Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 152673981X, 9781526739810

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WOMEN IN THE MEDIEVAL COURT

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WOMEN IN THE MEDIEVAL COURT CONSORTS AND CONCUBINES

REBECCA HOLDORPH

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First published in Great Britain in 2022 by PEN AND SWORD HISTORY An imprint of Pen & Sword Books Ltd Yorkshire – Philadelphia Copyright © Rebecca Holdorph, 2022 ISBN 978 1 52673 981 0 The right of Rebecca Holdorph to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing. Typeset in Times New Roman 11.5/14 by SJmagic DESIGN SERVICES, India. Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd. Pen & Sword Books Limited incorporates the imprints of Atlas, Archaeology, Aviation, Discovery, Family History, Fiction, History, Maritime, Military, Military Classics, Politics, Select, Transport, True Crime, Air World, Frontline Publishing, Leo Cooper, Remember When, Seaforth Publishing, The Praetorian Press, Wharncliffe Local History, Wharncliffe Transport, Wharncliffe True Crime and White Owl. For a complete list of Pen & Sword titles please contact PEN & SWORD BOOKS LIMITED 47 Church Street, Barnsley, South Yorkshire, S70 2AS, England E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.pen-and-sword.co.uk Or PEN AND SWORD BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Rd, Havertown, PA 19083, USA E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.penandswordbooks.com

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Contents

Introduction�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������vi Section One: Noblewomen�������������������������������������������������������������������1 Introduction �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������3 Chapter One: Wife and Mother��������������������������������������������������������������5 Chapter Two: Public Lives�������������������������������������������������������������������37 Section Two: Consorts������������������������������������������������������������������������63 Chapter Three: Becoming a Queen������������������������������������������������������66 Chapter Four: The ‘Profession’ of Queenship��������������������������������������93 Section Three: Reigning Queens�����������������������������������������������������131 Chapter Five: The Path to the Throne������������������������������������������������134 Chapter Six: Wielding Royal Power���������������������������������������������������155 Section Four: Concubines����������������������������������������������������������������193 Chapter Seven: ‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress������������������196 Chapter Eight: ‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress�����217 Conclusion�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������235 Bibliography���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������240 Endnotes���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������247

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Introduction

In early 1077, the Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich IV stood bare-headed in the snow outside a fortress called Canossa set atop a rocky outcrop in northern Italy. He had made the dangerous crossing over the winter Alps to see the man inside the fortress, Pope Gregory VII, in a time of desperation. Heinrich and Gregory had been locked in conflict for several years, and when the pope finally excommunicated Heinrich, his nobles had enough. They informed Heinrich he would need to have his excommunication lifted or lose his throne. Inside Canossa, Gregory was being hosted, protected and advised by Canossa’s ruler – the ruler of all Tuscany and one of the most powerful nobles in Europe. Her name was Matilda. When Heinrich was finally allowed inside the fortress after three days of humiliation in the snow, it was she who admitted him. When he was permitted to bow before the pope and beg forgiveness, it was in her court that he prostrated himself. When Heinrich took up arms against the pope once more, it was her army that defeated him, with Matilda herself in command. Matilda’s defeat of Heinrich – on the battlefield, in medieval halls of power, eventually in the public imagination – was a defining moment of medieval history. Few of us have heard of Matilda of Tuscany. She was unknown to me before I began researching this book. To me, she epitomises the reasons why we study medieval women. Even as society recognises the importance of women’s history more and more, the dominant narrative is one of ‘exceptional’ women who managed to navigate their society to achieve positions of power far outside the ordinary. For every Eleanor of Aquitaine, it seems there were dozens of kings, dukes, popes, and bishops engaged in the conflicts of their day. The reason this is the case is that historians still rarely look for the women. But when we do, they are easy to find. They step out of the woodwork of history, ready to take their place. They are less vi

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Introduction clearly defined than many of their male counterparts, a result of male bias in surviving records. This is evidence of the patriarchal society in which they lived, which did its best to deny them a voice or identity beyond wife or mother. But the more we look, the more we find them. The more we understand of their contexts – of their conflicts, goals, successes, failures – the more these women begin to emerge as powerful, independent actors in their own rights. A new picture begins to emerge of women who dealt with enormous challenges and pressure, but who were not without strength, not without independence, and certainly not without power. In this book, we will meet some of them. How do we study medieval women? It is not difficult to find documents dating from the Middle Ages. Literally millions survive – they can even be purchased on eBay. The problem is not one of quantity, but of quality. The sorts of documents that families or governments saved to pass down to future generations were usually legal or financial: land grants, wills, financial accounts, court records. By and large, medieval women did not exist as separate legal entities. Their roles are often erased because the surviving documentary record reflects the activities from which women, simply because they were women, were barred. Other types of sources discuss women more often, but they bring issues of interpretation. Religious writers such as Thomas Aquinas – who described women as ‘defective and misbegotten’ – had much to say about them.1 Little of what they say is good; unsurprising given the church’s distrust of women and their dangerous sexuality. Medieval chroniclers, men who created the historical record of their time, usually focused on their fellow men, but they discussed women when their paths intersected with great events. Many chroniclers, especially in the early Middle Ages, were also religious men, however, so much of their work requires careful interpretation. But the fact that so many men had so much to say about women speaks volumes: if women were behaving in the ways that these men advocated, would there have been a need to spill so much ink on the subject? The sheer volume of anti-woman work produced suggests women everywhere, at all levels of society, occupied a place of power that was far from what these men considered the ideal. Of course, there are still ways of researching women’s history in the Middle Ages. Reading between the lines of official documents does vii

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines much to illuminate women’s lives. Some women were independent and powerful enough to leave behind their own legal records. From time to time, important sets of documents have survived through accidents of history. Even more rarely, women’s own writing survives. In the twelfth-century, troubadour Marie de France created romantic lyrics that were well known in her own time; the Byzantine princess Anna Komnene’s Alexiad was a powerful assertion of her own power, as well as one of our best surviving sources of the First Crusade. Historians generally use a combination of evidence for women’s lives. Legal and financial records can be of great use. Letters, when they survive, are helpful, though most letters are formal documents written by scribes, created with the understanding they might be kept and read publicly. As such, the contents rarely tell us much about the personal views of the sender, but may reveal more of a sense of how that person wished to be perceived. Art, monuments and tombs, and literature also offer clues to how women wished to be remembered. Chronicles, the history books of the Middle Ages, mention women who played roles in the crucial happenings of their time. This can be useful, but their words are best taken with a grain, sometimes a shaker, of salt. For medieval writers, the ‘truth’ did not always mean an accurate depiction of events precisely as they occurred. For one thing, many chronicles were commissioned by powerful families, with the expectation that the writer would depict members of the family – men and women – in a positive light. For another, many writers offer a didactic interpretation of events, with the goal of revealing the universal truths and divine plans that underpinned them. Most considered it reasonable to amend or embellish their telling of events to illuminate those truths. This is a book about women and power. It would be disingenuous to sugar-coat the fact that medieval women lived in a patriarchal society that preferred to limit women to the roles of wife or mother and denied them access to authority. Several theoretical viewpoints prevalent in medieval Europe meant that women, even those born into the highest levels of society, had enormous obstacles to overcome to exercise personal agency. Medieval society was diverse – not everyone experienced these ideas identically – but most people living in the Middle Ages would find them familiar. viii

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Introduction Medical and scientific views on women were a wellspring of misogynist thought. The male body was held to be an exemplar, the female body an inverted, deviant version. This explained why a male body has a penis and testicles, while the female has the ‘opposite’: a vagina and ovaries. The humour system, which held that four humours – phlegm, blood, black bile, yellow bile – should be balanced throughout the body, assigned different humours to men and women. Men were associated with yellow bile, making them naturally more ambitious and dominant, while women were charmingly associated with phlegm, which explained their calm, submissive, cold, and moist natures. Knowing these basic ideas, we begin to see the seeds of the political and social subjection of women in biological theory. Just as women were inferior to men physically, so were they inferior mentally and emotionally. Men were assertive, powerful, in control of their emotions. Women were mentally feeble, naturally submissive, talkative, and their emotions, particularly their sexual appetite, were difficult to control.2 These views interacted with religious views on women, which generally split women into the two categories of ‘virgin’ or ‘whore’. These opposing views were epitomised by the most famous women of the Bible: Eve and the Virgin Mary. Eve represented the dangers lust and lack of control posed to men. The twelfth-century thinker Andreas Cappelanus wrote, ‘a woman may be eminent in distinction and rank and a man most cheap and contemptible, but if she discovers that he is sexually virile she does not refuse to sleep with him. But no man however virile could satiate a woman’s lust by any means.’3 Counterbalances to Eve were the Marian cult and the notion of courtly love. The Virgin Mary was a safe subject of adoration because she was so opposite to Eve – one could worship Mary and condemn Eve at the same time. Courtly love provided a secular counterpoint to the cult of the Virgin: just as he might pray to the Virgin, a man could adore his lady love. The cult of the Virgin Mary raised the status of women in society to an extent, but only so far: all women had the potential to emulate Mary, but all also had the sin of Eve within them.4 These ideas underpinned the legal limitations of medieval women. Women were necessary for reproduction, but their pesky sexuality might go wild at any moment, so husbands exercised strict control over wives, and fathers over daughters. They could not think rationally, so ix

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines they could not represent themselves legally or own property. They were shallow-minded and prone to gossip, so it was best they stay at home. Concentrating on the running of the household and raising children – two things that they were naturally gifted at – prevented women from creating chaos in society. The good, pure, generous, spiritual, beautiful ones might be admired, but never trusted. This is the bad news, but there was good news, too. Lack of power was a constant, but it varied across time and place. Medieval France’s strict interpretation of Salic Law meant women could neither inherit the throne, nor transmit their claim to a son. Next door, in the kingdoms of medieval Iberia, women inherited the throne and ruled in their own right regularly throughout the Middle Ages. In addition to these queens regnant, elite women at all levels of society inherited and wielded power independently of men. While English law dictated that women could only inherit from their fathers if they had no brothers, in Spain, fathers might split off parts of their property to create lands for their daughters. Women’s inheritance of titles was a relatively rare event, and we should remember that even the most progressive medieval societies preferred men to inherit when possible. Many women, however, were up to the challenge of circumventing the constraints placed on them by society, so wielded surprising power. In recent years, the numbers of these ‘exceptional’ women have grown so greatly that scholars now recognise that most women understood and utilised the mechanisms by which the gentler sex might exercise autonomy in a society that – in theory – denied it. It is important to recognise the distinction between power and authority, a similar distinction between what today we think of as personal and positional power. Authority is the capacity to secure obedience which derives from a publicly-recognised title to do so. Power is the ability to actually influence events. Many medieval women whose names we remember today had power in that they could influence decisions, but no authority in the form of a title they held in their own names.5 This book will examine the ways that these women exercised power, despite lacking authority. Other women, though they were a minority, did inherit their own titles, so they held authority. This book will also examine whether these women successfully transformed the authority that came with their titles into real power. x

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Introduction What is power? We often think of power as using force to change someone else’s actions. For medieval women, we sometimes have to search out more subtle expressions of power. It might be the ability to set goals and take actions towards those goals, whether successful or not. We might see power in the strategies that women employed to overcome the roadblocks society placed in their way. When we see women taking action in society – founding religious institutions, forming relationships with men or with other women, commissioning works of literature, or indeed sitting on a throne in their own right – these are forms of power.6 Ultimately, medieval society was forced to contend with ideologies about women that conflicted and overlapped. It was a patriarchal society that theoretically believed women were inferior to men in all ways, but in actuality allowed women to exercise considerable power and authority. This can be confusing, but medieval Europe was not unique in this regard. We still navigate the gaps between our theories of how society should work, and the reality of how it does work, all the time. This is a book about women in the courts of medieval Europe, but the term ‘court’ is something of a misnomer for much of this period. The court we often imagine – a central meeting-point where the great and good congregated around the royal family, a locus of government and intrigue – is mostly an invention of the late Middle Ages and Renaissance. What eventually morphed into the court began as the royal or noble household, the officials and servants who resided with a ruler. That ruler might be mostly static, preferring to stay in one location, but more often they travelled throughout the lands they ruled, their household in tow. This was a large group, but nowhere near the hundreds who would come to reside in the royal courts of the Renaissance and beyond. Nobles at all levels of society, from the royal family down, had households, and these were the focus of power in the Middle Ages. In this book, I explore how medieval women accessed that power. This is an enormous topic, even once we limit ourselves to women of the upper classes. Women of the peasant and emerging middle class had their own means of accessing power, but they were not members of the courts or households from which formal authority emanated, which is the topic of this book. To explore how women experienced their world, I have focused not on theory – though theory underpins many of my interpretations – but on the lives of real women. The book is divided xi

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines into four sections, focused on noblewomen, consorts, reigning queens, and concubines, respectively. Each section has a dedicated cast of ‘characters’ comprised of real women. Medieval Europe was a remarkably diverse society. The Middle Ages lasted from approximately the year 500 to 1500. Medieval culture stretched from the steppes of Russia and the Caucasus to Iberia, and as far north as Scandinavia and Iceland. Trade routes connected Europe to Africa and China. I have tried to reflect this diversity as much as possible, pulling women into my cast who lived from approximately 1000 to 1500, and from locations that range from Norway to Georgia. Ultimately, however, my personal area of study is England of the later Middle Ages. Even as we acknowledge the diversity of the medieval world, most research still focuses on the traditional ‘hotspots’ of England, France, Italy, and Spain, and this is reflected in this book. When looking at women outside my areas of expertise, I relied heavily on the work of other scholars, so I have been limited to women who have biographies or extensive research dedicated to them. This means that women on the outskirts of the medieval world are less well represented. Additionally, I am not an expert on every ‘character’ – though I am on some – and so am greatly indebted to fellow scholars who have dedicated years of research to these women. I begin by looking at noblewomen. Their stories, the pressures they faced and successes they achieved, provide a foundation to discussing the lives of queens consort, reigning queens and concubines in subsequent sections. In looking at both noblewomen and queen consorts, I have split the section between ‘private’ and ‘public’ activities. In medieval culture, the line between public and private is blurry – after all, this was a culture where a royal couple’s sex life was of national importance. Despite this limitation, drawing this distinction provides a foundation to look at women’s inner and outer lives. The portraits I have drawn are often done in broad strokes. I have had to make difficult decisions about who to include – I want my readers to have the same pleasure I did meeting women they knew little about – and what to discuss. In some places, I examine individuals and events in detail; in others, I provide generalisations. This is a book designed to invite the reader in, to provide a thorough, if broad, overview of women’s lives and the conclusions we can draw about them. This is a book about xii

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Introduction individuals who experienced real joys and sorrows, who overcame challenges, or who failed, who had goals, which might or might not be met. This is a book about real women, who were sometimes remarkably like us, but often not, who scrambled for agency and individuality in a world that denied it to them. This is a book about power.

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Section One

Noblewomen Cast of characters: Matilda of Tuscany (1046–1115) The daughter of Boniface III, Margrave of Tuscany and his wife Beatrice of Lorraine, Matilda became margravine of Tuscany in her own right as her father’s only living heir. Matilda married twice, firstly Godfrey IV, Duke of Lower Lorraine (d. 1076), and secondly to Welf II, Duke of Bavaria (1072–1120). The second marriage ended in separation after only a few years. Matilda had no living children who survived her. She was a contemporary of Anna Komnene, Evpraksia of Kiev (Section Two) and Urraca of León (Section Three). Anna Komnene (1083–1153) The eldest child of Byzantine Emperor Alexios I Komnenos and Empress Eirene Doukaina, Anna was born in the Purple Room of Constantinople’s imperial palace. As a young child, she was betrothed to Constantine Doukas, but she instead married Nikephoros Botaneiates after Constantine’s early death. They had four children. Anna is best known for composing the Alexiad, an epic chronicle documenting her father’s reign, and for her failed coup upon her father’s death. She was a contemporary of Matilda of Tuscany, Evpraksia of Kiev (Section Two) and Urraca of León (Section Three). Marie of France (1145–1198) The eldest daughter of the infamous Eleanor of Aquitaine and her first husband, Louis VII of France, Marie was a French princess. She married Henri I, Count of Champagne in 1164, and they had four children. Following her husband’s departure for the Holy Land and his

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines early death, she acted as regent of Champagne. Marie was an active patron of literature. She was a contemporary of Berengaria of Castile (Section Three). Alice de Lacy (1281–1348) The only child and heiress of Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, and Margaret Longespée, Countess of Salisbury, Alice de Lacy became countess of Lincoln and Salisbury in her own right. She married Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, a grandson of Henry III of England. The marriage was unhappy, and the couple had no recorded children. Following Thomas’s execution in rebellion against King Edward II, Alice married twice more, first to Ebulo Lestrange, then to Hugh de Frene, but outlived both husbands. Alice died in 1348, possibly an early victim of the Black Death. Cecily Neville (1415–1495) The youngest daughter of Joan Beaufort and her second husband Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmorland, Cecily Neville married Richard, Duke of York. The couple had at least twelve children, including kings Edward IV and Richard III. Cecily lived through all major events of the Wars of the Roses, and through her many siblings and children, was related by blood or marriage to most of the major players. She was a contemporary of Margaret of Anjou (Section Two), and a granddaughter of Katherine Swynford (Section Four).

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Introduction

Before we can discuss queens, ruling women, or concubines, a look at noblewomen lays groundwork for understanding other roles women might play in the medieval court. Like their sisters elsewhere, women of the noble class played a complicated game of exercising power without appearing to exercise power. Unlike these other women, the evidence for noblewomen is more limited, and I have had to focus on women who were major players – some of these women were more small-scale queens than mere nobles – in order to provide detailed information. All medieval women were part of a web of identities. They were born into one family, married into another, produced another, if all went according to plan. Where men could chart their own course to a greater degree – though not to the degree that adults do today – these familial identities of daughter, wife, mother, and sometimes widow guided most women through life. In this chapter, I am beginning with a chronological view of women’s lives, from childhood to motherhood. The next chapter will turn to their public lives as widows and more. For most aristocratic women, marriage was the hinge of their lives. Everything that came before marriage was about preparing for it – and with women able to marry as young as 12, there might be very little before marriage – and marriage dictated everything that came after it. Marriage might have been the axis around which women’s lives revolved, but for many, it also eliminated whatever independence they experienced as children or teenagers. With a few notable exceptions, noblewomen disappear into the background during their marriages. This is partly because they were busy doing other things – frequent pregnancies and the demands of raising children leave little energy or time for other matters. It cannot be a coincidence that the women I discuss who are more visible during their marriages, Matilda of Tuscany and Alice de 3

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Lacy, were also those who had no surviving children. It is also the result of a legal system that all but erased women from the record: while their husbands lived, women’s actions took place under the mantle of their husbands’ protection. Nonetheless, the clues to how and why women acted in marriage are there, if we search carefully. It was after their husbands died that each noblewoman came to the fore, whether she wanted to or not. In widowhood, noblewomen became individuals – legally, if not entirely in reality – for the first time. As mature actors, unencumbered by constraints of marriage, women’s goals, more clearly emerge. Widows were more likely to make independent decisions on managing their property, act in the political arena, patronise religious institutions or artists. The biggest decision facing widows was the question of whom they should take as their second husband; that a number of them decided against remarriage speaks volumes about they might have felt about marriage the first time around. But in addition to these new horizons, a life without a husband exposed women to ridicule, political attacks, and even physical assault. Finally, after looking at the chronology of women’s lives, I will spend some time focusing specifically on the question of public life and power. The avenues of expression that women found varied greatly, ranging from the battleground, to literature, and of course to the game of politics. Women played political chess alongside their male counterparts, on the national and international stage. Both within the confines of marriage and without, they were individuals who acted on behalf of their families, husbands, children, and themselves.

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Chapter One

Wife and Mother

My father was Alexios Komnenos, the most distinguished Emperor of the Roman people, whose trophies and valiant deeds and stratagems against the barbarians the whole earth cannot contain, as the divine word has it. My mother was Eirene, the great ornament of Empire, born of the Doukai, whose virtues dazzled the entire earth under the sun, rivaled in nothing and no-one.1 Even today, our families of origin dictate, to an extent, the lives we live. But, as the words above from the will of Anna Komenene demonstrate, this was even more true for our ancestors in the medieval community. Family provided more than genetics, wealth, psychology, place of origin and other things that compose the melange that sets us on our path in modern society. Medieval family also provided an extensive network, a set of expectations about the role that one might play in the world, and most importantly, lineage. As Anna Komnene’s will clearly illustrates, a medieval woman’s family of origin stuck with her for the rest of her life. Anna is perhaps an extreme example – her contemporaries might have considered her concern with her own lineage excessive – but it shows that a woman at the end of her life might still go back to the very beginning of life to define herself.

Family backgrounds and childhood Anna Komnene’s parents laid out her path years before her birth. The Byzantine Empire was ruled by emperors, but those emperors did not necessarily inherit by means of primogeniture, the way most rulers of Western Europe did. Byzantium was technically a classless society, with 5

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines every office open to every man, including the office of emperor itself. Most emperors attempted to name successors – often their sons – but the system was open to outside claimants. To become emperor, military success was crucial, one of the things that made women less attractive candidates for the imperial throne.2 And indeed, Anna’s father, the emperor Alexios I Komnenos, had come to the throne by seizing it, not through inheritance. In 1081, he led a coup d’etat that saw him replace the current emperor Nikephoros III. Shortly after becoming emperor, he married Eirene Doukaina, a member of the powerful Doukas family, to secure their support for his rule. Their daughter Anna was born in December of 1083, not long after the marriage. Alexios seized the imperial throne during a time of considerable turmoil, and his reign would see more of the same. In the generation before Anna was born, the Byzantine Empire had grown to cover all of what is today Asia Minor, Georgia, Armenia, the Balkans, and even parts of Italy. Its capital Constantinople’s strategic location on the Bosporus Straight connected Europe and Asia. Constantinople was a city of extraordinary wealth, with an abundance of palaces and churches and famously impregnable walls. But by the time Alexios came into power, Seljuk Turks had captured much of what is now Turkey, while the Normans had nibbled away at Byzantine lands in Italy. In 1095, midway through Alexios’s reign, the First Crusade began, marking the beginning of European expansion into the Middle East. Feeling the need to further secure his rule, Alexios had his infant daughter betrothed to her young uncle Constantine Doukas, a member of Empress Eirene’s powerful family. This cemented the KomnenosDoukas allaince, and immediately after the betrothal, the two were proclaimed co-heirs of Byzantium. Anna spent her earliest years as co-heiress to a great empire. It was short-lived, however: when her brother John Komnenos was born in 1087, he was immediately moved ahead of Anna in the line of succession. Constantine Doukas’s early death in 1095, when Anna was about 12, should have been the final blow. But Anna held on to the goal of becoming the ruler of the empire.3 The events of Anna’s childhood, sketchy though they are, show how family background and ambition were cogs of a machine that started working before a girl was born. Anna’s betrothal to Constantine Doukas was the result of her father’s need to solidify an alliance with a powerful 6

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Wife and Mother family, and this first not-quite-marriage would go on to influence her decisions for much of her life, long after Constantine was dead. Over 300 years later, another girl was born whose life was driven by events set in motion a generation before. In 1415, Joan Beaufort, Countess of Westmoreland, gave birth to her fourteenth child – her twelfth child with her second husband Ralph Neville – a girl she named Cecily. Cecily would live through the entirety of the Wars of the Roses, from the Southampton Plot in the year of her birth, to the Battle of Bosworth seventy years later. She was intimately involved in many of those events. She was a related by blood or marriage to all the major actors, and for several years was an important actor herself. Although the circumstances that created the Wars of the Roses began in the reign of King Edward III – Cecily’s great-grandfather – the board was truly set in 1399. In that year, King Richard II, the grandson of Edward III through his eldest son Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince, was deposed by his cousin, Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster. Henry was the son of Edward III’s third son John of Gaunt, giving him a good claim to the throne, though many thought it was not good enough. When Richard II was deposed there was another claimant: 8-year-old Edmund Mortimer, the great-grandson of Lionel of Antwerp, Edward III’s second son. Some argued this gave Edmund the superior claim to the throne, while others believed Henry had the better claim, as he was descended through a male line, while Edmund’s claim passed through a woman. In 1399, this was relatively unimportant: Henry of Bolingbroke had become King Henry IV. Cecily’s mother Joan Beaufort was Henry IV’s half-sister, the daughter of John of Gaunt and his mistress Katherine Swynford. A few years before his death, John and Katherine married, and Joan and her three brothers were legitimised. With three new legitimate children, John of Gaunt wasted no time in securing their futures. Two of his sons were married to daughters of important English noble families and another began a dazzling career in the church. Joan, a young widow with two daughters already, married again to Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland. Ralph’s family were relatively new entries into the English nobility, having only been raised to the rank of earl in 1397, when Ralph and Joan married. Their marriage brought this emerging power into the powerful Lancastrian fold, and that power grew astronomically when Joan’s half-brother Henry became king. Overnight, Joan and Ralph 7

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines became offshoots of the royal family, placing them in a new position of importance. Ralph already had eight children by his first marriage, and he and Joan produced fifteen more. Henry IV used this large, new branch of the royal family to form alliances with other noble families across England. In medieval English law, children whose fathers had died became wards of their overlord, and Henry IV’s early reign saw a number of highly ranked noblemen executed for treason, creating more royal wards than usual. Joan and Ralph made a habit of buying these wardships: they assumed guardianship of the heir and his property, and they received profits of that property until the heir came of age. Most of these young boys were betrothed to Joan and Ralph’s daughters. It was an arrangement that benefitted everyone. Joan and Ralph arranged good marriages cheaply, without complicated marriage negotiations or large dowry payments. They could raise their wards to be loyal to them and the new royal house. The Nevilles benefitted, the new king benefitted, and the daughters benefitted. The only ones who might not have been entirely on board were the young heirs themselves, whose wishes were not consulted.4 This was Cecily Neville’s childhood world. A few years after her birth, Ralph Neville acquired the wardship of Richard, the son of Anne Mortimer and Richard of Conisburgh, Earl of Cambridge. Richard’s mother Anne was the sister of Edmund Mortimer, the man with a potentially superior claim to the English crown. His father was the grandson of yet another son of King Edward III, Edmund of Langley, Duke of York. Richard inherited the duchy of York from his father and the Mortimer claim to the throne from his mother. Cecily and Richard were probably betrothed in 1423, the same year that Richard became a ward of Cecily’s parents. With this betrothal, the pieces on the chessboard of Cecily’s life fell into place. She was a member of the royal house of Lancaster. By that time, Henry IV had been succeeded by Henry V and the young Henry VI sat on the throne. Cecily was Henry VI’s second cousin. The man Cecily was betrothed to had inherited the claim that might unseat him.5 Both Henry IV and Henry V’s reigns had been marked by conflict resulting from Henry IV’s unusual road to the throne, so any fortune teller could predict that Henry VI would also face trials. But in 1423, things would have looked good: Richard of York was attached to the Lancastrian nexus of power, and there was no reason to think the young 8

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Wife and Mother Henry VI would turn out worse than any of his forebears. Cecily passed out of childhood and became a teenager amidst mild tension, but no one would have predicted the decades of violence that were coming. Cecily Neville and Anna Komnene lived in vastly different worlds. Anna was the product of a Byzantine Empire close to its zenith, the beloved first daughter of a young emperor and his wife. Cecily lived in the final decades of the Middle Ages, the last daughter of an enormous family tangentially related to the crown. But a look at what connects them is illuminating: both lived in political uncertainty, the result of recent regime changes. Both entered a world in which the blueprint of their lives was mostly complete. And both became marriage pawns in the larger games of their extended families at a young age.

Preparation The board was also set for Matilda of Tuscany at a young age, but the circumstances that shaped Matilda’s life were more political than familial. She came of age as a series of conflicts that would eventually be called the ‘Investiture Contest’ escalated, and eventually Matilda took a leading role in in the conflict herself. The Contest began in a series of reforms that were intended as a course-correction for the church in the early 1000s, and eventually grew into a protracted conflict between the pope and the Holy Roman Emperor.6 The Holy Roman Empire was a group of territories focused around what is now Germany, which the church considered to be the successor of the Roman Empire in the West. Emperors were elected by local secular and religious leaders (‘electors’), though in practice the succession often went from father to son. Emperors claimed unique privileges, including the right to be crowned emperor by the pope in Rome. For centuries, Holy Roman Emperors had also enjoyed the privilege of nominating their preferred candidates to bishoprics and royal abbacies in the lands of their empire – an act which clearly suggested that secular, monarchical authority was above that of the papacy. In the early 1000s, popes attempted to eliminate this privilege, and emperors rightly saw this as an attack on their authority.7 The conflict shaped Matilda’s earliest years. She was born in 1046 to the Attoni family, the most powerful dukes in Italy. The Holy Roman Empire Heinrich III perceived the power of Matilda’s father Boniface as a threat 9

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines to his own, and when Boniface was murdered in 1052, many suspected the emperor was behind the deed. Matilda’s mother Beatrice of Lorraine took over ruling Tuscany on behalf of Matilda’s brother Frederick, and in 1054, Beatrice remarried to Godfrey of Lorraine, another imperial enemy. In response, Heinrich invaded Italy, drove Godfrey out, then imprisoned Beatrice and Matilda, who returned to Germany with him as captives. Godfrey, Beatrice, and Matilda emerged the victors: disagreements between other lords of the Holy Roman Empire, combined with Heinrich III’s timely death in 1056 saw their release. There was one major change, though: Frederick had died in 1055, making Matilda the heir.8 The violence of her earliest years must have had a strong impact on Matilda. By the time she was 10, her father had been murdered, her lands invaded, she herself had been taken prisoner. Following her brother’s death, it would have been clear that Matilda herself would need a thorough military and political education to face the challenges of her day.9 For many women, some background in military tactics and strategy was necessary. While society did not quite condone women participating in warfare, the reality for many noblewomen was that it was a necessity. This was partly because they were often called upon to run their family property in the absence of a man – and running the property could well include defending it. And it was partly because as time went on, some military roles became heredity, which meant that women could inherit them. Castles were military environments, with soldiers coming and going, and women likely learned martial skill from their advisors, relatives and from each other.10 Matilda was born into a pressure-cooker. She was set to inherit the greatest duchy in Italy as well as her father’s role of papal supporter. Beatrice and Godfrey, Matilda’s mother and step-father, clearly understood the need to train Matilda to take on these roles. Matilda was surrounded by capable commanders from childhood, including her father, stepfather, mother, and eventually her first husband. While we cannot know if they provided a formal military education, what she learned was substantial, and she learned it well. Beyond training in the art of war, Matilda seems to have been trained in diplomacy. The languages she spoke – her native Italian dialect, French, German, and some Latin – reflect the diplomatic needs of her day.11 Matilda’s involvement in military campaigns beginning in her teenage years gave her on-the-job military and diplomatic training. She 10

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Wife and Mother may have played a subordinate command role in the Schism of Cadalus, a conflict which saw Godfrey enthrone his preferred candidate for the papacy, Alexander II, over the candidate supported by the new Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich IV. Whether Matilda was actually involved in decision-making, sources confirm her presence, and she would have been close enough to all the action, political and military, to observe and learn.12 When Matilda was 20, the Campagna, a set of papal lands around Rome, were invaded, and the pope called for aid. Godfrey of Lorraine responded by bringing troops south from Tuscany, and eventually they won the day. The chronicler Bonzino wrote that Godfrey, had chanced to come to Italy at this time, bringing with him the most excellent Countess Matilda, daughter of the famous Duke Boniface. He gathered the whole multitude of his army and came to Rome with his wife and the most noble Matilda; he expelled the Normans from the Campagna without a battle and restored it to Roman jurisdiction. This was the first service that the most excellent daughter of Boniface [Matilda] offered to the blessed prince of the apostles [the pope].13 Whether Matilda exercised any personal command in these campaigns is debatable, but they were an opportunity for Matilda to see military action and develop relationships with key allies. The next decade of her life would see Matilda firmly establish herself as the independent heir of Tuscany.14 Political and family history thrust Matilda into the conflicts she would navigate for the rest of her life, just as they did for Anna Komnene and Cecily Neville. Unlike these women, though, evidence shows Matilda’s parents deliberately prepared her to wield independent power. And as we shall see later, unlike these women, Matilda refused to be limited or defined by the trap of marriage.

Marriage Among the many concerns of the medieval elite, marriage stood out: it was truly the lynchpin of life. Medieval culture assigned noble daughters two crucial responsibilities: to seal alliances made by their male 11

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines relatives, and to bear the children that would inherit family lands in the next generation. Both tasks were accomplished through marriage. With so much riding on marriage, the motivations for choosing one alliance over another were complex. The personal relationship between husband and wife was also of paramount importance, certainly to each family, but also sometimes to the kingdom. Marie of France was far from obscure: she was the daughter of two great celebrities of her day, King Louis VII of France and his first queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Louis and Eleanor’s marriage was already on the rocks when Marie arrived. She was their first child after nine years of marriage, and it was said that Marie’s birth in 1145 only came about following the saintly intervention of the French abbot and theologian Bernard of Clairvaux. Marriage alliance with royal princesses were extremely desirable, so those who were angling for such alliances commonly began negotiations as soon as possible. Unsurprisingly, discussion of Marie’s marriage started early. While Marie was still an infant, Count Geoffrey of Anjou opened negotiations with Louis for Marie to marry Geoffrey’s son Henry, though these came to nothing.15 Geoffrey of Anjou’s wife, the mother of his son, was Matilda of England (Empress Matilda), and Henry would go on to become King Henry II of England. And in an ironic twist of history, Henry went on to marry not Marie, but Marie’s mother Eleanor of Aquitaine. When Marie was still a toddler, her parents left France for the Holy Land on Crusade, the first of many crusades that would invade Marie’s world. This period saw two crucial events. First, Marie’s parents’ marriage collapsed. Louis and Eleanor were never well suited, and despite the brief reconciliation in 1149 that resulted in the birth of Marie’s sister Alix, the couple were granted an annulment in 1152. The second event probably had a greater impact on Marie’s life. While on crusade, her father formed a friendship with Henri, Count of Champagne, of the powerful Blois family, and by the time they returned to France, Louis had arranged for Henri and Marie to marry.16 For the next several decades, Marie appears infrequently in the historical record. In 1153, Louis VII remarried to Constanza of Castile. In the same year, when Marie was 6, she was formally betrothed to Henri of Champagne, eighteen years her senior.17 Though not a required step on the road to marriage, betrothal ceremonies were common, particularly 12

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Wife and Mother for the upper classes. Although customs and laws surrounding marriage changed much throughout Marie’s lifetime – indeed, the twelfth century was a nexus for these changes – society generally saw betrothals as a promise of future marriage. A betrothal might be ‘converted’ to marriage when the couple came of age (12 for girls, 14 for boys), either by exchanging new marriage vows or by consummating the marriage sexually. Marie and Henri probably saw little of each other until their formal marriage, which was likely formalised in 1159, which Marie was 12 or 13, the minimum legal age. Following their formal marriage, however, Marie and Henri did not begin cohabiting. Instead, she returned to her previous residence – likely a convent or noble household – for a further five years.18 It was not unusual for couples to delay cohabitation when they married at the youngest possible age. Teenaged girls were unprepared for pregnancy and motherhood, either physically or emotionally, and a delay until the wife was around 15 or 16 was common. But Marie was nearly 20 in 1165, when she and Henri finally began living together. Henri may have been particularly sensitive, in no rush to consummate his marriage until Marie was ready, but this would have made him remarkable among his contemporaries. The political situation in France sheds more light. King Louis VII had no male heir until his third marriage. His other children, Marie’s sister Alix and half-sister Margaret (the only child of Louis’s marriage to Constanza of Castile, who died in childbirth) were younger. In 1160, Margaret had been betrothed to Henry, the oldest son of Eleanor of Aquitaine, and her new husband Henry II of England. Should Louis die without a male heir, Marie or her child, was the logical successor. France’s strict interpretation of Salic Law, which prevented women from inheriting or transmitting their claim to the throne had not yet come into play in this period. Pregnancy was always dangerous for women in this period, but a mother around the age of 20 was more likely to experience safe childbirth and care for a healthy baby. Henri may have held off on cohabitation and consummation to protect his wife’s potential claim to the throne. Marie moved to Troyes, the capital of Henri’s county of Champagne, in April 1165, around the same time that Henri’s brother William was elected bishop of Chartres, and Marie’s sister Alix married Henri’s 13

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines younger brother Thibaut.19 These events show a clear goal: bringing the house of Blois to the fore of French politics. If King Louis did not spearhead this effort, he certainly supported it. Louis may have trusted the Blois brothers more than any other French family. They were also crucial allies. Henry II of England possessed swathes of land in northern France as duke of Normandy, and his wife Eleanor held the lands of Aquitaine in southwest France. A significant portion of French land was held by the rulers of England. The only French house that could muster a similar show of strength was the Blois, and Louis needed to keep them on his side. Marie and Alix were the glue that held this alliance together. When Marie moved to Troyes, she would have been aware of these tensions, but her attention was probably focused on the major shift in her life. Overnight, she became a part of Henri’s cosmopolitan world. His new house was built in the latest Gothic style. Three annual trade fairs held in Troyes made it a centre of trade, a major international location. It is difficult to imagine the two forming a close relationship. Henry was a 37-year-old man of the world who had travelled extensively, while Marie was a 19-year-old who might have never left the corner of France where she was raised. No evidence survives of Marie’s role in the governance of Champagne during her early years there, but she would have also joined Henri’s personal world. An intellectual, Henri’s appetite for reading, especially history, was well known. Marie’s later interest in literature suggests this may have been something they held in common.20 Marie had a personal seal made, which sealed the legal documents she issued, usually witnessing those of Henri’s acts that affected her property. The seal depicted Marie holding a fleur-de-lis in her right, while its Latin inscription read, ‘Seal of Marie, daughter of the king of the Franks, countess of Troyes’.21 The placement of the fleur-de-lis in her dominant hand and the listing of her role as daughter of a king first are significant: even after marriage, Marie considered her identity as princess more powerful than her identity as wife. Marie’s years of marriage to Henri saw her develop relationships and pursuits she would continue for decades. In 1168, Marie and Henri travelled to see Henri’s brother William installed as archbishop of Sens, an event where she would have seen her father King Louis and met his new wife Adele of Champagne, who was already Marie’s sister-in-law, the younger sister of her husband Henri. Marie and Adele formed a lifelong friendship, which may have begun around this time. They were 14

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Wife and Mother of a similar age, both younger wives of older husbands, and both, by this point, mothers of precious young sons.22 Marie occupied an interesting position in the geopolitics of the era: as daughter of Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine, she was half-sister to both Louis’s eventual heir, the future Philippe II, and to the children of Eleanor and her second husband, Henry II of England. In 1170, Henry II had his oldest son, also named Henry, crowned king during his own lifetime. Henry the Young King, as he was known, married another of Marie’s half-siblings, Margaret of France, the daughter of Louis VII’s second wife Constanza. The following year, 1173, fed up with his father’s rule, Henry, along with his brothers Geoffrey and Richard (the future Richard I of England) rebelled against their father. This suited the French well, and Marie and Henri of Champagne were likely present in Paris in 1173, when the three brothers publicly swore that they would never make peace with their father without Louis’s consent.23 Marie’s blood relationship with both sides may have facilitated the growing friendship between her husband and half-brother. Henry the Young King and Henri of Champagne certainly got to know each other at this time. The following year, when Henry did indeed agree to peace with his father, Count Henri agreed to be one of the pledges for his good conduct. It seems reasonable that Marie, would have also become acquainted with her younger half-brothers, as well as her half-sister Margaret around this time.24 A few years later, Marie’s life changed, when at Christmas of 1177, Henri announced his decision to go on crusade. Around 1177, the great romantic poet Chrétien de Troyes completed his work Cligés, which told of the oldest son of the Byzantine emperor travelling to England to be knighted by King Arthur. Chrétien served at Henri and Marie’s court, and his story would have been remarkably poignant for his audience. As a young man, Henri had famously done the opposite, travelling to Constantinople to be knighted by Emperor Manuel Komnenos (a nephew of Anna Komnena). The interplay between Arthurian romance and travel between East and West would have spoken to Chrétien’s audience, and it clearly worked on Henri.25 Henri took over a year to set his affairs in order. He was about 50, and with young children, he needed to determine how his lands would be managed until his oldest son Henri reached the age of majority in 15

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 1187. One of the only clear indications that survives about Henri and Marie’s relationship is his decision that during his absence, and in the event of his death overseas, Marie would serve as regent. In the months before Henri’s departure, Marie took a visible, active role in the court of Champagne, acting as formal witness to most of Henri’s acts. Henri delayed his departure until May of 1179, probably to be present for the birth of his and Marie’s last child, a son named Thibaut. He finally departed for the Holy Land in late spring of 1179. Marie would see him again only briefly before his death.26 Marie’s marriage appears to have been routine. Like many royal princesses, she was betrothed at a young age, something she probably never thought to question or protest. The betrothal was, in due course, converted to a full marriage. Marie fulfilled her duties as diplomat, an ally connecting her husband’s family with the royal family and beyond, admirably. She also gave birth to four surviving children. She appears from time to time during the years she cohabited with her husband, usually travelling with him to major events. That she only emerges again in Henri’s absence is typical, and it tells us that Marie’s behaviour during her marriage was perceived as unremarkable. From a woman who appeared to toe the line, we turn to a woman who spent her life at the mercy of society. Alice de Lacy was born in England 1281 or 1282, the only surviving child of Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, and his wife Margaret Longespée, Countess of Salisbury. Being the heir to both earldoms made Alice the most desirable nonroyal bride of her generation, and her parents found a groom to match. Thomas of Lancaster was the eldest son of Edmund, Earl of Lancaster and his countess, Blanche of Artois. As heir to Edmund, Thomas was set to inherit the earldoms of Lancaster, Leicester and Derby. The house of Lancaster was already the most powerful noble house in England, and with this marriage, Thomas became master of five earldoms, placing him head and shoulders above all other English noblemen. Superficially, Alice and Thomas were an ideal match. Thomas was only a few years older than Alice, and the two probably met occasionally as children. Edmund of Lancaster and Henry de Lacy were friends and allies, and a marriage between the two families was logical. The marriage brought Thomas an enormous inheritance and brought the Lacy family a permanent tie to the crown – Edmund was the second son of King Henry III. 16

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Wife and Mother The unusual marriage agreement between Alice and Thomas dictated that Alice’s inheritance of the earldoms of Lincoln and Salisbury would become the property of Thomas’s family if their marriage was childless. This was a break from English law, which stated that in such situations, the inheritance should revert back to the wife’s family. At their marriage in 1294, however, there was little reason to worry: as long as Alice and Thomas had children, the property would remain in her family.27 Unfortunately, evidence from Alice and Thomas’s marriage indicates they were, at best, a mismatch, and at worst, miserable. Several pieces of evidence point to an unhappy marriage. First, Alice and Thomas had no children together. Thomas recognised two illegitimate sons, making it clear that it was Alice who was infertile.28 English society valued the passing of property from father to son, so Thomas was probably disappointed by the lack of children, but he had two younger brothers who could inherit his property. For Alice, however, this was a disaster. She had failed one of a noble wife’s crucial tasks, and moreover, her childlessness ensured that her parents’ earldoms would be inherited by Thomas’s family, not hers. Second, by 1317, Alice and Thomas had lived largely separate lives for some time. In contrast to Marie of France and Henry of Champagne, Alice and Thomas occupied different residences. Financial accounts show that Alice resided mainly in Pickering, North Yorkshire. In 1313, Thomas provided £400 to her upkeep, enough to cover the expenses of a modest independent household, especially if Alice also had some private income. Thomas of Lancaster’s household was based in Alice’s family stronghold of Pontefract, about fifty miles away. They were not kept apart by circumstance or distance: the fact that they lived relatively close to each other suggests they chose residences that facilitated communication without forcing them to interact often.29 By the mid-1310s Thomas of Lancaster had become an outspoken opponent of his cousin, the new king, Edward II. The most dramatic evidence for an unhappy marriage comes in April of 1317, when men associated with John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey – a supporter of the king – abducted Alice. She was taken from her home at Canford in Dorset and ended up at Warenne’s castle of Reigate in Surrey, some ninety miles away. On the surface, this event appears to speak to women’s powerlessness in medieval society, as Alice became a pawn in her husband’s political 17

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines conflict. The situation, and the additional worry Alice could have been assaulted as well as abducted, seems terrifying. There is, however, another way of interpreting the event. Alice may not have been a victim, but a willing participant making a show of leaving her husband’s control and fleeing to the protection of his enemy. The event was a great scandal, and chroniclers both of the time and later described it. While some depicted Alice as an innocent victim, others suggested she was complicit in her own abduction. The chronicler Robert of Reading depicted Alice as involved, describing how Warenne’s men seized Alice who was entirely supporting of their wishes, and abducted her, as she rejoiced, to the castle of Reigate. Which countess, having forgotten the nobility and honour of her birth, involved herself with a certain lame esquire. Thus, out of their adulterous and shameless embraces, the name of countess was notoriously changed to adulteress.30 To be clear, we should not take too rosy-eyed a view of the possibility that Alice was kidnapped, possibly assaulted. This may have been what occurred. But it is not far-fetched to consider that she orchestrated the situation with John de Warenne, and even possibly with the king. Thomas of Lancaster never pursued the matter legally, instead waging a private war against Warenne. English law held that abduction was one of few crimes that a woman could sue independently of her husband, and Alice never did this. Moreover, abduction was a crime that the king could sue on a subject’s behalf, and Edward II never took this option either. In addition to Robert of Reading’s description above, as well as the words of others, this suggests that it may have been commonly understood that the ‘abduction’ was consensual.31 Scholars who study this event note that Alice’s case is far from unique: ‘abduction’ was a tool used with some frequency by women who desired to leave unhappy marriages.32 If Warenne and his co-conspirators hoped to offend Thomas of Lancaster, they succeeded. Thomas responded by attacking Warenne’s property in York and Shropshire. Thomas’s failure to rescue his wife suggests either the marriage had broken down so irrevocably he did not care, or that he knew she was not actually in need of rescue. If Alice was complicit, her goal is easy to read: colluding with one of her husband’s enemies would have been a very public insult. 18

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Wife and Mother If Alice was complicit in the abduction, it sheds some interesting light on her lived experiences and goals. When women of lower status abandoned their husbands, it was a dramatic event for the local community. Alice must have known, however, that her departure would reverberate across society at the highest levels. As Thomas rebelled openly against Edward II, Alice may have been hoping to publicly signal her defiance of his actions. She may have also intended to so humiliate her husband that he agreed to live entirely separate lives. The ‘abduction’ erased any relationship between the two. Thomas’s financial accounts of 1318 to 1319, the year after the event, make no mention of Alice, strongly suggesting that by this time their separation was complete.33 Thomas’s decade of resistance to Edward II caught up to him in the form of a beheading for treason in 1322. It seems unlikely Alice mourned much. They should have been the ‘it’ couple of their time, but Alice and Thomas’s relationship illustrates how badly a marriage could go. It also illustrates the unusual set of tools that women had for asserting power in a culture that tried to deny it to them. A woman of independent means, unencumbered by children, Alice was able to assert her independence in a very public way. The long-term effects of Alice and Thomas’s marriage had consequences that reverberated through many generations. The power of the house of Lancaster was instrumental in Henry, Duke of Lancaster’s ability to seize the throne from Richard II in 1399. It was part of what kept his incompetent grandson Henry VI on the throne for much of his reign. Cecily Neville lived through the conflicts that that power generated centuries after the marriage of Alice and Thomas laid its groundwork. Cecily Neville and Richard of York’s relationship was the opposite of Alice and Thomas’s. Where Alice and Thomas’s story is one of strain caused by time apart, childlessness, and ultimately a very public betrayal, Cecily and Richard’s marriage was marked by time spent together – evidenced in Cecily’s remarkable fecundity – and loyalty. Both women were married to men who rebelled against incompetent kings and paid the price for that rebellion, but Cecily seems to have been satisfied with her marriage to Richard. The couple had begun their life together in 1429, when Cecily was 14 and Richard 18. Later that year Richard was invited to became part of the household of the 8-year-old King Henry VI, and Cecily travelled 19

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines to London with him. In accordance with the peace terms King Henry V had achieved after the Battle of Agincourt, in 1429, Henry VI and his court – including Richard and probably Cecily – travelled to Reims so he could be crowned king of France. They were probably present in France for the trial and execution of Joan of Arc the same year and only returned to England in 1432.34 Their return to England finally gave Cecily and Richard the opportunity for formally assemble a household as duke and duchess of York. They formed residences across Richard’s estates, from Fotheringhay Castle in Northampton to Fasterne in Wiltshire, to Ludlow Castle in the Welsh marches. The early 1430s saw Richard regularly called away for duties with the royal court and the occasional overseas military campaign.35 In 1440, when the couple were in their mid-twenties, Cecily and Richard began to emerge as individuals for the first time. That year Cecily’s mother Joan died, while Richard was appointed LieutenantGeneral of France. Cecily accompanied Richard to the English court at Rouen in early summer of 1441. Cecily’s company on the trip included Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Duchess of Bedford, who had recently married Richard Woodville. Jacquetta and Cecily would remain acquainted for many years, and their children would have important roles in the conflicts to come. They first came to know each other during these years in France.36 Cecily and Richard seem to have enjoyed France. As royal representatives – and distant members of the royal family themselves – Cecily and Richard were under some pressure to provide a royal spectacle. Both made extravagant purchases of jewels and clothing, as well as several richly-decorated manuscripts. They probably assisted in the peace settlement between France in England in 1443, which saw Margaret of Anjou betrothed to King Henry VI. The couple gave a formal reception for Margaret in the summer of 1444 as she prepared to journey to England.37 Margaret was 14, the age Cecily had been when she married Richard, and the 29-year-old Cecily, a woman of the world dressed in the height of fashion, might have seemed a glittering celebrity to the French teenager who had never left her own country. Cecily would surely have taken the time in this first meeting to emphasise to Margaret that she could be a trusted ally as the new queen adjusted to her role in England. 20

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Wife and Mother Cecily again largely disappears from the historical record following the couple’s return to England in 1445. She may have spent some time in London in the service of Margaret, who had duly married Henry VI and become queen. Richard was appointed lieutenant of Ireland in 1447, and the pair travelled there together several times, though Richard mostly ruled from afar through governors.38 Meanwhile, political conflict was heating up. Henry VI’s uncle Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, had emerged as the voice of a court faction that protested both the mismanagement of English territory in France. Two years later that mismanagement reaped its final reward when England surrendered the majority of its French territory. The event brought to an end the English duchy of Normandy, the Angevin Empire of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, and in this surrender, England essentially admitted defeat in the conflict we now call the Hundred Years’ War. This loss significantly weakened the English crown, already weak from the long minority of Henry VI, who had become king as an infant. With rebellion in the air, some began to seek out alternative leadership. Some spoke of other men with claims to the throne, especially Richard of York.39 This spirit of rebellion was the seed of the Wars of the Roses. Richard of York vacillated for several years before openly revolting against his king, but in August of 1453, Henry VI experienced a mental health crisis that apparently resulted in a psychotic break. Always a weak leader, he became incapable of communicating or making decisions. Queen Margaret, attempting to capitalise on the birth of her son Edward in October of 1453, attempted to claim control of the government, but England’s nobles placed power in the hands of Richard of York instead. Richard took advantage of his year or so of rule reward his supporters with powerful roles in government, but within weeks of Henry VI’s return to sanity in 1455, most had been stripped of their position.40 By this time, Richard of York, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury (Cecily’s brother), and Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick (Cecily’s nephew), were firm allies. They gathered troops, and when they met the king’s army at St Albans on May of 1455, the Wars of the Roses began in earnest.41 The story of the next several years centres around Richard, but we can guess at the conflict’s toll on Cecily. With family on both sides, nearly every battle brought news of the death of a brother-in-law, brother, or nephew. 21

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Several attempts to create peace between 1455 and 1459 failed, and by late 1459, matters had boiled over irrevocably. In October of 1459, Richard of York and his Neville supporters met Lancastrian forces at Ludford Bridge. Cecily was in nearby Ludlow Castle with her three youngest children. When Richard and his supporters were betrayed, the couple acted quickly. Richard sent his oldest son Edward away to Calais, while he fled to Ireland with their second son Edmund. Cecily and her younger children stayed in the castle, and Henry VI and his troops were allowed to enter. The author of An English Chronicle, 1377–1461 wrote that the castle was ‘robbed to the bare walles’ and ‘the noble Duches of York unmanly and cruelly was entreted and spoyled’.42 It has been suggested that Cecily was raped or physically assaulted in some other way, though the word ‘spoyled’, which can mean rape, more often refers to robbery. The English Chronicle is largely a pro-Yorkist propaganda piece, and while Cecily was surely robbed and frightened, what occurred did not rise to the level of physical assault. She was sent to the custody of her sister Anne, Duchess of Buckingham, and she remained there until July of 1460.43 Even in the safety of her sister’s custody, though, Cecily might have reflected on the powerless position her husband’s treason had created for her. Richard and his supporters remained abroad until the summer of 1460, when they returned to England and won a crucial victory at the Battle of Northampton. Following the battle, Yorkist supporters captured the king himself and rode triumphantly into London with him in tow, while Queen Margaret and her son fled north. Richard himself was still abroad for the battle, only returning to England in September. Cecily joined him in Hereford, where the couple assumed the trappings of king and queen.44 Cecily gained the approval of at least one of her purported citizens. The chronicler John Hardyng wrote that although Cecily did not have a man’s intellect To understand the great nobility Of this ilke land of which she is elect, Time coming like to have sovereignty, Under y our [Richard’s] rule, as should femininity, Which if it may please her ladyship, My heart will rejoice of her inward gladship.45 22

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Wife and Mother Hardyng’s words flattered Richard and Cecily, and they hint that this pair – in contrast to the weak-willed Henry VI and the shrew Queen Margaret of Anjou – would provide good rulership, with the perfect combination of sovereignty and femininity. Following Richard’s triumphant re-entry, parliament declared him Henry VI’s heir, passing over Henry’s son Edward. But even as this longawaited event occurred, Lancastrian supporters were mustering an army. On 9 December 1460, Richard of York, along with Cecily’s eldest brother Richard, Earl of Salisbury, his son Thomas, and Cecily and Richard’s second son Edmund, set out from London to face Lancastrian forces. On 2 January, all were killed at the Battle of Wakefield. Their bodies were taken to nearby Pontefract and beheaded. It was appropriate: Pontefract was where Thomas of Lancaster had been executed in 1322 and where Richard II had died in 1400, setting the events of the Wars of the Roses in motion. Richard and Cecily had begun their shared life together in 1429, and they had spent most of their time together since. Evidence speaks to a contented, even loving, relationship. Alice de Lacy and Thomas of Lancaster’s relationship shows that a couple did not need to live together, but Richard and Cecily did for most of their marriage. She accompanied him to France in 1435, and even near to the battlefield at Ludlow Bridge in 1459. This suggests a couple that defied distance and danger to live as a family with their children. Cecily was raised a member of the House of Lancaster. If she had qualms about supporting her husband’s claim, no evidence of them survives. It seems unlikely that a woman who did not support her husband’s ambitions would accompany him to battle. At the same time, the civil war that Richard embroiled their family in led to the deaths of brothers, husbands of several of her sisters, nephews, and finally of Cecily’s son and Richard himself. It must have soured relations with much of her family and she must have occasionally had second thoughts. Indeed, it was Cecily’s many Neville relations that brought Richard the support he needed to wage war. Like Marie of France, Cecily found power in creating alliances between her husband and her extended family. Cecily’s parents had purchased Richard’s wardship as a boy with the intention that he would marry their daughter and ally himself with their family, which he did, and with the house of Lancaster, which he assuredly did not. Cecily and Richard’s marriage gave Richard the 23

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines anticipated allies, and he used them in a way that could never have been predicted. Cecily may have taken some time to mull over these thoughts following Richard’s death, but she was left a widow with no time for grief. Her remaining children were in grave danger, and Cecily’s goal became safeguarding their future. The only path to safety lay in Yorkist victory. Matilda of Tuscany was unusual on two counts. First, she took control of her marital destiny to a much greater degree than other women. And second, marriage was less a defining moment in her life. Matilda was an exception, but she rounds out our view of how medieval noblewomen might experience marriage. In her teens, Matilda joined her mother and stepfather Godfrey of Lorraine on brief military campaigns in protection of the papacy. She gained military experience, developed personal relationships with allies, and developed a reputation as papal defender. In 1069, when Matilda was 23, Godfrey died, and Matilda immediately married his son, called Godfrey the Hunchback. Their marriage disintegrated quickly, and Matilda departed her husband’s household in Lorraine for Italy once more. For several years, Godfrey attempted to win her back, but by 1074 he had given up. When he died in 1076, the pair had been separated for some time.46 Matilda’s father Boniface had used conquest, trickery, and marriage to make his family the most powerful rulers between the Appenine mountains of north central Italy and the Alps. Bonifance’s marriages, first to Richilda Countess of Bergamo, which brought him considerable lands in northern Italy, then to Beatrice of Lorraine, which brought land in Lotharingia and Swabia, added to his already-considerable portfolio. When Boniface died, Matilda’s mother Beatrice claimed the land on behalf of her son Frederick, but without a strong adult man, the claim was shaky. Marriage to a powerful lord would protect her children’s rights, so Beatrice married Godfrey of Lorraine, and when he died, Matilda married Godfrey’s son to maintain this protection.47 Matilda’s decision to repudiate her husband and to rule Tuscany with her mother was controversial, as was her decision to remain unmarried for the next thirteen years, but with papal support, Matilda successfully avoided her husband’s custody. By 1071, Matilda was issuing documents as countess or duchess in her own name.48 Most married heiresses ruled, 24

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Wife and Mother at least on paper, through their husbands, so Matilda’s decision not to include Godfrey in these public documents speaks to her confidence in her power. In 1076, the deaths of both her mother and her husband in quick succession made Matilda the independent ruler of Tuscany. There were the expected rumours that Matilda aided Godfrey, who was murdered in the household of the Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich IV while in the privy, in his timely demise. His death was convenient. Matilda’s mother Beatrice of Lorraine had been a powerful force supporting Matilda’s rule. With Beatrice dead, Godfrey might have a good chance of asserting control over Matilda’s territories as her husband. Matilda and Beatrice, however, were far way and across the Alps in winter, so it seems he was killed by an enemy nearer by.49 Matilda’s choice to leave Godfrey so quickly, and then to remain single for over a decade, suggests she was strongly against marriage. Whatever she felt about her first husband Godfrey, Matilda clearly believed she was better off on her own. For Marie, Alice and Cecily, marriage was the turning point. All married in their early teens, and all remained married for decades before eventually being widowed. Their marriages were arranged by their parents for practical reasons. In addition to adding to a family’s wealth, all three marriages created or affirmed family alliances. Marie’s marriage to Henri of Champagne tied the house of Blois’s cause more firmly to King Louis’s. Alice’s marriage to Thomas of Lancaster affirmed the ties of loyalty between Henry de Lacy and Edward I of England. Cecily’s marriage brought the duke of York into the orbit of the Beaufort family and the house of Lancaster. How these marriages turned out was a different story. Alice and Thomas had a spectacularly unsuccessful marriage, a result of their childlessness, Thomas’s rebellion, and probably a significant personality mismatch. Cecily and Richard of York’s marriage started similarly: both were betrothed at a young age, both knew each other throughout childhood. But although Richard of York’s rebellion – so similar to Thomas of Lancaster’s – must have strained their marriage at times, Cecily remained devoted to him. One of the things that made it possible for Alice and Matilda to leave their husbands, though, was a lack of children – if Cecily had not had her children’s future to consider, would she have supported Richard so loyally? 25

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Matilda’s marriage to Godfrey the Hunchback of Lorraine is exceptional. At its root, it looks much the same as these other marriages. She and Godfrey probably knew each other long before their marriage, and their marriage was intended to bring her powerful allies. Yet where Alice’s departure from Thomas of Lancaster was a national scandal, Matilda’s comparatively quiet departure from her husband’s custody was more of a blip. This is partly because papal support quieted her critics, and partly because the achievements of her single years dramatically outshine her marriage. In her decision to separate from Godfrey, however, Matilda left herself childless – and heirless. For noblewomen, marriage had two goals: the creation of alliances, and the production of children.

Motherhood The Virgin Mary was a mother, first and foremost, and so for married women, having children and being a good mother was more than just essential part of being a productive member of their society. It was also a spiritual calling. Good motherhood meant a lot of things for medieval women. It meant providing an excellent example of good living and providing a basic education. Most of all, just as these women had had their lives mapped out for them by their parents, mothers were expected to create excellent marriages for their children. Childbirth was dangerous. One reason why we know so much about the women in this section was they survived childbirth and lived into old age to have an impact on their society as widows. For medieval society, childbirth was the number one killer of women – about one in fifteen women died giving birth – so every birth was life-or-death.50 For this reason, while noblewomen often married young, close the earliest permitted age of 12, many married couples delayed consummation for several years to ensure that a woman was ready, physically and mentally, for pregnancy and parenthood. Only rarely did couples consummate these marriages as young teenagers. After all, a noble wife was an investment to be protected. Producing an heir was essential, but they also cemented alliances, and living wives were best for this role. Once the marriage was consummated, however, most couples tried to produce a large family. Since medieval noblewomen usually employed wet nurses, they often had children in rapid succession. 26

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Wife and Mother Childhood was also dangerous. Many children died in their first years. In some cases, especially looking at women at the highest levels of society, we know about these children, but not always. When evidence shows women going several years between having children, one of the things that we consider is the likelihood of unsuccessful pregnancies, stillbirths, or children who died very young. The fact that such experiences were common did not make them less difficult to endure. Marie of France and Henri of Champagne follow the pattern of delayed consummation and cohabitation. When Marie joined Henri’s household at the age of 19, they had been married six years. Their first child, named Henri after his father, was born in July of 1166, just over a year after the couple began living together.51 It seems that Marie had no difficulty becoming pregnant the first time, but their second child, a daughter named Marie, was not born until 1171, five years later. She was followed by a second daughter named Scholastique the following year. She earned her unusual name from the Scholastic History, a biblical history written about 1170 that Henri of Champagne owned. Following Scholastique’s birth another gap between the children appears; their final child, Thibaut, was born in 1179, as Henri prepared to go on crusade.52 The gaps between the births of these children may suggest that the couple experienced failed pregnancies or children who died too young to be recorded for history. Alternatively, they may have decided that since their first child was a boy – a suitable heir for Champagne – they could afford to wait before trying for a second. A spare heir was desirable, so it makes sense that when that child was a girl, they tried again immediately (their second and third children, Marie and Scholastique, were only a year apart). If their living children were healthy, and if Marie had difficulty with pregnancy and childbirth, the couple may have decided to cease sexual activity. This would explain the large gap before Thibaut’s birth. It may be that when Henri decided in 1177, it was deemed prudent to try for a spare heir again. It seems reasonable to tie the birth of Thibaut to Henri’s decision to go on crusade. It also explains Henri’s decision to remain in Champagne until Thibaut’s birth. If their fourth child had been a girl, Henri may well have stayed to attempt to produce another son. If this was their thinking, they were right to be concerned: Thibaut was eventually needed to fulfil his role as the ‘spare’. 27

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Once children were born, the next step was incorporating them into the family’s marriage strategy. Marie and Henri wasted no time. Shortly after their daughter Marie’s birth, Henri agreed with Count Philip of Flanders on a double marriage between Henri and Marie’s children and the children of Philip’s sister Margaret and her husband Count Baldwin of Hainaut. This contract remained in place throughout their children’s lifetimes, until 1179, when Philip broke the treaty by having Margaret and Baldwin’s daughter Elizabeth of Hainaut marry the new French king, Philippe II, instead. Henry had departed for the Holy Land about six months earlier, and Marie was apparently unable to prevent the marriage.53 Henri’s death may have given Marie more power to act on behalf of her children. In May of 1181 – only a couple of months after Henri died – Marie and Baldwin of Hainaut agreed to a new marriage contract. This time Baldwin’s daughter Yolande would marry Marie’s son Henri, so Yolande replaced Elizabeth in the double marriage contract. Later the same year, Marie arranged the betrothal of her daughter Scholastique to Count Guillame V of Mâcon and Vienne. Around the same time, the widowed Marie apparently considered marrying Count Philip of Flanders – the man who two years previously had broken the contract he had made with Marie and Henri to have his niece marry Philippe II of France instead. Philip even petitioned the pope for a dispensation to allow the marriage before abruptly, but characteristically, marrying Teresa of Portugal instead. 54 In this game of marriages given and taken away, a couple points emerge. First, after Henri’s death, Marie acted quickly. Did she fear her husband’s death left her children and their inheritance vulnerable? Marie may have considered remarriage for precisely this reason, just as Matilda of Tuscany’s mother Beatrice had married Godfrey of Lorraine. Another intriguing possibility presents itself, however: Marie was clearly capable, arranging these marriages in short order while adjusting to life as a widow. Had she been holding herself back in Henri’s absence? Once empowered to act independently, she may have had no reason to delay. Secondly, Marie and Henri employed a clear marriage strategy. Their own marriage alliance had united the French royal house – Marie’s family – to the Blois family, providing a bulwark of support against England’s French territories. The strategy that Marie and Henri had for 28

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Wife and Mother their children, begun during Henri’s lifetime and continued after his death, took this alliance a step further. Marie was convinced the Flemish alliance was crucial: after Philip of Flanders betrayed her, Marie still arranged a new marriage with his niece and considered marrying him herself. This makes perfect sense. The marriages joined Flanders and Hainaut to Champagne, creating a block of land stretching from the Low Countries directly to Paris that balanced English control of Normandy and Aquitaine. The ports in Flanders and Hainaut opened possibilities for an attack on England. At the same time, should the French king decide the counts of Champagne were becoming too powerful – as Philippe II eventually did – it gave Champagne powerful allies. Scholastique’s marriage to Guillame of Mâcon makes this more clear. Mâcon was located directly to the south of Champagne. Between Mâcon, Flanders, and Hainault, these marriages established a zone of support forming a half-moon around Champagne. Marie’s daughters would go on to marry according to this plan in due course: Marie the younger married Baldwin of Flanders, and Scholastique married Guillame. Marie’s oldest son Henri turned out to be a rebel. Parenting adult children remained a challenge for medieval mothers just as today, and Marie’s experience provides unusual insight into these challenges. Marie had ruled over Champagne in Henri’s name since her husband’s departure on Crusade in 1179 and his death in 1181. As her son Henri’s twenty-first birthday approached in late 1186, Marie cut back her public activity, preparing for Henri to take over.55 After Henri’s birthday, Marie retired to the convent of Fontaines-les-Nonnes, located outside the city of Meaux in Champagne. While she took no religious vows, Marie would have participated in the quiet convent life. Her niece Margaret – daughter of her younger sister Alix – lived nearby, and the dowager queen, Adele of Champagne, her sister-in-law, was a regular visitor, creating a relaxed, convivial atmosphere.56 Her retirement was short-lived. In 1187, Saladin re-captured Jerusalem, and by the end of 1187, it was clear that a new crusade would be called. As Henri prepared to join, Marie prepared to return to public life. In autumn of 1188, Marie returned to Troyes as Henri settled his affairs in Champagne and made his vassals swear to support his younger brother Thibaut’s claim to the county if he did not return. He had departed by May of 1190, leaving Marie in charge once more.57 29

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines The Third Crusade is probably the most famous of the crusades, notable for the presence of many celebrities, including the kings of England and France, and for the feud between Richard I of England and Saladin. Henri was present at the siege of Acre in 1190 and 1191, which resulted in heavy casualties: Henri himself was wounded, while a number of his companions, including his uncle Thibaut of Champagne and Philip of Flanders died. After the crusade ended, Henri remained in the Holy Land with his cousin Richard I of England.58 There, in May 1192, he married Queen Isabelle of Jerusalem. Henri never claimed the title of King of Jerusalem through his wife, though he was entitled to, and he remained involved in the government of Champagne from a distance, but he clearly had no intention of returning to Troyes soon. The next five years saw Marie, who had been acting only minimally, step once more into an active role governing Champagne. We can speculate that she was disappointed in Henri’s decision to marry someone other than his betrothed. Certainly his choice to remain abroad and leave his mother to rule his lands was not what she had pictured for her retirement.59 In 1198, the chronicler Robert of Auxerre, wrote that after the death of her husband, the queen of Hungary, sister of the king of France, having made great preparations, undertook to travel overseas. And when she came to Tyre, she died a short while later. In the same city at the same time, Count Henri, her nephew, was killed by the impact of a lamentable fall, while in an upper room high in his palace, he leaned inattentively from a certain window. When his mother Marie, who manfully ruled his entire county of Champagne, received the news of the death of her son and her sister the queen of Hungary, she grieved beyond measure, and she died not long after.60 The queen of Hungary was Marie’s half-sister Margaret of France, who had been married to Henry the Young King of England until his death and later remarried to the king of Hungary. She had intended to retire to the Holy Land following her second widowhood and died days after her arrival. Shortly afterwards, Henri himself died either by falling, as Robert of Auxerre says, or by being pushed, from a window. Marie heard 30

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Wife and Mother the news in October of 1197, though whether she ever learned the cause of his death is unknown.61 Sixteen years earlier, Marie had reacted to her husband’s death calmly; her son’s death was different. Her younger son Thibaut was acknowledged as count of Champagne, but although he was not of age, Marie seems to have been unable to act on his behalf, instead falling into a depression. She issued her last public act the same month she learned of Henri’s death, and in early 1188, she probably entered religious life at Fontaines-les-Nonnes. In February of 1188, Pope Innocent III wrote to several French bishops to warn them of her state, suggesting she was in danger of harming herself. Marie died the following month.62 Marie appears to have been everything expected from a medieval mother. She protected her children, especially her eldest son Henri, overseeing their inheritance until they came of age. She arranged for marriages to ensure their futures. The marriage strategy she employed had probably been designed with her husband, and after his death, she did everything she could to continue following it. But she also learned a lesson that parents have been learning for millennia: the best-laid plans can be dashed by independent-thinking adult children, and Marie’s son Henri definitely had a mind of his own. All evidence suggests Marie was close to her children: they seem to have remained with her during their childhood instead of being sent away to be raised, as she had been. And it seems that she was particularly close to Henri. It is interesting that Marie, who comes across as collected and practical, should be particularly attached to this son, who appears to have been very much the opposite. Her grief at his death speaks to a mother who cared deeply – so deeply that she may have taken her own life when she learned he had died. Marie emerges from the historical record as more than a collection of facts and dates, but as a mother of flesh and blood. Unlike Marie and Henri, Cecily Neville and her husband Richard of York produced a large family. Cecily herself had come from a particularly large family – her parents had provided her with over twenty siblings and half-siblings. As with Marie and Henri, however, Cecily and Richard took their time in starting their family. They began living together in 1429, when Cecily was 14 years old, so waiting a few years was understandable, but Cecily did not give birth to their first child until ten years later. Some delays are easy to explain: from 1435 to 1437, for instance, Richard was 31

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines in France, leaving his wife in England. Nonetheless, the lack of children must have been concerning: in the 1420s and 30s, Richard of York was third in line for the throne, and a male heir was crucial.63 The birth of their first child Anne must have been a relief. Her birth was followed in 1441 by the couple’s second child Henry, who died not long after being baptised. The following years saw the birth of the couple’s eldest surviving sons Edward (the future Edward IV) and Edmund while Cecily and Richard resided in France. Their daughter Elizabeth was born in 1444, just before the couple returned to England. They took a short break after returning home, and in May of 1446, Cecily gave birth to another daughter, Margaret. The following years saw the births of two short-lived sons, John and William. By this time, the political climate in England was heating up, and Cecily and Richard perhaps had less time to devote to expanding their already-substantial family. Their son George was born in Dublin in October of 1449 . Another short-lived son Thomas arrived before the birth of Richard (the future Richard III) in 1452. A delay of three years before the birth of their last child, a daughter named Ursula who died in infancy, suggests this final pregnancy was a surprise.64 All in all, Cecily spent nearly seventeen years of her adult life either pregnant or recovering from childbirth. Between the ages of 24 and 40, she gave birth to twelve children that we know of, of whom seven survived childhood. Cecily’s frequent conception speaks to a couple who were often together. Twelve children is a lot, even in an age of limited family planning. Did Cecily see her fecundity as a blessing or a curse? Certainly, following a decade of childlessness, it would have been a relief to know that her husband would never worry for a lack of heirs. For Richard and Cecily, the knowledge that their children would have a wide network of siblings for support would have been a comfort in a time of political instability. Like their parents before them, the couple took pains to secure their children’s futures while they were young. Their oldest daughter Anne, for instance, was betrothed at the age of 6 to Henry Holland the future duke of Exeter, who would go on to become an ardent Lancastrian supporter. In 1458, their daughter Elizabeth married John de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk. The de la Pole family was close to the crown – John’s father William had been a major power in the earlier years of Henry VI’s reign – and this marriage might represent an effort to make peace with 32

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Wife and Mother Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou before an all-out civil war became inevitable.65 As Marie of France had done, Cecily and Richard apparently kept their children with them where possible. The presence of at least five of their children at the Battle of Ludford Bridge in 1459 – the three youngest with Cecily in the nearby castle, and the two eldest sons Edward and Edmund with their father at the battle – suggests the family preferred to remain together when possible, despite the danger. Cecily’s relationships with her children as adults, especially her eldest son Edward, suggest close relationships with at least some of her children. As Marie of France had been pushed into action to protect her children following the death of her husband, Cecily’s widowhood propelled an already extreme situation further towards disaster. At this point, her roles as mother and political actor finally merged. After Richard’s death, Cecily remained in London with her younger sons George and Richard – their older brother Edward’s heirs – in hiding while Edward moved to engage Lancastrian forces in a decisive battle. Shortly afterward, Cecily sent the boys to the duke of Burgundy, possibly entrusting them to her cousin Isabella of Portugal, Duchess of Burgundy (another granddaughter of John of Gaunt). Sending the heirs away was a strategy she and Richard had adopted following the Battle of Ludford Bridge, and it was more crucial now. If Edward were killed, her sons would be in danger as Lancaster sought to eliminate all Yorkist claimants to the throne. As it happened, Edward was not killed. After a short campaign, Queen Margaret and her Lancastrian supporters retreated northwards. In February 1461, only a few months after his father’s death, Edward returned to London, and on 4 March of that year he was proclaimed king.66 The early years of Edward’s reign saw Cecily adopt many traditionally queenly roles, leaning into her identity as the wife of the ‘rightful inheritor’ of the throne, Richard of York. In this capacity, she acted politically as well as maternally, as we will see further on. Her personal relationships with her surviving children require more work to unravel. Three of Cecily’s sons survived to adulthood, Edward, George, and Richard, and each had a very different relationship with Cecily. The central role Cecily played in the first years of Edward’s reign demonstrates that he trusted her implicitly. That role shifted dramatically in 1464, when Edward shocked the court by revealing his secret marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, the widowed daughter of 33

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Richard Woodville, Lord Rivers, and his wife Jacquetta of Luxembourg. Much ink has been spilled describing Cecily’s rage when she learned of the marriage, but there is little contemporary evidence to support this. She spent less time in London after the marriage, but this was appropriate behaviour with a new queen in town. In fact, there is some evidence for a cordial, if lukewarm, relationship between Cecily and Elizabeth. Cecily appointed one of her ladies-in-waiting to Elizabeth’s household to help her adjust to royal life. She also had a long-standing relationship with Elizabeth’s mother Jacquetta dating to their time in France thirty years previously – Jacquetta had been godmother to one of Cecily’s daughters. This marriage was probably not what Cecily had imagined for her son, but evidence of Cecily’s hatred of Elizabeth is lacking.67 Cecily does seem to have had a soft spot for her second son George. As George’s ambitions grew and Edward’s rule weakened, Cecily found small ways of supporting George without overtly plotting against Edward. She sympathised with his desire to marry Isabel Neville, the daughter of her nephew the earl of Warwick, against Edward’s wishes. When George and the earl fled to Calais to secretly perform the wedding, Cecily provided her minstrels as entertainment. Nonetheless, when George’s years of plotting made a conviction of treason inevitable, Cecily did not attempt to prevent his execution, though some suggest the more humane method – he was drowned in a butt of wine instead of being drawn and quartered – reflects Cecily’s intervention.68 History provides few glimpses into Cecily’s relationship with her youngest, most famous, son until Edward IV’s death in 1483 prompted political crisis. Cecily was in London throughout that summer, as Richard first became protector of the realm, then determined to take the throne for himself. He was at Cecily’s London home of Baynard’s Castle in June when the lords and citizens of the realm formally asked him to take the crown. In order to do so, Richard disinherited Edward IV’s children – Cecily’s grandchildren. There is no evidence that she supported Richard in his path to the crown the way she had Edward, though she did nothing to stand in his way. Cecily withdrew from court during Richard’s reign, but they remained in contact. In mid-1484, as he haemorrhaged supporters, Richard wrote his mother requesting advice and comfort following the death of his only son, indication that his inner circle was shrinking. The pair likely saw each other last in late May 34

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Wife and Mother 1485 when Richard visited Cecily at Berkhamsted. Bosworth came a few months later.69 Bosworth did not mark the end of Cecily’s maternal career – evidence suggests she ingratiated herself with Henry VII’s court to maintain contact and support for Henry’s wife, Cecily’s granddaughter Elizabeth of York. In her official documents, she began to refer to herself as the ‘queen’s grandmother’ as if it were its own title. But she was growing old, and Cecily turned her attention towards quiet retirement.70 A young noblewoman could expect to become a wife, then a mother, two sides of the same coin. She could expect to be married, usually as a young teenager, into a family her parents chose, for better or for worse. Often it was for better: a companionable marriage was to everyone’s advantage, so a couple could work as a team for many years. Wives, after all, were usually the cement that glued an alliance between two families. We should not discount the extent to which women were used as pawns in family politics, but they were valuable pawns. Would Henri of Champagne have been able to forge relationships England’s rulers, or would Richard of York have been able to tie the Nevilles firmly to his cause without the blood relationships their wives brought? It seems unlikely. Circumstances from previous generations could shape noblewomen’s lives, as we see in the cases of Anna Komnene and Cecily Neville. And regardless of whom a girl was set to marry, her parents were expected to give her training in how to behave and how to rule, though most girls did not receive the extraordinarily thorough education given to Matilda of Tuscany. Regardless of the position they were set to inherit, every girl could expect that her life would be defined by marriage. Men were usually the more visible, more powerful halves of the marriage, but this was not always true. Matilda of Tuscany’s marriage to Godfrey of Lorraine had the potential to benefit him, if he could bring her lands into his influence. Yet the real beneficiary of this marriage was Matilda, who maintained a veneer of masculine protection over her property long enough to obtain full control over it – and to leave Godfrey behind her as she came into her own. As Alice de Lacy may have demonstrated in leaving the custody of her husband Thomas of Lancaster, even a woman who appeared to be the weaker partner could seize power if she was willing to defy society’s rules for feminine behaviour. 35

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines One of women’s most valuable roles was as mothers to their husbands’ heirs. This gave them esteem with their husbands and their marital families, as well as a well-defined position and relationship with their children. When Henri of Champagne died, Marie stepped smoothly into the position of regent, in part because she was the mother of Henri’s heir. When Richard of York died, Cecily’s relationship with her eldest son Edward was such that he virtually entrusted her with the running of England while he secured his throne on the battlefield. Children also caused their share of problems. Marie’s son Henri declined to follow the plans his parents had laid. Cecily Neville’s sons’ inability to get along ended tragically. A lack of children was just as problematic, however. Matilda of Tuscany ended her life scrambling, and failing, to find a viable heir, as we shall see in the next section. Alice de Lacy’s marriage likely suffered at least in part because she was unable to have children. This chapter has focused on the personal side of women’s lives. This approach allows a focus on the most personal parts of women’s lived experiences, but it is a bit deceiving. In the medieval court, nothing was personal. Society expected those at its highest level to occupy public positions – they were both the celebrities and the political leaders of the day. Events in their personal lives were matters of public interest and discussion. Women’s roles as family members, wives, and mothers interfaced with their public personas. They also expressed themselves as individuals, independent of the web of identities that they were born with or married into, to exercise power according to their own desires.

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Chapter Two

Public Lives

I am not a woman of feminine frivolity or fear, but I direct these letters to you for the advantage of my whole kingdom; when you receive them accept me and the whole kingdom of Lombardy. I shall give you so many cities, castles, renowned palaces, and infinite gold and silver; over all these you will have an illustrious name if you make yourself dear to me. Do not consider me bold that I approach you first. It is permitted as much to the virile as to the feminine sex to desire a legitimate spouse. Nor does it matter if a man or a woman make the first move in love as long it involves an indissoluble marriage.1 So Matilda of Tuscany allegedly wrote to her second husband, Welf of Bavaria in the late 1080s. The letter is a fake, invented by a chronicler a century after Matilda’s death, but the Matilda portrayed is entirely believable. This was a woman confident in her public position, comfortable at the head of her court, aware of her femininity, fully occupying a position of power. A noblewoman’s role as wife and mother was far from private – marriage alliances could alter national or international politics, while a woman’s fertility, or lack thereof, could dictate a family’s power for generations. In the surviving historical records, however, it is generally men who take centre stage. Married women do make appearances, playing the political game when extraordinary circumstances called for it, for example. Other women found power in the more traditional avenues for their sex, like commissioning literary or religious works. In most cases, women’s agency is difficult to detect until we look for it. In widowhood, women exercised independent authority like men did. Most women passed from the custody of their father directly to 37

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines that of their husband, so widowhood represented their first experience outside male control. This created some uncertainty, even danger – no male control also meant no male protection – but there was also scope for women to pursue their own goals and act independently. They could control property, enter into new marriages or religious life, arrange matters for their families.

Widowhood and Remarriage Matilda of Tuscany’s widowhood highlights the power women could achieve. The first choice facing most widows was the question of remarriage, and for a decade, Matilda avoided this. Single life was appealing: as a wife, she worked to prevent her husband Godfrey of Lorraine from controlling her Italian property. Why, when Godfrey’s death freed her from this constant pressure, should she allow another man to take his place? Matilda’s best-known victories, political and military, took place in this widowhood. Matilda did eventually remarry, thirteen years after Godfrey’s death. The 1080s saw Matilda push the Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich IV out of Italy, leaving the papacy firmly in charge of the peninsula. Securing Italy for the pope was Matilda’s goal for much of her life and her greatest achievement. Heinrich’s defeats were unpopular in his native Germany, and his losses in Italy led, at least momentarily, to increased support for the papacy there as well. By 1088, however, papal support was waning north of the Alps, and Heinrich was pushing some of his former enemies towards peace. Hoping to keep the powerful Welf family of Bavaria on the pope’s side, Matilda, then 43, married the 18-year-old Welf of Bavaria. The marriage did more than keep the powerful Welf family in the papal camp. The Welfs also controlled crucial Alpine passes into Italy and held Italian property, and Heinrich was bargaining with them to provide the safe passage he would need to invade Italy once more. The marriage between Matilda and Welf was organised by Matilda and the pope as a desperate effort to prevent the emperor from invading Italy. Their union created a shaky stretch of territory from southern Germany to central Italy which threatened to cut off Heinrich’s supply lines if he crossed the Alps.2 Welf took on the public pressure of protecting his wife’s lands when Heinrich finally invaded two years later. The chronicler Bernold 38

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Public Lives wrote that ‘Duke Welf of Italy incurred much arson and pillaging when [Emperor Heinrich] entered Lombardy in this year [1190], but at the exhortation of his beloved wife, Lady Matilda, he found to remain in fidelity to Saint Peter and to withstand [Heinrich] manfully.’3 Marriage moved Matilda to the subordinate position of supporter instead of an independent leader. A similar demotion occurred politically: during the marriage, Matilda’s formal documents referred to Welf as ‘duke’ of her lands and to Matilda as the less-powerful ‘countess’ or ‘lady’, instead of as ‘duchess’. When she was single again, her documents refer to her as ‘duchess’ once more. Marriage not only placed women under their husbands’ control, but led to a perceptible decrease in power. 4 We can imagine the resentment that Matilda felt at her demotion, even if it was on paper only. Her marriage to Welf collapsed after Heinrich’s defeat. Matilda no longer required the alliance, and the considerable age difference between the couple probably made parting easy.5 She entered into her second marriage purely to meet the needs of a moment, probably intending to separate from Welf when it was practical. For other widows without her resources or skills, however, remarriage was a more serious and lasting concern. Alice de Lacy and Thomas of Lancaster had been separated for the better part of a decade when she was widowed. Thomas was captured in treasonous battle against King Edward II of England, taken to his nearby fortress at Pontefract, and beheaded. Alice may not have keenly grieved her husband’s death, but it profoundly affected her life. On the day of Thomas’s execution, Edward II ordered Alice’s arrest, and she remained under either direct royal control or in the custody of the Despenser family, the king’s favourites at the time, for the following six months. In the 1330s, Alice’s brother-in-law Henry of Lancaster, who was seeking restoration of the family’s property following Thomas’s death, arranged for Alice to share her story with his lawyers as part of his formal complaint about the family’s mistreatment. Their report stated that Alice, who was the wife of the aforesaid Thomas, was seized and taken to York and imprisoned, and there she was arraigned by Hugh Despenser the father and Hugh the son, as if she had been part of the quarrel [between Thomas of Lancaster and Edward II]. And they said that she had been the cause of her lord’s death and that she used sorcery. And the aforesaid Alice, 39

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines for fear of death, placed herself entirely in the command of the aforesaid Hugh and Hugh, and in the protection of the said king. For this, the aforesaid Alice granted and released to the said king the greater part of her lands.6 These terrifying threats suggest Alice was pressured to release her inheritance – she held the earldoms of Lincoln and Salisbury in her own right during her lifetime – to the king and his cronies. After being so careful to distance herself from Thomas’s treason, this would have been humiliating. Desperate, she granted her inheritance, though not her titles, to the king, and in exchange, she was granted an annual income of £500 and several properties to provide income during her lifetime.7 Alice remained under control of the king and the Despensers continued throughout 1322. Her public acts throughout that summer were witnessed by the Despensers. In November, the king ordered the sheriff and bailiffs of Lincolnshire to protect Alice from abduction. Reading between the lines, what we see is a woman who was pressured into granting away her property, and then given enough back that she could maintain a lifestyle appropriate for her status – the income and properties would have made her wealthy – but always with the threat of intervention over her head. If Edward could grant Alice an income, he could also take it away. The presence of the Despensers in her life would have driven this home. The order to the protect Alice from abduction is perhaps the most ominous: if we remember that ‘abduction’ was sometimes code for women simply departing on their own free will, this order looks like an attempt to keep Alice on her own property.8 In 1324, Alice remarried to Ebulo Lestrange. Her new husband came from the lower levels of nobility, and his family had served the house of Lancaster for generations. It was not unknown for women to make second marriages to men of lower status – other examples include Edward I’s daughter John of Acre’s marriage to Ralph de Monthermer in 1297, Jacquetta of Luxembourg’s marriage to Richard Woodville, and Henry V’s widow Catherine de Valois’s marriage to Owen Tudor. These marriages allowed women to marry men they knew well and liked, and they ensured that women remained the dominant partner in the relationship. Ebulo’s lower status provided Alice male protection while ensuring that she remained in control of the partnership, a concern which further illuminates her feelings on her first marriage. 40

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Public Lives In the 1330s, Ebulo participated in the overthrow of Edward II and crowning of Edward III, which led to an increase in status. The new king granted Ebulo several profitable positions in thanks for his support of the rebellion that removed Edward II. When he died in 1335, he was buried in Barlings Abbey, where Alice eventually joined him in 1348. Alice took a vow of chastity and became a vowess, a position somewhere between a secular woman and a nun. She received a habit and a ring symbolising her choice to reject marriage. By declaring her intention to remain unmarried, Alice made a clear and public decision to remain outside male control.9 Unfortunately for Alice, her single life was short lived. In late 1335 or early 1336, a knight named Hugh de Frene abducted her from Bolingbroke Castle. The pair travelled to Somerton Castle, about thirty miles from Bolingbroke, where they were arrested and taken to the Tower of London. The couple were briefly married, but by December of 1336, Hugh de Frene had died. How are we to interpret this second ‘abduction’ in Alice’s life? Did Hugh de Frene kidnap and rape a helpless widow, who was then forced to marry him? Or did Alice plan this abduction, too? Alice’s nephew-in-law Roger Lestrange, a nephew of Ebulo, took advantage of his uncle’s death to harass Alice and her property. In May of 1337, Alice formally complained that Roger and a group of men had broken into her residence at Bolingboke, stolen goods worth £200, and assaulted Alice’s men and servants.10 If Roger had begun his behaviour earlier, immediately after Ebulo’s death in 1335, Alice’s ‘abduction’ by Hugh de Frene might actually have been an attempt to escape Roger’s clutches. Other depictions of the event tell a slightly different story, however. A petition written to King Edward III on Alice’s behalf states that Hugh acted in concert with Alice’s illegitimate half-brother John, describing how Sir Hugh has taken the said lady out of her castle by night and against her will to the Tower of London and there she remains alone in such distress because she can neither approach nor speak to any of her friends nor those of good will, only those in accord with or in the retinue of Sir Hugh. Which matter is against the vow of chastity that she has 41

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines made and the law of the holy church and against the Crown of our lord the king and his oath. She begs the king to make hasty remedy and ordain that she be in her free will among her friends and in her own defences.11 Hugh de Frene’s eventual trial told a similar story, stating that Hugh, together with John de Lacy, broke into Alice’s home and seized her against her will. The records of the trial focus on Alice’s fear, noting that ‘when she had perceived that they wished to abduct her, she fell to the ground’ and that ‘she was terrified of [their] threats’.12 There are two ways of telling this story. The first is that Alice, aided by her half-brother John and his friend Hugh de Frene, escaped a dangerous situation through subterfuge. The second is that Alice’s half-brother arranged for Hugh to kidnap and forcefully marry his sister. Alice’s experiences in widowhood emphasise the vulnerability that this stage of life could create. In theory, widows could determine and act on their personal goals for the first time, but without men to protect them, single women were susceptible. If Alice did indeed choose to marry Hugh, then it underscores a key irony: in order to achieve independence, she was forced to marry again.

Political Life Cecily Neville also experienced vulnerability following the death of her husband, but with sons to protect her, she decided against remarriage. Instead, Cecily was able to step into a position of considerable power. Cecily had been playing the game of politics for years. Though she avoided overtly political action during her marriage to Richard of York, she was still a behind-the-scenes actor who sometimes came into the spotlight. After Richard and his older sons fled abroad following the Battle of Ludford Bridge, Cecily was placed under a gentle house arrest in the household of her sister Anne. At a parliament held in November of 1459, Richard of York was formally convicted of treason and forfeited his property to the crown. Cecily was permitted to leave her sister’s custody and go to Coventry for the parliament. There she petitioned that her husband and others be allowed to present themselves to the king for his justice, which was granted. Although Richard could not present himself in time, others of 42

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Public Lives their followers were allowed to successfully plead for the king’s mercy. The same parliament granted Cecily a very comfortable income of just over £1,000 per year. The generosity Cecily received at this time suggests a perception that she had stayed out of her husband’s politics, except perhaps to play a traditionally feminine role of peacemaker. Later, Cecily became known as a savvy, powerful actor in her own right.13 Cecily emerged as an independent power following Richard of York’s death in late 1460. Residing at the centre of power in London, she confidently cared for the wellbeing of her younger sons, while supporting her eldest son Edward as he battled for the throne. Though formally declared king in March of 1461, work was required to fully secure the crown. Before Edward departed to meet Lancastrian forces yet again, he declared Cecily would remain in London to oversee his household, indication of his trust in her managerial abilities and political acumen. At the Battle of Towton a few weeks later, probably the bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil, Edward won the decisive victory he needed. Those who reported on the news from London noted that while Edward was the military arm of victory, Cecily was running English politics.14 The early years of Edward’s reign saw Cecily take on a quasi-queenlike role. Favours were granted to Cecily’s relatives, and Cecily herself received an annual income from the crown of £3,300. Cecily’s successor in the role of king’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, who was known for her expenditure, barely achieved an annual income of £3,000 at the height of her power. In legal documents, Cecily described herself as ‘the king’s mother’ as if this were its own title – much as she would call herself ‘the queen’s grandmother’ in Henry VII’s reign. She signed her name as only ‘Cecily’ with no surname and no title, as a queen might. This queenly behaviour emphasised the rightness of the Yorkist claim to the throne: these actions reminded the court that if her husband’s claim had been recognised, Cecily would have been queen in truth. 15 Only in her forties, Cecily could have remarried, but decided against this. This might have been to avoid disrupting a delicate balance of power – with Edward IV’s grasp on the throne so tenuous, it was crucial to avoid the appearance of another man near the throne exercising power.16 But her decision to remain single may have also been to allow Cecily to continue exercising power, something that became difficult if she were married. It could have been out of respect for the memory of her husband Richard, to whom she had apparently been close. It might 43

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines have been that with one adult son, and two teenaged sons behind him, Cecily did not require male protection. Most of Edward IV’s early reign was spent repelling threats of usurpation, and Cecily involved herself in attempts to neutralise Lancastrian threats. When William Tyrell, the son of one of her servants, was executed for treason, Cecily inherited his son John’s wardship while he was a minor. Instead of keeping it herself, which would have provided Cecily with an income for caring for John, she sold the wardship to John’s widowed mother for a token sum. This act of conciliation was in keeping with other acts – for example, hiring Lancastrian servants into her household – that brought Lancastrian supporters onto the Yorkist side and deprived them of independent resources.17 The deaths of Edward IV in 1483 and of Richard III in 1485, pushed Cecily into almost a second widowhood. During her sons’ lives, she had a well-defined role, but after defeat at Bosworth, she found herself again in a position of vulnerability, though her age might have prevented much political manoeuvring, or the sense that she was a viable threat. Henry VII’s arrival in London proclaiming himself king must have been eerily reminiscent for Cecily, so closely mirroring her son’s triumphal arrival two decades previously. She adapted quickly, though, bringing men who were in favour with the new regime into her service. Robert Willoughby, who had once revolted against her son Richard, became steward of Cecily’s lands in Wiltshire. She also placed her servants in the new regime. Ralph Verney, a Yorkist supporter and member of Cecily’s household, was appointed to royal offices in late 1485 and later married Margaret Beaufort’s niece Eleanor Pole. By keeping the lines of communication open between her household, the king’s, and the king’s mother’s (and Cecily knew better than anyone how powerful a king’s mother could be), she ensured her safety, and she was able to maintain relationships with her grandchildren, particularly the new queen Elizabeth of York.18 Power was not only gained by sitting on a throne, but by influencing those around it, and Cecily never let go of that. Cecily Neville was not the cruel, one-dimensional portrait that has been popularised in literature and television. The Cecily Neville that emerges from these anecdotes was a remarkable political operator, one who must have been in action long before her widowhood. She clearly supported her husband, but was perceived as being uninvolved enough 44

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Public Lives to successfully intercede on behalf of his supporters in the parliament of 1459. Similarly, following decades of support for her sons Edward IV and Richard III, Cecily adapted and lived peacefully under Henry VII, a man not known for giving the benefit of the doubt. Only a supremely skilled politician could avoid cracking under such pressure, and Cecily never seems to have made a wrong step. In a world dominated by the conflicts of men, Cecily’s mere survival speaks to a deft and confident handling of power.

The Power of Words Not all women were exercised overt political power with the ease of Cecily Neville. For others, power became the ability to tell their own story. Cecily engaged in this when she described herself as ‘mother of the king’ or ‘grandmother of the queen’, a small rewriting of history that reminded those who read her formal documents that she should have been queen. Margaret Beaufort used the same technique, signing her documents ‘Margaret R’, which could mean Margaret of Richmond (she was countess of Richmond) or, more coyly, ‘Margaret Regina’ – Margaret the queen. Like Cecily, Margaret wanted the readers of her letters to remember she should have worn a crown. They were probably not aware they were following in the footsteps of Matilda of Tuscany, who also used the words in her public documents to make statements of identity. Matilda signed her charters Matilda dei gratia si quid est, an unusual signature that means ‘Matilda, by the grace of God, if she is anything.’ This reflected her uncertain position. Tuscany was a vassal of the Holy Roman Empire, but Heinrich IV never recognised Matilda’s claim. Her signature asserted she held her lands by the grace of God, not the emperor, side-stepping the issue of imperial recognition.19 Where Cecily, Margaret Beaufort, and Matilda of Tuscany used words metaphorically, others used them literally. Anna Komnene was no stranger to power – she was raised knowing she might become empress of Byzantium. When her father died, she believed enough in her claim to attempt to seize the throne herself. Following Alexios’s death in 1118, Anna, with some subtle help from her mother Eirene, attempted raise an army to take control of the government. Without the support of her husband Nikephoros her scheme never got off the ground. Instead of 45

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines becoming empress, Anna was banished to the convent of Kecharitomene in Constantinople for the rest of her life.20 The reasons for Anna’s failure are unclear – was she a victim of her husband’s betrayal or an unskilled political actor? What she did with her time the convent is much better known. The Alexiad, the chronicle of her father’s reign Anna personally penned during her forced ‘retirement’, is one of the best-known works written by a medieval woman. It is the only surviving Byzantine history to have been written by a woman, and it reveals Anna’s perspective on her society. Anna followed the rules of historical writing of the day, so in its attempt to depict Anna’s version of the ‘truth’, it incorporates contemporary literary techniques, including the invention of details that support Anna’s narrative, alongside fact. The Alexiad is not a history of women, but of the great deeds of men. In that sense, it illuminates one aspect of Anna’s life: she had more in common with men of her own class than with woman of other classes. The work reflects the importance Anna placed on her imperial heritage in her understanding of herself. Anna was the oldest child of Alexios and Eirene, and she never forgot it. Even writing the Alexiad in the 1150s, she remained focused on the great events of her father’s life. The portraits Anna provides of great figures of the age, especially her father, are embellished. Calling her work the Alexiad deliberately evokes Greek literature in its reference to the Iliad. Anna peppered her writing with references to classical Greek literature, a chance to demonstrate she was on an intellectual par with the best-educated men of her time. It makes sense that the Emperor Alexios who emerges in Anna’s writing is a larger-than-life hero. But Anna also drew her portraits from life. She knew many of the characters in her history, and she was able to ask family members about others. And although the Alexiad is not women’s history per se, she describes the influence of her grandmother and mother on her Alexios’s reign in detail. This speaks to her personal relationship with her subjects, since she would have grown up hearing stories of them. It also emphasises that Anna, more than a male historian might, truly believed that women could exercise political power.21 Anna found power in writing the narrative that defined her family history. The self-aggrandisement that flavours the Alexiad is pervasive, but not the main message of the work. If Anna flattered herself, it was only natural considering the greatness of her family. Her writing did not see her released to become an independent political player once more, 46

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Public Lives but she used it to shape history. In the Alexiad, Anna ensured that her view of her family would be the lasting one. She would only think it right that thanks to the Alexiad, her version of events has become historians’ go-to reference for the Byzantine Empire during the reign of Alexios I. Women did not need to produce their own work to provide intimate glimpses into their experiences and desires. Marie of France was a patron and enjoyer of romantic literature who inspired or commissioned several important works during her lifetime. Chrétien de Troyes appealed to both Marie and her husband Henri; in addition to producing Cligés, a work associated with Henri’s second crusade, one of his Arthurian romances, Lancelot, was inspired by Marie. Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to write a romance, I shall very gladly do so, being so devoted to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention of flattery. But if one were to introduce any flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and I would subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows in May or April is more lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I am not one to wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: ‘The Countess is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards.’ Nay I shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought or pains that I may expend upon it.22 Chrétien goes tells the reader that Marie actually provided him the subject of the story herself. This is an interesting notion, because Chrétien’s Lancelot is hardly flattering to women. It tells of Queen Guinevere’s abduction by Maleagant and her subsequent adultery with Lancelot. This is especially interesting subject matter to present – and ascribe to – a woman whose own mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was widely rumoured to have been unfaithful to her first husband.23 It is perhaps an especially audacious piece of writing in the context of Marie’s husband Henri’s imminent departure for the Holy Land, for the concern that a woman might be unfaithful to her husband in his absence was one expressed frequently in medieval writing. 47

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Marie’s reputation for literary patronage and her court’s reputation as a centre of romantic literature come from this passage. Though we do not know how Chrétien was connected to Marie and Henri, or even exactly who he was, there was a flowering of literature around Marie that she was surely aware of. In her widowhood, Marie’s household would remain a focus of literary pursuits, and it seems likely she was supportive of this, if not an active patron.24 Around the time Marie attempted to retire to Fontaines-les-Nonnes near the city of Meaux, her niece Margaret married Huon III d’Oisy, Viscount of Meaux. At the same time, Huon presented his poem the Tournoi des Dames (Tournament of Ladies), which depicted a jousting tournament that turned the rules of this popular activity upside down. Instead of men, women, including Marie, participated in Huon’s tournament. In the work, Huon explains that the women’s husbands were away on crusade, and they wished to learn more of how their menfolk spent their time.25 The most famous man to include Marie in his work was Andreas Capellanus. Capellanus was certainly a member of Marie’s court and possibly one of her own chaplains. The third part of his most famous work De Amore (On Love) describes famous women of his day holding ‘courts’ of love where they rendered judgements on lovers’ conduct. The judgements the women passed sometimes seem to have made pointed reference to their own lives. For example, Capellanus depicts Eleanor of Aquitaine judging that women would be happier loving a mature man of good character than a younger man whose character is lacking. At the time the book was written, Eleanor was being kept captive by her husband Henry II of England, a man eleven years her junior.26 Of the twenty-one judgements that Capellanus depicts, Marie passes seven ‘sentences’. The most famous judgement from De Amore is one of Marie’s, in which she declares that love cannot exist within marriage. Capellanus’s work depicts Marie writing to her mother with this decision in the year 1174 – the year Henry II first placed Eleanor under house arrest – and Eleanor writes back to her daughter to express her agreement with the decision.27 There is nothing in De Amore to suggest that Marie commissioned it, but surely Capellanus, who was part of Marie’s household, shared his writing with Marie’s court. Around this time, Marie’s half-sister Margaret of France, was in residence at Marie’s court, as was the dowager 48

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Public Lives queen Adele of Champagne, Marie’s sister-in-law. We might suggest that Capellanus sought to entertain the women with witty stories about a shadow court to their own. We can almost picture them gathered in the evening, laughing at Capellanus’s pointed depictions of themselves and women they knew.28 The only work Marie certainly commissioned was a translation and gloss of the book of Genesis done by Evrat, a canon of the church of StÉtienne, an institution Marie patronised during her lifetime and where she was eventually buried. It was commissioned in 1192, in the period when Marie was ruling Champagne on behalf of her son Henri, and perhaps suggests her attention had turned from the secular to the spiritual as she aged. Nonetheless, Evrat chose an approach that would appeal to Marie, choosing to ‘popularise’ the text by reinterpreting Genesis as a romance. Unsurprisingly, Evrat’s prologue to his translation takes time to praise and flatter his patroness, who died between the book’s conception and its completion. Evrat writes that: All good repairs to her and nothing so appeals to her as giving largesse and honors. All women now living should take her as an example, for from her all good things are derived. All other women are honored by her, for there was long delay before honor came into their power, but she has caused it to reside there and gives strength to them. She has taken away the wicked blame the world bestows on other women, so that great honor abounds in them. She kept the land well and maintained it, nor was anything she had in her hands lost; she was so gracious, and wise and worthy and courageous.29 Evrat’s decision to reinterpret a Biblical book as medieval romance shows that Marie’s interest in the genre was well known. Where her 49

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines husband had tended towards historical treatises, she was more intrigued by the popular culture of the day, which leaned more towards stories of great acts by powerful people and love. It is notable that both Huon d’Oisy and Andreas Capellanus depicted an inverted version of masculine displays of power, one on the tournament field and one in the court. The works may have gently poked fun at women who exercised masculine power, but with women as the intended audience, they were ultimately meant to flatter, not mock. And while some of their humour comes from the ‘ridiculous’ notation that women could occupy men’s space, an inherently sexist perspective, they depict women being successful and respected in these arenas. And are their depictions as inverted as they might seem? Marie did successfully occupy her husband’s place as ruler of Champagne. Seen through this lens, d’Oisy and Capellanus’s depictions depict life more closely than they seem to initially. It seems reasonable to think that the authors’ intentions were to flatter Marie and her companions’ manly political skills as much as their feminine love of romance. Marie ruled Champagne successfully in her husband and son’s long absences. She was an able political actor, securing her son’s inheritance and organising marriages for her children. In her interest in literature, she steps off the page as a flesh-and-blood woman of independent interests. The image of Marie that comes across in this collection of works is of a woman confident in her power – confident enough that she was able to relax with the women of her family and laugh at depictions of her court. These works are not the clear statements of family power that Anna Komene’s Alexiad was. It would be an exaggeration to suggest Marie commissioned them ensure she or her relations were seen in a certain light, as Anna did. But for both women, the literature around them – whether they produced it or experienced it – provides a glimpse into their world. They emerge not only as the wives, mothers, and allies that women were expected to be, but as individuals with their own goals and desires.

Military Matters Matilda of Tuscany acted both politically and militarily in the Investiture Controversy, which pitted the pope against the Holy Roman Empire. As we have seen, Matilda was unwilling to adopt the constraints of marriage her society expected. Instead, she used marriages to gain the advantage 50

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Public Lives for herself and the pope, then discarded her husbands when they ceased to be useful. In short, Matilda used marriage the way men of her age did. Similarly, Matilda was not prepared to be a mere passive ally; instead, she took an active political and military role in the conflict. Matilda’s father and stepfather had been papal allies, and she was raised to be the same. Following her return to Italy after departing her first husband Godfrey the Hunchback of Lorraine, Matilda might have expected to receive papal censure for her unusual behaviour. Fortunately, Pope Gregory VII needed Matilda’s support – her lands in Northern Italy provided a buffer between Imperial territory and Rome – and he looked the other way.30 Matilda and Gregory became close allies, and their closeness became a weakness. In 1076, Emperor Heinrich IV convened a synod at Worms in Germany, where the attendees renounced their obedience to Gregory and accused him of sexual impropriety with Matilda. In a letter to the pope, they wrote that you have filled the entire Church, as it were, with the stench of the gravest of scandals, rising from your intimacy and cohabitation with another’s wife who is more closely integrated into your household than is necessary. In this affair our sense of decency is affected more than our legal case, although the general complaint is sounded everywhere that all judgements and all decrees are enacted by women in the Apostolic See, and ultimately that the whole orb of the Church is administered by this new senate of women.31 We know that the letter refers to Matilda because of the accusation of adultery – her husband Godfrey of Lorraine, whom she had left several years previously, was in attendance at the synod. In this letter, we see a common theme: when men attacked other men, it was often convenient to do so by accusing them of sexual impropriety, and women could be caught in the crossfire. After all, medieval culture’s fears of female sexuality made such accusations believable. Several other women in this book would also go on to experience this. These accusations had a temporary impact on Gregory and Matilda’s working relationship, and they distanced themselves from each other for several months. Gregory responded to the synod with a series of 51

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines excommunications and censures across Germany. These released citizens from their obligations of obedience to their excommunicated rulers, and Heinrich lost a good deal of support.32 Seeking to press his advantage, Gregory planned a trip to Germany in late 1076. The only way to travel in relative safety was through Matilda’s lands, but the pope was halted at Matilda’s city of Mantua when the promised escort from Germany failed to materialise. Meanwhile, Heinrich’s princes informed him they would depose him if he could not reconcile with the pope; the emperor made a dangerous winter crossing of the Alps, arriving in Mantua himself in early 1077. At Matilda’s urging, Gregory retreated to her fortress of Canossa, where she could provide protection. There the pair forced Heinrich to wait in the snow for three days. Only after Matilda made a show of pleading with the pope to be merciful was Heinrich permitted to meet with Gregory and beg forgiveness. This key moment in medieval history theoretically solved the age-old question of supremacy, for in kneeling to the Gregory, Heinrich tacitly agreed the pope had dominion over secular leaders. Both Heinrich and Gregory remained on Matilda’s lands for the first months of 1077, paving the way for a simmering peace that would last several years.33 Matilda, therefore, was well acquainted with the political games played at court, but where she really excelled was on the battlefield, and she broke with tradition by joining her armies and commanding on the field, not only in desperate times of defence (when it was expected that women should try to help militarily) but in planning and executing offensive strategy.34 Matilda’s most famous military campaign began with defeat. After a few years of tense peace following Heinrich’s submission at Canossa, tensions erupted again and in 1080, Gregory judged that Heinrich should be excommunicated and deposed. Heinrich responded by declaring the pope deposed instead, and his supporters elected their own anti-pope. At last, open war broke out, and Matilda assumed her position at the head of a papal army. Matilda and Gregory originally planned to strike first, believing Heinrich would be unable to act so quickly, but they were unsuccessful. In October 1180, Heinrich’s forces defeated Matilda’s at Volta, a crucial strategic location.35 Matilda herself may not have been present – only days before the battle, she was in Faenza, about 100 miles away, coordinating an attack 52

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Public Lives on nearby Ravenna. It seems likely the attack on Volta took her by surprise, and if she was able to reach Volta, there was no time for a coordinated defence. The victory at Volta put Matilda on the defensive, and she was unable to recover for some time. By the time that Heinrich crossed into Italy personally, most of the peninsula was in support of him, and he travelled her lands virtually unopposed.36 Heinrich’s goal was to take Rome, valuable both because of its symbolic value, and to force the pope to crown him emperor there, as was traditional. Matilda, however, refused to submit. She retreated to her castle fortresses, and her troops engaged Heinrich’s in skirmishes, significantly slowing the imperial troops’ advance. Matilda’s strategy came at a cost – Heinrich’s forces ravaged her prosperous lands and attracted many of her citizens to his cause – but she held on to crucial fortresses and prevent an outright conquest of Italy.37 Nonetheless, in 1084, Heinrich achieved his goal at last: he reached Rome, and his antipope Wibert was consecrated Pope Clement III. Wibert then crowned Heinrich Holy Roman Emperor, a crucial symbolic victory. His objective finally achieved, Heinrich determined to withdraw to Germany. He left his army behind him, though, apparently with orders to destroy the remainder of Matilda’s supporters, something that appeared to be an easy task. Matilda acted quickly. When Imperial troops arrived at Sorbara, outside the city of Modena, she assembled troops to attack them. The surprise cavalry attack Matilda orchestrated drove deep into Heinrich’s army, which quickly fell apart, and the battle was ultimately a rout. Matilda had turned the tide.38 Heinrich’s victory in Rome in 1084 permanently weakened Pope Gregory VII, but Matilda refused to be cowed. The victory at Sorbara allowed Matilda to begin pushing Heinrich’s army out of Italy. On the political front, a series of deaths of Heinrich’s supporters amongst the Italian bishops allowed Matilda to arrange for bishops loyal to the pope to be installed. When Gregory died in 1085, Italy saw several years without an effective papacy – at times with no pope at all – a situation that placed Matilda in the position as the sole papal power in Italy. She acted aggressively, sealing off Alpine passes. In 1087, Matilda led troops to Rome in a campaign that saw fighting inside the Vatican itself, and managed to have her ally Odo of Ostia elected pope as Urban II.39 Around this time, Heinrich began contemplating a return to Italy to finish the job himself, and Matilda married Welf of Bavaria to slow his 53

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines progress. When Heinrich finally entered Italy in 1090, his campaign again began promisingly: he began by taking her city of Mantua and decisively defeated her forces at Tricontai during the winter of 1091 to 1092. But Matilda had honed the strategy that had first given her success at Sorbara: she maintained good intelligence on enemy movements, and when the time was right, she was able to quickly gather troops and mount a stealth attack.40 The chronicler Donzino wrote that Through the county of Reggio or Modena She rode cheerfully and fortified her castles, She never gave up hope of finally conquering the king [Heinrich]. Often she learned his habits and routes so well That she always knew where that evil man was going, And how many soldiers he had.41 Matilda’s success took time – Heinrich spent Christmas of 1091 celebrating his victories over Matilda in Mantua, and that spring, he pushed into the mountainous heart of Matilda’s lands. When Matilda declined Heinrich’s offer of peace in 1092, he made one final effort, turning his army towards Canossa, the scene of his humiliation before Gregory VII fifteen years previously. In a surprising move, Matilda left the safety of Canossa, a virtually impregnable fortress, with a large portion of her force. She made for the town of Bianello about seven miles to the north and attacked Heinrich from that direction, trapping him between her large force and the walls of Canossa.42 Faced with the option of besieging Canossa, attempting to chase Matilda through the mountains in winter, or leaving Italy altogether, Heinrich chose to leave. If he thought that by withdrawing, he would be able to rally his troops for another assault on Italy, he was wrong: Heinrich never again made a serious military incursion into Italy. His defeat had important political ramifications as well: his heir Conrad defected to Pope Urban II, and in 1094, Matilda arranged for the ‘liberation’ of Heinrich’s wife Evpraksia of Kiev from his residence at Verona, an act that will be discussed further in the next section.43 Matilda’s increased control over northern Italy made it impossible for Heinrich to cross the Alps to Germany, in Italy for several years before finally escaping north. Matilda’s defeat of Heinrich at Canossa was her masterwork. While popes died and were replaced, while lords 54

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Public Lives and bishops wavered in their support, she remained steadfast, working towards Heinrich’s defeat step by slow step.44 As the chronicler PseudoBarber later wrote, Matilda alone of nearly all Italy withstood the aforesaid former king [Henry] and all the greater and lesser nobles. And this house avenged their injury to God, won honour, and did not lose God’s grace … Truly she acted nobly and magnificently, in a manner to which women are not accustomed; more, I say, than manfully, she feared almost no danger. For who ever led her powerful army as she did?45 Matilda was only in her late forties. Papal authority was not fully consolidated, and Matilda’s own lands had suffered during the wars. The city-states that would predominate in northern Italy in following centuries were beginning to emerge, and they chafed under her authority. Matilda’s last decades were spent addressing these problems.46 Matilda’s enemies made much of her femininity. The author of the Liber de Unitate Ecclesiae Conservanda wrote that Matilda ‘cannot be restrained, being so aroused by female rage that she prefers war to peace and even now consents to dispersing her goods nearly to complete dissipation’.47 According to this writer, it was Matilda’s feminine emotions – her ‘female rage’ – that inclined her towards war. He also chides her for poor lordship, selling her property and impoverishing her people to pay for war, a masculine criticism. Unsurprisingly, Matilda’s supporters saw things differently. Anselm of Lucca wrote that Matilda was ‘prepared not only to sacrifice all earthly considerations for the sake of defending righteousness, but also to struggle even to the shedding of her own blood’.48 Other supporters dug into Biblical or classical history for examples of female warriors. The author of the Vita Anselmi, for instance, compared her to an Amazon. Others, like Paul of Bernried, compared Matilda and her mother Beatrice to legendary women fighters of the Bible, especially Judith and Deborah. 49 Both comparisons, while flattering, acknowledged one important characteristic: they were exceptional. The Amazons were noteworthy because of their uniqueness, Judith and Deborah because they were anomalous.50 Like Matilda, these women took up arms and defied convention in extreme situations. Matilda was not alone in this. 55

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Other women of her time, including her own mother Beatrice and her contemporary Urraca of León, would do much the same. But by comparing Matilda to exceptional heroic women, medieval writers were not defending the notion of female rule. Rather they acknowledged that this woman, in this set of circumstances, might exercise power over men. Matilda was the most powerful woman of her age, in part because she led her troops and her citizens the way that a man might. The only real difference between her and her male contemporaries was that she was a better military strategist and politician than any of them.51 All women in this section, but especially Matilda, lived in maledominated societies. Yet within these worlds, they found room for relationships – relationships that could impact national or international politics – with other women. Even Matilda had such relationships, with her mother Beatrice, and later on with Empress Evpraksia of Kiev. Anna Komnene was also close to her mother, who helped her try to take the Byzantine throne. Marie of France cultivated lifelong friendships with a small group of women. The first was Adele of Blois, the sister of Marie’s husband Henri who eventually married Louis VII of France, making her both sister-inlaw and step-mother to Marie. The two first met early in Marie’s marriage, probably in 1168, when Marie and Henri travelled to see Henri’s brother installed as archbishop of Sens. They had much in common: both were younger wives of older husbands; both had young sons; and they were related twice by marriage. Adele was close to her brothers – when she departed the royal court early in the reign of her son Philippe II, she moved to live with Thibaut, Henri’s younger brother.52 Margaret of France, Marie’s half-sister and daughter of Adele’s predecessor as queen of France, Constanza of Castile, formed a triad with Marie and Adele. In her retirement, Adele’s primary residence was near Troyes, and she had another home in Meaux, where Marie occasionally resided. Marie’s brief retirement at Fontaine-les-Nonnes was near Meaux well. Margaret and Adele joined Marie at Troyes by 1184, a trio of young widows, and the three lived together off and on for several years. Adele and Marie chose against remarriage, while Margaret eventually remarried to King Bela of Hungary.53 It may be at this time that Margaret developed a relationship with her nephew, Marie’s eldest son Henri, whom Margaret was visiting in Acre when she died fourteen years later. The three women seem to have kept a jovial court, because 56

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Public Lives they were all in residence when Andreas Capellanus produced his De Amore. One important woman whom Marie did not have a close relationship with was her mother Eleanor of Aquitaine. The two cannot have known each other well, for Marie was a toddler when her mother and father travelled to the Holy Land on crusade. They returned a few years later, a baby sister for Marie in tow, only to separate a couple of short years after that. Marie was 7 when her mother departed, first for Aquitaine, then for England. There is no indication that they met again for some time, though Eleanor lived in Aquitaine occasionally during her tenure as queen of England. She passed through Champagne around Christmas of 1193, over forty years after her marriage to Louis ended, and she and Marie probably met around this time.54 If so, it must have been an odd reunion between a mother and daughter who had not seen each other in decades. Marie had developed relationships with Eleanor’s children from her second marriage, however, and she may have corresponded with her mother – Andreas Capellanus depicts letters between the two in De Amore. Clearly, she felt some connection with her mother despite the barriers to a close relationship. Women’s relationships sprung up in surprising places. Cecily Neville maintained relationships with her mother and with her extensive relations of sisters, to nieces, to granddaughters. She had friendships with women like Jacquetta of Luxembourg, who went on to join the Lancastrian side in the conflict. Jacquetta was godmother to Cecily’s daughter Elizabeth, who was born while both women lived in France. Cecily may have been disappointed to find her friend was on the other side when the conflict broke out. That Jacquetta’s family rejoined the Yorkist cause when Elizabeth Woodville married Edward IV might have been a silver lining for Cecily in a marriage she likely considered ill-advised otherwise. And this relationship might have eased the way in Cecily’s relationship with her daughter-in-law, which, while lukewarm – they would hardly be the first mother-in-law and daughter-in-law to have difficulty getting along – was likely not as acrimonious often portrayed. Even more surprising, Cecily seems to have maintained more than a passing acquaintanceship with Henry VI’s queen, Margaret of Anjou. Following Margaret’s betrothal to Henry in 1444, Cecily and Richard provided a formal reception for Margaret in France, for which they spent 57

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines an enormous sum on clothing and jewels. Cecily was probably the first English noblewoman that Margaret interacted with at length. We can see how the two might have developed a friendship around this time. Margaret might have nervous about moving to a new country where she had no friends, and Cecily would have been foolish to miss the chance to reassure the young queen-to-be she could be a source of support and comfort. Margaret moved to England in 1445, while Cecily and Richard moved around, spending time in France, England, and Ireland. In the spring of 1446, Cecily gave birth to a daughter that she and Richard named Margaret, almost certainly in honour of the queen. The two women would have seen each other from time to time, when Richard was at court. Rising tensions at court could have ended the friendship – in early 1452, Richard had been placed under house arrest in London – but we know Margaret and Cecily met at the shrine of Walsingham in early 1453, for Cecily referenced their meeting in a letter to Margaret later that year.55 Walsingham was a well-known shrine to the Virgin Mary, a popular pilgrimage destination for women with concerns in pregnancy or childbirth. Margaret was clearly visiting the shrine for aid in becoming pregnant – by 1453, her marriage to Henry had been childless for eight years. Cecily, who had recently given birth to her youngest son Richard, may have been seeking restorative healing from the shrine and praying for her children’s safety. What the two discussed at this meeting we cannot know, though Cecily took advantage of the opportunity to renew her friendship with Margaret. She probably reassured the queen that Richard had no real desire to harm Henry or Margaret in any way, and she may have sympathised with the queen’s predicament – after all, Cecily and Richard had also been childless for many years early in their marriage. The fact that Margaret became pregnant within weeks of her pilgrimage to Walsingham might have caused her to remember her visit with Cecily warmly. When Richard of York was removed from his post as lieutenant of Ireland in May 1453, Cecily leveraged her relationship with Margaret by writing to the queen. Cecily’s letter is formal and formulaic, beginning with thanking the queen for receiving her at Walsingham, then begging that the queen will 58

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Public Lives receive my supplication to the same, made for your humble, true man and servant, my lord my husband, whose infinite sorrow, unrest of heart and of worldly comfort, caused of that he heareth him to be estranged from the grace and benevolent favour of that most Christian, most gracious and most merciful prince, the king our sovereign lord, whose majesty royal my said lord and husband now and ever, God knoweth, during his life hath been as true and as humble, and as obeisant liegeman ... .56 Cecily goes on to praise the Virgin Mary, ‘by whose mediation it pleased our Lord to fulfil your right honourable body of the most precious, most joyful, and most comfortable earthly treasure that might come unto this land and to the people thereof ’.57 She also references a ‘disease and infirmity’ that was plaguing her and an ‘encumberous labour’ she had suffered, perhaps a reference to a complication from pregnancy that had driven her to Walsingham. She ends by begging the queen to bring her pleas on behalf of Richard ‘unto the highness of our sovereign lord [King Henry] for the favour and benevolence of his hand to be showed unto my lord and husband, so that through the gracious mean of you, sovereign lady, he may effectually obtain to have the same’.58 We know the letter was written between May and October of 1453, since it references Margaret’s pregnancy. It might well have been written by June – Margaret paid a visit to Cecily that month, spending a night at the York residence of Hitchin in Hertfordshire.59 It speaks to the sorts of networking that could occur between women and of the influence that women had over matters that were of the utmost political importance, even in a world where men’s decisions dominated.60 There are a few specific points of interest. First, Cecily is careful to flatter Margaret – and, if Margaret had indeed confided worries about her childlessness, Cecily’s congratulations on her pregnancy would be particularly meaningful. If Cecily’s allusions to her own recent affliction are references to her latest pregnancy, this is also a smart move, designed to build rapport with the queen. Finally, though Cecily pleads with Margaret to intercede with the king, we should question whose ears this letter was truly meant for. Henry was never a particularly strong personality, and Margaret’s pregnancy would have seen her power in the ascendant. Moreover, within at most three months of the letter’s 59

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines composition, Henry experienced a mental health crisis that rendered him incapable of governing. Did Cecily sense that Margaret’s star was rising? In this meeting at Walsingham and in subsequent months, Cecily and Margaret might have recovered some of the relationship they began in France nearly a decade earlier, Margaret the nervous, expectant mother and Cecily once more the experienced elder stateswoman. In the many – ultimately failed – attempts at peace between York and Lancaster that followed, we might imagine a number of letters such as this one passing between the two. Women’s relationships with each other are hard to uncover. They rely on piecing together pieces of evidence – noting when women seem to appear together time and again throughout their lives, as with Marie and Adele of Champagne, for example. Or they rely on accidents of history, like the survival of one letter among hundreds to cast light on a previously-unknown relationship. But our understanding of history is enriched by such understanding, and it is worth digging for the depth and nuance that we gain. The noblewomen in this first section illuminate issues all elite women faced, which the women we will discuss experienced with greater challenges and complications. Many women were born into a game of political chess already underway, their lives affected strongly by circumstances at their birth or before. For some women, the direction that their lives took was quite predictable: Matilda of Tuscany was born into a family of papal supporters in conflict with the Holy Roman Emperor, and these influences shaped her life. In other cases, their lives veered dramatically from what was planned: born into a loyal Lancastrian household, Cecily Neville and her husband played an integral part in overthrowing the dynasty. At her birth, Anna Komnene had a claim to the Byzantine throne, one that she never forgot throughout her long life. For most women, marriage was a turning point. In the best cases, marriage was a partnership where both husband and wife worked towards the same goals. Marie of France and Cecily Neville had such marriages, focused on the betterment of their children and their household, marked by mutual trust. In other cases, like that of Matilda of Tuscany, marriage was a means to an end only, one to be concluded when the husband served his purpose. Some women’s marriages were unhappy: Alice de Lacy seems to have disliked her husband so much that she publicly left him to prove a point. 60

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Public Lives All women were potential mothers, so marriage, femininity and motherhood were inextricably bound together. Although it was common to delay childbearing for several years until the wife was physically and emotionally ready for parenthood, once medieval women began to reproduce, they often spent much of their married lives pregnant or giving birth. Parenting adult children could be equally time-consuming. Marie of France spent decades of her life not only raising her children, but managing their property, arranging their marriages, and supervising their affairs while they lived their lives. Cecily Neville gave birth to her twelfth and last child in 1455; six years later, she turned around to share the job of running a country with her oldest son. Not having children was equally impactful. After spending her life defending papal supremacy and holding her property together, Matilda of Tuscany was left without an heir. Alice de Lacy was the greatest heiress of her generation, but without children to inherit her parents’ earldoms, they were absorbed into her husband’s family. Both women might have had more successful marriages if they had children to tie their interests to those of their husbands, but was that what they wanted? Matilda and Alice were also able to leave marriages that were unsuitable, in part because there were no children to be used as leverage against them. Widowhood could thrust women into a public role they had never fully experienced, especially if they had children, as in the case of Marie of France and Cecily Neville. It also gave many women genuine choices about their lives for the first time. Her first husband dead, Matilda of Tuscany was free to rule her parents’ lands as she wished, unencumbered by a man’s opinions. Alice de Lacy was able to remarry to a man she probably loved. At the same time, Alice de Lacy’s experience as a widow demonstrates the vulnerability that a medieval woman, even a powerful one, faced without male protection. It is so easy to see these women as appendages of men: as daughters, wives, mothers, instead of fully-formed individuals. The surviving sources give us only glimpses of these women’s personalities, but they are tantalising. Anna Komnene was so obsessed with the glory of her family that she spent years writing a history of her father’s laurels. Marie of France enjoyed romance and was the centre of a flowering of literature. Matilda of Tuscany was so comfortable on a battlefield she risked her reputation by personally commanding armies. Alice de Lacy so despised her husband and what he stood for that she preferred 61

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines the censure of her society for running away from him to staying in his custody. Cecily Neville used the political experience she had acquired in marriage to virtually rule England on behalf of her son in the first months of his reign. Each of these women experienced many of the same challenges: negotiating an arranged marriage; the pressure of raising children or of not having children; the freedoms and vulnerabilities produced by widowhood. Each of them found ways to express their individuality, in flashes of personality that leap off the pages of history. In her own way, each found room to exercise power.

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Section Two

Consorts Cast of characters: Anna of Kiev (c. 1030–1075) Anna was a younger daughter of Yaroslav I Grand Prince of Rus’ and his Swedish wife Ingegerd Olofsdottor. In 1051, Anna married King Henri I of France, and she was the first French queen to be crowned in Reims Cathedral. The pair had three sons, including the future Philippe I of France, and possibly one daughter, before Henri’s death in 1060. She ruled as regent for her son Philippe until she remarried to Raoul Count of Crepy-en-Valois in 1061, the first French queen to act in such a capacity for a minor son. She died around 1075. Anna was an aunt of Evpraksia of Kiev. Evpraksia of Kiev (c. 1067–1109) The daughter of Vsevolod I Prince of Kiev and his wife Anna, Evpraksia married twice, first to Udo I Count of Stade. After his death, Evpraksia remarried, this time to Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich IV in 1089. Upon being crowned Holy Roman Empress, Evpraksia took the German name Adelaide. The marriage fell apart, and after publicly condemning Heinrich at the Council of Piacenza in 1095, Evpraksia retired to Germany, then returned to Kiev. After Heinrich’s death in 1106, she entered religious life until her own death in 1109. She was a contemporary of Matilda of Tuscany (Section One) and Urraca of León (Section Three), and a niece of Anna of Kiev. Eleanor of Castile (1241–1292) The youngest surviving daughter of King Fernando III of Castile and his second wife Jeanne of Ponthieu, Eleanor married the future Edward I of England in 1254. Their marriage appears to have been close, with 63

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Eleanor accompanying Edward to the Holy Land on the Eighth Crusade. The couple eventually had sixteen children, including the future Edward II of England. Edward I’s grief at Eleanor’s early death in 1292 led him to erect a series of crosses on the route her body took towards her funeral and burial in London. Eleanor was the granddaughter of Berenguela of Castile (Section Three) and a contemporary of Alice de Lacy (Section One). Maria de Luna (1358–1406) The daughter of Lope de Luna Count of Luna and his wife Brianda d’Agout, Maria married Martí of Aragon, a younger son of Pere IV of Aragon. When Martí’s older brother King Joan I died in 1396, Maria helped her husband claim the Aragonese throne. In Martí’s absence, Maria established an effective regency over the country. Only one of their four children survived to childhood, and the couple had no legitimate grandchildren to pass Martí’s throne to. Maria died in 1406. She was a contemporary of Giovanna I of Naples (Section Three) and Isabeau of Bavaria and of Katherine Swynford and Alice Perrers (Section Four). Isabeau of Bavaria (1370–1435) The only daughter of Stephen III, Duke of Bavaria, and his wife Taddea Visconti, Isabeau was born in 1370. She married the young King Charles VI of France. The couple would go on to have twelve children, including the future King Charles VII and two queens of England. She spent long stretches of time serving as regent for her sons as bouts of mental illness left Charles VI unable to function. History has most remembered her as the ruler who agreed to the 1420 Treaty of Troyes, which ceded the French throne to England. She was a contemporary of Cecily Neville (Section One), Giovanna I of Naples and Maria de Luna, as well as of Katherine Swynford, Alice Perrers, and Agnes de Sorel (Section Four). Margaret of Anjou (1430–1482) A younger daughter of René, Duke of Anjou and titular King of Naples, and his wife Isabelle, Duchess of Lorraine, Margaret was born in 1430 and married King Henry VI of England when she was 15. The two had one child, Edward of Westminster. Margaret attempted unsuccessfully to establish a regency on behalf of her husband, whose inept rule and 64

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Consorts bouts of mental illness rendered him a highly ineffective king. She was a major protagonist – and ultimate loser – of the Wars of the Roses. After the deaths of her husband and son, she retired to France where she died in 1482. She was a contemporary of Cecily Neville (Section One) and Agnes de Sorel (Section Four).

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Chapter Three

Becoming a Queen

When duke Frederick was before Bourbourg, in the service of the king, he was much feasted by the king’s uncles, and the other nobles, for having come two hundred leagues to serve France … It happened, that during the expedition to Bergues and Bourbourg, the king’s uncles and other nobles, in amicable conversation, had asked him if he had no daughters to marry, for they wanted a wife for the king of France; and they would prefer marrying him to Bavaria than elsewhere, Bavaria having formerly been in the councils of France. Duke Frederick, in reply to this speech, said he had none himself, but that his brother, duke Stephen of Bavaria, had a very handsome one. ‘And how old is she?’, demanded the king’s uncles. ‘Between thirteen and fourteen,’ replied the duke. Then, said the uncles, ‘This is what we want.’1 The chronicler Jean Froissart is known for his sparkling, romantic depictions of the panoply of knights, kings, princesses, and queens who populate his description of Europe in the late Middle Ages. It would seem that even Froissart, however, had difficulty finding any romance in the arrangement of the marriage of Isabeau of Bavaria to King Charles VI of France, described above. The selection of a queen was a dry affair, one based on a close reading of international politics; the desires of political factions; and an assessment of the suitability of the lady in question. The potential couple’s desires were of secondary importance at best, though as we shall see, the quality of a king and queen’s relationship could be of vital importance to the fates of nations. In some ways, the queens’ experiences seem much like those of noblewomen, but queens contended with an extra set of pressures. The 66

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Becoming a Queen importance of marriage, motherhood, and widowhood, the markers of any woman’s life, were considerably greater when one’s husband was a king. Additionally, queens had to contend with several contradictions that caused discomfort and controversy. On the one hand, queens were crowned rulers who exercised royal authority; on the other, they were still women, in theory expected to be subservient not only to their husbands, but to all men. Society expected queens to follow the example of the Virgin Mary, the medieval exemplar of perfect womanhood, but their role as wife and mother required them to be sexual beings. And their sexuality – always suspicious in medieval society – was a double-edged sword. It was required to produce the necessary heir, but it was also dangerous, for an unfaithful queen might pass the kingdom to an illegitimate heir. A queen’s role was defined by her positions as wife and mother, but there was distrust over the informal power that these relationships could give her. Finally, queens were usually foreign princesses selected to seal an alliance with another country. On the one hand, this made them influential diplomats with connections to both sides, but on the other, it created worry they could secretly work against their husband’s kingdom. As a result of this friction, medieval society evolved some accepted roles for their queens. A queen might be an example of virginal goodness or an intercessor with her the king, as the Virgin Mary interceded with Christ on behalf of sinners. She could be a fertile, loving mother, one who might rule on behalf of a minor son. Queens might represent generosity and mercy, dedicated to religious or cultural patronage and giving alms to the poor. Ultimately, all these roles glorified the queen, while denying her access to real royal authority. At the same time, in creating accepted roles, society opened gaps where queens could insert themselves to seize small pieces of power. But in so doing, they came into conflict with power wielded by men of the royal court.

Selecting a Queen Medieval kingdoms usually looked for three important qualities. The first, most important, was nationality, and the potential for international diplomacy. The second was social status and virtue, which were connected 67

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines in the medieval imagination. Most queens were young teenagers at their marriage and had not had a chance to cultivate a reputation for virtue, so social status was of great importance. The third was virginity: not only was a virgin queen more pure, but she was also unlikely to introduce a bastard into the royal family.2 Anna of Kiev’s marriage to King Henri I of France was in many ways a break with tradition. Anna was the daughter of Yaroslav the Wise of the Rurikid dynasty, the dominant house in what would become the Russian Empire from the 900s until 1598. At the time of his rule, Kievan Rus’ stretched roughly from the Black Sea in the south to Lake Ladoga in the north, where St Petersburg would be built several centuries later. It covered parts of what are now eastern Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, and western Russia, but its boundaries were fluid.3 Anna was probably one of the younger children of Yaroslav and his Swedish wife Ingegerda. She grew up in the surprisingly-cosmopolitan city of Kiev. Yaroslav had a policy of granting asylum to Western Europeans, forging connections between Eastern and Western culture. While the world of the Kievan Rus’ was very different from the rest of Europe, Anna may not have found her move to France as jarring as we might expect. Yaroslav’s foreign policy prioritised creating alliances across Europe. Anna’s sister Anastasia married Andrew I of Hungary, while another sister, Yelizaveta, had married the Norwegian prince Harald Hardrada, who famously invaded England just before the Norman conquest. This combined with an impressive education for the time – we know that she could both read and write – made Anna a worldly woman, though she might appear at first blush to come from a backwater.4 Anna’s future husband was Henri I of France, one of the least known of the early French kings. He was probably born in 1008, the second son of Robert II of Frances and Constance of Arles, and he was crowned in 1027 before his father’s death, in accordance with early medieval tradition. When Robert died in 1031, Henri’s mother Constance openly opposed his rule and led an armed rebellion, which Robert put down with aid from the duke of Normandy and Holy Roman Emperor Conrad II. Early in his reign, Henri negotiated two marriages for himself with Germany, first with Matilda, the daughter of Conrad II, who died before the marriage could take place. In 1034, he was betrothed to the 10-yearold daughter of the margrave of Frisia, also named Matilda. The pair 68

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Becoming a Queen married and a short-lived daughter was born several years later, but Matilda died in 1044.5 Matilda’s death created pressing need for a male heir, but Henri waited until 1049 to open negotiations for his second marriage. Why Henri waited so long to remarry is unclear. He may have had difficulty finding a woman who was not closely related to him, he may been preoccupied with other concerns or grieving his wife and daughter, or he may have simply been uninterested in marriage. Whatever the reason, in 1049, Henri sent an embassy to Kiev with a view to arranging a marriage with one of the daughters of Yaroslav. What brought the Kievan court to Henri’s attention is unknown. Yaroslav the Wise had recently proposed a marriage between one of his daughters and Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich III (the father of Heinrich IV, who would go on to give Matilda of Tuscany such trouble). Although Heinrich declined the marriage, Henri may have heard of the negotiations and thought it a good idea for himself.6 At this time, France and the Holy Roman Empire were the great European powers, and they clashed frequently. Since the early Middle Ages, France had sought to protect itself by negotiating alliances with Eastern European powers, ensuring that Germany would be forced to fight on two fronts if it chose to expand its borders. When Henri sent his embassy to Kiev, King Casimir of Poland had recently married Yaroslav’s sister Maria, so Henri’s marriage may have been part of a triple alliance between Rus’, Poland, and France. Between them, the three covered a significant portion of the Empire’s substantial borders, assuring mutual protection against the Holy Roman Empire.7 For both France and Kiev, the marriage also brought prestige. Henri’s grandfather Hugh Capet had attempted to marry Anna Porphyrogenita, a daughter of the Byzantine emperor Romanos II; Anna eventually married Yaroslav the Wise’s father. Henri’s marriage to Anna of Kiev may have been the realisation of the goal of tying France to Byzantium. Similarly, in addition to a political alliance, France was an ancient Christian realm, with its own aura of prestige for Kiev. Some of the advantages offered to each kingdom, then, were less tangible, but no less important.8 In May of 1051, Anna and Henri were married in France. At least one chronicler recorded that Anna arrived in France with many gifts, probably a mix of diplomatic gifts from Yaroslav to Henri and a dowry. The marriage ceremony was held in Rheims Cathedral on 19 May and 69

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines was immediately followed by Anna’s coronation as queen – the first of many French queens to be crowned in Rheims.9 For Anna and Henri, this was the beginning of a short, fruitful marriage, but for Anna herself this was the start of decades of French queenship. Although Anna’s niece Evpraksia came from the same family, her marriage to Emperor Heinrich IV of the Holy Roman Empire bore little resemblance to Anna’s marriage alliance with Henri of France. Evpraksia was the daughter of Anna of Kiev’s brother Vsevolod and his wife Anna Polovetskaya. We know little of Evpraksia’s early life, other than that she was born in 1071. The first mention of Evpraksia occurs not in Russian sources, but in German ones, when she married the young Udo III of Stade, Margrave of the Saxon Nordmark, around 1082.10 Udo died in 1087, leaving Evpraksia a widow of about 16. Their childless marriage left Evpraksia with no leverage, and her late husband’s brother had her removed from his lands. Evpraksia took refuge in Quedlinburg Abbey, where Adelheid, a sister of Heinrich IV, was abbess, and she probably met Heinrich here. With no son and no apparent desire, at this point, to enter religious life, Evpraksia needed a new husband. By the summer of 1088, she and Heinrich – whose first wife Bertha had died about six months previously – were betrothed.11 Evpraksia, who was not a virgin, seems a surprising choice of wife for the Holy Roman Emperor. Heinrich was probably keen to ally himself with the Rus’, and when Udo of Stade died, he determined to marry Evpraksia himself to seal the alliance. The great conflict of Heinrich’s reign, as discussed in the previous section, was his battle for supremacy with the pope, and he hoped to bring the nascent Russian Orthodox Church under the control of his anti-pope Clement III. In 1088, Heinrich had recently suffered humiliating defeat at the hands of Matilda of Tuscany, and he needed a win to keep his supporters on his side. Bringing the Kievan church under Clement’s rule would have been just the ticket.12 Territorial motives were crucial as well, as was typical in royal or imperial marriage alliances. Vsevolod of Kiev’s nephews had a habit of rebelling against his rule with Polish support, while Heinrich also had trouble with the Poles. An alliance between Rus’ and Germany trapped Poland in the middle, making interference with either power much less attractive for Poland. Poland would be unable to attack one power without fear of attack on another border from the other.13 70

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Becoming a Queen Evpraksia and her aunt Anna are examples of the marriage programme of Kievan Rus’ in this period, which saw marriage alliances formed between Rus’ and Western Europe. The fact that more women married into the European west than the Byzantine south demonstrates that Rus’s clear Western orientation at this period.14 They also demonstrate how marriages made with similar intentions – both territorial alliances designed to meet the concerns of a generation – could end very differently. In the marriages of Anna and her niece Evpraksia, the rulers of Kievan Rus’ continued a policy of arranging marriage alliances with Western Europe over generations. Similarly, the marriage between Eleanor of Castile and Edward I of England reflects pressures the English royal family had dealt with for several generations. Eleanor was the daughter of Fernando III of Castile and his second wife Jeanne of Ponthieu – she was therefore the granddaughter of Queen Berenguela of Castile, who will be discussed in the following section, and the great-granddaughter of Eleanor of England, wife of King Alfonso VIII of Castile. In the previous century, the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine to Henry II of England had made Eleanor’s county of Aquitaine, located in southwest France, of chief importance to English foreign policy. Aquitaine was the cornerstone of England’s overseas territories and a crucial trading centre in Europe: tariffs on wine exported from Aquitaine into England formed a significant portion of the English crown’s income. This English possession also limited the power of French kings – the fact that England had the ability to launch an attack on the French heartland was an important consideration for French rulers who might otherwise wish to expand into England. When Eleanor and Henry’s daughter Eleanor married Alfonso VIII of Castile, she brought with her a tenuous claim to these territories, one that lay dormant for several generations. Fernando III of Castile and Henry III of England were cousins, and they had developed a close diplomatic relationship. Marriage negotiations for one of Fernando’s daughters and a son of Henry may have begun as early as 1250. When Fernando died and his son Alfonso X took the throne, matters changed. Alfonso took an aggressive approach to politics with England, beginning with resurrecting his family’s long-dormant claim to Aquitaine and even hinting at a claim to the English throne itself.15 Alfonso cannot have been taken terribly seriously – his claim, several generations old and descending through the female line, was weak at best. If Castile chose to 71

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines end friendly relations with England, however, that was a different matter. Castile lay along Aquitaine’s southern border, providing protection along this border. In 1253, Henry III responded to Alfonso’s posturing by sending a marriage proposal between Alfonso’s sister Eleanor and Henry’s oldest son Edward. The negotiations were marked by disagreement. Alfonso began by requesting Edward be sent to Castile to be knighted – an act that, in Spanish tradition, would make Alfonso Edward’s overlord. Henry refused to send his son into what would have effectively been captivity. Alfonso employed delaying tactics, opening negotiations with King Thibaut of Navarre on the side, hoping to gain better terms from either Henry or Thibaut. Things turned around when Henry III himself visited Aquitaine in late 1253 to reassert English royal control over the county. At the same time, Alfonso was experiencing the effects of dissatisfaction from many of his nobles, and he returned to the negotiating table with a more amenable attitude.16 The treaty they eventually sealed was mutually beneficial, though Henry seems to have gained the upper hand. Alfonso formally renounced his claim to Aquitaine in exchange for English support of his claim to the Navarrese throne and Henry III’s agreement to support an upcoming crusade to North Africa. For his part, Henry agreed that Edward would travel to Castile so Alfonso could knight him. The English king reaffirmed the Castilian alliance, gained a bride from a prestigious royal house for his son, and secured the southern border of Aquitaine. This position of strength allowed Henry to conclude a new treaty with France confirming English rule of Aquitaine in 1259.17 By mid-October of 1254, Edward had entered Castile for his knighting, and he and Eleanor were married shortly thereafter. They returned to the Bordeaux, the English capital in Aquitaine, so that Edward could begin learning the art of rule.18 We know little of Eleanor’s childhood or her early marriage. Like many queens, the historical record is silent on Eleanor until she stepped into a position of prominence after her husband’s power grew and she gave birth to an heir. Maria de Luna’s path to queenship was different than most. She was an ‘accidental’ queen, coming to the throne only when her husband Martí of Aragon unexpectedly inherited the crown from his older brother King Joan I in 1396. The beginning of Maria’s story bears more resemblance 72

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Becoming a Queen to the noblewomen in the previous section than to the princesses who make up much of this section. Count Lope de Luna was the most powerful noble in Aragon, and as his heir, Maria was destined to marry into one of Aragon’s most powerful noble houses. Lope died in 1360, when Maria was only 2, and his will endowed her with a set of titles, property, and wealth that catapulted her into the highest reaches of Aragonese society. Lope anticipated his young daughter would be courted for a royal marriage and his will made provisions for this event. He dictated that if Maria married a member of the royal family, the Luna title and lands would go to her second son, ensuring that the Lope inheritance would remain distinct from royal property.19 Lope was a supporter of King Pere IV of Aragon; whether he and the king had already discussed the marriage, or whether Lope was just good at reading the political winds, he was right. Pere initiated negotiations with Maria’s mother Brianda d’Agout, and by 1361, a marriage had been arranged for Maria with Pere’s second son Martí. The agreement stated that Maria would stay with her mother until she was 8, when she would move to the royal court, and that the marriage would be solemnised when Maria was 14.20 King Pere needed the alliance with the Luna family badly. Aragon was difficult to rule at the best of times, since it comprised not only the kingdom’s core lands in southeast Iberia, but also claims to the rulership of Mallorca, Sardinia and Corsica, and occasionally lands in Naples and Athens. Anything that could be done to ease the difficulty of ruling this disparate set of kingdoms – such as securing the support of a powerful family – was a blessing. The marriage contract stipulated that Maria’s younger sister would remain single until Maria and Martí’s marriage took place, in case Maria’s early death necessitated a replacement, further evidence of Pere’s desire for this alliance. Maria’s mother Brianda bargained from a position of strength: Pere agreed, for instance, that if Martí became heir to the throne, Maria would not be cast aside for a ‘better’ alliance.21 Maria moved to the royal court earlier than had been agreed, when she was only 4 or 5 years old. For Pere and his wife Queen Elionor of Sicily, this meant Maria would grow accustomed to court life from a young age and, hopefully, develop a sense of loyalty towards the royal family. Queen Elionor integrated Maria into her children’s household immediately, and 73

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines along with the other royal children, Maria accompanied the queen on her travels throughout Aragon. She received a thorough education, which would have included reading, writing, basic mathematics, religious education, riding, chess, and the sorts of accomplishments – dance, singing, music – that a woman needed to adorn a royal court. The letters she wrote and library she developed as an adult suggest Maria’s literacy went beyond the basics. She personally controlled her Luna inheritance when she came of age, so her education clearly included background in administration.22 Maria was effectively raised as a sibling with her future husband Martí, and evidence of a childhood spent together is visible throughout the rest of their lives. They trusted each other entirely, in a way that most royal couples could not. They married in June of 1372, when Maria was about 14 and Martí about 16, in accordance with the marriage agreement. It would quickly become obvious, however, that a shared childhood, while it made for a strong marriage, had created a relationship that perhaps leaned more towards the fraternal than the romantic.23 Isabeau of Bavaria was born in 1370 as Elisabeth von Wittelsbach, the daughter of Stephen III, Duke of Bavaria, and his wife Taddea Visconti, a relative of the Milanese dukes. Like the marriage of Anne of Kiev to Henri I of France three centuries previously, her marriage to Charles VI of France centred on European politics, particularly those of the Holy Roman Empire. For the French, an alliance with the Holy Roman Empire was crucial. When Isabeau and Charles were married in July 1385, France had been at war with England – what we now call the Hundred Years’ war – for fifty years. In 1382, Richard II of England had married the young Anne of Bohemia, an act that aligned him with the Holy Roman Empire. If the empire entered the war on England’s side, it be disastrous for France.24 Isabeau’s family was a particularly strong candidate for a marriage alliance because of their connection to the Dutch wool trade. Wool was one of the major trading commodities of northern Europe. England’s economy relied on selling wool to Flemish and Dutch weavers to be turned into fine products that were sold throughout Europe and beyond. Not only would an alliance with Bavaria line the French crown’s pockets, it would mean the English were actually helping to fund the French war effort. The major power in the French court in this period was Philip, 74

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Becoming a Queen Duke of Burgundy, Charles VI’s uncle. Philip desired Dutch connections both for France and for himself – his son Jean married Margaret of Bavaria – and he was key in concluding the alliance.25 In July of 1385, Isabeau was sent to Amiens to be presented to King Charles VI. Almost everyone involved with the visit, including Isabeau herself, was unaware she was being considered for marriage to Charles. Instead the story was that Isabeau was going on pilgrimage to Amiens. The chronicler Froissart, explained that it is the custom in France for any lady, however great her family may be, whom it is intended to marry to the king, to be seen and examined by ladies in a completely naked state, to decide whether she is fit and properly formed to bear children. Besides this, the lady lived in a country as far distant as Bavaria and it was not known, once she had been brought to France, whether she would be to the liking of the king. If not, the whole thing would be broken off.26 The secrecy was also necessary, Froissart says, because Stephen of Bavaria wished to avoid his daughter’s embarrassment and disappointment should the marriage not proceed. He particularly did not want her to go through an invasive physical exam if she were to be publicly sent home. When Isabeau departed for Amiens, Froissart tells us, the duchess of Brabant instructed her in the manners customary in the French court and outfitted her with clothing and jewels according to French fashion, for German fashions were considered too simple. When Charles himself came to Amiens, he asked to see Isabeau immediately. Froissart says that As she came up to him, she sank in a low curtsey at his feet. The king went towards her and, taking her by the hand, raised her up and looked at her long and hard. With that look love and delight entered his heart. He saw that she was young and beautiful and was filled with a great desire to see her and have her. Then said the Constable of France to the Lord de Coucy and the Lord de la Riviere, ‘This lady is going to stay with us. The king cannot take his eyes off her.’27 75

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Isabeau and Charles were married three days later, in a celebration accompanied by great pomp, where they were served at table by none but counts and barons. So the day passed by in great feasting and merriment, and in the evening the ladies put the bride to bed, for that duty belonged to them. Then the king, who so much desired to find her in his bed, came too. They spent that night together in great delight, as you can well believe.28 Froissart was well known for his delight in romance and chivalry, freely editorialising the events he related until they resembled Arthurian romance more than reality, so his descriptions of the couple’s first days should be taken with a grain of salt. He was also remarkably well informed, with connections in courts from England to Castile, and many of his depictions are based on first-hand accounts. Froissart’s charming story may be only a partial reflection of the events that occurred, but it likely bears some resemblance to the truth. If Isabeau and Charles, or their intimates, were among Froissarts sources, then his depiction probably reflects how the pair themselves remembered their marriage. His description should also make us question some assumptions about royal marriages. It can be easy, when discussing the dynastic unions of children or teenagers, to assume emotion did not enter the equation. But Stephen of Bavaria’s concern for his daughter’s feelings, reputation, and dignity demonstrate genuine paternal affection. And if Isabeau’s feelings on the marriage were not consulted, Charles’s were clearly of importance. Froissart makes an implicit connection between Charles’s assessment of Isabeau’s beauty and her suitability to be queen. Charles does not need to speak to Isabeau – her words and feelings never enter Froissart’s narrative. In seeing her beauty and her court dress, he falls in love with her and judges her worthy to be queen of France. Unfortunately for the couple, the marriage that started so joyfully would go on to experience more than its fair share of hardship. And Isabeau, silent in Froissart’s telling, would develop a reputation for being inappropriately political and outspoken. Two generations later, Isabeau’s grandson King Henry VI of England’s marriage Margaret of Anjou followed a similar trajectory to that of 76

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Becoming a Queen Isabeau and Charles. Just as France constantly factored the Holy Roman Empire into its international politics, English marriage alliances took France into account. Many medieval English queens were French, and those who were not, such as Eleanor of Castile, were desirable because of the influence the alliance had on Anglo-French relations. Henry VI inherited the throne as an infant, so marriage was an important step marking his adult, independent reign, and it made perfect sense to look to France for a bride.29 At the same time, England desperately needed a male heir. When Henry VI’s grandfather Henry IV had seized the English throne in 1399, he did so with four legitimate sons in tow. But after that promising start, only one of those sons, Henry V, had produced a legitimate son of his own. By the time Henry VI married Margaret of Anjou, the entire royal succession rested on the king’s, and more importantly, his bride’s, ability to produce an heir. England entered marriage negotiations with the French crown at a disadvantage. Following the height of English success in the Hundred Years’ War at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, decades of mismanagement and patchy leadership had seen the lands Henry’s predecessors had conquered slip through England’s grasp back into French control. England’s negotiators hoped for lasting peace, but could only achieve a twenty-three-month truce with the marriage negotiations. Nonetheless, leaders on both sides of the Channel saw in the marriage a potential basis for a more permanent solution. Henry VI’s reign did see the end of the war, but only as England’s position continued to diminish and eventually disintegrated entirely. And those who were hoping for peace would be disappointed, for as the Hundred Years’ War ended, Henry VI’s ineptitude – and his wife Margaret of Anjou’s surprisingly formidable activity – ushered in the Wars of the Roses.30 The six women under discussion in this section underscore the importance of nationality, status, and virginity in selecting a wife for a king. Under different circumstances, different characteristics might be more or less important. Nationality usually underscored the importance of an international alliance. For Henri I of France and Heinrich IV of the Holy Roman Empire, marriage to princess of Kievan Rus’ was about securing an alliance that would protect the country from an enemy that threatened its borders. The marriages of Edward I of England to Eleanor of Castile and his descendent Henry VI to Margaret of Anjou reflected 77

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines shifting needs in the ongoing war with France. Charles VI of France’s marriage to Isabeau of Bavaria highlighted his need for an alliance with a northern European power to help stem the English tide in France. These were mutual agreements, however, and international alliances were also factors for the future queens and their families. For Anna and Evpraksia of Kiev, marriage into the royal houses of France and Germany reflected an orientation towards Western Europe we might find surprising today. Eleanor of Castile’s marriage to Edward I of England, made Alfonso of Castile an indispensable ally to a major European power and provided English support for his claim to the throne of Navarre. In Charles VI of France, the dukes of Bavaria gained a powerful in-law. For the duke of Anjou, placing his daughter Margaret on the English throne was a major feather in his cap. The preference that a future queen be a virgin is harder to see in the surviving evidence, but it is notable all but one of the women in this section were virgins when they married. All married young – Anna of Kiev was the oldest, possibly in her mid-twenties when she married Henri of France. Virginity, of course, helped guarantee the paternity of children of the marriage. It also, as in the case of Maria de Luna, who moved into her in-laws’ household as a young child, increased the likelihood of a pliable, loyal wife. When the king’s bride was not a virgin, as in the case of Evpraksia of Kiev and Heinrich of Germany, it speaks to the importance of other factors, such as international alliance or social status. Status was a less important, but still central, factor in selecting a wife. For Henri I and Henrich IV, a Russian bride lent a degree of glamour, and these women might have been considered the next best thing to marrying into the Byzantine Empire. Heinrich, as Holy Roman Emperor, claimed to be the descendent of Roman emperors in the West – was marrying a descendent of the Eastern empire a factor in his choice of Evpraksia? For Edward I of England, whose mother Eleanor of Provence was a countess, marriage to a princess signified England’s rising power in Europe. Eleanor was not just princess, but the daughter of a reigning monarch (her father was already king at her birth), an additional source of prestige. For Pere of Aragon, securing the marriage of Maria de Luna to his son Martí meant his second son was allied to the most powerful family in Aragon. When a queen came from a less powerful family – such as Isabeau of Bavaria and Margaret of Anjou – it suggests the diplomatic alliance was important enough to overlook a lower rank.31 78

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Becoming a Queen

The King’s Wife Once a marriage contract was sealed and the couple exchanged vows, what did real marriages look like between queens and their kings? What can we tell of their private relationships? The public/private distinction remains blurred – at the highest level of society, the personal was political, as we will see in the next chapter – but the quality of a marriage was important not just for its implications for a nation’s politics but for our understanding of the lives of these women. In the case of Eleanor of Castile and Edward I of England, we know relatively little of their early married life. After their marriage in 1254, they spent a year in Aquitaine before moving to England in 1255. Eleanor had probably learned French, the language of the English court, from her mother Jeanne of Ponthieu, so she would have been able to converse with her husband and his family. For the first few years of their marriage, Eleanor spent most of her time in the household of her mother-in-law Eleanor of Provence, suggesting the elder Eleanor took the future queen under her wing.32 Eleanor and Edward probably consummated their marriage immediately in 1254, and Eleanor – then about 14 – gave birth to a short-lived, premature daughter about seven months later. It was not unheard-of for a young couple to have sex once to consummate their marriage, then hold off for several years to allow the wife additional time to mature. A consummated marriage was much harder to dissolve, so consummating the marriage once could ensure neither party tried to back out of it. If Eleanor demonstrated her fecundity by becoming pregnant as a young teenager, her in-laws might have been happy to allow her to wait to attempt childbearing again. Eleanor and Edward had no surviving children until seven years into their marriage, in 1261.33 In 1260, Edward began a two-year tour of Europe, practicing rule in Aquitaine and attending tournaments. Eleanor’s absence from English records and the birth of their daughter Katherine in 1261 both suggest Eleanor accompanied her husband, the first indication they had begun married life. The regular birth of children over the next decade or so is continued evidence of a close personal relationship between Eleanor and Edward, who were evidently in each other’s company as much as possible.34 In 1270, Edward led the Ninth Crusade, a last-ditch effort to rescue cities held by Europeans from Muslim rule. Eleanor accompanied her

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines husband on the two-year expedition and even gave birth to two daughters, of whom only one – Joan of Acre, born in modern-day Israel – survived. The most famous event of this period is an account, almost certainly fictional, of Edward being wounded with a poisoned arrow. Italian chronicler Bartolomeo Fiadoni described how his wife, a Spaniard and the sister of the king of Castile, showed her husband great faithfulness; for with her tongue she licked his open wounds all the day and sucked out the humour; and thus by her virtue drew out all the poisonous material; whereby, when the scars of his wounds were formed, he felt himself fully cured.35 Historians generally agree that while there may well have been an attack on Edward, the story of the poison and Eleanor sucking it out are likely fabrication. The account speaks to the sort of devotion that medieval society expected from wives, and perhaps specifically of queens, and emphasises that Eleanor was perceived as meeting that expectation. The couple turned back towards England in 1272, taking their time. They were probably in Italy when they learned King Henry III had died and Edward was now king, but the news did not speed them on their way. They broke off their journey in May of 1273 to travel to Aquitaine for the birth of another son, who was given the unusual (in England) name of Alphonso after his uncle Alfonso of Castile, who had journeyed to Bayonne to visit his sister. The couple finally landed in Dover as king and queen in August of 1272, after an absence of nearly four years.36 The couple remained close as Edward’s kingship matured. English monarchs at this time travelled the country providing personal rule and visiting important rules, instead of remaining at royal palaces. The fact that many of Eleanor’s children were born in locations across England suggests she travelled with her husband on these journeys, even when pregnant. Eleanor also enjoyed a public reputation for being close to her husband: in the 1280s, when she attempted to install her physician as priest in the church of Crondall and the bishop of Winchester objected, he was advised to acquiesce, as Edward might become angry on the queen’s behalf.37 Evidence suggests the couple knew each other well and the relationship deepened into a loving one over the years. In 1290, for instance, Eleanor, 80

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Becoming a Queen knowing of her husband’s distaste for formal events, paid for minstrels to entertain him as he sat apart during a noble’s marriage service. Edward was known for his sexual attraction to his wife. After the Lenten fast that forbade sex, each year on Easter Monday, the queen’s ladies-in-waiting ‘trapped’ Edward until he paid them a ransom to be allowed to escape to Eleanor’s bed. Eleanor’s death did not put a stop to the tradition: in Easter of 1291, he paid Eleanor’s former ladies-in-waiting the traditional token ransom that he had during her lifetime.38 Evidence suggests Edward’s grief for Eleanor, who died in late November of 1290, went beyond the ordinary. Eleanor was clearly a healthy woman – she endured sixteen pregnancies and strenuous travel throughout her adult life, and her health began to decline only a few years after the birth of her youngest child, the future Edward II, in 1284. She became seriously ill only in 1290, and died just outside Lincoln, with Edward at her side. She was only 49, but thirty-six of those years had been spent married to Edward. In January of 1291, less than two months later, Edward spoke of his grief in a letter to the abbot of Cluny describing Eleanor as a wife ‘whom living we dearly cherished, and whom dead we cannot cease to love’. This was a formal letter, and these words go far beyond what was customary in official correspondence. It speaks to the king’s genuine, raw grief.39 Eleanor is best known as the woman commemorated in the Eleanor Crosses, the monuments erected in each location where her body rested on its journey from Lincolnshire to her burial in Westminster Abbey. At each stopping point, a service was held, inviting prayers for the departed queen. The chronicler of St Albans wrote that When the body … neared St Albans all the convent, solemnly vested in albs and copes, went out to meet it at the church of St Michael at the edge of town. Thence it was taken to the presbytery, before the high altar; that night it was honoured by the entire convent with assiduous devotion, with divine office and holy vigils. In all vills and places in which the body rested, the lord king ordered to be erected a cross of wondrous height to the praise of the Crucified and the queen’s memory, so that her soul should be prayed for by passersby; on which crosses the said queen’s likeness was depicted.40 81

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines The Eleanor Crosses are often seen as further evidence of Edward’s genuine grief, and this is not inaccurate, but, as we will see, they were also part of a programme of commemorative propaganda intended to boost public support for the royal family. While Edward and Eleanor’s affection for each other clearly went beyond what one might expect from a marriage arranged between teenagers, their public roles always intersected with their private relationship. The marriage of Martí of Aragon to Maria de Luna also requires us to look at circumstantial evidence for the quality of their relationship, but such evidence is abundant. Martí and Maria were married as teenagers and were married for over twenty years before Martí became king. They had been raised together from young childhood, giving them extra time to develop trust and affection. Both Martí’s father King Pere and his brother King Joan granted him properties and important properties and government posts, elevating both Martí and Maria to positions of even greater prestige. Within his properties, Martí made Maria his lieutenant, evidence of the trust he placed in her.41 Aragon was a collection of disparate kingdoms and territories stretching from southeast Spain to cover parts of Italy and the Mediterranean. In Maria’s time, it included the Crown of Aragon, centred around the city of Zaragoza, as well as the kingdoms of Valencia, Mallorca, and eventually Sicily, and the county of Barcelona, along with other scattered territories. Ruling these far-flung, often testy, territories was a challenge. It became common, therefore, for Aragonese kings to designate lieutenants over certain areas. Close family members – brothers and uncles – and queens were popular choices for this position, and Martí frequently relied on Maria in this role. King Pere’s wife, Queen Elionor of Sicily died in 1374, granting Martí her rights to the kingdom of Sicily. To secure Aragonese control over the island kingdom, Pere III betrothed Martí and Maria’s only living child, Martí the Younger, to Maria of Sicily. In 1392, the younger and older Martí travelled to Sicily to install the younger Martí as king. They remained until 1397, and in her husband’s long absence, it fell on Maria to manage their considerable estates and finance their son’s claim to the throne.42 Maria was a capable administrator, but her husband’s extended absence and his willingness for Maria to do the work of managing their estates raises questions. Martí’s willingness to cede control to Maria 82

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Becoming a Queen speaks to a level of trust based on their shared childhood together, but did that shared childhood create a relationship that was more of brother and sister than husband and wife? Despite their long marriage, the couple had only four children, a paltry number compared to the sixteen that Edward I and Eleanor of Castile produced in a similar timeframe. Of course, Maria may have had a harder time with pregnancy and childbirth than Eleanor, or perhaps Martí’s religious adherence – he was a contemplative, pious man – meant an underactive sex life. Perhaps the relationship they developed, while intimate, was one in which sexual intimacy was distasteful.43 By 1396, Martí had been in Sicily for four years and his brother Joan had been on the throne of Aragon for nine. Joan and his wife Violant of Bar’s reign was in crisis. Between out-of-control spending and an unfortunate habit of embezzling funds from courtiers, their coffers were almost empty, and nobles were on the verge of open revolt, with armies mustered. This boded poorly for Martí and Maria, whose fortunes would follow those of the royal family. In May of 1396, Joan died unexpectedly in a hunting accident. His hunting companions later claimed he had fallen, but given the circumstances, assassination has to be considered. Although he had two living, illegitimate, daughters, Joan’s will granted the throne to his brother Martí in the event there was no male heir.44 The speed and efficiency with which Maria claimed and defended the throne on behalf of Martí will be discussed in the following chapter, but the fact that Martí remained in Sicily speaks volumes about both their characters – Maria was the capable, assertive administrator, while the conflict-averse Martí preferred quiet – and about the trust in their relationship. Capable or not, Maria must have been frustrated. Martí’s absence in the early years of his reign forced her to make temporary compromises and cobble support among several factions throughout Aragon. The formerly-independent kingdom of Valencia, in particular, was known for the constant feuding of its nobles, who were semi-independent from the crown and generally exempt from the kinds of punishment that prevented personal squabbles from breaking out into private wars. In 1401, Martí and Maria travelled to Valencia so he could swear to uphold the Valecia’s laws and customs, a necessary step to force the local nobles to recognise his kingship.45 83

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines This having been achieved, Martí named Maria his advocate in Valencia and departed for the kingdom of Navarre to arrange his son’s marriage to Blanche of Navarre, which took place the following year. This placed Maria into a difficult position: her own Luna family was from Valencia, and she could not advocate for either her family or the crown without it becoming a conflict of interest. Controlling Valencia was a full-time job, and Martí made Maria’s illegitimate half-brother Ferran López his viceroy, sending him to Valencia so Maria could continue travelling throughout Aragon. A number of measures to end the violence were attempted, including enacting heavy fines for those who broke the peace, but Maria was unable to reach lasting peace. In January of 1406, she wrote to her husband that tensions continued to rise and pleaded with him to come in person to intervene. As usual, Martí was disinclined towards action, and he only came to the city in May of that year, where his response to the violence – disbanding the council of the city and creating a new one – was deemed too heavyhanded.46 Where Eleanor and Edward’s near-constant presence with each other means little surviving correspondence between the couple, Martí’s extended absence in Sicily means several letters between the couple survive from this period. These are formal and deal with matters of state – personal letters, if any were written, do not survive. Many of letters between the couple make reference to additional messages the bearer of the letter would deliver orally, and these messages would have held any personal sentiments and delicate information. A number of Martí’s letters to others, however, reference his wife’s reactions to news, indicating that when they were together, the couple discussed questions and made decisions as a team.47 Maria de Luna and Martí of Aragon’s relationship was complex. Raised together as children, Martí trusted his wife entirely, something that few medieval monarchs could claim. Martí, however, does not seem to have taken naturally to the role of monarch, while Maria did. He readily placed Maria into difficult situations, leaving her to manage their estates, and ultimately claim the throne on his behalf in 1392, or designating her his lieutenant in the violent kingdom of Valencia in 1401. Should we see this as an effective division of labour, allowing each half of the partnership to act in situations to which they were suited? Or are these examples of a cowardly king who designated his wife to act 84

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Becoming a Queen for him when he found himself in over his head? Did Maria enjoy the independence and challenge, or did she resent her husband’s seeming unwillingness to get his hands dirty? The basis for a queen’s role in her husband’s kingdom was certainly the nature of her relationship with her husband, but we know tantalisingly little about these relationships. Of the women we are looking at in this section, Eleanor of Castile and Maria de Luna’s marriages offer the most insight, but even here we must look towards the circumstantial. Eleanor and Edward’s sixteen children speaks to a healthy sex life with a great deal of time spent together, while Maria and Martí’s four children perhaps suggests a marriage in which physical intimacy was difficult, even distasteful. Eleanor was nearly always with her husband, suggesting that they relied heavily on each other. That Martí and Maria spent a good deal of time apart speaks to a different kind of reliance: her expertise was required to keep him on the throne.

The Heir’s Mother Queenly sexuality was a double-edged sword: the notion that an unfaithful queen might use her sexuality to betray her kingdom was a source of real anxiety. A queen of doubtful virtue could throw the succession into question if she produced an illegitimate son. But her sexuality was necessary, because a consort’s primary function was to produce an heir. Her sexuality was thus simultaneously a source of concern and celebration. The association made between queens and the Virgin Mary provided some comfort in the face of this discomfort: in the medieval mind, Mary was also a royal mother. Producing a male heir was thus one of the most powerful things that a queen could do.48 Once the heir was born, women’s relationships with their children could vary greatly, often depending on whether their children stayed with them or were raised elsewhere. Some behaviour that today strikes us as blasé can be explained by a mother who experienced a more distant relationship, while in other instances, queens could be an overbearing presence in their children’s lives. Regardless of the quality of the relationship, we most clearly see queens as mothers in the context of their widowhood or regency, when motherhood could propel them to a position of previously unheard-of power. 85

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines The earliest queen in this section, Anna of Kiev, was also the oldest when she married – at least 19, possibly as old as 25. Her husband Henri I of France was also older, in his forties at their marriage in 1051, and with no heir, so the couple were under considerable pressure to have children quickly. Fortunately, they were up to the task: three sons, Philippe, Robert and Hugh, were born between 1052 and 1057. There is some evidence that Anna and Henri also had a daughter named Emma – the Roman Catholic Church records that St Emma was a daughter of Henri of France – but no additional evidence to corroborates this.49 The name Philippe had previously been uncommon in Western Europe, and it is accepted that Anna introduced it to the French royal family. The name was not particularly common in Eastern Europe either, raising some speculation as to why the couple chose it. It may have been a nod to one of the great Philips of antiquity, such as Philip of Macedonia, the father of Alexander the Great. Others have suggested that Anna and Henri’s son Philippe was named for the Apostle Philip, who was believed to have converted the Scythians, a group that medieval culture associated with the Russians. In this interpretation, Philippe’s naming celebrated the merging of East and West as represented by Anna and Henri’s union.50 Like many medieval mothers, Anna is largely absent from the surviving evidence until her husband’s death in 1060. There is some indication that she experienced an increase in status following the birth of Philippe, as she began witnessing more charters, but nothing clearer than this that we can point to. Regardless, Anna came to the fore in the years following Henri’s death. In coming centuries France developed a strong tradition of female regency, and although the ‘rules’ of such regencies were not written at this early stage, Anna stepped into the role. She was forced to share it, however, with her brother-in-law Count Baldwin V of Flanders, husband of Henri’s sister Adele.51 Most queens who survived their husbands chose to remain single as widows, probably to retain direct control over their young children, but Anna chose otherwise. In 1061, about a year after Henri’s death, she remarried to Raoul, Count of Crépy-en-Valois. Why would Anna make this unusual decision? We know Raoul was present at the young Philippe’s coronation and had been a fixture at the French court during Henri’s reign, so he and Anna already knew each other well. Did Anna, perhaps experiencing conflict with Baldwin of Flanders, feel she needed a male protector at court? 86

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Becoming a Queen In remarrying, though, Anna may have lost much of the power she exercised as regent. From the time of her second marriage until 1065, when Philippe neared adulthood, her name disappears from court records. It only reappears around the time that Philippe reached his majority and began ruling independently. It seems Anna’s remarriage presented a problem to Baldwin and the regency council, who pushed her away from power until Philippe invited his mother and step-father back to court.52 Courtiers looked askance at Anna’s second marriage for several reasons. First, she remarried shortly after her husband’s death, something generally considered unseemly. More importantly, when he married Anna, Raoul was still married to his second wife Aliénor. One writer at the time recalled that ‘our kingdom is in no small way disturbed, for our queen has married the count Raoul, by which fact our king is greatly saddened’. Unable to gain a resolution from French religious authorities, Aliénor allegedly travelled to Rome to complain to the pope, and according to some sources, Raoul was excommunicated. There is no indication Anna suffered the same fate.53 If Anna was pushed from power following her second marriage, her relationship with Philippe stayed strong. Her son was about 8 when he became king and 10 when Anna remarried. Evidence shows he was nearly constantly in his mother’s company in his early reign. To have his mother’s support taken away suddenly after her remarriage would likely be distressing for a child who had recently suffered the death of his father. Beginning in 1065, Anna and Raoul began appearing again in legal documents, suggesting that they were present at court once more. It seems that as he grew old enough to arrange matters himself, Philippe requested that his mother return to court again.54 Despite limited sources, Anna and Philippe’s relationship highlights themes in royal motherhood that continue throughout the Middle Ages. First, it was crucial for a queen to produce an heir. Anna and Henri wasted no time, and Philippe was born just over a year into the marriage. While other royal couples might delay consummation and childbearing, Anna, older than the average royal bride, could have children immediately. Second, producing an heir led to greater prestige: evidence shows Anna was more involved in French politics after Philippe’s birth. Finally, Anna demonstrates that in some contexts, the queen mother could be an ideal guardian and regent – while she remained single and her interests were exclusively those of her son. 87

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines In Anna’s case, we know little of her relationships with her younger children. In the case of Eleanor of Castile, considerable evidence survives for many of her children. After the death of the couple’s first child in Aquitaine shortly after their marriage, Eleanor and Edward remained childless for six years. Those years were a time of turbulence. A series of conflicts now known as the Second Barons’ War broke out from 1264 to 1267. These saw Simon de Montfort earl of Leicester, together with a number of barons, take up arms to protest poor rule of Eleanor’s fatherin-law King Henry III. Now an adult in his mid-twenties, Eleanor’s husband Edward was drawn into the conflict. Eleanor retreated to Windsor Castle for safety, and Edward apparently visited her regularly – two of their children were born there in these years. It was a difficult time: Simon de Montfort’s troops captured the castle and Eleanor herself in 1264, and rebel troops captured Edward as well. Eleanor’s young daughter Katherine, born in 1261, died at Windsor in 1264, while Eleanor was pregnant with her next child. This child, a girl named Joan, was born and died in 1265. By this point, Eleanor and Edward had been married for a decade and had three children who died young. Henry III and Edward eventually emerged victorious from the conflict, and the birth of a fourth child – and male heir – a boy named John in 1266 was heralded as a good omen following the royal victory.55 The couple’s next children, Eleanor and Henry, followed quickly. The couple’s departure for the Holy Land in 1270 did not slow them down. Two daughters were born there, of whom one died in infancy, but another, Joan, survived. Their next son, Alphonso, was born in France while the couple was in transit back to England. When the couple arrived in England as king and queen in August of 1274, their first son John had died in their absence. Their second son Henry would die in October, only two months later, leaving Alphonso heir of England. The years following their return to England saw the births of seven more children, along with the deaths of several more. Margaret, Berengaria, Mary, and Elizabeth, as well as an additional unnamed son and daughter, were born before their final son Edward of Carnarvon’s birth in 1284. Margaret, Mary, Elizabeth, and Edward all survived to adulthood. In August of 1284, the 10-year-old heir Alphonso died, leaving the young Edward – then only months old – the heir. He inherited the throne as King Edward II.56 Of Eleanor’s sixteen children, only six outlived her. The number of children the pair produced is evidence of a society in which large 88

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Becoming a Queen families were valuable and birth control was ineffective and considered sinful. It also underscores the pressure queens faced to produce a son who could inherit his father’s throne. The death of any child was tragic, but seeing son after son die after only a few years would have been especially difficult. That the couple continued having children after Alphonso’s birth suggests a concern to produce a ‘spare’ heir. After Eleanor’s death, Edward I eventually remarried, hoping to produce a back-up heir to his son Edward. Eleanor grieved at her children’s deaths. In the mid-1280s, thirty years after the death of her first daughter, Eleanor’s financial accounts show that she was still paying for annual services on the anniversary of her death. Eleanor also took the unusual step of arranging for her son Alphonso’s heart to be buried with her at her death. In addition to being the heir for most of his short life, Alphonso was the only of Eleanor and Edward’s children who survived past toddlerhood to die, and she may have been particularly attached to him.57 Eleanor and Edward were protective of their children. While they were young, the children generally remained stationary in their own household, but from later childhood, they usually joined their parents in their travels throughout the kingdom. Both parents remained informed of their children regardless, sending and receiving letters inquiring about their wellbeing, or offering alms and prayers for their children’s health as they travelled. While absent from her children, one of the ways a mother could influence their upbringing was in their education, something of keen interest to Eleanor. She appointed many of her children’s household servants, ensuring that the adults who cared for them followed her directives. At least two of her daughters, Eleanor and Mary, were completely literate, evidence of Eleanor’s interest in their education.58 While not as important to the kingdom’s survival, daughters were valuable as well as sons. They represented the same potential that the queen herself once embodied: the chance of an alliance that could strengthen the kingdom. In the 1280s, Eleanor and her mother-in-law protested against Edward sending their oldest daughter to be married when she was too young. Perhaps Eleanor, remembering her own early marriage, was worried about her daughter’s future being decided so early. When Eleanor married, she had no living parents to advocate for her interests – was she trying to right a wrong she felt had been done to her when she married so young?59 89

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Although there is copious evidence Eleanor and Edward cared for their children, their relationships were not necessarily positive. Frequent absences – Eleanor and Edward were on crusade in the early 1270s and lived in Aquitaine in the mid-1280s – might have prevented close relationships with some children. When Eleanor and Edward returned to England from the Holy Land, for instance, the living children who awaited them would have had no memory of their parents. As they travelled through France on their way back to England on this journey, they made the decision to leave their daughter Joan with Eleanor’s mother Jeanne to be raised. When Joan returned to England several years later, she had no relationship with her parents or her siblings. For other children, a childhood spent largely travelling England would have created a closer relationship. As with Anna of Kiev’s queenship, Eleanor of Castile’s experience underscores the crucial importance of producing a male heir. Each pregnancy was dangerous, and the fact that it was considered acceptable to put Eleanor’s life in danger with frequent pregnancies, indicates that securing the succession was a greater priority than maintaining her health. Eleanor’s eventual death only six years after the birth of her last child was probably related to an illness she had developed several years earlier, but we should question the result that years of childbearing had on her body. It also highlights the affection parents could have towards their children: Eleanor’s desire to be with her children when they grew old enough to withstand the rigours of constant travel, and her apparent grief at many young deaths demonstrate real maternal care. All these births and deaths can seem like little more than cold-hearted strategy, but we should not assume that this is entire story. Royal children were important dynastically, as heirs to the throne and marriage pawns for the next generation, but they could still be precious to their parents. Eleanor and Anna had no difficulty bearing children, but queens who were unable to provide a male heir could find themselves in a difficult situation. Kingdoms without heirs experienced real chaos. Maria de Luna and Martí of Aragon, for instance, had four children, but only one lived to adulthood. Their son Martí spent his life securing a claim to the throne of Sicily, but produced no legitimate male heir himself. Maria and her husband did what they could to have Martí’s illegitimate children – their grandchildren – recognised as heirs in both Sicily and 90

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Becoming a Queen Aragon, but ultimately failed. With Martí’s death their dynasty, the house of Barcelona, ended. Margaret of Anjou and Henry VI of England also experienced the consequences of a shaky inheritance. Margaret produced a male heir, but only after eight years of marriage, and there was never a hint of a second child. When her son Edward was finally born in 1453, it is little surprise that there were rumours, probably unfounded, of his illegitimacy. The delay in producing an heir had allowed England’s most powerful nobles to jockey for position in a dangerous way. The inevitable question of who would inherit if the king had no heir was unhealthy for the longevity of a dynasty. Infertility was particularly unsettling. In the 1050s, Edith of Wessex, the wife of the King Edward the Confessor of England, faced the possibility of divorce after a childless marriage of many years. When she commissioned the Vita Edwardi, a chronicle documenting her husband’s reign, it emphasised Edward’s and unwillingness to engage in impure sexual acts. It may be that in constructing Edward’s saintly identity, Edith saved herself from the humiliation of divorce.60 A number of high-profile annulments of monarchs were rooted in a queen’s inability, whether perceived or real, to produce sons: Eleanor of Aquitaine and Louis VII of France had their marriage annulled after fifteen years of marriage produced only two daughters. Both went on to have sons with their second spouses. Of the qualities medieval society prioritised when selecting a queen – nationality, social status, virginity – nationality was usually most important. Most royal marriages were about international relations, the sealing of alliances to prevent war, protect the kingdom from and enemy, or to end a war. Marie of Anjou arrived in England with the pressure of ending the Hundred Years’ War on her 15-year-old shoulders. A prospective bride’s nationality was crucial. Social status was secondary, but still an important consideration. Anna of Kiev may have presented a more appealing match to Henri I of France because of her ‘exotic’ Eastern heritage and her association with the Byzantine Empire. Virginity was also an essential quality, as we saw in the marriage of Isabeau of Bavaria to Charles VI of France. Little evidence survives of the quality of queens’ and kings’ relationships, but what survives suggests close relationships were more common than we might expect from arranged marriages. Edward I of 91

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines England and Eleanor of Castile enjoyed a fun-loving relationship, and his grief at her death went beyond what was merely dutiful. Henri of France and Martí of Aragon both entrusted their wives with the running of their entire kingdoms. But is trust indicative of a happy marriage? Maria de Luna might have wished her husband trusted her a little less and supported her a little more. Alliances were the first goal of royal marriages, and the second goal was producing heirs. It was rare for women to be pushed into early childbirth as Eleanor of Castile was at the age of 12 or 13. To do so risked the alliance, as well as the anger of the bride’s family. Most women were in their later teens to early twenties when they had their first child: Isabeau was 16, Anna 19 to 25, Maria 18 to 20, and Margaret of Anjou 23. Evidence clearly demonstrates that concern to have an heir was paramount: after several sons died young, Eleanor of Castile and Edward I of England continued having children until they had an heir and a spare. The emphasis on children as heirs or fodder for future alliances does not mean there was no real affection between parents and children. Anna of Kiev’s son Philippe’s efforts to bring her back into the fold as he grew into a teenager show he genuinely cared for his mother and desired her support. In a world where child mortality was horrifyingly common, Eleanor of Castile’s choice to have her heart buried with her son Alphonso’s speaks to a maternal love and grief any mother would recognise. In this chapter, we have seen that the personal and political are a blurred line. Relationships between individual men and women become symbols of peace between countries. A couple’s sex life becomes the subject of national attention. As we move to looking queens in their public roles, we will see places where the distinction between the individual and the role was well-defined, and others where the political was deeply personal.

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Chapter Four

The ‘Profession’ of Queenship

‘I have often broken their [the English] battle line. I have mowed down ranks for more stubborn than theirs are now. You who once followed a peasant girl [Joan of Arc] now follow a queen … I will either conquer or be conquered with you.’ All marvelled at such boldness in a woman, at a man’s courage in a woman’s breast, and at her reasonable arguments. They said that the spirit of the Maid, who had raised Charles [VII of France] to the throne, was renewed in the queen.1 This depiction of Margaret of Anjou’s impassioned speech to her troops speaks to the highs and lows that queens faced. Whether or not Margaret actually spoke these words is immaterial to the author, Francesco Coppini, in his letter to Pope Pius II describing affairs at the English court. These words serve to illustrate the truth of Margaret’s character as Coppini saw it. Margaret’s husband King Henry VI was weak and effeminate, and Margaret was more than capable of wielding kingly power. He attributes a number of masculine attributes to her: leading troops into battle, boldness, courage, and wisdom. But where Coppolini saw someone to be admired, Margaret’s Yorkist enemies had no difficulty painting her as a woman who had forgotten her place. Margaret the individual was up to the task of ruling on behalf of her husband and infant son, but would her subjects accept her in this very public role? The public role of kings was split into two major responsibilities, which are displayed on coins and royal seals from across the Middle Ages. First, the king was a defender of his people in the most physical way: on one side of a medieval seal, the king was depicted on horseback, sword in hand, in battle on behalf of his kingdom. The king’s second

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines role was that of judge. The other side of a royal seal shows the king enthroned, sceptre in hand, prepared to pass judgement. Medieval society clearly understood a king’s public role, but a queen’s was less easy to understand. Her job was to bear children, ideally male ones, but what else was she to do? Queens performed a number of public roles in a monarchy. From her coronation to her funeral and beyond, a queen was a public face of the royal family. This expectation still holds today, and it places enormous pressure on women who marry into these families. Most of medieval Europe believed royalty ruled with divine right, which created additional pressure. Just as the Virgin Mary reigned in heaven as queen, so earthly queens were meant to rule in their kingdoms. At many public ceremonies, the image of the queen was more important than the actual woman who occupied the position. But the women who reigned alongside their husbands as queens were very much individuals. They had their own home countries, families, personalities, and goals, and these intersected with the unique political circumstances in which they ruled. They formed an integral part of medieval kingship, not just as figureheads but as themselves. This chapter will explore first how our queens experienced formal, public events, before turning to their distinct identities and circumstances.

The Public Queen The first time a queen appeared to her future subjects was usually as she arrived in her new country for her marriage and coronation. As today, a queen’s coronation was generally a religious ceremony that emphasised the quasi-priestly nature of most medieval royalty. Though a secular ruler, biblical allusions were used to illustrate the queen’s role, and she made vows to God. One French coronation ceremony dating from around the time of Anna of Kiev urged the queen to remember the biblical example of Queen Esther, who interceded with her husband King Mordecai to protect her people. It also encouraged the queen to behave with virtue and wisdom and prayed for her success in childbirth. In essence, it highlighted a queen’s role as a stabilising force, ensuring wise and merciful rule and a smooth transition from king to king as she produced heirs. Many coronations were accompanied by a formal arrival procession into the queen’s new capital, a chance for her new people to welcome 94

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship her and celebrate the qualities that would make her a successful queen. Although the event was generally secular in nature, there were some religious overtones, for they were based on Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. Participation in an entry procession, incorporated queens into the Christ-like symbolism of medieval monarchy. Public events like this were a chance for monarchs to remind their subjects of their legitimate power, and for their subjects to symbolically submit to that power.2 These could be day-long events, as with the pageant that marked Margaret of Anjou’s arrival in England in May of 1445. The Brut Chronicle tells us that in the afternoon, the queen came from the Tower in a horse-bier, with two steeds decorated all in white damask powdered with gold, as was the clothing she had on; [her] hair was combed down about her shoulders, with a coronel of gold, rich pearls and precious stones; [and there were] nineteen chariots of ladies and their gentlewomen, [as well as] all the crafts of the city of London on foot in their best array to St Paul’s. On the way, as she came through the city, many devices were displayed and stories told, with angels and other heavenly figures, and songs and melodies heard in several places. The conduits ran with wine, both white and red, for all the people who wished to drink.3 As she entered London, Margaret was greeted by eight pageants, each of which addressed her as well as educating the public on the benefits that she brought them. They offered advice and guidance on her future role. Margaret’s marriage to King Henry VI was entwined with the Hundred Years’ War which, following the high water mark achieved under Henry’s father Henry V at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, had been going badly for the English for some time. The English had negotiated from a weak position, securing only a twenty-three-month truce with France in the marriage alliance, but it was hoped that this would soften the ground for lasting peace. This hoped-for peace between England and France was a central theme for several of the pageants Margaret watched in her entry into London. They depicted Margaret not just as a symbol of peace, but as an 95

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines active agent in pursuing it. The fourth pageant, for instance, concluded with the lines Desired peace betwixt England and France This time of Grace by means of Margaret We trust to God to liven in quiet.4 Not all pageants focused on terrestrial concerns. Margaret rode through London in a white litter, pulled by white horses, dressed in white, her hair loose around her – all symbols of purity and virginity. The final pageants focused on the queen’s quest for heavenly salvation through good works – good works that would benefit the minds, bodies and, most importantly, the souls of her people. A king’s role was paternal, focused on defending and judging his people, while a queen’s was more maternal: to gently guide them towards a good life, both temporally and eternally. But the tension between the gentle, passive role that was expected of queens and the active, peacemaker role that was expected of Margaret specifically was evident in these pageants. It would plague Margaret for much of her time in England.5 The pageants were all presented in English, so how much Margaret understood is questionable, but she would have gathered enough from watching, and from descriptions that those who accompanied her might offer, to understand the themes. Although her role as a future mother and as a spiritual leader for her people would have been familiar, the emphasis on her role as peacemaker was unusual. It assigned her more responsibility in the success of her husband’s reign than many queens had to contend with. As she journeyed from the city to the Tower of London to prepare for her coronation the next day, we have to wonder if Margaret – only 15 years old – fully grasped the pressure she was under, and if she felt up to the challenge.6 The coronation the following day both recognised the validity of her marriage to Henry and imbued Margaret with part of his royal power. The ceremony was deeply symbolic, and when Margaret was anointed with holy oil, it would have been recognised that she had entered into a new relationship with God, that she participated in the king’s semi-priestly role over his people. In situations like this one, where the king had already been crowned, the king did not attend his wife’s coronation.7 96

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Following the religious ceremony, a sumptuous coronation banquet was served in Westminster Hall, which began with lords of the realm riding up and down the hall to push back the people who had crowded in to watch. The final stage of celebration was a three-day tournament at Westminster Palace. For a teenager who had until recently been only a minor member of the French royal family, the events must have been overwhelming. Was Margaret excited by the pageantry and celebration? Or was she bewildered by the foreignness and the new pressure that was placed upon her? For after the coronation, the work of queenship began.8 Formal entries into cities and towns were not limited to a queen’s coronation. As circumstances changed, formal entries could emphasise the crown’s shifting needs. In September of 1456 a more mature Margaret of Anjou made a formal entry into Coventry. For this, she was accompanied by her son Edward, then a small child. In this event, she arranged for the celebrations surrounding her arrival to reflect her new maternal role. The context here is important: in 1456, the conflict of the Wars of the Roses was accelerating, and Margaret was attempting to exercise royal authority following her husband Henry VI’s mental breakdown. By insisting on a formal entry ceremony for herself and her son, Margaret symbolically forced her subjects to recognise herself and the young Edward as legitimate wielders of royal authority. Emphasising her maternal role allowed Margaret to justify her attempt to exercise royal authority. As with Anne of Kiev and Eleanor of Castile, motherhood placed Margaret in a more powerful position.9 Like their English counterparts, Aragonese monarchs also participated in formal entries as they travelled their kingdom. Whether or not she was accompanied by her husband Martí, when Maria de Luna formally entered one of Aragon’s cities, it was a grand occasion. The city cleaned and planned elaborate gifts and theatrical demonstrations like those Margaret experienced on her first entry into London. Maria would have prepared by dressing in her most majestic way, bedazzled just as a queen was expected to be, to impress her subjects. For one entry into Valencia, Maria and Martí were greeted at the city gates by civilian leaders. They then rode through streets filled with incense and tapestries with royal insignia. They stopped occasionally to watch a pageant, met a religious delegation and attended mass in the cathedral before finally making their way to the royal palace. The process took a day. For the monarchy, this event reaffirmed bonds of 97

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines loyalty between themselves and their people, and it allowed the people to feel connected to their rulers.10 A queen’s appearances were not always formal entries, but there is little evidence that queens’ informal interactions with her public. One story of Eleanor of Castile’s queenship depicts her meeting a group of local women and having one of her ladies-in-waiting translate for her so she could speak with them. It was not unknown for a queen to interact directly with her subjects, but the fact that Eleanor needed a translator demonstrates that it was not deemed an essential enough element of her role. The French Eleanor would have spoken with her family and the nobility was probably sufficient – and it is unlikely her English-born husband spoke enough English to easily converse with his subjects.11 A queen’s final public appearance came not in old age, but in death, for her funeral and commemoration were public events. The regimen of grief that Edward I of England instituted at the death of Eleanor of Castile is both evidence of his personal loss at her death, and also a calculated display. Eleanor’s body was well preserved, appropriate for the grand procession from Lincoln to London and the spectacular funeral in Westminster, the first queen buried there since its grand rebuilding a generation previously. The magnificence of the funeral procession and funeral provided a unique chance to highlight Plantagenet magnificence.12 Like a royal entry, Eleanor’s burial procession reaffirmed bonds between monarch and people. In participating in shared grief, the English population acknowledged their obedience to the monarchy. Eleanor’s body finally reached London after its slow procession southward in mid-December, over two weeks after her death. It stopped at St Paul’s Cathedral, a Dominican priory and Charing – Charing Cross in London is still named after the Eleanor Cross erected there – before being interred in splendour in Westminster. Her heart was deposited in the Dominicans’ church in London with the heart of her son Alphonso, preserved since his young death six years earlier.13 The crosses that Edward had erected across England, as well as the magnificent tombs in Westminster, London, and Lincoln that were made for her, blurred the lines between the spiritual and the secular – a line that was never clear in medieval society at the best of times. Alongside Eleanor’s ‘main’ tomb at Westminster, a second was constructed at Blackfriars Dominican church in London, where her heart resided with 98

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Alphonso’s, and another was built in Lincoln, where her viscera were interred. Royal burials served a triple purpose in medieval society: as well as a resting place, they served as a locus for prayers for the departed and a symbol of dynastic power and goodness. Three tombs greatly increased both the chances to impress citizens with the glory of the dynasty and the number of prayers Eleanor’s soul would receive. Eleanor’s tomb in Westminster is remarkable for the grace of its effigy. Instead of depicting a middle-aged woman who had endured frequent pregnancies and near-constant travel, the effigy shows a young woman, hair unbound, dressed in simple, almost sexless, robes. Her left hand once held a sceptre, now lost. If not for the shields of England, Castile, and Ponthieu that march around the tomb’s body, it could be a statue of the Virgin Mary. It depicts not a dead woman, but a crowned queen at her coronation. The twelve crosses that marked the places Eleanor’s cortege stopped between Lincoln and Westminster brought Eleanor’s memory into the English people’s everyday lives. This was not a new concept – twenty years earlier, similar crosses were erected in France to mark the burial cortege of King Louis IX. Edward I’s choice to imitate French kingship suggests an effort both to commemorate his affection and grief, but also a chance to highlight English royal prestige.14 The three surviving crosses are similar: they were built in three tiers, in a polygon or triangle shape, with a solid lower story marked by shields and an arched upper story that would have held a statue. The combination of statue and shields indicate the crosses were part of a programme of commemoration that included Eleanor’s tombs. The painting and gold gilt that covered them has disappeared, but at the time they would have been sumptuous sculptures, with the most elegant elements of contemporary architecture produced on a small scale.15 Like the tombs, the crosses symbolised royal dominance and invited prayers for the departed queen. They would have lent the towns in which they resided an extra sense of glamour. As local tourist attractions, they would have created talk and goodwill for the monarchy for generations after Eleanor’s death. They also brought royal glamour directly to the people like a tomb never could. While a public entry or royal visit might be a once-in-a-lifetime event for most observers, the chain of crosses stretching from Lincoln to Westminster became a never-ending royal procession re-enacted in perpetuity. 99

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Public appearances virtually erased a queen’s individuality. There were hints of the individual underneath: Margaret of Anjou’s clothing at her coronation was embroidered with her personal emblem, the daisy, while Eleanor of Castile’s tomb features the arms of Ponthieu and Castile along with those of England. But these are hints only. The goal of such appearances was just that: appearance. The spectacle of monarchy – whether in form of a virgin dressed in white, a mature queen glittering with gold and jewels, or a black-draped, horse-drawn casket – reminded people who their rulers were. It reinforced dynastic programmes and reaffirmed ties between rulers and ruled.

A Queen’s Identity Queenship did not necessarily mean having one’s entire identity erased, however, and we see examples of these women’s personalities coming through despite a system designed to reduce them to symbol. In each case, this arises in the form of a queen identifying with her family or country of origin. Anna of Kiev was the only French queen from Russia and the first known French queen to act as regent for her son. Today, however, she is best known for a piece of parchment. A royal charter of King Philippe I from the early 1060s to the Abbey of Saint Crépin-le-Grand in Soissons was endorsed by Anna in her role as the king’s guardian. Instead of simply signing with a cross, as Anna and the king usually did, on this document only, Anna added the words Ana Regina (‘Anna the Queen’), written in Cyrillic characters. This is the only known charter to bear the handwritten signature of a Capetian queen, and the only French royal charter that contains Cyrillic. It is also the only extant signature of a member of the Rurikid dynasty, the rulers of Kievan Rus’.16 While the signature could have been written by a scribe who wrote Cyrillic, such scribes were surely in short supply; the logical explanation is that Anna herself wrote it. Why she chose to sign this document with her name and not others is unclear – perhaps she did this more often than we realise, and this is simply the only known example. Did Anna, concerned at being left out of the event, make a point of seizing the pen and write her name? Or is this an expression of the power a queen might find in widowhood: a queen, remarried to a man of her choosing, did she feel powerful enough to publicly assert her identity as an individual? 100

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship This signature says much about Anna’s conception of herself in the early years of her widowhood. Although probably married to her second husband Raoul at this point, she continued to primarily identify, especially in this public document, as queen of France. She was an educated woman who knew how to read and write, and on at least some level, she wanted others to know it. And she might be a French queen, but at her heart, she was from Rus’. Eleanor of Castile also displayed a sense of national identity. We can imagine the shock Eleanor, raised in the elegant courts of Castile, the warmth of Spain, might have felt arriving on the rainy shores of the relatively unsophisticated England a year after her marriage. Effort was made to help Eleanor feel at home in her new surroundings: her father-in-law Henry III arranged for her apartments to be furnished in a Castilian style, and he opened his court to some of Eleanor’s maternal relatives, as well as her brother Enrique, who was estranged from King Alfonso IX.17 When Eleanor of Provence had married Henry III, he incurred censure for his too-zealous promotion of her family’s interests. Eleanor of Castile clearly learned a lesson from this. Throughout her tenure as queen, her primary associates were English, and while she maintained correspondence with the Castilian royal family, the only members of her family she brought to England were obscure relatives from Castile and members of her mother’s family who already had ties to England. Instead of marrying them to major heirs and heiresses as Henry III had done, Eleanor arranged for her relatives to marry younger sons of important families or heirs of more modest estates.18 In her dress and comportment, Eleanor conformed to English fashion, for example emblazoning many items she owned with her coat of arms, copying a love of heraldry that was trendy in England at the time. In her private life, however, Eleanor was unwilling to give some things up. Her financial records show a good deal of money spent on gardens, in particular importing gardeners from Iberia to create water features, which were uncommon in English gardens. This suggests a desire to incorporate elements of the Islamic pleasure gardens she would have enjoyed in Castile. She also imported olive oil and citrus fruits from Castile and other parts of Southern Europe. Those residing in her household or visiting one of her residences would have been reminded that their queen was very much from Spain. In a society where the gulf 101

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines between the haves and have-nots was already vast, these differences in lifestyle would have driven home the differences between the foreign queen and even her wealthiest subjects.19 The books Eleanor owned were varied, though she seems more interested in secular, intellectual works than in the spiritual. They reflect her diverse background, including a military work by the Roman writer Vegetius, a romance from her mother’s native Ponthieu and an Arthurian romance. While she was clearly influenced by the sophisticated Castilian court of her childhood, she made a point to incorporate English literature into her library. This was a woman with wide-ranging intellect, invested as a participant in her husband’s rule (why else read a military treatise?), who contributed to the flowering of an Arthurian cult during Edward’s reign.20 Maria de Luna did not have a home country to remain loyal to, but she did have a family. Like Eleanor, she had to walk the line between supporting her family’s interests and not playing favourites to the point of disrupting the balance of power. Although she took her responsibilities as queen of Aragon seriously, Maria spent the first forty years of her life as countess of Luna, and this may well have remained her primary identity.21 As the matriarch of the Luna family, Maria was entrusted with promoting the family’s interests, while as queen she was expected to incorporate her family into her rule. The Luna family was quite small: Maria’s only immediate relatives were her sister Brianda and her illegitimate half-brother Ferran López de Luna. Neither could be particularly ‘useful’ in the sense medieval monarchs typically utilised family connections, as one was a woman and the other a bastard. Maria and Brianda had a chequered relationship. As a teenager, Brianda abandoned her husband Lope Ximénez de Urrea and eloped with a rival, Luis Cornel lord of Alfajarín. Maria used her influence to support her sister’s decision, working out a deal with her father-in-law King Pere wherein he encouraged the church to recognise Brianda’s new marriage. In exchange, Maria acknowledged Pere’s own scandalous marriage to the much lower-status Sibilla de Fortià. Supporting Brianda paid off. When Maria became queen, Brianda and her daughters joined Maria’s court. In exchange for a comfortable life and expensive gifts, they allowed Maria to take the lead in arranging politically-advantageous

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship marriages for her nieces, allowing the queen to use her family to extend her own network.22 Illegitimate children occupied a confusing place in Iberian society: although they could not typically inherit property, they were respectable, albeit lower-class, members of their families. Maria’s treatment of her half-brother Ferran López reflects this ambivalence. She promoted his interests and ensured he received valuable and prestigious positions – as we saw previously, Ferran López was tasked with ruling Valencia in Maria’s absence. Nonetheless, her official correspondence refers to him as ‘beloved counsellor’ rather than ‘brother’, though Maria’s husband Martí called him ‘brother-in-law’. Ferran grew up to be a knight in the personal guard of King Pere, so Maria would have seen him regularly – probably more regularly than her own sister or mother – during her upbringing at court. The regular, expensive gifts that Ferran received, as well as the support Maria provided for his children (she arranged government posts for his sons and a good marriage for his daughter Joana) suggest a relationship that went beyond the obligatory.23 Maria’s dual identity as head of the house of Luna and queen of Aragon required that she support her family, and she used these connections to create more power for herself and her husband. She saw to it her relatives were placed in positions of comfort and power, and then she expected their unwavering support. This proclamation of Luna identity within her court would have been a message to all Maria’s nobles that their queen was no foreigner who might be manipulated or pushed around, but a member of the realm’s most powerful family, deserving of their unquestioning respect and loyalty. In a system designed to strip all but the blandest identity from queens, each of these women found ways to remind their subjects of who they were and where they had come from. Whether this was intended to be a statement of power, the fulfilment of family obligation, or a desire to create comfort in a strange land, by asserting identity, they reclaimed something of themselves. While these acts might have invited some comment, however, they were hardly radical. Grasping small pieces of power was nothing compared to women who acted on the national or international stage – sometimes with success, often leading to scandal.

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines

Queens and Politics International Politics Since one of the two common motivations for royal marriages was the forging of international alliances, it was expected that queens participate in international politics, at least in a behind-the-scenes capacity. For a queen from a foreign country, as most were, it was a delicate balancing act: they were expected to advocate for the interests of their native country and natal family, but not at the expense of their new country. As always, a woman’s intelligence and innate ability did much to dictate how successful she would be, but current events were usually the most important factor. Evpraksia of Kiev’s marriage to Heinrich IV of the Holy Roman Empire was probably intended to seal an alliance between Germany and the emerging Kievan Rus’, but there is little evidence of Evpraksia’s involvement on this score during their short marriage. We know Heinrich, embroiled in conflict with the papacy in Italy, hoped to bring the Rus’ onto his side to shift power towards his anti-pope, Clement III. Whether Evpraksia participated in these discussions is debatable. She was in her early twenties during her marriage to Heinrich, old enough to enter international politics as an important player, but no evidence survives of her role in relations between her natal family and her new home.24 We do know that five years into her marriage, Evpraksia dramatically departed Heinrich’s residence in Verona. The German chronicler Bernold of Constance relates how Evpraksia already daily challenged by many injustices, and for many years kept under guard without running away, at length fled to the Welf duke of Italy. When she was among them, she complained of the many unheard-of evils that she had endured, so that even though she was among enemies, they were moved to sympathy without hesitation, nor was she deceived in her hope. For the duke and his wife Matilda received her thankfully and treated her honourably.25 The Welf duke to whose protection Evpraksia had fled was, of course, Welf of Bavaria, Matilda of Tuscany’s husband. Since we know Welf was 104

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship little more than a figurehead, it seems likely the person whose protection Evpraksia was seeking was in fact her husband’s greatest enemy, Matilda. According to Heinrich’s enemies, he and Evpraksia had a difficult marriage from the beginning. They gossiped that Evpraksia distanced herself from Heinrich because he was part of a heretical sect that engaged in deviant sexual practices, including orgies. In this version of events, Evpraksia told Welf and Matilda that she initially joined her husband in these immoral rituals, but chose to speak out when she became pregnant and did not know who the father was.26 Although obviously exaggerated, the story was spread across Europe beginning at a council of bishops in Swabia, in what today is southern Germany. Bernold tells us at this council the complaint of Queen Evpraksia, who lately departed from her husband to the Welf duke of Italy, came to the synod at Konstanz. She complained of so many and such unheard-of taints of whoredom that she had been made to suffer, that even among enemies, they easily excused her flight, and all catholics were moved to compassion at such injustices.27 The story spread further, and the following year, Pope Urban II invited Evpraksia to tell her story at the Papal Synod in he was holding in Piacenza. At that synod, Queen Evpraksia, only recently separated from Heinrich, went over her husband’s head to the apostolic lord [the pope] and the whole synod, and she complained of the unheard-of fornication which she had suffered in her marriage. The lord pope, with the holy synod, received her lamentation with great pity, for he knew for certain that such crimes had been committed against her, which she had borne against her will. Because of this he gently absolved her, both of the sin and of the penance for it.28 These depictions were written by Heinrich’s enemies, and they surely exaggerate the ‘unheard-of ’ acts Heinrich committed. We can also be confident the public statements Evpraksia made painted her situation in the worst light. Nonetheless, the bare facts of the story are probably 105

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines true. Evpraksia, unhappy, possibly abused, in her marriage, coordinated with Matilda of Tuscany to be rescued, and in exchange, she agreed to provide scandalous details of her relationship with Heinrich that would sway public opinion against him. Evpraksia’s ‘departure’ from Heinrich’s custody looks similar to Alice de Lacy’s departure from Thomas of Lancaster nearly three centuries later. This act amounted to more than simply leaving her husband: leaving to join his enemies was an intentional insult. It made it clear that not only was the emperor a poor ruler, but he was a poor man and husband – after all, he could not even control his wife. Why Evpraksia left is a matter of some curiosity. It is believable that the childless Evpraksia, married to an older man, found there was little appealing about her marriage. International politics had changed since her marriage to Heinrich as well. The union of the Rusian church with Clement III’s separatist church Heinrich hoped for never took place, for one thing. For another, the papacy began courting closer relations with the Byzantine Empire, which was ideologically connected to Kievan Rus’. When the Rus’ determined to join with the Byzantines, Evpraksia’ marriage to Heinrich became undesirable. Her dramatic departure suggests that when she learned of this, Evpraksia did what she could, not only leaving her husband, but doing so in a way that inflicted the most possible damage.29 It seems reasonable to think Evpraksia and Matilda worked in concert – Verona was just outside Matilda’s area of influence in northern Italy, and if Evpraksia found a way to reach out to Matilda, it would probably have been fairly straightforward for Matilda to extract her. Her story of being manipulated into deviant sex acts would have been appealing, and Evpraksia herself made the perfect victim: young, foreign, and married to a man much older than herself.30 Evpraksia surely knew that any accusation she had to wield against Heinrich would be welcome, and Matilda clearly recognised the same. Both understood the conflict between papacy and Holy Roman Emperor would be fought not only on the battlefield, but also on an ideological front. Evpraksia’s willingness to reach out to someone with no reason to be friendly to her – Bernold of Constance reminds us several times she was in the hands of enemies – speaks both to her bravery and her trust that what she had to offer would be appreciated. In this, we have a rare example of two women publicly working together on a matter of the greatest importance. 106

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Evpraksia largely disappears from the historical record after the synod at Piacenza in 1095. She spent a couple of years in Italy with her stepson Conrad of Lombardy, Heinrich’s son from his first marriage who had also turned against his father. Eventually she returned to Kiev, where in December of 1106 – shortly after Heinrich died – she became a nun. She remained in religious life for three years until her own death in 1109. She was buried in the Kievan Caves Monastery, the holiest monastery in Rus’, the only woman of her era who was thus honoured.31 The details of Evpraksia’s life are sketchy, but there are two stories to be told here. One is of a dispensable daughter sent to marry a foreigner in order to seal an alliance between men, abused by her husband, used to create a diplomatic scandal, discarded when no longer needed. Returning home in disgrace, she was shunted into religious life. But there is another story, one of an intelligent young woman selected for a crucial international alliance. When her marriage soured and the alliance dissolved, she seized control of the situation, allying herself with her husband’s enemies to deal a devastating blow to his reputation. She returned home triumphant and, rather than subject herself to another marriage, remained single. She exceeded her country’s expectations and was accorded great honour. Eleanor of Castile’s impact on international relations was more subtle. In many cases, she exerted her influence through marriage, such as that between Edward I’s uncle Geoffrey of Lusignan and Eleanor’s cousin Jeanne in 1258. Eleanor regularly arranged marriages between her ladies in waiting, many of whom were lower-ranking nobility from Ponthieu or Castile, and Englishmen. Connections with the county of Ponthieu, of which Eleanor’s mother and later Eleanor herself were countess, were particularly strong. During the Second Barons’ War of the 1260s, for instance, these connections supplied mercenaries from Ponthieu to reinforce Windsor Castle, and there was worry among the king’s enemies that Castilian forces might join these. There was no need for them to fear: though Eleanor seems to have helped keep the relationship between England and Castile a warm one, her contact with her brother and his family was limited to diplomatic pleasantries.32 Eleanor’s contact with her home countries suggests walked the line between supporting her family as was expected, but not letting her favouritism go too far. Several generations later, Margaret of Anjou learned the lesson of how to walk this line painfully. The Wars of the 107

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Roses eventually overtook Margaret’s interests and goals, but in the early years of her marriage to Henry VI of England, she remained the face of hoped-for peace between England and France. Although she had almost no role in the process, Margaret ended up taking much of the blame for the fact that within a few years of the marriage, not only had war resumed, but England had lost almost all its remaining holdings in France.33 Margaret was particularly associated with the loss of the counties of Maine and Anjou, which the English had partially controlled for some time. In the 1450s, Thomas Gascoigne, chancellor of Oxford, wrote that ‘the king of England, Henry VI granted and gave Maine and Anjou at the request of Queen Margaret’.34 Margaret may have been involved in returning Maine to the French. In December of 1445, just half a year after the marriage, Henry VI wrote to Charles VII of France agreeing to give up the town of Le Mans and other territories in Maine for several reasons, including as a favour to Margaret, who he said had requested this many times. At around the same time, Margaret also wrote to Charles indicating she was planning to lobby Henry on Charles’s behalf: To the very high and powerful prince, our very dear uncle of France, Marguerite by the grace of God queen of France and of England, greeting, with all affection and cordial love … … No greater pleasure can we have in this world than to see an arrangement for a final peace between him and you, as well as for the nearness of lineage in which you stand the one to the other, as also for the relief and repose of the Christian people, which has been so long disturbed by war. And herein, to the pleasure of our Lord, we will, upon our part, stretch forth the hand, and will employ ourselves herein effectually to our power in such wise that reason would that you, and all others, ought herein to be gratified. And as to the deliverance which you desire to have of the county of Maine, and other matters contained in your said letters, we understand that my said lord [Henry VI] has written to you at considerable length about this; and yet herein we will do for your pleasure the best that we can do, as we have always done … .35 108

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship This is a diplomatic letter between a queen and king, not a personal letter from a niece to her uncle, and Margaret’s conciliatory tone is expected. Nonetheless, the letter clearly indicates Margaret’s intention to take France’s side in any negotiations. The overwrought scribal language is not Margaret’s, but the sentiment probably is, and it speaks to a clumsy attempt at diplomacy. She had been crowned only seven months previously and was still only 15 years old. While she was surely aware of the necessity of supporting her husband, naturally her sympathies still lay with her home country. Before she departed for England, her family would have impressed upon Margaret the importance that she take up their cause with her new husband. Based on this letter, she was quick to put this into action. A few years into her marriage, there was a sense at the English court that Margaret had encouraged her husband to capitulate to French pressure. Apparently this was based at least partly in truth. In attempting to fill the role of peacemaker placed on her shoulders, Margaret failed to walk the line between her native country and her new kingdom. Domestic Politics Regardless of where they were from, most queens were pulled into domestic politics eventually. This was particularly true for Maria de Luna, a rare medieval queen who was not a foreign princess. We have already discussed how Maria’s exceptionally close relationship with her husband Martí led to her appointment as lieutenant in Valencia. Maria’s largest impact on Martí’s reign, however, occurred in the year following his accession. When Martí became king of Aragon in 1396, he was in Sicily assisting their son with his claim to that throne. It fell to Maria to seize the Aragonese throne on her husband’s behalf. Maria and Martí had mortgaged Maria’s inheritance of the county of Luna to pay for their son’s claim to Sicily. Only with royal support was there hope of successfully prosecuting that claim, so when Martí’s brother King Joan died, Maria was backed into a corner. Joan’s will declared Martí his heir, but Martí was far away. Under the circumstances, Maria’s only option was decisive action, Within a week of Joan’s death, Maria declared Martí king and herself queen and created a new royal council composed of established officials and supporters of Joan’s regime. The council’s existence was a concession in and of itself, and the fact that 109

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines it was made of Joan’s supporters is evidence that Maria was forced to compromise heavily to seize power.36 Maria understood the value of confidence, for within days of Joan’s death – well before Martí even knew he had become king – all official documents began referring to herself as queen, and she signed her letters ‘La Reyna’. But all the confidence in the world could not erase the fact that there were other claimants to the throne. King Joan’s illegitimate daughter Joana immediately put in her own claim as her father’s eldest child, while Joan’s widow Violant of Bar claimed that she was pregnant, making her unborn child the heir.37 Again, Maria acted quickly. Violant was easier to handle. She had few friends at court: King Pere had opposed Joan and Violant’s marriage, and many at court took this as permission to publicly oppose her, deriding her French manners and fashion. The day after Violant announced her pregnancy, Maria brought her to court for questioning. When Violant stood by her story, Maria placed her under arrest and ordered she be closely watched, both watch for signs of pregnancy and to prevent her from becoming pregnant if she was not. Violant’s clothing and jewels were brought to her. This generosity ensured she was comfortable, but also emphasised that Maria would determine what Violant could and could not have. Violant was allowed nothing of Joan’s except the horse that had thrown him to his death.38 Violant’s claim that she was pregnant gave Maria the pretext she needed to effectively imprison her rival. This done, Maria turned her attention to rounding up Violant’s supporters and imprisoning them under accusations of treason or corruption. This took some months. By July of 1396, two months after Joan’s death, it was clear Violant was not pregnant, but Maria kept her under house arrest until November.39 Maria then turned to the second, more dangerous threat. King Joan’s first marriage to Martha of Armagnac had produced one child, Joana. After her father’s death, Joana, now married to Mathieu, the powerful count of Foix, had her own claim to the crown. Her parents’ marriage contract dictated their eldest daughter would inherit the throne in the event Joan had no surviving sons. This was superseded by Joan’s will declaring Martí his heir, but Joana was determined to stake her claim nonetheless. The couple had networks in Aragon, so though they lived in France, they had the connections they needed.40 110

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Although Aragonese law technically allowed a woman to inherit, Aragonese inheritance was determined not by primogeniture, but by the king’s will, and no woman had ever effectively claimed the throne. In July of 1396, Maria wrote that it is known to all that neither the said countess [Joana] nor any other woman associated to a royal male lineage can succeed to the throne, in accordance with the promulgations made by the former kings of Aragon, as much as a result of the orders of succession in the will and testament of the Lord-King Pere, father of the Lord-King Martí, as of the letter which was written by the Lord-King Joan, may God have mercy on him.41 Whether Maria deliberately misrepresented Aragonese law or whether she accepted previous precedent as law, she determined to rest her husband’s succession on two claims: first that a woman could not succeed, and second that King Pere and King Joan had designated Martí the heir. Where much of medieval Europe believed in a ruling family’s divine right, the Spanish kingdoms were different. Aragon’s kings ruled with the consent and cooperation of their subjects, and they developed a ‘pactist’ approach to consolidating power. Maria could not hand down orders at will, but had to bring people to her side with command, compromise, and threat. As Joana’s husband Mathieu of Foix prepared to invade Aragon to press his claim, there was no guarantee of support – even Maria’s own uncle Alfons refused to come to the aid of the crown.42 Martí was still in Sicily claiming he was too embroiled in politics there to come home, and Maria took sole ownership of his claim to the crown. As Mathieu gathered allies, Maria sent secret messages and spies across Aragon and ordered reinforcements to the border. An emergency parliament at the end of June raised funds for the defence of Aragon and of Sicily, in the hope that Martí would be able to return sooner. She sent official letters to Mathieu and Joana as well, asking them to consider a peaceful solution. These were probably more an attempt to buy time than a genuine desire for peace. Maria continued sending instructions to her commanders along the frontier, stocked her castles with supplies, and ordered citizens along the border to evacuate or take shelter in local fortresses.43 111

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines When Mathieu and Joana finally moved in August of 1396, Maria was ready. She ordered her troops towards battle, and imprisoned anyone whose loyalties she considered uncertain. She ordered a ‘scorched earth’ defence, harvesting any crops that could be used and burning everything else. Although only a few of Maria’s nobles had sent support, her decisive action pushed Mathieu and Joana back across their border. They attempted to rally, but the international leaders they reached out to were uninterested, and the next half-hearted invasion was repelled. Martí returned only after the threat was thoroughly dismantled.44 Maria’s knowledge of domestic politics within the kingdoms that comprised Aragon went on to serve her husband repeatedly during his reign, but she proved her skills most dramatically during this first year. A less politically aware, less connected, less mature, less decisive woman would have been unable to hold the throne confronted with wellconnected rival claimants and unreliable nobility. For many queens, the irony is that, though their marriages were arranged for an international alliance, their energy was directed towards domestic matters. Isabeau of Bavaria’s marriage to Charles VI of France was meant to forge a connection between France and the Holy Roman Empire, reorienting the empire towards France following the marriage of Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. The Hundred Years’ War did indeed play a role in Isabeau’s queenship, but politics closer to home took up most of her time. Following their marriage in 1385, Isabeau and Charles had what seems to have been a close marriage. Following a whirlwind courtship and coronation, their first years were happy. Frequent and expensive gifts between the two – Charles liked giving Isabeau gifts decorated with the intertwined letters K and E, for Karolus and Elisabeta – speaks to continued affection, as do Isabeau’s frequent pregnancies.45 Charles inherited the French throne in 1380, when he was 12. Conflict between the dukes of Orléans and Burgundy, which had festered for some time, was augmented by Charles’s minority, when there was no neutral king to keep peace. When Charles took over the government as an adult, it seemed things would improve, but disaster struck in 1392. On a hunting trip with friends, Charles experienced the first bout of the mental illness that plagued him for the rest of his life. With Charles increasingly unable to exercise royal power, the dukes of Burgundy and 112

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Orléans sought to fill the gap. They took opposing sides on every issue, and to fund their feud, they competed to control French finance.46 Charles’s first mental breakdown in 1392 was alarming, but when he emerged after a short period, most hoped the situation was a one-off. As a precaution, Charles declared that if he died, the 22-year-old Isabeau would sit on the regency council and act as guardian for their son Charles, the dauphin. At the same time, Isabeau assumed an informal role as mediator in the conflict between Orléans and Burgundy, filling the role of a neutral leader that her husband could not.47 Charles was right to be cautious. For the rest of his reign, his mental illness incapacitated him for weeks or months at a time. In his lucid periods, he passed a series of ordinances that slowly augmented Isabeau’s authority. Eventually, Charles declared that if he died, his oldest son would be immediately crowned king without a regency, leaving only Isabeau to guide his decision-making during childhood. Another ordinance gave the dauphin royal authority during Charles’s illnesses. Since the prince was so young, this effectively placed Isabeau in charge during Charles’s ‘episodes’. The king clearly feared that amidst a conflict that threatened to tear the country apart, the only person he could trust to exercise royal authority responsibly was his wife.48 With the death of their son Charles in 1401, the couple’s next son Louis became dauphin, and Isabeau assumed more leadership. Instead of acting as a neutral power outside the conflict, the next decades saw Isabeau vacillate between support of Orléans and Burgundy. She began by supporting Philip the Bold of Burgundy, Charles’s uncle. When Philip died in 1404, however, Isabeau veered towards Louis of Orléans, on the other side of the conflict. Philip was a prince of the blood as son of King Jean II of France, but his son Jean was not. His opponent Louis of Orléans was also a prince of the blood, giving him, from a French perspective, a greater right to power.49 Isabeau’s vacillation was underpinned by logic: in the king’s absences, she allied herself with whichever faction seemed safest. Both sides tended towards violence, and more than once, Isabeau removed her husband and children from Paris to avoid Jean of Burgundy kidnapping them for leverage. As the dauphin Louis of Guyenne grew older, Isabeau prepared him to shoulder royal authority in his father’s illness. As he became a teenager, Louis distanced himself from both sides of the conflict, adopting a new policy of quietly siphoning power from each side 113

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines until he became old and powerful enough to exert independent influence to stop the feud. Matters were still dire – the conflict continued, and King Charles spent more and more of his time in insanity – but there was an end in sight, and if it was not yet bearing fruit, Isabeau’s plan seemed promising at least.50 1415 was disastrous for France and for Isabeau. The disintegrating political situation in Paris prompted King Henry V of England to invade, which culminated in the battle of Agincourt. And at the end of 1415, the dauphin Louis of Guyenne unexpectedly died, aged 18. His younger brother Jean had been raised in the county of Hainault with his wife Jacqueline since 1406. An unknown quantity, 17-year-old Jean made the nobles at the French court nervous, but he died as well in 1417. The personality of his younger brother Charles, the future King Charles VII of France, became known quickly. Charles was an ally of the Armagnac faction who supported the duke of Orléans; his elevation to dauphin placed Orléans firmly in control.51 When the Orléans faction imprisoned Isabeau in 1417, she flipped sides again, arranging for Jean of Burgundy to rescue her. The saving grace was the dauphin Charles was only 14. In accordance with her husband’s ordinances, Isabeau declared herself regent and threw her support behind Burgundy. In 1418, Jean the Fearless took Paris back from the dauphin and his Orléans supporters. The young Charles arranged Jean of Burgundy’s murder in 1419, and Charles VI disinherited his son.52 Isabeau’s time in power was ending. In 1420, she performed the last major political act in her career, agreeing to the Treaty of Troyes on behalf of her husband and son. Made between France and England, the treaty dictated that following Charles VI’s reign, Henry V of England would succeed as king of France. It also arranged for Henry to marry Isabeau and Charles’s youngest daughter Catherine, ensuring French blood would continue in the French royal family. Isabeau’s agreement to the treaty is often seen as the ultimate betrayal of French interests, but a closer examination of its context forces us to question this assumption.53 Isabeau was forced to turn to the Burgundians after she was imprisoned in 1417, but when her son arranged Jean of Burgundy’s assassination in 1419, there was nothing preventing him and his Orléans supporters from seizing control of the government. There was a real fear that either Burgundy or Orléans could ally with the English against 114

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Isabeau and the king. Meanwhile Henry V of England determined to fully conquer France. Isabeau sent an embassy to Henry, and he demanded the French crown as his price for an alliance, but Isabeau did not agree immediately. She kept communication open with England while secretly corresponding with her son, a desperate effort to end conflict and create a faction able to withstand England. Even as she travelled to Troyes to sign the treaty, Isabeau worked to resist it, but Burgundian pressure – they would rather cede the French throne to the English than see the dauphin take the throne – was eventually too much. The treaty was signed on 21 May 1420.54 Isabeau found herself in a similar position to Maria de Luna, forced to rule on behalf of an absent king, but where Maria successfully rallied to defend her crown, Isabeau was largely unsuccessful. At the end of thirty years of on-and-off rule on Charles’s behalf, the most Isabeau could say was neither side of the conflict between Burgundy and Orléans had fully defeated the other. She presided over military, diplomatic, and political disaster, and France’s next king appeared to be a partisan teenager with a taste for violence. Yet for a German princess without French allies, largely abandoned by her husband, these might have been considerable accomplishments. She was a regent, not a ruler in her own right, and it seems likely that if the dauphin Louis had survived, he would have become the neutral power she intended. The deck was stacked against her, and under the circumstances the fact that she retained the control she did for as long as she did is a remarkable display of power. Like Isabeau, Margaret of Anjou faced the challenge of attempting to rule a country on behalf of a minor son while her husband the king’s mental incapacity prevented his effective rule. Margaret’s husband Henry VI of England was Isabeau and Charles VI’s grandson, and he inherited the claim to the French crown that Henry V had sealed in the Treaty of Troyes in 1420. Unfortunately, he inherited the throne as an infant, and the first decades of his reign had seen Charles VII of France come to power as a strong ruler, who seized back the initiative in the war. Henry grew up under the influence of councillors, and when he came of age, he showed little to no initiative in ruling. In the midst of Henry’s almost pathological indecisiveness, the seeds of the Wars of the Roses, planted decades earlier in the overthrow of King Richard II, took root. Margaret came to England thinking her 115

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines challenge would come in the form of the expectation of peace between France and England, but the far greater challenge became holding the country together for her son. Margaret’s pregnancy – or lack thereof – was the first domestic pressure. When the couple married, Henry’s heir was his aging uncle Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. When Humphrey died childless in 1447, and there was no indication Margaret was pregnant or would be soon, pressure mounted. With Humphrey dead, it was unclear who Henry VI’s heir would be if he also died childless. What caused the delay in conception is still unclear, though rumours abounded. In 1448, a conversation between two prisoners reported to the royal courts had one suggesting that my lord of Suffolk and the bishop of Salisbury ruled the king and when the king would have his sport with our sovereign lady the queen … then the said bishop of Salisbury and other men that were about our said sovereign lord the king counselled him that he should not come near her, the which is the cause that she is not with child and so the land is deprived of a prince.55 The suggestion Henry’s advisors were telling him to avoid sex is surprising. Unless they were hoping they could arrange for the marriage to be annulled, Henry and Margaret needed to have as much sex as possible. The report of this rumour shows how destabilising the royal couple’s childlessness was at all levels of society. Regardless of why the delay occurred, the announcement of Margaret’s pregnancy in early 1453 prompted genuine relief and joy. The birth of Edward of Westminster in October that year prompted celebrations across the kingdom, and no expense was spared for his baptism.56 The only person not celebrating was Margaret’s husband, King Henry, for in August of 1453, he experienced a severe mental breakdown rendering him unable to clearly speak, much less effectively rule. The illness was unexpected and without warning, and though it was unclear from the outset how long it would last, the memory of Henry’s grandfather Charles VI of France and his frequent incapacity must have been on people’s minds. In the end, Henry became lucid again as suddenly as he had fallen ill in late December of 1454, after well over a year.57 116

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Margaret had experienced brief forays into political action, but Henry’s absence pushed her to the forefront of political life in a new way. To keep the country together during her husband’s mental illness, she required support from the nobility. As Isabeau of Bavaria had experienced, however, the sudden gap in royal power allowed the nobles to attempt to seize control for themselves instead of uniting behind Margaret. At the outset of Henry’s illness, Margaret was heavily pregnant and unable to intervene. As weeks passed in the early autumn of 1453, Richard, Duke of York, took his opportunity. He had his enemy the duke of Somerset arrested for treason and imprisoned.58 Margaret needed a collaborative council who could set aside their differences to hold the kingdom together. Instead she got a group of squabbling nobles intent on using the absence of royal authority to seize power for themselves. In January of 1454, however, Margaret reemerged. She had given birth to a son in October and after returning to court life, she presented a bill granting her regency of the kingdom and custody of her infant son. This would allow her to be a neutral royal presence that could prevent personal vendettas that could cause civil war. If accepted, it would place her in the position that Isabeau had held for her husband fifty years previously.59 Margaret must have been in a panic. Her son was only a few months old, and her husband was unable to express his wishes. There were others at court – chiefly Richard of York, but not only him – who had claims to the throne. Now was the time for one of them to strike. What happened in the end was a compromise. When parliament met in February and March of 1454, it granted the infant Edward of Westminster the titles of Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester, affirming his position as heir to the throne. These titles were usually granted to the heir at an older age, and the decision to grant them to the baby Edward suggests effort to eliminate any uncertainty about the succession. The decision may also have been an olive branch to Edward’s mother Margaret, for parliament rejected her proposal that she become regent. Richard of York was chosen as protector instead.60 Where France and Aragon allowed women to take the regency and exercise royal authority in some cases, England had no such tradition. The French considered women ‘safe’ regents – because France’s strict interpretation of Salic Law barred women from inheriting the throne, it was impossible for them to overstep their power and attempt to take the 117

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines crown. In England, where women could theoretically hold the throne – though none had successfully done so by Margaret’s lifetime – no such tradition emerged. Margaret was acting in her son’s interests, claiming a position women in the French royal family had held, but her idea was foreign to the English court. The next several years saw Richard of York emerge as a threat to Henry’s Lancastrian line. The first battle of the Wars of the Roses at St Albans saw Henry VI forced to return to London in York’s custody, whereupon York again assumed the role of protector of the realm. Henry was fully lucid at the time. The decision to replace him with a protector when he was not incapacitated represented a dramatic erosion of royal authority that further solidified the battle lines between York and Lancaster.61 Margaret’s apparently concluded that if her husband was going to do nothing for himself, then she needed to be in power. She worked with Henry to end York’s second protectorate, then travelled to the Midlands, where the bulk of the properties she controlled as queen were located, with her son. Henry joined them there in the summer of 1456. If Richard of York wished to supplant the king, he would need to leave London and enter Margaret’s sphere of influence to do it.62 She took advantage of the respite to build the support she would need if Henry continued to fail to rule. Margaret stocked government offices with Lancastrian supporters, ensuring she had access to the machinery of government at every level. In early 1457, she created a council to oversee Prince Edward’s tutelage, also comprised of Margaret and Henry’s supporters. The council took control of Edward’s lands as prince of Wales and earl of Chester, so in addition to her own lands in the Midlands, Margaret had influence over her son’s properties in Wales, Chester, and Cornwall. Finally, Margaret worked to negotiate a number of marriages in the lower and middle tiers of the nobility, creating new relationships that might supplant the alliances against her and her husband, as well as create bonds of indebtedness to Margaret herself.63 Meanwhile, royal offices were granted to Richard of York and his ally Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, and they were invited to meetings of Henry’s council, though they rarely attended. The impression through most of the late 1450s is not that Margaret wanted to destroy York and his allies, but that she was pressuring them to accept royal authority.64 How tense peace transformed into civil war in the second half of 1459 is unclear, but that autumn saw Richard of York and his allies 118

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship raising armies, while Margaret recruited soldiers from Cheshire in her son’s name. York still refused to claim the throne; rather than state he was raising arms against the king, he declared that he had defeated the queen’s forces at the Battle of Blore Heath in September. Despite protestations that they only wanted to plead their case with the king, Margaret reasonably perceived the armies descending on her own as a threat.65 December of 1459 concluded with parliament convicting Richard of York of treason and confiscating his titles and goods. Despite this victory, Margaret and Henry spent that winter raising more troops. In June of 1460, Richard, who had fled to the Continent, re-entered England in what amounted to an invasion. He took London, then defeated Henry’s army at Northampton in July of 1460, taking Henry himself into custody. In a parliament held in October, Richard of York at last claimed the throne, and it was determined he would become Henry VI’s heir.66 Margaret was having none of it. She still had custody of her son. With Edward alive, Henry was safe – there was no point in assassinating the king if he could be replaced by his son. Before Richard of York opened parliament, Margaret began assembling troops in the north. She did so in the name of her 7-year-old son, but it was clear to all that Margaret was the true power. When the Yorkists finally left London to face her, they took only a token military force. At Wakefield, Margaret’s forces defeated York, killing Richard, his second son, and the earl of Salisbury. She then turned south to London, scoring another victory at St Albans and securing custody of her husband.67 The journey south weakened Margaret’s army, however, and they were forced to pillage and forage on their way to London, which weakened Margaret’s position. Yorkists still held London, so Margaret and Henry could not simply re-enter their capital and take control. At this point, the city of London sent a delegation of ladies to Margaret to present the city’s case and point out that attacking one’s own capital was very poor PR. Having promised not to attack London, and with news of a new force headed their direction, led by the new duke of York, Edward, Margaret turned around. Edward became king in March of 1461, and he defeated Margaret’s army at the Battle of Towton a few weeks later.68 Margaret’s time in the limelight was effectively done. In withdrawing with her son to the Continent, Margaret extended the conflict, but had 119

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines little hope of winning it. The brief attempt a decade later to reinstate Henry VI led, predictably, to the deaths of both Henry and Prince Edward. If the deck was stacked against Isabeau of Bavaria, it was more stacked against Margaret of Anjou. Faced with an inept, sometimes mentally incapacitated husband, an infant son, and a violent nobility, she did her best. Margaret attempted to place herself into a neutral position of power, but England had no tradition of female regency, and the nobles could not conceive of her being in charge. When barred from formal authority, she worked behind the scenes to establish herself in a position of power, and it worked for awhile. When that failed, she turned to war, and in this also she was remarkably successful. But Margaret was hampered by the fact that she could only exercise power on behalf of her husband and son, never in her own right. She failed, but she held on nearly a decade. Her ability to read political situations, to react intelligently and decisively, and her sheer tenacity made her more effective than she might have been. Throughout, Margaret’s reading of the political situation was astute. She understood the importance of placing herself in power or, if this was impossible, having her son declared prince of Wales. She knew how to arrange marriage and plant her own supporters in government. She grasped that if she could not arrange for support in her own name, she could in the name of her husband and son. This political know-how is surprising coming from a woman that we first met as a teenager sent to a strange country. If she was overwhelmed at first, she clearly used her first, childless years to learn how to be an effective, powerful queen.

Reputation For many queens, their reputation, or fama, dictated their public success and determined how they were remembered. Creating a good reputation through acts of piety or generosity, cultivating a reputation for wisdom, or behaving as a good mother, all might improve a queen’s reputation. Developing a reputation for vanity or greed, sexual licentiousness, frivolity, violence, or simply a sense of overstepping appropriate bounds might all be points against a woman. This is where we really see the contradictory expectations placed on queens come the fore. A reputation for piety – backed up by expensive donations to religious foundations – was one important way for a queen to ensure that she was 120

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship spoken of and remembered positively. A letter from Pope Nicholas II to Anna of Kiev, for instance references her piety: We give proper thanks to almighty God, the author of good will, because we have heard that the virile strength of virtues lives in a womanly breast. Indeed it has come to our ears, most distinguished daughter, that your serenity overflows with the munificence of pious generosity for the poor, sweats forth with the zeal of most devoted prayer, administers the force of punishment on behalf of those who are violently oppressed, and fulfils with other good works, insofar as it belongs to you, the office of royal dignity.69 The letter also encourages Anna to ‘strive to rouse your most invincible man, our son the king, toward managing the governing of piety and equity and to preserving the position of the church’ and to ‘teach your very renowned offspring, so that among those beginnings of infant suckling they may be nourished toward love of their creator’.70 These lines, hidden among the formulae of the official letter, reveal the pope’s true reason for writing. Although it was not unusual for a pope to write a queen to encourage her to continue in her piety, this is the only such letter written by Nicholas. He wrote in late 1059, as King Henri’s health was failing. Henri had experienced conflict with the pope over control over the French church. In the letter, Nicholas tacitly acknowledges Henri’s ailing health and the possibility that Anna’s role will soon expand, expressing his hope she will teach her children to follow her example.71 In her lifetime and in generations immediately following, Anna was primarily remembered as founder of the Abbey of Saint-Vincent in Senlis. At its founding, probably during her second marriage to Raoul of Crépy-en-Valois, the abbey was dedicated to the soul of Anna’s first husband Henri. After Anna died, a memorial service was celebrated on the anniversary of her death, 5 September, until the French Revolution.72 Anna did not forget her Eastern roots. The founding charter of SaintVincent refers to the Virgin Mary as ‘Mother of God’ and to John the Baptist as ‘the Precursor’, both Orthodox terms unknown in France. These dedications underscore Anna’s concern that the abbey reflect her own religious understanding. Similarly, a letter issued by Anna’s second husband Raoul of Crépy-en-Valois granting the proceeds from certain 121

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines of his lands to a church calls the property in question the ‘Church of the Holy Mary Mother of God’, using the same Orthodox construction as in Anna’s foundation of the Abbey of Saint-Vincent.73 Anna developed a reputation for piety and the ability to sway her husband’s opinion, as evidenced by Pope Nicholas’s letter to her in 1059. The Orthodox and Latin churches had formally split in 1054, but lines between the two were still remarkably permeable, and Anna felt comfortable introducing Eastern elements into her religious practice. The willingness of others – the Abbey of Saint-Vincent and her husband Raoul – to follow these practices seeks to a strong reputation for genuine piety. Maria de Luna also enjoyed a reputation for good queenship, though she did not stick to the conventional queenly role Anna did. She was keenly aware of qualities a ruler ought to foster, writing to her son Martí, for instance, that among the highest qualities befitting a king and prince is that he be just, liberal and magnanimous, most of all with those who deserve it by their service to him and [their] other praiseworthy qualities, because in this way, every king and prince fulfils his duty to inspire them to serve him better and encourage others by their example. In doing so, he will acquire great praise and fame, and no little merit from He who is King of Kings, He who rewards all good deeds.74 Not only would good kingly behaviour encourage good behaviour from those he ruled, according to Maria, but it would bring him a good reputation, a goal in and of itself. The examples we have of Maria cultivating relationships with her relatives, offering them positions and gifts in exchange for loyalty, show she spoke to her son from experience. Even as she cultivated a reputation for public magnificence, bedecking herself in fine fabrics and jewels for official entries into cities and towns of Aragon, Maria took seriously the expectation that she also care for the least in her society. As queen, she worked to eliminate excessive taxes on peasants, particularly a law that required peasants to pay their lord for the privilege of moving to new land. Her goals were twofold: to ease the lives of the poor, and to limit the nobility’s power.75 She began by requesting that Pope Benedict XIII (today considered an antipope because of the Great Schism) cease levying fines in his own 122

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Aragonese properties. Maria’s hoped if the church led the way, the lords would be forced to follow. Benedict did not fall into line. He risked losing a crucial ally – the Aragonese church only followed him because he Maria’s relative – and declined. Maria was ultimately unsuccessful in repealing the law, but this did not entirely matter. Simply by advocating for it, she earned herself a reputation for kindness and generosity.76 Maria’s religious life was also an example of carefully-constructed piety. Because Aragon and the other Iberian kingdoms did not believe their rulers ruled by divine right, their kings and queens were not necessarily expected to be spiritual leaders. They were expected to be pious, of course, to set a good example for their people. A king who was not divinely appointed could be more easily removed from power, so there was still pressure to conform to expectations of religious observance.77 Maria and Martí’s court bustled with religious activity: Franciscan friars performed masses and heard confessions. During Lent and other fasting seasons, Maria hosted meals and washed the feat of poor women in a display of humility. Fridays and other fast days saw only bread and water served. Maria and Martí owned a collection of religious books which favoured the works of the Franciscans, the order the Aragonese royal family had patronised for some time.78 Medieval culture was saturated in religion, but for a monarch, spiritual practices were also deeply political. Maria’s pious court was as much for public display as for the religious development of Maria and her courtiers. Maria was first and foremost a queen, not a religious woman. Her ostentatious fasting, displays of humility, and religious activity were meant to be observed. They served as insurance: anyone who wished to criticise Maria’s from a moral or religious standpoint would need to explain them away. Her patronage of the Franciscan friars was particularly important. Not only would she earn their prayers, but the Franciscans were a mendicant preaching group. While Maria and Martí gave generously to them, the message they preached to the people of Aragon would be one of royal goodness. Maria’s story could so easily have been one of a queen who overreached, who occupied a man’s space and forgot she was a woman. But this did not happen. Despite resistance from the lords at her husband’s accession, Maria compromised and assembled enough support to successfully claim the throne on Martí’s behalf. She held the country together, taking on the hardest tasks when Martí was unable to. At the same time, she developed 123

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines a strong network and reputation for piety. That Maria was raised at the court she eventually ruled, that she had an ironclad relationship with her husband, that she was in her forties when she became queen all helped her. She was clearly aware of the importance of deliberate activity. Maria’s goal was obviously a solid, loyal, unquestioned monarchy, and she appears to have been successful in every way.

Bad Reputation If a good reputation could secure positive memory of a queen, a bad reputation could cloud that memory. Eleanor of Castile was rarely commented on during her lifetime, but the scattered references we have suggest her presence was not entirely appreciated. Eleanor actively managed her property and sought opportunities to expand it, often to the detriment of those less fortunate than her. Previous English queens had usually been granted lands worth £1,000 per year. This hefty sum would have made Eleanor a wealthy woman equal to the great nobles of her kingdom. But Eleanor and Edward considered the amount insufficient to support her and her children appropriately, and the queen’s income was raised to £4,500 per year. Edward employed several strategies to augment Eleanor’s income. In addition to income from Eleanor’s properties, Edward pursued the ‘queen-gold’, a custom that gave the queen one tenth of fines over a certain amount paid to the king. Prior to Edward, the custom was poorly defined and rarely enforced, but he pursued it closely to add to his wife’s wealth. Frequently Edward also granted debts owed to him to Eleanor instead, so she would receive the money.79 Both Eleanor and Edward took advantage of anti-Jewish feeling, which was reaching a zenith in England in Edward’s reign. In English law, when a Jew was executed, their goods and chattel were sold, and the crown received this money. When a Jew died otherwise, a third of their goods were rendered to the crown. Edward frequently granted these monies to Eleanor. Eleanor personally participated in practices meant to disempower Jews. For instance, she made a practice of acquiring debts Christians owed to Jewish moneylenders for herself. The debts were cancelled, ensuring that the lender never received their money. In exchange, those Eleanor purchased the debts from granted her small parcels of land. Over time, these accumulated to significant property.80 124

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship Eleanor carefully monitored her finances. Local officials who could not produce appropriate rents were usually replaced, and at times, some adopted dishonest methods of augmenting their queen’s income. When the bishop of Winchester died in 1280, for example, Eleanor’s administration enacted a fine of over £600, claiming the late bishop had stolen venison from her nearby property in the New Forest, despite precedent in English law that only allowed such fines to be exacted in the accused’s lifetime. Eleanor’s officials also developed a reputation for seizing property in her name, only to keep it for themselves. As royal officials, they were exempt from prosecution, and there was little recourse to stop them.81 Eleanor’s accumulation of property, and the sometimes-underhanded means she used, attracted comment. A letter of 1286 to Geoffrey de Aspale, one of Eleanor’s household officials warned that a rumour is waxing strong throughout the kingdom of England, and much scandal is thereby generated, because it is said that the illustrious lady queen of England, whom you serve, is occupying many manors, lands and other possessions of nobles, and has made them her property, lands which the Jews extorted with usury from Christians under the protection of the royal court … There is public outcry and gossip about this in every part of England … .82 The letter may have been overstated partly for effect, but we know that some accusations are true – Eleanor certainly benefitted from purchasing the debts that members of the knightly class owed to Jewish lenders. We should assume that the spirit of the letter is true, and that Eleanor’s aggressive pursuit of funds caused a certain amount of outcry. While this behaviour was deplorable, it was not out of the ordinary for officials of high-ranking landholders of the periods. Eleanor felt some sense of responsibility – on her deathbed she ordered an inquest into such behaviour – but she made little effort to prevent it during her lifetime.83 Nonetheless, the reputation stuck: at her death, the Dunstable Chronicle summed up Eleanor by describing her simply as ‘a Spaniard by birth, who obtained many fine manors’.84 During her lifetime, Eleanor invited almost no official comment. Chroniclers noted her marriage, the births of her children, her death. Her behaviour was seen as problematic, though it prompted no major 125

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines outcry. In looking at her and her officials’ behaviour, we can verify that the few comments made were based on fact. The description at her death as a Spaniard who obtained fine manors strongly suggests Eleanor made little impact on her public, though what could be said was not positive. It may be that her near-constant presence with Edward meant that the bulk of her influence on him happened in person, so was never recorded. Yet her personality comes through elsewhere: in the Spanish gardens she had created in her residences; in the loving, playful relationship she enjoyed with her husband; in her mourning of the children she lost. She was an intelligent, affectionate woman, also capable of being selfish and uncaring, even if only in accordance with the standards of her time. Today she is best known in the Eleanor Crosses and graceful tomb effigy, which almost do her injustice, for they mask the real, complex woman whom they depict. Eleanor enjoyed a reputation that was only vaguely negative because she largely limited herself to the ‘appropriate’ areas of influence: gathering property, arranging marriages, raising children, advising her husband in private. For Margaret of Anjou, a bad reputation was ‘earned’ by her unsuccessful assumption of positions perceived as being inappropriate for a woman. Margaret was working in a system that was designed to make her fail. England had little history of women exercising authority in their own right and would not for another century after her death. The system did encourage them to exercise unofficial power, but in order to do so, she had to present herself as doing so on behalf a man who did hold authority. The problem was that while Henry VI was incapacitated, whether through mental illness or through his indecisive personality, and while her son Edward was only a young child, they had no authority to lend her. Margaret seized what she could, pushing the bounds of what was acceptable far past the bounds that had been established by earlier queens.85 There had been concerns around Margaret’s queenship since the beginning, related to her possible involvement with Henry VI’s decision to return the counties of Maine and Anjou to France, and then to her slowness in producing an heir. These were fairly run-of-the-mill expressions of distrust for a foreign-born queen who was not quite living up to the exceedingly high expectations that had been placed on her. The more serious accusations of inappropriate behaviour began in the mid-1450s, as Henry’s grasp on his throne weakened and Margaret stepped forward to fill the gap. It was around this time, for instance, 126

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship that rumours of Margaret’s son Edward’s illegitimacy surfaced. The rumours initially suggested that Edward was a changeling, but not that Margaret had been unfaithful. Later, they turned into accusations of adultery, claiming that Edward was not Henry’s son. This version of the rumour emerged in 1456, in response to Margaret’s attempts to build a power base for herself on behalf of her son. The accusation of adultery called Margaret’s proper feminine behaviour sharply into question, but it also suggested that she had no right to exercise power on his behalf, as he was no royal prince. Of course, it is possible that Edward was indeed illegitimate. Eight years into a childless marriage, Margaret might understandably have looked to become pregnant elsewhere if she believed Henry could not provide her with a child, but there is no evidence of this, and Henry seems to have been confident that Edward was his. The rumours died down, only to resurface again when Richard of York launched his assault on England in 1460.86 It is important to understand that accusations of adultery were about more than discrediting Margaret in this situation. Sexual propriety was a hallmark of good womanhood, and the ability to control one’s household was an essential element of masculinity. These accusations softened the ground for attacking Margaret and Henry as symbols of royal authority, not just as individuals. If the royal marriage was out of control, then the realm might well descend into chaos. Of course, these accusations came in tandem with Margaret’s attempts to exercise royal authority on behalf of her husband and son, attempts that were seen as dangerously unfeminine. Rumours quickly developed that Margaret sought to rule England herself, which one Yorkist propaganda song suggesting that It is right a great abusion A woman of a land to be a regent Queen Margaret I mean, that ever hath meant To govern all England with might and power And to destroy the right line was her intent She and her wicked affinity certain Intend utterly to destroy this region.87 It is no example that attacks on Margaret’s character – accusations of adultery, or that she hoped to rule England for herself – came as she 127

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines stretched the limits of queenly power. Queens were expected to be quiet, obedient, loving mothers, generous patronesses, quiet advisors, pious examples. Margaret was placed into a position that allowed her to do little of this. In the relatively quiet years before war broke out, she had founded a college at Cambridge dedicated to St Margaret, Queen’s College. She had arranged marriages and interceded with the king to request acts of mercy, both traditional examples of good ladyship. But faced with nobles who refused to accept their appropriate position and her husband and son’s inability to rule, she was forced into a position far outside the norm. A woman with more experience, who had a more developed network, who was not from an enemy kingdom, might have had more success. But Margaret did the best she could with the cards she was dealt, and her reputation paid the price. We have talked a lot about the distinction between authority – the power that a person might have due to their social status – and power – the ability to compel others regardless of formal authority. The patriarchal system in which queens existed denied women authority (though of course it would be naïve to suggest that they occupied the same position as all women), but encouraged them to exercise what power they could. The tension inherent in this contradictory system meant that while queens were able to exercise a good deal of power, they had to do so under the guise of legitimate authority, usually by presenting themselves as the wife or mother of the king, which then limited the potential of their power.88 Scholars debate how much power these women actually had. On the one hand, all the power that a queen exercised – and as we have seen, this could be considerable – came from her husband. Even the coronation ritual, which imbued the queen with a certain level of independent royal power, depended on her marriage to a king. Power not held personally could be taken away. But on the other hand, queens consort could be in a more solid position to exercise power than reigning queens. Women who inherited their crowns could be disempowered by having their succession challenged on account of gender or by coming under the control of a husband, while a consort’s power could only be taken by her husband.89 A consort’s role was caught up in a web of contradiction. Medieval queens served a crucial diplomatic role. Evpraksia of Kiev married Heinrich of Germany to seal an alliance between Rus’ and the Holy Roman Empire that Heinrich intended to bring in a key ally in his battle against papal authority. Eleanor of Castile married Edward I of England 128

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The ‘Profession’ of Queenship in an alliance intended to secure English rule in the duchy of Aquitaine. Margaret of Anjou married Henry VI of England in a desperate attempt to secure peace after a century of war between England and France. Those international connections could be tricky, however. When Evpraksia recognised that the ties that bound the Holy Roman Empire to Rus’ had weakened, she felt free to leave her marriage, and she took advantage of the opportunity to do so as dramatically as possible. Eleanor’s international connections were important in the English royal family’s civil war against their own nobility, as she was able to provide troops from the county of Ponthieu to support her marital family’s cause. At the same time, she never truly integrated into English society, and after her death was remembered more as a Spaniard than as a queen. In her feeble attempts to fulfil her diplomatic role, Margaret of Anjou found herself accused of betraying England. International ties were not always a positive. Queens were crowned rulers. Their coronations imbued them with royal authority and gave them divine blessing. Maria de Luna’s subjects would have been reminded her regality every time she made a formal entry into a city, dressed in her most resplendent gowns and jewels. But every time Maria wrote to her husband to plead that he return home, she would have faced the frustrating truth that – crown or no crown – a queen was nothing without her king. Medieval society often imagined queens as living embodiments of the Virgin Mary, an example of pure womanhood who might intercede with the king for mercy on earth, just as the Virgin interceded with Christ in heaven. When Margaret of Anjou formally entered London, she wore her hair down around her shoulders and dressed all in white, both common associations with virginity. Most queens arrayed themselves similarly when entering their capitols for the first time. But all this emphasis on purity and virginity was at odds with a queen’s major role: giving birth to heirs. Tradition taught that the Virgin Mary remained virginal after the birth of Christ, but this was not possible – nor was it desirable – for a queen. To give her country a male heir, she had to ‘dirty’ herself by having sex. The very purity that empowered her at her wedding became a liability for Margaret as the years went on and she remained childless. Sexuality, then, was a necessary attribute in a queen. Queens like Eleanor of Castile, Isabeau of Bavaria, or Anne of Kiev, who produced male heirs quickly and without drama, found their positions strengthened. Sexuality could also be used against a queen. When Anne of Kiev chose to remarry 129

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines after Henri I’s death – in essence choosing an active, sexual existence over purity in widowhood – she was pushed from power. Isabeau of Bavaria and Charles VI had a healthy sex life also. The couple continued having children well after Charles’s bouts of mental instability began, indicating that they eagerly resumed conjugal relations during his periods of lucidity. But when Isabeau’s enemies resented the power she had acquired, it was all to easy to paint her as a wanton woman who ensnared her male supporters. Overstepping her power was among the worst things a queen could be perceived to do – but exactly what an overstep was varied enormously from time to time, place to place, and depended a great deal on who you asked. In attempting to place herself as regent of England, Margaret of Anjou was deemed to have crossed far beyond an invisible threshold, but she was only attempting to do exactly what Isabeau of Bavaria had done a generation earlier. The differences were that England had no history of a queen acting as regent; that Margaret was from France, England’s traditional enemy; and that in stepping to the forefront, Margaret stepped directly into the path of Richard of York. Had any of these circumstances been different, Margaret might well have succeeded. That Margaret was also accused of sexual impropriety is not a coincidence. In the medieval mind, women were naturally lusty creatures in a constant battle not to give in to their baser natures. The crossing of social boundaries was also inextricably linked to sexual transgression in the medieval imagination. Accusing a queen of sexual misbehaviour was one of the most damaging of charges that could be levied against her, because her sexual fidelity and the legitimacy of her offspring were paramount to her position. The medieval predisposition to believe such accusations, which matched what medieval society ‘knew’ about women – particularly powerful women – made the situation even more difficult to manage. A queen was a glorious woman: beautiful, virginal, a symbol of peace and stability, a beacon of royal grandeur. She was a crowned ruler in her own right, with a legitimate claim to power. But that power came from a man, first from her husband, then from her son. She had a great deal of influence, but no real authority. They found different ways of exercising power: claiming regency on behalf of their sons, adorning themselves in the trappings of royalty, making strong statements about personal identity. Without independent claims to authority, these women found their power was built on a foundation not of rock but of shifting sand – but it was power nonetheless. 130

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Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich IV (kneeling) asks Abbot Hugo of Cluny to intercede on his behalf with Matilda of Tuscany (right). (Codex Vat.lat.4922, fol. 49r.)

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English royal family tree during the Wars of the Roses. Women_in_the_Medieval_Court_Plates_Final.indd 2

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Diploma of Philippe I of France featuring the Cyrillic signature of his mother Anna of Kiev. (Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département des Manuscrits, Picardie 294, 38)

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Eleanor Cross at Hardingstone, constructed between 1291 and 1292. The cross is largely intact, but has been restored several times.

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The funeral of Isabeau of Bavaria, as depicted in the French manuscript Les Vigiles de Charles VII, in 1484. (Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Manuscrit Français 5054, fol. 87r.)

John Talbot presents the Talbot Shrewsbury Book to Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou as their courtiers watch. With her unbound, blond hair, Margaret is depicted as a perfect queen and embodiment of the Virgin Mary. (British Library Royal MS 15 E VI, fol. 2v.)

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Left: Portrait of Caterina Cornaro by Gentile Bellini, ca. 1500. Below: Royal family tree of the kingdoms of Castile and León during the reigns of Urraca and Berenguela.

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Frontispiece of the Anjou Bible, symbolically depicting the line of succession to the Neapolitan throne. The bottom panel shows King Robert of Anjou and his wife Sancia of Majorca. To Sancia’s left, her granddaughters Giovanna and Sancia kneel. To King Robert’s right, Giovanna’s first husband Andrew of Hungary kisses the king’s feet. (KU Leiven Maurits Sabbe Library, fol. 4r.)

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Left: Fresco depicting Tamar of Georgia at Betania Monastery in Georgia Below left: Jean Fouquet, Madonna Surrounded by Seraphim and Cherubim, ca. 1452. The painting famously depicts Agnès Sorel as the Virgin Mary. Below right: Tomb of Inês de Castro.

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Section Three

Reigning Queens Cast of characters: Urraca of Castile and León (1079–1126) Urraca was the daughter of Alfonso VI of León and Constance of Burgundy. At the age of 8, she married Raymond of Burgundy, and they had two children, Sancha and Alfonso. Raymond died in 1107. Urraca’s half-brother Sancho died in 1108, leaving Urraca the presumptive heir to her father Alfonso. She became queen of Castile and León in 1109. She married Alfonso I of Aragon later that year, but the couple separated by 1110. Urraca spent much of her reign maintaining the integrity of her kingdom against threats from both her ex-husband Alfonso and her halfsister Teresa. When she died in 1126, she passed an intact kingdom to her son Alfonso. She was the great-grandmother of Berenguela of Castile as well as a contemporary of Matilda of Tuscany and Anna Komnene (see section one), and of Evpraksia of Kiev (see section two). Berenguela of Castile (1179/80–1246) As the eldest daughter of King Alfonso VIII of Castile and Leonor of England, Berengaria started life as her father’s heir. She was replaced by a younger brother, Enrique, and ruled Castile as Enrique’s regent when he inherited the throne. After Enrique’s death, Berengaria inherited the throne of Castile in her own right. She was married first to Conrad of Swabia, then to Alfonso IX of León, with whom she had five children. Berenguela’s marriage to Alfonso was annulled before she became queen of Castile. Months after inheriting the throne, Berenguela had her son Fernando crowned king, but she continued to exercise royal authority until her death in 1246. She was the grandmother of Eleanor of Castile (see section two).

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Giovanna I of Naples (1326–1382) Giovanna was the eldest surviving daughter of Charles of Naples and his wife Marie of Valois. When her father predeceased her grandfather King Robert of Naples, Giovanna became his heir. She succeeded from Robert after he died when she was about 17. She married four times: to Andrew of Hungary, Louis of Taranto, King James IV of Majorca, and finally to Otto of Brunswick. None of her children survived to inherit her throne, and when she was deposed, and presumably murdered, in 1382, her cousin Louis of Durazzo succeeded her. She was a contemporary of Alice de Lacy (see section one), and of Inês de Castro, Katherine Swynford and Alice Perrers (see section four). Margrete I of Denmark (1353–1412) The youngest daughter of Valdemar IV of Denmark and Helvig of Schleswig, Margrete married King Haakon VI of Norway. She and Haakon had a son, Olaf, who succeeded his father to become king of Norway, and his grandfather to become king of Denmark. After Olaf’s early death, Margrete became the ruler of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, though the specific titles that she used to claim each area were ambiguous. She proclaimed her sister Ingeborg’s grandson Eric of Pomerania her heir in each kingdom, but continued to rule until her death in 1412. She was a contemporary of Maria de Luna and Isabeau of Bavaria (see section two), as well as of Alice Perrers and Katherine Swynford (see section four). Caterina Cornaro (1454–1510) Caterina was the daughter of the Venetian nobile homo Marco Cornaro and his wife Fiorenza Crispo. In 1468, she married King James II of Cyprus by proxy, joining him in Cyprus in 1472. Within a year of their marriage, James died, leaving Caterina regent for their young son James III. When her son died in 1474, the leaders of Venice intervened to make Caterina queen in her own right. She reigned until 1489, when Venetian leadership persuaded her to cede her rights in Cyprus to Venice. She returned to the city of her birth until her death in 1510. Caterina was a contemporary of Cecily Neville (see section one) and Margaret of Anjou (see section two). Queens occupied a number of roles in the courts of medieval Europe, but their most important role, whether she was the consort of a king 132

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Reigning Queens or she reigned in her own right, was to ensure the succession of her kingdom by producing a male heir. The importance of this expectation made some queens incredibly powerful, while for others it was their undoing. Because they held the keys to the legitimate succession of kingdoms, queens’ behaviour and reputations were matters of national and international importance, and they were under extraordinary pressure to ensure that their behaviour was always entirely above board. The fact that royal courts were invariably hotbeds of gossip and intrigue rendered this a challenging expectation to say the least. The medieval mind had a difficult time wrapping itself around the idea of a reigning queen. On the one hand, queens were the leaders of countries, but on the other, they were still women, and therefore unqualified to wield power. Women, as everyone knew, were less intelligent than men, their minds and bodies driven by the same out-of-control lust that had got Eve into so much trouble at the beginning of history. In the case of a queen who ruled in her own right, a queen regnant, this incongruity was only compounded. One of the ways that medieval thinkers reconciled the irony of a woman in power to conceptualise a queen regnant not as a ruler in her own right so much as a placeholder in the normal line of succession, occupying the throne only to pass her claim to her male heirs. A queen regnant, therefore, had to marry to produce a legitimate heir, and the marriages of the women in this chapter will necessarily occupy a great deal of space. These marriages created their own sets of problems. What role would the queen’s husband take? In noble society, a man who married an heiress typically took over her titles jure uxoris – by right of his wife. In the case of a reigning queen, however, this would mean either a foreign prince ruling as king in a kingdom that was not his own, placing that country’s subjects under the rule of a foreigner and risking that he might sacrifice the interests of his wife’s kingdom for those of his own. If a queen married a member of her own nobility, it would elevate him to an inappropriate level – a person’s place in society was, after all, ordained by God – and risked pulling the crown into the petty disputes of the nobility. The obvious solution was to deny the queen’s husband any power in her realm, but this also created problems, most importantly, violating the natural, God-given order of the universe. This was the web of challenges into which women who would inherit their crowns would step.1 133

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Chapter Five

The Path to the Throne

While [Giovanna] was still a child, her father died in his youth. Since her grandfather Robert had no children of the better sex, at his orders she lawfully inherited the kingdom at his death … Within these borders, her rule is obeyed by the ancient Campanians, Lucani, Bruttii, Salentines, Calabrians, Daunians, Vestuali, Samnites, Peligni, and Marsi, and by the people of many other lands …1 In just a few lines on the queenship of Giovanna of Naples, Giovanni Boccaccio sums up much of what medieval society found troubling about the notion of reigning queen. Not being of the ‘better sex’ – that is, not being male – Giovanna had to jump through extra hoops to be recognised as her grandfather’s heir. Boccaccio emphasises her legitimate descent from her grandfather Robert, whom she succeeded, as well as the fact that Robert designated her his heir. Boccaccio goes on to connect Joanna to the ancient tribes that had once occupied the territories she ruled, a further attempt to legitimise her rule. Even in countries like Naples that allowed women to rule, the idea of a reigning queen was still distasteful, and these women faced incessant questions about the appropriateness of their position. Queens occupied a place that could be troubling to the medieval imagination. On the one hand, a queen was a woman, and usually a wife, so it was expected that she might advise or appeal to her husband, but not exercise any kingly power. On the other, she was also crowned and anointed, so she did have some concrete, public authority. On the one hand, she was restricted, like most women, to the conventional roles of wife and mother. On the other hand, being the wife of a king and mother of a king granted her a level of influence that most medieval people were uncomfortable with a woman wielding. This was confusing enough 134

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The Path to the Throne when it came to queens consort, but in the cases of queens regnant – women who ruled kingdoms in their own right – they became questions of national and international importance. To what extent was a queen’s power public, and to what extent was it private?2 Today, it can seem that the rules of inheritance in Europe’s remaining monarchies are set in stone: when the king dies, his eldest son becomes king, and if there are no sons, a daughter can become queen. Most of Europe’s monarchies have adjusted the rules in the past few decades, allowing the monarch’s oldest child, male or female to inherit. In the medieval past, however, the rules of inheritance were far from solid. Some crowns were passed to the king’s oldest male relative – usually a younger brother – upon his death, instead of going to his son. In some parts of Europe, the throne could be inherited by an illegitimate son, especially if that prevented a woman from taking the crown, while in more conservative areas, the idea of a bastard becoming king was unthinkable. Medieval Europeans argued over whether a crown was the personal property of a king or whether a king merely occupied the throne. This led to discussions over whether a king was permitted to name his successor, as if the monarchy was his property, or whether he was subject to rules that governed the succession. These questions came to a head many times in the Middle Ages. The most famous example comes from twelfth-century England. King Henry I determined that his only living child, Matilda, would be his successor, and his barons took an oath to support her claim to the throne. When Henry actually died, however, his cousin Stephen claimed the throne, arguing that it should go to the king’s closest male relative, not to a daughter. These competing claims led to a civil war that lasted for most of Stephen’s contested reign. Matilda’s decades-long – and ultimately unsuccessful – struggle to claim the throne of England raises the question of when and how a woman might be able to become a queen in her own right. Some countries prohibited women from succeeding to the throne outright. France, for instance, eventually adopted a strict interpretation of Salic Law that prohibited women both from inheriting the throne and from transmitting their claim to the throne to their male relatives. The territories that made up the Holy Roman Empire in central and eastern Europe elected their emperor; since there was no chance that a woman would be elected, men ruled the empire by default. In nearly every other kingdom in Europe, 135

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines however, it was possible for a woman to become the ruler. In some areas this became a relatively common occurrence – the countries that made up the Iberian Peninsula all had female rulers, some more than one, in the Middle Ages – while in others, like England, a queen regnant remained only a hypothetical possibility. A queen’s accession raised a number of questions: How would a queen perform the duties of a king, which usually included leading armies into battle? Who would truly wield power – the queen, her husband, or someone else? Would she remain queen for life, or simply long enough to transmit her claim to the throne to a new king? Eventually, the countries that allowed women to inherit the throne generally achieved some peace with the contradiction of a woman in power by conceiving of queens regnant as ‘placeholders’. Such women would rule so that a son of the same lineage could eventually inherit the throne and restore the status quo – they were, essentially, keeping the throne warm for a male heir. Some queens regnant seem to have been happy with this conception of their rule, while others were decidedly less so.3 Even so, women who exercised power in their own right were often forced to accept a sort of compromise: in order to hold royal authority, they were required to downplay that authority as much as possible. For the women who claimed the throne in the Middle Ages, the path to actually becoming ruler was not always straightforward. All the medieval kingdoms preferred rule by men, but there were certain circumstances under which a woman might become the preferred candidate. In the most common instance, a woman might become queen if she was a closer relative to the late king than the nearest male claimant – for instance, if she was the daughter of the king as opposed to a cousin or nephew.4 In other circumstances, a woman might become queen if she outlived her husband: Caterina Cornaro of Venice became queen of Cyprus when first her husband, then her infant son, died, leaving her the only claimant to the throne. A woman might also be able to have herself declared queen if she was an adult while the nearest male to the throne was a minor.5 Margrete of Denmark became ruler of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden over the claim of her nephew, Albert of Mecklenburg, because she was an adult when her father Valdemar died, while Albert was only about 12 years old. Medieval kingdoms might also prefer a female ruler if she represented local interests while her closest male competitor was a foreigner.6 136

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The Path to the Throne Urraca of Castile and León In most cases, a woman became queen because she was the late king’s closest relative when he died. In medieval Spain, for instance, the laws of succession were up in the air. While kings preferred to pass their thrones to their legitimate sons if possible, the throne could also pass to other male relatives, like a brother, nephew, or illegitimate son. The way that monarchs ruled in the kingdoms that now make up modernday Spain was also different than the rest of Europe. Monarchy in Iberia was often conceived as a family, rather than individual, exercise. This meant that instead of truly ruling alone, a Spanish king or queen might essentially co-rule with a spouse, children, or other relatives – or sometimes a combination of all of these. Additionally, while rulers of other countries could rely on their descent from a saintly figure, like Edward the Confessor in England, to bolster their rule, Iberian rulers had no divine figure to bless their reigns. As a result, they relied much more heavily on the support of nobles and church leaders to legitimise their rule. All these factors were crucial in determining when a woman might become queen of Spain.7 Urraca of León was never meant to become queen. King Alfonso VI of León was one of the great kings of late medieval Spain, having united the three kingdoms of León, Castile, and Galicia into one country that eventually covered most of what today is northwest Spain and Portugal. At the same time, he was an instrumental force in the Reconquista, the centuries-long effort to drive the Muslims who occupied the southern and eastern parts of the Iberian Peninsula, out of Europe. Alfonso, however, faced a serious issue in his difficulty producing a male heir. The first problem came in the year 1090, when Urraca was about 11 years old: her father’s younger brother, her uncle García, died suddenly, removing one potential male heir to the kingdoms. Alfonso’s actions over the next several years show how seriously he took the question of the succession to his kingdoms. First, when Urraca’s mother, Constance of Burgundy, died in 1093, Alfonso acted quickly and remarried to a woman named Berta, the daughter of an Italian noble family. Alfonso also began a relationship with a Muslim woman named Zaida around the same time. While Berta died childless within a few years of her marriage to Alfonso, Zaida bore the king his only son, a boy who was named Sancho Adefónsez.

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Urraca herself had been betrothed at the tender age of 8 to Raymond, the son of the count of Burgundy and an important nobleman in France. Raymond was about nine years older than Urraca, and while she was still a young girl, he came to León and almost instantly became a force to be reckoned with. In the medieval Spanish kingdoms, kings shared power extensively with their family members and nobles, and these relationships can often be traced by looking at the lists of people who list their names as agreeing to official royal documents. After Urraca’s uncle García died in 1090, her name, along with Raymond’s, is often included in these documents, which may be evidence that her father Alfonso had recognised her and Raymond as his heirs, at least temporarily.8 By the end of the eleventh century, Alfonso’s son Sancho, by then 5 or 6 years old, also appears in royal documents. This suggests that Alfonso was debating over which of his children – his legitimate daughter or his illegitimate son – would inherit the throne when he died. The years 1105 to 1109 would prove crucial for the rest of Urraca’s life, as well as for the kingdoms that she would eventually rule. Beginning in about 1105, the kingdom of Aragon, then a small, unimportant territory in eastern Iberia, began a rapid and aggressive expansion of its territory. In response, Alfonso of León began planning an offensive against Aragon. In 1107, he had the nobles and religious leaders of his kingdoms officially recognise his illegitimate son Sancho Adefónsez as his heir.9 Later the same year, Urraca’s husband Raymond of Burgundy died, leaving Urraca a widow. She was about 27 years old and the mother of two children: her daughter Sancha was about 12, while her son Alfonso Raimúndez – the grandson of Alfonso VI of León and now his only legitimate male heir – was about 2 years old. Then in early 1108, Alfonso VI’s most recent wife Isabelle died, leaving behind two more legitimate daughters, Urraca’s half-sisters Sancha and Elvira, but no sons. Alfonso, desperate for a more secure succession, remarried again later that year, when he was well into his sixties. The final blow came in May of 1108 at the battle of Uclés, when Alfonso’s only son, Sancho Adfónsez, died fighting Muslim forces.10 With Sancho’s death, Urraca, now Alfonso’s oldest legitimate child and the mother of his only legitimate male descendent, became the focus of a great deal of attention. She immediately left to join her father, and by July of 1108 they were together at Alfonso’s court in the city of Toledo. Although Alfonso had not officially declared Urraca his heir – 138

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The Path to the Throne after all, he had just remarried, and there was still the chance, however slight, that he might have a legitimate son – it must have been clear to all that she was the most likely candidate. Thoughts immediately turned to the question of Urraca’s remarriage. To a medieval mind, it was crucial that a woman in Urraca’s position be married as quickly as possible. Urraca would face opposition from both without and within. Her illegitimate half-sister Teresa – the product of a relationship between Alfonso VI and a noblewoman named Jimena Muñoz – had married Raymond of Burgundy’s brother Henry. This made Teresa both Urraca’s half-sister and sister-in-law. Henry had been made count of Portugal, but he and Teresa had designs on greater things, including the crown of Castile and León.11 Urraca’s young son Alfonso Raimúndez would also be a natural focus for any nobles who objected to Urraca’s rule and might try to overthrow her to place her son on the throne. In the meantime, Aragon was still continuing its campaign of expansion in eastern Iberia. Fortunately, from the perspective of Alfonso VI, Aragon had a young and single king, Alfonso I, who had earned himself the nickname El Batallador (‘The Battler’) in his conquests over the Muslims in southeastern Iberia. On paper, Alfonso of Aragon was the perfect candidate. He was already a king and a strong warrior who could provide the military leadership that Urraca could not. If he and Urraca had children, they would become heirs to the united kingdoms of Castile, León and Aragon. Before the marriage could go forward, however, Alfonso VI of León died, making Urraca queen of Castile and León. From the beginning of her reign, there was dissent and dissatisfaction with her rule, with many nobles preferring the claim of Urraca’s half-sister Teresa and her husband Henry of Portugal. The possibility that Urraca might need to defend her crown so soon in her reign forced her to make a quick decision.12 An assembly held in the early months of Urraca’s reign determined that Urraca would indeed marry Alfonso of Aragon in accordance with her father’s wishes, and in October of 1109, only five months after her father’s death, Urraca and Alfonso married. Urraca may have feared that without a husband – chosen by her father and approved by her nobles – she would be deposed. The marriage agreement that was negotiated between Urraca and Alfonso shows us how much stronger Castile and León were than 139

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Aragon at this time. In it, Alfonso agreed that Urraca and any son she and Alfonso had together would be joint heirs to his kingdom – normally, a son would be declared his father’s sole heir. In an even more drastic move, the agreement also declared that in the event that Urraca had no children with Alfonso, she and her heirs – not his – would still inherit Aragon. This marriage contract is evidence how good a marriage this was for Alfonso and the lengths that he was willing to go in order to secure the marriage. In Urraca, he acquired a wife who gave him access to the army and resources of the most powerful territories in Iberia. Urraca was about 30 years old at the time of their marriage. She had proven her fertility by giving birth to two healthy children and was young enough to bear more.13 For Urraca, however, the marriage signified a loss of power. She had gained a great deal of independence after the death of her first husband, Raymond of Burgundy, in 1107. Marriage so quickly meant ceding most of that power: not only would she be under her husband’s authority personally, but it would be expected that Alfonso would take over most of the day-to-day rule in Urraca’s kingdoms. It was no wonder that the marriage fell apart so quickly. By the summer of 1110, Urraca and Alfonso had been married for nearly a year, and Urraca showed no signs of becoming pregnant. The province of Galicia in the northwest part of Urraca’s territory had rebelled almost immediately after Urraca and Alfonso married, and Alfonso was ineffective in putting down the rebellion. If Alfonso could not perform the military role that had been his greatest advantage in the marriage and if he could not produce an heir, what, from Urraca’s perspective, was the point in keeping him around? Moreover, Urraca and Alfonso were related – they shared a great grandfather in Sancho III of Navarre – and they had not petitioned the pope for the required dispensation before their wedding. In the summer of 1110, after less than a year of marriage, a delegation from the pope arrived to encourage Urraca to separate from Alfonso on account of their consanguinity, and she agreed. Urraca spent the summer and autumn of that year traveling throughout her kingdom, raising support and making decisions in her own name, for the first time calling herself ‘queen of Spain’, a clear assertion of her own, independent authority.14

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The Path to the Throne Berenguela of Castile Urraca of León’s great-granddaughter Berenguela of Castile had a very different path to queenship. By the time Berenguela was born in 1179, the kingdoms of Castile and León, united under Urraca and her son, had once again splint into separate countries. She was descended from a series of powerful women. On her father’s side of the family, there was Urraca. Berenguela’s mother Leonor of England was a daughter of the famous Eleanor of Aquitaine. From her birth, then, Berenguela would have been raised with the notion that women were able to exercise both authority and real power. When Berenguela’s younger brother Sancho died only a few months after his birth in 1181, leaving Castile without a male heir, she became the focus of a great deal of attention. As with Urraca, historians can trace Berenguela’s role in Spanish politics through the times that she is mentioned as a ‘co-issuer’ in important public documents. Shortly after her brother’s death, her father Alfonso XI’s royal charters show Berenguela – then just over a year old – as a co-issuer. In the documents, Alfonso refers to her as ‘my daughter the queen’. In similar circumstances, male heirs were referred to as ‘king’ – an example of the sort of co-rulership practiced in Iberia mentioned previously – so this is clear evidence that Alfonso XI recognised his daughter as his heir.15 Medieval society, however, was rarely prepared to accept women as rulers unless they were married. At the same time, Berenguela’s father Alfonso VIII of Castile was worried that his cousin, Alfonso IX of León, might make his own move to claim the throne of Castile. It was essential, therefore, that Berenguela, be married as quickly as possible, and in 1188, Alfonso of Castile arranged a marriage for his daughter with Conrad of Hohenstaufen. The benefits to a marriage with Conrad were clear: Conrad was a younger son of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III Barbarossa and his wife Beatrice, Countess of Burgundy. An alliance with Conrad brought an alliance not only with the lands of the Holy Roman Empire that dominated central Europe, but with Beatrice’s property in France. At the same time, Conrad was only the fifth of Frederick and Beatrice’s many sons, so he was unlikely to be chosen as his father’s successor (unlike much of Europe, the Holy Roman Empire elected its leader, though in this period, the chosen successor was usually a relative of

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines his predecessor). Conrad thus brought valuable connections, but little threat that he would present a challenge to Berenguela’s independent rule.16 Like her ancestor Urraca’s, Berenguela’s marriage treaty with Conrad provides evidence both of the wide concerns about female rule and the worries that a foreign husband might become too powerful in his wife’s realm. At the time of their betrothal, Conrad was about 15 years old, and his wife-to-be was only about 9. With some years to come before the marriage to be completed, the treaty spelled out what might happen in a number of circumstances. Conrad, it said, would become king only if Berenguela became queen, and even then only for as long as she lived. Upon Berenguela’s death, the throne of Castile would go to her heirs, and Conrad would cease to rule. It also dictated that if Berenguela’s father Alfonso should die while Berenguela and Conrad were out of the country, they would only become rulers once Berenguela herself was in Castile – there was clearly some concern that Conrad might be in a position to seize the throne in Berenguela’s absence. The treaty was not entirely in Berenguela’s favour, however. It stated that if Berenguela outlived both Conrad and any children they might have together, she would be allowed to reside in Castile, but it stays silent on the question of whether she would become ruler. If Berenguela became single once more, then, and if there was no male heir, she would not automatically become queen of Castile. The treaty thus suggests that there continued to be some discomfort about the idea of an unmarried reigning queen.17 In an elaborate ceremony the following year, 1189, Conrad and Berenguela were formally betrothed. Alfonso VIII of Castile gathered the nobles and religious leaders of Castile to watch the ceremony, and at the same time, he forced them all to take an oath to uphold the terms of the marriage treaty – clearly he was doing everything in his power to ensure his daughter’s smooth succession after his death. At this gathering, Alfonso IX of León was betrothed to one of Berenguela’s younger sisters. Alfonso VIII of Castile took the opportunity to formally knight both of his future sons-in-law, a ceremony in which they gave their homage to the king of Castile, effectively promising him their loyalty and obedience. Alfonso of Castile was taking no chances that his daughters’ husbands would become powerful enough to threaten his or Berenguela’s power.18 142

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The Path to the Throne Shortly after this ceremony, however, Conrad of Hohenstaufen returned to his family in Germany, and the betrothal was broken off. In November of 1189, Berenguela’s mother Leonor of England, queen of Castile, had finally given birth to a healthy son. For nearly a decade, we hear nothing more about Berenguela, but the historical sources are full of information about the ongoing conflict between Alfonso VIII or Castile and his cousin Alfonso IX of León. The Tierra de Campos, a highly-militarised and economically valuable set of territories along the border between Castile and León was contested between both kings throughout the second half of the twelfth century. When Berenguela next appears in the historical record, it is in 1197, when she married Alfonxo IX of León. The dower lands – properties that a husband granted his wife to provide her with an income – that Alfonso IX gave his new wife were focused around the Tierra de Campos. This makes it clear that the impetus for the marriage was to create peace between Castile and León. The marriage was successful, as well: the years of Berenguela’s marriage with Alfonso IX were a time of peace, and this was marked with regular visits between the monarchs of both countries. Clearly Berenguela was successful at one of the most essential jobs of a medieval queen: facilitating relations between her natal family’s country and her husband’s.19 During her time as queen of León, Berenguela exercised an unusual degree of power. She made a number of important nobles, both from Castile and León, her tenants in her dower lands, creating an extensive number of loyal relationships with important men in both countries. In matters relating to those lands, she issued her own legal documents independently of her husband, which was nearly unheard of, and she co-issued legal documents with Alfonso of León in the rest of the country. It would have been clear to all in León that their queen exercised an unusual degree of independent power.20 Berenguela was not Alfonso IX of León’s first wife. He had been married to Teresa of Portugal, and had three children with her, including a son, Fernando, but the marriage had been declared invalid on account of Alfonso and Teresa’s family relationship – they were first cousins – and their children had become illegitimate. One key provision of the marriage treaty between Berenguela and Alfonso had been that Berenguela was to have a higher status than Teresa of Portugal had had. This helps to explain why Berenguela regularly co-issued royal acts (something that 143

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Teresa had rarely done) and why her children with Alfonso, did the same. By 1202, Berenguela and Alfonso’s son, also named Fernando, had been born, along with several daughters, and Alfonso gathered the nobles of his kingdom together to swear allegiance to Fernando, a clear indication that at this point, he planned that Fernando would be his successor.21 Nonetheless, Berenguela’s position was not fully secure. Berenguela and Alfonso were also related, and like Urraca and Alfonso I of Aragon before them, they had not received a dispensation from the pope to marry despite their family relationship. It was clear to both from the beginning that the pope would not allow them to remain married forever, so some of the actions that were taken – having their son Fernando acclaimed as heir and establishing her own set of supporters in her lands in the Tierra de Campos – were taken by Berenguela to ensure that she was in as solid a position as possible when the marriage eventually dissolved. By 1204, there was nothing more that Berenguela and Alfonso could do to protect their relationship. They accepted the annulment of their marriage and in May of that year, Berenguela wrote to the pope to inform him that she had left Alfonso and returned to her family in Castile.22 The next ten years were crucial in setting the stage for Berenguela’s future queenship. She continued to claim the contested lands in the Tierra de Campos that had been the linchpin of peace between Castile and León while she was still married to Alfonso IX of León. Some of these she granted to her and Alfonso’s son, Fernando – still the heir of León, despite his parents’ separation – while her father Alfonso VIII of Castile granted her more property in the area. Berenguela’s power in the area only continued to grow, as did her wealth. In 1211, seven years after Berenguela and Alfonso of León’s marriage was dissolved, power on the Iberian Peninsula shifted dramatically. Sancho I of Portugal died, leaving large amounts of property to his daughters, one of whom was Alfonso IX of León’s first wife Teresa. Now an important heiress, Teresa approached her ex-husband Alfonso of León to offer him an alliance, and Alfonso accepted. A number of changes in the historical documents of this period indicate that Alfonso of León was planning to declare his son with Teresa, Fernando, his heir instead of his son with Berenguela. In the same year, Alfonso VIII of Castile’s oldest son died, leaving a younger son, the 7-year-old Enrique, as his heir. Sandwiched between an ascendant León and Portugal, and with a young child as 144

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The Path to the Throne the presumptive next king as Alfonso VIII neared the end of his life, Castile was in a position of weakness once more.23 Three years later, in 1214, two more deaths changed history in the Iberian Peninsula. The first was Fernando, the son of Alfonso IX of León and Teresa of Portugal. With his death, Alfonso and Berenguela’s son Fernando once again moved into the place of heir to Alfonso of León. More important, at least in the short term, was the death of Berenguela’s father, Alfonso VIII of Castile, followed shortly by that of her mother, Leonor of England. These deaths placed Berenguela’s 10-year-old brother on the throne of Castile as King Enrique I, and Berenguela herself was chosen to serve as regent for the young king.24 The next several years were marked by turbulence, with Berenguela able to exercise power as regent at some points, while at others a party of nobles headed by Count Álvaro Nuñez de Lara had Berenguela almost entirely removed from power. In 1216, Berenguela sent her son Fernando, then about 15 years old, to live with his father, Alfonso IX of León for a time, and the documents from this time indicate that Alfonso had once again recognised his son with Berenguela as his heir. Rumours in Castile indicated that the Castilian nobles were again moving to support Berenguela, and the rumour that surfaced in early 1217 that she was plotting to have her brother King Enrique poisoned is further evidence that Berenguela’s power was growing once more. When Enrique did die in the summer of 1217 – the victim of a stone or roof tile that fell on his head while playing – Berenguela must have been struck by the irony.25 With Enrique’s death, Berenguela was finally once again heir to Castile, with her son Fernando as her heir, and she wasted no time claiming her throne. She immediately ordered Fernando to return to her side. A ruler’s claim could be made or broken by the level of support they received, and Berenguela swiftly gathered an assembly of representatives from the towns of Castile, the nobles, and the bishops so that they could grant her their support. Instead of the acclaim that she expected, however, Berenguela received something rather different, for one of them, speaking for all of them since they had all agreed on this, recognised on behalf of the populace that the kingdom belonged by right to Queen doña Berenguela, and that everyone recognised her as domina [lady] and queen of the kingdom of Castile. Nevertheless, they all 145

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines unanimously begged her to grant the kingdom, which was hers by proprietary right, to her elder son, don Fernando, because since she was a woman, she could not withstand the burdens of ruling a kingdom.26 Berenguela agreed, and the 17-year-old Fernando was immediately proclaimed king. What had happened? Was Berenguela taken by surprise by her subjects’ unwillingness to have her as their ruler? Perhaps not. The fact that she had summoned Fernando to join her as soon as she learned of Enrique’s death suggests that she had an inkling at least that having her son present would strengthen her position. It was not unusual for medieval people to see female rulers more as placeholders than as sovereigns in their own right, and Berenguela could have anticipated that her people would be uncomfortable with her as sole ruler. In a sense, then, Berenguela appeared to do exactly what was expected in agreeing to pass power on to her son.27 But in having Fernando proclaimed king, did Berenguela give up the throne herself? In other parts of Europe, where only one person could occupy the throne at a time, the answer would clearly be yes, but in medieval Castile, where royal power could be shared between family members, the waters are muddied. Throughout the rest of her life, Berenguela continued to exercise power as queen, and it seems that while she made room for Fernando, she did not cease to rule in her own right. It was a smart move: by giving her people the male heir that they wanted, she made it impossible for Fernando to become the leader of a rival faction who might remove her from the throne. Moreover, in accepting that Berenguela had granted royal authority to her son, her subjects all implicitly accepted that Berenguela had the ability to take that power away. Fernando might be king, but he could not continue to be king unless Berenguela was also queen.28 Urraca and Berenguela were far from the only women in medieval Europe to claim the right to rule through inheritance – Tamar of Georgia, Giovanna I of Naples, Matilda of England, and many other women claimed thrones as nearest heirs of their predecessors, to greater or lesser degrees of success. But in a time when the rules of succession were far from set in stone and varied considerably from place to place, this was not the only way that a woman could become a ruler, as the next two women to be discussed will demonstrate.

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The Path to the Throne Margrete of Denmark Over 100 years later in the late fourteenth century, Margrete of Denmark demonstrated that a widowed queen with political know-how could cobble together various roles in an unusual path to sovereign power. In Margrete’s case, her path to power was particularly unusual, because while the kingdoms of Western and Southern Europe practiced the hereditary succession by which Berenguela and Urraca had become rulers, the kingdoms of Northern Europe generally selected their rulers via election.29 Margrete was born in 1353, the daughter and youngest child of King Valdemar IV of Denmark and Helveg of Schleswig. In addition to Margrete, Valdemar and Helveg had two sons who, who both died young in 1363, as well as several more daughters. In 1363, the same year that both of her brothers died, the 10-year-old Margrete was married to King Haakon IV of Norway, making her queen consort of Norway. She lived relatively peacefully in Norway for several years, giving birth to a son, Oluf, in 1370, until her father Valdemar of Denmark died in 1375, leaving Margrete as his only living child. Valdemar’s death raised important questions regarding the succession of the kingdom of Denmark. Although Margrete was Valdemar’s only surviving child, Valdemar did have grandchildren: Margrete’s son Oluf and the 12-year-old Albert of Mecklenburg, the son of Margrete’s older sister Ingeborg. As the son of an older daughter, Albert preceded Oluf in the line of succession, but Denmark was an elective monarchy, in a few weeks after Valdemar’s death, it was Oluf who was chosen as the new king of Denmark. The powerful Mecklenburg family to which Albert belonged was an important force in Central Europe, and Albert’s uncle, also named Albert, had been proclaimed king of Sweden in 1364. Unwilling to give the Mecklenburgs more power in Scandinavia, the Danes chose Oluf as ruler and made his mother Margrete the young king’s guardian.30 In addition to ruling as queen consort of Norway, Margrete’s power grew as she assumed rule over her native country of Denmark as her 5-year-old son’s guardian. Initially, Haakon of Norway, Margrete’s husband and Oluf’s father, seems to have taken an interest in ruling Denmark, but references to him quickly fade in documents from the years following 1375, indicating that Margrete largely ruled Denmark independently of her husband. In 1380,

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Haakon died, making Oluf, by then 10 years old, king of Norway as well as Denmark. As Oluf ’s guardian, Margrete now exercised direct control over both kingdoms. In 1387, however, Oluf himself died suddenly, aged only 17, and Margrete’s claim to power in Scandinavia, which had rested on her son’s rulership, fell apart. While Denmark was an elective monarchy that strongly preferred male succession, it was not illegal for a woman to inherit the crown, and the Danes generally avoid having male members of another branch of the royal family inherit. Thus it was that, although her nephew Albert of Mecklenburg, over whom Margrete’s son Oluf had been chosen in 1375, was still alive, Margrete herself was declared ‘sovereign lady and lord and guardian of the entire kingdom of Denmark’ after her son’s death. The following year, 1388, Margrete was granted the same title by the people of Norway, on the condition that she find a suitable male candidate for the throne. Although Margrete and the provincial assemblies that proclaimed her ruler agreed that her rulership would be temporary while she and they developed a mutual agreement regarding a new king, Margrete does not seem to have had any plans to relinquish her role as queen. Throughout the rest of her life, Margrete always emphasised that she was the true queen, though a combination of inheritance from her father (in Denmark) and her son (in Norway).31 Meanwhile, Albert of Mecklenburg, who had ruled Sweden since 1364, had found it difficult to consolidate his rule in the face of consistent opposition from many of his nobles. In 1388, the disenchanted Swedish nobles elected Margrete ‘sovereign lady and lord and guardian of the entire kingdom of Sweden’ in Albert’s place. In February of 1389, Margrete consolidated her rule in Sweden when Danish forces defeated Albert’s army at the battle of Falköping. Margrete’s problems were far from over, but she was the undisputed ruler of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, despite not having a strong claim to any of these countries by the rules of hereditary succession.32 Regardless of the fact that she was technically a regent of all three kingdoms, Margrete would rule all three with full royal power for the rest of her life.33 Caterina Cornaro Like Margrete of Denmark, Caterina Cornaro of Venice was a powerful widow who became queen after the death of her younger son, but 148

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The Path to the Throne her path to the throne was somewhat different than her Scandinavian predecessor’s. Caterina’s story begins centuries before her birth in 1454, with the rise of Venice’s prominence in the Adriatic Sea. With its attention firmly focused on the eastern Mediterranean, Venice maintained ties of trade – and competition – with the Byzantine Empire, the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt, and other growing Italian cities, such as Pisa and Genoa. In order to establish its dominance in the region, Venice developed the stato da mar, an overseas empire that consisted of the island of Crete, and a number of other islands and cities claimed by the Venetians, even though some were technically held by other rulers. In areas where Venice had no direct or indirect control, they set up extensive trading communities.34 By the time Caterina Cornaro was born, her native city had created a web of trade, influence and conflict that stretched from the western coast of Greece to Constantinople. Caterina’s own family reflected this web. Her mother Fiorenza Crispo, was a daughter of the lord of Syros in Greece, and a granddaughter of John Comnenus, the emperor of Trebizond, a territory held by the Byzantine Empire.35 Although it recognised noble titles, Venetian men of all social classes were able to take advantage of their city’s growing wealth and enter the ruling class of about 180 families who formed councils and selected Venice’s leader, the doge. Marco Cornaro, one of Caterina’s ancestors, had been chosen as one of Venice’s first doges, and the family eventually produced four doges of Venice. Caterina’s father, also named Marco, was a nobleman with extensive connections in the Venetian stato da mar, particularly in Cyprus and Egypt. Caterina, then, was descended from powerful and influential leaders on both sides of her family.36 By the late fifteenth century, the kingdom of Cyprus had been ruled by the Lusignan family for nearly 300 years, ever since its first king, Guy de Lusignan, who had married into the royal house of Jerusalem while on crusade in 1180, purchased the island – and its throne – from King Richard I of England. Its location on the eastern Mediterranean was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Cypriot geography was perfectly-suited to producing many of medieval Europe’s most lucrative commodities, such as sugar, wine and cotton. A key stopping point on the Mediterranean trade routes between Europe and the Middle Eastern cities of Damascus and Aleppo, Cyprus grew wealthy off of international trade. This strategic location, however, meant that many 149

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines other Mediterranean powers sought to control the island. The Lusignan rulers were forced to form marriage alliances across Europe in order to avoid conquest.37 In the late fifteenth century, Cyprus was in a particularly vulnerable position: the island had recently experienced invasions both from the Italian city of Genoa and the Mamluk sultanate of Egypt. As a result of the latter, King Janus had in 1426 agreed to pay annual tribute to the Mamluk sultans. A series of rulers who inherited as children had necessitated frequent rule by regents – usually the foreign-born mothers of the child kings, who were rarely trusted by the Cypriot people. This had led to a weakened monarchy. When King Jean II of Cyprus’s death in 1458 left his daughter Charlotte de Lusignan as his only legitimate heir, Charlotte’s half-brother Jacques – an illegitimate son of Jean – seized his opportunity. By 1463, Jacques had effectively replaced his half-sister and was ruling as King Jacques II of Cyprus.38 Jacques II’s rule was understandably weak. His half-sister Charlotte worked to gain support from her husband. Louis of Savoy’s relatives. Jacques needed to marry in order to produce a male heir to inherit his throne and solidify his rule. In 1453, the Ottoman Empire had conquered Constantinople, toppling the Byzantine Empire, and they also showed some interest in Cyprus. He was also unable to pay the tribute owed to the sultan of Egypt. Jacques therefore also required a marriage alliance to provide protection against these outside threats. Jacques turned to his allies in Venice, including Marco Cornaro and his brother Andrea, for support, and in 1468 Marco’s daughter Caterina Cornaro was married to Jacques II of Cyprus. The couple were first married by proxy in 1468, when Caterina was only about 15 years old. The agreement between Venice and Cyprus included stipulations that Venice would provide naval protection for Cyprus and protect Jacques from the sultan of Egypt. Marco Cornaro also agreed to pay a dowry of the exorbitant sum of 100,000 ducats, though some 40,000 ducats were deducted as payment of debts that Jacques owed the Cornaro family. In return, the marriage alliance offered Venice the opportunity to further control relations with Cyprus and the important eastern Mediterranean trading centre, as well as ensuring that Jacques did not form an alliance with an enemy of Venice. In addition, although Venice was a democracy, its citizens were still swayed by the glamour of royalty, and to have a queen of Cyprus come from Venice brought a new level of status to the republic.39 150

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The Path to the Throne For the 15-year-old queen of Cyprus, marriage brought about an immediate increase in status. In the four years between when Caterina married Jacques by proxy in 1468 and when she actually departed for Venice in 1472, she prepared for her future role. The doge declared Caterina a ‘daughter of the Republic’, creating the illusion that Jacques was marrying not a daughter of a private citizen, but a daughter of Venice herself. While she had been educated as a younger child at the convent of San Benedetto Vecchio in Padua, it is likely that the years between her proxy marriage and departure for Cyprus saw Caterina join her brothers in studying languages and the art of ruling.40 Caterina also began to take on a role of international importance. In 1469, a year after her proxy marriage, when the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III visited Venice, a Milanese official described the ball celebrating the emperor’s arrival in a letter to his master, Galeazzo Maria Sforza, saying that there were around three hundred women, beautiful and sumptuously dressed, with a similar number of wellappointed gentlemen and citizens, so that there was no empty space in the room. His Sacred Majesty [the emperor] was seated on the great high throne on the tribunal, with the Queen of Cyprus to his right, and the Doge to his left, and the other ladies beneath the tribunal.41 Even though she had not yet even meet her husband, marriage to Jacques of Cyprus had thrust Caterina into a glamorous and exciting world that might have been overwhelming. It was 1472, and Caterina was 19 years old, by the time that she departed for Cyprus at last. Why Caterina was not sent to Cyprus immediately after her marriage is unknown – perhaps her family or the Venetian government wanted more time to train her in the art of rulership, or perhaps she was not yet mature enough to take up royal and wifely duties. Whatever the reason, her departure for Cyprus took the form of a sumptuous festival. Years later, at Caterina’s father Marco’s funeral, the orator Pietro Contarini recalled that magnificence was manifested then, when accompanied by the most illustrious Doge Nicolò Tron, the entire Senate, and 151

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Ambassadors of all of Italy, with the great cooperation of every order of person, and crowds of boats, this new queen was conducted to the galleys that should take her to Cyprus. Who could describe these most ornate preparations, who the abundance of every kind? Everything was elegant, all resplendent in gold and gems, the pomp of the wedding was truly royal.42 Like many queens, Caterina arrived in a country entirely unknown to her, where religious practices and culture were very different from the home where she had grown up. Fifteenth-century Cyprus had a reputation for lasciviousness that, while possibly exaggerated in some contemporary sources, was fairly well deserved. After coming of age in a society that prided itself on frugality and austerity – the extravagant celebrations thrown for Caterina were exceptional in Venice, where simple fashions and a lack of ostentatious spending were the name of the day – Cyprus may well have been a shock. Upon her arrival, Caterina would have learned that her husband already had at least three illegitimate children; he conceived a fourth shortly after Caterina’s arrival.43 In spite of any obstacles or surprises Caterina encountered, however, she quickly became pregnant. She was probably just beginning to settle into her new life in July of 1473, when Jacques went hunting one day with some of his court, including several of Caterina’s family members. He developed dysentery and died – unsurprisingly, there was talk that the Venetians had had him murdered.44 Caterina immediately became regent for her unborn child. She acted quickly to proclaim herself the ruler of Cyprus, writing letters to the sultan of Egypt and forcing the Cypriot nobles to give her their oaths of allegiance. She was late in her pregnancy, which prevented her from taking a very active role, but she was clearly present behind the scenes, working with her regency council. When she gave birth the following month, her son was immediately proclaimed King Jacques III of Cyprus. Shortly after his birth, Caterina had a ceremony held that might have seen both her and her son declared joint rulers of Cyprus, in accordance with her husband’s will.45 Although she had given birth to a male heir, Jacques II had left a confusing web of family members who were also interested in the Cypriot crown. Jacques’s half-sister Charlotte de Lusignan was still 152

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The Path to the Throne traveling Europe in search of allies, hoping to place herself back on the throne. Jacques’s illegitimate children were a focus of resistance to Caterina’s rule. Other countries, especially the Iberian kingdom of Aragon and the Italian kingdom of Naples, also showed an interest in Caterina’s throne. In 1474, King Ferdinand of Naples determined that his son Alfonso should marry Jacques II’s illegitimate daughter Charla, giving Alfonso a claim to the throne of Cyprus. In order to bring this plan to fruition, conspirators working on behalf of Ferdinand snuck into the royal palace in Famagusta, where both Caterina and Charla were living. They killed several of Caterina’s supporters in front of her, including her uncle Andrea Cornaro, before forcing the young Charla to marry Alfonso. For the next several months, Caterina was virtually held prisoner while Alfonso of Naples ruled Cyprus. The conspirators forced Caterina to send letters to her allies in Venice telling them that everything was fine, but her family seems to have known otherwise. In response, Venice sent ships and soldiers to defend Caterina’s rule. After a few weeks, the conspiracy had been put to an end.46 Disaster struck again in the late summer of 1474. Cyprus’s warm climate and status as a centre of trade meant that it was always susceptible to disease, and in that summer, Caterina’s son Jacques III of Cyprus, not yet a year old, became ill and died. In the midst of confusion over who would reign next, Caterina’s old enemies, particularly Charlotte de Lusignan, reasserted their rights over the island. Unwilling to see its investment in Cyprus disappear, however, Venice sent even more soldiers and ships to protect Caterina. By the end of 1474, Caterina was the undisputed ruler of Cyprus at last – but only as long as she had Venetian support.47 For many women, then, the path to power was similar to that of their male counterparts: they were simply the closest living relative to their predecessor. It helped if, as in the case of both Urraca of León and her descendent, Berenguela of Castile, the king who preceded had in some way indicated that they were to be the successor. It also helped these women if they had already given birth to a son to act as their heir when they succeeded, as both Urraca and Berenguela had. Women were often only proclaimed as rulers when they could act as a placeholder between one male ruler and another. Both Urraca and Berenguela were pressured to make this role official, having their young sons proclaimed kings during their lifetimes, and assuming a co-rulership with them. 153

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Other women found that the path to power was less straightforward. Margrete of Denmark was a very intelligent and capable politician. As the wife of Haakon IV of Norway, however, she probably never anticipated a role for herself beyond that of consort and potentially mother to a king. In the right hands, these could be very powerful positions, but Margrete had the acumen and foresight to seek out more. She had her son declared ruler of Denmark and Norway, and after his death, she was able to wield her relationships and her independent status to have herself made the ruler of Denmark, Norway and Scandinavia. Though technically only a regent until a suitable male heir could be found and agreed upon, in reality Margrete ruled as a queen for the rest of her life. At least Margrete was the daughter and mother of legitimate kings. Caterina Cornaro had an even more tenuous claim to rulership, being related to the ruling Lusignan family of Cyprus only by marriage. After the death of her husband and son, it was only the audacity of her Venetian allies that placed her on the throne of Cyprus as its queen. She would spend much of the rest of her reign fighting to legitimise her rule. Each of these women was a force to be reckoned with in her own right, but we cannot argue that any of these remarkable queens achieved power entirely independently. Each of them relied on a male figure to solidify their claim. For Urraca and Berenguela, it was their sons, and the implicit understanding that the only reason they were allowed to ascend to the throne was as a placeholder. Margrete of Denmark was also a placeholder, not for a son, but for a yet-to-be-determined male ruler. Caterina Cornaro was not a placeholder in the same way that these women were, but she still required the male establishment of her supporters in the Cornaro family and the Venetian republic in order to stay in power. In addition to these men, each woman had capitalise on relationships with the male-dominated establishments of her kingdom – secular and religious leaders – to gain approval of her rule. Women, then, required a man, or a group of men, in order to achieve her seat on the throne. But once she had her crown, a queen was faced with a new quandary: how would she actually go about keeping and wielding her power?

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Chapter Six

Wielding Royal Power

‘King Fernando obtained the kingdom peacefully and quietly, for the noble queen managed everything: she trained her son diligently to such an extent that he governed the kingdom and the country according to the customs of his grandfather, the noble Alfonso.’ ‘And indeed, although he was raised to the pinnacle of the kingdom, he obeyed the most wise Queen Berenguela, his mother, as though he were the humblest schoolboy under the instructor’s rod.’1 At the beginning of the co-reign of Berenguela of Castile and her son Fernando, contemporary writers were quick to extol Berenguela’s virtues. She was wise and pious, politically savvy, and courageous – altogether, a worthy heir to her father. But from day one, there was another presence in Berenguela’s reign: her son, Fernando. Like every medieval ruler, reigning queens relied on a complex network of allegiances, domestic and international, to secure their rule. Unlike their male counterparts, however, there was another essential element to a woman’s authority – a man who could appear to be actually in charge, whether in imagination or in fact. In the case of Berenguela and her son Fernando, this arrangement worked well, but for other women, the necessity of inviting a man to share power led to disaster. In 1184, Tamar of Georgia ascended to the throne of Georgia as the successor of her father, Georgi III. She ruled over a golden age in Georgian history, and Georgian chroniclers writing after her death compared her to Constantine, Solomon and Alexander the Great. At the same time, however, they noted that because Tamar, as a woman, could not lead armies into battle, she faced more revolts than other rulers, both before and after. 155

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Tamar utilised a number of techniques to deal with dissatisfaction with her rule. Images in churches from Tamar’s rule often depict her following her father, King Georgi, symbolically representing the path by which she came to power, and demonstrating that to rebel against her power was to rebel against a legitimate ruler. She also had herself depicted with St Nino, the woman who had converted Georgia to Christianity hundreds of years earlier. St Nino was the patron saint of Georgia, and for Tamar, associating herself with the saint who represented her country allowed her to symbolically represent Georgia as well.2 Finally, after an unsuccessful first marriage, Tamar chose a second husband, David Soslan, who was a capable military leader and a minor member of the ruling family of Alania, in the Georgian Caucasus. The techniques that Tamar used to solidify her claim to power are a good example of those used by many regnant queens to stay in power. Associating themselves with the ruling family, utilising religious imagery, and association with a man who combined an admirable ability to command military support while not presenting a challenge to the queen’s rule were tactics that many medieval queens adopted. Other queens used different techniques as well: maintaining the fiction that their power was merely temporary, for example, or pulling together coalitions of support from both within and without their kingdoms. If the path to the throne was tricky, then staying on that throne and wielding its power was even more difficult. All these women, however, were forced to bring a men – or group of men – into their rule in order to solidify their claims to authority. Ultimately, it was the relationship that they had with the men in their lives that was the defining feature of their reigns. Help from Without Most female rulers sought help from outside their borders in order to secure their thrones, with mixed effects. The fathers of both Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile arranged marriage alliances with the rulers of nearby kingdoms to provide an international alliance. Margrete of Denmark was also married to Haakon of Norway in such an alliance, and in her path to the crown, she utilised the support that she brought from the other countries of Scandinavia. But for two women in this chapter, international support was not merely an element of their 156

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Wielding Royal Power ability to stay on the throne, but a sine qua non that provided a crucial element of their rule. The reigns of Giovanna I of Naples and Caterina Cornaro of Cyprus demonstrate how central outside support might be – and how disastrous the consequences could be when that support was withdrawn. The kingdom of Naples was a wealthy country, one of the only kingdoms in Italy among a group of mostly-democratic city-states. Pope Urban IV had declared Charles I of Anjou, a younger brother of Louis IX of France, king in the late 1200s. In accepting the crown from the pope, Charles and his descendants, the subsequent rulers of Naples, became both powerful leaders and vassals to the papacy. They spun this vassalage as a special level of royal holiness, claiming to exercise a priestly kingship, and they took on special roles preaching the popes’ teachings and participated in Crusades in Europe and further afield. For Giovanna I of Naples, the country’s first female ruler, however, this presented a problem. Giovanna faced the same sorts of issues that female rulers always faced: questions about how much power a woman should wield, compounded by concerns about what role her husband would play in her reign. Her crown’s priestly relationship with the pope added additional concerns, however, because as a woman she could neither preach nor could she fight heathens as a crusader. How would she exercise the special form of kingship her ancestors had claimed?3 In the end, Giovanna forged a new relationship for herself with the popes of her time, casting herself in the role of a daughter of the papacy. Giovanna’s relationships with the popes of her day helped solve the question of female rule. Firstly, in his approval of her rule, the pope gave Giovanna’s reign legitimacy, making it difficult for any of her many enemies to make a serious attempt to overthrow her for much of her reign. Secondly, placing herself in an obedient role to the pope solved the question of how a woman could wield power independently of a man. In the pope, Giovanna had a father – a spiritual one – who could soothe any concerns that her contemporaries might have about female rulership, while Giovanna sacrificed little independence.4 Giovanna of Naples was born in 1326 or 1327, and lived through – and acted upon – most of the important events of the tumultuous fourteenth century. The daughter of Marie de Valois (a sister of King Philip VI of France) and Charles of Calabria, she became the heiress 157

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines of her grandfather, Robert of Anjou, king of Naples, after her father’s early death. Like many rulers of the Middle Ages, Robert had to contend with a competing claim to his crown: in this case, the ruling family of Hungary also had a claim to the Neapolitan throne. Robert solved this problem with a double marriage. Giovanna’s sister Maria married Louis, the heir to the Hungarian throne, while Giovanna herself married Louis’s younger brother, Andrew of Hungary.5 At the same time, Giovanna’s male cousins from the house of Anjou also posed a threat, and several of them believed that they, not Giovanna, should inherit the throne.6 When Robert of Naples died, then, in 1343, the 17-year-old Giovanna and her 15-year-old husband Andrew inherited a court that was split into three factions: the Neapolitan court that supported Giovanna; the Hungarians who had accompanied Andrew to Naples; and Giovanna’s Angevin cousins who challenged her succession. Anticipating the factionalism, Robert of Naples’s will had declared that neither Giovanna nor Andrew would come into their inheritance until they were 25 – instead the country would be run by Robert’s widow, Sancia of Majorca.7 Giovanna, however, refused to share administration of her kingdoms either with her cousins or with her husband. Though official documents referred to Andrew as ‘king’, this was clearly a courtesy title only. Disorder only grew over the next several years. From his base in Rome, Pope Clement VI heard rumours of chaos: a court ruled by feuding courtiers; growing tension between branches of the family; overspending; roving gangs of noblemen causing violence in the city of Naples itself; and a Hungarian faction whose insistence that Andrew be allowed to rule grew more vocal by the day. By 1344, Clement, concerned at some of the actions Giovanna had been taking – granting vast amounts of crown land to her supporters, for instance – began to insist that she include Andrew more in the governance of her kingdom. When, in June of 1345, the pope insisted that Andrew be given a formal coronation and officially made a part of royal administration, Giovanna flatly refused.8 Giovanna became pregnant that summer, and things briefly seemed as though they might improve, but with the death of Sancia of Majorca in July, the court again descended into chaos. Giovanna was reputed to be engaged in multiple affairs, while her supporters openly mocked Andrew of Hungary in court. Giovanna finally bowed to the pope’s 158

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Wielding Royal Power insistence that Andrew be crowned, and a double coronation was held, but Andrew was still granted no specific powers. Indeed, as Giovanna’s pregnancy raised the issue of who would succeed her if she died in childbirth, she forced Andrew to sign a document stating that he had no right to Naples. Clearly, she feared that he would attempt to seize the throne.9 Contemporaries probably thought the problem of Andrew of Hungary was solved in September of 1345, when a group of men attacked Andrew, beating, suffocating and eventually strangling him to death. The rumour that Giovanna was involved in her husband’s murder was probably inevitable, but the official investigation, performed by Giovanna’s cousin Charles of Durazzo, determined that she was innocent. Charles did find a network of conspirators who included Giovanna’s closest advisors and rumoured lovers, most of whom were publicly tortured and burned as punishment. Though she was not officially implicated in her husband’s murder, gossip of her involvement abounded, continuing long after Andrew’s death. Giovanna sat on the throne of Naples for another forty years, but this was the event that defined her reign.10 Within weeks of her first husband’s death, Giovanna had married again, this time to her cousin Louis of Taranto, one of the many men who had been rumoured to be her lover. It was a secret marriage, not sanctioned by the pope, and it was this marriage that probably saved her reign from complete disaster.11 Giovanna’s reputation, both in Naples and across Europe, had been in freefall since Andrew of Hungary’s murder, and contemporaries depicted her as a classic ‘she-wolf ’, a woman overcome with a potent, dangerous combination of lust and violence. The transformation of her image over the next fifteen years came down to two men. The first was King Louis of Hungary, who had at one time been betrothed to Giovanna’s sister Maria. Following the murder of his brother Andrew, Louis had a great deal of support across Europe in his attacks on Giovanna, but eventually these became so prolonged and violent, that support turned to dismay. The second man was Giovanna’s second husband Louis of Taranto, whose mismanagement of his wife’s kingdom led to disaster for Naples and pity for Giovanna.12 Following their marriage in 1347, Giovanna disappears from Neapolitan records virtually overnight. Louis spent the next several 159

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines years slowly chipping away at his wife’s power, and although she technically retained sovereign authority in Naples, by the time of their joint coronation in 1352, Louis was effectively sole ruler of Naples.13 During his years in power, however, Louis managed to alienate first the pope, then the elite classes of Naples and elsewhere, and finally his own supporters. The chroniclers and other commentators who had initially been in support of the firm hand that they believed he would extend over Naples withdrew their support over the next decade. Gossip held that Giovanna was fighting back by refusing to have sex with her husband, denying him an heir. By displacing Giovanna in the Neapolitan government, Louis placed attention firmly on himself – and his mistakes – with the result that Giovanna became considerably more popular. This was at least in part because his behaviour cast her in the role of the wronged wife. Medieval society, which had a hard time wrapping its mind around a queen regnant, could easily understand a too-heavyhanded husband. The perception that Giovanna patiently endured Louis’s abuse made her more relatable as a woman, and when he finally died in 1362, she returned to a spotlight that was considerably warmer than it had been after Andrew of Hungary’s death nearly twenty years earlier.14 Following Louis of Taranto’s death, Giovanna was able, for the first time in her reign, to truly step into the role of ruler. Where previously her reign was shaped strongly by the opinions of others, in this phase of her life, she had the opportunity to shape it for herself.15 Giovanna had given birth to one child, a son, with Andrew of Hungary, and to two daughters with Louis of Taranto, but none of her children survived to adulthood. Her youngest daughter, Françoise, had died in 1352, and following her second husband’s death, Giovanna’s first priority became arranging a new marriage for herself. She was only in her mid-thirties, and if she acted quickly, she could still produce an heir for Naples. With pressure to marry quickly, but to a man who would not threaten her independence, Giovanna married Jaume IV, the titular king of Majorca, in early 1363. Although Jaume claimed the title king of Majorca, in practice the kingdom of Aragon ruled Majorca, rendering his title meaningless. The marriage contract between Jaume and Giovanna granted James the title of Duke of Calabria, but not King of Naples, and it clearly excluded him from the line of succession. Their relationship 160

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Wielding Royal Power was tumultuous from the beginning, and by 1365, the couple were more or less estranged, having never produced the much-needed heir. Jaume spent what remained if his life fighting in the wars of the day, including the civil war in Castile and the Hundred Years’ War between France and England, and finally died in 1375. The following year, Giovanna made her final marriage, this time to Otto of Brunswick, a close ally of Pope Gregory XI and strong military leader. Otto was in his fifties and Giovanna in her forties, and no one was surprised that this marriage, too, was childless. Pope Gregory XI’s death in 1378 led to crisis in the Western European church. In April that year, the cardinals elected a new pope, Urban VI. Within only a few months, however, the Pope Urban had alienated many of his supporters, and a breakaway group of cardinals elected a new pope, Clement VII. With two popes now in power, the Western Schism had begun, and rulers across Europe were forced to decide which to support. In October of 1378, Giovanna became the first major ruler to recognise Clement VII, a choice that shattered her rule and her reputation.16 Urban VI reacted by first excommunicating Giovanna, then declaring her deposed. In her place, the pope declared Giovanna’s cousin Charles of Durazzo king of Naples. Charles acted quickly, invading the kingdom and capturing the city of Naples in July of 1381. In November, he was officially crowned king in Giovanna’s place. The following summer, Giovanna died, leaving Charles’s place on the Neapolitan throne secure.17 Although Charles claimed that Giovanna’s death was natural, the convenient timing makes the claims that she was either strangled or smothered easy to believe. Giovanna’s reign was thus bookended by her relationships with popes, but these relationships also played an important role throughout her time as queen of Naples. At times, as in Giovanna’s first marriage to Andrew of Hungary, the pope appeared to be working against her interests. It was, after all, Pope Clement VI who insisted that Andrew be crowned as Giovanna’s co-ruler. After initially refusing to hold a coronation for Andrew, Giovanna eventually acquiesced to papal demand, evidence for how seriously she took her dynasty’s relationship with the papacy. It was also Clement VI who eventually gave his approval for Giovanna’s marriage to Louis of Taranto – after Giovanna managed to convince him that she had not been complicit in Andrew of Hungary’s death – and 161

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines gave her and Louis the funds to finance her return to Naples following an invasion by Louis of Hungary. Giovanna also attempted to leverage her special relationship with Clement VI during her marriage to Louis of Taranto. In the early years of her marriage to Louis, Giovanna scrambled to remove herself from his power, appealing to her supporters in Naples, further abroad and, most importantly to the pope. In 1349, Clement wrote to Louis to chastise him for his appalling behaviour towards his wife: If one can believe a nearly universal report, not only are you failing to treat the queen as wife and queen, you are also not far from holding her in open contempt. You have reduced her to appearing more your servant than your wife. Led – or rather seduced – by your counsellors, on the order of whom, to repeat what nearly the whole world says, you do and you undo everything, you have despoiled the queen of the administration of her kingdom, into which she admitted you for love. You have deprived her of homage and conversation of with her faithful subjects, to the point that without your will and permission and that of your counsellors, no one may speak to her.18 The pope’s words had no effect on Louis. In the same year, there were rumours that Louis planned to have his wife murdered, and in that autumn, he did murder many of Giovanna’s supporters.19 Pope Clement died in 1352, and it cannot be a coincidence that from that year, Louis of Taranto was effectively sole ruler of Naples, while Giovanna was virtually imprisoned. Giovanna’s special relationship with the papacy was really only able to flourish during the years of her independent reign following Louis of Taranto’s death in 1362. We can see glimpses of Giovanna’s personality and ideas about independent rule in the reputation for piety that she created. By making a show of obedience to the pope, she was able to give a feminine gloss to the priestly piety that had characterised the reigns of her male predecessors in Naples.20 It helped that following Pope Innocent VI, who had been disinclined to act on Giovanna’s behalf, the popes whose reigns overlapped with hers tended to be friendly. She was able to leverage papal support to maintain 162

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Wielding Royal Power independence from her third husband, Jaume of Majorca, explaining to Pope Urban V that she had been forced to maintain her distance from Jaume due to his violent outbursts. With papal approval for her estrangement from Jaume, who would dare criticise her behaviour?21 In the 1360s and 1370s, Giovanna was able to throw her support behind papal affairs, assuming the traditional Angevin role as papal champion. Since 1309, a combination of French influence and conflict with the Holy Roman Empire had meant that the papal court was based not in Rome, but the city of Avignon. When Urban V decided that he wanted to return the papacy to Rome, Giovanna played an important role, providing both political support and military aid. By creating a reputation for herself as a loyal daughter of the papacy, Giovanna silenced her critics and gained a crucial ally outside her kingdom.22 The fact that it was the papal schism that led to the end of Giovanna’s reign underscores how crucial this outside nexus of support was to her time as queen. Nearly a century later, Caterina Cornaro would also learn about the necessity – and the danger – of support from without to bolster her reign. In Caterina’s case she was the daughter not of the papacy, but of her home city-state, Venice, and it was Venice that both kept her on the throne and eventually removed her from it. Venice had played an important role in the politics of Cyprus long before the marriage of Jacques II and Caterina Cornaro, but it was this marriage that cemented the relationship between the two and ultimately allowed Venice to assert complete control over Cyprus. Even before Jacques’s death, the city was exerting significant influence. In 1469, several years before Caterina and Jacques cemented their proxy marriage with Caterina’s move to Cyprus, Venice officially took Cyprus under its protection. The city promised to defend Jacques and his heirs against any external power, and Jacques swore to provide open trade with Venice. Some sources suggest that at this time, Jacques may have declared Venice his heir, should his marriage with Caterina not produce any children.23 When Caterina officially assumed power in Cyprus following the deaths of her husband Jacques II and her son Jacques III, Cyprus was caught in a maelstrom of intrigue, both international and domestic. While Caterina had to deal with resistance from some of her subjects and of Jacques’s half-sister Charlotte, she was also faced with pressure from 163

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines the sultan of Egypt. The conquest of Constantinople by the Ottoman Sultan Mehmet II in 1453 and subsequent fall of the Byzantine Empire had prompted the heads of the states of Italy – Milan, Florence, Venice, the Papal States, and Naples – to agree on a pact of non-aggression with each other while they dealt with the Ottoman threat. When the pact surprised no one by falling apart, Cyprus felt the consequences, as it was an easy target for expansionist states who felt the pressure to bolster their defences against the Ottomans.24 It is no surprise that Caterina accepted the help of her home city of Venice, but the consequence of this was that she spent the rest of her reign struggling to retain any sort of independence from the city that had placed her on the throne. Like Giovanna of Naples before her, she was ultimately unsuccessful. International support might be necessary in some cases, but it could also be a ruler’s undoing. While Venice had maintained a presence in Cyprus for some time, it was only the attempted usurpation of Ferdinand of Naples shortly after the death of Caterina’s son Jacques that prompted Venice to install a military force in the island. At this point, Caterina welcomed Venetian support, and the troops stayed for several weeks, rooting out many who conspired against her reign. She also gained support from within Cyprus at this time, as many preferred support from Venice to conquest by Naples. But while Caterina may have gladly relied on Venetian support in this instance, it is not clear that she saw Cyprus as a Venetian colony or herself as a pawn in Venetian politics.25 Venice saw matters differently. Throughout the next fifteen years, there was a subtle shift in Venetian ‘support’ for Caterina and her rule. Although Venetian ships and officials were probably first intended to safeguard Cypriot independence, eventually the Venetian government used these same ships and officials to control both Caterina and Cyprus. In 1374, when Caterina’s independent reign was officially established, it probably looked to most outsiders as though Venice had annexed Cyprus – and it may be that the only reason that Venice did not depose Caterina at this point was to combat this perception. Instead, Venice publicly promoted Caterina’s sovereignty, while in the background it walked a tightrope between supporting her and controlling her.26 For Caterina, the challenge was to rely on Venetian support when necessary – without that support she would not have stayed on her throne for long at all – while simultaneously charting an independent 164

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Wielding Royal Power course acceptable to her Cypriot subjects. In the early years of her reign, she worked hard to maintain positive relationships with those, including her natal family and supporters of her deceased husband, who could be trusted to promote her independent rule. Caterina quickly opened marriage negotiations and interrogated and punished those who had betrayed her to Ferdinand of Naples. She re-created the royal council, filling it with her supporters, a mix of Venetians (usually her own family members) and locals. These actions were alarming to Venice, where it was feared, almost certainly correctly, that these men might be inclined to promote the queen’s interests over those of Venice. The city intervened, ordering that the Venetians on Caterina’s council return home.27 Venice sent a regularly-rotating group of official ‘counsellors’, whose ostensible purpose was to support Caterina, but whose real mandate was to keep Cyprus and its queen firmly under Venetian influence. To keep Caterina compliant and happy, the Venetian government also dispatched Caterina’s father, Marco Cornaro, to support her. But having her father present did little to convince Caterina that all was well. In April of 1475, almost a year into her so-called independent rule, she wrote two letters to the doge of Venice – one so secret that she wrote it in her own hand, not trusting its contents to a scribe – complaining at the poor treatment of her Venetian ‘counsellors’. Rather than advising her, she said, they ran the entire country, forced her to approve their decisions, and controlled her every movement. In not allowing her to leave the city of Famagusta when disease struck, Caterina told the doge, her counsellors had caused her son’s death.28 Caterina wrote that she ate on a simple table in a room, served by two servants, like a common townswoman … We take mass in a room, from which we are never seen, while my father wishes that we have a queen’s status, that we have our chapel as is appropriate, that sometimes we eat in a hall in public, that we have courtiers in a livery as royals do.29 While her words provide evidence that some of Caterina’s complaints were the result of injury to her ego, they also demonstrate that she understood some of the crucial elements of statecraft, such as the importance to her subjects of seeing their queen. Attributing the requests 165

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines to her father’s wishes rather than her own might have been intended to add additional weight, or perhaps to counter any suggestion that she wished to serve her own ego. In her many letters to the Venetian doge and council, Caterina regularly called on her status as the daughter of Venice.30 Venetian support might have been the thing that placed her definitively on the throne, but her unique status as daughter of the city meant that Caterina expected a two-way street. By placing herself in a filial position to the doge, Caterina acknowledged that she owed Venice her obedience, but also implied that Venice owed her the protection and respect that a father owed his daughter. Eventually, a compromise was reached. By the time Marco Cornaro left Venice in late 1475, the counsellors sent to Caterina were cautioned to respect her status as Cyprus’s sovereign. Caterina was granted an income to spend as she preferred, one that would allow her to maintain the status expected of a royal, and she was to be allowed to travel as she wished.31 She celebrated by making a royal progress from the port city of Famagusta to the central city of Nicosia. When she arrived at Nicosia, at the gate many people came with the clergy, carrying a gold umbrella … under this the queen on horseback came, with all the populace crying ‘Long live Queen Caterina’. They came to the cathedral and there, Her Highness dismounted and went to the high altar with ceremony. Having spoken some words, all began to cry, ‘Long live Queen Caterina’. She remounted and rode to the palace, where she was accompanied even to her room, and there she remained.32 A display such as this must have been soothing to Caterina’s ego after the mistreatment she had experienced earlier in the year. At the same time, the royal progress served a dual purpose for her reign: it allowed her subjects to see her, as she had mentioned in her letter to the Venetian doge, but it would also have been a pointed reminder to Caterina’s Venetian overseers of her popularity with the people of Cyprus. Dramatically removing her from rule might not be the best idea. The next fourteen years saw Venice slowly chip away at Caterina’s power instead of deposing her outright, as the city had clearly contemplated in 1474. In the years between 1475 and 1489, Venice stepped up its 166

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Wielding Royal Power control over Caterina – and therefore over Cyprus – in increments. By 1489, however, two things had changed. The first was the growing power of the Ottoman Empire and the threat that it presented to Cyprus. The second was Caterina’s marital prospects. While Caterina, a widowed queen who had proven her ability to bear healthy children, had been a desirable bride for some time, in 1489, rumours began to swirl that she was arranging her own marriage alliance with the kingdom of Naples. To Venice, this move was both aggressive and entirely unacceptable.33 The Venetian Council of Ten first determined to remove Caterina by force, then reconsidered, deciding to induce her to leave Cyprus by a combination of persuasion and threat. Caterina’s father Marco had died in 1479, so Venice instead dispatched her brother Zorzi to bring Caterina to heel.34 Caterina’s brother entreated her ‘with sweet words and with harsh ones, saying “If you do not wish to come, know that the Signoria has the Admiral with the armada here, he will remove you by force, you will lose the grace of the Signoria, and we will be ruined.”’35 Meanwhile, the sixteenth-century humanist historian Pietro Bembo tells us that when confronted with Zorzi’s demands, Caterina protested and would not be prevailed upon to abandon her wealthy kingdom, accustomed as she was to a royal way of life and honours paid to royalty. She well knew that she would have no special prerogatives, and greatly reduced circumstances, if she lived back at Venice; it was enough, she said, if the island were to come to the control of the republic [of Venice] at her death.36 In Bembo’s version of the conversation, Zorzi goes on to remind Caterina of the vulnerability she faces as a female queen, pointing out the threats that might come to a woman whose kingdom is overrun by Turks or whose nobles capture her. In other words, if Caterina chose to stay and therefore lost Venetian support, she would be susceptible to capture and rape. Bembo’s version, written almost a century after the events he discusses, is almost certainly exaggerated. Nonetheless, the arguments that Bembo depicts Zorzi using – the potential loss of position for the Cornaro family; the glory of Venice; the threats Caterina would face if she failed to acquiesce – likely reflect the sorts of topics that Caterina and Zorzi would have discussed.37 167

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Caterina had little choice but to submit. Her departure for Venice was accompanied by a formal procession from Nicosia to Famagusta – a mirror of the procession she had made fourteen years previously when the Venetians had granted her a degree of independence – marked by pageantry and weeping from Caterina’s subjects. As she prepared to depart, Caterina presented the standard of St Mark, Venice’s official flag, to Admiral Priuli of Venice, and it was raised over the main square. Centuries of independent Cypriot rule had ended, and formal Venetian rule had begun.38 For both Caterina Cornaro and Giovanna of Naples, then, outside support proved to be a combination of blessing and curse. For Giovanna, papal support for her reign was a powerful source of legitimisation. Giovanna was the epitome of the paradox of female sovereignty. How could a woman, subject to her husband in the divinely ordained order of nature, rule independently of her husband? Her unique relationship with the papacy allowed her to sidestep the question. By creating for herself the image of the ‘daughter of the papacy’, Giovanna placed herself in submission to one man, the pope, while simultaneously maintaining a sovereignty that was very difficult to protest. But the relationship came with a price, and that price was that Giovanna was expected to support the pope in return. When she chose to support the wrong one, her rule came crashing down nearly overnight. For the ‘daughter of Venice’, Caterina Cornaro, outside support was less a choice than a necessity. In Caterina’s case, the question was not ‘how can a woman rule?’, but rather, ‘how can a woman with no claim to the throne rule?’ Venice’s army, soldiers, and rotating door of counsellors provided the answer to that question. By supporting Caterina’s rule, Venice maintained the illusion that it was protecting Cypriot independence, all while chipping away at its sovereignty. When maintaining that illusion became unnecessary, the Venetian government deposed Caterina, who had become little more than a puppet. In both cases, too much outside support rendered the queen vulnerable to what might happen if that support was withdrawn. Help from Within A wise ruler augmented support from outside their borders with support from inside. Both Urraca of León and her descendent Berenguela of 168

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Wielding Royal Power Castile were masters of negotiating support from their own people to bolster their positions as queens. By the summer of 1110, Urraca of León had separated from her husband Alfonso I of Aragon and declared herself queen of the combined kingdoms of Castile, León, and Galicia. Being able to call herself queen and actually exercising power in her kingdoms were two different things, however, and Urraca faced three key challenges to her rule. The first was rebellion in the northwestern province of Galicia, led by the nobleman Pedro Froilaz. Froilaz was the guardian of Urraca’s son with her first husband, Raymond of Burgundy, Alfonso Raimúndez. Froilaz claimed his aim was to put the young Alfonso, less than 10 years old, on the throne in Urraca’s place. Secondly, Henry of Burgundy, now Henry of Portugal, and his wife, Urraca’s half-sister Teresa, were making moves towards independence in their county of Portugal. Finally, Urraca’s former husband King Alfonso of Aragon might have accepted the end of their marriage, but he refused to accept the loss of territory that came with it. Urraca would spend much of her reign keeping Alfonso’s expansionist tendencies at bay. One of the techniques Urraca used to keep her enemies at bay was playing them against each other. With Henry and Teresa of Portugal nibbling at Urraca’s borders on the west and Alfonso of Aragon chipping away at her lands to the east, it was no surprise that the rulers of Portugal and Aragon found their interests aligned from time to time. In October of 1111, Henry allied himself with Alfonso of Aragon and together they defeated Urraca’s army, killing some of her crucial supporters, including her alleged lover Count Gómez Gonzalez. As part of the alliance, Henry and Alfonso agreed to split Urraca’s kingdoms between themselves. When Urraca approached Henry after the battle to offer him a similar agreement, however, he quickly abandoned Alfonso of Aragon and took the deal. Alfonso of Aragon marched through Castile and León, eventually establishing his control over much of the country, but Urraca and her son fled northwest into Galicia. Urraca’s custody of her son Alfonso Raimúndez left her with a great deal of power despite her territorial losses, and she used this to secure key alliances and bind Henry of Portugal briefly to her cause.39 By the spring of 1112, Urraca had cobbled together an army from these supporters and had turned the tables on her former husband, marching back into the territories he had briefly claimed. Urraca’s forces 169

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines defeated Alfonso of Aragon, and she immediately abandoned her onetime ally Henry of Portugal and entered into peace negotiations with Alfonso. 40 This peace, like most of the other truces and alliances that Urraca and Alfonso would go on to enter, was short-lived, but it demonstrates Urraca’s clear reading of the situation and ability to adapt as matters shifted. By entering into an alliance with first Henry, then Alfonso, Urraca was able to achieve several important goals. For one thing, she ensured she only had to fight on one front at a time, instead of allowing the two men to sandwich her kingdoms between their territories. Secondly, Urraca was able to use their power for her own goal of reclaiming her kingdom. Finally, by breaking the trust between Henry and Alfonso, Urraca significantly decreased the likeliness that they would ally in the future. Playing the two men against each other was a risky move that made the already-volatile politics of the Iberian Peninsula even more chaotic, but it helped to solidify Urraca’s claim to power. More important than playing Portugal and Aragon against each other, however, was assembling a group of supporters from within Urraca’s own kingdoms. As Alfonso Raimúndez, Urraca’s son and heir, aged, he emerged as her most crucial supporter. As her great-granddaughter Berenguela would do with her son Fernando, Urraca slowly began sharing more and more power with Alfonso Raimúndez. Within the first year of her reign, Urraca had Alfonso anointed and crowned king in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela, in the heart of Galicia. This brought about two quick results. First, it put an end – briefly – to the rebellion of Pedro Froilaz in Galicia. Froilaz and the Galicians had wanted to see Alfonso in power, and Urraca had given them what they asked for, but without abandoning her own power. This move also forced Urraca’s brother-in-law Henry of Portugal out into the open. Like Pedro Froilaz, Henry had been positioning himself as a supporter of Alfonso Raimúndez. With Alfonso now an anointed king, Henry was forced to reveal his true goal: to overthrow both Urraca and Alfonso and seize power for himself.41 His timely death in the spring of 1112 brought Urraca some brief respite, but Henry’s widow, Urraca’s half-sister Teresa, held the same dreams for Portugal as her husband. For the rest of her reign, Urraca faced the constant threat of war with Teresa. 170

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Wielding Royal Power Meanwhile, the crucial southern city of Toledo had been passed back and forth between Urraca and Alfonso of Aragon for years – Alfonso had occupied it in 1111, the first year of Urraca’s reign, but she had managed to reclaim it shortly thereafter. The city had been a crucial win in the battles against the Muslims to the south, and it was essential symbolically for Urraca to continue to hold it.42 By 1114, relations had deteriorated between Urraca and Alfonso of Aragon again, while Pedro Froilaz was again raising trouble in Galicia, and Teresa of Portugal was once again agitating on the western border. Many of Urraca’s own nobles and churchmen, seeing her weakness, turned instead to Alfonso of Aragon. Later that year, however, Urraca out-manoeuvred her former husband to regain the upper hand. She called her supporters to her, granting important church offices to key supporters and calling on the pope to remind her citizens that she was the ruler of the cities that Alfonso held. Once again, Urraca called her son Alfonso Raimúndez to her side. In 1115 to 1116, Alfonso Raimúndez’s name was attached to nearly all the formal documents issued by Urraca’s government.43 To all who did business with Urraca in this period, it would have been impossible to forget that she – and her son after her – were the true rulers of León, Castile, and Galicia. In the autumn of 1116, Urraca granted her son a set of properties in southern Castile, including the city of Toledo, that were threatened or controlled by Alfonso of Aragon. This was party a reward to her son Alfonso Raimúndez for his loyalty in recent years, but mostly a clever move. Alfonso Raimúndez’s supporters, especially the Galician Pedro Froilaz, found themselves aligned with Urraca’s own goal of eliminating Alfonso of Aragon’s power base in Toledo. Instead of rebelling from Galicia, they would – for the time being, at least – help fight Urraca’s battles. At least for a little while, Urraca could let these questions go and focus on ruling.44 By playing her enemies against each other, forming an alliance first with one, then the other, then forming truces with first one, then the other, Urraca was able to keep a volatile situation under control. Sandwiched between Portugal on one side, Galicia to the northwest, and Aragon to the east, a strong alliance between any of these powers could have spelled disaster for Urraca’s reign. Urraca’s string of alliances and personal networks, both within her kingdom and without, kept these 171

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines powers from being able to trust each other for long, and kept her in power long enough to pass a reasonably intact kingdom on to her son Alfonso. A major theme of the twelfth century was the growing power of the church, and like every other leader of her age, Urraca was forced to contend with this emerging force. One of the ways Urraca maintained a balance of power between church and state was through a strong partnership with the most powerful religious leader in the country, Archbishop Bernard de Sédirac of Toledo. From the end of her marriage to Alfonso of Aragon until his death in 1125, Bernard was Urraca’s most constant supporter among both the secular and religious leaders of her kingdoms, at times serving almost as a second-in-command.45 In addition to its symbolic importance, having been only recently reclaimed for Spanish rule in the Reconquista, Toledo was of spiritual and political importance. As archbishop of Toledo, Urraca allowed Sédirac a great deal of control in the city and surrounding areas. When Urraca granted the secular rule of Toledo to her son Alfonso Raimúndez, Sédirac served as an important advisor and supporter for him as well, ensuring a continuity of capable rule in this key area. We can safely presume that Sédirac also reported on the actions of Alfonso Raimúndez and his supporters. Although Alfonso of Aragon wished to add Toledo to his territories, even attacking the city in 1117, effective, loyal rule in the area ensured that Toledo remained firmly in Urraca’s control. Urraca also developed more intimate relationships with several members of her nobility, most notably the de Lara family. The preeminent member of this family, Pedro González de Lara, was probably the most important nobleman in Urraca’s court. He is listed as confirming more of her charters than any other man in the kingdom, indicating his nearconstant presence at Urraca’s side. From time to time, he also served as her alférez, the military leader of her personal army. During times of peace, this was probably a largely symbolic role at Urraca’s court, but in war, Pedro González would have personally represented the military might of the crown on the battlefield. He was also Urraca’s lover, and the public roles that he held in her reign suggest that rather than keeping this a secret, he was more of an informal consort.46 Pedro González’s position in the Leonese court would have been bolstered further by the birth, and then the marriage, of their children. 172

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Wielding Royal Power While unreliable birth control methods meant children were difficult to prevent, Urraca and Pedro González seem to have welcomed theirs. By 1123, when Urraca had the support of Pope Calixtus and peace with Alfonso of Aragon, she was as firmly in charge as she would ever be during her rule. This year marks the first appearance of her son with Pedro González, Fernando Pérez, in official documents, and demonstrates that Urraca was secure enough to begin promoting this second family. There is no indication the presence of illegitimate children presented a threat to her legitimate son’s inheritance. Some sources suggest that their daughter Elvira Pérez was married to García Pérez, the son of Urraca’s old enemy Pedro Froilaz, as part of Urraca’s strategy to keep Froilaz – and therefore Galicia – in line. Urraca’s younger sister Sancha was also married to Pedro González’s brother Rodrigo González de Lara, tying the family further to the crown and its goals.47 As medieval kings did with their illegitimate relationships and offspring, Urraca used her relationship with Pedro González to tie an important family to the crown, as well as to forge relationships with her nobles. At the same time, Urraca avoided arranging marriages for either of her sons – her legitimate son Alfonso Raimúndez or her illegitimate son Fernando Pérez – during her lifetime. Both men, however, married shortly after her death in 1125. In this, Urraca may have learnt a lesson from mistakes made by her father, Alfonso VI, who, in marrying his young daughters to powerful foreign nobles, had created dangerous centres of power in his kingdom outside of himself. It was, after all, Henry of Burgundy’s marriage to Urraca’s half-sister Teresa that prompted Alfonso to grant Henry the county of Portugal, which proved a source of trouble to Urraca throughout her reign. Marriage in the Middle Ages was a sign of adulthood, that a man was ready to take on an independent role in the world, and for Urraca this could have meant a man who was ready to assert himself against her. Keeping her sons single meant that Urraca was the sole wellspring of power. The relationships Urraca built and manipulated within and between the three kingdoms of Castile, León and Galicia were crucial for her ability to reign effectively. Faced with the challenges of an independently-minded Portugal, the encroachments of Alfonso of Aragon, and off-and-on rebellion in Galicia, Urraca built relationships to help keep these powers at bay. Throughout her reign, it must have seemed to Urraca that she was playing a decades-long game of whack-a-mole, in which as soon as she 173

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines had dealt with one issue, another popped up, only to have the first problem rear its head as soon as the second had been dealt with. When we look at the larger picture, however, Urraca’s strategy becomes clear. By forming alliances first with Portugal, then with Aragon, she ensured that she was never fighting on more than one front, and that Teresa of Portugal and Alfonso of Aragon were unlikely to ally against her. By granting her son and heir Alfonso Raimúndez the city of Toledo, she gave him and his supporters something to do other than rebel against her and tied them firmly to her reign – after all, if she granted Alfonso Toledo, the implication was that she could also take it back. In Bernard of Sédirac, the archbishop of Toledo, Urraca formed a strong relationship with a man who might otherwise present a challenge to her rule. Bernard also helped her to keep Alfonso Raimúndez and his supporters under control in Toledo. And finally, in Urraca’s intimate relationship with Pedro González de Lara, Urraca used her sexuality in the same way that male rulers did. She bound another important noble family to her rule, allowed Pedro González to take on the mantle of military leader that she could not, and used their illegitimate children to form alliances within her kingdoms. Urraca’s solution was not perfect, and she must have been exhausted trying to balance each challenge. But by forging relationships – with outside forces, religious leaders, nobles, even would-be rebels – Urraca made her problems manageable. When she died, Urraca passed on a peaceful, intact kingdom to her son. The Man in Charge For each of the ruling queens in this chapter, a crucial element in her claim to wield royal authority was the presence of a man – or men – at her side to maintain the appearance that traditional, male authority was being exercised. Each woman, however, achieved this slightly differently, and most (though certainly not all) of them achieved a balance between their authority and that of the man who was nominally in charge. Most queens had to negotiate the question of marriage, a particularly thorny question for a female ruler. Medieval society believed subservient wives reflected the correct divine order. Medieval society also expected its divinely-appointed monarchs to rule directly, without outside

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Wielding Royal Power intervention. A married queen regnant was stuck between a rock and a hard place: whether she ruled over her husband or allowed him to rule on her behalf, she violated God’s will.48 The secular world presented further complications. Whom could a queen marry? If she chose a foreign prince, a man of her own rank, she risked allowing another country the opportunity to wield inordinate influence over her own. If she married a nobleman from her own country, she risked the upheaval and intrigue that would follow his elevation. Some queens solved their problems by finding men who combined the admirable characteristics of strong military leadership and minor royal status. Following her first two disastrous marriages, Giovanna of Naples found this sweet spot in her third husband, Jaume of Majorca. As titular king of Majorca, Jaume was of Giovanna’s rank, but wielded no power that could threaten her own. Tamar of Georgia followed a similar tactic in her second marriage to Yuri Bogolyubsky, the deposed Rus’ prince of Novgorod. He was a suitable candidate to lead Georgia’s armies on Tamar’s behalf, but presented little threat to her independent rule. That both Tamar and Giovanna eventually separated from these ‘ideal’ husbands following accusations of abuse may hint at the frustration Jaume and Yuri felt at playing second fiddle to their powerful wives. But some queens did not concede that a husband was necessary. Three of the queens in this chapter – Urraca of León, Berenguela of Castile and Margrete of Denmark – were unmarried during their reigns. For each, this was only possible because she had (or, in Margrete’s case, quickly acquired) an acceptable male heir. Through sharing their sovereign power, they mitigated worries about a woman wielding independent power. Urraca of León and her great-granddaughter Berenguela of Castile both took advantage of communal nature of Iberian monarchy, which allowed other members of the royal family to exercise royal authority, and placed their sons in this role. Both women had their sons and heirs crowned king during their own lifetimes, but neither relinquished their own sovereign power. Urraca had a more fraught relationship with her son Alfonso Raimúndez, who was the focus of the political machinations of the Galician Pedro Froilaz. Instead of ruling closely with him, Urraca was forced to placate her son’s supporters and manoeuvre behind the

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines scenes to gain their support, or at least their neutrality. The kingdom of Galicia was a headache for Urraca throughout the early years of her reign, however, and she needed a more permanent solution. In granting Alfonso Raimúndez the city of Toledo and its surrounding areas, Urraca was able to achieve some level of stability. At first, Alfonso ruled Toledo with the help of his ally Pedro Froilaz and Urraca’s ally Bernard de Sédirac. As he grew older he wielded more and more of his own power, so that by the time of Urraca’s death in 1126, he ruled Toledo almost as a kingdom within a kingdom. The areas he ruled were large enough to keep him busy and important enough to reflect his status as the heir, but they also removed him from his nexus of support in Galicia and allowed Urraca to attend to matters elsewhere. Urraca was also able to rely on Archbishop Bernard de Sédirac and Pedro González de Lara to supply support from the clergy and the secular nobility of her kingdoms. Bernard was a close political supporter of Urraca, but also worked to keep the clerics of León on her side. He was amply rewarded: in 1121, the pope elevated the archbishop to the role of primate over all of Spain, granting him authority over the entire church in Urraca’s kingdoms. When Urraca was attending to urgent matters in one part of her kingdom, she was able to rely on Bernard’s rule elsewhere.49 Alfonso Raimúndez was first too young, then too powerful, to be trusted in such a position, and the archbishop became essential to Urraca’s rule. In her relationship with Pedro González de Lara, Urraca found a solution to other problems. Urraca’s relationship with Pedro González tied the Lara family’s interests to those with the crown. This tie was reaffirmed when Urraca’s younger sister Sancha married Pedro González’s brother and further solidified through the children that Urraca and Pedro González’s relationship produced. Pedro González took on the role of military leader that the ruler would usually occupy during times of war, and in peace, he was rewarded by taking the lead position in Urraca’s court, to the extent that he has been described as Urraca’s informal consort.50 Urraca used her illegitimate children as kings did, marrying her daughter Elvira to the son of Pedro Froilaz to ensure the latter’s good behaviour. At the same time, she kept her sons single during her lifetime to avoid creating a too-powerful male figure in her kingdoms. By avoiding remarriage herself, Urraca never introduced any confusion into 176

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Wielding Royal Power the question of her succession and remained the sole source of royal authority within her kingdoms. In this choice, she both kept her son Alfonso Raimúndez happy and neatly sidestepped the conundrum faced by so many queens of how to balance her power with that of a husband. Instead of creating a powerful royal consort, Urraca split the roles a husband might play – military leader, lover, royal lieutenant, influential politician – between three men, each of whom relied on her for his position. None of them acquired too much power. None of them dared risk losing his position of privilege by protesting. A century later, Urraca’s descendent Berenguela of Castile was also forced to rely on a man to solidify her claim to the throne, but in Berenguela’s case, this was a slightly more straightforward proposition. When Berenguela inherited the throne from her brother Enrique in 1217, she readily agreed to have her son Fernando, then about 17 years old, crowned as king, but she did not relinquish her own authority. Almost immediately after Fernando’s coronation, war broke out between Berenguela and Count Álvaro Nuñez, the man who had supplanted Berenguela as regent in the early years of her brother Enrique’s reign. Chronicle depictions, however, tell us that the civil war was resolved quickly and knights loyal to Berenguela presented him [Álvaro Nuñez] captive to the king and noble queen. And he who had done wrong to many, who had shown mercy to none, who had denied the right of lordship to his natural domina, now, brought low by divine justice, deprived of the help of his admiring knights and brothers, is ingloriously captured and disgraced. Then the noble queen, praising God with joy and tears, persevered at length in giving thanks, because an enemy to her, the kingdom, and her son had so easily been taken captive.51 In this passage, the chronicler focuses almost exclusively on Berenguela and her right to rule, underscoring that it is Berenguela’s claim on the throne – and no one else’s – that Álvaro Nuñez had violated. Clearly, while Berenguela and Fernando were both rulers endowed with sovereign power, Berenguela had not abdicated in favour of her son. They needed each other. Berenguela could not have held the throne on her own, and Fernando could not have claimed it without her. The only 177

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines path to victory was co-rulership, and Berenguela and Fernando found remarkable success with this.52 One important difference between Fernando and his predecessor Alfonso Raimúndez was that Fernando was, at least by medieval terms, an adult when his mother inherited. As such, he could immediately join his mother in ruling. Fernando and Berenguela worked closely for the rest of her life, even when he became a powerful military and political leader in his own right. The chronicler Lucas of Tuy wrote of Fernando that ‘indeed, though he was raised to the pinnacle of the kingdom, he obeyed the most wise Queen Berenguela, his mother, as though he were the humblest schoolboy under the instructor’s rod’.53 In every matter related to the rule of Castile, Fernando and Berenguela exercised joint royal power, with Berenguela often taking on a supervisory role. For example, when religious organisations requested royal interventions, they addressed their letters to both Berenguela and Fernando. Popes also wrote to Berenguela, something which was not customary except with reigning monarchs, a clear indication that outside her kingdoms as well, Berenguela was perceived as a queen with sovereign authority.54 When Fernando expressed a desire to go to war against the Muslim Almohads in Andalusia, chroniclers tell us he was forced to first ask Berenguela. ‘Most merciful mother’ the chronicler depicts Fernando saying, ‘from whom, after God, I hold whatever I have, I beg that it may please you that I go to war against the Moors.’55 Fernando was made to leave the room while Berenguela and her nobles discussed the proposition. Berenguela was the real decision-maker, particularly during the first years of her joint rule with Fernando. This was widely acknowledged, both by Fernando and by the nobles of Castile. Furthermore, Berenguela’s power extended to military matters, as this instance attests. This was not an area in which women were typically expected to exercise power. Berenguela’s power here speaks even more clearly to the trust that Fernando and the nobles of their court placed in Berenguela and her royal authority.56 Like many queen consorts, Berenguela of Castile associated herself with the Virgin Mary. It was a particularly apt metaphor in her case, as she shared power with her son, King Fernando III. After the powerful Haro and Castro families rebelled against Berenguela and Fernando’s shared rule, they were able to achieve peace by appealing to Berenguela for 178

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Wielding Royal Power mercy. This mirrored the way that medieval people thought of spiritual intercession: like Christ, Fernando’s duty was to mete out judgement, while like Mary, Berenguela could appeal to her son for mercy. Associating Berenguela with the Virgin not only allowed Fernando to exercise mercy without appearing weak, but association with a woman who was entirely above reproach also served to soothe concerns about female authority.57 Both within Castile and throughout Europe, Berenguela’s contemporaries recognised her as a sovereign monarch – that her authority was derived from her blood right, not from her relationship to a king. Over the course of their rule, Fernando eventually become the dominant partner, but Berenguela was not seen as his inferior. Although in some areas mother and son split to rule separately, they often shared power and acted in concert.58 Very much the elder stateswoman throughout their shared reign, Berenguela also acted to protect Fernando’s rights on the international stage. Fernando was a product of Berenguela’s short marriage to Alfonso of León, but he was not Alfonso’s only potential heir: the king also had two daughters, Fernando’s half-sisters Sancha and Dulce, from his first marriage to Teresa of Portugal, which had been declared invalid by the pope just before he married Berenguela. Alfonso had treated Fernando as his heir for most of his life, but when Berenguela became queen, but he had no desire to see Fernando inherit both Castile and León. When Fernando was crowned king of Castile in 1217, Alfonso turned to his daughters to avoid the union of the two kingdoms.59 Berenguela acted decisively to ensure Fernando would inherit both kingdoms. Knowing marriage to a powerful man would make Dulce and Sancha more serious contenders, Berenguela opened marriage negotiations between her younger sister Leonor and King Jaume I of Aragon, the most eligible bachelor in the area. The pair were hurriedly married in 1221. Alfonso responded by attempting to arrange a marriage between one of his daughters and Jean de Brienne, the titular king of Jerusalem. While en route to León to negotiate the marriage, Jean stopped in Castile, and before he left, Berenguela had arranged a marriage between him and her daughter Berenguela instead. When Alfonso of León died in September of 1230, Berenguela arranged for influential towns in León, those with whom she had maintained influence since her time as queen of León, to recognise 179

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Fernando as king. The crucial lands Berenguela held in the Tierra de Campos, the area that straddled the border between Castile and León, were used as a staging ground for Fernando’s advance into his new kingdom.60 Outmanoeuvred, Teresa of Portugal and her daughters were forced to concede the rulership of León to Fernando. The chronicler Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada wrote that Berenguela arranged for the king [Fernando] to stay in León while she went to Valencia to negotiate an agreement with Queen Teresa. When the two queens had met in Valencia, the great acuity of the noble Queen Berenguela arranged things so that the king’s sisters [Sancha and Dulce] returned everything that they held to the king and were satisfied with the provisions that the king and the noble queen assigned to them. And if they ever had any right to the kingdom, they renounced it completely.61 Berenguela had successfully arranged for her son to inherit León, ensuring the two countries remained permanently united. Her contemporaries fully understood where the credit was due, with Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada stating that in this shone beyond all description the skilful governance of the noble queen, who gave this kingdom to her son as surely as she had given him the kingdom of Castile, which belonged to her by hereditary right. For she knew how to organise everything in such a way that, although the union of the kingdoms pleased hardly anyone, she laboured to arrange things so that the union of the kingdoms was achieved without bloodshed, and both kingdoms enjoyed eternal peace.62 Berenguela understood the advantage to be gained in emphasising her role as mother. As long as her ambition was exercised towards the goal of increasing her son’s power and authority – not her own – her subjects could find no complaint. A maternal role was inherently less threatening than the idea that Berenguela might exercise power in her own right and 180

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Wielding Royal Power on her own behalf. Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada perhaps stated this most strongly when he wrote that this noble queen Berenguela raised her son on good works in such a way that the noble queen – forgetting no virtue, lacking no divine gift – never ceased to pour good lessons into his heart, like honeyed milk suffused with grace. Nor did she ever wean him from her virtue-filled breast. And although he was a grown man and well established in the prime of his life, his mother never ceased or ceases to advise him in the vigilant pursuit of what is pleasing to God and men. For she never persuaded him to effeminate works, but always to noble ones.63 By the time that this passage was written, Fernando was a grown man with children of his own, but Rodrigo Jiménez still infantilises him, suggesting that Berenguela’s power was perceived as great indeed. At the same time, however, this depiction casts that power in a natural, maternal role. This motherly support went far beyond giving advice and royal authority. Today, Fernando is best known as one of the great kings of the Reconquista, the centuries-long effort to expel the Muslims from Spain. Although it is Fernando’s skill as a fighter and commander that is chiefly remembered, Berenguela played an important role in these affairs as well. A king’s departure to go to war always raised questions of who would exercise royal authority in his absence, and in Fernando’s case, his mother was the obvious answer. Because Fernando limited his activity to the Iberian peninsula, Berenguela did not exercise power for the protracted periods of time that other woman of the age – who might exercise regency while their husbands were away on Crusade for years, as Marie of France did for her husband and son – did. However, contemporary sources note that Fernando could take as much time as he needed in his wars against the Muslims, knowing that Berenguela was managing things at home. While her son was away campaigning, Berenguela ran the country and supplied her son’s army, ensuring Fernando received a steady stream of gold, horses, soldiers and other supplies. Today, Fernando’s legacy rests in large part on his military successes, but those successes in turn relied on Berenguela’s 181

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines ability to act as an independent ruler protecting the kingdom in his absences.64 For both Urraca and Berenguela, having their sons crowned during their own reigns provided a desperately-needed gloss of male authority. This act also achieved something more subtle, however. When their subjects acclaimed these young men as king, they also implicitly accepted that Urraca and Berenguela were the rightful successors, and that they had the sole right to pass on the crown. In sharing power, both women also bolstered their own, personal authority. Margrete of Denmark also bolstered her claim to rule by granting authority to a son. Initially, Margrete ruled as guardian for her son Oluf, king of Denmark, then king of Denmark and Sweden. When Oluf died unexpectedly in 1387, her entire basis for support crumbled beneath her, but she managed to combine a set of hereditary rights with political acumen to be declared the ruler – albeit temporarily – of Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Though in practice Margrete ruled as a queen, legally she was only a regent.65 There was a catch, however: in Denmark and Sweden, she was granted royal authority only until a suitable male heir could be located, while in Norway, she was chosen as regent for life and granted the ability to choose the man who would be her successor.66 In response to this pressure, Margrete selected her great-nephew Bugislav of Pomerania, the grandson of her younger sister Ingeborg. Bugislav took the name Erik and was elected king of Norway in 1388. At the same time, Margrete adopted Erik and his sister Catherine. This made Erik, now Margrete’s adopted son, a suitable candidate for the Danish throne as well. In so doing, Margrete established that Erik succeeded to the Danish throne through her – her adoption indicates that Margrete intended to transmit her claim to Erik directly, not to have him inherit through his descent from Margrete’s sister.67 At the time of his adoption and election, Erik was about 6 years old. He was an ideal candidate for Margrete’s purposes. He was a male descendent of the royal family of Denmark, but unlike Albert of Mecklenburg, who had been rejected previously because of worries that his powerful German relatives would run roughshod over Danish interests, Erik could be trusted to put the needs of his kingdoms first. Erik’s young age was a benefit. As a young boy, Margrete could both mould Erik into the sort of king she wanted, and she could expect to continue to hold on to power for some time. 182

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Wielding Royal Power Erik was not declared king of Norway until 1392, followed by Denmark and Sweden in 1397. When this occurred, Margrete lost her power as sovereign of these kingdoms, but her relationship with Erik was such that she remained the de facto ruler of all three until her death in 1412. Erik adopted an apprentice-like role to his adopted mother even after he had officially been declared king. Margrete was skilled in the art of statecraft and was careful to pass on her abilities. In her secret instructions to Erik when he visited Norway alone in 1405, Margrete wrote to him that when you meet the Norwegians you must give them a drink of the good German beer which I have sent in advance … At the first meeting it is important to create a friendly atmosphere. If Sir Ogmund or somebody else invites you to be his guest, you should eat with them, and if anyone, man or woman, young or old, wants to give you a gift, you must receive it thankfully, even if the gift be very humble; people might misunderstand a rejection and become angry … You must also remember to pray to the Lord and be his servant, late as well as early, and mind your words; don’t say too much, neither in anger nor needlessly … You should also summon the members of the Council of the Realm … but remember never to summon all the members of the Council at once.68 Margrete’s advice runs the gamut from the sort of reminder that any young, Christian ruler might need to hear – not to forget his prayers and to speak carefully – to the sort of specific tips and tricks that Margrete herself would have learnt and honed in her own years as queen – whose support to seek out and how to best manage the Council. In her kingdoms, Margrete established the principle that women could rule well and wisely, and she paved the way for other women to follow. After Margrete’s death, Erik of Pomerania – now the sole ruler – left Scandinavia to travel in Italy and Germany, and there were few qualms about leaving his wife Philippa of England to rule alone in his stead. Even after his return, Philippa continued to exercise power independently of her husband. The unification of the kingdoms of Denmark, Norway and Sweden under Margrete gave queens a clear role and opportunities to 183

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines participate in statecraft, and the women who stepped into her shoes after her death took up the mantle capably.69 Rather like the power-sharing that Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile practised with their sons, with a man as heir and nominal ruler, Margrete had freer rein to exercise power herself. While Margrete’s authority came in a roundabout way – as guardian of one king, and the technically-temporary ruler elsewhere – her political acumen allowed her to retain power throughout her life.70 Like Margrethe, Caterina Cornaro and her Venetian supporters were able combine power and authority of a widowed queen and child king to create a queen regnant in Cyprus. Unlike the other queens discussed in this section, who were forced to turn to male power in order to remain the ruler, Caterina Cornaro seems to have been popular with her subjects, despite being a foreigner, and had masculine power forced upon her. Indeed, it was Caterina’s popularity with her subjects and her pesky habit of attempting to rule independently that prompted the Venetian Signoria to oust her from power in 1489.71 When the Sultan Qa’it Bay of Egypt protested to Venice at Caterina’s treatment, they explained their actions as a response to the threat from the Ottoman Empire, but it was clear to all Venice had removed Caterina because it required friendly, male leadership in Cyprus.72 Caterina’s return to Italy was framed as a celebration. She was given rooms at the Monastery of San Nicolò on Venice’s famous lido, as well as a stately flotilla procession down the Grand Canal and a public feast to celebrate her return – all protocol that was normally reserved for illustrious male visitors – in recognition of her royal status. Her brother Zorzi, who returned triumphantly with Caterina, was publicly lauded. Although Caterina was not formally deposed and never lost the title of queen, she had been thoroughly removed from power.73 Her emotions as she participated in the activities marking her return must have been decidedly mixed, as what was framed as a celebration actually marked the formal end of her reign. Caterina created a sort of court in exile in Venice, surrounding herself with an impressive household of servants and courtiers from Cyprus and Italy. For the rest of her life, she worked to promote the interests of her courtiers, writing many petitions to the Venetian government on their behalf. At the same time, she frequently interceded with the Venetian

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Wielding Royal Power Signoria on behalf of those of her supporters who remained in Cyprus, not permitted to join her.74 In the long term, Caterina’s presence in Venice proper was untenable. A republican city-state could not keep a crowned queen with an elaborate retinue in the city for long without some rumblings, especially since Caterina’s presence was a constant reminder to her supporters that she had been removed from power against her will. The Signoria’s solution was to grant Caterina the title ‘lady of Asolo’, and grant her the town of Asolo, around seventy-five kilometres from Venice.75 In so doing, the government of Venice granted Caterina property in which she could exercise the sort of sovereign authority she was never allowed in Cyprus and which appropriately reflected her status as a queen, but also kept her at a distance from the public eye. Though her authority had been taken, Caterina managed to find an expression of power in Asolo, where she spent the rest of her life. There she built a modern, Renaissance court that attracted visitors from across Italy and Europe. She split her time between Asolo and her family in Venice, where she was something of a tourist attraction in her own right for visitors from elsewhere. Though she rebuilt her life, she continued to host courtiers from Cyprus and advocate for their rights, evidence she continued to see herself chiefly as queen of Cyprus, even after the island had fallen irrevocably Venice’s hands. And though life at Asolo afforded Caterina more independence than she had experienced as a reigning queen, Venice continued to extend control over her life. A welcome speech by local notable Taddeo Bovoline upon her return to Venice told Caterina that you, left a young widow by your husband Giacomo Lusignan, did not wish to assent to Ferdinand, King of Naples, pursuing you as a wife for his son the prince … You, most illustrious queen, gain more praise for your temperance: so young, and in the midst of the realm of Venus [myth held that Cyprus was the birthplace of the goddess Aphrodite], surrounded by every regal delight, fragile from your feminine sex, you lost your widowhood hour by hour, remained as if a virgin … You fled the marriage knot to make a gift of your modesty to God; you wish to live in the widowed state to be a faithful handmaiden to our Lord.76

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines In addition to praising Caterina – the least that the city could do after removing her from power – Caterina probably would not have been wrong to interpret the speech as instruction for her behaviour moving forward. At the time of her return to Venice, she was still young enough to remarry, and a new marriage would have eclipsed her role as ‘daughter of Venice’, substantially altering her prospects going forward. Venice probably desired Caterina’s chastity as much as it always had, to force her to remain entirely reliant on the city and its government for her position. Caterina may well have looked enviously at the other single queens discussed in this chapter. Urraca, Berenguela and Margrete were able to utilise their unmarried status to their advantage, promoting the men in their kingdoms in order to consolidate their own power. Each still relied on men – all three women derived their power from a combination of inheritance from a man, relation to the male heir, and their own ability to negotiate with the powerful men of their age. Nonetheless, superior political skills allowed them to build on these foundations to achieve a measure of successful, independent rule. Caterina seems to have had a fair amount of political know-how herself – contemporaries’ descriptions of her rule suggest that her ability to engage with the traditions of Cyprus led to sincere popularity with her subjects. What she lacked was the powerful support, both internal and external, that would permit her to exercise independent authority. Caterina would have been unable to succeed to the Cypriot throne without Venetian military intervention, and once the Venetian Signoria had its claws in Caterina’s kingdoms, it refused to let go. Neither the allegiance of her own nobility or the support of the sultan of Egypt, could compare to the power of the Venetian navy. While some queens, then, achieved independence through their choice to remain single, Caterina desired to marry in order to remove herself from Venetian influence. For a reigning queen, however, marriage was a very uncertain prospect. The single most important factor in how much power a queen regnant actually wielded was the status of her husband. 77 For Urraca, Berenguela, and Margrete, having a son who was an heir and co-ruler instead of a husband meant preserving a good deal of royal power for themselves. Even though they were single, however, Urraca and Berenguela’s former husbands, Alfonso of Aragon and Alfonso of León, respectively, were able to exert some influence, however informal, over their wives’ kingdoms. 186

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Wielding Royal Power Unlike Urraca, Berenguela, Margrete and Caterina, Tamar of Georgia, and Giovanna of Naples did what their society expected – and indeed, what most queens did – and married. For both women, marriage was a tumultuous experience. Tamar’s first husband Yuri Bogolyubskiy was a Russian prince with a claim to the important northern state of Novgorod. Though a strong military leader, he and Tamar were poorly suited to each other, and the pair fought violently. When the patriarch of the Georgian Orthodox church died in 1187, three years into Tamar’s reign, she persuaded her council to grant her a divorce from Yuri. By 1191, Tamar had chosen her second husband. David Soslan was a minor prince from the kingdom of Alania, in what is now Ossetia. The pair had two children, a son named Giorgi and a daughter named Rusudan, both of whom eventually inherited from their mother.78 David became Tamar’s most important supporter, but wielded no independent power in Georgia. An illustration of this can be found in the coins that Tamar had minted during her reign. These show Tamar’s initials and David’s, but hers are above his, indicating to all that looked upon a coin that she was the superior force in the marriage.79 The case of Giovanna of Naples provides the best illustration of how marriage could affect a queen regnant’s position within her own kingdom. The questions of whom Giovanna would marry, and how exactly that man would or would not wield royal power, were a constant in her nearly forty-year rule. Disagreement over the role that her first husband, Andrew of Hungary, would play in her rule plagued her first marriage. The Anjou Bible, which King Robert of Naples had commissioned for Giovanna and Andrew upon their marriage, features a frontispiece that clearly depicts Robert’s – and probably Giovanna’s as well – understanding of the line of succession. The frontispiece has three panels. In the top panel, we see Charles I, the first Capetian king of Naples. The second panel shows Giovanna’s great-grandfather Charles II with his wife Mary of Hungry. The third, bottom panel depicts Robert of Naples and his queen Sancia of Majorca. To Sancia’s left, two girls – Giovanna and her younger sister Sancia – kneel before the queen. To Robert’s left, a young man, possibly meant to depict Andrew of Hungary, lies on the ground to kiss the king’s feet. The frontispiece illustrates that royal sovereignty in Naples descended from the first king through Robert and to Giovanna herself, an indication 187

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines that, in Robert’s mind, his granddaughter was to rule in her own right. While Giovanna is depicted kneeling to her grandparents, she is placed firmly above the prostrate Andrew.80 From the perspective of Robert, and of Giovanna herself, she was the most recent embodiment of a bloodline of legitimate sovereigns, ordained by God and blessed by the pope. When Giovanna inherited the throne as a teenager and attempted to actually claim the royal power she believed was hers by right, we can imagine her frustration at finding that a number of her relatives, her husband, and the pope himself, had different ideas. A divided court was a foregone conclusion: the early death of Giovanna’s grandmother Sancia of Majorca meant there was no elder guiding the new queen and her prince consort and staying above the fray, so both Giovanna and Andrew were drawn into the dispute. Despite evidence otherwise, Giovanna’s enemies insisted that King Robert had intended for Andrew to rule. Giovanna felt so strongly to the contrary that she resisted holding a coronation for Andrew for nearly three years. In 1345, Giovanna at last gave in and agreed to Andrew’s coronation as king, but Andrew was brutally murdered only days later. Andrew’s mother Elizabeth of Poland was first to formally accuse Giovanna of being involved in Andrew’s murder, but she was far from the last. Chroniclers and other writers of the time took up the charge, depicting Giovanna as a ravenous, rapacious she-wolf, who murdered her husband because she was overcome with lust. The writer of the Chronicon Estense, written for the Este lords of Ferrara, for instance, stated that Andrew’s death was the result of ‘the voluptuousness of the harlot-wife of the king’.81 For Giovanna’s contemporaries, then, many layers of what medieval people saw as ‘unnaturalness’ – her refusal to allow her husband to be her superior, her reputed infidelity with other men, her position as a reigning queen, and her supposed murder of her husband – fused into a narrative that was as compelling as it was damaging. Giovanna may well have been guilty both of arranging for Andrew’s murder and of the infidelity that preceded it. Those who were officially found guilty and executed for the assassination were among her closest supporters in the Neapolitan court, and even if Giovanna did not plan the murder, it is difficult to believe she was not at least aware of the plot. But those who wrote about Giovanna were less interested in the facts of what had occurred than in telling a story that revealed the ‘truth’ about the dangers of a woman occupying a space outside of what God had 188

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Wielding Royal Power ordained. From a modern perspective, this seems like an irresponsible approach to people’s lives, a sort of medieval yellow journalism. To the people of the Middle Ages, the use of history to reveal the divine plan of the world was the correct approach, and if it was necessary to fudge the facts to make a point, that was fine. The rumours that shredded Giovanna’s reputation both in Naples and across Europe had real world consequences. Furious over the treatment of his brother Andrew, King Louis of Hungary invaded Naples in the winter of 1347 and quickly established himself as the ruler of Naples. Giovanna was forced to flee to the papal court in Avignon for safety. When the Black Death struck Italy later that year, it can only have reinforced the notion that there was something very wrong in Naples. Following Andrew’s death, Giovanna remarried quickly to her cousin Louis of Taranto. Within two years, the couple had managed to return to power in Naples, and Louis was firmly in charge of the kingdom. Why did Giovanna agree to a power-sharing agreement with Louis when she had so vehemently opposed it with Andrew? She may have felt that Louis was better suited to rule than Andrew had been, or she may simply have liked him more. We can also imagine that a condition of Louis’s agreement to the marriage – and possibly of the pope’s condoning of the match – was that Louis would share in her royal authority. Having been forced to flee Italy and with her Hungarian enemies occupying her position in Naples, Giovanna was not in a strong bargaining position. Whatever the reason, Giovanna almost certainly regretted her choice soon, as Louis’s power began to eclipse her own. Reigning queens faced many of the same questions that queen consorts and other noblewomen experienced. What role would marriage play in their lives? Would they be able to have children? How would they provide for their children? If they were widowed, should they remarry? What political role would they take – and would it match what their husband wished for them? But they answered these questions from a position that was both more powerful and more uncomfortable. Medieval culture considered queens regnant an aberration best avoided. If there was no way around female rule, it was best that the queen receive considerable male oversight. Queens themselves tended to see matters quite differently, however. Each queen in this chapter had 189

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines every intention of exercising meaningful personal authority, though how successful they were depended on several factors. Every medieval ruler required international recognition to affirm their authority and to create the marriage alliances that were the bedrock of diplomacy in the Middle Ages. Rulers with a weaker grasp on the throne – the founders of dynasties and female rulers, for example – required this more than others. Margrete of Denmark made allies in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, assembling a group of supporters that eventually proclaimed her ruler of all three kingdoms. Technically a regent, no one protested much when Margrete continued ruling for life. Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile took advantage of supporters acquired from their foreign ex-husbands to provide some international security. Giovanna of Naples sought support from the papacy to give her rule a divine gloss. Caterina Cornaro relied on Venetian support to stay on the throne of Cyprus, but Venice’s power eventually grew enough to unseat her. External supporters, however, were nothing without equal support from within. Urraca of León was perhaps the most successful at this, collecting allies from the religious and secular elite, even marrying her illegitimate children to her enemies to disincentivise misbehaviour. By giving her supporters enough power to keep them happy and busy, but not enough to pose a threat to her rule, she achieved a delicate balance. Caterina Cornaro knew how to put on a spectacle to draw out and inspire her supporters, staging public travel throughout her kingdom. Giovanna of Naples inherited enough support from her grandfather that she inspired followers to murder her husband on her behalf. The most important internal supporter, however, was a male heir. Many medieval kingdoms only tolerated female rule with the understanding that the queen was a seat-warmer who would only sit on the throne to pass it to a son of the royal line. Berenguela of Castile was forced to have her son Fernando crowned to stay in power. She used this to her advantage though, with steady reminders until her death that Fernando might rule, but she also held sovereign power. Similarly, Margrete of Denmark remained in power as a font of royal wisdom for her adopted son Erik of Pomerania. Urraca of León placed her son Alfonso Raimúndez in positions of authority that allowed him to siphon off enough of the stress of ruling that she could keep other challenges in balance. It is no coincidence that the women in this chapter who 190

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Wielding Royal Power lost their thrones, Giovanna of Naples and Caterina Cornaro, had no surviving male heirs. Finally, the higher a woman rose in medieval society, the more important the question of her marriage became. For reigning queens, this was a matter of paramount importance. Marriage was a doubleedged sword: without it, a queen might have no man to lead her military, no key alliance, no heir. But a married queen also had to contend with the issue of how much power that husband should have – and how to rein in a husband who had acquired too much. Giovanna fought tooth and nail to prevent her first husband Andrew of Hungary from being crowned king, and she probably arranged his murder (or at least looked the other way) when she lost that battle. She was powerless to stop her second husband Louis of Taranto from seizing power. For most queens, it seems to have been preferable, wherever possible, to rule as a single woman. This is not true of all – Caterina Cornaro could have used a second marriage to bolster her position, something her Venetian controllers vehemently opposed. But for most, remaining single is a strong trend. Tamar of Georgia took advantage of a lapse in religious authority to show her first husband Yuri Bogolyubsky the door, only remarrying when Yuri rebelled against her. Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile had both produced male heirs when they inherited the throne, and both chose against remarriage. Urraca found companionship and domestic support in the arms of a lover, who became something of an unofficial consort, but never elevated him to a status that could threaten her own. Similarly, Margrete of Denmark, having secured her succession with her adopted son Erik of Pomerania, felt no need to marry again. There were good political reasons for this. As Giovanna of Naples’s marriages demonstrate, a husband made many things more complicated for queens. By placing men in positions of royal authority, these women appeased a society that distrusted female power, but their refusal to remarry suggests an understanding of the dangers a husband might pose. We often subconsciously think of history’s great unmarried rulers – Egypt’s Hatshepsut, Elizabeth I of England, Russia’s Catherine the Great – as anomalies. But in looking at the women who ruled in the Middle Ages, should we perhaps conclude that for female rulers, this was the preferable way of things. In Elizabeth I’s ostentatious displays of virginity, might we infer a lesson learned from Giovanna’s reputation for 191

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines sexual misbehaviour? When Catherine the Great promoted the interests of her lovers to create loyal supporters, did she consciously imitate her eighteen-times great-grandmother Urraca of León? Or did these intelligent women look at the facts and come to the same conclusions? They were capable rulers, divinely ordained, and they were absolutely unwilling to give up their power.

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Section Four

Concubines Cast of Characters Inês de Castro (1325–1355) The illegitimate daughter of Pedro Fernández de Castro and his mistress Aldonça Lourenço de Valadares, Inês had connections to both the Castilian and Portuguese royal houses. Pedro of Portugal, the heir to the kingdom, fell in love with her when she came to Portugal as a lady-in-waiting to his betrothed, Constanza of Castile, in 1340. Inês and Pedro had four children. In 1355, Pedro’s father King Afonso arranged for Inês to be murdered. When Pedro became king in 1357, he stated that he had married Inês prior to her murder and proclaimed her the lawful queen of Portugal. Inês was a contemporary of Alice de Lacy (Section One), Giovanna I of Naples (Section Three) and Maria de Padilla. Maria de Padilla (1334–1361) Maria was the daughter of Juan García de Padilla and his wife Maria González de Henestrosa, members of the regional nobility of Castile. She met King Pedro of Castile in 1352 and became his mistress by 1353. The pair had four children, whom Pedro attempted to have legitimised and proclaimed his heirs. The couple remained lovers until Maria’s death in 1361. She was widely rumoured to have been murdered. She was a contemporary of Giovanna I of Naples (Section Three). Alice Perrers (1348–1400) The daughter of a prominent London family, Alice married a jeweler named Janyn Perrers in about 1360. Her husband died by 1364, and by 1366, Alice had become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Philippa of

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Hainault. She quickly became the mistress of Philippa’s husband, King Edward III of England, and the pair had three children. In 1375, she secretly contracted a marriage to Sir William Windsor. Alice developed a scandalous reputation in England, and was banished twice from court, once during Edward’s reign and a second time shortly after his death. She died in 1400 or 1401. She was a contemporary of Maria de Luna and Isabeau of Bavaria (Section Two), of Margrete I of Denmark (Section Three), and of Katherine Swynford. Katherine Swynford (c. 1350–1403) Katherine was the child of Paon de Roet, a knight from Hainault who probably came to England in the household of Queen Philippa of Hainault. She was raised in the households of the queen and other members of the royal family. In 1366, Katherine married the Lincolnshire knight Hugh Swynford and had three children with him. Following Hugh’s death, she became governess to the children of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and eventually became his mistress. The pair had four children before briefly separating in 1381. They married in 1396, and their children were legitimised by royal and papal decree. She was a contemporary of Maria de Luna and Isabeau of Bavaria (Section Two), of Margrete I of Denmark (Section Three), and of Alice Perrers. She was the grandmother of Cecily Neville (Section One). Agnes Bernauer (c. 1410–1435) Little is known of the early life of Agnes Bernauer, though tradition holds that she may have been the daughter of a barber surgeon on Augsburg. She probably met Albert of Bavaria, the future duke of Bavaria, in 1428, and she was an established part of his court by 1432. In 1435, Albert’s father Ernst, fearing that his son’s liaison with Agnes would prevent him from making a more appropriate marriage, arranged for Agnes to be convicted of witchcraft and drowned in the Danube. She was a contemporary of Cecily Neville (Section One). Agnes Sòrel (1422–1450) The daughter of Jean Soreau and Catherine de Maignelais, Agnes met King Charles VII of France while she was serving in the household of Rene of Anjou. She later moved to the household of Charles’s wife, 194

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Concubines Rene’s sister Marie of Anjou. She became the king’s mistress and was also the first formally-recognised ‘official’ mistress in French history. Agnes and Charles had three daughters. She died of mercury poisoning in 1450, either the result of murder or an accidental overdose. She was a contemporary of Cecily Neville (Section One) and Margaret of Anjou (Section Two)

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Chapter Seven

‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress

Shortly after the Peasants Revolt tore England asunder in the summer of 1381, the chronicler Henry Knighton wrote that John of Gaunt, one of the peasants’ major targets in the revolt, had begun rethinking some of his behaviour: Amongst other matters one which he often turned in his mind was that he frequently had heard, both from churchmen and from members of his own household, that his reputation was greatly tarnished in all parts of the realm, and that he had paid no attention to what was said to him because he was blinded by desire, fearing neither God, not shame amongst men. For in his wife’s household there was a certain foreign lady, Katharine Swinford, whose relations with him were greatly suspect.1 Today we have a fairly clear picture of what a concubine is: it is a word generally synonymous with ‘mistress’. She is the ‘other woman’, one who is engaged in an illicit, sexual affair with a married man. We do not, by and large, think of a concubine as a nice woman – her presence is distasteful and unwelcome. Medieval people adopted a more nuanced view of such women, so one of the challenges when discussing them is forgetting our modern ideas of what a concubine is, and to try to place ourselves into a more medieval mindset. Some of the women who will be discussed in the following chapters did indeed fit the description above. Most did not. In this book I am, broadly speaking, using the word ‘concubine’ to describe a woman engaged in an ongoing sexual relationship that fell 196

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress outside of church-sanctioned marriage. I will also use the word ‘mistress’ interchangeably with ‘concubine, though there is slight evidence of a difference between the two in the medieval imagination, a mistress less important than a more elevated concubine. In most cases, but not all, the man with whom a mistress or concubine was involved was married to someone else. By and large, this is a definition that medieval people would have recognised. To understand who a concubine might be, it is important to first understand the medieval definition of marriage. Beginning in the twelfth century, the medieval church hammered out what appears to be a stark line between legitimate relationships (marriage) and non-legitimate relationships. This is a line we still recognise today: while a couple might date or cohabit for years, they are not married until they go through a process marked by making public promises and signing legal documents. People are unmarried until they are married. One of the ideas we need to embrace when looking at relationships that were not marriages is that medieval people had many more ways of being unmarried than we usually do today. While the church grouped all these together under the heading of invalid relationships and treated them equally, actual medieval society did not.2 In practice, these relationships might look like anything from courtship, to an illicit adulterous relationship, to a respected and understood extramarital relationship, to a publicly-known liaison between two single people that was – for any number of reasons – not marriage. When medieval writers discuss concubines, they usually refer to one of the final three categories. Which category, however, is not always clear. For one thing, a woman might fall into more than one category, depending on the situation and the source under discussion. As we shall see, Agnès Sorel, the official mistress of Charles VII of France, held a semi-official position in her lover’s court and earned the respect of at least some of her contemporaries. Others vilified her and attacked her for her illicit sexual relationship with the king, and she may have been assassinated. So was Agnès’s relationship with Charles a sordid affair or a respected relationship? The answer seems to be both. The problems we face studying women in general are amplified when studying concubines. The ‘virgin or whore’ binary medieval chroniclers faced in describing the lives of queens or noblewomen was usually considerably more straightforward in describing women involved in 197

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines extramarital affairs. As a result, when we look at chronicles, generally the only source for sustained narratives on these women’s lives, the depictions are riddled with anti-woman bias. How much of what these men described was accurate and how much came from their own distrust of female sexuality? We can guess, but we cannot know for sure. The silver lining in studying mistresses is that these women did tend to leave a mark, in large part because many of them remained unmarried. As a result, they are more likely to have left behind legal documentation. And chroniclers did write about them, even if their depictions lean towards the scandalous or titillating.

Characteristics of Mistresses With that being said, there are some characteristics many concubines shared. First, mistresses were beautiful, something regularly emphasised in descriptions, both contemporary and posthumous. Descriptions of, for example, Agnès Sorel, ‘Fair’ Rosamund de Clifford (the twelfth-century mistress of Henry II of England), Katherine Swynford (the fourteenthcentury mistress of John of Gaunt), and Maria de Padilla (mistress of Pedro I of Castile in the mid-fourteenth century) all mention beauty. Why would this be? The first, most obvious explanation is that these women were genuinely attractive. There was no controlling the attractiveness of a wife who was chosen to create a political or military alliance, but powerful men had their choice of extramarital partners and it stands to reason that they would choose beautiful women. Additionally, the courtly love tradition taught that beauty was the wellspring of love and also that love was something that occurred outside of marriage. If beauty created love, and love could only take place with a mistress, it was only natural for an affair to be inspired by the lady’s beauty. Were these women so often described as beautiful simply because it was assumed that they must be? Finally, medieval theologians taught that sex with a beautiful woman was less sinful than with an ugly one, because to copulate with an unattractive woman, a man must be overcome with lust. A chronicler seeking to downplay a powerful man’s sin might feel some impetus to emphasise his partner’s beauty. Secondly, most mistresses were already attached to the court somehow. They were usually – though not always – members of the lower levels of the nobility. Again, there are several reasons for this. Women of this 198

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress rank often held staff positions in royal or noble houses, bringing them into contact with these men. Many women who became the concubines of great men started out as ladies-in-waiting to those men’s wives. Inês de Castro, concubine of Pedro I of Portugal, first met the king through her role as lady-in-waiting to Pedro’s wife, Constanza. Inês herself was related both to Constanza and to the Castro family, members of the upper echelon of Portuguese nobility – but was herself illegitimate, making her something of a perfect candidate for mistress. It can be difficult to know which came first. Edward III of England’s mistress Alice Perrers was a member the household of his queen, Philippa of Hainault. Was this how Alice met the king, or was she given the position to give her a reason to be near him? Edward’s son John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, began a decades-long relationship with Katherine Swynford in 1372. Katherine was governess to his daughters from his first marriage, but we do not know if she began this role before or after she began her relationship with John. Did being governess bring them into contact, or did he make her governess to facilitate their liaison? What if it was a little of both? We can imagine a situation where an attractive woman was granted a desirable household position to encourage her to accept her future lover’s advances. These women knew how to conduct themselves appropriately at court. Many mistresses held public roles, and this was a real asset. The fourteenth-century chronicler Jean Froissart, for instance, noted that Katherine Swynford had been raised in the household of John of Gaunt’s first wife, Blanche, and described her as ‘a lady accustomed to honours, for she had been brought up at court during her youth’.3 Katherine’s near contemporary Alice Perrers, however, was described by one particularly acerbic chronicler as ‘a shameless woman … of the lowest stock’.4 Part of the reason Katherine’s contemporaries tolerated her more than Alice may have been her higher social rank. One of the chief complaints about Alice, as we shall see, was her inability to conduct herself appropriately at court. Women of the higher ranks were valuable on the marriage market and as such, their sexual virtue was highly prized. For a woman of lower rank, serving as mistress to a great man could be more lucrative than marrying within her class, and the loss of her virginity was unlikely to cause the same sort of offense. Isotta degli Atti, the fifteenth-century mistress of Sigismondo Malatesta, lord of Rimini, was the daughter of a wealthy 199

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines merchant family on the outskirts of the nobility. By the end of her life, she was a wealthy woman and her children with Sigismondo had been legitimised. Indeed, the pattern in Italy seems to have been that once a man was done with his mistress, he would arrange a good marriage for her and pay for her dowry, making the position a lucrative one.5 For this reason, though it is tempting to see these relationships as examples of true love, we should not assume love was the basis. Maria de Padilla, mistress of Pedro I (called ‘The Cruel’) of Castile and León, is recorded as disagreeing with some of Pedro’s less humane decisions, including the assassination of his illegitimate half-brother, Fadrique. The chronicler Pedro Lopez de Ayala tells us that Maria, learning of her lover’s order, summoned Fadrique to see her one last time, ‘and when she saw him, her face became so sad that all could understand; for she was a very good lady, and of good mind, and she did not pay for the things the king faced, and the death that was ordered to be given to [Fadrique] weighed heavily on her’.6 Given the power dynamic, many women and their families would have found it ill-advised or impossible to resist the advances of a nobleman or king. Some families probably encouraged women to acquiesce to a powerful man’s demands, whether or not those demands were welcome. While we cannot know for certain if Maria was an unwilling partner in her relationship with Pedro, we can certainly guess that it was an uncomfortable relationship at times, and that Maria would have had a difficult time leaving it if she wanted to. Third, medieval concubines were generally unmarried, again for several reasons. First, unmarried women had a more solid legal status. In medieval England, for instance, only an unmarried woman (and the queen) had legal status as femme sole or ‘single woman’ and was able to act as an independent legal entity. She had no husband to tell her what to do or, crucially, to control her property. This gave these women a measure of control, both over any gifts her lover might give her and over any children they might have together. The mistress remaining single also allowed the couple to avoid double adultery. Whether it was tacitly accepted or not, the church was still clear that adultery was a sin. The mistress’s lover was almost always married, making his adultery unfortunate, but it was best not to pile it on. In fact, some medieval thinkers held that when a married man had sex with an unmarried woman, it was not adultery.7 200

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress Moreover, the medieval worldview, broadly speaking, saw women’s reproductive potential as property and placed a high premium on male pride. Sex with a married woman was a pointed insult to her husband, because it deprived him of this property – his exclusive right to sex with his wife – and wounded his pride. A married woman’s lover also cast his own masculinity in doubt through his lack of self-control (a key characteristic of masculinity) and the disrespect he showed. If his mistress was unmarried, however, there was no husband to insult. Finally, as with a wife, controlling a mistress’s sexual activity ensured that the paternity of any children would be clear. If a mistress was single, no husband had to wonder if her children were his. Meanwhile, the king or nobleman could be certain that he was the father of his concubine’s children. Illegitimate children could be useful sources of political support or used to create alliances, so the king would want to be confident that they were, indeed, his. This may have also given the mistress and her children a level of protection. If her lover eventually ended their relationship, he would still have an obligation to care for their children and for her as their mother. These were not hard and fast rules. Not every mistress remained single, for instance. Lucia Marliani, the final mistress of Galeazza Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, was ‘purchased’ by the duke from her husband for 8,000 ducats – Lucia was later granted noble titles on the condition that she have sexual relations with only the duke, unless he gave permission otherwise. Even though she was married, Galeazza still wanted to ensure the paternity of any children of their relationship, and to appropriately compensate Lucia’s husband for the loss of his rights.8 Alice Perrers, the mistress of Edward III of England, married secretly, probably in 1376, the last year of her relationship with Edward. Observing that the king was dying, and fearing what the many enemies she had made might do when she was no longer protected, Alice sought the security marriage offered.9 Probably most importantly of all, a mistress was expected to stay out of the limelight. The only woman who was supposed to assume a public place at a man’s side, to have her children be able to inherit, to exercise a political role and sometimes assume a man’s political power, was a wife. When these rules were broken, contemporaries were usually very quick to point out the disrespect and anguish that this gave to the man’s consort. 201

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines

Dangers of Being a Concubine In the early 1430s, Albert, the heir of the duchy of Bavaria, met a woman named Agnes Bernauer and, by all accounts, fell in love with her. By 1433, the couple were publicly living together and had likely married in secret. Agnes was reputed to have been the daughter of a barber from Augsburg – not a typical pedigree for a mistress, much less a wife. Albert’s father Ernest worried that the relationship presented a threat to the Bavarian succession, but could not persuade Albert to marry a more ‘appropriate’ woman. By 1435, Ernest had had enough. He had Agnes tried for witchcraft and drowned. The chronicler Andreas von Regensburg tells of her dramatic death: A certain beautiful matron, called Bernauer, was thrown from the bridge over the Danube by Ernest duke of Bavaria, because she was too much loved by the duke Albert, son of Ernest. Albert came to help, with one shoe untied and swimming some of the distance towards her shouting, ‘Help! Help!’. The executioner who had thrown her from the bridge ran towards the bank of the Danube and, fearing the vehemence of Duke Ernest’s anger, submerged her again with a long pole entangled in her hair.’10 As a result of Agnes’s execution, Albert initiated a brief civil war with his father that ended later that year when he married Anna of BrunswickGrubenhagen-Einbeck, the daughter of another German duke – a much more suitable wife. Yet today Anna is all but forgotten, while Agnes is the subject of folk songs, poems, plays, a statue erected in 2013, and has a cake named after her. Agnes’s story illustrates the dangers inherent in becoming a concubine to a powerful man. Those who left behind records of these women were happy to pass judgement on them, not only because of their sexual misbehaviour, but also for any number of other rules broken. Mistresses were tolerated – even expected and considered useful – but they were supposed to follow certain rules. Those who broke the rules, or were perceived to be breaking the rules, were quickly labelled bad mistresses. Powerful men’s concubines were made the scapegoats for their lovers’ failures, accused of witchcraft, created political upheaval, ran afoul of 202

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress their lovers’ wives and other relatives, and a shocking number of them were murdered. To start off, concubines were expected to be reserved for their lovers’ leisure, not a distraction from their public responsibilities. Contemporaries could easily lay the blame for the failures of powerful men at the feet of those men’s concubines. To some extent, this may reflect the truth. It is not difficult to imagine a man in love, or in lust, feeling inclined to forego his more serious, less fun responsibilities in favour of time between the sheets with a beautiful woman. But the other explanation for this tendency was that commentators thought it safer to blame a man’s lovers for his inadequacies than to outright accuse him of incompetence or laziness. In 1378, the chronicler Thomas Walsingham criticised John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and his conduct with his mistress, Katherine Swynford. Walsingham tells us that having disregarded the modesty of men and the fear of God and even deserted the care that he had assumed as a soldier, [John of Gaunt] was seen riding around his lands with his abominable concubine, namely a certain Katherine Swynford, and holding her bridle in public, not only in his wife’s presence, but in the sight of all the people.11 On first glance, this appears to be a simple critique of John and Katherine’ poor behaviour, but some digging reveals more. At the time this passage was written, John was busy claiming the throne of the Spanish kingdom of Castile on behalf of his wife, Constanza of Castile. Castile, however, was ruled by Constanza’s illegitimate half-uncle, Enrique Trastámara, who had seized the throne following a bloody civil war. John’s claim on Constanza’s behalf had been fruitless and costly, both financially and militarily. In Walsingham’s St Alban’s Chronicle, the passage above falls in the midst of a discussion of John’s failed attempts to claim the Castilian throne. When we look at it in this light, we see Walsingham not only offering a moral critique (though it was certainly this as well), but also laying some of the blame for John’s failures at Katherine’s feet. John of Gaunt’s military ineptitude was well known to his contemporaries, but to put this fact in writing was at best impolitic. It was far safer to allude to it in passing and to offer the explanation that John’s mistress had led him 203

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines astray. There is also an implication that if only he were to exercise better decision-making, he might experience more success. Several generations later in France, Agnès Sorel, the official mistress of King Charles VII, was blamed for conflict between the king and his eldest son Louis, the future Louis XI. The chronicler Enguerrand de Monstrelet wrote that the hatred of Charles VII against Louis came from the fact that the prince had many times blamed and murmured against his father because of Beautiful Agnes who was in the good graces of the king much more than was the queen, a good and honorable woman. The dauphin was full of spite and through spite advanced her death.12 There was also a strong tendency for contemporaries to focus on the more salacious details of a concubine’s career. Accusations of witchcraft were not uncommon. As discussed previously, Ernest of Bavaria had his son Albert’s mistress, Agnes Bernauer, accused of witchcraft and her eventual punishment, execution by drowning, was one traditionally used for convicted witches. The anonymous author of the fourteenth-century Anonimalle Chronicle described Katherine Swynford as ‘a she-devil and enchantress’ who had led John of Gaunt away from the teachings of the church.13 Of Alice Perrers, Thomas Walsingham wrote that it was announced in parliament that the same Alice had retained for some time a certain Dominican friar, who appeared to be a doctor and professed that skill, but was a most evil magician, devoted to sorcery, by whose experiments the same Alice enticed the lord king into illicit love, or, more likely, into madness … It was also said that the friar had made wax effigies of the king and Alice, by which, through potions of potent herbs and by speaking his own charms – just as that most famous magician, King Nectanebo of Egypt did – he effected that Alice should be able to obtain whatever she wanted from the king. [He also made] rings of oblivion and memory, as Moses had once made; and so the friar imagined that while the king used them, he would never forget his courtesan.14 204

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress What are we to make of these accusations? Witchcraft was actually not a very common accusation before the fifteenth century – the witchcraft scares that we associate with pre-modern Europe were mostly a product of the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. Where such accusations did appear, they were almost always politically motivated, an attempt to discredit or otherwise steal the property of a rival, not born of a genuine fear that the accused was truly practicing sorcery.15 Such accusations against the concubines of powerful men are more likely to speak to a desire to discredit a woman who was perceived to hold too much power over her lover. Outside of accusations of witchcraft, contemporaries also had a habit of lingering over – or possibly inventing – the more titillating details surrounding a concubine. King László IV ruled Hungary and Croatia from 1272 to 1290, a period when much of Eastern Europe was in the midst of transitioning from paganism to Christianity. László was the son of Steven V of Hungary and his wife Elizabeth the Cuman, who had been born into the nomadic Cuman culture, which practised a form of shamanism. When László became king, some worried he was a bit too pagan, though theoretically raised as a Christian. When László repudiated his wife Isabella of Sicily and took a Cuman woman, Aydua, as his mistress, many considered these fears confirmed. The local archbishop referred to Aydua as a ‘poisonous viper’, accused them of public sexual acts, and complained that while the rightful queen was kept locked in a convent, Aydua was granted the lands and revenues typically granted to the queens of Hungary.16 While it is certainly possible that László and Aydua enjoyed public sex – we have no reason to think exhibitionism is a modern invention – it strikes me as more likely that the archbishop either capitalised on or invented rumours about László and Aydua. That Aydua came from a pagan culture on the outskirts of Hungarian society, and that László also had ties to that culture, would only have made such gossip easier to believe. Agnès de Sorel’s contemporaries also seemed to linger over the more titillating details of her life, particularly her clothing. The chronicler Georges Chastellain, wrote of her that In Christendom there was no princess who lived in such high estate. There were always a hundred thousand murmurs 205

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines sprouting up against her, and no fewer against the king. She appeared wearing trains a third longer than princesses of the realm, much nicer and more costly finery by half. Of all that was ribaldry and foulness, she was producer and inventor.17 He went on to discuss Agnès’s unique fashion choices, describing how her gowns ‘descended to the shoulders and the breast in front, even to the nipples. Day and night she made up her face and studied only vanity so as to lead men astray and give a bad example to modest and honest women’.18 The passage at the beginning of this section describing the death by drowning of Agnes Bernauer falls into this category, with its lingering focus on Albert running through the streets with one shoe undone, pleading with bystanders for help, and on Agnes’s hair caught on the pole the executioner used to keep her under the water. Of her life, the chronicler tells us only that she was a beautiful matron who was in a relationship with Albert, but of her death we learn perhaps more than we wanted. When seeking to understand this phenomenon, we should start by remembering that chroniclers and others whose voices have survived today were only human. Even religious men could be enthralled by scandalous gossip, and it only makes sense that they might focus on some of these titillating facts. We should also bear in mind that chronicles were not written as the dry, historical texts that they can appear to be today. Like all narrative documents, they were written to be read aloud to an audience, so they did need to provide some sort of entertainment value. Moreover, the men who produced them considered it their duty not to convey the strict facts of their history, but the truth of it. If the ‘truth’ as they saw it was that a woman was a whore or witch, then inserting these details – whether factual or not – was fine, as long as the details underscored the truth that the chronicler was trying to tell. At the same time, in so doing, these men discredited these women by focusing our attention on these small vignettes, ignoring the breadth of their lived experience. By describing concubines as witches and whores, focusing on their deaths rather than their lives, these women are reduced to simply ‘good’ or ‘bad’. This reductive approach makes it much easier to explain the pull they had over their lovers, the havoc they could create in a kingdom. The result is that for modern readers, the concubines of 206

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress great men are reduced to mere caricature, instead of fully developed, nuanced individuals in their own rights. A mistress who was placed, or who placed herself, in a position of public prestige or power, invited more than criticism of her behaviour. She could lead to serious political and social chaos. In a society that saw every person’s role as having been ordained and blessed by God, a lower-status woman taking on a role that was meant to belong to great lady, princess, or queen was interfering with the divine plan for society. To the medieval mind sexual fidelity was not a litmus test for the quality of marriage as it can be in modern society. A noble or royal wife expected public honour, an income that allowed her to live an appropriate lifestyle for a woman of her class, that her children be given a good start in life, and sometimes the chance to intercede or rule on her husband’s behalf. These were the true building blocks of a medieval marriage. A husband’s fidelity was a different matter. Though theoretically expected by the church, it was not part of the bargain in the real world. Some wives might find the idea that her husband had a mistress distasteful or disappointing, but while he continued to meet the expectations listed above, his adultery was not considered a betrayal of the marriage. Husbands were expected to provide their wives with the best of everything they could. Among the elite classes, this meant fine clothing and housing, as well as public displays of the lady’s prestige. When a mistress began to receive these things instead, it drew attention. One of the complaints against László IV of Hungary was that his wife Isabella was kept – essentially imprisoned – in a convent run by László’s sister Erzsébet, while his concubine Aydua was granted the properties and revenues that were traditionally given to queens of Hungary. In so doing, László was essentially repudiating his wife in favour of his mistress without going through the bother of a divorce.19 In 1444, Charles VII of France gave his mistress Agnès Sorel an official, ‘joyous’ entry into Paris, and on the same occasion announced that from that point forward, Agnès would be his ‘official’ mistress – the first time such a position had been designated in a European court.20 Such an entry was usually reserved for a queen, usually accompanied by pageantry and other celebrations, as those we examined earlier for Margaret of Anjou and Maria de Luna. The queen typically wore her hair down, emphasising her connection to the Virgin Mary. To hold such an event for a mistress – a woman with a pronounced lack of virginity – 207

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines instead of a royal woman was a provocative move. Charles symbolically stated that Agnès’s role was to be much more public and official than that held by previous mistresses. Charles continued as he began. Some attacked Agnès’s beauty as a sign that she had an unnatural hold on the king and worried that, though she had used her powers for good (encouraging Charles towards greatness), she could easily turn them and use them for evil. Others feared Charles was incapable of functioning without Agnès. The future Pope Pius II wrote that Charles ‘fell so much in love that he could not even spend an hour without her. Whether at table, in bed, at council, she was always by his side.’21 It was dangerous for someone – particularly a woman – who hadn’t earned political power to nonetheless be exercising it.22 The writer of the Journal of the Bourgeois of Paris described Agnès as a young lady, of whom it was publicly said that she was the amie [friend, implying a romantic connection] of the king of France, without faith, without law, without truth to the good queen he married; and it even appears that she had great status like a countess or duchess. She came and went, often with the good queen of France, without shame of her sin, from which the queen had much sorrow in her heart.23 The chronicler Georges Chastellain noted that Agnès flouted the sumptuary laws that dictated what members of each social class were allowed to wear. She set an example of conspicuous consumption, wearing the sort of clothing that was supposed to be restricted to women of a much higher rank than she. This implied, as did her official entry into Paris, that she and Charles intentionally positioned their relationship as something more akin to marriage – and Agnès more akin to a wife or a queen than a mere sexual partner. And Chastellain was careful to detail the dishonour that this did to Charles’s rightful queen, Marie de Anjou, writing that Marie was made to suffer a ribald, poor woman of a small, base house, to live, repair, and converse daily with her, in the estate and array of a princess; to have her quarters in her [Marie’s] apartments in the king’s household, ordered and appointed better than her own … to have and to see all the 208

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress affinity of lords and nobles and even the king himself put [Agnès] before herself [Marie]; to have all the royal estates and services before herself, as if [Agnès] also were queen, to have the finest beds, the best tapestries, the best linen and bedcoverings, the best tableware, the best rings and jewels, the best cuisine … The king was completely besotted with this woman.24 Crucially, in Chastellain’s description, the problem with Agnès and Charles’s relationship was not that that she was engaged in fornication or that he was committing the sin of adultery, but that Agnès was placed in a position above the queen. In the 1370s, the behaviour of Alice Perrers had inspired similar worries. In the waning years of the reign of her lover, Edward III of England, Alice began to behave in the manner of a male royal favourite, blatantly using her relationship with the king to grant favours to her friends.25 Alice’s role was slightly different than Agnès Sorel’s in that her lover was unmarried – although Alice and Edward had probably begun their relationship during the life of Edward’s wife Philippa of Hainault, Alice rose to notoriety after Philippa’s death in 1369. By 1376, Alice’s behaviour was worrying enough to some that it was implicitly addressed by parliament. In the so-called ‘Good Parliament’ held that year, laws passed prohibiting women from interfering in the due process of law were clearly aimed at Alice.26 The following year, in the first parliament held under Edward III’s grandson Richard II, Alice was accused of breaking those rules by influencing Edward not to send Sir Nicholas Dagworth on a mission to Ireland. Testimony in parliament revealed that Edward had determined that Dagworth should be sent, only to change his mind the following morning, after a night spent with Alice. The implication was clear: Alice was abusing her position as the king’s sexual partner and bed partner to influence royal policy, something completely out of bounds for a concubine. Alice was found guilty, and much of her property was confiscated.27 Part of a queen or consort’s role was to intervene with her husband in political matters; when Alice attempted to do the same, she encroached on a queen’s prerogative. Another way in which a mistress might encroach on the territory of a queen was in bearing children. On the one hand, children were not just 209

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines an unfortunate by-product of an affair – often, the way that we know of these women and their unique status was because it was their children who were recognised.28 As will be discussed in the following chapter, illegitimate children could be a blessing for a number of reasons. On the other hand, however, when bastard children were too many, too well loved, or too powerful, they could be a source of serious political instability. Leonor de Gúzman was a young, beautiful widow when she caught the eye of King Alfonso XI of Castile and León. The chronicler Francisco Cerdá y Rico tells us that because Alfonso had had no children with his wife, María of Portugal, he decided to take Leonor de Gúzman as his concubine in order to have children by her. By 1330, Leonor had given birth to a child, cementing her position of power at the Castilian court and her position of influence over Alfonso, so much that other nobles who wanted the king’s ear began directing their petitions to Leonor instead of María. The chronicle explicitly notes that Leonor’s growth in power was a direct result of having Alfonso’s child.29 Alfonso did eventually go on to have two children with María of Portugal, one son who died as a young child, and a second son, Pedro, who reigned as Pedro I of Castile and León. Meanwhile, Leonor de Gúzman and Alfonso had ten illegitimate children, including several sons who survived to adulthood. Alfonso showed a marked preference for his bastard children, making the oldest, Enrique, the count of Trastámara, and making Enrique’s twin brother Fadrique the master of the Order of Santiago, the most prestigious group of knights in the kingdom. The boys were not even teenagers when this happened. While Alfonso ruled, all went well for Leonor and their children, but when Alfonso unexpectedly died in 1350, chaos erupted. Tensions arose quickly between Leonor (who represented her children with Alfonso) and María of Portugal (regent for her son Pedro), culminating in Leonor’s imprisonment. In 1351, María ordered Leonor’s assassination.30 Pedro Lopez de Ayala tells us how Leonor’s son Fadrique, Master of the Order of Santiago, begged to see his mother one final time: when the said Doña Leonor came to Llerena, Master Don Fadrique her son begged mercy of the king, that he might give him license to see her; and the king gave permission. And the Master went to see her, and Doña Leonor took the 210

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress Master her son, and embraced him, and kissed him, and passed a long hour crying with him, and he with her, and no word was said from one to the other.31 Leonor’s murder led to all-out civil war between the supporters of Pedro – now called ‘Pedro the Cruel’ – and the supporters of Enrique of Trastámara, Pedro’s half-brother, the son of Leonor and Alfonso. The war ended in 1369 when Enrique arranged for Pedro’s murder and finally solidified his own claim to the Castilian throne as Enrique II. María’s decision to have Leonor murdered raises the question of how wives generally responded to their husbands’ infidelity. When medieval chronicles discuss wives’ reactions, it is usually to describe the wives’ sadness at being disrespected, as in the Journal of the Bourgeoisie of Paris’s description of Marie of Anjou’s ‘sorrow in her heart’ at the way that Agnès de Sorel was treated more as queen than she was.32 Thomas Walsingham described John of Gaunt as without conscience and his character dishonoured by every kind of outrage and sin. Indeed, a fornicator and adulterer, he had abandoned lawful wedlock and deceived both his first wife who was the daughter of our lord Henry, the first duke of Lancaster, and the daughter of Pedro, king of Spain [Constanza was the daughter of Pedro the Cruel, discussed above]. He not only dared to do such things secretly and privately, but also took the most shameless prostitutes to the beds of those wives, who, grief-stricken as they were, did not dare to protest.33 In this illustration, John’s wives were ‘grief-stricken’ at his behaviour. To Walsingham, at least, John’s behaviour was poor not only because he was committing adultery, but also because of the grief he caused his wives. Other evidence, however, suggests that John’s wife Constanza of Castile and his mistress Katherine Swynford spent time together – a financial account of 1381 records the entire family, including Constanza, Katherine, John, their children, and John’s illegitimate daughter Blanche Morieux (the result of a short-lived liaison in the late 1350s), spending Christmas together.34 211

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines If Constanza was grief-stricken at her husband’s affair, her husband’s infidelity was probably not the cause. Constanza was the daughter of Pedro of Castile and his mistress María de Padilla. After Pedro’s halfbrother Enrique Trastámara seized the Castilian throne, Constanza married John of Gaunt to secure the English crown’s assistance with her goal of claiming her father’s throne. Seventeen at the time of the marriage, Constanza quickly gave birth to a daughter, Catalina, but to secure further support for her claim to the Castilian throne, a son was essential. After several years, however, Catalina remained the only living child of the marriage. In the same period, John’s mistress Katherine gave birth to four children, including boys. For Constanza, the regular reminder that her husband’s mistress was better at giving him sons than she was must have been humiliating. Constanza’s father Pedro was not known for his marital fidelity either, and for his wife, the French princess Blanche of Bourbon, the experience of playing second fiddle to her husband’s mistress was particularly cumbersome. A marriage between Pedro and Blanche was arranged in 1352, when Pedro was 18 and Blanche 14. By the time Blanche arrived in Castile the following year, Pedro had met María de Padilla, the daughter of a minor Castilian noble family. The Castilian chronicler Pedro Lopez de Ayala tells us ‘the king much loved the said Doña Maria de Padilla, such that he no longer wished to marry the said Doña Blanca de Borbon his betrothed, for Doña Maria was very beautiful, of good understanding, and small of body’.35 King Pedro was urged marry Blanche nonetheless, which he did, but only a few days after the wedding, Pedro abandoned his new wife to be re-joined with his mistress. Despite the pleas of his mother, María of Portugal (who had ordered the murder of her own rival Leonor de Gúzman only a couple of years previously), and his aunt, Leonor of Castile, Pedro insisted on living with his mistress. Barring one brief visit shortly afterwards, Pedro never saw Blanche again.36 Ayala’s chronicle describes Blanche as terrified of Pedro, claiming sanctuary in the church of St Mary in Toledo in an attempt to avoid imprisonment.37 Eventually she relented, however, and Blanche spent the rest of her life imprisoned in a series of castles, moved from place to place so that Pedro never had to see her. In 1359, after three daughters, María de Padilla gave birth to a son, whom she and Pedro named Alfonso, after Pedro’s father. Shortly afterwards, Blanche of Bourbon 212

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress died – poisoned on her husband’s orders, according to Pedro Lopez de Ayala, though other sources point to a natural death.38 We have to be careful arguing that wives were more upset by a loss of status than by a husband’s infidelity in and of itself. Lack of evidence of their distress did not mean they were not angered by adultery, especially when we consider that chroniclers generally considered women’s personal feelings to be of little importance. Nonetheless, the vast majority of evidence does indicate that wives who were frustrated by their husbands’ infidelity were angrier at the lack of respect to their position. Marie of Anjou’s distress over Charles VII’s affair with Agnès de Sorel was prompted by Charles treating Agnès more like a queen than Marie herself. Blanche of Bourbon feared for her safety because her husband Pedro of Castile so clearly preferred María de Padilla over her. Isabella of Sicily was forcibly kept in a convent so her husband László of Hungary could keep his concubine Aydua as his partner in public. Viewed in this context, María of Portugal’s attitude towards her husband’s mistress Leonor de Gúzman is unusual. Alfonso XI of Castile’s clear preference for Leonor and his children with her was obvious and insulting, but María was far from the only woman to face such circumstances – indeed, her own daughter-in-law Blanche of Bourbon dealt with far worse – but she was the only one to exact revenge on her husband’s mistress in such a violent manner. The impetus for this must have been María’s feelings about Leonor herself, for if she were concerned only about preserving her son’s succession to the throne, María would have been better off seeking the deaths of Leonor’s children, rather than Leonor herself. Further evidence that María was personally wounded comes from her attitude towards her son Pedro’s affair with María de Padilla. Did María beg her son to break off his liaison with his mistress only to preserve Castilian relations with France, or did she also pity a young girl experiencing the same betrayal and disrespect that she had experienced? The causes of Leonor’s death may have been unusual, but the fact that she met a violent end was far from uncommon. One thing that becomes clear in discussing the history of concubines is that the rate of unnatural death among such women is alarmingly high. Many of the women discussed on this chapter were killed, almost certainly because of their position as concubine. The fate of Agnes Bernauer, accused of 213

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines witchcraft and sentenced to drowning by her lover’s father, is a prime example of the worst that could befall a mistress. Leonor de Gúzman’s murder is another. The fate of Agnès Sorel has only recently been determined as murder. By the year 1449, Agnès and Charles VII of France had had three children, all daughters. Later that year, sources say that Agnès encouraged Charles to re-open hostilities with England, and in 1450, a pregnant Agnès visited Charles at Rouen, where he was besieging the city. A few days after her arrival, Agnès gave birth to a daughter who died shortly after birth, and a few days after that, Agnès herself reported a severe pain in her stomach and died. Rumours of poison spread quickly, as might be expected when a prominent figure dies suddenly, but until recently, it was assumed the real cause of Agnès’s death was complications from childbirth.39 In 2005, however, Agnès’s remains were exhumed when they were moved from their temporary resting place at Loges to the Collegiate Church of St Ours, her original burial place. Tests run on the remains indicated that Agnès suffered from ascariasis, an infection of roundworms that was relatively common in the Middle Ages. At the same time, testing on hair samples showed levels of mercury high enough to determine that mercury poisoning was the cause of her death. Taken together, these two pieces of evidence paint a clear picture of Agnès’s last days. While a roundworm infection is rarely acute enough to cause symptoms, a bad infection can lead to symptoms, including abdominal pain, bleeding, and diarrhoea, that are difficult to ignore. Medieval people often treated such symptoms with mercury salts, which were easily obtainable. The amount of mercury discovered in Agnès’s body is far above what she would have taken medicinally, but we can easily imagine someone who wished her ill arranging for her to take too high a dose.40 While it cannot be proven that Agnès was deliberately poisoned – she could have simply taken the wrong dose – she had made an enemy of her lover’s oldest son Louis, the future King Louis XI of France, and he remains a likely culprit. About a century previously, a similar fate befell Inês de Castro, the mistress of Pedro I of Portugal. A lady-in-waiting to Pedro’s wife Constanza Manuel, Inês was born in Castile and met Pedro when Constanza travelled to Portugal for her marriage. A few years later, King Afonso IV of Portugal, worried at the influence that Inês had over his son, banished her back to Castile. After Constanza died in 1349, 214

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‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress however, Pedro recalled Inês; the couple publicly lived together and had four children. A few years later, Afonso decided to put an end to Inês’s influence once and for all, and she was assassinated in 1355. Inês’s presence in Pedro’s life had been a problem for Afonso for some time: having a Castilian woman playing a prominent role in the Portuguese court threatened Portugal’s position of neutrality in the civil war between Pedro of Castile and his half-brother Enrique Trastámara, and contributed to the alreadyproblematic tension between King Afonso and his son. There were also rumours that Afonso ordered Inês’s murder because Pedro was planning to marry her and legitimise their children.41 Indeed, as we shall see in the following chapter, after Pedro became king of Portugal, he did just that, in a roundabout sort of way. In almost every instance, a man’s concubine was murdered because she was interfering with someone else’s rightful place. Ernest of Bavaria likely had his son Albert’s mistress Agnes Bernauer murdered because she and Albert had secretly married, rendering Ernest’s own plans for his son’s marriage null. Within a year of Agnes’s dramatic death, Albert had made a political marriage to a much more suitable candidate. If Agnès de Sorel was indeed murdered, it was probably the result of her lover Charles VII’s son Louis’s resentment over her taking what he perceived to be his rightful place as political and military advisor to his father. Leonor de Gúzman paid the price for the years of humiliation that her lover Alfonso XI of Castile had dealt his wife María of Portugal, when María had her killed shortly after Alfonso’s death. Whether life expectancy for concubines really was unusually short, or whether we are simply more likely to have records of their deaths because of the scandal they caused, it is clear that becoming the mistress of a powerful man could be a dangerous move. While no one expected a medieval man to stay celibate before marriage, or to remain faithful to his wife after marriage, a concubine was expected to conform to certain guidelines: she was supposed to be beautiful; she should come from a high enough social class to be able to fit in at court, but not so high that her sexual liaison with her lover might cause offense; above all, she should be a part of her lover’s private life, but stay out of the political limelight. Women who failed to follow these rules, or had attention drawn to them – perhaps because they bore too many children or because their lover gave them too much public 215

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines prestige – were labelled ‘bad’ mistresses. The consequences of such a relationship gone wrong ranged from poor reputations and accusations of witchcraft and sensationalised sexual behaviour, to civil war, to death. With such outcomes possible, it is difficult to paint a picture of powerful men seducing women of their court for their own pleasure, without thought of what the penalty might be for the women they loved. Doubtless, in some cases, this is an accurate portrayal. But life as a mistress to a powerful man could be so much more: these women had the chance to do good, to act on behalf of their families and take a leap up the social ladder, to bolster the power of the men they were involved with, and even to gain fame as the influence behind the successes of kings and nations.

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Chapter Eight

‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress

The king who was to make his virtue shine through clouds of such misery, and who showed himself a good pilot and patron of his kingdom in the tempestuous storm of war, allowed himself to sink into pleasure, preferring the love of his beautiful Agnes to the good of his kingdom. Even Agnes, seeing him so soft and thin, told him that when she was a young girl, an astrologer had predicted she would be loved by one of the most courageous and virtuous men of Christendom, and that when she first met his grace, she thought him this valorous king. But seeing him so soft and worrying little of resisting the English, she thought it must have been the king of England the astrologer meant, so on this occasion she wished to leave and find that king. These words stung him so in his heart, that from then forward … by virtue and prudence he drove the English from France … .1 Within a century of the deaths of Agnès Sorel and her lover Charles VII of France, the historian Pierre de Brantône could believably argue that Agnès was the inspiration behind Charles’s victories over the English. A mistress could be dangerous – someone who threatened the balance of power, placed dynastic marriage plans in jeopardy, disrespected honourable wives, participated in sin and, at her worst, might rely on witchcraft to secure her lover’s affections. But the story might be more complicated. It is important to take a nuanced approach to discussing medieval concubines, because many of the mistresses who contemporaries

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines labelled as ‘bad’ were also noted for their goodness, both in their own times and today. A mistress might subtly promote the interests of certain factions or her own family at court, or she might lay claim to being the muse behind her lover’s good deeds. In rare instances, a couple in an adulterous liaison might claim that the true love between them elevated their lustful relationship to something more respectful. The adulterous relationship might even be ‘upgraded’ to marriage, either during the couple’s lifetime or, more commonly, after the mistress’s death.

Qualities of a Good Mistress It was expected that a concubine would promote the interests of those who supported her. As we saw in the previous chapter, this was a delicate line to walk – Alice Perrers was criticised for going beyond simply supporting her friends, and instead going so far as to influence royal policy and interfere in the judicial process. For a mistress to intervene with her lover in minor matters, however, was only natural, and probably considered a good thing by those who had the ability to catch her attention. For instance, in 1375, the town of Leicester paid 16 shillings to send wine to Katherine Swynford, presumably in the hope that she would remember their generosity in the future.2 Even on matters of international diplomacy, it was not considered out of bounds to seek out a mistress’s influence. A papal letter from Gregory XI to Alice Perrers asking her to intervene with Edward III on behalf of the pope’s brother indicates that even the pope found it acceptable to communicate with such women, if the situation were important enough.3 In addition, the English-speaking world perhaps owes Katherine Swynford more thanks than it realises. Geoffrey Chaucer, one of the fathers of English literature, might well have never achieved fame or been able to write his great works if his sister-in-law Katherine had not facilitated his entrée into John of Gaunt’s inner circle. Other mistresses were able to take credit for the good deeds done by their lovers. When Charles VII succeeded to the French throne in 1422, aged 19, he was an unpromising candidate for royal power. He was remarkably unattractive and undersized, cursed with an inability to make decisions and a tendency towards neurotic behaviour, as well as a fear of strangers. His early reign was dominated by his mother Isabeau of Bavaria and his mother-in-law Yolanda of Aragon. An ineffective 218

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress military leader, French success on the battlefield in the early years of his reign was largely attributable to the actions of Joan of Arc.4 Charles seems to have met Agnès Sorel in 1443, after the deaths of Isabeau and Yolanda, and she remained an essential part of his life until her early death in 1450. Both contemporaries and historians have attributed Charles’s reinvigoration in these years to Agnès’s influence. During these years, the French crown recaptured significant territory lost to the English, and Charles reinvigorated the machines of government, re-establishing law courts, reorganising royal finances, and reforming administration by centralising power in the figure of the monarch. Under Agnès’s influence, Charles seemed transformed from a timid man who feared his position to a worldly monarch unafraid to seize the reins of power.5 Many believed Agnès used her beauty and sexuality to push Charles towards reopening military hostilities with England in 1449. A courtier at the time reported that Agnès hinted to Charles that as a military hero, ‘you will find it easier still to exploit the virtue of beautiful women as much as you would like’.6 Whether Agnès actually said this, the important thing is the association that contemporaries made between Agnès’s sexual relationship with Charles and the king’s successes as a monarch. Agnès was not the only concubine associated with her lover’s worldly successes. Isotta degli Atti, the mistress – later wife – of Sigismondo Malatesta, the fifteenth-century lord of Rimini in Italy, was explicitly connected to Sigismondo’s victories in family propaganda. Sigismondo had Isotta’s image stamped on commemorative medals that he arranged to be struck. While such medals were a common feature of early modern Italy, to have a woman, much less a mistress, featured on such a medal was an unusual move. The medals were also inscribed with the date 1446, the year in which Sigismondo and Isotta’s relationship began, as well as the year that Sigismondo consolidated his rule of Rimini and commenced building his Castelo Sigismondo. By placing Isotta’s image on the medals, he implicitly tied their love to his military and political success.7 Similarly, Isotta’s tomb in the Malatesta family’s mausoleum at the church of San Francesco in Rimini featured the date 1446. The tomb also featured the Malatesta coat of arms, combined with emblems of the family; nowhere in the chapel is Isotta’s own family heraldry represented. Work on Isotta’s tomb began when she was only 16 years old, by which 219

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines time she had already been associated with Sigismondo for several years. By this early date, then, she was visually tied to Sigismondo and his successes for eternity.8 Other mistresses had a reputation for goodness, even if their lovers did not. The chronicler Pedro Lopez de Ayala made sure that the version of Pedro of Castile depicted in his work lived up to his sobriquet ‘the Cruel’. As discussed previously, Ayala’s chronicle describes Pedro’s mistreatment of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, and of his half-siblings, in great detail. Although Ayala also expresses some misgivings about Pedro’s relationship with his mistress María de Padilla, he has nothing but good to say of María herself, telling us that ‘Doña María was a woman of good lineage, and beautiful, and small of body, and of good understanding.’9 Ayala also tells us María sometimes disagreed with Pedro, especially when it came to some of his most unpopular decisions.10 Why would Ayala have depicted María in a positive light? Ayala wrote his chronicle in the reigns of the Trastámara kings who deposed and murdered Pedro, and historians agree that much of what Ayala has to say about Pedro’s cruelty is overstated, if not entirely fabricated. It would have been easy for Ayala to incorporate María into this narrative, painting her as a seductress who led the king away from his wife and along the path of cruelty. Instead, he emphasises María’s goodness and gentleness, though he does occasionally comment on the inappropriate influence that her family wielded in Castilian politics. Ayala lived at the Castilian court through the events that he describes, and would have crossed paths with the people who feature in his chronicle. I suspect that Ayala chose to depict the María he actually knew, a genuinely kind woman who sometimes disagreed with her lover’s actions. While having too many children or showing a marked preference for illegitimate or legitimate children could lead to trouble, the children a man produced with his concubine could serve an important role at court. Although Henry I of England did not have the sort of long-term relationship with one mistress that we have seen in many examples, he produced somewhere in the region of twenty illegitimate children. When they grew to adulthood, Henry placed these children in positions of power and used their marriages to create networks of alliance across England and Europe. 220

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress This was a mutually beneficial arrangement: the chronicler Gerald of Wales tells of a woman whom Henry seduced who had her chaplain say masses on her behalf in the hope that she would give birth to the king’s child.11 With the quantity of illegitimate children that Henry’s affairs produced, there was a good deal of room for criticism, but the chronicler William of Malmesbury, who wrote that Henry was the greatest of all English kings, characterised this behaviour quite positively: His entire life in all things, he had no part in the obscenities of bodily passion. For he took pleasure in the bosoms of women not in unbridled pleasure (as is commonly accepted), but in begetting offspring … Where the kingly seed could be spread to such an effect, he poured out his nature as a lord, not succumbing to lust, as is reputed.12 In Malmesbury’s telling, then, Henry’s sexual exploits did not arise from his fleshly weakness, but from his desire to perform a lord’s work of begetting an heir. Henry’s illegitimate children did go on to serve important roles in his own government, in his daughter Matilda’s unsuccessful bid for power, and in his grandson Henry II’s reign. William of Malmesbury is not the only medieval chronicler to provide such an explanation for his king’s sexual misbehaviour. The Castilian chronicler Francisco Cerdá y Rico wrote of King Alfonso XI that the king regretted that his marriage to María of Portugal was childless: And because the king was a very accomplished man in all his deeds, he held himself much less because he did not have children of the queen; and because of this, he found a way to have children of another part. And in that time there was a lady in Seville named Doña Leonor [de Gúzman], daughter of Don Pero Nuñez de Gúzman: and she was a widow, and a rich woman and a gentlewoman, and in beauty she was the most beautiful in the realm … The king loved her and prized her very much … and he had children of her.13 Cerdá y Rico’s chronicle of Alfonso’s reign is generally positive, focusing heavily on Alfonso’s military and political victories. Throughout the chronicle, he depicts Alfonso as a mature and responsible leader, so 221

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines depicting Alfonso’s relationship in a similar light, as the result of his concern that the line of succession be preserved, is simply in character. Of course, we know that this was not the reality of the situation. Alfonso’s marked preference for Leonor de Gúzman and the family he had with her, over the legitimate son, Pedro, that he eventually produced with María of Portugal, led to civil war. It took decades for the conflict between Alfonso’s two families to be resolved. The goal of creating a ‘secondary’ family in order to support the main line of succession was probably an important aspect of many of these relationships. John of Gaunt’s first two marriages produced several daughters, but only one living legitimate son, Henry, to inherit his enormous fortune. His liaison with Katherine Swynford, however, resulted in three more illegitimate sons and a daughter, who were given the surname Beaufort. John’s children with Katherine were closely integrated into his household from a young age, ensuring that the entire group of half-siblings had close relationships with each other. When John’s second wife, Constanza of Castile, died in 1394, he and Katherine seized the opportunity. Two years later, they married and their children were legitimised, meaning that they would be able to inherit their father’s vast fortune if something happened to Henry.14 The Beauforts made important marriages throughout the English nobility, and when Henry became king in 1399, his Beaufort siblings were an important source of support for his and his descendants’ reigns. For Sigismondo Malatesta, the fifteenth-century lord of Rimini, similar ideas may have motivated his choices. Sigismondo’s affair with Isotta degli Atti lasted many years following the death of his legitimate wife, Polissena, who had died without giving Sigismondo any legitimate children. Eventually, in 1456 – seven years after Polissena died – Sigismondo and Isotta married in secret and Sigismondo arranged for his oldest surviving son with Isotta, Sallustio, to be legitimised. In 1466, Sigismondo declared Sallustio his heir. Clearly Sallustio was, among other things, an insurance policy to ensure that Sigismondo had someone to pass his inheritance to. Sigismondo’s delay, first in marrying Isotta, then in legitimising Sallustio and declaring him his heir, indicates he may have preferred to remarry and produce a legitimate heir that way. Ironically, when Sigismondo died in 1468, Sallustio managed to rule for only a few months before being overthrown by another of Sigismondo’s illegitimate sons.15 222

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress From this evidence, Sigismondo comes across as deeply cold and calculating, but in his own lifetime he claimed to love Isotta. He commissioned the poet Basinio Basini to produce the Book of Isotta (Liber Isottaeus), in which Sigismondo and Isotta’s love is celebrated in a group of poems that take the form of letters between Sigismondo, Isotta, Isotta’s father, and the god of love. Several fifteenth-century editions of the Book of Isotta survive today, suggesting Sigismondo made multiple copies, intending to spread news of their love far and wide. Several poems make connections between Isotta and Isolde and Guinevere, heroines from Arthurian legends had found true love outside of marriage. By connecting the affair between Sigismondo and Isotta to these legendary loves, the book implies true love elevated an adulterous affair to something more respectable.16 The notion that ‘true love’ could transform lust into something admirable was also an idea that Pedro of Portugal had employed in his affair with Inês de Castro about a century previously. Pedro’s father Afonso had arranged for Inês’s murder in 1355, when he concluded Inês’s hold over his son had become too strong. Two years later in 1357, when Pedro became king, he sought revenge for her death, having two of the men responsible for killing Inês tried and executed. As soon as he became king, he also began construction on two tombs, one for himself and one for Inês.17 Pedro himself seems to have assisted in designing the detailed carvings on the tombs, which depicted scenes from Pedro and Inês’s lives, alongside images of heroes from the courtly love tradition.18 At the same time, Pedro claimed in front of his court that he had, in fact, secretly married Inês after the death of his first wife Constança, but they had kept the marriage secret out of their fear of Pedro’s father, King Afonso.19 Under pressure from Pedro, the bishops of Portugal testified that this was the truth. Inês was posthumously declared queen, and her children with Pedro were legitimised. It has been rumoured that Pedro then had Inês’s body exhumed and forced his nobles to pay homage to it before reburying her, but this is almost certainly untrue. The Portuguese chronicler Fernão Lopes states that it was because of Pedro’s true love for Inês – whom he compares to Adriana or Dido, heroines of Greek legends – that he ordered her body moved to the new tomb at the monastery of Alcobaça, where he also ordained that he would be buried, when he died. Lopes tells us that Pedro 223

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines had her body taken from the monastery of St Clare at Coimbra, where it lay, in the most honourable way that he could. Here it came, taken by great knights, accompanied by great nobles and many other people, and ladies, and damsels, and many of the clergy. Along the road, there were many men with candles in their hands, ordered such, so that her body was always the entire way traveling through candles. And so they reached the said monastery, which was seventeen leagues from there, and there, with many masses and much solemnity, her body was placed in that monument. And this was the most honourable translation that had been seen in Portugal up to that time.20 The tombs were placed side by side, flanking the high altar, so that on the Day of Judgement, when Inês and Pedro arose, the first thing they would see was each other. Pedro’s tomb, which also depicts the love story between him and Inês, is inscribed with the Portuguese phrase Até ao fim do mundo – ‘Until the end of the world.’ For Pedro, recognising Inês as his wife after her death, and connecting their love to the great loves of history, was the best way he had of telling the world that their love would never die. As Pedro and Inês’s story demonstrates, some couples sought to legitimise their relationship through marriage. In some cases, as with Pedro and Inês, the marriage was revealed only after the death of one partner in the relationship, and contemporaries understandably looked upon it with some scepticism. The lengths that Pedro went to with his court – bringing in a number of witnesses and a papal letter in support of his story that he and Inês had secretly married before her death – demonstrate how unlikely many people considered this story.21 In 1362, possibly inspired by this story, Pedro the Cruel of Castile claimed that he had secretly married María de Padilla, who had died the year before, prior to his marriage to Blanche de Bourbon. This rendered his marriage to Blanche invalid and made his children with María legitimate. In both cases, the story of the marriage was probably revealed – or invented – in order to legitimise children, as well as to allow an unmarried king to avoid remarriage while he grieved the loss of the woman he loved. 224

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress In other cases, we know that the couple married. Sigismondo Malatesta and Isotta degli Atti did eventually marry, though secretly, as attested by documents from later in their lives that refer to her as Isotta Malatesta. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for Italian Renaissance noblemen to marry their mistresses, usually as a means of ensuring they had a male heir.22 This seems to be what happened in the case of Sigismondo and Isotta, as the marriage gave him the chance to legitimise their oldest surviving son Sallustio and declare him his heir. John of Gaunt made certain that his marriage to Katherine Swynford would be recognised, making a show of gaining permission for the marriage from King Richard II, marrying Katherine publicly in Lincoln Cathedral, gaining a papal dispensation for the marriage, and then having their children’s legitimisation confirmed by both the pope and King Richard. John’s second wife had been Constanza of Castile, a daughter of Pedro the Cruel and María de Padilla. He would have known how dubious many considered Pedro’s claim to have married María and may have made extra sure that his own marriage to Katherine was publicly recognised to avoid such doubts. John and Katherine seem to have genuinely loved one another – their relationship survived significant challenges over the course of nearly thirty years – but the fact that John was able to legitimise their children as a result, was probably another motivating factor. Did an honourable marriage ‘make up’ for the adultery that came before? Was that even the intention? In the case of Sigismondo and Isotta, though Sigismondo had claimed to love Isotta in the Liber Isottaeus, the marriage was clearly motivated by practical considerations. The fact that Sigismondo waited seven years after the death of his first wife Polissena to marry Isotta strongly suggests that he would have preferred to marry elsewhere. That the marriage was then kept quiet, if not actually a secret, suggests that Sigismondo, at least, saw it as shameful. This would suggest that the marriage did not make up for the fact that their relationship had begun in adultery. Even in the case of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, marriage did not serve as a cover for the years of adultery that had preceeded it. The chronicler Jean Froissart tells us that when they learned of the marriage, some of the other great ladies of England – whom Katherine now outranked – went into grief or rages, refusing to be seen with her. 225

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines In the story of Pedro and Inês, we have an example of a couple who apparently motivated by true love. It may be true that the two were deeply in love, but we should not assume a couple’s passion for each other was their primary motive for engaging in an affair, even in the case of couples who remained dedicated to each other for years. Factors outside of love could have also served as motivation. As discussed previously, an extramarital relationship might be a means of propping up an otherwise-weak line of succession. This might take the form of producing illegitimate children who could inherit in the absence of a legitimate heir, hoping that half-siblings would provide loyal support to their legitimate brothers and sisters, or extending a lord’s political reach by arranging strategic marriages for his illegitimate children. In some cases, such as John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford’s Beaufort children, the illegitimate family could be deployed towards all three goals. For kings, the creation of an illegitimate family who could make strategic marriage alliances within the country might have been a key consideration. Kings’ legitimate children were generally expected to marry outside their home country – these international connections were a central factor in medieval diplomacy. The effect, however, could be to leave the king’s heir without allies at home, or with siblings whose attention was focused outside their own borders. Meanwhile, the nobility intermarried frequently with each other, producing alliances that could topple a weaker king. One solution to this was to have a legitimate family large enough to balance marriages within the country and without – Edward III of England did a particularly good job at this. Another solution, however, could be to use the king’s illegitimate children to create alliances within the country. When John of Gaunt’s legitimate son Henry seized the English throne as Henry IV in 1399, his legitimate sisters Philippa and Catalina were living overseas as queens of Portugal and Castile, respectively, while his third legitimate sister Elizabeth was married to the half-brother of Richard II, the king Henry had just overthrown. Support from Portugal and Castile bolstered Henry’s position on the European stage, but did little to shore up his reign at home. The marriages of Henry’s half-siblings the Beauforts, three of whom had married into England’s most influential families, were vital. Henry’s ability to hold onto the throne he usurped was due in no small part to the web of alliances – 226

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress stretching across England and across Europe – that his father had arranged for him. Beyond producing a ‘secondary family’, a mistress could bring other benefits to a powerful man beyond the personal relationship he had with his concubine. It was expected that a mistress’s family would receive royal favours – grants of land, important political positions, and other perks. Since these women usually came from families in the lower levels of the nobility, such benefits would have lifted them well above the limits of wealth or power they might have expected to receive otherwise. These families thus owed their unquestioning loyalty to the man who had elevated them. The chronicle depictions of Alfonso XI’s relationship with Leonor de Gúzman or his son Pedro the Cruel’s relationship with María de Padilla are filled with references to the men of these women’s families, who served in important political or military roles. For an unpopular king like Pedro, the support from a network of men who owed their fortunes to him could mean the difference between holding on to his throne (at least for a little longer) or losing it. Some men went too far in promoting the interests of their secondary families. Alfonso’s preference for Leonor de Gúzman and his children with her led his widow, María of Portugal, to seek revenge after his death. The meteoric rise of María de Padilla’s family exaggerated the fault lines that already fractured the Castilian court, prolonging the civil war that eventually broke out. Inês de Castro may have been murdered in part because her Castro relatives, who came from Castile, were jeopardising Portugal’s careful position of neutrality in the same civil war. John of Gaunt seems to have walked this line a little more appropriately. Katherine Swynford’s sister and brother-in-law, Philippa and Geoffrey Chaucer, were granted yearly pensions and good – but not too good – positions at John’s court. Nothing that they received was wildly out of line for their social position as members of England’s upper gentry, however. John seems to have contented himself merely with ensuring that they were well cared for.23 His relationship with his mistress could also be a way for a king to show off his masculinity or kingliness. In the case of Henry I of England, his ability to form liaisons, however temporary, with women (even women from powerful families outside those that would normally be considered appropriate for such an affair), was partly a show of dominance. During his second, childless marriage, Henry’s regular production of 227

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines illegitimate children demonstrated that he was not the impotent party in his marriage. For Charles VII of France, his relationship with Agnès Sorel was, among other things, a chance to demonstrate his authority. By declaring Agnès his official mistress – maîtres en titre – for the first time in French history, Charles declared himself the sort of king who would do what he wanted, and everyone else had better get out of his way. Did that leave any room for love? Some of these men did seem to love their mistresses. A concubine was a woman that a man could choose for himself, and beyond the pressure to select a woman with the appropriate background, of whom there would have been many, there were few constraints on that choice. Moreover, the fact that the tradition of courtly love taught that true love was something one might only have outside marriage, may have prompted men to seek out loving relationships with their concubines. In families where there was a tradition – Pedro the Cruel of Castile conducted his relationship with María de Padilla in much the same way as his father Alfonso XI had with Leonor de Gúzman – choosing a mistress may have been something akin to a rite of passage. In cases where men chose to remain with their mistress for many years, we have to think there was true affection. Pedro of Portugal was a widower when he became king, and he could have remarried to form a political alliance and have more legitimate children, which would have been the prudent course of action from a political point of view. Instead, as soon as he become king, Pedro revealed his secret marriage to Inês de Castro and remained single. Whether the marriage was real or not is still fodder for debate, but it does seem likely that Pedro was motivated at least in part by his love for Inês, since apart from legitimising his children with her, he had little to gain by revealing their marriage. The elaborate reburial ceremony and tombs that Pedro had built for himself and Inês were certainly motivated in part by utility, serving as a means of legitimising Pedro’s story about their marriage, and ensuring that his children with her were given every possible opportunity after he himself died. At the same time, the level of detail and personalisation in the tombs also point to Pedro’s genuine feelings for Inês. Tombs were important dynastic symbols, but they also served a personal role, prompting prayers for the dead to hasten their journey from purgatory to heaven, and serving as a means of comfort for those left behind when their loved ones died. Pedro’s choice to have Inês’s body moved to a tomb near 228

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress where he would be buried suggests he wanted to ensure her soul received the best possible care and that he looked forward to the day when he could join her again. It was a reminder to himself in his grief, as well as anyone else who saw it, that their love would last until the end of the world. In other cases, the criticism men received because of their infatuation with their lovers suggests true feeling. Piccolomini’s comments that Charles VII of France was incapable of being separated from Agnès de Sorel, even in political council sessions, suggest a real reliance on his part.24 The fact that Edward III of England allowed Alice Perrers to wield inappropriate amounts of power, particularly in matters that should have been reserved for royal influence, suggests he may have been too infatuated to place limits on her. When contemporaries commented on such things, they may have been exaggerating to make a point about the king’s inappropriate behaviour – it could be safer to direct criticism against a mistress than against a royal policy – but we should not assume that this means their stories were untrue. It seems likely they were at least partly based in fact. The fact that so many of these men cultivated relationships that lasted for many years also points to a serious attachment. In some instances, such as Pedro of Portugal and Inês de Castro, the relationship survived the death of one party. Similarly to Pedro and Inês, Albert of Bavaria endowed a chapel and arranged for perpetual masses to be said for the soul of his lover, Agnes Bernauer. This arrangement of endowments and masses was something that only the very wealthy could afford, and Albert’s care to make this arrangement for Agnes are further evidence of his love her for after her murder. In other cases, the couple’s liaison lasted many years during their lifetimes. Agnès Sorel, Leonor de Gúzman, María de Padilla, and Alice Perrers engaged in relationships that ten years or more and ended only with the death of one half of the relationship. John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford’s affair lasted nearly three decades. They had been together for nearly ten years in 1381, when the vitriol directed towards John in the Peasants’ Revolt prompted them to publicly separate. After their split, however, they continued to engage in a relationship quietly until their marriage in 1396. They were only separated by John’s death in 1399. When a man spent a decade or more with his mistress and continued to remember her after her death, it is difficult to conclude otherwise than that he genuinely cared for her. 229

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines There is one important factor missing from this argument, however: how did the women feel about their lovers? We can say with some confidence that the men in these relationships felt affection for their partners, but we have no way of saying how the women felt about their lovers, in part because so many of them died prematurely. The fact that many of them were assassinated is telling in and of itself. Surely a woman like María de Padilla, knowing that the previous king’s lover Leonor de Gúzman had been killed only a couple of years previously, must have felt some trepidation becoming the concubine of Pedro of Castile. Were the prospects of wealth, promotion for her family, access to power, and giving birth to a king’s children enough to make a woman overlook the threat to her safety that becoming a mistress could pose? In some cases, they may have been. Becoming the concubine of a powerful man was one of the few ways a woman of the lower nobility might leapfrog the social hierarchy to join the upper reaches of the nobility. In other cases, love may be the answer. Alfonso XI of Castile was by all accounts a dashing young man, already a military hero by the age of 18 when he and Leonor de Gúzman started their affair, and Leonor may have decided that the risk was worth it. Our medieval ancestors were every bit as human as we are today, and true love – or lust – may explain why women were willing to engage in a potentially life-threatening affair. Nonetheless, we should not discount the possibility that women were pressured into these sorts of liaisons, by their family, by their lovers, or both. We know from the writing of Pedro Lopez de Ayala that María de Padilla sometimes objected to Pedro the Cruel’s policies. If María had wanted to reject the king’s advances, would she have seen this as a viable option, or would the combination of the king’s desire for her and her family’s desire for power have made this impossible? The Liber Isottaeus tells us that Isotta degli Atti was all of 10 years old when Sigismondo Malatesta fell in love with her. Even in a society where women were married at 12 and having children at 15 or 16, 10 was generally considered too young for such matters. Fortunately, Isotta did not have her first child with Sigismondo for several more years, indicating that their sexual relationship did not commence until she was a little older, but would a young girl, not even a teenager, have had the wherewithal to reject an older, much more powerful man if she had wanted to? It seems unlikely. 230

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress In other instances, we know the man in the relationship was an unappealing prospect. Pedro of Castile was known for his cruelty. By the end of Edward III’s life, he was a weak-willed man incapable of ruling, a far cry from the man who had dominated the opening years of the Hundred Years’ War in his prime. Alice Perrers was about twenty-five years younger than Edward, a woman whom contemporaries described as compelling and alluring, though not beautiful. It seems unlikely Alice felt any real attraction for Edward. By the same token, Charles VII of France was famed for his ugliness – even contemporary portraits, which would have been painted to flatter him, depict a man who falls far short of the masculine ideal. Agnès Sorel was nineteen years his junior, and, with her high brow, blonde hair, and perfect breasts, close to the epitome of medieval beauty. While we should not entirely discount the possibility these women looked loved the man beneath what appeared on the surface, it seems more likely they were drawn to the prospect of influence and power than to their lovers themselves. The fact that Alice and Agnès had fewer children with their lovers – Alice had two or three children with Edward, while Agnès had four with Charles, compared to Leonor de Gúzman, who had ten children with Alfonso of Castile – could be evidence that these women maintained greater distance. In several cases, then, we can detect hints that a woman may have entered into the relationship for reasons other than her affection for her lover.

Good or Evil? Of her marriage to Prince Charles, Diana, Princess of Wales famously said, ‘Well, there were three people in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.’25 When we look at the concubines of medieval courts, the more we learn, the more questions uncover. It can be tempting to view these women in the same terms that we would see an adulterous relationship today: with three people in the marriage, things will naturally fall apart. When we turn to examine powerful men and their mistresses, this is one of the first ideas that we must let go of. The role of concubines and mistresses has changed between the Middle Ages and now, and it changed during the Middle Ages as well. These women held different roles in different parts of medieval Europe and throughout the medieval period. In fourteenth-century Iberia, for 231

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines instance, mistresses abound and were spoken of very publicly, at least in part because of their often-gruesome deaths and the political strife they caused. The public roles Inês de Castro, Leonor de Gúzman, and María de Padilla held, however, suggest a king’s concubine was very much a fact of life. In France and England in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, things may have been a bit different. Alice Perrers made waves, causing serious damage to Edward III of England’s reputation in his final years, when her role was perceived to have crossed a line. John of Gaunt may have modelled parts of his relationship with Katherine Swynford after the Iberian monarchs mentioned above, from whom his wife Constanza descended, but he kept things with her relatively quiet. Katherine never entered the forefront of politics the way that Alice did, which may have been part of what enabled John to marry her when he found himself single in the late 1390s. Part of the reason that Agnès Sorel excited such comment when Charles VII gave her the position of maîtresse en titre seems to have been that such relationships were typically kept under wraps in French society. Agnès’s public presence in the French court, her scandalous dress, the public entry into Paris that Charles threw for her all indicated that something entirely new was happening in this relationship. This all suggests that England and France differed from Spain and Portugal in that while everyone knew that concubines existed and probably knew who they were, they expected these relationships to take place away from the public eye. When this ‘rule’ was broken, as in the cases of Agnès and Alice, contemporaries were quick to criticise. By the time we move to fifteenth-century Italy, then in the height of the Renaissance, the role of the mistress was very different. Most powerful men publicly kept concubines, and this was a common means for a woman from a slightly lower social class to make her way in the world. While few men went as far as Sigismondo Malatesta did in celebrating his love with Isotta degli Atti, a mistress was very much a part of a man’s public life. Whether this development represents a step forward for women – were Renaissance mistresses given more freedom through this acceptance, or were they even more dependant on their lovers for their position as a result? – is a question worth considering. Even in a period when a powerful man’s adultery was considerably more acceptable than today, concubines occupied a role in the royal court 232

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‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress that was ambiguous, to say the least. In many cases, we know of mistresses because of the children that they bore. Sometimes illegitimate children were the goal: Henry I of England used his bastards, who numbered over twenty, to forge relationships across England and Europe, while Pedro of Castile was able to legitimise his children with María de Padilla to secure his succession. In other instances, they proved a useful tool: John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford’s children provided valuable political support to Henry IV and his descendants, and eventually claimed the throne of England when Henry Tudor, the last male Beaufort, became King Henry VII. In yet other cases, illegitimate children proved a problem: Alfonso XI’s numerous and much-loved children with his mistress Leonor de Gúzman led to a civil war with their legitimate halfbrother Pedro the Cruel. Whether bastard children were a problematic, potentially dangerous distraction or a useful political tool depended very much on the context in which they lived. Perhaps the biggest question is how men and their concubines truly felt about each other. It is easy to assume these were relationships based on love, and thus entirely different from the political marriages that men made with their wives. When we look more closely at the circumstances that surrounded these relationships, however, as well as the nature of medieval rulership, practical motives emerge. Men might develop a relationship with a concubine to gain devoted allies, to produce a secondary family, or to make a show of their kingliness and virility. In some cases, we can see that a king, such as Edward III of England or Charles VII of France, had developed real feelings for their lovers, but those feelings may not have been mutual. It is easy to say that medieval society was more accepting of concubines, but how far did this acceptance truly go? We are faced with a mountain of evidence, much of it contradictory. We know that the church disapproved of adultery as a sin, at least officially. We also know that, then as now, people chose to pursue extramarital relationships anyway. So what did their contemporaries think? It is tempting to see this as an ‘either-or’ question – did contemporaries look down on these relationships, or were they actually tolerated? I believe that by approaching it from this perspective we do our medieval predecessors a disservice. They were perfectly capable of nuanced thought, just as we are today, and were therefore perfectly capable of holding any number of conflicting beliefs at once. A woman like Agnès Sorel might be simultaneously praised 233

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines for her role as the inspiration behind Charles VII’s victories against the English and criticised for her brazen sexuality. María de Padilla could be the inspiration for Pedro of Castile’s cruel treatment of his wife while also being praised for her intelligence and kindness. Today, most reasonable people can examine a controversial women – Margaret Thatcher, say, or Hillary Clinton – and identify both their positive and negative characteristics. We might come down more strongly on one side or the other, but we are able to discuss both. I cannot think of a reason why medieval people would have been capable of a less nuanced approach. A concubine could simultaneously spur her lover to greatness and participate in a clearly sinful relationship. She might play a valuable role in producing children to shore up a monarchy short on heirs and still detract honour from the rightful queen. This ambiguity shows in the way in which we are still fascinated by the glimpses that history gives us of these women, but sometimes afraid to look too closely.

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Conclusion

One of the challenges with a book this broad in terms of time, geography and the number of people discussed is arriving at a coherent conclusion that does some sort of justice to all of them. Some major themes do jump out. The first is the relationships between women and men. It is a commonplace to speak of the control that men had over women in the past, but until we really look at individual women’s lives, we do not fully appreciate the impact of this. From birth until death – and sometimes beyond death – women were satellites of the men in their lives: fathers, husbands, sons, rulers. This fact of medieval life is startling in its consistency. For some of these women, life was a somewhat predictable scramble – never quite successful – to escape the thumb of male control. Alice de Lacy, Giovanna of Naples, and Caterina Cornaro would have, I think, found that they had much in common with each other. Male control does not seem to have bothered many women. It was the expectation of their day, and they knew no different. Marie of France apparently went calmly from the custody of her father King Louis to her husband Henri of Champagne. After her husband’s early death, she capably took over the administration of his lands on behalf of her son Thibaut. Eleanor of Castile assumed the mantle of wife and queen with apparent ease, falling into a role at the court of Edward I of England that was visible, but still subservient, producing the many children that a royal family required. For most women, marriage was the most important determining factor in their life’s course. It determined how and where their childhoods were spent, as in the case of Anna Komnene, who was raised with the plan that she would marry a future emperor of Byzantium, or Maria de Luna, who was sent to live with her future husband’s family when she was little more than a toddler. Marriage to an incompetent or belligerent man 235

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines might make his wife’s life uncomfortable, as Alice de Lacy and Margaret of Anjou knew all too well. As circumstances shifted around a husband, so they shifted around his wife: Isabeau of Bavaria and Cecily Neville were thrust into positions of greater importance due to their husbands’ incapacity and untimely death, respectively. But marriage could also be an important safety net: the marriage of Alice Perrers, the mistress of Edward III of England, protected her from the worst that her enemies could do as her power waned. For reigning queens, the importance of marriage only grew. The amount of power a queen regnant exercised corresponded directly to the nature of her marriage, or lack thereof. Margrete I of Denmark’s shortlived marriage to Haakon VI of Norway helped her build the support base she needed to eventually become ruler of three kingdoms. Caterina Cornaro’s marriage to James III of Cyprus gave her a claim to the throne when her husband and son died – but her young widowhood opened the door to Venice ruling through her. The marriages of Giovanna I of Naples illustrated the worst that marriage could do to a reigning queen: her first two husbands attempted to rule through her, and in these relationships we see Giovanna scrambling to regain any sort of control. Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile perhaps had it best of all. Having escaped their marriages before becoming queen, neither had to compete with her husband for power, though both found themselves at odds with their former spouses for some time. Once a woman passed from her father’s control to her husband, her major role shifted. In addition to sealing an alliance between men, she was now expected to produce more men, in the form of male heirs for her husband. Women who produced the necessary heirs experienced greater prestige: Anna of Kiev became the first French queen to act as a regent on behalf of her son, paving the way for her successor Isabeau of Bavaria three centuries later. Giving birth to a male heir could also secure a woman’s unsteady position: by emphasising that their sons represented the rightful succession, Urraca of León and her great-granddaughter Berenguela of Castile solidified their place as rulers in their own rights. A mistress who produced sons when her lover’s legitimate wife did not, as in the case of Katherine Swynford, might find the importance of her position amplified as well. In the medieval court, power and constraint were in constant interplay, and mistresses may have been more aware of this than other 236

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Conclusion woman. In one hand, becoming a powerful man’s concubine could catapult a mistress and her family through the ranks of society, as in the case of Maria de Padilla and her family in the court of Pedro of Castile. Katherine Swynford’s liaison with, and eventual marriage to, John of Gaunt brought her family into more elevated circles than they could have otherwise hoped: her brother-in-law Geoffrey Chaucer gained patronage, and her great-niece Alice Chaucer married the duke of Suffolk. Agnes Sorel was given a formal entry into Paris of the sort usually only granted to queens, and was treated almost as a second queen in the court of her lover Charles VII of France. Inês de Castro, Maria de Padilla, and Katherine Swynford’s children had an important impact in their kingdoms, and in some cases claimed the throne, to greater or lesser degrees of success. Ironically, though, by blasting through the constraints that class imposed upon them, mistresses might tie their fates to men even more firmly than women in more socially acceptable roles did. As Edward III of England weakened and aged, Alice Perrers became more susceptible to accusations of abuse of power. His son John of Gaunt seems to have learned from his father’s mistakes, taking steps to keep Katherine Swynford from the political limelight, but she still came under fire in the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. The danger forced the pair to end their relationship, albeit temporarily. Most of the men in this study remained remarkably constant in their affections, but their mistresses faced danger from other quarters. Inês de Castro and Agnes Bernauer were both murdered by their lover’s fathers when it seemed that their influence was growing too great. Jealous courtiers – possibly led by her lover’s son Louis – created the untimely death of Agnes Sorel, which was almost certainly murder. Rumours also swirled around the early death of Maria de Padilla, though this may have just as easily been due to natural causes. Nonetheless, the careers of many well-known mistresses were cut short by early, unnatural death. Despite the limited information that we have on many of these women, hints about their individual personalities and interests have managed to survive the centuries between them and us. Anna Komnene combined her obsession with family identity and love of learning into a history of her father’s rule. An unequalled resource for the events of the time, the Alexiad provides as much insight into Anna’s personality as it does the First Crusade. Marie of France shared a love of literature 237

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines with her husband, though while his tastes veered towards the historical, her interest was in romance. The Spanish-style gardens that Eleanor of Castile had built in England speak to a love of luxury, and perhaps an unwillingness to let go of certain pieces of her natal country. Margrete of Denmark’s letters to her adopted son paint a portrait of a keen-thinking, deliberate political actor. Caterina Cornaro’s decision to turn her home in exile into a Renaissance salon suggests a woman who had as much interest in culture as in queenship. In addition to their unique interests, women of the medieval aristocracy developed their own relationships with each other. Some of these were the result of the connections they made with men: Marie of France’s relationship with her sister-in-law Adele of Blois arose from her marriage to Henri of Champagne, but continued to grow after his death. Evpraksia of Kiev’s alliance with Matilda of Tuscany emerged from their shared enmity with Heinrich IV of Germany, though they did not form a lasting friendship – Matilda seems to have cast Evpraksia aside when she finished playing her part. One wonders at the bond that Katherine Swynford and Alice Perrers, women near each other in age and mistresses to men in the same family, might have had. Margaret of Anjou and Cecily Neville maintained at least the semblance of a relationship despite their families’ differences. Each of these women found power in some form, whether it was in supporting a family, patronising the arts, fighting in political – or literal – battles, a display of greatness, or any of dozens of other methods. In doing so, they usually crossed an invisible boundary between appropriate and inappropriate behaviour. Women who wished to transgress these social bounds needed insurance policies. Matilda of Tuscany used her relationship with the pope as hers. Urraca of León and Berenguela of Castile used their sons. Isabeau of Bavaria’s insurance policy was her husband, as was Alice Perrers’s, albeit under very different circumstances. Women who rejected social norms without insurance found themselves in hot water. Giovanna of Naples attempted to use the pope for protection much as Matilda of Tuscany had done, but when she backed the wrong pope, she lost her throne and her life. When she was forced to rely on Venice, and Venice alone, for protection, Caterina Cornaro’s insurance policy became her undoing. One of the things that draws me to medieval history is the juxtaposition of the familiar and the other-worldly. Many of the obstacles these 238

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Conclusion women faced, from crusades, to challenges against religious authority, to bloody civil wars, are virtually unknown in today’s Western society. Women leaders are no longer placeholders who must fear their husbands or sons will seize authority from them. But many experiences are universal. A family’s best-laid plans may disintegrate when a child with an independent mind comes of age, as in the case of Cecily Neville. Marie of France’s overwhelming grief following the death of her eldest son is familiar to any parent. The experiences of powerful men and their mistresses illustrate the truth that good decision-making often disappears when love and lust are running high. Medieval courts existed in remarkable variety. For many women, the court was a small group of supporters who travelled from place to place. For Urraca of Leon and Berenguela of Castile, this was their everyday existence, except when they were forced to gather their nobles into a larger court to affirm major decisions. In the early days of Edward IV of England’s reign, the English court was effectively housed in his mother Cecily Neville’s personal home. Marie of France held court in her own home, but she also participated in a metaphorical court of love. For Isabeau of Bavaria or Margaret of Anjou the court was both their only hope of an acknowledged position and a nexus of treason. When denied a court where she reigned as queen, Caterina Cornaro made a new one. A mistress like Agnès Sorel might find herself a focal point at court, despite the dubiousness of her position. For all these women, the court presented challenges and opportunities. It symbolised the constraints women experienced: their reliance on men, the pressures of ‘correct’ feminine behaviour, their lack of a recognised individual identity. But many women also used the advantages that medieval court society offered to leave their mark on the world. They formed alliances, projected powerful images of themselves, exploited and supported their families, inspired works of literature and art. If the court mirrored the limitations on life, it also provided the stage for women to exercise authority, individuality, and power.

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Ward, Emily Joan, ‘Anne of Kiev (c. 1024–c. 1075) and a Reassessment of Maternal Power in the Minority Kingship of Philip I of France’, Historical Research 89 (2016), 435-452 Wellman, Kathleen, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013) Wolf, Armin, ‘Reigning Queens in Medieval Europe: When, Where, and Why’, in Medieval Queenship, ed. by John Carmi Parsons (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1993), 169-188 Zajac, Talia, ‘Gloriosa Regina or “Alien Queen”?: Some Reconsiderations on Anna Yaroslavna’s Queenship (r. 1050–1075)’, Royal Studies Journal 3 (2016), 28-70

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Endnotes

Introduction

1. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 1a., q. 92, a.1, Obj.1 [Accessed 6 March 2020]. 2. Michelle M. Sauer, Gender in Medieval Culture (New York, Bloomsbury, 2015), pp. 24-29. 3. Quoted in Elizabeth Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr: The Reign and Disputed Reputation of Johanna of Naples (Cornell, Cornell University Press, 2015), p. 63. 4. André Poulet, ‘Capetian Women and the Regency: The Genesis of a Vocation’, in Medieval Queenship, ed. by John Carmi Parsons (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), pp. 93-116 (pp. 94-95). 5. Janna Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand: Power and Authority in the Reign of Berenguela of Castile (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), p. 5. 6. Pauline Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith (Chichester: Wiley, 1997), pp. 10-11.

Section One Chapter One: Wife and Mother

1. Angeliki Laiou, ‘Introduction: Why Anna Komnene?’, in Anna Komnene and her Times, ed. by Thalia Gouma-Peterson, pp. 1-14 (p. 2). 2. Barbara Hill, Imperial Women in Byzantium 1095-1204 (Harlow: Pearson Education Limited, 1999), p. 30. 3. Laiou, ‘Why Anna Komnene?’, pp. 1-3. 4. J. L. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017), pp. 10-11. 5. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess ofYork, pp. 18-19. This entry and the four above are numbered 1-5. I have tried to fiddle, but to no end. 247

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 6. David J. Hay, The Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008), pp. 20-21. 7. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 21-25. 8. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 32-34. 9. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 8-9. 10. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 7. 11. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 34-37 12. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 38-40. 13. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 41-42. 14. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 43. 15. Theodore Evergates, Marie of France: Countess of Champagne, 1145– 1198 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019), pp. 2-3. 16. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 3-4. 17. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 5-6. 18. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 6-7. 19. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 11. 20. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 11-17. 21. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 18. 22. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 18-20. 23. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 22. 24. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 23. 25. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 25-26. 26. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 26-29. 27. J.S. Hamilton, ‘Lacy, Henry de, fifth earl of Lincoln (1249–1311)’, in  Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004; online edn, Jan 2008) [accessed 8 July 2013]. 28. Calendar of Papal Petitions, Vol. 1, 1342–1419, pp. 193, 271, 383; British History Online [http://www.british.history.ac.uk], . 29. J.F. Baldwin, ‘The Household Administration of Henry Lacy and Thomas of Lancaster’, English Historical Research 42 (1927), 180200 (p. 193); TNA DL 29/1/3. 30. Flores Historiarum, ed. by Henry Richards Luard, 3 vols. (London: HMSO, 1890), p. 179. 31. Caroline Dunn, Stolen Women in Medieval England: Rape, Abduction, and Adultery, 1100–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 197. 248

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Endnotes 32. J.B. Post, ‘Ravishment of Women and the Statutes of Westminster‘, in J.H. Baker, ed., Legal Records and the Historian: Papers Presented to the Cambridge Legal History Conference 7-10 July 1975 and in Lincoln’s Old Hall on 3 July 1974 (London: Royal Historical Society, 1978), p. 60; Dunn, Stolen Women, pp. 23, 39-40. 33. TNA DL 28/1/13, mm. 1-2. 34. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 21-28. 35. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 29-33. 36. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 39-40. 37. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 45-47. 38. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 48-49, 50, 55. 39. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 50, 56-58. 40. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 58, 61-64. 41. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 64-65. 42. Quoted in Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, p. 70. 43. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 69-70, 73. 44. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 74-75. 45. John Hardyng, The Chronicle of John Hardyng (London: F. C. and J. Rivington, etc., 1812), pp. 52-53. 46. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 43-44. 47. Penelope Nash, Empress Adelheid and Countess Matilda: Medieval Female Rulership and the Foundations of European Society (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), pp. 105-108. 48. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 44-45. 49. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 65-66. 50. Rebecca Holdorph, My Well-Beloved Companion: Men, Women, Marriage and Power in the Earldom and Duchy of Lancaster, 1272– 1399 (Unpublished Doctoral Thesis, University of Southampton, 2016), fn. p. 19. 51. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 17. 52. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 22, 27, 42. 53. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 22, 31. 54. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 41-44. 55. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 57. 56. Evergates, Marie of France, pp 65-66. 57. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 67, 69-73. 58. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 76-77. 59. Evergates, Marie of France, p. 79 249

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 60. Robert of Auxerre, Chronicon (Hanover: MGH SS 26, 1882), pp. 219–287 (p. 257). All translations from this work are mine. 61. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 88-90. 62. Evergates, Marie of France, pp. 90-91. 63. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 33-36. 64. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 35, 38-3, 44-45, 47, 49-50, 56, 66. 65. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp, 66-67. 66. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 81-84. 67. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 115-119. 68. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 99, 125, 144-147. 69. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 154-158, 161-163. 70. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, p. 169. Chapter Two: Public Lives

1. ‘A Letter from Matilda of Tuscany, countess of Tuscany, duchess of Lorraine’, in Joan Ferrante, et. al., eds., Epistolae: Medieval Women’s Latin Letters [Accessed 21 September 2020]. 2. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 124-127. 3. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 127. 4. Rosalind Jaeger Reynolds, ‘Reading Matilda: The Self-Fashioning of a Duchess’, Essays in Medieval Studies 19 (2002), 1-13 (p. 7). 5. Nash, Empress Adelheid and Countess Matilda, pp. 50-51. 6. TNA DL 42/11, ff. 66v-67r. My translation. 7. Holdorph, My Well-Beloved Companion, pp. 53-54. 8. Holdorph, My Well-Beloved Companion, pp. 54-55. 9. Holdorph, My Well-Beloved Companion, pp. 56-59. 10. CPR 1334–38, no. 450. 11. TNA SC 8/64/3163. 12. G.O. Sayles, ed., Select Cases in the Court of King’s Bench Under Edward III, vol. 5 (London: Selden Society, 1958), pp. 90-91. 13. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 71-73. 14. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 84-85. 15. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 87, 100-101. 16. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, p. 89. 17. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 95-96, 105.

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Endnotes 18. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 166-167. 19. Reynolds, ‘Reading Matilda’, p. 1. 20. Barbara Hill, ‘Actions Speak Louder Than Words: Anna Komnene’s Attempted Usurpation’, in Anna Komnene and her Times, ed. by Thalia Gouma-Peterson, pp. 45-62 (pp. 47-49). 21. Laiou, ‘Why Anna Komnene?’, pp. 11-12. 22. Chretien DeTroyes, FourArthurian Romances:‘Erec et Enide’,‘Cliges’, ‘Yvain’, and ‘Lancelot’ [Accessed on 1 January 2020]. 23. Evergates, Maria of France, p. 34. 24. Evergates, Maria of France, p. 35. 25. Evergates, Maria of France, pp. 64-66. 26. Evergates, Maria of France, pp. 59-60. 27. Evergates, Maria of France, p. 60. 28. Evergates, Maria of France, p. 62. 29. ‘A Letter from Evrat’, in Epistolae [Accessed on 7 January 2020]. 30. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 45, 31. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 63. 32. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 65. 33. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 70-73. 34. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 11. 35. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 75-77. 36. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 85-87. 37. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 87-92. 38. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 95-100. 39. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 119-123. 40. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 124-130. 41. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 131. 42. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 135-139. 43. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 143-146. 44. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 146-148. 45. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 90. 46. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 167, 186. 47. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 204. 48. Quoted in Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 210. 49. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, pp. 213-214.

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 50. Reynolds, ‘Reading Matilda’, pp. 3-4. 51. Hay, Military Leadership of Matilda of Canossa, p. 188. 52. Evergates, Maria of France, pp. 20, 32. 53. Evergates, Maria of France, pp. 48-51. 54. Evergates, Maria of France, p. 81. 55. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, pp. 50, 60-61. 56. Carol Rawcliffe, ‘Richard, Duke of York, the King’s ‘Obeisant Liegeman’: A New Source for the Protectorates of 1454 and 1455’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research pp. 60, 237-239. Huntingdon Library, California, Battle Abbey MS 937. In Letters of Medieval Women, ed. by Anne Crawford (Stroud: Sutton Publishing, 2002), p. 234. 57. Crawford, Letters of Medieval Women. 58. Crawford, Letters of Medieval Women, pp. 234-235. 59. Laynesmith, Cecily Duchess of York, p. 61. 60. Helen E. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou: Queenship and Power in Late Medieval England (Rochester, NY: Boydell Brewer, 2003), p. 60.

Section Two Chapter Three: Becoming a Queen

1. Jean Froissart, Chronicles of England, France, Spain, and the Adjoining Countries, from the Latter Part of the Reign of Edward II to the Coronation of Henry IV, < https://archive.org/stream/ chroniclesofengl1882froi/chroniclesofengl1882froi_djvu.txt> [Accessed 28 December 2020]. 2. J.L. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens: Medieval Queenship, 1445–1503 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 40 3. Wladimir V. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev: An Enigmatic Capetian Queen of the Eleventh Century, A Reassessment of Biographical Sources’, French History 19 (2005), 299-323, p. 301. 4. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 301-302; Natalia Pushkareva, Women in Russian History: From the Tenth to the Twentieth Century, ed. and trans. by Eve Levin (Armonk: M. E. Sharpe, 1997), p. 13. 5. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 302-303. 6. Emily Joan Ward, ‘Anne of Kiev (c. 1024–c. 1075) and a Reassessment of Maternal Power in the Minority Kingship of Philip I of France’, Historical Research 89 (2016), 435-452, p. 437. 252

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Endnotes 7. Ward, ‘Anne of Kiev’, p. 437. 8. Andrzej Poppe and Danuta Poppe, ‘The Autograph of Anna of Rus’, Queen of France’, Journal of Ukrainian Studies 33/34 (2008/2009), 400-406, p. 401; Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, p. 305. 9. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 306-307; Talia Zajac, ‘Gloriosa Regina or “Alien Queen”?: Some Reconsiderations on Anna Yaroslavna’s Queenship (r. 1050–1075)’, Royal Studies Journal 3 (2016), 28-70, p. 31. 10. Christian Raffensperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna Between East and West’, Russian History/Histoire Russe 30, Nos. 1-2, pp. 23-34 (pp. 24-25). 11. Raffensperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, pp. 25-26. 12. Raffensperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, pp. 26-28. 13. Christian Raffensperger, ‘The Missing Rusian Women: The Case of Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, in Writing Medieval Women’s Lives, ed. by Charlotte Newman Goldy and Amy Livingstone (New York: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 69-84. (p. 75). 14. Raffensperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, p. 24. 15. John Carmi Parsons, Eleanor of Castile: Queen and Society in Thirteenth-Century England (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1995), pp. 10, 12. 16. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 12-13. 17. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 14-15. 18. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 16. 19. Nuria Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage in Late Medieval Queenship: Maria de Luna (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), pp. 10-12. 20. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 13. 21. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 1-2, 13-14. 22. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 17-20. 23. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 20-21. 24. Tracy Adams, The Life and Afterlife of Isabeau of Bavaria (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), pp. 2-3; Rachel 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 6 (1996), 51-73, pp. 52-53. 25. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 3-4, 6. 253

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 26. Jean Froissart, Chronicles, ed. by Geoffrey Brereton (London: Penguin, 1978), pp. 252-253. 27. Froissart, Chronicles, p. 257. 28. Froissart, Chronicles, p. 259. 29. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, p. 17; Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, pp. 29-30. 30. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, p. 18. 31. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 64-65. 32. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 17. 33. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 16-17, 21. 34. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 23-29. 35. Quoted in Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 29-30. 36. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 30-31. 37. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 33, 43 38. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 50. 39. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 50, 58. 40. Quoted in Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 60. 41. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 23-27. 42. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 30-31. 43. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 34. 44. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 37-40. 45. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 94-95. 46. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 101-107. 47. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 93-94. 48. John Carmi Parsons, ‘Family, Sex, and Power: The Rhythm of Medieval Queenship’, in Medieval Queenship, ed, by John Carmi Parsons (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1993), pp. 1-11 (pp. 4-6, 8-9). 49. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 307-308. 50. Bogomoletz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, p. 307; Zajac, ‘Gloriosa Regina or “Alien Queen”?’, p. 35; Poppe and Poppe, ‘The Autograph of Anna of Rus’, p. 402. 51. Zajac, ‘Gloriosa Regina or “Alien Queen”?’, pp. 35, 41. 52. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 314-315. 53. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, p. 314. My translation; Ward, p. 449. 54. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, p. 314; Ward, p. 450. 55. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 23-25. 56. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 29, 31. 57. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 38-39. 254

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Endnotes 58. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 38-42. 59. John Carmi Parsons, ‘Mothers, Daughters, Marriage, Power: Some Plantagenet Evidence, 1150-1500’, in Medieval Queenship, ed. by John Carmi Parsons (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), pp. 63-78 (p. 69). 60. John Carmi Parsons, ‘Family, Sex, and Power’, p. 5.

Chapter Four: The ‘Profession’ of Queenship

1. Pope Pious II’s Commentaries: an Anecdotal Report of a Speech by Margaret of Anjou to Her Captains, and Their Reactions (P.-A. Lee, ‘Reflections of Power: Margaret of Anjou and the Dark Side of Queenship’, Renaissance Quarterly 39, pp. 198-199). 2. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 153. 3. Brut Chronicle p. 489, quoted in Keith Dockray, ed., Henry VI, Margaret of Anjou and the Wars of the Roses: A Sourcebook (Stroud: Sutton Publishing, 2000), p. 14. 4. Quoted in Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, p. 21. 5. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 21-23. 6. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, pp. 82-86. 7. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, pp. 95-103. 8. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, pp. 107-109. 9. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, p. 140. 10. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 153-154. 11. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 56. 12. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 59. 13. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 60. 14. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 209 15. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 212. 16. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 317-318. 17. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 18. 18. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 35. 19. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 53-54, 62. 20. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 55-56. 21. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 14. 22. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 67-71. 23. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 73-74. 24. Raffensperger, ‘The Missing Rusian Women’, p. 75. 255

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 25. Bernold of Constance, Bernoldi Chronicon (Hanover: MGH SS 5, 1844), p. 508. All translations from this work are mine. 26. Raffensperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, pp. 29-30. 27. Bernold of Constance, Chronicon, p. 512. 28. Bernold of Constance, Chronicon, p. 519. 29. Raffensperger, ‘The Missing Rusian Women’, p. 77-78. 30. Raffensperger, ‘The Missing Rusian Women’, p. 76. 31. Raffesnperger, ‘Evpraksia Vsevolodovna’, pp. 30-32; Raffensperger, ‘The Missing Rusian Women’, p. 79. 32. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 22, 23-24, 28, 34-35. 33. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 25-27 34. Quoted in Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, p. 30. 35. A Letter from December 1445 from Margaret of Anjou to Charles VII of France, in J. Stevenson, ed., Letters and Papers Illustrative of the Wars of the English in France during the Reign of Henry VI, 2 vols., Rolls Series (London, 1861–1864), vol. 1, pp. 165-166. 36. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 41. 37. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 42-43. 38. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 44-45. 39. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 45-46. 40. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 46-47. 41. Quoted in Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 48. 42. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 48-50. 43. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 52-53. 44. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 54-61. 45. Gibbons, ‘Isabeau of Bavaria’, p. 59. 46. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 9-15. 47. Gibbons, ‘Isabeau of Bavaria’, p. 54. 48. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 16-17. 49. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 16-17. 50. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 20-28. 51. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 31-32. 52. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 33-35. 53. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, p. 35. 54. Adams, Isabeau of Bavaria, pp. 197-208. 55. Quoted in Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, p. 133.

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Endnotes 56. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 42-45. 57. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 77-79. 58. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 93, 95-99. 59. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 99-101. 60. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 104-107. 61. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 118-120, 123. 62. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 128-132. 63. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 132-137. 64. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 146-149. 65. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 166-168. 66. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 175, 179-181, 182-183. 67. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 191-196. 68. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 197-201. 69. ‘A Letter from Nicholas II, Pope (1059, October)’, in Epistolae [Accessed on 3 August 2019] 70. Ibid. 71. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, p. 309; Zajac, p. 40 72. Bogolometz, ‘Anna of Kiev’, pp. 318-319; Zajac, p. 55-56. 73. ‘A Letter of Donation’, in Epistolae, [Accessed on 2 March 2020] 74. Quoted in Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 77. 75. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 108-109. 76. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 110-112. 77. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 115-116. 78. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, pp. 115-121. 79. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 76-79. 80. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 26; 77-78. 81. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 109-111. 82. Quoted in Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 120-121. 83. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, pp. 112-113. 84. Quoted in Parsons, Eleanor of Castile, p. 120. 85. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 4-5. 86. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, pp. 45-47, 177. 87. Quoted in Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens, p. 162 88. Maurer, Margaret of Anjou, p. 5. 89. Silleras-Fernandez, Power, Piety, and Patronage, p. 5.

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines

Section Three 1. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 21-23. Chapter Five: The Path to the Throne

1. Giovanni Boccaccio, On Famous Women, trans. by Guido A. Guarino (New York: Italica Press, 2011), p. 248. 2. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 20-21 3. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 21-22. 4. Armin Wolf, ‘Reigning Queens in Medieval Europe: When, Where, and Why’, in Medieval Queenship, ed. by John Carmi Parsons (New York: St Martins’s Press, 1993), p. 177 5. Wolf, ‘Reigning Queens’, p. 77. 6. Wolf, ‘Reigning Queens’, p. 77. 7. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 5-10. 8. Bernard F. Reilly, The Kingdom of León Castilla under Queen Urraca (The Library of Iberian Resources Online) [Accessed on 24 April 2019] pp. 12-19. 9. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 42-43. 10. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 43-45. 11. Although they were unsuccessful, Teresa ruled the county of Portugal and parts of Galicia in northwest Spain almost as an independent country throughout Urraca’s rule. She was so successful that her son, Afonso Henríquez was able to declare Portugal an independent kingdom, and eventually became the first king of Portugal. 12. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 54-57. 13. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 63-64. 14. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 64-70. 15. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 18-19. 16. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 21-25. 17. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 25-27. 18. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 27-33. 19. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 40-47. 20. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 47-62. 21. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 63-65. 22. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 65-68. 23. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 97-101. 24. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 102-105. 25. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 109-125 258

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Endnotes 26. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 128. 27. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 129-130 28. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 131-132. 29. Grethe Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored: Queenship and the Special Case of Margrete of Denmark, 1252-1412’, pp. 1-4, . 30. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, pp. 4-5. 31. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, pp. 5-8 32. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, p. 8. 33. Steinar Imsen, ‘Late Medieval Scandinavian Queenship’, in Queens and Queenship in Medieval Europe: Proceedings of a Conference Held at King’s College London, April 1995 (Boydell, 1997), p. 59. 34. Holly S. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice: Caterina Corner, Queen of Cyprus and Woman of the Renaissance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), pp. 1-2. 35. Liana de Girolami Cheney, ‘Caterina Cornaro, Queen of Cyprus’, in The Emblematic Queen: Extra-Literary Representations of Early Modern Queenship, ed. by D. Barret-Graves (Palgrave-Macmillan, 2013), pp. 11-33, p. 11. 36. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 2-6. 37. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 16-17. 38. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 19-24. 39. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 29-35. 40. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 38-41. 41. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 43. 42. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 44. 43. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 46-48. 44. de Girolami Cheney, ‘Caterina Cornaro’, pp. 11-33 (pp. 16-17). 45. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 56-59. 46. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 61-63. 47. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 82-83. Chapter Six: Wielding Royal Power

1. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 142. 2. Antony Eastmond, ‘Royal Renewal in Georgia: The Case of Queen Tamar’, in New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in 259

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines Byzantium, 4th-13th Centuries, ed. by P. Magdalino (Aldershot, 1994), pp. 283-293. 3. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 2-9. 4. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 153-154. 5. While Giovanna did marry Andrew, Maria’s marriage to Louis never took place. Instead, Maria and Giovanna’s cousin Charles of Durazzo abducted Maria and forced her to marry him. 6. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 2-4, 32-33. 7. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 34-35. 8. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 35-38. 9. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 44. 10. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 44-48. 11. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 48. 12. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 67-76. 13. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 77-89. 14. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 90-116. 15. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 127-128. 16. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 202-203. 17. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 203-206. 18. Quoted in Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 85. 19. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 88-89. 20. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 122. 21. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 131-132. 22. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, pp. 154-155. 23. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 36-37. 24. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 54-56. 25. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 63-68. 26. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 68-72. 27. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 75-79. 28. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 84-85. 29. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 85. 30. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 86. 31. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 87-89. 32. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 90. 33. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 102-104. 34. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 104-106. 35. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 106. 36. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 106. 260

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Endnotes 37. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 107-108. 38. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 109-110. 39. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 73-79. 40. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 79-84. 41. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 72-73. 42. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, p. 88. 43. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 103-108. 44. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 116-117. 45. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 279, 361. 46. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 215-216. 47. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, pp. 176-177; 215-217; 310. 48. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 22. 49. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, p. 253. 50. Reilly, Kingdom of León Castilla, p. 362. 51. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 135. 52. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 135-137. 53. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 92. 54. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 171-172. 55. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 166 56. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 166-168. 57. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 226. 58. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 177-179. 59. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 180-181. 60. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 186-198. 61. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 203 62. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 205-206. 63. Quoted in Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, p. 210. 64. Bianchini, The Queen’s Hand, pp. 233-239, 252. 65. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, p. 8. 66. Imsen, ‘Late Medieval Scandinavian Queenship’, p. 59. 67. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, p. 8 68. Quoted in Imsen, ‘Late Medieval Scandinavian Queenship’, p. 60. 69. Imsen, ‘Late Medieval Scandinavian Queenship’, pp. 61-62, 69. 70. Jacobsen, ‘Less Favored – More Favored’, pp. 9-10, 14. 71. de Girolami Cheney, ‘Caterina Cornaro’, p. 17. 72. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 111-112. 73. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 117-121. 74. Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 120-122. 261

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines 75. Hulburt, Daughter of Venice, pp. 125-127. 76. Quoted in Hurlburt, Daughter of Venice, p. 132. 77. William Monter, ‘Gendered Sovereignty: Numismatics and Female Monarchs in Europe, 1300–1800’, The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 41 (2011), pp. 533-564 (p. 562). 78. William Monter, The Rise of Female Kings in Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), p. 13. 7 9. Monter, ‘Gendered Sovereignty’, p. 537. 80. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 10. 81. Quoted in Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, p. 60.

Section Four Chapter Seven – ‘Blinded by Desire’: The ‘Bad’ Mistress

1. Henry Knighton, Knighton’s Chronicle, 1337–1396’, ed. and trans. by G.H. Martin (Clarendon: Oxford, 1995), p. 237. 2. Ruth Mazo Karras, Unmarriages: Women, Men and Sexual Unions in the Middle Ages (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), p. 25. 3. Jean Froissart, Sir John Froissart’s Chronicles of England, France, and Spain and the Adjoining Countries: From the Latter Part of the Reign of Edward III to the Coronation of Henry IV, ed. by Thomas Johnes (London: Longman, et. al., 1808) [Accessed on 26 January 2019], pp. 225-227. 4. Thomas Walsingham, ChroniconAngliae, abAnno Domini 1328 usque ad Annum 1388, ed. by E.M. Thompson (London: Longman, 1874), p. 96. All translations from this work are mine. 5. Helen S. Ettlinger, ‘Visibilis et Invisibilis: The Mistress in Italian Renaissance Court Society’, Renaissance Quarterly 47 (1994), 770-792, pp. 775-776, 780. 6. Pedro Lopez de Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla: Don Pedro, Don Enrique II, Don Juan I, Don Enrique III, 2 vols., ed by Eugenio de Llaguno Amirola, et.al. (Madrid: 1779–1780), vol. 1, p. 239. All translations from this work are mine. 7. Eukene Lacarra Lanz, ‘Changing Boundaries of Licit and Illicit Unions: Concubinage and Prostitution’, in Marriage and Sexuality in Medieval and Early Modern Iberia, ed. By Hispanic Issues (New York: Routledge, 2002), pp. 158-194 (pp. 165-166). 262

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Endnotes 8. Ettlinger, ‘Visibilis et Invisibilis’, p. 779. 9. W. Mark Ormrod, ‘The Trials of Alice Perrers’, Speculum 83 (2008), 366-396 (p. 372). 10. Andreas von Regensburg, Chronica de Principibus Terrae Bavarorun in Georg Leidinger, ed., Sämtliche Werke (Rieger, Munich: 1903), p. 584. All translations from this work are mine. 11. Thomas Walsingham, Oxford Medieval Texts: The St Albans Chronicle: The Chronicle Maiora of Thomas Walsingham, Vol. 1, 1376–1394, ed. by John Taylor et. Al. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 970. My translation. 12. Quoted in Kathleen Wellman, Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), p. 46. Agnès was indeed poisoned in 1450, and many believe Louis to be a likely culprit. 13. The Anonimalle Chronicle, 1333–1381, ed. by V.H. Galbraith (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1927), p. 153. All translations from this work are mine. 14. Walsingham, Chronicon Angliae, p. 98. 15. Jeffrey Burton Russell, Witchcraft in the Middle Ages (London: Cornell University Press, 1984), pp. 169-170. 16. Nora Berend, At the Gate of Christendom: Jews, Muslims and ‘Pagans’ in Medieval Hungrary, c. 1000–c. 1300 (Cambridge: University Press, 2001), p. 175. 17. Georges Chastellain, Oeurvres, ed. by Kervyn de Lettenhove, vol. iv (Brussels: F. Heusner, 1864), p. 336. 18. Chastellain, Oeurvres, p. 336.; Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 49. 19. Berend, pp. 175-176. 20. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 37. 21. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 25. 22. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 44. 23. Quoted in Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 44. 24. Chastellain, Oeurvres, p. 335. 25. James Bothwell, ‘The Management of Position: Alice Perrers, Edward III, and The Creation of a Landed Estate, 1362-1377’, in Journal of Medieval History 24 (1998), 31-51, pp. 47-48. 26. Ormrod, ‘Trials of Alice Perrers’, p. 370. 27. ‘Edward III: April 1376,’ in Parliament Rolls of Medieval England, ed. Chris Given-Wilson, et. al. (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2005) 263

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Women in the Medieval Court: Consorts and Concubines [Accessed on 14 January 2015]. 28. Karras, Unmarriages, pp. 69-70 29. Francisco Cerdá y Rico, Cronica de D. Alfonso El Onceno de Este Nombre de los Reyes que Reynaron en Castilla e en Leon, vol. 1 (Madrid: D. Antonio de Sancha, 1807), pp. 123, 166. 30. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, pp. 15-16, 22-26. 31. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, p. 36. 32. Quoted in Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 44. 33. Walsingham, The St Albans Chronicle, p. 13. It is worth noting that John of Gaunt’s relationship with Katherine Swynford almost certainly began in 1372, after the death of his first wife Blanche of Lancaster. This appears to be an example of Walsingham stretching the facts in order to illustrate his idea of the ‘truth’ of John’s character. 34. Simon Walker, The Lancastrian Affinity, 1361–1399 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), p. 13. 35. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, p. 84. 36. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, pp. 96-98, 105. 37. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, p. 138. 38. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, pp. 328-239. 39. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 47. 40. Philippe Charlier, ‘Qui a Tué la Dame de Beauté? Étude Scientifique des Restes d’Agnès Sorel (1422–1450)’, Histoire des Sciences Médicales 40 (2006), 255-263, p. 259. 41. Luís Urbano Afonso, ‘Eros et Thanatos: The Tomb of King Pedro in Alcobaça and its Wheel of Life and Fortune’, Artibus et Historiae 33 (2012), 9-41, pp. 10-12. Chapter Eight – ‘Until the End of the World’: The ‘Good’ Mistress

1. Pierre de Brantôme, quoted in ‘La Dame de Beauté: Agnes Sorel’. [Accessed 11 January 2021] 2. J. S. Bothwell, ‘Making the Lancastrian Capital at Leicester: The Battle of Boroughbridge, Civic Diplomacy and Seigneurial Building Projects in Fourteenth-Century England’, Journal of Medieval History 38 (2012) 335-357 (p. 347).

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Endnotes 3. Calendar of Papal Letters vol. 4, 1362–1404, p. 96. 4. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, pp. 30-33. 5. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, pp. 38-40. 6. Quoted in Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 46. 7. Tanya M. Reimer, Ladies, Concubines, and Pseudo-Wives: Mistresses in the Courtly Culture of the Emilia-Romagna of Renaissance Italy, Unpublished M.A. Thesis, San Diego State University (2012), pp. 35-36. 8. Reimer, Ladies, Concubines, and Pseudo-Wives, pp. 24-25. 9. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, pp. 332-333. 10. Ayala, Crónicas de los Reyes de Castilla, pp. 108, 239. 11. Gerald of Wales, Opera, vol. ii, ed. by J.S. Brewer (London: Longman, 1862), p. 128. 12. William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, vol. ii., ed. by Thomas Duffus Hardy (London: 1840), pp. 642-643. All translations of this work are mine. 13. Cerdá y Rico, Cronica de D. Alfonso, p. 166. 14. During his reign, Henry IV confirmed the Beauforts’ legitimisation, but added the caveat that they could not inherit the throne. Whether he had the legal power to do this remains a topic of discussion. Regardless, when John married Katherine in 1396, the male Beauforts assumed a place in the succession directly behind their half-brother Henry. 15. Reimer, Ladies, Concubines, and Pseudo-Wives, pp. 45, 52-23. 16. Reimer, Ladies, Concubines, and Pseudo-Wives, pp. 28-34. 17. Urbano Afonso, ‘Eros et Thanatos’, pp. 11-12. 18. Urbano Afonso, ‘Eros et Thanatos’, pp. 17-29. 19. Fernão Lopes, Chronica de el-rei D. Pedro I [Accessed on 5 March 2018], pp. 108-110. 20. Lopes, Chronica de el-rei D. Pedro I, pp. 108-110. 21. Lopes, Chronica de el-rei D. Pedro I, pp. 109-115. 22. Reimer, Ladies, Concubines, and Pseudo-Wives, p. 45. 23. Holdorph, My Well-Beloved Companion, p. 136. 24. Wellman, Queens and Mistresses, p. 25. 25. https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/4095068/martin-bashir-princessdiana-interview/.

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