The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe [1 ed.] 9781443868525, 9781443862066

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The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe

Edited by

Sean McGlynn and Elena Woodacre

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, Edited by Sean McGlynn and Elena Woodacre This book first published 2014 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2014 by Sean McGlynn, Elena Woodacre and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-6206-1, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-6206-6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements .................................................................................. viii Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Part I: Politics and Personalities Chapter One ................................................................................................. 8 What was Personal about Personal Monarchy in the Fifteenth Century? Michael Hicks Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 23 The Practice of Political Motherhood in Late Medieval France: Yolande of Aragon, Bonne-Mère of France Zita Eva Rohr Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 48 ‘The Limbs Fail when the Head is Removed’: Reactions of the Body Politic of France to the Madness of Charles VI (1380-1422) Rachel Gibbons Part II: Perceptions of Power Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 70 The First King of England? Egbert and the Foundations of Royal Legitimacy in Thirteenth-century Historiography Olivier de Laborderie Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 84 ‘Most Excellent and Serene Lady’: Representations of Female Authority in the Documents, Seals and Coinage of the Reigning Queens of Navarre (1274-1512) Elena Woodacre

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Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 110 The Politics of Perception: A Duchess’s Devotional Skill in La Vie de Sainte Colette (ms.8) Erica O’Brien Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 131 The Emperor and Diplomatic Relations: Rudolf II through the Eyes of Foreign Ambassadors Natalia Neverova Part III: Image and Gender Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 148 Fighting the Image of the Reluctant Warrior: Philip Augustus as Rex-not-quite-so-bellicosus Sean McGlynn Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 168 Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou: Madness, Gender Dysfunction and Perceptions of Dis-ease in the Royal Body Alison Basil Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 183 Boys and their Toys: Kingship, Masculinity and Material Culture in the Sixteenth Century Glenn Richardson Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 207 The Queen’s Two Bodies: The Image and Reality of the Body of Elizabeth I Anna Whitelock Part IV: Ceremony and Memory Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 228 Political Ceremonies of the Trastámara Monarchy in Castile (1369-1480) José Manuel Nieto Soria Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 254 Crowning the Child: Representing Authority in the Inaugurations and Coronations of Minors in Scotland, c. 1214 to 1567 Lucinda H.S. Dean

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Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 281 The Afterlives of Rulers: Power, Patronage and Purgatory in Ducal Brittany 1480-1600 Elizabeth Tingle Chapter Fifteen ........................................................................................ 298 Enter Queen: Metatheatricality and the Monarch on/off Stage Nadia Thèrèse van Pelt Contributors ............................................................................................. 319 Index ........................................................................................................ 324

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are many individual and institutional supporters who have enabled both this particular collection and the conference from which these papers were drawn. The editors would like to particularly thank Bath Spa University for hosting the initial Kings and Queens conference in 2012. Professor Paul Davies, then Head of the Graduate School, was extremely supportive of the event, providing both the venue and the funding to make the event possible. The administrative staff at the Corsham Court campus were extremely helpful and helped to make the event successful and enjoyable for all of the participants. We would also like to thank Lord Methuen, as mentioned previously, for allowing delegates the opportunity to view his impressive art collection and for providing fascinating commentary on the pieces themselves. The editors would also like to thank Cambridge Scholars Press for publishing the collection and for their enthusiasm about the proposed volume from the onset, with special mention to Carol Koulikourdi. Thanks also to Maddy McGlynn for typesetting the manuscript. Finally, a warm note of appreciation for our contributors for their efforts and their willingness to contribute their excellent scholarship to this collection. We were extremely fortunate that there was a plethora of wonderful papers from the conference; indeed it would have been ideal if we had been able to publish the entire proceedings. While this format limits us to a brief selection, we feel that this volume offers a coherent group of papers which demonstrates the high calibre of research on offer at the inaugural Kings & Queens conference and in the field of Royal Studies itself. Sean McGlynn & Elena Woodacre April 2014

INTRODUCTION

Monarchy – whether contemporary or historical – never ceases to elicit interest from the public. For some in academia, the study of kings and queens is an outmoded avenue of research that reflects the preoccupations of past ages rather than of the modern one looking to the future. But monarchy is so central to our understanding of the past that to bypass it is to compound our historical ignorance. As this collection demonstrates, there is no lack of vitality in monarchal studies and much important work is being done. Indeed, the research atmosphere is much more resilient and vibrant than might be expected. In 2011, the editors discussed how monarchal studies tended to polarise around gender – focusing on either kings or queens – and period – either medieval or early modern – and that this was a barrier to dialogue between historians that served to limit our understanding of the larger phenomenon of monarchy by sectioning off whole areas into, as it were, autarkic sovereign states. We undertook to bring kings and queens together (as befitted the importance of royal couples) in a conference that encompassed both the medieval and early modern eras. We initially planned for a small-scale colloquium of between ten and twelve speakers, and perhaps as many as fifteen. When the responses to the call for papers started coming in, we quickly realised that we had tapped into a large reservoir of scholarly activity that indicated the need for a major platform. When the conference occurred a year later, there were some seventy papers delivered by scholars and researchers from all around the world. Such was the interest that the Kings and Queens conference has subsequently become an annual event with Kings and Queens 2 and 3 hosted by the University of Winchester; plans are currently in the works to host future conferences in the series in Europe and North America. The success of the first conference has also led to the creation of the Royal Studies Network1 and the peer-reviewed e-journal, the Royal Studies Journal, to provide further outlets for sharing research in the field. The inaugural (as it turned out) conference took place in April 2012 in the splendid and wholly appropriate setting of the historic stately home of Corsham Court in Wiltshire: among its justifiably famous picture 1

www.royalstudiesnetwork.org

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collection hang an allegorical portrait of Queen Elizabeth I and a huge equestrian portrait of King Charles I by van Dyck. (Lord Methuen delighted delegates by kindly leading a private evening viewing of the collection.) Elena Woodacre co-ordinated closely with the extremely helpful staff at Corsham Court to ensure the smooth running of the conference. The only disturbance came from the occasional cries of the peacocks parading through Capability Brown’s gardens. From the broad range of stimulating papers delivered, a few are presented here on the focused theme of image and perception of monarchy. Part One groups papers under ‘Personality and Politics’; Part Two under ‘Perceptions of Power’; Part Three under ‘Image and Gender’; and Part Four under ‘Ceremony and Memory’. Throughout, we are reminded that the image and perception of monarchy are not merely superficial or aesthetic matters but designed always to translate into practical politics and projections of power that are very real and ultimately tangible. Beyond the four main sub-themes of this collection, a number of connecting threads can be drawn between the papers in this volume. One of these threads is the courtly context of monarchy, the home of ceremonial and politics, where the image of the ruler is honed and displayed. José Manuel Nieto Soria’s insightful examination of the ceremonial of the late medieval Castilian court highlights the importance of ceremonial to the practice of monarchy through a very detailed discussion of the typology of ceremonies performed in the Castilian court under the influential Trastámara dynasty. While Nieto Soria’s paper covers a range of ceremonial practices, from daily rituals to annual ritual and life cycle events, Lucinda Dean’s paper focuses on a particular type of ceremony: coronation. Dean examines the impact that the repeated accession of minors had in medieval and early modern Scotland and how the ceremony of coronation not only reinforced the somewhat precarious authority of the new child ruler but also how it attempted to provide dynastic continuity and stability after the untimely death of kings. Dynastic continuity forms a focus of Elizabeth Tingle’s study of monuments to memory in early modern Brittany. She shows how burial places and commemorative strategies adopted by rulers were central to political patronage, propaganda and the legitimacy of dynastic power: mausolea and permanent chantries were designed to draw heavenly power down on the corporeal remains of ancestors to confirm the authority of deceased rulers who remained physically present in their communities after death. Thus, following the incorporation of Brittany into the French kingdom between 1489 and 1532, Tingle argues that the presence of the

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royal and ducal dead contributed significantly to the legitimisation of French royal authority. This appeal to the past was equally strong in early medieval times, as Olivier de Laborderie demonstrates in his paper on establishing the reasons for King Egbert being regarded as the first monarch of England as perceived through thirteenth-century historiographical, explaining why Alfred the Great, promoted by that century’s greatest chronicler Matthew Paris, was no longer deemed protomonarcha Anglie. He questions what this meant for the conception of royal legitimacy and insights of the ‘reconstruction’ of the English past, as well as what it tells us about the perceptions of royal power in the late 13th century. A further connecting thread is the female aspect of monarchy; several papers in this collection examine the crucial role of both reigning and consort queens and the means through which they attempted to create their own image of power and authority. Zita Rohr’s paper connects with what is perhaps the most fundamental aspect of queenship - motherhood. Rohr contrasts the divergent images of Yolande of Aragon and her contemporary Isabeau of Bavaria; while Yolande was a cultured and savvy political operator whom Charles VII referred to as his ‘bonne mère’ (or good mother), Charles’ biological mother Isabeau was perceived as an incapable regent, mired in corruption, affairs and willing to sell the birthright of her son to France’s enemy. Anna Whitelock also examines an interesting divergence between the image and reality of the body of Elizabeth I. Whitelock highlights the incredible importance placed on protecting the physical body of Elizabeth I from illness, threats of assassination and the onslaught of aging. This last element proved impossible to combat completely and required the efforts of Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting to carefully construct the image of an ever-youthful and regal Gloriana while the queen’s physical corpus was deteriorating over time. Woodacre’s paper also examines reigning queens, but instead of looking at the physical body of the female rulers of Navarre, this paper examines how the queens and their male consorts were represented in their cartulary, seals and coins. Like Whitelock, Woodacre notes a distinct difference between the image crafted and presented in the official documentation and coinage of these medieval Navarrese queens and the reality of their reigns. Nadia van Pelt also examines the presentation of the image of a queen to her subjects, but via a ceremonial civic entry, rather than through the circulation of documents and coins. Anne of Denmark’s visit to Wells is the subject of van Pelt’s investigation; she notes the interaction of the queen with the city and the memory of the event through accounts of the royal entry and celebratory displays put on to welcome the

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queen. Though not a queen, Margaret of York wielded considerable power, wealth and influence as the Duchess of Burgundy in the late fifteenth century. Erica O’Brien also demonstrates how female rulers such as Margaret were able to craft a particular image of themselves, but instead of using makeup and costume as Elizabeth I, the documents and coinage of the Navarrese queens or civic entries as in the example of Anne of Denmark, O’Brien looks at the vehicle of artistic patronage. This paper examines the portrayal of Margaret of York in manuscript illustrations and demonstrates through an analysis of the commission and artwork how it creates an image of the Duchess as a pious and devoted wife and a powerful patron. The royal male of the species was no less concerned with his image. Sean McGlynn explores King Philip II of France’s negative image as a reluctant warrior. The cautious and introspective Philip Augustus, though an outstanding military commander, had the great misfortune to reign at the same time as Richard the Lionheart, the epitome of macho-man chivalry. The contrasts in their leadership styles were cruelly and perhaps unfairly exposed during their involvement on the Third Crusade, much to Philip’s detriment. McGlynn contests that Philip’s alternative mode of military leadership was arguably more effective in the long run than Richard’s, but this failed to excite the writers of the time who remained enamoured by Richard’s more colourful exploits. The king’s role as miles (knight) as being paramount to his prestige held firmly into the early modern period as Glenn Richardson shows. He compares four young monarchs in the early sixteenth century – Henry VIII, Francis I, Charles V and, innovatively, the emperor Babur – to offer new perspectives on maleness in European Renaissance monarchy, taking a comparative approach and looking beyond Europe to the Ottoman and Mughal empires. It brings into focus more explicitly than has been done for some time the issue of kingship as a specifically gendered, masculine, and not just neutral, form of authority expressed through personal dress, adornments, pursuits and public attributes - and, of course, rampant rivalry. When the king was incapable of fulfilling his role, trouble inevitably ensued and much royal responsibility was placed into the hands of the queen. Two papers explore the consequences of the impact of mental instability suffered by a reigning king. Pursuing the widely understood metaphor of the realm or society as a human body, Rachel Gibbons explores the responses of France to the illness of Charles VI the Mad, whose crippling bouts of mental illness dominated French political life, leading to unstable periods of temporary regency, civil war between princely factions and (arguably) to the invasion by Henry V in 1415.

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Gibbons shows how in perception and reality the health of the monarch was inextricably intertwined with the health of the Commonweal, and that sickness in the royal body meant ill-health in the Body Politic. Alison Basil pursues the metaphor to demonstrate that this was the same for the England of Henry VI, when Margaret of Anjou was compelled to assert her authority in the name of her incapacitated husband. Henry inherited his own mental problems and, despite the reticence of chroniclers on the matter (unlike in France), the results reflected badly on the image of monarchy. Here, though, Basil argues that the issue was addressed in terms of inversion of the king’s and queen’s gender roles, with the enfeebled and emasculated Henry supplanted in the natural order of things by his more masculine wife. Though Margaret had little choice but to wear the trousers in the relationship, these enduring images damaged both their reputations. Access to the monarch was central to government. Michael Hicks reveals the extent and reality of personal monarchy in late fifteenthcentury England. As the medieval world was giving way to the early modern one, the nature of monarchy was not radically changing. For all the bureaucracy, councils and ministers of the time, informal channels and backstairs politics retained their importance. Hicks sheds a revealing light into this unofficial world and explores how rulers maintained control of this aspect and perception of personal monarchy. Moving eastwards to central Europe, Natalia Neverova investigates the access of diplomats to the emperor in the court of Rudolf II. These ambassadors eagerly reported back to their own monarchs on their perceptions of the moody and changeable emperor. Concentrating on the reports of the Venetian, French, Muscovite and papal embassies, Neverova is able to construct a fascinating image of a frequently evasive emperor and offers plausible explanations for his seemingly dismissive treatment of important ambassadors. The most frequent observation from delegates after the conference was how the bringing together of research into both kings and queens for both the medieval and early modern periods made them more aware of the connections and continuities in monarchy across gender and time. It is hoped that some of these connections and continuities – as well as a few interesting dissimilarities – will be gleaned from this volume.

PART I POLITICS AND PERSONALITIES

CHAPTER ONE WHAT WAS PERSONAL ABOUT PERSONAL MONARCHY IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY? MICHAEL HICKS

As Miranda’s junior assistant, I was the lowest-ranking human being at Runway. However, if access is power, then Emily and I were the two most powerful people in fashion. We determined who got meetings, when they were scheduled (early morning was always preferred because people’s makeup and their clothes were unwrinkled) and whose messages got named (if your name wasn’t on the Bulletin, you didn’t exist). So when either of us needed help, the rest of the staff were obliged to pull through. Yes, of course there was something disconcerting in the realisation that if we didn’t work for Miranda Priestly, these same people would have no compunction in running over us with their chauffeured Town Cars. As it was, when called upon, they ran and fetched and retrieved for us like well-trained puppies.1

Late medieval England was a monarchy. Monarchy is the most personal system of government. Monarchy meant the rule of a single individual who ruled and decided by himself or herself. The reality was always somewhat different, if only because every monarch needed others to execute his or her demands. A royal decision in his chamber was relayed through the chain of warranty – from the signet office to the privy seal office to chancery, checked and re-checked – before it was implemented. That all governmental acts were in the king’s name, that all courts were the king’s courts, and that all prosecutions were in the name of the king (Rex v), did not mean that they were products of the royal will in the sense that the king personally authorised them all.2 One-man government was not feasible in the sophisticated polity that was late 1

L. Weisberger, The Devil Wears Prada , Broadway Books , London, 2003, 31415. 2 This is the thrust of J. Watts, Henry VI and the Politics of Kingship, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1996.

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medieval England. Apart from kings too young to govern, the rule of even adult kings such as those between 1422 and 1509 often appears bureaucratic rather than personal. This paper seeks to expose the personal elements of royal rule. Theoretically government and therefore monarchy existed for the benefit of the governed. Royal powers needed therefore to be wielded reasonably, with proper consultation, and not arbitrarily or tyrannically.3 England was a mixed monarchy, in which the king’s capacity to coerce was limited. The cooperation of leading subjects was essential to implement decisions in the provinces, which further tempered royal authority. Kings were expected to seek out advice – which they could reject – but were expected also to listen to unpalatable advice and to act on it. Moreover kings were subject to the same divine judgement as anyone else – reason of state and pragmatism were no excuse. When Edward IV died, his committed councillor the Crowland Continuator squirmed excruciatingly to reconcile the king’s sins of the flesh with his own desire that his late master should be saved.4 Even Crowland recoiled from describing Edward’s destruction of his brother: ‘a fact most horrible’, wrote Vergil, ‘the woorst example that any man cowld remember’.5 The Arrival of Edward IV recorded the king’s perjury in 1471– his declaration that he was just returning for his duchy - like Henry of Bolingbroke before him.6 Edward’s false assurances were the necessary political price for survival and victory. Any Yorkshiremen so naive as to be deceived were simply unrealistic. Paris, to misquote Henri IV of France, was worth a mass.7 Henry IV’s execution of Archbishop Richard Scrope (St Richard) in 1405 and Edward IV’s despatch of those Lancastrians extracted on safe conduct from Tewkesbury Abbey in 1471, though justified to themselves

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J. Fortescue, ‘The Governance of England’, in The Politics of Fifteenth Century England: John Vale’s Book, ed. M. Kekewich, C. Richmond. A. Sutton, L. VisserFuchs and J. Watts, Richard III and Yorkist History Trust [hereafter RYHT], Stroud, 1995, 227-8, 243-8. 4 The Crowland Abbey Chronicles 1459-86, ed. N. Pronay, RYHT, Gloucester, 1986, 150-3 [hereafter Crowland]. 5 Ibid 144-5; Three Books of Polydore Vergil’s English History, ed. H. Ellis, Camden Society, vol. xxix, 1844, 167. 6 The Arrivall of Edward IV, ed. J. Bruce, Camden Society, vol. i, 1838, 3-5; Chronicles of the Revolution, 1397-1400, ed. C. Given-Wilson, Manchester UP, 1993, 110; M. Hicks, ‘The Yorkshire Perjuries of Henry Bolingbroke in 1399 Revisited’, Northern History, vol. xlvi, 2009, 31-41. 7 E. Dickerman, ‘The Conversion of Henry IV: "Paris Is Well Worth a Mass" in Psychological Perspectives’, Catholic Historical Review, vol. lxiii , 1977, 1-13.

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on pragmatic grounds, were nevertheless gross offences against God.8 And of course what Edward IV did in 1471 to Henry VI (if he did) and what Richard III did in 1483 to the Princes in the Tower (if he did) were acts of regicide, martyrdom and infanticide. Kings of course never slew their victims in person. That menial task was undertaken by agents, so Thomas More alleged, such as Edward’s brother Richard Duke of Gloucester or Sir James Tyrell (and even the latter supposedly delegated it to John Deighton and Miles Forest), but it was the kings who issued the commands who were nevertheless responsible and who shared in the sin.9 Forgiving too easily, as Henry VI repeatedly did to Richard Duke of York (d. 1460) and other magnates and as Edward IV did to Henry Duke of Somerset (d. 1464), may have been errors of political judgement,10 but at least they were not sinful. Apparently Edward IV was reluctant in 1478 to execute his condemned brother Clarence,11 but he authorised it just the same. Whatever other powers Henry VI was prepared to relinquish, he always insisted on his prerogative of mercy.12 Kings themselves were protected and assisted in their office by the laws of treason and by the allegiance and obedience due from all subjects regardless of the king’s personal merits and defects. Government was carried on in the king’s name. It was the monarch himself who was meant to decide new policies, new initiatives, or any actions beyond the routine. The vast public records at the National Archives testify to the large bureaucracies at Westminster where permanent staff were absorbed by time-honoured duties defined by conventions, such as how chancery letters should be dated. Much responsibility was delegated – chancellors traditionally appointed to livings below a certain value and agreed the sheriffs for the coming year in conjunction with the treasurer, royal justices, and exchequer barons.13 Government ran unless told to stop – and an amazing variety of out of date 8

Witness the miracles ‘for his worthi clerke’, The Brut or the Chronicles of England, ed. F. Brie, Early English Text Society, vols. 131, 136, 1908, 367; D. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making: Political Martyrdom in Late Medieval England, Boydell, Basingstoke, 2008, 64; Death and Dissent: Two FifteenthCentury Chronicles, ed. L. Matheson, Boydell, Woodbridge, 1999, 113-14. 9 T. More, History of King Richard III, ed. R. Sylvester, Yale UP, New Haven, Conneticut, 1963, 8, 83-5. 10 As Charles Ross said: see C. Ross, Edward IV, Eyre Methuen, London, 1974, 52; also M. Hicks, The Wars of the Roses, Yale UP, London, 2010, 78, 146-7. 11 Crowland, 147; Vergil, English History, 168. 12 Hicks, Wars, 78, 114, 158. 13 A. Brown, The Governance of England 1272-1461, Edward Arnold, London, 1989, 144.

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practices, such as the call of the pipe, final concords, tallies, and use of court-hand endured for centuries after 1485. Even the king’s New Year’s gifts were probably routine.14 Coordination of the central departments was provided by the council of officials that met several times a week. Only departures from the routine, such as chasing up on potential wardships in 1422, tighter accounting in the late 1440s, and improved Yorkist estate management,15 demonstrate to modern historians the decisions that had been taken. Such developments are hard to detect and even more difficult to attribute to their prime-mover: to a minister, to the council, or to the king. Much of the king’s patronage was exercised by his heads of department. Bills of the chief butler, military commanders and treasurer authorised appointments under the great seal, of butlers in particular ports, of custodies of wards, of leases and protections.16 Admittedly many thousands of warrants for the great seal (C 81), writs to the exchequer barons (E 208) and warrants for issue (E 404) initiated actions, but most were mediated through writs of privy seal which effectively conceal where the underlying decision was taken. Only a minority of signet letters and initialled petitions are traceable directly to the king. The problem is that actions in the king’s name need not indicate any personal involvement by the king. If it is too far to say that nothing was begun by Henry VI,17 the truth lies somewhere in between. Most government actions were demanded by subjects, individuals or groups. They first petitioned, by word of mouth or in writing, set out what they wanted, and often enough were the first to inform the king what he had to give. If they did not ask for what they sought – and ask forcefully – they could not secure it. Often they were importunate and unmannerly in 14

J.Lutkin, ‘Luxury and Display in Silver and Gold at the Court of Henry IV’, English and Continental Perspectives, ed. L. Clark, in Fifteenth Century 9 , Boydell, Woodbridge, 2010,167-8; for a parallel, see Weisberger, Devil Wears Prada, 54. 15 C. Carpenter, ‘The Lesser Landowners and the Inquisitions Post Mortem’, The Fifteenth-Century Inquisitions Post Mortem: A Companion, ed. M. Hicks, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2012, 57 ; G. Harriss, ‘Marmaduke Lumley and the Exchequer Crisis of 1446-9’, Aspects of Late Medieval Government and Society, ed. J. Rowe, University of Toronto Press, Buffalo, Canada, 1986), 152-64 ;B. Wolffe, The Royal Demesne in English History, Allen and Unwin, London, 1971, 157-68, 172. 16 TNA, C 81; L. Clark, ‘The Benefits and Burdens of Office: Henry Bourgchier (1408-83), Viscount Bourgchier and Earl of Essex, and the Treasurership of the Exchequer’, Profit, Piety and the Professions in Later Medieval England, ed. M. Hicks, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1990, 125-7. 17 See M. Hicks, ‘Henry VI: A Misjudged King’, History Today, vol. 61 no. 1, 2010.

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asking.18 Here began the chain of warranty. Many thousands of petitions came to the king each year. Sixteen a day were approved by Henry VII:19 how many failed? At least some petitioners appealed directly to the king’s known preferences, like those who invoked the Resurrection or Christ’s Passion to Henry VI.20 Petitions suffered one of three fates: rejection, in which case they are forever lost; rewritten in correct form as signet letters and despatched along the chain of warranty (generally via the privy seal office, most of whose records are lost) to chancery, exchequer, law courts, or other officers, the originals being discarded; or initialled (with the king’s sign manual), becoming signed bills and despatched direct to chancery. It is the signed bills now among the warrants for the great seal (C 81) which best reveal to us what the king actually saw. If endorsed, they can illuminate what he decided himself. Notes on many bills of the late 1450s bear respectful recommendations to King Henry about what should be done. These reveal that Henry VI did indeed make the decision, could moreover reject a request, but also perhaps that some sifting had already occurred before the supplication reached him. Any he did reject have disappeared. Only those he accepted, in whole or in part, survive.21 Kings from Henry VI to James I complained of the importable burden of petitions.22 Perhaps in the 1450s this was normal. In 1470 Sir John Fortescue proposed formal conciliar review of requests before they ever reached King Henry VI,23 who found it difficult to refuse, yet whose prerogative to decide was beyond question. This was why suppliants strove to short-circuit the proper channels and bring themselves to the king’s notice, intercepting him at prayer, on horseback, and as he moved around his palace. Influencing the king demanded access to him, which was strictly controlled. We know the geography of the household from which he ruled: his hall, chapel, great chamber, bedchamber, oratory. It was his home and his environment, where his basic needs – to eat, drink, dress, pray, travel, sleep and relax – were met by a host of menial offices (kitchen, butteries, bakery), chapels, stables and mews, and the suite of rooms that accommodated his court. In the most splendid and costly style, the royal household was the greatest spending department of the era and employed 18

M. Hicks, ‘Attainder, Resumption and Coercion 1461-1529’, Parliamentary History, vol. iii, 1984, 16. 19 Ibid, 16. 20 CPR 1446-52,461; Hicks, Wars, 127. 21 Hicks, Wars, 127-8. 22 Hicks, ‘Attainder’, 16. 23 John Vale’s Book, 223.

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550 of the king’s servants.24 There was a prescribed route from the world outside to the king to the verge of court, policed only by a porter, to the great hall ruled by the marshal and usher, and hence through the sequence of spaces beyond as far as the king himself – great chamber, chamber, bedchamber – each with their own genteel staff of knights, esquires, and gentlemen.25 A key role was to shield the king from suitors, a function that enhanced their own rights of access, their role as potential intermediaries for others, and their capacity to protect themselves against complaints.26 They acted as a series of filters, permitting fewer and fewer outsiders to penetrate each successive royal apartment. Such courtiers sought to restrict royal patronage to themselves or those whose cases they promoted. Their intercession for others had a market value: they might have to be paid to exercise it.27 Household ordinances reveal how many staff there were in each location, how they were deployed, and to some extent what they were meant to do.28 John Russell’s Book of Nurture reminds us of etiquette and precedence.29 The royal day was punctuated by church services and meals, the menu and much else by the Christian ritual calendar, with times set aside for recreation and audiences, which we would love to know. The most formal occasions are depicted in illuminations of the presentations of books by the earl of Shrewsbury, Earl Rivers, Lord Herbert and the chronicler John Waurin to the king, always seated on his throne and attended by his courtiers and high nobility.30 From the fifteenth-century there survive heraldic accounts of formal ceremonial occasions – banquets, creations, marriages, funerals and re-interments, coronations – that gave precedence to queens, princesses and other ladies, royal children and cousins, honorary officers and mere courtiers.31 Such formal audiences did not 24

A. Myers, The Household of Edward IV, Manchester UP, 1959, especially at 88 ; D. Morgan, ‘The King’s Affinity in the Polity of Yorkist England’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th series, vol. xxiii, 1973, 2-4. 25 Myers, Household, 76-197. 26 I. Harvey, Jack Cade’s Rebellion of 1450, Oxford UP, 1991, 187, 189. 27 E.g. Clark, ‘Henry Bourgchier’, 124. 28 E.g. Myers, Household, 104-7. 29 J. Russell, A Book of Nurture, ed. F. Furnivall, Roxburghe Club, London, 1867. 30 E.g. P. Tudor-Craig, Richard III, National Portrait Gallery, London, 1973, pl.18; A. Sutton and L. Visser-Fuchs, Richard III’s Books, Alan Sutton, Stroud, 1997, 34, pl.x; M. Hicks, Edward V: The Prince in the Tower, Tempus, Stroud, 2003, pl.49. 31 E.g. The Brut, 445-7; Excerpta Historica, ed. S. Bentley, London, 1831, 171215; 223-81 ; ‘The Narrative of the Marriage of Richard, Duke of York, with Anne of Norfolk, the Matrimonial Feast and the Grand Justing‘, Illustrations of Ancient State and Chivalry, ed. W. Black, Roxburghe Club, 1840; The Herald’s Memoir

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occupy all a king’s waking hours: worship, relaxation, recreation and other intimate settings offered access and opportunities to his immediate attendants. Household and court were a world apart from the masculine worlds of the House of Lords, local government, and civil war. The chief officers, the steward and chamberlain of the household, were knights or increasingly peers, often indeed becoming peers in consequence. Some people had access automatically by right of rank. This applied to a powerful duke whom Henry VI would have preferred to exclude and Edward IV’s lord treasurer who enjoyed an audience with his nephew the king every morning.32 Courtiers on the spot, those who lived with the king, could exercise influence out of proportion to their standing, such as the king’s confessor Bishop William Aiscough or Henry VIII’s secretary Thomas More.33 Such paradoxes still apply: American presidents often prefer to listen to their National Security Advisers rather than to their Secretaries of State, English Prime Ministers have kitchen cabinets, and secretaries of state harken to their advisers before their civil servants. In 2013 Monsignor Georg Gänswein became prefect of the pontifical household to Pope Benedict XVI: ‘a job that puts him in charge of arranging all the Pope’s public and private audiences. At the same time, he will continue as the Pope’s private secretary, giving him even greater influence over the 85-year-old Pontiff... He describes his job as being a window on the world for the Pope ... [Already] the person closest to the Pope, he has become the most influential man in the Roman Curia’.34

This phenomenon is also faithfully portrayed in Lauren Weisberger’s The Devil Wears Prada. Although on the bottom rung in rank and seniority, Miranda Presley’s two personal assistants determined who met

1486-90: Court Ceremony, Royal Progress and Rebellion, ed. E. Cavell, RYHT, Stroud, 2010. For an overview, see K. Afford, ‘Precedence at Royal Court: Ceremonies of rites of passage during the Wars of the Roses’, unpublished Winchester MA dissertation (2011). 32 Clark, ‘Henry Bourgchier’, 128; Henry VI: A Reprint of John Blacman’s Memoir, ed. M. James, Cambridge UP, Cambridge,1919, 38. 33 J. Guy, The Public Career of Sir Thomas More, Harvester, Brighton, 1980, 16; B. Wolffe, Henry VI, Eyre Methuen, London, 1981, 104; R. Lovatt, ‘A Collector of Apocryphal Anecdotes: John Blacman Revisited’, Property and Politics, ed. A. Pollard, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1984, 175. 34 The Times, 17 January 2013.

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with or were connected to the general editor and therefore wielded disproportionate power within their organisation.35 In the fifteenth century even great magnates and provincial notables depended on the introductions or mediation from those who did have access – ministers, household officers, and courtiers. The Yorkshire knight William Plumpton is documented both seeking the support of such superiors as Richard Duke of Gloucester and the king’s chamberlain and receiving in turn numerous solicitations from those humbler in rank than themselves.36 Most of those seeking provisos of exemption from the 1467 act of resumption had their bills presented to the king for signature by one of 22 ministers, household officials, and peers.37 Suitors for favours, personal like Plumpton or corporate like the Mercers’ Company of London,38 had to use intermediaries to push their policies or urge their cases to the king. Probably already, like their Elizabethan and Jacobean counterparts,39 suitors had to pay their intermediaries for the services. This is a topic still to be explored in the fifteenth century. Jack Cade’s rebels protested that access to the king was barred by those against whom they wished to complain.40 They meant king’s household men of genteel rather than noble birth, who were what Sir John Fortescue meant when he said they could not advise him,41 yet advise him they did. In the last resort the king heard whoever he chose and chose to attend to those he found agreeable. Doubtless they were the flatterers denounced by critics who preferred the honest counsel man-to-man that no king can have appreciated.42 Although Edward IV was the most affable of kings, it was not genuine informality, but rather a deliberate act of policy when the king entertained the mayor and aldermen of London or when he advanced Alderman Thomas Cook and others to knighthood.43 About 1480 35

Weisberger, The Devil Wears Prada, 314-15, quoted above, n.1. The Plumpton Letters and Papers, ed. J. Kirby, Camden 5th series, vol. viii, 1996, 52; M. Hicks, English Political Culture in the Fifteenth Century, Routledge, London, 2002, 155-60. 37 M. Hicks, False, Fleeting, Perjur’d Clarence, 2nd edn., Davenant Press, Burford, 2014, 33. 38 Acts of Court of the Mercers’ Company 1453-1527, ed. L. Lyell and F. Watney, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1936, 155; Plumpton L and P, 52. 39 J. Hurstfield, Freedom, Corruption and Government in Elizabethan England, Cape, London, 1973, 142-3, 151. 156. 40 Harvey, Jack Cade’s Rebellion, 187, 189. 41 John Vale’s Book, 223. 42 The Courts of Europe: Politics, Patronage and Royalty, 1400-1800, ed. A. Dickens, Thames and Hudson, London, 1977, 33-5. 43 P. Kendall, The Yorkist Age, Allen and Unwin, London, 1962, 154, 156. 36

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John Risley was literally privileged to chat with the king and to obtain his advice.44 Studying queens is now fashionable. Queens had intercessionary and compassionate functions and the most intimate of opportunities to press their case with the monarch, regrettably unrecorded. Of course such relations were somewhat formal. Just as courtiers of King Louis XIV knew that king and queen had sex twice a month because she took communion the next morning,45 so too in late medieval England. King and queen had separate households: they had to commute to sleep together. When Richard III eschewed the queen’s bed, everybody knew of it.46 Three noble widows needed Edward’s personal interest to get their rights. To secure their audience, they needed access: access that was provided to Edward IV’s future queen by the chamberlain of his household, on terms that he ensured were implemented first. Inevitably the audience was public, in the presence of courtiers. Any assignation or promise to wed in the present tense had witnesses – perhaps including Bishop Stillington as Lord Privy Seal – but King Edward IV counted on their silence which (if true) was honoured for twenty years. If the king bedded the lady, even if the act itself was unobserved, the fact was known. A king cannot have ridden wholly unobserved to Grafton Regis, slept with her secretly in a hunting lodge, nor, as legend tells, have inseminated Elizabeth Wydeville completely privately.47 Kings had their own priorities in patronage. We know the efforts that Henry VI made to endow his Tudor brothers and Edward IV his sisters-inlaw48 and how Edward I, Edward III, and Edward IV manipulated the marriage market to advantage their closest kin.49 Did Edward I have a policy towards the earls50 – or Edward III or Edward IV? Most patronage however originated from suitors who identified vacancies, knew what in his gift they wanted and asked for it, often no doubt informing the king in the process of rewards of which he was hitherto unaware. Heightened 44

M. Hicks, ‘The Last Days of Elizabeth Countess of Oxford’, English Historical Review, vol. xciii, 1988, 88. 45 N. Mitford, The Sun King, Hamish Hamilton, London, 1966, 114-15. 46 Crowland, 174-5. 47 Hicks, Edward V, 28-40. 48 R. Griffiths and R. Thomas, The Making of the Tudor Dynasty, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1985, 34-5; Hicks, Clarence, 33, 36; The White Queen, BBC 1, 2013, programme 1. 49 Hicks, Clarence, 33; Edward V, 128-30, 132-4; K. McFarlane, ‘Had Edward I a Policy towards the Earls?’, History, vol. 50, 1965, 145-59, esp. 148, 156-8. 50 McFarlane, ‘Had Edward I a ‘Policy’ towards the Earls?, 145-59.

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precedence among peers of the same rank was apparently conceived by the Beauforts as something Henry VI could bestow.51 Such petitions were considered on their merits and the valuation placed by the king on the beneficiary, perhaps in conjunction with competitors, but probably not in the broader context of patronage and royal finances as a whole. Normally for service done and to be done, grants were permanent or for life, only occasionally for pleasure, but the fifteenth-century acts of resumption offered opportunities to review past patronage in the light of current performance and re-assessment of the recipient’s usefulness. The signet office maintained records of all patronage that could inform Edward IV and Richard III wherever they were. Edward IV continued most grants, but refused some provisos of exemption in whole or in part, to express his displeasure and reduced valuation or for strategic reasons, e.g. to restore the unity of the prince’s appanage or to transfer responsibilities elsewhere. He balanced the services of his clients against those to be offered by exLancastrians if restored. First Edward met with those previously patronised to establish what they had, to decide what they might keep, and then initialled their formal proviso of exemption, sometimes further restricting what they were allowed to retain.52 This was one of the ways in which Edward IV learnt the names and circumstances of everyone’s standing everywhere that Crowland states he retained in his capacious memory.53 Another way was through homage. All significant landholders and many insignificant ones held property in chief of the king. Their numbers slowly expanded: whenever property was partitioned among coheirs, the king insisted that all held something in chief, directly of the king, so that they and their heirs owed lordship and potentially wardship to the king.54 Whenever a tenant-in-chief died, an inquisition post mortem was held to find the heir. A chancery writ directed the taking of the heir’s oath of fealty, usually by the escheator of a county where property was held, occasionally by a nominee of the heir, and often ordered delivery of seisin of the property. Fealty was routine and was taken only once. Homage, however, was not routine, and all kings insisted on taking it in person.55 It was a solemn ceremony that kings apparently believed created a highly personal contract of loyalty with the feudal tenant. As the king was seldom to hand, homage was respited – performance of homage was not postponed 51

E.g. TNA, C 49/52/6. Hicks, ‘Attainder’, 23-4. 53 Crowland, 152-3. 54 E.g. Calendar of Fine Rolls 1485-1509. 55 CFR 1485-1509, nos. 184, 186-7. 52

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by the tenant, but by the crown – and a church festival was set for performance: Christmas, the Nativity of St John the Baptist, Easter, Michaelmas, All Saints.56 Major festivals should have been marked by a particularly crowded court at which tenants in chief solemnly pledged themselves to the king. Sometimes this may have happened. But respite of homage did not constitute an appointment. Instead the tenant solicited a writ from the privy seal office to the king’s chamberlain, who introduced him to the king and certified the homage by endorsing the writ – the chamberlain’s signature authorising the letter close to deliver seisin.57 In practice the precise date was determined by the writ and that was sought – and served – on dates convenient to the often obscure countryman who had to take the time and expense to attend court. Seldom however was it as straightforward as this. The homage of Henry Husy, son of Henry Husy, was respited to Easter 1384, but he performed homage on 29 May; John Cressy the elder, cousin and heir of Hugh Mortimer, was due at Michaelmas 1404, but performed on 27 December; and Ralph heir of his cousin Robert Woodford performed in 1459 homage respited to All Saints, 1456.58 From the tenant, of course, the important thing was to secure seisin and, apparently, homage could wait. Further respites were common. John Langton, for instance, took eight years to perform homage (1433-41), John Forster seven years (1437-44), James Luttrell twelve years (1437-49), John Joye ten years (1456-66), and John Lord Audley thirteen years (1459-72).59 Some, for whom no delivery of seisin was ever ordered, probably died first. Such protracted delays suggest a perception of the ceremony amongst tenants in chief significantly different from the king. For them homage was an inconvenient, even pointless, bureaucratic routine rather than the majestic pledging of loyalty that kings so valued. On occasion Edward forced the great to exchange their grants or geographical sphere of influence. His own brother Clarence lost first the county of Chester in the 1460s, the Gournay lands in the West Country in 1471, and then his principal seat at Tutbury in 1473, to his great displeasure.60 To enhance the prince’s control over Wales, William Herbert II was obliged to accept the earldom of Huntingdon in lieu of that of Pembroke, certainly not at his desire, whilst John Neville belittled as a 56

Ibid 1383-91, 38, 60; 1391-1401, 132-3; 1399-1405, 245; 1452-61, 36, 87. The procedure is deduced from the files of certificates of homage, e.g. PSO1/61. 58 TNA PSO 1/61/1, 7; PSO 1/64/33; CFR 1383-91, 253; 1399-1405, 245; 145261, 160. 59 CFR 1430-7, 137-40; 1437-45, 4, 288; 1452-61, 156; TNA PSO 1/64/9, 43, 46; PSO 1/63/46. 60 Hicks, Clarence, 23, 121, 134-5. 57

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‘magpie’s nest’ the enforced exchange of a marquisate and lands in Devon for his noble earldom of Northumberland.61 Edward seriously miscalculated here. He had intended to retain Neville’s services and instead alienated him, to his own disastrous cost. Towards the end of his life Crowland reports that Edward could confront his greatest subjects with their offences to their faces,62 but he did not always opt to do so. He knew how his brother Gloucester had terrified the aged countess of Oxford into surrendering her inheritance to him, but he declined to right this wrong.63 The dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk were also amongst those he chose not to take on in person, though he pressured William Brandon, Norfolk’s eminence grise.64 How far did New Year’s gifts indicate the reality of royal favour rather than mere routine? The royal will is deduced primarily from royal actions sifted or deduced from the acres of parchment consumed by the central departments. Scarcely anything regrettably survives from the signet office and the chamber where the king actually lived and where key decisions were made. The surviving warrants for the privy seal correspond to two of Richard III’s unique signet registers, initiating what became letters patent and letters close and privy seal letters to other departments.65 McFarlane long ago remarked how Henry V’s signet letters brought out the terse and direct flavour of a king who was definitely in command.66 Almost nothing of Richard III’s third register – out letters to addressees beyond government – survives as original documents. Even Richard III’s third register contains nothing like Henry VI’s letters to Richard Duke of York that start briefly Cousin67– an informal and intimate style of address that occurs almost nowhere else.68 There are no such letters recorded in Harleian Manuscript 433, yet there must have been many of this kind. Of such letters, apparently, no copy was ever kept. Perhaps letters signed by the king, rather than sealed, were not so registered. None of the in-letters to kings exist except those that became 61

Hicks, Edward V, 113-14; Death and Dissent, 104. Crowland, 146-7. 63 Hicks, ‘Countess of Oxford’, 88. 64 Ross, Edward IV, 305; Paston Letters and Papers of the Fifteenth Century, ed. N. Davis, Oxford UP, 1971, i, 544; Hicks, ‘Countess of Oxford’, 88. 65 British Library Harleian MS 433, eds. R. Horrox and P. Hammond, 4 vols., RYHT, Upminster, 1979-83. 66 K. McFarlane, Lancastrian Kings and Lollard Knights, Oxford UP, 1972, 117-9. 67 John Vale’s Book, 186. 68 One other instance is that of Edward IV to his ‘Brother’ Clarence in September/ October 1470, also an open letter, John Vale’s Book, 221. 62

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signed warrants for action. What does survive however are several dozen of such out letters apparently addressed to the London alderman Thomas Cook and copied by his servant into John Vale’s Book. These are representative perhaps of what other London aldermen, town councillors, sheriffs, justices of the peace, etc., could expect to receive.69 The liberate rolls ordering local expenditure of timber, game, and fish for royal feasts, building works, and royal favourites that were so valuable for the thirteenth century, are of little use for the fifteenth, most probably because such commands now passed under the signet rather than the great seal. Almost certainly the stream of instructions and forward-planning of the royal itinerary continued. Each king had a personal style that is difficult to reconstruct. Henry V’s court had a military tone, that of Henry VI was domestic, and that of Richard III, if Crowland is to be believed, was frivolous and immoral.70 Remember the court was the environment where the king took his pleasures, not just religious and sexual, and where he found like-minded company. Edward IV had a lifelong friendship with William Lord Hastings. They seem even to have shared a mistress, Mrs Elizabeth Shore. There are chamber accounts for Henry VII but not before, a privy purse account only for his queen,71 so we lack the data we desire about the king’s casual expenditure – petty purchases, gaming losses, etc. The outlines of daily routine defined by meals and services, a calendar defined by state occasions and religious festivals, and each king’s itinerary are known, but relatively little about personal preferences in the mix. All kings had different itineraries. We know that Henry VI was frequently in the Lancastrian heartlands, at Leicester and Kenilworth, Edward IV predominantly in the Thames Valley, but always returning to Westminster for Epiphany, and of Richard III’s partiality for Nottingham Castle. All kings were concerned for their immortal souls, usually prioritising masses forever rather than a reformed lifestyle. The fellows and scholars of Eton and King’s College Cambridge had to pray for Henry VI’s soul as well as study.72 Edward IV buried his father and brother in the chantry college of the house of York at Fotheringhay (Northamptonshire), but for himself created a new mausoleum for himself at Windsor.73 Whilst duke of Gloucester, Richard III had founded chantry colleges at Barnard 69

Ibid, passim. Crowland, 174-5. 71 TNA, E 101/413/2/1-3; Privy Purse Expenses of Elizabeth of York, ed. N. Nicolas, London, 1830. 72 Wolffe, Henry VI, 136-7, 144. 73 Ross, Edward IV, 271-2, 274-6. 70

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Castle (Durham) and Middleham (Yorkshire).74 As king he planned a chantry of a hundred priests in York Minster,75 which he may well have intended as his tomb. Although generally hard up, Edward wanted all the marks of kingly magnificence – an imposing household, near Burgundian ceremonial, the great hall of Eltham and St George’s Chapel Windsor, and a library of illuminated books. We know that Henry VI was particularly pious, an epitome of fifteenth-century spirituality,76 and how high a priority he gave to his two colleges. Less well-known is his love of hunting – he spent the whole summer of 1435 hunting in the forest of Rockingham77 – and it was at his hunting palace of Clarendon in 1453 that he lost his mind. And finally there are the king’s moods. Kings were people, had standards and values to apply and be infringed, and likes and dislikes like everyone else that they brought into politics. Richard II had a series of blazing rows with his greater subjects and harboured resentments over many years.78 Edward IV sacked an erring signet clerk and apparently disapproved of Earl Rivers’ departure on pilgrimage when there was business to be done.79John Blacman records Henry VI’s prudishness and John Benet records his anger at the misconduct of his earl of Devon. Presumably he would have imprisoned Devon like other offenders had he obeyed his summons.80 Mere displeasure, exclusion from court and the royal presence, was upsetting for Richard Duke of York and his duchess.81 Kings could be managed, by dominant favourites, by exclusion of critics from the royal presence, and by dirty tricks discrediting competing

74 Hicks, Richard III as Duke of Gloucester: A Study in Character, Borthwick Paper 70, York, 1986, 21. 75 R. Dobson, ‘Richard III and the Church of York’, Kings and Nobles in the Later Middle Ages, ed. R. Griffiths and J. Sherborne, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1986, 145-6. 76 Lovatt, ‘Blacman Revisited’, 183. 77 Wolffe, Henry VI, 80; but see Lovatt, ‘Blacman Revisited’, 185. 78 For the importance of interplay of personality, see V. Galbraith, ‘A New Life of Richard II’, History, vol. xxvi, 1941-2, 229-30. 79 Hicks, ‘Attainder’, 26; C. Scofield, Life and Reign of Edward the Fourth, 2 vols., London, 1923, ii, 3. 80 ‘John Benet’s Chronicle or the years 1400 to 1462’, ed. G. and M. Harriss, Camden Miscellany, vol. xxiv, 1972, 205; Lovatt, ‘Blacman Revisited’, 186. 81 C. Rawcliffe, ‘Richard Duke of York, the King’s “Obeissant Liegeman”: A New Source on the Protectorate of 1454 and 1455’, Historical Research, vol. lx, 1987, 237.

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courtiers and factions. All such ploys were subject to the king’s own preferences and his right to decide that could never be ignored. The political system was highly bureaucratic. Most people encountered the regime through its agents, whether the clerks of the great officers of state or the unpaid officers that executed its commands in the localities. These systems were long established, endured from reign to reign and throughout the Wars of the Roses, and changed relatively slowly, although every king had priorities and emphases and could impel more decisive activity if require. Within these systems, however, the fifteenth-century kings differed and imparted a distinctive tone to their courts and their relations with their principal subjects.

CHAPTER TWO THE PRACTICE OF POLITICAL MOTHERHOOD1 IN LATE MEDIEVAL FRANCE: YOLANDE OF ARAGON, BONNE-MÈRE OF FRANCE ZITA EVA ROHR

Kimberly LoPrete reminds us that we must ‘avoid anachronism when assessing the lives and powers of aristocratic women during the Middle Ages’.2 In other words, we must lay to one side our retrospectoscope and resist the temptation to categorize medieval ideas concerning gender and power according to our twenty-first century sensibilities. We cannot assume uncritically that our culturally determined categories and core definitions will allow us to understand how people of the Middle Ages felt about things; we should tread lightly.3 If we are to arrive at an understanding of the past as it was lived, we need a nuanced approach, an inter-epoch cultural sensibility, and to do this we must try to determine what they, the people of the medieval and early modern period, believed about being male and the female. If we fail to do this we will simply not ‘get it’ and unfairly minimize the numbers of politically active women who operated in the pre-modern world, misconstruing the scope of lordly powers they deployed as they fulfilled their gendered social roles.4 1

Katherine Crawford set me to thinking on the subject of political motherhood and its implications for the pre-modern period. Cf. K. Crawford, ‘Catherine de Medicis and the Performance of Political Motherhood’, The Sixteenth Century Journal, vol. 31 no. 3, Autumn 2000, 643-673. 2 K. LoPrete, ‘Gendering Viragos: medieval perceptions of powerful women’, in Studies on Medieval and Early Modern Women 4: Victims or Viragos? C. Meek and C. Lawless (eds.), Four Courts Press, Dublin, 2005, 17. 3 Ibid. 4 LoPrete, ‘Gendering Viragos’, 17.

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Successful late medieval political mothers shared common characteristics; it was not merely a question of good luck and exceptional circumstances conducive to their respective accomplishments. To better understand their activities we need to re-examine and, to some extent, dismantle5 kindred categories of sex and gender, public and domestic arenas, official and unofficial powers,6 attentive to the delicate balance and interplay between authority and power. Political mothers all differed in their personal attributes, abilities, upbringings, circumstances and opportunities, and a few, despite their best intentions, were not particularly good at their jobs. Such failures should not be excused by resorting to the antique chestnuts of gender inequality, xenophobia and an institutionalized mistrust of the ‘other’. Isabeau of Bavaria and Yolande of Aragon, the political mothers associated with Charles VII of France, are a case in point. This chapter seeks to shed some light upon these two queens. Both played a critical part in his life and halflife; Isabeau of Bavaria, Charles’s birth mother, and his belle-mère (mother-in-law), Yolande of Aragon to whom he referred openly and without hesitation as his bonne-mère. Yolande’s grandson, the dauphin Louis later Louis XI of France said of his grandmother during her funerary oration that she had the ‘cuer d’homme en corps de femme’; like her Aragonese foremothers, she just got on with the job.7 More than half a century ago, Marc Bloch made the important observation that medieval power structures were anchored in the domestic orbit of the dynastic family and princely household.8 Women, most 5

T. Earenfight, ‘Without the Persona of the Prince: Kings, Queens and the Idea of Monarchy in Late Medieval Europe’, Gender and History, vol. 19 no. 1, April 2007, 10. 6 LoPrete, ‘Gendering Viragos’ 17. 7 The heart of a man in the body of a woman. Louis might have drawing upon Christine de Pizan’s allusion in her Livre des Trois Vertus where she posits that in the absence of her lord, a noble wife must ‘avoir cuer d’omme’ not only to replace him in the administration of their possessions but also in the defence of their territories and the policing of their fortresses. Christine de Pizan, Le Livre des Trois Vertus, M. Laigle (ed.), Champion, Paris, 1912, 151. Cf. F. Autrand, ‘Christine de Pisan et les Dames à la Cour’, in Autour de Marguerite d’Ecosse: Reines, princesses et dames du XVe siècle, G. and P. Contamine (eds.), Honoré Champion, Paris, 1999, 19-31. 8 LoPrete. ‘Gendering Viragos’, 18. LoPrete cites M. Bloch, Feudal Society, 2 vols., L. Manyon (trans.), University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1961; M. Bloch, La société féodale: La formation des liens de dependence, Albin Michel, Paris, 1939 and La société féodale: les classes et le gouvernement des homes, Albin Michel, Paris, 1940.

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frequently wives and mothers, often found themselves taking centre stage in very public networks of political power – and they managed this while fulfilling traditional feminine ‘household’ expectations. This shocked no one for, as LoPrete asserts, ‘The dynamic interplay between the life-cycles of dynastic families and the domestic base of their power assured that, throughout the Middle Ages, the number of women exercising lordly authority at any one time was consistently high…’9 For the ambitious, canny and intelligent political mother such privileged proximity to the inner circle of regalis potestas could function as a backstage and front of house access all areas pass. Theresa Earenfight writes that ‘Women were not rigidly defined by extremes of power and powerlessness because the relational dynamic between men and women depended upon social rank, age, marital status and economic resources.’ Queens generally acquired power and exercised authority as wives, mothers (sexual beings), tutors and guardians (natural governors), through their personal piety and patronage, and by becoming the subjects of literary or visual arts.10 Queens with access to extensive personal and family networks could and did exercise considerable political authority to great effect; but they needed to have a talent for the game and substantial intellectual dexterity and stamina. Yolande of Aragon had the talent, personality and intellect to succeed in political motherhood while her contemporary, and at times rival, Isabeau of Bavaria, was not so blessed. Queenship is an integral part of rulership. Queenship is a governmental institution that confers social status, demanding public ceremony and therefore recognition. Queenship is not distinct from monarchy and kingship, and we must not assume that a queen’s exercise of political power was accidental and ad hoc while the power of the king was mappedout, uninterrupted and constant. Kingship was not the neat and tidy package tied up in string, as its theorists, propagandists and chroniclers would have us believe. It is rather a ‘study in the pragmatic resolution of one messy and contested succession crisis after another’.11 Queenship is an

9

Lo Prete, ‘Gendering Viragos’, 19. Ibid. 11 Ibid, 7. Fanny Cosandey makes the very clear point that the ‘miracle capétian’ (the birth of a direct male inheritor to the throne for each generation of Capetian kings) was an exception to the norm, and that once this strain petered out in the second decade of the fourteenth century furious legislative activity and political theorising was needed to ensure that the French throne remained in ‘French’ male hands. F. Cosandey, ‘De lance en quenouille. La place de la reine dans l’Etat 10

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inseparable part of the rulership whole – it has to be because the theory of primogeniture is just that: a theory. For most Christian kingdoms, this ‘ordinary’ path to succession turned out to be very extraordinary indeed.12 In pre-modern Europe monarchical power was never isolated in one person – it was by its very nature, corporate. The king was a guardian, the empowered head of the composite body of king and magnates representing the Crown. If we admit this we are able to examine the full range of power sharing options inherent in rulership, and in this way tease out the ways in which a queen-consort could step into institutional gaps and loopholes to govern as a regent or queen-lieutenant.13 Earenfight suggests that we should consider a rulership as a partnership…[for it] reveals a malleable, permeable and multivocal political institution that can be envisioned, metaphorically speaking as a flexible sack. It is capacious enough to accommodate both the king and the queen – their personalities, circumstances and a fairly wide variety of political theories and attitudes towards women in governance – without rupture. Its potential to expand explains the variation in practice.14

Earenfight’s flexible sack model dovetails with my sense that rulership, and therefore queenship, is a ductile institution, capable of being moulded and shaped, and of accommodating itself to circumstances. To survive it could not be the brittle and unbending institution that we might assume. At various times and in various places some royal women acted as queens-lieutenant and regents for the king. This was particularly the case in Iberia where kings were far from theocratic and worked closely with their queens as political partners.15 On the Iberian Peninsula, the model for queenship and regency was proactive and overt; the recognized authority of the office of queen-lieutenancy was a fact of political life, a necessity for the effective rulership of a geographically dispersed and culturally diverse realm such as Aragon. It was one that had a long and distinguished moderne (XIVe-XVIIe siècles)’, Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 52e année, no. 4, July-August 1997, 802. 12 Earenfight, ‘Without the Persona of the Prince’, 10. 13 Ibid, 8. 14 Ibid, 10. 15 Ibid. Earenfight refers us to T. Ruiz, ‘Unsacred Monarchy: The Kings of Castile in the Late Middle Ages’, in Rites of Power: Symbolism, Ritual, and Politics since the Middle Ages, S. Wilentz (ed.), University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 1985, 109-144.

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history of precedent, and Yolande of Aragon adapted and implemented it to suit the circumstances of the second house of Anjou. Iberian particularities aside, it should be of no surprise that, despite the galvanization activities of the Valois chancellery to rouse life into the Frankish lex Salica16 and its legislative programme to codify the institution of its monarchy,17 women, because of their private ties to the king and to their children, continued to immerse themselves in both private and public government and politics. Indeed, because queens-consort, queen mothers, daughters, sisters and dowager queens were excluded from the succession, they were the natural choice for regent and guardian when a first son was still in his minority. In a post-lex Salica reality, such royal women posed no political threat to the Crown, and they continued to operate as mediators-of-choice to calm disputes and to smooth the path of access to the man in charge. Gynaecocracy might have been off the menu in France but talented, subtle and effective female politicians, mediators and diplomats were ideally positioned and had much to offer a reigning dynasty; the men in charge (and their propagandists) were well aware of their value. Isabeau of Bavaria was barely fifteen years of age when in 1385 she landed the role of her life – queen-consort to the dashing teenaged-king of France, Charles VI. In 1385 Elizabeth von Wittelsbach, of the lesser Bavaria-Ingolstadt branch of the Wittelsbach tree, was the surprise candidate to fulfil the duties of queen-consort to the king of the most Christian kingdom of France. The king’s uncle Philip, duke of Burgundy, had put her forward as yet another way to consolidate his own sovereign power base in the Low Countries.18 Isabeau does not appear to have had any training for the job, nor did she have any impressive foremothers to 16

Cf. C. Taylor, ‘The Salic Law and the Valois Succession to the French Crown, French History, vol. 15 no. 4, 2001, 358-377 and idem (ed.), Debating the Hundred Years War: Pour ce que plusieurs (La Loy Salique) and the declaracion of the trew and dewe titles of Henri VIII, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2006; R. Giesey, Le rôle méconnu de la loi Salique: La succession royale, XIVe-XVIe siècles, Les Belles Lettres, Paris, 2007. 17 Cf. Cosandey, ‘De lance en quenouille’. Specifically her thoughts regarding Charles VI’s ordinance of 1407 and the legislative work undertaken by his father, Charles V. 18 Charles V had pursued a policy of alliance with Germany against his antagonist, England, and the Wittelsbach clan (due to its standing within the Empire) had attracted his notice. His policy suited Philip’s projects admirably; it was probably he who had been the real instigator of Charles’s foreign policy with Germany. M. Thibault, Isabeau de Bavière, reine de France: La Jeunesse 1370-1405, Perrin, Paris, 1903, 36-37.

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emulate; this was to prove her undoing. Her mother, Taddea Visconti, died when Isabeau was eleven and there seems to be no word as to any exemplary factual foremother or actual kinswoman from whom the young Isabeau might have drawn example or comfort.19 Added to this was the perception, fuelled by propaganda and innuendo, that she prioritized Wittelsbach aspirations over the interests of France. By her own action and inaction, Isabeau made herself an easy target for criticism and derision, and her resultant legend is very black indeed.20 The back-story of Yolande of Aragon has very little in common with Isabeau’s. Yolande of Aragon was the first born and only surviving child of the second marriage of John I of Aragon and the French princess, Violant (Yolande) of Bar.21 Yolande of Aragon married to Louis II of Anjou, king of Sicily and Jerusalem in Arles on 2 December 1400. Yolande was in her twentieth year, and meticulously schooled in the subtle arts of rulership and diplomacy. In Aragon, there was a long-line of proactive female queens-lieutenant22 upon which Yolande was to model 19 Not much is known of the first fifteen years of Isabeau’s life, and had she not made such a spectacular match she might have remained a minor genealogical footnote in the annals of the Wittelsbach. It was not until her marriage to Charles VI that chroniclers started to take an interest in her. The Benedictine monks of Augsbourg or Ratisbonne henceforth describe her as being endowed with ‘perfect virtue, remarkable beauty, graceful manners and most elegant morals’ without elaborating as to how she came to be so blessed. J. von Tettenweis, Annalium Boicæ gentis partes III, J. Gleditsch, Frankfurt, 1710, 2nd part, bk. VI, col. 114. Cited by Thibault, Isabeau, 22. 20 Cf. R. Gibbons, ‘Isabeau of Bavaria, Queen of France (1385-1422): The Creation of an Historical Villainess: The Alexander Prize Essay’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Sixth Series, vol. 6, 1996, 51-73 and ‘The Active Queenship of Isabeau of Bavaria, 1392-1417: Voluptuary, Virago or Villainess’, PhD thesis, Reading University UK, 1997. 21 Cf. D. Bratsch-Prince, Violante de Bar (1365-1431), Ediciones del Orto, San Máximo, 2002. 22 Yolande’s paternal grandmother, Elionor of Sicily had been politically active in both official and unofficial queen-lieutenancies; her life and deeds officially chronicled by Bernart Dezcoll, Peter IV of Aragon’s secretary. Cf. Bernart Dezcoll/Bernat d’Escolet, Chronique catalane de Pierre IV d’Aragon, II de Catalogne, dit le Cérémonieux ou del Punvalet (par Bernart Dezcoll),Amédée Pagès (ed.), E. Privat, Toulouse, and H. Didier, Paris, 1941. Yolande’s mother, Violant of Bar, was proactive on both the political and diplomatic front, frequently taking over the reins of government for John I during his absences from court and illnesses. After the death of John I in 1396 Violant dedicated herself to the interests, destiny and fastidious education of Yolande, her only surviving child. Yolande’s aunt by marriage, María de Luna, was tireless and effective in her

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her political identity; she had had the additional good fortune to have had been raised at the pious, cultured and pre-humanist23 courts of her parents and her uncle, Martin I of Aragon.24 Yolande’s marriage to Louis II of Anjou had been long in the making, and she had been sought after as a potential bride for Richard II of England.25 The union of Aragon and the second house of Anjou had involved a protracted process of diplomacy and politics – an impulsive teenaged prince did not rush Yolande of Aragon to the altar without contract or dowry. She was crowned queen of Sicily-Jerusalem on her wedding day according to the very specialized ritual refined by Robert of Naples for his queen, Sancia of Mallorca. Unlike Isabeau of Bavaria, by the time of her marriage in 1400, Yolande of Aragon had benefited from great exposure to the business of cogovernment and the phenomenon of absent or reluctant kings, unable or disinclined to involve themselves in the trickier political issues of their rule. Absent, ill or incapable, Iberian kings understood that they needed the open involvement of their queens in order to rule effectively. Yolande of Aragon had been well primed for a life coloured by the dysfunctional

efforts to buttress the sovereignty of Martin I (her father’s successor), ruling for him while he was governor of the insular kingdom of Sicily. In addition, from 1384 to 1399 Yolande of Aragon’s mother-in-law, Marie de Blois-Penthièvre, acted as regent for the kingdom of Naples, the counties of Provence-Forcalquier, the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine during the minority of Louis II and during his absence on campaign in Italy. Marie provided Yolande with an excellent ‘in-house’ point-of-departure model and template for the government of these farflung Angevin territories. Yolande drew upon an Iberian model of co-rulership and itinerant governance, moulding these influences to fit with the needs of her marital house. Cf. Z. Rohr, ‘On the Road Again: The Semi-Nomadic career of Yolande of Aragon (1400-1439)’ Travel and Exploration, F. Schmieder and M. Doherty (eds.), Brepols, Turhout, forthcoming. 23 Cf. C. Ponsich, ‘Un Témoignage de la Culture en Cerdagne, la correspondance de Violant de Bar (1380-1431)’, in Le Moyen Age dans les Pyrénées catalanes: Art, culture et société. Etudes Roussillonnaises, Revue d’Histoire et d’Archéologie Méditerranéennes. Tome XXI, M. Zimmerman (ed.), Canet, Editions Trabucaire, 2005, 147-194. 24 Cf. Z. Rohr, ‘Lifting the Tapestry: The Designs of Yolande of Aragon (13811442)’, in Power in History From Medieval Ireland to the Post Modern World. Historical Studies XXVII, A. McElligot, L. Chambers and C. Lawless (eds.), Irish Academic Press, Dublin and Portland, 2011, 145-166. 25 J. Zurita, Anales de Aragón de Jerónimo Zurita, Anales de la Corona d’Aragón, (9 vols.), ed. L. Angel Cannellas, Zaragoza, Institucion Fernando el Católica (C.S.I.C), 1977-1985, t. iv, x, lv, 790. Cf. F. Autrand, Charles VI la folie du roi, Fayard, Paris, 1986, 339.

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reign of Charles VI, and the mutations of fortune she experienced during her struggles to buttress the fortunes of her marital house. Yolande’s coronation was not the afterthought that Isabeau of Bavaria’s seems to have been: Charles VI suddenly appeared to have realized that Isabeau had not made her official entry into his capital, nor had she been officially ‘queened’ at the time of his brother, Louis’s marriage to Valentine Visconti. On 22 August 1389 both princesses were received together in Charles’s capital with great official jubilation and pomp with Isabeau’s coronation the centrepiece of the happy celebrations.26 It has been asserted that the coronation of Elizabeth of BavariaIngolstadt (Isabeau, queen of France) was an elaborately conceived set piece to reassure the public that she was no threat to the king’s sovereignty; to emphasize her role as an accessible mediatrix between the king and his people.27 Isabeau’s inaugural triumphal entry into Paris to herald her coronation ceremony was held in 1389,28 some three years after her hasty marriage to Charles VI in Amiens on 17 July 1385.29 In reality, by the time of her ceremonial ‘queening’, Isabeau had been in and out of Paris on various occasions and had presented Charles VI with two children, prince Charles (b. 25/09/1386 d. 28/12/1386) and princess Jeanne (b. 14/06/1388),30 with princess Isabelle well and truly on the way.31 The coronation of Yolande, infanta of Aragon, queen of Sicily-Jerusalem, was completely different. While married to a cadet prince of the house of 26

M-J. Pinet, Christine de Pisan (1364-1430) Etude Biographique et Littéraire, Slatkin Reprints, Geneva, 2011 [Honoré Champion, Paris, 1927], 29. While Pinet’s work was first published in 1927, it remains one of the most objective and detailed biographical works on the life and works of Christine de Pizan. Pinet’s work does not appear in the bibliographies of either Tracy Adams or Karen Green in the works mentioned here. However, Green has acknowledged the worth of Pinet’s research elsewhere. 27 T. Adams, The Life and Afterlife of Isabeau of Bavaria, The Johns Hopkins UP, Baltimore, 2010, 106. 28 M. Pintoin, Chronique de Religieux de Saint-Denys, 3 vols., M. Bellaguet and B. Guenée (eds.), Editions du Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques, Paris, 1994, vol. I, bk. X, ch. VII, 611-15, (RSD from here onwards), Cf. Jean Froissart, Chroniques livres III and IV, P. Ainsworth and A. Varvaro (eds.), Librairie Générale Française, Paris, 2004, 348-365. 29 RSD, i, bk. VI, ch. 5, 360-361. 30 Jeanne did not survive infancy, she died in 1390. 31 Isabelle was born on 9 November 1389. She would become the child-queen consort of Richard II of England, and upon Richard’s death married the poet-duke, Charles d’Orléans, son of Charles VI’s brother, Louis, duke of Orléans.

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Valois, Louis II, duke of Anjou, he held titular rights over the kingdoms of Naples and Jerusalem; the implication of this requires a brief explanation.32 The coronation ceremony conformed to the one revised by Robert I, the Wise, of Naples in 1309. In Robert’s worldview, Neapolitan kings and queens were a category apart, particularly in regard to the spiritual sphere and the distinctive nature of Neapolitan queenly authority. Neapolitan coronations copied the ordines and liturgy of an imperial enthronement, painstakingly adapted to exalt the figure of the pope as monarch - allowing the temporal power’s (Robert’s) subjection to the papacy to be displayed in relief. The Neapolitan state as papal vassal was transformed into a model of world order; the pontifical theocracy meant that in the pyramid of power, the kings and queens of Naples ranked above other sovereigns. And, with this exalted ranking flowed distinctive spiritual advantages due to their proximity to the supreme hierarch. Robert transformed a weakness, obedience to papal authority, into a strength by emphasizing and ritualizing his (and his queen’s) proximity to the pope. 33 Angevin kings and queens considered themselves to be sacred in the most literal sense.34 With a little retouching, Robert’s coronation text of 1309 was the one followed for both the coronation of Louis II in 1389 and Yolande’s in 1400. The ‘queening’ ceremony requires further explanation; unlike the crowning of queens-consort in France and elsewhere, both the kings and the queens of Naples-Sicily were anointed with the sacred unction during the sacramentum.35 Robert reworked his coronation (and his queen’s) so that it resembled both imperial and ecclesiastical enthronements. By virtue of his coronation, in recognition of his proximity to the supreme hierarch, Robert became cardinal honoris causa.36 Robert’s innovation overturned received traditions of the pontifical court as well as those of other ‘queening’ ceremonies in western European Christendom. His promotion of Sancia, anointed with the sacred unction 32

On All Saints 1389 Clement VII anointed him with great solemnity in Avignon with Louis’s cousin, Charles VI, in attendance. RSD, i, bk. X, ch. 9, 623 -631. 33 J-P. Boyer, ‘Sacre et théocratie. Le cas des rois de Sicile Charles II (1289) et Robert (1309)’, Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, vol. lxxxix, 1995, 195. 34 J-P. Boyer, ‘ La “foi monarchique”: royaume de Sicile et Provence (mi-XIIIemi-XIVe siècles)’, in Le forme della propaganda politica nel Due e nel Trecento. Relazioni tenute al convegno internazionale di Trieste (2-5 marzo 1993), P. Commarosano (ed.), Ecole Française de Rome, Rome, 1994, 89. 35 G. Del Guidice, Codice diplomatico del regno di Carlo I d’Angiò e di Carlo II d’Angiò, i, Stamperia Della R. Università, Naples, 1863, xxxiii, 87-9, cited by Boyer, ‘Sacre et théocratie’, 217. 36 Ibid.

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like the king, was not disassociated with the recognized importance of the blood that she was to bring to the union: the first prayer said over her asked God to vouchsafe her fecundity.37 Yolande of Aragon’s coronation on her wedding day followed Robert’s ordines for the coronation of Queen Sancia.

France’s Bonne-mère Charles of Ponthieu, fifth born and third surviving son of Charles VI of France and Isabeau of Bavaria, greeted a world in turmoil on 22 February 1403. He had the great misfortune to be born into interesting times both domestically and politically; his father had suffered episodes of madness from the summer of 1392, which had intensified from 1395. According to Pius II, Charles VI sometimes believed that he was made of glass and would not suffer anyone to approach or touch him lest he shatter.38 At other times he could name and recognize all his officers and servants past and present but not know his wife Isabeau or his children - even when they were brought to him. He believed that his standard consisted of a lion skewered upon a sword, that he was not Charles VI, king of France but a simple fellow called Georges. He was often repulsed and agitated by the presence of his wife and begged his courtiers to find out what she wanted and to send her away. However, Charles adored his sister-in-law, Valentine Visconti, and wanted her with him always. Whether absent or present, Charles VI referred to Valentine as his soeur bien-aimée (dearly beloved sister).39

37

Ibid, p. 245. Sancia of Mallorca was the daughter of James II of Mallorca and Esclaramunda of Foix; her grandparents were James I of Aragon and Jolánta of Hungary. Boyer refers to Charles V’s ‘Coronation Book’ wherein specific prayers were written and recited to bolster the fertility of Jeanne de Bourbon. Jeanne did not, however, receive anointing with the sacred unction, and her position as subordinate (yet complementary) to the king was emphasized. Cf. C. Richter, ‘The Queen in Charles V’s “Coronation Book”: Jeanne de Bourbon and the “Ordo ad reginam benedicenda”, Viator Medieval and Renaissance Studies, vol. 8, 1977, 255-298. 38 ‘Existimabat nonnunquam se vitreum esse, nec tangi patiebatur.’ Enea Silvio Piccolomini (Pie II), I Commentarii, 2 vols., ed. Luigi Totario , Adelphi Edizioni, Milan, 1984, i, 1056. 39 RSD, vol. I, bk. XVI, ch. 20, 405. Cf. Z. Rohr, ‘True Lies and Strange Mirrors: The uses and abuses of rumour, propaganda and innuendo during the closing stages of the Hundred Years War’ in R. Gibbons (ed.), Queenship, Reputation and Gendered Power, forthcoming.

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Christine de Pizan’s Epistre à la Reine Christine de Pizan’s remarkable literary career grew out of necessity upon the unexpected death in 1389 of her husband, Etienne de Castel, secretary and notary to Charles VI; he succumbed to an epidemic while travelling with the king in Beauvais. While Christine had been something of an amateur poet for some time, the death of her husband (and of her father, Thomas, at around the same time)40 meant she had to live by her wits and her pen. Christine’s career as a professional woman of letters commenced in about 1399, and it seems that her earliest supporter was the king’s brother, Louis of Orleans. She speaks of this prince in particularly unaffected terms,41 and Christine’s earliest verse forays had been circulating around the courts of Isabeau and Louis a few short years after the death of Etienne de Castel.42 Another of Christine’s earliest and most dedicated supporters, one who kept up with all the latest from her pen, was Valentine Visconti’s father, Gian Galeazzo, duke of Milan.43 From 1405, during the darkest days for the house of France, Christine’s approach changed from the lyrical and merely literary into the historical, philosophical and determinedly political.44 Christine became a woman with a mission; she threw herself in the midst of France’s woes and achieved a total metamorphosis from courtly poet and fashionable versifier to the moralist, political writer and front-line journalist of her time.45 While some have attempted to portray Christine’s works of this period, La Cité des Dames and the Livre des trois vertus, and the Epistle à la Reine as being specifically designed by Christine to buttress Isabeau of Bavaria’s sovereignty as France’s regent and only hope for reconciliation,46 I cannot concur as this is insufficiently supported by the texts in question. 40

Thomas de Pizan died between 1384 and 1389. Pinet, Christine, 54. 42 Ibid, 38. 43 Ibid, 60 and n.1. Gian Galeazzo extended an extremely lucrative and tempting offer to Christine to establish herself at his court in Milan. It seems that he was an avid consumer of her output who could appreciate her works and publicize them to like-minded literary patrons. 44 In stating this I do not discount that Christine’s writings during the famous querelle du Roman de la Rose was the work of a dedicated woman of letters, moralist and thinker, rather that Christine found her true calling and preferred patronage from 1404. 45 Pinet, Christine, 126. 46 Adams, The Life and Afterlife, and K. Green, ‘Could Christine de Pizan be the author of the « Advis à Isabelle de Bavière », BNF MS fr. 1223, Cahiers de recherches médiévales, vol. 14, 2007, 211-229. 41

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I propose a more measured reading, ever conscious that a revised ‘misreading’ can very easily become a ‘misleading’ if one gives in to one’s enthusiasm for a cause.47 I would argue that Isabeau, in her roles of political motherhood and mediatrix in the battle for France, was shown wanting despite an early positive attempt at reconciliation. Before turning to the Epistre, some factual contextualization of Isabeau’s rise and fall is required. From about the end of 1398, Burgundy (Philip the Bold) and Orleans had been locked in an increasingly bitter struggle for sovereignty over the throne of the ‘absent’ Charles VI. The dukes of Berry and Bourbon had attempted to reconcile the rivals with patchy success. By the end of 1401, Paris was divided along factional lines and a pitched battle seemed the only likely outcome. Isabeau, caught between the two belligerents; her husband mad and her children too young to make a stand, found herself in the thick of the fight. With the blessing of the dukes of Berry and Bourbon she attempted to mediate, and with the assistance of Louis II, king of Sicily, and Berry and Bourbon, when once again the king’s sanity was missing in action, Isabeau managed to strike a balance between the two warring parties, unexpectedly reaping rewards that would serve her own designs. Both Burgundy and Orleans believed they had the queen’s support, so they left the reins of government in her hands confident in the ‘certainty’ that each could count on her for future advancement. On 14 January 1402 Isabeau held a Great Council, convoking the rivals as well as Louis II of Anjou, king of Sicily and Jerusalem, Berry and Bourbon, the Constable of France, Louis of Sancerre, the chancellor, Arnaud of Corbie, the patriarch of Alexandria, Simon of Cramaud and sundry prelates and high barons. By the end of proceedings Burgundy and Orleans both realized that neither had pulled any advantage from Isabeau, and the Crown stabilized through the workings of its queen; Isabeau had blazoned her position as queen-medriatrix in the interests of her subjects.48 By 16 March 1402, Charles VI regained his senses and, as a result of Isabeau’s success, was sufficiently ‘present’ to accord her ‘full power and

47

Adams for one perhaps has allowed herself to fall into this trap. In seeking to redress the black legend of queen Isabeau she has, in the words of one reviewer, ‘[gone] too far in her defense of Isabeau, trying to justify and rationalize all of her actions and simultaneously constructing a queen “responsible for maintaining peace and order, but powerless to enforce the agreements”.’ N. Silleras-Fernández, ‘Tracy Adams: The Life and Afterlife of Isabeau of Bavaria’. (Review Article), Speculum: A Journal of Medieval Studies, vol. 87 no. 1, January 2012, 176-7. 48 Thibault, Isabeau, 293-305.

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authority’49 to act for him during his ‘absences’. By Charles’s sovereign authority, Isabeau found herself absolute mistress of affairs for an extended period primarily because the choice of counsellors was to be left to her.50 Her peace was not to hold, and things started to unwind with frightening consequences. Yet, with so many interested outside parties competing for Charles’s sovereignty, Isabeau was still the obvious choice to act in the best interests of the Crown. The king bolstered her authority, and handed Isabeau control of the financial administration of the kingdom. However, coinciding with the appearance of her beloved elder brother, Louis of Bavaria, instead of working for the health of the kingdom, Isabeau began to use her authority to enrich herself and her natal family. She seemed henceforth incapable or disinclined to implement necessary reforms, and set about emptying the treasury.51 Michael Jones observes that, despite the expensive households of queens-consort such as Philippa, wife of Edward III, and the estranged wife of Edward II, queen Isabella, as well as Henry IV’s second wife, Jeanne of Navarre, no contemporary queen held a candle to the expenditure of Isabeau of Bavaria.52 In the months that followed his determination to grant Isabeau full executive powers, Charles might have started to suspect that Isabeau had set about advancing the interests of the Wittelsbach clan instead of seeing to the health of his kingdom.53 By letters dated 26 April 1403, Charles VI accorded Isabeau the presidency of the royal council but he now stipulated that executive 49 ‘…plein povoir et auctorité…et voult, disait Charles VI, que désores soient faictes lectres de sa puissance [de la Reine]’ et mande à touz ses subgiez, de quelque auctorité qu’ilz soient, que en ce lui obéissent.’ L. Douët-d’Arcq, Choix des pieces inédites relatives à la règne de Charles VI, 2 vols., J. Renouard, Paris, 1873-4, i, 227-239. 50 Thibault, Isabeau, 306. 51 Ibid, 311. Isabeau funded the marriage of her brother Louis of Bavaria to Anne de Bourbon-La Marche to a magnificent extent, supplying him with an impressive dowry from the public purse. Furthermore, she stands accused of squirrelling away vast sums from tax receipts either to aid her flight from France should things have taken a nasty turn or to enrich the Wittelsbach’s fortunes. Cf. J. De Pétigny, ‘Charte inédite et secrète de la reine Isabelle de Bavière’, Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Ecole des Chartes, 1849, x, 329-338. 52 M. Jones, ‘Between France and England: Jeanne de Navarre, duchess of Brittany and queen of England’, in Between France and England: Politics, Power and Society in Late Medieval Brittany, M. Jones (ed.), Variorum, Aldershot, 2003, 12 and n. 55. 53 R. Famiglietti, Royal Intrigue: Crisis at the Court of Charles VI 1392-1420, AMS Press, New York, 1986, 28.

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authority was to be shared between the Isabeau, the dukes and courtiers of the royal blood, the constable, the chancellor and ‘how ever many councillors the situation required’.54 The majority and ‘sounder part’ of the council now had the final word on matters of state, and only judgements of the greatest import were subject to the king’s personal assent.55 The conflict between Burgundy and Orleans calmed, and Isabeau set to living large on the royal treasury. Her predecessor, Jeanne of Bourbon, only worked through some 36,000 livres tournois annually; Isabeau managed to spend her way through some 60,000 livres tournois,56 and was continually on the look-out for ways to increase her liquidity.57 While she had a remarkable level of authority at her disposal during this period, Isabeau was preoccupied only with employing these to access the kingdom’s finances. On 27 April 1404, Burgundy, her mentor and protector died suddenly during a spring epidemic; Isabeau and Orleans found themselves liberated from supervision, unfettered and at centre stage of France’s politics. They did not reckon, however, upon Philip’s ambitious successor to the post of duke of Burgundy, his son, John the Fearless. With Philip the Bold, out of the picture, Isabeau turned away from her principal role as consort to Charles VI, uncoupling herself from him in all 54 AN J 402, pièce 13 and Ordonnances des Rois de France de la troisième Race, D-F. Secousse (ed.), Imprimerie Royale, Paris, 1750, viii, 577. 55 S. McCormick, ‘Mirrors for a Queen: A Letter from Christine de Pizan on the Eve of Civil War’, The Quarterly Journal of Speech, vol. 94 no. 3, 2008, 277. Gibbons sees the 1403 modification in rather a different light; R. Gibbons, ‘Isabeau de Bavière: reine de France ou “lieutenant-général” du royaume?’ in Femmes de pouvoir, femmes politiques durant les derniers siècles du Moyen Age et au cours de la première Renaissance, E. Bousmar, J. Dumont, A. Marchandisse and B. Schnerb (eds.), De Boeck, Bruxelles, 2012, 109-112. 56 Thibault, Isabeau, 386. Cf. M. Rey, Les finances royales sous Charles VI: les causes du deficit 1388-1413, Paris, SEVPEN, 1965, principally 178-180 for Isabeau’s incomes and outgoings. Rey points out that Isabeau’s personal household numbered a minimum of thirty-six women and some thirty men, emphasizing that her stables alone needed twenty-six people to keep them going in 1406. From 1411-1413, to be adequately served, the queen required the presence of fifteen ‘dames de la cour’ including four German ‘demoiselles d’honneur’. Rey, Les finances, 188-191; cited by Jones, ‘Between France and England’, 12. 57 Adams has said that it was ‘Isabeau’s money’ to spend. I disagree, the treasury was not, I believe, Isabeau’s to spend according to her desires and impulses. Charles VI married Isabeau in haste, without marriage contract or dowry; as queen of France she had a responsibility to act in the interests of Charles, his kingdom and his subjects.

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but name at some point in 1404;58 things started to unravel for her queenly prestige, rumours59 circulated and churchmen60 did not hold back from censuring her court and household. Isabeau trampled over the primary rules of successful political motherhood; to keep oneself tidy and above reproach and work for the best interests of the ruling dynasty. Isabeau’s reputation was for the besmirching, and by mid-1405 whisperings to the effect that she was neglecting her children had reached the king.61 Throughout 1405 the major topic of conversation was the queen, and by 15 August 1405 not only was Isabeau suspect but many of the ladies of her court were also accused of misconduct.62 In 1405/6, the Parisian lampoonist-author of Le Songe Véritable castigates Isabeau on the themes of her greed and the unbridled luxury of her court; he makes no mention, however, of the private morals of the queen.63 It is at this critical juncture, when Isabeau’s potential as an impartial mediator in the Crown’s interests and avatar of political motherhood seems to have dried up, that Christine de Pizan penned her Epistre a la Royne de France. She seems to have felt that had Isabeau been a more skilful operator, one able to focus upon a coherent end game, such a crucible might have rendered her legend authentically golden. In her Epistre, Christine stresses the themes of duty,64 legacy and enduring

58

Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantôme, Œuvres completes de Pierre de Bourdeilles, seigneur de Brantôme, (13 vols.), P. Merimée and L. Lacour de la Pijardière (eds.), Klaus Reprint, Nendein, 1977, ii, 357-358. 59 C. Cannon, Christine de Pizan: Her Life and Works, Persea Books, New York, 1984, 148-149. 60 On 5 May 1405 an Augustinian monk attached to the house of Orleans, Jacques Legrand, gave a sermon in the presence of Isabeau and the king urging that she reform the morals of her court. RSD, ii, bk. XXVI, ch. VII, pp. 267-275, and on 7 November 1405 Jean Gerson, chancellor of Notre-Dame, pronounced his sermon, Vivat Rex, urging the queen, the princes and the court to work towards restoring the health of the king and his kingdom. RSD, ii, bk. XXVI, ch. XXI, 345-347. 61 RSD, ii, bk. XXVI, ch. XII, p. 294. 62 ‘Toute cette année 1405, on ne cessa de “parler de la royne”, Pinet, Christine, 130. 63 Thibault, Isabeau, 416. 64 ‘…that it behoves a high princess and lady to be the mediator of a peace treaty (…qu’il appartient a haute princesse et dame estre moyennerresse de la traictié de paix’). J. Wiseman, Christine de Pizan: The Epistle of the Prison of Human Life with An Epistle to the Queen of France and Lament on the Evils of the Civil War, Garland, New York and London, 1984, 77.

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reputation.65 Hers is a didactic statement on what Isabeau’s preoccupation ought to be at this moment of political crisis. By employing the rhetoric of exemplary historical figures and their opposites, Christine holds an intimate mirror to the queen in which she might reflect upon her current place in the midst of civil conflict.66 Christine is engaged in finding a cure for France’s ills; any medicine to put an end to the troubles. Isabeau will be the eternally remembered in chronicles hereafter as a good queen and wise mother if she heals France.67 Christine prods Isabeau rhetorically to remember her core duty as mother to her people, ‘…just as the Queen of heaven, Mother of God, is called mother of all Christendom, so must be said and called any wise and good queen, mother and comforter, advocate of her subjects and her people.’68 An added preface to the Epistle records that others had in fact worked together to avert the looming civil war: ‘[So it happened that God] because of the help of the kings of Sicily and of Navarre, the dukes of Berry and Bourbon [and] with them the king’s council that good peace was established, the combatants from one side and the other dispersed without any harm resulting from their departure.69 In August 1405 Louis II, king of Sicily had embarked upon his longdelayed Italian campaign when he received a pressing invitation from Charles VI, dispatched by Isabeau and/or Orléans, to turn around his impressive force of arms and head immediately for Melun without passing

65

‘…that in eternal remembrance of you, you would be remembered commanded, and praised in the chronicles and noble tales of France, twice crowned with honours, with love, presents, graces and humble deep gratitude from your loyal subjects (…c’est qu’en perpetuelle memoire de vous, ramenteue, recommandee et louee es croniques et nobles gestes de France, doublement couronnee de honneur seriez, avec l’amour, graces, presens et humbles grans merciz de voz loyaulz subgiez’). Ibid, 75. 66 McCormick, ‘Mirrors’, 284. 67 Wiseman, Christine de Pizan, xxv. 68 ‘…tout ainsi comme la Royne du Ciel, mere de Dieu, est appellee mere de toute christienté, doit ester dicte et appellee toute saige et bonneroyne, mere et conffortarresse, et advocate de ses subjiez et de son pueple.’ Ibid, 78-79. 69 ‘…Paris et tout le royaume furent en grant aventure d’estre destruis à celle fois, de Dieu n’y eust remedié. Aussi fist-il, car à l’aide des roys de Secile et de Navarre et des ducs de Berry et de Bourbon avecques eulx le conseil de roy bonne paix y fu trouvée, et se departirent les gens d’armes d’un costé et d’autre sans nul mal faire à leur partement.’ A. Kennedy, ‘Christine de Pizan’s “Epistre à la reine” (1405)’, Revue des langues romanes, vol. 92 no. 2, 1988, 253-264, 259.

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through Paris.70 Here is another piece of evidence that the peace of 1405 was not of Isabeau’s making; she is not named or singled out for comment. Isabeau is acknowledged as merely being the recipient of an Epistle sent to her by Christine when she had fled to Melun in the company of monseigneur d’Orleans.71 This seems pretty odd, for generally speaking, big political players and protagonists are almost always marked out and named – in this instance Isabeau is not mentioned either as presiding over the king’s council or as a participant working to ensure God’s remedy. From her heady position as an honest broker for the cause of France in the first years of the fifteenth century, Isabeau’s power gradually slipped away. By the time Christine set about composing La Lamentacion sur les maux de la guerre civile, an epistle this time addressed to the princes of the Orleans faction and directed at John of Berry, Isabeau seems no longer at the forefront of her concerns. 72 Isabeau does, however, rate a wake-up call: no longer formally addressed as vous, ‘most high powerful and revered lady’73 but rather more familiarly as tu, ‘crowned Queen of France, are you still sleeping?’74 Christine asks of Isabeau, ‘And who prevents you from restraining now this side of your kin and putting an end to this deadly enterprise? ’75 She continues: ‘Do you not see the heritage of your noble children at stake? You, the mother of the noble heirs of France, Revered princess, who but you can do anything, and who will disobey your sovereignty and authority, if you rightly want to mediate peace?76

70

N. Valois, La France et le Grand Schism d’Occident Tome III, Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, Hildesheim, 1967, 409-410 and n.1. 71 ‘Next an epistle, which Christine de Pizan, who made this book, sent to the queen of France in Melun…etc (Ensuite une epistre que Christine de Pisan, qui fist ce livre, envoia à la royne de France à Meleun ou avecques elle escrit [estoit] monseigneur d’Orleans qui là faisoit grant assemblée de gens d’armes à l’encontre des ducs de Bourgoingne… ’. This preliminary material is only contained in three versions of the manuscript viz., BNF Ms. Fr. 604; Chantilly, Condé 493 and Brussels Bibliothèque Royale IV 1176. Kennedy, ‘Christine de Pizan’s “Epistre à la reine”’, 259. 72 It is dated 23rd August 1410. 73 Wiseman, Christine de Pizan, 71. 74 ‘Hé! Royne couronnee de France dors-tu adés?’ Ibid, 89. 75 ‘Et qui tu tient que tantost celle part n’affinez tenir la bride et arrester ceste mortel emprise?’ Ibid. 76 ‘Ne vois-tu en balance l’erittage de tes nobles enfans? Tu, mere des nobles hoirs de France, redoubtee princess, qui y puet que toy, ne qui sera-ce, qui ta seigneurie et auctorité desobeira, se a droit te veulx de la paix entremettre?’ Ibid.

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From her activities in the first several years of the fifteenth century it is clear that Isabeau could, when she set her mind to the task and when she had the auxiliary support of some the princes, demonstrate her potential to contribute positively to the government of the kingdom. She did not, however, have the talent or the intellectual stamina and dexterity to play the long game. From around the time of the Cabochian rebellion in 1413, Christine de Pizan seems to have given up on her sovereign queen. There are no new works addressed to Isabeau nor does Christine mention her in any of her subsequent works.77 Isabeau’s fortunes from this point were in steady decline; once she signed away France to her son-in-law, Henry V of England with the Treaty of Troyes in 1420, she disappeared into obscurity and irrelevance.

The Anonymous ‘Advis à Isabelle de Bavière’ that was not In 1866 Auguste Vallet78 published an unedited document, one he held was addressed to Isabeau of Bavaria, mother of Charles VII.79 He claimed that it dated from 1434, the year before her death. At the time of its publication, Vallet conceded that many would be shocked to learn that it had been addressed to Isabeau because of her tarnished reputation among the more noble queens of France. Vallet is on pretty shaky ground when he states courageously that his attribution of the treatise ‘est parfaitement exacte’. He bases his view upon an early sixteenth century addition to the only parchment register containing the Advis, which eventually found its way into François I’s private library. It is labelled, ‘Traicté à Madame la Regente pour le gouvernement de la maison du Roy et du royaulme de France (Treatise to Madam Regent, for the government of the king’s household and the kingdom of France)’. On the same page as this post-attribution was added a later comment: ‘Madame la Régente estoit Ysabel de Bavière et mere du roy Charles Septième (Madam Regent was ‘Ysabel de Bavière’, queen of

77

Ibid, 151. A. Vallet dit Vallet de Viriville was a distinguished archivist-palaeographer concerned with the deciphering and interpretation of historical texts, and a professor at the Ecole des Chartes. In 1858, for undisclosed reasons, he was obliged to suppress mention of ‘de Viriville’ from his name. He died in 1868. 79 M. Deprez and A. Vallet, ‘Advis à Isabelle de Bavière. Mémoire politique adressé à cette reine vers 1434’, in Bibliothèque de l’école de chartes, xxvii, 1866, 128-157. 78

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France and mother of his [royal] highness king Charles VII’), bearing the king’s stamp, Bibliothecæ regiæ, from the seventeenth century.80 In the original text of the document, the only authentic attribution is contained in the treatise’s opening lines: ‘Most excellent and powerful princess, and our most revered lady, mother of our sovereign lord the king, in whom all our Hope to be relieved of the ruin [and desolation] of the kingdom has been bound for some time and to whom it is still bound.’81 Nowhere does the writer mention Isabeau of Bavaria. This was not the first time that Vallet had got things wrong, he was howled down by Charles Samaran in the 1920s for mis-attributing the authorship of the Chronique de la Pucelle to Guillaume Cousinot de Montreuil and for claiming that Cousinot had corrected an extant version of the chronicle originally put together by his uncle, chancellor Guillaume I de Montreuil. Since the meticulous work of René Planchenault in the 1930s, the scholarly consensus has been that the Chronique was composed by Jean II Juvénal des Ursins. Planchenault pulls no punches stating that ‘[Vallet’s] conclusions have been criticized on numerous occasions and, most recently, Mr. Samaran has demonstrated their utter inanity.82 Françoise Autrand and Philippe Contamine have studied the treatise in detail, chairing a seminar on the subject, and both are convinced that the Advis was addressed to Yolande of Aragon, the publicly acknowledged Bonne-mère and political mother of Charles VII. 83 Contamine dates it around 1425, and builds a convincing and pragmatic argument that the treatise implores Yolande to act as an intermediary for a detailed agendum of reform to be presented to her son-in-law, Charles VII: ‘…only the mention of ‘the mother of our sovereign lord the king points to the 80

BNF Ms. Fr. 1223. ‘Très excellente puissante princesse, et nostre très redoubtée dame, mere de nostre souverain seigneur roy, en laquelle il est nous tous subjiez avons Esperance d’estre relevée la ruyne desolacion du royaume, qui a esté, depuis aucun temps ença, et encores est…’. Deprez and Vallet, ‘Advis’, 133. Cf. A new edition of the Avis, J-P. Boudet and E. Sené, ‘L’Avis à Yolande d’Aragon: un miroir au prince du temps de Charles VII’, in Cahiers de Recherches Médiévales et Humanistes, F. Lachaud and L. Scordia, (eds.), vol. 24, 2012, 67. 82 ‘…M. Samaran en a montré la complete inanité. René Planchenault, ‘La Chronique de la Pucelle’, in Bibliothèque de l’Ecole de Chartes, vol. XCII, 1932, 55-104, 56. Cf. C. Samaran, La Chronique latine inédite de Jean Chartier, xxxvi, Champion, Paris, 1928, 36-37. 83 P. Contamine and F. Autrand, ‘Réforme de l’Etat et prise de pouvoir dans le royaume de France, d’après deux traits du XVe siècle’, in Groupe de recherche Les Pouvoirs, XIIIe-XVIe siècles, Lettre II, ENS de Jeunes Filles, Paris, 1984, 1025. 81

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possible identity of the addressee – no specific person is mentioned. On numerous occasions in his official acts, Charles refers to Yolande of Aragon as ‘his very cherished and well-loved mother the queen of Sicily’ (‘nostre trés chiere et aimée mere la royne de Sicile’) and ‘our said good mother’ (‘nostre dite bonne mere’).84It is illogical therefore to think of Isabeau of Bavaria, the [birth] mother of Charles VII as the intended recipient of the Advis, we should look instead to his mother-in-law (his bonne-mère) Yolande of Aragon. If we follow Philippe Contamine’s dating, the Advis was composed during the one of the most critical moments of the final stages of the Hundred Years War when Charles VII was unable to come to an understanding with Burgundy to recover his heritage from the hands of the English. Notwithstanding Charles’s failures on this front, in 1425 Yolande engineered a durable political and marital alliance with influential duke of Brittany, Jean V, one which eventually healed the breach and opened the way for effective negotiation with the duke of Burgundy. To engage with the process of recovery, the author of the Advis turns to Yolande of Aragon, queen of Jerusalem and Sicily, bonne-mère of the king; the pre-eminent member of his council.85 Women were not generally accorded a place much less the presidency on the king’s council. Isabeau of Bavaria, in the case of Charles VI’s ‘absences’, and Yolande of Aragon, as chief counsel to Charles VII, were remarkable exceptions to this tradition. Pierre-Roger Gaussin states that ‘the presence of women on [the king’s] Council was an exceptional occurrence: 2 women out of 282 councillors, and for one of these, Joan of Arc,86 it is a question of a single attendance. The other female ‘councillor’ was Yolande of Aragon, and she

84

This was Charles’s habitual and formal mode of address to Yolande, first as dauphin later king, and it persisted throughout her lifetime, at the time of her death in 1442, and indeed beyond it. Cf. Ordonnances des Rois de France de la Troisième Race, Vilevault and de Bréquigny, (eds.), Imprimerie Royale, Paris, 1782, x-xiii. 85 J-P. Boudet, ‘“Pour commencer bonne maniere de gouverner ledit royaume”. Un miroir du prince du XVe siècle: l’avis à Yolande d’Aragon’, in Le prince au miroir de la literature politique de l’Antiquité aux Lumières, F. Lachaud and L. Scordia (eds.), Publications des Universités de Rouen et du Havre, Mont-Saint-Aignan, 2007, 280. 86 Joan of Arc only made it to the big table on 10 July 1429. Robert le Maçon, Yolande’s primary stalwart, inserted her; the motive was that she give her ‘advice’ (or rather, support Yolande’s strategy) to unblock a stalemate on council. Journal du siège d’Orléans, 1428-1429, P. Charpentier and C. Cuissard (eds.), H. Herluison, Orléans, 1896, 109-110.

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was most decidedly an authentic councillor’.87 That Yolande had great influence over the king and his council, and was revered by many of Charles’s subjects cannot be denied, even in the absence of an unbroken chain of documentation. Yolande worked proactively to increase her influence and prestige from the time of her return from Provence in the summer of 1423. In 1427/8 a plan to convoke the general Estates in Poitiers was put forward by the exiled Constable, Arthur de Richement and his allies. It sought to remove the influence of the Grand Chamberlain, Georges de la Trémoïlle, and to place the security of the kingdom under the guardianship of Yolande and her advisers.88 The Advis clearly dovetails with her activities and conciliar involvement at this time.89 From the time of the Burgundy’s attack upon Paris in 1418,90 and definitively with the signing of the Treaty of Troyes in 1420, Isabeau ceased to be any kind of mother, political or otherwise, to her son, the dauphin Charles. Rachel Gibbons posits that ‘Isabeau still cultivated some sort of maternal relationship with her son Charles’, citing a letter from him to her dated 21 December 1419. Isabeau might have hoped for some sort of rapprochement between her son Charles and the duke of Burgundy; on the same day the dauphin Charles’s chancellor91 wrote to Régnier Pot recording that the dauphin had received Isabeau’s missives ‘de bon cuer’ (with good heart). Notwithstanding this final blush of maternal solicitude, with the signing of the Treaty of Troyes, Isabeau’s maternal credentials with respect to Charles fizzled out. Karen Green breezes by such historical realities as she primes the pump of her primary argument; ‘Could Christine de Pizan be the author of the “Advis à Isabelle de Bavière”?’ Given the actual historical context of 87

P-R. Gaussin, ‘Les conseillers de Charles VII (1418-1461). Essaie de politologie historique’, in Forschungen zur westeuropaïschen Geschichte, vol. 10, 1983, 67130. 88 AN P1338/3, no. 114 bis. 89 A point of view supported by Boudet and Sené, ‘L’Avis à Yolande d’Aragon’, 51-84. 90 There is an interesting document in the collection of the Bibliothèque Arsenal, Ms Fr. 3842, Guerres et conspirations faites entre les proches. 16-17. It details the conflict between the dauphin Charles, later Charles VII, and his birth mother, Isabeau of Bavaria, from the time of Burgundy’s sack of Paris in 1418 to the signing of the Treaty of Troyes in 1420. 91 At this point in time the Angevin knight, Robert Le Maçon filled this post (from 1416, resigning in 1422). He was succeeded by Martin Gouges and later, Renault of Chartres. Robert Le Maçon had been successively chancellor for Louis II of Anjou and for Isabeau of Bavaria (chancellor, later major-domo) from January 1414-June 1416.

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the Advis, why on earth would Charles VII either in 1434, or indeed in 1425, need the relief that only Isabeau could provide as an agent of reform and reconciliation? By these dates Isabeau was an irrelevance politically, and any claim to the contrary makes no logical sense: Isabeau was the author of most of Charles’s misfortunes. Charles had the security and the support of his bonne-mère, Yolande of Aragon, an adept and committed political mother who realized that her best interests lay in the achievement of his. Green takes Vallet’s discredited attribution at face value and from this point of departure goes on to suggest alternative re-readings.92 The Advis is most interesting because it articulates the very reforms that were undertaken by Charles VII and Yolande of Aragon during the period 1438-1439. However, its central ideas and origins might reach even farther back into Yolande’s childhood and adolescence to a time when her Aragonese natal House’s influential Franciscan adviser, Francesc Eiximenis, developed his political ideas on government; authority as an office and duty, in treatises such as his Dotzè llibre de regiment dels prínceps e de comunitats apellat crestià. In Dotzè II, Eiximenis lays down eight essential concerns for the attention of the prince presaging many suggestions contained in the anonymous Advis.93 Furthermore, the central thesis of Advis reposes upon many of the ideas expressed by reformminded writers such as Yolande’s and Charles’s secretary (ambassador, humanist thinker and practitioner), Alain Chartier in works such as his Quadrilogue Invectif.94 Perhaps the most fascinating feature of the Advis is that while it discusses all manner of reforms, and implores the king’s mother to act as an intermediary on behalf of an extensive reform

92

Green’s enthusiastic paper is an example of revisionist over-reach, which sheds a forgiving yet distorting light upon players such as Isabeau of Bavaria, and episodes such as the Treaty of Troyes. While Green is an academic of some standing with an impressive publication list, she is not an historian: her primary discipline is philosophy with a particular interest in literature and women’s ideas. 93 F. Eiximenis, Dotzè llibre del Crestià II, 2 vols., C. Wittlin et al (eds.), Girona, Collegi Universitari de Girona, 1986, i, ch. 493, 59. Cf. J-P. Barraqué, ‘Les Idées politiques de Francesc Eiximenis’, Le Moyen Age, 2008/3, vol. cxiv, 531-556 and D. Viera and J. Piqué, ‘Francesc Eiximenis i els reis medieval de França ‘, Actes del Dotzè Col.loqui Internacional de Llengua i Literatura Catalanes Volum II, Abadia de Montserrat, Barcelona, 2003, 23-30. 94 All of which leads me to wonder if, in the context of her power and influence consolidation in the mid-1420s, Yolande of Aragon commissioned the Advis from one of the gifted writers within her sphere of influence. I have, however, no concrete proof to support such an enticing possibility.

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agendum, the word ‘reform’ is never mentioned.95 This is in stark contrast to John the Fearless, duke of Burgundy’s durable propaganda that preached his self-fashioned persona as the reforming prince in a corrupt government from 1404-1419. In October 1439, having ended civil conflict in France in 1435 (on paper at least) with the signing of the Treaty of Arras and the subsequent fracturing of the cause of Henry VI in France by the summer of 1439, Charles VII convened a General Estates in Orleans. They were the first and last Estates of his long reign, and they were co-presided by his bonnemère, Yolande of Aragon, ‘royne de Cecille’. The objective was to discuss and to initiate the recovery of the kingdom and to put in place measures to ensure the peace, justice and policing of the realm.96 A far-reaching edict on army reform and a permanent system of taxation to underwrite a professional royal army was proclaimed on 2 November 1439.97 Henceforth it would be the sole prerogative of the king to police the kingdom, to organize armies to defend it, and to levy taxation to fund it; control of the kingdom was to be centralized. In assessing the influence of the Advis upon the 1439 reforms we must not lose sight of the fact that in Aragon, Yolande’s natal home, the centralization of military, fiscal and regal authority had been initiated by her ancestor Peter the Great in the thirteenth century. To her such a system might have seemed obvious; tried and true rather than a freshly minted French innovation.98 The Orleans’s Estates were probably Yolande’s last official and public involvement in the affairs of France. While Charles VII 95

A. Chartier, Le Quadrilogue Invectif, F. Bouchet (ed.), Honoré Champion Editeur, Paris, 2002. Cf. Gauvard, ‘L’Engagement politique des écrivains’, 115120. Contamine points out that the really remarkable thing about Chartier’s work, and the Advis, is the total absence of the ‘r’ word: reform. Even in the political writings of Jean II Juvénal des Ursins the occurrence of the word ‘reform’ is strictly circumscribed. P. Contamine, Des Pouvoirs en France 1300-1500, Presses de L’Ecole Normale Supérieure, Paris, 1992, 46. 96 G-J. Le Bouvier dit Berry, Les Chroniques du roi Charles VII par Gilles le Bouvier dit le Hérault Berry, H. Courteault, L. Celier and M-H. de Pommerol (eds.), Librairie C. Klincksiek, Paris, 1979, 204-208. 97 Ordonnances, xiii, 306. 98 See above for observations regarding the influence and writings of Francesc Eiximenis. It would be interesting too to compare the possible influence of the Siete Partidas of Alfonso X of Castile upon the Advis, particularly the second volume of his work, Medieval Government: The World of Kings and Warriors in Las Siete Partidas: Volume 2 Medieval Government The World of Kings and Warriors, Alfonso X of Castile, S. Scott (trans.) and R. Burns (ed.), University of Pennsylvania Press, Pennsylvania, 2001.

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was thirty-six years of age at the time of these Estates, far from being removed from the affairs of state, Yolande of Aragon continued to play a primordial role as principal adviser to the king and guarantor of his sovereignty, co-presiding the assembly. Her job as Charles’s political mother was achieved; she had managed his metamorphosis from le petit roi des Bourges to Charles VII le Victorieux, the first manifestation of an absolute monarch of a unified France. In deploying her astute diplomacy, her extended networks, her political brinksmanship, military force and celestial intervention in the shape of Joan of Arc, Yolande of Aragon had served Charles VII le Bien Servi (the Well Served) extremely well. Isabeau of Bavaria was not an enemy of the public or the Crown; she was, however, hamstrung by self-interest and her personal survival to the exclusion of just about everything else. For me, and others before me,99 she was a very ordinary woman who might have refashioned herself into something rather more superior but could not achieve a lasting transformation. She did not have what it takes to be reckoned an effective political mother to any of her numerous offspring - let alone to Charles VII. Pinet asserts that, while mediocre nature of Isabeau’s ‘moral value’ has been excavated ad nauseam, insufficient emphasis has been placed upon her intellectual incapacity, her frivolity and, above all, her weakness.100 Pintoin describes the impact of Yolande of Aragon’s first appearance upon the court of France well before she had embarked upon a career of political motherhood: This princess captivated everyone by her rare beauty, by the loveliness of her face, by the air of dignity that radiated from her entire being. She was quite simply, a veritable treasure of graces. According to the wise, nature had taken delight in making her and had showered her with all perfection; the only thing lacking was that she had not been made immortal. I will not attempt to describe her attractions here; it suffices to say that no other woman merits comparison with her.101

Louis III of Anjou, in creating his mother, Yolande, his vice-roy names her: ‘his formidable lady (metuendissima) and venerable mother (genetrix reverendissima)’. His cites ‘her life, her actions, her authentic and consummate experience (experimentum verax)’, distinguishing her as his

99

Pinet, Christine, 145. Ibid., 128. 101 RSD, i, bk. XXI, ch. VII, 773. 100

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intimate adviser; reminding us of the care she had lavished upon him during his childhood, his adolescence right up until his majority.102 Yolande’s son-in-law, Charles VII, a man not known for his effusive compliments testifies that ‘our said bonne-mère [Yolande] who, after we had been driven out of our city of Paris, received us unsparingly in her lands of Anjou and Maine and extended to us much advice, assistance, help and service drawing upon her possessions, her people and fortresses to resist the ascendancy of our enemies and adversaries the English and others’.103 Unlike Isabeau of Bavaria, Yolande of Aragon – an authentic and effective political mother - lived by the creed, ‘you turn if you want to, the lady’s not for turning’.104

102

J. de Beuil, Le Jouvencel, eds. C. Favre, L. Lecestre Paris, 1889, t. 2, 313-317 cited by Philippe Contamine, ‘Yolande d’Aragon et Jeanne d’Arc: l’improbable rencontre de deux parcours politiques’ in Femmes de Pouvoir, femmes politiques durant les derniers siècles du Moyen Âge et au cours de la première Renaissance, ed. Eric Bousmar, Editions de Boeck Université, Bruxelles, 2012, 11-30. 103 AN P 2298, 1237, cited by Albert Lecoy de la Marche, Le Roi René : sa vie, son administration ses travaux artistiques et littéraires, 2 vols., Slatkin Reprints, Geneva, 1969, t. 1, 49. 104 M. Thatcher, ‘The lady’s not for turning (“The Reason Why”)’ a speech delivered to the Conservative party conference in Brighton on Friday 10 October 1980, in Margaret Thatcher Archive (Thatcher Archive CCOPR 735/80), www.margaretthatcher.org/document/104431 consulted 28 March 2012.

CHAPTER THREE ‘THE LIMBS FAIL WHEN THE HEAD IS REMOVED’: REACTIONS OF THE BODY POLITIC OF FRANCE TO THE MADNESS OF CHARLES VI (1380-1422) RACHEL GIBBONS

The metaphor of the commonwealth as a Body Politic was a common one in medieval kingship theory: that is to say, as defined in the twelfth century by John of Salisbury, the people of a kingdom conceptualised as one human body, guided by its soul (the priesthood), ruled over by a wise head (the king) and populated by all the limbs and organs of the body, from the counselling heart; the hands and arms of the nobility and knighthood, parts of action; to the feet, representing the peasantry.1 All limbs, organs and body parts – every role in society, and the individual fulfilling it – were valuable in and of themselves, but crucially all were interdependent, performing each their specific functions, not in isolation, but for the efficient and mutually beneficial functioning of the entire body. Christine de Pizan (1364-c.1430) was an internationally-esteemed author 1

John of Salisbury, ‘Policraticus’, Book 5, chapter 2, in Medieval Political Theory – a Reader: the Quest for the Body Politic, 1100-1400, eds. C. Nederman and K. Forhan, London, Routledge, 1993, 38-9. John (c.1120-80) attributes the original idea to Plutarch but Forhan argues that this is probably a ‘polite fiction’ and that, certainly, the complexity of the corporate metaphor was John’s own creation (C. de Pizan, The Book of the Body Politic, ed. and trans. K. Forhan, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1994, Introduction, xx. The metaphor of the Body Politic featured in several major ‘mirrors for princes’ during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, including Thomas Aquinas, De Regno, Giles of Rome, De regimine principum, John Wyclif, On the Duty of the King, and Christine de Pizan, Livre du corps de policie (note 3, below).

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during her lifetime, spending most of her career writing in Paris during the reign of Charles VI and producing an astonishingly rich corpus of poetry, philosophy, biography, social commentary and political theory.2 Christine encapsulated perfectly this image of a king and all his subjects as a persona publica, a Body Politic, all dependent for their own welfare on the continued good functioning of each other. In her Livre du corps de policie, written around 1405 and dedicated to the political education of Charles VI’s then heir, the dauphin Louis (d. 1415), Christine advised that: Just as the human body is not whole, but defective and deformed when it lacks any of its members, so the body politic cannot be perfect, whole nor healthy if all the estates of which we speak are not well joined and united together … And in so far as one of them fails, the whole feels it and is deprived by it.3

If the loss or breakdown of any part of the metaphorical Body Politic would injure the whole body or community, this would particularly be the case with the head of the Body – that is to say, the king. The title quotation of this essay is taken from the Vita Edwardi Secundii (a Life of Edward II) – ‘a leaderless people is easily scattered and the limbs fail when the head is removed’4 – which takes the analogy of the body and the shared fate of its constituent parts through to its natural conclusion, given that nobody (and no body) would survive the moment of decapitation, with the rare exception of the cephalophore martyrs.5 Hence, the anonymous biographer 2

For her life and works, see most recently N. Margolis, An Introduction to Christine de Pizan, New Perspectives on Medieval Literature: Authors and Traditions, University Press of Florida, Gainesville, 2011. 3 Pizan, Body Politic, 90. 4 Vita Edwardi Secundii, ed. W. Childs, Oxford Medieval Texts, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2005, 109. 5 The most famous of these ‘head-carrier’ saints in medieval hagiology was probably Denis (also called Dionysius), one of the patron saints of France. According to the version of the legend best-known in the Middle Ages, that in the ninth-century ‘Areopagitica sive sancti Dionysii vita’ by Hilduin, Saint Denis was a third-century Bishop of Paris martyred in connection with the Decian persecution of Christians, shortly after AD 250. After his head was chopped off, Denis is said to have picked it up and walked from the execution site at Montmartre to where his cathedral now stands (a distance of around five miles), preaching a sermon the entire way. See G. Spiegel, ‘The Cult of St Denis and Capetian Kingship’, in S. Wilson (ed.), Saints and their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1983, 142-3, 160, in which she also discusses the problems of this version of the legend in comparison with the earliest fifthcentury texts.

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is arguing that, no matter his faults, the king (the head) was essential for the health and survival of the Body Politic (the whole society). This conclusion on the relationship of the head (the king) to the rest of the Body Politic arguably reflects the author of the Vita’s largely sympathetic stance towards Edward II, essentially arguing that, however bad a king might be, how injurious his actions, whatever his personal flaws, it was unthinkable for society that he could be removed. There was no choice but to leave him in place, because the consequences of trying to remove him would be fatal to all – or at least far worse than swallowing the situation and enduring him, whatever his shortcomings. Others around Edward, of course, disagreed with the Vita’s interpretation, and were prepared to topple the king, or at least not to oppose his replacement with his teenage son when the question came before Parliament in January 1327. Amongst the speakers was John Stratford, bishop of Winchester, the future Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor of England, who spoke on the theme of ‘My head is sick’ (capud meum doleo).6 Edward II’s fall was only the first of seven depositions to occur in England during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, so it is clear that actual events in real medieval kingdoms could sit awkwardly alongside a collective corpus of kingship theory texts that championed the preservation of the monarch as the head of a Body Politic, as the Body’s brain, director, and custodian of its identity. This uncomfortable contradiction was a subject that also taxed the thinking of medieval authors, and two potential resolutions to ‘sickness’ in the head of the Body Politic present themselves in the writings of Jean Froissart (c. 1337-c. 1404) and John Wyclif (c. 1320-84). Froissart was a successful chronicler, whose colourful, entertaining contemporary narratives of the Hundred Years War were widely read by the English and French chivalric classes. He was a native of the county of Hainault and spent several years in the service of Philippa of Hainault, queen of England, of Wenceslas of Brabant, and Guy of Blois. He travelled widely around Western Europe, visiting the courts of David II of Scotland, Galeazzo II Visconti of Milan and Gaston Phoebus, count of Foix, as well as spending longer periods in France and England around the courts of Charles VI and Richard II in the 1380s and 1390s.7 The challenge posed to Richard II of England over his ministers by both Parliament and members of the nobility during the 1386-8 crisis prompted 6 R. Haines, King Edward II: Edward of Caernarfon, His Life, His Reign and Its Aftermath, 1284-1330, McGill-Queen’s UP, Montreal, 2003, 189. 7 M. Jones, ‘Froissart, Jean (1337?–c.1404)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2004, accessed 26 August 2013, .

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Froissart to reflect on the imagery of the Body Politic, and the idea that there was risk of damage to every part of the Body if any of its members were defective – even (and perhaps particularly) if the diseased member was the head of the Body Politic itself. Froissart demonstrates that the metaphor was not restricted to elite academic discourse, but more popularly understood, by being able merely to remind his readers that: ‘[y]ou have often heard, that when any disorder is in the head, all the other members of the body are affected by it, and that this sickness must be purged away by some means of other’.8 Given that the head of the Body is, naturally, the king himself, the ‘sickness’ and ‘disorder’ spoken of here are Richard II’s favourites, namely Simon Burley, his childhood tutor; Michael de la Pole, duke of Suffolk; and, particularly, Robert de Vere, duke of Ireland.9 Therefore, here is presented a familiar story of ‘evil counsellors’ blamed for policy and accused of treason, not the king who sought the advice and implemented it. Froissart chooses his words carefully to blame sickness that can be purged away – outside influence – for disorder, and not ascribe blame or cause to the Body’s head, the king. However, when the severity and, most importantly, the lawfulness of Richard’s rule again was challenged in the 1390s, it led to his deposition. The king who believed himself above the laws of God and man, who broke the law rather defending it, who ‘reject[s] the common good of the multitude’ to seek his own ‘personal advantage’, as Thomas Aquinas defined it,10 became a tyrant, no matter his status as a sanctified monarch – his illegitimate actions potentially had the power to illegitimatise his previously legitimate, lawful kingship. A potential justification for deposing an individual king whom had demonstrated himself to be a tyrant connects to the second answer to the conundrum of failing kingship provided by John Wyclif in his reflections ‘On the Duty of the King’ (c. 1378). Wyclif was a university teacher at Oxford, a philosopher and theologian who is perhaps best known as a champion of religious reform, for his translation of the Bible into English and leadership of the Lollard heretical movement, but he also made an important contribution to the fourteenth-century debates on political

8

J. Froissart, Chronicles of England, France and Spain ...etc., ed. and trans. T. Johnes, 2 vols., William Smith, London, 1848, ii, 269. 9 See N. Saul, Richard II, Yale UP, New Haven, 1999, 115-34, 157-93 for discussion of the king’s favourites and their arraignments, trials and condemnation by the Appellants in 1386-7. 10 T. Aquinas, ‘On Kingship’, book 1, chapter 3, in Nederman and Forhan, Medieval Political Theory, 104.

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theory.11 Wyclif conceptualised the Body Politic in two separate ways: first, as already discussed in the work of John of Salisbury and Christine de Pizan, as the whole community of the realm; but secondly and distinctively, as an alternative definition of the State – as royal governance, what Wyclif described as ‘all the functions that are performed under the influence of royal laws and royal authority [being] performed as by the king himself’.12 This imagining of the institutions of monarchy as a discrete Body Politic could prove to be critical for contemporaries who wanted to impose a firm separation between the office of the king and the individual king who happened to be holding that office at any given moment in time. Hypothetically, therefore, feasibly one might oppose or criticise the personal actions of a current king without attacking the institution and prerogatives of eternal kingship. This theoretical separation is what historians have called ‘the King’s Two Bodies’ after Ernst Kantorowicz’s groundbreaking work on the subject13 – a distinction between the Body Politic (the corporate, the official body, what we might call the Crown) and the Body Natural (the corporeal, the physical body of the individual flesh-and-blood man). Although one might be able to theorise the Crown as different and distinct from the individual king, it was not as easy in practice to be able to argue a separation or distinguish one between the two in the Middle Ages. If the sanctity of kingship, in fact, was inseparable in practical terms from the anointed, sanctified body of the individual king, that would reinforce the principle of having to accept and tolerate an under-par king, as put forward by the Vita Edwardi Secundii, given that the perfection of the Body Politic of immortal kingship would be able to survive, and even redeem, any failings within the mortal king. The conundrum, then, for historians as well as contemporaries is that, if an inseparability between immortal kingship and the individual king is proposed, whether the physical body of the king became sacred because within it sovereignty resided – or whether, in fact, it was the other way around and, instead, Froissart’s suspicion was correct, and sickness in or around the Head of the collective Body Politic could cause infection and disorder in the rest of society. This was the acute dilemma with which political theorists, and 11 A. Hudson and A. Kenny, ‘Wyclif, John (d. 1384)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2004, accessed 26 August 2013, . 12 J. Wyclif, ‘On the Duty of the King’, chapter 5, in Nederman and Forhan (eds.), Medieval Political Theory, 225. 13 E. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: a Study in Medieval Political Theology, Princeton UP, Princeton, 1957.

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many ordinary subjects, had to grapple when faced with challenging times, and a less-than-perfect monarch in the real world of the Middle Ages. Does any failing within the individual king risk corrupting the corporate body of the King, that is to say, the eternal Crown? – whether that corruption was the malevolent policy of Richard II, physical impairment, as in the case of the Leper King, Baldwin IV of Jerusalem,14 or the mental disorder of Charles VI. As a brief aside on terminology, throughout this essay, the word ‘madness’ has been used to describe the condition suffered by Charles VI as a means of retaining the breadth of descriptive terminology, reactions and hypotheses on the king’s condition by contemporaries.15 In common with the physical condition of leprosy, madness was much examined in the Middle Ages by physicians, but also theologians and moralists, and had layers of symbolic meaning in medieval society far beyond the medical.16 Given that ‘medieval terminology lacked the concept of “disability” as expressed by that single word in modern Western culture’,17 historians must always be wary of anachronism if attempting to ‘medicalise’ in specific, modern terminology any occurence of mental illness or impairment from past societies. Therefore, continued use of the Foucaultian ‘madness’ by current historians of medieval disability explains its use here.18 There is an especially cruel irony behind illness of any kind in a king of France or of England, whose powers in the Middle Ages were thought to include the ability to heal. Kings on both sides of the Channel, from the eleventh century right into the eighteenth century, took part in religious 14

B. Hamilton argues in his biography (The Leper King and his Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2000), contrary to much earlier work on Baldwin, that the king was an active and largely successful monarch, despite the ‘intolerable’ pain of his later years, when ‘he could no longer see, or walk unsupported, or use his fingers’ (240). 15 See A. Pfau, Madness in the Realm: Narratives of Mental Illness in Late Medieval France, Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 2008, 6, for explanation of the benefits to the historian of using ‘madness’ as an ‘umbrella’ term with ‘broader linguistic, social, cultural and political meanings’. 16 I. Metzler, Disability in Medieval Europe: Thinking about Physical Impairment during the High Middle Ages, c. 1100-1400, Routledge, London, 2006, 4-6. 17 Metzler, ‘Afterword’ to W. Turner (ed.), Madness in Medieval Law and Custom, Leiden, Brill, 2010, 197. 18 From M. Foucault, Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason (orig. Histoire de la Folie, Paris, Librairie Plon, 1961), trans. R. Howard, Vintage, New York, 1988. See W. Turner, ‘Introduction’, in Turner, Madness in Medieval Law and Custom, 3-11 for a concise assessment of the historiography of madness and mental disability over the last fifty years.

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ceremonies in which they touched for scrofula, a form of tuberculosis known in England as ‘the king’s evil’.19 For commentators observing the first mental breakdown of King Charles VI in August 1392, however, the specific contrast between the mad king with whom they were now faced and the promise of the golden prince he had once been was acutely painful. As the historian Yann Grandeau put it, ‘Prince Charming had transformed into the Beast; it was the reverse of the fairy-tale’.20 The future Charles VI was a long-awaited son for Charles V and Jeanne of Bourbon after eighteen years of marriage,21 and his birth on the auspicious first Sunday of Advent, 3 December 1368, seemed to mark him out as a particularly special child. Te Deums and a mass of the Nativity were held in his honour in Rome by Pope Urban V,22 whilst the inclusion of the birth and grand baptismal ceremony of young Charles amongst the imposing additions to the Grandes Chroniques de France made by Charles V demonstrates vividly the dynastic and national importance assigned to the birth of his heir.23 19

The work of Marc Bloch brought the ceremony of royal ‘touching’ to wider attention in his Les rois thaumaturges: etudes sur le caractère surnatural attribué à la puissance royale, particulièrement en France et en Angleterre (orig. Strasbourg, 1924; A. Colin, Paris, 1961). The tradition in France can be traced back to Robert the Pious (996-1031), at the turn of the millennium, with royal chroniclers and biographers during the eleventh and twelfth centuries regularly reporting the miraculous touch of successive kings. In England, the twelfth-century chronicler William of Malmesbury reported on the efficacy of Edward the Confessor to heal. See J. Le Goff, ‘Le mal royal au Moyen Age: du roi malade au roi guerisseur’, Mediaevistik I, 1988, 102-3; and F. Barlow, ‘The King's Evil’, English Historical Review, vol. xcv (ccclxxiv), 1980, 3-27. The practice continued into the eighteenth century on both sides of the English Channel. 20 Y. Grandeau, ‘Isabeau de Bavière ou l’amour conjugal’, Actes du 102e congrès national des sociétés savantes, Limoges 1977: section de philologie et histoire jusqu’à 1610: vol ii: Etudes sur la sensibilité au Moyen âge, Bibliothèque Nationale, 1979, Paris, 126. 21 Three daughters already had died young – three-year-old Jeanne and the infant Bonne within a fortnight of each other in the autumn of 1360, and a second Jeanne, at the age of six months in December 1366. Père Anselme, Histoire généalogique et chronologique de la Maison Royale de France … etc., 3rd edn., 9 vols., Paris, Compagnie des Libraries, 1726-1733, i, 110. 22 Pizan, ‘Livre des fais et bonnes meurs du sage roy Charles’, in Michaud and Poujoulet (eds.), Nouvelle Collection des mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France, Paris, 1836, 1er ser., t. ii, 25 (editorial comment in footnote). 23 Paris, Bibilothèque Nationale de France, MS français 2318 (Grandes Chroniques de France, c. 1375), folio 446 and 446v. The quarter-page illustration can be viewed at the BNF online ‘Gallica Bibliothèque Numérique’

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Charles VI became king on 16 September 1380, a few months before his twelfth birthday, and possibly the worst that one could say of him in his youth was that he was not overly eager to take on the full responsibilities of government. Instead, he was content to accept the regency administration of his uncles being left in place until he was almost 21 years old whilst he enjoyed what might be described as a playboy lifestyle alongside his younger brother, Louis of Orleans. Two colourful anecdotes bear out the young king’s happy-go-lucky approach to life. First, in an account of the coronation entry of Charles’ teenaged queen, Isabeau of Bavaria, into Paris in August 1389, Jean Juvénal des Ursins records a story of the king sneaking into the crowd in disguise, riding pillion with one of his household knights, to watch the procession – even laughing amongst his courtiers at the evening reception at the Palais about being on the receiving end of a few cudgels from city officials guarding the route.24 Froissart recounts how, a few weeks later, after a tour of southeast France, Charles reportedly made a wager with his brother as to which of them could ride quickest from Montpellier to Paris for (as he said) ‘I have as great a desire to see the queen as I suppose you must have to see my sister-in-law’. Attended by just one young lord each, the royal brothers rode day and night, changing horses at staging posts, and covering the distance (around 360 miles) in four-and-a-half days.25 A feat of endurance worthy of the romances ... but, even if Froissart (or, indeed, the king himself in his recounting of the story) exaggerated distance or speed or endurance for effect, the tale serves the broader purpose of capturing the personality of the king as he was seen, or wanted to be seen, by his contemporaries – as virile, glamorous and romantic. Painting an equally vibrant picture of Charles VI as a model medieval king is the description of him at the age of twenty by the Chronicler of Saint-Denis, who concluded with admiration that ‘nature seemed to have lavished her gifts

. Anne Hedeman, ‘Valois Legitimacy: Editorial Changes in Charles V's Grandes Chroniques de France’, The Art Bulletin, vol. 66 (1984), 107-8. 24 J. Juvénal des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, roy de France, ed. J-A-C. Buchon, Choix de chroniques et mémoires de l’histoire de France vol. 4, A. Desrez, Paris, 1841, 366. Lively descriptions of the procession and ceremonies around Queen Isabeau’s coronation entry also feature in Froissart, ii, 398-405 (whose editor mentions the king’s escapade in a footnote (401)) and Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denys, contenant le règne de Charles VI, de 1380 à 1422, ed. and trans. L. Bellaguet, 6 vols., Paris, 1839-52 [henceforth RSD], i, 610-12. 25 Froissart, ed. Johnes, II, 425.

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with a generous hand’.26 Charles was tall, he said; broad shouldered, clear complexioned, blonde and handsome; a skilled archer and horseman; he was generous in words and spirit and, although never forgot slights against him, was ‘not naturally inclined to anger’, and also never forgot favours. He was happy to converse with anyone who addressed him, wherever they met, greeting even the most humble by name and with kindness, and was ‘loved by everyone’.27 This portrait moves beyond the conventional kingly virtues: nothing is said, specifically, on piety, for instance, upon which one might expect a monastic chronicler to focus if he was praising merely formulaicly. That being so, it is easy to imagine that the palpable sense of shock and sadness at Charles VI’s breakdown in the chronicles was, in part, by fuelled by grief at the loss of the model king they might have had, the potential that had, to all intents and purposes, been destroyed. Reports of and immediate reactions to the king’s madness are mournful and vividly described. French chroniclers are frank and detailed in their accounts of early ‘episodes’, the king’s actions, symptoms and the range of treatments attempted, both medical and prayerful. Both Froissart, working from the eyewitness testimony of Enguerrand de Coucy, and the Chronicler of Saint-Denis, Michel Pintoin, who was himself a member of the royal entourage on the day, record in close detail the unfolding tragedy of 5 August 1392. In searing heat crossing a sandy plain outside Le Mans with his army, en route for Brittany, Charles VI suffered a complete mental breakdown.28 Alarmed, perhaps, by an encounter with an old man prophesying betrayal, then reacting as if under attack at the clang when one of his attendants dropped a weapon, Charles drew his sword and struck out wildly at anyone near him, ‘for his senses were quite gone’.29 Over the course of an hour of frenzy, the king would kill five of his men before, sword broken in his hand, he collapsed, semi-conscious, cold to the touch and eyes rolling.30 It would be three days before he spoke again, to beg forgiveness for his actions and take Holy Communion,31 and almost two months before he was considered fit enough to return to Paris by the celebrated doctor, Guillaume de Harcigny, who had been summoned to

26

RSD, i, 564 – ‘in eum videbantur nature dona plena liberalitate convenisse’. See RSD, i, 564-6 for this full description of the king’s appearance and character. 28 Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 532-5; RSD, ii, 18-24. 29 Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 534. 30 Ibid, 534; RSD, ii, pp. 20-22. 31 RSD, ii, 24. 27

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attend him.32 To Pintoin, the king’s first breakdown in 1392 was a deeplyfelt personal tragedy – ‘I would willingly have dropped my quill so as not to have to record this memory for posterity’, he laments33 – but still dutifully he records details of the king’s symptoms and behaviour when he relapsed into madness within a matter of months. The king’s second mental breakdown occurred in June 1393 and was quite different to his initial attack, for there was no frenzy and a descent into confusion and amnesia was gradual.34 Charles would eventually even forget who he himself was: he denied that he was the king, that he was called Charles, and refused to believe that he was married and had children. When the queen tried to see him, he initially acted ambivalently, asking his servants who she was and what she wanted, and then with wariness and, eventually, hostility. This ‘depersonalisation with a denial of identity’35 extended towards the visual reminders of him and Isabeau as a couple that he would see all around him. Whenever he saw the arms of France and Bavaria or emblems of him and his wife painted on walls, in stained glass, engraved on tableware, or embroidered onto his clothing or furnishings, he tried to destroy them.36 Violent behaviour and denial of his identity was also a feature of Charles’ third breakdown over the winter of 1395-6,37 but the frenzy of the first episode also returned. Charles would run wildly through his palace of Saint-Pôl until collapsing with exhaustion, giving his attendants such concern for his safety that all the entrances to the palace were walled up – or perhaps a fear that he might 32

Ibid, 34 records Charles VI calling at Saint-Denis on his way back to the capital on 9 October 1392. 33 Ibid, 18. 34 Ibid, 87-9. 35 I. de Bures, ‘Charles VI. Sa folie, ses médicins, ses traitements et le Religieux de Saint-Denis’, Histoire des Sciences Médicales, vol. xxxiv, part 1 (2000), 31 – scenes that ‘nous appellerions une dépersonnalisation avec négation d’identité’. 36 R. Famiglietti, Royal Intrigue: crisis at the court of Charles VI, 1392-1420, AMS Press, New York, 1986, 15 discusses these events within his well-received ‘diagnosis’ of the king as a schizophrenic (Ibid, 1-21), explaining that the anxiety and self-doubt in the schizophrenic psyche can cause ambivalence towards a previous loving relationship. The sufferer considers his passion harmful to one that (s)he loves, seeing the complete union as the death of his/her own Self, or an inability to apply past experience to present situations, so that each interaction is as a meeting for the first time, with associated fear and unpredictability. 37 RSD, ii, 404-8. In this episode, the king also claimed that his name was George and that his real coat-of-arms was a lion impaled on a sword. See Famiglietti, 1112 for a psychoanalytical explanation of the persecutory thought processes that might have been behind these delusional choices.

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escape from what was increasingly protective custody was based more on a horror of it coming to wider public attention just how disturbed he was.38 Therefore, contemporary commentators describe in clear detail how the king’s symptoms varied over the course of these two longer periods of mental illness – for seven months from June 1393 to January 1394 and, then, from November 1395 to January 1396 – following his initial breakdown in August 1392. He had frenzied moments of alarm, amnesia, delusional fantasy and paranoia but, increasingly, these became interspersed with longer periods of calm where, to those around him, he appeared to be acting normally but from which he would degenerate again, or some episode or response would cause those around him to consider him ‘sane’ yesterday but ‘mad’ today. This became the pattern of how the illness was recorded from 1397 until Charles’ death in 1422, with sporadic periods of weeks or, sometimes, a matter of days when he was considered well and capable. Amongst the chroniclers, Monstrelet is alone perhaps in accepting that Charles never truly recovered from those first three crippling bouts of madness and ‘had lost, for the rest of his life, a large part of his senses [sa bonne mémoire]’.39 Other observers continued to posit the king’s illness in terms of good and bad phases: Nicolas de Baye, a clerk at the royal courts of justice, stressed that Charles had intervals of recovery,40 whilst Juvénal des Ursins recorded the perception that, in January 1412, the king was ‘returned to health, and was sane and in good condition and had good understanding’.41 Equally, the king’s family and subjects – and even Charles VI himself – in the early years, at any rate, seem desperate to believe that calmer phases were genuine signs of recovery, and celebrated each one with renewed hope. Responses to the king’s illness bear out this (sadly vain) hope – both pious and political responses. Parish churches across France responded to news of the 1392 collapse with special prayers and processions, with which ordinary people joined in, ‘barefoot, prostrating themselves before the Lord with groans and tears, and asked him with one contrite and 38 See R. Gibbons, ‘The Active Queenship of Isabeau of Bavaria, 1392-1417: Voluptuary, Virago or Villainess?’, Ph.D. thesis, University of Reading, 1997, 2440 for more detailed discussion of the pathology of the king’s madness and initial responses of his family and court. 39 Monstrelet, Chronique, i, 8-9. 40 N. de Baye, Journal de Nicolas de Baye, greffier de Parlement de Paris, 14001417, ed. A. Tuétay (2 vols., SHF, Paris, 1885-8), i, pp. 8-9 (‘aucuns intervalles de resipiscence telle quelle’). 41 Juvénal des Ursins, 470 (‘le roy retourna en santé et fut sain, en bon poinct, bon sens et entendement’).

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humble heart for the recovery of the king’.42 The king’s seemingly complete recovery within a matter of weeks was credited to the spontaneous devotion of his people,43 and similar processions were ordered by his queen, Isabeau of Bavaria, in the autumn of 1393 and in 1395 in response to his second and third major attacks. Isabeau’s faith in a heaven-sent cure reveals itself in the promise to give the child she was carrying in 1393 to God if Charles recovered from that second attack – and Marie did, of course, spend her life in the royal convent at Poissy – as well as in the subsequent naming of the couple’s next daughter, their seventh child, Michelle, in 1395 after the Archangel Michael, a favoured saint of Charles VI and to whom the royal children’s prayers would be dedicated, after pilgrimage to Mont-Saint-Michel, in the future.44 The king, too, turned to religious devotion, sending wax effigies of himself to be laid on the shrines of St Aquaire in Hainault and St Hermier in Rouais, who (Froissart tells us) ‘has the reputation of curing madness, and wherever there were saints that were supposed to have efficacy, by their prayers to God, in such disorders, thither were sent offerings from the king’.45 It might be tempting to be cynical and see this as sickroom piety, as the last resort of the desperate, or as mere public convention, but the king’s devotional choices seem quite specific and personal, and go well beyond the conventional and ‘expected’. The king often attended Nôtre-Dame in Paris to give public thanks for improvements in his health and, in 1399, when he recovered in time to celebrate Easter, he decided to take the Sacrament of Confirmation, in which he was blessed with Holy Oil and rededicated to God – as he had been at baptism and coronation – an act of devotion that inspired several of his courtiers to follow suit. ‘Everyone rejoiced at his convalescence but this happy state didn’t last long’, lamented Pintoin.46 Charles would relapse into madness another six times that year alone and, between his first attack on 5 August 1392 and his death on 21 October 42

RSD, ii, p. 22. Ibid, 22-24 – ‘in his infinite wisdom, God finally answered the prayers addressed to him’. Bernard Guenée, L’opinion publique à la fin du Moyen Age, d’après la «Chronique de Charles VI» du Religieux de Saint-Denis, Perrin, Paris, 2002, 88, notes Pintoin’s view that, ‘lorsque fut connue sa guérison, une joie ineffable inonda le Coeur de tous les Français’. 44 See R. Gibbons, ‘The piety of Isabeau of Bavaria, queen of France (13851422)’, Courts, Counties and the Capital in the Later Middle Ages, ed. D. Dunn, Alan Sutton, Stroud, 1996, 205-224. 45 Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 537-8. 46 RSD, ii, 684: ‘de statu ejus prospero congaudebant; in quo tamen diu minime permansit’. 43

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1422, he would suffer almost fifty distinct and chronicled psychotic episodes.47 The king’s madness was not, then, a private grief; curing the king was thought by a number of commentators to require a collective effort because they saw his madness as somehow a collective responsibility.48 Pintoin stressed that ‘the nobility and the people, men and women, shared equally in the sufferings of the king’49 and, during another period of relapse in 1395-6, reported that, again, ‘throughout the kingdom of France, persons of every sex, rank and station fervently prayed and undertook pious works to aid the king’s recovery’.50 Christine de Pizan mourned, in a poem written around 1394, that the king’s illness was a penance for the sins of the whole kingdom51 – an intriguing concept, reflecting the sacerdotal qualities of kingship, if Charles is seen, Christlike, taking on the burden of guilt for his whole people. The inclusion of insignia of the Passion (the cross, a nail and the crown of thorns) in the procession led by the monks of Saint-Denis from their abbey to the royal chapel of the Sainte-Chapelle in January 1396 arguably might support this idea.52 The image of the king as representative of the whole kingdom, of Crown as Commonweal, and his symptoms reflecting wider society’s ills, fits neatly also with political theories of the Body Politic discussed at the start of this essay. Pintoin reported that Charles’ proscriptions against public blasphemy, issued in periods of lucidity in 1397 and 1415, were declared specifically to prevent further relapses which (the monk said) ‘wise men’ blamed on the sins of his subjects.53 There was also a temptation amongst those with a motive to connect the sickness of the king to the sickness within the Church, and see the madness as God’s judgement on the Great Schism. Froissart reports allegations of gossip on the king’s madness from both papal courts – that, 47 Bernard Guenée, La folie de Charles VI: Roi Bien-Aimé, Perrin, Paris, 2004, 294-6 (annex). 48 Guenée, La folie, 151 – ‘la folie de Charles VI n’était pas une affaire personnelle. Tous les Français en étaient responsables. Guérir le roi exigeait donc une effort collectif’. 49 RSD, ii, 684. 50 Ibid, 408. 51 Ballad 95 of the Cent Ballades – ‘Pour noz péchiez si porte la penance / Nostre bon roy, qui est en maladie’. Christine de Pizan, Œuvres poétiques, ed. Maurice Roy, 3 vols., Paris, 1896, i, 95, 299. 52 RSD, ii, 406-8. Pintoin records that the Abbey’s most precious relics of the Virgin Mary, Saint Louis and the hand of the Apostle Thomas also featured in this procession. 53 RSD, ii, 530-532 – ‘propter regnicolarum peccata’.

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in Rome, Boniface IX and his cardinals rejoiced in 1392 that ‘the worst of their enemies ... was severely chastised, when God had thus deprived him of his senses’ in punishment for Charles’ support of the Avignon pope. Nevertheless, there was no gratitude forthcoming at Avignon, where, apparently they complained that Charles had promised at his visit in 1389 to raise an army to ‘destroy’ the anti-pope and his cardinals at Rome, and ‘put an end to the schism ... but that he had done nothing ... by which he has angered God who, to correct him, punishes him with this rod of frenzy’.54 Froissart attributes also to the papal curia at Avignon suggestions that the king himself may be somehow at fault for bringing ‘on him this disorder’, that he was: ‘young and wilful ... had exerted himself in different excesses ... and that, if he had been properly and soberly educated by the advice of his uncles, this unfortunate illness would never have happened’.55 This reported reproach from the Avignon papacy chimes well with Pintoin’s own conclusion that the moral excesses of the king’s youth had brought on his collapse.56 The Saint-Denis monk at least completely dismissed the popular suspicion of sorcery, and accusations levelled against the king’s sister-in-law, Valentina Visconti, duchess of Orleans, as a belief shared only ‘by fools, necromancers and the superstitious’.57 Froissart himself, however, seems most persuaded by the opinions of doctors who saw Charles VI at Le Mans in 1392 and reports that they suspected he had been suffering for some time from a ‘weakness of intellect’ that would only deteriorate.58 In his broad study The Madness of Kings, Vivian Green concluded that, ‘if the onset of insanity reflects a nervous predisposition to mental illness, it has to be triggered by environmental and external factors’.59 An examination of contemporary diagnoses and events surrounding Charles VI’s first attack of madness supports this connection between medical history and immediate triggers. Froissart records the views of the famed 54

Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 537. Ibid. 56 RSD, ii, 406. 57 Ibid. Rumours that the madness was caused by black magic had spread to England by 1396, with Richard II convinced that the duke of Orleans had bewitched Charles VI, according to Pierre Salmon, a trusted clerk of the French king then serving as an ambassador to the English court. See P. Salmon, Les demandes faites par le roi Charles VI touchant son état et le gouvernement de sa personne, ed. G-A. Crapelet, Paris, 1833, 55. 58 Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 537. 59 V. Green, The Madness of Kings: Personal Trauma and the Fate of Nations, Alan Sutton, Stroud, 1993, 11. 55

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physician Guillaume de Harcigny, who diagnosed that the king’s initial breakdown in August 1392 was triggered ‘by the alarm in the forest’ of the encounter with the old hermit, and also because of ‘inheriting too much of his mother’s weak nerves’60 or, in the original French text, her ‘moistness’ (muisteur)61 – suggesting that Harcigny was working within the classical tradition of humoural pathology. This was a theory that the body was made up of four humours, which corresponded to the elements of earth, air, fire and water, that balanced the condition of the body between cold and hot, dry and moist, and which would produce ill-health under very specific criteria if one humour dominated and caused instability.62 Harcigny’s association of Charles’ sudden breakdown with a condition of ‘muisteur’, with the cold and moist humour of black bile, otherwise called melancholy, argues for a diagnosis based on a genetic predisposition to depression inherited from his mother, Jeanne of Bourbon, who is recorded as suffering ‘melancholia’ postpartum.63 Froissart’s report of Harcigny’s conclusions gives equal weight to the genetic predisposition (weak nerves) and the external trigger (alarm in the forest), indicating that Harcigny understood there to be a firm connection between a family history of mental illness64 and a greater susceptibility to the psychological impact of external trauma, of which there was a coincidence of three on that August day – fright at the encounter with the hermit, the heat of the noonday sun on a king dressed in black velvet and full armour, and recent physical illness, given that Charles had suffered a serious attack of typhoid just a

60

Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 537. Froissart, Les Chroniques de Sire Jean Froissart, ed. J-A-C. Buchon, 3 vols., Paris, Rignoux, 1885, iii, 163, for use of the term ‘muisteur’. 62 Green, 5-6. See C. Rawcliffe, ‘The Insanity of Henry VI’, The Historian, Summer, 1996, 10-11 where the contemporary diagnosis of Henry as an archetypal phlegmatic man is explored, from his symptoms of stupor and catatonic trances to his very facial features. 63 Queen Jeanne was reported to have suffered a temporary loss of ‘son bon sens et son bon memoire’ soon after her seventh child, Isabelle, was born in July 1373. Chronique des quatre premiers Valois, ed. S. Luce, Société de l’Histoire de France, Paris, 1862, 244. 64 The idea of an ‘inherited’ insanity was popularised by Brachet at the turn of the century, who traced signs of madness in Robert of Clermont, son of Louis IX, as well as down Charles VI’s maternal line, for his uncle, Louis II of Bourbon showed signs of melancholia in 1409, before dying from apoplexy two years later. A. Brachet, Pathologie mentale des rois de France. Louis XI et ses ascendants, Paris, 1903, cited in J-C. Lemaire, Le roi empoisonné: la vérité sur la folie de Charles VI, Société de Production Littéraire, Paris, 1977, 17-18. 61

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few months earlier.65 Therefore, with Harcigny concluding that the king’s illness was probably attributable to an interaction between genetic vulnerability and environmental risk factors, a gap of over six centuries in mental health theory may not, after all, seem such a gulf. The precise etiology of Charles VI’s mental condition has been much debated by historians,66 with the detailed case made by Richard Famiglietti for a diagnosis of schizophrenia becoming the accepted viewpoint for the majority. The historian – and even the specialist clinician – must be extremely cautious about applying a modern medical model of diagnosis to a medieval subject and risk ‘contaminating the ... evidence with modern cultural assumptions’.67 However, certain aspects of Charles VI’s madness, as recorded in the detailed accounts of his symptoms by the contemporary chroniclers, suggest an alternative hypothesis of bipolar affective disorder. Bipolar is the condition previously identified as manic depression and is defined as ‘a serious disorder of mood characterized by recurrent episodes of depression alternating with periods of hypomania and/or mania that are usually separated by periods of relatively normal mood and functioning’.68 Many symptoms are common to both disorders: the bipolar sufferer may alternate between manic episodes of euphoria, frantic activity or expansiveness, followed by depressive periods of malaise and anhedonia (absence of positive emotions). Periods of depression are marked by symptoms including psychomotor disturbance (dramatic slowing-down of ability to think and undertake basic tasks), extreme loss of energy, sleep disturbance, poor self-esteem or guilt, paranoia and suicidality. Periods of mania and hypomania can be fluctuating and variable in mood, but are often marked by one or more symptoms of inflated self-esteem, impulsivity, grandiose flights of ideas, hypersensitivity to noise, light and people, anxiety attacks, physical agitation and a decreased need for 65

Froissart, ed. Johnes, ii, 520. For example, F. Autrand, Charles VI: la folie du roi, Fayard, Paris, 1986, 30418, Guenée, La folie, 35-62, and C.J. Rushton, ‘The King’s Stupor: dealing with royal paralysis in late medieval England’, in W. Turner (ed.), Madness in Medieval Law, 155. Famiglietti, 10-12, 19-21 is quite correct to identify paranoia and persecutory delusions as the main constants in the king’s condition, and as the most important, even though I have come to a different conclusion as to the nature of Charles VI’s mental illness (see below). 67 M. Evans, ‘Deaf and dumb in Ancient Greece’, in L. Davis (ed.), The Disability Studies Reader, Routledge, New York, 1997, 29, cited in Metzler, Disability, 9. 68 D. Smith, E. Whitham and S. Ghaemi, ‘Bipolar disorder’, in T. Schlaepfer and C. Nemeroff (eds.), Handbook of Clinical Neurology vol. 106, 3rd series – Neurobiology of Psychiatric Disorders, Elsevier, Amsterdam, 2006, 251. 66

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sleep.69 In the severest experiences of bipolar, the difference in a sufferer’s mood and behaviour between highs and lows could well appear to observers as a complete swing in personality that is the most commonly perceived hallmark of schizophrenia. When examining Charles VI’s list of symptoms, the compulsive running to the point of physical collapse that occurred in 1395-6, the neglect of self behind his behaviour in 1405, when he refused to bathe, change his clothes or sleep properly for over five months, and the sporadic ‘in-and-out’ pattern of his psychosis in the years after 1396 arguably match more closely a diagnosis of bipolar affective disorder.70 Equally, so does a clear awareness of his illness and an understanding of its existence and potential capabilities during periods of greater mental stability. On 21 July 1397, less than two weeks after attending mass at Notre-Dame to give thanks for his recovery from his fourth episode of mental illness, Charles sensed that he was about to relapse (‘mente se alienari senciens’) and ordered that his dagger be taken from him, and those of all his entourage be removed also. The Religieux de Saint-Denis gives a poignant account of the king’s tearful plea, approaching in turn everyone around him, that whoever was causing him to suffer like this, they kill him now rather than torment him any longer.71 Attempting better to understand the nature and origins of Charles VI’s psychosis can provide insights into his behaviour and reactions to the dramatic events of his reign, but more important to the historian than a precise medical diagnosis are the consequences of the madness on the king’s subjects and on his kingship. Crucially, for the thirty years between the first attack in 1392 and his death, there were interludes when Charles VI was considered unfit to rule by those around him who were in a position temporarily to deprive him of his powers but, critically, there were also extensive periods when he operated with full monarchical authority. Observing from the luxury of distance, it seems clear that, certainly from 1397 onwards, his real state of mind when he was declared to be ‘sane’ is highly questionable – when the nature of his condition appeared more sporadic, with short but frequent bouts, sometimes with only a matter of days or a few weeks in between when he was considered 69

T. Ketter and P.Wang, ‘DSM-IV-TR Diagnosis of Bipolar Disorders’, in Handbook of Diagnosis and Treatment of Bipolar Disorders, ed. T. Ketter MD , American Psychiatric Publishing Inc., Washington DC 2010, 12-13. 70 See Gibbons, Active Queenship, 33-35 for my first exploration into a theory of Charles VI as a sufferer of bipolar (defined less precisely in the mid-1990s as manic depression). 71 RSD, ii, 544 – ‘Amore Jhesu Christi, si sint aliqui conscii hujus mali, oro ut me non torqueant amplius, sed cito diem ultimum faciant me signare’.

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capable. To take the year of 1403 as an example: the king ‘recovered’ from a four-month episode of madness in mid-February, but relapsed again for the last three weeks of April. He was considered ‘mad’ again from the end of May until mid-June, and from 22 July to 1 October, before again succumbing to an obvious decline on 20 December.72 The existence of Charles VI’s madness after 1392 provided the latitude for the power struggle between his brother, uncles and cousins for the rest of his reign. The delusional and confused nature of his condition exacerbated disputes, as he was susceptible to manipulation by whomever could get close to him and gain his confidence; the escalation of suspicion that this produced made him more likely to fall prey to his symptoms of paranoia; while a semblance of normality during less intense periods of illness further provoked conflict, for no-one would know whether a particular decision against them was based on a persecutory complex or on a judgement of fact – and so the cycle would begin again. For a decade after the first attack, governance of the kingdom seemed to operate on the principle that the king’s condition was inconvenient but temporary, that he would (feasibly) be completely cured in due course and, at the very least, that he was functioning perfectly normally when not in an obvious episode of breakdown. No allowance or provisionary measure was made for his condition: whenever the king again succumbed to a mental breakdown, his uncles and brother jockeyed for dominance, whilst in periods when he was calm (‘modeste’), the king continued to preside over his council, receive ambassadors and handle all other business as if nothing was wrong.73 This could be put down to blind denial but, arguably, also confirms the impossibility of the situation within a medieval monarchy, where governance was the king’s will – nothing, and nobody, ever could satisfactorily fill the vacuum left by an ‘absent’ king. Eventually, during 1402-3, in periods when he was considered ‘sane’, Charles VI instituted a regency Council, presided over by his queen and intended to include his relatives, other councillors, office-holders, to come into being when he was considered incapable of personal rule, with decisions to be taken ‘by the most substantial and sound party of opinion’.74 The brutal honesty of the documentary record, stating openly 72

RSD, iii, 47, 77, 103. RSD, ii, 404. 74 Paris, Archives Nationales, J402, no. 13 – taken by ‘la plus grant et saine partie des voix’. For a full analysis of the regency legislation instituted by Charles VI to deputise for him during periods of illness, see Gibbons, ‘Isabeau de Bavière: reine de France ou “lieutenante-générale” du royaume?’, in J. Dumont, A. Marchandisse, E. Bousmar and B. Schnerb (eds.), Femmes de pouvoir, femmes 73

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whether legislation was authorised ‘by the King’ or ‘by the King through his Grand Council, in which such-and-such names attended’, clarifies dayby-day how the king’s mental condition was being judged by those around him – whether he was recognised as ‘mad’ and the reins of government temporarily given over to the collective hands of the Council, or believed to be ‘sane’ (whether he was or not) and ruling with complete autonomy. Authority remained with the king, though, in all circumstances, whatever his mental state: he was not declared unfit to rule, no permanent regent was appointed to replace him and, if he could be presented as ‘recovered’ by anyone seeking to ‘direct’ government, his royal prerogative could be controlled. A good example would be his all-too-convenient moment of alleged sanity for just one morning (from the night of Friday 9 March 1408 until lunchtime the following day)75 during which the duke of Burgundy was able to present a legal justification for assassinating Charles’ brother, Louis of Orleans, the previous November and to persuade the king to forgive him.76 In August 1392, as news of Charles VI’s first attack of madness spread, the Saint-Denis chronicler reported that ‘all the true French cried as if for the death of an only son; so much was the health of France attached to that of its king!’77 The fate of King and Commonweal were intertwined, with a fear that the king’s madness was not only seen as reflecting an underlying political malady in the state, but directly causing it – infecting the realm politically through his own physical illness. These were ideas discussed at the heart of royal government and, even, directly with the king himself. Pierre Salmon was a trusted royal clerk, accompanying Charles VI’s eldest daughter, Isabelle, to England when she married Richard II in 1396, and serving as a king’s secretary on his return. In 1409, he presented a rhetorical dialogue on kingship to Charles VI, written ‘at the request and by the command of my lord the King’ himself,78 in which fictionalised versions of the King and the Royal Secretary discussed the virtues of good kingship. The ‘character’ of Salmon advises Charles that a king who cannot govern himself must not be allowed to

politiques durant les derniers siècles du Moyen Âge et au cours de la première Renaissance. Actes du colloque de Lille-Bruxelles, 15-18 février 2006, De Boeck, Brussels, 2012, 101-112. 75 Baye, i, 223. 76 Famiglietti, 68, 240 n. 20. 77 RSD, ii, 23. 78 P. Salmon, Les démandes faites par le roi Charles VI et les réponses de son Sécretaire et familier, Pierre Salmon, Crapelet, Paris, 1833, 42.

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govern others,79 and recognises the dangers that, ‘if the king is not a righteous man, whole and perfect [my emphasis], his kingdom is corrupted’.80 The integrity of the kingdom was seen as being dependent on the continued good health of the king, and that one could not function well if the other was not. Froissart again turned to the well-understood metaphor of the Body Politic to make the point that a dysfunctional king ‘being the chief [meant that] every part of the government suffered; for, in like manner, when the head of a man is sick, his other members are not painless’.81 If suffering was shared amongst all members of the communal Body Politic, so too was the search for healing. The king confronted his own demons, making pilgrimages, consulting physicians, and undergoing all manner of medical treatments, including (in 1393) a trepan of his skull.82 However, the community of the realm also shouldered the king’s illness on a number of levels. Prayers and processions were freely given by, and, later, mandated from, the general population, amid fears that the sinfulness or bad judgment of the people was potentially to blame for this affliction on their king. Similarly, the continued efforts, in increasingly fractious circumstances, of the queen and many others amongst the political community to make the ad-hoc regency council work in periods when the king was recognised as unable to rule demonstrates the drive and loyalty of a collective will. However, the temptation to seek personal advantage within the chaos created by the king’s madness proved too strong for some. The ambitions of the duke of Burgundy to dominate government, and the determination to stop him of a faction of nobles under the leadership, first, of the young duke of Orleans and, then, the count of Armagnac, dragged France into bitter civil war – arguably confirming the fears of the Vita Edwardi Secundii, that the limbs of the Body Politic fail when the head is removed. The office of the King was unique. Its loss, with the inability to function of the man holding the office, created a vacuum at the heart of the Body Politic that nobody and nothing else could fill.

79

Ibid, 27 : ‘qui ne scet gouverner soy mesmes, il ne deveroit pas bien gouverner un autre’. 80 Ibid, 32 : ‘se le Roy n'est homme droiturier, entier et parfait, son royaume est corrompu’. 81 Froissart, iii, 546. 82 Chronique des quatre premiers Valois, 336.

PART II PERCEPTIONS OF POWER

CHAPTER FOUR THE FIRST KING OF ENGLAND? EGBERT AND THE FOUNDATIONS OF ROYAL LEGITIMACY IN THIRTEENTH-CENTURY HISTORIOGRAPHY OLIVIER DE LABORDERIE

On the official website of the British monarchy,1 Egbert, labelled king of Wessex (802-839), earns only a four-line text, which does mention his ‘bretwalda’ title, but not a title of ‘king of England’. He is not even the first Anglo-Saxon king to be deemed worthy of a separate entry in this first list, since he is preceded by king Offa of Mercia (757-796). Yet, this is Egbert who stands, in the first ‘family tree’, as the head of the first English royal house.2 This is the same in most popular books or genealogical charts on English kings and queens and to list them all would take too long. To mention but a few among many examples, this is the case, for instance, in the classic guide Kings and Queens of England and Great Britain written by Eric Delderfield3 or in the very comprehensive Britain’s Royal Families written by Alison Weir.4 Even if more recent academic studies about Anglo-Saxon England5 and other more widely 1

‘Egbert’, The official website of the British Monarchy, www.royal.gov.uk/HistoryoftheMonarchy/KingsandQueensof England/TheAngloSaxonkings/Egbert, accessed 19 April 2014. 2 ‘Kings of Wessex and England’, The official website of the British Monarchy, www.royal.gov.uk/pdf/wessex.pdf, accessed 19 April 2014. 3 E. Delderfield, Kings and Queens of England and Great Britain, David and Charles, Newton Abbot, 1st edn., 1966, 5th edn. 1998, esp. 14-15 and 26 in the 2nd edn., 1970 (rep. 1977). 4 A. Weir, Britain’s Royal Families. The Complete Genealogy, Pimlico, London, 2nd edn., 1996, 2-4. 5 In addition to many studies by J. Campbell and P. Wormald, see, for instance, D. Dumville, Wessex and England from Alfred to Edgar: Six Essays on Political,

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disseminated historical essays about English history6 tend to regard Æthelstan (924-939) as the first Wessex king who can be rightly labelled king of England, the idea that Egbert was the first king of England remains deeply fixed in English collective unconscious and in popular historical literature. This has been so for many centuries. To take but one example, in John Rastell’s Pastyme of People, or the Chronycles of dyvers Realmys and most specially of the Realme of England, published in 1529, which is, as far as I know, the first printed book illustrated with engraved portraits of the kings of England, even if the first king to be deemed worthy of a fullpage portrait is the Norman William the Conqueror, Egbert nonetheless is singled out among all preceding Anglo-Saxon kings by deserving a small vignette with this significant caption: ‘Egbert, furst kyng of all Englond’.7 And the text of the paragraph dealing with his reign keeps driving the point home, stating that, after his victory over the Mercians at Ellendun in 825, ‘he shortly callyd a councell of his lordis, and by theyre advice was crownyd king of all Englond, and then send forth hys commyssyoners and cummaundement, charging straytly that, from that day, the Saxons shuld be callyd Englyshmen, and all the hole shuld be callyd Englond’; or, later on, that he had ‘obtaynyd the domynyon of the hole land’ and that he ‘kept

Cultural and Ecclesiastical Revival, Boydell Press, Woodbridge, 1992, chap. IV: ‘Between Alfred the Great and Edgar the Peacemaker: Æthelstan, the first king of England’; S. Keynes, ‘Rulers of the English, c. 450 – 1066’, in M. Lapidge, J. Blair, S. Keynes and D. Scragg, The Blackwell Encyclopedia of Anglo-Saxon England, Blackwell, Oxford, 2001, 514; S. Bobrycki, Æthelstan, “King of all Britain’: Royal and Imperial Ideology in Tenth-Century England, Williams College, Williamstown (Mass.), 2007; S. Foot, Æthelstan: the First King of England, Yale University Press, New Haven, 2011; and E. Fryde, D. Greenway, S. Porter and I. Roy, Handbook of British Chronology, Royal Historical Society, London, 3rd edn. 1986, 25-26. 6 I am thinking, for example, of J. Cannon and R. Griffiths, The Oxford Illustrated History of the British Monarchy, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1988, 54, or of M. Wood, In Search of England: Journeys into the English Past, Penguin Books, Harmondsworth, 2000, chap. 5: ‘When was England England ?’, 91-106, esp. 97, and chap. 8: ‘The Lost Life of King Athelstan’, 149-168. And, very recently, M. Wood’s television programme, ‘Æthelstan: First King of England’, BBC4, 22 August 2013. In French, see D. Mercer (ed.), Chronique de l’Angleterre [trans. from the English, Chronicle of the Royal Family], Jacques Legrand, Bassillac, 1995, 17. 7 See the facsimile reprint by T. Dibdin (ed.), The Pastime of People, Harding and Wright, London, 1811, 123.

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nobly his domynyon as kyng of all the land’8. Since it is not relevant to this paper, I will leave aside the debatable question of whether or not Egbert really was responsible for this renaming of Britain, a question very recently raised by George Beech.9 The first mention of this renaming appears in the late 12th century Annals of Winchester written by Richard of Devizes, no doubt based on earlier chronicles. The issue is whether Richard of Devizes invented this episode altogether. Later on, the idea of Egbert being the first king of England gained ground, so much so that, in the various editions (the first was published in 1727) of the translation by Nicolas Tindal of the very comprehensive, knowledgeable and sizeable Histoire d’Angleterre (first edition in 1724) written by the great French historian Paul de Rapin Thoyras, a Protestant exiled from France after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685, an unambiguous plate engraved by George Vertue figures Egbert as ‘the first monarch of all England’, his medallion surmounted by the (imaginary) arms of the seven kingdoms of the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy.10 This was a clear choice by Rapin already in the original French version of his book, where Egbert was surnamed ‘Le Grand’ (‘the Great’) in the caption under his portrait and refered to, in the chapter heading as ‘Premier roi d’Angleterre’ (‘first king of England’).11 The aim of this paper is to try to understand when and why Egbert became to be considered as such, and this will bring me to focus on the key moment of the second half of the thirteenth century.

8

Ibid, 124. George Beech, who had already written a thorough study on this subject, then unpublished, very generously agreed to share this material with me a few weeks before I went to Corsham Court for the conference. Since then, he has published a shorter version of it: ‘Egbert’s England’, History Today, vol. 63 no. 2, February 2013, 38-43; but see the sceptical response of J. Gillingham, ‘Questioning Egbert’s Edict’, History Today, vol. 63 no. 4, April 2013, 4-5. 10 See for instance a copy of this engraving by George Vertue on the website of the National Portrait Gallery: http://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw122927/Egbert-King-of-theWest-Saxons-First-Monarch-of-all-England#sets. 11 P. de Rapin Thoyras, Histoire d’Angleterre, Alexandre de Rogissart, La Haye, 2nd edn., 1727, t. 1, 181 (plate) and 239. 9

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Before the 13th century Before the mid-13th century, the question of who was to be considered as the first king of England was apparently not the top priority among English chroniclers. It obviously was out the latitude of thought and, in a way, beyond the scope of the Venerable Bede; if he clearly postulated the existence of a ‘gens Anglorum’, his everyday experience and his knowledge of the past English history probably prevented him from thinking of anything like a single ‘regnum Anglorum’. His only contribution in this matter was to give a list of the seven kings who had, in his view, succeded in establishing their “imperium” over the other rulers within the island of Britain. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the first chronicle to mention Egbert, never calls him king of England, even if it adds his name to the list of bretwaldas (‘controllers of Britain’, or brytenwaldas, i.e. ‘wide rulers’, or overlords) under the year 827. Yet, this is not Egbert, but his son and successor, Æthelwulf, whose ascending pedigree is then given in detail under the year 855, naming all of Æthelwulf’s ancestors going back to Adam.12 In fact, the first chronicler to address the issue, even if undirectly, was William of Malmesbury in his Gesta Regum Anglorum, in the second quarter of the 12th century. Even if, in line with his great predecessor and model, Bede, he began his history with a brief account of the Roman conquest of Britain and then a much more detailed account of the various Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, he declares from the outset in his prologue that the first book will end with the reign of Egbert, ‘who, after various strokes of fortune had dismissed the lesser kings, made himself sole ruler of almost the whole island’.13 Then, at the beginning of Book 2, he gets back to the same idea, writing: ‘My former volume terminated where the four kingdoms of Britain were consolidated into one. Egbert, the founder of this sovereignty…’ and then, in an even clearer phrase: ‘he who first singly governed all the Angles’.14 Thus, the choice of the reign of Egbert as a watershed in English history was clearly linked, in William’s mind, to the fact that he had achieved the unifying of England and that he had imposed his authority over all other rulers, even if only for a few years. 12

M. Swanton (ed.), The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, J. Dent, London, 1996, 60-61 and 66-67. 13 William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, ed. and trans. R. Mynors, R. Thomson and M. Winterbottom, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2 vols., 1998-1999, vol. 1, 14-15: ‘insulae pene totius nactus est monarchiam’. 14 Ibid: ‘qui quatuor regna Britanniae in unum coarctaret. Cujus potentiae auctor, Egbirhtus…’; ‘ita tota Britannia potitus…’, ‘primus omnibus Anglis imperitans’.

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And when, later on, after having mentioned the death of Edward the Confessor in 1066, he sums up the length of the West-Saxons’ domination in the island, he states that: ‘the race of the West-Saxons, which had reigned in Britain five hundred und seventy-one years, from the time of Cerdic, and two hundred and sixty one from Egbert, in him ceased altogether to rule’,15 clearly considering, then, that the reign of Egbert had marked a new beginning in the history of Wessex kingship. One of the upmost, though unmentioned, reasons why William of Malmesbury adopted Egbert as first king of England could well be his exile in France (which lasted either three or thirteen years, that is not clear), at the court of Charlemagne, during the reign of his predecessor Brithric. Given William’s insistance on these years of training, I think it is worth quoting this passage in full: […] a circumstance which I attribute to the counsels of God, that a man destined to rule so great a kingdom might learn the art of government from the Franks (French); for this people has no competitor among all the Western nations in military skills or polished manners. This ill-treatment Egbert used as an incentive to ‘rub off the rust of indolence’, to quicken the energy of his mind, and to adopt foreign customs, far from his native barbarism.16

In a way, in William’s view, this French influence, at the very moment Charlemagne was proclaimed Emperor in Rome, couldn’t but be a major step toward civilizing the English people and this inclusion in Western civilisation allowed him to be rewarded with a true kingship! His contemporary fellow historians such as Henry of Huntingdon in his Historia Anglorum, John of Worcester in his Chronicon ex chronicis or Geffrei Gaimar in his Estoire des Engleis, while they felt, as he did, deeply concerned by the need to write a history transcending the major disruption that had been caused by the 1066 Norman invasion, and to define ‘a new sense of Englishness’,17 do not seem to have felt any great 15

William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of England, trans. J. Giles, London, Henry G. Bohn, 1847, 255. 16 Ibid: ‘(…) quod Dei consilio factum intellego, ut vir ille, ad tantum regnum electus, regnandi disciplinam a Francis acciperet. Est enim gens illa et exercitatione virium, et comitare morum, cunctarum occidentalium facile princeps. Hac igitur contumelia Egbirhtus ut cote usus est, qua, detrita inertiae rubigine, aciem mentis expediret, et moros longea gentilitia barbarie alienos indueret.’ 17 See J. Gillingham, The English in the Twelfth Century. Imperialism, National Identity and Political Values, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2000, passim ; H. Thomas, The English and the Normans: Ethnic Hostility, Assimilation and Identity, 1066 –

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need to fix a precise starting point to the kingdom of England proper. Though Henry of Huntingdon called Egbert ‘rex et monarcha Brittaniae, he did not single him out and even added two more Wessex kings at the end of the list of bretwaldas he had found in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: Alfred and Edgar, thus diminishing in a way Egbert’s prestige in retrospect. Many chroniclers of the late 12th century or of the early 13th century chose to begin their histories of England with the Norman conquest or, as Bede had done, with the Roman conquest. Most of them apparently did not care very much about the question of who could be reckoned as the first king of England.

Matthew Paris and the choice of Alfred It is not in fact before the mid-13th century that a decisive step was reached. When contemplating to work out a clear and manageable abstract of English history, the great St Albans chronicler Matthew Paris had necessarily to think about where to begin. And, having chosen to give these abstracts a genealogical form, he inevitably had to tackle the problem and to give a great deal of thought to which king should stand at the top of the genealogical diagram.18 In his two famous ‘galleries of kings’, he decided to begin either with Brutus (and in this case, it is noteworthy that Egbert even is not among the 32 kings selected by Matthew!) or with William the Conquereror (this last choice being consistent with the content of his Historia Anglorum). But in all other five abstracts, in genealogical form, Matthew has systematically chosen Alfred to be at the head of the pedigree. His main argument (apart from the moral qualities of that king), repeated over and over, is that Alfred was the first to have received a royal unction (and by the pope himself!). This is not the place to discuss whether or not Alfred actually went to Rome, or whether or not the unction he could have received there really was a royal unction.19 The c.1220, OUP, Oxford, 2003, passim; and O. de Laborderie, ‘Les historiens anglais de la première moitié du XIIe siècle et la redéfinition de l’identité nationale’, Cahiers de Recherches Médiévales et Humanistes, 19, 2010, 43-62. 18 On these Latin genealogical abstracts, see O. de Laborderie, ‘Genealogiae orbiculatae: Matthew Paris and the Invention of Visual Abstracts of English History’, and ‘The Genealogical Chronicles of Matthew Paris’, in J. Burton, P. Schofield and B. Weiler (eds.), Thirteenth Century England XIV, Boydell Press, Woodbridge, 2013, 183-235. 19 On this question, see J. Nelson, ‘The Problem of King Alfred’s Royal Anointing’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History, vol. 18, 1967, 145-163.

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point is that, in Matthew Paris’ views, the anointing made the king and consequently Alfred had to be considered without discussion as the first king of England, the ‘prothomonarcha Anglie’or the ‘primus monarcha tocius Anglie’ in the words of his friend John of Wallingford’s version. Here are the various notices dealing with King Alfred in the five versions, which offer a kind of variations on a single theme, that is the justification of the choice of Alfred as first king of England: Cambridge, CCC MS 26, fol. IVv: Hic rex pacificus primus prothomonarcha fuit. Et primitus a Leone papa sacre uncionis regie dignitatis suscepit eminentiam. Unde in summitate stipitis regie stirpis duximus eum tanquam exordium genealogie nostre primitus ordinandum. Cambridge, CCC MS 26, fol. VIII: Anno Domini DCCCLXXI, rege Occidentalium Saxonum defuncto, coronatus et in regem ungitur magnus Alfredus a Leone papa qui in Anglia primus inungebatur. Iste Alfredus primus monarchiam Anglie adeptus est. Cambridge, CCC MS 16, fol. III: Iste Alfredus rex, omnium antecessorum eminentissimus, regni Anglie prothomonarcha, coronatus et inunctus a Leone papa anno gracie DCCC (sic), qui in capite hujus genealogiae orbiculate ponitur. London, BL MS Cotton Claudius D. VI, fol. 10v: Et si rex Offa omnibus regulis Britanniam liberasset, ita ut solus in tota Britannia regnare videretur, iste tamen Aelfredus prothomonarcha Anglie dicitur. Coronatus enim fuit et inunctus a Leone papa et in pace tenuit totum regnum Anglie. Unde non sine causa ipsum inicium stirpis regie quasi radicem duximus ordinandum. London, BL MS Cotton Julius D. VII, fol. 56v: Anno gracie octingesimo septuagesimo secundo, Alfredus, filius Ethelwlfi Regis, reigiam unctionem et tocius regni coronam primus a Leone papa IIII° Rome suscepit (…)

Thus, in Matthew’s eyes, the only other ruler whose candidature could be considered was not a Wessex king, but a king of Mercia, Offa, who incidentally also was the founder of St Albans abbey and for this reason attracted a great admiration from Matthew Paris! Yet, the problem was that Offa was not the ancestor either of the later Anglo-Saxon kings of England or of the later Plantagenet kings ruling the kingdom of England in the mid-thirteenth century. But, in this same role of unifyer of the various kingdoms of England, he does not seem to have ever considered Egbert as a possible alternative candidate. Yet, the main identifiable sources Matthew Paris used to work out these abstracts, apart from his predecessor Roger of Wendover’s Flores Historiarum, were not all that categorical on the question. As we saw, William of Malmesbury, Matthew’s predominant source for this period of English history, favoured Egbert. This was also the case of another very

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influential work that we know Matthew read and used for his own abstracts, Ailred of Rievaulx’s Genealogia Regum Anglorum, a panegyric delivered to the young Henry Plantagenet in 1153-1154, just a few months before he became king of England, to celebrate – and to heighten his awareness of – his prestigious, truly English royal ancestry, through his maternel grandmother Edith/Mathilda, king Henry I’s wife.20 In it, even if the first reign which deserves a full paragraph is that of Aethelwulf, Ailred devotes a few (very suggestive) lines to Egbert: From Ingles the line of your family leads to Egbert, whose integrity was so great that he subjected to his rule the whole of England from the southern region to the Humber, which had till then lain divided among under many kings. For this reason he was called the first monarch of all the English.21

Yet, Ailred does not conceal his deepest admiration for Egbert’s grandson, Alfred, ‘piissimus’, ‘decus, regum gemma, virtutum exemplar’ and he relates in detail his supposed trip to Rome: Therefore, when he was still a boy, his father sent him to Rome, with a military escort and great gifts, that he might be commended to the prayers of the most holy apostles and blessed by the supreme pontiff. When the venerable high priest Leo, who then governed the roman church, saw the face and stature of the boy, he sensed in him the presence of the divine majesty by the sign of his shinning virtues. Looking ahead to the time and age when he would reign, the holy prelate devoutly consecrated him king with the sacrament of royal unction, as once Samuel did the boy David.22

In spite of this outspoken admiration for Alfred, Ailred seems to have thought that Egbert nevertheless was worthy to be granted the title of first king of England.

20

Ailred of Rievaulx, Genealogia Regum Anglorum, in J.Migne, Patrologiæ cursus completus, series latina, Paris, 1841-1864, 231 vols., vol. 195, col. 711738; English translation: Ailred of Rievaulx, The Historical Works, trans. By J. Freeland (ed.) with introduction and notes by M. Dutton, Cistercian Publications, Trappist (Kent.) / Liturgical Press, Collegeville (Minn.), 2008, 39-122 (The Genealogy of the Kings of the English). 21 Ibid, 75. The Latin original reads as follows: ‘Ingles vero linea cognationis tuae tenditur usque ad Ebrichtum, qui tantae fuit probitatis, ut universa Angliam ex Australi parte Humbrae, quae pluribus regibus eatenus divisa subjacuerat, suo subjugaret imperio, et ita primus omnium monarcha Angliae diceretur.’ 22 Ibid, 76-77.

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In fact, if we are looking for the anointing considered as indispensable to the kingly dignity, we have to turn to another of Matthew’s sources, Ralph of Diceto. We know Matthew read and annotated his Abbreviationes Chronicorum and his Ymagines Historiarum, written before 1202. But it is likely that he also used a collection of various historical abstracts written by Ralph of Diceto which have been published under the name of Opuscula.23 There, after a table with seven columns listing all the kings of the Heptarchy (stating, at the bottom of the Wessex column, that Egbert unified the seven above mentioned kingdoms - ‘Eadbirchtus septem supradicta regna conjunxit’ - he begins the history of the kings of England, but in two seperate rubrics he made a clear distinction between the first of them Aethelwulf, Egbert’s son (it is important to stress that Egbert himself does not appear in this section, but only as the last of the kings of Wessex in the preceding table), and the subsequent ones, beginning with Alfred: ‘Qui vocati sunt huc usque reges West Saxonum, abhinc appellati sunt solummodo reges Anglorum, sed nondum monarchiam optinuerunt.’ And then, after the short account of the reign of Aethelwulf and the even shorter mentions of the reigns of his first three sons: ‘De regibus Anglorum ubi vel a quibus regalem susceperint unctionem, vel ubi tumulati sunt.’ Matthew Paris was clearly aware of the conflicting views of his different sources, as is best shown by a note written by his friend John of Wallingford in his own copy of one of Matthew Paris’ abstracts, on the double-page where he drew the circular diagram of the Heptarchy: Sed has omnes varietates rex Adbrictus, qui regnavit triginta septem annis et predavit in Britannia ab oriente usque in occidentem, ex animi sui magnitudine conpescuit et ea uni conquadrans imperio ad uniforme dominium servans unicuique propetas leges vocavit. Hic autem rex Edbrictus, propter regie inunctionis carentiam et sue tirannidis ferocitatem, inter magnos et famosissimos reges Anglie non conputatur, licet plurima regna exterminando suppeditasset.24

No doubt, as Richard Vaughan has shown, to write his chronicle as well as his own genealogical abstract, John of Wallingford used additional material available in the St Albans abbey’s scriptorium and the arguments expressed in this passage to explain why Egbert had been excluded from 23

See Ralph of Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum and Opuscula : Radulfi de Diceto decani Lundoniensis opera historica, ed. by W. Stubbs, Rolls Series, London,1876, 2 vols., t. 2, 222-242, esp. 233. 24 London, BL, MS Cotton Julius D. VII, fol. 49v. See R. Vaughan, ‘The Chronicle of John of Wallingford’, English Historical Review, 73, 1958, 66-77.

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the list of the ‘great and very famous English kings’ certainly reflect Matthew Paris’s own conception of royal dignity. So this was not out of ignorance or under the influence of revered predecessors, but consciously and after careful consideration that Matthew decided against acknowledging Egbert as the first king of England, feeling more responsive to Ralph of Diceto’s arguments. But his efforts to promote King Alfred as the first king of England soon end in a complete failure.

The genealogical rolls and the choice of Egbert Less than a generation later, indeed (the first genealogical roll of the kings of England could have been written between 1265 and 1272), the author(s) of the genealogical rolls25 (or those for whom they were intended) unequivocally took the opposite view to Matthew Paris and placed Egbert instead of Alfred at the top of their genealogical diagram. Yet, it is all the more surprising since the anonymous author(s) of these rolls, which were written first in Latin and soon translated into French (Anglo-Norman), were clearly directly influenced by the ‘prototypes’ worked out by Matthew Paris at St Albans one or two decades earlier. What could have prompted them to do so? It would probably be anachronistic to see this opposition as a 20th century public or even strictly academic historiographical controversy. We could see this quick and major shift from Alfred to Egbert simply as a mark of English pragmatism. But I think there is more to it. The choice of the first king of England relies on the implicit conception of royal legitimacy, or to say it in more simple words, of true kingship. To read the last lines of the initial commentary on the diagram of the Heptarchy and then the first paragraph devoted to Egbert, one cannot have doubt as to the underlying concept of legitimacy: Let us start with the noble warrior Ethelbert [Egbert], the son of Edmund [Ailmund], who held the kingdom of Wessex and vigourously conquered 25

On these genealogical rolls, see O. de Laborderie, ‘A New Pattern for English History: The First Genealogical Rolls of the Kings of England’, in R. Radulescu and E. Kennedy (eds.), Broken Lines. Genealogical Literature in Late-Medieval Britain and France, Brepols, Turnhout, 2008, 45-61, and idem, Histoire, mémoire et pouvoir: les généalogies en rouleau des rois d’Angleterre (1250-1422), Classiques Garnier, Paris, 2014. For photographs of two of the most beautifully illustred rolls, which were recently exhibited in the British Library, see S. McKendrick, J. Lowden and K. Doyle, Royal Manuscripts: The Genius of Illumination, British Library, London, 2011, 344-347.

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In the eyes of those who wrote these genealogical rolls, or of their intended readership, the first king of England ought to have been a valiant knight and the only criterion to regard him as a king was his might (more than his right) and his ability to enforce his authority over the whole country. The very presence of the circular diagram of the Heptarchy, which acts as a sort of frontispiece in most of these rolls, strenghtens this idea that England’s ‘birth certificate’ was first and foremost political and coincided with the moment when all the small kingdoms of the Heptarchy were united under the sovereignty of the mightful Egbert, even if this unity could seem quite unstable and precarious at least to some illustrators!27 At the end of the rolls, in the paragraph dealing with Henry III, facing the problem of the numbering of homonymous kings, the author goes some way toward giving his – quite plain – definition of legitimacy. The question was whether or not Henry the Young King, Henry II’s son, should be numbered as Henry III, and consequently whether or not Henry, King John’s son, should be called Henry IV. The answer is quite straightforward: regardless of his coronation and unction, Henry the Young King was to be excluded from the list, because he died before his father and therefore did not actually reign.28 In a way, this could explain why Alfred was replaced by Egbert as the first king of England, in spite of his having not been anointed. These reflections about the numbering of kings already appear in one of Matthew Paris’ abstracts, the one copied by John of Wallingford, the very same where one finds the only explicit justification for turning down Egbert’s claim to be numbered among the great and most famous kings of England. Yet, paradoxically, these final reflections about ‘royal lorship or dignity’ (‘real seigneurie ou dignité’ in Anglo-Norman, ‘regie dominationis 26 The quotations in English are extracted from Marigold Anne Norbye’s translation of my own transcription of the Anglo-Norman text of the Chaworth Roll, published in A. Bovey, The Chaworth Roll : A Fourteenth-Century Genealogy of the Kings of England, Sam Fogg, London, 2005, 38-40. 27 See for instance the very amusing circular diagram at the beginning of one of these genealogical rolls, The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, ms. 75 A 2/2, on the official website of this library: http://manuscripts.kb.nl/zoom/BYVANCKB%3Amimi_75a2%3Adl2_bovenkant_r ol. 28 For the full text of this notice, see Bovey, The Chaworth Roll, 45.

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vel dignitatis’ in the Latin version of London, BL MS. Add. 30079, or ‘real poer’, ‘potesta regia’ in the lines devoted to king Edward the Elder), which could have led to a revision of the bias towards Alfred, did not prevent Matthew (or was this passage about the numbering of the Henrys one of John of Wallingford’s afterthought?) to stand by his initial position. I have tried elsewhere to put forward the hypothesis that the genealogical rolls could have originated in the royal circles during the years 1265-1291 and could have been prompted by Queen Eleanor of Provence, using as a model a royal genealogy made for her by Matthew Paris, possibly as a companion leaflet to the Estoire de seint Aedward le rei, a verse Life of Edward the Confessor dedicated to her.29 In this case, the substitution of Egbert for Alfred as the first king of England could well reflect English monarchy’s own perception of kingship at that time. Even if, by academic standards nowadays, they clearly antedated the unification of England under the rule of the Wessex kings and then what could be called the birth of the kingdom of England, those who first designed the genealogical rolls of the kings of England decidedly equate the kingship of England with the territorial unification of the land, whatever title, dignity or official consecration the king of England had been actually awarded, regardless of the conformity of the coronation ritual with the Church’s requirements.

Conclusion At the end of the thirteenth century, the fierce competition (obviously posthumous and by proxy) between Egbert and his grandson Alfred as to who should be regarded as the first king of England seems to have turned out to Egbert’s advantage, in spite of Matthew Paris’ intellectual authority and prestige. Henceforward, although some people still stand for Alfred and consider him the first effective king of England, no leading historian ever contemplated, as far as I know, choosing him to be the head of a genealogy of the kings of England, as Matthew Paris had done in the midthirteenth century. Conversely, more and more 14th century chroniclers considered the reign of Egbert, because he was seen as responsible for the unification of England, as a watershed in English history: among chronicles which bear witness to it, we can mention Ranulf Higden in his largely circulated

29

See for instance Laborderie, ‘Genealogiae orbiculatae’, 196-200.

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Polychronichon30 or Thomas Gray in his Scalachronica, who chose as principal theme of his third book ‘the unification which king Egbert effected of the seven Saxon kingdoms’.31 Yet, at the very moment Egbert was chosen as the head of the royal genealogy instead of Alfred on most genealogical rolls, a new historiographical pattern emerged, which very quickly overwhelmed the previous two: the ‘embodiement’ of the much popular history of the kings of Britain, as first told by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his Historia Regum Britanniae in the 1130s, into national English history. Until the end of the Middle Ages, at least, most histories of England, either in French or in English, now began with King Brutus, the legendary eponymous founder of Britain, notwithstanding the absence of any blood ties between the first Celtic rulers and their Germanic followers. Thus, in the Oldest AngloNorman prose Brut, which is about contemporary with the first genealogical rolls, in the last quarter of the 13th century, Egbert leaves the scene altogether and the narration simply jumps from the invader Gormund to king Æthelred and his brother Alfred, without even mentioning Egbert.32 And the second wave of genealogical rolls of the kings of England, in the middle of the 15th century, generally combine the genealogy of Christ devised by Peter of Poitiers at the end of the 12th century and the genealogy of the kings of England, beginning in most cases with Adam and Eve.33 30

Even if Higden seems to have confused Athelstan with Egbert, according to C. Given-Wilson, Chronicles: The Writing of History in Medieval England, Hambledon and London, London, 2004, 118-119. 31 Ibid, 119. 32 J. Marvin (ed.), The Oldest Anglo-Norman Prose Brut Chronicle : an edition and translation, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2006, and, more recently, for a later version of the Prose Brut, H. Pagan (ed.), Prose Brut to 1332, Anglo-Norman Text Society, Manchester, 2011. 33 See for instance A. Allan, ‘Yorkist Propaganda: Pedigree, Prophecy and the ‘British History’ in the Reign of Edward IV’, in C. Ross (ed.), Patronage, Pedigree and Power in Later Medieval England, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1979, 171-192 ; A. Allan, ‘Political Propaganda employed by the House of York in England in the Mid-Fifteenth Century, 1450-1471’, unpub. PhD thesis, University of Wales, 1981 ; A. Allan, ‘Royal Propaganda and the Proclamations of Edward IV’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research, 59, 1986, 146-154 ; and more recently R. Radulescu, ‘Yorkist Propaganda and the Chronicle from Rollo to Edward IV’, Studies in Philology, vol. 100, no. 4, 2003, 401-424. For a version of the Latin text of such genealogical rolls, see J. Brown (ed.), The Scroll Considerans (Magdalen MS248) Giving the Descent from Adam to Henry VI, Magdalen College, Oxford, 1999.

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Yet, once the Arthurian material which was born out, for a great part, of the fertile imagination of Geoffrey of Monmouth, was dismissed as legendary by an increasing number of historians (and John Rastell was among the first to take part to this refutation process, alongside with Polydore Virgil), Egbert ‘naturally’ re-emerged as ‘the first king of England’, and this time for good. In the huge and very impressive genealogical chart in several sheets designed by Morgan Colman for King James I and Queen Anne in 1608, Egbert had regained pre-eminence.34 In a way very similar to the medieval “stirps Jesse” representations, he was made not only the standard-bearer but the very roots of the English royal dynasty.

34 This chart can be seen on Internet at the following address: http://nltaylor.net/sketchbook/page/7.

CHAPTER FIVE ‘MOST EXCELLENT AND SERENE LADY’: REPRESENTATIONS OF FEMALE AUTHORITY IN THE DOCUMENTS, SEALS AND COINAGE OF THE REIGNING QUEENS OF NAVARRE (1274-1512) ELENA WOODACRE

The kingdom of Navarre had five reigning queens between 1274-1512, making the history of this period in the realm an excellent case study for the exercise and representation of female authority.1 A further element to explore is how these women were able to express and exert their authority through periods of minority rule, when a regent or guardian administered the realm on their behalf, and how they represented their right to rule as the heiress of the kingdom during their joint rule with their kings consort. This paper will begin with an examination of the way that the monarchical pairs were represented in textual sources, primarily in the documents that they issued as sovereigns. These documents are important, not only because their content demonstrates how reigning queens exercised their royal authority, but because the address clauses and signatures can shed light on how queens shared power with regents, guardians and consorts and importantly, how they wanted their partnership with these individuals to be perceived. The seals of these documents will also be considered, together with the coinage issued by queens during their reign. These visual representations of the queens are also excellent 1

The five queens were Juana I (r. 1274-1305), Juana II (1328-1349), Blanca I (1425-1441), Leonor (lieutenant 1455-1479, queen 1479), Catalina (1483-1517, kingdom annexed 1512). For more on these women and their reigns, see E. Woodacre, The Queens Regnant of Navarre: Succession, Politics and Partnership 1274-1512, Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2013.

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evidence of their public image which could potentially send a stronger, more immediate message to a much wider audience. Both textual and visual sources will also be assessed for signs of continuity and change between the reigns of different queens in order to ascertain whether previous monarchs served as models to emulate or reject in favour of new methods of projecting their desired image and royal authority. While this paper cannot provide an exhaustive survey of all of the surviving documentary and numismatic evidence from the reigns of the Navarrese queens, it will provide a selection of examples to demonstrate typologies and provide a framework for this discussion of how reigning queens and consort kings crafted an image of their partnership and reinforced their sovereign authority through the documents and coins that they issued.

Textual Sources In the case of Juana I, there was an extended minority period between 1274-1284, during which the kingdom was administered by governors who were directed by the queen’s guardian and prospective father-in-law, Philip III of France. The French king was closely involved with the governance of Navarre and dispatches were sent on a nearly daily basis.2 These documents, though issued by the French king, carefully refer to the rightful sovereign, Juana, as a basis for their authority.3 Intriguingly, one of the few surviving examples of a charter issued by her mother while she was still Juana’s guardian, has no reference to the young queen in the address clause.4 This may be because Blanche of Artois had the obvious authority of a dowager queen in Navarre, whereas Philip III of France, as a foreign monarch, needed to confirm his right to rule on behalf of Juana. Only a few acts were issued directly in her own name, including one from 1277 and another from 1281, although given the fact that she would have been under the age of ten, it is extremely unlikely that she had anything to do with the production of these documents.5 2

These documents can be found in the Codices section of the Archivo General de Navarra (hereafter AGN), specifically Codices C.3 which is made up of 23 folios of material from 1276-1279 and Codices C.7 which spans 1274-1285. 3 One example: ‘pro domicella Iohanna regina et herede regni Navarre et nomine ipsius’ or ‘on behalf of the young lady Juana, queen and heir of the kingdom of Navarre and in her own name’: AGN Codices, C.3, 3r (2) dated 6 July 1277 at Nemours. 4 AGN Comptos, Caj. 3, no.74 dated 9 February 1275 at Sans, Burgundy. 5 AGN Codices, C.3, 5v-6r dated 22 October 1277 from Paris and AGN Comptos Caj.4, 35 dated 25 June 1281. Both documents contain rare examples of Juana’s

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After gaining her majority and becoming queen consort of France in 1285, the queen’s address in administrative documents reflected her changed status. Those issued after the regime change no longer refer to Juana as ‘young lady’ or ‘domicella’ but rather as the Queen of France and Navarre.6 Although the queen had passed out of her minority the documents were not issued solely in her name; her marriage meant that her husband became the primary issuer, rather than her father-in-law. Juana was referred to as ‘our beloved consort’ and gave her assent and seal, noting her authority as the natural sovereign of Navarre, but it is difficult to discern whether she had any input or control of the content of documents and their directives.7 However, regardless of the level of her engagement with the production of the documents, her authority and consent was a key feature, acknowledging her position as the rightful sovereign of Navarre. Maria Itziar Zabala Aldave noted in her survey of the surviving documents issued during their joint reign that the queen’s consent was a regular feature of many documental types including those regarding donations, homage and treaties, pacts or accords.8 However, mandates, due to their brief nature and truncated address, did not always include a reference to the queen. Félix Segura Urra has argued that the documents of her reign show a distinctly French influence in the way that they portray the power of the monarchy. He notes the shift between the traditional address of the earlier kings of Navarre which was more inclusive and drew on the idea of the monarchy’s role in upholding the Fueros to an emphasis on the regal power of the crown under Juana and her French husband. In the example cited by Segura Urra, Philip is referred to first in very strong, masculine terms as ‘the most illustrious, magnificent and powerful lord’ while Juana individual address clause. The former document concerns the Jewish and Muslim residents of Estella regarding peace between the two communities and payment owed by them to the crown. 6 AGN Codices, C.6, 144 (2) dated 3 June 1287; ‘and we Juana, by the grace of God Queen of France and Navarre, heir of this (kingdom)’ (original ‘Et nos Iohanna, Dei gratia Francie et Nauarre regina, de cuius hereditate’). It is interesting to note that Juana’s Champenois titles are not always listed. 7 An example of Juana’s assent or consent clause is ‘We see (this) Juana by the grace of God Queen of France and Navarre Countess Palatine of Champagne and Brie as inherited’ (Original text ‘Nos vero Johanna dei gracia francia et Nauarre Regina Campanie et brie comitissa palatine de aug(?) hereditate’). AGN Comptos, Caj. 4, no.100, 1 August 1294 at Felleixin. 8 M. I. Zabalza Aldave, ‘Tipología documental del reinado de Felipe I y Juana I de Navarra (1284-1307)’ Principe de Viana Anejo 8, no. 3; Communicaciones Edad Media (1988), 694-696.

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is merely ‘the most excellent and serene lady’ although her position as the ‘natural lady’ or rightful heir is duly noted.9 Intriguingly, there is a distinct difference in how Juana’s authority was represented in the official royal cartulary and charters issued by subjects in her realm. This divergence can be seen most clearly in documents issued in Occitan, which was widely used in the Midi and the Pyrenean region during the period. There is a particular formula to these documents which includes two specific references to the sovereign; the first is a pledge of loyalty and blessing to the sovereign from their male and female subjects in the region and the end of the document, there is a clause which includes the name of the reigning sovereign and could also include the names of governors, bishops and other important officials. It is interesting to note that although the official cartulary gives weight to Philip III’s role as her guardian, the Occitan documents do not allude to this role, emphasizing instead that ‘Lady Johana, daughter of the King lord Hennric reigns in Navarre’.10 The Occitan documents do recognize the role of her husband, Philip IV as king consort, however, many documents mention the queen alone, without reference to her husband. While the official cartulary names Juana as the Queen of France and Navarre, the Occitan documents generally omit her French title. After Juana’s death, there is a surviving declaration of homage from the city of Estella to her son Louis as the new king of Navarre which was also written in Occitan. This document also stresses Juana’s importance; while her husband is given the standard mention as ‘the most excellent prince, lord Philip by the grace of God King of France’, Juana is referred to as ‘the most high and most noble our lady Juana, the late queen of Navarre, may God pardon her, heir of the Kingdom of Navarre.’11 This 9

F. Segura Urra, Fazer Justicia; fuero, poder público y delito en Navarra, Gobierno de Navarra, Pamplona, 2005, 130. Original text is ‘illustrissimo, magnifico ac potentissimo domino’ and ‘excellentissime ac serenissime domine sue naturalis domine’. 10 For examples see S. Garcia Larragueta, Documentos Navarros en Lengua Occitana, Fuentes Documentales Medievales del Pais Vasco 26, Eusko Ikaskuntza, San Sebastian, 1990. The lone document which lists Juana’s French title is AGN Roncevalles, leg. 1, no.49, dated 30 December 30, 1288, (Documentos Navarros, 130). The other two examples can be found in AGN Irache, leg. 8, no. 230, dated 1 April 1303, (Documentos Navarros, 203) and AHN OM San Juan, leg. 720-21, no.46, dated 7 February 1299, (Documentos Navarros, 166) respectively. Original text is ‘nostra dona Iohana reyna de Navarra’ and ‘Regnant dona Johana filla del rey don Hennric de Navarra’. 11 AGN Comptos, Caj. 5, no.8-10, dated April 1306 at Estella. Original text: ‘muyt excellent prince don Philipe, per la graçia de Dios rey de França, et de la muy alta

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effusive address may have been due to the queen’s recent death, but the general trend toward emphasizing Juana’s role ne(eds.). to be addressed. This image of Juana as sovereign of the realm created by the documents in Occitan, in contrast to the image of Juana as a ‘beloved consort’ in the official cartulary may be due to a degree of hostility to French rule because of the actions of French governors who frequently ignored traditional customs and laws set out in the Fueros of the realm. It should also be noted that the Basque community in the region had a much more amenable attitude to the exercise of authority by females, which is reflected in their own inheritance practices and the ability of women to participate in Basque councils. This favourable sentiment with regard to female authority may explain their desire to emphasize Juana’s position as their rightful sovereign and the frequent inclusion of women in the homage clause of the Occitan documents as well. Although documents were issued by the Navarrese chancery in several languages, Occitan was not widely used in official documentation. Catherine Léglu, in her research on the use of Occitan notes that it was ‘one of the few Romance languages that did not eventually become the official idiom of a nation-state’.12 Only one official charter was issued by Juana I and Philip IV of France in Occitan; this document was created during their trip to the Midi region in 1300.13 In contrast to the reign of her grandparents, documentary evidence from Juana II’s reign demonstrates that both she and her consort, Philip d’Evreux, were active in the rule and administration of the realm. There is a fairly even balance between charters issued solely by either the queen or consort and joint charters. In charters issued jointly, Philip’s name and titles precede Juana’s but this is fairly standard procedure for charters issued by a married couple and her titles are acknowledged, in other words she is given more weight than being merely his spouse.14 Philip’s own documents do not refer to the king specifically as a ‘consort’ nor do they

et muy noble nostra dona dona Johana, reynna de Nauarra qui fu, a qui Dios perdon, hereter de regne de Nauarra’. 12 C. Léglu, Multilingualism and Mother Tongue in Medieval French, Occitan and Catalan Narratives, Penn State University Press, University Park, PA, 2010, 5. 13 Garcia Larragueta, Documentos Navarros, AMP no.68, dated November 1300 in Cahors, 175. It is worth noting that the couple did not actually visit the kingdom of Navarre during this trip, although they were extremely close to its borders. Juana, in fact, may have never visited the kingdom. See Woodacre, Queens Regnant, 39. 14 For an example of a joint charter see AGN Comptos, Caj. 7, no.14 dated 4 July 1331 at Pamplona.

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note his wife’s assent or permission for his actions.15 However, there are also examples of Juana issuing separate documents to support or confirm actions taken by her husband.16 Juana II handled many important areas of administration and rule herself; documents clearly show her involvement in resolving disputes with Castile and in the crucial negotiations over the marriage of their daughter to Pedro IV of Aragon.17 Overall, the documentary evidence from the reign of Juana II and Philip d’Evreux suggests more of an equitable joint rule rather than the reign of a sovereign and a consort. One example from a jointly issued charter from 1340 projects the image of a unified partnership, ‘As to us only from our royal right and all…belongs to us for all our realm of Navarre’.18 Given that this statement comes directly after their joint address clause, it is reasonable to assume that this strong sentiment, expressing a joint possession of the royal right, comes equally from both sovereigns, not from Philip using the royal ‘we’. The joint address clause from the reign of Blanca I and Juan of Aragon generally reflects the precedent of previous monarchal pairs. As in the case of earlier cartulary issued by reigning queens and their consorts, Juan’s titles come first, however, Blanca’s authority as the hereditary sovereign is clearly demonstrated in the wording of their address clause, an example of which is given below.19 Lord Juan, by the grace of God King of Navarre, Prince of Aragon and Sicily, Duke of Nemours, of Montblanc, of Peñafiel, Count of Ribagorza and Lord of the city of Ballaguer and Lady Blanca, by the same grace 15 One example is Document 162, dated 26 May 1331 at Olite in DMO, p.478 (AMO Pergaminos 58). 16 One example, confirming Philip’s appointment of arbitrators in a dispute with Castile dated April 1336 in Lerin is AGN Comptos, Caj.7, no.65. 17 An important document regarding the dowry of her daughter in the Aragonese marriage is AGN Comptos, Caj.9, no.14, dated 30 July 1340 at Breval. 18 Document 193, dated October 1340 at Paris in M. Beroiz Lazcano, Documentacion medieval de Olite; Siglos XII-XIV (hereafter DMO), Gobierno de Navarra, Pamplona, 2009, 507-8 (AMO Pergaminos 59). Original text is ‘Come a nous seuls de notre droit royal et oour le tout appertiegnent….tout notre royaume de Nauarre’. Note the missing section here is water as the document gives permission to a certain town to alter the flow of a particular river. 19 I. Arzoz Mendizábal, ‘Algunas consideraciones sobre la cancillería de la reina Blanca de Navarra (1425-1441)’, Miscelánea Medieval Murciana 29-30 (2005-6), 29. Original text is ‘La cancillería real en la intitulación hace una clara distinción entre Juan II y Blanca, siendo esta última, reina heredera y propietaria, mientras que su marido es solo rey “consorte” de Navarra.’

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Furthermore the queen’s signature was often the only one given; she would sign on her own authority or indicate the consent of both partners as in this example: ‘Blanca. For the king and queen’.21 Many royal documents either began with a joint clause but were clearly issued by Blanca or had an individual address clause from the queen alone.22 When Blanca issued documents without a full address clause ‘The Queen’, would be written across the top of the page, to indicate that they had been produced on her sole sovereign authority.23 This propensity for the documentation to derive solely or primarily from the queen’s authority stems in a large part from her position as the rightful sovereign, however, it is important to note that Juan’s frequent absence from the realm is another factor in his omission from these documents. It is interesting to note the contrast between this situation and that of Juana I and Philip IV of France; while Philip of France issued many of their ostensibly joint documents with a mention of Juana and a nod to her consent, here Blanca becomes the primary issuer, signing for both parties or omitting her 20

M. Osés Urricelqui, Documentación medieval de Estella: siglos XII-XVI, vol. 1 (hereafter DME), Gobierno de Navarra, Pamplona, 2005, Document 202, 569 (AMSCl. Estella E-14) dated 23 June 1440 at Olite. Original text is ‘Don Johan, por la gracia de Dios rey de Nauarra, infant d’Aragon et de Sicilia, duc de Nemours, de Montblanc, de Peynafel, conte de Ribagarça et senor de la cuidat de Ballaguer, et dona Blanca, por aqueilla mesma gracia reyna et heredera proprietaria del dicho regno, duquessa de los dichos ducados, contessa de los dichos contados et senora de la dicha ciudat de Ballaguer’. 21 Examples of this formula include AGN Comptos, Caj.132, no.21, 2 dated 15 June 1432 at Olite and AGN Comptos, Caj.131, no.47, 7 dated 18 September 1431. Original text is ‘Blanca. Por el rey et por la reyna’. Although this signature indicates that she was signing on behalf of herself and Juan, Ramírez Vaquero stresses that it was the Queen’s signature and assent which were vital as the ‘señora natural’; E. Ramírez Vaquero, 'La reina Blanca y Navarra', Principe de Viana, vol. 60, no. 217, 1999, 331. 22 An example of Blanca’s individual address clause which also contains the queen’s signature and ends with ‘por la reyna’ or ‘for the queen’ is AGN Comptos, Caj.132, no.6, 3 dated 20 January 1432 at Olite. 23 An example of a document which started with the heading ‘La Reyna’ or ‘The Queen’ is AGN Comptos, Caj.130, no.28, 3 dated 1 October 1430 at Estella. This was an internal ‘memo’ or request to the Cámara de Comptos for a copy of a document. It is interesting to note that Catalina also used this informal heading for some of her documents.

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husband completely. This underlines both her role as hereditary sovereign and the fact that as king consort, Juan’s consent, seal or signature was not required to consent to the queen’s actions. Although there is little surviving evidence from Leonor’s brief period as Queen of Navarre, documentary evidence amply demonstrates Leonor’s active role during her period of rule as lieutenant between 1455-1479. Unlike the documents issued during her mother Blanca’s reign which mention both spouses, for the most part, Leonor generally makes no mention of her husband in her address clause. In fact Leonor’s address clause is more similar to her brother Carlos, the Principe de Viana, as can be seen in the following comparison: The Principe de Viana: ‘Carlos, by the grace of God Principe de Viana, heir and lieutenant for the King, my father and lord in Navarre, [and] Duke of Gandia’24 Leonor: ‘Lady Leonor, by the grace of God princess primogenita, heiress of Navarre, princess of Aragon and Sicily, Countess of Foix and Bigorre, Lady of Bearn, Lieutenant general for the most serene king, my most redoubtable lord and father in this his kingdom of Navarre’25

Although Leonor’s address clause is similar to her brother’s during his lieutenancy it is more embellished and detailed, thoroughly detailing her current position and also laying claim to her position as heiress of Navarre as well as her rights as the daughter of the King of Aragon in addition to her marital titles as a means of bolstering her somewhat tenuous authority. Leonor’s address clause is also far more effusive with regard to their father Juan of Aragon while Carlos, who had the most difficult relationship with his father (as Juan had prevented Carlos from claiming the title of King of Navarre which was his by right), gives Juan a bare mention and his early

24

DME, Document 204, 573 (AME, Fondos Especiales, no.13), dated 26 March 1442 at Olite. Original text is ‘Karlos, por la gracia de Dios prinçep de Viana, heredero et logartenient por el sennor rey, mi sennor et padre en Nauarra, duc de Gandia’. 25 AGN Comptos, Caj 161, no. 10 dated 18 September 1469 at Pamplona. Original text is ‘Dona Leonor por la gracia de dios princessa primogenita heredera de Navarra Infanta daragon et de Sicilia contessa de fox et de begorra Señora de Bearn lugartiente general por el Rey mi muy Reduptable Señor e padre en este su Regno de Navarra’.

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address clauses issued immediately after the death of his mother Blanca I do not mention Juan at all.26 Although technically both Leonor and her husband Gaston IV, Count of Foix, had been named the lieutenants of the realm, Leonor generally administered Navarre alone while Gaston took care of his own patrimonial territory. During her independent exercise of power as lieutenant, Leonor generally used an individual address clause. However, there are a few examples of the couple’s joint address clause as the administrators of Navarre which combine the formula of Blanca and Juan’s address with elements of Leonor’s sole clause. Most of these rare joint examples come from a short period, between September and December of 1470 when the couple must have been together in Navarre.27 The following is a sample of their joint address clause: Lord Gaston by the grace of God Prince of Navarre, Count of Foix, Lord of Béarn, Count of Bigorre, of Marsan, of Nebousan and of Garbardan, Peer of France and Leonor by the same grace princess and heiress of Navarre, Infanta of Aragon and Sicily, Countess and Lady of the said counties and lordships, lieutenants general for our most redoubtable lord and father in this his kingdom of Navarre28

The cartulary evidence from the Catalina and Jean d’Albret’s reign shows a remarkably similar address clause to Catalina’s great-grandparents, Blanca I and Juan of Aragon. A direct comparison shows that despite a slight difference in the actual titles held the address clauses of the two couples are effectively the same:

26

For example see DME Document 203, dated 7 June 1441 at Pamplona, 570. The examples from this period include AGN Comptos Caj.162, no.9 dated 7 December 1470 at Olite, AGN Comptos, Caj.162, no.3, dated 18 September 1470 at Olite and AGN Comptos Caj. 130, no.10, 2 dated 27 October 1470 also at Olite. 28 AGN Comptos Caj.158, no.64 dated 27 September 1469 at Pamplona. Original text is ‘Don Gaston por la gracia de dios principe de nauarra conde de fox Señor de bearn Conde de begorra de marsan de nebosan et de garbardan par de francia et dona Leonor por la mesma gracia princessa primogenital heredera de nauarra Infanta de aragon et de Sicilia condessa de los dichos condados e Senyora de los dichos senyorios lugartienentes generales por el Serenissimo Rey nuestro muy Reduptable Señor e padre en este su regno de nauarra.’. There is also another document with the same date and address clause, AGN Comptos Caj.158, no.63. It is worth noting that the examples from 1469 are slightly more elaborate than the 1470 ones as they include the mention of Marsan, Gavardan and Nebousan and his role as a peer of France. 27

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Blanca and Juan Lord Juan, by the grace of God King of Navarre, Prince of Aragon and Sicily, Duke of Nemours, of Montblanc, of Peñafiel, Count of Ribagorza and Lord of the city of Ballaguer and Lady Blanca, by the same grace queen and rightful heiress of said kingdom, duchess of the aforesaid duchies, countess of the aforesaid counties and lady of the said city of Ballaguer29 Catalina and Jean Lord Jean, by the grace of God King of Navarre, Duke of Nemours, of Gandia, of Montblanc, and Peñafiel, Count of Foix, Lord of Bearn, Count of Bigorre and Ribagorza, Lord of the city of Ballaguer, peer of France and lady Catalina, by the same grace queen regnant of the said kingdom of Navarra, duchess, countess and lady of the said duchies, counties and lordships 30

Given the similarities between the two, it is very likely that Blanca and Juan’s address clause served as a model for Catalina’s chancery to emulate. However, the address clauses used by Catalina and Jean in treaties varied; some give Jean a more prominent role, while others place the couple on a more equal footing. An example of the former is the third treaty of Seville between the sovereigns of Navarre and the Reyes Católicos, signed 14 May 1500 which lists Jean first with all of his titles and then adds Catalina as ‘the most serene queen, your cousin, our very dear and beloved wife’.31 A more egalitarian address clause, on both sides,

29 DME, Document 202, 569 (AMSCl. Estella E-14), 23 June 1440 at Olite. Original text is ‘Don Johan, por la gracia de Dios rey de Nauarra, infant d’Aragon et de Sicilia, duc de Nemours, de Montblanc, de Peynafel, conte de Ribagarça et senor de la cuidat de Ballaguer, et dona Blanca, por aqueilla mesma gracia reyna et heredera proprietaria del dicho regno, duquessa de los dichos ducados, contessa de los dichos contados et senora de la dicha ciudat de Ballaguer’. 30 DME, Document 253, 696 (AMSCL Estella E-1), 27 March 1501 at Pamplona. Original text is ‘Don Johan, por la gracia de Dios rey de Nauarra, duc de Nemoux, de Gandia, de Montblanch e de Pennaffiel, conde de Foix, senor de Bearn, conde de Begorra e de Ribagorça, senor de la cuidat de Balaguer, par de Francia, e dona Kathallina, por la mesma gracia reyna proprietaria del dicho regno de Nauarra, duquessa, condessa e senora de los dichos duquados, condados e senorios’. 31 Reprinted in P. Boissonade, Histoire de la réunion de la Navarre à la Castille: essai sur les relations des princes de Foix-Albert avec la France et l'Espagne (1479-1521), Slatkine, Geneva, 1975, 607-8. (AGS, Patronado Real, leg.2, fol.15).

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comes from a treaty of alliance with the new sovereigns of Castile, Juana I and her husband Philip of Flanders, signed 27 August 1506: Lord Philip and lady Juana, by the grace of God King and Queen of Castile, Leon, Granada etc, in accordance with the love and good wishes which we have for you, the most illustrious lord Jean and lady Catalina, King and Queen of Navarre, Lords of Bearn etc.32

Although this clause brackets both couples together fairly equally, it is important to note that neither queen is acknowledged as the rightful heir or queen regnant, though both women have inherited the royal authority of their respective realms. The only example of an address clause which simultaneously acknowledged Catalina’s rights while indicating that she was subject to her husband comes from Favyn’s Histoire de Navarre.33 This atypical address clause lists the couple as We Lord Jean by the grace of God King of Navarre and we Lady Catherine by the same grace Queen regnant of the said kingdom, with the licence and permission of you Lord Jean my husband…34

Although this is an interesting example, given the atypical formula and indirect provenance, it cannot be said to be truly indicative of the couple’s partnership. Jean may have taken precedence in their standard joint address clause, but this was more likely due to earlier chancery models as

Original text is ‘la Serenissima Reyna, vuestra sobrina, nuestra muy cara é muy amada muger’. 32 Reprinted in A. Adot Lerga, Juan de Albret y Catalina de Foix o la defensa del estado navarro (1483-1517), Pamiela, Pamplona, 2005, 351-52 and in Boissonade, Histoire de la réunion, 622-24. (ADPA E 552). Original text is ‘don Phelipe y donna Juana, por la gracia de Dios, rey y reyna de Castilla, de Leon, de Granada etc. acatando el amor y buena voluntad que tenemos a vos los muy ilustres don Juan y donna Catalina, rey y reyna de Navarra, sennores de Bearne etc.’ 33 The document is reproduced in A. Favyn, Histoire De Navarre: Contenant l'Origine, le Vies and conquestes de ses Roys, depuis leur commencement iusques a present, Sonnius, Paris, 1612, 611-12. 34 Favyn, Histoire De Navarre, 611. Original text is ‘Nous Dom Iean par la grace de Dieu Roy de Nauarre, et nous Donne Catherine par la mesme grace Royne proprietaire dudict Royaume, auec la licence et permission de vous Roy Dom Iean mon mary’. Favyn notes a similar clause at the end of the coronation accord on page 613.

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discussed previously rather than a reflection of any desire on Jean’s part to dominate their relationship or their joint rule of the kingdom.35 The similarities between the joint address clauses of the couples in this study indicate that the chancery must have used the examples of earlier queens and their consorts as a model for the next queen’s cartulary. However, some differences can also be seen. The most atypical example is that of Gaston and Leonor, which is a reflection of their particular role as lieutenants for her father, Juan of Aragon. The rest of the examples are essentially similar; the husband and his titles come first, followed by his wife, whose titles are largely truncated. As noted previously, the cartulary of the first queen regnant, Juana I, is slightly different, both in the wording and in the layout of the documents themselves. The couple’s documents began with Philip’s brief address clause, proceeded with the purpose and main text of the document and then Juana’s clause would follow at the end, sometimes with an indication that she had ‘seen’ or ‘assented’ to the terms of the charter. However, there is an important element of continuity throughout all of queens’ reigns in that although the queen was normally listed after her husband in joint address clauses, her role and authority as the rightful heir to the kingdom were emphasized. Even Leonor, who had not yet gained the title of queen, noted that she was the rightful heir to Navarre. This underlines the principle of female inheritance and succession as decreed in the Navarrese Fueros, highlighting the legal rights of the queen regnant. Her husband may have been allowed to participate in, or even dominate, the administration of the realm but her authority as sovereign was always acknowledged and she must be seen to be involved in the government of the realm, even if it was only to acknowledge her awareness of acts and give her consent. It is also important to note that although this particular section has focused primarily, though not exclusively, on joint address clauses, all of the female rulers of Navarre had their own individual address clauses. The clearest links can be seen in the cartulary of Blanca and Catalina. Catalina could not use Leonor or her mother Magdalena’s address clauses for a pattern to emulate. Although both Leonor and Magdalena ruled or administered Navarre both women were in a different position to Catalina; Leonor was ruling as her father’s lieutenant and Magdalena was ruling as regent. Blanca’s individual clause would have been a more appropriate

35

For more on Jean d’Albret as king consort and his partnership with Catalina, see Woodacre, Queens Regnant, 150-156.

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model to emulate, which can be demonstrated by a direct comparison of the two addresses: Blanca Blanca by the grace of God Queen of Navarre, Duchess of Nemours, of Gandia, of Montblanc, of Peñafiel, Countess of Ribagorza and Lady of the city of Balaguer36 Catalina Ourselves Lady Catalina by the grace of God Queen of Navarre, Duchess of Nemours, of Gandia, of Montblanc, of Peñafiel. Countess of Foix, Lady of Béarn. Countess of Ribagorza and Lady of the city of Balaguer37

Both Catalina and Leonor also adopted Blanca’s informal model using the heading ‘The Queen’ and the footing ‘for the Queen’.38 However, in Leonor’s case the wording was altered to reflect her different circumstances; her heading read ‘The Princess’ and the footer was ‘by the mandate of the lady Princess’.39 In addition, Catalina did vary her individual address clause, as well as her joint address as discussed previously. In one version of her solo clause, she was clearly drawing on both the feminine model of her greatgrandmother Blanca and the masculine tradition of her grandfather, Gaston IV of Foix as seen below: Lady Catherine by the grace of God Queen of Navarre, Duchess of Nemours, of Gandia of Montblanc, of Peñafiel, Countess of Foix, Lady of Béarn, Countess of Bigorre, of Ribagorza, of Ponnébre, of Perigord, Vicountess of Limoges, Peer of France and Lady of the city of Balaguer40 36

AGN Comptos, Caj.132, no.6, 3 dated 20th January 1432 at Olite. Original text is ‘Blanca por la gracia de dios Reyna de Nauarra duquessa de Nemours de Gandia de montblanch de penyafiel comtessa de Ribagorza and Senyora de la Ciudat de balaguer.’ 37 AGN Comptos, Caj 163, no. 31 dated 8 June 1484 at Orthez. Original text is ‘Nos dona Catalina por la gracia de dios Reyna de Navarra duquessa de Nemours de Gandia de montblanc e de penyafiel. Condessa de foix Señorra de bearn. Condessa de begorra de Ribagorza e Señorra de la Ciudat de balaguer’. 38 An example of this formula in Blanca’s cartulary is AGN Comptos Caj.130, no.30, 3 dated 18 December 1430 at Sangüesa. A very similar sample from Catalina is AGN Comptos Caj. 167, no.16, 2 dated 10 December 1502. 39 AGN Comptos Caj.198, no.18, 2 dated 13 June 1475 at Tafalla. Leonor’s signature is also visible in this example. 40 AGN Comptos Caj.167, no.16, 2 dated 20 December 1501 at Pamplona. Original text is ‘Doña Cathalina por la gracia de dios Reyna de Navarra

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The unusual element is the deliberate inclusion of the title ‘Peer of France’ which was also used in her grandfather Gaston’s address clause. It is also interesting that she chose to emphasize her position in France and with this traditionally masculine formula, as a peer of the realm, rather than play upon her familial connections to the French throne or her male relatives in a more typically female formula as her ancestor Juana II had. Juana II was the daughter and sole surviving child of Louis X, King of France; she was bypassed in the French succession but was ultimately able to claim her father’s rights to the Kingdom of Navarre, after the deaths of her two uncles.41 Juana often used the address clause of her documents to stress her Capetian inheritance by using the term ‘daughter of the king of France’ immediately after her name at the beginning of her documents.42 Perhaps logically, this clause was most often inserted in documents issued in French and was seen more frequently after the death of her husband in 1343. It was not unheard of for other French princesses to use this clause; for example Juana’s maternal grandmother Agnes of France employed a similar phrase in her cartulary.43 A much later example of this same phrase can be seen in the cartulary of Magdalena of France, Princess of Viana and regent for her children Francisco Fébo and later Catalina I, who began her address clause with ‘Magdalena, daughter and sister of the Kings of France’.44 In Magdalena’s case, the phrase was probably included to give her added authority and stress her allegiance to her own family and homeland. For Juana, this phrase may have been included as a nod to French tradition, however it is more likely that its deliberate inclusion served to stress the fact that Juana was her father’s heir to the throne of France as well as Navarre, even if she had been ultimately unable to claim her rights to the French throne. In summary, both the joint and individual address clauses of female rulers and their consorts show both continuity and change. Generally, the Duquessa de Nemours de Gandia de Montblanch de Penyafiel Condessa de fox Senora de Bearn Condessa de begorra de Ribagorza de Ponnébre de Peyregord Vizconde de Limoges Par de Francia e Senora de la Ciudat de balaguer’. 41 For a detailed discussion of Juana’s struggle to claim the French and Navarrese thrones, see Woodacre, Queens Regnant, 51-61. 42 For examples of Juana’s use of this clause see AGN Comptos, Caj. 9, no.75, and Caj. 9, no.7 both dated 29 March 1344 at Breval (in French) and AGN Comptos, Caj.11, no.35, dated 27 August 1349 at Conflans (in Latin). 43 See Document of Preuve CCXXV dated 1316 in U. Plancher, Histoire Generale et Particuliere de Bourgogne…, Antoine de Fay, Dijon, 1741. 44 AGN Comptos, Caj. 163, no. 37, 3 dated 21 July 1479 at Pau. Original text is ‘Magdalena fija y hermana de los Reyes de Francia’.

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address clauses were very similar which is to be expected as the chancery would have looked to previous models and precedent in order to shape the cartulary of a new monarch. Using traditional forms of address also emphasizes dynastic continuity. However, it has also been demonstrated that innovation did occur and that monarchs did tailor their clauses to reflect their own circumstances. Later rulers also appears to blend different models from the past, drawing on different precedents to create a formula that was still essentially similar, but reflected multiple aspects of their heritage as well as the authority of the female sovereigns as hereditary monarchs of the realm.

Visual Sources (Seals and Coinage) The seals attached to the couple’s cartulary were a way to incorporate visual imagery to the textual representation of the royal authority and power sharing dynamic of the sovereign pair. As with the address clauses discussed in the previous section, the trends in the use of the seals over the period of this study demonstrate both continuity and change. The seals of the first two queens and their consorts are extremely similar and fit with wider sigillographic fashions. For both Juana I and II, the queen’s seal was oval or ‘vesica’ in shape and the design was comprised of a standing figure under a Gothic canopy which was flanked by the shields of Navarre and their French territories.45 The king consort’s seal was in keeping with earlier traditions which depicted the king enthroned on one side and on the reverse as a knight on horseback, in armour and with the heraldic design of his house on the horse’s back. Both spouses had similar small seals with a simple dynastic shield device. Seals were also altered as the position of the bearer was changed. Before her accession to the French throne in 1285 as the consort of Philip IV, Juana I’s seal bore the shields of her own territories of Navarre and the County of Champagne. After 1285 the French title took precedence in her list of titles and the French shield replaced the Champenois on the front of the seal, reducing Champagne’s presence to a quartering on the rear

45

E. Danbury, ‘Queens and Powerful Women: Images of Authority’ in N. Brown, J. Cherry and J. Robinson (eds.), Good Impressions: image and authority in medieval seals, British Museum Research Publications, London, 2008, 17. See also pictorial examples of other contemporary queens in this article including Margaret of France and Philippa of Hainault whose seals are similar in terms of shape and design.

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shield.46 However, while all of her titles, both natal and marital continued to be listed on the front of Juana I’s seal, the reverse lists only her own titles, “IOHANA REGINE NAVARRE COMITISSE EBROYCENSIS”.47 The seals of Juana II and Philip d’Evreux were fundamentally similar to their Capetian predecessors as they followed the French sigillographic tradition.48 Philip’s seals carry the traditional designs of a knight on horseback on the reverse and the front of the seal has an image of the king enthroned.49 The seal is round in shape, approximately seven centimetres in diameter and imprinted in light brown wax. On the front the king is pictured crowned and enthroned in flowing robes holding a sceptre with a fleur-de-lys at its tip. 50 Two lions flank the throne and another sits at his feet. The reverse bears an image of Philip as a knight in armour with a flowing cape and with the combined Evreux-Navarre arms on his horse, though his shield bears only the Navarrese device. Juana II’s own seal is similar to that of her grandmother and shows her standing under a gothic canopy with the arms of France, Navarre and Evreux.51 It is a similar size to her husband’s seal but is lozenge-shaped and sealed in red wax. While the queen is not enthroned, she is crowned and holds a sceptre. Around the edges of both spouses’ seals there is a traditional list of titles; on Juana’s seal, some words are still visible, 46

F. Menéndez Pidal de Navascués, M. Ramos Aguirre, E. Ochoa de Olza Eguiraun (eds.), Sellos Medievales de Navarra, Gobierno de Navarra, Pamplona, 1995, 48-49 and pictorial examples 1/21, 1/22, 1/23, 1/24, 1/25, 1/26, 1/27, 1/28 and 1/29 on pages 113-6. 47 See M. Dolores Barragán and M. Itziar Zabalza, “Sellos Reales Navarros, 12741349”, Historia Instuciones Documentos, no.12, 1985, 193-198 for a discussion of sigilliographic practice, examples of seals and a list of documents with surviving seals from this period. 48 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 50 and pictoral examples 1/52, 1/53, 1/54, 1/55, 1/56, 1/57, 1/58, 1/59, 1/60, on pages 124-7. 49 An excellent example of Philip’s seal can be found on AGN Comptos, Caj.7, no.75, dated 3 July 1336 at Pamplona. This is a document issued solely by Philip and accordingly bears only his own seal. 50 On the seal present on AGN Caj.7, no.91, dated 10 February 1337 at Paris), the word ANGOLES can be seen which would appear to be part of a reference to the County of Angolême. This seal is in very good condition, with nearly two-thirds of the seal remaining. 51 A surviving example of Juana’s seal which is virtually complete and in excellent condition can be found on AGN Comptos, Caj.6, no.97, 2 dated 5 April 1329 at Olite. This document was issued by both spouses and has a joint address clause in Latin and well as both seals still attached. This is possibly the most well preserved example of a document with both Philip and Juana’s seals intact.

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including NAVARRE, ROY, COMITISSA, IOH and what also appears to be REGIS FRANCIA FILIA, which again is an allusion to her Capetian heritage. The reverse of the queen’s seal bears a small shield devise which again includes her titles of REGINE and COMITISSA. The most fundamental change between the seals of the first two reigning queens and their consorts is the heraldry, with the arms of Evreux and Navarre combined to represent both spouses. The arms of France are still visible, which Juana still had the right to claim as the daughter of a French king and is in keeping with her emphasis on this link in some examples of her address clause as discussed previously. In a noticeable break with the previous traditions of a separate, individual seal for both the ruler and consort, a large joint seal was created for Blanca and her husband Juan of Aragon which featured a shield bearing their crowned joint arms at the centre, flanked by images of the King and Queen.52 In contrast to depictions on the seals of earlier Navarrese queens regnant, both the king and queen are enthroned and crowned; the king holds a sceptre while the queen appears to be holding an orb. The figures are seated beneath a gothic canopy which was embellished with angels in one surviving version and featured birds on either side of the crowned shield. One interesting item of note with regard to the seals of Blanca and Juan is that while they used the same image of both partners enthroned on the front, they had several different designs for the reverse of the seal. In an example from the early years of their reign, the image was that of Juan as a knight on horseback, similar to the individual seals of Philip of France and Philip d’Evreux.53 However, the design appears to have been changed after 1430 to a more neutral image of their joint crowned seal, flanked by two leopards.54 In another surviving example, the reverse of the seal is difficult to see clearly, but it appears to be a figure holding a shield with their joint heraldic arms.55 The sealing practice of Blanca and Juan of Aragon represents both continuity and change. In some ways it can be seen as a blending of the iconographic elements of the individual seals of their predecessors. They have clearly borrowed some of the imagery, including the gothic canopy 52 A surviving example of their double seal can be found on AGN Comptos, Caj.104, no.22, 1 dated 13 February 1426. The size of the seal is almost ten centimetres in diameter and it was impressed in dark brown wax. A published picture of the seal is Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/95, 141. 53 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/96, 141. 54 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/101 and 1/102, 143. 55 AGN Comptos, Caj.104, no.22, 1 dated 13 February 1426.

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of the queens’ seals, but they have combined it with the masculine image of the monarch enthroned in flowing garments. However, the idea of a double seal is a direct contrast to the practice of last queen regnant, Juana II, who chose to retain her own seal which was used in addition to that of her husband. Blanca may have commissioned this seal as a matter of convenience, enabling her to sign and seal documents for both partners, rather than sending documents to her husband who was often away in Castile or Aragon, for his own seal.56 Beyond sheer convenience, this seal makes a very clear visual representation of the couple’s joint authority in the realm, presenting the image of Juan actively ruling the realm as King alongside his wife, while in reality the queen shouldered the bulk of the administration of the realm and Juan was a frequently absentee consort. This outwardly projected image was particularly important for Juan who used his title as ‘King of Navarre’ to give him greater standing and leverage in his political dealings in Castile and it allowed him to keep similar state to his sister the Queen consort of Castile and his brother, Alfonso V of Aragon as their peer.57 Blanca and Juan’s joint great seal was not only innovative in Navarrese practice, as joint seals which feature pictorial depictions of both the king and queen are fairly rare, particularly in the fifteenth century. While the coinage of Isabel of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon (Juan of Aragon’s son from his second marriage) features their joint portraits, they are each depicted separately on opposite sides of their seal.58 There are two examples of double portrait seals from the sixteenth century however, which are interesting points of comparison as both feature reigning queens. Mary Tudor of England and her husband, Philip of Spain, also used a joint great seal.59 Although it cannot be proven that Blanca and Juan’s seal was a model which they consciously emulated, they are 56

It is important to note that Juan did have his own seal, which again he would have needed if Blanca retained their double seal in Navarre while he was in Castile and Aragon. See Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/103, 143. 57 M. Ostolaza Elizando, ‘D. Juan de Aragón y Navarra, un verdadero príncipe Trastámara’, Aragón en la Edad Media, No.16, 2000, 597. Ostolaza Elizondo describes a visit in 1440 where Juan used his standing to receive the same treatment as the Castilian royals, including a guard of twelve footmen. 58 For an example, including a picture and a full description of the seal, see J. de Francisco Olmos and F. Novoa Portela, Historia y evolución del sello de plomo: la colección sigilográfica del Museo Cerralbo, RAMHG, 2008, 151. 59 See National Archives (TNA) DL 10/422; Letters patent annexing lands in cos. Hertfordshire, Essex, Buckinghamshire, Suffolk, Sussex, Cambridgeshire and Yorkshire, to the Duchy of Lancaster, dated 1558 at Westminster.

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strikingly similar and there is a close family link as both Philip and Mary were descendants of Juan of Aragon, through his second marriage to Juana Enríquez. As in Blanca and Juan’s seal, both Philip and Mary are enthroned and crowned; both hold scepters and are touching a giant orb which rests between them beneath a crowned shield. There is a canopy above the couple which is more in keeping with Renaissance style conventions rather than gothic design. Interestingly on the reverse both Mary and Philip are shown on horseback, asserting Mary’s sovereign rights in a masculine fashion. The second example is that of Mary Queen of Scots with her first husband, François II of France.60 Again both are enthroned and crowned under a canopy but in this example both Mary and François are holding two sceptres, indicating their joint authority in both realms as sovereigns of France and Scotland. Their titles are abbreviated around the edge of the seal including the titles to England and Ireland which Mary claimed through her Tudor lineage. The seals used by Blanca and Juan’s daughter Leonor demonstrate her difficult and changing position as lieutenant for her father during a period of civil conflict. At one point between 1472-3, Juan de Beaumont retained the seals of the chancery and refused to let Leonor have access to them.61 However, Leonor still had access to her sello secreto as well as her signet seal which she continued to use. The signet she used between 1457-65 has no reference to her husband; the design is a single letter ‘L’ within an octagon.62 However, the signet she used for the next ten years as well as her sello secreto bear the arms Navarre, her family dynasty of Evreux, her husband’s counties of Foix, Béarn and Bigorre and finally the Trastámara connections to Aragon, Castile and Léon.63 As in her address clause, it appears that Leonor was keen to delineate all of her titles and connections as a means of establishing her own somewhat precarious authority. An example of seal used during her widowhood, in 1478, retains the arms of Navarre, Evreux and the Iberian Trastámara connections but omits her husband’s territories although it is embellished with an angel, two lions and two greyhounds.64 The devise of Leonor’s combined family arms can

60

The wording on Francis II and Mary Queen of Scots’ seal reads: ‘FRANCISCUS ET MARIA DEI GRACIA REGES FRANCORUM, SCOTIAE, ANGLIAE ET HIBERNIAE’, Collection des Archives nationales dite Douët d'Arcq SC/D100. 61 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 59. 62 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, picture 1/121, 149. 63 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, picture 1/22 (signet) and 1/120 (sello secreto), 148-9. 64 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, picture 1/119, 148.

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also be seen in a surviving example of her thumbprint-sized sello de placa or embossed seal.65 During the early years of the reign of Catalina and Jean d’Albret the Navarrese chancery reused some of the seals of her brother Francisco Fébo and Blanca and Juan.66 This may reflect a number of issues such as sheer practicality or a lack of funds due to the on-going financial and political difficulties in the realm. It may also signal a desire to stress dynastic continuity and to emulate previous models as discussed with reference to the similarities to Blanca and Juan’s address clause. Catalina used her grandmother Leonor’s signet ring occasionally, which again could demonstrate a desire to stress a familial link and Catalina’s hereditary rights which had previously been challenged. However, another possibility is that as Catalina and Jean remained in their French territories during the first ten years of their joint reign, the Navarrese chancery may have waited until the couple arrived in the realm to commission new seals and give direction on the desired design. There is evidence that Catalina and Jean d’Albret possessed several different large seals, both joint and individual. Their joint seal featured a heraldic shield rather than a portrait surmounted by a crown which displayed all of their territorial holdings and family connections rather than the double portrait design of Blanca and Juan.67 The same heraldic shield design can also be seen in their large sello de placa or embossed seal as well.68 Elizabeth Danbury notes a similar trend towards heraldic shield designs over portraiture by English queens in the fifteenth century, so it is possible that Catalina and Jean’s decision to favour this style of seal may have been influenced by wider sigilliographic fashions.69 Their embossed seal also bears striking similarities to the ones used by their

65

AGN Comptos, Caj. 193, no.18, 2 dated 13 June 1475 at Tafalla. The arms of Navarre, Evreux and Aragon are all clearly visible, though the fourth quarter is indistinct. 66 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 60-61. 67 See Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/130, 1/131 and 1/132, p.151. The shield bears the arms of Navarre, Foix, Bearn, Evreux, Bigorre, Aragon, Castile and Leon. 68 A clear surviving example can be found on AGN Comptos, Caj.193, no.30 dated 29 March 1489 at Orthez. 69 Danbury, ‘Queens and Powerful Women’, 20. Danbury highlights the seals of Elizabeth Woodville (pictured on page 20), Katherine of Valois, Cecily Neville and Margaret Beaufort, which all featured heraldic designs. Elizabeth Woodville’s seal is strikingly similar to Catalina and Jean’s in terms of design.

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cousins, rivals and neighbouring sovereigns, Isabel and Ferdinand, the Reyes Católicos.70 Their largest wax seal was their joint seal which measured 63 millimetres, followed by Catalina’s individual seal at 62 millimetres which bore the title ‘Katherine by the grace of God, Queen of Navarre, Countess of Foix and Lady of Bearn’.71 Jean’s individual seal was slightly smaller at 60 millimetres and bore the wording ‘Jean by the grace of God, King of Navarre’.72 The couple also each had a smaller individual seal with only the arms of Navarre and Evreux and only their royal Navarrese title.73 Again it is interesting to note the deliberate choice of the Evreux arms, even though the couple are generally considered to be members of the Foix-Bearn dynasty, which accentuated their link to the earlier monarchs, particularly to sovereigns such as Carlos III who ruled during a ‘golden age’ when Navarre was prosperous and free from civil war.74 Overall, the trend appears to be one of continuity, with the two earliest couples sharing nearly identical seals and the later monarchs deliberately reusing the seals of their predecessors. However, while tradition and dynastic continuity was favoured, innovation did take place. The one major change came in the reign of Blanca I and Juan of Aragon with the introduction of their elaborately detailed and massively sized joint seal. However, the precedent set by Blanca and Juan was not fully embraced by their descendants. Although both Leonor and Catalina reused Blanca and Juan’s double seal as an efficiency measure and to stress dynastic continuity, they did not commission similar seals of their own. Leonor’s seals were more reminiscent of the earlier simple shield designs of her ancestors. Catalina and Jean had individual seals and a joint seal, but none of their seals had a portrait of any kind. All of their seals featured a large shield which was partitioned to carry the arms of their various territories and dynastic connections with their names and titles around the edges. 70

For a discussion of the sealing practice of Isabel and Ferdinand, along with several pictoral examples, see J.A. Montalbán, ‘Documentos de los Reyes Catolicos. Las cartas reales del archivo municipal de Murcia: soporte y sellos (1468-1504)’, Murgetana, no. 117, 2007, 19-35. 71 Sellos Medievales de Navarra 1/131, p.151. Original text is ‘Katherine Dei Gracia Regine Nauarre: Comitisse Foxi: et Domine Bearnii’. 72 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/132, p.151. Original text is ‘Johannis Dei Gracia Regis Navarre’. 73 Sellos Medievales de Navarra, 1/133 and 1/134, p.152 74 Eloísa Ramírez Vaquero comments on the ‘curious’ way that the Evreux arms came to symbolize the representation of royalty in Navarre, even when they were no longer the reigning dynasty. C. Jusué Simonena and E. Ramírez Vaquero, La Moneda en Navarra. 2nd edn., Institucion Principe de Viana, Pamplona, 2002, 80.

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While cartulary and their accompanying seals were an important means representing the authority of the queen, these documents had a somewhat limited audience and reach. However, as Alan Stahl notes, coinage ‘was perhaps the most conspicuous activity of any medieval ruler…they were the only product of governmental activity with which virtually the entire population was familiar’.75 Morevover, the ability of the queens and their consorts to mint coins demonstrated the stability of the realm and its finances while the imagery that they chose to use could either show dynastic continuity or links to other territories under their rule. While there are very few surviving examples of coins minted during Juana I’s reign, her coinage provides a very different image of the queen’s authority than her cartulary. Surviving examples bear a simple design with a cross on one side and a crown on the other, in keeping with the style of her predecessors from the Champenois dynasty. In contrast to the textual sources from her reign which listed her father-in-law or her husband first, the only name on the coinage is that of the queen, ‘Iohanna’ or the legend ‘Iohana Regina de Navarra’.76 While this was a clear representation of her sovereign authority as Stahl notes ‘the acknowledgement of a woman on coins as a ruler does not imply that she made the actual decisions of governance’ which would appear to apply to Juana’s limited involvement in the administration of Navarre.77 Given Juana’s absence from Navarre during her reign, her name on the coins provided an important physical reminder of the queen for her subjects. Having her sole name on the coinage, without reference to her French husband, was also a means of reinforcing the image of the realm as a sovereign realm with its own ruler, even though its crown was joined in a personal union with France and Navarre was being administered largely by foreigners. Juana II and Philip d’Evreux ran into difficulties with coinage, both in promoting their royal image and in the economic administration of the realm. The couple began their reign in a difficult situation with debts from their coronation, poor economic conditions, and uncertainty regarding the rents from the royal lands and complex negotiations with the larger towns over rolling out new coinage.78 These economic problems continued to 75

A. M. Stahl, ‘Coinage in the name of Medieval Women’ in Medieval Women and the Sources of Medieval History, ed. by J.T. Rosenthal, University of Georgia Press, Athens, Ga., 1990, 321. 76 F. Poey d'Avant, Monnaies Féodales de France. 3 vols., ii, reprint, Akademische Druck und Verlagaanstalt, Graz, 1961, 176 and pictorial example on plate LXXI. 77 Stahl, ‘Coinage in the name of Medieval Women’, 321. 78 I. Mugueta Moreno, ‘Política monetaria en Navarra bajo el reinado de los primeros Evreux (1328-1349)’, En la España Medieval 27, 2004, 80-82.

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plague the royal couple and can also be seen in the failure to pay some of the money stipulated in dowry agreements for their daughters’ marriages. The situation was exacerbated by a general scarcity of money in the realm from 1338-1343 which led to the falsification of coinage. The royal couple worked with their master of mining, the Florentine Paulo Girardi, to exercise their royal prerogative of mining at Urrobi.79 Ultimately, however it appears that despite these efforts and a need for new coinage, they were never able to realize their desire to mint their own coins. Leonor is another female ruler who failed to mint coins during her administration of the realm. Although her brother, the Principe de Viana minted coins as heir and lieutenant, there is no evidence that Leonor did so.80 Instead, Juan of Aragon minted Navarrese coins under his own name, as a means of reinforcing his own authority in the realm. In fact, one of the first actions that Blanca and Juan took when they ascended the throne in 1425 was to use their prerogative to mint coins.81 They borrowed designs from earlier monarchs and issued several styles with different iconography. Blanca issued coins with a crown and cross design which were essentially similar to Juana I’s, although the later coins are slightly more ornate and bear the initials of both spouses. Coins such as their blanca de vellon, were issued with the arms of the Evreux dynasty, surmounted by a crown on one side with a cross and further royal symbols on the reverse.82 Blanca also used her father’s devise of a crowned initial. This design remained popular with their descendants; their son the Principe de Viana, Francisco Fébo and Catalina and Jean d’Albret all used this design.83 In the case of a sovereign pair, both initials were used while the Principe and his father Juan in his widowhood just used a single letter.

79

Mugueta Moreno attached a number of reprinted letters and reports from the Giradi to ‘Política monetaria’, 94-104. It is worth noting that the sole letter directly to the monarchs, dated Spring 1340, is addressed only to Philip d’Evreux. (AGN Comptos, Caj.24, no.38). 80 For discussion and examples of Carlos’s coinage see J. de Francisco Olmos, ‘La moneda de los príncipes heredos en los reinos de la europa occidental en la baja edad media (s.XIV-XV)’, Documenta and Instrumenta, vol. 2, 2004, 137-146 and La Moneda en Navarra, 78. 81 See J. Carrasco Perez, 'Moneda y fiscalidad en el reinado de Blanca de Navarra: del maredaje a los 'acuñaciones de guerra' (1428-1432),' Principe de Viana, vol. 64, 2003, 557-86. 82 La Moneda en Navarra, 77. 83 See examples in La Moneda en Navarra, 78, Francisco Olmos, ‘La moneda de los príncipes heredos’, 137-146 and Monnaies Féodales de France, plate LXXII, nos. 8 and 9.

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Despite the on-going civil unrest and the accompanying financial difficulties from depressed revenues and the expense of conflict, Catalina and Jean d’Albret were able to mint coins and there are several varied examples from coinage during their reign. Again, just as in the imagery on their seals, the coinage issued by the couple carried a variety of heraldic devises and both singular and joint representations. Like Juana I’s coins, Catalina’s Béarnaise coinage carried only her name, while her Navarrese coins had the names of both spouses.84 The Navarrese coins also show several interesting designs. Once again, a similarity to Blanca and Juan can be seen in the design of their respective blanca de plata coins which are nearly identical bar the names and a slight alteration on the back of the coin.85 Another design initiated by Blanca and Juan which was also popular in Catalina’s reign was a partitioned and crowned shield on one side with a cross on the reverse with the names and titles of the sovereigns around the edges. Regarding portraiture, it is interesting to note that although Blanca and Juan created a double portrait seal, there is no evidence that they used a similar design for their coinage. However, Catalina and Jean minted double portrait coins during their reign which were very comparable to those of their contemporaries Isabel of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.86 Stahl has argued that the double portrait coins of Isabel and Ferdinand reflected the fact that both were sovereigns in their own right which would also accord with the double portrait coins of Philip of Spain and Mary Tudor.87 However, this argument cannot be applied neither to the coins of Catalina and Jean nor to the double seal of Blanca and Juan as in the Navarrese cases the women were the hereditary sovereigns while their consorts, while landed, were not sovereign rulers in their own right. There is another example of a queen regnant who shared a double portrait coin with a non-sovereign spouse: Mary Queen of Scots issued coins with her consort Darnley in 1565. It is possible that these coins either acknowledge 84

Stahl, ‘Coinage in the name of Medieval Women’, 326. See examples in La Moneda en Navarra, pages 82 and 77. Note: ‘de oro’ would be a gold coin, ‘de plata’, silver and ‘de vellón’, copper. 86 See examples in Stahl, ‘Coinage in the name of Medieval Women’ pages 326 and 340 (nos. 22 and 24) and in Monnaies Féodales de France, plate LXXII, no.7. 87 Stahl, ‘Coinage in the name of Medieval Women’, 326. For a surviving example of a double portrait coin of Philip and Mary, see Museum Victoria NU 361, silver shilling dated 1554. It is worth noting that double portrait coins could also be found in the Middle Ages, though not in Navarre. There are surviving examples of 12th century coins featuring the Holy Roman Emperor Frederich I and his wife Beatrix of Burgundy (See Bridgeman Art Library, ref GNM283938). 85

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that Darnley had some hereditary right to the Scottish throne or they may have been specially issued in commemoration of their wedding.88 Returning to the Navarrese case, while Catalina and Jean’s double portrait coins were a break with tradition in some respects, single portrait coins were not unheard of in Navarre as Carlos III, Juan of Aragon and Francisco Fébo had all issued portrait coins. In summary, the designs for coinage over the reigns of all of the Navarrese queens regnant show a great deal of continuity and the reuse of previous models, probably in an effort to stress a dynastic connection to earlier rulers. However, there is also a willingness to adopt new designs as the double portrait coin of Catalina and Jean demonstrates. Overall, the coinage shows a general preference to include the names and sometimes the initials or portraits of both spouses. Both the seals and coins show an increasing trend towards joint representation, as exemplified by the great double seal of Blanca and Juan and the double portrait coin of Catalina and Jean d’Albret. It is important to stress that although in the case of Juana I’s coinage and the Béarnaise coins of Catalina, while a consort can be absent, there is no evidence of a design which fails to include the name of the queen regnant. These coins, like the documents discussed earlier demonstrate that the authority and rights of the queen as hereditary sovereign were consistently acknowledged. The coins were a public statement of female rule in the kingdom and demonstrated the queen’s authority and right to mint coinage in the imagery chosen. In conclusion, this study has emphasized the links between the representation of these ruling women in textual and visual sources. The production of documents, seals and coinage were vital conduits to express the authority of the sovereign and all of these sources consistently affirm the rights of these women as the rightful heirs of the realm. However, the image these sources projected did not always accurately reflect the realities of governance; in Juana I’s case she may have appeared as the sole sovereign on her coinage but the queen had very little involvement in the administration of the kingdom beyond the consent noted in her charter for the actions of her guardian, husband and governors. Blanca and Juan’s seals promoted an image of a united couple, ruling the realm in tandem as equals, when in reality he was often away while Blanca was generally responsible for the day-to-day administration and rule of Navarre. Ultimately, while it is important to understand the difference between the 88 The British Museum, Silver Ryal of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, 1565 CM 1849-6-26-1.

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image and reality, the representation of the queen’s authority and the acknowledgement of her absolute right to the crown under the laws of the Fueros was crucial to establishing and maintaining her rule. Continuity was another way to strengthen a queen’s position, by stressing links to predecessors, both male and female, as a way of emphasizing dynastic endurance and legitimacy. By adopting the formulas, models, imagery and at times even reusing the seals of others, these queens could impress upon their subjects and peers their place as legitimate links in the line of succession and when their authority was tenuous during times of crisis, reinforce connections to times of prosperity and stability. Although these sources had different audiences and circulation, taken together, it is possible to gain a greater understanding of how female monarchs used the textual and visual representation of themselves and their partners in rule to create and sustain their authority as sovereign rulers.

CHAPTER SIX THE POLITICS OF PERCEPTION: A DUCHESS’S DEVOTIONAL SKILL IN LA VIE DE SAINTE COLETTE (MS.8)1 .

ERICA O’BRIEN

At the time of the marriage of Margaret of York, sister of the English king, Edward IV, to Charles the Bold in 1468, the Duchy of Burgundy constituted the cultural and political nucleus of Europe. Though they bore only the title of duke, over the previous century the rulers of Burgundy had expanded the duchy to form an assemblage of regions that, through calculated political and economic alliances, exercised a level of influence to rival the more grandly titled kings of England, France, and Spain and indeed, the Holy Roman Emperor. The art, literature, and fashions of the Burgundian court permeated most European principalities, and it was this culture of opulence and sophistication that allowed Margaret, a keen collector and reader of religious texts, to amass a personal library remarkable for a woman of her era.2 Several of these manuscripts contain devotional portraits of the duchess, which act, in part, as an inspirational 1

This essay has been adapted from a section of my doctoral dissertation. I would like to thank Peter Dent, Lucy Donkin, Sean McGlynn, Kathryn Rudy, Beth Williamson, and Elena Woodacre for their contributions and Andrea Pearson and Sister M. Cecilia of the Monasterium Bethlehem in Ghent for their generous assistance. 2 For a catalogue of Margaret’s library, see K. A. Barstow, ‘Appendix: The Library of Margaret of York and Some Related Books’ in T. Kren (ed.), Margaret of York, Simon Marmion, and The Visions of Tondal: Papers Delivered at a Symposium Organized by the Department of Manuscripts of the J. Paul Getty Museum in collaboration with the Huntington Library and Art Collections June 21-24, 1990, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, 1992, 257-263 and M. J. Hughes, ‘Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy: Diplomat, Patroness, Bibliophile, and Benefactress’, The Private Library, vol.7, 1984, 2-17, 53-78.

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model for Margaret’s prayers.3 One portrait illumination, singular for multiple reasons, is found in a manuscript copy of La Vie de Sainte Colette that Margaret donated to the Colettine convent in Ghent, the Monasterium Bethlehem, where the text is still kept.4 This essay will offer a reassessment of the miniature’s content and of the motivation behind the production and donation of the manuscript, and will address questions of how the illumination not only reveals Margaret’s perception of herself, but also how the image, through its depiction of certain modes of sensory engagement, may have influenced both Margaret’s self-perception and a select viewership’s perception of the duchess. La Vie de Sainte Colette chronicles the life and miracles of Saint Colette of Corbie (d.1447), a Franciscan nun and reformer whose virtues of humility, obedience, poverty, and virginity are expounded over twenty chapters by the author Pierre de Vaux, Colette’s confessor and proponent of her canonisation.5 The text is consistent with Margaret’s interest in 3

These are: Benois seront les misericordieux (Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale, Ms.9296, ff.1r, 17r), Barstow no.1 and Hughes no.12; Le Dyalogue de la duchesse de Bourgogne à Jésus Christ (London, British Library, Add. Ms.7970, f.1v), Barstow no.2 and Hughes no.13; Traités religieux et moraux (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Ms. Douce 365, f.115r), Barstow no.8 and Hughes no.20; Traités de morale (Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale, Ms.9272-76, f.182r), Barstow no.21 and Hughes no. 19. 4 The manuscript of 166 parchment folios measuring 260 by 180 millimetres is decorated by at least two artists and contains twenty-five miniatures and six historiated initials illustrating the significant events and miracles associated with Colette. The painter of Margaret’s portrait illumination is known as the Master of the Ghent life of Saint Colette, a member of the Master of Margaret of York group. Earlier attributions identified this portrait miniature as the work of the Master of Margaret of York or his workshop. See Barstow, no. 65; W. Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, in T. Kren (ed.), Margaret of York, Simon Marmion and The Visions of Tondal (as in n.2); S. McKendrick, ‘Master of Margaret of York Group’, in T. Kren and S. McKendrick (eds.), Illuminating the Renaissance: The Triumph of Flemish Manuscript Painting in Europe The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 2003, 217, 218 n.11; A. Derolez, ‘The illuminated manuscript belonging to the Bethlehem convent in Ghent’ in C. van Corstanje, Y. Cazaux, J. Decavele, and A. Derolez, Vita Sanctae Coletae (1381-1447), Lannoo, Tielt, 1982, 153. 5 Despite the efforts of multiple members of the ducal family, including Margaret, Colette was not canonised until 1807. N. Bradley Warren, Women of God and Arms: Female Spirituality and Political Conflict, 1380-1600, University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2005, 35. For a commentary on de Vaux’s praise of Colette’s virtues, see E. Lopez, Colette of Corbie (1381-1447): Learning and Holiness, Franciscan Institute Publications, St. Bonaventure, 2011, 109-128.

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saints’ lives, as exemplified by her copy of the life of Saint Edmund the Martyr—an extract from Jacobus de Voragine’s The Golden Legend included with a manuscript of the Apocalypse—and by her copies of La Vie de Saint Gommaire, a gift from the canons of Lier when Margaret visited the saint’s relics in 1475, and of Jean Mielot’s La Vie de Sainte Catherine, both now lost.6 As Charles was on military campaigns for long periods of time and the couple never had a child, Margaret’s devotion to Catherine, the patron saint of married women, and to Gommaire, the intercessor of the unhappily married, has been interpreted as evidence of Margaret’s own sentiments regarding her marriage.7 These considerations fit within the broader context of Margaret’s presumable devotion to her personal patron saint, Margaret of Antioch, and of her charitable patronage of institutions connected with, for example, Saint Waltrude and Saint Agnes, all saints associated with women, children, fertility, and childbearing, and it is against this background that we must examine the Colette manuscript’s portrait illumination and its significance to Margaret.8 The miniature precedes the ninth chapter of the text, which commends Colette’s chastity and virginity, and illustrates two of the saint’s visions related in that section. On the left, Colette kneels in prayer before an altarpiece of the Virgin and Child, with Saints Catherine and Margaret on each wing, above which appears a vision of Saint Anne with her many progeny (Figure 1).9 Saint Francis, identifiable by his halo and the marks of the stigmata, stands in the iconographical place of the patron saint, seemingly drawing Colette’s attention to the miracle before her. Visible through a window at the far right, Colette receives a ring—described as ‘a very previous and beautiful ring of fine gold, not made by human hands’10—from Saint John the Evangelist in an episode evocative of Saint 6

Barstow, nos. 9, 18, 19 and Hughes, nos. 2, 3. Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 43, 44; N. Morgan, ‘Texts of Devotion and Religious Instruction Associated with Margaret of York’ in Margaret of York, Simon Marmion and The Visions of Tondal (as in n.1), 64. For a detailed calculation of how much time Charles and Margaret spent together during their marriage, see C. Weightman, Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy, 14461503, Alan Sutton, Gloucester, 1989, 72. 8 Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 34, 39. 9 A. Pearson, ‘Productions of Meaning in Portraits of Margaret of York’ in A. Pearson (ed.), Women and Portraits in Early Modern Europe, Ashgate, Aldershot, 2008, 46. 10 ‘Un anneau très précieux et très beau d’or fin, nullement façonné par des mains humaines.’ P. de Vaux, Vie de soeur Colette, intro. E. Lopez, C.E.R.C.O.R, SaintEtienne, 1994, 78. 7

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Catherine’s mystic marriage with Christ.11 Between these two scenes kneel Charles and Margaret, each clasping a rosary and both gazing towards Colette’s vision unfolding in front of them. The miniature is unusual because it isthe only extant devotional portrait of Margaret to include Charles, and because it refers, however obliquely, to Margaret’s English origins. The transparent headdress that Margaret wears is an English fashion, a fact that, in Margaret Scott’s view, suggests that Margaret had difficulty becoming accustomed to the Burgundian fashions that she was obliged to wear—and in which she is shown in her other portraits—to reshape and assert her identity as the Duchess of Burgundy.12 This discrepancy in the mode in which Margaret is presented suggests that Margaret’s devotion to Colette was in some way separate from the inescapably public and occasionally political nature of the majority of her devotional activities, particularly her pilgrimages in search of a remedy for her childlessness.13 By referencing Margaret’s English background and by representing her with her husband, the Ghent illumination emphasises Margaret’s role as a wife, implying that Margaret conceived of her identity as partly English and that she privately perceived herself, insofar as she could, not as a duchess but as a woman in need of saintly intervention. The inclusion of a married couple in an image that accompanies a chapter dedicated to celebrating saintly chastity and virginity initially seems paradoxical. Charles and Margaret could have been represented anywhere in the manuscript, depicted as witnesses to any number of Colette’s miracles, but their portrayal in this particular illumination indicates that Colette’s vision of Saint Anne held the greatest significance.14 The decorative programme of the rest of the manuscript facilitates the depiction of two events from Colette’s life, separated by a central column, within a single illumination, but such was the importance of the portrait’s location that the illuminator adapted the scheme, relegating the miracle of Colette and the Evangelist to a distant view through a window and inserting Charles and Margaret into the vacant half 11

Van Corstanje et al., 218. M. Scott, Medieval Dress and Fashion, The British Library, London, 2009, 152153. 13 See K. Rudy, ‘Women’s Devotions at Court’ in D. Eichberger (ed.), Women of Distinction: Margaret of York, Margaret of Austria, Brepols, Leuven, 2005, 231239; H. Schnitker, ‘Margaret of York on Pilgrimage: The Exercise of Devotion and the Religious Traditions of the House of York’ in D. Biggs, S. Michalove and C. Reeves (eds.), Reputation and Representation in Fifteenth-Century Europe, Douglas Brill, Leiden, 2004, 81-122. 14 Pearson, ‘Productions of Meaning,’ 46. 12

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of the image. The event as it is related in de Vaux’s text reveals the relevance of Colette’s vision to Charles and Margaret. De Vaux writes that Colette was so devoted to the virgin saints that she neglected to address herself to Saint Anne as an intercessor: One day, while she was praying to our Lord with fervour, the lady Saint Anne appeared to her in all her glory and very honoured before all her noble descendants, her three daughters and their blessed children…During this apparition, the lady Saint Anne explained to the handmaid [Colette] how, even though she had been married multiple times, the militant and triumphant Church was greatly honoured and venerated through her very noble descendants.15

De Vaux ends the chapter by noting that thereafter Colette was especially devoted to Saint Anne, frequently seeking the saint’s assistance so that she might better fulfil the charge given to her by God to reform the Franciscan order.16 The centrality of Saint Anne to the event that the illumination illustrates has led some scholars, locating the image within the wider context of the contemporary cult of Saint Anne, to conclude that Anne is the ultimate focus of Charles and Margaret’s devotion as they engage in a sort of ‘vision by osmosis,’ with Colette acting as a conduit to their actual devotional goal.17 Margaret is known to have been a devotee of Saint Anne; she and Mary, her stepdaughter and the future Duchess, joined Ghent’s Guild of Saint Anne in 1473 and 1476, respectively, an event that was commemorated in the guild’s register by an illuminated frontispiece portraying both Margaret and Mary at prayer before an altarpiece of Joachim and Anne, topped by a statue of Saint Anne with the Virgin and Child.18 In contrast, Charles is not known to have been especially dedicated to Saint Anne—he gravitated towards martial saints, particularly Saint George19—yet multiple scholars have drawn a 15

‘Un jour, pendant qu’elle priait notre Seigneur avec ferveur, madame sainte Anne lui apparut dans toute sa gloire et très honorée, devant sa noble progéniture au complet, ses trois filles et leurs saints enfants…Durant cette apparition, madame sainte Anne expliqua a l’ancelle comment, bien qu’ayant été mariée plusieurs fois, toute l’Église militante et triomphante était grandement honorée et vénérée en sa très noble progéniture.’ De Vaux, 80. 16 Ibid. 17 C. Harbison, ‘Visions and Meditations in Early Flemish Painting’, Simiolus, vol. 15 no. 2, 1985, 93. 18 Royal Library, Windsor Castle, RCIN 1047371, f.1. 19 Charles’s affinity for Saint George is best exemplified by Gérard Loyet’s votive reliquary, given to Liège’s Cathedral of Saint Lambert by Charles in 1471, and by

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connection between the saint and the duke on the basis of the fact that both were thrice married.20 Nancy Bradley Warren, in particular, interprets the seeming link between Saint Anne and the ducal couple as evidence of an attempt to legitimise Charles’s third marriage in the eyes of those who were hesitant about the Anglo-Burgundian alliance.21 As Warren rightly observes, by representing themselves in privileged proximity to Colette to obtain a political goal, and by donating the manuscript to the Ghent convent, Charles and Margaret were participating in a decades-long tradition within the ducal house of Burgundy of support and devotion to the saint. Colette’s earliest foundations within the duchy were at sites donated by Duke John the Fearless, such as those at Auxonne and Poligny, the former at the urging of his wife, Margaret of Bavaria.22 Colette’s connection to the ducal family was cemented by her depiction in a version of the Deposition painted soon after John’s assassination by the French in 1419. An eighteenth-century description of a later copy of the painting—still in the convent at Poligny—identifies both Pierre de Vaux and Colette, who kisses the hand of Christ in a gesture evocative of the iconography of Saint Mary Magdalene.23 André Ravier claims that the figure of the crucified Christ was said to have the features of the murdered duke, while the aforementioned description claims that the Virgin Mary Charles’s prayer book (Los Angeles, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Ms.37), both of which present Charles and Saint George with similar dress and facial features. For these works, see H. van der Velden, The Donor’s Image: Gerard Loyet and the Votive Portraits of Charles the Bold, Brepols, Turnhout, 2000 and A. de Schryver, The Prayer Book of Charles the Bold: A Study of a Flemish Masterpiece from the Burgundian Court, trans. J. Berenbeim, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 2008. 20 M. Smeyers, Flemish Miniatures from the 8th to the mid-16th Century, Davidsfonds, Leuven, 1999, 381; J J. Chipps Smith, ‘Margaret of York and the Burgundian Portrait Tradition’, in T. Kren (ed.), Margaret of York, Simon Marmion and The Visions of Tondal (as in n.2), 50; N. Bradley Warren, ‘Monastic Politics: St. Colette of Corbie, Franciscan Reform, and the House of Burgundy’, in R. Copeland, D. Lawton, and W. Scase (eds.), New Medieval Literatures, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2002, 228. For the role of Saint Anne in legitimising second and third marriages, see K. Ashley, ‘Image and Ideology: Saint Anne in Late Medieval Drama and Narrative’, in K. Ashley and P. Sheingorn (eds.), Interpreting Cultural Symbols: Saint Anne in Late Medieval Society, University of Georgia Press, Athens, 1990, 118-121. 21 Warren, ‘Monastic Politics’, 228. 22 Ibid, 204, 225. 23 For this document, (Poligny, Monastère Sainte-Claire, MS A8), see Warren, ‘Monastic Politics’, 205 n.5.

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resembles ‘la duchesse,’ either the duke’s wife or his mother, Margaret of Flanders.24 That these biblical figures should be given the faces of the duke and duchess is not unprecedented in Netherlandish art of the period. Claus Sluter portrayed John’s father, Duke Philip the Bold, as the prophet Jeremiah on the Well of Moses in Dijon’s Chartreuse de Champmol, and Charles the Bold possibly appears as Saint Andrew, the patron saint of Burgundy, in Hans Memling’s triptych of the Last Judgement, now in GdaĔsk.25 In the case of the Deposition painting, the image justifies its politically charged transformation of Duke John’s murder into his martyrdom by using Colette as ‘symbolic capital,’ Warren’s term that Andrea Pearson further defines as ‘the deliberate cultivation and use of women’s piety to validate and promote political authority.’26 By positioning Colette, a woman renowned for her unassailable holiness, in the traditional location of Christ’s most devoted female disciple, the painting suggests that Colette not only sanctions the likening of John to Christ but also that she is as dedicated to the duke’s memory as Mary Magdalene was to Christ’s, thereby eliciting from the viewer both sympathy for the murdered duke and animosity against the French. The personal connection between Colette and the ducal family was reaffirmed when Philip’s illegitimate daughter Odette became the first abbess of Colette’s convent in Ghent, the same institution that would be the place of Colette’s death and burial and that would receive Margaret’s donated manuscript.27 Philip himself also owned two copies of de Vaux’s biography of Colette, commissions which suggests that, for Philip, the exchange of ducal patronage for the saint’s symbolic capital was not only of political but also of religious significance, his private devotional 24

A. Ravier, Sainte Colette de Corbie, Monastère de Sainte-Claire, Poligny, 1976, 29, cited in Warren, ‘Monastic Politics’, 205 n.6; Ibid, 204-205. I have seen only a poor-quality reproduction of the image used by Ravier, and cannot judge the accuracy of his statement nor of the textual description. 25 S. Nash, ‘Claus Sluter’s Well of Moses for the Chartreuse de Champmol Reconsidered: Part III’, The Burlington Magazine vol.150, no.1268, 2008, 737; D. de Vos, The Flemish Primitives: The Masterpieces, Princeton UP, Princeton, 2002, 165. 26 Pearson, ‘Productions of Meaning’, 37. 27 Both Paul Bergmans and Alphonse Germain identify the Ghent convent’s first abbess as Philip’s daughter Odette, though Bergmans notes that she does not appear by name in the historical record. See P. Bergmans, ‘Marguerite d’York et les pauvres Claires de Gand’, Bulletin de la Société d’Histoire et d’Archéologie de Gand, vol.18, 1910, 273 and A. Germain, Sainte Colette de Corbie: 1381-1447, Charles Poussielgue, Paris, 1903, 260; Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 37.

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interests allowing him to borrow ‘spiritual ‘credit’’ towards his ultimate salvation.28 Warren understands both the creation of the portrait illumination and Margaret’s donation of the Colette manuscript within this context of political and religious reciprocity. She argues that these events, part of a history of patronage, are designed to legitimise Charles’s third marriage and to appeal to the city’s merchant classes, from whom the convent’s founding members were drawn—though their abbess, Odette, was a member of the nobility—and whose appeasement was essential to the peaceful enforcement of ducal authority in the frequently rebellious city.29 Through the politically-motivated act of donating the manuscript to the Ghent convent, Margaret exchanged the prestige of her patronage for Colettine symbolic capital that at once validated her secular authority— and by extension, Charles’s—and her marriage in the eyes of Ghent’s citizenry and provided her with valuable spiritual credit for her pious charity. Yet this explanation, founded upon a misdirected focus on the significance of Saint Anne to Charles, exaggerates the importance of both the image and the manuscript to Charles’s political agenda and neglects the means by which the portrait illumination and the manuscript’s donation could have had political effects. Considering that there is little evidence besides the Colette manuscript that Charles particularly revered Saint Anne, any direct connection between the duke and the saint is tenuous. Warren’s suggestions that the miniature is an indication of efforts to justify Charles’s marriage and that the manuscript’s donation is a politically calculated act of piety presuppose that the illumination was visible to a wide viewership and that Margaret’s gift was publicly performed or at least common knowledge, aspects of the manuscript’s history that have not been addressed. As Poor Clares living under Colette’s strict reforms, the nuns of the Ghent convent would have been fully enclosed, most of them allowed little exposure to the outside world,

28

These manuscripts are Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale Mss. 6408 and 10980. See G. Dogaer and M. Debae (eds.), La Librairie de Philippe le Bon, Bibliothèque Albert Ier, Bruxelles,1967, nos.74, 75, cited in Morgan, 72, n.13. Blockmans has suggested that Ms.10980 functioned as a model for the Ghent manuscript. See Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 37. For Philip’s commissioning of these manuscripts, see W. Blockmans, ‘Manuscript Acquisition by the Burgundian Court and the Market for Books in the Fifteenth-Century Netherlands’, in M. North and D. Ormrod (eds.), Art Markets in Europe, 1400-1800, Ashgate, Aldershot, 1998, 14, 15; Warren, ‘Monastic Politics’, 211. 29 Warren, ‘Monastic Politics’, 228.

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and few outsiders would have been permitted within the convent.30 Margaret may have visited to gift her manuscript, though her movements and interactions with the nuns would have been strictly governed.31 Once in the convent’s possession, access to the manuscript and its contents would have been contingent on the purpose for which it was used. Under the supervision of a member serving as a librarian, it may have been used for readings during mealtimes, a common practice in monastic communities, or borrowed by an individual nun.32 Regardless of its function, the manuscript could have been used—and its portrait illumination seen—by very few people at a time. The possibility of any political message associated with the manuscript or its decoration reaching beyond an elite group of enclosed nuns to the Ghent populace is improbable. Rather, we must return to the private nature of the miniature, as imparted by Margaret’s Anglicised appearance, as the basis for a closer analysis of individual elements that testify to the manuscript’s original purpose and to the potential impetus behind its donation. If we examine the details of the portrait illumination, we can discern how the miniature’s composition communicates that the image pertains specifically to Margaret and her devotional perception. Using the grid-like floor pattern as a guide, we can determine that Margaret is nearly at the centre of the right half of the picture plane and that she is placed forward in the pictorial space, allowing her to gaze directly at Saint Colette. She seems deliberately offset from Charles, whose gaze towards the apparition of Saint Anne is in fact impeded by the figure of Saint Francis. Margaret’s focus on Colette indicates that it is to her and not to Saint Anne that Margaret’s devotion is directed, and affirms that the relationship between Margaret and Colette, rather than Charles and Anne, is central to the image and its meaning. Rather, the vision of Saint Anne functions as an attribute of Saint Colette—similar to the dragon of Saint Margaret or the eyes of 30

For the enforcement of enclosure among the Poor Clares, see Dom J. Prou, OSB and the Benedictine Nuns of the Solesmes Congregation, Walled About with God: The History and Spirituality of Enclosure for Cloistered Nuns, trans. Br D. Hayes, OSB, Gracewing, Leominster, 2005, 76-81, 83. 31 For a brief description of restrictions on enclosed nuns’ communication with visitors, see C. Jäggi and U. Lobbedey, ‘Church and Cloister: The Architecture of Female Monasticism in the Middle Ages’ in J. F. Hamburger and S. Marti (eds.), Crown and Veil: Female Monasticism From the Fifth to the Fifteenth Centuries, trans. D. Hamburger, Columbia UP, New York, 2008, 124. 32 See F. Wormald, ‘The Monastic Library’ in U. E. McCracken, L. M. C. Randall and R. H. Randall, Jr. (eds.), Gatherings in Honor of Dorothy E. Miner, Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore, 1974, 95-102.

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Saint Lucy—identifying the specific saintly characteristics of Colette that Margaret may have found most relevant in her devotion.33 Anne’s appearance with her numerous descendants evokes one of her primary intercessory roles as a saint called upon by women seeking divine aid with fertility and childbirth, a capacity Saint Colette also fulfilled due to the number of miraculous births credited to her intervention.34 Margaret’s devotion to Colette clearly stems from her desire for a child, not only for her sake but also for that of her husband, whose prayers are added to her own. Likewise, Saint Francis also serves as an attribute of Colette, denoting his role as the founder of the Franciscans and his calling of Colette, in a series of visions, to reform the Order. Though his proximity to Colette suggests he is her intercessor, Francis’s parallel position to Charles—both are closer to the background, accompanying female figures who are more prominent in the composition—and his inclusion as a second attribute imply that he presents a model for Charles, perhaps reflecting Margaret’s desire to see her husband emulate a saint noted for his adherence to apostolic ideals. Charles’s inclusion in the portrait miniature and the use of the CM monogram—a feature prominent in many of the couple’s manuscripts— throughout the decorative programme affirm that the manuscript was produced during Charles and Margaret’s marriage, yet nothing within the text indicates definitively when Margaret made her gift.35 Few scholars address this issue directly, and those who do give contrary opinions. Wim Blockmans believes that the manuscript never belonged to Margaret herself, implying that the manuscript was commissioned with the intent to give it directly to the Ghent convent.36 Yet Albert Derolez states for certain that Margaret made the donation after Charles’s death, meaning that she owned the manuscript for some years and that donating it was not 33

Objects and animals are usually, but not exclusively, the attributes of saints. For figures, settings, and gestures as attributes, see C. Hope, ‘Altarpieces and the Requirements of Patrons’, in T. Verdon and J. Henderson (eds.), Christianity and the Renaissance: Image and Religious Imagination in the Quattrocento, Syracuse UP, Syracuse, 1990, 543-544. 34 F. Sautman, ‘Saint Anne in Folk Tradition: Late Medieval France’, in K. Ashley and P. Sheingorn (eds.), Interpreting Cultural Symbols: Saint Anne in Late Medieval Society, The University of Georgia Press, Athens, 1990, 84-85. Two miraculous births associated with Colette are illustrated later in the manuscript, reinforcing the reason for Margaret’s interest in Colette’s cult. 35 The CM initials appear in several manuscripts intended for Margaret’s sole use, therefore they cannot be interpreted as evidence of Charles’s patronage. 36 Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 37.

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her original aim.37 Three possible chronologies present themselves, and the evidence within the manuscript reveals the most likely scenario and a fuller explanation of the manuscript’s intended function. The first possibility is concurrent with Blockmans’s view that the manuscript was produced and donated soon thereafter in the 1470s, though evidence from the Colette manuscript and Margaret’s other commissions suggests otherwise. In his description of the manuscript, Derolez relates that Margaret’s coat of arms and motto are displayed twice on the second folio.38 Though Margaret’s coat of arms appears in other manuscripts she gave away, as proven by their inclusion on the only surviving folio from a gradual the duchess gave to the Augustinians of Greenwich, the CM initials and her motto do not.39 Neither of the other two extant complete manuscripts that Margaret gave as gifts contains these elements, though they did include the recipients’ coat of arms.40 Rather, the initials and mottos in the Ghent manuscript are consistent with Margaret’s commissions for herself and with texts given to her, intended for her use. Blockmans may not have entertained the idea that Margaret commissioned a copy of Colette’s biography for her personal collection because of the pre-existence in the ducal library of Philip’s two copies of the work.41 Yet Margaret was not evidently concerned with originality in her own collection, as her copy of La consolation de philosophie by Boethius duplicated a work already in the library.42 As the decoration of the Ghent manuscript reveals that the text was intended for Margaret’s personal use, the possibility that the manuscript originated as a gift is untenable. The second and third possible scenarios both suggest that Margaret donated the Colette manuscript some years after its commission, either before or after Charles’s death in 1477. The two different possibilities for the date of the manuscript’s donation require that we must view the act of donation and the impetus behind it in two different ways, a subject to 37

A. Derolez, ‘A Renaissance Manuscript in the Hands of Margaret of York’, in T. Kren (ed.), Margaret of York, Simon Marmion and The Visions of Tondal (as in n.2), 101. 38 Derolez, ‘The illuminated manuscript’, 149, 150. Her coat of arms is also visible on the manuscript’s gilt edges. 39 British Library Arundel Ms.71, f.9. See Barstow, no.25 and Hughes, no. 10. 40 British Library Royal Ms. 15 D IV and Biblioteca del Escorial Ms. e.III.22. In the former, the original owner’s coat of arms has been replaced by a Tudor badge. Both of these manuscripts bear autograph inscriptions from Margaret. See Barstow, nos.24 and 26, and Hughes no.26. 41 Blockmans, ‘The Devotion of a Lonely Duchess’, 37; Blockmans appears to be aware of only one of these texts. 42 Jena, Unversitätsbibliothek, Ms. El. f. 85

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which we will return. The fact that the manuscript was intended for Margaret’s principal readership and viewership means that the portrait illumination was created to guide Margaret towards a specific spiritual goal, shaping her perception of herself and of her own devotional capabilities. Images in religious manuscripts have a long history of aiding readers, acting as place-markers, visual explanations, or reminders of upcoming textual content and of what devotional activity is expected at a particular point in the manuscript.43 For this purpose, images and their accompanying texts relied on the reader’s memory and imagination, two of the ‘inner senses,’ or functions of the brain postulated by medieval medical theory.44 These highly visual processes, both derived from the sensory perception of the body, facilitated mental or spiritual visions in which the worshipper imaginatively inserted himself or herself into a devotional scene such as the Crucifixion—or in the case of Margaret’s portrait miniature, Colette’s vision of Saint Anne—to gain affective experience of Christ’s suffering and thereby a greater understanding of God.45 The scope of this essay cannot encompass the mechanisms of memory, imagination, and spiritual vision as they are described in early Christian and medieval texts, so it must suffice to observe that these are the perceptual modes at work in the portrait illumination of the Colette manuscript. The illumination achieves its aim of immersing Margaret in a spiritual vision by sparking what Mary Carruthers calls a ‘recollective chain’ of emotion, memory, and imagination.46 This chain begins with the igniting of the affectus, which Carruthers defines in part as ‘the agent by means of which rumination and memorization take place.’47 Carruthers emphasises both the necessity for a manuscript image to excite emotion in the viewer and the requisite link between emotion and memory, so that the image is either embedded in the viewer’s memory or conjures pre-existing 43

For the function of images in Gothic manuscripts, see A. Bennett, ‘Making Literate Lay Women Visible: Text and Image in French and Flemish Books of Hours, 1220-1320’, in E. Gertsman and J. Stevenson (eds.), Thresholds of Medieval Culture: Liminal Spaces, Boydell Press, Woodbridge, 2012, 130. 44 S. Kemp and G. J. O. Fletcher, ‘The Medieval Theory of the Inner Senses’, The American Journal of Psychology, vol. 106, no.4, 1993, 559-576. 45 For studies of imagination and memory, see M. Wright Bundy, The Theory of Imagination in Classical and Medieval Thought, University of Illinois Press, Urbana, 1927 and M. Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, 2nd edn., Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2008. For visions in fifteenth century Netherlandish art, see Harbison, ‘Visions and Meditations’. 46 Carruthers, 37. 47 Ibid, 217.

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memories.48 Referencing Carruthers, Michelle Karnes observes that emotion is also essential for ‘a fully activated imagination,’ which can transform an imagined experience into a spiritual one.49 Both memory and imagination require training, and spiritual vision cannot be achieved without practice.50 The image sets Margaret a devotional exercise, the vision of Saint Anne serving as the emotional trigger to allow Margaret to access pertinent memories of de Vaux’s narrative—text and image mutually reinforced within Margaret’s memory—of her husband, of a familiar ecclesiastic or monastic location, and of any other representations of Colette Margaret may have seen, including those in one of Duke Philip’s copies of Colette’s biography assemble these discrete images and objects into a complete mental picture, the portrait element of the image encouraging her to inhabit the mental space she created. By presenting her with a representation of a completely-rendered spiritual vision, one that belongs to her alone, the illumination aids Margaret in her pursuit of a more perfect devotion to Colette and, in consequence of that devotion, the child she so fervently desired. It is essential to note that the illumination does not present Margaret as having a visionary experience such as those had by other female mystics. Rather, the image is one of many ‘imaginative visions modelled on the iconography of visionaries’ found in fifteenthcentury devotional texts in which a seemingly miraculous apparition in fact represents what the devotee should be imagining or meditating on during his or her devotions.51 The illumination acts an instructional and 48

Ibid, 337. M. Karnes, Imagination, Meditation and Cognition in the Middle Ages, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 2011, 177. Karnes is writing about the worship of Christ, but her remark is equally applicable to a vision involving a saint. 50 For classical and medieval literature on memory and imagination training, see Carruthers, 18-55, 89-98 and Karnes, 166-172. 51 S. Ringbom, ‘Devotional Images and Imaginative Devotions: Notes on the Place of Art in Late Medieval Private Piety’ Gazette des Beaux Arts, vol.73, 1969, 166. The illuminators of the Ghent manuscript would have been required to invent iconography for Saint Colette, adapted from the representational conventions used for canonical saints. In the case of the vision of Saint Anne, a possible model could be the Mass of Saint Gregory, a popular scene for contemporary devotional portraiture. For the iconography and visionary significance of the Mass of Saint Gregory, see C. Walker Bynum, ‘Seeing and Seeing Beyond: The Mass of St. Gregory in the Fifteenth Century’, in The Mind’s Eye: Art and Theological Argument in the Middle Ages, J. F. Hamburger and A.-M. Bouché (eds.), Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University, in association with Princeton UP, Princeton, 2006, 208-240. 49

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aspirational model for Margaret’s devotional behaviour in relation to Saint Colette, encouraging and enabling Margaret to perform the act of devotional imagination and spiritual vision the image portrays. The miniature signals the activation of Margaret’s spiritual vision by depicting her paused in the act of reading—the book on the floor in front of her may represent the very text in which the portrait is found—her gaze directed towards Colette and her mental focus guided towards worshipping the figures manifested in her spiritual vision. Margaret has not been distracted from her reading but rather has moved beyond it, the book’s contents, both visual and textual, having provided the emotional stimulus necessary to initiate a spiritual vision. Through representing a complete and detailed spiritual vision in which Margaret is fully present and involved, the illumination privileges her inner sensory perception—her memory and her imagination—and her spiritual vision, depicting her as sufficiently cognitively and spiritually accomplished to access easily the correct elements stored in her memory, to assemble these elements with her imagination, and to engage emotionally and spiritually with the resulting mental image to transcend the imaginary and enter the wholly spiritual. To reinforce how perfectly Margaret should be able to render her spiritual vision, the illumination employs an easily-missed compositional element—the slender gold column in the centre of the image—the purpose of which is inspired by contemporary panel painting. The function of this column is neither as an architectural feature integral to the room in which the vision occurs, nor as a distinction between two spatially and temporally separate events involving Colette, as it often does in other illuminations in the manuscript. As the central framing element, the column divides the composition into a structure reminiscent of painted diptychs, with the devotees on one panel and the holy figures on the other. The column serves a similar purpose to the frames in devotional diptychs and triptychs, segmenting an otherwise unified pictorial space to demarcate devotional and miraculous zones. The gold column may be best understood as representing what Lynn Jacobs terms a ‘miraculous threshold’ within the illumination.52 Using Jacobs’s examples of the Mérode Triptych (Figure 2) and Hugo van der Goes’s Portinari Altarpiece (Figure 3), we may see how 52

L. Jacobs, ‘The Miraculous Threshold in Hugo Van der Goes’s Portinari Altarpiece’, in J. F. Hamburger and A. S. Korteweg (eds.), Tributes in Honor of James H. Marrow: Studies in Panting and Manuscript Illumination of the Late Middle Ages and Northern Renaissance, Harvey Miller Publishers, London, 2006, 265. For Jacobs’s full development of the idea, see L. F. Jacobs, Opening Doors: The Early Netherlandish Triptych Reinterpreted, Pennsylvania State UP, University Park, 2012.

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the Ghent illumination employs a miraculous threshold to unify and simultaneously divide the ducal couple from the devotional scene while constructing a privileged relationship between Margaret and Colette within the spiritual space. Jacobs draws attention to the doorways on the far right of the left wings of the Mérode Triptych and the Portinari Altarpiece, running parallel to the panels’ frames.53 In the Mérode Triptych, at first glance the architectural alignment of the door in the left wing with the building in the centre panel seems to accord, but closer inspection reveals that the door is significantly lower than the sliver of open doorway, just visible against the left edge of the centre panel, to which it supposedly joins.54 This disjuncture may be partly explained by the fact that the left wing was a secondary production, possibly by a different artist, to customise the centre panel, but the misplacement is so drastic that it must be purposeful.55 The architectural ambiguity of the door itself—is it fully open, allowing the patron to gaze into inside, or is it only partly open, meaning that the patron’s vision of the Annunciation is in potentia but blocked—brings into question exactly how much of the interior the patron can perceive. Regarding the Portinari Altarpiece, Jacobs observes that the partly open gate near Tommaso Portinari’s head does not span the full height of the manger’s stone archway and that the tone of the archway itself shifts from grey to brown across the boundary of the frame, suggesting that he occupies a different physical space.56 That Tommaso inhabits a different location is confirmed by the difference in background between the left panel, which is set in a craggy landscape, and the centre and right panels, which are situated in green hills.57 On the right panel, Maria Portinari seems to occupy the same stable yard as the Nativity, but she is likewise obstructed by the angels that crowd in front of her.58 The difference in scale between the approaching Magi in the middle ground of the right panel and the shepherds in the central panel demonstrates that she, too, actually inhabits a space quite separate from the miraculous space of the Nativity.59 In these two triptychs, the vertical framing 53

Jacobs, ‘The Miraculous Threshold’, 263, 268. M. W. Ainsworth and K. Christiansen (eds.), From Van Eyck to Bruegel: Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1998, 92. 55 S. Kemperdick and J. Sander (eds.), The Master of Flémalle and Rogier Van der Weyden, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2009, 200. 56 Jacobs, ‘The Miraculous Threshold’, 266, 268. 57 Ibid, 267. 58 Ibid, 268. 59 Ibid, 268. 54

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elements are the loci of the miraculous thresholds, indicating where the transition from ‘real’ space to miraculous space occurs. The frames at once connect the distinct spaces of the wings and of the central panels, allowing the potential for the patrons to cross from one space into the other, while accenting the strict division between the two types of space and stressing that to achieve the transition from the real to the miraculous requires a miraculous act. Paralleling both the place and the function of a panel diptych’s central frame and hinge, the Colette illumination’s pillar assimilates the qualities of a miraculous threshold, spatially unifying the two halves of the composition while demarcating devotional space and miraculous space. There are no misalignments between the two halves of the illumination; Saint Francis’s habit even strays across the boundary in front of the duke, indicating that the four figures occupy the same room. It is the space within the room that is divided into the sacred space of the miraculous vision and the earthly space inhabited by the ducal couple, with the gold pillar designating an otherwise invisible miraculous threshold. Like the patrons of the Mérode and Portinari triptychs, Charles and Margaret’s transition from their prayerful space to Colette’s miraculous space is in potentia, but never activated. However, unlike the patronesses of the two triptychs, whose potentiality to shift from one sphere to another is equally if not more impeded than their husbands’, Margaret’s capacity is significantly privileged compared to Charles’s. The detail of Francis’ habit falling in front of Charles, traceable on the grid of the floor tiles, enables the viewer to perceive unmistakably that Francis is directly in front of the duke, possibly obscuring Charles’s view of Saint Anne— though judging from his posture and facial expression, Charles is visually engaged, perhaps looking over Francis’s shoulder—fully blocking Charles’s access to the image’s miraculous threshold. Charles, like the triptychs’ patrons, must remain in his state of inactive transitional potential. For Margaret, the book that rests on the floor in front of her may seem to be an impediment, yet the book in fact functions as the locus of Margaret’s devotional experience. The text has been the vehicle of her spiritual vision, and its proximity to the miraculous threshold suggests the direction Margaret’s journey should take.60 Margaret’s unhindered path to the miraculous space in the other half of the image suggests that she is 60

See J. F. Hamburger, ‘Seeing and Believing: The Suspicion of Sight and the Authentication of Vision in Late Medieval Art and Devotion’ in K. Krüger and A. Nova (eds.), Imagination und Wirklichkiet: Zum Verhältnis von mentalen und realen Bildern in der Kunst der frühen Neuzeit, Philip von Zaberon, Mainz, 2000, 60.

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able, in theory, to cross the miraculous threshold and inhabit the same space as Colette within the realm of her spiritual vision. Her copy of La Vie de Sainte Colette undoubtedly held great personal and devotional significance for Margaret. Her decision to donate it to the Ghent convent indicates that the motivation behind her actions was stronger than any attachment to the text she may have felt. To return to the question of when and why Margaret donated the manuscript, the text’s original purpose as a guide for Margaret’s prayers for a child suggests the second scenario, during Charles’s lifetime, in which Margaret could have made her donation. Her prayers apparently insufficient to warrant divine assistance, Margaret may have given the manuscript to the Ghent convent around 1473 to solicit the nuns’ more efficacious prayers on her behalf, as Pearson concludes in her interpretation of the portrait illumination.61 Given the political implications of Margaret’s prolonged childlessness, Margaret’s donation under these conditions might be understood as an exchange of a more personal sort of symbolic capital between the duchess and the nuns serving as a proxy for Colette. Margaret bestowed her patronage, lending the convent the distinction of continued ducal support, and in reciprocation she received a more individual and private form of legitimacy as a wife and potentially as the mother of the heir to the duchy. Pearson’s conclusion that Margaret was seeking the nuns’ assistance with her barrenness rests on a handwritten dedication on the final folio of the manuscript: ‘Votre loyale fylle Margarete dangleterre pryez pour elle et pour son salut’ (Figure 4).62 The crucial word salut might indirectly suggest that Margaret hoped that the nuns’ prayers would bring about her ‘salvation’ in the form of a child, yet the more obvious interpretation— that by ‘salvation,’ Margaret is referring to her own soul—forms the basis of the final, most plausible circumstance for the manuscript’s donation. Margaret’s concern for her soul may have been incited either by Charles’s unexpected end or more likely by her own sense of impending death. Certainly, for Margaret to donate the manuscript towards the end of her life would be consistent with both the practice of making bequests to the Colettine order and with Margaret’s own history of gifting her manuscripts to their intended recipients, most notably Le Dyalogue de la duchesse, which Margaret gave to her friend Jeanne de Hallewijn soon before her

61 Pearson, ‘Productions of Meaning’, 46. A. Pearson, ‘Margaret of Austria’s Devotional Portrait Diptychs’, Woman’s Art Journal vol. 22 no.2, Autumn, 2001Winter, 2002, 23. 62 ‘Your loyal daughter Margaret of England, pray for her and for her salvation’ (f.163).

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death in 1503.63 The donation may have occurred in 1500, when Margaret was present in Ghent for the baptism of the future emperor Charles V.64 Once given, the manuscript and its portrait illumination would have served within the convent as memorials to both Charles and Margaret, attesting to Margaret’s complete devotion to Colette, to her devotional skill at achieving spiritual visions, and thereby to her worthiness of the nuns’ intercessory prayers. The portrait illumination of La Vie de Sainte Colette, through its depiction of Margaret’s sensory activation and spiritual perception, extols Margaret’s devotional skill. Besides its original function as a devotional guide for Margaret, after the manuscript’s donation the miniature would have exerted a strictly limited, yet specifically targeted, influence over the nuns whose perception of her Margaret wished to sway. Margaret’s gift may not have been intended to influence popular perception of the duke and duchess, nor been exchanged in pursuit of a miraculous cure for barrenness, but nevertheless the manuscript reveals the nature of the relationship between Margaret and the nuns of Ghent’s Colettine convent, one that is nearly devoid of political connotations. By donating her manuscript, a precious possession for which she no longer had any use, Margaret was at once participating in an established ducal tradition that held great personal significance and ensuring, through an interchange of the most personal and intimate form of symbolic capital possible, that her soul would achieve the salvation she sought.

63

M. Richards, ‘Community and Poverty in the Reformed Order of St Clare in the Fifteenth Century’, The Journal of Religious History, vol.19, no.1, 1995, 18; Weightman, 208. 64 P. Robins, ‘Le veuvage et le douaire de Marguerie d’York dans le contexte politique de 1477 à 1503’, Koninklijke Kring voor Oudheidkunde, Letteren en Kunst van Mechelen, Mechelen, 1994, 177-178.

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Figure 1: Master of the Ghent Life of Saint Colette, Margaret of York and Charles the Bold at Prayer Pierre de Vaux, La Vie de Sainte Colette, c.1468-1477. Ghent, Monasterium Bethlehem, Zusters Clarissen-Coletienen, Ms.8, f.40v.

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Figure 2: Workshop of Robert Campin, The Mérode Triptych, c.1427-143. New York City, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image Copyright © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Figure 3: Hugo van der Goes, The Portinari Altarpiece, c.1475. Florence, Uffizi Gallery. Image Copyright © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza Speciale per il Polo Museale Fiorentino

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Figure 4: Margaret’s autograph inscription. Pierre de Vaux, La Vie de Sainte Colette, c.1468-1477. Ghent, Monasterium Bethlehem, Zusters ClarissenColetienen, Ms.8, f.163

CHAPTER SEVEN THE EMPEROR AND DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS: RUDOLF II THROUGH THE EYES OF FOREIGN AMBASSADORS NATALIA NEVEROVA

During the 16th century diplomatic relations underwent a few structural changes. Meetings between the sovereigns stopped and it was up to the ambassadors to negotiate and to represent their masters. The political changes led to the creation of a new system of resident ambassadors. There were still numerous extraordinary embassies that were trusted with missions of short term but great importance. But there were also a network of smaller embassies, including only one or two persons, who stayed in place, who were always present at the court and whose main purpose was to supply their sovereigns with information. The means were often left for them to decide on.1 So these diplomats, who observed the events, sent back regular reports most often in the form of an ordinary letter. This correspondence permits us not only to better understand the complicated knot of diplomatic relations but to gain some insight into the lives of key figures in different political affairs. The ambassadors were also required to look for further information, further knowledge that went beyond the narration of simple events. They had to show insight into the situation because, as it was impossible to enumerate all that was happening, it was up to the ambassador, especially in case of the resident one, to make a call and to decide what to put on paper. Because of that the letter or the report often shows us the opinions not only of the author himself, but of those around him if they were found valuable. It is necessary to emphasize that even if the letter seems to give 1

See for example: L. Bély, L'art de la paix en Europe. Naissance de la diplomatie moderne XVIe - XVIIIe siècle, PUF, Paris, 2007; G. Zeller, Histoire des relations internationales, vol. 2, Hachette, Paris, 1953; G. Mattingly, Renaissance Diplomacy, Penguin Books, Baltimore, 1964.

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us some information about the disposition of the ambassador towards the Emperor Rudolf II (r.1576-1612), it is not always just his opinion that we come to understand and it is not only the feelings of the ambassador and those of his master that are reflected in their correspondence. The reactions and the discussions of others found their way on paper, especially if it helped to better demonstrate the situation.2

The person of the Emperor: peculiarities Rudolfine Prague is widely known as a city of artists and alchemists. The changes in the architecture and the development and flourishing of the arts often appear to be the centre of attention and research.3 But during the rule of Rudolf II Prague was also a capital of the Holy Roman Empire, at least from 1583. It saw not only the number of prominent scientists like Tycho Brae and Kepler, or alchemists like John Dee and Edward Kelley but also the presence of the ambassadors and envoys of the most powerful sovereigns and states. First of all, the matter of prestige remains central. Even if the Holy Empire lost its role as the force behind the unity of Christendom, it still had an important role in European politics. The geographical location of Prague was advantageous to the purpose of getting news from the East as well as the North and the South, and it was further away from the border with the Ottoman Empire then Vienna. Hence, the ambassadors came to this city to encounter the particular figure of the Emperor. Observers commonly gave completely different descriptions of the Emperor. In the 18th century, Thomas Birch, gave a short description of the personality of the Emperor in his ‘Memoirs of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, from the year 1581 till her death’. He

2

On political correspondence see: F. Bettencourt, ‘The political correspondence of Albuquerque and Cortés’ in F. Bethencourt and F. Egmond (eds.) Cultural Exchange in Early Modern Europe, vol. 3: Correspondence and Cultural Exchange in Europe, 1400-1700, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2007; A. Viaud, ‘La correspondance diplomatique au XVIe siècle’, Arquivos do centro cultural Calouste Gulbenkian, vol. 41, 2001, 55-71. 3 See for instance: J. BonČk, Esoteric Prague. Rudolf II and his imperial Prague: a man who changed history, the Prague Castle as the center of Europe, thirty-seven magnificent years of Prague, Eminent, Praha, 2008; K. Chytil, Die Kunst in Prag zur Zeit Rudolf II, Das kunstgewerbliche Museum der Handels und Gewerbekammer in Prag, Prag 1904; E. Fuciková, et al. (eds.). Rudolf II and Prague: The Court and the City, Thames and Hudson, London, 1997.

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…was a prince of many amiable qualities and virtues, mild and humane, a lover and patron of arts and sciences, and moderate in his own temper and principles with respect to religion, tho’ frequently misled from them by the suggestions and artifices of bigots and Jesuits.4

This opinion is quite different from that of Stephen Lesieur, an English ambassador, which he expressed in the letter of 17 November 1610 to Robert Cecil.5 Speaking of the Emperor he wrote that he ‘ought to be walled up in a cloister with a necromancer, an alchemist, a painter, and a whore’.6 The description of Johannes Janssen, who published his Geschichte des deutschen Volkes seit dem Ausgang des Mittelalters in the end of the 19th century, was slightly different: ‘He had talent and knowledge, spoke six languages, was versed in mathematical and physical sciences […] But he had weak character and was indecisive, suspicious and anxious’.7 Karl Vocelka suggested that the descriptions of Rudolf through the ages ‘paint a good picture of a clearly schizophrenic personality, emphasizing […] hesitation, fear of being pursued and influenced, especially through magical means, as well as agitation and fits of impulsive insanity’.8 Assuredly, as R.J.W. Evans said in his Rudolf II and his world: ‘Rudolf has been interpreted – by his contemporaries and by posterity – in widely differing ways: both as one of the most remarkable men of his age and one of the most worthless’.9 So the question is: what did the ambassadors and the envoys see in Rudolf that created such a controversial image? Especially, what were their opinions on Rudolf during the last two decades of his rule (15901612)? These were the years when most of the changes took place, the war with the Ottoman Empire restarted one more time, the questions of

4

T. Birch, Memoirs of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, from the Year 1581 till her Death, A. Millar, London, 1754, i, 3. 5 Robert Cecil Lord Burghley Earl of Salisbury (1563-1612), minister, secretary of State, at the service of Elizabeth I and James I. 6 The National Archives (NA), S.P. 80, vol. 2, fol. 106. 7 J. Janssen, Geschichte des deutschen Volkes seit dem Ausgang des Mittelalters 4, 1885, 463, cited in K Vocelka, Die politische Propaganda Kaiser Rudolfs II. (1576-1612), Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, 1983, 96. 8 K. Vocelka, Die politische Propaganda Kaiser Rudolfs II. (1576-1612), Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, 1983, 105. 9 R. Evans, Rudolf II and his World: a Study in Intellectual History, 1576-1612, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1973, 43.

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succession became more and more urgent and the personality of Rudolf had to undergo some transformations. France had its permanent resident at the court of Rudolf. Guillaume Ancel was at the service of Henri III and then continued to serve Henri IV. He did not have a title of ambassador but was frequently named as such in the letters of the others. He stayed in Prague for long periods at a time and thus was able to observe and assess. He sent his letters not only to the king and the secretary of state but to his friends and acquaintances; these displayed all the changes in the imperial politics, but also those that happened in the life of the court and the city. In his letter to Henri IV of 18 October 1590 he spoke about the affair of a Flemish priest who had bragged about his intention to kill the Emperor. In this letter Ancel described Rudolf as ‘very gentle prince’,10 because the Emperor did not want to punish this priest too severely and preferred to restrict his sentence to imprisonment. The French resident was notably less strict or hostile in his letters than the other ambassadors. It can be explained to some extent by his admiration of the very way of life as he saw it in Prague, especially in matters that concerned religion: I’ve seen at this court many marriages between people of different religion who well understand each other in any other aspect. They are wed in chamber without going to the mass or the assembly and without any prejudice to the profession of one or the other. We’ll never have peace in France unless people resolve to start living like that, making concession…11

Ancel expressed this opinion in the letter to his friend Jacques Bongars, another ambassador, on June 6, 1592. And he was not yet too concerned with the tendencies of the emperor to shut himself up in his castle, which is seen in his letter of 8 August 1592 sent to Bongars: ‘The Emperor was withdrawn for a few days this week. It’s mostly in consequence of his mood than because of any ailment. He is well’.12 The French envoy was not the only one who noticed the mood of the Emperor. Dispatches and reports of the Venetian ambassadors are among the most interesting sources that very often turn out to have quite emotional content. One of them was the report or ‘relazione’ of Tommaso Contarini that was written in 1596. Like all such texts written by the 10

Bibliothèque national de France (BnF), Ms. Fr 2751, fol. 51. Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek (SUB) Hamburg, Sup. ep. 30, fol. 84. 12 SUB Hamburg, Sup. ep. 30, fol. 90. 11

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Venetian ambassadors this one contains information on many aspects of political life of the Holy Roman Empire. It even gives some historical and geographical overview, even if it is centered on the conflict with Turkish Empire and because of that on the numbers and quality of the military forces involved. Still there is a chapter that is devoted to the person of the Emperor. This text shows a less promising situation than the letters of the French envoys: He doesn’t want to consider problems or to know about the real complications, he prefers to be ignorant than to be troubled, he is alien to the news and changes, and he does not use any variety of dress or exercise […] Never leaves the castle.13

So in 1596 Rudolf was seen at most as incompetent even by the ambassador who did not restrain his words. Contarini even mentioned one improvement in the emperor’s character: ‘… anger consumes his heart and quite strongly, but he contains it and doesn’t let himself be carried away as he used to when he was younger’.14 But this kind of restrain would not last and the indiscretions of the emperor would find their way on the pages written by the ambassadors. It is important to point that not all of them would drastically change their reports after the turn of the century. The Venetians were not the only ones who tended to leave descriptions not only of the state but of the ruler him- or herself. Roderico Alidosi, ambassador of the Grand Duke of Tuscany Ferdinando I de Medici, also composed such kind of document after being charged with the missions to the Emperor during the period between the years 1605 and 1607. He shared the impression that Rudolf was ‘withdrawn from 1590’15 and he explained that such conduct ‘is born of melancholy’.16 This term, ‘melancholy’, became quite popular at that time according to Evans.17 But the ambassador not only described the mood of the Emperor, he did something that was rarely seen: he also explained the origins of such behavior. To him the main reason was the absence of a wife and a legitimate heir. Despite pursuing numerous projects of marriage and begetting a few offspring, Rudolf never had a wife and the question of 13

E. Albèri (ed.), Le relazioni degli ambasciatori Veneti al Senato, serie I, vol. VI, Società editrice fiorentina, Firenze 1862, 245. 14 Ibid, 246. 15 R. Alidosi, Relazione di Germania e della corte di Rodolfo II. Imperatore negli anni 1605-1607, Tipografia e Litografia Cappelli, Modena, 1872, 6. 16 Idem, 6. 17 Evans, Rudolf II, 44.

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succession was never forgotten if also never appreciated by the Emperor.18 At the same time Rudolf seemed to avoid taking any measures to improve his condition and the situation in general. According to Alidosi ‘he spends most of the time in secret doing enchantments, witchcraft, […], alchemy, paintings and sculptures.’19 The ambassadors who were more acquainted with the Emperor, owing to theirs longer stay in Prague, noticed the changes. On 26 February 1601 Ancel wrote to Bois-Dauphin20 that ‘the Emperor is closed up more and more often each day’. 21 Not only did he cease any interaction for some periods, his mood was those days often volatile. Venetians, as shown by the example of Contarini, were much more open in their opinions about the Emperor as well as quite prone to retell the rumors that were not favorable to the Emperor. On 20 March 1600 Pietro Duodo sent the following observation to the Doges of Venice: [His Majesty] is so deeply in melancholy, which is his natural ailment these days, that he earned disgust of his servants, some of whom he had wounded and the others he had maltreated so that most of them left the court and his imperial person is left with a small number of them.22

Even the French envoy Ancel had to report such episodes. Almost one year later these were still present, if not even more frequent. Ancel wrote on 3 February 1601 to Villeroy23 that ‘His Imperial Majesty has already had one quarrel this week. His valet Chrestofle […] received blows and later tried to pretend that it happened somewhere else’,24 That description suggested that the episodes of violence were common and might occur more than once a week. Such a state of affairs did not inspire many hopes for the Empire. Especially when coupled with accounts written by the 18

F. Stieve, ‘Die Verhandlungen über die Nachfolge Kaiser Rudolfs II. In den Jahren 1581-1602’, Abhandlungen der historischen Classe der königlich bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, vol. 15, Verlag der K. Akademie, München, 1880. 19 Alidosi, Relazione, 6. 20 Urbain de Laval Bois-Dauphin (1557-1629), marshal, conselor of State, ambassador. 21 BnF, Ms. Fr 3348, fol. 129. 22 Letter of Pietro Duodo, 20 March 1600, printed in F. Stieve, Die Verhandlungen über die Nachfolge Kaiser Rudolfs II. In den Jahren 1581-1602, München, 1880, 129. 23 Nicolas de Neufville, seigneur de Villeroy (1543-1617), secretary of State. 24 BnF, Ms. Fr 23196, fol. 562.

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nuncios about increasing fear of magical influence. Giovanni Stefano Ferreri retold an incident to Cardinal San Giorgio25 on 21 February 1605: The Emperor was so saddened and angered by the report of his oven-stoker about Philipp Lang’s evil arts that he tore down the table cloth along with all dishes, and then retired to his room with the stoker, who had brought him holy water and a rosary.26

Rudolf was sure that Philip Lang, his valet, who had obtained significant authority, had him bewitched. Ferreri then proceeded to explain how Lang was obliged to dispel Rudolf’s fears and to give him some amulets. There was always a nuncio present at the court, not only to show respect to the Emperor but to demonstrate the great interest that the Holy See took in the affairs of the Empire. One of the main missions that were entrusted from one nuncio to the next was to strengthen the Catholic religion in all of the empire, starting from a very much protestant Bohemia. For the nuncio to be sent with a mission at the Emperor’s court meant to be given a challenge, also a chance to prove himself and to gain greater position in the pope’s eyes. They were sent with the instructions to bind Rudolf more closely to Catholicism and especially to persuade him to wage war against the Turks. Rudolf did not trust the nuncios sent by the Holy See and in reality his relations with the pope were not too cordial. This can be explained by the fact that he preferred not to take any forceful actions against those of his subjects who had chosen Protestantism. The nuncios had doubts about Rudolf’s faith as well. Ferreri wrote to Cardinal San Giorgio about his fears on 31 January 1605: Even Pistorius [Rudolf’s confessor] before his departure […] said that the Emperor did not think in the least about God, did not know him, and since almost all the ministers […] were urging the emperor to grant freedom of conscience, […] these lands are threatened with the time of the universal scourge.27

Ferreri had every right to be anxious about the religious convictions of the Emperor. There was a period in 1599-1600 when Rudolf had not been 25

Di San Giorgio Aldobrandini Cinthio Passeri (1551-1610). O. Meyer, Nuntiaturberichte aus Deutschland siebzehntes Jahrhundert. Die Prager Nuntiatur des Giovanni Stefano Ferreri und die Wiener Nuntiatur des Giacomo Serra (1603-1606), A. Bath, Berlin, 1913, 318. 27 Ibid, 300. 26

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seen at least for a year in the castle’s church where he hitherto used to go.28 As for the war against the Turkish Empire, Contarini said in his report, that the Emperor was the wrong person for military affairs, that ‘although he promised the pope to go there in this war, he did not want to move’.29 But it is impossible to say that Rudolf was completely opposed to any actions against the Turkish Empire from the very beginning. He was in need of money and troops, two things that depended on the decision of the Diet of the Empire. And his subjects were not in a hurry to provide enough of the resources without some concessions.30 The Muscovite embassy that was in Prague in 1595 came to the same conclusion that Rudolf needed monetary support and soldiers that neither his subjects nor the Spanish King nor the Pope were ready to provide.31 Nonetheless, the ambassadors delivered news of a few quite important successes on the battlefield. For example, Giacomo Vendramin, sent to the Doge and Senate of Venice confirmation ‘of the Imperial victory at Sziszek. Eight thousand Turks drowned. Seven pieces of artillery were taken.’32 The dispatch was dated 6 July 1593. Rudolf himself showed interest in the negotiations and treaties proposed by the Muscovite embassy sent in 1595. The city of Raab was recovered by the imperial army in 1598. But the war was not fast and successful enough for the liking of the pope and the Spanish king. In 1604 nuncio Giacomo Serra wrote to Cardinal San Giorgio that ‘The imperial state is exhausted, the Empire would not contribute, and the Emperor did not know what he should do. With enough support he wouldn’t think about truce’;33 this shows that at least the nuncios understood the situation even if they still urged the Emperor to take action. Their insistence may be one of the reasons why the simple act of getting an audience turned into quite an ordeal. 28

A. Babeau, Une ambassade en Allemagne sous Henri IV, extrait de la Revue historique, vol. LX, 1896, 12. 29 Albèri, Le relazioni, 246. 30 G. von Schwarzenfeld, Rudolf II. Der saturnische Keiser, Georg D.W.Callwey, München, 1961, 124-154. 31 Pamjatniki diplomaticheskih snoshenij drevnei Rossii s derzhavami inostrannymi. Pamjatniki diplomaticheskih snoshenij s imperieu Rimskou. [Monuments of the diplomatic relations of ancient Russia with foreign states. Monuments of the diplomatic relations with the Roman Empire.], vol. II, izdanie II otdelenie E.I.V. kantseliarii, St.Petersburg, 1851-1852, 369-370. 32 Calendar of State Papers Relating to English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, volume 9: 1592-1603, Eyre and Spottiswoode., London, 1897, 78. 33 Serra to Cardinal San Giorgio, 9 February, 1604. OA Meyer, 124.

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Obtaining an audience: difficult or impossible? In the first few years of the last decade of the 16th century the ambassadors did not have many reasons to complain about the Emperor. They mentioned his melancholy, but nothing too sinister. Nevertheless, the ailment was progressing; at the very end of the 16th century and especially the first few years of the 17th the letters of the ambassadors showed numerous changes in the behavior of the Emperor, changes that interfered with the normal channels of foreign policy, which required regular audiences. During the last decade of the 16th century and the first decade of the th 17 it became extremely difficult to get an audience. The letters of the nuncios, beginning with Antonio Puteo who stayed till 1589, were full of complaints about the necessity to wait for a long period just to speak to the Emperor. Contarini, in his account from 1596, exposed the situation in which the ambassador could quite easily find himself when he arrived at the court of Rudolf: ‘The audiences are difficult, and it takes a long time to get them’.34 During some periods the ambassadors were not granted audiences at all, or, at least, some ambassadors were not received. Guillaum Ancel, as many others, paid special attention not only to the relations between Rudolf and his brothers, because that could influence the power balance between the main political players, but also to those of Rudolf and the other ambassadors. These interactions were of uttermost importance, because as the ambassador spoke in the name of his sovereign and was a representative of his very person, thus to poorly treat an ambassador meant also to show little respect for his master. One of the ambassadors, closely observed by Ancel, was don Guillén de San Clemente, not least because of the existing rivalry between France and Spain. As well as France, Spain had its permanent representative in Prague. Don Guillén de San Clemente was charged with continuous missions to Prague from 1581 till 1608. The Spanish king liked to keep an eye on his Austrian relative. But, as related in one of the letters of Ancel,35 San Clemente believed he was being treated without proper respect and complained and threatened to leave the court. Rudolf was not impressed with such behavior or interested in soothing the representatives of one of the main European powers, and the ambassador still did not get an audience. He spent two years without seeing the Emperor. 34 35

Evans, Rudolf II, 53. Ancel to Boisdauphin, 5 September 1600, BnF, Ms. Fr 3348, fol. 121.

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Ancel tells in his letter of 3 February 1601 to Villeroy, that the Emperor ‘Avoids granting an audience to the cardinal Dietrichstein who is there because of the affairs of his Imperial Majesty’.36 But neither would he accord it to the ambassador of the Duke of Mantua (Vincenzo Gonzaga) who came bringing gifts in the form of ‘excellent horses and rare paintings that the Emperor had hitherto greatly desired’.37 This list also included the nuncio Fillippo Spinelli, the Spanish ambassador San Clemente and the ambassador of Malta who was waiting for almost a year. Ancel himself explained that he had decided to not even try and ask for an audience, not only so as to avoid the refusal, but especially because he wanted to be treated better than the Spanish ambassador. He even asked the king to send him some words to the Emperor that would be necessary to present orally, so that he would have a good excuse to try for the audience later, when the mood of Rudolf might change.38 On 17 February 1601 Ancel wrote that ‘…He [Don Guillén de San Clemente] also can’t get an audience, even if the others are given one’.39 Two years later don Guillén de San Clemente himself in his letter to the Duke of Lerma, dated of 19 April 1603, complained that: ‘At this court nobody is surprised that the king of Spain won’t be able to give his condolences to the Emperor on the death of her Imperial Majesty40 […] and I also think that the Emperor will be pleased to avoid an audience’.41 He spoke not only about the event that took place the same year, but was even implying that Rudolf’s aversion to the audiences was so great that he did not even send his condolences on the death of the previous king. The letter was written in 1603 and Philip II had died in 1598. At the same time it is not so easy to explain what the standards of Rudolf were when he decided to accord an audience. In 1595 he received, as is indicated in the dispatch of Tommaso Contarini of July 11, two English nobles ‘one, the son of a baron who is at present councilor to the Queen, the other of the house of Arundel, a gentleman of great importance both for his birth and for his other qualities’.42 They came as ‘soldiers of fortune to serve under his Majesty’. One of them even had ‘letters of 36

BnF, Ms. Fr 23196, fol. 562. Ibid. 38 Ibid. 39 BnF, Ms. Fr 23196, f. 282. 40 Maria of Spain, mother of Rudolf II died in Spain in 1603. 41 G. de San Clemente Correspondencia inédita de Don Guillén de San Clemente, embajador en Alemania de los reyes Don Filipe II y III, sobre la intervención de España en los sucesos de Polonia y Hungría, 1581-1608, Zaragoza, 1892, 283. 42 Calendar of State papers, 163. 37

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recommendation from the Queen’.43 So Rudolf quickly granted an audience to the Englishmen at a time when it was still rumored that the Queen of England was allied too closely with the Turks and maybe even plotting against the Emperor.44 At the end of the 16th century Prague saw two embassies sent by the tsar. One was sent in 1595 by Feodor I, son of Ivan the Terrible, and another in 1599 sent by the new tsar Boris Godunov. The first one came to Prague on 6 August and had an audience on the 18th of the same month, without much delay. During their stay in Prague they would even see the Emperor two more times. The ambassadors of Muscovy were quite reserved in their opinions about the Emperor. Mostly we find respectful passages in their reports. These reports are a part of collection of the documents related to the diplomatic interactions with different countries, the Holy Roman Empire among them.45 The first embassy had a few goals such as, for example, an agreement regarding the crown of Poland, but one of them was especially important for the tsar: he hoped to forge a military alliance with the Emperor. Actually this idea came mostly from Rudolf and his ambassadors who had got the tsar interested in this project. So Feodor, or in reality Godunov, who already ruled in the name of Feodor, decided to send his own people to pursue the idea and perhaps to negotiate a treaty. He was willing to offer military and monetary help for Rudolf’s campaign against the Ottoman Empire.46 Such a political move would have permitted the tsar to engage and overpower his own enemies from the south – the Khaganates, who were allies of the Turkish sultans. The embassy brought rich gifts, mostly in the form of precious furs and money. Their report of the meeting shows that they were received in a stately manner with respect even if it still was not up to the long-held standards. But here the problem laid mostly in the difference in traditions. According to those of Muscovy the ambassadors should be provided with all the necessities at the expense of the receiving party. They should be invited to the royal dinner even if the sovereign himself was never present and be given rich gifts in return. 43

Ibid. The dispatches of Venetian ambassadors: Giacomo Vendramin, 27 July 1593; Tomaso Contarini, 1st June 1594, 25 June 1596, etc. 45 Pamjatniki diplomaticheskih snoshenij drevnei Rossii s derzhavami inostrannymi. Pamjatniki diplomaticheskih snoshenij s imperieu Rimskou. [Monuments of the diplomatic relations of ancient Russia with foreign states. Monuments of the diplomatic relations with the Roman Empire.], vol. II, St.Petersburg, 1851-1852. 46 Ibid, 210-215. 44

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Rudolf did not follow some of these lines of perceived proper behavior. But he ‘was standing during the whole reception’,47 thus showing his regard of the tsar through his ambassadors. Such a positive experience could also be explained by the novelty of the embassy and its gifts. Rudolf personally looked through them and was ‘joyful and curious […] and asked Mikhailo and Ofonasij48 in what lands and how far away these sables and black foxes live’.49 The ambassadors asked for leave on August 29 and the wait was not abnormally long as it was granted on September 12. The report of Vlassiev and Veljalminov, who led the embassy, showed that the whole idea of an alliance was well received by the Emperor but after that there were no real actions. Nonetheless the document leaves an impression of a sane ruler who is not averse to granting an audience. The second embassy of 1599 was sent with a prospect of persuading Rudolf that an alliance with the new tsar Boris Godunov was in his best interests. But the tsar did not hold much hope for success, so in reality this embassy had other goals that were not revealed so openly. One of them prescribed to collect as much information as possible about the layout of the political and economical powers. The embassy arrived in Hamburg and continued through the German lands to Prague, so it had a chance to interact among others with different German merchants.50 Even if the tsar and his ambassadors no longer believed the Emperor capable of opposing the Turks, they still appreciated and acknowledged his symbolical power. The exchange of ambassadors with the Empire accentuated the place of Muscovy in European politics and the rights of Boris Godunov to the throne. This second embassy was quite different from the first. Not only had it occurred during one of the ‘black’ periods of Rudolf when he preferred not to receive anybody, but also when the Emperor was not in Prague because of an epidemic. The exchange between Vlassiev, the ambassador, and Rudolf was mostly conducted through advisers and other dignitaries of the court. Instead of pleading for his leave, Vlassiev insisted on staying longer or returning shortly to the Emperor, who tried to send him away: The Emperor let you go because he is occupied with many concerns, needing to send troops in Hungary against the Turk […] and his Imperial Majesty also let you go because in the large cities the pestilence is still not

47

Ibid, 334. Mikhail (Mikhailo) Veljalminov and Ofonasij Vlassiev. 49 Pamjatniki, 338. 50 Ibid, 656-670. 48

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finished, and in small cities, like here in Pilsen, there is not enough food and it is cramped.51

The ambassadors of Muscovy brought back this vision of the Emperor who is useless as an ally in any practical affairs. Furthermore the experience of this embassy confirmed that during some periods even the embassies from exotic and distant lands were not assured to get an audience. At the same time the matters raised by the Muscovites were not of a pressing nature and Rudolf arguably could have allowed himself to neglect them. Another embassy that came to Prague during this period was that of Bois-Dauphin and Ancel, but it was swiftly received by Rudolf. They were sent with a special mission from Henri IV in 1600. The first audience took place only four days after the arrival and the second eleven days after the first, on 31 July 1600. One of the goals of this embassy was to announce to the Emperor the future marriage of Henri IV and Mary de Medici. Among other subjects was that of the league against the Turkish Empire, but the main practical question referred to the demands of Henri IV concerning the city of Strasburg. Even if the demands were refused, the embassy itself was not delayed.52 The Persian embassy was an even more interesting example. On 20 October 1600 two Persian ambassadors came to Prague. According to the description of Pietro Duodo ‘the entry was most honorable; and his Majesty himself was present at a window of the Palace’.53 His next letter of November 13 showed that the ambassadors had already been received. And at the same time some other ambassadors had to wait months, if not years, for the audience. But getting the first audience did not always ensure a swift departure as well. The ambassadors had to wait for their leave and that wait could be a long one; in the case of this Persian embassy it was a very long time indeed. The dispatch of Duodo of 5 February 1601 showed them still in Prague. Another dated 12 February signaled that they had finally left. Such delay could be explained by the dark moods of the Emperor who might shut himself up for many days. Another Persian embassy would come to Prague in 1609. This time it was Marin Cavalli who sent regular dispatches to Venice. Delays were still common. First, the embassy had to wait for an audience and then it had to wait even longer to be given its leave. On 4 May 1609 Cavalli

51

Idem, 722. Babeau, Une ambassade en Allemagne, 10-17. 53 Dispatch of October 23, 1600, Calendar, 427. 52

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wrote that ‘the Persian Ambassadors arrived on the last day of April’54. They were treated honorably, but on 18 May ‘they have not had audience yet’.55 On 31 May they waited for their leave; they had their audience but on 6 July they ‘have not been dismissed yet’56 and changes in their situation were announced only in the dispatch of 13 July. We know that the goal of this embassy was an alliance against the Turkish Empire - not something that should be deferred lightly. The ambassadors of different countries were not divided in their opinion of Rudolf by their religious choice. He alienated the Catholics as shown by the nuncios, the Venetians and the Spanish, but neither did he gain much favors with the Protestants. The Muscovite and the French ambassadors appeared to have had a similar attitude. Neither the reports of Muscovy’s embassy nor those of the French resident leave any doubt as to the unwillingness and later inability of the Emperor to make important decisions and to take swift actions. But at the same time both countries still searched the diplomatic relations with the Empire. It can be possibly explained by the necessity for both of them in this period to be recognized by an authority even if it is an authority only in name. Henry IV struggled to make peace with Catholics with the Holy See without alienating the Protestants, especially those who lent him money and who were often, as with those in the city of Strasburg, the subjects of Rudolf. Boris Godunov, the tsar of Muscovy in 1599, was not an heir by blood of the previous tsar and he did not belong to the dynasty at all, so the recognition of the Holy Roman Empire was expedient. It appears that the resident ambassadors or those who were often seen in Prague, like the Spanish ambassador or nuncio, had more difficulties in obtaining the audiences. This can be explained from personal and political points of view. First of all it is necessary to remebber the natural curiosity of the Emperor. All throughout his life he collected curiosities and rare and exquisite things. Any embassy coming from a distant state had potential to bring something new that could pick the Emperor’s interest. At the same time the resident ambassadors had fewer chances to be received as they were quite familiar and not expected to stir up Rudolf’s interest. From a political point of view, as Rudolf did not have many resources he was often incapable of meeting the expectations of the ambassadors, as with the Turkish war and the pope’s wishes, and therefore he tried to avoid the most uncomfortable audiences. In that way he had a 54

Calendar of State Papers Relating to English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, Volume 11: 1607-1610, Mackie and Co. Ld., London, 1904, 268. 55 Ibid, 275. 56 Ibid, 292.

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chance to maintain the appearance of authority. So the main purpose of Rudolf during his rule was using the words of Contarini ‘not to expand, but to guard and enjoy what he has’.57

57

Albèri, 247.

PART III IMAGE AND GENDER

CHAPTER EIGHT FIGHTING THE IMAGE OF THE RELUCTANT WARRIOR: PHILIP AUGUSTUS AS REX-NOT-QUITESO-BELLICOSUS SEAN MCGLYNN

When we think of bellicose, ‘war-like’ kings from the medieval period, we are spoilt for choice. To identify but the most obvious, we have: Charlemagne, Alfred the Great, William the Conqueror, Frederick Barbarossa, Richard the Lionheart, Edward III and Henry V.1 Philip II of France is not a name that would spring to the mind of many historians (some French medievalists excepted) as belonging to such a list. When John Prestwich wrote his influential article ‘Richard Coeur de Lion: Rex Bellicosus’,2 historians immediately grasped the entirely apposite nature of the appellation, as, of course, contemporaries such as Ralph of Coggeshall had eight centuries earlier, Ralph employing the phrase when describing Richard’s heroic relief of Jaffa on the Third Crusade.3 It can be argued that Philip’s military achievements exceeded Richard’s, yet the French king failed to make the same martial impression as his great Angevin protagonist. This paper examines the reasons for this and assesses whether Philip has been undeservedly excluded from the pantheon of great warrior 1

There is surprisingly little in the way of titles that offer an overview of military leadership in the Middle Ages. See A. Roberts (ed.), Great Commanders of the Medieval World, 454-1582, Quercus, London, 2008. For a tighter period focus from the 11th to fifteenth centuries, see S. McGlynn, Medieval Generals, Pen and Sword, Barnsley, forthcoming 2014. 2 J. Prestwich, ‘Richard Coeur de Lion: Rex Bellicosus’, in J. Nelson (ed.), Richard Coeur de Lion in History and Myth, King’s College London Medieval Studies, London, 1992. 3 Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. J. Stevenson, Rolls Series, London, 1875, 45, 48-9.

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monarchs. As we shall see, the matter of image and perception was everything. Philip Augustus is one of France’s most important kings. Born in 1165, he ruled with great success from the age of fifteen until 1223.4 For many historians, he is the central figure in the formation of a France we can recognize today (hence the title of Jacques Levron’s book, Philippe Auguste ou la France Rassemblée from 1978).5 But acknowledgement of his achievements – chief of which was defeating the Angevin Empire of the English kings – has not led to a trans-Manche consensus on his reputation, with something of a split being apparent between generally more begrudging British historians and more effusive French ones. While most can agree on Philip’s administrative efficacy, the dissension arises from attitudes towards the king’s central role as military commander and, to a lesser extent, his perceived unchivalrous deviousness as a diplomat and politician. The heart of the matter lies in Philip’s clear lack of chivalric appeal and image; indeed there is relatively little that anyone can do to present this obese, prematurely bald and ungenerous, guarded, cynical introvert as a heroic figure. Nonetheless, I hope to show that his military skills as a commander were such that, on balance, they allow the French view of their king to be a fairer one, if at times it is given to hyperbole, and that the reasons for his lacklustre military reputation owe more to the chivalric perceptions of his times than to military reputation. Generally, the French view is summed up by Georges Bordonove’s subtitle to his book on Philip: The Conqueror. Writing in 1983, he likens Philip to Philip of Macedonia (conveniently another Philip II), sharing the same ‘talents of soldier, diplomat, organization, skill in political ruses and almost constant victories’, going on to call him ‘the true founder of the

4 For Philip II of France, see: J. Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1986; J. Bradbury, Philip Augustus: King of France, 1180-1223, Pearson Longman, Harlow, 1998; G. Sivéry, Philippe Auguste, Plon, Paris, 1993; R-H. Bautier (ed.), La France de Philippe Auguste: Le Temps des Mutations, CNRS, Paris, 1982; J. Flori, Philippe Auguste, Tallandier, Paris, 2007; A. Luchaire, Philippe Auguste et Son Temps, Tallandier, 1980 [orig. 1902]; G. Bordonove, Philippe Auguste: Le Conquérant, Marabout, Paris, 1986. For surveys of the Capetians generally, see: R. Fawtier, The Capetian Kings of France: Monarchy and Nation, 987-1328, Macmillan, Basingstoke, 1960; J. Bradbury, The Capetians: Kings of France, 987-1328, Hambledon Continuum, London, 2007; E. Hallam and J. Everard, Capetian France, 987-1328, 2nd edn., Pearson Longman, Harlow, 2001; I. Gobry, Les Capétiens, Tallandier, Paris, 2001. 5 J. Levron, Philippe Auguste ou la France Rassemblé, Perrin, Paris, 1978.

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French throne’ and ‘the forger of the French Kingdom’.6 He concludes his book emphatically with the statement that Philip ‘was one of the greatest kings to have occupied the throne of France!’7 Sivéry praises Philip as altogether ‘untouchable’, ‘a great conqueror’, ‘this glorious king’.8 More recently, in 2007 Flori praises Philip as ‘the first king of France’, who ‘has been unjustly neglected by historians’ and whose military leadership saw France better protected by his network of fortifications and strengthened army.9 Nearly a century earlier, Luchaire (1902) sums up Philip thus: ‘Philip was a man of war’ and ‘a politician of the first order’; wise, prudent and skilful, he was victorious over his enemies and oversaw the foundation of France.10 And so it goes on. It is not that many French historians are blind to Philip’s copious faults, but they take his undoubted achievements as their primary focus, and they recognise the central role of his military accomplishments. On this side of the channel, the view is rather less flattering. Verdicts of historians here claim that Philip ‘was not a great soldier’ (Poole) and ‘not an outstanding warrior’ (Lloyd); he was far too ‘timid’ to be regarded highly as a commander amongst the likes of William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart and Henry V (Gillingham). Instead, Philip’s ‘nervous disorder’ (Baldwin) predisposed him to favour ‘underhand tricks [...] which makes his behaviour so unpleasant’ (Barlow) rather than the glories of the battlefield. Altogether he was ‘an unattractive character, sly, lustful, authoritarian, cynical, suspicious and treacherous’ (Runciman).11 There are recent exceptions to this view, notably the American John Baldwin, the great historian of Philip Augustus (although his focus eschews the military for the administrative) and, on this side of the Atlantic, Jim Bradbury, who, being an authority on medieval warfare, appreciates Philip’s great military ability. Nonetheless, Philip’s duplicity, tentativeness and lack of traditional heroic qualities were very real aspects of his unappealing character. 6

Bordonove, Philippe Auguste, 301. Ibid, 302. 8 Sivéry, Philippe Auguste, 382-4. 9 Flori, Philippe Auguste, 9. 10 Luchaire, Philippe Auguste, 399. 11 A. Poole, From Domesday to Magna Carta, 2ne edn., Oxford UP, Oxford, 1955, 342; A. Lloyd, King John, David and Charles, Newton Abbot, 1973, 3; J. Gillingam, Richard Coeur de Lion, Hambledon, London, 1994, 214; J. Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 356; F. Barlow, The Feudal Kingdom of England, 1042-1216, Longman, Harlow, 4th edn., 1988, 347; S. Runciman, ‘Richard Coeur-de-Lion’, History Today, vol. 41 no. 6, 1991 [orig. 1955], 51. 7

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As a general rule, until fairly recently British historians have tended to follow the lead of Philip’s contemporary, the famous troubadour knight Bertran de Born. Bertran took a very dim view of Philip’s military leadership ability, chiding him for being ‘too soft’ (trop mols) and for ‘hunting sparrows and tiny birdies’ instead of engaging in the manly and noble pursuit of war.12 Leaving to one side for the moment the belligerently psychotic nature of Bertran – a man who famously rejoiced in death and violent mayhem – we will see that more sober English chroniclers of the time could be equally disparaging. With these, any retreat made by Philip was never tactical but due to cowardice and any peace made was due to weakness. He is even depicted, derisively – and all too believably – as riding a tame, safe old horse that would not alarm him in any way. This is hardly the stuff of vibrant, thrusting chivalry. The image has been enduring. Philip hardly ever makes an appearance in British modern culture, but when he does it is never flattering. In The Lion in Winter, a film about Henry II of England’s dysfunctional family, Philip is portrayed as a calculating, devious Machiavellian figure with no suggesting of martial prowess.13 In the epic blockbuster Robin Hood (the one in which the actor Russell Crowe plays the hero in his own epic struggle with a bewildering variety of regional dialects), Philip is at least seen leading an invasion force of England (although this was something he actually left to his son Louis and at a later date), but again there is no hint of heroic qualities; indeed, he is shown as all to ready to abandon the enterprise.14 Perhaps the most telling and damning popular perception is depicted in the BBC Radio 4 play ‘Lionheart’, part of the classic serial, The Plantagenets, based on the Holinshed chronicles.15 Here Philip is portrayed as conforming to his worst caricature: a snivelling coward who emptied his bowels into his breeches at the thought of fighting, and who rode his horse backwards into battle so that he could make a speedy getaway.16 Yet this is the monarch who fought over thirty military campaigns between 1180 and 1214 bringing down the Angevin Empire and decisively 12

W. Paden, T. Sankovitch and P. Stalein (eds.), The Poems of Bertran de Born, University of California Press, Berekely, 393, 380. 13 The Lion in Winter, dir. A Harvey, 1968. 14 Robin Hood, dir. R. Scott, 2010. 15 Holinshed’s Chronicle appears in numerous editions. For a comprehensive study, see P. Lewes, I. Archer and F. Heal (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Holinshed’s Chronicles, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2013. 16 ‘Lionheart’, The Plantagenets, dramatised by M. Walker, aired 21 February 2010, BBC Radio 4.

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defeating the Anglo-German alliance that threatened the survival of his Capetian dynasty in 1214. The success of the latter secured the throne so thoroughly that Philip was able to retire from military campaigning. Despite this, military studies of his reign are rare; even Philippe Contamine concentrates on Philip’s army rather than the king’s role as a general.17 This is all the more surprising given that Philip Augustus was well-served by his eulogising propagandists, Rigord and, most notably and enthusiastically, Guillaume le Breton. Unlike their Angevin counterparts who faced an independent and frequently hostile monastic press, the deeds of the Capetians were exalted by their in-house royal biographers from St Denis.18 Guillaume le Breton is especially keen to glorify Philip as a heroic warrior, earnestly but unconvincingly relating how the French king was habitually straining at the bit to get stuck into his enemies, leading recklessly from the front without regard to his own safety. At a precarious moment during the combat of Gisors in 1198, the knight Manasse de Malvoisin has to restrain Philip from exposing himself to danger with the words: ‘Our deaths would be a light loss, but in you rests the hope and glory of the whole kingdom; if you alone remain healthy and safe, France will have nothing to fear’.19 To no one’s surprise, Philip heeded the advice and withdrew from the fray. In an inventive and florid speech, Manasse makes comparisons to Alexander the Great, a recurring theme in Guillaume’s prose work Philippidos; elsewhere, at Boves in 1185, the king’s advisers talk him out of making the same mistake as Alexander when he plunged himself irresponsibly into the midst of the enemy. Again, 17

P. Contamine, ‘L’Armée de Philippe Auguste’, in Bautier, La France de Philippe Auguste. Military analysis of aspects of Philip’s reign can be found in Bradbury, Philip Augustus; S. McGlynn, ‘Philip II of France’, in C. Rogers (ed.) The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medieval Warfare and Military Technology, 3 vols., Oxford UP, Oxford, 2010, ii; idem, Blood Cries Afar; L. Marvin, ‘Warfare and the Composition of Armies in France, 1100-1218: An Emphasis on the Common Soldier’, unpub. PhD thesis, University of Illinois, 1997. 18 As made famous by Suger of St Denis’s Vita Ludovici VI Grossi, Philip’s grandfather. See L. Grant, Abbot Suger of St Denis: Church and State in Early Twelfth-Century France, Longman, Harlow, 1998. Rigord and Guillaume le Breton served Philip well in this regard: H. Delaborde (ed.), Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, 2 vols., Renouard, Paris, 1882. Guillaume’s chronicle is in the first volume (hereafter Guillaume le Breton, i) and the verse Philippidos (hereafter Guillaume le Breton, ii) is in the second volume. A recent, new edition of Rigord has been published: Rigord, Histoire de Philippe Auguste, E. Charpenetier, G. Pon and Y. Chauvin (eds.), CNRS, Paris, 2006. 19 Guillaume le Breton, ii, 140. My translation for this and further quotes.

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this was advice that Philip took to heart; even as a young man Philip was not overly predisposed to bravura acts. But this did not deter Guillaume, a keen classicist, comparing Philip with Alexander and the chivalrous Nine Worthies of heroic legend.20 This was in keeping with the medieval image of kingship as one that combined the best qualities of a priest (sacerdos), judge (iudex) and, most vitally of all, knight (miles). In his judicial and martial roles the monarch was expected to use force and violence in defence of the realm and its people. It is in this light that Edward IV is portrayed in manfully dealing with his enemies: ‘The Kynge, trusting verily in God’s helpe [...] toke to hym to him great hardies and corage [...]. He mannly, vigorowsly and valliantly assayled them, in the midst and strongest of theyr battaile, where he, with great violence, bett and bare down afore hym all that stode in hys way’.21 In this vein Guillaume attempted to create a similar impression of the French king, endlessly eulogising his alleged martial feats in the epic panegyric, the Philippidos. While such imagery could readily be applied to the likes of Richard the Lionheart, Guillaume’s portrayal of Philip impressed few. Philip fought in only one full-scale pitched battle – Bouvines 1214 – and he had tried hard to avoid even this.22 In a close-run battle the victory went to the French, thanks more to the actions of Philip’s commanders, not least the decisive actions of Brother Guérin, an experienced warrior of the Knights Hospitaller and bishop elect of Senlis. More than any other event, Philip’s military reputation in France hangs on the triumph at Bouvines and the crushing of the Capetians’ enemies. But it had been a perilously close-run thing, both for France and her king. German communal infantry had penetrated the lines in front of Philip to reach him on his horse. The hook from one of the soldier’s pole-arms secured itself in Philip’s chainmail between his head and chest and pulled the king to the ground. Philip was on the point of being killed when Pierre Tristan, one of his household knights, dismounted and positioned himself 20

The Nine Worthies that epitomised chivalric ideals in the Middle Ages are: King Arthur, Charlemagne, Godfrey de Bouillon, Hector, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Joshua, David and Judas Maccabeus. 21 J. Bruce (ed.), Historie of the Arrivall of Edward IV, Camden Society, London, 1838, 19-20. 22 For Bouvines, see: G. Duby, The Legend of Bouvines: War, Religion and Culture in the Middle Ages, trans. C. Tihanyi, Polity, Cambridge, 1990 (French orig. 1973); Bradbury, Philip Augustus, 290-315; J. France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades, 1000-1300, UCL Press, London, 1999, Appendix I, 23541; idem, ‘Battle of Bouvines’, in Rogers, Medieval Warfare; McGlynn, Blood Cries Afar, 94-122 for the most recent and detailed analysis.

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between the king and his assailants. Tristan was killed but it bought Philip enough time to mount the knight’s horse and make his escape.23 Even Guillaume could not depict his king as heroically fighting his way out of the situation (as a Richard I would have done) but having to rely on others, even against lowly, and hence non–chivalrous, infantry.24 Bouvines marks the effective end of his campaigning career; royal wars were subsequently left in the hands of his son and heir, Louis the Lion, who, as his sobriquet may suggest, had more of an appetite for the soldier’s life. The scale of the victory was such that Philip’s presence on future campaigning was not vital; but it has been suggested that Philip was so shaken by his brush with death he could no longer face the perils of battle.25 But long before this event, it is noticeable how Guillaume frequently substitutes Philip with Guillaume des Barres, veteran crusader and France’s most chivalrous hero (a role that should be taken by the king, of course) when he feels the frequent need to wax lyrical over individual heroics in combat and to fulfil the expected dictates of chivalric literature. Guillaume le Breton praises Philip’s heroism and bellicosity to the skies whenever he can (and often even when he cannot); but throughout his writings des Barres is everpresent to robustly display the prowess of French arms and knighthood when the cautious and risk-averse Philip does not deliver. Guillaume’s purple prose, try as it might, could not elevate Philip to the rank of a great chivalrous hero. Instead the king was stuck with a deserved reputation for slyness and duplicity. These are not attractive traits, but perhaps they are useful ones, as Philip was a master Machiavellian manipulator and operator. King John tried to be just as devious, but was so inept he failed miserably; Philip, on the other hand, succeeded with ease. Philip abandoned the Third Crusade under pretext of illness to return to France and secure a valuable inheritance.26 When his son Louis invaded England with considerable success in 1216 against papal censure and incurred excommunication, Philip pretended to banish Louis from his presence and impose penalties upon him. Philip wrote supportive letters to Popes Innocent III and Honorius, and in return was praised by them for his loyal and righteous behaviour.27 In fact, Louis was 23

Guilluame le Breton, i, 282-3 and for the death of another knight protecting Philip. 24 When Richard I is unhorsed, it is by ‘the best knight in the world’, William Marshal: A. Holden, S. Gregory and D. Crouch (eds.), History of William Marshal, Anglo-Norman Text Society, London, 2002, i, 448. 25 As Matthew Bennett has perceptively suggested to me. 26 Discussed below. 27 McGlynn, Blood Cries Afar, 163.

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simply fulfilling a long-held and cherished dream of his father. Philip himself had attempted an invasion of England when Richard was in captivity in Germany, again after Richard’s death in 1199; and after the fall of Normandy in 1204. One example shows Philip at his sly best, in an act worthy of Lloyd George’s legerdemain duping Clemenceau on the eve of the Versailles Treaty in 1919 (at the very last minute – too late for it to be checked - he slipped in a proviso that England would support France in future dispute with Germany only if the US ratified the agreement). The episode from 1184 involved Philip, his father-in-law Count Baldwin of Hainaut, and Baldwin’s brother-in-law, Count Philip of Flanders. In the frequent Franco-Flemish hostilities of the period, Baldwin invariably and loyally supported his brother-in-law against the French king. King Philip wished to create a split in the Flemish coalition, and this is how he did it. Here is the well informed contemporary account of the chronicler Gilbert of Mons: Meanwhile the lord king of France had a meeting with the count of Flanders and a truce was confirmed between them. Each named their helpers and supporters, to keep them secure in that truce. King Philip cunningly placed Count Bladwin of Hainuat in his truce, even though Baldwin knew nothing of it. The French king did this so that he might sow discord between the count of Flanders and the count of Hainaut, allowing him to have the count of Hainaut on his side. When he heard this, the count of Flanders was enflamed with rage against the count of Hainaut. King Philip allowed the count of Hainaut, who was ignorant of all this, to remain in the king of France’s treaty, which he should not have done. The count of Flanders thereafter bore a huge rancour in his heart against Baldwin.28

To rub salt in the wound, when the count of Flanders attacked Baldwin, Philip all but ignored the calls for help from his father-in-law. Cynically, dishonestly and effectively, Philip achieved his aims of splitting the Flemish alliance. In English affairs, Philip was renowned for his clever manipulation of Henry II’s troublesome sons, sowing discord between them and their father and exploiting the consequences to his advantage. Chroniclers covered the family troubles and revolts in considerable details. Both on the Continent and in England, Philip’s reputation for being devious and underhand was stronger than any Guillaume le Breton could forge for him as a heroic warrior in the mould of Alexander the Great.

28

Gilbert of Mons, Chronicle of Hainaut, ed. and trans. L. Napran, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2005, 90-1.

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An insurmountable reason for Philip’s lacklustre martial reputation was his bad luck in having to face one of the greatest generals of the medieval period: Richard the Lionheart. A true soldier’s soldier, Richard was the epitome of knightly kingship, deservedly famed for his military skills and, just as tellingly, his inspirational leadership.29 He regularly trounced Philip’s armies in the field. It is not surprising that (biased) contemporary sources could offer only William des Barres and William Marshal as Richard’s equal in hand-to-hand combat, and not Philip himself. What successes Philip had against Richard fall within the period of Richard’s incarceration in Germany between 1192 and 1194. These gains were temporary, lasting only until Richard was free to recoup his losses. This is not a measure of Philip’s weakness, but of Richard’s strength: in war any opponent of the English king was likely to come off badly. Richard, being Richard, rubbed salt into Philip’s wounds by directly challenging him to individual combat, knowing full well that Philip would humiliatingly decline; and even in the remotest possibility that he did not, that the calculating strategist would be no match for Richard’s muscular and well-practiced sword-arm. The fanfare for chivalry might have blown loudly and joyously had Philip picked up the challenge, but it would have been, quite literally, a no-win situation for him as after the event few would have been able to sing the praises of an overweight poodle flung quivering into the ring against England’s pitbull terrier. Contemporaries largely adored Richard for being everything that Philip was not: ‘he was the most victorious of kings, pious, most merciful and wise’; ‘he did right to all’; and, with echoes of the Nine Worthies, ‘King Richard had the valour of Hector, the heroism of Achilles and in courage was he was the equal of Alexander and Roland’. Even his Muslim enemies remarked on ‘his courage, shrewdness, energy and patience which made him the most remarkable ruler of his times’.30 It was hard for any monarch – and especially one with the temperment and character of Philip Augustus 29

For Richard I, see: J. Gillingham, Richard I, Yale UP, New Haven, 1999; idem, Richard Coeur de Lion: Kingship, Chivalry and War in the Twelfth Century, Hambledon, London, 1994; J. Flori, Richard the Lionheart, trans. J. Birrell, Praeger, Westport, 2006 [French orig. 1999]; L. Le Roc’h Morgère (ed.), Richard Coeur de Lion: Roi d’Angleterre, Duc de Normandie, 1157-1199,Direction des Archives Calvados, Caen, 2004; R. Turner and R. Heiser, The Reign of Richard Lionheart: Ruler of the Angevin Empire, 1189-99, Pearson Longman, 2000. 30 J. Gillingam, Richard Coeur de Lion, 101, 95. For an alternative translation of the Hector quote, see H. Nicholson (ed. and trans.), Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, Ashgate, Aldershot, 1997, 145.

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- to compete against a public image profile like that. That Philip so palpably failed by comparison to Richard is central to perceptions of him. As Matthew Strickland has noted, in war ‘the power of the king’s presence might assume an aggressive offensive quality which one might almost term a military charisma’.31 Richard manifestly possessed this charisma in abundance, while Philip, chasing those ‘tiny birdies’, manifestly did not. Bertran de Born made the unflattering comparison explicit: ‘Richard is a lion, but King Philip looks like a lamb to me’. 32 The contrast was highlighted during the Third Crusade of 1189-92, for this sealed Philip’s poor reputation among contemporaries, only to be partially ameliorated by his later military successes.33 Philip’s esteem suffered heavily on Crusade. Contrary to popular views in the Anglophone world, this was not Richard the Lionheart’s crusade; he and Philip undertook joint leadership of this massive enterprise with the ill-fated Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. The expedition throws into relief the divergent styles of military leadership of these two leaders of the Latin west and contemporary views of them in a combat setting. By the summer of 1191, crusading forces had been besieging the vital seaport of Acre for nearly two years. Philip arrived first, in April, to a warm but low-key reception. The besieged Muslim garrison in Acre, dreading the arrival of the two most powerful Christian kings, were greatly relieved to see Philip sail into view with only a paltry six ships of men and provisions. But to mark Philip’s arrival as being less than impressive is unfair: the bulk of French forces were already active at the siege. Six weeks later Richard turned up triumphantly with twenty-five ships and many more following, arriving to a rapturous welcome. The land shook with the Christians’ rejoicing. The whole of the people were overjoyed and acclaimed their good fortune with sounding trumpets. 31

M. Strickland, ‘Against the Lord’s Anointed: Aspects of Warfare and Baronial Rebellion in England and Normandy, 1075-1265’, in G. Garnett and J. Hudson (eds.), Law and Government in Medieval England and Normandy, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1994, 60. 32 Paden et al., The Poems of Bertran de Born, 427. 33 For the Third Crusade, see the crusading primary sources cited in this essay and the relevant chapters of the works on Richard I and Philip Augustus. Of the vast literature on crusades and therein on the Third Crusade, see for a detailed, recent account, C. Tyerman, God’s War: A New History of the Crusades, Allen Lane, 2006, 341-374. For the military side see the still valuable R. Smail, Crusading Warfare, 1097-1193, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1956. For the siege of Acre, see R. Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1992, 212-36.

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An enormous, wine-fuelled party celebrated Richard’s appearance. In stark contrast, even Guillaume le Breton’s effusive Philippidos does not mention any reception of Philip’s arrival, describing only the feelings of the men with Philip on reaching Acre.35 Ibn al-Athir remarks that Philip ‘was not leading the large numbers of ships that they [the crusaders] had hoped’.36 The contemporary Muslim source The Rare and Excellent History confirms the celebrations at Richard’s reception: ‘His coming had great pomp [...] The Franks manifested great joy and delight at his coming. Indeed, that night in their joy they lit huge fires in their camp’. Of Richard, the writer says: ‘He was wise and experienced in warfare and his coming had a dread effect on the hearts of Muslims’.37 This view is affirmed by Muslim sources of Ibn al-Athir and Baha al-Din ‘The king was the outstanding man of his time for bravery, cunning, steadfastness and endurance’; ‘He was wise and experienced in warfare and his coming had a dread and frightening effect on the hearts of the Muslims’.38 Philip had been derogatory over Richard’s tardiness, tut-tutting the English king’s lack of commitment to this holy cause and delaying the essential task of taking Acre. Yes, Richard was a bit late, but he came up with some good excuses: in the short time between Philip’s arrival at Acre and his own, Richard had conquered Cyprus, sunk a huge supply vessel 34

Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 202. Cf. M. Ailes and M. Barber (eds. and trans.), The History of the Holy War: Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, 2 vols., Boydell, Woodbridge, 2003, ii, 65-6, which is even more effusive and emphasises the size of his fleet. Muslim sources confirm the joy in the crusader camp: see for example, D. Richards (ed. and trans.), The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, Ashgate, Aldershot, 2002: ‘The Franks manifested great joy and delight at his coming. That night in their joy they lit huge fires in their camp. Those fires were impressively large, indicating sizeable reinforcements’ (150). 35 Guillaume le Breton, ii, 103. 36 D. Richards (ed. and trans.), The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh: Part Two, Ashgate, Aldershot, 2007, 386. 37 Ibid, 150. Compare this with his low-key description of Philip’s arrival, 145. The Old French Continuator of William of Tyre records that Philip was given ‘an honourable and magnificent reception’ but also claims incorrectly that he arrived with ‘a great fleet of ships’: P. Edbury (ed.), The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade: Sources in Translation, Ashgate, Aldershot, 1996, 98. 38 Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, 150.

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ferrying relief to the beleaguered Muslim garrison, and even got married! How typical of the man, enhancing his contemporary reputation for flair and brilliance. He brought with him men and matériel, morale-boosting news of recent victories, and a honeymoon bride. No wonder people were astonished by him and admired him in equal measure. How could the dull Philip compare with this? As ever, he was in Richard’s shadow. Contemporaries recognized and acknowledged this throughout the crusade. Guillaume le Breton can not bring himself to raise the incident at Messina en route to Acre the preceding October which shows Philip in a poor light compared to Richard. A sudden outburst of violence form the Sicilians prompted characteristically decisive action from Richard: donning his armour, he lead his men to subjugate the city immediately, ‘more swiftly than any priest could sing Matins’ wrote one chronicler in praise.39 And Philip’s instinctive reaction to this unexpected outburst of violence? The same source relates that ‘The French, unsure of what their lord the king would do, were running about looking for him, when he rushed out of the conference place to take refuge in the palace’. No wonder ‘the king of France was jealous of the king of England’s success. He found his noble character unbearable, and regretted having had no part in the glory which the other had won through his own sweat and superior qualities’.40 Of course this is one-sided, but Guillaume’s silence testifies to the truth of the matter; not even he can found anything in the episode which may be given a positive spin, so better to say nothing at all. Even the Arabs perceived the difference between the two, Baha al-Din writing: The king of England was a mighty warrior of great courage and strong in purpose. He had much experience of fighting and was intrepid in battle, and yet he was in their eyes below the king of France in royal status, although being richer and more renowned for martial skill and courage.41

These were the perceptions of the time and they have passed down to the modern age. Now, as then, Philip is compared unfavourably to Richard, something which is bound to leave the French king’s military reputation lost somewhat murkily in the shade. Messina and the kings’ arrivals set the tone for the whole siege of Acre. When Richard leaned that Philip paid his knights three gold coins a month, Richard ‘ordered a proclamation to be made to the whole army that 39

Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 163. Ibid. 41 Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, 146. 40

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he would pay a fixed rate of four gold coins a month to each knight’.42 The result was, of course, that Philip lost men (and face) to Richard, diminishing his standing further. The same fervently pro-Ricardian writer effused: ‘King Richard was universally extolled. It was declared that he surpassed everyone. “This is the man whose arrival we longed for,” they [the crusaders] said… “The most outstanding king in the world, more skilled in warfare than any other Christian, has come”…Everyone’s hope hung on King Richard’.43 This must all have been very galling for Philip. Although Richard was some eight years his senior, Philip had been reigning as a king for some fifteen years, unlike Richard who had just inherited his throne. And Philip had certainly been doing his bit at Acre. As a master of poliorcetics, had assiduously participated in the siege operations and had made a contribution at least equal to Richard’s in the eventual victory at Acre. As soon as he had reached the city, Philip applied himself to the task at hand: ‘Directly after his arrival he mounted a horse and went through the host and around the city of Acre so as to see from which side he could most easily gain possession of the city’.44 He orchestrated a constant barrage from the crossbowmen and archers to keep the Muslim garrison’s heads below the battlements while he oversaw the tightening of the investiture that included the building of belfries and artillery pieces (one of which was named ‘The Evil Neighbour)’, moat filling and the digging of a mine in preparation for storming. Muslim, French and English sources all attest to the efficacy of Philip’s barrage; the garrison was forced to fiercely defend breaches and lamented the ceaseless battering that caused walls to crumble and structures to collapse, all of which increased the defenders’ exhaustion. French sapping also played its part, allowing an assault (when Richard was incapacitated by illness) that came close to success; a Ricardian chronicler admits that Philip ‘manfully stormed the city’.45 Eventually the garrison capitulated, fearing being put to the sword in a successful storm that would surely follow the devastating bombardment. The Continuator to William of Tyre’s chronicle summed up the operation succinctly: The king of France’s siege engines had broken down the walls of the city so much that it was possible to get through and engage in hand-to-hand

42

Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 204. Ibid, 204. 44 Richards, The Conquest of Jerusalem, 98. 45 Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 205. 43

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fighting, while the renown of the king of England and his deeds so terrified [the Muslims] that they despaired of their lives.46

The success at Acre was therefore a joint effort, with Philip making a significant and telling contribution to the victory. The two kings were playing to their strengths. When Saladin’s relief force arrived to attack the besiegers from its base on the heights above Acre, Richard rode out to tackle the Muslim army while Philip continued to batter the walls; Richard, facing Saladin, took all the glory while Philip doggedly persevered with the unromantic but no less essential engineering work of constructing siege engines and digging mines. The chronicler Rigord observed that Philip’s miners and engineers ‘followed him everywhere’ while Robert of Auxerre attests to their efficacy and likened them to moles (talpae).47 Philip was one of the foremost fortifications breakers of his age – an essential skill as medieval warfare centred around sieges, not battles which were relatively rare.48 But such attention to prosaic efficiency did not inspire the troubadours more interested in the visceral gore and mayhem of knightly combat. Bertan de Born derided ‘rich warriors’ who ‘can never get along without military engineers. They love hurling and shooting so much’.49 Engineers conformed neither to his ideals of chivalric warfare nor to the necessary chivalric status of the worthy warrior. Philip, on the other hand, was more concerned with practical results. The upshot was a king that failed to enthuse contemporary writers (other than Guillaume le Breton) to inspirational tales of his (lacking) individual heroics. Philip was never going to outshine the brilliant Richard, but Philip’s role as a successful crusading king at Acre should have left his reputation greatly enhanced amongst contemporaries. That it did not owes much to the perceptions of chivalric behaviour and esteem. One event negated all Philip’s good works on the crusade and tarnished his reputation to the point from which it failed to recover outside of France: he left the crusade and returned home. A fortnight after taking the city (and his share of spoils), Philip abandoned the crusade and embarked for France. This sudden departure dismayed the crusaders. 46

Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem, 46. Delaborde, Ouevres de Rigord et de Guilluame le Breton, i, 95; Robert of Auxerre, Roberti Canonici Sancti Mariani Autissiodorensis, Monumenta Germaniae Historica Scriptores, xvii, 253. 48 For medieval siege warfare, see J. Bradbury, The Medieval Siege, Boydell, Woodbridge, 1992; I. Corfis and M. Wolfe (eds.), The Medieval City Under Siege, Woodbridge, Boydell, 1995. 49 Paden et al., The Poems of Bertran de Born, 259. 47

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Contemporaries wrote of ‘cowardice, ‘contempt and hate’ and ‘immense opprobrium’, ‘how shameful and outrageous’ it was, and even of ‘frightened rabbits’. The departure was disastrous for Philip’s standing; for many, it nullified his enormous contribution to the fall of Acre. No longer was he seen as an asset but, according to Richard of Devizes, the English king was ‘burdened with the king of the French and held back by him, like a cat with a hammer nailed to its tail’.50 Even though he left the bulk of his forces at Acre, the eventual failure of the Crusade to take Jerusalem was laid at Philip’s door. None of the reasons supplied for Philip’s action redound to his advantage. The best that his few defenders could come up with was his suspicion of Richard’s talks with Saladin, the illness he had suffered and his fear of poisoning (Philip was paranoid about assassination). His sickness, arnoldia, is well-documented; but to leave the greatest undertaking of the age because one’s hair and nails was falling out was hardly going to promote Philip’s image as a heroic general. When Richard fell ill with the same feverish malady, Ambroise tells how he had himself carried to his men in ‘a great silken quilt [a litter] to personally work against the Saracens. With his ever-ready hand, he shot many bolts’.51 Despite his illness, he not only reassured his troops but was also able to inspire them. Touches like this made Richard the hero without equal; Philip singularly failed in this role of inspirational leadership while Richard excelled at it. Other contemporary explanations for Philip’s departure cite the English king as Philip’s motivation: Philip was jealous of Richard, found his arrogance distasteful and was made paranoid by his fear of murder from Assassins he believed to be in the employ of Richard. It is true that Philip’ son and heir, Louis, was lying seriously ill in France, but the real reason, recognized by some chroniclers, was hardly less flattering: it was, above all, a political move. With the death of the count of Flanders at Acre on 1 June, Philip’s careful plans for the succession came to the fore as he now had opportunities open to secure land in the Artois and parts of Vermandois. At the same time, Richard’s continuing presence in the Holy Land would preclude his interference and give Philip the advantage in their territorial disputes.52

50

J. Appleby (ed. and trans.), The Chronicle of Richard of Devizes, Nelson, London, 1963, 78. 51 Ailes and Barber, History of the Holy War, ii, 100. 52 See Bradbury, Philip Augustus, 92-3 and Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 223, n. 76 for Philip’s reasons for leaving. The Continuator of William Tyre raises Philip’s fear of assassins: Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem, 126.

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Philip capitalised on the opportunity afforded by the count’s death. Unchivalrous as this was, it was a wise recognition on Philip’s part that Richard was the better commander; and Philip did indeed make military headway until Richard’s return. As we have seen, the crusaders at Acre were shocked and appalled by Philip’s departure, and writers saw through his selfish motives. Ambroise claims that Philip was using his illness as an excuse and that, sickness notwithstanding, ‘he should have remained to do what he could’.53 While Guillaume le Breton says that the decision to return to France was taken on the advice of his counsellors,54 Ambroise claims that his barons were ashamed and ‘filled with anger and rage [...] I tell you that they blamed him’.55 A pro-Ricardian source denigrates Philip for his action and reports that everyone ‘cursed him’. But then he has this to say reluctantly in mitigation: Yet the king of France’s reputation should not be completely blackened. He had expended a great deal of effort and expense in that country, in storming the city. He had given aid and support to a great many people, while the very authority of his presence had brought about more quickly and easily the completion of that great undertaking.56

Philip’s reasons of realpolitik held little sway with crusaders and contemporary commentators. That he left and Richard stayed was disastrous for the French king’s reputation and, conversely, all the more inflating to the English king’s. Richard himself reaped the ongoing glory and, while being ostensibly generous to Philip (as in offering him his best galleys for the homeward journey), made a dig at Philip in a letter to his chancellor William Longchamps on 6 August, which placed the Capetian in a much less favourable light than the honourable, pious Richard: ‘Within fifteen days [of the surrender of Acre], the king of France left us to return home. But we place the love and honour of God before our own or the acquisition of many kingdoms’.57 For all Philip’s later victories, Philip’s chivalrous standing sunk at Acre and recovered only partially in France thanks to royal biographers. Few would forget his desertion of the cause. This was the exact opposite of the glory that a crusade should

53

Ailes and Barber, History of the Holy War, ii, 104. Guillaume le Breton, ii, 107. 55 Ailes and Barber, History of the Holy War, ii, 104. 56 Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, 223. 57 Epistolae Cantauriensis, in W. Stubbs (ed.), in Chronicles and Memorials of the Reign of Richard I, vol. 2, Rolls Series, London, 1865, 347. 54

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bestow on a king, even one who, like Richard, ultimately failed in his holy mission to retake Jerusalem. Yet when the dust of Acre is shaken off, we can evaluate more clearly the Angevin-Capetian military balance sheet during Philip’s time as monarch and his abilities a military leader. Philip was too cautious and introspective a character to risk all by being at the head of a charge; Richard, by contrast, thrived on it: as John Gillingham says, the ‘courageous’ Angevin led from the front. This was not simply mindless courage. It was linked with a sense of honour, an unwillingness to expect his soldiers to run risks he himself would not; linked also with the awareness of the practical advantages to be gained. It meant that the morale of his troops remained consistently high and it intimidated his enemies. Whenever Philip Augustus knew that the Lionheart – a contemporary name – was nearby, he took to his heels, and the rest of his army followed.58

But whatever Richard’s very real military advantages were in leading from the front they were all negated by his death in action at ChalusChabrol in 1199, struck down by a crossbow bolt. Both sides appreciated the significance of the event and how Philip could now come into his own. Guillaume le Breton rejoiced, ‘God visited the kingdom of the French, for King Richard died’; while the Archbishop of Rouen presciently lamented: ‘What hope remains to us now? There is none, for after him I can see nobody able to defend the kingdom. The French will overrun us, and there will be no one to resist them’.59 The consequences of his premature death were disastrous for the Angevin Empire. Richard was succeeded by his less capable brother John. John never approached being even a half-way decent king; he was hopeless, and well deserving of his own disparaging sobriquet Softsword.60 Philip soon achieved a series of military victories, beginning with his spectacular annexation of Normandy in 1204, with further annexations of English lands in France to follow, culminating in the epoch-making triumph at Bouvines in 1214, which ‘deservedly ranks 58

J. Gillingham, Richard Coeur de Lion, 101. Guillaume le Breton, i, 204; Gregory et al., History of William Marshal, iii, 159. Similarly note Geoffrey de Vinsauf’s fear: ‘O Normandy, once safe beneath King Richard’s shield, but undefended now’: M. Nims (ed. and trans.), Poetria Nova of Geoffrey de Vinsauf, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Toronto, 1967, 28. 60 Ralph Turner makes the case for John being a competent military commander: R. Turner, ‘King John’s Military Reputation Reconsidered’, Journal of Medieval History, vol. 19, 1993; but for a negative assessment, see McGlynn, Blood Cries Afar. 59

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among the world’s decisive battles’.61 Despite all this – which made him one of the most successful military commanders of the entire Middle Ages - he could still not fully shrug off the aspersion on his military prowess and chivalry that he had gained a quarter of a century earlier at Acre. Philip neither burned out like Richard nor faded away like other longreigning monarchs; typically, he chose a middle path, plugging tenaciously away at his enemies. It might not have been pretty but it was effective. Philip’s aversion to personal risk served him well: when he died of natural causes in 1223 at the age of fifty-eight he had seen four kings on the throne of England. In the instance discussed earlier at Boves when Philip is urged to withdraw from the combat he was eager to throw himself into, Guillaume le Breton could attempt to cover Philip’s reluctance to fight as a personal sacrifice made by Philip for the benefit of France’s wellbeing. Not only did Philip avoid capture (almost a job description for French kings form thirteenth century onwards), he also avoided death. His staying power proved a significant, if uninspiring, military asset. If the troubadours found little to sing about Philip, the French nation would soon come to appreciate the enormity of what Philip Augustus achieved through his long, patient and successful military career. So what made Philip such a military success? Although this is not the place to examine this question in detail, a few pointers need to be highlighted to explain how a king without much in the way of chivalrous proclivities or natural leadership abilities managed to achieve so much in his wars and to demonstrate that the familiar style of personal, role-model leadership as characterised by the likes of Richard the Lionheart and Henry V was not the only way to military success. For what Philip seriously lacked in this important area he made up for with a keen grasp of strategy, able commanders to whom he listened (Guillaume des Barres, Philip de Dreux, Cadoc, the Cléments) and his patience, energy and ruthlessness. First and foremost was his ability in siege warfare, as indicated above. Medieval warfare centred on sieges and Philip was a master castlebreaker. Wars were fought for the control of land and its resources, and the land was controlled by the castles and strongholds that dominated it. Here Philip’s engineering forces earned their keep and won Philip major victories. He was also a master castle-builder, Philippe Contamine claiming that the king’s army was made more of stones than of men.62 By adhering to the sensible and accepted policy of battle avoidance – all too 61

David Carpenter, The Struggle for Mastery: Britain, 1066-1284, Allen Lane, London, 2003, 286. 62 Contamine, ‘L’Armée de Philippe’, 593.

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willingly in his case - and instead focusing on castles and towns, Philip displayed a clear-headed understanding of his military priorities. Such a course proffered little promising material for chansons de gestes and the gory combats of chivalric literature, but they did produce the tangible results in territory that gave full force to his title of Augustus. In this he was patiently unrelenting. Richard’s Château Gaillard took nearly six months to reduce over 1203-04; when it fell, so, too, did Normandy. Chinon and Loches fell in 1205 after similarly lengthy sieges, adding to Philip’s conquests in western France. These are all proof of Philip’s ability to organise, supply and sustain major sieges to their conclusion. This dogged tenacity was his major contribution to the crusaders’ victory at Acre. As even Betran de Born admitted, Philip did not hang around over the winter months: ‘Just because from now on it rains and winters, they [the French] won’t wait nicely for Easter’.63 Patience was not always a virtue in war, and Philip calculated when urgency required an energetic – and not merely impulsive – response. This was of particular importance in raising sieges before a stronghold fell into enemy hand. Guillaume rightly makes much of Philip’s forced march of some 100 miles to surprise the enemy and lift the siege of Vaudreuil in 1194; the journey, normally one of eight days, was completed in only three.64 On hearing of the English attack on Damme in 1213 (one of Philip’s heaviest defeats), the French king is reported by Guillaume as declaring: There is no point in stopping to hold counsel; We must hurry to rescue our affairs from disarray. The only thing to be done now should be The work of our arms.65

Philip then despatched a cavalry unit, without infantry support which would slow the mounted force down, to ride on to Damme where it beat off an English force. Note that – no surprise – it was not Philip that led the cavalry to the rescue; but at least it allowed Guillaume one of his occasions to display Philip as a decisive leader with a cool head in a crisis. Philip also knew the value of ruthlessness and was not too soft to make use of it. He matched Richard tit-for-tat in atrocity reprisals.66 When Philip

63

Paden et al., The Poems of Bertran de Born, 331. Guillaume le Breton, i, 197; ii, 126. 65 Ibid, ii, 268. 64

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massacred a large force of Richard’s Welsh mercenaries, Richard hurled three French prisoners to their deaths from the rocky heights of Château Gaillard and blinded fifteen others, leaving one with a single eye to lead them to the French king. Philip responded in exactly the same manner ‘so that no one could believe him less than Richard in strength or courage’.67 Philip was particularly unrelenting at sieges. At Château Gaillard, he allowed hundreds of non-combatant refugees expelled from the castle – chiefly the elderly, women and children - to perish from exposure and starvation in no-man’s-land during the three winter months rather than permit them to pass through his besieging lines; to have done so would have indicated a fatal sign of weakness and undermined his ability to press future sieges.68 During the same Normandy campaign in 1204, he threatened the citizens and governors of Rouen that if they did not willingly accept him as their lord, ‘he would subdue them as enemies, and hang them all on the gibbet or flay them alive’.69 After events at Château Gaillard, few doubted the sincerity of his words; Rouen submitted. He was manifestly not ‘exempt de crauté’ as Georges Bordonove claims.70 There is little here that can compare with the heroic deeds of a Richard the Lionheart and which would stir the spirits of writers and knights. That Philip did not fit the expected profile of a chivalric, knightly king and military leader damaged his reputation at Acre and throughout his career, but not his military achievements. He was not ‘Lionheart’, but he was ‘Augustus’ and Conqueror’. Devious and clever, he may not have been a natural soldier imbued with the knightly ethos, but he was an extremely competent and successful war leader. What’s more, unlike Richard the Lionheart, he lived to tell of it.

66

For atrocity and reprisal in medieval warfare, see S. McGlynn, By Sword and Fire: Cruelty and Atrocity in Medieval Warfare, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, London, 2008. 67 Guillaume le Breton, ii, 136-7. 68 See McGlynn, Blood Cries Afar, 49-55 and idem, ‘Useless Mouths’, History Today, vol. 48 no. 6, 1998 for the most detailed analysis of this event. 69 H. Hewlett (ed.), Rogeri de Wendover Liber Qui Dicitur Flores Historiarum, Rolls Series, London, 3 vols., 1886-89, i, 319. 70 Bordonove, Philippe Auguste, 302.

CHAPTER NINE HENRY VI AND MARGARET OF ANJOU: MADNESS, GENDER DYSFUNCTION AND PERCEPTIONS OF DIS-EASE IN THE ROYAL BODY ALISON BASIL

Between the years of 1453 and 1455 Henry VI suffered a devastating bout of mental illness, which probably affected him to varying degrees throughout his life, and undoubtedly contributed to the ultimate failure of his kingship.1 The consternation, even panic, that this attack caused to the nobles, parliament and the queen, is reflected in the official documents and private letters of the time. The cause, diagnosis, effects and implications of Henry’s madness have all been the subjects of several recent studies.2 However, the chroniclers - who were in many ways the opinion-shapers and reputation-makers of the time, aside from one or two oblique references to the king’s ‘sickness’, make no mention of Henry’s madness whatsoever. What these chroniclers do portray in their accounts of events between 1453 and 1461 is Henry’s increasing detachment from his kingship, and 1

Griffiths questions the extent of Henry’s recovery in 1454, suggesting that his illness compromised his ability to function as king long after his apparent recovery. R. Griffiths, The Reign of King Henry VI, 2nd edn., Alan Sutton, Stroud, 1998, 717. 2 For example, see V. Green, The Madness of Kings: Personal Trauma and the Fate of Nations, C. Rushton, ‘The King’s Stupor: Dealing with Royal Paralysis in Late Medieval England’, in W. Turner, (ed.), Madness in Medieval Law and Custom, Brill, Leiden and Boston MA, 2010, 147-176; W. Turner, ‘A Cure for the King Means the Health of the Country: the Mental and Physical Health of Henry VI’, in Turner, Madness in Medieval Law and Custom, 177- 195 and C. Rawcliffe, ‘The Insanity of Henry VI’, The Historian, (Summer, 1986), 8-12.

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his increasing enfeeblement to the point of effeminacy. In contrast, these accounts emphasise Margaret’s increasing strength, activity and inappropriate wielding of power. She is portrayed as overstepping the boundaries of acceptable feminine and queenly behaviour – almost to the point of masculinity. This appearance of gender dysfunction in the public and private bodies of Henry’s kingship suggests that the chroniclers may have been more aware of and willing to comment upon the existence and implications of dis-ease in the royal body than first appears. The function of the royal body, that is the incorporation of the public body of the king, and the private body of the man who held that office was dependent on the cohesiveness of that body. Therefore, the integrity of the will and judgment of the public Body of the king was reliant on the maintenance of the physical, mental, even moral health of the private Body of the king. As Watts observes, ‘if the king did not will “privately” what he willed “publicly”, the unity of the body politic was undermined’.3 There was also a third factor essential to the health and stability of the Body of the king – that of the presence of the Queen. Recent queenship and gender studies have served to emphasise the importance of the queen consort as the holder of a unique and sacrally sanctioned office. These studies have also identified what Laynesmith notes as ‘the necessity of queenship to the proper exercise of sovereignty’.4 This suggests that the role of the queen within the Body itself could be defined in terms of gendered ideals of feminine behaviour. The medieval queen provided her husband’s kingship with the essential female component necessary to the completion and enhancement of his kingship. The presence of the queen provided the perceived gendered qualities of ideal medieval femininity, those of patience, compassion and mercy. The presence of these gentler, female virtues within the masculine and magisterial Body of the king – which was concerned with law-giving, warmaking and the dispensation of justice - helped to ensure that the often harsh justice of the king might also be tempered with mercy. The queen was also held up as an exemplar of feminine virtue, and as such her presence also served to enhance the tone of her husband’s kingship and court. Therefore it may well be argued that the integrity of the Bodies of the king depended not only on the maintenance of the health of the Body, but also its gender balance. In order for this to work, the king had to remain masculine, magisterial and above all potent, in order to serve as a reference point for 3

J. Watts, Henry VI and the Politics of Kingship, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1996, 28. 4 J. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, Oxford UP, New York, 2004, 261.

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the queen’s feminine function as mediator and moderator of the king’s justice. In turn, the queen had to be perceived as the possessor of these exemplary feminine qualities, and to remain within the boundaries of acceptable feminine and queenly conduct. In many ways then, the effect of Henry VI’s madness on his kingship and the historical reputation of his queen, Margaret of Anjou can be seen as example of what could go wrong when the Body of the king succumbed to disease, and the gender balance of the Body was disturbed. This paper will examine the chronicle accounts, in particular that offered by the Crowland Continuation, of the events of 1460 when Richard Duke of York returned in triumph from exile in Ireland, established himself in the palace of Westminster and made his bid for the throne, in the context of medieval perceptions of madness and gender. The aim of this approach is to show that in their presentation of a severely enfeebled Henry, the chroniclers not only acknowledge Henry’s madness, but also show concern for the health of the royal body and an awareness of the cause and implications of dis-ease within that Body. The suggestion that there may have been a link between madness and gender dysfunction in the medieval mind can be found in an examination of medieval medical perceptions of madness. Rawcliffe has examined medieval attitudes to madness and attempted a retrospective diagnosis of Henry. She concludes that to the medieval medical mind, one of the main causes of madness was the imbalance of humours: that the individual was predisposed to a particular temperament, ‘sanguine’, ‘choleric’, ‘phlegmatic’ or ‘melancholic’.5 She suggests that Henry presents ‘a classic example, almost a caricature of phlegmatic man…one who lacked passion, hated violence, was withdrawn and forgetful, and had a pallid, often childlike face’.6 Such is the similarity between the description of a person suffering from a phlegmatic imbalance of the humours and the chronicle accounts of Henry’s passivity and detachment, that it is not unreasonable to suggest that these accounts may indicate a deeper awareness of Henry’s condition on the part of the chroniclers than might first appear. More significant is Rawcliffe’s suggestion that the phlegmatic condition was often associated with femininity. She notes that such a nature ‘was essentially feminine: watery, changeable, cold and unstable, like the moon, the planet so closely associated with madness that she gave her name to lunacy’.7 This suggests that observers and writers were not only aware of 5

Rawcliffe, ‘The Insanity of Henry VI’, 10. Ibid, 11. Rushton’s ‘The King’s Stupor’ also discusses the implications of the phlegmatic nature of Henry’s madness, 159-61. 7 Ibid, 11. 6

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Henry’s condition, but also that different humours were identified with different distinct personality and gender characteristics. In terms of humoural medicine therefore, an excess of the phlegmatic humour may also be viewed as an excess of femininity, an association Rawcliffe notes was not lost on contemporary observers; ‘The more assertive Henry’s wife, Margaret of Anjou became, the more effeminate and feeble Henry appeared’.8 While this observation does not clarify which of these transformations was the causal one, that is whether it was Henry’s enfeeblement which caused Margaret to appear more dominant or ‘masculine’, or vice versa, it certainly indicates that the imbalance of humours in Henry’s private body were observed to have caused weakness and even gender dysfunction within the royal body. The impact of Henry’s increasing weakness, effeminacy, and his ‘absence’ or detachment from his kingship on Margaret and the other parts of the Body politic are most clearly articulated in the often highly dramatised chronicle accounts of the events of 1460. These accounts are reflective of Henry’s powerlessness at this point, but one account, that of the Crowland Continuation, actually encapsulates the sense of the displacement of Henry and Margaret had been displaced from their gender roles. The majority of the chronicles emphasise Henry’s passivity in the face of York’s challenge and York’s own inappropriate behaviour toward both the man and the office. Henry’s reaction to York’s misappropriation of kingly space and authority was to yield. The Brut chronicler notes that York had come to London with a great force and ‘toke [th]e kynges paleys and come in-to [th]e p[ar]liament chamber and [there] toke [th]e kingis place and claimed [th]e Crown’.9 Vergil notes that on his return, York ‘tooke firste that place which in the parliament is proper to the king’.10 In addition to appropriating the kingly space of parliament, throne and chamber York also denigrates the office of the king by slighting the man. Several chronicles note York’s disregard for Henry’s position and dignity. For example, the Great Chronicle of London notes that York remained lodged in the king’s palace at Westminster, and refused to speak to the king; ‘where the lordis wold have hadde hym to have spoken w[ith] the kynge but he wolde not saying he heelde of no man save but of God’.11 8

Rawcliffe, ‘The Insanity of Henry VI’, 11. F. Brie, The Brut or The Chronicles of England Part II, EETS, original series 131, 136, London, 1906-1908, 530. 10 P. Vergil, Three Books of Polydore Vergil’s English History, H. Ellis (ed.), Camden Society, London, 1844, 107. 11 A.Thomas and E. Thornley, (eds.), The Great Chronicle of London, London, 1938, 192. 9

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Several chroniclers note that in addition offering insult to the man, York also made an assault on the office by attacking the kingly space as he ‘brak vp the dores of the kyngis chamber. And the king, heryng the grete noyse and rumore of the peple, yaafe hym place and took another chambre’.12 This can be seen as a successful attack on the office by means of intimidating the man who held it. In this instance, it is Henry the man who surrenders the office to another. In breaking open the doors of the king’s chamber, York essentially attacks a symbol of the king’s power, the physical demarcation of the king’s difference from and elevation above other men. This is the place associated with the king’s power, and in these accounts Henry makes no attempt to defend his kingly space, rather he steps back and yields the space to the aggressor. In this moment he has effectively surrendered his kingship. These accounts might be said to represent a shift in or displacement of Henry’s power, but also they also reflect a shift in perception from enfeeblement to effeminacy on Henry’s part, exemplified by Henry’s submissiveness to an invasive presence in the body politic. There is however one chronicle account which actually emphasises the gender shift in Henry’s public and private Bodies. The Crowland Continuation echoes the other chronicle accounts of York’s eruption into the Parliament and his appropriation of kingly space, but adds a critical gender dimension to the account: as soon as he had entered the upper chamber of the royal place, where the lords spiritual and temporal were sitting, he approached the royal throne and claimed the seat as his own…Then entering at once into the innermost rooms of the palace he compelled King Henry to move into the Queen’s apartments while the duke himself took over the King’s apartments.13

This is not merely an example of a symbolic deposition in which a feeble Henry yields the kingly space to York, or allows York to arrogate to himself the kingly space. In this account, the king is compelled by York to move into the Queen’s apartments, Henry had in effect been banished by him to the female space, which deprived him of any vestige of masculine, magisterial power. The female, or more particularly, queenly space represented power, but of a different type. This power was defined and governed by the gender of 12

An English Chronicle, 1377-1461, W. Marx (ed.), Woodbridge, Boydell and Brewer, 2003, 92. 13 N. Pronay and J. Cox (eds.), The Crowland Chronicle Continuations: 14591486, Alan Sutton, London, 1986,111. (My emphasis.)

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the holder of the office of queen. To a certain extent this power was interdependent, but it was not interchangeable. It was interdependent in as much as the queen was reliant upon her relationship with the Bodies of the king; this was the source of her power and influence. At the same time the queen played an important role in her husband’s kingship, which was defined by her gender. The queenly space was the arena in which her queenship functioned, and was seen to function as the essential feminine part of the royal body. Laynesmith notes that her occupation of this space demonstrated more than just her importance as the guardian of the royal lineage as the producer of children, but that ‘her role, and that of her household were constantly shaped and understood in terms of her gender…[which] emphasised the necessity of queenship to the proper exercise of sovereignty’.14 There existed a recognisable gendered geography within the court, which would have been clear to all participants in court life, in which the queen’s role was defined in terms of her gender, but which allowed her to enhance and consolidate her position within these boundaries. Laynesmith identifies two models of queenly space, one idealised and the other more practical. The former is exemplified by the frontspiece of a book given to Margaret by the earl of Shrewsbury. Laynesmith suggests that the painting was an ‘indicator to the queen of the public image of the ideal court: splendid and ordered, men and women divided in their roles by the geography of the court’.15 On a more practical level, Laynesmith suggests rather that the suites of rooms allocated to the queen’s use although separate from the rest of the household; they were a far more complex and empowering arena to which men and women were invited for specific purposes in which the queen contributed to her husband’s style of kingship. It is evident that these chambers were defined by their particular association with the queen, and not the other way around.16

The queenly space was defined by gender, it was also the arena in which queen and court met; where boundaries of the queen’s influence were understood and the importance of her unique relationship with the Body of the king was underlined. Laynesmith concludes that whether it was in the ‘sumptuous, relic laden and richly symbolic’ setting of the birthing chamber, the idealised court of Shrewsbury’s illumination, or the everyday 14

Laynesmith, Last Medieval Queens, 261. Ibid, 244. 16 Ibid, 251. 15

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rooms designated exclusively for the use of the queen, it was a recognisably female space. The banishment of Henry to the queen’s apartments adds another dimension - that of sexual dysfunction - to the overall gender dysfunction within Henry’s kingly Body. This element of sexual dysfunction further demonstrates the complete breakdown of the Body at the most basic level of gender role and function. The queen’s apartments, the designated female queenly space, of course contained the queen’s bedroom. The queen’s bedroom represented more than just the place where she slept. It was the place where she conducted the business of queenship, had conjugal relations with the king, and bore the royal children. It was the space in which her queenship was formed and performed both physically and symbolically and was confirmation of her feminine function within and contribution to her husband’s kingship. It was at once an articulation and a validation of her position, yet at the same time it was regarded with concern. Attitudes and opinions towards this most female of feminine spaces were complex, ambiguous and laced with medieval male distrust of female power, whether it be sexual, reproductive, or political – and the queen’s bedchamber was representative of all these things. This space represented in practical and symbolic terms the sexual and reproductive power that the queen was perceived to hold over the king. It was this power that caused so much concern. These concerns over bedroom power and politics may have been reflected in fourteenth century literature. Ormrod suggests that such texts as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Troilus and Criseyde identify the female as the controller of the bedroom, albeit in the context of a love-game and with the complicity of the male.17 This observation might be more relevant to the Courtly Lady of literature than the medieval queen, to whom the slightest suggestion that she was playing ‘love games’ would have been highly dangerous, if not treasonous. It is however useful to remind us that literature was a useful barometer of contemporary attitudes. In this case, it would appear that the attitude towards female space and sexuality was one of great uneasiness, made more so because these aspects of femininity were regarded as largely uncontrollable/untameable by men. However greatly the male medieval mind feared the queen’s sexual and reproductive powers, these powers were not entirely untrammelled. Some measure of control was implicit in the king’s reciprocal relationship with the queen in that she was dependent on him for the very powers that 17

See W. M. Ormrod, ‘In Bed with Joan of Kent: The King’s Mother and the Peasants’ Revolt’, in Medieval Women: Texts and Contexts in Late Medieval Britain, J. Wogan-Browne (ed.), Brepols, Turnhout, 2000, 272-292, 284.

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allowed her to complete his kingship. Also a system of checks to female queenly power appears to have been built into the very rituals that put her in bed with the king. They acknowledged the significance of her sexuality, but also served to mark boundaries to her power and to emphasise her dependence on the king. Parsons has noted that the prayers used in the queen’s coronation ceremony sought to define, require, and above all control the queen’s power and conduct. He notes that these prayers at once acknowledged that ‘the queen was raised by God to share the royal couch…but at the same time exhorted her that her behaviour within marriage should merit the palm next to virginity.’ Parsons further suggests that these prayers exhorting a chaste demeanour, even constructing fictive virginity suggests ‘apprehension for the links between the queen’s power and her female roles as wife and mother’.18 However, there was another built-in restraint on the perceived sexual power, even dominance of the queen. That check was the king himself. The king used the body of his wife both to fulfil his dynastic and conjugal requirements. Parsons notes the queen’s pregnancy suggested ‘the king’s subjection of his wife’s body – her sexual function – to the interests of his lineage, limiting her capacity to exploit her sexuality to sway him’.19 The king was thus able to subject the queen’s femininity (and sexuality) to boundaries, both physical and symbolic. The queen’s bedchamber was symbolic and demonstrative of her unique power and position. It was the place in which she submitted her sexual/reproductive power, her physical body to the king. This act of submission, this surrender of female power, signified that the queen is able to function as the acceptable necessary component of kingship. That is to say, the chamber signified as the space in which she could intercede for the tempering of the royal justice with mercy. Parsons says that ‘the association of dynastic motherhood and the queen’s intercessory role calls attention to he environment in which she received petitioners, that is, in her bed, which ‘immediately recalls that the king’s state bed in the Painted Chamber of Westminster as a symbol of majesty and the focal point of meetings there, but the queen’s bed commandingly focussed attention on the fact that the king visited her chamber for conjugal relations and her children were born there’.20 18

J. Parsons, ‘Ritual and Symbol in the Early Medieval Queenship to 1500’, in O. Fradenbur (ed.), Women and Sovereignty, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, 60-77, 62. 19 J. Parsons, ‘The Pregnant Queen as Counsellor and the Medieval Construction of Motherhood’, in J. Parsons, and B. Wheeler (eds.), Medieval Mothering, Garland, New York, 39-61, 46. 20 Parsons, ‘Ritual and Symbol’, 67.

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The queen’s bedchamber thus provided an unequivocal validation and illustration of the queen’s unique position and power. However, it also underscored that fact that her power base was itself dependent on the presence, or evidence of the presence of the king. It is not possible to be absolutely certain of the logistics of medieval royal marital congress – that is who visited whom? Did the king visit the queen or vice versa? For the purposes of this paper I will assume, along with Parsons, that the king visited the queen.21 The king’s presence in her bed ensured in turn that all aspects of her queenly duty were being performed and her exercise of acceptable female acceptable queenly power was assured. The king’s claiming of conjugal rights ensured that she was able to perform the dynastic requirements of her position. His presence in the chamber could also be seen as a mark of the king’s continuing favour. The metaphorical imprint of the king’s presence in the queen’s bed can be viewed as evidence of the presence of the king’s two Bodies performing the physical and symbolic acts necessary to queenship. Visitors and petitioners to her chamber would see that the queen enjoyed sufficiently the favour and validation of the king that she needed to perform her all her queenly functions, especially those of intercession and patronage. In short, the queen’s chamber was transformed by the king’s masculine and magisterial presence from being a focus of male fears over female sexual power to an acceptable forum for the performance of ideal medieval queenship. It also served to demonstrate that the gendered components of kingship and queenship were functioning normally. Put another way, the masculine presence of the king transformed the queen’s bedchamber into an appropriate landmark on the gendered geography of the court. Henry’s banishment by York to the female space represented more than just a change of accommodations. It served as further confirmation of the gender dysfunction infecting all parts of the Body of the King. The loss of the kingly space represented Henry’s removal from all aspects of potency associated/connected with the masculinity of kingship, and adds a new dimension to Henry’s ‘incapacity’ as both king and man. Henry’s banishment from the canopied throne in the Great Hall at Westminster effectively denied him his kingship. However, his removal from his bedchamber to the female space was perhaps even more devastating as it denied him the essential masculinity so vital to the integrity of his kingship. Ormrod has suggested that the significance of the king’s chamber was that due to ‘its similarity to a canopied throne, the king’s state bed was an item of furniture closely associated with the iconography 21

Parsons, ‘Ritual and Symbol’, 70, n. 28.

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of sovereignty.’ Ormrod also notes that while this iconographical tradition was stronger in France, it was known that Henry III’s state bed was taken to symbolise the permanent presence of the English monarch in the Painted Chamber at Westminster in the thirteenth century.22 Henry’s relatively short journey then from the canopied bed of the king to the queen’s bedchamber represented a long downward journey in terms of the perception of his failing kingship, and also to his wife’s queenship and reputation. To a degree, this loss of the male space held more implications for Margaret’s queenship and reputation than it did for Henry. In his case, the sexual dysfunction merely served to add another dimension to the sense of Henry’s ‘incapacity’. He could now be regarded as incapable as man and as king. Although it should be noted that the loss of manhood, as represented by the loss of the Bed of the King, was just as, if not more, devastating to the masculine magisterial Body of kingship, than the place where he sat, the throne. This loss contributed to the destruction of the integrity of the Body of Kinghsip, and thus also served to destroy Margaret’s queenship reputation. Henry’s presence in the queen’s chambers, the female space, stripped of his potency, both kingly and manly, made him both anomalous and unfit for purpose. The queen’s chamber was a space associated in the medieval male mind with their fears of the mystery surrounding female sexual and reproductive power. It could only be transformed into a space in which good queenship was performed by the subjugation of the queen’s sexuality to the masculinity of the king. Her function as queenly intercessor and patron required evidence of the presence of the king, and her association with the kingly and masculine power represented by that state bed in the Painted Chamber. But Henry’s presence in the queen’s chamber was no longer the potent and masculine one it should have been. Margaret’s queenship could no longer be validated by her proximity to the king as represented by that canopied bed. Henry had effectively been kicked out of bed, and further, had allowed this kingly space to be occupied by another male presence. More damaging still, he had entered, or more to the point had been forced to enter the queen’s chamber not as subjugator, but as a submissive presence himself. This implies that the royal body, which includes all aspects of his wife’s femininity, including sexuality and fertility, are no longer subject to him; but to an alien presence within the Body. This, and the fact that he is no longer capable of subjugating his wife’s sexuality to his dynastic needs, thus leaving her femininity

22

Ormrod, ‘In Bed with Joan of Kent’, 281.

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apparently unharnessed to by his kingship, had the potential to be most harmful indeed to Margaret’s reputation. Henry’s ‘impotence’ ensured that Margaret became the focus of male fears concerning female power and conduct, both sexual and political. In this way Henry’s failure as man and king contributed to Margaret’s own sexual dysfunction as well as contributing to her negative historical reputation. The most serious aspect of Henry’s loss of the masculinity of kingship is that he no longer had the power to subject Margaret’s sexual power and function to the needs of the royal body. In general terms, this meant that male fears about queens in general and Margaret in particular would seem to have been confirmed. The perceived parallels between excessive, unchecked female sexuality and an appetite for political power encouraged a view of Margaret as a ‘woman out of place’.23 This link between sexual and political power in women adds yet another undertone to the misogyny which seems to typify chronicle coverage of Margaret. The appearance of Margaret’s seemingly untrammelled sexual power might therefore be seen to have contributed to the chronicle constructions of her as ‘Bad Woman’ and ‘Bad Queen’. Her power did not seem to have been contained, and thus rendered acceptable by the superiority and masculinity of Henry’s kingship. Worse still, unlike Henry, Margaret had retained her female sexual/reproductive power. Not only were her ‘female’ powers intact, she now appeared more powerful than Henry. This sense of imbalance in power and position between Henry and Margaret, especially in the context of the retention of sexual and gendered power has further implications for Margaret’s chronicle reputation. Henry’s impotence was, as has been seen, implied by his failure to subjugate Margaret’s sexual function to his own kingship. This is emphasised by the impression of Henry as increasingly pallid and passive – or increasingly cold and damp. Medieval attitudes to sex/gender differentiation believed that women were cold and damp, and associated the heat of men’s bodies with a higher level of perfection and the production of semen.24 In this context, Henry’s increased ‘femininity’ was intended to contrast strongly with Margaret’s increasing activity, her 23

H. Maurer, ‘Delegitimising Lancaster: The Yorkist Use of Gendered Propaganda During the Wars of the Roses’, in D. Biggs, S. Michalove and A.Compton Reeves (eds.), Reputation and Representation in Fifteenth-Century England, Brill, Leiden, 2004, 169-186, 80. Maurer suggests that the ‘insinuations of Margaret’s disorderly sexuality suggests that all other aspects of her conduct and activities were disorderly as well’. 24 J. Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1993, 170.

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energy – that is, her heat. Margaret can thus be seen to be in every sense, but most particularly in her retention of sexual power, more virile than Henry. It was this seeming superiority over Henry which put her in the role of disorderly woman. Concern that Margaret was now more virile than Henry suggests that she might have been regarded metaphorically as a ‘woman on top’. Cadden has also noted that one medieval medical author described this particular sexual position, with the woman on top as ‘usurpation’.25 This ‘usurpation’ might be the key to the link between impressions of Margaret’s sexually dominant position and her negative reputation. The metaphor of her domination of Henry sexually may be seen to represent/ reflect concerns of contemporaries that she was dominating Henry politically also. She was considered to be far too ‘active’ generally. It may be suggested that this dis-gendering had the effect of contributing to Margaret’s reputation as a power-hungry and managing woman and queen. The passage in the Crowland Continuation can thus be seen as an exemplification of the concerns of observers regarding the health of the royal body. It is reflective of a sense that there was a dangerous imbalance within the Body, that internal boundaries of power and gender had been transgressed. It in effect represents the moment Henry’s kingship failed. This passage represents more than just the image of a weak king conceding the space and trappings of kingly power to an overmighty overbearing subject. In being banished to the female space, Henry has been stripped of the essential masculinity necessary to his kingship – without this he was simply no king at all. In the complex balance of the constituent parts that made up the royal body, gender boundaries were absolute. Thus, the king was forced into a role he could not fulfil. The forced removal of the king from one gender sphere to another signified more that a mere incursion into royal space by an alien presence, it was a gendered violation of the Body as a whole. The masculine magisterial nature of Henry the king has been diminished by Henry the man’s removal to a position defined by its inferiority to the king. The successful function of the constituent parts of the royal body required a certain level of interdependence, but this assumed that gender boundaries were maintained. It should be noted therefore, that interdependent did not in any way mean interchangeable. The failure of Henry to maintain the integrity of his Bodies would have serious

25

Ibid, 170.

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implications not only for his kingship, for the function and perception of his wife’s queenship. The failure of Henry’s kingship also signalled the end of Margaret’s queenship, or rather the end of any pretensions to ideal, or even unexceptional queenship. Henry’s loss of control of his kingship meant that in turn that Margaret had lost the point of authority or justification for the exercise of her own queenship role. While the medieval queen had a good deal of latitude in terms of defining the style and role of her own queenship, and the manner and extent of her use of influence, it was conditional upon her remaining within accepted gender boundaries. Her power, and the recognition of her right to use it, were dependent first and foremost on her unique relationship with the public and private Bodies of the king, and secondly that she conducted herself within a gendered construct of female and queenly norms. It is clear therefore that if the king failed to fulfil his own gender role, then the queen could not successfully fulfil hers. Maurer notes that the failure of Henry’s kingship meant that he no longer possessed ‘any authority that the queen could invoke or represent’.26 Margaret had lost the legitimising male authority that justified her position and facilitated her function as queen. The queen’s main role and purpose was to provide the necessary feminine element of kingship, which involved more than the provision of children. Providing the feminine aspect meant the ‘softening’ of kingship.27 She also enhanced the tone of her husband’s kingship and court by providing an exemplar of feminine behaviour. The ‘softening’ aspect was performed largely by her accepted role as intercessor, where she pleaded with her husband on behalf of others that his justice might also be merciful. Strohm notes that the queen’s role as intercessor was predicated on the fact that she proceeded from a position of weakness, and from outside the male political arena.28 As Maurer points out, it was still the king’s will that ‘authorised action in response to her pleas’.29 Her role in her husband’s court was to set an example of female virtues and ideals, as Laynesmith observes, she ‘inspired the court to chivalrous deeds, served to emphasise their king’s human qualities, became particularly involved in

26

Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, 211. Ibid, 209. 28 P. Strohm, Hochon’s Arrow: The Social Imagination of Fourteenth-Century Texts, Princeton UP, Princeton, 1992, 103-104. 29 Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, 109. 27

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his dealings with other women’.30 Put simply the queen could be said to supply what Strohm calls the ‘male lack’.31 Supplying the ‘male lack’ meant precisely that: the provision of feminine virtues and attributes not present in the Body of the king, but necessary to the function of his kingship. It should in no way be read, or substituted for ‘kingly lack’. The queen could not be a proxy for her husband in the exercise of his kingship, nor could she be a substitute for the ‘will’ of the king. She could only use her feminine influence to request that kingly judgements were tempered with the ‘gentler’ female aspect, she could not enact them on his behalf. Neither could she take over his role as a war leader: according to Jacob de Cessolis, women were by nature unfitted for the battlefield as warriors, they might only venture there in the company of the king to provide female comfort, ‘for the amusement and pleasure of the king’.32 That is to say, their presence on the battlefield could only be acceptable if the queen remained within the boundaries of her prescribed gender role. It was this very blurring of gender roles which enabled the chroniclers to seize upon and emphasise Margaret’s position outside the boundaries of feminine behaviour to cast her as a ‘woman out of place’. The removal of Henry from his own traditional gender role into the female arena represents if not a violation of, then certainly an interruption to Margaret’s queenly Body. Henry’s ineffectuality resulted in the displacement of his gender role which in turn changed him from the authorising focus of his wife’s queenship to an alien presence in her Body. This involuntary violation of the queenly space added a further dimension to the chroniclers’ perception of her as a woman out of place. Henry’s failure to maintain his kingly gender role in turn displaced Margaret from hers. In essence it left a vacuum at the core of the Body of the king, a gap of gendered authority which neither king nor queen could fill; Henry because he was incapable of doing so, Margaret because she was prevented from doing so by the confines of her gender role. Thus the Body of the king was at this point forced into a sort of dis-gendered limbo. Henry’s madness and resulting gender dysfunction may be seen as the cause of dis-ease within his own kingly Body. It effectively removed him from his masculine magisterial kingship, and ended his ability to function as king. It also displaced Margaret from her own gendered queenly role, and left her actions open to misinterpretation, even criticism by 30

Laynesmith, Last Medieval Queens, 244. Strohm, Hochon’s Arrow, 103. 32 Jacob de Cessolis, The Book of Chess, H. Williams (ed. and trans.), Italica, New York, 2008, 109. 31

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contemporaries, and her reputation vulnerable to misrepresentation by historians.

CHAPTER TEN BOYS AND THEIR TOYS: KINGSHIP, MASCULINITY AND MATERIAL CULTURE IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY GLENN RICHARDSON

The king of England took the king of France by the collar and said to him ‘My brother, I want to wrestle with you’, and grabbed at him once or twice. And the king of France, who was a strong and good wrestler, gave him, a ‘tour de Bretagne’, and threw him to the ground. —Mémoires de Florange1

At the Field of Cloth of Gold in June 1520, King Henry VIII of England and King Francis I of France met for the first time after five years of intense diplomatic and personal rivalry. The protocols for that meeting were strict; designed to protect each monarch from any suggestion of political or personal inequality between them. Yet each flouted these conventions dramatically at least once. As the seigneur de Florange tells us, one day while they were drinking, Henry initiated an impromptu wresting match between them that Francis won definitively with a sort of rapidly executed hip throw, something like what the Italian wrestling masters called a gambarola. Henry recovered his dignity somehow but it was an awkward moment for a man normally so confident of his own masculine strength.2 The match remains perhaps the best known episode of the Field of Cloth of Gold. It certainly serves as an apt demonstration of 1 Mémoires du Maréchal de Florange (eds.), R. Goubaux and P-A. Lemoisne , 2 vols., Édouard Champion, Paris, 1913-1924, i, 272 ‘Cela facit, (print) le roy d’Angleterre print le roy de France au collet et luy dist: "Mon frère, je veulx luytter à vous”, et luy donne ungne estrappe ou deux. Et le roy de France, qui est fort et bon luytteur, luy donne ung tour de Bretaigne et le jette par terre ...’ 2 Ibid ; S. Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2000, 172-86, esp. 175.

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the personal nature of rivalry between these two kings and, at a further remove, what lay below the surface in relations between most earlymodern male monarchs.3 Henry, Francis and their contemporary, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, were all expected by their fellow nobles to demonstrate their personal power by ruling well. Doing so depended upon personal physical strength, agility and virility, success as a warrior, the submission of subjects to their authority and, crucially, securing the dynasty through the getting of heirs. Relatively few European monarchs possessed physiques like Henry and Francis with which to embody these ideals, yet all had, nevertheless, somehow to demonstrate ascribed masculine royal traits. Early-modern masculinity has been discussed extensively in the last two decades. Most of these discussions have, however, focused on gentry and commoners and have often been highly literary in approach, focused on poetical tropes and constructions, with relatively little attention paid to actual behaviour – although legal disputes between men and between men and women constitute something of an exception here.4 Royal masculinity has been largely absent from these discussions, either because male monarchy is held to be derivative of noble masculinity and thus not requiring specific discussion or, alternatively, as exceptional and thus outside the parameters of ‘typical’ early-modern masculinity. It has most often been dealt with implicitly in discussions of warfare and of royal visual propaganda and linked with notions of ‘chivalry’ and ‘personal honour’. These terms are often adduced as sufficient explanations in and of themselves for behaviour whose implications are rarely explored. Concepts of kings pursuing ‘national interests’, or ‘spheres of influence’, ‘realpolitilk’ or even of their ‘chivalric ethos’ have their place in accounting for their actions; but they do not really explain why Henry and Francis personally wrestled with each other at the Field of Cloth of Gold. So, unexpectedly perhaps, we have still to take account as fully as we might, of the bodily masculinity of medieval and early-modern kings in understanding why they often behaved as they did.5

3

G. Richardson, The Field of Cloth of Gold , Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2013, 138-40. 4 E. Foyster, Manhood in Early Modern England, Honour Sex and Marriage, Longman, London, 1999); A. Shepard, Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England , Oxford UP, Oxford, 2003. 5 W. Ormrod, ‘Monarchy, Martyrdom and Masculinity: England in the Later Middle Ages’, in P. Cullum and K. Lewis (eds.), Holiness and Masculinity in the Middle Ages, Toronto UP, Toronto, 2005, 174-89.

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Royal masculinity has certainly not been subjected to the same degree of analysis and imaginative re-thinking as royal femininity and queenship. This is a flourishing area in the historiography of European monarchy and there have been no fewer than twenty significant studies of European queenship or of individual queens regnant or consort published in the last dozen years.6 To a significant extent, this output redresses a long-standing imbalance in the historical picture of monarchy as an exclusively male preserve and the best of these studies have transformed our understanding of how women ruled or acted as consorts and managed the often-negative beliefs about female rule held in patriarchal societies. There is, however, a tendency at times in this work to locate most, if not all, sense of anxiety or difficulty in negotiating patriarchy, all variation or nuance in approaches to resolving dichotomies of monarchy, on the female side. In other words, to see individual male monarchs’ relationship to monarchy itself and to patriarchy at a further remove as, on the whole, unproblematic. With the exceptions of kings whose sexuality may be debateable, such as Edward II of England or Henri III of France, the normative status of male monarchy is largely assumed by scholars of medieval and renaissance kingship (and queenship) with little of the precise observation of gendered behaviour now accorded to female rulers. More recently, however, work on Henry VIII by Tania String and the late Kevin Sharpe, among others, has been much more explicit about masculinity as an issue and sought to explain how Henry the man was encountered, presented and historicised through and beyond the cliché of Bluff King Hal and his six wives.7 To date, however, very little, if anything, in this line has been essayed for either Charles V or Francis I, although the latter’s son, Henri II, has attracted more research into how his masculinity was expressed precisely in those areas, such as diplomacy and

6

T. Earenfight, Queenship in Medieval Europe, Palgrave, London, 2013; K. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France,Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2013; E. Woodacre (ed.), Queenship in the Mediterranean, Macmillan, London, 2013; W. Monter, The Rise of Female Kings in Europe 13001800, Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2012; B. Stephenson, The Power and Patronage of Marguerite de Navarre, Ashgate, Aldershot, 2004. 7 M. Rankin, C. Highley and J. King (eds.), Henry VIII and his Afterlives: Literature, Politics and Art, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2009; K. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy: Authority and Image in Sixteenth-Century England, Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2009.

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policy-making, which have traditionally and strictly been divided off from questions of gender.8 Another important and welcome historiographical development in the last decade which should increasingly inform our understanding of Western European monarchies, is a greater appreciation of the interactions between Europe and the wider world; with Eastern Europe and Russia certainly, but also with the Middle East, Central and South Asia and the Americas. The West’s encounter with the world beyond it, once written about as its own great age of exploration of ‘unknown’ worlds was, after all, largely coincident with the period of late-medieval and early-modern monarchy. In the early sixteenth century the Ottoman rulers Selim I and SĦleyman the Law-Giver, the Safavid Sultan Isma’il of Persia and Zahir al Din Muhammad Babur in Afghanistan, were building empires and reputations in which the demonstration of masculine strength was vital. Of these three, it is perhaps Babur who offers the closest points of similarity and difference with his Western European counterparts. 9 ** At the time each of these kings first made his mark on the world, he was still a boy, or at any rate an adolescent, as defined by the culture of his time. As such, each had to negotiate considerable patriarchal expectations upon him. Summing up a generation of research and publication on the meaning of manhood in early-modern England, Alexandra Shepard has characterised adult manhood as ‘the constant age’, roughly what Jacques categorises in his famous speech in As You Like It as the fourth and fifth ages of man, ‘the soldier’ and ‘the justice’.10 As Katherine Crawford affirms, along with humural therories of gender prevailing in England at the time, this characterisation of the ages of man also held broadly true in France and beyond in Europe. Before this august age, as Jacques also tells us, came the troublesome ages of childhood and adolescence in which neither temperance nor discretion could be expected from males without 8

K. Crawford, Sexual Culture of the French Renaissance, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2010. See also L. Mansfield, Representation of Renaissance Monarchy: Francis I and the image-makers, Manchester UP, Manchester (forthcoming). 9 M. Baer, ‘Manliness, Male Virtue and History Writing at the SeventeenthCentury Ottoman Court’, Gender and History, vol. 30 no. 1, 2008: 128-48; S. Faroqhi, ‘Presenting the Sultan’s power, glory and piety: A comparative perspective’, in her Another Mirror for Princes, Isis Press, Istanbul, 2009, 53-85. 10 Shepard, Meanings of Manhood, 21-39 and 47-58.

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strict guidance. According to most contemporary authorities, ‘childhood’ lasted until 15, ‘adolescence’ or ‘the stripling age’ followed until around 22-25 with a ‘young man’s estate’ following to about the age of 35. Only with demonstrable self-governance, and that of others, did a male reach the ‘constant age’ and thus acquire full freedom of independent action and authority. Normally this age was arrived at by the mid-30s, in the course of marriage, the establishment of one’s own household, the getting of children, ideally sons first, and the holding of some public office or at the very least the publicly-framed role of husband and head of a household.11 Although typical, this maturation pattern was not universal. Men in the Church and in the universities did not marry and could not have (legitimate) children. They had, nevertheless, to demonstrate particular skills and accomplishments, attain ranks and perform public communal roles within cloister or quadrangle that declared maturity. These attainments answered directly to, and in theory at least held their own with, those signifiers of manhood in the wider world.12 All of this had implications for kings. Young rulers, such as the triumvirate that came to power in England, France, Iberia and the Holy Roman Empire during the decade after 1509, constituted a striking anomaly in this pattern of early-modern male maturation because they held the supreme public office, kingship, from the age of legitimacy - normally 13. Surprisingly therefore, young kings, in full possession of real sovereign power from the day of their accession (as opposed to those even younger ones, under a regent), still technically transgressed patriarchally-constructured norms of male maturity insofar as they were at a time of life in which all other males were judged to be very immature indeed. We are familiar with this issue in respect of young female monarchs, principally Elizabeth I in the English context, and much has been said about how she negotiated this one of several apparent hindrances upon her, but Henry VIII was 17 when he became king in 1509 and 7 years younger at his accession than his youngest daughter would be at hers. Babur succeeded his father as overlord of the small domain of Fergana, centred on the town of Andizhan in modern Uzbekistan in 1494 when he was only 11 years old.13 In the same year, Francis of Angoulême was born at Cognac in the Charente valley in France. He was 20 at his 11

Ibid; Crawford, Sexual Culture, 23-66. R. Karras, From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe , Pennsylvania UP, Philadelphia, 2003. 13 The Barburnama: Memoirs of Babur, Prince and Emperor, W. Thackston (trans. and ed.), The Modern Library, New York, 2002. His grandson Akbar became ruler when he was 13. 12

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accession as King Francis I in January 1515. Charles V was 15 when, as Archduke of Burgundy, he was made overlord of the Netherlands in direct response to Francis’s accession. He was 16 when he became king in the Crown of Aragon and regent for his mother in Castile. Three years later, in June 1519, he was elected King of the Romans and de facto Holy Roman Emperor. Of course a young king was not the invention of the sixteenth century. Monarchical societies had dealt with, indeed exalted, youthful sovereigns almost routinely (one thinks of the archetypal Alexander, and for good reason). Perhaps youthful kings were, in effect, exempted from patriarchal expectations because of their unique status? This seems to be the traditional view, to the extent that the question has been considered at all. Yet the evidence is against it. It is often forgotten that a young man was just as much the subject of the authority of male elders in patriarchy as any young woman. Moreover, these young men were regarded as the chosen sons of God and the ‘fathers’ of their peoples, charged with embodying the very patriarchal order which it was believed was the necessary condition of any properly ordered Christian or Islamic state. Youthful royal masculinity was therefore somewhat problematic from the point of view of patriarchal expectations of authority inhering in age and experience. If the contradictions of this position could not in fact be ignored, how were they resolved? Historians of queenship have argued extensively about whether or not female sovereigns had to become ‘males’ in order successfully to rule patriarchal societies, locating their legitimacy in their authority as princes rather than in their problematic gender. Opinion remains sharply divided but the debate has highlighted very well the dichotomies of patriarchy for individual rulers. Might a similar sort of construction have been used to resolve admittedly lesser anomalies in a young king’s position at the outset of his reign? Or perhaps something like the idea of ‘the king’s two bodies’, borrowed from French royal funeral ritual might be useful here? In this model, the effigy of the dead king maintained a continuity of government, while his actual body, the cadaver, was prepared for burial. His successor was only formally proclaimed king after the inhumation of the body. 14 By analogy, the young the king’s constitutional or ‘state’ body (like the effigy of the dead king) publicly maintained his princely status, wore the crown, wielded the sceptre and sword and performed its role as chief executive in all spheres of governorship, in full authority and 14 E. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, Princeton UP, Princeton, 1957; R. Giesey, The Royal Funeral Ceremony in France, Librarie Droz, Geneva, 1960.

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legitimacy. Meanwhile the king’s actual young male body and his mind were still being developed and matured, and were still apt to be governed and trained by his elders. Only, over time, did he finally acquire those signifiers of full and royal masculinity recognised by early-modern society. Yet, unlike in the funeral ritual, the youthful king’s ‘two bodies’ were always and actually contained in the living body and mind of the ruler and there the two manifestations of kingship mixed daily with explosive potential. When we turn to contemporary and nearcontemporary accounts of Henry, of Francis and to a lesser extent of Charles, we find that it is exactly in terms of this kind of dichotomy that their early lives are constructed. Edward Hall’s Chronicle of Henry’s reign emphasizes the young king’s physical stature and strength from the outset. Our perception of the king’s early years on the throne as genuinely ones of ‘passtyme with good company’, of which Henry himself wrote in song, is derived in large measure from Hall’s enthusiastic descriptions, corroborated by the extraordinarily detailed despatches of the Venetian ambassadors resident in England during four years from 1515. The same ambassadors have left equally vivid pictures of Francis in the year of his accession and of the rivalry between these two kings. We are also indebted to Federigo Gonzaga for letters sent to his parents Francesco, Marquis of Mantua and Isabella D’Este, for accounts of life at Francis’s court in 1516-17. His brother, Ferrante, provided correspondence from the court of Charles of Spain five years later. The deeds of Babur’s famous son Akbar were recorded in exceptional detail by scribes and later illustrated by artists working under the emperor’s friend and court historian, Abul-Fazal. For the court of the first Mughal emperor we are largely reliant upon the sovereign himself, as he records his life in his journal, the Baburnama.15 All these sources attest to the excitement and glamour of life in the presence of a youthful male sovereign. Clearly the person of the young male king was advantageous in projecting at home and abroad, the image of a powerful and secure state. Yet, Edward Hall frequently also refers to the negative side of Henry’s youth, usually in explaining and excusing the king’s immature behaviour, such as in 1511 when he could not apparently see that he was being fleeced in gambling by foreign merchants at his court. Hall deals with Henry’s decision to marry Katherine of Aragon in a similar way, allowing him retrospectively to justify the subsequent demand for an annulment. Henry personally decided, as king, to marry Katherine in June 1509, but in 15

The Barburnama, vii-xlvii.

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Hall’s account he could not make a fully independent decision to do so. He was, rather, prompted and aided by older men (his council, his fatherin-law and the pope). As Hall puts it: the king was moved by some of his council that it should be honourable and profitable to his realm, to take to wife the lady Katherine…by reason of which motion, the king being young and not understanding the law of God espoused the said lady Katherine, the third day of June, the which marriage was dispensed with by Pope Julius at the request of her father, King Ferdinand, contrary to the opinion of all the cardinals of Rome being divines.16

In a rather less serious register, The Bourgeois de Paris records the misdeed of the youthful Francis, riding through Paris in disguise with his mates on several occasions, engaging in petty vandalism, and causing trouble for the good city folk. Perhaps the most celebrated instance of this was in 1518 when, as Hall records, in the company of a number of young English courtiers, Henry’s so-called ‘minions’, Francis went through Paris, ‘throwing eggs, stones and other foolish trifles at the people, which light demeanour in a king was much discommended and jested at’. The return of these young companions to the English court provoked a mini-crisis about their supposed bad influence on Henry and accusations that their familiar treatment by Francis had suborned them.17 Francis was sometimes injured in the course of rough games with friends. During a mock siege of a house belonging to the comte de Saint-Pol at Romorantin in January 1521, someone accidentally or otherwise dropped a heavy smouldering log or torch on the king’s head from an upstairs window. He was knocked unconscious and his life lay in the balance for several days. He took weeks to recover fully under his mother’s care - not good for continuity of government.18 Young kings had therefore to be watched, directed and controlled in the interests of good order and against occasion of injury to their bodies, reputations, or both, which potentially incurred as they experimented with demonstrating the required qualities. Contemporary sources make clear that behind the closed council and chamber doors, these young kings were being treated in exactly this way by their advisors, most of whom had long 16

E. Hall, The Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of York and Lancastre, H. Ellis (ed.) London, 1809, 507. My italics. 17 Hall, 597; G. Richardson, ‘The Privy Chamber of Henry VIII and Anglo-French Relations 1515-1520’, The Court Historian vol. 4 no. 2, 1999, 119-40. 18 R. Knecht, Renaissance Warrior and Patron: The Reign of Francis I, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1994, 109.

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since achieved the status of public maturity and were determined to remind the king that he had not yet fully done so. It is surely no accident that the late-fifteenth and early sixteenth-centuries witnessed such a profusion of instruction manuals for kings in the ‘mirror for princes’ genre, from Machiavelli, to Stephen Barton; from Sir John Fortescue, to John Skelton; from Claude de Seyssel, to Guillaume Budé and Erasmus of Rotterdam among others. All these authors wrote for a young ruler or potential ruler and all were determined to lay down the law to their readers. Related genres were the histories or journals of their predecessors. Sir Thomas More’s vituperative attack on Richard III in his history of that king’s reign was intended at least in part (and with supreme irony as it turned out) to be a warning for More’s young sovereign and friend of the dangers of tyranny. The Baburnama was begun when Babur was himself still a young man but completed very much with his own son and successor Humayun in mind. His grandson, Akbar the Great, took this instructional memoir to a whole new level.19 The young king’s council was normally inherited whole or in part from his predecessor. Determined usually to maintain that predecessor’s policies, or at the very least wary of novelty, the council tended to keep the king in a sort of tutelage until he found a way to make it acknowledge the reality of his ‘personal rule’, a phrase most closely associated with Louis XIV. That is, the capability of decision-making in his own right. Historians have been much exercised about the role of councils to female sovereigns. Questions such as whether councils were too large or too small, whether a particular queen could, or could not, dominate her council, and so on have been debated vociferously in recent years. But it is sometimes forgotten that exactly the same thing is true for male sovereigns and for young kings in particular. Louis XIV had to take power from his council and his mother, Anne of Austria, by direct insistence after the death of Mazarin and none of the three western European monarchs under consideration here took personal power immediately or alone.20 All required time and all needed the assistance of an older person who had reached the required age of discretion and experience and who acted both as mentor and spokesperson for the young king. In England, during the opening years of Henry VIII’s reign, his father’s domestic and foreign policies were maintained in the teeth of the new king’s known desire to renew a war against France and as the chronicler Polydore Vergil put it, Henry, ‘like a tender young calf, … 19

The Barburnama, vii-xlvii. R. Wilkinson, Louis XIV, Palgrave, London, 2007, 56ff on the establishment of Louis’s personal reign. 20

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seemed to baulk at the yoke of responsibility’.21 That was until the advent of Thomas Wolsey. George Cavendish, Wolsey’s gentleman-usher and biographer, begins his account of Wolsey’s rise in his book The Life and Death of Cardinal Wolsey by reference to Henry’s youth: ‘The king was young and lusty, disposed all to mirth and pleasure and to follow his desire and appetite, nothing minding to travail in the busy affairs of this realm’. This, Wolsey perceived and rapidly showed himself to be ‘…the most earnest and readiest among all the council to advance the king’s only will and pleasure without any respect to the case’. The affect upon Henry was profound and immediate. As Cavendish goes on to tell us: The king therefore perceived him to be a meet instrument for the accomplishment of his devised will and pleasure, called him more near unto him, and esteemed him so highly that his estimation and favour put all other ancient counsellors out of their accustomed favour that they were in before.22

Wolsey was almost 40 when he came to the king’s attention, already known for his rhetorical skills and industriousness. He built the rest of his career on the trust Henry first placed in him because he first took Henry seriously, as man in his own right and not just a king. It is also noteworthy that even when the council finally agreed to war in 1513, for which Wolsey had argued, it did so as an exercise in royal education entrusted to a male, superior in years and international status to the young king of England. Vergil tells us that: Learning this, all went over to the opinion first stated by Henry, thinking that, since at his young age he needed to learn the art of war, he could not do so more happily under any teacher other than Maximilian, a veteran commander. So war was decreed by vote of the Council.23

Charles V’s early years as overlord of the Netherlands were, if anything even more hedged about with patriarchal guidance than Henry’s in England. His governor as a boy and leading counsellor as Archduke was Guillaume de Croy seigneur de Chièvres whom Vergil describes as ‘a shrewd man who enjoyed great authority with him’. In Aragon, Francisco 21

Polydore Vergil Anglica Historia, ed. D. Hay, Camden Society, 74,1950. [The] Life and Death of Cardinal Wolsey, by George Cavendish in Two Early Tudor Lives, R. Sylvester and D. Harding (eds.) , Yale UP, New Haven and London, 1962, 12-3. 23 Vergil, Anglica Historia, 197. 22

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de Los Cobos eventually played an analogous role to Chièvres.24 He was able (almost literally at first) to interpret the king to his Iberian counsellors and vice versa in a way that Chièvres disastrously had not been able to do when he first accompanied Charles from the Netherlands to Spain in 1517. Later, the Imperial Grand Chancellor, Mercurino Gattinara, effectively succeeded Chièvres as Charles’s main influence. His attitude to the young emperor is caught in this summary of a letter the Grand Chancellor sent to Charles on 1 October 1521, from Calais during a peace conference Wolsey arranged there. Gattinara more instructs Charles like a schoolmaster than advises him as a counsellor: Charles must consider if the truce is necessary, when he wants it, and for how long. Advises him to write to Wolsey… He must show all confidence in the Cardinal; monstrant que le tenez comme pere. The letter should be one of credence for those only who are sworn or to Gattinara alone, with one to the Cardinal in his own handwriting. Advises him to send an answer to the ambassador of Hungary.25

The Chancellor’s ‘advice’ that Charles write to Wolsey ‘showing that he holds him as a father’ neatly expresses the expectations of patriarchy on young rulers and his rather patronising attitude is typical of many counsellors. Little wonder that the young emperor often chaffed under Gattinara’s didactism, nor that Henry VIII had seized so eagerly upon a rather more compliant Wolsey some years earlier. The emperor Babur seems to have escaped quite such onerous and particular supervision by adult male counsellors, although he certainly had them and was acutely conscious of responding to, and handling the demands of, various clan chiefs or begs, many of whom were uncles and other relatives, who made up his growing retinue in the 1490s and upon whom his power directly depended. As a teenager ruler, he had several men whom he calls ‘guardians’ who acted as personal and military advisors, not unlike those who served his western counterparts. The first, Shaikh Majid Beg he described as ‘very methodical’; the second, Khudai Birdi Timurtash, who had also been his father’s guardian, helped to direct 24

J. Martinez Millan, ‘Conseillers et factions curiales durant le règne de l’empereur Charles Quint (1500-1558)’, in C. Michon (ed.), Conseils, Conseillers dans l’Europe de la Renaissance v.1450-v.1550, PU Rennes, Rennes, 2012, 10945. 25 Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic of the Reign of Henry VIII, 1509– 1547, (eds.), J. Brewer, J. Gairdner and R. Brodie, 21 vols. and addenda, London, 1862–1932, iii, 1624 Gattinara to Charles V, Calais 1 October 1521. (Hereafter cited as LP.)

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Babur’s assault on the fort of Asfara in May 1495. Yet Babur also notes in his journal that, as a young man, he principally relied for advice and guidance upon his maternal grandmother, Esän Dawlat Begim, a direct descendant of Chingiz Khan, through whom Babur partly claimed royal status. Of her, he says, few were ‘her equal in judgement and counsel. She was intelligent and a good planner. Most of our affairs were settled with her counsel’. In 1497 it was his grandmother who, as governor, warned Babur that while he besieged Samarkand, and with it the territory of Transoxiana, his own home town of Andizhan was under threat.26 Perhaps the most interesting case, however, is Francis I. He, too, inherited a council from his predecessor Louis XII and, like Henry, had little interest in the mundanities of governing, preferring to hunt, have fun with (and get injured by) his friends. Francis had no exact equivalent of Wolsey or Gattinara in his regime although his former governor, Artus de Gouffier seigneur de Boisy, played a role analogous to that of Chièvres with Charles.27 Nevertheless, Francis, like Babur, did have an older relative close by him, someone who took him very seriously indeed. That was his mother, Louise de Savoie. She always referred to him in her journal as ‘Mon César’ and her near presence to him certainly ruffled patriarchal sensibilities in France and beyond. At Francis’s accession Louise was thirty-eight years old and described by Antonio de Beatis, the secretary to the cardinal of Aragon, as tall, well complexioned and lively; ‘she always accompanies her son and the queen and plays the governess without restraint’.28 Louise sat on the king’s council and just as Imperial and French ambassadors knew that the way to Henry was through Wolsey, so English ambassadors affirmed in terms that the surest way to Francis was through his mother. Writing to Wolsey in October 1521, Sir William Fitzwilliam left a remarkably precise account of how their relationship worked. Also, Sir, if there be any point your grace stick at, my poor opinion is your grace write some letter to my Lady, for I have seen in divers things, sithence I came hither, that when the French king would stick at some points, and speak very great words, yet my Lady would qualify the matter; and sometimes when the King is contented he will say nay, and then my 26

Baburnama, 29, 64. P. Carouge, ‘Artus (1474-1519) et Guillaume (1482-1525) Gouffier à l’émergence de nouvelles modalités de gouvernement’ in C. Michon, Les Conseillers de François Ier, UP Rennes, Rennes, 2011, 229-53. 28 K. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France, Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2013, 114-120 at 120. 27

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Lady must require him, and at her request he will be contented; for he is so obeissant to her that he will refuse nothing that she requireth him to do; and if it had not been for her, he would have done wonders; and if ye send any letter to me for her, I can be with her in a day in post.29

Henry may have given Wolsey power effectively to run England for him, but twice, in 1515 and 1524, Francis made his mother Regent of France in his absence at war. It was to Louise that Francis wrote after his disastrous defeat at Pavia in 1525 and she negotiated with Wolsey to bring the war with England to an end and with Charles for her son’s release from captivity. She remained powerfully influential until her death in September 1531 and only then might it be said that Francis truly began his ‘personal rule’.30

War and War-Games Understanding the early circumstances of these sovereigns gives us another perspective from which to understand why physical activities, para-military sports and ultimately warfare itself, were endemic features of their reigns. The physical demands of these activities made them necessarily young men’s business but, more importantly perhaps, leading men in battle (real or simulated) was the authenticating action of kingship. It signified the achievement not just of dynastic ambition as we usually describe it, but royal adulthood, despite the monarch’s technical juvenile status. Polydore Vergil’s account of Henry standing up to his council over a wish to go to war with Louis XII in 1513 has him explaining himself in exactly these terms: …it behoved him to enter upon his first military experience in so important and difficult a war in order that he might, by a signal start to his martial knowledge, create such a fine opinion about his valour among all men that they would clearly understand that his ambition was not merely to equal but indeed exceed the glorious deeds of his ancestors.31

Whatever the complexities of international treaties, the successes and failures of their predecessors, the constraints of money, or of materiel and 29

LP III, 1651 Fitzwilliam to Wolsey, Montaigne, 9 October 1521. Knecht, Renaissance Warrior and Patron, 227-48; Wellman, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France,139-43, on Louise’s regency in 1525 and 148-64 on Francis’s relationship with his older sister, Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, an important patron of evangelical reform. 31 Vergil, Anglica Historia, 197. 30

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so on which are rightly enough advanced to to explain the causes and course of war in this period, it was also the desire for personal renown by young male kings that drove them. It led to the Ottomans taking Constantinople in 1453, commanded by the twenty-four year old Sultan Mehmet and the extension of Ottoman power through the Middle East, North Africa and Eastern Europe by 1540. It sparked Babur’s conquest of modern Afghanistan, Pakistan and Northern India, as well as the neuralgic Valois-Habsburg conflict which lasted into the middle of the sixteenth century. This drive has been often been plausibly described in terms of dynastic imperative and the ‘chivalric ethos’ but what did that actually mean? Chivalry was a multi-dimensional concept. At its most technical it was an agreed set of rules and customs defining who belonged to the armigerous classes and how they were to behave, principally in regard to each other, during armed conflict. It was much romanticised at the time and subsequently as an ideal of male-bonding in the service of God and women. Yet as Ruth Karras has emphasised, at a more profound or visceral level it was about aggressive and physical competition between elite men for each other’s approval.32 In early 1525 Charles V reflected on his failure to meet his own expectations of himself to date and his awareness that other rulers were judging him: Therefore I cannot but see and feel that time is passing and I with it. and yet I would not like to go without performing some great action to serve as a monument to my name. What is lost today will not be found tomorrow and I have done nothing so far to cover myself with glory and cannot but blame myself for this long delay. For all these reasons, therefore and many more, I can see no cause why I should not now do something great.33

What Charles did not know was that within weeks of penning these angst-ridden thoughts, he would, finally, have the first great victory of his reign, the defeat and capture of his hated rival Francis I at the Battle of Pavia, on 24 February, his 25th birthday. In fact, waging war constantly was impossible for all these monarchs and none of them did so. The attempts to glamorize peace, and to make it as exciting as war if possible, are another key feature of the age. The apotheosis of these efforts was the Field of Cloth of Gold, but a detailed

32 33

Karras, From Boys to Men, 20-66. K. Brandi, The Emperor Charles V, Jonathan Cape, London, 1965, 220.

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description of it lies beyond the scope of this chapter.34 It is, nevertheless in this context that the para-military sports of hunting, the tournament, archery and others in which these kings engaged assiduously take on their full significance. Didatic literature for Mughal courtly elites makes it clear than even in peace time maintaining a capacity for war was essential at a state and personal level. Rosalind O’Hanlon has shown how vital the practice of such skills were in establishing and demonstrating elite male prowess in the early-modern Mughal-Rajput military ethos, based as it was on the use of heavy cavalry, plains warfare and traditions of honourable personal service in return for rights to landed revenue – not dissimilar to the western European military model. At all times the qualities of physical strength, dexterity, daring and resolution should be inculcated as part of an elite man’s training and reputation - including that of the emperor who should at the very least be closely associated as a patron and observer of such military exercise. 35 Sydney Anglo’s recent study of treatises on the martial arts of Renaissance Europe has detailed how closely these same qualities informed male court culture here too. The skills of hand-to-hand fighting which involved use of daggers and the sort of grappling, throwing and over-balancing manoeuvres now more commonly associated with the martial arts of karate or tae-kwon-do were also discussed extensively. Castiglione advised his readers to cultivate the skills of wrestling as the foundation of all combat skills and both Martin Luther and Henry VIII’s courtier Sir Thomas Elyot, the author of the Book of the Governor, noted that it developed the body and that it helped to maintain good health and strength. Castiglione praised Francis I’s Master of the Horse, Galeazzo da San Severino for his talent as a wrestler. Whether it was he or someone else who trained his king in the sport we do not know but as Henry found out, Francis took to it well enough.36 Archery practice, sword drills and close quarter fighting skills including wrestling featured prominently in male Mughal court culture. As O’Hanlon has remarked in the Mughal context and Anglo in the European one, these exercises developed specific qualities of upper body strength, hand-eye coordination, dexterity in rapid fire, stamina in the same, together with an understanding of the trajectories of different types and weights of arrows used in different conditions. Henry VIII’s exceptional 34 Richardson, Cloth of Gold, 13-37 for the attempt to create a European ‘Universal Peace’ in 1518. 35 R. O’Hanlon, ‘Military Sports and the History of the Martial Body in India’, Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient, vol. 50 no. 4, 490-523. 36 Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe,172-201.

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skill in archery enabled him to demonstrate bodily proof, as it were, of his descent from the great princes whose armies had used archery to devastating affect against the French in the Hundred Years War. Thus his literal ‘fitness’ to rule and to lead was located not merely in dynastic right but in his genetic inheritance as a man, as well as a king. His participation in dozens of tournaments in the early years of his reign was intended to communicate a similar claim. Although there was no doubt in the spectators’ minds as to who the king was when he jousted in disguise as a knight errant, Henry’s performance was carefully choreographed to focus attention on his physical strength and paramilitary prowess as a model of aristocratic manliness rather than as a king. That this display was very self-conscious is undeniable. As the Venetian ambassadors in England for the May Day jousts of 1515 reported, the king: jousted very strenuously, more particularly on account of Pasqualigo (who is returning to France today), that he may be able to tell King Francis what he has seen in England, and especially with regard to his Majesty’s own prowess.37

Charles V as the inheritor of the visually spectacular Burgundian pas d’armes tradition also took part strenuously in mounted para-military competitions even if Charles, like Henry, never did personally led cavalry troops in close battle. Francis did so twice; once to victory in 1515 and the second time to defeat in 1525. Babur led cavalry into battle dozens of times but never to greater effect than in April 1526 at the first Battle of Panipat where he defeated Ibrahim Lodi, pushed on to take Dehli and finally established himself as the first Mughal emperor over what he called Hindustan and we call the whole of northern India. Covering and protecting the body while equipping it to enhance its own natural strength in battle or in the tournament through armour was another vital way of displaying royal and noble masculinity. As Anglo has shown, the properties and correct use of armour was an entire and vast subject in itself. Armour’s ingenuity, sophistication and expense declared the man. Henry, Francis and Charles all spent huge sums on personal armour. In 1520, Henry’s foot-combat armour for the Field of Cloth of Gold was intended to have been a self-conscious display of his impressive

37

Four Years at the court of Henry VIII. Selection of despatches written by the Venetian ambassador Sebastian Giustinian…1515 to 1519, trans. by R. Brown , 2 vols., London, 1854, i, 76, 79-81, see also 84-7.

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physique encased in the most technological advanced form of protection then known.38

Women, desirability and fatherhood Arms, armour and command of powerful technical weapons were essential components in the display of the male body of the young Renaissance king as a leader of men and therefore an adult. But there were other ways and other spheres in which the body might be displayed, ones that had very directly to do with demonstrating the king’s capacity to meet yet another, and perhaps the most fundamental, expectation upon his masculine self - namely his fertility and to some extent at least his virility; his capacity to produce a legitimate heir, and ideally, a male heir. All four kings had one or many more wives with whom to conceive heirs and this status went some way towards establishing their credentials as adult males, though still young ones. They were all duly succeeded by a son, although for a variety of reasons it was a close run thing in each case. So it was for Babur’s grandson Akbar who was seventeen years on the throne before the first of three sons were born following his consulting a Moslem mystic at Fatepur Sikri, whither he brought their mothers. Here Akbar built a mosque and palace complex still admired today, where the mystic who predicted the birth of the emperor’s sons is still venerated by women wishing to conceive. It was generally believed in Asia, as in Europe, that a healthy and strong king was an attractive king. A physically attractive king was also a noble and virtuous king, and a healthy and attractive ruler betokened the health and strength of the realm. The expression of the Mughal emperor’s desires and desirability as a man was largely accommodated within the confines and particular environment of the harem. Things were perhaps rather more public in Europe. All three European monarchs had mistresses, Henry and Charles almost reluctantly, Francis most enthusiastically. In addition to his successive official mistresses, Françoise de Foix Madame de Châteaubriant and Anne de Pisselieu, duchesse d’Etampes, he had his so called ‘privy band’ of women who would follow him around attending to his frequent needs, especially during or after hunting. Though married, there was no sense that the king should not be regarded as desirable, to women as potential sexual partner (if only in fantasy) and to other men as 38

Royal Armouries Catalogue item II 6,Tower of London; C. Blair, European Armour, Batsford, London, 1958, 164; Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, 202-25.

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a talisman of male desirability with whom to associate and identify – or indeed compete. Francis’s relationships with women in general and his sexual relationships in particular became an important aspect of his reputation during his life and afterwards, not always to his credit. As Katherine Crawford and others have noted, contrary to modern sensibilities, spending too much time in sexual pursuit of women, might actually lead to accusations of effeminacy. A ruler who allowed his sexual instincts too free a rein, demonstrated that his own masculinity was insecure and that risked ceding to women his God-given authority over them. Accusations of incompetence or tyranny swiftly followed. If he could not be trusted to govern his own appetites, how could he be trusted to respect the rights, property and of course the women of other men? Precisely these allegations were, for example, levelled at Alessandro de’ Medici, Duke of Florence in the early 1530s. His successor, Cosimo I, was, by contrast, scrupulous in the observance of his marital vows to Eleonora di Toledo and was praised by leading commentators for his respect for the honour of women and his expert governance.39 As the 19th century historian Jules Michelet gleefully pointed out when attacking Francis as a second-rate monarch, Louise de Savoie was succeeded in influence over the king by the duchesse d’Etampes. For his contemporary critics, including Henry and Charles, Francis let the side down by allowing this factionalised ‘petticoat government’ about him.40 In other words, that he never really grew up. The parts of the young male body which in early-sixteenth European culture were the most redolent of masculinity and male desirability locations of the erotic - were the bearded face, the neck and shoulders, the thighs and legs. As Maria Hayward and others have noted, the wearing of short, wide doublets, stockings and hose and the legendary codpiece, enabled the male wearer to show these attributes off to their fullest extent within the bounds of propriety.41 Clouet’s 1526 portrait of Francis 39

N. Scott-Baker, ‘Power and Passion in Sixteenth-Century Florence: The Sexual and Political Reputations of Alessandro and Cosimo I de’ Medici’, Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 19 no. 3, 2010, 432-57. 40 R. Knecht, ‘ “Born between two women…” Jules Michelet and Francis I’, Renaissance Studies, vol. 14 no. 3, 2000, 329-43. On Anne, see Wellman, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France, 170-77 and D. Potter, ‘Politics and Faction at the Court of Francis I: the Duchesse d’Etampes, Montmorency and the Dauphin Henri’, French History, vol. 21 no. 2, 2007, 127-46. 41 M. Hayward, ‘Dressed to Rule: Henry VIII’s Wardrobe and his Equipment for Horse, Hawk and Hound’ in M. Hayward and P. Ward (eds.) The Inventory of King Henry VIII, vol ii: Textiles and Dress, Harvey Miller, London, 2012, 67-108.

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highlights the king’s neck and magnifies for effect the width of his shoulders already exaggerated by the cut of the sleeves, wide at the shoulders, narrowing rapidly down the arms to the wrists. It bears comparison with part of an ecstatic pen portrait of him at the Field of Cloth of Gold: …his neck bears the chain in the form of shells; his neck bears the chain, magnificent with gold and gems; there is nothing more sumptuous in the whole wide world. His milk-white neck receives his flowing locks and a golden band clasps them together with marvellous art: through his face and shoulders Francis is like to a god, with the nobility of his head of hair and beard; he was like to a god in all other ways.42

Charles V was not the subject of such enthusiastic encomia. His famously reserved and serious nature did not lend itself to them. His taste for wearing black almost constantly even when still a young man expressed his sense of his own gravitas effectively enough but the way his prominent Habsburg lower jaw and chin protruded did not make him exactly a pin-up boy. Not surprisingly perhaps, this kind of display of the body could take on a very competitive aspect between men at court and beyond. The same Venetian ambassadors from whom we heard earlier reported that at one of their first audiences with Henry VIII, the king questioned them closely about Francis I’s appearance and physique; something, incidentally that Francis also did in respect of Henry. Delighted to hear them describe the French king’s legs as “spare”, that is, thin, Henry opened his doublet and placing a hand on his thigh said “Look here! And have I also not got a good calf to my leg”.43 Apart from everyday wearing of such fashions, the most commons way for a man to display his legs was while exercising, when the doublet and coat or cape would be laid aside and perhaps most important of all, while dancing. In western courts where men and women mingled together socially relatively freely, the opportunities for this kind of display were virtually endless in the course of masques or ‘disguisings’ as they were known in England. At a banquet in August 1514 Henry was said to have spent ‘almost the whole night in dancing with the damsels’. He was reported to have ‘done wonders’ on the dance floor, leaping ‘like a stag’. 42

Francisci Francorum Regis et Henrici Anglorum Colloquium by Jacobus Slyvius (Jacques Dubois), Paris, Josse Badius 1521, edited and translated by S. Bamforth and J. Dupèbe, Renaissance Studies V, 1-2, March-June 1991, 66. 43 Four Years, 76.

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Men often initially danced as a group before the women, before then dancing with them. In the formal dances, usually the basse-danse and the pavane, dignified balance and control, elegance and ease of movement was demanded of the man. The pavane was so often followed by the galliard, a pairing brought from France to England and known as the double dance of France. In her recent book on Renaissance dance Margaret McGowan has discussed the galliard as essentially a dance devised to display the choreographic powers of the male dancer who, having circled the room with his partner at least once, left her at the end of the hall while he executed difficult passages for her admiration, returning to her from time to time to ensure that she understood that his display of skills were for her particular pleasure.44

And the rest of the company we might add. Francis was also an enthusiastic and, unlike Henry, pretty well a life-long dancer. In the 1530s, Francis gave more frequent court entertainments than he had done in the previous decade. The king danced very athletically and with great speed and precision. Cardinal Ippolito d’Esté, praised his dancing of a galliard in January 1541 and in July 1546, at 51 (the age at which most men on the dance floor risk resembling the embarrassing uncle at a family wedding), Francis distinguished himself at a masquerade held to celebrate the baptism of his grand-daughter. Francis also danced in a variety of sometimes rather unexpected costumes designed by Francesco Primaticcio, such as a ‘man-beast’, a centaur, a tree, a bear and even as a lobster.45 The most iconic image we have of Henry VIII, Holbein’s 1537 Privy Chamber mural portrait, emphasises his physique and particularly his legs, as no other. It shows him to be, by his own definition, fully man and fully sovereign. His stance and costume have become Henry’s trademark. The mural was painted to celebrate the birth of Prince Edward in October that year. As Christopher Highley and Tania String have recently emphasised, much of Henry’s modern and misplaced reputation as a womaniser derives from the elements of this 1537 image. String has characterised the structure of the depiction of the king as two triangles, one inverted on the other, converging on the king’s cod piece. 46 As they have also 44

M. McGowan, Dance in the Renaissance, European Fashion, French Obsession, Yale UP, New Haven and London, 2008, 94-8. 45 Ibid, 132-43. 46 T. String, ‘Projecting masculinity: Henry VIII’s codpiece’, in M. Rankin, C. Highley and J. King (eds.), Henry VIII and His Afterlives: Literature, Politics and Art, Cambridge, CUP, 2009, 143-59.

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emphasised, the pose and costume were not intended primarily to draw attention to Henry’s supposed sexual prowess and appetite (as it has been made to do for at least the last 300 years) but to his masculine fertility. The codpiece was designed primarily to protect and emphasize the ‘coddes’, the testes, and thus the wearer’s reproductive potential. In short, the king’s stance and costume celebrate the dynastic security and maturity which is the mural’s theme. 47 Henry is portrayed as having done what, in his own mind and those of his contemporaries, he believed he had to do as a male sovereign – namely to produce a legitimate male heir. It is as much about royal relief as pride. In the getting of a son, Henry VIII imposed upon himself one element above all others in the ideal of royal masculinity, and with astounding consequences for himself and his kingdom. For as the painting also tells us, in having his son, Henry has made himself greater than his own father, the deceased Henry VII, (who appears in the background) but also the Holy Father of Christendom himself. The break with Rome and the royal supremacy now sanctioned by God in the birth of Edward, Henry stands before us as a man at last, as a king and as the patriarch of his realm, Supreme Head in Earth of the Church in England.

Conclusion So why, then, all those years beforehand, did Henry VIII wrestle with Francis I at the Field of Cloth of Gold? The answer, allowing for the disinhibiting effects of drink on a testosterone-fuelled and egotistical male (and a certain natural spontaneity), is that it was in his mind the only way to confront and test his rival. He wanted literally to get to grips with him. Frustrated by the protocols of the meeting from engaging Francis personally and trained in mind and body with all the para-military skills at this disposal, Henry did the one thing in the circumstances that would express his will, with the least chance of any real harm coming to anyone. As we have seen, such sports and games as wrestling were routinely practised at both courts and Henry and Francis are known to have wrestled often with wrestling-masters and their own trusted courtiers and friends. In fact as ‘good brothers and friends’ as they now habitually addressed each other, it was as perfectly within the bounds of elite male propriety for the two to wrestle together as it was for them to gamble or drink together. The proof of this is that Francis responded to Henry’s challenge immediately and wrestled with him. Had the offer been thought a threat or dangerously 47

C. Highley, ‘The remains of Henry VIII’ in the same volume, 160-89.

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inappropriate, Francis would never have consented and Henry’s friends and courtiers who surrounded him would never have allowed him to shape up to Francis. Of course Henry expected to come out on top in the match. Consciously or otherwise, his intention was actually, physically, to do to Francis what the whole Field of Cloth of Gold was intended to do to his regime. He was not trying to kill or maim Francis. Rather, Henry wanted to impress Francis with his power, to warn him against challenging Henry and to make him know his place as the junior partner in the new cooperative venture between them which the Field inaugurated. In wrestling, unlike in international politics, there could only be one winner and Henry must have been disappointed at his overthrow by Francis. Doubtless shocked that he had not prevailed and alarmed by Francis’s skill, Henry got to his feet again quickly enough, was perhaps even helped on to them by Francis. The trickiest moment of the encounter came next, when Francis refused a second bout because by the rules of the time, he had so comprehensively beaten his rival that he was not required to do so. Perhaps they had another drink instead. Francis could be an artful selfdeprecator at times and perhaps made a ‘beginner’s luck’ joke of it all. We have no information at all about how this moment was managed but doubtless there were acceptable ways of ending a match with a minimum of ill-feeling and doing so was in the interests of both kings.48 This chapter began with the famous wrestling match 1520 in order to take an apparently inexplicable episode in the relations between two Renaissance kings and to try to make some kind of sense of it in its own terms. To do so has meant taking seriously the monarchs’ senses of themselves, so far as we may be able to imagine, as males in the highly competitive and demanding role of kingship. They experienced and expressed that kingship not merely in terms of fulfilling an abstract constitutional or political or social role, but actually, corporeally, physically and emotionally. That they did so may seem very obvious when stated so baldly and yet an awareness of it is still frequently lacking in accounts of male sovereigns that rely on a comparatively limited range of entry points. In contrast to so much pioneering work on female monarchy done in recent decades, on the experience of female sovereigns, much (though by no means all) of the historiography of male monarchy, remains largely out of touch with its subject as a masculine human, with gender as a tool of analysis eyed warily and kept strictly sequestrated from questions 48 Richardson, Cloth of Gold, 178-209 for the aftermath of the Field and the success, or otherwise, of Henry’s efforts.

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of government, foreign-policy, diplomacy and the like. Those of us who write about medieval and early-modern kings can afford, I think, to be a little less coy in considering how their socially-constructed masculinity operated in the various spheres of the métier of kings. Issues of patriarchal expectations in early-modern society did not affect females alone and male monarchy was not always as normatively straight-forward as it has sometimes been made to appear in comparison to female monarchy. There were paradoxes and anomalies inherent in the position of a young male ruler and it was not always plain sailing for them as is so often assumed. Incidentally, there were just as many paradoxes and uncomfortable anomalies for old male monarchs as young ones. Fortunately for them perhaps, none of the monarchs discussed here became really old even by sixteenth-century standards. All were dead by 58 at the latest. This chapter has examined some of their self-expectations and their strategies as young males for establishing their authority among their counsellors and peers, not just as anointed sovereigns, but as men. It has surveyed some, but by no means all, of the ‘toys’ the boys used in asserting their capacity to lead men in warfare in the defence and extension of their realms. It has also noted their experience of that other great authenticating mark of royal manhood in early modern society – fathering sons. A very self-conscious masculinity informed, even if it never finally defined, all the things these kings did. Of course, it is comparatively easy to argue this when dealing with these very macho and rumbunctious male kings who apparently set the standard for some time afterwards. Obviously there were many male sovereigns in Europe in the early modern period who did not have the physicality and strength of Henry, Francis, Charles and Babur, so interesting questions arise as to how they negotiated the expectations upon them, and to what extent they were required to be heroic, or at least ‘heroicised’, leaders. 49 At heart, the chapter has sought to observe monarchs’ actual behaviour because it is an interesting aspect of their reigns, and try to do what the anthropologist Clifford Geertz once described as ‘construing social expressions on their surface engimatical’ in an effort to understand why they did what they did in the context of their own beliefs and circumstances. As Geertz also said: ‘understanding a people’s culture exposes their normalness without reducing their particularity. It renders 49

G. Richardson, ‘ “Sir Loyal Heart”: The Chivalric Monarchy of Henry VIII’ in M. Wrede (ed.) Die Heroische Monarchie, Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag GmbH, Munich, forthcoming, 107-27. This forms part of a collection on strategies of ‘heroicisation’ among European male monarchs.

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them accessible-setting them in the frame of their own banalities, it dissolves their opacity’.50 Whether we can ever quite dissolve the opacity of the past is profoundly doubtful, but in the particular context of monarchy, this chapter has argued that there is scope for further exploration of the boundaries between gender and the traditional areas of enquiry used to investigate male monarchy in the medieval and early modern periods. A more inclusive approach to the subject will hopefully provide more interesting and imaginative ways of understanding not merely why Henry VIII and Francis I wrestled at the Field of Cloth of Gold, but whence monarchy itself derived its immanent and transcendent power in sixteenth–century Europe and beyond.

50

C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, Basic Books, New York, 1973, 14.

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE QUEEN’S TWO BODIES: THE IMAGE AND REALITY OF THE BODY OF ELIZABETH I ANNA WHITELOCK

In 1561 the crown lawyer Edmund Plowden explained how despite having a ‘weak’ female body, Queen Elizabeth I had all the power and authority of her male predecessors. With the ritual anointing in the coronation ceremony, her ‘natural body’ was fused with the unerring, immortal body politic. In Plowden’s words: The king has in him two body, viz, a Body natural and a Body politic. His body natural is a body mortal, subject to all infirmities that come by nature or accident…But his Body Politic is a body that cannot be seen or handled, consisting of Policy and Government, and constituted for the Direction of the People, and the management of the public weal, and this body is utterly void of Infancy, and old Age, and other natural Defects and imbecilities, which the body natural is subject to.1

In her accession speech, Elizabeth defended and defined her reign as a female ruler by striking a balance between ‘the queen’s two bodies,’ ‘I am but one body naturally considered, though by His permission a body politic to govern’.2 The theory of the ‘two bodies’ reconciled the weaknesses of the mortal flesh with the strength and stability of the realm. Women were expected to marry and Elizabeth’s decision to remain unwed ran counter to society’s expectations. It was generally believed that 1

E. Plowden, ‘The Treatises of the Two Bodies of the King’, BL Cotton MS Caligula B IV, fols. 1-94; E. Plowden, Commentaries or Reports, London, n.p., 1816. See E. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, Princeton University Press, Princeton, N.J., 1957, and M. Axton, The Queen’s Two Bodies: Drama and the Elizabethan Succession, Royal Historical Society, London, 1977. 2 TNA SP 12/1 fol.12.

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women were inferior to men and so subject to them by divine law. Women who ignored religious precepts and did not submit to male authority were potentially a source of disorder and sexual licence. Medical discourse regarded female bodies as being in a constant state of flux and so possessing dangerously unstable qualities.3 Such medical axioms were influenced by biblical theology; Eve’s moral and intellectual weakness had been the primary cause of the Fall and so, it was believed, succeeding generations of women were similarly flawed. Women were also thought to be more voracious in their sexual appetites than men. Contemporaries therefore found it hard to believe that any woman past puberty could remain chaste of her own free will, especially if she lacked a husband to provide an outlet for her sexual energies.4 Whilst for her male predecessors sexual potency might be a sign of political power, the compromising of Elizabeth’s body would undermine the body politic. The queen needed to preserve her honour not only through chastity, but also by maintaining a reputation for chaste behaviour. The stakes could not have been higher: the Queen’s body was at the centre of a drama that encompassed the entirety of Europe. In the war of faith which divided Europe, Elizabeth’s body was an important site of conflict.5 By questioning the health, chastity and fertility of the queen’s natural body, opponents in England and across the Channel sought to challenge the Protestant state. Throughout her reign rumours circulated about her sexual exploits and illegitimate children. For Philip of Spain, the Guise family in France and the Pope, Elizabeth was illegitimate by birth and by religion; she was the ‘little whore’ the daughter of Anne Boleyn, ‘the great whore’, and so the living symbol of the break with Rome.6 For them the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, the granddaughter of Henry VIII’s sister Margaret, was the rightful queen of England.7 From the day 3 See M. Somerville, Sex and Subjection: Attitudes to Women in Early Modern Society, Arnold, London, 1995; J. Eales, Women in Early Modern England: 15001700, Routledge, London, 1998. 4 See S. Mendleson and P. Crawford, Women in Early Modern England 15501720, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1998, 20-5. 5 S. Dunn-Hensley, ‘Whore Queens: The Sexualised Female Body and the State’, in “High and Mighty Queens” of Early Modern England: Realities and Representations, C. Levin, J. Eldridge Carney and D. Barrett-Graves (eds.), Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke, 2003, 101-116. 6 See for example Letters and Papers of Henry VIII, 1536, 47-54. 7 Elizabeth had been included in the third Succession Act (1544) and Henry VIII’s will two years later, but was declared illegitimate in 1536 but the Act was never repealed. This opened the way for Mary Stuart’s claim even though Henry VIII had always tried to block it. Henry believed that by his will he could determine the

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Elizabeth became Queen, Mary Stuart claimed the English throne as her own.8. Hostile Catholic observers challenged Elizabeth’s virtue and accused her of a ‘filthy lust’ that had ‘defiled her body and the country.’9 The reason she was not married, they claimed, was because of her sexual appetites; she could not confine herself to one man. Some alleged that she had a bastard daughter; others that she had a son and others that she was physically incapable of having children. The courts of Europe were abuzz with gossip as to the queen of England’s behaviour. The king of France would jest that one of the great questions of Europe was ‘whether Queen Elizabeth was a maid or no.’10 From the very earliest months of the reign, courtiers were exchanging scandalous gossip about Elizabeth’s relationship with Robert Dudley, later Earl of Leicester. The Count of Feria, on the eve of his departure from England in April 1559, wrote to Philip of Spain of Dudley’s growing intimacy with the queen: During the last few days Lord Robert has come so much into favour that he does what he likes with affairs and it is even said that Her Majesty visits him in his chamber day and night. . .11

Weeks later, the Venetian ambassador Paulo Tiepolo reported that Dudley was ‘in great favour and very intimate with Her Majesty’. Although Tiepolo stopped short of making any accusations of improper behaviour that could damage his own diplomatic relations with the queen, he did allude to the shocking rumours that were circulating at court: ‘on this subject I ought to report the opinion of many, but I doubt whether my letters may not miscarry or be read, wherefore it is better to keep silence than to speak ill.’12 order of the succession and eliminate the Stuart claim. His settlement set aside the strict rules of hereditary descent. If his children died without heirs, then the throne was to pass to the offspring of the Duchess of Suffolk. For details of succession see M. Levine, Tudor Dynastic Problems 1460-1571, Allan and Unwin, London, 1973 and his The Early Elizabethan Succession question, 1558-1568, Stanford University Press, Stanford CA, 1996. 8 A. McLaren, “The Quest for a King: Gender, Marriage and Succession in Elizabethan England”, Journal of British Studies, vol. 41, 2002, 259-290. 9 W. Allen, An Admonition to the Nobility and People of England and Ireland…, Antwerp, 1588, xviii. 10 F. Osborne, Historical Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and king James, London, 1658, 61. 11 CSP Span 1558-6, 57-8. 12 CSP Ven 1558-1580, 85.

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Despite suspicions as to the nature of Elizabeth’s relationship with Dudley, the Holy Roman Emperor, Ferdinand I, was keen to secure a marriage alliance with the queen and in May 1559 sent his envoy Caspar Breuner, Baron von Rabenstein, to formally open negotiations on behalf of the Emperor’s nineteen-year-old son Archduke Charles von Habsburg, Archduke of Austria. Upon his arrival in England, Breuner decided to launch his own investigation to find out whether or not Elizabeth was still a virgin or had indeed consummated her relationship with Dudley as many feared. As the ambassador reported, ‘since the queen was crowned he [Dudley] has never been away from court; moreover they dwell in the same house and it is this which feeds suspicion.’13 He informed the Emperor that he had employed an agent, one François Borth, who was on ‘friendly terms with all the ladies of the bedchamber’ to find out the truth of the relationship. Breuner’s investigations revealed nothing. Writing in cipher to the emperor he reported that the queen’s ladies ‘swear by all that is holy that her Majesty has most certainly never been forgetful of her honour’ however they agree that the queen ‘shows her liking for him more markedly than is consistent with her reputation and dignity. But otherwise they have not noticed anything.’14 Elizabeth lived under intense scrutiny. All aspects of her body and behaviour, however intimate, were the stuff of ambassadorial despatches and the subject of prurient interest on both a national and international level. On her accession to the throne, the Count of Feria, claimed that Elizabeth was ‘not likely to have a long life.’ Her constitution, he told Philip of Spain, ‘cannot be very strong.’15 The French ambassador de Noailles agreed; ‘those who have seen her do not promise her long to live’.16 Others questioned Elizabeth’s fertility and her ability to bear children. When in June 1559, Elizabeth was ‘blooded’ by her physicians, this too was taken as proof that something was wrong with her ‘natural functions’: ‘Her Majesty was blooded from one foot and from one arm, but what her indisposition is, is not known’ reported the Venetian ambassador; ‘many persons say things I should not dare to write.’17 Even 13

V. von Klarwill (ed.), Queen Elizabeth and Some Foreigners, being a series of hitherto unpublished letters from the archives of the Habsburg family, John Lane, London, 1928, 115. 14 Klarwill, Queen Elizabeth, 113-115. 15 CSP Span 1558-67, 18, 38. 16 R. Vertot and C.Villaret, Ambassades de Messieurs de Noailles en Angleterre, 5 vols., Leyden, 1763, iii, 86-7. 17 CSP Ven 1558-80, 105. R. Bakan, ‘Queen Elizabeth I: a case of testicular feminisation?’, Medical Hypotheses, July 17.3 1985, 277-84.

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the papal nuncio in France had a view on Elizabeth’s menstrual cycle, ‘she has hardly ever the purgation proper to all women.’18 For some of her detractors the queen’s virginity was not a moral strength but a bizarre physical defect, one which prevented her from having children but not from indulging in sexual intercourse. When, in the very earliest days of the reign, the Scottish envoy, Sir James Melville, was asked to deliver a marriage proposal to Elizabeth from the Duke of Casimir, son of the Elector Palatine, he refused the commission, saying: ‘I had ground to conjecture that she would never marry because of the story one of the gentlewomen of her chamber told me…knowing herself incapable of children, she would never render herself subject to a man.’19 In April the following year, Feria reported similar intelligence that he had gathered: ‘if my spies do not lie, which I believe they do not, for a certain reason which they have recently given me I understand she will not bear children.’20 The desirability of a fertile and chaste Elizabeth as a bride for European princes and the pressure on her to marry from Parliament and her own councillors, dominated politics throughout the first two decades of her reign. Yet by the mid-1570s when a marriage to the Duke of Anjou looked a genuine possibility, many of Elizabeth’s councillors began to have doubts about whether she was now too old to marry and have a child. Sir Francis Walsingham, Principal Secretary to the queen, believed ‘the danger that women of her majesty’s years are most commonly subject unto by bearing of children’ was too high. If Elizabeth, then in her forties, conceived she ran the risk of dying in childbirth and, if she failed to conceive, her husband might ‘seek by treason to be delivered of her’ in the hope of having children by another wife. 21 The desire for an heir now had to be weighed against the risk that Elizabeth would die in the attempt.22 When the court was at Norwich during the Queen’s progress to East Anglia in the summer of 1570, the playwright Thomas Churchyard was commissioned by the staunchly Protestant lord mayor of the city to put on entertainments which criticized the renewal of the Anjou marriage negotiations and, urged Elizabeth to remain single. In the pageant Cupid’s Fall from Heaven, Venus and her son Cupid, both ‘thrust out of heaven’, fall to earth where they meet a philosopher and Dame Chastity who teaches them the error of their ways. Chastity then hands over Cupid’s 18

F. Chamberlin, The Private Character of Queen Elizabeth, Dodd, Mead and Company, London, 1922, 67. 19 Cited in E. Jenkins, Elizabeth the Great, Victor Gollancz, London, 1978, 77. 20 CSP Span 1558-67, 63. 21 Cecil Papers, Hatfield House, 148/12. 22 BL Harleian MS 1582 fol.46-52.

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bows and arrows to the Queen with the message that she could do with them ‘what she pleased’ and ‘learn to shoot at whom she pleased’ since ‘none could wound her highness’s heart’ and she had chosen the ‘best life’ of celibacy.23 The message in respect of the Anjou negotiations was clear and for the first time Elizabeth was publicly celebrated as the ‘Virgin Queen’. A series of seven portraits, painted at the time of the Anjou negotiations also champion Elizabeth’s virginity and her selfless sacrifice of the desires of her natural body for the good of the inviolable sovereign state. Each of the portraits depicts Elizabeth holding a sieve. The sieve was a symbol of virginity, a reference to the Roman Vestal Virgin, Tuccia. When accused of breaking her vestal vows, Tuccia proved her virginity by filling a sieve with water from the River Tiber and carrying it back to the Temple of Vesta without spilling a drop.24 This imagery was designed to show that Elizabeth’s virginity was her strength, providing her with the ability to make the sieve, which here represented the state, impenetrable. It was a stunning refashioning of the reality of Elizabeth’s barren body. During the years following her accession, the young Elizabeth, with her pretty face, red hair and slender physique, aged into an old woman with wrinkles, a reddish coloured wig to cover her thinning hair and black and rotten teeth. With Elizabeth’s virginity now being championed as a great political asset, the physical reality of the queen’s decaying, postmenopausal body needed to be disguised. Smallpox scars, wrinkles, tooth decay and changes in the colour of her complexion, increasingly demanded attention. The marks left by the smallpox which she had 23

T. Churchyard, A discourse of the queens maiesties entertainment in Suffolk and Norfolk, London, 1578, quoted in J. Nichols , The Progresses and Public Processions of Queen Elizabeth, 3 vols., Burt Franklin, London, 1823, ii, 222-3. See also D. Bergeron,’The “I”of the Beholder: Thomas Churchyard and the 1578 Norwich Pageant’, in J. Archer, E. Goldring and S. Knight (eds.), The Progresses, Pageants and Entertainment of Queen Elizabeth I, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2007, 142-162. 24 R. Strong, Gloriana: The Portraits of Queen Elizabeth I, Thames and Hudson, London, 1987, 98-99; see S. Doran, ‘Virginity, Divinity and Power: The Portraits of Elizabeth I’ in S. Doran and T. Freeman (eds.) The Myth of Elizabeth, Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke, 2003, 171-199; A. and C. Belsey, ‘Icons of Divinity: Portraits of Elizabeth I’ in Renaissance Bodies: The human figure in English culture c.1540-1600, L. Gent and N. Llewellyn (eds.), Reaktion Books, London, 1990, 15-16; See J. King, “Queen Elizabeth I: Representations of the Virgin Queen”, Renaissance Quarterly, vol. 43 no. 1, 1990, 30-74; R. Strong, The English Icon: Elizabethan and Jacobean Portraiture, Routledge, London, 1969; R. Strong, Portraits of Queen Elizabeth I, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1963.

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suffered in 1562, together with the lines and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, were covered with layers of caustic cosmetics made with lead and vermillion. Whilst seeking to mask signs of decay use of these cosmetics doubtless only accelerated the process of aging. In 1586 Elizabeth revealed something of this pressure to maintain a suitable public image: ‘We princes, I tell you, are set on stages in the sight and view of all the world duly observed; the eyes of many behold our actions; a spot is soon spied in our garments; a blemish quickly noted in our doings.’25 Besides being sure to always appear in public with her ‘mask of youth’, it was also important for an idealised face of the queen to be captured in portraits. As Nicholas Hilliard, who entered Elizabeth’s service as her principal Portraitist, quickly realised, it was less about a need for an accurate portrayal of the queen but rather a fictive image of delicately drawn and youthful features. Hilliard began painting miniatures for Elizabeth in 1572, but it was two full size oil portraits, the Pelican and Phoenix portraits that began a transformation of the royal image. Elizabeth’s face in both portraits appears as a mask and other than her hand which holds her glove across her stomach, her body is encased in a heavily embroidered gown. 26 With Elizabeth now in her early forties, and beyond her fertile years, it was no longer her natural body which was focussed upon but rather, the body politic. Moreover the use of symbols and objects cast Elizabeth as an icon of virginity. The jewels suspended from the necklaces in each picture were motifs of piety, celibacy, selfdenial and eternal youth; the phoenix was a symbol of resurrection and the triumph of immortality over death. Whilst Hilliard’s miniatures and full size paintings moved towards the creation of a standard face for his images of the queen, it was very likely an Italian Frederigo Zuccaro, who had come to England at the queen’s request in 1576, that provided the master face-pattern that was to be adopted as the officially sanctioned image. In Zuccaro’s ‘Darnley’ portrait, Elizabeth appears with a mask-like appearance. She is pictured wearing a simple gown of white and gold brocade with fine lace ruff sleeves and a pearl necklace which is looped to form an oval across her right breast. In her right hand she holds a multi-coloured ostrich feather fan close to her body, and in her left she holds a half concealed small box. On the table to her left is a sceptre and crown emphasising her status as queen and her identification with the body politic. The placement of the necklace and the 25

Printed in Elizabeth I: Collected Works, eds. L. Marcus, J. Mueller and M. Rose, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 2000, 194. 26 See J. Arnold, Queen Elizabeth’s Wardrobe Unlock’d, Maney, Leeds, 1988, 23; Strong, Gloriana, 80.

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fan on her breast and in front of her groin, draws attention to the queen’s natural, indeed sexual, body whilst at the same time, through the prominent use of pearls, symbolises her virginity and her triumph over the lusts of the flesh and sexual appetite. Here then is a representation of the queen’s two bodies: the natural, the physical and sexual body of the woman and the royal body politic represented by the royal regalia which are positioned next to her. Zuccaro’s blanched, mask-like face pattern was thereafter inserted on portraits of every size throughout the 1580s and early 1590s. No other face pattern of the queen was to be so widely disseminated and this is testament to the government’s ability to control the royal image during this period. Elizabeth’s motto ‘Semper Eadem’ [‘Always the Same’] became a necessary instruction.27 In 1592, Isaac Oliver, a renowned portrait miniature painter, produced one of the few images ever painted from life of Elizabeth as an older woman. Oliver had been granted a rare sitting with the queen and contrary to her own preference; he positioned her next to a window so a natural and revealing light shone on her face. The painting was intended to be a pattern, kept in his studio for future repetition and as such the details of her dress and jewels are left unfinished, the focus is on her pale and rather sallow face with tightly drawn lips and lively eyes. It was undoubtedly the most revealing, realistic portrait ever produced of the aging Elizabeth. Elizabeth quickly let her Privy Council know that portraits based on this model were unacceptable and her councillors swiftly issued instructions that ‘all likenesses of the Queen that depicted her as being in any way old and hence subject to mortality’ were to her ‘great offence’ and should be sought out and destroyed. 28 Oliver was to be left in no doubt as to his mistake. He received no further patronage from the queen, who looked elsewhere for a more flattering portrait. Around the same time that Oliver was granted a sitting with Elizabeth, Marcus Gheeraets the younger, was also admitted to the presence of the ailing queen. He had been commissioned by Sir Henry Lee to paint a full length picture of the queen to commemorate her visit to his home at Ditchley Park in Oxfordshire. The picture is huge; nearly eight feet high, the largest painted of Elizabeth and very deliberately intended to make a visual statement identifying Elizabeth as the embodiment of the nation. She stands on a globe, her feet positioned on England adjacent to Ditchley 27 S. Cerasano and M. Wynne-Davies, ‘From Myself, My Other Self I Turned’, in S. Cerasano and M. Wynne-Davies (eds.), Gloriana’s Face: Women, Public and Private in the English Renaissance, Wayne State University Press, Hemel Hempstead, 1992, 1-24. 28 See Strong, Gloriana, 147.

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in Oxfordshire and her body encased in a richly embroidered and bejewelled white dress that spans the country. She appears as an ageless, indeed Goddess-like queen whose face, framed by a laced ruff and wired veil, bears no sign of aging. Her body spans heaven and earth and is captured between two sky scenes; one dark and stormy on the left, another calm and serene on the right. Elizabeth is presented as having calmed tempestuous heavens and the sunshine after storms. As the queen’s godson Sir John Harington later said of the queen, ‘When she smiled, it was a pure sunshine, that everyone did chose to bask in, if they could; but anon came a storm from a sudden gathering of clouds, and the thunder fell in wondrous manner on all alike.’29 Unsurprisingly it was Gheeraets’s picture rather than Oliver’s offering which was favoured by the queen and the ‘Ditchley’ portrait established the pattern of portraying the queen in her later years. From the mid-1590s Elizabeth’s face ceased to be painted from life.30 With no heirs to the throne, all signs of aging were removed in order to present a reassuring image of longevity and continuity. Elizabeth’s government had realised the importance of control of the queen’s portrait right from the earliest years of the reign and had been concerned to regulate the production and dissemination of the royal image. In 1563 a draft proclamation was drawn up by William Cecil which addressed the grievous and offensive ‘errors and deformities’ in widely available representations of the queen: Forasmuch as through the natural desires that all sorts of subjects and people, both noble and mean, hope to procure the portrait and picture of the Queen’s majesty’s most noble and loving person and royal majesty, all manner of painters have already and do daily attempt to make in short manner portraiture of her majesty in painting, graving and painting, wherein is evidently seen that hitherto none hath sufficiently expressed the natural representations of her majesty’s person, favour or grace, but that most have so far erred therein as thereof daily are heard complaints amongst her loving subjects.

29

Sir J. Harington, Nugae Antiquae: Being a miscellaneous collection of original papers…by Sir John Harington, Knt, T. Park (ed.), 2 vols., London, 1804, ii, 140141. 30 See N. Salomon, ‘Positioning Women in Visual Convention: the case of Elizabeth I’, in B. Travitsky and A. Seeff (eds.), Attending to Women in Early Modern England, University of Delaware Press, London, 1994, 64-95; see also R. Strong, The Cult of Elizabeth: Elizabethan Portraiture and Pageantry 2nd edn., Random House, London, 1999.

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It was proposed that until such time as a specially commissioned painter might be permitted to have a sitting with the queen and ‘to take the natural representation’ of her, no other persons might ‘draw, paint, grave or portray her majesty’s personage or visage’.31 The 1563 proclamation almost certainly remained in draft but nevertheless it demonstrates the government’s desire to control how Elizabeth was portrayed. At this early stage in the reign whilst Elizabeth retained her youthful features, ‘natural representation’ was the objective. Thirty years later when the government again became concerned about representations of the queen’s image, the intended purpose of portraits changed. The 1596 proclamation ordered that any ‘unseemly and improper’ portraits of the queen, in other words, any that showed her age and facial imperfections, were to be destroyed.32 Not only were painters who were unable to produce a true likeness of the queen merely errant, as the 1563 proclamation implied, but they were now also considered to be abusive. The purpose of the royal portrait, and with it the definition of what was considered acceptable, had changed. Artists were no longer merely required to achieve ‘the natural representation of her majesty’s person, favour or grace’, but now in representing ‘her Majesty’s person and visage’ were obliged fully to convey ‘that beautiful and magnanimous Majesty wherewith God hath bless her.’ From an obligation to portray an accurate natural image of Elizabeth, portraits now had to depict the queen in a centrally controlled idealised fashion. This was to allow the government to address the problem of the growing gap between the timeless body politic of the realm and the aging natural body of the queen in an attempt to deflect anxieties about the succession. All images had to now be vetted by the Sergeant Painter George Gower to ensure they confirmed to the officially approved face pattern. 33 Nicholas Hilliard was called upon to evolve this formalised timeless mask of the queen’s face which would then be used in subsequent images. Each time a new image of the queen was created, the face pattern would be inserted into different arrangements of hair, dress and jewellery which Hilliard drew from life.34 Hilliard’s face pattern became the official public statement of the queen’s appearance in the final years of the reign. His face pattern is radiant and moon-shaped in stark contrast to the

31

TRP, ii, 240-1. APC 1596-7, 69. 33 Ibid. 34 Axton, The Queen’s Two Bodies, 12. 32

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contemporary accounts of her lean and wrinkled face towards the end of her life. The Rainbow Portrait of c.1600-03 attributed to Marcus Gheeraerts, for example, conforms to Hilliard’s pattern and portrays an improbably radiant and youthful queen, her loose hair and low-cut bodice the style of an English maiden. She wears a golden cloak painted with eyes and ears and bordered with pearls. The motto inscribed on the rainbow grasped by the queen reads, ‘Non Sine Sole Iris’, or ‘no rainbow without the sun’. Elizabeth stands against a dark background, her uncovered bosom, smooth skin and unbound hair suggesting improbable youth. 35 The painting is rich in symbolism. The left sleeve is decorated with a serpent representing wisdom and prudence with a heart shaped jewel hanging from its mouth. The ruby heart jewel in the mouth of the serpent embroidered on Elizabeth’s left sleeve signifies wise counsel which is also represented by the symbols of eyes, ears and mouths which cover the golden mantle. We know from the queen’s inventory that Elizabeth actually possessed a gown like that depicted in the Rainbow Portrait embroidered with eyes and ears.36 Whilst the face of the queen is a timeless mask, her clothes were painted from life. ** Beyond the rumours and the sexual slander, the Queen’s body was also the focus of assassination attempts as disaffected religious zealots plotted to kill her. ‘The state of this crown depends only on the breath of one person, our sovereign lady’ wrote William Cecil, Lord Burghley.37 If Elizabeth died without leaving an heir of her body the throne would be claimed by the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots and only the breath of Elizabeth prevented this. One plan aimed to plant gunpowder in her Bedchamber and blow up the Queen as she slept; others sought to poison her, others to stab her as she rode, hunted or dined. In a memorandum to Elizabeth in March 1560, Cecil wrote of what he perceived to be mounting threats against her. ‘We do all certainly think that the Queen of Scots and for her sake her husband and the House of Guise be in their hearts mortal enemies to your Majesty’s person.’ With warnings of plots coming thick and fast, Cecil took action to tighten 35 Salomon, ‘Positioning women in visual convention’, 64-95; D. Howarth, Images of Rule: Art and Politics in the English Renaissance, 1485-1649, Palgrave Macmillan, Basingstoke, 1997, 101. 36 Arnold, Queen Elizabeth’s Wardrobe Unlock’d, 82, 85. 37 BL Cotton MS Caligula B 10 fol.350v.

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security around the Queen herself and drew up a document entitled ‘Certain Cautions for the Queen’s Apparel and Diet’. More care should be taken, he noted, to preserve the orderly guarding of the Privy Chamber and Bedchamber. Too often the back doors of the chambers where the Queen’s gentlewomen were quartered were left open and unattended; little notice was taken of the stream of ‘laundresses, tailors, wardrobers, and such’ that came and went through them; anyone could slip in and attack the Queen or introduce into her chambers a poison, slow-acting or immediate, that could be ingested by mouth or through the skin. From now on, no meat or other food prepared outside the royal kitchens should be allowed into the Privy Chamber without ‘assured knowledge’ of its origins. Perfumed gloves or sleeves or other garments were to be kept away from the Queen unless their hazardous odours were ‘corrected by some other fume’. And in future even the royal undergarments – that is ‘all manner of things that shall touch any part of her Majesty’s body bare’ – would be ‘circumspectly looked unto’. No unauthorised persons were to be allowed near them, lest some harmful substance be hidden in the folds of the linen to menace the Queen’s person. As an extra safeguard Cecil strongly advised that the Queen should take some medicinal preservative ‘against plague and poison twice weekly’, just in case some evil attacked her unawares.38 Elizabeth was reluctant to be guided by these rules, and would remain stubborn about such matters throughout her life. Despite the championing of Elizabeth as the Virgin Queen during the latter part of the reign, still her sexualised body remained a target for those who challenged the Elizabethan realm and the church. On the eve of the Spanish Armada in 1588, Cardinal William Allen wrote an Admonition to the Nobility and People of England and Ireland concerning the Present Warres. It was a tract calling on English Catholics to overthrow Elizabeth, whom he denounced as ‘an incestuous bastard, begotten and born in sin’ to Henry VIII and his ‘Protestant whore’ Anne Boleyn, and a sacrilegious heretic guilty of ruining the Commonwealth. Elizabeth’s sexual depravity was its central theme. Allen claimed that through her relations with Robert Dudley, ‘and diverse others, she [Elizabeth] hath abused her body, against God’s laws, to the disgrace of princely majesty and the whole nations reproach, by unspeakable and incredible variety of lust’. Allen accused Elizabeth of having ‘made her Court as a trap, by this damnable and detestable art, to inta[n]gle in sin and overthrow the younger sort of nobility and gentleman of the land’. According to Allen, Elizabeth was not simply unfit to rule because of her governance, but because of her 38

Haynes, Burghley State Papers, i, 368.

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illegitimacy and debauchery.39 Allen’s pamphlet was printed and copies were prepared to be shipped over to England once the Armada had made a successful landing. During the 1590s, anxieties about the succession and hostile perceptions of Elizabethan government continued to focus critical attention on the sex of the queen: a number of English poems drew on explicit sexual imagery and referred to her in sexually compromising contexts.40 In 1589 The Arte of English Poesie, published anonymously but attributable to George Puttenham depicted the queen’s two bodies and suggested the improper accessibility of both. Access to the queen is here characterised in the form of sexual availability and particular attention is paid to the mouth and breasts, areas of the body that denote privileged sexual contact. The breasts, depicted as the very source of her authority, from which issue the rays ‘of her justice, bounty and might,’ are described in erotic detail: Her bosom sleak as Paris plaster, Held up two balls of alabaster, Each bias [nipple] was a little cherry Or else I think a strawberry. 41

The access and intimacy suggested by this image draws on contemporary accounts of Elizabeth’s habit of revealing her bosom as she grew older as a means to suggest her youth and virginity.42 Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (1590), also drew on the image of the queen’s two bodies, ‘the one of a most royal Queen or Empress’, Gloriana, the other a ‘most virtuous and beautiful lady’ who Spenser 39

W. Allen, An Admonition to the nobility and people of England and Ireland, Antwerp, 1588. 40 H. Betts, “The Image of this Queene so quaynt”: The Pornographic Blazon, 1588-1603’, in Dissing Elizabeth: Negative Representations of Gloriana, J. Walker (ed.), Duke University Press, Durham, NC, 1998, 153-84. 41 G. Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie, G. Willcock and A. Walker (eds.), Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1936. 42 The accounts of this phenomenon occur in the diary of the French ambassador, Andre Hurault, Sieur de Maisse, in the year 1597. See A Journal of All That Was Accomplished by Monsieur de Maisse, Ambassasdor in England from King Henry IV to Queen Elizabeth, Anno Domini, 1597, by G.Harrison and R. Jones (ed. and trans.), Nonesuch Press, London, 1931, 25 and 36-37. Paul Hentzner’s description of the queen in 1598 also refers to her exposed bosom, specifically associating it with virginity: ‘her bosom was uncovered, as all the English ladies have it till they marry’. P. Hentzner, A Journey into England in 1598, Aungervyle Society, Edinburgh, 1881-2, 34.

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identified as the beautiful virgin huntress, Belphobe. 43 Whilst Puttenham focussed on the mouth and breast as the source of the queen’s authority, Spenser’s focus is on Belphobe’s genitalia, with her vulva as the focus of royal power. Ultimately Belphobe is open to sexual misinterpretation. Braggadocio, a knight, misunderstands the nature of their relationship, interpreting her body as an invitation to sexual rather than political intimacy; a misreading that culminates in attempted rape. Here Spenser draws attention to the problems, and for some later writers the hypocrisy, inherent in a political rhetoric that aim to celebrate a commitment to virgin authority. Through the 1590s, the political pressures caused by war, poverty and disease continued to focus critical attention on the queen’s decrepit body which came to be regarded as the living symbol of her exhausted government. Now approaching her sixties, Elizabeth made increasingly garish attempts to recreate a youthful appearance and reassure her subjects of her health and vigour. As Elizabeth got older, ‘she imagined’, wrote Sir Francis Bacon, ‘that the people, who are more influenced, by externals, would be diverted, by the glitter of her jewels, from noticing the decay of her personal attractions.’44 John Clapham, a servant of William Cecil, was in attendance at court in the early 1590s and described what he saw: In the latter time, when she showed herself in public, she was always magnificent in apparel, supposing happily thereby, that the eyes of her people, being dazzled with the glittering aspect of those accidental ornaments would not so easily discern the marks of age and decay of natural beauty. But she began to show herself less often so as to make her presence the more grateful and applauded by the multitude, to whom things rarely seen are in manner as new. 45

Yet despite such attempts, the reality of Elizabeth’s aged appearance could not be fully disguised. As the French ambassador André Hurault, Monsieur de Maisse wrote after his audience with the queen in December 1597: As for her face, it is and appears to be very aged. It is long and thin, and her teeth are yellow and unequal, compared with what they were formerly, 43

E. Spenser, The Faerie Queene, London, 1590. H.Ellis (ed.), Original Letters Illustrative of English History, series 1-3, Richard Bentley, London, 1824-46, ii, 53. 45 J. Clapham, Elizabeth of England: Certain Observations Concerning the Life and Reign of Queen Elizabeth, E. Read and C. Read (eds.), University of Pennsylvania Press, Oxford, 1951, 86. 44

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so they say, on the left sides less than on the right. Many of them are missing so that one cannot understand her easily when she speaks quickly.

At a second audience a week later, de Maisse described Elizabeth wearing a dress of black taffeta, a petticoat of white damask, girdled and open at the front as was her chemise. De Maisse was again struck by how often she opened her dress and described how ‘one could see all her belly, and even to her navel.’46 It is a bizarre, youthful, even provocative image, as Elizabeth perhaps sought to demonstrate her continued attractiveness and allure. Elizabeth was, as de Maisse presented her, visibly, obviously, even hideously aged, a caricature of the figure portrayed in contemporary portraits as an eternally youthful beauty. Yet despite De Maisse’s descriptions of Elizabeth’s aging body there was also clearly something about her that remained striking, even beautiful. She was ‘tall and graceful’ and ‘as far as maybe she keeps her dignity, yet humbly and graciously withal.’ ‘As to her natural form and proportion’, the envoy wrote, ‘she is very beautiful.’ He added, ‘save for her face, which looks old, and her teeth, it is not possible to see a woman of so fine and vigorous disposition both in mind and body…’ 47 By March 1603, there were clear signs that Elizabeth’s health was irrevocably fading. She barely ate or spoke and lay exhausted on cushions in her privy chamber. Finally the Earl of Nottingham, the Lord Admiral was called upon to carry her frail body to bed. As her councillors gathered to make preparations for her death and the succession of James VI of Scotland, ambassadors hurriedly sent despatches abroad detailing the queen’s ailing condition. Finally between two and three in the morning on Thursday 24 March, the self-styled Virgin Queen, then almost seventy, died in her bedchamber at Richmond Palace. ** In the hours immediately following Elizabeth’s death as the Privy Councillors moved to Whitehall to proclaim King James’ accession, the queen’s body was watched over by her ladies. Given the time taken to make the necessary preparations for a suitably lavish funeral, it was common practice, for the bodies of monarchs to be disembowelled and embalmed upon their death. The bodies of Henry VIII, Mary Tudor, and Mary Queen of Scots had all been prepared in this way. The process, performed by surgeons, involved slicing the corpse open from the sternum 46 47

A Journal of All That Was Accomplished by Monsieur de Maisse, 25-26, 36-7. A Journal of All That Was Accomplished by Monsieur de Maisse, 25-26.

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to the pelvis and taking out the organs and other viscera. The chest and abdominal cavity would then be washed, and filled with preservatives, herbs and spices or sawdust to prevent further decay. The body was then closed, wrapped in sear-cloth, soldered into a lead casket before being placed in a wooden coffin. Yet Elizabeth, her body having long been a subject of prurient interest, slanderous gossip and speculation, had left specific instructions that her body should not be disembowelled or examined. Early modern anatomists believed changes in the size and shape of a woman’s uterus proved whether or not she had borne children, and Elizabeth may well have been anxious about what surgeons might have found and the impact of rumours that an examination of her body might have spawned. 48 Any finding that indicated that she had been sexually active, physically deformed or had given birth would have challenged the late queen’s claim to have lived and died a virgin. Stories that Elizabeth was physically incapable of sex had been commonplace for years. Ben Jonson and others had claimed that the queen had ‘a membrane on her which made her incapable of man, though for delight she tried many.’ 49 Sir John Harington had repeated the rumours in his Tract for the Succession and drawing on the testimony of his mother Isabella Harington one of Elizabeth’s closest women, had declared that that the Queen’s virginity was a ‘secret of state’ yet one about which he had intimate knowledge. He claimed that: To make the world think she should have children of her own, she entertained till she was fifty years of age, notions of marriage; and though in mind she hath ever had an aversion and (as many think) in body some indisposition to the act of marriage, yet hath she ever made show of affection to some men which in Court were her favourites, to hide that debility, enduring rather to run into some oblique among strangers of a fault that she could not commit, then to be suspected to want anything that belongs to the perfection of a fair lady . . . Sir Christopher Hatton . . . did swear voluntarily, deeply and with vehement assertion, that he never had any carnal knowledge of her body, and this was also my mother’s opinions, who was until the xxth year of her 48

J. Ricci, The Genealogy of Gynaecology, Blakiston, Philadelphia, 1950, 230. “Ben Jonson, ‘Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden”, in The Complete Poems, G. Parfitt (ed.), London, 1975, 459-80 (at 470). The rumour about Elizabeth’s imperforate hymen was reported to the Queen by Mary Queen of Scots. See W. Murdin, A Collection of State Papers Relating to affairs in the reign of Queen Elizabeth I from 1542 to 1560 left by Sir William Cecil: Lord Burghley, London, 1759, 558-560. 49

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Majesty’s reign of her privy chamber, and had been sometime her 50 bedfellow.

For Harington, both the Queen’s formal marriage negotiations and her courtly dalliances constituted an elaborate and extended charade: Elizabeth endured the defamatory gossip to mask her physical ‘indisposition’. Here the son of her former bedfellow reveals the queen’s ultimate ‘secret of state’ by claiming intimate knowledge of the queen’s intact condition.51 An examination of the queen’s body – her uterus and perhaps her vagina – would have revealed the truth as to these rumours and speculations. By refusing to allow the Queen’s corpse to be opened and embalmed, the ladies of the bedchamber and her councillors, may have been performing a final act of loyalty to their virgin queen by allowing her to remain regina intacta. Most sources agree that the queen’s wishes, not to have her body opened or ‘embowelled’, were obeyed. The Venetian ambassador described how the queen’s body was carefully guarded by her ladies and ‘meantime the body of the late Queen by her own orders has neither been opened, nor, indeed, seen by any living soul save by three of her ladies.’52 John Chamberlain similarly described how the queen’s body ‘was not opened but wrapped in sear cloths – linen coated with wax - and other preservatives.’53 Surviving financial records from 1603 also point to the fact that Elizabeth’s body was embalmed, wrapped in sear cloth, sealed in a leaden shroud and then placed in a wooden coffin which was ‘sumptuously lined with purple velvet, and finished with gilt nails.’54 Abraham Greene, a ‘plumber’ was paid for ‘Lead solder’ and for ‘the entombing of the corpse of her late majesty at Richmond’.55 However, there is one exception to the narrative that the queen’s body was not opened. Elizabeth Southwell, one of the maids of honour in attendance upon the queen’s body at the time, described how, as the queen’s councillors left the bedchamber to proclaim James King of England, Robert Cecil gave a secret warrant for a surgeon to open the queen’s body.56 Elizabeth Southwell was about eighteen or nineteen years old in 50

Sir J. Harington, A Tract on the Succession to the Crown (1602), C. Markham (ed.), Burt Franklin, London, 1880, 39-41. 51 Ibid. 52 CSP Ven 1603-7, 3. 53 Clapham, Elizabeth of England, 190. 54 TNA E351/3145 fol.22ff, 25; TNA LC 2/4/4/2r. 55 TNA E351/3145 fol.25. 56 C. Loomis, ‘Elizabeth Southwell’s Manuscript Account of the Death of Queen Elizabeth’, English Literary Renaissance, vol. 26 no. 3, 1996, 482-509. See also K.

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March 1603 and granddaughter of the earl and countess of Nottingham and one of the queen’s godchildren. However four years after Elizabeth’s death, Southwell converted to Catholicism and, having been in contact with Jesuits including Father Robert Persons, she wrote or dictated her account of Elizabeth’s death. No other account corroborates Southwell’s claim that the queen’s body was opened, nor do any of the Privy Council records mention a warrant, secret or otherwise. 57 Southwell also claimed that as she attended the Queen’s body as it lay in state, the decomposing corpse burst, splitting the ‘bord coffin’ and releasing the ‘breath’ of the corpse.58 It is not impossible that this had happened. The body had been soldered into a lead casket which could trap gases produced by decomposing tissues and cause the splitting of the body, lead, and wood. It is also true that if Elizabeth’s orders had been obeyed and her corpse had not been opened, then decomposition would have processed more quickly than in a disembowelled corpse. Yet, no other account corroborates Southwell’s claim and one would have expected such a spectacular incident to have been widely reported. Southwell maintained that ‘no man durst speak it public’ for fear of Robert Cecil who dominated the court during the days before and after Elizabeth’s death and who oversaw the succession of James. It is also possible that the indecency of an exploding corpse with its association with moral corruption might explain why other accounts do not mention it, and Elizabeth’s servants were forced into a loyal silence. However, it is more likely that the account of the exploding corpse was deliberately fabricated by Southwell after she became a Catholic. Such a story provided the Jesuits with the final verification of Elizabeth’s innate depravity and moral corruption.59 Yet there was to be a final twist in the narrative of Elizabeth’s body. Three years after Elizabeth’s death and burial, on the instruction of King James I, her body was removed from its original resting place in the central tomb in Westminster Abbey, to the north aisle and reburied with

Cregan, ‘Early modern anatomy and the Queen's body natural: The sovereign subject’, Body and Society, vol. 13 no. 2, 2007, 47-66. 57 It is possible that Elizabeth’s body was opened but this was not mentioned in any of the other sources, as her councillors wanted it to appear that they had obeyed her orders. 58 Loomis, ‘Elizabeth Southwell’s Manuscript Account’, 485. 59 A similar story that the coffin of King Henry VIII had cracked open had been circulated by hostile observers in the aftermath of his death.

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her sister and rival Mary Tudor.60 Whilst James commissioned a grand monument to Elizabeth, the figure of the Queen on Elizabeth’s tomb carved in marble was shown as the elderly woman she has become: her ‘mask of youth’ was finally and publicly removed. Moreover in placing Elizabeth with her sister Mary on the north aisle of the Abbey, both childless queens were isolated from the line of inherited power celebrated in the tombs on the south side. In death the reality of ‘the Virgin Queen’ was exposed: the tomb of Mary and Elizabeth was a mausoleum for two barren queens who had failed to further their dynasty.

60

An entry in the abbey account books for 1606 records: ‘for removing of Queene Elizabeth’s Body…46 shillings 4 pence’. Westminster Abbey archives. See J. Walker, ‘Reading the Tombs of Elizabeth I’, English Literary Renaissance, vol. 26 no. 3, 1996, 510-530.

PART VI CEREMONY AND MEMORY

CHAPTER TWELVE POLITICAL CEREMONIES OF THE TRASTÁMARA MONARCHY IN CASTILE (1369-1480)1 JOSÉ MANUEL NIETO SORIA

In recent years, there has been growing historiographical interest in the historical significance of ceremonial practice, with an emphasis on recognising the political importance of some of its functions.2 From the political anthropology perspective, in any civilising context the importance given to the whole range of different expressions of the representation of power is well known, particularly the use of ritual and ceremony based on the cultural coordinates of each case. Georges Balandier, one of the main anthropologists interested in these matters, has shown that behind any arrangement of society and organisation of power, ‘theatocracy’ is always present, governing from the wings. This would regulate the daily lives of individuals living in groups: a sort of permanent regime prevailing over the diversity of successive political regimes.3 In this context of theatricality, representation would also establish distance and hierarchy, so that in general it is very unlikely that the expression of power would be compatible with simplicity; on the contrary, its favourite devices were grandeur, ostentation, etiquette and pageantry.4 From a non-anthropological but specifically historical perspective and apart from some of the more controversial approaches, like that of Philippe Buc,5 Roger Chartier has pointed out that in recent years cultural 1

This work belongs to the research project HAR2010-16762 of the Spanish Secretaría de Estado de Investigación. 2 P. Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory, Princeton UP, Princeton, 2001; R. Chartier, La historia o la lectura del tiempo, Gedisa, Barcelona, 2007, 71. 3 G. Balandier, El poder en escenas. De la representación del poder al poder de la representación, Paidós, Barcelona, 1994, 15. 4 Ibid, 23. 5 Buc, The Dangers of Ritual.

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history studies have focused considerable attention on the various meanings of the concept of representation, based on two major considerations. The first of these considerations is regarding the decline in violence among individuals that characterised western societies from the latter part of the Middle Ages up to the eighteenth century, which took place in the context of a tendency by states to appropriate the legitimate use of force, thus favouring the application of representative acts as instruments for resolving relational conflict. Secondly, Chartier notes how the authority of a power or a group depended on the support it was able to obtain for the selfrepresentations it proposed.6 These considerations point to a certain historiographical consensus, albeit a controversial one, with respect to five possible political meanings of ceremonial practice: the dramatic transposition of political events; the symbolic translation of political and social relations; the hierarchization of the community; the peaceful and supportive integration of differences; the staging of ideology. Significant manifestations of all of these elements can be found in the Trastámara monarchy of Castile.

The Trastámara monarchy and ceremonial needs Recourse to ceremonial practice is particularly recurrent in contexts involving situations of crisis of legitimacy or political conflict. In the case of the Trastámara dynasty, manifestations of legitimacy crisis can be seen from at least five different perspectives: the general tendency towards political change throughout the western world at the time; the political origin of the Trastámara dynasty whose enthronement had come about as the consequence of a civil war; the obvious repeated disagreements between the pretentions and projects of the monarchy on the one hand and the different interests of the most influential political forces on the other; the different contexts leading to political tension within the framework of peninsular relations; the need to guarantee dynastic continuity. The origins of the Trastámara dynasty go back to when expansion of the governmental structures of western monarchies was in full swing. The monarchies had begun to promote processes to broaden their governmental structure and the framework for intervention in all aspects of political activity.7 In this context, it was evident that considerable momentum was 6

R. Chartier, La historia o la lectura del tiempo, Gedisa, Barcelona, 2007, 71. A. Tenenti, Stato: un’idea, una logica, Il Mulino Bolonia, 1987; J. Genet (ed.), L’Etat moderne: genèse. Bilans et perspectives, Presses du Centre National de la

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also given to their acts of representation and propaganda.8 These were frequently based on a broad foundation of cultural references to which ideological and theoretical-political re-workings were added.9 At the same time, new and more intense ceremonial practices and rituals were appearing. Once converted into the means of communication for new

Recherche Scientifique, París, 1990; W. Blockmans, ‘Les origines des états modernes en Europe, XIIIe-XVIIIe siècles: état de la question et perspectives’, in Visions sur le développement des états européens. Théories et historiographies de l’état moderne, W. Blockmans and J. Genet (eds.), Ecole Français de Rome, Roma, 1993, 1-14 ; C. Gauvard, ´De grace especial’ : Crime, état et société en France à la fin du Moyen Age, 2 vols., Publications de la Sorbonne, París, 1991 ; A. Gouron y A. Rigaudière (eds.), Rénaissance du pouvoir législatif et genèse de l’Etat Moderne, Société d'Histoire du Droit et des Institutions des Anciens Pays de Droit Écrit, Montpellier, 1988 ; R. Boney (ed.), Economic Systems and State Finance in the Origins of the Modern State in Europe (13th-18th Century), Oxford UP, Oxford, 1994; J. Thomson, Popes and Princes, 1417-1517: Politics and Policy in the Late Medieval Church, Allen and Unwin, London, 1989; P Prodi, Il sovrano pontefice. Un corpo e due anime: la monarchia papale nella prima etá moderna, Il Mulino, Bolonia, 1982; J. Genet and B. Vincent (eds.), Etat et Eglise dans la genèse de l’Etat Moderne, Casa de Velázquez, Madrid, 1986. 8 Many of these propaganda processes were based on experiences that were fully developed in the thirteenth century, but it was almost always in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries that their promotion became more crucial. Various examples can be found in: P. Cammarosano (ed.), Le forme della propaganda politica nel due e nel trecento, Ecole Française de Rome, Roma, 1994 and J. Maire Vigueur and C. Pietri (eds.), Culture et idéologie dans la genèse de l’Etat Moderne, Ecole Française de Rome, Roma, 1985; J. Boyer and J. Kirshner (eds.), ‘The Origins of the State in Italy, 1300-1600’, The Journal of Modern History, vol. 67 Supplement, December 1995. 9 J. Genet and J. Tilliette (eds.), Droit et théologie dans la science politique de l’Etat Moderne Ecole Française de Rome, Roma, 1990; J. Krynen, L’Empire du roi: Idées y croyances politiques en France, XIIIe-XVe siècle, Gallimard, París, 1993; J. Coleman (ed.),The Individual in the Political Theory and Practice, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1996; J. Burns, Lordship, Kingship and Empire. The Idea of Monarchy, 1400-1525, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1992; N. Coulet and J. Genet (eds.), L’état moderne: Le droit, l’espace et les formes de l’état, Editions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, París, 1990; A. Pagden (ed.), The Languages of Political Theory in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1987 and J. Genet, ‘Politics: theory and practice’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, VII: c. 1415-c. 1500, C. Allmand (ed.), Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1998, 3-28.

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political aspirations, they would play a part in tempering the inevitable imbalances and tensions10 that emerged during this process of change. Accession to the throne of Castile by the Trastámara dynasty was the consequence of a civil war and tyrannicide. In this regard, Trastámara historiography would take great pains to demonstrate that there was no question that King Pedro I was a tyrant and that his death at the hands of Enrique de Trastámara was an expression of divine justice.11 This constituted a context12 that in it could be conducive to a certain deficit of legitimacy, which would require extra effort at the representational level. Several historians have drawn attention to the development of a large number of propagandistic practices in this respect.13 The same need would arise in relation to the arrival of the Trastámara in Aragon. The dynasty there also fell far short of counting on unanimous support and the coronation of Ferdinand I was accompanied by festivities and ritual on a grand scale which included a large number of ceremonial innovations hitherto unknown in Aragon.14 The Castilian monarchs of this dynasty were required to intensify the search for different forms of consensus because of the instability of their alliances and their claims for greater

10

P. Blickle (ed.), Resistance, Representation and Community, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1997. A very interesting analysis of these processes of tension in the particular case of England is found in G. Harris, ‘Political Society and the Growth of Government in Late Medieval England’, Past and Present, no. 138, 1993, 2857. 11 C. Valdaliso Casanova, Historiografía y legitimazión dinástica. análisis de la Crónica de Pedro I de Castilla, Universidad de Valladolid, Valladolid, 2010. 12 On the implications of accession to the throne from the point of view of its legitimising basis, see: L. Suárez Fernández, Monarquía Hispana y revolución trastámara, Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, 1994, 13-26. 13 J. Valdeón Baruque, ‘La propaganda política, arma de combate de Enrique de Trastámara’, Historia. Instituciones. Documentos, vol. 19, 1992, 459-467; M. Rábade Obradó, ‘Simbología y propaganda política en los formularios cancillerescos de Enrique II de Castilla’, En la España Medieval, vol. 18, 1995, 223-239 and C. Estepa Díez, ‘Rebelión y rey legítimo en las luchas entre Pedro I y Enrique II’, in Lucha política: Condena y legitimación en la España Medieval, I. Alfonso Antón, J. Escalona Monge and G. Martin (eds.), Annexes des Cahiers de Linguistique et de Civilisation Hispaniques Médiévales, vol. 16, Ecole Normale Supérieure Éditions, Lyon, 2004, 43-61. 14 F. Massip Bonet, ‘Imagen y espectáculo en la entronización de los Trastámara’, in XV Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón, i, 3º, Institución Fernando el Católico, Zaragoza, 1996, 371-386; R. Salicrú i Lluch, ‘La coronació de Ferran d’ Antequera: l’organització i els preparatius de la festa’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, vol. 25 no. 2, 1995, 699-759.

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power, aimed at promoting a certain model of absolute power,15 that was not always easily compatible with the political pre-eminence sought by high-ranking nobles. From the moment the dynastic union took place between the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon, we see the beginnings of a certain change respecting references of political loyalty. This new situation demanded that the efforts aimed at fostering new sentiments of loyalty towards an emerging politico-institutional creation should be intensified and increased, as confirmed by many of the propagandistic initiatives in the era of the Reyes Católicos.16

The Trastámara and the tendency towards ceremonialisation of political life One of the features that contributes towards the characterisation of political practices in the Castile of the Trastámara era relates to a marked tendency towards the ceremonialisation of political life,17 a phenomenon that was actually even more noticeable at the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries. This phenomenon has led me to establish a certain contrast in some of my work18 between the image of a hidden king and that of another king, a king on display, who valued political ceremony as being of utmost importance for his political aspirations, as can be seen in the case of the monarchs of the Trastámara dynasty, both in Castile and Aragon. In this tendency towards ceremonialism, it is difficult to avoid the perception that there was certain awareness, not only by the monarchy but also by the principal agents of political life, of the political usefulness of frequently exhibiting their ruling position to the public by means of specific ceremonial practices. While some early signs of this tendency would be noticed right at the beginning of the dynasty, it was with John II 15

J. Nieto Soria, ‘El poderío real absoluto de Olmedo (1445) a Ocaña (1469): la monarquía como conflicto’, En la España Medieval, vol. 21, 1998, 159-228. 16 J. Nieto Soria (dir.),Orígenes de la Monarquía Hispánica. Propaganda y legitimación (ca. 1400-1520), Dykinson, Madrid, 1999. Note: the term Reyes Católicos refers to the joint reign of Isabel I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon (1474-1504). 17 J. Nieto Soria, Las ceremonias de la realeza. Propaganda y legitimación en la Castilla Trastámara, Nerea, Madrid, 1993, 15-26. 18 J. Nieto Soria, ‘Del rey oculto al rey exhibido: un síntoma de las transformaciones políticas en la Castilla bajomedieval’, Medievalismo. Boletín de la Sociedad Española de Estudios Medievales, vol. 2, 1992, 5-27.

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that a huge step forward was taken, both in terms of the magnitude of the ceremonies held and their much greater frequency. In this case, any ceremonialising activity would undoubtedly be influenced by the King’s great favourite and counsellor, Don Alvaro de Luna,19 as well as his powerful cousins, the Infantes of Aragon. Even in the case of monarchs like Enrique IV, who were traditionally considered as showing reluctance towards any ceremonial activity, there is nothing to suggest it did not play an important role in the development of political life at court. During the reign of Queen Isabel it was given the stimulus of a precisely planned ceremonial dynamic20 that would form an essential part of the actual act of governing, as emphasised by the chronicler Fernando del Pulgar. He described Queen Isabel I as a woman given to ceremony, who paid great attention to how it was staged, and considered that no pomp was enough for the monarchs, who took the place of God on earth.21 At the same time, royal ceremony also acquired new impetus with the beginning of the Trastámara in Aragon, right from the moment Ferdinand I was enthroned, in circumstances of dynastic change which required, as some authors have pointed out, “a supplementary legitimisation”. In effect, the political confrontation surrounding Ferdinand I’s accession to the throne of Aragon in 1412,22 as the result of a strongly contested legal agreement, obliged the monarch to embark on propaganda initiatives at a personal level with the aim of winning greater support from his new subjects. This fostered considerable growth at both the palace and urban levels in ceremonial and festive activities, in which traditional celebrations were complemented by the incorporation of new forms of expression. The 19

Crónica de don Alvaro de Luna, condestable de Castilla, Maestre de Santiago, J. Carriazo y Arroquia (ed.), Espasa-Calpe, Madrid, 1940. 20 A. Carrasco Manchado, Isabel I de Castilla y la sombra de la ilegitimidad. Propaganda y representación en el conflicto sucesorio (1474-1482), Sílex, Madrid, 2006. 21 ‘Era mujer cerimoniosa en sus vestidos e arreos y en el servicio de su persona; e quería servirse de homes grandes e nobles, e con grande acatamiento e humillación (…) E como quiera que por esta condición le era imputado algún vicio, diciendo tener pompa demasiada, pero entendemos que ninguna ceremonia en esta vida se puede facer tan por extremo a los reyes, que mucho más no requiera el estado real; el qual, ansí como es uno e superior en los Reynos, ansí debe mucho estremarse, e resplandecer sobe todos los otros estados, pues tiene autoridad divina en la tierra’. F del Pulgar, Claros varones de Castilla, J Domínguez Bordona (ed.), Espasa-Calpe, 1969, 152. 22 J .Sesma Muñoz, El Interregno (1410-1412). Concordia y compromiso político en la Corona de Aragón, Institución Fernando el Católico, Zaragoza, 2011.

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most striking of these were the introduction of speech and gesture as a means of expression, and lavish displays of pageantry, which gave rise to true theatrical manifestations of great dramatic value23 and provided ample opportunity for the image the new monarch wished to convey of himself to be presented more precisely and explicitly.24 This brought about a considerable intensification of the ceremonial practices surrounding the Aragonese monarchy. This would be reflected by Ferdinand the Catholic himself, who would take it into account when he governed Castile.25 As a result, both in Castile and Aragon, an entire system of ceremonial representation was gradually developed, inasmuch as a relation of complementarity could be seen between the usual ceremonial manifestations, such as coronations, royal births, marriages and deaths, oaths of allegiance, chivalric ceremonies, royal entries, liturgical ceremonies, acts of justice, funeral rites, ambassadorial receptions and military celebrations. What gave political meaning to the existence of such a system was that its application served a triple purpose: first, it showed a complete or partial image that was always close and tangible, either of royal power as a whole, or of some of the main features that distinguished this from other political forces; secondly, it induced a reaction of rudimentary support that was not subject to reasoned criticism; and, thirdly, it created the effect of a consensus that was favourable towards the political aspirations of the royalty, all of which was a consequence of the dialogue of complementarity that took place between the different ceremonial manifestations. Thus, as mentioned above, it could be considered to be a system.26 Within the system, the multitudinous nature of each ceremony also became increasingly important. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the court predominated as the typical ceremonial setting. In the fifteenth century, however, the tendency was towards planning ceremonial practices which guaranteed participation of the popular masses at some stage. This 23 F. Massip Bonet, ‘Imagen y espectáculo del poder real en la entronización de los Trastámara (1414)’, 371-386. 24 For a detailed analysis of the scale of the ceremony to celebrate the coronation of Ferdinand of Antequera see: R. Salicrú i Lluch, ‘La coronació de Ferran d’ Antequera: l’organització i els preparatius de la festa’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, vol. 25 no. 2, 1995, 699-759. 25 J. Sesma Muñoz, ‘Ser rey a finales del siglo XV’, Fernando II de Aragón, el rey Católico, E. Sarasa (ed.), Institución Fernando el Católico, Zaragoza, 1996, 109121. 26 J. Nieto Soria, ‘La realeza’, in Orígenes de la Monarquía Hispánica. Propaganda y legitimación (ca. 1400-1520), J. Nieto Soria (dir.), Dykinson, Madrid, 1999, 49.

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raised the profile of ceremony as a public spectacle on a grand scale, in the desire that the image presented by the ceremony would be that of a harmoniously structured political community. Thus each individual and group occupied a clearly defined position. However this did not imply that the court should be regarded simply as a ceremonial stage. This demonstrates a common factor in the West between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as highlighted by Wim Blockmans, where a multitudinous ceremony was associated with a form of an “imaginary dialogue” between princes and subjects.27 At the same time, records of accounts from the era of the Reyes Católicos, together with references by chroniclers and descriptions by various travellers who visited the court, provide significant data on the importance bestowed by the monarchy on these ceremonial activities in relation to baptisms, weddings, chivalry festivities, royal entries, ambassadorships, jousts, tournaments, juegos de cañas (jousting with canes) and bullfights.28 An example of this was the considerable cost entailed in the giving of presents when ambassadors were received, as in the case of the Ambassador of England and his wife in 1489,29 or the substantial payments the royal accountant Gonzalo de Baeza had to make on the occasion of the festivities in honour of the Princess of Portugal, which took place in Seville in 1490.30

Ceremonial typology In my monograph on royal ceremonies during the Trastámara era, I gave an appraisal of ceremonial typology from the perspective of the meanings of different ceremonies.31 I established several types of ceremony, defined according to their political significance. Within each one there was scope for various ceremonial expressions, as shown below: Ceremonies of accession to power. These took place primarily for establishing a pact of symbolic commitment between king and kingdom. Their principal manifestation was in acts of enthronement, oaths of 27

W. Blockmans, “Le dialogue imaginaire entre princes et sujets: le joyeuses entrées en Brabant en 1494 et en 1496”, in Fêtes et cérémonies aux XIVe-XVIe siècles, Publications du Centre Européen d’Etudes Bourguignonnes, XIVe-XVIe siècles, Neuchâtel, 1994, 37-53. 28 M. González Marrero, La casa de Isabel la Católica. Espacios domésticos y vida cotidiana, Institución Gran Duque de Alba, Avila, 2004, 313-330. 29 Archivo General de Simancas, Casa y Descargos, leg. 1, fol. 9. 30 Archivo General de Simancas, Casa y Descargos, leg. 1, fols. 16 y 17. 31 Nieto Soria, Ceremonias de la realeza, 27-158.

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allegiance by the crown princes and the coming of age of the heir. With respect to enthronement, there was an absence of an established ritual procedure that was systematically repeated. It should be pointed out, however, that it was usual for certain ceremonial practices to be repeated with great frequency. This was the case for acts of acclamation, oaths of allegiance, the hoisting of standards and royal audiences.32 With respect to royal enthronement, there is no doubt that the main constitutional ritual was the royal oath of allegiance, during which the mutual political compromise between king and kingdom was openly manifested in ritual form. The few legal provisions that existed in Castile on matters of royal oaths referred to the Segunda Partida and reference to this continued to be made at the height of the Trastámara dynasty,33 when the royal oath was required at the moment of accession to the throne. This legal text referred both to the monarch’s obligation to swear the royal oath after the age of fourteen and to the tutors’ duty to do so when a minor was involved. The taking of the oath was supposed to guarantee the integrity of the kingdom. It is therefore not surprising that when complaints about royal donations of land arose, the cities justified their protests in some cases by reminding the monarch that he had sworn to guarantee the integrity of the kingdom’s territorial heritage.34 Nevertheless, no precise systematic text for the oath appeared in these legal provisions, only a reference to what would be guaranteed as a consequence of the oaths of king and kingdom. Neither was any specific ceremonial procedure established in them. It is possible to deduce, however, both from the considerations of the Segunda Partida and from the effective practice of this political ceremony 32

Ibid, 35. J. Nieto Soria, ‘La Segunda Partida en los debates políticos de la Castilla del siglo XV’, e-Spania. Revue Electronique d’Etudes Hispaniques Médiévales, 5 (juin 2008), Digital Publication. URL : http://e-spania.revues.org. 34 ‘E por ende pusieron que quando el rey fuesse finado e el otro nueuo entrasse en su lugar, que luego jurasse si fuesse el de edad de catorze años, o dende arriba, que nunca en su vida departiesse el señorio nin lo enajenasse. E si non fuesse desta edad, que fiziessen jura por el aquellos que diximos en la ley ante desta, que le an de guardar. E el que la otorgasse despues quando fuesse de la edad sobre dicha e todos los que se acertassen y con el que jurassen de guardar dos cosas. La una, aquellas que tañe a el mismo, assi como su vida, e su salud, e su honra, e su pro. La otra de guardar siempre que el señorio sea uno, e que nunca en dicho ni en fecho consientan nin fagan por que se enajene nin parta. E desto deuen fazer omenaje los mas honrrados omes del reyno que y fueren assi como los perlados, e los ricos omes e los caualleros e los fijos dalgo e los omes buenos de las cibdades e de las villas’. Siete Partidas, Partida II, título XV, leyes 4 y 5. 33

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at the beginning of each reign, that the Castilian model of the oath of allegiance would be somewhat different from the French one, which, as shown in a recent appraisal,35 corresponded to a model that was ‘vertically ascendant’, that is, ‘sovereign to God and the people to the sovereign’. The Castilian case retained a certain downward component from king to kingdom, aimed principally at guaranteeing the unity and indivisibility of the kingdom and its privileges, charters and exemptions, which naturally all depended on divine testimony. At the same time, the kingdom expressed its commitment to the king by undertaking to fulfil its duties of loyalty and service. Ceremonies to celebrate life events. These were ceremonies marking the most significant events in the lives of members of royalty, such as births, baptisms and marriages. They usually had political implications, often affecting succession in the case of births, and political agreements between families or kingdoms in the case of royal marriages. They were frequently accompanied by a grand display of festivities, with the full participation of the Court and sometimes of the people. These lasted several days and were seen as a way of expressing collective jubilation for the event being celebrated. Ceremonies of cooperation. In a political context in which negotiations, pacts and alliances were increasingly frequent, especially during the fifteenth century, ceremonies of cooperation acquired considerable importance, consisting as they did of ceremonial practices that usually took place with great solemnity, where the very act became a public expression of commitment to the cooperation achieved. The oath attained maximum political prominence in the context of what has been interpreted as the society of oaths at its height.36 It therefore comes as no surprise that it always played a pivotal and decisive role in ceremonial events. On some occasions these included solemn speeches, which were sometimes liturgical in nature and pronounced by a cleric in the form of a sermon or homily. Acts took place for establishing agreements of confederation, formalising ‘seguros’ or assurances (for example, that of Tordesillas in 1439),37 holding courts or issuing edicts. The investitures of knights 35

M. Visceglia, Riti di corte e simboli della regalità. I regni d’Europa e del mediterraneo dal Medioevo all’età moderna, Salerno Editrice, Roma, 2009, 29. 36 P. Prodi, Il sacramento del potere: il giuramento politico nella storia costituzionale dell'Occidente, Il Mulino, Bolonia, 1993. 37 N. Marino, El Seguro de Tordesillas del conde de Haro don Pedro Fernández de Velasco, Secretariado de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Valladolid, Valladolid, 1992, A. Carrasco Manchado, ‘Léxico político en el Seguro de Tordesillas: conflicto, pactos y autoridad’, in Du contrat d’alliance au contrat

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incorporated all the typical ingredients of this type of ceremony and were in fact presented as a ceremonial instrument of commitment to cooperation, especially when they took place in the presence of the monarch. Judicial ceremonies. These were ceremonies held within the framework of different judicial practices that required a certain degree of spectacularisation because of their political and exemplary dimension. They included personal acts by the king as judge, executions by royal command or challenges and duels as a regulated way of resolving conflicts between nobles, all of which were subject to a preestablished ceremonial procedure. Liturgical ceremonies. The liturgical dimension was present in most monarchical ceremonies, although this did not preclude liturgical ceremonies that were important in their own right and unconnected with those that were included in other ceremonial settings. We therefore sometimes find masses that were celebrated as an expression of political agreement. In other cases, they constituted acts of reverence towards some symbol of monarchy. Finally, the frequent calls to crusades in frontier campaigns led to liturgical acts being held in order to receive the corresponding papal bull. Funeral ceremonies. These were held following the death of the king, which, in political terms, would affect the entire kingdom. They took place both in the immediate vicinity of the place where the monarch had died,38 and on a more rudimentary scale, in the major cities of the kingdom.39 They reflected the contrast between the transitory nature of the person as an individual and the continuity of the royal ministration beyond the personage of any particular monarch. This is shown by the erection of a temporary tumulus in the honour of the dead king, which is what must

politique. Cultures et societé politiques dans la péninsule Ibérique à la fin du Moyen Âge, F. Foronda and A. Carrasco Manchado (dirs.), Université de ToulouseLe Mirail, Toulouse, 2007, 85-137 and M. Rábade Obradó, “Confederaciones, seguros y pleitos homenajes: el contexto documental del Seguro de Tordesillas”, in Du contrat d’alliance, 65-84. 38 M. Cabrera Sánchez, ‘Funerales regios en la Castilla bajomedieval’, Acta Historica et Archaeologica Mediaevalia, 22 (2001), 537-564. 39 An example of this is the city of Murcia on the death of John II in: F. García Pérez and J. González Arce, ‘Ritual, jerarquías y símbolos en las exequias reales de Murcia: siglo XV’, Miscelánea Medieval Murciana, vols. 19-20, 1995-6, 129138.

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have happened in Segovia in the case of Enrique IV, as described by Diego de Colmenares in his Aparato para la historia de Segovia.40 Reception ceremonies. These were held to mark the first solemn entry of the king into a city or the establishment of an ambassadorship and its reception by the monarch. They both usually entailed a considerable display of ceremony, which found its main expression in royal entries and the reception of ambassadorships from other kingdoms or papal legates. Notable amongst the latter were the various receptions celebrated in 1472 for Rodrigo Borja, the future Alexander VI, when he was vice chancellor and papal legate.41 At the same time, greater impetus had been given to the royal entry as the high point of ceremonial practice, in an attempt to present an overall image that could be perceived as a vision for the integration of a political community headed by the King, something that was decisive for Castile during the reigns of Juan II and Enrique IV.42 This is what had happened in Aragon with Ferdinand I, Alfonso V and Juan II, and also in Portugal at the same time.43 During the era of the Reyes Católicos, there were no signs of any significant innovations with respect to the political importance of these ceremonies,44 although it should be pointed out that there was a tendency 40 M. Asenjo González, ‘Las ciudades’, in Orígenes de la Monarquía Hispánica: propaganda y legitimación (ca. 1400-1520), J. Nieto Soria (dir.), Dykinson, Madrid, 1999, 137. 41 D. Enríquez del Castillo, Crónica de Enrique IV, A. Sánchez Martín (ed.), Universidad de Valladolid, Valladolid, 1994, 169 42 Nieto Soria, Ceremonias de la realeza, pp. 119-133; R de Andrés Díaz, ‘Las entradas reales castellanas en los siglos XIV y XV, según las crónicas de la época’, En la España Medieval, vol. 4, 1984, 48-62, also of the same author ‘Las fiestas de caballería en la Castilla de los Trastámara’, En la España Medieval, vol. 6, 1986, 81-108. 43 A. Alves, Entradas régias portuguesas: una visâo de conjunto, Livros Horizonte, Lisboa, 1986. 44 J. Alenda y Mira, Solemnidades y fiestas públicas de España, Sucesores de Rivadeneyra, Madrid, 1903; Libre de Memòries de diversos sucesos e fets memorables e de coses senyalades de la ciutat e regne de València (1308-1644), S. Carreres Zacarés (ed.), Acción Bibliográfica Valenciana, Valencia,1930-35; A Romero Abao, Las fiestas de Sevilla en el siglo XV: Otros estudios, Deimos, Madrid, 1991, 12-180; J. Torres Fontes, Estampas de la vida murciana en la época de los Reyes Católicos, Academia Alfonso X el Sabio, Murcia, 1984; A. Gómez Moreno, El teatro medieval castellano en su contexto románico, Gredos, Madrid, 1991; M. Falomir Faus, ‘Entradas triunfales de Fernando el Católico en España tras la conquista de Nápoles’, in La visión del mundo clásico en el arte español, Alpuerto, Madrid, 1993, 49-55; R. Narbona Vizcaíno, ‘Las fiestas reales en Valencia entre la Edad Media y la Edad Moderna (siglos XIV-XVII)’, Pedralbes.

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towards increased practice and considerable enhancement of the ways and means by which they were staged. This brought about a mixing of the uses traditionally employed, in other words, those relating to the liturgical, the military and the recreational, with allusions to the classical world and public addresses in the king’s presence, generally with considerable laudatory content. The Aragonese experience is therefore considered significant, especially with respect to the presence of allusions to the classical world and the entry of Alfonso V of Aragon into Naples in 1441.45 Extensive use would be made of all this on the occasion of Carlos I’s arrival in the Peninsula. For his royal entry into Burgos in 1520, for example, some of the most typical techniques used for royal entries in the times of the Reyes Católicos were brought into play, particularly those that entailed the communication and exhibition of specific messages, either through pre-established proclamations devised specially for the occasion and announced by kings of arms, or through the use of explicit posters displayed on triumphal arches.46 Victory ceremonies. These ceremonies were a celebratory expression of military victory, which generated festive activities in cities where the royal army was received. Some examples of events that provide detailed information on these festive practices are the entries that followed the taking of Antequera in 1410 and the Battle of Higueruela in 1431. Reconciliation ceremonies. These took place as a solemn ending of conflict, as happened with the reception at court of nobles who had been exiled or removed from the royal entourage, or with the return of a city to royal obedience. Their importance was even more marked in a historical context, in which there was a particularly pressing need to establish political consensus.

Revista d’Historia Moderna, vol. 13 no. 2, 1993, 463-472 and B. Mitchell, The Majesty of the State: Triumphal progress of Foreing Sovereign in Renaissance Italy (1494-1600), L. Olschki Editore, Florencia, 1986; R. Andrés Díaz, ‘Fiestas y espectáculos en las ‘Relaciones Góticas’ del siglo XVI’, En la España Medieval, vol. 14, 1991, 306-336. 45 Gómez Moreno, El teatro medieval castellano, 93. About the classical references in the royal entries of Ferdinand the Catholic: M Falomir, op. cit..; A. Fernández de Córdova Miralles, La corte de Isabel I. Ritos y ceremonias de una reina (1474-1504), Dykinson, Madrid, 2002; and Carrasco Manchado, Isabel I y la sombra de la ilegitimidad. 46 Alenda y Mira, Solemnidades y fiestas públicas, 18-19. Different expressions of ceremonial activity at court in the times of the House of Austria and up to the beginning of the Bourbon dynasty have been studied in C. Hoffmann, Das Spanische Hofzeremoniell von 1500-1700, Frank and Timme, Frankfurt, 1985.

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Promotion ceremonies. These took on a particularly solemn prominence when they involved assignments to important posts by the king, such as the concession of noble titles, or the appointment of constables or masters of military orders. One of the best examples can be found in the pomp and pageantry of the lavish ceremony to celebrate the appointment of Don Alvaro de Luna to the post of constable.47 These different types of ceremony show to what extent the monarchy looked on any political event as an opportunity to promote its own image in accordance with its needs for affirmation and communication.

Space for royal festivities Concern about the close link between the Royal Court and representation of regal sovereignty continually led to initiatives for regulating who should be present in them, with the aim of ensuring certain court etiquette. This was emphasised in Las Siete Partidas of Alfonso X, 48 for Castile, and in the Ordinaciones of Pedro IV of Aragon, a work in which, as shown by Bonifacio Palacios Martín, the king presented a detailed ceremonial that had to be scrupulously respected by courtiers when addressing a monarch at the peak of his majesty. He also defined, in a very systematic and measured way, the image of the Aragonese monarch with respect to his relationship with God and with different terrestrial powers, paying special attention to the papacy in a reference to the ritual of accession and coronation, a ritual now renewed by its extraordinary solemnity.49 Similar concerns about regulation were also shown among the Trastámara. Thus, Juan II of Castile enacted various ordinances for organising the Castilian Royal Court within the framework of his reforms to the central

47 Refundición de la Crónica del Halconero, J. Carriazo y Arroquia (ed.), EspasaCalpe, Madrid, 1946, 46. 48 J. Allard, ‘L’etiquette de table à la cour de Castille au Bas Moyen Age’, Temas Medievales, vol. 3, Buenos Aires, 1993, 5-29 ; J. Allard, ‘La naissance de l’etiquette: les règles de vie à la cour de Castille à la fin du Moyen-Age’, in El discurso político e la Edad Media, N. Guglielmi and A. Rucquoi (eds.), PrimedConicet, Buenos Aires, 1995, 11-28. 49 B. Palacios Martín, “Imágenes y símbolos del poder real en la Corona de Aragón”, El poder real en la Corona de Aragón, I-1º, Institución Fernando el Católico, Zaragoza, 1997, 213.

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administration.50 In 1440, in his desire to put an end to the arguments that sometimes broke out in the court because of the presence of too many people, he placed precise restrictions on the right to reside at court, putting a limit on those for whom this right was recognised and deciding on the number of members in each one’s retinue. As a result, a certain type of hierarchization was established, which went from members of the royal family to the more prominent members of high nobility and noblemen down to the lowest court officials. There was no limit to the number of people at court who could be part of the king’s entourage,51 while the queen or prince could have up to twelve members, a number that dropped as one worked down through the ranks of the noblemen. At the level of court treasurers only two were allowed, and for landlords only one.52 Two years later, while in Valladolid, he introduced further court ordinances in which he laid down precise conditions regarding the administration of justice in the Royal Court as this constituted a special area of jurisdiction.53 As for Enrique IV, he took initiatives related to regulating the wardrobe of some of his court officials.54 Contemporary data on accounts and taxes and the description of the court given by Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo suggest that during the reign of the Reyes Católicos, as court etiquette became more established and there was more specialisation in precise functions, the number of people at the service of the court increased considerably, as did, logically, the expense of maintaining them.55 This was all aimed at enhancing the image of sovereignty as represented by its functioning as an institution.56

50 Cortes of Guadalajara (1436). Véanse en: F Pérez de Guzmán, Crónica de Juan II, “Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla” (Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, lxviii), Atlas, Madrid, 1953, 529-532. 51 Archivo General de Simancas, Casa y Descargos, leg. 9, fols. 821 a 840. 52 “El rey nuestro señor, queriendo escusar en su corte roydos e contiendas e males e daños e escandalos e otros inconuinientes que en ella se suelen acaesçer por causa de andar e continuar en ella muchos omnes de pie, manda e tiene por bien que de aquí adelante trayga cada uno de los que con su merçet andouieren en el numero delos omnes de pie que adelante seran contenidos e non mas, e que todos los otros vayan fuera de la corte del dia que fuere pregonada esta ordenança en su corte fasta otro dia primero siguiente”. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Ms. 13.259, fols. 274r-275r (16-XII-1440). 53 Ibid, 319v-321r. 54 Biblioteca Nacional de España, Ms. Res. 226, nº 21 (18-VI-1466). 55 A. Domínguez Casas, Arte y etiquetas de los Reyes Católicos, Alpuerto, Madrid, 1993, 201-243. 56 González Marrero, La casa de Isabel la Católica.

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It goes without saying that the Royal Court was the preferred setting for staging certain ceremonies that became grand occasions for the ritual expression of an image of royal sovereignty. However, this did not prevent the court from sometimes being held in the setting of a church or cathedral.57 A feature that becomes more and more marked towards the end of the fifteenth century is the description of the court as a festive space, in such a way that it has been asserted that: ‘la corte es un teatro y el rey es el actor protagonista’ (‘The court is a theatre and the King is the main actor’).58 In the court context, the language used acquired specific political meaning.59 It is therefore not surprising that theatrical representation, in the form of buffoonery, short plays and dramatised poems, became a common instrument in royal celebrations.60 Furthermore, the incorporation of short plays (momos and entremeses) into royal festivities converted the court into a true theatrical space. This involved complex planning,61 entailing the use of masks, poetry, music, luxurious costumes provided specially for the occasion and various theatrical devices needed for the spectacle, in which the main actors were the courtiers, although this did not prevent the king himself and the royal family from sometimes taking part.62 The court was also the natural setting for certain ritualised processes for resolving conflicts between nobles, such as challenges made in the king’s presence. Diego de Valera describes such processes in great detail.63 They converted the king, as the creator of nobles, into a born

57

Archivo General de Simancas, Patronato Real, leg. 7. A. Carrasco Manchado, ‘Propaganda política en los panegíricos poéticos de los Reyes Católicos: una aproximación’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, vol. 25 no. 2, 1995, 523-525. 59 A. Mackay, ‘Signs deciphered: the language of court displays in Late Medieval Spain”, in Kings and Kingship in Medieval Europe’, A. Duggan (ed.), King's College, London, 1993, 287-304. 60 A. Gómez Moreno, El teatro medieval castellano, 89-97. 61 E. Asensio, ‘De los momos cortesanos a los autos caballerescos de Gil Vicente’, Estudios Portugueses, Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, Centro Cultural Português, París, 1974, 25-36. 62 M. Díez Garretas, ‘Fiestas y juegos cortesanos en el reinado de los Reyes Católicos. Divisas, motes y momos’, Revista de Historia Jerónimo Zurita, vol. 74, 1999, 163-174. 63 D. de Valera, Tratado de las armas, in ‘Prosistas castellanos del siglo XV’, M. Penna (ed.), Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, CXVI, Atlas, Madrid, 1959, 117139. 58

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arbiter, and the court into the traditional setting where these judicial procedures were carried out.64 A final instrument of the court as a representational space at the service of the monarch was the Capilla Real or Royal Chapel. This was an institution that had numerous meanings. On the one hand, the Royal Chapel was a sort of hotbed for nurturing clerics, producing some of the most politically influential prelates in the kingdom, a consequence of them being trained in the shadow of the king and their proven loyalty. On the other hand, their presence as part of the institutional structure of the court lent certain coherency to a royal image that had to show elements of its connection with the divine that were recognisable. Finally, the liturgical aspect was a common ingredient in most of the major political ceremonies. At the same time, the Royal Chapel was a very important instrument for perpetuating royal memory, either in terms of the monarchy as an institution, a particular founding dynasty or certain monarchs who had chosen the chapel as their final resting place. This was all projected by means of the religious celebrations that were held systematically, in which the function of the Chapel and its chaplains as guarantors of royal memory was upheld.65 Juan II himself had paid special attention to regulating the activities related to the Royal Chapel, particularly from the perspective of its ceremonial function, as laid down in a series of highly detailed ordinances in 1436.66 The same ordinances would provide the foundation for the Royal Chapel of the Reyes Católicos, who drew up new constitutions, taking very much into account what had already been regulated in the times of Queen Isabel’s father.67 These monarchs also took it upon themselves to increase substantially the number of chaplains. Moreover, they bestowed the institution with a great number of privileges,68 extending its resources in order to broaden its functions. Particularly 64 Biblioteca Nacional de España, Ms. 7.809, fols. 15-16 and 304-305 and British Library, Additional Collection, Ms. 25.443, fols. 11-13. More examples in R Andrés Díaz, “Las fiestas de la caballería…” 65 D. Nogales Rincón, ‘Las capillas reales castellano-leonesas en la Baja Edad Media (siglos XIII-XV). Algunas precisiones institucionales’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, vol. 35 no. 2, 2005, 737-766. 66 J. Nieto Soria, ‘La Capilla Real castellano-leonesa en el siglo XV: constituciones, nombramientos y quitaciones’, Archivos Leoneses, vols. 85-86, 1989, 7-54. 67 J. García Oro, ‘Las constituciones de los Reyes Católicos para la Capilla Real de España’, Biblioteca Pontificii Athenaei Antoniniani, vol. 24, Roma, 1985, 283-326. 68 Archivo General de Simancas, Patronato Real, leg. 25.

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prominent amongst these was musical composition and interpretation. These activities would be especially catered for in the court setting under royal patronage69 and would have an increasing presence in the more solemn acts of the monarchy. Thanks to the detailed study on Castilian royal chapels by David Nogales Rincón, we have a fairly accurate appraisal of the ceremonial use of royal palace chapels in the kingdom of Castile-Leon.70 According to this author, references to religious ceremonies of political importance taking place in royal palace chapels, both in the Trastámara era and in medieval times in general, are extremely rare. This confirms the earlier impression of the liturgical ceremonies of the Trastámara monarchy, in the sense that these were not usually held in the palace, despite the availability of specifically religious places such as royal chapels. On the contrary, more often than not it was cathedrals and, to a lesser extent, parish or monastic churches that were used for this purpose. A suitable building would not always be available during the course of a journey and on these occasions altars would be improvised. It is very likely that religious acts in palace chapels were limited to more intimate and family-oriented affairs because their smaller size made them unsuitable for large public ceremonies where attendance frequently exceeded that of court circles. The religious use of palace chapels by the monarchy was therefore limited to regular celebrations that were unrelated to important political ceremonies. These would include the celebration of ordinary masses and other more solemn celebrations stipulated by the liturgical calendar, which would ultimately become festa ferienda or major feast days.71 Rita CostaGomes has posed similar considerations from a peninsular perspective, taking into account the Portuguese experience.72 Examination of the different ordinances and constitutions available again suggests they were used for these purposes as they include specific chapters devoted to the celebration of masses in the presence of the monarch, or procedures to be followed at special services, such as those for Lent or Easter73. However, the absence of political ceremony in the 69

T. Knighton, ‘Fernando el Católico y el mecenazgo musical de la corte real aragonesa’, Nasarre, vol. 9 no. 2, 1993, 27-51. 70 D. Nogales Rincón, La representación religiosa de la monarquía castellanoleonesa: la Capilla real, Doctoral Thesis, Universidad Complutense, Madrid, 2009, 640-715. 71 Nogales Rincón, La representación religiosa, 655. 72 R. Costa Gomes, ‘The Royal Chapel in Iberia: Models, Contacts and Influences’, The Medieval History Journal, vol. 12, 2009, 77-111. 73 J. Nieto Soria, ‘La capilla real castellano-leonesa’, 19-20.

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everyday activities of palace chapels did not prevent the various liturgical acts held there from being strictly planned, particularly with respect to the special dignification of the act that the mere presence of the monarch required. A suitable number of priests, musicians and singers would also be present. Evidence from testimonies shows that within the confines of the chapel there was a strict hierarchisation of those attending.74 The spatial ordering of the hierarchy within the celebration of liturgical acts in royal chapel then was not only confined to these reigns but was a feature of other monarchs’ reigns in Iberia. The king’s position in the chapel was brought to attention and highlighted, either fleetingly, by means of curtains behind which the monarch was secluded or, on other occasions, with a more permanent feature in the form of a balcony where the monarch would be separated off high above the rest of the participants in the act.75 Having considered the limitations of the use of royal chapels as ceremonial space, it is appropriate at this point to examine some of the particular features that typified those Trastámara political ceremonies that incorporated a liturgical element. Apart from royal ceremonies that by their very nature required some sort of specific religious format, such as royal baptisms, weddings or funerals, there was a variety of ceremonies that, while essentially political in nature, also incorporated some form of liturgical or religious expression. Ceremonies requiring a religious format, such as royal baptisms, weddings and funerals, generally took place away from the palace environment, almost always in a cathedral. An exception to this was the baptism of Princess Juana, the future ‘Beltraneja’, which, instead of being held in a cathedral, took place in the Royal Chapel of the Alcázar in Madrid in 1462.76 By way of example, a recent study77 shows, significantly, that of the 26 royal ceremonies of this kind that took place in Castile between the years 1383 and 1503, only three were not held in churches, which usually meant cathedrals and occasionally monastic or parish churches. These were held instead in the castle of Burgos and in the royal alcázares of Madrid and Córdoba. Nevertheless, if the use of specifically religious spaces outside the royal palace appears to be standard procedure, it seems more remarkable that ceremonies that were manifestly political but incorporated 74

L. Marineo Sículo , De las cosas ilustres y excelentes de España, Lib. XXI, fol. 183. Reference in Nogales Rincón, La representación religiosa, 668. 75 Costa Gomes, ‘The Royal Chapel’, 97-102. 76 Enríquez del Castillo, Crónica de Enrique IV, 184. 77 Nogales Rincón, La representación religiosa, 649.

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some liturgical content, however insignificant, also usually took place away from the royal palace. Among the royal political ceremonies in which a significant liturgical element was present, apart from those of the oaths of allegiance, which were referred to earlier, it is worth mentioning the acts of symbolic reverence. Liturgical ceremonies of symbolic reference were those that involved the celebration of acts with significant liturgical content, in which the king expressed devotion towards either a political symbol, which he endowed with religious significance, or a religious symbol that was considered to hold some political significance. A series of standards regarding ceremonial conduct had already been established at the Court of Briviesca in 1387 for certain cases, such as how the king should act in public in the presence of the Host78, or the appropriate liturgical content for the king’s reception on his entry into a city, with guidelines for the ritual that had to be followed by the clergy of that city.79 The sword that belonged to King Ferdinand III, which is kept in Seville Cathedral, was the object of various acts of symbolic reverence to mark the start of certain frontier military campaigns, such as the one led by the Infant Don Ferdinand as royal tutor in 1407.80 The sword was guarded by the Seville cathedral canonry and on the occasion of its reception by the Infante a solemn procession was held from the choir to the high altar, where a stage covered with gold cloth had been erected. After various ceremonies had been held in the cathedral in the presence of the entire canonry and members of the court and local authorities, the Infant took an oath of commitment to return the sword once the campaign was over. The event would then take on a more popular tone as the tutor emerged from the cathedral holding up the sword to show it to the crowds of people who had gathered outside. As well as this particularly prestigious relic in the shape of a monarch’s sword, there are also references to flags or standards as objects of the symbolic reverence that inspired liturgical ceremonies in the presence of royalty. This gave rise to special ceremonies for blessing royal standards, which were often kept inside churches and put on display for solemn processions. An example is found in an account of the days leading up to the campaign that would result in victory at the Battle of

78 Cortes de los Antiguos Reinos de León y Castilla, Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, 1863, ii, 363. 79 Ibid, 363. 80 A. García de Santa María, Crónica de Juan II, J. M. Carriazo y Arroquia (ed.), Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, 1982, 48 and 131.

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Higueruela in 1431. Public ceremonies were held both before and after the campaign, led by both Juan II and his favourite Don Álvaro de Luna.81 In the same way, a week after the entry of Juan II and Don Álvaro de Luna into Toledo on 15 April 1381,82 the king kept a vigil of his arms and standards in the cathedral before the altar of Santa María del Pilar. The following day he attended low mass. In addition to the blessing of the sword and the constable’s armour, a series of standards were placed on the altar. These were the royal standard, the standard of Santiago, the Pendón de la Banda, and one invented by the monarch: the ‘standard of the lancerest’, probably an allusion to the hinge for that purpose found on knights’ armour, now elevated to symbolic status on a royal ensign. After the mass, officiated by the Bishop of Ávila, Diego de Fuensalida, the king’s arms, his armour and his standards were blessed, and a sermon was preached by the Archdeacon of Toledo, Vasco Ramírez de Guzmán. The standards of saints were likewise objects of ceremonial attention through which to express symbolic reverence (in the case of Castile, these were mainly those of Santiago, or Saint James, and San Isidro), either in the context of liturgical acts celebrated in different cathedrals or during the course of processions through particular cities.83 Equally expressive of symbolic reverence were the ceremonies associated with royal pilgrimages to particular places of worship. Those destined for the Monastery of Guadalupe became increasingly important during the Trastámara era. The pilgrimage that Juan II undertook there in February 1435 is recounted in two chronicles that describe in some detail the course of the pilgrimage and the reception ceremony prior to the monarch’s entry into the temple, which took the form of a procession made up of a hundred and twenty friars.84 Finally, the presence of masses within political ceremonies with a liturgical content is worth noting. At the centre of these ceremonies was the celebration of a particularly solemn mass incorporating some political expression that justified holding the ceremony, which generally took place in the presence of numerous courtiers and members of the royal family, 81

J. Nieto Soria, ‘El ciclo ceremonial de la batalla de la Higueruela (1431)’, Estudios de Historia de España, vol.12, 2010, 389-404. 82 P. Carrillo deHuete, Crónica del Halconero Juan II, J. M. Carriazo y Arroquia (ed.), Espasa-Calpe, Madrid, 1946, 90-91. 83 Pérez de Guzmán, Crónica de Juan II, 328 and F Gómez de Cibdarreal, ‘Centón epistolario’, in Epistolario Español, Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, xiii, Atlas, Madrid, 1945, letter LI (year 1431). 84 Pérez de Guzmán, Crónica de Juan II, 519 and Carrillo de Huete, Crónica del Halconero, 195.

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with a significant number of clergy and local authority representatives in attendance. Political manifestations that might take place at a certain point in the mass included the swearing of oaths, symbolic expressions of appointments to particular posts, the blessing of symbolic objects, particularly standards, the delivery of a sermon on some specific political matter, the granting of politically significant pardons and preaching on the Bulls of the Crusades.85 Political ceremonies with liturgical content were typically held in cathedrals, which, as shown earlier, were considered the natural place to celebrate them. The regular use of cathedrals that were of particular importance to the kingdom, primarily those of Toledo, Burgos and Seville, became more and more frequent, although other cathedrals, such as those of Avila, Leon and Santiago, were used for expedience or in cases of urgency. More rarely, we also find monastic centres associated with royal ceremonial practices. These have a particular devotional prominence and include Guadalupe, Las Huelgas in Burgos and San Pablo in Valladolid, which were occasionally used for ceremonial purposes. In contrast, the Royal Palace, with very few exceptions of little significance, does not appear to have been the natural location for representing royal acts of this type. The Castilian monarchs had been somewhat negligent about establishing a suitably dignified itinerant court.86 In the Trastámara era, however, there were signs of greater sensitivity towards the benefits of creating new royal seats. Apart from being architectonically appropriate for the types of activity that would take place in them, they would also be used to express an image of royal power that was compatible with their aspirations of indisputable political pre-eminence. A significant feature of the Trastámara monarchy was the tendency to concentrate their itinerant activity in a considerably weakened geographical setting. Indeed, an examination of the reigns of Juan II87 and Enrique IV 88 shows that movement of the

85

Nieto Soria, Ceremonias de la realeza, 88-93. R. Costa Gomes, ‘The Court Galaxy’, in Finding Europe. Discourse on Margins, Communities, Images, ca. 13th-ca. 18th Centuries, A. Molho, D. Ramada Curto and N. Koniordos (eds.), Berghahn Books, New York, 2007, 185-203. A comprehensive bibliographic study can be found in M. .García Vera, ‘Los estudios sobre la Corte y la sociedad cortesana a fines de la Edad Media. Un balance historiográfico”, Medievalismo. Boletín de la Sociedad Española de Estudios Medievales, vol. 10, 2000, 207-267. 87 F. Cañas Gálvez, El Itinerario de la Corte de Juan II de Castilla (1418-1454), Sílex, Madrid, 2010. 86

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monarchs was primarily concentrated along an axis between Valladolid and Toledo, which contributed to cities like Valladolid, Segovia, Madrid and Toledo being favoured by the Trastámara for ceremonial purposes. While in some cases they made use of royal palaces used by other dynasties, the construction of new ones was not lacking. A notable example of these new constructions and the frequent presence of the monarchs in a particular city was the construction of the Royal Alcázar of Madrid by Enrique III. The Royal Alcázar of Madrid had already been put to important use in the fifteenth century by Juan II and particularly by the Reyes Católicos89 before it became the fixed residence of the court of the House of Austria.90 Compared to other buildings habitually used as the residence of the Royal Court but not built primarily for that purpose,91 the originality and significance of the Alcázar in Madrid lay in the fact that it was purposebuilt as the royal seat and all its decorative, architectonic and spatial elements were conceived in accordance with this objective.92 The throne room and parade ground, which were built following express instructions from Enrique III, were a clear expression of its functional character, which was conceived as a space for representing the monarchy and meeting their ritualistic needs. Away from the court setting, an increasingly prominent role was being played by the city.93 Its growing importance often bore a strong relation to the ceremonial practices of the monarchy and its close links with the court. This led to the establishment of a broader framework for court celebration in which to build an image around the king and his court of a vision of integration and peace for the kingdom. This would involve the participation of the whole city, especially the main municipal authorities. The city’s function was therefore no longer restricted to that of a 88

J. Torres Fontes, Itinerario de de Enrique IV de Castilla, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Murcia, 1953; M.Rábade Obradó, ‘Escenario para una corte: Madrid en tiempos de Enrique IV’, E-Spania. Revue Electronique d’Etudes Hispaniques Médiévales, vol. 8, 2009. Digital Publication. URL : http://espania.revues.org. 89 F. Chueca Goitia, ‘Los palacios de los Reyes Católicos’, Reales Sitios, vol. 10, 1991, 197-242. 90 J. Barbeito, El alcázar de Madrid, Colegio oficial de arquitectos de MadridComisión Cultura, Madrid, 1992. 91 F. Chueca Goitia, Casas reales en monasterios y conventos españoles, Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, 1966 and Cañas Gálvez, El Itinerario, 130-159. 92 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado-Castilla, leg. I-1º, fols. 8 and 10. 93 M. Asenjo González, ‘Fiestas y celebraciones en las ciudades castellanas de la Baja Edad Media’, Edad Media. Revista de Historia, vol. 14, 2013, 35-61.

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ceremonial stage but, significantly, involved the collective participation of its inhabitants. As a result, it became increasingly common to celebrate events relating to the monarchy with civic and political rituals. Aspects that acquired new importance at the end of the fifteenth century, such as the idea of honouring the city or recognising its nobility, would not be incompatible with urban participation.94 Royal presence in the city for events such as the confirmation or granting of privileges would offer an opportunity that was frequently used to promote extensive civic participation through the use of ceremonial and festive devices. In later times, when documentation became more explicit, as in the case of the Reyes Católicos, there is evidence that the cost of organising festivities in the city to honour the monarchy was more often than not borne entirely by the municipality and, on those occasions when the monarch was not present, by cathedral authorities. When present, the monarch was usually concerned with giving concrete instructions relating to specific procedural aspects of the festivities. For this purpose, he would commission the city governors, who not only acted as messengers conveying the monarch’s wishes with respect to the festivities but also, in accordance with those wishes, as inspectors of the appropriate devices for celebrating them.95 Given the circumstances, royal visits generated huge costs and this became a widespread phenomenon that weighed heavily on the municipal treasury. A good example of this is the debt incurred by the Seville council in 1477 following celebrations for the birth of the prince, Don Juan.96 Nevertheless, there is no shortage of examples in which, with the arrival of the monarch in a particular city, the organisation and cost of the festivities was taken on by members of the upper nobility. The festivities for the seven-day event to celebrate the wedding of Isabel and Ferdinand in Valladolid in 1469 were organised by the Count of Alba, who would later be in charge of other royal celebrations held in this city.97 Likewise, 94

J. ABonachía Hernando, ‘Más honrada que ciudad de mis reinos: la nobleza y el honor en el imaginario urbano (Burgos en la Edad Media)’, La ciudad medieval. Estudios de Historia Medieval, J. A. Bonachía (coord.), Universidad de Valladolid, Valladolid, 1996, 168-212. T. Ferrer Valls, ‘La fiesta cívica en la ciudad de Valencia en el siglo XV’, en Cultura y representación en la Edad Media, E. Rodríguez Cuadros (ed.), Generalitat Valenciana- Ajuntament d'Elx-Instituto de Cultura Juan Gil-Albert, Alicante, 1994, 151. 95 Nieto Soria, “La realeza”, Orígenes de la Monarquía Hispánica, 53-55. 96 J. Gestoso y Perez, Los Reyes Católicos en Sevilla (1477-1478), Oficina de la Revista de Tribunales, Sevilla, 1891. 97 Díez Garretas, ‘Fiestas y juegos cortesanos’, 173.

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the Count of Haro paid for the huge fiesta celebrated on 3 April 1497 in Santander for the arrival of Princess Margaret for her wedding to Prince Juan. 98 There is evidence that a practice already known in Aragonese cities began to be applied to urban ceremonies in the latter part of the period under consideration. This was the introduction of vox populi, whereby royal officials in the form of a public address explained the meaning and significance of the ceremony taking place.99 Poets would sometimes be used to act as a mouthpiece for the monarchy by giving a literary format to the attitudes that the monarch wished to promote among his people. 100 At other times visual methods were used to publicise these matters, such as the display of slogans on as mock triumphal arches.101 Use was also made of theatrical devices to convey an image in defence of monarchy through dramatization.102

Conclusions From what has been shown, it can be concluded that ceremonial practice had a strong presence in the Trastámara dynasty. Throughout this period, royal ceremony was unquestionably prominent as an instrument of communication, as well as a means of improving political relations. In the case of the Castilian monarchy, as was the general tendency throughout the West at the end of medieval times, ceremony played a significant role as an instrument of royal political activity. To sum up, from the examples shown here, the pomp and ceremony surrounding royalty should be considered as a particularly significant manifestation of the importance of the king’s transformation from a simple person into a symbolic reality represented by an ennobled image, thanks to a ‘theatocracy’ converted into a source of power103. In this respect, the period under consideration appears to show significant signs of a growing awareness, not only within the monarchy itself but also among the main agents of political life, especially with respect to the higher ranks, of the 98

Alenda y Mira, Solemnidades y fiestas públicas, 13-14. Nieto Soria, “La realeza”, 54-55. 100 A. Carrasco Manchado, ‘Propaganda política en los panegíricos poéticos de los Reyes Católicos: una aproximación’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, vol. 25, 1995, 521. 101 Alenda y Mira, Solemnidades y fiestas públicas 18-19. 102 Gómez Moreno, Teatro medieval castellano, 89-97. 103 S. Bertelli, Il corpo del re. Sacralità del potere nell’ Europa medievale e moderna, Ponte alle Grazie, Florencia, 1995. 99

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political usefulness of frequently exhibiting their role as rulers to the public at large through the use of specific ceremonial resources. It is therefore possible to detect the gradual development of a comprehensive system of ceremonial representation during the Trastámara dynasty in both Castile and Aragon, while a relation of complementarity can be observed between the customary ceremonial manifestations, such as enthronements, births, royal weddings, oaths of allegiance, chivalric ceremonies, royal entries, liturgical ceremonies, acts of justice, funeral rites, ambassadorial receptions and military celebrations. What gave political meaning to the existence of such a system was that its application fulfilled a triple objective. Firstly, it presented an image of royal power as a whole, or some of the most significant features distinguishing it from other political forces, which may have been partial or global but were always close and very tangible. Secondly, it induced a reaction of rudimentary support that was not subject to reasoned criticism. Thirdly, it created the effect of a consensus that was favourable towards the political intentions of the monarchy. All this was a consequence of the dialogue of complementarity between different ceremonial manifestations, which went beyond mere anecdotal accumulation and could be described in terms of a ceremonial system offering an important characterisation of political practice. Furthermore, as has already been pointed out, in this system the role played by the multitudinous dimension of each ceremony became increasingly important. Given the predominance of the court as providing the typical ceremonial framework in the 13th and fourteenth centuries, the tendency in the fifteenth century was towards the planning of ceremonial practices during the course of which, at some point, public participation was guaranteed, thereby raising the profile of the ceremony as a spectacle. This always implied the desire to present an image of a harmoniously structured political community, in which the position of each individual and each group was defined, though without this implying relativisation of the court as a ceremonial stage. As a result, ceremonial practice would constitute a very characteristic expression of ways to articulate the changing relations of power, relations that were in need of useful instruments to create images and perceptions that might contribute in some way towards the transformation of conflict into consensus and dissidence into support.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN CROWNING THE CHILD: REPRESENTING AUTHORITY IN THE INAUGURATIONS AND CORONATIONS OF MINORS IN SCOTLAND, C. 1214 TO 1567 LUCINDA H.S. DEAN1

Between 1214 and 1567 fifteen monarchs were inaugurated or crowned in Scotland.2 Nine of the fifteen were minors, of whom seven were under ten and of these three were under two.3 These accidents of deaths and births have drawn one modern historian to remark that circumstances conspired to force upon Scotland a line of young monarchs, who could not physically manage to take part in full-scale coronation ceremonies, and so the country’s coronation remained correspondingly immature.4 It is indeed true that the infant monarchs of Scotland, particularly those under two, 1

The author would like to acknowledge the financial assistance of the AHRC, the Strathmartine Trust, and the Royal Historical Society. Thanks also to Michael Penman and Amy Hayes for their constructive comments on the piece, and the University of Stirling Division of History and Politics for the opportunity to present an earlier version of the paper at a departmental seminar. Finally, thanks to Ellie Woodacre, Sean McGlynn, and the Royal Studies Network for their patience and encouragement in seeing this paper into print. 2 This total includes both John Balliol and Edward Balliol, although the latter’s was of questionable legitimacy, and both were heavily sponsored by English kings. 3 Alexander II aged 16 (1214); Alexander III aged 8 (1249); David II aged 7 (1331); James II aged 6 (1437); James III aged 9 (1460); James IV aged 15 (1488); James V aged 13–14 months (1513); Mary Queen of Scots, queen at nine days (1542) and crowned aged 9 months (1543); James VI aged under 18 months (1567). James I succeeded his father aged 12 in 1406; however, due to captivity in Enlgand he was not crowned king until his return to Scotland in 1424, aged 30. 4 D. Shaw, ‘Scotland’s Place in Britain’s Coronation Tradition’, Court Historian, vol. 9 no. 1, July 2004, 47.

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would certainly have been assisted during this ceremony. It is also true that the majority are unlikely to have had any involvement in the projections of authority made in them (with the possible exceptions of Alexander II and James IV who were in their mid-teens). However, they were surrounded by adults who fully understood the magnitude of the event and who often had a vested interest in the way that the authority of the crown was visually represented to the kingdom. If anything, the fact that the monarch was a minor amplified the need to do this. Furthermore, despite Shaw’s bold conclusion, there is very little in the current Scottish historiography that broaches the issues of how these minority coronations may have affected the ceremony and the representations of authority made in them, or that considers who was behind the representations if the monarch was incapable of doing so personally.5 Shaw’s proposal implies that the development of the Scottish ceremony was stunted by the number of minorities, but Scotland was by no means the only country to crown children and no such claim has been made against England, France, Germany, Aragon, or other countries that had minor rulers. Scotland may have been unfortunate in the number of infant monarchs, yet the coronations of England and France, to which most others are compared, show little hindrance to ceremonial development despite minors being crowned at critical junctures. In fact the Liber Regalis, perhaps the best known recension of the English coronation ordo, is dated to the mid to late fourteenth century when two minor kings of England were crowned.6 Moreover, recent scholarship on the Scottish parliament has discussed how periods of minority and absentee kingship saw the distinct moves towards the consolidation this body in the late thirteenth century through the period of the Guardians following the death of Alexander III in 1286 and the growth of ideas such as the ‘community of the realm’.7 If the political landscape could be so significantly changed 5 Two recent articles have begun to buck this trend: A. Thomas, ‘Crown Imperial: Coronation Ritual and Regalia in the Reign of James V’ in J. Goodare and A. MacDonald (eds.), Sixteenth-Century Scotland: Essays in Honour of Michael Lynch, Brill, Leiden, 2008, 42-67; M. Lynch, ‘Scotland’s First Protestant Coronation: Revolutionaries, Sovereignty and the Culture of Nostalgia’ in L. Houwen (ed.), Literature and Religion in late Medieval and Early Modern Scotland, Peeters, Leuven, 2012, 177-207. 6 ‘Liber Regalis’ in L. Legge (ed.), English Coronation Records, Archibald Constable and Co, Westminster, 1901, 81-130 7 K. Brown and R. Tanner, ‘Introduction’, and A. McQueen, ‘Parliament, the Guardians and John Balliol, 1284–1296’ in Brown and Tanner (eds.), Parliaments and Politics in Scotland, 1235–1560, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, 2004, 1-49; A.

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while the monarch was an infant (and a girl in the case of Alexander III’s heir, the Maid of Norway), or entirely absent, why then should the ceremonial development be seen to be stunted by these episodes in Scottish history? Scholarly attention has been lavished upon the minorities of England, including work by David Carpenter (Henry III), Joel Burden (Richard II), and a comprehensive survey of essays covering minorities from 1216 to 1547 edited by Charles Beem. 8 All these works emphasise the importance of an enhancement of authority for both the minor monarch and his regency government through public events. The coronation was usually the first key event at which there was the chance to project the authority of the new monarch, often in the face of extreme adversity. Both Carpenter and Burden highlight the dire situations faced by the governments in the minorities of Henry III and Richard II, but also how the coronations of both these monarchs were utilised in the strategies of the respective minority governments to express stability, continuity, reconciliation, and even saw the introduction of new ceremonial elements.9 Scottish historiography still wants a study drawing evidence from the various minorities together as Beem has done for England. The unpublished thesis of William Emond on the minority of James V and monographs on the Scottish monarchs published since the late 1980s have added greatly to our understanding of each reign and the complex minority power struggles within them.10 Yet, the discussions of the use of ceremonial display in attempts to enhance authority are rarely dominant Duncan, ‘The early parliaments of Scotland’, Scottish Historical Review, vol. 45, 1966, 36-58. 8 C. Beem (ed.), The Royal Minorities of Medieval and Early Modern England, Palgrave MacMillan, New York, 2008; J. Burden, ‘Rituals of Royalty: Prescription, Politics and Practice in English Coronation and Royal Funeral Rituals c. 1327 to c. 1485’, Unpub. Thesis, University of York, Dec 1999, 1-112, 164-94; D. Carpenter, The Minority of Henry III, Methuen, London, 1990. 9 For example, the first royal entry pageant procession from the Tower to Westminster takes place in the coronation of Richard II and this went on to become a ‘stock element’ in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Burden, ‘Rituals of Royalty’, 185-9. 10 W. Emond, ‘The Minority of King James V, 1513–1528’, Unpub. PhD thesis, University of St Andrews, 1988. The monographs include: C. McGladdery, James II, John Donald, Edinburgh, 1990; M. Brown, James I, Canongate Press, Edinburgh, 1994; M. Penman, David II, John Donald, Edinburgh, second edition 2005; A. Beam, The Balliol Dynasty, 1210–1364, John Donald, Edinburgh, 2008; N. Macdougall, James IV, Edinburgh, John Donald, reprint 2006; R. Oram, Alexander II King of Scots 1214–1249, John Donald, Edinburgh, 2012.

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and do not always include the coronation. In addition, there are significant challenges to be faced in regards to source material in analysing the Scottish experience. Most prominent is an obvious shortage of extant equivalents to the medieval orders of ceremony found elsewhere in Europe prior to the Reformation. Prescriptive texts, such as the Liber Regalis and the French ordines, and historians’ reliance upon them have been criticised in recent scholarship. 11 Nevertheless, the evolution of these ceremonial texts in the early to mid-medieval era forms the basis of much of the work on coronation ritual in England and on the continent. 12 The survival of records outlining inaugural ceremonial procedure for Scotland most likely dictated the fact that the current historiography of the Scottish coronation focuses almost exclusively on the earliest and latest ceremonies. Studies of the early roots of the ceremony usually start with the inauguration or ordination of Aédan at the hand of St Columba in the sixth century; which, if accurate, is the earliest recorded ‘ordination’ of a king by an ecclesiastic, not just in Scotland but in Europe.13 John Stuart and J. Cooper described a ten point list of ceremonial elements to an early ‘Scots’ inaugural ceremony based on a Northumbrian pontifical (c. mideleventh century).14 There is an obvious lack of reference to either unction or crowning, and this deficiency forms a parallel between Scottish, Gaelic, and Irish inaugural ceremonies.15 At the other end of the chronology there 11

Burden, ‘Rituals of Royalty’, esp. 1-28. For example: J. Bak (ed.), Coronations: Medieval and Early Modern Monarchic Ritual, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1990; E. Brown, The Monarchy of Capetian France and Royal Ceremonial, Variorum, Aldershot, 1991; R. Strong, Coronation: a History of Kingship and the British Monarchy, Harper Collins, London, 2005. 13 M. Kinloch, ‘Scottish Coronations, AD 574–1651’, Dublin Review, vol. 130, 1902, 266. 14 The connections between Northumbria and the Western Isles, most specifically Iona, validate the use of this document. The list is made up of: election; king elect clothed in white; inaugural stone; coronation oath; assembling of people around the king; white rod or sceptre; investiture with the sword; recitation of pedigree and panegyric of mighty deeds from orator or druid; Mass or Communion; and a feast or banquet. J. Stuart, Scottish Coronations, Alexander Gardner, Paisley and London, 1902, 13-18; J. Cooper, ‘Four Scottish coronations since the Reformation’, Transactions of the Aberdeen Ecclesiological Society and Transactions of the Glasgow Ecclesiological Society, Special Issue, Aberdeen, 1902, 5-7. 15 For example: K. Simms, From Kings to Warlords: The Changing Political Structure of Gaelic Ireland in the Later Middle Ages, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2000, 21-39; E. Campbell, ‘Royal Inauguration in Dál Riata and the Stone of Destiny’, 12

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is a group of seventeenth-century compiled ‘orders of ceremony’ for a Scottish coronation. The most well-known is that penned by the Lord Lyon King of Arms, Jerome Lindsay, at the behest of Charles I in preparation for a second ‘Scottish coronation’ in 1633, known as The Forme of the coronatioun of the Kings of Scotland.16 This document is discussed, along with other seventeenth-century manuscripts, by Roderick Lyall. He posits that the consistencies found among the documents suggest similar original fifteenth-century source material may have been used by the compilers and that, though they must be treated with caution, they should not be easily disregarded.17 The limits of space dictate that it is not possible to discuss all of the minor monarchs raised to the throne in Scotland during this period, so the essay will focus on two main case studies, that of David II (crowned in 1331) and James II (crowned in 1437). The inaugurations of Alexander II and III in the thirteenth century and the coronation of James VI in 1567 will also be discussed briefly to provide a point of departure and a point of conclusion for the overall discussion. By drawing on a wider survey of Scottish inaugurations and coronations across the period and encompassing a large range of primary source materials to combat the issues with extant sources,18 this essay intends to illuminate the patterns and development in the inaugural ceremonies of Scottish kings, with particular emphasis on the impact that crowning minors had. In so doing, it attempts to both readdress the imbalance of focus upon Scottish coronation ceremony to date and challenge Shaw’s suggestion that the Scottish coronation ceremony languished in immaturity. There are no official records, financial or parliamentary, for the inaugurations of Alexander II and III, respectively in 1214 and 1249; however, other sources provide insights into both ceremonies with the D. Caldwell, ‘Finlaggan, Islay – Stones and Inauguration Ceremonies’ and T. Clancy, ‘King-making and Images of Kingship in Medieval Gaelic Literature’, in R. Welander, D. Breeze and T. Clancy (eds.), The Stone of Destiny: Artefact and Icon, Society of Antiquaries, Edinburgh, 2003, 43-59, 61-75, 85-105; and E. Fitzpatrick, Royal Inauguration in Gaelic Ireland, c. 1100–1600: A Cultural Landscape Study, Boydell, Woodbridge, 2004. 16 The Register of the Privy Council of Scotland, ed. J. Burton, H.M. General Register House, Edinburgh, 1877, Second Series, ii, 285. 17 R. Lyall, ‘The Medieval Coronation Service: Some Seventeenth Century Evidence’, Innes Review, vol. 28 no.1, Spring 1977, 3-21. 18 This piece has been drawn from material within one of the chapters of the author’s doctoral thesis: ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions: Continuity and Change in the Representations of Scottish Royal Authority in State Ceremony, c. 1214 to c. 1603’, Unpub. Thesis, University of Stirling, 2013.

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most detail furnished in regard to the inauguration of Alexander III, including two images.19 Both of these inaugurations occurred in close proximity to the deaths of the monarch’s predecessors. William I died on 4 December 1214 at Stirling, where much of the court appear to have gathered, and the inauguration of his son took place on 5 December 1214 at Scone.20 In 1249 Alexander II died on the island of Kerrara on 8 July, where he and a large fleet prepared for war with the Norwegian king, and his son was raised to the throne some five days later at Scone on 13 July.21 Both William I and Alexander II’s funerals occurred after the succession had been visually confirmed in the inaugural ceremony of their sons, demonstrating that the point of legal accession appears to have been the inaugural ceremony at this time in Scotland. The rapid moves to have Alexander II ‘raised to the throne’ were, therefore, hardly surprising in a realm where the heir was just fifteen years old and clear threats to the succession remained potent.22 Alexander III’s accession was smoother in regard to threats to the succession; however, the young king was just eight

19

A. Duncan, ‘Before Coronation: Making a King at Scone in the Thirteenth Century’ in Welander, Breeze, and Clancy (eds.), The Stone of Destiny, 139-67, illustration 43; ‘Inauguration of Alexander III’ from Bower in Scotichronicon, Corpus Christi College (Cambridge) MS 171, f. 206r; printed in W. Bower, Scotichronicon, ed. D. Watt et al., 9 vols., Mercat Press, Aberdeen and Edinburgh, 1987–1998 [hereafter Chron. Bower], ix, 173. 20 Chron. Bower, v, 3; J. Fordun, Chronicle of the Scottish Nation, trans. F. Skene and ed. W. Skene, Edmonston and Douglas, Edinburgh, 1872 [hereafter Chron. Fordun], 275-6. Fordun’s work was compiled c. 1384-7, but the compilation relied heavily on thirteenth-century material see: D. Broun, Scottish Independence and the Idea of Britain From the Picts to Alexander III, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, 2007, esp. 174-9, 215-30. Distance from Stirling to Scone: approximately 30 miles. 21 Chron. Fordun, 288; Chron. Bower, v, 191; Registrum Magni Sigilli Regum Scotorum, ed. J. Thomson et al, 11 vols., H.M. General Register House, Edinburgh, 1882–1914, ii, no. 3136; Medieval Chronicles of Scotland: The Chronicle of Melrose (from 1136 to 1264) and The Chronicle of Holyrood (to 1163), trans. and ed. J. Stephenson, Llanerch, Felinfach, 1988, 87; Oram, Alexander II, 190-91. Distance from Kerrara to Scone: approximately 90 to 100 miles. 22 Ibid, 276; A. Duncan, Scotland: The Making of the Kingdom, Edinburgh, Edinburgh UP, reprint 1996, 520-26; D. Broun, ‘Contemporary Perspectives on Alexander II’s Succession: The Evidence of King-Lists’, in R. Oram (ed.), The Reign of Alexander II, Brill, Leiden, 2005, 79-98; M. Brown, Wars of Scotland 1214–1371, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, reprint 2010, 7-20.

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years old. Such reasoning can also be found at the core of death and succession ritual in neighbouring realms.23 The monarchs of Scotland were not crowned and anointed in the thirteenth century, but evidence remains to illuminate the use of regalia including a crown, sword, sceptre and mantle. Bower’s description of the inauguration of 1249 divides the ceremony into two sections, with the girding of the sword, blessing, and ‘ordination’ by the bishop of St Andrews occurring separately from the outdoor enthronement.24 Extant ordos for such ceremonies elsewhere usually include the king being invested with blessed sword as part of the inaugural ceremony.25 The first gift of a papal sword to Scotland is usually dated to the reign of James IV (1507),26 but Charles Burns raises evidence to suggest that William I too was presented with this honour c. 1201-2 in one of the earliest examples of this particular gift by the papacy.27 Having carried the sword of honour in Richard I’s coronation at Winchester in 1194, William I would have seen such a rite in action.28 It is therefore credible to believe that the blessing of and investiture with William’s papal sword was drawn into the Scottish ceremony for both Alexander III and his father, if it had not already existed.29 Bower’s account, its accompanying illustration, and the Scone seal all depict Alexander holding a sceptre, as well as wearing a crown and purple mantle, in the outdoor enthronement.30 In addition to a papal sword,

23

For example, twelfth-century Capetian dynasty crowned heir prior to death of successor until the death of Philip Augustus in 1223: R. Jackson, Vive Le Roi: A History of the French Coronation From Charles V to Charles X, University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill and London, 1984, 6. 24 Chron. Bower, v, 295. 25 Duncan, ‘Making a King’, 133-4. 26 Macdougall, James IV, 196-7. 27 C. Burns, ‘Papal Gifts to Scottish Monarchs: The Golden Rose and the Blessed Sword’, Innes Review, vol. 20 no. 2, Autumn 1969, 161-2. 28 R. de Hoveden, The Annals of Roger de Hoveden comprising the History of England and other countries of Europe from AD 732 to AD 1201, trans. and ed. H. Riley, H. Bohn, London, 1853, 427; ‘Twelfth Century Coronation Order’ and ‘Coronation of Richard I’, in Legge (ed.), English Coronation, 30-42, 51. 29 The ninth-century Northumbrian Pontifical included investiture with a sword and could be posited as a traditional element, see above n.13. 30 Only the account of Bower indicates purple as colour of mantle: Chron. Bower, v, 293-5. See above fn. 18 for images and for discussion of images see Duncan, ‘Making a King’, esp. 149-67.

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William I also received a papal rose (c. 1182).31 Fifteenth and sixteenthcentury writers record that it was ‘a marvellously-fashioned and valuable gold rose to fix upon his sceptre or golden wand,’ and ‘[...] of balsamon fulfillit [...] and als odour sweit [...]’32 Although William himself could not have been inaugurated with this rose-topped sceptre, there is every likelihood that this glittering gift took pride of place at his son and grandson’s inaugural ceremonies, adding glory by association through the special status this object accorded to William’s realm. Moreover, a rose of gold is recorded in the inventory of the regalia when it is removed by Edward I of England in 1296, and its position alongside the rest of the regalia emphasising the likelihood of its use in inaugural ceremonies up to the date of removal33. It is not clear at what point the investiture with the sceptre or crown took place, although Duncan proposes the former was likely conferred by a secular earl, and the latter put in place by the king himself.34 Secular actors dominated the outdoor enthronement. While Gesta Annalia and Bower describe both nobles and clergy leading the king to the royal throne bedecked with gold silk by a cross in the churchyard at Scone (on the Moot Hill),35 the sketch in Bower depicts only the secular figures of two earls and the poet. The inauguration of Alexander II was certainly dominated by secular figures also, as the only prelate named as accompanying Alexander II to Scone was William Malveisin, bishop of St Andrews, while his other named attendees were all secular earls. The bishop of Glasgow and the bishop-elect of Ross, as well as the Chancellor and household members appear to have remained at Stirling with the

31

Chron. Bower, iv, 475; Chron. Fordun, 275; The Book of Pluscarden, Vol. II, ed. F. Skene, W. Paterson, Edinburgh, 1880, 38; Chronicle of Melrose, 22; Burns, ‘Papal Gifts’, 150-95, esp. 155-6, sketch of a papal rose opp. 156. 32 Pluscarden, 38; W. Stewart, The Buik of the croniclis of Scotland; or, A metrical version of the history of Hector Boece, ed. by W. Turnbull, 3 vols., London, 1858, iii, 35-6; Burns, ‘Papal Gifts’, 157. 33 Documents illustrative of the history of Scotland from the death of King Alexander the Third to the accession of Robert Bruce MCCLXXXVI–MCCCVI, ed. by J. Stevenson, H.M. General Register House, Edinburgh, 1870, ii, 142-4. 34 A. Duncan, The Kingship of the Scots 842–1242: Succession and Independence, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, 2002, 137-9. 35 Notably only the Chron. Fordun refers to the Stone of Destiny, 289-90. For further discussion see: Duncan, ‘Making a King’, and D. Broun, ‘The Origin of the Stone of Scone as a National Icon’ in Welander, Breeze, and Clancy (eds.), The Stone of Destiny, 167, 183-97; Broun, Scottish Independence, 161-88, 215-34.

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queen to hold vigils for William I.36 The exact roles played by these actors in the ceremonies of 1214 are unclear. However, there was certainly a large assembly of key nobles, prelates and household officials, and the court was split into two to tend to both ceremonies. Alexander III’s inauguration was brought to a close with a poet kneeling before the king and reciting the royal genealogy in Gaelic.37 All of this would have been rounded up with feasting, if the three day feasting of 1214 was undertaken, as has been implied by the curious figure of a harper identified by Bannerman.38 William I’s interaction with the ecclesiastically-dominated English ceremony, combined with Scotland’s growing papal interactions – including the ‘special daughter’ status granted to the Ecclesia Scoticana and the papal gifts described above – give grounds for the thirteenth century seeing a more substantial part of the ceremony occurring within the church containing elements that would have been familiar to foreign observers.39 Yet, the fact that the ceremony remained in two distinct parts, with one inside the church and one outside that was markedly secular, emphasise the continued dominance of secular traditions. This opens a clear link to the Irish situation where, as Fitzpatrick has noted, the ecclesiastics came to the king and the most the church could hope for was that part of the ceremony occurred inside the church or on church land.40 Duncan proposes that the ‘liturgification’ of the inaugural ceremony in Scotland was limited by the fact that the church could not interfere any further in this rite without the papal sanction of full unction.41 This drive for ‘liturgification’ can be found in attempts to gain the right of unction by Alexander II and the minority government of Alexander III from 1221 to 36

Gesta Annalia lists seven earls: Fife, Strathearn, Atholl, Angus, Menteith, Buchan and Lothian: Chron. Fordun, 275-6. Bower only lists five earls, missing out Fife and Lothian: Chron. Bower, v, 3. 37 Chron. Fordun, 289-90; Chron. Bower, v, 291-5. The poet and the outside nature of this ceremony are depicted on both the Scone seal and the sketch from Bower. For discussions on the poet: M. Legge, ‘Inauguration of Alexander III’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland [hereafter PSAS], vol. 80, 1945–6, 73-82; J. Bannerman, ‘The King’s Poet and the Inauguration of Alexander III’, Scottish Historical Review, vol. 68 no.186, 1989, 120-49. 38 Ibid, 123-7, 134. 39 The bull Cum Universi (c. 1192) granted Scotland ‘special daughter’ status which meant the prelates of the Scottish church dealt directly with Rome or a papal representative rather than falling under the jurisdiction of York. For example see: Duncan, Making of the Kingdom, 264. 40 Fitzpatrick, Royal Inauguration in Gaelic Ireland, 155-8. 41 Duncan, Kingship of the Scots, 150.

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the 1250s, and reveals the continued drive for ceremonial development despite the lack of an adult ruler in the case of the 1250s.42 Alice Taylor has proposed that the abbot of Dunfermline’s unusual post of chancellor allowed him to play a key role in ‘raising the status’ of Scottish kingship through involvement in the canonisation of St Margaret (1249), the saint’s translation (1250), papal interactions, and attempts to gain the rite of unction, perhaps with the aim of making Dunfermline the new site for the coronation ceremony.43 It was the vested interests of those surrounding infant kings, such as the abbot of Dunfermline, which would prove crucial in preventing any stagnation in ceremonial developments during minorities. Whilst attempts for the unction of Scottish kings were made by both Alexander II and III, as well as the minority government of the latter, the Bull of Unction was not be received by a Scottish king until June 1329.44 Robert I died in June 1329, before the unction bull arrived, and the first king of Scots to officially receive this rite was his minor son, David II.45 Despite the momentous nature of the seven-year-old David’s coronation in the development of Scottish kingship, the chronicle accounts are not forthcoming with any finer details of the ceremony itself and little indication regarding the roles of individuals. David ‘was anointed king of Scots, and crowned at Scone’ by James Ben, bishop of St Andrews, whose role had been outlined in the Papal Bull of 1329, but there is no mention of the earl of Fife, or any other earls, or the poet or herald.46 Thomas Randolph, earl of Moray, was named guardian, but even his role as an actor within the liturgy and procedure of the ceremony is unknown. Duncan makes a throw away comment about ‘the composition of a written 42 Calendar of Entries in the Papal Registers relating to Great Britain and Ireland: Papal Letters, ed. by W. Bliss et al, 16 vols, London, H.M. Stationery Office, 1893, i, 83; Calendar of Documents relating to Scotland preserved in her Majesty’s Public Record Office, London, ed. Joseph Bain et al., 5 vols., Edinburgh, H.M. General Register House, 1881–1986, i, nos. 1798, 2157; Handlist of Acts of Alexander III, no. 232; Duncan, Kingship of the Scots, 118-9; Broun, Scottish Independence and the Idea of Britain, 203; Oram, Alexander II, 66-9. 43 A. Taylor, ‘Historical Writing in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Scotland: the Dunfermline Compilation’, Historical Research, vol. 83 no. 220, May 2010, 228-52. 44 ‘XXX. Bull of John XXII Concerning the Coronation of the Kings of Scotland’, Facsimile of the National Manuscripts of Scotland, ed. W. Gibson-Craig and H. James, 3 vols., Ordnance Survey Office, Edinburgh, 1867–72, ii, 22-4. 45 In the author’s thesis it is argued that the Bull may ultimately have retrospective permission for something which occurred in 1306 for Robert I, see: Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.2, section i. 46 Chron. Fordun, 346; XXX. Bull of John XXII Concerning the Coronation’, 24-5.

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ordo for the 1331 coronation’ but provides no reference.47 The fragmentary Exchequer Rolls for the period include a payment for the writing of a ‘rotuli de officio coronacionis’.48 ‘Rotuli’ usually indicates an expense roll; however, the ‘de officio coronacionis’ translates as ‘of/ concerning [the] duty/office/service of the coronation,’ and sounds suspiciously like a payment for the writing of an order of ceremony. Unfortunately, such an order of ceremony no longer appears to exist. The existence of a specific set of royal regalia in Scotland by 1331 is highly debateable due to the removal of a large number of items by Edward I in 1296.49 Yet, the ceremonies of the latter years of Robert I’s life indicate an elaborate manner of representing Scottish royal authority, which spared no expense in creating a royal image that would promote Scotland’s capacity to compete on the European stage, particularly in a contest with England.50 It is, therefore, highly probable that items of regalia were made or purchased for his young heir David for his wedding to Joan Plantagenet, held at Berwick in 1328 before large hosts of English and Scots observers. The Exchequer Rolls records for David II’s wedding refer to various merchants procuring goods on the continent for the wedding.51 One merchant, Thomas of Carnato, definitely purchased precious metals including a gold seal matrix on a chain for King Robert and a similar item in silver for his son, but only a few of Carnato’s purchases are listed individually.52 Therefore, it is not unreasonable to suggest that Carnato may have been entrusted to acquire items such as a crown or the materials to make or embellish one. There was a payment of 100s. to Copyn the goldsmith made in 1331 which is not linked to specific work undertaken, but that suggests already purchased regalia items were worked on in preparation for coronation rather than bought anew.53 Alexander Brook has suggested that the cut of the diamonds found in the crown that remains extant today were of Indian origin and of a style 47

Duncan, ‘Making a King’, 153. The Exchequer Rolls of Scotland: Rotuli Scaccarii Regum Scotorum, ed. G. Burnett et al., 23 vols., H.M. Register House, Edinburgh, 1878–1908 [hereafter ER], i, 381. The low cost suggests a working copy rather than an ornate presentational document. 49 Documents illustrative of the history of Scotland, ii, 142-4; The Acts of Parliament of Scotland, ed. by T. Thomson and C. Innes, 12 vols., H.M. Register House, Edinburgh, 1814–1875, i, 112. 50 For full discussion of Robert I ceremonial, including 1328 wedding, see Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.1, section ii, ch.3, section i. 51 ER, i, 119, 149. 52 Ibid, 150. 53 Ibid, 376. 48

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datable to the fourteenth century.54 Robert would not have been in the position to purchase diamonds for the crown for his own inaugural ceremony in 1306, but it is likely that he did so at a later date to elaborate the regalia for his son. The mantle, royal banner, and possibly the illusive papal sword, were the only historic remnants of the Canmore regalia in Scotland in 1331.55 Yet, the only item recorded as being made in 1331 was a small sceptre fashioned by the same goldsmith costing just twenty shillings. This item has previously been assumed to have been made for the king;56 however, the entry occurs in the account of the queen’s clerk of wardrobe’s accounts and it could as easily be ascribed to her. Either way, the distinct lack of other recorded regalia further warrants that Robert had already invested in purchasing or fashioning regalia to replace that which Edward I had removed. Any regalia Robert commissioned would undoubtedly have been for an adult. On the whole there are few references to minor kings’ coronations that indicate that they wore suitably-sized regalia.57 The use of specific historic regalia and robes in these ceremonies was more important than accounting for the age of minor monarchs. On David II’s seal the sceptre he holds in his right hand is floriated and bears a strong resemblance to that depicted on his father’s second seal, a far more interesting and individual design than the first of Bruce seal which had likely been modelled on the English-inspired Balliol seal in the haste to 54

A. Brook, ‘Technical Description of the Regalia of Scotland’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, vol. 24, 1889-90, 71-9. 55 The mantle and royal banner were rescued by Bishop Robert Wishart and used in the inaugural ceremony of Bruce in 1306, and William’s papal sword does not appear in the lists of regalia removed by Edward I. For the mantle and banner see: BL, Add. MS 4575, f. 250 v, ‘Articuliproponendi contra Epi[sca]pum Glasguensis super consilioassensu et adhorentia per ip[su]m factis Roberto de Brus in principio rebellionis contra Angliæ’ in Thomas Rymer Collections Hen. I–Edw. I; Scotland: Documents and Records illustrating the History of Scotland, and the Transactions between the crowns of Scotland and England, preserved in her Majesty’s Exchequer, ed. Frances Palgrave, 2 vols., Public Records Office, London and Edinburgh, 1837, i, 366-7. Thanks to Dr Alasdair Ross and Dr Sonja Cameron for letting the author read a work-in-progress article: ‘The Bad Bishop: Robert Wishart and the Scottish Wars of Independence’ (forthcoming). 56 ER, i, 382; J. Reid, ‘The Scottish Regalia, Anciently Styled the Honours of Scotland’, PSAS, vol. 24, 1889–90, 30; Kinloch, ‘Scottish Coronations, AD 574– 1651’, 46-7. 57 The crown ‘was held near (instead of on)’ the head of ten year old Charles IX (1561), and Richard II was infamously carried from his coronation for a rest (1377): Jackson, Vive le Roi, 46; Burden, ‘Rituals of Royalty’, 189.

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produce one.58 The similarity in the sceptre design could merely demonstrate how the craftsmen reused designs, or it may indicate that it was passed from father to son, particularly as the later Bruce seal may have modelled its regalia design on items made some time after 1306. Further entries from the queen’s clerk of the wardrobe’s account include silk cloth from Antioch,59 large amounts of red and white velvet, Parisian silk, a chair for the king, four pieces of gold cloth, furs, and expenses for merchants. Over 114 ells (over 100 metres)60 of red and white velvet were used for the child king and queen suggesting mantles with long trains of ruby red and white, probably fur lined or trimmed.61 The colour listed here is red rather than the ‘royal purple’ previously used for the Scottish coronation mantle. Alice Hunt notes that during the coronation of Henry VIII (1509), the king entered the coronation ceremony in a red silk and velvet mantle, described as a parliament robe, but was redressed in a purple robe following anointing.62 A similar rerobing procedure may have occurred for David II, where the newly made red and white velvet robes were replaced following anointing by the purple mantle that been deemed valuable enough for Bishop Wishart to retain from Edward I and may have been passed down from Alexander III. Following in the tradition of the Canmore ancestors, David II’s coronation was also concluded with feasting and entertainments. The Exchequer Rolls reveal that the revelry was accompanied by music from minstrels, likely employed to entertain during the feasting that undoubtedly occurred with the quantities of food consumed.63 In addition to the feasting, the chronicles and financial accounts record the girding of knights in 1331. Antioch silk was purchased for ‘certain knights’ at the coronation, and four pieces of gold cloth are recorded as being used ‘in the making of the knights’. Moreover, expenses record that ‘trappings/apparel’ for the admission into knighthood were supplied to John Stewart, earl of Angus, and Thomas Randolph (junior), who were 58

W. Birch, History of Scottish Seals from the eleventh to the seventeenth century, 2 vols., Eneas Mackie, Stirling,1905, i, 41-5, plates 22-5. 59 Antioch is located in modern day Turkey. 60 Ulnis or an ‘ell’ was the equivalent to approx. 94 cm. 61 ER, i, 380-9. 62 A. Hunt, The Drama of Coronation: Medieval Ceremony in Early Modern England, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2008, 22-33. This is not the first reference to the changing of robes in an English coronation, see for earlier examples: ‘Coronation of Richard I’ and ‘Liber Regalis’ in Legge, English Coronations, 4653, 81-130. 63 ER, i, 375-404. For minstrels specifically: 398.

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two of those named by Bower as being honoured with a knighthood.64 Knighting ceremonies frequently coincided with Scottish coronations after 1331 and are generally linked to the rallying of support around a leader. This is the first occasion when a knighting ceremony is explicitly linked to the coronation of a Scottish king, if it was introduced at this stage the context of the time period and the age of the young king likely meant this event was part of a concerted effort to create a united front behind the young king. Considering the Canmore starting point in which the ceremony of inauguration appears to mark the point of legal accession, the fact that David was crowned on 24 November 1331, over two years after the death of Robert, appears to mark a departure from this. A document produced summoning the sheriff and bailies of Berwick in to the coronation in 1331, records that David ‘by the grace of God king of Scots’ calls them to Scone, emphasising that officially David was considered king prior to his coronation.65 However, Barbour’s Bruce implies that a pre-accession recognition of David and a confirmation of succession with a crowning ceremony occurred in parliament during Robert I’s lifetime, following David’s wedding to Joan of England in July 1328.66 By undertaking such a ceremonial display, the aging king’s actions would have visually enhanced the prince’s authority by projecting the rights of his dynasty and heir amongst the political community, thereby relieving the pressure for a rapid coronation of David following the death of Robert I. Michael Penman has posited a number of reasons, both political and ceremonial, as to why a two year gap occurred between Robert’s death and David II’s coronation. These include the possibility that written instructions from Rome had to be acquired before undertaking the ceremony,67 although the Papal Bull produced in June 1329 included limited instructions making this seem unlikely.68 There were other ceremonial issues that could have caused delays, including the return of the Stone of Scone, which had been a provision of the Treaty of

64

Ibid, 385; Chron. Bower, vii, 71-3. Records of the Parliament of Scotland, ed. G. MacIntosh, A. Mann and R. Tanner et al, St Andrews, 2007-2013, accessed online at http://www.rps.ac.uk [hereafter RPS], A1331/1. 66 J. Barbour, The Bruce, ed. A. Duncan, Canongate, Edinburgh, 1977, 746-9. There is a record of one such confirmation in parliament in 1326, but not in 1328: RPS, 1326/2. 67 Penman, David II, 44. 68 XXX. Bull of John XXII Concerning the Coronation’, 24-5. 65

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Edinburgh-Northampton of 1328.69 As this was the first ‘legitimate’ anointing to take place in Scotland, it is possible that the oil had to be blessed by the pope in Rome and transported to Scotland, although this would have taken a matter of weeks or months rather than years. While no miracle story remains extant relating to the holy oil used to anoint Scottish kings as found for England and France,70 the connection between Dunfermline, St Margaret, and the Bruce dynasty highlights a point for consideration. Since David II’s coronation occurred on 24 November, the end of the octave of the feast of St Margaret on 16 November, perhaps the holy oil of Scotland may have been that of St. Margaret.71 While Scone was the traditional inaugural site, there was an increasing focus upon Dunfermline, perhaps with designs to bring it in line with Westminster as a ceremonial centre. This led to fluctuating favour offered to these two religious houses.72 It is reasonable to posit that Dunfermline Abbey laid claim to the right to look after the holy oil, and perhaps even the rite of unction itself. Robert’s grant to Scone of 1325 confirmed their rights as the place that the honours were bestowed, but said nothing of the receiving of unction. Furthermore, Alexander I de Ber was appointed abbot of Dunfermline during 1328/9, therefore if the oil was held by Dunfermline and the new abbot was keen to assert his place in the political and social order he too may have caused further delays.73 Such ambiguities 69

‘Letter of Edward III. to the Abbot and Convent of Westminster ordering Delivery to the Scots of the Stone of Destiny’ in Legge (ed.), English Coronation Records, 77-8; Penman, David II, 44-5. 70 For example see: ‘X. Letter of John XXII to Edward II about the Oil of Coronation’ in Legge, English Coronation Records, 69-76; T. Sandquist, ‘The Holy Oil of St. Thomas of Canterbury’, in Ibid and M.Powicke (eds.), Essays in Medieval History Presented to Bertie Wilkinson, University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1969, 330-44; J. le Goffe, ‘La structure et le contenu idéologique de cérémonie du sacre’, in Ibid et al, Le sacre royal a l'epoque de Saint-Louis: d'apres le manuscrit latin 1246 de la BNF, Gallimard, Paris, 2001, 19-35. 71 The miracles of St Margaret refer to the miraculous qualities of the dust around her grave and the water from her well, and it is not unreasonable to suggest that one or both of these were added to the anointing oil of Scotland: The Miracles of Saint Æbbe of Coldingham and Saint Margaret of Scotland, trans. and ed. Robert Bartlett, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2003, 92-7, 112-7, 122-3, 134-7. 72 For example, in legislation regarding inheritance the abbot of Scone, Thomas de Balmerino, was listed first of the abbots in 1314, but in 1315 and 1318 the abbot of Dunfermline takes this prominent position: RPS, 1314/1, 1315/1, 1318/30. 73 The Heads of Religious Houses in Scotland form the Twelfth to the Sixteenth Centuries, eds. Donald E. Watt and N. Shead, Scottish Record Society, Edinburgh, 2001, 69.

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could have instigated a clash between these two illustrious religious centres that may have in turn caused further delay. These ceremonial reasons may have contributed to the extent of the delay prior to David’s coronation; however, as Penman has concluded, the uneasy political situation following Bruce’s death – with an infant left to take the throne and an adult Balliol claimant waiting in the wings – must have lain at the root of this hiatus. It was only once a violent intervention into Scottish affairs by Edward III of England and the ‘Disinherited’ Scots in support of Edward Balliol’s claim to the throne became a real possibility in the summer of 1331 that the minority government crowned the child Bruce king.74 Yet, once the decision had been made it became crucial to project a strong image of royal authority through the ceremony as there were marked challenges to this authority, including the conspicuous absence of the earl of Fife, considering his traditional role in enthroning Scottish kings. This defection from the Bruce cause illustrated the fragility of the new dynasty, with the impending Balliol threat revealing cracks in the façade Robert I had carefully constructed.75 A further reaction to the challenges faced in 1331 can be illuminated by the aforementioned summons to the Sheriff of Berwick in September prior to the coronation, which reveals a firm link between the coronation and parliament: David, by the grace of God king of Scots, to his sheriff and bailies of Berwick upon Tweed [...] Since we have ordained our parliament to be held at Scone on the first Friday before the feast of [St Katherine] next to come [22 November 1331] with a continuation of seven days following [...]76

The full coronation on 24 November 1331, took place within a ‘coronation parliament’ that had started on 22 November. The expenses reveal that much food was brought in to supply the attendees of parliament and there are payments indicating that the young king and queen were transported to and from the parliament.77 Moreover, the red fur-lined mantles may have been parliament robes worn by the child monarchs throughout the wider 74

Penman, David II, 44-8. For more on Dupplin Moor and political tensions see: Ibid, 1-53; B. Webster, ‘Scotland without a king, 1329–41’, in A. Grant and K. Stringer (eds.), Medieval Scotland: Crown, Lordship and Community. Essays Presented to G.W.S. Barrow, Edinburgh UP, Edinburgh, 1993, 223-236; Beam, The Balliol Dynasty, 223-49; Brown, Wars of Scotland, 232-54. 76 RPS, A1331/1. 77 ER, i, 376-92. 75

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event. The gathering of the three estates for a parliament guaranteed high attendance and, as Penman states, by placing David’s coronation thus the minority government forged a direct link between the king’s investiture and oaths, and the ‘political role of his subjects.’78 The political anxiety surrounding the accession of a child further enmeshed the role of the estates and parliament into the ceremonial investiture of royal power. Therefore, where the power of the English parliament grew through the king’s need for taxes for war,79 it was the Scottish parliament’s role in royal succession and acclamation, minorities and the provision of lieutenants that provided the foundation of its power. When James II was crowned in 1437, before his seventh birthday, the event was enveloped within a coronation parliament replicating the coronation of David II, which had taken place in similarly turbulent political surroundings. The parliament opened on 20 March, approximately a month after the murder of James I on 20/21 February, and the coronation is dated 25 March 1437.80 Brown proposes that with less than the forty days required for calling a gathering of the estates there would have been limited attendance.81 However, there are no attendance lists to confirm this and the combining of events may equally have boosted attendance. Moreover, 25 March 1437 was a prominent date in the Scottish religious and royal calendar. Not only was it the first day of Holy Week82 and the feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, but more importantly it was also the anniversary of the coronations of both Robert I (1306) and Robert II (1371).83 For the first time, although not the last, the site of the coronation changed in 1437.84 The parliamentary preamble and Bishop Leslie’s 78

Penman, David II, 46; Ibid, ‘Parliament Lost, Parliament Regained? The Three Estates in the Reign of David II, 1329–1371’, in Brown and Tanner (eds.), Parliaments and Politics in Scotland, 77. 79 R. Tanner, The Late Medieval Scottish Parliament, Tuckwell Press, East Linton, 2001, 12-13. 80 APS, ii, 31; Chron. Bower, ix, 139; RPS, 1437/3/1-2. 81 McGladdery, James II, 10-11; Brown, James I, 196-8. 82 Easter Sunday in 1437 was 31 March. 83 Robert I: e.g. T. Grey, The Scalachronica: the Reigns of Edward I, Edward II and Edward III, trans. H. Maxwell, Llanerch, Felinfach, 2000, 30-1; Robert II: e.g. Chron. Bower, vii, 367. 84 Sites of other coronations after 1437: James III, Kelso Abbey (1460); James IV, Scone (1488); James V (1513) and Mary (1543) both at Chapel Royal in Stirling Castle; James VI, Kirk of the Holyrood, Stirling (1567). The importance of place for Scottish royal ceremony to be addressed by author in: ‘Making the most of what they had: Adapting [Indoor] and Outdoor Spaces for Royal Ceremony in

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sixteenth-century account illustrate that the coronation took place at Holyrood not Scone, and that there was a procession from Edinburgh castle to Holyrood Abbey where James II was ‘[…] with kinglie honour he receiuet, be the thrie estates, crounet, w[i]t[h] commoun handis clapping of al, admitted.’85 The route from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood, later going via the West Port of the City, would become the processional route by which monarchs entered the city in the later fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and James I appears to have made a preliminary entry into Edinburgh the month before his coronation via an unknown route in 1424.86 However, 1437 was the first occasion a processional aspect is unequivocally linked to a coronation. In earlier coronations the king must have travelled to Scone from a residence that was probably in or near Perth (approximately two and half miles away), but there is little evidence for a town-viewed procession as suggested here. The processional aspect of this event contradicts the usual reasoning behind the choice of Holyrood/ Edinburgh, that of safety.87 A public procession placing the boy king on show suggests a certain confidence, or at least the desire to project confidence. This was likely Joan’s intention in the aftermath of her husband’s murder as she attempted to project her authority as mother of the king and possible guardian of the realm.88 A number of other aspects come to light in the coronation of James II which appear to be linked to the particular problems of crowning a child amidst the complexities of political upheaval, as well as due to the Scotland c. 1214–1603’ in R. Mulryne & K. de Jonge (eds.), Architectures of Festival in Early Modern Europe, Ashgate, Farnham, forthcoming 2015); ‘Where to make the king (or queen): the importance of place in Scottish inaugurations and coronations from 1214 to 1651’, Royal Scone: A Scottish Medieval Royal Centre in Europe, Scone, 5–7 Dec 2014.. 85 J. Leslie, The Historie of Scotland wrytten first in latin by the most reuerrend and worthy Jhone Leslie, Bishop of Ross, trans. J. Dalyrmple (1596), ed. E. Cody, Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London, 1890, 56-8; RPS, 1437/3/2. 86 H. Boece, The Chronicles of Scotland Compiled by Hector Boece. Translated into Scots by John Bellenden, 1531, ed. E. Batho and H. Husbands, 2 vols., Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh and London, 1941, ii, 382; on the selection of Palm Sunday and English influences in regards to processional entry in Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.2, section iii. 87 McGladdery, James II, 10-11; Brown, James I, 197-98. 88 This included the rapid rounding up of murder suspects, including the arrest of Walter of Atholl: Ibid, 197-9. For more on Joan as second person of the realm: F. Downie, She is But a Woman: Queenship in Scotland 1424–1463, John Donald, Edinburgh, 2006; and Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, esp. ch.1, section iv.

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challenges faced in using a new venue. These adaptations come to light in a source that must be used cautiously due to the fact it was compiled in the seventeenth century. The account of a coronation at Holyrood is found in the heraldic collection of Sir James Balfour of Denmilne (c.1590–1657) and lists the coronation as that of Robert II, which actually took place at Scone in 1371.89 However, Lyall’s discussions suggest that the original document from which this was copied dated from the mid-fifteenth century, and that this original was perhaps created by the canons of Holyrood to add historical precedence to the coronation of James II.90 One issue Lyall does not raise is explicitly is whether, in fact it was based on James II’s coronation in 1437. If the original copied by Balfour was created in the mid-fifteenth century, James II’s coronation was the most recent coronation in memory and it was to be the only pre-Union monarch coronation to occur at Holyrood. Moreover, the fourth paragraph of the document states: ‘then did [th]e Quier and sing God blisse him as he had done his father.’91 As the first of the Stewart line, Robert II’s father had never been king nor undergone a coronation, therefore the document must have been based upon the coronation ceremony of a king who had succeeded his father. The manuscript stresses the heightened importance of the Lyon herald and other secular officials such as the hereditary Constable and Marshall. If we accept that Balfour copied an ecclesiastical record, this could confirm the secular aspects of the Scottish ceremony he presents since to emphasise these secular roles was of no benefit to the church. Conversely if this was an ecclesiastical record, one would perhaps expect a more detailed recording of the liturgy. There is no record of the occurrence of a Mass for instance, but Balfour indicates that portions of the ceremony went unrecorded: ‘All wich Ceremonies performed, with maney more not heir Sett done [...]’92 The authorship of this document and the Forme, which also excludes the Mass, must be taken into account here as both were compiled post-1560; therefore despite ‘copying’ earlier documents, they may have purposefully side-lined Mass and other overtly Catholic

89

NLS, Adv. MS. 33.7.10, ff. 6r-14r, and Adv. MS. 33.2.26, ff. 30-31 ‘CORONATIONS: Descriptions of coronations and other ceremonies in the hand of Sir James Balfour of Denmilne, 17th century’. Adv. MS. 33.7.10 includes the note about the origin of the text (f. 14r) and an oath with the scratched out date of 1445 (ff. 12r-14r). 90 R. Lyall, ‘The Medieval Coronation Service’, 14-5. 91 NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30r. 92 Ibid, f. 31r.

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liturgy.93 However, in 1437 there were practical reasons why these secular heraldic officials may have risen to the fore. The absorption of the earldom of Fife by the crown in 1425, following James I’s destruction of the Albany Stewarts, removed this important traditional secular figure from the enthronement and left a ceremonial gap to be filled.94 This adds legitimacy to the claims that this account refers to James II’s coronation, as this would have been the first coronation where the complete extinction of this earldom would have been a factor. Moreover, it is pertinent to highlight that the hereditary Constable and Marischal were both raised to earldoms during the reign of James II,95 perhaps to add landed-title gravitas to their official roles in the wake of their increased ceremonial duties. An aspect of this ceremony which has no known precedent in Scotland, or elsewhere, was the crowning of the Lyon King of Arms by his own hand within the coronation of the king.96 This element may have been inserted to break up the ceremony for the child monarch. Balfour’s document emphasises that a cross section of members from the three estates were required to sanctify the legitimacy of the ceremony of crowning, as well as recording a public acclamation and a recitation of genealogy by the herald emphasising the young king’s dynastic authority. All these aspects can be found rooted in the thirteenth-century ceremonies, and the former element was increasingly emphasised from 1331 onwards with the inclusion of the coronation ceremony within a coronation parliament. With the first words of the opening line, ‘Befor ye king Came in publicke,’ there is the suggestion that the ceremonial was split into a ‘private’ ceremony and a ‘public’ ceremony. In the ‘private’ ceremony the 93 The ‘Forme’ is criticised for escalated involvement of heralds and absence of Mass: Thomas, ‘Crown Imperial’, 53-5. 94 For details on fall of the Albany Stewarts: Brown, James I, 40-71. 95 William Hay, hereditary Constable, belted earl of Errol (1452) and William Keith, Lord Marischal, created earl of Marischal (1458): The Scots Peerage, ed. J. Balfour Paul, 9 vols., David Douglas, Edinburgh, 1904–1914, iii, 564, vi, 39-40. 96 NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30r. There is a separate crowning ceremony of the Lyon King of Arms recorded on 15 June 1630: NLS, Adv. MS. 31.3.18, ff. 24-8, Cap. 11: The usuall ceremone[is] [and] rites performed at [th]e corona[tiou]ne of Lyon king of armes in Scotland. For more discussion on crowning of Lord Lyon: M.J. Enright, ‘The inauguration of the Lord Lyon of Arms’, Coat of Arms, no. 97, Spring 1976; J. Campbell-Kease, ‘Sir James Balfour of Denmlyne and Kinniard – and his coronation as Lord Lyon, 1630’ Ibid, no. 179, Autumn 1997, http://www.theheraldrysociety.com/articles/scotland/inauguration_of_the_ lord_lyon.htm. Accessed 19 Sept 2012. The Garter King of Arms also wore a crown at his investiture to the role, however, there is no evidence to suggest his crowning occurred in the coronation of the king.

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king was brought forward by the Lord Marischal and the Constable and, between paragraphs seven and eight, the king was led out to the ‘public’ arena by the crowned Lyon King of Arms and bishops, with the crown, sword and sceptre carried before him. After the king was anointed the Lyon herald recited the king’s line of descent back six generations for a second time.97 This further demonstrates division in the ceremony between ‘private’ and ‘public’ sections, which required the genealogy to be recited at two different stages and also seems to reflect the indoor and outdoor divide found in earlier Scottish medieval ceremonies. Balfour’s document states that the king was anointed with holy oil: on ‘the Croune of the head, boughes of hes armes, shoulder blades and palmes of hes handes’ by a bishop, through a specially designed ‘surples’ with holes to reveal his skin.98 Though the first description of how and where holy oil was administered upon the monarch in Scotland, it is arguably the manner which it had been administered since the first official inclusion of anointing in 1331. Following this the king was re-robed, as suggested for David II, presumably in the traditional purple royal robe, and the Lyon King of Arms placed his crown at the feet of the king.99 The manner in which the crown was laid before the king’s feet for the nobles to touch during their oath of fealty appears to originate in this fifteenthcentury ceremony and is seemingly unique to Scotland. The traditional image of the enthroned king receiving homage outside Scone certainly implies that the king was crowned and attired in full ceremonial regalia, with no previous reference to laying the crown at his feet. Even with adult support, the six-year-old James II would have struggled to remain seated with the heavy crown on his head for the length of time it would have taken the nobility to swear individual oaths of fealty. The removal of the crown at this stage would have solved a practical issue that would arise again for his son, and throughout the sixteenth century, leading to it becoming tradition in future coronations and explaining its recurrence in the seventeenth-century Forme.100 While the crown may have been removed or supported by adults during the fealty ceremonies for 97

NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30r-v. Ibid, f. 30v. The manuscript does not state who exactly anoints the king. One chronicle suggests Bishop Ochiltree of Dunblane, although the reason why it was not Henry Wardlaw, bishop of St Andrews is not clear: Extracta E Variis Cronicis Scocie from Ancient Manuscripts in the Advocates Library, ed. J. Menzies, Abbotsford Club, Edinburgh,1842, 237; McGladdery, James II, 11; Brown, James I, 198. 99 NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30v. 100 Lindsay, ‘Forme of the coronatioun’, 394. 98

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Alexander III and David II, respectively nine and seven years old, the adult monarchs that followed them would have prevented this from becoming a tradition. The consistency of minority rulers brought to the throne in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries after James II thereby allowed the development of this unique ritual in Scotland. The giving of homage in the previous coronations took place as a separate ceremony with the king enthroned outside the ecclesiastical building right up until Robert III’s coronation in 1390, and probably in James I’s in 1424. In 1437 all occurred within the church, and for the first time a raised platform was constructed for the king. While the English influences acting upon the dowager Joan Beaufort, whose temporary position of power likely meant her involvement in the orchestration of the ceremony, could account for these changes there were practical reasons for such decisions.101 Firstly, the vulnerability of the child king provided a valid reason for the indoor nature of the whole ceremony. Secondly, the elevated site of the Moot Hill at Scone had been the traditional place for this outdoor portion of the ceremony in the past, but no such natural position of elevation existed in the grounds of Holyrood Abbey. The stage within the abbey church in 1437, therefore, likely featured for the purpose of raising the king physically above his people as the Moot Hill would have done naturally. An element which does appear to have roots in Joan’s English input is that of the cloth of estate. There had been no descriptions of a cloth of estate or ‘pale’ hanging over the throne since a ‘pallium’ was removed by Edward I in 1296 and hung in Westminster, but it was likely replaced. However, Balfour’s document refers to a cloth of state and a pale which appear to be one and the same, which went through stages of open and closed indicating the progression of the king from pre-coronation state, through the acceptance of the people, to his final progress after being crowned. In the opening section the king is ‘sett wnder a clothe of Stait’, once the king has accepted the offered crown the cloth of state takes on a new guise ‘a pale to be halfe opened (which before is called the clothe of staite)’.102 The moveable canopy and cloth of state that can be located in the English Liber Regalis were separate entities;103 however, the adapting of the Scottish cloth of state to provide a moveable canopy may have been

101

The entire English coronation ceremony certainly occurred within the church, and the Liber Regalis states that the platform was designed to lift the throne so that the king could be seen by all, 112. 102 NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30r-30v. 103 Liber Regalis, 115.

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hybrid idea emanating from Queen Joan’s experiences of English ceremony. The oath of the Scottish monarch and that given in return by the estates of the realm remains elusive until 1399 when the heir of Robert III, David duke of Rothesay, was made guardian and an oath stating that he will uphold the duties of the king appears in parliamentary records.104 The oath of the Balfour’s document includes an oath that bears a strong resemblance to that of 1399, but for the first time the placement of the oath within the ceremony is alluded to.105 The Scottish oath occurred after the acts of crowning and anointing, and immediately before the oaths of fealty from the three estates. This positioning of the Scottish king’s oath illuminates that his oath was not a pre-condition of receiving the crown, unlike his English and French counterparts.106 Conversely, an oath taken after the consecrating act of anointing may indicate the hand of a powerful churchman as this ceremonial ordering would make it sacrilege to break the oath made after anointing.107 The reciprocal nature of the oath of fealty seems symbolic of the partnership between the crown and parliament, a possible legacy of the intermittent periods without an adult monarch from the thirteenth century onwards. Furthermore the public renewal of oaths by the king and estates recorded in the 1445 parliament in Perth108 illuminate the continued intervention of the political community made possible by the king’s youth.109 The 1445 oath specifically restrained the king’s actions by demanding ‘consent of the estates’ for actions affecting the realm, while the oath of 1399 made no such demands.110 As Tanner suggests, these oaths were underpinned by contemporary ‘political theory’ about the relationship between king and estates, and designed to outline the obligations owed from king to his estates in preparation for his rapidly 104

RPS, 1399/1/3. Adv. MS. 33.2.26 contains an oath similar to 1399, but Adv. MS. 33.7.10 version – used by Lyall – includes a copy of an oath from 1445. The former was more likely used in 1437, as the oath was rewritten and retaken in 1445, see below. 106 For detailed comparison between Scottish ceremony and English/French counterparts, see Lyall, ‘The Medieval Coronation Service’, 17-20. 107 If an unofficial Scottish anointing for Robert I occurred in 1306 undertaken by Bishop Wishart of Glasgow this order could have resulted from the bishop’s attempt to control the king he had absolved following a sacrilegious act of murder in a church that had put his own career in jeopardy in. See Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.2, section i. 108 The parliament started in Perth but was moved to Edinburgh after the final assault on Chrichton in the siege of Edinburgh Castle. 109 RPS, 1445/3-6 (c. 1445). 110 Ibid; RPS, 1399/1/3; Lyall, ‘The Medieval Coronation Service’, 16. 105

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approaching majority.111 The positioning of the oath-taking in the parliament further underlined the central importance of the estates in the confirmation and, to an extent, restriction of royal authority. However, by 1445 the fourteen-year-old James II had experienced over seven years as the central figure in the real and ceremonial power play of his realm, reflecting the equal significance of the monarch even when a child to provide symbolic credence to those who governed during his minority.112 Two of the key changes made in Scotland’s first Protestant coronation in 1567 circle around the oath. Considering the seismic shift from Catholicism to Protestantism that the Reformation of 1560 had brought about, the presumption that the coronation would be an unrecognisable shadow of its former self is one that can be easily forgiven. However, as Lynch has concluded, whilst there were noticeable deviations from the ceremonial norms for the Scottish coronation in 1567, the most interesting factor, is the weight of ceremonial elements which remained unaltered. The new regime was still ‘anxious to preserve [as much of the] cultural treasury of the past’ as it could to project a recognisable and convincing display of royal authority.113 The representation of royal authority and sovereignty were just as important, if not more so, in 1567 as it ever had been. The prominent differences found in James VI’s coronation in 1567 included the setting of the Kirk of the Hoyrood (parish church) in Stirling, the reading of the remissions outlining the formalities of Mary’s abdication, the moving of the date from a Sunday or Catholic feast day to a Tuesday, and the oath.114 The latter was altered in two important ways, its positioning in the ceremony and its content. James VI’s young age meant that the oath had to be taken on his behalf, as had been the case for both his mother Mary, aged nine months at her coronation, and his grandfather James V, aged around eighteen months at his coronation in 111

Tanner, Late Medieval Scottish Parliament, 112-5, 266. For example: Gilbert Hay, ‘The Buke of the Gouernance of Princis’ in Gilbert Hay’s Prose Works, J. Glenn (ed.), 3 vols., Scottish Test Society, Edinburgh, 1993–, iii, 53-127, esp. 11524. For further on contemporary political theory in Scottish literary texts: S. Mapstone, ‘The Advice to Princes Tradition in Scottish Literature, 1450-1500’, Unpub. PhD, Oxford, 1986. 112 See: McGladdery, James II, 14-48; M. Brown, The Black Douglases: War and Lordship in Late Medieval Scotland, 1300–1455, John Donald, Edinburgh, 1998, 255-82; Tanner, Late Medieval Scottish Parliament, 91-121; Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.2, section iii. 113 Lynch, ‘Scotland’s First Protestant Coronation’, 203-207, quote 207. 114 For further discussion see: Lynch, ‘Scotland’s First Protestant Coronation’, 177-207; Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings, and Processions’, ch.2, section iv.

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1513. However, in 1567 a gargantuan shift took place as the oath occurred prior to the coronation rites.115 This meant that the king’s oath became a prerequisite to the anointment; a change that Lynch argues came from George Buchanan and was certainly a decision that was frequently debated by an adult James VI.116 In addition to the contractual nature this new order presented, it also split apart the oath of the king from those of fealty from the estates (which were still placed in the traditional position after anointing) and seemingly broke the reciprocal obligation between king and estates that had been at the core of this ceremonial rite. Once again, the political community took the opportunity to re-establish its relationship with the monarch in a time when the monarch could not protest and ultimately reshaped the Scottish coronation ceremony. Lynch has pointed out the increased length of the oath lead to it becoming ‘less an oath than the speech of a godly prince’.117 The core content regarding the upholding of liberties and privileges, loyalty to the church, and providing justice through the laws of the country, harked back to all that preceded it. Yet, the overbearing elaborations centred upon promising all in the name of God, rather than the estates – who appear dominant in earlier oaths at least after 1445 – was a notable step away from what preceded it. The inclusion of the promise to ‘root out all heresy’ remained, despite its origins in the Papal Bull of Unction for the Scots in 1329. The fledgling Protestant church in Scotland obviously saw its inclusion as essential, even if the ‘heretics’ in question by 1567 were those who designed the original oath and ceremony. The oath was taken in vernacular Scots, but this was a continuation of a previous norm that had been instigated definitely by 1445, if not much earlier.118 The fact that the Scottish oath had been taken in the Scottish vernacular for over 200 years 115

RPS, 1567/7/29/2. Lynch, ‘Scotland’s First Protestant Coronation’, 192-2, 198-9. James VI on kingship: The Basilicon Doron of James VI, ed. J. Craigie, 2 vols,, 1944–1950, Scottish Text Society, Third Series, vols. 16 and 18; The True Law of Free Monarchies and Basilikon Doron: A Modernized Edition, ed. D. Fischlin and M. Fortier, Centre for Renaissance and Reformation Studies,Toronto, 1996. Examples of secondary discussion: R. Mason, ‘Rex Stoicus: George Buchanan, James VI and the Scottish Polity’, in J. Dwyer, Mason, and A. Murdoch (eds.), New Perspectives on the Politics and Culture of Early Modern Scotland, John Donald, Edinburgh, 1982, 9-33; J. Burns, The True Law of Kingship: Concepts of Monarchy in Early Modern Scotland, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1996, esp. 222-54. 117 Ibid, 192. 118 The 1445 oath in parliament was in the vernacular, as it probably was in 1437, but this may have occurred much earlier: RPS, 1399/1/3; NLS, Adv. MS. 33.2.26, f. 30v. 116

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by 1567 meant that this was an aspect that was able to remain the same and sit comfortably within the Protestant remit. This was quite different from the situation in England, where the coronation oath remained uncomfortably in Latin until James VI’s coronation as king of England in 1603, despite a much earlier shift to Protestantism.119 Elements such as the anointing by a bishop, albeit one with Protestant sympathies,120 and the inclusion of regalia which was predominantly made up of gifts from the Pope, remained firmly present in 1567. These were traditions which were too important to the king’s sovereign right to rule to be excluded. Yet, there were other aspects of the Scottish coronations unique development which allowed for a smoother transition from the pomp and ceremony of Catholicism to the austere severity of Calvinist Protestantism, including the continual prominence of secular elements. The journey of the regalia to Stirling Castle after the ceremony saw the crown, sceptre and sword carried by attending earls carrying the regalia, as laid down in the Forme and other records, and as seems to have occurred in Mary’s coronation.121 This shift may even have occurred for James V or IV; the complex political wrangling and delicate balance of power around the infant monarchs of the sixteenth century in Scotland could easily have dominated issues of ceremonial precedence and seen heraldic officials become more minor figures.122 However, in 1567 the secret council released £29 to the Lyon King of Arms, heralds and pursuivants who had come to Stirling for the coronation (in addition to separate payments for proclaiming the good news after the event).123 This implies that, while nobles carried the regalia out of the ceremony, the heralds were involved in carrying the regalia into the ceremony, in addition to traditional acclamation and recitation, or perhaps they took up the roles of Marischal 119

Hunt, The Drama of Coronation, 174. Bishop Ochiltree of Orkney. 121 A Diurnal of Remarkable Occurrents that have passed within the country of Scotland since the Death of King James the Fourth til the Year MDLXXV [1575] From the manuscript of the Sixteenth Century, in the possession of Sir John Maxwell of Pollock, Baronet, Maitland Club, Edinburgh, 1833, 118-9. Atholl carried the crown; Morton the sceptre and Glencairne the sword of state, with Mar carrying the infant king. 122 Dean, ‘Crowns, Wedding Rings and Processions’, ch.2, sections iii-iv. 123 NAS, E21/57, Exchequer Records, Accounts of the Treasurer, fol. 20r; Accounts of the Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, ed. T. Dickson and J. Balfour Paul, 12 vols., H.M. Register House, Edinburgh,1877–1916 [hereafter TA], xii, 67. This payment was in addition to both their annual fees and a fee for the specific task of proclaiming the coronation at market crosses around the realm following the event: NAS, E21/57, fol. 22r; TA, xii, 69. 120

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and Constable. Both William Keith, fourth earl Marischal, and George Hay, seventh earl of Errol, were members of Queen Mary’s Privy Council and therefore highly unlikely to be involved.124 The crowning of James VI in 1567 and the investiture with the regalia was undertaken by the secular hands of the earl of Atholl.125 Whilst this seems out of the ordinary by the sixteenth century, the roots of the ceremony from which this article has sprung saw the secular earls enthrone their king and present his sceptre and mantle, with the bishop an important but ultimately side-lined figure in the making of the king. Does this mean that by 1567 the coronation of Scottish kings had come full circle? Had the ‘liturgification’ of the Scottish ceremony, fought for so virulently by thirteenth and fourteenth century monarchs, been reversed? When Charles I requested the collation of the Forme for his 1633 coronation in Scotland, it is likely that he was disappointed by the result of the document which Lindsay presented him that emphasised the role of heralds and secular officials with rather than showcasing high Catholic liturgy. Yet, the suggestion that the ceremony languished in immaturity because it did not adhere to its contemporary comparators in format seems to turn a blind eye to the blossoming of a unique blend of tradition and innovation that occurred in the development of the Scottish coronation ceremony over the course of four hundred years. As the coronations analysed here illuminate, the crowning of minors in Scotland and the involvement of the political community who supported these children across the centuries were essential to the manner in which the ceremony evolved. The intertwining of age old tradition with contemporary influences and political theory saw the ceremony of ‘making the Scottish monarch’ mature in a way that reflected the distinctive realm in which it was shaped.

124

For additional on the political background of these two men see: Lynch, ‘Scotland’s First Protestant Coronation’, 186-7. 125 Diurnal, 118-9; RPS, 1567/7/29/2.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE AFTERLIVES OF RULERS: POWER, PATRONAGE AND PURGATORY IN DUCAL BRITTANY 1480-1600 ELIZABETH TINGLE

One of the defining historiographical features of late medieval and early modern Europe is the growth of sovereign states. States where government was increasingly centralised; which had supreme, independent authority over a geographical area; were not subject to any other power or state and had the ability to enter into relations with other states on their own account, came to dominate Western Europe. By 1400, the kingdoms of England, Castile and France were monarchical states of this type. Other regions and provinces were similarly evolving sovereign authorities and institutions out of feudal territories. One such state in the process of formation was the duchy of Brittany in western France. A discussion of the means and timing of the transition from lordship to sovereignty in the Breton dukedom is the subject of this essay.1 Through the central Middle Ages, Brittany was ruled as an independent duchy but with very close ties to France. Its dukes owed fealty to the French kings; they frequently held lands in the kingdom and there was much inter-marriage with the Capetian dynasty and other Anglo-French aristocratic houses. After the civil war of Succession of the mid-fourteenth century between Penthièvre and Montfort claimants to the duchy, the dukes pulled away from French tutelage and advanced the idea that Brittany was a separate, sovereign state. From Jean IV onwards they paid only simple homage to the French kings; there was constant vigilance by officials in defence of the dukes’ rights, position and prerogatives and the 1

For details on the political history of late medieval Brittany see J. Kerhervé, L’État Breton aux 14e et 15e siècles. Les ducs, l’argent et les hommes, Maloine, Paris, 1987.

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duchy had direct relations with other heads of state, kings, popes and princes. Within their territory, the dukes augmented their authority over their subjects, mighty and lowly. The duke alone had the authority to raise troops and levy taxes and nobles were not allowed to build castles without permission.2 Institutions of state developed. A general council, a chancery, a chamber of accounts, estates and a parlement, dealt with the legislative, judicial, executive and fiscal functions of government, with no outside reference.3 By the 1480s, Brittany had most of the characteristics of a sovereign state, where authority was upheld and enforced by political institutions and military might. But this was a contested sovereignty, between rival claimants to the duchy and with the French kings. Dukes had to persuade their subjects as well as enforce their rule. Thus, in addition to ‘hard’ power, of administration, diplomacy and war, the authority of the ducal family was bolstered through ‘soft power’, attraction and co-option through the promotion of culture and values rather than coercion and force.4 It is the role of soft power techniques in the growth of sovereign recognition that is the subject of this essay, with particular reference to aspects of religious and cultural patronage. Authority and independence were promoted through careful manipulation of image and propaganda.5 Titles reflected sovereign aspirations. From 1418, the formula ‘Duke by the grace of God’ was used on their acts and the phrase ‘The duke has no sovereign nor master, neither king nor duke, except God almighty’ was occasionally employed. Michael Jones observes that ‘one indicator of the growth of the state … may be summed up in a semantic shift – from dominium, lordship, to majestas, sovereignty – in language expressing the nature of political authority … by the fifteenth century the Breton dukes were prepared to claim imperial prerogatives and justify judgements in cases of laesa majestatis in full Romanist terms.’6 Visual imagery was created with great care. From the mid-fourteenth 2

M. Jones, ‘The Late Medieval State and Social Change: a view from the duchy of Brittany’, in N. Bulst, R. Descimon and A. Guerreau, L’État ou le roi: Les fondations de la modernité monarchique en France (XIVe-XVIIe siècles), Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, Paris, 1996, 117-144. 3 For details on the development of the Breton state see M. Jones, The Creation of Brittany: A Late Medieval State, Hambledon Press, London, 1988. 4 Joseph Nye developed the concept of soft power in his books Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power, Basic Books, New York, 1990 and Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics, Public Affairs, New York, 2004. 5 A useful study is M. Jones, ‘ « En son habit royal »: le duc de Bretagne et son image vers la fin du moyen age’, in J. Blanchard (ed.), Représentation, pouvoir et royauté à la fin du Moyen Age, Picard, Paris, 1995. 6 M. Jones, ‘The Late Medieval State and Social Change’, 120-21.

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century coins represented the crowned duke; portrayals of the dukes, in stone, wood and in manuscripts used the flory (or fleur-de-lys) coronet and the ermine badge to exalt their authority in religious, judicial and military spheres. A coronation ceremony was revised in 1402 for Jean V and from 1442 the reign of dukes began with their anointing in Rennes Cathedral, in regal style. The ducal court developed. Castle building, lavish entertainment and elaborate ceremonies were designed to impress and to display authority. The knightly Order of the Ermine was established in 1379. Above all, the duke’s supporters turned to histories to prove the duchy’s claim for independence. The work of Geoffrey of Monmouth was used to demonstrate the ancient origins of the kingdom of Brittany under the mythical king Conan Mériadec and the royal titles used by Erispoë (851857) and Salomon (857-74) were highlighted. Late Medieval Breton histories promoted the notion of ducal ‘regalities’, the distinctive attributes and privileges enjoyed by the duke as ruler of Brittany. These histories also sharpened perceptions of what made Brittany different from surrounding provinces, defined its customs and territorial extent. The past justified the present through precedent and example. Similarly, the patronage of religious institutions anchored the ducal administration to the distinctive history and culture of Brittany, based strongly on its special saints and holy places, while simultaneously eliciting the spiritual and practical support of the Church. One form of religious patronage, and the focus of this essay, is that of burial site and commemoration of the ducal family. The commissioning of grand monuments and chapels at burial sites, the fiscal endowment of religious institutions for commemorative liturgies and the clientage relationships obtained by appointments to chaplaincies, all made for a powerful combination of hard and soft power techniques to establish political legitimacy and credibility. It is argued here that the ducal family had two objectives of its mortuary strategies, firstly, to promote their authority over local and regional magnates following the contest of the civil wars and secondly, to create a regal image in opposition to France, as the dukes’ ambitions for territorial independence grew. But it was at the end of the period – when the duchy was in the process of being absorbed into the French kingdom – that burial became a particularly strong signifier of Breton ducal sovereignty. The marriage of the regnal duchess Anne to the French king, and the incorporation of the province into the monarchy, caused the kings to exploit burial place and commemorative ritual to demonstrate their links to the ducal line. Thus in Brittany, burial and commemoration was used as a bulwark to political legitimacy in periods of contestation and change.

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I From the earlier Middle Ages onwards, the burial and commemoration strategy of elites was clearly linked to statements of lineage and lordship. Social status was achieved through bloodlines passed on across generations; the result was that, as Nigel Saul states, ‘the strong ancestral sense felt by the gentry … led to a desire on their part actually to be buried with parents and kinfolk.’7 Visible funerary monuments and the commissioning of perpetual liturgies exalted families and augmented their status; ‘lineage was attested by the gradual build-up of monuments in a church over the generations… The take-over of a church by a … family provided visible witness to the association between family and place, the essence of … territoriality.’8 The patronage of monastic churches through gifts in exchange for burial and post-mortem liturgies was common practice for noble families across the Middle Ages. For example, the dukes of Bourbon were buried in the Cluniac abbey of Souvigny in the heart of their territories. The abbey church was embellished in the fifteenth century when Duke Charles I (d. 1456) built a new transept chapel as a family burial place and commissioned a stone effigy from Jacques Morel. The duke, his wife Agnes of Burgundy, sons Jean II and Pierre II de Beaujeu and others of their descendants were all buried there.9 One of the notable features of change in the religious history of the fifteenth century is the even greater importance given to the creation of grand mausolea by the nobility and an expansion in the number of funerary monuments commissioned.10 The later Middle Ages also saw nobles move away from monastic burial to interment in the convents of the mendicant orders and in collegiate churches. But the motives were the same, the obtaining of spiritual graces, confirmation of temporal power within a territorial place and a display of lineage and dynasty. The dead testified to the rights, status and power of living members of the family. 7

N. Saul, English Church Monuments in the Middle Age: History and Representation, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2009, 130. 8 Ibid, 137. 9 A. Erlande-Brandenburg, ‘Les tombes royales et princières françaises aux XIV et XV siècles’ in J. Guillaume (ed.), Demeures d’Éternité. Églises et chapelles funéraires aux XVe et XVIe siècles. Actes du colloque tenu à Tours du 11 au 14 juin 1996, Picard, Paris, 2005, 14. 10 J. Noblet, ‘Pour la gloire et le salut. Les collégiales à vocation funéraire 14501550’, in J. Guillaume (ed.), Demeures d’Éternité. Églises et chapelles funéraires aux XVe et XVIe siècles. Actes du colloque tenu à Tours du 11 au 14 juin 1996, Picard, Paris, 2005, 19.

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For kings and queens, their burial places and commemorative strategies were similarly linked to lineage and territorial status but they were also central to the legitimation of dynastic and individual power. Royal families lavished wealth on family mausolea for their bodies and on perpetual masses for release of their souls from Purgatory, so that the physical and spiritual presence of the dead might underpin the authority of the living. Thus at Saint-Denis in France, Westminster Abbey in England and Roskilde Cathedral in Denmark, the physical presence of dead rulers confirmed the status of their successors.11 Ralph Giesey has shown that in France, there was increasing elaboration of funeral ceremonial across the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, intimately linked to Saint-Denis as royal necropolis; it functioned as ‘the repository for the insignia of sovereignty’ at the end of royal reigns, in contrast to Rheims, where new kings were anointed and crowned.12 Rulers who were building their territorial powers but who lacked kingly status also developed burial strategies which confirmed their territorial limits and promoted their sovereign status. The best-known example is the ducal house of Burgundy. The Capetian dukes of Burgundy were interred at the great monastery of Cîteaux; their Valois successor Philip the Bold created a new mausoleum in the Chartreuse at Champmol outside of Dijon in 1383, which housed his tomb and that of his son John the Fearless. As Christian de Mérindol observes, burial site situated a dynasty in two temporal zones, ‘dynastic time’ that is, temporal time, where lineage determined status, and also ‘escatalogical time’, Christian time, were a family’s privileged relations with Heaven were displayed.13 Royal mausolea were, as Jean-Marie Le Gall states, ‘the site where the incorporation of the state and the kingdom into the body of the king and his family, was made manifest.’14 In Brittany, the ducal family had long deployed the burial places of their ancestors to signify its legitimacy and authority. Across the central middle ages, no single mausoleum had emerged; the dukes, duchesses and 11

Kings Louis XI and Louis XII were not buried in Saint-Denis, but in the collegiate church of Notre Dame de Cléry and in the Parisian Celestine convent church, respectively. 12 R. Giesey, The Royal Funeral Ceremony in Renaissance France, Droz, Geneva, 1960, 29-35. 13 C. de Mérindol, ‘Le programme iconographique du couvent de Brou. Réflexions sur les églises à destination funéraire’, in J Guillaume (ed.), Demeures d’Éternité. Églises et chapelles funéraires aux XVe et XVIe siècles. Actes du colloque tenu à Tours du 11 au 14 juin 1996, Picard, Paris, 2005, 150. 14 J-M. Le Gall, ‘La nécropole dynastique des Bourbons à Saint-Denis ou l’impossible simple corps du roi’, Revue historique, vol. cccxv, 2006, 78.

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their children were buried in their preferred religious houses, in different parts of the province. Dukes were interred in the abbey churches of Redon (Alain IV), Bégard near Guingamp (Conan IV), Villeneuve in Les Sorinières near Nantes (the regnal duchesses Constance and Alix), Billiers near Vannes (Jean I), the Carmelite church of Ploërmel (Jean II, Jean III) and that of the Franciscan convent of Vannes (Arthur II). There was a shift from Benedictine and Cistercian houses to those of the mendicants, and from rural monasteries into towns. This was similar to the burial patterns of other aristocratic families in France; there was no great distinction between the dukes and other magnates in their interment and memorialisation strategies in this period. In the aftermath of the War of Succession, ducal burial became more strategic. In 1364, Duke Jean IV Montfort defeated and killed Charles de Blois at the battle of Auray and quashed rival Penthièvre claims to the duchy. But the reigns of Jean IV and his son Jean V remained seriously contested by their dynastic rivals. Religious patronage through endowment of burial site was an important means of promoting ducal authority against magnate challenges to Montfort lordship and dominion. Thus in the later fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, burial occurred in different places of the duchy, to promote ducal legitimacy widely across the province. In the mid-fifteenth century, as aristocratic support for the dukes stabilised, the challenges of the French kings to ducal independent became more prominent. Again, burial strategy shifted and centred on the emerging capital of Nantes, along with other institutions of sovereign authority, as practices of power changed. The dukes adopted a regal style in opposition to but also in imitation of that of France, the dominant social, cultural and political power in the region and from whose royal house the dukes were themselves descended.15 Across the period 1364 to 1514, there were six dukes of Brittany, two regnal duchesses and ten duchess consorts, for several dukes married more than once. This gives us 18 individuals as a case study for this essay. The burial places of the Montfort dukes were relatively widely dispersed. Jean IV, who died in 1399, was buried in Nantes Cathedral. Jean V, who died in 1442, was buried in northern Brittany, in the cathedral of Tréguier. This was the heartland of his rivals for the duchy, the Penthièvre family and the site of the shrine of St Yves, a patron of Brittany. Jean V’s successor, François I, was buried in the abbey of Saint-Sauveur of Redon, a ducal foundation of the ninth century where the first dukes, Nominoë and 15 J-Y Copy, Art, société et politique au temps des ducs de Bretagne. Les gisants haut-bretons, Aux Amateurs de Livres, Paris, 1986, 13.

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Erispoë, were buried, as was at least one subsequent duke.16 The dispersal of burial sites was an active form of propaganda. Continuing opposition to Montfort claims to the duchy by nobles loyal to the Penthièvres meant that the dukes needed to be present all over the duchy, particularly in the north, the stronghold of their rivals. The remains of former dukes gave material form to the claims of the living, for they carried ‘the fullness of power.’17 Also, emphasis on historical continuity through burial alongside distinguished Breton figures enhanced ducal prestige through close association with predecessors such as St Yves and the progenitors of the duchy buried in Redon.18 From the mid-fifteenth century and the reduction in noble challenges to the duchy, there was a clear contraction and increasing geographical concentration in the range of burial sites used. All François I’s successors were buried at Nantes. They were buried in different churches, but there was a focus on the city that we do not see in earlier periods. Pierre II was buried in the collegiate church of Notre Dame, part of which he had rebuilt; Arthur III was interred in the Carthusian church, which again he patronised and François II was buried in the Carmelite church.19 The heart of the duchess Anne, who died as regnant duchess and Queen of France, was also deposited in the Carmelite convent, as was that of her daughter and heir, Claude.20 The dukes thus increasingly favoured eastern Brittany as their power in the rest of the province stabilised. As ducal residence and administrative power began to concentrate in Nantes in the second half of the fifteenth century, burial place reflected the trend towards the creation of a capital city. As the French royal court gravitated towards to Loire valley, so did the Breton court. With ease of contact and communication with the royal heartland of France, Brittany’s rulers and nobility were greatly influenced by the royal style and artistic patronage of the Capetian 16 Will of François I in P-H. Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves à l’histoire ecclésiastique et civile de Bretagne, 3 vols., Charles Osmont, Paris, 1742-1746, ii, 1518-1519. 17 C. Bynum, Christian Materiality. An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe, Zone Books, New York, 2011, 214. 18 C. Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, religion et production artistique en Basse-Bretagne 1350-1575, Maisonneuve et Larose, Paris, 1992, 114. 19 Will of Pierre II in Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, ii, 1703-1704; Will of François II in Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, iii, 770, Foundations and burial of François II see Archives Départementales de la LoireAtlantique (ADLA) G 320, G 330 Collégiale de Notre Dame de Nantes. Chapellenies et fondations pieuses; G. Durville, Études sur le vieux Nantes, d'après les documents originaux, 2 vols., Durance, Nantes, 1901-15, ii, 281. 20 The heart reliquary of Anne can be seen in the Musée Dobrée, Nantes.

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court.21 It was part of a wider shift away from simple lineage and territorial presence to the creation of a centralised, sovereign ducal authority. As for the consort duchesses of Brittany, there were two burial strategies. Firstly, a number of duchesses were buried with their husbands, reinforcing that primal dynastic relationship; the third wife of Arthur III and both wives of François II were buried with their spouses, so they were all interred in Nantes.22 Françoise d’Amboise, wife of Pierre II, was also interred in Nantes, although separately from her husband, in the Carmelite nunnery. Secondly, there was a cluster of duchess burials in Vannes: Jeanne, wife of Jean V was interred in the Cathedral, as was the second wife of François I, Isabelle Stuart of Scotland, while François I’s first wife, Yolande of Anjou was buried in the Franciscan convent of Vannes. So again, while there was geographical concentration in the emerging capital there was also a concentration – a presencing of ducal power through females associated with the ruler – in Vannes. This was significant. Vannes lay at the margins of upper and lower Brittany, so with the duchess burials here, there was a sovereign presence in both halves of the duchy. While the burial places of dukes and duchesses were increasingly restricted, to Nantes and to Vannes as a secondary site, commemorative liturgies were one way in which the reach of the ducal family could be spread more widely. Commemoration was about prayer; to release a soul from Purgatory, the intercession of the living was necessary, particularly masses for the dead. It was also about signifying and remembering status. For many noble and aristocratic families, Veronica Bainbridge comments, ‘The commemoration of one’s ancestors … was an important aspect of the maintenance of family tradition and identity.’23 Nigel Saul observes that ‘chantry foundations … [were] not merely to stimulate institutionalised commemoration of the founder – one person; [they were] also to act as a stimulus to familial or ancestral commemoration. The reason for this was that in chantry ordinances instructions were commonly given not only for masses for the founder’s soul but also for the souls of his parents, ancestors, and others named by him.’24 Perpetual masses for the souls of 21

Copy, Art, société et politique, 218. For details of the chantry foundations and burial of Catherine de Luxembourg, third wife of Arthur III, see N. Travers, Histoire civile, politique et réligieuse de la ville de Nantes, 3 vols., Forest, Nantes, 1836-41 [c.1750], ii, 219. 23 V. Bainbridge, ‘The Medieval Way of Death: Commemoration and the Afterlife in Pre-Reformation Cambridgeshire’, Studies in Church History Subsidia X: Prophecy and Escatology, Blackwell, Oxford, 1994, 184. 24 Saul, English Church Monuments, 129. 22

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the dukes and duchesses were certainly established in the churches where they were buried, for post-mortem intercession was connected with the physical body of the deceased. But what is striking about ducal postmortem foundations is that they were also made for a great range of other churches. Whereas the great nobles founded anniversaries in churches on their estates or to which they or their families had given patronage, the dukes founded liturgies in many centres. The ducal range of patronage was much wider and the practice of disseminated liturgical commemoration an important means by which to extend the presence of the ducal family throughout the duchy. Thus, for example, Jean V founded a chantry of three weekly masses in the chapel of Notre-Dame-des-Lices on the market place of Vannes in 1428, a daily mass in the Cathedral of Vannes in 1430, as well as commemorative services in Tréguier Cathedral, where he was buried.25 His wife, Jeanne of France, had already founded a weekly mass in the Carmelite church of Nantes in 1411, to be celebrated on the popular confraternity altar of Notre Dame as well as services in Vannes.26 François I founded services in Redon abbey, where he was buried, and also anniversaries in the Cordeliers of Vannes, the Cathedral of Vannes, the Carmelite monastery at Ploërmel, churches of the Dominicans of Nantes, the Augustines of Lamballe, the friars of Savenay, the Carmelites of Bondon near to Vannes, the Franciscans of Guingamp and the Dominicans of Dinan, all in his will of 1449. He also left money for the convent of Bernon to be completed, so he would have been included in the prayers of the community as well.27 Unfortunately, the records of Quimper and St Pol cathedrals are not detailed enough for the fifteenth century to see if there were ducal liturgies held there as well.28 From the wills and foundation documents of the dukes and duchesses, we can see that through endowed liturgies, the presence of the ducal family was made more widespread across their territory. There was a dual strategy to draw in a wide number of churches and clergy to pray for the family’s souls, but also to use commemorative liturgies as highly elaborate, richly textured and symbolic forms of propaganda, drawing God’s benediction down onto the ducal family and making it visible to the living, through requiem masses. 25 Archives Départementales du Morbihan (ADM) 72 G 4 Chapître de Vannes. Chapelle Notre-Dame-des-Lices.; ADM 55 G 4 Chapître de Saint-Pierre, Vannes. Fondations. 26 Durville, Études sur le vieux Nantes, ii, 286. 27 Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, ii, 1519. 28 Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, chapter 1 on ducal patronage of church art and architecture in the fifteenth century.

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These chantry and anniversary liturgies were rich and impressive. The sound and sight-scape of the endowed churches were important in remembrance and the presencing of the ducal family in communities. For example, the collegiate church of Notre Dame in Nantes, partly rebuilt by Pierre II, was already the burial place of a tenth-century duke, Alain Barbetorte. The church’s offices and other foundations were augmented with a daily mass and monthly anniversary for the duke and duchess, their ancestors and descendants.29 Across the fifteenth century, Vannes Cathedral held a daily, sung mass with full choir for Duchess Jeanne, which became a double mass, for two duchesses, by 1500.30 The daily and weekly ducal masses were expensive, sung masses. Their anniversary obits included vespers, matins and a number of low masses as well as a high, sung requiem. In all the churches where anniversaries were held, the body of the founder was symbolically present, with the bier and its rich coverlet decorated with armorial and ducal symbols placed before the high altar, surrounded by candles. In the churches where the dukes and duchesses were actually buried, their funerary monuments were frequently in the chancel, not in private side chapels, the latter being the norm even for most high status aristocrats. Chancel burial was a privilege for church founders and rulers. Private chapels might be founded as well, as sites of perpetual liturgy, to reinforce the point. Margaret de Bretagne, daughter of François I and wife of François II, who died in 1469 and was buried in the Carmelites of Nantes, left money in her will to create a chapel in the convent church dedicated to her patron saint Margaret, with a daily mass, again a perpetual reminder of her presence.31 Although Isabelle of Scotland, second wife and widow of François I, was ultimately buried in Vannes Cathedral, she originally intended to be buried in the Franciscan convent of Nantes, to which she left money for a chapel to be dedicated to Notre Dame and St Elizabeth, again endowed with a daily sung mass.32 Private chapels

29

ADLA G 330 Collégiale de Notre Dame de Nantes. Chapellenies et fondations pieuses. 30 ADM 55 G 4 Chapître de Saint-Pierre, Vannes. Fondations. 31 Will of Margaret de Bretagne in Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, iii, 202-203. 32 Second and third wills of Isabelle of Scotland in Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, iii, 425-26, 485.

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functioned on two levels simultaneously, as personal redemptive acts but also status symbols of the ducal presence.33 The monuments themselves were important statements of lineage, lordship and sovereignty. As Nigel Saul states, the commissioning of monuments provided a way of giving physical expression to ancestral worth, for ‘monuments provided invaluable evidence of ancestry and pedigree. They gave visible expression to a family’s connection with a locality… They affirmed the historicity of a family’s version of its past.’34 Charles de Blois imported the style of his kindred, the Capetian kings of France, and was the first duke in Brittany to use regalian symbolism, of sceptre and crown, along with quasi-regal titles. His manner was adopted by his successful rival Jean IV, this time in opposition to France.35 The first monument commissioned to display explicit regal symbolism was not for an adult ruler, however, but for an infant daughter of Jean IV. Jeanne, who died in 1388 and was buried at the abbey of St-Gildas-de-Rhuys, near to Vannes, was interred under an inscribed granite slab depicting two angels holding a flory coronet over the head of the young girl, a copy of the crown of Philip IV Valois. This was a departure from the use of the circlet previously adopted by the dukes. The child’s tomb was commissioned in a period of tension over the succession of Jean IV, ended only in 1388 with the birth of a son. It was a statement of both the divine origins of the dukes’ powers and of sovereign independence, including the right to select heirs free from the constraints of French Salic law.36 Thereafter, the coronet became a ducal symbol, distinguishing them from other aristocrats. The monument of Jean IV himself was commissioned by his widow, Jeanne de Navarre, subsequently queen of England. It was a copy of the tomb of the Black Prince in Canterbury Cathedral, evidence of Jean IV’s affinity with England in opposition to France.37 Again, the coronet was used to signify sovereign status. The commissions of Jean V were clearly designed as political propaganda. Jean V appropriated the historic figures of Brittany and associated himself with them, to bolster the legitimacy of his authority. This was particularly evidenced in the west of the duchy where, in addition to his own tomb, Jean V commissioned new funerary monuments for two important Breton 33 C. Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: the art and craft of dying in sixteenthcentury Spain, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and New York, 1995, 205206. 34 Saul, English Church Monuments, 131. 35 Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, 143. 36 Copy, Art, société et politique, 105, 109-110, 117. 37 Ibid, 174.

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saints. At Locronon church, in the far west of Brittany, a new tomb-shrine for St Ronan was commissioned, which survives today. A new effigy of the saint was made carried by six angels; the monument was emblazoned with the heraldry of Jean V and his wife Jeanne of France and a lion, symbol of the Montfort dynasty.38 St Yves at Tréguier was also given a new tomb-shrine. Destroyed during the French Revolution, a description by the seventeenth-century historian Albert Le Grand survives. The monument was of white stone, polished like marble, covered in details of the victories of Jean IV and by inference, the defeat of Charles of Blois. This was in clear contrast to monuments in the churches of nearby Guingamp – de Blois’ burial place - depicting Charles as a saint.39 The tombs of the later dukes Pierre II, Arthur III and François II in Nantes, were essentially French commissions in the style of the Loire valley, but with the flory coronet and ermine badges. In addition to his own monument, Pierre II honoured his predecessors by reconstructing the tomb of Duke Alain Barbetorte (d. 952), also buried in Notre Dame of Nantes.40 Further, the architecture surrounding the monuments was decorated with heraldic devices, signalling the occupant. Windows, pillars, woodwork, wall paintings, the badges worn by saints, all testified as to the status and authority of the deceased.41 The ducal couples also gave material objects to churches, to bring to mind the deceased. Again, this is typical of many contemporaries, although the quality of the objects here was far greater. For example, Duke Pierre II left the vestments used in his domestic chapel, altar frontals, tapestries, pictures and relics to Notre Dame of Nantes. He also left vestments to Vannes Cathedral and to the church of Saint-Esprit of Auray.42 Isabelle of Scotland left vessels and vestments to Vannes Cathedral.43 Peter Marshall comments that fabric and furnishings ‘comprised a field of memory on which [onlookers] could inscribe a postmortem presence through pious donations of objects personalised with names and coats of arms. Where gifts were requisite to the liturgy – missals, vestments, chalices – individuals hoped to achieve a perpetual

38

Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, 151. A. Le Grand, Les Vies des saints de la Bretagne Armorique, D. Miorcec de Kerdanet (ed.), P. Abber, Brest & Isidore Pesron, Paris, 1837 [1636], 179. 40 Copy, Art, société et politique, 248. 41 Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, 137. 42 Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, ii, 1519 43 Foundation document for chantry in Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, iii, 770. 39

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linkage of their own names with worship’.44 Personal piety and political presencing went hand in hand. A further strategy of placing the ducal family at the heart of religious and cultural life in Brittany was through the support of historical Breton saints’ cults and the promotion of new cults. This was a grander strategy than could be employed by aristocrats and it gave rulers extra spiritual support. The ducal family was an important patron of the refurbishment of ancient cult sites in western Brittany. As discussed above, Jean V refurbished the shrine of St Ronan in Locronon and St Yves in Tréguier cathedral. As for new saints, the famous Spanish Dominican preacher Vincent Ferrer died in Vannes in 1419 and was interred in the cathedral.45 Duchess Jeanne, wife of Jean V, was a particular devotee of Vincent Ferrer. She washed his body after he died, keeping the water for a long time afterwards, then was buried next to his tomb in the cathedral, near the high altar.46 The dukes were active in lobbying for his canonisation, which was achieved in 1455.47 The family patronized his shrine and several of its members had personal devotions to the saint. St Vincent Ferrer was represented in the books of hours of Duke Pierre II and of Duchess Isabelle of Scotland. In the will of Pierre II a reliquary containing one of the saint’s fingers – probably an object of personal devotion - was left to the collegiate church of Notre Dame of Nantes, where the duke was buried.48 In 1494, Duchess Isabelle was buried in Vannes cathedral and her daily mass was founded for the altar of St Vincent Ferrer.49 As Guy Lazure states, ‘a dynasty often derived its legitimacy from sacralisation through the physical juxtaposition of royal and holy bodies in a genuine communion of saints… Relics therefore acted as a tangible sign of the divine approbation of … rule, justifying [rulers’] claims … and providing

44 P. Marshall, Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England, Oxford UP, Oxford, 2002, 24. 45 G-A. de Lobineau, Les vies des saints de Bretagne, edited by l’Abbé Tresvaux, 5 vols., Méquignan, Paris, 1837 [1725], , iii, 202 ; J-M. Le Méné, Histoire du diocèse de Vannes, 2 vols., n.p., Vannes, 1889, i, 409. 46 J-M. Le Méné, ‘L’Église cathédrale de Vannes’, Congrès archéologique de France, XLVIIIe session 1881, Champion, Paris, 1882, 186. 47 The depositions are held in the Archives Départementales du Morbihan 87 G 11 Procès de canonisation de Saint Vincent Ferrer. 48 H. Martin, ‘Les Bretons et leurs prédicateurs à la fin du Moyen Age’, Mémoires de la Société d’Histoire et d’Archéologie de Bretagne LXVII, 1990, vol. 48; Morice, Mémoires pour servir des preuves, ii, 1519. 49 A. de Barthélemy, ‘Saint Vincent Ferrier dans le diocèse de Saint-Brieuc’, Revue de Bretagne et de Vendée vol. 18, 1874, 124.

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them with both political continuity and legitimacy.’50 The ducal family also tried to have one of their own canonised, in imitation of other royal houses, particularly France. Charles de Blois, killed in 1364, had been on the way to canonisation but this was annulled after pressure on the papacy by Jean IV. Subsequently, Françoise d’Amboise, duchess of Pierre II, died in odour of sanctity and a cult grew up around her burial place in the Carmelite nunnery near to Nantes. The saints gave their favour to the ducal family and propagated their image as God-chosen rulers across the province. Who was the audience for these liturgies, monuments and material objects, in addition to God and the clergy? With ducal burials, their position at the eastern end of churches meant that the laity could not routinely see their monuments, as screens separated chancels, which were only accessible to clergy, from naves, frequented by the laity. But chantries and anniversaries were intended to elicit prayer from the wider congregation and community. Memorialization required a public, as Brine comments, to be ‘a constant and unequivocal reminder to the living to remember the souls of the dead, languishing in Purgatory, in their prayers’.51 While chancel screening was common practice, there were still apertures through which passers-by could see the liturgy and symbols of the deceased. The use of collegiate and cathedral churches and the larger mendicant convents for burial may seem to indicate a private, exclusive piety. But these churches, while not parish centres, were still very busy places. The mendicant churches in particular housed many confraternity altars and were frequented by all social groups. The ducal foundations added a rich, well-funded addition to the liturgy of these churches which also bid its listeners to pray for the souls and welfare of the ducal family. At the same time, the prayers of the church reinforced their political legitimacy before a wider population. Further, the styles and symbols of the dukes were adopted by their aristocratic followers and in turn, their clients and dependents, spreading the image of the dukes right down to parish levels. For example, the powerful Rohan family patronised the building of chapels and churches, commissioned effigies in the style of the dukes and mixed their heraldry with that of the ducal family, to signify allegiance. In their magnificent chapel built at Kernsacléden, the arms of

50 G. Lazure, ‘Possessing the Sacred: Monarchy and Identity in Philip II’s Relic Collection at the Escorial’, Renaissance Quarterly, vol. 60, 2007, 66-67. 51 D. Brine, ‘Piety and Purgatory: Wall-mounted memorials from the Southern Netherlands c.1380-1520’, Unpub. PhD Thesis, University of London, 2006, 6869.

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Jean V and Jeanne of France were inserted on central boss of the chancel vault.52

II The clearest example of the use of burial site to reinforce political legitimacy came with the end of full Breton independence and the absorption of the duchy into the French kingdom. Relations between France and Brittany were seldom easy, even when the duke was personally on good terms with the king, as with Jean V who married Jeanne, daughter of Charles VI and sister of Charles VII. François I, Pierre II and Arthur III were also on good terms with Charles VII, their uncle. But after the end of the Hundred Years’ War in 1453, French kings turned to the consolidation of their kingdom; Louis XI of France’s main objective was to consolidate his power by fully incorporating all his vassal regions into his realms. He regarded the Breton duke as a rebel to be subdued. He questioned the duke’s exercise of his regalities and trammelled his freedom of action as an independent prince. Unfortunately for Brittany, this coincided with a weak and ineffectual duke, François II. In particular, he failed to produce a male heir. After the death of Duke François II, the French defeated the Bretons in war and the duchess Anne was forced to come to terms with France by marrying King Charles VIII. She then went on to marry Louis XII and ultimately Brittany was absorbed into the French kingdom. Anne and Louis’ eldest daughter Claude was the next duchess of Brittany but also the queen of François I of France and she handed the province’s government to her husband. The last duke crowned in Brittany, Claude’s son Duke François III, also the French dauphin, died in 1534. His brother Henry never became duke and the duchy was henceforth a province of France. As the kings of France took over sovereign power within the duchy, the presence of dead dukes became more important as the monarchs sought to establish their legitimate claims to the duchy, through lineage; their children were the dukes of Brittany by birth right. To this end, there was an attempt to create a mausoleum for the ducal family in the Carmelite convent of Nantes. The funerary monument of Duke François II and his second wife Margaret of Foix was commissioned from Michel Colomb and is one of the masterpieces of French Renaissance sculpture. The hearts of duchesses Anne and Claude were subsequently interred in the ducal tomb. But the queens themselves were buried in Saint-Denis, the 52

Prigent, Pouvoir ducal, 171.

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royal mausoleum, for now France was sovereign and showed this in its placing of the dead. The chantry and anniversary masses set up by the dukes and duchesses of the fifteenth century continued to be performed until the French Revolution, paid for from income of the royal demesne in Brittany. As ancestors of the kings of France, they continued to be honoured; their liturgies were now reminders of royal presence and power, for the descendants featured in the prayers were the French kings themselves.

III In 1395, the seneschal of Nantes declared that ‘the duke of Brittany is as much king in his own country as the king in Paris was [in France]’.53 In this essay, is has been argued that an important way of expressing and perpetrating independent sovereignty was through religious patronage in the form of burial place, monuments and commemorative liturgy, for ‘the tomb was a means of expression, an object on which statements of party and ambition could be attached.’54 The burial sites of the dukes and their close relatives were direct forms of political propaganda, means of dispersing symbols and representations much wider than the physical presence of a living ruler would allow. The actual presence of ducal remains and the iconography that surrounded them were a form of political discourse, used for the promotion of legitimacy through the portrayal and reinforcement of lineage and dynasty, a means of ‘presencing power’.55 The sovereign ambitions of the Breton ducal house was both perpetrated by and reflected in their burial sites, monument and services. There was change over time in their strategies of commemoration. During the reigns of the first three Montfort dukes, the rulers and their wives were obliged to travel around their province to reinforce their authority and state their rights to rule. Sovereignty was as much about strong lordship over powerful magnates as about regal rights. Burial of dukes and duchesses was similarly dispersed across a wide geographical area, ‘in order not only to garner prayers from diverse ecclesiastical establishments but also to spread their power throughout the area of their jurisdiction. … there was an assumption that matter carries presence.’56 In the later reigns, sovereignty was more about expressing power towards France. In the search for 53

Copy, Art, société et politique, 118. Ibid, 239. 55 Ibid, 246. 56 Bynum, Christian Materiality, 193. 54

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independence, the Breton dukes drew upon French models of concentrated burials and high-status monuments to reinforce their claims, using a symbolic language understood by both polities. However, the burial places and commemorative strategies of the Breton ducal family did not attain the clarity and sophistication of some of their contemporaries such as the Burgundian dukes and the French kings. The Breton dukes were only moving toward, they never fully achieved fully independent status and this is reflected in the lack of a central mausoleum for their dynasty. While there was concentration on Nantes, there was no single site favoured. It was not until the masters of real power were consolidating their hold on the province, the French kings, that strategic burial was used. Thus, the Carmelite church became the resting place of the last dukes and duchesses. Burial was a means of promoting, but also signifying the extent, of sovereign power. One hundred years after the death of the last independent duke, in the early 1590s, the royal governor of Brittany, the duke of Mercoeur, rebelled against the French Crown as part of the dissident Catholic League. Contemporaries considered that his objective was to set himself up as the duke of a revived, independent Brittany. His claim came through his wife, Marie de Luxembourg, heiress of the Penthièvre lordship. Mercoeur hesitated to declare himself duke, but his wife presented their children as heirs of the ancient rulers of the province and as legitimate princes of Brittany.57 Baby Louis born in May 1589 and who died in December 1590 was given the title ‘duc de Bretagne’ in his baptismal entry and he was buried in the Poor Claire convent in Nantes, before the high altar, under an incised slab describing him as ‘Louis Prince et duc de Bretagne’. His brother François who was born and died also in 1590, was baptised and buried with his brother, under the same title. Ultimately the rebellion failed and in another echo of past times, the Mercoeurs’ only daughter and heir was married to the (illegitimate) son of the French king Henry IV. This was to be the last time that ducal status was presenced by the dead in Brittany. By then, its dead rulers were firmly placed in Saint-Denis, showing the sovereign supremacy of French kings, victorious in death, as in life.

57 L. Grégoire, La Ligue en Bretagne Du Moulin, Paris and Guéraud, Nantes, 1856, 202.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ENTER QUEEN: METATHEATRICALITY AND THE MONARCH ON/OFF STAGE NADIA THÉRÈSE VAN PELT

Introduction Royal entries follow a convention in which town officials, members of the clergy, and civic groups such as guilds meet the monarch at the city gates, and lead them into the town’s perimeters,1 where the monarch officially takes possession of the town or city, and is presented with a costly gift or with the city keys. The sovereign is then treated to civic entertainments, often in the form of pageants, shows and games, which are performed to their glorification, but which also allow for civic pride to be expressed.2 The primary spectator to any royal entry is the monarch, who watches the shows and pageants, but who in their turn, is also watched as they follow the protocol, and go through the ritual motions of expressing regal power and heritage: in other words, as they perform rulership. History of criticism has emphasized that the sovereign is an actor, who stands at the centre of the royal entry and determines its meaning.3 Here 1

R. Strong, Art and Power: Renaissance Festivals 1450-1650, Boydell Press, Woodbridge, 1984, 7. 2 B. Reay, Popular Cultures in England 1550-1750, Longman, London, 1998, 147. J. Dillon, The Language of Space in Court Performance, 1400-1625, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2010, 50. 3 See for example, D. Bergeron, English Civic Pageantry 1558-1642, Edward Arnold, London, 1971, 6; E. Muir, Ritual in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1997, 248; G. Kipling, Enter the King: Theatre, Liturgy, and Ritual in the Medieval Civic Triumph, Oxford UP, Oxford, 1998, 19; K. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy: Authority and Image in Sixteenth-Century England, Yale UP, London and New Haven, 2009, 176.

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the word ‘actor’ is a slippery term that does not refer to the impersonation of a fictional role, but is rather used to describe the monarch’s interaction with their audience: representing regal power through showing the public the Body politic, which gave spectators the opportunity to have ‘visual contact’ with the monarch.4 Furthermore, the presence or absence of a monarch at ludic performances influenced the ways in which other spectators experienced shows and pageants that were performed in the sovereign’s honour. This case study addresses the brief visit which Anne of Denmark—Queen Consort to King James I—paid to Wells in 1613, relieving the town from years of celebrational and cultural unrest in their community through the royal entry of Queen Anne into their midst. Queen Anne, a noted Catholic who would have been in favour of traditional customs and values, and who was notorious for being a great theatrical enthusiast,5 exercised her royal authority to reinstate traditional values that had faced opposition. Queen Anne’s presence also reunited the community that had been split as a result of a sequence of pageants with a highly political undertone that were performed in 1607.6 Watching the 1613 pageants, the spectators’ experience would have been partially informed by their memory of the 1607 events. This article argues that a sense of risk or the memory of previous risk can create a metatheatrical effect for participants in royal entries and other dramatic activities, and for the spectators of these events. This sense of risk nuances other elements of the event such as mimesis and genre, and is based on the plays’ and pageants’ immediate social and political contexts. The reason we do know about the 1607 events is because of the court case that arose from it. Unfortunately, the 1613 pageants are not as well recorded as their 1607 counterparts, so that we cannot know what 4

W. Leahy, Elizabethan Triumphal Processions, Ashgate, Aldershot, 2005, 1. Queen Anne was a keen patron and performer of the Court Masque. See among others, J. Astington, English Court Theatre 1558-1642, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1999, 69; B. Lewalski, ‘Anne of Denmark and the Subversions of Masquing’, Criticism, vol. 35, 1993, 341-355. However, it has been noted that Anne’s cultural interest and involvement were much more complex. John Barroll calls Queen Anne’s interest in the court masques just ‘the tip of the iceberg’: J. Barroll, Anna of Denmark, Queen of England: a Cultural Biography, University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2001, 58. Lucy Munro describes Anne of Denmark as the major patron of the Queen’s Revels Company; L. Munro, Children of the Queen’s Revels: A Jacobean Theatre Repertory, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2005, 25. 6 D. Underdown, ‘But the Shows of their Street’: Civic Pageantry and Charivari in a Somerset Town, 1607’, Journal of British Studies, vol. 50 no. 1, 2011, 4-23, 8. 5

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individual spectators thought of the plays performed, how they interpreted them, and what they took from the plays as they left the performance and went back to their normal lives, when this was not recorded. The only eyewitness account of Queen Anne’s royal entry available is that of the Venetian Ambassador Antonio Foscarini. In his letters to the Doge and Senate of Venice, he offers the description of more general reality than the local reality shared by the citizens of Wells, to whom the 1613 shows would have had a different meaning. Further documentation of the Queen’s visit can be found in the Corporation Act Book, which recorded the protocol for the royal entry, so that this document is valuable for showing civic intentions, and the premeditated ritual motions of which the Queen would have been informed beforehand. However, the ‘script’ in the Corporation Act Book only provides evidence about the planned management of the event; not about the way in which the event unfolded or how it was received. Claire Sponsler reminds us of ‘the tendency of all activities, events, and performances to escape the bounds of their intended effects and local contexts, sometimes with unexpected consequences’.7 In order to study the reception and audience experience of the Queen’s visit, as well as the potentially metatheatrical effect—which follows from comparing instances of the same genre—on specific sets of spectators who would have been able to make such a comparison, this paper takes the protocol as it was planned, together with outsider’s experience, and aims to reconstruct the deeper, more political local reality in which Queen’s presence in Wells facilitated the expression of a political message about ritual and traditional custom.

I As previously noted, the only eye-witness account of Anne of Denmark’s entry into Wells was recorded by Antonio Foscarini, who did not share that knowledge of the local reality which would have blended an awareness of local political history with the shows and plays in performance. Indeed, he only appreciated the public reality reserved for those who experienced the royal entry at its surface level. Foscarini understood Queen Anne’s double role of spectator and spectacle, but he did not see her—or at least he did not represent her image to the Doge—as a facilitator of local people’s perception of a political message, which she undoubtedly was. In his letter the Venetian Ambassador merely observes 7

C. Sponsler, ‘The Culture of the Spectator: Conformity and Resistance to Medieval Performances’, Theatre Journal, vol. 44, 1992, 15-29, 16.

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that Queen Anne was entertained by the civic community, which hosted hunts, games and performances to her delight. The Ambassador emphasizes the generosity with which the city of Wells paid for everything, and how they strove to make the Queen’s visit as pleasant as they could: Ch’io la serua tutto ‘l giorno, nel quale ha ueduto giochi, caccie, et in fine publiche rappesentatione cose tutte fatte a spese della Città, che nel riceuer la Maestà Sua et ne’ i pochi giorni, che ui si troua hà fatto tutto quel più, che hà potuto.8 [Wished that I attend upon her all day long, during which (time) she saw games, hunts and finally public shows/performances, all which things were paid for by the city, which in receiving her majesty, and in the few days she stayed there, has done everything the best it can].9

Foscarini evidently had no interest in the nature or specific meanings of the performances displayed before Queen Anne, and documented the events through the eyes of an outsider, interested in his own role in the celebrations, and pointedly telling his master the Doge that the Queen wished for his company all throughout the royal visit, because courtesy expressed towards a royal ambassador reflected on his master. Foscarini also describes the Queen herself as a spectacle, noting how she allowed the people of the country to have visual exposure to her royal presence; an important part of the celebration of regal power.10 Foscarini illustrates how members of the public were even given the chance to have physical contact with the Queen: Et udiuan uoci, che benediceuan, et augurauan prosperità à Sua , che gli ringratiaua tutti, dando anco la mano à baciare à molti, che lo faceuan con i ginocchi à terra, come pur staua la maggior parte del popolo nel punto del passare.11 8

Letter of Antonio Foscarini, to the Doge and Senate of Venice, ASV: Senato, Secreta, Dispacci, Inghilterra, f [1] (23 August), in J. Stokes and R. Alexander (eds.), Records of Early English Drama: Somerset, vol. 1: The Records, University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1996, 374. All Somerset dramatic records, including the one cited here, can be found in the Records of Early English Drama. It will be clear from this article that it is heavily indebted to Professor Stokes’ work for Records of Early English Drama. 9 Trans. K. Eisenbichler in J. Stokes (ed.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1996, 850. 10 Leahy, Elizabethan Triumphal Processions, 1. 11 Letter of Antonio Foscarini, REED: Somerset, 374.

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Foscarini’s interpretation of the event emphasises the citizens of Wells venerating the Queen’s royal body, which in his view was the next best thing after the King’s in offering the local and regional nobility proximity to the Body politic.13 Tutta la nobilità di questa prouincia, nella quale non essendo stato già mai il Rè concorrono per ueder la Regina tutte le sorte di gente.14 [The nobles of this province gathered here (and since) the king has never been in this (province), all sorts of people are gathering to see the queen].15

This might have been how the Venetian Ambassador experienced the gathering of the nobles, drawing on his memory of having undergone other royal entries, and ritual celebrations from the perspective of a foreign ambassador. However, for the citizens of Wells, the Queen would have symbolised and facilitated something much more intricate. Indeed, the Queen’s presence had local political, traditional and socio-cultural implications that could not have been perceived by a foreign ambassador, and in fact might have passed unnoticed for anyone too young to have seen the 1607 pageants, or anyone who had been absent from the community during that time.

II Between 30 April and 25 June 1607 a sequence of shows and games were performed in Wells that attempted to revive traditional entertainments which had in recent years been suppressed by the Lord

12

Trans. K. Eisenbichler in J. Stokes (ed.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, University of Toronto Press, London and Toronto, 1996, 850. 13 The term ‘Body politic’ has been extensively studied by E. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology, Princeton UP, Princeton, New Jersey, 1957. 14 Letter of Antonio Foscarini, REED: Somerset, 374. 15 Trans. K. Eisenbichler in J. Stokes (ed.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, University of Toronto Press, London and Toronto, 1996, 849.

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Chief Justice of England and Justices of Peace in Somerset.16 The traditional entertainments were organized by the civic and the religious leaders of the community, and included a variety of May games, Morris dancing and processional dancing, religious plays or shows, Robin Hoods, and a string of pageants and shows. Where the May games were predominantly ludic, the civic shows comprised pageants and speeches which in their totality could be seen as an ‘enacted script or drama’.17 The civic shows, organised by the guilds or verderies, ran from the 15th up to and including the 17th of June that year, and were described in great detail through the law suit Hole vs. White et al., that was executed in the Star Chamber at the Royal Palace at Westminster, from April 1608 to November 1609,18 and in a libelous song written by William Gamage,19 known to have been sung ‘amvngst ye children in wells’.20 The song recounts the ludic presence of a combination of Old Testament, mythical, legendary, traditional and local figures: a Lord of May with attendants, warlike captains and their followers, the Pinner of Wakefield, Robin Hood and his attendants, a painted calf, St George and the dragon with knights and Irish footmen, two men balancing an egg, Old Grandam Bunch making puddings, Actaeon chased by hounds, Diana with six nymphs, Noah and the ark carried by six men, a giant and a giantess, a naked feathered boy, and an Egyptian king and queen.21 In the Star Chamber Minute Book the defendants are also recorded as having spoken of a show of ‘Princ Authur and his knight’,22 but, as Stokes observes, this show is

16

J. Stokes, ‘The Wells Shows of 1607’, in M. Twycross (ed.), Festive Drama, Brewer, Cambridge, 1996, 145-156, 146. 17 In the words of Lawrence Clopper, ‘Certain kinds of events—royal entrees, for example—may have pageants with speeches, and the whole sequence can be understood as an enacted script or drama. I do not wish to separate ‘drama’, that is, enacted scripts of a whole action, from these other kinds of ‘dramas.’’ L. Clopper, Drama, Play and Game: English Festive Culture in the Medieval and Early Modern Period, University of Chicago Press, London and Chicago, 2001, 12. 18 J. Stokes and R. Alexander (eds.), Records of Early English Drama: Somerset, vol. 1: The Records, University of Toronto Press, London and Toronto, 1996, 596. 19 W. Gamage, ‘My Loving Friends’, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 117v, col 1 – sheet 117, col 2 (July 1607), REED: Somerset, vol. 2, 711-716. 20 Exmination of Thomas Haggatt of Walbrook, London, Skinner, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 183 (21 June), REED: Somerset, 306. 21 W. Gamage, ‘My Loving Friends’, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 117v, col 1 – sheet 117, col 2 (July 1607), REED, 711-716. 22 Star Chamber Minute Book, Alnwick Castle, Percy Letters and Papers, vol. 9 23/6, f 99, REED: Somerset, 365.

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not mentioned anywhere else in the records.23 At the heart of these ludic and theatrical events lay the charitable church-ale, a type of parish fundraising wide-spread through England,24 which served to make donating money towards the needs of the parish enjoyable, for example through the serving of bread and beer at the church-house alongside the performance of different shows and pageants. Other May and June shows and games were organized to the end of celebrating religious holidays (such as Ascension Day or Trinity Sunday), but also, as James Stokes observed, ‘to express civic pride and communal harmony, or to punish offenders against social norms’.25 Within the context of the Wells performance tradition, all these different aspects of the May and June shows were predominantly festive, but also constituted in the words of Stokes, ‘a uniquely concerted effort to preserve traditional cultural practices in a society whose culture was already fracturing’.26 The expression, repression and counter-action of traditional customs in Wells should be read against the backdrop of a nationwide debate on Sunday recreations, which saw, as Alistair Dougall put it, ‘radical reformers and established authority fighting not just over the question of sports and Sunday observance, but over issues of authority and power in early Stuart England’.27 In Wells, one John Hole had been busying himself interrupting that year’s traditional festivities, including the conventional church-ale, by continuously quoting the Royal Proclamation that had been issued on the 7 May 1603 by the then new king James I on his arrival in London. It read the following: … and for that we are informed that there hath been heretofore great neglect in this kingdome of keeping the Sabbath-day: For better observing of the same and avoyding all impious prophanation, we do straightly charge and command, that no Beare-bayting, Bul-bayting, Enterludes, Common Playes, or other like disordered or unlawful Exercises, or

23

Stokes, REED: Somerset, vol. 2, 728. J.M. Bennett, ‘Conviviality and Charity in Medieval and Early Modern England’, Past and Present, vol. 134, 1992, 19-41; K. French, The People of the Parish: Community Life in a Late Medieval English Diocese, University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2001, 99-141. 25 J. Stokes, ‘Landscape, Movement and Civic Mimesis in the West of England’, Early Theatre, vol. 6 no. 1, 2003, 35-49. 26 Stokes, ‘The Wells Shows of 1607’, 155. 27 A. Dougall, The Devil’s Book: Charles I, The Book of Sports and Puritanism in Tudor and Early Stuart England, University of Exeter Press, Exeter, 2011, 2. 24

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Pastimes, be frequented, kept, or used at any time hereafter upon the Sabbath-day.28

Hole, in line with the King’s Proclamation, openly opposed the ‘crude’ activities that kept people away from church; that formed occasions for lewd behaviour and a potential danger of riots and general delinquency caused by public groups forming.29 The festive community replied to this opposition by using the dramatic medium to attack those who combatted the traditional custom.30 Initially, this corrective drama was presented as a blend of the festive and the charivari, or ‘rough music’, which was a kind of processional street theatre in which the community expressed varying degrees of hostility towards individuals in the community who offended their rules or morals,31 and which had much in common with the Midsummer watches.32 However, as reform-leaning citizens of the community kept on insisting their opposition to the traditional festivities, the mockeries at the address of these citizens became more offensively mimetic, and more hurtful in its satire. From this followed Hole’s accusations against the festive community expressed at the Assizes in

28 Royal Proclamation 7 May 1603, in C. Rutter (ed.), Documents of the Rose Playhouse, Manchester UP, Manchester, 1999, 212. 29 Bill of Complaint in Hole v. White et al., PRO: STAC8/161/1, sheet 219 (19 April), REED: Somerset, 261. 30 Similar cases are described in, E. Baldwin, ‘Reformers, Rogues or Recusants? Control of Popular Entertainment and the Flouting of Authority in Cheshire before 1642’, Records of Early English Drama Newsletter, vol. 22 no. 1, 1997, 26-31; P. Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe, Harper and Row, New York, 1978, 222; J. Stokes, ‘Drama and Resistance to Institutions in Somerset’, Research Opportunities in Renaissance Drama, vol. 33, 1994, 153-164. 31 For studies on the charivari, see: J. le Goff and J-C. Schmitt (eds.), Le Charivari: actes de la table ronde organise à Paris, 25-27 avril 1977, par l’École des hautes études en sciences sociales et le centre national de la recherche scientifique, Mouton, Paris, 1981 ; A. Fox, ‘Ballads, Libels and Popular Ridicule in Jacobean England’, Past and Present, vol. 145, 1994, 47-83, 83; J. Kent, ‘‘Folk Justice’ and Royal Justice in Early Seventeenth-Century England: a ‘Charivari’ in the Midlands’, Midland History, vol. 8, 1983, 70-85; J. McGavin, ‘Robert III’s ‘Rough Music’: Charivari and Diplomacy in a Medieval Scottish Court’, Scottish Historical Review, vol. 74 no. 2, 1995, 144-158; E. Thompson, ‘Rough Music: Le Charivari Anglais’, Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, vol. 27 no. 2, 1972, 285-312 ; E. Thompson, ‘Rough Music Reconsidered’, Folklore, vol. 103 no. 1, 1992, 3-26. 32 M. Ingram, ‘Ridings, Rough Music and the ‘Reform of Popular Culture’ in Early Modern England’, Past and Present, vol. 105, 1984, 79-113, 94.

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Taunton of September 1607,33 and later his Bill of Complaint addressed to the King himself, from which the Star Chamber suit followed. It is within this context of drama-related risks—of which Foscarini was not aware— that the local spectators in Wells would have watched the 1613 shows.

III A recuperation of the town’s dramatic traditions would undoubtedly have been on the spectators’ minds as they welcomed the Queen into their community with pageants, which at times were nothing more than the 1607 displays with the omission of political references to John Hole.34 The suggestion is made in the Corporation Act Book that the involvement of the verderies of the town in presenting pageants adhered to ‘auncient Orders and Customes’.35 This was in line with the claims made in 1607 that the church ales and ludic festivities that were suppressed at the time, had followed an ‘ancient custome’,36 and were therefore justified. Further clues to the politics of the restoration of drama informing Anne of Denmark’s visit to Wells can be found in the event’s intermediary figure. James Montague, the Bishop of Bath and Wells who replaced Bishop John Small in 1608, was responsible for liaising between the Queen and the local authorities, and is known to have defended the lawful usage of recreation outside of church service time by statue in 1614.37 It is to be expected that Montague, who was a favourite of King James I, used his royal connections to invite the Queen to visit Wells, so that her royal authority could put an end to the local debate about the use of traditional drama in favour of maintaining the traditions. After all, Queen Anne had never made a secret of her religious policy which favoured traditional values over the restrictions that had been urged by Puritans. For Montague, the stakes were high: if he wanted to prove that the city of Wells was capable of hosting a number of traditional festivities performed in perfect harmony, this was his opportunity to do so. Montague thus informed the civic authorities of the Queen’s intention to visit Wells on 19 July 1612, more than a year in advance, which corresponds to the year’s 33

Star Chamber Minute Book, Alnwick Castle, Percy Letters and Papers, vol. 9 23/6, f 99, REED: Somerset, 365. 34 Stokes, ‘The Wells Shows of 1607’, 150. 35 Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 377 (16 August), REED: Somerset, 373. 36 Certified Copy of Defendants’ Examinations, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 213 (10 January) (Examination of Robert Creese, saddler, aged 33), REED: Somerset, 318. 37 Dougall, The Devil’s Book, 93.

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notice which towns in Scotland received for the visit by James himself in 1617. Montague took an advisory position in which he determined the protocol including the presence and dress-code of the authorities, the participation of the guilds, and the supervision of general propriety. The protocol shows that in 1613 any possible precaution was taken to avoid any form of disorder to be performed in front of the Queen. Montague ordered the civic authorities that, There should bee a silver bole given to her Maiestie of the price of xxl. that the Streetes should bee made handsome and the towne to bee rid of beggers and Rogues.38

Montague furthermore advised that on Friday 20 August 1613 on receiving the Queen, the Mayor and ‘his brethren’ should attend the Queen at Brown’s Gate, wearing scarlet gowns. Montague appointed the Mayor, Mr. Baron and one Mr. Smith to supervise the attendance of the ‘residue of the xxiiijtie’ in black gowns, and the ‘residue of the Burgesses’ to ‘attend likewise in their gownes and best apparell’.39 The officials were accompanied by the armed troupe of young men who also formed the Morris band on festive occasions, as the Corporation Act Book records that one Mr. Coward, a Mr. Tabor, and Henry Foster and William Atwell were chosen to be responsible for ‘overseeinge of the armed men’.40 In selecting Henry Foster and William Atwell for these positions of responsibility, Montague had made a bold statement about the maintenance of dramatic tradition. William Atwell had been an actor in one of the 1607 mock-pageants that lampooned the professions of John Hole and his reform-leaning sympathizers. Atwell and his brother had sat on horseback facing each other and in disguise, whilst mimicking the professions of a notary and a scrivener.41 The implications of this charivari had been pointed out by Hole in his Bill of Complaint which he presented to King James I; he wrote that the Atwell brothers through their mock-performance ‘then & there signified that they were to lend money to the Hatter to the Pewterer to the Clothier & to the Grocer’.42 Hole bitterly observed that ‘they scornfully insinuated to the whole multitude as it was 38

Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 37 (19 July), REED: Somerset, 371. Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 375 (22 July), REED: Somerset, 371. 40 Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 375 (22 July), REED: Somerset, 371. 41 Examination of Robert Atwell, Chandler, and William Atwell, Tanner, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 124 (16 October 1609), REED: Somerset, 308. Words between [ ] appear crossed out in the record. 42 Bill of Complaint in Hole v. White et al., PRO: STAC/8/161, sheet 219 (19 April 1607), REED: Somerset, 264. 39

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indeed then signified by the said representation’ that Hole, Mead and Palmer were poor men who needed to take money from a usurer.43 Where the law suit Hole vs. White et al. had concluded that Robert Atwell had been an actor, William Atwell had been charged with a different but not necessarily milder offence, as one of the ‘countenancers of the shows’,44 as had Henry Foster. Legally, countenancing was not deemed an innocent practice, as the Plaintiff’s Summary of Charges summarises: Forbearance is held to be consent/ he who does not forbid, commands/ he who does not condemn, approves/ he who allows what he can forbid seems to do/ widespread and careless negligence is widespread blame/ those who act and those who consent are struck with equal punishment.45

By appointing two of the defendants in the Hole v. White case—who had been found guilty of not doing anything to stop the traditional festivities and ludic activity, and of encouraging them with their active spectatorship—to oversee the Morris band welcoming the Queen into the city, Montague made a political point. First of all, it will have been clear to the locals that here Atwell and Foster symbolized the spectators who had in the community’s view been wrongly punished for enjoying traditional custom, and who were now socially and politically recuperated by Anne of Denmark’s visit. In a way, the honour bestowed on Foster and Atwell by Montague is exemplary of the larger significance of the Queen’s visit, which reinstated the acting and spectating of traditional shows in Wells. Secondly, Foster and Atwell’s work as supervisors showed to the public that there was to be a Morris troupe, which was one of the contested ludic practices, at the Queen’s arrival, but that this troupe was to be strictly controlled, leaving no space for charivari-like disorder this time. Montague thus showed awareness that the ‘freedom’ of reviving traditional customs could only be obtained through strict event planning and adherence to protocol. Montague thus organized the shows performed before the Queen to be firmly supervised by the local authorities ‘to giue 43

Bill of Complaint in Hole v. White at al., REED: Somerset, 264. Plaintiff’s Summary of Charges in Hole v. White et al., Huntington Library: EL2728 (November 1609), REED: Somerset, 360. 45 Trans. A. Young in J. Stokes (eds.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, London and Toronto: University of Toronto Press, p. 847. ‘Patientia pro consensus havetur/ qui non prohibit jubut/ qui non improbat, approbat/ qui patitur quod prohibere potest, ipse facere viderur/ negligentia lata and supine, est lata Culpa/ Agentes and Consentientes pari poena plectuntur’. Plaintiff’s Summary of Charges in Hole v. White et al., Huntington Library EL2728, REED: Somerset, p. 363. 44

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allowance for the matter of the shewes whether they bee fit or not’.46 The supervisors of the shows were given the task to ensure that ‘euery companie to bee Contributorie as they haue binne in tymes past to the shewes aforesaid’.47 It was deemed very important that all the guilds participated and contributed to the display of civic unity and success. Refusal to contribute, physically or monetarily, could even result in a prison sentence, so that what had been suppressed in 1607 had become obligatory in 1613 in the light of the Queen’s visit.48 Just as it can be claimed that Montague determined the protocol for the Queen’s visit with the aim of making a political point about dramatic revival, it is also likely that spectators who had been present in 1607 would have watched the ritual movements of the Queen, her entourage, and the officials appointed to welcome her, with a keen eye to find who had been given positions of privilege, and they would have been sure to have found a political message in that. However, the best place for political messages about drama would have been made through the dramatic medium itself. The following section will demonstrate that the shows performed in honour of the Queen reminded spectators of the 1607 shows, of performances that had had a political intention at the time of performance, and that had been severely punished by the law. Although the 1613 pageants were largely traditional, some of their topics would have obtained an additional layer of meaning after 1607, including bitter criticisms about the dangers of spectatorship and acting, so that the pageants became self-referential about making and watching drama in situations where this was not always permitted.

IV The Corporation Act Book informs us that for the Queen’s visit, six different groups of tradesmen, or ‘companies’, performed plays and pageants that reflected their professions, and referred to historical, biblical and mythological scenes and characters. It was recorded in the protocol 46

Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 376, REED: Somerset, 372. Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 376, REED: Somerset, 372. 48 ‘Euery seuerall Companie within this towne shall make themselves readie according to the auncient Orders and Customs to shew themselves before the Queenes Maiestie And that euery Companie and euery seuerall man within the Company shall contribute such somme and sommes of money towards the said shewes as shalbe agreed vppon amongest themselves … vppon paine of imprisonment’. Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 377 (16 August), REED: Somerset, 373. 47

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that the first company to present was the so-called ‘hammer men’: the carpenters, joiners, coopers, masons, tilers, and blacksmiths. This group of craftsmen presented a streamer carrying their arms, a representation of Noah building the ark, Vulcan working at the forge, Venus carried around in a chariot with cupid sitting in her lap. Furthermore they staged a Morris dance and a play of a dragon devouring ‘virgins’.49 The second company consisted of ‘shermen’ (who finished cloth) and tuckers (whose profession was to soften cloth) who presented a streamer with their arms. Their presentation was rather meagre compared to that of the other guild groups, and their performance has not been recorded. The third group consisted of tanners, chandlers and butchers; the same group that had staged political mock performances in 1607. This time they presented a cart with ‘old virgins’ wearing horns and bracelets. The chariot was drawn by men and boys dressed in ox skin: The Tanners Chaundlers and Butchers […] presented A Carte of old virgins the carte couered with hides and homes and the virgins with their attires made of Cowtayles and bracelets for their neck of Hornes sawed and hanged about their neck for rich Jewells Their charriott was drawne by men and boyes in Oxeskins calues skins and other skins.50

For those who came from Court this pageant would have been seen as the ludicrous ‘antimasque’, so that it might thereby have claimed the tanners’, chandlers’ and butchers’ 1607 show as similar buffoonery rather than critique. However, for those spectators who had been present in 1607 this pageant would have been reminiscent of the children’s pageant in which ‘diuers boyes and Maydes in Woomans apparel … goe aboue the streetes of the said towne…’51 At the time, John Hole had found reason to complain about this pageant because it had been performed by children on a holy day. By dressing men as old (and obviously rustic and unattractive) women for the 1613 parody on the 1607 pageant, the community showed that they now pointedly had not apparelled children in women’s clothing so that they were doing nothing that could be prohibited. In other words, with the knowledge of retrospect they were offering the pageant with its risks managed, several years after the risk had ceased to exist, in order to comment on the previous risk that was suffered by the performers and spectators of the 1607 pageant. The 1613 show with 49

Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. 51 Interrogatories for Principal Defendants in Hole v. White et al., PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheet 220 (10-15 May), REED: Somerset, 276. 50

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the ox skin clothing, and jewellery made of horns and bracelets could also have reminded the spectator of the 1607 ‘pageant of the spotted calf’, a charivari through which the younger men of the city had mocked one Mistress Yarde, Hole’s neighbour who had claimed that the Maypole obstructed her way to the Church and thus denied her the opportunity to attend divine service. In the ‘pageant of the spotted calf’ the armed young men, accompanied by the Morris troupe, had staged a hunt in which they meant to ‘kill’ the spotted calf, that so offended Mistress Yarde, in parody of her complaints. The ‘painted calf’ itself, a wooden sign with a picture of a calf matching the colours of the maypole, was taken past Mr Yard’s door many times, and every now and then ‘one of that Companie would cry ba, like a Calf, which person was attired in Satire Skynns’.52 In 1613 the cart in which participants in ‘hides and horns’ made its way along the procession, was a civilized reliving of the earlier charivari through visual symbolism, and very likely a recycling of costumes, that temporarily took the spectators’ minds back to the 1607 mock pageants that had ridiculed those members of the community that had opposed dramatic custom. Furthermore, in 1613, the tanners, chandlers and butchers also presented a St Clement, the patron saint of their profession, who rode a horse while holding a book in his hand. St Clement their Saint rode allsoe with his booke And his ffrier rode allsoe who dealt his almes out of his Masters Bagge which he carried verie full of graynes verie plentifullie.53

In this pageant, St Clement was accompanied by a friar who rode along and dealt out alms from his master’s bag. The image of two men on horseback, one dispensing with goods from a bag had also been seen five years earlier, when the tanners, chandlers and butchers presented the ‘mock tradesmen shows’ in which they lampooned the professions of Hole and his sympathisers, and ridiculed the trade of greengrocer Humphrey Palmer through a representation on horseback. The actors were said to have carried a sack of grain, and to have thrown those grains amongst the people on the streets of Wells, and to have cried ‘who will buy anie good spices or raisons,’ or ‘Humphrey Palmer had no such raisons in his shoppe.’54 Seeing members of this verdery present another image of men on horseback throwing grains, would have reminded spectators, once 52

Examination of William Tyderlegh, REED: Somerset, 351. Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. 54 Examination of James Lideard, Butcher, PRO: STAC 8/161/1, sheets 164-4v (4 June), REED: Somerset, 291. 53

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more, of the previous mock-pageants. The 1613 spectators would have enjoyed the lack of risk, but they would also have read the pageant as a retrospective cleansing of the antagonism which the earlier show had caused, while still being reminded of that earlier show and its anti-Puritan claims. John Hole (now long gone from Wells) would not have found the allusion particularly pleasing. The last part of the pageant organised by this verdery was of a mythological nature, representing ‘Acteon with his Huntsmen’.55 This pageant provided the opportunity to parade a band of armed men, such as in the 1607 May Games, led by the Morris captain, but it also posed a symbolic criticism on the risks of spectatorship. Everyone in the audience would either have been familiar with the myth of the hunter who saw the goddess Diana bathe in the forest, was caught seeing her, and as a punishment was turned into a stag, to be hunted down by his own dogs, as this pageant was part of the city’s traditional repertoire. However, in performances after 1607 this pageant would have gained an extra meaning. Actaeon is the proto-type of the spectator who accidentally walked into a situation that he should not have been party to, and who paid the price. Actaeon’s situation seen in the light of the Hole v. White et al. court case reminded the current audience of the plights of any 1607 spectator who had been charged with being a ‘countenancer’. The third company thus did not waste any opportunity to comment on the 1607 shows, which is not surprising as the members of this verdery had been the most ardent protectors of the traditional church-ale, and the most reckless in their mockeries of reform-leaning opponents of the traditional custom. The fourth company consisted of the cordwainers who presented their patron saint St Crispian and the narrative of the young shoemaker who married his master’s daughter.56 They also presented a streamer with their arms, and another Morris dance. The fifth group was the company of tailors, who presented a streamer, a representation of Herod and Herodias, and an interpretation of the daughter of Herodias: The taylors who presented A Streamer Herod and Herodias, and the daughter of Herodias who daunced for St Iohn Baptists hedd. St Iohn Baptiste beheaded.57

55

Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. Cordwainers’ Account Book, SRO: DD/SAS SE 50/1, f. 32 (25 October), REED: Somerset, 377. 57 Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. 56

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It would have been tempting to stage a pageant of St John the Baptist, because it allowed for a theatrical sleight of hand, using a construction in which the body of the actor was hidden, with a hole at the top from which his head stuck out.58 On this occasion however, the pageant would have had a deeper meaning than just to show one’s dramatic cleverness. For this one needs to consider the theme of the pageant. The biblical king Herod so much enjoyed the dancing of Herodias’ daughter that he told her she could ask whatever she liked because she had pleased him so. Herodias then urged her daughter to request the decapitation of John the Baptist. Having given his word, the king reluctantly fulfilled the wish. Of course, the girl’s dancing, and the decapitation would have taken place at a different narrative point, but for a tableau it would have been appropriate to show the severed head in the way described in the above, with a girl dancing in front of it. Queen Anne was not in any way likened to Herod. However, it is regal power that was referred to, the power of the monarch to decide on their subjects’ lives, and the implied counsel that sovereigns should use this power wisely.59 Furthermore, the pageant addresses the risk of performing in front of a monarch, albeit not necessarily for the person performing it. This again touches on the self-conscious theme of spectating and acting to which the 1613 audience with a knowledge of the 1607 events had become attuned. The sixth group consisted of mercers who also presented a streamer. Furthermore, they staged a giant and giantess, a Morris dance performed by young children, a representation of King Ptolomeus with his Queen, 58

Philip Butterworth describes the technicalities behind how the ‘decollation of John Baptist’ took place, quoting from Reginald Scot’s observations in the Discouerie of Witchcraft; see P. Butterworth, ‘Substitution: Theatrical Sleight of Hand in Medieval Plays’, Medieval European Drama, vol. 9, 2005, 209-229. 59 The playing out of different types of kingship by means of offering counsel has been extensively studied. See for example the work of Greg Walker: G. Walker, The Politics of Performance in Early Renaissance Drama, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1998; G. Walker, Plays of Persuasion: Drama and Politics at the Court of Henry VIII, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 1991; G Walker, ‘Early Tudor Drama and the Arts of Resistance’, Theta, vol. 9, 2010, 69-94. See also: A. Hunt, The Drama of Coronation: Medieval Ceremony in Early Modern England, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2008, 9; P. Happé, ‘Dramatic Images of Kingship in Heywood and Bale’, Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900, vol. 39 no. 2, 1991, 239-253; J. King, ‘Henry VIII as David: The King’s Image and Reformation Politics’, in M. Rankin (ed.), Henry VIII and His Afterlives: Literature, Politics, and Art, Cambridge UP, Cambridge, 2009, 34-52; W. Streitberger, ‘The Royal Image and the Politics of Entertainment’, Research Opportunities in Renaissance Drama, vol. 39, 2000, 1-16.

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and a pageant spectacle in which St George and his knights rescued Ptolomeus’ daughter from being devoured by a dragon.60 Further along in the procession Diana and her nymphs were represented along with Actaeon, who was somehow indicated to have metamorphosed into his animal form: ‘Diana & her nymphes carried in a Chariott who turned Acteon to a Harte’.61 This pageant addresses once more the consequences of spectating or witnessing what one shouldn’t spectate through the Actaeon theme. I have so far observed that the pageants’ protocol showed that the organiser of the Queen’s entry, Bishop Montague, aimed to present the Queen with a meticulously organised sequence of events, in pointed contrast to the disordered and perilous 1607 plays and games. Montague’s organisation and appointment of officials welcoming the Queen betrayed a political agenda in favour of dramatic revival, and an awareness of previous danger. Furthermore, the pageants themselves were mostly based on traditional custom, and where they deviated, this was in order for the verderies to refer to 1607 mock pageants. It can be observed that for the 1613 shows similar figures to the 1607 shows were used in the pageants, for example the goddess Diana, or St George. However, a new reading of old material was presented, such as the throwing of grains, which recuperates the motif by showing it in the context of alms giving. People would remember the earlier one but the new one did not comment bitterly on what had passed before. Hereby the verderies addressed the dangers of performing and spectating, and reminding spectators of the risks of the recent past, incidentally making the audience aware that these risks were no longer being run. In other words, the Queen’s visit was heralded as a moment from which a new, safe, social and political climate had started, called into being by the Queen’s presence and authority. The citizens of Wells watched the 1613 shows with a double consciousness, which Foscarini as an outsider, could not comprehend. Foscarini naively concludes in his letter to the Doge of Venice: Qui non u’è, chi uoglia sapere d’affari, ne di noue del mondo; solo s’attende allegramente in Corte tre, e Quattro uolte maggiore dell’ ordinario à feste...62

60 L. Clopper, ‘Why are there so few English saint plays?’ Early Theatre, vol. 2, 1999, 107-112, 107. 61 Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f 376, REED: Somerset, 272. 62 Letter of Antonio Foscarini, to the Doge and Senate of Venice, ASV: Senato, Secreta, Dispacci, Inghilterra, f [1] (23 August), REED: Somerset, 374.

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[There is no one here who wants to know of business, nor of news of the world; at court one only happily attends to feasts and banquets, three and four times more than usual].63

Of course the main reason for the Queen’s entry was business, which was on everybody’s mind. The Queen herself used the royal entry as a platform for her own agenda. By going to Wells, where traditional customs had been fiercely attacked by reform-leaning citizens, Queen Anne did not only help the community reinstate their traditional values; she also emphasised her role as a female patron of the ludic arts. It has been observed by Clare McManus that Queen Anne sought to redefine ‘female courtly authority’, by her ‘self-conscious use of patronage, performance and commissioning’, and that she removed her patronage of dramatic performances from Whitehall to other locations to further the cause of female participation in drama.64 Where Foscarini interpreted the flocking of nobles to the Queen because the King had never been to the province,65 he failed to see the Queen’s image as anything outside the Body Politic. Foscarini also misunderstood the significance of the nobles gathered in Wells; Foscarini thought them to be provincials who were keen for a glimpse of royalty, but a list of dinner guests in the Corporation Act Book tells a rather different tale. The list of noble guests recorded to have been ‘invited to dynner with Mr William Bull then Mayor of Wells’ after the pageants in the Queen’s honour were performed, reads the following: The Right Honorable the Earle of Worcester the Earle of Tumoth The Lord Buishoppe of Bath and Welles Sir Thomas Somerset The Countesse of Darbie the Lady Cary The Lady Gray The Lady Winzor the Lady Hatton The Lady Walshingham The ffower Maydes of Honor with other persons which came accordinglie except the Earle of Worcester.66

These people were not ‘provincial’ nobles but members of the Queen’s private entourage, and favourites of her husband’s, all of whom were known to support the dramatic form. Edward Somerset the Earl of Worcester, was an advisor to James I in the occupation of Lord Privy Seal. 63 Trans. K. Eisenbichler in J. Stokes (eds.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, University of Toronto Press, London and Toronto, 1996, 850. 64 C. McManus, Women on the Renaissance Stage: Anna of Denmark and Female Masquing in the Stuart Court (1590-1619), Manchester UP, Manchester, 2002, 179. 65 Letter of Antonio Foscarini, REED: Somerset, 374. 66 Corporation Act Book 3, WTH, f. 376, REED: Somerset, 372.

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His son, Sir Thomas Somerset was Queen Anne’s Master of the Horse.67 Lady Catherine Windsor was one of the daughters of the Earl of Worcester, and appeared in at least two masques with Queen Anne.68 The Countess of Derby (Elizabeth de Vere, daughter of the famous courtier and playwright Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford) and the Ladies Hatton and Walshingham had accompanied Queen Anne in the masque The Vision of the Twelve Goddesses (1604), playing respectively Proserpine, Macaria and Astraea.69 Otherwise engaged with drama, the ladies of Sir John Gray and Sir Henry Carey were, like their husbands, known as patrons of the arts.70 Elizabeth Carey was the first female dramatist in England, known for her play The Tragedy of Mariam (1613).71 Showing themselves as female aficionados and patrons of drama, the Queen (and her carefully selected ladies) performed much more than the Royal Body. Indeed, they performed female independence and contribution to the dramatic form. Anne of Denmark thus used her presence to restate traditional values for the citizens of Wells, while they in return gave her a platform for her own socio-political agenda.

V The monarch is the primary spectator in any royal entry, or show or pageant performed in their honour; however, they also play a part when they interact with protocol, ritual, and their audience. That is to say that the sovereign during a royal entry forms an occasion around which citizens act, participate and spectate. As Janette Dillon puts it, the monarch’s entering a city ‘[r]ecreates the meaning of that … space’.72 Indeed, the sovereign’s presence alters the meaning of any form of local traditional drama or custom, sometimes creating a sense of anxiety in nonroyal spectators, such as may have been felt when Henry VII entered York 67

Barrol, Anna of Denmark, 202. Barrol, Anna of Denmark, 191. 69 S. Daniel, The Vision of the Twelve Goddesses, presented in a Maske the eight of Ianuary, at Hampton Court: by the Queene’s most excellent Maiesty, and her ladies, Thomas Creed, London, 1604, sig. A-B., Early English Books Online, web accessed 5 July 2013. See also E. Law, ‘Introduction’, The Vision of the Twelve Goddesses, Bernard Quaritch, London, 1880, 43. 70 Barrol, Anna of Denmark, 44. 71 N. Miller, ‘Sovereign Subversions: Ruling Women in Jacobean England’, in A. Boesky and M. Crane (eds.), Form and Reform in Renaissance England, Associated UPes, London, 2000, 247-270, 257. 72 Dillon, The Language of Space in Court Performance, 49. 68

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for the first time, but in the case of Wells, softening the memory of past perils and replacing risk with recuperation. One may ask whether such awareness can be called ‘metatheatrical’. The metatheatrical stream of theory emphasizes the self-consciousness the spectator feels about drama as an artificial medium.73 Some have located this self-consciousness in devices employed by the dramatist such as the play within the play; the ceremony within the play; role playing within the role; literary and real-life reference within the play and self-reference.74 Others have taken the view that the spectator is always in a sense aware of the drama as artificial because of the intrinsic features in its language or due to other aspects of the drama.75 One of these is the play’s relationship to the cultural system by which it is surrounded. Richard Hornby, for example, claimed that spectators always related what they saw or heard to the play as a whole, and to other plays that they had seen, so that ‘a dramatic work is always experienced at least secondarily as metadramatic’.76 Peter Hyland’s recent study, which also argues for the spectators’ inherent awareness of the artificiality of drama, claims that ‘disguise is of its essence metatheatrical’ [emphasis mine].77 Both Hornby and Hyland have remarked that the degree to which plays consciously exploited the metatheatrical potential, would have varied widely.78 Metatheatricality has always been studied in relation to plays, rather than to royal entries and other ludic or ritual forms in which acting occurred. In royal ritual the monarch when performing the Royal Body, does not present a fictional role, but rather presents a particular version of their own persona with which they interact with their audience. It is therefore unlikely that any 73

Prominently, L. Abel, Metatheatre: A New View of Dramatic Form, Hill and Wang, New York, 1963; L. Abel, Tragedy and Metatheatre, Holmes and Meier, New York, 2003; J. Calderwood, Metadrama in Shakespeare’s Henriad: Richard II to Henry V, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1979; W. Egginton, How the World Became a Stage: Presence, Theatricality, and the Question of Modernity, State University of New York Press, New York, 2003. 74 R. Hornby, Drama, Metadrama and Perception, Associated UP, London and Toronto, 1986, 32. 75 Calderwood, Metadrama in Shakespeare’s Henriad; A. Lombardo, ‘The Veneto, Metatheatre, and Shakespeare’, in M. Marrapodi, A. Hoenselaars, M. Capuzo and F. Falzon Santucci (eds.), Shakespeare’s Italy: Functions of Italian Locations in Renaissance Drama, Manchester UP, Manchester, 1993, 143-157. 76 Hornby, Drama, Metadrama and Perception, 31. 77 P. Hyland, Disguise on the Early Modern English Stage, Ashgate, Farnham, 2011, 15. 78 Hornby, Drama, Metadrama and Perception, 31; Hyland, Disguise on the Early Modern English Stage, 15.

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metatheatrical effect could effectively be located in artificiality and disguise: in the gowns of the civic officials, or attributed to the costumes of the pageant actors, or in other theatrical devices. Metatheatrical approaches, though they may describe certain moments or types of response, do not adequately deal with a core issue in dramatic interaction: the participation which it encourages in context. Indeed, in royal entries, the spectator does not feel self-consciousness about drama as an artificial medium, but they feel self-consciousness about the dramatic medium within its context. This self-consciousness perceived at royal entries is caused by the memory of similar events in different socio-political situations. In this case study, it was the citizens’ memory of previous politically loaded 1607 performances that created a double consciousness through which they noticed a lack of risk where previously there had been a looming political danger. It was with a consciousness of female patronage of the dramatic arts,79 that Queen Anne accepted Montague’s invitation to visit Bath and Wells, and it was because of his memory of other royal entries in which monarchs performed their Body Politic that Foscarini took the 1613 pageants at face value only and simply commented that ‘one clearly sees the pleasures she [Queen Anne] gives and receives, equally great’,80 without quite grasping the full political truth behind his words.

79

McManus, Women on the Renaissance Stage, 179. ‘Si uede chiaro il gusto, che dà, et riceue grande ugualmente’. Letter of Antonio Foscarini, to the Doge and Senate of Venice, ASV: Senato, Secreta, Dispacci, Inghilterra, f [1] (23 August), REED: Somerset, 374. Trans. K Eisenbichler in J Stokes (ed.), REED Somerset, 2 Editorial Apparatus, University of Toronto Press, London and Toronto, 1996, 850. 80

CONTRIBUTORS Alison Basil is an independent scholar based in Newport, South Wales. Her research interests include all aspects of medieval queenship, gendered power and reputation and perceptions of failed kingship. Her most recent research has focused on Isabella of France and Margaret on Anjou and representations of their queenship in the English mediaeval chronicles. Dr Lucinda Hazel S. Dean completed her PhD at the University of Stirling looking at continuity and change of representations of Scottish royal authority in state ceremony, c. 1214 – c. 1603 (March 2014). Her research straddles the medieval and early modern eras, placing a wide range royal ceremony against the complexities of the Scottish and wider European context. She has presented at a number of international conferences and is finalising several articles/chapters on various aspects of Scottish royal ceremony; in addition, she is working on a monograph on Scottish royal ceremonies of death and succession, and co-editing a volume on Medieval and Early Modern Representations of Authority in Scotland, England and Ireland. Dr Rachel Gibbons is an independent scholar based in London. She has published widely over the past 20 years on late medieval queenship, specialising in the political career and family life of Isabeau of Bavaria, queen of France (c. 1370-1435). In the past, she has lectured at the University of Bristol and the Open University, and acted as the academic consultant on a number of OU/BBC co-produced TV series, including Robert Bartlett's 'Inside the Medieval Mind'. She is also the editor of an anthology of primary sources, Exploring History: Medieval to Modern, 1400-1900. Professor Michael Hicks is a specialist in late medieval English politics and government and professor of medieval history at the University of Winchester. His publications include books on The Wars of the Roses, English Political Culture, Bastard Feudalism, and Inquisitions post mortem, and biographies of Edward IV, Edward V, Richard III and his queen Anne Neville, and False, Fleeting, Perjur’d Clarence.

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Contributors

Dr Olivier de Laborderie completed a doctoral thesis at the EHESS (Paris) under the supervision of Jacques Le Goff in 2002. The revised and abridged version has been recently been published under the title Histoire, mémoire et pouvoir. Les généalogies en rouleau des roes d'Angleterre (1250-1422), Paris, Classiques Garnier (‘Bibliothèque d'histoire médiévale’, 7), 2013. He has also published various articles on the image of kingship in England (especially Richard the Lionheart), on national identity and on illumination and its significance in royal genealogies of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Sean McGlynn is Lecturer in History at the University of Plymouth at Strode College and Associate Lecturer in History for The Open University. He is author of By Sword and Fire: Cruelty and Atrocity in Medieval Warfare (2008), Blood Cries Afar: The Forgotten Invasion of England 1216 (2011) and Kill Them All! Cathars, Crusaders and Conquest: The Warfare of the Albigensian Crusade (2015). Forthcoming books include a textbook on the Angevins, Medieval Generals, The Hundred Years War, Henry V and the Agincourt Massacre and The Life and Reign of King John. He is a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. Natalia Neverova is a PhD student in the University of Limoges, France. After graduating from the University College of Saint-Petersburg, a Franco-Russian establishment that provides higher education, she received a scholarship from Île-de-France to enter the master’s programme at the University Paris-I-Sorbonne. She also received a scholarship to be a PhD student in the University of Limoges where she also currently teaches courses in general history, modern and contemporary, as well as several specialized courses for graduate and undergraduate students. Her doctoral research is focused on the relations and the interactions of the ambassadors present in Prague and Strasburg in the end of the 16th to the beginning of the 17th century. The ambassadors’ correspondence serves as a key source of information for this project. The Imperial Court at Prague attracted representatives from different countries providing a rich case study for diplomatic relations in the period. Professor José Manuel Nieto Soria is Professor of Medieval History at the University Complutense in Madrid. His books include Fundamentos ideológicos del poder real en Castilla (siglos XIII al XVI) (1988), Iglesia y poder real en Castilla (1250-1350) (1988), Ceremonias de la realeza.Propaganda y legitimación en la Castilla trastámara (1993) Iglesia y génesis del estado moderno en Castilla (1369-1480) (1994),

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Legislar y gobernar en la Corona de Castilla. El ordenamiento real de Medina del Campo de 1433 (2000), Un crimen en la corte. Caída y ascenso de Gutierre Alvarez de Toledo, Señor de Alba (1376-1446 (2006), Medievo constitucional. Historia y mito político en los orígenes de la España contemporánea (2007); as editor, Los orígenes de la monarquía hispánica. Propaganda y legitimación (ca. 1400-1520) (1999), La monarquía como conflicto en la corona castellano-leonesa (1230-1504) (2006), El conflicto en escenas. La pugna política como representación en la Castilla bajomedieval (2010). Dr Erica O'Brien recently completed her PhD in art history at the University of Bristol, where she has also taught. Her research interests include the medieval and early modern theories of sensory perception and the depiction of religious sensory experiences, particularly spiritual visions, in Northern Renaissance art. Dr Glenn Richardson is Reader in Early-Modern History in the School of Arts and Humanities at St Mary’s University, Twickenham. His main research areas are international political and cultural relations in the sixteenth century with particular reference to Anglo-French relations; monarchy and masculinity, royal and princely courts. In addition to journal articles and chapters in edited collections, his main publications to date are: The Field of Cloth of Gold (Yale UP, 2013), ‘The Contending Kingdoms’: France and England 1420-1700 (Ashgate, 2008), Renaissance Monarchy: The Reigns of Henry VIII, Francis I and Charles V (London, 2002) and Tudor England and its Neighbours [co-edited with Susan Doran] (2005). His current project is a biography of Cardinal Wolsey for Routledge. Glenn is the Secretary of History UK, which represents and defends the teaching of History in universities. He is a member, and former Committee member, of the Society for Court Studies. He is a member of The Society for the Study of French History and is a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society. Dr Zita Rohr is a Research Associate in the Department of History and a member of the Medieval and Early Modern Centre at the University of Sydney. She was awarded a doctorate in 2009 for her thesis, “L’Envers de la tapisserie: The Œuvre of Yolande d’Aragon. A Study of Queenship, Power and Authority in Late Mediæval France.” Her research interests include power and authority; conjugal collaboration in government; the pre-humanist education, spirituality and upbringing of aristocratic and royal women; female book ownership, cross cultural exchange and

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Contributors

epistolography and the analysis of female royal and aristocratic networks. She is currently working on a monograph on the life and times of Yolande of Aragon (1381-1442). Zita Rohr was admitted to the Ordre des Palmes Académiques (Chevalier) in 2004 for her contribution to French education and culture. Dr Elizabeth Tingle is Associate Professor in Early Modern European History at Plymouth University. She is the author of Authority and Society in Nantes during the French Wars of Religion (Manchester University Press, 2006) and Purgatory and Piety in Brittany 1480-1720 (Ashgate, 2012), with Jonathan Willis eds, Dying, Death, Burial and Commemoration in Reformation and Counter-Reformation Britain and Europe (Ashgate, forthcoming) as well as numerous other essays and articles on the religious wars and the Counter Reformation in France. She is currently has a Leverhulme research fellowship to prepare a monograph, Indulgences after Luther: Pardons in Counter-Reformation France, for Pickering & Chatto. Dr Nadia Thérèse van Pelt has just completed her Ph.D. at the University of Southampton. The title of her thesis was Play-making on the Edge of Reality: Managing spectator Risk in Early English Drama. She also holds a BA in English Language and Culture (2008) and an M.Phil. in Literature: Medieval to Early Modern Studies (2010) from the University of Leiden. Nadia has presented her research at various conferences in the UK, the Netherlands and Australia. She is a member of the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Culture at Southampton, and a copy editor for Royal Studies Journal. Dr Anna Whitelock is a Reader in Early Modern History at Royal Holloway, University of London and Director of the Centre for Public History, Heritage and Engagement with the Past. She is the author of Mary Tudor: England's First Queen (Bloomsbury, 2009) and Elizabeth's Bedfellows: An Intimate History of the Queen's Court (Bloomsbury, 2013). She also co-edited with Alice Hunt, Tudor Queenship: The Reigns of Mary and Elizabeth (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). Dr Elena (Ellie) Woodacre is a specialist in medieval and Early Modern queenship and a Lecturer in Early Modern European History at the University of Winchester. Her recent monograph, The Queens Regnant of Navarre; Succession, Politics and Partnership; 1274-1512 (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013) examines female succession, matrimonial diplomacy

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and the power sharing dynamic between the queens regnant of Navarre and their kings consort in the Late Middle Ages. She has also edited a recent collection, Queenship in the Mediterranean (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013) which draws together a series of intriguing case studies in the region during the medieval and Early Modern period to demonstrate key themes of female political agency and cultural influence. Elena is the co-organizer of the ‘Kings & Queens’ conference series and the founder of the Royal Studies Network (www.royalstudiesnetwork.org), a resource which aims to bring together scholars who work on monarchical topics to enable them to collaborate and share information on their research. She is also the Editor-in-Chief of the Royal Studies Journal, an academic open access publication launched in 2014 (www.rsj.winchester.ac.uk).

INDEX access, 12 accession, see succession address clauses, 85-98 administration, 10-12, 35, 55, 88-89, 95, 101, 105-106, 108, 242, 282-283 adolescence, 186-188, 190-192, 205 adulthood, 187, 195 Aethelred, King of England, 82 Aethelstan, King of England, 71 aging, 212-215, 220-221 Agnes of Burgundy, Duchess of Bourbon, 284 Agnes of France, Duchess of Burgundy, 97 Akbar, Mughal Emperor, 189, 191, 199 Alain IV, Duke of Brittany, 286 Alessandro de Medici, Duke of Florence, 200 Alexander the Great, 152-153, 156 Alexander II, King of Scotland, 254, 258, 259, 262, 263 Alexander III, King of Scotland, 254, 255, 258, 259, 260-262, 263, 266, 274 Alexander VI, Pope, 239 Alfonso V, King of Aragon, 101, 239, 240 Alfonso X, King of Castile, 241 Alfred the Great, King of England, 3, 75, 77-82, 148 Alix, Duchess of Brittany, 286 ambassadors, 5, 27, 131-145, 189, 194, 198, 201, 209-210, 220221, 223, 234, 235, 239, 253, 300-302, 314-315 Anne of Austria, Queen of France, 191

Anne, Duchess of Brittany, Queen of France, 283, 287, 295 Anne of Denmark, Queen of England, 3-4, 83, 299-301, 306309, 313-316, 318 Anne Boleyn, Queen of England, 208, 218 Aragon, 26, 28-29, 44-45, 101-102, 188, 192, 231-234, 239-241, 252-253, 255 Aquinas, Thomas, 51 armour, 198-199, 248 Arthur II, Duke of Brittany, 286 Arthur III, Duke of Brittany, 287, 288, 292, 295 audiences, 139-140, 143-144 authority, 2-5, 9, 24-26, 31, 35-36, 39, 44-45, 52, 64, 66, 74, 80-81, 84-91, 93-95, 97-98, 101-102, 105-106, 108-109, 116-117, 137, 144-145, 150, 163, 171, 180-181, 184, 187-188, 192, 200, 205, 207-208, 219-220, 229, 249, 254-256, 258, 264, 267, 269, 271, 273, 277, 281283, 285-286, 288, 291-292, 296, 299, 304, 306, 314-315 Babur, Mughal Emperor, see Zahir al Din Muhammad Babur Baldwin, Count of Hainault, 155 Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem, 53 Balliol, Edward, 269 baptism, 54, 59, 127, 202, 235, 237, 246, 297 see also births barren, see childlessness Benedict XVI, Pope, 14 births, 234, 237, 251, 253, 254 Blanca I, Queen of Navarre, 84, 8993, 95-96, 100-102, 104, 106, 107

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe Blanche of Artois, Queen of France, 85 (royal) body, 3-5, 26, 48-49, 51-53, 62, 121, 169-179, 181, 188-189, 197-199, 201, 203, 207-225, 255, 285, 289-290, 302, 316317 Body Politic, 4, 48-52, 67, 171-172, 188-189, 207, 208, 213, 299, 302, 315-316 Boniface IX, Pope, 61 Boris Godunov, Tsar of Russia, 141-142 Brae, Tycho, 132 Brittany, 2, 42, 56, 281-297 bureaucracy, 5, 10, 22 Burgundy, Duchy of, 34, 36, 42, 110, 115, 187, 285 Cambridge, 20 Carlos III, King of Navarre, 104, 108 Carlos, Principe de Viana, 91, 106 Castile, 89, 94, 101-102, 188, 228253, 281 Catalina, Queen of Navarre, 84, 9297, 103-104, 106-108 Cecil, Robert, 133, 215, 217 celibacy, see chastity, virginity ceremonial, 2, 3, 13, 228-253, 256257, 262-264, 267, 273, 275, 276, 278, 280, 285 chancery, 8, 10 chantry chapels, 2, 20, 283, 289290, 294 Charlemagne, Holy Roman Emperor, 74, 148 Charles von Hapsburg, Archduke of Austria, 210 Charles I, Duke of Bourbon, 284 Charles ‘the Bold’, Duke of Burgundy, 110, 112-115, 117119, 125, 127 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, 4, 127, 184, 185, 187-188, 192193, 195-196, 198-201, 205

325

Charles I, King of England, 2, 258, 280 Charles V, King of France, 54 Charles VI, King of France, 4, 27, 30, 32-35, 38, 42, 49, 50, 54-67, 295 Charles VII, King of France, 3, 24, 32, 40, 41, 42, 44-47, 295 Charles VIII, King of France, 295 Charles de Blois, 286, 291-292, 294 (royal) chapel(s), 244-246 chastity, 112, 113, 208, 211-213 childhood, 186 childlessness, 126-127, 212, 225 chivalry, 156, 180, 184, 196, 235, 253 Claude, Duchess of Brittany and Queen of France, 287, 295 cloth of estate, 275 civil war, 229, 231 coins/coinage, 3, 84, 105-109, 283 Colette of Corbie, 111-119, 121123, 126 commemoration, 2, 283-297 Conan IV, Duke of Brittany, 286 Constance, Duchess of Brittany, 286 Contarini, Tommaso, 134-136 coronation, 2, 30-32, 55, 175, 207, 234, 235-237, 253, 254-280 Cosimo I de Medici, Duke of Florence, 200 court, 173, 180, 201, 242-243, 250, 283, 287-288 courtiers, 13, 15, 16 crowns, 264-265, 274, 275 crusades, 148, 154, 157-164 dance, 202 David II, King of Scotland, 50, 254, 258, 263, 266, 267-270, 274 death, 2, 33, 40, 58, 59, 64, 66, 74, 87-88, 91, 97, 116, 119, 120, 127, 132, 140, 151, 152, 154, 155, 162-165, 167, 191, 195, 213, 221-225, 234, 238, 254, 259, 270, 295, 297 Dee, John, 132

326 de Born, Bertran, 151, 157, 166 d’Este, Ippolito, Cardinal, 202 de Foix, Françoise, Dame de Châteaubriant, 199 de Luna, Alvaro, 233, 241 de Pisselieu, Anne, Duchess of Étampes, 199-200 de Pizan, Christine, 33, 37-40, 4849, 60 des Barres, William, 156 devotional images, 112-114, 118, 121-127 diplomacy, 185, 282 donations, 292, see also gifts dramas, see pageants dress, 4, 113, 200-203, 212-214, 216-217, 220, 266, 310 dynastic continuity, 2, 98, 103-105, 188, 190, 215, 229, 256, 287, 294 Edith (Matilda), Queen of England, 77 Edward ‘the Confessor’, King of England, 81 Edward I, King of England, 16, 261, 264, 266, 275 Edward II, King of England, 49-50, 185 Edward III, King of England, 16, 148, 269 Edward IV, King of England, 9-10, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 110 Edward VI, King of England, 203 Egbert, King of England, 3, 70-83 Eleanor of Provence, Queen of England, 81 Eleonora di Toledo, Duchess of Florence, 200 Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 2, 3, 4, 140-141, 187, 207-225 Elizabeth Wydeville (Woodville), Queen of England, 16 England, 3, 5, 8-22, 50, 53, 66, 7083, 110, 141, 151, 154-156, 159, 161, 165, 183, 186-187, 189, 191-192, 195, 198, 201-203,

Index 208-210, 213-214, 219, 255257, 264, 268, 278, 281, 291, 304, 316 Enrique II, King of Castile, 231 Enrique IV, King of Castile, 233, 239 entertainments, 243, 266, 283, 301, 304, 308 (royal) entries, 3, 234-235, 240, 251, 253, 298-300, 307-309, 314, 316-318 Erasmus of Rotterdam, 191 etiquette, 13, 141-142, 242 expenditure, 35-36 faction, 4 favourites, 21, 51, 233 female rule, see gynaecocracy feminitity, 169-170, 185 Feodor I, Tsar of Russia, 141 Ferdinand I, King of Aragon, 239 Ferdinand II of Aragon (I of Castile), 101, 104, 107, 231, 233, 234, 251 Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor, 209 Ferdinand I de Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany, 135 fertility, 112, 119, 177, 199, 203, 208, 210-211 Field of Cloth of Gold (1520), 183, 184, 196, 198, 203-204, 206 Froissart, Jean, 50-51, 55, 60, 67 Fortescue, Sir John, 15, 191 France, 2-5, 23, 27-28, 31-36, 3841, 45-46, 50, 53, 55, 57-58, 60, 66-67, 72, 74, 80, 92-94, 97, 99100, 102, 110, 134, 139, 149150, 152-155, 159-166, 177, 183, 186-187, 191, 194-195, 198, 202, 208-210, 255, 268, 281, 283, 285-287, 291, 294296 Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, 189 Francis I, Duke of Brittany, 286, 287, 288, 290, 295

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe Francis II, Duke of Brittany, 287, 288, 295 Francis III, Duke of Brittany, Dauphin of France, 295 Francis I, King of France, 4, 183185, 187, 189, 190, 194-206, 295 Francis II, King of France, 102, 292 Francisco Fébo, King of Navarre, 97, 106, 108 Françoise d’Amboise, Duchess of Brittany, 288, 294 Fredrick Barbarossa, Holy Roman Emperor, 148, 157 Fueros of Navarre, 86, 95, 109 funerals, 13, 188-189, 221, 234, 238, 246, 253, 259, 285 Gaston Phébus (Phoebus), Count of Foix, 50 Gaston IV, Count of Foix, 92, 95-97 gender roles, 5, 23, 169-181, 185, 188 gendered space, 172-177, 179, 181 George, Duke of Clarence, 10, 18 Gheeraets, Marcus, the Younger, 214-215, 217 Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan, 33 gifts, 11, 16, 19, 55, 77, 112, 117120, 127, 140-142, 260-262, 279, 284, 292, 298, see also donations Galeazzo II Visconti, Duke of Milan, 50 Gonzaga, Federigo, 189 Gonzaga, Ferrante, 189 Great Schism, 60 guilds, 114, 306, 308-309, 313 Guy of Blois, 50 gynaecocracy, 27, 208, 218 heir/heiress apparent, 84, 95, 199, 203, 211, 215, 221 Henri III, King of France, 134, 185 Henri IV, King of France, 9, 134, 143, 144 Henry I, King of England, 77

327

Henry II, King of England, 77, 151, 155, 185 Henry III, King of England, 80, 256 Henry IV Bolingbroke, King of England, 9 Henry V, King of England, 4, 19, 20, 40, 148, 150, 165 Henry VI, King of England, 5, 10, 11, 12, 14, 19, 20, 21, 45, 168181 Henry VII, King of England, 12, 20, 203 Henry VIII, King of England, 4, 183-185, 187, 189-195, 197206, 208, 218, 221, 266 Henry ‘the Young King’, son of Henry II of England, 80 Henry of Huntingdon, 74-75 Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, King consort of Scotland, 107-108 Hilliard, Nicholas, 213, 216, 217 holy oil, 268, 274 homage, 17-18, 274-275, 281 see also oaths Honorius, Pope, 154 household, 12-13, 24, 173, 242 humours, 170-171 hunting, 197, 199 image, 2-5, 21, 49, 51, 60, 85, 8889, 98-101, 105, 107-109, 111, 113-114, 116-118, 121-123, 125-126, 133, 148-149, 151, 153, 157, 162, 173, 179, 189, 202, 207, 212-216, 219, 221, 232, 234-235, 239, 241-244, 249-250, 252-253, 264, 269, 274, 282-283, 294, 300, 311, 315 illness, 4-5, 53, 56, 58, 62-63, 67, 170 infidelity, 16 Innocent III, Pope, 154 intercession, 13, 16, 175-177, 180, 288-289

328 Isabeau of Bavaria, Queen of France, 3, 24, 27-28, 29, 30, 32, 34-44, 46-47, 55, 57, 59 Isabel I of Castile, 101, 104, 107, 233 Isabella of France, Queen of England, 35 Isabella d’Este, Marquess of Mantua, 189 Isabelle de Valois, Queen of England, 66 Isabelle Stuart (of Scotland), Duchess of Brittany, 288, 290, 292, 293 Isma’il, Sultan of Persia, 186 James I, King of Scotland, 270, 272, 275 James II, King of Scotland, 254, 258, 270-272, 277 James III, King of Scotland, 254 James IV, King of Scotland, 254, 255, 260 James V, King of Scotland, 254, 255, 277, 279 James VI & I, King of England and Scotland, 12, 83, 221, 223-224, 254, 258, 277-280, 299, 305307, 315 Jean II, Duke of Bourbon, 284 Jean I, Duke of Brittany, 286 Jean II, Duke of Brittany, 286 Jean III, Duke of Brittany, 286 Jean IV, Duke of Brittany, 281, 286, 291, 292, 294 Jean V, Duke of Brittany, 42, 286, 288-289, 291-293, 295 Jean d’Albret, King consort of Navarre, 92-94, 103-104, 107, 108 Jeanne de Bourbon, Queen of France, 54 Jeanne of France, Duchess of Brittany, 288-290, 292-293, 295 Joan of Arc, 42 Joan of England, Queen of Scotland, 267, 271, 275

Index Joan (Jeanne) of Navarre, Duchess of Brittany and Queen of England, 35, 291 John, King of England, 80, 164 John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, 36, 115, 285 Juan II, King of Aragon, King consort of Navarre, 89-93, 95, 100-102, 104, 106, 107, 108, 239 Juan II, King of Castile, 239, 241 Juana I, Queen of Castile, 94 Juana I, Queen of Navarre and Queen consort of France, 84-90, 95, 98-99, 105, 107, 108 Juana II, Queen of Navarre, 84, 89, 97, 98-100, 105-106 Juana Enríquez, Queen of Aragon, 101 Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England, 189-190 Kelley, Edward, 132 Kepler, Johannes, 132 kingship, 4, 25, 153, 156, 168-169, 171-172, 175-181, 195, 204 ladies-in-waiting, 210, 218, 222, 223 le Breton, Guillaume, 152-154, 156, 158, 159, 163-166 legitimacy, 2, 79, 188, 229, 233, 291, 293, 295, 295-296 Leonor, Queen of Navarre, 84, 9192, 95-96, 102, 104, 106 letters, 19-20 libraries, 110 Louis II, Dukc of Anjou, titular King of Sicily and Jerusalem, 28-29, 31, 34, 38 Louis III, Dukc of Anjou, titular King of Sicily and Jerusalem, 46 Louis, Duke of Orleans, 33, 36, 38, 55, 66 Louis X, King of France (Luis I of Navarre), 87, 97 Louis XI, King of France, 24, 295

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe Louis XII, King of France, 194, 195, 295 Louis XIV, King of France, 16, 191 Louise of Savoy, Duchess of Angoulême, 194-195 loyalty, 232 Machiavelli, Niccolo, 191 mantles, 265-266 Magdalena of France, Princess of Viana, 95, 97 Margaret de Bretagne, 290 Margaret of Anjou, Queen of England, 5, 169-182 Margaret of Bavaria, Duchess of Burgundy, 115 Margaret of Foix, Duchess of Brittany, 295 Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy, 4, 110-130 Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scotland, 208 Margaret, ‘Maid of Norway’, 256 Marie de Medici, Queen of France, 143 Marie of France, daughter of Charles VI, 59 marriage, 13, 16, 28-30, 54, 86, 89, 101, 106, 110, 112, 115, 117, 119, 134-135, 143, 175, 187, 190, 210-11, 207, 222, 223, 234, 237, 245, 253, 267, 281, 283, Marshal, William, 156 Martin I, King of Aragon, 29 Mary, Duchess of Burgundy, 114 Mary I, Queen of England, 101-102, 107, 221, 225 Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and Queen consort of France, 102, 107-108, 208-209, 217, 221, 254, 277, 279 masculinity, 4, 169, 171-172, 176179, 184-187, 188-189, 192, 200, 203. 204-205 mausolea, 2, 20, 283-297 masques, 201-202 Mehmet, Ottoman Emperor, 196

329

mental health, 4-5, 53-54, 56-67, 136, 139, 142, 143, 168-181 mercy, 10, 169, 175 metatheatricality, 298-300, 316-317 Michelle of France, daughter of Charles VI, 59 military skill/leadership, 4, 148-167, 184, 195-197, 203 minority (rule), 11, 27, 84-86, 187, 191, 254-280 mistresses, 199 Montague, James, Bishop of Bath and Wells, 306-308, 318 motherhood, 3, 24, 28, 37, 46, 126, 175, 180, 194, 211 More, Thomas, 10, 14, 191 mythological allegory, 309, 312-314 Nantes, 286-290, 292-297 Navarre, 3, 38, 84-109 oaths, 236, 237, 247, 249, 253, 274, 275, 276-278 Occitan, 87-88 Odette, natural daughter of Philip, Duke of Burgundy, 116-117 Offa, King of Mercia, 76 ordo/ordines, see coronations Ottoman Empire, 133, 137-138, 141-143 pageants, 298-299, 302-304, 306, 308-314, 316-318 (royal) palaces, 12, 21, 57, 143, 159, 170-172, 199, 221, 233, 245247, 249-250, 303 Paris, Matthew, 3, 75-79, 81 patronage, 2, 4, 11, 13, 16-17, 20, 25, 112, 116-117, 119-121, 126127, 176-177, 197, 214, 245, 282-284, 286-287, 289, 293294, 296, 315, 318 Pavia, Battle of (1525), 195, 196 Pedro IV, King of Aragon, 241 Pedro I, King of Castile, 231 petitions, 11-12, 15 Philip, Count of Flanders, 155 Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, 27, 34. 36, 116, 122, 285

330 Philip II Augustus, King of France, 4, 148-167 Philip III, King of France, 85, 87 Philip IV ‘the Fair’, King of France, 86-90, 95, 98, 100 Philip II, King of Macedonia, 149 Philip II, King of Spain, 101-102, 107, 140, 208, 209 Philip of Flanders, King consort of Castile, 94 Philip d’Evreux, King consort of Navarre, 89, 99-100, 105-106 Philippa of Hainault, Queen of England, 35, 50 Pierre II de Beaujeu, Duke of Bourbon, 284 Pierre II, Duke of Brittany, 287, 288, 290, 292, 293, 294, 295 pilgrimage, 21, 59, 67, 113, 248 plays, see pageants plots, 217-218 poison, 218 portraits, 212-216 processions, 271 propaganda, 2, 282, 296 queens-lieutenant, 26, 28 queenship, 16, 25-27, 169, 173-174, 176-178, 180, 185, 188, 205 reconciliation, 240 regalia, 260-261, 264-265, 273, 279 regency, 4, 26, 35, 65-66, 84, 85, 191 regicide, 10 relics, 112, 174, 247, 292-294 Richard I, King of England, 4, 148, 150, 153-167 Richard II, King of England, 29, 5051, 53, 66, 256 Richard III, King of England, 10, 16, 17, 20, 191 Richard, Duke of York, 170 rivalry, 4, 183-184, 189, 196, 201, 203 Robert I, King of Naples, 29, 31 Robert I, King of Scotland, 263. 264, 267, 268-269, 270

Index Robert II, King of Scotland, 270, 272 Robert III, King of Scotland, 275 Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, 209, 218 Robin Hood(s), 303 Rudolf II, Holy Roman Emperor, 131-145 (Basilique de) Saint-Denis, 60, 64, 285, 295, 297 saints’ cults, 293 Saladin, 162 Salic law, 27, 291 Sancia of Mallorca, Queen of Naples, 29, 31-32 sceptres, 265-266 Scotland, 254-280 scrofula (‘the king’s evil’), 54 seals, 3, 11, 19, 84, 98-109, 266 Selim I, Ottoman Emperor, 186 servants, 12-13 sexuality, 174-179, 185, 199-200, 203, 208-211, 214, 218-220, 222 siege warfare, 160-161, 166-167 sovereignty, 30, 33-35, 39, 46, 52, 73, 80, 169, 173, 177, 241-243, 277, 281-283, 291, 296-297 spectator(s), 198, 298-300, 305-306, 308-312, 314, 316-317 Spenser, Edmund, 219-220 St. Agnes, 112 St. Andrew, 116 St. Anne, 112-115, 117-118, 121122, 125 St. Catherine, 112 St. Clement, 311 St. Colette, see Colette of Corbie St. Crispian, 312 St. Edmund the Martyr, 111 St. Francis, 112, 118-119, 125 St. George, 114, 303, 314 St. John the Baptist, 312 St. John the Evangelist, 112 St. Lucy, 119 St. Margaret of Antioch, 112, 118

The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe St. Margaret of Scotland, 263, 268 St. Mary Magdalene, 115, 116 St. Ronan, 292, 293 St. Waltrude, 112 St. Vincent Ferrer, 293 St. Yves, 286, 287, 293 (royal) standards, 247-248, 249, 265 Star Chamber (Westminister), 303, 305 succession, 2, 25-27, 95, 97-98, 109, 134, 136, 162, 187-189, 194, 207, 209-210, 212, 216, 219, 221, 224, 231, 233, 235-237, 241, 259-260, 267, 270, 281, 286, 291 Süleyman ‘the Law Giver’, Ottoman Emperor, 186 tournaments, 197-198, 235 Treaty of Troyes (1420), 40, 43 tyranny, 51 Urban V, Pope, 54 Valentine Visconti, Duchess of Orleans, 32, 61 Vannes, 286, 288-290, 293 victory celebrations, 240 virginity, 212-214, 217, 222 see also chastity Walsingham, Francis, 211

331

wardships, 11, 16 weddings, 29, 32, 108, 202, 235, 246, 251-253, 264, 267, see also marriage Wells (England), 3, 299-300, 302307, 311, 314-316, 318 Wenceslas of Brabant, 50 William I ‘the Conqueror’, King of England, 71, 75, 148, 150 William I, King of Scotland, 259, 260-262 William of Malmesbury, 73-74, 77 Windsor (Castle), 20 Wolsey, Thomas, Cardinal, 192-195 wrestling, 183, 197, 203-204, 206 Wyclif, John, 50-52 Yolande of Anjou, Duchess of Brittany, 288 Yolande of Aragon, Duchess of Anjou, titular Queen of Sicily and Jerusalem, 3, 24, 28-32, 4147 York, 21 Zahir al Din Muhammad Babur (Babur), Sultan of Afganistan, 4, 186, 187, 189, 191, 193-194, 196, 198-199, 205