Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain 2022005579, 2022005580, 9781032292205, 9781032292274, 9781003300434

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Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain

Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain claims that theology and canon law were decisive for shaping ideas, debates, and decisions about key political and religious problems in Renaissance Spain. This book studies Catholic thought during the Spanish Renaissance, with the various contributors specifically exploring the ecclesiology and heresiology of the period. Today, these two subjects are considered to be strictly branches of theology, but at the time, they were also dealt with in the field of canon law. Both ecclesiology, which studied the internal structure of the Church, and heresiology, which identified theological errors, played an important role in shaping ideas, debates, and decisions concerning the major political and religious problems of the late medieval and early modern periods. In contrast to the conventional monolithic view of Spanish Catholic thought on ecclesiastical matters, the chapters in this book demonstrate that there was a wide spectrum of ideas in the field of theology and canon law. The topics analyzed include Church and Crown relations, diplomatic controversies, doctrinal debates on slavery, ecclesiological disputes in dialogue with the Council of Trent, and theories for distinguishing heresies and repressing them. This book will be essential reading for those interested in disciplines such as Church history, political history, and the history of political and legal thought. Xavier Tubau is a tenured scientist at the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas in Madrid. He was previously a tenured professor at Hamilton College. He holds a PhD in Spanish Philology from the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona.

Early Modern Iberian History in Global Contexts: Connexions

Series Editors: Harald E. Braun (University of Liverpool) and Pedro Cardim (Universidade Nova de Lisboa)

Early Modern Iberian History in Global Contexts: Connexions features studies that address Iberian societies and cultures from a variety of standpoints and theoretical perspectives. It understands Iberian history as a plural way of approaching an ensemble of individuals and groups made up of similarities, connections, contrasts and colliding trajectories. Its aim is to connect the different national and transnational research traditions in the field of Iberian historical studies, and showcase the multifaceted character of the Iberian past, encompassing its many voices as well as the tensions, the violence and the conflicts that opposed its various components, both across the Iberian Peninsula and across the globe. Editorial Board: Antonio Álvarez Ossorio Alvariño (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid/MIAS), Ângela Barreto Xavier (Universidade de Lisboa), Fernando Bouza Álvarez (Universidad Complutense de Madrid), Arndt Brendecke (Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München), Bruno Feitler (Universidade Federal de São Paulo), Roquinaldo Ferreira (University of Pennsylvania), Mercedes García-Arenal Rodríguez (CSIC), Xavier Gil Pujol (Universitat de Barcelona), Claire Gilbert (Saint Louis University), Regina Grafe (European University Institute), Manuel Herrero Sánchez (Universidad Pablo de Olavide), Tamar Herzog (Harvard University), Richard Kagan (Johns Hopkins University), Giuseppe Marcocci (University of Oxford), Amélia Polónia (Universidade do Porto), Maria M. Portuondo (Johns Hopkins University), Jean-Frédéric Schaub (EHESS), Mafalda Soares da Cunha (Universidade de Évora), María José Vega (Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona), Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla (Universidad Pablo de Olavide). Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain Edited by Xavier Tubau People of the Iberian Borderlands Community and Conflict between Spain and Portugal, 1640–1715 David Martín Marcos For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/Early-Modern-Iberian-History-in-Global-Contexts/bookseries/EMIHIGC

Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain

Edited by Xavier Tubau

First published 2023 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Taylor & Francis The right of Xavier Tubau to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Tubau, Xavier, editor. Title: Rethinking Catholicism in Renaissance Spain / edited by Xavier Tubau. Description: New York, NY : Routledge, 2022. | Series: Early modern Iberian history in global contexts | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2022005579 (print) | LCCN 2022005580 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032292205 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032292274 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003300434 (ebook) Classification: LCC BX1584 .R384 2022 (print) | LCC BX1584 (ebook) | DDC 282/.46--dc23/eng/20220627 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022005579 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022005580 ISBN: 978-1-032-29220-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-29227-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-30043-4 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434 Typeset in Sabon by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)

Contents

List of Contributors Acknowledgments

vii x

Introduction 1 XAVIER TUBAU

1 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism in his lost De potestate papae et concilii 15 IGNACIO GARCÍA PINILLA

2 Theorizing in Trent: Alfonso de Castro, anti-heretical theory, and the politics of reform

36

KIMBERLY LYNN

3 Conflicting loyalties: Church freedom, pastoral care, and civil duties in Diego de Álava y Esquivel

57

XAVIER TUBAU

4 Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent: The position of the Spanish bishops

88

IGNASI FERNÁNDEZ TERRICABRAS

5 Heresy and the language of Catholicism in sixteenth-century Spain (1558–1560)

119

MARÍA JOSÉ VEGA

6 Antonio de Córdoba on the relationship between council and pope THOMAS M. IZBICKI

162

vi Contents

7 Christian freedom and natural freedom: An introduction to an archaeology of Catholic controversies over slavery 182 RAFAEL M. PÉREZ GARCÍA

8 Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism: Post-Tridentine ecclesiology in light of the intraecclesiastical doctrinal controversies

211

PAOLO BROGGIO

Index 235

Contributors

Paolo Broggio (PhD, European University Institute in Florence, 2003) is Associate Professor of Early Modern History in the Department of Humanities, Roma Tre University (Italy). His research initially focused on the missionary strategies of religious orders in Europe and Spanish America (Evangelizzare il mondo: Le missioni della Compagnia di Gesù tra Europa e America (secoli XVI–XVII), Rome: Carocci, 2004). He later studied the political meaning of post-Tridentine doctrinal controversies (La teologia e la politica. Controversie dottrinali, Curia romana e Monarchia spagnola tra Cinque e Seicento, Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2009), political-diplomatic relations between Madrid and Rome, and, more recently, peacemaking and criminal justice in early modern Italy (Governare l’odio:Pace e giustizia criminale nell’Italia moderna (secoli XVI–XVII), Rome: Viella, 2021). He has co-edited, with F. Cantù, Teologia e teologi nella Roma dei papi (“Roma moderna e contemporánea”); with S. Carroll, Violence and Peace-Making in Early Modern Europe: A Comparative Perspective (Krypton: Identità, potere, rappresentazioni, V–VI (2015); with M. P. Pauli,“Stringere la pace,”Teorie e pratiche della conciliazione nell’Europa moderna (secoli XV–XVIII) (Rome: Viella, 2011). Ignasi Fernández Terricabras is Professor Agregat of Early Modern History at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Spain. He holds a PhD in history (University of Toulouse-Le Mirail, France, 1999). He is coordinator of the research group Manuscrits. His research focuses on confessionalization, the Catholic Reformation, and the political and religious history of the Hispanic Monarchy during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He has authored Felipe II y el clero secular: La aplicación del Concilio de Trento (Sociedad Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales, 1999). With Michel Boeglin and David Kahn, he recently edited Reforma y disidencia religiosa. La recepción de las doctrinas reformadas en la Península Ibérica en el siglo XVI (Casa de Velázquez, 2018).

viii Contributors Ignacio García Pinilla is Professor of Classics at the University of Castilla-La Mancha (Toledo, Spain). He received his doctorate in classical philology from the University of Seville in 1993. His current research interests include Renaissance Humanism, textual criticism, and the history of religious dissidence and exile in early modern Spain. He is a member of the De re Hispanica research group (www.derehis. com). His recent publications include the first edition of a sixteenthcentury Spanish utopia, Omníbona (2018), and, with two other colleagues, a critical edition of Reginaldus Gonsalvius Montanus, Inquisitionis Hispanicae Artes: The Arts of the Spanish Inquisition (Brill, 2018). Thomas M. Izbicki received his doctorate in history from Cornell in 1973, where he studied with Brian Tierney. After some years as a postdoctoral researcher, he became an academic librarian. Izbicki retired as Humanities Librarian Emeritus, Rutgers University, in 2016. His research interests include the papacy, canon law, the Dominican order, and Nicholas of Cusa. His publications include Protector of the Faith Cardinal Johannes de Turrecremata and the Defense of the Institutional Church (1981), and The Eucharist in Medieval Canon Law (2015). Kimberly Lynn received her PhD in history from Johns Hopkins University. She is the author of Between Court and Confessional: The Politics of Spanish Inquisitors (Cambridge UP, 2013) and co-editor of The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches (Cambridge UP, 2017). She is currently Professor of Humanities and Affiliate Professor of History at Western Washington University. Rafael M. Pérez García is currently Associate Professor in the Department of Early Modern History at the University of Seville, Spain. He holds a PhD in early modern history, also from Seville University. His research interests include cultural and religious history and social history, with a special focus on social minorities, including Spanish Moriscos and the analysis of slavery in the Atlantic world. In these fields, he has published Sociología y lectura espiritual en la Castilla del Renacimiento (2005), La imprenta y la literatura espiritual castellana en la España del Renacimiento (2006), and En los márgenes de la ciudad de Dios: Moriscos en Sevilla (2009). Together with Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, he currently leads the MERCATRAT research project, funded by the Spanish government, which has published four collective volumes about the Atlantic slave trade. Xavier Tubau received his PhD in Spanish Philology from the Universitat  Autònoma de Barcelona. Before joining the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas as Tenured Scientist, he was

Contributors  ix Associate Professor at Hamilton College. His research interests are political and cultural history in early modern Europe. His publications include the book Erasmo mediador: Política y religión en los primeros años de la Reforma (2012), and he edited the special issue Situating Conciliarism in Early Modern Spanish Thought for the journal Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme (2019). María José Vega is Professor of Literary Theory and Comparative Literature at the Universidad Autònoma de Barcelona and Icrea Acadèmia. She has a PhD in philology and a PhD in modern history. In recent years, she has developed a line of research devoted to the study of dissent and the impact of confessionalization on writing and reading practices in the long sixteenth century. In 2012, she received the Humboldt Research Award. She is currently working on the project The Limits of Dissent: The Expurgatory Policies of the Spanish Monarchy (PGC2018-096610).

Acknowledgments

The origin of this edited collection lies in papers presented at the workshop Reforma católica y controversia religiosa en la primera Edad Moderna held at the University of Seville on June 27–28, 2018, and papers delivered at a panel on “Church, Religion, and Authority in Early Modern Spain” organized for the Renaissance Society of America Conference in New Orleans, March 22, 2018. I would like to thank Margaret Gentry, dean of faculty of Hamilton College, and the Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación of the Government of Spain for funding the travel that made these meetings possible. I would also like to thank María José Vega and Rafael Pérez García, both for their time and for making the arrangements to hold the seminar at the University of Seville. I also thank all who attended the workshop and the panel conference for the stimulating conversations that arose. This volume would not have happened without the collaboration of colleagues and friends. I would like to thank Frédéric Gabriel and Lu Ann Homza for the stimulating conversation and papers they presented in Seville and New Orleans, respectively; Harald Braun for his personal and intellectual generosity and for supporting this project from its initial design as series editor; and Janet and Tony Dawson for their timely and thorough work with the translation and editing of the texts. Finally, the editor would like to thank all the scholars who contributed to this volume and the editors of the series, without whom this book would not have been possible.

Introduction Xavier Tubau

This book studies Catholic thought during the Spanish Renaissance. The various contributors specifically explore the ecclesiology and heresiology of the period. Today, these two subjects are considered to be strictly branches of theology, but at the time, they were also dealt with in the field of canon law. Both ecclesiology, which studied the internal structure of the Church, and heresiology, which identified theological errors, played an important role in shaping ideas, debates, and decisions concerning the major political and religious problems of the late medieval and early modern periods. From the end of Western Schism to the post-Tridentine era, major crises between monarchies, national churches, and the papacy were discussed and managed within the framework of the ecclesiological tradition. The heretical movements of the fifteenth century and the Protestant Reformation prompted the development of sophisticated classifications of theological error, which would have long-lasting consequences for European politics and culture. The eight chapters of this book break new ground in the analysis of these critical issues and highlight the need to integrate canon law and theology in analyses of the political and religious history of the period. The theology and canon law of the period have been studied within the framework of the history of international law, the history of political thought, and religious history. Spanish scholasticism has received ongoing attention since Ernest Nys and James Brown Scott’s pioneering works on the role of Francisco de Vitoria and Francisco Suárez in the formation of international law.1 Since then, the contributions of the Spanish theologians and jurists of the time, with the University of Salamanca as the major intellectual center, have been the focus of attention of historians of legal and political thought. The importance of this intellectual tradition has been explored in relation to the political, economic, and juridical problems faced by the Habsburgs, focusing especially on the process of American colonization.2 The interpretation of this scholastic literature has been considerably swayed by the secularized view of the politics of the time, mainly focused on identifying the first signs of the new, sovereignty-based DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-1

2  Xavier Tubau international system of states in the sixteenth century,3 while the strictly religious dimension of Spanish theological and canonistic thought has played a marginal role in this historiography.4 Consequently, the topics examined have been those most relevant to the contemporary Western world, such as the theorization of the modern state, the just war theory, theories of empire, economic and contractual thought, and individual rights. This is the approach that inspired the “Corpus Hispanorum de Pace” (1963–) for example, the most ambitious and authoritative collection of editions of sixteenth-century scholastic texts that has so far been published in Spain.5 Unlike the history of legal or political thought, the history of religion is by definition sensitive to the relationship between religion and the practices, institutions, and ideologies of the time. Nevertheless, despite the extraordinary development of the history of religion in early modern Spain since the 1980s, the role played by theology and canon law in contemporary politics and religion has also been neglected. Interest has focused mainly on the study of the Inquisition as an institution and the persecution of religious minorities, processes of forced conversion, the forms of spirituality of the conversos, and the reception of Lutheranism and the persecution of it by the Inquisition.6 In other words, despite their involvement in the political and domestic world of the Habsburgs and the impact of their ideas and publications throughout the Catholic world, theologians such as Alfonso de Castro, Pedro de Soto, and Melchor Cano have received little attention compared with the substantial body of scholarship on, for example, men and women accused of alumbradismo or the autos de fe against Lutherans in Seville and Valladolid. This discrepancy can be explained as the mark left historically by the negative portrayal of the Spanish clergy and the behavior of the Spanish Church, associated with the authoritarian power of the Monarchy and the repressive arm of the Inquisition.7 Early modern scholars have undoubtedly made significant contributions that have changed the way we study and evaluate both the Spanish Church in early modern Spain and early modern Catholicism in general. Erin Rowe and Kimberly Lynn point out that the paradigm of Spanish exceptionalism has been challenged by a growing historiography that connects early modern Spain to early European histories.8 However, the narrative of the Spanish Church as a regressive and intolerant force has been extraordinarily long-lived from a historiographical point of view and has left a gap in scholarship that is not easy to fill. It is common knowledge that the origins of the association of Spain with conservative Catholicism lie in the Wars of Religion and the colonial struggle for control of the American continent. Richard Kagan explains that the Protestant historian William Prescott (1796–1859) was instrumental in spreading this image of Spain as dominated by fanaticism and superstitious Catholicism in contrast to the freedom and tolerance

Introduction  3 represented by the United States.9 However, the connection between Ultramontane Catholicism and sixteenth-century theological thought is specifically articulated in the Protestant (Wilhelm Maurenbrecher) and Catholic (Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo) historiography of the second half of the nineteenth century. According to this historiographical narrative, Cardinal Cisneros was the architect of the Counter-Reformation in Europe, and Spanish theologians and bishops were the guiding lights of the Council of Trent.10 The popular series of sketches in Monty Python’s Flying Circus entitled “The Spanish Inquisition” (1970), which presented Cisneros (in the form of Cardinal Ximénez, played by Michael Palin) as an inquisitor, confirm the assimilation of the figure of the Cardinal in the so-called Prescott’s Paradigm and the influence that this narrative enjoyed in twentieth-century English-speaking culture. Spanish historiography in the last century, influenced by the ecclesiology of the First Vatican Council, popularized the image of ultra-Catholic Spain in a positive light. Its contributions to reform, according to the summary of the Historia de la Iglesia en España, directed by the Jesuit Ricardo García-Villoslada (1980), were devotion to the pope, submission to his jurisdiction, and the defeat of conciliarism.11 It should be remembered that this somewhat simplified image of the Spanish Church and scholastic theology is present in Marcel Bataillon’s Erasme et Espagne (1937), the work that has most influenced, and continues to influence, scholarship on religion and culture in sixteenth-century Spain.12 For Bataillon, it was humanism that provided the stimulus and rationale for religious reform in Europe. The humanist Erasmus, with his advocacy of religious tolerance and inner spirituality, was the key to understanding the religious reform movements in Spain during the sixteenth century. Although Eugenio Asensio’s review essay of Bataillon’s book (1952) pointed out that the book’s thesis was an oversimplification, Lu Ann Homza (2000) has since shown that Bataillon’s interpretive paradigm, based on the opposition between humanism and scholasticism, has largely determined the development of historical studies on religious and intellectual life in early modern Spain.13 Indeed, in part of the Anglophone historiography on Catholic reform, Bataillon’s theory and the nineteenthcentury historiography on Cisneros and Spain as the instigators of Catholic reform have ended up converging. So, in his anthology of texts on Catholic reform, John C. Olin presents Cisneros as “a striking example of the association between humanism and actual Church reform,” and as a result of this distorted perspective, Catholic reform led by the Spaniards at Trent has come to be presented by Carlos Eire as the product of humanistic training: “There is also no denying that humanistically trained Spaniards would lead the way to reform the Catholic Church later in the sixteenth century, especially at the Council of Trent.”14 The possibility of integrating subjects such as ecclesiology and heresiology into studies on Spanish intellectual history is particularly difficult

4  Xavier Tubau because they lack the robust bibliographies that exist for other topics of sixteenth-century scholasticism. The works available on these subjects were mostly written by Spanish Catholic historians between the 1930s and 1970s. While these are valuable for their documentary contributions, the interpretations of texts are ideologically slanted toward the coordinates of National Catholicism that dominated during Franco’s regime. With the advent of democracy, research on these matters in Spain came to an abrupt halt. The lack of research in this field has led to the survival of an apologetic historiography that is conceptually and methodologically outdated as a source of authority. As Mercedes García-Arenal and Felipe Pereda write, “[T]he necessary condition of separating the history of religion from confessional history did not occur in Spain.”15 Our knowledge of the relationship between Catholic thought and political and religious practice in Renaissance Spain remains superficial and based on commonplaces. The contributions of this book represent a starting point for further research in this direction. In the opening chapter of this volume, Ignacio García-Arenal draws attention to a lost text by Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, which would have been the fourth and last section of his treatise on political power (De regno). Thanks to a detailed examination of several letters (some unpublished) and passages taken from the author’s works, García Pinilla shows that Sepúlveda, editor and translator of Aristotle’s Politics, had argued that the Church was a perfect society governed according to the principles of natural law, that the authority of the Church resided in the community of the faithful, and that the general council, which represented this community, was above the pope. More importantly, Sepúlveda, in a private letter in Spanish (1554) addressed to Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle, the most important of Charles V’s advisors at the time, claims to know that the emperor agreed with conciliarist doctrine. Like other theologians and canonists linked to the emperor’s court, Sepúlveda would have defended the superiority of the council over the pope as a way of defending the interests of royal power against papal claims, taking into account that it was Charles V who appointed the bishops for the council and closely supervised the development of its debates. García Pinilla shows that this section of the De regno was already written in November 1548. Like other texts with similar subject matter, Sepúlveda probably wrote it shortly before the Council of Trent began in December 1545. Its publication would have made sense in the 1540s, before or after the first period of the council, or from 1552, after the council had been suspended again. The polemic with Bartolomé de las Casas probably aborted the project, as had been the case with Democrates secundus, the dialogue on the just causes of the war against the Indians. After the Indexes of Prohibited Books had been published in Valladolid (1559) and Rome (1564), and with the Council of Trent now over (1563) and Philip II supervising the implementation of the Tridentine decrees in Spanish dioceses,

Introduction  5 defending the superiority of the council over the pope would probably have ceased to be appropriate. In the new religious context, conciliarism, due to its implicit episcopalism, could have been interpreted as questioning the regalism of the Crown, which would explain why Sepúlveda did not include the last section of the De regno in the edition of the text that appeared in 1571. García Pinilla identifies texts that are key to placing Sepúlveda’s ecclesiological ideas in context, such as his criticism of successive popes for not fulfilling their duty as princes of the Church or his distrust of Diets as a means of resolving the religious crisis initiated by the Protestants. García Pinilla’s finding is also important for a complete understanding of Sepúlveda as a scholar. The Aristotelianism of his theories on the natural slavery of the Indians has overshadowed the theological dimension of his intellectual background. García Pinilla’s contribution demonstrates that ecclesiology and its political implications lay at the heart of Sepúlveda’s theoretical concerns during the same years when he was writing his most famous dialogue. Kimberly Lynn’s chapter examines the Franciscan, Alfonso de Castro. In the sixteenth century, this theologian’s works on heresy and criminal law circulated widely in Europe: no fewer than 26 editions of his treatise Adversus omnes haereses (1534) have been recorded. Lynn specifically explores the content of his treatise De iusta haereticorum punitione (1547), highlighting its link with the debates of the first sessions of the Council of Trent (on sacred books, preaching, original sin, sacraments). It is, as Lynn points out, a “Tridentine conversation” in which, apart from offering guidelines for practitioners who had to fight heresy, he also discusses and reflects on the causes of the social and political crisis caused by the Protestant heresies. In contrast to the habitual association of Castro with inquisitorial intolerance, Lynn draws attention to the fact that he accused the clergy, especially the prelates, of being responsible for spreading these new heresies because they neglected their pastoral duties. Castro highlights the importance of preaching as a means of recovering Protestants for the Church, and also episcopal reform. Since Castro shared the optimism with which many prelates and theologians set off for Trent, Lynn observes in the treatise a desire not to go to extremes in condemnation and to leave room for reconciliation. Confidence in the legislative action of the general council, supported by the examples of Constance and Basel, also places some of Castro’s ideas in the same line of moderate conciliarism observed in other Spaniards present at Trent. Lynn’s contribution captures the intellectual richness of Castro’s treatise, studying it in the overall context of his career and demonstrating that his thought evolved in close relation to the changes taking place in contemporary Europe. Xavier Tubau’s contribution studies the reaction of the Spanish episcopate to the progressive implementation of regalism. He examines the career of Diego de Álava y Esquivel, an example of an ecclesiastical

6  Xavier Tubau lawyer with a brilliant career in the royal and judicial administration and also as bishop of successive dioceses (Astorga, Ávila, and Córdoba). Álava y Esquivel played an important role as bishop of Astorga in the first period of the Council of Trent (1545–1547) and later published a treatise on ecclesiology and Church reform, De conciliis (1552). Based on an analysis of his interventions at the Council of Trent and his written output, this contribution highlights the influence of the conciliarist tradition of the fifteenth century (Council of Constance, Jean Gerson) in his ecclesiology and analyzes his proposals for restoring the full jurisdiction of bishops over their dioceses. Tubau also stresses that those who supported the regalism of the Crown would have subscribed to most of the reforms proposed by Alava and Esquivel; most of the reforms, yes, but not all of them. The final part of this chapter examines some proposals that would have clashed with the Crown’s interest in obtaining full control of diocesan power through the Royal Patronage. It also points out the significant silences of the author on key issues in the contemporary political and juridical debate. Diego de Álava y Esquivel is proof that it was possible to remain loyal to the same monarch who had presented him for successive bishoprics and appointed him to serve on councils and in Chancery and at the same time show reservations toward the regalist policy of the Crown. The purpose of this analysis is to draw attention to the need to look for and bring out nuances in analyses of the ecclesiology and Church reform thought of ecclesiastical lawyers who experienced firsthand the gradual implementation of the Royal Patronage in Castilian dioceses. Ignasi Fernández Terricabras studies the presence of conciliarism and episcopalism in the Spanish delegates who attended the final phase of the Council of Trent (1562–1563), more specifically their participation in debates on the legates’ right to propose topics to be discussed, the duty of episcopal residence and papal confirmation of the council’s decrees. Fernández Terricabras studies the ecclesiological and political implications of these debates. The fact that only the legates had the right to propose topics for discussion challenged the freedom of the council, as some of the Spanish bishops complained and also Philip II himself. The consideration of episcopal residence as a divine right would have invalidated the pope’s right of dispensation over diocesan power. Finally, the need for the pope to ratify decrees raised the possibility of making the interpretation of decrees contingent upon pontifical authority, which once again called into question the freedom of the council, as well as the possibility of Philip II himself intervening in the process of the reception and implementation of decrees in his kingdoms. Through the analysis of the proceedings of the council and unpublished correspondence of Philip II with political agents and prelates, Fernández Terricabras highlights the diversity of opinions that existed on the right of proposal, residence, and papal confirmation among the Spanish bishops and the possibility that one and the same bishop held points of view that later Catholic historiography has regarded

Introduction  7 as incompatible. Fernández Terricabras demonstrates, in line with the approach developed by Giuseppe Alberigo, that the proceedings of the council reflect disagreements on the main topics of contemporary ecclesiology and great difficulties in reaching consensus. The competition between Pius IV and Philip II after the closure of the Council of Trent to control the interpretation of decrees reflected a paradigm shift in relations between monarchy and papacy. Philip II’s policy throughout his reign was undoubtedly guided by the progressive implementation of regalism in the dioceses of his kingdoms. His consultations with the bishops returning from Italy, analyzed in this chapter, are a turning point in this process. Nevertheless, regalism does not explain everything. Fernández Terricabras also notes the interest of the Monarchy in setting itself up as the defender of global Catholicism, in competition with the papacy itself. This tendency would continue, especially during the reigns of Philip III and Philip IV, as Paolo Broggio points out in his contribution to this volume. In her chapter, María José Vega studies the impact of Lutheranism on the doctrinal language of the time; more specifically, she examines the reflection on the language of heresy in the censures written by Melchor Cano, Juan de la Peña, Domingo de Soto, and other theologians on Bartolomé de Carranza’s Comentarios al Catecismo cristiano (1558). In contrast to traditional interpretations of the attacks on Carranza in terms of friendship or personal enmity, Vega examines the censures by focusing on the specificities of the genre of calificación [qualification] to which they belonged. Qualification was a professionalized exercise in the application of knowledge about dogmatic theology, based on a rich tradition of knowledge about doctrinal error. In these censures on the Catecismo of Carranza, the conditions of acceptability of many doctrinal statements caused by the spread of Protestantism are observed to be harsher. Tolerance toward ambiguous expressions or statements disappears. Omissions and ellipses are interpreted as implicit arguments. Such terms and expressions as “living faith,” “very certain hope,” and certain biblical quotations are henceforth suspected of being Lutheran with no further explanation to clarify their meaning. Vega highlights the variety of hermeneutical approaches to the text of the Catecismo and stresses that they all share a concern, not so much with determining what could be said but with defining where and how certain ideas could be talked about. Thus, the basic problem with the Catecismo would have been not so much what was said, which was very rarely judged heretical, but the way it was said and the vehicle chosen to say it. Vega’s contribution reassesses the grounds on which interpretation of the Carranza case has been built and consequently opens up an original perspective of analysis on one of the episodes that has served to build this monolithic image of Spanish Catholic thought in the sixteenth century. Thomas M. Izbicki studies the ideas of the Franciscan, Antonio de Córdoba, on papal power, councils, and infallibility. Antonio was guardian

8  Xavier Tubau of the Franciscan Observants of Alcalá and provincial minister for Castile. He dealt with ecclesiology in two works, Arma Fidei and De potestate papae, which were included as book four of his Quaestionarium theologicum libris quinque distinctum (1569–1570). Córdoba’s doctrine on papal power and the councils is fundamentally inspired by the ecclesiology of the Dominicans, Juan de Torquemada and Tommaso de Vio (Cajetan). The pope has superior jurisdiction to that of the council and the whole Church. Consequently, Córdoba downplays the importance of the Haec sancta decree of the Council of Constance—it was issued only by the obedience of John XXIII, who was himself absent—and questions whether the council meant the limitation of papal power from the moment when implementation of the reform was entrusted to Pope Martin V. This interpretation of the Council of Constance does not seek to diminish the importance of councils in the functioning of the Church but to underline that its legitimacy—and infallibility in matters of faith and religion, as decreed in Haec sancta—is given when the authority of the pope presided, either directly or through his legates. It is in Córdoba’s attitude toward infallibility that Izbicki observes the greatest originality, for this infallibility is not only an attribute of general councils but also of provincial councils in those circumstances where defense of the faith requires it. As Izbicki reminds us, Córdoba’s ideas should be read in light of the Protestant attacks on the papacy and councils. His Arma Fidei was originally published in May 1562, a couple of months after the Council of Trent resumed, with the clear intention—as in other texts examined in this volume—of influencing the Tridentine debates. His scholastic examination of the power of the pope and council was published later, after the provincial councils of 1565–1566 in Castile, where the regalism of Philip II and the episcopalism of some bishops created tensions. Both works are dedicated to the Franciscan, Bernardino de Fresneda, Bishop of Cuenca, Philip II’s confessor, and a supporter of regalism, and both, therefore, are in dialogue with crucial debates and policies in religious life at the time. By recovering the thought of the Franciscan Antonio de Córdoba, an important character in the ecclesiastical and political fabric of Castile, Izbicki breaks new ground in the study of post-Tridentine Castilian ecclesiology. Rafael Pérez García examines the evolution of the debate on slavery from the late Middle Ages to the beginning of the seventeenth century. Against those who argue that theology had no impact on the day-to-day management of slavery, Pérez García demonstrates that it was a decisive factor in explaining its near disappearance in Spain at that time. Both the negative consideration of slavery from a moral point of view and the idea of the Christian as a free man through baptism would have had a decisive impact on explaining this situation. The conquest of the Americas revitalized the theoretical debate on slavery, first in relation to the American Indians and later as a result of importing black Africans to the American

Introduction  9 continent as slaves. Pérez García highlights the importance of theological arguments against slavery for understanding the reaction of the papacy and the Monarchy to the situation of the American Indians: the Dominican condemnation of it in Santo Domingo, the papal bull, Sublimis Deus, issued by Paul III (1537), and the Leyes nuevas (1542) promulgated by Charles V in Spain are documents that draw on this theological tradition in order to defend the natural freedom of the inhabitants of the new continent and their aptitude for conversion to Christianity through the sacrament of baptism. The same tradition informs the condemnation of black African slavery. Pérez García challenges the idea that the slave trade developed without causing moral qualms in sixteenth-century European society. Through an analysis of texts on the subject by theologians such as Domingo de Soto, Tomás de Mercado, or Alonso de Vega, he highlights their steadfast condemnation of slavery and the problems of conscience it entailed, given that it was a common topic of discussion between confessors and penitents in the Catholic world. In some cases, moral condemnation was accompanied by specific proposals to Philip II to eradicate slavery (Luis de Molina), or blacks were integrated into the Economy of Salvation with the reminder that black Christianity was already documented in the Old Testament (Alonso de Sandoval). Paolo Broggio examines the relevance of theological debates in diplomatic relations between the Spanish Habsburg Monarchy and the Holy See. Traditionally regarded as squabbles between friars, theological disputes about salvation, freedom, or sin could also have political implications. Broggio examines two of the key theological controversies of the time: the dispute between Jesuits and Dominicans that started at the end of the sixteenth century about the relationship between divine grace and the exercise of human freedom (the so-called de auxiliis controversy) and the one concerning the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary. Based on a reading of the diplomatic correspondence of the period, Broggio highlights the way that successive monarchs used their political agents in Rome to press the Holy See to take sides and formulate dogmatic definitions in these controversies. The immediate aim of this political meddling in theological matters, Broggio points out, was not to acknowledge the pope as an authority on doctrinal matters, but rather to represent the Spanish Monarchy publicly as the defender of the global Catholic world. In this context, it is noteworthy that Madrid did not demand that the pope convene a general council to resolve these issues: it was no longer the time for general councils. To resolve these debates quickly, a special council, consisting of the Consistory of Cardinals and prelates present in Rome was sufficient, as is stated in one of Philip IV’s instructions to his ambassador. Broggio’s contribution allows us to see that, whereas the tensions between monarchy and papacy continued during the reigns of Philip III and Philip IV, the political and religious agenda of the Monarchy had been transformed since the Council of Trent. At the beginning of the

10  Xavier Tubau seventeenth century, Rome no longer exerted the political and juridical influence that it had enjoyed until the mid-sixteenth century. The Monarchy controlled diocesan power through the implementation of the Royal Patronage system. In this new context, the Monarchy wanted to use the symbolic power of Rome to exhibit its militant Catholicism, and also, as Broggio demonstrates, to shift the spotlight away from the Holy See or to directly challenge its capacity to defend Catholic orthodoxy. While the chapters in this book are concerned primarily with sixteenthcentury authors and texts, the problems discussed cannot be dissociated from the theological and legal tradition of the fifteenth century. The intellectual background of the so-called Catholic Reformation has been extensively studied in regions such as France and Italy.16 The same cannot be said of Spain, where the dominant narrative continues to be that it was Cisneros who initiated the Catholic Reformation. As mentioned earlier, historians of legal and political thought, mainly concerned with finding the first signs of modern, secularized ideas, have ignored Spanish theological and legal thought on ecclesiastical matters and so have failed to notice the continuities between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in these fields. Historians of religion in Spain have worked under Bataillon’s interpretive paradigm and assumed that Spanish scholasticism was a solidly regressive, papalist force; in this context, the Catholic Reformation has been linked to the world of Erasmian humanism, consistent with the index of authors and works examined by Bataillon in his thesis. Rethinking sixteenth-century Spanish Catholicism necessarily involves breaking away from the lingering chronological divisions that separate this century from the fifteenth century and recovering an intellectual tradition that begins in the years of the Council of Constance and Basel and permeates ideas and decisions in academic, religious, and political spaces throughout the sixteenth century. Without overlooking the heavy semantic load that accompanies the term “Renaissance,” it was, in the end, the desire to underline this continuity that led to the decision to accommodate the set of contributions that make up this book in “the Renaissance,” as opposed to “the sixteenth century,” which was too narrow, or the “early modern period,” which was too extensive.

Notes 1 Ernest Nys, Les origines du droit international (Brussels: Alfred Castaigne; Paris: Thorin & Fils, 1894); James Brown Scott, The Spanish Origin of International Law (Oxford: Clarendon Press; London: Humphrey Milford, 1934). On the interpretation and use of Vitoria in this historiographic context, see Paolo Amorosa, Rewriting the History of the Law of Nations: How James Brown Scott Made Francisco de Vitoria the Founder of International Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019); Mark Somos and Joshua Smeltser, “Vitoria, Suárez, and Grotius: James Brown Scott’s Enduring Revival,” Grotiana 41:1 (2020): 137–162.

Introduction  11 2 In addition to the classic studies by Lewis Hanke, Anthony Pagden, and James Muldoon on the subject of the conquest of the Americas, see the more recent David Lantigua, Infidels and Empires in a New World Order: Early Modern Spanish Contributions to International Legal Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), and the Companion to Early Modern Spanish Imperial Political and Social Thought, ed. Jorg Telkamp (Leiden: Brill, 2020). 3 For a historiographical review of Westphalia as the origin of contemporary international society, see Benno Teschke, The Myth of 1648: Class, Geopolitics and the Making of Modern International Relations (London: Verso Books, 2003). 4 Conciliar ecclesiology has been studied in the context of the history of constitutionalism, but the ecclesiological thought of the Spanish authors of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries has received scant attention. For a brief state of the question on the bibliography of the subject, see my “Introduction” to the special issue “Situating Conciliarism in Early Modern Spanish Thought,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 9–21. 5 See an introduction to the School of Salamanca and a basic bibliography in Thomas Izbicki and Matthias Kaufmann, “School of Salamanca,” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta (Summer 2019 Edition), https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/school-salamanca/. For the Corpus Hispanorum de Pace project, see Jesús Maria García Avoñeros, “Las ediciones críticas del ‘Corpus Hispanorum de Pace’ del CSIC: contenido, obras y autores, metodología,” Helmántica 63 (2012): 491–510. 6 See the assessments of Kimberly Lynn, “Unraveling the Spanish Inquisition: Inquisitorial Studies in the Twenty-First Century,” History Compass 5:4 (2007): 1280–1293; Lu Ann Homza, “The Merits of Disruption and Tumult: New Scholarship on Religion and Spirituality in Spain during the Sixteenth Century,” Archiv für Reformationgeschichte 100:1 (2009): 218–234; Mercedes García-Arenal, “Religious Dissent and Minorities: The Morisco Age,” Journal of Modern History 81:4 (2009): 888–923, and Seth Kimmel, “The Morisco Question: Methodology and Historiography,” History Compass 17:4 (2019): 1–10. 7 Helen Rawlings, Church, Religion and Society in Early Modern Spain (Basingstoke-New York: Palgrave, 2002), xiii. 8 “Introduction: Mapping the Early Modern Hispanic World,” in The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches, eds. Kimberly Lynn and Erin Rowe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 1–19 (6–7). 9 Richard Kagan, “Prescott’s Paradigm: American Historical Scholarship and the Decline of Spain,” American Historical Review 101:2 (1996): 423–464. 10 Wilhelm Maurenbrecher, “Die Kirchenreformation in Spanien,” in Studien und Skizzen zur Geschichte der Reformationszeit (Leipzig: Grunow, 1874), 1–40; Geschichte der katholischen Reformation (Nördlingen: Verlag der C.H. Beck’schen Buchhandlung, 1880), 1: 41–48, 153–154; Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo, Historia de los heterodoxos españoles, 3 vols. (Madrid: Librería Católica de San José, 1980–82), 2: 10, 26, 33, 685. For the place of Maurenbrecher in the historiography on Catholicism, see H. Outram Evennett, The Spirit of the Counter-Reformation (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 1968), 10–13 and John W. O’Malley, Trent and All That: Renaming Catholicism in the Early Modern Era (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002), 25–26. For this interpretation of the role of the Spaniards at Trent, see Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “‘As Spanish as It Was Ecumenical’: Was the

12  Xavier Tubau Catholic Reformation a Spanish Event?,” in The Myth of the Reformation, ed. Peter Opitz (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2013), 32–58. 11 Historia de la Iglesia en España, III-1: La Iglesia en la España de los siglos XV y XVI, ed. José Luis González Novalín, vol. 3/1 (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1980), 208. The same conclusions are reproduced in Vicente Cárcel Martí, Breve historia de la Iglesia en España (Barcelona: Planeta, 2003), 157. 12 Marcel Bataillon, Erasme et l’Espagne: Recherches sur l’histoire espirituelle du XVI siècle, 3 vols. (Paris: Droz, 1937); new edition in 3 vols., edited by Daniel Devoto (Geneva: Droz, 1991). 13 Eugenio Asensio, “El erasmismo y las corrientes espirituales afines (conversos, franciscanos, italianizantes),” Revista de Filología Española 36 (1952): 31–99 (reprinted in Salamanca: Seminario de Estudios Medievales y Renacentistas de Salamanca, 2000); Lu Ann Homza, Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000). 14 John C. Olin, Catholic Reform: From Cardinal Ximenes to the Council of Trent (New York: Fordham University Press, 1990), 5; Carlos Eire, Reformations: The Early Modern World, 1450–1650 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016), 99. Similar statements in monographic studies on modern history published in Spain: Maximiliano Barrio Gozalo, “La división de la cristiandad. Reforma, Contrarreforma y guerras religiosas,” in Historia del mundo moderno, ed. Luis Ribot García (Madrid: Actas, 1992), 247–271 (259); Joan Lluis Palos, “El Barroco hispánico,” in Historia de España en la Edad Moderna, ed. Alfredo Floristán (Barcelona: Ariel, 2011), 437–457 (449). 15 Mercedes García-Arenal and Felipe Pereda, “On the Alumbrados: Confessionalism and Religious Dissidence in the Iberian World,” in The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches, edited by Kimberly Lynn and Erin Rowe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 128. R. Po-Chi Hsia, The World of Catholic Renewal 1540–1770 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 238, assessed the scholarship on Spanish Catholicism as “uneven,” and Helen Rawlings, Church, Religion and Society, xv, considered that modern scholarship had “tended to maintain an essentially orthodox approach to the history of the Church.” 16 See, for example, John F. D’Amico, Renaissance Humanism in Papal Rome: Humanists and Churchmen on the Eve of the Reformation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983); Stephen Bowd, Reform before the Reformation: Vincenzo Querini and the Religious Renaissance in Italy (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Tyler Lange, The First French Reformation: Church Reform and the Origins of the Old Regime (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

Bibliography Amorosa, Paolo. Rewriting the History of the Law of Nations: How James Brown Scott Made Francisco de Vitoria the Founder of International Law. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019. Asensio, Eugenio. “El erasmismo y las corrientes espirituales afines (conversos, franciscanos, italianizantes).” Revista de Filología Española 36 (1952): 31–99 (reprinted in Salamanca: Seminario de Estudios Medievales y Renacentistas de Salamanca, 2000). Avoñeros, Jesús Maria García. “Las ediciones críticas del ‘Corpus Hispanorum de Pace’ del CSIC: Cntenido, obras y autores, metodología.” Helmántica 63 (2012): 491–510.

Introduction  13 Barrio Gozalo, Maximiliano. “La división de la cristiandad. Reforma, Contrarreforma y guerras religiosas.” In Historia del mundo moderno, edited by Luis Ribot García, 247–271. Madrid: Actas, 1992, Bataillon, Marcel. Erasme et l’Espagne: Recherches sur l’histoire espirituelle du XVI siècle. Paris: Droz, 1937; new edition in 3 vols., edited by Daniel Devoto (Geneva: Droz, 1991). Bowd, Stephen. Reform before the Reformation: Vincenzo Querini and the Religious Renaissance in Italy. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Cárcel Martí, Vicente. Breve historia de la Iglesia en España. Barcelona: Planeta, 2003. D’Amico, John F. Renaissance Humanism in Papal Rome: Humanists and Churchmen on the Eve of the Reformation. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983. Eire, Carlos. Reformations: The Early Modern World, 1450–1650. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “‘As Spanish as It Was Ecumenical’: Was the Catholic Reformation a Spanish Event?” In The Myth of the Reformation, edited by Peter Opitz, 32–58. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2013. García-Arenal, Mercedes. “Religious dissent and minorities: The morisco age.” Journal of Modern History 81, 4 (2009): 888–923. García-Arenal, Mercedes, and Felipe Pereda. “On the Alumbrados: Confessionalism and Religious Dissidence in the Iberian World.” In The Early Modern Hispanic World: Transnational and Interdisciplinary Approaches, edited by Kimberly Lynn and Erin Rowe, 121–152. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Historia de la Iglesia en España. Vol. 3/1, La Iglesia en la España de los siglos XV y XVI, edited by José Luis González Novalín. Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1980. Homza, Lu Ann. Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. Homza, Lu Ann. “The Merits of Disruption and Tumult: New Scholarship on Religion and Spirituality in Spain during the Sixteenth Century.” Archiv für Reformationgeschichte 100, 1 (2009): 218–234. Izbicki, Thomas, and Matthias Kaufmann, eds. “School of Salamanca.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta. Summer 2019 edition. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/schoolsalamanca. Kagan, Richard L. “Prescott’s Paradigm: American Historical Scholarship and the Decline of Spain.” American Historical Review 101, 2 (1996): 423–464. Kimmel, Seth. “The Morisco Question: Methodology and Historiography.” History Compass 17, 4 (2019): 1–10. Lange, Tyler. The First French Reformation: Church Reform and the Origins of the Old Regime. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Lantigua, David. Infidels and Empires in a New World Order: Early Modern Spanish Contributions to International Legal Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020. Lynn, Kimberly. “Unraveling the Spanish Inquisition: Inquisitorial Studies in the Twenty-First Century.” History Compass 5, 4 (2007): 1280–1293.

14  Xavier Tubau Maurenbrecher, Wilhelm. “Die Kirchenreformation in Spanien.” In Studien und Skizzen zur Geschichte der Reformationszeit. Leipzig: Grunow, 1874. Maurenbrecher, Wilhelm. Geschichte der katholischen Reformation, Vol. 1. Nördlingen: Verlag der C.H. Beck’schen Buchhandlung, 1880. Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino. Historia de los heterodoxos españoles, Vol. 2. Madrid: Librería Católica de San José, 1980–1982. Nys, Ernest. Les origines du droit international. Brussels: Alfred Castaigne; Paris: Thorin & Fils, 1894. O’Malley, John W. Trent and All That: Renaming Catholicism in the Early Modern Era. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002. Olin, John C. Catholic Reform: From Cardinal Ximenes to the Council of Trent. New York: Fordham University Press, 1990. Outram Evennett, H. The Spirit of the Counter-Reformation. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 1968. Palos, Joan Lluis. “El Barroco hispánico.” In Historia de España en la Edad Moderna, edited by Alfredo Floristán, 437–457. Barcelona: Ariel, 2011. Po-Chia Hsia, R. The World of Catholic Renewal 1540–1770. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Rawlings, Helen. Church, Religion and Society in Early Modern Spain. Basingstoke-New York: Palgrave, 2002. Scott, James Brown. The Spanish Origin of International Law. Oxford: Clarendon Press; London: Humphrey Milford, 1934. Somos, Mark, and Joshua Smeltser. “Vitoria, Suárez, and Grotius: James Brown Scott’s Enduring Revival.” Grotiana 41, 1 (2020): 137–162. Telkamp, Jorg, ed. Companion to Early Modern Spanish Imperial Political and Social Thought. Leiden: Brill, 2020. Teschke, Benno. The Myth of 1648: Class, Geopolitics and the Making of Modern International Relations. London: Verso Books, 2003. Tubau, Xavier, ed. “Situating Conciliarism in Early Modern Spanish Thought.” Special issue of Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 9–21.

1 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism in his lost De potestate papae et concilii1 Ignacio García Pinilla

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda (1490?–1573) was a prolific Spanish humanist who spent part of his life in the service of several popes (1522–1536) and another longer part serving the Spanish Crown (1536–1570) under both Charles V and his successor, Philip II.2 His literary output includes scientific treatises, philosophical dialogues of a strongly Aristotelian bent, Latin translations of Greek philosophers (Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias), and historical works written as a consequence of his duties as royal chronicler. His collected works, which were published in a critical edition at the beginning of the present century, run to 17 volumes, excluding his translations of Greek philosophers. Sepúlveda, as well as being the most notable example of Ciceronianism in Spain, took a continual interest in the issues being debated during his lifetime, such as the early Machiavellianism, free will, the morality of military service, irenicism, and the legality of the conquest of the Indies. His thought, while remaining firmly Catholic, is marked by a notable critical independence, which frequently brought him into conflict with others.3 The present study draws attention to the fact that Sepúlveda was a supporter of the authority of ecumenical councils over the papacy. This aspect of his thought has gone unnoticed by scholars. It was yet another of those areas of contemporary debate in which his opinion was highly personal. The evidence for Sepúlveda’s stance on this issue is found mostly in his correspondence, which will be analyzed here. From his letters, we find that he wrote a work on this issue, which he tried unsuccessfully to publish, and which has now been lost. The present study brings together all the available information about Sepúlveda’s conciliarist attitude in order to obtain the most accurate picture possible of the characteristics of this lost work.

A survey of his life and influences In present-day scholarship, Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda is most frequently studied in connection with his opposition to Bartolomé de las Casas (1484–1566) at the Valladolid debate in 1550 regarding the right of DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-2

16  Ignacio García Pinilla conquest of the Indies. Nevertheless, he did not consider this episode to be the most notable aspect of his extensive career, despite the long-­ lasting consequences (a fall from grace, difficulties publishing his works, isolation). If we examine his Epistolarum libri VII of 1557—a collection of letters selected to present the author as he wished to be seen—we note the aspect that Sepúlveda highlighted most by that of the humanist dedicated to the study of Aristotle and to the service of the Crown.4 In this collected correspondence, Sepúlveda stresses, along with his experience in philosophical writing, his expertise as a theologian, and his abilities in many other subjects, including astronomy, textual criticism, antiquarian knowledge, and historiography, not neglecting to mention his role as preceptor to the young Prince Philip.5 As noted earlier, Sepúlveda’s activities were strongly influenced by his many years in Italy (1517– 1536), first at the Royal Spanish College (Real Colegio de San Clemente) in Bologna and afterward in Rome, where he was protected by several popes after 1523: Adrian VI (r. 1522–1523), to whom he dedicated one of his translations, and especially Clement VII (r. 1523–1534). His Italian period was thus mostly spent in Rome, although between 1527 and 1529, he retired to Gaeta as a consequence of the Sack of Rome, where he collaborated with Cardinal Tommaso de Vio. His return to Rome and renewed residence there, which lasted six years, was due mainly to his collaboration with Cardinal Quiñones in developing the new Roman Breviary, which would be published in 1536. Thus, Sepúlveda was still living in Rome during the first years of the pontificate of Paul III, although his relationship with this pope does not seem to have been very important. In spite of his long connection with the papal court, Sepúlveda took a severe view of all the pontiffs he had known when it came to evaluating them in his History of Charles V.6 He had had dealings with Clement VII while the latter was still a cardinal and had dedicated several translations of Greek philosophers to him, which were composed under his patronage. He took refuge with Clement in the Castel Sant’Angelo during the terrible days of the Sack of Rome, although Sepúlveda was eventually expelled from the fortress because of his nationality. He gave a laconic account of Clement’s death, pointing out that it was expiation for his tyranny and nepotism in placing his nephew Alessandro Farnese at the head of Florence’s government. Paul III did not fare any better. Sepúlveda considered him ambitious and too drawn to astrology and riches.7 He did not personally know the next two popes, Julius III (r. 1550–1555) and Paul IV (r. 1555–1559), but his references to them are decidedly cool. Taken as a whole, nearly all the supreme pontiffs that he found it necessary to write about received a negative assessment as men who did not live up to their mission. However, these judgments were mostly written years later, after Sepúlveda had returned to Spain and was elderly. There are no grounds for supposing that his critiques of the pontiffs were born during his years

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  17 in Rome. Furthermore, it is not possible to say that the unworthiness, as he saw it, of the popes of his time underlay his conciliarist position.

Sepúlveda’s conciliarism in his correspondence Sepúlveda’s critiques, along with his protesting that an ecumenical council was urgently needed, are clearly seen in Epistolarum libri VII. Although the books were published in 1557, they include letters from as far back as 1529, and Cardinal Gasparo Contarini (1483–1542) enjoys a prominent place among the correspondents. Sepúlveda certainly met him at the imperial coronation in Bologna in 1530 but may have had dealings with him earlier because of their mutual affinity for Pietro Pomponazzi (1462– 1525) and Prince Alberto Pio de Carpi (1475–1531). The exchange of letters between Contarini and Sepúlveda leaves a clear impression of Sepúlveda’s desire to be part of the Catholic Res publica litterarum (which Constance M. Furey has described), based on the closeness of the two men and their shared intellectual and religious aspirations.8 In one of the letters sent to Cardinal Contarini (Letter 48, dated June 11, 1541), Sepúlveda broached the topic of the need for a council.9 The letter’s date is important for an understanding of its contents since it was written in the immediate aftermath of the Colloquy of Regensburg, which took place between February and May of that year. Before analyzing Sepúlveda’s letter, it is worth recalling some aspects of Contarini’s position during the Colloquy. At one point during the Diet, there was a discussion on the authority of councils for the interpretation of Scripture, an issue that could easily be linked to the question of the power of councils in general. An attempt was made at a neutral formulation to sidestep disagreement with the Lutheran delegates. Contarini had an important hand in the drawing up of this formula, as can be seen in the way he expressed himself in a letter to Cardinal Alessandro Farnese (1520–1589) dated May 9, 1541: This issue of the authority of councils is closely connected with the subject of the power of the Pope, concerning which there are great controversies among Catholic doctors. The whole of the University of Paris holds that a council is above the pope, while others hold the opposite, namely, that the pope is above the council.10 Immediately afterward, Contarini mentions Albertus Pighius (1490– 1542) as one of those against the higher authority of councils, and then, in the next line, alludes to the defenders of the contrary idea, although without naming them. He then continues: It seems to me that if we wished to go ahead and enter into these particular issues, we will enter into such chaos from which only God knows how we will extricate ourselves. But in my opinion, it is better to steer clear of all these dangerous issues and stick to the universal one.11

18  Ignacio García Pinilla Returning to Sepúlveda’s letter to Contarini of June 1541, while Sepúlveda was undoubtedly unaware of Contarini’s letter to Cardinal Farnese cited earlier, the possibility that he knew his thinking, at least along general lines, cannot be dismissed. It is significant in this connection that Sepúlveda did not hesitate to expound quite openly his own views on the function of a council: For the rest, it is clear, as you well know, that our predecessors and the holy Fathers believed that the most appropriate and weighty procedure for refuting heretics and unmasking their deceptions was the legitimate calling of a general council of priests in which to consult with the bishops concerning general disputes on religious matters, debating the issue extensively and carefully, and entrusting it to the vote and opinions of those same Fathers, so that those decrees would have the approval of the Holy Spirit, whom we believe is present—or rather, presiding—such councils.12 Sepúlveda’s wording is relatively open-ended; he speaks of the legitimate convening of a council and its decision-making without at any time mentioning papal authority. It would be hard to attribute this silence to careless writing. Although an orthodox interpretation of his words would undoubtedly be possible, Sepúlveda seems rather to be attributing universal authority in doctrinal matters to a legitimately constituted council. Indeed, the reference to the approval of the Holy Spirit for its decrees and the omission of any mention of papal approval echoes conciliarist formulations.13 This meaning seems implicit also in the argumentation that follows, in which he asserts that there is no way to take an appeal against a council resolution to a higher authority, for no such authority exists: But in these holy assemblies, first of all, the custom is to accept and renew that ancient and most righteous decree: that no heresy condemned according to the resolutions of their predecessors in a legitimately-convened council is to be again brought into question or debated.14 To interpret the foregoing correctly, one should not lose sight of the fact that this entire reflection was motivated by an immediate interest: Sepúlveda was looking for ways to support his disapproval of the imperially sponsored policy regarding Diets. His fundamental objection was that the policy robbed the body of the Church, represented by the council, of the privilege of debate and turned it over to a few learned men:15 These things being so, the fact that, in such a controversy, the foundations of the faith and of morality are made a matter of debate and, we could almost say, of confrontation between a few learned men,

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  19 with the forces on each side equally matched, or even with a disadvantaged position for our side, and with the permission of the Supreme Pontiff. Is this not like a supreme judge giving ear to the word of men, at their trial, [men] proven guilty of terrible crimes who deserve condemnation by the firm and lawful application of most righteous laws […]?16 He called the pope’s permission for holding the Diet an error, and not only a practical one but also a theoretical one. His words are cautiously written, to the point of using an impersonal formulation to avoid naming the person ultimately responsible for these Diets (in Sepúlveda’s mind, this was the pope, by permissive action): Therefore, since a jolting and cliff-edge path seems to have been preferred over the public highway, fortified by the holy Fathers and welltravelled, it is reasonable that godly people who desire for you to be praised should be fearful of that Diet.17 As will be seen, Sepúlveda casts no blame on Charles V. When he comes to speak of who is responsible, he continues his complaint, once again using veiled expressions: Although the opinion of men is such that, if the affair turns out as we wish and not as is foreseen, it will all be seen as a marvellous favor that God has unexpectedly given to his Church and to the best, pious hearts of the Emperor Charles and of yourself. But if, on the other hand, there is a bad result, the greater part of the blame will be cast on those who refused to be convinced to do their duty, as they should, by any of Charles’s most righteous and pious pleas in the midst of such a difficult situation for the Catholic Church. Because who will have any right to reproach Charles for anything, since those men blocked his straightest and most secure route, and he needed to resort to doubtful circuitous routes in his desire—by whatever means he could arrive there and perhaps with some risk—to aid Religion that was shaken and almost forsaken by those whose help it most needed?18 Who were these men whom Charles could not convince to do their duty (officium) for the Church and who failed to use the direct and most secure route (a recta et tutissima via)? Once again, we have a circumlocution— not a very obscure one—to refer to a pope who refuses to convene a council and who, by omission, is causing what Sepúlveda sees as serious damage.19 All of this demonstrates that, at an early date, Sepúlveda took up a critical position regarding the exercise of papal power, one that may have been linked to his long experience at the papal court. Sepúlveda’s

20  Ignacio García Pinilla position in 1541 in the context of the Colloquy of Regensburg seems clear. Nevertheless, there is no mention of it in another piece addressed to Contarini written two years earlier: the dedication to his treatise De correctione anni.20 The book’s theme has nothing to do with councils, yet the dedication includes praise for Contarini because of what he had said regarding that very topic.21 Sepúlveda’s comments focus on the importance of a council for improving clerical life, and on this topic, he praises Pope Paul III. In addition, he explicitly mentions papal authority in the context of summoning councils (auctoritate pontificis maximi vestraque opera concilium sacerdotum… conveniat). The chronological sequence suggests that it was the failure of the Colloquy of Regensburg in 1541 that prompted the change in Sepúlveda’s thinking, seen as close to the conciliatory program of Contarini.22 Not all of Sepúlveda’s extant correspondence is found in Epistolarum libri VII. Some letters were omitted due to their content or because they were written in the vernacular; others postdate the work’s publication. There is interesting information in some of them, including his correspondence with the powerful bishop of Arras, Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle (1517–1586), who was Charles V’s chancellor from 1550.23 Sepúlveda kept up a correspondence with Granvelle from at least 1549. He often sought his support against attacks by Bartolomé de las Casas and some other Dominicans resulting from Democrates secundus and the issue of the right of conquest of the Indies. One such occasion is a letter sent to Granvelle on March 15, 1554, written in Spanish. At the end, after describing the adversities he was suffering and asking for Granvelle’s protection, Sepúlveda introduces a new topic: his desire to publish a book. He asks for Granvelle’s support for this too: I have written a book called De regno, which mixes moral philosophy with theology, in which I treat the issue of the authority of the Pope and the general council with a great deal of urgency, proving that a council is above the pope, using many favorable arguments and demolishing the opposing ones, using not only divine and canon law but also natural law, for all the laws treated by Aristotle in his Politics are divine. I translated it from Greek to Latin and included my commentary and it was published in Paris with a dedication to our lord the Prince. This work contributes a great deal to understanding the nature of any empire, ecclesiastical or secular. I have not published this book because Spanish printers lack preparation and equipment, and indeed because it would be hateful to the pope; but if it was needed and his Majesty would benefit by it—who, I have been told, is a partisan of this side—I would put all that behind me.24 This letter to Granvelle provides a clearer understanding of Sepúlveda’s way of thinking. First, since this is a private letter, he can more plainly

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  21 express himself in favor of the authority of a council over the pope. Second, he holds the doctrinal view that the Church is a perfect society that is governed according to natural principles so that the teachings of Aristotle’s Politics can be applied to it (a section on ecclesiastical government would therefore fit reasonably well into a work on civil government). Third, Sepúlveda is convinced—because he has been told so—that Charles V supports some form of conciliarism. We do not know how this proposal by Sepúlveda was received, but the book was not published at that time, and there is no evidence of any negotiations for its publication. The work remained on Sepúlveda’s desk, so to speak, and was later mentioned by him only in connection with a second attempt to publish it. This reference is in a letter to Martín Pérez de Oliván (c. 1495–1563), a member of a noble Aragonese family, who admired Sepúlveda and had succeeded him as a student at the Royal Spanish College in Bologna.25 There was a deep friendship between the two men despite their age difference. After Sepúlveda returned to Spain in 1536, they kept up a correspondence about current topics of debate; one example in the area of moral theology was the tension between keeping the secret of the confessional and informing the Inquisition. Part of Sepúlveda’s letter to Oliván of March 22, 1565 (a decade after the previously cited letter to Granvelle) says, As to what you ask me, whether I have anything new for the press that could be printed in Zaragoza, there are two things: one is my translation of Aristotle’s Ethics with my exposition added to it, which I am confident will be esteemed by learned men even though there are other translations and commentaries. Also, a book called De regno, divided into three books, a work with which I am very satisfied; and indeed, another one, De republica ecclesiastica, could be added to it, which I have written also, in which the question of the authority of the pope and the council is discussed at length.26 Unfortunately, Sepúlveda’s translation of Aristotle’s Ethics has been lost. The three books of De regno constituted the last publication of his lifetime (Lérida, 1571), and it took five years of negotiations to take it to the press. In any case, when the work went to the printer, Sepúlveda did not include the fourth book on the question of papal and conciliar power. The author himself had indicated that the fourth book could be treated as separate from the other three, and this, in fact, is what finally happened: the Lérida edition contained only three books. This was undoubtedly done to avoid complications. Owing to the fact that Sepúlveda did not include the fourth book—on the ecclesiastical polity—in this publication, his conciliar work is lost, and its scope is at present unknown.

22  Ignacio García Pinilla

Other indications of conciliarism in his Epistolarum libri VII Although the clearest expression of Sepúlveda’s conciliarism is found in the letter to Granvelle, these were not his first thoughts on civil and ecclesiastical government. In light of what we have seen thus far, some clues in previous letters are open to being interpreted in a similar way. A letter from Sepúlveda’s friend, the previously mentioned inquisitor, Martín Pérez de Oliván, dated August 1, 1548 (that is, two years after Sepúlveda returned to the Iberian Peninsula and seven after the previously cited letter to Contarini), listed some of the topics discussed in the provincial chapter of the Dominicans held a little earlier at the San Pablo convent in Córdoba: The other issue [discussed] was whether the Roman pontiff’s authority is superior to what an ecumenical council has decided, and whether the council on its own can make decisions contrary to the will of the pontiff. On this subject, I hope that you will soon be publishing a book for the benefit of scholars, and I earnestly desire that both works should come out as soon as possible, for they will please me very much, as do your other writings, concerning which, whether they deserve scholarly praise more for their learning or for their elegance, I could not say.27 When Oliván wrote to his friend, he did not express surprise that the Dominican chapter openly discussed the conciliar question, which should in theory have been closed by the papal bull Pastor aeternus of the Fifth Lateran Council (1516).28 It is true that the doctrinal context had changed by the time Pérez de Oliván wrote this letter: in the intervening period, Francisco de Vitoria (1483–1546)—also a Dominican—had delivered his relections on the topic.29 Although the relections rejected the conciliar formulation of John Mair (1467–1550) and Jacques Almain (1480– 1515), they had not clearly resolved the matter.30 There was renewed interest in the question of papal and conciliar authority, which only grew stronger because of the lack of a response to Charles V’s repeated requests for a council to be convened.31 What is more, once the Council of Trent began, the Spanish representatives were frequently accused of showing a tendency toward conciliarism.32 The fact that a debate took place in the Dominican convent does not mean that there were active supporters of the conciliarist position there; it could simply have been a scholastic exercise in which it was standard practice to treat a topic in utramque partem.33 Nor does Oliván’s desire to see Sepúlveda publish something on the subject imply that he took a position on it, although a scholastic diatribe would not be the same as a treatise sent for publication. If Oliván was anxiously awaiting his friend’s contribution on this topic, it was because, in his

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  23 role as inquisitor and canonist, he saw that a clear and solid presentation was needed, one that resolved uncertainties. On the other hand, one can determine from his letter that he and Sepúlveda had discussed the topic before. Given the contents of the letter to Granvelle, it can further be concluded that Pérez de Oliván was alluding to a work by Sepúlveda that already existed, or that was at least conceptually developed or in process. Sepúlveda’s reply, sent to Oliván three months later, on November 1, 1548, makes it clear that he had now finished the book: In the book I have written, De regno, the topic I discuss in my little commentary concerning the relationship between the authority of the pope and the general council is a slippery one. Some have treated it in such a way that they show their inclination for one or the other side more than their love of authentic truth.34 Although, as noted, Sepúlveda did publish a book with the title De regno 22 years after the date of this letter, that book does not discuss the previously mentioned topic. Even though the work referred to in the letter is called only a “little commentary,” (commentatiuncula), it nevertheless includes enough information to identify it with the work published years later, albeit expressed with the prudence one would expect in a self-published epistolary. Sepúlveda touches on the difficulty of the subject matter. As he sees it, it has not thus far been treated in a satisfactory manner, both because of its complexity and because those who discussed it lacked objectivity. He then speaks of his own repeated efforts to discuss it fairly, at the same time recognizing that both sides have solid ground: “I have tried by all means to give satisfaction to both sides and recognize in them the right and dignity they deserve.”35 This statement takes a line similar to Francisco de Vitoria’s moderate declaration about the same affair: “[N]evertheless, this is not the moment to debate which of these [positions] is more true because that is not the issue. In my view, both opinions are plausible.”36 Sepúlveda’s words in this letter do not allow us to conclude unequivocally that he had taken a position on the matter, and there is even less reason to suppose that he was questioning the Lateran formulation; he simply says that he had written on the topic and that he took a critical view of previous theological discussions about it. It is even more difficult to say whether his negative assessment extended to Vitoria’s writings, which he may have known. The author’s own cautious tone is the reason why his statements are less than clear. The lack of precision is consistent with the basic objective of the Epistolary, which was self-presentation. Issues that might damage the projected image are avoided, although the statements make more sense in light of the evidence first presented, and one can see coherence

24  Ignacio García Pinilla among all of them. What can be affirmed is that in 1548 Sepúlveda had already joined the polemical exchange on the conciliarist side and had even produced a theological work.

A reference in Sepúlveda’s historical work As has been said, Sepúlveda was appointed royal chronicler in 1536, which allowed him to return to Spain and take up residency there, alternating periods at court with retreats to his native territory. The 30 volumes of imperial history, De rebus gestis Caroli V, were among the products of his work as royal chronicler. In Book 28, on the occasion of Mary Tudor’s ascent to the throne of England, Sepúlveda introduced a historical excursus on the causes of the English schism. This section contains a reference to another of his works, now lost, that could be related to the issue at hand, in light of the description Sepúlveda gives: At that particular moment, I was living in Rome and I wrote a little book, De ritu nuptiarum et dispensatione. … Then, at the behest of the Supreme Pontiff Clement VII, I wrote another book on the authority of the Roman Church and the pope and sent it to Henry [VIII] himself, who was beginning to distance himself from the Roman Church. In that book, I argued in a supplicating tone against the injustice and impiety inherent in his intentions. He could avoid giving the impression of impiety and great capriciousness that would be the result of despising the power and authority of the Roman Pontiff, which had been given by Christ and was affirmed by the testimony of the holy Fathers and the Catholic Church; such an impression would be given if he denied the book that he himself, Henry, had with incomparable piety written against the Lutheran errors in defence of the dignity and supreme authority of the Roman Church.37 Given that De ritu nuptiarum et dispensatione was published in 1531, Sepúlveda’s lost treatise on ecclesiastical authority should be dated from around that time. It is not unreasonable to find a reference to Henry VIII’s Assertio septem sacramentorum since this work is, in fact, on papal authority. Because of Sepúlveda’s witness to his lost work, it is possible to date his first reflections on ecclesiastical power to at least as early as circa 1531. Even so, the historical situation and the need to defend papal authority (he was in fact writing at the behest of Pope Clement VII) did not provide a suitable framework for developing the conciliarist thesis. Some specialists have argued that the work in question is the same as the lost De republica ecclesiastica that we were concerned with earlier in this discussion.38 This hypothesis however does not fit the analysis just made,

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  25 even though it is possible that some concepts and expressions from the 1531 work were replicated in 1548.

What is the source of Sepúlveda’s conciliarism? Having made it clear that Sepúlveda was of a conciliarist tendency, the question now is how it was forged, given that such information as we have about his younger years shows that he was a humanist, dedicated to translating and explaining texts of Aristotelian philosophy and little involved in theological questions, even though he had a doctorate in that discipline. We do not in fact know the matrix that formed Sepúlveda’s conciliarist position. One wonders whether he had already adopted the conciliarist thesis when he had a long and intense interaction (1527– 1529) with Tommaso de Vio (1469–1534), Cardinal Cajetan, during his retreat in Gaeta. In 1511, long before his encounter with Sepúlveda, Cajetan had published a Tractatus de comparatione auctoritatis Pape et Concilii seu Ecclesie universalis, which was distinctly favorable to papal supremacy, although with nuances. As is well-known, Cajetan’s treatise was produced in the context of the debate surrounding the Council of Pisa (1511) and elicited a response from Almain in Paris, a young theologian who represented a continuation of the Gallican conciliarism inherited from Jean Gerson (1363–1429) and Pierre d’Ailly (1351–1420).39 In reality, it seems difficult to establish any connection between a piece of writing from 1511 and Sepúlveda’s interests in Gaeta in 1527. At the later date, Sepúlveda’s efforts were directed at lending his experience as a Hellenist to Cajetan, who did not know Greek and was preparing a commentary on the New Testament.40 This type of relationship does not appear to provide a likely framework in which the conciliarist question would arise. It is also worth asking whether Cajetan was one of those to whom Sepúlveda was referring when he spoke of men whose inclinations were moved by their interests more than by a love of the truth. It would be gratuitous to attribute his conciliarism to his university education in Alcalá de Henares and Sigüenza since we know almost nothing about those years. He received his doctorate in theology in Italy, specifically Bologna.41 A variety of Sepúlveda’s writings from his Italian period show that he took a lively interest in the great questions of the second and third decades of the century, such as the defense of free will against Luther (De fato), Henry VIII’s marriage (De ritu nuptiarum), criticism of Machiavelli (Democrates), pacifism (Cohortatio ad Carolum V), and so on. Conciliarism does not appear to be one of the questions that were being asserted so dogmatically at that time in Italy. There are no solid reasons for claiming that Sepúlveda knew conciliarist writing by Spanish authors of previous generations. It is unlikely that he knew the work of Juan de Segovia since it had not yet reached the press, and Segovia is not cited by sixteenth-century authors.42 Nor is it

26  Ignacio García Pinilla possible to detect knowledge of the work of Alonso de Cartagena (1384– 1456), who attended the Council of Basel.43 It is more likely that Sepúlveda knew the work of Alonso Fernández de Madrigal, El Tostado (1410–1455), whose writings had indeed been published.44 In some ways, the argument put to Contarini in 1541 concerning the need to respect everything previously approved in council was similar to El Tostado’s assertion that there was no way to appeal to a court higher than a council because none existed.45 In light of the foregoing, the question arises whether Sepúlveda’s conciliarism developed after 1536 when he returned to the Iberian Peninsula. At that time, as we have seen, the conciliarist question was being openly debated in circles close to him, and Francisco de Vitoria’s relections on the topic were being disseminated. More specifically, 1541, the year when the Colloquy of Regensburg was held, has been cited as perhaps the key moment in the evolution of Sepúlveda’s ecclesiology in the direction of a conciliarist position. Ideas on ecclesiastical government found scattered in the selected texts—sometimes only hinted at—lead us to think that Sepúlveda conceived of ecclesiastical authority in terms very similar to civil authority.46 The basis for such a conception is the doctrine of the Church as a perfect society, in line with the conciliarists of the Parisian school, especially D’Ailly and Almain.47 Oakley describes this well: “Almain’s focus lies persistently on the church’s human dimension rather than the divine.”48 At the same time, the treatise by Sepúlveda that included De potestate papae et concilii dealt primarily with royal authority. It should not, therefore, be concluded that Sepúlveda’s conciliarism was a modified adaptation of ideas of a republican type. In fact, the arguments of Mair and Almain already contained the idea that asserting that the monarchy (politia regalis) was the best form of government should not be separated from the inalienable right of the community (the ultimate source of authority) to protect itself from every abusive government; this was transferred unchanged to ecclesiastical government.49 Equally, Sepúlveda must have believed that political philosophy—strictly Aristotelian in his case—was suitable for supplying concepts to develop ecclesiology.50 The hope that Sepúlveda placed in the effectiveness of a general council to face the pressing problem of Protestantism has provided the opportunity here to demonstrate that his ecclesiological views were opposed to papalism, although they certainly contained important nuances and do not show clear evidence of royalist shadings.

Conclusions Evidence of Sepúlveda’s conciliarism began to appear during his later years, after he had finished his Italian period and had fully joined Charles V’s court, at least for the months each year that his contract required. It

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  27 is therefore possible that his view was the result of a conceptual development motivated by the unsatisfactory management of the Lutheran crisis by the Roman pontiffs. His was not an isolated case: there were a number of other conciliarist proposals in Spanish intellectual circles. Most of these took their cue from the Paris theologians, but some had local precedents, especially Alonso de Madrigal, El Tostado. As for Sepúlveda, he incorporated a strong Aristotelianism into his political doctrine; this is quite evident in De regno (of which the lost De potestate papae et concilii formed the fourth part). It is also possible that his thought on this topic had other unique features, given the fact that he confessed to his friend Martín Pérez de Oliván that he was dissatisfied with everything that he had previously read about it. Outside intellectual circles, Sepúlveda had information to the effect that Granvelle and Charles V himself were supporters of this position. As a faithful courtier, Sepúlveda made the publication of his work conditional on the permission of the emperor. However, he suffered criticism and suspicion at court after his confrontation with Bartolomé de las Casas; the work remained unpublished and was eventually lost. Unless or until it is recovered, our knowledge of Sepúlveda’s conciliarism will be full of uncertainties.51

Notes 1 This study is part of the project PGC2018-093833-B-I00, La república política entre Clío y Calíope. Representaciones y prácticas políticas en la monarquía, based at the Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha. 2 The most recent biography of him is by Santiago Muñoz Machado, Sepúlveda, cronista del Emperador (Madrid: Edhasa, 2012). The modern edition of his complete works (except for translations) is the monumental Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Obras completas, 17 vols. (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozo­ blanco, 1995–2013). 3 For example, Sepúlveda sparred with Erasmus of Rotterdam in defence of Prince Alberto Pio de Carpi over issues of biblical interpretation, with Luther on free will, with Cardinal Contarini over calendar reform, with Hernán Núñez on philological questions, with Gaspar Cardillo de Villalpando about philosophy, and with the Dominicans over the doctrine of the compensation of sins. The most famous polemical exchange was with Bartolomé de las Casas on the legality of the conquest of the Indies and the legal capacity of the aboriginal inhabitants. 4 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Epistolarum libri septem (Salamanca: Juan María de Terranova, 1557). There is a modern edition Juan Ginés de Sepulveda, Epistolarum libri septem, ed. Juan J. Valverde Abril (Munich-Leipzig: K.G. Saur Verlag, 2003). Here we will use the most recent edition, cited in the following note. 5 Sepúlveda’s self-presentation is studied in Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Obras Completas, vols. 8, 9 (1), 9 (2), Epistolario, eds. Ignacio J. García Pinilla and Julián Solana Pujalte (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2007), 8: ccxix–cccxxi. 6 Adrian VI is the only one to receive a more positive evaluation; he is called “religiosum pontificem et a bellis abhorrentem” (“a religious pontiff and one

28  Ignacio García Pinilla opposed to wars”), though in a context where these qualities made Spanish diplomatic activity more difficult; cf. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Obras Completas, vol 1, Historia de Carlos V. Libros i–v, ed. Elena Rodríguez Peregrina (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 1995), 103 (v, 1). 7 Sepúlveda introduces a harsh diatribe against Paul III in Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Obras Completas, vol 12, Historia de Carlos V. Libros xxvi–xxx, eds. Juan Capela Real and José Antonio Bellido (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2008), 101 (xix, 34). 8 Constance M. Furey, Erasmus, Contarini, and the Religious Republic of Letters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 9 This is not the start of the epistolary relationship between Sepúlveda and Contarini. The first extant letter of their correspondence (Sepúlveda, Epistolario, 9 (1), ep. [letter] 41) dates from about the end of 1538 and is concerned with the need for ecclesiastical reform. 10 “Questa materia de authoritate conciliorum è molto connexa con la materia de potestate pontificis, dove ci sono grandi controversie fra li dottori catholici. Tutto il studio Parisino tiene quod concilium sit supra papam, altri tengono l’opposito, scilicet quod papa sit supra concilium” in Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche im 16. Jahrhundert. Das Regensburger Religionsgespräch (1541), I. Teilband, eds. Klaus Ganzer and Karl-Heinz zu Mühlen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 157. 11 Ibid. “A mi me pare, che si volemo procedere et entrare in questi particulari, che entreremo in un chaos, dal quale Dio sa come ci potremo explicare. Però giudico esser megio il fuggire tutti questi scogli et stare sopra l’universale.” To this may be added that Gleason finds no bias towards conciliarism in Contarini’s writings: “There is no trace of the conciliarist model of Church government in Contarini’s writings; his mention of the Council of Constance is so cursory that from it no reader could realize the importance of its decrees,” and with reference to his Conciliorum magis illustrium summa: “Contarini barely hints in half a sentence at the existence of conciliarism,” Elisabeth G. Gleason, Gasparo Contarini. Venice, Rome, and Reform (Berkeley/Los Angeles/Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), 91 and 150, respectively. 12 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 121 (ep. 48, 3): Constat enim, ut optime nosti, maioribus nostris sanctisque patribus eam rationem haereticos convincendi ac eorum fraudes detegendi certissimam, commodissimam et gravissimam visam esse, ut, sacerdotum universali concilio rite convocato, in eo de publicis controversiis religionem attingentibus ad antistites referatur, ut res multum ac diligenter agitata, eorumdem patrum sententiis ac suffragio permittatur, ipsorum decreta Spiritu sancto, quem huiusmodi conciliis interesse ac potius praesse credimus, comprobante. These words are close to those noted by Gleason as coming from Sepúlveda’s correspondent, in “Gasparo Contarini,” 205: “Contarini is to work for the convocation of a general council, ‘which has always been the specific and usual remedy of the church against heresy and schism.’” 13 Specifically, it recalls the decree Haec sancta of the Council of Constance when it declares (1415), Haec sancta synodus Constantiensis… primo declarat quod ipsa in Spiritu Sancto legitime congregata generale concilium faciens et ecclesiam catholicam repraesentans, potestatem a Christo immediate habet, cui quilibet, cuiscumque status vel dignitatis, etiamsi papalis existat, obedire tenetur in

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  29 his, quae pertinent ad fidem et exstirpationem dicti schismatis et reformationem dictae Ecclesiae in capite et membris, in Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. Norman Tanner, Giuseppe Alberigo et al., 2 vols. (London/Washington, DC: Sheed and Ward-Georgetown University Press, 1990), 1:409. 14 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 121 (ep. 48, 3): “Sed in his piis deliberationibus illud pervetustum et iustissimum decretum in primis usurpari renovarique solet, ne qua haeresis in aliquo rite coacto concilio priorum sententiis damnata in dubium ac disputationem revocetur.” 15 Sepúlveda’s motivation in opposing the colloquies is therefore different than the one attributed to Paul III in Gleason, Gasparo Contarini, 189: Pope Paul III on principle opposed religious colloquies in Germany. He feared, with good reason, that a national diet presided over by the emperor which might ratify agreements between German theologians would leave little room for guidance from Rome and raise the spectre of a national church. 16 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 121 (ep. 48, 4): Haec cum ita sint, religionis morumque summam in huiusmodi controversia paucorum doctorum hominum disputationi et quasi certamini, aequatis utrimque classibus et quidem loco nostrorum iniquiore, Pontificis Maximi voluntate permitti, nonne simile est ac si quos capitalium et manifestorum scelerum reos, quos liceat iustissimis legibus gravissime et cum summa auctoritate damnare, summus magistratus sic suam causam agentes audiat […]? 17 Publica causa, i.e., the Colloquy of Regensburg. Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 121–22 (ep. 48, 5): Cum igitur publicae viae et sanctorum patrum auctoritate munitae et frequentatae trames quidam salebrosus et paene praeceps praelatus esse videatur, merito publicae causae a piis hominibus et vestrarum laudum cupidis timetur. 18 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 122 (ep. 48, 5): Quamquam ea est hominum opinio ut, si res ceciderit quemadmodum optamus magis quam speramus, id totum admirandum beneficium fore credatur, quod Deus Ecclesiae suae et optimae ac piae menti Caroli Caesaris tuaeque inusitata ratione tribuerit; sin aliquid fuerit offensum, maxima pars invidiae in eos conferatur, a quibus nullis Caroli iustis piisque precibus impetrari potuit ut in tantis rerum angustiis Ecclesiae catholicae suum officium, quemadmodum oportebat, praestarent. Carolo enim quis iure obtrectet, si negligentia et culpa eorumdem a recta et tutissima via interclusus in dubia diverticula descendit, dum pie cupit religioni laboranti et a quibus minime oportebat paene desertae quacumque aditus ostendatur vel cum aliquo discrimine subvenire? 19 The criticism of Paul III’s attitude in epistle 46, 1 of the Epistolary of Sepúlveda had already been identified as such by Juan Gil, “Introducción histórica,” in Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 8, cxx: “Los dardos, en realidad, no iban dirigidos contra el colegio cardenalicio, sino contra el mismísimo Papa Paulo III.” (The darts were not really aimed at the College of Cardinals, but at Pope Paul III himself). 20 I am following the dating in Elena Rodríguez Peregrina and Juan José Valverde Abril, “Introducción filológica,” in Juan Sepúlveda, vol. 7, Obras completas (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2003), cclxiii, which dates the writing towards the end of 1538, or the beginning of 1539.

30  Ignacio García Pinilla 21 This is an allusion to the Consilium delectorum Cardinalium […] de emendanda ecclesia (Rome: Antonius Bladus, 1538), whose first signatory was Cardinal Contarini. 22 The failure of the Colloquy of Regensburg has been characterized by several authors as a key event for those in the Iberian Peninsula most committed to renewal, cf. Michel Boeglin, Réforme et dissidence religieuse en Castille au temps de Charles Quint. L’affaire Constantino de la Fuente (1505?–1559) (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2016), 116–119; and Maria Laura Giordano, “La reforma católica que no pudo ser. Los Comentarios al Catechismo christiano de Bartolomé de Carranza,” in Reforma y disidencia religiosa. La recepción de las doctrinas reformadas en la península ibérica en el siglo XVI, ed. Michel Boeglin, Ignasi Fernández Terricabras and David Kahn (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2018), 129–131. 23 Despite its age, Van Durme’s work is still essential for our understanding of Granvelle: M. van Durme, Antoon Perrenot bisschop van Atrech, Kardinal van Granvelle (Ghent: Erasmus Ledeberg, 1953). Along with this, there is a substantial contribution to the subject in M. Legnani, Antonio Perrenot de Granvelle. Politica e diplomazia al servizio dell’Imperio spagnolo (1517– 1586) (Milan: Edizioni Unicopli, 2013). 24 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (2), 326 (ep. 113, 7): Yo tengo escrito un libro De regno, mezclada filosofía moral con teología, en el cual trato con harta diligencia la cuestión de potestate Papae et concilii generalis, probando ser el concilio sobre el papa, fundándolo con muchas razones y deshaciendo todas las que se traen en contrario, aprovechándome no solamente de las leyes divinas y canónicas, mas también de las naturales, que todas son divinas las que les trata Aristóteles en el libro De la política, que yo trasladé de griego en latín y comenté e se imprimió en París dedicado al príncipe nuestro señor. La cual obra hace mucho al caso para entender la natura de cualquier imperio, eclesiástico o seglar. No he impreso este libro por el poco aparejo que hay en España de impresión y aun por ser odiosa al papa, pero si fuesse menester y d’ello se sirviesse su Majestad—que, según me han dicho, sigue esta parte—todo lo pospornía. 25 Ernesto Zaragoza Pascual, “Martín Pérez de Oliván,” in Diccionario Biográfico Español, ed. Real Academia de la Historia, accessed May 20, 2019. http://dbe.rah.es/biografias/50938/martin-perez-de-olivan. 26 Ángel Losada, Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda a través de su “Epistolario” y nuevos documentos (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1973 [= 1949]), 579. 27 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 177 (ep. 69, 1): Altera [quaestio], utrum Romanus Pontifex potestatem habeat supra id quod oecumenica synodus statuerit definiendi, aut ipsa per se etiam contra voluntatem pontificis quidquam statuere possit. De qua quaestione spero cito te librum magna cum studiosorum utilitate in lucem emissurum, et utrumque opus ut quamprimum in lucem prodeat, vehementer exopto; erunt enim mihi gratissima, ut cetera scripta tua, quae nescio doctrina an elegantia magis eruditorum praeconio commendentur. 28 It had expressly declared, “For it is clearly established that only the contemporary Roman pontiff, as holding authority over all councils, has the full right and power to summon, transfer and dissolve councils” (Decrees, 1:642). 29 There is a recent critical edition Francisco de Vitoria, Relecciones jurídicas y teológicas, 2 vols. (Salamanca: San Esteban, 2017).

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  31 30 Specifically, Vitoria’s De potestate Ecclesiae prior (1532), De potestate Ecclesiae posterior (1533) and De potestate Papae et Concilii (1534), using the dating in Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, Francisco de Vitoria (Barcelona: Labor, 1939), 73–92, which is still accepted in Vitoria, Relecciones I, 607–608. 31 See Juan Carlos Utrera García, “La noción de soberanía papal y sus límites en la teoría conciliar de Francisco de Vitoria,” Relecciones 5 (2018): 57. Utrera attributes Vitoria’s position to the emperor’s dissatisfaction with the slow response to his requests for a council to be convened given the urgent need “to overcome the fracture of ecclesiastical unity and put an end to the prolonged disputes.” 32 Cf. the words of the bishop of Fano (later a cardinal), Pietro Bertani, in Pedro de Leturia, “Il Papa Paolo III, promotore e organizzatore del Concilio di Trento,” Gregorianum 26 (1945): 49, no. 109. On this subject, see Xavier Tubau, “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 105–139. 33 Still, Almain’s conciliarist work is known to have belonged to the monastery library; a copy of the Frellon edition (Paris, 1526) presently in the Provincial Library of Córdoba is marked ex libris “De S. Pablo de Cordoua.” 34 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), p. 185 (ep. 72, 3): De commentatiuncula a me de Pontificis Maximi et concilii universalis potestate et comparatione in libro, quem de Regno inscripsi, elucubrata, argumentum est lubricum, et sic a quibusdam viris doctissimis tractatum ut in eis partium studium magis exstet, quam sincerae veritatis amor. An initial study of this little tract can be found in Ignacio J. García Pinilla, “Introducción filológica,” in Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Acerca de la Monarquía. Del rito de las nupcias y de la dispensa. Gonzalo, diálogo sobre la apetencia de gloria, vol. 6 of Obras Completas (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2001), 6: xxxi–xxxii. There is a fragment of this lost first draft of De regno, containing clear variants, in the University Library of Seville, MS. 333/166 fol. 200v. 35 Sepúlveda, Epistolario, vol. 9 (1), 185 (ep. 72, 3): “Ego ut utrique partem satisfacerem suumque ius ac dignitatem tribuerem, etiam atque etiam elaboravi.” 36 Francisco de Vitoria, Relectio de potestate papae et concilii, prop. 3 (I am following the Lyon 1557 edition): “non tamen est locus nunc disputandi quae illarum sit uerior, quia non de hoc agitur. Puto utranque esse probabilem opinionem,” in Die Schule von Salamanca. Eine digitale Quellensammlung und ein Wörterbuch ihrer juristisch-politischen Sprache, accessed July 23, 2019.  https://www.salamanca.school/es/work.html?wid=W0013&frag= 0001_W0013-01-0004-tp-03e8#Vol01. The text of Vitoria, Relecciones I, 784 is notably different. 37 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Historia de Carlos V, libros xxvi-xx, ed. José Solís de los Santos, vol. 14 of Obras completas (Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2010), 97 (28, 44): Per id ego tempus Romae commorabar, libellumque de ritu nuptiarum et dispensatine confeci… Deinde librum alterum Clementis septimi Pontificis Maximi voluntate de Ecclesiae Romanae pontificisque potestate conscripsi misique ad eundem Henricum ab Ecclesia Romana deficere incipientem, quo libello supplex eum a suscepti consilii iniustitia et impietate dehortabar, ne tum impie tum etiam nimis inconstanter agere videretur si Romani Pontificis potestatem et auctoritatem a Christo traditam et sanctorum Patrum et Ecclesiae Catholicae testimoniis assertam contemneret, damnato libro

32  Ignacio García Pinilla quem ipse Henricus doctissime et singulari pietate adversus Lutheranos errores pro Romanae Ecclesiae dignitate et suprema auctoritate conscripsisset. 38 The proposal that the two works are the same is found in Ángel Losada, “Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda. Estudio bibliográfico,” Revista bibliográfica y documental 1 (1947): 356. Other references to this question in Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Historia de Carlos V, libros xxvi–xx, 97, n. 87. 39 There are many descriptions of the connections between the Council of Pisa, Cajetan’s work, and the replies of Mair and Almain. For a good synthesis, see Francis Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition. Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church 1300–1870 (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 111–129. 40 Sepúlveda is not mentioned in the recent study by Michael O’Connor, Cajetan’s Biblical Commentaries: Motive and Method (Leiden-Boston: Brill, 2017). 41 Nevertheless, it is argued that Sepúlveda received his doctorate before arriving in Italy, in Javier García Martín, “Una construcción incómoda del ius ad bellum. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda y el humanismo jurídico en el colegio de San Clemente de Bolonia,” e-Legal History Review 16 (2013): 22. 42 On Juan de Segovia’s conciliarism, see the magnificent study by Santiago Madrigal Terrazas, El proyecto eclesiológico de Juan de Segovia (Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 2000). 43 On Alonso de Cartagena, see especially Luis Fernández Gallardo, Alonso de Cartagena, 1385–1456. Una biografía política en la Castilla del siglo xv (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2002), 133–227. 44 On El Tostado, cf. Nuria Belloso Martín, Política y Humanismo en el siglo xv. El maestro Alfonso de Madrigal, el Tostado (Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1989), especially 153–155; Emiliano Fernández Vallina, “Introducción al Tostado. De su vida y de su obra,” Cuadernos Salmantinos de Filosofía 15 (1998): 153–177; and Jesse D. Mann, “Alfonso de Madrigal and Juan de Segovia: Some Conciliar Common (and Contested) Places,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no.3 (2019): 45–72. 45 Alfonso Fernández de Madrigal (el Tostado or el Abulense, 1410–1455) in Defensorium trium conclusionum, secunda pars, chap. lxix: “Christus constituit supremum tribunal in ecclesia in sacro concilio, etiam supra papam,” in Opera (Venice: Ambrosio Dei, Daniel Bissuccio, Joannes de Salis, et al., 1615), 14: 68. 46 Thus, Sepúlveda’s conciliarism would have a radically different foundation than that of Juan de Segovia, for example, for whom the council’s authority rested on its representing the mystical body of Christ; cf. Santiago Madrigal Terrazas, “Corpus mysticum-corpus politicum: primeros ecos de la crisis conciliar en la obra de Juan de Segovia,” in Iglesia de la historia, Iglesia de la fe, ed. by Fernando Rivas Rebaque and Rafael Sanz de Diego (Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 2005), 295. 47 On Pierre d’Ailly’s and Jean Gerson’s preference for mixed forms of government, cf. Brian Tierney, “Afterword. Reflections on a Half Century of Conciliar Studies,” in The Church, the Councils, and Reform: The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, ed. Gerald Christianson, et al. (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 323. The major difference lies in the fact that d’Ailly and Gerson argued for mixed governmental forms (containing monarchical, aristocratic, and republican elements) while Sepúlveda is decidedly in favor of monarchy, at least with respect to civil government. 48 He continues: “Again and again we are confronted with arguments and expressions indicating that whatever its unique dimensions, the church, pace Cajetan, is (or is also) to be regarded as ‘one of a class, political societies.’”

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  33 Francis Oakley, The Watershed of Modern Politics: Law, Virtue, Kingship, and Consent (1300–1650) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 245. 49 James H. Burns, Lordship, Kingship and Empire: The Idea of Monarchy, 1400–1525 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 140–141. He concludes by summarizing Almain: “To be rooted in the community in such a way as to preserve the community’s last-resort superiority to the king is a defining characteristic of kingship properly understood.” 50 On this point, Sepúlveda’s position differs radically from Vitoria’s, for whom the natural body politic is by nature completely different from the mystical body of Christ; cf. Utrera García, “La noción,” 59. 51 I am indebted to Dr. Jonathan Nelson for his translation of this chapter.

Bibliography Belloso Martín, Nuria. Política y Humanismo en el siglo xv. El maestro Alfonso de Madrigal, el Tostado. Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1989. Beltrán de Heredia, Vicente. Francisco de Vitoria. Barcelona: Labor, 1939. Boeglin, Michel. Réforme et dissidence religieuse en Castille au temps de Charles Quint. L’affaire Constantino de la Fuente (1505?–1559). Paris: Honoré Champion, 2016. Burns, James H. Lordship, Kingship and Empire: The Idea of Monarchy, 1400– 1525. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Fernández Gallardo, Luis. Alonso de Cartagena, 1385–1456. Una biografía política en la Castilla del siglo xv. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2002. Fernández de Madrigal, Alfonso. Opera, Vol. 14. Venice: Ambrosio Dei, Daniel Bissuccio, Joannes de Salis, et al., 1615. Fernández Vallina, Emiliano. “Introducción al Tostado. De su vida y de su obra.” Cuadernos Salmantinos de Filosofía 15 (1998): 153–177. Furey, Constance M. Erasmus, Contarini, and the Religious Republic of Letters. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Ganzer, Klaus and Karl-Heinz zu Mühlen, eds. Akten der deutschen Reichsreligionsgespräche im 16. Jahrhundert. Das Regensburger Religions­ gespräch (1541), I. Teilband. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007. Gil, Juan. “Introducción histórica.” In Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Epistolario, edited by Ignacio J. García Pinilla and Julián Solana Pujalte, xix–clxix. Vols. 8, 9 (1), 9 (2) of Obras completas. Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2007. García Martín, Javier. “Una construcción incómoda del ius ad bellum. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda y el humanismo jurídico en el colegio de San Clemente de Bolonia.” e-Legal History Review 16 (2013): 1–53. García Pinilla, Ignacio J. “Introducción filológica.” In Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Acerca de la Monarquía. Del rito de las nupcias y de la dispensa. Gonzalo, diálogo sobre la apetencia de gloria, xxxi–xliv. Vol. 6 of Obras Completas. Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2001. García Ureña, Guillermo. “Epistola ad Rodericum Sancium de Arevalo, Nicolás de Cusa. Introducción, edición, traducción y notas.” Anales del Seminario de Historia de la Filosofía 31, no. 1 (2014): 195–215. Giordano, Maria Laura. “La reforma católica que no pudo ser. Los Comentarios al Catechismo christiano de Bartolomé de Carranza.” In Reforma y disidencia religiosa. La recepción de las doctrinas reformadas en la península ibérica en el

34  Ignacio García Pinilla siglo XVI, edited by Michel Boeglin, Ignasi Fernández Terricabras and David Kahn, 127–144. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez 2018. Gleason, Elisabeth G. Gasparo Contarini: Venice, Rome, and Reform. Berkeley/ Los Angeles/Oxford: University of California Press, 1993. Legnani, Marco. Antonio Perrenot de Granvelle. Politica e diplomazia al servizio dell’Imperio spagnolo (1517–1586). Milan: Edizioni Unicopli, 2013. Leturia, Pedro de. “Il Papa Paolo III, promotore e organizzatore del Concilio di Trento.” Gregorianum 26 (1945): 22–64. Losada, Ángel. “Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda. Estudio bibliográfico.” Revista bibliográfica y documental 1 (1947): 315–395. Losada, Ángel. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda a través de su “Epistolario” y nuevos documentos. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1973. Madrigal Terrazas, Santiago. El proyecto eclesiológico de Juan de Segovia. Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 2000. Madrigal Terrazas, Santiago. “Corpus mysticum-corpus politicum: primeros ecos de la crisis conciliar en la obra de Juan de Segovia.” In Iglesia de la historia, Iglesia de la fe, edited by Fernando Rivas Rebaque and Rafael Sanz de Diego, 267–298. Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 2005. Mann, Jesse D. “Alfonso de Madrigal and Juan de Segovia: Some Conciliar Common (and Contested) Places.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 45–72. Mansi, Giovan Domenico. Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, Vol. 27. Venecia: Antonio Zatta, 1784. Muñoz Machado, Santiago. Sepúlveda, cronista del Emperador. Madrid: Edhasa, 2012. Oakley, Francis. The Conciliarist Tradition: Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church 1300–1870. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Oakley, Francis. The Watershed of Modern Politics. Law, Virtue, Kingship, and Consent (1300–1650). New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015. O’Connor, Michael. Cajetan’s Biblical Commentaries: Motive and Method. Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2017. Rodríguez Peregrina, Elena and Juan José Valverde Abril. “Introducción filológica.” clxiii–cclxix. In Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Vol. 7 of Obras completas. Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 2003. Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de. Epistolarum libri septem. Salamanca: Juan María de Terranova, 1557. Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de. Obras Completas, Vols. 7 Pozoblanco: Ayuntamiento de Pozoblanco, 1995–2013. Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de. Epistolarum libri septem, edited by Juan J. Valverde Abril. Munich/Leipzig: K.G. Saur Verlag, 2003. Tanner, Norman, Giuseppe Alberigo et al., eds. Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, 2 vols. London/Washington, DC: Sheed and Ward-Georgetown University Press, 1990. Tierney, Brian. “Afterword. Reflections on a Half Century of Conciliar Studies.” In The Church, the Councils, and Reform: The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, et al., 313–327. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008.

Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda’s conciliarism  35 Tubau, Xavier. “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 105–139. Utrera García, Juan Carlos. “La noción de soberanía papal y sus límites en la teoría conciliar de Francisco de Vitoria.” Relecciones 5 (2018): 55–72. Van Durme, M. Antoon Perrenot bisschop van Atrech, Kardinal van Granvelle. Ghent: Erasmus Ledeberg, 1953. Vitoria, Francisco de. “Relectio de potestate papae et concilii.” In Die Schule von Salamanca. Eine digitale Quellensammlung und ein Wörterbuch ihrer juristisch-politischen Sprache, accessed July 23, 2019. https://www.salamanca. school/es/work.html?wid=W0013&frag=0001_W0013-01-0004-tp-03e8# Vol01 Zaragoza Pascual, Ernesto. “Martín Pérez de Oliván.” In Diccionario Biográfico Español, edited by the Real Academia de la Historia, (n.d.). http://dbe.rah.es/ biografias/50938/martin-perez-de-olivan

2 Theorizing in Trent Alfonso de Castro, anti-heretical theory, and the politics of reform Kimberly Lynn

In February 1555, the Castilian Franciscan friar and theologian Alfonso de Castro (1495–1558), a key cleric in Philip II’s retinue, was in England. During his English sojourn, he was around the age of 60 and had accrued significant fame for his preaching and for the treatises he had published. He would eventually be depicted in the Protestant John Foxe’s (1516– 1587) famous martyrology in a scattering of brief portraits. Foxe introduced Castro as a key Catholic polemicist – and thus as an emblem of the enemy – “who had before written a popish booke agaynst heresies.” Foxe included an account of a February 1555 dialogue between John Bradford (1510–1555)—tried and condemned in January and burned at the stake on July 1—and two “Spanish friars,” the king’s confessor and Castro; there, Castro was the primary interlocutor in an unsuccessful attempt to convert the imprisoned Bradford. Thus, Foxe underscored the failure of a well-known contemporary Catholic authority. Later, Foxe reported that the same month, Castro preached a sermon against the condemnations by Catholic English bishops (and in that moment, especially of Bishop Bonner of London). In Foxe’s words, Castro “saying plainly that they learned it not in scripture to burne any for his Conscience; but the contrary that they should lyve and be converted, with many other things more to the same purpose.”1 One of Castro’s close colleagues and collaborators in England was another renowned theologian and friar—albeit a Dominican—Bartolomé de Carranza (c. 1503–1576). Both men were present at the Council of Trent in 1545–1547 and again in 1551–1552, in addition to wherever else their paths may have crossed in Castile’s court, clerical, and university circles. And, as they preached and politicked in England in 1555, they saw themselves—and were seen by their contemporaries—as key Catholic protagonists in the struggles against Protestant heresy. Their trajectories and the memory of them would, however, soon diverge sharply. Castro would die not long after, early in 1558 in Brussels. And, in many nineteenth- and twentieth-century histories, when it was mentioned at all, Castro’s reported skepticism about burnings would be cast as a seemingly odd aberration in the career of a key anti-heretical theorist, one of the most dogmatic DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-3

Theorizing in Trent  37 purveyors of hardline inquisitorial theory. His reputation has been as a zealous anti-Protestant, as well as ultimately a progenitor of criminal law, as a field. Carranza, on the other hand, his prominence and status as Archbishop of Toledo, the most important prelate in Spain, notwithstanding, would be tried by the Spanish Inquisition, himself accused of Lutheran heresy. Captured in a nighttime ambush in 1559, he would remain imprisoned until his trial, revoked to the pope in Rome midway through, concluded 17 years later in 1576; he would die a few weeks later, and Toledo would thus also remain without a resident archbishop for nearly two decades.2 While they would die nearly 20 years apart, both of their careers ended at effectively the same time. And thus, it seems to me, in assessing Spanish Catholicism, we have still tended to think relatively little about how historical actors who now—in retrospect—seem to be opposing symbols of divergent trends might also be read as deeply connected to one another. Thus, this chapter suggests how revisiting a figure like Alfonso de Castro illuminates the dynamic nature of early modern Catholic elites and intellectual culture. Castro’s thought, like that of other prominent contemporaries, evolved over time in an active rapport with current events, the arguments of others he encountered, and his ongoing reading and observation of his world. While figures like Carranza have—for clear reasons—acquired a veneer of heroism or become more appealing historical protagonists, scholarship has tended to attend less to those who have become symbols of intolerance. My objective is in no way to apologize for Castro’s stances or actions against those he classified as heretics. It is simply to offer some observations about how early modern Catholic theorists escaped the boxes into which they have often too tidily been sorted in retrospect. And it is also, I hope, to hint at the worth of revisiting figures like Castro, not the most prominent or powerful of their day, yet still important influences in court and ecclesiastical circles, in speech and in writing. Figures who often, it strikes me, remain curiously absent from much current historiography.3 While prominent in his lifetime, acquainted with a multitude of other leading figures, and influential for later generations of theologians and jurists, Castro is one of many early modern religious authorities and courtiers who have received very little attention in recent scholarship, and even less in English-language works. Castro was born in Zamora in 1495, an illegitimate child whose two brothers were later officially recognized as the children of a canon of Zamora’s cathedral. He was formed profoundly by entry into the Observant Franciscans in Salamanca in his mid-teens, as well as education at the university in Alcalá de Henares. Until the end of the 1520s, his life orbited primarily around Salamanca, where he was one of the principal teachers in a very important Franciscan house, in the orbit of the university. He gained recognition for his talents early and may have joined Charles V’s retinue on the voyage to Bologna for his coronation in 1530. The early 1530s found Castro in Bruges, preaching at the invitation of

38  Kimberly Lynn Spanish merchants there, and visiting Paris before his return to Salamanca in the middle of the decade. He gained a reputation for his preaching and an increasing prominence for his writings. Already around 1530 he wrote a short work affirming the validity of the marriage of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. He would go to the Council of Trent’s first session in 1545 as part of the retinue of Cardinal Pedro Pacheco (1488–1560), Bishop of Jaén, and again at Charles V’s order in 1551. After returning to Castile, he then spent about a year and a half (mid-1554 through 1555) in England before returning to the Low Countries, where he would die two years later. In addition to Carranza, Castro crossed paths with many of the most famous Spanish ecclesiastics and intellectuals of his day, starting from his early years at Alcalá de Henares—Martín de Azpilcueta (1491–1586), Francisco de Vitoria (1483–1546), and Domingo de Soto (1494–1560); he was a teacher of the Franciscan theologians Andrés de Vega (1498–1549), Luis de Carvajal (c. 1500–1550), Miguel de Medina (1489–1578), Francisco de Orantes (1516–1584), and a close colleague with Vega and Vicente Lunel (1480–1550) at Trent.4 The typical thinking about Castro’s publications even reveals the way in which his thought and its evolution might be productively re-thought. He is best known for his three theoretical Latin publications, each of which quickly saw multiple editions. The first was his Adversus omnes haereses (Against all heresies), first published in 1534, a catalog of heresies and tools from biblical Scripture with which to oppose them, which located the tumult of the sixteenth century in a framework of heretical challenges stretching back to the early Church. In essence, he was chronicling—and attempting to apply all his available tools to make sense of and to combat—emerging Protestant theologies (or, for him, the existential heretical threats to the Church). It was printed in many editions, including frequently from northern European presses. From there, Castro elaborated his De iusta haereticorum punitione—on the just punishment of heretics—first published in Salamanca in 1547, while De potestate legis poenalis—on the power of penal law—followed in Salamanca in 1550, both more oriented, as the titles indicated, toward jurisprudence, and the latter now often noted as a foundational text of emerging modern criminal law. Yet this trio was in fact a quartet. Castro also published a Homiliae, a collection of his sermons, in Salamanca in 1537; it likewise saw a few subsequent editions, and homilies were included with the other three Latin treatises in the 1578 Paris edition of his Opera, his collected works. In other words, preaching must, I think, be seen as a crucial context for—and companion to— all of Castro’s theological and legal writing. Some recent scholarship has hinted at ways that returning to Castro might yield new insights. Manuel Lázaro Pulido’s call to further study of the Franciscan aptly observed that any study of him must take into account the centrality of teaching to his career—work which occupied

Theorizing in Trent  39 him for at least 30 years, which included training several students who would themselves become famous intellectuals, and the practice of which should also be read as a formative element of his writings.5 Martin Nesvig has drawn attention to the role of Castro’s treatises in arguing for the necessity of inquisitorial book censorship and highlighted the range of his theorizing, including a 1543 manuscript advocating for the instruction of indigenous people in Mexico; that brief was drafted in the context of the Franciscan foundation of the Colegio de Santa Cruz in Tlatelolco seven years earlier and advocated for education in theology in preparation for entrance to the priesthood of indigenous inhabitants of colonial Mexico.6 Stefania Pastore identified Castro as fundamental to building the “theological-juridical legitimation” of the Spanish Inquisition, observing the differences between him and other key inquisitorial theorists—that unlike many of them, he had not been an inquisitor, and that his anti-heretical theory was profoundly shaped by his experience of northern Europe, and especially Flanders in the 1530s. She reasoned that his treatises were intended as much for that environment, steeped in the conviction that even when the conversion of a heretic was hopeless, the punishment of heretics was essential instruction for their surrounding societies.7 Even returning to Manuel Castro’s rich 1958 overview of Castro’s career indicates the wide range of questions on which the friar opined. His core Latin works indicate a decades-long reflection on the threat posed by Lutheran heresy and an ongoing comparative observation of laws and penal practices which informed his juridical thought, sensitive to local and historical contexts. He critiqued bad preachers, rejected discrimination against New Christians, inveighed against women who preached in their houses, and favored solid preparation for the clergy. He rejected the notion that liturgical variation (such as the use of the Mozarabic rite) equated to heresy. He supported the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception. In other treatises or briefs, he defended the validity of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon’s marriage and opposed the transport of slaves to the Indies and the use of ecclesiastical rents to fund wars with the Turks.8 Philip II reportedly enlisted him to help persuade Mary to name Elizabeth as her heir.9 And this is just the beginning of such a list. This varied profile of thought and action is of course typical of a theologian and imperial counselor of Castro’s epoch and stature. Nevertheless, it is useful to revive our sense of the complexity of their activities and arguments; to the specific contextualization of the composition, revision, reception, and reuse of their influential treatises; and to the interconnectedness of their theorizing and their other activities, in Castro’s case, particularly his long work teaching, preaching, hearing confessions, and offering counsel as an imperial courtier.10 In the remainder of this chapter, I will turn my focus to the first edition of Castro’s De iusta haereticorum punitione libri tres / Three books on the just punishment of heretics,

40  Kimberly Lynn printed in Salamanca in 1547, and consider some elements of a renewed close reading of that text.11 Pastore hypothesized that the work might be seen as particularly inflected by the definitive victory of Charles V against the Lutherans at Mühlberg in April of that year—and thus, in some senses, in a moment of optimism for Catholic combatants against what they saw as the new Protestant heresies. She further recalled the reopening of debates about what form the punishment of heresy ought to take at that juncture, in particular in the Low Countries—thus hinting that Castro’s intervention might have joined others who supported imperial versus papal leadership in anti-heretical activities there—while also noting the revolt in Naples that same year, spurred by the attempted establishment of a Spanish-style Inquisition there.12 From the perspective of the history of the Spanish Inquisition itself, 1547 was the year in which Fernando de Valdés y Salas (1483–1568) began a nearly twenty-year term as Spain’s Inquisitor General, a tenure that has long been taken to mark a notable expansion of the institutional apparatus and authority of the Spanish Inquisition.13 But in 1547, all of that institutional elaboration remained in the future, and so to assess the De iusta haereticorum punitione in its initial context is arguably to contemplate a moment of both optimism for Catholic authorities and one of notable institutional experimentation across Europe in how to combat heresy. But perhaps the most crucial context for the treatise was the opening sessions of the Council of Trent. Castro attended these as a theologian in the retinue of Cardinal Pacheco, the bishop of Jaén, who arrived in the city in late July 1545; Castro presumably was at the council’s opening in December 1545. And he also moved in the circles around the Spanish ambassador Diego de Mendoza (c. 1503–1575). Particularly active in the deliberations in the first months of 1546, he appeared less in the records of the council in the second half of that year. Castro was still in Trent in November 1546, although not counted in January 1547; the dedication of the De iusta haereticorum punitione was signed in Salamanca on October 18, 1547.14 Castro’s treatise on the punishment of heretics was, in short, likely composed both during and in the immediate aftermath of his experience of the opening sessions of the council, where he was a leading voice during the deliberations on Scripture, at the forefront of the opposition to vernacular biblical translations and drafting the opposition to Cajetan’s (1469–1534) doubts about the canonicity of some biblical books. The composition of Castro’s De iusta haereticorum punitione was deeply intertwined with his even more famous Adversus omnes haereses. It was a demonstrably influential treatise in both of the first two phases of Trent, as well as in preparing the ground for the council. While the first edition had appeared in 1534, Castro produced a newly revised second edition just before the council’s opening; its dedication to Pacheco was signed in Trent at the end of November 1545, and it was published in 1546 in Venice. The second edition offered traces of the Franciscan’s

Theorizing in Trent  41 evolving thought, indicating his somewhat diminished sympathy for Erasmus by the 1540s. It also evidenced exchange among religious authorities, revealing his consultation of the libraries of other delegates at the council.15 And Castro was by no means unique in composing theory in tandem with his activities at the council. Carranza, for example, also at Trent in those first sessions, would publish the first edition of his treatise on episcopal residency in Venice in 1547. At the same time, Carranza prepared a compendium of past Church councils to inform the work at Trent, dedicated to the ambassador Diego Hurtado de Mendoza. At one level, treatises like Castro’s and Carranza’s were artifacts of the lobbying of Catholic authorities (primarily of one another) which surrounded Trent, as well as reflections of the experience of the council itself.16 The crucible of the council spurred new theorizing and revisions of previous works among many in attendance. Castro’s reflection on the punishment of heretics was divided into three sections—or “books”—the first concerning the defining of heresy, the second punishing heretics, and the third regarding causes of heresy in the Church. In many ways, the entire treatise was a Tridentine conversation. Such legal and theological treatises were designed in such a way that readers could seek out a specific topic of interest for reference in the midst of preparing their own treatise, lecture, opinion, or consultation on some subject. The prefatory material of Castro’s De iusta haereticorum punitione included a table of contents with chapter titles, followed by a six-and-a-half folio alphabetical index of subjects in the book. Yet there is also a discernible logic to the volume as a whole. It reads—to my eye— as a coherent and systematic treatise in addition to being a collection of discrete (if related) reference entries. There appears to be a hierarchy, with the most crucial, universal, and foundational pieces at the opening, narrowing to the more applied, immediate concerns of the present day by the end. It starts from broader origins, definitions, and categories. And chapters frequently built a related theme or transitioned with overlapping emphases. The structure indicated thematic planning and grouping. The first of the three books contained 24 chapters and ran 77 folios. The second comprised 24 chapters that added 97 folios, while the third covered nine chapters in 52 folios. It was a manual for practitioners in the fights against heresy (preachers, theologians, judges, magistrates, courtiers), but it was also a meditation—written in Trent—on arguably the core existential crisis of Castro’s society, as he would likely have understood it. And Castro marked his own presence throughout the text. He interjected the first person to add emphasis to opinions, he repeatedly self-identified as a theologian, and he cross-referenced both within the De iusta haereticorum punitione and to his Adversus omnes haereses. Occasionally, he noted where he had revised his earlier positions.17 Or emphasized his stance on a current debate, as his emphatic comment on his belief in the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, which entered

42  Kimberly Lynn the deliberations at Trent in 1546, growing out of reflection on the doctrine of original sin, a theological issue that already had a long controversial history and which would continue to be a flash point of conflicts among the orders, in particular, with notable Dominican resistance, for a long while to come.18 The slimmer third book might be read as in essence a treatise on reform of the Church. At the outset of that final section, Castro postulated that there were many ways in which heresy might be combatted; that is, the third book tempered the emphasis on punishment in the middle of the treatise by setting those activities in their broader context, even as the order and the proportion of the book allotted to each section might be read as evincing a certain pessimism about the sufficiency of any program of reform which did not include a substantial emphasis on the judicial punishment of heretics. From there, he selected six “extrinsic causes” of heresy. He first described defects in preaching the word of God, which he claimed generated many heresies if tolerated. Following that was indifferent preaching. Third came the negligence of bishops and other pastors of the Church. Following from that was the alleged multitude of bishops and priests unworthy of their offices. Next, he turned to books, alleging the translation of Scripture into the vernacular as the fifth key cause, with an additional chapter expounding his arguments against vernacular translation and concluding with extensive, careless reading of Gentile books (that is, those of the ancients) as the sixth cause. He followed this with a chapter on possible remedies, starting from the presumption that completely avoiding the ancients was clearly also tremendously harmful.19 As indicated, these were also core themes of the first year of debate at Trent. Castro framed each of the three books with a preface, which reinforced these approaches. In opening the final section, he reiterated the duty of kings and bishops to punish crimes, yet the aspiration that the perpetration of heretical crimes would better be prevented than punished after their commission; he urged kings and bishops to aspire to be good governors and pious physicians and to imitate the model of God himself “as the wisest governor of the entire world.” He worked from the analogy of other serious crimes, exhorting such authorities that if they were justly diligent in pursuing crimes of theft, murder, and adultery, they should be even more concerned with heresy.20 The end of the treatise might also be of increased interest when set in the context of Trent’s early years. Castro closed the whole work with a final, page-long “Exhortation of the Author to Christian Princes.” There he cast the book as his best attempt at offering a set of remedies for the grave threats menacing the Church, ending with an appeal to secular authorities, contending that bishops and other clerics could not hope for success without their support; he intensified this appeal with an extended metaphor about the care rulers owed the Christian populace, taking as a point of departure the words of Isaias in

Theorizing in Trent  43 the Hebrew Bible: “And kings shall be thy nursing fathers.” He developed an image of the clergy as nourishing the populace with the “milk” of the word of God, while secular princes must defend that care from the attacks of enemies of the faith.21 He repeatedly returned to core themes of reform—clerical (and especially episcopal) education and diligence, care in preaching and in reading. For example, there was noticeable emphasis on preaching in his work, which resonated with his own career and the character of his order, and which he depicted as imperative for the survival of the Church across the centuries.22 The treatise’s third book suggested—to at least some extent—a mirroring of the experiences of Castro’s own career and an examination of the potential dangers and benefits of the forms of persuasion or communication that were his own key idioms—preaching, pastoral care, the written word. He repeatedly asserted the importance of his formation as a theologian, such as at the close of the second book, where he averred that a great many other topics might also be included, but that those would instead be the realm of jurisconsults.23 Castro’s treatise intertwined a variety of different stances and concerns. The consideration of how to define both heresy and the authority to determine what is heretical is at the core of the book’s opening sections, and at the heart of Castro’s exposition of those topics was a persistent assertion of the authority and necessity of general councils of the Church. In other words, one thread running through the treatise was a passionate argument for the work of the council which had just opened at Trent— that such bodies were the Church’s best remedy for heresy in the world, the most authoritative and effective means by which humans could determine what was truly heresy. He explicitly reflected on the role of conciliar authority vis-à-vis the determination of heresy. The centrality of this topic can be discerned in a multitude of ways. Castro repeatedly referenced earlier councils. And theologians deeply engaged in debates about conciliarism. He not only looked to the past but also invoked Trent recurrently. In fact, this theme could even be seen as a core organizing principle of the text as a whole. Of the 59 chapters, in total, only two were strikingly short. And, it seems to me, it was because they seemed to Castro to be so clear; the brevity was emphatic. Both of these were in the first book of the treatise, which as a whole traced the contours of heresy and the faculty of discerning it. The second chapter was a brief discourse on the great evil of heresy, beginning with reference to Aristotle, then grounded in biblical Scripture and Church fathers, it provided an orientation for the book as a whole, the purpose for the intricate deliberations to follow, introduced very simply: “How evil heresies are can be easily understood by everyone, if they would contemplate how much is the goodness and excellence of the faith.”24 The depth of heresy’s evil is the inverse of the perfection of the faith; it is hard to imagine a more powerful inversion or demonstration of ill for a thinker like

44  Kimberly Lynn Castro. The next brief chapter fell near the end of that first book. It was framed as a consideration of if “heretical men” who “came to their senses” could be taken back by the Church.25 Begun with a sequence of heavily gendered marriage and fidelity metaphors, articulated with reference to New Testament and Hebrew Bible text, the chapter lobbies for a gentle welcome for those returning to the Church and a soft hand with those whose errors stemmed from genuine ignorance. These were not subjects on which Castro admitted space for equivocation. On the other end of Castro’s organizational spectrum, there were five chapters of noticeably greater length than others, six or seven (or in one case nine) folios, theological briefs in their own right. The first of these considered the extent to which the pope could delegate the faculty of determining heresy and the authority of papal legates; the next whether it was permissible to wage war on heretics; after that, whether a bishop who had become a heretic could be deprived of all his powers, even if that heretic was the pope; the lengthiest explored whether a child who accused their parents of heresy would be free of the penalties the parents suffered; and the last, near the end of the third book, expounded the negligence of bishops and other pastors of the Church as a key cause of heresy.26 A conversation with the council, as it unfolded, can be discerned in the themes of these chapters, products of the ferment of the first sessions, and the problems then preoccupying Catholic authorities. And it reads as a passionate defense of the work of the council itself. Thus a chapter on who can judge heresy precedes and leads logically into the long chapter on the delegation of papal authority.27 The chapter was not focused on the judge in a particular courtroom (as in, who could be an inquisitor), it was really a contemplation of the great difficulty of human determination of heresy versus orthodoxy, the doubt and lack of certainty, and which authorities were best to meet this profound challenge. Castro began by linking this consideration to his Adversus omnes haereses. The next sections made Castro’s focus on the threat of Luther clear; that biblical Scripture showed Luther’s heresies.28 This focus on biblical proof was an utterly natural stance for a Catholic theologian, but it was also the most powerful antidote to a heresy that claimed greater fidelity to Scripture. And the chapter announced that this was Trent’s core work—the council was the instrument to combat Luther’s heresies.29 And what emerged was a passionate defense of conciliarism. That a General Council of the Church, properly convened, was inspired by the Holy Spirit, its authority rooted in the New Testament, in the Church fathers—Cyprian at the Council of Carthage, Augustine battling the Donatist heresy. Castro classified provincial councils and university faculties differently, as lesser instruments. For example, he explained how the faculty at Paris had erred in their judgment of the case of the marriage of Henry VIII of England and Catherine of Aragon. He made the explicit point that inquisitors do not determine what heresy is, either; they were

Theorizing in Trent  45 not to define heresy but rather to be judges of heretics. Nor were bishops to assume that authority.30 While admitting the possibility that popes could also err in judging the faith (and even themselves become heretics), he built to a conclusion that emphasized that it was the pope who possessed the faculty of judgment of what was (and was not) heresy. From there, the next chapter proceeded to explicate how there were ample precedents for the delegation of papal power in that regard. It again became a manifesto for the power of correctly convened general councils of the Church, whether with a pope present or an apostolic legate in his place. Thus Trent was clearly inferred into the legacy of the Nicene synod, the first Ephesian council, and the council of Chalcedon. The implication was that it, too—like these foundational fourth- and fifth-century ecumenical councils—had a key role to play in defining orthodox doctrine and condemning heresy.31 Thus he claimed a powerful place for Trent in ecclesiastical history. Yet this was a limited conciliarism, tailored to Trent’s opening, cautiously balancing asserting the importance of general council, the reality of papal human error, but also the primary importance of papal authority. For example, as he continued to expound the power of popes to delegate judgment of heresy, he invoked the condemnation of John Wycliffe (c. 1328–1384) in England by a papally delegated archbishop of Canterbury. Turning to Jan Hus (c. 1372–1415), he noted that he was condemned by both a papal delegate in the archbishop of Prague and in the eighth session of the Council of Constance. He then proceeded immediately to note how Pope Sixtus IV (r. 1471–1484) delegated the archbishop of Toledo, Alfonso Carrillo (1410–1482), to judge the heretical errors of Pedro Martínez de Osma (c. 1427–1480). These three heretics were often considered a related group, and yet there was also an important argumentative move in following mention of the Council of Constance immediately with an example of the pope who had annulled its decrees. (Sixtus had also granted the bull establishing the Spanish Inquisition in 1478, yet that was not invoked there.)32 Castro also repeatedly considered the duties and powers of bishops. The chapter on whether bishops who became heretics—even if they were popes—should be deprived of their powers treated not only that question but clearly reflected key questions of ecclesiology that preoccupied the council, with Castro siding with the view that bishops too had been divinely instituted (that their power had direct divine origin, not purely via papal delegation). The opening of the chapter stressed that experience had indicated that many bishops had become heresiarchs but distinguished the question of papal heresy as a more abstract matter, a limit case, and a speculative issue among theologians. Yet this too was also a chapter buttressing the authority of the council. Castro immediately referred back to the sixth chapter of the first book of his treatise on whether popes could delegate power in order to affirm that popes were

46  Kimberly Lynn the source of temporal canonical jurisdiction, effectively that a pope could not himself be excommunicated for heresy, nor could he delegate that authority, among other analogies, likening that to a pope in mortal sin who could also not thus be deposed. On this point he noted his own agreement with the Dominican Juan de Torquemada (1388–1468) and that he in turn had cited the pair of medieval doctors Bonaventure and Albertus Magnus (a Franciscan and a Dominican, respectively), as well as with Thomas Aquinas.33 And he noted that those who held the possibility that ecclesiastical dignities would be lost by those who fell into mortal sin was characteristic of the errors of Waldensians and Hus and had been condemned at the Council of Constance.34 Following from there, Castro went to great pains to hold that bishops who became heretics also could not be dismissed from their jurisdictions; their power too came from divine law (asserting that bishops also were established by the apostles, not just the popes).35 He argued through reference to Paul, Acts, the Gospels, and then through fathers of the Church (Ambrose, Augustine, Cyprian), interspersed with the later commentaries of Gratian and Bede; he referred more than once to the midfifteenth-century Council of Florence and then back to the fifth-century Pope Leo I. And on the understanding of bishops, Castro noted his difference from Cajetan, as well as Torquemada—the core Dominican proponents of papal monarchy—in an extended series of considerations where he marked both his reverence for these theologians and indicated places where he believed their reasoning was weak.36 In particular, Castro strenuously objected to stances that diminished the divinely instituted nature of the episcopate and the importance of bishops for society. A passionate insistence that negligent bishops were key causes of heresy, and that any reformed Church had to be built around a reformed episcopate, more fully realizing its apostolic mandate, ran throughout the whole treatise. To map the problem of heresy was, for Castro, also fundamentally to consider the nature of the Church and the sources and exercise of Catholic authority. Yet the treatise’s conclusion also indicated a certain doubt about the ability of the papacy to rise to the challenge of the moment. Advocacy for conciliar remedies was certainly characteristic of imperial circles around Charles V. And Castro emphasized that no healthy future for the Church was possible without a solid partnership between princes and bishops. In the second phase of Trent, Castro would be one of those who trenchantly opposed suspending the council in 1552, holding out in the city until November. By 1556, Castro’s advice to Philip II would have a decidedly conciliarist tone – urging him to procure papal confirmation, from Paul IV (r. 1555–1559), of the council’s determinations, expressing no hope, “as the world now is,” that the council would be convened again, and thus proposing a national council in Spain as the best hope for reform, along with a series of specific measures he thought key to reform, alleging

Theorizing in Trent  47 as ample precedent both the epitome of conciliarist positions, the fifteenth-century Council of Basel and a long “ancient” history of national Spanish councils of the Church.37 In the context of 1547, his emphasis, instead, was on the limitations of such French and Spanish national councils. Castro staunchly supported papal power in the condemnation of heresy but also implied that general councils were the best instruments for forging statements of doctrine. And while the absolute truth of Scripture was a constant guiding point, he was also persistently concerned with the evidence of the limitations of what humans can know, and the ample evidence of the human tendency to fall into error; it was a book marked by doubt. And my impression is that doubt was used frequently as a tool to leave space for reconciliation. While Castro’s antiheretical work centered on condemning Lutherans, the treatise was also a product of those early phases of Trent in which there remained genuine hopes that the council could return Protestants to the Church. Castro’s examination of papal, episcopal, and conciliar power can also yield insights into his methods of thinking about the world. He persistently defended the validity of the hierarchy of the Church, even when its clerics had committed hidden errors. In such thinking, the sacraments and ecclesiastical jurisdiction were not to be compromised, even in the face of inevitable human error. Thus Castro drew on Thomas Aquinas and invited his readers to imagine if a priest was ordained who had never been baptized and if that priest ultimately became the pope, or to imagine if a woman who pretended to be a man were to be elected pope.38 The papacy was the most powerful thought experiment to insist to his readers that the workings of the Church must be deemed valid, even in the face of hidden human transgression. And these concerns also flowed into key debates about heresy. There, Castro returned to explicit alignment with Cajetan that only God could know and have jurisdiction over a person’s heart, the inner life of their soul, and that human judgment was limited to what could be discerned externally; he cast this as opposition to a contemporary (and recently deceased) Dutch theologian Albertus Pighius (c. 1490–1542) and to Adrian of Utrecht (1459–1523).39 Human law couldn’t punish what only God knew in human hearts. The council’s emphasis on bishops, their preaching, and their authority was sharply delineated in the deliberations at Trent in early 1546 on Scripture and related subjects, in which Castro was immersed, and which would stress preaching as the core duty of bishops, a phase that John W. O’Malley characterized as “the first step in making Trent into a radically bishop-centered council, intent on enhancing the bishop’s role as chief pastor of his diocese.”40 In other words, Castro’s text was a product of the first phase of the council, deeply in dialogue with it and reflecting many of its core concerns. Among the doctrinal issues that plagued Trent and were never resolved were “the precise understanding of the relationship between the papacy and the episcopacy.”41 His objections to the

48  Kimberly Lynn arguments of other theologians—like those described earlier—frequently seemed to gesture to the notion that condemnations too extreme imperiled the sacraments—ordination, baptism, and penance. He stressed for example, that a heretic could renounce the Church, but that the Church could not eject the baptized (punish, certainly, but not abandon).42 He was constantly inviting his readers to consider which situations might provide viable templates for dealing with heresy, for example invoking how clerics found guilty of homicide could be censured and pardoned.43 And that Protestant threat—unsurprisingly—is the clear core concern of Castro’s treatise. His dedication to Charles V oozes with indignation at what he casts as the nearly incredible destruction and scandal of Protestant teachings. He cataloged the treasures of the Church that he saw imperiled: the ancient ceremonies of the Church transmitted by the apostles, the sacraments as an antidote of sin. He bemoans the rejection of all monastic orders—of course including his own Franciscans—the rejection of their singing of the hours, and instrumental and vocal music raised in praise in God’s houses. The treatise is about combating heresy, but throughout is a lament about what Castro casts heresy as destroying—the souls, the states, the fabric of Catholic life. From there, he created a kind of catalog of authorities who had disputed the Lutherans in their writings, praising the recently deceased Johann Maier von Eck (1486–1543) as the first of them. Beginning with “Germans,” he continued his catalog with the Low Countries, England, France, and Italy. He noted Henry VIII as England’s first opponent of Luther, who had “now deserted the faith.” And he ended with the Spanish, first Domingo de Soto who he identified as a Dominican, holder of the esteemed chair in theology at Salamanca, and now in Trent; then naming Andrés de Vega, of his own Franciscan order, learned in three languages, also at Trent and Castro’s former pupil; and closing that trio with himself and his Adversus omnes haereses.44 Castro also frequently intensified his arguments with highly charged historical visions. The Adversus omnes haereses, which saw more than 20 sixteenth-century editions, aligned seemingly new modern heresies with ancient counterparts. And the sense of a progression of recent heretical movements from Wycliffe to Hus to Luther peppered the De iusta haereticorum punitione.45 The 1547 dedication to Charles V included other kinds of framing. Castro praised the monarch’s triumphs over the Turks and compared his combat against heretics to the labors of Hercules, suggesting that those who killed souls were even more dangerous than the monsters the poets had recounted, and the emperor became a new Achilles, Ulysses, and Alexander; fighting heresy became the epic battle of their time. Next, in the opening lines of the preface, Castro likened the attitude of heretics to the arrogance of the Pharisees. And these strategies were templates for the arguments to follow. Castro theorized just war, for example, through invoking threats to the Roman republic from within, citing Lucan on the era of Caesar, and melding that with the strife

Theorizing in Trent  49 recounted in the Hebrew Bible book of Numbers.46 He entered into conversation with ancient Romans again – Varro, Seneca, Livy, Cicero – in order to strike the distinction between “perseverance” in something good versus “pertinacity” in something bad, like heretical belief.47 He made a powerful counterexample of the sixth-century “Spanish King” Leovigild, a Gothic king and Arian heretic, who had his firstborn son Hermenegild (a Catholic convert) killed, even giving the king’s name an entry in the index. Leovigild was used to create a category into which contemporary heretics could be sorted, as heretical rulers who could permissibly be deprived of their power to rule because of their heresy (here, explicitly, the modern-day example was the Lutheran Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, 1504–1567).48 These historical exempla added weight to Castro’s condemnations, but the tenor of the treatise is also an ongoing consideration of human errors and missteps to be compared and sifted for lessons on the difficulty of right action in the present. Castro also persistently historicized his terminology. The first chapter began with the question of defining heresy.49 He started with etymology, on the premise that defining what could be punished must first begin with defining the term, recognizing that not all errors were matters of the faith. He stipulated that heresy was a Greek word, which passed into Latin, and that heretic derived from heresy and not the other way around. Exploring how the word hinged on the issue of choice (electio in the Latin), he drew on ancient texts, exploring how Cicero could call a philosophical opinion of Cato’s heresy, but how the concept and the word were transformed in the context of Christianity, where—he argued via the apostle Paul—there were divine truths not open for human judgment. Castro ranged across Pauline text, Aristotle, Augustine, Tertullian, and others, in order to give illustrations of what was and was not heresy. He took the case to his own epoch, explaining how deeds—in the observation by baptized Christians of Jewish or Muslim rites—could be taken as evidence to prosecute a crime of thought, the choice of error, that is, heresy. He likewise mentioned Lutherans, and how the public contracting of marriage by a cleric was another sign of heresy. He used his etymological investigation to make key distinctions about contemporary judicial practice, explaining that the uttering of a heretical proposition did not immediately make the person in question a heretic. It seems to me that opening up a space between the heresy and the heretic was a key to Castro’s vision of the possibilities of individual redemption and broader social rehabilitation; it offered a clearer path back for those who had erred without immediately rendering them criminal, by definition. And this approach also tended to keep present an awareness of the doubt that surrounded heresy prosecutions and the frequent difficulties in discerning what was actually heretical.50 Castro insisted on an approach to judicial practice that would investigate fully the qualities of the suspect in order to determine whether or not heresy (tied to

50  Kimberly Lynn deliberate choice and intention) had occurred and not merely ignorance or error or transgression of another variety. A series of interlocking conversations with the past—sensitive to change over time and particular context—were one of the keys to Castro’s intellectual methods and his persuasive strategies. When Castro treated such questions as whether war against heretics was just, his explicit, immediate point of reference was the battles with Protestants in which Charles V was then engaged.51 But he also brought in Iberian contexts. He enumerated idolatry as the first just cause for war. To do so, he extracted a template from the Hebrew Bible book of Deuteronomy, filtered through the influential medieval Franciscan theologian Nicholas of Lyra (c. 1270–1349), and applied it to the ongoing wars of the Catholic Kings against “barbarous and idolatrous peoples… who did not know God,” that is the indigenous inhabitants of the Americas, yet with the crucial caveat that this was licit war only if there had been diligent attempts to convert and evangelize that had been refused, and he balked at war against those already baptized.52 And the particular religious history of Iberia clearly conditioned Castro’s thinking about heresy. His generation lived through the transformation of Castile into a state with a single licit confessional identity. His early intellectual formation was still in a world in which apostasy to Judaism was cast as the great threat to the Church. And Jews and Muslims were both important, recurring figures of thought in his treatise. There were also multitudes of citations of the Hebrew Bible (for Castro, read as the Christian Old Testament, an essential part of Scripture), along with pejorative depictions of Mosaic Law and Jewish figures of biblical time. One page, for example, refuted a reported Lutheran insult to inquisitors that likened them to the Pharisees and other “priests of the Jews” who had sent Christ to his death.53 Converts figure prominently in his short chapter on the need to receive people mercifully into the Church. First Castro noted the imperative to receive hospitably converts to Christianity from Judaism or Islam; it was an insistence on the transformative nature of baptism. He reasoned this through the commentaries of the Church fathers, using Ambrose, as well as Jerome, in the Hebrew Bible book of Ezekiel; from Jerome, he summoned the image of the convert as “pilgrim.”54 And further, he emphasized that converts from Judaism and Islam who made heretical errors had to be gently turned back to the faith, with even “greater mercy, and lighter penance” than “old Christians.” That is, with the important caveat that those errors came from ignorance (not malice), for which he faulted a lack of good instruction in the faith rather than the erring converts themselves.55 In the context of the De iusta haereticorum punitione, these groups served as a template for how to deal with Protestant heretics, and the chapter became yet one more moment to stress the fault of insufficient pastoral work for the prevalence of heresy and thus the enormous responsibility on the clergy. Yet he also

Theorizing in Trent  51 offered a strong commentary on the religious landscape of Iberia of his own day and implicitly an indictment of much in the recent past. The De iusta haereticorum punitione was a sophisticated work of 226 folios. Its reflections were intertwined with a lifetime of preaching, teaching, reading, and writing, and with the immediate contexts of traveling Europe in imperial circles in the fraught 1530s and 1540s, convening in Trent to begin the great council, living as a subject in the chief university city of an expanding global Spanish monarchy, and of a life shaped by the Franciscan order. While this chapter has only hinted at a few of the treatise’s elements, my primary object has been to add to the effort to demonstrate how such texts can further complicate and contextualize our understanding of the variety of stances taken by Catholic authorities in the era of Trent’s opening. As a surge of new research has shown, Catholicism in early modern Spain was in no way monolithic, and even the stances of elite ecclesiastics were marked by ongoing dispute, doubt, and evolution.56 And the council itself continues to be ripe for rereading as an example of that variety and flux in what constituted early modern Catholicism, distinct phenomena from the later global attempts to apply its decrees. In addition to the proceedings of the council itself, treatises like Castro’s, Carranza’s, and those of Castro’s students and fellow Franciscans, also at Trent, like Francisco de Orantes and Andrés de Vega, must also be considered through their multiple valences. Such treatises were artifacts of Trent, shaped in profound ways by the council; yet they were also works that were widely diffused, whose origins at Trent have often become hard to see as they acquired many and varied afterlives across Europe, were used for many purposes, read or unread as intellectual and religious currents shifted. Early modern Latin treatises like Castro’s were both a part of the council and distinct from it. They were key tools for advocacy, reflections of particular experiences and contexts, but also works that aimed to offer precedents and templates to shape the future, to fix boundaries in ever-shifting terrain. And the treatises also resist easy categorization. We have—and with significant good reason—tended to group figures like Castro as part of a cohort of architects of intolerance. Yet returning with careful attention to the problems and categories such theologians thought of yields a far more nuanced vision of early modern Catholic thought. In retrospect we see first the intolerance, the judicial and coercive, the expansion of punishment, the zealous attack on heresy, elements that were all certainly there, yet we often miss the pastoral, the doubt, the perception of the weight of the responsibility on the clergy and especially its leadership.

Notes 1 The Unabridged Acts and Monuments Online or TAMO (HRI Online Publications, Sheffield, 2011). Available from http://www.johnfoxe.org [Accessed 01.15.2018]. The quotation appears in Book 11 of the 1570, 1576,

52  Kimberly Lynn and 1583 editions, as does the conversation, which also figures in Book 5 of the 1563 edition. It seems likely to me that the “king’s confessor” there was another Franciscan, Bernardo de Fresneda, also a confessor of Philip’s, and in England 1554–1555, see John Edwards, Mary I: England’s Catholic Queen (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011). The sermon seems to have spurred a few days’ halt in the burnings. And some have cast it as simply Castro acting at Philip’s direction. 2 For a capsule biography, see José Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras, “Bartolomé Carranza de Miranda,” in Real Academia de la Historia, Diccionario Biográfico electrónico. http://dbe.rah.es/biografias/10859/bartolome-carranza-de-miranda; J. Edwards, “Bartolomé de Carranza,” in Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione, ed. A. Prosperi, with V. Lavenia and J. Tedeschi (Pisa, 2010), 1:284–1287. 3 Castro, for example, is never mentioned in the recent John W. O’Malley, Trent: What Happened at the Council (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2013), 74. In a slim survey O’Malley could of course never mention the multitudes of figures who were at Trent, so this is meant as no critique of his engaging work. I would merely observe that it is typical for figures of Castro’s stature not to be mentioned, even in pages dedicated to Cardinal Pacheco and the imperial ambassador Diego de Mendoza—in whose circles Castro was at the Council’s start—as well as mentions of Bartolomé Carranza and Domingo de Soto as prominent Spanish Dominicans. 4 While typically referred to as Alfonso de Castro (from the Latin usage), in Castilian he signed himself Fr. Alonso. Manuel Castro, “Fr. Alfonso de Castro, O. F. M. (1495–1558), Consejero de Carlos V y de Felipe II,” Salamanticensis 6 (1958): 281–322. See also J. Wickersham, “Castro, Alfonso de,” in Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione, ed. A. Prosperi, with V. Lavenia and J. Tedeschi (Pisa, 2010), 1:301–302; José García Oro, OFM, “Alfonso de Castro,” in Real Academia de la Historia, Diccionario Biográfico electrónico, http://dbe.rah.es/biografias/11604/alfonso-de-castro 5 Manuel Lázaro Pulido, “La transmisión del pensamiento de Alfonso de Castro,” Helmántica 63 (2012): 375–397, here p. 380. His students included the theologians Miguel de Medina, Andrés de Vega, Luis de Carvajal, Francisco de Orantes, Antonio Rubio, and Francisco Castillo. 6 Martin Austin Nesvig, Forgotten Franciscans. Works from an Inquisitional Theorist, a Heretic, and an Inquisitional Deputy (University Park: Penn State University Press, 2011); idem, Ideology and Inquisition: The World of the Censors in Early Mexico (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). 7 Stefania Pastore, Il Vangelo e la Spada. L’Inquisizione di Castiglia e i suoi critici (1460–1598) (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2003), 207–214. 8 Manuel Castro, op. cit., here especially pp. 298–312. 9 Geoffrey Parker, Felipe II. La biografía definitiva (Madrid: Planeta, 2010), 141–142. 10 There has been a surge of excellent recent work adding nuance to early modern Spanish intellectual history, for example Pastore, Il Vangelo e la Spada; Lu Ann Homza, Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000); Seth Kimmel, Parables of Coercion: Conversion and Knowledge at the End of Islamic Spain (London and Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 11 Alfonso de Castro, De iusta haereticorum punitione libri tres, opus nunc recens, & nunquam antea impressum (Salamanca: Juan de Junta, 1547). 12 Pastore, Il Vangelo e la Spada, 211–212. She hypothesizes a rapport with the dean of Utrecht, Hermas Lethmaet’s 1544 De instauranda religione.

Theorizing in Trent  53 13 Valdés’ term ended with his dismissal from office and replacement by Diego de Espinosa in 1566, a fall from power bound up with the factional politics of the court, Tridentine controversies over such issues as episcopal residency, and the controversial nature of the Inquisition trial of Archbishop Carranza of Toledo, of which Valdés was a principal initiator. 14 M. Castro, “Fr. Alfonso de Castro,” 301–309. See also García Oro, “Alfonso de Castro,” Diccionario Biográfico electrónico. On the council generally, recently, O’Malley, Trent. 15 M. Castro, “Fr. Alfonso de Castro,” 302–303; Marcel Bataillon, Erasmo y España: estudios sobre la historia espiritual del siglo xvi, trans. Antonio Alatorre (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1950), 504–506; Manuel de Castro, “Fr. Alfonso de Castro, O.F.M. (1495–1558). Notas bibliográficas,” Collectanea franciscana 28 (1958): 59–88. 16 Bartolomé Carranza, Summa Conciliorum & Pontificium à Petro usque ad Paulum tertium succincte complectens omnia (Venice: ad Signum Spei, 1546); see also Thomas Izbicki, “The Fifteenth-Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano, and Bartolomé Carranza,” in Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 141–166. Bartolomé Carranza de Miranda, Controuersia de necessaria residentia personali episcoporum & aliorum inferiorum pastorum, Tridenti (Venice: ad Signum Spei, 1547). Cf. Giorgio Caravale, Beyond the Inquisition: Ambrogio Catarino Politi and the Origins of the Counter-Reformation, trans. Don Weinstein (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2017), 160–170. 17 For example, noting that he had revised his understanding of the definition of apostate in reference to heretic (broadening who he would term an apostate), Castro, De iusta haereticorum punitione, fol. 25v. 18 Ibid., fol. 28v. See an exposition of the theology of this in Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Immaculate Conception and Ecclesiastical Politics from the Council of Basel to the Council of Trent: The Dominicans and Their Foes,” Archive for Reformation History 96 (2005): 145–170. 19 Castro, De iusta haereticorum punitione, fols. 182v–226r. 20 Ibid., fols. 182v–83r. 21 Ibid., fols. 225v–26r. Isaias 49:23. 22 Ibid., fol. 188r. 23 Ibid., fol. 182r. 24 “Quanta sit haereesos [sic] malitia ex eo facile quisque intelligere potest, si consideret quanta sit fidei bonitas, & virtus.” Bk. 1, chap. 2: “De malitia haeresis quanta sit,” ibid., fols. 6r–7v. 25 “Quod haereticus si resipuerit, est ab ecclesia misericorditer recipiendus.” Bk. 1, chap. 21, ibid., fols. 69r–70r. 26 Bk.1, chap. 6: “An Papa possit alicui committere potestatem censendi de fide ita ut ea quae a legato Papae fuerint circa fidem definite, sint ab omnibus pro vera fide tenenda,” fols. 17v–23r; Bk. 2, chap. 14: “An liceat haereticos bello oppugnare, postquam de illorum pertinacia atque rebellione plene constiterit.” Fols. 125r–32r; bk. 2, chap. 23: “An Eipscopus [sic] effectus hereticus eo ipso priuatus omni potestate iurisdictionis, etiam si sit Papa.” Fols. 159v–65v; bk. 2, chap. 26: “An filius accusans aliquem parentum suorum de haeresi, sit ob hoc liberandus ab his poenis quae propter parentis haeresim sunt illi a iure inflictae.” Fols. 174r–81v; bk. 3, chap. 4 “De haeresum causa, quae est negligentia Episcoporum & aliorum ecclesiae Pastorum,” fols. 197r–203v. 27 Bk. 1, chap. 5: “Quis possit de haeresi iudicare, & sententiam cui omnes obedire tenantur, ferre,” ibid., fol. 14r. 28 Ibid., fols 14r–v.

54  Kimberly Lynn 29 “Hac igitur insana Lutheri sententia reiecta, ego verum, & indubitatum in causa fidei iudicem cenceo [sic] esse concilium generale recte, vt decet, congregatum. Ad huius autem sententiae confirmationem multae, & vrgentissimae suppetunt rationes.” Ibid., fol. 15r. For recent reassessments of the persistence of sixteenth-century Spanish conciliar thought, see Xavier Tubau, “Hispanic Conciliarism and the Imperial Politics of Reform on the Eve of the Council of Trent,” Renaissance Quarterly 70.3 (2017): 897–934; idem, “Introduction,” in Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 9–21; idem, “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent,” in Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 105–139. 30 Ibid., fols. 15v, 16r–17v. 31 Ibid., fols. 17v–18v. 32 Ibid., fol. 20r. 33 Ibid., fols. 160v–161v. 34 Ibid., fol. 162r. For other comments (among many) on Wycliffe and Hus at Constance, see also fols. 10r–v; on Constance, fol. 11v. 35 This is the core of bk.2, chap. 24: “Respondetur rationibus quae obiiciuntur ab his qui contrariam tuentur opinionem.” This culminates in: “Ecce vides Episcopos ad regimen ecclesiae datos, non ab homine sed a spiritu sancto… Ergo Episcopi qui a Deo ad regimen ecclesiae sunt institute, ab illo etiam habent iurisdictionis potestatem.” Ibid., fols. 165r–166r. 36 He specifically refuted Cajetan’s De autoritate Papae & concilii, chap. 19, ibid., fol. 166v. 37 Castro, “Documento 318: Alfonso de Castro al rey sobre reforma, [ca. 9 nov. 1556],” in Trento, un problema: la última convocación del Concilio (1552– 1562), III: Fuentes, ed. Constancio Gutiérrez (Madrid: Comillas, 2000), 329–332; M. Castro, “Alfonso de Castro,” 311, 318, 320–322. For hints about his preaching against the suspension, also Isidoro Rodríguez, “Felipe II envía al concilio a su consejero fray Alfonso de Castro,” Verdad y vida 3 (1945): 226–232. 38 Castro, De iusta haereticorum punitione, fol. 167r. 39 “Dicit enim quae propter actum pure interiorem animae, nunquam homo potest humanae iurisdictioni subesse:quia Deus solus est qui intuetur cor, homines autem ea sola quae foris patent, atque ideo de solis illis iudicare illi possunt, & per consequens illa sola punire.” Ibid., fol. 167v. Cf. Pastore, Il Vangelo e la Spada, 218–224. 40 O’Malley, Trent, 102. 41 O’Malley, Trent, 20–21. 42 Castro, De iusta haereticorum punitione, fol. 171v. 43 Ibid., fol. 169r. 44 “fide nunquam defecisset.” Ibid., fols. ii r–iii r. 45 Ibid., fol. 211r. 46 Ibid., fol. 127v. 47 Ibid., fol. 29r. 48 Ibid., fol. 105v–106r. 49 Bk. 1, chap. 1: “Quid sit haeresis.” 50 See for example ibid., fols. 5v–6r, 23v–25v. On the issue of doubt and the diversity and subtlety of opinions among Catholic authorities, see Stefania Tutino, Shadows of Doubt: Language and Truth in Post-Reformation Catholic Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). While Castro does not appear in her analysis, Carranza, Soto, and Azpilcueta do. 51 Ibid., fol. 129v–130r. 52 Ibid., fols. 126v–127r.

Theorizing in Trent  55 3 Ibid., fol. 123v. 5 54 “[P]eregrinum”; on converts he wrote, “Nullus in illo consyderare debet, sicut neque Deus consyderat, quod ante fuit: sed quod nunc est.” Ibid., fol. 69v. 55 “[C]um maiori misericordia, & leuiori poenitentia, quam alius ex veteribus Christianis recipiendus.” Ibid., fols. 69v–70r. 56 For a recent statement of this see Doris Moreno and Ricardo García Carcel, “Introduction,” in The Complexity of Hispanic Religious Life in the 16th– 18th Centuries, ed. Doris Moreno, trans. Phil Grayston (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2019), 1–12.

Bibliography Bataillon, Marcel. Erasmo y España: estudios sobre la historia espiritual del siglo xvi. Translated by Antonio Alatorre. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1950. Caravale, Giorgio. Beyond the Inquisition: Ambrogio Catarino Politi and the Origins of the Counter-Reformation. Translated by Don Weinstein. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2017. Carranza de Miranda, Bartolomé. Summa Conciliorum & Pontificium à Petro usque ad Paulum tertium succincte complectens omnia. Venice: ad Signum Spei, 1546. Carranza de Miranda, Bartolomé. Controuersia de necessaria residentia personali episcoporum et aliorum inferiorum pastorum, Tridenti. Venice: ad Signum Spei, 1547. Castro, Alfonso de. De iusta haereticorum punitione libri tres, opus nunc recens, & nunquam antea impressum. Salamanca: Juan de Junta, 1547. Castro, Alfonso de. “Documento 318: Alfonso de Castro al rey sobre reforma, [ca. 9 nov. 1556].” In Trento, un problema: la última convocación del Concilio (1552–1562), III: Fuentes. Edited by Constancio Gutiérrez, 329–332. Madrid: Comillas, 2000. Castro, Manuel. “Fr. Alfonso de Castro, O. F. M. (1495–1558), Consejero de Carlos V y de Felipe II.” Salamanticensis 6 (1958a): 281–322. Castro, Manuel. “Fr. Alfonso de Castro, O.F.M. (1495–1558). Notas bibliográficas.” Collectanea franciscana 28 (1958b): 59–88. Edwards, John. “Bartolomé de Carranza.” In Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione. Edited by A. Prosperi, with V. Lavenia and J. Tedeschi, 1:284–287. Pisa: Edizioni della Normale, 2010. Edwards, John. Mary I: England’s Catholic Queen. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011. Foxe, John. The Unabridged Acts and Monuments Online or TAMO. Sheffield: HRI Online Publications, Sheffield, 2011. http://www.johnfoxe.org García Oro José, OFM. “Alfonso de Castro.” In Real Academia de la Historia, Diccionario Biográfico Electrónico, n.d. http://dbe.rah.es/biografias/11604/ alfonso-de-castro Homza, Lu Ann. Religious Authority in the Spanish Renaissance. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. Izbicki, Thomas M. “The Immaculate Conception and Ecclesiastical Politics from the Council of Basel to the Council of Trent: The Dominicans and Their Foes.” Archive for Reformation History 96 (2005): 145–170.

56  Kimberly Lynn Izbicki, Thomas M. “The Fifteenth-Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano, and Bartolomé Carranza.” Renaissance and Reformation/ Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 141–166. Kimmel, Seth. Parables of Coercion: Conversion and Knowledge at the End of Islamic Spain. London and Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015. Lázaro Pulido, Manuel. “La transmisión del pensamiento de Alfonso de Castro.” Helmántica 63 (2012): 375–397. Moreno, Doris and Ricardo García Carcel. “Introduction.” In The Complexity of Hispanic Religious Life in the 16th-18th Centuries. Edited by Doris Moreno. Translated by Phil Grayston, 1–12. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2019. Nesvig, Martin Austin. Ideology and Inquisition: The World of the Censors in Early Mexico. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009. Nesvig, Martin Austin. Forgotten Franciscans. Works from an Inquisitional Theorist, a Heretic, and an Inquisitional Deputy. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011. O’Malley, John W. Trent: What Happened at the Council. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2013. Parker, Geoffrey. Felipe II. La biografía definitive. Madrid: Planeta, 2010. Pastore, Stefania. Il Vangelo e la Spada. L’Inquisizione di Castiglia e i suoi critici (1460–1598). Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2003. Rodríguez, Isidoro. “Felipe II envia al concilio a su consejero fray Alfonso de Castro.” Verdad y vida 3 (1945): 226–232. Tellechea Idígoras, José Ignacio. “Bartolomé Carranza de Miranda.” In Real Academia de la Historia, Diccionario Biográfico electrónico, n.d. http://dbe. rah.es/biografias/10859/bartolome-carranza-de-miranda Tubau, Xavier. “Hispanic Conciliarism and the Imperial Politics of Reform on the Eve of the Council of Trent.” Renaissance Quarterly 70, no. 3 (2017): 897–934. Tubau, Xavier. “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019a): 105–139. Tubau, Xavier. “Introduction.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019b): 9–21. Tutino, Stefania. Shadows of Doubt: Language and Truth in Post-Reformation Catholic Culture. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Wickersham, J. “Castro, Alfonso de.” Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione. Edited by A. Prosperi, with V. Lavenia and J. Tedeschi, 1:301–302. Edizioni della Normale, 2010.

3 Conflicting loyalties Church freedom, pastoral care, and civil duties in Diego de Álava y Esquivel Xavier Tubau

The social and intellectual history of Spanish prelates who served in the early Habsburg courts is largely unwritten. The collective treatment of these prelates makes it difficult to see the differences between them. The historiographic narrative on the secularization of politics during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is such that little attention is paid to the role of ecclesiastics in shaping the politics of the time. In the specific case of the kingdoms of Spain, the fact that Pope Adrian VI (r. 1522–1523) granted Charles V the right of presentation to major benefices (1523) has reinforced the idea that the prelates were subservient to the political and religious agenda of the monarch who had presented them for their posts. On the few occasions when the careers of prelates have been examined, their political and religious actions have been interpreted as a series of decisions motivated by strictly personal interests or set within the context of the agendas of powerful groups at court. There is a need, therefore, for studies on the role of the intellectual perspective of these prelates - many of whom were educated in the law faculties of Salamanca, Alcalá, and Valladolid - as they exercised their pastoral and civic responsibilities. Likewise, few studies have examined the tensions that may have arisen due to the loyalty to both pope and monarch that was expected of these prelates.1 Diego de Álava y Esquivel (ca. 1500–1562) is a good example of an ecclesiastical lawyer who enjoyed a brilliant career in the royal administration of Castile and offers interesting data that increase our knowledge of this group of people. His father, Pedro Martínez de Álava y Mendoza, had been a deputy, as well as Captain General of Álava. He had formed part of the retinue of Ferdinand and Isabella as a retainer of Francis II, Duke of Brittany, and his loyalty to Charles V during the Revolt of the Comuneros was rewarded, in 1524, with the appointment of his son, Diego, as vicar of the archbishop of Santiago in Salamanca: I have been informed that he is a suitably qualified, able and competent person, and for this reason, I wish to do something for him and DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-4

58  Xavier Tubau also because he is the son of my retainer, Pedro Martínez de Álava y Mendoza, who is in my service and resides in this city of Vitoria.2 Álava y Esquivel was a member of the College of Oviedo of the University of Salamanca from 1524 and a professor of canon law at the same university from 1529. His name soon appeared on the lists of lawyers recommended for filling vacancies.3 It seems that Cardinal Juan Pardo de Tavera (1472–1545), archbishop of Santiago, was the prime mover behind Álava y Esquivel’s meteoric rise at court, first as oidor, judge in Chancery in Granada (1534), then as member of the Council of the Military Orders (1535), and finally as member of the Royal Council (1536–1543).4 In 1539, he was appointed—without taking office—president of the Collateral Council of Naples, and in 1543, he was presented for the vacant bishopric of Astorga.5 The ceremony to take possession of the bishopric took place in April 1544.6 Charles V’s invitation for him to attend the Council of Trent kept him away from the diocese between June 1545 and early 1548. During his stay in Trent, his name was at the top of the lists drawn up at court of possible prelates for the posts of president of the Chanceries of Valladolid and of Granada.7 Finally, Charles V presented him for the bishopric of Ávila, and he took possession of his post there in May 1548. A few months later, in October, he accepted the presidency of the Chancery of Granada. He rejected Charles V’s invitation to attend the second period of the Council of Trent in 1551 and continued as president in Granada until he was appointed president of the Chancery of Valladolid in February 1557.8 In October 1558, he was promoted to the bishopric of Cordoba and decided to resign the presidency of the Chancery. With respect to the last convocation of the Council of Trent, it is recorded that Philip, “because of the good opinion we have of your person, prudence and erudition,” summoned him in March 1561 to a meeting of several prelates in Toledo to discuss the papal brief for the convocation of a council sent by Pius IV (r. 1559–1560).9 Álava y Esquivel excused himself from attending, alleging illness.10 It seems that he devoted his last four years mainly to pastoral tasks in his diocese.11 The professional career of Álava y Esquivel is typical of many secular clerics of the time who had been trained in the law, with frequent movement between councils (Royal and the Military Orders) and chanceries (Granada and Valladolid),12 and appointments to successive bishoprics, each yielding a higher income than the previous one (Astorga, Ávila and finally Cordoba).13 The succession of posts confirms that he succeeded in forging a good reputation for himself at court from the time he arrived, in 1536, as a member of the Royal Council until 1558, when he resigned as president of the Chancery of Valladolid. His acceptance of the appointment as president of the Chancery of Granada and then of Valladolid involved the simultaneous combination of pastoral and judicial duties for eight years.14 The post of president in Granada would have been attractive

Conflicting loyalties  59 to any ambitious lawyer who wished to occupy the top positions at court; his predecessor in the post, Fernando Niño y Zapata, for example, was appointed president of the Council of Castile in 1546.15 Álava y Esquivel, however, requested permission to leave the Chancery from time to time so that he could devote himself to pastoral duties in his diocese. Indeed, when he accepted the post of president in October 1548, he immediately applied for permission to remain in Ávila for a while longer—a year in the end—claiming that his presence was more necessary in the diocese than in Chancery, despite the problems there had been in Granada since 1546 due to the lack of a reliable president.16 In this context, his renunciation of the presidency of the Chancery of Valladolid a year and a half after his appointment is significant. Álava y Esquivel’s vocation was clearly the episcopal life. Being offered the presidency did not necessarily oblige him to accept it.17 His acceptance of both presidencies may have been due to purely economic reasons (his appointment to the bishopric of Cordoba yielding an annual income three times that of Ávila’s may explain why he gave up the regular income of the presidency of Valladolid), but it could also be explained by his loyalty and desire to serve Charles V, who had been generous toward Diego and other members of his family in gratitude for their loyalty during the Revolt of the Comuneros.18 Despite his relative importance in the context of the Castilian court, there are very few published studies on Álava y Esquivel.19 His work as bishop of Ávila is well documented and has been partially studied: celebration of a synod, publication of synodal constitutions, preparation of ordinances, minutes of a parish visitation, support of the foundation of the first Jesuit school in Ávila, and approval of books of spiritual content, such as the first Spanish translation of the Confessions of St. Augustine.20 His work as bishop of Astorga and Cordoba, however, remains to be studied.21 His participation at the Council of Trent has only been commented on by Hubert Jedin in the volume devoted to the first period of the council in his Geschichte des Konzils von Trient (History of the Council of Trent) and occasionally in some of his studies on ecclesiology and Church reform thought at Trent.22 His only known work, the treatise De conciliis universalibus ac de his quae ad religionis et reipublicae christianae reformationem instatuenda videntur opus (Granada: Herederos de Antonio de Nebrija, 1552; republished in Madrid, in the print shop of Francisco Nieto, 1671), has not yet been studied.23 We have scarcely any information at all about his activity as a member of the Royal and Military Orders Councils or as president of the Chanceries of Granada and Valladolid.24 In this chapter, I study the ecclesiology of Álava y Esquivel and his thought on Church reform. In the first two sections, I examine his ideas through the lens of his interventions in the first period of the Council of Trent (1545–1547) and as set out in his treatise on general councils. In the final section, I explore his thoughts on Church reform in the context

60  Xavier Tubau of the political and religious agendas of the papacy and the Spanish Monarchy. The principal sources on which this chapter is based are Álava y Esquivel’s interventions in the congregations and sessions of the Council of Trent and in the treatise De conciliis. Several letters addressed to Philip II from Trent have been preserved, which summarize the content of the debates on justification and residence.25 With respect to the output linked to his pastoral activity, the most important texts are the 1549 Ordinances for the diocese of Ávila, in which Álava y Esquivel reiterates some of the distinctive ideas of his thought, such as the duty of residence and ecclesiastical immunity and freedom.26 His interventions at Trent—transcribed or summarized—can be read in the Commentaries of Ercole Severole (1510–1571) and the diaries of Angelo Massarelli (1510–1566) and Lorenzo Pratano (1519–1577).27 Although I have collated all three sources, the commentaries of Severole— who was the promotor of the council, that is, responsible for drawing up a public record of what was happening in the council—are the most reliable, as his editor, Sebastian Merkle, pointed out. Severole summarizes and quotes the interventions of those in attendance, whereas Massarelli’s notes reflect a point of view that favors the presidents of the council and papal authority (on one occasion, he calls Álava y Esquivel a “big brute”), while Pratano, on the other hand, shows his preference for the imperial side.28 Beyond the bias reflected in some of the authors’ comments, it is difficult to overstate the extraordinary nature of these documents. The commentaries and diaries allow us to hear Álava y Esquivel and see his gestures or silences at the words of other members of the council. The De conciliis treatise is a detailed exposition of his ecclesiological ideas (fol. 1r–61r, 12 chapters) and his proposals for the reform of the contemporary Church (fol. 61v–94r, 36 chapters). The section devoted to the proposals, which are said to be informed by his experiences as a member of the Royal Council and as bishop of Astorga, was written after he arrived at Trent in June 1545.29 His list of proposals was just one more of the many programmatic texts that were produced during the first period of the council to identify and guide the discussion of participants on the most pressing issues.30 It is likely that his original intention was to publish these reform proposals—possibly also with the part devoted to the theory on councils, which may have been written prior to the convocation of the council—not many months after the council began. With the interruption of the council in 1548, he must have set the text aside in a drawer. The resumption of the council, scheduled for May 1, 1551, prompted him to prepare the text for printing, confident that his observations could be useful to the prelates gathered at Trent. He could not have imagined that the council would be suspended again 11 months later, in April 1552, before the prelates in Trent could even receive a copy of the text.31 The Council of Trent proceeded through what were known as general congregations and sessions. The congregations were working sessions

Conflicting loyalties  61 that discussed and prepared the proposed decrees that would be voted on later in the sessions.32 The interventions of Álava y Esquivel at the congregations and sessions of the council focused basically on two issues: the freedom of the council and reform of the Church. Álava y Esquivel argued that the council represented the universal Church and that bishops had full freedom to discuss any topics they considered appropriate. In the debate on the residence of bishops in their dioceses, he maintained that it was obligatory unless the absence was duly justified. He also criticized bishops who held more than one bishopric and asked that cardinals should also renounce their bishoprics. Finally, Álava y Esquivel was a member of the commission in charge of examining the exemptions enjoyed by episcopal chapters and argued in favor of their suppression in order to restore the power of jurisdiction of bishops over the clergy in their dioceses. In the two sections that follow, I examine the treatment of these issues.

A free council of the universal church The text of the first of the bulls issued to hold a council (March 20, 1537) specified that, since the legates presided, they had full rights to propose and manage the topics for debate during the council.33 The papal legates at the council were Giovanni Maria del Monte (1487–1555), Marcello Cervini (1501–1555), and Reginald Pole (1500–1558). Both Del Monte, who served as president, and Cervini and Pole made it clear from the beginning of the council that their actions would be governed according to the right of proposal stipulated in the bull.34 Álava y Esquivel was one of those prelates who put up most of the resistance to the council working in this way. His defense of the freedom of prelates at the council to choose subjects, examine them and draw up any decrees and rules that they considered necessary was dramatized in interventions from the floor, ballots on decrees in congregations and sessions, and in private meetings with the legates. I shall now present three episodes to illustrate this. On December 29, 1545, in one of the first council congregations, he voted against the legates being able to draft the decrees to be voted on— which was their intention—without the participation of the bishops at the council. As I have pointed out, Lorenzo Pratano favored the imperial side. According to his testimony, the bishop of Astorga “swept aside all the bile” in Cardinal Del Monte’s irate response with powerful arguments.35 A letter from Cardinal Pedro Pacheco (1488–1560), the highestranking prelate in the Castilian legation, notes that the legates “were very angry with the bishop of Astorga.” It would seem that Pacheco had had to intercede on Álava y Esquivel’s behalf to remind the legates that freedom was fundamental to councils and that the prelates therefore should be able to give their opinions freely.36 A few weeks later, in the congregation on January 22, 1546, and after many lengthy discussions, a decree was passed whereby the council

62  Xavier Tubau undertook to deal with questions of doctrine as well as reform, which meant that, at each session, “a decree about the faith had to be published and another one about customs.”37 This decree was supposed to be passed in the session held on February 4 (third session of the council), although the text that the legates presented for voting, apart from approval of the Nicene Creed, mentioned only the need to eradicate heresy and reform customs, with no further indications. Failure to observe the commitment to pass decrees on matters of reform and doctrine at each session caused unrest among many of the prelates. In the next congregation, held on February 8, the papal legate, Cardinal Del Monte, anticipating criticism, started his speech by stating that he had omitted the decree of January 24 because it had seemed to him to be a matter of little importance for the council.38 When it came to Álava y Esquivel’s turn to speak he asked him by what authority he had the right to dismiss a decree that he did not like but had previously been approved by the council in congregation: I am not asking because I am looking for an argument, but in order to understand it, because there is no way, as far as I can see, that a president could reject something passed by the council. I have been a judge under many presidents of councils and tribunals of Charles V, and I have never seen presidents arrogate to themselves this right.39 Del Monte replied that everyone at the council had the right to change anything about a decree as they saw fit before it was passed and added that legates were able to do anything as long as it was not against the law, as could be seen in the bull of convocation. According to the testimony of Severole, Álava y Esquivel neither agreed nor disagreed with Del Monte’s speech, although it looked to Severole as if Álava y Esquivel accepted the answer as sound.40 A final significant episode occurred a few months later, on May 18, in a congregation that was intended to continue examining the subject of preaching. In the previous congregation on May 10, the president, Del Monte, had argued in favor of the exclusive right of legates to propose which topics were to be discussed in council congregation. In the one held on May 18, he emphasized the point, and Pacheco supported his speech. Álava y Esquivel, however, challenged this exclusive right of proposal by recalling the practice of the old councils, in particular the case of Bishop Ossius (also known as Hosius) of Cordoba (ca. 256–359) at the Council of Nicaea (325), who had proposed subjects that led eventually to the drafting of decrees, even though he was not the president of the council. Cardinal Del Monte responded by denying that the bishops had the right to make proposals or collect votes. He also pointed out that the case of Ossius was no surprise because it was said that he had attended the council in his capacity as a papal legate.41 In that case, Álava y Esquivel asked, was it not possible for a bishop freely to raise issues that affected the

Conflicting loyalties  63 Christian religion or his own diocese? By tacitly reformulating the wellknown constitutional principle “Quod omnes tangit ab omnibus approbari debet,” Álava y Esquivel argued that everyone had the right to propose the discussion of subjects that affected everyone (“omnibus de universitate proponere”). Del Monte tried to close down the discussion by saying that there were jurists at the council who could argue with him on that question, but Álava y Esquivel persisted, replying that his only objective was to make his colleagues understand that they had the right to propose anything they liked, as long as it was reasonable. What would happen if a bishop wanted to raise something against the legates or cardinals? It would not be right if the legates first had to approve the possibility of discussing the topic. Del Monte replied reproachfully that it would never be lawful to propose anything against the legates or cardinals, and he was surprised that he should even dare to entertain the idea. Cardinal Pacheco intervened to ask Álava y Esquivel to desist from arguing because those present were not supporting him. Álava y Esquivel thanked him for helping him to defend his position. Pacheco immediately replied that he was not supporting him, to which Álava y Esquivel then responded: “I thank God that I am capable of defending my causes by myself and for not needing a lawyer.”42 While he was taking part in the council, Álava y Esquivel protested because the legates tried to draft decrees without the participation of the prelates there, modified decrees previously approved in congregation, and presumptuously claimed for themselves the right to propose the topics for discussion and to discard any that they did not consider appropriate. Closely related to these protests was his request that decrees should include the following wording: universalem ecclesiam repraesentans. It is recorded that, in several of the congregations held between January 1546 and March 1547—which was when the legates, without the consent of Charles V, transferred the council to the city of Bologna because plague had supposedly broken out in Trent—Álava y Esquivel, sometimes alone, and sometimes with other prelates, such as Bernal Díaz de Luco (1495– 1556) and Francisco de Navarra (ca. 1498–1563), asked for those words to be included.43 On June 10, 1546, for example, while the debates about the compulsory residence of bishops in their dioceses were getting underway, Álava y Esquivel asked that the decree should explicitly state, “As the residence of bishops concerns the universal government of the church, the Holy Synod decrees etc.”44 He said that some doctors of the Church considered that papal dispensation would be unlawful if it were applied to a decree that included this expression. Likewise, when asked for his opinion about the draft decree on justification on October 5, 1546, Álava y Esquivel gave the decree his approval, but also expressed the wish that the phrase “universalem ecclesiam repraesentans” be added to the heading since the decree would be null and void without the explicit validation of the authority of the council.45

64  Xavier Tubau The wording universalem ecclesiam repraesentans had been used in some of the decrees of the Council of Constance (1414–1418) and was associated by extension with the ecclesiology defined in the Haec sancta decree of the same council, approved at the fifth session (April 6, 1415). According to that decree, the council represented the church militant, received its authority directly from Christ, and had jurisdiction over all the faithful, including the pope, in matters concerning the faith and reform of the Church.46 With three rival popes, the main objective of the decree had been to grant the council the necessary authority to end the Western Schism, although it could also be interpreted as a dogmatic claim that the council took precedence over the pope. At the Council of Basel, prelates who refused to obey Eugene IV (r. 1431–1447) included the phrase universalem ecclesiam repraesentans in their decrees and explored the constitutional implications of the decree for governance of the Church.47 The arguments put forward by the legates to justify not including this wording in decrees approved at Trent were historical, juridical, and ecclesiological. They alleged that the expression had never been used at councils before Constance and that the circumstances in which Constance was held, with three popes contending for the throne of Rome, were no longer applicable. Furthermore, the few decrees in which the expression had been used—15 out of the more than 60 in total that had been approved, as Reginald Pole pointed out—corresponded to those in which the council was acting in its jurisdictional capacity, for example, the condemnation of Jan Hus for heresy, or decrees against each of the competing popes, since at such moments, with no pope in Rome, the council was the true representative of the universal Church.48 It was also argued that the Council of Basel could not be taken as a guide because Rome had judged it to be a schismatic and heretic conciliabule,49 and the Fifth Lateran Council had never used the expression either.50 On occasion, they also referred directly to arguments widely disseminated in the ecclesiology of Juan de Torquemada and Tommaso de Vio (also known as Cajetan) against the interpretation of Haec sancta of those who argued in favor of the superiority of the council over the pope.51 It is recorded that Reginald Pole and Del Monte met with Álava y Esquivel and Francisco de Navarra shortly after the start of the council to try and persuade them that it was not appropriate to use this expression in the decrees.52 The wording was never used at Trent, although the proceedings and diaries confirm that whenever Álava y Esquivel had the opportunity, he always stressed the need to include it. Álava y Esquivel’s petitions in the congregations and sessions of the Council of Trent reflect a particular line of ecclesiological thought on Church governance and the corresponding authority of the pope, council, and bishops, which can be reconstructed from a reading of his treatise, De conciliis. His ecclesiology was based on the late medieval contribution to Church governance. In that tradition, the Gospel text in which Peter

Conflicting loyalties  65 receives the keys from Christ (Matthew 16:18–19) was one of the main sources for the medieval theory of ecclesiastical power. Álava y Esquivel read the passage in light of a well-known quotation by St. Augustine included in Gratian’s Decretum (C. 24 q. 1 c.6): Peter received the keys in the name of the universal Church. Ecclesiastical authority, therefore, resided in the pope, all the prelates, in short, in the universal Church and the congregation of the faithful.53 For Álava y Esquivel, the general council was the assembly that represented the universal Church.54 The source of the authority (potestas) of the council, in other words, its jurisdiction and coercive power, was Christ, although that authority was transmitted to the council in a mediate or immediate manner. If the pope called a general council, then Christ’s authority was mediated to the council through the pope. If the pope—because of vacancy, heresy, or his own negligence—was not the one who called the council, then the council— whether convened by cardinals, prelates, or the emperor—received its authority immediately and directly from Christ.55 In short, the authority of a universal council was greater than that of the Roman pontiffs, not because the council had precedence over the pope but because councils made it possible to reach a greater consensus and to promulgate legislation that was more beneficial to the faithful as a whole since they represented the universal Church.56 With specific respect to the legislative action of a council, if it was legitimately summoned by the pope, it had ordinary, not delegated, jurisdiction.57 It was not necessary to include the name of the pope in a decree because the pope was present in the universal council, and the council itself represented the universal Church as a whole.58 Papal confirmation of the legislative action of the council was not necessary for the selfsame reason, although it might be advisable.59 In legislative terms, decisions were infallible in matters of faith and morals, in other words, as far as divine and natural law were concerned.60 Any papal dispensation or derogation of this conciliar legislation would be null and void.61 Popes and councils only had power of dispensation or derogation of laws that formed part of positive law. Human laws were not eternal, and it followed therefore that they should be modified according to the times and customs, as was observed with rules approved in the council held by the Apostles.62 Thinking specifically of the positive law that would emanate from the Council of Trent, Álava y Esquivel pointed out that dispensation or derogation of conciliar legislation should be used by the pope in exceptional cases and for the common benefit of the Church. While a dispensation might be justified in specific cases, it was occasionally better to adhere to certain general laws for the good of the Christian republic.63 The ecclesiological thought presented in the treatise De conciliis provides a theoretical framework that enables us to understand the effort that Álava y Esquivel made to reduce the authority of the papal legates and his repeated insistence that the expression universalem ecclesiam

66  Xavier Tubau repraesentans be included in the wording of the decrees. His understanding of ecclesiastical authority was based, as I have pointed out, on the late medieval corporate conception of the political community, in which original plenary power was inherent in the Church as a whole, and the pope had only limited use of that power. His idea of the general council as representing a universal Church that necessarily included the pontiff is reminiscent of Jean Gerson’s approach to the question in his treatise De ecclesastica potestate.64 This approach to the representation of the Church made it possible to avoid casting the debate on the relationship between the council and the pope in terms of the superiority or inferiority of the one rather than the other, which was a dangerous topic, as the author pointed out, given the situation that Christendom was in, since both parties needed each other in order to exercise the authority that Christ had granted the universal Church.65 Although important ideas from the treatise De conciliis can be found here and there in papalist authors, such as Torquemada or Cajetan, the constitutional premise on which his ecclesiological thought on Church, council, and papacy was based went back to the principles of the Haec sancta decree at the Council of Constance, which guided the reformist thought of the age. In this respect, the conciliar legislation of Constance and Basel is that which is cited most often in the treatise, and Álava y Esquivel’s knowledge of the canonistic sources of that period is exhaustive.

Church reform in Trent Álava y Esquivel presented a comprehensive program for the reform of the Church in the De conciliis treatise, with proposals for changes that would transform the way the Roman Curia and the dioceses functioned. The reforms that were discussed reflected the concern of the bishops to restore their jurisdiction over the chapters and beneficiaries in their dioceses. Many of the petitions were shared with other Castilian prelates at Trent, such as Pedro Pacheco, Bernal Díaz de Luco, and Francisco de Navarra. The reform plan as a whole was in Álava y Esquivel’s mind from the time he arrived at the council, as can be seen from a conversation he had over a meal with Giacomo de Giacomelli at the end of April 1546. Giacomelli was the bishop of Belcastro (1542–1552) and a confidant of Pope Paul III (r. 1534–1549). During the meal, Giacomelli asked him where he thought reform of the Church should start, to which Álava y Esquivel replied that it should start with the cardinals, continue with the officials in the Court of Rome, and conclude with the bishops. Cardinals should not also be holders of bishoprics, should moderate their arrogance, and live with the humility and frugality befitting their office. The number of officials of the Roman Curia should be reduced and their conduct reformed. Finally, for the bishoprics, persons qualified for that dignity should be selected and residence be required of them. If the

Conflicting loyalties  67 College of Cardinals, the Apostolic Chamber, and diocesan life and governance were successfully reformed, he concluded, a real, thoroughgoing reform of the Church would have taken place. On the pope in particular, he replied that he did not consider that the council had to reform him since the pope would undertake any reform that he deemed necessary of his own accord.66 As a canonist bishop, from the very first congregations, his interventions during the council displayed a greater interest in aspects of Church reform than doctrinal questions. Álava y Esquivel had little to contribute when the sacred books and apostolic tradition, original sin, justification, or the sacrament of baptism were being examined. Indeed, in the general congregation of February 26, 1546, after a number of congregations devoted to examining the sacred books and apostolic traditions, he commented that this issue should be resolved quickly by a committee of theologians so that the council could deal with those aspects that involved reform and not waste any more time.67 In response, Reginald Pole said that abuse of the Scriptures was the most important topic that could be dealt with at the council since this abuse was giving rise to a way of preaching the word of God and interpreting the Scriptures that was affecting the functioning of the whole ecclesiastical discipline.68 During the first period of the council, of the list of topics that Álava y Esquivel presented as priorities for dealing with the reform of the Church, significant results were achieved only in matters concerning the residence of bishops and the governance of dioceses. The debate on this aspect of reform started on June 10, 1546, but was postponed until December 29, since the drafting of the decree on justification took up all the time and energy of the council fathers. At the respective sessions on January 13 (sixth session of the council) and March 3 (seventh session of the council), a decree with five chapters was passed on residence and another with 15 chapters on the reform of governance of dioceses and the plurality of benefices. Álava y Esquivel presented his proposals in congregation prior to the approval of each of the decrees, more specifically, to the aforementioned congregation on June 10, 1546, and another on January 4, 1547, for the first of the decrees and to the congregation of February 5 for the second decree. I shall summarize the contents of both decrees and compare them with the proposals that Álava y Esquivel had set out in the congregations preceding the two sessions mentioned. At the session on January 13, 1547, the first decree was approved, which made the residence of prelates obligatory and updated the old canons against those who did not reside in their dioceses, without specifying which ones they were. Penalties were also established for those who were absent from their dioceses for longer than they had been given permission to be: a quarter of the annates if they were absent for more than six consecutive months; half of the annates if they were absent for more than one year; if they were stubbornly disobedient, they would be deprived of

68  Xavier Tubau their benefice, which would then be given to another, more suitable, cleric. These proportions of the retained fruits were to be handed over for the fabric of the Church and the local poor. Bishops were also required to make periodic visitations of the secular or regular clerics (when they lived outside the monastery), regardless of any privilege the latter might have enjoyed to avoid them. Similarly, the right of chapters to rely on past exemptions granted by Rome in order to avoid visitations, corrections, and punishments by the bishops was denied.69 The classification of absences that Álava y Esquivel had proposed was rather more specific, distinguishing between those who were absent from their cathedral but not from the diocese, those who were there but were idle, and those who lived outside the diocese. The text of the final decree confined itself to talking about absence from their diocese, “extra suam diocesim” with no further distinction being made. Of the respective penalties that he proposed for each type of absence—deprivation of the Eucharist, confinement in a monastery, deprivation of annates—only deprivation of annates was included in the final decree. Meanwhile, the offense as such was established by Álava y Esquivel as starting after three months of unjustified absence, whereas the final decree was more flexible and stipulated six months. With respect to the application of penalties, Álava y Esquivel had requested that the withheld annates should be applied by the administrator of the fabric of the Church and not by the chapter or the provincial council, while the decree stipulated that the penalty be applied by an “ecclesiastical superior,” without specifying further. These requests, however, were all minor aspects of the main issue. Of greater importance were two petitions that Álava y Esquivel proposed relating to the residence of the bishops: on the one hand, that the cardinalate and episcopacy be declared mutually incompatible dignities—I return to this later—and on the other, that plurality of benefices be prohibited. After the decree on residence was read out at the session on January 13, Álava y Esquivel gave his placet but expressed his disagreement that the cardinals and plurality of benefices were not mentioned, as well as his wish to see the latter point tackled in future sessions.70 At the session on March 3, the reform decree on the governance of dioceses and the plurality of benefices was approved. The chapters of the decree regulated various aspects of diocesan life with the objective of restoring the jurisdictional power of bishops in their dioceses by means of formal visitations, punishments, and corrective measures. Most of them decreed the invalidity of various types of immunity (exemptions, dispensations, privileges, customs, sentences, oaths, concordats, and so on) that protected chapters of cathedral churches, other major churches, hospitals, and the secular and regular clergy (if they lived outside their monasteries) from the actions of bishops in their dioceses. With respect to the plurality of benefices, it was forbidden to hold more than one major benefice, and renunciation was required within a certain period of time,

Conflicting loyalties  69 which varied depending on whether or not it was a consistorial benefice (that is, provided by the Roman Curia). In the case of minor benefices involving care of souls, any cleric who held two or more benefices would be required to present the corresponding dispensations to the Ordinary for examination. Those who did not present them would be immediately stripped of their benefices, which would be temporarily managed by a vicar. The so-called perpetual union of benefices was also regulated. Finally, several rules were established to regulate access to ecclesiastical benefices and promotion, and to limit the capacity of chapters to perform ordinations when the episcopal see was vacant.71 The text of these 15 chapters on reform had been worked on and debated in both the general congregations and those specific to canonists held between January 24 and March 2, 1547. Different stages of the drafting of this list of canons (on February 3, 7, and 22) have been preserved, with the corresponding comments of the bishops present at the council. Álava y Esquivel played a prominent role at such meetings since he was one of three canonists given the task of examining one of the most delicate issues to be addressed by the council: suppression of the perpetual exemptions of the chapters of churches, colleges, universities, and other similar corporations.72 In the interventions that have been recorded in the council diaries, Álava y Esquivel’s petitions often coincided with those of other bishops, particularly those who came from Castile, Aragon, and Naples. On other occasions, he was the only one who proposed certain changes. Some of Álava y Esquivel’s contributions specifically concerned the wording of the texts, but in the majority of cases, he proposed additions or deletions from the draft chapters. I shall comment next on four of his petitions that I consider to be most significant. The draft of what would become Chapter 1 of the decree specified the qualities (age, customs, training) that a bishop should possess and made reference to the Cum in cunctis canon of the Third Lateran Council (1179).73 There was then a reminder that the canon had been renewed at the Fifth Lateran Council.74 In the congregation of February 5, Álava y Esquivel, together with seven other bishops, most of them from Castile, asked for the reference to the Fifth Lateran Council to be removed.75 The reason for this petition was not given because it was obvious to all. As is evident from a summary of petitions prepared by the legates themselves that same February 7, the Fifth Lateran Council “is not fully accepted.”76 Significantly, this council is not mentioned even once in De conciliis.77 The petition was accepted and the reference to the Fifth Lateran Council was not included in the final version of the chapter approved on March 3. Chapter 2 of the decree prevented anyone from being the bishop of more than one cathedral church. In the debate on the draft of this decree, Álava y Esquivel asked for the incompatibility of cardinalates and episcopates also to be specified.78 The same petition was made by three other bishops, Tommaso Caselli (†1572), Pedro Agustín (1512–1572), and

70  Xavier Tubau Bernal Díaz de Luco. In the chapter on cardinals in his De conciliis, Álava y Esquivel pointed out the differences between the functions of cardinals (assisting the pope in the governance of the Church) and bishops (feeding the flock entrusted to him) and asked that dispensations enabling cardinals to hold bishoprics or bishops to be appointed cardinals not be granted. The abuse had to be suppressed and rooted out by example, he concluded.79 Álava y Esquivel’s petition, however, was not included in the final text of the decree. The draft decree included a chapter on minor benefices that was discarded in the definitive version of the decree approved on March 3. The draft chapter asked for benefices of cure to be provided with competent clerics, qualified to care for the faithful, and for their residence to be made obligatory.80 Álava y Esquivel’s intervention about this draft of the chapter, asked for benefices to be offered only to patrimonial sons, in other words, to clerics born within the diocese where the benefice was located.81 Although Álava y Esquivel was the only bishop at the council who requested it, the petition was not new. At the Cortes of Castile, the procurators had been asking for benefices to be restricted to patrimonial sons since the time of the Schism as a measure to curb the granting of benefices to foreigners. In the context of these petitions, it was the norm to remind those in attendance that this custom had been followed since time immemorial in the dioceses of Burgos, Palencia, and Calahorra (Álava, Álava y Esquivel’s hometown, was part of the latter diocese) and then to request that this practice be extended to the rest of the dioceses.82 Granting these minor benefices to patrimonial sons of the diocese or parish in which the benefice was situated also made compliance with residence easier. Bearing in mind that a substantial number of these minor benefices were consistorial, restricting benefices to patrimonial sons would also limit the political capital that the pope could make from filling vacant benefices in a kingdom as rich as Castile. This would explain why the petition was not included in the decree approved on March 3, and why it was not even mentioned in a previous summary written by the legates on February 26, which did include the prelates’ petitions.83 The final case that I would like to comment on concerns Chapter 4 of the decree, in which those who stated that they held many benefices of cure or several incompatible ecclesiastical ones, were deprived of their benefices. In that chapter, reference was made to the canon of Innocent III, De multa, approved at the Fourth Lateran Council (1215), which prohibited any cleric from possessing two benefices.84 In the debate on the draft chapter, Álava y Esquivel unsuccessfully petitioned that the statement about holding two benefices that appeared in the original text of De multa (“that nobody may hold two benefices with the cure of souls attached”) should be made explicit,85 given that the proposed wording did not specify a number.86 The plurality of benefices was also condemned in De conciliis, citing the corresponding canonical legislation and

Conflicting loyalties  71 reminding everyone that only in cases where the benefice did not yield enough to sustain the cleric could a dispensation be made in this regard.87 In other chapters of the treatise, the pope would be directly accused of granting unnecessary dispensations and the papal nuncios of granting them in exchange for money.88 In the final vote on March 3, Álava y Esquivel gave his approval to all the chapters, but insisted, once again, on three petitions: that the expression universalem ecclesiam repraesentans be included in the heading of the decree, that the incompatibility of cardinalates and episcopates be mentioned, and, finally, that the maximum number of benefices of cure that could be held should be specified in accordance with the text of De multa. Discussion and legislation on the governance of episcopal life and the policy to be followed with respect to ecclesiastical benefices and papal dispensations continued in the second, and above all, third periods of the Council of Trent. The basic lines of this discussion, however, had already been sketched out in the sixth and seventh sessions of the council.

Politics and religion During the reign of Isabella and Ferdinand, the Monarchy received the Right of Patronage and the right of presentation to the churches in the Kingdom of Granada, the Canary Islands, and Puerto Real and possessions in the Americas. The right of presentation to all the churches in Castile, Aragon, and Navarre, granted by Pope Adrian VI to Charles V (1523), was the culmination of the regalist policy initiated by the Catholic Monarchs. Although Isabella and Ferdinand had already succeeded in having their petitions for vacancies in Castile and Aragon acknowledged in Rome, the concession from Adrian VI turned custom into law.89 Adrian VI’s concession, ratified by Clement VII (1530 and 1531) and Paul III (1536), definitively altered relations between the Church and secular power in Castile and Aragon. Most of the prelates identified with Crown interests, as many of their predecessors had done, but others tried to protect ecclesiastical liberties and to resist the interference of the Monarchy in the governance of dioceses.90 In the first two sections of this study, I examined Álava y Esquivel’s ecclesiology and thoughts on church reform through the lens of his interventions at Trent and as set out in his treatise, De conciliis. In this final section, I now examine his thoughts on church reform in the more specific context of the scenario created by Adrian VI’s concession. The actions of Álava y Esquivel at Trent and in his treatise De conciliis show his desire for the bishops to recover the full exercise of authority over their dioceses. By way of illustration, his reform program sought to put an end to the absenteeism of clerics with benefices of cure; to abolish exemptions enjoyed by corporations and individuals in the dioceses; to restore the authority of the bishops in the examination of candidates for

72  Xavier Tubau posts in ecclesiastical chapters; to eliminate the practice of appealing directly to the Tribunal of the Roman Rota thereby bypassing the diocesan authorities; to prevent the Apostolic Chamber from seizing the possessions of deceased bishops, the so-called spoils, or the revenues of the episcopal see while it was vacant; to abolish the payment of annates (part of the first year’s revenues of a benefice) by those who had received papal provision or confirmation for a minor benefice; and to put an end to papal dispensations and the expectation and reservation of benefices.91 These proposals are not original. They are documented in the memorials, reports, letters, and treatises of the time on necessary reforms in the Castilian Church. They appeared in texts written exclusively from the point of view of episcopal interests, but also in those in favor of the Monarchy implementing greater control over the dioceses. In texts that supported the regalism of the Monarchy, reinforcing the authority of the bishops meant putting constraints on the ecclesiastical chapters in the governance of dioceses. In the context of the new Tridentine legislation favoring the bishops, the chapters generally had the support of the pope in their disputes with the bishops so that reducing the capacity of influence of the chapters would be positive for the Crown in its diplomatic relations with the Roman Curia.92 At the same time, reinforcing the authority of bishops meant that the monarch was more able to meddle in episcopal affairs since the bishops were seen as vassals of the monarch by virtue of Royal Patronage and the Monarchy’s corresponding right of presentation. The two ideas were synthesized in some papal instructions to the nuncios, where they were enjoined to support the ecclesiastical chapters against the bishops “because the latter were suspected of excessive indulgence towards the king.”93 Among the reform proposals presented by Álava y Esquivel, however, there are two that seem difficult to understand from a regalist author. In the first, he proposed that Rome should organize three-yearly visitations to all dioceses to check whether bishops were complying with residence requirements, spending and distributing the ecclesiastical revenues properly, and also to exhort them to hold provincial and episcopal councils.94 Such a diocesan canonical inspection would ensure that the Tridentine episcopal reforms—those approved at the sixth and seventh sessions, for example—would be carried out. After the closure of the Council of Trent in December 1563, Philip II controlled the reception of the Tridentine decrees in the dioceses of his dominions, reserving for himself—not in writing, but in practice—the right to exclude any measure that would prejudice his rights and interests over the churches of his kingdoms, not only on the Iberian Peninsula but also in the Netherlands, Naples, and Milan.95 A proposal such as the one by Álava y Esquivel would have strengthened the link between the bishops and the Holy See and reduced  the role of the Monarchy in the way the reforms were managed.96 When Sixtus V reestablished the ad limina visitations (1585) in

Conflicting loyalties  73 order to monitor the implementation of the Tridentine decrees, Philip II’s reaction was significant. He tried, first of all, to exempt the bishops in his kingdoms from performing these visitations to Rome, and when that failed, to control and—when necessary—censor the reports that the bishops or his procurators were presenting to the pope about the situation in the dioceses.97 The second proposal that is significant in this context is the petition that the churches of the military orders (Santiago, Calatrava, and Alcantara) should not be exempted from episcopal authority. The exemptions granted by the Apostolic See should be revoked so that all churches with clerics who had pastoral care would be under episcopal authority,98 and the bishop should be the one to examine candidates before they took holy orders.99 It should be pointed out that the office of grand master of the Orders of Santiago, Calatrava, and Alcantara had been added to the dignities of the Crown, thanks to the privilege accorded by Adrian VI in 1523.100 Through Royal Patronage of the military orders, the Crown of Castile exercised patronage over all the parishes that depended on the Orders. This important jurisdictional and pastoral network would be exempted from the power of the bishops and placed under the authority of the Crown.101 In 1544, Paul III had granted the Order of Santiago the privilege of exercising privative jurisdiction in litigation that brought the churches under its patronage up against ordinary jurisdiction. At the request of Philip II, Pius IV renewed this privilege in 1560, and Gregory XIII (r. 1572–1585) extended it to the Orders of Calatrava and Alcantara in 1584. Álava y Esquivel’s proposal pointed in precisely the opposite direction to the moves that the Monarchy was making to increase its political and religious control over the military orders.102 As Álava y Esquivel points out, there were major disputes over jurisdictional issues between bishops and masters, priors and commanders of the military orders.103 Charles V, Philip II, and their political agents were able to demand full jurisdiction of the bishops for their dioceses, but they did so thinking fundamentally of those parts of the diocese whose jurisdiction was not subject to Royal Patronage.104 This did not apply in the case of the military orders, so the Monarchy would have had no interest in the Council of Trent legislating in the sense that Álava y Esquivel was proposing. Apart from the two proposals that I have just commented on, I also consider it significant that he remained silent in De conciliis on two important issues: the Royal Patronage and the conflicts between civil and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The monarch’s right of presentation to the largest benefices in the kingdom is not mentioned in De conciliis. Indeed, when Álava y Esquivel introduces arguments to justify the council having the authority to nominate a pope when the see of Rome fell vacant, he suggests as a juridical analogy the election of bishops by ecclesiastical chapters, which had ceased to be the practice in Castilian dioceses for a quarter of a century.105 The treatise makes just one reference to the right

74  Xavier Tubau of presentation by lay patrons, which occurs, significantly, in the context of a demand for the restoration of the jurisdictional power of the bishops. Álava y Esquivel requests that the pope and the council establish a law that the appointment of priests presented to ecclesiastical benefices by lay patrons should always be the responsibility of bishops, not archdeacons, even though there was a custom to the contrary, and that this measure should be carried out with the assistance of the civil power. It seems that some lay patrons presented “families, retainers and other unqualified men” to the archdeacons to avoid being examined by the bishops.106 Conflicts between the civil and ecclesiastical jurisdictions were one of the issues most discussed in the legal and political literature of the time. Álava y Esquivel must have had a thorough knowledge of these conflicts because they were found in many of the cases examined by the royal courts of appeal. In De conciliis, however, the action of the civil courts is mentioned only in the context of guaranteeing compliance with the privileges and customs of the Castilian dioceses.107 Francisco de Vargas (ca. 1500–1566) and Diego de Covarrubias (1512–1577), who were both ecclesiastical lawyers, treat this problem in quite different ways. In a brief for the reform of the Church (1545), Francisco de Vargas, the Council of Castile attorney general, who was also present at the Council of Trent in the first period, endorsed Álava y Esquivel’s reform petitions: the residence requirement, elimination of the plurality of benefices, regulating appeals to Rome, suppression of the exemptions of ecclesiastical chapters, elimination of the annates.108 In the same brief, however, apart from seeking the complete suppression of the temporal jurisdiction of the prelates, he presented the action of the ecclesiastical tribunals in a negative light, censuring the fact that ecclesiastical judges heard civil cases instead of referring them to royal courts or courts of appeal, as prescribed by a law of the Catholic Monarchs that Philip II would ratify in 1558.109 Diego de Covarrubias, for his part, had been a disciple of Álava y Esquivel in Salamanca (ca. 1529–1532) and, after eight years as professor of canon law at that university, served as oidor in the Chancery in Granada (1548–1559), coinciding with the presidency of Álava y Esquivel (1549–1557). During his years in Granada as a judge, he prepared his Practicarum quaestionum liber unus (1556), which examines 38 questions of political and legal theory and procedural law.110 Like Vargas, Covarrubias criticizes the actions of the ecclesiastical courts. The recurso de fuerza—in other words, the right of clerics to have recourse to royal courts of appeal when appeal to the Tribunal of the Roman Rota was not granted, in accordance with the law passed by Charles V in 1525—is presented as a remedy and defense for clerics and laymen against ecclesiastical judges. According to Covarrubias, the latter were abusing their authority and power by violently oppressing the innocent.111 Álava y Esquivel remains silent about the conflicts between civil and ecclesiastical power in De conciliis and makes no mention of the recurso

Conflicting loyalties  75 de fuerza in any of his reform proposals. The tone and intent of his comments on ecclesiastical justice do not correspond to those of Vargas or Covarrubias. Álava y Esquivel implies, without stating it explicitly, that canonical procedure, when correctly developed, offered sufficient guarantees to prevent clerics from having to appeal to royal courts of appeal.112 Restoring the full power of jurisdiction to the bishops, who ought to be involved in selecting the best judges for their courts, was fundamental to ensure that judicial processes worked properly and to save clerics from having to appeal to royal courts of appeal. A good example of these proposals for improving the way ecclesiastical justice worked concerns the case of the three dioceses of the kingdom that were exempt from metropolitan jurisdiction: Burgos, León, and Oviedo.113 Appeals against sentences of diocesan tribunals could only be made to Rome, not to the metropolitan archbishop. He complained that, as a result of this, even in the most trivial of cases, those in these three dioceses who appealed against the sentences of diocesan tribunals had to travel to Rome or send a lawyer, which meant that those who could not meet the costs of such a trip immediately abandoned any idea of appealing. As a solution to this problem, Álava y Esquivel proposed that an appeal judge be instituted specifically for each of these three dioceses so that vicars with ordinary jurisdiction could examine their sentences in a more diligent and prudent manner and guarantee, as was the case in the other dioceses of the kingdom, that they had the right to two rulings prior to the possibility of appealing to the Rota.114 To support his proposal, Álava y Esquivel pointed out the need to comply with the decree of the Council of Basel included in the Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges (1438), which prevented appeals to Rome without an intermediate ecclesiastical court of appeal.115 It was not only a useful decree, he wrote, but a necessary one.

Conclusions In the course of the sixteenth century, the bishops gradually lost their autonomy within their dioceses to the encroaching power of the pope and, especially, the Monarchy. Álava y Esquivel is a good example of the difficult balance that some ecclesiastical lawyers tried to maintain between resisting the political expansion of both institutions into the dioceses and the need to be loyal to both. The implementation of some of their reform ideas would have had negative consequences for both the interests of the papacy and those of the Monarchy. Abolishing the exemptions of corporations and individuals in the dioceses, preventing Rome from keeping the spoils and episcopal rents of vacant sees or collecting the annates, and prohibiting appeals to the Rota without first going through courts of appeal in exempt dioceses were all measures that reduced the papacy’s power to act in the dioceses and the ability of the

76  Xavier Tubau Apostolic Chamber to raise money. Subjecting the churches of the military orders to episcopal jurisdiction, reforming and strengthening ecclesiastical justice by minimizing the role of the recurso de fuerza, and the possibility of diocesan visitations being organized from Rome were all proposals that could reduce the influence of the power of the Monarchy over the dioceses. As an ecclesiastical lawyer in the service of the Monarchy, his discourse is similar in many respects to that of other court lawyers who attacked the interference of the papacy in the dioceses of the kingdom. Unlike those lawyers, however, Álava y Esquivel does not endorse the implementation of regalism. The conciliar ecclesiology and reformist thought of Álava y Esquivel show a commitment to ecclesiastical freedom and the full recovery of the jurisdictional power of the bishops in their dioceses. The silence in his texts about the institution of Royal Patronage, the presentation of bishops by the monarch, and the tensions between civil and ecclesiastical power over jurisdiction dramatize—as far as was possible—the rejection of regalism by a lawyer loyal to Charles V.116

Notes 1 For the social and economic history of the clergy in Castile and Aragon, see Tarsicio de Azcona, La elección y reforma del episcopado español en tiempos de los Reyes Católicos (Madrid: CSIC, 1960); Maximiliano Barrio, Los obispos de Castilla y León durante el Antiguo Régimen (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2000) and El clero en la España moderna (Madrid: CSIC, 2010); Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular. La aplicación del concilio de Trento (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000) and Helen Rawlings, “The Secularisation of the Castilian Episcopal Office under the Habsburgs, ca. 1516–1700,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 38, n. 1 (1987): 53–79. For the political performance of ecclesiastical lawyers at the Courts of Charles V and Philip II, see the contributions included in the first two volumes of the series La corte de Carlos V, ed. José Martínez Millán (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000) and the book by Ignacio Ezquerra Revilla, El Consejo Real de Castilla bajo Felipe II. Grupos de poder y luchas faccionales (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000). For his university education and subsequent professional reputation, see Richard Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “Universidad y episcopado en el siglo XVI. Las universidades donde estudiaron los obispos de las coronas de Castilla y de Aragón (1556– 1598),” Revista de Historia Moderna 20 (2002): 5–51; and Ana María Carabias Torres, “Salamanca, Académica Palanca hacia el poder,” in Letrados, juristas y burócratas en la España Moderna, ed. Francisco José Aranda Pérez (Cuenca: Ediciones de la Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, 2005), 23–59. For some case studies of ecclesiastical lawyers, see Ignacio Ezquerra Revilla, “El ascenso de los letrados eclesiásticos: el presidente del Consejo de Castilla Antonio Mauriño de Pazos,” in La corte de Felipe II, ed. José Martínez Millán (Madrid: Alianza, 1994), 271–303; Francisco Pérez

Conflicting loyalties  77 Garzón, Diego Pérez de Villamuriel, obispo de Mondoñedo y presidente de la Real Chancillería de Granada (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 1995); and Salustiano de Dios, Estudios sobre jurisprudencia y juristas en la corte de Castilla, siglos XV a XVII (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2016). The activity and ideology of the seventeenth-century jurists are better known; see Jean-Marc Pelorson, Les “Letrados” juristes castillans sous Philippe III. Recherches sur leur place dans la société, la culture et l’État (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, 1980). 2 Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, Cartulario de la Universidad de Salamanca (1218–1600), 5 vols. (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1970–1972), 3:401. 3 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado, Leg. 13, fol. 21 (“Memorial de letrados para oficios” [List of lawyers for offices]); Leg. 24, fol. 389 (“Letrados que parescen personas convenientes para audiencias” [Lawyers who appear to be suitable for Tribunals]). Both are undated but refer to the period when Álava y Esquivel was professor at Salamanca. 4 Pedro Gan Giménez, La Real Chancillería de Granada (Granada: Diputación, 1988), 146 and 179; and by the same author, El Consejo Real de Carlos V (Granada: Diputación, 1988), 221. 5 The Collateral Council of Naples had the functions of a supreme court and an advisory council. I have located the first mention of this appointment in the Diccionario histórico-geográfico de España by the Real Academia Española, 2 vols. (Madrid: Viuda de D. Joaquín Ibarra, 1802), 2:478; see also Vicente G. de Echávarri, Alaveses ilustres, 2 vols. (Vitoria: Imprenta Provincial, 1990), 2: 199. Ignacio Ezquerra Alvar and José Martínez Millán, “Álava y Esquivel, Diego de,” in La corte de Carlos V, 5 vols. (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000), 3:24 suggest that this appointment was an attempt by Tavera to distance him from the Court as a result of a cooling in their relations and that his final presentation for the bishopric of Astorga should be interpreted in this context. His appointment could also be interpreted within the framework of the reforms undertaken by the Viceroy of Naples, Pedro de Toledo to centralize the administration of justice and ensure its efficiency. For the characteristics of this reform, see Carlos José Hernando Sánchez, Castilla y Nápoles en el siglo XVI: El Virrey Pedro de Toledo (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 1994), 228–241. 6 The accumulation of vacancies in the Royal Council explains why Fernando de Valdés, president of the Council since 1539, retained Álava y Esquivel for a few more months at court: AGS, E, leg. 60, fol. 187, cited in José Luis González Novalín, El Inquisidor General Fernando de Valdés, 2 vols. (Oviedo: Universidad de Oviedo, 1968), 2:95. 7 AGS, E, Leg. 13, fol. 135, 136, 148 (Chancillería de Granada); fol. 162, 170 (Chancillería de Valladolid). 8 María Soterraña Martín Postigo, Los presidentes de la Real Chancillería de Valladolid (Valladolid: Diputación Provincial, 1982), 47. 9 Constancio Gutiérrez, Trento, un problema: la última convocación del Concilio (1552–1562), 5 vols. (Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 1995–2000), 4:454. 10 Gutiérrez, Trento, un problema, 1:378. 11 Juan Gómez Bravo, Catálogo de los obispos de Córdoba, 2 vols. (Cordoba: Juan Rodríguez, 1778), 2: 464–467; Echávarri, Alaveses ilustres, 2:200. 12 See Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “Des créatures de Votre Majesté: choix et contrôle des évêques par Philippe II dans les couronnes de Castille et d’Aragon (1556–1598),” in Les clercs et les princes. Doctrines et pratiques de l’autorité

78  Xavier Tubau ecclésiastique à l’époque moderne, ed. Patrick Arabeyre and Brigitte Basdevant-Gaudemet (Paris: École des Chartes, 2013), 105–118. 13 In 1557, Astorga had an annual income of 9,000 ducats, Ávila of 11,000 and Córdoba 29,000 ducats. Bartolomé Escandell Bonet, “Las rentas episcopales en el siglo XVI,” Anuario de Historia Económica y Social 3 (1970): 57–90 (68). In 1554, Álava y Esquivel was presented for the bishopric of Jaen but turned it down, precisely because it did not represent an improvement in his income (AGS, E, 103, fol. 186). I am grateful to Ignasi Fernández Terricabras for this reference. 14 The functions and competences of the president of Chancery are described in Antonio Ángel Ruiz Rodríguez, La Real Chancillería de Granada en el siglo XVI (Granada: Diputación, 1987), 63–66. 15 Ezquerra Revilla, El Consejo Real de Castilla, 41–48. 16 Ruiz Rodríguez, La Real Chancillería de Granada, 82. A year and a half after being in Granada, he requested leave of absence to reside in his diocese for a period of not less than four months (82). It is recorded in a later letter that Philip II granted him permission to reside in his diocese for a period of 90 days, with the indication that this stay should coincide with Lent; Corpus documental de Carlos V, ed. Manuel Fernández Álvarez, 5 vols. (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1975–1979), 4:109. 17 A comparison with Francisco de Navarra, bishop of Badajoz—a similar diocese to the one in Ávila in terms of annual income—is instructive in this context; a canonist trained in Salamanca, he coincided with Álava y Esquivel at Trent, with whom he shared many of his reformist ideas, but rejected the position of president of the Chancery of Granada in August 1546, the same one that Álava y Esquivel would accept two years later, in order to devote himself full time to his pastoral vocation. 18 With respect to the economic circumstances of Álava y Esquivel, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza describes him in July 1545 as barely without means when he met with him at Trent (Diccionario histórico-geográfico, 2:479), while Massarelli mocked him for believing that the pope would bear the cost of his stay in the city; see Concilium Tridentinum: Diariorum Actorum Epistularum Tractatuum nova collectio, 13 vols. (Freiburg: Herder, 1901– 2001), 1:223, hereafter: CT. Gómez Bravo, Catálogo, 2:467, states that in his will he declared, in order to assuage his conscience, that he had not given anything, to his relatives or to others, that came from ecclesiastical income but that it came from the favors that the Monarchs had given him. 19 The biographical entry “Álava y Esquivel” by Ignacio Ezquerra Alvar and José Martínez Millán is a compilation of all the information available about this figure twenty years ago. 20 The synodal proceedings (Salamanca: Andrea de Portonario, 1556) were a re-edition of those celebrated in 1481 with some additions, as is explained in the corresponding volume of the collection Synodicon Hispanum, VI: Ávila y Segovia, ed. A. García y García et al., 11 vols. (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1993), 6:236–239; these proceedings include the abovementioned Ordinances for the diocese (1549) (219–227). See the articles by José Antonio Calvo Gómez, “Un obispo reformador: Diego de Álava y Esquivel,” Abula 6 (julio-diciembre 2004):133–177, where the purity of blood file that Álava y Esquivel presented for admission to the Colegio Mayor de Oviedo (1524) is published; and “El episcopado abulense de Diego de Álava y Esquivel (1549– 1559). La reforma católica y el sínodo de 1557,” Abula 7 (enero-julio 2005): 139–180, where the parish visitation of San Pedro Apóstol de Ávila in May 1549 is published. I am grateful to the author for providing me with copies of these two studies. For the support of the foundation of a Jesuit college in

Conflicting loyalties  79 Ávila, see Jodi Bilinkoff, The Avila of Saint Teresa: Religious Reform in a Sixteenth Century City (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989), 94. 21 Early sources mention the celebration of a diocesan council in Astorga and another two in Cordoba, although these assertions have not yet been corroborated by documents. See Gómez Bravo, Catálogo de los obispos de Córdoba, 2:465; the Diccionario geográfico-histórico de España, 2:479; and Pedro Rodríguez López, Episcopologio asturicense, 4 vols. (Astorga: Porfirio López, 1908), 3:30. 22 Historia del Concilio de Trento, Spanish translation by Daniel Ruiz Bueno, 5 vols. (Pamplona: Universidad de Navarra, 1972), especially volume 2, originally published in 1957 and deals with the first period of the Council (1545– 1547). Some of Álava y Esquivel’s most important ideas, such as his criticism of the right of the legates to propose (14, 436), the incompatibility of the dignities of cardinalate and episcopate (139), the exemptions of chapters (247) and the residence of bishops (399, 423) are mentioned in the collection of his works gathered together in Kirche des Glaubens, Kirche der Geschichte. Ausgewählte Aufsätze und Vorträge, 2 vols. (Freiburg-Basel-Vienna: Herder, 1966), occasionally in vol. 2 and in different studies. 23 Both editions can be accessed in Google Books and other digital libraries. All quotes are from the first edition. 24 The few details that have been located about his time in the chanceries are gathered together in Ruiz Rodríguez, La Real Chancillería de Granada, 80–83, and Martín Postigo, Los presidentes de la Real Chancillería de Valladolid, 48. 25 The letters are edited in CT 11:66, 81, 95, 101, 110, 115, 126, and 128. They were written between August 1546 and May 1547. All the letters can be found in AGS, E, leg. 1464, fol. 120 and leg. 1465, fols. 240, 242, 243 and 245. 26 Synodicon Hispanum, VI, pp. 220 and 228. 27 CT 1:1–147 (Severole); 159–626 (Massarelli, Diarium I–III, from the beginning to the transfer to Bologna); CT 2: 363–395 (Pratano). 28 CT 1:223 (Massarelli’s opinion of Álava y Esquivel); CT 1:XLIV–XLVI; CT 2:LX (editor about Pratano). 29 De conciliis, fol. 94r; also in the “Prologus,” ¶2v. 30 De conciliis, fol. 94r; see also fol. 61r. See the contribution by Kimberly Lynn in this volume. 31 The treatise includes historical references and documents from 1551, for example, the letter of 1551 in which he declines Charles V’s invitation to go to Trent again, fol. 47v–48r, so that Álava y Esquivel did not consider the text finished until shortly before its publication, see fol. 32r. 32 Jedin, Historia del Concilio, 2:43, 67–68. For a summary of the discussions about the working of the Council in January and February 1546, see John W. O’Malley, Trent: What Happened at the Council (Cambridge/London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013), 77–89. 33 CT, 4:394. 34 On this question, see Umberto Mazzone, “I dibattiti tridentini: tecniche di assemblea e di controllo,” in Il concilio di trento e il moderno, eds. Paolo Prodi and Wolfgang Reinhard (Bologna: il Mulino, 1996), 101–136; and “Giovanni Morone legato al Concilio di Trento e la clausola proponentibus legatis,” in Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’ultima fase del Concilio di Trento, ed. Massimo Firpo and Ottavia Niccoli (Bologna: il Mulino, 2010), 117–141. 35 CT 2:371. 36 CT 11:21, letter to Alfonso Idiáquez, secretary of the Council of State (December 31, 1545).

80  Xavier Tubau 7 CT 4:572. 3 38 CT 5:3 and CT 1:28. 39 CT 1:29. 40 All interventions in CT 1:29. 41 Del Monte was better informed than Álava y Esquivel, given that it is considered highly likely that Ossius did have the role of president at the council. See Victor Cyril De Clerq, Ossius of Cordova: A Contribution to the History of the Constantinian Period (Washington DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1954). 42 All speeches can be found in CT 1:59–60. 43 He made this request, with other prelates or on an individual basis, on 4, 7, 13 January, 3 February, 5 October, 13 November, all 1546, and on 15 January, and 2 and 3 March 1547. 44 CT 1:74. 45 CT 1:104 and CT 5:467. 46 Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. Norman Tanner, Giuseppe Alberigo et al., 2 vols. (London/Washington, DC: Sheed and Ward-Georgetown University Press, 1990), 1:409. 47 The meaning and scope of the Haec sancta decree has been subject to interpretation ever since the fifteenth century. For an assessment of the bibliography on the decree, see Gerald Christianson, “Conciliarism and the Council,” in A Companion to the Council of Basel, ed. Michiel Decaluwé, Thomas M. Izbicki and Gerald Christianson (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 75–111. For his role at the Council of Basel in particular, see Joachim W. Stieber, Pope Eugenius IV, the Council of Basel and the Secular and Ecclesiastical Authorities in the Empire: The Conflict over Supreme Authority and Power in the Church (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 44–56. 48 CT 1:375; CT 1:19, 368. 49 CT 1:376. 50 CT 1:28. 51 CT 1:123; CT 5:833–834. For Torquemada, see Thomas Izbicki, Protector of the Faith: Cardinal Johannes de Turrecremata and the Defense of the Institutional Church (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1981) and “Papalist Reaction to the Council of Constance: Juan de Torquemada to the Present,” Church History 55 (1988): 7–20; for Cajetan, see Olivier de la Brosse, Le Pape et le Concile. La comparaison de leurs pouvoirs à la veille de la Réforme (Paris: Éditions du CERF, 1965); and Conciliarism and Papalism, ed. James H. Burns and Thomas M. Izbicki (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 52 CT 1:369. 53 As is usual in the De conciliis, Álava y Esquivel presented the arguments for and against this interpretation of the passage in Matthew (fol. 60r). Among the arguments for, the interpretation of St. Augustine: “Inquit etenim Augustinus super Iob cum Petrus claves accepit, ecclesiam sanctam significavit” (fol. 60r); among the arguments against, that the council could neither discuss nor legislate when the see of Rome was vacant (fol. 60v). Nevertheless, the council represented the universal Church and, in certain circumstances, that representation was possible even if the pope was not present or the see of Rome was vacant (fol.17r–18v). In this respect, the passage from Matthew was clear: “Illud vero quod adduximus de potestate data Petro nomine ecclesiae universalis, ita intelligendum est, ut Petro datae fuerint a Christo Iesu claves et per eum eius successoribus omnibusque futuris ecclesiae praelatis per derivationem ab ipso Petro, atque ita datae fuerunt ecclesiae universali” (fol. 60v–61r). The Augustinian text admitted different readings from the

Conflicting loyalties  81 point of view of the constitutional organization of the Church: it could mean that the pope embodied “all ecclesiastical authority” and consequently “exercised a unique and illimitable power over the Church,” but it could also be interpreted as “the pope possessed only a limited exercise of a power that in its original and plenary form was inherent in the Church as a whole.” Both interpretations are set in opposition to each other in the conciliar literature of the fifteenth century, as well as in the famous controversy later between Cajetan and Jacques Almain. For these interpretations, see Brian Tierney, Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955), 36. The interpretation given by Álava y Esquivel to the passage by St. Augustine is expressed in Alfonso de Madrigal (El Tostado) in his Commentaria in librum Numerorum (ca. 1436–1438), chap. 15, q. 48, in Opera omnia, 27 vols. (Venice: Nicolò Pezzana and Balleoniano, 1728), 5:357. 54 De conciliis, fol. 24r. 55 De conciliis, fol. 29r (A council convened by the pope represents the universal Church, even if the pope is absent); fol. 51v (the council, if legitimately convened against the pope in cases established by law, has ordinary jurisdiction with the right of constraint; otherwise, its celebration would have no meaning; its jurisdiction is conferred directly by the Holy Spirit); fol. 52r (distinction between immediate and mediate jurisdiction). 56 De conciliis, fol. 20v (decisions reached in consensus between the pope and council have greater authority; the authority of the council is greater than that of the pope); fol. 26v (those decisions that are the result of consensus between pope and council are better). 57 De conciliis, fol. 52r. 58 De conciliis, fol. 28v–29r (confirmation is not necessary); fol. 52v (decrees of past councils were published in the name of the council, not of the pope); fol. 52v–53r (the pope is included under the council because the council represents the universal Church); fol. 52v (the ancient councils did not distinguish Peter in any specific way). 59 The ecclesiology of Álava y Esquivel necessarily entailed that decrees did not need the confirmation of the pope. In the treatise he presented the two theoretical positions (confirmation necessary/not necessary) and concluded by saying that he left the resolution of the dilemma to the Holy Mother Church, although not without going on to write that confirmation seemed to him to be not only useful and advisable but also necessary (De conciliis, fol. 31r). 60 “[I]n his quae ad fidem vel ad mores pertinent universale concilium absque ullo dubio errare non potest, propterea quod ab Spiritu Sancto, qui illi semper adsistit, regatur in omnibus quae iudicat et decernit” (De conciliis, fol. 24r). 61 De conciliis, fol. 16v. 62 De conciliis, fols. 14r, 17r and 55v–56r. 63 De conciliis, fol. 16r. 64 Jean Gerson, Tractatus de ecclesiastica potestate et origine iuris ac legum, chaps. 4 and 11; there is a Spanish translation of the text in the volume Conciliarismo y constitucionalismo. Selección de textos I, ed. Juan Carlos Utrera García, Juan Antonio Gómez García and Waldo Pérez Cino (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2005). Gerson is explicitly mentioned on three occasions in the treatise, fols. 14v, 29v, 57r but not in connection with the definition of the general council. 65 De conciliis, fol. 13v. 66 CT 5:881. 67 CT 1:34. 68 CT 1:35.

82  Xavier Tubau 9 Decrees, 2:681–683. 6 70 CT 5:808. Years later, in the treatise De conciliis (fol. 67r), he would mention this decree on residence at Trent, pointing out that it imposed “very harsh penalties” on absent bishops. In the De conciliis, he would stress both questions; fol. 65r–v (residence and cardinal bishops). Although he was one of the few who proposed it at Trent, the incompatibility of episcopacy and cardinalate had already been demanded in the Consilium de emendandae ecclesiae (1536), drawn up by Gasparo Contarini and other cardinals at the request of Pope Paul III. 71 Decrees, 2:686–689. 72 See Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “Conflictos entre Carlos V y los cabildos catedralicios de la Corona de Castilla (1552–1556),” in Carlos V y la quiebra del humanismo político en Europa (1530–1558), coord. José Martínez Millán, 4 vols. (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Carlos V y Felipe II, 2000), 2:361–386. 73 Decrees, 1:219–220. 74 CT 5:871. 75 CT 5:881. 76 CT 5:894. The legates also pointed out that it was not appropriate to include this reference to the Fifth Lateran Council because 30 years had not yet elapsed since its approval (893). 77 Álava y Esquivel points out, in general, that councils celebrated in Rome with bishops of dioceses close to Rome are not properly universal councils, nor are they provincial, but rather “intermediate” councils (De conciliis, fol. 37r). 78 CT 5:88. In the draft of the decree, it is numbered as the third chapter but finally ended up as the second one. 79 De conciliis, 65v. 80 CT 5:871. 81 CT 5:881. See Luis María Galarraga, “Los beneficios patrimoniales,” Scriptorium Victoriense 3 (1956): 113–143. 82 He did so in De conciliis, fol. 92v. 83 CT 5:983. 84 CT 5:871. In the draft, there was a reminder that the rule had been renewed by Leo X at the Fifth Lateran Council, although this mention disappeared in the final version. Several bishops asked for the mention to be taken out, although it is not recorded whether Álava y Esquivel did so in this case. 85 Decrees, 1:248. 86 CT 5:871. 87 De conciliis, fol. 76r. 88 De conciliis, fols. 62r and 75r, respectively. 89 Christian Hermann, L’Église d’Espagne sous le Patronage Royal (1476–1834) (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 1988). 90 Pedro Guerrero, Archbishop of Granada is an example of this resistance, see Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 55–57; for the desire to control the bishops, 258–267. 91 De conciliis, fol. 92v (residence), fol. 70v (suppression of exemptions for ecclesiastical chapters), fol. 93r (examination of candidates), fol. 92r (appeals to Rome), fol. 69v (on how episcopal spoils should be distributed), fol. 78r (on how the Apostolic Chamber kept the spoils), fol. 78v (on the abolition of the payment of annates, asking for the legislation of Constance and Basel to be observed in this respect), fols. 78v–79r (on the suppression of expectations and reservations of benefices), fol. 91v (asking, by order of the pope, that two prelates examine the appropriateness of all dispensations). 92 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 349–359.

Conflicting loyalties  83 93 Antonio Domínguez Ortiz, Las clases privilegiadas en el Antiguo Régimen (Madrid: Istmo, 1973), 246–247. 94 De conciliis, fol. 72r (visitation every three years by officials of the Roman Curia to prevent malpractice); fol. 92r (for the pope to select those to visit the dioceses). 95 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 110–116. 96 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 265. 97 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 274–277. 98 De conciliis, fol. 93v–94r. 99 De conciliis, fol. 94r. 100 Hermann, L’Église d’Espagne, 53. 101 I am paraphrasing Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 178. 102 Hermann, L’Église d’Espagne, 52–54. As a result of the brief period he had spent on the Council of the Orders, Álava y Esquivel must have been well aware of the jurisdictional conflicts that the Orders had with the bishops that coincided with them in their territories. For this, see Francisco Fernández Izquierdo, La orden militar de Calatrava en el siglo XVI (Madrid: CSIC, 1994), 140–141. 103 De conciliis, fol. 93v. 104 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular, 197. 105 De conciliis, fol. 56v. 106 De conciliis, fol. 93r. Earlier, however, he pointed out that the pope should not abrogate the right of patronage of laymen or ecclesiastics since doing so would jeopardize the completion of the pious works for which the patronages had been established by their founders (fol. 84r–v). 107 De conciliis, fol. 92v (regarding the papal exemptions preventing the bishop from awarding benefices); fol. 93r (regarding clergymen who obtained canonries in Rome by means of the abolition of episcopal privilege for their appointments). 108 Constancio Gutiérrez, “Memorial de Francisco de Vargas sobre reforma. Año 1545,” in Reformata Reformanda: Festgabe für Hubert Jedin zum 17.Juni 1965, ed. Erwin Iserloh and Konrad Repgen (Münster: Aschendorff, 1965), 531–576 (annates, 550; appeals, 552; plurality, 555; residence, 556; exemptions of chapters, 564). 109 Gutiérrez, “Memorial de Francisco de Vargas,” 571 and 576; Recopilación de las leyes de estos Reinos (Alcalá de Henares: Andrés de Angulo, 1569), libro 1, título 3, ley 8. 110 For Covarrubias’ juridical work, see Francisco Javier Andrés Santos, “La contribución de Diego de Covarrubias a los estudios jurídicos,” Diego de Covarrubias y Leyva. El humanista y sus libros, ed. Inmaculada Pérez Martín and Margarita Becedas González (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 2012), 93–100 (on the work mentioned, 99). 111 “[O]ppressos violentia iudicum ecclesiasticorum” (Practicarum quaestionum liber unus, chap. 35, 161v. and in general, 161r–162r); there is a Spanish translation in Diego de Covarrubias y Leyva, Textos jurídicopolíticos, ed. Manuel Fraga Iribarne, trans. Atilano Rico Seco (Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Políticos, 1957), 354–360; Recopilación de las leyes de estos Reinos, libro 2, título 5, ley 36. 112 For the ecclesiastical judicial system and canonical procedure, see an overview in Gillian R. Evans, Law and Theology in the Middle Ages (London/ New York: Routledge, 2002), 42–46 and 91–104. For the peninsula in particular, see Miguel F. Gómez Vozmediano, “Proceso ordinario eclesiástico,” in Diccionario de Historia Moderna de España, I. La Iglesia, 2 vols., dir. Enrique Martínez Ruiz (Madrid: Istmo, 1999–2007), 1:222; Antonio

84  Xavier Tubau

13 1 114 115

116

García y García, “El proceso canónico medieval en los archivos españoles,” Memoria Ecclesiae 4 (1993): 65–84, and Richard Helmholz, “Spanish and English Ecclesiastical Courts (1300–1550),” in Life, Law and Letters: Historical Studies in Honour of Antonio García y García, ed. Peter Linehan and Antonio Pérez Martín (Roma: Librería Ateneo Salesiano, Roma, 1998), 415–435. Tarsicio de Azcona, La elección y reforma del episcopado español, 51. De conciliis, 92r. See also fol. 86v. De conciliis, fol. 86v; Pragmatica sanctio cum glossis D. Cosmae Guymier (Paris: François Clousier, 1666), 378–386. An abbreviated version can be found in Church and State Through Centuries: A Collection of Historic Documents with Commentaries, ed. Sidney Z. Ehler and John B. Morrall (London: Burns & Oates, 1954), 118–119. Although Álava y Esquivel does not mention it, the Concordat of Bologna (1516) did not abrogate this decree (Church and State, 141–142). This chapter was possible thanks to a grant from the Comunidad Autónoma de Madrid (2019-T1/HUM-12859). I would like to thank Ignasi Fernández Terricabras for reading the chapter and his suggestions for improving it.

Bibliography Azcona, Tarsicio de. La elección y reforma del episcopado español en tiempos de los Reyes Católicos. Madrid: CSIC, 1960. Barrio, Maximiliano. Los obispos de Castilla y León durante el Antiguo Régimen. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2000. Barrio, Maximiliano. El clero en la España moderna. Madrid: CSIC, 2010. Beltrán de Heredia, Vicente. Cartulario de la Universidad de Salamanca (1218– 1600). Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1970–1973. 5 vols. Bilinkoff, Jodi. The Avila of Saint Teresa: Religious Reform in a Sixteenth Century City. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989. Brosse, Olivier de la. Le Pape et le Concile. La comparaison de leurs pouvoirs à la veille de la Réforme. Paris: Éditions du CERF, 1965. Burns, James H., and Thomas M. Izbicki, eds. Conciliarism and Papalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Calvo Gómez, José Antonio. “Un obispo reformador: Diego de Álava y Esquivel.” Abula 6 (julio-diciembre 2004):133–177. Calvo Gómez, José Antonio. “El episcopado abulense de Diego de Álava y Esquivel (1549–1559). La reforma católica y el sínodo de 1557.” Abula 7 (enero-julio 2005): 139–180. Christianson, Gerald. “Conciliarism and the Council.” In A Companion to the Council of Basel, edited by Michiel Decaluwé, Thomas M. Izbicki and Gerald Christianson, 75–111. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Clerq, Victor Cyril de. Ossius of Cordova: A Contribution to the History of the Constantinian Period. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1954. Concilium Tridentinum: Diariorum Actorum Epistularum Tractatuum nova collectio. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1901–2001. 13 vols. Covarrubias y Leyva, Diego de. Textos jurídico-políticos, edited by Manuel Fraga Iribarne, translated by Atilano Rico Seco. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Políticos, 1957.

Conflicting loyalties  85 Dios, Salustiano de. Estudios sobre jurisprudencia y juristas en la corte de Castilla, siglos XV a XVII. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2016. Domínguez Ortiz, Antonio. Las clases privilegiadas en el Antiguo Régimen. Madrid: Istmo, 1973. Echávarri, Vicente G de. Alaveses ilustres. Vitoria: Imprenta Provincial, 1990. Ehler, Sidney Z, and John B. Morrall, eds. Church and State Through Centuries: A Collection of Historic Documents with Commentaries. London: Burns & Oates, 1954. Escandell Bonet, Bartolomé. “Las rentas episcopales en el siglo XVI.” Anuario de Historia Económica y Social 3 (1970): 57–90. Evans, Gillian R. Law and Theology in the Middle Ages. London/New York: Routledge, 2002. Ezquerra Alvar, Ignacio, and José Martínez Millán. “Álava y Esquivel, Diego de.” In La corte de Carlos V. Vol. 3, 23–28. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000. Ezquerra Revilla, Ignacio. “El ascenso de los letrados eclesiásticos: el presidente del Consejo de Castilla Antonio Mauriño de Pazos.” In La corte de Felipe II, edited by José Martínez Millán, 271–303. Madrid: Alianza, 1994. Fernández Álvarez, Manuel, ed. Corpus documental de Carlos V. Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1973–1981. 5 vols. Fernández Izquierdo, Francisco. La orden militar de Calatrava en el siglo XVI. Madrid: CSIC, 1994, 140–141. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. Felipe II y el clero secular. La aplicación del concilio de Trento. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 2000a. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “Conflictos entre Carlos V y los cabildos catedralicios de la Corona de Castilla (1552–1556).” In Carlos V y la quiebra del humanismo político en Europa (1530–1558). Vol. 2, edited by José Martínez Millán, 361–386. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Carlos V y Felipe II, 2000b. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “Universidad y episcopado en el siglo XVI. Las universidades donde estudiaron los obispos de las coronas de Castilla y de Aragón (1556–1598).” Revista de Historia Moderna 20 (2002): 5–51. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “Des créatures de Votre Majesté: choix et contrôle des évêques par Philippe II dans les couronnes de Castille et d’Aragon (1556– 1598).” In Les clercs et les princes. Doctrines et pratiques de l’autorité ecclésiastique à l’époque moderne, edited by Patrick Arabeyre and Brigitte Basdevant-Gaudemet, 105–118. Paris: École des Chartes, 2013. Galarraga, Luis María. “Los beneficios patrimoniales.” Scriptorium Victoriense 3 (1956): 113–143. Gan Giménez, Pedro. La Real Chancillería de Granada. Granada: Diputación, 1988a. Gan Giménez, Pedro. El Consejo Real de Carlos V. Granada: Diputación, 1988b. García y García, Antonio. “El proceso canónico medieval en los archivos españoles.” Memoria Ecclesiae 4 (1993): 65–84. García y García, Antonio, et al., eds. Synodicon Hispanum. Vol. 6, Ávila y Segovia. Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1993. Gerson, Jean. Tractatus de ecclesiastica potestate et origine iuris ac legum. In Conciliarismo y constitucionalismo. Selección de textos I, edited by Juan

86  Xavier Tubau Carlos Utrera García, Juan Antonio Gómez García and Waldo Pérez Cino. Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2005. Gómez Bravo, Juan. Catálogo de los obispos de Córdoba. Cordoba: Juan Rodríguez, 1778. 2 vols. González Novalín, José Luis. El Inquisidor General Fernando de Valdés. Oviedo: Universidad de Oviedo, 1968. 2 vols. Gutiérrez, Constancio. “Memorial de Francisco de Vargas sobre reforma. Año 1545.” In Reformata Reformanda: Festgabe für Hubert Jedin zum 17. Juni 1965, edited by Erwin Iserloh and Konrad Repgen, 531–576. Münster: Aschendorff, 1965. Gutiérrez, Constancio. Trento, un problema: la última convocación del Concilio (1552–1562). Madrid: Universidad Pontificia de Comillas, 1995–2000. 5 vols. Helmholz, Richard. “Spanish and English Ecclesiastical Courts (1300–1550).” In Life, Law and Letters: Historical Studies in Honour of Antonio García y García, edited by Peter Linehan and Antonio Pérez Martín, 415–435. Rome: Librería Ateneo Salesiano, Rome, 1998. Hermann, Christian. L’Église d’Espagne sous le Patronage Royal (1476–1834). Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 1988. Hernando Sánchez, Carlos José. Castilla y Nápoles en el siglo XVI: El Virrey Pedro de Toledo. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 1994. Izbicki, Thomas. Protector of the Faith: Cardinal Johannes de Turrecremata and the Defense of the Institutional Church. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1981. Izbicki, Thomas. “Papalist Reaction to the Council of Constance: Juan de Torquemada to the Present.” Church History 55 (1988): 7–20. Kagan, Richard. Students and Society in Early Modern Spain. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974. Madrigal, Alfonso de. Commentaria in librum Numerorum. In Opera omnia. Vol. 5. Venice: Nicolò Pezzana and Balleoniano, 1728. Martínez Ruiz, Enrique, dir. Diccionario de Historia Moderna de España. Madrid: Istmo, 1999–2007. 2 vols. Mazzone, Umberto. “I dibattiti tridentini: tecniche di assemblea e di controllo.” In Il Concilio di Trento e il moderno, edited by Paolo Prodi and Wolfgang Reinhard, 101–136. Bologna: il Mulino, 1996. Mazzone, Umberto. “Giovanni Morone legato al Concilio di Trento e la clausola proponentibus legatis.” In Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’ultima fase del Concilio di Trento, edited by Massimo Firpo and Ottavia Niccoli, 117–141. Bologna: il Mulino, 2010. O’Malley, John W. Trent: What Happened at the Council. Cambridge/London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013. Pelorson, Jean-Marc. Les “Letrados” juristes castillans sous Philippe III. Recherches sur leur place dans la société, la culture et l’État. Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, 1980. Pérez Garzón, Francisco. Diego Pérez de Villamuriel, obispo de Mondoñedo y presidente de la Real Chancillería de Granada. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 1995. Pragmatica sanctio cum glossis D. Cosmae Guymier. Paris: François Clousier, 1666.

Conflicting loyalties  87 Rawlings, Helen. “The Secularisation of the Castilian Episcopal Office under the Habsburgs, c. 1516–1700.” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 38, no. 1 (1987): 53–79. Recopilación de las leyes de estos Reinos. Alcalá de Henares: Andrés de Angulo, 1569. Rodríguez López, Pedro. Episcopologio asturicense. Astorga: Porfirio López, 1908. 4 vols. Ruiz Rodríguez, Antonio Ángel. La Real Chancillería de Granada en el siglo XVI. Granada: Diputación, 1987. Stieber, Joachim W. Pope Eugenius IV, the Council of Basel and the Secular and Ecclesiastical Authorities in the Empire: The Conflict over Supreme Authority and Power in the Church. Leiden: Brill, 1978. Tanner Norman, Giuseppe Alberigo et al. Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils. London/Washington, DC: Sheed and Ward-Georgetown University Press, 1990. 2 vols. Carabias Torres, Ana María. “Salamanca, Académica Palanca hacia el poder.” In Letrados, juristas y burócratas en la España Moderna, edited by Francisco José Aranda Pérez, 23–59. Cuenca: Ediciones de la Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, 2005.

4 Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent The position of the Spanish bishops Ignasi Fernández Terricabras

Introduction In 1964, the historian Giuseppe Alberigo published an essay titled “L’ecclesiologia del Concilio de Trento.”1 He was reacting against the mythical interpretation of the Council of Trent that had prevailed for centuries—namely, that it was a complete theological summa. Those who embraced this idea and who dominated mid-twentieth-century debates traced all subsequent theology back to the Council of Trent, particularly the Holy See’s principal actions, including a conservative strain of ecclesiology justifying rigid Church hierarchy under the leadership of the papacy. Arguing against that thesis, Alberigo believed that the primary objectives of the bishops who met in Trent were to refute the main points of Luther’s theology and to correct the most scandalous abuses committed by the clergy. It was not their intention to draw up a systematic compendium of Catholic theology. Just as with Luther’s thought, in which ecclesiological questions were subordinate to the individual matter of justification by faith—the salvation of each soul—so too were these questions treated only tangentially in the council. None of the decrees outlined a minimally complete ecclesiological schema because such a notion was foreign to the council’s purpose. It was true, Alberigo said, that at Trent there was an “implicit ecclesiology, especially a practical ecclesiology,” manifested in “occasional and fragmentary elements” concerning the sacraments and, especially, in the 1563 reform decrees. But, he said, these conciliar measures could be part of “ecclesiologies that differed notably from one another.” The Council of Trent’s ecclesiology was “open and dynamic” and had historically been distorted to justify the “rigid and compact” ecclesiology of later centuries.2 Since Alberigo’s contributions, our perspective on the Council of Trent has changed, thanks especially to two factors. First, our knowledge of the intricacies of the Council of Trent is far broader today and is not limited to the minutes published by Görres-Gesellschaft. Archival documents and thousands of letters to and from the clergy and diplomats at Trent and their correspondents throughout Europe have provided a DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-5

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  89 much more complete vision of the meeting, thanks to which we know more about the bitter debates and their implications.3 We know not only what was said in Trent but also what was not said; many proposals were never actually openly debated because papal envoys blocked them. In the case of those that were debated, there often was no broad consensus.4 Second, historians have reevaluated the importance of conciliarism. The modern Church’s absolutist exaltation of papal power had led historians to see conciliarism as a medieval phenomenon that disappeared in the fifteenth century. But many studies have made it clear that there was a chain of conciliarist theology that survived more or less invisibly throughout the early modern era and up to the nineteenth century.5 As Francis Oakley wrote, there was a notable series of ideological relay stations, picking up from the past a gradually attenuating conciliarist signal, clarifying, strengthening, and boldly transmitting it forward in updated and re-energized form to the receptors of future generations.6 For Oakley, the principal “relay stations” in the early sixteenth century were the conciliabulum of Pisa (1511–1512), the works by Parisian theologians Jacques Almain (c.1480–1515) and John Mair (1467–1550), and the works by Englishmen who defended Henry VIII’s call for a general council in the face of the pope’s refusal to grant the monarch’s divorce (1533). It is surprising that Oakley barely mentioned similar calls by Martin Luther and his followers and also that he devoted only two pages to the Council of Trent, where he highlighted the sixteenth-century popes’ fears of renewed conciliarism.7 Indeed, we are accustomed to viewing the Council of Trent from the perspective of what followed, as if it were an event marking the dawn of modernity. But if, as Nelson Minnich proposes, we were to see it as the last of a long list of councils in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries starting in Pisa in 1409, at which the limits of papal authority were a constant subject of debate, there can be no surprise that the subject appeared as well at Trent.8 Spanish conciliarism was considered to have disappeared in the midfifteenth century,9 but Xavier Tubau has shown that the influence of conciliarism in Spain went well beyond.10 In Charles V’s circle, there were defenders of the emperor’s ability to summon a council, similar to the positions taken by medieval Ghibellines and, later, by Protestants.11 Tubau is especially interested in a treatise written in Spanish by Alfonso Álvarez Guerrero (c.1502–1576), which went through three editions in 1536.12 Álvarez Guerrero urged Charles V to summon a council so as to complete the reforms undertaken by the councils of Constance and Basel, the high point of conciliarism. He maintained that the council represented

90  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras the whole of the Church and that its power was derived directly from Jesus Christ. Thus, unlike the pope, it could not be wrong. As Tubau emphasized, the conciliarism advanced by Álvarez Guerrero and other advisers to Charles V cannot be seen apart from efforts to extend the emperor’s authority over churches in his domains, to Rome’s detriment. But nor can it be seen apart from an extensive episcopalist movement in Castile that defended bishops’ autonomy from papal jurisdiction. In this regard, Tubau suggests that “the absence of condemnation of conciliarism can be explained by the presence of episcopalist positions in the Spanish academic and religious world.”13 Nevertheless, new research into conciliarism over the past few decades has not been accompanied by a similar interest in episcopalism. In what follows I hope to contribute to this new look at mid-sixteenthcentury ecclesiology by showing that neither conciliarism nor episcopalism was as dead as each was reported to be. I will show that the Council of Trent was one of Oakley’s “relay stations.” Though it is true that the pontifical vision ended up winning, and possibly squelched the vigor of conciliarism in the Catholic world, the ideas of the movement were far more present at Trent than the final decrees suggest. There is plenty of documentation to show that Spanish bishops actively participated in ecclesiological disputes, both within and outside the meeting halls, and that their positions in the triangular power relationship of pope, council, and bishops were far more diverse than is commonly thought. The Council of Trent was convened by Pope Paul III in 1545 (r. 1534– 1549), suspended in 1548, restarted by Julius III (r. 1550–1555) in 1551, and again suspended in 1552.14 At that point, there had already been disputes of a conciliarist bent—for example, with a proposal that the council “represented the universal church,” a central tenet of conciliarism at Constance and Basel.15 Paul IV (r. 1555–1559) then refused to restart the council, preferring reforms guided by Rome ensuring that the Holy See would retain control over any changes. But his failure essentially forced Pius IV (r. 1559–1565) to summon the meeting, which by then was Catholicism’s last hope of stopping Protestant expansion. During that third and last phase of the council, from January 1562 to December 1563, conciliarism and episcopalism forced the papacy, in the person of a sometimes desperate Pius IV, into a corner.16

The long shadow of conciliarism at Trent During the third phase of the council, there was plenty of evidence of fear among papal envoys and bishops close to the Curia of a possible rebirth of conciliarism, both in Rome and in Trent. Among Spaniards, the most exaggerated version of this fear was expressed by Philip II’s ambassador to the Holy See, Francisco de Vargas (c. 1500–1566), whose ideas about

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  91 the council and the pope’s authority have recently been studied by Xavier Tubau.17 Vargas was very familiar with the ins and outs of the council and Italian politics, as he had been Charles V’s solicitor (procurador) during the first two phases, as well as ambassador to Venice. In his view, Pius IV had agreed to summon the bishops to Trent only because France had threatened to summon a national council. According to Vargas, [I]t is shocking how the Pope is so afraid of the council even though it does everything he wants it to. As far as I understand, this derives not only from disputes aired over residency and all the rest but also because he thinks prelates have been encouraged and are keen to discuss larger matters concerning his person or election.18 Even worse: Vargas thought the pope was waiting for a good moment, no matter how flimsy, to cancel the council altogether: “The council is squeezing His Holiness very tight, and as soon as he can free himself from its grasp he will.”19 The pope, according to the ambassador, wanted to “thwart the council one way or another … such is the anxiety and rage it is causing him.”20 The pope, he said, felt the council to be a “yoke.”21 Was Pius IV justified in his fears? When one of the papal legates, Cardinal Ludovico Simonetta, reached Trent, he carried precise instructions from the pope that if the bishops dared to debate the matter of the council’s alleged authority over the Holy See, he was to suspend the council forthwith.22 And indeed, the subject was never formally debated at Trent. But during nearly the entire council, one can detect a more or less underground battle being fought between the pope and the council over their respective de facto authority. For example, in the opening decree of the first session of the third phase (the 17th session all together), papal legates imposed the requirement that the only issues to be debated would be the ones they proposed. Only four bishops, all of them from the Crown of Castile, voted against the measure: Pedro Guerrero (1510–1576), archbishop of Granada; Francisco Blanco (1512–1581), from Ourense; Andrés Cuesta (1505– 1564), from León; and Antonio Corrionero (1476–1570), from Almería. The relevant clause, “quae proponentibus legatis ac praesidentibus … videbuntur,” was a permanent topic of discussion to the very end, but it would not be modified.23 The legates’ goal was quite clear: the pope controls the council’s progress and the questions to be decided. But those who believed the council represented the universal Church took offense at this effort to restrict the agenda to only those subjects that the pope deigned to consult them on. They believed that subjugation to the papacy would prevent the council from assuming a leadership role in Church reform. As Oakley said, one cannot forget that delegates to the council believed reform was inseparable from the hierarchical superiority of the council.24 What was at stake,

92  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras therefore, was not just their confidence in Pius IV’s sincerity when he said that he personally would undertake ecclesiastical reform but also the role of the bishops, individually or as a group, in Church governance. Philip II himself, who closely followed the course of the debates, was obliged to get involved over the matter of the passage of proponentibus legatis. He wrote, “[T]hough in the past popes have attempted to and succeeded at abrogating and diminishing the authority of universal Councils,” they had never “so restricted and limited the freedom that they [the councils] must and do have.”25 The outcome of this decree would be to reduce Universal Councils, which assemble for matters concerning faith and religion as well as customs so as to generally and freely organize and provide for the service of God and the good of His Church, such that they be understood as gatherings to treat and determine in a limited and particular manner only that which Pontiffs and their legates wish to propose. This clearly contradicts and revokes the Church’s authority and the substance and purpose of Universal Councils.26 Ambassador Vargas shared the monarch’s opinion, saying that the pope’s effort violated “the substance of the council, denies its essential form and freedom to speak, and prevents the synod from doing anything the legates do not want.”27 He went on to say that the pope’s goal was that the council has no authority, no matter how constituted and universal it may be, beyond what the Pope wants and his legates permit, and that those present return home, if necessary, knowing nothing and not having accomplished what they set out to do, as if that had been what Our Lord instructed and what the Apostles did and what the Church has accomplished in those celebrated and sacrosanct Councils with such great authority and majesty.28 But petitions to revoke the contentious clause were met by firm refusals from Pius IV and his legates until the last day of the council. The pope furthermore made sure that there was always a substantial majority of Italian bishops at Trent so that the meetings remained under the control of the Holy See. There were two moments when episcopalism and conciliarism emerged openly at Trent. The first, which is well-known, concerned residency and took place during the 23rd session. The second, which is less known, perhaps because it took place after the end of the council, concerned papal confirmation of the decrees.

The debate over the residency of bishops Reformists during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had demanded that bishops be obliged to reside in their dioceses. Absentee bishops, who

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  93 lived in Rome or at royal courts, would simply appoint vicars to represent them in their dioceses and faithfully collect their rents. The Council of Trent in 1547 had required episcopal residency, but the measure had no practical effect, leading reformists to continue to insist that by divine right bishops had to be with their flocks. If that were so, it meant the pope could not issue a dispensation. Those bishops closest to Rome responded immediately that this amounted to an effort to limit the pope’s apostolic power and that the notion of residency by divine right was based on a conception of the Church that was incompatible with pontifical primacy. Thus in 1562, the problem shifted from canon law to ecclesiology. In any case, it would be an error to assume that all those who defended divine right were episcopalists or that those opposed were zelanti, or zealots, the name for the (mostly Italian) bishops who most enthusiastically defended the Curia. The bishops debating at Trent displayed nuances and rhetorical subtleties, though this is not the place to describe them.29 Papal correspondence makes it clear that Pius IV believed that the only objective of the divine right argument was “to tie the Pope’s hands … and show that the council was above the pope.”30 In Rome, it was said that the pope’s rule was all-powerful, and that he was the “shepherd of the Universal Church.” That was the title bestowed upon the pontiff by the Council of Florence when it defined papal primacy as the supreme power of the Church. French bishops at Trent, however, flatly refused to include this title in the decree, since the French Church, of a conciliarist bent, had never recognized the Florence decrees. After September 1562, when legates proposed a decree concerning the sacrament of holy orders, the argument that obligatory residency was based on divine right became the axis of conciliar debate, with loud discussions and intransigence by the more radical sectors, the latter involving several Spanish bishops. The meetings starting in December 1562 were especially stormy. On December 1, the bishop of Guadix, Melchor Álvarez de Vozmediano (1514–1587), stated that during the early years of the Church, there had been bishops who had been appointed without papal intervention and that that was still true in some places, and pointed to the case of the four suffragans appointed by the bishop of Salzburg. The leader of the zelanti, Cardinal Simonetta, who was also presiding over the session, interrupted indignantly to say that that was a privilege authorized by Rome. According to an anonymous witness, several Italian bishops stood up to yell, “Get out of here! Heretic! Schismatic!” After the uproar, the legates ordered that from then on bishops could not be interrupted when they were speaking. Two days later, the bishop of Lugo, Francisco Delgado (1514–1576), stated that the jurisdictional powers of the bishops were given directly by God. He was bold enough to cite the Council of Constance, which had ruled that the council’s powers came directly from God, and the Council of

94  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras Basel, according to which conciliar decrees were true per se even if they lacked formal validation. According to the same witness, “some of the prelates, unable to reply as they wished, made so much noise banging their feet that the bishop of Lugo could not be heard.”31 Foot-stamping was thereupon prohibited by the legates. That same afternoon, December 3, the bishop of the diocese of Alife, in the Kingdom of Naples, Diego Gilberto Nogueras (†1566), who was born in Aragon, said that just as Saint Peter had not given powers to the Apostles, leaving that for Christ to do directly, so the bishops had not received their power from the pope but rather from God. In a long and reportedly tedious speech, he invoked various sections of the Bible and the early Church fathers to defend his thesis. Once again Cardinal Simonetta protested such outrageous utterances and tried to reframe the matter, saying it was not a question of showing that the bishops’ power came from God but rather of knowing whether the bishops appointed by the pope were true bishops, which heretics would deny. Nogueras replied that if they were talking about the power of the bishops, they also had to talk about the authority of the pope. Archbishop Guerrero, reflecting the Spaniards’ irritation at the way Vozmediano had been interrupted, rose to say that if other speakers had drawn attention to the subject then the bishop of Alife could do so as well. The bishop of Cava, Tommaso Caselli (†1572), replied that the others had not spoken in that manner. Nogueras began speaking again, at which point many of those present began spitting, coughing, and sneezing so loudly that no one could hear the end of his speech, “which they continued doing for quite some time.”32 In the opinion of Cardinal Carlo Borromeo (1538–1584), Pius IV’s secretary of state, the public display of the bishops was only natural “in prelates who love the honor and dignity of this Holy See.”33 Thanks to the diplomatic skills of one of the papal legates, Cardinal Giovanni Morone (1509–1580), things did not fall apart entirely. He convinced most of the bishops at Trent that the council should not elaborate doctrine concerning Roman primacy nor define relations between the pope and the bishops. Rather, it should confine itself to explicating the one point upon which there was consensus: that residency should be a question of conscience for all bishops.34 The text Morone proposed was approved on July 15, 1563, at the 23rd session. It excluded expressions favoring episcopalism and did not touch upon the bishops’ jurisdiction, but it did stiffen punishments for episcopal absences. It stated that residency in the diocese was a bishop’s moral duty, failure to comply was a mortal sin, the bishops formed a hierarchy of governance that God loved (though the text did not state that God had established it), and that bishops were hierarchically superior to priests. As Morone wished, nothing was said regarding the pope’s position in this hierarchy nor about his relations with bishops despite the fact that

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  95 the matter had been extensively debated. Indeed, two of the more extreme positions had been defended by Spaniards: Guerrero said that bishops, not just the pope, were “God’s vicars” and that the pope was simply the highest of the vicars.35 In contrast, the superior general of the Jesuits, Diego Laínez (1512–1565), replied that the pope was Christ’s only vicar and that all episcopal jurisdiction emanated from him. Laínez believed that while the authority of order—that is, the right to consecrate and administer holy rites—comes from God, and the power of jurisdiction, understood to be authority to impose laws and govern a diocese, comes from the pope, both were entrusted to bishops. But bishops had no capacity to govern if the pope did not expressly grant it.36 Most Spanish bishops at Trent held positions closer to those of Guerrero than to those of Laínez.37 They believed bishops had greater power than priests, which they received directly from God in their episcopal consecration, and which stemmed from divine right; therefore it could not be abrogated by a measure of positive law such as a papal dispensation. Their power included jurisdictional authority; they depended on the pope only for assignment of their territory. In practice, this position implied that the pope could impose universal laws but could not interfere in the ordinary life of a diocese, leaving bishops broad autonomy in matters such as benefices and rents. Pius IV and his defenders argued repeatedly in Curia documents that the Spanish bishops were attempting to achieve de facto independence from the Holy See, which would undermine all pontifical supremacy and turn each into pope of his own diocese. Borromeo, for example, said of the Spanish bishops at Trent that “each one wished to be a pope in his own diocese and recognize no superior.”38 He told Philip II the bishops’ desire to circumvent obedience (sottrarsi all’obedientia) would hurt the king as much as the pope.39 He went on to accuse certain Spanish bishops of heresy: The French, violating their duty, do not consent that the pope be called Shepherd of the Universal Church, assuming (against all reason) that this might harm their false opinion quod Concilium sit supra Papam. Nevertheless, it is clear that all this is being done with the Spaniards’ knowledge. … This is a great evil and manifest heresy, to wish to remove the pope’s ancient title quod sit Pastoris Universalis Ecclesiae, and in so doing extinguish the Holy See’s authority to create more sheep and more shepherds.40 Similarly, Pius IV wrote to Philip II several times complaining about the “frenzied license displayed by many Spanish prelates, all of whom wish to be a pope in their own church,” accusing them of advocating both heresy and Protestantism.41 In a conversation with Cardinal Aragón, he remarked that the king too might be unhappy if there were “fifty or sixty

96  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras popes in Spain, that is, bishops, as I have said, who were absolute lords of their dioceses.”42 Pius pointed to the ecclesiological issues behind the conflict, lamenting that some Spaniards speak freely concerning himself and his authority, wishing to be equal with him and saying that the Pope is not universal bishop and that each of them in his church has the same authority that the Pope has in Rome.43 At the 23rd session, the Spanish bishops split into roughly two groups.44 The majority adopted an episcopalist position, granting bishops a significant degree of autonomy in their dioceses; this was the position that angered Pius IV and Borromeo. In Rome, their stance was understood to be not only a roadblock to the Council of Trent but also a direct attack on the papacy. From the start, the outstanding leader of this group was Guerrero, who had the support of many of his compatriots, with two of them most prominent: the bishop of Segovia, Martín Pérez de Ayala (1504–1566), and the archbishop of Messina, Gaspar de Cervantes (c. 1511–1575).45 Borromeo’s letters to Madrid denouncing Guerrero’s actions were very severe. He accused the Spaniard of “always publicly and openly attempting to undermine the authority and dignity of this Holy See” and of secretly trying “to ruin and destroy this Holy See.”46 Guerrero and his compatriots felt obliged to write directly to Philip II to defend themselves: None of us has spoken of the Apostolic See or His Holiness or his authority with anything but obligatory reverence, as something we understand we must always believe in and preach, and here in this place we have often said it is God’s creation. … [But] what we have done is not consent to things that have been proposed here in various and elaborate ways … that harm the authority of holy councils, episcopal dignity, and the good of the souls and good government of the universal church.47 Another sector of the Spanish episcopate, however, was much more closely aligned with the papal legates. Rather than proclaim the tenets of episcopalism, they defended the bishops’ subservience to the pope and the papacy’s reform proposals, which left Rome greater powers to apply concrete measures. The outstanding members of this group were the bishop of Tortosa, Martín de Córdoba (1512–1581), together with the bishop of Salamanca, Pedro González de Mendoza (c. 1518–1574). They understood that it was the papacy that defined and implemented reform and rejected episcopal autonomy and conciliarist positions. In Córdoba’s opinion, bishops at Trent could not each “be the pope or the supreme

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  97 (authority) of their bishopric without having to appeal to Rome or recognize the apostolic see.”48 The bishop of Tortosa wrote to Philip II to outline his intentions: Reformation of canon and civil authorities in the church is a holy and just undertaking, but inferiors and subjects frequently call for rigorous reforms as a way of reacting against their subjection, not out of respect for supreme power and dignity. In these troubled times, those of us who have come to the council must not say: we wish to reform the pope, nor should that superiority be granted to the council.49 Among the king’s ministers, it was possibly his ambassador in Rome, Francisco de Vargas, who best understood the depth of the problem. His reports reveal that, in essence, what was at stake was the power structure of the Catholic Church. Vargas, therefore, used the language of contemporary political thought to express his displeasure with the decree finally approved at Trent: “I do not know how [the bishops] could be happy with a canon that leans more toward ecclesiastical Aristocracy than Monarchy, when the latter is what Our Lord established in His Church.”50 Vargas was appalled that the council had not made explicit the pope’s superiority to the bishops and therefore felt obliged to declare that the king of Spain recognized the pope as universalis ecclesiae pastor et rector. As Vargas told the king, the ultimate goal of the heretics is to destroy the Pope and this Holy See, topple the monarchical government that Christ our Savior established in his church, and reduce it to a sort of republic of optimates in which bishops are equal to the pope.51 Vargas believed that those who claimed that the jurisdictional powers of the bishops derived from God, not the pope, even though they recognized the pope as superior, endangered the entire structure of the Church. It is interesting to note the equivalence he established between papal centralism and the absolutist monarchy of his times.52 The pope, he wrote, [I]s the source of all political jurisdiction and the external forum, flowing outward to members as if on rivers and canals, each using them as the Church grants and constrains. … Full and universal [jurisdiction] rests in [the pope] as head and prince of [the Church] and of everyone, similarly to [the authority] of the king.53 Philip II never paid much attention to the complaints coming from Rome. Nor, despite the letters he received from the Spanish bishops, did he appear to understand the importance of the issue. He simply reiterated

98  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras his orders that the bishops should always act respectfully toward the Holy See, and he asked them not to be overly insistent.

Confirmation of the council The second occasion when conciliarist positions at Trent were heard came at the end of the council. As Nelson Minnich has written, the explicit rejection of conciliarism and affirmation of papal universalism, which Pius IV had been unable to achieve at Trent, would arrive “by the backdoor.”54 Though the reform decrees at Trent were not as ambitious as the most reformist sectors had wished, for the conservatives, they went much too far. Execution of the decrees was not a simple process of putting them into effect, but occured after a struggle involving Catholic pressure groups. Once again, Giuseppe Alberigo has offered the most illuminating account of these struggles, particularly during the first few months after the council’s close.55 The most outstanding opponents of the reforms were members of the Roman Curia and cathedral canonries. According to Vargas’s successor in Rome, Luis de Zúñiga y Requesens (1528–1576), the king “cannot imagine how furious His Holiness and the entire Curia is over the reforms” at Trent.56 The strategy of their opponents consisted of stating that the decrees would not be valid until papal confirmation, which they urged the pope not to offer. In addition, there were those who maintained that the pope could interpret or even revoke the decrees as he wished. Unilateral confirmation or modification by the pope would certainly be the death knell of conciliarism. The issue of the validity of Trent had arisen previously in 1552 when Julius III suspended the meetings. Several Spanish theologians were consulted on the matter at that time, and their opinions have been preserved in the Simancas archive.57 At that point, Philip II assumed the same position as his bishops, which was that if the council had been legitimately convened and presided over by papal legates, then it was aided by the Holy Spirit and therefore could not err, nor did its decisions need to be approved before they were applied. But Rome backed the canons, and during the papacies of both Julius III (1550–1555) and Paul IV (1555–1559) argued that confirmation was the pope’s inalienable right and an essential requirement. In 1563, the issue arose again. When Philip II’s ambassador at Trent, Claudio Fernández Vigil de Quiñones (c. 1515–1563), the count of Luna, requested a copy of the minutes of the council’s meeting, the legates refused until the pope could see them so as to amend, remove, or add whatever he wanted before their confirmation. That would mean in effect that the Council had no importance. Here people have fought tooth and nail over every word,

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  99 but then it turns out that Rome can make any changes it wants; this would mean in effect that everything that was accomplished at Trent would come to nothing.58 Philip II told his ambassador in Rome, Vargas, that this was intolerable, “the most harmful blow to the council’s authority” that had taken place thus far at Trent.59 Pius IV of course maintained that he could define the content of conciliar decrees. Vargas believed the Holy See wished to establish on the basis of facts that papal authority exceeded that of Trent, that infallibility was granted by God to the pope, not to the councils, and thus that councils “were worthless and had no authority or jurisdiction unless the pope wanted it and granted it.” It was the ambassador’s opinion that Rome wanted “neither this poor council nor any council in the future to have air to breathe.”60 When the legates announced the end of the council, some bishops requested that, in the final decree, the pope be asked to confirm them. At first, Philip II ordered his ministers in no uncertain terms to oppose this move. This would be worse, he said, than declaring the pope’s superiority over the council; better “to be something, albeit inferior, than to be nothing, which is what the council would be in that case.”61 In December 1563, given the pope’s obstinacy, the king suggested that Pius simply issue a bull ordering the council to execute it. That would have been tacit confirmation and would not pose the same theological problems as explicit confirmation.62 At the final session of the Council of Trent, on December 4, 1563, the bishops were publicly asked whether they agreed that the legates should request confirmation of the decrees by the pope. One by one, all voted in the affirmative with the exception, of course, of Guerrero. The Spanish bishops most closely aligned with the legates, those from Tortosa, Salamanca, and Patti (Bartolomé Sebastián, †1568), justified their votes by saying that they believed papal confirmation was necessary in order to validate the council’s decisions.63 Pius IV verbally confirmed the decrees at a secret consistory on January 26, 1564, though the confirmation bull was not published until June 30. Those five months, which Alberigo vividly referred to as “the prehistory of the Counter Reformation” and “the struggle over interpretation of the council,” saw numerous conflicts between the various pressure groups to ensure that the pope’s final text satisfied their respective interests.64 To complicate matters further, a new question arose: several canons argued that if the pope gave his unconditional confirmation, then he too was obliged to follow the decrees. Pius IV, on the other hand, wanted to preserve the papacy’s freedom of interpretation and even waive his obligation to comply with the decrees.65 As Pius would later say, regarding provincial councils in Spain, they wanted “to tie my hands so I could not

100  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras rule against [the council]. I wish to respect the council, but no one can force me to.”66

The place of the Christian prince in sixteenth-century ecclesiology Elsewhere I have written about Pius IV’s initial irritation with Philip II and the break between the two leaders because the king refused to follow papal instructions concerning the council or to sufficiently pressure Spanish bishops on issues the pope considered problematic.67 The pope’s continual requests to the king asking for free rein with the council, given that it was a spiritual matter, were to no avail. The king’s clearest response can be found in the secret instructions he gave to Luis de Zúñiga, Spain’s extraordinary ambassador to Rome: You must not infer that, in general and as a rule, we must remit and refer everything His Holiness orders [with regard to Trent] or cease to intervene there, because in so doing we would neither fulfill our duties as a Christian and Catholic Prince nor our obligation as a true son of His Holiness to advise him in such grave and important affairs nor our duty to the church and universal council to pay close attention and assist whenever it appears necessary and appropriate.68 Throughout the council Philip II often disagreed with the pope, arguing that he himself, as a Christian prince, was obliged to guard against any harm that a mistaken decision by the Holy See might cause, not only in his own kingdoms but also throughout Christendom: At times we have understood certain inferences … that the matters of the council and the points debated there are ecclesiastical and concern His Holiness and that we must accept them and not involve ourselves in them, in response to which we maintain not only that we must not be imputed in such a manner but that what we have done and advised and told His Holiness is the appropriate and true office of a Christian Prince.69 In other words, Philip understood his active participation in the council to be not only a right but also a duty that could lead him to oppose the pope: This is above all a matter for His Holiness. It is his responsibility, and everything depends upon him. But Christian Princes, who have such obligations in such public and important matters in the Church and for the public benefit, and also in general, especially concerning their states and Kingdoms, cannot and must not fail to get involved, intervene, and assist as they are obliged to do.70

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  101 His inference was clear and his intention obvious: it was not just the pope to whom God had assigned a task in this world; Philip II had also been chosen by God to aid religion. Vargas said that the solution to conciliar problems therefore “after God, lies in Your Majesty, whom He has placed here for that reason, to protect and support his Church and faith and this Holy See.”71 Again and again, ever since Pius IV summoned the council, Vargas had repeated variants of the expression that Philip II was “protector of the Apostolic See.”72 The pope himself, when he felt threatened, used the same wording to reach out to the king for support, according to Vargas. He did so when he wished to secure Philip’s agreement to open the meetings “as such a Catholic Prince, whom God has made protector and defender of the faith and of this Holy See”73 and when he wanted military aid to defend Avignon against French troops, when he called Philip, again according to Vargas, “protector and defender of the Church and this Holy See and its patrimony.”74 Pius IV and Borromeo, however, actually used the concept of “arm”, which can be interpreted as the equivalent of protection, and which Philip himself argued in favour of: “[A]s protector and our right hand, adviser and aide”; “the right eye and right arm of His Holiness and this Holy See”; “the right arm of the Apostolic See and the Catholic Religion,” and so on.75 This is a more pragmatic concept, analogous to the notion of “secular arm,” seemingly implying executive intervention in defense of the Holy See without depriving the papacy of its directive function. When the council was convened, therefore, the protection that Philip II believed he afforded to the Holy See and religion, extended logically to the council as well. He was not referring to military defense, which corresponded to the prince-archbishop, lord of Trent, and to the Holy Roman emperor, given that the city of Trent was part of the empire. Rather, his notion of protection was of a higher order, ensuring that the council could proceed without outside interference. In Vargas’s words, “Your Majesty, as Catholic Prince and protector of religion and of this Holy See and of the council’s authority and liberty, shall order what you think necessary.”76 The king’s leading advisers were quite clear on the concept. Dr. Martín de Velasco, a member of the Council of Castile and chief architect of the monarch’s religious policy during and after Trent (though he was not a member of the clergy), defended the king’s interference in council affairs given your obligation as a prince to respond and be vigilant regarding all that serves God and the good of the Church, and because Christian princes have and must have the obligation to protect the liberty and authority of the councils, and that is the most important office and duty that princes are assigned and granted as concerns the councils.77

102  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras Once the meetings in Trent were over, Philip II did not want to give up that role. In November 1563, anticipating its closure, he told the count of Luna to ensure that a clause be included in the final decree, as it generally was, calling upon Catholic princes to collaborate in the implementation of the decrees.78 With that clause in place, the king could legitimately become directly involved in conciliar norms without having to wait for permission or confirmation from the pope. Indeed, the king’s ability to “order” implementation of the council in his kingdoms had already been discussed by theologians at the end of the second phase.79 As is well-known, when Charles V divided up his empire, it was Philip II, not his uncle, Emperor Ferdinand I, who assumed responsibility for the military defense of Catholicism, even though, according to medieval political theory, that was the emperor’s function.80 We should ask ourselves, therefore, whether the stress placed by Philip II and his ministers on the monarch’s obligations as a Christian prince was not just one more part of a discourse of legitimation regardng this role. Unlike the theory that made the king of France defender of the French Church’s liberty and in charge of ecclesiastical reforms in his kingdom, Philip II’s obligations as a Christian prince went far beyond Christendom, and not just to the territories he governed.81 Indeed, they vastly exceeded the limits foreseen by theorists of Hispanic “regalism,” leading us to believe that when studying sixteenth-century ecclesiology, we should consider not only ecclesiastical authority but political authority as well.82 So, Philip II was consistent in proclaiming that he was the disinterested protector of the Apostolic See, of papal authority, and religion in general, with the obligation to act always to the glory of God and the benefit of His Church. But we need to stop and ask where protection ends and preeminence begins. The king proclaimed his status as a Christian prince and even as protector of the Holy See to pursue his own policies at Trent, both when it suited the pope and when it did not. After studying Philip II’s papers, we must agree with José Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras that: There is a certain messianic awareness of his responsibilities and points of view that impregnates all his ecclesiastical policy, even after Trent, with the danger of wishing to turn the Pope into his chaplain.83

Philip II’s questions for the Spanish bishops (1564) No document so clearly displays this mixture of ecclesiological and political matters at the end of Trent than the memorandum that Philip II sent to the bishops returning from Italy. Most arrived in Barcelona in February 1564, and the king ordered them to wait for him there. The king then asked them six questions regarding the council; here we will examine just  two of them, given their ecclesiological importance. The first was,

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  103 “According to what is understood, His Holiness has confirmed [the Tridentine decrees], declaring this to be necessary, which gravely undermines the council’s authority. Should this remain as is, or should [we] do something in response?” And the fifth question was, “Assuming that His Majesty’s authority is important and necessary for the execution and implementation of council decrees, how should this be undertaken, both with respect to the necessary actions to be taken here in these kingdoms and the revocations and abrogations coming from Rome?”84 We are unable here to analyze the ten written replies, drawn up between March and June 1564, all of which are in Simancas.85 All the bishops who responded agreed that the Trent decrees should be applied as soon as possible, especially those stipulating reforms, although the replies differed as to what the respective roles of the king and the pope should be in this process. The most clearly pro-papal reply was from the bishop of Tortosa, Martín de Córdoba, for whom papal confirmation was necessary and would not harm the council. In his opinion, the king should humbly ask Pius IV to confirm the decrees and accept the Roman edition, even if some of the reform decrees had been modified by the Holy See. For Córdoba, application and interpretation should be in the hands of ecclesiastical authorities; civil authorities played only an auxiliary role. Any edict by the king regarding application should be written “such that it does not contradict Supreme Apostolic Authority,” even if the pope wished to abrogate a canon “because if these measures and abrogations come from the Pontiff, how could any law or sanction resist them without committing disobedience?”86 In the opposite corner was Antonio de Covarrubias, a judge on the Council of Castile, whose opinion was also sought. He had gone to Trent as an attorney for his brother Diego, bishop of Ciudad Rodrigo. Antonio’s is the only reply from a layperson that we have found. In his opinion, it was detrimental that the council had requested confirmation of the decrees and even more wrong that the pope believed confirmation was necessary for the decrees to be valid. He recommended that Philip II should act quickly and order that the decrees be implemented in his kingdoms before the pope could confirm them, thus undermining the pope’s efforts with a fait accompli. Antonio de Covarrubias believed that the monarch could modify or even prevent the application of decrees that undermined his own powers.87 His brother Diego de Covarrubias (1512–1577), who would become president of the Council of Castile in 1572, distinguished between decrees of dogma and decrees of reform. In the case of the former, papal confirmation was unnecessary and would amount to asserting that the Holy Spirit had not aided the council or that the council could err in questions of faith. If the pope contravened these principles and declared that confirmation was necessary, then all authorities accepting the council, including the king, should do so while at the same time affirming that

104  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras the dogmas had emerged from the council with the assistance of the Holy Spirit and were therefore true and infallible. Regarding the reform decrees, the pope did in fact have the power to revoke them, in whole or in part, and to state his own interpretation. Diego de Covarrubias saw no problem with Philip II sending writs (cédulas) to the bishops and ordering them to apply the council’s decrees.88 The general of the Observant Franciscans, Francisco de Zamora (1508–1571), who had also been at Trent, offered a similar reply. For him, the final session at Trent encourages and warns all Christian princes not to allow what was determined at this holy council to be undermined. On the contrary, it should be received and faithfully obeyed by all. Your Majesty having assumed this obligation and desiring to obey the Holy Council, he is bound, with reverence and necessary observance toward His Holiness and the Apostolic See, to oppose any abrogation of what was decreed [at Trent], whether dogmas or decrees of reform.89

Conclusion At long last, on June 30, 1564, Pius IV published the bull Benedictus Deus (dated January 26) fully confirming the Tridentine canons with no modifications. The text prohibited commentaries on conciliar decrees without papal authorization and warned that any doubts regarding their meaning would have to be resolved by the Holy See. As Hubert Jedin wrote, “[T]he prohibition did not diminish the value of the decrees but did ensure that the pope would have the freedom of movement that he had insisted upon from the very start.”90 On August 2, the pope established the Congregation for the Interpretation of the Council and gave the cardinals comprising it exclusive powers to interpret the Tridentine decrees in case of doubts or disputes. In addition, and paradoxically, the Professio Fidei Tridentinae, which was actually drawn up in Rome after the end of the council and issued by Pius IV on November 14, 1564, included measures concerning pontifical supremacy that had been rejected at Trent, including an oath of obedience to the pope, “Christ’s vicar,” who would lead the Church as Peter’s successor.91 Any man who received an ecclesiastical benefice, bishops in particular, now had to send a signed copy of the oath to Rome before he could receive the benefice.92 As a result of the 1564 measures, the pope did not modify the conciliar decrees, as the reformists had feared, but he did allay the fears of the Curia by ensuring the papacy’s right to interpret and grant dispensations. Second, the pope stopped Spanish (and other) theologians and civil authorities from drawing up their own interpretations. Third, he made it clear that popes were not necessarily subject to conciliar decrees unless they wished

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  105 to be. Thus, the supreme pontiff was not a mere executor but the supreme interpreter of the law and its application. As Pius IV had told the Venetian ambassador, “We will remain pope after the council as well.”93 Needless to say, Philip II was not pleased with the confirmation bull.94 On July 12, 1564, he issued the official acceptance (pragmática) of Trent in the Crown of Castile. In it, he implicitly referred to the council in terms indicating that papal confirmation was not required. According to the pragmática, “Christian monarchs and princes” must comply with Church mandates and help in their execution “as obedient sons, protectors, and defenders.”95 That meant they were obliged to assist in compliance and execution of universal councils legitimately and canonically convened and held with the authority of the Apostolic Holy See of Rome. The authority of such universal councils has always lain in the Church of God, so greatly venerated for being and representing through them the universal and Catholic Church, with the Holy Spirit aiding in their direction and progress. One of these councils was the one recently held in Trent.96 Philip II indicated that the pope had sent him the authentic and official version of the decrees. After accepting them, he “ordered” (manda) Spanish bishops and religious both to comply with them and to ensure compliance. There is no reference in the pragmática to the pope’s written confirmation of June 30, which most likely had not been received in Madrid on July 12. But nor was there any reference to the verbal confirmation of January 26, which had indeed been publicized. Borromeo made it clear that this annoyed him.97 The text for the Crown of Aragon was approved on July 31, 1564, although acceptance in the other kingdoms of the Hispanic Monarchy proved to be more difficult.98 Alberigo was right when he remarked that the decrees of Trent only occasionally reflected an implicit, fragmented ecclesiology. The reason was not that the bishops did not want to raise the issues but rather that, when it came to voting, the papal majority, together with the fact that the legates controlled the agenda, made it impossible to deal with matters related to any hypothetical superiority of the council over the pope. At the same time though, the presence of influential episcopalist sectors meant that Trent could not develop a theology based on papal primacy. That would come with the next council, Vatican I (1869–1870). As Alberigo says, this is why the Tridentine decrees, with all their ambiguities and gaps, are compatible with many ecclesiological designs. None of them was able to overcome the rest. Conciliarism was still alive as Trent entered its last phase, as is clearly shown by Pius IV’s lingering fears in that respect. It cast its shadow at various points, especially during sessions regarding the ability to propose topics for debate (17th session), the obligation of episcopal residency

106  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras (23rd), and papal confirmation of the decrees (25th). Since the reign of Paul III, in fact, there had been discussions every time someone wrote that the council represented the Catholic Church, as had been established in Constance, or that the pope was the universal shepherd, as in Florence. Neither position managed to gain a consensus and, therefore, neither appeared in the final version at Trent. At the same time, it is also clear that political instrumentalism was also behind these struggles over what the reforms should look like, who should oversee them, and, in particular, what the Holy See’s role should be. The emperor and monarchs, therefore, got involved; in the case of Philip II, he justified this by proclaiming himself to be a “Christian prince” and “protector of the Church and Holy See.” Kings should also be taken into account in the ecclesiology of the time. The great master of Tridentine studies, Hubert Jedin, wrote, in 1945, that the debate on the powers of the pope could have broken the Council of Trent. “Catholic theology had not yet achieved the clarity and consensus that are the premise of a conciliar definition. Gallicanism and Episcopalism were both still widely represented at the council.”99 But it is also true, as Alain Tallon has written, that conciliarism at Trent did not have the creative, reformist thrust or the same theological density that it had from the fifteenth century into the 1510s when Jacques Almain and John Mair were still teaching in Paris. On the contrary, Tridentine conciliarism “seemed on the defensive, content to criticize pro-papal theses.”100 Alberigo also noted that the erosion of conciliarism during 150 years had led, by the mid-sixteenth century, to weakened reform proposals, now based on moral considerations rather than doctrinal or even institutional commitment.101 The episcopalist stance of some of the bishops at Trent deserves more detailed attention. The presence among the last Tridentine and first postconciliar generations of leading episcopal figures who embodied the “ideal bishop” of the Counter Reformation leads us to think that the imposition of papal authority over the rest of the Church was not as linear or as rapid as has been thought. Paradoxically, historians today equate the positions taken by Pedro Guerrero in Granada with those taken by Carlo Borromeo in Milan, despite their harsh disagreements at Trent.102 Analyses of Tridentine debates traditionally identify the various positions of the bishops according to their home base. The bishop of Salamanca, Pedro González de Mendoza, wrote as follows: “The French want the council to have authority over the pontiff, the Spaniards fight for the authority of the bishops, and the Italians are for the pope.”103 Such generalizations are simply not true, even if there were majority tendencies in each geographic group. Spanish bishops and theologians at Trent reflected considerable heterogeneity. There were important differences between Pedro Guerrero and Martín de Córdoba, for example, and the other bishops too held a range of intermediate positions.

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  107 The responses to the questionnaire that Philip II sent to bishops in 1564 are another example of this diversity. Once the council was over, the petition asking Pius IV to confirm the decrees was an invitation for him to take the reins of Catholic reform once and for all, free of secular interference. It was also a way of establishing the pope’s superiority in the hierarchy, which the council had not been willing to define, and to eliminate any opportunity for conciliarist or episcopalist interpretations of the decrees. Pius IV assumed the interpretive monopoly and asserted his right to abrogate conciliar mandates. In so doing he acquired de facto powers that had not previously been settled and established an operational, rather than merely symbolic, notion of the primacy of the bishop of Rome. His successors, the so-called CounterReformation popes, would develop this model further. In this sense, the Council of Trent is, to use Oakley’s terminology, another of the “relay stations” of conciliarism in the Modern Age. Nevertheless, the signal received by the relay station was already weakened and, following the outcome of the council, the one it transmitted to the future was even more uncertain.104

Abbreviations AAV: Vatican Apostolic Archive SS: Secretary of State AGS: Archivo General de Simancas (Spain) E: Estado PR: Patronato Real CT: Concilium Tridentinum. Diariorum, Actorum, Epistolarum, Tractatuum nova Collectio, Görres-Gesellschaft/Herder, Freiburg im Breisgau, 1901–2001.

Notes 1 Alberigo, “L’ecclesiologia del Concilio di Trento,” Rivista di Storia della Chiesa in Italia XVIII-2 (1964): 227–242. 2 It is useful to remember that when Alberigo was writing, Vatican II was debating one of its most polemical texts, the Conciliar Constitution on the Church (Lumen Gentium, 1964). 3 See Alain Tallon, La France et le concile de Trente, 1518–1563 (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1997) and Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II y el clero secular. La aplicación del concilio de Trento (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V, 1999). 4 Adriano Prosperi has pointed to four issues important for modern Catholicism that were not debated at Trent: the Inquisition, missions outside Europe, new forms of religious experience, and the papacy; Il Concilio di Trento: una introduzione storica (Turin: Einaudi, 2001), 143–164. Similarly, John O’Malley wrote, “By Far, the Most Stunning Silence of the Council Is the Absence of a Decree on the Papacy,” in Trent. What happened at the Council (Cambridge/London: Harvard University Press, 2013), 51.

108  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras 5 Patrick Arabeyre refers to the “spectre of conciliarism,” which, paraphrasing Marx, would haunt Europe for years after it was presumed dead; “Le spectre du conciliarisme chez les canonistes français du XVe et du début du XVIe siècle,” in Les clercs et les princes. Doctrines et pratiques de l’autorité ecclésiastique à l’époque moderne, edited by Patrick Arabeyre and Brigitte Basdevant-Gaudemet (Paris: École des Chartes, 2013), 254. Minnich also referred to “the ghost of conciliarism at Trent,” in “Councils of the Catholic Reformation,” in The Church, the Councils & Reform. The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki and Cristopher M. Bellitto (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 55. 6 Francis Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition. Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300–1870 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 113. 7 The Conciliarist Tradition, 130–131. Oakley devotes more attention to Trent in “The Conciliar Heritage and the Politics of Oblivion,” in The Church, the Councils & Reform. The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki and Cristopher M. Bellitto, (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 93–94. On Luther’s and Calvin’s positions on councils see Alain Tallon, “Le conciliarisme au risque du concile: les ecclésiologies conciliaires au temps du concile de Trente,” in Les clercs et les princes. Doctrines et pratiques de l’autorité ecclésiastique à l’époque moderne, edited by Patrick Arabeyre and Brigitte BasdevantGaudemet (Paris: École des Chartes, 2013), 285–296. 8 Minnich, “Councils,” 27. 9 “At the start of the sixteenth century, the conciliarist current had been eliminated in Spain,” José Goñi Gaztambide wrote in “El conciliarismo en España,” Scripta Theologica 10, n° 3 (1978): 924. The great theologian Francisco de Vitoria (1486–1546) owed a great deal to conciliarism but essentially accepted the ideas of papal absolutism, as did Melchor Cano and Bartolomé Carranza; Thomas Izbicki, “The Fifteenth-Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano, and Bartolomé Carranza,” Renaissance and Reformation/ Renaissance et Réforme 42, n° 3 (2019): 141–166. Also, Katherine Elliott Van Liere, “Vitoria, Cajetan and the Conciliarists,” Journal of the History of Ideas 58, n° 4 (1997): 597–616. 10 Xavier Tubau, ed. “Situating Conciliarism in Early Modern Spanish Thought.” Special issue of Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, n° 3 (2019). 11 Xavier Tubau, “Alfonso de Valdés y la política imperial del Canciller Gattinara,” in Literatura, sociedad y política en los Siglos de Oro, edited by Eugenia Fosalba and Jorge García (Bellaterra: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2010), 17–43. 12 Xavier Tubau, “Hispanic Conciliarism and the Imperial Politics of Reform on the Eve of the Council of Trent,” Renaissance Quarterly 70 (2017): 897–934. 13 “Hispanic Conciliarism,” 923. 14 The most complete works are Hubert Jedin, Historia del concilio de Trento (Pamplona: EUNSA, 1972–1981), 4 vols.; Tallon, Le concile; Prosperi, Il concilio; Manuel Teruel Gregorio de Tejada, “Revisión historiográfica del concilio de Trento,” Pedralbes. Revista d’Història Moderna 30 (2010): 123–205; and O’Malley, Trent. 15 Tallon, La France, 431–132; Minnich, “Councils,” 56–58. 16 The importance of Pius IV’s reign, which has been overshadowed by those of his successors, has been reassessed in Elena Bonora, Roma 1564. La congiura

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  109 contro il papa (Bari: Laterza, 2011) and Miles Pattenden, Pius IV and the Fall of the Carafa. Nepotism and Papal Authority in Counter-Reformation Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 17 Xavier Tubau, “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 105–139. Also Ignacio Ezquerra Revilla, “Francisco de Vargas Mexía,” in Diccionario Biográfico Español, http://dbe.rah.es/biografias/4966/francisco-de-vargas-mexia and Constancio Gutiérrez, Españoles en Trento (Valladolid: CSIC, 1951), 478–493. 18 “El Papa, con no hacerse más en el concilio de lo que él quiere, anda tan temeroso de él, que es cosa para espantar. Y, a lo que puedo comprender, no nace esto solamente de las porfías que se han atravesado sobre lo de la residencia y lo demás, sino de pensar que los prelados han tomado ánimo y lo tendrán para tratar de cosas mayores y que tocasen a su persona o elección”; AGS E 892, f. 52, Vargas to Philip II, July 1, 1562. 19 “Este concilio preme grandemente a Su Santidad y cuanto más presto se pudiere desembarazar de él, lo hará”; AGS E 890, f. 99, Vargas to Philip II, November 10, 1561. 20 “Desbaratar de una manera o de otra el concilio (…) tal es la ansia y rabia que sobre esto trae”; AGS E 895, f. 12, Vargas to Philip II, April 7, 1563. 21 “Yugo”; AGS E 895, f. 55, Vargas to Philip II, September 2, 1563. 22 Jedin, Historia, 4/1, 149. 23 Umberto Mazzone, “Giovanni Morone legato al concilio di Trento e la clausola del “proponentibus legatis,” in Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’última fase del concilio di Trento, edited by Massimo Firpo and Ottavia Niccoli (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010), 117–142; and, more generally, “I dibattiti tridentini: tecniche di assemblea e di controllo,” in Il concilio di Trento e il moderno, edited by Paolo Prodi and Wolfgang Reinhard, (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1996), 101–136. 24 Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition, 116–117. 25 “Aunque en los tiempos pasados han procurado y tenido fin los pontífices a derogar y disminuir la autoridad de los Concilios universales, (… nunca se ha) llegado a restringir y limitar en tal forma la libertad que en ellos se ha y debe tener”; AGS E 1213, f. 154, Philip II to the emperor, October 20, 1562. 26 “Sería en efecto reducir los Concilios Universales, los cuales se congregan así en lo que toca a la fe y a la religión como en lo de las costumbres para ordenar y proveer general y libremente todo lo que en lo uno y en lo otro al servicio de Dios y bien de su Iglesia conviniera, (a que) tan solamente se entiendan ser congregados para tratar y determinar limitada y particularmente solo aquello que los Pontífices y sus legados les quisieren proponer, lo cual derechamente contradice y deroga a la autoridad de la Iglesia y a la substancia y fin de los Concilios Universales”; AGS E 893, f. 9, “Instrucciones secretas del rey a Don Luis de Zúñiga,” November 30, 1562. 27 “Es contra la substancia del concilio, quitar la forma esencial de él y la libertad de hablar, y que el sínodo ninguna cosa pueda sino lo que los legados quisieren”; AGS E 892, f. 102, Vargas to the archbishop of Granada and other Spanish bishops at Trent, January 31, 1562. 28 “Que el concilio ninguna autoridad tenga, por más formado que esté y universal que sea, sino tanto cuanto el Papa quisiere y sus legados permitieran y que los padres se puedan volver a sus casas, si fuere menester, sin saber nada, ni haber hecho cosa de a lo que se congregaron, como si esto fuese lo que Nuestro Señor instituyó y lo que los Apóstoles hicieron y lo que la Iglesia ha usado en aquellos Concilios tan célebres y sacrosantos y de tan grande autoridad y majestad”; AGS E 892, f. 11, Vargas to Philip II, March 1, 1562.

110  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras 29 For more on this point, see Giuseppe Alberigo, Lo sviluppo della dottrina sui poteri nella Chiesa universale. Momenti essenziali tra il XVI e il XIX secolo (Rome: Herder, 1964), 11–101. 30 “Non mirava ad altro che a legar le mani al Papa … a mostrar che il Concilio era sopra il Papa”; cited in Hubert Jedin, “La lotta intorno all’obbligo di residenza dei vescovi—1562/63,” in Chiesa della Fede, Chiesa della Storia (Brescia: Morcelliana, 1972), 307. 31 “Algunos prelados, no pudiendo replicar como quisieran, dieron en hacer tanto rumor con los pies que por gran rato no se pudo oír al dicho [obispo de] Lugo”; AGS PR 21, no. 188, “Avisos de Trento,” December 10, 1562. 32 “Perseveraron en ello gran rato”; AGS PR 21, no. 188, “Avisos de Trento,” December 10, 1562. The bishops’ opinions are in CT vol. 9, 194–201. According to the bishop of Salamanca, González de Mendoza, the French ambassador, Seigneur de Lanssac, upon hearing the coughing said, “It’s astonishing how ius divinum can give one a cold” (“Cosa maravillosa es ver el catarro que crea este ius divinum”); CT vol. 2, 669. The history of the Catholic Church is a source of endless surprises; at Vatican I, in 1870, the attacks of sneezing, coughing, and spitting reappeared when certain speakers argued in favor of limiting papal powers; Oakley, “The Conciliar Heritage,” 82–83. 33 “Dai Prelati che sono amorevoli dell’onore et dignità di questa Santa Sede”; AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 80, secretary of state to Nuncio Crivello, December 15, 1562. Borromeo, who received the news in Rome, defended Simonetta’s interruptions of Vozmediano because the speech was making everyone sick (“facendo nausea a tutta la Sinodo”). 34 Massimo Firpo and Ottavia Niccoli, eds., Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’última fase del concilio di Trento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010). 35 CT vol. 3/1, 458. 36 Alberigo, Lo sviluppo, 33–95. In contrast to the position widely maintained by others, Alberigo highlighted the singularity and isolation of Laínez’s positions at the council. Another Spanish Jesuit, Alfonso Salmerón, had outlined similar ideas at Trent in 1551. 37 Fidel García Guerrero, El decreto sobre la residencia de los obispos en la tercera asamblea del concilio tridentino (Cádiz: H. Álvarez, 1943). Historians have variously classified Spanish positions as being “conciliarist” or “episcopalist,” e.g., Alberigo, Lo sviluppo, 23. With regard to the bishops’ stances, it would be interesting to know at which universities they studied and what their intellectual inspirations and training were. 38 “Ciascun d’essi vorrebbe essere Papa nella sua diocesi, et con questo non riconoscere alcun superiore”; AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 80; secretary of state to Crivello, December 15, 1562. 39 AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 85; secretary of state to Crivello, January 27, 1563. 40 “I francesi, contra ogni dovere non vogliono consentire che il Papa si chiami Pastore della Chiesa Universale, presupponendo (e questo ancora contra ogni ragione) che cio possa pregiudicare alla falsa opinione loro quod Concilium sit supra Papam. Nondimeno, é chiaro che tutto si fa con intelligentia di spagnoli. … Questa è malignità grande et heresia manifesta, volendo costoro levare il titolo antichissimo al Papa quod sit Pastoris Universalis ecclesiae, et a questo modo estinguere l’autorità di questa Santa Sede per far piu ovili e piu pastori.” AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 89, secretary of state to Crivello, February 15, 1563. 41 “La licenzia effrenata che è in molti prelati spagnoli, quali ognuno vorria essere papi a le sue chiese … cose heretice e da protestante;” AGS E 892, f. 85, Pius IV to Philip II, December 23, 1562. There were similar accusations on the opposing side; at a council meeting on January 22, 1563 Guerrero said

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  111 anyone who did not believe that the bishops’ powers derived from divine right were as heretical as the Arians, setting off a dispute with the archbishop of Otranto, Pietro Antonio di Capua; CT, vol. 9, 369. 42 “Le potria dispiacere molto se si vedesse in Spagna cinquanta o sessanta Papi, cio è vescovi come ha detto assolutamente padroni nelle lor diocesi”; AGS E 1213, f. 190, cardinal Aragon to the marquis of Pescara, May 20, 1562. 43 “Que algunos de los españoles hablan con libertad en su persona y en su autoridad, queriéndose hacer iguales con él y diciendo que el Papa no es obispo universal y que cada uno de ellos lo es en su iglesia con la misma autoridad que el Papa en la de Roma”; AGS E 895, f. 210; Requesens to Philip II, October 22, 1563; f. 190 is a copy of Pius IV’s letter to Crivello, October 9, 1563. 44 On the Spanish bishops, theologians, and diplomats cited, see biographical notes in Gutiérrez, Españoles. 45 The most complete biography of Guerrero is Antonio Marín Ocete, El arzobispo D. Pedro Guerrero y la política conciliar española en el siglo XVI (Madrid: CSIC, 1970) 2 vols., although it only reaches 1563; see also Ricardo García-Villoslada, “Pedro Guerrero, representante de la reforma española,” in Il Concilio di Trento e la Riforma Tridentina. Atti del Convegno Storico Internazionale, vol. 1 (Rome-Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1963), 115–156. For Guerrero’s participation at Trent, see Juan López Martín, “Don Pedro Guerrero. Epistolario y Documentos,” Anthologica Annua 21 (1974): 249–551. 46 “Una pubblica et aperta professione di detrarre sempre all’autorità et dignità di questa Santa Sede … di veder travagliata Sua Santità et se possibile fusse, ruinata et distrutta questa Santa Sede”: AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, ff. 67–69, secretary of state to Crivello, October 9, 1562. 47 “Nadie de nosotros ha hablado de la Sede Apostólica o de Su Santidad o autoridad sino con toda la reverencia debida, y como de cosa que entendemos, debemos creer y predicamos a cada paso y en este lugar muchas veces hemos dicho ser instituida por Dios (…) Lo que habemos hecho es no consentir en cosas que aquí por varias y exquisitas maneras se nos han propuesto (…) perjudiciales a la autoridad de los santos concilios, a la dignidad episcopal, y al bien de las ánimas y buen gobierno de la iglesia universal”; AGS E 893, f. 199; 11 bishops to Philip II, April 6, 1563. The letter was signed by Guerrero and the bishops of Calahorra (Juan de Quiñones), Girona (Arias Gallego), Guadix (Álvarez de Vozmediano), León (Andrés Cuesta), Lugo (Francisco Delgado), Ourense (Blanco de Salcedo), Pamplona (Ramírez Sedeño), Segorbe (Juan de Muñatones), Segovia (Pérez de Ayala), and Vic (Moya de Contreras). 48 “Quedar hecho papa y supremo en su obispado, sin recurso alguno a Roma ni reconocimiento a la sede apostólica”; AGS E 892, f. 103; bishop of Tortosa to Philip II, February 18, 1562. 49 “Santa y justa es la Reformación en los potentados de la iglesia, así canónicos como civiles, pero muchas veces los inferiores y súbditos piden ciertas reformaciones rigurosas, más por ventura en venganza de la sujeción que no por celo que tengan al supremo poder y dignidad. No están los tiempos siendo tan tempestuosos para que digamos los que habemos venido al concilio: queremos reformar al papa, ni tal superioridad se ha de conceder al concilio”; Ibidem. 50 “No sé yo como pudieron contentarse ellos [los obispos] de hacer un canon que tira más a Aristocracia eclesiástica que a Monarquía, siendo esta última la que Nuestro Señor estableció en su Iglesia”; AGS E 895, f. 72, Vargas to Philip II, August 3, 1563.

112  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras 51 “El principal fin de los herejes es destruir al Papa y a esta Santa Sede, y deshacer el gobierno monárquico, que Cristo nuestro redentor instituyó en su iglesia, y reducirlo a modo de república de optimates, y que los obispos sean iguales con el papa”; Ibidem. 52 Paolo Prodi, Il sovrano pontefice. Un corpo e due anime: la monarchia papale nella prima età moderna (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1982). 53 “[C]omo en fuente está toda la dicha jurisdicción política y del fuero exterior, y de él se deriva a los miembros como por ríos y canales, y cada uno usa de ella según le es concedida y limitada por la Iglesia (…) La [jurisdicción] plenaria y universal está en el [papa] como en cabeza y príncipe de ella [la Iglesia] y de todos, a semejanza, ni más ni menos, que en el rey”; AGS E 895, f. 66, Vargas to Philip II, July 11, 1563. Pius IV ordered that Vargas’s declaration be printed: De episcoporum iurisdictione et Pontificis Maximi auctoritate (Rome, 1563). Miles Pattenden, who offers a very negative portrait of Vargas, argues that his position was the result of his wish to be named a cardinal; Pattenden, “From Ambassador to Cardinal?” Tubau’s hypotheses about the evolution of Vargas are more suggestive; Tubau, “Between,” 112–113. 54 Minnich, “Councils,” 58. 55 Alberigo, “La réception du Concile de Trente par l’Église catholique romaine,” Irénikon 58, n° 3 (1985): 311–337. 56 “No se puede creer la cólera que Su Santidad y toda esta Curia tienen con la reformación que allí [en Trento] se hizo”; AGS E 896, f. 33, Requesens to Philip II, March 4, 1564. 57 Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “Conflictos entre Carlos V y los cabildos catedralicios de la Corona de Castilla (1552–1556),” in Carlos V y la quiebra del humanismo político en Europa (1530–1558), edited by José Martínez Millán, vol. 2 (Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 2001), 361–386. 58 “Para poder enmendar, quitar o poner lo que le pareciese antes que lo confirmase. Y esto sería en efecto que el Concilio no será de ningún momento, porque habiéndose aquí muerto y disputado sobre cada palabra, que después se alterase como pareciese en Roma, vendría a no ser nada lo que se ha hecho en Trento”; AGS E 652, f. 114, count of Luna to Philip II, July 24, 1563. 59 “Más perjudicial a la autoridad de los concilios de cuantos se han tocado”; AGS E 894, f. 138, Philip II to Vargas, September 22, 1563. 60 Los concilios “no valen nada ni tienen autoridad ni jurisdicción, sino la que el papa quisiere y les diere (… que) ni a este pobre concilio ni a los venideros quede ya con qué respirar”; AGS E 895, f. 41, Vargas to Philip II, December 13, 1563. 61 “El ser algo, aunque inferior, que no ser nada, como lo sería el concilio si esto fuese así”; AGS E 652, f. 107, Philip II to count of Luna, September 22, 1563. 62 AGS E 652, f. 109, Philip II to count of Luna, December 6, 1563. In fact, when the king signed this letter, the Council of Trent had adjourned without waiting for the king’s approval. 63 Jedin, Historia, vol. 4/2, 285–286. 64 Alberigo, “La réception,” 313. 65 Jedin, Historia, vol. 4/2, 352. 66 “Atar las manos para que no pueda dispensar contra él [el concilio]. Yo quiero guardar el concilio, mas nadie me puede forzar a ello”; AGS E 899, f. 102, Cardinal Pacheco to Philip II, November 30, 1565. 67 Fernández Terricabras, Felipe II, 88–96. 68 “No se ha de inferir que así general y cerradamente en todo lo que ocurriere nos hemos de remitir y referir a lo que Su Santidad ordenare ni intervenir más en ello, porque de esta manera ni satisfaríamos a lo que como Príncipe Cristiano y Católico debemos, ni a la obligación que como verdadero hijo de

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  113 Su Santidad tenemos a le advertir en negocios tan graves y que tanto importan de lo que se nos ocurre, ni a la que tenemos a la iglesia y concilio universal de mirar muy particularmente y de asistir a todo lo que pareciere que es necesario y conviene”; AGS E 893, f. 9, “Instrucciones secretas del rey a Don Luis de Zúñiga,” November 30, 1562. 69 “Algunas veces habemos entendido que se ha apuntado (…) que estos negocios del concilio y los puntos que en él intervienen son eclesiásticos y tocan a Su Santidad y se los debemos dejar y remitir sin interponernos particularmente en ellos, acerca de lo cual entendemos que no solo no hay que imputarnos, mas que antes de debe juzgar por muy propio y verdadero oficio de Príncipe Cristiano en lo que habemos hecho y advertido y representado a Su Santidad”; Ibidem. 70 Esto todo principalmente toca a Su Santidad, a cuyo cargo es y de quien todo ha de depender, pero los Príncipes Cristianos, que tienen tanta obligación en cosas tan públicas y tan importantes en la Iglesia y beneficio público y, además de lo general, en especial por lo que toca a sus estados y Reinos, no pueden ni deben dejar ni excusar de interponerse, intervenir y asistir, como son obligados”; AGS E 894, f. 138, Philip II to Vargas, September 22, 1563. 71 “Solo está, después de Dios, en Vuestra Majestad, a quien Él ha puesto para ello y protección y amparo de su Iglesia y fe y de esta Santa Sede”; AGS E 892, f. 23, Vargas to Philip II, April 8, 1562. 72 “Protector de la Sede Apostólica.” Examples from Vargas’s letters to Philip can be found in: AGS E 890, f. 18 (February 15, 1561), f. 44 (May 23, 1561), f. 49 (April 22, 1561), f. 83 (August 28, 1561), and f. 90 (September 19, 1561); AGS E 892, f. 7 (February 6, 1562), and f. 76 (November 6, 1562); and AGS E 895, f. 60 (October 21, 1563) and f. 72 (August 3, 1563). But Vargas was not the only one to use this expression; so did Zúñiga, in AGS E 893, f. 169 (April 24, 1563). 73 “Como aquel Príncipe tan católico que es, a quien Dios ha hecho protector y defensor de su fe y de esta Santa Sede”; AGS E 886, f. 79, Vargas to Philip II, October 12, 1560. 74 “Como a protector y defensor de la Iglesia y de esta Santa Sede y patrimonio de ella”; AGS E 895, f. 13, Vargas to Philip II, June 6, 1563. 75 “Come protettore et braccio diritto nostro, concilio et aiuto,” AGS E 894, f. 5, Pius IV to Philip II, June 10, 1563. “Chè è il braccio et l’occhio dritto di Sua Santetà et di questa Santa Sede,” AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 113, secretary of state to Crivello, April 4, 1563. “Braccio dritto della Sede Apostolica et della Religione cattolica,” AAV, SS-Spagna, 39, f. 131, secretary of state to Crivello, June 12, 1563. 76 “Vuestra Majestad, como Príncipe tan catholico y protector de la religión y de esta Santa Sede y autoridad y libertad del concilio, mandará proveer lo que fuere servido”; AGS E 892, f. 6, Vargas to Philip II, February 5, 1562. 77 “Por la obligación que como príncipe tiene a responder y mirar por lo que al servicio de Dios y bien de su Iglesia tanto importa, y [por la] protección que en esto que concierne a la libertad y autoridad de los concilios los príncipes cristianos tienen y deben tener, siendo este el más principal oficio y ministerio que en la celebración de los Concilios a los príncipes toca e incumbe”; AGS E 893, f. 64, “Apuntamientos que dio el Dr. Velasco … sobre la cláusula proponentibus legatis,” n.d. 78 AGS E 652, f. 108, Philip II to count of Luna, November 15, 1563. 79 Fernández Terricabras, “Conflictos.” 80 Sylvène Édouard, L’Empire imaginaire de Philippe II. Pouvoir des images et discours du pouvoir sous les Habsbourg d’Espagne au XVIe siècle (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2005).

114  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras 81 Philip II repeated it after Trent when Pius IV considered concessions to Catholics in the Empire; Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “Fernando I y la tercera etapa del concilio de Trento,” in Socialización, vida privada y actividad pública de un emperador en el Renacimiento, edited by Alfredo Alvar Ezquerra (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales— Universidad de Alcalá de Henares, 2004), 389–407. 82 Similar considerations are underway in the field of Protestantism; see Per Ingesman, “King, Church, and Religion. The Ecclesiology of King Christian III of Denmark and Norway,” in Were We Ever Protestants? Essays in Honour of Tarald Rasmussen, edited by Sivert Angel, Hallgeir Elstad and Eivor Andersen Oftestad (Berlin: De Gruyter 2019), 73–90. 83 “Una certa coscienza messianica delle sue responsabilità e dei suoi punti di vista pervade tutta la sua politica ecclesiastica, anche dopo el concilio, col pericolo di voler convertire il Papa in un suo cappellano”; José Ignacio Tellechea, “Filippo II e il Concilio di Trento,” in Il Concilio di Trento come crocevia della política europea, edited by Hubert Jedin and Paolo Prodi (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1979), 126. 84 First: “Según lo que se tiene entendido, Su Santidad ha hecho la confirmación declarando ser necesaria, de todo lo cual resulta tan grave perjuicio a la autoridad de los concilios; si esto quedará así o si se deba y convendría hacer alguna diligencia.” Fifth: Si presupuesto que para la ejecución y cumplimiento de los decretos del concilio es tan importante y necesaria la autoridad de Su Majestad, en qué manera esta se podrá y deberá interponer, así respecto de lo que acá en estos reinos será necesario como en cuanto a las derogaciones y revocaciones que vinieran de Roma.” AGS PR 21, no. 170, and AAV, SS-Spagna 2, ff. 295–297, “Capitoli dati alli Prelati da considerare per dare il parar loro.” 85 For an overall perspective see Fernández Terricabras, “Il concilio.” It would have been interesting to know Guerrero’s opinion, but we do not know if he received the questions or wrote out his replies. He did not return by sea, as the rest did, but overland, via Switzerland and Paris; AGS E 144, f. 105, Guerrero to Philip II, January 12, 1564. 86 “Que con él no se contravenga a la Suprema Autoridad Apostólica (…) pues si estas dispensaciones y derogaciones emanan del Pontífice ¿cómo se podrá con pragmática o otra cualquier sanción resistirlas sin incurrir en desobediencia?”; AGS PR 21, no. 171, response of the bishop of Tortosa, n.d. 87 AGS PR 21, no. 175, response of Antonio de Covarrubias, n.d. 88 AGS PR 21, no. 177, response of the bishop of Ciudad Rodrigo, March 3, 1564. 89 “Encarga y amonesta a todos los príncipes cristianos que no permitan que lo que en este santo concilio se ha determinado sea depravado, sino que sea de todos recibido y fielmente guardado. Recibiendo Su Majestad esta carga sobre sí y queriendo obedecer el Santo Concilio, está obligado, con toda reverencia y debido acatamiento de Su Santidad y de la Sede Apostólica, a oponerse a cualquier derogación que se hiciere de lo allí [en Trento] decretado, ahora sean dogmas o decretos de reformación”; AGS PR 21, no. 172, response of the Observant Franciscan general, n.d. 90 “La prohibición no restringía el valor de los decretos, pero aseguraba al papa precisamente aquella libertad de movimientos a la que él desde el principio había dado tanta importancia”; Jedin, Historia, vol. 4/2, 356. 91 Giuseppe Alberigo, “The Conciliar Church,” in The Church, the Councils & Reform. The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki and Cristopher M. Bellitto (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 290. As for the aftermath of the council, we should bear in mind Alberigo’s crucial distinction between the

Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  115 council and “Tridentism”; “Du concile de Trente au tridentinisme.” Irénikon 54 (1981/2): 192–210. 92 Jedin, Historia, vol. 4/2, 371–372. 93 “Nos seremos papa también después del concilio”; Jedin, Historia, vol. 4/2, 356. 94 AGS E 897, f. 75, Philip II to Requesens, August 31, 1564. 95 “Reyes y príncipes cristianos (…) como hijos obedientes y protectores y defensores de ella.” There are several extant copies in archives, e.g. AGS PR 21, no. 169; also published versions such as Ignacio López de Ayala, El Sacrosanto y Ecuménico Concilio de Trento (Barcelona: Ramon Martín Indar, 1847), 435–437. 96 “Al cumplimiento y ejecución de los concilios universales que legítima y canónicamente con la autoridad de la Santa Sede Apostólica de Roma han sido convocados y celebrados, la autoridad de los cuales concilios u ­ niversales fue siempre en la Iglesia de Dios de tanta y tan gran veneración por estar y representarse con ellos la Iglesia católica y universal, y asistir a su dirección y progreso el Espíritu Santo, uno de los cuales concilios ha sido y es el que últimamente se ha celebrado en Trento.” Ibidem. Emphasis is mine. 97 AGS E 896, f. 92, Requesens to Philip II, August 11, 1564. 98 Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “The Catholic Reformation and the Power of the King: Implementation of the Decrees of the Council of Trent in the Absolute Monarchies,” in The Council of Trent: Reform and Controversy in Europe and Beyond (1545–1700), edited by Wim François and Violet Soen, vol. 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018), 221–253; Matteo Al Kalak, “L’autorità di un concilio. Trento, la sua applicazione e il suo mito,” Cristianesimo nella storia 40, no. 1 (2019): 99–105. 99 “La teologia cattolica non aveva ancora raggiunto quel’accordo e quella chiarezza che sono la premessa di una definizione conciliare. Il Gallicanismo e l’Episcopalismo erano ancora largamente representati al Concilio”; Alberigo, Lo sviluppo, 27. 100 Tallon, La France, 431. Tallon attribues the “decline” and “theological poverty” of French conciliarism at Trent to the rise in royal power that fostered more moderate ideas than those at the Sorbonne. This “royal conciliarism” can be found more in works of history than theology. It was more a way of applying political pressure on the pope than a truly operational means of church reform (431–439). On conciliarism’s continuity in France after Trent see the interesting information provided in Philippe Denis, “Tridentinism in question: Edmond Richer and the Renewal of Conciliarism in the Early Seventeenth Century,” in The Council of Trent: Reform and Controversy in Europe and Beyond (1545–1700), edited by Wim François and Violet Soen, vol. 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018), 368–375. 101 Alberigo, Lo sviluppo, 12. While Tallon dates conciliarism’s lack of creativity to the sixteenth century, Alberigo goes back to the fifteenth century; “The Conciliar Church,” 272. 102 No one has built upon the interpretation offered in Paolo Prodi, “Charles Borromée, archevêque de Milan, et la Papauté,” Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique 62 (1967): 379–411. 103 “Los franceses pelean por la autoridad del concilio sobre el sumo pontífice, los españoles por la autoridad de los obispos y los italianos por la del papa”; CT vol. 2, 681. 104 I would like to thank Ruth MacKay for her translation and advice on how to improve this text.

116  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras

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Conciliarism and episcopalism at the Council of Trent  117 Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “Il concilio di Trento e il potere del re. Il questionario di Filippo II ai vescovi spagnoli e le loro risposte (1564).” In Chiesa Cattolica e Mondo Moderno. Scritti in onore di Paolo Prodi, edited by Adriano Prosperi, P. Schiera and Gabriela Zarri, 107–122. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. Fernández Terricabras, Ignasi. “The Catholic Reformation and the Power of the King: Implementation of the Decrees of the Council of Trent in the Absolute Monarchies.” In The Council of Trent: Reform and Controversy in Europe and Beyond (1545–1700), edited by Wim François and Violet Soen, vol. 2, 221– 253. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018. Firpo, Massimo and Ottavia Niccoli, eds. Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’última fase del concilio di Trento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010. García-Villoslada, Ricardo. “Pedro Guerrero, representante de la reforma española.” In Il Concilio di Trento e la Riforma Tridentina. Atti del Convegno Storico Internazionale, vol. 1, 115–156. Rome-Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1963. Goñi Gaztambide, José. “El conciliarismo en España.” Scripta Theologica 10, no. 3 (1978): 893–928. García Guerrero, Fidel. El decreto sobre la residencia de los obispos en la tercera asamblea del concilio tridentino. Cádiz: H. Álvarez, 1943. Gutiérrez, Constancio. Españoles en Trento. Valladolid: CSIC, 1951. Ingesman, Per. “King, Church, and Religion. The Ecclesiology of King Christian III of Denmark and Norway.” In Were We Ever Protestants? Essays in Honour of Tarald Rasmussen, edited by Sivert Angel, Hallgeir Elstad and Eivor Andersen Oftestad, 73–90. Berlin: De Gruyter 2019. Izbicki, Thomas. “The Fifteenth-Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano, and Bartolomé Carranza.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 141–166. Jedin, Hubert. “La lotta intorno all’obbligo di residenza dei vescovi—1562/63.” In Chiesa della Fede, Chiesa della Storia, 295–315. Brescia: Morcelliana, 1972. Jedin, Hubert. Historia del concilio de Trento. Pamplona: EUNSA, 1972–1981, 4 vols. López de Ayala, Ignacio. El Sacrosanto y Ecuménico Concilio de Trento. Barcelona: Ramon Martín Indar, 1847, http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obra/ el-sacrosanto-y-ecumenico-concilio-de-trento-1/ López Martín, Juan, “Don Pedro Guerrero. Epistolario y Documentos.” Anthologica Annua 21 (1974): 249–551. Marín Ocete, Antonio. El arzobispo D. Pedro Guerrero y la política conciliar española en el siglo XVI. Madrid: CSIC, 1970, 2 vols. Mazzone, Umberto. “I dibattiti tridentini: tecniche di assemblea e di controllo.” In Il concilio di Trento e il moderno, edited by Paolo Prodi and Wolfgang Reinhard, 101–136. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1996. Mazzone, Umberto. “Giovanni Morone legato al concilio di Trento e la clausola del ‘proponentibus legatis.’” In Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e l’última fase del concilio di Trento, edited by Massimo Firpo and Ottavia Niccoli, 117–142. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010. Minnich, Nelson H. “Councils of the Catholic Reformation.” In The Church, the Councils & Reform. The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki and Cristopher M. Bellitto, 27–59. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008. O’Malley, John W. Trent. What Happened at the Council. Cambridge, MA/ London: Harvard University Press, 2013.

118  Ignasi Fernández Terricabras O’Malley, John W. “What Happened and Did Not Happen at the Council of Trent.” In The Council of Trent: Reform and Controversy in Europe and Beyond (1545–1700), edited by Wim François and Violet Soen, vol. 1, 49–68. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018. Oakley, Francis. The Conciliarist Tradition. Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300–1870. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Oakley, Francis. “The Conciliar Heritage and the Politics of Oblivion.” In The Church, the Councils & Reform. The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, edited by Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki and Cristopher M. Bellitto, 82–98. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008. Pattenden, Miles. Pius IV and the fall of the Carafa. Nepotism and Papal Authority in Counter-Reformation Rome. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Pattenden, Miles. “From Ambassador to Cardinal? Francisco de Vargas at the Papal Court (1559–1563).” In Embajadores culturales. Transferencias y lealtades de la diplomacia española de la Edad Moderna, edited by Diana CarrióInvernizzi, 139–156. Madrid: UNED, 2016. Prodi, Paolo. “Charles Borromée, archevêque de Milan, et la Papauté.” Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique 62 (1967): 379–411. Prodi, Paolo. Il sovrano pontefice. Un corpo e due anime: la monarchia papale nella prima età moderna. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1982. Prosperi, Adriano. Il Concilio di Trento: una introduzione storica. Turin: Einaudi, 2001. Tallon, Alain. La France et le concile de Trente, 1518–1563. Rome: École Française de Rome, 1997. Tallon, Alain. Le concile de Trente. Paris: Cerf, 2000. Tallon, Alain. “Le conciliarisme au risque du concile: les ecclésiologies conciliaires au temps du concile de Trente.” In Les clercs et les princes. Doctrines et pratiques de l’autorité ecclésiastique à l’époque moderne, edited by Patrick Arabeyre and Brigitte Basdevant-Gaudemet, 285–296. Paris: École des Chartes, 2013. Tellechea Idígoras, José Ignacio. “Filippo II e il Concilio di Trento.” In Il Concilio di Trento come crocevia della política europea, edited by Hubert Jedin and Paolo Prodi, 109–135. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1979. Teruel Gregorio de Tejada, Manuel. “Revisión historiográfica del concilio de Trento.” Pedralbes. Revista d’Història Moderna 30 (2010): 123–205. Tubau, Xavier. “Alfonso de Valdés y la política imperial del canciller Gattinara.” In Literatura, sociedad y política en los Siglos de Oro, edited by Eugenia Fosalba and Jorge García, 17–43. Bellaterra: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2010. Tubau, Xavier. “Hispanic Conciliarism and the Imperial Politics of Reform on the Eve of the Council of Trent.” Renaissance Quarterly 70 (2017): 897–934. Tubau, Xavier, ed. Situating Conciliarism in Early Modern Spanish Thought. Special issue of Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019). Tubau, Xavier. “Between Ecclesiology and Diplomacy: Francisco de Vargas and the Council of Trent.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 105–139. Van Liere, Katherine Elliott. “Vitoria, Cajetan and the Conciliarists.” Journal of the History of Ideas 58, no. 4 (1997): 597–616. Vargas, Francisco de. De episcoporum iurisdictione et Pontificis Maximi auctoritate. Roma: Paolo Manuzio, 1563.

5 Heresy and the language of Catholicism in sixteenth-century Spain (1558–1560)1 María José Vega

Some lines in Juan de Ávila’s (1499–1569) Libro espiritual, published posthumously in 1574, refer to how Lutheranism obliged theologians to make changes to doctrinal language, to substitute one characteristic term for another, to omit others, and to speak distinctly—that is, with appropriateness, clarity, finesse, and attention to shades of meaning that could no longer be passed over in silence: But because the Lutherans are in the habit of taking some of these words as [meaning] others, we Catholics ought to speak distinctly, calling faith and trust by their proper names: declaring the manner of understanding belief or unbelief; because what could at one time be safely said by some words ought to be avoided at another time. Mas porque los Lutheranos usan tomar unas palabras destas por otras, devemos los catolicos hablar distinctamente, llamando la fe y confiança con sus propios nombres: declarando el creer o la incredulidad de qué manera se entiende, pues lo que en un tiempo se puede seguramente dezir por unas palabras en otro se deve evitar.2 This passage indicates a change in the acceptability threshold of terms and statements and reveals an acute consciousness of the impact of Lutheranism on doctrinal language. This is not an isolated case. Melchor Cano (c. 1509–1560) noted that Bartolomé Carranza’s (1504–1576) Catecismo adopted “Lutheran modes of speech” (“modos de hablar lutheranos”) in reference to Christ’s satisfaction and merits, and he disapproved of passages where Carranza used language that “seems inexcusable in the present times” or that “being the same as what the heretics use on this subject, points to their erroneous meaning in the proper sense of the words, contrary to Catholic teaching.”3 An early, anonymous Parecer on Constantino de la Fuente’s (1502–1560) Doctrina Cristiana detected that Constantino

DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-6

120  María José Vega makes use of the words and manners of speaking of the Lutherans, as in saying “the apprehension of the word of God” and “the certainty of his promises”, “the sureness of his fulfilment” and other similar forms of speaking common among the Lutherans, and that they have made their own. usa de los vocablos y maneras de decir de los lutheranos, como es decir la aprehensión de la palabra de Dios y la certinidad de sus promesas, la firmeza de su cumplimiento y otras semejantes formas de hablar, comunes entre los lutheranos y proprias dellos.4 So, how is this Lutheran language to be identified? What words and discursive practices are considered tainted? How have the limits of what is acceptable in religious discourse changed? How does heresy transform the language of Catholicism? In the following pages, I propose to examine Lutheranism’s impact on theological language.5 I shall pay special attention to the contemporary thinking and to texts which give voice to, and make explicit, the perception of dissident language or the changes in discourse about the Faith. Given the vastness of the enterprise, I shall limit my analysis to the few critical years between 1558 and 1560: the period when Protestant groups were discovered in Valladolid and Seville, the Inquisitor General Fernando de Valdés (1483–1568) promulgated the Index of Prohibited Books, and the Carranza case—sixteenth-century Spanish Catholicism’s true cause célèbre—erupted onto the scene.6 I shall use as my testing ground the censuras of Bartolomé Carranza’s Catecismo, in the care of Domingo de Soto (1494–1560), Melchor Cano, Domingo Cuevas, Juan de la Peña (c. 1513–1565), and other theologians, in which the language of heresy constitutes a crucial theme. Most of all, I shall examine the limits of acceptability in statements about the Faith.7 The focus of my interest will be religion-as-language8 and the new requirements of theological discourse.9

Why the Carranza case? On the night of August 22, 1559, the archbishop of Toledo, Bartolomé Carranza, was arrested by the Inquisition at his residence in Torrelaguna and taken, a day later, to prison in Valladolid. The trial lasted 17 years; it involved both Spain and Italy, and it concluded when the papacy condemned Carranza to abjure 16 propositions de vehementi.10 His arrest was triggered by suspicions of heresy based on an examination of his Comentarios al Catecismo, which had been published in Antwerp in 1558, and of his sermons and minor writings.11 Without a doubt, the judicial process against the archbishop of Toledo and primate of Spain was a political and religious scandal. It has been variously attributed to the hardening of Spanish censorial policy in the

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  121 1550s, to a new and more severe religious climate following the discovery of the Protestant groups in Valladolid and Seville, to difficulties in dealing with the remains of alumbradismo or the spread of valdesianismo, to the political confrontation between papacy and Crown or between the former and the Spanish Inquisition, to a conflict between rationalism and spiritualism, and, above all, to the personal animosities of individuals who participated in the process, particularly a clash between Bartolomé Carranza and the Inquisitor General Fernando de Valdés, or, alternatively, between Carranza and the Dominican theologian Melchor Cano, who wrote one of the censuras of the Catecismo. This emotion-centered explanation (which ignores the theological aspects of the case and fails to evaluate the archbishop’s convictions and texts or the political circumstances of his imprisonment) has been the dominant approach until now. It was already present in the first Carranza biography, by Pedro Salazar y Mendoza (1549–1629)—a work which, as Roberto López Vela has shown, was sympathetic to the archbishop and attributed the trial entirely to the hostility, hatred, and envy that Carranza’s exemplary piety, or his being a favorite of Philip II, aroused in inquisitors, bishops, and theologians.12 Following Salazar y Mendoza, nineteenth-century liberal historiography, which was opposed to the Holy Office, presented Carranza as a saint, a Catholic hero, the innocent victim of a “churchmen’s conspiracy.”13 In fact, Juan Antonio Llorente (1756–1823) found no other reason for Carranza’s imprisonment than that “the Inquisitor General’s intentions… were poisoned by the venom of envy,” and he accepted that the trigger point and foundation of the trial was a Parecer written by Pedro de Castro (†1561), bishop of Cuenca, which affirmed that he had discovered Lutheran doctrines in the Catecismo’s article on justification.14 Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras, the twentieth century’s most observant historian of Carranza’s case and the most careful editor of his trial documents, extended and expanded even further this (long) interpretative line.15 He has devoted his writings—which closely follow Salazar’s biography—to undoing the charge of heresy, and his interpretation of events has achieved widespread acceptance in recent decades.16 Tellechea describes the debate surrounding the Catecismo as an extra-theological affair of passion that can be reduced to an aggregation of envious feelings and rivalries, the key to which was not so much the inquisitor’s ill will or the bishop of Cuenca’s Parecer, but rather the (vernacular) Censura of Cano, which he characterizes as a monument of hatred.17 Tellechea constructed a framework of antitheses in which Cano and Carranza represented two opposing ways of understanding Christianity (Carranza’s being positive and Cano’s, negative); resolution came with the triumph of the rigorist, hardline, aggressive, closed, and counter-reformationist party.18 In this scenario, Carranza represents the Spain that never was, a (good) form of Catholicism that was frustrated or that shriveled when he was arrested and tried. Cano is then the “negative counter-type”

122  María José Vega of Carranza, and the censura is a “reflection of his soul” or a testament to sagacity in the service of condemnatory passion.19 It would thus not be dictated by professionalism or reason, but by hatred or by servility to those in power, from whom Cano in return received friendship, esteem, and perquisites:20 his approach would thus be strategic, partial, twisted or, alternatively, an empty exercise in finding what he wanted to find, as opposed to the friendly reading of the Catecismo by Carranza’s friends, like Domingo de Soto, or his disciples, like Juan de la Peña.21 The Carranza case is presented as a “national trauma” and a key to understanding Spanish Catholicism and the coming of the Counter Reformation. Paradoxically, it would thus rest upon a simple and irreconcilable rivalry since the entire Carranza case would be understood “on the complex plane of personal loyalties and hostilities.”22 The fact that Cano died in 1560, near the beginning of this long process, does not appear to have affected this interpretation, which robs the discussion of any examination of the Catecismo and Carranza’s passages on justification by faith, as well as of the archbishop’s active promulgation of some of Juan de Valdés’s (c. 1490–1541) writings. Antonio Márquez has warned historians of the Inquisition against the temptation to turn historical analysis into an appeals court where a case is reopened or a judgment is rendered by a superior tribunal.23 His warning aptly applies to Tellechea’s apologetic approach, which aspires not simply to present a history of the case but above all to retry it in order to rehabilitate the Catecismo and declare Carranza innocent at the bar of history, like a sort of spiritual Galileo.24 Reducing the Carranza case to a drama of hatred and envy has relegated the trial’s most fascinating problems and those that are most noteworthy for the history of doctrine, to the periphery of historical interest. These are an understanding of the catechism genre and of its proliferation in the middle decades of the sixteenth century, an examination of censorial hermeneutics and the processes of calificación for a text of such length and complexity, a thoughtful reflection on the limits of dissent and on how dissent shifts in keeping with changing circumstances and with how Lutheran heresy is understood, the fear in Italy and Spain of Lutheranism infiltrating the upper hierarchy of the Church, and the problematic borderline between heresy and sedition in Castilian politics during the 1550s. The emphasis on the personal has also obscured the analogy with trials of other bishops and cardinals that took place in Italy during the same period over suspicions of Valdesianism or adherence to Lutheran theses on justification.25 In Spain, the Carranza case had a refining effect on thinking about the language of faith, and it forced censors, theologians, prelates, and inquisitors to make the mechanics of doctrinal judgment explicit. Whether or not one thinks that the archbishop’s trial was a crisis moment, a “trauma,” or a turning point in the direction of the Counter Reformation, it undoubtedly does constitute a privileged vantage point for rethinking Spanish Catholicism in the sixteenth century.

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  123

In rigore ut iacent. Why the censuras of the Catecismo? The censuras of Carranza’s Catecismo offer a consistent meditation on theological language, on words tainted by Lutheran polemic, and above all on the limits of acceptability in religious discourse. Until now, these censuras and pareceres have seldom been read, and then only with apologetic ends, as acts of friendship or hatred, and they have been interpreted with only a tenuous understanding of the principles and language of “qualification” (calificación).26 They have never been examined as texts that reflect a genre employing precise protocols of writing and requiring an acknowledgment of theological authority, that exhibited its own technical lexicon and conceptual toolbox, and that was part of a collegial, inter pares process. Qualification was above all a hermeneutical act, a professional exercise in dogmatic theology, which, in the second half of the sixteenth century, rested upon an orderly, complex deposit of knowledge about the nature of error.27 Censuras needed to be commissioned, and they had consultative value because they served as evidence in judicial proceedings or cases of beatification, but no censura was in itself binding upon the authorities who had commissioned it. In Spain, these authorities were usually the Holy Office, the Crown, and the universities; in Italy, they were also the pope, the Roman Inquisition, and the Congregation of the Index.28 For Carranza’s case, the Council of the Inquisition had asked Melchor Cano, Domingo Cuevas, Domingo de Soto, and other theologians to carry out censuras on the text of the Catecismo and on its propositions ut iacent or in rigore ut iacent, in themselves and without consideration of authorial intent.29 Thus, this procedure required that attention should be focused exclusively on the text, on the sequence of language, and on the meanings of words. Tellechea presented this system as a condemnatory stratagem, a “manoeuver” for taking key passages out of context, and as a malicious and murky process intended to betray the archbishop’s (wholesome) motives.30 Surprisingly, historians of religious life, echoing Tellechea’s indignation, have perpetuated this verdict, sidestepping any study of the censuras for what they are—namely, “qualifications,” hermeneutical acts, and theological documents. Since the Middle Ages, the first step in the qualification process was to identify propositions or theses that required examination. Thus, qualifying long works or even the entire output of a particular author required the initial selection and compilation of essential propositiones that quoted or paraphrased passages of texts or summarized their main ideas. The lists thus produced are what Joseph Koch, in a study of medieval philosophy, called Irrtumlisten, lists of errors. The nature and seriousness of these were then submitted to the judgment of several theologians.31 This procedure was developed at the universities of Paris and Oxford not only for written texts but also for keeping watch over teaching and preaching.32 That is why Eckhart’s (c. 1260–1328) Averroism was evaluated in

124  María José Vega the light of 15 propositions, the Council of Constance condemned John Wycliffe (c. 1320–1384) after examining 45 theses, and the works and ideas of Pico della Mirandola (1463–1494) and Pedro de Osma (c. 1427– 1480) were judged according to the same method at Rome and in Castile. A few years before the Carranza case, the Censura generalis (1554) had examined 130 propositions that appeared in the margins and summaries of Bibles printed in Germany and France. The qualification of these propositions ut iacent was therefore not a maneuver by Cano nor a stratagem guided by Valdés’s hatred, nor was it a novelty in the Carranza case. Rather, it was a standard for reading, one which directed the censors’ attention to written expressions as depositories of meaning. The fact that Tellechea and other historians have discredited the qualification process at the outset has deleted a crucial aspect of the Carranza case from the horizon of researchers and has deprived the collection of pareceres and censuras of their theological and historical relevance when these in fact function as metatexts of the Catecismo and provide a unique vantage point for understanding the reading methods of doctrinal discourse during years that are critical for our understanding of sixteenthcentury Spanish Catholicism.

Lutheran language The expression “Lutheran language” (lenguaje luterano) appears frequently in the censuras of the Catecismo and in the depositions of some witnesses and is found even among Carranza’s defenders.33 It usually refers to certain especially critical themes such as justification by faith, the nature of living faith (fe viva), merit, the treasury (hacienda) and sacrifice of Christ, the certainty of grace, and the value of good works. Melchor Cano, in particular, reflected on this language and Lutheran modes of speech in several passages of his censura.34 He held to the general position that “in the use of language, we ought to flee as much as possible from that [language] that the heretics have taken to use as their own” (“en el lenguaje devemos huir, quanto fuere posible, el que propriamente usurparen los hereges,” P101), and he twice recalls that St. Thomas expressly urged this very thing. On the subject of the certainty of salvation through the benefit of Christ, as stated in the Catecismo (144v°), Cano writes the following: This language belongs to Lutherans, and as such it sounds evil in the ears of the faithful who have read the books of the Lutherans and who know that this manner of speaking is used amongst them. And St. Thomas warns [us] that we are not to have communion with heretics even in the words, but rather to flee from those words which they habitually usurp as their own, and because it is so generalised and muddled, [this manner of speaking] will furnish occasion for error.

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  125 Este lenguaje es de lutheranos, E assi suena mal a los oydos de los fieles, que estan exercitados en la lecion de libros lutheranos, E saben que entre ellos se usurpa esta manera de hablar. E amonesta sancto Thomas que con los hereges aun en las palabras no hemos de comunicar, sino huir de las que ellos propriamente suelen usurpar, y por ser tan general e confussa, dará ocassion de errar. (P60)35 Cano understands that language is never neutral (P101), especially in the case of topics that are the subject of controversy and require that discourse should be done with extraordinary care and precision. He also realizes that use modifies and shapes meaning: therefore, Protestantism would come to transform many doctrinal terms and would, through proximity, load them with new meaning. The use of the word “certain” or “sure” (cierto, seguro) or related terms like “certainty” (certinidad) produced the following reflection: [W]herever a careful theologian hears that there are sure arguments or indications that a person is in grace, it sounds evil to his ears, and, more than anything, there appears to be no excuse in the present times for this language used by the author, especially when the author knows, as he does know, that there has been and is a great debate on this point between Catholics who have spoken and speak in a wholesome way, and Lutherans; and that the Lutherans, and some others who have erred in this, say and affirm that there are sure indications and arguments for understanding that a person is in grace. [D]o quiera que el theologo prudente oye que hay argumentos o indicios ciertos para conocer que el hombre esta en gracia, le suena mal a los oydos, y ante todas cosas este lenguaje de que el auctor vsa, en los tiempos de agora no paresce que lleua escusas, mayormente sabiendo él, como lo sabe, que en este punto ha auido y hay gran debate entre los catholicos que sanamente han hablado y hablan, y entre los lutheranos, y que los lutheranos y algunos otros errados en esto, dizen y afirman que ay ciertos indicios y argumentos para entender vno que esta en gracia. (P18)36 This passage reveals Cano’s acute consciousness of the fact that in the present time, language has been transformed by religious controversy, and he diagnoses the impact of the polemical debates surrounding de certitudine gratiae upon Catholic doctrinal discourse. Sophie Houdard has used the expression parole polemique to refer to language that reveals or contains within itself the conflict in which it participates and that in some manner conveys its confrontational usages.37 This concept aligns well with the observations of Melchor Cano and the censors of the Catecismo, who detected that the Lutheran predilection for certain terms, or their semantic change, specialization, or redefinition in new polemical

126  María José Vega contexts had rendered them doubtful if not unusable (or, above all, unusable without detailed explanation) in Catholic doctrinal exposition.38 There are numerous, representative examples. The bishop of León, Andrés Cuesta (†1564), affirmed that he could cite many propositions from Carranza’s Catecismo that had “the sound of error” (sonido a errores)—that is, ut iacent—as well as “other language and ways of speaking and words that uses, such as confidence, surety, sure, certain, let us have a sure hope of our salvation, etc., which to avoid being prolix I will not put here” (“otros lenguajes y maneras de hablar e vocablos que usa, como son confiança, seguridad, seguros, ciertos, tengamos cierta esperança de nuestra salvación, etc., que por ebitar prolixidad no lo pongo aquí,” DH II 418). He understands that to some extent this could be borrowed language, words that Carranza had read and then reused through carelessness or for some other reason (DH II 419). Also, Cano suspected that intertexts carelessly handled or unnoticed had double-crossed the author, who, for example, paraphrased or reproduced literally some of Calvin’s passages (P 74). The term “living faith” (fe viva), so often repeated in the Catecismo, was also Lutheran language and a polemical expression, to judge by Domingo de Soto’s official Censura: he opines that “it would be better to say ‘love’ (caridad)” (DH VI 194). This expression, which comes from the epistle of James (2:17–24), is found again in the dialogues of Christian doctrine of Juan de Valdés and Constantino de la Fuente, in Francisco de Encinas (c. 1518–1552), and in Cipriano de Valera’s (1531–1600) Dos tratados; the latter contrasts living faith, that is “true and diligent,” with dead faith that is “imaginary and inactive”; the latter is “not that Faith which justifies” (Dos tratados, p. 456).39 An anonymous Parecer on the Suma of Constantino (ca. 1558) proposed other similar cases and found Lutheran language in “the favour of God” or “of Heaven” for referring to grace infused in the soul of a justified person or in the expression “very sure confidence” for referring to faith.40 The author of the Parecer also reproved the use of “certainty” (certinidad) and “sure” (seguro), and he thought that to call good works “protestations of faith” (protestaciones de la fe) was a Lutheran “way of speaking,” as was the expression “dead faith” to refer to the faith of sinners.41

Language that remembers In sixteenth-century censorial theory, the transformation undergone by the language of the Faith in the mouth of an adversary was usually indicated by the calificación or theological note sapiens haeresim. This technical term came originally from William of Ockham’s (c. 1287–1347) Dialogus on the heretic pope and became widely used in Spanish scholasticism via Juan de Torquemada’s (1388–1468) Summa de Ecclesia.42

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  127 Initially, its definition described a dialectical process that allowed for identifying, in a particular text, certain propositions which, though not in themselves heretical, were the necessary conclusion of a heretical premise. Thus, the note detected those unexpressed theses that were indirectly entangled with or woven into, a discourse, and that functioned as a tacit presupposition. In the sixteenth century, the “savor of heresy” (sabor a herejía), while not losing this usage, was also applied to (undesirable) shades of meaning that a word or expression acquired when used in heretical discourse or when it was interpreted in new (and conflictive) circumstances that the writer could not have foreseen. It was in any case a minor note or censure which should in no way be confused with heresy per se and that was applied by the censors to many passages in the Catecismo. Melchor Cano used a powerful analogy to explain this note, refocusing the idea of the “savor of heresy” onto the written word, textuality, and language: in De locis theologicis, he takes note of the fact that some theses and propositions become impregnated with the savor of their context, just as water or wine continues to hold the flavor of the clay or wood of the vessel that once contained them.43 In the vernacular Censura of the Catecismo, Cano used this comparison to show why some passages of Scripture require longer and more precise explanations after they have been “tainted” by heretics’ discourse and because of their argumentational value in such discourse, as a liquid in a vessel tastes good, and the same liquid when transferred to another vessel takes on a certain amount of bad taste from the place where it was. ca un mesmo liquor en una basija sabe bien y trasegado a otra toma un cierto mal sabor del lugar donde estuvo (P17). Not only expressions and words but also Scripture quotations would draw along with themselves, so to speak, the argument for which they were used in Lutheran discourse. The idea that certain Bible passages were closely associated with Lutheran heresy appears to have taken firm root in the 1550s. In fact, the Censura generalis of 1554 was entirely dedicated to detecting which scriptural places had contributed to reinforcing Lutheran structures of argumentation; it proposed expurgating the marginal notes and summaries in Latin Bibles that encouraged or confirmed that very way of reading Scripture.44 In the preface, the censors also warned against certain lexical habits that they believed were common among Protestants, such as interpreting iustus and fidelis as equivalent terms, or a preference for resipiscentia over poenitentia for translating the idea of metanoia.45 In the preface of the vernacular Censura, Cano had paid heed to the frequency with which Carranza brought into the Catecismo Scriptural

128  María José Vega testimonies “which the Lutherans use to strengthen [their position], without warning the reader” (“con que los lutheranos hazen fuerza, sin advertir al lector”). He rebuked in other cases the insufficient explanation of those passages of Scripture “from which the heretics, especially the new ones, have taken weapons against the Church” (“de que los herejes, especialmente nuevos, han tomado armas contra la Iglesia”)—passages that the author, rather than wielding, should have blunted, “rejecting the false meaning and declaring the true one” (“excluyendo el falso sentido y declarando el verdadero”) (P17). Selecting and quoting Scripture passages is a weighty choice, therefore, in controversial times, especially if they are cited without explanation or are brought forward to support topics in dispute: they can, in fact, be, as Cano says, passages used as weapons.46 This issue is crucial for the construction of theological discourse in the second half of the sixteenth century since it affects the use of Revelation and biblical citations—a dominant intertext. In the case of the Catecismo, Cano is unequivocal in pointing out when a passage has strategic value in the discourse of the Other, and he reproves the fact that, in these critical passages, the sacred text of Scripture is interpreted “according to the sense that the Lutherans give to it” (P24). A Scripture quotation, therefore, can carry with it the controversy in which it participates, and be turned into a parole polemique. This would not in principle imply that one needs to reject such a passage, but it does mean that it requires a much longer and more detailed explanation in the service of Catholic doctrine. Paradoxically, the impact of Lutheranism amplifies doctrinal discourse. Commentaries on the Summa Theologica from the second half of the sixteenth century transmit this same cautionary view of the uses of Scripture when speaking of the quaestio de haeresi (IIaIIae q. 11).47 For example, Domingo Báñez (1528–1604) thought that some propositions, while not openly heretical, acquired for the careful student a savor or suspicion of heresy because of certain circumstances, because of who said it, or simply because of the calamitous times in which one was living (a IIaIIae, q. 11 a. 2, 276bB–F). In this way, he wanted to raise awareness of the unexpected meaning that a text (from the past) could acquire after the storm of heretics since shared knowledge and interpretative practices in reading communities varied. Lutheranism’s impact would thus have conveyed a savor of heresy to the expression fides iustificat, which can be found in St. Paul but which, following the controversies over justification, could not now be uttered without raising suspicions. It would, therefore, need to be accompanied by an extensive commentary if used at all, containing details and shadings that would have been pointless in the past.48 Nearly 100 years later, in 1679, the Cursus Theologicus of the Salamanca theologians advised that this Pauline passage should not be used at all since a proposition in a particular book, at a particular time, on a

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  129 particular occasion could be safely spoken, could savor of heresy when these had changed, after Luther: Unde propositio, quae in uno libro, tempore, et occasione est secura, in aliis potest haeresim sapere. Verbi gratia haec propositio Fides iustificat, secundum se habet sensum catholicum, et reperitur in Sacra Scriptura, et olim poterat absolute concedi. Sed post haeresim Lutheri affirmantis, quod sola fides iustificat, absolute prolata, aut scripta, praesertim in libris, de quorum Authoribus potest esse aliqua suspicio, sapit haeresim.49 It is not merely that one does not write in the same way post haeresim Lutheri, not merely that there is a need to explain more: the Cursus also bids the reader do away entirely with some expressions and uncomfortable passages (“et ideo, post praedictam haeresim oportet non proferre absolute,” Cursus, ibid.). The savor of heresy, then, besides being a dialectical note, progressively becomes an invitation to identify the language of the other or that which is seen to have been usurped and transformed by the adversary; it is a thoughtful reflection upon the capacity of disputational discourse to impregnate and modify the meaning of terms and authoritative passages upon which the “official” language of Catholicism also rests. Cano’s analogy transmitted the idea of a language that remembers or that carries with it (undesirable) shades of meaning acquired from previous texts, in the same way that the flavor of wine incorporates the reminiscence of wood or clay. Each word thus carries the weight of its recent history.

Language and good theology Si sit inordinata locutio circa ea quae sunt fidei, sequi potest ex hoc corruptio fidei. —Aquinas, Summa, IIaIIae, q. 11 a–2 The concept of “good theology” does not refer solely to the rigorousness of the reasoning process, to how arguments proceed, or to a text’s contents but also to its style and written form: the precision and appropriateness of the words, the measured use of ellipsis, the “purity” of word choice; a consciousness of the danger of using certain metaphors, which could lead to an alteration of correct meaning; the inappropriateness of hyperbole that modifies the relative value of concepts. In sixteenth-century theology, the growing insistence on language pointed to a professionalization of discourse (which therefore became increasingly exclusivist) that no longer permitted any lack of exactness, or vagueness, or trivialization: there was therefore an increasingly less porous barrier between dogmatic theology (whose minimum genre is the catechism) and forms of preaching

130  María José Vega and pastoral discourse, which could be more emotional and therefore less exact. Good theology excluded, above all, inappropriateness, shabbiness, equivocation, and anything less than careful speech. The requirement of exactness became sharper in the mid-sixteenth century, possibly because of Lutheranism’s impact, which reinforced an aversion for imprecision, equivocation, and “shortness” (cortedad) or “littleness” (poquedad)— that is, explanations that were insufficient or not finely attuned enough to relevant doctrinal issues over which Catholics and Protestants were in conflict. Such aversion is a constant theme of the censures during the middle years of the sixteenth century. They take their support from a passage of the Summa Theologica that reproves verbal disorder, inordinata locutio since impropriety and untidiness are never merely questions of grammar or style: they are evidence of disordered thinking, and the corruption of the Faith often follows from that.50 A convoluted expression may be confusing due to “malice,” but it is no less dangerous if it is the result of ignorance or carelessness. It is censurable for itself or for its potential to lead to error, regardless of the writer’s intent. In the censuras to the Catecismo, one frequently meets with propositions that reprove ambiguity, equivocation, impropriety, murkiness, or the “shortness” (cortedad) or paucity of the language—that is, less explanation that what the doctrinal meaning requires. In the second place, the censuras rebuke Carranza’s tendency to use insistent language and hyperbole—stylistically acceptable in the heat of preaching, or even in books of spirituality, but not in a catechism, which requires a right and exact exposition of doctrine. Ambiguity, which can be innocuous in other types of discourse, ought to have no place in a catechetical text or an exposition of dogmatic theology, especially when equivocal terms affect foundational concepts of the Faith. In the censuras of Cano and Soto, Carranza’s impropriety and awkwardness of expression partially function as an exculpatory mechanism that safeguards the author’s intent,51 even while the censors recognize them as a defect in doctrinal language that cannot be tolerated following Lutheranism’s appearance. In the introduction to the Latin Censura, Melchor Cano understood that the Catecismo’s confusion and shortness were harmful to the average believer: Adde quod in his ferme locis in quibus de fide, iustificatione, redemptione, meritis et satisfactione Christi agit, multas hic liber habet curtas claudicantesque sententias (…) Habet item hic liber orationes plurimas non modo confusas atque perplexas, verum ambiguas etiam et aequivocas, quae in haereticorum sensum facilius flecti possunt quam in sententiam catholicorum.52 The same idea is more fully expounded in the vernacular Censura written by Cano and Cuevas, where they explain the reasons why Carranza’s book is harmful (note: not heretical) for the Christian people:

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  131 [The fifth reason] is that this book has many “shortenings” that are dangerous for these times, failing to note down and declare what needed to be said so that the people would not stumble, such as in those places where he usually says, without specifying or annotating anything, that faith and the knowledge of the redeemer justifies and saves (…) [the sixth reason is that] this book contains ambiguous propositions which the Schools nowadays call equivocal, which take many and various senses, and by the sound of the words it seems they more often have the bad sense than the good one, and such propositions were a stumbling-block for some weak persons in every age, but now more than ever. [La quinta causa] es tener este libro muchas cortedades peligrosas para el tiempo, dexando de apuntar y delcarar lo que convenia para que el pueblo no tropezase, como en los lugares en que generalmente dice sin especificar ni annotar nada que la fe y el conoscimiento del redemptor justifica y salva (…) [la sexta causa es que] este libro tiene proposiciones ambiguas que en las escuelas agora llaman equivocas, las quales reciben muchos y barios sentidos, y en la sonada de las palabras mas paresce que se significa el malo que el bueno, y en todos siglos las tales proposiciones fueron tropieço a algunos flacos, pero agora mas que nunca (praef.). Domingo de Soto also frequently observes that many of Carranza’s propositions needed to be further explained because prima facie they have a Lutheran sense; explaining them would consequently be entirely necessary for warning the reader and for clearly safeguarding Carranza’s motives. From this, it follows that a substantial part of Soto’s written opinion about the Catecismo consists, not of censures or observations about the text, but of long doctrinal expositions—which Carranza never wrote—containing colorations and explanations that could allow passages of the Catecismo that appear false or erroneous to be brought back into line with orthodoxy.53 It is surprising that a book of the voluminous length of the Catecismo would be required to include more explanations (though about key issues, of course). Some of the censors insisted on this; they did not propose that the author should delete (suspicious) sections of text, but rather suggested that he should add and expand material in order to remedy equivocal expressions and arguments ex silentio. Paradoxically, therefore, the censuras do not erase or eliminate text but instead demand even more text and writing. A good example of this phenomenon is Fray Luis de Granada’s (1504–1588) Libro de la oración: the revision that the author himself did after the book was prohibited by the Index (1559) of Fernando de Valdés (1483–1568) did not consist of subtractions or mutilations (of words or suspect passages) but rather of additions and glosses. Marcel Bataillon has already observed that the new (and seemingly

132  María José Vega endless) explanations about the dignity of vocal prayer and ceremonies, the necessity of works or of active virtues touched precisely upon issues that the first Libro de la oración had omitted or treated too carelessly.54 The additions filled important silences and controlled the forms of emphasis since verbose praise of the excellencies of, for example, oral prayer made compensation for the previous edition’s (clamorous) silence while undercutting the relative importance of mental prayer. In scholastic thought, the concepts of “offense” (offensio, propositio offensiva) and “evil-sounding proposition” (propositio male sonans) were an invitation to the censors to scrutinize deviation from the truth in doctrinal language and to guard against untidy discourse, confusion, inexactness, clumsy expressions, inattentive and improper use of theological terms, as well as ambiguity and unfruitful obscurity.55 These notes or minor censures were usually associated with scandal, which was defined in turn as anything that led to the pious stumbling, falling, and suffering destruction. Juan de Torquemada, in the Summa de Ecclesia, pointed out that those propositions are “evil-sounding” or “offensive,” which appear heretical in themselves but which could be true if recast or modified by some clarification, addition, or further explanation: cum modificatione adiuncta sunt vere.56 During the second half of the sixteenth century and all of the seventeenth, with Melchor Cano’s De locis theologicis as a basis, notes on evil-sounding and offensive propositions, which are outside the realm of dogmatic theology, came to be disconnected from scandal and to occupy an independent place on lists of propositiones damnabiles.57 Both notes scrutinize doctrinal language: in Cano’s censura on the Catecismo, in fact, these are the most common, while notes on heresy are extremely rare and are usually downplayed or excused, and reduced to a lesser qualification (error of faith, savor of heresy, scandal).58 The censorial demand to declare more thus required a modificatio adiuncta that would allow for evil-sounding (or offensive) propositions in the Catecismo to be changed into true or acceptable ones. Additionally, Cano’s reflections on evil-sounding propositions offer a concept of language radically different from Carranza’s. As an example, in the Catecismo Carranza had written that words do not have to offend anyone when they do not cause offence to the Faith, and when the speaker’s heart is Catholic. a nadie han de offender los bocablos, quando no offenden a la ffee, e el animo del que habla es catholico (Catecismo, 166). Cano, on the other hand, supports the view that words are crucial, that St. Thomas had warned about the dangers of inordinata locutio, that the Council of Constance rebuked several of Hus’s and Wycliffe’s propositions for offensio, and, going further, that no distinction is possible between language and intention:

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  133 We know very well that St Hilary says, sensus, non sermo, facit crimen, but it is also written, ex verbis tuis justificaberis, et ex verbis tuis condemnaveris. And the judges of Religion, being men and not seeing the heart on the inside, have to take the outward words and signs as conjectures, and thus this proposition, being so confused and general, is dangerous, more so in the present times in which the heretics, in a disguised manner and using ambiguous words, craftily sow their heresies. And since they are thought to be holy, veniunt enim in vestimentis ovium. Then they bring forward this proposition, saying that they are Catholics, and the Faith is healthy, and that the words can be taken to have a good meaning, and that they ought to offend no one, but ought to be piously interpreted, as we do with the ancient Saints. But all these pretexts are not enough to cause the judges not to be cautious, on their guard, and even suspicious, because under evil-sounding words there may hide some kind of deception. There is no doubt that the result can be destructive. Bien sabemos lo que sant Ilario dize, sensus, non sermo, facit crimen, mas tanbien esta escripto ex verbis tuis justificaberis, et ex verbis tuis condemnaveris. E los juezes de la Religion, como son hombres e no been el coraçon de dentro han de tomar por conjeturas las palabras e señales de fuera, e assi esta proposicion tan confussa e general es peligrosa, e mas en los tiempos de agora, donde los hereges, con un estilo dessimulado e palabras anbiguas, astutamente siembran sus heregias. E como se tiene dellos oppinion de santidad, veniunt enim in vestimentis ovium. Luego alegan esta proposicion deziendo que son catholicos, e la ffee es sana, e que las palabras pueden tener algun buen sentido, e que a nadie deuen offender, sino interpretarse piamente, que assi lo hazemos con los Sanctos antiguos. Mas estos colores no bastan para que los juezes no esten cabtelosos e recaptados e aun sospechosos, que debaxo de palabras malsonantes puede aver algun engaño. Que de poder auer daño no ay dubda. (P64)59 The quotation from St. Hilary, making a distinction between sensus and sermo, postulates that dissent should be looked for in the area of convictions. Cano redirects the issue of dissent toward words and phrases, these being the only door to thought, as the sole object of censorial scrutiny: [H]ere, as we have already said, we do not judge what the author feels in his breast, but rather his writings and what his words signify in their proper meaning. no juzgamos aquí, como ya está avisado, lo que el auctor siente en su pecho, sino de su escriptura e de lo que en propiedad sus palabras significan (P65, italics added).

134  María José Vega Carranza’s passage contrasts right motives with equivocal language (or a good heart versus offensio), or, put another way, he subordinates language to intention, while Cano erases the contrast by invalidating one of the sides, given that a person’s motives are inscrutable and can only be postulated by means of language. There is nothing, therefore, beyond the text.

Reading with simplicity There are several extant letters of Carranza to Domingo de Soto, whom the former saw as his protector, which are part of a large epistolary collection written by the archbishop (to the king, the regent, members of his order, other bishops, the Roman Curia) to strengthen his position against the Holy Office. In one of these sent to Soto, dated in December of 1558, Carranza asked for a benevolent censure of his works and a public gesture in defense of the Catecismo. He also argued for two controversial passages—on the certainty of grace and on confession—and bitterly criticized the fact that the censorial process was focused as usual on the propositions ut iacent. Twice he asked for a heart attitude toward his Catecismo that he described as “reading with simplicity” or “plainness” (leer con llaneza) and “taking the words with simplicity” (tomar las palabras con llaneza) (DH VII 115, 119). This expression is rare in Spanish but, interestingly, is used several times in the pareceres and letters of support that Carranza gathered to send to the Holy Office.60 In nearly all of them, the defense of the Catecismo is based on two arguments: the “wickedness of the times” (malicia de los tiempos) and the need to “read with simplicity” (leer con llaneza). Both can be read as hypallages, though the first is quite common and the second is unusual. For example, Pedro de Sotomayor (1511–1564) invited readers to handle the Catecismo “with good intent and Christian simplicity” (con buena intención y llaneza cristiana) (DH VII 58). Ambrosio de Salazar gave reassurances that no errors would be found in the book if one desires to interpret his sayings with simplicity and according to the true Faith and the healthy intent the author has si se quieren enterpretar sus dichos con llaneza e conforme a la legitima fee e sana intençión que tiene el autor Salazar contrasts this with the approach of men who read with a censorial spirit (leen para notar). He also points out that only learned men are in a position to perceive Carranza’s errors, while the common people would not know how to find them (DH VII 63); later he asks readers to “take the words with simplicity” (tomar las palabras con llaneza) so that they would not sound evil (this formula is identical to Carranza’s), and he excused the archbishop, assuring readers that the prelate had been

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  135 carried away by zeal for the Faith and had not paid attention “to the language” (DH VII 63). The magistral of Sigüenza wrote that “reading with a Christian heart” (leer con pecho cristiano) would make the book Catholic and fruitful; the magistral of Valladolid opined that the book would not be offensive if read “with simplicity” (con llaneza), as opposed to the same text’s evil meaning when it was taken in a “bare” fashion (desnudamente) (DH VII 69); the abad Alonso Enríquez rebuked those who, faced with more than one meaning, chose to put an evil interpretation on the words (VII 75); Carranza’s disciple and representative, Juan de la Peña, who also sent a letter, insisted on the fact that, although words could be made to have an evil meaning, anyone who “reads with simplicity” (lea con llaneza) will find or look for the Catholic meaning (DH VII 77). The coincidences are surprising. “Simplicity” or “plainness” (llaneza) seems to refer to a purity of spirit in the ideal reader whom Carranza envisioned for his Catecismo. In Castilian Spanish, it is usual to apply llaneza to style or to writing, referring to clarity and simplicity in prose (similar to the English expression, “plain speaking”). But the expression is extremely rare with reference to reading. That is why it is remarkable to find it as part of Carranza’s idiolect, and that his colleagues and defenders used it too. I have found only one other similar use: in the prologue of the First Part of Francisco de Osuna’s (c. 1497–1541) Abecedario espiritual. There the “prudent ant” is used as a figure of the devoted reader who with simplicity of heart reads little by little, with the intention of finding some word that will move his affection for the Lord. que con llaneza de corazón va leyendo poco a poco llevando intento de hallar alguna palabra que le mueva su afición a nuestro señor.61 Here, fruitfulness in reading is born not so much from the text itself, or from the truths and morals it transmits, as from the intent or inclination (intento, a key, repeated term) “with which you read this or any other book.” Among the pareceres that Carranza asked for, there was one from Alonso Enríquez; he, like Peña, thought that “to give an evil meaning to something that has a good one… is not [the property of] an innocent or Christian spirit” (“interpretar a mal sentido lo que le tiene bueno… no es cándido ni christiano ánimo”) (DH VII 75). In censorial tradition, ambiguity is reproved for itself, and an equivocal expression is damnable to the extent that it is equivocal, regardless of either the author’s intent or the reader’s will. In contrast, according to statements favorable to Carranza, there was no need for correcting or explaining the text because meaning depended on the readers’ attitude and intent. A good reader with a Christian heart and innocent spirit would read in such a way as

136  María José Vega not to find any error at all in the Catecismo. The question of orthodoxy thus ceases to be resolved at the level of language since, for the most part, the “errors” (ut iacent) surrounding justification by faith, grace, or prayer will depend not on the text but on the purity of readers’ spirits. The responsibility for the heterodoxy of a particular proposition would therefore belong to the person who discovers it or who takes a “bare” approach to reading (desnudamente)—that is, restricting him or herself to what is put on the page (ut iacet). This line of argument coincides, interestingly, with the one most widely held among historians of the Carranza case: they attribute the Catecismo’s heterodoxy to the malice of a few readers.

The wickedness of the times Cano’s vernacular Censura makes frequent reference to “the present times,” “these times,” or the “loose” or “dangerous times” of the present day.62 He was referring by this to the new horizon of readers’ experiences and the new circumstances that channeled or directed interpretation and modified the limits of what was acceptable: reading and writing were done differently after the Lutheran uproar. Therefore, “the times” encapsulated a collection of events, discourses, and associations that were able to turn a statement into something problematic or inadequate for the present reader. For Cano, this observation is not exculpatory; rather, he sees Carranza as speaking lightly and carelessly, using ambiguities and omissions, and employing statements that are dangerously brief “for the times” (para el tiempo), as though he were ignorant of the present doctrinal frays (P105) and had “little respect for the times in which he lives” (“poco respeto a los tiempos en los que vive,” P83). Domingo de Soto’s censura frequently refers to the “wickedness of the times” as a factor that transforms the meanings of statements. This was an expression used by Carranza too, frequently repeated in the letters he requested for his defense, and which had already become a part of theological language in both Latin and the vernacular.63 “Wickedness” (malicia) was a dominant trait of heretics from Late Antiquity, and thus the transposition of malitia haereticorum into malitia temporum would seem to be an abrupt hypallage64 that contains within itself the memory of heresy and that frequently alternates with the less specific calamitas temporum.65 The expression became increasingly frequent in censorial language and in indices of prohibited books. There was a reference to “the wickedness of the times” in the prologue to the Louvain Index of 1546 as well as in the Portuguese Rol dos livros defesos published in 1561, lamenting that the “wickedness of the times” had led to multiplied numbers of evil books.66 The praefatio of the Index of the Council of Trent (1564) concluded with a reference to the censorial severity needed “because of the

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  137 wickedness of our times” (propter nostrorum temporum malitiam),67 and the Index (1583) of the inquisitor Gaspar de Quiroga (1512–1595) used the same formula to explain why Catholic authors were included in the Index. These were references to the unintended meanings that a text could acquire after the enemies of the Faith had sown heresies but which could not have been predicted at the moment of writing so that the intent and reputation of the authors should remain unclouded: [W]hen one finds in this catalogue prohibitions of certain books by persons who were great Christians… it is not because those authors strayed from the Holy Roman Church…, but [it is] because the books were falsely attributed to them…, or because it is best that they should not be abroad in the vernacular, or because they contain matters which, although those pious and learned authors stated them simply and with the wholesome Catholic meaning that they accept, the wickedness of the times exposes them to being twisted by the enemies of the Faith in keeping with their own destructive intent. [C]uando se hallaren en este catálogo prohibidos algunos libros de personas de grande cristiandad… no es porque los tales autores se hayan desviado de la Santa Iglesia Romana…, sino porque, o son libros que falsamente se les han atribuido…, o por no convenir que anden en lengua vulgar, o por contener cosas que, aunque los tales autores píos y doctos las dijeron sencillamente y en el sano católico sentido que reciben, la malicia de los tiempos las hace ocasionadas para que los enemigos de la fe las puedan torcer a propósito de su dañada intención.68 The wickedness of the times is thus indissolubly linked to censorial language, either as a resource or as a caveat, and as proof that the reader’s circumstances and horizon of experiences determine reading and interpretation. Domingo de Soto based one part of his exculpation of Carranza on this malicia de los tiempos, since it would safeguard “the person of the said author and his intent” (“la persona del dicho auctor y su intención,” DH VI 187).69 He systematically finds in the passages of the Catecismo texts worthy of rebuke that must have become objectionable against the author’s will (or nearly so). This line of argument was not without contradictions since the plea for exemption based on “wicked times” was usually applied to texts written in a more distant past, before the disturbance caused by Lutheranism, whereas the Catecismo had been published—awkwardly—in the present times, very close to the date of its calificación, by an author who had participated in the council and who could not plausibly have been ignorant of the controversies surrounding justification. In order to explain the presence of “erroneous” and “false” propositions, Soto had to suppose that there was a meaning that had been consistently frustrated and that the author had been unable to

138  María José Vega transfer onto the page. Soto, in opposition to Melchor Cano, who said that he was judging the language and not the intent (unknowable except through language), discriminates and separates, at every turn, right intent from the language that is a traitor to that intent. The “wickedness of the times” partly explains that excision and rationalizes why a true sense resides—repeatedly and in a contradictory fashion—in a text that appears to mean something else or why it is ambiguous or insufficient and in need of further explanation.70 Nevertheless, at other places, to safeguard the intent, Soto is forced to condemn the archbishop, not as a suspect heretic but simply as an awkward or confused writer. A good part of Soto’s censura consists of a copious exposition of meanings that the author either did not know how to transmit or did not manage to—or, as Soto puts it, a “declaration of a meaning that the author appears to have attempted” (“declaración del sentido que el auctor paresce haber pretendido”)—or, in other cases, of a right meaning that “the wickedness of the times” (malicia de los tiempos) had changed into a dangerous, false, or erroneous one.71 In fact, one of the prosecutors in the Carranza case rejected Soto’s censura because he thought that it was attempting to make excuses for the intent of the said Archbishop, and [is] adjudging that his intent was not the same as what it sounds like and appears to be according to the said propositions. dar ebasiones a la intençion de el dicho arçobispo e juzgando que su intençion fue diferente de lo que por las dichas proposiçiones suena e paresce.72 This diagnosis is correct. Only at the end of his calificación does Soto manifest a kind of censorial fatigue, or perhaps a growing skepticism about the intent, and comes to openly condemn the propositions of the Catecismo.73

The reader’s moral responsibility Juan de la Peña was a student of Carranza in the Colegio de San Gregorio in Valladolid. He authored a Parecer whose arguments in defense of the Catecismo answer some of Cano’s and Soto’s most significant arguments.74 Possibly for this reason, Peña’s main focus is not the nature of heresy or the contents of the Catecismo but the arguments about theological language. Peña recognizes in principle that many of Carranza’s propositions are ambiguous, obscure, and equivocal or, at the very least, that they are erroneous, false, or Lutheran in their “outward appearance” (or, “at first glance,” la sobrehaz), or “according to how they sound” (según suenan)—i.e., ut iacent. However, he neutralizes the censure that alleges they are “evil-sounding” or erroneous by multiplying the possible meanings of each statement and entrusting the reader with the moral

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  139 responsibility of searching out and choosing the right and Catholic meaning for each of them—meanings that he goes on to elaborate. The Parecer contains a repeated pattern of argumentation. Regarding the first proposition, for example, Peña finds that it “sounds bad” (suena mal) ut iacet because it gives the impression that faith is the main instrument of justification (DH II 223). He goes on to say that, in reality, the proposition could have many possible meanings, at least three of which are Catholic, and others are not so much erroneous as debatable (en opinión) (DH II 224). He then attempts a long exposition of the “good” meanings and concludes that the proposition is absolutely true (DH II 229) even though this affirmation contradicts the previous one, several pages back.75 In a similar way, the eighth proposition, which he initially qualifies as “against the Faith,” is in the end declared to be “true ut iacet” (DH II 256–257). The fifth proposition moves from false to erroneous, from erroneous to equivocal, and from equivocal to Catholic (DH II 237). The ninth proposition discloses a number of meanings, among them a Lutheran one and a true one (DH II 258–259).76 Thus, Peña’s defense is built on understanding the text as a massive equivocation, with all the propositions having (or potentially having) multiple meanings and being (or potentially being) at one and the same time heretical and Catholic, false and true, erroneous and sound (sanas). He postulates this not simply about the ambiguous propositions but especially about the ones that are false and erroneous ut iacent, which would no longer be such if all texts produce a multiplicity of senses, and if the dynamic of meaning itself is uncertain. Paradoxically, this defense of Carranza would make clear the fragility of orthodoxy, since theological discourse could mean anything at all, or it could be correctly understood only through the indispensable mediation of an interpreter who would reveal the multiple senses and choose the true one—a position incompatible with the clarity that others expect from a catechism. That is why Peña sometimes defines his role as defender, sometimes as calificador, and sometimes as commentator, pointing out the sure road for understanding the text (DH II 269) or “saving” it by providing the right way of apprehending it (DH II 263). In fact, some of the calificaciones are called advertencias (“warnings”) because they are written “to show the truth of this proposition and its parts” (“para que se vea la verdad de esta proposición y sus partes”) (DH II 249). A comparison with Domingo de Soto’s censura is instructive in this case. Soto voiced certainty about the Catholic intentions of a man who expressed himself awkwardly, ambiguously, too briefly, or in Lutheran language, and for this reason, he postulated the existence of a true meaning existing in the realm of the author’s will. He assumed a décalage between right intention and erroneous expression, and he located a potential Catholic meaning—as a hypothesis—in the will to signify. In Soto’s censura, the “guilt” for error is shifted either to Carranza’s

140  María José Vega awkwardness or to the times and their malicia, which change the meaning or conditions that make a statement acceptable. Peña, however, does not have recourse to the author’s intent nor does he condemn the ambiguity of the Catecismo; rather, he lets it be understood that readers have an obligation to give the text its true meaning, even in contradiction of the text itself. The reader’s intent thus displaces the author’s as the criterion that governs comprehension, and so hermeneutical activity is placed beyond language, on the plane of morality and the reader’s will. The reader is then responsible to search for good meanings even when these are not apparent or when they contravene a statement’s primary meaning “since there is no reason to gather an evil meaning from a proposition that can have a good one” (“pues no hay por qué tomar el mal sentido en la proposición que le puede tener bueno.”77 The idea that a pia interpretatio is always possible saves Carranza’s Catecismo and at the same time restructures the censor’s task, which, in the end, is nothing more than that of a specialized and responsible reader. In fact, if one takes this argument to an extreme, censors would be the ones who to some extent generate evil meaning: if reading is a moral choice, then diagnosing error would speak less about the author or content of a text than about the interpreter’s lack of piety. As a corollary, the censor produces or generates dissent.

Juan de la Peña and Lutheran language Juan de la Peña’s second line of defense of the Catecismo in his Parecer is to invalidate or undo the censures that use the accusation of Lutheran language, especially with regard to the thorniest places in the Catecismo, which are those concerning the Faith, salvation, prayer, and the benefit of Christ. Peña’s argument aims high at this point: he ceases to refer directly to Carranza’s text (or to what it says, desires to say, or appears to say) and instead discusses the concepts upon which previous censures were founded, reducing them to absurdity. He does this particularly to the idea of the language of the heretic, whose existence he recognizes while denying that its presence is always to be condemned or that Catholicism’s official discourse ought to be modified. Peña calls for resisting semantic changes and for not rejecting tainted words or resigning oneself in the face of “usurpation.” He delineates for the Holy Office the need to wage a battle for language and to reclaim certain terms as though they were property whose ownership is being disputed or like someone who recovers a stolen object. Finally, he raises the issue of the use of scriptural language when the adversary’s discourse has appropriated it (“It is good to avoid language that is foundational for heretics, but not that which they have stolen from the Gospel and its teaching”; “Bien es que evitemos el lenguaje, principio del hereje, mas no el que él ha hurtado al evangelio y doctrina de él,” DH II 252).

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  141 Peña’s exposition moves along a difficult edge, since language is, on the one hand, foundational or the “principle of the heretic” (principio del hereje) and, on the other, it is a resource held in common since the heretic adopts “language used by and taken from the saints” (“los lenguajes usados e que se sacan de los santos”). Paradoxically, heretical language is “our” tongue: [T]hey say that some of these ways of speaking are Lutheran language. And I say that Lutheran language is heretical speech, evil language of Hell; that is, formally. And if this label is given to everything that looks like what they say, it would be blasphemy and an error, because they have usurped the speech of Scripture and of the saints in many things; and on this point we ought not to change our language because of them; just as the sheep ought not to change its clothing on account of the wolf wearing it. The lives and words of good people are the sheep’s clothing. And just as good people ought not to abandon good works because heretics make a deceptive show of them, so neither ought they to abandon good words. [D]icen que alguna de estas maneras de decir es lenguaje luterano. E digo que el lenguaje luterano es lengua heretica, lenguaje del infierno e malo, esto es, formalmente. E si este nombre se da a todo lo que paresce a lo que ellos hablan, será blasfemia e error, porque ellos han usurpado el hablar de las Escrituras y santos en muchas cosas, e por ellos en esto no habemos de mudar el lenguaje, como porque el lobo tome la vestidura a la oveja, ella no ha de dejar la suya. Vestidura de oveja es la vida e palabras de los buenos. E como no han de dexar los buenos las buenas obras porque los hereges engañen con la apariencia dellas, tampoco han de dexar las buenas palabras. (DH II 277)78 The same argument would allow us to neutralize the problem of “living faith” (fe viva), a key expression in the Catecismo, and one that is frequently found in Protestant texts, which Soto determined was Lutheran language and which he wanted changed to charidad: If the heretics calls what is dead “alive” and what is black “white”, ought we therefore to abandon the truth and propriety by which Christian faith is signified, with its soul, which is grace and charity; [while] faith which is alone is dead? If the heretic calls faith alone “living”, why should I be frightened of living faith? (…) The saints say that we ought to flee certain ways of speaking in order not to agree with heretics, even when [such ways of speaking] can be kept in their strict meaning. I confess this, but these should be few (…) To wish to flee from all manner of speaking, especially that of these heretics, is not possible unless we from now on learn a new

142  María José Vega language and forget the language of St. Paul, which is the one most used by the impious and profane heretics. Si el hereje llama a lo muerto vivo e a lo negro blanco, ¿habemos nosotros por eso de dejar la verdad e propriedad por que significa fe cristiana, con su alma, que es la gracia e caridad, muerta es fe sola? Si el hereje llama viva la fe sola, ¿por qué tengo yo de espantarme de la fe viva? (…) Dizen los santos que por no convenir con los hereges avemos de huir de algunas maneras de hablar, aunque en rigor se puedan salvar. Confíésolo, pero han de ser pocas (…) Querer huir de todas las maneras de hablar, en especial de estos hereges, no es posible si no aprehendemos ahora de nuevo a hablar e olvidamos el lenguaje de sant Pablo, que es el más usurpado de los ynpíos y profanos hereges (DH II 278). Cano and Báñez saw meaning as the result of a historical process so that semantic changes—as with the analogy of flavor that impregnates water kept in a vessel—can hardly involve a “return to the past” or a reversion that rescinds common usage because a word cannot erase its history. Against this, Peña wishes to anchor words to the meaning they had in the past, before Lutheranism, and he bases his idea on a kind of etymological fallacy that assumes that language is static. For this reason, it would be enough to find an expression used by Carranza in an ancient source in order to authorize its use in the present. Peña’s Parecer thus admits, with St. Thomas, that one must avoid heretics’ language, while simultaneously maintaining that the existence of a “Lutheran language” would lead, by reductio ad absurdum, to the cancellation of Catholic theological discourse and even of its sources of authority: it would obligate us (he writes) to forget St. Paul and reinvent the language of faith—that is, to learn to speak anew. Lutheran language sometimes seems uncomfortably closer to Scripture than the language of Catholicism. The abad of Valladolid, Alonso Enríquez, who shares this opinion, gives a (nearly) straightforward declaration of it in his defense of Carranza: And to say that “it is the language of heretics” is not a sufficient reason for us to depart from the phraseology and manner of speaking of Scripture, because that would overturn everything. If they, on one side, profaning the language of Scripture, twist it to an evil meaning, taking away, as much as they can on their side, its true and legitimate meaning; and if, on the other side, the Catholics take away [Scripture’s] language and manner of speaking and separate ourselves from that [language], the result would be that we Catholics would be taking away what the heretics had left, which was the propriety of the language. E no es cabsa bastante para apartarnos de la frasi e modo de hablar de la Escriptura dezir que es lenguaje que usan los hereges, porque

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  143 esso sería no dexar cosa en pie. Si ellos, por una parte, profanando el lenguaje de la Escriptura, la tuerçen a mal sentido, quitándole quanto es de su parte el verdadero e legítimo que tiene, e los cathólicos por otra la quitamos el lenguaje e manera de hablar, apartándonos de él, vernía a que los catholicos le quitásemos lo que los hereges le avian dexado que era la propiedad de el lenguaje (DH VII 73). This position is the opposite of the one held by Juan de Ávila, and of that of Domingo Báñez, who advocated for distinctions and renunciation; it is different too from Soto or Cano, who required not so much a renunciation as a clear exposition, with exacting disambiguation. Peña’s position is bristling with reservations and contradictions, but he forcefully sets the dispute over language at the center of the theological controversy.

Final remarks It was commonly recognized that there was one positive consequence of dissent and heresy (which is dissent’s highest level) on Christian thought: they contributed to a more precise definition and clarification of truth. Domingo de Soto, in Relectio de haeresis, recalled that, wherever heretics arose, Catholics were awakened to the need to make many truths openly known (et multe veritates patefacte)79 because heresy is not simply an incentive to piety, as St Paul affirms, but also an instrument that purifies and defines Christian doctrine more exactly.80 Consequently, it might be added that heresy also purifies and refines the “language of truth.” The theologians who passed judgment on Carranza’s Catecismo showed a lively awareness of variations in Catholic theological discourse in the wake of the storm of heresy. They understood what Lutheranism’s effects must have been: creating the need for more precise expression, hardening the conditions for the acceptability of many doctrinal statements, weakening (further) any tolerance for ambiguity, especially in the most burning issues; converting omissions and ellipses into arguments ex silentio, semantically charging certain terms with new associations and meanings through using them in polemical contexts or in the service of some new argument. In the end, Lutheranism must have reached so far as to modify the uses—as authority and intertext—of those biblical passages that had been used as weapons in the controversies with Catholicism. In order to refer to the impregnation of the language, and to those words that were tainted by their new polemical or “heretical” contexts, censorial theory could use the note of “savor of heresy” (sabor a herejía), which Cano explained using the analogy of water and of wine, which transfer between vessels like terms transfer between discourses, and from which they acquire new meanings and shades of meaning. The most frequent metaphor used among censors and witnesses, however, was that of usurped language—an invitation to see theological language as a piece of property,

144  María José Vega and the discourse of an adversary as an act of robbery or alienation that despoils the owners and obligates them to reconfigure official discourse. Lutheranism’s impact also refined censorial hermeneutics: how categories of dissent were perceived and the definition and reach of theological notes. This is especially evident in the case of extra-dogmatic censures like “evil-sounding” and “offensive,” which focus on the facts of rhetoric, grammar, and style, or like “scandal,” which guards against statements that might confuse simple folk. Therefore, it would be reductive to suppose that censorship in general, and the censures of the Catecismo in particular, determine which ideas can and cannot be spoken at a particular time. Rather, they establish where they can and cannot be spoken, how they can be said, and to whom a statement can be directed since the acceptability of a proposition does not depend solely on its content but, more than anything, on the seat from which it is spoken, the language in which it is formulated, the genre, and the reader to whom it is directed.81 Catechisms are, in this sense, a particularly demanding type of discourse, especially if, as in Carranza’s case, they are in the vernacular. They are the minimum genre for expounding doctrine, and therefore require clarity and precision.82 Following the publication of Canisius’ catechisms, the genre was configured in the 1550s to stay within the limits of stating clear and permanent certainties. All disputatio was excluded, along with confutation and debate; these were reserved for controversial writings in Latin and for interchanges between learned men. Catechetical instruction did not allow personal opinion or the appeal to one’s own experience— expressions that were still acceptable in lives, confessions, sermons, and letters.83 Artificial figures were spurned, especially hyperbole, because the genre was aimed at correctly expounding doctrine, and exaggeration would unbalance or disorganize the hierarchy of concepts. Justification by faith could be discussed (though without showing support for it) in Latin among learned readers and in precisely determined discursive spaces, such as the disputationes inserted in commentaries on the Summa Theologica IIaIIae, controversial writings, censures or calificaciones, and in some treatises adversus haereses like that of Alfonso de Castro.84 It could not be debated coram simplicibus or in the vernacular. The instances of greatest censorial severity in the Catholic reaction to Lutheranism were not defined only, or perhaps not even mainly, by the topics and content they proscribed but by the restrictions on what linguists call scenarios for enuntiation and by the reduction of the discursive molds in which discordant topics and content could be made explicit.

Notes 1 This study is part of the project PGC2018-096610, Los límites del disenso. La política expurgatoria de la monarquía hispánica, based at the Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, and has been carried out within the framework of

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  145 the ICREA Acadèmia Award (Institut Catalá de Recerca Avançada). I should like to thank Consolación Baranda, Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, Ignacio García Pinilla, Jorge Ledo y Xavier Tubau for their careful reading of this text and their useful suggestions. 2 Juan de Ávila, Libro espiritual que trata de los malos lenguajes del mundo, carne, y demonio, y de los remedios contra ellos (Alcalá: En casa de Antón Sánchez de Leyva, 1574), 101v°. 3 “[M]odos de hablar lutheranos”; “en los tiempos de agora no paresce que lleva escusas”; “al ser común a los hereges en esta materia, significa en la propiedad de las palabras el error de ellos, contrario a la doctrina cathólica” (P18). 4 I cite this from the transcription by Ignacio García Pinilla in “Más sobre Constatino Ponce de la Fuente y el Parecer de la Vaticana (Ms. Ottob. Lat. 789),” Cuadernos de investigación histórica, 17 (1999), p. 210. 5 In studies on the impact of Lutheranism on Hispanic cultural history, there is a tendency to overlook linguistic analysis, despite its obvious relationship to the teaching of doctrine and the production of theological knowledge. In contrast, there is a good deal of knowledge about the geography of Spanish Protestantism, the centers where it spread, its social networks, the classes and identities of its main figures, the routes by which German and French books and Bibles entered, the formation of exile communities, and the texts and writings that entered Spain or that were written elsewhere by those who fled the Inquisition. 6 On these critical years, see Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, “De la crisis al viraje. Los inicios de la política confesional de Felipe II,” in Michel Boeglin, Ignasi Fernández Terricabras, David Kahn, eds. Reforma y disidencia religiosa (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2018), 53–73, and “El fin de las terceras vías. El Concilio de Trento y la definición de la frontera confesional,” in José Luis Betrán, Bernat Hernández and Doris Moreno Martínez, eds. Identidades y fronteras culturales en el mundo ibérico en la Edad Moderna (Bellaterra: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2016), 145–166. 7 I am using the concept of acceptability and of spaces of (restricted) acceptability to show that statements are not divergent or pernicious in themselves but are acceptable or unacceptable within certain contexts, genres of discourse, and the places where they are stated (public or private, before learned persons or before the general public, in Latin or in the vernacular, in a theological text or in a controversial writing, etc.). On the concept of acceptability, which comes from sociolinguistics, and its application to irreligious statements, see Jean-Pierre Cavaillé, “Les frontières de l’inacceptable. Pour un réexamen de l’histoire de l’incrédulité,” in Les limites de l’acceptable, special number of Les Dossiers du Grihl (2016) ep. 22–25. 8 Studying religion as language is not the usual approach in intellectual history or the history of religion, though it is common in anthropology and sociology and, more recently, in the linguistics of discourse. On the discursive turn in the study of religious phenomena, see Dominique Maigueneau, “Introduction. La difficile émergence d’une analyse du discours religieux,” Langage et societé 130, no. 4 (2009): 5–13; D. Banks, dir. La langue, la linguistique et le texte religieux (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2008), 7 ff. Lionel Obadia, “Discours et religion: approche synoptique en sociologie et anthropologie,” Langage et société 240, no. 4 (2009): 83–101, and the writings collected in Ulrich Ammon, Jeroen Darquennes, Sue Wright, dir. Sociolinguistica: Sprache und Religion – Language and Religion – Langue et Religion (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011). The use of the recently coined theolinguistics has been short-lived, on which see

146  María José Vega Jean-Pierre van Noppen, “Critical Theolinguistics vs. the Literalist Paradigm,” Sociolinguistica 25 (2011): 28–40; David Crystal, “Whatever Happened to Theolinguistics?,” in Paul Chilton and Monica Kopytowska, eds. Religion, Language and the Human Mind (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 3–18. Notable in recent years is Sophie Houdard, Adelisa Malena and Xenia von Tippelskirch, “Langages dissidents: performances et contestations religieuses à l’époque moderne,” Études Épistémè 31 (2017): 1–15. 9 On religious discourse as constituent discourse, vid. Dominique Maingueneau and F. Cossutta, “L’Analyse des discours constituants,” Langages 117 (1995): 112–125. 10 Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras, “El final de un proceso. Sentencia original de Gregorio XIII y abjuración del arzobispo Carranza,” Scriptorium Victoriense 23 (1976): 202–232, and “Memorias sobre el proceso y muerte del arzobispo Carranza,” Príncipe de Viana 38, no. 146–147 (1977): 219–226. The fact that the trial was soon transferred to Rome at Carranza’s request could be due to the good outcome of the trial of Giovanni Morone during the brief pontificate of Pius IV (1559–1565). 11 I shall quote from the first edition, Comentarios del Reverendissimo Señor Frai Bartholome Carrança de Miranda, Arçobispo de Toledo, etc., sobre el Catechismo Christiano, divididos en quatro partes (Anvers: Casa de Martín Nuncio, 1558). See also B. Carranza de Miranda, Catechismo Christiano 1558, edited by Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1972), 2 vols. 12 The Vida y sucesos prósperos y adversos de D. Bartolomé Carranza y Miranda, Arzobispo de Toledo was the work of Pedro Salazar y Mendoza, and it must have been written in the first years of the seventeenth century. It remained unpublished until 1788 (Madrid, imprenta de Joseph Doblado). The University of Valladolid has two manuscript copies, one of which comes from the Colegio de San Ambrosio in Valladolid, together with letters and documents of Martín de Azpilcueta, one of Carranza’s defense lawyers. The editor of the Vida, Antonio Valladares, said in the preface that the archbishop believed that those who envied him “lit the mine of this irreconcilable hatred with the match of their vengeance” (“aplicaron a la mina de este odio irreconciliable la mecha de su venganza,” “Nota del editor,” Vida, n.p.). This observation summarises the biography’s narrative thread. R. López Vela views this biography as a clear exponent of “the propaganda campaign” that Carranza carried out during the months prior to his trial. Salazar, like Carranza, maintained that the entire case was the result of base passions in certain churchmen, Valdés’s jealousy (he supposedly wanted the archbishopric of Toledo for himself), the king’s own motives (he supposedly wanted the income), or aversion to the archbishop’s piety. See López Vela, “El proceso a Carranza y la crítica a la Inquisición en el antiguo régimen y el primer liberalismo,” in Ofelia Rey Castelao and Fernando Suárez, eds., Los vestidos de Clío. Métodos y tendencias recientes de la historiografía modernista española (1973–2013) (Santiago de Compostela: Universidade, 2015), 1033–1038. On the exemplifying distorsion of Salazar’s Vida, see Fabrice Quero, “¿Tres arzobispos en busca de ejemplaridad? Distorsiones axiológicas y fluctuaciones genéricas en tres biografías eclesiásticas de Pedro Salazar de Mendoza,” Criticón 110 (2010): 27–37. 13 On Carranza in nineteenth-century historiography, vid. López Vela, Roberto, “El proceso,” 1033–1054. 14 Juan Antonio Llorente, Historia crítica de la Inquisición en España (Barcelona, Juan Pons, 1870), II, 155. M. Menéndez Pelayo’s Historia de los heterodoxos,

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  147 on the other hand, held that, despite the enmity between Carranza and Valdés, their differences did in fact affect theological issues. On Menéndez Pelayo’s reading of the Carranza case, vid. Roberto López Vela, “Herejes, integristas e Historia Nacional. El siglo XVI en la Historia de los heterodoxos,” in R. Teja and S. Acerbi, Historia de los heterodoxos españoles. Estudios (Santander: Universidad de Cantabria, 2012), 149–176. 15 Ignacio Tellechea Idígoras’s bibliography on Bartolomé Carranza, recorded in Tellechea, El arzobispo Carranza. Tiempos recios (Salamanca: FUE, Publicaciones Universidad Pontificia, 2003), I, 495–506, runs to 150 titles. Of all these, I refer fundamentally to El arzobispo Carranza y su tiempo (Madrid: Guadarrama, 1968), 2 vols, and to the edition of his trial documents collected in Fray Bartolomé de Carranza. Documentos históricos, which I cite here by the abbreviation DH followed by the volume number in Roman numerals. The censuras and depositions of greatest interest for these pages are in Tellechea Idígoras, ed. Fray Bartolomé de Carranza. Documentos históricos. II. Testificaciones de cargo 1–2 (Madrid: RAH, 1963), 2 vols.; Fray Bartolomé de Carranza. Documentos históricos. VI. Audiencias III (1563) (Madrid: RAH, 1981); Tellechea Idígoras, ed. Fray Bartolomé de Carranza. Documentos históricos. VII. Audiencias IV (1563) (Madrid: RAH, 1994). 16 Not included in this line of interpretation are Marcel Bataillon, Erasmo y España (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1937; 1950), 710–711. Vicente Beltrán de Heredia, Las corrientes de espiritualidad entre los dominicos de Castilla durante la primera mitad del siglo XVI (Salamanca: Biblioteca de Teólogos Españoles, 1941), 110–156, which also omits the theological conflict; and Ignacio Jericó Bermejo, Bartolomé Carranza de Miranda. Seis circunstancias que marcaron una vida en el siglo XVI (Salamanca: San Esteban, 2006), 163–197. During the past ten years, the most rigorous approach to the Carranza case has been that of Roberto López Vela: see “’Debates doctrinales y tensiones urbanas en torno al arzobispo de Toledo Bartolomé Carranza,” in Susana Truchuelo et al., eds. Civitas: expresiones de la ciudad en la edad moderna (Santander: Editorial de la Universidad de Cantabria, 2015), 351 ff.; “Los programas del arzobispo Carranza, la acción del Santo Oficio en Toledo y la crítica a la inquisición (1558–1559),” Huarte de San Juan. Geografía e historia 20 (2013): 201–273. 17 The trial involved many calificadores, witnesses, and censors and affected more of the archbishop’s writings and activities. Bataillon already pointed out that “a multitude of manuscript writings” were examined (Erasmo y España, 707), along with the activity usually called dogmatizar (DH II 301)—that is, teaching or convincing others in private, verbally or by distributing manuscript texts for communal reading. The prosecutor Camino’s petition (of 6 March 1559) focused on the Catecismo but also took into consideration Carranza’s expositions of the Psalms, the De amore Dei erga nos, letters, summaries, “and other treatises and sermons that he wrote or taught” (DH II 301). Of special note is the circulation of papers containing writings by Carranza or by others, which he disseminated among religious women and noblewomen. Among these was a Castilian version of one of the Ciento diez divinas consideraciones of Juan de Valdés. The prosecutor used—along with the calificaciones of Melchor Cano and Domingo Cuevas—calificaciones by Domingo de Soto, Miguel Majuelo, Pere Martínez, Rodrigo de Vadillo, Pedro de Ibarra, Diego de Chaves and Juan de Alzolaras (1563), as well as the depositions of 34 witnesses. To reduce the case to Cano’s Censura overlooks the complexity of the trial and the many actors who participated in it.

148  María José Vega 18 Tellechea, “Introducción,” in DH VI, xvi–xvii. They are “opposing symbols” or “representatives of two opposing spiritual currents” (Tellechea “Introducción” to the Catechismo Christiano, 76–77). 19 DH VI xvii. 20 Tellechea, “Introducción” to Carranza, Cathecismo Christiano, 67. 21 Tellechea, Sábado espiritual y otros ensayos carrancianos, Salamanca, Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca, 1987, 37; DH VI xiv. 22 Tellechea “Introducción” to Carranza, Cathecismo Christiano, 86; Tellechea, “Melchor Cano y Bartolomé Carranza. Dos dominicos frente a frente,” Hispania Sacra 15 (1962): 5–93. 23 Antonio Márquez, Los alumbrados. Orígenes y filosofía 1525–1559 (Madrid: Taurus, 1972), 189. 24 Carranza’s rehabilitation culminated in his remains being transferred from Rome to the Cathedral of Toledo on December 10, 1993. This act was presented as a historical “reparation.” 25 During the same years in Italy, the suspicion grew that some Lutheran ideas enjoyed solid support among the ecclesiastical hierarchy. On May 31, 1557, Cardinal Giovanni Morone was arrested. His trial had ups and downs in keeping with changes in the papacy. The years 1557 and 1558 saw the trials of the archbishop of Otranto, Pietro Antonio da Capua, and the bishop of Chersonissa, Francesco Verdura. Much earlier, the bishop of Capodistria, Pier Paolo Vergerio, had fled; he, in contrast to the Nicodemism of the sympathisers of Valdés, had fully moved over to the Protestant side. The case of Vittore Soranzo, bishop of Bergamo, is also relevant; he was tried for heresy in 1551 and condemned unrepentant in 1558. His complete trial has been published (Massimo Firpo, Sergio Pagano, I processi inquisitoriali di Vittore Soranzo (1550–1558). Edizione critica, tomi 2, 2004). Moving on to the 1560s: the apostolic protonotary Pietro Carnesecchi was tried in 1566 and sentenced in 1567. All of these—Morone, Soranzo, Carranza—had in common a sympathy for Valdesianism and the idea of justification by faith. On the Italian bishops who were tried, see Massimo Firpo, Inquisizione romana e Controriforma. Studi sul cardinal Giovanni Morone (1509–1580) e il suo processo d’eresia (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2005), 25 ff.; on Morone and Carranza: Firpo, L’eretico che salvò la Chiesa. Il cardinale Giovanni Morone e le origini della Controriforma (Torino: Einaudi, 2019), 160, 584–585. On Carranza and Reginald Pole, vid. Tellechea, Fray Bartolomé Carranza y el cardenal Pole. Un navarro en la restauración católica (Pamplona: CIES, 1977). 26 Tellechea confuses minor theological notes with major ones and, strikingly, confuses “savor of heresy” with heresy itself. That is why he speaks of the “heretical” qualification “that Vadillo and Cano happily propose” (DH VI xv) and of the hundreds of heresies detected in the Catecismo, when in fact Cano only found two propositions to be formally heretical (P3, P8); he reduced six others to “savor” or impropriety, or he excused Carranza. It is true that Dr. Majuelo’s censura found more heretical propositions (especially in the chapter on justification by faith), but until now, researchers have not taken notice of this. 27 Censorial theory is substantially that of the theological notes, which developed at an increasing rate in Spanish scholasticism from the time of Juan de Torquemada’s Summa de Ecclesia. On the doctrine of notes, vid. John Cahill, The Development of the Theological Censures after the Council of Trent (1563–1709) (Fribourg: The University Press, 1955); Constantino Koser, De notis theologicis historia, notio, usus (Petropolis: Vozes, 1963); Bruno Neveu, L’erreur et son juge (Napoli: Bibliopolis, 1993), 240–241, 296–307; María José Vega, “Notas teológicas y censura de libros en los siglos XVI y XVII,” in

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  149 Cesc Esteve, ed., Las razones del censor. Control ideológico y censura de libros en la primera edad moderna (Barcelona: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2013), 25–53; “Managing Dissent.” in Harald Braun, Erik de Bom and Paolo Astorri, eds. A Companion to the Spanish Scholastics (Leiden: Brill, 2022), 85–112. 28 Every important issue has disagreements: Miglietti prefers to speak, not about censors but of a censorial community, one that is not unanimous but does share a regulated and open space, that requires differences to be resolved, and that acts within the confines of a bracket of interpretative possibilities (Sara Miglietti, “The Censor as Reader: Censorial Responses to Bodin’s Methodus in Counter-Reformation Italy (1587–1607),” History of European Ideas 42 (2016): 10–11). Beyond official censures, it was common for an author to submit a text to peer review; readers would produce opinions (pareceres) or officious censuras on one of the book’s theses, on a thorny argument, or on the entirety of a lengthy work. Godman, therefore, reminds us that censure was, above all, a method of discussion and a way of structuring debate: “[S]o commonly practised and so widely diffused was censura that any problem (…) was able to be condensed into propositions and submitted to the judgement of peers, colleagues or superiors” (Peter Godman, The Saint as Censor. Robert Bellarmine between Inquisition and Index, Brill, Leiden, 2000, 120). 29 The censuras of Domingo de Soto, Melchor Cano, Domingo Cuevas, and Juan de la Peña were written in 1559. There are two extant censuras from Cano (one in Latin and one in Spanish, in collaboration with Cuevas). José Sanz included the text of the Latin censura in Melchor Cano. Cuestiones fundamentales de crítica histórica sobre su vida y sus escritos (Madrid: Monachil, 1959), appendix xxxv, 481–538. Fermín Caballero published the vernacular one as “Censura de los Maestros Cano y Cuevas acerca de los escritos del Arzobispo Carranza (1559),” in Conquenses Ilustres. II. Melchor Cano (Madrid: Imprenta del Colegio Nacional de Sordo-Mudos y de Ciegos, 1871), II, 596–615. This text, slightly modernized by Tellechea, is included in DH VI 230–386 as Cualificación hecha por los maestros Cano y Cuevas del Catecismo. Neither Beltrán de Heredia nor Tellechea discusses the relationship between the two censuras despite their notable differences in length and tone. Two of Soto’s censuras are also extant. The first is officious and friendly; it was sent by Soto to Carranza privately and confidentially and included the qualification of 62 propositions. This censura was published by Beltrán de Heredia in Domingo de Soto. Estudio biográfico documentado (Madrid: Cultura Hispánica, 1961), 675–718, under the title Parecer autógrafo de Domingo de Soto sobre el Catecismo de Carranza a petición de este. The second is the official censura commissioned by the Holy Office; it includes a more technical qualification of 90 propositions (Censura de Domingo de Soto a petición del inquisidor general, in DH VI 187–224). A comparison of these two also remains to be done. The parecer of Juan de la Peña, defense advocate for Carranza, is included in DH II-i 218–290. I have also examined the epistolary judgement of Dr. Pero Martínez (DH VII 144–168), as well as the judgments favorable to Carranza, which he officiously commissioned for himself (now in DH VII 47–82). I have omitted examining the qualifications after 1560, which were used as the basis for the prosecutor’s first accusation in 1563; they were written by Rodrigo Vadillo, Pedro de Ibarra, Diego de Chaves, and Juan de Alzolaras, and in many respects, they coincide with the foregoing. 30 Among other places: Tellechea, El arzobispo Carranza, I, 442–443; II, 127; II, 287.

150  María José Vega 31 Joseph Koch, “Philosophische und theologische Irrtumlisten von 1270–1329,” in Kleine Schriften (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1973), 423–450. 32 On the examination of propositions in Paris at the end of the thirteenth century, and the constituting of university theological censure, vid. Bruno Neveu, L’erreur et son juge, 80–82, 93–94. M. M. H. Thijssen, Censure and Heresy at the University of Paris, 1200–1400 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988); A. E. Larsen, The School of Heretics. Academic Condemnation at the University of Oxford, 1277–1409 (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Gregory S. Moule, Corporate Jurisdiction, Academic Heresy and Fraternal Correction at the University of Paris, 1200–1400 (Leiden: Brill, 2016). Nevertheless, the system of notes did not become an object of reflection until the mid-fourteenth century and was not systematized until the middle of the fifteenth, following the Council of Constance’s condemnations. 33 See only Domingo de Soto, DH VI 194, 196, 208. I shall cite Cano’s censura from Fermín Caballero’s edition, using the number of the proposition being censured rather than the page number. Melchor Cano, Censura, praef. 5, P18, P60, P65, P74, P101, P32. The phrase lenguaje luterano appears in several witness depositions: DH II 78, 79, 80, 101, 115, 152, 296, 409 ff. etc. I have also found the expression “German language” (lenguaje de Alemania) and “evil” or “Luther’s language” (lenguaje malo o de Lutero) (DH II 153). Andrés Cuesta, bishop of León, proposed withdrawing the Catecismo because, “written in the way it is, and with the language it contains” (“estando como está escripto y con el lenguaje que lleva”), it offered an occasion for error (DH II 86). Domingo de Rojas mentions Carranza’s lenguaje de luteranos with reference to the certainty of grace, the betrothal of the soul to God, and the benefit of Christ’s death, which gives assurance of salvation (DH II 78); with reference to the appropriation of the “benefits (property, inheritance, riches) of Christ” (hacienda de Cristo) if one has true faith (DH II 79), and other turns of phrase (DH II 80; DH II 78, 79, 80, 101, 115). The papal condemnation of 1576 also alludes to the frasis luterana in some of Carranza’s writings. 34 Cano makes reference to the “Lutheran manner of speaking” (modo de hablar de luteranos, Censura, praef.), to the use of “Lutheran words” (palabras de luteranos, P24), to the “language of Lutherans” (lenguaje de luteranos, P18, P60), to words “that the dexados used” (P74), to disused expressions that Lutherans had recovered or “resurrected” (P101), to the “language of heretics” (lenguaje de los herejes, P60) or language “usurped” (usurpado) by heretics (P101). In one case, he writes “the prisoners’ language” (lenguaje de los presos), referring to the linguistic habits of Valladolid Protestants imprisoned by the Inquisition (P32). For modes of speaking that “sound” Lutheran, see P7, P65. 35 Also in Censura, P101: “And because St Thomas admonished us that in our speech we ought to flee as much as possible from the language that heretics usurp as their own.” (“E pues sancto Thomas amonesta que en el lenguaje devemos huir, quanto fuere posible, el que propriamente usurparen los hereges.”) This may be a reference to Quolibet X, q. 7, a 1. Utrum haereticis sint communicandum. Vera Urbano connects this passage with Peter Lombard’s commentaries on Liber sententiarum (IV, distinctio ciii, 1.2.art. 2 Utrum haereticis sint sustinendi) and with the Summa, IIaIIae q. 11 a.2. ad 2, Utrum haeretici sint tolerandi (Francisco Vera Urbano, “Aportación de Santo Tomás a la doctrina de la libertad religiosa,” Revista Española de Derecho Canónico 31, no. 88 (1975): 38. The commentary on the Liber sententiarum is based on 2 Tim 2:19, where St. Paul uses the metaphor of cancer or gangrene to describe the spread of the word or language (sermo) of impious persons (sermo eorum sicut cancer serpit). The reading sicut cancer views language as

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  151 an instrument of corruption, similar to 1 Cor 15:33: corrumpunt bonos mores colloquia prava. 36 There is an analogous passage in Censura, praef. 5, referring to references in the Catecismo to Christ’s satisfaction and merits, “making them our own without any explanation, and using Lutheran modes of speech at which the weak reader will stumble” (“haciéndolos propios nuestros sin declaración alguna, y usurpando modos de hablar lutheranos donde el lector flaco tropezará”). 37 Houdard, “Langages dissidents,” 3. 38 Such reluctance extended to the recovery of terms that had fallen into disuse, like “the Lord’s Supper” (la cena del señor), which Cano links to the strategy of returning to the primitive Church (“this language, dead now in the Church… the Lutherans have attempted to revive, no so much to imitate the language of St Paul as to renew the use of the primitive Church, [supposing] that it was a supper”; (“este lenguaje, muerto ya en la iglesia … han tratado de resucitar los lutheranos, no tanto para imitar el lenguaje de sant Pablo quanto para renovar el uso de la iglesia primitiva, de que fuese cena,” P101). The idea of using what is ancient as the paradigm of what is pure, in which Cano sees a common strategy of invalidating the present-day Church, is explicitly discussed in the vernacular censure (see only P6): archaicizing doctrinal language is part of this strategy and would be associated with the view of the Reformation as a “resurrection” of the primitive Church, a construction that is useful as “artillery” (P6). Faced with this, Cano affirms the idea that time is a transforming force that cannot be turned back (“the times are different and the people are different, salvation is different and the spirits are different, and in sum, the circumstances are different”); (“los tiempos son otros y las gentes otras, y la salud otra y los espíritus otros, y en fin las circunstancias otras,” P6). 39 Juan de Valdés, Diálogo de doctrina cristiana (Madrid: Editoria Nacional, 1979), 83. Cipriano de Valera, Dos tratados, el primero es el del Papa y su autoridad… el segundo es el de la Missa, 1588, p. 456. Also in Francisco de Enzinas’s Breve y compendiosa institución de la religión cristiana (1542), a version of Calvin’s catechism, and in his translation of Tractado de la libertad cristiana de Lutero (Luther’s Freedom of the Christian): see Francisco de Enzinas, Breve y compendiosa institución de la religión cristiana (1542), critical edition and introduction by Jonathan L. Nelson (Cuenca: Ediciones de la UCLM, Serie Disidentes Españoles, 2008), 73, 149, 238. See also, Juan de Valdés, “Alfabeto Cristiano,” in Obras completas, I (Madrid: Castro, 1997), 409. 40 This is also a formulaic expression of Juan de Valdés: “In the other way we understand that faith is trust” (“En la otra manera entendemos que fe es confianza”) (Diálogo de doctrina cristiana, p. 83). 41 García Pinilla, “Más sobre Constantino,” p. 211. In the collection of Inquisition documents on the Protestant circles of Seville edited by Tomás López Muñoz, there are several texts from 1557 to 1559 that refer to Lutheran language or frasis lutherana (La Reforma en Sevilla, 2 vols., Santiponce, Ediciones MAD, 2011, II, 116, 133, 169). See also Constantino Ponce de la Fuente, “Exposición del primer salmo dividida en seis sermones,” in Beatus vir. Carne de hoguera, edition by Emilia Navarro, Madrid, Editora Nacional, 1977, p. 75. My thanks to Ignacio García Pinilla and Jorge Ledo making me aware of these testimonies. 42 For the definition of propositio sapiens haeresim, see Juan de Torquemada, Summa, IV, xi, 384r. Melchor Cano’s exposition is more significant and extensive: M. Cano, De locis Theologicis libri duodecim (Salmanticae: Excudebat

152  María José Vega Mathias Gastius, 1563), XII, xi, 441–442; the same is true for Domingo Báñez, Scholastica commentaria, 276. On the concept of “savor of heresy” in dogmatic theology: see Koser De notis theologicis, 71, 75, who was the first to identify the origin of the term in Ockham’s Dialogus; Vega “Malos saberes y censuras menores en el siglo XVI,” in Folke Gernert, ed. Los malos saberes (Toulouse: Méridiennes, Presses Universitaires du Midi, 2015), 13–28. On the inquisitorial use of qualification in the seventeenth century, Mathilde Albisson, Le livre en procés: les nouveaux enjeux de la censure inquisitoriale dans l’Espagne du XVIIe siècle, Université Sorbonne Nouvele, Thèse de doctorat, 2020, 139 ff. 43 Melchor Cano, De locis, XII, xi, 441. 44 The Censura found divergent and Lutheran interpretations in 130 passages related to controversies over justification by faith, free will, and the intercession of the saints. On the Censura generalis and the polemical use of scriptural passages in Lutheran discourse, vid. María José Vega, “Buenas y malas biblias. La Censura generalis (1554) y los inicios de la política expurgatoria de la monarquía hispánica,” in Silvia Ștefan et al, eds. Curiosidad y censura en la Edad Moderna (Bucharest: University of Bucharest, 2020), 14–52. Cano points out in the Censura on the Catecismo that the Arian heresy also modified how certain Bible passages were used (P17). Carranza’s Catecismo also retrieved some passages with interpretations that the Holy Office had condemned only a few years earlier. This raises the question of whether Carranza knew the Censura generalis. One would suppose that he did. In fact, Tellechea thinks Carranza may have been a co-author. There are at least three cases in which Carranza cited passages that were used in the Lutheran system of argumentation to deny the intercession of saints, and furthermore, he added apostilles that coincided with summaries and marginal notes that had been expurgated (vid. DH VI 367). 45 Also, the uses of fiducia. Cf. Censura generalis contra errores quibus recentes haeretici sacram scripturam asperserunt, edita a supremo senatu Inquisitionis adversus haereticam pravitatem et apostasiam in Hispania et aliis regnis et dominiis Caesarea Majestatis …, Pinciae, ex officina Francisci Ferdinandi Cordubensis, 1554, praef. s.p. 46 Thus also Censura Generalis, Praef. s.p. There is extensive disapproval of the use of Patristic sources. Cano indicates that Carranza did not make good use of quotations in “using the testimony of St Augustine that the Lutherans take advantage of, without any explanation at all, but leaving St Augustine’s meaning [to be looked up], which does not appear in this book nor did the author cite a place so that the reader could go look it up” (“traer el testimonio de sant Augustin de que los luteranos se aprovechan sin declaracion alguna, sino remitiendose al sentido de sant Augustin, el cual no paresce en este libro, ni el auctor cito lugar para que el lector lo vaya a veer”). He therefore recommends either not “presenting it to the general public” (“representarlo al pueblo”) or, if such a presentation is made, “to give an explanation and commentary so that no occasion could be had for error from such a weighty testimony” (“darle inteligencia e glosa para que no se pudiese tomar ocasion de yerro de un testimonio tan grave,” P19). 47 On the incorporation of censorial theory in commentaries on IIaIIae, vid. M. J. Vega “El laboratorio dogmático. La teoría de la censura en los comentarios de la Summa Theologica entre los siglos XVI y XVII,” in Mathilde Albisson, Agentes de la censura (Berne: Peter Lang, 2022), 21–48. 48 Domingo Báñez, Scholastica Commentaria in Secundam Secundae Angelici Doctoris S. Thomae (1586), Rome, Ex Typographia Petri Borremans, 1615, ad q. XI, pp. 271 ff, p. 276.

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  153 49 Collegii Salmanticensis Fr. Discalceatorum B. Mariae de Monte Carmeli Cursus Theologicus Summam Theologicam Angelici Doctoris D. Thomae complectens. Tractatus XVII. De fide, Lugduni, 1679, IX, iv, 317–318. 50 “Sed haeresis non solum est circa res, sed etiam circa verba, et circa expositiones sacrae Scipturae. Dicit enim Hieronymus quod quicumque aliter Scripturam intelligit quam sensus spiritus sancti efflagitat, a quo scripta est, licet ab Ecclesia non recesserit, tamen haereticus appellari potest, et alibi dicit quod ex verbis inordinate prolatis fit haeresis” (Summa, IIaIIae, q. 11 a-2.2, italics mine). And again, “si sit inordinata locutio circa ea quae sunt fidei, sequi potest ex hoc corruptio fidei” (ibid). 51 See, for example, Cano’s vernacular Censura: “Although strictly speaking this proposition is erroneous and contrary to sound theology, still, because the author does not have the purity and propriety of the Castilian tongue … the inconsideration and impropriety should be taken note of with a pardon for the author” (“Aunque en rigor esta proposición es errónea y contraria a sana teología, más como el auctor no tiene la pureza y propriedad de la lengua castellana … hase de notar la inconsideración e impropiedad con salva del autor,” P7). See also P50, “the author has many improprieties of language, and this and his good intentions ought to save him” (“el author tiene muchas impropiedades en el lenguaje y esto y su buena intención le han de salvar”), and P79, “all these improprieties ought to be forgiven when his intentions are certain” (“todas estas impropiedades se han de perdonar quando consta de la intención”). One should note that the author’s pardon (salva) refers to the judicial process, not theological censure. Domingo de Soto also understands that the inappropriateness of the style “saves” the author: see DH VI, 191, 192, 194, 198 among others. 52 The Latin Censura, in Sanz, Melchor Cano. Cuestiones fundamentales, 481. 53 At various points, Soto detects either Lutheran errors or lenguaje de lutheranos (DH VI 196) “at first sight” (“a primera vista”), prima facie or “in the outward appearance” (“en la sobrehaz”)—that is, in the primary meaning of the text, taken as written. But before condemning them as Lutheran, he prefers to postulate a meaning by explaining the distinctions that were omitted (DH VI 22, 193, 194, 196, 202, among many others). From one proposition, for example, he affirms that it could be true, but for that to be the case, “it is necessary to explain it” (“es menester explicarse”). Regarding one long passage, he indicates that “all this is dangerous if it is not explained”(“todo esto es peligroso si no se explica,” Soto, 202); in yet another, he says that “in these times it could be somewhat dangerous to the people if it is not further explained” (“en estos tiempos podría tener algún peligro al pueblo si no se explicase más,” 193). This is an especially pressing question with respect to the pages on justification by faith, which are perhaps the most controversial in the Catecismo: these “ought to be further explained to avoid Lutheran language, because, since they said that faith alone justifies us” (“hase de explicar más, por evitar el lenguaje de los lutheranos, porque como dixieron que solo la fe nos justifica,” DH VI 194). Italics mine. 54 Bataillon, Erasmo y España, 753. 55 On “evil-sounding propositions” in Torquemada’s Summa de Ecclesia, vid. Cahill, The Development, 144. On the identification and subsequent distinction between propositio male sonans and propositio offensiva, vid. M. J. Vega “Escandaloso, ofensivo y malsonante. Censura y vigilancia de la prosa vernacular en el Siglo de Oro,” Criticón 120–121 (2014): 137–154. See also, on the use of male sonans in the theological faculty of Paris’s condemnations, Denzinger, Collectio Iudiciorum, I, 248. In the sixteenth century, propositio

154  María José Vega male sonans was defined by, among others, Melchor Cano, De locis, XII, xi, 443–445; Domingo Báñez, Scholastica Commentaria, 277; Pedro de Lorca, Commentaria et disputationes in IIamIIae Divi Thomae, Madriti, praelo et expensis Ludovici Sanchez, 1614, XXXIX Sectione de fide, 258–259; Cursus Theologicus, XVII, IX, iv, 318–319. 56 “Propositio scandalosa aut male sonans sive piarum aurium offensiva dicitur propositio quae occasionem ruinae praeberet auditoribus, ut propositiones multae quae licet cum modificatione adiuncta sunt vere, per se tamen, et absolute sine modificatione prolatae videntur favere propositionibus haereticalibus,” Summa, IV, xi, 384r°. “Scandal,” “offence,” and “evil-sounding [proposition]” (escándalo, ofensa, malsonancia) were practically equivalent terms for Torquemada, but in the sixteenth century, they came to be defined as different notes. 57 Cano, De locis, XII, 441–445. On the relationship between evil-sounding propositions and those with the savor of heresy, see Domingo Báñez, Scholastica Commentaria, 277, and Cursus Theologicus, XVII, IX, iv, 318– 319. On the difference between evil-sounding propositions, offence, and scandal, see also M. J. Vega “Escandaloso, ofensivo y malsonante.” 58 On “evil-sounding propositions” (malsonancia) in Cano’s vernacular censura, see P 26, 64, with thoughts on the note, and P4, P14, P60, P65, P74, P103. On ambiguity and equivocation, see also P6, P12, P24, P38, P58, P61, P62, P96, P100, P111, among others. 59 The inserted quotations are “De intelligentia haeresis non de scriptura est. Sensus, et non sermo, facit crimen,” Hilario de Poitiers, De Trinitate, PL 10, p. 50; “ex verbis tuis justificaberis, et ex verbis tuis condemnaveris”: Mt. 12:37; “veniunt enim in vestimentis ovium”: Mt. 7:15. 60 The pareceres and letters were studied and published by J. I. Tellechea Idígoras, “Los dictámenes favorables al Catecismo de Carranza,” Scriptorium Victoriense 32 (1985): 331–413. Given the similarity between the lexicon and two central arguments used by Carranza in his defense, and those that are found in nearly all the letters, it is reasonable to suppose that they were part of the request he made to his correspondents. 61 It is the spirit of one who reads like a child eating the contents of the pan more for the honey than for the food itself. Vid. Francisco de Osuna, Primera parte del libro llamado Abecedario Spiritual (Burgos: Juan de Junta, 1537), Prólogo, f. vi. 62 “[T]iempos de agora,” “estos tiempos,” “tiempos flojos,” or “peligrosos”; see P32, 35, 39, 64, 83, 100. He reproves the use of Lutheran words “in such times” (en semejantes tiempos), P23; he points out doctrines that are scandalous or dangerous “mostly in these times” (mayormente en estos tiempos), P42. The expression flagging, weak, or sick times (tiempos flacos) is an infrequent hypallage (from flagging spirits, espíritus flacos). The phrase perilous times (tiempos peligrosos, P45) or tempora periculosa (P61), recalling St. Paul (2 Tim. 3:1), is incorporated into the perception of the present: “Hoc autem scito, quod in novissimis diebus instabunt tempora periculosa. Erunt enim homines seipsos amantes, cupidi, elati, superbi, blasphemi, parentibus inoboedientes, ingrati, scelesti, sine affectione, sine foedere, criminatores, incontinentes, immites, sine benignitate, proditores, protervi, tumidi, voluptatum amatores magis quam Dei, habentes speciem quidem pietatis, virtutem autem eius abnegantes; et hos devita.” 63 Domingo de Soto, DH VI 194, 201. The expression malicia de los tiempos is also used by Carranza: see DH I 148. 64 One cannot exclude the possibility that this began as a careful formula, almost a Ciceronian gesture. In fact, Cicero frequently uses hypallages with

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  155 times as an elegant way of summarising and referring to present circumstances: thus tristitia, calamitas, acerbitas, atrocitas, iniquitas temporum, and the idea of tempus dubium, suspitiosum, caecum, triste, miserum, asperum, etc. See, for example, the hypallages related to the root word tempus in Etienne Dolet, Commentariorum linguae latinae (Lugduni: apud Gryphium, 1556), 819–821. 65 The expression calamitas temporum usually alternates with malitia in censorial language: Domingo Báñez, for example, includes it in his definition of savor of heresy, which can occur propter temporum calamitatem (see note 42). This is common in all Romance settings, but especially in Italian: Silvio Antoniano uses calamitá dei tempi to refer to calamities “intorno alla religione.” Orazio Lombardelli published in 1587 a consolatory book for the tempi calamitosi. Pedro de Ribadeneira, in his Tratado de la religión y virtudes que debe tener el príncipe cristiano (1595) depicts the “turbulence and calamity of the times” (turbación y calamidad de los tiempos) as the consequence of “our sins, of heresies and errors, invented by men who are lovers of themselves, cruel, vicious, and heartless, who see their own gain in someone else’s loss, and who have a personal interest in the destruction of all religion and virtue.” 66 Jesús Martínez de Bujanda, dir. Index des Livres Interdits (Geneva & Sherbrooke: Droz, 1985–2002), II, 404. 67 Martínez de Bujanda, Index, VIII, 811. 68 Martínez de Bujanda, Index, VI, 880. 69 “Having respect for the author, who was always famous for being religious, virtuous, and theologically learned, and who is placed in the leading church of Spain, it is reasonable that, although his propositions, because of the wickedness of the times, when taken in themselves, in their exactitude, should be noted in their [literal] quality to be corrected, yet also the meaning that the author seems to have attempted should be explained, being a sound one and one that excuses said author as to himself and as to [the idea that] his intent was not Catholic” (“[A]viendo respecto del auctor, que siempre tuvo mucho nombre de religión, virtud y doctrina, y está puesto en la primera iglesia de España, es razón que, aunque sus proposiciones, por la malicia de los tiempos, tomadas por sí, en su rigor, se noten en su cualidad para corregirse, pero también se declare el sentido que el auctor paresce haber pretendido, que es sano y excusa la persona del dicho auctor y su intención no haber sido católica,” DH VI 187). 70 “[T]his proposition in these times ought to be explained further and it should have been said that they are the fruit of faith through love” (“[E]sta proposición en estos tiempos se ha de explicar más y había de decir que son fructos de la fe por la charidad,” DH VI 194); “this proposition [‘the Passion was a full satisfaction for all sins,’ ‘La passión fue una cumplida satisfactión por todos los pecados’]… needed to be explained because of the wickedness of the times… for avoiding Lutheran errors, because they infer from this that our own satisfaction is not needed” (“esta proposición… por la malicia de los tiempos era menester explicarla… ad evitandum errorum lutheranorum, que infieren de allí no ser necessaria nuestra satisfaction,” DH VI 201). This is a frequent argument in the letters that Carranza asked for in his defense: DH VII 54, 57, 74, 75, 78. 71 DH VI 199; DH VI 202; “[this proposition is false] but we ought to believe that the author was attempting [to give] a different sense of these words” (“pero otro sentido de estas palabras es el que el auctor es de creer que pretendió,” DH VI 205; DH VI 213; DH VI 215); “this proposition is erroneous,

156  María José Vega and it does not appear that Tertullian, whom the author cites, spoke it … but if the author wished to say it the following (…) it would be well said” (“esta proposición es errónea ni paresce averla dicho Tertulliano a quien el auctor cita … pero si quisiese decir el auctor (…) sería bien dicho,” DH VI 221); “this proposition is false and evil-sounding in its literal form, although the author’s intent must have been sound” (“esta proposición es falsa y malsonante en la forma de las palabras, aunque la intención del auctor debió ser sana,” DH VI 219), etc. This pattern of argument is repeated: such and such a proposition is false or erroneous, but if the author had wished to say other things that differ from this—which Soto goes on to explain—his intent would be upheld. 72 See DH VII 301. This procedure is so striking and so frequent that the Licenciado del Valdotano, in taking Soto’s oath, asked him to clarify what he knew about the intentions: “[H]e was told that, in the qualification he did on the book called Catechismo Christiano, as well as in the preface, I say, in the qualification and in many other parts, he goes along salvaging the author’s intention. Let him declare if he has been in communication with him about this in writing or verbally or in any other way, or how he knows what the intention is” (“[F]uele dicho que en la cualificación que tiene hecha de el libro que se intitula Catechismo Christiano, asi en la prefación, digo en la cualificación y en otras muchas partes, va salvando la intención de el auctor. Que declare si lo ha comunicado con él por escripto o de palabra o en otra qualquier manera, o cómo le consta de la intención,” DH VI 222). Soto responded that he gathered it from the archbishop’s “manner of speaking” (“manera de hablar”) and because of “some kind of respect for [his own] sound opinion of the author’s person that he has always had” (“algún respecto a la sana opinión que siempre ha tenido de la persona del auctor,” DH VI 223). 73 There is a change in tone from the first censures—where Soto in fact explains what the author could have wished to say (as opposed to the error or falsity of what the text states) or where Soto says that the statements only appear erroneous and false—to the latter ones, in which the qualification is stated bluntly and without palliatives: “all of this is false,” this “either is not understood or is false,” “nor does this appear to be true,” “it is an untruth (falsedad),” etc. (DH VI 218, 220–222). 74 The Inquisition handed over the propositions on March 15, 1559. The Parecer was published in 1972 in the collection Fray Bartolomé de Carranza. Documentos Históricos, II-i, 218–290. 75 Absolutamente (absolute, but also metaphysice and objective) in the qualifications refers to the proposition just as it appears in the text, as it sounds, or ut iacet. 76 See also DH II 240 ff.; with respect to the certainty of justification, see DH II 247; with respect to prayer, see DH II, 266 ff. and DH II 277. Sometimes Peña proposes three, four, or even six meanings for a single proposition and then discards those that are suspect (for example, DH II 231). 77 DH II 243. We find the same observation as “attribute a better sense” (echar a mejor parte) in DH II 282. See also DH II 247. Another of Carranza’s defenders, the abad Alonso Enríquez, repeats these words verbatim (DH VII 75). 78 The passage is possibly a response to Melchor Cano, to whom the dizen (“they say”) refers since Cano (P64) uses the Gospel passage about wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing (Mt 7:15) to explain lenguaje luterano. 79 Domingo de Soto, “Relectio de haeresis,” in Sixto Sánchez Lauro, ed. El crimen de herejía y su represión inquisitorial. Doctrina y praxis en Domingo de Soto (Barcelona: Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2017), 318.

Heresy and the language of Catholicism  157 80 St. Thomas (Quodlibetum, X, q. 7, a. 1) recalled, with St. Paul, that good people are strengthened through the actions of evil people (1 Cor 11:19; Prov. 11:29). The usefulness of heresy is oftentimes founded on the Pauline passage, “Oportet haereses esse, ut et qui probati sunt manifesti fiant in vobis.” 81 The final lines of Cano’s and Cuevas’s vernacular Censura expound this idea clearly: “[A]s has been said several times before, this judgement of ours is only of the writing; we do not touch the faith and religion of the person: rather, his authority has in part caused us to moderate the censure, notwithstanding that we would desire him to look more closely at the times in which he writes, the readers to whom he writes, the style and words with which he writes, and even the things that he writes” (“como algunas vezes esta repetido, este nuestro juizio es de sola la escriptura, que a la fee e religion de la persona no la tocamos: antes su auctoridad en parte nos ha hecho moderar la censura, no embargante que quisieramos que mirara mas atentamente los tiempos en que escrive, los lectores a quien escrive, el estilo e palabras con que escrive, e aun las cosas que escrive,” P141. Italics mine). 82 In these pages, I have not touched on the question of the genre of the Comentarios del Catecismo. Regarding what a catechism is understood to be in the Modern Era, see Michela Catto, Un panopticon catechistico. L’arciconfraternita della dottrina cristiana a Roma in età moderna (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2003), 21 ff. On the configuration of catechisms in the 1550s, Paul Begheyn, “The Catechism (1555) of Peter Canisius, the Most Published Book by a Dutch Author in History,” Quaerendo 36, no. 1–2 (2006): 51–84. On its circulation and editorial policy, Gigliola Fragnito, “‘Ogni semplice chierico o secolare, anche idiota è habile ad insegnarlo’: la circolazione del catechismo negli stati cattolici europei nella seconda metà del Cinquecento,” Rivista Storica Italiana 130, no. 1 (2017): 77–98. The catechism genre was popular in the 1550s and was a quick path to international success and to making a theologian’s reputation. 83 The idea that personal experience can be a reliable source of theological knowledge is one of the presuppositions of alumbradismo and the espirituales (Antonio Márquez, Los alumbrados 184, 195–197, 204). 84 On the progressive exclusion of the common languages, vid. Gigliola Fragnito, “Le lingue della controversistica religiosa e la confessionalizzazione,” in In corrupta monumenta Ecclesiam defendunt. Studi offerti a mons. Sergio Pagano (Città del Vaticano: Archivio Segreto Vaticano, 2018), III, 235–250.

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6 Antonio de Córdoba on the relationship between council and pope Thomas M. Izbicki

The history of Iberian thought on the ecclesiastical polity in the Golden Age is written mostly focused on Dominicans and Jesuits, especially Francisco de Vitoria (c. 1483–1546) and Francisco Suárez (1548–1617). Their ideas about the rights of Native Americans and natural law receive detailed attention.1 These members of the School of Salamanca and the related School of Coimbra differed on some issues, including the powers of pope and council. Among the Dominicans, Vitoria was cautiously friendly to general councils, whereas Melchor Cano (c. 1509–1560) was a firm papalist. They and others contributed to the doctrine of papal infallibility.2 Among the Jesuits, Juan de Mariana (1536–1624) taught a controversial theory of tyrannicide, while Suárez argued against the imposition of an oath of obedience on England’s Catholics.3 Most Jesuits embraced papalism, as Robert Bellarmine (1541–1621) did at the height of the Counter Reformation. All Iberian theologians opposed the Protestants on issues of Church and orthodoxy.4 One Franciscan deserving attention in this context is Antonio de Córdoba (1485–1578), who wrote on papal power, councils, and infallibility. Much of his thought can be found in the Quaestionarium theologicum libris quinque distinctum (Venice, 1569; Toledo, 1570). The book was reprinted in Ingolstadt (1593) and edited by Francisco Peña in Venice (1604). In addition, he was guardian of the Franciscan Observants of Alcalá and provincial minister for Castile. In that context, he composed an exposition of the order’s rule and a tract on cases of conscience.5 Some of the studies on his teachings have focused on papal infallibility,6 others on his moral thought, including probabilism and invincible ignorance.7 Antonio invoked conciliar authority to support orthodoxy while avoiding conciliarism. He wrote in the aftermath of the effort of the rebel council of Pisa (1511–1512) to depose Pope Julius II (r. 1503–1513). The papally convoked Fifth Lateran Council (1512–1517) had been used by Julius and his successor, Leo X (r. 1513–1521), to defeat the Pisan assembly.8 Antonio also had to deal with the Protestant challenges to the ecclesiastical establishment and the consequent efforts of the Council of Trent DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-7

Antonio de Córdoba  163 to balance reform and the defense of orthodoxy.9 He discerned a significant threat in Martin Luther (1483–1546), Ulrich Zwingli (1484–1531), and John Calvin (1509–1564), who also opposed the Anabaptists.10 Lutherans most frequently appear as his targets, denounced as followers of John Wycliffe’s (c. 1328–1384) errors.11 In addition, he accused them of believing the true Church had been hidden with a few for 300 years before being brought back into the light.12 As an apologist faced with these challenges, Antonio entitled his general tract on ecclesiastical issues Arma fidei (The Arms of the Faith) and added the closely related De potestate papae. These works, the 12 propositions of Arma fidei—originally published in 1562—followed by 13 questions on papal and conciliar power, appear in the Venice edition as book four of the Quaestionarium.13 In Arma fidei, Antonio aims at a well-documented refutation of multiple heresies, citing Scripture, the fathers, and other authorities to uphold orthodoxy. He discerned agreement between the doctors of the Church, Roman pontiffs, general and local councils in opposition to all heresies.14 Experience witnessed to this, just as the Greek and Latin fathers did in their books. All of them showed how the Roman Church was “the rule of faith and morals,” divinely guided in its teachings.15 These truths were also proven “infallibly” by miracles.16 Antonio’s defense of orthodoxy and magisterium in faith and morals made extensive use of councils. These range from the great councils of Antiquity (First Nicaea, First Constantinople, Ephesus, and Chalcedon) to Trent. Particularly important for present purposes are the late medieval councils. Constance and Basel challenged papal supremacy, which were opposed by Florence and the Fifth Lateran, but all denounced heresy. In addition, he had to deal with challenges to the papacy from Catholic writers like Jean Gerson (1363–1429). From the very beginning of Arma fidei, Antonio cited the early councils. He used especially the First Council of Constantinople to defend the creedal statement, credo in vnam sanctam Ecclesiam.17 Arma fidei upheld the authority of the Church and its doctors in support of orthodoxy. Among the texts supporting this position, he cited those of First Nicaea and Trent, as well as one of the Councils of Toledo.18 Especially useful were the general councils “of the whole world,” universally approved.19 Their definitions were embraced by all present, accepted by the entire Church, and they could not err in faith and morals.20 Throughout Arma fidei and De potestate, Antonio poses contrary arguments in order to reply. One set of arguments said that heretics believed everything necessary for salvation was contained in Scripture, especially the writings of the Apostles and Evangelists. There was no need therefore to listen to “the traditions of the Apostles, the Church and the Doctors,” let alone other teachings and revelations. These heretics were supposedly convinced that there was a danger of treating

164  Thomas M. Izbicki uncertain things as certain.21 Antonio replied that the Church contained the gospel “and its preaching.”22 He also accused his foes of vain chattering to support their private opinions in opposition to reason or the Church’s true tradition.23 Toward the end of Arma fidei, Antonio provides a hierarchy of testimonies to the faith: canonical Scriptures received by the Church (vt canonica in Ecclesia Christi recepta); apostolic traditions; the consensus of the doctors, fathers, and pontiffs; a definition by a legitimate general council (diffinitio legitimi Concilii Generalis); a definition by a pope, thus placing a conciliar decision ahead of a papal one.24 He noted that the councils declare the sense of the Scriptures and traditions, as well as the consensus and usage of the Church, which all must accept.25 Papal decrees were a little less in authority and certitude than those of councils since a pope was less likely than a council to do “what was in him” when addressing these matters.26 The doctrine of the Church was partly dependent, Antonio said, on “the continuous succession of pontiffs from the time of the Apostles” onward.27 Many councils, both general and provincial, had defined the faith and condemned heretics, and they witnessed the authority of the holy doctors when defining the faith and rejecting its contrary.28 He stated that, in consequence, one should stand fast in concord with the opinions and witness of the holy doctors, the pontiffs, and the councils, both general and provincial, from the birth of the Church onward, rather than with the condemned opinions of recent heretics and carnal men.29 The friar treated the Council of Florence, together with other general and provincial councils confirmed by popes, as affirming the utility of prayers for the dead (suffragia defunctorum).30 He listed many councils that buttressed the faith, among them the Fifth Lateran Council sub Leone X and Trent, as well as another Council of Toledo.31 He also mentioned the Council of Florence as among those supporting the authority of the doctors.32 Treating the argument that all necessary things were to be found in the Bible, he said the meaning of difficult passages is more clearly expressed by the doctors and the councils.33 The truth of the faith could be found not just in the Scriptures but also in what had been determined by the councils and the tradition of the Church.34 He added that Scripture was very certain but not entirely clear or easy to understand (neque facilior quo ad sensum).35 His endorsement of councils, even provincial ones, in matters of faith raised certain issues. The most evident was the relationship between pope and council. Less evident but closely related was the ability of councils to deal with matters of faith without authorization from the Roman pontiff. Intertwined were questions about councils that had erred in faith and the infallibility that Antonio attributed to both pope and council in doctrinal disputes.

Antonio de Córdoba  165 Considering his reliance on councils in opposing heresies, the friar unsurprisingly attributed divine guidance to councils in matters of faith. In Arma fidei, he offered this proposition: A general council legitimately gathered, if it does what is in it, which must be believed to act regularly when defining matters of faith and morals, unless the opposite is quite evident, cannot err even for a short time; and its definition must be accepted by all under the judgment and penalty of heresy.36 He noted that some theologians said that a legitimate general council could err if the pope was not present.37 Others said the opposite. Antonio said that he would prove the affirmative proposition in four ways “with the aforesaid limitations” against any who think the contrary.38 The first argument was concerned with divine guidance. Since the whole Church could not always convene to determine the truth in a dispute about doctrine, there had to be a visible tribunal in which there was “divine and most certain authority.”39 This authority belonged to the pope with the cardinals or a general council legitimately assembled from the principal parts of the Church (ex praecipuis partibus ipsius Ecclesiae).40 He concluded, Otherwise there would never be an end to doubts unless there were the aforesaid authority in council and pope for finally defining and declaring all these things, and the meaning of the sacred Scripture and the Doctors, so that all agree and remain in the confession of the same faith.41 The second argument was that, if a general council could err, there would be doubts as to whether the whole Church at once could err (simul errare), which was impossible. After all, a council over which the pope or his legates presided (pręsidente Papa aut eius legatis) had the authority of the whole Church.42 The third argument was that the Apostles gathered a council to deal with doubts. The Council in Jerusalem dealing with circumcision was the first of these. The fourth argument was that it was supported by doctors from Augustine onward, as well as councils such as Chalcedon and the sixteenth Council of Toledo.43 The expression “what is in it” was crucial to Antonio’s argument, although he made little effort at first to explain it. He said that a council’s failure to inquire fully into an issue fell under the heading of failing to do “what was in it.” It was hardly surprising that God might not be present in such a case.44 It was no wonder, he said, that, if men assembled in a council “do what is in them” only for their own ends, they can err, unless with special divine assistance.45 If a council did “what was in it,” including making proper inquiries, the Holy Spirit was especially present to save it—an assembly of mortal

166  Thomas M. Izbicki men—from any chance of error.46 He claimed that no general council legitimately assembled and continued, proceeding legitimately with papal authority, was known to have erred.47 Nevertheless, sometimes a council did not proceed legitimately or “exceeded the limits of its remit” (uel excesserint metas suae facultatis), and he pointed to the councils of Constance and Basel as examples.48 He also mentioned councils that failed by not inquiring properly concerning the faith, among them Rimini and Second Ephesus in Antiquity.49 He admitted that pope or councils might be regarded as erring in matters like the degrees of consanguinity prohibiting certain marriages, with some holding one opinion and others another.50 Antonio then returned to the question of the meaning of the phrase “[doing] what is in it,” saying that it pertained to obtaining divine aid in pursuit of the truth (ad praedictam finem veritatis illustrationisque Diuina obtinendum).51 He began by tying the convocation of a general council to the authority of a sure, living pope—one who was accepted by all as legitimate—or anyone else able to do so. They were to gather the bishops and others chosen for their goodness, learning, and prudence; he probably used the term a “sure” pope to leave room for convocations in periods like the Great Western Schism when it was uncertain who the true pontiff was.52 These men were to seek the truth concerning faith and morals by studying the Scriptures and the holy doctors, as well as previous councils and whatever else might seem pertinent to that holy end.53 Under those circumstances, it was morally impossible that those assembled in a council would err “against the express sense of the Scriptures and the general tradition or custom of the Church.”54 He concluded that it was absolutely true that a council legitimately assembled and continued could not err in faith and morals.55 Because it was necessary that a general council should not err in faith and morals, there necessarily had to be, as promised, divine illumination.56 According to Córdoba, the power of the council in these matters of faith and morals came from the Holy Spirit, which acted by “assisting, illuminating, driving, moving and determining.”57 More unusually, Antonio applied the same rule to a provincial council or other assembly gathered “in the name of Christ” in any matter of faith and morals in which there was danger in delay, and recourse to the pope or a general council was not possible. The Holy Spirit would guide it in such a case.58 Likewise, there might be doubt about who the true pope was or whether a pontiff had done what was in him.59 He also applied this rule to the Council of Constance, which, in the absence of an undoubted Roman pontiff, had condemned John Wycliffe and Jan Hus (c. 1372–1415). Elsewhere in Arma fidei, Antonio mentioned the condemnation of heretics by the Council of Constance, together with the Florentine decrees of union with the Greeks and Armenians, who accepted papal primacy.60 He pointed to the decree of the fifth session of Constance, Haec sancta, as

Antonio de Córdoba  167 evidence that a council had power immediately from Christ concerning faith and morals61 but showed no evidence of believing that such extraordinary circumstances pertained in ecclesiastical governance when there was a true Roman pontiff able to see that the right measures were taken for the welfare of the Church. This leads to consideration of the place of the Roman pontiff in the friar’s thought. Antonio regarded the Church as an entity, the Mystical Body of Christ. Looking at the membership of the Church, he argued that it was composed not just of the predestined, as Wycliffe thought, or even of just persons at the present moment in a state of grace. It was made up of all the baptized, “even if they may be sinners” or foreknown to be cut off from the Church and rejected. The Church Militant, he said, was not just an invisible body known only to God but also visible and apparent to human beings. This placed Córdoba among those who believed the Church was the congregation of the faithful, which included those baptized into the faith.62 There was no other sacrament of regeneration making one a member of Christ’s mystical body.63 The friar added that being foreknown as bad in the future did not make one unjust in the present, nor did it exclude anyone from the Church.64 Sinners were infirm or sick members of the Church, dried out or putrid.65 However, human beings could not know whether they were predestined for salvation or whether they were in a state of justifying grace without a special revelation from God.66 Anyone who remained in the faith received through baptism was always in the Church, a member of it, a Christian, even if a bad one and without grace.67 He appealed to the authority of the Council of Constance, which condemned the heresy of Wycliffe, and to the condemnation of the Lutherans at Trent, to buttress this teaching.68 In addition, the Church had the sacraments, the spiritual gifts, the works of the saints, and a sinner could be restored to the beauty of holiness.69 According to the friar, the Church was hierarchically ordered, an order intended to last to the end of the world. Otherwise, the Church would not have been properly created.70 Christ not only governed invisibly from heaven, but He left behind individual bishops and pastors under a single governor.71 That governor was the pope, the Christ’s vicar, who had the governing power of jurisdiction.72 The popes succeeded Peter, the primate of the Church, in that power.73 Each successor was the head, prince, and shepherd of the Catholic Church.74 This vicariate existed for the good of the Church (ad bonum illius).75 Only heretics who abhorred the word “pope,” the friar said, denied this.76 Specific references were made to biblical texts like Tu es Petrus [Mt. 16:16] and Pasce oves meas [Jn. 21], as well as the punishment of Ananias and Saphira [Acts 5:1–11] and Peter’s leadership at the Council of Jerusalem, which dealt with circumcision [Acts 15:1–31], as proofs.77 Antonio cited several councils, general and local, including the African councils, to support this teaching. He also pointed to papal letters and

168  Thomas M. Izbicki passages from patristic texts found in Gratian’s Decretum.78 In addition, he argued from the works of Aristotle that the Church was a “monarchic or regal principate” (principatus monarchicus siue regalis), better than an aristocratic or democratic regime. Likewise, the ecclesiastical hierarchy was modeled on the celestial hierarchy, with the pope visibly governing for the invisible head.79 Without him, the Church would be headless, like a kingdom without a king. There would be no vicar visibly governing, “which cannot happen in the Church.”80 He also rejected the idea that the pontiff was only the ministerial head or minister of the Church (caput ministeriale & minister Ecclesiae).81 An important aspect of Antonio’s thought on the Church is the reliability of the pope with a council or the cardinals in matters of faith and morals. If he did “what was in him,” he was to be believed. Together with the Church, he could not err, even briefly—unless the opposite was obviously true. Anyone who rejected his decisions was to be punished for heresy.82 He added that heretics object to this more than they do to conciliar infallibility. Not only heretics but certain Catholics, among them William of Ockham (1285–1347), Jean Gerson, and Jacques Almain (1480–1515), believed that the pope could err.83 The papacy was identified by Córdoba as the tribunal of the Church when a council could not or should not be summoned. This was on top of his having the principate and supreme governing power in the visible Church.84 Among Christ’s promises to Peter was that his See “cannot fail, cannot err” (in qua ea sedes deficere non potest, errare non potest). The pope, having that See, cannot err, “if he does what is in him.”85 Any pertinacious person who rejected a papal definition was a heretic.86 He did allow limits on that power, especially if the pope did not do “what was in him” when dealing with doctrine. From a Franciscan viewpoint, John XXII (r. 1316–1334) erred by rejecting the decrees of Nicholas III (r. 1277–1280) and Clement V (r. 1305–1314) favoring the claim that these friars owned nothing individually or in common. Antonio’s view was that John failed to have the right disposition toward the order when he made this decision.87 This discussion led to consideration of the relationship between the infallibility of the pope and that of the council. As a corollary to his proposition on papal infallibility, Antonio offered the possibility that pope and council were of equally infallible authority if they “did what was in them” when defining faith and morals. God would help them avoid error.88 However, he was willing to admit that the council was more likely to be believed divinely illuminated if it “did what was in it” when defining faith and morals.89 He added a reminder that the pope was superior to the council and the whole Church in jurisdiction: he alone received the keys of the kingdom of heaven from Christ, both as His vicar and the shepherd of the Church.90 Only in De potestate did Antonio refer to papal plenitude of power. All other prelates received their power of

Antonio de Córdoba  169 jurisdiction from Peter’s successors.91 In this way, the pope’s power was the entire power of the Church. All other prelates received their power only as a share in papal responsibility.92 The powers of pope and bishop, however, were one power quanuis diuersimode.93 In De potestate, Antonio returned to the question of papally authorized councils that went astray. He said that Basel, although convoked by Eugene IV (r. 1431–1447), erred by claiming that it could not be dissolved or transferred by the pope and that it had power from God over him.94 Basel’s tangled history included authorizing the feast of Mary’s Immaculate Conception, which was later approved by Sixtus IV (r. 1471– 1484).95 Although Sixtus IV approved the feast, he wrote as if Basel had never authorized it.96 Antonio underlined the effort of the Basel assembly to depose Eugene without sufficient cause.97 Antonio also dealt with the possibility of papal heresy being judged by a council, taking a pro-papal stance. He returned to John XXII—who rejected Franciscan teachings on poverty—claiming that the pope actually agreed with his predecessors.98 In such cases, he made a distinction between the pope “as pope” (vt papa) and as individual (vt persona).99 Once again, he argued that a pope doing “what is in him” could not err.100 Only if he erred pertinaciously against a known teaching of the Church or a general council was he a heretic.101 Otherwise, he could not be judged even for heresy.102 In a true case of heresy, the Holy Spirit was more likely to assist a council that inquired diligently into the truth than the accused pope.103 If pope or Church defined a heresy, that agent was to be disobeyed and resisted.104 However, this was true only when error was manifest and generally contradicted (generaliter contradiceretur).105 Otherwise, one was obliged to firmly embrace what was taught “that the Church does not contradict” (cui Ecclesia non contradicit).106 When in doubt, the faithful could obey a papal definition until it was generally dismissed as erroneous.107 The pontiff might also issue a decision saying one theological opinion was more likely than another, without his acceptance of it being binding on the faithful.108 The possibility of a pope erring in employing jurisdiction in the external forum by not doing due diligence was treated as possible but not easily presumed.109 Likewise, there could be uncertainty about dispensations from vows or marriages, which were not de fide.110 Papal decisions in litigious cases and other human affairs were not concerned with faith and morals. Decisions were not morally binding since human error was possible.111 The possibility of abuse of papal power entered into the question of whether a council might be superior to the Roman pontiff. Closely connected was the question of whether a council could act when acephalous, lacking or even opposing a true pope. Antonio offered three opinions on the latter question: that the council was above the pope without distinction, that the pope was absolutely superior to the council and that the

170  Thomas M. Izbicki two were equal, with the council being superior in doctrine but the pope in jurisdiction, quae mihi magis placet.112 In support of the third opinion, he said they were of equal authority in defining doctrine.113 The council might be more likely than the pope “to do what was in it” being divinely illuminated, especially when the fathers defined something simultaneously.114 Such cases of conciliar superiority over the pope only arose per accidens.115 Moreover, he said the council might fail “to do what was in it” with the pope’s opinion prevailing.116 In such cases, unless pope and cardinals notably failed in doing “what was in them,” they were to be believed divinely illuminated,117 and the pope could impede conciliar actions, even if true, except in a matter of faith.118 Antonio preferred to accept the pope’s opinion unless it was erroneous or sinful since “it was better to obey God than human beings.”119 In De potestate, the friar dealt at length with the conciliar crisis of the fifteenth century. He raised questions about whether a legitimate council did or did not depend on the pope, whether it could make laws (leges facere). Special attention was given to the councils of Constance and Basel, saying they claimed power superior to the pope’s and the ability to legislate. Antonio replied that they could not do that since they did not legislate.120 If the pope was not present or did not approve them somehow, conciliar decrees lacked certitude.121 Nor was the pope inferior to a council in granting dispensations.122 Antonio focused again on the Council of Constance, trying to balance its defense of orthodoxy against its decrees limiting papal authority. He began a section of the tract with the entire decree Haec sancta, adding that it was repeated by three sessions of the Council of Basel.123 An argument was presented that Martin V confirmed it in his letter Inter cunctas, condemning Wycliffe and Hus.124 Antonio then presented the argument that this made Constance a legitimate general council, even before the three obediences of the Schism had assembled.125 Martin also approved what was done conciliariter, especially in materia fidei.126 Antonio summarized this as a threefold argument: that the council had power from Christ, not the pope, that the pope was bound to obey it, and that it had the power to punish him.127 Antonio resorted to an argument developed by Juan de Torquemada (1388–1468), that the decree was issued only by the obedience of John XXIII, who was himself absent. The assembly was not actually a general council until three obediences had assembled.128 Constance later undermined Haec sancta’s claim to supremacy in reform by entrusting the accomplishment of that goal to Pope Martin.129 These arguments were to restrict any claim that Constance limited papal power. The friar took a fresh look at Basel, saying that it had not proceeded correctly by deposing a sure pope, Eugene IV, and that there was no unanimity in that effort.130 Nor was the deposition accepted by all Catholics, Spain, and England in particular.131 Moreover, Eugene never

Antonio de Córdoba  171 confirmed Basel’s decrees. Instead, he reproved Basel in his bull Moyses.132 In this context, Antonio cited Pius II’s (r. 1458–1464) bull, In minoribus, addressed to the University of Cologne, in which he retracted his previous support of conciliar supremacy, asserted as a private doctor, in favor of the papacy.133 Following his dismissal of the pretensions of Constance and Basel, the friar returned briefly to the possibility that a pope could be deposed for heresy. He dismissed deposition by a council in favor of a different remedy. A pope who became a heretic fell from his See iure divino all at once or began to do so, becoming less than any faithful person, and so became liable to judgment by a council or to being declared no longer pope, depending on the point of view. This argument for deposition by the fact of becoming a heretic, developed by the canonist Huguccio of Pisa (†1210), was adopted from Alexander of Hales (c. 1185–1245) and Torquemada.134 Looking at other limits on papal power, Antonio said making the pope subject to judgment for other crimes was untrue and perilous at the time, when the Lutherans were raving against the apostolic see.135 Only in a case of heresy, or schism related to heresy, could a true, undoubted pope be deposed by a council.136 In other cases, he could only be rebuked.137 The papal dignity could only be destroyed by Christ, its founder, but this was not true of the papal person.138 Nor did a true pope have any superior on earth (superiorem in terris) by whom he could be judged and punished.139 The sentences of deposition passed by the Council of Constance were not of a certain, undoubted (certus et indubitatus) pope.140 Other measures to curb papal power, even if issued by a general council, were of no avail.141 In summary, Antonio de Córdoba dismissed conciliar pretensions in matters of jurisdiction. Similarly, recent heresies—those of Luther, Zwingli, Calvin, and the Anabaptists—were worthy only of censure. However, the friar accepted the possibility that the Spirit might guide councils, even at the provincial level, in matters of faith and morals. In certain cases, a general council might even be more trusted by the faithful as providing greater certainty. Much depended, in Córdoba’s thought, on how thoroughly either the pope or the council did “what was in it,” doing due diligence. Either party should consult Scripture and tradition, the doctors, past councils, and previous popes. In all cases, a consensus was to be sought. That would provide the faithful with greater certitude and reliable guidance in faith and morals.

Notes 1 Bernice Hamilton, Spanish Political Thought in the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963). Lewis Hanke, The Spanish Struggle for Justice in the Conquest of America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1949); Hanke, Aristotle and the American Indians: A Study in Race Prejudice in the Modern World (Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1959).

172  Thomas M. Izbicki 2 Darcy Kern, “Beyond Borders: Jean Gerson’s Conciliarism in Late Medieval Spain,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 23–43; Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Fifteenth Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano and Bartolomé Carranza,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019):141–166; Cándido Pozo, “Una teoría en el siglo XVI sobre la relación entre infalibilidad pontificia y conciliar,” Archivo Teológico Granadino 25 (1962): 257–324. 3 Harald Ernst Braun, Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Spanish Political Thought (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Jean-Paul Coujou, “Political Thought and Legal Sources in Suárez,” in A Companion to Francisco Suárez, ed. Victor M. Salas and Robert L. Fastiggi (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 29–71. 4 Ulrich Horst, Papst-Unfehlbarkeit-Konzil: Die Ekklesiologie der Summenkommentare von Cajetan bis Billuart (Mainz: Grünewald, 1978), 24–60, 64–142, 162–218; Stefania Tutino, Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 5 Luke Wadding, Scriptores Ordinis Minorum, ed. Giovanni Giacinto Sbaraglia (Rome: Nardecchia, 1906), 25; Giovanni Giacinto Sbaraglia, Supplementum et castigatio ad scriptores trium ordinum S. Francisci a Waddingo allisve descriptos (Rome: typographia S. Michaelis ad Ripam, 1806), 40–41. 6 Ulrich Horst, Papst-Unfehlbarkeit-Konzil, 236, 238–240; Horst, “Konzil und Papst nach Antonius von Córdoba,” Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 7 (1975): 354–376; Horst, Päpstliche Unfehlbarkeit wider konziliare Superiorität? Studien zur Geschichte eines ekklesiologischen Antagonismus vom 15. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 69–90. 7 Salvatore Piatti, Doctrina Antonii Cordubensis de conscientia cum speciali relatione ad probabilismum (Trent: s. n., 1952); Jerome Willem Joseph Laemers, Invincible Ignorance and the Discovery of the Americas: The History of an Idea from Scotus to Suárez, PhD Thesis, University of Iowa, 2011, 296–318. 8 Despite the Fifth Lateran Council, the papacy long remained averse to councils, see Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Papacy’s Aversion to Councils in the Time of Leo X: Leipzig in the Context of Conciliarism,” in Luther at Leipzig: Martin Luther, the Leipzig Debate and the Sixteenth-Century Reformations, ed. Mickey L. Mattox, Richard J. Serina Jr. and Jonathan Mumme (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 93–114. On the council, see Nelson H. Minnich, “Julius II and Leo X as Presidents of the Fifth Lateran Council (1512–1517),” in La papauté à la Renaissance: XLVIe Colloque international d’études humanistes, ed. Florence Alazard and Frank La Branca (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2007), 153–166; Minnich, “Luther, Cajetan and Pastor Aeternus (1516) of Lateran V on Conciliar Authority,” in Martin Luther in Rom: Die Ewige Stadt als kosmopolitisches Zentrum und ihre Wahrnehmung, ed. Michael Matheus, Arnold Nesselrath and Martin Wallraff (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 187–204. 9 John W. O’Malley, Trent, What Happened at the Council (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013). 10 On Luther and his followers, see Quaestionarium theologicum libris quinque distinctum (Venice: Ziletti, 1569; Toledo: Ayala, 1570), 217B, 218B, 229B, 231B, 234A–B, 241B, 253B, 256B, 257A. On Zwingli, see ibid., 221B. On Calvin, see ibid., 259B. Antonio cited the Lutherans against the Anabaptists at ibid., 221B. 11 Quaestionarium theologicum, 217B, “Lutherani sequentes Wicleffum peruerse dogmatizant.” 12 Quaestionarium theologicum, 217B, “Sic dicunt Lutherani a tercentum annis absconditam occultamque manifeste Catholicam Eccl. cum eius vera fide

Antonio de Córdoba  173 apud quodam dumtaxat; quam nunc dicunt etiam per ipsos de tenebris reductam in lucem.” Córdoba also says the Lutherans revived Donatism; see ibid., 256B. 13 Quaestionarium theologicum, 215A–333B. In De potestate Antonio refers to Arma fidei, e.g. ibid., 274A. 14 Quaestionarium theologicum, 222A, “certe standum est concordi sententiae et testimonio praedicto sanctorum Doctorum, Pontificium et Conciliorum Generalium et Prouincialium ab initio nascentis Ecclesiae potius quam nouellorum haereticorum et carnalium hominum caetui et sensui saepius per ecclesiam Catholicam condemnato.” See also ibid., 224A, “Tertio ex concordi omnium Doctorum et Sanctorum Patrum sensu atque sententia.” 15 Quaestionarium theologicum, 234A, “testis est ipsa experientia, testes sunt omnes ipsi Doctores sancti Gręci atque Latini, in quorum libris aperta sunt eorum testimonia, quod in-Ecclesia Romana [est] ea fidei regula morumque.” 16 Quaestionarium theologicum, 226A, 227B. 17 Quaestionarium theologicum, 215b. Other references were made to Chalcedon and Second Nicaea. 18 Quaestionarium theologicum, 221A. 19 Quaestionarium theologicum, 222A, “vt esset omnium in his concordia fidelium in conciliis generalibus totius orbis diffinitae sunt, et ab omnibus approbatae.” 20 Quaestionarium theologicum, 222A, “quia ex quo haec iam in conciliis ab omnibus diffinita sunt, et per Ecclesiam generaliter acceptata, que in fide et mortibus errare non potest.” 21 Quaestionarium theologicum, 223A, “Primo, quia omnia necessaria ad salutem sunt iam scripta, per Apostolos et Euangelistas. Non ergo oportet alias traditiones Apostolorum Ecclesiae vel Doctorum aut aliorum quorumcunque doctrinas aut reuelationes etiam Ecclesię auscultare siue recipere: maximè quia periculum est incerta pro certis recipiendi.” He adds (at 224A), do not believe what does not match “the doctrine and traditions of the Church.” Elsewhere, he says Lutherans “drive out the holy Doctors” [expellunt sanctos Doctores]; see ibid., 234A. 22 Quaestionarium theologicum, 223A, “Plus igitur includit Euangelium et eius praecatio quam ipsius scriptura sacra.” 23 Quaestionarium theologicum, 224A, “Solum igitur garrulitas vana est quę priuatim sine sufficiente ratione, aut vera Ecclesiae traditione profertur.” 24 Quaestionarium theologicum, 257B–258A. 25 Quaestionarium theologicum, 258B, “quia per tales diffinitiones Conciliorum declarantur sensus scripturae et traditionum Apostolicarum, et consensus et vsus ipsius Ecclesiae Catholicae, in quo tandem standum est.” 26 Quaestionarium theologicum, 258B, “per accidens minoris adhuc auctoritatius et certitudinis est quo hoc, quia videlicet minus certum nobis est ipsum quam Concilium faccere quod in se est.” 27 Quaestionarium theologicum, 225A, “cum continua successione Pontificum a tempore Apostolorum.” Miracles also bore witness to the truth; see ibid., fol. 225B–226A, 227A. 28 Quaestionarium theologicum, 229B, “Nam et multa Concilia Generalia, et Prouincialia, ad condemnandum haereticos et de fide diffiniendum, saepe satis esse ęstimarunt auctoritatem aliquorum Sanctorum Doctorum testificantium siue dicentium, id esse de fide uel contra fidem.” 29 Quaestionarium theologicum, 229A, “certe standum est concordi sententiae et testimonio praedicto sanctorum Doctorum, Pontificum et Conciliorum Generaliium et Prouincialium ab initio nacentis Ecclesiae potius quam

174  Thomas M. Izbicki nouellorum haereticorum et carnalium hominum caetui et sensui saepius per ecclesiam Catholicam condemnato.” Antonio said that one should stand with the Doctors, rather than with Luther and other heretics; see ibid., 229B. 30 Quaestionarium theologicum, 273B. 31 Quaestionarium theologicum, 230A–B, 265B. Córdoba listed the Fifth Lateran as Concilium Lateranense III. 32 Quaestionarium theologicum, 231A, “per concilium Chathaginense [sic] Florentinum et Tridentinum.” Antonio said Florence attributed magisterium to the pope; see ibid., 270A. 33 Quaestionarium theologicum, 232A, “Quae tamen in Doctorum expositionibus et conciliorum diffinitionibus clarius traduntur.” 34 Quaestionarium theologicum, 232B, “nam non solum per scripturas sed etiam per Concilia et consuetudinem et traditionem generalem Ecclesiae potest illa ueritas de fide aut de credibilibus determinari.” 35 Quaestionarium theologicum, 232B. Córdoba added that the Church and general councils, with the agreement of the doctors, were better expositors in such matters, clarior iudex; see ibid., 233a. 36 Quaestionarium theologicum, 239B, “Concilium Generale legitime congregatum, si faciat quod in se est; vti facere regulariter credendum est, nisi oppositum constet manifeste, in rebus fidei et morum diffiniendis, etiam ad modicum tempus errare non potest, et illius diffinitioni sub crimine et poena haeresis ab omnibus standum est.” Translations and emphases are mine unless otherwise noted. 37 Quaestionarium theologicum, 239B, “aliqui Catholici simpliciter sine dictis limitationibus dicunt Concilium Generale etiam legitimum si ibi non est Papa errare posse.” 38 Quaestionarium theologicum, 239B, “sed cum praedictorum limitationibus propositio haec contra eos omnes oppositum sentientes, probatur quadrupliciter.” 39 Quaestionarium theologicum, 240A, “quia non potest tota, simul conuenire ad determinandum veritatem circa dubia in his emergentia, ergo in ea est ponendum suum tribunal visibile supremi luminis ad id a Deo illi promisit, in quo eadem Diuina et certissima sit auctoritas.” 40 Quaestionarium theologicum, 240A. Antonio tied the pope “doing what was in [him]” to consulting the cardinals and the wise (Sapientum); see ibid., 267B. 41 Quaestionarium theologicum, 240A, “Alioqui nunquam esset finis dubiorum, nisi in Concilio et Papa esset praedicta certitudo ad haec omnia tandem definiendum et declarandum, ut omnes in confessione eiusdem fidei consentient atque permaneant.” 42 Quaestionarium theologicum, 240A–B. Antonio said a council with a legate presiding could err; see ibid., 281B. 43 Quaestionarium theologicum, 240B–241B. 44 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B, “Si autem Concilium Generale non faciat quod in se est notabiliter negligendo inquirere sufficienter veritatem, aut si non legitime procedat: tunc nihil mirum si Deus statim, non assistit et errare possit quasi primo motu vel ad modicum tempus, non tamen perseueranter.” See also ibid., 242A, “ergo non mirum si tunc Concilium ut homines errare possint sine speciali assistentia Dei.” 45 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242A, “si videlicet homo in faciat, quod in se est ad talem finem vel effectum, ergo non mirum si tunc Concilium ut homines errare possint sine speciali assistentia Dei.”

Antonio de Córdoba  175 46 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B, “si Concilium faciat quod in se est errare non posse etiam ad modicum tempus: quia Spiritus Sanctus ibi specialiter assistit.” In De potestate papae, Antonio admits that Second Ephesus and Rimini were papally convoked; see ibid., 47 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B, “Neque vllum Concilium Generale legitime congregatum et continuatum, et auctoritate Papali legitime procedens legitur errase.” 48 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B. 49 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B. 50 Quaestionarium theologicum, 241B–242A, 271B, 271B. 51 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242A. 52 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242A, “quando auctoritate Papae, si uiuit et certus Papa est, aut alias auctoritate legitima eorum qui Concilium Generale possunt cogere et celebrare, conuocarentur Pastores Ecclesiarum, scilicet Episcopi, et uiri boni docti atque prudentes de tota Ecclesia eliguntur, qui eruditio et prudentia ad id minus iuuare et sufficere creduntur.” 53 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242A, “diligenter insistant indagandae veritate fidei et morum per scripturas sacras atque Doctorum Sanctorum & Conciliorum praecidentium et per alia eiusmodi quae ad praedictam finem visa fuerint expedire.” 54 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242B, “Igitur qualescumque ille sint et qualitercumque diffiniant: certe contra expressam scripturarum et Generalem traditionem vel consuetudinem Ecclesiae eos omnes errare moraliter loquendo impossibile est.” 55 Quaestionarium theologicum, 242B, “ita simpliciter absolute idque verissime dicendum est Concilium legitime congregatum et continuatum uti semper supponitur, in rebus fidei et morum errare non posse,” 245B. 56 Quaestionarium theologicum, 243A, “quia in Concilio Generali est simpliciter necessarium ne erret in fide et moribus diffiniendo: inde ibid.em semper et infallibiliter adest illuminatio Diuina promissa.” The friar applied the same rule to pope and cardinals; see ibid., 243B. 57 Quaestionarium theologicum, 244B, “Quatenus autem est potestas determinandi ueritatem in rebus fidei et morum eam habet immediate a Spiritu Sancto assistente, illuminante, pulsante, mouente, atque determinante.” 58 Quaestionarium theologicum, 244B, “similiter nunc Spiritus Sancti illuminatio semper adesset concilio prouinciali aut alteri congregationi in nomine Christi congregatae, ubi esset similis casus siue necessitas et periculum esset in mora, ne ad Concilium Generale uel ad Papam commode posset esse recursus ad rem fidei vel morum diffiniendum.” 59 Quaestionarium theologicum, 268A. Antonio said that, in such cases, there could be certitudo moralis about the truth; see ibid., 268A. 60 Quaestionarium theologicum, 239A, “Concilium Constantiense. 8. et 15. Contra quosdam haereticos id esse de fide decreuit. et Concilium Floren. sub Eugenio. 4. ubi Graeci & Armeni primatum Papae et Ecclesiae Romanae de iure Diuino confitentes reconciliati sunt.” On the condemnation of Hus, see ibid., 274A. 61 Quaestionarium theologicum, 245B, “ad hunc sensum scilicet, quo ad potestatem diffiniendi ueritatem de fide et moribus optime uerificatur decretum Concilii Constantien. sessione quinta et aliorum Doctorum sententia dicentium quod Concilium Generale Ecclesiam representans à Christo immediate potestatem habet.” Elsewhere, he described these condemnations as issued by Martin V in the council; see ibid., 265B.

176  Thomas M. Izbicki 62 Quaestionarium theologicum, 250A–B, “Sancta Ecclesia Catholica militans in terris non solum constat ex fidelibus praedestinatis, uel etiam iustis in gratia existentibus; sed ex omnibus fidelibus baptizatis, etiam si sint peccatores, et finaliter pręsciti ue reprobi. Ita quod haec Ecclesia Catholica non est inuisibilis soli Deo nota, sed uisibilis et hominibus manifesta.” Scott H. Hendrix, Ecclesia in vita: Ecclesiological Developments in the Medieval Psalms Exegesis and the Dictata Super Psalterium (1513–1515) of Martin Luther (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 15–95. 63 Quaestionarium theologicum, 251A, “in Ecclesia non est aliud sacramentum regenerationis in membrum corporis Christi mystici.” 64 Quaestionarium theologicum, 250B, “quia mala uita finaliter future, non facit hominem iniustum de pręsenti, nec excludit eum ab Ecclesia.” 65 Quaestionarium theologicum, 251A. 66 Quaestionarium theologicum, 251A, “Praedestinatio autem uel gratia iustificans non potest regulariter de aliquo homine certo et infallibiliter cognosci sine speciali reuelatione.” This knowledge did not make one inside or outside the Church. 67 Quaestionarium theologicum, 252B, “ergo dum homo manet in fide Christi eiusque confessione et professione per baptismum facta, semper est intra Ecclesiam, et de numero membrorum eius atque Christianus, etiam si merito non sit is quo malus christianus et extra gratiam Dei est.” 68 Quaestionarium theologicum, 253A–254B. Córdoba cited Thomas Netter’s critique of the Lollards, also councils at Cologne and Mainz (1549); see ibid., 254B. 69 Quaestionarium theologicum, 255B. Antonio cited Eck’s critique of Bucer among his proofs. 70 Quaestionarium theologicum, 236B, “debuit ergo suum caput etiam uisibile habere uicarium Christi etiam usque ad finem mundi ad eius gubernationem: alioqui non esset satis prouisum Ecclesiae.” 71 Quaestionarium theologicum, 236B–237A, “Neque ualet dicere quod Christus solus de coelo gubernat eam specialiter. Nam licet Deus omnia inuisibiliter et specialiter Ecclesias gubernat particulares: non ideo reliquit eas sine suis Pastoribus et Episcopis particularibus uisibiliter eas gubernantibus: ut in eis suus ordo Hierarchicus servaretur: et omnia inferiora per suas causas medias creatas superioresque gubernat. Quare ergo suam Catholicam Ecclesiam sine suo capite vel pastore generali uisibiliter eam gubernante reliqueret?” 72 Quaestionarium theologicum, 244B, “Sed hanc auctoritatem quatenus est potestas iurisdictionis, uel supra corpus Christi mysticum.” 73 Quaestionarium theologicum, 235B, “In Ecclesia Catholica est unicum eius caput visibile. Vicarius Christi, successor beati Petri, qui dicitur Papa, super omnes fideles et Ecclesiam Catholicam primatum et potestatem habens.” 74 Quaestionarium theologicum, 235B, “Hanc propositionem soli haeretici negant nomen Papae abhorrentes: sed contra eos probatur. Ubi duo dicuntur, primum quod beatus Petrus fuit a Christo institutus suus vicarius, Caput, Princeps et Pastor Ecclesiae Catholicae. Secundum, quod Papa illi succedit in ea dignitate et pontificatu.” The pope was both a member of the Church and its head; see ibid., 237A–B. 75 Quaestionarium theologicum, 286B. 76 Quaestionarium theologicum, 235B, “Hanc propositionem soli haeretici negant nomen Papae abhorrentes.” Córdoba accused Jan Hus of denying that the pope was Christ’s vicar (ibid., 278A–B) and the Lutherans of denying the pope has power over the Church (ibid., 300A). 77 Quaestionarium theologicum, 236A, 237B, 246B.

Antonio de Córdoba  177 78 Quaestionarium theologicum, 238B–239A, “multi etiam alii Doctores atque Pontifices Conciliorumque Decreta quę referuntur a Gratiano. 24. q. i. in omnibus fere capitula ibid.em contentis.” 79 Quaestionarium theologicum, 237A, 283A–B. Antonio added that the order of grace did not destroy that of nature, which supported the superiority of monarchy; see ibid., 284A. 80 Quaestionarium theologicum, 277B, “Papa est caput totius ecclesiae secundum quod est absolute supremum caput eius. … Nam alias esset acephala et regnum sine rege aut sine vno eius vicario eam visibiliter gubernante, quod in ecclesia esse non potest.” The Florence decree of union with the Greeks was cited as proof that the pope was head of the Church; see ibid., 278A. 81 Quaestionarium theologicum, 282B, 284B, 285A. 82 Quaestionarium theologicum, 245B, “Papa ut Papa cum Consilio patrum uel Cardinalium Ecclesiae, si faciat quod in se est, uti id regulariter facere credendum est nisi oppositum constet manifeste, in diffiniendo circa fidem et mores et statim uniuersalis Ecclesiae, errare non potest, etiam ad modicum tempus: et eius tali diffinitioni, vt diffinitioni ecclesiae Ronanae siue Catholicae sub crimine et poena hęresis uel perfidię standum est,” ibid., 270B. 83 Quaestionarium theologicum, 245B, “Haec propositio multo magis quam praecedens de Concilio Vniuersali negatur ab haereticis: et etiam a quibusdam Catholicis Ocham, Gerson, Almain, et pluribus aliis absolute sine vlla limitation dicentibus quod in praedictis Papa errare potest.” 84 Quaestionarium theologicum, 246A, “immo neque Concilium Generale saepe potest nec expedit ad id congregari: et in Papa et ratione Papatus est tribunal Ecclesiae Catholicae eiusque Principatus Ecclesiasticus et suprema potestas.” 85 Quaestionarium theologicum, 246A. 86 Quaestionarium theologicum, 247B, “haereticum scilicet, si pertinax fuerit contra Papae diffinitionem.” 87 Quaestionarium theologicum, 247A, “ad potiius de Ioan. 22. Dicendum erat, quia errauit, quia uel in aliis alias etiam errauit, uel parue affectus contra nostrum ordinem minorum sine debita dispositione sic decernere uoluit.” Córdoba added a reference to his commentary on the Franciscan rule. 88 Quaestionarium theologicum, 250A, “Videtur enim quod in diffiniendo de fide et moribus aequalis sint authoritatis ex quo utriusque facienti quod in se est, aeque infallibiliter Deus assistit, ut errare non possit.” 89 Quaestionarium theologicum, 250A, “plus standum esse diffinitioni legitimi Concilii Generalis, quam Papam facere quod in se est, et si debite disponere, ut Diuinitus illuminetur.” 90 Quaestionarium theologicum, 250A, “Quo ad potestatem autem iurisdictionis Papa est supra Concilium, et supra totam Ecclesiam: quia ipse solus a Christo receipt claues regni coelorum, et ut Vicarius eius et Pastor Ecclesiae institutus supremam iurisdictionem habet.” This is documented in John 21, Pasce oves meas, in ibid., 287B. 91 Quaestionarium theologicum, 278A–B, 284B. 92 Quaestionarium theologicum, 285A, “sed potius Papae potestas est tota potestas Ecclesiae, et aliae potestates sunt participations ipsius in partem sollicitudinis.” This was contrary to Gerson’s opinion; see ibid., 286A. 93 Quaestionarium theologicum, 292B. 94 Quaestionarium theologicum, 259A, “Concilium Basiliense, auctoritate Papae Eugenii. 4. legitime congregatum etiam errauit in fide: dum sessione. 2. diffiniuit, quod neque per Papam poterat dissolui aut ad alium locum transferri vel ad aliud tempus prorrogari absque eiusdem Concilii deliberatione et consensus. Item in alio decreto eiusdem, sessione 3. 8. 33. dicitur a multis Catholicis errasse: vbi decreuit, quod Concilium habet a Deo immediate potestatem etiam supra Papam, etiam ad illum puniendum.”

178  Thomas M. Izbicki 95 Quaestionarium theologicum, 259A–B. 96 Quaestionarium theologicum, 294A, “Dicit super imaculata virginis conceptione nihil esse diffinitum.” Antonio added that Fifth Lateran rejected what Basel did after Eugene IV transferred the council to Ferrara and then to Florence; see ibid., 294A. 97 Quaestionarium theologicum, 259B, “non legitime processit volens etiam sine cause sufficiente deponere Eugenium. 4.” 98 Quaestionarium theologicum, 260B, 263A–B. 99 Quaestionarium theologicum, 261A. 100 Antonio ties papal failure to “do what is in him” to abuse of power; see Quaestionarium theologicum, 267A, “quia sua potestate abutietur vel non facit quod in se est.” 101 Quaestionarium theologicum, 261A, “nisi ita pertinaciter illum errorem terneret etiam si per Ecclesiam vel per legitimum Concilium Generale legitimum oppositum diffiniretur: tunc enim proprie haereticus esset sicut et quilibet alius.” 102 Quaestionarium theologicum, 261B. 103 Quaestionarium theologicum, 261B, “quia vere propter praedictam praeparationem certius nobis est in hoc Spiritum Sanctum assistere Concilio quam Papae.” 104 Quaestionarium theologicum, 262A, 268A–B, 308A. 105 Quaestionarium theologicum, 269A. 106 Quaestionarium theologicum, 269A. 107 Quaestionarium theologicum, 2670A, “illo tempore intermediato, obediendum est ab omnibus illi Papali diffinitioni, quousque sit generaliter diffinitum quod erronea est.” 108 Quaestionarium theologicum, 272A. Some decisions could be binding without declaring the opposite opinion heretical; see ibid., 273A. 109 Quaestionarium theologicum, 268B, “saltem posse de eo dubitare: quamuis in foro exteriori praesumi debeat id debite fecisse dum de opposite manifeste non constaret.” 110 Quaestionarium theologicum, 271B. Two theological questions were devoted to dispensations; see ibid., 121A–131A. 111 Quaestionarium theologicum, 267A, “non continentibus regulam fidei vel morum omnibus fidelibus tenendam … errare potest.” 112 Quaestionarium theologicum, 274B, 276B. 113 Quaestionarium theologicum, “quo ad certitudinem iudicii diffinitiui per se loquendo sint aequalis auctoritatis.” 114 Quaestionarium theologicum, 276A, “probabilius certius est ipsum Concilium quam Papam regulariter facere quod in se est sine notabili defectu vt Diuinitus illuminaretur, maxime quando totum simul Concilium aliquid diffiniuit.” 115 Quaestionarium theologicum, 282A. 116 Quaestionarium theologicum, 276A–B. 117 Quaestionarium theologicum, 276B, “Sed hoc ego crederem esse verum nisi manifeste constaret Papam cum Cardinalibus notabiliter defecisse in faciendo quod in se est, vt a Deo illuminarentur.” 118 Quaestionarium theologicum, 277A, “nam Papa potest impedire vt ulla diffinitio etiam manifeste vera promulgetur nisi ad fidem pertineat.” 119 Quaestionarium theologicum, 277a, “In dubiis auten est vt diximus semper standum est Papae sententiae, et illi obediendum est: non autem in his quae manifeste erronea aut peccata sunt, quia act. 5[:29]. Obedire oportet Deo magi squam hominibus.”

Antonio de Córdoba  179 120 Quaestionarium theologicum, 280A, “petierunt sua decreta ipsius auctoritate confirmari, ut constat aperte in gestis omnium Conciliorum, etiam Constan. et Basilien. quae supra potestatem Papę se asseruisse et statuisse prima facie uideruntur, sed uere id non fecerunt.” Antonio cites the Fifth Lateran as proof of papal power over councils. 121 Quaestionarium theologicum, 281B, “Immo quod sine Papa pręsente uel tacite uel expresse consentiendo approbante diffinita in Concilio non habent infallibilem certitudinem.” 122 Quaestionarium theologicum, 281B, “ideo Papa non subditur legibus Concilii in dispensando.” 123 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293A. 124 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293A, “quia Martinus quintus in bulla condemnationis articulorum. Ioann. Wicleff sacro approbante concilio. &c.,” 294A. The text mentioned Hus and Jerome of Prague. For Inter cunctas, see Mansi 27.1204–1215. Antonio even treated argument that the decrees against Wycliffe and Hus, if not correct materialiter when issued, were approved by Martin as issued de fide; see ibid., 294A–B. 125 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293A, “sequitur quod enim tunc ante vnionem omnium obedientiarum legitimum fuerit concilium generale.” 126 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293A–B. 127 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293B. 128 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293B, “nam concilium Constantien. tempore scismatis factum est; et illud eius decretum factum est solum ab existentibus sub obedientia Ioannis. 23. Ipse etiam absente… et tunc et non ante integrum concilium ex omnibus coepit esse et generalis robur habere.” On the origins of this argument, see Thomas M. Izbicki, “Papalist Reaction to the Council of Constance: Juan de Torquemada to the Present,” Church History 55 (1986): 7–20. 129 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293B. 130 Quaestionarium theologicum, 293B, “tum quia non legitime processit contra certum Papam Eugeni. 4. illum deponendo, tum quia illa eius decreta non fuerunt vnanimiter conclusa.” 131 Quaestionarium theologicum, 294A. 132 Quaestionarium theologicum, 294A. On Moyses, see Unity, Heresy and Reform: The Conciliar Response to the Great Schism, ed. C. M. D. Crowder (New York: St. Martin’s, 1977), 172–177. 133 Quaestionarium theologicum, 281A, “Item Papa pius secundus in bulla sua incipiente. In moribus [!]. directa ad uniuersitatem Colonien. se retractat eo quod olim ut Doctor maleet erronee tenuisset Concilium esse supra Papam,” 294B–295A. Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius: Selected Letters of Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini (Pope Pius II), ed. Thomas M. Izbicki, Gerald Christianson and Philip Krey (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006), 392–406. 134 Quaestionarium theologicum, 295B, “Nam in casu haeresis Papa iure diuino vel statim cadit a papatu, vel incipit cadere, et efficitur minor quolibet fideli, vel potius subijcitur concilio vt ab eo possit iudicari vel declarari secundum varias super hoc opiniones.” Brian Tierney, Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955), 58–65, 199– 219, 248–250; Tierney, “Pope and Council: Some New Decretist Texts,” Medieval Studies 19 (1957): 197–218; Thomas M. Izbicki, Protector of the Faith: Cardinal Johannes de Turrecremata and the Defense of the Institutional Church (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1981), 87–94.

180  Thomas M. Izbicki 135 Quaestionarium theologicum, 297A, “Sed haec opionio non est tuta neque vera: et maxime his temporibus periculosa est, vbi Lutherani contra sanctam sedem Apostolicam furiose debaccantur.” 136 Quaestionarium theologicum, 207B, “Ideo est tertia opinio standum est, quod verus et indubitatus Papa, excepto crimine proprie haeresis et scismatis quod veram et propriam hoeresim [!] habet annexam, pro nullo alio crimine quantumcunque scandaloso et Ecclesiae pernicioso et pro nulla alia causa potest etiam a Concilio deponi,” ibid., 299B. 137 Quaestionarium theologicum, 297B. 138 Quaestionarium theologicum, 298A. Any rebuke was to be reverent and intended to amend bad conduct; see ibid., 306A. 139 Quaestionarium theologicum, 300A. 140 Quaestionarium theologicum, 299A. Constance deposed all three claimants; see ibid., 300B. 141 Quaestionarium theologicum, 308B–309A.

Bibliography Braun, Harald Ernst. Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Spanish Political Thought. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007. Córdoba, Antonio de. Quaestionarium theologicum libri quinque distinctum. Venice: Ziletti, 1569; Toledo: Ayala, 1570. Coujou, Jean-Paul. “Political Thought and Legal Sources in Suárez.” In A Companion to Francisco Suárez, edited by Victor M. Salas and Robert L. Fastiggi, 29–71. Leiden: Brill, 2015. Hamilton, Bernice. Spanish Political Thought in the Sixteenth Century. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1963. Hanke, Lewis. The Spanish Struggle for Justice in the Conquest of America. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1949. Hanke, Lewis. Aristotle and the American Indians: A Study in Race Prejudice in the Modern World. Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1959. Horst, Ulrich. “Konzil und Papst nach Antonius von Córdoba.” Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 7 (1975): 354–376. Horst, Ulrich. Papst – Unfehlbarkeit – Konzil: Die Ekklesiologie der Summen­ kommentar von Cajetan bis Billuart. Mainz: Grünewald, 1978. Horst, Ulrich. Päpstliche Unfehlbarkeit wider konziliare Superiorität? Studien zur Geschichte eines ekklesiologischen Antagonismus vom 15. bis zum 19 Jahrhundert. Leiden: Brill, 2019. Izbicki, Thomas M. “The Fifteenth Century Councils: Francisco de Vitoria, Melchor Cano and Bartolomé Carranza.” Renaissance and Reformation/ Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019a): 141–188. Izbicki, Thomas M. “The Papacy’s Aversion to Councils in the Time of Leo X: Leipzig in the Context of Conciliarism.” In Luther at Leipzig: Martin Luther, the Leipzig Debate and the Sixteenth-Century Reformations, edited by Mickey L. Mattox, Richard J. Serina Jr. and Jonathan Mumme, 93–114. Leiden: Brill, 2019b. Izbicki, Thomas M. Protector of the Faith: Cardinal Johannes de Turrecremata and the Defense of the Institutional Church. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1981.

Antonio de Córdoba  181 Kern, Darcy. “Beyond Borders: Jean Gerson’s Conciliarism in Late Medieval Spain.” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et Réforme 42, no. 3 (2019): 23–43. Laemers, Jerome Willem Joseph. “Invincible Ignorance and the Discovery of the Americas: The History of an Idea from Scotus to Suárez.” PhD Thesis, University of Iowa, 2011. Minnich, Nelson H. “Julius II and Leo X as Presidents of the Fifth Lateran Council (1512–1517).” In La papauté à la Renaissance: XLVIe Colloque international d’études humanistes, edited by Florence Alazard and Frank La Branca, 153–166. Paris: Honoré Champion, 2007. Minnich, Nelson H. “Luther, Cajetan and Pastor Aeternus (1516) of Lateran V on Conciliar Authority.” In Martin Luther in Rom: Die Ewige Stadt als kosmopolitisches Zentrum und ihre Wahrnehmung, edited by Michael Matheus, Arnold Nesselrath and Martin Wallraff, 187–204. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. O’Malley, John W. Trent, What Happened at the Council. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013. Piatti, Salvatore. Doctrina Antonii Cordubensis de conscientia cum speciali relatione ad probabilismum. Trent: s. n., 1952. Pozo, Cándido. “Una teoría en el siglo XVI sobre la relación entre infalibilidad pontificia y conciliar.” Archivo Teológico Granadino 25 (1962): 257–324. Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius: Selected Letters of Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini (Pope Pius II), edited by Thomas M. Izbicki, Gerald Christianson and Philip Krey. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006. Sbaraglia, Giovanni Giacinto. Supplementum et castigatio ad scriptores trium ordinum S. Francisci a Waddingo allisve descriptos. Rome: typographia S. Michaelis ad Ripam, 1806. 40–41. Tierney, Brian. Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955. Tierney, Brian. “Pope and Council: Some New Decretist Texts.” Mediaeval Studies 19 (1957): 197–218. Tutino, Stefania. Empire of Souls: Robert Bellarmine and the Christian Commonwealth. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Unity, Heresy and Reform: The Conciliar Response to the Great Schism, edited by C. M. D. Crowder. New York: St. Martin’s, 1977. Wadding, Luke. Scriptores Ordinis Minorum, edited by Giovanni Giacinto Sbaraglia. Rome: Nardecchia, 1906.

7 Christian freedom and natural freedom1 An introduction to an archaeology of Catholic controversies over slavery Rafael M. Pérez García Christian freedom and natural freedom Centuries of war in the medieval Mediterranean affirmed the legal notion of Muslims as “enemies of the faith,” as the foes of a Europe that defined itself as Christianitas. This was graphically illustrated in multiple depictions of Saint James the Moor-Slayer, Saint George, and other saintly knights.2 During the Middle Ages, christening was a citizenship-defining act in a Europe dominated by the Church, and this contributed to the emergence of the notion that Christians could not be legally enslaved.3 For this reason, as late as 1246, Pope Innocent IV (r. 1243–1254) lamented that Greek Christians, Bulgarian and Ruthenian slaves were being dispatched from Constantinople by Genoese merchants to be sold to the Saracens in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.4 During the Late Middle Ages, traditional ecclesiastical doctrine regarded slavery as contrary to natural law, and it was instead related to ius gentium and, especially, to just warfare (war waged against the enemies of the faith); the victor, possessing the right to kill his vanquished enemies, substituted slavery for death. Being born to a slave woman, being condemned to slavery by a court, and selling oneself into slavery were also considered lawful forms of slavery, but by the Late Middle Ages, the second and third categories were extraordinarily rare, if not totally extinct. This was the outcome of a centuries-long process of drastic reduction in the legal justification for slavery, which effectively contributed to the progressive shrinking of this institution in Christian society. Historiography has pointed out the historical influence of a famous epistle by Pope Gregory the Great († 604) in which it was stated that all men are created equal by nature and that the emergence of slavery in human society was the result of the application of ius gentium. In addition, Gregory assimilated legal manumission (which granted to freedmen full Roman citizenship) and Jesus Christ’s redemption of mankind, turning manumission into a Christian act.5 Centuries later, Thomas Aquinas († 1274) created a basic reference for the development of the idea of slavery as an unnatural act by affirming the natural freedom of all men. DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-8

Christian freedom and natural freedom  183 As such, slavery was not regarded as a right but as a fact springing from sin, elevated to the category of custom by ius gentium; it was a lesser evil or a relative good, insofar as it involved the substitution of slavery for the death of the vanquished. The Church, as Aquinas and other theologians insisted, had excluded Christians from slavery.6 In addition, by distinguishing the natural and the supernatural orders, Aquinas outlined two entirely different juridical orders and created an exclusive space for natural law—a space in which the natural freedom of all human beings was rooted—which was to have far-reaching consequences in the debates about slavery during the sixteenth century.7 These principles also feature in the crucial Las Siete Partidas by Alphonse X the Wise of Castile († 1284); this work was clear in its moral condemnation of slavery, which was defined as evil and contrary to human nature.8 Although such an important text as Gratian’s Decretum, written in the mid-twelfth century, accepted that Christians could be reduced to slavery, soon theologians argued that war no longer justified this, considering that this custom had become obsolete.9 These theoretical principles that stressed the aporetic nature of the notion of Christian slaves and the anti natura character of slavery more broadly are closely related to the fact that, by the twelfth century, Christian slaves by birth were becoming exceptional, disappearing altogether from places such as Castile in the thirteenth century. The only exception were those who converted to Christianity after being enslaved during a just war, for example against the infidels, or were born to enslaved women prior to their conversion. In this way, the war against Islam in the Mediterranean frontier became during these centuries the main source of fresh slaves.10 This outcome can only be understood if we take into consideration that, for centuries, two different traditions that rejected slavery and insisted on human freedom coexisted in Europe: one was based on the defining nature of baptism, whereas the other simply stressed human nature. Both appear time and time again in the theological texts that discuss the Catholic debate on slavery, stretching from the Roman period to the abolitionist processes of the nineteenth century. The theological topic of the Christian as someone liberated from the slavery of sin through baptism, clearly grounded in the Gospels and the New Testament,11 was related to social developments leading to the extinction of slavery among Christians in Western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Obviously, other social and economic factors were also at play in this process.12 To my knowledge, no systematic history of the topic of Christian freedom in medieval theology has been written to date. Such a work would need to begin with the notion of the favor libertatis and the practice of manumissio in ecclesia during the Roman Empire. The former principle was adopted by Roman law in the second century, influenced by Stoicism, and later assumed by Christian emperors, legislators, and compilators as a general principle from which to

184  Rafael M. Pérez García develop a specific legal casuistry.13 The manumissio in ecclesia, on the other hand, was derived from the older manumissio inter amicos and was institutionalized by Constantine in the fourth century, creating a new way for the liberation of slaves in Christian liturgy: in the assembly of the faithful and in the presence of the bishop, the slave was freed by his master and granted integra et plena libertas and Roman citizenship. Generally, the ceremony also included the baptism of the slave, instilling an eminently religious act with civic value. This unequivocally illustrated the fact that baptism conferred not only spiritual but also civic liberation.14 The theological and juridical importance of the topic of the freedom of Christians in Western history is beyond doubt, affecting such diverse issues as the relationship between the Church and the pope, the status of Jews in Christendom, the bonds between vassals and lords, and slavery as a legal institution.15 This issue became a recurrent topic in Europe during the Middle Ages, shaping mentalities and playing a central role in political tradition. It is, therefore, no coincidence that, when that world fell apart owing to the Reformation, one of the main doctrinal texts of Martin Luther, De libertate christiana (1520), addressed the freedom of Christians. As is well-known, his religious revolution rejected any secular implication for Christians’ spiritual freedom. His response to rebellious peasants in his Ermahnung zum Frieden auf die zwölf Artikel der Bauernschaft in Schwaben (1525) is clear: in response to the peasants’ third article—“serfdom must be abolished, because Christ liberated us”—he argued that this statement “turns Christian freedom into a carnal issue […] and this is contrary to the Gospel.”16 Long before Luther, Thomas Aquinas had contributed to ruling out radical interpretations that may have eroded the validity of the institution of slavery in the Christian frontiers in the thirteenth century. This frontier was being rapidly pushed southwards in the Iberian Peninsula, which was by then the main supplier of Muslim slaves (along with the Black Sea).17 Aquinas argued that baptism cleansed not only the original sin but all sins, as “every sin belongs to the primitive oldness” (Summa theologica III, q. 69, a. 1). By also arguing that baptism liberated man from whatever penance he suffered for his sins, he raised the dramatic question of whether the implications of baptism were secular as well as spiritual. In order to avoid the social and civic difficulties that radical interpretations of this conclusion could cause, Aquinas was forced to clarify that baptism liberated man only from his faults when he faced divine justice, not human justice; otherwise, criminals (e.g., murderers) would be freed from bearing responsibility for their actions and rectifying the damage done to society (Summa theologica III, q. 69, a. 2). Similarly, although he considered baptism capable of erasing “the penalties of the present life,” this would only come into effect at the time of resurrection—that is, at the end of history. Otherwise, Aquinas concluded,

Christian freedom and natural freedom  185 men would reach for baptism out of sheer self-interest and not out of a sincere wish to be granted eternal life (Summa theologica III, q. 69, a. 3). Theological reflections on the effects of baptism had civic implications. The Código de Costumbres published in Tortosa in 1272, which was applicable in the Crown of Aragón’s Mediterranean dominions, established that neither Jews nor Saracens could own Christian slaves. This derived directly from canon law, specifically the III Council of Toledo, held in 589.18 The Furs de València granted by King James I (1208–1276) after the conquest of Valencia in 1238 freed Jew-owned Muslims who converted to Christianity, with or without their masters’ consent, although the masters were entitled to financial compensation.19 The king also modified an earlier charter that freed “catiu o cativa” who were baptized with their masters’ consent; in the new charter, baptism was no longer sufficient, regardless of the masters’ authorization.20 Castilian law was similar but more inclined to grant freedom to Christians. As such, the Partidas also established that neither Jews nor Muslims could own Christian slaves while determining that all Jew- or Muslim-owned slaves who were baptized were automatically freed without having to financially compensate their masters.21 This materialized palpably the principle of liberation from sin conferred by baptism. The law enacted by the Aragonese king Frederick II for Sicily (r. 1295–1337) in the early fourteenth century followed similar criteria and encouraged the freeing of infidel slaves who embraced Christianity when their masters were Jews or Muslims.22 These legal codes, following the theological principle of liberation from sin through baptism, led to a social model of European slavery in which only non-Christians could be reduced to this condition and which actively promoted their liberation when their masters were Jews or Muslims. Significantly, according to notarial records, the vast majority of slaves freed in Genoa in the thirteenth century were recorded as having been baptized.23 Gaudioso pointed out the similarity of a Palermitan notarial record dated to 1340, which was inspired by a Tuscan template, and the formula in Gregory the Great’s Epistola ad Montanam et Thomam, referring to the natural freedom of mankind and to the dispelling of serfdom through baptism.24 Numerous notarial records from fourteenth-century Barcelona highlight the importance of baptism for slaves because sales contracts and freedom charters or alforria point out the fact that the slave or freedman, formerly Muslims or sarraí, had been baptized: of a sample of 1,198 enslaved Muslims in the period 1295– 1400, 50.7% ended up being baptized. It has been argued that, in addition to a step toward freedom, baptism also allowed these slaves to effectively integrate into Christian society as free men.25 The theological legal base of the doctrine of Christian freedom explains the theological polemics and the judicial claims attested in medieval Catalonia around Christian Sardinians enslaved by the Aragonese, and the numerous eastern Christian and Orthodox Greek slaves sent to

186  Rafael M. Pérez García western European Christian harbors from the slave markets in Greece and the Black Sea during the fourteenth century and until the mid-fifteenth century when this flow of slaves dried up.26 The same theological legal framework explains the judicial initiatives unleashed in Castile to liberate newborn and baptized slaves captured in the Canaries during the final years of the fifteenth century, and the debates around the Moriscos who rebelled against Philip II in the Kingdom of Granada in 1568–1570: the fact that they were baptized raised serious legal objections to their reduction to slavery.27 I wish to argue against the idea defended by prestigious historians that theoretical reflections by theologians had little impact on the reality of slavery.28 In my opinion, these theological and theoretical principles permeated society for several centuries and ultimately crystallized in legal precepts that were applied by the courts. Similarly, it is argued that these principles of moral theology, through the practice of confession, also shaped collective ethical tenets, lodging themselves firmly in social practices and mentality. Among the hundreds of freedom or alhorría charters granted in Seville in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the argument that freedom is being awarded because the slave “is a Christian” or “has turned Christian” is a recurrent feature, regardless of whether this action involves financial compensation or not.29 It seems obvious that there is nothing exceptional about the Sevilian records: similar records are attested throughout the Early Modern Age in other cities and regions of the Iberian Peninsula30 and the Canary Islands.31 It is true that these are formulaic expressions and that juridical formulas were extremely long-lived, sometimes persisting for over a millennium.32 This, however, does not detract from the fact that the slaves were freed owing to their Christian condition because, despite the stereotypical character of the formula, these records often convey expressions of the masters’ religious feelings and moral convictions.33 This, in addition, is the documentary record and legal embodiment of the theological principle of Christian freedom. This is sometimes made explicit by slave masters: in Cáceres, Sancho de Paredes claims in 1537 to free his slave “so that no Christian be made a slave,”34 and Elena García, freeing the two small children of her slave Lorenza, reports that they had been baptized and that “them being Christians makes it wrong for them to be the slaves of another.”35 The significant number of “free” manumissions documented in Europe and America between the thirteenth and eighteenth centuries, although smaller than that of manumissions for payment (in cash or services/ labor)36 suggests that the negative moral burden of slavery and the notion that Christians were naturally free had an effect on the conscience of many. Some documents reflect this clearly: a freedom charter with which the rich Genoese merchant Niculoso de Forne freed his slave Francisco (white37 and aged 25) in Seville in 1535 states that this was done because

Christian freedom and natural freedom  187 “you are a Christian, and freeing Christian slaves is one of the seven deeds of mercy, and because you have rendered me good services, and for doing you this service”;38 the merchant Bartolomé Sánchez del Rincón freed his slave Juana María in Badajoz in 1549 “for the love of God our Lord, and following my conscience”;39 Cristóvão Dias freed his slaves in Funchal (Madeira), in 1547, “to unburden his conscience”;40 in 1621, in Évora, Catalina de Figueiredo freed Encença “in the belief that this is a deed of mercy”;41 finally, in 1708, Captain Antonio Lemes da Guerra freed his slave Brizida and her two children in Minas do Rio das Velhas (Minas Gerais, Brazil) “to unburden his conscience.”42 It seems clear that doubts about the moral legitimacy of slavery reached confessionals in sixteenth-century Spain and that these doubts became more acute—e.g., the attitude shown by Dominicans in the Caribbean, who refused to absolve Spaniards who did not free their American slaves.43 The famous letter sent from Seville by the Dominican Bernardino de Vique, who was later prior of Saint Paul’s convent in the city (1550– 1552), to Father Francisco de Vitoria († 1546) reveals that there was a heated debate and serious doubts concerning the legality of the traffic in “slaves which the Portuguese bring from their Indies,” as well as about the slave trade based in Guinea. Father Miguel de Arcos,44 provincial of the Baetican Province of the Dominicans (1533–1538, 1548–1551), also participated in these early debates around the slavery triggered by European expansion during the early sixteenth century with the work Parecer mío sobre un tratado de la guerra que se puede hacer a los indios.45 Another Sevilian Dominican, Father Domingo de Valtanás, questioned in his Enchiridion de estados, published in Seville in 1555, “Whether it is licit to use slaves.” There is little doubt that his purpose was to steer the conscience of the faithful, who in Seville at the time were shaken by the polemic between Bartolomé de las Casas and Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda and the publication of the Las Casas’ treatises in 1552. These included the Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hechos esclavos,46 in which Las Casas, who was well versed in the work of de Vitoria47 and knew his opinion that slavery was against nature and that the slavery of American indigenous groups should be opposed,48 concluded in no uncertain terms, All Indians enslaved in the Indies of the Ocean from the time of their discovery to today, have been enslaved unjustly, and the Spaniards who possess them today do so with a bad conscience, even if they purchased them from other Indians.49 Valtanás’ answer, however, was affirmative, but not without considerably softening the rigors of slavery and, naturally, reminding the reader of the doctrine of Christian freedom, which in terms of moral theology translated into a recommendation to free Christian slaves. This, as the freedom charters indicate, was often followed:

188  Rafael M. Pérez García Despite this, care must be taken to treat all slaves well, clothing them and treating them humanely, and taking care of them when they are sick; and if they give no reason for it, no chains should be put on them, and after they have served for fifteen or twenty years, if they are Christians and can support themselves, it is a deed of mercy to set them free.50 The fact that the doctrine of man’s natural freedom and that of the freedom of Christians were discussed in court processes proves that both doctrines contributed to the formation of moral and legal conscience, and to the formation of a collective ideology in which not only theologians and jurists participated but also many laypersons. The slaves and their lawyers also resorted to these arguments to demand their freedom. In June 1556, two black minors, Juan and Catalina, were arrested in the port of Bilbao when they disembarked a ship from France. The city’s head provost, Don Tristán de Leguiçama, claimed these minors as his property, alleging that they were slaves without a master. This resulted in a lawsuit in the city, in which the powerful merchants from Medina del Campo, Simón and Vítores Ruiz, also claimed ownership of the two minors, communicating through their lawyers that they had bought them in France, where they had business concerns.51 Against these claims, the curador assigned to Juan and Catalina presented a lengthy petition to the corregidor of Vizcaya, demanding the freedom of his clients by arguing, Said minors were not born into slavery, but free, according to the law, because natural law determines that all men are born free, and natural law cannot be impugned, especially since they are Christians, because man’s serfdom was against nature, and natural things are firm and immovable, and the ius gentium cannot deprive them of their liberty, and they cannot be sold as though they were mere brutes, and before God all nations are equal, and they all come from the original coupling of man and woman. Also, said minors were born in Santo Tomé, a dominion of the Portuguese king, where no slaves exist, only free men, and they were brought to France, where natural law rules, and there are no slaves either, and neither are there in Spain, especially among those born in the Indies and the islands.52 Eventually, the lawsuit reached the Chancillería of Valladolid, which declared Juan and Catalina free on July 24, 1557. The Ruiz, however, appealed, and the final ruling (November 23, 1557) overturned the first ruling, and Juan and Catalina were again reduced to slavery.53 This lawsuit illustrates that the theological and legal principle that those born in Christian lands could not be enslaved had permeated the European juridical culture. The same idea was expressed by Francisco de Vitoria in his aforementioned letter to Vique, in which he referred to

Christian freedom and natural freedom  189 Europe as (“[…] where no one who is free can be enslaved”).54 These arguments, moreover, were free from national or racial caveats. That is, the key factor was not color of skin or nationality, but religious affiliation. This is clearly illustrated by another lawsuit concerning the freedom of a slave (Francisco Duarte) in 1554. Francisco was sold in Seville by the Portuguese Manuel Fernandes, a professional slave dealer who supplied the city with slaves from Portugal.55 Duarte was an “Indian from the land of Prester John,” and since Ethiopians were “Christians and allies […] of other Catholic Christians,” he demanded to be freed, for “all slaves from this part” had been set free by the Castilian courts.56 In the Late Middle Ages, slavery in Christian society survived only as a consequence of frontier wars and was only perpetuated as a result of the Spanish and Portuguese Atlantic expansion. The exogenous and residual nature of slavery was also the result of narrowing down the legal justifications for slavery,57 the efficient operation of legal manumission mechanisms,58 and the failure of slave populations to reproduce biologically.59 Slaves were already a small minority in the Christian frontiers when, during the late fifteenth century, the war against Islam in the Mediterranean and North Africa gained in intensity and when the opening of the Atlantic routes brought new cargoes of Muslim, Canarian, and black slaves from Guinea to western Mediterranean urban harbors. However, the available data for the turn of the sixteenth century indicate that slaves amounted to only approximately 4.4% of the population in Barcelona, 4.9% in Seville, and 11% in Valencia.60 Even in Seville, which was the main node of Atlantic commerce in the sixteenth century and was closely linked with Portuguese slave networks,61 the slave population, although significant, barely amounted to 7.4% of the city’s population in 1565,62 when the slave population peaked, judging by the available demographic series.63 In the wider Atlantic region comprising western Andalusia, the Portuguese Algarve, the Alentexo, and the city of Lisbon and its hinterland, which was transformed by Atlantic trade, the slave population reached its peak briefly in the sixteenth century with approximately 10%, although there were considerable local differences within the region.64 As Charles Verlinden argued for medieval Europe,65 slavery in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries survived only through trade, and, following the progressive decline of the institution from the opening decades of the seventeenth century, by the eighteenth century, slavery was virtually extinct in Iberia.66 Although his explanation is too simplistic, Montesquieu was not altogether wrong when he claimed in De l´esprit des lois (1748) that Christianity had abolished civil slavery in Europe (Part III, Book XV, Chap. 8). The moral problem that beset eighteenthcentury Europe was the mass slavery of Africans in America. The Encyclopédie, although recognizing the civilizing role that Christianity had played in history, did not hesitate to accuse Christian powers of silencing their rejection of slavery in their own countries in order to reap

190  Rafael M. Pérez García financial gain from plantations and mines overseas.67 Adopting this critical stance, which, very deliberately, stressed such a central Christian tenet as baptism, the article Nègres in the Encyclopédie méthodique accused Christianity of contributing to enslaving Africans: Le dernier argument qu´on ait employé pour justifier l´esclavage, a eté de dire que c´étoit le seul moyen qu´on eût pu trover pour conduire les nègres à la béatitude éternelle par le grand bienfait du baptême.68

Bringing the gospel all over the earth During the Middle Ages, Christian theologians never ceased thinking of ways to evangelize Jews and Muslims. Although war and crusades were the predominant ideas in the way Christian Europe conceptualized its relationship with Islam, arguments were put forward that defended the use of persuasion, rather than force.69 In 1492, when the Catholic Monarchs conquered the Muslim Kingdom of Granada and expelled from Spain all Jews unwilling to embrace the Christian faith, the missionary repertoire used on the new subjects was the same as that which had been used during the preceding centuries: a flexible combination of coercion and peaceful means, depending on the circumstances.70 The earliest papal bulls granted to the Portuguese kings were issued in this late medieval context of war against the infidels, when Portugal began its Atlantic expansion in North Africa.71 Pope Nicholas V (r. 1447– 1455) issued the bull Romanus Pontifex in favor of Alphonse V of Portugal (1432–1481) in 1455 after he failed to mobilize Christian princes for a crusade against the Ottomans in the aftermath of the fall of Constantinople in 1453.72 In this bull, Nicholas V praised the Christian princes who defended their faith from “Saracens and pagans whatsoever, and other enemies of Christ,” submitting them to their secular dominion. He also mentioned the Portuguese expansion launched by Prince Henry the Navigator (1394–1460) with the conquest of Ceuta in 1415, and their arrival in Guinea, which was described as an oceanic navigation “toward the southern and eastern shores,” “the south and the Antarctic pole.” The bull granted Alphonse V all lands south of Cape Bojador and permission to wage war against “all Saracens, pagans and enemies of Christ” to conquer their kingdoms and enslave their inhabitants; this was to be regarded as a “most pious and noble work, and most worthy of perpetual remembrance which, since the salvation of souls, increase of the faith, and overthrow of its enemies.” As such, the territorial expansion of Christianity beyond its medieval frontiers was to take the shape of a crusade, a war destined to bring the whole earth under the Christian mantle by the subjection of human groups against which war and slavery were considered lawful—that is, “the enemies of Christ.” The bull,

Christian freedom and natural freedom  191 therefore, protected the Atlantic slave trade begun by the Portuguese in 1441 between the coasts of Mauritania and Guinea and Iberian harbors.73 In fact, this endeavor was even regarded as a means of evangelizing these peoples: […] many Guineamen and other negroes, taken by force, and some by barter of unprohibited articles, or by other lawful contract of purchase, have been sent to the said kingdoms. A large number of these have been converted to the Catholic faith, and it is hoped, by the help of divine mercy, that if such progress be continued with them, either those peoples will be converted to the faith or at least the souls of many of them will be gained for Christ.74 The concession of territories by the pope with the condition of evangelizing the locals was not new. In 1159, Pope Adrian IV (r. 1154–1159) had granted Henry II of England (1133–1189) permission to take Ireland, and in the early thirteenth century, Pope Honorius III (r. 1216–1227) and Emperor Fredrick II (1194–1250) gave to the Teutonic Order the lands of the pagan Prussians to conquer and evangelize. Romanus Pontifex and the other bulls issued in favor of the Portuguese Crown followed this tradition, which was within the framework of pontifical theocracy and was accepted by many experts in canon law. The donation bulls issued by Alexander VI (r. 1492–1503) in 1493 to grant the Catholic Monarchs all the islands and lands discovered by Christopher Columbus (1451–1506) in America followed the same model, including the obligation to convert their inhabitants to the Catholic faith.75 The harsh tone of Romanus Pontifex has rightly attracted the attention of historians, but the fact remains that the slave trade south of the Senegal River fell within the parameters of standard commercial practice (c. 1450).76 The bull overrode common approaches to the ius gentium and opened the door to the violence with which the Spaniards proceeded in the first phase of their Atlantic expansion. However, in practical terms, I do not think that the impact of Romanus Pontifex was greater than that of the pacifist arguments put forward in the same context by Juan de Segovia († 1458), professor and theologian at the University of Salamanca, who argued that, except in cases of legitimate self-defense, peace would be more effective than war at suppressing Islam.77 Although pacifist approaches to the expansion of the faith can be traced back to Christianity’s early centuries, there is little doubt that, during the Late Middle Ages, the idea that this end was easier to attain through crusades and coercion was widespread.78 The conquest of the Canaries and the arrival of Europeans to America occurred in the context of this contradictory doctrinal environment. Beyond the hitherto unbreakable wall of Islam, a vast horizon opened to Europeans to, at long last, follow Christ’s mandate in the closing passages of the gospels of Matthew and Mark:

192  Rafael M. Pérez García Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world;79 Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.80 The contradictions of European expansion became obvious in the Canaries, where the efforts of missionaries to convert the locals were undermined by attacks by slave dealers.81 Both the pope and the Castilian Crown tried to enforce respect for the freedom of converted natives and those who were being evangelized. Pope Eugene IV’s bull Regimini gregis (1434) censored the violence unleashed by Christian pirates to enslave the inhabitants of the Canaries and established their freedom; enslavers were threatened with excommunication if they did not free their slaves, offering a plenary indulgence to those who did so.82 Obviously, the raids persisted and the inhabitants of the Canaries continued being brought as slaves to the harbors of Seville, Valencia, Barcelona, and Génova. In 1477, soon after she became queen, Isabella banned the sale of Canary Islanders: “[S]ome are Christians and others are in the process of turning to our Catholic faith.” According to her, “[T]hese events would prevent them from wishing to become Christians.” This was triggered by the actions of Fernán Peraza, who ruled over La Gomera and had enslaved 100 local Christians and had sent them to Andalusia to be sold. The complaint put forth by the bishop of Rubicón, Father Juan de Frías, who explained that the Gomeros were “Christians and free,” and were “under the protection of the Holy Church,” led to another royal declaration that, again, revolved around the notion of the principle of Christian freedom: “[S]aid Canarians and those on their way to conversion cannot be made captive.”83 However, these were confusing times, in which these raids coexisted with the idea that conquest was an appropriate approach to the conversion of Gran Canaria, which began in 1478.84 This struggle to assert the freedom of Canarians continued at least until the early 1510s. By then, the Spanish had reached the Caribbean and had created a system of repartimiento of indigenous Americans on the island of Hispaniola. The Taíno from Santo Domingo were victims of the same confusing theoretical framework in which the ideas of crusade, if not depredation, still coexisted with the search for the peaceful conversion of new peoples.85 In this context, after the Dominicans reached the island in 1510 and 1511, Father Antonio Montesino (c. 1475–1540) pronounced his famous sermon, condemning the Spanish attitude toward the indigenous population, on December 21, 1511.86 Although the details of the content of this sermon are not well-known because the version contained in Las Casas’ (1484–1566) Historia de las Indias (Book III, Chap. IV)

Christian freedom and natural freedom  193 may have been adapted to the author’s theological and legal arguments,87 it is interesting to note that the sermon refers directly to the notion of the natural freedom of man, which will be Las Casas’ main argument in defense of the freedom of indigenous Americans:88 Say, with what rights and with what justice do you reduce these Indians to such cruel and horrible servitude? […] Are these not men? Do they not have a rational soul? Is it not your duty to love them as you love yourselves? Do you not understand this? Do you not feel it?89 The lawful ways of expanding Christianity in America became established in the early decades of the sixteenth century, a topic to which Las Casas dedicated his De unico vocationis modo omnium gentium ad veram religionem, a decisive argument for peaceful methods of evangelization.90 Although bull Intra Arcana, issued in 1529 by Pope Clement VII (r. 1523– 1534), still compelled Emperor Charles I not to vacillate and use “force” and “arms” to evangelize the “barbarous nations” of the Indies,91 the intervention of the Dominicans Bernardino de Minaya and Julián Garcés, bishop of Tlaxcala, before Paul III (r. 1534–1549) eventually triggered the publication in June 1537 of bull Sublimis Deus, a crucial document in which the pope declared indigenous Americans to be “true men,” making it unlawful to enslave them. The text went much further, as it extended this statement to all peoples of the earth, even if they were not yet under the Church’s mantle, decreeing that by these present letters that the same Indians and all other peoples [“praedictos Indos et omnes alias gentes”] – even though they are outside the faith – who shall hereafter come to the knowledge of Christians have not been deprived or should not have been deprived of their liberty or of their possessions. Before making the principle of natural human freedom universal, the bull condemned the allies (satellites) of the devil, who enslaved “the Indians of the West and the South.” The fact that Paul III chose the same terms used in Romanus Pontifex (“occidentales et meridionales Indios et alias gentes”) suggests that he was also referring to Africans, the inhabitants of southern regions.92 On the secular front, the process culminated with the enactment by Charles I of the Leyes Nuevas in 1542, in which the Dominicans again played a determinant role.93 These laws forbade the enslavement of indigenous Americans and ordered the liberation of the rest unless their owners could show proof of legitimate possession.94 During the following years, numerous indigenous Americans appealed to the courts to claim their freedom in America and the Iberian Peninsula. Again, in this context, the principle of natural human freedom, on which Paul III based his arguments for the freedom of

194  Rafael M. Pérez García Christians, and that of Christian freedom, used frequently by slaves to regain their liberty, are seen to interact closely. For instance, in 1535, a royal cédula commanded the governor of Venezuela to set the cacique Don Marcos and his people free because they were baptized Christians, despite the fact that they had rebelled.95

Moral theology and law regarding the slaving of Africans In the sixteenth century, the enslavement of indigenous Americans and Africans was a constant topic of debate for Catholic theologians and lawyers. The problem was not trivial, as the indiscriminate enslavement of those whose evangelization was allegedly intended endangered the expansion of the Catholic faith and threatened the principle of Christian freedom. Las Casas, in order to defend the freedom of the indigenous Americans and stop them being enslaved, used legal and theological arguments that undermined the legality and legitimacy of slavery at large. Yet, slavery was an ancient institution, and, therefore, his Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hecho esclavos96 endeavored to prove that the reasons wielded to justify the practice were unjust, for instance, the wars waged against them, emphasizing that the indigenous Americans were not “enemies of the faith” and that they had started no wars against Christians. He also pointed out that said wars had not been launched to expand the Christian faith or for humanitarian reasons (“to succour innocents”) but only for power and riches. Las Casas did not hesitate to present a wholesale and explicit indictment against the slave trade in his Historia de las Indias, where he refers to the “injustice with which the Portuguese take [African slaves] to make slaves of them; which is […] cause of injustice and tyranny among them as well as among the Indians.”97 Decisive arguments in his defense of the freedom of slaves were Paul III’s bull Sublimis Deus and the brief Pastorale Officium, the transcriptions of which were published in his De unico vocationis modo,98 lending pontifical clout to his principles of natural human freedom and of peace and persuasion as the only lawful method of evangelization. In practice, the enslavement of American and African peoples in the sixteenth century challenged the traditional framework within which this institution had operated during the Middle Ages. In America, legislation reproduced the scheme that pushed slavery toward military frontiers: this was the case with the Chichimeca in northern New Spain, the Chiriguano in Charcas, and the Mapuche in Chile.99 The scale of the phenomenon in Africa, however, completely transcended the models of slavery sanctioned by Roman law, which was limited by the principles of Christianity and just war. In fact, from the earliest arrival of African slaves to the Caribbean, a series of legal initiatives (Diego Colon’s 1522 Ordenanzas and those enacted by the Audiencia of Santo Domingo in 1528) established a brutal repressive regime that was

Christian freedom and natural freedom  195 later to be imitated in different cities on the continent. The harshness of these dispositions reflects the difficulties of controlling the slave populations in America’s vast geographic area, which encouraged rebellions and escapes.100 These are the initial steps of a model of slavery which, for geographical, economic, and social reasons, could depart substantially from that developed in southern Europe between the thirteenth and seventeenth centuries. It is, however, worth pointing out that trade in African slaves and the enslavement of Africans took place amid an environment of moral censure and open accusations of illegitimacy driven by theologians. We have already seen Las Casas uncompromising condemnation of the practice and also the doubts conveyed by Vitoria and Valtanás. The Suma de tratos y contratos by the Dominican Tomás de Mercado, published in Salamanca in 1569 and again in Seville in 1571, denounced the unjust nature of the “trade of blacks from Cape Verde,”101 which was based on unlawful wars, human hunts, theft, lies and all manner of abuse, and was characterized by cruelty and murder. These arguments allowed Mercado to conclude that, if the Portuguese methods traded with the natives of Cape Verde, Sao Tome, and Guinea were illegitimate, the export of these same people to America and Seville was illegitimate also. If we take into account that these places were at the time the main sources of African slaves,102 Mercado was ultimately challenging the Portuguese slave trade in its entirety. The illegitimate nature of this trade should thus lead to the freeing of slaves and to merchants and buyers taking a hard look at their conscience. Mercado argued that when slavery was the result of violence and deception, the courts should free the slaves, as was the case with a slave in México who, after learning the language, complained to the royal audiencia; and all he had to prove was that he shouted and struggled to resist as he was being taken on board, and was set free, restoring his master the 150 ducats that he had paid for him. Concerning individual conscience, Mercado avoided going into details, pointing to the court of the confessional: “[E]ach person must turn to their confessor.” Mercado’s analysis makes it clear that the Atlantic slave trade did not fit the traditional doctrines developed by Catholic theologians and lawyers on slavery. This becomes equally obvious in the jurist Bartolomé Frías de Albornoz’s (1519–1573) Arte de los contratos, published in 1573. In this work, Albornoz links a series of ideas: the impossibility of enslaving subjects of the Crown of Castile, the just nature of captivity in the case of “infidel Moors” (“they can be enslaved in the same way that they enslave us”), and the dangers that “buying blacks” posed to people’s conscience. Quoting Mercado, Albornoz was even more critical about the

196  Rafael M. Pérez García causes used to justify the trade in African slaves, rejecting that this could be used as a tool of evangelization, and finally advising merchants that “since there are other things to do with your money, do not get involved in this butcher’s trade.”103 Although it is frequently stated that the slave trade caused no moral issues in sixteenth-century Europe, the fact is that this became a first-rate ethical problem, being addressed in theological manuals such as Domingo de Soto’s (1494–1560) De iustitia et iure (Salamanca, 1553–1554, reprinted numerous times in the following decades in Lyon and Venice), and moral works, such as Pedro de Navarra’s De restitutione (Toledo, 1585) and the Dominican Luis López’s Instructorium conscientiae, reprinted repeatedly in the 1580s and 1590s. The Minim Alonso de Vega’s Summa llamada Sylva y práctica del foro interior, utilísima para confesores y penitentes, published in Alcalá de Henares in 1594, asked again if “those who use deception to enslave negroes in Guinea are in mortal sin, and are obliged to set them free”; he answered in the affirmative, also stating that buyers were compelled by their conscience to set free the slaves who had been captured through deception, even if they lost their money. Vega used the arguments of Soto, Mercado, Navarra, and López, demonstrating that, in the late sixteenth century, the enslavement of Africans was a recurrent moral issue, debated by confessors and penitents in the Catholic world. That the topic was considered unpalatable and fraught with moral problems is beyond doubt. This work mentions only a small selection of the numerous theological works that dealt with this issue during the Early Modern Age; reconstructing the full list and assessing the impact of this mass of written texts on social attitudes toward slavery in Europe and the Catholic world more broadly is an important task for the future. Obviously, these theoretical developments in the field of moral theology ran parallel to the increasing sophistication and scale of the Atlantic slave trade in the final decades of the sixteenth century.104 In this context, and after years as a professor in the universities of Coimbra and Evora, the Jesuit Luis de Molina (1535–1600) wrote (1591) the first systematic treatise about the slave trade in Africa, published (1593–1600) in the second treatise of Book One of his De iustitia et iure.105 Molina not only makes a detailed legal and theological presentation of the issue but also gives a comprehensive description of the trade in Africa’s various regions. According to Molina, most Africans were enslaved unjustly and, based on principles of natural law, they should be freed and compensated for the damages caused. However, the arrival of Portuguese merchants to Africa only encouraged this practice, so the trade should be condemned without hesitation; the merchants were in mortal sin and were compelled to free their captives.106 Molina censured the Portuguese merchant’s imperviousness to their confessors’ advice and the passivity of bishops and other men of the Church in Cape Verde and Sao Tomé and requested

Christian freedom and natural freedom  197 the king of Portugal (which was at the time Philip II) look into the matter in depth, as his father had done concerning indigenous American, whom he had declared to be free. Finally, Molina asked for missionaries to be sent to Africa to expand the faith, asking Christians to encourage the liberty of Africans. Molina correctly associated the freedom with Christianization and emphasized that the natives of the Kingdom of Monicongo were not enslaved because they were Christians.107 The Jesuit Alonso de Sandoval’s De instauranda Aethiopum salute, published in Seville in 1627, is situated against the background of the beginning of a new stage in the slave trade in the late sixteenth century when Cartagena de Indias became the main harbor for the trade in the Atlantic. The work is long and ambitious, compelling the Society of Jesus to focus decisively on the Christianisation of Africans and their incorporation into the Church, not only in America but also in Africa and Asia. After witnessing the brutal treatment suffered by slaves in Cartagena de Indias, Sandoval undertakes an exhaustive description of the black nations of the world, pointing to slavery, an institution that was brutal and against nature, as the ultimate reason for their disgrace, both in Africa and wherever they were brought. Beyond advocating the natural equality of all men,108 Sandoval discusses the crucial issue of the nature of “negros” and the reasons behind their color109 to find a place for them in the Scriptures (through Ham, cf. Gen. 9, 18–26), which allowed him in turn to incorporate them into the Economy of Salvation. He points to Ethiopia as the first nation to be summoned by Christ110 and claims that “black” Christianity (represented, for instance, by Saint Thomas’s Christians in Socotora and Malabar) is rooted in Antiquity and is a constituent holy part of the Church. This is the sense conveyed by Chapter 32, which closes Book One, “De los varones ilustres y etíopes santos que ha tenido la Iglesia Católica.” This includes characters from the Old Testament (such as Sheba, queen of Ethiopia, and Zipporah, Moses’ wife) and the New Testament who point to a black Christianity directly related to Christ and the time of the Apostles: Gaspar, “Holy Ethiopian king”; Kandake, queen of Ethiopia baptized by Saint Phillip on his return to Ethiopia from Jerusalem; Saint Ephigenia, princess of Ethiopia baptized by the Apostle Saint Matthew; “the mysterious and apostolic eunuch” baptized by Saint Phillip; and Saint Elesbaan, emperor of Ethiopia. Similarly, Abbot Saint Moses and Abbot Saint Serapion, “Ethiopians,” two of the initiators of eremitism in Antiquity, proved the quality of African Christianity. Finally, he did not hesitate to refer to two recent “negro” Franciscans as saints: Antonio, “black saint” († 1549), and Benedict the Moor († 1589), despite the fact that the latter had not yet been canonized. These saints present irrefutable proof that Africans were capable of embracing the true faith. Similarly, he vindicated the dignity of Africans by emphasizing the “estimation” in which they held God, the Virgin Mary, and the Apostles, especially Saint Thomas (Book II, Chaps 6–11). The baptism of Africans

198  Rafael M. Pérez García should be at the center of a worldwide strategy to procure their freedom. Once they were baptized and incorporated into the Church, the blacks would be released from the mark of Ham and the dark inheritance of slavery because “the Ethiopians come from Ham, the world’s first slave, and this slavery was the first form of serfdom that the world knew.”111 De instauranda is a blunt call to the Christian mission, exhorting the clergy and the Jesuits to become directly involved in the evangelization of Africans; God had created shepherds and priests “free so that we can contribute to the freedom and salvation of others, and we would do ill if we did not do it”.112 Once part of the Church, the Africans would be able to leave slavery behind, like eastern and northern Europeans (Slavs, Hungarians, Baltics, Finns) had done in the Middle Ages when they entered the societas christiana.113 In the seventeenth century, Sandoval’s arguments were largely grounded in the idea of Christian liberty and also in the notion of the equality of all men. In this regard, turning the thorny biblical passage about Ham, traditionally used since the time of the patristic to justify slavery and link it to his allegedly African descendants,114 in his favor was crucial. This was particularly important in the early seventeenth century, during which “the notion of the Negro-Hamite was generally accepted.”115

Notes 1 This work has been undertaken within the framework of R&D Project El tráfico de esclavos y la economía atlántica del siglo XVI (MERCATRAT) (PID2019-107156RB-I00), funded by Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación, Gobierno de España. 2 Enrique Olivares Torres, L´ideal d´evangelització guerrera. Iconografia dels cavallers sants (València: Universitat de València, 2015). 3 Rafael M. Pérez García, “El laboratorio ibérico de conceptos y prácticas sobre la esclavitud y los mestizajes: diversidad de experiencias, pueblos y cultura,” in De que estamos falando? Antigos conceitos e modernos anacronismos: Escravidão e mestiçagens, ed. Eduardo França Paiva, et al. (Rio de Janeiro: Garamond, 2016), 13–21; Venancio D. Carro, La teología y los teólogos-juristas españoles ante la conquista de América (Sevilla: Escuela de Estudios Hispanoamericanos de Sevilla—CSIC, 1944), vol. I, 172. 4 Michel Balard, “Remarques sur les esclaves à Gênes dans la seconde moitié du XIIIe siècle,” Mélanges d´archéologie et d´histoire 80, 2 (1968): 630. 5 Matteo Gaudioso, La schiavitù domestica in Sicilia dopo i normanni (Catania, Giuseppe Maimone Editore, 1992), 43–44, 126–128. 6 Carro, La teología, vol. I, 169–174. 7 Ibid., 153–165. 8 Partida IV, tit. XXI, law I. 9 Igor Sosa Mayor, “El esclavo en la teología moral católica (c. 1550–1750),” in Minorías en la España medieval y moderna (ss. XV–XVII), ed. Rica Amran and Antonio Cortijo Ocaña (Santa Barbara: Publications of eHumanista, 2016), 211–213. 10 Charles Verlinden, L´esclavage dans l´Europe médiévale. Tome premier: Péninsule Ibérique—France (Brugge: Rijksuniversiteit te Gent, 1955), 122, 136–139, 154, 172–174.

Christian freedom and natural freedom  199 1 Jn. 8, 31–36; Rom. 8, 18–25. 1 12 A brief historiographical overview about the positions espoused by different schools of medievalists in Didier Bondue, De servus à sclavus. La fin de l´esclavage antique (371–918) (Paris: PUPS, 2011), 17–25. 13 Jean Imbert, “Favor libertatis,” Revue historique de droit français et étranger, Quatrième série 26 (1949): 274–279. 14 Alexandre Jeannin, “La manumissio in ecclesia: une procédure romano-chrétienne à l´épreuve de la pratique du haut Moyen Age,” Revue juridique d´Auvergne (2005): 149–154; Jean Gaudemet, “La législation religieuse de Constantin,” Revue d´histoire de l´Église de France 33, 122 (1947): 38–41; Bondue, De servus, 66–67. 15 Pérez García, “El laboratorio,” 15–18. 16 Martín Lutero, Obras, ed. Teófanes Egido (Salamanca: Sígueme, 2001), 267. 17 Balard, “Remarques,” 634–643. 18 Verlinden, L´esclavage dans l´Europe médiévale. Tome premier, 290–291. 19 Furs e ordinations fetes per los gloriosos reys de Arago als regnicols del regne de Valencia (Valencia: Lamberto Palmart, 1482), 109 (L. VI, rub. XV). Facsimile edition (Valencia: Universidad de Valencia, 1977). 20 Ibid, 108 (L. VI, rub. XIII). 21 Partida IV, tit. XXI, law VIII. This law applied only if the Jew or Muslim bought the slave with the intention of using his or her services. Should the buyer purchase the slave with the intention of selling them, they would have a three-month period in which to do so. Also, should this slave embrace Christianity, they would have to compensate their owner financially (12 maravedís “of current money”). 22 Gaudioso, La schiavitù, 15–17, 42–45, 116–120. 23 Balard, “Remarques,” 675, 648–649. 24 Gaudioso, La schiavitù, 126–127. 25 Josep Hernando, Els esclaus islàmics a Barcelona: blancs, negres, llors i turcs. De l´esclavitut a la llibertat (s. XIV) (Barcelona: CSIC, 2003), especially 49–54 and 171–176; the percentage has been calculated based on data presented in pages 25–49. See also Josep Hernando, “De l´Islam al cristianisme. El procés d´integració dels esclaus per mitjà de la religió. Barcelona, segle XIV,” Acta historica et archaelogica mediaevalia 32 (2014–2015): 263–284. This social phenomenon continued in Barcelona during the fifteenth century and ultimately led to the emergence of religious brotherhoods of freedmen (Antoni Albacete i Gascón, “Els lliberts barcelonins del segle XV a través dels seus testaments,” Acta Historica et Archaeologica Mediaevalia 27–28 (2006– 2007): 143–172, and Antoni Albacete i Gascón, “Les confraries de lliberts negres a la Corona catalanoaragonesa,” Acta Historica et Archaeologica Mediaevalia 30 (2009–2010): 307–331). 26 This process has been quantified in slave markets in the port of Genoa (Domenico Gioffrè, Il mercato degli schiavi a Genova nel secolo XV (Genova: Fratelli Bozzi, 1971), 61) and Barcelona (Iván Armenteros, L´esclavitud a la Barcelona del Renaixement (1479–1516). Un port mediterrani sota la influència del primer tràfic negrer (Barcelona: Fundació Noguera, 2015), 63–65). 27 Verlinden, L´esclavage dans l´Europe médiévale. Tome premier, 319–357, 460–465, 468; María Teresa Ferrer i Mallol, “Esclaus i lliberts orientals a Barcelona. Segles XV i XV,” in De l´esclavitud a la llibertat. Esclaus i lliberts a l´Edat Mitjana, ed. María Teresa Ferrer i Mallol and Josefina Mutgé i Vives (Barcelona: CSIC, 2000), 167–212; Antonio Rumeu de Armas, La política indigenista de Isabel la Católica (Valladolid: Instituto Isabel la Católica de Historia Eclesiástica, 1969); Pérez García, “El laboratorio,” 19–21; Rafael Benítez Sánchez-Blanco, “El cautiverio de los moriscos,” Manuscrits 28

200  Rafael M. Pérez García (2010): 19–43; Rafael M. Pérez García and Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, “La guerra de Granada entre guerra civil y ‘guerra justa,’” in Realidades conflictivas. Andalucía y América en la España del Barroco, ed. Miguel L. LópezGuadalupe and Juan José Iglesias Rodríguez (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2012), 229–247. 28 António Manuel Hespanha, Filhos da terra. Identidades mestiças nos confins da expansão portuguesa (Lisboa: Tinta da China, 2019), 294–295. 29 I could cite dozens of examples: María, a white slave from Safim, on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, was freed with no compensation, Archivo Histórico Provincial de Sevilla, Protocolos Notariales de Sevilla (hereafter cited as AHPSe, PNS), leg. 3260, f. 459r-460v. Seville, 23-VI-1525); and also Juana, a “Portuguese-Speaking Black Ladino Slave” (“esclava de color negra, ladina de lengua portuguesa,” AHPSe, PNS, leg. 13455. Seville, 15-III-1526); María, from Barbary, aged 35, was freed with no compensation by her master, Diego de Herrera, “because you have turned Christian” (AHPSe: PNS, leg. 1536, cuadernillo 48. Seville, 16-VIII-1535). Some examples that involved financial compensation in AHPSe, PNS, leg. 123, f. 312r-v, 334r-v, 628r-v, 1134r-v, referred to a newly born white girl, a black man aged 50, a mulatto boy aged 6 and a mulatto woman aged 30. Examples of slaves embracing Christianity continue to feature in the record during the seventeenth century (Jorge Vasseur Gámez, “La liberación del esclavo en Sevilla en la segunda mitad del siglo XVII,” Archivo hispalense 97, 294–296 (2014): 172). 30 In Cádiz (Arturo Morgado García, “Los libertos en el Cádiz de la Edad Moderna,” Studia historica. Historia moderna 32 (2010): 406), Jerez de la Frontera (José Antonio Mingorance and José María Abril, La esclavitud en la Baja Edad Media. Jerez de la Frontera, 1392–1550 (Madrid: Peripecias, 2013), 228–230), Gibraleón (José Marín de la Rosa, La esclavitud en Gibraleón (S. XVI a XVIII) (Gibraleón: Asociación Gibraleón Cultural, 2008), 47–48) and Extremadura, where the formula becomes increasingly rare between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries (Rocío Periáñez Gómez, Negros, mulatos y blancos: Los esclavos en Extremadura durante la Edad Moderna (Badajoz: Diputación de Badajoz, 2010), 477–479). 31 Manuel Lobo Cabrera, Los libertos en la sociedad canaria del siglo XVI (Madrid/Tenerife: CSIC, 1983), 35–36. 32 An extraordinary example of the longevity of fourth-century Roman law is a Genoese notarial act granted in Pera, opposite Constantinople in 1281; through this act, Bulgarino de Piombino awarded his Alexandria-born slave Sairo Rezem Roman citizenship and pristina freedom (G. I. Bratianu, Actes des notaires génois de Péra et de Caffa de la fin du treizième siècle (1281– 1290) (Bucarest: Cultura Nationala, 1927), 36 and 147). 33 As documented in Valencia at the turn of the fifteenth century (Francisco Javier Marzal Palacios, La esclavitud en Valencia durante la Baja Edad Media (1375–1425) (Valencia: Universitat de Valencia, 2006), 1140–1146). As pointed out by Douglas Lima for Latin America, using eighteenth-century Minas Gerais as a case-study, laws about freedom were part of “de um repertório de vivências sociais” (Douglas Lima, A polissemia das alforrias: significados e dinâmicas das libertações de escravos nas Minas Gerais setecentistas, Dissertação de mestrado (Belo Horizonte: Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, 2014), 52–53). 34 “[P]orque ningún cristiano sea esclavo.” 35 “[S]iendo cristianos no es razón que sean esclavos de ninguna persona.” Periáñez, Negros, 479. 36 According to Balard, 56.5% of manumissions in thirteenth-century Genoa were “free” (39 out of 69 examples) (Balard, “Remarques,” 675–676). Data

Christian freedom and natural freedom  201 are also available for Barcelona in the fourteenth century (Hernando, Els esclaus islàmics, 232–233); Andalusia and Extremadura for the Early Modern Age (Rafael M. Pérez García, “Esclavitud y dinámicas de mestizaje en Andalucía occidental. Siglos XV–XVII,” in Los negocios de la esclavitud. Tratantes y mercados de esclavos en el Atlántico ibérico, siglos XV–XVIII, ed. Rafael M. Pérez García, et al. (Sevilla: Editorial Universidad de Sevilla, 2018), 244–246); Vasseur, “La liberación”; Morgado, “Los libertos,” 408; Periáñez, Negros, 465–467; southern Portugal (Jorge Fonseca, Escravos no sul de Portugal. Séculos XVI–XVII (Editora Vulgata, 2002), 163–195); the Canaries in the sixteenth century (29% of unconditional manumissions, Lobo, Los libertos, 30); Madeira between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries (57%; Alberto Vieira, Os escravos no arquipélago da Madeira. Séculos XV a XVII (Centro de Estudos de História do Atlântico, 1991), 186); Peru in the period 1560–1650 (33.2%; Frederick Bowser, El esclavo africano en el Perú colonial (1524–1650) (Madrid: Siglo XXI, 1977), 363–364); Minas Gerais in the eighteenth century (Eduardo França Paiva, Escravidão e Universo Cultural na Colônia. Minas Gerais, 1716–1789 (Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG, 2006), 175–216; Jonis Freire, Escravidão e família escrava na zona da Mata Mineira oitocentista (São Paulo: Alameda, 2014), 219–262); and Santiago de Cuba in the period 1780–1803, where the percentage of “free” manumissions is sensibly lower (9% of manumissions were unconditional, and 7% were subject to a variety of conditions; José Luis Belmonte, Ser esclavo en Santiago de Cuba. Espacios de poder y negociación en un contexto de expansión y crisis 1780– 1803 (Madrid: Doce Calles, 2011), 196–198). 37 “[D]e color blanco.” 38 “[P]orque sois cristiano e porque ahorrar al christiano cabtivo es una de las siete obras de misericordia, e por muchos e buenos servicios que me avedes fecho, e por vos fazer bien e buena obra.” AHPSe, PNS, leg. 10557. Seville, 26-III-1535. 39 “[P]or amor de Dios nuestro Señor y movido de su conciencia.” Periáñez, Negros, 478–479. 40 “[P]or descargo de sua conciência.” Vieira, Os escravos, 186. 41 “[E]ntendendo que fazia obra de misericordia.” Fonseca, Escravos, 186. 42 “[Por] descargo de sua conciência.” Lima, A polissemia, 80. 43 Pedro Fernández Rodríguez, Los dominicos en la primera evangelización de México (Salamanca: Editorial San Esteban, 1994), 48–52. 44 Francisco de Vitoria, Relecciones sobre los indios y el derecho de guerra (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1975), 22–24. 45 Lewis Hanke, La lucha por la justicia en la conquista de América (Madrid: Ediciones Istmo, 1988), 378–380. 46 Hanke, La lucha, 331–377. 47 Francisco Hernández Martín, Francisco de Vitoria. Vida y pensamiento internacionalista (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1995), 347–356. 48 Francisco de Vitoria, Relectio de Indis (Madrid: CSIC, 1989), 72–73. 49 “Todos los indios, que se han hecho esclavos en las Indias del mar Océano, desde que se descubrieron hasta hoy, han sido injustamente hechos esclavos, y los españoles poseen a los que hoy son vivos, por la mayor parte con mala consciencia, aunque sea de los que hubieron de los indios.” Bartolomé de Las Casas, “Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hechos esclavos,” in Obras Completas, ed. Ramón Hernández and Lorenzo Galmés (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1992), vol. X, 221. 50 “Con todo esto, se debe mirar que a cualquier esclavo se debe hacer buen tratamiento, y vestirlos, y tratarlos con humanidad, y curarlo en sus enfermedades; y si no hacen porqué, no se deben traer aherrojados, y después que han

202  Rafael M. Pérez García servido quince o veinte años, si son cristianos, y tienen habilidad para vivir por sí, es obra de misericordia ahorrarlos.” Domingo de Valtanás, Enchiridion de estados (Sevilla: Martín de Montesdoca, 1555), f. 197v-199v. 51 Henri Lapeyre, Una familia de mercaderes: los Ruiz (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008). 52 “[L]os dichos sus menores no nacieron siervos ni esclavos, salvo libres, e así se presumía según Derecho, porque de Derecho natural todos los hombres nacen libres, el cual Derecho natural era inmutable, en especial siendo cristianos como lo eran, porque la servidumbre en el hombre era contra su naturaleza, porque las cosas naturales eran inmutables e firmes, y el Derecho de las Gentes no le pudiera privar de su libertad ni se podían vender, pues no eran animales brutos, y delante de Dios no había nación de personas naturales que a todos no los hacía iguales, [pues] todos dependían [=descendían] de la primera formación del hombre y mujer. E porque los dichos sus menores eran nacidos en Santo Tomé, tierra del rey de Portugal donde no hay esclavos en la dicha región sino hombres libres, y porque los dichos sus menores fueron llevados al reino de Francia, donde se platicaba en el dicho caso el Derecho natural, porque en Francia no había esclavos, ni tampoco en España, en especial los nacidos en Indias e islas.” 53 Archivo de la Real Chancillería de Valladolid, Registro de Ejecutorias, 903, 13. 54 “[…] acá, adonde no se puede hacer esclavo el que una vez es libre.” Vitoria, Relecciones, 23. 55 His intense activity in 1550 and 1551, trafficking slaves from Guinea and Monicongo, and even some who were Portuguese born, has been abundantly documented (AHPSe, PNS, legs. 5886, 9168 (f. 128r-v) y 17511 (f. 855)). 56 Juan Gil, La India y el Lejano Oriente en la Sevilla del Siglo de Oro (Sevilla: Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, 2011), 153–154. 57 For the evolution of these legal principles, see Verlinden’s magnum opus. 58 The issue can be followed chronologically from Barcelona in the thirteenth century to western Andalusia, southern Portugal and Spanish and Portuguese America in the Early Modern Age and through to the nineteenth century in Ferrer i Mallol, “Esclaus”; Hernando, Els esclaus islàmics, 203–249; Alfonso Franco Silva, La esclavitud en Sevilla y su tierra a fines de la Edad Media (Sevilla: Diputación Provincial de Sevilla, 1979), 243–272; Pérez García, “Esclavitud y dinámicas de mestizaje”; Vasseur, “La liberación”; Morgado, “Los libertos”; Pedro Parrilla Ortiz, La esclavitud en Cádiz durante el siglo XVIII (Cádiz: Diputación de Cádiz, 2001), 126–142; Periáñez, Negros, 463– 508; Fonseca, Escravos, 163–195; Bowser, El esclavo, 334–367; França Paiva, Escravidão, 167–216; Belmonte, Ser esclavo, 185–259; Freire, Escravidão, 219–262. 59 Eduardo Corona Pérez, “Un escaque en el ‘Tablero de ajedrez’: esclavitud en la parroquia sevillana de San Vicente, 1535–1560,” in Los negocios de la esclavitud, 322–324; Paula Valverde Barneto, “La esclavitud en Sevilla durante el siglo XVI a través de las partidas de bautismo de la parroquia del Salvador,” in Los negocios de la esclavitud, 268; Periáñez, Negros, 109–114; Bowser, El esclavo, 407–408. 60 Armenteros, L´esclavitud, 90–92. A slightly higher estimate for Seville in Pérez García, “Esclavitud y dinámicas de mestizaje,” 243. 61 Manuel F. Fernández Chaves and Rafael M. Pérez García, “Las redes de la trata negrera: mercaderes portugueses y tráfico de esclavos en Sevilla (c. 1560–1580),” in La esclavitud negroafricana en la historia de España. Siglos XVI–XVII, ed. Aurelia Martín Casares and Margarita García Barranco (Granada: Comares, 2010), 5–34. 62 Fernández Chaves and Pérez García, “Las redes,” 6.

Christian freedom and natural freedom  203 63 Valverde, “La esclavitud en Sevilla durante el siglo XVI,” 266; Valverde, “La esclavitud en la Sevilla del siglo XVI: crecimiento natural e importación de esclavos,” in Movilidad, interacciones y espacios de oportunidad entre Castilla y Portugal en la Edad Moderna, ed. Manuel F. Fernández Chaves and Rafael M. Pérez García (Sevilla: Editorial Universidad de Sevilla, 2019), 173–177. 64 Fernández Chaves and Pérez García, “Las redes,” 6–7. 65 Verlinden, L´esclavage dans l´Europe médiévale. Tome premier, 9 and 20. 66 For this decline, see Jorge Vasseur Gámez, “El mercado de esclavos y los mercaderes y corredores de esclavos en Sevilla durante el siglo XVII,” in Los negocios de la esclavitud, 185–234; Pérez García, “Esclavitud y dinámicas de mestizaje”; Parrilla, La esclavitud, 86–88; Periáñez, Negros, 60–73, 93–100. 67 Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d´Alembert, Artículos políticos de la Enciclopedia (Madrid: Tecnos, 1986), 117–118. 68 Encyclopédie méthodique. Économie politique et diplomatique (Paris & Liège, 1788), vol. 3, 420. 69 Darío Cabanelas, Juan de Segovia y el problema islámico (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 2007); John V. Tolan, Sarracenos. El Islam en la imaginación medieval europea (Valencia: Universitat de València, 2007). 70 Ginés Arimón, “El problema del bautismo de los niños infieles,” Analecta Sacra Tarraconensia 30 (1957), 203–232; Rafael M. Pérez García, “Judeoconversos y espiritualidad cristiana en la España de los siglos XV y XVI. El proceso formativo,” in Los judeoconversos en el mundo ibérico, ed. Enrique Soria Mesa and Antonio José Díaz Rodríguez (Córdoba: Ediciones Universidad de Córdoba, 2019), 13–31. 71 Francisco Morales Padrón, Teoría y leyes de la Conquista (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2008), 15–20. 72 Bernardino Llorca and Ricardo García Villoslada, Historia de la Iglesia Católica. Vol. III. Edad Nueva (Madrid: BAC, 2005), 357–360. 73 Vitorino Magalhães Godinho, Os descobrimentos e a economia mundial (Lisboa: Presença, 1991), vol. IV, 155–157. 74 “Papal Encyclicals Online.” Accessed February 8, 2021. https://www.papalencyclicals.net/nichol05/romanus-pontifex.htm. See also Morales Padrón, Teoría, 21–27. 75 Paulino Castañeda Delgado, La teocracia pontificia y la conquista de América (Vitoria: Editorial Eset, 1968), 251–285. 76 Ivana Elbl, “The Volume of the Early Atlantic Slave Trade, 1450–1521,” The Journal of African History 38, 1 (1997), 35. 77 Cabanelas, Juan de Segovia, 87–99, 108–125, 165–190. 78 Rumeu, La política, 17–21; José Goñi Gaztambide, Historia de la Bula de la Cruzada en España (Vitoria: Editorial del Seminario, 1958), 234–262, 394– 396, 415–416; Arimón, “El problema”; Paulino Castañeda, “Las doctrinas sobre la coacción y el ‘Idearium’ de Las Casas,” in Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, Obras Completas. 2. De unico vocationis modo (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1990), XVII–XLII; Cabanelas, Juan de Segovia, 191–223. 79 Mt. 28, 19–20. 80 Mk. 16, 15–16. 81 Antonio Rumeu de Armas, El obispado de Telde. Misioneros mallorquines y catalanes en el Atlántico (Madrid: Telde, 1986); Rumeu, La política, 22. 82 Rumeu, La política, 30–31; José García Oro and María José Portela Silva, La Iglesia de Canarias en el Renacimiento: de la misión a la diócesis. Estudio histórico y colección diplomática (Puerto del Rosario: Servicio de Publicaciones del Cabildo de Fuerteventura, 2005), 45–50. 83 Rumeu, La política, 37–38, 48–51.

204  Rafael M. Pérez García 84 Rumeu, La política, 40–46, 51–54. 85 Rumeu, La política, 127–147. 86 Fernández Rodríguez, Los dominicos, 43–52; Hanke, La lucha, 29–35. 87 Bernat Hernández, “Un sermón dominico en La Española de 1511 y sus contextos medievales y atlánticos,” in Fray Antonio de Montesino y su tiempo, ed. Silke Jansen and Irene M. Weiss (Madrid and Frankfurt am Main: Iberoamericana and Vervuert, 2017), 71–97. 88 Carro, La teología, vol. II, 378–425; Hanke, La lucha, 331–377. 89 “Decid, ¿con qué derecho y con qué justicia tenéis en tan cruel y horrible servidumbre aquestos indios? […] ¿Éstos, no son hombres? ¿No tienen ánimas racionales? ¿No sois obligados a amarlos como a vosotros mismos? ¿Esto no entendéis? ¿Esto no sentís?” 90 Castañeda, “Las doctrinas.” 91 Hanke, La lucha, 116. 92 Hanke, La lucha, 105–129. The Latin, Spanish and English versions of Sublimis Deus can be consulted in Christian Duverger, La conversión de los indios de Nueva España (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1993), 217–220, and Joel S. Panzer, The Popes and Slavery (New York: Alba House, 1996), 79–85. 93 Fernández Rodríguez, Los dominicos; Luis Alonso Getino, “Influencia de los dominicos en las Leyes Nuevas,” Anuario de estudios americanos 2 (1945): 266–360. 94 Morales Padrón, Teoría, 434. 95 Archivo General de Indias, Caracas, 1, L. 1, f. 13r-v. 96 Bartolomé de las Casas, “Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hechos esclavos,” in Obras Completas, ed. Ramón Hernández and Lorenzo Galmés (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1992), vol. X, 215–284. 97 “[…] la injusticia con que los portugueses los toman y hacen esclavos [a los negros africanos]; el cual [Las Casas] […] siempre los tuvo por injusta y tiránicamente hechos esclavos, porque la misma razón es dellos que de los indios” (Bartolomé de las Casas, Historia de las Indias, ed. Agustín Millares Carló (México & Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1951), Book III, Chap. 102, vol. III, 177). 98 Bartolomé de las Casas, “De unico vocationis modo,” in Obras Completas, ed. Paulino Castañeda Delgado and Antonio García del Moral (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1990), vol. II, 351–357. 99 Pérez García, “El laboratorio,” 32–34. 100 Giuseppe Patisso, Codici neri. La legislazione schiavista nelle colonie d´oltremare (secoli XVI–XVIII) (Roma: Carocci editore, 2019), 53–75. 101 “[T]rato de los negros de Cabo Verde.” Tomás de Mercado, Suma de tratos y contratos, ed. Nicolás Sánchez Albornoz (Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Fiscales, 1977), Book II, Chap. 20. 102 Rafael M. Pérez García and Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, “Sevilla y la trata negrera atlántica: envíos de esclavos desde Cabo Verde a la América española, 1569–1579,” in Estudios de Historia Moderna en Homenaje al Profesor Antonio García-Baquero, ed. León Carlos Álvarez Santaló (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2009), 597–622. 103 Bartolomé Frías de Albornoz, Arte de los contractos (Valencia: Pedro de Huete, 1573), f. 130r–131r. 104 Enriqueta Vila Vilar, Hispanoamérica y el comercio de esclavos (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2014); Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, “El contrato de arrendamiento de ‘los tratos de todos los ríos de Guinea y las islas de Buan’ de 1574–1580. Análisis y edición,” in Los negocios de la esclavitud, 93–120; Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, “El «trato e avenencia del reino de Angola

Christian freedom and natural freedom  205 para el Brasil e Indias de Castilla» de 1594-1600. Gestión y organización de la trata de esclavos en una época de transición,”, Revista de Indias 82, 284 (2022), 9-44. 105 Jesús María García Añoveros, “Luis de Molina y la esclavitud de los negros africanos en el siglo XVI. Principios doctrinales y conclusiones,” Revista de Indias 60, 219 (2000), 307–329; António Manuel Hespanha, “Luis de Molina e a escravização dos negros,” Análise social 35, 157 (2001), 937–960. 106 García Añoveros, “Luis de Molina,” 319–326. 107 Hespanha, “Luis de Molina,” 949. 108 Alonso de Sandoval, Un tratado sobre la esclavitud, ed. Enriqueta Vila Vilar (Madrid: Alianza, 1987), Book II, Chaps 4 and 5. 109 Ibid., Book I, Chap. II. 110 Ibid., 298. 111 Ibid., 69. 112 Ibid., 297. 113 Verlinden, L´esclavage dans l´Europe médiévale. Tome premier, 19. 114 Pius Onyemechi Adiele, The Popes, the Catholic Church and the Transatlantic Enslavement of Black Africans 1418–1839 (Hildesheim and Zürich and New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 2017), 166–191. 115 E. R. Sanders, “The Hamitic Hypothesis: Its Origin and Functions in Time Perspective,” The Journal of African History 10, 4 (1969), 522.

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208  Rafael M. Pérez García Hernando, Josep. “De l´Islam al cristianisme. El procés d´integració dels esclaus per mitjà de la religió. Barcelona, segle XIV.” Acta historica et archaelogica mediaevalia 32 (2014–2015): 263–284. Hernando, Josep. Els esclaus islàmics a Barcelona: blancs, negres, llors i turcs. De l´esclavitut a la llibertat (s. XIV). Barcelona: CSIC, 2003. Hespanha, António Manuel. Filhos da terra. Identidades mestiças nos confins da expansão portuguesa. Lisboa: Tinta da China, 2019. Hespanha, António Manuel. “Luis de Molina e a escravização dos negros.” Análise social 35, 157 (2001): 937–960. Imbert, Jean. “Favor libertatis.” Revue historique de droit français et étranger, Quatrième série 26 (1949): 274–279. Jeannin, Alexandre. “La manumissio in ecclesia: une procédure romano-chrétienne à l´épreuve de la pratique du haut Moyen Age.” Revue juridique d´Auvergne (2005): 149–162. Lapeyre, Henri. Una familia de mercaderes: los Ruiz. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, 2008. Las Casas, Bartolomé de. “Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hechos esclavos.” In Obras Completas. Vol. X, edited by Ramón Hernández and Lorenzo Galmés, 219–284. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1992. Las Casas, Bartolomé de. “De unico vocationis modo.” In Obras Completas. Vol. II, edited by Paulino Castañeda Delgado and Antonio García del Moral. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1990. Las Casas, Bartolomé de. Historia de las Indias, edited by Agustín Millares Carló. México, Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1951, 3 vols. Las Siete Partidas del rey don Alfonso el Sabio. Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1807, 3 vols. Lima, Douglas. A polissemia das alforrias: significados e dinâmicas das libertações de escravos nas Minas Gerais setecentistas, Dissertação de mestrado. Belo Horizonte: Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, 2014. Lobo Cabrera, Manuel. Los libertos en la sociedad canaria del siglo XVI. Madrid/ Tenerife: CSIC, 1983. Lutero, Martín. Obras, edited by Teófanes Egido. Salamanca: Sígueme, 2001. Marín de la Rosa, José. La esclavitud en Gibraleón (S. XVI a XVIII). Gibraleón: Asociación Gibraleón Cultural, 2008. Marzal Palacios, Francisco Javier. La esclavitud en Valencia durante la Baja Edad Media (1375–1425). Valencia: Universitat de Valencia, 2006. Mercado, Tomás de. Suma de tratos y contratos, edited by Nicolás Sánchez Albornoz. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Fiscales, 1977. Mingorance, José Antonio, and José María Abril. La esclavitud en la Baja Edad Media. Jerez de la Frontera, 1392–1550. Madrid: Peripecias, 2013. Morales Padrón, Francisco. Teoría y leyes de la Conquista. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2008. Morgado García, Arturo. “Los libertos en el Cádiz de la Edad Moderna.” Studia historica. Historia moderna 32 (2010): 399–436. Olivares Torres, Enrique. L´ideal d´evangelització guerrera. Iconografia dels cavallers sants. València: Universitat de València, 2015. Onyemechi Adiele, Pius. The Popes, the Catholic Church and the Transatlantic Enslavement of Black Africans 1418–1839. Hildesheim, Zürich, New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 2017.

Christian freedom and natural freedom  209 Panzer, Joel S. The Popes and Slavery. New York: Alba House, 1996. Parrilla Ortiz, Pedro. La esclavitud en Cádiz durante el siglo XVIII. Cádiz: Diputación de Cádiz, 2001. Patisso, Giuseppe. Codici neri. La legislazione schiavista nelle colonie d´oltremare (secoli XVI–XVIII). Roma: Carocci editore, 2019. Pérez García, Rafael M., and Manuel F. Fernández Chaves. “La guerra de Granada entre guerra civil y ‘guerra justa.’” In Realidades conflictivas. Andalucía y América en la España del Barroco, edited by Miguel L. López-Guadalupe, and Juan José Iglesias Rodríguez, 229–247. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2012. Pérez García, Rafael M., and Manuel F. Fernández Chaves. “Sevilla y la trata negrera atlántica: envíos de esclavos desde Cabo Verde a la América española, 1569–1579.” In Estudios de Historia Moderna en Homenaje al Profesor Antonio García-Baquero, edited by León Carlos Álvarez Santaló, 597–622. Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, 2009. Pérez García, Rafael M. “Judeoconversos y espiritualidad cristiana en la España de los siglos XV y XVI. El proceso formativo.” In Los judeoconversos en el mundo ibérico, edited by Enrique Soria Mesa, and Antonio José Díaz Rodríguez, 13–31. Córdoba: Ediciones Universidad de Córdoba, 2019. Pérez García, Rafael M. “Esclavitud y dinámicas de mestizaje en Andalucía occidental. Siglos XV–XVII.” In Los negocios de la esclavitud. Tratantes y mercados de esclavos en el Atlántico ibérico, siglos XV–XVIII, edited by Rafael M. Pérez García, Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, and José Luis Belmonte Postigo, 237–261. Sevilla: Editorial Universidad de Sevilla, 2018. Pérez García, Rafael M. “El laboratorio ibérico de conceptos y prácticas sobre la esclavitud y los mestizajes: diversidad de experiencias, pueblos y cultura.” In De que estamos falando? Antigos conceitos e modernos anacronismos: Escravidão e mestiçagens, edited by Eduardo França Paiva, Manuel F. Fernández Chaves, and Rafael M. Pérez García, 11–38. Rio de Janeiro: Garamond, 2016. Periáñez Gómez, Rocío. Negros, mulatos y blancos: Los esclavos en Extremadura durante la Edad Moderna. Badajoz: Diputación de Badajoz, 2010. Rumeu de Armas, Antonio. El obispado de Telde. Misioneros mallorquines y catalanes en el Atlántico. Madrid: Telde, 1986. Rumeu de Armas, Antonio. La política indigenista de Isabel la Católica. Valladolid: Instituto Isabel la Católica de Historia Eclesiástica, 1969. Sanders, E. R. “The Hamitic Hypothesis: Its Origin and Functions in Time Perspective.” The Journal of African History 10, 4 (1969): 521–532. Sandoval, Alonso de. Un tratado sobre la esclavitud, edited by Enriqueta Vila Vilar. Madrid: Alianza, 1987. Sosa Mayor, Igor. “El esclavo en la teología moral católica (c. 1550–1750).” In Minorías en la España medieval y moderna (ss. XV–XVII), edited by Rica Amran, and Antonio Cortijo Ocaña, 209–228. Santa Barbara: Publications of eHumanista, 2016. Tolan, John V. Sarracenos. El Islam en la imaginación medieval europea. Valencia: Universitat de València, 2007. Valtanás, Domingo de. Enchiridion de estados. Sevilla: Martín de Montesdoca, 1555. Valverde Barneto, Paula. “La esclavitud en la Sevilla del siglo XVI: crecimiento natural e importación de esclavos.” In Movilidad, interacciones y espacios de oportunidad entre Castilla y Portugal en la Edad Moderna, edited by Manuel

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8 Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism Post-Tridentine ecclesiology in light of the intra-ecclesiastical doctrinal controversies Paolo Broggio In the wide-ranging historiographic debate on the relationship between power and religion, states and churches, as well as on the nature and division of powers in the Roman Catholic Church at the beginning of the early modern period, intra-ecclesiastical theological disputes have only rarely been taken into consideration for their ability to reveal positions, thinking, and finer political subtexts that had, until then, remained in the shadows. What were until quite recently dismissed as mere “squabbles between friars” of little general historical interest1 can actually provide us with new tesserae for the complex mosaic that was created as a result of the process of the sacralization of power, which, in turn, forms part of that “dualism of powers” on which both Italian and German historiography— in the context of the paradigm of confessionalization—has conducted an in-depth reflection over the past 40 years.2 My aim is not to analyze these disputes in terms of the development of Catholic theological thought between the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries but from the perspective, on the one hand, of some of the reasons why they arose and, on the other, of the political meanings that they were able to acquire, to such an extent that they triggered the involvement—or rather, the conscious intervention—of political power. The post-Tridentine doctrinal controversies, the almost natural outcome of the division of Catholic theology into “schools,” although certainly not the expected one, represent the ideal point of observation from which to consider phenomena such as the relations between different religious orders, the connection between the orders and the teaching of theology, the process of defining orthodoxy, and the relationship between theology and politics.3 The intellectual trajectory of the Italian historian, Paolo Prodi, is exemplary for understanding one of the ways in which historiography in recent decades has interrogated such central categories of European history as secularization, laicity, and modernity. Prodi famously rejected the concept of secularization to describe the developing relationship between the spheres of power and the sacred in the centuries between the Middle Ages and the early modern period, in other words, the so-called process of DOI: 10.4324/9781003300434-9

212  Paolo Broggio modernization. Recuperating Weber’s category of Entzauberung or “disenchantment with the world,” Prodi places the category of laicity—that is, the dualism between the sacred and politics—at the center of his explanatory model. Dualism is understood here, not as a clean separation of spheres that precludes all communication between the two but as a kind of osmosis that permits frequent and repeated exchanges, loans, and processes of reciprocal mimesis. The division between the political and religious spheres is the result of a tension, a continuous struggle for the monopoly of power. This tension, however, has always been linked to a process of osmosis in which the tendency of the Church to seize political power and that of politics to sacralize itself constitutes a continuum in which neither of the two forces manages to prevail, but in which each protagonist absorbs, at least in part, some of the characteristics of the other.4 According to Prodi, religion and modernity are not in the least antithetical as the secular historiography of the Enlightenment tradition has always maintained. Europe did not become modern by rejecting or excluding the sacred and then progressively becoming secular; indeed, Prodi’s argument is that Europe was able to modernize thanks to Christianity, not in spite of it. At the dawn of modernity, Western (European) civilization did not progressively exclude the sacred from history but rather placed God in a position of otherness and transcendence with respect to the world and power. The gospel expression “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s” (Matthew 22:21; Mark 12:17; Luke 20:25) was such an intrinsic characteristic of Christianity that it would have prevented any theocratic regime from being instituted in the West. This gave rise to an unresolved “competitive tension between two poles, each striving for hegemony in the management of a Christian society that [was] still perceived as and felt to be one.”5 The religious split that took place in the sixteenth century led to the formation of a new type of dualism that “was no longer between different juridical systems, but between positive laws (both Church (canon) and state) and moral norms.”6 The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries have been defined as the “age of the conscience.” In both the Catholic and the Protestant worlds, theologians reflected and clashed, sometimes fiercely, on the knotty theological issues of grace, salvation, original sin, and our relationship with individual conscience. Each world gave different answers to questions that can be considered universal and common to all of Christianity. More specifically, in the Catholic world, there is a common thread linking the condemnation of Baius’s (1513–1589) propositions (in 1567 and 1580), the De auxiliis divinae gratiae controversy (1588–1607), and the long-standing

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  213 conflict between the Jesuits and Jansenists in the mid-seventeenth century. Meanwhile, in the Protestant world, the Synod of Dort (also Dordrecht) (1618–1619) provided a solution to the disputes between the Gomarists, who believed in the strict doctrine of predestination of Theodore Beza (1519–1605), and the Arminians, who argued that infallible divine foreknowledge was compatible with the contingency of acts of the created will. It was not a solution in the name of compromise, as had been the case with the De auxiliis dispute, but a categorical condemnation of Arminianism.7 The fact that theology concentrated so assiduously on these issues (salvation, free will, sin) in the early modern period is an indication of the widespread need throughout the Western world to define the individual soul and conscience as inner territories to be protected against the advance of positive law. Viewed from this perspective, the doctrinal controversies within the Church acquire new significance. In the Catholic world, they provide an excellent vantage point from which to observe the central role of the regular orders and their relations with the papacy and the political authorities. They were not, as has often been believed, abstract discussions held within the closed walls of colleges and universities and confined to narrow intellectual and academic circles but served as testbeds for sovereigns, courtiers, diplomats, and jurists to help them address sensitive or thorny subjects encompassing fields as seemingly remote as popular devotion, religious sentiment, and liturgy. As is well-known, theologians played a very important role in various court environments in the states of the ancien régime.8 In the early modern period in Europe, as the historian, Mario Miegge, points out, theology was “the main means of communication, not only amongst the learned, but even more so amongst the populace.”9 Like the experts in law, theologians made their own particular skills and competences available to kings, popes, aristocrats, bishops, and cardinals in the management of a variety of matters for which decisions needed to be reached. The fact that theologians could place themselves at the disposal of secular powers and supply arguments in support of the jurisdictional claims of states against ecclesiastical power was naturally considered a downright affront by the papacy. Paolo Sarpi (1552–1623), a Servite friar, who became a councillor to the Republic of Venice during the heated dispute with Rome in 1606 (the Venetian Interdict) is just one of the best known—and, for Rome, one of the most acute—cases of betrayed loyalties. The fact that sovereigns also needed to consult theologians in order to find solutions to highly complex juridical or doctrinal issues derived directly from the widespread conviction, both in the political thought of the time and in the minds of the actors themselves, that divine law should be the main counsel of a prince. His actions had to adhere to Christian precepts and, for that very reason, questions of government, such as just wars, taxation, the treatment of religious

214  Paolo Broggio minorities, and so on, also had to be submitted to the judgment of theologians, moral theologians, in particular.10 Not only the law but also theology could be placed at the service of state interests. This would not have been possible if, in the early modern period, there had not also been an ongoing process of sacralization of power, which, in the Spanish Monarchy in particular, took on its own distinctive forms and characteristics. In the political literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, kings appear as direct emanations of God, almost as His alter ego. Love for the sovereign stemmed directly from the Christian duty to love God. Consequently, rebelling against the king was equivalent to rebelling against God, which explains why the legal systems of the time considered the sin of heresy to be equivalent to the most serious crime of all, lèse-majesté.11 Subjects had to be willing to accept every act of their sovereign since the latter, just like Providence, exceeded the bounds of common sense and the normal capacity for judgment of mortal beings. In Baroque Spanish theater, such as the plays of Lope de Vega (1562–1635), for example, the king was God on Earth; consequently, any departure of a royal law from divine law was inconceivable and could be used as tangible evidence of the sovereign’s illegitimacy.12 Studies of the relations between the states and the Catholic Church in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries have generally neglected the disputes over theological doctrine, as was stated earlier. A number of other issues have attracted the attention of scholars from time to time, including concordat policy, matters concerning benefices, nomination rights, ecclesiastical pensions, and so on. Attention has focused most on strictly juridical and diplomatic aspects but with the deliberate exclusion of doctrinal matters. A perfect example of what I am talking about is the excellent, extensive, and meticulous study by Olivier Poncet on the relations between the French Monarchy and the Holy See between 1595 and 1661. In dealing with the issue of concordats and making reference in this context to the theoretical statements by Robert Bellarmine (1542–1621) on potestas indirecta in temporalibus, Poncet asserts, At no point […] did the question of concordats or other indults arise in the controversy. This was because these legally binding texts belonged to the sphere of politics, or even of administration. Their discussion or renegotiation in the course of that century was more a matter of dialogue between two powers than of doctrine developed by theologians.13 What Poncet probably did not surmise was that the doctrine developed by theologians was often subject to discussion and negotiation in diplomatic circles and that this was one of the specific characteristics of the relations between the Holy See and the Spanish Habsburg Monarchy.

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  215 At the moment when relations between the states and the Church turn into conflict, the historian can make use of theology in the same way that the diagnostic radiologist makes use of radiocontrast agents. Radiocontrast agents enhance the visibility of internal lesions and organs relative to the surrounding tissue, thereby highlighting details that would otherwise be impossible to discern. Similarly, the particular mix of doctrine and politics that occurs during doctrinal controversies, that is, at moments of intense conflict caused by different understandings of orthodoxy, has the capacity to bring to the surface—especially in the case of the Habsburg Monarchy—aspects of great importance in the process of constructing an ideology of power that was based on its special, historically founded and justified relationship with the center of the Catholic world. This special relationship was exploited to such an extent by the Habsburg sovereigns in the furtherance of their interests that it provided them with a tempting pretext to try and subordinate the Catholic Church to their own tutelage and protection. This temptation to subordinate the Church, to which both the Holy Roman Empire and the Catholic monarchies of Europe were also susceptible, did not subside for centuries. When it came to competing jurisdictions, the states engaged in fierce struggles with the Church, struggles from which they would, in the long run, emerge victorious. In the field of theology, on the other hand, political power had fewer weapons available to it in its arsenal. If the states considered that the solution to a conflict arising from different interpretations of a point of doctrine was not to their satisfaction, they could exert pressure and interfere, asking the pope to settle the matter by taking an irrevocable decision. The decision, however, was made by Rome alone. This often led to paradoxical situations, with sovereigns loudly clamoring that they required a certain dogma, and popes, on the other hand, reiterating that there was no need for, or possibility of, a dogmatic definition. In this way, an important principle was established: the legitimacy of the coexistence of different, but equally probable, theological opinions. Following monarchic and imperial tradition, the Spanish Habsburgs vigorously asserted the role of the Monarchy as Defensor Fidei and Defensor Ecclesiae. For the French Monarchy also, the oath to defend religion and the Church was an integral part of the rite of consecration, the sacred anointing of the new sovereign by the highest representative of the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the kingdom.14 What distinguished the Spanish Monarchy however was its claim to preeminence over all the other European monarchies in terms of its “Catholicity.” The Spanish Monarchy put itself forward as the candidate to lead the Catholic world, a role that ended up on a collision course with the papacy itself and in competition with it. On more than one occasion, the latter had feared that it might be usurped and that it would end up in a subordinate position. It was precisely on the basis of this supposed claim that the Spanish

216  Paolo Broggio Monarchy decided on a number of occasions to intervene in the management of doctrinal controversies and to demand dogmatic definitions of the popes, which it certainly did not have the right to do. France in the reigns of Henry IV, Louis XIII, and Louis XIV had never gone so far in its relations with Rome, not even during the most difficult hours of the conflict with the Jansenists or the discussions on Gallican doctrines. Louis XIV (1638–1715) in particular viewed with extreme suspicion any papal pronouncement on matters of a doctrinal nature and was certainly careful not to request them himself. Only at particularly difficult moments did the Sun King decide to do so with regard to Jansenism, insisting on it being condemned. The French sovereign had created a system that made it possible (and preferable) to fight heresy or Jansenism without having to continuously appeal to the pontiff. In 1666, Louis XIV wrote about enforcing the 1653 Formula of Submission for the Jansenists (Cum occasione) in his kingdom: At that same time, the pope, who wanted to see his bulls on the doctrine of Jansenius fully enforced in this State, was pressing me to have legal proceedings brought against the four bishops who had refused to sign this Formulary that I have already spoken to you about, but the business seemed too delicate to resolve without careful deliberation. On the one hand, I wanted to please His Holiness, but on the other, I was concerned about infringing the prerogatives of this kingdom. I was well aware how important it is to root out at all new developments emerging in the matter of religion at the earliest opportunity, but I also knew how dangerous it is to provide the court of Rome with examples of jurisdiction from which it could later draw the wrong conclusions. In this difficulty and not wanting to do anything lightly, I was quite happy to consult the people of my council through my Chancellor; the parliament, represented by the first president and the people of the public prosecutor’s office; and even the clergy, through a certain number of bishops whose sentiments I secretly sounded out. I wanted to see, before resolving anything or giving any answer, whether someone, somewhere could not provide me with a suitable expedient for giving satisfaction to the pope, without harming the rights of my State.15 Louis XIV was anything but pro-Jansenist, but executing a papal condemnation in his kingdom, especially one aimed at “his” clergy (the bishops had refused to sign the Formulary), meant opening up a dangerous breach in the stout defense of Gallican freedom. Ultimately, a dogmatic definition represented a resolution by a “foreign” power (the Church) to be applied within the boundaries of the state, which created a problem for the assertion of full sovereignty by that same state, also in the ecclesiastical sphere.

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  217 Philip III and Philip IV, on the other hand, adopted the opposite strategy. Starting from the “ideological” premise that there were no heterodox ideas in Spain, the Spanish sovereigns expended all their energies, not on obtaining condemnations of formal heresies from Rome, but rather on obtaining formal doctrinal pronouncements that defined orthodoxy with respect to points on which there was still some margin of uncertainty. The irony here lies in the fact that, in the long run, these requests were no longer clear evidence of the recognition of papal supremacy in matters defining orthodoxy, but rather powerful tools for exerting pressure that allowed the Spanish sovereigns to develop a politico-religious ideology that made them look more papist than the pope himself.16 In order to better describe what political and ecclesiological meanings the post-Tridentine doctrinal disputes might have had for Spanish Catholicism, particularly in relation to the papacy, I have selected what I consider to be three turning points, three key years—1594, 1612, and 1644—in two controversies that followed each other in quick succession: the de auxiliis divinae gratiae controversy and the one concerning the dogmatic definition of the Immaculate Conception.

1594: Rome employs the right of callback to reserve judgment of Luis de Molina’s Concordia to itself Published in Lisbon in 1588 by the Spanish Jesuit, Luis de Molina (1535–1600), the aim of the Concordia liberi arbitrii cum gratiae donis was to provide an original, unified explanation of the relationship between divine grace and human freedom in the process of justification.17 The Dominicans, and the theologian Domingo Báñez (1528– 1604), in particular, attacked the work for rekindling a heterodox, Semi-Pelagian school of thought in the area of soteriology and promptly reported it to the Spanish Inquisition.18 Pope Clement VIII (r. 1592– 1605), faced with a diatribe that was fast turning into a difficult and sensitive matter that touched upon issues of fundamental importance for Catholic theology, took the momentous decision to remove the examination and trial of the Jesuit’s contested work from the jurisdiction of the Spanish Inquisition and to recall it to his own tribunal.19 The recall to Rome was announced by Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini (1571– 1621) in a letter dated June 28, 1594, to the papal nuncio to Spain. It did not fail to provoke a reaction from Philip II, who was always very careful to safeguard his prerogatives in ecclesiastical matters. Nevertheless, the Spanish sovereign could not know that his next actions—first, to protest against the decision of the pope and then to exert pressure so that the dispute could be resolved in a manner to his liking—would inaugurate a tradition of Spanish interference with Rome on definitions of orthodoxy that would continue with his successors until the late seventeenth century.

218  Paolo Broggio Two weeks before Clement VIII’s decision was announced, the Jesuit theologian, Francisco Suárez (1548–1617), wrote to the Cardinal of Toledo, primate of Spain, asking him to urge the pope to intervene on the issue, which he did shortly afterward: What is wanted here is that, by order of His Holiness, these doctrines be examined there, which is certainly a most necessary thing right now because of the general scandal that these controversies are causing and their enormous importance for the heresies of these times. And really, there are few over here who can find a solution, and there is a good deal of animosity; and if His Holiness does not intervene, there is great danger that some blunder will be made. And even if His Holiness does not wish to define anything that concerns the faith, it will matter greatly that he at least declare where there is danger, and how probable, and even which doctrine would be the most probable and appropriate for the Church to follow, as the Pontiffs have done in other matters, and [that he] silence forever rash and reckless censures, which scandalize and cause division among the Religions. […] And the favor that Your Illustrious Holiness must do for us is to ensure that this claim is not understood to be ours, but His Holiness ex officio, seeing that this cause is universal, not only in Spain, but in Italy and Germany, etc., and has caused division and turmoil, not only in Spain, but in Italy and Germany, etc and that it is a matter of doctrine, that he needs to intervene in his own right with full authority.20 As a Jesuit, Suárez was to a certain extent involved in the case, but this did not prevent him from turning to Spain’s highest ecclesiastical dignitary to call for papal mediation, not in the sense of hoping for the condemnation of one or other of the opposing theological opinions—both of which, it should be emphasized, had been conceived and developed in a Thomist environment—but of imposing silence and bringing the mutual recriminations and accusations of heresy to an immediate end. Papal intervention would not necessarily mean issuing a dogmatic definition, but rather clarifying the greater or lesser “probability” of the theses that were being contrasted so heatedly.21 For the Jesuit, Suárez, who was not attracted by the prospect of the conflict being managed solely by the Spaniards, only the pontiff could legitimately intervene and restore peace within the Church and bring clarity to doctrine.

1612: The Spanish Monarchy seeks to reopen the de Auxiliis controversy On August 28, 1607, the feast day of St. Augustine, doctor of Grace (devotion to whom was one of the focal points of the dispute between the Jesuits and Dominicans), Pope Paul V (Camillo Borghese; r. 1605–1621),

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  219 reached the decision to end a controversy from which it appeared impossible to escape without causing irreparable damage to the Church, and not only to its reputation. The pontiff took care to avoid delivering a final judgment—whether of condemnation or open approval—about Molina’s Concordia, as it would inevitably have meant condemning an entire religious order or a theological “school.” Pope Paul V confined himself to imposing perpetual silence on the parties in discord without going into the merits of the propositions deduced from Molina’s work, which was the crux of the dispute, and reiterated Catholic orthodoxy, which coincided with the last official pronouncement on the subject: the Tridentine decree De iustificatione (sixth session, January 13, 1547), which stopped at the point where Molina started to explain the mystery of the relationship between grace and free will. It was a solution, but one that was unsatisfactory, not only to the Dominicans, who were furious that the two positions had been implicitly recognized as equally probable and therefore on the same level, but also to Philip III and his entourage, especially, the Valido (Favorite), the Duke of Lerma (1553–1625), and the sovereign’s powerful confessor, the Dominican, Luis de Aliaga (1560–1626), who were all hoping for a condemnation of Molinism and the full endorsement of the Spanish version of Dominican Thomism (the strict Bañezian form) as the only orthodox approach, especially when it came to soteriology. Madrid immediately sought to convey to Rome its disappointment with the pontiff’s decision. In 1612, nevertheless, a full-scale diplomatic attempt was made to persuade the pope to go back on his decision and reopen the case. What Philip III could not accept about the 1607 resolution was its very vagueness. In March, his confessor, Aliaga, sent a letter to the pope’s nephew, Cardinal Scipione Caffarelli-Borghese (1577–1633), firmly expressing the Spanish sovereign’s request for a doctrinal definition in the form of a dogma that would resolve, once and for all, the controversy caused by the doctrine expounded by Molina in his Concordia. The Dominican Aliaga believed that to “state […] how these doctrines should be interpreted [was] a service to God and the Church, and beneficial for these his kingdoms” and added that it was not a controversy in the strict sense since the Order of Saint Dominic [was] not a party to it, except insofar as it [was] bound by the obligation of its estate to defend the true doctrine of the Church and to oppose whatever it does not hold to be such. The issue, from his point of view, was simple. On the one hand, there was the doctrine of the Church, orthodox, strong, and true, “which cries out for a statement from this Holy See” and, on the other, the false doctrine, false, in the sense that it is new, bold and not approved by any tradition

220  Paolo Broggio “that is defended, and is content to be able to circulate, even without the qualification of the Holy See.” For Aliaga, a definition was necessary in as much as the “reputation and honour of the Religions and of those teach [them] depends on wanting to know the truth and making the effort to discover it and teach it,” adding, with a hint of mischief, that “in matters of such gravity, so-called reasons of state are inadmissible,” an implicit— and malicious—reference to the alleged curial endorsement and political support that the Jesuits were presumed to enjoy and could have used to steer the dispute in a direction advantageous to them.22 In the latter part of 1612, in a further attempt to signal the Spanish Monarchy’s dissatisfaction with the pope’s 1607 solution, a peacemaking meeting was organized between the Dominicans and the Jesuits in Madrid, presided over by Philip III and the Duke of Lerma. This attempt also failed to produce significant results.23 The pontiff stood his ground and refused to reconsider the decision that had been taken. What is interesting to note however is that the Spanish Monarchy’s course of action toward Rome when it came to conflicts of a doctrinal nature had effectively already been marked out. Precisely in those years, clashes erupted in Andalusia between the “Immaculists” (Franciscans and Jesuits) and the “Maculists” (Dominicans),24 and within a very short period of time, Philip III had decided to set up a parallel diplomatic mission to be sent to Rome specifically to ask the pontiff to proclaim the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. This was a finely executed operation of political diplomacy, supported by the establishment of an ad hoc state body, the Real Junta de la Inmaculada (justified on doctrinal grounds), to coordinate the diplomatic action against Rome. This was unprecedented in the history of relations between Spain and the pontiffs.25 To these considerations should also be added the not insignificant one that a dogmatic definition of the Immaculate Conception would have major ramifications in terms of the symbolism of power, popular devotion, and liturgical customs. Faced with the repeated arrival in Rome of ambassadors extraordinary seeking a dogmatic definition of the Immaculate Conception (the Benedictine friar, Plácido de Tosantos, and the bishop of Cartagena, Antonio de Trejo, in the first decade of the seventeenth century, and the bishop of Plasencia, Luis Crespí de Borja, at the end of the 1650s), as well as the constant pressure from the ambassadors ordinary on the same topic, the various pontiffs reacted in different ways, but all betrayed a certain amount of irritation about the fact that a secular power was interfering in a matter that should have been the exclusive competence of the Holy See.26 Notwithstanding some important partial concessions, such as the concession made by Pope Gregory XV (Alessandro Ludovisi; r. 1621– 1623) in 1622 and the one by Pope Alexander VII (Fabio Chigi; r. 1655– 1667) in 1661, it would be a long time before Rome resolved to grant the Spanish Monarchy the proclamation of the dogma, when the Spanish

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  221 Golden Age was nothing more than a distant memory (December 8, 1854, Ineffabilis Deus, Pius IX).

1644: The decree of the Roman Inquisition on the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin During the papacy of Pope Urban VIII (Maffeo Barberini; r. 1623–1644), a man who was anything but well-disposed toward the Spanish Monarchy, relations between Rome and Madrid once again became strained over the issue of the dogmatic definition of the Immaculate Conception. The Roman Inquisition, which had maintained a closed and extremely intransigent attitude toward Immaculism since the end of the 1620s, decreed, in response to a request for an explanation from the Inquisitor in Bologna, that it would no longer be possible, either in theological conclusions or when preaching, to talk about the “Immaculate Conception of the Virgin,” and that the term was to be replaced by the compulsory use of the more neutral expression “Conception of the Immaculate Virgin.” The adjective “immaculate,” without stain, would therefore no longer apply to the conception but to the Virgin, thereby effectively neutralizing the doctrine which asserted the absence of original sin from the very first moment of the Virgin’s conception and validating in fact the one asserting the Virgin’s sanctification “in utero”, that is at any subsequent moment. This was neither a papal bull nor a well-publicized decree promulgated with great fanfare by the Roman Inquisition but a rescript, in other words, an official answer to a question addressed to the Congregation. As such, however, it was equivalent to a decree and had incontrovertible normative value; indeed, the document was being used by the master of the Sacred Palace (a Dominican friar) as the basis for preventing the publication in Rome of works that might contain the forbidden expression. For this reason, as soon as the news reached Spain (which took a couple of years at least, although time enough for some Immaculist unknown to us to inform the Spanish Court and trigger a reaction), Philip IV took steps to register his protest with Pope Innocent X (Pamphili; r. 1644–1655). For the Spanish Monarchy, it was unacceptable that the hands of the clock should be turned back a few centuries on this exhausting journey toward a dogmatic definition. Furthermore, a liturgical impasse was inevitable: if it was really no longer possible to talk about the Immaculate Conception, what had the Church been celebrating for centuries on December 8?27 The Spanish Monarchy reacted firmly, asking the pontiff to annul the decree of the Inquisition, dated January 20, 1644. Underlying the annulment of the decree lay a macrolevel political question, as becomes apparent from the diplomatic correspondence of the late 1640s. Could Rome be a problem for orthodox Catholicism? That was the paradoxical, highly provocative question, bordering on insulting, that Philip IV put to the pontiff through his ambassador:

222  Paolo Broggio [A]s soon as news of that so-called decree and the pamphlets that supported and qualified it became known in Spain, [the people] started to be seriously affected, in particular, because the Dominican friars were exaggerating its standing to the point of calling it a bull from our Holy Father Innocent X, as the author claiming to be Arpalego calls it, and were trying to [use it] to discredit the true and pious doctrine, and change the nature of the dispute. And although it is the case that neither this decree nor any other has been published in Spain, where we are not ruled by the Roman Inquisition, nevertheless, because a few copies that appeared to be authorized and signed in the name of Juan Antonio Thomasio, or Thomasino—said to be a notary of the Roman Inquisition—it started to be seriously considered that the holy cause would be jeopardized by following this path, and that the damage would come from Rome, whence the doctrine of truth originates; because if this injury and damage prevailed there, it would easily spread to the other provinces, among them, this Catholic nation of Spain, which has so much reverence and respect for the Holy Apostolic See.28 It was an open challenge to the pontiff, even though the explicit attack had been directed, not so much at the pope in person as at the Sacred Office of the Holy Congregation (which was, in any case, presided over by the pope). Rather more interesting however is the subtext of this passage in the Instructions that Philip IV had intended to be delivered into the hands of Archbishop Pedro de Urbina in 1653 but which never actually reached Rome due to personal problems because it formed the political line that all subsequent ambassadors would have to adhere to. The Spanish sovereign’s meaning seems to be that orthodoxy was not only what was defined by Rome, something that completely precluded any possibility of interaction with Christian people in general and even the European Catholic monarchies. If a lack of consistency or uniformity was shown in doctrine or religious sentiment (worship, devotion, liturgical practice), it was the duty and responsibility of the faithful, guided by strong national churches, to point Rome in the right direction. It was Rome’s duty, therefore, to satisfy the requests of monarchies whose main task was to preserve orthodoxy, defend the faith, ensure the development of Catholicism, and maintain peace within the borders of their kingdoms. Even so, not all monarchies were on the same level. Spain—in keeping with the ideology that it had been constructing between the Middle Ages and the early modern period—could boast a unique position in the European context by virtue of the purity of its faith and the political conduct of its sovereigns, who were always at the forefront and unwavering in their commitment against the enemies of the faith.29 France had granted the Huguenots an Edict of Toleration (Edict of Nantes, 1598), while the Holy Roman Empire had long since

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  223 renounced making any real attempt to reconquer the territories won over to the Protestant Reformation. The Spanish Monarchy, on the other hand, showed that it was the only champion of the Catholic faith in a divided Europe. In reality, Spain had also made concessions—namely, the Twelve Years’ Truce with the Dutch heretics (1609–1621)—and it is not too far-fetched to think that the beginning of the Immaculist diplomatic campaign in 1615 was one of the means used by the Spanish Monarchy to offset the damage to its image, however fleeting, caused by the concession in Flanders. The Instructions that Philip IV handed to his Ambassador in Rome, the Duke of the Infantado, explained that the question of the Immaculate Conception should not be discussed with the pontiff separately at specific, isolated points of the negotiations but should “permeate” all other questions on the table concerning Spanish diplomacy in Rome. The intent was to show the pontiff that popular Immaculist devotion was very much alive in Spain, which was why the sovereigns felt justified in pressing for a dogmatic definition, not to mention that the effervescence of devotion could also pose a threat to the maintenance of internal social and religious peace. The Immaculist disturbances in Seville of 1612–1613, true popular uprisings that broke out in reaction to Dominican preaching denying the Immaculate Conception, were still alive in the memory. Peace would be obtained, not only by expelling the Jews and moriscos, nor by flushing out and viciously punishing all kinds of heretics, but also by ensuring the uniformity of beliefs (not only theological but also devotional, cultic, and liturgical) that only a dogmatic definition could guarantee. For the Spanish sovereign, Spanish devotion to the Immaculate Conception was a true sign from God. It was not a devotion like any other since it was fueled by an “an aversion to the opposite point of view so that perhaps problems were experienced in political government and they came to fear other greater ones.”30 Besides, according to Baroque political philosophy, the state had to be worthy of the favor of God. If Spain was punished, it was undoubtedly the will of God, but which sins would be punished? Not those of the king since he was the image of God on Earth, but most certainly the sins of the people, which was exactly why the religious practices of subjects had to be examined carefully and, if necessary, corrected.31 Spain also deserved divine favor because the devotion (Immaculist specifically) of its people was so much stronger than that of any other European monarchy. This exuberant yet confrontational devotion was viewed by the Court in Madrid, not only as a potential internal threat (at least until Rome decided to define the dogma) but also as an important resource for the victory of Catholicism in Europe. Many references to the war against the Protestants are to be found in the documents of the time, which gives us some idea of how anachronistic the steadfast dedication of the Spanish Crown to doctrinal matters was in the context of a Europe in which the

224  Paolo Broggio Catholic powers no longer had any real possibility of realizing the dream of religious reunification (reconquest) of the continent. The magnitude of the controversy, at times harsh, even violent, appears to be a central component of a Baroque policy in which the sacralization of the monarchy and the king, and anchoring the ideology of power firmly in religious symbology, was one of its priority objectives. Alongside the Immaculate Conception, other symbols that became part of the political and ideological arsenal of the Habsburg monarchy were the Eucharist (think of the central place of the Corpus Domini, or Corpus Christi, ceremonies throughout the Hispanic world and its political meanings) and the Sacred Heart (especially in the eighteenth century). In the New World in particular, the Corpus Domini ceremony, apart from its traditional function of reinforcing the religious significance of the power exercised by Spain, also served as a symbolic integrator of native elements, as the late seventeenth-century cycle of paintings on the Corpus celebration in Cuzco clearly demonstrates.32 There is however another actor to consider in these dialectics between Rome and Madrid: the French Monarchy. The French kings had always weighed up very carefully any concessions granted by the pontiff to their historical rival. On January 30, 1619, during the papacy of Paul V, the Apostolic nuncio to Paris, Guido Bentivoglio, wrote to Rome in the plainest terms that any potential dogmatic definition would have been a major problem for the good relations between the Holy See and the French Monarchy: [S]ince there are so many Catholics here who oppose the authority of the Pope and hold the opinion that the Council is superior to the Pope, and that such matters of faith should be determined by a Council, it may be feared that coming to such a determination now could upset the mood here very much, especially if it were seen that the determination was made at the behest of the Spaniards. At the present time, in the schools of this kingdom and those in Paris particularly, the opinion in favor of the Immaculate Conception is the one that circulates generally, and the one that is accepted. There, if the freedom of discussion on the view were to be taken away, it is to be feared that many could change their mind, out of hatred, as I said, of pontifical authority and of the Spaniards.33 In France, it was hoped that Rome would decide to continue to allow freedom of discussion on the issue of the Immaculate Conception. In the French Court, the nuncio, Bentivoglio went on, it was felt that Rome should in no way give in to Spanish pressure and introduce such a significant doctrinal novelty on the basis of circumstances and methodologies that would constitute a serious precedent. In another letter, the nuncio reported that the definition would not be accepted in France; on the

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  225 contrary, it would be opposed—despite the widespread Immaculist devotion in the kingdom and the fact that the great majority of the theologians opted, for the most part, for the “pious opinion”—simply because it was granted at Spain’s request: [N]onetheless, there are so many politiques [those who placed political issues above religious ones] that should [the doctrine] be defined by the Church without necessity and at the request of Spain alone, there would be countless people who have supported it so far who would reject it in the future, and perhaps cause scandal, without the king being able to provide any remedy for the evil of the times.34 Who could define dogma? Was it the exclusive prerogative of the pope, without the intervention of any other Church body? The Holy See itself had confirmed on more than one occasion that a doctrinal novelty as important as that—and it truly was important since it had the potential to call into question the law of the universal nature of the transmission of original sin to all humankind—could not have been introduced if the Council of Trent, no less, and so many other pontiffs had not judged it proper to do so. Besides, both Philip III and Philip IV had appointed ambassadors extraordinary to ensure that the pontiff was aware that the issue could be defined. In his Instructions, Philip IV noted that Pope Paul V “seemed to be in no doubt that the pious opinion could be defined”; nevertheless, “they found it extremely difficult to define it outside a council, since it had already been dealt with and not been defined at such a respected Council as Trent.”35 The call for the need to convene a council was rather problematic: for both sides and for different reasons. Rome could have resorted to argument in order to put a stop to the Spanish requests, given that convening a council was a complex task, but we know how wary the papacy was of the inherent dangers of such a possibility. Madrid, on the other hand, insisted that a council was unnecessary: first, a simple statement about the reasons for the Feast of December 8 could be made without a council by following the controversial 1644 Rescript, since it would be in line with the Tridentine dictate and a whole series of subsequent papal measures (Pius V, Clement VIII, Gregory XV), and second, the actual dogmatic definition itself could be pronounced without having to convene a general council. There have been times, Philip IV wrote in his Instructions, when councils were convened far more frequently, but it is much more difficult at the present time, and it would be unthinkable for Rome to stop expressing their opinion about controversial doctrinal questions on these grounds alone. It was the opposite of what normally happened: a monarchy was pushing the pope to reinforce his power within the Church to the detriment of the council. The Instructions go on to point out that it was always “the

226  Paolo Broggio custom of the Holy Roman Church to hold its special councils after the general ones in order to examine, approve or reject them.” 36 The argument of Philip IV was that, after Trent, all measures taken by the Holy See had upheld the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception from the very first moment. The subject was so well defined by now that a new general council was not really necessary. A “special” council would have been enough, consisting of all the cardinals and prelates present in Rome, with the support of a sufficient number of theologians: And, lastly, when it seems that another council is necessary, because it [a question] has been treated in a council and not been defined, a provincial council, or similar, which the Popes have always used, is sufficient. Because, as Bellarmine said, if seven general councils were held to eradicate seven heresies, more than one hundred are the errors that the Apostolic See has eradicated with the assistance of special councils. And so, while a larger or smaller council is advisable, depending on the subject matter, in this one, which is so advanced, the Consistory of Cardinals and the opinion of other theologians is quite sufficient. This consistory, as the modern theologians say, is well named, and is a provincial council of the Pope, and the court and assembly of the Apostolic See and the Church, and, as Gravina says, it is like a Roman council and synod; and even more so, if not only the cardinals, but all the prelates who are in Rome were to attend, as happens with the canonization of the saints.37 Hence, the request to convene a general council turned out to be a weapon that could be used in different ways, depending on the circumstances. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, during the key years of the de auxiliis controversy, the auditor of the Tribunal of the Rota, Francisco Peña—a central figure in the Spanish lobby in Rome, who, among other things, had previously tried in every way possible to block Clement VIII’s absolution of Henry IV of Navarre by intervening with the Curia to obtain a formal condemnation of Molinism—had let it be understood that the Jesuits (also by means of the confessors of the inquisitor-general and the queen) could easily have convinced Philip III to ask the pope to convene a general council, notwithstanding all the dangerous outcomes imaginable for the interests of the papacy. Now, on the other hand, the request to convene a council was serving Spain in quite the opposite way. A general council would require too much time and contain too many unpredictable pitfalls. There was no need for a council since the pontiff could define the question, if not exclusively on his own authority, certainly through a “Roman Council” assembling “all the prelates that could be found in Rome.” It was a proposal that clearly reveals the Spanish Monarchy’s confidence in its own ability to handle the balance of power in the Curia.

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  227 If we exclude the Trent Decree that confirmed the dogma of Transubstantiation, there were no further dogmatic definitions during the early modern period. We had to wait until 1854 for the dogma of the Immaculate Conception to be proclaimed and 1870 for the dogma of Papal Infallibility to be announced, both of which were doctrinal issues that had been debated for a very long time. This was certainly no coincidence. In the history of the evolution of dualism and the process of sacralization, the nineteenth century represents the age of the victory of the political power of the states over the religious power of the churches.38 The European Catholic powers had less need to interfere in religious and doctrinal issues, and the Church was consequently free to act with greater autonomy. In the post-Tridentine period, the aim of the repeated interference of both the Spanish Monarchy and the Kingdom of France—albeit with the differences in objective and style that we have tried to describe in this chapter—was to reinforce an essentially anti-Roman ecclesiology that focused on emphasizing the independence of their respective episcopates. Any negotiation with Rome, even in the area of doctrine, was inevitably subject to the effects of this dynamic. The specific characteristic of the Spanish Monarchy was its desire to challenge the exclusive role of Rome in defining theological rules, exerting pressure so that such definitions would come about to satisfy eminently political needs, even when Rome considered that it was not appropriate to do so.

Notes 1 See Paolo Prodi, Il paradigma tridentino. Un’epoca della storia della Chiesa (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2010), 170. 2 See Heinz Schilling, “‘Disziplinierung’ oder ‘Selbstregulierung der Untertanen’? Ein Plädoyer für die Doppelperspektive von Makro- und Mikrohistoire bei der Erforschung der frühmodernen Kirchenzucht,” Historische Zeitschrift 264 (1997): 675–691; also by Heinz Schilling, Early Modern European Civilization and Its Political and Cultural Dynamism, The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures (Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2008); Paolo Prodi, Una storia della giustizia. Dal pluralismo dei fori al moderno dualismo tra coscienza e diritto (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000). 3 See Paolo Broggio, La teologia e la politica. Controversie dottrinali, Curia romana e Monarchia spagnola fra Cinque e Seicento (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2009). 4 Paolo Prodi, Homo Europaeus (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2015), 18–19. 5 Prodi, Homo Europaeus, 35. 6 Prodi, Homo Europaeus, 145. For a contrary view, see Vincenzo Ferrone, Lo strano Illuminismo di Josef Ratzinger. Chiesa, modernità e diritti dell’uomo (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2013); also by Vicenzo Ferrone, “La libertà religiosa come fondamento storico della laicità,” Contemporanea 10, no. 4 (2007): 670–677. 7 See Emanuele Fiume, Il Sinodo di Dordrecht (1618–1619). Predestinazione e calvinismo (Rome: Claudiana, 2015). On the conflict between Arminians and Gomarists, see Keith D. Stanglin, Arminius on the Assurance of Salvation: The Context, Roots, and Shape of the Leiden Debate, 1603–1609, “Brill’s Series in

228  Paolo Broggio Church History, 27” (Brill: Leiden, 2007); Carl O. Bangs, Arminius: A Study in the Dutch Reformation, 2nd ed. (Asbury: Grand Rapids, Mich., 1985); Gerrit P. Van Itterzon, Franciscus Gomarus (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff, 1930). 8 See I religiosi a corte. Teologia, politica e diplomazia in antico regime, ed. Flavio Rurale (Rome: Bulzoni, 1998). 9 Mario Miegge, Il sogno del re di Babilonia. Profezia e storia da Thomas Müntzer a Isaac Newton (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1995), cited in Flavio Rurale, “Clemente VIII, i gesuiti e la controversia giurisdizionale milanese,” in La Corte di Roma tra Cinque e Seicento. “Teatro” della politica europea, ed. Gianvittorio Signorotto and Maria Antonietta Visceglia (Rome: Bulzoni, 1998), 343. 10 See Nicole Reinhardt, Voices of Conscience: Royal Confessors and Political Counsel in Seventeenth-Century Spain and France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). 11 Cf. Mario Sbriccoli, Crimen laesae maiestatis. Il problema del reato politico alle soglie della scienza penalistica moderna (Milan: Giuffrè, 1974). 12 See Juan Luis Castellano, “La monarchia spagnola come paradigma di una monarchia confessionale,” Dimensioni e problemi della ricerca storica 1 (2008): 167–184. 13 “A aucun moment […] la remise en cause des concordats et autres indults n’affleurait dans la controverse. C’est que ces textes contractuels appartenaient à la sphère du politique, voire de l’administratif. Leur discussion ou leur renégociation fut au cours de ce siècle davantage affaire de dialogue entre deux puissances que de doctrine élaborée par des théologiens”; Olivier Poncet, La France et le pouvoir pontifical (1595–1661). L’esprit des institutions (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 2011), 76. 14 See Maria Antonietta Visceglia, Riti di corte e simboli della regalità. I regni d’Europa e del Mediterraneo dal Medioevo all’età moderna (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 2009), 27. 15 “En ce même temps, le pape qui desiroit de voir en cet Etat l’entière exécution de ses bulles sur la doctrine de Jansénius, me pressoit de faire faire le procès aux quatre évêques qui avoient refusé de signer ce formulaire dont je vous ai déjà parlé. Mais la chose me paroissoit trop délicate, pour la résoudre sans y avoir délibéré mûrement. D’une part, je desirois contenter Sa Sainteté; mais, de l’autre, je craignois de déroger aux prérogatives de ce royaume. Je ne manquois pas de connoître combien il est important d’exterminer de bonne heure toutes les nouveautés qui se forment en matière de religion; mais je savois aussi, combien il est dangereux de fournir à la cour de Rome des exemples de juridiction, dont elle puisse après tirer de mauvaises conséquences; et dans cette difficulté, ne voulant rien faire à la légère, je fus bien-aise de consulter les gens de mon conseil par l’entremise de mon chancelier; le parlement, en la personne du premier président et des gens du parquet; et le clergé même, par un certain nombre d’évêques dont je pris en secret le sentiment; voulant voir, avant que de rien résoudre et de rien répondre, si, de quelque part, on ne me fourniroit pas un expédient propre à donner contentement au pape, sans blesser les droits de mon Etat”; Oeuvres de Louis XIV, vol.2, Mémoires historiques et politiques (Paris: chez Treuttel et Würtz, 1806), 110–111, own italics. 16 See Paolo Broggio, “Più papisti del papa. Le definizioni dogmatiche e lo spettro dello scisma nei rapporti ispano-pontifici (1594-1625),” in De l’Église aux Églises: réflexions sur le schisme aux Temps modernes—Tours et détours des objets de dévotion catholiques (XVIe-XXIe siècles), eds. Aurélien Girard and Benoît Schmitz, monographic issue of Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome, Italie et Méditerranée modernes et contemporaines 126/2 (2014): 289–306.

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  229 17 Luis de Molina, Concordia liberi arbitrii cum gratiae donis, divina prescientia, providentia, praedestinatione, et reprobatione, ad nonnullos primae partis D. Thomae articulos (Olyssipone: apud Antonium Riberium typographum regium, 1588). 18 In the first years of the eighteenth century, Dominicans and Jesuits printed their respective (biased) “official histories” of the controversy. See [JacquesHyacinthe Serry], Historiae Congregationum De auxiliis divinae gratiae, sub summis pontificibus Clemente VIII et Paulo V. Libri quatuor, quibus etiam data opera confutantur recentiores huius Historiae depravatores, maxime vero nuperrimus autor libelli gallice inscripti, Remontrance à M. l’Archevêque de Reims sur son Ordonnance du 15 juillet 1697. Et actorum fides adversus inanes epistolae Leodiensis argutias vindicatur. Auctore Augustino Le Blanc S. Theol. Doct. (Lovanii: apud Aegidium Denique, 1700); [Liévin De Meyer], Historiae controversiarum de divinae gratiae auxiliis sub Summis Pontificibus Sixto V, Clemente VIII et Paulo V libri sex quibus demonstrantur ac efellentur errores et impostuae innumerae, quae in Historia congregationum De auxiliis edita sub nomine Augustini le Blanc notatae sunt, et refutantur acta omnia earumdem congregationum quae sub nomine fr. Thomae de Lemos podierunt. Auctore Theodoro Eleutherio (Antverpiae: typis P. Jacobs, 1705). 19 Cf. Paolo Broggio, La teologia e la politica, 83–129. 20 “Lo que acá se desea es que por orden de Su Santidad se examinasen ahí estas doctrinas, que cierto en estos tiempos es cosa necessarísima, por el escándalo general que causan estas controversias, y la gran importancia dellas para las herejías destos tiempos. Y realmente por acá hay pocos que las lleguen al cabo y hay gran pasión; y si Su Sanctidad no entra de por medio, hay gran peligro no se haga algún gran borrón. Y aunque Su Sanctidad no quiera definir nada de fe, importará grandemente que a lo menos declare en qué hay peligro, y en qué probabilidad, y aun qué se debe seguir como doctrina más probable y conveniente a la Iglesia, como los Pontífices lo han hecho en otras cosas y ponga perpetuo silencio a censuras temerarias y arrojadas, que escandalizan y causan división entre las Religiones. […] Y la merced que V. S. Ill.ma nos ha de hacer es que esta pretensión no entienda ser nuestra, sino que Su Sanctidad ex officio, viendo que esta causa es universal, y que no sólo en España, sino en Italia y Alemania, etc., ha causado división y ruido, y que es negocio de doctrina, quiera interponer su autoridad como en cosa propia y suya.”; Letter by Francisco Suárez to the Cardinal of Toledo, 14 June 1594, mentioned in Juan Iturriaga, “Suárez ante la Inquisición (1594–1595),” Estudios de Deusto XXIV, 24, no. 56 (1976): 258. 21 On the implications, not only theological but also cultural and intellectual, of probabilism in seventeenth-century Catholic Europe, see Stefania Tutino, Uncertainty in Post-Reformation Catholicism: A History of Probabilism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 22 “[D]eclarar […] lo que se ha de sentir en estas doctrinas es servicio de Dios y de la Iglesia y conviniente para estos sus reinos”; “el orden de S[an]to Domingo no es parte más de en quanto la toca por obligación de su estado defender la verdadera doctrina de la Iglesia y oponerse a la que no tiene por tal”; “que clama por declaración dessa S[an]ta Sede”; “que se defiende contentándose con poder correr, aunque no sea con calificación de la santa Sede”; “reputación y honra de las Religiones y de los que enseñan pende de querer saber la verdad y procurar saberla y enseñarla”; “en materia desta qualidad no han de ser admitidas razones que llaman de estado”: Letter by Luis de Aliaga to Cardinal Borghese, March 24, 1612, mentioned in Maximiliano Canal, “El padre Luis de Aliaga y las controversias teológicas de su tiempo,” Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum 1 (1932): 130.

230  Paolo Broggio 23 The text of the agreement that the provincial superiors of the two religious orders were called upon to sign in Copia de la patente y decreto que el Pro.l de Santo Domingo de la provincia de España hizo para sus religiosos en cumplimiento de las Paces conçertadas con los P.es de la Compañia por orden del Rey nuestro Señor y del S.or duque de Lerma, Archivio Apostolico Vaticano, De Auxiliis, not inventoried. 24 See José Antonio Ollero Pina, “Sine labe concepta: conflictos eclesiásticos e ideológicos en la Sevilla de principios del siglo XVII,” in Grafías del Imaginario. Representaciones culturales en España y América (siglos XVI– XVIII), eds. Carlos Alberto González Sánchez and Enriqueta Vila Vilar (Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2003), 301–335. 25 Juan Meseguer Fernández, “La Real Junta de la Inmaculada Concepción (1616-1817/20): bosquejo histórico,” Archivo Ibero-Americano 15 (1955): 619–886. 26 See Paolo Broggio, “Gli ambasciatori straordinari spagnoli a Roma per la definizione del dogma dell’Immacolata tra difesa delle prerogative episcopali, teologia e Ragion di Stato (1616–1661),” in Expérience et diplomatie. Savoirs, pratiques culturelles et action diplomatique à l’époque moderne (XV-XVIIIe) / Esperienza e diplomazia. Saperi, pratiche culturali e azione diplomatica nell’età moderna (XV-XVIII secc.), eds. Stefano Andretta, Lucien Bély, Alexander Koller and Géraud Poumarède (Rome: Viella, 2020), 341–365. 27 See Paolo Broggio, “L’Immacolata Concezione e l’Inquisizione romana: il ‘caso’ del rescritto del 20 gennaio 1644,” Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 56, no. 2 (2020): 257–286. 28 “[L]uego que se tuvo en España noticia de aquel llamado decreto y de los libelos que le apoiavan y calificavan, se empezó a commover gravemente [el pueblo]; en particular porque los religiosos de Santo Domingo le magnificaban hasta llamarle bula de nuestro muy Santo Padre Inocencio X, como le llama el autor que se finge Arpalego, y con él intentaron desautorizar la doctrina verdadera y pía, y atribuir otro estado a la causa. Y aunque es assí que este decreto ni otro alguno no se ha publicado en España, adonde no nos gobernamos por la Inquisición de Roma, con todo esso, porque vinieron algunas copias que parecía estar autorizadas de la firma y nombre de Juan Antonio Thomasio o Thomasino—que se dice ser notario de la Inquisición de Roma—se empezó a sentir gravemente que la santa causa se prejudicase por este camino, y que el perjuicio viniese de Roma, de adonde se diriva la doctrina de verdad: porque si allí prevalecía esta herida y daño, fácilmente pasaría a las otras provincias, y entre ellas a esta nación cathólica de España, que tiene tanta veneración y respeto a la Santa Sede Apostólica.”Instrucción real al Arzobispo Urbina, AGS, Estado, leg. 3110, mentioned in Constancio Gutiérrez, “España por el dogma de la Inmaculada. La embajada a Roma del 1659. La bula ‘Sollicitudo’ de Alejandro VII,” Miscelánea Comillas XXIV (1955): 90; my italics. 29 Bertrand Haan, “L’affirmation d’un sentiment national espagnol face à la France du début des guerres de Religion,” Le sentiment national dans l’Europe méridionale aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (France, Espagne, Italie), ed. Alain Tallon (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2007), 75–90; Pablo Fernández Albaladejo, “Entre ‘godos’ y ‘montañeses’. Avatares de una primera identidad española,” in Tallon, Le sentiment national dans l’Europe mériodinale aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles, 123–154. 30 “[A]dversión a la opinión contraria, de manera que tal vez se experimentaron inconvenientes en el Govierno político y se llegaron a reçelar otros maiores,” Instructions of Philip IV to the Duke of the Infantado, August 18, 1649, Archivo General de Simancas, Estado, Leg. 3110, doc. 16, fols. 13–14.

Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  231 1 See Castellano, “La monarchia spagnola come paradigma.” 3 32 Carolyn Dean, Inka Bodies and the Body of Christ: Corpus Christi in Colonial Cuzco, Peru (Durham/London: Duke University Press, 1999); Francesca Cantù, “Ideologia politica e simbolismo religioso: la Monarchia cattolica e la rappresentazione del potere nel Cuzco vicereale,” in I linguaggi del potere nell’età barocca, vol.1 (Politica e religione), ed. Francesca Cantù (Rome: Viella, 2009), 421–456. 33 “[E]ssendo qui tanti fra i cattolici stessi, che oppugnano l’authorità ponteficia, et che seguitano l’opinione che il Concilio sia sopra il Papa, et che materie tali di fede se debban determinar da un Concilio, si potria temere che il venir hora a così fatta detterminatione potesse commover qui molto gli spiriti, massime quando si vedesse che la determinatione seguisse ad istanza de gli spagnoli. Hora nelle scuole di questo regno et in queste de Parigi particolarmente l’opinione in favor della Concettione Immacolata è quella che generalmente corre, et che è ricevuta. Là dove, quando si levasse la libertà delle dispute sopra la medessima opinione, si potria temere che molti passassero all’opinione contraria, in odio, come ho detto, dell’autorità pontificia et delli spagnoli”; Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Fondo Borghese, series I, vol. 967, fol. 114, cited in Gutiérrez, España por el dogma de la Inmaculada, 28–29. 34 “[É] non di meno così grande il numero de i politici che quando si sentisse determinata dalla Chiesa senza necessità et alla sola instanza di Spagna, non mancharebbero infiniti, che l’hanno fin hora sostenuta, che la dannerebbono all’advenire, e forse con scandalo, senza che il re per la malvagità dei tempi vi potesse apportar algun rimedio.” Letter to Cardinal Borghese, February 25, 1619, ibid., fol. 127, cited in Gutiérrez, España por el dogma de la Inmaculada, 29. 35 “[P]areció no dudar que se podía definir la sentencia pía … con todo esso hallaron suma dificultad en definirla fuera de concilio, habiéndose ya tratado y no habiéndose difinido en un Concilio particularmente tan venerable como el de Trento”; Gutiérrez, España por el dogma de la Inmaculada, 211. 36 “[C]ostumbre de la santa Iglesia Romana—celebrar sus concilios particulares después de los generales para examinarlos, aprobarlos o reprobarlos”; Gutiérrez, España por el dogma de la Inmaculada, 213. 37 “Y últimamente, quando, por haverse tratado en un concilio y no haberse definido, parezca que es menester otro concilio, basta el provincial o como provincial, de que siempre han usado los Papas. Porque, como dixo Belarmino, si para extinguir siete heregías se celebraron siete concilios generales, más de ciento son los errores que ha extinguido la Sede Apostólica, cooperando concilios particulares. Y assí, aunque según la materia es conveniente concilio mayor o menor, en esta que está tan adelantanda es muy bastante el del consistorio de los cardenales y la consulta de otros theólogos: el qual consistorio, como los theólogos modernos dicen, bien se llama y es concilio provincial del Papa, y juicio y tribunal de la Sede Apostólica y de la Iglesia, y, como dice Gravina, es como un concilio y sínodo romana; y más, si no sólo concurrieran los cardenales, sino todos los prelados que se hallan en Roma, como se hace en la canonización de los santos”; Gutiérrez, España por el dogma de la Inmaculada, 215–216. 38 “Lo Stato esce vincitore dalla contesa, ma attraversando una metamorfosi rilevante, inglobando cioè una forte quota di sacralità da una Chiesa costretta a una linea difensiva sempre più ristretta: l’emergere dell’ideologia dello Stato-nazione al quale l’individuo è consacrato dalla sua nascita e quindi la trasformazione del cristianesimo in religione civica.” “The State emerged victorious from the contest, but underwent a significant metamorphosis, absorbing a large part of the sacred nature of the Church forced back to an increasingly narrow defensive line; the emergence of the ideology of

232  Paolo Broggio the nation state, to which the individual was consecrated at birth and hence the transformation of Christianity into a civic religion,” Prodi, Homo Europaeus, 36.

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Ecclesiastical Romanism and Spanish Universalism  233 Ferrone, Vincenzo. Lo strano Illuminismo di Josef Ratzinger. Chiesa, modernità e diritti dell’uomo. Rome/Bari: Laterza, 2013. Ferrone, Vincenzo. “La libertà religiosa come fondamento storico della laicità.” Contemporanea 10, no. 4 (2007): 670–677. Fiume, Emanuele. Il Sinodo di Dordrecht (1618–1619). Predestinazione e calvinismo. Rome: Claudiana, 2015. Gutiérrez, Constancio. “España por el dogma de la Inmaculada. La embajada a Roma del 1659. La bula ‘Sollicitudo’ de Alejandro VII.” Miscelánea Comillas 24 (1955): 9–480. Haan, Bertrand. “L’affirmation d’un sentiment national espagnol face à la France du début des guerres de Religion.” In Le sentiment national dans l’Europe méridionale aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (France, Espagne, Italie), edited by Alain Tallon, 75–90. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2007. Iturriaga, Juan. “Suárez ante la Inquisición (1594–1595).” Estudios de Deusto XXIV, fasc. 56 (1976): 253–301. Meseguer Fernández, Juan. “La Real Junta de la Inmaculada Concepción (16161817/20): bosquejo histórico.” Archivo Ibero-Americano 15 (1955): 619–886. Miegge, Mario. Il sogno del re di Babilonia. Profezia e storia da Thomas Müntzer a Isaac Newton. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1995. Molina, Luis de. Concordia liberi arbitrii cum gratiae donis, divina prescientia, providentia, praedestinatione, et reprobatione, ad nonnullos primae partis D. Thomae articulos. Olyssipone [Lisbon, Portugal]: apud Antonium Riberium typographum regium, 1588. Oeuvres de Louis XIV. Vol. 2, Mémoires historiques et politiques. Paris: chez Treuttel et Würtz, 1806. Poncet, Olivier. La France et le pouvoir pontifical (1595–1661). L’esprit des institutions. Rome: École française de Rome, 2011. Ollero Pina, José Antonio. “Sine labe concepta: conflictos eclesiásticos e ideológicos en la Sevilla de principios del siglo XVII.” In Grafías del Imaginario. Representaciones culturales en España y América (siglos XVI–XVIII), edited by Carlos Alberto González Sánchez and Enriqueta Vila Vilar, 301–335. Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2003. Prodi, Paolo. Homo Europaeus. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2015. Prodi, Paolo. Il paradigma tridentino. Un’epoca della storia della Chiesa. Brescia: Morcelliana, 2010. Prodi, Paolo. Una storia della giustizia. Dal pluralismo dei fori al moderno dualismo tra coscienza e diritto. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2000. Reinhardt, Nicole. Voices of Conscience: Royal Confessors and Political Counsel in Seventeenth-Century Spain and France. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Rurale, Flavio. “Clemente VIII, i gesuiti e la controversia giurisdizionale milanese.” In La Corte di Roma tra Cinque e Seicento: ‘Teatro’ della politica europea, edited by Gianvittorio Signorotto and Maria Antonietta Visceglia, 323–366. Rome: Bulzoni, 1998a. Rurale, Flavio, ed. I religiosi a corte. Teologia, politica e diplomazia in antico regime. Rome: Bulzoni, 1998b. Sbriccoli, Mario. Crimen laesae maiestatis. Il problema del reato politico alle soglie della scienza penalistica moderna. Milan: Giuffrè, 1974.

234  Paolo Broggio Schilling, Heinz. “‘Disziplinierung’ oder ‘Selbstregulierung der Untertanen’? Ein Plädoyer für die Doppelperspektive von Makro- und Mikrohistoire bei der Erforschung der frühmodernen Kirchenzucht.” Historische Zeitschrift 264 (1997): 675–691. Schilling, Heinz. Early Modern European Civilization and Its Political and Cultural Dynamism. The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures. Lebanon: Brandeis University Press, 2008. Serry, Jacques-Hyacinthe. Historiae Congregationum De auxiliis divinae gratiae, sub summis pontificibus Clemente VIII et Paulo V. Libri quatuor, quibus etiam data opera confutantur recentiores huius Historiae depravatores, maxime vero nuperrimus autor libelli gallice inscripti, Remontrance à M. l’Archevêque de Reims sur son Ordonnance du 15 juillet 1697. Et actorum fides adversus inanes epistolae Leodiensis argutias vindicatur. Auctore Augustino Le Blanc S. Theol. Doct. Lovanii [Louvain]: apud Aegidium Denique, 1700. Stanglin, Keith D. Arminius on the Assurance of Salvation: The Context, Roots, and Shape of the Leiden Debate, 1603-1609. Brill’s Series in Church History, 27. Leiden: Brill, 2007. Tutino, Stefania. Uncertainty in Post-Reformation Catholicism: A History of Probabilism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Van Itterzon, Gerrit P. Franciscus Gomarus. The Hague: Nijhoff, 1930. Visceglia, Maria Antonietta. Riti di corte e simboli della regalità. I regni d’Europa e del Mediterraneo dal Medioevo all’età moderna. Rome: Salerno Editrice, 2009.

Index

Acts of the Apostles 46, 167 Adrian IV 191 Adrian VI 16, 47, 57, 71, 73 Africa 189, 190, 194, 196, 197; black Africans 8, 189; slaves see slavery Agustín, Pedro 69 Ailly, Pierre d’ 25, 26 Álava y Esquivel, Diego de 5, 6, 57–76; De conciliis universalibus 6, 59, 60, 64–66, 69–71, 73–75; Ordinances 60 Álava y Mendoza, Pedro Martínez de 57, 58 Alberigo, Giuseppe 7, 88, 98, 99, 105, 106 Albertus Magnus 46 Aldobrandini, Pietro 217 Alexander of Aphrodisias 15 Alexander of Hales 171 Alexander the Great 48 Alexander VI 191 Alexander VII 220 Aliaga, Luis de 219, 220 Almain, Jacques 22, 25, 26, 89, 106, 168 Alphonse V (Portugal) 190 Alphonse X (Castile) 183; Las Siete Partidas 183 alumbradismo 2, 121 Álvarez Guerrero, Alfonso 89, 90 Álvarez de Vozmediano, Melchor 93, 94 Ambrose of Milan 46, 50 America: colonization 1, 2, 8, 20, 191; indigenous peoples 8, 9, 50, 162, 192, 193, 197; slaves see slavery Anabaptists 163, 171 Ananias (New Testament) 167

annates see benefice Apostolic Chamber 67, 72, 76 appeal 18, 26, 42, 72, 74, 75, 97, 122, 167, 188, 193, 216 Aquinas, Thomas 46, 47, 124, 125, 129, 132, 142, 182–184, 197; Summa Theologica 128–130, 144, 184, 185 Arcos, Miguel de 187; Parecer mío sobre un tratado de la guerra que se puede hacer a los indios 187 Aristotle 4, 15, 16, 20, 21, 43, 49, 168; Ethics 21; Politics 4, 20, 21 Arminianism 213 Asensio, Eugenio 3 Asia 197 Augustine of Hippo 44, 46, 49, 59, 65, 165, 218; Confessions 59 authority: bishop 45, 47, 64, 71–73, 97, 106; Catholic 36, 46; Church 4, 24, 92, 163, 165; council 15, 17, 18, 21–23, 43–45, 60, 63–65, 73, 91, 92, 96, 99, 101, 103, 106, 162, 164, 165, 167, 168, 170; ecclesiastical 24, 65, 66, 102; ecclesiastical judges 74; emperor 90; king 97, 103; papal legates 44, 65; pope 6, 8, 9, 18, 20–24, 44, 45, 60, 64, 65, 89, 91, 92, 94–96, 99, 102–104, 106, 164–166, 168, 170, 224, 226 Averroism 123 Azpilcueta, Martín de 38 Baius, Michael 212 Báñez, Domingo 128, 142, 143, 217, 219 baptism 8, 9, 48, 50, 67, 167, 183–185, 190, 197

236 Index Bataillon, Marcel 3, 10, 131 Bede 46 Bellarmine, Robert 162, 214, 226 Benedictus Deus (bull) 104 benefice: annates 67, 68, 72, 74, 75; appointment 4, 58, 59, 70, 74, 93, 94, 104; expectation 72; patrimonial 70; pension 214; plurality 61, 67–70, 74; presentation 57, 71–74, 76, 214; reservation 72; residence 6, 41, 60, 61, 63, 66–68, 70–72, 74, 91–94, 105; spoils 72, 75 Bentivoglio, Guido 224 Beza, Theodore 213 Bible: Christian 94, 124, 127, 164; Hebrew 43, 44, 49, 50 bishop see authority Blanco, Francisco 91 Bonaventure 46 Bonner, Edmund 36 Borromeo, Carlo 94, 95, 96, 101, 105, 106 Bradford, John 36 Caesar, Julius 48 Caffarelli-Borghese, Scipione 219 calificación (qualification) 7, 122, 123, 126, 137, 138, 144 Calvin, John 126, 163, 171 Canisius, Peter 144 Cano, Melchor 2, 7, 119–134, 136, 138, 142, 143, 162; Censura 120, 121, 123–134, 136, 138; De locis theologicis 127, 132 Carranza, Bartolomé de 7, 36–38, 41, 51, 119–124, 126, 127, 130–132, 134–140, 142–144; Comentarios al Catecismo cristiano 7, 119–128, 130–132, 134–138, 140, 141, 143, 144 Carrillo, Alfonso 45 Cartagena, Alonso de 26 Caselli, Tommaso 69, 94 Castro, Alfonso de 2, 5, 36–51, 144; Adversus omnes haereses 5, 38, 40, 41, 44, 48, 144; Homiliae 38; De iusta haereticorum punitione 5, 38–51; Opera 38; De potestate legis poeanlis 38 Castro, Manuel 39 Castro, Pedro de 121; Parecer 121 Catherine of Aragon 38, 39, 44

Cato 49 Censura generalis (1554) 124, 127 certinidad (certainty) 124, 125, 126, 134 Chancery of Granada 58, 59, 74 Chancery of Valladolid 58, 59, 188 Charles V 4, 9, 15, 16, 19, 20–22, 26, 27, 37, 38, 40, 46, 48, 50, 57–59, 62, 63, 71, 73, 74, 76, 89–91, 102, 193 Cervantes, Gaspar de 96 Cervini, Marcello 61 chapter (church) 68, 69, 72, 73; exemption 61, 68, 69, 74 Church reform see reform Cicero, Marcus Tullius 49 Ciceronianism 15 Cisneros, Francisco Jiménez de 3, 10 Clement V 168 Clement VII 16, 24, 71, 193 Clement VIII 217, 218, 225, 226 Código de Costumbres (1272) 185 Colloquy of Regensburg 17, 20, 26 Colón, Diego 194; Ordenanzas 194 Columbus, Christopher 191 Comuneros, revolt of the 57, 59 conciliarism 3–6, 15, 17, 18, 21–27, 43–47, 64–66, 76, 89, 90, 92, 93, 96, 98, 105–107, 162 Congregation of the Index 123 Congregation for the Interpretation of the Council 104 Constantine I 184 Contarini, Gasparo 17, 18, 20, 22, 26 conversion 2, 9, 36, 39, 49, 50, 183, 185, 191, 192, 197 Córdoba, Antonio de 7, 8, 162–171; Arma Fidei 8, 163–166; De potestate papae 8, 163–171; Quaestionarum theologicum libris quinque distinctum 8, 163–171 Córdoba, Martín de 96, 97, 103, 106 Corrionero, Antonio 91 cortedad (shortness) 130, 131 Cortes of Castile 70 council see authority Councils (Spanish Monarchy): Council of Castile 58–60, 74, 100, 101, 103; Council of Military Orders 58, 59; Collateral Council of Naples 58 Councils (Church): African councils 167; Council of Basel 5, 10, 26, 47, 64, 66, 75, 89, 90, 94, 163,

Index  237 166, 169, 170, 171; Council of Carthage 44; Council of Chalcedon 45, 163, 165; Council of Constance 5, 6, 8, 10, 45, 46, 64, 66, 89, 90, 93, 106, 124, 132, 163, 166, 167, 170, 171; Council of Constantinople I 163; Council of Ephesus I 45, 163; Council of Ephesus II 166; Council of Florence 46, 93, 106, 163, 164, 166; Council of Jerusalem 165, 167; Council of Nicaea I 45, 62, 163; Council of Pisa 25, 89, 162; Council of Rimini 166; Council of Toledo III 185; Council of Toledo XVI 165; Council of Trent 3, 4, 7, 9, 22, 60, 65, 72, 73, 88–90, 102–107, 136, 162, 225; First period (1545–1548) 5, 6, 36, 38, 40, 58, 59, 61–71, 74, 90; Second period (1551–1552) 36, 58, 71, 90; Third period (1562–1563) 6, 8, 58, 71, 90–99; Councils of Toledo 163, 164; Lateran Council III 69; Lateran Council IV 70; Lateran Council V 22, 23, 64, 69, 162, 163, 164; Vatican Council I 3, 105, 227 Counter-Reformation 3, 99, 106, 107, 121, 122, 162 Courtenay, William 45 Covarrubias, Antonio de 103 Covarrubias, Diego de 74, 75, 103, 104; Practicarum quaestionum liber unus 74 Crespí de Borja, Luis 220 Cuesta, Andrés 91, 126 Cuevas, Domingo 120, 123, 130 Cum in cunctis (canon) 69 Cum occasione (bull) 216 Cursus Theologicus (Salamanca) 128, 129 Cyprian 44, 46 Delgado, Francisco 93, 94 de auxiliis controversy 9, 212, 213, 217, 218, 226 De multa (canon) 70, 71 Deuteronomy, book of 50 Dias, Cristóvão 187 Díaz de Luco, Bernal 63, 66, 70 dispensation 6, 24, 63, 65, 68–72, 93, 95, 104, 169, 170

Dominicans 9, 20, 22, 162, 187, 192, 193, 217–220 Donatist heresy 44 Duarte, Francisco 189 Duke of Lerma see Gómez de Sandoval, Francisco Eck, John Maier von 48 Eckhardt 123 Edict of Nantes 222 Eire, Carlos 3 Encinas, Francisco de 126 Encyclopédie 189 Encyclopédie méthodique 190 Enríquez, Alonso 135, 142 episcopalism 5, 6, 8, 88, 90, 92, 94, 96, 106 Erasmus 3, 41 Eugene IV 64, 169, 170, 192 Ezekiel, book of 50 Farnese, Alessandro 16, 17, 18 fe viva (living faith) 124, 126, 141, 142 Ferdinand I (Holy Roman Empire) 102 Ferdinand II (Aragon) 57, 71, 191 Fernández de Madrigal, Alonso 26, 27 Fernández Vigil de Quiñones, Claudio 98, 102 Figuereido, Catalina 187 Forne, Niculoso de 186 Francis II (Brittany) 57 Franciscans 37, 48, 51, 104, 197, 220 Franco, Francisco 4 Frederick II (Holy Roman Empire) 185, 191 French Church 75, 93, 102 Fresneda, Bernardino de 8 Frías, Juan de 192 Frías de Albornoz, Bartolomé 195; Arte de los contratos 195 Foxe, John 36; Acts and Monuments 36 Furey, Constance M. 17 Furs de València (1238) 185 Galileo 122 Gallicanism 25, 106, 216 Garcés, Julián 193 García, Elena 186 García-Arenal, Mercedes 4 García-Villoslada, Ricardo 3 Gaudioso, Matteo 185 Genesis, book of 197

238 Index George, St. 182 Gerson, Jean 6, 25, 66, 163, 168; De ecclesiastica potestate 66 Giacomelli, Giacomo de 66 Gómez de Sandoval, Francisco 219, 220 González de Mendoza, Pedro 96, 106 Granvelle, Antoine Perrenot de 4, 20, 21, 23, 27 Gratian 46, 65, 168, 183; Decretum 65, 168, 183 Gravina, Dominic 226 Gregory I 182, 185; Epistola ad Montanam et Thomam 185 Gregory XIII 73 Gregory XV 220, 225 Guerrero, Pedro 91, 94–96, 99, 106 Haec sancta (decree) 8, 64, 66, 93, 166, 170 Henry the Navigator 190 Henry II (England) 191 Henry IV (France) 216, 226 Henry VIII (England) 24, 38, 39, 44, 48, 89 Hercules 48 heresy 1, 5, 7, 18, 36, 37, 39–51, 62, 64, 65, 95, 120–122, 127–129, 132, 133, 136–138, 143, 163, 165, 167–169, 171, 214, 216–218, 226 Hermenegild 49 Hilary 133 Homza, Lu Ann 3 Honorius III 191 Houdard, Sophie 125 Huguccio de Pisa 171 Huguenots 222 humanism 3, 10 Hurtado de Mendoza, Diego 40, 41 Hus, Jan 45, 48, 64, 132, 166, 170 Immaculate Conception 9, 39, 41, 169, 217, 220, 221, 223, 224, 226, 227 Indexes of prohibited books: Lisboa (1561) 134; Louvain (1546) 136; Madrid (1583) 137; Rome (1564) 4, 136; Valladolid (1559) 4, 120, 131 infallibiliy 7, 8, 45, 65, 98, 99, 103, 104, 162–166, 168, 169, 213, 227 In minoribus (bull) 171 Innocent III 70

Innocent IV 182 Innocent X 221, 222 inordinata locutio 132 Intra Arcana (bull) 193 Isabel I (Castile) 50, 57, 71, 74, 190–192, 215 James, St. 182 James, epistole of 126 James I (Aragon) 185 Jansenism 213, 216 Jedin, Hubert 59, 104, 106 Jerome 50 Jesuits 3, 9, 59, 95, 162, 196–198, 213, 217, 218, 220, 226 Jews 50, 184, 185, 190, 223 John, gospel of 167 John XXIII 8, 168, 169 Juan de Ávila 119, 143 Julius III 16, 90, 98, 162 just war 2, 4, 44, 48, 50, 182, 183, 194, 195, 213 jurisdiction, 3, 6, 8, 46, 47, 61, 64–66, 68, 73–76, 90, 93–95, 97, 99, 167–171, 213, 215–217 Kagan, Richard 2 Koch, Joseph 123 Laínez, Diego 95 Las Casas, Bartolomé de 4, 15, 20, 27, 187, 192–195; De unico vocationis modo omnium gentium ad veram religionem 193, 194; Historia de las Indias 192, 194; Tratado sobre los indios que han sido hechos esclavos 187, 194 law: canon law 1, 20, 58, 74, 93, 185, 191; Castilian law 185; criminal law 5, 37, 38; custom (into law) 71; divine law 20, 46, 65, 171, 213, 214; human law 47, 65; international law 1; ius gentium 182, 183, 188, 191; Mosaic law 50; natural law 4, 20, 65, 162, 182, 183, 188, 196; penal law 38; positive law 65, 95, 212, 213; procedural law 74; Roman law 183, 194; royal law 214 Lázaro Pulido, Manuel 38 legates 6, 8, 44, 45, 61–65, 69, 70, 91–94, 96, 98, 99, 105, 165 Leguiçama, Tristán de 188 Lemes da Guerra, Antonio 187

Index  239 Leo I 46 Leo X 162, 164 Leovigild 49 Leyes nuevas (1542) 9, 193 Livy 49 llaneza (simplicity) 134, 135 Llorente, Juan Antonio 121 López, Luis 196; Instructorium conscientiae 196 López Vela, Roberto 121 Louis XIII (France) 216 Louis XIV (France) 216 Lucan 48 Luis de Granada 131; Libro de la oración 131 Luke, gospel of 212 Lunel, Vicente 38 Luther, Martin 25, 44, 48, 88, 89, 129, 163, 171, 184; De libertate christiana 184; Ermahnung zum Frieden auf die zwölf Artikel der Bauernschaft in Schwaben 184 Lutheran 2, 7, 17, 24, 27, 37, 39, 40, 47–50, 119–128, 131, 136, 138–142, 163, 167, 171 Lutheranism 2, 7, 119, 120, 122, 128, 130, 137, 142–144 Lynn, Kimberly 2, 5 Lyra, Nicholas of 50

Molina, Luis de 9, 196, 197, 217, 219; Concordia liberi arbitrii cum gratiae donis 217, 219; De iustitia et iure 196 Molinism 219, 226 Monte, Giovanni Maria del 61–64 Montesino, Antonio 192 Montesquieu 189; De l’esprit des lois 189 Monty Python 3 Moriscos 186, 223 Morone, Giovanni 94 Moyses (bull) 171 Mühlberg (battle) 40 Muslims 50, 182, 185, 190

magistral of Sigüenza 135 Mair, John 22, 26, 89, 106 malicia de los tiempos (wicked times) 134, 136–138 Mariana, Juan de 162 Mark, gospel of 191, 212 Márquez, Antonio 122 Mary I (England) 24, 39 Mary (New Testament) 9, 197, 221 Martin V 8, 170 Massarelli, Angelo 60 Matthew, gospel of 65, 167, 191, 212 Maurenbrecher, Wilhelm 3 Medina, Miguel de 38 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino 3 Mercado, Tomás de 9, 195, 196; Suma de tratos y contratos 195 Merkle, Sebastian 60 Miegge, Mario 213 Military Orders (Alcantara, Calatrava and Santiago) 73 Minaya, Bernardo de 193 Minnich, Nelson 89, 98

Oakley, Francis 26, 89–91, 107 Ockham, William of 126, 168; Dialogus 126 offensio 132, 134 Olin, John C. 3 O’Malley, John W. 47 Orantes, Francisco de 38, 51 Osma, Pedro Martínez de 45, 124 Osuna, Francisco de 135; Abecedario espiritual 135 Ossius 62

Navarra, Francisco de 63, 64, 66 Navarra, Pedro de 196; De restitutione 196 Nebrija, Antonio de (Herederos de) 59 Nesvig, Martin 39 New Testament 25, 44, 183, 197 Nicene Creed 62 Nicholas III 168 Nicholas V 190 Nieto, Francisco 59 Niño y Zapata, Fernando 59 Nogueras, Diego Gilberto 94 Numbers, Book of 49 Nys, Ernest 1

Pacheco, Pedro 38, 40, 61–63, 66 Palin, Michael 3 Parecer (anonymous) on Ponce de la Fuente’s Suma de doctrina cristiana 119, 126 Pasce oves meas 167 Pastor aeternus (bull) 22 Pastorale officium (bull) 194 Pastore, Stefania 39, 40 Paul, St. 46, 49, 128, 142, 143 Paul III 9, 16, 20, 66, 71, 73, 90, 106, 193, 194

240 Index Paul IV 16, 46, 90, 98 Paul V 218, 219, 224, 225 penalty 44, 67, 68, 165, 184 penance 48, 50, 184 Peña, Francisco 162, 226 Peña, Juan de la 7, 120, 122, 135, 138–143; Parecer 138–143 Pereda, Felipe 4 Pérez de Ayala, Martín 96 Pérez de Oliván, Martín 21–23, 27 Peter, St. 64, 65, 94, 104, 167–169 Pico della Mirandola, Giovanni 124 Pharisees 48, 50 Philip I (Hesse) 49 Philip II (Spain) 4, 6–9, 15, 16, 36, 39, 46, 58, 60, 72–74, 90, 92, 95–107, 121, 186, 197, 217; Pragmática (1564) 105 Philip III (Spain) 7, 9, 217, 219, 220, 225, 226 Philip IV (Spain) 7, 9, 217, 221–223, 225, 226 Pighius, Alberto 17, 47 Pio, Alberto 17 Pius II 171 Pius IV 7, 58, 73, 90–93, 95, 96, 98, 99, 101, 103–105, 107 Pius V 225 Pius IX 221 Pole, Reginald 61, 64, 67 Pomponazzi, Pietro 17 Ponce de la Fuente, Constantino 119, 126; Suma de doctrina cristiana 119, 126 Poncet, Olivier 214 pope see authority poquedad (littleness) 130 Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges 75 Pratano, Lorenzo 60, 61 Prescott, William 2, 3 Prodi, Paolo 211, 212 Professio Fidei Tridentinae 104 proponentibus legatis 6, 61–63, 91, 92 propositio: male sonans 132; offensiva 132; ut iacet 123, 124, 126, 134, 136, 138, 139 Protestantism 7, 26, 95, 125 Quiñones, Francisco de los Ángeles 16 recurso de fuerza 74, 76 reform: Church reform 3, 5, 6, 42, 43, 59–62, 64, 66–75, 88, 91, 92, 97, 106, 163; reform decrees (Trent) 62,

69, 88, 98, 103, 104; episcopal reform 5, 43, 66–68, 92; implementation of reforms 8, 92, 96, 170 Reformation 1, 184, 223 regalism 5–8, 71, 72, 76, 102 Regimini gregis (bull) 192 residence see benefice Roman Curia 66, 69, 72, 90, 93, 95, 98, 104, 134, 226 Roman Republic 48 Roman Rota 72, 74, 75, 226 Romanus Pontifex (bull) 190, 191, 193 Royal Patronage 6, 10, 71–73, 76 Rowe, Erin 2 Ruiz, Simón 188 sabor a herejía (savor of heresy) 127, 143 Salazar, Ambrosio 134 Salazar y Mendoza, Pedro 121 Sánchez del Rincón, Bartolomé 187 Sancho de Paredes 186 Sandoval, Alonso de 9, 197, 198; De instauranda Aethiopum salute 197, 198 Saracens 182, 185 Saphira 167 Sarpi, Paolo 213 Schism, Western 1, 64, 70, 166, 170 scholasticism 1–4, 8, 10, 22, 126, 132 Scott, James Brown 1 Sebastián, Bartolomé 99 Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de 4, 15–27, 187; Aristotle’s Ethics (translation) 21; Cohortatio ad Carolum V 25; De correctione anni 20; Democrates 25; Democrates secundus 4, 20; De potestate papae et concilii 26, 27; Epistolarum libri VII 16, 17, 18, 19, 22, 23; De fato 25; De rebus gestis Caroli V 16, 24; De Regno 4, 20, 21, 23, 27; De republica ecclesiastica 21, 24; De ritu nuptiarum et dispensatione 24, 25 Scripture see Bible Segovia, Juan de 25, 191 Seneca 49 Severole, Ercole 60, 62 Simoneta, Ludovico 93 Sixtus IV 45, 169 Sixtus V 72

Index  241 slavery 5, 8, 9, 39, 182–190, 194–198 sola fides 128, 129 Soto, Domingo de 7, 9, 38, 48, 120, 122, 123, 126, 130, 131, 134, 136–139, 141, 143, 196; Censura 126, 130, 131, 136–139; De iustitia et iure 196; Relectio de haeresis 143 Soto, Pedro de 2 Sotomayor, Pedro de 134 spoils see benefice Stoicism 183 Suárez, Francisco 1, 162, 218 Sublimis Deus (bull) 9, 193, 194 Synod of Dort 213 Tallon, Alain 106 Tavera, Juan Pardo de 58 Tellechea Idígoras, José Ignacio 102, 121–124 Tertullian 49 Thomasio, Juan Antonio 222 Torquemada, Juan de 8, 46, 64, 66, 126, 132, 170, 171; Summa de Ecclesia 126, 132 Tosantos, Plácido de 220 Trejo, Antonio de 220 Tubau, Xavier 89–91 Tu es Petrus 167 Turks 39, 48 Ulysses 48 universalem ecclesiam repraesentans 63–66, 71 universal Church 61, 63–66, 90–93, 95, 96, 105

Urban VIII 221 Urbina, Pedro de 222 Valdés, Juan de 122, 126 Valdesianism 121, 122 Valdés y Salas, Fernando de 40, 120, 121, 124, 131 Valera, Cipriano de 126; Dos tratados 126 Valtanás, Domingo de 187, 195; Enchiridion de estados 187 Vargas, Francisco de 74, 75, 90–92, 97–99, 101 Varro 49 Vega, Alonso de 9, 196; Summa llamada Sylva y práctica del foro interior 196 Vega, Andrés de 38, 48, 51 Vega, Lope de 214 Velasco, Martín de 101 Venetian Interdict 213 Verlinden, Charles 189 Vio, Tommaso (Cajetan) 8, 16, 25, 40, 46, 47, 64, 66; Tractatus de comparatione auctoritatis Pape et Concilii 25 Vique, Bernardino de 187, 188 Vitoria, Francisco de 1, 22, 23, 26, 38, 162, 187, 188, 195 Weber, Max 212 Wycliffe, John 45, 48, 54, 124, 132, 163, 166, 167, 170 Zajíc, Zbyněk 45 Zamora, Francisco de 104 Zúñiga y Requesens, Luis de 98, 100 Zwingli, Ulrich 163, 171