish whether their authors reside under the authority of infidels willingly or under duress.”5 The occupation of Sicily by the “infidels” caused many legal problems, in particular concerning the legitimacy of the judgments and testimonies produced by the Muslims under non-Muslim authority. If we judge that the Muslim testimonies and the judgments of the qadi are not legitimate, we remove the foundation of the legal system of the Muslim community on the island, eliminating the possibility of a life in line with the principles of Islam. Al-Mazari discerns two points in his answer: “the first one concerns the [person] of the qadi as well as his valid opinions considered on the integrity perspective, from the moment he resides in an enemy territory (dâr al-harb) and under the authority of the infidels, which is not allowed. The second one is connected to the designation because he is nominated by the infidel.”6 So, Al-Mazari states that Muslims are not allowed to reside in the dâr al-harb, which suggests the Muslims on the island were in an irregular situation. However, there were exceptions to this rule that allowed most (not all) of the Muslims to reside on the island. Indeed, when Al-Mazari answers the first question, he offers different reasons for a Muslim to live in infidel lands. First of all, he points out that “if the person concerned resides in an enemy country for compelling reasons, there would be nothing that could 4  I follow the French translation of this fatwa of Abdel Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’alImam al-Mâzarî� sur le cas des musulmans vivant en Sicile sous l’autorité des Normands,” Mélanges de l’université Saint-Joseph 50, no. 2 (1984): 691–704. For this fatwa, see also Sarah Davis-Secord, “Muslims in Norman Sicily. The Evidence of Imam al-Mazari’s Fatwas,” Mediterranean Studies 16 (2007): 46–66; John Tolan, Les Relations entre les pays d’Islam et le monde latin du milieu du Xème siècle au milieu du XIIIème siècle (Paris, 2000), 152–56.

5  “Doit-on déclarer recevables, ou bien les récuser, tout jugement en provenance de Sicile [et prononcé] par son qâdî�, ainsi que les dépositions de ses témoins assermentés, tout en sachant qu’ils sont imposés para la nécessité et qu’on ne peut établir si leurs auteurs resident sous l’autorité des infidèles de plain gré ou sous la contrainte.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’alImam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56. 6  “Le premier touche à [la personne du] qâdî�, ainsi qu’à ses avis fondés, considerée sur le plan de la probité, du moment qu’il réside en territoire ennemi (‘dâr al-harb’) et sous l’autorité des infidèles, chose qui n’est point permise. Le second s’attache à l’investiture, puisqu’il est investí� par l’infidèle.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56.



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undermine his integrity.”7 So, where there is obligation and no possibility of fleeing the island to reach Muslim territory, logically one could not reproach the Muslims for living on infidel territory. This is a principle also recognized by those jurists hostile to the residence of Muslims in infidel lands (even if the perception of what constitutes “a compelling reason” changes from one jurist to another).8 Al-Mazari goes further: “it is the same if a person does so of their own free will overlooking the judgment in force. In fact, nothing obliges them to take heed of this chapter of [legal] knowledge, so that their [alleged] ignorance would not undermine their integrity.”9 Moreover, he affirms that if one misinterprets the law by declaring the legality of their stay in an infidel land, it would be an excusable error, because it does not compromise the integrity of the person who resides in infidel territory in a theoretically illegal way. He has not finished. If this person “correctly interprets the law in such a way that he justifies his residence in an enemy territory with the hope of seizing it from the hands [of the occupants] and returning it to Islam and furthermore, with the hope of putting the infidels on the right path or at least diverting them from their heresy.”10 So, all Sicilian Muslims who hope to see the island under the rule of a Muslim prince or to divert the Christians from their worst errors are permitted to live in infidel territory. It is difficult indeed to imagine a Sicilian Muslim who was not included in these different exceptions to the prohibitions on residence in infidel territory. Certainly, Al-Mazari states that if someone “acts in ignorance of the law or knowingly turns away from any efforts of interpretation, there would be a reason to challenge his integrity.”11 He introduced some doubts on the legitimacy of travelling to infidel territory in order to trade, noting that the Malikite jurists have different opinions about this and that “the greatest divergences have appeared in this respect when interpreting the Mudawwana” by Sahnun (d. 854). He expressed similar doubts in other fatwas regarding trade between Sicily and Ifriqiya.12 7  “Si cette personne en question réside en pays ennemi pour une raison impérieuse, il n’y a là rient qui puisse porte atteinte à sa probité.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56.

8  Kathryn Miller, Guardians of Islam. Religious Authority and Muslim Communities of Late Medi­eval Spain (New York, 2008), 22–43.

9  “Il en est de même si elle le fait de son proper gré, tout en ignorant le jugement en vigueur ou tout en croyant au caractère permis de son acte. En effet, rient ne l’oblige à prendre connaissance de ce chapitre du savoir [juridique], au point que son ignorance [supposée] ne porterait pas atteinte à sa probité.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56.

10  “Interprète correctament la loi, de sorte qu’elle justifie sa résidence en territoire ennemi par l’espoir de l’arracher d’entre les mains [des ocupants] et de le restituir à l’islam, ou de pervenir à mettre les infidèles sur la bonne voie, ou, du moins, à les détourner d’une hérésie quelconque.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56.

11  “Agit en méconnaissance de la loi, ou en se détournant sciemment de tout effort d’interprétation, il y a certainement là un motif d’atteinte à la probité.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56. 12  Sara Davis-Secord, “Muslims in Norman Sicily. The Evidence of Imām al-Māzarī�’s Fātwas,” Medi­ terranean Studies 16 (2007): 46–66.

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Al-Mazari concluded this matter by affirming that “tolerating his personal reasons must be the attitude to be adopted towards anyone whose probity is evident, but also whose purpose for staying in enemy territory raises suspicion. The majority of the previous suppositions plead for this tolerance and it is hardly possible to reject them all except one.”13 This is a remarkable example of ijtihad (the reinterpretation of Islamic law to adapt it to new situations). Al-Mazari started with the principle that residence in an infidel land is prohibited and later (through a series of “exceptions”) authorizes it for almost every Sicilian Muslim. Then, the mufti focused on the second question: the legitimacy of the qadi and other Muslim officials nominated by the Christian king and his officials in Sicily. As regards the second matter, that is the investiture granted by the infidel to the qadis, notaries, trustees, and others, it is a fact that we have to protect people from each other, so much so that a certain disciple of the [Mâlikite] school claims to establish this obligation rationally. The author of the Mudawwana established the provisional legality guaranteed by the leaders of any place, in the absence of a prince [sultân] and this for fear of not being able to treat urgent cases in a timely manner. The designation granted by the infidel to these qadis, either to meet a compelling need or to satisfy the demand of the litigants, does not in any way affect the judgments which thus retain their enforceability as if he had been designated by a Muslim prince.14

In other words, al-Mazari considered that Sicily was in a sort of interregnum. In the past, Sicily had a Muslim sultan and (insh’Allah) it would have it again. Muslim officials had to manage the affairs of the community at such times. The legitimacy of the qadi derives from the justice of his judgments. It does not depend on whether he is appointed by an infidel. No legitimacy is recognized in the Christian king. This is the opinion of one mufti. Others, on the contrary, affirmed that every Muslim had to leave a territory conquered by the infidel as soon as possible (in particular, some Maghrebi Malikite muftis at the end of the Middle Ages concerning Muslims under Christian authority in Spain). At the same time, others stated that staying after the con-

13  “Tolérer ses raisons personnelles doit être l’attitude de principi à adoptar envers toute personne dont la probité est évidente, mais dont le but du séjour en territoire ennemi prête néanmoins à suspicion. C’est que la grande majorité de suppositions précédentes plaident pour cette tolérance et il n’est guère possible de les repousser toutes à l’exclusion d’une seule.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56.

14  “Pour ce qui est du second point soulevé, c’est-à-dire l’investiture accordée par l’infidèle aux qâdî�s, notaires, syndics et autres [détenteurs de charges honorables], il est un fait qu’on doit impérativement protéger les gens, les uns contre les autres, tant et si bien qu’un certain disciple de l’école [mâlikite] prétend fonder rationnellement cette obligation. L’auteur de la Mudawwana établit la légalité de tout intérim assuré par les notabilités d’un lieu quelconque, en l’absence du prince [sultân], et ce de peur de ne pouvoir traiter un cas d’urgence dans les délais prescrits. L’investiture accordée par l’infidèle à ce qâdî� probe, soit pour répondre à un besoin impérieux, soit pour satisfaire la demande des justiciables, ne porte nullement atteinte à des jugements qui gardent de la sorte leur caractère exécutoire, tout comme s’il avait été investi par un prince musulman.” Cited from Majid Turki, “Consultation juridique d’al-Imam al-Mâzarî�,” 152–56



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quest and thereby maintaining a Muslim presence was a praise-worthy act. This was the case of the Hanbalite jurists during the Mongol conquest.15 What about the Christians who lived in a Muslim country? By way of example, let us look at a Latin text concerning the European Christians living in Muslim lands, and, more specifically, those who lived in Tūnis during the thirteenth century. On 19 January 1235, Raymond of Penyafort, confessor of Pope Gregory IX, wrote a letter to a Dominican prior and a Franciscan minister “in the kingdom of Tūnis.” The two friars had written to the pope to ask him forty questions concerning their mission with the Christians living in Tūnis. The answers were dictated to Raymond by the Pope. Questions and answers have been preserved in a text called the Responsiones ad dubitabilia circa communicationem Christianorum cum sarracenis. The questions concern the legality of a series of practices, be it the sale of nails to Muslims or the clandestine baptism of their children.16 This text presents a unique perspective on the Christian community of Tūnis and the pope’s response concerning the problems posed by the residence of Christians in Muslim lands. It shows the important activity of the merchants here (particularly Italians and Catalans), placed in the context of pontifical prohibitions on trade of certain goods. We see that some merchants transgressed these bans without worrying too much (Genoese selling ships, for example). Others clearly wanted to know which types of trade were legal. Moreover, this text offers us an unusual view of the European community of Tūnis, where not only Italian and Catalan merchants meet, but also mercenaries, crusaders, fugitives, captives, and pilgrims. In particular, there were a number of marginal people who rarely appear in Arabic or Latin documentation: renegades, slaves, converts, mixed couples. Here, our goal is not to analyze this document in detail, much of which concerns the legality of some types of trade (since the Third and Fourth Lateran Councils had forbidden the sale of weapons, iron, and wood to “Saracens”). We examine some passages that deal with problems of conversion and mixed families. In their eighth question, the friars observe with dissatisfaction that certain Christians pledged to the Saracens some men and women among their servants: Also, whether are excommunicated those Christians, knights, or others, who, having commerce with Saracens, pawn or mortgage to Saracens men or women from among their

15  Khaled Abou El Fadl, “Islamic Law and Muslim Minorities: The Juristic Discourse on Muslim Minorities from the Second/Eighth to the Eleventh/Seventeenth Centuries,” in Islamic Law and Society 1 (1994): 141–187; Kathryn Miller, Guardians of Islam. Religious Authority and Muslim Communities of Late Medi­eval Spain (New York, 2008), 22–43.

16  John Tolan, ed. and trans., “Ramon de Penyafort’s Responses to Questions Concerning Relations between Christians and Saracens: Critical Edition and Translation,” in HAL Archives Ouvertes, accessed January 30, 2018, https://hal.archives-ouvertes.fr/hal-00761257. About this text, see also John Tolan, “Taking Gratian to Africa: Raymond de Penyafort’s Legal Advice to the Dominicans and Franciscans in Tunis,” in A Faithful Sea. The Religious Cultures of the Mediterranean, 1200–1700, ed. Adnan Husain and Katherine Fleming (Oxford, 2007), 47–63; John Tolan, “Marchands, mercenaires et captifs. le statut légal des chrétiens latins en terre d’islam selon le juriste canonique Ramon de Penyafort (XIIIe s.),” in Minorités et régulations sociales en Méditerranée médievale, ed. Stéphane Boisselier, François Clement, and John Tolan (Rennes, 2010).

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own servants, compelled by necessity. In particular, in those numerous cases when they know that they will not be able to redeem those whom they pawn. It often occurs that those who are pawned in this way, especially the boys and girls, later become Saracens— and if they later are reclaimed, they are not returned.17

It seems that some indebted Christians, particularly knights, gave to their Muslim creditors men and women from among their households as security for their debts or other obligations (maybe military). The friars are upset with this pawning of human beings because of the spiritual risk this entails. We imagine that some of these Christians remained slaves to their new masters (if their old masters did not settle their debts). The friars care about these youths and fear they will end up converting to Islam. The pope’s response is that this practice is a deadly sin, but at the same time does not entail excommunication. Generally, conversion in Tūnis can be in only one direction: to Islam. One passage is about Christians who secretly attended mass at night “out of fear of the Saracens” (§16). This fear can perhaps be explained by the fact that these would be Christians converted to Islam and surreptitiously back to Christianity. Only one passage is about the baptism of Muslims. The friars point out that certain Christian servants or slaves take care of Muslim children. These servants ask the friars if they had to baptize these children secretly unbeknownst to their parents, thus if they died before the age of discretion, they would be saved. The Pope answers “let them be baptized.” So, we can presume that a number of Muslim children in Tūnis in the thirteenth century were secretly baptized by their Christian nannies. One of the main concerns of the Franciscan and Dominican ministers was the apostasy of some Christians in Tūnis and their relationships with the members of their families who remained Christians. As can be seen from other sources, these situations were habitual. The Hafsid sultans had European concubines, bought in slave markets or received as gifts. Undoubtedly, some of these converted to Islam. As regards mercenaries, most of them did not convert, though others converted to Islam. Among the translators, key actors in trade and diplomacy, were Europeans that prolonged their stay in Tūnis. Undoubtedly, some of them converted to Islam and married Muslim women. This raises the delicate question of the relationship between Christians and their relatives converted to Islam:18 Also, there are some who were once Christians and then became Saracens, some while they were minors, others as adults; some of them are free, others captives. Since they all

17  “Item, utrum sint excommunicati milites christiani uel allii, qui conuersantes cum sarracenis, obligant uel impignorant uiros uel feminas de familiis suis sarracenis, necessitate compulsi, et maxime qui eos obligant nec credunt se posse sufficere ad redemptionem eorum. Contingit autem multoties, quod taliter obligati et maxime pueri uel puelle fiunt postmodum sarraceni et si postea repetuntur non redduntur.” Cited from Tolan, “Ramon de Penyafort’s,” accessed January 30, 2018, https://hal.archives-ouvertes.fr/hal-00761257.

18  Mounira Chapoutut-Ramadi, “Tunis,” in Grandes villes méditerranéennes du monde musulman médiéval, ed. Jean-Claude Garcin (Rome, 2000), 241; Mohamed Tahar Mansouri, “Vie portuaire à Tunis au Bas Moyen Â� ge (XII–XVe siècle),” in Tunis, cité de la mer, ed. Alia Baccar-Bournaz (Tunis, 1999), 143–56, esp. 145–47.



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err against the articles of the faith, denying that Christ is God and Son of God, since they deny his Incarnation and Passion, we ask if the fathers, mothers, or other relatives of such people, or other people may communicate with them. Many of these people, when they converted, were ignorant of the articles of the faith; some were taken captive as infants; others converted due to a certain negligence. It seems to us that they cannot easily abstain from frequenting the above-mentioned people, either because they love them according to the flesh, as their children, or because they receive food from them.

We respond: they may communicate with them, either in order to correct them or out of necessity, and may receive food from them when they are in need, especially their relatives and other people connected with them.19

This passage shows that the friars and the pope were worried about apostasy, which in Europe would entail severe punishments like confiscation of assets or execution. Of course, they cannot threaten the apostates in Islamic territory with any retribution, even spiritual. According to Gratian’s Decretum, if they have left the church, they cannot be excommunicated.20 Since there was nothing they could do about the apostates (except trying to persuade them to convert back to Christianity), they were concerned above all about members of their circle who did not convert to Islam. In the Decretum, associating with heretics was prohibited to all, except for clerics who sought to bring them back to the faith. The friars knew that if they tried to prohibit the Christians in Tūnis from seeing their close friends, this ban would have little effect, except perhaps to push other Christians to apostasy too. They knew these Christians could not avoid their Muslim parents, “both because they love them as their children and because they receive food from them.”21 The pope responded that they could see these Muslims “causa correctionis vel necessitates”—in other words, in order to bring them back to the church or for material needs. Raymond and Gregory classified Islam as heresy from a legal point of view. This coincided with the contemporary theo­logical consideration about Islam, in particular the works of Latin polemicists against Islam in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.22 In 19  “Il y a certains individus qui étaient chrétiens et ensuite se sont fait Sarrasins, certains étant enfants, d’autres étant déjà adultes; certains sont libres, d’autres captifs. Puisqu’ils pêchent tous contre les articles de la foi, niant que le Christ soit Dieu et Fils de Dieu, déniant aussi son Incarnation et sa Passion, nous demandons si les parents de ces personnes ou d’autres membres de leur famille ou d’autres personnes peuvent communiquer avec eux. Certains ignoraient les articles de la foi [chrétienne] quand ils se sont faits Sarrasins, d’autres étaient captifs dès leur enfance, d’autres [se sont convertis] à cause d’une certaine négligence. Et nous ne voyons pas comment [leurs parents chrétiens] peuvent se passer de garder contact avec eux, soit parce qu’ils les aiment comme leurs enfants, soit parce qu’ils reçoivent d’eux la nourriture. Nous répondons: ils peuvent communiquer avec eux pour les corriger ou pour nécessité et recevoir d’eux la nourriture quand cela est nécessaire, surtout leurs parents et d’autres personnes associées.” Cited from Tolan, Les relations entre les pays d’Islam et le monde latin, 165. 20  In Corpus iuris canonici, ed. E. Friedberg and E. Richter, 2 vols. (Graz, 1955–95), 2:50–92 (C.24 q.1 cc.4–5). See also Anders Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum (Cam­bridge, 2000).

21  “Soit parce qu’ils reçoivent d’eux la nourriture.” Cited from Tolan, Les relations entre les pays d’Islam et le monde latin, 165. 22  John Tolan, Saracens (New York, 2002), 135–274 (chaps. 6–11).

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Raymond’s Summa de Paenitentia, he asserts that Christians should not fraternize with Jews or Saracens, except for the preachers who go to terram eorum to preach to them about Christ.23 In this case, they could recognize the particular situation of the apostate families and soften this ban for them. Even more difficult perhaps was the problem of apostasy within a couple. Raymond addressed the problem of mixed marriages in the second question in the Responsione, and later again in his work De matrimonio (probably composed between 1235 and 1240).24 Since, the marriage between a Christian and a non-Christian was not legal anyway, the question was to know what to do if a member of a Christian couple “fell into heresy” (labatur in haeresim) converting to Islam (again treated as heresy). In the Decretum, Gratian follows previous ecclesiastical legislation forbidding any marriage between Christians and non-Christians with some exceptions for cases of conversion. Case number twenty-eight in the Decretum is about an infidel husband who converts to Christianity, but whose wife remains infidel. Gratian affirms that new Christians can part from their infidel husband or wife, but he or she can also stay married. The main thing is to know if the Christian member of the couple can stay married to the infidel spouse without “offending God” (contumelia creatoris). According to the Decretum (C.28 q.2 c.2), when the infidel spouse hates Christianity and insults the Creator, the other partner can not only leave him or her, but can also remarry. Divorce is forbidden in the Bible, while the annulment of marriage was authorized only in particular situations, like consanguinity or as a result of adultery by one member of the couple. The Decretum affirms that “contumelia creatoris” represents a kind of spiritual adultery, indeed much worse than the physical variety, and therefore would be a matter of separation and annulment of the marriage. In 1235, Raymond and the pope applied the case of Gratian to the conversion of a member of an infidel couple to Christianity or vice versa, where a member of a Christian couple converted to Islam. In doing so, Raymond and the pope showed a certain flexibility and ease of innovation, adapting the principles of canon law to the particular situation of the Christians in Tūnis. To do otherwise, as they knew, would only make the Christians’ lives more difficult and more susceptible to apostasy. The fatwa of Al-Mazari and the responsiones of Ramon show that jurists in the Middle Ages were able to react realistically and pragmatically, adapting the constraints of 23  Ramon de Penyafort, Summa de Paenitentia, Liber I, titulus IV, ed. Javier Ochoa Sanz and Luí�s Dí�ez Garcí�a (Rome, 1976), 2:308–17 (cols.); about the “fraternization” and the sharing of meals with Jews and Muslims in Canon Law Commentaires: David M. Freidenreich, “Sharing Meals with Non-Christians in Canon Law Commentaries, ca. 1160–1260. A Case Study in Legal Development,” Medi­eval Encounters 14, no. 1 (2008): 41–77.

24  Ramon de Penyafort, Summa de Matrimonio, titulus X, “de dispari cultu”, ed. Javier Ochoa Sanz and Luí�s Dí�ez Garcí�a, (Rome, 1976), 3:951–55 (cols.). To read the English translation of this treatise, see Raymond of Penyafort, Summa on Marriage, ed. Pierre J. Payer (Toronto, 2005). About this treatise, see Giovanni Minnucci, “Istituti di diritto precessurale nella Summa de poenitentia et matrimonio di san Raimondo di Penyafort,” in Magister Raimundus. Atti del convegno per il IV centenario della canonizzazione di San Raimondo de Penyafort (1601–2001), ed. Carlo Longo (Rome, 2002), 87–109; and Ignacio Pérez de Heredia, “La Summa de Matrimonio de san Raimundo de Peñafort,” in Magister Raimundus. Atti del convegno per il IV centenario della canonizzazione di San Raimondo de Penyafort (1601–2001), ed. Carlo Longo (Rome, 2002), 111–64.



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religious law (apparently inflexible) to the specific needs of their flock. To avoid the trap of essentialism, which leads us too often to see interreligious relations in the Middle Ages as a permanent conflict or as an irenic coexistence, we must look as we have done here at the concrete manifestations of regular interactions between communities and legal texts that tried to supervise them.

Chapter 9

MEDI­EVAL PEASANTS’ IMAGE OF THEMSELVES IN RELATION TO THE SEIGNEURIAL REGIME PAUL FREEDMAN*

In an article

concerning the formation of Switzerland, Guy Marchal describes what he calls “the answer of the peasants,” their response to the dominant seigneurial discourse of mockery and deprecation.1 The original Swiss rural cantons constituted a nucleus of rustic freedom in a world of lordship and hierarchy. It is of course difficult to reconstruct this “answer,” the way medi­eval peasants saw their own virtues or justified their demands, but what follows is an effort to sketch a view of their situation set against the considerably more obvious and prolific attitudes of the lords, who dominated, but did not completely control, the construction of social imagery.

The Seigneurial Portrayal of the Peasant

A vast literature survives from the seigneurial side describing the uncouth and contemptible nature of the peasantry. This varies in quantity by period, becoming much more common in the late medi­eval era of social upheaval. Such texts also vary greatly depending on geo­graphical region and culture. Literary genres such as satires, comical stories, and didactic treatises depicting peasants as stupid, coarse, and ludicrous form a significant part of German literature and are represented in English, French, and Italian sources. In Germany there was an entire class of medi­eval literature known as Bauernschwank (plays and poems involving comical peasant characters), and the tendency to feature laughable rustics characterizes plays written in mercantile cities (notably Nürnberg) to celebrate Carnival.2 In France and Provence, the pastourelle, a poem in which a knight attempts to seduce (or, failing that, rape), a peasant girl was endlessly elaborated.3 But in Catalan literature, peasants rarely appear. One would hardly *  An earlier version on the same subject was presented in a Catalan publication: Paul Freedman, “Els pagesos medi­evals. Imatge d’ells mateixos en relació amb el règim senyorial,” in L’Edat Mitjana. Món real i espai imaginat, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Barcelona, 2012), 93–109. 1  Guy P. Marchal, “Die Antwort der Bauer: Elemente und Schichtungen des eidgenössischen Geschichts­bewußtsein am Ausgang des Mittelalters,” in Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichts­ bewußtsein im Spätmittelalter, ed. Hans Patze (Sigmaringen, 1987), 757–90.

2  Fritz Martini, Das Bauerntum in deutschen Schriften von den Anfängen bis zum 16. Jahrhundert (Halle, 1944). 3  See the collection assembled by William Paden, The Medi­eval Pastourelle, 2 vols. (New York, 1987).

Paul Freedman ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at Yale Uni­ver­sity, New Haven, USA.

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know from the magnificent legacy of medi­eval Catalan writing that the territory was convulsed by peasant agitation and rebellion in the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the Castilian realm, the situation is also peculiar. A nation that in its literary Golden Age would give rise to the most enduring peasant character, Sancho Panza, and one of whose greatest playwrights, Lope de Vega, invented over one thousand rustic characters, produced almost nothing about peasants in its literary works before 1450.4 Whatever the variation among European nations, one can speak of an overall set of seigneurial and clerical ideas of the peasant that emphasized his lowliness and so his suitability for agricultural labour and exploitation by the privileged. This language both supplemented and made up for the inadequacies of what might be called the reigning political justification of class divisions, the theory of the Three Orders by which clergy, knights, and peasants were supposed to aid and depend on each other.5 The knights protected non-combatants, the clergy prayed, and the peasants’ labour fed and supported the other two orders. If this theory had been effective in practice, there would still have been, one presumes, a satirical literature about peasants, because many societies, not just medi­eval Europe, have seen rural life as unpleasant, fit only for a low, dull, passive, if hardworking, order of humanity. What makes the Middle Ages distinct is that these deprecatory ideas were both pointed and reiterated so as to make up for the manifest failure of the theory of mutuality. It was obvious from the start (for instance, in the writings of tenthand eleventh-century social observers such as Adalberon of Laon and Gerard of Cambrai, who invoked and elaborated the theory of mutuality) that peasants did not receive adequate recompense for their toil, that they were exploited by the clergy and nobility. Under these circumstances, the justification for oppressing people who, after all, were Christians, must lie in some characteristic of theirs that makes them suitable for such exploitation. The seigneurial vocabulary applied to the peasantry revolved around certain themes and images: the ugliness and stupidity of peasants; their gross physicality and materialism; their unsuitability for any kind of higher life; their lack of honour; their fitness for menial labour. Peasants appear in literature, but also in chronicles and even in legal works, as physically unpleasant, even deformed. In Chrétien de Troyes’ Knight of the Cart, the ignominious cart on which Lancelot is forced to ride in order to find Queen Guinevere, is driven by a dwarfish vilain. In Chrétien’s Yvain, by contrast, the knight Calogrenant while riding through the forest comes across a huge and bestial herdsman. Not only is this rural denizen said to resemble a “Moor,” but his teeth are huge and yellowed like those of a wild boar, his nose is that of a cat, his ears seem to belong to an elephant, his jaws are split like a wolf, and he has eyes like an owl.6 In a work that purports 4  Noël Salomon, Recherches sur le thème paysan dans la “comedia” au temps de Lope de Vega (Bordeaux, 1965). 5  Georges Duby, Les trois ordres ou l’imaginaire du féodalisme (Paris, 1978).

6  Chrétien de Troyes, Le chevalier de la charrette, ed. Mario Roques (Paris, 1967), 111–12 (vv. 345–59); Chrétien de Troyes, Le Chavalier au Lion (Yvain), ed. Mario Roques (Paris, 1967), 9–10 (vv. 286–305).

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to be historical, not literary, the young Philip Augustus of France is depicted as having lost his way in the forest of Compiègne while hunting on the eve of his coronation, and is so frightened by encountering a rustic with a misshapen head and black face that the ceremony has to be postponed.7 The mistreatment and exploitation of peasants by their ecclesiastical and aristocratic superiors was considered logical, natural even, because the peasant is fit only to labour. Satirical literature is full of examples of peasants who ineptly and foolishly attempt to better their condition and live a life different for the one they are suited for. They are too cowardly to take on the tasks of knights, or, as in the German poem Helmbrecht, they may have the requisite violent instincts for knighthood, but the lack of any sense of honour or chivalry leads to ruin. The peasant lad in this story becomes a kind of bandit and picks quarrels based on fancied slights on his honour, but he dies a horrible and well-merited death, having merely imposed a local reign of terror rather than truly broken free of his peasant origins by arming himself.8 More often peasants are depicted as bewildered by the upper-class world and more comfortable with rustic coarseness. A common story often used to show the folly of social ambition tells of a well-off peasant who marries above his class. His new wife cooks for him the dishes she has been trained to prepare, but these are too refined, delicate, and complex for her husband, who starts to suffer great pains from indigestion. The wife then follows the advice of her mother and prepares beans and peas accompanied by bread soaked in milk. All her husband’s digestive problems immediately disappear and he is restored to happy equilibrium.9 Thus, even if the peasant does not receive benefits from the clergy and nobility commensurate with what he provides them, the exploitative relationship is nonetheless justified by the aptitude of the peasant for menial labour. The peasant is suited for hard agricultural work, but still has to be forced into it. Only through coercive pressure can the peasant be made to produce for the benefit of society in general. Here peasants are likened to domesticated animals since they have to be broken in, threatened, and told what to do. According to one medi­eval proverb, three things need to be struck in order to produce anything: donkeys, nuts, and peasants. There is no point to treating peasants well, according to another saying, for if you “anoint” a peasant with kindness, he will sting you, while if you “sting” him, he will behave well. Peasants benefit from a kind of salutary mistreatment, just as the body needs to be bled periodically, or willow trees need pruning. According to Felix Hemmerli, a rather vehement Swiss opponent of peasant claims, rustics’ farms should be burned completely every fifty years or so to teach them their place.10 7  On this incident, see D. D. R. Owen, “The Prince and the Churl. The Traumatic Experience of Philip Augustus,” Journal of Medi­eval History 18 (1992): 141–44. According to Owen, the story as told by the chronicler Rigord is probably an example of life imitating art, derived from Yvain. 8  Wernher de Gartenaere, Helmbrecht, ed. Ulrich Seelbach (New York, 1987).

9  Frederic C. Tubach, Index exemplorum. A Handbook of Medi­eval Religious Tales (Helsinki, 1969), 282–83 (no. 3652). 10  Examples from Paul Freedman, Images of the Medi­eval Peasant (Stanford, 1999), 148–49.

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When Francesc Eiximenis says that peasants resemble beasts more than humans and must be beaten and starved into submission, he is echoing the harsh prevailing view of peasant nature and what is required to make it productive.11 In an account of the English peasant uprising of 1381, the poet John Gower depicts the rebels as domestic animals that have escaped human supervision (asses, oxen, swine), but also as wild or verminous creatures such as foxes, frogs, or flies. At the end of the rebellion the peasants return to the yoke and are now likened to docile oxen.12 In a more comical vein, a Lombard writer of the same era named Matazone de Calignano mocks peasant complaints about mistreatment and says it is right that they are oppressed. The first villano was born from the flatulence of an ass. Because of this his nourishment is appropriately maslin and rye with beans, garlic, and other simple, not to say noxious, food. He should wear dark and strange clothes. The peasant speaks to the animal pulling the plow as they work, proving they are in fact related. All of this about peasants, their diet, their relation to lower bodily functions and to animals stems from an extensive set of conventions.13 The problem with this conventional vocabulary is that peasant labour was absolutely necessary for the survival of society. Peasants could not easily be regarded as marginal in the way that Jews, lepers, heretics, Saracens, or other outcasts might be. Peasants were human, Christians even, and their mistreatment therefore violated a minimal but vitally significant status. The Usatges defined the rusticus as one with no other dignity or privilege except that pertaining to a Christian.14 This fundamental condition of being a member of the religious community rendered his oppression unjust, an injustice that provoked unease among some members of the upper social orders. Here we are more interested in the rustics’ own opinion of their nature and condition than in whether or not their superiors were disturbed by oppression, but it should be noted that there were a substantial number of elite complaints and that on occasion these influenced both the formulation of peasant grievances and even peasant opinion.15 In considering the “answer of the peasant” to the discourse of contempt and subordination described above, it should be pointed out that much of the articulation of 11  “[…] and of the men of servile condition who can never be induced to do anything except by force and coercion. For this reason it is said that these are not men but rather beasts. And for this reason, one must treat them as wild and cruel animals, with beating, hunger, and strong and terrible bonds” (e del hòmens servills qui jamés no es poden res inclinar, sinó ab força e ab mal. Per tal, diu que aquests no són apellats hòmens mas bèsties. E, per raó d’açó, los deu hom tractar així� com à bèsties feres e cruels, que doma hom ab batiments, e ab fam, e ab clausures forts e terribles). Cited from Jill Webster, Francesc Eiximenis, la societat catalana al segle XIV (Barcelona, 1967), 59 (Francesc Eiximenis, Lo Dotzè del Crestià, book 12).

12  John Gower, “Vox clamantis,” in The Complete Works of John Gower, ed. G. C. Macaulay (Oxford, 1902), 20–81. 13  Paul Meyer, “Dit sur les vilains par Matazone de Calignano,” Romania 12 (1883): 14–28.

14  “The compensation for a rustic who is killed, or any other man who has no dignity other than that of being a Christian, is to be 6 ounces” (Rusticus interfectus seu alius homo qui nullam habet dignitatem, preter quod christianus est, emendetur per.VI. uncias). Cited from Usatges de Barcelona. El Codi a mitjan segle XII, ed. Joan Bastardas (Barcelona, 1984), 60 (chap. 11, usatge 3). 15  Discussed extensively in Freedman, Images of the Medi­eval Peasant.

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grievance centres around the injustice of serfdom. One could, of course, have seigneurial extraction of revenues from peasants without imposing serfdom, and not every late medi­eval peasant revolt can be reduced to a struggle over legal condition. Nevertheless, the most dramatic peasant uprisings in England (1381), Catalonia (1462–1486), Hungary (1514), and Germany (1525) centre rhetorically around whether or not it is licit for one Christian to own another. Seigneurial justifications for servitude sometimes took a more specific approach than that offered by broad contempt for peasant bodies and character. It could tacitly be admitted that for one Christian to own another was normally a violation of divine law, but that servitude was a just deprivation of liberty based on some ancestral sin inherited by the peasants. According to one common tradition, peasants were the cursed descendants of Noah’s son Ham as described in the ninth chapter of Genesis. As a result of their behaviour towards their father when he was drunk, Ham was cursed by Noah, while his brothers Shem and Japheth were blessed. Ham’s son Canaan was henceforth condemned to serve his brethren. This bare account was expanded into an explanation not only for the subordination of medi­eval peasants, but in the modern era it functioned as a justification for New World slavery, because later in the Bible, Ham’s descendants are said to have settled in Ethiopia and other parts of Africa.16 In the Middle Ages, the Curse of Ham was a largely literary accusation against the peasant (and against outcast people of various sorts), part of the general vocabulary of contempt, rather than a legalistic justification for subordination, as was the case in the U.S. South before the Civil War of 1861–1865. A secular version of the hereditary curse binding the peasants was found in some histories of the formation of specific nations. The demarcation of privileged noble and subjugated serf was first put into a legendary historical context in France. In the course of Charlemagne’s conquests, the free were separated from the unfree by the degree of help they lent his victorious armies. Those who served in the many campaigns to expand the realm reaped the rewards of high position, while those who avoided military obligation were degraded, they and their progeny.17 The legend of peasant cowardice was not, however, deployed very much to justify the existence of French serfs, but was exported and adapted most effectively in Catalonia and Hungary. According to a theory first found among jurists discussing serfdom in the fourteenth century, the Catalan peasants of the remença, those subject to the seigneurial “bad customs,” were descended from Christians who refused to aid the Christian (i.e., Frankish) armies when they came as the liberators of the future Catalonia. Charlemagne (or in some accounts an unstated ruler, or Louis the Pious) defeated the Saracens, but 16  On the complex history of Ham and his offspring, see David M. Goldenberg, The Curse of Ham. Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (Princeton, 2003); Benjamin Braude, “The Sons of Noah and the Construction of Racial Identity in the Medi­eval and Early Modern Periods,” William and Mary Quarterly 54, no. 3 (1997): 103–42; Stephen R. Haynes, Noah’s Curse. The Biblical Justification of American Slavery (Oxford, 2002).

17  Gerhard Rauschen, Die legende Karls des Grossen im 11. und 12. Jahrhundert (Leipzig, 1890); Henri Lemaî�tre, “Le refus de service d’ost et l’origine du servage,” Bibliothèque de l’Ėcole des Chartes 75 (1914): 231–38.

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to punish the cowardice of the peasants who had shirked their religious and military duty, he ordered that they and their descendants be kept in servitude just as they had willingly endured under Islam. The medi­eval nobility, as a later elaboration had it, were those whose ancestors had rebelled against Islam, either in support of the Franks or, as in the legend of Otger Cataló and his nine barons, before Charlemagne ever crossed the Pyrenees.18 All of this was quite ingenious, because it acknowledged that servitude was not a natural condition of humanity compatible with Christianity, but was in this exceptional case justified by reference to a crucial event or test in the past in which the faith or courage of one segment of the Catalan population was found wanting. The historical legend also served to explain why peasants west and south of the Llobregat were not remences: their ancestors had settled the territories of New Catalonia after the Frankish conquest of the Marca hispanica as free men. The servile peasants of the Catalan legend showed the conventional rustic aversion to military matters and were additionally guilty of a kind of apostasy or local version of the Fall, thus meriting a punishment transmitted down the generations. It was unnecessary to make it appear that the remences were a separate race or sub-human species in the manner of the language of debasement. Indeed, the servile peasants were part of the Catalan nation, but cut off because of the sins of their ancestors from the privileges of the national community. This is summed up by the historian Gabriel Turell writing in 1476 during the civil war: “And this is the basis for the liberties of Catalonia, because they do not apply to rustics or the common people but rather to the high and valorous.”19 There is a comparable legend that surfaces in Hungary beginning in the late thirteenth century.20 Although the Magyars are not, in fact, related to the Huns, they were reputed to be and embraced this association in the Middle Ages as proof of their warlike character. In the Gesta Hungarorum, a chronicle written by the court chaplain Simon of Kéza in about 1285, it is said that the Huns, ancestors of the Magyars, held an annual military muster and failure to attend it was punishable by death, banishment, or degradation to hereditary servitude. The nobility of Hungary was descended from those who fought in the Huns’ army, and the non-nobles were those whose ancestors disobeyed the summons to military service. By the late fifteenth century this story was used to explain the origins of the Hungarian serfs, and after the failure of the peasant uprising of 1514, the official collection of Hungarian law known as the Tripartitum traced the liberties of the nobles and the licit subjugation of the serfs to the founding of the nation by the Huns. As with Catalonia, there is no sense that the Magyar servile population belongs to a different ethnic group from their masters in the way that, for example, English writers of a later era believed

18  Miquel Coll i Alentorn, “La llegenda d’Otger Cataló i els nou barons,” Estudis Romànics 1 (1947–48): 1–47. 19  “E aquest és lo principi de les llibertats de Cathalunya, car no principa en hòmens rústichs ni aplegadiços, sinó en alts e valerosos.” Cited from Coll i Alentorn, “La llegenda d’Otger Cataló,” 27.

20  On the similarities and differences, see Paul Freedman, “The Evolution of Servile Peasants in Catalonia and Hungary. A Comparison,” Anuario de Estudios Medievales 26, no. 2 (1996): 909–31.

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the peasants were descendants of Saxons, while the lords were Normans. Simon of Kéza, the fifteenth-century chronicler János Thuróczy, and the sixteenth-century jurist István Werbőczy all ask a rhetorical question on the order of “how else, since they were all of the same lineage, could the Hungarian people have been divided (into noble versus non-noble; or noble versus serf) if not because of the dereliction of the ancestors of the peasants?”21

The Peasants’ Demands and Response

As we have seen, there were two basic categories of seigneurial adaptations to the failure of the Three Orders’ idea of mutuality: that peasants were lowly by nature (stupid, beast-like, cowardly) and so apt for exploitation, or that they were subjugated by reason of some sin of their ancestors. In both cases it is acknowledged that the rustic is oppressed rather than an equal beneficiary of a mutual arrangement, but subordination is justified because his base character merits harsh treatment (or only responds to such treatment), or because historical circumstances have voided his rights. The first was international in that every urban and aristocratic society could identify the peasants as lowly by nature. The second was specific to the history of particular nations, and, although invented in France, would prove most successful in Catalonia and Hungary. The peasants’ answer to these themes of deprecation emphasize their bravery, Christian equality against serfdom, and a refutation of historical mytho­logies, or at least a turning of them against the upper orders of society. These contestations are most clear doing the late medi­eval revolts, but there are traces of them earlier and signs of a permanent substratum of peasant opinion that existed before the open social stresses of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Switzerland

In exceptional cases, medi­eval peasants were able to win their freedom from lordship and to form autonomous communities. The clearest and most successful example is Switzerland. Although it would later incorporate urban communities such as Zürich and experience peasant wars in the region of Toggenburg and Appenzell in the fifteenth century, the original “Forest Cantons” and their neighbours that formed the basis for the Swiss Confederation in the years around 1300 were self-governing rural communities that succeeded in throwing off the claims of their former overlords, the Habsburgs. The Swiss would become symbols (in the minds of the German princes, dangerous symbols) of the peasants’ desire for freedom and their ability to obtain it.22 The figure of William Tell reflects medi­eval legends of a heroic peasant resistance to Habsburg oppression. Victories in battle against armed knights showed the peasants’ valour and served as 21  “Vitia itaque et excessus huius unum Hungarum ab alio separavit, alias cum unus pater et una mater omnes Hungaros procreaverit, quorum unus nobilis, alter innobilis diceretur, nisi vicius pere tales casus criminis habaretur.” Cited from Simon of Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum, ed. Alexander Domanovszky (Budapest, 1937), 148. 22  Thomas A. Brady Jr., Turning Swiss. Cities and Empire, 1450–1550 (Cam­bridge, 1985).

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an effective answer to the stereotype of their helpless timidity. One poem celebrating the victory at the Battle of Murten (1476) boasts that Duke Leopold of Austria tried to subdue the peasants. He recklessly ignored good advice, and met his death. In another fifteenth-century song, the nobles start out confident that they will disperse the peasant rabble, but retreat in panic, for “the Swiss take no prisoners […] they will kill and dishonour the nobles.”23 Similar battle-songs were written to commemorate the triumphs of peasants in the north of Germany, in the marshy region of Dithmarschen near Denmark, where a peasant republic survived into the sixteenth century.24 England

The first large-scale peasant revolt for which we can clearly discern a peasant agenda is the English Rising of 1381.25 Many of the rebels’ assertions were rather conservative, offering historical arguments about traditional rights unjustly taken away. Throughout the fourteenth century, English peasants complained about exploitation and servitude. Often their agitation took the form of lawsuits against their lords asserting that the king should be the owner of the land they worked. The king’s lordship was considered more benign, and tenants regularly claimed that lords had usurped crown lands, a form of historical reconstruction arguing for revocation of the unjust imposition of servitude on those who were legally free. During the rebellion this respect for a supposed ancient practice resulted in the burning of church archives containing what were regarded as records of wrongful servile impositions (especially on the part of monasteries). Such acts of destruction were simultaneous with demands that churches produce documents hidden in their archives to prove their tenants were free. Thus, the men of St. Albans’ monastery believed there was a charter with gold and azure decorated letters given by King Offa of Mercia in the eighth century establishing their liberty from serfdom. Rebellious tenants of Bury St. Edmund referred to a supposed charter of the eleventh-century King Canute.26 Beyond these specific claims of lost rights, the English movement produced (or at least publicized) more general texts about servitude, equality, and God’s will. The best known by far is what has been called the “democratic proverb,” a rhyming couplet that can be made to work in several languages besides English: “When Adam delved and Eve span / Who was then the gentleman?”27 23  “So nemen die Sweizer niemant gefangen […] sie werden den adel hie morden und schenden.” Cited from Die historischen Volkslieder der Deutschen, ed. Rochus von Liliencron, 4 vols. (Leipzig, 1865), 1:134 (document 34); 1:284–88 (document 93). 24  William L. Urban, Dithmarschen. A Medi­eval Peasant Republic (Lewiston, 1991).

25  On this revolt, see Rodney Hilton, Bondmen Made Free. Medi­eval Peasant Movements and the English Rising of 1381 (New York, 1973). 26  Steven Justice, Writing and Rebellion. England in 1381 (Berkeley, 1994), 47–50.

27  Sylvia Resnimov, “The Cultural History of a Democratic Proverb,” Journal of English and Germanic Philo­logy 36 (1937): 391–405; Albert B. Friedman, “‘When Adam Delved…’. Contexts of an Historic Proverb,” in The Learned and the Lewed. Studies in Chaucer and Medi­eval Literature, ed. Larry D. Benson (Cam­bridge, MA, 1974), 213–30.

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This began centuries earlier, perhaps as a statement of urban elites against the pretensions of the nobility and is used in this way, for example, as a motto in a painted hall of the weavers’ guild at Augsburg. That originally all were equal was not in itself a revolutionary statement, but when linked to an idea of God’s continuing law prohibiting one human being from owning another, it held considerable force since now equality was not invalidated by the Fall, the Curse of Ham, or some other intervening event. The couplet functioned as a rallying cry for the English rebels in 1381 and was a key part of the sermon given to the peasants assembled near London by their leader John Ball. As the verses stated, God created all of humanity from one original set of parents. Servitude, Ball continued, was introduced contrary to the will of God, not because of some original or historical sin, but of human wickedness. If God had wanted there to be serfs and lords, He would have made this distinction at the beginning. In Froissart’s chronicle (which of course does not favour the insurgents), the peasants argue that no one should be a serf unless he is guilty of betraying his lord, and that they were not treacherous, but rather men, formed in the same fashion as their masters. They should not, therefore, be treated like beasts. This is a fundamental statement of human dignity and in its fashion an assertion of the peasants’ humanity against the satirical and didactic convention of writers such as Eiximenis or Gower that likened them to animals. It thus represents a kind of turning around of a seigneurial commonplace. We will see this same combination of conservative arguments of traditional liberties mingled with more general moral statements about the subjugation of Christians in the several revolts of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Catalonia

Although the Catalan Civil War (1462–1486) produced a voluminous documentation revealing the manoeuvring of the king, Generalitat, factions, and armies, there is little in the way of arguments or justifications for a peasant audience that survives, in contrast to the German Peasants’ War just fifty years later. By 1525, the printing press played a major role and allowed the diffusion of peasant pamphlets that justify the German rebellion. An exception to the paucity of Catalan material is the pro­logue to a report of assemblies of peasants throughout most of Old Catalonia in 1448, local “syndicates” organized to pay the lords in return for liberty, the “redemption” of servile peasants.28 This anticipates what was ultimately accomplished later in the century, after the conclusion of the war and the imposition of the royal Sentencia Arbitral de Guadalupe, but in 1448 a successful resolution of the incipient conflict was frustrated by the inconsistencies of royal policy and the resistance of the lords. The pro­logue is written in Latin and begins with a citation from a letter of Pope Gregory I, so it can hardly be considered the unmediated voice of the peasantry, but nevertheless it brings together a number of themes present in all peasant denunciations of servitude in particular and seigneurial oppression in general. The passage from 28  The text of the entire organization of the peasant syndicates to redeem their liberty is edited by Maria Mercè Homs i Brugarolas, El sindicat remença de l’any 1448 (Girona, 2004). The pro­logue is on pp. 46–48.

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Gregory the Great was a well-known text in law and bolstered the opinion that Christ’s incarnation set Christians free from the bonds of servitude. Humanity was held captive (captivi vinculo servitutis), but Christ restored to us our original liberty. Human beings who were created free, but subjugated by the laws of nations, were returned to freedom by Christ’s sacrifice: “and through this grace all men, who were originally free by nature but placed under the yoke of servitude through the law of nations, were restored to liberty in this world.”29 After this brief initial statement concerning Christian liberty, the pro­logue narrates the particular Catalan historical case, refuting the seigneurial legend of the origins of serfdom, not by dismissing it altogether as a fabrication, but by turning it in favour of the freedom of the remences, employing the same association of Christianity and liberty invoked at the beginning. According to this alternate and imaginative historical recollection, Catalonia was liberated from the “pagan” Muslims. Under Christian rule, the Muslim inhabitants were to be subject to servitude until they should convert to the true faith. It was never intended that this subjugation endure beyond baptism, but this is precisely what the lords have unjustly imposed. The entire peasant population of Catalonia had long since become Christian, yet the bad customs and deprivation of liberty imposed on them as Muslims persisted, contrary to divine ordinance (contra divina mandata). This is a peculiar reworking of history and it seems surprising from this vantage point that Catalan peasants, or anyone in Christian Catalonia, would claim their ancestors were Muslim, but by denying the accusation of ancestral cowardice, the remences could return to what would be a fundamental argument against serfdom: that it violated natural and divine (Christian) law. Hungary

In Hungary before and during the great peasant uprising of 1514, we see another attempt to undermine an historical justification for serfdom joined with an even stronger invocation of the peasants’ military prowess. In this case there is not the same frontal attack on the seigneurial version of historical events, but an assertion of the peasants’ ability and willingness to fight, the turning of the accusation of cowardice and dereliction against the nobility. The revolt started when a crusade against the Turks was proclaimed and the populace was called to arms. Unlike most of the European rural population, the Hungarian peasants were experienced in battle because of the proximity of the Turkish threat. During the crusade to save Belgrade in 1466, peasant soldiers denounced their lords for refusing to participate in defending the land and the faith.30 In 1514 a similar failure led to the turning of the crusade into a movement against the nobles, who, it was 29  “Et huiusmodi gratia homines quos ab initio natura liberos protulit, et ius gentium iugo substituit servitutis sue legis beneficio libertas reddatur in mundo.” Cited from Homs i Brugarolas, El sindicat remença, 46. 30  As reported by a contemporary Italian observer, Giovanni de Tagliacozzo, “Victoriae mirabilis divinitus de Turcis habitae,” in Annales Minorum seu trium ordinum a S. Francisco institutorum, ed. Luke Wadding, 32 vols. (Quaracchi, 1932), 12:793 (part 3).

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claimed, were worse than the Turks for continuing to oppress their tenants rather than coming to the aid of the holy war. In Hungary, as in Catalonia, the surviving justifications for rebellion are not extensive. We do have a large amount of anti-peasant statements and to some extent the rebels’ program of religious and social demands can be reconstructed from these hostile sources. One surviving piece of evidence is the text of a discourse supposedly given at the height of the revolt by its leader, György Dózsa, a petty nobleman sympathetic to the crusade and the peasant cause. Here Dózsa portrays himself as the leader of the “blessed people who bear the cross,” battling against the “infidel” nobles who have attempted to thwart the crusade. Aristocratic oppression of the peasantry stems not from intrinsic superiority, but from sheer greed and human violence. God, “the author of your liberty” (as in the letter of Gregory I) will protect the army of the righteous and restore justice. There is some doubt about what exactly Dózsa might have said on this occasion, but these arguments find an echo in surviving peasant demands, and were anticipated by the preaching of Franciscan friars in the years leading up to the rebellion, especially the denunciations of the nobility and of serfdom in the name of Christian liberty.31 As in Catalonia, this is not a revolutionary agenda in the sense of creating a new religious orientation. Nothing could be further from the Reformation ideals than a crusade. Traditional concepts are mobilized here, not an entirely new social theory of equality. Indeed, strongest in the agitation against the nobility is the accusation that they have not met their obligations under the Three Orders theory. The military class is supposed to undertake licit violence in defence of the clergy and populace. Greed, as well as implicit cowardice, however, have led them to continue their unjust customs in the face even of mortal peril, so that they represent the oppression of the Turks in Christian garb. The rhetorical topos that Christians can and do behave towards their fellow Christians worse than real infidels is another convention (found in John of Mandeville or the German Reformatio Sigismundi, for example), here directed against the dominant orders of Hungary. Germany

The German Peasants’ War of 1525 has left by far the greatest quantity of peasant justifications and evidence of the peasants’ sense of their grievances and rights. Here we deal with numerous vernacular documents, hastily printed, and rapidly circulated. If the demands themselves required a relatively rare degree of literacy to formulate, they nevertheless represent the collective assertions of what Brian Stock has called “textual communities”’ knowledge of written documents and their importance by means of sharing, recitation, and the appointment of spokesmen on the part of a wide circle of people, not all of whom are in the modern sense capable of writing.32

31  On denunciations of the nobility and the agenda of the peasants, see Jenő Szűcs, Nation und Geschichte. Studien (Co­logne, 1981), 331–48; Jenő Szűcs, “Die oppositionelle Strömung der Franziskaner im Hintergrund des Bauernkrieges und der Reformation in Ungarn,” in Études historiques hongroises 1985 (Budapest, 1985), 483–513. 32  Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy. Written Language and Models of Interpretation

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For Germany there was a particularly intense combination of religious as well as social revolution. Although Luther memorably and bitterly denounced the peasants as robbers and murderers, the rebels of 1525 offered a series of justifications that made use of the Reformers’ statements about the equality of all believers (lay and cleric), and the legitimacy of defying secular and ecclesiastical princes over matters of conscience. Yet if we look at the demands listed in the Flugschriften, as well as evidence of the many local uprisings “before” 1517 (the so-called “Bundshuh” revolts of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries), we see the mobilization of older pre-Reformation opinions especially with regard to the illegitimacy of serfdom among Christians. The peasants of the Black Forest community of Stühlingen, for example, claimed they were willing to pay rent and other dues to their lords, but would not accept servile status for which there could be no justification. Even in Germany, a territory without a well-developed historical legend legitimating servitude, the peasants implicitly reject any such rationale: asserting that they were born free, and it was no fault of theirs that they have been subjected to serfdom.33 In the widely-diffused Twelve Articles of the Swabian Peasants, which served as a kind of general manifesto, the by now familiar argument that serfdom violates Christ’s sacrifice to free humanity is invoked: It has until now been the custom for the lords to own us as their property. This is deplorable, for Christ redeemed us and bought us all with his precious blood, the lowliest shepherd as well as the greatest lord, with no exceptions. Thus, the Bible proves that we are free and want to be free.34

The German peasants responded to the ridicule of the upper orders of society by which they were commonly likened to domestic animals and beasts of burden. They were human, they asserted, and to be treated as if they were interchangeable with domestic beasts violated basic human equality before God. Serfs of the monastery of Ochsenhausen objected to being “sold like cattle and calves” when, after all, “we all have one lord, that is God in heaven.”35 Tenants of the archbishop of Salzburg protested their servile condition as a violation of the Gospel. Rather than treating peasants as human beings, the archbishop and his minions lead them around by the nose, like cattle, “only (Princeton, 1983). On peasant literacy and the English rebellion of 1381 see Justice, Writing and Rebellion. 33  Quellen zur Geschichte des Bauernkrieges, ed. Günther Franz (Darmstadt, 1963), 121–22 (document 25).

34  “Ist der Brauch bisher gewesen, das man für ir aigen Leüt gehalten haben, wölchs zu erbarmen ist, angesehen das uns Christus all mit seinem kostparlichen Plutfergüssen erlösst und erkauft hat, den hirten gleich als wol als den Höchsten, kain ausgenommen. Darumb erfindt sich mit der Geschrift, das wir frei seien un wöllen sein.” Cited from Franz, ed., Quellen zur Geschichte, 176 (document 43).

35  “Nit wie die kye und kölber verkouft werden, dieweil wir alle nur ain herren, das ist got den herrn im hymel haben.” Cited from Horst Buszello, Der Deutsche Bauernkrieg vom 1525 als politische Bewegung (Berlin. 1969), 17.

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even more tyrannically.” Peasants renting from the Bavarian monastery of Kempton said they were treated worse than dogs.36

The Dignity of Labour

On the basis of records from the great crises of the late medi­eval rebellions, we can piece together some aspects of a peasant world view. The particular regional and historical claims on the part of tenants of English and German abbeys or the remences of Catalonia were placed in a larger context by denunciations of servitude based not just on historical arguments, but on the injustice of one Christian holding another in bondage. Again and again this is presented as a violation not only of an original equality before the Fall, but of God’s intentions in creating the world, and in Christ’s sacrifice to redeem humanity from the bondage of sin. This is not a statement of absolute human equality of fortune, but of a minimal Christian dignity that serfdom violates. This argument is present, at least in indirect traces, as far back as a revolt by Norman peasants in 997 during which the chronicler Wace claims the rebels argued that they were men just like their masters, formed with the same organs and members as their lords, and equally capable of feeling pain.37 Beyond this argument of basic human worth is the sense that whether serf or free, the peasant does not receive the benefits that the division of society into three orders is supposed to confer. While the peasant nourishes and supplies wealth for the clergy and aristocracy, he receives little or nothing in return. This has two important consequences: first, that the peasants are the only truly pious element of society, the only ones to follow God’s injunctions; and second, the dignity of manual labour, a fulfillment of God’s organization of the world. In one of his edifying stories for sermons (exempla), Jacques de Vitry describes a peasant shivering in the cold who comforts himself with the thought that in heaven he will be able to warm his feet at any time by extending them a little over the pit of hell, where the rich will be burning. This reflects a common although not always explicitly stated opinion that, by reason of their deprivation, peasants are more likely to enter heaven than their masters, an observation based ultimately on what a French observer in about 1500 called the “hard and weighty words” of Matt. 19:24, where the difficulty of the rich going to heaven is likened to a camel passing through the eye of a needle.38 According to the Elucidarium of Honorius Augustodunensis (ca. 1100), most peasants will be saved in the next life because of the simplicity of their lives and the sweat they have expended here on earth. Writing in the thirteenth century, Gautier de Coincy compared the time of the rich on earth to a pleasant summer, to be followed by an eternal winter in hell. The plump wealthy people will be unable to penetrate the eye of the proverbial needle, while the ill-fed peasant will have an easy time making 36  “[…] und bei der Nesen in ir Geldnetz wellen ziehen […] so wellen si nmit armen Leudten Gwalt haben ail ainer uber sein Vieh, und noch vil tiranischer.” Cited from Franz, ed., Quellen zur Geschichte, 301 (document 94) and 129 (document 27).

37  Wace, Roman de Rou de Wace, ed. Anthony John Holden, 3 vols. (Paris, 1970), 2:193 (vv. 867–70). 38  Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 1148, fol. 1r–v.

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the passage.39 The best-known statement of the piety of the agriculture labourer is the allegorical dream vision of the English writer John Langland, Piers Plowman. In the era of the German Reformation, the peasant would be depicted as the exemplar of piety, driving before him with his rustic pitchfork the corrupt minions of the church. In these prints and in propaganda for the Reform movement, the simple faith of the peasant vanquishes the subtle false reasoning of the learned who defend the old superstition.40 It is not only through poverty, but through the more positive acts of physical labour that the peasant is held up as an example of piety. Jacques Le Goff traced the challenges to the classical and Christian deprecation of labour with regard to the activities of artisans and merchants, but posited an overall medi­eval contempt for agricultural work.41 Yet one of the consistent themes of peasant discourse, insofar as it becomes visible, is the dignity, even the necessity, of agricultural labour. In a pamphlet of 1525 supporting the revolt, a peasant in a dialogue with a cleric condemns the parasitism of the clergy and asserts that “man was born to work like the bird to fly.” In another pamphlet of the same date a happier more virtuous age is evoked when the nobles went out to the fields with their serfs.42 Here it is not just that peasants receive spiritual merit because of their suffering, but that labour is a positive good and even a duty incumbent on all humanity. This is a turning and appropriation of the notion that work is the result of the curse of Adam. If there is a curse, then all must bear it rather than some living off the toil of others. That labour is worthy and that all should work is a theme found not only during the great insurrectionary crises, but as a constant subterranean stream in the Middle Ages. One of the factors unifying the various heretical movements of the eleventh century was the idea that everyone should earn their own bread by their own sweat.43 In fourteenthcentury Montaillou, Pierre Authié told Sybille Pierre that he worked not to avoid poverty, but to save his soul. Jean Maury boasted that he ate only what he earned with his own labour in obedience to Christ’s requirement that a man live by the sweat of his 39  Honorius Augustodunensis, L’Elucidarium et les Lucidaires, ed. Yves Lefèvre (Rome, 1954), 429 (book 2, chap. 61); Gautier de Coincy, De la misère d’homme et de femme, cited in Jean Batany, “Les pauvres et la pauvreté dans les revues des ‘estats du monde’,” in Études sur l’histoire de la pauvreté (Moyen Âge–XVIe siècle), ed. Michel Mollat, 2 vols. (Paris, 1974), 2:479–80.

40  On the depiction of pious peasants in the early Reformation, see Robert W. Scribner, “Images of the Peasant, 1514–1525,” in The German Peasant War of 1525, ed. János Bak (London, 1976), 29–47; Werner Packull, “The Image of the ‘Common Man’ in the Early Pamphlets of the Reformation (1520–1525),” Historical Reflections 12 (1985): 253–77; Kurt Uhrig, “Der Bauer in der Publizistik der Reformation bis zum Ausgang des Bauernkrieges,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 33 (1936): 165–225.

41  Jacques Le Goff, “Pour une étude de travail dans les idéo­logies et les mentalités du Moyen Â� ge,” in Lavorare nel Medio Evo. Rappresentazioni ed esempi dall’Italia dei sec. X–XVI (Todi, 1983), 9–23; Jacques Le Goff, “Le travail dans les systèmes de valeur de l’Occident médiéval,” in Le travail au moyen âge, ed. Jacqueline Hamesse and Colette Muraille-Samaran (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1990), 7–21. 42  Packull, “Image of the ‘Common Man’,” 262–3; Uhrig, “Der Bauer in der Publizistik,” 176–77.

43  Richard Landes, “La vie apostolique en Aquitaine en l’an mil: Paix de Dieu, culte des reliques, et communautés hérétiques,” Annales Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 46, no. 3 (1991): 582–85.

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brow. Two Cathar parfaits agreed that priests ought not live off the labour of others, but rather should survive by their own labour.44 During a revolt in the Forez region of southern France in 1431, peasants appear to have argued that the consequences of Adam’s sin were transmitted to all, therefore nobles should work just like peasants in order to feed themselves.45 The radical Hussite reformer Peter Chelčický condemned those who led lives of idleness supported by the labour of the lowly. He specifically condemned the entire conception of the Three Orders in favour of the same sort of universal labour we have seen advocated above. No one should be idle, all should toil as the apostles did. Only those who work form the true body of Christ.46 An even more radical version of the dignity and necessity of labour comes from a religious movement of 1476 led by a south German shepherd (probably a serf) later derisively called the “Piper of Niklashausen.” He led what might be called a militant pilgrimage and proclaimed the end of lordship, the advent of universal brotherhood, and that all should work with their hands. The Piper of Niklashausen at one point proposed that all priests be killed, but on other occasions stopped short of this in favour of confiscation and redistribution of ecclesiastical and aristocratic property.47 These glimpses of peasants’ unrest cannot be said to afford a completely audible account of the voice of the peasants. The nature of our sources does not favour preservation of their opinions, but short of an insurrectionary climate, it was to the advantage of peasants to subvert the interests of their lords quietly rather than forthrightly. The ordinary quotidian forms of peasant resistance include passive non-cooperation, deliberate incompetence, evasion, appropriation of seigneurial lands and revenues, and other subversive activities that are most effective when not observed, let alone publicized.48 Studies of the subordinate classes in the modern world (especially those by theorists of the “subaltern studies” and post-colonial movements) emphasize our inability to hear the opinions of the subordinate and understand their lives. Often those who purport to speak for them are in fact their manipulators or representatives of entirely different interests, and this may be said to be the story of supposedly revolutionary or liberation movements of this last century. On the other hand, only in exceptional circumstances such as the German Peasants’ War, did peasants want to put forward to the higher classes their view of the world. 44  Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou, village occitan de 1294 à 1324, 2nd ed. ( Paris, 1982), 571–73.

45  André Leguai, “Les révoltes rurales dans le royaume de France au milieu du XIVe siècle à la fin du XVe,” Le Moyen Âge 88 (1982): 65–66. 46  Wojciech Iwanczak, “Between Pacifism and Anarchy. Peter Chelčický’s Teaching About Society,” Journal of Medi­eval History 23 (1997): 271–83.

47  Niklashausen 1476. Quellen und Untersuchungen zur sozial religiosen Bewegung des Hans Behem und zur Agrarstruktur einer spätmittelalterlichen Dorfes, ed. Klaus Arnold (Baden-Baden, 1980).

48  On indirect resistance, James C. Scott, Weapons of the Weak. Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven, 1985); James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance. Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, 1990).

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All this notwithstanding, we can discern a set of articulate statements that constitute a peasant answer to seigneurial contempt and a peasant view of how things should be organized. The defence of the peasants’ humanity and in some cases bravery is crucial to the response. The opposition of treatment meted out to animals and that merited by humans is a feature of both seigneurial and peasant discourse. For the latter, it is framed in Christian terms based on equality at Creation and the effects of the Incarnation that in particular make serfdom, the ownership of one person by another, illicit. Specific exceptions to this rule (based on biblical precedents such as the Curse of Ham or historical events such as cowardice in battle) are refuted. The failure of the Three Orders theory of mutuality is also regarded as absolute. Not only do the knights and clergy shirk their responsibilities, but no such division of society can be just. The need for all to labour is therefore born from peasant experience and from a theo­logical idea about God’s intentions at Creation and the consequences of the Fall. The erosion of the classical ideal of cultivated leisure and the Christian ideal of the contemplative life is a hallmark of the modern secular world which has exalted work as the expression of the self. In this respect, at least, the peasants ultimately have achieved a kind of victory.

Chapter 10

CHIVALRIC IDENTITY: ARMS AND ARMOUR, TEXT AND CONTEXT NOEL FALLOWS

Scholars whose research focuses on the study of arms and armour have tended to shy away from the analysis of literary texts as points of comparison or clarification, while scholars of knighthood in literature have likewise tended to shy away from archaeo­logical analyses of arms, armour, and the material culture of the chivalric past as a point of reference for their own work. This apparent disconnect can be remedied by studying what I have called in another study the full materiality of medi­eval and renaissance chivalric culture.1 In the case of chivalric identity in particular, an intellectual tension can be created by seeking one identity and essentializing it through one approach. The armoured knight, while he can of course be studied from a single angle, is complex enough that the confluence of seemingly disparate approaches to the study of chivalric identity can yield results that present a more balanced overall view of what it meant to be a knight in the Middle Ages. Chivalry as a political institution, like other political institutions that make and shape Western culture, has been treated seriously and extensively by modern scholars, and a rich biblio­graphy of books and articles informs our knowledge and understanding of the institution. The same cannot necessarily be said of the practical and techno­logical milieu in which the knights operated,2 and although they were at the epicentre of the medi­eval chivalric diaspora, they have often fallen victim to emotive portraits based on erroneous visions of, and assumptions about, the past. An example of this paradox can be seen in a 1998 book by Constance Brittain Bouchard on the institution of chivalry in medi­eval France, which is generally well-documented, and yet when the author discusses knightly practices she perpetuates the fallacy, without any supporting evidence, that “Late medi­ eval tournament armor was so heavy that participants often had to be hoisted onto their horses by cranes and tied into place because of the damage that would result simply from falling off.”3 The fact that the author does not cite a source for this assertion under1  Noel Fallows, Jousting in Medi­eval and Renaissance Iberia (Woodbridge, 2010), 27.

2  Two notable exceptions to this general situation are the ground-breaking books by Sydney Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe (New Haven, 2000); and Martí�n de Riquer, L’Arnès del cavaller. Armes i armadures catalanes medi­evals (Barcelona, 1968). 3  Constance Brittain Bouchard, Strong of Body, Brave and Noble. Chivalry and Society in Medi­eval France (Ithaca, 1998), 126. As a corrective counterpoint, see Angus Patterson, Fashion and Armour in Renaissance Europe. Proud Lookes and Brave Attire (London, 2009), 11–14.

Noel Fallows ([email protected]) is Associate Provost and Distinguished Research Professor of Spanish at the Uni­ver­sity of Georgia, Athens, USA.

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scores the reality that there is no material, visual, or documentary evidence to support it, and all of the evidence that does exist, without exception, points to the exact opposite, namely, that fully armoured men-at-arms were able to mount and dismount with agility and ease. Bouchard’s statement dovetails with the fact that the introduction to medi­eval knights in the twenty-first century tends to occur at school in a way that is designed to appeal to children and is often fictionalized and fantasized in order to increase its appeal. In a similar vein, many of the public activities in museums that house collections of armour are—albeit, of necessity, as part of the overarching mission to accommodate the general public—tailored to children and families, or patrons with a casual interest in the subject. In the new millennium, some museums are complementing this facet of their mission by mounting exhibitions designed to attract the attention of specialists as well as the general public, with lavishly-produced, pioneering catalogues that include essays contributed by specialist scholars and placing the items on display in the broadest possible historical, literary, and cultural context.4 Following this trend, I advocate in this essay for the need to understand the knights in the same nuanced way that the institution in which they operated has come to be understood. Unfortunately, the medi­ eval knights have not helped in this quest, as they themselves created and perpetuated the very mythic ideal which now often serves to mask the reality of their lives. I focus in this chapter on what I call the knights’ alter ego, that is, the armour they wore in order to excel at the two principal activities of their profession: war and sport. The harness,5 with its clean lines and polished surfaces, articulated with multiple moving components, is paradoxically the most techno­logical and complex, and the simplest and purest emblem of knightly identity and self-assertion. The knights were warriors of the highest and most prestigious political and social classes in medi­eval society, but of equal importance is that they were also aesthetes who saw, and sought to promote, an ideal of beauty in their arms and armour, their horses, and the entire heroic image they strove to encapsulate. Knighthood was considered as much an artistic as a bellicose process, perhaps a particularly violent form of what today would be called performance art. Thus the fully armoured mounted knight was at one and the same time a weapon—“The projectile man-horse” to quote François Buttin6— and a type of living, breathing sculpture. 4  See, for example: Joanot Martorell y el otoño de la caballería. Centro del Carmen – Valencia. Diciembre de 2010–Marzo de 2011 (Valencia, 2011); Tobias Capwell, ed., The Noble Art of the Sword. Fashion and Fencing in Renaissance Europe 1520–1630 (London, 2012); Sabine Haag, Alfried Wieczorek, Matthias Pfaffenbichler, and Hans-Jürgen Buderer, eds., Kaiser Maximilian I. Der letzte Ritter und das höfische Turnier (Regensburg, 2014); and Peter Jezler, Peter Niederhäuser, and Elke Jezler, eds., Ritterturnier. Geschichte einer Festkultur (Lucerne, 2014).

5  I deliberately avoid the term suit of armour, which was invented by nineteenth-century col­ lectors. Knights in the Middle Ages referred to their kit as an armour, a harness, or a garniture, never as a suit. 6  “Le projectile homme-cheval.” Cited from François Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” Archaeo­logia 99 (1965): 77–178, esp. 90.



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In my exploration of questions of chivalric identity from the point of view of the harness, I explore relationships and synergies between armour as metallic artifact—be it in the form of a complete, homogeneous harness, or individual surviving pieces or relics—and armour as literary protagonist. With regard to literature, I focus primarily on a Castilian source, the chronicle of the Passo Honroso, a pas d’armes organized and hosted by the knight, Suero de Quiñones, and written down for posterity in a chronicle composed by Pero Rodrí�guez de Lena and other scribes in 1434. The medi­eval pas d’armes was a type of jousting competition whereby one or more knights—ten, in the case of the Passo Honroso7—would defend a highly publicized designated position within a specified time frame and invite all-comers to joust with them one-on-one at that site, in accordance with a list of published rules by which all were expected to abide. The jousts themselves would typically be of a special class known as jousts of war, the purpose of which was to emulate real combat, with few or no extra pieces of jousting safety equipment. Thus, the participants were appropriating an identity, that of the battlefield warrior, and they were essentially the inventors in their pas d’armes of a long and popular history of battlefield reenactments. In the case of the Passo Honroso, each competition was expected to result in a total of three broken lances and the jousters could run as many courses as necessary to achieve this end result. The pas d’armes and other types of chivalric tournament have been described as “a pivotal locus of the construction of identity, integration into courtly community, and indoctrination in courtly convention.”8 They are ideal venues for an exploration of knightly identity. Pero Rodrí�guez de Lena was an eye-witness as well as the official chronicler of the Passo Honroso, which took place near the Ó� rbigo Bridge in León from Saturday, 10 July until Monday, 9 August 1434. He also coordinated the reports written by other scribes who witnessed the event and made notes as it was actually taking place. Seventy-seven jousters—some of them highly experienced and seasoned professionals, others rank amateurs or mere beginners—from Aragon–Catalonia, Brittany, Castile, Germany, Italy, and Portugal made their way to the Ó� rbigo Bridge to participate in this pas d’armes. In accordance with the rules that governed the event, they were required to joust with sharp, leaf-shaped lance-heads like those used in real combat. The lance-heads were manufactured in Milan especially for this event, which gives some idea of the great expense involved in staging a pas d’armes. Similarly, all participants were expected to wear field armour as also used in real battle, and the organizers had extra harnesses made in different sizes for those unable to bring their own bespoke armours; yet another hint at the overall expense involved. The armour was primarily of Italian manufacture and design, over which each combatant could add one reinforcing piece of their choice, if they so desired. The chronicle is a treasure trove of details about the practical 7  They were: Suero de Quiñones, Lope de Stúñiga, Diego de Bazán, Pedro de Nava, Suero (son of Á� lvar Gómez), Sancho de Rabanal, Lope de Aller, Diego de Benavides, Pedro de los Rí�os, and Gómez de Villacorta. 8  Sarah E. Gordon, “The Man with No Name. Identity in French Arthurian Verse Romance,” Arthuriana 18, no. 2 (2008): 69–81, esp. 70–71.

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implementation of arms and armour in the mid-fifteenth century and the culture of the medi­eval pas d’armes. The official chronicler Rodrí�guez de Lena provides a detailed reconstruction of all the jousts at this pas d’armes, presided over by two elected judges, Pero Barba and Gómez Arias de Quiñones. An additional and important benefit to this chronicle is that Rodrí�guez de Lena was not only knowledgeable on the subject, but also a die-hard fan of the sport of jousting who understood techno­logical details about the arms, the armour, and the different types of lance-thrusts that would result in success or failure in the lists. Thus, unlike other medi­eval narratives about passages of arms, such as Jean Froissart’s chronicle account of the jousts at Saint Inglevert during the spring of 1390, which has been described appropriately as a novelized version of the perfect jousting tournament,9 perhaps the best way of describing the chronicle of the Passo Honroso of Suero de Quiñones would be a dry-eyed, unsentimental eye-witness account written by a seasoned chronicler with an intimate knowledge of his subject matter. In rhetorical terms the technique of narrating in minute detail is called hypotyposis. Since the first readers (after the scribes themselves) of Rodrí�guez de Lena’s chronicle would have been the very knights who participated in the Passo Honroso, and since they did not have the luxury of being able to step back and watch slow-motion action replays of their performance, the anatomic details of the chronicle account opened the possibility—as much for them as for us—for a post facto dissection of each jousting contest. To the untrained eye, it is possible that the descriptions seem repetitive, even boring. For jousters skilled in the martial arts, however, each event was unique in its details. An important twist to the Passo Honroso is that the jousters were required to joust anonymously; hence they were not allowed to wear tell-tale crests or other devices that would betray their identity and lineage, and it was only at the end of each competition that the two opponents would raise the visors of their helmets to reveal their faces. The festive scene of revelation and recognition at the end of each jousting competition at the Passo Honroso culminated with an invitation to dinner issued by whichever one of the ten hosts the challenger happened to be jousting against. Such a schema, which encompassed revelations of identity, lineage, and genealogy, along with the final twist of the invitation to share a sumptuous meal and polite conversation in the wake of an aggressive, simulated joust of war, was clearly intended to emulate medi­eval romance fiction, where revelation and recognition scenes would inevitably lead to a felicitous or euphoric culmination of events.10 Thus the identity and public representation of each participant at the Passo Honroso is encapsulated by, and hidden beneath, his harness, the iconic panoply which would have formed an integral part not only of the knight’s original investiture ceremony, that is, the moment of the formal and ceremonial assump9  Steven Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms. Formal Combats in the Late Fourteenth Century (Highland Village, 2005), 198. 10  As noted by Donald Maddox, the Aristotelian recognition, or anagnorisis, was designed to trigger a tragic dénouement. On the other hand, the revelation and recognition scenes in medi­eval romance fiction would inevitably lead to a felicitous conclusion. See Donald Maddox, Fictions of Identity in Medi­eval France (Cam­bridge, MA, 2000), 202–09.



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tion of his identity as a knight and his point of entry into the chivalric world, but also of his professional life after being dubbed a knight. According to the thirteenth-century Castilian law code Las Siete Partidas, knights must have an intimate knowledge of the techno­logy of the office that they profess, that is, of arms and armour. On the knight’s harness, a law in the Segunda Partida reads as follows: Horses, armour, and weapons, are things which it is highly proper for knights to have of good quality, each according to its kind. For, since they are obliged to perform deeds of arms with them, which is their profession, it is fitting that they be of such a description that they can get good service from them. […] They should also know how to form a judgment of armour, in three different ways; first, be able to determine whether the iron, wood, leather, or other material of which it is composed, is good; second, be able to ascertain whether it is strong; and third, whether it is light. This also applies to offensive arms, which should be well-made, strong, and light. For, the better knights are acquainted with these things and are skilled in their use, the more and the better can they be aided by them, and employ them for their advantage.11

What this law does not acknowledge, and fails to anticipate, is the rapidity with which armour would evolve, a process that did not go unnoticed by contemporary authors, even those who were not practising knights themselves and who were distanced from the profession, while at the same time they were irresistibly drawn to and fascinated by it. In the fourteenth century, Geoffrey Chaucer, commenting on the harness worn by the protagonist of “The Knight’s Tale,” affirms that “Ther is no newe gyse that is nas old,”12 that is to say, it is difficult to stay on top of the evolutionary process because what is fashionable or techno­logically practical today will be out of style tomorrow. Two centuries after the redaction of Las Siete Partidas, around the year 1444 or 1445, the bishop of Burgos, Alonso de Cartagena, dialogued with king Alfonso X in his own pro­logues of the four books of his Doctrinal de los caballeros, which is otherwise a compilation of laws and statutes on the institution of chivalry, most of which are copied literally from Las Siete Partidas. The erudite bishop calls into question the law cited above from the Segunda Partida as follows: But what shall we say, when we see the kingdom full of cuirasses and pauldrons, and those people in Granada living in peace, and the refined practice of arms is spent on gathering armies against kinsmen and against those who should be friends, or in jousts

11  “Caballos e armaduras e armas son cosas que conviene mucho a los caballeros de las haber buenas, cada una según su natura; pues que con estos han de hacer los hechos de armas, que es su menester, conviene que sean tales de que se puedan bien ayudar. […] Otrosí�, deben haber sabidurí�a en tres maneras: la primera, si es bueno de hierro, o el fuste, o el cuero, o la otra cosa de que les hacen; la segunda, para conocer si son fuertes; la tercera, que sean ligeros. Eso mismo es de las armas para herir, que han de ser bien hechas, e fuertes, e ligeras. Pues cuanto más los caballeros conocieren estas cosas, e las usaren, tanto más, e mejor, se ayudarán de ellas, e las tornarán a su pro.” Cited from Alfonso X, Las Siete Partidas, ed. José Sánchez-Arcilla Bernal (Madrid, 2004), 290b (II.XXI.10); Alfonso X, Las Siete Partidas, trans. Samuel Parsons Scott and Robert I. Burns, 5 vols. (Philadelphia, 2001), 2:421–22. 12  Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Knight’s Tale,” in The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Larry D. Benson (Boston, 1987), 54a (v. 2125).

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or tourneys, of which one is abhorrent and abominable and a thing that brings dishonour and destruction, the other a game or a test of strength, but not the principal act of chivalry? Whence The Philosopher says that in tourneys and trials of arms the strongest man is not revealed, for true fortitude is understood to be the terrible and dangerous deeds to the death that are done on behalf of the Republic. And they say that it is an ancient proverb that on occasion the good tourneyer is a timorous and cowardly warrior. And jousts were prohibited for a time in France, because they devoted themselves so much to them that the war in the Holy Land was hindered. And thus, taking the two extremes, that is to say, either playing with arms or threatening those whom we call friends with them, we abandon the purpose for which they were made, which is to humble the pride of enemies. And I would greatly wish that chivalry’s valiant and powerful should pay heed to the fact that the knights’ acclaim does not lie in having many arms or in changing the conformation of them and devoting one’s energy to discovering new pieces of armour and giving them new names so that if our ancestors arose from the dead they would not understand them, but rather in exalting the holy faith with them and expanding the kingdom’s frontiers. And therefore, to be sure, the arms are honoured when, this having been done, they return in triumph and glory. And it should please God that in pourpoints and bascinets we were to do what some of the previous generations did, for greater honour would follow from that than from entering courts and cities overly accompanied by pages and wearing armets and panaches, arriving by a secure and short road. And who cannot see that this is more a demonstration and display of wealth than of virtue?13

Cartagena’s comments are harsh—even surprisingly intransigent—precisely because all the new defensive and offensive pieces of the knight’s panoply and the corresponding names to describe them represent the great techno­logical advances with which the knights would be better equipped, as they sought to end the Reconquista and therefore achieve everything that Cartagena desired. Cartagena was bishop of one of the most powerful sees in the Christian kingdoms. Although he never had the chance to joust with lance in rest, he took full advantage in his works of jousting with quill in hand, and in

13  Mas, ¿qué diremos nosotros, que vemos el reino lleno de platas y de guardabrazos, y estar en paz los de Granada, y el hermoso meneo de las armas ejercitarse en ayuntar huestes contra los parientes y contra los que debí�an ser amigos, o en justas o en torneos, de lo cual, lo uno es aborrecible y abominable, y cosa que trae deshonra y destruición, lo otro un juego o ensaye, mas no principal acto de la caballerí�a? Onde, el Filósofo dice que en los torneos y en las pruebas de las armas no se parece cuál es el fuerte, ca la fortaleza verdadera en los hechos terribles y peligrosos de muerte que por la república se hacen se conoce. Y proverbio antiguo dicen que es, que a las veces el buen torneador es temeroso y cobarde batallador. Y vedadas fueron en un tiempo las justas en Francia, porque tanto se daban a ellas que se destorbaba la guerra de Ultramar. Y así�, tomando los dos extremos, es a saber, o jugando con las armas o amenazando con ellas a los que llamamos amigos, dejamos el medio para que se hicieron, que es para abajar la soberbia de los enemigos. Y mucho querrí�a que parasen mientes los valientes y poderosos en la caballerí�a, que no consiste el loor de los caballeros en tener muchas armas ni en mudar el tajo de ellas y poner su trabajo en hallar nuevas formas de armaduras y poner nombres nuevos, que si nuestros antecesores se levantasen no los entenderí�an, mas en exalzar con ellas la santa fe y ensanchar los términos del reino. Y entonces, por cierto, vienen ellas honradas cuando, esto hecho, tornan con triunfo y gloria. Y pluguiese a Dios que con perpuntes y capellinas hiciésemos lo que algunos de los pasados hicieron, ca se seguirí�a de ello mayor honra que entrar en las cortes y en las ciudades muy acompañados de pajes y con almetes y penachos, viniendo de seguro y breve camino. ¿Y quién no ve que esto es más muestra de ostentación de riqueza que de virtud? Cited from Alonso de Cartagena, “Doctrinal de los caballeros,” in Tratados militares, ed. Noel Fallows (Madrid, 2006), 265–66.



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his own pro­logues in the Doctrinal de los caballeros he voices his opinions with impunity. Cartagena is touching here on a rhetorical commonplace of chivalric romance that can be traced at least as far back as Chrétien de Troyes, namely, the ironic discrepancy between what a character thinks he is and what other people think he is.14 The twist in this case is that Cartagena alludes to the fact that knights who cover themselves from head to toe in the ever-changing plate armour that was a prerequisite for participation in both war and sport at the time, would not be recognized by their own illustrious, deceased ancestors precisely because of the advances in equipment and techno­logy that made for optimal success on the battlefield and in the jousting enclosure. What can be inferred from his remarks is that although the knights he criticizes would not be recognized by their deceased ancestors, they are recognized by their living, contemporary peers, all of whom in Cartagena’s view are in turn misguiding the institution of chivalry and subverting it from its primary goal (in his view) of making war on Islam. When compared to the ludic Passo Honroso, his words point to the nuanced and paradoxical nature of chivalric identity, or what Stephen Greenblatt has termed “self-fashioning,” whereby characters—in this case knights—have the power and autonomy “to impose a shape” upon themselves.15 It is precisely the knight’s defining, iconic kit which makes him a kind of medi­eval shape-shifter who can at one and the same time reveal or conceal his identity, depending either on the circumstance in which he stages his own performance, or on the perspective of those who are viewing the performance. One of the exquisite complexities of the Passo Honroso is that the performances in the lists were on the one hand staged, in the sense that the participants could not reveal their identities until they had completed their jousts, which in turn were governed by strict rules, but on the other hand these same perfomances were not staged, in the sense that even within the strict parameters of the governing conventions, the outcome was never certain or predictable, thereby adding to the overall excitement and mystique of the event. In the case of Cartagena’s harsh remark about the knights, an equally harsh response survives. On 2 June 1453, Don Á� lvaro de Luna, royal favourite of King Juan II of Castile, was publicly beheaded in the main square of Valladolid. On the eve of his execution, the prisoner was visited by Alonso de Cartagena. The two men, one an ecclesiastic and politician, the other a knight and politician, spoke for a while in the cells. During the course of the conversation, Cartagena admonished Don Á� lvaro, warning him that even though he had surrendered peaceably to the authorities, he should not expect preferential treatment. His statement was more than Don Á� lvaro could bear. He gave full vent to his anger against Cartagena for his role in Don Á� lvaro’s downfall, telling him that because of the nature of his own profession, Cartagena would never have the slightest understanding 14  On this commonplace, see Norris J. Lacy, “On Armor and Identity. Chrétien and Beyond,” in De sens rassis. Essays in Honor of Rupert T. Pickens, ed. Keith Busby, Bernard Guidot, and Logan E. Whalen (Amsterdam, 2005), 365–74.

15  Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning. From More to Shakespeare (Chicago, 1980), 1–2. On self-fashioning in Iberian chivalric romance, see also Michael Harney, “Ludo­logy, SelfFashioning, and Enrepreneurial Masculinity in Iberian Novels of Chivalry,” in Self-Fashioning and Assumptions of Identity in Medi­eval and Early Modern Iberia, ed. Laura Delbrugge (Leiden, 2015), 144–66.

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of the institution of chivalry. The episode unfolds in the Crónica de Don Álvaro de Luna as follows: “Then the Grand Master, angered somewhat by the bishop, said to him: ‘Be silent, bishop, right now, and do not presume to talk in the company of knights: when other men dressed in long skirts like yours are talking, that is when you should talk.’”16 In the manu­script tradition of the Doctrinal de los caballeros, there are two branches of codices distinguished by their dedicatory para­graphs, one directed to the knight who originally commissioned the text, that is, Don Diego Gómez de Sandoval, Count of Denia and Castro, and the other directed to Don Á� lvaro de Luna, written most likely in some haste after the first battle of Olmedo (19 May 1445), in which the forces led by the king’s favourite defeated those of Gómez de Sandoval and other rebellious knights.17 It is highly likely that Luna had read this book of laws and statutes. However, despite Alonso de Cartagena’s vast erudition on questions concerning chivalry, in this rare moment of truth, the Constable of Castile underscores that Cartagena was not recognized as a peer of the knights or the warrior caste. The episode as it is described in the Crónica de Don Álvaro de Luna is of great interest because the favourite’s insult targets the bishop’s clothing as a means of underscoring implicitly the singular importance of the knight’s steel panoply. Unlike the loose-fitting robes worn by ecclesiastics, the knight’s harness was a second skin that heightened, accentuated, and even exaggerated the body and the wearer’s virility and potency, thus encapsulating not only the chivalric identity, but also the masculinity that informed and defined that identity.18 Abstracting this notion one step further, in this sense the harness reflects the alter ego of the medi­eval knight. What did a harness look like in the mid-fifteenth century in the times of Alonso de Cartagena, Á� lvaro de Luna, and Suero de Quiñones? The answer to this question is problematic, for although fakes and reproductions abound, some of which are pure fantasy pieces, no original, homogeneous Italianate armours from the period have survived. Two rare, surviving, but incomplete harnesses allow us to contextualize the type of armour that would have been worn by knights around this time. These harnesses are armour S18 at Churbug Castle, located in what is now the extreme north of Italy, and the more complete Avant armour in the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow.19 The surviving pieces 16  “Entonçe el Maestre, conmovido algúnd tanto en malenconí�a contra el obispo dí�xole: Obispo, callad agora vos, e non curéys de fablar donde caualleros fablan: quando fablaren otros de faldas luengas, como las vuestras, entonçe fablad vos.” Cited from Gonzalo Chacón, Crónica de Don Álvaro de Luna, ed. Juan de Mata Carriazo (Madrid, 1940), 392. 17  On the manu­scripts and the two dedications, see Noel Fallows, The Chivalric Vision of Alfonso de Cartagena. Study and Edition of the ‘Doctrinal de los caualleros’ (Newark, 1995), 39–69; and Alonso de Cartagena, Tratados militares, ed. Noel Fallows (Madrid, 2006), 398 (document 1).

18  This theme has been explored by Carolyn Springer, Armour and Masculinity in the Italian Renaissance (Toronto, 2010), esp. 25–36.

19  Both armours are well documented. On Churburg S18, see Claude Blair, Ian Eaves, and Carlo Paggiarino, Historic Armour and Arms in the Castle of Churburg (Milan, 2006), 23–24, 70–71, and 76–81; Lionello G. Boccia and Edmondo T. Coelho, L’Arte dell’Armatura in Italia (Milan, 1967), 119 (figure 52); Lionello G. Boccia, Francesco Rossi, and Marco Morin, Armi e Armature Lombarde (Milan, 1980), 52; Mario Scalini, Rudolf H. Wackernagel, and Ian Eaves, L’Armeria Trapp di Castel Coira; Die Churburgen Rüstkamme; The Armoury of the Castle of Churburg (Udine, 1996), 69–73



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of Churburg S18 date to about 1420, and represent the final form of Milanese armour at the end of the age of the transition from mail to plate. In the interests of agility, it is worth pointing out that in its current configuration this armour weighs 26.67 kg and this weight would have been spread evenly and comfortably over the wearer’s body. The Avant armour, so called because the word Avant (“Forward”) is inscribed repeatedly in pointillé, or point-work, on the turned edges on the sides of the breastplate, was made in Milan ca. 1438–1440 by the Corio family of armourers. This armour is an extremely rare survivor indeed, as it is the earliest near-complete armour in the world. In its current configuration it weighs 26 kg. Both of these harnesses are field armours designed principally for combat on the battlefield, though they could also have been worn in jousts of war like the Passo Honroso. As I mentioned above, these armours were made to fit like a second skin; hence it is misleading to conceptualize armour as a kind of exoskeleton or shell, which suggests restriction of movement. The notion of armour as second skin is closer to the idea of how armour actually worked, for it suggests fluidity, nimble articulation, and elasticity, that is to say, an idealized form made of steel, at once chromatic and somatic, the essence of the active life to which all knights aspired, captured so well by the selection of the word “Avant” for the inscription on the armour of the same name. Unfortunately, no contemporary contextual images of the Passo Honroso survive, though as in the case of the two armours described above, there are various images from the same period as the Passo Honroso which reflect the different varieties of Italianate harnesses worn in combat situations. Among the most important images from this period are the San Romano battle panels by Paolo Uccello, which, on the basis of an analysis of the arms and armour depicted in the battle scenes, are dated to around 1435.20 A number of single pieces of armour from the period also survive intact, including armets, sallets, breastplates, and pauldrons, etc. The question that now arises is what can we learn by comparing surviving pieces of metal, contextual images, and written descriptions, and how can or do these different media of expression interact? In this chapter, I discuss a necessarily limited sample. The first example shows how a description in a text would not make sense to the modern reader were it not for the surviving material evidence. Pero Rodrí�guez de Lena’s and 258–9; Graf Oswald Trapp and James Gow Mann, The Armoury of the Castle of Churburg, 2 vols. (London, 1929), 1:35–40; 2:69–73. On the Avant armour (Glasgow Museums E.1939.65.e; formerly Churburg CH 20), see Tobias Capwell, The Real Fighting Stuff. Arms and Armour at Glasgow Museums (Glasgow, 2007), 26–29; Fallows, Jousting in Medi­eval and Renaissance Iberia, 72–74; Felix Joubert, Catalogue of the Collection of European Arms and Armour Formed at Greenock by R. L. Scott, ed. Robert C. Woosnam-Savage and Tobias Capwell (Huntingdon, 2006), 9–11; and Robert Woosnam-Savage, “The ‘AVANT’ Armour and R.L. Scott,” The Park Lane Arms Fair 7 (1990): 5–11.

20  See Lionello G. Boccia, “Le armature di Paolo Uccello,” L’Arte 73, nos. 11–12 (1970): 55–91; Franco Borsi and Stefano Borsi, Paolo Uccello, trans. Elfreda Powell (New York, 1994), 212–31; and José Enrique Ruiz-Domènech, “Visibilidad de la caballerí�a del siglo XV. La Batalla de San Romano, de Ucello,” in Joanot Martorell y el otoño de la caballería. Centro del Carmen – Valencia. Diciembre de 2010–Marzo de 2011 (Valencia, 2011), 133–41. For a broad overview of chivalry in art, see Carmen Vallejo Naranjo, La caballería en el arte de la Baja Edad Media (Sevilla, 2013).

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chronicle indicates that the knights at the Passo Honroso who did choose to wear an additional reinforcing piece when they jousted generally opted to wear a rudimentary reinforcing breastplate over the host breastplate. The chronicler never describes this breastplate reinforce in any detail, probably because he took it for granted that contemporary readers would understand its nature and how it was attached in place. Only one example of a Castilian breastplate reinforce for jousting from around this time survives. This example is currently in the permanent collection of the Real Armerí�a in Madrid, accession number E59.21 According to the termino­logy of the chronicle, this piece is called “el volante de las platas.” The extant example in the Real Armerí�a clearly shows that this special reinforce for the joust was secured to the breastplate beneath by two turning clasps aligned vertically at the top and bottom, which fit through corresponding holes in the reinforcing breastplate. The example in the Real Armerí�a also has a provision for the lance-rest in the form of a series of staples aligned vertically on the right-hand side. These staples constitute a visible definition of the unique noun used in the chronicle: ponteçillas. It is surely true to say that ponteçillas would be unintelligible today were it not for this surviving material evidence.22 Another series of staples is aligned on the left-hand side of this particular example, to accommodate a shield (though the use of shields was strictly prohibited at the Passo Honroso). Since it is not possible to put a priceless national treasure such as this extremely rare breastplate reinforce to the test, a further clarification that can be teased out of Rodrí�guez de Lena’s chronicle account is that the breastplate reinforces of the period varied radically in quality. According to the chronicler, on some occasions they provided adequate protection, but on others they were mercilessly dented or even skewered, which, in an interesting circularity, perhaps in turn explains why only one rare example from this period has survived. Another example of the synergy between armour and written text is when the text discloses hidden information about the meaning of armour that cannot be detected simply by looking at the armour itself. An example of this type is a clarification of the term “white armour” when used to describe the knight’s harness. Scholars of arms and armour, such as Claude Blair, Kelly DeVries, and Martí�n de Riquer, are in agreement that the term white armour refers to “armour of plain, polished steel, without a permanently-attached covering.”23 A further, hidden meaning of white armour in the context of medi­eval Castile and with regard to the question of chivalric identity is revealed in the pages of a romance of chivalry, Amadís de Gaula, first published in 1508, but most likely 21  On this breastplate reinforce see Conde viudo de Valencia de Don Juan [Juan Bautista Crooke y Navarrot], Catálogo Histórico-Descriptivo de la Real Armería de Madrid (Madrid, 1898), 166–67 (figure 96); and De Riquer, L’Arnès del cavaller, 107 (figure 153) (shown in both cases with an associated lance-rest which has since been removed); also Fallows, Jousting in Medi­eval and Renaissance Iberia, 79 (figure 26) (shown without the associated rest). 22  Enrique de Leguina registers the noun ponteçilla in his Glosario de voces de armería, but without providing a definition or hazarding a guess as to the term’s possible meaning based on context. See Enrique de Leguina, Glosario de voces de armería (Madrid, 1912), 723.

23  See Claude Blair, European Armour circa 1066 to circa 1700 (London, 1958), 58; also Kelly De Vries, Medi­eval Military Techno­logy (Peterborough, 1992), 80–81; and De Riquer, L’Arnès del cavaller, 97–100.



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composed many years prior to the publication of the first printed edition. In this work of fiction, we read the following quotations: “And I considered it as a boon and I told him I would take the horse, because it was very good, and the cuirass and the helmet; but that the other arms were to be white as is fitting for a novice knight.” Also: “Then at this hour there arrived Gandalin and Lasindo, squire of Don Bruneo, both wearing white armour, as befitted novice knights.” And finally: “The men of the past who established the order of chivalry considered it good that for the new joy, new, white arms be given.”24 Thus, it is a romance of chivalry which clarifies that at least in medi­eval Castile white armour denoted a particular level of skill (or lack thereof). As noted in a 1415 document edited by Pedro Cátedra, it was commonly worn by young boys who practised tilting at the ring in lieu of the more dangerous jousts practised by adults.25 It would not be until the mid-sixteenth century that King Philip II broke with this tradition by ordering ornate, matching father-and-son armours, the so-called Cloud Bands garniture made by Wolfgang Grosschedel of Landshut in 1554.26 When father and son stepped out in their identical outfits, the two were the living embodiment of a bold statement, their armour as much an artistic, symbolic expression of Habsburg dynastic succession as a practical kit to be worn for jousts in the lists (father) or tilting at the ring (son). Even though white armour was of a high quality, those who wore it were immediately identifiable as novice knights. This clarification is corroborated in the Passo Honroso, where the longest joust consisted of a prodigious and exhausting twenty-seven course run, nineteen of which were complete misses. The narrator places emphasis on the fact that the two combatants, Pedro de Nava and Francisco de Faces, jousted in white armour.27 In the world of chivalric fiction, as well as at the Passo Honroso, where the jousters were not to know the identity of their opponents until the joust was officially declared over, wearing white armour was a way of concealing one’s identity. Paradoxically, however, some seasoned veterans would become and represent themselves as white knights, such as Chrétien’s Cligès and Meraugis, and Martorell’s Tirant lo Blanc, in an ironic pos24  “Y yo ge lo tove en merced, y le dixe que tomarí�a el cavallo, porque era muy bueno, y la loriga y el yelmo; mas que las otras armas haví�an de ser blancas, como a cavallero novel convení�an; Pues a esta hora llegaron Gandalí�n y Lasindo, escudero de don Bruneo, armados de armas blancas como convení�a a cavalleros novele; Los passados que la Orden de la Cavallerí�a establescieron tovieron por bueno que a la nueva alegrí�a nuevas armas y blancas se diesen.” Cited from Garci Rodrí�guez de Montalvo, Amadís de Gaula, ed. Edwin B. Place (Madrid, 1959–1969), 1087a and 1090b (book 4, chap. 109); and 1336ab (book 4, chap. 133); Garci Rodrí�guez de Montalvo, Amadis of Gaul, trans. Edwin B. Place and Herbert C. Behm, 2 vols. (Lexington, 1974), 2:454, 2:458 and 2:737.

25  Pedro Cátedra, “Realidad, disfraz e identidad caballeresca,” in Libros de caballerías (De “Amadís” al “Quijote”). Poética, Lectura, Representación e Identidad, ed. Eva Belén Carro Carvajal, Laura Puerto Morro, and Marí�a Sánchez Pérez (Salamanca, 2002), 71–85.

26  On this armour, see especially Conde viudo de Valencia de Don Juan [Juan Bautista Crooke y Navarrot], Catálogo Histórico-Descriptivo, 83–86 (A243–A262); and Tapices y Armaduras del Renacimiento. Joyas de las Colecciones Reales (Barcelona, 1992), 190–93. 27  Pero Rodrí�guez de Lena, El Passo Honroso de Suero de Quiñones, ed. Amancio Labandeira Fernández (Madrid, 1977), 194–95. I am currently preparing a new critical edition of this important text with English translation.

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ture against received convention.28 In the often grim and erratic world of chivalric reality, the pragmatic and not very ironic ecclesiastic Alonso de Cartagena (who condemned chivalric romance in no uncertain terms as nullius utilitatis)29 is the only contemporary author who dared question whether the splendour of the most ornate armour in fact connoted a high level of virtue and skill, or if it simply called undue attention to the obscene wealth and opulence of the wearer. Since he saw the issue of bringing the Reconquista to a speedy conclusion, it is as if for him it is futile and meaningless to theorize identity in a ludic, festive context where there is no real crisis, as the knights were still nobles with an obligation to fulfill noble duties whether they were armoured or unarmoured. For Cartagena, it seems, the armour constitutes what I have called an alter ego, and the knights will only be truly identified and defined by their deeds in the crisis of real war. In addition to hidden meanings, the written text can sometimes shed new light on practical details about the way armour worked that would otherwise be unknown and unknowable; what one scholar has called a kind of reverse engineering.30 Such is the case in the Passo Honroso with a little-known but interesting accoutrement that quickly disappeared from the chivalric panoply. It is clear from Rodrí�guez de Lena’s chronicle that some of the contestants at the Passo Honroso had a thin bar riveted to the front of their breastplates just below the neck, known as a “lisière d’arrêt,” or stop-rib in English, and referred to in the Castilian chronicle as “el borde de las platas.” Although “el borde” is mentioned repeatedly in the text, its meaning is not defined by the chronicler, nor is it immediately clear from context. It is here that text and artifact have a mutually compensatory relationship that connects a blurred past to the present and provides visual clarity to that past.31 The stop-rib is also an example of an accoutrement that identifies the knight as he is seldom represented: technocrat and self-taught proto-engineer. Stop-ribs made their first appearance on breastplates between 1380 and 1390. The first known examples from surviving breastplates are riveted onto the front at chest level and are distinctly Y-shaped; with the passage of time, they shrank to the shape of a letter V, and subsequently fell into disuse around the year 1455.32 Stop-ribs can also be found riveted horizontally around the curved outer edge of pauldrons and vambraces. If extant armour is a silent witness to the past, it is thanks to the chronicle of the Passo Honroso that the fortune of this piece in combat is explained in great detail. It is obvious from surviving armour that the intended purpose of these stop-ribs was to deflect the lance-head away from the chest in order to avoid injuries, but what can be extrapolated 28  On Cligès and Meraugis, see Sarah E. Gordon, “The Man with No Name. Identity in French Arthurian Verse Romance,” Arthuriana 18, no. 2 (2008): 69–81, esp. 77.

29  Alonso de Cartagena, Un tratado de Alonso de Cartagena sobre la educación y los estudios literarios, ed. Jeremy N. H. Lawrance (Barcelona, 1979), 54.

30  See Jeffrey Forgeng, “Pietro Monte’s Exercises and the Medi­eval Science of Arms,” in The Armorer’s Art. Essays in Honor of Stuart Pyhrr, ed. Donald J. LaRocca (Woonsocket, 2014), 107–14. 31  As with ponteçillas, Enrique de Leguina registers the noun borde in his Glosario de voces de armería, but without providing a definition. See De Leguina, Glosario de voces de armería, 154. 32  Blair, European Armour, 61 and 82.



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from the chronicle is that in fact the stop-rib was not only susceptible to being “disgarnished,” or torn off, by a powerful lance-thrust, but also that it guided the skating lance dangerously up towards the neck or into the armpit, with the possibility of causing serious wounds. The following are two examples concerning this experimental piece, which, in the final analysis, was clumsy and inefficient: Chapter which speaks about the deeds of arms which, this Friday afternoon, the aforenamed Pedro de Nava performed with Antón de Deza, on the aforenamed honourable knight Juan de Merlo’s team. After this, on this aforementioned Friday, July 30, in the afternoon, the aforenamed Pedro de Nava, one of the ten Defenders of that passage of arms, entered the field and lists to perform pre-arranged deeds of arms, armed and on horseback. And on the other side opposite him, Antón de Deza, on Juan de Merlo’s team, likewise armed and on horseback. And now that they were inside the field, they placed their spears in the rests, and they charged against each other most willingly. […] In the fifth course Antón de Deza struck Pedro de Nava in the middle of the plackart, and glanced off there and went up into the stop-rib of the breastplate, and ripped it off him, and the spearhead stuck through his right arm, near the shoulder joint next to the armpit, in such a way that the spearhead poked through to the other side, which caused a gaping wound, and a lot of blood flowed out of it, from which wound the surgeons said that he was at present in danger, though he did subsequently recover from it.33 […] Chapter which speaks about the deeds of arms which on this day the aforenamed honourable knight Lope de Stúñiga performed with the honourable knight Monsieur Arnaut the Breton, as will be described to you below. After this Criee was given, the aforenamed honourable knight Lope de Stúñiga, one of the ten Defenders of that passage of arms, entered the field and lists to perform deeds of arms, armed and on horseback. And on the other side opposite him, Arnaut the Breton, from the household of the Duke of Brittany, likewise armed and on horseback. […] And now that they were inside the field to perform deeds of arms, they placed their spears in the rests like good knights who truly looked like they had a will to match strength as soon as possible in that deed of arms that they were commencing. And in this first course the honourable knight Lope de Stúñiga struck the aforenamed Monsieur Arnaut the Breton on the stop-rib of the breastplate, and he shattered his spear into pieces on him, and he made him suffer a serious reversal of fortune, and the aforenamed Monsieur Arnaut was carrying a splinter with the spearhead of the spear under his right armpit, and another splinter stuck beneath the bevor. And

33  “Capí�tulo que fabla de las armas que, en este dí�a viernes en la tarde, el ya nonbrado Pedro de Nava fizo con Antón de Deça, de la compañí�a del honrrado cavallero Juan de Merlo ya nombrado. Después desto, en este ya nonbrado viernes, treinta dí�as de julio, en la tarde, entró en el campo e liça a fazer las armas devisadas Pedro de Nava, uno de los diez defensores de aquel passo ya nonbrado, armado e a cavallo. E de la otra parte contra él, Antón de Deza, de la compañí�a de Juan de Merlo, así� mesmo armado e a cavallo. E como fueron dentro en el campo, pusieron sus lanças en los riestres, e movieron con buenas voluntades el uno contra el otro.[…] A las cinco carreras encontró Antón de Deza a Pedro de Nava en la meitad del piastrón, e sortió de allí� e salió al borde de las platas, e desguarneçiógelo, e metióle el fierro por el braço derecho, çerca de la cojuntura del honbro cabe el sobaco, por tal manera que le apuntó el fierro por la otra parte, de lo qual le fizo una buena herida, e salió dél mucha sangre, de la qual ferida dezí�an los çurujanos que al presente estava en peligro, como quiera que después sanó dello.” Cited from Rodrí�guez de Lena, El Passo Honroso, 316–17.

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everyone thought he was wounded, and when the king-of-arms and the herald examined him they discovered that he had not been wounded nor was there any blood.34

By way of conclusion, Michel Stanesco has said that chivalric spectacle is above all an emprise du visuel.35 Of course, it could be said that the written word is nothing less than visual, but as an emprise du visuel, chivalric combat was a chromatic spectacle defined primarily by its iconic kit made to measure for the élite caste that commissioned it. Keeping in mind Stanesco’s observation, my view is that in order to understand fully what constitutes chivalric identity, the visual and the material evidence must always be considered in tandem with the documentary evidence, and vice versa: a kaleidescopic blend of techno­logy and language. After all, before being described in words, new technical innovations were worn on the body and put to the test on the battlefield and in the lists, and, alongside the knights, the spectators who orbited around them had to interpret the meaning and function of these innovations. The interface of text and artifact reinvigorates the past in ways that are restricted through a single approach. As a case study of chivalric identity, an event such as the Passo Honroso would be isolated and understood exclusively “in the moment” were it not for surviving artifacts of the period that can be alloyed to the main body of the chronicle narrative, thereby shedding light on that which would otherwise remain obscure or unknowable. This multifaceted interface allows for a more nuanced and complete understanding of the knights who encapsulated, informed, performed, and essentially owned medi­eval chivalric culture, thus enabling them to demonstrate, prove, reveal, or conceal their identity to others as well as to themselves, as much in our own time as that in which they lived.

34  “Capí�tulo que fabla de las armas que en este dí�a el honrrado cavallero ya nonbrado Lope de Stúñiga fizo con el honrrado cavallero Miçer Arnao, bretón, según deyuso vos será devisado. Luego como esta Grida fue dada, entró en el campo e liça a fazer armas el honrrado cavallero antes desto nonbrado Lope de Stúñiga, uno de los diez defensores de aquel passo, armado e a cavallo. E de la otra parte contra él, Arnao bretón, de la casa del Duque de Bretaña, así� mesmo armado e a cavallo. […] E como fueron dentro en el campo a fazer las armas, pusieron sus lanças en los riestres a guisa de buenos cavalleros que bien pareçí�a que tení�an en voluntad de ser en breve delibres en aquel fecho de armas que començavan. E a esta primera carrera encontró el honrrado cavallero Lope de Stúñiga al ya nonbrado Arnao bretón, en el borde de las platas, e rompió su lança en él en rachas, e fí�zole tomar un gran revés, e levava el ya nonbrado Mosén Arnao una racha con el fierro de la lança por so el sobaco derecho, e otra racha metida por debaxo de la bavera. E todos pensaron que iva ferido, e deque lo cataron el rey de armas e faraute, fallaron que non era ferido nin haví�a sangre.” Cited from Rodrí�guez de Lena, El Passo Honroso, 373. 35  Michel Stanesco, Jeux d’errance du chevalier medi­eval. aspects ludiques de la fonction guerrière dans la littérature du Moyen Âge flamboyant (Leiden, 1988), esp. 173–82.

Chapter 11

THE EMERGENCE OF A BOURGEOIS URBAN IDENTITY: LATE MEDI­EVAL CATALONIA FLOCEL SABATÉ

The conflict-ridden Middle Ages, which brought into being the feudal system that was abolished by the revolutionary Assemblée nationale in August 1793,1 was a period based on seigneurial rule. It was dominated by the nobility and clergy, who were often arbitrary, and even ruthless, in their application of the ius primae noctis (“right of the first night”)2 and, according to Voltaire, included “friars who teach, argue, govern, plot, and burn at the stake, those who do not agree with them.”3 The heartwarming Middle Ages, rediscovered by Romanticism in the first decades of the nineteenth century,4 were much appreciated for the generous gallantry and deep spirituality of their knights,5 though we should not forget that these knights were also responsible for imposing this same “feudal tyranny.”6 It was a time of increasingly powerful lords. As Lord Lytton once observed, “the Church and the king wish[ed] to strengthen themselves by the gentry.”7 In such a Middle Ages, marked by feudal nobility, it is understandable that the bourgeoisie, who appropriated the French revolution8 and effectively took control of Europe, particularly from 1830 onwards,9 came to define a liberal society, allowing it to achieve levels of growth and prosperity that were able to correct the weaknesses inherited from the medi­eval period. This liberal bourgeoisie located its own roots in the Middle Ages, but as a combative seed of change which had steered that era into the present. Using this logic, the emergence of cities and of urban communes during the medi­eval period could be explained 1  John Markoff, The Abolition of Feudalism. Peasants, Lords and Legislators in the French Revolution, (Uni­ver­sity Park, 1996), 516–59.

2  Alain Boureau, Le droit de cuissage. La fabrication d’un mythe. XIIIe–XXe siècle (Paris, 1995), 51–213. 3  “Moines qui enseignent, qui disputent, qui gouvernent, qui cabalent, et qui font brûler les gens qui ne sont pas de leur avis.” Cited from François Marie Arouet [Voltaire], Candide ou l’Optimisme (Paris, 1995), 107. 4  François Réné de Chateaubriand, The Beauties of Christianity, 3 vols. (London, 1813), 3:156.

5  Ramón López Soler, Los bandos de Castilla (Madrid, 1973), 27–51. 6  Walter Scott, Ivanhoe (Leipzig, 1845), 2.

7  Lord Lytton, The Last of the Barons (London, 1843), 41.

8  Alfred Cobban, The Social Interpretation of the French Revolution (Cam­bridge, 1964), 34–35. 9  Jacques Droz, Europa. Restauración y revolución (1815–1848) (Madrid, 1981), 36–52.

Flocel Sabaté ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universitat de Lleida, Spain.

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in terms of the confrontation between members of the bourgeoisie who fought against the feudal lords10 to obtain greater freedoms, similarly to the revolutions of the nineteenth century.11 The future world was a victory for urban dwellers, who “suffocated the feudal aristocracy, whose wealth was less than that of the merchant and industrial class, in terms of enlightenment and regularity of custom: in terms of social power.”12 Royal abuses were also reduced thanks to the firmness of the bourgeoisie, who did not think twice about personally confronting arrogant monarchs, as shown by the figures adorning the pantheon of nineteenth-century bourgeois mytho­logy, such as Etienne Marcel in France13 and Joan Fivaller in Catalonia.14 City dwellers fuelled the subsequent flourishing of a new society because, in reality, this implied a complete break with the previous feudal system: “a society in which the population lived from the land that it exploited and whose produce it consumed, could not give rise to significant urban agglomerations.”15 Thus, the origin of the medi­eval urban world could only be found in the commerce that emerged following the so-called “commercial revolution.”16 This expression was popularized by R. S. Lopez to equate what happened in the central centuries of the Middle Ages with the only great economic upheaval with which, given its consequences, it could reasonably be compared: “the industrial revolution.”17 In this way, the feudal world of the nobles and the urban world of the bourgeoisie would become two relentless realities impossible to mix, to the extent that medi­eval cities would be seen as non-feudal islands in the midst of a feudal sea.18 The strength of this idea has been rebutted by various groups of scholars in recent decades19 and the intrinsic contacts and mutual interrelations between feudal system 10  Julio Valdeón, “Revueltas en la Edad Media Castellana,” in Revueltas y revoluciones en la historia, (Salamanca, 1990), 13.

11  Raymonde Foreville, “Du Domesday Book à la Grande Charte. guildes, franchises et chartes urbaines,” in Les Origines des Libertés Urbaines. Actes du XVIe Congrès des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement Supérieur (Rouen, 7–8 juin 1985) (Rouen, 1990), 162–63.

12  “Ofegaren l’aristocràcia feudal, que era inferior a la classe mercantil i industrial en riqueses, en il·lustració, en regularitat de costums, en activitat: en una paraula, en potència social.” Cited from Josep Torras i Bages, La tradició catalana (Barcelona, 1966), 147–48.

13  Béatrice Fontanel and Daniel Wolfromm, Quand les artistes peignaient l’histoire de France. De Vercingétorix à 1918 (Paris, 2002). 14  Manuel Angelón, Juan Fivaller. Biografía leída en el acto de colocarse el retrato de aquel ilustre patricio en la galería de catalanes ilustres (Barcelona, 1882), 5.

15  “Une société dans laquelle la population vit du sol qu’elle exploite et en consomme sur place les produits, ne peut donner naissance à des agglomerations d’hommes de quelque importance.” Cited from Henri Pirenne, Histoire de l’Europe des invasions au XVI siècle, (Paris – Brussels, 1936), 156. 16  Roberto Sabatino Lopez, La révolution commerciale dans l’Europe médiévale (Paris, 1974).

17  Roberto Sabatino Lopez, “La revolución commercial,” in Historia Universal Salvat, ed. José Maria Salrach, 10 vols. (Barcelona, 1980), 4:84. 18  Michael Moiessey Postan, The Medi­eval Society and Economy (Berkeley, 1972), 212. 19  Rodney Hilton, Les ciutats medi­evals (Barcelona, 1989), 9–21.



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and urban development have been exposed.20 However, it is still widely believed that there often remained a strict separation between the two, with the medi­eval period characterized by castles and knights and labelled as feudal. Even historical narratives that highlight the urban–rural dichotomy imply that the Middle Ages provided both what is commonly known as “feudality” and, separately, an urban model with its own economic framework, its own social mode, and its own shared values.21

Money and Values

Starting from common roots, feudalism and urban growth shared several key moments, particularly in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, which suggests that they probably fed off each other. It is easy to show this by looking at some specific examples. The conquest of the Islamic city of Lleida, in 1149, was a paradigmatic action by a feudal army, in which the barons, assisted by their castle tenants, answered the call of their feudal lord, expecting to subsequently benefit from the sharing of conquered domains. Yet, only half a century later, the same city of Lleida was the paradigm of a bourgeois society; it had a rich and powerful urban elite ruling a city that managed itself, projected its control over the surrounding territory, and addressed the monarch as representative of the local society. In the meantime, a group of businessmen from various backgrounds were able to bring together capital from diverse sources and to employ this in different kinds of investment. Urban speculation and the acquisition of rural land22 were particularly prominent: the houses the conquerors received were bought and the whole city was rebuilt, even including a new street plan. This was done with the understanding that those who had money and property, and occupied a powerful position, could also take on the role of representing the city.23 By the eleventh century, the growth of cities like Barcelona facilitated these property owners to exercise power over the lands on which the new boroughs were constructed.24 The acquisition of property was seen as the most secure asset of the period: the lands of all the towns and cities gradually fell into the hands of members of the urban elite, who continued to invest in anything that was profitable, whether feudal rights or those granted by public bodies, commercial activity, or the administration of baronial or royal goods.25 Far from the historio­graphical stereotype that would imagine the bourgeois viewing feudal income with apprehension, he in fact looked upon it through the eyes of an inves20  Yves Barel, La ciudad medi­eval. Sistema social – Sistema urbano (Madrid, 1981), 9–70.

21  I developed a first approach to this subject during preparatory research which has now been culminated in the present book: Flocel Sabaté, “El naixement medi­eval d’una identitat urbana i burgesa,” in L’Edat Mitjana. món real i espai imaginat, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Catarroja-Barcelona, 2012), 111–26. 22  Flocel Sabaté, “Il mercato della terra in un paese nuovo. Lerida nella seconda metà del XII secolo,” Rivista di Storia dell’Agricoltura 43, no. 1 (2003): 57–90. 23  Flocel Sabaté, Història de Lleida. Alta edat mitjana (Lleida, 2003), 355–98.

24  Pierre Bonnassie, Catalunya mil anys enrera (segles X–XI), 2 vols. (Barcelona, 1979), 1:430–32.

25  Flocel Sabaté, “Ejes vertebradores de la oligarquí�a urbana en Cataluña,” Revista d’Història Medi­ eval 9 (1998): 130–33.

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tor, including the acquisition of jurisdictional domains.26 This meant having to overcome the moral dilemma of accumulating wealth (lucrum). In the thirteenth century, Ramon Llull still disliked this, which explains why he had such a poor impression of artisans: “the drapers are even worse people than the gamblers.”27 Instead, he preferred to promote, as a theoretical ideal, a merchant who gave most of his belongings to the poor and broke off his marital bond, once he had finished his mission and raised his children to adulthood, so that each party could then enter a religious community, “given that the religious order is of greater sanctity than the order of marriage.”28 The ideal was very different a century later, however. In 1376 in the city of Balaguer, it was stated that the wealth of certain citizens was not only good, but also necessary for the common good of the city, “because, given that the ‘res publica’ is supported, maintained, and indeed increased by contributions and help from the local inhabitants, it is important that they should be rich and have plentiful material wealth; if not, in the case of poor inhabitants, the ‘res publica’ diminishes and dies.”29 In fact, throughout the thirteenth century, various authors, and above all those associated with the Franciscans, constructed an adapted discourse that combined Christianity, the city, money, and the market. These ideas were connected to new attitudes to the common good and public utility. Their introduction owed much to the Dominicans, who incorporated the thinking of Aristotle.30 Representatives of the municipal collectives invoked the common good with a cohesive moral and didactic rhetoric.31 In identifying the common good and public utility, it tied in with meeting urban social needs32 and with mendicant thought. This was based on the theory that poverty and the organizational and technical structure of the market for both material goods and the circulation of capital were all compatible with Christian thinking.33 26  Prim Bertran, “El domini cristiano-feudal,” in Torres de Segre. Panoràmica històrica, ed. Ismael Panadès, Marc Escolà, and Prim Bertran (Torres de Segre, 1983), 55–61.

27  “Los drapers són pus vil gents que els tafurs.” Cited from Ramon Llull, Llibre d’Evast e Balnquerna (Barcelona, 1982), 203.

28  “Perquè orde de religió és de major sanctedat que no és l’orde de matrimoni.” Cited from Llull, Llibre d’Evast e Blanquerna, 31.

29  “Com sie gran interès de la cosa pública que.ls singulars, per sufragi e ajuda dels quals és sostenguda, mantenguda e exalçada, sien richs e abmidats en béns temporals, car per lo contrari, com són empobrits, la cosa pública pereix e decau.” Cited from Dolors Domingo, Pergamins de Privilegis de la ciutat de Balaguer (Lleida, 1997), 138.

30  Bénédicte Sère, “Aristote et le bien commun au Moyen Â� ge. une histoire, une historio­graphie,” Revue Française d’Histoire des Idées Politiques 32, no. 2 (2010): 277–84.

31  Claire Billen, “Dire le bien commun dans l’espace public. Matérialité épi­g raphique et monumentale du bien commun dans les villes des Pays-Bas à la fin du Moyen Â� ge,” in De Bono Communi. The Discourse and Practice of the Common Good in the European City (13th–16th c.), ed. Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruane (Turnhout, 2010), 71–88. 32  Corinne Leveleux-Teixera, “L’‘utilitas publica’ des canonistes. Un outil de régulation de l’ordre juridique,” Revue Française d’Histoire des Idées Politiques 32, no. 2 (2010): 259–76.

33  Giacomo Todeschini, “Ordini mendicanti e linguaggio etico-politico,” in Etica e politica: le teorie dei frati mendicanti nel due e trecento. Atti del XXVI Convegno internazionale (Assisi, 15–17 ottobre 1998) (Spoleto, 1999), 5–27.



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For the good of society, it became necessary: to be active (sloth or accidie, in the form of laziness, was regarded not only as a mortal, but a social sin); to be hard-working (Eiximenis understood that poor people were necessary so the rich could redeem their sins through charity but, at the same time, he called for the exclusion of those who did not want to work because “they are not only useless but are also notoriously damaging to the ‘res publica’”);34 not to be miserly—avarice being the other mortal sin with a social side to it;35 and to circulate money, so the machinery for generating wealth would not stop. So Eiximenis recommended people to invest in merchandise and not in credit funds, because, “although this is legal, it could hinder merchant activity, which, with any doubt, is in the best interests of the community.”36 In this way, not only did economic activity support the religious ideal that justified medi­eval society, but commerce also became the central link in an authentically Christian “res publica.”37 In turn, good rulers should promote wealth in their domains and amongst their people.38 To do this, however, it was necessary to know how the economy worked, which explains why, from the second half of the thirteenth century onwards, this question was afforded specific treatment, justified on the basis of Christian ethics and the political duty to stimulate economic growth.39 Sound money, fair prices, credit, and the circulation of capital formed the basic axes of both theory and economic reality in the late medi­ eval period.40 By defining the economic framework in these terms, it was possible to draw up a model that inextricably intertwined the ideal of the poverty of the mendicant, the risk inherent to the life of the merchant, and the common good, managing “to anchor an ordered and sacrosanct sociability in voluntary poverty, in the fluidity of trade, to the insight of professionals in the market and finances: the measurable and productive risk that constitutes renouncing the immediate enjoyment of wealth.”41 Christianity was 34  “Que no solament són inútils ans són encara notòriament damnosos a la cosa pública.” Cited from Francesc Eiximenis, Lo Crestià, ed. Albert Hauf (Barcelona, 1983), 210–11 (Dotzè del Crestià, chap. 377).

35  Carla Casagrande and Silvana Vecchio, Histoire des péchés capitaux au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2003), 150, 188–91. 36  “Car jatsia açò que aitals coses se puixen haver justament, emperò empatxen la mercaderia qui, sens comparació, és millor per a la comunitat.” Cited from Eiximenis, Lo Crestià, 224 (Dotzè del Crestià, chap. 290).

37  Paolo Evangelisti, “Per un’etica degli scambi economici. La funzione civile del mercato in Eiximenis e nella pedagogia politica franciscana (1273–1493),” Caplletra 48 (2010): 216.

38  Alain Boureau, La religion de l’état. La construction de la République étatique dans le discours théo­logique de l’Occident médieval (1250–1350) (Paris, 2006), 266–69. 39  Christoph Flüeler, “La dottrina medi­evale sul governo della casa. Il contributo degli Ordini mendicanti,” in Etica e politica: le teorie dei frati mendicanti nel due e trecento. Atti del XXVI Convegno internazionale (Assisi, 15–17 ottobre 1998) (Spoleto, 1999), 175–202.

40  Flocel Sabaté, “El temps de Francesc Eiximenis. Les estructures econòmiques, socials i polí�tiques de la Corona d’Aragó a la segona meitat del segle XIV,” in Francesc Eiximenis (c. 1330–1409): el context i l’obra d’un gran pensador català medi­eval, ed. Antoni Riera (Barcelona, 2015), 119–31. 41  “Ancrer une sociabilité ordonnée et sacrosainte dans la pauvreté volontaire, dans la fluidité du commerce, dans la perspicacité des professionals du marché et de la finance. dans le risque

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now completely assimilated into civic life: Christ died on the Cross, more in defence of the public interest than to save humanity.42 In this sense, the very framework of Christianity was urban.43 Religion, therefore, confirmed the high position in which all the late medi­eval references granted urban life: wider awareness of Aristotle made it possible to understand that the human being is, essentially, an urban being;44 knowledge of the Roman classics made people aware of Cicero’s observation that “of everything that happens in the world, what gives God, who rules the world, most pleasure are the groups of human beings called cities”;45 and the spread of the communal models in the north of Italy confirmed municipal councils as the ideal form of government.46 This was, in fact, so pertinent that the spiritualist authors of the thirteenth century predicted a future new world order.47 Eiximenis echoed this vision according to which, from the fifteenth century onwards, “there will be no kings, nor dukes; do not rely on nobles nor great lords, because from now until the end of time, popular justice shall rule and the whole world will therefore be divided and governed by councils.”48 The cross of Christianity, the “res publica,” and the market established not only a society with towns and cities, but more specifically an urban ideal. According to Eiximenis, as an alternative to urban life, there was only barbarism and brutality: the peasant “is such a brute that he does not employ nor understand any courtesy, urbanity, nor politeness,” to the extent that “the fifth root of malice is uncouthness and being a peasant.”49 Significantly, this was completely opposite from Muslim thinking: despite mesurable et productif que constitue le renoncement à la jouissance immédiate de la richesse.” Cited from Giacomo Todeschini, Richesse franciscaine. De la pauvreté voluntaire à la société de marché (Lagrasse, 2008), 209.

42  Paolo Evangelisti, “Metafore e icone costitutive del discorso politico franciscano tra Napoli e Valencia (XIII–XV s.),” Studi Storici 47 (2006): 1098–1106.

43  Giacomo Todeschini, “Participer au Bien Commun. la notion franciscaine d’appartenance à la ‘civitas’,” in De Bono Communi. The Discourse and Practice of the Common Good in the European City (13th–16th c.), ed. Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruane (Turnhout, 2010), 225–35. 44  Aristotle, Política (Madrid, 1983), 3.

45  “Nihil est enim illi principi deo, qui omnem mundum regit, quod quidem in terris fiat, acceptius quam concilia coetusque hominem iure sociati, quae civitates apellantur.” Cited from Marco Tulio Ciceronis, De re publica (Madrid, 1958), 132. 46  Flocel Sabaté, “La civiltà comunale del Medioevo nella storiografia spagnola: affinità e diver­ genze,” in La civiltà comunale italiana nella storiografia internazionale, ed. Andrea Zorzi (Florence, 2008), 125–39.

47  Robert Lerner, “Eiximenis i la tradició profètica,” Llengua i literatura 17 (2006), 27–28; Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo, Historia de los heterodoxos españoles, 3 vols. (Madrid, 1998), 1:525; Albert G. Hauf, D’Eiximenis a sor Isabel de Villena. Aportació a l’estudi de la nostra cultura medi­eval (Valencia, 1990), 75.

48  “No y haurà reys, ne duchs, ne comptes no nobles ne grans senyors, ans d’aquí� avant fins a la fi del món regnarà per tot la justí�cia popular e tot lo món per consegüent serà partit e regit per comunes.” Cited from Francesc Eiximenis, Dotzè Llibre del Crestià. Primera part. Volum primer, ed. Xavier Renedo (Girona, 2005), 427 (chap. 200). 49  “É� s així� brutal que no sap fer ne entendre en neguna cortesia ne en neguna civilitat ne policia;



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the continuing importance of urban society within the Islamic world,50 according to the fourteenth-century teachings of Ibn Khaldún, “the country people are more inclined to virtue than those who live in cities.” He stated this because “sedentary life is the point at which civilization stops and is corrupted, it is there that evil saps all of its strength and it will not be possible to find good.”51 Authors such as Bernardo de Siena, Giordano de Pisa, and with them Francesc Eiximenis underlined this bourgeois ideal as a catalyst of religious, economic, and social virtue. A specific model for correct civic manners was in turn defined. It was an adaptation and combination drawn from the courtesy of the seigneurial courts of the twelfth century,52 royal practice, and a variety of other sources. By the thirteenth century, veritable manuals of civic behaviour had been drawn up, detailing the different domestic, hygienic, ethical, scholarly, and professional aspects inherent to urban life. New socioeconomic stimuli, mendicant spirituality, and philosophical positions such as Aristotelian balance and moderation came together in codes of social behaviour which guided the new urban reality. They, essentially, maintained long-established priorities, facilitated intercourse between the different groups in towns and cities, and structured dayto-day life at the table, when dressing, and in any other aspect of social relations.53 The bourgeois order was therefore established and offered itself as a model with which to govern society.

Privileges and Solidarity

The recovery and spread of Roman law from the twelfth century onwards brought with it the legal baggage with which to organize new social realities, including the needs of the towns and cities.54 The ius gentium provided an integrated vision of the municipal collective and justified the establishment of specific local governing councils.55 The same businessmen who had grown their investments and established themselves as an la cinquena raï�l de malí�cia és rusticitat e pagesia.” Cited from Eiximenis, Lo Crestià, 114 (Terç del Crestià, chap. 103).

50  Mí�kel de Epalza, “Espacios y sus funciones en la ciudad árabe,” in La ciudad islámica (Zaragoza, 1991), 9–30.

51  “Les gens de la campagne sont plus enclins à la vertu que les habitants des villes; la vie sédentaire est le terme où la civilisation vient s’arrêter et se corrompre; c’est là que le mal atteint toute la force et que le bien ne saurait se trouver.” Cited from Ibn Khaldun, (Al-Muqaddima). Prolégomènes (Beirut, 2007), 175.

52  José Antonio Maravall, “La ‘cortesí�a’ como saber en la Edad Media,” in Estudios de Historia del Pensamiento Español (Madrid, 1973), 275–85.

53  Daniela Romagnoli, “La courtoisie dans la ville. un modèle complexe,” in La Ville et la Cour. Des bonnes et des mauvauses manières, ed. Daniela Romagnoli (Paris, 1995), 59–69.

54  André Gouron, “Un assaut en deux vagues. la diffusion du droit romain dans l’Europe du XIIe siècle,” in El Dret comú i Catalunya. Actes del Ier Simposi Internacional (Barcelona, 25–26 de maig de 1990), ed. Aquilino Iglesia (Barcelona, 1991), 47–63. 55  Walter Ullmann, “The Medi­eval Theory of Legal and Illegal Organisations,” Law Quaterly Review 62 (1944): 77–87.

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economic elite, now led the collective in both the organization of local affairs, whether relating to urban development or managing coexistence, and as spokesmen with the lord on behalf of the commune, or, if necessary, in promoting individual causes. The lord accepted this relationship and even encouraged it, understanding that he required interlocutors with whom to deal with demands formulated by the whole of society, whether these were related to questions of defence or, above all, concerning taxes.56 In this way, towns and cities would progressively obtain specific privileges that, beginning with the recognition of their collective legal identity as a universitas, authorized their elites to choose municipal governments.57 Behind this dynamic, well developed in thirteenth-century Catalonia, there was no determined political strategy on the part of the sovereign; instead, the prevailing socio-economic dynamics gradually consolidated urban power.58 On behalf of the commune, the municipal governments took on the task of trying to extend the legal framework to further benefit the interests of their citizens. They sought to do this by strengthening their capacity to apply pressure on the lord himself in order to gradually obtain more and more privileges that would guarantee their institutional power: exemptions and waivers with regard to exactions and taxes, as well as guaranteeing the capacity of the municipality to levy taxes; the adoption of measures that would favour social and economic growth; a favourable legal and judicial regime; the strengthening of control over the local region; the protection and planning of space; and the stability obtained from guaranteeing protection and respect for previously attained freedoms.59 Similar objectives are found across different towns, but the ability to apply pressure defined the speed and extent in each case; the inhabitants of thriving places therefore enjoyed a greater number of exemptions and guarantees. The protection of the citizens who formed part of the municipal collective justified this search for a favourable legal environment, and also the adoption of measures to protect the collective and individual interests of its members. Thus, in 1374, the neighbours of Tortosa took up arms against Flix, having understood that the wheat destined for them was being unjustly retained by Flix despite reasonable requests.60 The same local government had also taken action, in 1336, against the goods of all merchants from Girona, on the understanding that a legal claim presented by a citizen from Tor56  Max Turull, “‘Universitas, commune, consilium’: Sur le rôle de la fiscalité dans la naissance et le développement du Conseil (Catalogne, XIIe–XIVe siècles),” in ‘Excerptiones iuris’. Studies in Honor of André Gouron, ed. Bernard Durand and Laurent Mayali (Berkeley, 2000), 637–77.

57  Josep Maria Font Rius, Estudis sobre els drets i institucions locals en la Catalunya medi­eval (Barcelona, 1985), 401–502.

58  Flocel Sabaté, “Poder i territori durant el regnat de Jaume I. Catalunya i Aragó,” in Jaume I. Commemoració del VIII centenari del naixement de Jaume I, ed. Maria Teresa Ferrer i Malloll (Barcelona, 2011), 71–80. 59  Flocel Sabaté, El territori de la Catalunya medi­eval. Percepció de l’espai i divisió territorial al llarg de l’Edat Mtijana (Barcelona, 1997), 410–11.

60  Albert Curto, La intervenció municipal en l’abastament de blat d’una ciutat catalana: Tortosa, segle XIV (Barcelona, 1988), 217.



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tosa had not received appropriate attention in Girona.61 The sense of solidarity among neighbours therefore justified a collective response in favour of either the group, or of a single person who had been harmed, with appropriate action taken against any member of the jurisdiction of the accused. The legal framework provided protection for such actions. When legal remedies were considered to have been exhausted or unsatisfactory (fadiga de dret), a right of pre-emption existed, which justified the organization of a process of branding the goods of any person belonging to the same jurisdiction as the accused.62 Using the same argument, the extreme case involved summoning the local militia (sometent), which also implied the bearing of arms by all the local inhabitants:63 in 1338, the people of Cervera took up arms against Tarroja, a neighbouring settlement subject to a different jurisdiction, which had refused to hand over those responsible for attacking a townsman of Cervera on the public way.64 In any such case, the municipality granted protection to its own people. So, in 1395, when the lord of Vilaclara detained Guillem Coll in Roussillon, the municipal government of Perpignan was duly mobilized. This resulted in armed intervention, as the locals considered that the person affected was a townsman of Perpignan.65 In this case, however, a dispute followed concerning the status of Guillem Coll; the lord of Vilaclara considered him a subject of his own, despite his occasionally residing in Perpignan. This situation was repeated in many different places, making it necessary to establish who could be considered a townsman, and therefore have the right to the benefits of this status. Throughout the course of the fourteenth century, across Catalonia, measures were introduced which made it necessary for townsmen or citizens to verify their place of residence, or at least their preferred place of residence, as well as where they would pay their taxes and, in some cases, where they would contribute to, and participate in, local festivities and civic ceremonies. A demonstrable increase in population gave the particular municipality power in its dealings. This explains why every town and city took action to prevent depopulation and strove to attract immigrants by offering privileges and protection to newcomers.66

Municipality and Region

Leaving aside stereotypes of what separated urban and rural economies and societies, the medi­eval town or city can only be understood in relation to its role presiding over a hinterland. This fits in with Mieres’s view of Catalonia in the fifteenth century: the sum of a dozen cities and towns presiding over their respective territories.67 In fact, it could 61  Girona, Arxiu Històric de la Ciutat de Girona, I.1.2.1, folder 3, book 1, fol. 1r.

62  Joaquim Miret i Sans, “Les repressàlies a Catalunya en l’edat mitjana,” Revista Jurídica de Catalunya 31 (1925): 289–417. 63  Flocel Sabaté, El sometent a la Catalunya medi­eval (Barcelona, 2007).

64  Cervera, Arxiu Històric Comarcal de Cervera, Clavari, 1338, fols. 45v–46r.

65  Perpignan, Archives départementales des Pyrénées-Orientales 1B–158, fols. 108r–116v. 66  Sabaté, El territori de la Catalunya medi­eval, 168–69.

67  Francesc de Paula Maspons, “Fisonomia del Dret Públic Català,” Revista Jurídica de Catalunya 36 (1930): 335.

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not have been otherwise. From the very first moment, the urban elite invested in rural properties of the urban hinterland and assumed a wide range of rights, incomes, and even jurisdiction in these areas. At the same time, the inhabitants of these rural areas used the services provided by the towns and cities, where they were able to participate in the redistributive function of markets, obtain credit, or enjoy the services of notaries, authorities, and legal and religious authorities. So understood, it was only natural for areas of influence to emerge whose dimensions were proportional to the draw of their respective urban nuclei, as well as the emergence of centres of capital, paving the way for pyramidal models of how the territory functioned. We can see this in correspondence of the period: while Prats de Rei acted as a centre for different places in the historic region of La Segarra, its local councillors communicated with the councillors of Cervera who, in turn, conferred with their peers in Lleida and Barcelona. It was by no means strange, therefore, that Barcelona not only addressed itself in writing “to the Royal Cities and Towns of the Principality of Catalonia” (a les Ciutats e viles Reyals del Principat de Cathalunya), but that it also sought to preside over the Crown of Aragon through its relationship with Zaragoza and Valencia.68 The stability of the territorial organization was only really achieved when the judicial and administrative authority adapted to this economic and practical reality on the ground. When, therefore, in 1301, James II divided the whole of Catalonia into various administrative districts called vicariates (­vegueries), the royal chancery simply placed a court under royal jurisdiction where there had previously been a socio-economic capital subject to the monarch’s jurisdiction. This adaptation to contemporary reality largely explains why this territorial organization of the country survived, with minor modifications, until the suppression of Catalonia’s medi­ eval institutions in 1716. The regional character remained stamped on the official names of the Catalan vegueries, the majority of which included the name of the capital and of the region itself: Vic i Osona; Tortosa i Ribera d’Ebre; Tarragona i el Camp; Vilafranca i Penedès; or Moià i Moianès, for instance.69 The urban elite also shaped the countryside: by growing crops there according to the demand for consumption or trade; by including peasant farmers in networks linked to the bourgeois elite; and, finally, by undoing any previous native structures.70 The region thus took on the image of its capital: adopting its weights and measures, as well as opening itself to infection by the same social factions based on group loyalties. The municipal governments in the capital cities did not rule solely over their own people. They did not think twice before taking measures that went beyond their own city boundaries to affect the whole of their area of influence. Examples of this included measures such as imposing limits to the circulation of certain products and on them leaving a given region, as often happened with wine and grain. These were decisions

68  Flocel Sabaté, Cerimònies fúnebres i poder municipal a la Catalunya baixmedi­eval (Barcelona, 2003), 9–14. 69  Flocel Sabaté, “La divisió territorial de Catalunya: les vegueries,” in Història Política, Societat i Cultura dels Països Catalans, ed. Borja de Riquer, 13 vols. (Barcelona, 1996), 3:304–5. 70  Josep Fernández i Trabal, Una família catalana medi­eval. Els Bell-lloc de Girona 1267–1533 (Barcelona, 1995), 264–68.



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that bound the region to its capital, which usually benefitted the latter. They could be applied, for example, to impose the priority of supply and access to basic products, or when threatened by war they could force people from the surrounding villages to take refuge, with their food, within the city’s walls. Significantly, the sovereign accepted this reality and agreed to deal with the capital over matters that affected the whole region. Whether these were fiscal demands or military duties, all such questions were managed from the respective regional centres.71 By imposing boundaries in line with the radii of influence of the socio-economic capitals, the urban centres began to adopt these demarcations as their own. This worked in the interests of the same urban elite. Accordingly, the officials in the constituent districts, although appointed by the relevant jurisdictional lords, were always supported by the municipal governments as if they were their own. The Catalan vicariates (vegueries) were regal entities, dependent upon the monarch, and governed by his representative, but their boundaries were negotiated by the councils that sat in the district capitals. When there was an argument concerning the boundaries between the vicariate of Berga and Berguedà and that of Manresa and Bages, or between the latter and Cervera, or between the latter and the sub-vicariate of Igualada and Conca d’Ò� dena, these disputes were therefore taken before the respective municipal governments: Berga and Manresa, Manresa and Cervera, and Cervera and Igualada, who sought an agreement. In fact, the gradual increase in the power of the urban nuclei may have resulted in them wielding control beyond the boundaries of what had been their initial administrative envelopes. This situation led the local authorities of some big towns and cities to seek new territorial definitions and enhanced administrative power more in keeping with socio-economic reality. As a result, Girona claimed its position as capital of its diocese; Perpignan sought to become the capital of the counties of Roussillon and Cerdanya; and Barcelona claimed the role of capital of the vicariates of Barcelona and Vallès.72 In 1366, the Infante Joan had to remind the district official (the vicar or veguer) of Girona that La Bisbal, Rupià, and Bàscara all formed part of his demarcation, despite their being under full jurisdictional control of the bishop of Girona.73 This shows the problem when the two radii did not coincide: the city had established a radius of influence around itself based on its role as the socio-economic capital, but it did not match the different administrative realities, a common refrain in fourteenth-century Catalonia. Royal officials could not act in parts of their districts where jurisdiction did not belong to the king. Often, far from collaborating, different jurisdictions would actively block each other. This meant, for instance, that it could be impossible to reclaim unpaid debts or breaches of contract peasant farmers had with the urban elite. The consequences 71  Flocel Sabaté, “Els eixos articuladors del territori medi­eval català,” in L’estructuració territorial de Catalunya. Els eixos cohesionadors de l’espai, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Barcelona, 2000), 61–65.

72  Flocel Sabaté, “Limites et villes dans la Catalogne médiévale,” in Reconnaître et delimiter l’espace localement au Moyen Âge, ed. Nacima Baron, Stéphane Boissellier, François Clément, and Flocel Sabaté (Lille, 2016), 181–87.

73  Josep Maria Pons Guri, “El conflicte de la notaria de Girona,” in Reculls d’Estudis d’Història Jurídica Catalana, 4 vols. (Barcelona, 1989), 1:69.

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of this could be devastating, as occurred at Manresa in 1350 and at Girona in 139674 when the local authorities protested to the king: “the people of your cities and towns cannot follow up debts or any of the other things they demand in the places within the said alien jurisdictions.”75 As a result, municipal governments were the main bodies pushing for administrative homogeneity. There was no specific agreement with the monarch at the expense of the lords, as has naively been suggested by some historians. Their objective was always to seek the minimum degree of exemption in order to maintain a homogeneous jurisdiction within the region of urban influence. This meant that during the second half of the fourteenth century76 and, above all, around the turn of the fifteenth century, municipal governments began to apply policies of jurisdictional recovery in favour of the crown.77 As the villages affected were required to pay for this return to administrative homogeneity, they were compensated with guarantees that included protection from the main town or city in their region. This explains why we see recurrent jurisdictional formulae such as the neighbourhood (veinatge) or the “right to the street” (carreratge), since they allowed these places to be officially treated as members of the city or town, with all the associated privileges and protections.78 The towns and cities responsible for the respective regions, as a result of these measures, ended up wielding enormous power. They therefore began to arm themselves with powerful artillery and head their network of dependent settlements or those linked to them through the carreratge. Rallying troops from the hinterland would convert their urban armies into much more dangerous assets than the forces of the barons, even if they were mentioned as military forces. This was particularly clear in mid-fifteenthcentury Catalonia, just before the outbreak of civil war. But this demonstration of urban power was accompanied by municipal discourses that no longer spoke of controlling their local region, but of legitimizing power and sovereignty.79

Power and Sovereignty

The common good that officially guided the municipal commune required providing benefits to all. This discourse envisaged everyone advancing together towards greater weal (bene esse), perfection (optime esse), and good (bonum), all of which would guar74  Flocel Sabaté, “Municipio y monarquí�a en la Cataluña bajomedi­eval,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medi­eval 13 (2000–2002): 265–66.

75  “Per ço com les gents de les ciutats e viles vostres no poden aver no conseguir deutes ne altres coses que demanen en los lochs de les dites alienades jurisdiccions.” Cited from Cortes de Cataluña, 7 vols. (Madrid, 1896), 1:439. 76  Flocel Sabaté, “Discurs i estratègies del poder reial a Catalunya al segle XIV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 25 (1995): 635–38.

77  Maria Teresa Ferrer, “El patrimonio reial i la rescuperació dels senyorius jurisdiccionals en els estats catalano-aragonesos a la fi del segle XIV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 7 (1971): 351–492. 78  Flocel Sabaté, “Igualada, carrer de Barcelona,” Revista d’Igualada 4 (2000): 7–11.

79  Flocel Sabaté, “Barcelona. The Building of a Territorial and Ideo­logical Capital,” Viator 48, no. 1 (2017): 107–18.



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antee a peaceful social order.80 Traditional historio­graphy believed this to be fact in Catalonia: “patrician government, like all good government, was that of an oligarchy whose interests exactly coincided with those of the country. Their personal affairs progressed in harmony with those of Catalonia, without causing any animosity or jealousy, because, ultimately, they all sought the common good.”81 Reality, however, was entirely different. Economics underlay the urban lineages, and booms and busts resulted from their success, or otherwise, in the management of their patrimony and in their marital strategies. In view of this, those who held power tried to safeguard their positions and block the path for those on the rise. This caused tensions and justified the different reforms applied to the composition of local governments during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.82 These social tensions came on top of those with the other estates in society. Both the clergy and the lords tended to prefer urban life,83 but they used to avoid paying taxes, citing the privileges inherent to their respective statuses.84 Moreover, the Christianity that emerged from the Gregorian reform, fed on Aristotelian realism, was increasingly an integrating force in society. This made peaceful coexistence with unassimilable minorities, such as Muslims and, even more so, Jews, more and more difficult. The latter, who were accused of deicide, were subjected to growing marginalization through both popular attitudes and municipal by-laws.85 The Jews lost their comfortable economic position and physically segregated,86 and the Jewish quarters became increasingly unhygienic in the fifteenth century.87 The Alhambra Decree of 1492 was the culmination 80  M. S. Kempshall, The Commom Good in Late Medi­eval Political Thought (Oxford, 1999), 347–62.

81  “El govern dels patricis, com tot bon govern, fou el d’una oligarquia els interessos de la qual coincidien exactament amb els del paí�s. Llurs afers personals marxaven d’acord amb els de Catalunya, sense promoure animadversions ni gelosies, perquè, en definitiva, procuraven el bé comú.” Cited from Jaume Vicens Vives, Els Trastàmares (segle XV) (Barcelona, 1988), 32.

82  Flocel Sabaté, “Oligarchies and Social Fractures in the Cities of Late Medi­eval Catalonia,” in Oligarchy and Patronage in Late Medi­eval Spanish Urban Society, ed. Marí�a Asenjo-González (Turnhout, 2009), 1–19.

83  Salimbene de Adam expressed surprise about France, where “the nobles lived in their rural possessions” (nobiles morantur in villis et possessionibus suis). Cited from Salimbene de Adam, Cronica, ed. Giuseppe Scalia, 2 vols. (Bari, 1966), 1:318.

84  Flocel Sabaté, “L’augment de l’exigència fiscal en els municipis catalans al segle XIV. elements de pressió i de resposta,” in Col·loqui Corona, Municipis i Fiscalitat a la Baixa Edat Mitjana, ed. Manuel Sánchez and Antoni Furió (Lleida, s.d.), 455–58. 85  Flocel Sabaté, “L’ordenament municipal de la relació amb els jueus a la Catalunya baixmedi­ eval,” in Cristianos y judíos en contacto en la Edad Media. Polémica, conversión, dinero y convivència, ed. Flocel Sabaté and Claude Denjean (Lleida, 2009), 733–804. 86  Flocel Sabaté, “L’espace des minorités ethniques et religieuses: les juifs dans les villes catalanes au Bas Moyen-Â� ge,” in Morpho­logie urbaine et identité sociale dans la ville médiévale hispanique, ed. Flocel Sabaté and Christian Guilleré (Chambéry, 2012), 231–86.

87  Susana M. Likerman de Portnoy “El mundo í�ntimo de los sefardí�es en las aljamas castellanas, siglos XIV–XV: encuentros y desencuentros intracomunitarios,” Estudios de Historia de España 5 (1996): 72–74.

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of a process of growing persecution, forcing Jews to opt finally between conversion or expulsion; the majority chose the latter.88 This situation was further destabilized by a significant vertical fracture in city life: the existence of rival factions. In each town or city, people became aligned into different groups based on ties such as “friends and family” (amici et parenti) and to whom people would look for support under adverse circumstances. This often gave rise to an escalating spiral of feuds and intimidatory acts that upset local coexistence and called the official institutions into question.89 As long as these factions formed part of a social, anthropo­logical structure, no one sought their elimination, but instead tried to sooth tensions by means of pacts and truces. In this way, efforts were made to keep the city from gaining a bad reputation. This was particularly important as street violence hurt economic activity and could even cause emigration. Great care was taken of the image projected to the outside world in order to aid economic growth and political interests. Municipal governments went to great lengths to ensure that their respective lords should receive the impression of a harmonious population, in the most politically convenient sense of the term. To this end, not only did they carefully prepare ceremonies, such as funerals, births, or celebrations, to express an apparent collective sentiment, but they also took many other measures to demonstrate communal harmony, and hide the true sentiments that actually existed amongst the local populace.90 Supporting the same strategy, heraldic signs that represented the city91 were displayed on the canopies used at these ceremonies and highlighted in relief at key points such as on symbolic gallows,92 or on fountains, at markets, on walls, and at gates, as well as on the municipal building. Likewise, stamps and illuminations on books were all applied with the intention of highlighting and emphasizing municipal power.93 The image of power needed to be projected via monumental decorations, but this must be done with order and beauty. In 1426, new placing of the tables at a butcher’s shop in Terrassa was carried out “to embellish the said town.”94 This also formed part of the program explicitly adopted by the municipal council of València: “it is official policy to 88  Flocel Sabaté, “Jewish Neighbourhoods in Christian Towns (Catalonia, Late Middle Ages),” in Intrincate Interfaith Networks in the Middle Ages. Quotidian Jewish-Christian Contacts, ed. Ephrain Shoham-Steiner (Turnhout, 2016), 178–81. 89  Flocel Sabaté, “Les factions dans la vie urbaine de la Catalogne du XIV siècle,” in Histoire et archéo­logie des terres catalanes au Moyen Âge, ed. Philippe Sénac (Perpignan, 1995), 339–65. 90  Flocel Sabaté, Lo senyor rei és mort! (Lleida, 1994), 219–64.

91  Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, “Du modèle à l’image. les signes de l’identité urbaine au moyen Â� ge,” in Le verbe, l’image et les représentations de la société urbaine au Moyen Âge, ed. Marc Boone, Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, and Jean-Pierre Sosson (Antwerpen, 2002), 189–205. 92  Flocel Sabaté, “La pena de muerte en la Cataluña bajomedi­eval,” Clío & Crimen 4 (2008): 117–276.

93  Christian de Merindol, “Représentations du pouvoir urbain. sceaux, décors monumentaux, bibliothèques d’échevinage,” in La ville au Moyen Âge, ed. Noël Coulet and Olivier Guyotjeannin (Paris, 1998), 569–84.

94  “Per embelliment de la dita vila.” Cited from Salvador Cardús, Ordinacions de bon govern de la batllia de Terrassa (1299–1625) (Barcelona, 2000), 127.



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embellish the city with public places and decorate it, particularly a city as remarkable and well-known as this one.”95 The image presented, the power displayed, and the capacity to exert pressure, linked to its economic resources, made it possible for a town or city to embark upon negotiations with the lord or even the sovereign himself. It was important to obtain the best privileges, those that would strengthen its activities and safeguards, emphasize its influence and control over its hinterland, and would also have an impact upon general policy. A medium-sized town like Piera, in 1351, was able to improve its general affairs by promising to provide economic support to the king for him to conquer Alghero, on Sardinia, in exchange for the commitment not to give, sell, borrow, or mortgage the place in future.96 Such actions should not be interpreted as economic abuse of a weak sovereign, but as part of an alternative discourse to that invoked by the monarch, who sought to place himself at the core of society, by the grace of God. The local governments believed they were directly linked to the roots of the society, as Francesc Eiximenis wrote: For as long as communities have existed, men have been divided by houses [...]. And since then, with men being separated, they have sought to improve the community by improving their status, so that they, having formed communities, should not be deprived of freedom, as freedom is one of the excellent principals that free men should have.97

The consequence of this was also highlighted by Eiximenis: “Once the communities are themselves free, as stipulated in the first point, each community should be able to choose the lord that it wants, if it should choose that this be under a prince, let it be so; if it should be under some other temporal regime, then another way should be sought.” In any case, the community held a pre-eminent position over the ruler, “because the community did not choose lordship out of love for the ruler, but chose the ruler out of love for itself.”98 It was no wonder, therefore, that the Catalan Estates should be presented before the king as the representatives of the “land,”99 a position they were able to confirm, 95  “Sia cosa polí�tica enbellir la ciutat de lochs públics e decorar aquella, majorment en aquesta ciutat axí� insigne e notable.” Cited from Marí�a Milagros Cárcel, “Vida y urbanismo en la Valencia del siglo XV. Regesta documental,” Miscel·lània de Textos Medi­evals 6 (1992): 255. 96  “No pusca donar, vendre, manlevar ne per lonch temps empenyorar.” Cited from Flocel Sabaté, “Història medi­eval,” in Història de Piera (Lleida, 1999), 214.

97  “Ans que les comunitats fossen, estaven los hòmens separats per cases [...]. E com lavors, estant axí� los hòmens separats, proposassen de ffer comunitat per millor estament llur, donchs ells, aprés que hagueren fetes comunitats, no.s privaren de libertat, com la libertat sia una de les principals excel·lències qui sien en los hòmens franchs.” Cited from Eiximenis, Dotzè Llibre del Crestià. Primera part. Volum primer, 337 (chap. 156).

98  “Pus que les comunitats de si matexes són franques, axí� com diu lo primer punt, segueix-se que cascuna comunitat poch elegir senyoria aytal com se volch, si·s volch que fos sots prí�ncep, si·s vol sots regiment de alguns de si matexa a temps,si·s vol per altra via [...] car la comunitat no alagí� senyoria per amor del regidor, mas elegí� regidor per amor de si matexa.” Cited from Eiximenis, Dotzè Llibre del Crestià. Primera part. Volum primer, 337–38 (chap. 156).

99  Flocel Sabaté, “L’idéel politique et la nation catalane. la terre, le roi et le mythe des origins,” in La légitimité implicite, ed. Jean-Philippe Genet, 2 vols. (Paris – Rome, 2015), 2:113–40.

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in the second half of the fourteenth century, when a permanent disputation from the parliament (Diputació General) was established.100 While the noble estate justified its position, rights, and ability to rule the people (regiment de gents),101 the municipalities monopolized the parliamentary representation, employing formulas by which, as leaders of the Estates, they became able to choose the prince, or even depose him, as happened in the Catalan interregnum (1410–1412) in what was called the Sentence of Caspe,102 and in the civil war of 1462–1472.103

The Medi­eval Legacy

The medi­eval legal system, with the notion of power based on its balance between different social groups, and a legal system subject to privileges and freedoms, enabled economic and social evolution. It gained its justification through a form of Christianity that was invigorated by both Aristotelian realism and spiritualism, and which was, in any case, well-adapted to the social and economic needs of the late medi­eval period. This produced a society that was Christian, bourgeois, and market-oriented, and as genuinely medi­eval as other familiar models purporting to encapsulate what was typical of the era. If we perceive the Middle Ages as only occupied by feudal lords, Weber could argue that capitalism could only emerge as a major rupture as a product of Protestant morality and ethics.104 As Todeschini joked, we need not go to the opposite extreme and claim the Franciscans as the inventors of capitalism,105 but we can appreciate that in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries a specific economic theory was developed that combined Christian ethics, favoured political participation, and the ideal of the common good.106 This ideal dominated until the period after the Council of Trent.107 This way of thinking places human beings within their own identities and deeply immersed in the social community. This “res publica” is the natural habitat of the human being. It is a very different theory from the one which became dominant in later centu100  Tomàs de Montagut, Les institucions fiscalitzadores de la Generalitat de Catalunya (Des dels seus orígens fins a la reforma de 1413) (Barcelona, 1996), 47–126.

101  José Á� ngel Sesma, “La noblesa bajomedi­eval y la formación del estado moderno en la Corona de Aragón,” in La noblesa peninsular en la Edad Media. VI Congreso de Estudios Medi­evales (Avila, 1999), 372–77.

102  Flocel Sabaté, “Per què hi va haver un Compromí�s de Casp?,” in Els valencians en el Compromís de Casp i en el Cisme d’Occident, ed. Ricard Bellveser (Valencia, 2013), 45–119.

103  Flocel Sabaté, “El poder soberano en la Cataluña bajomedi­eval. definición y rupture,” in Coups d’État à la fin du Moyen Âge? Aux fondements du pouvoir politique en Europe occidentale, ed. François Foronda, Jean-Philippe Genet, and José Manuel Nieto (Madrid, 2005), 509–15. 104  Max Weber, L’ètica protestant i l’esperit del capitalisme (Barcelona, 1994).

105  Todeschini, Richesse franciscaine, 9.

106  Walter Ullmann, Historia del pensamieneto político en la Edad Media (Barcelona, 1983), 190–216.

107  Odd Langholm, “The Economic Ethics of the Mendicant Orders. A Paradigm and a Legacy,” in Etica e politica: le teorie dei frati mendicanti nel due e trecento. Atti del XXVI Convegno internazionale (Assisi, 15–17 ottobre 1998) (Spoleto, 1999), 155–72.



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ries, which interpreted the State as a product of the sacrifice of the individual freedom of the members of the society.108 This medi­eval political legacy and a sense of communitybased collective positions clashed, during the modern era, with the very different models associated with Absolutism.109 In late medi­eval Catalonia, the wealth of the urban elites contrasted with the limited resources of the sovereign;110 meanwhile the country was heavily influenced by the ideas of political participation that came from Europe.111 We have seen the emergence of an urban bourgeois collective, one that then gained an elite role among the other social groups in Catalan society. At the same time, this development was related to the cohesion of the country and to the creation of a common identity during the Late Middle Ages. The representative power attained by the Catalan bourgeois elites reached a level whereby they spoke on behalf of the people before the king,112 and the legacy of this can be seen in political tensions into modern times.113

108  Josep Olives, “Del pactisme medi­eval al contractualisme modern,” Finestrelles 6 (1994): 238–39.

109  Marie Gaille-Nikodimov, ed., Le gouvernement mixte. De l’idéal politique au monstre constitutionnel en Europe (XIIIe–XVIIe siècle) (Saint-É� tienne, 2005).

110  Flocel Sabaté, “Expressões da representatividade social na Catalunha tardomedi­eval,” in Identidades e fronteiras no Medioevo Ibérico, ed. Fátima Regina Fernandes (Curitiba, 2013), 49–90. 111  Alain Boureau, “Pierre de Jean Olivi et l’émergence d’une théorie contractuelle de la royauté au XIIIè siècle,” in Représentation, pouvoir et royauté à la fin du Moyen Âge (Paris, 1995), 174.

112  Flocel Sabaté, “The Medi­eval Roots of Catalan Identity,” in Historical Analysis of the Catalan Identity, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Bern, 2015), 29–104.

113  Antoni Simon i Tarrés, Els orígens ideològics de la revolució catalana de 1640 (Barcelona, 1999); Antoni Simon i Tarrés, Construccions polítiques i identitats nacionals. Catalunya i els orígens de l’estat modern espanyol (Barcelona, 2005).

Chapter 12

CULTURE AND MARKS OF IDENTITY AMONG THE SOCIAL OUTCASTS AND CRIMINALS OF LATE MEDI­EVAL SPAIN RICARDO CÓRDOBA

Social exclusion in

late medi­eval Spain had many faces: permanent or even occasional economic hardship, which sometimes led to begging and public shame; sickness, especially if it involved a contagious or repugnant illness, such as leprosy or syphilis; immoral or inappropriate sexual habits that clashed with the prevalent social norm, such as concubinage, prostitution, and homosexuality; among women, estrangement and separation from the direct support of the kinship group of origin, which often forced them to resort to prostitution, concubinage, or domestic service; criminal and violent conduct that fractured the social peace; and loss of identity, a situation that often affected pilgrims, foreigners, exiles, and rootless people in general, who frequently turned into outlaws, outcasts, and undesirable elements wherever they went.1 The main feature common to all these groups was their position of social, moral, and ideo­logical alterity with regard to the rest of society. The main cause for this alterity was, no doubt, the fear they inspired among the rest of the population: fear of losing control over the social norm, of being exposed to bad moral examples and physical danger, of contagion, of crime, and poverty. In his analysis of the European Middle Ages, Bob Moore defined this feeling of fear as the anxiety suffered by the privileged towards those on whom their privilege rests, and its inevitable conclusion is the construction of exclusive categories.2 One of the foremost specialists in the study of social exclusion in Spain during the Modern Age wondered some time ago whether it is possible to talk about a culture of the excluded, a culture that developed independently from that of the majority. Or is it more appropriate, as Brosnilaw Geremek does, to talk about a subculture, the construction of a culture “in opposition to” that which we could similarly term a counter-culture or

1  Ricardo Córdoba, “Marginación social y criminalización de las conductas en la sociedad hispana bajomedi­eval,” Medi­evalismo 13–14 (2004): 193–232; Ricardo Córdoba, “La ruta hacia el abismo. Factores de marginación y de exclusión social en el mundo bajomedi­eval,” in Ricos y Pobres: opulencia y desarraigo en el Occidente Medi­eval (Pamplona, 2010), 367–94; Ricardo Córdoba, “Los caminos de la exclusión en la sociedad medi­eval: pecado, delito y represión. La Pení�nsula Ibérica (siglos XIII al XVI),” in Los caminos de la exclusión en la sociedad medi­eval: pecado, delito y represión, ed. Esther López Ojeda (Logroño, 2012), 13–50.

2  Robert Ian Moore, La formación de una sociedad represora. Poder y disidencia en la Europa occidental, 950–1250 (Barcelona, 1989), 114–18.

Ricardo Córdoba ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidad de Córdoba, Spain.

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an imitative subculture?3 For his part, Juan Miguel Mendoza, in his magnificent study of criminality in La Mancha in the Late Middle Ages, claimed that The coexistence of those who live outside the law generates complicities, the transmission of knowledge and tricks and cover-ups, and this progressively results in the emergence of a body of professional criminals, with its own laws and customs, their own way to understand solidarity and mutual assistance, their own lexicon, a body which aspires to, and eventually succeeds in, creating their own space in the great cities of the Modern Age.4

Did the repression of crime, illness, and dishonest conduct, along with the mutual recognition of those being repressed, contribute to the emergence of alternative forms of identity? Those who share the same misfortunes, punishments, ailments, and miserable dwellings can be united by strong bonds. According to Nilda Guglielmi, society often forced those who could not be trusted to wear distinctive signs, but just as often those who chose to remain outside the boundaries of “normal” society wore these signs voluntarily, as a badge of mutual recognition.5 What were the main cultural markers of these groups? Why were they adopted? Was the decision to sport them the result of the pressure exerted by the dominant group, or the vindication of a distinct identity? One of the clearest markers was the physical separation of the outcast from the social majority. According to Bernard, places frequented, voluntarily or otherwise, by members of marginal groups operated as platforms for the construction and transmission of identity marks.6 A classic example is the clustering of certain groups in ghettos or urban areas separate from the districts inhabited by the dominant group. This is, for example, the case with brothels, which in all European cities from the fourteenth century onwards were distinctly segregated. The separation of prostitutes from the rest of society not only affected those working in “official” brothels, but also those who worked independently, who were displaced to remote streets, generally near the city walls, or forbidden altogether to ply their trade outside brothels. This issue has been thoroughly researched by Francisco Vázquez in Seville, Marí�a Teresa López Beltrán for Málaga and other towns in the former Kingdom of Granada, and Vicente Graullera, whose magnificent works focus on one of the most emblematic cases of prostitution in the fifteenth century: the brothel of Valencia.7 3  Bernard Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados en la Europa de la época moderna,” in Furor et rabies. Violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad Moderna, ed. José Ignacio Fortea, Juan Eloy Gelabert, and Tomás Antonio Mantecón (Santander, 2002), 340.

4  “La convivencia de los que viven al margen de la ley genera complicidades, transmisión de mañas y saberes, encubrimientos, y todo esto va dando lugar a que vaya tomando cuerpo una clase delincuente profesional, con sus propias leyes y costumbres, con su forma particular de entender la solidaridad y de ofrecerse ayuda mutua, con su propio vocabulario, que aspira, y cada vez lo va consiguiendo en mayor medida, a crear su propio espacio en las grandes ciudades de la edad moderna.” Cited from Juan Miguel Mendoza Garrido, Delincuencia y represión en la Castilla bajomedi­eval (Granada, 1999), 531. 5  Nilda Guglielmi, Marginalidad en la Edad Media (Buenos Aires, 1998), 15.

6  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 342.

7  Marí�a Teresa López Beltrán, La prostitución en el reino de Granada a finales de la Edad Media (Málaga, 2003), 91–120; Marí�a Teresa López Beltrán, “La prostitución consentida y la homo­ sexualidad reprimida,” in Los caminos de la exclusión en la sociedad medi­eval. pecado, delito y



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Another good example of the physical separation of the outcast is constituted by the institutions created for the internment, shelter, and “reform” of prostitutes and other women sinners. The purpose of these institutions, which were closely supervised by the public institutions, was to keep them away from their licentious ways; examples of these “houses of the repentant” (casas de arrepentidas) for prostitutes include the convents of Arrepentidas, in Valencia, Santa Marí�a Egipciaca, in Barcelona, and similar houses in Cuenca and Valladolid. Over time, these institutions evolved into the Galeras or prisons for women sinners of the Modern Age.8 Around this time, other institutions began to proliferate, institutions in which infectious patients and dangerous lunatics were held: lazaretos for lepers, located outside the city walls; lunatic asylums, such as the Hospital of Caridad de Jesucristo, founded in Córdoba in the late fifteenth century; and hospitals which specialized in treating syphilis, such as the Monastery of Guadalupe.9 Obviously, in this category we must also include prison, the quintessential meeting point for criminals, asocial elements of society, vagrants, gamblers, and fraudsters, all mixed in promiscuity and misery. This has led to the definition of prison (not only for this period, but for all times) as a true “school of crime,”10 in which seasoned criminals teach youngsters their techniques, showing them how to perfect their practice, accustoming them to “bad company” with whom to commit new crimes. Geremek claimed that the origin of many criminals was in that first act of robbery committed against their employers while still apprentices, servants, or housemaids; this first act helped them to shake off their reservations towards crime, to show them a way of life easier than hard work, and, mostly, during their first prison sentence, to meet veteran criminals from whom to learn new tricks and new ways to steal or to deceive.11 These groups had not only their own neighbourhoods and streets, but also their own taverns and inns, hubs for the exchange of illicit information, gambling, and other forms of pleasure. Tomás Mantecón compiled numerous sermons and admonitory texts warning against the dangers of frequenting taverns and drinking to excess.12 For example, Valencian ruffians spent their day going from tavern to tavern, gambling, causing trouble, and committing small robberies along the way;13 in Vizcaya (Biscay), the taverns on some remote roads and in uninhabited areas were shut down because they attracted

represión, ed. Esther López Ojeda (Logroño, 2012), 151–4; Vicente Graullera, “Los marginados en la Corona de Aragón,” in Furor et rabies. Violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad Moderna, ed. José Ignacio Fortea, Juan Eloy Gelabert, and Tomás Antonio Mantecón (Santander, 2002), 301; Teresa Vinyoles Vidal, “Espais marginals a la Barcelona baixmedi­eval,” in El món urbà a la Corona d’Aragó del 1137 als decrets de Nova Planta. XVII Congrés d’Història de la Corona d’Aragó, ed. Salvador Claramunt, 3 vols. (Barcelona, 2003), 2: 460. 8  Córdoba, “Los caminos de la exclusión,” 43–44; Graullera, “Los marginados,” 301–7.

9  Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 117–32.

10  “Escuela de crimen.” Cited from Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 343.

11  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 343; Bronislaw Geremek, Los marginados en el París medi­eval (Barcelona, 1987), 118. 12  Tomás Antonio Mantecón, Conflictividad y disciplinamiento social en la Cantabria del Antiguo Régimen (Santander, 1997), 99. 13  Graullera, “Los marginados,” 309.

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miscreants and highwaymen;14 finally, the city of Granada issued constant orders concerning the taverns, which were frequented by “men who, lured by vice, abandon wife and children and go to the tavern to eat and drink, [...] good slaves who get drunk and turn bad,” prostitutes, foreigners, and vagrants.15 In addition to all this, these taverns, both on the roadsides and in the cities, were frequently assaulted by highwaymen.16 There is abundant evidence for certain areas being used as meeting points for gangsters: in Seville, they met at the Arenal, between the city wall and the river, Tablada, and Triana. In 1495, a law officer from Córdoba followed several suspects to Seville, and in his report declared to “have gone looking for them in inns, taverns, and brothels in the riverside and Triana,” in a faithful description of the most notorious criminal hotspots of the city.17 It seems, therefore, clear that outcasts tended to meet in well-defined places and that this was in itself a marker of identity. Sometimes the rest of society marked these locations openly, and the culture of those who frequented it was thus marked in explicit opposition to that of the dominant groups.18 On other occasions it was the outcasts themselves who went looking for this segregation as a mark of identity. Nida Guglielmi has pointed out that, for hermits, isolation was a sign of life, and Manuel Ruzafa claims that the segregation of Valencian Muslims in the Late Middle Ages was sought after by the Muslims themselves, who viewed separation as a way to protect their way of life, a subterfuge to maintain even a faint version of their culture, their mosque, their school, and their language.19 A clear sign of the force of group identities is the foundation, during the sixteenth century, of black brotherhoods, which attracted slaves and other black members of society and which allowed them to practise their customs, speak their language, and worship in their own way; the earliest of these brotherhoods was founded in Seville in the late fourteenth century, under the patronage of the Virgen de los Á� ngeles, and the second one was probably the brotherhood of the Rosary, created in Lisbon by the Dominicans in 1476.20 14  Iñaki Reguera, “Marginación y violencia armada: bandolerismo vasco y salteamiento de caminos en la crisis del Antiguo Régimen,” in Exclusión, racismo y xenofobia en Europa y América, ed. Ernesto Garcí�a Fernández (Vitoria, 2002), 162.

15  “Hombres que dejan a sus mujeres e hijos y por vicio se van a las tabernas a comer y beber, [...] esclavos que se emborrachan en ellas y de buenos esclavos se hacen malos.” Cited from Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 435.

16  Francisco Andújar, “Sobre los orí�genes del bandolerismo andaluz. Un proceso de 1638,” in Violencia y conflictividad en el universo barroco, ed. Julián José Lozano, Juan Luis Castellano (Granada, 2010), 276. 17  “Por los mesones, tabernas y mancebí�a, y por la Ribera y en Triana.” Cited from Emilio Cabrera, “Crimen y castigo en Andalucí�a a fines de la Edad Media,” Meridies. Revista de Historia Medi­eval 1 (1994): 22. Bernard Vincent, “Les marginalités sévillanes au XVIe siècle,” in Séville, vingt siècles d’Histoire, ed. Bernard Lavalle (Bordeaux, 1992), 73–84. 18  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 344.

19  Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 16; Manuel Ruzafa, “Los mudéjares, una comunidad social excluida. El ejemplo de Valencia y la Corona de Aragón en la Baja Edad Media,” in Exclusión, racismo y xenofobia en Europa y América, ed. Ernesto Garcí�a Fernández (Vitoria, 2002), 111. 20  Bernard Vincent, “Representaciones del negro en la Pení�nsula Ibérica. Siglos XV–XVII,” in



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Although in comparison to what has just been discussed it may sound somewhat contradictory, a nomadic life, an existence with no recognizable roots, could also in itself be a sign of identity. Rheinheimer stressed how important the rejection of sedentarism was for the poor and the outcast; itinerant day-labourers, peddlers, and shepherds were often accused of all manner of immoral and unlawful behaviour.21 Foreigners lived under a constant shadow of suspicion, which was a direct consequence of the fact that they were individuals outside the local people’s immediate control: nobody knew who they were, they had no fixed abode, and their activities were not easily monitored by the authorities or the public.22 In Juan Miguel Mendoza’s words, “poverty caused mobility, mobility caused rootlessness, rootlessness caused marginality and rejection, and this, in the Early Modern Age, became a vicious circle from which it was very difficult to escape.”23 In this way, the authorities and the dominant social groups established a direct relationship between vagabondage and delinquency, between nomadism and the formation of bands of brigands who threatened, assaulted, and raped, and were, in short, a threat to everyone else.24 According to Bronislaw Geremek, in the Early Modern period there was a tendency among professional criminals to form groups and operate collectively. The most basic level of association was that of two men travelling together, taking occasional jobs, and committing a robbery here and there. Rheinheimer has also pointed out the importance of bands in the lifestyle of beggars, thieves, and miscreants in general, bands which he qualifies as “survival delinquent communities”25 and which could have as few as three members and as many as twenty.26 Mendoza presents two examples of this sort of association: a pair of men from Toledo, Miguel de Mora and Diego de Jaén, who were active in La Mancha in the 1520s, and a gang formed by five slaves (both white and black slaves), who acted together in the region of Campo de Calatrava, where they survived living in the open.27 Another classic example is the bands of highwaymen documented by Francisco Andújar in the hills of Málaga, which were formed by no more than twelve, Violencia y conflictividad en el universo barroco, ed. Julián José Lozano Navarro and Juan Luis Castellano (Granada, 2010), 46–47.

21  Martin Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos. La supervivencia en la necesidad, 1450–1850 (Madrid, 2009), 121–25; Mantecón Movellán, Conflictividad y disciplinamiento, 376.

22  Jean-Louis Goglin, Les misérables dans l’occident médiéval (Paris, 1976), 106; Ricardo Izquierdo, “La noche de Toledo en el siglo XV,” Toletum 30 (1994): 141–42.

23  “La pobreza genera movilidad, la movilidad desarraigo, el desarraigo marginación y ésta repulsión, creándose así� un cí�rculo vicioso del que a comienzos de la modernidad es muy difí�cil salir para los que entran en él.” Cited from Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 531. 24  Iñaki Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad en el País Vasco en la transición de la Edad Media a la Moderna (Vitoria, 1995), 162–65; Mantecón, Conflictividad y disciplinamiento, 379.

25  “Comunidades delincuentes de supervivencia.” Cited from Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 133–35 and 148–52. 26  Geremek, Los marginados, 110–27.

27  Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 350 and 532.

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sixteen, or twenty armed men. These bands, which always acted under the clear leadership of one man, relied for their survival upon the fear that they inspired in the population.28 Significantly, in the Middle Ages, crimes committed in a group were always regarded more severely, and punishments were accordingly harsher. Banditry has a lot in common with the lifestyle of gypsy communities: their nomadic life, their roaming of isolated and mountainous regions, and their independence from any form of control on the part of the local authorities was always a cause of concern for the agents of the law. Consequently, they were persecuted systematically, and they reacted by adopting some of the typical survival strategies of nomadic groups: endogamy, moving in large groups, and undertaking a mixture of legal and illegal economic activities.29 Hence, attempts were made to integrate the gypsies into the rest of society, to dilute them among the local inhabitants of towns and villages, and to force them to adopt lawful professions. They were also forbidden from roaming the roads and causing worry in the villages through which they passed.30 Another defining mark of marginal groups was their inclination to operate at night, under a mantle of darkness that facilitated their illegal operations.31 As Iñaki Bazán points out, the link between this love of darkness and their brawls and robberies is clear: it was easier to evade justice, the anonymity of perpetrators was more easily guaranteed, and it was harder to find witnesses.32 In fact, in Vitoria women were forbidden to go out at night to draw water from the fountains and the city gates remained closed between curfew and sunrise as a way of keeping foreigners out.33 Another characteristic of this marginal culture was the use of distinctive external signs, what Bronislaw Geremek has referred to as stigmata, signs worn by individuals or groups against their will, especially easily visible pieces of clothing.34 Prostitutes, for example, were made to wear yellow cloaks, saffron-coloured headdresses, dresses of vivid colours, jewels, and ostentatious make up; in Hamburg, according to the 1445 local ordinances, prostitutes were made to wear a yellow ribbon or veil, a colour which equated them with Jews and which was, therefore, particularly humiliating.35 With these external signs, good and bad women could be immediately recognized, and the 28  Andújar, “Sobre los orí�genes,” 264 and 277.

29  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 159–96; Reguera, “Marginación y violencia,” 154–55 and 175–76.

30  Enrique Martí�nez Ruiz, “Gobernantes, gitanos y legislación. Actitudes en el siglo XVIII ante un conflicto,” in Exclusión, racismo y xenofobia en Europa y América, ed. Ernesto Garcí�a Fernández (Vitoria, 2002), 119–25; Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 176–83.

31  Elisabeth Pavan, “Recherches sur la nuit vénitienne à la fin du Moyen Age,” Journal of Medi­eval History 7 (1981): 339–56; Izquierdo Benito, “La noche de Toledo,” 123–42; Jean Verdon, La nuit au moyen âge (Paris, 2003). 32  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 131–39.

33  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 142; Mendoza Garrido, Delincuencia y represión, 441–44.

34  Bronislaw Geremek, “Les stigmates de l’exclusion au Moyen Â� ge,” in L’Espai del Mal, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Lleida, 2005), 30–31. 35  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 61.



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former were admonished not to imitate the scandalous conduct of the latter.36 In some places, even the men who frequented prostitutes were forced to wear these distinctive signs: an ordinance passed in Valencia in the fourteenth century forced those ruffians who had business with prostitutes to wear a yellow hood.37 In the same way that prostitutes came to be recognized by some external accoutrement, beggars, the sick, and other errant people were made to wear some distinctive sign. In 1395, the city of Valencia published a municipal order that obliged beggars to wear a “a lead sign hung around the neck” supplied by the syndics, along with their licence to beg inside the city walls.38 The typical attire of lepers included bells and rattles with which they made their presence known and a white cloth around the neck or the head; the people who worked in leper colonies were also made to wear a red sleeve or an L-shaped sign on the chest.39 In Valencia, the lunatics in the Hospital de los Inocentes who were let out to beg had to wear a checked blue and yellow tunic.40 Finally, these external signs were also common among ethnic and religious minorities. Valencian Mudejares often wore a blue headscarf (tovallola) and had a distinctive haircut and beard (garçeta);41 among Jews, the forced use of the rota (generally red and white) and, especially, the pileum cornutum, a ridiculous (and, therefore, shameful) headdress, became increasingly common.42 Finally, at least from the sixteenth century, certain groups of criminals began to voluntarily wear signs of identity, for example, the montera among Andalusian bandits (signalling their origin as cowboys), along with other pieces of clothing such as their trousers and pistol-holsters.43 As we can see, the use of distinctive clothing acted as much as a voluntary sign of identity as did the use of notorious meeting places. The use of white lead powder, makeup, and perfume, along with colourful dresses, became so popular among prostitutes that, in some places, honest women ended up following suit, forcing the authorities to forbid the free use of certain garments. There is little doubt that Andalusian highwaymen wore their distinctive clothing with pride because it signalled their relationship with the wild, their ability to control their mounts, and their familiarity with the land.

36  Córdoba, “Los caminos de la exclusión,” 38–39; López Beltrán, La prostitución, 180–88.

37  Rafael Narbona, “El rey Arlot de Valencia. Poder público, desorden y rufianismo en el siglo XIV,” in Mujer, marginación y violencia entre la Edad Media y los tiempos modernos, ed. Ricardo Córdoba (Córdoba, 2006), 235. 38  “Una senyal de plom penjat al coll.” Cited from Graullera, “Los marginados,” 294. 39  Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 124–25.

40  Graullera, “Los marginados,” 298. 41  Ruzafa, “Los mudéjares,” 111.

42  Fernando Gutiérrez Baños, “Los marginados en la pintura española de estilo gótico lineal: un discurso iconográfico para la afirmación de valores establecidos,” in Relegados al margen. Marginalidad y espacios marginales en la cultura medi­eval, ed. Inés Monteira, Ana Belén Muñoz Martí�nez, and Fernando Villaseñor (Madrid, 2009), 195; Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 430–40. 43  Araceli Guillaume-Alonso, “Le brigand castillan du siècle d’or vu à travers les archives des ‘San­ tas Hermandades viejas’: essai de typo­logie,” in El bandolero y su imagen en el Siglo de Oro, ed. Juan Antonio Martí�nez Comeche (Madrid, 1989), 12; Andújar, “Sobre los orí�genes,” 278.

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These external signs may have had to coexist with others that were not quite so welcome, but which also acted as signs of recognition among the members of marginal communities. We are referring to shameful marks left on the bodies of delinquents by agents of the law (thieves who had their hands amputated, rapists of virgins, and aggressors in general who had their faces marked), which functioned as easy signs for recognizing members of the criminal underworld.44 Also in this category belong the marks left on the body by poverty, ill treatment, undernourishment, and illness. Along with the habitual use of dark-coloured clothing (black, brown, and grey), these were perceived, and sometimes vindicated, as the characteristic features of a culture that gloried in its difference.45 Martin Rheinheimer defined this culture as a “culture of scarcity,” a culture based on limited resources, few clothes, scarce food, no home, and no possessions.46 This scarcity and poverty were often portrayed in works of art. The poor can be recognized by the presence of recurrent attributes, among which nudity plays a central role, because in medi­eval society clothing was a direct expression of the position of an individual in the social structure: being naked was nothing less than declaring one’s position outside society while shabby clothes and an unkempt beard and hair, rags, dirt, or malnutrition, and thin, cheap, and dark garments were all characteristic of social outcasts.47 Generally, nudity and poverty were the result of situations of want, and therefore not a voluntary condition, but in the Late Middle Ages they became the life choice of Francis of Assisi and the followers of the multiple spiritual movements which aspired to imitate Christ, as a symbol of purity, charity, and detachment from worldly goods.48 Another element of identity for the members of the criminal underworld was the use of their own argot: slang was not only used to prevent them being understood by others when planning a robbery or a rendezvous, but also to trick victims and to show their membership of the criminal group.49 Their form of speech included turns of phrase which could not be grasped by those who were not members of this world (this may be the origin of calé, which is still spoken among gypsy communities), which were used alongside swearwords, aggressive expressions, blasphemies, and mocking language, 44  Córdoba, “Los caminos de la exclusión,” 40; Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 345–46; Augustin Redondo, “Mutilations et marques corporelles d’infamie dans la Castille du XVIe siècle,” in Le corps dans la société espagnole des XVIe et XVIIe siècles, ed. Augustin Redondo (Paris, 1990), 185–99. 45  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 346; Carmen López Alonso, La pobreza en la España medi­eval (Madrid, 1986), 644–45. 46  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 34.

47  López Alonso, La pobreza, 86–88; José Rodrí�guez Molina, “La pobreza como marginación y delito,” in Los marginados en el mundo medi­eval y moderno, ed. Marí�a Desamparados Martí�nez San Pedro (Almerí�a, 2000), 169; Gutiérrez Baños, “Los marginados en la pintura,” 189–90; Agustí�n Gómez Gómez, “Pecado y exclusión en la iconografí�a medi­eval,” in Los caminos de la exclusión en la sociedad medi­eval. pecado, delito y represión, ed. Esther López Ojeda (Logroño, 2012), 325–26. 48  Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 211–12.

49  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 348; Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 136–37.



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that is, anything that could be used to subvert and scandalize the dominant moral balance. Insulting others was a common way of asserting personal superiority and prestige, and it was a symbolic way to situate oneself publicly above the person being insulted. In 1377, a Valencian Jew was reported for calling another Jew “son of a Moor”; there is also the case of two Jewish women who, reportedly, called each other “poisoner” and “baptized Christian.”50 José Patricio Aldama suggests that the use of nicknames was a very common sign of identity among social outcasts, prostitutes, and criminals.51 Prostitutes were hardly ever known by their real name and surnames, but by a nickname which, generally, referred to their place of origin (the Catalonian, the Valencian, the Cordoban, the Morelian) or to a distinctive physical or personality feature (the brunette, the skinny, the marchioness).52 Nicknames were equally common among bandits and thieves: in 1599 in València there was a ruffian called Gil Navarro, alias matalafer; in Biscay, there was a highwayman called Juan José de Ibargoyen, alias Guiñi; and in Antequera, Bastián Moreno, the leader of a gang of bandits, was known as el manco.53 Special linguistic turns, gross language, and nicknames were not the only ways these social groups expressed themselves in order to draw a line between themselves and the rest of society. A generally defiant attitude was also characteristic, and involved provocative displays of street gangs and the outrageous and immoral behaviour of packs of youngsters and swarms of street urchins. There are numerous reports of groups of youngsters roaming the streets for fun, insulting people, keeping everyone awake with their indecent singing, slighting nobles and politicians, and even throwing stones at doors and windows. Sometimes they wore masks to protect their identity.54 Patricio Aldama has collected many examples from Biscay in the early modern period, where, for example, prostitutes used to lift their skirts and show their backsides as a sign of defiance and irreverence.55 These marginal groups were often engaged in illegal gambling and partying.56 Graullera points out that gamblers and blasphemers were treated in the same chapter in the Fuero of Valencia. Specifically, Rúbrica 21 of Book 3, enacted in 1403 by King Martin 50  “Hijo de mora”; “envenenadora”; “cristiana bautizada.” Cited from Ruzafa, “Los mudéjares,” 105; Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 256.

51  José Patricio Aldama, “Sexualidad, escándalo público y castigo en Bizkaia durante el Antiguo Régimen” (PhD diss., Universidad del Paí�s Vasco, 2015), 1383–88.

52  Marí�a del Carmen Garcí�a Herrero, “Una burla y un prodigio. El proceso contra la Morellana (Zaragoza, 1462),” Aragón en la Edad Media 13 (1997): 167–94; Graullera, “Los marginados,” 302; Marí�a Teresa López Beltrán, La prostitución en la época de los Reyes Católicos: el caso de Málaga (1487–1516) (Málaga, 1989), 112–19; Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 347.

53  Graullera, “Los marginados,” 309; Reguera, “Marginación y violencia,” 168–69; Andújar, “Sobre los orí�genes,” 262–63. 54  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 134–39; Rafael Narbona, Pueblo, poder y sexo. Valencia medi­eval (1306–1420) (Valencia, 1992), 53. 55  Aldama, “Sexualidad, escándalo,” 1024.

56  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 348–50.

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the Humane, referred to the act of swearing or blaspheming while gambling, and mentioning God, the Virgin, or “some ugly or shameful parts for swearing.” The Fuero also alludes to those who cheated habitually in card games (jugadors de ventatge), and their constant involvement in singing, dancing, and partying inside brothels.57 Mendoza has documented the presence in Toledo, in the early sixteenth century, of a gang of three professional gamblers who, apart from tricking other players, are reported to have led a life of licentiousness and dissolution.58 Black slaves, as well as gypsies and the Portuguese, were encouraged to sing and dance during processions. Juan de Mariana criticized this practice, claiming that “another recent fashion is the singing and dancing, so lascivious the words and so ugly the movements, that they are fit to feed the fire of the most honest person.”59 This link between gambling and partying is reinforced by the habit, also a mark of identity, of excessive drinking. Alfonso X’s Cantigas include numerous references to the relationship between drinking, illegal gambling, and sexual licentiousness and prostitution; the tavern, where all these activities took place, was thus presented as the counter model to the Christian mode of conduct.60 Those who lived in extreme poverty were easily led to break the rules, owing to the direct relationship between poverty, marginality, and crime, especially theft.61 It was also common for poverty to affect family life, as the man frustrated by poverty was sometimes likely to vent his frustration on those closer to him. Insults and ill treatment were the daily fare of beggars and criminals: dogs were often set on them and urinals emptied on their heads. Social relationships among them were based on violence and intimidation, which were marks of identity within the group.62 The use of disguises to get away with their mischief was another typical feature of the criminal world, especially among highwaymen and rural bandits: in 1595, a party of tailors was assaulted in Garraf, on the road to Valencia, by four men with fake beards and masks; in 1747, the muleteer Juan Benito, on his way to buy sugar in Alcalá de Henares, was assaulted by the gang of Gautxori, on the road between Amorebieta and Bilbao. The four attackers “had their faces covered with old masks; two carried shotguns and the other two, large clubs.”63 Similarly, it was common for delinquents to make themselves scarce right after committing a crime, be they domestic servants who had run 57  “Algunes parts leges o vergonyoses de jurar.” Cited from Graullera Sanz, “Los marginados,” 295–304. 58  Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 353–61 and 533.

59  “Entre otras invenciones ha salido estos años un baile y cantar tan lascivo en las palabras, tan feo en los meneos, que basta para pegar fuego aun en las personas más honestas.” Cited from Vincent, “Representaciones del negro,” 47. 60  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 193–97; Mantecón, Conflictividad y disciplinamiento, 100–102. 61  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 29–32.

62  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 47 and 140–41.

63  “Cubiertas las caras con unos pañuelos viejos muy usados, los dos de ellos con escopetas y los otros con sus palos largos.” Cited from Reguera Acedo, “Marginación y violencia,” 159; Graullera, “Los marginados,” 288.



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away from their master’s house after stealing something or professional criminals who crossed administrative borders in order to evade justice.64 In the same way that disguises were used in order to conceal identity, the faking of illnesses, physical defects, and disabilities was a common way to inspire pity, get more alms, or gain access to hospitals and shelters; sometimes, this was simply used as a cover to commit crimes with impunity. In 1590 Joan Gascó, born in France and thirty years old, declared that he had been faking a lame leg for seven years in order to inspire pity and get more alms. The Codex Calixtinus makes frequent mention of false beggars. According to Agustí�n Gómez, the aim of these fraudsters was to inspire pity and gain free accommodation in the shelters of the Camino de Santiago. Nilda Guglielmi has collected multiple examples of individuals who, in order to gain admittance to hospitals, faked some sort of illness or claimed to be poor.65 For this reason, some cities, for example Vitoria, created the office of supervisor of beggars and tried to keep an up-to-date list of poor people; that way, the genuine poor could be told apart from the fakes, and fraudsters could be kicked out of the village.66 Rheinheimer points out the importance in modern Europe of distinguishing between the good poor and the fake beggars, the liars, and the fraudsters: only those in the first category were considered worthy of help, whereas the other groups, the “professional poor,” the experts in faking maladies, were vilified for using disabilities as a “work tool.”67 References to the use of the tonsure among criminals, in the hope of being judged by an ecclesiastical tribunal in case of capture, also exist.68 Finally, the close relationship that existed between these groups and arms needs to be stressed. In fact, carrying personal arms was common among all social classes, including “normal” social groups. However, their use among social outcasts was more widespread: arms came out on the slightest of pretexts, and, it seems, were used skilfully.69 In Vitoria, for instance, the sale of arms to foreigners was forbidden, and Andújar points out that knowing how to handle them was a condition of joining criminal gangs. Rural bandits, many of whom had been hunters before joining a gang, were known for their dexterity with shotgun and knife.70 We can conclude by saying that the class consciousness of social outcasts was built upon the recurrence of exemplary punishments aimed at subduing and indoctrinating them; too often, they saw their own paraded on the streets and publicly beaten up. The coexistence in jails and other institutions, the shared poverty, the application of igno64  Mendoza, Delincuencia y represión, 328–30.

65  Guglielmi, Marginalidad, 106–07; José Rodrí�guez Molina, “La pobreza como marginación y delito,” in Los marginados en el mundo medi­eval y moderno, ed. Marí�a Desamparados Martí�nez San Pedro (Almerí�a, 2000), 174; Graullera Sanz, “Los marginados,” 293; Gómez Gómez, “Pecado y exclusión,” 327. 66  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 171–73.

67  Rheinheimer, Pobres, mendigos y vagabundos, 81–82 and 128–30.

68  Vincent, “La cultura de los marginados,” 345.

69  Graullera Sanz, “Los marginados,” 310; Izquierdo Benito, “La noche de Toledo,” 136–40. 70  Bazán, Delincuencia y criminalidad, 187; Andújar, “Sobre los orí�genes,” 276.

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minious punishments, the public parading of prisoners on top of mules or carts while their crime was shouted, the exposition at the pillory, and the frequent acts of arbitrariness committed by the agents of the law all contributed to the emergence of solidarity links and mutual recognition.71 However, the frequenting of the common locations, the wish to make quick gains through robbery or fraud, the transmission of skills and tricks, and the adoption of certain habits also contributed to the appearance of a “class” identity. These attitudes are faithfully represented in the picaresque novel of the Spanish Golden Age, which is rich in examples of this sort of collective behaviour; as pointed out by Juan Miguel Mendoza, this literature is not mere fiction, but a truthful depiction of the social reality of the age.

71  Mendoza Garrido, Delincuencia y represión, 535–55.

Chapter 13

IDENTITY AND THE RURAL PARISH IN MEDI­EVAL IBERIA RAQUEL TORRES JIMÉNEZ*

The purpose of

this study is to contribute to the understanding of the role of Christianity in the creation of identity in medi­eval Western society through an examination of the part played by parishes in the formation of local rural communities. Today the topic of identities is being widely explored on the basis of assumptions underlying cultural history. Myriad studies exist on the role of language and identity, social groups and identity, the function of identity in urban contexts, of ideo­logies, of teaching,1 the construction of political identities,2 the relationship between identity and conflict,3 as well as the whole symbolic sphere,4 and political and territorial configurations,5 among many more. *  This chapter derives from the research projects “Ó� rdenes Militares y construcción de la sociedad occidental. Cultura, religiosidad, género y desarrollo social en los espacios de frontera (siglos XII–XV)” (HAR2013–4350–P) and “Ó� rdenes Militares y religiosidad en el Occidente medi­eval y el Oriente latino (siglos XII–1/2 XVI). Ideo­logí�a, memoria y cultura material” (PGC2018–096531B-I00), funded by the Ministerio de Economí�a y Competitividad of the Government of Spain (MCIU/ AEI/FEDER, UE). Some of the material here has been developed in “Parroquias rurales e identidad en Castilla al final de la Edad Media. El caso del Campo de Calatrava,” in Christian Discourses of the Holy and the Sacred from the 15th to the 17th Century, ed. Teresa Hiergeist and Ismael del Olmo (Berlin, 2020), 299–324.

1  For examples of multifaceted approaches see Flocel Sabaté, ed., L’Edat Mitjana. Món real i espai imaginat (Catarroja – Barcelona, 2012); Richard Corradini, ed., The Construction of Communities in the Early Middle Ages. Texts, Resources and Artefacts (Leiden, 2003).

2  José Antonio Jara, Georges Martin, and Isabel Alfonso Antón, eds., Construir la identidad en la Edad Media. Poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII a XV (Cuenca, 2010). See also Huw Price and John Watts, Power and Identity in the Middle Ages: Essays in Memory of Rees Davies (Oxford, 2007).

3  Linda Clark, ed., Identity and Insurgency in the Late Middle Ages, The Fifteenth Century 6 (Wood­bridge, 2006); Paul Maurice Clogan, ed., Civil Strife and National Identity in the Middle Ages (Cleveland, 1999).

4  Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, When Ego Was Imago. Signs of Identity in the Middle Ages (Leiden, 2011).

5  Gregorio del Ser and Iñaki Martí�n Viso, eds., Espacios de poder y formas sociales en la Edad Media. estudios dedicados a Ángel Barrios (Salamanca, 2007); Barbara Hanawalt and Michal Kobialka, eds., Medi­eval Practices of Space (Minneapolis, 2000); Miguel Á� ngel Ladero Quesada, Espacios del hombre medi­eval (Madrid, 1992). Raquel Torres Jiménez ([email protected]) is Profesora titular of Medi­eval History at the Universidad de Castilla–La Mancha, Ciudad Real, Spain.

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Figure 13.1: Campo de Calatrava.

The religious element was undoubtedly a powerful identifying factor in Western medi­eval society, especially from the eleventh century onwards;6 one might argue that it was in fact the most important defining element, even more so than territory, for instance.7 During the Middle Ages, the Christian faith was not restricted to the realm of belief; it was at the core of Western civilization and the Latin world;8 it permeated social, mental, and everyday life and provided a theocentric vision of the world, of society,9 and of mankind.10 Of course, this does not deny that rural life was framed by Christian references before the Middle Ages. The focus of this study (on the role of Christianity and parishes in the configuration of local identities) is a district over a hundred kilometres (sixty-five miles) broad, comprising 11,500 square kilometres of rural Castile, the so-called Campo de Calatrava, a lordship of the Calatrava Military Order in the south of the Castilian plateau, located in the Guadiana river basin, between the Toledo Mountains and the Sierra Morena, an area which today mainly forms part of the province of Ciudad Real. At its centre was the Villa Real or Ciudad Real crown property. The military order itself was actually created here 6  Hervé Martin, Mentalités médiévales, XIe–XVe siècle (Paris, 1996).

7  Charles Garcí�a, “Territorialidad y construcción polí�tica de la identidad concejil,” Construir la identidad en la Edad Media. Poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII a XV, ed. José Antonio Jara, Georges Martin, and Isabel Alfonso Antón (Cuenca, 2010) 92–96, esp. 83. 8  Miguel Á� ngel Ladero Quesada, “Tinieblas y claridades de la Edad Media,” in Tópicos y realidades de la Edad Media, ed. Eloy Benito Ruano, 3 vols. (Madrid, 2000), 1:49–90. 9  Arón Guriévich, Las categorías de la cultura medi­eval (Madrid, 1990), 26–34.

10  Jacques Le Goff, “Introducción: el hombre medi­eval,” in El hombre medi­eval, ed. Jacques Le Goff (Madrid, 1990), 14–20.



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in 1158.11 Thirty-nine parish churches, which our sources call great churches (iglesias mayores), are documented here for thirty-three rural and semi-rural villages with an agricultural population of fewer than a thousand people. The map shows the location of the most important population centres. The key institutional centres for religious life in this area were the archdiocese of Toledo and the military order itself. They had conflicts over their respective jurisdictions throughout the Middle Ages, but after a series of agreements a status quo was reached in which the archbishop’s jurisdiction was notably reduced, even though he still received part of the tithes, and the order remained in charge of the parish churches and the religious life of the people of the lordship and appointed the clergy. This responsibility even increased when the Calatrava mastership was annexed to the Crown in 1489.12 The sources we have for the religious practices and how religiosity was expressed in the lordship are the visitations, periodic inspections carried out by visitors (whom I will call inspectors below) from the Calatravan order in the villages and other places in the Campo where, besides economic control, they exercised religious supervision. The councils (concejos) and institutions for public affairs (cosas públicas), parish churches, shrines, hospitals, and confraternities were also subject to such visitations, which included making inventories of goods and income, and allotting corrections, fines, and instructions. They are extremely rich sources. Eighty-five such visitations were carried out between 1471 and 1539 and have been examined. Our analysis focuses on the rural parish. The parish as a pastoral, spatial, and economic unit of ecclesiastical land management developed after the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, although the earlier Gregorian Reform had given greater prominence to the parish.13 What defines the parish in terms of canon law is the delegation of diocesan authority over pastoral care, clergy, churches, the altar, visitations, and synods, and over the territory in which parishioners must receive the sacraments and pay tithes, oblations, and offerings. However, many rural parish churches were in fact “private”; they depended on a patron, either lay or ecclesiastical, who created them and appointed the clergyman, received a handsome part of their income, and hindered the activities of 11  Francisco Ruiz Gómez, Los orígenes de las Órdenes Militares y la repoblación de los territorios de La Mancha (1150–1250) (Madrid, 2003); Enrique Rodrí�guez-Picavea Matilla, La formación del feudalismo en la meseta meridional castellana. Los señoríos de la Orden de Calatrava en los siglos XII– XIII (Madrid, 1994); Emma Solano Ruiz, La Orden de Calatrava en el siglo XV. Los señoríos castellanos de la Orden al fin de la Edad Media (Sevilla, 1978); Carlos de Ayala Martí�nez, “Las Ó� rdenes Militares y la ocupación del territorio manchego (siglos XII–XIII),” in Alarcos 1195, ed. Ricardo Izquierdo Benito and Francisco Ruiz Gómez (Cuenca, 1996), 47–104.

12  See a summary in Raquel Torres, “La Iglesia y el territorio (II). Las órdenes militares y su proyección eclesiástica y religiosa,” in Historia de la Iglesia en Castilla–La Mancha, ed. Á� ngel Luis López Villaverde (Ciudad Real, 2010), 39–47; and Raquel Torres, “Modalidades de jurisdicción eclesiástica en los dominios calatravos castellanos (siglos XII–XIII),” in Alarcos 1195, ed. Ricardo Izquierdo Benito and Francisco Ruiz Gómez (Cuenca, 1996), 433–58. 13  Iluminado Sanz Sancho, “Iglesia y religiosidad,” in La época medi­eval. Iglesia y cultura, ed. José Manuel Nieto Soria and Iluminado Sanz Sancho (Madrid, 2001), 160; Fernando López Alsina, “La reforma eclesiástica y la generalización de un modelo de parroquia actualizado,” in La reforma gregoriana y su proyección en la Cristiandad occidental (Pamplona, 2006), 421–50.

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diocesan priests. In general, this was the situation of the great churches (iglesias mayores) of the Campo de Calatrava. The study of parishes, which in the Middle Ages were important social structures, has given rise to a rich variety of approaches.14 Numerous studies have considered the role of parish churches in the social delimitation of territories15 and power,16 and the part ecclesiastical boundaries played in the distribution and demarcation of space during the Middle Ages.17 More specifically, across the medi­eval Western world, the expansion of the parish network, particularly between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries, was the main factor in the process of sacred delimitation of space;18 it contributed to conferring status on settlements19 and indeed to promoting settlement.20 14  For institutional, artistic, and religious analysis in Spain see Parroquia y arciprestazgo en los archivos de la Iglesia: santoral hispano-mozárabe en España. Actas del X Congreso de la Asociación, Salamanca 12–15 septiembre 1994, ed. Agustin Hevia Ballina, Memoria Ecclesiae 8 and 9, 2 vols. (Oviedo, 1996). A huge number of local studies about parish churches in England and Ireland exist, referring to liturgy, devotions, books, ornaments, and documents. The same is true of other areas, for example: Sven Helander, “The Liturgical Profile of the Parish Church in Medi­eval Sweden,” in The Liturgy of the Medi­eval Church, ed. Thomas J. Heffernan and E. Ann Matter (Kalamazoo, 2001), 145–86. For an analysis of libraries see Raquel Torres, “Bibliotecas de parroquias rurales y religiosidad popular en Castilla al final de la Edad Media,” in Modelos culturales y normas sociales al final de la Edad Media, ed. Francisco Ruiz and Patrick Boucheron (Cuenca, 2009), 429–93.

15  Gabriel Le Bras, L’église et le village (Paris, 2005); André Vauchez, ed., Lieux sacrés, lieux de culte, sanctuaires. Approches termino­logiques, méthodo­logiques, historiques et morpho­logiques (Rome, 2000); Christine Delaplace, ed., Aux origines de la paroisse rurale en Gaule méridionale (IVe–IXe siécle) (Paris, 2005); François Zannini, ed., L’encadrement religieux des fidèles au MoyenÂge et jusqu’au Concile de Trente. La paroisse—le clergé—la pastorale—la dévotion. Actes des 109e Congrès National des Sociétés Savantes (Paris, 1985); Fernando López Alsina, “La articulación de las unidades de organización social del espacio en Galicia durante la Edad Media: villa, parroquia, tierra,” in La pervivencia del concepto. nuevas reflexiones sobre la ordenación social del espacio en la Edad Media, ed. José Á� ngel Sesma and Carlos Laliena (Zaragoza, 2008), 57–111; José Ignacio Ruiz de la Peña, “La parroquia, célula del encuadramiento de la sociedad rural asturiana (s. XI–XIII),” in La pervivencia del concepto: nuevas reflexiones sobre la ordenación social del espacio en la Edad Media, ed. José Á� ngel Sesma and Carlos Laliena (Zaragoza, 2008), 197–217. 16  Susana Lozano Gracia, “La parroquia como espacio de control polí�tico y social. las reuniones parroquiales de Santa Marí�a La Mayor (1450–1475),” in II Simposio de jóvenes medi­evalistas, ed. Francisco Jiménez Alcázar, Jorge Ortuño Molina, and Leonardo Soler Milla (Lorca, 2006), 111–29; Fernando López Alsina, “El encuadramiento eclesiástico como espacio de poder: de la parroquia al obispado,” in Los espacios de poder en la España medi­eval, ed. José Ignacio de la Iglesia Duarte (Logroño, 2004), 425–57. 17  Florian Mazel, ed., L’espace du diocèse. Genèse d’un territoire dans l’Occident médiéval (Ve– XIIIe siècle) (Rennes, 2008); Jordi Bolòs Masclans, “Parroquia i organització del territori: una aproximació cartogràfica,” Analecta Sacra Tarraconensia 67, no. 1 (1994): 259–84.

18  José Á� ngel Garcí�a de Cortázar, Historia religiosa del Occidente medi­eval (años 313–1464) (Madrid, 2012), 296–300.

19  Michel Lauwers, Naissance du cimetière. Lieux sacrés et terre des morts dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris, 2005).

20  For the region between the Toledo mountains and the Sierra Morena, see De Ayala, Las Órdenes Militares; and Luis R. Villegas Dí�az, “Religiosidad popular y fenómeno repoblador de La Mancha,”



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The aim here is to consider the rural parish as a socializing factor towards the end of the Middle Ages and into the Early Modern period, rather than looking at it as a territorial division, which was clearly visible in the case of the Campo de Calatrava. I argue that parishes are one of the agents shaping local identity. The period under examination is extended up to the 1530s, given that many of the religious norms followed by the Christian faithful remained in force up until the Council of Trent (1545–1563).21

The Religious Duties of Municipal Authorities

In the Campo de Calatrava, parishes were under the Military Order’s commanders, but the development of parish life was an institutional responsibility of the municipal concejos. The Order of Calatrava delegated to mayors and aldermen the care of churches and the good administration of their assets and income. The authorities were supposed to appoint a suitable steward and supervise all expenses22 and they were charged with ensuring the honesty of the clergymen (who were sometimes financially supported by them) and of punishing “public sins” (gambling, cohabitation, blasphemy, sorcery).23 Therefore, the concejos were in charge of parish churches and local Christian life; this was an extension of the Calatravan prerogatives over the religious affairs of the lordship.

The Parish Church as Social Space and Community Centre

Let us turn to the role parish churches played in social cohesion and in the self-awareness of the locality. Churches as Centres for Social Life and Civic Spaces

The Calatravan authorities aimed to promote the sacred nature of churches and their appearance, of the ornaments and liturgical objects, the sacraments, and the clergy itself. in Devoción mariana y sociedad medi­eval (Ciudad Real, 1988), 23–72. For Andalucí�a, see Manuel González Jiménez, “Devociones marianas y repoblación: aproximación al caso andaluz,” in Devoción mariana y sociedad medi­eval (Ciudad Real, 1988), 9–22.

21  Zannini, L’encadrement religieux, explores this idea. See Joseph Pérez, “Cultura y sociedad en tiempos de Santa Teresa,” in Actas del Congreso Internacional Teresiano, ed. Teófanes Egido Martí�nez, 2 vols. (Salamanca, 1983), 1:31–33 for treating the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries as one historical period. See the periodization problem in Agustí�n Fliche and Vincent Martin, eds., Historia de la Iglesia, 26 vols. (Valencia, 1977), 13:15–19. See also Francis Rapp, Histoire du Christianisme des origines à nos jours, 7: De la réforme à la réformation (1450–1530) (Paris, 1994); and Iluminado Sanz Sancho, “Para el estudio de la Iglesia medi­eval castellana,” Estudios eclesiásticos. Revista teológica de investigación e información 73 (1998): 61–87. 22  A repeated formula: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6.109, n. 38, fol. 169r (Torralba, June 4, 1495).

23  For example: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6.110, n. 21, fols. 47v–48r (Almagro, January10, 1510); 6.076, n. 28, fols. 279v–280r (Fernancaballero, July 1510).

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This attitude was in line with norms from the Gregorian Reforms,24 the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, and with many synods and Iberian councils between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries.25 Inspectors urged devotion, honesty, and fear of God, and promoted the creation of barriers between the faithful and the sacred: gates to chapels, cemeteries, and baptismal fonts; locks on the tabernacles and on drawers and doors; closed sacristies;26 and safeguarding the presbytery from access by lay people. As well as physical boundaries, these represented mental barriers between the clergy and laity. These prohibitions were in constant conflict with existing practices. Throughout the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, churches and their cemeteries were spaces for community life. In rural churches everything was nearby and accessible. The church was the dwelling place of God and the patron saint, but sacredness co-existed with profane use of the space. Furthermore, churches provided social cohesion and a focal point for local people. Let us now examine the different forms of this reality. In the first place, the use of church premises by people was constant: people visited altars and baptismal fonts and entered spaces reserved for the clergy. They persisted in the habit—forbidden by the visitation inspectors, but to no avail—of sticking candles on the walls and columns to commemorate the dead.27 Social use of cemeteries was intense.28 There was recreational activity, people danced and played dice and board games,29 and hopscotch, crossbow practice, and even bullfights were organized there.30 People entertained themselves “taking and doing business” (hablando e negoçiando sus cosas) instead of attending mass,31 and cattle passed through the graveyards. Such practices were common in other parts of Europe as well.32

24  Alain Rauwel, “La liturgie comme vecteur de la Réforme Grégorienne,” in La reforma gregoriana y su proyección en la Cristiandad occidental (Pamplona, 2006), 99–111. André Vauchez, La espiritualidad del Occidente Medi­eval (Madrid, 1985), 84.

25  José Luis González Novalí�n, “Religiosidad y reforma del pueblo cristiano,” in Historia de la Iglesia en España, III: La Iglesia en la España de los siglos XV y XVI, ed. Ricardo Garcí�a-Villoslada (Madrid, 1980), 351–84. 26  Lack of a sacristy was frequent in churches, so inspectors ordered their construction. For example, at the church of Almadén: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 24, fol. 93r (Almadén, June, 1510). Likewise at Santa Cruz de Mudela, Villarrubia, Cabezarados, Corral de Caracuel, etc.

27  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 20.

28  Miguel Á� ngel Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas en la cultura medi­eval (Barcelona, 2004), 123. Lauwers, Naissance du cimetière. 29  Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas, 148.

30  Sí�nodo de Salamanca, 1451 and 1457, Sí�nodo de Plasencia, 1534. Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas, 77–78.

31  1537, Ballesteros. Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas, 77–78; Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 1, fol. 164v.

32  According to Jacques Heers, Carnavales y fiestas de locos (Barcelona, 1988), 44–45, satirical dance performances were organized at cemeteries in Paris.



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Second, churches were vulnerable spaces adjoining areas used for profane purposes. Intruders took advantage of the state of disrepair of buildings33 or the lack of locks34 and entered freely. People walked on the roofs,35 stalls were used to access nearby houses and damage property,36 etc. Next to some churches we find middens37 and butcher shops, which inspectors ordered to be removed “to another location where it is more convenient and reputable, because it is so close to the church.”38 Furthermore, church fronts were used as shelter for cattle, “With little respect to God Our Lord […] which means less devotion,”39 and as places for games.40 In short, parish churches were not places neatly separated from daily secular life. Prohibitions were usually broken. However, inspectors repeated them, as many of the practices constituted sacrilege.41 Third, parish churches clearly played a civic role as well. The concejos usually met in the church hall or graveyard42 and justice was often imparted there.43 The Chapters of

33  In Luciana, a hole near the entrance of Santa Marí�a church was ordered to be closed so that everyone would be forced to enter the church only through the door. Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 28, fol. 264v (1510). 34  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 17, fol. 258r (Aldea del Rey, 1510).

35  At San Bartolomé de Almagro church “lots of youngsters and other people” (muchos mochachos e otras gentes) jumped onto the roof through the windows in the tower. From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6078, n. 1, fol. 35r (1534). 36  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 9, fols. 239r–v (Valdepeñas, 1537). 37  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6110, n. 17, fol. 208r (Alcolea, April 18, 1502). 38  “A otra parte donde esté mas syn ynconveniente y onestamente, por estar tan çerca de la yglesia.” From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 25, fol. 74r (El Moral, 1502).

39  “Con poco temor de Dios Nuestro Sennor […] lo qual es poca devoçion.” From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 28, fols. 264r and 265r (Alcolea, 1510). Also Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 10 (Torralba, April 20, 1491).

40  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 14, fols. 203r–v (Torralba, February 1510). 41  Hernando de Talavera, “Breve forma de confesar reduciendo todos los pecados mortales y veniales a los diez mandamientos,” in Nueva Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, XVI: Escritores místicos españoles, ed. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo (Madrid, 1911), 14 and 19–20.

42  For example, in El Moral the council would gather at the cemetery of the great church of San Andrés in 1501: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 25, fol. 78r. The council of Pozuelo gathered, with ringing of the bells, at the cemetery of St. John church: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 11, fol. 287r (1510). 43  Mayors sat outside S. Bartolomé church, in the Almagro square, to conduct trials: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, Sección Diplomática, folder 463 P, n. 206 (Almagro, March 1318). Also Madrid, Archivo Histórico

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the Order of Calatrava were often celebrated at the churches in their Campo, not only in their main monastery.44 None of these practices helped the process of redirecting mental attitudes towards a more restrictive identification between church and religious services; they rather legitimated the civic function of churches. On the other hand, it would be anachronistic to perceive the political and religious spheres as separated; all forms of government held the ideal that they were involved in the consecratio mundi to God.45 Locals even assumed the right to make agreements and decisions regarding churches, even when that went against the king’s commands46 or inspectors’ views.47 Parish churches were not perceived as alien places; on the contrary, local residents saw them as their own. Along the same lines—the social and socializing function of churches—we should not forget the fact that parties were held at churches48 and that High Mass on feast days was taken as an opportunity for reading out edicts and news after the proclamation of the gospel. In short, the religious dimension was fully entwined with local public life. It was an instance of community performance, and the parish church was the location par excellence for the display of religiosity, not only collective, but also “civic” in nature. Churches Designed and Shaped by the People

Churches were places of socialization. Moreover, the faithful themselves shaped those spaces. In fact, they usually contributed with their own charitable gifts—–donated during their lifetime or through a bequest after their death—to provide churches with rugs, fine altar linens, lamp oil, chandeliers, chalices, liturgical ornaments, vestments, and ornaments for the statues, linens for the eucharistic tabernacle, and the like. The parish churches within the area analyzed here often had roofs, vaults, and balconies in a chronic state of bad repair. Interiors, however, looked more dignified. Precious Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, leg. 6076, n. 7, fols. 124r and 130r (Manzanares, November 1509).

44  Raquel Torres, “Espacio urbano frente a Convento? Los maestres calatravos en Almagro (siglos XIII–XIV),” in El mundo urbano en la Castilla del siglo XIII, ed. Manuel González Jiménez, 2 vols. (Sevilla, 2006), 2:336. 45  On this idea see Richard W. Southern, L’Église et la société dans l’Occident Médiéval (Paris, 1997), 9–16; Guriévich, Las categorías; Ladero Quesada,”Tinieblas y claridades”; Raquel Torres, “Iglesia, religión y construcciones polí�ticas hispanas (siglos XIII–XV),” in España y Rumanía. De las monarquías autoritarias a la democracia (siglos XIV–XX), ed. Porfirio Sanz and Jesús Molero (Târgovişte, 2009), 41–66.

46  In Torralba a royal provision ordered the capital of the parish to be moved to a bigger church but the residents voted for a different location. Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 23, fol. 139r–v (Torralba, January 4, 1539). 47  Residents agreed to demolish the casa de la audiencia (courthouse) next to the church to give free passage to processions. Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6080, n. 9, fol. 2bis v (Torralba, October 10, 1549). 48  See Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas.



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and fine fabrics as well as gold and silver were used for the sacred linens and vessels related to the Blessed Sacrament. According to the churches’ inventories, all these had been donated by the faithful.49 Luxurious liturgical vestments, used to display ostentation, were also donated by the faithful. The efforts made by men and women from these rural villages to provide their modest parish churches with goods are in fact remarkable. Attending religious celebrations at parish churches gave people the opportunity to see themselves both as individuals and as part of a community through their pious contributions or those of their late relatives. The Parish Church as Pride of the Local Community

Repeatedly found in the visitation inspections, the instructions related to religion also related to the argument of enhancing the reputation of the village. People understood, for instance, that Corpus Christi confraternities contributed to the service of God, to the veneration of the eucharist, and to the “village honour.”50 In general, honouring the eucharist translated to honouring the village. The same double intent, village honour and service to God, was rooted in the inspectors’ instructions when they ordered work to be done in churches, to keep them in good repair, to fix a statue, celebrate service in the correct manner, use suitable ornaments,51 and promote contributions from the people to pay for church expenses. Parish functions were presented as collective undertakings which promoted village honour. The result was a notion of the parish church as a frame for the identity of the local community. Moreover, services held at parish churches reinforced the political and social hierarchy of the people. The “honoured and old men” (viejos honrrados e ançianos) of the villages and council officials sat in the front seats during mass even if they arrived late.52 Consequently, village bodies themselves funded churches, as otherwise service to God and village honour were undermined. The village often funded the clergy (which meant some concejos demanded the right to choose the priest) and covered all

49  For examples of donations by women parishioners see Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 18, fol. 274r (Daimiel, 9th March 1493); and Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6076, n. 8, fol. 137v (Manzanares, November 1509). There are numerous examples of women parishioners donating rich linens for the altar service. See for instance three embroidered linens, one with golden thread and another one bordered with silk, recorded in the same inventory, donated by different women, in Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6110, n. 10, fol. 74r (Puertollano, 8th March 1502). 50  “Honra del pueblo.” Thus read the documents referring to the creation of the Corpus Christi cofradía in El Moral. From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 26, fol. 106r (El Moral, June 2, 1497 to January 8, 1502).

51  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 1, fol. 269v (Corral de Caracuel, 2nd December 1537). 52  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 7, fols. 68v–69r (Santa Cruz de Mudela, August 23rd 1537); 6109, n. 38, fol. 181v (Daimiel, June 4th 1495).

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the church’s costs out of devotion or because of a command from the military order, with the order itself having failed in its duty to do it. Residents donated not only goods for the church; they also paid for maintenance work, and oil and wax for lighting. Provision of bread and wine was also a private devotion expressed in many wills (“I order that for the sake of my soul they put bread, wine and wax for two months”);53 but it was a collective pious activity. Likewise, sacristans called on the houses of “good people” (las buenas gentes) to ask for wine and flour.54 These practices further contributed to the perception of parish churches as community places, public spaces, and even as domestic spaces for the people. An expression of local society, they were seen as shaped by society and also as community shapers, not only in the religious dimension, but also in the daily and profane sphere.

Religious Life in the Parish

Parish celebrations strengthened local identity. In the general context of religious conformity and the scant sacramental life of the average Christian,55 worship was in the first place an expression of the community’s religion, but also an example of social coexistence. This was particularly intense in the Campo de Calatrava, where villages had only one parish church and no monasteries (except for the main house of the military order).56 Parish Celebrations as Channels for Community Religious Experience

Let us now consider the community value of religious celebrations, despite the increasing individualism of the Late Middle Ages.57 Liturgy is distinguished here from devotions, even though the difference was not entirely clear in the Middle Ages. By liturgy I understand official services of the Church, namely the mass, the liturgy of the hours (mattins, evensong, etc.), and the sacraments 53  “E mando que lieven por mi anima pan e vino e çera dos meses.” Pedro Roys’ last will and testament written in Almagro on May 5, 1401. From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, Sección Diplomática, folder 466, n. 283 (Almagro, October 21, 1401).

54  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 1, fol. 105r (Argamasilla, November 6, 1537); 6079, n. 26, fols. 416r–v (February 6, 1539). 55  On conformism and reformism in the passage from the Middle Ages to the Modern Age see Etienne Delaruelle, Edmond-Rene Labande, Paul Ourliac, “La crisis conciliar. La vida religiosa del pueblo cristiano,” in Historia de la Iglesia, ed. Agustí�n Fliche and Vincent Martin, 26 vols. (Valencia, 1977), 16:13–38. Garcí�a de Cortázar speaks of “sacramental drought, floods of devotion” (sequí�a sacramental e inundación devocional) in Historia religiosa del Occidente medi­eval, 462–81. 56  The faithful attended the main house of the Order of Calatrava only occasionally, to celebrate Easter and certain feasts of the Virgin, when the devout were granted indulgences. See Raquel Torres, “La influencia devocional de la Orden de Calatrava en la religiosidad de su señorí�o durante la Baja Edad Media,” Revista de las Órdenes Militares 3 (2005): 37–74, esp. 59–65. 57  Sanz Sancho, “Iglesia y religiosidad,” 248.



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in accordance with official formulas. Conversely, devotions imply extra-liturgical, noncompulsory religious practices including the veneration of saints, the Virgin, and God, such as blessings, processions, pilgrimages, particular acts of devotion, etc. These practices were often rooted in pre-Christian times and were more free and emotional in nature and were usually associated with propitiatory aims to deliver protection or healing. Many scholars see liturgy as a hierarchical expression constrained to the predetermined ritual while devotions are seen as a spontaneous manifestation of people’s faith that go beyond the official sphere. However, current research advises against a total opposition between cultivated and popular religiosity in the Middle Ages. Indeed, numerous examples of permeability between both spheres, between liturgy and the popular piety of the people,58 are documented and it has also been shown that most of the clergy shared the religious notions of ordinary Christians.59 Although extra-liturgical devotions were more emotional, the argument advanced here is that liturgical services also became a common space of faith. Acts of Devotion

Religious anthropo­logy has amply demonstrated the socializing role of devotional activities associated with popular piety at shrines within villages or outside them,60 but also those in parish churches. If we want to understand popular religiosity, we can see religious festivities as multi-dimensional: a spiritual dimension of course, but recreational, superstitious, civic, and community dimensions too.61 Profane and sacred elements were intertwined.62 Thus, Corpus Christi was the medi­eval civic feast par 58  For example: José Luis González Novalí�n, “Infiltraciones de la devoción popular a Jesús y a Marí�a en la liturgia romana de la baja Edad Media,” Studium Ovetense 3 (1975): 259–85; and José Luis González Novalí�n, “Misas supersticiosas y misas votivas en la piedad popular del tiempo de la Reforma,” in Miscelánea José Zunzunegui (1911–1974), 2 vols. (Vitoria, 1975), 2:1–40.

59  As well as being present in many current papers, these methodo­logical perspectives appear in Jean-Marie Mayeur, Charles Pietri, and Luce Pietri, eds., Histoire du Christianisme (Paris, 1990–2004); and in É� tiene Delaruelle, La piété populaire au Moyen Âge. Problèmes de méthode et d’histoire (Turin, 1980).

60  William A. Christian, Jr., “De los santos a Marí�a: panorama de las devociones a santuarios españoles desde el principio de la Edad Media hasta nuestros dí�as,” Temas de antropo­logía española, ed. Carmelo Lisón Tolosana (Madrid, 1976), 49–105. For the area analyzed here, although a later period, see William A. Christian, Jr., Religiosidad local en la España de Felipe II (Madrid, 1991). See the function of shrines as material and spiritual pillars of the territory of the concejo in Zamora in Garcí�a, “Territorialidad y construcción polí�tica,” 92–96. 61  See the stances adopted by socio­logists, anthropo­logists, and mytho­logists on the political, community, symbolic, and theatrical aspects of popular religiosity in Luis Maldonado, Religiosidad popular. Nostalgia de lo mágico (Madrid, 1975).

62  See Ana Arranz Guzmán, “Fiestas, juegos y diversiones prohibidos al clero en la Castilla bajomedi­ eval,” Cuadernos de Historia de España 78 (2003–2004): 9–34; Ana Arranz Guzmán, “Amores desordenados y otros pecadillos del clero,” in Pecar en la Edad Media, ed. Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado and Marí�a Pilar Rábade Obradó (Madrid, 2008), 227–62, esp. 251–55; Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas, 21–23 and 29–63; Carmelo Lisón Tolosana and Didier Ozanam, eds., Fiestas y litúrgia / Fêtes et liturgie, especially the contribution by Antonio Garcí�a y Garcí�a, “Religiosidad popular y

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excellence.63 Eucharistic devotion, which grew towards the end of the Middle Ages,64 showed its collective nature in the eucharistic processions to carry the viaticum for the sick and in the confraternities of the Holy Sacrament. The worship of saints, sometimes decided by vote on the concejo,65 represented a shared heritage of sacredness,66 and thus contributed to the symbolic construction of a community.67 Likewise, processions were used by the local authorities to sacralize and define the rural territory adjacent to the villages and to promote a sense of inclusiveness.68 Shrines in the countryside consecrated places amidst a pagan nature.69 Equally, confraternities were frameworks for religious cohesion. My study counts one hundred and fifteen confraternities in the Campo de Calatrava, many of them associated with a shrine or the parish church. They organized both public religious and recreational celebrations, and their own private feasts, to honour their patron on their patron’s feast day.70 Confraternities generated festividades en el Occidente peninsular (siglos XIII–XVI),” in Fiestas y litúrgia / Fêtes et liturgie, ed. Carmelo Lisón Tolosana and Didier Ozanam (Madrid, 1988), 35–51. There are also multiple examples in José Sánchez Herrero, Las diócesis del Reino de León, siglos XIV y XV (León, 1978); see also José Sánchez Herrero, “La religiosidad popular en la baja Edad Media andaluza,” in Homenaje a Alfonso Trujillo. Historia, Lengua, Literatura, Geografía y Filosofía, 2 vols. (Tenerife, 1982), 2:279–331; José Sánchez Herrero, “El mundo festivo-religioso cristiano en el occidente español de la Baja Edad Media,” in El mundo festivo en España y América, ed. Antonio Garrido Aranda (Córdoba, 2005), 17–54; José Sánchez Herrero and Marí�a del Carmen Á� lvarez Márquez, “Fiestas y devociones en la catedral de Sevilla a través de las concesiones medi­evales de indulgencias,” Revista Española de Derecho Canónico, 46, no. 126 (1989): 129–78; Carlos Á� lvarez Santaló, Joaquí�n Á� lvarez Barrientos, Marí�a Jesús Buxó Rey, and Salvador Rodrí�guez Becerra, eds., La religiosidad popular (Barcelona, 1989). 63  Ladero Quesada, Las fiestas, 50–58, and the biblio­graphy concerning the feast of Corpus Christi on 184–87. This feast has been studied in depth from an anthropo­logical viewpoint (Caro Baroja) and from the point of view of the evolution of the political, social, and ideo­logical aspects of the procession (Rafael Narbona Vizcaí�no). There are plenty of studies on many medi­eval Castilian and Aragonese villages. This approach often goes beyond the medi­eval period, as it became a paradigmatic Baroque feast. 64  Miri Rubin, The Eucharist in Late Medi­eval Culture (Cam­bridge, 1991). 65  Christian, Jr., Religiosidad local, 39–91 (chap. 2).

66  André Vauchez, La Sainteté en occident aux derniers siècles du Moyen Age. d’après les procés de canonisation et les documents hagio­graphiques (Rome, 1981); Barbara Fay Abou-El-Haj, The Medi­ eval Cult of Saints. Formations and Transformations (Cam­bridge, 1997); Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints. Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago, 1984); Francisco J. Fernández Conde, La religiosidad medi­eval en España. Plena Edad Media (siglos XI–XIII) (Oviedo, 2005), 481–582; Francisco J. Fernández Conde, La religiosidad medi­eval en España. Baja Edad Media (siglos XIV–XV) (Madrid, 2011), 348–75.

67  Anthony P. Cohen, ed., Belonging. Identity and Social Organisation in British Rural Cultures (St. John’s, 1982); see also Anthony P. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (London, 1985). 68  Garcí�a, “Territorialidad y construcción,” 95–100.

69  Vauchez, Lieux sacrés.

70  Raquel Torres, Religiosidad popular en el Campo de Calatrava. Cofradías y hospitales al final de la Edad Media (Ciudad Real, 1989). See a recent biblio­graphical update in Antonio Martí�n-Viveros Tajuelo, “Las cofradí�as castellanas en la Edad Media. Pasado, presente y futuro de la producción historiográfica,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, Serie III. Historia Medi­eval 25 (2012): 285–308.



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social networks parallel to or overlapping with parish links. They were clear examples of the collective nature of medi­eval religiosity.71 Liturgical Services

It might seem that official liturgical services would not have the same inclusive function as devotions had. However, the sources I have examined do not show such an official or static picture,72 particularly since liturgy was living and was characterized by local variants until the liturgy of the Roman Church became globally standardized after Trent in Pius V’s Roman Missal (1570).73 Some scholars object to the conventional notion that people experienced the mass in complete ignorance,74 emphasizing the creative capacity of popular religion and its contributions to the official service.75 This argument sees liturgical acts as a channel for popular and community religious experience. This was obvious in the sacraments, during baptisms, weddings, and extreme unction (the last rites), when the carrying of the viaticum became a colourful procession accompanied by confraternity members76 and an occasion for gaining indulgences.77 Even confessions, albeit not very frequently practised, were performed collectively during the period of Lent,78 and many laymen attended the Liturgy of the Hours.79 To get a flavour of a church service we should remember that the mass was perceived as multi-part and optional; it was not seen as imperative to attend from the beginning,80

71  See this socializing feature in Mariana A. Fábrega, “Asociacionismo y religiosidad. Una mirada en torno al espacio cofradiero abulense en el tránsito de la modernidad,” Cuadernos de historia de España 78, no. 1 (2003): 67–102.

72  Raquel Torres, “Liturgia y espiritualidad en las parroquias calatravas (siglos XV–XVI),” in Las Órdenes Militares en la Península Ibérica, I. Edad Media, ed. Ricardo Izquierdo Benito and Francisco Ruiz Gómez (Cuenca, 2000), 1087–1116. 73  Torres, “Liturgia y espiritualidad.”

74  Martin, Mentalités Médiévales, 249–50, quotes the studies by Juan Delumeau on the Florentine region in the fourteenth century. 75  González Novalí�n, “Infiltraciones de la devoción,” 259–85; González Novalí�n, “Misas super­ sticiosas,” 1–40; Garcí�a y Garcí�a, “Religiosidad popular y festividades,” 38–45; Rapp, Histoire du Christianisme, 259. 76  Raquel Torres, Formas de organización y práctica religiosa en Castilla–La Nueva. Siglos XIII–XVI (PhD diss., Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 2005), 1538ff. 77  According to José Sánchez Herrero, in Andalusia on returning to the church the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament took place. See Sánchez Herrero, “La religiosidad popular,” 314.

78  Raquel Torres, “Pecado, confesión y sociedad bajo dominio calatravo al final del Medievo,” in Os Reinos Ibéricos na Idade Média. Livro de Homenagem ao Professor Doutor Humberto Carlos Baquero Moreno, ed. Luí�s Adao da Fonseca, Luí�s Carlos Amaral, and Maria Fernanda Ferreira Santos, 3 vols. (Porto, 2003), 3:1267–74. 79  For example: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 19, fol. 352r (Granátula, 1510). 80  Inspectors repeatedly criticized this practice. Torres, “Liturgia y espiritualidad,” 1101–2.

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but only as from elevation rite.81 It was seen as a succession of evocations of the Passion82 and was identified with an epiphany of God, who descended to the altar for the consecration of bread and wine. The elevation of the consecrated species was a time for “seeing God” and to hope to receive beneficial effects.83 Gloomier theo­logical aspects of the mass such as sacrifice, penance, and the Last Supper still remained, but people attended these ceremonies with the hope of coming into contact with the sacred. Besides, even though the faithful rarely partook in communion, certain rites, such as kissing the pax84 or the distribution of consecrated bread, acted as substitutes for actual communion. People most likely captured the essential meaning of the great liturgical seasons (Lent, Easter, Christmas, and the feasts of major saints) through the help of liturgical dramatization and altar ornamentation, clerical robes, and images. Moreover, the mass was dramatic in itself, with highly anticipated moments like the consecration and elevation of the sacred species, enhanced by the ringing of bells.85 The faithful took part in the ritual in their own way and were involved in different ways, five of which I can mention. First, through pastoral instruction: the faithful en masse attended sermons at the church on solemn feast days.86 Second, male children and teenagers participated as altar servers. Third, through the stimulation of all the senses and emotions: lights, bells, incensing of the altar and of books, requesting alms for popular causes, the physical movement of those presiding at the altar, dressed in chasubles 81  All this indicates devotion to the eucharist, albeit tinged with elements of magic. Raquel Torres, “Devoción eucarí�stica en el Campo de Calatrava al final de la Edad Media. Consagración y elevación,” in Religiosidad popular y archivos de la Iglesia. Actas del 16. congreso de la Asociacion celebrado en Zaragoza (11 al 15 de septiembre de 2000), ed. Agustí�n Hevia, Memoria Ecclesiae 20–21, 2 vols. (Oviedo, 2001), 1:293–328. 82  Josef Andreas Jungmann, El Sacrificio de la Misa. Tratado histórico-litúrgico (Madrid, 1953), 165–66. These allegories of the mass were familiar during the Late Middle Ages, the scholastics notwithstanding. José Sánchez Herrero systematizes the allegories and symbols of the mass collected in Castilian authors: Sánchez Herrero, Las diócesis del Reino, 285. The famous bishop of Granada, Fray Hernando de Talavera, reproduced them in explaining the mass: Hernando de Talavera, “Tractado de lo que significan las cerimonias de la misa y de lo que en cada una se deve pensar y pedir a nuestro Señor,” in Nueva Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, XVI. Escritores místicos españoles, ed. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo (Madrid, 1911), 79–93.

83  On their individual protective and healing effects, see Jungmann, El Sacrificio de la Misa, 171nn97–103). See the power of chalices and similar objects to avert collective dangers in Rapp, Histoire du Christianisme, 298–99. 84  A wooden or metallic object with images that was kissed during the rite of peace at mass.

85  By way of example: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6109, n. 40, fol. 216v (Piedrabuena, 1495); 6075, n. 33, fol. 370r (Miguelturra, 1502); 6075, n. 9, fol. 181r (Daimiel, 1491); 6109, n. 37, fol. 131v (Manzanares, 1495); 6075, n. 3, fol. 33r (Santa Cruz de Mudela, 1491); 6109, n. 41, fol. 233r (Agudo, 1495); 6075, n. 20, fol. 323v (Torralba, 1493); 6109, n. 39, fol. 190v (Pozuelo, 1495); 6110, n. 10, fol. 75v (Puertollano, 1502). 86  They brought their own seats, and were encouraged to use the choir, which was normally forbidden to them: Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6078, no. 1, fol. 36v (Almagro, August 14, 1534).



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and dalmatics, singing and organ music,87 the spraying of holy water, and so on. Fourth, by repeated formulas and acclamations such as Amen, Alleluia, Deo gratias, Dominus vobiscum, Pax vobis, all of which highlighted the key moments of the mass.88 Lastly, the sceno­graphy of what we may call “dressed churches”: simple churches ornamented with all sorts of fabrics, images on the altarpieces, chasubles, painted walls, and canopies over the altar adorned with textual messages. Statues of the saints, especially the Virgin and Child, dressed in vestments and jewellery were the focus of attention as well. In churches in the Campo de Calatrava, a dark fabric was hung behind the altar to offer better contrast to the view of the sacred host elevated by the priest89 (a habit also documented in French and English churches by J. A. Jungmann)90 and incense, lights, and bells enhanced the experience as well. In brief, the idea was to create an atmosphere of sacred realism in which Christians felt the divine, bringing the whole community together. Religious Services as a Social Act

The High Mass was clearly a time for social meeting at the parish church. Sometimes people heard mass in shrines or hospitals, forbidden by the inspectors,91 confessionals, and synods,92 which shows that the mass was not seen as a private or limited affair, but had a community theo­logical dimension. This festive act of worship normally gathered together all local residents, reproducing the local social and political hierarchies. It was an opportunity for men and women to mingle, which was forbidden in Calatravan villages; women were supposed to sit at the back and men at the front, though sometimes they would change places,93 or would sit facing each other by the side of the 87  The parish churches in the Campo de Calatrava were rural and modest, but still usually had an organ and a wide variety of music books. Raquel Torres, “Bibliotecas de parroquias rurales y religiosidad popular en Castilla al final de la Edad Media,” in Modelos culturales y normas sociales al final de la Edad Media, ed. Francisco Ruiz Gómez and Patrick Boucheron (Cuenca, 2009), 429–93. 88  Mario Righetti, Historia de la liturgia, 2 vols. (Madrid, 1955), 1:194ff.

89  Testimonies in the inventories are numerous. For instance: “A rod of blue linen with a green cross, which is used when the body of Christ is raised” (una vara de lienço asul con una crus verde el qual se pone de que alçan el Corpus Christi) at San Andrés church in El Moral. From Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 16, fol. 213r (El Moral, February 1493).

90  Jungmann documented only isolated cases in Spain. Jungmann, El Sacrificio de la Misa, 879n44. But in the Campo de Calatrava, it was observed in the last decade of the fifteenth century and the first three of the sixteenth. 91  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6078, n. 1, fol. 41r–v (Almagro, 1534). This prohibition without doubt was due to the fact that the Catholic Church wanted to establish parishes as territorial and economic units within overall territorial structures of the diocese, but it was also connected to the ideal of keeping the local ecclesiastical body united in main weekly community celebration.

92  For example, Sí�nodo de Alcalá de 1480, published by José Sánchez Herrero, Concilios provinciales y sínodos toledanos. Concilios provinciales y sínodos toledanos de los siglos XIV y XV. La religiosidad cristiana del clero y pueblo (Sevilla, 1976), 320.

93  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6110, n. 12, fol. 101v (Villamayor, March, 19, 1502).

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altar.94 In some places they would mix, behaviour which was seen as “very dishonest” (muy desonesto), caused “gossip and scandal” (murmuraçiones y escandalos),95 and resulted in fines. The service was an opportunity for secular coexistence and the clergy joined in. This sense of liturgical service as social event, in which sacrality was pervaded by not particularly devout elements, and where clergy and laymen coexisted in a quasidomestic space, is evident in gestures, postures, attitudes, and customs that were criticized by inspectors. During church services people would approach the altar, sit in the choir,96 wander around the church,97 and many people would sit where they disturbed the Liturgy of the Hours.98 Moreover, priests had to be ordered not to carry out their functions during religious ceremonies down amongst the people and not to come down and collect the offerings from the faithful,99 which included women,100 nor handle money, as they would later lay their hands on the Body of Christ.101 Clergy and laymen both shared a sense of the service as a moment of co-existence, but as one of failure to fully perceive the sacredness of liturgical acts.

The Parish Church as a Community of the Living and the Dead

A parish function that clearly contributed to enhancing the sense of community was the holding of funerals.102 The attitudes, practices, and the discourse about death during the Middle Ages have been widely studied.103 International symposia and recent 94  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6078, n. 1, fol. 35v (Almagro, 1534). 95  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 1, fols. 22v–23r (Fuencaliente, 1537). 96  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6109, n. 35, fol. 63r (Bolaños, May 14, 1495). 97  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 1, fol. 267r–v (Corral de Caracuel, 1537). 98  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 19, fol. 352r (Granátula, 1510). 99  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 3, fols. 113v and 116v (Aldea del Rey, October 15, 1537); 6079, n. 7, fol. 70r (Santa Cruz de Mudela, August 23, 1537); 6079, n. 9, fol. 242r (Valdepeñas, September 6, 1537). 100  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 7, fol. 70r–v (Santa Cruz de Mudela, 1537). 101  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6079, n. 3, fols. 116v–117r (Aldea del Rey, 1537).

102  Emilio Mitre states that “few reflections would better define the Church in the Middle Ages than as a community of the living and the dead” (pocas reflexiones definirí�an mejor la Iglesia en la Edad Media como comunidad de vivos y muertos). Cited from Emilio Mitre Fernández, Fantasmas de la sociedad medi­eval. Enfermedad, Peste, Muerte (Valladolid, 2004), 145.

103  See Miguel Á� ngel Ladero Quesada, “Historia de la Iglesia de España medi­eval,” in La historia de la Iglesia en España y el mundo hispano, ed. José Andrés Gallego (Murcia, 2001), 121–90 and the biblio­graphy collected by Fernández Conde, La religiosidad medi­eval. More specifically: Máximo



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papers,104 as well as mono­graphs and collective studies, underscore the fact that death acted as an “element of integration” for the social group,105 which gathered together to celebrate funeral services, devotional practices, and secular activities. Funeral ceremonies and rites became social events. As has already been shown, cemeteries were themselves spaces for coexistence. All this, and the existence of numerous graves inside churches (in a hierarchical order arranged by proximity to the altar), contributed to integrating the dead into the local community. The joining of the living and the dead was likely to have been very intense, in terms of the omnipresence of the hereafter in people’s minds,106 particularly from the twelfth century, when a belief in purgatory as an actual location became widespread.107. There is much evidence for this belief in purgatory as a place for souls prior to their accession into heaven: first, clauses in wills that relate to eternal salvation and contained requests for masses for the soul, often a series like the treintanarios, a cycle of thirty masses celebrated on thirty consecutive days. Second, we see good deeds undertaken during one’s life to try and win a place in Heaven: pilgrimages, crusades, alms for the poor and for religious houses, and so on. Third, we see attempts to shorten the period of suffering in purgatory: partial or plenary indulgences, confraternities’ focus on funding and providing funerals,108 the founding of chaplaincies, and masses for souls in purgatory. Prayers for souls in purgatory took on a civic function. By the end of the Middle Ages a new institution developed in all the villages of the Campo de Calatrava, the “Patronage of the Souls in Purgatory” (Patronazgo de las Á� nimas del Purgatorio). It was a collective Diago Hernando, “Tendencias historiográficas recientes sobre religiosidad popular e historia de la muerte y de las mentalidades,” in Historia a debate, ed. Carlos Barros, 4 vols. (Santiago de Compostela, 1995), 2:143–58; Marí�a Azpeitia Martí�n, “Historiografí�a de la Historia de la Muerte,” Studia Historica. Historia Medi­eval 26 (2008): 113–32.

104  Ariel Guiance, Los discursos sobre la muerte en la Castilla medi­eval (siglos XII–XV) (Valladolid, 1998); Paul Binski, Medi­eval Death. Ritual and Representation (London, 2001); Danièle AlexandreBidon, La mort au Moyen Age, XIIIe–XVIe siècles (Paris, 1998); Emilio Mitre Fernández, La muerte vencida. Imágenes e historia en el Occidente medi­eval (Madrid, 1988); and Mitre Fernández, Fantasmas de la sociedad.

105  Ariel Guiance, “La fiesta y la muerte. Notas para un análisis de las celebraciones funerales en la Castilla bajomedi­eval,” in El rostro y el discurso de la fiesta, ed. Manuel Núñez Rodrí�guez (Santiago de Compostela, 1994), 110. 106  Jean Delumeau, El miedo en Occidente (siglos XIV–XVIII): una ciudad sitiada (Madrid, 1989), 119–39.

107  Jacques Le Goff, El nacimiento del purgatorio (Madrid, 1989); Jean Chiffoleau, La comptabilité de l’Au-Delà: les hommes, la mort et la religion dans la région d’Avignon à la fin du Moyen Age (vers 1320–vers 1480) (Rome, 1980); Michelle Fournié, Le ciel peut-il attendre? Le culte du Purgatoire dans le Midi de la France (vers 1320–1520) (Paris, 1997); Daniel Baloup, “La Croyance au Purgatoire en Vieille-Castille (vers 1230–vers 1530)” (PhD diss., Université de Pau et des Pays de l’Adour, 1999); Raquel Torres, “El castigo del pecado: excomunión, purgatorio, infierno,” in Los caminos de la exclusión en la sociedad medi­eval. pecado, delito y represión, ed. Esther López Ojeda (Logroño, 2012), 245–307; Michel Vovelle, Les âmes du purgatoire ou Le travail du deuil (Paris, 1996); Ladero Quesada, Espacios del hombre. 108  For the area analyzed here see Torres, Religiosidad popular.

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chaplaincy funded by the congregation, which gave alms anonymously to pay for a chaplain to say masses periodically, depending on the amount of money collected.109 This ensured solidarity between the living and the dead. It was a community vehicle to pray for the local dead and aimed at reducing the suffering of souls, for them to get “freshness, relief” (refrigerio),110 and to speed their entry into heaven. Strikingly enough, this patronazgo was the active responsibility of the concejos: guaranteeing continuing prayers for the souls of the dead of the village was now part of the “public services” managed by the local government, and it included both the living and the dead.

Conclusions

We have examined whether or not the sense of the sacred was a factor that contributed to the shaping of local community identity, and the answer is affirmative. However, what is meant here is a “domesticated sacred,” since the perception of holiness did not necessarily imply some reverent and distant respect of something mysterious. On the contrary, the sacred seemed to have been conceived based on a logic linked to cause and effect, as we have just seen with practices aimed to reduce one’s term in purgatory. Our analysis of the sources also confirms that the relationship between parish and local community was reciprocal in nature. That is, the parish and its material and symbolic elements promoted a sense of belonging in the community; parishes were a socioreligious framework for coexistence. However, the church’s rites were also shaped by the people. The parish projected a socializing function, while the laity contributed as a community to shaping parish life, and they did so to a greater extent than is generally thought. On the other hand, religious aspects were part of the “public services” that local authorities were supposed to regulate, which is in line with what is termed medi­eval “civic religion,”111 and a shared collective identity that was shaped by the practice of faith. Among various factors in socialization, prayers for dead relatives funded by the people, organized by the concejo, and channelled through the parish church, are examples of the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion typical of Christian identity, which became real in each village under the authority of a concejo. In conclusion, I would assert that the parameters of Christian life of the people from the area examined here do not differ greatly from those in the rest of Castille, or indeed the medi­eval Western world in general at the end of the Middle Ages. Therefore, this case study could serve as a model for other rural areas.

109  For example in Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 27, fol. 151v (Daimiel, January 24, 1502).

110  Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Ó� rdenes Militares, Consejo de Ó� rdenes, Orden de Calatrava, 6075, n. 30, fols. 193v–194r (Malagón, February 1, 1502) among many other cases.

111  André Vauchez, ed., La religion civique à l’époque médiéval et moderne (Chrétienté et Islam) (Rome, 1995).

Chapter 14

THE BREAKDOWN OF VERTICAL SOLIDARITY AMONG THE LATE MEDIEVAL BASQUE NOBILITY JOSÉ RAMÓN DÍAZ DE DURANA and ARSENIO DACOSTA*

Solidarity and identity are relatively new concepts in medi­eval history and,

although not entirely without precedents, are assuming an increasing role in recent research undertaken in Spain. Their steady advance coincides with the influence of ideas and perspectives introduced from Anthropo­logy and Socio­logy, such as relational and network analysis,1 and is perhaps a response to the long-standing historio­graphical approaches of E. P. Thompson and Eric Hobsbawm, and more remotely derived from the work of Karl Marx and Max Weber.2 The background to all this is the old confrontation between two different views of historical social relationships: contradiction and conflict, or consensus and solidarity.3 The importation of tools from other social sciences is not new: it has facilitated excellent results in medi­eval history, particularly in the Annales school, with the work of celebrated scholars such as Duby, Le Goff, Schmitt, and Gurevich, all of them inspired by Marc Bloch.4

*  This chapter draws on research in a project funded by the Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación of the Government of Spain (HAR2017-83980-P), the “Grupo Consolidado de Investigación del Gobierno Vasco (IT 896-16),” and the “Grupo de Estudios del Mundo Rural Medi­eval,” which is linked to the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientí�ficas.

1  José Marí�a Imí�zcoz Beunza, “Actores sociales y redes de relaciones en las sociedades del Antiguo Régimen. Propuestas de análisis en Historia social y polí�tica,” in Actas del Congreso Internacional Historia a Debate, Santiago de Compostela (7–11 de julio de 1993), ed. Carlos Barros Guimerans, 3 vols. (Santiago de Compostela, 1995), 2:341–53; Marí�a Á� ngeles Martí�n Romera, “Nuevas perspectivas para el estudio de las sociedades medi­evales. el análisis de las redes sociales,” Studia Historica. Historia Medi­eval 28 (2010): 217–39.

2  A good synthesis of these debates is found in Jaume Aurell, La escritura de la memoria. De los positivismos a los postmodernismos (Valencia, 2005), 75ff. 3  For an overview of this debate see Peter Burke, History and Social Theory (Ithaca, 2005), 27.

4  The work of these authors includes many viewpoints which can be regarded as pure Historical Anthropo­logy, and which constitute an important contribution to the conceptual renewal of our discipline. Georges Duby, Guerriers et paysans (VII–XIIe siècle). premier essor de l’economie européenne (Paris, 1973); Jacques Le Goff, Pour un autre Moyen Âge. Temps, travail et culture (Paris, 1977); Jean-Claude Schmitt, Le corps, les rites, les rêves, le temps. Essais d’anthropo­logie médiévale José Ramón Díaz de Durana ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidad del Paí�s Vasco, Vitoria, Spain. Arsenio Dacosta ([email protected]) is Professor titular of Social Anthropo­logy at the Universidad de Salamanca, Spain.

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Identity is such a broad and flexible concept that it can be approached in a number of different ways. By nature, it is contextual, and its origins are anthropo­logical, but here it is not held up as a key to understanding medi­eval society, though it is employed in this way at certain analytical levels.5 As for solidarity, again a concept imported from anthropo­logy, it has been relatively little used by historians, perhaps because of the influence of certain theoretical paradigms. The concept has not, for example, been used—at least among Spanish medi­evalists—as a paradigm for explaining society in general in the way that “class” has, however much of a crisis the latter methodo­logy may find itself in. In this regard, it is worth bearing in mind Peter Burke’s analysis (following Thompson) of the concept as a non-abstract social object defined by popular awareness of it.6 If, for example, during the late medi­eval and early modern periods the poor had not yet acquired sufficient class awareness, it was precisely because “vertical solidarity” still outweighed it.7 In our own ambit, the notion of solidarity—in the sense of reciprocity—has been used to define certain forms within medi­eval Christian spirituality,8 and, above all, certain types of relationship within peasant communities. In summary, solidarity has been regarded principally as a valid concept for referring to horizontal relationships within non-hierarchized or specific social groups.9 The first scholar in Spain to apply the concept of solidarity to contexts characterized by the hierarchization typical of the medi­eval world was Ignacio Atienza, in reference to the early modern client networks of the Castilian nobility, but drawing conclusions valid for the Middle Ages.10 One of Atienza’s main contributions is his insistence on (Paris, 2001); Aaron J. Gurevich, Les catégories de la culture médiévale (1972; repr. Paris, 1983); and Aaron J. Gurevich, Historical Anthropo­logy of the Middle Ages (Chicago, 1992).

5  Amongst many other works, of particular significance is Aaron J. Gurevich, The Origins of European Individualism (Oxford, 1995). As regards Hispano-Portuguese scholarship, two significant recent contributions on the theme of collective identity are: José Antonio Jara Fuente, “Percepción de ‘sí�’, percepción del ‘otro’. la construcción de identidades polí�ticas urbanas en Castilla (el concejo de Cuenca en el siglo XV),” Anuario de Estudios Medievales 40 (2010): 75–92; and José Antonio Jara, Georges Martin, and Isabel Alfonso, eds., Construir la identidad en la Edad Media. Poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII a XV (Cuenca, 2010). 6  For a recent synthesis based on the work of Thompson see José Marí�a Imí�zcoz, “Redes, grupos, clases. Una perspectiva desde el análisis relacional,” in Territorios distantes, comportamientos similares. Familias, redes y reproducción social en la Monarquía Hispánica (siglos XIV–XIX), ed. Sebastián Molina and Antonio Irigoyen (Murcia, 2009), 70–76. 7  Peter Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe (1978; repr. Farnham, 2009), 233.

8  Ana Rodrí�guez, “Parentesco, memoria y poder. Una aproximación a los debates recientes sobre la Edad Media,” in Castilla y el mundo feudal. Homenaje al profesor Julio Valdeón, ed. Marí�a Isabel del Val and Pascual Martí�nez Sopena, 3 vols. (Valladolid, 2009), 1:86–87.

9  Our growing understanding of peasant society, most notably as a result of the study of local communities and social networks, means that we also need to filter such solidarities in terms of internal hierarchization, and then in terms of clientalism favouring the peasant elites. Enric Guinot, “Oligarquí�as y clientelismo en las comunidades rurales del sur de la Corona de Aragón,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 235 (2010): 409–30. 10  Ignacio Atienza, “‘Pater familias’, señor y patron. oeconómica, clientelismo y patronato en el

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what he terms the “ordinary mechanisms” of social dominance by the powerful, referring to mechanisms that go beyond coaction, but are instead defined by integration and consensus.11 Mechanisms which ultimately were based on a dense network of favours and threats, personal contacts and identity values, kinship and friendship, prestige and status that together articulated vertical solidarity. These very themes were tackled in the 1993 thematic issue of Hispania, focused on the concept of social networks. The articles by Cristina Jular and Pablo Sánchez León12 are particularly relevant to this chapter both for the methodo­logical proposals they make and the research projects that opened up as a result.13 Despite such contributions, the concept of solidarity has been relatively underused because of its association with the notion of reciprocity, one of the basic systems of economic exchange according to traditional anthropo­logy (cf. B. Malinowski and K. Polanyi), plus the well-known model created by Marshall Sahlins to explain the workings of “primitive” societies who operated under these principles.14 Nonetheless, the general framework is useful, as long as it is accepted, that, in the case of medi­eval society, economic relationships functioned within three of the contexts proposed by Sahins: reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange. If one of the three seems directly related to the feudal system, it is surely redistribution via feudal rent. Overall, though, the concept of solidarity comes into its own when perceived as a social dynamic. As Atienza, Sánchez León, and, more recently, Imí�zcoz, have all pointed out, the relationship of dependence that articulates vertical solidarity “is not only imposed from above, but is actively sought from below.”15 Ultimately, the concept of the Spanish casa señorial (the equivalent of Brunner’s Ganze Haus) needs to be re-evaluated, as Atienza purposefully did, as a houseAntiguo Régimen,” in Relaciones de poder, de producción y de parentesco en la Edad Media y Moderna. aproximación a su estudio, ed. Reyna Pastor (Madrid, 1990), 411–58.

11  Ignacio Atienza, “Consenso, solidaridad vertical e integración versus violencia en los señorí�os castellanos del siglo XVIII y la crisis del Antiguo Régimen,” in Señorío y feudalismo en la Península Ibérica (ss. XII–XIX), ed. Esteban Sarasa and Eliseo Serrano, 4 vols. (Zaragoza, 1993), 2:275–318. 12  Cristina Jular, “La participación de un noble en el poder local a través de su clientele. un ejemplo concreto de fines del siglo XIV,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 53, no. 185 (1993): 861–84; and Pablo Sánchez León, “Aspectos de una teorí�a de la competencia señorial. organización patrimonial, redistribución de recursos y cambio social,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 53, no. 185 (1993): 885–905.

13  This is the case of Cristina Jular, whose work suggests future paths, such as her “Dominios señoriales y relaciones clienterales en Castilla. Velasco, Porres y Cárcamo (siglos XII–XIV),” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 56, no. 192 (1996): 137–71, where the levels of an internal hierarchical organization into the clientele network are analyzed. The same researcher led in 2003 the research project CRELOC (Clientela y Redes Locales en la Castilla medi­eval), accessed September 1, 2011, http://www.creloc.net/proyecto/index.htm. She also coordinated in 2010 a special issue of the journal Hispania, devoted to medi­eval clientelism: Cristina Jular Pérez-Alfaro, “Nuevas cuestiones sobre el clientelismo medi­eval. Introducción,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 70, no. 235 (2010): 315–24. 14  Marshall Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (Chicago, 1972), 185–261. 15  Imí�zcoz, “Redes, grupos, clases,” 80.

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hold that articulated certain ties of dependency—Hausherrschaft—which converged in the figure of the lord.16 This type of relationship can be articulated in different formats, including complex networks of dependence, kinship, and even neighbourhood,17 while in Basque society the dominant model was the lineage. Although the lineage transcends simple family relationships, it is firmly based on them and derives much of its vitality and identity from such relationships. The relationship between the lineage as a social structure, and the social identity of the Iberian nobility as a class, has recently been explored,18 as has the role of the lineage in the social legitimization of the nobility following on from having fulfilled such a role in the legitimization of the royal dynasty.19 Within Basque society the protagonism conceded to the lineage within the nobility was absolute, and indeed with such an intensity that formal and institutional aspects of the concept even spread to the rest of the populace. The most extreme materialization of such “ennoblement” were the declarations of universal hidalguía that took place in the sixteenth century. The role of the concept of lineage was fundamental to such developments once both local custom and Castilian legislation from Alfonso X onwards agreed that the lineage was a pre-requisite for the attainment of noble status, as well as a distinguishing ethical and socio­logical framework for social class.20 At the head of the lineage was what the Basque sources of the period term the pariente mayor, a term that by extension would also be applied to the heads of the principal lineages of the aristocratic elite. One is tempted to employ a functional scheme of the type proposed by Atienza according to which the pariente mayor has various different relational spheres: a pater familias to his closest relatives and dependents and a lord to his vassals and servants.21 The model is certainly an attractive one; however, its application to the Basque “parientes mayores” is complicated by the complexity of the web of social relationships in which they were immersed, more intricate than was the case with other groups within the Castilian nobility.22 16  Otto Brunner, “Das ‘Ganze Haus’ und die alteuropäische ‘Ö� konomik,’” in Neue Wege der Verfassungs und Sozialgeschichte. Vorträge und Aufsätze, ed. Otto Brunner (Göttingen, 1956), 33–61. 17  Cristina Jular, “Nuevas cuestiones,” 316.

18  Bernardo Vasconcelos e Sousa, “Linhagem e identidade social na nobreza medi­eval portuguesa (séculos XIII–XIV),” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 67, no. 227 (2007): 881–98. 19  Georges Martin, “Linaje y legitimidad en la historiografí�a regia hispana de los siglos IX al XIII,” HAL-SHS (Hyper Article en Ligne-Sciences de l’Homme et de la Société), accessed October 15, 2010, http://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/halshs-00491559/en/.

20  Georges Martin, “Control regio de la violencia nobiliaria. La caballerí�a según Alfonso X de Castilla (comentario al tí�tulo XXI de la Segunda partida),” in Lucha política: condena y legitimación en la España medi­eval, ed. Isabel Alfonso, Julio Escalona, and Georges Martin (Lyon, 2004), 219–34.

21  Atienza, “Pater familias, señor y patrón,” 411–58. Also of great use is the model proposed by Jorge Sáiz, “Una clientela militar entre la Corona de Aragón y Castilla a fines del siglo XIV. caballeros de casa y vasallos de Alfons d’Aragó, conde de Denia y marqués de Villena,” En la España Medi­eval 29 (2006): 97–134. 22  Though it is far from easy to delimit these functional groups within the rest of the Castilian nobility, see Sáiz, “Una clientela military,” 102.

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Towards the end of the Middle Ages, the lineages would band together into larger hierarchized groups we will term “lineage-bands,” a phrase coined by Gerbet.23 The lineage-band can be defined as the grouping of lineages around a traditional leadership structure based on kinship, and which was generally both stable and locally based. This can be regarded as the basic political formation of the Basque nobility during the late Middle Ages, although even more striking would prove to be the subsequent grouping together of such lineage-bands into the party-bands that would dispute the so-called luchas de bandos, the internoble warfare that would dominate Basque political life in this period. The party-band was a grouping together of noble lineages that could also incorporate other elements (towns and rural communities), political in nature though with varying and at times diffuse objectives. Most significant was undoubtedly the general political context within the kingdom of Castile, where such bandos became increasingly widespread during the reigns of Juan II and Enrique IV. However, while the general political context affected bandos at both regional and local levels, at the latter level the single most defining element was the power struggles of the lineages leading the band. Hence, the band would be articulated around the desire to fulfill the objectives of the leading lineage, while also attempting to assimilate the objectives of the other lineages incorporated hierarchically into the band. While on a national scale the bandos would only survive for a limited time, they were permanent features of society in the northern regions. However, they were not yet institutionalized structures, as the electoral groupings of the towns and cities of Castile were,24 but were instead groupings with a degree of instability in which kinship played an important role in recruitment and a sense of shared identity served to unite the group. This complex panorama of alliances and conflicts has been the focus of the work of our research group for the last few years. The team’s members have tested new ways of understanding the social reality of the period employing a variety of tools and analytical perspectives—inductive analysis, microanalysis, historical anthropo­logy—and we have also indirectly broached the concepts of identity and solidarity. On a previous occasion we did so in reference to both the Basque Country and, more generally, the northern Spanish coast, but for now we will concentrate on the Basque region.25 Our primary 23  Marie-Claude Gerbet, Les noblesses espagnoles au Moyen Âge. XIe–XVe siècle (Paris, 1994), 171–72. For more on this and on the bando phenomenon in general, see Julio Caro Baroja, “Linajes y bandos,” in Vasconiana. Obras completas Vascas de Julio Caro Baroja, 3 vols. (1956; repr. San Sebastián, 1986), 3:13–61; and Isabel Beceiro and Ricardo Córdoba, Parentesco, poder y mentalidad. La nobleza castellana, siglos XII–XV (Madrid, 1990), 310. For a discussion of the applicability of these concepts to our theme, see Arsenio Dacosta, Los linajes de Bizkaia en la baja Edad Media. poder, parentesco y conflicto (Bilbao, 2004), 292–302.

24  José Marí�a Monsalvo, “Parentesco y sistema concejil. Observaciones sobre la funcionalidad polí�tica de los linajes urbanos en Castilla y León (siglos XIII–XV),” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 185 (1993): 937–69.

25  For a basic biblio­graphy for our approach, see Dacosta, Los linajes de Bizkaia; José Ramón Dí�az de Durana and Jon Andoni Fernández de Larrea, “Las relaciones contractuales de la nobleza y las elites urbanas en el Paí�s Vasco al final de la Edad Media (c. 1300–1500),” in El contrato político en

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source is Lope Garcí�a de Salazar’s Libro de las buenas andanças e fortunas, a literary text which has proved of singular value during our research, complemented here by the region’s surviving municipal and judicial documentation.26 This chapter is structured as follows: first, we examine the role played by identity in the creation of vertical solidarity. Then, working from a series of cases characterized by conflict and rupture, we attempt to ascertain to what extent solidarity, and, above all, vertical solidarity can be regarded as useful concepts.

Lineage and Group Identity

The application of the concept of identity to the analysis of late medi­eval society is a complex task. Until now it has been a line of analysis most frequently associated with anthropo­logy. It is proving, though, singularly rewarding to us as historians in our social analysis. For the moment, we set aside the question of individual identity, an issue we believe should only be tackled when the nature, and, above all, the onto­logy, of individuality in western society have been clarified.27 Nonetheless, identity is a singularly useful concept for coming to terms with both collective identity and that ultimately formulated by individuals—who are after all the protagonists here—around the lineage and the band from the different networks and recruiting processes that feed them. Indeed, we could even talk of a whole range of different though frequently overlapping identities: family, kin, class, and political. The fundamental unifying elements of a lineage’s identity were to be found, essentially, in the manor (solar) that both provided the lineage with its name and contained all the elements, both real and symbolic, that contributed to its grandeur. On the one hand, the physical manifestations: the fortified manor-house, home to the lineage’s principal family, the mill, the smithy, the wine or cider-press, and the church. More symbolically, a sense of origin centred in a distant ancestor common to the whole lineage, often shrouded in a series of legends; a surname borne by all members of the lineage—what Jacques Heers termed a “clan-symbol”— who would thus be identified by their personal/baptismal name, a patronym, and the lineage/estate name; a coat of arms, originally a personal identity marker, but subsequently adopted by the lineage as a whole;28 Europa Occidental. La cadena contractual en Castilla, ed. François Foronda and Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado (Madrid, 2008), 231–58.

26  Lope Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, ed. Á� ngel Rodrí�guez Herrero, 4 vols. (1967; repr. Bilbao, 1984); Consuelo Villacorta, ed., Edición crítica del Libro de las buenas andanças e fortunas que fizo Lope Garçía de Salazar (Títulos de los libros XIII, XVIII, XX, XXI, XXIV y XXV) (Bilbao, 2005).

27  Arsenio Dacosta, “Image and Bio­graphy of Chancellor Ayala. Report of an Impossible,” Imago Temporis. Medium Aevum 4 (2010), 287–305. 28  Some authors regard the coat of arms as one of the single most important elements in noble self-consciousness, even more so than the surname, although the two concepts are inextricably linked. See Faustino Menéndez Pidal, Los emblemas heráldicos. Una interpretación histórica (Madrid, 1993), 55–56; and Faustino Menéndez Pidal, “Las armerí�as medi­evales y modernas. ¿recuerdo del pasado?,” Revista de Dialecto­logía y tradiciones populares 50, no. 2 (1995): 83–104.

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and finally, the will to perpetuate the lineage’s memory through oratories, pantheons, and funerary mounds. Together, it was all tightly bound up into what Jacques Le Goff defined as “solidarité lignagère.”29 As for the Basque nobility, as well as the identity of the different lineages, a collective identity also derived from belonging to one of the two factions or party-bands known as the Oñacinos and the Gamboínos. There is no evidence for this bipartite division before the fourteenth century, unless we are to accept, as Lope Garcí�a de Salazar maintained, that the existence of the two Basque factions had its origin in human nature itself.30 The two party-bands would disappear from the Basque political panorama towards the end of the reign of Enrique IV, in the context of the Castilian civil war, catalyst for the crowning of the future Reyes Católicos. It is only in Guipúzcoa that we have a good idea of which lineages belonged to which party-band. In Vizcaya (Biscay), on the other hand, Lope Garcí�a de Salazar—both chronicler of and participant in the conflict—barely uses the labels in reference to the Vizcayan nobility, only doing so when narrating the conflict between Vizcayans and Guipuzcoans. Thus, we find that, at least in our chronicler’s work, band identification is based on the notion of otherness, rather than as innate, and hence is a malleable, elastic concept. All the evidence suggests that the two names were most widely used in Guipúzcoa, the location of the Gamboa and Oñaz estates. In Vizcaya, by contrast, the traditional conflict was between the Avendaños and the Butróns, and these were the names used in reference to their supporters rather than, respectively, Gamboí�nos or Oñacinos. The latter terms were only used when the conflict extended beyond the limits of the Lordship of Vizcaya and there was a need to ascribe a given lineage or a town to one faction or the other.31 Similarly, in Á� lava, these labels were only employed in reference to conflict between Guipuzcoan and Alavese lineages, particularly when the Guipuzcoan Lazcano lineage was involved, and were not used to describe the frequent clashes in the west of the province between the Vizcayan Avendaños and Múgica–Butróns and local Alavese lineages.32 In this context, collective identity proves to be a shifting concept. A particularly instructive case is that of the town of Durango, in eastern Vizcaya.33 Here the main lineages each maintained a fortified tower within the town’s walls, but also had an estate in the surrounding countryside. Although in principle they were rivals, during the fifteenth 29  Jacques Le Goff, La civilisation de l´Occident médiéval (Paris, 1967), 349.

30  Villacorta, ed., Edición crítica del Libro de las buenas andanças e fortunas, book 21, chap. 2.

31  Paradoxically, in Vizcaya the two labels survived, and indeed prospered, into the sixteenth century, as a result of the institutionalization of the two bands in local and provincial structures. Arsenio Dacosta, “Historiografí�a y bandos. reflexiones acerca de la crí�tica y justificación de la violencia banderiza en su contexto,” in La Lucha de Bandos en el País Vasco. de los Parientes Mayores a la Hidalguía Universal, ed. José Ramón Dí�az de Durana (Bilbao, 1998), 139–40. 32  José Ramón Dí�az de Durana, Álava en la Baja Edad Media. Crisis, recuperación y transformaciones socioeconómicas (c. 1250–1525) (Vitoria, 1986), 351–53. 33  Arsenio Dacosta, “El concejo de Tavira y las luchas de bandos en el Duranguesado en la baja Edad Media. Notas para un caso singular,” in Durango. 800 años de Historia. 10 años de las Jornadas de Historia del Museo de Arte e Historia de Durango, ed. Belén Bengoetxea (Bilbao, 2010), 40–59.

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century, we observe how municipal posts were shared evenly amongst them as they organized into electoral groups,34 not dissimilar to those in the larger Castilian urban centres of the period. What is unique about Durango is that there were not two such groups, but four, and they were at least nominally ascribed to the two generic Guipuzcoan party-bands, the Oñacinos and Gamboí�nos. Moreover, throughout the century, the supposedly rival groups in Durango would collaborate in response to external threats. For example, in November 1426, when Juan de Amézqueta declared war on the townsfolk of Durango, the Oñacino-leaning Muncharaz lineage were explicitly excluded from the declaration, yet they came out in support of their fellow townsfolk. In this case we see a series of overlapping identities and solidarities: the lineage in itself, the electoral grouping, the party-band, and the sense of belonging to the collective of townsfolk. In terms of political action then, and in contrast to what is observed in the rest of Vizcaya, in Durango, what counted was a sense of belonging to the collective of townsfolk.

Solidarity among the Nobility: Elements of Cohesion

The social elites, and particularly the nobility, displayed a marked degree of group solidarity, despite both the individual differences in wealth and prestige and the fierce competition between them. An extreme case of this group solidarity was the declaration of war, in July 1456, by the Guipuzcoan and Vizcayan heads of lineage (parientes mayores) against twenty-four townsmen they believed had conspired against them.35 This took place against the background of a growing campaign by the town brotherhoods (hermandades) against the lineages’ political and social hegemony.36 The hermandades were institutions with responsibility for both law and order, and were backed by royal authority, but the Crown also protected the status of its most important vassals in the Basque country, the leading parientes mayores. The defensive reaction of the latter demonstrates the seriousness of the hermandades’ Crown-backed onslaught, shattering the client networks the nobles had painstakingly built up over generations in the countryside, and on which their power was traditionally based. The aggressiveness of the parientes mayores’ reaction underlines just how much of a threat the hermandades posed to the lineages’ class pre-eminence, restricting their military capacity, undermining the symbolic power of the seigneurial fortified houses, breaking up their client networks, reducing their capacity to generate and distribute 34  Concepción Hidalgo de Cisneros Amestoy, Elena Largacha Rubio, Araceli Lorente Ruigómez, and Adela Martí�nez Lahidalga, Colección documental del Archivo Municipal de Durango, 4 vols. (San Sebastián, 1989), 2:369 (document 67).

35  Juan Martí�nez de Zaldivia, Suma de las cosas Cantábricas y Guipuzcoanas (San Sebastián, 1845), 91–96.

36  For a recent survey of current research, see José Á� ngel Lema, “Por los procuradores de los escuderos hijosdalgo. de la Hermandad General a la formación de las Juntas Generales de la Provincia de Guipúzcoa (siglos XIV–XVI),” in El triunfo de las elites urbanas guipuzcoanas. nuevos textos para el estudio del gobierno de las villas y de la Provincia (1412–1539), ed. José Á� ngel Lema, Jon Andoni Fernández de Larrea, Ernesto Garcí�a, Miguel Larrañaga, José Antonio Munita, and José Ramón Dí�az de Durana (San Sebastián, 2002), 59–113.

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the feudal rents, questioning their role as vassals to the Crown, and attacking the aspect of their power that best illustrated their pre-eminence within Basque society: their patronage of parish churches. That they were able to declare war on their challengers was a direct result of their having spent the previous century building the very network of alliances now under threat. The twin concepts of horizontal and vertical solidarity help us to understand the nature of the relationship between both the parientes mayores themselves, and between them and their dependents. In this first sense, the confederation of 1456 is the clearest example of horizontal solidarity among the Basque nobility of the period: an exceptional alliance that overcame both the traditional division into factions and the regional groupings. Somewhat more common were alliances on a lesser scale, generally hierarchical and vertical. While a few documented cases of homage have survived, they are generally guarantees for pacts undertaken between equals as part of a marriage contract. The commonest forms of vertical inter-noble relationships were rather kinship and feudovassallatic dependency. Our sources provide us with abundant cases of vertical solidarity (such as ties of kinship cemented by recognition of a common ancestor), of marriage alliances between lineages, of patronage, of kinship, and of affinity or friendship. The members of a lineage were aware of belonging to a kinship group, the internal cohesion of which was based on the circulation of favours and services in both directions, although there would also be lesser hierarchies within the lineage based on wealth or prestige. One of the principal functions of the lineage heads was to ensure such internal cohesion through both favours and gifts, and by orchestrating matrimonial alliances at different levels of the hierarchy. Such cohesion, alongside the ability to integrate new members into the hierarchical structure, was vital to the lineage’s capacity to extend its influence beyond the original estate, and to the pariente mayor’s ability to defend the lineage’s interests. The other aspect of vertical solidarity for which our sources provide abundant information features the instruments employed by the parientes mayores to ensure the services of armed retainers. One of the most important such instruments is abundantly referred to in our sources as the tregua, literally a “truce,” but here with quite a different meaning. These treguas are in fact the indentures common throughout Europe, and characteristic of what has become known as bastard feudalism. They took the form of contracts that stipulated military service in return for a sum of money, not dissimilar to money fiefs, although without the requirement of homage. The lack of homage has meant that these agreements—the equivalents of the English indentures of retainers or French alliances—have on occasions been interpreted as non-feudal contracts that replaced by then outdated feudo-vassallatic ties.37 The references to these agreements suggest that the tregua formed the basis for the entire structure of inter-noble relations in Á� lava, Guipúzcoa, and Vizcaya, and it seems reasonable to suppose that the growing importance of the institution was a consequence of the weakening of previous mechanisms based on kinship during the fifteenth century. It seems clear that the tregua sys37  Dí�az de Durana and Fernández de Larrea, “Las relaciones contractuales,” 301–9.

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tem was structured vertically, and that the vassals of the parientes mayores had in turn their own indentured retainers within an extensive client and kin network. There were even cases of indentures being extended to non-nobles, denounced in the old Vizcayan legal code, the Fuero Viejo of 1452.38

The Breakdown of Vertical Solidarity within the Basque Nobility

Accustomed as one becomes to the narrative of the bellicosity of the Basque nobility, a theme exploited ad nauseam by Lope Garcí�a de Salazar, it might come as a surprise to learn that the norm between parientes mayores of the same faction, or between a given lord and his dependents, was in fact the alliance, and that the breaking of such pacts and the ensuing hostility was the exception. However, that was precisely the case: the system of horizontal and vertical solidarities brought enormous stability. The origins of this stability can be traced to a variety of factors that favoured social cohesion—consanguinity, territoriality, and shared identities—but in order to better understand this, I think it is more instructive to study those cases in which this solidarity broke down, when the causes, characteristics, and consequences of the disaffection become clear. Such cases also highlight some difficult questions on the nature of collective identity, particularly at the faction level. The Collapse of Party-Band Identity and the Rise of the Political Alliance

We’ve already mentioned the functional nature of party-band identity, and this aspect is undoubtedly related to the dynamic of political alliances, a phenomenon rather more prevalent than the traditional affiliation of lineages to one or other party-band would have us believe. The strategies followed by individual parientes mayores, no matter how conservative they might be with respect to traditional allegiances, would on occasion lead them to fratricidal conflict and contra natura pacts, as the following examples demonstrate. Our first such case pits two members of the Gamboí�no party-band against each other. In 1413, Juan de Gamboa, leader of the Gamboí�nos, violently expelled his ally, Martí�n Sánchez de Ugarte, from the town of Renterí�a, stripping him of the post of provost, a role of no little fiscal and political authority that was key to the control of commercial activity in the northern towns. Implicit in such an attack and the ensuing conflict was the breakdown of a finely-balanced entente, which relied on local lineages such as the Ugarte as the standard-bearers of the Gamboí�no faction in this part of Guipúzcoa.39 The opposite dynamic, itself far from infrequent, was the creation of alliances between lineages belonging to opposing factions. This type of agreement would normally be the result of a previous conflict within one of the party-bands, and tended to be singularly conflictive both in origin and in consequences, though they often prove 38  Concepción Hidalgo de Cisneros, Elena Largacha Rubio, Araceli Lorente Ruygomez, and Adela Martí�nez Lahidalga, Fuentes jurídicas medi­evales del Señorío de Vizcaya. Cuadernos legales. Capítulo de la Hermandad y Fuero Viejo (1342–1506) (San Sebastián, 1985), 178–79. 39  Villacorta, ed., Edición crítica del Libro de las buenas andanças e fortunas, book 21, chaps. 441–42.

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difficult to document. The growth in violence during the fifteenth century, local threats to already uncertain balances of power, and the narrowness of a nuptial “market” characterized by unequal and hierarchized matches, could even lead to the sporadic emergence of alliances between heads of opposing factions, although only ever from different territories. Such apparently anti-natural pacts were not as rare as supposed antagonism between party-bands might have us believe. One of the most interesting cases given the chrono­logical coordinates of the agreement is the marital agreement forged between the Butrón lineage (Vizcayan Oñacinos) and the Gamboas (Guipuzcoan Gamboí�nos) in 1446, culminating in the celebration of a wedding in 1450.40 The End of the Indentures: The Breakdown of Vertical Solidarity in the Lineage-Band

The ties of solidarity that bound together lineage-bands, that is to say, a group of lineages formed around a traditional leadership model, were generally speaking remarkably firm within the Basque Country. Nonetheless, there were circumstances in which the relationship between the pariente mayor and one of the local lineages would break down, generally only temporarily, but sometimes on a permanent basis. This would happen to Gómez González de Butrón, leader of one of the Vizcayan lineage-bands that took part in the tragic sacking and burning of the Guipuzcoan town of Mondragón in June 1448.41 The episode, which pitched Oñacinos against Gamboí�nos and involved lineages from both Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa, began in confusing circumstances when Butrón, under siege, received a letter of safe-conduct from his son-in-law, Martí�n Ruiz de Gamboa—on the opposite side—with instructions on how to escape.42 It seems probable that the missive was known to the other besieging Gamboí�no lords, and, if that is the case, it implies the existence of a conscious horizontal solidarity that transcended party-band affiliation. What is remarkable about the case is that the letter was intercepted by one of Butrón’s allies, like him threatened with imminent death. Indeed, Lope de Unzueta, an Oñacino from Durango, impersonated his lord, using the letter to save himself.43 Such an episode only serves to question once again the validity of the cliché of loyalty to the party-band. What is more, this breakdown in solidarity would lead to the death of Butrón, the pariente mayor, as well as that of his nephew Perceval and of another twenty-five men, and proved to be an important turning-point, as it was the first time party-band warfare led to the death of one of the leading parientes mayores. The impact on his peers of such an unprecedented development can perhaps be seen when parientes mayores from both sides of the party-band joined forces in the famous declaration of 1456. 40  Published by Juan Carlos de Guerra, “Oñacinos y Gamboí�nos. Algunos documentos inéditos referentes a la época de los bandos en el Paí�s Vasco,” Revista Internacional de Estudios Vascos 26 (1935): 319–20.

41  Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, 4:214–15; and Sabino Aguirre Gandarias, ed., Anales Breves de Vizcaya, Las dos primeras crónicas de Vizcaya. Estudio, textos críticos y apéndices (Bilbao, 1987), 170. 42  Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, 4:214.

43  Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, 4:214–15.

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The alliance was an instrument vital to the creation and consolidation of political ties and dependencies between lineages. Strategic marriage alliances built a network of kinship, which translated directly into a useful political instrument. The resulting interlineage relationships tended to be stable and were often long-lasting, but not completely immune to political development: it was not uncommon for the marriage alliance to be used as a strategy to attract an enemy’s dependent.44 Nor were such alliances necessarily the initiative of the parientes mayores: on occasion, it was the indentured retainers who felt obliged to change sides. This was the case with Í� ñigo Ortiz de Salcedo, who, although allied to Ochoa de Salazar, with whose descendants several of his off-spring agreed marriage settlements, decided to switch bandos, becoming indentured to Martí�n Ruiz de Avendaño, the leading Vizcayan Gamboí�no.45 Another interesting case similarly involved Ochoa de Salazar, the father of Lope, the chronicler and our primary source. Around 1418, Ochoa’s political influence was based on a network woven from a mix of kinship and alliance. However, the latter could on occasion lead to internal conflict, as would prove to be the case that year, when, as a result of the recent marriage of one of his daughters to Pedro de Murga, Ochoa found himself unable to defend the interests of his dependents in the Achuriaga lineage, and as a result lost their loyalty. The situation caused friction with his new son-in-law, permanently damaging their relationship.46 Above all, the case illustrates the delicate political situation of the pariente mayor: far from being an omnipotent lord, the leader of a lineage or band was subject to a series of competing obligations that at times proved impossible to reconcile. Tacit or explicit agreement with his dependents brought obvious advantages and was fundamental to his power, but also created numerous obligations that he could ill afford to ignore. The Correlation between Leadership and Stability of the Party-Band

One of the most effective measures taken by the Crown against the party-bands during the fifteenth century was the exile of their leaders, the parientes mayores. In response to escalating violence in Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya, Enrique IV ordered the demolition of the fortified towers of the leading parientes mayores and banished them to the Granada frontier.47 Their exile was proclaimed on 21 April 1457 with far-reaching results, particularly in Vizcaya and Guipúzcoa, where the balance of power shifted significantly. The hitherto all-reaching feudal power of the parientes mayores was suddenly weakened, and in their absence, others sought to take the vacated space. A well-documented case is that of the town of Bermeo in Vizcaya, dominated by the Avendaño lineage during the fifteenth century. With the lineage’s leaders banished, we suddenly see the king ordering the Bermeo authorities to respect Pedro de Avendaño’s possession of the monastery

44  Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, 4:78.

45  Lope Garcí�a de Salazar, Libro de las Buenas andanzas e Fortunas que fizo Lope García de Salazar. In the Corpus On-line de Vasconia, accessed September 1, 2011, http://www.ehu.eus/anlibano/ indice_vocablos, libro 23, posición 14172. 46  Garcí�a de Salazar, Las Bienandanzas e fortunas, 4:367.

47  Garcí�a de Salazar, Libro de las Buenas andanzas.

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of Santa Marí�a de Albóniga. In other words, the most powerful noble in Vizcaya felt his rights and rents threatened by the town’s magistrates and the local clergy.48 After their banishment, the king himself sought to restore the power of the parientes mayores, guaranteeing his principal vassals’ rights, and, in Vizcaya, even going so far as to permit the rebuilding of their indenture networks, granting licence to all the nobles who joined the hermandad to return to the service of their respective party-band leader.49 All of this reveals that the identification of the indentured retainers with their pariente mayor, and the solidarities working at the heart of bands and lineages, were subject to a complex web of obligations and favours, alliances and friendships, but, above all, to the power directly wielded in the region by the noble elite. The cases we have examined make abundantly clear that absence or weakness of leadership had a negative effect on the cohesion of the lineage-band. This in turn obliges us to reevaluate the structural nature of the ties of dependency and solidarity, opting for an interpretative model of social networks built around context and contingency.

Complete Breakdown: The hidalgos of Oñate against Beltrán Vélez de Guevara

Probably the most extreme example of the breakdown in the complex relationship between the parientes mayores and those who fell within their sphere of influence, took place in the valley of Oñate in 1388, far surpassing the other social ruptures we have described, when eighty-seven of the valley’s minor nobility (hidalgos) rebelled against the lord of the valley, Beltrán Vélez de Guevara. They alleged that he had arbitrarily seized their possessions and threatened to kill them for non-payment of rents and services from which they were exempt as hidalgos, but which he regarded as inherent to his lordship.50 In this case, however, they not only sought to defend their rights and possessions and reaffirm their status as hidalgos, but went further, questioning the very lordship of the Guevara over Oñate and arguing that the valley was in reality subject only to ecclesiastical jurisdiction. This, known as denaturalization, was the most radical step a vassal could take: the severing of all ties with his “natural” lord. The rebellion would last the best part of a year until, in June 1389, Beltrán Vélez de Guevara, though considering his vassals worthy of the death penalty as traitors, extended a general pardon to the rebels. They in turn recognized his lordship, in a scene pregnant with symbolism, prostrating themselves before him. The idea, if not the practice, of denaturalization of the lord as an hidalgo privilege in response to arbitrariness is a common one in political discourse of the Basque region. 48  Aguirre Gandarias, Las dos primeras, 296–97.

49  Sabino Aguirre Gandarias, Lope García de Salazar. El primer historiador de Bizkaia (1399–1476) (Bilbao, 1994), 347–48.

50  Marí�a Rosa Ayerbe, Historia del Condado de Oñate y Señorío de los Guevara, (siglos XI–XVI): Aportación al estudio del régimen señorial en Castilla, 2 vols. (San Sebastián, 1985), 2:38ff.; José Ramón Dí�az de Durana and Jon Andoni Fernández de Larrea, “El discurso polí�tico de los protagonistas de las luchas sociales en el Paí�s Vasco al final de la Edad Media (1300–1525),” in Lucha política. condena y legitimación en la España medi­eval, ed. Isabel Alfonso, Julio Escalona, and Georges Martin (Lyon, 2004), 324–27.

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The principal narrative versions of the origins of the Lordship of Vizcaya, particularly Lope Garcí�a de Salazar’s rendering, insist on the hidalgo right to abandon or disobey a lord who usurped his authority.51 The notion appears both in reference to the legendary battle of Arrigorriaga and in relation to the belligerent attitude of the Lords of Vizcaya to the kings of Castile. It was perhaps little more than a rhetorical defence of privileges, that, alongside their military obligations, characterized political sovereignty in the region. Nevertheless, such discourse would survive and ultimately contribute to the regional and foral52 identity that would emerge in the Early Modern period.

Topics for Future Exploration

Through our analysis of these cases, we gain access to a social reality less rigid than those that emerge from the application of traditional theoretical paradigms — a reality more complex, even, than the broad concept of solidarity. There is, of course, nothing novel about stressing the complex nature of reality nor of recognizing our limited capacity for understanding such complexity. Nonetheless, we believe that our approach allows us to fine-tune our use of concepts such as identity or solidarity, in turn helping us to make sense of that complexity. In this sense, our use of the concepts is methodo­ logical rather than epistemo­logical. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile emphasizing the usefulness of the conceptual terms we have employed, starting perhaps with relativizing certain social and institutional frameworks, which, from an individual perspective, can seem overly restrictive. We are thinking, of course, of the warnings issued by Michel Foucault in relation to the nature of power and the exercise of authority and violence. Alongside his undeniable contributions we have suggested the case for two more: first, the complexity of interpersonal relationships, even within such a heavily hierarchized system as feudalism. Not only should we be aware of the complexity and multiplicity of relationships at work within a lineage, which, far from being governed solely by the authority exercised by some over others, are also subject to other influences, among them affection even, but most importantly of all by a vertical dialectic. Within the basic social structures of the nobility, and, above all, the lineage, identity, solidarity, and consensus were just as important to social integration as feudal coercion.53 51  The political expression of these narratives and the practices of other barons and nobles are analyzed by Arsenio Dacosta, “‘Porque él fasí�a desafuero’. la resistencia estamental al corregidor en la Bizkaia del siglo XV,” in Poder, resistencia y conflicto en las provincias vascas (siglos XV–XVIII), ed. Marí�a Rosario Porres (Bilbao, 2001), 37–64; Arsenio Dacosta, “De la conciencia del linaje a la defensa estamental. Acerca de algunas narrativas nobiliarias vascas,” Medi­evalista 8 (2010): 3–51, available at https://journals.openedition.org/medi­evalista/475.

52  Foral is derived from fueros, in the sense of local legal codes specific to each of the Basque territories.

53  Traditional anthropo­logy also recognizes this; see Marshall Sahlins, “The Segmentary Lineage. An Organization of Predatory Expansion,” American Anthropo­logist 63, no. 2 (1961): 322–44. For the application of these ideas along the lines suggested here, see Atienza, “Consenso, solidaridad vertical,” 2: 275–318.

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In this last sense, we do well to reclaim the long-standing tradition of anthropo­ logical analysis of leadership and chiefdom, which provides us with abundant theoretical reflection and rich ethno­graphical data on the difficulties of being a chief, lord, or indeed pariente mayor. The power exercised at the heart of a lineage, or in feudal society in general, is perhaps as a result of our juridical tradition and classical analyses of political philosophy, all too often regarded in institutional and/or structural terms. Vertical relationships, both authoritative and cooperative, should be understood in dialectical terms, accepting the primordial role of coercion, but also the no less important roles of reciprocity or redistribution, depending on the circumstances, although the actual manifestations of these latter concepts are often much more complex.54 The examples here were chosen precisely because they illustrate the failure of a mechanism so important to vertical relationships: the fulfillment of mutual obligations, and, ultimately, the upper social strata fulfilling their role as redistributors of feudal wealth. In this sense, while recognizing the desirability of a more precise conceptualization of the term “vertical solidarities,” we recommend its use, not so much as an explicative paradigm, as a tool for relational analysis. It makes for greater precision in our analysis, allowing us to perceive and describe realities more complex than those suggested by concepts such as “class” or “dependency.” Nonetheless, we believe that these concepts retain their operability at a given level, that is to say, in the analysis of the domination of one group or person over another, and on a broad scale, when the purpose of the concept is abstraction and synthesis. On the other hand, the concept of vertical solidarity focuses on the internal cohesion of the group and on affinity and allegiance, consensus and coercion, kinship and proximity. The examples do not reveal an immovable structural rule, but they do help us to define the identity of groups of nobles around the concept of lineage and the solidarities woven—and ripped apart—around it. In this sense, vertical solidarity seems to revolve around group identity (and the sense of otherness with respect to opponents), redistribution (and inter- seigneurial competition), the group’s internal relationships (and the class status of each individual), and consensus (or dissidence). The cases analyzed, characterized by threats and conflict, imply, in relation to the concept of vertical solidarity, a radical adjustment of behaviour in response to private interests that come into conflict with the established hierarchy and pre-existing strategies. We propose that by vertical solidarity we should understand, on the one hand, the array of not necessarily coherent or stable power-strategies developed by individuals or groups within collectives that are at once both socially hierarchized and differentiated, but, are, nonetheless, also united by close ties in which the redistribution of wealth and services by the elite plays a key role, and secondly, the existence and transversal display of a collective feeling of identity.55 The main differences from the concept of horizontal 54  On these problems, see Giovanni Levi, “Reciprocidad mediterránea,” Hispania. Revista Española de Historia 60, no. 204 (2000): 103–26; and Ana Rodrí�guez, Reyna Pastor, “Générosités nécessaires. Réciprocité et hiérarchie dans les communautés de la Galice (XIIe–XIIIe siècles),” Histoire & Sociétés Rurales 18 (2002): 91–120. 55  Karl Polanyi, “The Economy as Instituted Process,” in Trade and Market in the Early Empires,

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solidarity are the added weight given to reciprocity in the exchange of wealth and services, and the individual and collective perception of the social position of each member of the group. In both cases, frameworks of social interaction are articulated that seek to optimize benefits to the detriment of analogous groups seen as enemies or competition. In both cases, too, solidarity, particularly of the vertical kind, reveals that social ties are expressed as obligations, and, more important still, as “mutual obligations.”56 All of this is compatible with the contractual logic of feudalism. Indeed, one might well ask whether these spheres defined by solidarity ought not to be regarded as a case of dialectical balance defined by the mutual obligations between seigneurs and their dependents, patrons and their clients, and lords and their peasants.

ed. Karl Polanyi, Conrad M. Arensberg and Harry W. Pearson (New York, 1957), 243–70; and Marshall Sahlins, “Poor Man, Rich Man, Big Man, Chief. Political Types in Melanesia and Polynesia,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 5 (1963): 285–303.

56  The phrase is from Edward P. Thompson, La formación de la clase obrera en Inglaterra (Barcelona, 1989; original edition, The Making of the English Working Class, London, 1963), 28; cited by José Marí�a Imí�zcoz, “Familia y redes sociales en la España Moderna,” in La familia en la Historia, ed. Francisco Javier Lorenzo (Salamanca, 2009), 176.

Chapter 15

IDENTITY-MAKING DISCOURSES IN THE KINGDOM OF SARDINIA AND CORSICA AND THE GIUDICATO OF ARBOREA LUCIANO GALLINARI

The Giudicato of Arborea was one of four independent judicates into which the island of Sardinia was divided in the Middle Ages. It occupied the central-west portion of the island, with Cagliari to the south and east, and the Mediterranean Sea to the west. Giudice (Judge) Barison II married into the Catalan nobility in 1157, and two centuries later Sardinia fell to the Crown of Aragon. Arborea outlasted her neighbours, surviving into the fifteenth century. Historical research into the relations between the kingdom of Sardinia and Corsica and the Giudicato of Arborea (from the second half of the thirteenth to the first two decades of the fifteenth century) has existed for more than a century. In this chapter, I focus on historical memory and foundation myths as identitymaking discourses in this context and period of time. Notwithstanding, and although recognizing that the Catalan “layer” is fundamental for understanding modern Sardinia’s culture and identity, I have previously highlighted how publications, conferences, and seminars are less and less concerned with the history of Catalan–Aragonese Sardinia.1 That said, in recent decades scholars have continued to wonder about the meaning and different aspects of the deep Catalan imprint on Sardinia, not only for the Middle Ages, but also for the modern period.2 After all, the 1  Luciano Gallinari, “Bilanci e prospettive della storiografia sulla Sardegna in epoca catalana,” in Sardegna Catalana, ed. Anna Maria Oliva and Olivetta Schena (Barcelona, 2014), 373–94. See also the recent work of Sergio Tognetti, “La Sardegna catalana. Storiografia sarda e storiografia italiana a confronto,” Nuova rivista storica 99, no. 3 (2015): 1037–46. This paucity of studies is also demonstrated by the lack of general works that deal with Sardo-Catalan relations, from the creation of the Regnum (1297) until the disappearance of the Giudicato of Arborea (1420), and takes us beyond the still essential works by Antonio Arribas, La conquista de Cerdeña por Jaime II de Aragón (Barcelona, 1952) and Vicente Salavert, Cerdeña y la expansión mediterranea (Madrid, 1956).

2  Esther Martí� Sentañes, “L’empremta catalana en la cultura sarda. História, institucions, art, llengua i tradicions populars,” RiMe. Rivista dell’Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea 2 (2009), 13–30, accessed October 15, 2020, http://rime.cnr.it/index.php/rime/article/view/409. Esther Martí�, “La identidad catalana en Cerdeña,” in Sardegna catalana, ed. Anna Maria Oliva and Olivetta Schena (Barcelona, 2014), 230–56; Alessandra Cioppi, “Il ‘Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae’ nei primi del Trecento attraverso un inedito resoconto di ‘Ramon ça Vall’,” in Sardegna e Mediterraneo tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna. Studi in onore di Francesco Cesare Casula, ed. Maria Giuseppina Meloni and Olivetta Schena (Genoa, 2009), 47–84. Luciano Gallinari ([email protected]) is Ricercatore in Medi­eval History at the Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea-Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Cagliari, Italy.

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island continued to revolve around that political and cultural orbit, even though it was then part of the larger Crown of Spain.3 This chapter applies social science methodo­logies to the analysis of Sardo-Catalan relations. This is particularly important for the period between 1297—the founding date of the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae—and 1420, when the Sardinian Giudicato definitively fell to the kings of Aragon. These political changes affected issues of identity then and later.4 Such methodo­logies are also needed due to the paucity of medi­eval sources—public and/or private—produced in the island, which cannot counterbalance the wealth of documents elsewhere, mainly in Iberia.5 The Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó alone holds a wide range of records, parchments, diplomas, and charters concerning thirteenth- to fifteenth-century Sardinia, not to mention other archives in Barcelona and in other ter3  Some of these recent studies are more concerned with the relations among the monarchs of Aragon, the Holy See, and Sardinia associated with the enfeoffment of the Regnum to King James II: Maria Eugenia Cadeddu, “Frontiere dell’espansione catalano-aragonese nel Mediterraneo. L’epoca di Giacomo II d’Aragona (1291–1327),” in Frontiere del Mediterraneo. Seminario Internazionale di Studi (Cagliari, 10–12 Ottobre 2002), ed. Maria Eugenia Cadeddu and Maria Grazia Mele (Pisa, 2003), 31–39; Maria Eugenia Cadeddu, Maria Rosa Muñoz, Vicente Pons, and Mateu Rodrigo, “La participación valenciana en la conquista de Cerdeña,” in La Mediterrània de la Corona d’Aragó, segles XIII–XVI. VII Centenari de la sentència arbitral de Torrellas, 1304–2004, ed. Rafael Narbona, 2 vols. (Valencia, 2005), 1:225–50; Maria Eugenia Cadeddu, “L’espansione catalano-aragonese nel Mediterraneo. riflessi nella storiografia iberica contemporanea,” in Quel mar che la terra inghirlanda. Studi mediterranei in ricordo di Marco Tangheroni, ed. Franco Cardini and Maria Luisa Ceccarelli Lemut (Rome, 2007), 149–55. Mauro G. Sanna, “Papa Giovanni XXII, Giacomo II d’Aragona e la questione del Regnum Sardinie et Corsice,” in Tra diritto e storia. Studi in onore di Luigi Berlinguer promossi dalle Università di Siena e di Sassari, 2 vols. (Soveria Mannelli, 2008), 2:737–52. Mauro G. Sanna, “Bonifacio VIII, Giacomo II d’Aragona e la questione del regnum Sardinie et Corsice,” Bullettino dell’Istituto storico italiano per il Medioevo 112 (2010): 503–28. Mauro G. Sanna, “La Sardegna, il Papato e le dinamiche delle espansione mediterránea,” in La Sardegna nel Mediterraneo tardomedi­evale. Convegno di studi. Sassari, 13–14 dicembre 2012 (Trieste, 2013), 103–21. 4  For all references to the text of Boniface VIII’s Bulla, creating the “Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae,” see the edition of Salavert, Cerdeña y la expansión mediterranea, 2:22–30 (document 21).

5  “[T]he archival record has escaped an abandoned or dominated island, and one must search in Barcelona, Madrid, Pisa, or Marseille for the written texts that are the most useful raw material for the historian” ([L]’archivio ha sfuggito un’isola abbandonata o dominata, e bisogna cercare a Barcellona, a Madrid, a Pisa, a Marsiglia le tracce scritte che costituiscono la materia prima più utile allo storico). Cited from Maurice Le Lannou, “Un’idea della Sardegna,” in La Sardegna. 1. La geografia, la storia, l’arte e la letteratura, ed. Manlio Brigaglia, 2 vols. (Cagliari, 1982), 1:6. The loss of the Giudicati archives increased for several reasons: first, documents were recorded in the Arborea chancery, attested at least since the second half of the thirteenth century, and also at the end of the fourteenth century by the Carta de Logu (a sort of Constitutional Charter) of the Giudicato of Arborea (Francesco Cesare Casula, Dizionario Storico Sardo (Sassari, 2001), 348–52); second, the period covers an increasing number of episodes of dynastic and historical memory present in various Giudicati, some cases of which are examined here, and, third, there are numerous mentions of written documents present in the Condaghes—registers of sales and purchases of goods of various kinds—belonging to judges, monastic orders, and simple subjects of the Sardinian polities (in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries).

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ritories formerly under the Crown of Aragon. In addition, we have many sources from the Italian peninsula. Naturally, we need to attend to terms we find here, in the hope of revealing the true semantic and cultural meaning, and, in so doing, to achieve a more reliable and accurate reconstruction of Sardinia’s history. In the past, this paucity of sources has led to conclusions that go beyond the documents’ evidence.6 Unfortunately—in some cases—such conclusions have been taken over by renowned scholars who have only dealt with the island in passing. For instance, Marc Bloch spoke of the relative otherness of Sardinia with respect to “some of the main trends that have moulded the rest of Europe.” In his opinion, this separation only ended with the Catalan conquest of the island, allowing Sardinia to re-enter “history.”7 This has been repeated in other recent studies, some of them by prestigious presses.8 None of these historical interpretations has proposed any form, however veiled, of political leadership by the Sardinian giudicati. On the contrary, people still talk of Sardinia having exited from history, as if it were a passive receptor of events by foreign protagonists: Genoa, Pisa, and the Apostolic See between the eleventh and the first half of the thirteenth centuries, in the view of several historians;9 and the Crown of Aragon from the end of the thirteenth century, according to others.10 This passivity is not evident if we examine identity-making and ethnic self-consciousness—in the anthropo­logical sense of the term—which is evident in the sources, 6  Paul Veyne, Comment on écrit l’histoire. Texte integral (Paris, 1996), 31, argues that we must write history as we have always done, recognizing the unequal levels of preservation of historic documents. On the relationship between Sardinian historio­graphy and the sources see also Luciano Gallinari, “Some criticalities on exegetical and methodo­logical issues of researching the Sardinian identity profile,” in Sardinia from Middle Ages to Contemporaneity. A Case Study of a Mediterranean Island Identity Profile, ed. Luciano Gallinari (Bern, 2018), 1–15. 7  “Quelques-uns des principaux courants qui ont façonné le reste d’Europe.” Cited from Marc Bloch, “Une experience historique; la Sardaigne médièvale,” Annales. Economies, sociétés, civilisations 10 (1938): 50. See also Maria Eugenia Cadeddu, “Sardegna fra lunga durata e ‘histoire événementielle’. La suggestione dell’immobilità, la levità degli accadimenti,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome– Moyen Âge 113, no. 1 (2001): 41–56.

8  Even recently the idea of the island’s geo­graphical isolation has been reiterated in a way that is not entirely understandable by Jean-Marie Martin, “Les actes sardes (XIe–XIIe siècle),” in L’héritage Byzantin en Italie (VIIIe–XIIe siècle). I: La fabrique documentaire, ed. Jean-Marie Martin, Annick Peters-Custot, and Vivien Prigent (Rome, 2011), 191–205; Laura Galoppini, “Overview of Sardinian History (500–1500),” in A Companion to Sardinian History, ed. Michelle Hobart (Boston, 2017), 85–114; and Gian Giacomo Ortu, “Establishing Power and Law in Medi­eval and Modern Sardinia,” in A Companion to Sardinian History, ed. Michelle Hobart (Boston, 2017), 228–51.

9  For the historical period up until the eve of the Gregorian Reform in the eleventh century, Gian Giacomo Ortu, La Sardegna dei giudici (Nuoro, 2005), 39–75; Giuseppe Meloni proposes the idea of a “progressive isolation of Sardinia, which was destined to soon become almost complete” (progressivo isolamento della Sardegna, che era destinato a divenire presto pressoché totale) during the Early Middle Ages. Cited from Giuseppe Meloni, “L’origine dei Giudicati,” in Storia della Sardegna, 1. Dalle origini al Settecento, ed. Manlio Brigaglia, Antonio Mastino, and Gian Giacomo Ortu (Rome, 2006), 76–77. 10  Bloch, “Une experience historique,” 50.

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and this has been given a modern slant, embedded with cultural, political, and institutional meanings against the current Italian state. So, Sardinia’s history gets observed through a mirror that projects an image almost wholly from outside the island. Not only is this one-dimensional, but it forces us to apply interpretative filters.11 If—as Social Sciences teach—the mirror itself distorts, we should nonetheless examine the extant Catalan sources with an eye on the observer and the observed—current Sardinians—and be more self-reflective and committed to a balanced portrait of the island.12 If nothing else, we should unpick unpleasant imagery, not in line with the identity-making images produced in the past, sometimes with revanchist tones and terms.13 Another not insignificant element is the nature of the relationship between Sardinia and the Crown of Aragon. After an initially peaceful period, this relationship began to see growing antagonism between Sardinians and the Aragonese, which culminated in open warfare lasting decades. This final phase requires us “to become aware of an identity that is certainly founded on the accumulation of earlier experiences, but gets reconstructed at the particular moment, according to the circumstances of the present crisis.”14 Special attention to the history of the Giudicato of Arborea is warranted because it was the most durable of the four Sardinian polities, and for its role as a “receptacle of memory,” hosting several historical features that held a clear, symbolic meaning. In particular, Sardinians have a memory of a time when they were able to rule themselves autonomously, creating legal institutions at the forefront in Europe. This act of remembering confirms, once again, how identity, like any other product of the mind, is a selective construction that recalls some things and forgets others, intentionally or not.15 11  Apart from a few original documents, several Catalan chancery registers contain copies of Arborea documents, which provide information from the interior of the island. We do not have originals, or even copies of the latter, making it even more difficult to unpick those “meta-images” of Giudicati society that, in many cases, have been accepted as reliable tout court by historians.

12  Starting from Hegel, for whom “the mirror synthesizes the process by which what is within itself goes to the Other and then returns to itself” (lo specchio sintetizza il processo per cui ciò che è presso di sé va in altro per poi tornare presso di sé). Jacques Lacan argued that the essentially dialectical function of self-recognition through the Other is realized in the subject’s relationship with its own image by means of the mirror’s dialectical virtues. See Antonio Di Ciaccia and Massimo Recalcati, Jacques Lacan. Un insegnamento sul sapere dell’inconscio (Milan, 2000), 23.

13  Nietzsche offered stimulating observations on so-called “monumental history.” He warned of the danger inherent in the inability to distinguish between “a monumental past and a mythical invention, because from one of these worlds we can draw exactly the same impulses than from the other” (un passato monumentale e un’invenzione mitica, perché da uno di questi mondi possono essere tratti esattamente gli stessi impulsi che dall’altro). Cited from Friedrich Nietzsche, “Sull’utilità e il danno della storia,” in Considerazioni inattuali (Turin, 1981), 95–96. 14  “Prendere coscienza di una identità che risulta certamente fondata sul cumulo di esperienze precedenti, ma che va ricostruita al momento, in funzione della presente situazione di crisi.” Cited from Jurghis Baltrušaitis, Lo specchio. Rivelazioni, inganni e sciénce-fiction (Milan, 1981), 9; Andrea Tagliapietra, La metafora dello specchio. Lineamenti per una storia simbolica (Milan, 1991), 173.

15  Ugo Fabietti and Vincenzo Matera, Memorie e identità. Simboli e strategie del ricordo (Rome, 1999), 14.

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The close relation between memory and power is well-known, whereby images of the past agree with dominant contemporary thoughts. This leads to the cancellation, or oblivion, of elements of the past that we consider inconvenient, unsuitable for the political and identity-making “discourse” that we wish to achieve. Over recent decades, in Sardinia this “discourse” has been characterized by “ethnic” features that happen to be highly symbolic constructions, based on the choice and emphasis of particular linguistic and cultural points of difference.16 This is a discourse with strong political connotations linking today’s Sardinian society and the events that saw the Giudicato of Arborea and the Crown of Aragon opposed at political, legal, and “cultural” levels between the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries. The element that links past and present in Sardinian history is opposition—the primary factor in recognition of themselves and the Other—without which there can be no ethnic identity. In other words, opposition between Sardinians and the Catalan–Aragonese in the Middle Ages, and between Sardinians and Italians today.17 Identity, particularly an ethnic one, is not something stable and defined once and for all, but is “built, developed, changed and maintained throughout life, through various negotiations of identities [...]”;18 this can be applied to the two historical periods mentioned above. In Sardinia, the identity-making discourse, always important, has now become even more relevant as a reaction to changes in the island society, as it becomes increasingly multicultural, leading to the exaltation of ethnicity. In this way, ethnic identity has become a focus for identity research and definition on behalf of single peoples, with certainly subjective differences in the emphasis placed on their ethnic, cultural, and social identity.19 At a social level, however, today’s Sardinia shows another sign of over-protection of its own ethno-cultural identity and a “counterattack” to the idea of a kind of passive “interference–oppression” by one or more external cultures. We can notice the number of museums, studies on local “traditions,” editorial initiatives, and research that will eventually lead to the “fossilization of an authentic fictitious culture and thus revive and give rise to particularisms.”20 The influence of cultures from all regions once under the

16  Ugo Fabietti, L’identità etnica. Storia e critica di un concetto equivoco (Rome, 1995), 12–18, insists on the symbolic membership of the individual in a given culture. 17  Fabietti, L’identità etnica, 121–22 and 154.

18  “Costruita, sviluppata, cambiata e preservata durante la vita, attraverso varie negoziazioni di identità […].” Cited from Fabietti, L’identità etnica, 154.

19  Tiziana Mancini, Psico­logia dell’identità etnica. Sé e appartenenze culturali (Rome, 2006), 20–23; Karmela Liebkind, “Ethnic Identity. Challenging the Boundaries of Social Psycho­logy,” in Social Psycho­logy of Identity and Self Concept, ed. Glynis M. Breakwell (London, 1992), 147–85, esp. 165.

20  “Fossilizzazione di un’autentica cultura fittizia e quindi [a] ravvivare e far insorgere particolarismi.” Cited from Fabietti, L’identità etnica, 77. We may note, in particular, how more than ten years ago the Autonomous Region of Sardinia designed the Bètile Museum, that was supposed to house, on one hand, solely objects belonging to the Nuragic civilization, identified by its creators as “the” pure, Sardinian civilization par excellence—uncontaminated by external elements—and, on the other hand, several objects belonging to contemporary art. During the planning of the

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Crown of Aragon on these Sardinian local “traditions” is significant, given that the island gravitated towards the Iberian orbit for approximately four centuries; this has left an indelible mark on Sardinia’s cultural identity-making profile.21 After this methodo­logical introduction, let us now turn to some passages of Catalan–Aragonese, Tuscan, and Sardinian written sources, to show how some interesting interpretations about Iberian and island identities at the end of the Middle Ages may be offered, confirming that: Identity feeds on writing, or rather writing provides identity (the need for identity) a particularly effective tool. The written text is something that reveals identity [...] and preserves it in an almost perennial form, in a form that is techno­logically protected [...].22

In fact, in the tension between Arborea and Aragon, writing was used as a weapon by both parties to affirm and uphold their own rights and, behind that, their own identities. To fully appreciate the meaning and value of writing in identity-making, we should follow Michel Foucault’s exhortation to read written texts with diligence: If we want to interpret, then words become text to be fractured so that we can see emerging into full light this other meaning that they hide. Finally, language arises for itself in an act of writing, which denotes nothing more than itself.23

Let me repeat the urgent need for a new look at Sardinian medi­eval history and the relations—on several levels—between the different protagonists of those events, overcoming more or less unconscious fears of reductio, namely that the picture we get from re-examining written and icono­graphic sources will be less favourable than the existing

museum, to present Sardinia’s ancient cultural profile, it was decided not to consider any other material finds—Punic, Roman, Byzantine, Catalan, and so on— implicitly suggesting the otherness of these “layers” with respect to the identity-making discourse manicured by the creators of the “Bètile”: Luciano Gallinari, “Un nuovo museo per le identità sarde: il caso di Bètile a Cagliari,” in Il Mediterraneo delle città. Scambi, confronti, culture, rappresentazioni, ed. Franco Salvatori (Rome, 2008), 223–45; Luciano Gallinari, “Il museo Bètile di Cagliari e un fallito tentativo di costruzione dell’identità sarda,” Memoria y Milenio. III Congreso Internacional, ed. Celina Lértora Mendoza (Buenos Aires, 2010), 1–12, accessed July 18, 2019, www.academia.edu/18262146. On the Bètile Museum, its relationship with Sardinian identity, and the architecture of globalization, see the recent work by Marí�a Andrea Tapia and Horacio Casal, “Architecture and Globalisation in Sardinia. The Construction of the Identity in Contemporary Sardinia, through Architecture,” in Sardinia from Middle Ages to Contemporaneity. A Case Study of a Mediterranean Island Identity Profile, ed. Luciano Gallinari (Bern, 2018), 185–97. 21  See the two articles of Esther Martí�” cited in note 2 above, and Esther Martí�, “Memory and Identity in Catalan-Aragonese Sardinia from 1323 to the Present,” in Memory in the Middle Ages. Approaches from Southwestern Europe, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Leeds, 2021), 335–56.

22  “L’identità si nutre di scrittura, ovvero la scrittura offre all’identità (al bisogno di identità) un’armatura particolarmente efficace. Il testo scritto è qualcosa che inchioda l’identità […] per fissarla in una forma perenne (o quasi), in una forma che si è tecno­logicamente armata […].” Cited from Francesco Remotti, Contro l’identità (Rome, 1996), 54.

23  “Si on veut interpréter, alors les mots deviennent texte à fracturer pour qu’on puisse voir émerger en pleine lumière cet autre sens qu’ils cachent; enfin il arrive au langage de surgir pour lui-même en un acte d’écrire qui ne désigne rien de plus que soi.” Cited from Michel Foucault, Les mots et les choses. Une archéo­logie des sciences umaines (Paris, 1966), 315.

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one. This ethno-historical review can no longer be delayed, because it will allow more balanced relations between current Sardinians and the Catalan–Aragonese layer of their identity (while not forgetting the Iberian layer more broadly). This relationship may help overcome stereotypical ideas, vague and superficial, of Sardinia having cultural ties existing with the Catalan area, whilst placing both into the present identity of Sardinia as a whole, without rejecting or precluding anything.24 The two key documents I examine are the act of vassalage of Hugh II, Judge of Arborea, to King James II of Aragon,25 and the legend of a princess of Navarre coming ashore on the Sardinian coast in the mid-eleventh century, and its role as a kind of foundation myth for the dynasty of the judges of Arborea.

An “Official” Mirror: The Giudicato of Arborea’s Act of Enfeoffment to Hugh II

The Enfeoffment was such an important moment in Sardinian history, and, fortunately, the historian can count on more sources than usual, from different origins: Catalonia, Tuscany, and even Sardinia. The event fits a strong narrative, which seems to confirm Francis Affergan’s claims that an event does not exist in its own right unless it is part of a story.26 The event gains its importance from the narrative, so we need to understand how it fit into its authors’ historic “discourses” to support their own visions. It also emphasizes that the meaning of events is constructed by each person according to her/his history or symbols of remembrance, but also in compliance with her/his practical purposes. Attributing different meanings to events that produce different stories confirms what anthropo­logists say about the close relationship between identity and memory: in our case, the various sources on the narrated events that form the memory of Catalans, Tuscans, and Sardinians. Memory is selective in how it deals with the past: in this way, it creates a certain identity and is also shaped by power and the need to forget what is not convenient.27 The sources are of three types—from as many geo­graphic areas equally interested in Sardinia—and each has their respective “discourse”: first, public documents from the royal Aragonese chancery, containing records of the oath of allegiance made by Judge Hugh II of Arborea to the Infante Alfonso, who was representing his father, the king of 24  In this search for identity, Remotti argues that we should move towards higher levels of generalization if we wish to examine cultural assimilation, and not focus on separation. Remotti, Contro l’identità, 7.

25  On this important Aragonese king, see the recent essays by Cadeddu, “Frontiere dell’espansione catalano-aragonese nel Mediterraneo,” 31–39; Cadeddu, Muñoz, Pons, and Rodrigo, “La participación valenciana en la conquista de Cerdeña,” 1:225–50; Cadeddu, “L’espansione catalanoaragonese nel Mediterraneo,” 149–55. 26  Fabietti and Matera, Memorie e identità, 103.

27  Ferrarotti follows Maurice Halbwachs’ opinion that the memory of events or people “is a topic repeatedly reformulated by readjustments and revisions resulting from changing points of view in the present” (una riformulazione soggetta di volta in volta a riaggiustamenti e revisioni che derivano dal mutare dei punti di vista operanti nel presente). Cited from Franco Ferrarotti, Il silenzio della parola. Tradizione e memoria in un mondo smemorato (Bari, 2003), 79.

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Aragon, feudal lord of the Sardinian ruler; second, two Tuscan narratives, composed almost simultaneously to the events described: De proeliis Tusciae, by Ranieri Granchi, and the Nuova Cronica, by Giovanni Villani; and, third, the Memoria de las cosas que han aconteçido en algunas partes del reino de Cerdeña, a fifteenth-century chronicle on Sardinian history from the eleventh century, originally drafted in Castell de Càller.28 Obviously, the different narratives contain elements which reveal the political, legal, and cultural reasoning, lato sensu, of their authors. The Question of Hugh II’s Legitimacy

The judge of Arborea’s oath of allegiance was preceded by a question concerning the rightful succession of Hugh II, ruler of the Sardinian polity, because his lineage from the previous judge, Marianus III, was questioned by the Commune of Pisa. The Tuscan city directly controlled a third of the island and was inclined to exercise, in effect, a kind of auctoritas over the Giudicato.29 Let us examine what the three sources say on the problem of Hugh’s legitimacy and Pisa’s aspirations of overlordship. A document from the Arxiu de la Corona de Aragó, drawn up on 20 May of some unspecified year, but certainly 1321 or 1322, by the Bishop of Santa Giusta (“Frater Guillelmus de Montegranato in Aruernya” of the Order of Preachers in Avignon), claimed that Judge Hugh II was an “avunculus” or maternal uncle of Judge Marianus III, who died without issue in 1321.30 The De proeliis Tusciae bears no trace of a discussion over Hugh 28  This is an anonymous chronicle of real and legendary events between 1005 and 1479. No original text is preserved, but it may have been composed at the end of the fifteenth century in Cagliari in the church of San Francesco, using previous Sardinian, Italian, and Catalan documentary and narrative sources from different periods and contexts. A copy written in Castilian is preserved, perhaps composed between 1570 and 1585. The text contains popular legends and provides an important para-literary tradition from both historical and political points of view. Paolo Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas que han aconteçido en algunas partes del reino de Cerdeña (Cagliari, 2000), 11–17.

29  Pisa based its rights over Sardinia on the enfeoffment of the island, granting it complete power and jurisdiction on 17 April 1165 by Emperor Frederick I: “we give, grant and confirm in fief the whole island of Sardinia with its territory and pertinences and especially [the Giudicati of] Torres, Calari, Arborea, and Gallura, [... and] all full power and jurisdiction and territory and all that is in Sardinia, and that in the future there will be, and what belongs or belonged or will belong to the Kingdom and the Empire” (totam insulam Sardiniae, cum suo districtu et pertinentiis, et nominatim Turrim, Calarim, Arboream et Galluriam, et damus et concediums et confirmamus in feudum […] plenam omnemque potestatem atque iusidictionem et districtum et totum, quod in Sardinia est, et quod futurum est, et quod regno et imperio pertinet, aut pertinuit vel pertinebit). Cited from “Friedrich belehnt die Stadt Pisa mit der Insel Sardinien,” in Die Urkunden Friedrichs I, 1158–1167, ed. Heinrich Appelt, in MGH DD F I. 2 (Hannover, 1979), 389–92 (document 477), and Pasquale Tola, ed., Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 2 vols. in 3 (Sassari, 1984–1985), 1/1:232–33 (document 81).

30  “To Hugo judge of Arborea, who recently came to rule on the death of his nephew Marianus, who at the beginning of this past Lent died without children and was succeeded by his aforementioned uncle who now reigns” (Ugoni iudici Arboree, qui de nouo regnat propter morte nepotis sui Mariani, qui in principio istius XI [quadragesime?] preterite decessit sine prole, et successit sibi eius auunculus qui nunc regnat predictus). For more details on this source see Vicente Salavert,

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II’s succession, but it does reinforce Pisa’s claims over the Sardinian polity. It states that Hugh II’s succession to the Giudicato’s leadership needed the consent of Pisa (“assentiente comuni pisano”), which, weary of the Sardinian ruler, wanted to place a person of its choice in his place.31 The Nuova Cronica by Villani goes even further in describing the relationship between the new judge and Pisa. In fact, in the voluminous work—almost contemporary to the events narrated—the author states: “when the said judge took the lordship, Pisans were opposed because he was a bastard.”32 An echo of the problems between the Commune of Pisa and the future judge, and their lack of confidence in Hugh II, can also be found in the Memoria, where, now, we read that Hugh was himself opposed to Pisa’s will. The Sardinian Memoria also reported that the island polity was not due to Hugh—although he was “chosen and claimed as lord” by the Giudicato people—because, according to the Tuscan ambassador in Oristano, he was illegitimate (“[he] was a bastard and could not have such a seigneury nor be lord of it”).33 Let us now clarify some of these statements. The bishop of Santa Giusta theoretically seems a reliable source for at least two reasons: he was writing at the same time as the events and people he speaks of, and his high ecclesiastical status put him in close contact with the Giudicato dynasty. However, his statement—that Hugh II was the maternal uncle, “avunculus,” of his predecessor Marianus III (1308–1321)—does not tally with Hugh II’s will. Despite the conflicting information from these two sources, some scholars claim that Hugh II would be a natural son of Judge Marianus II (1266–1297?) and Padulesa de Serra, and thereby an uncle of Marianus III.34 But a counterargument is, first, that “Jaime II de Aragón y Ugone II de Arborea y la conquista de Cerdeña (sobre un nuevo documento),” in La Corona d’Aragona in Italia (secc. XIII–XVIII), 1. Il “Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae” nell’espansione mediterranea della Corona d’Aragona, 5 vols. (Sassari, 1995), 2:758 and 2:766. The document was republished ten years later, with some minor changes by Rafael Conde y Delgado de Molina, ed., Diplomatario aragonés de Ugone II de Arborea (Sassari, 2005), 11–12 (document 1).

31  “Since then King James of Aragon, to whom Sardinia had been granted by Pope Boniface VIII, demanded and complained to Pisans about Sardinia, they doubted [that they could maintain] the government of Sardinia and wanted to give the above mentioned Hugh a partner in the government” (Quia autem Iacobus rex Aragonum, cui privilegiata fuerat Sardinia a Bonifatio papa VIII, exigebat et petebat Sardiniam a Pisanis, Pisani dubitantes de regimine Sardinie, sotium regiminis dare voluerunt predicto Ughoni). Cited from Ranieri De Granchi, “De proeliis Tusciae,” in Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, ed. Celestino Meliconi, 25 vols. (Città di Castello, 1915–1922), 11/2:108.

32  “Quando il ditto giudice prese la signoria, I Pisani s’opposuono ch’egli era bastardo.” Cited from Giovanni Villani, Nuova Cronica, ed. Giuseppe Porta, 3 vols. (Parma, 1990), 2:384–85 (book 10, chap. 198). 33  “Elegido et llamado por señor; que era bastardo et que no era cosa que podí�a poseer tal señorí�a ni ser señor d’ella.” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 22–23.

34  Mauro G. Sanna, “Mariano II di Arborea,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, 92 vols. (Rome, 1961–2018), vol. 70, available online, accessed July 18, 2019, www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/ mariano-d-arborea_res–61fad8d0-e71d–11dd–804a–0016357eee51_(Dizionario-Biografico)/ and Alessandro Soddu, “Forme di decentramento del potere nell’Arborea trecentesca. donnikellos, apanages e majorì�a de pane,” Bollettino di Studi Sardi 1 (June 2008): 46n30–47. Neither scholar points out that this document was published ten years earlier.

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the Latin word “avunculus” meant Hugh II was the brother of Marianus III’s mother. Some historians state his mother was Vera Cappai (the first wife or a concubine of Judge Chiano, 1287–1307),35 while others name Padulesa de Serra (concubine or first wife of Judge Marianus III).36 However, in Hugh II’s own will he writes: “Donna Padulesa de Serra our dearest mother” (donne Paulesse de Serra karissime matri nostre). The second consideration is that Hugh II’s will contains another example of the dynastic memory of Sardinian judges—of those of Arborea, in particular—which shows two anterior generations of the local ruling House, with their respective family ties. In chrono­logical order: Vera Cappai (“Donna Vera Capai who was the mother of Judge Marianus”); and her son Judge Marianus (III) and Padulesa de Serra: the latter two being the parents of Hugh II (“[...] Therefore we Hugh Viscount of Bas, by the grace of God judge of Arborea [...] son of judge Marianus of good memory [...] of Donna Padulesa de Serra our dearest mother”).37 The author of the document does not go back further in time, to the one who, in theory, was the source of his ties with the Giudicato throne, that is, Marianus II, Hugh II’s father, according to the present hypothesis. If the “bone memorie Judicis Mariani” of the will was Marianus II, then the latter’s mother would have been a woman named Sardinia and not Vera Cappai, as in Hugh II’s will.38 As we said before, for Hugh II to be an “avunculus” of Marianus III, he would have to be a brother of Vera Cappai, and therefore a parent-in-law of the judges of Arborea’s House. In this regard, a question then arises: why does the will not mention the hypothetical fraternal relationship between Hugh and Vera? That passage of the document indicates all the other family ties. This familial status of parent-in-law would not agree with Hugh II’s definition as a bastard, which would suggest that he was a member of the Giudici dynasty, not entirely legitimated to succeed the throne of Arborea. Here below we can see the four generations of judges mentioned by the sources: Sardinia (unknown surname) = Peter II of Arborea (d. 1241) | an anonymous daughter of Saraceno Caldera = Marianus II of Arborea (d. 1297) | Vera Cappai = John / Chiano of Arborea (d. 1304/1307) | Padulesa de Serra = Marianus III of Arborea (d. 1321) | Benedetta (unknown surname) = Hugh II of Arborea (d. 1335)

35  A wife, according to Dionigi Scano, “Serie crono­logica dei giudici sardi,” Archivio Storico Sardo 21, no. 1–2 (1937): 79 and a concubine, in the opinion of Lindsay L. Brook, Francesco Cesare Casula, Marí�a Mercedes Costa, Anna Maria Oliva, Romeo Pavoni, and Marco Tangheroni, eds., Genealogie medioevali di Sardegna (Cagliari, 1984), 384.

36  A concubine, according to Brook, et al., Genealogie medioevali di Sardegna, 385, and the wife of Judge Marianus III in a first marriage later annulled by the Apostolic See in the opinion of Scano, “Serie crono­logica dei giudici sardi,” 80.

37  “dona Bera Capai mama que fudi de Iugui Marianu; […] ideo nos Ugo Vicecomes de Basso Dei Gratia Iudex Arborensis [...] bone memorie Judicis Mariani filius […] donne Paulesse de Serra karissime matri nostre.” Cited from Tola, Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 1/2:701–4 (document 48).

38  Brook et al., Genealogie medioevali di Sardegna, 383 (document 105).

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A final observation brings us back to the problem of evaluating our sources: Hugh II’s will is actually a copy written in Castell de Càller (Cagliari), capital of the Aragonese Kingdom of Sardinia (“well copied and faithfully obtained in the city of Castell de Càller”) on 29 June 1479, as can be seen in the first note at the beginning of the document itself. So, the text is a copy, produced about one hundred and forty years after the original, at a delicate historical moment, since about a month later (12 August), the Marquisate of Oristano—the institutional heir of the Giudicato of Arborea after 1410—would become permanently and inseparably added to the royal property.39 This must be taken into consideration when evaluating what is written about the person and the ties of Hugh II and this delicate phase of Arborea’s history. The status of bastard attributed to Hugh II was also reiterated in the investiture document from Emperor Ludwig the Bavarian to Giacomina, widow of Judge Chiano (1287–1304), issued on 12 February 1329. This document states that Marianus III himself was a natural child of Chiano, who bequeathed the Giudicato and other paternal property to Emperor Henry VII, and had died without legitimate children. Moreover, the imperial text states that Hugh II could not inherit his father’s property, “since he is a bastard and not entitled to inherit the aforementioned goods,” and for other unspecified reasons.40 The reference to bastard status and the illegitimate inheritance to the Arbo39  “Transumptum bene et fideliter sumptum in civitate Castri Callari.” Cited from Tola, Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 1/2:701–4 (document 48). Sanna and Soddu do not stress this data (see note 34 above). The fall of the Marquisate of Oristano meant the beginning of the Catalanizing of the whole island, for the first time, almost two centuries after Boniface VIII’s enfeoffment, and the final disappearance at institutional level of the last polity linked to the centuries-old Giudicato of Arborea. The Capitulations of San Martino, signed by the royal lieutenant Pere de Torrelles and Leonardo Cubello, a possible member of the judges’ dynasty, sanctioned the return to royal obedience of a third of the Giudicato of Arborea’s territory, including its capital Oristano, and its substitution with the Marquisate of Oristano, led by the abovementioned Cubello. On this delicate phase of Sardinian history, see Luciano Gallinari, “Guglielmo III di Narbona, ultimo sovrano d’Arborea, e la guerra dei Cent’anni,” Medioevo. Saggi e rassegne 18 (1993): 91–121; Giovanni Sini, “Elia de Palmas. La professione di diplomatico ecclesiastico durante un periodo di mutamento a cavallo tra XIV e XV secolo,” Rime. Rivista dell’Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea 12 (2014): 107–36; Giovanni Sini, “Reflections on the socio-political and cultural transmissions at the end of the Giudicato of Arborea. Identity-based resistance and (re)construction of historic memory?,” in Sardinia from Middle Ages to Contemporaneity. A Case Study of a Mediterranean Island Identity Profile, ed. Luciano Gallinari (Bern, 2018), 101–16; Luciano Gallinari, “The Catalans in Sardinia and the transformation of Sardinians into a political minority in the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries,” Journal of Medi­eval Studies 45, no. 3 (2019): 347–59.

40  “The late nobleman Judge John (Chiano) of Arborea, your former husband, died without legitimate male children [...] Marianus, natural son of the said Chiano [...] and also since Hugh, who is now said to have the mentioned feudal goods, is rebellious to us and to the aforementioned Roman Empire, and also since he cannot inherit those goods by right, since he is a bastard and not entitled to inherit the aforementioned goods and also for other reasons and causes” (condam nobilis vir Iohannis Iudex Arboree olim maritus tuus decessit absque liberis masculis legiptimis […] Marzanus (sic) filius naturalis dicti Iohannis […] et quia etiam Ugerus [sic], qui nun dicitur dicta bona feudalia detinere, est rebellis noster, et romani imperii prelibati, et etiam quia in dictis bonis non potest de jure succedere, quia est bastardus, et ad predicta non legiptimus et etiam aliis racionibus, et causis). Cited from Tola, Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 1/2:692–93 (document 42).

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rea throne, contained in the imperial document and the Nuova Cronica, adds further complexities. Why was Hugh II defined bastardus and not filius naturalis, as for Marianus III? In a document of this level, words, or their absence, are not a matter of chance. Was Hugh II’s status of parent-in-law one of the real reasons he was not suitable for the Giudicato throne? Hugh was the first judge to embody the legal tie between the kings of Aragon and the judges of Arborea; moreover, he was perhaps the true protagonist of the part of the Memoria de las cosas chronicle elaborated in the capital of the Regnum at a period very close to the date of his will. Are we perhaps faced with an interpolation of a significant document featuring an important player in Sardinian history of the last two centuries of the Middle Ages? Was it an unsuccessful interpolation to tie Hugh II into the dynasty of the judges of Arborea? In fact, the information from “Frater Guillelmus de Montegranato” and Hugh II’s will seem difficult to reconcile. But, as we said, the text by the clergyman is contemporary with the people and events of which he speaks, while the judge’s will is a copy produced almost a century and a half later in the capital of the Aragonese Regnum. Moreover, it seems difficult to think that the clergyman lied to the king of Aragon, who could easily verify the true nature of the links between Hugh II and the dynasty of judges. Above all, his letter declares his commitment to the monarch’s rights over Sardinia and offers James II his person and episcopate. Regardless of what has been said so far, the succession of this judge, illustrating the difficulties we face as historians, was a real problem, as it could be confirmed upon request to the Commune of Pisa and upon payment of a census by Hugh II, and thereby recognize the higher auctoritas of Pisa.41 As we see in these quotations, the three sources analyzed so far highlight certain events and neglect others, proposing different images of the facts and their protagonists. The two Tuscan sources present the relationship between Pisa and Hugo II like one between a dominus and his vassal. The judge seems to have no autonomy at legal and political level; in fact, from their perspective, in allying with the king of Aragon, he “rebelled” against the Tuscan Commune—as Villani stated—by going against a higher auctoritas.42

41  The sources report different figures: “While the government of the Giudicato of Arborea in Sardinia was vacant, and was due to Hugo de Bas, with the consent of the Pisan Commune, the said Commune asked the mentioned Hugo 12,000 florins as aid for expenses, and he paid and received the Giudicato” (Dum sedes iudicatus arborensis vacaret in Sardinea, et deberetur Ughoni de Basso, assentiente comuni pisano, dictum comune petivit a dicto Ughone XII milia florenorun in adiutorium expensarum; quos ille persolvit et iudicatum accepit), cited from De Granchi, “De proeliis Tusciae,” 11/2:108. By contrast: “when the said judge took the lordship, the Pisans were opposed because he was a bastard, and it was agreed that he would buy from the Commune of Pisa the lordship for 10,000 gold florins” (quando il detto giudice prese la signoria, i Pisani s’opposuono ch’egli era bastardo, e convennersi comprare dal Comune di Pisa per avere la signoria X M fiorini d’or), cited from Villani, Nuova Cronica, 2:284–85 (book 10, chap. 198).

42  “[H]e rebelled against them due to the treaties made by him with the king of Aragon” (si rubellò da.lloro per trattati fatti da.llui al re d’Araona) cited from Villani, Nuova Cronica, 2:384–85 (book 10, chap. 198). See Fabrizio Fabbrini, “‘Auctoritas,’ ‘Potestas’ e ‘Iurisdictio’ in diritto romano,” Apollinaris. Commentarius instituti utriusque iuris 51, nos. 1–2 (1978): 492–561.

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The Memoria, instead, offers a rather different image of the judge of Arborea: in this chronicle we witness Pisa active within Sardinian events, but we cannot avoid observing that Hugh II was not simply a passive spectator of decisions in Tuscany. On the contrary, himself on local election without external intervention—an important element to support his autonomy—the judge was able to reject the Commune’s cumbersome restrictions; he developed strategies to maintain the judge’s office; and he had the economic resources to avoid a conflict with Pisa, at least until the time he would become ally with the King of Aragon “since he is given this island of the pope.”43

The Iberian Portrayal of the Enfeoffment Ceremony

The difference in the pictures of the protagonists continue when we see their portrayal of the enfeoffment ceremony of the Giudicato of Arborea. Let us begin with the Iberian documents: on 5 July 5 1323, in Villa di Chiesa, the Infante Alfonso enfeoffed the Giudicato of Arborea to Hugh II on behalf of his father, James II of Aragon. In the document, we can read: We James, by the grace of God, King of Aragon [...] Considering the treaty initiated between some on our part and others in the name and on behalf of the noble Hugh, Viscount of Bas, Judge of Arborea on the other hand, to confer, grant, and give on our part perpetually and irrevocably in fief to the mentioned noble Hugh, Judge of Arborea, and to his heirs of all sexes [....] all the Giudicato of Arborea, and all the lands that the said judge of Arborea currently owns.44

We can infer from this, as in other Iberian sources, that Hugh II, nobilis vir, is being assimilated at an identity-making level to the representatives of the Iberian nobility, underlining that the two protagonists were separated by a deep institutional distance. This distance is confirmed by the absence of the formula Dei gratia among Hugh II’s titles, which is by contrast present in the same document when the Aragonese king’s titles are listed: “of the noble Hugh, Viscount of Bas, Judge of Arborea / We James, by the grace of God, King of Aragon.”45 We can also note, in such a carefully worded text, how the title of Viscount of Bas is placed ahead that of Judge of Arborea.46 43  “Porque a él es dada esta isla del Papa.” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 23–26.

44  “Nos Iacobus, Dei gratia, Rex Aragonum […] Considerantes tractatum initum inter quosdam ex parte nostra et quosdam alios nomine et pro parte nobilis viri Ugonis, Vicecomitis de Basso, Iudicis Arboreae ex altera, super conferendo, concedendo, atque donando per nos perpetuo, et irrevocabiliter in faeudum, nobili eidem Ugoni, Iudici Arboreae, suisque heredibus, utriusque sexus, […] totum iudicatum Arboreae, et omnes terras, quae tenet dictus Iudex Arboreae presentialiter.” Cited from Tola, Codex Diplomaticus Sardiniae, 1/2:669–71 (document 21).

45  “Nobilis viri Ugonis, Vicecomitis de Basso, Iudicis Arboreae / Nos Iacobus, Dei gratia, Rex Aragonum.” The formula Dei gratia appears in the titles of all sovereigns of Western and Southern Europe from the eighth century and has its origin in words of the apostle Paul: “Gratia Dei sum id quod sum” (1 Cor. 15:10). The individual, therefore, was chosen to hold a certain office. The conferment of the royal charge was a gratia by divine favour, over which the sovereign could claim no right. See Walter Ullmann, Principi di governo e politica nel Medioevo (Bo­logna, 1982), 149.

46  The special importance given to the title of viscount could have a double significance: a political one as, in the Iberian Peninsula, it was granted to someone who held an office (an honor) in the

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For its part, Hugh II committed himself to receive the royal donation of the Giudicato on behalf of himself and his successors, who would act as good vassals of their rightful lord, above whom they recognized no other authority:47 We Hugh, Viscount of Bas, aforesaid judge of Arborea [...] promise and agree for us and our heirs and successors in the aforesaid Giudicato [...] for the properties donated and granted to us in fief, to be liege, good, and respectful vassals, as a true, respectful, and genuine vassal must be for his fief towards the natural and true lord [...] and we will not recognize and will never proclaim at any time any other lord over them.48

For the whole century, the kings of Aragon never strayed from this political and legal line, clearly illustrated by the very words of the judge’s oath, not even after the beginning of the conflict in the 1350s between the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae and the Giudicato of Arborea, initially at a legal level, then a military one. This same line is the legal basis of all the documents gathered by order of Aragonese kings in the collection of Procesos contra los Arborea, a work created to provide the legal background for prompting the action of monarchs against Arborea’s rulers, rebels against their “domini naturales et veri.”49 The Iberian documents permit no room for any other argument or “discourse”: all relationships between Arborea and Aragon are seen only in the light of this feudal link. A Sardinian Mirror to the Enfeoffment Ceremony

In the Sardinian chronicle, the Memoria de las cosas que han aconteçido en algunas partes del reino de Cerdeña, there is no mention of the Giudicato of Arborea’s enfeoffment to Hugh II, nor his oath of allegiance. In contrast, the Memoria portrays the Sardinian ruler as a powerful individual with money and military strength. So powerful, that the chronipublic government, which granted nobility per se, and a second more pertinent meaning—at least at a formal level, if we do not want to assume it was just a matter of mere mutual convenience—to the personal sphere of the family ties that for over two centuries bound the kings of Aragon to the judges of Oristano.

47  This explicit statement in the enfeoffment document was not enough to prevent the spread of historio­graphical theories according to which Arborea—on the same level as the other three giudicati—would apply the non recognoscens superiorem legal principle, even at a time when it was not yet codified. Francesco Cesare Casula, “Regno o giudicato,” in Dizionario Storico Sardo (Sassari, 2001), 1283–84; Salvatore Cosentino, “Potere e istituzioni nella Sardegna bizantina,” in Ai confini dell’impero. Storia, arte e archeo­logia della Sardegna bizantina, ed. Paola Corrias and Salvatore Cosentino (Cagliari, 2002), 9. reiterates that the principle of non recognoscens superiorem was not claimed before the twelfth century.

48  “Nos Hugo, vicecomes de Basso, Iudex Arboreae praedictus […] promittimus et convenimus per nos et haeredes et successores nostros in iudicatu praedicto […] pro praedictis nobis donatis, et in faeudum concessis, vassalli ligii, boni et legales, sicut verus, et legalis vassallus et solidus debet esse, pro faeudo suo, domino naturali, et vero […] nullumque alium dominum super eis recognoscemus, ac proclamabimus, ullo unquam tempore.” Cited from Tola, Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 1/2:669–71 (document 21). 49  Luciano Gallinari, “Alcuni ‘discorsi’ politici e istituzionali nello scontro tra Pietro IV d’Aragona e Mariano IV d’Arborea,” in Sardegna e Mediterraneo tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna. Studi in onore di Francesco Cesare Casula, ed. Maria Giuseppina Meloni and Olivetta Schena (Genoa, 2009), 149–83.

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cle attributes to him the building of the first Catalan settlement in Sardinia—to host the Infante Alfonso and his troops in view of the siege of Castel di Castro. Even the choice of its name, “Bonayre,” was attributed to him: “The judge […] settled in a place now called Bonayre, and there prepared the place where the lord the prince could settle with all his people. He made great moats and palisades and thus fortified it very well, and then he gave it the name Bonayre.”50 The attribution of Bonaria’s foundation to Hugh II seems an example of what we would today call a foundation myth and a lieu de mémoire.51 But the Memoria did not stop there. The chronicler also highlights the warm reception granted by the Aragonese prince and his entourage to the judge during the siege of the city of Villa di Chiesa, an action in fact suggested by the judge himself. This reception was apparently prompted by the judge’s important role in the arrival of the Iberians in Sardinia and his support of their campaign of conquest of the Commune of Pisa’s insular possessions: The prince, when he saw and knew that the judge was coming, rode with all the principal lords and went out more than two miles to receive him with a great triumph of trumpets and drums and thus took him by his side and they went to the town of Iglesias.52

Another aspect of the judge’s personality is also described in the Memoria: his vengeful nature, as proved by his clash with the Count de Luna, which ended with the poisoning of the Iberian less than a month after he insulted the judge in the camp of Bonayre.53

50  “El júdice […] púsose en un lugar que agora dizen Bonayre, y allí� preparó el lugar do pudiese aposentarse el señor infante con toda su gente. Fizo grandes cavas y palenques y forteleçióse muy bien, y entonçes le puso nombre Bonayre.” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 34.

51  According to Jan Assmann, “The past that is fixed and internalized as foundational history is myth, regardless of whether it is fact or fiction” (Il passato consolidato e interiorizzato come storia fondante è mito, del tutto a prescindere dal problema se esso sia fittizio o reale). Cited from Jan Assmann, La memoria culturale. Scrittura, ricordo e identità politica nelle grandi civiltà antiche (Turin, 1997), 48–51; English translation from Jan Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization. Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination (Cam­bridge, 2011), 60. So, a myth has two functions: the first is the “foundational” one, that attributes to the present “something meaningful, divinely inspired, necessary, and unchangeable”; the second “proceeds from deficiencies experienced in the present, and conjures up memories of a past that generally takes the form of an heroic age.” (both citations from p. 63). On the function of Bonaire as a place of memory, we may refer to the concept of “monumémoire,” elaborated in 1974 by Jacques Derrida in his work Glas, as “the mental space where memories of an event are involuntarily preserved” (l’espace mental où les souvenirs d’un événement sont involontairement préservés), but also by referring to the definition of Pierre Nora, according to which it is: “a significant entity, physical or imaginary, that the will of men or the work of time has made into a symbolic element of some community” (une unité significative, d’ordre matériel ou idéal, que par la volonté des hommes ou le travail du temps est devenu un élément symbolique d’une communauté). Cited from Pierre Nora, ed., Les lieux de mémoire, 3 vols. (Paris, 1984–1992). 52  “El infante, quando vido o supo que vení�a el júdice, cavalga con todos los prinçipales señores et sale mas de dos millas a los reçebir con gran triumpho de trompetas y atabales y así� lo tomó a su costado y se fueron sobre villa de Iglesias.” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 31 and 35.

53  According to the Sardinian chronicle, after he learned that the infante Alfonso promised the Count de Luna the first walled city that was conquered, Hugh II advised the prince not to grant

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Due to the composite nature of this narrative, this picture of the judge of Arborea seems the result of a political “discourse” aimed at portraying the Sardinian ruler as a person who had the ability and—of course—the power to punish an insult suffered by the Count de Luna and eliminate an important figure in the Aragonese army. He looks like a kind of avenger of the injustices suffered by Sardinians at the hands of the new conquerors. And, in this image, we find an echo of the state of open hostility between Sardinians and Aragonese in the second half of the fourteenth century or even the fifteenth century, namely, the periods when the documents of the Memoria were produced and collated.54

The Power of Myth: The Tradition of the Princess of Navarra and the Dynasty of the Judges of Arborea

We now turn our attention to another subject, text, and period. The De rebus sardois by Giovanni Francesco Fara offers another example of ethno-historical reading of the evolution in relations between the Giudicato of Arborea and the Aragonese kings.55 This narrative and the Memoria allow insights into identity-making by individuals and communities through myths. The myth in question concerns the casting away of a princess in Ogliastra, on the eastern coast of Sardinia, in the mid-eleventh century, and was used to establish a kin relationship between the dynasty of Arborea’s rulers and the Navarrese royal family. I propose a double interpretation of this narrative: first, as a sort of myth, if not quite a foundational one (since the judges’ dynasty pre-existed the princess’ arrival), at least a myth that underwrote the position of the dynasty of the judges of Arborea. The myth was central to the process of human identity-making by re-establishing it. Its performing—in our case, its reading—is never random, but linked to certain ritual occasions: it serves as a rite in itself.56 Second, it is a kind of “family romance,” by which the subject imagines himself to be born from prestigious ancestors or, in this case, royal parents. The Memoria’s authors did not imagine, but proposed a narrative of the history of the Arborea dynasty in accordance with the needs and desires of the moment in which they him Villa di Chiesa, in the area with silver mines. The prince, instead, was told to send the count to conquer Terranova (now Olbia on the northeastern coast of Sardinia), for reasons of mutual benefit: the Crown would gain a valuable mining town, and the Count de Luna would gain the important Gallura region. “[…] the Judge of Arborea caused the Count de Luna to be poisoned, […] so that the judge of Arborea was secretly avenged” ([…] tuvo manera el júdiçe d’Arborea, como el conde de Lu atosigado […] l júdiçe d’Arborea fue vengado secretamente). Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 35–37. 54  See notes 28, 59, and 61.

55  Giovanni Francesco Fara (b. Sassari 1543, d. Bosa 1591) is considered the most important Sardinian historian of the sixteenth century. He published the first volume of his De Rebus Sardois in 1580, while the other three were only published in the nineteenth century. More than a century separates his work from the compilation of the Memoria. 56  Vittorio Lanternari, Identità e differenza: percorsi storico-antropo­logici (Naples, 1986), 95 and 103.

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wrote it.57 The two interpretations could coexist even unconsciously in the authors of the texts. The connection between the tradition and the Judges of Arborea’s dynasty is that both the Memoria and the De rebus sardois make explicit reference to the transfer of the princess from the eastern coast of Sardinia—after a short stay there because of the shipwreck—to the area of Capo San Marco in the Sinis Peninsula, in the region surrounding the city of Tharros, the capital of the Giudicato of Arborea at the time of these events.58 Of the two, the most richly detailed is the Memoria, where one can detect an attempt to further increase the prestige of the judges of Oristano and provide them with tools in their fight against the kings of Aragon. Here is the text of the Memoria: [...] they passed the Gulf of León and almost miraculously arrived, with bad weather, on Sardinia in a place called Ollastre. There [...] the said lords and ladies all decided to land, to recover themselves and rest [...]. After ten or twelve days had passed, [...] the first thing they did was ordain a church, and they gave it the name Sancta Maria of Navarre. [...] Then [...] seeing, after some time [that] the land was not as they wanted, they all agreed, or most of them, to leave there. And they headed for Arborea, in the Encontrada [District] of Sancto Marco of Sinis, and there settled their flotilla and began to live with greater rest because there they found many houses made from the time of the Moors, both houses and strongholds.59

This, however, is Fara’s story in the De rebus sardois:

In the year 1052, a daughter of the king of Navarre, kidnapped without her father’s knowledge, brought to Sardinia by exile and storm, settled with her companions in the region of Ogliastra, where there is the church of Santa Maria Navarrese, founded by her;

57  We should not take without question the psychoanalytical concept of “family romance” introduced by Sigmund Freud in 1908 for social groups, for which it was used as a saga of origins, vicissitudes, and kinship. In its original concept, the subject not only imagined illustrious ancestors but “despise[d] his own parents, thinking he is an adopted child of theirs” (ma disprezza i propri pensando di essere un bambino da essi adottato). Historical examples show the main point being to enhance one’s social status. See Claudia Parlanti, “Brevi riflessioni sul romanzo familiare,” Quaderni di Psicoanalisi & Psicodramma Analitico 8, no. 1 (2016): 148–53.

58  A few decades after the arrival of the Navarrese in Tharros in 1052, according to Giovanni Francesco Fara, the city was abandoned by the judge and the archbishop of Arborea, who, in 1070, moved further inland to the town of Oristano, which was capital of the Giudicato until 1410: “Orrocus or Orzoccus Zori was judge of Arborea [...] he was married to Nivata and emigrated with all the people to Oristano from the city of Tharros, known as San Marco” (Orrocus zeu Orzocorus Zori fuit iudex Arboreae […] Hic Nivatam uxorem duxit et ex urbe Tharrae, dicta Sancti Marci, cum omni populo in Aristanum commigravit). Cited from Ioannes Franciscus Farae, De Rebus Sardois, ed. Enzo Cadoni, 4 vols. (Sassari, 1992), 2:322.

59  “[…] passaron el golfo de León et casi milagrosament aportaron, con mal tiempo, en Cerdeña en una parte llamada Ollastre. Do […] sobredichos señores et señoras deliberaron saliesen todos en tierra, por refrescar e aver algún refriserio […] Después diez o doze dí�as passados, […] lo primero que hizieron et hordenaron fue una iglesia, et pusieronle nombre Sancta Maria de Nabarra.[…] Después […] viendo, a cabo de poco tiempo [que] la tierra no era tan buena como ellos quisieran acuerdan todos, o los más d’ellos, de se ir de allí�. Et fuéronse la ví�a de Arborea encontrada de Sancto Marco de Sinis, e allí� asentaron su est[o]l y comenzaron a abitar con mayor repos, porque hallavan ya muchas abitaciones fechas del tiempo de los moros, así� villas como casas fuertes.” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 5–6.

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and, forced by the inadequacy of the place to change her seat, she went to the region of Arborea in the Encontrada of San Marco of Sinis and lived in a town abandoned by the Saracens.60

The myth of the Princess of Navarre tries to establish the identity of the Judges of Arborea, to explain and to justify their identity at various levels: generically human, their divine favour, and their distinction from the kings of Aragon, the holders of the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae by papal enfeoffment and, as such, the legitimate feudal lords of Oristano’s rulers. The passage can be read for its socio-cultural relevance, in relation to Sardinia and Aragon.61 As the Memoria’s editor has highlighted, a narrative that proposed a partial royal Navarrese origin for the local dynasty of judges could only appear in the Giudicato of Arborea.62 In Catalonia, there was no interest nor political advantage in asserting the presence of Navarre royal blood in the family of the judges of Arborea, whom they wanted not as allies, but as subordinates. The inclusion of this legend in the fifteenthcentury chronicle is interesting in several respects. First, it shows a need (by the judges of Arborea themselves?), plugging the Princess of Navarre into the judges’ dynasty in a rather suggestive and indirect way, linking themselves to the developing historical memory of this period. Meanwhile, the Memoria’s authors elaborate one of the numerous “discourses” that emphasized and confirmed the judges’ legal status. Secondly, this identity-making operation sheds some light on the presence of intellectuals in Sardinia who could undertake such a para-literary work. And, thirdly, it demonstrates that this tradition was circulating in certain cultured circles of the Regnum Sardiniae’s capital, even when they sided with the House of Arborea in its clash with the Aragonese kings.63 Although the Memoria does not mention explicitly the marriage between the princess and the judge of Arborea, it does report that, for some time, she “lived on the island 60  “Altero deinde anno 1052 regis Navarrae filia, inscio patre rapta, exilio et tempestate in Sardiniam acta, sedes cum sociis collocavit suas in regione Ogugliastri, ubi S.tae Mariae Navarresae templum ab ea conditum cernitur easque ob malignitate loci mutare coacta, in Arborensem regionem encontratae S.ti Marci de Sinis dictae secessit et oppidum a Sarracenis desertum incoluit.” Cited from Farae, De Rebus Sardois, 2:248. 61  According to Lanternari, Identità e differenza, 123–24, myth has a threefold function in relation to human identity: it acts as a guarantee of the real, as a humanization of randomness, and, finally, as a justification of human identity in the world. Because of this wealth of meanings and “vital” functions, the world of the myth pertains to the sphere of the “sacred.” 62  Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 12–13.

63  Paolo Maninchedda assumes that it was used material from between 1329—when Iberian friars replaced pro-Pisan brothers in the San Francesco church in Castell de Càller—and 1364–70, when the war between the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae and the judge of Arborea began. The chronicler legitimates Marianus IV’s reaction, and he blames the Catalans for violating the feudal terms. Perhaps, in these statements we can recognize echoes of documents of the former Giudicato of Arborea or the Marquisate of Oristano, its institutional heir after 1410. Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 21 and 25–26. This last statement may also be linked to the previously cited will of Hugh II, a copy of which was drawn up a month after the disappearance of the marquisate, at a time when someone was interested in rewriting the history of Sardinia’s over the previous two centuries. See also note 39 above.

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of Sardinia” (abitava en la isla de Cerdeña), perhaps always in the region of Sinis.64 This would imply her dynastic connection with the Arboreas, who in this way acquired royal blood.65 By way of such a narrative, the chroniclers achieve what we discussed earlier about myth and “family romance”: that is, they remember and re-enact the origin and the social and identitarian status of the giudici dynasty.66 The intention of the Memoria’s author to establish a connection between the royal dynasty of Navarre and that of the judges of Arborea is important for the legal claims of Sardinian rulers and, also, for showing the political and cultural awareness of their own status in the fourteenth century. The timing of the Princess of Navarre’s arrival in Arborea, the mid-eleventh century, seems to underscore this intention. It would almost have coincided with the abandonment of the ancient Punic-Roman city of Tharros, capital of the Giudicato, and the rise of Oristano, the new political centre of the Sardinian polity. As if to express symbolically the new birth of the Giudicato (a re-foundation, in the anthropo­logical sense), they acquired new royal blood from Navarre. A new event, new story, new reality. Another element would seem to confirm that this was the political aim of the chronicle’s authors: Ogliastra—the princess’s initial landing —and the Sinis Peninsula, in the Giudicato of Arborea, are opposite each other on Sardinia’s eastern and western coasts, respectively. Even if the princess had to abandon Ogliastra for a more suitable site, it is unlikely she would need to circumnavigate half the island to find one.67 The only geo­ graphical data that, at present, can be linked to the tradition of the Princess of Navarre, is a village on Sardinia’s eastern coast called Santa Maria Navarrese and—within it—a 64  Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 6.

65  Maninchedda suggests that the legendary link between Navarre and Arborea was developed some time between the marriage of Judge Barisone I and Agalbors—who joined in 1157 the Sardinian family of Lacon–Serra and the Catalan one of Bas–Cervera—and the beginning of the war against the Aragonese in 1364. Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 46–48.

66  An “archaeo­logical” reading of the Memoria is needed, unearthing the discourses made— consciously or not—by the protagonists of these events. See Michel Foucault, L’archéo­logie du savoir (Paris, 1969), 181–82.

67  If the Navarrese had sailed along the southern coast of Sardinia, before reaching the Sinis they would have found Santa Igia, home of the judges of Calari, the most direct heirs of the former Byzantine archon—the governor of the island—whose first member is mentioned to the government of that Giudicato by an indirect internal source before 1058, almost simultaneously with the alleged shipwreck. At the court of the rulers of Calari, the princess would have found hospitality suitable to her rank. The same would have happened on the northern coast of Sardinia. There, the princess would have come upon Torres, former seat of the Giudicato of Logudoro, a still important port-city with rich hinterland in which to settle with relative ease. Even the local rulers, engaged just in those decades of the eleventh century trying to build up their royal status outside Sardinia, would not have missed the opportunity to forge family ties with a royal princess. So, the Sinis Peninsula seems to be an invention made for political purposes. Even from a practical perspective, it was poor, since both narratives state it was exposed to Saracen incursions, and twenty years (1070) after the supposed arrival of the princess, it was in effect abandoned. Luciano Gallinari, “Il Giudicato di Calari tra XI e XIII secolo. Proposte di interpretazioni istituzionali,” RiMe. Rivista dell’Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea 5 (2010): 147–87, esp. 156–67, accessed October 17, 2020, http://rime.cnr.it/index.php/rime/article/view/320.

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small eleventh-century church dedicated to the Virgin, where an interesting Mozarabic object of that period has been found: a reliquary with Kufic inscriptions.68 The Memoria retains further explicit traces of the ties between the Princess of Navarre and the judges of Arborea. One of them is a quote, brief but meaningful, referring to the conquest and destruction of the city of Santa Igia (or Santa Gilla), capital of the Giudicato of Calari, in 1257 at the hands of Pisans. Following this, some of the inhabitants fled, taking refuge in the “lands of the seigneury of Oristano that were entirely populated by the descendants of Navarre.”69 To end this section, we may simply mention an episode in the Sardinian chronicle for 1127. It concerns the investiture of the Viscountcy of Bas and the marriage of the ruler of Arborea and a relative of the Aragonese monarch, which would have strengthened further the percentage of royalty in the judges’ lineage.70

Concluding Remarks

The events and sources analyzed here show the potential for a multidisciplinary reading, typical of the social sciences—anthropo­logy, philosophy, and psycho­logy—of documents, actions, and “discourses” of key protagonists in Sardinia’s late medi­eval history. This opens possibilities that are ignored by focusing solely on political, institutional, or economic history. Our approach places the individual at the centre: decisions, motivations, cultural contexts, psycho­logical backgrounds. Both approaches are crucial for reconstructing events and their apparent or hidden causes. This is more than ever necessary for the reconstruction of historical events of the Sardinian Middle Ages, which, in subsequent centuries, have become charged with nationalistic, cultural, and identity-making values with great impact. Such reflections require a careful analysis to differentiate actual events from assumptions or stereotypes.

68  On the reliquary of Santa Maria Navarrese, see Maria Freddi, “Un gioiello mussulmano a Santa Maria Navarrese,” Studi Sardi 16 (1960), 383–90; Fabio Pinna, “Le testimonianze archeo­logiche relative ai rapporti tra gli Arabi e la Sardegna nel medioevo,” RiMe. Rivista dell’Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea 4 (2010), 11–37, esp. 28–29, accessed October 17, 2020, http://rime.cnr. it/index.php/rime/article/view/413; Roberto Coroneo, “Il reliquiario di Santa Maria Navarrese e altre tracce materiali della presenza islamica in Sardegna,” in Forme e storia. Scritti di arte medi­ evale e moderna per Francesco Gandolfo, ed. Walter Angelelli and Francesca Pomarici (Rome, 2011), 119–25. 69  “Tierras de señorí�os de Oristán que era poblado todo de los decendientes de Nabarra […].” Cited from Maninchedda, ed., Memoria de las cosas, 8.

70  On this episode of the Memoria, see Luciano Gallinari, “An important political discourse proJudicate of Arborea drawn up in the capital of the Catalan–Aragonese Regnum Sardinie et Corsice (14th–15th c.),” in Centri di potere nel Mediterraneo occidentale Dal Medioevo alla fine dell’Antico Regime, ed. Lluí�s J. Guia Marí�n, Maria Grazia Rosaria Mele, and Giovanni Serreli (Milan, 2017), 70–71.

Chapter 16

THE CROWN OF ARAGON AND THE REGNUM SARDINIAE ET CORSICAE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY: COMPARING INSTITUTIONAL IDENTITIES ALESSANDRA CIOPPI The Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae was created in 1297 by the pope for the Crown of Aragon in the context of the rulership crisis in Sicily. Nevertheless, the king still had to conquer his new domain, and he started this in 1323. Longer and more complex than expected, this was much more than a simple military conquest. This chapter explores how the identity of the island was altered and how institutions played a central role in this change. As a result, Sardinia became an example of how political institutions could reflect and promote a social, and territorial, identity.

Sardinia, Kingdom of the Crown of Aragon

The Mediterranean extension of Catalan–Aragonese power during the Late Middle Ages caused a sequence of events, the importance and effects of which were and are still visible today. The conquest of the Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae proved to be a watershed in the process of territorial expansion of the Crown of Aragon, not limited to Sardinia, but fundamental to the ambitious foreign policy of the Iberian confederation.1 This study outlines the institutional and administrative system established by the Catalan– Aragonese sovereigns in the newly created Regnum Sardiniae, immediately after the occupation of the island in 1323. It has been widely demonstrated that the system had many elements in common with the other states of the Confederation; many aspects highlight differences and contrasts, thus showing how such a model adapted itself on the island. In the eyes of the Aragonese sovereigns, Sardinia became an experiment for institutions, which over time were either modified or preserved, and, in some cases, even exported to the other confederate kingdoms. 1  For a general overview, Francesco Giunta, Aragonesi e Catalani nel Mediterraneo (Palermo, 1953– 1959); Mario Del Treppo, “L’espansione catalano-aragonese nel Mediterraneo,” in Nuove questioni di Storia Medioevale, ed. Raffaello Morghen (Milan, 1969), 259–300; Alberto Boscolo, La politica italiana di Martino il Vecchio re d’Aragona (Padova, 1962); Alvaro Santamarí�a, “Precisiones sobre la expansión marí�tima de la Corona de Aragón,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia medi­ eval 8 (1990–1991): 187–255; and Maria Eugenia Cadeddu, “Giacomo II e la conquista del regno di Sardegna e Corsica,” Medioevo. Saggi e Rassegne 20 (1995): 251–316. Alessandra Cioppi ([email protected]) is Ricercatore in Medi­eval History at the Istituto di Storia dell’Europa Mediterranea-Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, Milan, Italy.

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At the time of the Catalan–Aragonese conquest, Sardinia played a highly prestigious role in the Mediterranean region.2 Its central position in the Mare Nostrum made it a natural bastion, useful to any power looking to extend its overseas rule. Any such crown would gain control of trade in the proximity of the Catalan coastline, along the “Island’s route” (Ruta de las Islas), as well as creating a new source of supplies and obtaining much needed inland territory.3 The island appeared as a mosaic of diverse territories, both from a political and a juridical point of view. The problematic coexistence of these distinct and fragmented institutional entities fuelled constant disputes, but the new Catalan–Aragonese lords found a way through.4

Comparing Institutions

In June 1323, when the infante of Aragon reached Sardinian shores to conquer the island, the Aragonese monarchy appeared inclined towards complete possession of the island. However, the internal situation was not so favourable: being an agreed (paccionada) monarchy, organized according to the so-called Estates (estamental) model, it was forced to negotiate between competing social forces, which strengthened to become an obstacle to the sovereign’s authority.5 To limit the influence of those forces, the Crown began a cautious, but determined process of change towards centralizing power, juggling political as well as technical and legal elements.6 In fact, the Catalan–Aragonese sovereigns had an innate inclination

2  On the conquest of Sardinia, Antonio Arribas Palau, La conquista de Cerdeña por Jaime II de Aragón (Barcelona, 1952); Francesco Cesare Casula, La Sardegna aragonese (Sassari, 1990); Rafael Conde y Delgado de Molina, “La Sardegna aragonese,” in Storia dei Sardi e della Sardegna, II. Il medioevo. Dai giudicati agli aragonesi, ed. Massimo Guidetti, 4 vols. (Milan, 1988), 2:251–78; Marco Tangheroni, “Alcuni aspetti della politica mediterranea di Giacomo II d’Aragona alla fine del suo regno,” in Sardegna Mediterranea, ed. Marco Tangheroni (Rome, 1983), 101–65; and Marco Tangheroni, “Il ‘Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae’ nell’espansione mediterranea della Corona d’Aragona. Aspetti economici,” in La Corona d’Aragona in Italia (secc. XIII–XVIII), XIV Congresso di Storia della Corona d’Aragona, ed. Maria Grazia Meloni, 5 vols. (Sassari, 1993), 1:49–88.

3  Giunta, Aragonesi e Catalani, 2:26–36 and 74–85; Vicente Salavert y Roca, Cerdeña y la expansión mediterránea de la Corona de Aragón: 1297–1314, 2 vols. (Madrid, 1956), 1:126–33; and Vicente Salavert y Roca, “Los motivos económicos en la conquista de Cerdeña,” in VI Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón (Madrid, 1959), 434–44; Ciro Manca, Aspetti dell’espansione economica catalano-aragonese nel Mediterraneo occidentale. Il commercio internazionale del sale (Milan, 1965), 9–17; Tangheroni, “Il ‘Regnum Sardiniae et Corsicae’,” 1:49–56.

4  On pre-Aragonese Sardinia Alberto Boscolo, La Sardegna bizantina e alto giudicale (Sassari, 1978); Francesco Artizzu, La Sardegna pisana e genovese (Sassari, 1985); Sandro Petrucci, Re in Sardegna, a Pisa cittadini. Ricerche sui “domini Sardiniee” pisani (Bo­logna, 1988); Marco Tangheroni, “L’economia e la società della Sardegna (XI–XIII secolo),” in Storia dei Sardi e della Sardegna, II. Il medioevo. Dai giudicati agli aragonesi, ed. Massimo Guidetti, 4 vols. (Milan, 1988), 2:157–91.

5  On institutions of the Aragonese motherland, see Luis Garcí�a de Valdeavellano, Curso de historia de las instituciones españolas. De los orígenes al final de la Edad Media (Madrid, 1968), 419–26; and Jesús Lalinde Abadí�a, Iniciación histórica al derecho español (Barcelona, 1970), 335–38 and 360–69.

6  Carme Batlle, La crisis social y económica de Barcelona a mediados del siglo XV (Barcelona, 1973), 33–131; Garcí�a de Valdeavellano, Curso de historia, 294, 296, 303, and 306.

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toward absolutism. The infante Alfonso was certainly so, and proved it in his political– administrative reorganization of Sardinia. Initially in his role as attorney general, then as king, he imposed a centralized system over the Regnum Sardiniae. Constitutionally, Sardinia became an autonomous kingdom, but one superiorem recognoscens, whose unity with the Crown was represented by the sovereign himself and was only subject to the higher order of the Cort.7 Therefore Sardinia, just like all the other states, joined the Confederation of Aragon with the theoretical right of keeping its own laws and institutions, but de facto it was systematically deprived of them.8 Reasons for this can be sought in Sardinia’s fragmented pre-Aragonese institutions, already undergoing radical transformation. Furthermore, a war of resistance immediately broke out on the island, thus impeding the creation of normal relations between the sovereign and his new subjects. In the early 1300s, Sardinia’s society and institutions were dramatically changing, driven by the evolution of the ancient local judicial system, along with the juxtaposition of elements from communes of Pisan and Genoan origin.9 The backbone of the territorial structure of the giudicati were the villages (villae), clustered in districts called curatorìe.10 Each curatorìa had a main town; each was the location of the local administration office. If we apply to Sardinia the same analytical procedure developed by Flocel Sabaté for the Catalan vicariate (vegueria), we may say that the administrative hierarchy replicated, institutionally, the existence of socio-economic relations between the different towns and villages belonging to the same district.11 We can also confirm Poisson’s hypothesis, according to which the Pisans attempted to create a system of castles across 7  Gabriella Olla Repetto, Il primo “liber curiae” della Procurazione reale di Sardegna (1413–1425) (Rome, 1974), 45–46. 8  Antonio Era, L’autonomia del “regnum Sardiniae” nell’epoca aragonese-spagnola (Padova, 1957).

9  On judicial institutions, see Enrico Besta, La Sardegna medioevale (Sala Bo­lognese, 1979); Arrigo Solmi, Studi storici sulle istituzioni della Sardegna nel Medio Evo (Cagliari, 1917); and Gabriella Olla, “L’ordinamento costituzionale-amministrativo della Sardegna alla fine del ‘300’,” in Il mondo della Carta de Logu (Cagliari, 1979), 167.

10  Boscolo, La Sardegna bizantina, 111–31, 139–55, and 157–74; Sandro Petrucci, “Storia politica e istituzionale della Sardegna medioevale (secolo XI–XIV),” in Storia dei Sardi e della Sardegna, II. Il medioevo. Dai giudicati agli aragonesi, ed. Massimo Guidetti, 4 vols. (Milan, 1988), 2:97–156.

11  The veguer, an official whose authority was mainly judicial, controlled a geo­graphically limited territory (the vegueria), and, as noted by Jesús Lalinde Abadí�a, La jurisdicción real inferior en Cataluña (“corts, veguers, batlles”) (Barcelona, 1966), 93, the infeudation of a castle was the most common way to set up the office of a veguer. The creation of the veguer originated from the need to provide an institutional structure over the social and economic relations that linked towns to their hinterland. Flocel Sabaté, “El veguer a Catalunya. Anàlisi del funcionament de la jurisdició reial al segle XIV,” Butlletí de la Societat Catalana d’Estudis Històrics 6 (1995): 147–59; Flocel Sabaté, “Discurs i estratègies del poder reial a Catalunya al segle XIV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 25, no. 2 (1995): 617–47; Flocel Sabaté, “El poder reial entre el poder municipal i el poder baronial a la Catalunya del segle XIV,” in El poder real en la Corona de Aragón (siglos XIV–XVI), XV Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón, 2 vols. (Zaragoza, 1996), 1:327–42; Flocel Sabaté, El territori de la Catalunya medi­eval. Percepció de l’espai i divisió territorial al llarg de l’Edat Mitjana (Barcelona, 1997), 172–80.

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the territory with a military and probably fiscal role. All in all, the second half of the thirteenth century and the beginning of the fourteenth was a time of deep transformation among the political and administrative hierarchies of the giudicati.12 This process, although not supplanting the earlier social context developing for over a century, had by then reached an advanced stage, and was already part of the island’s social fabric, but it was not yet homogeneous or fully defined, constituting weaknesses. In any case, the infante Alfonso was able to take advantage of this political and institutional framework. The Sardinians lacked any bargaining power, while the Iberians were more inclined towards action leading to a quick profit and greater personal power. Alfonso was helped by the lack of opposition and was able to impose a system that, for its time and character, can be called totalitarian, or at least comprehensive and highly centralized. So, the Aragonese monarchy chose to absorb the local judicial tradition—ostensibly conciliatory towards the indigenous institutions—into a framework whose hierarchy, considering the elements of continuity with the past and the new ones beginning to emerge within, was being radically transformed.

The System of Government in the Regnum Sardiniae

Before embarking, we should remember that, according to the medi­eval mindset, just as the management of the public sector overlapped with that of the private one, there was no clear distinction between executive, judicial, and fiscal activities of a government. Despite the existence of separate bodies, these remained part of a general idea of “administration.” It is clear that the institutional and administrative structures on the island were imported from the Catalan mother-state, rather than from the Aragonese example, or from the other kingdoms of the Crown. Despite this feature having been largely ignored by historians, it appears notable, particularly with respect to the administrative autonomy bestowed on the states of the Confederation, and the different size of the systems of the Catalan state and the Aragonese kingdom. From the start of the military campaign, the infante had the idea of appointing someone from his close entourage to exert royal powers in his newly occupied territory, in this case even before the occupation was complete. So, in July 1323, the infante appointed Pere de Llivià the “general vicar in the curatories of Campitano, Cagliari […] and in the other places linked to these places […] which belonged to the counts of the Commune of Pisa.”13 The district in which Llivià was to carry out his role as “veguer

12  This transformation appears to have fostered a new type of hierarchy among towns and villages of the curatorìa, as well as the establishment of fortified centres of power: Jean Michel Poisson, “Castelli medi­evali di Sardegna: dati storici e dati archeo­logici. Lo scavo archeo­logico di Montarrenti e i problemi dell’incastellamento medi­evale, Colloque de Sienne, décembre 1989,” Archeo­logia Medioevale 16 (1990): 202–4; and Jean Michel Poisson, “L’érection des châteaus dans la Sardaigne pisane (XIIIe s.) et ses conséquences sur la réorganisation du réseau des habitats,” in Actes du Colloque International tenu à Najac (Caen, 1990), 351–66.

13  “Vicaria general en les curatories de Campitano de Càller […] en tots los altres lochs subjects a les dites curatories […] que foren dels comtes del Comú de Pisa.” Cited from Barcelona, Arxiu de la

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general del regne de Càller” was different from typical Catalan veguerias, which converged on a main fortified centre. It was, de facto, an area comprising different curatorìe of the former giudicato of Calari, which once belonged to the Pisan Commune and the comital family of Donoratico della Gherardesca. According to the document by which Llivià is appointed, Alfonso is clear about the mandate: the vicar (veguer) was to be obeyed just as the regent himself. Therefore, in this phase, the appointment was purely political and its purposes not difficult to understand.14 The infante was completely absorbed by his military activities and he needed people he could trust to whom he could delegate government duties. The situation required a strong royal presence to coordinate activities throughout the territory; this would happen by conferring ample powers to representatives of the Crown, who would then liaise between the king and the pre-existing local authorities. By the spring of 1324, the Catalan institutional machine was on the move. Villa di Chiesa had already been occupied, and the Aragonese forces were aiming at Castel di Castro, the capital of the Pisan dominion on the island. The circumstances had by now changed: there was now a pressing need to form a stable institutional hierarchy, in which officials held a clear role and their respective competences were unmistakably defined. The institutional and administrative system created by the infante Alfonso for the new Regnum Sardiniae was essentially made of three main bodies: the feodum, the municipality, and the royal administration. Functions and competences of these autonomous entities were reciprocally intertwined.15 Underlying all this was the conviction that these components had to cooperate toward a common goal: the greatness of the house of Aragon and the strengthening of royal power. Accordingly, the infante immediately attempted to create a detailed plan for the management of public offices; to seize control of the main urban centres; and, finally, to proceed to the distribution of feods across the territory among his most trusted subjects. Feudal Administration

The first form of administrative organization, the feodum, originated at the same time as the Catalan–Aragonese conquest of the island. In just a few years, only small portions of land, apart from the cities and their suburbs, were not under the control of Iberian lords. Contrasting opinions exist over the reasons for the introduction, consolidation, and centuries-long duration of the feudal system in the Regnum Sardiniae. According to some, the application of this institution contrasted with the centralizing tendencies of the Aragonese sovereigns; feods served a shielding function in relations between the Corona d’Aragó, Reial Patrimoni, Mestre Racional, reg. 2059, fols. 28v–29v.

14  Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Reial Patrimoni, Mestre Racional, reg. 2059, fols. 28v–29r.

15  Parliament was added later. The acts of the first Sardinian Parliament were published in Giuseppe Meloni, ed., Acta Curiarum Regni Sardiniae. 2. Il Parlamento di Pietro IV d’Aragona (1355) (Cagliari, 1993), 19–155. On the evolution of parliament in Sardinia, see Antonello Mattone, “I Parlamenti,” in I Catalani in Sardegna, ed. Jordi Carbonell and Francesco Manconi (Cinisello Balsamo, 1984), 83–91.

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sovereign and his subjects, representing a centrifugal force against centres of power and the peripheral administration the Crown attempted to assemble around itself. Others, on the contrary, claim that feudalism was a calculated strategy born of Catalan–Aragonese totalitarianism, since, in Sardinia at least, financial reasons prevailed over purely institutional ones.16 The Crown of Aragon’s steadfast, costly policy of expansion in the Mediterranean had so impoverished the royal treasury that it became incapable of funding it. It was forced to resort to loans and contributions from nobles and supporters of the Crown; as a result, funders had to be granted compensation in the shape of feudal concessions, income, taxation and customs privileges, or public offices. The first infeudations in Sardinia, bestowed on Iberian lords, fit this context. They are repayment for those who financed the military struggle, rather than a real structural choice.17 To lessen the burden implied by this operation, Catalan sovereigns rejected the feudal form of allodium, popular at the time in the kingdoms of the Crown, preferring the mos Italiae, which at least placed limits on the lords’ powers.18 The feudal system soon proved itself inefficient. Increasing the concessions to nobles who supported the campaign in Sardinia meant ensuring the military defence of the kingdom of Sardinia; on the other hand, giving the feudal lords jurisdiction over the infeudated villages also meant conceding full control over economically important land. While busy protecting their own interests, and possibly expanding them to the detriment of law and order, feudal lords weakened the effectiveness of public officials in their feods, both in fiscal and jurisdictional matters. Their abuse of power and controversies with royal officials represented the most critical aspect of the bureaucratic apparatus devised by the infante Alfonso, although this was certainly not the only one. Municipal Administration

The second distinguishing element in the system in the Regnum Sardiniae was its municipal administration. During the initial years of the Catalan government on the island, along with the robust infeudation of the rural areas, the Crown energetically bolstered its power over the cities. Municipalities were set up and shaped along the Catalan model, introduced on the island in lieu of the Italian-style autonomous communes, popular in Sardinia since the

16  On Catalan–Aragonese feudalism as a socio-political structure: Jesús Lalinde Abadí�a, La Corona de Aragón en el Mediterraneo medi­eval (1229–1479) (Zaragoza, 1979), 112–23. On feudalism in Sardinia: Francesco Loddo Canepa, “Ricerche e osservazioni sul feudalesimo sardo della dominazione aragonese,” Archivio Storico Sardo 6 (1910): 49–84; 11 (1915): 3–32; and 13 (1921): 141–64; Raffaele Di Tucci, L’origine del feudo sardo in rapporto con l’origine del feudo dell’Europa occidentale (Cagliari, 1927); Marco Tangheroni, “Il feudalesimo in Sardegna in età aragonese,” in Sardegna mediterranea, ed. Marco Tangheroni (Rome, 1983), 23–54; and Marco Tangheroni “Il feudalesimo,” I Catalani in Sardegna, ed. Jordi Carbonell and Francesco Manconi (Cinisello Balsamo, 1984), 41–46.

17  Gabriella Olla Repetto, “L’amministrazione regia,” in I Catalani in Sardegna, ed. Jordi Carbonell and Francesco Manconi (Cinisello Balsamo, 1984), 47–50. 18  On the relation between feodum and allodium, see Lalinde Abadí�a, Iniciación, 388.

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beginning of the thirteenth century.19 However, the Catalan–Aragonese did not create a new structure, but rather variations on the pre-existing one, while at the same time imbuing a strong, innovative spirit.20 The type of Catalan municipality imported on the island is what historians call the rudimentario, as opposed to the Aragonese model, called perfeito.21 The key distinction between these two lies in the administration of justice. In the perfeito model, it is run by the urban community; in the rudimentario, it is directly administered by the king himself (as the foundation of justice and honesty).22 Barcelona was the paradigm of a rudimentario municipality. As of August 1327, the civic administration of Castell de Càller (Castle of Cagliari), capital of the new kingdom of Sardinia, was shaped on that model, following the granting of a privilege called the Coeterum.23 This not only granted the urban territory of Castell de Càller and its surroundings the same privileges as Barcelona, but also pinpointed a larger “metropolitan” area within which the same privileges applied. A complex bureaucratic apparatus, structured in different offices and divided by specific competences, governed the city and applied the regulations foreseen in the Coeterum. The officials in charge of these functions, appointed by the king or a delegate, were bound by an oath of loyalty to the sovereign.24 One of the most important figures related to this municipal administration was undoubtedly the vicar (veguer). After the appointment of Pere de Llivià as “veguer general del regne de Càller” was revoked in the summer of 1324,25 this institution was reformed within the municipal structure and, indeed, represented the final stage of the complete subjection of the city to the Crown. When, in the spring of 1326, Ramon de Montpaó was appointed, his role was substantially different from Llivià’s. Apart from the adjective “general,” the title veguer remained intact, although the profile of the institution had been considerably downsized.26 The role of veguer was stripped 19  Marco Tangheroni, “Nascita e affermazione di una città. Sassari dal XII al XIV secolo,” in Gli Statuti sassaresi. Economia, società, istituzioni a Sassari nel Medioevo e nell’Età Moderna, Atti del Convegno di Studi, ed. Antonello Mattone and Marco Tangheroni (Cagliari, 1986), 45–63; Antonello Mattone, “Gli statuti sassaresi nel periodo aragonese e spagnolo,” in Gli Statuti sassaresi. Economia, società, istituzioni a Sassari nel Medioevo e nell’Età Moderna, Atti del Convegno di Studi, ed. Antonello Mattone and Marco Tangheroni (Cagliari, 1986), 409–90. 20  On the municipality as administrative unit: Lalinde Abadí�a, La Corona de Aragón, 143–50.

21  Garcí�a de Valdeavellano, Curso de historia, 537.

22  Raffaele Di Tucci, Il Libro Verde della città di Cagliari (Cagliari, 1925), 19.

23  Alberto Boscolo, “Le istituzioni pisane e barcellonesi a Cagliari prima e dopo il 1326,” in Sardegna, Pisa e Genova nel Medioevo, ed. Alberto Boscolo (Genoa, 1978), 127–38.

24  Di Tucci, Il Libro Verde, 145–46; Maria Bonaria Urban, Cagliari aragonese. Topografia e insedia­ mento (Cagliari, 2000), 53. 25  Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Reial Patrimoni, Mestre Racional, reg. 2059, fol. 28v.

26  Evandro Putzulu, “La prima introduzione del municipio di tipo barcellonese in Sardegna. Lo statuto del castello di Bonaria,” in Studi storici e giuridici in onore di Antonio Era (Padova, 1963), 323–39; Giovanni Todde, “Castel de Bonayre. il primo insediamento catalano-aragonese in Sardegna,” in La società mediterranea all’epoca del Vespro. XI Congresso di Storia della Corona d’Aragona, ed. Pietro Corrao and Francesco Giunta, 4 vols. (Palermo, 1984), 4:335–46; Maria Rosaria

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of many responsibilities, as in Catalonia, where the institution saw its range of operations reduced to the jurisdictional. Moreover, the district of the veguer, again according to the Catalan model, covered a homogeneous socio-economic area, centred on a fortified unit.27 The new profile of the office of veguer originated from a renewed political order and a particular context: the Pisan–Aragonese conflict appeared to have found a final solution. The conquest of the ancient Pisan fortress by the Catalans (June 1326) triggered changes to the administration of the city, although this merely involved the top officials of the municipality. Ramon de Montpaó was appointed new veguer and maintained the competences of the Bonaria office, while transferring his title to the Castell de Càller.28 He became the highest official of the Cagliari administration, and his main role was the administration of justice over the inhabitants of the former Pisan castle as well as the Stampace, Villanova, and Lapola quarters attached to it. He acted as judge of the first, and sometimes second, instance, both in civil and criminal cases. He also exerted power over the city’s prisons, with custody of the three main city towers, in one of which, San Pancrazio, he resided.29 Adding to these strictly jurisdictional responsibilities, a veguer could occasionally be given more political, administrative, or military duties, thus enabling him to have an influence over those specific offices as well.30 With the concession of the Coeterum, the role of the city gained even more importance. Castell de Càller shifted from an autonomous legal status to an institutional system imposed from above, binding the fortune of the city to the will and authority of the Aragonese sovereign. The Crown was adamant on its control of the island’s cities, confirmed by the fact that this radical change of high officials involved not only Cagliari, but all the main urban centres of the kingdom. In 1331, the Barcelona system was extended to the cities of Sassari and Villa di Chiesa (Iglesias). Sassari had its podestà changed into the equivalent of a real veguer, following the Catalan model, despite James II having reassured the commune, in May 1323, of his full respect of its constitution.31 In Villa di Chiesa, although the administrative formats foreseen in the Pisan Breve were partially respected, the role of the captain was changed so that it finally resembled that of the Catalan veguer.32 Contu, “Bonaria roccaforte catalano-aragonese. Quale natura giuridica,” Quaderni bolotanesi 12 (1986): 139–48. 27  Sabaté, El territori, 174.

28  Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 401, fol. 4r–v.

29  Gabriella Olla, Gli ufficiali regi di Sardegna durante il regno di Alfonso IV (Cagliari, 1969), 26; Maria Bonaria Urban, “L’istituto del veguer e l’amministrazione della città di Cagliari. Alcune note preliminari,” in El món urbà a la Corona d’Aragó del 1137 als Decrets de Nova Planta. XVII Congrés d’Història de la Corona d’Aragó, ed. Salvador Claramunt, 3 vols. (Barcelona, 2003), 3:1023–44; and Urban, Cagliari aragonese, 177. 30  On the jurisdictional role of the veguer and arbitrators: Lalinde Abadí�a, Iniciación, 417.

31  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 15; Angelo Castellaccio, “Note sull’ufficio del ‘veguer’ in Sardegna,” in Sardegna, Mediterraneo e Atlantico tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna. Studi storici in memoria di Alberto Boscolo, ed. Luisa D’Arienzo, 3 vols. (Rome, 1993), 1:221–66. For the text of the privilegium, see Tola, Codice Diplomatico della Sardegna, 1/2:660–62 (document 12). 32  Olla, “L’ordinamento costituzionale-amministrativo,” 123; Alberto Boscolo, “Villa di Chiesa e

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In short, the structure of the Catalan municipality, and especially the office of the veguer—effectively acting as eye of the king, overseeing a territory—were the main tools with which the Aragonese sovereigns preemptively avoided the development of potential moves to greater autonomy among the local municipalities. In this way, the sovereigns guaranteed control over the administration of cities, which, once trapped in this system, needed to conform to this system of direct supervision; even more so, since those appointed to the offices in Sardinian municipalities were nearly always Iberian citizens.33 This project, however, soon encountered a number of obstacles. From the documents, it emerges that, from the beginning, conflicts grew between royal officials and the urban ruling class. The latter, through the representatives of the council, often had to implore the sovereign to decide on matters over which they no longer had any influence. At the core of every problem was the loss of power by the municipal bodies, sacrificed to the new political and administrative system forced on the cities and their territories. In any case, while the sovereign was busy developing Castell de Càller and guaranteeing its status as political capital and main port of the kingdom, he soon realized he needed to find a compromise with the urban elites: the newly created institutional system had already produced conflict. Royal Administration

Direct administration by the king, which we will now call direct royal administration, was closely connected to the municipal one, and represented the third cornerstone of the institutional system imposed on Sardinia by the infante Alfonso. By its very nature, it represented the longa manus of the king over the territory, for it comprised his closest associates and aids, fideles appointed by him either permanently or not, often called oficials, and chosen almost exclusively among Iberians with whom he had close ties. These nominees, operating in the king’s name and on his behalf, exerted all governing functions and presided over the officia in capita. These were complex operational units following models from their motherland, but they effectively constituted a separate administrative system, independent of the equivalent original structures.34 The officials’ appointments were ad nutum (i.e., until they chose to resign), ad tempus (i.e., for a set term),35 or for life, but came directly from the king and could therefore be revoked. In this way, the king repaid his loyal subjects for services during military campaigns; the officials fully benefited from the stipend and any earnings attached to the post. On the other hand, the appointee was bound by an oath of loyalty to the king and was responsible for any political implications of his activities; his office accounts il suo ‘Breve’,” in Sardegna, Pisa e Genova nel Medioevo, ed. Alberto Boscolo (Genoa, 1978), 81–88.

33  On the importance of the veguer as an instrument for centralizing power:Lalinde Abadí�a, La jurisdicción, 79–89; and Lalinde Abadí�a, Iniciación, 397; Flocel Sabaté, “Vegueria,” in Diccionari d’Història de Catalunya, ed. Jesús Mestre (Barcelona, 1992), 1102.

34  Olla Repetto, Gli ufficiali regi,7; Maria Mercè Costa, “Oficials de la Corona d’Aragó a Sardenya (segle XIV). Notes biogràfiques,” Archivio Storico Sardo 29 (1964): 323–77. 35  This kind of position cannot be verified in the Alfonsine system.

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were placed under scrutiny by specifically created administrative bodies, although there was no obligation to be audited to the end of the term (purgar taula), as it was in Iberian Peninsula territories; and finally, it was subject to civil and criminal law, regardless of the branch it belonged to.36 While the nature of the mandate made the official’s position precarious and subordinate vis à vis the sovereign, with time this status not only softened due to the complex political events on the island, but even reversed, becoming a cause of instability and uncertainty in relations between the king and his officials.37 It so happened that, parallel to the direct royal appointment of offices, Alfonso and his successors assigned merely patrimonial roles based on tenders, called an arrendament, which were a useful way to improve the impoverished finances of the kingdom.38 An office might then be granted to one or more people. For a given amount of money, they managed the patrimony, and collected the revenue. This generated a dual debtor– creditor relationship between the king and the contractor, which placed both at an equal level. The former no longer had the prerogative of superiority and the power to retaliate; the latter was not committed to loyalty, but simply maintained a contractual duty towards the king and to respect the written agreement set for the specific office which had been arrendato to him. As a tribute to its autonomy, the royal administration created by Alfonso in Sardinia foresaw a division of offices: these could be classified as central, discussed below, and peripheral. The central offices extended their jurisdiction across the island, while the latter only operated in specific areas. Finally, depending on the number of officials assigned to a given role, one could refer to individual entities or collegial ones, for there existed offices held by one or more persons. For the larger offices, as well as by the officiales in capite, frequently the auxiliary functions, essentially bureaucratic or scribal and related to a chancery, were carried out by secretariats, the so-called scribanie.39 The Governor General

The highest official of the royal administration was the governor general, whose role was established by the infante in 1324, immediately following the initial victories over the Pisans. Established at a time when all the other kingdoms of the Crown were controlled by the office of the procurador general, the gubernatorial regime in Sardinia sheds light on the importance of the Sardo-Aragonese system, which has wider implications beyond

36  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 8; Antonio Era, L’ordinamento organico di Pietro IV d’Aragona per i territori del Cagliaritano (Sassari, 1933), 15–52. On the procedure of tener taula or purgar taula, Lalinde Abadí�a, La Corona de Aragón, 135–36. According to Era, L’ordinamento organico di Pietro IV, 15, the obligation to “purgar taula” was introduced in Sardinia by Peter IV in 1341. 37  The kings of Aragon often had to turn a blind eye to abuses and frauds by royal officials because they needed their support in the Sardinian war. Joaquim Miret i Sans, “Saqueig de Sàsser en 1329,” Boletin de la Real Academia de Buenas Letras de Barcelona 4 (1908): 434, which reports that Ramon de Montpaó had his position as podestà reconfirmed, despite being found guilty of many abuses in the city of Sassari.

38  Francesco Loddo Canepa, “Dizionario archivistico per la Sardegna,” Archivio Storico Sardo 20–21 (1936–1939): 13–33; and Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 11. 39  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 9.

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the boundaries of local history. The creation of the role of governor, i.e., a system in which power was centralized in the hands of a representative of the king who ran the politics of the kingdom, was a novel element not only for the existing institutions on the island, but especially for the royal administration. This office later became a distinctive feature of the newly formed Regnum Sardiniae.40 The office of the governor general was an unprecedented institution for the Crown of Aragon, though comparable to the betterknown role of the procurador general, which over the years became the “procurador general del rey,” a role usually granted to the heir to the throne, for it represented an excellent opportunity for the political and legal education of the infante. The role was equipped with the highest governmental, judicial, and military functions over the entire island.41 The political role grew in importance, enabling the governor general to make decisions at the highest level, for which he was accountable only to the king. For royal officials, the governor general monitored and controlled their moral and political behaviour, and possessed the authority to remove them from their offices and replace them. Concerning his judicial role, he was head of the supreme jurisdiction of appeal for civil and criminal law matters. In this, the governor general was assisted by a competent assessor, a titled in-law (savi en dret), who was the legal assisting in trials, and also made up for the inevitable legal shortcomings of the governor. As an exceptional measure, the latter was also judge of first instance for cases in which royal officials or individuals of high social lineage were involved.42 In his military function, the governor general was responsible for the defence of the kingdom and was the supreme commander of the royal armed forces in Sardinia, but with no control over the fleet, which was responsible to the admiral.43 The governor general was the sovereign’s alter ego, and was normally chosen from among his most trusted counsellors. He could only be replaced if absent, and only by someone appointed by the king himself which, after 1331, Alfonso decreed would be the veguer of Castell de Càller.44 With the creation of the office of the governor general, Alfonso took a fundamental step in the history of the Crown’s institutions. Nominating a direct representative within a highly centralized government allowed the sovereign to create in the kingdom of Sardinia a new political tendency, later extending it from the island to other states of the Iberian confederation. In time, we see the original role of the procurador general replaced by the gobernador general. Peter IV the Ceremonious extended to all the terri40  Gabriella Olla, “La nascita nella Sardegna aragonese dell’istituto del governatore generale e la sua successiva diffusione nei Regna della Corona,” Archivio Storico Sardo 36 (1989): 105–27; Lalinde Abadí�a, La gobernación, 48; and Jesús Lalinde Abadí�a, “Virreyes y lugartenientes medi­ evales en la Corona de Aragón,” Cuadernos de historia de España 44 (1960): 97–172. 41  Jerónimo Zurita, Anales de la Corona de Aragón, ed. Á� ngel Canellas López, 8 vols. (Zaragoza, 1978), 3:209 (book VI, chap. 55). 42  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 13–16.

43  In June 1326, in Castell de Càller, capital of the new Regnum Sardiniae, the infante appointed the royal admiral Bernat de Boixadors as governor general. This was the only case in which all the military powers, over land and sea, were temporarily held by one person. Di Tucci, Il Libro Verde, 160–61 (document XXXXVI); and Arribas Palau, La Conquista de Cerdeña, 333. 44  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 15.

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tories of the Crown a system first tried in Sardinia, while on the island the gubernatorial system became the distinctive element of the Spanish and Savoy eras that followed.45 The Administrator General

The post of administrator general, created between 1323 and 1324, was the second most important office in the infante Alfonso’s administrative system set up in the Regnum Sardiniae.46 The administrator general’s office was the only institution on the island with a centralized territorial competence. It was exclusively concerned with patrimonial matters, such as the collection of taxes and fines in Sardinia, as well as the supervision of the royal officials’ account books.47 The coffers of the administration received revenue from saltworks, customs, and mines, the rights over office appointments, as well as tributes paid by the municipalities, feudal lords, and emphyteutic concession-holders. This income was for the kingdom’s ordinary and extraordinary expenses, according to priorities rigorously set by the sovereign, while any surplus was to be handed over to the court.48 Around the years 1333–1334, following an inspection on the island by the representative of the general auditor (mestre racional) of the Crown of Aragon, the system underwent changes. The official decreed that, as of that moment, his direct superior, who held a seat at court, would oversee the accounts of Sardinia’s royal officials. Nevertheless, such a measure was never fully applied, since many of them continued to consider themselves accountable only to the general administrator of the kingdom.49 Given the powers and the importance of the office, Alfonso only appointed Iberian officials whose loyalty was proven; he would do so individually or collectively, depending on the circumstances. From 1391 to 1401, the role was replaced by the general bailiff (batlle general), who was given broad powers.50

45  Gabriella Olla, “La politica archivistica di Alfonso IV d’Aragona,” in La società mediterranea all’epoca del Vespro. XI Congresso di Storia della Corona d’Aragona, ed. Pietro Corrao and Francesco Giunta, 4 vols. (Palermo, 1984), 3:461–79.

46  The institution was probably created immediately after the siege of Villa di Chiesa. Canepa, “Dizionario,” 20–21 (entry: amministratore generale dei redditi e dei diritti regi di Sardegna). 47  Olla, Gli ufficiali regi, 17.

48  Olla, “La politica archivistica,” 467.

49  The inspection was carried out by Bernat dez Coll. Alberto Boscolo, “Bernardo dez Coll, funzionario e cronista del re d’Aragona Pietro il Cerimonioso,” Studi Sardi 23, no. 2 (1973–1974): 3–51; and Alberto Boscolo, “I cronisti catalano-aragonesi e la storia italiana del basso Medioevo,” in Nuove questioni di Storia Medioevale, ed. Raffaello Morghen (Milan, 1969), 301–23. 50  Olla, Il primo Liber Curiae, 5; Carla Ferrante, “L’istituzione del bailo generale nel regno di Sardegna (1391–1401),” in El poder real en la Corona de Aragón (siglos XIV–XVI), XV Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón, 2 vols. (Zaragoza, 1996), 1:93–109; Alessandra Cioppi, “I registri di Jordi de Planella ‘battle general’ di Sardegna. Note sull’amministrazione di un ufficiale regio alla fine del XIV secolo,” in La Corona catalanoaragonesa i el seu entorn mediterrani a la Baixa Edat Mitjana, ed. Maria Teresa Ferrer, Josefina Mutgé, and Manuel Sánchez (Barcelona, 2005), 23–63.

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Given the poor state of the treasury, the Catalan–Aragonese sovereigns were forced to reform the Alfonsine system, enforcing stricter control over royal officials and using exceptional measures aimed at stemming the outflow of money. The increasingly evident fragility of the Regnum Sardiniae, caused by the constant state of war with Arborea, encouraged Peter the Ceremonious to organically re-define the fundamental principles of government laid out by his father Alfonso. He initially issued a pragmatic sanction in Cagliari on 24 August 1355, later followed by different regulations on which he instructed single officials.51 The reform of Peter’s system was then resumed by his successor John I, who made partial changes, blaming the collapse of the royal treasury on the negligence and inactivity of the officials, meaning there were insufficient resources to guarantee the defence of the kingdom and cope with extraordinary payments.52 The Bailiff General (Batlle general)

The reign of John I was dramatic: as a result, he attempted to implement radical changes with the creation of a new institution better equipped to handle the finances of the kingdom, with wide powers of control over Crown prerogatives. He abolished the two administrative offices pertaining to the districts capo di Cagliari e di Gallura and the capo di Logudoro, and, in 1391, the king officially established the post of batllia general of the Regnum Sardiniae, whose competencies were to be similar to those of the equivalent office operating on the Iberian mainland.53 He initially appointed Berenguer Xicot, and later Jordi de Planella.54 This new administrative body, unknown on the island, but well established and tested in the other states of the Iberian confederation,55 would take over the competen51  In 1352, following an explicit request by governor general Rambaldo de Corbaria, Peter IV approved a more detailed redistribution of salaries and a reorganization of public offices. Luisa D’Arienzo, Carte Reali Diplomatiche di Pietro IV il Cerimonioso, re d’Aragona, riguardanti l’Italia (Padova, 1970), 192 (document 377) and 193 (document 379); Costa, “Oficials de la Corona,” 340–43. On Peter IV’s pragmatic sanction: Era, L’ordinamento organico di Pietro IV, 1–78. The same decree was re-issued in 1363, probably because the officials had not followed the royal instructions. 52  Maria Teresa Ferrer, “El patrimoni reial i la recuperació dels senyorius jurisdiccionals en els estats catalano-aragonesos a la fi del segle XIV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 7 (1970–1971): 351–491. For the original text of John I’s document: Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 1939, fols. 145r–147v. 53  Flocel Sabaté, “Corona de Aragón,” in Historia de España, VIII. La época medi­eval. administración y gobierno, ed. Pedro Andrés Porras, Eloí�sa Ramí�rez, and Flocel Sabaté (Tres Cantos, 2003), 369–70; and Sabaté, El territori, 198–202.

54  On the establishment of the office: Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 1939, fol. 171r; on the appointment of Xicot: Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 1939, fols. 166v–168r; and of Planella: Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancelleria, reg. 1940, fols. 79v–82v. Cioppi, “I registri,” 30–33.

55  On the Catalan batlle general: Antonio Marí�a Aragó Cabañas, “La Institucion ‘baiulus regis’ en Cataluña en la época de Alfonso el Casto,” in Jerónimo Zurita. Su obra y el estado general de la investigación histórica. VII Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón, 3 vols. (Barcelona, 1964), 3:137–42; Tomàs de Montagut, “El batlle general de Catalunya,” Hacienda Pública Española 87

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cies of the old administrators, as well as adding others of a legal nature. In its full functions, the batlle general was given great freedom to run the administration of the royal patrimony. He had to assess the drets reyals (royal rights) across the entire kingdom of Sardinia and verify their status. To carry out this task, he needed to control the various bailiffs spread across the island and their subordinate bailiffs, the majores of the towns, and the other auxiliary officials responsible for the collection of taxes and tributes for the Crown, for all of which he was in charge.56 Another function of the office was the collection of all credits the Crown may have towards anyone who held, or managed, royal rights. The batlle general could appoint or establish new bailiffs and tax collectors under them, just as he reserved the right to replace or remove them if he deemed it necessary. He also acted as a patrimonial judge, thus granting himself the power to sue and judge debtors, decide terms of compensation, and the monetary penalties to be imposed on a guilty party. These were matters over which not even the governor had jurisdiction.57 Finally, the batlle general, together with the general auditor (maestre racional) of the Crown, settled in Barcelona, had to keep the accounts and keep track of all the receipts of transactions from his subordinates on fiscal or patrimonial matters. Despite the wide powers and importance of this role, the institution of the batllia general only functioned for ten years on the island; archive documents primarily highlight the management of extraordinary resources for defence of the Sardinian kingdom, rather than the everyday running of its functions.58 Therefore, the office of the batllia general, and its governmental body, represented an institutional unicum in the Regnum Sardiniae, not comparable to the equivalent office in the administrative structures of the Iberian confederation towards the end of the fourteenth century. In 1401, Martin of Aragon the Elder, who succeeded John I, abolished the office, considering it unsuccessful in controlling royal rights and useless in the administration of the kingdom. He replaced it by reintroducing the administrators general and by reinstating the two governorates for the Capo di Cagliari e Gallura and the Capo di Logudoro, previously established by Peter IV.59 (1984): 73–84; Garcí�a de Valdeavellano, Curso de historia, 516–17. On the office of the batlle in Valencia: Leopoldo Piles Ros, Estudio documental sobre el bayle general de Valencia, su autoridad y jurisdicción (Valencia, 1970), 25–80.

56  On the tasks, see the charta commissionis in Barcelona, Arxiu de la Corona d’Aragó, Cancillerí�a, reg. 1939, fols. 166v–168r.

57  Maria Mercè Costa, “Dades sobre els governadors de Sardenya en temps de Pere el Ceremoniós,” in Jerónimo Zurita. Su obra y el estado general de la investigación histórica. VII Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón, 3 vols. (Barcelona, 1964), 2:357.

58  The evolution of the office of the batllia general in Sardinia and the continuity of the role entrusted to Jordi de Planella demonstrate that the office was closely related to that person only. Cioppi, “I registri” 38–39. In 1399, the office of the batlle general merged with that of the veguer in Cagliari, and the last traces of Planella’s activities in the Sardinian capital are shown in Evandro Putzulu, Carte reali aragonesi e spagnole dell’Archivio Comunale di Cagliari (1358–1719) (Padova, 1959), 27 (documents 58–60); Boscolo, La politica italiana, 77–80. 59  Era, L’ordinamento organico di Petro IV, 4 and 23–33.

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Peculiarities of the Sardo-Aragonese System

In joining the federation of states that belonged to the Crown of Aragon, the political and administrative system of the Regnum Sardiniae was not supposed to change, and its autonomy was to be left untouched, as in the other regna of the Iberian confederation. However, in practical terms major change did take place, making the resulting system well-defined, unique, and, what is more, long-lived: it lasted for over four centuries.60 First of all, the system pivoted around a rigid pyramidal structure and relations among officials based on rank, so that it did not foster flexibility or autonomy. Relations between the different administrative regimes were based on a strict hierarchy. Apart from areas of the island still under the control of Arborea, or led by the few remaining noble families, feods and municipalities shared control of the land, despite de facto and de iure reciprocal interference. The royal administration carefully oversaw its subjects and held responsibilities often allowing it to impose its power and control the other two sectors, on the principle of representing the king. The system created, intentionally or not, interference and juxtaposition of privileges that fuelled internal conflicts among those royal officials eager to obtain public roles in the cities, as well as among Iberian noblemen seeking feods in Sardinia.61 These tensions generated unrest within the Regnum Sardiniae and encouraged a sentiment of revenge among those Sardinians still loyal to the giudicati. The prospect of finding a solution to the crisis was not an easy one. The Crown of Aragon realized that rearranging the newly conquered territory, and gaining political, administrative, and military control, was much more complex than anticipated. Initially, the conquerors only needed to employ their military and diplomatic skills; subsequently, circumstances required poise, tolerance, and especially more flexibility towards the indigenous population. But the Catalan–Aragonese were incapable of adequately responding to these problems. The innovative approach that characterized their institutional presence in Sardinia, especially during the first century of their conquest, was in fact forced on them by the difficulties they met in understanding the island’s sociopolitical context.62 The institutional and administrative system devised and implemented by Alfonso developed under Peter the Ceremonious, who succeeded him in 1336; he largely followed his father’s policy in Sardinia, albeit with some reforms. These became necessary to make every territory of the kingdom self-sufficient, given that the conflict with Arborea evolved from a rapid succession of revolts into a bloody war, thus making internal communication precarious. The key changes concerned the officials general, whose roles were split into two main offices, and the introduction of a parliament which followed the Catalan model, one of the least autonomous across the spectrum of the Iberian confederation. 60  Olla, “L’ordinamento costituzionale-amministrativo,” 132. 61  Cioppi, “I registri,” 28.

62  Bruno Anatra, “Dall’unificazione aragonese ai Savoia,” in Storia d’Italia, X. La Sardegna medioevale e moderna, ed. John Day, Bruno Anatra, and Lucetta Scarafia (Turin, 1984), 191–663.

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In the second half of the fourteenth century, the political and social instability into which the island had fallen revealed the imperfections and latent contradictions of the Sardo-Aragonese system. Those were years of unrest and excess, against which the monarchy constructed a weak dam of inadequate reforms, which tended in the direction of administrative reunification of the territory. This only became possible when, in the second half of the century, the island recovered its stability, as well as a respectable role in the economic life of the Crown and its policy of expansion in the Mediterranean.63

Conclusions

Our presentation does not cover all the problems regarding the evolution of SardoCatalan institutions of the period. It does, however, allow us to offer some general considerations. First, the system’s provisional, contradictory, and disorderly nature is immediately recognisable. Its complexity and innovation reflects the kingdom’s state at the time—political instability, permanent conflicts, economic uncertainty—rather than the lack of the sovereign’s will. On the contrary, many times and in numerous fields Sardinia was used as a laboratory for institutions by the Aragonese Crown. With the Catalan–Aragonese conquest, the island found itself de facto with a very different government structure. De jure the changes implemented were not strikingly different. Indeed, the pre-Aragonese system did not appear to have been abolished or overthrown, but kept in place to regulate purely Sardinian legal affairs. Despite the termino­logy and the forms remaining, these became void of power. This happened for a number of reasons: the existing laws grew out of date; newly introduced regulations were in conflict with them; new judiciary institutions were created or altered the preexisting ones. The transformation of the Sardinian system was the result of intentional policy. But the organisms were designed so the new subjects could identify with them. So, while on the one hand the variations introduced were meant to be integrated with the old Sardinian institutions, the structures implemented from scratch were taken directly from the Catalan system. When analyzing the main lines, overall, the Sardo-Catalan institutions of the Regnum Sardiniae reveal a consistent strategy by the Crown, aimed at creating a centralized government, with the monarchy in a privileged position over the rest of society. Alfonso the Kind, then all the other Aragonese sovereigns, after having brought Sardinia into their sphere of power, were able to create for it, within the framework of their vast institutional panorama, a system that could be adapted to “a monarchy on its way towards absolutism,” using it as a testing ground, and then exporting those structures as models for the other states of the Union.64 Despite the innovative character of the reforms and flexibility in seeking the most appropriate socio-political solutions, the events demonstrated a clear weakness in the Catalan sovereigns’ political conduct. The choice of undertaking the campaign in Sar63  Anatra, “Dall’unificazione aragonese,” 330–425.

64  “Una monarchia avviata all’assolutismo.” Cited from Solmi, Studi storici sulle istituzioni, 328.

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dinia based on the strength of feudal vassals, as if it were a feudal endeavour, appeared to be more focused on the past than on the future. The partition of land, despite its being aimed at appointing the holders of feods to defend the kingdom and making this new social class an instrument of Aragonese power, it actually triggered the opposite effect: the fragmentation of land that dismembered and weakened the island; breaking up the old indigenous institutions and imposing new ones; and the contrasts among the kingdom’s different authorities all cost the Crown credibility, reducing its power to impose law and order. Apart from specific events, contrasts between individuals, and the war against the Giudicato of Arborea, what emerges as a common trait is the inadequacy of the institutions. We might talk about a conflict of interests, and, indeed, the root of the problem was multifaceted: the carelessness with which feudal vassals became officials and officials found themselves in possession of feods; the extreme flexibility with which the rich bourgeois could at the same time be feudal vassals and officials, and, in conclusion, the chaotic creation and distribution of the latter. The Regnum Sardiniae thus became the stage where key players—vassals, urban elites, royal officials—all tried to affirm their roles as pivotal. At the same time, however, they represented the main factors that caused the weakening and crumbling of the political and institutional system originally devised to enforce the power of the Crown.

Chapter 17

POLITICAL IDENTITY AND PATRICIAN POWER IN THE CITY OF BURGOS DURING THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY YOLANDA GUERRERO*

Urban power has an ever-changing nature, in which different power-groups, not necessarily organized in a hierarchical way, coexist. Of course, there is a hierarchy in which the king occupies the pinnacle, but in the city of Burgos, especially during the convulsive reigns of Juan II and Enrique IV, circumstances forced kings to come to agreements. Urban patriciate and commoners, the clergy and nobility, and even royal officials were involved in a permanent power struggle against the backdrop of the identity of Burgos, focused on privileges and charters.1 In late medi­eval Burgos, only the patricians

*  This chapter is the product of a research project funded by the Ministerio de Ciencia y Economí�a of the Goverment of Spain, Ciudad y nobleza en el tránsito a la Modernidad: autoritarismo regio, pactismo y conflictividad política. Castilla, de Isabel I a las Comunidades (HAR2017–83542–P), led by Dr. José Antonio Jara Fuente.

1  Yolanda Guerrero, “Rey, nobleza y élites urbanas en Burgos (siglo XV),” in El contrato político en la Corona de Castilla. Cultura y sociedad políticas entre los siglos X al XVI, ed. François Foronda and Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado (Madrid, 2008), 241–79. See too: Marí�a Asenjo, “Ciudades y poder regio en la Castilla Trastámara (1400–1450),” in Coups d’État à la fin du Moyen Âge? Aux fondements du pouvoir politique en Europe occidentale, ed. François Foronda, Jean-Philippe Genet, and José Manuel Nieto (Madrid, 2005), 365–402; Hilario Casado, “Las relaciones poder real-ciudades en Castilla en la primera mitad del siglo XIV,” in Génesis medi­eval del Estado Moderno. Castilla y Navarra (1250– 1370), (Valladolid, 1987), 193–215; Marí�a Isabel del Val, “La intervención real en las ciudades castellanas bajomedi­evales,” Miscelanea Medi­eval Murciana 19–20 (1995–1996): 67–78; Yolanda Guerrero, “Burgos y Enrique IV: la participación ciudadana en la crisis castellana de la segunda mitad del siglo XV,” Hispania 166 (1987): 437–88; Yolanda Guerrero, “La polí�tica de nombramiento de corregidores en el siglo XV. entre la estrategia regia y la oposición ciudadana,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante 10 (1995): 99–124; Yolanda Guerrero, “Fiscalidad regia y poder municipal en Burgos (1453–1476),” La España Medi­eval 5 (1986): 481–99; Miguel Angel Ladero, “Corona y ciudades en la Castilla del siglo XV,” En la España Medi­eval 5 (1986): 551–74; Miguel Angel Ladero, “Linajes, bandos y parcialidades en la vida polí�tica de las ciudades castellanas (siglos XIV–XV),” in Bandos y querellas dinásticas en España al final de la Edad Media. Actas del Coloquio celebrado en la Biblioteca Española de París los días 15 y 16 de mayo de 1987 (Madrid, 1991), 105–34; Miguel Angel Ladero, “Monarquí�a y ciudades de realengo en Castilla. Siglos XII–XV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­ evales 24 (1994): 719–74; José Marí�a Monsalvo, “Historia de los poderes medi­evales. del Derecho a la Antropo­logí�a (el ejemplo castellano: monarquí�a, concejos y señorí�os en los siglos XII–XV),” in Historia a Debate. Medi­eval, ed. Carlos Barros (Santiago de Compostela, 1995), 81–149; José Mª Monsalvo, “Centralización monárquica castellana y territorios concejiles (Algunas hipótesis a partir de las ciudades medi­evales de la región castellano-leonesa),” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medi­eval 13 (2000–2002): 157–202; José Mª Monsalvo, “El conflicto ‘nobleza frente a Yolanda Guerrero ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Spain.

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were predominantly urban. This eminently urban power system is a characteristic of late medi­eval towns, and the way it was produced, and reproduced itself, can only be explained from an urban viewpoint. This feature helps to explain why towns were able to single themselves out from the other feudal powers. During the Late Middle Ages, Burgos, like most Castilian, Iberian, even European towns and cities, built its political identity on the foundation of three parallel and simultaneous processes: the growth of patrician power, forging certain distinctive features of its own identity, and self-expression (which involved finding an institutional language and ceremonial and related political expressions and attitudes). From the mid-thirteenth century onwards, a simultaneous, dual process can be detected in the Iberian Kingdoms: on the one hand, an evident tendency towards urban governments becoming dominated by an elite, and, on the other hand, a policy from the monarchy that tried to legitimate and fix oligarchic governments in towns led by their respective urban patriciate. So, Castilian kings helped consolidate internal urban political tendencies: the patrimonialization of public offices, the privatization of power, and the crystallization of an oligarchic self-awareness and self-identity of the urban elites at the expense of the aspirations of the commoners. In Burgos, this process took place between 1345, when the regimiento, the supreme urban authority, was established by the king,2 and 15 January 1475, when what we can call a “patrician constitution” was given to the city.3 Developing this particular power structure was not straightforward, as the duration of the process, one hundred and thirty years, clearly emphasizes. 1345 and 1475 represent two great political successes of the elite of Burgos, the latter a sort of culmination of its aims. The first moment of tension in this process appeared in 1426,4 when an “Arbitral Sentence” was pronounced by the Earl of Castro, sanctioning an institutional agreement between oligarchy and commoners. It stipulated the participation of the wards in the city council, the electoral procedure for their representatives, and their political competences.5 The second period of monarquí�a’ en el contexto de las transformaciones del estado en la Castilla Trastá Trastámara. Reflexiones crí�ticas,” in Discurso político y relaciones de poder. Ciudad, nobleza y monarquía en la Baja Edad Media, ed. José Antonio Jara (Madrid, 2017), 89–287.

2  Juan Antonio Bonachí�a, El concejo de Burgos en la Baja Edad Media (1345–1426) (Valladolid, 1978), 181–4.

3  Julio A. Pardos, “‘Constitución patricia’ y ‘comunidad’ en Burgos a finales del siglo XV (Reflexiones en torno a un documento de 1475),” En la España Medi­eval 7 (1985), 575–89. 4  Bonachí�a, El concejo de Burgos, 177–80.

5  Reading the Arbitral Sentence, we can follow the evolution and terms of intra-elite agreements over the longer term. The normative aspects of the Sentence were fought over in the years following the Sentence’s enactment. Particular items were struggled over during the fifteenth century. Thus, in 1429 the appointment of the chatelaines of Muñó and Cellórigo led the regidores and mayors of Burgos (the latter held this title but, in fact, performed the judicial functions of judges of first instance in the city) to try to subvert the Sentence: Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1429–1430, fol. 20r). In 1435, regidores and alcaldes threatened to directly appoint lesser urban officials if the wards’ appointees were not capable: Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1436, fol. 3v. Appointments were still a problem in 1453, on this occasion involving the appointment of fieles, urban officials whose duty was to manage

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tension focused around the decade 1465–1475. This began in 1465 with the new civil war ignited in Castile, with the legitimate party of King Enrique IV facing the “anti-king,” Alfonso; the alcaldes and regidores of Burgos had to decide which party to support. In this period of conflict and misrule, the wards of Burgos gradually began to lose power. And, as Pardos has shown, the document of 15 January 1475 represented the restoration of the constitution and “ancient uses and tradition.” So, during the fifteenth century, patrician oligarchic power came into being and, with it, the definitive defeat of the power of the commoners. In general, royal policy favoured this process. Control by oligarchs of the urban system was strengthened: alcaldes and regidores saw their powers increased and backed by royal officials, such as the corregidores and royal judges, while officials from a lower socio-political status were separated from the decision-making arena; in addition, the system was opened up to wealthy individuals, although admittedly only the lower echelons of municipal power (the Catholic Kings took this process further later, involving commoners’ representatives). The monarchy was more interested in individual trajectories than in the question of class. In the long term, the rich commoners turned to clientelism and family links with the oligarchy; they understood that the only way to access power (even its lower levels) rested on working with the dominant class. For this reason, we can state that the first feature of the identity of patrician power was its monopolistic character. As patrician power grew, we see the patriciate working with the monarchy and other elites, consolidating its power, and expressing its identity over the entire urban society through political discourse, attitudes, and ceremonies reinforcing the picture of patrician power. In other works, I deal with the private and patrimonial character of patrician power in Burgos.6 The remainder of this chapter focuses on features and strategies to make patrician power “visible” and promote a specific perception of patrician power in Burgos. In the Middle Ages, power was neither felt nor imagined as an exercise of government authority. Power was materialized and perceived in submission, in friendship, or in ceremonies and petitions, in oaths, in testimonies, and, especially, in the presence of the lord to whom homage was paid. How citizens experienced power, or how they exercised, imagined, celebrated, or responded to it, bears witness to a specific culture of power, endowed with specific modes of expression, legitimation, expectation, and political identity. royal rents until their farmer came to town: Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1453, fols. 25v–27v.

6  Yolanda Guerrero, “Redes clientelares en las estrategias de poder urbanas. Burgos, siglo XV,” in Centros periféricos de poder na Europa do Sul (séculos XII–XVIII), ed. Hermí�nia Vasconcelos, Mafalda Soares da Cunha, and Fátima Farrica (Lisbon, 2013), 147–72; Yolanda Guerrero, “Fórmulas de transmisión del poder en el sistema oligárquico burgalés del siglo XV. La ciudad de Burgos,” in I Congreso Nacional de historia de Burgos (Burgos, 1984), 173–83; and Yolanda Guerrero, “‘Ser’ y ‘Pertenecer’ a la elite. estrategias de reproducción del poder en el Burgos bajomedi­eval,” in Ante su identidad. La ciudad hispánica en la Baja Edad Media, ed. José Antonio Jara (Cuenca, 2013), 75–92.

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During the Late Middle Ages, a power system formed in Burgos. This system was perceived as intimately associated to a powerful elite, similar to other Castilian and European towns. Some years ago, I defined these features as having three characteristics.7 In the first place, wealth: personal and family wealth was a prerequisite to enter this group; whether this wealth came from mercantile business, speculation in property or real estate, or the benefits accrued from a held office, was of secondary importance. In the second place, this elite was characterized by holding political positions intermediate (but not necessarily equidistant) between the nobility and the urban commoners. This meant controlling municipal power. While feudal nobility had a regional or supra-regional sphere of action, the sphere of influence of the urban oligarchy overlapped with their towns’ municipal jurisdiction, or, at most, extended to its hinterland. Third, this urban patriciate shared a common way of life and mentality, indicative of its dominant class condition. Following the logic of the feudal system, evident also in towns, the patriciate tried to reproduce what made the noble class distinctive. For this reason, the elite was not bourgeois, but deeply aristocratic, which we see in its political, social, and even economic pursuit of nobility (hidalguí�a), its fostering of the king and pursuit of his favours (honours, offices, stipends, and other payments), and a noble way of life based on the profit from land rents and grants from the monarchy. The knightly ideal constituted an essential part of their culture. The aristocratic model can also be seen in the sumptuary and even luxurious character of their furnishings, their leisure pursuits, wardrobe, patronage of arts, church endowments, and their funding of chaplaincies. Soon these aspirations translated into structures governing internal relationships and external power relationships, which then facilitated their political role. As with nobles, their social networks were based on the establishment of family and clientele bonds. These features helped to distinguish them as a group of individuals and lineages that, due to their wealth and power, prestige and influence, positioned them as undisputed members of the socio-political elite. They were, in the words of the Dutch town of Soest, far earlier, in the second half of the twelfth century, the best of the town, on whose authority the town prospers and the essence of law and fortune thrives. By the end of the Middle Ages, urban authorities persistently pursued peace as well as the embellishment and prosperity of their towns and, above all, their honour. Embellishment and honour are constantly mentioned by alcaldes and regidores in Burgos. As Prof. Bonachí�a pointed out, they are “two ideals in the basis of the slow and incessant construction of an image of Burgos, the image they have of their city and the image they wish to offer to other people: the image of a noble city that lay its foundations on the chivalric values promoted by dominant groups in their imitation of aristocratic behaviour.” The desire for ennoblement permeated Burgos, and the urban patriciate represented it in their role as rulers, in turn “contributing to its embellishment—in a world in which external aspect and appearances establish codes of values—defending 7  Yolanda Guerrero, “Elites urbanas en el siglo XV. Burgos y Cuenca,” Revista d’Història Medi­eval 9 (1998): 81–104.

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and promoting its honour, they help to ennoble their town while at the same time they ennoble themselves, its rulers.”8 Patrician power also promoted a clear approach to charity and alms-giving,9 urbanism, hygiene, and the embellishment of streets and buildings. These concerns occupied a prominent position in ordinances at Burgos during the fifteenth century.10 By the end of the century, other concerns would be added: care for historical memory, the archiving and custody of the city’s documents and written memory, and the construction of a building conceived as a permanent seat for the government of Burgos (the town hall).11 These were some of the preferred means for the expression of patrician power. Besides, a special political discourse was coined in order to deal with the remaining burgesses of Burgos. This language is known to us via the discourses the elite delivered in especially sensitive cases, generally related to extraordinary taxation or to questions linked to public order, where the elite constantly appealed to notions such as “service to the republic,” “the common good,” and “honour.” The Burgos Ordinances of Justice of 1411 provide us with a good example: […] thus alcaldes, merino, and regidores of the most noble city of Burgos, head of Castile and our Lord the King’s Chamber, weighing up the evils and harms that could be caused if justice were not wholly kept and executed nor the service to the king and the government of the city be rightly observed, and the shame and loss and harm it could provoke, and acknowledging the trust put on us by our Lord the King in matters of justice and government, and the good and prosperity it can do to the city and its inhabitants, to which we are accountable, and the honour, and pro, and good fame we enjoy by rightly administering justice and ruling the city and its municipal jurisdiction, thus since we are determined to live justly and to keep the service of our Lord the King and his justice and the good government of the city, being accountable before God our Lord and before our Lord the King, in a manner that justice can be enforced and it prevail and the city can be better ruled, we decree the following ordinance […]12

8  Juan Antonio Bonachí�a, “La ciudad de Burgos en la época del consulado,” in Actas del V Centenario del consulado de Burgos, 2 vols. (Burgos, 1994), 1:140.

9  Miguel Á� ngel López Pérez and Marí�a Cristina Redondo, “Gastos de representación en Burgos. limosnas, regalos y honras fúnebres. Libros de Actas Municipales. 1379–1476,” in Fiscalidad, sociedad y poder en las ciudades castellanas de la Baja Edad Media, ed. Yolanda Guerrero (Madrid, 2006), 151–202. 10  Yolanda Guerrero, “La estructura urbana de Burgos en el siglo XV,” in Homenaje al profesor Torres Fontes (Murcia, 1987), 737–50. 11  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1502, fols. 35r–37v.

12  “[...] por ende los alcaldes, merino et rregidores de la muy noble çibdad de Burgos, cabeça de Castilla et camara del rey nuestro señor, consyderando quantos males e daños se podrian recresçer non guardandose nin conpliendose bien la dicha justiçia et seruiçio del rey nuestro señor nin fesiendose bien el regimiento en la dicha çibdad et quanta verguença desto nos podrian recresçer e quanta perdida et mal, e acatando la grand fiança que el rey nuestro señor de nosotros fase en nos encomendar la justiçia et regimiento della e quantos buenos e prosperidades pueden recresçerse a la dicha çibdad e a los que en ella biven a que nosotros somos obligados a dar cuenta, et quanta onrra et pro e buena fama a nosotros se sygue por faser bien asy la dicha justiçia como el buen regimiento en la dicha çibdad e su tierra, por ende todos aviendo voluntad de bien bevir e guardar seruiçio del rey nuestro señor e la su justiçia et el buen regimiento de la dicha çibdad que demos

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Their fellow burgesses perceived the elite’s power through the lens of favoured status; their high standing communicated the solemn ceremonial of their offices,13 the wealth and pre-eminence they enjoyed on all public occasions, including solemn processions and other urban festivities, and, above all, their power over those who disturb the city’s public peace and order. Nevertheless, patrician power also had to be projected beyond the city’s walls, over the city’s vassals. Due to its own economic and political development,14 Burgos ended up with a scattered lordship, which neighbouring nobles often sought to seize. It is no surprise, therefore, that Burgos and its elite developed a strategy to safeguard the external signs and symbols of their lordship and legal jurisdiction. A document from the sixteenth century regarding the offices, rents, and rights the city enjoyed in the village of Pancorbo, illustrates this point: This is what Burgos owns in Miranda and Pancorbo from time immemorial possession […]. They are called vassals of Burgos in every document, agreement, and ordinance […]. If they wish to decree and ordinance or to make a mortgage over the com-

buena cuenta della e de nos a Nuestro Señor Dios et al dicho señor rey e la justiçia sea esforçada e preualesca e el regimiento de la dicha çibdad sea mejor fecho et guardado, fasemos esta ordenança que se sigue […].” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1411, fol. 41r. Cited by Bonachia, El concejo de Burgos, 164–65.

13  “And then, Don Garçia de Cotes took the letter with his hands and kissed it and put it on his head and in his name and on behalf of the aforesaid sires said that they obeyed and obey the aforesaid letter from Their Majesties with due reverence and obedience as merited a letter sent by their natural Lords, Queen and King, God let them live and reign for long and good times, and as regards to its execution, they said that they were ready to fulfill it and they fulfilled all the questions in it stipulated, and in the fulfilling of it they received from the aforesaid Diego de Soria the oath and solemnities required. And then, the aforesaid sires put him in possession of the aforesaid office of regidor in the place of his grandfather and in the place of [deleted] they seated him in the seat below the seat of Antonio de Santander, regidor, and thus the aforesaid Diego de Soria took possession of the office, and then he was considered by all those present as regidor of this city. The aforesaid sires, in order to approve the reception into office in a council session, convened the town council” (E luego el señor Garçia de Cotes tomo la dicha carta en su mano e asy tomada la veso e puso sobre su cabeza e por sy e en nonbre de los dichos señores dixeron que obedecí�an e obedecieron la dicha carta de sus altesas con la mayor reberençia e obediencia que podian e devian como carta e mandado de sus reyes e señores naturales que dios dexe bevir e reynar por muchos tiempos buenos, e quanto al cumplimiento de ella que ellos estavan prestos de la cumplir e cunplian en todo e por todo e segund que en ella se contenia, e en cumpliéndola recibieron del dicho Diego de Soria la solemnidad e juramento que en tal caso se requiere.E luego los dichos señores pusieron en la tenençia e posesion del dicho ofiçio de regimiento en lugar del dicho su aguelo e en lugar de (borrado) lo pusieron en la sylla o lugar que es debaxo de la sylla e lugar de Antonio de Santander regidor, e asy el dicho Diego de Soria se tomo e aprehendio la dicha posesion vel casy çebil e natural, e asy tomada la dicha posesion fue por todos avido e tenido por regidor de esta çibdad. Los dichos señores para faser por conçejo el dicho recibimiento mandaron llamar a conçejo). From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1502, fols. 46v–48r. 14  Yolanda Guerrero, “Aproximación a las relaciones campo-ciudad en la edad Media. el alfoz y el señorí�o burgalés. Génesis y primer desarrollo,” Historia. Instituciones y Documentos 16 (1989): 15–45.

Political Identity and Patrician Power in the City of Burgos during the 15th Century 355 mon land, they must ask for a licence and confirmation from the city […]. In Pancorbo, the village appoints two alcaldes every year […] and they come to Burgos to obtain confirmation of their office; and the same is observed by the other officers of the village […] their civil and criminal appeals are directed to Burgos and judged by two alcaldes of the vassals, appointed by the city each year […]. As for Miranda, the same rules are observed.15

Burgos was lord of the vills of Pancorbo, Miranda de Ebro, Muñó, Lara, and Barbadillo del Mercado. The only gallows for these towns were those of Burgos. The alcaldes appointed by these towns all had to be confirmed by Burgos, and they enjoyed the right to judge only in the first instance, all appeals being forwarded to the alcaldes of vassals, annually appointed by the city. The most important expressions of seigneurial power derived from justice, rents, and rights (derived from the seigneurial jurisdiction),16 absolute control over local governments, and the monopoly of the urban market. Evidently, this seigneurial power was not always well perceived and accepted by the vassals, but, as was the case with the elite’s fellow burgesses, the use of a specific language and ceremonial systematically strengthened the images and expressions linked to the ideals of submission, loyalty, and obedience. We can produce some examples: letters sent to the vills under the city’s lordship were headed by formulae and expressions like, “we the council of Burgos […] we send our greetings to you the councils of our villages of Maçuela and Pampliega and to our vassals.”17 In these letters, frequent use is made of expressions like “lords of the town” and “lord regidores”;18 incidentally, some of these “lord regidores” owned specific feudal rights in these villages. Finally, disobedience and rebelliousness by villages or individuals incurred pain “of infamy and treachery.”19 Also, the formal acts by which the city received the feudal homage for the castles pertaining to the towns under its lordship, constitute a clear projection and recognition of seigneurial power and the expression of urban power. Nevertheless, and most important, patrician power must be seen in contrast to the other powers. In the end, political identity needs the alterity of the Other. For Burgos, this meant other towns or cities, the nobility (lay or ecclesiastical, near or far), and, of course, the Crown. 15  “Lo que Burgos tiene en Miranda y Pancorbo, y de ello posesión inmemorial…Llámanse vasallos de la çibdat en todos los escriptos y capitulaciones y ordenanças…Si quieren hazer ordenanças o empeñar propios, piden a la çibdat lizençia y confirmaçion…En Pancorbo nombra el conzejo dos obres alcaldes ordinarios por un año…y Bienense a confirmar a Burgos; y lo mismo hacen otros ofiçiales del conçejo…….las apelaçiones çeviles y criminales dellos vienen a Burgos, conocen de ellos dos alcaldes de vasallos que la çibdat nonbra cada año…..Biene en Miranda otro tanto como lo arriba contenido…” From Simancas, Archivo General de Simancas, Diversos de Castilla, 40, fol. 37r. 16  Yolanda Guerrero, Organización y Gobierno en Burgos durante el reinado de Enrique IV de Castilla (1453–1476) (Madrid, 1985), 55–6.

17  “Nos el conçejo de Burgos […] enviamos saludar a vos el conçejo de las nuestras villas de Maçuela e Pampliega y nuestros vasallos.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, SH, n. 3610 (bis). 18  “Señores de la çibdad, or señores regidores.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, n. 4034.

19  “Nota de ynfame e trayçion.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, n. 4071.

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In recent years, scholars of international standing, including Boone and Stabel,20 Howell,21 Schneidmuller,22 Goldberg,23 Booney,24 Rosser,25 Fortea Pérez,26 Amelang,27 and Spanish medi­evalists such as Bonachia Hernando28 and Jara Fuente,29 have begun to examine urban history from the perspective of urban memory, ideals, and urban discourse. The city: owned and demanded noble titles, displayed the symbols and external attributes reserved in principle to this estate, and adopted noble appellatives—and demanded others to use them when dealing with it—never renouncing to that other character of Civitas Dei, of a small kingdom of God on earth […]. To be a city in the Castilian Kingdom ennobled, conferred distinction apart from other grants, franchises, and liberties […].

20  Marc Boone and Peter Stabel, eds., Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medi­eval Europe (Leuven, 2000). 21  Martha C. Howell, “The Spaces of Late Medi­eval Urbanity,” in Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medi­eval Europe, ed. Marc Boone and Peter Stabel (Leuven, 2000), 3–23.

22  Bernd Schneidmuller, “Constructing the Past by Means of the Present. Historio­graphical Foundations of Medi­eval Institutions, Dynasties, Peoples and Communities,” in Medi­eval Concepts of the Past. Ritual, Memory, Historio­graphy, ed. Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick J. Geary (Cam­bridge, 2000), 167–92. 23  Peter J. P. Goldberg, “Urban Identity and the Poll Taxes of 1377, 1379 and 1381,” Economic History Review 43, no. 2 (1990): 194–216. 24  Margaret Bonney, Lordship and the Urban Community. Durham and its Overlords, 1250–1540 (Cam­bridge, 1990).

25  Gervase Rosser, “Myth, Image and Social Process in the English Medi­eval Town,” Urban History 23, no. 1 (1996): 5–25.

26  José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, ed., Imágenes de la diversidad. El mundo urbano en la Corona de Castilla (siglos XVI–XVIII) (Santander, 1997). 27  James S. Amelang, “Las formas del discurso urbano,” in Imágenes de la diversidad. El mundo urbano en la Corona de Castilla (siglos XVI–XVIII), ed. José Ignacio Fortea Pérez (Santander, 1997), 189–97.

28  Juan Antonio Bonachí�a Hernando, “Mas honrada que ciudad de mis reinos… . La Nobleza y el Honor en el imaginario urbano (Burgos en la Baja Edad Media),” in La ciudad medi­eval, ed. Juan Antonio Bonachí�a (Valladolid, 1996), 169–212.

29  José Antonio Jara, “The Importance of Being Earnest. Urban Elites and Distribution of Power in Castilian Towns in the Late Middle Ages,” in Building Legitimacy. Political Discourses and Forms of Legitimation in Medi­eval Societies, ed. Isabel Alfonso, Hugh Kennedy, and Julio Escalona (Leiden, 2004), 139–75; José Antonio Jara, “Commo cunple a seruiçio de su rey e sennor natural e al pro común de la su tierra e de los vesinos e moradores de ella. La noción de ‘servicio público’ como seña de identidad polí�tica comunitaria en la Castilla urbana del siglo XV,” e-Spania 4 (2007), available at https://journals.openedition.org/e-spania/1223; José Antonio Jara, “Vecindad y parentesco. El lenguaje de las relaciones polí�ticas en la Castilla urbana del siglo XV,” in El contrato político en la Corona de Castilla. Cultura y sociedad políticas entre los siglos X al XVI, ed. François Foronda and Ana Isabel Carrasco (Madrid, 2008), 211–39; José Antonio Jara, “Consciencia, alteridad y percepción: la construcción de la identidad en la Castilla urbana del siglo XV,” in Construir la identidad en la Edad Media: poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII al XV, ed. José Antonio Jara, Georges Martí�n, and Isabel Alfonso (Cuenca, 2010), 221–50; José Antonio Jara, “Con mucha afección e buena voluntad por servir al bien público: La noción de ‘bien común’ en perspectiva urbana. Cuenca en el siglo XV,” Studia Historica. Historia Medi­eval 28 (2010): 52–82.

Political Identity and Patrician Power in the City of Burgos during the 15th Century 357 In this process the number of people did not play a fundamental role; rank, triumphs, and other contributions, individuals worthy of memory, and its contribution to King and Kingdom did matter.30

We can see these elements, which I have discussed elsewhere,31 in an initiative by Burgos in August 1391, when the city addressed a letter to the king, queen, members of the Privy Council, duke of Benavente, archbishop of Toledo, and the Master of the Order of Alcántara, regarding “the discord that is between you and the other lords that sit in the council of our lord the king.”32 This initiative (successful by the way) revolved around solving a long crisis caused by the conflict between two parties of the Castilian nobility, led, on the one hand, by the duke of Benavente and the other lords referred to above and, on the other, by the archbishop of Santiago. This conflict surfaced on the death of king John I with the minority of his son and heir Henry III, in the context of institutional consolidation of the Castilian kingdom, after the enthronement of Henry II, the first member of the new Trastámaran dynasty. Claiming the status of “Head of Castile and Chamber of our Lord the King,” Burgos mediated in this conflict, proposing convening a parliament to be held in Burgos because, as it is recorded in ancient chroniclers, the questions agreed here [in the city of Burgos] were invested with greater authority and firmness, and it can be found that what was agreed in this city in the times of the past kings was always observed, and we are confident that the same will be observed from now onwards.33

The constant allusions to its “honour” and the “honour and truth” of the city underline the role played by the parliament and the pre-eminence of Burgos. The terms in which the duke of Benavente and the archbishop of Toledo thanked the city for its efforts are, in this sense, reflective and noteworthy: “according to the honour and status of that city and of all of you”;34 as, too, the oath sworn by all the burgesses, clerics, and other laymen, whether Christian, Muslim, or Jew, beginning with the bishop, to guarantee peace

30  Miguel Á� ngel López Pérez, “Identidad urbana e idea de ciudad en el mundo hispano (siglos XV–XVI): estado de la cuestión” (Master’s diss., Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 2006), 47–48.

31  Yolanda Guerrero, “Identidad y ‘honor’ urbano. Cortes en Burgos, 1391–1392,” in Castilla y el mundo feudal. Homenaje al profesor Julio Valdeón, ed. Marí�a Isabel del Val Valdivieso and Pascual Martí�nez Sopena, 3 vols. (Valladolid, 2009), 1:551–65.

32  “Sobre rason de la discordia que es entre vosotros e los otros señores que estan en el consejo de nuestro señor el rey.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fols. 1r–2r.

33  “Porque, segunt que se fallara por las coronicas antiquas, las cosas que aquí� se firmasen fuesen de mayor atoridad e fuesen perpetuas, e se fallara que lo que se fase en esta çibdat en los tienpos de los otros reyes syenpre se guardo e se touo e fiamos en que se fara de aquí� adelant.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fol. 2v.

34  “E otrosi segunt cunple a onrra e estado desa çibdad e de todos vosotros.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fol. 4r. An identical letter was received from the archbishop of Toledo (Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fol. 4r–v). The king also thanked the city for the services rendered to him in this matter (Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fols. 3v and 4r).

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while the parliament were in session: “to be in peace, and to love and be united to keep the honour of the said city.”35 As many scholars have pointed out, the status of towns in the pre-industrial era was more qualitative than quantitative. A town’s impact was linked neither to the number of its inhabitants nor to its economic activities, but to the honour of its citizens, dead and alive, its monuments and buildings, and any significant events linked to the Crown that took place there. So, the medi­eval and modern town is not only the result of the economic and productive output of its inhabitants but is, above all, a political unit offering a self-image, a centre of power possessed of a self-imagination that sets it apart from other towns and powers sharing the stage in the Castilian kingdom.36 The relationships established with other powers are therefore crucial. The way of the Hispanic Monarchy is a way of consensus and conflicts between different powers, each pursuing its own identity and sphere of development, recognizing the superiority of royal power and assuming its individuality in opposition to “the others.” Castilian medi­eval historio­graphy has paid more attention to the relationship between monarchy and towns than to the relationships established with the nobility; even when relationships do receive proper attention, scholars centre their analyses on the “predatory” character of the late medi­eval aristocracy, eager to illegally seize urban privileges and districts.37 Nevertheless, from a more recent perspective, the relationships linking Castilian towns to the nobility seem to be more varied and complex, interwoven with consensus and conflict.38 In the Late Middle Ages, an important number of Castilian towns succumbed, with the invaluable help of the Crown, to pressure exercised by the nobility, and only a few retained their royal status. Even for the latter—in which I am mainly interested—the Castilian high nobility was ever-involved. In some cases, their presence was not limited to an urban residence, since noble influence and power affected the entire urban sociopolitical tissue. In other cases, albeit a minority, we encounter exceptional neighbours, respected by the city, whose help is valuable; only in a number of exceptional cases did 35  “De se quitar e amar e ser juntos para guardar la onrra de la dicha çibdat.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1391, fol. 9r–v.

36  Alberto Marcos, “¿Qué es una ciudad en la época moderna? Reflexión histórica sobre el fenómeno de lo urbano,” in De esclavos a señores. Estudios de Historia Moderna, ed. Marcos Alberto Martí�n (Valladolid, 1992), 137–54; and Alberto Marcos, “Percepciones materiales del imaginario urbano en la España moderna,” in Imágenes de la diversidad. El mundo urbano en la Corona de Castilla (siglos XVI–XVIII), ed. José Ignacio Fortea (Santander, 1997), 15–50, cited by López Pérez, Identidad urbana, 4–9. 37  For a view of these problems from an alternative approach to the traditional view, see Marí�a Asenjo, “La aristocratización polí�tica en Castilla y el proceso de participación urbana (1252–1520),” in La Monarquía como conflicto en la Corona castellano-leonesa, ed. José Manuel Nieto Soria (Madrid, 2006), 133–96.

38  For relationships linking Castilian towns to the nobility: Alicia Inés Montero, “Los nobles en la ciudad: una aproximación a las relaciones ciudad-nobleza en la historiografí�a castellana de los siglos XX y XXI,” in Discurso político y relaciones de poder. Ciudad, nobleza y monarquía en la Baja Edad Media, ed. José Antonio Jara (Madrid, 2017), 21–88.

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these noblemen enjoy institutional power inside the urban system. Burgos belongs to this last group of towns. For that reason, in Burgos, examining relationships established between urban and noble elites acquires a special significance in comparison with towns whose power systems were more influenced by the nobility. As in the rest of Castilian towns in the fifteenth century, the municipal jurisdiction and lordship of Burgos had powerful neighbours, both lay and clerical. Amongst the latter, stand out the monasteries of Huelgas and San Pedro de Cardeña. Amongst the former, we can mention the Velasco, earls of Haro and future dukes of Frí�as, and the Estúñiga, earls of Plasencia and chatelaines of Burgos castle, as well as the Rojas, Sarmiento, Salinas, and Castro families, all of them lineages of a secondary tier, but still capable of developing a certain, sometimes irritating, influence wtihin the city’s jurisdiction. In addition to these powerful neighbours, and in accordance with the city’s preeminence among its Castilian peers, it was also frequently involved in pacts or conflicts provoked by other members of the kingdom’s noble elites who were relatively distant from Burgos. Studying the sources for Burgos allows us to make the following classification of the different types of relationship between urban elites and the Castilian nobility in the fifteenth century.39 First, consistent with the traditional greed of late medi­eval European nobility, Burgos noblemen commonly acted as real “predators” of the city’s municipal jurisdiction.40 Due to its seriousness and the importance conferred on it by cities and towns, this kind of relationship is the best documented and, consequently, the best studied by Iberian scholars. Secondly, another well-documented relationship was rooted in lawsuits and small disputes involving problems of jurisdiction, vassals, and localities. In my opinion, this has been magnified due to its massive presence in our sources, which are mainly juridical in nature; in reality, they are primarily minor conflicts, petty frictions between neighbours. Third, urban elites and the nobility came into conflict and cooperation in the course of building the Peninsular Monarchy; this kind of relationship was frequent, especially given the pre-eminence of Burgos among Castilian cities. The involvement of the city and its elites in the politics of the kingdom led the city to 39  Yolanda Guerrero, “Los nobles en las ciudades a finales de la Edad Media castellana. con­ sideraciones a partir de los Libros de Actas Municipales de Burgos (1379–1504),” in Elites, conflictos y discursos políticos en las ciudades bajomedi­evales de la Península Ibérica, ed. José Mª Monsalvo (Salamanca, 2019), 15–52.

40  Isabel Beceiro, “Las redes de la oligarquí�a en los territorios de señorí�o: las élites de Benavente y su entorno,” in El condado de Benavente. Relaciones Hispano-Portuguesas en la Baja Edad Media, Actas del Congreso hispano-luso del VI Centenario del Condado de Benavente, 22 y 23 de octubre de 1998, (Benavente, 2000), 199–214; José Antonio Jara, “Haciendo frente a las depredaciones señoriales. La defensa de las jurisdicciones municipales en la Castilla de la Baja Edad Media,” Imago Temporis. Medium Aevum 1 (2007): 280–99; José Ignacio Ortega, “El intrusismo nobiliario en los concejos castellanos: el oficio de guarda mayor de Cuenca durante el siglo XV,” in Actas I Simposio de Jóvenes Medi­evalistas Lorca 2002, ed. Juan Francisco Jiménez, Jorge Ortuño and Jorge a. Eiroa (Murcia, 2003), 147–78; José Antonio Jara, “Usurpaciones de términos y abusos señoriales en la jurisdicción urbana de Cuenca a finales de la Edad Media,” in La ciudad medi­eval y su influencia territorial. Nájera. Encuentros internacionales del medievo (Nájera, del 26 al 29 de julio de 2006), ed. Beatriz Arí�zaga and Jesús A. Solórzano (Logroño, 2007), 221–23.

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establish alliances in favour of or against the rest of the kingdom’s elites (lay and clerical nobles, the king, and other towns). This is a more complex field of analysis. On one hand, the city and its elites consciously tried to enhance their independence and identity within Castilian politics; on the other, urban elites were largely subsumed in clientrelationships with high and middling nobles, and had to follow and support their tacit “lords.” Finally, also related to their links with high and middling nobles, we also regularly find examples of cooperation, based on a mutual exchange of favours, allowing the nobility to project its influence over the city while allowing it, and its elites, to benefit from association with a powerful nobleman.41 41  Máximo Diago, “El poder de la nobleza en los ámbitos regionales de la Corona de Castilla a fines del Medievo. las estrategias polí�ticas de los grandes linajes en la Rioja hasta la revuelta comunera,” Hispania 223 (2006): 501–46; Máximo Diago, “La participación de la nobleza en el gobierno de las ciudades europeas bajomedi­evales. Análisis comparativo,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 37, no. 2 (2007): 781–822; Máximo Diago, “La proyección de las casas de la alta nobleza en las sociedades polí�ticas regionals. el caso soriano a fines de la Edad Media,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 39, no. 2 (2009): 843–76; José Ramón Dí�az de Durana, La lucha de bandos en el País Vasco. de los Parientes Mayores a la Hidalguía Universal. Guipúzcoa, de los bandos a la provincia (Bilbao, 1998); Jon Andoni Fernández de Larrea, “Las relaciones contractuales de la nobleza y las élites urbanas en el Paí�s Vasco a final de la Edad Media (c.1300–1500),” in El contrato político en la Corona de Castilla. Cultura y sociedad políticas entre los siglos X al XVI, ed. François Foronda and Ana Isabel Carrasco (Madrid, 2008), 238–321; Jon Andoni Fernández de Larrea, “Las villas cantábricas bajo el yugo de la nobleza. Consecuencias sobre los gobiernos urbanos durante la época Trastámara,” in Sociedades urbanas y culturas políticas en la Baja Edad Media castellana, ed. José Mª Antón Monsalvo (Salamanca, 2013), 49–71; Juan Francisco Jiménez, “Los parientes e amigos de los unos e de los otros: los grupos de poder local en el Reino de Murcia,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante 13 (2000–2002): 103–55; Cristina Jular, “La participación de un noble en el poder local a través de su clientela. Un ejemplo concreto de fines del siglo XIV,” Hispania 185 (1993): 861–84; Luis Martí�nez Garcí�a, “El castillo de Burgos y el poder feudal (siglos XIV–XV),” in Seminario sobre el Castillo de Burgos, ed. Marta Sainz (Burgos, 1994), 151–72; Alicia Inés Montero, El linaje de los Velasco y la ciudad de Burgos (1379–1474). Identidad y poder político (Madrid, 2012); Alicia Inés Montero, “Red urbana y red señorial. problemáticas de la expansión señorial de los Velasco en Burgos a finales de la Edad Media,” in Paisagens e poderes no medievo ibérico. Actas do i encontro ibérico de jovens investigadores em estudos medievais, arqueo­logia, história e patrimonio, ed. Ana Sofia Ferreira Cunha, olí�mpia Pinto, and Raquel de Oliveira Martins (Braga, 2014), 351–71; Alicia Inés Montero, “The Control of the Council Offices in the Late Middle Ages. The Notaries in Burgos. A Conflict of Authority,” in Medi­eval Urban Identity. Health, Economy and Regulation, ed. Flocel Sabaté (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2015), 223–41; Alicia Inés Montero, “Lealtad compartida. ¿Servir al rey, a la nobleza o a la ciudad?: Burgos y el linaje de los Cartagena a fines del siglo XV,” in “Ciudad y cultura polí�tica urbana en la Edad Media,” special issue, Roda da Fortuna 1, no. 1 (2015): 236–63 http:// media.wix.com/ugd/3fdd18_55ab87bdeaa74d298f87720a7bba58fa.pdf; Alicia Inés Montero, “Al grito de ‘¡Velasco, Velasco!’: Algunas consideraciones en torno al ejercicio del poder urbano en 1516,” in Hacer historia desde el medi­evalismo. Tendencias. Reflexiones. Debates, ed. Ví�ctor Muñoz and Eduardo Aznar (La Laguna, 2016), 89–119; Ví�ctor Muñoz, “La participación polí�tica de las élites locales en el gobierno de las ciudades castellanas en la Baja Edad Media. Bandos y conflictos de intereses (Paredes de Nava, final del siglo XIV–inicio del siglo XV,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 3, no. 1 (2009): 275–305; Ví�ctor Muñoz, “Bandos urbanos y pacificación señorial en la Castilla bajomedi­eval: Paredes de Nava y Fernando de Antequera (1400–1416),” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 39, no. 2 (2009): 667–701; Ví�ctor Muñoz, “Conflictos de lí�mites y aprovechamientos comunales: rivalidad concejil e intereses señoriales en la ‘Extremadura’ castellana bajomedi­eval

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These situations can all be reduced to one of conflict, or of alliance and cooperation. The former—conflict—has attracted most attention, so I will not emphasize that here.42 Let me underline, though, what I have already stated elsewhere: the preservation of the lordship of Burgos involved great expense for the city, while seigneurial rents for Burgos were rarely collected, and, when received, they were collected late or were incomplete. So, it was not economic interest underlying the city’s opposition to noble seizures, except in specific cases, such as where control over a village was of vital commercial or economic importance for Burgos. Rather, the city’s interest seems oriented to preserving its specific privileged status. In the Late Middle Ages, the exercise of the town’s seigneurial status was an expression of the “noblility” enjoyed by many cities and towns and, evidently, also by Burgos; membership of a select group of cities represented in parliament also made the retention of this status crucial. There is another abundant kind of conflict, judicial of nature and related to possession of lands, vassals, and jurisdictions, fought over by the city and its powerful neighbours. In the case of Burgos, these conflicts involved its ecclesiastical neighbours: the bishop and the monasteries of Cardeña and Huelgas. They, too, are the subjects of important studies, so need not be repeated here; these incidents did not affect the city’s sense of its urban honour. I have become increasingly interested in the last two kinds of relationships mentioned above. In earlier works, I have dealt with alliances and counter-alliances derived, on the one hand, from the participation of towns in the construction of the modern Peninsular state and, on the other, from the client-networks that criss-cross the urban social tissue; these networks are responsible for most disturbances of public order in Castilian towns in the Late Middle Ages.43 In my opinion, in this period, alliances, cooperation, and friendship between noble and urban elites acquired greater significance. These situations have received less attention from scholars, but nevertheless constitute a good barometer of the power of cities inside the late medi­eval Castilian royal body politic. In this sense, urban sources frequently refer to special “favours” demanded by the nobility from urban governments; it makes no difference whether or not these noblemen lived or enjoyed seigneurial rights in the vicinity of these towns. In Burgos, noblemen sought pardon for crimes committed by their kinsmen and vassals,44 offices in the town council and in the city—especially notarial positions—to distribute amongst their men,45 and (El caso de Cuéllar y Peñafiel bajo el señorí�o del infante Fernando de Antequera,” in Conflictos y sociedades en la Historia de Castilla y León, ed. Adolfo Carrasco Martí�nez (Valladolid, 2010), 209–23; José Mª Sánchez, “Nobleza territorial y polí�tica ciudadana en el siglo XV (los concejos del área del Tajo),” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma 27 (2014): 463–502. 42  Guerrero, Organización y Gobierno; and Guerrero, “Aproximación a las relaciones,” 15–45.

43  Guerrero, “Redes clientelares”; and Yolanda Guerrero, “Orden público y corregidor en Burgos (siglo XV),” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante 13 (2003–2004): 59–102. Yolanda Guerrero, “Ciudades de realengo y estrategias nobiliarias en la Castilla bajomedi­eval. el caso de Burgos y los Estúñiga,” in Discurso político y relaciones de poder. Ciudad, nobleza y monarquía en la Baja Edad Media, ed. José Antonio Jara (Madrid, 2017), 291–325. 44  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1388, fol. 79r–v.

45  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1411, fols. 23v and 27v; 1426–1427,

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economic and mercantile privileges.46 In exchange, the city put a price on these “favours”: in 1436, the Constable of Castile received a very expensive present (one hundred doblas of gold and cloths valued at fifty thousand maravedíes) for expediting some lawsuits to the benefit of Burgos; in especially sensitive and important cases for Burgos, the town demanded the mediation and influence of a powerful nobleman close to the king.47 Cordial relationships between the city and the Velasco lineage clearly exemplifies this.48 The Velasco was the most influential noble lineage in Burgos. Although it was the only noble lineage to own a palace inside the town and make the city its place of residence, the lineage never acquired the means to intervene in the government of the city, unlike other noble lineages in other towns, such as the Mendoza in Guadalajara. I have already stated that Burgos is a clear example of a royal town free of noble power, where the urban elite was able to keep control of the wheels of power during the entire late medi­eval period. Nevertheless, certain lineages were present, but generally accepted or even welcomed by the city at specific, sensitive moments. The Burgos Books of Rolls are full of incidents—in general, very sensitive for the kingdom’s political situation, frequently deriving from conflicts between king and noblemen—in which the earls of Haro “offered” their services to Burgos because their ancestors had been “naturals” [citizens] of the city, and, as a consequence, the lineage was present in Burgos council sessions.49 The best documented example comes from 1464–1465, when, during the rebellion against King Enrique IV by a section of the nobility—Burgos having joined them in late 1464 — the king, fearing what soon led to the rebellion and to his deposition in effigy at the so-called “Farce of Á� vila” — Pedro de Velasco, son of the earl of Haro, came to Burgos endowed with extraordinary powers, aiming to keep the city within the royal party. The events preceding and following this royal initiative perfectly exemplify the kind of relationships that bound the patrician elite of Burgos to the Velascos. After the end of 1464, relationships between the Burgos elite and the king deteriorated due to the city’s active participation in the meeting held at Burgos that sanctioned the noble rebellion against the king, and then in meetings at Cigales and Cabezón that gave rise to the so-called Sentence of Medina del Campo, an ultimatum to the king in April 1465, the non-observance of which touched off the “Farce of Á� vila.” On 18 March 1465, Pedro de Velasco arrived in Burgos with a letter from King Enrique IV, ordering the urban authorities to relinquish control of all the city strongholds to Pedro de Velasco, to give him all their aid, to swear loyalty to him, and to allow him to participate fol. 18v; 1429–1430, fols. 11r–v, 13v–14r, 22r, and 28v; 1431–1433, fol. 19r; 1441, fol. 85r–v; 1445–1447, fol. 98r. 46  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1429–1430, fol. 106v, 1441, fol. 42v.

47  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1441, fols. 44v, 46v, and 47r.

48  Alicia Inés Montero, “Los nobles en la ciudad. La casa de Velasco y la ciudad de Burgos (1379–1520)” (PhD diss., Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 2017).

49  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1398, fols. 78r, 79r–v, and 81r; 1411, fol. 1r; 1421–1423, fols. 71v and 77v.

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in all matters regarding the government, administration, and justice of the city.50 Burgos had never before suffered royal interference like this, and the compliance with which the elite accepted it testifies to the sensitive situation. Notwithstanding the extent of the royal commission and the passivity of the city, Pedro de Velasco guaranteed Burgos that he would “always act in accordance to the opinion of the urban authorities.”51 Moreover, only a few months later, on June 8, in a session of the city council, Pedro de Velasco recounted what we know as the “Farce of Á� vila” in this manner: And then, Don Pedro de Velasco told them that they should know how the archbishop of Toledo, and the earl of Plasencia, Á� lvaro de Estúñiga, and the marquis of Villena, Don Juan Pacheco, and the Master of the Order of Alcántara, in the company of the earls of Benavente and Paredes, gathered in the meadow of Á� vila, near the city of Á� vila, had erected an scaffold and put on top of it a statue with a crown and a sword and a sceptre, wearing black silk, and all the dais was also adorned with silk, and the archbishop of Toledo, Don Alonso Carrillo, went up the scaffold and took the crown off, and the earl of Plasencia took the sword off, and the marquis of Villena took the sceptre off, and the earl of Paredes threw the statue down to the ground, and then they ordered trumpets to be sounded at the crying of Castile, Castile for King Don Alonso, and that the latter was held up as king, and that Toledo had embraced King Alonso’s cause, and Córdoba, Á� vila, Medina, and Valladolid had done so, too, and that he had informed the city of these events in order to help the city to adopt a decision, that he relied on their good discretion and was ready to follow them and to do what they decided, and that he would back their decision.52 The town, after debating for two hours […] and not sure of what to do, answered that since the king had sent him [Pedro de Velasco], empowered with his full authority, they would do what he would order, since his discretion, estate, and lineage were the best guarantee for them.53

50  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1465, fols. 29r–v, 30r–v and 31r.

51  “Actuar siempre de acuerdo con el consentimiento de las autoridades çibdadanas.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1465, fol. 32r–v. 52  Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1465, fol. 58r–v.

53  “Luego don Pedro de Velasco les dixo en como sopiesen que el arçobispo de Toledo e el conde de Plasençia, Alvaro de Stuñiga, e el marques de Villena, don Juan Pacheco, e el maestre de Alcantara con los condes de Benavente e Paredes en la dehesa de Avila, çerca de Avila, avian fecho un cadahalso e posieron en el una estatua con una corona e una espada çeñida e un baston en la mano e bestida de seda negra e todo el estrado de seda, e que soviera el arçobispo de Toledo don Alonso Carrillo e le quitara la corona, el conde de Plasençia le deçeñiera la espada e el marques de Villena le quitara el baston e el conde de Paredes echara la estatua del cadahalso abaxo, e luego tocaren las tronpetas desiendo Castilla Castilla por el rey don Alonso, e que asi lo alçaran por rey, e demas de esto que era alçada Toledo por el dicho rey don Alonso, e Cordova e Avila e Medina e Valladolid, por ende que ge lo fasia saber para que viesen lo que esta çibdad devia faser e que ge lo dexava a su buena discreción, que el de alli les dava su fe que el seguiria e faria todo aquello que ellos les paresçiese que devia seguir e seria con ellos en todo ello (fols.58 r–v). A ello la ciudad tras fablar en ello muy largo por espaçio de dos oras…e non savian que deçir nin que non, contestó que pues el dicho señor rey lo avia [a Pedro de Velasco] aquí� enbiado con sus cartas de poderes, que ellos no podian levar otra mejor via salvo la que a el bien vista fuese, ca segund su descreçion e estado e linaje aquella creyan que era la mas buena que devian llevar.” From Burgos, Archivo Municipal de Burgos, Libros de Actas, 1465, fol. 59r–v.

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Then, on 12 June, Don Pedro informed them of his inclination towards the cause of Don Alfonso, the king’s half-brother. The city took his side a month later, after many more debates, sessions of the wards, and only after having prepared a document containing a large list of conditions the city forced the young prince to sign. In conclusion, we can see that these relationships between patrician elites and neighbouring nobles, interwoven with conflict and consensus, are valuable for analyzing the strategies adopted by each power to strengthen its identity and project itself in opposition to the “other.” Hence, the benefit of further analysis into relationships between nobility and towns, between different towns, and between a specific town and its influence over a territory outside its direct jurisdiction.54 Here I have limited myself to showing the importance of “honour” for inhabitants of Burgos, both dead and alive, and the self-image the city adopted, an image as a centre of power, expressed in and by patrician power, possessing a clear self-identity and self-image, distinct from other cities, and with a set of powers earning it a prominent place within the Castilian Monarchy.

54  Javier Sebastián, La ciudad medi­eval como capital regional: Burgos, siglo XV (Madrid, 2017).

Chapter 18

FISCAL ATTITUDES AND PRACTICES AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF IDENTITY IN LATE MEDI­EVAL CUENCA JOSÉ ANTONIO JARA*

ON 29 DECEMBER 1463, Lope de la Flor, a citizen of Cuenca, appeared before the city council. Since royal tax farmers of the alcabala sales-tax for the province of Cuenca had not appeared yet in the city, and, in order to prevent any mismanagement of the alcabala, the city, with the full approval of Pedro de Salcedo, corregidor or Keeper of the City, resorted to an unusual expedient: on its own authority, the city opened up the farming process for each type of alcabala.1 Accordingly, Lope de la Flor made a bid of twenty-four thousand maravedíes on the alcabala, chargeable on the sale of clothes, and another sixteen thousand maravedíes on the alcabala on old clothes (both of which bids included rights and taxes). He considered it necessary to justify or frame his conduct thus: “given that his will always was to serve our lord the king, and to take care that their taxes increase and do not decrease.”2 He was not the only citizen to act this way. The *  This chapter is the product of the research projects “Ciudad y nobleza en el tránsito a la modernidad. autoritarismo regio, pactismo y conflictividad polí�tica, de Isabel I a las Comunidades” [Towns and Nobility in the Transition to Modernity: Rural Authoritarianism, Political Pact, and Conflict. Castile, from Isabella I to the “Comuneros” Revolt], funded by the Ministerio de Economí�a y Competitividad of the Government of Spain (HAR2017–83542–P, MINECO/AEI/FEDER 2018– 2021), and “Ciudad, economí�a y territorio en Castilla-La Mancha durante la Baja Edad Media” [City, Economy and Territory in Castilla-La Mancha during the Late Middle Ages], funded by the Autonomous Region of Castilla-La Mancha, Spain (SBPLY/180501/000187, 2020-2023).

1  Alcabalas were a royal sales tax, although in medi­eval and early modern times their direct management was sold off to private investors. Towns or cities were indirectly responsible for managing these rents, so if there was an absence of rent-farmers, they usually installed in their place what the sources call fieles and I translate as tax curators (it really embraces the sense of the Castilian term); as soon as tax farmers appeared in town, the tax curators relinquished their offices to the former. Keepers of the Town were the highest royal officials in Castilian towns. Institutionally, they formed part of the centralization of power by the Trastámaran dynasty (which ultimately led to the emergence of the so-called Modern State). On the Castilian financial and tax royal system, see Miguel Á� ngel Ladero Quesada, La Hacienda Real de Castilla, 1369–1504 (Madrid, 2009). On the office of Keeper of the City, see Martin Lunenfeld, Keepers of the City. The Corregidores of Isabella I of Castile (1474–1504) (Cam­bridge, 1987). 2  “Por quanto su voluntad sienpre fue e es de seruyr al rey nuestro sennor, e tener mannera commo las sus rentas sean acreçentadas e non diminuydas.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 196, exp. 1, fol. 62r–v.

José Antonio Jara ([email protected]) is Professor titular of Medi­eval History at the Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, Cuenca, Spain.

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day before, Lope’s brother, Ferrand Sánchez de la Flor, presented a written bid of thirtythree thousand maravedíes (also including rights and taxes) on the alcabala on bread, likewise stating he did it “to serve our Lord the King.”3 Then, on 29 December 1467, Martí�n López de Huete, also from Cuenca, appeared not before the city council, but the tax farmers’ lieutenants of the alcabalas and tercias of 1468 for the province of Cuenca, Juan de Valladolid and Alonso de Vozmediano, and bid to take on the alcabala on domestic animals and lands “to serve our Lord the King, so that his rents be worth more.”4 As in other ways power was exercised, taxation is a material and ideo­logical field where different interests, and sometimes even contradictory ones, converge.5 A field where private aims (i.e., personal gain) merge with public ones, the latter minimizing the negative image implicit in dealing in taxes.6 It is here where the notion of service (to the king) provides a legitimation.7 This not only sanctions the legitimacy of the action 3  “Para seruir al rey nuestro sennor.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 196, exp. 1, fol. 61v.

4  “Para seruir al rey nuestro sennor, de manera que sus rentas ualan más.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 140, exp. 5, unfol. Although not many sources of a fiscal nature have resisted the destructive passage of time, there are still numerous examples. Thus, from a document dated 28 June 1468, we know that Lope Ruiz de Belmonte made a bid on the alcabalas so that royal rents and taxes “are growing and not diminishing nor reducing” (sean acresçentadas e non deminuidas nin abaxadas). From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 140, exp. 6, unfol. He would repeat this on 28 January 1471, when he acted again “in order to serve our lord the king” (por seruyr al dicho sennor rey). From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 140, exp. 8, unfol. On 21 April 1469, Ferrand Ximénez de É� cija acted in the same manner in order “to serve our Lord the King, in a manner that his rents be augmented” (seruir al rey nuestro sennor, e por que sus rentas valan más). From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 140, exp. 6, unfol.

5  For a brief introduction to Castilian taxation, both royal and urban, see Historia de la Hacienda española (épocas Antigua y Medi­eval). Homenaje al Profesor García de Valdeavellano (Madrid, 1982); Denis Menjot, Fiscalidad y sociedad. Los murcianos y el impuesto en la Baja Edad Media (Murcia, 1986); Antonio Collantes de Terán Sánchez, “Ciudades y fiscalidad,” in Las ciudades andaluzas (siglos XIII–XVI), ed. José Enrique López de Coca Castañer and Á� ngel Galán Sánchez (Málaga, 1991), 129–49; Antonio Collantes de Terán Sánchez, “Los estudios sobre las haciendas concejiles españolas en la Edad Media,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 22 (1992): 323–40; Finanzas y fiscalidad municipal (Á� vila, 1997); Yolanda Guerrero, José Antonio Jara, Juan Carlos Padilla, José Marí�a Sánchez Benito, and Ana Concepción Sánchez Pablos, “Fiscalidad de ámbito municipal en las dos Castillas (siglos XIV y XV): estado de la cuestión,” Medi­evalismo 11 (2001): 225–77; David Alonso Garcí�a, “Poder y finanzas en Castilla en el tránsito a la modernidad (un apunte historiográfico),” Hispania 222 (2006): 157–98; Yolanda Guerrero, ed., Fiscalidad, sociedad y poder en las ciudades castellanas de la Baja Edad Media (Madrid, 2006); Ladero Quesada, La Hacienda Real.

6  José Antonio Jara, “Legitimando la dominación en la Cuenca del siglo XV. la transformación de los intereses particulares a través de la definición del bien común,” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medi­eval 16 (2009–2010): 93–109; and José Antonio Jara, “Negociando la dominación. las elites urbanas castellanas en el siglo XV (el ejemplo de Cuenca),” in La gobernanza de la ciudad europea en la Edad Media, ed. Jesús Á� ngel Solórzano and Beatriz Arí�zaga (Logroño, 2011), 399–425. 7  José Antonio Jara, “‘Commo cunple a seruiçio de su rey e sennor natural e al procomún de la su tierra e de los vesinos e moradores de ella’. La noción de ‘servicio público’ como seña de identidad polí�tica comunitaria en la Castilla urbana del siglo XV,” e-Spania 4 (2007): 1–30; and José Antonio Jara, “‘Con mucha afecçión e buena voluntad por seruir a bien público’. La noción ‘bien común’ en



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required, but functions as a legitimating umbrella elsewhere, even if they are against the interests of the king, or the community, all theoretically being served through the thread king—crown—kingdom.8 For instance, in February 1470, a royal letter was presented to the city ordering the collection of a certain amount of maravedíes from the royal taxes of the province of Cuenca. Since this collection affected the maravedíes on those taxes owned by some citizens of Cuenca (by way of grant from the king), on 6 March 1470, some of them appeared at the city council and, in response to the letter, stated that they had always been at the king’s service and had spent and do spend every day a great amount of their wealth, and they were willing to spend everything they possessed in the king’s service […] for this reason they deserved to be rewarded and not deprived of the tithe on the maravedíes they owned on those rents.9

They then asked the city council to obey the king’s letter, but not to put it into effect, and to inform the king of the city’s opinion. The city council agreed. The same happens more broadly when the tax burden is redistributed within Castilian cities, and, particularly, when cities or towns then re-distributed the burden between themselves and the villages under their jurisdiction, as a document of 12 October 1467 illustrates. In this case, Cuenca city council proceeded to distribute between the villages under its jurisdiction expenses made by the city during the past year (the so-called St. Michael’s pectum), stating that all expenses were “on things befitting the service of the aforesaid Lord the King and the aforesaid city and its jurisdiction.”10 For scholars of urban Castile and beyond, these rural districts have been seen as constituting an invaluable projection of the town’s economic, political, military, and social interests, and taxation forms part of this picture.11 In principle, the statement perspectiva urbana. Cuenca en el siglo XV,” Studia Historica. Historia Medi­eval 28 (2010): 55–82.

8  Antonio Suárez Varela, “Celotismo comunal. La máxima polí�tica del procomún en la revuelta comunera,” Tiempos Modernos 15 (2007): 1–34.

9  “Gastado e gastavan de cada dia grand parte de sus fasiendas e esteuan en proposito de gastar quanto tenian continuando el dicho seruiçio […] por lo qual meresçian gualardon e non que les fuesen quitados nin tomados diesmo de los mrs. que cada vno de los suso dichos tiene situados en las dichas rentas.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 198, exp. 4, fols. 31r and 32r–33v.

10  “En las cosas cumplideras al serviçio del dicho sennor rey e dela dicha çibdad e su tierra.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 198, exp. 1, fols. 65r–75v and 81r–83v. On the St. Michael’s pectum, see Concepción Sánchez Pablos, “La fiscalidad municipal en la tierra de Castilla en el siglo XV. el Pecho de San Miguel en el territorio de Cuenca,” in Fiscalidad, sociedad y poder en las ciudades castellanas de la Baja Edad Media, ed. Yolanda Guerrero (Madrid, 2006), 119–50; Yolanda Guerrero and José Marí�a Sánchez Benito, Cuenca en la Baja Edad Media. Un sistema de poder (Cuenca, 1994), 209–10. 11  On this point and for a general overview of Castilian urban history, see Concejos y ciudades en la Edad Media hispánica (Madrid, 1990); Las sociedades urbanas en la España medi­eval (Pamplona, 2003); Marí�a Asenjo González, “Las ciudades medi­evales castellanas. Balance y perspectivas de su desarrollo historiográfico (1990–2004),” En la España Medi­eval 28 (2005): 415–53; Beatriz Arí�zaga and Jesús Á� ngel Solórzano, eds., La ciudad medi­eval y su influencia territorial (Logroño, 2007); Jesús Á� ngel Solórzano and Beatriz Arí�zaga, eds., La gobernanza de la ciudad europea en la Edad Media (Logroño, 2011).

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“on things befitting the service of the aforesaid Lord the King and the aforesaid city and its jurisdiction” might imply little about the status of rural districts under their towns, which meant almost absolute dominion, but taxation was a disproportionate and particularly painful representation of this, since a significant part of the fiscal burden on urban citizens was transferred to the rural districts. This is the traditional view. But, during the fifteenth century, the Castilian Kingdom suffered an almost permanent state of civil war. The nobility tried, mostly successfully, to acquire new domains (at the expense of the towns). In these circumstances, towns and rural districts needed each other in mutual defence against noble depredations and this, in turn, contributed to integration of these districts into the urban system.12 This chapter analyzes this realignment of relationships between towns and rural domains through the eyes of taxation. Obviously, given the restrictions of this study and the need to check this analysis across the whole range of fiscal instruments (royal and urban) affecting these jurisdictions over the period, I limit myself to the principal questions and key elements. Likewise, I focus on a single city, Cuenca, from the beginning of the fifteenth century until the Cortes (Parliament) held in Toledo in 1480 (that, in effect, brought an end to the period of civil war).

Taxation in the Rural Domains of Towns

The analysis of the politics of taxation between Castilian towns and their territorial domains must take into account, first, that these jurisdictions were subject to double taxation, royal and urban (I leave aside the problems posed by ecclesiastical taxation, since it does not affect our study here). In the second place, urban fiscal information (and, of course, its sources) is generally scant for Castilian cities, apart from a few exceptions in Burgos, Seville, Murcia, and Cuenca. Ignorant of everyday fiscal practice for the other Castilian towns, making extrapolations from just four cities can be risky, especially if we recognize the different political circumstances for each. In the case of Cuenca, and leaving aside royal taxation (represented by the alcabalas, servicio and montazgo, pedidos and monedas), urban taxation relied on extraordinary collections (used, for example, to pay the Keeper of the Town’s salary) and an “ordinary collection,” the St. Michael’s pectum, charged each year to defray the expenses of the previous administrative year (in Cuenca, it ran from Michaelmas (St. Michael’s feast day) to the eve of the following Michaelmas, i.e., from 29 September to 28 September the following year). This charge comprised four fiscal elements: first, the martiniega, a rent owed to the king and only paid by the villages, not the towns, since only peasants were required to pay for it. (By the fifteenth century, this rent became fossilized, reaching a fixed amount of 24,556 maravedíes per year); second, wages owed to urban officials, entirely paid by the rural domain; and, third, general expenditure, more or less common both to town and rural domain, made during the year. This comprised the dispatch of 12  José Antonio Jara Fuente, “Ciudad, poder y territorio. la pugna por el control de los alfoces urbanos y la definición del señorí�o concejil en la Baja Edad Media,” in Comunidades de Villa y Tierra. pasado, presente y futuro (siglos XI–XXI), ed. Ví�ctor Muñoz Gómez (Murcia, 2012).



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messengers to the court and other places, lawsuits, public works, and so on. The wages of the representatives of the rural domain make up the final fiscal element.13 As in other aspects of the relationship with the villages under its jurisdiction, Cuenca exercised almost absolute control over its taxation. The city itself did not pay the martiniega; it was able to transfer the payment of the salaries of urban officials onto the shoulders of the inhabitants of the rural domain. The city also pushed onto the rural domain most of the communal expenses (“communal” only in theory: these expenses had an especially urban flavour, since most of them wholly or mainly affected the interests of the city, not of its rural districts). Finally, the rural domain had to pay the wages of its own representatives. In addition, the management of these resources and expenses was also centralized in the city.14 As for the resources, all income went through a specific official, the town receiver, responsible for the city treasury and for the payment of expenses. As for expenditures, they always had to be approved by the most senior urban officials, the regidores; so, even public works in the rural district, affecting only or mainly villages under the town’s jurisdiction, had to be requested from and approved by the Cuenca city council, at risk of the expenses being defrayed only by the village concerned. Thus, the city controlled the finances, the process of collection, and the ultimate purchases. The rural domain only seems to have enjoyed the right of sending its representatives, the sexmeros, to the once-a-year meeting in Cuenca each October (always after 29 September) that audited the accounts presented by the town receiver and distributed the payment of the expenses. The participation of the sexmeros, together with the regidores, was largely symbolic, since their involvement was limited to approval of the accounts and the contribution charged to the villages to pay for the expenses. In other words, the sexmeros simply assented to the accounts and the contribution recommended by the regidores.15 These contributions were distributed between the sexmos (the six districts in which Cuenca’s rural domain was organized), between the villages inside each sexmo, and between the pecheros (or taxpayers, i.e, those commoners who did not enjoy a tax exemption) of each village. For this reason, taxpayer registers had to be maintained with regularity, listing the taxpayers of each village and their wealth (since their tax was based on this). Even the composition of these registers was subject to approval by the 13  Sánchez Benito, Cuenca en la Baja Edad Media, 209–10.

14  Regarding the politics of this management, see Denis Menjot, “La gestión de las haciendas locales urbanas. el ejemplo de la ciudad de Murcia desde el año 1266 hasta mediados del siglo XV,” in Fiscalidad y sociedad. Los murcianos y el impuesto en la Baja Edad Media (Murcia, 1986), 83–135.

15  Regarding these contributions and the role played by urban authorities and sexmeros, see Sánchez Benito, Cuenca en la Baja Edad Media, 222–32 and 235–36; Marí�a Asenjo, “Repartimientos de ‘pechos’ en Tierra de Segovia,” En la España Medi­eval, 6 (1985): 717–45; Marí�a Jesús Fuente, “Sobre pechos y pecheros de un concejo medi­eval. Paredes de Nava,” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, Historia Medi­eval 5 (1992): 39–64; Adelina Romero, “Proceso recaudatorio y mecanismos fiscales en los concejos de la Corona de Castilla,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 22 (1992): 739–66; and Máximo Diago, “La polí�tica fiscal del común de pecheros de Soria en el siglo XV y primeras décadas del XVI,” Anuario de Estudios Medi­evales 22 (1992): 821–52.

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city (by the regidores), while the formula of what tax was payable according to level of wealth was approved by the town and not by the people concerned, the rural councils.16 It appears, therefore, that the town’s control over its taxation and the connection with its rural domain was absolute. Nevertheless, was it so absolute in reality?

The Capacity of Rural Domains to Affect Taxation

Thus far we appear to be witnessing a relationship of domination: one that ties the villages under dominion and jurisdiction to the lordship, exercised by the urban body politic, on which they were economically dependent. However, we also see cities struggle for independence from the monarchy (or from the nobility, in the case of towns under noble lordship), and in everyday, minor political skirmishes, we see similar tensions between the villages and their city. This does not undermine the concept of domination, but whether it was absolute in character. The seigneurial dependence of these villages was not challenged, but, recognizing their own capacity for political action, we can see them as independent socio-political agents, not as mere pawns of the town. This distinction is significant. Even if in taxation villages were subject to the strictest control by the town, it is also true that in everyday practice we see small breaches. These breaches might be primarily formal, but were ideo­logically and materially substantial should they become the norm. This was the case, for example, in the appointment of certain officials whose salary was paid by the villages. The town clerk was one of those officials. He was appointed by the town, but a substantial part of his wages was paid by the rural domain, since he dealt with works for the rural councils. Something similar also happens with two other officials closely related to the rural domain: their lawyer and proctor. Both officials were appointed by the sexmeros, although the appointees were always citizens of Cuenca (from the second echelon of the urban elite).17 For this echelon and for lineages pertaining to the urban elite, these offices (town clerk, lawyer, and proctor of the rural domain) constituted an ideal way to move upwards socially and politically, and, at least theoretically (and, I think, more in the eyes of histori16  This was the situation at the beginning of the fifteenth century, for instance, on September 30, 1417. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 2, fol. 1r–v. Nevertheless, it is also true that, in some occasions, the sexmeros resisted the interference of the urban authorities and instead sought for the guidance of the regidores on taxation, especially when rural councils disputed the basis for the distribution of contributions, whether simply per capita, or based on each pechero’s wealth, as happened on November 17, 1479. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 201, exp. 2, fols. 146v–147r.

17  On Cuenca’s dominant class, see José Antonio Jara, Concejo, poder y élites. La clase dominante de Cuenca en el siglo XV (Madrid, 2000); José Antonio Jara, “Elites urbanas y sistemas concejiles: Una propuesta teórico-metodológica para el análisis de los subsistemas de poder en los concejos castellanos de la Baja Edad Media,” Hispania 207 (2001): 221–66; and José Antonio Jara, “The Importance of Being Earnest: Urban Elites and the Distribution of Power in Castilian Towns in the Late Middle Ages,” in Building Legitimacy. Political Discourses and Forms of Legitimation in Medi­eval Societies, ed. Isabel Alfonso Antón, Hugh Kennedy, and Julio Escalona (Leiden, 2004), 139–75.



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ans than in reality), economically. For these reasons, these offices were attractive. But the responsibilities were constantly in negotiation with the rural villages (via their representatives, the sexmeros), to ensure these appointments did not generate conflict. At least formally, but nevertheless in every instance, the city would pay lip-service to the autonomy of the rural domain here, to such an extent that, on 2 May 1441, in view of the request made to Cuenca by King Juan II to appoint Alonso Dí�az de Montalvo as lawyer of the rural domain, the city council decided to convene the sexmeros, so they could decide (for or against); they had to pay the salary of that official, and so had the right to appoint him.18 For the rural domains, these appointees were equivalent to having agents in the city capable of connecting, through their own social network, the inhabitants of the rural domain into the main power systems (monarchy, Church, nobility, and the urban elites). Both sides benefited, and it cost the rural domain little. In effect, the salaries of the town clerk, lawyer, and proctor of the rural domain had been set in stone at the beginning of the century, as with the salaries of the urban officials, but with one difference. While the latter were governed by the city’s charter, and the city could not modify them alone (every rise in salary had to be approved by the city council and submitted for confirmation by the king), the pay for the former was the result of a practice that had grown up, so changing it was easier; in fact, as easy as any in the annual council session, where regidores and sexmeros audited the accounts presented by the town receiver and approved the corresponding contributions. It is notable, therefore, that these salaries were not changed once in the period considered: year after year, the town clerk was rewarded with three thousand maravedíes, and the lawyer and proctor of the rural domain each with two thousand maravedíes.19 This ability to appoint agents and influence decisions, often invisibly, and negotiate with the city, is exemplified in cases where the villages do not act independent of the city, or without its knowledge, but with its implicit support.20 This is true of the dis-

18  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 190, exp. 3, fol. 32r–v.

19  These figures are provided in the most complete contributions we have: 1420, 1435, 1467, 1468, 1478, and 1483. In the specific case of the town clerk, we know that, in 1427, he only earned 2600 maravedíes, and in 1483, three years beyond the final date considered in this chapter, he was paid two thousand maravedíes above his salary for certain works done, not for the rural domain, but, in this case, for the city. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 6, fols. 6r–20v; 187, exp. 3, fols. 1r–42v; 188, exp. 5, fols. 1r–13r; 198, exp. 1, fols. 65r–75v and 81r–83v; 198, exp. 2, fols. 38v–50v; 200, exp. 3, fols. 20r–31v; and 205, exp. 1, fols. 38r–40v and 43r–65v.

20  In this sense, we do not consider that rural communities were deprived of all or most of their powers and were subject to the will of their city. Rural commons and their representatives (as their urban counterparts) were capable of making their voices heard, although with diverse intensity and results. See José Marí�a Monsalvo Antón, “Ideario sociopolí�tico y valores estamentales de los pecheros abulenses y salmantinos (ss. XIII–XV),” Hispania 238 (2011): 325–62; and José Marí�a Monsalvo Antón, “Percepciones de los pecheros medi­evales sobre usurpaciones de términos rurales y aprovechamientos comunitarios en los concejos salmantinos y abulenses,” Edad Media. Revista de Historia 7 (2005–2006): 37–74; Luis Vicente Dí�az Martí�n, “Una delimitación conflictiva en la Soria medi­eval,” Aragón en la Edad Media 14–15 (1999): 391–411; and Francisco Javier Hernando de Frutos, Hontalbilla. Historia, arte y costumbres. Estudio de una aldea de la comunidad de villa y tierra de Cuéllar (Segovia, 1996), in which a good example of these questions is provided on page 52.

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tribution of the fiscal burden between the rural pecheros, but at a higher level, with the distribution between sexmos and villages. In a document of 17 November 1479, we see that, beause they were unable to agree how to distribute these burdens (equally per capita or based on each pechero’s wealth), the village inhabitants asked the city council to arbitrate. However, in an earlier document of 30 September 1417, the city decreed on the way to apportion these distributions.21 In principle, it seems clear that the legal authority to decide on these matters resided in Cuenca, but it is very possible that, as time passed, the city adopted with its rural domain the same fiscal attitude shown by the monarchy to towns, and, more specifically, in the case of the direct imposition represented by the pedido and monedas. The aim of the monarchy was to collect those taxes, avoiding unnecessary expense. So, kings did not care if the taxes each town had to pay were collected via contributions, that is, through direct charges on taxpayers, or through sisas (duties on products such as wine or meat). Likewise, Cuenca was not really interested in how rural taxpayers paid for expenses made by the city during the year. Thus, as long as the rural domain paid the expenses and the procedure did not raise complaints, the city ignored the distribution system put in place by every sexmo and village. Evidently, this gave village councils some discretion, and their representatives, the sexmeros, could allocate the fiscal burden within each sexmo and the villages of each rural district. While we have few references to these practices, we can document them “in negative” from the few complaints they received (in fact, we only know of three complaints: one in 1463, and two in 1483; in the last case, on 6 November, the town council forced the sexmeros to recognize that the power they used to distribute the contributions belonged to the city).22 In any case, these occasional complaints shed light on the extent of this practice and the quasi-arbitral role played by the city. These complaints touched on different aspects of the tax process; they show the capacity of political management exercised by the sexmeros and by their highest representative to Cuenca and to other supra-urban bodies, the rural proctor. It was not unusual that in defence of their representatives, sexmeros and the proctor protested before the city and even before the king, from whom they gained letters on several occasions protecting their interests. This happened on 12 April 1420, when King Juan II, faced with complaints by the representatives of the city pecheros and the rural domain (on this occasion they acted together), ordered Cuenca city council to solve the problems posed by the tax farmers of the alcabala: they must allow enough time to collect the taxes, not wait until July and August, when the rural pecheros were too busy to devote time to their fiscal duties (and as a result were heavily fined: the document states that in the last ten years they were fined two hundred thousand maravedíes and more than ten thousand 21  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 201, exp. 2, fols. 146v–147r; and 185, exp. 2, fol. 1r–v. On this point and for a similar problem, see José Marí�a Sánchez Benito, “Estructura social de un pueblo de Castilla en época de los Reyes Católicos: Fuentes, aldea de Cuenca,” En la España Medi­eval 31 (2008): 97–122.

22  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 196, exp. 1, fol. 29v; 204, exp. 3, fol. 119r–v; and 205, exp. 1, fol. 84r.



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pairs of hens, partridges, and rabbits), “so that most farmers had lost their possessions and were as a result destitute and poor.”23 Again, in view of complaints from their representatives, Juan II ordered, in a letter dated to Valladolid, 8 May 1420, that estates owned by pecheros and bought by ecclesiastics were not exempt from taxation, but must abide by the pechero status of the land. This decision was adopted to prevent lowering the number of pecheros, and thereby raising the rates for those remaining.24 Years later, a complaint was raised against Cuenca. On 18 December 1436, the sexmeros protested the expenses incurred on the occasion of being summoned again, this time to distribute the pedido between city and villages. They argued they had already attended the council session in which the distribution of St. Michael’s pectum was approved, implicitly stating that both allocations could have been done on the same occasion.25 The complaint by the sexmeros was reasonable since the king’s letter, notifying the pedido and monedas that Cuenca had to pay, was received on 26 October, while the distribution of St. Michael’s pectum was made a few weeks later, on 11 November.26 Why the delay and the need for a separate meeting about collecting procedures? In fact, there was none, except the avarice of the highest representatives of urban power, the regidores. For, at each session attended by the sexmeros, it was customary to offer the regidores a meal paid for by the rural domain: a double meeting had gastronomically satisfactory justification. The opposition by the sexmeros seems to have won, since these arbitrary actions are not documented again. The threat of laying a claim before the king and, above all, the possibility of putting into action mechanisms, more or less coordinated, of passive protest, forced the regidores: they had little to gain from imposing those practices, much to lose if passive protest meant lower or delayed tax-takes. Such informal, uncoordinated protest would not require formal notice by the rural proctor, the sexmeros, or any other representative of the villages; nevertheless, it was a tactic open to rural pecheros, and those in the city, too, against royal and urban taxation. Claims for payment of unpaid taxes by regidores, royal tax farmers, and royal and urban tax collectors, are constant, both in the city and the rural hinterland, and, apparently, could involve large quantities of money. Thus, for example, in view of the accumulation of these debts, on 8 February 1460, Cuenca city council farmed out the collection of unpaid taxes over the past four years. The zeal of Juan León and Alonso Ferrández de Valera, citizens of Cuenca and farmers of the rent, in collecting the debts, was incentivized by permitting them to keep one-fifth of all the maravedíes they collected.27 In 1467, Pero López de Madrid, citizen of Cuenca and royal tax farmer and collector of the moneda forera of 1446 in the bishopric of Cuenca, was still claiming—twenty one years later!—the 33,000 maravedíes the city and its rural domain still owed him under such 23  “De mannera que los más de los labradores son destruydos e deseredados e pobres por esta rasón.” From Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 6, fols. 18v–19v. 24  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 6, fol. 26r–v.

25  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 189, exp. 2, fol. 46r–v.

26  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 189, exp. 1, fols. 18v–22r; and 189, exp. 2, fols. 33r–44v. 27  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 195, exp. 1, fol. 77v.

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an arrangement.28 Some years before, on 17 November 1417, Juan Martí�nez del Villar, proctor of Cuenca, called the city council to demand payment of the uncollected 13,415 maravedíes claimed from the rural domain in 1409, threatening to demand payment from the regidores.29 However, the extent of these debts, evident from these examples, could lead to an agreement between creditor (the city, royal tax farmers, or collectors) and debtor (the village councils) over the final amount owing, negotiating not only the principal, but also the fines already imposed on them. This was the case for an agreement reached on 15 November 1419, between Cuenca’s villages and the royal tax farmer of the seven monedas of 1419.30 The attitude showed in these cases by village councils was not odd, for their own city was well-practiced at what we might call “fiscal delays.” So, for instance, on 4 June 1460, Diego Gómez de Castro, a citizen of Uclés, acting on behalf of Á� lvar Gómez de Guadalajara, Rodrigo de Alarcón, and Gómez Suárez, royal tax collectors of the pedido and monedas of Cuenca of 1458 and 1459, came before the city council to demand payment of the maravedíes still owed, following arbitration. In this manner, whether or not to observe fiscal obligations could become an instrument of pressure and negotiation in the relations of the rural domains, either with royal agents or the city.31

Practical Expressions of Renegotiating Domination

Did such instances lead to normative effects in the political and fiscal relationship binding Cuenca’s village councils and the city’s town council? Apparently not, but only apparently. We know that Cuenca discharged on the villages under its jurisdiction much of the royal taxation and, in addition, most of the local, common expenditure (that affected both city and rural domain). Cuenca not only charged the rural domain with payment of the salaries of urban officials, but, in addition, the city transferred onto the rural domain the dubious privilege of also defraying the general expenses of city and rural domain, especially with respect to public works (but spent mostly in the city), lawsuits (that both institutions brought against other systems’ agents), and envoys sent to other bodies. Regarding royal taxation, the city also held the advantage. As the contribution of the pedido of 1433 shows, of the 243,860 maravedíes that Cuenca and its rural domain had to pay, the city itself only contributed 67,365 maravedíes, the rural domain owing the remaining 176,495 maravedíes. The basis was that Cuenca city only assumed a quarter of any royal tax, with the remaining three-quarters falling on the villagers.32

28  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 198, exp. 1, unfol. The moneda forera was a royal tax paid every seven years in recognition of the king’s lordship.

29  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, leg, 185, exp. 2, fol. 20r. On 28 December 1428, Cuenca city council adopted some measures to collect the martiniega still owed by some villages. Cuenca, Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 187, exp. 4, fol. 2v. 30  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 4, fols. 11v–14v; and 195, exp. 1, fol. 72v.

31  On this particular point, see Guerrero, “Impuestos y contribuyentes en los concejos de la Meseta Norte,” in Finanzas y fiscalidad municipal (Á� vila, 1997), 355–94. 32  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 188, exp. 4, fol. 23r–v.



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Over time (sometime in the fourteenth century), village councils became capable of forcing the city to increase its contribution to royal taxes, obtaining help from the city equal to thirty-five maravedíes out of every one thousand maravedíes (that is, 3.5 percent) owed by the rural domain. So, in 1433, the city had to pay 67,365 maravedíes, of which 60,965 maravedíes represented the quarter the city always paid, plus 6,400 maravedíes help to the rural domain (on the basis of 35 maravedíes per thousand). The rural domain had to pay the remaining 176,495 maravedíes. By the end of the period considered, this system of distribution had not changed. So, in the allocation of the 975,480 maravedíes of the pedido, made on 20 June 1476, the city took its quarter and the villages their three-quarters, deducting from the latter the 35 maravedíes per thousand the city had to contribute on behalf of the villagers.33 For royal taxation and in the period considered, Cuenca retained its privileged position over its rural domain, and was even capable of applying it to the compulsory loans the monarchy imposed on towns, especially in the times of Enrique IV and Isabella I.34 Although the first reference to these loans following the procedure with pedidos and monedas comes from a late date, 12 January 1476,35 I take this to be a new triumph of Cuenca over the rural domain, rather than customary practice. We should not forget that the rural domain managed, quite early, to acquire the ability to charge its own inhabitants for these compulsory, royal loans, as shown in a document of 9 November 1427. On this occasion, after deciding who would pay the St. Michael’s pectum and how, the sexmeros agreed to charge certain rural pecheros with a compulsory loan of twenty maravedíes.36 There was neither a previous authorization nor a subsequent confirmation by the regidores attending the session, suggesting it was accepted procedure then. If Cuenca kept its privileged position with regard to royal taxes, and even managed to extend it to compulsory royal loans, how were village councils able to interfere in fiscal politics? The answer must be found in the remaining taxes and contributions, whether or not of a local nature. From a document dated 4 November 1434, an audit of the accounts presented by the town receiver Ferrand López de Requena, we know that the rural domain contributed twothirds, sometimes one-third, three-quarters, or even the full amount, for certain expenses.37 But the document, fragmentary as it is, does not explain further, or allow us to properly analyze the list of expenses and their division between the city and the rural area. Nevertheless, it is worth mentioning that Cuenca’s rural domain managed to build a system of allocating fiscal charges that, at the local level, was not as detrimental as royal taxation. But, through other documents, we know there were other formulae for distribution that caused significant improvement of its fiscal and economic position. So, from 33  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 200, exp. 2, fols. 5r–7r and 8v–13r.

34  A compulsory loan, demanded in the time of Juan II, is also recorded. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 190, exp. 3, fols. 30v–31r. 35  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 200, exp. 2, fols. 9v–11r. 36  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 187, exp. 3, fol. 43v.

37  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 188, exp. 5, fols. 1r–13r.

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a document dated 22 March 1465, we know that city and rural domain shared half the salary of the Keeper of the Town;38 and from another of October 1419, we know that certain expenses, probably related to military defence of the rural domain (a case in which city and rural domain resisted the illegal entries made by members of the neighbouring nobility and their vassals) were also split in half.39 In addition, and this is more significant, between the 1420s and 1430s, a substantial change took place in the procedure of distribution of these payments between city and rural domain. While, in the contribution of St. Michael’s pectum made on 15 October 1420, all expenses were paid by the villages, in that of 4 November 1435, a distinction was introduced between expenses to be paid in full by the rural domain (salaries of urban officials, salaries of the representatives of the rural domain, and debts from previous allocations) and those to be split between city and villages (public works, defence, envoys).40 A fairer distribution of expenses between Cuenca and its rural areas especially benefited the latter.41 Moreover, if we analyze the most complete allocations at our disposal, we observe that the rural domain did not simply become a cash cow. Instead, the city managed, and the villages were able to influence the city to place the tax burden at a relatively tolerable level. Here, I briefly analyze the most significant categories (salaries of urban officials, public works, and defence) of the allocations of the St. Michael’s pectum of 1420, 1427, 1435, 1467, 1468, 1478, and 1483.42 As figure 18.1 below shows, the expenditure on salaries of urban officials did not change during this period, remaining fossilized to their values of the beginning of the century (differences depend on the presence/absence of certain officials, such as town criers and the executioner, not always included in this category). Public works were another category of expenditure that could increase fiscal pressure on the city, but spending here was much lower than in the other categories. Only in 1483 was there a significant increase, but it was exceptional: in 1480, Queen Isabella I and King Ferdinand V of Castile ordered the building of town halls in all Castilian cities and towns, and Cuenca delayed construction until 1483. 38  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 197, exp. 3, fols. 7r–10v. It was not unusual, since the same is reiterated in a document dated 13 September 1469. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 198, exp. 3, fols. 165r–168r.

39  In this allocation, it is expressly indicated that the hundred and two maravedíes, fifteen pairs of hens, and eight pairs of chickens provided by the sexmo of Arcas, had to be paid half by the city and half by the rural domain. Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 4, fol. 10v.

40  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 6, fols. 6r–20v; 188, exp. 5, fols. 1r–13r.

41  Regarding the analysis of expenditure, see Sánchez Benito, Cuenca en la Baja Edad Media, 232–35; and Juan Antonio Barrio, Finanzas municipales y mercado urbano en Orihuela durante el reinado de Alfonso V (1416–1458) (Alicante, 1998), esp. 55ff. 42  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 185, exp. 6, fols. 6r–20v; 187, exp. 3, fols. 1r–42v; 188, exp. 5, fols. 1r–13r; 198, exp. 1, fols. 65r–75v and 81r–83v; 198, exp. 2, fols. 38v–50v bis; 200, exp. 3, fols. 20r–31v; and 205, exp. 1, fols. 38r–40v and 43r–65v.



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Figure 18.1: Graph of the Growth and Distribution of Expenditure (by the author).

Moreover, the city had at its disposal other ways to pay these expenses, at least in part. This meant the city did not always have to resort to fiscal contributions from either the city or the rural domain. For example, on 16 December 1433, Cuenca city council agreed to sell wood from the hills of its rural domain after the following Michaelmas; the money would be invested in the maintenance of the city’s walls, towers, and gates.43 Only the category of military defence amounted to a significant part of these contributions, reaching its maximum in the periods, almost continuous, of civil war. Given the control exercised by the city over the remaining expenditure headings and the nature of this defence spending (that is, it was forced by aggression from the nobility; all parties, city and rural domain, united in resisting), there is no record of any opposition to this spending.

Conclusion

It is my intention in this chapter to emphasize the benefit of an in-depth analysis of fiscal relationships between Castilian cities or towns and the villages subject to their jurisdiction. Scholars traditionally assume that towns exercised absolute control over their rural domains. But a brief analysis of what happened in Cuenca prompts us to reconsider, first, the meaning of domination in reality, and second, the extent of that domination in the fiscal field. 43  Cuenca, Archivo Municipal de Cuenca, Libros de Actas, 188, exp. 5, fols. 10v–11r.

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In this sense, as Cuenca’s fiscal practices highlights, I suggest that the domination by towns did not prevent a certain level of political autonomy on the part of the villages; and that, in a certain way, it also encouraged or at least did not stop the subjugated (the villages and their representatives: sexmeros and proctor) assuming some powers of a political, economic, and fiscal nature that were urban in origin. We can observe how fiscal attitudes and practices affected the links between the city and the region, and how they influenced construction of a specific territorial identity.

Chapter 19

CONSTRUCTING AN IDENTITY: URBAN CENTRES AND THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE CROWN OF NAVARRE, 1300–1500 ELOÍSA RAMÍREZ VAQUERO*

Issues related to

individual or collective identity have been a favourite subject of analysis among historians for some time now. In this respect, and for the medi­ eval period in particular, an analysis of the processes of construction of the elements involved in the creation of a political identity in a wide range of scenarios takes on particular importance. The aim here is to examine the process of construction of the identity of urban centres in Navarre, highlighting a series of features that run parallel to other similar processes in medi­eval Western Europe, although we will also refer to some characteristics specific to Navarre. Before beginning the analysis, however, it is perhaps useful to make some brief initial points, both regarding the historio­graphical context of Navarre in general and the concept of identity.

Background

The urban world of Navarre has traditionally been examined from a perspective very closely related to its legal parameters: together with the case of the civitas episcopalis of Pamplona, we consider “urban” centres to be those that received a specific statute or charter (fuero); in this case a kind of franchise for Franks, but not others.1 This perspec-

*  The author would like to thank, as on several previous occasions, Fermí�n Miranda Garcí�a (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid) for his attentive and critical reading of these pages and the propositions and opinions stated in them. 1  The historio­graphy is well known, but the initial studies by José Marí�a Lacarra and his careful examination of the urban charters and those by Prof. Martí�n Duque have marked out the basic context for the analysis of the medi­eval world in Navarre. The latter provides a short biblio­graphy in his 2002 study: Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque, “El fenómeno urbano medi­eval en Navarra,” in El fenómeno urbano medi­eval entre el Cantábrico y el Duero. Revisión historiográfica y propuestas de estudio, ed. Jesús Á� ngel Solórzano and Beatriz Arí�zaga (Santander, 2002), 9–51, specifically 47–51. Other biblio­graphies will be cited here as required. More recently, Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El despliegue de la red urbana en Navarra. Espacios y movilidad entre el Adour y el Ebro (ss. XI–XIII),” in Príncipe de Viana 76, no. 1 (2015): 71–107; and Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “De buenas villas... y villas no tan buenas. La urbanización de Navarra en la Edad Media,” in La ciudad de los campesinos. Villas nuevas, pequeñas villas, villas mercado (XLVI Semana Internacional de Estudios Medi­evales. Estella-Lizarra. 16/19 de julio de 2019) (Pamplona, 2020), 337–69. Eloísa Ramírez Vaquero ([email protected]) is Professor of Medi­eval History at the Universidad Pública de Navarra (I–Communitas Institute for Advanced Social Research), Pamplona, Spain.

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Table 19.1: Good Towns in the order in which they were granted their charters

Households in 1366

Estella (ca. 1076)

829

Puente la Reina (1122)

107

Tudela (1119)

*Pamplona—San Saturnino (1129) Olite (1147)

Monreal (1149)

591 452 480 99

Laguardia (1164)

637

San Vicente (1172)

166

Los Arcos (1176)

132

*Pamplona—San Nicolás (ca. 1184)

349

*Pamplona—Navarrerí�a (1189)

166

Burguete (ca. 1170) Larrasoaña (1174) Bernedo (1182) Villava (1184)

Villafranca (1191) Labraza (1196) Inzura (1201) Viana (1219)

Tiebas (1264)

Torralba (1264) Lanz (1264)

73 18 72 22 42 51 ?

155 12 27 20

tive means that we first need to provide a few explanations. First of all, we should point out that very different places with varying demo­graphic and economic weight received this type of statute, so that in the heart of the Middle Ages, we can count twenty-seven “good towns” (buenas villas, bonnes villes) in Navarre to the south of the Pyrenees, but only three had more than five hundred “households” (fuegos).2 However, it is clear that the three boroughs of Pamplona (the civitas itself, San Saturnino, and San Nicolás) had around one thousand. At the other extreme, fourteen of these entities had fewer than a hundred households, and a further two were just above this figure (one with 101 and the other with 107), while some show figures that are almost ridiculous (seven, twelve, eighteen). In other words, we are talking about very small urban centres (at least in legal terms), to which we need to add economic activities that—except, perhaps, for the half-dozen that are clearly important Good Towns in the urban structure—largely take place in the rural environment. In contrast, there are a few other population centres of

2  In the Navarrese lands of Ultrapuertos (north of the Pyrenees), at least another two towns should be added before the fourteenth century: Lumbier (before 1298) 101 Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and Saint Palais; and Espronceda (1323) 7 from 1312, Labastide Clairence. All the figures here are from Juan Carrasco, La población de Echarri Aranaz (before 1351) 65 Navarra en el siglo XIV (Pamplona, 1973), using Huarte Araquil (1363?) 51 data tables of the household census of 1366 (tables on pages 194–220). In the case of Tudela, *Total for Pamplona 967 the total population figure is 951, although the Total households for the Good Towns 4,784 Franks accounted for the stated 591; a similar phenomenon is observed in Villafranca (total of 48). The merindad (administrative division) of La Ribera requires closer analysis, because there are also a further 115 households of Franks outside the chartered localities. This table only includes the Frankish population of the Good Towns of the kingdom, not the Franks dispersed in other places of peasant juridical status. This involves added complexity due to the conquest in the twelfth century, especially in the case of La Ribera. Aguilar (1269)

60



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average or larger size that nevertheless do not have this franchised status. This defect, which was finally corrected towards the end of the Middle Ages (in the fifteenth century) or even later, means that three or four other entities are not included in the list of Good Towns, and, as a result, they did not have the capacity to carry out regulated political action. In the political contexts we will examine below, some of these will appear from time to time—although temporarily—but it is true that they were not able to develop as urban entities with full rights until much later. Given the apparent lack of importance of quite a few of the entities shown in the table above, and also of the social importance of others which, from at least the demo­ graphic and economic point of view, could be taken into consideration, we will maintain the criterion of “urban” for the towns granted a franchise, i.e., the Good Towns. There is another reason: the Good Towns of the kingdom played a key political role and developed a specific “collective identity,” which we will present here. The second point worth highlighting is that in a territory of just over 12,000 square kilometres (over two hundred miles by two hundred miles) these twenty-seven Good Towns, plus the two from Ultrapuertos (in the thirteenth century), represent—together with their small size—a clear picture of the urban density here. Furthermore, only the Pamplona boroughs were not under the direct control of the monarch, because they were under the rule of the bishop of Pamplona until 1319. After that date, none of the Good Towns were outside the control of the king. In the context of disputes with the Crown, this is important and deserves to be taken into consideration, as we will see very shortly. Depending on the circumstances, the power of the king could be quite marked: the monarch could reach any part of his kingdom within a day. All the urban charters were granted by him, even partially in the case of Pamplona, where the king intervened in the granting of the charter, despite the fact that the city was under the jurisdiction of the bishop.3 The aspects we will see in relation to urban identity have a close relation to this dialectic with the Crown. They were particularly difficult times in this respect, first due to the arrival of new dynasties from outside the kingdom, and then to the increasing physical distance of the monarchs, starting in the last third of the thirteenth century. A third preliminary point refers to the political context in which this analysis takes place. The thirteenth century and the first third of the fourteenth century—the period of the Houses of Champagne and the Capets—have been well documented by historians from a range of perspectives: political, social, the structuring of the monarchy, and so 3  This led Prof. Martí�n Duque to propose the idea of a kind of “shared rule”; e.g., in Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque, “El señorí�o episcopal de Pamplona hasta 1276,” in La Catedral de Pamplona, ed. Carmen Jusué, 2 vols. (Pamplona, 1994), 1:72–80, esp. 74–77. More recently, in the line of a more ecclesiastical rule, see Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Pouvoir seigneurial sur les ‘villes’ de Pampelune de la fin du XIIIe siècle au debut du XIVe siècle,” in La ville au Moyen Âge. II. Sociétés et pouvoirs dans la ville, ed. Noël Coulet and Olivier Guyotjeannin (Paris, 1998), 229–44; and, above all, proposing a number of debates around the matter, Fermí�n Miranda Garcí�a, “Pamplona, ciudad y señorí�o episcopal. Apuntes para un debate historiográfico,” in Ciudad e iglesia: el espacio y el poder, la documentación y la expresión artística, ed. Gregoria Cavero (León, 2012).

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on,4 as has the action of the different social agents. In reality, this implies that the data referred to here—assemblies, meetings, and social movements, the comings and goings of the monarchs—are quite well known, with just a few exceptions, and our aim is not to provide much more information on this point.5 This study aims at other parameters. In the same way that a study a few years ago compared the movements of the lower nobility and the particular features of their dialectics with the power of the monarchs,6 we will now analyze the urban structure from that same perspective of political action. In that study, some reflections were made on the urban world, an inseparable element of the nobles’ agitation in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. These ideas are picked up again here, through the light cast on the forging of the identity of the towns and cities; this will be the backbone of the analysis that follows. As a final initial consideration, it is necessary to reflect a little on the very concept of identity, with particular reference to the urban context. This aspect requires a little more time and attention. Urban identities are often considered the result, or a consequence, of the confrontation of two elements that are clearly different, in other words, the result of a dialectical relationship.7 Indeed, this study was developed over two sessions of complimentary debate, framed within the perspective of the dialectical construction of identity. Furthermore, it should be remembered that the notion of identity is grasped, thought and re-thought, constructed and reconstructed, so that any process of identity is also a pro4  The general summary by José Marí�a Lacarra, Historia política del reino de Navarra desde sus orígenes hasta la Baja Edad Media, 2 vols. (Pamplona, 1972), continues to be very useful. More recently, and with special focus on this period from a more updated perspective: Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque and Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, El reino de Navarra (1217–1350) (Madrid, 1990), 3–89 and particularly Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “De los Sanchos a los Teobaldos, ¿Cabe reconsiderar la Navarra del siglo XIII?” in La Península Ibérica en el tiempo de las Navas de Tolosa, ed. Carlos Estepa Dí�ez and Marí�a Antonia Carmona Ruiz (Madrid, 2014), 395–424.

5  Very recently, Juan Carrasco described in detail the well-known vicissitudes of the confrontations between the king and the urban assemblies of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. See Juan Carrasco, “El pacto ‘constitucional’ en la monarquí�a navarra (1234–1330): el rey y las buenas villas del reino,” in Avant le contrat politique dans l’Occident médiéval (XIIIe–XVe siècle), ed. François Foronda (Paris, 2011), 507–40.

6  Essentially, the themes are dealt with sequentially in the studies by Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero on the political structure of the period, which are partly completed by the present study: Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Un golpe revolucionario en Navarra. 13 de marzo de 1328,” in Coups d’État à la fin du Moyen Age. Aux fondements du pouvoir politique en Europe occidentale, ed. Jean-Philippe Genet and José Manuel Nieto Soria (Madrid, 2005), 403–30; Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario, preludio del diálogo entre el rey y el reino,” in Du contrat d’alliance au contrat politique. Cultures et sociétés politiques dans la péninsule ibérique à la fin du Moyen Âge, ed. François Foronda and Ana Isabel Carrasco (Tolouse, 2007), 263–96; and Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Sociedad polí�tica y diálogo con la realeza en Navarra (1134–1329),” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medi­ eval 19 (2015–2016): 79–110. 7  José Antonio Jara, “Introducción. Memoria de una identidad (de identidades). Castilla en la Edad Media,” in Construir la identidad en la Edad Media. Poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII al XV, ed. José Antonio Jara, Georges Martin, and Isabel Alfonso (Cuenca, 2010), 9–16.



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cess of memory.8 If we look at the definition in the Diccionario de la Lengua Española, suitably concise and purely expository, identity is the “series of features that belong to an individual or a group that define him/her or it against others,” or the “awareness that a person has of being him/herself and different from others.”9 A certain nuance of conflict can be detected in the first definition, hidden in the phrase “against.” Nevertheless, this does not necessarily—or only—presuppose conflict, but rather difference. Identity is linked to differentiating particular features, which does not necessarily mean that these are “aggressive.” It seems important to me to highlight this, as, while conflict situations may reinforce the differentiated personal and institutional perception of identity, it is reasonable to suggest that—without a prior identity that precedes crisis situations—it would be difficult to construct an identity solely from instruments of confrontation. In the case of Navarre, which we now examine, it is possible to see how the Good Towns of the kingdom—both large and small—show a definition of identity that is prior to any confrontation, with identity acting as a catalyst in the dialectics of the towns as a group with the Crown. This is what accounts for their grouping into a powerful and solid “Fraternity of Good Towns,” although some did deviate from the general line along the way. Therefore, it seems that the most reasonable thing to do is to reformulate the initial idea, that is, identity is not necessarily the result of a conflict, or at least the result of a conflict between the urban centre and someone external to it, although commonly perceived danger can serve as a stimulus to activate reinforcement mechanisms and renewed links of identity. This is also the case when we speak—not so much of a specific urban centre—of a complete urban network that works and negotiates, quite often together, as in the case in point. We can highlight two forms of construction of identity that, I feel, should be analyzed simultaneously. On one hand, a series of peaceful expressions—although not necessarily “innocent” as a result—of the identity of a city; it is not possible to go into detail now, but it is necessary to highlight them. On the other hand, when conflict situations arise, these become a driving force and a catalyst for identity. This occurred in Navarre at a particular moment in time, and most of this analysis will be dedicated to that period, although first it is necessary to focus on the differentiating and determining elements of the urban world that do not have a conflictive character, but without which it is difficult to understand the strength of the urban mesh that emerged later, in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.

Creating an Urban Identity

Urban centres in Navarre, regardless of their size and economic importance, were based on an original statutory endowment, a fuero (charter, or franchise) or a particular Franks’ charter, linked to a particular place and its inhabitants (at the time or in the 8  Jara, “Introducción. Memoria,” 9–10.

9  “Conjunto de rasgos propios de un individuo o de una colectividad que los caracterizan frente a los demás; Conciencia que una persona tiene de ser ella misma y distinta a las demàs.” Cited from “Identidad,” in Diccionario de la Lengua Española (Madrid, 2014), accessed February 20, 2015, at http://dle.rae.es/?id=KtmKMfe.

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future), that was given the regulatory instruments needed to organize communal life in the widest sense. Both the notions of space and belonging (or exclusion)10 are essential elements that continuously undergo changes. Many years ago, Lacarra and Martí�n Duque highlighted the “close solidarity” between people living under the same legal regulations; they pointed out that common oaths were sworn on certain agreements that could affect all the people living in a particular place.11 For example, Escalona—despite the fact that he refers to rural communities—indicates three features that (he believes) indicate how and why a community generates a collective identity, together with its prolongation over time.12 He goes on to say that the insertion of a community in other, higher-level constructions represents a basic element of its identity; the overall political system therefore determines major external and internal aspects. Despite referring to rural communities, at this level of analysis his conclusions are perfectly applicable to the urban world, which also involves a group of people living in a particular place over a period of time. In the urban centre, moreover, there are other essential defining features, such as the previously-mentioned regulatory statute, whose socio-political importance is essential. These are key elements in the urban world: first, the city develops (and particularly the Good Towns, our interest here) around a foundational endowment made by someone granting a core regulatory structure aimed at guaranteeing certain rights that those outside that place do not enjoy.13 Second, this regulatory framework, exclusively related to a place and particular people—or whomever settles there, according to certain criteria— marks a social difference with the surroundings and, by extension, a difference in the way that community is governed. The first thing that forges identity— because it marks out distinctions in comparison with the rest of the human and physical landscape—is, therefore, the origin and the first legal articulation of the city.14 Hence, perhaps, the insistence on only referring to communities granted this kind of charter as “urban” in the historio­graphy of Navarre. 10  In the fueros of Navarre, for example, in that of San Saturnino de Pamplona, certain social groups are expressly excluded: peasants, clerics, etc. José Marí�a Lacarra and Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque, Fueros derivados de Jaca, 2: De Pamplona (Pamplona, 1975), 24.

11  Lacarra and Martí�n Duque, Fueros derivados de Jaca, 52. Worthy of note is the oath taken by all the inhabitants of the boroughs and neighbourhoods of Pamplona in a concordia reached in 1213, or a peace imposed by the king and the bishop of Pamplona in 1222.

12  Julio Escalona Monge, “Territorialidad e identidades locales en la Castilla condal,” in Construir la identidad en la Edad Media. Poder y memoria en la Castilla de los siglos VII al XV, ed. José Antonio Jara, Georges Martin and Isabel Alfonso (Cuenca, 2010), 58–67.

13  The awareness of identity of the Franks was strengthened by the law that ordered the statutes of Jaca and even those of the fueros, which, although not a branch of Jaca, have identical franchises and exemptions. The Frankish boroughs, even “from Castile, Navarre and other lands” (as Alfonso II of Aragon said in 1187) attended Jaca to learn about their rules and apply them to their own situations as a way of improving them. Lacarra and Martí�n Duque, Fueros derivados de Jaca, 55–57.

14  Alain Saint Denis considers the importance of being granted a statute of this type essential. Alain Saint Denis, “L’apparition d’une identité urbaine dans les villes de commune de France du Nord aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles,” in Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medi­eval Europe, ed. Marc Boone and Peter Stabel (Antwerp, 2000), 65–87, specifically 65.



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Identity also has a relationship with evocation, however. Some time ago, Gina Fassoli15 proposed three elements that she considered clear expressions of the “civic conscience” of Italian cities: the conservation and transmission of memory, the creation of archives, and the compilation of chronicles or stories about the city. All three are elements of allocation and testimony. True, the reality of the situation in northern Italy is indirectly related to the absence of a powerful monarchy, something that does not occur to the same extent in other western European contexts, although this does not invalidate these three expressions, all directly related to the memorial interest inherent in urban identity. What are of interest to us here are the elements that are worth highlighting, that are equivalent to or can be fitted into this framework of conservation and transmission of memory. On one hand, even though they may not be traditional urban chronicles, there are other texts—and very early ones too—that are laudatory, referring to the glory of the main city in the kingdom, Pamplona,16 or books with records of inhabitants.17 On the other hand, it is necessary to underscore the role of urban seals in creating identity; this topic deserves more extensive attention than we can pay here. The possession of a seal represents an acquired autonomy, a certain jurisdictional capacity, and, through images and inscriptions, the personality of the urban centre. The analysis of forms— hagio­graphical (“speaking”) models that reflect economic activities, monumental or institutional representations—can provide highly illustrative insights on the portrait of itself that a city deliberately wishes to project.18 The image of the seal expresses the identity conceived by the city as a reflection of what unites its inhabitants, i.e., people who share that image. Here we are not so interested in its legal use, which is variable, as in its use to advertise the city, an “identity strategy” that singles and marks out the city.19 Other elements that distinguish and indicate the nature of an urban centre should not be forgotten, such as monumental elements including specific constructions (a town hall, the Navarrese term for this being Jurería) or city walls. The use of urban space by 15  Quoted by Samantha Kelly, “Monarquí�a y ciudad. Conciencia cí�vica e identidad urbana en Nápoles antes de 1400,” in Modelos culturales y normas sociales al final de la Edad Media, ed. Patrick Boucheron and Francisco Ruiz Gómez (Cuenca, 2009), 203–16; specifically 203–4.

16  Fermí�n Miranda Garcí�a, “‘De laude Pampilone’ y la construcción ideológica de una capital regia en el entorno del año Mil,” in ‘Ab urbe condita…’. Fonder et refonder la ville. récits et réprésentations (second Moyen Age–premier XVIe siècle), ed. Véronique Lamazou-Duplan (Pau, 2011), 293–308.

17  Worthy of note, above all, is the book-register of Olite. Ricardo Ciérvide Martinena, ed., Registro del concejo de Olite (1224–1537) (Pamplona, 1974); there is also systematic evidence of the nominal admission of residents in Olite over quite a long period of time, with several examples, almost annual, in the thirteenth century, in Marcelino Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite (siglos XII–XIV) (Pamplona, 2009).

18  Jean Luc Chassel and Pierre Flandin-Bléty, “La réprésentation du pouvoir délibératif sur les sceaux des villes au Moyen Age,” in Le gouvernement des communautés politiques à la fin du Moyen Age. Entre puissance et négotiation: Villes, Finances, État. Actes du Colloque en l’honneur d’Albert Rigaudière, ed. Corinne Leveleux-Teixeira, Anne Rousselet-Pimont, Pierre Bonin, and Florent Garnier (Paris, 2011), 135–60, specifically 136. 19  Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, “Du modèle à l’image. les signes de l’identité urbaine au Moyen Age,” in Le verbe, l’image et les réprésentations de la société urbaine au Moyen Age, ed. Marc Boone, Elodie Lacuppre-Desjardins, and Jean Pierre Sossons (Antwerp, 2002), 189–205, specifically 201–4.

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social groups and institutions shows subtle differences that are worth considering; ranging from the symbolic meaning behind forms, such as a hexagonal street layout20 (as in the case of San Saturnino in Pamplona) or circular forms, to the construction of key urban structures, such as markets, bridges, and churches (plus the already mentioned town halls and city walls), which are then represented—in a more or less realistic or idealized manner—on the city seals and other pictorial images. Continuing with this list of features that create the personality of a city and its identity, there are other, more political, elements alluded to above when referring to charters. There are several of these that deserve attention, but one in particular stands out: the right to be consulted by the monarch. In the case of Navarre, this does not seem to have been expressed anywhere, either in the different urban charters or in any other general regulation, but it is true that the Good Towns of the kingdom—namely, urban centres with Franks’ charters—are the only communities called to the monarch’s extraordinary Curia, States-General, or Courts (Parliament). This does not only happen at times when we can perhaps consider that the system was in its plenitude; it can be detected in the era when the first urban centres received their charter (early in the twelfth century). There are three cases of particular interest here, and no doubt prior to any interest in potential requests for general economic assistance, which were still far off at that time: Table 19.2: Towns consulted by the monarch Alfonso I (1094–1135) 1117

First Curia Regis in which three Frankish towns were convened: Jaca, Estella, and Nájera. At the time, except for Tudela (recently reconquered from the Muslims in 1119), which was perhaps not extensively involved in the political life of the kingdom, plus other places in the Ebro valley that would later come under the control of Aragon, there were no other Frankish towns in the kingdom.

Sancho VII (1194–1234) 1231

Great Curia to establish the succession to the throne (“Pact of Adoption” with James I of Aragon). Six Good Towns: San Saturnino (Pamplona), Estella, Sangüesa, Olite, Los Arcos, Puente la Reina.

Theobald I (1234–1253) 1236

Curia in which certain market rights were sold to the burghers of Estella. The entire regiment of Estella was present, together with representatives of the burgenses Pampilone.

To this we need to add the call on urban centres to attend the royal oath-taking ceremony of Theobald II (1253) and, undoubtedly, that of Theobald I (its text has not been preserved). It is even possible to think that, in a previous phase, in the reigns of the so called “dynasty of the Restorer” (1035–1234), the cities may have played a fairly important role.21 20  Bedoz-Rezak, “Du modele à l’image,” 190–91.

21  It is worth analyzing, although this is not the place to do it, the involvement of the urban centres in rejecting the will of Alfonso I the Battler, and in the crowning of Garcí�a Ramí�rez in Pamplona, or of Ramiro II in Aragon. It should be remembered that the Good Towns of the kingdom in 1134 were



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In all of them, and regardless of whether they were all called to attend a Curia (or whether they all attended), it is clear that the king’s attention to the urban world is an early phenomenon, focused on the urban centres with a charter that (at least socially) made them equivalent to “noble” status and granted them valuable instruments for governance, fiscal control, the development of legislation, or jurisdiction in political terms. It can be concluded, therefore, that the creation of an urban identity is based on a series of factors that are not necessarily conflictive, but have strong political, symbolic, and memorial features linked to the origin of the urban centre, the development of its physiognomy, the selection of its distinguishing symbols, the dissemination of its image, and so on. Nevertheless, it is true that conflict—dialectics with the “other”—accentuates this identity and strengthens it until it influences initiatives to bring cities closer together and to create connections, associations, and fraternities for self-protection. This is the context we will examine in the specific case of Navarre, where the singular political role of these groupings contributes characteristics that are of special interest.22

The City in Political Dialectics

The sequence of urban assemblies and connections that took place between the midthirteenth century and the first third of the fourteenth can be seen from a number of different perspectives.23 Based on an analysis of power plays and pressures, five stages or phases are proposed, which, in my opinion, mark out certain interests and rhythms in the evolution of their political profiles. Before going into detail on these, we should briefly consider a few ideas. First of all, it is worth returning to something said earlier: the representation of urban centres in royal affairs began early on. At a time when there were only three towns with a Franks’ charter, two had already been called to the king’s Curia. Basically, it is possible to consider that in matters of direct interest for the urban world—or things that directly affected it—the monarch could call on towns/cities to attend for consultations, which he did. Second, it is clear that Fraternities between urban centres in Navarre took place more often during the phase in which the monarchs of Navarre were also those of France, although some earlier collegiate assemblies have been detected. This has to do with the interests and objectives of the cities coming together, and is obviously directly related to a perception of conflict; or, at least, the identification of a common danger bound to pass from royal rule to ecclesiastical rule, according to his will of 1131, but this was never complied with.

22  We have already said that the sequence of meetings of the fraternities was not a novelty in itself; indeed, reference has been made to the recent study in which Juan Carrasco brings together almost all those of which we have any knowledge. 23  The perspective related to the evolution of the “Cortes” or “States” was recently tackled in Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Juntas, Hermandades, Cort General, Estados. reuniones y representación en Navarra (s. XII-XIV),” in Cortes y Parlamentos en la Edad Media Peninsular, ed. Germán Navarro Espinach and Concepción Villanueva Morte (Murcia, 2020), 365–96.

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to their freedoms and, therefore, an express desire to obtain guarantees.24 Beyond this, however, it seems clear that the evolution we shall examine will result in a logical process—although not necessarily concurrent with that of the nobility—of an awareness of greater political responsibility. When an irregular situation takes place, the cities (and the lower nobility, too, but at another pace) considered that their duty was to protect not only their privileges, but also the kingdom. The crown was not the same thing as the people who held it, although we will not discuss this early political philosophy, intensely linked to the very conception of the “state,” that is, the monarchical, medi­eval state.25 Nevertheless, even though the Fraternities have been studied previously, and the documentation is well-known, they have always been interpreted in a rather mimetic way vis-à-vis the actions of the lower nobility, and precisely on the level of “revolt.” The perception argued here, however, is quite the contrary. First Phase: The Period of the House of Champagne (1234–1274)

To start, we should point out that there is hardly any information available on inter-urban associations before the arrival of the second House of Champagne (1253). However, we need to consider some clues regarding the previous activities of the bourgeoisie; in other words, the movements observed from that date on have some precedents. On one hand, it is clear that in the first third of the thirteenth century there was already a strong movement among the lower nobility to put down in writing the rights and privileges of the nobility and limiting (in the process) the monarch’s power. This is the context in which the royal oath of the first Champagne king was prepared in 1234, and no doubt the first outlines of the Fuero General.26 This is not the place to dwell on this, but it is worth keeping in mind the evident weight of the interests of the nobility— and not just of the high nobility, rather, the level of the infanzones and other elements of the lower nobility—and the fact that the bourgeoisie seemed to be absent (and very quiet) during this process, in silence while the king “fought” with the nobility on his own. As already mentioned, however, some factors lead one to think this was not the 24  Lacarra studied these issues some time ago and indicated meetings and contexts, both in the General History of the kingdom and in the well-known study on royal oaths: José Marí�a Lacarra, El juramento de los reyes de Navarra (1234–1329) (Madrid, 1972), a matter on which Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque provided very interesting reflections in a number of studies. 25  There is abundant biblio­graphy on the “medi­eval state,” and this is not the place to go into it in detail, but we should point out the considerations of Jacques Krynen on what he calls “the monarchic state.” Jacques Krynen, L’Empire du roi: idées et croyances politiques en France XIIIe–XVe siècle (Paris, 1993), esp. 51ff.

26  There are various studies by Martí�n Duque on this, focusing on the drawing up of this first section of the fuero general, to the moment when Theobald I arrived in Navarre and set up the commission, created at royal request, four years later, within the framework of pressure from the nobles, especially in Á� ngel J. Martí�n Duque, “Singularidades de la Realeza Medi­eval navarra,” in Poderes públicos en la Europa Medi­eval. Principados, reinos y coronas, ed. Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero (Pamplona, 1997), 299–346, esp. 333. I summarize these contributions, as well as how they complete and qualify the studies by José Marí�a Lacarra, in Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 263–96.



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case. First, the Fuero General27 gradually and specifically included all the rights, situations, and conditions of urban society, taken from the urban charters, to such an extent that—in the fourteenth century, and even in the fifteenth—the king created late boroughs of Franks under the Fuero General of Navarre, where all the bourgeois casuistry was contained.28 It should be remembered, therefore, that the bourgeois elites, and above all their intellectual forces, persistently acted within the framework of political society of the early thirteenth century. The Good Towns were the usual seats of the different royal residences, the locations of the biggest Curia meetings; as we have seen, they were held from very early on, although infrequently. All this legislative apparatus would not have been possible without a cohesive bourgeoisie in close contact with the legislative commissions: an intellectual elite, perhaps. Without going into detail on this here, some elements lead one to think that intellectual circles existed in the urban world; after all, these were fairly mercantile societies with the ways and means to study. There were some important notaries—particularly in Tudela, but also in Estella—and experts in accountancy and letters, people who later found work in the general administration of the kingdom and even in royal circles. Nor should we forget the presence of major ecclesiastical centres in the Good Towns, not only the Cathedral Chapter of Pamplona, but also important mendicant orders, particularly the Franciscans and the Dominicans. A second major factor: we know of specific sentences by King Theobald I in the first years of his reign related to claims by the most important cities of the kingdom— Tudela and Estella29—as well as specific agreements between parts of the boroughs of Pamplona, which were governed by the bishop.30 In the first third of the thirteenth century, cities such as Tudela, Estella, or Pamplona, to stay with the chosen examples, had instruments to make claims or “institutional” agreements with the monarch on a range of issues. Third, but no less important, when the Good Towns of the kingdom worked in an effective and associated manner, that is, coordinating actions to present a common front—starting in the early period of Theobald II’s reign—this became a powerful, clear, and structured approach, rather than a hesitant experiment, indicating figures,

27  The edition used here is that of Juan Fernando Utrilla Utrilla, El Fuero General de Navarra. Estudio y edición de las redacciones protosistemáticas (Series A y B) (Pamplona, 1987).

28  The case of Pamplona is significant: with the cancellation of the different urban jurisdictions in 1421 and the granting of the Privilegio de la Unión (the norm that regulated the life of the city), until then ordered by two different types of charter from the “Jaca–Estella” family, the Law provided would be the Fuero General of Navarre. Concepción Martí�nez Pasamar, El privilegio de la Unión (1423) de Carlos III el Noble, rey de Navarra. Edición, estudio filológico y vocabulario (Pamplona, 1995).

29  In 1237, Theobald I and the council of Tudela appointed four burghers to settle ongoing differences between the king and the council of Tudela since the death of Sancho VII. One of the appointees was the alcalde of Estella. Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, ed., El Cartulario de Teobaldo I, 2 vols. (Pamplona, 2012), 1:454–55 (document 217).

30  In 1213, the three boroughs of Pamplona (San Saturnino, San Nicolás, and San Miguel) reached agreement with the episcopal borough of the civitas (La Navarrerí�a) that ratified the bishop as its jurisdictional lord. Each of the entities was clearly distinguished, but it is interesting to note that all the boroughs reacted collegially vis-à-vis the most vulnerable one, La Navarrerí�a. Ramí�rez Vaquero, El Cartulario, 548–51 (document 273).

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prejudiced parties, and offences, and requesting corrections to situations. It was as if a sudden political maturity on this scale could be improvised in the second half of the thirteenth century, which is clearly not the case. It is clear, however, that there were early (but presumably imperfect) links among these Good Towns, and perhaps one needs to think of a kind of imitation of nobles’ associations—the juntas—but with even greater institutional solidity, as this is not a case of individuals, but of legally recognized communities. There was also an awareness of affinity among the Good Towns, based on their similar charters: they were governed by the same (or very similar) Law, they all set up the same type of urban government, and the same social landscape. The Good Towns had their own features differentiating them from the other (ordinary) towns of the kingdom—which did not have this legislative framework—such as the right to be called to the monarch’s Curia on special occasions. As a group, their delegates were called “the good men of the Good Towns of Navarre” (los hombres buenos de las buenas villas de Navarra, or “franks,” “my beloved franks” [nuestros amados francos], as Theobald II called them on several occasions).31 Each one developed a strong independent identity based on its privileges, physiognomy, symbols, and public manifestations, although the associations between them were maintained in relation to threats from outside, or at least common concerns. The situation seriously worsened, not with the arrival of the House of Champagne in 1234 or 1253, but with an awareness of the proximity of a change of dynasty that emerged well before (at least in 1224), the date of the first trip to Navarre by the future King Theobald I. The social movements around the drawing up of the first royal oath and the first texts of the Fuero General in the first half of the thirteenth century would not have been possible without the presence of a powerful bourgeoisie.32

31  For example, in 1269, addressing the people of Estella; see Merche Osés Urricelqui, Docu­ mentación Medi­eval de Estella (siglos XII–XVI) (Pamplona, 2005), 105 (document 8). Three years before he called them “our beloved and loyal Franks” (a los nuestros amados e leales francos). Cited from Osés Urricelqui, Documentación Medi­eval de Estella, 104 (document 7). As for the “good men of the Good Towns,” see, for example, Osés Urricelqui, Documentación Medi­eval de Estella, 108–111 (document 11) (1274).

32  From a demo­graphic point of view, we do not have complete data for the thirteenth century. According to those collected by Raquel Garcí�a Arancón, Teobaldo II de Navarra. 1253–1270, Gobierno de la monarquía y recursos financieros (Pamplona, 1985), 76–77, which only refer to seven Frankish towns (including the three in Pamplona together), and according to her calculation of 30,000 households throughout the kingdom, the bourgeoisie represented 18.6% of the population in the mid-thirteenth century. This figure should be considered, I believe, a minimum, because a number of population centres are missing, though not the largest. For the fourteenth century, the figures are apparently clearer, but they seem doubtful in some cases. If we add the sum of the table of Good Towns shown above in relation to the calculation for the kingdom by Juan Carrasco (17,333 households in 1366; see Carrasco Pérez, La población de Navarra, 152) the population of the Good Towns of the kingdom would be 27.6%. Clearly, with the presence of the plague, and the evidence of strong and specific reductions in the population in Tudela, Estella, or Pamplona, commented on by Raquel Garcí�a Arancón, the figures are very striking, especially those of the fourteenth century. To think that between a third and a quarter of the population of the kingdom was Frankish might appear excessive, especially after the plague. The demo­graphic data therefore deserve a reflection that it is not possible to make here, perhaps aimed at evaluating possible levels of fraud or making



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Table 19.3: No. of Judges appointed The first collegiate reunion of which we have evito the Good Towns (1254, July) dence to date, and which could be called an “assem-

bly” of Good Towns, was not an assembly as such, but a commission of burghers from different cities acting Estella (2) in defence of certain urban interests that they considSangüesa (2) ered prejudiced by Theobald I. On the king’s death, six Olite (2) Good Towns appointed a certain number of “judges” Los Arcos (2) (alcaldes) to examine these grievances (always of a mercantile nature) in July 125433 about exchange rates Puente la Reina (2) (document 15), new or unreasonable royal taxes in their urban centres (documents 16 and 18), undue income (document17), ploughing up land (document 19), or administrative issues in the cities (document 20). San Saturnino de Pamplona (3)

Second Phase: Joan I, Queen of Navarre, Under the Regency of Her Mother, Blanche de Artois, and the Protection of the King of France 1274–1284 We do not have references to other urban assemblies, or of bench sessions in the rest of the reign of the House of Champagne, which ended in 1274 with the death of Henry I on 25 July, leaving the throne in the hands of a widowed queen who took refuge in the protection of the King of France. The behaviour of the nobility at that time of change is well known,34 but it was not simply replicated in parallel in the urban population, because in reality it shows a number of interesting nuances. Just one month after the king’s death (27 August), the Good Towns of the kingdom set up an explicit “Fraternity” (hermandad)35 aimed at “protecting their uses and customs” (que nuestros fueros et nuestras bonas costumpnes nos sean agoardadas et tenudas…), which they considered to be under threat. The pact was established for thirty years, but would be verified every three months. It is interesting to note that this Fraternity, as the minutes of the meeting state, was constituted at the end of a States-General—with the three regulatory levels— convened by the queen to appoint a governor. Once the governor had been sworn in, and “due to love that these things should be attended and well kept” (por amor que todas a comparison with later figures (the fifteenth century, perhaps) with a view to evaluating the consolidation of the data. In any event, and even if we put that approximately 30% of the Frankish population “in quarantine,” the demo­graphic importance of the Good Towns is significant, and an essential social element.

33  There are a number of sentences that reflect the work of the judges, the most interesting perhaps those preserved in the archive in Olite, because it is a series of six pieces (Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 87–94 [documents 15–20]) showing the itinerant nature of their work (in those six cases, they met in Puente la Reina and Pamplona), the diversity of issues, and evidence that—in all cases—the commission dealt with the rights of urban centres that were prejudiced or reduced. 34  See note 4.

35  More explicitly a jura (oath). Text in Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 285–87 (document 43); Osés Urricelqui, Documentación Medi­eval de Estella, 109 (document 11); and in Ricardo Cierbide and Emiliana Ramos, Documentación medi­eval del Archivo Municipal de Pamplona (1129–1356) (San Sebastián, 1998), 115–17 (document 79).

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estas cosas fuessen atenudas et bien agardadas…), the Good Towns swore to be the guarantors of that undertaking. This could also be compared to what, much later, would be a kind of “deputation” to the Cortes San Saturnino (parliament), with all kinds of caveats, the objective being to ensure the agreements were36fulfilled.37 Los Arcos We should also point out that there were six San Nicolás more Good Towns than those documented in 1254, Viana although Tudela, the biggest in the kingdom, did not Estella join the Fraternity until much later (1285); in other Laguardia words, it took its time to join the agreement. It is Olite interesting to see that this Fraternity took shape at the same time as the lower nobility juntas started Burguete strong political agitation, so at the time of the comSangüesa plex succession of Henri I, there was a general atmoSaint-Jean-Pied-de-Port sphere of great turmoil and mistrust: the queen was Puente la Reina a child, decisions were taken in Paris, the Kings of Tudela joined the Fraternity Aragon and Castile made claims to the Crown or tried on 12 March 1285. to win over the high nobility and the high clergy, and so on. It is interesting to note—and this is the most novel aspect of this analysis—that it was precisely the urban world that set out to make a clear distinction of objectives and create a marked distance from the rebelliousness of the nobles. They swore an oath to verify the implementation of a completely legal agreement reached in a general Curia called by the widowed queen. In comparison with possible alternatives to the throne adopted by the nobility—even with the collusion of the clergy—looking over their shoulders at Castile or Aragon and including the possible intention of resuscitating the old “pact of adoption” signed by King Sancho VII in 1231, the Good Towns stuck to strict legality. They reminded people that there was a legitimate queen, wherever she was (Navarre or France) and whomever she married. The urban fraternities would be the guardians of strict legitimacy, and this is the basic novelty that makes a difference. However, a very singular event occurred as a sign of the undoubted difficulties of the situation, even within the bourgeoisie. Zurita reports on what was called a Cort General that took place just three months later (November 1274), where “the kingdom” would have clearly opted for the pretender of Aragon to the throne, as a gesture of long-

Table 19.4: Fraternity of Good Towns36 called to supervise the governor appointed by the Parliament (1254, July 27)

36  It does not explain which boroughs; bearing in mind the destruction of La Navarrerí�a in 1276, it should refer to the other two, which later appear in other assemblies.

37  It would be of great interest to propose a comparative framework here with at least the rest of the Hispanic kingdoms, to check urban actions (unions, link-ups) with—or opposed to—forces of the monarchy. This would go well beyond the scope of this study, but it is at least worth pointing out, as an essential biblio­graphical reference in this regard—especially from the point of view of an acute reflection—the work of Marí�a Asenjo González, “La aristocratización polí�tica en Castilla y el proceso de participación urbana (1252–1520),” in La monarquía como conflicto en la corona castellano-leonesa (c. 1230–1504), ed. José Manuel Nieto Soria (Madrid, 2006), 133–96.



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standing commitments to the neighbouring kingdom. This was an undoubtedly irregular assembly (we do not know who called it), and a chronicler from Aragon names six Good Towns of Navarre in it (Pamplona, Tudela, Olite, Sangüesa, and Puente la Reina). It is interesting to observe the presence of Tudela, absent from the Fraternity that we know, together with the absence of Estella, which soon after led the return to legality proclaimed at the time. True, Zurita, who wrote in the sixteenth century, is considered a reliable chronicler, but it is not possible to check his reports because the document recording that assembly, clearly dominated by the nobility (it contains the name of one hundred and thirty nobles and four clerics, but not the bishop of Pamplona), has not been preserved.38 Only six Good Towns confronted that legion of men from the nobility. This is quite a difference, although the key to the question lies in that just two weeks later (14 November), the burghers of Estella, who had not joined the initiative, adopted a definitive decision later followed by other Good Towns: they would only recognize the legitimate queen.39 As already mentioned, although now with greater firmness, in a clear misunderstanding between the Crown and the kingdom, the bourgeoisie defended the legitimacy to the throne above the agreements between the nobles and Aragon, highlighting the “natural lady,” that is, the person “who should reign” (que debe reinar), whom they supported above all. It is clear that this status was demanded prior to the strict recognition of their uses and customs. Nevertheless, the position defending the legitimacy of the throne seemed clear, especially when it was the governor (appointed just a few months before)—whom the Good Towns should “supervise,” according to the Fraternity agreement referred to above—who favoured closer ties with Aragon, even convincing some of the urban centres that joined the Fraternity. These events, which occurred in a strict chrono­logical sequence, deserve consideration. At the end of 1274 and in early 1275, the Kings of Aragon and Castile expected a call for help that would justify a direct intervention;40 this did not happen, so it is likely that the “brakes” that Estella applied on moving into illegality may have had a lot to do with this, especially when we see that the language used—“the kingdom for whom 38  With the aim of checking the credibility of the document, it would be useful to check the names of these nobles against the documentation of the time.

39  José Marí�a Lacarra knew of the document from the Municipal Archive of Estella (Special Collection) nos. 10 and 11, which he cites transcribing the phrase of the city’s oath, the alcaide of the castle and the aljama, whereby they all swore “to the Lady Jane, our lady, daughter of the deceased Lord Henry, our Lord, until reaching 12 years old, Estella, in case she die, which God doesn’t wish, for him or her must inherit from her” (para obs de dona Joana, nostra dona, filla de don Henric nostre seynnor qui fu, ata que sia de edat de XII ans. Estella si la dita dona devení�s, lo que Dios non voylla, per ad aquel o aquela qui deue heredar emprop ela). Cited from Lacarra, Historia política, 2:215. Now lost, it does not appear in Osés Urricelqui, Documentación Medi­eval de Estella. However, it was present in the inventory of this collection made in 1990: Juan Francisco Elizari Huarte and Marí�a José Ibiricu Dí�az, “Archivo Municipal de Estella. Fondos históricos especiales. Catálogo,” Príncipe de Viana 51 (1990): 619–703. 40  Lacarra, Historia política, 2:216–17.

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should reign” (el reino para quien debe reinar)—was that adopted by the social forces of Navarre just a few years Pamplona (sic) ­later.41 Laguardia Furthermore, once the governor resigned and the new Estella one (Eustaque de Beaumarchais) was appointed, the Good Viana Towns did not put their lot in with the nobility in the welldocumented crisis of summer 1276, when an authentic Sangüesa revolt by the nobles against the French governor took place; Los Arcos this was particularly the case in the civitas of Pamplona, Olite where a large contingent of infanzones installed itself. The Burguete Good Towns, it should be said, were in favour of the queen Puente la Reina and, therefore, her new governor, who even took shelter in two of them, San Saturnino and San Nicolás.42 They were Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port not the only ones to support the natural queen. Once the war was over, the widowed queen—in the name of her daughter, Juana—pardoned the inhabitants of Viana a specific fonsadera (a tax paid to the monarch as a contribution to war expenses) for their efforts in defending the town against Castile, thereby answering a request previously made by the Good Town with the support of the governor of the kingdom and other urban centres.43 Within this framework of crisis, we can insert the renewal of the Fraternity of 1274 in 1283.44 The thirty years envisaged in the original agreement had not expired, and the original governor was gone, but the events of 1276 and their immediate precedents required a rethink of the issue, which becomes clear in the light of important, necessary clauses. It should be remembered that there was a long judicial process in 1281 against the members of the Juntas de Infanzones, i.e., elements of the lower nobility who rebelled against the Capets.45 At the time, there was no mention of accusations or interrogations of the Fraternity of Good Towns or groups of burghers; rather, the accusation was levelled against the hidalgos. The burghers did not seem to raise the same suspicions as the juntas of nobles, and the reason may lie in their patent and clear loyalty to

Table 19.5: Fraternity (1283)

41  In 1328, we read that the regents have been elected to “rule, keep and order the so-called kingdom for whomever wants and has the right of inheriting it” (regir et goardar et ordenar el dicho regno pora qui quiere que drecho ouiesse de heredarlo). Cited from Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 466 (document 155).

42  On 30 November that year, after the military conflict, to avoid claims by San Saturnino and San Nicolás in Pamplona, the governor certified that he had taken shelter there when the ricoshombres of Navarre and the civitas of Pamplona rebelled against him. The governor said the two boroughs reacted to his request for assistance “because the so-called Lady of them was not disinherited” (porque la dicha lur seynnora non fuese deseredada). Cited from Cierbide and Ramos, Documentación medi­eval, 122–24 (document 83). 43  Pamplona, Archivo General de Navarra, Comptos Documentos, Caja 3, n. 74.

44  Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 301–2 (document 50); Cierbide and Ramos, Documentación Medi­eval, 125–26 (document 85). 45  See, in particular: Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Un golpe revolucionario,” 403–30.



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the queen, with the only “hiccup” of some Good Towns in 1274. This loyalty would later (but only later) extend to the lower nobility. In 1283, but still without the support of Tudela46—which arrived two years later, plus Villafranca in 1290—this “unity that the good men of the ruas [streets, which refer to an urban centre] of Navarre have” (la hunidat que los bonos ommes de las ruas de Nauarra an ensemble) was remembered and “improved” in a number of specific ways: 1. All would contribute to the expenses of the Fraternity, even if they did not attend the meetings. 2. They would maintain unity and pay any fines collectively.

3. In each meeting, the pact would be renewed, and updated or improved.

4. Whenever called to Parliament or other assemblies, they would act jointly, never independently. 5. They would not act against warranties provided by other urban centres.

The fourth point is particularly striking: it obliged them to always act jointly. It should be remembered that, after the agreement of 1274, some Good Towns sided with the nobility and left the group. The idea of five or six boroughs acting on their own account, or on the basis of a unilateral agreement, was strictly ruled out: the Fraternity obliged them to always act jointly, and also to cover any expenses or even fines. In this second phase, with the queen still a minor and clearly established in the court in Paris, the Good Towns of the kingdom were the clearest exponent of support to the “natural lady,” the only legitimate queen. Third Phase: Joan I, Effective Queen of Navarre (1284–1305), Married to Philip V of Navarre (Philip IV of France from 1285)

The first element to be considered in these twenty-odd years is the fact that the monarchs of Navarre also reigned in France;47 in this context, an intense development of all kinds of assemblies (especially of the nobility) took place, although we focus here on 46  The copy of the document in Olite states (301), at the start, that there were “twelve seals pending,” (seeylladas con doze seyellos) apparently counting those of Tudela and Villafranca, which joined in 1285 and 1290, although the final addendum only refers to the former. It is surprising that in the edition considered to be an original of 1283, there were still ten villas (unless Pamplona is counted as three), and this is difficult to check because only three of the twelve seals have been preserved. In the one for Pamplona, in the same tone, but including the incorporation of Villafranca, it is clear that the delegates are from ten villas; it is also considered an original from 1283. In this case the only seal preserved is that of Villafranca, which joined in 1290, five years after Tudela. Although the documents need to be analyzed in depth, it is possible that they are copies of the 1283 original in both cases, made to commemorate the incorporation of Tudela, in the first case, or Tudela and Villafranca in the second. 47  Once again, the particular details of the political sequence can be seen in Lacarra, Historia política, vol. 2. For the Capet period, and much further beyond the function of dissemination of the collection in which it is found, the most complete analysis of the period is by Javier Gallego Gallego, Enrique I, Juana I y Felipe I el Hermoso, Luis I el Hutín, Juan I el Póstumo, Felipe II el Largo, Carlos I

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those of the burghers. It is worth highlighting that the loyalty of the Good Towns to the queen did not involve giving up their rights and customs at all; in 1285 the Fraternity was strengthened by the entry of Tudela, which had been reluctant to join,48 and in 1290 by Villafranca, whose presence in the political life of the kingdom had been minimal until then. The Fraternity thus consisted of twelve urban centres, although Pamplona— with its civitas now destroyed—represented two different population centres. The second element worthy of note can be seen in the table below, showing a sequence of assemblies related to the Good Towns that took place at the time: Table 19.6: Sequence of assemblies related to the Good Towns 1289

News of an agreement between the Good Towns and the infanzones.49 The document is not preserved, but several oaths by nobles who left the “agreement with the Junta and the Good Towns” (la junta que hicieron con la partida de la caballeria y la de las buenas villas) are documented from 1290.50 1291, 23 November51

The bishop, prelates, knights, and Good Towns grant the governor parity between the currency of Navarre and the tornesa negra (the currency used in some parts of France at the time) in exchange for other items of monetary value. This assembly does not seem to be have been convened by the governor. Pamplona Estella Sangüesa Olite Puente la Reina Los Arcos Viana Laguardia Burguete Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

el Calvo (1270–1328) (Pamplona, 1986). See also references in note 22. For later, with a focus on the form of governance of the kingdom, see Eloí�sa Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Inquirir, evaluar, actuar en un reino lejano: Navarra, s. XIII–XIV,” in Quand gouverner c’est enquêter. Les practiques politiques de l’enquête princière (Occident, XIII–XIV siècles), ed. Thierry Pécout (Paris, 2010), 77–95.

48  Nevertheless, Tudela swore loyalty to Queen Joan and her governor Beaumarchais in May 1276. Lacarra, El juramento, 78 (document 6). It is true, however, that the city seemed to act with a delay that deserves greater analysis; it joined the Fraternity of 1274 rather late, although it was also late joining the commission for the swearing in of Charles I in 1322, an event that never took place. In the coup d’état of 1328, however, it was there punctually, despite the fact that the governor— dismissed in the coup—was locked up in the city’s castle. 49  Lacarra, Historia política, 2:245.

50  José Ramón Castro, Florencio Idoate, Catálogo de Documentos de Comptos, del Archivo General de Navarra, 2 vols. (Pamplona, 1952–1970), 1:245, documents 535ff. 51  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:288–89 (document 4).



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1294, 21 November52

The Good Towns appear before the governor and a number of knights and members of the royal Curia, presenting their privileges for confirmation in the terms Henri I would have presented. 1294, 29 May53

There is no list of Good Towns, although there is one of the Curia.

The Good Towns denounce grievances before Queen Joan I (grievances committed by her governor) and draw up another identical document for the king.

1297, October54

Pamplona Estella Tudela Sangüesa Olite Laguardia Los Arcos Viana Puente la Reina Burguete Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port Villafranca

Agreement of friendship and unity between the Good Towns and the Junta de infanzones to defend the kingdom and mutually help each other to protect their charters and customs. San Saturnino San Nicolás Estella Tudela Sangüesa Olite Los Arcos Puente la Reina Viana Laguardia Burguete Villafranca Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port Larrasoaña Villaba Monreal Lumbier, Zubiurrutia, and San Vicente55 appear at the end.

52  Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 318–20 (document 69). 53  Ramos Cierbide, Documentación Medi­eval, 157–60 (documents 99, 100).

54  Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval De Olite, 325–28 (document 74); and Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:289–91 (document 5), from the version in the Archivo General de Navarra.

55  They appear at the end of the document. Zubiurrutia does not usually appear as a Good Town (this is an exceptional reference), rather as a neighbourhood of Puente la Reina.

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1297, 2 November56

Cort general that could be considered irregular, apparently convened by the bishop, although stamped with the “king’s seal,” preserved by a Frank from Estella. A loan was agreed to send delegates to claim rights before Joan I and Philip I, granted by a number of money changers and Franks from these Good Towns. Pamplona (2) Estella (3) Tudela (1) Sangüesa (1) Olite (2) Puente la Reina (2) Burguete (1) Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (1) Larrasoaña (1) Villafranca (1) Monreal (1) Laguardia (1) Viana (2) Lumbier (2) Villaba (2)

1298, 23 August57

Prelates, ricoshombres (members of the high nobility), knights, infanzones, ruanos, and councillors of the Good Towns undertook not to help anyone who refused to support the request made to the king regarding their charters, privileges, and franchises, “neither in the Parliament or outside it” (ni en Cort ni fura de Cort). Includes areas (“lands”) in Ultrapuertos and Baztan. Pamplona Estella Sangüesa Monreal Lumbier Villaba Larrasoaña Burguete Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (One more, left blank)

56  Bishop, clerks, ricoshombres, knights, Good Towns, and in the case of these “each one for us, for our companions and for each of our companions referred to above, all together, everyone for all…” (… et nos … por nos, por nuestros compayneros, et quada unos por cada uno de nuestros conceillos…). Cited from Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 328–32 (document 75).

57  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:291–92 (document 6); the Good Towns are not listed there, but they appear in the document. Pamplona, Archivo General de Navarra, Comptos Documentos, Caja 4, n. 114.



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1299 or 1304, 11 November58

Report from the Good Towns at the council of Olite (it is understood that other councils were sent reports) on a meeting with prelates, ricoshombres, knights, infanzones, and Good Towns. They had previously asked the governor to enforce (or ensure the enforcement of) a sentence in a court case between Olite and the nearby town of Tafalla. From their letters, we gather that the governor “made a request” (hecho plega) for a Cort in Pamplona, attended by: Pamplona (3) Estella (2) Tudela (2) Sangüesa (5) Los Arcos (2) Viana (2) Laguardia (2) Monreal (4) Lumbier (1) Larrasoaña (1) Corella (5 + 1 mayoral)

Plus the mayors of Estella, Tudela, Sangüesa, Puente la Reina, Los Arcos, Viana, Laguardia, and Monreal. Each one debated “each one for himself” (auida buena deliberacion entre nos cada uno por si) to give the advice requested. Later, the “communities of the Good Towns of the kingdom of Navarre” (… las dichas comunidadesde las buenas uillas sobre dichas…) reported on these events: Estella Tudela Sangüesa Puente la Reina Los Arcos Viana Laguardia San Vicente Monreal

Several aspects are worth highlighting from this list of assemblies held during the effective reign of Joan I, but it is necessary to focus on the most important issues. An initial observation: there was a clear increase in the number of Good Towns in these movements of association aimed at the protection of their rights. There were also some towns with little demo­graphic and political weight, plus a few small places that did not have a Franks’ charter and soon disappeared from the list of the Good Towns (Corella, at the end of the century) or simply constituted a neighbourhood that would be subsumed into another borough (such as, Zubiurritia into Puente la Reina). Second, the urban assemblies and those of the nobility started to meet jointly, in a kind of irregular Cort general, the “regular” one being convened by the monarch or the governor, even if it included members of its Curia and representatives of the clergy. At times, they used the “seal of 58  Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 349–52 (document 90).

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the king in the city” (el sieillo del ditto seynnor rey en Esteilla), as in the assembly of November 1297, held without the presence of the king or the governor. October 1297 seems to be the date of the first of these jointly held meetings, although we do have knowledge of another (partial) assembly; it is not included here and is of great interest, although it may have taken place later. On a date not specified in the document,59 the Junta de Infanzones of Obanos decided to hold a “junta y unidad” with representatives of Pamplona, Tudela, and Sangüesa. Given that the call for the meeting was preceded by the clarification that “correctly and loyally safeguarding and maintaining the rights of the signory, in everything and for everything” (primerament saluando et goardando los dreitos de la Seynoria bien et leialment en todo et por todo), it should be understood that the infanzones had entered a phase of legality that could have taken place in the decade starting in 1280, and could be a precedent for the unity of 1297. However, in the same document (and twice), they agree to defend their particular rights “safeguarding the rights of the señor natural [NB: masculine] in everything and for everything” (saluando los derechos del seynor natural en todo et por todo…), which leads one to wonder if this is a later time, when the king—or the heir, whose succession was challenged or postponed—was a male.60 In other words, after the death of Joan I. A quick look at this sequence of actions, which therefore began in 1297, allows us to make a few points. Loyalty to the señor—in this case the queen—was never in doubt; concerns for the rights of each urban centre did not affect faithfulness and loyalty to the queen, who was the guarantor of those rights; any complaints from the kingdom had to do with the management of her administrators, but were not directed at her. Furthermore, we know that the mood of unease and distrust was strong, and surely helped to bring about the arrival in Navarre of the first group of “Inquisitors,” sent by the monarchs to investigate and correct whatever was necessary,61 with a specific remit to “reform” the kingdom.

Fourth Phase: The Crowning of Louis I of Navarre (1305–1307) and his Later Reign, Until 1316

The death of Joan I (4 April 1305) led to a new period of tension, because her husband— Philip IV of France—did not think he should give up the throne. As a result, two basic moments can be distinguished in the reign of Louis I: the process of his accession to the throne, and the reign itself. The Fraternity of Good Towns was the first to act, just five weeks after the death of the queen, and once again from the same perspective of legitimacy of succession. The idea of the queen as the “owner” of the throne re-emerged, and also that of protecting the kingdom against “any powerful person” (poderoso seynor) 59  Pamplona, Archivo General de Navarra, co_documentos, Caja 4, n. 1. (It has been catalogued as later than 1277, with no further information.)

60  In 1297 Louis had already been born, and this may refer to him, although it does not seem logical, because his mother was the queen and she was already referred to as señora natural. This possibility exists, however. 61  Recently attention has been paid to this new feature of government: Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Inquirir, evaluar, actuar,” 77–95, plus the basic prosopo­graphical features of the inquisitors.



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who wished to cause harm to it. To explain this, it is useful to present a new series of assemblies in the following table.

Table 19.7: Assemblies and the Fraternity of Good Towns 1305, 19 May62

“Union” of Good Towns in a Fraternity equivalent to that existing previously, with a planned timescale of twenty years. Interim supervisory meetings were planned every four months.

1306, 11 October63

Pamplona San Vicente Estella Aguilar Tudela Villafranca Sangüesa Lumbier Puente la Reina Corella* (not a Good Town; it disappears later) Monreal Larrasoaña Los Arcos Villava Laguardia

Joint meeting of a Junta de Infanzones and the Fraternity of the Good Towns. The kingdom was to be preserved for its señor natural, Louis, who was called upon to come to Pamplona. No governor would be received unless the king made an appearance first. 1307, 1 September64

An irregular Cort general was held in Pamplona. The lower nobility and the Good Towns “met for reasons of unity” (plegados … por lur hunidat) and refused (in the presence of a notary) to receive the new governor because the king was not present. 1307, October

The King in Navarre; his coronation, and oath-taking (in December, he returned to France).

62  The document comes from the archives of Tudela, and is explained in Lacarra, Historia Política, 2:251–52.

63  Lacarra, Historia Política, 2:253; Pamplona, Archivo de la Catedral de Pamplona, an insert in a document of 28 April 1307, published in Marí�a Á� ngeles Irurita, El municipio de Pamplona en la Edad Media (Pamplona, 1959), 172–74. 64  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:293–94 (document 8). The Good Towns present are not named in the document; they are always referred to just as the “Good Towns of the Kingdom of Navarre.”

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1315, 6 April65

The governor convenes and brings together what seems to be a Curia to arbitrate a dispute between San Saturnino and San Nicolás. Two men from each group were present: prelates, ricos­hombres, judges of the Cort, and two “good men” from the following Good Towns: Estella Tudela Sangüesa Olite Puente la Reina

The Fraternity agreement signed in 1305, which began the (still not effective) reign of Louis I, bears a similar tone to that of 1291, although its validity was for twenty years this time (not thirty), with supervisions carried out every four months. We are now talking of sixteen Good Towns and another with great demo­graphic importance in the south of Navarre (Corella) without a franchise charter (fuero de franquicia), which led to its disappearance from the list in the following years.66 We will not dwell on the details of a well-documented political sequence here, but it is worth recalling that the pressure of the fraternities and juntas led to the effective arrival of the heir, Joan’s son (the señor natural) to replace Philip IV, the widower king. It is interesting, however, to highlight the role of the Good Towns, united in a common interest and displaying strong political content; in other words, they did not just defend their particular rights. They succeeded in attracting part of the lower nobility, which initially tried to find other solutions for the throne. Louis I’s attitude towards the social forces of the kingdom is very interesting: after a short stay (just three months) in Navarre to comply with the demands of the kingdom, the system of inquisitors and reformers—unusual in Navarre—was used to the full, and they carried out strong and long-lasting persecution and control.67 It was a selective repression, however, focused on the juntas of the lower nobility—still a rather vague animal—and some sectors of the clergy related to them. There is no record of action against the Good Towns; indeed, Louis I confirmed their privileges: “Dilectis et fidelibus nostris,” he said to the burghers of Pamplona in the confirmation granted in Paris in April 1309.68 We can therefore consider that an understanding between the Good Towns and the Crown was reached in 1307, even a “natural” one. The Good Towns had clear privileges stated in writing and confirmed by the monarchs for centuries. There is no doubt that they were applied. The Good Towns were also called for consultations in the past, particularly if it was a case of judging something, and particularly if the issue affected an urban centre. This last point is important: the judicial role of the Curia, a core feature 65  Cierbide, Ramos, Documentación Medi­eval, 169–71 (document 108).

66  On the comings and goings of peasant towns in the assemblies, see Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Un golpe revolucionario,” 403–30. 67  Beroiz Lazcano, Documentación Medi­eval de Olite, 349–52 (document 90).

68  Marí�a Itziar Zabalza Aldave, Archivo General de Navarra (1274–1321), I. Documentación real (San Sebastián, 1995), 249 (document 260).



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since its origins across medi­eval Western Europe, acted as a communication channel for the burghers. It was completely logical that they should be called on when a judgingrelated matter affected them. Furthermore, they had well-trained people to exercise as judges and experts in law or finance. The case shown in the table above from 1315 is a clear reflection of this. The lower nobility, on the other hand, had much greater difficulty finding its place in political society under the Capets, despite their importance a century before. Their assemblies were always considered problematic and their revolts disruptive, probably because they were not able to distance themselves completely from other commitments and interests not related to the kingdom.69 In contrast, the Good Towns, with their defined, precise, and clear identity and clearly defined limits through their charters and documents confirmed by the monarchs (from the first to the last) were able to defend their privileges within the strict limits of the legality of the royal dynasty. For them, interrupting the legitimate line of succession was ruled out completely, even if that legitimacy was in France. Their loyalty meant they were in a good position to safeguard their rights, freedoms, and privileges. Fifth Phase: From “Irregular Royalty” to coup d’état: 1316–1328

A very clear break in the succession to the throne occurs after the death of Louis I and, soon after, that of his son John. Once again, the surrounding events are well-documented, and analyzed quite recently from the perspective of the turmoil organized by the nobles.70 A second Joan, the eldest daughter of Louis, was left as the undisputed heir as far as Navarrese legality was concerned, but she was pushed out, first by Philip II and then by Charles I, Louis’ brothers and successive kings of France and, by extension, of Navarre. We know about the activity of the juntas, but a closer look at the action of the fraternities reveals a different pattern of behaviour. The juntas and fraternities no longer acted together, at least in the lead-up to what has been called the “coup d’état” of March 1328. In 1316, the Good Towns seemed to forget who the señor natural (in this case a señora) was, moving away from the strict legitimacy that they had observed since 1274, with a single, short, and partial interludem, as we saw in the first phase discussed above. As a result, two different attitudes can be distinguished between 1316 and 1328: On one hand, between the death of Louis I (1316) and that of his brother Charles (1328), there are no records of claims or demands by the Good Towns. At that time, the nobles did not cease their revolts, believing that neither Philip II nor Charles I were the natural ruler. The juntas had completely adopted the previous message of the Good Towns: there was a señora natural on the throne who should reign, not her uncles. Two tense years went by before the kingdom sent delegates to Paris for the swearing-in ceremony of Philip II and his pledge to them. As is made clear in the following table, fifteen Good Towns were present at that ceremony in Paris. The level of tension rose consid69  There is not space to go into this now, but in the following period (the first of the Evreux monarchs), they were eliminated from representation in the Curias: the nobility would only be represented by the high nobility. See Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Un golpe revolucionario,” 403–30. 70  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “Un golpe revolucionario,” 403–30.

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erably with Charles: only the Good Towns (and in larger numbers than even in 1319) appointed their delegates following a (late) request by the king, who had been on the throne for over a year. It was not possible to organize a delegation, however, and Charles I was never sworn in as King of Navarre. The swearing-in ceremony did not take place. Table 19.8: Delegations from the Good Towns to Paris for the swearing-in ceremony 1319, 11 June71

A Cort general (with fifteen Good Towns present) appointed delegates to attend the swearing-in of the king in Paris. 1319, 30 September Oath taken in Paris.

1323, 2 December72

Charles I requests the Good Towns to send delegates to Paris for the swearing-in ceremony. 1324, 22 January73

Seventeen Good Towns appoint delegates (comprising twenty-seven people)

What is interesting here is that the Good Towns had forgotten their option of “legitimacy”: the representation that met in Pamplona on 22 January 1324—five weeks after the king requested the presence of delegates in order to take the oath (i.e., with an immediate reaction)—was numerous. They had abandoned the señora natural in a context that was exactly the same as in 1274 from the point of view of the succession: the idea was to remove the throne from the heir. So what happened? We do not have direct information; the only obvious difference from 1274 is that the person who sat on the throne in 1319 and 1322 was a member of the family. Perhaps this shows a different interpretation of rightful succession, which remained throughout the Capet dynasty, with no efforts made to find a monarch from outside, as in 1274. This option could be questionable in France—although this is not the right place to debate this—but in Navarre, where there were no doubts about the validity of the succession of a woman to the throne, it was difficult to sustain. The final change of attitude referred to above is clearly seen towards the end of this phase—at the death of Charles in 1328—although it is not possible to verify whether it may have started earlier. On one hand, it could be thought that the inability to take the oath in 1324 may have reoriented the bourgeoisie’s options, but this is only a hypoth71  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:294 (document 9).

72  The most interesting feature is the king’s request that the Good Towns swear an oath because he heard they were willing to go to Toulouse (where he was) to utter the due oath (“nous aions entendu”). It does not appear the rest of the kingdom was equally willing, however, and although the Good Towns decided to attend, they ended up not doing so. Document in Marí�a Dolores Barragán Domeño, Archivo General de Navarra (1322–1349), I. Documentación Real (San Sebastián, 1997), 18 (document 6). 73  Lacarra, El juramento, 89–91 (document 13).



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esis that cannot be confirmed. On the other hand, we should highlight something that recent historio­graphy has made clear: the social forces of the kingdom acted very quickly in 1328, without waiting for the possible birth of a male from the widowed and pregnant queen. On 13 March 1328, they made a claim for their señora natural—before what turned out to be a girl was born—in a series of subversive actions called the coup d’état of 1328. Once again, it seems difficult to believe that such a fast-growing, extensive, and solid movement could be improvised, especially if we consider the means available at the time. In that assembly, clearly “irregular” in the sense indicated above, together with the higher and lower nobility and other miscellaneous forces described elsewhere, there were no fewer than twenty-four Good Towns, and none of the most important ones were missing. This is the strongest representation they had ever had, with a total of fifty-eight people (including six delegates from Pamplona and eight from Estella), which gives an idea of the size of the movement and, perhaps, that the change of attitude must have been “incubating” for a long time beforehand. With an express commitment to unity, in March 1328 the French governor was dismissed, regents were appointed, and it was said that the kingdom should be kept for the “the person who should reign” (… qui deue regnar). Yet again, we find the same language as in the first phases analyzed here, particularly in 1274 and 1305. We will not go into the details of the coup d’état, but it is worth pointing out that one month later seventeen Good Towns renewed the Fraternity, with a number of familiar clauses. These were clearly reinforced, especially in terms of joint action. The insistence, once again, that the Good Towns should act with a single voice—never separately—may indicate that the phase in which the legitimacy of the succession was “forgotten” might not have been a joint choice, although it is true that in both cases the representation of the urban centres would have been very high.74 Table 19.9: Agreements from the Meeting held by the Good Towns (1328, April 16)75

No good town would respond separately if called upon to deliberate on the succession. If it did so, it would be considered a perjurer and a traitor.

They would faithfully help each other defend the kingdom in favour of the person with the right to inherit it, and to demand their privileges and customs.

They would help each other against anyone who attempted to harm the kingdom, or if someone wanted to force a good town to give a separate response in this respect, the others would come to its aid. They established a series of meetings with this objective; each good town would send two representatives. All would contribute financially, even if they did not attend the meeting.

No delegate could accept anything the Good Towns did not accept by common agreement. This oath was valid for ten years, and their judges and councillors would have to swear it. The oath would be renewed whenever the council changed.

74  Indeed, none of the “core” Good Towns of the kingdom were missing, although in the 1324 delegation the representatives from Tudela arrived four days late. 75  Ramí�rez Vaquero, “El pacto nobiliario,” 2:295–96 (document 11).

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There is no need to go into greater detail on this matter. The result of the coup d’état is well-known: the natural queen acceded to the throne.

Conclusion

By way of a brief conclusion, given that the essential contributions are described throughout the chapter, we should highlight the idea of the strong personality—that is, identity—of these Good Towns of Navarre, whose profile and place in society—and political society in particular—was based on its own uses and customs, recorded from the period of its initial charters and later completed throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, with the express recognition of each monarch. Undoubtedly, there was some basic identity prior to the conflict with the Crown in the thirteenth century; a conflict which, in the first part of the century, did not refer to the legitimacy of the Crown (regarding the House of Champagne), but to the validity of the rights and privileges of the burghers. From 1274 it took on a different political dimension, linked to what we could call the “misunderstanding” between the king and the “kingdom,” which, in the case of the nobility, turned into an authentic split. The bitter confrontation between the kingdom and the Crown gave the Good Towns the opportunity to play an important role, highlighting an identity expressed until then through other kinds of expressions and features. They acquired an awareness of their place in political society and the institutional structure of the kingdom. From the collective defence of their rights and privileges, they ended up defending the kingdom itself and its legality, and they decided to do so in a collegiate, shared, and committed basis, as if they were one. This is the position that, through the successive Fraternities signed and other joint actions, they communicated to the high and low nobility, which rebelled in 1274 and 1276. With the strange interlude between 1316 and 1328 (which could possibly be limited to 1324, following the failure to appoint delegates for the swearing in of the king), in 1328, they once again based themselves firmly on their fundamental principles of defence of the legitimacy of the Crown, carried out collectively and without any apparent rifts in their ranks. Their identity as a group was assured; the idea that the Good Towns had a natural right to sit at the general Curia—and, therefore, in the States-General—was never questioned, not even at the moments of the tensest relations with the Crown. Neither was their undisputed role in negotiations and the coronation of monarchs challenged at any time. This was in contrast to the lower nobility, or some isolated elements of rural communities involved in irregular assemblies in the Capet period and the coup d’état, which soon disappeared as elements of the kingdom’s political framework when the House of Evreux acceded to the throne in 1329.

Chapter 20

CELEBRATION OF IDENTITY IN THIRTEENTH- TO FIFTEENTH-CENTURY FLORENCE, MILAN, AND VENICE PAOLA VENTRONE

The problem of theatrical historio­graphy is that of circumscribing its own object: which means building its boundaries, that is, not giving them for known and acquired, but precisely building them, determining the boundary zones from time to time. Which are imprecise, indefinite areas of intersections.1

This quotation from

Fabrizio Cruciani2 expresses the efforts made in theatre studies, over the last seventy years, to create an original methodo­logical approach no longer focused on the central position of a dramatic text, as the field has been conceived since the nineteenth century. The result of these efforts is the identification of practical methods capable of overcoming the specific contradiction of theatre studies, which is the lack of a hermeneutic object because, being an event, theatre is by its nature ephemeral. Clues can be found later, whether literary, documentary, figurative, narrative, or financial, but these cannot, in any way, restore the integrity of the event. Unlike the description of festivities and rituals, or efforts to reconstruct archaeo­ logically possible theatrical productions of well-known dramatic texts, always somewhat hypothetical due to the fragmentary nature of the documents, “new” theatre history, developed in Italian universities since the mid-1960s, has tried to define new links and well-conceived methodo­logies, while also undertaking research into production processes. This new hermeneutic horizon gave value to the performing arts as a system and network. To this end, it is important to individualize and study the institutions that 1  “Il problema della storiografia teatrale è quello di circoscrivere il proprio oggetto: il che significa costruirne i confini, e cioè non darli per noti e acquisiti ma appunto costruirli, determinare di volta in volta le zone di confine. Che sono zone imprecise, indefinite, di intersezioni.” Cited from Frabrizio Cruciani, “La ‘tradition de la Naissance’,” Teatro e storia 4, no. 6 (1989): 3–17, esp. 9–10.

2  Cruciani was one of the “founding fathers” of the Italian academic discipline of Performing Arts. I had the honour to work with him and Ludovico Zorzi, as their disciple. They were lucid and shrewd at creating perspectives, although less inclined to explicit methodo­logical statements. Both worked to define theatre history as a historical discipline, although from different and complementary ways. See Sara Mamone, “Ludovico Zorzi e la ‘nuova storia’ del teatro,” Quaderni di teatro 7 (1985): 27 and Francesca Bortoletti, “Fabrizio Cruciani e gli studi teatrali, oggi,” Culture teatrali 7, no. 8 (2002–2003): 17–253.

Paola Ventrone ([email protected]) is Professor of History of Medi­eval and Renaissance Theatre at the Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, Milan, Italy.

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promote or support the performance, symbolic languages, procedures, modalities of communication, the use of space, and literary and figurative elaborations (recognizing the contiguous forms of expression and indoctrination developed by local political and ecclesiastical cultures: preaching, literature, and typo­logy, among others). This study also includes analyzing the purpose and type of spectacle, to enhance perspectives and enlarge the quantity and quality of questions asked of the sources, rather than just analyzing the sources themselves.3 The latest research into medi­eval and premodern theatre has contributed new cognitive elements to better understand our idea of medi­eval festivities. At the same time, it has made more pressing the problem of distinguishing between theatrical acts and simple rituals or ludic events. The specific notion of theatre has become increasingly more extensive and overcomes the identification with the dramaturgic work to include fluid, composited, and varied acts, rather than mere dramatic performances. It also includes games, entertainment, and rituals, which make up the diverse facets of celebrations and festivities. With regard to celebrations and festivities, we can point to agonistic and military competitions, solemn processions, the palio horse- or foot-races, chivalric games, local battles, and ritual seasonal celebrations. All of them present formal characteristics of performance that may not be interesting in themselves, but for their functional and political meanings. That is because in communal societies, with huge symbolism in the performances, celebrations were one of the main instruments for developing civic and private identities for individual groups, people, factions, or clans that, during the time and place of the feasts, expressed and defined their identities. Without the survival of written texts to provide a corpus, that is, distinct, preservable material, the diversity and impermanence inherent in these types of celebrations have heavily influenced the various attempts to reach a historical narrative. Researchers have tended either to focus on a myriad of specific, particular celebrations or traditions (particularly some famous scholars in the nineteenth century) or to build broad and generic visions that run the risk of becoming blurred. A history of the premodern Italian “spectacle” cannot avoid the positivist historio­ graphy of Alessandro D’Ancona’s book Origini del teatro.4 This masterpiece, following the evolutionary method predominant then, set itself the objective of tracking down the origins of theatre, understood as dramatic literature and genuine popular feeling, with the template being tragedy in the Athens of Pericles. As in ancient Greece, drama was seen as having been born from the ritual. So, in medi­eval Europe the genesis of drama was sought in ecclesiastical liturgy. 3  As Guarino stated: “La necessità di ricomporre il quadro delle fonti come un elemento per sé rilevante è comunque urgente per lo storico. Nel caso del teatro ci porta a ripercorrere i processi che hanno impresso le tracce del fare negli oggetti, nelle scritture, e nelle condensazioni dei loro archivi.” Cited from Raimondo Guarino, Il teatro nella storia. Gli spazi, le culture, la memoria (Rome, 2005), 153.

4  Alessandro D’Ancona, Origini del teatro in Italia. studi sulle sacre rappresentazioni, seguiti da un’appendice sulle rappresentazioni del contado toscano (Florence, 1877), reprinted later, with important updates and entitled Origini del teatro italiano (Turin, 1891), which is the latest version.

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In such positivist research, the concept of theatre was identified with the dramatic text, and, in particular, with the religious dramatic text. It is no coincidence that before he published his main work in 1877, D’Ancona presented his editor with a collection of Florentine sacre rappresentazioni (“sacred plays”) in 1872.5 This literary-centred point of view did not prevent him from organizing and commenting at length on documents and materials, rediscovered while he was compiling this antho­logy, on a range of customs and practices that, beyond the literary dimension, characterized late medi­eval performances. He also tried to assemble the documents with their institutional promoters to help separate the notion of theatre from that of dramatic text. Maybe this attempt went far beyond the researcher’s intent.6 It was probably intuition, more from practice than theory, but it was destined to bear fruit in research in the following century. However, this led to including in the sphere of performance various collective phenomena considered as “popular” (like processions, palio races, stone battles, and carnival games). In these events, it was possible to recognize the connection with the civil and political life of the Italian cities, regardless of whether or not there was a literary dimension. A century earlier, the pioneering work by Ludovico Antonio Muratori, De spectaculis et Ludis publicis, was based on this approach.7 Nineteenth-century researchers catalogued all types of events, not the purely literary, another productive aspect to their research, the innovation of which was not taken into consideration by their followers. This is also clear in the “late-positivist” work by Vincenzo De Bartholomaeis called Le origini della poesia drammatica italiana.8 This work was also followed by a great antho­logy of Laude drammatiche e rappresentazioni sacre9 (but in this case twenty years later, thus overturning the acquisitive process of D’Ancona). This study classified the multiple forms of dramatic literature from the Middle Ages, but helped to reinforce the idea of the centrality of the dramatic text in a “spectacle,” and even its “superiority” over historical, social, technical, productive, recitative, scenic, and other possible approaches to the topic. Following the methodo­logical assumptions of the “new” history of theatre, in the analysis of the events dealt with here, I will proceed, therefore, to maintain the distinction between “theatre” and “spectacle,” meaning the first performance of a text (written, 5  Alessandro D’Ancona, ed., Sacre rappresentazioni dei secoli XIV, XV, XVI, 3 vols. (Florence, 1872).

6  “Dai molti studi fatti sul teatro antico spirituale avevamo messo insieme materia sufficiente a descrivere con qualche ampiezza le origini, le varie forme, la storia insomma della Sacra Rappresentazione. Se non che l’argomento ci era venuto per modo crescendo fra mano, che né all’editore parve di poter dar luogo al nostro lavoro innanzi al primo volume, né a noi bastava il cuore di restringere e quasi strozzare in poche pagine il frutto di assidue considerazioni e continuate ricerche. Perciò, mettendo intanto a luce i testi, ci serbiamo di pubblicare [...] un volume di giusta mole su cosí� fatto soggetto).” Cited from D’Ancona, Sacre rappresentazioni, 1:iv.

7  Ludovico Antonio Muratori, Antiquitates Italicae Medii Aevi. Dissertatio XXIX: De spectaculis et Ludis publicis, ed. Antonio Viscardi (Modena, 1962). Johann Drumbl focused on the Muratorian work with important considerations: Johann Drumbl, Introduzione a Il teatro medi­evale (Bo­logna, 1989), 9–15. 8  Vincenzo De Bartholomaeis, Le origini della poesia drammatica italiana (Bo­logna, 1924).

9  Vincenzo De Bartholomaeis, Laude drammatiche e rappresentazioni sacre (Florence, 1943).

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improvised, or just mimed or gestured) by actors on a stage, or in a separate place, in the presence of an audience, and by the latter that complex and varied set of spectacles that extends from processions to chivalric games like jousts and tournaments, to the palio races, carnival masquerades, and dramatic and non-religious performances. One consequence of the approach of the “new” history of theatre is also an orientation of research towards the reconstruction of a history and geo­graphy of the Italian spectacle (although the same could profitably apply to the whole of Europe), focused on concrete problems relating to the motives behind productions, the means by which they were brought about, or financial responsibilities, with the aim of demonstrating the great variety of performative and spectacular forms, and how they responded to specific demands by organizers and sponsors.10 In other words, in some cities, research on the dialectic between theatre and the establishment has already provided an outline of a dynamic, flexible, and refined strategy in its ideo­logical and “political” use (using the pure meaning of belonging to the life of the πολίϛ), and shows the range of skills involved in the production of performances such as acting, music, oratory, mnemonics, figurative art, kinetics, the use of space, and so on. Contextual investigation of local variants serves, therefore, to shed light on the constant change in the forms of spectacle and its multiple functions in identity construction, the tension between central and peripheral powers, the dynamic between high-status public places of worship, alternative places of piety used by lay or religious groups, or for the exclusive conviviality of the urban élites. For this reason, Florence, Venice, and Milan offer paradigms that are particularly enlightening despite their differences, while in the perspective of a comparative study, the historio­graphical survey of other cities of the Italian Peninsula, which would undoubtedly reveal equally complex and significant realities, is still to a large extent uneven, especially in relation to identity festivals, our subject here. For Florence and Venice, works that consider the ritual and civic dimensions are numerous, examining plentiful sources over a long period, such as the now classic works by Richard Trexler and Edward Muir, who opened the road into such research.11 On the

10  An exhortation “to study theatre in history as a culture,” through the investigation of the interaction between communities and the different theatre cultures throughout history, was put forward by the journal Teatro e storia (the quotation is taken from Fabrizio Cruciani, “Storia e storiografia del teatro: saggio bibliografico,” Teatro e storia 1 (1984): 7). See also the synthesis over a long period in Guarino, Il teatro nella storia. 11  Richard C. Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (New York, 1980); Edward Muir, Il rituale civico a Venezia nel rinascimento (Rome 1984); see also other more recent studies by Paola Ventrone, ed., “Le tems revient”–“‘l tempo si rinuova.”Feste e spettacoli nella Firenze di Lorenzo il Magnifico (Milan, 1992); Raimondo Guarino, Teatro e Teatro e storia monumenti. Rinascimento e spettacolo a Venezia (Bo­logna, 1995); Matteo Casini, I gesti del principe. La festa politica a Firenze e Venezia in età rinascimentale (Venice, 1996); Silvia Mantini, Lo spazio del sacro nella Firenze medicea (Florence, 1995); Elizabeth Crouzet-Pavan, “Sopra le acque salse.” Espaces, pouvoir et société à Venise à la fin du Moyen Age (Rome, 1992); Paola Ventrone, Teatro civile e sacra rappresentazione a Firenze nel Rinascimento (Florence, 2016). For studies comparing theatre and city, but not necessarily focused on the problem of identity, see also Barbara A. Hanawalt and Kathryn L. Reyerson, eds., City and Spectacle in Medi­eval Europe (Minneapolis, 1994); Françoise Decroisette and Michel Plaisance,

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other hand, this perspective has only received marginal analysis in Milan, Ferrara, Rome, and Naples. Studies in these cities did not aim to recreate the origins and the transformation of civic celebrations chrono­logically, making comparison difficult. This happens, for instance, in the fundamental study by Fabrizio Cruciani on theatre in Rome during the Renaissance. This work, while dwelling several times on the civic celebrations of Agone and Testaccio, focuses on the century in which classical theatre was rediscovered (1450–1550), not, therefore, the beginnings of these festivities.12 The analysis of the cases of Florence and Venice, two republics with a profoundly different governmental structure, are flanked by that of the Duchy of Milan at the time of the Visconti and Sforza era, in an attempt to offer at least a first comparative picture, although unequal, of the multiplicity of tools of communication employed by different urban regimes in instituting forms of performances that fulfill specific needs for propaganda, legitimacy, education, and indoctrination.

Celebrations and the Development of a City’s Identity

Celebrations of a city’s identity went hand in hand with the development of municipal governments and followed their various vicissitudes.13 Celebrations were of enormous importance in the symbolic representation of the city’s political structures because spectacle, in premodern societies, was not just casual fun, in the sense we understand it today, but an expression of the society itself, responding to needs that were always very precise and motivated, linked to specific circumstantial, political, and cultural moments. eds., Les Fêtes urbanes en Italie à l’époque de la Renaissance. Vérone, Florence, Sienne, Naples (Paris, 1993); É� lizabeth Crouzet-Pavan and É� lodie Lecuppre-Desjardins, eds., Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe–XVIe siécle). les enseignements d’une comparaison (Turnhout, 2008).

12  Fabrizio Cruciani, Teatro nel rinascimento. Roma 1450–1550 (Rome, 1983), 120–25, 333–40 and 537–67. See also the more recent Raimondo Guarino, “Carnevale e festa civica nei ludi di Testaccio,” Roma moderna e contemporanea 20, no. 2 (2012): 475–97.

13  The theme of urban identity, and in particular of identity festivals in premodern cities, has encountered growing interest among historians. See amongst many: Paolo Prodi and Valerio Marchetti, eds., Problemi di identità tra medioevo ed età moderna. seminari e bibliografia (Bo­logna, 2001), useful for its large biblio­graphy; Hanawalt and Reyerson, eds., City and Spectacle in Medi­ eval Europe; Giorgio Chittolini and Peter Johanek, eds., Aspetti e componenti dell’identità urbana in Italia e in Germania (secoli XIV–XVI) / Aspekte und Komponenten der städtischen Identität in Italien und Deutschland (14.–16. Jahrhundert) (Bo­logna, 2003); Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville des cérémonies. Essai sur la communication politique dans les anciens Pays-Bas bourguignons (Turnhout, 2004); Gilles Bertrand and Ilaria Taddei, eds., Le destin des rituels. Faire corps dans l’espace urbain, Italie—France—Allemagne / Il destino dei rituali. “Faire corps” nello spazio urbano, Italia—Francia— Germania (Rome, 2008). On a subject very similar to the identity theme (Civis–Civitas. Cittadinanza politico-istituzionale e identità socio-culturale da Roma alla prima età moderna), different scholarly meetings have been held: “III incontro internazionale del seminario permanente. Medi­eval writing. Settimane polizianee di studi superiori sulla cultura scritta in età medi­evale e moderna” (Siena, July 10, 2008 and Montepulciano July 11–13, 2008) and the workshop “L’identità Fiorentina. continuità e discontinuità. Secc. XIII–XIX” (Florence, June 20, 2009). The papers from the latter are published in the journal I ‘Fochi’ della San Giovanni, 36, no. 1–2 (2010).

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This is why the forms of performance were so variegated and appropriate for a particular purpose. The feast was perfect for such manifestations. It was also one of the rare occasions of visibility for those who organized the event: visibility for the responsible bodies (be they the prince, his intellectuals, and ministers in the court regimes, or the government offices in the republican ones, or neighbourhoods, single families, confraternities, corporations, etc.), and visibility for the sites of the event. The feast should therefore be hermeneutically considered as an expression of political languages constructed through the symbolism of ceremonials. It represents a fundamental moment in the creation and expression of political language, because the visibility that it guaranteed to its organizers and financiers led to the conferment of charisma and the expression and display of their social pre-eminence. This was exactly what both municipal governments and lords were looking for to legitimize their authority over their respective cities and territorial domains. So, we can read the message of the feast as a symbolic language created by the presence, and also absence, of the institutions that promoted and financed it, decipher the choice and the layout of the locations where the events took place, and finally focus on its forms, themes, and modes of expression (chivalric, religious, processional, dramatic, in terms of stagecraft, and so on). The civic life of the communes was constantly threatened by internal conflicts between opposing factions that made it necessary to combat the increasing political power and dominance of some families over the others. In this situation, the feast was one of few opportunities for the promoting citizens to show off their wealth, their social networks, or even their political enmities and local pre-eminences. Among the various forms of celebration, the palio races became increasingly important after the birth of the cities. These were horse or foot races along a set route. The winner was rewarded with a valuable garment called a pallium. Although these events were more athletic (or “agonistic” in ancient Greek terms) than performative, they played a central role in the building of civic identity because they had the task of celebrating the patron saints of the cities, the military victories, or the political successes that had, over time, marked the stages in municipal freedom. These events could also be celebrated as a gesture of contempt towards enemies, especially when a city was besieged or subjugated.14 These races also constituted a means to periodically reveal and renew alliances and political friendships of the rulers of the host city with those of other cities in the Italian Peninsula, since it was quite commonplace to permit the participation of “foreign” animals. The horses’ origin was clear by the owners’ coats of arms on the jockeys’ uniforms, and by the presence of their respective ambassadors, as can be seen in the depiction on a Florentine wedding chest, dating from around 1425–1430,

14  For example, in June 1288, the Florentines conquered Arezzo after a long siege. To celebrate the victory, on the feast of St. John, they organized the palio race outside the city walls, plus another run of “donkeys with mitres on their heads to show contempt and shame for their bishop” (asini colla mitra in capo, per dispetto e rimproccio del loro vescovo). Cited from Giovanni Porta, ed., Nuova Cronica di Giovanni Villani (Parma, 1991), 604 (1.8, chap. 132), but examples are numerous, as shown in many records gathered in the classical study by William Heywood, Palio and Ponte. An Account of the Sports of Central Italy from the Age of Dante to the 20th Century (London, 1904).

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illustrating the arrival of the contenders at the palio of San Giovanni in the square of San Pier Maggiore.15 Community celebrations with a strongly unifying meaning included solemn processions which, at various points in the year (feasts defined by liturgy, the calendar, or politics), saw the entire social body, secular and ecclesiastical, parading through the streets of the city, paying homage to patron saints in shrines and churches named after them. These places and the events connected to them (often very numerous and representative of important phases in municipal development, such as battles won, cities conquered, internal struggles achieved) were naturally distinguished from the city’s other places of worship for their civic and religious representation. This meant the emergence of a number of locations with a ritual purpose, which in turn gave importance to family clans residing in their vicinity. Through these different forms, the tensions between factions and household groups were expressed in a ritual manner, as well as respective and individual identities. All these conflicting dynamics marked the complex phase of political centralization and development of urban government, making it necessary to create a unified ritual, recognized by all.

Centralization of City Celebrations

The multiplication of opportunities and emergent places for ceremonies became a problem for city governments, both republican and princely, as they attempted to build a single and comprehensive representation of the city. Venice offers a significant example of this trend, where, as we will see later, the identity ceremonial became focused entirely on the figure of the Doge (the “republican prince” or Dux). As a result, celebrations that detracted from the centrality of the state rituals (topo­graphically linked to the Piazza San Marco and to the dyad Palazzo Ducale—Basilica), often underwent processes of conspicuous reduction.16 An eloquent example is the story of the “Feast of the Wooden Marys” (Festa delle Marie di legno), which took place from the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul (25 January) until Candlemas (2 February). Known since the mid-twelfth century, this celebration consisted of a series of processions and parades on land and by sea that followed one another almost daily throughout the festive period. Those on land processed along the territories of some neighbourhoods on foot, lingering near the houses of the main families. The aquatic processions crossed, on richly decorated boats, the stretch of the lagoon that led from the church of San Pietro di Castello to the Palazzo Ducale and the Basilica.17

15  Giovanni Francesco Toscani, “The Race of the Palio in the Streets of Florence.” Cleveland, Museum of Art, Holden Collection (the painting is available at www.clevelandart.org/art/1916.801, accessed May 10, 2019).

16  Guarino, Il teatro nella storia, 35–38; É� lizabeth Crouzet-Pavan, “Dynamique des langages. pour une relecture du système ritual vénitien (XIIIe–XVe siècle),” in Le destin des rituels. Faire corps dans l’espace urbain, Italie—France—Allemagne / Il destino dei rituali. “Faire corps” nello spazio urbano, Italia—Francia—Germania, ed. Gilles Bertrand and Ilaria Taddei (Rome, 2008), 95–115. 17  The church of San Pietro di Castello was the cathedral of Venice until 1807, when this role passed to the Basilica of San Marco, until then only the Doge’s chapel.

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At the end of the festive period, there was a final procession from the Basilica of San Marco to the parish church of Santa Maria Formosa (the centre of the Marian cult, being the first Venetian church dedicated to the Virgin), which received the offerings and was the final destination of all the processions in this celebration. Regardless of the symbolic value of the different processional structures and the ceremonial sites, too long to describe here fully,18 the importance of this festival lies above all in the particular interests involved, of territorial, political, religious, and financial natures. In fact, its origin dated back to a legend according to which some young brides were kidnapped by Istrian pirates during the celebration of the collective rites of marriage in the year 943. These brides were released immediately after by the Venetians, amongst which the casseleri (builders of wedding chests) distinguished themselves in their bravery. Later, twelve wooden statues depicting well-dressed and bejewelled girls (Le Marie) were built to commemorate this event. It was also determined that every year these effigies should be carried on boats in an aquatic procession, and later displayed in patrician family houses. These were selected among families in the two districts chosen in a draw to organize the celebration. In the patricians’ houses, banquets and amusements were offered to the citizenry. The patrons would give objects or money to a certain number of poor girls for their wedding dowries. Therefore, as the legend was transformed, the audacity of the casseleri in the liberation of the girls took on a meaning that highlighted the underlying financial motives behind the feast; in particular, the economic interests of the artisan class, for whom making these chests for the brides’ clothing was an irreplaceable source of income. The ostentation of the patrician residences, showing off their wealth and splendour to the participants, as well as the unobtrusive role of the Doge in the celebrations, were probably among the main reasons for the radical transformation of the feast in 1379, under the pretext of the serious financial collapse caused by the War of Chioggia. The ceremony was simplified using the reasoning that it represented a huge waste of money and increased rivalry between the different districts, which contrasted with the image of civic harmony under the patronal cult of San Marco and the Doge, who was the political projection of that cult. Despite being present in the religious ceremonies punctuating the Feast of the Wooden Marys, and receiving the tributes of the districts involved, the figure of the Doge was not, in fact, pre-eminent: the real protagonists were the family clans, with their home districts, and the parish of Santa Maria Formosa, which stood as a cultural centre antagonistic to that of the San Marco Basilica. Therefore, behind the economic reasons given for the reform of the celebration, reduced to a procession of the Doge to the church of Santa Maria Formosa, the real motivation behind the change was the result: Of the complex overlap between private feasts, contrada feasts, parish celebration, and civic worship. [...] Its suppression did not relate to the loss of private wealth and its focus

18  For a detailed description see Muir, Il rituale civico a Venezia, 163–67; Lina Urban, Processioni e feste dogali. Venetia est mundus (Venice, 1998), 29–50; both provide details and biblio­graphy on this celebration.

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on marriage, but it was determined by a rejection of heterogeneous and potentially conflicting factors, which were, on the one hand, the district and the families designated to represent it, and on the other, the public celebration of urban harmony.19

New Central Celebrations Established by the City The many festive occasions with a collective importance (often described in the city statutes), which are typical of the early development of the communes, together with the proliferation of politically and ceremonially significant and recurrent events and locations, led to a move to counteract this centrifugal tendency with a civic ritual that surpassed all the others in its excellence. This new ritual was aimed at surpassing every other civic celebration in magnificence but its representative strength, so this motivation determined the choice and make-up of all the individual components that came to constitute the identity feasts. The dominant form around which the other commemorative types gathered (offerings, palio races, dramatic and non-dramatic performances) was, of course, the solemn procession, the only event that involved the entire citizenry, lay and ecclesiastical, parading in a hierarchical order along a defined and often carefully decorated path, to bring oblations to a particular place of worship and to its respective saint.20 The preferred annually recurrent dates were the patron’s feast, a date dedicated to the Virgin Mary (particularly the Assumption) or the Feast of Corpus Christi,21 or politically meaningful dates, like the anniversaries of victories or conquests, or the founding of the city, the latter often related to the exaltation of its origins. For events dedicated to the patron saint, even when the city had more than one (as, for example, in Florence, St. Zenobius, St. Reparata and, definitively, St. John the Baptist; in Venice, St. Theodore and St. Mark the Evangelist; and in Milan, St. Ambrose during the municipal period, later accompanied by the Virgin Mary during the Visconti and Sforza periods of rule), the celebrations that expressed symbolism of identity tended to privilege only one of them. When this did not

19  “Dell’accordo complesso tra feste private, festa di contrada, celebrazione parrocchiale e culto civico […]. La sua abolizione non corrispose al venir meno del lusso privato e del suo gravitare intorno al momento matrimoniale, ma designò la rinuncia a un coordinamento tra fattori eterogenei e potenzialmente conflittuali, quali erano la contrada e le famiglie designate a rappresentarla e la celebrazione pubblica della concordia urbana.” Cited from Guarino, Teatro e mutamenti, 37; See also Crouzet-Pavan, “Dynamique des langages,” 102–6. For a summary of the numerous interpretations of the feast of the Marys, see Muir, Il rituale civico a Venezia, 159–76; Casini, I gesti del principe, 155–57.

20  The form of the solemn procession exemplifies what John Bossy wrote: “the social miracle [...] of the conciliation of the parts and the whole, the union of the social limbs in the body of Christ” (il miracolo sociale […] della conciliazione delle parti e del tutto, l’unione delle membra sociali nel corpo di Cristo). Cited from John Bossy, L’Occidente Cristiano. 1400–1700, trans. Enrico Basaglia (Turin, 1990), 68–89, esp. 85. 21  On the ceremonies of Corpus Christi, see Miri Rubin, Corpus Christi. The Eucharist in Late Medi­ eval Culture (Cam­bridge, 1991) and the paper by Claudio Bernardi, “Tra Cesare e Dio. Il Corpus Domini delle repubbliche di Genova e Venezia (secc. XVI–XVII),” Annali di storia moderna e contemporanea 16 (2010): 377–96.

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happen and the rulers chose to change patron sainst, even if the institutionalization of the feast day in his honour was well established, their reasons reflected and revealed the changes taking place, or already occurred, in the political structure of the city. Venice offers a good example of how affirming its independence—in its case the papacy, Western (Holy Roman) Empire, and Eastern (Byzantine) Empir—had its origins in the replacement of its patron saint; this building up of its foundation myths was part of the process of greater independence. The original patron saint was the Byzantine St. Theodore (whose statue we can still admire today on the column in Piazza San Marco near the Sansoviniana Library), and his role as guarantor of divine favour and support showed the dependence of Venice on the Eastern Empire. Around the middle of the eighth century, however, the lagoon city began, on one hand, to try to become more independent from Byzantium,22 while, on the other, to configure and institutionally consolidate many functions and responsibilities on the Duke, the later Doge, as supreme authority. So, when, a few decades later, the opportunity presented itself to express its autonomy, even just symbolically, the entourage of the Doge Giustiniano Particiaco had no hesitation in manipulating a legend for this purpose, even one with no historical basis. According to this legend, St. Mark the Evangelist stopped in Venice, before returning to Rome and then being sent by St. Peter to Alexandria in Egypt, where he would be martyred.23 In 827 or 828, two pious Venetian merchants, having found the relics of the saint there, then under Muslim rule, stole them and brought them to the Laguna, hidden under pork meat that the Muslims could not touch. The presence of the relic in the city caused a series of miraculous events that promoted popular worship, and the Doge ordered the building of a church and the institution of a series of celebrations in honour of the Evangelist. Thus, the worship of St. Mark became the central nucleus of Venetian civic self-awareness. In the civic liturgy, the saint would later personify the Venetian State by recalling the exceptional and miraculous events marking the history of the community, contributing both to its foundation and to the unity of its social bodies in devotion to the patron.24 Apart from the historical background to this narrative, its importance resides in the transformations of Venetian political and civic life. Giustiniano Particiaco, accepting the body of the Evangelist, tied his own figure to the cult of St. Mark in place of St. Theodore, expressing the independence of the city from the Byzantine Empire. At the same time, he attempted to unify the Venetian mainland and islands by introducing a devotion rooted in a single centre of worship, whereas till then the various dioceses pulled the faithful in 22  On this phase of the history of Venezia, see Stefano Gasparri, “Venezia fra l’Italia bizantina e il regno italico: la civitas e l’assemblea,” in Venezia. Itinerari per la storia della citta, ed. Stefano Gasparri, Giovanni Levi, and Pierandrea Moro (Bo­logna, 1997), 61–82.

23  An agile, intelligent explanation of this myth and its political meanings is found in Jean-Claude Hocquet, Venise au moyen âge (Paris, 2004), 22–24.

24  The lion of St. Mark still appears, in fact, on public monuments and the doors of the mainland and island locations dominated, over time, by Venice, from Bergamo in the west, at the border with the Duchy of Milan, to Dalmatia in the east.

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different directions in their devotion.25 Finally, he procured an important patron saint who connected the figure of the Doge directly to God, thus legitimizing his potestas by descent from St. Mark’s holy mediation.26 Unlike Venice, Milan reveals the meaning behind the choice of patron saint and how its celebrations reflect changes in civic identity, as Milan moved from municipal to seigneurial regime. Although the first official list of the Milanese main feast days is known in the statutes of 1396, in the full Visconti era,27 the roots of the cult of St. Ambrose went back to the communal era, when, so the city liked to believe, they preserved the ideals of a free and independent communitas, even when it was a principality.28 The holy bishop, whose bodily relics were preserved in the church dedicated to him,29 was celebrated on two feast-days: that of the depositio (on the Thursday after Easter) and the feast of his episcopal ordination (7 December).30 Both were honoured with solemn processions and offerings, but the latter was observed with greater emphasis. The occasions attracted a large number of visitors and faithful, even from outside Milan, probably because it was associated with one of the four special markets,31 showing how the prosperity of the city was based on craftsmanship and trade.32 In the process of establishing Visconti rule, the corporate and municipal prerogatives of Milanese society were gradually reduced, while the structure of the state was hit by a series of changes in an aristocratic direction. Within this dynamic, the symbolism of peace represented by the civic procession, which was intended to express the resolution of conflicts within the civitas and harmony of all its social parts, underwent a process of changing meaning, from voluntary conquest of the citizenry, to a personal victory of the lord as the sole guarantor of stability and the common good.33 This process was 25  See Hocquet, Venise au moyen âge, 185–87.

26  For a detailed narration of St. Mark’s legend and the meaning behind the foundation story, see Muir, Il rituale civico a Venezia, 91–103.

27  It is common opinion among historians that the list faithfully continued one from 1330, not a modified one from 1351. See Enrico Cattaneo, “L’evoluzione delle feste di precetto a Milano dal secolo XIV al XX. Riflessi religiosi e sociali,” in Studi in memoria di mons. Cesare Dotta (Milan, 1956), 69–200, esp. 71–72.

28  On Milan’s devotion to St. Ambrose, see Patrick Boucheron, “Palimpstes ambrosiens. la commune, la liberté et le saint patron (Milan, XI–XV siècles),” in Le passé à l’épreuve du présent. Appropriations et usages du passé au Moyen Âge et à la Renaissance, ed. Pierre Chastang (Paris, 2008), 15–37, with extended biblio­graphy.

29  See Sible De Blaauw, “Il culto di Sant’Ambrogio e l’altare della Basilica Ambrosiana a Milano,” in I luoghi del sacro. Il sacro e la città fra Medioevo ed Età Moderna, ed. Fabrizio Ricciardelli (Florence, 2008), 43–62.

30  On the history of devotion to St. Ambrose and the related ceremonies, see Enrico Cattaneo, “La devozione a Sant’Ambrogio,” in La chiesa di Ambrogio. Studi di storia e di liturgia (Milan, 1984); Fabrizio Fiaschini, “I paratici in festa,” in Le Corporazioni milanesi e Sant’Ambrogio nel Medioevo, ed. Annamaria Ambrosioni (Milan, 1997), 57–92, esp. 69. 31  The other markets were on the feasts of the Ascension, St. Lawrence, and St. Bartholomew. 32  See Fiaschini, “I paratici in festa,” 69.

33  On this matter, see Guido Cariboni, “Comunicazione simbolica e identità cittadina a Milano

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ratified with the establishment of new feasts commemorating Visconti enterprises, and were celebrated with solemn processions in which social bodies were also required to take part.34 The most unscrupulous action in the communal cult for St. Ambrose was, however, carried out by Azzone Visconti to commemorate the victory obtained in Parabiago by his uncle Luchino over Loderigo Visconti on 21 February 1339.35 This was particularly important as a milestone in the definitive prevalence of one family branch over the other in the government of the city.36 In order to consolidate his lordship, Azzone created a myth of legitimacy, exploiting the rhetorical ability of the “court historian,” Galvano Fiamma. According to the story by Fiamma, Ambrose appeared during the decisive battle, dressed in white and armed with a scourge to lead Milan’s army to victory against the German mercenary troops led by Loderigo.37 With this tale, the patron saint of the city sanctioned his definitive association with the lord-peacemaker, thus becoming a guarantor of his actions and his role as princeps, and triggering a process of change in Ambrosian worship from a vision representing the corporate coming-together of the whole cives, to one mediated by the authority of the secular lord who gained his own legitimacy in it. Therefore, the victory at Parabiago was listed in the statutes of Milan among the recurrent feasts to the Saint Archbishop, and publicly celebrated with solemn oblations.38 The Visconti attempted to find the legitimacy of their seizure of power in the charismatic support of the municipal patron, manipulating the identity symbolism linked to Ambrose in a seigneurial sense. This manipulation, however, was not sufficient to remove, in the feelings of the Milanese people, the association of the holy bishop with the city’s own past as a free commune. This was (in my opinion) one of the reasons that presso i primi Visconti (1277–1354),” Reti Medi­evali 9 (2008): 1–52; Guido Cariboni, “Il codice simbolico tra continuità formale e mutamento degli ideali a Milano presso i primi Visconti,” Annali di storia moderna e contemporanea 16 (2010): 197–214.

34  See Fiaschini, “I paratici in festa,” 77–78; Nadia Covini, “Feste e cerimonie milanesi tra città e corte. Appunti dai carteggi mantovani,” Ludica, annali di storia e civiltà del gioco 7 (2001): 122–50, esp. 135n97 with biblio­graphy. 35  Cattaneo, “La Devozione a Sant’Ambrogio,” 126.

36  On this episode, and on the influence of the icono­graphic representation of St. Ambrose, see Guido Cariboni, “I Visconti e la nasciata del culto di Sant’Ambrogio della Vittoria,” Annali dell’istituto storico italogermanico di Trento 28 (2000): 595–613; Cariboni, “Comunicazione simbolica”; Cariboni, “Il codice simbolico.” See also Boucheron, “Palimpsestes ambrosiens,” 25–28; Federica Cengarle, “I Visconti e il culto della Vergine (XIV secolo): qualche osservazione,” Annali di storia moderna e contemporanea 16 (2010): 215–28. 37  For an accurate description of the dynamic of this period, the sources, and a biblio­graphy, beyond the work quoted in the preceding note, see Boucheron, “Palimpstes ambrosiens,” 25–28, esp. 26, where he argues that Galvano Fiamma was the inventor of the myth of the Ambrosian Epiphany.

38  In fact, the 1396 citizen statutes states that: “Pro festo S. Ambrosi ad victoriam de Parabiago die XXI febr. fiat oblatio honorifice per comune Med.”: see Cattaneo, “L’evoluzione delle feste di precetto,” 122n130.

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induced Azzone to introduce, also at a civic level, worship of a new and more powerful protector, the Virgin.39 He founded this devotion on the following principle: as the Virgin Mary is a mediator between God and men, so must the secular lord be the same between Mary and the people of Milan, according to some descending legitimation similar to that employed by the Venetian Doge, Giustiniano Particiaco, with St. Mark. In fact, Azzone not only built a luxurious chapel devoted to the Virgin for his own devotion (the San Gottardo in Corte church), but also established a public feast to mark the Nativity of Mary (8 September). Every year during this celebration, the territories and cities of the domain were required to offer valuable silk palii to confirm their submission to Mary, and, above all, pay homage to the signore, who with her help guaranteed the possession of the city’s extramural domain.40 However, in the last two decades of the fifteenth century, Gian Galeazzo Visconti relaunched the initiative of his ancestor to strengthen this patronal hierarchy and consolidate the legitimacy of his household in the eyes of Milanese citizens. Therefore, he promoted a new operation aimed at supporting, or substituting, in the identity ceremonies, “municipal” devotion to St. Ambrose with the “princely” devotion to the Virgin. To this end, Gian Galeazzo started the construction of a new Duomo (1385–1386) over the ancient cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore. Moreover, in accordance with the desire to centralize and control worship in the city, he established, as the main celebratory form, the solemn ritualization of the offering processions presented to the Fabbrica del duomo (the institution responsible for the building of the new cathedral) by the city gates and by the paratici (the Milanese corporations of arts and crafts). These celebrations assumed the meaning, also underlined by its great pomp, of bringing together all the various areas of the city, each with its own patron saint, in a unique central cult for the Virgin Mary. It was also, of course, a symbolic representation of the spiritual and political hegemony of the Visconti family. The oblation ceremonies to the Fabbrica del duomo, whose strength of identity was represented precisely by the involvement of the Porte (or gates, the territorial districts of the city to which residents held their main civic allegiance), were celebrated for the entire length of the summer, from Pentecost Sunday to the Nativity of Mary on 8 September. These feasts were, in fact, organized by seven of the eight gates (the Orientale or Rença, which opened the celebrations, then the Ticinese, Vercellina, Comasina, Romana, Tosa, and finally the Nuova, which closed the festivities), with the exclusion of the Giovia gate, because it was the location of the ducal castle. Representatives and citizens of each gate-district, guilds, colleges, and parishes would march in solemn procession from their locations across the city to the cathedral, to which they delivered money and material for its building. To the city’s contributions were added those of the duke, his family, courtiers, and state officials.41 39  See Fiaschini, “I paratici in festa,” 79–80; Cengarle, “I Visconti.”

40  A fuller discussion of Azzone Visconti’s devotion to the Virgin is found in Cengarle, “I Visconti.”

41  Pietro Ghinzoni, “Trionfi e rappresentazioni a Milano (secolo XIV e XV),” Archivio storico Lombardo 14 (1887): 820–31.

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The solemnity of the oblation ceremonies promoted by Gian Galeazzo Visconti went even further under the Sforza, starting with Duke Francesco.42 However, this effort to involve the citizens in this new civic ritual did not fully achieve its desired goal: it certainly failed to stop Milan’s civic devotion to its original municipal patron saint. Evidence of this devotion is the dedication to St. Ambrose after the death of the last Visconti duke (1447–1450), during which the feast of the ancient protector, and, in particular, the procession on 7 December, was promptly revived with new vigour. In fact, on 6 December 1448, a notice from the Republic’s office ordered: The greatest possible number of paratici [must come the following day] to the Broletto square, with the most beautiful and most honourable palii that they have, to offer them to our glorious protector and patron St. Ambrose.

In addition to the paratici:

Any gentleman and citizen who wanted to congregate with his Porte and then walk to the court de l’arengho to accompany our distinguished lords, captains, and others to the oblation already mentioned, must bring, each one of them, the amount of money that is customary to offer.43

Identity Feasts and Urban Regulations A city’s identity and its expression depended on its political structure. So, too, the symbolic organization of the ceremonies to express urban identity had to correspond to the nature of the different political and institutional arrangements. The celebrations of civic identity were, in fact, a form of self-representation: first, of the social structure of the city; second, the individual identities of the various bodies representing the whole citizenship and their hierarchical relationships; third, the relationships between dominant cities and subdued territories, after the birth of the territorial state, or between the prince, the city, and the lands governed in the case of the capitals. This self-representative function determined the particular ritual organization of feasts of identity. They were characterized by some almost constant features—with local differences—44 but differed in some expressions or celebrations recognized

42  On the interest of the Sforza family in the oblations in the building of the cathedral, see Covini, “Feste e cerimonie,” 127–30.

43  “Tuti li paratici con piu numero che se possano [di presentarsi il giorno seguente] su la piaza del broleto con li payli piu belli e piu honorevoli che sia possibile per andare a fare la oferta al glorioso nostro protectore et patrone (sic) sancto Ambrosio. […] zaschaduno zentilhomo e citadino che vogliano convenirse con le sue porte e andare di poi a la corte de l’arengho per acompagnare li illustri nostri signori capitanei et cetera a la oferta predicta e cadauno voglia portare quella quantitate de dinari che v’è pratica per offrire.” From Milan, Archivio di Stato di Milano, Registri Panigarola, reg. 6, c.96. Anna Maria Rapetti, “Fonti normative e documentarie,” in Le corporazioni milanesi e Sant’Ambrogio nel Medioevo, ed. Annamaria Ambrosioni (Milan, 1997), 147–52, esp. 148. See also Fiaschini, “I paratici in festa,” 77–78. 44  For a comparative view of patronal events in three cities (Florence, Venice, and Milan), see Paola Ventrone, “Feste e rituali civici. città italiane a confronto,” in Aspetti e componenti dell’identità urbana in Italia e in Germania (secoli XIV–XVI) / Aspekte und Komponenten der städtischen Identität

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above others, even if similar. To mention only a few cases: not all the processions, or the palio races, or the oblations by political or ecclesiastical bodies to some place or object of worship, functioned to express civic identity.45 For the local participants, the purpose of these celebrations, inherent to their function of self-representation, confirmed and legitimized the political, institutional, and social structures, even as these changed. For outsiders, these identity feasts presented the city, its institutions, and its wealth, particularly to foreign ambassadors and guests, who were a constant and sought-after presence. The solemn processions of all the citizens’ bodies, both lay and ecclesiastical, with the magistracies, the urban administrative wards (gonfaloni), the guilds, and the localities under the city’s domain in position of particular relief (each identified by insignia and banners), followed a lustral route through the streets that, thanks to the presence of the relics, also possessed a propitiatory value for the city, ritually renewed from year to year. Usually, the structuring of the ceremony, in the articulation of the lay processions, was defined by statutes or by deliberations of the city councils, which specified a series of fundamental elements for the ritual’s fulfillment. More rarely, though, we find indications of the religious procession, probably because they were contained in ecclesiastical sources, such as constitutions, episcopal decrees, or other documents that are either no longer extant or not yet unearthed. As far as we know from other sources, especially chronicles and letters, the procession of the clergy had to be composed of lines of friars, priests, clerics, and monks, wearing the most precious vestments and bearing the most important relics, and of religious confraternities. The structure of the identity feasts allows us, therefore, to definitively dispel a historio­graphical commonplace unfortunately still recurring in studies on so-called “medi­eval theatre”: the separation into distinct categories of “religious theatre” and “secular theatre.” In fact, separating the categories, both of which were fundamental for the construction of a single image of the city, prevents us from understanding the intimate connection between the ecclesiastical and the civic dimension that always characterized political discourse in the Ancien régime.46 in Italien und Deutschland (14.–16 Jahrhundert), ed. Giorgio Chittolini and Peter Johanek (Bo­logna, 2003), 155–91. In this work, I analyzed some of the themes developed in the present chapter.

45  In Florence, for example, the cult of the Madonna dell’Impruneta was particularly strong. This was a votive painting carried onto the city walls in times of danger or natural disasters, with a solemn procession in which the Signoria, the magistracies, the citizenry, and the clergy participated. However the celebrations of the Madonna dell’Impruneta never became a feast of identity, like those of Santa Reparata and San Zenobi, despite their civic observance being prescribed by the Statute of the Podestà in 1325: see Statuti della Repubblica fiorentina, ed. Romolo Caggese, (Florence, 1999), 2:343 (book 5, rubric 20: “De custodiendo festivitatem Sancte Reparate et Sancti Çenobii”). On the Madonna dell’Impruneta celebrations, see Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence, 63–80ff, and David Herlihy and Richard C. Trexler, eds., L’Impruneta, una pieve, un santuario, un comune rurale (Florence, 1988). 46  As still happens, to take just one relatively recent example, in Marzia Pieri, La nascita del teatro moderno in Italia tra XV e XVI secolo (Turin, 1989).

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Therefore, statutes and legislation prescribed that the day of the anniversary, and some adjacent days, were considered holidays, which entailed the obligatory abstention from work to participate in the feast, with sanctions, usually pecuniary, for transgressors. On the contrary, people in sectors directly involved in the program of events, such as the exhibition of artifacts in front of workshops, or the fair and market that usually took place to generate income for the city, were forced to work. Moreover, the statutes specified the number of lay processions, the order and precedence of the participants (the various magistrates, the representatives of the highest government offices, those of the artisan guilds with their affiliates, potential guests of honour or foreign ambassadors, up to the components of the political territorial compartments of the city), the type and value of the offerings (usually wax candles of varying size and weight in proportion to the social rank of the donor), the possible presence of a palio race, and the days and times at which each event was to take place. In addition to these elements, distinctive details characteristic of these identity celebrations were, first, the presence of subjugated or conquered communities with offerings stipulated by the statutes or by individual agreements from the time of the subjugation, which each year had to express their subjugation to their dominant authority;47 second, the presence of pardoned prisoners, or other symbols showing righteousness and mercy in the administration of justice; third, the cleaning and decoration of ceremonial routes and, above all, of the symbolic places of civil and religious power.

Florence

Florence offers a particularly clear example of the configuration and typical components of identity celebrations. The first legislative formalization of the patronal feast of St. John the Baptist (June 24) was established by the statutes of the Podestà in 1325, which defined the composition of the lay members of the ceremony, stating that every citizen of Florence and the suburbs had to offer a simple candle, while the Podestà, the Captain, and the Defender, with their soldiers, judges, and notaries, the priors of the guilds, and the “Gonfalonier of Justice” (Gonfaloniere di Giustizia), were required to go to the church of San Giovanni on the eve of the feast of the patron saint, bringing candles of a value appropriate to their political position. On the same day the sixteen gonfalons, that is to say, the territorial societies of popular origin, had to parade neatly (according to order of precedence established in the chapters of the companies themselves), each preceded by its own banner, and its citizens bearing candles. A monetary penalty was required of those who did not comply with the obligation to attend, or had not abstained from work. Still on the eve, 23 June, not the 24th, of the feast of the birth of John the Baptist, which was reserved for the ecclesiastical procession, the main city officials, namely the Podestà, the Captain (Capitano), the Executor of the Ordinances of Justice (Esecutore 47  On this point, see Giorgio Chittolini, “Civic Religion and the Countryside in Late Medi­eval Italy,” in City and Countryside in Late Medi­eval and Renaissance Italy. Essays presented to Philip Jones, ed. Trevor Dean and Chris Wickham (London, 1990), 69–80, as well as the contribution of Chittolini in the present book.

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degli ordinamenti di giustizia), and the Judge of Appeals, had to offer a palio at the altar to the patron saint, of a value proportional to the importance of their respective offices.48 The same day, 23 June, saw the procession of delegates of the rural municipalities and the parish churches of the countryside, each with a twelve-pound candle. All these candles were lit in front of the church of San Felice in Piazza on the edge of the city walls, from where the procession moved, accompanied by the musical instruments of the Commune of Florence, and guided by members of the Podestà and Captain’s families, to the church of San Giovanni. The celebration took on a more articulated and regular appearance in the first decade of the fifteenth century, to better represent the outcome of the oligarchic reform launched by the new ruling élite during the hegemony of the Maso degli Albizzi party.49 The importance assigned to the patron saint’s feast in the expression of the new political order, part of the wider creation of mytho­logy of the city that we find, amongst other works, in the Laudatio Florentinae Urbis, by the chancellor and humanist Leonardo Bruni, is faithfully reflected in Gregorio Dati’s description.50 This is, not surprisingly, the first long and detailed treatment of the subject, inserted in his Storia di Firenze, also written in programmatically laudatory terms of the city and its institutions. However, around 1410, the John the Baptist celebrations were organized over two days. On 23 June, the eve of the feast day, the so-called mostra (show) took place: displays outside the shops of the most valuable Florentine artifacts—silk and gold fabrics, jewels, painted tables, weapons—and two solemn processions were held. In the morning, there was the parade of: all the clerks, priests, monks, and friars, which are a large number of orders, with so many, almost infinite, relics of saints and of great devotion, in addition to the wonderful richness of their ornaments, with rich robes of gold and silk and embroidered figures. Together with them there are many companies of lay men [the confraternities] that process to that church where this company meets, with angels and with sounds and stories of all sorts and wonderful songs. They make beautiful images of those saints and of that solemnity that they honour, going in pairs to sing Lauds most devoutly. They come from Santa Maria del Fiore and go around the city and return there.51

48  An image of this offering can be seen on the chest by Giovanni Francesco Toscani, “The Gift of the Palii to San Giovanni.” Florence, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, accessed May 29, 2019 at www.scalarchives.it/web/dettaglio_immagine.asp?idImmagine=0103764&posizione=1&numIm magini=1&prmset=on&ANDOR=and&xesearch=0103764&ricerca_s=0103764&SC_PROV=RR&SC_ Lang=ita&Sort=8.

49  On this political transformation, a reaction to the attempt to establish a government extended to the forces of submissive workers pursued with the so-called revolt of the Ciompi of 1378, see the now classic Gene A. Brucker, Dal Comune alla Signoria. La vita pubblica a Firenze nel primo Rinascimento (Bo­logna, 1981).

50  Riccardo Fubini, “La Laudatio Florentinae urbis di Leonardo Bruni. immagine ideale o programma politico?,” in Imago urbis. L’immagine della città nella storia d’Italia, ed. Francesca Bocchi and Rosa Smurra (Rome, 2003), 371–88.

51  “Tutti i cherici e preti, monaci e frati, che sono gran numero di regole, con tante reliquie di santi che è una cosa infinita e di grandissima devozione, oltre alla maravigliosa ricchezza di loro adornamenti, con ricchissimi paramenti di vesti d’oro e di seta e di figure ricamate e con molte

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The evening was the time for the lay Florentines to process, “united for the common good,” according to an anonymous poem of the same time,52 to honour the patron saint: all the citizens are gathered together each under his gonfalon, of which there are sixteen, and one gonfalon moves one after the other in turn, and after each one, all its citizens go two by two. At the front are the most worthy and the oldest, and then down to the lads, richly dressed, to make an offering at the church of San Giovanni of a small wax press of a pound, one by one.53

The morning of 24 June, the day of the event, was dedicated to the solemn offerings by the city authorities, accompanied by delegates of the subjected territories, who collected the oblations: painted wooden candles for the oldest submitted towns, and palii for the most recent or important ones: Around the great square [of the Signori] there are a hundred towers that look like gold, some carried by carts and others by porters, which are called candles, made of wood, paper, and wax, with gold and with colours and with embossed figures.

Nearby, around the Palace railing, there are about a hundred palii or more: and the first are those of the main cities that pay homage to the Commune, such as those of Pisa, Arezzo, Pistoia, Volterra, Cortona and Lucignano, and Castiglione Aretino and some lords of Poppi and Piombino who are recommended by the Municipality. And the palii are made of double velvet, some of fur and some of silk.54

The act of homage of the subject localities was of fundamental ceremonial importance: it annually made visible the expansion of the Florentine territorial domain, tenaciously

compagnie d’uomini secolari che vanno innanzi ciascuno alla regola di quella chiesa dove tale compagnia si rauna con abito d’angioli e con suoni e stormenti di ogni ragione e canti maravigliosi, facendo bellissime rappresentazioni di quelli santi e di quella solennità a cui onore la fanno, andando a coppia a coppia, cantando divotissime laude. Partonsi da santa Maria del Fiore e vanno per la terra e quivi ritornano.” Cited from Luigi Pratesi, ed., L’Istoria di Firenze di Gregorio Dati dal 1380 al 1405, illustrata e pubblicata secondo il codice inedito stradiniano, collazionato con altri manoscritti e con la stampa del 1735 (Norcia, 1904), 91. On this chronicle, see Andrew P. McCormick, “Goro Dati’s Storia di Firenze,” Studi medi­evali, 3rd ser., 22 (1981): 907–52, and Paola Pirolo, “Tre momenti di descrizione della festa di San Giovanni Battista,” in La festa di San Giovanni nella storia di Firenze. Rito, istituzione e spettacolo, ed. Paolo Pastori (Florence, 1997), 81–85. 52  “Al ben comune uniti.” The description in rhyme, copied by Zanobi Perini between 1407 and 1409, was published by Cesare Guasti, Le feste di San Giovanni Battista in Firenze descritte in prosa e in versi dai contemporanei (Florence, 1908), 9–17, quoted on page 17.

53  “Tutti i cittadini sono raguanti ciascuno sotto il suo Gonfalone, che sono sedici, e per ordine, vanno l’uno Gonfalone drieto all’altro, e in ciascuno Gonfalone tutti i suoi cittadini a due a due, andando innanzi i più degni e i più antichi, e così� seguendo insino a’ garzoni, riccamenti vestiti, a offerere alla chiesa di San Giovanni un torchietto di cera di libbre una per uno.” Cited from Pratesi, ed., L’Istoria di Firenze di Gregorio Dati, 92. 54  “Sono intorno alla gran piazza [dei Signori] cento torri che paiono d’oro, portate quali con carrette e quali con portatori, che si chiamano ceri, fatti di legname, di carta e di cera, con oro e con colori e con figure rilevate. Appresso, intorno alla ringhiera del Palagio, vi ha cento palii o più: e i primi sono quelli delle maggiori città che danno tributo al Comune, come quello di Pisa, d’Arezzo, di Pistoia, di Volterra, di Cortona e di Lucignano e di Castiglione Aretino, e di certi signori di Poppi e di Piombino che sono raccomandati dal Comune. E sono di velluto doppio, quale di vaio, quale di drappo di seta.” Cited from Pratesi, ed., L’Istoria di Firenze di Gregorio Dati, 92.

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pursued by the oligarchic regime even at the cost of heavy economic and fiscal sacrifices imposed on its citizens.55 But it also served to renew and to reaffirm the pact of submission by the subjected lands, creating a ritual with strong legitimizing power for the ruling elites, whose supra-municipal supremacy they ratified. After the act of homage to the Signoria by the territories under its possession (significantly, the only gesture of homage to the political authority while all the other processions were in honour of the patron saint), the crowded government procession, with all its distinctive banners and symbolism, progressed from the square divided into segments. The procession was led by the Capitani of the Guelphs, followed by his banner, and the Florentine knights with the ambassadors and foreign knights. After them, came the palii and wooden candles and the altar candles required for the oblation owed by the peasants from the villages. Then came the lords of Zecca with their carriage (a particularly elaborate wooden candle), accompanied by the members of the Arti di Calimala and Cambiatori (the guilds of Merchants and of the Moneychangers, directly responsible for the organization of the feast), each with an altar candle made with wax. They were followed by the priors and Collegi with the Podestà, the Capitano and the Esecutore degli ordinamenti di giustizia, accompanied by trumpets and fifes for solemnity. At the procession’s end would be found the Barberi horses, the Flemish and Brabant weavers allocated to Florence, and twelve prisoners from the Stinche prison, released for mercy “in honour of St. John.”56 In the afternoon, the palio race took place.

Local Features and Developments

The presence of specific local features, illustrated by this Florentine example, tended to remain constant over time to distinguish the excellence of the civic identity feast from any other city celebration, although the change of regimes or institutional arrangements could change some of its symbolic meanings. The most obvious changes in ideo­logical signification have, however, been more often reserved for theatrical objects used during feasts. In particular, over time, the collective ritual was enriched by the use of waggons, on which episodes of sacred history, Roman history, or allegorical or mytho­logical stories were represented. These performances, sometimes recited and sometimes simple tableaux vivants, were not always foreseen by the legislative provisions governing the ritual, although they also configured themselves as oblations—but they added a decorative purpose. Their insertion into the civic ritual had two benefits: firstly, they gave visibility to those who made them (local districts, confraternities, guilds, ecclesiastical bodies, groups of young patricians, private wealthy citizens); secondly, being on the sidelines of the main ceremonial, they could sometimes become bearers of messages tied to the organizer’s interests.57

55  On Florentine foreign policy, see Gene A. Brucker, Dal Comune alla Signoria. La vita pubblica a Firenze nel primo Rinascimento (Bo­logna, 1981), 125–219. 56  “A onore di San Giovanni.” Cited from Pratesi, ed., L’Istoria di Firenze di Gregorio Dati, 92.

57  For the dynamic between internal and external identity of the groups in the civic processions,

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In Milan, at the end of the oblative processions to the Fabbrica del duomo, performances were set up in the cathedral square.58 These are of great interest for the history of theatre because, at the end of the fourteenth century, religious spectacles predominated in the Italian Peninsula, but this was different. We can point to the mytho­logical ones, such as Giasone & Medea (in 1389, the oldest one), those on ancient history such as Didone & Enea (1423), and others related to the city’s history, such as the defeat and capture of the Count of Armagnac by the Visconti militias in 1391 (1423). There were religious performances, too, such as that of Christ’s Resurrection and the Harrowing of Hell (1457), and the depiction of recent events, like the Demonstratione de la Chiesa vacante, which staged the election of Pope Pius II (1458).59 The Annali della Fabbrica del duomo is the principal source for our knowledge of these performances. Unfortunately, the records do not provide details on their staging. However, they do contain notes on the cost of stage costumes and the construction of scaffolds for the public. For further details, we can consult epistolary sources, from which it becomes clear that the most common form for a spectacle was a waggon with figures. These were taken in solemn procession from the Porte, whose inhabitants prepared them, to the cathedral for their performances on the main square. On the historical level, it does not seem that, in the transition from the Visconti lordship to the Sforza one, there were substantial changes in the performances or in the accompanying processions. However, the sources from the Sforza period, richer than the earlier ones, indicate a recurrent phenomenon: the progressive delegation of economic and organizational responsibility for the performances in oblative ceremonies from inhabitants of the city-gate (Porte) districts to the wealthy citizens, family members, and courtiers of the Duke. The wealthy citizens could flatter the secular lord and, at the same time, increase their personal prestige in the eyes of foreign citizens and guests. In fact, in their function as civic feasts, these events guaranteed greater visibility than organized private entertainment. A good example is the event on 21 September 1457, produced by the Porta Comasina, but sponsored by the first ducal secretary, Cicco Simonetta. With great economic and organizational expenditure, a performance of Christ’s Resurrection, the Harrowing see Benjamin R. McRee, “Unity or Division? The Social Meaning of Guild Ceremony in Urban Communities,” in City and Spectacle in Medi­eval Europe, ed. Barbara A. Hanawalt and Kathryn L. Reyerson (London, 1994), 189–207. The author, analyzing the pageants carried out by the artisan guilds in English cities, gives greater emphasis to the aspect of group identity, linked to the construction of the pageants, than to the guilds’ attachment to the civitas, and underlines how the identity of each association could also be in conflict with the wider community or other groups.

58  Carlo Cantu, ed., Annali della Veneranda Fabbrica del Duomo di Milano, dall’origine sino al presente (Milan, 1877–1885).

59  For more detail, see Antonia Tissoni Benvenuti, “Il teatro volgare nella Milano sforzesca,” in Milano nell’età di Ludovico il Moro, ed. Giulia Bo­logna, 2 vols. (Milan, 1983), 1:335–51; Mariangela Mazzocchi Doglio, “Spettacoli a Milano nel periodo sforzesco,” in Leonardo e gli spettacoli del suo tempo, ed. Mariangela Mazzochi Doglio, Giampiero Tintori, Maurizio Padovan, and Marco Tiella (Milan, 1983), 20–40; Paola Ventrone, “Modelli ideo­logici e culturali nel teatro milanese di età viscontea e sforzesca,” Studia Borromaica 27 (2013): 247–82.

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of Hell, and the Ascension was staged. Three waggons presented heaven, Jesus’s grave, and hell and limbo together (as appears in much contemporary icono­graphy). They functioned as real mansions, in which numerous actors played the various characters of sacred history, in a blaze of special effects using devils, noise, fire, and explosions. Apart from the performance itself, I wish to highlight what lay behind this sponsorship. Cicco Simonetta was one of Francesco Sforza’s homines novi. He was a native of Calabria and had served the Sforza before he became Duke of Milan. He was rewarded for his loyalty with many awards, citizenship, and then employment as first secretary. However, like other homines novi of his kind, he was not well regarded by some Milanese nobles, even though he married a lady from the Visconti house, Elisabetta, to better integrate into the city’s aristocracy.60 For Simonetta, financing the oblation of the Porta Comasina was part of a strategy to win the favour of his neighbours, freeing them from paying for the feast, and to demonstrate his successful integration into the civitas. Therefore, it is no coincidence that the Duke and Duchess participated in the event and, furthermore, that a detailed description of it was compiled in epistolary form, with all the rhetorical features of a eulogistic letter, by the humanist Giorgio Valagussa. This letter was addressed to Andrea, Cicco’s brother, a man trusted by Francesco Sforza.61 The ducal secretary’s initiative to sponsor the oblation ceremony of his Porta later became a rather frequent habit, which was repeated, for example, in 1458, 1459, and 1460.62 However, sponsorship of the oblations gradually became more and more expensive due to the theatrical pomp required, and so generated resistance from the notables urged by the Duke to take charge of them.63 Nevertheless, during the regency of Ludovico il Moro, a new magnificent performance was offered by the Porta Orientale, which was financed by Senator Francesco Fontana, who lived there: the Favola di Atteone by Baldassarre Taccone.64 The author was a scholar and poet who held various offices at the Sforza court. With these words he recalls the event in the introductory notes to the text he composed for the occasion: It is customary, both for religious reasons and to delight the numerous Milanese people, to make an annual offering to the prestigious first church of the city of Milan. In this offering, magnificent gentlemen honourably compete with each other to build trophies and triumphs according to their private or public fantasies. Therefore, the very famous and splendid magnificent senator and knight M. Francesco Fontana, wished to exhibit

60  A portrait of Cicco Simonetta, rich in bio­graphical news about his central role in Sforza politics, is found in Marcello Simonetta, L’enigma Montefeltro. Arte e intrighi dalla congiura dei Pazzi alla Cappella Sistina (Milan, 2008). 61  Giorgio Valagussa’s letter to Andrea Simonetta was first published by Gianvito Resta, Giorgio Valagussa umanista del Quattrocento (Padova, 1964), 125–29. The political meaning of Cicco Simonetta’s commission, rightly considered as a possible solicitation by the duke in person, is also highlighted by Covini, “Feste e cerimonie,” 127–28.

62  See Pietro Ghinzoni, “Trionfi e rappresentazioni a Milano (secolo XIV e XV),” Archivio storico lombardo 14 (1887): 820ff, esp. 824, 828, 830. See also Covini, “Feste e cerimonie,” 128–29. 63  On this matter, see Covini, “Feste e cerimonie,” 130.

64  The terminus ante quem for dating the text is 1494, the year in which Ludovico il Moro succeeded the deceased Duke Gian Galeazzo Sforza; in the Favola, he is still called regent.

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the greatness of his heart and the inclination of his soul towards this invincible prince and the Milanese people, sponsoring the offering of Porta Orientale. Thinking of his own Fontana’s surname, he ordered the building of an ingeniously constructed fountain to emulate the ancient form, from which water flowed through several pipes. The waggon with the fountain was brought to Piazza del Duomo. On it was performed the Favola di Atteone (“The Fable of Actaeon”) transformed into a deer, composed by me. The audience of patricians and plebeians followed the play with a calm silence and very attentive ears.65

The performance was a daring staging of the episode (narrated by Ovid in the Metamorphoses, III, 138–252) in which Actaeon, seeing Diana and the nymphs bathing naked in the water of a spring, is caught by the goddess, transformed into a deer, and then torn to pieces by his own dogs, for daring to look at Diana. The allusion to the patron’s name, represented by the fountain, paid homage to the financier of the feast. However, the encomiastic message contained in the final part of the text was even more explicit, since it addressed duke Gian Galeazzo Sforza directly to praise his regent Ludovico il Moro (the real head of Milan), to whom Taccone was particularly devoted: In the fountain there was a very tall tree, with a flower on its top, which opened at the right time revealing Mercury, god’s messenger. He spoke to the Duke of Milan praising Il Moro.

Sublime Lord Duca, I am Mercury / sent by Jupiter Apollo and Mars / to give you an embassy of good fortune. / I descended to tell you on their behalf / that to govern this happy state / with every ingenuity and art I am prepared./ You saw the proud Actaeon ragged, / because when the beautiful nymphs were at the fountain, / he presumptuously entered the water. / As we saw that Diana did to him, / so the gods must promise to take revenge / of every rebel, of every enemy / who thinks to act badly or uselessly / or to undermine this beautiful and peaceful State. / And so in her name I assert and say that the gods will transform each of your enemies / in a wolf, in a deer, in a woman, in a bear or in a bull, / and they will get them torn by your own dogs. / And this for the love of the divine Moro, / for its infinite virtue and cleverness [...] / Happy you! Happy as long as he [Ludovico il Moro] leads; / and you will happy be step by step, / and every one who trusts him will be happy.66 65  “Si sogliano, sì� per religione, sì� per dilectare el numeroso popolo milanese, fare annuale oferte al fastigioso primo templo della ciptà di Milano; dove gli magnificentissimi gentili homini honorevolmente contendino in edificare trophei et triumphi accomodati a loro fantasia o privata o pubblica: il perché, havendosi a fare l’oferta de Porta Orientale, el preclarissimo et splendidissimo Senatore et cavaliere M. Francesco Fontana, volendo mostrare la magnitudine del cuore et la dispositione dell’animo suo verso questo invictissimo principe et populo milanese, alludendo al cognome suo di Fontana, una fontana ad emulatione d’antiquità ingeniosamente fabricata fece edificare; dalla quale per diversi cannoncegli acqua gocciolava. Et essendo quella portata su la piazza del domo con tranquillo silentio attentissime orecchie de’ S.ri patritij et plebe, fevvi la favola di Acteon trasmutato in cervo, da me composta, rappresentare.” Cited from Antonia Tissoni Benvenuti, “Il teatro volgare nella Milano sforzesca,” in Milano nell’età di Ludovico il Moro, ed. Giulia Bo­logna (Milan, 1983), 336. The Favola di Atteone was published, together with some rhymes by the same author, in Baldassarre Taccone, L’“Atteone.” Le “Rime”, ed. Felice Bariola (Florence, 1884), 22–26. On this performance, see Benvenuti, “Il teatro volgare,” 336 and Mazzocchi Doglio, “Spettacoli a Milano nel periodo sforzesco,” 21.

66  “Nel fonte era un’albero altissimo, che in cima haveva un fiore, quale a tempo s’aperse et apparivvi Mercurio nuntio degli dei, parlando al S.re Duca di Milano in commendatione del Moro.

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With the passage from the communal regime to the princely one, the original civic cult of St. Ambrose became flanked by that of the families, first the Visconti and then the Sforza, for the Virgin was a direct mediator between the prince and God above all other patron saints. Moreover, with the princely regime the figure of the duke replaced both patrons (St. Ambrose and the Virgin Mary) as the recipient of tributes from citizens and courtiers. This significant transformation is clearly evidenced precisely by the change in the subjects of the performances inserted in the oblation feasts.

Civic Space

Urban layout played a decisive role in the creation of a unified civic ritual. In Italy, between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, at the same time as the regulation of ceremonial and ludic events took place, the focal, representative sites of political and religious power were also subject to reorganization, and important physical changes. These complexes imposed themselves, in terms of their size and magnificence, not only on the more modest urban buildings, but on other important buildings such as churches, monastic buildings, towers, and residences of the main families. In this way they came to symbolize, even visually, the unity of the city. These locations were therefore naturally destined to host the identity celebrations that brought together in one unit the patron saint, the place that kept his remains or his relics, the focus of the city’s dedication to the saint, and the political order. At the same time the paths followed by the processional bodies defined, within the urban structure, privileged areas that were sacralized by the passage of objects of worship and processions with offerings. Often the identity feasts were based on an urban polarity between the (ecclesiastical) cathedral and the (public) palace. So, even the composition of religious and lay processions expressed the spheres of competence of the two powers, and their collaboration in fostering unity and harmony in the city. This is the case for Florence—but also for Pisa or Siena, for two more examples—where the political centre of the Palazzo dei Signori hosted the core moment in the patron saint’s ceremony in which the municipalities and the villages of the domain offered, submissively, their palii and candles to the city magistrates.67 The Signoria was aligned on the arringhiera, a balustrade that no longer exists today, but can be seen, for example, in the late fifteenth-century painting “Excelso signor duca, i’ son Mercurio, / Mandato a te da Giove Apollo et Marte / A farti un’ambasciata in bono agurio. / I’ son disceso a dirti da suo parte / Che a governar questo felice stato / Con ogni ingegno son disposto et arte. / Tu ài veduto el fiero Acteon stracciato, / Che essendo l’alme nymphe alla fontana, / Prosumptuosamente [è] in l’acqua entrato. / Come d’esso s’è visto far Diana. / Così� d’ogni ribello, ogni nimico, / Che pensi male oprar o cosa vana, / O insidiar questo bel stato aprico, / Promectano li dei vendecta fare. / Et cosi in nome suo t’affermo et dico: / Ciascun nimico tuo faran voltare / O in lupo, o in cervo, o in dama, o in orso, o in toro / et faran da’ tuo’ proprii can stracciare. / Et questo per l’amor del divo Moro, / Per l’infinite suo virtute e ingegno/ [...]Felice te! Felice fin ch’è guida [scil. Ludovico il Moro]; / Et felice sarai di passo in passo, / Et fie felice ognun ch’in lui si fida.” Cited from Taccone, L’“Atteone,” ed. Bariola, 26. 67  The “Pianta della Catena” (dated around 1472), so called from the lock-chain shape, emphasizes the civil and religious ceremonial poles of the city, the massive defensive walls, and the large number of buildings and places of worship, as well as the productivity of western peripheral areas

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depicting the burning of Girolamo Savonarola.68 The array of magistrates in this picture is similar to the one they used to receive the offerings from the territories of the domain during the patronal celebration. The religious centre of the baptistery and cathedral was, instead, the starting point of the religious procession, along a path largely following the perimeter of the ancient Roman castrum, still visible in the plan by Stefano Bonsignori of 1584.69 The processional route had a symbolic meaning: with its starting point and final destination the Baptistery of San Giovanni, it connected the religious and political centres, passing through the Piazza dei Signori. Its secondary objective was to purify the streets with the passage of the relics. This procession was repeated every year to guarantee the city’s welfare. Seen against this backdrop, Venice presents significantly anomalous behaviour. In fact, cities of Roman origin, such as Florence, are mainly characterized by an orthogonal plan. In contrast, the urban morpho­logy of Venice, divided between land and water, grew organically, where space—even today—can only be understood by walking.70 Since the time of the Doge Sebastiano Ziani, and, increasingly after the “Lockout of the Great Council” (Serrata del Maggior Consiglio) of 1297, the Venetian government tried to unify the various city cults into a single centralized ceremonial. To achieve this, they needed to construct a completely separate urban centre distinct from the curvilinear and substantially a-centric structure of the medi­eval city.71 The complex of San Marco, in fact, stands out for its concept of perspective and for the vastness of its spaces, designed specifically to host these elaborate state ceremonies. The grouping consisted of the “Doge’s Palace” (Palazzo Ducale), with the “small square” (Piazzetta) in front, and the Basilica, dedicated to the patron saint, open onto the large rectangular square.72 Not by chance, (on the right of the image) across the banks of the Arno, available at http://web.tiscali.it/Firenze_ iconografia/Catena.htm. Accessed May 29, 2019.

68  By an unknown Florentine painter, “The Hanging and Burning of Girolamo Savonarola.” Florence, Museo di San Marco, accessed May 29, 2019 https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girolamo_ Savonarola#/media/File:Hanging_and_burning_of_Girolamo_Savonarola_in_Florence.jpg.

69  Stefano Bonsignori, “Nova pulcherrimae civitatis Florentiae topo­g raphia accuratissime delineate.” 1589, Map, Museo di Firenze com’era, Florence, accessed May 29, 2019 https:// it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pianta_del_Buonsignori#/media/File:Pianta_del_buonsignori,_1594,_00. JPG.

70  Jacopo de’ Barbari, “View of Venice.” Private collection, accessed May 29, 2019, https:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/View_of_Venice#/media/File:Jacopo_de’_Barbari_-_View_of_Venice_-_ Google_Art_Project.jpg.

71  On the singularity of Venetian space, also in relation to the history of its performaces and ceremonies, see Ludovico Zorzi, “Intorno allo spazio scenico veneziano,” in Venezia e lo spazio scenico. Architettura–Teatro (Venice, 1979), 81–109.

72  Jacopo de’ Barbari, “View of Venice,” detail of the ceremonial centre in Piazza San Marco. Private collection, accessed May 29, 2019 http://tridente.it/venetie/map/lag_d1.htm. The difference of the ceremonial centre of San Marco are highlighted by its denomination as a “square,” while all the other “squares” in Venice are defined as “fields,” as they were originally unpaved. See Giuseppe Tassini, Curiosità veneziane (Venice, 1887), 128–29.

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these places were depicted in numerous representations and images and, definitively, in the eighteenth-century landscapes of painters such as Canaletto, Guardi, and Bellotto. The perimeter path of the Piazza, from the Ducal Palace to the Basilica, hosted the solemn processions of lay and ecclesiastical citizenship. Here the dies natalis of San Marco, on 25 April, was celebrated with solemn processions that “perpetuated both the mystical bond between San Marco and the Doge, and the conception of the descending authority” from God to the Doge through the mediation of the patron saint.73 On the 24th, the eve of the festival, at Vespers, the high magistrates, the musicians, some guilds—which alternated year to year— the bearers of the ducal insignia, and the Doge himself, paraded. They moved from the Ducal Palace, then turned the square to enter the basilica, where the Dux lit a white candle on the high altar to honour the Evangelist. “This act renewed the spiritual bond between the saint and the city and reaffirmed the central role of the Doge in the cult of the saint,”74 while the presence of the guilds, also obliged to offer candles, not only indicated their devotion to the patron, but also their submissive relationship to the Doge. The following day a solemn mass was celebrated. Subsequently the Scuole Grandi— that is, the major Venetian brotherhoods—paraded with great pomp with the most important relics, offering candles in homage to the Doge, in the presence of foreign ambassadors and the entire civil and ecclesiastical establishment, to show their bond of dependency binding them to the Doge.75 This ceremony, depicted in a famous painting by Gentile Bellini of around 1496,76 expressed the hierarchical relationships between the Dux, the aristocracy of government, and the secular citizenship in the form of its artisan and religious associations, reconfirming each year the commune, unifying devotion to San Marco, and the respect for public institutions and their leaders. In this, as in all solemn occasions in which the Doge appeared in public, his person was accompanied by the so-called “triumphs,” or the attributes of his ecclesial and temporal sovereignty.77 The white candle, the pillow, his curved throne (faldistorio), the sword, the umbrella, the silver trumpets, and the eight flags78 were, according to another of the many foundation myths that characterize the ceremonial story of Venice, gifts 73  “Perpetuavano sia il legame mistico tra San Marco e il doge, sia la concezione dell’autorità discendente.” Cited from Muir, Il rituale civico a Venezia, 96.

74  “Questo atto rinnovava il legame spirituale tra il Santo e la città e ribadiva il ruolo centrale del doge nel culto del Santo.” Cited from Muir, Il rituale civico, 96. 75  Muir, Il rituale civico, 97.

76  Gentile Bellini, “Procession in Piazza San Marco.” Venice, Gallerie dell’Accademia. Accessed May 29, 2019 at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Procession_in_St._Mark%27s_Square#/media/ File:Accademia_-_Procession_in_piazza_San_Marco_by_Gentile_Bellini.jpg. 77  Braun and Hogenberg, “Map of Venezia,” engraving. Detail of the procession of the Doge with his triumphs. Private collection, accessed May 29, 2019 at http://www.pierotrincia.it/it/1637/BraunHogenberg---Venezia.html.

78  On the symbo­logy of the “triumphs,” see Muir, Il rituale civico, 123–34; Ludovico Zorzi, Carpaccio e la rappresentazione di Sant’Orsola. Ricerche sulla visualità dello spettacolo nel Quattrocento (Turin, 1988), 108–9; Raimondo Guarino, “Fonti e immagini della religione veneziana, tra il Quattrocento e il primo Cinquecento,” Annali di storia moderna e contemporanea 16 (2010): 363–75.

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offered by Pope Alexander III to Sebastiano Ziani in 1177 as a sign of gratitude for his help against Frederick Barbarossa. Taken together, they meant the jurisdictional autonomy of Venice both from the pontiff and the emperor, placing the city on a different and higher level than the other Italian communes, although they too were free. They gave the Doge “charisma and authority directly [coming] from the pontifical investiture and from Western and Byzantine imperial symbo­logies.”79

Conclusion

I hope these examples highlight how important it is, for the study of the identities of premodern Italian cities, to carefully consider the celebrations that expressed and made explicit those identities, because their symbolic choices reveal the most profound will of the regimes that established them. The celebrations of civic identity were created to represent the social and political structure of the commune, displaying an image of harmony among the different members. However, as we have seen, this development was not linear nor tension-free, since it provided on the one hand the systematic marginalization (if not the suppression) of social subjects and expressions that could have compromised its success, and on the other, the exaltation of social bodies that supported the city’s well-being. This is the case, for example, with guilds, which were everywhere invested with key roles and privileges, but always kept under careful control. But the conflicts also contained a policy of compromise regarding district autonomies, because they were always linked to the particular interests of the major families. The visibility of prominent families was emphasized by granting them a significant position in the processions, or particular tasks (such as the organization of the performances for the Porte of Milan). At the same time, however, the autonomy of the pre-eminent families was reduced by confining them within the processional scheme. So, even if identity feasts projected an image of the civitas that was sometimes more ideal than the reality of internal tensions, they do remain, for the historian, a significant mirror of society and the ideo­logical basis of premodern European cities.

79  “Carisma e autorità direttamente [provenienti] dall’investitura pontificale e dalle simbo­logie imperiali occidentali e bizantine.” Cited from Guarino, “Fonti e immagini,” 365–75. This essay contains interesting observations on the symbo­logy of the Doge’s triumphs.

Chapter 21

LOCAL AND “STATE” IDENTITIES IN CITIES OF FIFTEENTH- AND SIXTEENTHCENTURY NORTHERN AND CENTRAL ITALY GIORGIO CHITTOLINI In the mid-nineteenth century, the great historian Carlo Cattaneo, a Lombard economist and intellectual, wrote that when a village inhabitant of even a few miles from Paris, was asked the name of his homeland, he would have answered with that of his own village. In contrast, when the same question was asked of a peasant or shepherd living in a valley of Bergamo, perhaps tens of miles from the city, they would have answered: “I am from Bergamo.”1 This sense of belonging to the cities, even among inhabitants of the countryside, is reflected in the idea that the contado (the territory and population of the countryside around the town) was an integral part of urban identity in northern Italy during the Middle and Early Modern Ages. It also reflects the related idea that the cities around which the large Italian municipalities took shape between the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries (just like the old Roman civitates—according to the definition in the Digestum), comprised both the urban territory, delimited by its walls, and the extended territory (in fact, the contado) which belonged to the city and tended to identify itself with the area of the diocese under which it fell. We need not draw attention to the process that, in the wake of the great urban development across Europe in the tenth and eleventh centuries, led Central and Northern Italy to build real city-states. This was because the ancient inheritance of the Roman civitates was strengthened by the addition of the episcopal see between the second and the third centuries, and by the bonds created and maintained between the bishop and the eminent classes of the diocese. During the tenth and eleventh centuries, urban growth added to these historic centres. To the development of the urban centre and the many municipal institutions created (which were largely at first feudal and episcopal), was 1  “Sono di Bergamo.” Cited from Carlo Cattaneo, La città considerata come principio ideale delle istorie italiane (Florence, 1858), also published in Gaetano Salvemini and Ernesto Sestan, Scritti storici e geografici, 4 vols. (Florence, 1957), 2:383–437. “The shepherd from Val Camonica, linked to one province or other, always remained a Brescian. The shepherd of Valsassina always keeps the name of some distant place that he has never seen, and the shepherd from the old Alps is called bergamasco; on the other hand, no farmer considers himself a Parisian, not even near Paris” (Il pastore di Val Camonica, aggregato ora ad uno ad altro compartimeneto, rimase sempre Bresciano. Il pastore di Valsassina si dà semrpre il nome di una lontana città che non ha mai veduta, e chiama bergamasco il pastore dell’alpe attigua; mentre nessun agricultore si chiama parigino, nemmemno quasi in vista di Parigi). Cited from Salvemini and Sestan, Scritti storici e geografici, 2:386. Giorgio Chittolini ([email protected]) was Professor of Medi­eval History at the Università degli Studi di Milano, Italy.

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also added territorial expansion in line with the territory of the diocese. This expansion, even where incomplete, produced a geo­graphy of “city-states,” in which urban territories adjoined other urban territories, leaving little room for rural lordships or forms of political organization not connected to medi­eval city communes.2 Despite the specifics of Italy, this did not mean that the idea of the city, more properly the urban centre, was not distinct from the rural world, in terms of way of life, economic and political organization, or culture, just like other European countries.3 However, mostly from the end of the communal era, allied to the extension and growth of the cities’ dominance over the countryside (through the so-called comitatinanza process, the conquest of the contado), heavy immigration into the cities, and the increase in economic links and ecclesiastical relations, the territory became considered an integral element of the urban world. The name and concept of civitas, or in the vernacular, città—a designation reserved exclusively for the urban centres—indicates this.4 On the other hand, according to the ancient concept expressed in the Digestum, the “territory” was determined in relation to the city on which it depended.5 The image of the 2  See, for instance, Giorgio Chittolini, “Urban Population, Urban Territories, Small Towns. Some Problems of the History of Urbanization in Northern and Central Italy,” in Power and Persuasion. Essays in the Art of State Building in Honour of W. P. Blockmans, ed. Peter Hoppenbrouwers, Antheun Janse, and Robert Stein, (Turnhout, 2010), 287–41; Giorgio Chittolini, “Le città e i loro territori. alcune note comparative in relazione all’Italia centrosettentrionale tra medioevo ed età moderna,” in Le gouvernement des communautées politiques à la fin du moyen Âge, ed. Corinne Leveleux, Anne Rousselet-Pimont, Pierre Bonin, and Florent Garnier (Paris, 2011), 65–78; See also Philip Jones, The Italian City-State. From Commune to Signoria (Oxford, 1997), esp. 116–120, 161–63; Giovanni Tabacco, “La sintesi istituzionale di vescovo e città in Italia, e il suo superamento nella ‘res publica’ comunale,” in Egemonie sociali e strutture del potere nel Medioevo italiano (Turin, 1974), 397–427, in which from the beginning he insists on the concept of ‘Res publica comunale’ as the centre of territorial organization devolved from the kingdom. During the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries, in some ways the papacy also recognized the principle of comitatinanza in favour of the civitates of the Church, as a kind of natural right. However, the city always retained the duty to recognize its superior (see the work of G. De Vergottini mentioned in the following notes).

3  Martha C. Howell, “The Space of Late Medi­eval Urbanity,” in Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medi­ eval Europe, ed. Marc Boone and Peter Stabel (Leuven, 2000), 6–7. Historians correctly point out that the identity of the cities is built in contrast to the countryside: the contrast between Genossenschaft and “lordship,” according to Gierke; the contrast between farm work and manufacturing or financial work, according to Adam Smith and Marx; as the centre or commercial enclave inside a “market” territory. They also highlight how town dwellers have their own interests, values, and expectations fundamentally different from people in the countryside. For some recent works on the characteristics of urban identity see Giorgio Chittolini and Peter Johaneck, eds., Aspetti e componenti dell’identità urbana in Italia e in Germania (secc. XIV–XVI) (Bo­logna, 2003); Elisabeth Crouzet-Pavan and É� lodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, eds., Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe–XVIe siècle). Les enseignements d’une comparaison (Turnhout, 2008). 4  Giorgio Chittolini, “Il nome di ‘città.’ Le denominazioni dei centri urbani d’oltralpe in alcune scritture italiane del primo Cinquecento,” in Italia et Germania. Liber amicorum, ed. Arnold Esch, Hagen Keller, Werner Paravicini, and Wolfgang Schieder (Tübingen, 2001), 489–501; Marco Folin, “Sui criteri di classificazione degli insediamenti urbani nell’Italia centrosettentrionale (secoli XIV– XVIII),” in Storia urbana 92 (2000): 5–23. 5  “The territory is the combination of countryside within the bounds of its city” (Territorium est



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medi­eval city, in the sources in the chancery, the literary descriptions of the cities, and in the paintings, were often meant to transmit this image, throughout the Middle and Late Middle Ages.

The Municipal Age

Each city and its region shared a common identity, thanks to the implementation of a general doctrine and some specific legal texts, as well as clear images and depictions in art, and the development of popular rituals and processions. The Ideo­logy of “Comitatinanza”: The City and the “Contado” as a Single Body

Let us first consider the ideo­logy of comitatinanza: the city and the contado as a single body. In the early days of territorial expansion of the municipal world, there grew the doctrine of the necessary dependence of the city on the surrounding territory. It was a dependence that derived from “natural” duty, which disregarded any possible privileges granted by lords, princes, or popes. The Italian cities did not consider themselves cities due to some concession from a higher authority (even if the emperor or the pope had confirmed or extended these rights), but on the basis of an ancient and almost immemorial condition, understood as the most solid foundation of urban “freedom” (with origins from antiquity that were therefore illustrated and celebrated).6 This freedom was also understood as granting the legitimacy of control over its territory. Indeed, between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries, the Italian political system was considered as a unified group of free cities subject to no one other than the emperor, their guardian and guarantor.7 universitas agrorum intra fines cuiuscumque civitatis). Cited from Gian Piero Bognetti, Studi sulle origini del comune rurale (Milan, 1978), 9 (Digestum, 16, 31). This definition is repeated in many chancery documents from the late Middle Ages.

6  “… the foundation value to the demonstration of the dignity and antiquity of the city’s ‘origins’ is for the validation of rights (both personal and princely) that are offended by war and games of power, and claimed in the present” (alla dimonstrazioni della dignità e antichità delle ‘origines’ cittadine si Annette valore fondante, di convalida per i diritti [principeschi e propri] offesi dalla guerra e dai giochi di potere, e rivendicati nel presente). Cited from Massimo Donattini, “Confini contesi: Pellegrino Prisciani a Venezia (marzo 1845-gennaio 1486),” in L’Italia dell’inquisitore. Storia e geografia dell’Italia del Cinquecento nella Descriptio di Leonardo Alberti (Bo­logna, 2007), 187–217, esp. 211. This statement concerns the antiquity of Ferrara, claimed against Venice.

7  See Jones, “The Italian City-State,” 335, 360–70 and 383–400; Francesca Bocchi, “La città e l’organizzazione del territorio in età medi­evale,” in La città in Italia e in Germania nel Medioevo. cultura, istituzioni, vita religiosa, ed. Reinhard Elze and Gina Fasoli (Bo­logna, 1981), 51–80. For the fifteenth century, when, especially in Florence, the idea of civitas flourished, see Riccardo Fubini, “La rivendicazione di Firenze della sovranità statale e il contributo delle ‘Historiae’ di Leonardo Bruni,” in Leonardo Bruni cancelliere della Repubblica di Firenze, ed. Paolo Viti (Florence, 1990), 29–62, 51–53, 57. According to Bartolo, Bruni proposes an image of the city as an independent and viable political community, which governs itself and its territory. See also Lauro Martines, Lawyers and Statecraft in Renaissance Florence (Princeton, 1968), esp. 412–415. A dense synthesis of the evolution of history and the political and juridical values proposed by the ordinary Italian citizen is found in Mario Ascheri, Le città —Stato. Le radici del municipalismo e del repubblicanesimo (Bo­logna, 2006). For a comparative approach, see Mogens Herman Hansen, ed., A Comparative

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Dating from the initial urban expansion, documents of ordinary citizens in Italian municipalities show the connections between rural communities and the urban centres as a filial, or organic, relation, similar to those between the head and the limbs of the body. We commonly find statements in which words like mater or pater refer to the city, just as the word filii was used for peasants or inhabitants of rural municipalities. Or we find expressions in which the city was indicated by caput, juxtaposed with the word membra, which implied the communities of the countryside. This suggests that the comitatini were held by the city municipality under “‘natural’ duties dictated by a real ethical law, so that any disobedience of the comitatini towards the civitas, their mater, was a real rebellio, which harmed not only the rights of the municipality, but that same natural duty.”8 The image of a municipal authority as a communal organ like a body, with its head as the city and the limbs as the communities of the territory, or a family with the children obeying their parents, was fixed and lasting. To render more concrete these relations of jurisdictional and fiscal dependence of the countryside, fortifications were erected. These were powerful, highly symbolic representations of the contado. In the city chanceries, lists of the municipalities of the contado and the owners of rural lands were drawn up, together with identifications of boundaries and duties (or, vice versa, a list of the “offese ricevute,” or affronts received). In any case, they were “solemn and, at the same time, used and updated, read and exposed codes, present to the ruling class of citizens.”9 Churches, altars, and the worship of saints within the diocese were published differently, in a mixture of claims for ecclesiastical and civil pre-eminence of the urban centre.10 Study of Thirty City-State Cultures (Copenhagen, 2000), esp. 277–93; Anne Katherine Isaacs, “Italie. Les Etats de Toscane et de Vénétie du XIVe au XVIe siècle,” in Résistence, répresentation et communauté, ed. Peter Blickle (Paris, 1998), 383–400; Tom Brady, Jr., “Conclusion,” in Résistence, répresentation et communauté, ed. Peter Blickle (Paris, 1998), 419–23.

8  “Da obblighi ‘naturali’ dettati da una vera lege morale, sicché ogni disobbedienza dei ‘comitatini’ alla ‘civitas’, loro ‘mater’, era una vera ‘rebellio’, che ledava non solo I diritti del commune, ma la stessa legge natural.” There are some important studies about this, including Giovanni De Vergottini, “Origini e sviluppo storico della comitatinanza,” Studi senesi 43 (1929): 347–481; Giovanni De Vergottini, “Il papato e la comitatinanza nello stato della chiesa (s. XIII–XV),” Atti e memorie. Deputazione di storia patria per le provincie di Romagna 5, no. 5 (1953): 73–162; Giovanni De Vergottini, “Concezione papale e concezione comunale nel rapporto di comitatinanza in conflitto in Romagna al principio del s. XIV,” Atti e memorie della Deputazione di storia patria per le provincie di Romagna 5, no. 6 (1953–1954): 105–14; Giovanni De Vergottini, “Contributo alla storia della comitatinanza nello Stato della Chiesa,” Rivista di storia del diritto italiano 26–27 (1953–1954): 117–26. These studies are now collected in Guido Rossi, ed., Scritti di storia del diritto italiano, 3 vols. (Milan, 1977), 3:1–262 (the quotations are at 64–71). 9  “Codici comunali solenni e solennizzati e al tempo stesso usati ed aggiornati, letti ed esposti, comunque presenti alla coscienza dei ceti dirigenti dittadini.” Cited from Paolo Cammarosano, “Siena dalla solidarietà imperiale al guelfismo: celebrazione e propaganda,” in Le forme della propaganda politica nel Due e nel Trecento, ed. Paolo Cammarosano (Rome, 1994), 455–67 at 458. In the major Italian municipalities, we find books of libri finium, libri communium, libri possessorum, or possessionum, to record every right of the municipality over the territory and its organization, down to the basic rights of inhabitants in the countryside (even fiscal rights). 10  For the so-called Liber Sanctorum Mediolani and its importance, see Jörg W. Busch, “Ober­ italienischen Diözesan und Contado-Verzeichnisse. Beobachtungen zur schriftlichen Erfassung von



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At the same time, even lawyers thought that the adjective derived from the name of the city could be legitimately used to include the inhabitants of the rural area. Once again, on the basis of Roman traditions (particularly the law “Qui ex vico ortus est, eam patriam intelligitur habere, cui rei publiae vicus ille respondit”), they agreed that, like Virgil could be defined as “Mantuan” (although he was born in the village of Pietole), so the expression “Perugino” could refer both to citizens of the city of Perugia and inhabitants of its area (Bartolo), or the word “Paduan” could refer both to a citizen and to the people from its countryside.11

The laudationes urbium: The Mirabilia Mediolani

Many medi­eval texts offer us a sense of the close connection between the urban centre and the surrounding countryside, with its territory or contado, and the life and feelings of the people of the time. For example, many such ideas appear in a city chronicle—which often showed different attitudes from those in similar sources in France, for example, or in the imperial lands. However, let us now focus on the laudes civitatum, which represents a well-known genre in the literature of various European countries. It is a kind of writing which follows certain rules, but can be used in different forms and “discourses” to exalt the qualities of a city and highlight its excellence.12 Generally, it emphasizes specifically urban characteristics (the number of inhabitants, the prosperity of the economy, illustrious families, the splendid churches, the high towers, palaces, and streets). However, in these celebrations it is also possible to find references to the countryside: not only as a background to the city, or as an alternative (or contrasting) landscape, but as the “territory of the city,” as a constitutive element of its image. One of the most famous of the Laudes civitatum from the communal age is the Mirabilia Mediolani, produced in 1288 by Bonvesino della Riva, a grammar teacher, belonging to the third order of the Humiliati. When listing “the marvels of Milan” (le meraviglie di Milano), he talks about his city and its countryside as if they were a single entity. The counterpoints to the marvellous buildings in the urban centre are the many popuVerwaltungsstrukturen im 13. Jahrhundert,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 26 (1992): 368–88.

11  Giovanni Chiodi, “Tra la civitas e il comitatus. i suburbi nella dottrina di diritto comune,” in Dal suburbium al faubourg. evoluzione di una realtà urbana, ed. Maria Vittoria Antico Gallina (Milan, 2000), 225–320, esp. 270, 279ff. Legal historians are always careful to highlight that this shared term does not mean equivalent rights between citizens of the city and the countryside: Diego Quaglioni, “Civitas. appunti per una riflessione sull’idea di città nel pensiero politico dei giuristi medi­evali,” in Le ideo­logie della città europea dall’umanesimo al romanticismo, ed. Vittorio Conti (Florence, 1993), 59–76.

12  On the genre of laudes civitatum, and its development between Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, see, amongst others, Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages (Princeton, 1953), 157. A comparison of the laudes of different European cities is available in John Kenneth Hyde, “Medi­eval Descriptions of Cities,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 48 (1965–66): 309–341. On the Italian laudes, in particular, see Gina Fasoli, “La coscienza civica nelle ‘laudes civitatum,’” in Scritti di storia medi­evale (Bo­logna, 1974); Giuseppe Martini, “Lo spirito cittadino e le origini della storiografia comunale lombarda,” Nuova rivista storica 44 (1970); Daniel Waley, La città-repubblica nell’Italia medi­evale (Milan, 1969), 142; Isabelle Heullant-Donat and Gian Mario Anselmi, eds., Cultures italiennes (XIIe–XVe siècle) (Paris, 2000).

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lous and prestigious hamlets, hundreds of villages and castles, many noble lineages (no longer seen as enemies and hostile to the municipality, as Ottone di Frisinga described them around the middle of the twelfth century, but as an integral part of local society), well-cultivated lands, rivers irrigating the fields and turning the mill-wheels, and lakes rich in fish. The number of churches in the cities is mentioned. It is the same for the territory, for the corpora sanctorum, the relics preserved in the peri-urban basilicas, and the monasteries. Conversely, the number of men and knights who the municipality can call to arms is also mentioned.13 The territory surrounding the city is not considered (as Pirenne wrote) as “something else,” opposed to the urban centre, a place of contrary political powers. It was the source of supply and prosperity for the city and its very existence: not some inert area of domination and of supply, but also a place with distinguished settlements, noble lineages, and where crops for the table were grown. This is a celebration of symbiosis, even if asymmetric, between the urban centre and its territory as the foundation of common prosperity. From the mid-thirteenth century, the assimilation of the rural seigneurial rulers into the city nobility became commonplace, even in other laudes and chronicles (the most powerful rulers were given the negative term magnati). The idea of the territory as a natural projection of the city was quite strong. Indeed, agricultural manuals, which developed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (unique in this genre in Europe), were products of that same “bourgeois” urban culture which produced the “practices” of commerce. At a certain point, in every major city except Venice—Milan, Florence, and Genoa—the agricultural prosperity and the glories of the county and of the suburbs rivalled and eclipsed the glories of commerce in the discourses of the laudes urbium and in the reports of travellers.14

Depictions: “The Allegory of Good Government” of Siena

Examples of the relations between city and countryside can be found in the visual arts. Many times, the depictions of the city, in frescoes or framed works, portray specific, distinctive traits of the urban environment: the artist’s eye is focused on the depth of the buildings, the intertwining of streets and squares, and the circle of the walls, which cir13  Bonvesin Da la Riva, Le meraviglie di Milano (De magnalibus Mediolani), ed. Paolo Chiesa (Milan, 2009); Barbara Sasse Tateo, Tradition und Pragmatik in Bonvesins “De Magnalibus mediolani” (Frankfurt, 1991).

14  “In tutte le maggiore città, con l’eccezione di Venezia—a Milano, a Firenze, a Genova—la ricchezza agricola e gli splendori del contado dei suburbia rivaleggiavano o eclissavano le glorie del commercio nei panegirici nelle ‘laudes urbium’ e nei resoconti dei viaggitori.” On the deep sensitivity of urban culture to the values of the countryside in the middle and late communal era, as well as the Renaissance, a real form of “nostalgia” against increasing urbanization and gravitation of the rural territory to the city, see Jones, “The Italian City-State. From Commune to Signoria,” 285; Joseph R. Berrigan, “Benzo d’Alessandria and the Cities of Northern Italy,” Studies in Medi­eval and Renaissance History 4 (1967): 151–52. See also Antonio I. Pini, Città, comuni e corporazioni nel medioevo italiano (Bo­logna, 1986); Antonio Ivan Pini, La coscienza cittadina nel comune italiano del Duecento (Todi, 1972), 157–58; Enrico Castelnuovo, Arte, industria y revolución. Temas de historia social del arte (Barcelona, 1988), 213.



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cumscribe a defined space, one that can be seen symbolically as an image of the Virgin and other saints with their protecting capes.15 However, the countryside takes an important role in perhaps the most important depiction of an Italian medi­eval city: Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s famous cycle of frescoes, better known as “The Allegory of Good and Bad Government” in the public palace in Siena. The contado of Siena is an integral part of his work. In the part of the fresco called “The Allegory of Good Government” (Allegoria del buon governo), at the foot of the figure representing “good government” (or, according to others, the municipality of Siena) are two lords making offerings of their castles, as a symbol of submission. Near them are some men bound like prisoners, probably rebellious peasants, according to the most reliable interpretation. In the panel called “The Effects of Good Government” (Gli efetti del buon governo), city and countryside are connected: the wide open doors of the walls connect, rather than divide, urban activities with the rural landscape, in a colourful flow of markets, knights, peasants, shepherds, and animals. Good, safe roads (thanks to the securitas, with which the municipality provides its territory) pass through fields, landscapes of grapevines and vegetable gardens, and hunting grounds. The reference to a typical Sienese setting—and not, generically, to the “countryside”—is determined by some specific elements (for example, the depiction of the harbour of Talamone, on the Tyrrhenian Sea, which Siena was then building). On the other hand, in the part called “The Effects of Bad Government” (Gli effetti del cattivo governo), the tyranny which rules over the municipality is mostly reflected in images of violence and destruction in both city and countryside. There the landscape is abandoned and barren, devastated by collapse and fire, sacked by armed men.16 In Perugia, references to its territories are found in a different place: on a kind of encyclopaedia in stone depicting figures on the city fountain (Fontana maggiore), in the foremost location of the city.17 Rituals and Processions of Citizens (and Peasants)

The deep symbiosis between city and countryside, the ties that made the countryside a component of the city itself, are expressed in the rituals of the “civic religion.” The feast day of the city’s patron saint (or, if multiple, the one with greater civic connotations),

15  In general, see Wolfgang Braunfels, Mittelalterliche Stadtbaukunst in der Toscana (1953; Berlin, 1979), 77–79; Chiara Frugoni, Una lontana città (Turin, 1983); Hanno Wijsman, “Images de la ville et urbanité des images. Quelque réflexions sur la représentation de l’espace urbain et la fonction des œuvres d’art aux Pays Bas Bourguignons,” in Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe–XVIe siècle). Les enseignements d’une comparaison (Turnhout, 2008).

16  Enrico Castelnuovo, Il buon Governo, ed. Ambrogio Lorenzetti (Milan, 1984); Chiara Frugoni, Pietro Lorenzetti e Ambrogio Lorenzetti (Florence, 1988); Chiara Frugoni, “Il governo dei Nove a Siena e il loro credo politico nell’affresco di Ambrogio Lorenzetti,” Quaderni medi­evali 7 (1979): 14–42; Chiara Frugoni, Una lontana città. Figurative and symbolic images of Sienese domination over some minor centres are also preserved in the municipal archive: Cammarosano, “Siena dalla solidarietà imperiale al guelfismo”; Odile Redon, L’espace d’une cité: Sienne et le pays siennois (XIIIe– XIVe siècles) (Rome, 1994). 17  Attilio Bartoli Langeli, L’iscrizione in versi della Fontana Maggiore di Perugia (Barcelona, 1996). The images highlight the dominion of the city, for example, over the area of Chiusi and Lake Trasimeno.

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the recurring feasts in honour of Mary (particularly her Assumption on 15 August), or other religious celebrations, like Corpus Christi, were occasions for solemn public and civic events, as in many other European cities. The culmination of these was the procession with all the members of the community, the whole of society, in honour of the heavenly protector, with offerings of candles, pallia, and other gifts. The participants and protagonists were not the faithful and the masses, but the citizens in their public function as members of social bodies and government, celebrating shared municipal values: the magistrates of the municipality, the societates of different territories, the corporations, guilds, colleges, and associations, together with representatives of the clergy. The splendour of the celebration was intended as proof of the prominence and energy of the municipality and of the cohesion of its components.18 Participation in these ceremonies by communities from the countryside and sometimes by rural lords from the territory was a feature in many Italian cities.19 From the beginning of urban expansion into the countryside, the image of the patron saint was considered (in the complex panorama of symbols and urban civic religiosity) as a sign and guarantor of the link between urban centre and territory. For example, the act of homage of a village to the municipality was sometimes symbolically accomplished in the hands of the saint: maybe to temper the sense of political subjugation or to sacralize the newly established relationship, as well as to highlight the common subordination of both city and territory to a heavenly Lord and guardian. Sometimes we find that, in the same chapters of dedication, the homage was renewed year after year during the Patron’s feast, or another festivity with the same meanings and values. The forms of participation, the manner of the act of homage could vary between cities and different festive occasions, and they probably changed over time. However, it is possible to recognize some characteristics common to various patronal feasts: the city’s concern that the peasants participate in the celebration, and how that concern 18  In addition to Hans Conrad Peyer, Stadt und Stadtpatron im mittelalterlichen Italien (Zürich, 1955), also see the research by Richard Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (New York, 1980); André Vauchez, “Patronage des saints et religion civique dans l’Italie communale à la fin du Moyen Age,” in Patronage and Public in the Trecento, ed. Vicent Moleta (Florence, 1986), 59–90; Paola Ventrone, “Le forme dello spettacolo toscano nel Trecento. tra rituale civico e cerimoniale festivo,” in La Toscana nel secolo XIV. Caratteri di una civiltà regionale, ed. Sergio Gensini (Pisa, 1988), 497–517. The composition and disposition of the procession, according to the order previously established in the various cities for the different arts, is carefully examined by Antonio Pini, “Le arti in processione. Professioni, prestigio e potere nelle città-stato dell’Italia padana medi­evale,” in Città, comuni e corporazioni nel Medioevo italiano (Bo­logna, 1986), 259–91; and, for a comparison, see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Early Modern Europe (New York, 1997); Marc Boone and Peter Stabel, eds., Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medi­eval Europe (Leuven, 2000), esp. 237–53. Further detail is available in Ludovico Antonio Muratori, “De christianorum veneratione erga Sanctos post declinationem Romani imperii,” in Antiquitates Italicae Medii Aevi (Milan, 1741), 5:1–60 (cols.).

19  Giorgio Chittolini, “Civic Religion and the Countryside in Late Medi­eval Italy,” in City and Countryside in Late Medi­eval and Renaissance Italy. Essays presented to Philip Jones, ed. Trevor Dean and Chris Wickham (London, 1990), 69–80; Giorgio Chittolini, “‘Religione cittadina’ e ‘Chiese di comune’ alla fine del Medioevo,” in La chiesa a pianta centrale tempio civico del Rinascimento, ed. Bruno Adorni (Milan, 2002), 15–26.



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transformed into coercive efforts for participation; the reaffirmation of the sovereignty of the city over the countryside and, vice versa, the subjection of the rural communities to the urban centre. These aspects of the ceremony, as well as the proliferation of sometimes strict and coercive rules intended to regulate them, suggest the rural communities were struggling to identify themselves in the values the ritual was intended to solemnize. The saint, the patron, was from the city, and ultimately could not become the object of worship for rural people: that is, it was a forced “civic religiosity,” or symbol of unity and harmony. The act of homage was understood as paid to the saint or patron saint, considered a further act of subjection and homage, a further tribute to the urban centre: an imposition similar to many others (fiscal, jurisdictional, administrative) the countryside suffered daily. The ceremony’s eventual meaning was often a reassertion of urban supremacy over its politically dependent territories, and, in reverse, the dependence and subjection of the communities in the countryside. In Bo­logna, during the eve of the feast of St. Petronius, the vicars of the country and district of Bo­logna, together with a man for each community, “playing trumpets and other instruments before them,”20 had to present themselves before a stage where were seated the Gonfaloniere, at least three of the aldermen, four Gonfalonieri of the people, and four guilds leaders (the Massari delle Arti). Each one of the vicars, offering a candle, had to address the aldermen with these precise words: “These are your servants, men from these vicariates, who commend themselves to St. Petronius and your domination.”21 The regulation specified: “this measure signifies the loyalty and obedience that the districts must hold and owe to your community.”22 As Trexler noted, it also resulted in a desacralization of the countryside, in favour of the “civic religion.”23

From the Middle Ages to the Renaissance

In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the new regional states that characterized Renaissance Italy became established around the major lords and the most powerful cities: princes like the Viscontis (or, to a lesser extent, the Scaglieris or Estensis) and “dominant cities” (like Florence or Venice) extended their dominion over less powerful 20  “Cum tubis vel aliis instrumentis ante eos pulsantibus.” Cited from Mario Fanti, La Fabbrica di San Petronio in Bo­logna dal XIV al XX secolo: storia di una istituzione (Rome, 1980), 52–55.

21  “Isti sunt servitores vestri, homines talis vicariatus, qui se recomendant beato Petronio et vestre dominazioni.” Cited from Fanti, La Fabbrica di San Petronio in Bo­logna, 52–55. 22  “Hic modus habebit significare circha ditrictuales fidelitatem et obedienciam quam gerere et habere tenentur et debent Communitati vestre.” Cited from Fanti, La Fabbrica di San Petronio in Bo­logna, 52–55.

23  The countryside was also considered less important than the city in terms of worship (Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence, 3–4); even more so, it was not able to hold important religious or civic celebrations beyond that of limited areas such as the village or a small town. On the lack of importance of the diocesan patron saints, see Anna Imelde Galletti, “Sant’Ercolano, il grifo e le lasche. note sull’immaginario collettivo nella città comunale,” in Forme e tecniche del potere nella città. Secoli XIV–XVII (Perugia, 1979–1980), 213. And for a comparison between urban and rural dedications: Adriano Prosperi, “Premessa,” Quaderni storici 17 (1982): 391–410.

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cities and the territories over which they ruled. This process of establishing regionallevel states,24 however, did not undermine the image of an Italy constituted primarily of a system of “citizen territories,” nor did it transform Italy into a sum of princely or republican “state territories.” Major cities, like Venice or Florence, preserved their identity very differently from the other states over which they ruled. In the same way, “capital cities,” where the princes or lords had residences, defended or tried to defend their specific urban identities over their dominus.25 These cities, sure in their old freedoms and the wide prerogatives they preserved over much of their region, settled into their roles as provincial capitals, keeping alive the image of a single entity covering both city and territory. The Organization of a Territory in the Language of Diplomatic and Administrative Documents

Chancery and diplomatic documents included treaties of peace, alliances, or leagues, and recorded the constant changes of Italian political geo­graphy between the mid-fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries; in other words, the processes of composition, decomposition, and re-composition of the states, and the delimitation of areas of territorial influence. Consequently, the sum of these documents offers a politico-administrative geo­graphy of the Italian Peninsula with the citizen territories at its base: “civitates cum comitatibus eorum,” or simply, “civitates,” or its equivalence, the “episcopatus” or diocesan territory. The background is of city-states as territories, recomposed like mosaics into city territories. Generally, they used the name of the province, or sometimes “march” (“provincia Lombardae,” for example, or the “provincia Tusciae” or “Romandiolae”; the “Marchia trivisana,” “veronensis,” or “anconetana”; or the “ducato di Spoleto”). These indicate the most important areas somehow defined in previous centuries, and reflect areas of domination or political or administrative subdivisions of major potentates. For example, in the Peace of Sarzana (an important treaty, which, in 1353, put an end to the first great phase of the war between the Viscontis, on one hand, and Venice, Florence, and the other Tuscan cities on the other), the name “provincia Lombardie” was used to define the area of influence of the Viscontis, meaning the territory up to the Panaro river and the crest of the Apennines, while for the area of influence of Florence, the name used was Tuscia. Within the papal territories, we find areas called “March” (anconetana) or “the Duchy of Spoleto,” going back to Longobard terms.26 An administrative document such as 24  Isabella Lazzarini, L’Italia degli Stati territoriali, secoli XIII–XV (Rome, 2003); Gian Maria Varanini, “Aristocrazie e poteri nell’Italia centro-settentrionale dalla crisi comunale alla guerre d’Italia,” in Le aristocrazie, dai signori rurali al patriziato, ed. Renato Bordone, Guido Castelnuovo, and Gian Maria Varanini (Rome, 2004), 121–93; Lorenzo Tanzini, Dai comuni agli stati territoriali. L’Italia delle città fra XIII e XV secolo (Milan, 2011).

25  For this distinction, see Marino Berengo, “La città di antico regime,” in Dalla città preindustriale alla città del capitalismo, ed. Alberto Caracciolo (Bo­logna, 1975), 34. Compare, for instance, the different character of Italian princely capitals from the so-called Residenzstädte.

26  The text of the agreement can be read in a good edition in the appendix to Bartolomeo di Ser Gorello, “Cronica dei fatti d’Arezzo,” in Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, (1353), ed. Arturo Bini



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the almost contemporary Descriptio Romadiolae (a detailed survey of the territories of papal Romagna initiated in 1371 by Cardinal Anglic Grimoard de Grisac) similarly delineated the borders of the region in question (Romagna) with Lombardy, Tuscia, Marca Anconetana (and the lesser Massa Trabaria, a name likewise with ancient resonance).27 Within these bigger regions, the territorial circumscriptions of reference were the city territories, even if they were not politically autonomous, called precisely comitatus et districtus, or simply, civitates. The text of the Treaty of Sarzana specified, for example, “to avoid any doubt” (ad omnem dubitationem tollendam) concerning the borders between the dominions of Florence and the Viscontis: It must be understood that Tuscia included the county and district of Florence, and the whole county and district of Pistoia, the whole county and district of the city of Perugia and also the city of Castello with all its county and district, the cities of Pisa and Lucca, with all they have and each one of its counties, fortresses, and districts, as well as the Sarzano land.28

In other chapters, the civitates of Siena and Arezzo, which then constituted independent municipalities, were named “other lands that really are in Tuscia,” and included in the peace agreement.29 The implication is that the contracting civitates included places dependent on their districts (on behalf of whom they signed the terms of the peace); by contrast, some territories and villages were named separately only when placed outside their original contado or district, and at that point owing allegiance to different lords.30

and Giovanni Grazzini, Rerum italicarum scriptores 15/1, 4 vols. (Bo­logna, 1917), 1:212–94. Also see the broad summaries published in Alessandro Gherardi, ed., I Capitoli del comune di Firenze. Inventario e regesto, Le consulte della Repubblica fiorentina, 2 vols. (Florence, 1893), fasc. 13:305–27 (document 44). The civitas Perusii is mentioned together with Tuscan cities. On this treaty see Giorgio Chittolini, “Note sul comune di Firenze e i ‘piccoli signori’ dell’Appennino secondo la pace di Sarzana,” in From Florence to the Mediterranean World and Beyond. Essays in Honour of Anthony Molho, ed. Diego Ramada Curto, Eric R. Dursteler, Julius Kirshner, and Francesca Trivellato, 2 vols. (Florence, 2009), 1:193–210. 27  Leardo Mascanzoni, La “Descriptio Romandiolae” del card. Anglic. Introduzione e testo (Bo­logna, s.d.), 133, 244, which provides an accurate map of the whole region.

28  “In Tuscia intelligantur esse et sint totus comitatus et districtus Florentiae, et totus comitatus et destrictus Pistoriensis, totus comitatus et destrictus civitatis Perusij, ac etiam Civitatis Castellj cum toto eius comitatu et destrictu, civitas Pisarum, et Luce, cum omnibus earum et cuiuscumque earum comitatibus, fortilitiis et districtibus, et terra Sarzane.” Cited from Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, ed. Bini and Grazzini, 237 (98–108).

29  “Aliae terrae quae vere sunt in Tuscia.” Cited from Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, ed. Bini and Grazzini, 239 (8–9, 43–44, 48–49). The same parameters to indicate belonging to places and territories are also applied in other treaties. See, for example, the so-called “League of Pisa” of 1389 (Sara Favale, “Siena nel quadro della politica viscontea nell’Italia centrale,” Bullettino senese di storia patria 7, no. 4 (1936): 351–370 (document 2); or the league of October 10, 1389 between Florence, Bo­logna, Perugia, and other cities (Gherardi, ed., I Capitoli del comune di Firenze. Inventario e regesto, 241), which refers to the territories “in Provinciis Tusciae, Romandiolae, Marchiae anconitanae, Ducatus Spoletani e Patrimonium Beati Petri. 30  As is the case for castra apparently belonging to other counties and districts, especially in the territory of Arezzo and in the region of Umbria: Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, ed. Bini and Grazzini, 213 (14–22: reclaimed lands by Florence; 24–53: reclaimed lands by Perugia).

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Similarly, the proem to the so-called Descriptio Romandiolae states that it aims to list “by order and distinction all the cities named and defined in the Romagnole Province with their territories, counties, and districts, as well as the limits of their territories and counties as far as the limits and borders of the Province of Tuscany, March of Ancona, Massa Trabaria, Lombardy, and the Adriatic Sea.”31 In fact, the Descriptio lists the dependent territories of various civitates, within which the dependent lands are listed, while pointing out those held by papal concession, or ecclesiastical or secular lords.32 Similar rules were again followed in the chanceries throughout the fifteenth century.33 The New Territorial Concept of “Dominant Cities” (civitates potentes)

Dominant cities at the head of constellations of lesser cities had problems finding an appropriate “model of dominion,” different to the “natural” one used by the city-state. They needed a suitable, but different basis for their legitimacy. The concept of civitas, that is, the concept of “urban territorial state,” was functional, and could explain the libertà belonging to the municipal communes, their dominance over the county (contado), and in turn their dependence on imperial sovereignty. However, this justification for dominion could not be claimed by a city over territories that were not part of its ancient comitatus—and even less so if it did not establish the rights of lordship of a city over other civitates. 31  “Per ordinem et distincte […] omnes civitates provincie Romadiole […] designatas et confinatas […] cum eorum territoriis comitatibus et districtibus et confinibus ipsorum territoriorum et comitatorum, usque ad terminus et confines provincie Tusciae, marchie Anconetane, masse Trabarie, Lombardie et maris Ariani.” Cited from Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, ed. Bini and Grazzini, 133–36. 32  Special clauses refer to “castles and fortresses, but not towns” (castra et fortilicia nec non villas) located in the districts and urban territories, “and over main roads, passes and any other castle, fortified rocks, and towns located in this province outside the county and the city’s district’s, and all castles, fortified rocks, and towns of ecclesiastics and any nobleman in this province” (et supra stratas maistras et passus, et omnia alia castra, rochas fortilitias et villas sita in dicta provincia extra comitatum et districtum civitatum, et omnia alia castra, rochas fortilitias et villas prelatorum et omnium nobilium ipsius provincie), then castellans, hearths, officials, etc. Cited from Pax cum archiepiscopo Mediolani, ed. Bini and Grazzini, 133–136. “Territorium” indicates a territorial area where it was extended, similar to the former Latin municipium, the area under the legal and administrative competence of the city; “comitatus” was the sum of the territories governed by one city, which we can understand thanks to the research by De Vergottini. On the other hand, the term “districtus” means “that territory on which [a city] is accustomed to exercise its own statutory orders” (quel territorio sul quale [una città] esercitava i propri ordinamenti statutari), and applied to the territory of Imola: “it is important to note that Imola was the only city in Romagna to extend its “district” into a limited part of the territory and not, like others, to the whole county” (da ascrivere a fatto che Imola era la sola fra le città romagnole a dispiegare la sua ‘districtio’ soltanto su una ristretta fascia territoriale, e non, come le altre, anche sull’intero comitato). Cited from Vergottini, “Il papato e la comitatinanza nello stato della chiesa,” 94; also for the discrepancy between diocese and comitatus in the case of Imola. By contrast, this shows that county and diocese were assumed to cover the same land.

33  A broad summary of the peace treaties and leagues and of the relevant laws can be found in Francesco Somaini and in Marco Folin.



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The “inelastic” nature of the urban system was apparent. A city, configuring itself as an universitas civium (a body of citizens), was by nature a “closed body” (corpo chiuso), so it could not absorb external groups over which it extended its dominion. The territory beyond its borders, and acquired by it, remained irreducibly “other” compared to the city. In addition, it was also denominated differently in administrative documents, as if to evoke its different original belonging.34 The concept of civitas, which remained the foundation for the political and territorial model of central and northern Italy, therefore underwent great tension during the upheavals caused by the formation of regional dominions. The work of the chancery of Florence during the middle decades of the fourteenth century and the beginning of the fifteenth has been well studied. These efforts were aimed at adapting the constitutional and territorial models created during the communal era, to the situation determined by Florence’s policy of expansion, with the acquisition of lands and castles located outside the ancient limits of its contado, instead located in the counties of other cities in Tuscany, Romagna, and Emilia.35 These new territories were initially included in a wide concept of contado or district (with a characteristic oscillation between the two terms, which continued for many decades, between the second half of the fourteenth century and the early fifteenth). They were otherwise considered as territories “held and owned” by the municipality of Florence. However, they then wished to remedy a situation that appeared clearly anomalous in terms of law. With an initiative that disconcerted many Florentines, loyal to an ancient Guelph and anti“Teutonic” tradition, they sought out and obtained imperial privileges for legitimacy in 1355, which were then expanded in 1369.36 Thanks to these privileges, particularly to the latter, in Florence, dominion over the territories was recognized as if it were organic. In the following years, even though it contradicted the logic of the Italian urban system, made up of free civitates under the protection of the Empire, and to justify the unusual dominance of one civitas over another, Florence introduced the concept of civitas potens: a concept described and justified in the famous pro­logue De origine iuris, presented in the opening of the statutes of 1406–1409,37 which was accompanied by new perspectives on Florentine historio­graphy and new elaborations of the civic rituals. From then on, within a single Florentine area of dominance, we increasingly witness a 34  Luca Mannori, Il sovrano tutore. Pluralismo istituzionale e accentramento amministrativo nel principato dei Medici (Secc. XVI–XVIII) (Milan, 1994), 54.

35  Riccardo Fubini, “Potenze grosse e piccolo stato nell’Italia del Rinascimento. Consapevolezza della distinzione e dinamica dei poteri,” in Il piccolo stato. Politica, storia, diplomazia, ed. Laura Barletta, Franco Cardini and Giuseppe Galasso (San Marino, 2003), 91–126, esp. 94ff. 36  See the bibliography mentioned in notes 24 and 25. Fubini, “Potenze grosse e piccolo stato nell’Italia del Rinascimento,” 103–5.

37  See Lorenzo Tanzini, “Tradizione e innovazione nella rubrica ‘De origine iuris’ dello statuto fiorentino del 1409,” Archivio storico italiano 159 (2001): 765–96; and see Jane Black, “Gli statuti comunali e lo stato territoriale fiorentino: il contributo dei giuristi,” in Lo Stato Territoriale Fiorentino (secoli XIV–XV). Ricerche, linguaggi, confronti, ed. Andrea Zorzi and William J. Connell (San Miniato, 2002), 23–46.

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distinction between the city’s own “county” and a part defined as the “district,” which included territories previously subject to other cities.38 Genoa confronted the problem much earlier, due to its maritime character (sea ports across the whole Gulf of Liguria): for Genoa, the term respublica came to mean dominion, while the term commune meant the dominated area.39 Also, in Venice, from the early fifteenth century, the earlier term commune Veneciarum was replaced with that of signoria.40 The Princely State Italian lords and princes had no difficulty making their domains legitimate, not only over the cities whose lordship they acquired, but also other cities. They simply made themselves recognized by the latter as the holders of the domain. When the Visconti, already lords in Milan, extended their authority over other civitates (and their territories), they received, one by one, the title of dominus from these cives, confirming the “model of sovereignty” of the city-state. In fact, Milan struggled to establish itself (in terms of the reality behind the domain, its perception and representation) as an expanded entity with a regional character. A title unifying the Viscontis’ domain is found in the titles conferred by the emperor, firstly of vicar and then, more importantly, of duke of Milan.41 Even when the domain 38  For the Sienese area, see Mario Ascheri and Donatella Ciampoli, “Il distretto e il contado nella Repubblica di Siena: l’esempio della Val d’Orcia nel Quattrocento,” in La Val d’Orcia nel medioevo e nei primi secoli dell’età moderna, ed. Alfio Cortonesi (Rome, 1990), 83–112; Odile Redon, L’espace d’une cité: Sienne et le pays siennois (XIIIe–XIVe siècles) (Rome, 1994). The distinction between contado and district, especially in fiscal terms, survived until the reforms of the eighteenth century: Marcello Verga, Da “cittadini” a “nobili”, lotta politica e riforma delle istituzioni nella Toscana di Francesco Stefano (Milan, 1990), 579–80.

39  Rodolfo Savelli, “Scrivere lo statuto. Amministrare la giustizia, organizzare il territorio,” in Repertorio degli statuti della liguria (secc. XII–XVIII ), ed. Rodolfo Savelli (Genoa, 2003), 1–192 at 109 (esp. notes 275, 339, 387). On this type of problem, see Antonio I. Pini, “Dal comune cittàstato al comune ente amministrativo,” in Comuni e signorie. Istituzioni, società e lotte per l’egemonia, ed. Ovidio Capitani, Raoul Manselli, Giovanni Cherubini, Antonio Ivan Pini, and Giorgio Chittolini (Turin, 1981), 458.

40  The process of creating a Venetian “identity” was slow and limited in the areas near Venice, for which see Gaetano Cozzi, “Ambiente veneziano, ambiente veneto. Governanti e governati nel Dominio di qua dal Mincio nei secoli XV–XVIII,” in Storia della cultura veneta, 5 vols. in 9, vol. 4:2 Dalla controriforma alla fine della Repubblica, Il Seicento, ed. Girolamo Arnaldi and Manlio Pastore Stocchi (Vicenza, 1984), 495–539. For the complex civic rituals in Venice during the Renaissance, see Edward Muir, Civic Ritual in Renaissance Venice (Princeton, 1981).

41  Similarly, but more slowly, the construction of an administrative and fiscal system progressed at a regional level, ignoring the old urban government created between the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. For the State of Milan, see Francesco Somaini, “Processi costitutivi, dinamiche politiche e strutture istituzionali dello stato visconteo sforzesco,” in Comuni e signorie nell’Italia settentrionale. la Lombardia, ed. Giancarlo Andenna, Renato Bordone, Francesco Somaini, and Massimo Vallerani (Turin, 1998), 681–786; for the Republic of Florence, see various contributions in Andrea Zorzi and William J. Connell, ed., Lo stato territoriale fiorentino (secoli XIV–XV). Ricerche, linguaggi, confronti (Pisa, 2001).



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stabilized, a “regional identity” did not emerge. Elsewhere in Europe, the birth of a sense of “regional belonging” (or “national belonging”), seems to have grown most easily around different dynasties during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries: “National/ regional sentiment and dynastic sentiment are consubstantially linked.”42 The Visconti dynasty, and then the Sforza dynasty, tried to affirm their dignity and identity as territorial princes, but were unable to forge an image combining territory and duchy. A unifying title was found in the title conferred to the emperor, firstly of vicar and then, more importantly, of duke of Milan (1395) and of Lombardy (1396: but for “Lombardy” it was necessary to list every one of the cities and territories which belonged to it43 or an image). After all, during the fifteenth century, until the crises of Visconti rule in Milan in 1447 and of Sforza rule in 1499, we see fleeting revivals of old republics and “magnificent communities.” The episode in 1447 was important, when, after the death of the last Visconti duke, an Ambrosian Republic was established in the city of Milan. It initiated negotiations with the emperor’s envoy, then Enea Silvio Piccolomini, to be recognized as an imperial city. However—claiming a sort of mos italicus—it still expected to keep under its own domain all the territory that previously constituted the Duchy. It was a demand which could not be reconciled with the “constitutional” arrangements of the empire, where the status of Reichsstädte and of Freiestädte was quite different from their much more limited territorial domains. The negotiations came to an end at that point.44 42  “Les sentiments nationale/régionale et dynastique sont consubstantiellement attachés.” Cited from Jean-Marie Moeglin, “Introduction,” in Identité régionale et conscience nationale en France et en Allemagne du moyen âge à l’époque moderne, ed. Rainer Babel and Jean-Marie Moeglin (Sigmaringen, 1997), 8ff.

43  M.-L. Favreau-Lilie, “Reichesherrschaft im Spätmittelalterlichen Italien. Zur Handhabung des Reichsvikariat im 14./15. Jahrhundert,” Quellen und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 80 (2000): 53–116. Referring to 1396 (in relation to Lombardy), see Johann Christian Lünig, Codex Italiae diplomaticus, 4 vols. (Frankfurt, 1725–1735), 1:425–32 (cols.). Giangaleazzo was named as the Duke of Brescia, Bergamo, Como, Novara, Vercelli, Alessandria, Tortona, Bobbio, Piacenza, Reggio, Parma, Cremona, Lodi, and many other minor centres. Azzone Visconti attempted to present his higher authority as opposed to that of other cities (or villages, castles, or “noble lands” of the domain), which culminated in the great procession of 1330, where one hundred twentytwo places and castles of the domain presented canopies and standards to the Virgin. This homage was meant to transcend the rituals of the urban patron saints; see Federica Cengarle, “La signoria di Azzone Visconti tre prassi, retorica e iconografia (1329–1339),” in Tecniche di potere nel tardo Medioevo: regimi comunali e signorie in Italia, ed. Massimo Vallerani (Rome, 2010). A few years later, when the successor of Azzone, archbishop Giovanni, dedicated to his predecessor a magnificent grave, the icono­graphy adopted symbolism in a human form, representing the ten civitates subject to Visconti in Lombardy, as ladies paying homage to St. Ambrose and to the archbishop: Federica Cengarle, “I Visconti e il culto della Vergine (xiv secolo). qualche osservazione,” in Immagini, culti, liturgie. Le connotazioni politiche del messaggio religioso, ed. Laura Gaffuri and Paolo Ventrone (Milan, 2011). For the elusive connotations of a “Lombard” region, see Giancarlo Andenna, Storia della Lombardia medi­evale (Turin, 1998), 3–20. 44  “Briefe als Priester und als Bischof von Triest: 1447–1450,” in Der Briefwechsel des Eneas Silvius Piccolomini, ed. Rudolf Wolkan, 3 vols. (Vienna, 1912), 2:263–70, esp. 268–70.

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The Cities and their Subject Territories (contadi) Cities which, with their ancient contado, were under the control of major lords and the most powerful cities in the new regional states, succeeded in keeping strong autonomy. They managed especially to maintain broad prerogatives over most of their contado. In the new equilibria of regional states, some “quasi cities,” valley territories, or Alpine villages and hamlets were placed in the territorial space, but the princes and the dominants granted immunities and exemptions for the cities on which they were to depend. However, on the plains, they continued to “rule,” confirming their local hegemonies between the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries. The administrative geo­g raphy of new regional states tended to follow—and reflect— the mould of the ancient geo­graphy of the city-states. In other words, the old free municipalities became provinces of the new states, while the neutral cities came to exert a specific influence over the cities and cives in the surrounding territory. This was not only due to the ancient communal “imprint,” but also to the development which the city-provinces and “provincial” administrations (legal, fiscal, and administrative) drew from the settling of the regional states. The cities were the seats of the magistracy, mainly with provincial and diocesan powers. The assignment of taxes was done by provinces, and, on this basis, accounting documents were drawn up. Naturally, there were no nobles or parliaments. This newly reconfirmed union of the city with the territory continued to correspond to a city–provincial identity, appropriated and managed by the citizens. The idea of civitas continued to be used, and even reaffirmed, to defend the original prerogatives, not erased by the subjection. In negotiations with princes and dominant cities, the subjected cities—claiming the defence of their territory, which they considered a crucial point— countered any aspirations for separation, by opposing the establishment of immune territories or new provinces, and employing the ancient discourse of the body and limbs, which must stay together (at risk of the whole body dying); this was all reinforced in the language of the city chanceries. Geo­graphical depictions of the territories of north and central Italy continued those of the fourteenth century, until the Italian wars in the early sixteenth century. The “forms” for depicting cities showed no literary or pictorial change, whether we consider renovations, civic rituals, or urban ceremonies. For their part, the comitatini were unable to create any identity different or separate from the cities, except in the case of Alpine valleys or foothills. For example, a French scholar noted that in northern France, farmers belong to a pays (Beauce, Gâtinais, Bray, etc.) based on a sense of a rural locality. In Italy, the farmer is a man of a “county,” he defines himself in relation to a city. Assisiano, Perugino, Spoletano, Fulginate, and Eugibino are the real regions recognized by rural tradition. The largest natural units, like the Valtiberina or Valle Spoletana, are in some ways constructed expressions. Often, generic terms, like valley, lowland, or mountain, are narrowed down by reference to a city: the plain of Foligno, the high hill of Gubbio, the mountain of Spoleto.45 Also, the identity of

45  Henri Desplanques, Campagnes ombriennes. Contribution à l’histoire des paysages ruraux en Italie centrale (Paris, 1969), 111–12. In this survey, the author focuses only on Umbria. However, he recalls Ortolani’s analoguous considerations about the Ferrarese. He also notes that if the names of



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“minor” centres, of “almost cities,” although they may be long-lasting, found it hard to establish themselves in particular “representations,”46 except in the Alpine valleys and foothills. Nor did the regional states build a new “identity” in which cities and territories were recognized. Likewise, they failed to create those “dynastic” stories, which, in other European countries, as mentioned above, assumed the meaning of the whole history of a region, duchy, or county.47

Descriptions of Italy and Maps

Let us conclude with a brief mention of two other types of sources that show how a city was depicted in relation to its territory: geo­graphical descriptions of Italy and carto­ graphy. The best-known text, among the choro­graphic descriptions of the Italian peninsula from the fifteenth century, is the one composed by Paolo Biondo. In the new cultural climate, influenced by classical literature, the main geo­graphical partitions of the peninsula were traced back (although not always accurately) to the ancient divisions of the regions of the Roman imperial age, and these obscure or erase the medi­eval ones.48 The key elements are the civitates. In this regard, Biondo makes comparisons with the Roman age, to note the changes that have taken place and the numerous lost cities. However, “following the style of the Roman Curia” (Romanae curiae stilum sequentes), the ancient concept of city was reiterated as an episcopal see (not only a reflection of a curial or chancery style, but a concept rooted in the Italian mentality). In addition, descriptions are based on cities, being the subjects most relevant to represent the most important structures of the peninsula’s entire political geo­graphy.49 The emergence of “pays” are present in Italy (e.g. Casentino, Garfagnana, Mugello, Lomellina, Brianza), more often the name of a dominant city prevails. For the concept of “pays,” see: Xavier de Planhol and Paul Claval, Géo­graphie historique de la France (Paris, 1988), 187–96.

46  A September 2010 conference at San Miniato (Oltre le città. identità e storiografia dei centri minori italiani tra medioevo ed età moderna) posited that the municipal histories of “minor centres” were written and published later, rarely before the seventeenth or the eighteenth centuries. 47  On Visconti’s attempt to build an ancient tradition of territorial domain in Milan, even dated pre-Roman age, see especially Edoardo Ratti, “La distruzione di Scationa-Angera dall’Anonimo ravennate a Galvano Fiamma,” Atti del Centro Studi e documentazione dell’Italia Romana 1 (1967–1968): 251–72; Edoardo Ratti, “La ricostruzione di Stazzona e il Vico Sebuino. Psico­logia a metodo nell’elaborazione di tradizioni classiche per la storia locale da Andrea Alciato a Teodoro Mommsen,” Atti del Centro Studi e documentazione dell’Italia Romana 6 (1972–1973): 11–82. See also Adolfo Cinquini, Una cronaca milanese inedita del secolo XIV. La ‘Chronica Danielis de comitibus Angleriae’ (Rome, 1904); and Gigliola Soldi Rondinini, “Angera e il suo territorio nel Medioevo,” in Fabularum patria (Bo­logna, 1988), 13–26. 48  See Roberto Volpi, “Il recupero del termine ‘Umbria’ in età moderna,” in Orientamenti di una regione attraverso i secoli. scambi, rapporti, influssi storici nella struttura dell’Umbria (atti del X Convegno di studi umbri, Gubbio, 23–26 maggio 1976) (Perugia, 1977), 109–19.

49  Gian Mario Anselmi, Umanisti, storici e traduttori (Bo­logna, 1981), 25–47. Riccardo Fubini, “L’idea di Italia fra Quattro e Cinquecento. politica, geografia storica, i miti delle origini,” Geo­graphia Antiqua 7 (1988): 53–68; Also see in Ranzano: Bruno Figliuolo and Paolo Pontati, “Introduzione

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new cities as visible and significant elements can also be found in carto­graphic depictions of the peninsula or its different areas. The well-known “carta Cotton” refers to “an Italy which identifies itself with its cities, proud of their antiquities,”50 like other carto­ graphic images of the peninsula. Among the maps which reproduce more limited areas, most depict a city, located in the centre, with its surrounding territory. Once again, this is not some generic countryside, or rural background, or the depiction of a few surrounding places, but the exact representation of the “territory” of that city (for example, with the indication of sites and castles, or with the distances between the city and minor places, in their “administrative” and symbolic meaning, maps like those of Venice, Cremona, Padua, Brescia, Parma, all made in the mid-fifteenth century).51 a Pietro Ranzano,” in Descriptio totius Italiane (Annales, XIV–XV), ed. Adele di Lorenzo, Bruno Figliuolo, and Paolo Pontati (Florence, 2007), 1–49.

50  “A un’Italia che si identifica con le proprie città e che si gloria della loro antichità”; “Both the De origine urbium and the well-known ‘Cotton map,’ with its accompanying text refer us back to an Italy which identifies itself with its own cities, proud of their antiquity. These are sources which precede or ignore both Bruni and Biondo’s negative humanistic critique of the medi­eval urban tradition and Annio’s following recovery, speaking in political terms. It is the Italy of laic and Latin heritage, traced by Petrarch and collected by the humanist historians, who describe it during the fifteenth and first half of the sixteenth century: the final product of a collapse and new urban and state growth, both considered positively, as Bruni and Biondo do, or negatively, as Annio does” (Tanto il ‘De origine urbium’ che la famosa ‘carta Cotton’ col suo testo di accompagnamento ci rimandano a un’Italia che si identifica con le proprie città e che si gloria della loro antichità, fonti che precedono o ignorano tanto la feroce critica umanistica della tradizione urbana medi­evale del Bruni e di Biondo, quanto il successivo recupero in chiave politica localistica di Annio. E’ l’Italia della eredità laica e latina tracciata dal Petrarca e raccolta dagli storici umanisti, che la descrivono nel corso del XV secolo e nella prima metà del XVI; il prodotto finale di un crollo e di una nuova crescita urbana e statale, sia che la si veda in positivo, come fanno Bruni e Biondo, sia che la si consideri in negative, come Annio). Cited from Marica Milanesi, “Antico e moderno nella cartografia umanistica: le grandi carte d’Italia nel Quattrocento,” Geo­graphia Antiqua 16–17 (2007–2008): 153–76. It is a completely modern Italy, although its representations include the antique to affirm its new identity. Su Annio da Viterbo: Riccardo Fubini, “L’idea di Italia fra Quattro e Cinquecento: politica, geografia storica, i miti delle origini,” Geo­graphia Antiqua 7 (1988): 53–68. 51  Marco Folin, “De l’usage pratico-politique des images des villes (Italie, XVe–XVIe siècle),” in Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe–XVIe siècle). Les enseignements d’une comparaison (Turnhout, 2008), esp. 265–71. For the 1438–45 map of Verona: Luciano Lago, Imago Italiae. La fabbrica dell’Italia nella storia della cartografia tra medioevo ed età moderna. Realtà, immagine ed immaginazione dai codici di C. Tolomeo all’atlante di G.A. Magini (Trieste, 2002), 307–10; for the maps of Padua, one from 1448, the other commissioned by the city council from Francesco Squarcione in 1465, see Lionello Puppi, “Appunti in margine all’immagine di Padova e il suo territorio secondo alcuni documenti della cartografia, tra ‘400 e ‘500’,” in Dopo Mantegna. Arte a Padova e nel territorio, catalogo della mostra (Milan, 1978), 163–65; and for the map of Crema see Giandomenico Romanelli, ed., A volo d’uccello, Jacopo de’ Barbari e le rappresentazioni di città nell’Europa del Rinascimento (Venice, 1999), 121–22, 123–25; the map of Parma (ca. 1460) is preserved in the Archive of State of Parma (Mappe, Pianta della città di Parma e del territorio). For the latter, see Memento mei. Dal restauro manuale al restauro virtuale (Parma, 1997), by the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage and the Archivio del Stato di Parma. See also Jürgen Schulz, La cartografia tra scienza e arte. Carte e cartografi nel Rinascimento italiano (Modena, 1990), 48–49; Wolfgang Braunfels, Mittelalterliche Stadtbaukunst in der Toscana (Berlin, 1953), 77–78.



Local and “State” Identities

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It would be interesting to follow the evolution of the depiction of the city even later, at the beginning of the early modern era. The system of relations in the contado changed slowly52—also as a result of the “rural” dislocation of new production centres. The social relations between local, state, and city aristocracies changed. However, the original urban “imprint,” in both the organization of the territory and the perception of it, did not fade. The Italian states continued to look like an “aggregated sum of urban-centred systems” (composite aggregate di sistemi urbanocentrici). In the 1430s, contemporaries’ idea of the State of Milan was still that of a network of cities and counties. In 1533, it appeared to the Venetian ambassador Basadonna to be composed of urban centres and the territories of their “episcopates, or, as they say, provinces” (come loro dicono, provincie), in addition to those “various lands” (terre diverse) which were the exception to the città–contado system. A few years later, another Venetian ambassador wrote that the cities “all work on their own and separately” (tutte fann per se, e separatamente), and that Milan, although it was the capital, was not dominant.53 At the end of the century, in a description of Umbria, an apostolic visitor, Malvasia, commented: Gubbio borders on Città di Castello, Perugia on Chiusi and Cortona, etc. As in the times of the Roman Empire, there are only “cities” (città).54 Even the extraordinary amount of hagio­graphical literature produced at the end of the sixteenth century focused, city by city, on urban or diocesan saints and bishops, re-proposing the central role of cities and the geo­graphy of Italy as a “collection of dioceses,” which would find historio­graphic expression in Ughelli’s masterpiece, Italia Sacra, and as the splendid, faithful carto­graphic depictions in Galleria delle carte geografiche in the Vatican Palace.55 52  See Giorgio Chittolini, “Contadi e territori. qualche considerazione,” Studi bresciani 4 (1983): 39–49; Giorgio Chittolini, “‘Verae civitates.’ Ancora a proposito del “De Iudiciis,” XXXV, 19–2 di Giovanni Battista de Luca,” in Tra diritto e storia. Studi in onore di Luigi Berlinguer promossi dalle università di Siena e di Sassari, 2 vols. (Soveria Mannelli, 2008), 1:447–62.

53  Maria Letizia Arcangeli, “Nello stato di Milano sulle tracce di Leandro Alberti. Alcune note su politica e territorio nel primo Cinquecento,” in L’Italia dell’inquisitore. Storia e geografia dell’Italia del Cinquecento nella Descriptio di Leonardo Alberti, ed. Massimo Donattini (Bo­logna, 2007), 479–505 at 498–99; even if the author finds in the Descriptione of Leandro Alberti a sort of emphasis on the unity and identity of the State of Milan, which, for example, was evident in central institutions like the Senate and the “Novae constitutiones.” 54  Desplanques, Campagnes ombriennes, 108.

55  Concerning the aims and meaning of Ferdinando Ughelli’s undertaking, whose Italia Sacra (1644–1662) collected a great history of the Italian dioceses, which at the same time was also the first unitary story of the peninsula ever attempted since classical times, see, in particular, Simon Ditchfield, Liturgy, Sanctity and History in Tridentine Italy. Pietro Maria Campi and the Preservation of the Particular (Cam­bridge, 1995), 328–56. On the Vatican art gallery, see Lucio Gambi, “Egnazio Danti e la Galleria delle carte geografiche,” in Lucio Gambi, Marica Milanesi, and Antonio Pinelli, La Galleria delle carte geografiche in Vaticano, 2 vols. (Modena, 1994), 2:83–96; Tommaso Caliò and Raimondo Michetti, “Un’agiografia per l’Italia. Stati e identità territoriali,” in Europa sacra. raccolte agriografiche e identità politiche in Europa fra Medioevo ed età moderna, ed. Sofia Boesch-Gajano and Raimondo Michetti (Rome, 2002), 150–51 (with biblio­graphy); Giuseppe Marcocci, “A proposito dell’immagine dell’Italia nel Cinquecento. La ‘Descrittione di tutta Italia di Leonardo Alberti’ e la cartografia rinascimentale,” in L’Italia dell’inquisitore. Storia e geografia dell’Italia del Cinquecento nella Descriptio di Leonardo Alberti, ed. Massimo Donattini (Bo­logna, 2007), 273–98, esp. 294–97.