ANNA BELFRAGE

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The spurned princess

leonor medieval-betrothal

A medieval betrothal

In 1311, a very young Castilian princess was betrothed to Jaime, heir to the Aragonese throne. Jaime did not want a wife. His father, however, was adamant. Aragon would benefit from a Castilian marriage. I guess Jaime would have sneered at that, reminding his father of his Castilian bride, little Isabel, whom he returned to sender, very much untouched after four years of marriage.
“Bygones,” Jaime senior likely replied. (And yes, Jaime is a much recurring name among the Aragonese. This Jaime Sr was Jaime II.) “Besides, this time we really need an alliance with Castile. The Moors are regrouping and if we don’t unite we’re…” At which point Jaime Sr theatrically drew his index finger over his throat.

The princess in question was called Leonor. She was the niece of the Isabel so humiliated by Jaime Sr, and one could have thought Maria de Molina would have been a bit hesitant to yet again enter into an alliance with Aragon. (María was Leonor´s paternal grandmother, and while her son, Fernando IV, was the king, this wise lady did a lot of the work behind the scenes)

Leonor was four when she was betrothed to the fifteen-year-old Jaime. The intended groom was a confused soul, a devout young man who by various historians (and some contemporaries) has been labelled as either depraved, homosexual or mentally unstable. Or maybe all three. In brief, Jaime was a complicated young man, and I suspect his father was less than pleased that his heir should be such a difficult person.

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Jaime II, Leonor’s father-in-law

Due to Leonor’s age, the actual wedding was postponed for several years. In the meantime, Jaime was constantly afflicted by doubts—and a desire to take holy orders.
“What?” Jaime Sr exclaimed, holding up the monk’s habit he’d found hidden in his son’s room. “You can’t do that! You’re my heir—and contracted to marry a Castilian princess.”
Jaime Jr refused to back down, so his father roped in the pope who told the young man to forget about being a monk—he had obligations to fulfil, principally those of honouring the betrothal with Leonor.

More arguments followed. Jaime was convinced to go through with the wedding but refused to consummate the marriage—the act was repugnant to him. Jaime Sr scratched his head and groaned, but the wording of the contract did not specifically call for consummation, so maybe the Aragon-Castile relationship would not be too damaged by Jaime Jr remaining chaste.

In the event, things did not go quite as planned. As the wedding day approached, Jaime got more and more upset, increasingly uncomfortable with entering the married state. This was not what he wanted – he wanted to live a religious life. Jaime Sr turned a deaf ear to all this nonsense. The wedding went ahead in October of 1319. At the time, Leonor was twelve, her groom twenty-three. There was no exchange of kisses, no holding hands at the high table, because after a heated discussion with his father, Jaime abandoned his bride during the wedding festivities and rode off into the night, declaring he would happily renounce his rights to both throne and wife so as to be able to pursue his religious vocation.

Very embarrassing all this, both for the little bride and her father-in-law.  Some months later, Jaime formally renounced his rights to the throne and joined a convent. This left Leonor in something of a limbo. Was she married or wasn’t she? Contractually she was, but a marriage without consummation was usually not considered valid. After a bit of back and forth, during which Jaime II apologised profusely for his son’s behaviour, Leonor was returned to Castile—unmarried—where she took up residence in the Abbey of Santa María la Real de las Huelgas. In the abbey she was surrounded by the tombs of her ancestors, but while Leonor chose to retire from the world, she never took the veil. I guess she just needed some peace and quiet to get over the humiliating experience…

In 1325, Leonor was jolted out of her comfortable existence in the convent when Edward II of England sent envoys to Castile, hoping to contract his young son (the future Edward III) to Leonor. For a while there, hopes of an English marriage buzzed about, but by 1326 those plans fell through as Prince Edward was betrothed to Philippa of Hainault instead (this at the behest of his mother and contrary to his father’s wishes)

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Alfonso IV

In late 1327 Jaime II of Aragon died and the throne passed to Alfonso IV, our Jaime’s younger brother. (Some years previously, our Jaime had second thoughts about renouncing his throne and all that, but by now his father and his brother had had enough of him so they nipped that particular plan in the bud) In difference to his big brother, Alfonso had married several years earlier and had a full nursery when he became king, despite being only twenty-eight. Unfortunately, he was also a widower, his wife having died shortly before Jaime II. Clearly, Alfonso was in need of a new wife to help him raise his children. Being of a pragmatic disposition—and also rather eager to keep Castile happy—Alfonso therefore suggested he marry Leonor, thereby making her his queen.

Leonor d765a016d04c7fe1ea3e5deccde3aaa2So in February of 1329, Leonor yet again travelled to Aragon as a bride-to-be. This time, the groom was anything but reluctant and little Fernando saw the light of the day in December of 1329. One would have thought Leonor would have cradled her newborn son and exclaimed “my cup runneth over” while gazing lovingly at her husband. Not so much. Instead, Leonor held her baby boy and resented the fact that her hubby had older sons. Where Alfonso’s eldest, Pedro, was destined to inherit the Aragonese crown, Leonor’s little son was entirely at the mercy of his father’s generosity. Leonor made it her mission in life to ensure her children (she would give Alfonso one more son) were adequately set up. She was ruthless and manipulative in her efforts and her eldest stepson was less than thrilled when King Alfonso signed over lands and castles that traditionally belonged to the Aragonese crown to Leonor’s sons. Soon enough, the nobles of Aragon were taking sides: those that held to their king and those who supported Pedro when he protested at having his patrimony frittered away.

In 1336 Alfonso IV of Aragon sickened. It soon became apparent that he would not recover, and Leonor decided to prepare the castles she controlled along the Castilian/Aragonese border so as to maintain an open route for her brother to come to her aid against her stepson. She was under no illusions when it came to Pedro’s feelings for her—to a large extent she had herself and her rapaciousness to blame.

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Pedro IV

Pedro might be young (he was still in his teens) but he was no fool, sending his own men racing towards the castles in question to take control of them. Pedro won that particular race. So when Alfonso died, Leonor found it wise to flee Aragon. With Leonor went not only her boys but also as much gold and silver she could lay hands on, which didn’t exactly endear her to Pedro. He retaliated by seizing land settled on Leonor and his half-brothers by his father. For a couple of years, things were a bit tense but in the long run Pedro had no choice but to confirm Leonor’s and her sons’ lands –he needed peace with Castile.

Leonor chose to remain in Castile with her sons. I guess she felt safer there. In 1350 her brother, Alfonso XI, died and the crown of Castile passed to his legitimate son, also (just to keep things nice and simple) called Pedro. Things were a bit messy: Pedro had a bevy of illegitimate half-brothers and not everyone in Castile felt Pedro was the best choice as king. Obviously, Pedro disagreed, but he had a tendency to act rashly and when he abandoned his young French wife, Blanche, three days after the wedding to hurry back to his beloved mistress, Maria de Padilla, this did not go down well with his nobles. Even less so when he incarcerated poor Blanche.

Pedro’s mother, María of Portugal was seriously displeased by her son’s treatment of his wife. So was Leonor, and these two formidable ladies took it upon themselves to lure Pedro to visit, after which they tried to browbeat the young and temperamental king into returning to his wife. At the bottom of all this was not only a concern for Blanche, but also for the increasing influence of María’s relatives. The hoity-toity of Castile weren’t about to let the Padilla family hog all the good offices and benefices plus Leonor had her sons to look out for.

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As per some, a pic of Maria, Pedro’s beloved woman

Pedro did not like being admonished. He was also madly in love with María and would rather amputate a leg than let her go. Besides, he had his suspicions regarding his dear Aunt Leonor’s motivations—her two sons could, through her, claim the Castilian throne. And as to all the other nobles who’d joined the chorus requesting Pedro return to his wife, they made Pedro see red. (He was a rather unstable character) In Pedro’s mind, the solution was easy: get rid of those who could potentially harm him and his woman.

Pedro was not without cunning. He bided his time, all the while using the various factions to destabilise each other. Leonor’s son, Juan, was one of the people he used, arranging a grand marriage for his cousin that put him in very close proximity to Tello of Castile, one of Pedro’s hated half-brothers. The idea was for Juan to instigate a revolt and kill Tello, but that didn’t work out too well. Tello escaped, Juan did not, which is why in 1358 Juan was beaten to death in the royal bedroom in Bilbao, his battered body thrown out of the window. (Pedro was a strong—and very tall—man)

By then, Leonor was already locked up as was Juan’s young wife and Juan’s sister-in-law (who was Tello’s wife). In Leonor’s case, Pedro was further provoked by the fact that her eldest son, Fernando, had suddenly changed his allegiances. From having made it his vocation to be a burr up his half-brother’s arse—he led several serious rebellions against Pedro IV of Aragon—Fernando suddenly saw the light and joined forced with his Aragonese half-brother against his cousin Pedro of Castile. Fernando probably did this in reaction to the surprising hike in assassinations, including that of his brother—and because he too disliked the influence of the Padilla family.

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Castle of Castrojeriz – (Wikipedia Creative Commons)

I imagine Leonor was devastated by Juan’s death. And furious. Didn’t help her much. As the months went by, Leonor likely came to understand that she’d never leave the castle of Castrojeriz alive. Her nephew was systematically murdering those he considered potential rivals and in 1359 the bell tolled for Leonor—as it did for her daughter-in-law.

To this day we don’t know where Leonor ended up buried. Some say her mortal remains lie with those of her husband and eldest son in Lérida. Others say she was buried among her ancestors in the convent of Las Huelgas. Others yet point at the grave discovered in 1970 in a church in Castrojeriz, a beautiful grave decorated with a female effigy.  I’m not entirely sure it matters where she lies—not for us, and definitely not for her.

With his mother dead, Fernando decided to go one step further and threw his lot in with Enrique of Trastámara, Pedro’s half-brother. So did many others of the Castilian nobles, and soon enough the kingdom succumbed to civil war, with Pedro being supported by the English while the French and Aragonese supported Enrique. In one of those many skirmishes, Fernando fell into the hands of his half-brother. Turns out Pedro IV of Aragon was not quite as forgiving as he’d made out to be, and soon enough Fernando too was dead. So ended Leonor’s dynastic hopes, both her sons dead before they had sired a male heir.

And as to our two Pedros, well Pedro of Aragon was a successful king who passed on an expanded kingdom to his son, while Pedro of Castile was murdered by his half-brother Enrique who then became king of Castile. Pedro had no sons, but in the fullness of time his granddaughter, Catalina of Lancaster, was to marry Enrique’s grandson. But that, dear peeps, is a story for another day.

Put not your trust in princes

Some time ago, I wrote a post about the unfortunate Danish princess Ingeborg who was sent off to France to marry Philippe Augustus and instead ended up as Philippe’s prisoner for a number of years, this after a wedding night that somehow must have been very momentous. After all, it was the morning after that Philippe emerged from the chamber and promised he would never, ever spend another night with the woman within. Quite the little mystery, that.

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Peter of Bourbon

Today, I’m going to introduce you to yet another sad little princess. Once again, the bride is abandoned only days after the wedding, but this time we probably know why. Well, perhaps. Anyway, allow me to introduce Blanche. When we first meet her, she is twelve or so, one of Peter of Bourbon’s six daughters.

One could say that Blanche’s future fate was shaped by the Black Death. Had Princess Joan of England, Edward III’s daughter, not died of the plague while on her way to wed Pedro of Castile (sometimes known as Pedro the Cruel, sometimes as Pedro the Just – a matter of perspective and political spin, I suppose) then Pedro would not have needed a wife. Had not the pope and the French king John II jumped at the opportunity of throwing a major wrench in Edward III’s plans for a new alliance with Castile, likely she’d never have popped up on the list of potential brides. And had it not been because Pedro’s first choice among the French ladies, the purportedly drop-dead AND wise Dowager Queen Blanche of Navarra, had told him no, our little Blanche would never have travelled all the way to Castile, there to wed the Castilian king.

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Beautiful Blanche of Navarra is the lady to the right

Before we go on, I just have to digress: Blanche of Navarra was known throughout Europe for her beautiful countenance, and originally came to France to marry the future John II. However, John’s father, Philippe VI, who was recently widowed was afflicted by a serious coup de foudre and decided to marry this angelic creature himself. Did not go down well with John. What Blanche thought of all this, I have no idea, but one year later, Philippe died, supposedly due to having exhausted himself in bed. Blanche was now a twenty-year-old widow, and would remain a widow for the rest of her life. Maybe John II wanted it so. Maybe Blanche wanted it so.

Anyway, back to today’s leading lady: Blanche of Bourbon came with an impeccable pedigree. Through her mother she was the great-granddaughter of Philippe III and the cousin of the French king John II. Her father was the great-grandson of Saint Louis of France, and as Saint Louis had a Castilian mother, Blanca, little Blanche was also a distant relation of her future groom. She was also a generously dowered bride, John of France promising Pedro 300 000 gold florins, money Pedro needed to finance the ongoing civil war between him and his half-brothers.

You see, the situation in Castile was a tad messy, seeing as Pedro’s father Alfonso XI had preferred his mistress, Leonor, to Pedro’s mother, Maria. As a consequence, when Alfonso died he had only one legitimate heir—Pedro—but half a dozen or so bastard sons with Leonor. And when Pedro’s mother decided to execute her husband’s mistress, things quickly went downhill. (More about all this can be found here)

The negotiations for the Blanche and Pedro marriage took some time. By the time Blanche set off for Castile, she was almost fourteen—a big, big girl in a big, big world. Well, not such a big girl, actually. Probably rather scared, and even more so when she arrived in Valladolid only to have her groom delay the marriage. Now what?

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Maria saying hello to Pedro. (not likely!)

We are now in early 1353, and Pedro had recently met the love of his life, Maria de Padilla. No matter what the various chroniclers may think of Pedro, they do seem to agree on the fact that Maria was not only very pretty, she was also kind and a good influence on Pedro in his darker moments. But she wasn’t a princess, and the king had to contract a dynastic marriage.

Some say the reason for the delay between Blanche arriving in Spain and Pedro marrying her was due to his love for Maria—he just couldn’t countenance betraying her with another woman. The truth is probably more prosaic: Pedro had as yet not received the moneys promised him by John II of France (The huge dower was to be paid in instalments)

Anyway, in June of 1353, a reluctant Pedro finally married Blanche, more or less dragged to the altar by his mother. Three days later he abandoned her and would never again treat her as his wife, rather as his prisoner. There are various theories as to why he did this. Some say it was because he found out his bride was not a virgin (but would that have taken him three days?) and even worse, she’d welcomed one of Pedro’s half-brothers, Fadrique, to her bed. Hmm, is all I say.

Others say it was because of his love for Maria. Once wed, he realised just how unbearable life would be without the light of his life, and so decided to be forever faithful to Maria, while throwing Blanche in prison to stop her objecting. Yet again, hmm.

The third reason (and the one borne out—to some extent—by letters he sent to the pope) is that he found out he’d been duped: the French king had no intention of ever honouring his promise of 300 000 florins, and seeing as John was nowhere about for Pedro to vent his anger on, poor Blanche got it all.

Copyright Museums Sheffield / Supplied by The Public Catalogue FoundationWhatever the case, he must have been very, very angry, because instead of just sending Blanche home, he locked her up. A year later, he managed to convince some of his bishops to declare his marriage null and void and married Juana de Castro – but even then, he held on to poor Blanche who, as per her own letters to the pope, was kept in anything but a comfortable captivity.

Juana was also abandoned after some time—this time because the pope threatened Pedro with excommunication if he did not return to his first, true wife (Blanche)—but Pedro spent long enough with her to sire a son, even if he made it very clear that in his opinion his true wife was Maria, so his children by her had precedence. And as to Blanche, well Pedro had no intention of returning to her. Ever.

After all this marital effort, coupled with a lot of fighting and blood and gore in general—Pedro left a relatively high number of murdered people in his wake, not all of them necessarily by his hand or his orders, but still—Pedro made his home with Maria, who was to present him with four children, albeit that the only son died young. Those who’d been around for some time muttered that history was repeating itself: just like his father, Pedro was spending his time with his mistress rather than his wife. Of course, in this particular case, there were TWO wives. Very complicated, and the only one utterly delighted by this mess was Enrique of Trastámera, Pedro’s half-brother and contender for the Castilian crown.

The pope continued to thunder. Innocent IV sent letter after letter, demanding that Pedro recognise Blanche as his wife – or at least free her from her prison. In Castile, a number of romances saw the light of the day, sad little stories that all had a poor, imprisoned princess as the protagonist. Some of Pedro’s nobles began to make a lot of noise on behalf of Blanche. The French kept on insisting that she be returned to them—together with what dowry they had paid. The obvious solution would have been to send Blanche home. Instead, Pedro opted for a more creative approach.

In 1361, Blanche was being held in the royal palace at Jeréz de la Frontera, far away from anyone attempting to free her. Pedro approached the constable and told him to poison the prisoner. The constable refused and resigned his post. Pedro found a new constable who was more than happy to do as the king wished, and so poor Blanche expired. Whether she was forced to consume whatever contained the poison, I don’t know. But I hold it likely, as failure was not an option if you were serving dear Pedro. Mind you, there are some that say Blanche could have died of natural causes, but seeing as her death followed upon a sequence of assassinations, I must yet again offer up a hmm. Whatever the case, Blanche was now as dead as a rock, and Pedro could happily skip off to tell Maria the good news. She could now be queen in name as well as fact.

Unfortunately for Pedro, Maria died shortly after. So devastated was he, that for a year he wept in grief. Then he pulled himself together and went back to defending his realm, this time with the support of the Black Prince. Wily Pedro had secured an alliance with England by promising two of his daughters as brides to Edward III’s sons. Effectively, this could lead to Castile becoming a vassal state to England.

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Pedro being murdered, with du Guesclin holding his arms

In the end, Pedro lost. In 1369 he was foully murdered by his half-brother, stabbed to death while held immobile by a rather famous French dude called Bertrand du Guesclin. Reputedly, du Guesclin had first accepted a bribe from Pedro to help him escape, then told Enrique (whom he was serving as a mercenary commander) about this. Enrique promised du Guesclin more money if he would only lead Pedro to Henry’s tent. Du Guesclin thought this was a great idea, and when Pedro and Enrique started to fight, he stood to the side. Well, until Pedro managed to land on top of Enrique. At this point, Bertrand stepped forward and grabbed hold of Pedro while saying “Ni quito ni pongo rey, pero ayudo a mi señor,” which meant “I am not really interfering here, I am simply helping my lord.” Since then, this has been used as a blanket excuse by all Spanish grandees doing as ordered, no matter if it is right or wrong.( Nah, just kidding)

blanche-john_william_waterhouse_-_fair_rosamundMaybe we can see Pedro’s bloody death as divine retribution for what he did to Blanche. A young girl had her life stolen from her, made to pay for the duplicity of others. And whether or not he had her poisoned, he had humiliated her and mistreated her, dragging her from one locked tower to the other. It is said Blanche herself never wanted to marry Pedro: she begged her father, her king, her mother and sister, to find another bride for the Castilian groom. At the time, her opinion was dismissed as unimportant – an alliance with Castile was far more important than a young girl’s misgivings. Turned out Blanche was right: the union with Pedro was all thorns no blooms, and as to that alliance, it evaporated the moment Pedro realised the French king never intended to pay the promised dowry. Poor, poor Blanche. Poor little French princess, so far from home, so very alone. Did she sit at her window and stare towards the horizon, hoping to see someone come riding to save her? If she did, she did so in vain.

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