The bellicose archbishop, above all, thought that he was in command of the situation. Carrillo was stubborn, opinionated, fanciful and ambitious. He did not like to be argued with and accrued great wealth and power, but spent beyond his means in a constant quest for fame and glory. He liked, in short, to be in control – distributing orders and largesse, being obeyed, admired and, if necessary, feared. The fantasies about his own grandiosity were accompanied by others – including a belief in alchemy, that infinite riches could be found by discovering the secret of turning base metals into gold or silver. This made him easy prey for the hustlers and charlatans who turned up at the doors of his great episcopal palace in Alcalá de Henares asking him to fund their attempts to discover such secrets. ‘He was a big-hearted man, whose main desire was to do great things and have a grand status, to be acclaimed and of great reputation,’ said the future royal chronicler Fernando del Pulgar, who was close to the rival Mendoza family. ‘His gifts were distributed out of a desire for fame, not from the use of reason … and he always needed more [money].’ As primate of Spain, ruling over the country’s wealthiest archbishopric,5 he had long been one of the most powerful men in the land – but that was not enough. He saw the document he had signed with Isabella and Ferdinand shortly before their marriage, in which they vowed to act as one, as proof that the teenage princes were in his hands. ‘In handing out positions, grants and gifts we will follow your counsel and await your approval,’6 they had pledged. Nothing could be decided without him. Or so he imagined.
Isabella and Ferdinand were of a different school. They might still be very young, but they were bold, self-confident, intelligent and mature for their ages. More importantly, they quickly recognised that together they were something far greater than they were as separate individuals. Both were acutely aware of their own royal status and of the dangers of allowing others to exercise power, however slight, in their name. They had already defied the king of Castile. Now they seemed to encourage one another in an increasingly rebellious attitude towards the bullying and imperious archbishop. Ferdinand’s father had told him to be strictly obedient, but soon he was angrily telling the archbishop that ‘he was not going to be ordered about by anyone’.7 Zurita explained that the young prince was already clear that he and his wife should not be dominated by the nobility. ‘And [he said] neither the archbishop nor anyone else should think otherwise, as many Castilian kings had lost their way by doing that.’ Isabella travelled the same path, and Archbishop Carrillo blamed her officials for the young couple’s attitude. This was not yet royal absolutism, as they had no kingdom to rule and the concept was not as well developed as it would be in later centuries, but it was certainly a statement of intent. The young couple, indeed, encouraged each other in their single-mindedness. Juan the Great could barely believe they would behave so recklessly, but the counsellors he had sent with Ferdinand wrote back saying they too were losing influence. ‘He is so set in his ways that it seems nothing other than the things he believes are right or which he desires are any good or of use,’ they complained.8
The young couple also became increasingly desperate for money. Isabella had already pawned the ruby necklace to pay her own retainers and she and her husband were now as good as bankrupt. Ferdinand wrote to his father warning him that some of Isabella’s followers ‘are ready to leave and join the other side’.9 If their situation worsened further, he warned, all might soon be lost.
Isabella wrote letters begging other nobles for their support, urging them to help calm Enrique’s ire and reminding them of Ferdinand’s own Castilian blood. ‘As you know, Ferdinand is a natural of these kingdoms, and direct descendant of the kings of Castile. And, as is well known in these kingdoms and outside them, one serves the king best by choosing the most useful and profitable [options] for these kingdoms,’ she wrote.10
The first signs of tension between the Castilian and Aragonese factions of their small court also appeared. Isabella fought with her new husband over their officials. Mayordomos, chaplains and confessors were jostling for power and status in their new joint venture, where some senior posts were now covered twice over. Isabella’s no-nonsense attitude extended even to her new father-in-law, who soon discovered that she did not like to be pushed about. Without money of her own, she could have no independence. So she immediately insisted that Juan the Great pay out the rest of her dowry, giving her both a share of the income generated by Sicily and the taxes paid by the towns of Borja and Magallón in Aragon, and Elche and Crevillent in Valencia. She eventually sent her own officials to oversee her affairs in Aragonese lands and when her overstretched father-in-law tried to wriggle out of their agreement she insisted there was nothing to negotiate. ‘Do not change a single letter’ of the agreement, she retorted, warning him not to act in her affairs without her permission. ‘Let me do what I think is best in the [lands] that you gave me … I will only do what is right.’11
Their situation soon deteriorated further. Valladolid was increasingly unstable and they left for nearby Dueñas on 8 March 1470. It was a wise decision. At the end of the summer rioting broke out, as the mob turned on the city’s conversos. Their host Juan de Vivero encouraged the rioters, hoping to settle his own scores with other nobles who wanted control of the city – including Isabella and Ferdinand’s protector Fadrique Enríquez. The latter ‘was ready to lose one of his eyes if that meant Juan de Vivero lost both’, wrote one observer, in what could have been a summary of the many rivalries that simmered among Castile’s Grandees. Some of the king’s supporters threatened to storm Vivero’s house, seeing the rebel princes as the potential spark for even greater chaos across the kingdom. ‘They had good reasons,’ del Castillo claimed, ‘as all towns had suffered badly during earlier wars and they feared that more suffering would now come.’ Enrique and Pacheco had also encouraged the mayhem, seeing it as an opportunity to regain control of the biggest city that supported Isabella. By mid-September, they had done just that.12
The archbishop, meanwhile, became increasingly angry with Isabella and her husband. They were under his protection in well-fortified Dueñas and, he thought, owed him both gratitude and obedience. He knew that the truculent young princes were nothing without him, but also that the rights he was fighting over were Isabella’s, not his. He resorted to threats, reminding them that he had once been loyal to Enrique and could easily return to the king’s side. Then he blamed Isabella directly, showing himself angrier with her than with Ferdinand. In meetings with Juan the Great’s envoys the archbishop gave full rein to his wrath. ‘If they [dared] hurt him, he would turn the queen over just as he had turned over her brother, King Enrique,’ they reported after one bitter encounter. Isabella, in turn, began to see Dueñas as a prison.13
They had few other places to go. Ferdinand’s grandfather, the admiral, offered them refuge in Medina de Rioseco, which belonged to one of his sons, but that would displease the archbishop even more. Most other nobles backed Enrique or sat on the fence waiting to see what would happen next. Isabella continued to write to her royal half-brother, begging him to accept the marriage. As rumours spread that he was preparing to act against them, she and Ferdinand wrote again. They admitted marrying without his consent, but reminded him that they had previously sent envoys pledging obedience and begging him ‘to accept us as true children’. They proposed a grand meeting at some neutral place, to thrash out their differences. Any that remained unresolved could be put before a council of wise men, made up of the four heads of Spain’s largest religious orders – the Jeronymites, the Franciscans, the Dominicans and the Carthusians. Otherwise, they knew, war threatened. ‘And before such troubles start, given that they would be difficult to stop once they had begun, that they could bring terrible offence to God and irreparable damage to these kingdoms of yours and that we believe these would even extend across a large part of Christendom, we beg you to hear us out,’ they added.14 Enrique replied to their multiple pleas with either silence or vague promises to discuss the ma
tter with his council.
The young couple, meanwhile, enjoyed each other’s company in the privacy of the bedroom. Around the time of their move to Dueñas, they made a dramatic announcement that forced everyone to reassess their strategies. Isabella was pregnant. If she gave birth to a boy, the Trastámara line in Castile would finally have a male descendant. Her son would not only be in line to succeed to the throne, but would also be a valuable future husband.15 An uneasy stand-off developed as all sides waited for the child to be born. ‘It was awaited with extraordinary impatience … as importance was attached to the birth of a male child,’ Palencia reported. ‘Even the Master of Santiago [Pacheco] and most of his allies kept their hostility more under control than usual.’
The lull ended just as soon as Isabella gave birth on 2 October 1470. The child, when it came, was a girl, also named Isabella. Almost everyone was disappointed, except for Enrique. Little is known of Isabella’s reaction, though she must have found pleasure in adding her daughter’s grandiose title – ‘infanta of Castile and Aragon’ – to the letters announcing her birth. The fact that her daughter was a princess in both principal kingdoms of Spain was a sign of just how powerful her family could become if Isabella herself ever ascended to the throne. If a woman was to be measured by the way in which she gave birth, Isabella was already displaying an ability to overcome even the most painful of physical tests. ‘She neither showed nor expressed the pain that, at such a time, women feel and show,’ said the chronicler Pulgar. This fortitude became legendary. ‘I have been informed by the ladies who serve her in her chamber that, neither when in pain through illness nor during the pains of childbirth … did they ever see her complain, and that, rather, she suffered them with marvellous fortitude,’ one visitor to her court reported later. Isabella herself was far less dramatic about it all. ‘Thanks to the immense generosity of God, my health was fine after the birth,’ she wrote in one letter. She handed the child over to a governess and a wet nurse. The latter was meant to be ‘good looking and of good stock, with plentiful milk’, according to one court commentator.16
In political terms, the birth of a girl was a disaster. ‘Enrique’s followers … who, while waiting to see whether doña Isabella would give birth to a boy or a girl had ceased their violent attacks on the princes, [now] openly threw themselves into fighting them,’ said Palencia. There were also doubts over the legitimacy of a daughter born into a marriage between close relatives which, in the eyes of the church, remained unsanctioned. Isabella and Ferdinand knew they were on thin ground with the papal dispensation they had claimed to possess. Juan the Great’s ambassadors in Rome were now busily trying to obtain one. Ferdinand was horrified. That spoiled the narrative they had promoted in Castile – that the dispensation had already been given. ‘I understand they have been seeking an audience with the Pope and, among other things, planned to ask for a dispensation for the marriage,’ he said. ‘It is important that those in charge of our affairs at the court in Rome … do not seek or petition for anything that I myself have not written to them about.’17
If the birth was a disappointment, a fall from his horse by Ferdinand must have been deeply disturbing. The young prince was a keen, skilled rider who loved the sometimes dangerous pastime of jousting. The game of cañas, with the teams of riders on nimble, lightweight horses, was another favourite. His doctor reported in November that Ferdinand had taken one too many falls and these had somehow ‘corrupted his blood’. They had feared for his life, but he recovered a few days later. Isabella’s fortunes, meanwhile, continued to spiral downwards. She soon lost the important trading town of Medina del Campo – a valuable part of her personal wealth – and her officials there were sent packing by Enrique’s followers.18 All this paled, however, in comparison to the king’s next move.
Enrique had raised Isabella to the status of heiress. Now he was determined to cast her back down. In the broad, well-watered Lozoya Valley, fifty miles north of Madrid, a ceremony similar to that carried out before the Guisando bulls took place late in October 1470.19 This time those arriving to do homage to the king were the mighty Mendozas, together with Queen Juana and her daughter, the younger Juana, now aged eight. Crucially, foreigners were also present. Raising Juana to the status of heiress again was not just about punishing Isabella for her insolence and disobedience. It was also about securing an alliance with France that would help Enrique counter the return of the historically troublesome Aragonese Trastámaras to his kingdom. Juana was to be given the husband whom Isabella had turned down – the same Duke of Berry, now known as the Duke of Guyenne, who was heir to the French crown. Some 100 Frenchmen accompanied Enrique’s court, and the same French bishop of Arras, the envoy who had so irritated Isabella before, now bearing the title of Cardinal Albi, oversaw the ceremony in which Enrique and Juana declared that the little girl was their true daughter and legitimate heir. The nobles and bishops queued to kiss the girl’s hand. The Count of Boulogne then stepped forward and, as the Duke of Guyenne’s stand-in, held the eight-year-old’s hand while Albi officially declared them to be engaged. The pendulum had swung all the way back. Isabella was no longer princess of Asturias20 and a Frenchman was well placed to rule, one day, both France and, through his wife, much of Spain.
The wording of the document signed by Enrique and Queen Juana (who, presumably, had left her illegitimate son behind) leaves no doubt about Isabella’s future status. The king starts by recalling how he named little Juana as heiress shortly after her birth. The reason for doing this had been straightforward. ‘According to divine and human right and to the laws of this kingdom, the inheritance and succession is due to and belongs to our very dear and beloved legitimate and natural [meaning biological] daughter Princess Juana,’ he states. The document repeatedly emphasises that Juana is his heir not just because she is the queen’s daughter but also because she is his biological offspring. Queen Juana, reaching out her right hand to touch the cross held by Cardinal Albi, swore the same thing: ‘I am certain that the said Princess doña Juana is the legitimate and natural daughter of my lord the king and mine, and as such I treat her and have always considered her.’21
Princess Juana had lost her title, Enrique admitted, at the Guisando bulls. But his decision to declare Isabella as heiress had been taken solely to avoid civil war and had come with strict conditions. ‘In order to stop certain warring and divisions that existed in these kingdoms at the time and more of which was expected, and because the said infanta [Isabella] promised and publicly swore to obey and serve me as her king … and to marry whomsoever I chose … I ordered that my sister the infanta should be entitled and sworn in as princess and heiress,’ he explained. ‘She did the opposite, doing me a great and damaging disservice, disrespecting me, breaking both her own sworn oath and the laws of these kingdoms while creating great upheaval and scandal.’ She must now pay the price. ‘As a result, and given that her swearing in [as heiress] prejudiced my daughter Princess Juana and her rights, that second oath to my sister is declared invalid.’ Those present were ordered to transfer their allegiance, with Cardinal Albi reading out a bull from Pope Paul II freeing them from their earlier oath to Isabella. ‘From now on you must not in any way call, entitle, consider or hold the infanta doña Isabella to be my heir and successor,’22 Enrique commanded.
One royal command could be undone by another and those who had gathered in the Lozoya Valley were clear about what had happened. ‘She [Isabella] had married the king of Sicily, prince of Aragon, even though she had been warned not to,’ one Mendoza official wrote. ‘As a result, given the lack of loyalty and disobedience she showed by marrying on her own authority and without any agreement or permission, and for many other reasons, [the king] disinherited her.’ A keen observer might have noticed, however, that the only thing binding the Grandees who lined up behind the manipulative and untrustworthy Pacheco in the green valley beside the River Lozoya was their dislike of strong monarchs.23
Isabella had received what, by any co
nsidered measurement, was a just reward for her rebellion. Enrique had been preparing to undermine the Guisando agreement, but she had reneged on it first. Isabella now had a husband, but had lost her future kingdom and her chosen path was leading towards disaster. She continued to squabble with Archbishop Carrillo, the one man with the power to keep her ambitions afloat. The relationship became so tense that she and Ferdinand finally moved out of Dueñas to fortified Medina de Rioseco24 and the protection of Ferdinand’s Castilian relatives. The archbishop saw that as an insult and went off angrily to deal with his own feudal lands.
All this was a coup for France’s devious King Louis XI, whose reputation for intrigue saw him dubbed ‘the Cunning’. The new arrangement with France, indeed, obliged Enrique to declare war on England – a measure that was bound to anger Castile’s traders and sailors operating out of its northern ports. Enrique himself eagerly awaited the arrival of French troops led by Juana’s new fiancé.25
Isabella now wrote angrily to her brother. ‘You complain about the breaking of promises, but forget the promises made to me that were then broken,’ she wrote. ‘For which reason I was no longer obliged to abide by anything that had been pledged.’ Her list of complaints was long and, in places, imaginary. Although she and Ferdinand had shown peaceful intent, Isabella claimed, she had been disinherited without her case being heard and with the aid of none other than the ‘odious and suspect’ Cardinal Albi of France. She reminded Enrique that certain nobles (without mentioning Pacheco) had secretly protested against their first oath to Juana. The idea that the little girl was his real daughter was a ridiculous lie. ‘She is not, as the people of these kingdoms know,’ Isabella said. ‘From many other pieces of evidence and from trustworthy witnesses and authentic documents it would seem that things are quite the opposite, and I am amazed that in such a short space of time you have displayed so many contradictions,’ she added. ‘You are trying to sell copper as gold, iron as silver and an illegitimate heiress as legitimate.’26 Yet those supposedly trustworthy witnesses and authentic documents were never made public.
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