Power and Persuasion: Essays on the Art of State Building in Honour of W.P. Blockmans [Multilingual ed.] 250353211X, 9782503532110

Citation preview

Power and Persuasion

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Power and Persuasion Essays on the Art of State Building in Honour of W.P. Blockmans Edited by Peter Hoppenbrouwers, Antheun Janse and Robert Stein

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Cover illustration: Festive entry of the Emperor Charles V in Augsburg, 1530. Wood-cut by Jörg Breu der Ältere (ca. 1475–1537). Braunschweig, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum. © 2010, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

D/2010/0095/138 ISBN 978-2-503-53211-0 Printed in the E.U. on acid-free paper

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Contents Introduction Antheun Janse and Robert Stein Wim Blockmans at 65: Interim Report on an Eminent Historical Entrepreneur Peter Hoppenbrouwers

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1. The Dynastic Order

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Entre 1250 et 1350 : Système des états et ordre dynastique Jean-Marie Moeglin

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‘Mon souverain seigneur’ Werner Paravicini

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État bourguignon ou états bourguignons ? De la singularité d’un pluriel Jean-Marie Cauchies

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The Art of Persuasion: Charles V and his Governors M. J. Rodríguez-Salgado

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2. Crown and Polity

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Three Models of Monarchy in Fifteenth-century Castile José Manuel Nieto Soria

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Le premier procès de Jean II, Duc d’Alençon (1456–1458) : quels enjeux, quels enseignements politiques ? Philippe Contamine

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Parliament, Political Economy and State Formation in Later Medieval England W. Mark Ormrod

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Meeting the King in Late Medieval Denmark BjØrn Poulsen

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The Military Resources of the Kings of Castile around 1500 Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada

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3. Clients and Networks

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The Two Faces of Pardon Jurisdiction in the Burgundian Netherlands. A Royal Road to Social Cohesion and an Effectual Instrument of Princely Clientelism Walter Prevenier

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La Hollande, source de capital social pour un Flamand ambitieux ? Les intérêts et les aventures de Pierre Lanchals, grand commis de l’État Burgundo-Habsbourgeois (vers 1441/42–1488) Marc Boone

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4. Towns and Commerce

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Urban Population, Urban Territories, Small Towns: Some Problems of the History of Urbanization in Central and Northern Italy, 13th–16th Centuries Giorgio Chittolini

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Joan Fogassot and ‘los fets de Fflandres’. A Forgotten Episode of the Catalan Mercantile Connections with Flanders in 1460–1461 Dick E.H. de Boer

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5. Church and Religion

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Image, représentation et communication politique Jean-Philipe Genet

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Crusading and State-Building in the Middle Ages Norman Housley

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Die Gesetzgebung der kirchlichen Synoden in Polen im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert Wacław Uruszczak

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The Coming of the Gypsies: Cities, Princes and Nomads David Abulafia

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6. Perspectives

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Konvergenz und Divergenz von Machtgeschichte und Rechtsgeschichte im Aufstieg und Niedergang des modernen Staates Wolfgang Reinhard

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Introduction Antheun Janse and Robert Stein Leiden University

The title of this volume written in honour of Wim Blockmans on the occasion of his retirement as Professor of Medieval History at Leiden University, has been chosen not only to characterize the personality of the honoured scholar, ‘who has aptly demonstrated his eloquence and powers of persuasion over a long and distinguished career’,1 but also because the concepts of ‘power’ and ‘persuasion’ refer to questions that have been central in Blockmans’ work for more than thirty years. About twenty years ago, he used these very words in the title of an article in which he reflected on recent scholarship on state-formation.2 One of the main convictions expressed in this article was that, whereas empire building is based on conquest, subjection and plundering, enduring power is only possible if a certain form of consensus is reached, if subjects have been persuaded to accept the ruling authority or have even become fervent supporters of its values. Wim Blockmans has always been intrigued, as he once confessed, by this broad acceptance of inequalities in wealth and power. As a rule, people accepted their subjection and more or less voluntarily renunciated power. Resistance to the ruling elite was the exception rather than the rule. This was largely due to both the hidden and the explicit messages communicated by the powerful to seduce their subjects into submissiveness, or even to persuade them to defend and sustain the existing power structures, which, more often than not, they did with remarkable enthusiasm. Blockmans’ fascination for power and its acceptance by subjects has taken shape in an impressively large and wide-ranging oeuvre, which contributed to and benefited from international research on European state formation.3 Proof of his versatility is laid down in the series The Origins of the Modern State in Europe, 13th to 18th Centuries, published by Oxford University Press between 1995 and 2000. This seven-volume series, of which Wim Blockmans was one of the general editors (together with Jean-Philippe Genet), dealt with economic systems and state finance, representations of political power (propaganda, legitimation), the autonomy of the individual 1 2

3

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M.J. Rodríguez-Salgado in this volume, see page 59. W.P. Blockmans, ‘Beheersen en overtuigen. Reflecties bij nieuwe visies op staatsvorming’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 16 (1990) 18-30. See also Wim Blockmans, A history of power in Europe. Peoples, markets, states (Antwerp 1997) ch. 6 (‘Persuasion and Sympathy’). See Peter Hoppenbrouwers in this volume, pages XV–XXIX.

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in political and social life, legislation and justice, power elites, resistance, representation and community, and the crucial role of war in the formation of state systems. Given the prominence of state formation processes in Blockmans’ work, the focus of this volume hardly needs any justification. As it is not feasible to reflect in one volume the full range of the topics he discussed, nor the worldwide scope of his collaborations,4 we decided to invite leading scholars from different European countries who have collaborated with Wim Blockmans in a research or publishing project to concentrate on the rise of the modern state in Europe during the second half of the Middle Ages, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century. Most of the subjects treated in the eighteen articles presented in this volume elaborate on topics already present in Blockmans’ own work and linked to the main topics discussed in The Origins of the Modern State in Europe. Some of the articles explicitly refer to the status questionis presented in the Oxford series, others are linked more implicitly. The first four papers are devoted to ‘the dynastic order’, an expression borrowed from the title of Jean-Marie Moeglin’s contribution: ‘Entre 1250 et 1350: Système des États et ordre dynastique’. Moeglin shows the growing interrelation between the ‘system of states’ on the one hand and the princely dynasties that determine their meaning and functioning on the other. From the thirteenth century onwards, the term ‘house’ (domus) was used to emphasize the hereditary bond between prince and country. In the thirteenth and fourteenth century an increasingly close association between dynasty and ‘state’ was forged. Thus, the identity attached to the dynasty was intermingled with that related to the country. ‘Sovereignty’ in the relationship between king and princes is the main focus of the contribution by Werner Paravicini. The medieval interpretation of ‘sovereignty’ was only partly related to the modern one: it referred to the highest authority in any hierarchical order. In the sensitive relation between the dukes of Burgundy and the kings of France, the word souverain had important implications: was the French king the sovereign of the dukes or were they sovereigns themselves? The term was the subject of considerable shadow boxing in this period. Philip the Good only used the expression Mon souvereign seigneur for Louis XI, but not for Louis’ father Charles VII. Around the turn of the year 1474, when the sovereign Parliament de Malines was erected, Charles the Bold was himself called souverain seigneur, a clear

4

Let alone his impact on pupils. See Mario Damen and Louis Sicking (eds), Bourgondië voorbij. De Nederlanden 1250-1650. Liber alumnorum Wim Blockmans, Middeleeuwse Studies en Bronnen cxxiii (Hilversum 2010).

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statement aimed against the French crown and especially against Louis XI, as Paravicini rightly emphasizes. On a different level, the role of the dynasty and the composition of the state is discussed by Jean-Marie Cauchies. His main question deals with the character of the Burgundian state: was it a state anyway? The author indicates that the unification of the late fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries resulted in a personal union, which long preserved its mosaic character: ‘S’il y a unité de princeps, il n’y a pas ... unité de principatus’. Even so, Cauchies argues, the characterization of the Burgundian union as a state adds a new dimension to this, which does justice to the unifying efforts of the dukes. The role of princeps was not necessarily played by the kings or dukes themselves, who could delegate (large) parts of their power to a proxy. The relationship of Charles V with his governors is the theme of Mia Rodríguez-Salgado’s contribution. The governors formed the alter ego of the emperor, appointed to govern the major realms on his behalf. They carried the full authority of the emperor but at the same time they were completely dependent upon his benevolence. On the basis of Charles V’s correspondence, Rodríguez-Salgado concludes that the emperor’s attitude mirrors the maxim that consent, rather than force, should form the basis of government. In the correspondence, direct commands were avoided and the governors received some room for manoeuvre in their dealings with subjects. The correspondence also shows the emperor’s high level of dependence on a small group of trusted advisers, who helped him to fulfil at least some of his dreams. This dependency illustrates that princely power at the turn of the sixteenth century still had many weaknesses. The evolution of the French model – a national monarchy, highly centralised, focused on a king with absolute power – has too often been regarded as the most important development in late medieval state formation. But even in strong monarchies like France and Castile, royal power was still fragile and highly dependent on the outcome of negotiations with subjects. This dialogue between crown and polity, which is the second focus in the present volume, took many forms. As José Manuel Nieto Soria points out in his contribution, the Castilian monarchs who from the fourteenth century onwards presented themselves as absolute monarchs - above the law and free to grant favours to whoever they wanted – had still to deal with voices defending the superiority of noble power over monarchy or, at least, insisting on the crucial role of the nobility in royal service. These views coexisted with a third conception of monarchy, defended by the communal brotherhoods, who had taken up Aristotelian principles and in the end concluded that all power to rule belonged to the people. Although royal power expanded enormously around the turn of the

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sixteenth century, as is demonstrated in Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada’s article on the military resources of the Castilian kings, the concept of a contractual and limited monarchy was still influential in the early sixteenth century, when it was presented to King Charles in a Cortes held in Valladolid. Similar ideas existed in France at the end of the Hundred Years War, when the ‘very christian king’ was more or less compelled to show his mercy towards the duke of Alençon, who had been accused of high-treason. As Philippe Contamine demonstrates in great detail, the Parliament of Paris ordered that the trial should be conducted by a Court of Judges supplemented by ‘peers’ and other lords, in the presence of the king. The opinions of the peers really did count: they were made public and circulated among contemporaries. They reveal ideas about the dignity and privileges attributed to the high noble princes in France, as well as about the expectations of Christian clemency that a king had to meet. Fully developed absolutism was still a very long way off. In England, the political ideas of the subjects can partly be reconstructed from the parliamentary debates, as W. Mark Ormrod argues in his contribution, focusing on the subject of political economy. By analysing the parliament rolls and proposals of various pressure groups, he shows that the Commons, who tried to defend their own interests, acted as a constraint on the Crown’s endeavour to increase the royal income, while simultaneously ‘expanding both the range of activity over which the state had influence and the expectations of the polity about the crown’s capacity to apply the principles of common utility in such contexts’. In this way, these debates greatly contributed to the evolution of the late medieval English state as a participatory regime. Whereas Ormrod brings the English parliament back to the centre of the political arena, BjØrn Poulsen tends to see the representative Estates in Denmark as a side-show, the importance of which has often been overestimated. His detailed reconstruction of a meeting in Kalundborg in 1494 suggests that the Estates should not be regarded as the main stage of participatory government. There were other, more important, bodies in which the people’s voice was heard: the Council of the Realm and the King’s Court of Justice. These aristocratic bodies (especially the latter) proved to be the real channels of communication between the king and the rest of society. The third part of this volume is devoted to clients and networks. That the exercise of princely power was impossible if not backed up with a network of more or less loyal servants on a local or regional level, ready to enforce the prince’s will, is illustrated in the contribution by Walter Prevenier. In 1386, the Burgundian duke Philip the Bold usurpated the royal authority to give, or refuse, grace, by issuing lettres de remission. Prevenier shows how

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this procedure was refined and provided with checks and balances by Philip’s successors, involving regional Courts and local bailiffs. The dukes could use this strategy to restore public peace and social cohesion, or to strengthen their own position vis-à-vis social and political networks, as an instrument of power politics. However, granting pardon too frequently was criticized because it was viewed as arrogant princely misuse of power and a threat to the public weal. Yet the motivation for the pardon letters can give an interesting insight into the ‘plurality of truths’, that of the criminal, of the victim, of the juridical infrastructure, and that of the pardoning prince. One of the men serving the Burgundian dukes, perhaps the most merciless, selfish, and notorious of them all, was Pierre Lanchals (1441/14421488), to whom Marc Boone’s paper is devoted. Boone points to the growing importance of central government, politically as well as financially, during the second half of the fifteenth century. Lanchals was one of those unscrupulous individuals who took advantage of the duke’s growing power to attain social advancement, making himself indispensable for the exercise of power. Born a son of a modest carpenter from Bruges, Lanchals became one of the most powerful men in the Burgundian Low Countries. In 1472 Charles the Bold appointed him receveur general de toutes les finances. The county of Holland, less organized than Lanchals’ homeland Flanders, offered excellent opportunities to develop an extensive network and to acquire great wealth. In the fourth part of this book, on towns and commerce, Giorgio Chittolini considers the possibilities of applying the goals and methods of the ‘urban network analysis’ to the medieval history of northern Italy. He concludes that, because the situation in Lombardy and the Po valley was very different from that in the Low Countries, Germany, or France, one should be very careful to apply general concepts such as ‘urban ratio’, ‘urban territory’, ‘urban ranking’, and ‘small towns’ to the towns in Northern Italy. The fundamental ‘otherness’ of the Italian situation explains why the methods of the ‘urban network analysis’ have hardly been applied to Italian medieval history. Dick de Boer uses a manuscript from the town archives in Barcelona to throw light on the trading relations and political connections between Catalonia and the Burgundian Low Countries, especially Flanders. The document allows us to see commercial diplomacy at work during the dynastic crisis in Catalonia in 1460-1. It shows that mercantile interests were subject to the whims of dynastic interplay. The fifth part of this volume is about church and religion. In the long history of European state building, the Christian church has played a significant role, both as a model, being the first large-scale organization in the West, and as an ideological frame that helped to persuade people to accept

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the established power structures. To give an example of the first: the ecclesiastical tradition of organizing synods –Wacław Uruszczak discusses the case of Poland in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in this volume – has stimulated the emergence of new methods of decision-making, via meetings of delegated representatives. It can even be argued, as Jean-Philippe Genet does in his contribution, that the church provided the state with a new communication system, in which images played an essential role. Due to the theological innovations of the eleventh century, which helped to develop the new doctrine of transubstantiation and, thereby, aroused a need to ‘making the invisible visible’, a new ecclesiastical architecture was stimulated. At the same time, the ‘humanisation’ of Christ caused the emergence of individual portraits, representing reality. Images became ‘readable’ and, thus, more than ever before, suitable for the spreading of political messages. Unsurprisingly, these new, powerful forms of communication were copied by lay society, where they played a major role in the acceptance of the expanding state. Norman Housley analyses another aspect of the relation between church and state. He discusses the ways in which governmental involvement with crusading interacted with the rise of the European state. This was an intriguing but complicated development, full of paradoxes and conflicting interests. The more the church became dependent on the state to raise crusading armies, the more the crusade lost its special ethos. The state gained most by it: rulers got their hands on the tax money of the clergy and used it for their own purposes. In the later Middle Ages, when the Western princes were urged to react to the challenge of the Ottoman Turks, some princes managed to advance their state building ambitions by integrating the crusading discourse into their self-representation. The ambivalent relationship between religion and state can also be illustrated by reconstructing the way late medieval European states responded to the arrival of the Gypsies. This is the central theme of David Abulafia’s contribution focusing on the response in Germany and France. Initially, the Gypsies, nomads of Indian origin, presenting themselves as Christian pilgrims and as bearers of papal and imperial letters of protection, could count on some sympathy. Their status as penitents guaranteed them the support of the local authorities. In the end, however, negative stereotypes prevailed, condemning them as ‘heathens’, thieves, and sorcerers. In the fifteenth century, there was no place left for wandering nomads to stay in the Western states. Christian hospitality had made way to xenophobic hostility. No volume is complete without an epilogue. In this case, the contribution of Wolfgang Reinhard could be considered as such. In his paper about ‘Konvergenz und Divergenz von Machtsgeschichte und Rechtsgeschichte’, he considers the modern state as an institution of repression. Its emergence

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coincided with the gradual centralization of justice from the High Middle Ages onwards, as is aptly illustrated by various contributions in this volume. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, this resulted in a fully monopolized Staatsrecht, maintained by the nation-states. However, modern states increasingly demonstrate that they are incapable of fulfilling the obligations they were charged with, and their sovereignty is threatened and undermined by their failure, while NGOs are taking over parts of their role. This volume includes a large variety of topics, sources and approaches. The geographical variety (Low Countries, France, England, Spain, Italy, Germany, Denmark and Poland) reflects the breadth of Wim Blockmans’ interests and the thematic diversity mirrors the wide range of his expertise. Wim Blockmans is one of the scholars who has ‘taught us the powerful truth that the origins of the modern state are found not in one overarching teleological formula but in the multiplicity of experience of medieval state systems.’5 In this respect, the heterogeneous contents of this volume can be seen as a real tribute to his multifaceted personality. Finally, but in the same vein, a few words on the editing work or, rather, on the lack of it, as a stern reviewer might say. Preparing this festschrift meant having to deal with experienced and prominent authors from nine different European countries, each of them versed in a different, national, scholarly tradition of text annotation and source referencing. Because, in addition, we chose to publish in three languages – English, French, and German - it soon dawned to us that to design a strict style sheet that would meet the diversity of editorial practice, in particular in the matter of the use of capitals in title descriptions or of quotation marks cq inverted commas, would be an impossible mission. Therefore, instead of causing ourselves headaches, we chose to leave every author to his own devices and only to guard over uniformity and consistency within separate contributions. An obvious way to ease our minds on this lack of editorial thoroughness and diligence would be to claim that the merry variety at which we have connived, in a sense does honour to Wim Blockmans’ superb command of many languages, and to his evident delight in displaying his polyglottic familiarity with how history is ‘produced’ and turned into print wherever in Europe. If this sounds like an occasional argument, we still hope it is strong enough to generate sympathy for our editorial policy.

5

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Mark Ormrod in this volume, see page 123.

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Wim Blockmans at 65: Interim Report on an Eminent Historical Entrepreneur Peter Hoppenbrouwers Leiden University Antwerp to Ghent According to his own saying, Wim Blockmans took his first steps in the world of history when as a young kid he accompanied his father to the archives to glue medieval potsherds from excavations in the city centre of Antwerp.1 Wim’s father, the director of the Antwerp archives, was Frans Blockmans, a student of Hans van Werveke and the author of a widely acclaimed book on the patriciate of medieval Ghent. Many years later, when Wim Blockmans was on the go to earn himself a name as a first-rate historian, he would on several occasions fall back on research done but left unfinished by his father.2 In a more direct sense, however, he lost paternal guidance early. Frans Blockmans died in 1962 at the age of 51, one year before Wim took his A levels and moved to Ghent to register as a student of History. At that critical stage, Wim’s interests were taken care of well; one of his guardians was Leon Voet, curator of the Plantin-Moretus Museum for early printing in Antwerp, and co-author of the standard textbook on medieval Chronology in Dutch. The other author, Egied Strubbe, was a professor of Medieval History at Ghent University, and would become Wim’s ‘guardian angel’ during his first college years. When Wim Blockmans arrived in Ghent, change was in the air, in the medieval history department as much as anywhere else. Of Henri Pirenne’s last direct pupils, François Ganshof had just retired, while Van Werveke, was about to end his career. Consequently, most of Wim Blockmans’ teachers were men of a new generation, such as Van Werveke’s assistant and subsequent successor, Walter Prevenier, Raoul van Caenegem, and Adriaan Verhulst. In the end, Wim Blockmans’ study of history worked out smoothly. He took his Master’s degree (licenciaat) in 1966, a vintage year, so to speak. Among the other 33 graduates were many who in later years would win their spurs, as professional historians, such as Chris Vandenbroeke, Monique van Melkebeek, and Els Witte, or otherwise as politicians, such as Erik Anthonis. 1

2

The first sections of this article are based on published interviews that Wim Blockmans gave to Maurice Wilbrink, Quod Novum (4 March 1987), to M. Hanepen and B. van Wijk in Leidschrift 3/3 (1987), and to Peer Vries, in Leidschrift 10/3 (1995); as well as on an interview which the author took from prof.dr. Walter Prevenier and prof.dr. Marc Boone of the Medieval History Department of Ghent University on 12 February 2010. The author is very grateful for the invaluable information professor Prevenier and professor Boone kindly provided. Full references to publications by Wim Blockmans are only included in the footnotes if they are not mentioned in the ‘Selective bibliography’ at the end. E.g. Een middeleeuwse vendetta (1987), and ‘Devaluation, coinage and seignoriage’ (1979).

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Wim Blockmans became a research and teaching assistant under the direction of Verhulst, while his Ph D thesis on Flemish representative institutions in the Burgundian Period was supervised by Prevenier. He took his Ph D degree in May 1973, ‘with highest distinction’. Taking medieval history as a major subject in Ghent, as Wim Blockmans had done, inevitably meant to be drawn into the rich – and well documented - past of one of the most powerful medieval principalities north of the Alps, the County of Flanders, and of its major city. From the start until today, Blockmans’ publications have always testified to the uniqueness of the Flemish experience in medieval history. At the same time, and partly for the same reasons, Ghent university immersed young Blockmans at once into the world of international scholarship. The remarkable medieval history of Flanders had attracted scholarly attention from all over the world (but especially from the US and Germany) at an early stage, and this was further enhanced by the international standing of such historians as Pirenne and Ganshof. During his early career it would first of all be Adri Verhulst who, as the formal organiser of historical congresses on behalf of the Cultural Department of the Belgian bank Crédit Communal, introduced him into the world of international conferences.3 Wim Blockmans set foot on the international stage eagerly, with no other intention than to stay. Soon, he would become a trusted appearance on congresses, Tagungen, rencontres, and convegni all over Europe, as well as a regular contributor to the trace of publications these events leave behind. As to his intellectual interests at this time, Wim Blockmans has never made a secret of being particularly inspired by the charismatic historian Jan Dhondt, who, although trained as a medievalist, had been the Professor of Contemporary History in Ghent until his untimely death in 1972. Not only has Dhondt been directional, together with Prevenier4, in targeting the themes of Wim’s earliest historical research, and in particular of his Ph D subject, via Dhondt his awareness grew that, even if History may not be a (social) science in all respects, historical research has to aim for generalizing claims in order to make progress, to start with by allowing comparisons through time and in space. More than any other professor of History in Ghent at that time, Dhondt, in addition to being a gifted historian in the more traditional sense, was keen on couching the results of his classical scholarship in generalizing theories of admirable originality. For instance, 3

4

On the remarkable career of Adriaan Verhulst: Walter Prevenier and Erik Thoen, ‘The scholarly career of Professor Adriaan Verhulst’, in: Jean-Marie Duvosquel and Erik Thoen (eds), Peasants and townsmen in medieval Europe. Studia in honorem Adriaan Verhulst (Ghent 1995) 15–48. On Prevenier’s directional role: Wim Blockmans, Marc Boone, and Thérèse de Hemptinne, ‘Walter Prevenier: un portrait intellectuel’, in iidem (eds), Secretum scriptorum. Liber alumnorum Walter Prevenier (Leuven, Apeldoorn 1999) 9–35.

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Wim Blockmans was, and still is, convinced that Dhondt, without knowing Norbert Elias’ Über den Prozess der Zivilisation, had independently developed a quite similar and far-reaching theory on state formation and civilization. Both Elias and Dhondt would remain almost fixed reference points in Wim Blockmans’ later work on the rise of the modern state in Europe. Wim Blockmans’ commitment to, and admiration for, Dhondt is well explained in the introduction to the collection of Dhondt’s articles on popular representation during the Ancien Régime which he edited five years after Dhondt’s death.5 He openly declared that he had always admired Dhondt’s fascination for ‘the mechanism of acquisition of power’, as well as for ‘his inestimable, extraordinary synthetic insight [which] enabled him (...) to arrive at generalising conclusions.’ In particular in his study of the early modern Estates of Flanders Dhondt, in Blockmans’ words, ‘went into the real distribution of power hidden behind empty official form, and made a clear distinction between political façade and political power.’ This insight had provided Dhondt with the weapon to succesfully attack the so-called ‘corporate thesis’ – “corporate reveries” in Dhondt’s words – in approaching representative institutions in the premodern period, represented by such ultraconservative historians as Emile Lousse. ‘The essence of representation was not determined by the clerically inspired design of the three Estates, but by the pursuit of power of the strongest elements in society.’ This would become the catchphrase of Wim Blockmans’ Ph D thesis, but also, in a way, of much of his later work on state formation and political power. In 1978, five years after its public defense, Wim Blockmans’ thesis was published as a book under the title De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen in de overgang van Middeleeuwen naar Nieuwe Tijden (1384– 1506) (‘Popular Representation in Flanders in the Transition from Middle Ages to Early Modernity (1384–1506))’. In Belgium and the Netherlands, it would at once, and definitely, make his name, and it is a pity that it was never published in English. It handles with superb skill in a comprehensive and innovative way, the structure, the organisation and the working of representative organs on various levels of Flemish society, including the political issues they dealt with and the decision-making processes that were passed through. In the background of the penetrating analyses there is always Dhondt’s bottom-up approach: participation of subjects in policy making and political actions was based upon real power, real power concentrations and real power coalitions rather than on predisposed social divisions or princely whims; hence the term ‘estates’ is absent from the title. If there were some sour remarks in reviews, like Bryce Lyon’s in Past and Present of 1981, these concerned the ‘social science vocabulary’ that was fastly penetrating 5

Jan Dhondt (1977), the following quotes were taken from pages 15, 12, and 12, respectively.

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historical discourse in the 1970s, and the irreverent negligence of some of the reviewer’s own ideas on medieval constitutionalism.6 Meanwhile, his years as an assistant at Ghent University had raised ambiguous feelings about how things went. On the one hand, in the ‘roaring’ years 1966–1968 Wim Blockmans revealed himself as one of the Young Turks (the label he once used himself ): a passionate spokesman for both the democratisation of the stuck administrative structure of the traditional university with its ‘ivory tower’ strategy to protect an unassailable ‘mandarin class’ that held the chairs, and a modernisation of the old-fashioned curriculum. The latter, in the eyes of promising young scholars like Blockmans, was too much directed at the development of technical skills through endless drilling in auxiliary sciences. The approach of history in general was too diachronic, ‘eventual’, positivistic; too little based on theory formation and structural analysis of broad themes, on preference themes that had actual relevance. Wim Blockmans’ unease, the more painful because it also applied to his superior, Verhulst, revealed itself in attempts at serious reform of the History curriculum, and, with Prevenier, he became one of the driving forces at the Ghent History department behind the setting up of graduate ‘seminars’, on which both graduate students and teaching staff would discuss, in regular sessions, such broad, and socially relevant, themes as ‘poverty’, ‘disease’ and ‘the living standard’. On the other hand, there was little expectation for him to obtain a tenured position which would have given him the opportunity to further expand his ideas on the renovation of academic teaching and research. For that reason, Wim’s appointment as a reader (lector) in Social and Political History at the Erasmus University of Rotterdam (the Netherlands) in 1975 hardly came as a surprise. Social scientist or social historian? At the time of Wim Blockmans’ arrival in Rotterdam, the Erasmus University did not yet have a History Department, but history was taught in the Faculties of Law, Economics and Social Sciences. In the late 1970s the historians appointed in these three faculties took the initiative to create a new, interfacultary, department of history, which started its courses in 1978 under the name of Maatschappijgeschiedenis (litterally: ‘History of Society’). Although Blockmans never had himself appointed in the new department, he was one of its architects, a role he could develop after his appointment, for a four-year term, as Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences. One of the innovations he advocated was to replace the time-honoured periodization of 6

Bryce Lyon, review of W.P. Blockmans, De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen in de overgang van Middeleeuwen naar Nieuwe Tijden (1384–1506), Brussels: Paleis der Academiën, 1978, Speculum 56 (1981) 96–99.

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European history in Antiquity-Middle Ages–Early Modern period–Modern period – with a divide in European history between a pre-industrial and an industrial period. On a purely professional level, the ‘Rotterdam period’ further sharpened Wim Blockmans’ profile of a skilled historian, trained in the best university tradition, who at the same time was determined to operate as a social scientist (sociologist, political scientist). During these years, his professional trademark was gradually revealed, i.e. the constant alternation between expertly executed historical studies of concrete cases, most often related to late medieval Flanders and, later, Holland, with systemic, schematic, methodical overviews based on a thorough acquaintance with both social scientific theory and general history, and aimed at typology, patterning, generalization, and international comparison. Even so, when looking back at this exciting episode of his career from Leiden, his new home base since 1987, Wim Blockmans sounded slightly disappointed (or maybe just ‘older and wiser’): in the end, ‘Erasmus’ had not really been interested in expanding the historical discipline; the social history department was constantly marginalized. He also had to admit that structures weren’t that easy to change as he had thought and hoped for, because so much depended on the persons who made them up. And, yes, his belief in progress in the 1970s had perhaps been a bit naïve, but did the same not hold true for many other representatives of his generation?7 Blockmans took the Leiden chair of Medieval History in 1987, an opportunity that came by tragically, after the unexpected death of his predecessor, H.P.H. Jansen. In a sense, this opportunity has saved Wim Blockmans for the Middle Ages, an historical period that had not been the focus of his teaching duties in Rotterdam. Just the same, he made a point of expanding his teaching efforts in Leiden from the History Department to the Faculty of Social Sciences, in which for many years he taught a course of European Political History, and he continued publishing regularly on contemporary political issues in Belgium and The Netherlands. Wim Blockmans’ move to Leiden also marked his final recognition as one of The Netherlands’ top intellectuals in the field of the Humanities. His admission as a member of the Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences (KNAW) at a relatively young age testifies to that. Its culmination would follow in 2002, with his appointment as rector of the NIAS (Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study) in Wassenaar, the most prestigious institute for research in the Humanities and Social Sciences in The Netherlands. In between he received the membership of numerous learned 7

See especially the Leidschrift interview with Peer Vries of the Leiden History Department (cf. note 1).

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societies: the British Academy, the Royal Historical Society, the Academia Europaea, the Royal Flemish Academy of Belgium for Science and the Arts, the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Verfassungsgeschichte, the Hollandsche Maatschappij voor Wetenschappen. Flemish sources Wim Blockmans’ impressive career as a professional historian went accompanied by an equally impressive scholarly output, spanning over forty years, from his first published article in 1968 until now.8 It is not easy to know the exact number of scholarly publications in which Blockmans, as an author or editor, was involved, but by any count that was made in preparation of this article, it easily exceeds 250. Throughout most of this period he has remained active at both extremes of the spectrum in which historians deploy their skills: at one end, the meticulous transcription and edition of primary sources, at the other end, the construction of broad theories and the design of comparative models and typologies inspired by the social sciences. If Blockmans’ reputation rests on the latter, the former should not be forgotten: the six bulky volumes in the series Handelingen van de leden en van de Staten van Vlaanderen (‘Proceedings of the [Four] Members and of the Estates of Flanders in the Burgundian period’), published between 1971 and 2006 for the Royal Historical Commission of Belgium attest to a yearlong and very labour-intensive effort. It did provide Wim Blockmans with an incredibly detailed knowledge of the workings of late medieval Flemish politics from the central to the local levels of public administration and jurisdiction, and, through this,with the empirical underpinning of many of his more theoretical publications. Cities & states However, as just said, Wim Blockmans’ international fame rests first and foremost on his theoretical reflections on such core themes of medieval history as ‘state formation’, ‘[state] power’, ‘urbanization’, and ‘popular representation’. They all recur over the years, not in a purely repetitive way however, but ever more fully developed, refined and polished, rephrased and restated, broadened or intermixed. The best example of that intermixing is of course the integration of the themes of urbanization and state formation. Earlier elaborations can be found in two articles from 1988: ‘Alternatives to monarchical centralization’ and ‘Princes conquérants’, which has as subtitle, in English, ‘the weight of urban networks to state formation’. The first 8

His first published article was ‘De samenstelling van de Staten van de Bourgondische landsheerlijkheden omstreeks 1464’, Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’États 47 (1968) 59–112. The copy of the same publication in the Leiden Repositorium (cf Selective Bibliography, sub 4) has a dedication, in Wim’s own hand, of his ‘first one’ to ‘Anneke’, i.e. his wife, An Delva.

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is based on the well-known fact that the large Flemish towns have repeatedly and violently resisted their incorporation into, first, the Burgundian state complex, and then, the Habsburg Empire. The second one, after a short reference to Norbert Elias’ proposal of describing state formation as a process of increasing control over the means to use physical violence by a central public authority, and an outline of (then) recent theories of urbanization of De Vries, and Hohenberg & Lees, poses the (evidently related) question why in the late Middle Ages, territorial and ‘composite’ states grew more powerful in areas that were little urbanized. Blockmans’ obvious answer is that highly urbanized areas with important economic and commercial interests were able to organize representative institutions earlier, better, and more frequently than did rural areas or land-locked agrarian states. Such institutions provided rising states with a consequential political counterweight, and in that sense, urbanization was ‘a serious obstacle to state formation’, the more so because the development of urban networks (including various late medieval hansa’s) was often ahead of the development of the state. For that reason, the extension and reinforcement of state power in highly urbanized areas, such as Flanders, turned out to be a slow process, with many setbacks, that was firmly controled, and if necessary actively resisted, by (large) towns. Evidently, the growth of the Burgundian-Habsburg state - or multi[ple] state? - offers a most fascinating example of confrontation between ever more powerful princes and equally powerful towns, that, however, were internally divided over particularistic interests, and, therefore, doomed to be left with the short end of the stick. In other parts of Europe, the relationship between princes and towns was far more one of strategic cooperation (e.g. King of France and his bonnes [= loyal] villes). To a certain extent, such different outcomes can be seen as successive stages on a long-term track. During the initial phase of urban (and commercial) expansion, princes, as lords of towns, profited from the new opportunities for centralized accumulation (through taxation) that occurred. But the stronger towns became in economic and political terms, the better they were able to resist the demands of the state. These basic ideas were more fully elaborated in the two successive versions of ‘Voracious states and obstructing cities’, published for the first time in 1989 in Theory & Society, and for the second time, in an extended and revised version, in Cities and the rise of states in Europe, A.D. 1000 to 1800, that appeared in 1994. The article’s title neatly summarizes the author’s point: late medieval states were voracious while cities were obstructing. Or, more precisely, the long-term relationship between towns and states changes course: while the rise of the [modern] ‘state’ in later medieval Europa initially went off most succesfully in areas of high urbanization, towns subsequently obstructed (further) centralization. But this time, both parties involved are

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more clearly, and typically for Wim Blockmans’ work, modeled in their historical trajectory, which runs from an initial ‘stateless society’ (pinned down at the year 750) until the era of national states, topped off with supranational organizations, of our own time. Urban development has been ‘mapped’ according to Jan de Vries’ urban potential theory. Subsequently, the relationship between cities/towns and states is analyzed in terms of ‘bargaining’ positions. In addition to completely autonomous metropoles, such as Dubrovnik and Novgorod, there were semi-autonomous ‘bargaining metropoles’, in which ‘expanding trading cities’ were confronted with ‘feudal powers’ of all sorts; and ‘smaller bargaining networks’, i.e. not very highly urbanized regions, such as Central Europe, Piedmont or France during the Hundred Years’War, in which power relations between crown, nobility and towns were more balanced. Down under this hierarchy were ‘dependent towns’ in sparsely urbanized areas such as eastern Europe. If they were not already dominated by the high nobility, they got ‘refeudalized’ around the beginning of the early modern period; this prevented the state from reaching its subjects directly, especially in view of taxation. In sum, relations between cities and states developed according to ‘changing relative power positions’ that could be further complicated by ‘changing coalitions between the weaker partners in the polity against the mightier’.9 The fifteenth century turned out to be the turning point in the continuous tug-of war between cities and monarchical states on the European political theatre. The final victory was for the (monarchical/princely) state against which ‘urban centers did not succeed in creating [sufficiently] coherent and stable power structures, unless (1) urban potential was extremely high (..)(as in northern Italy and the Low Countries in the revolt of the sixteenth century) and (2) feudal power was extremely weak (as in Switzerland and Holland)’.10 Medieval towns (urbanization, urban societies, urban economies) Of the two components, cities/towns and the rise of states, the latter has always taken precedence in Wim Blockmans’ research agenda. But he never neglected urban history: urbanization, urban networks, urban economy & society, and urban government always remained important themes that regularly recurred. This constant goes back to Wim’s postgraduate years in Ghent, when he worked under the supervision of Verhulst, who was an early mediaevalist specialized in economic history, and with a keen interest in the origins of such phenomena as manors and towns in Carolingian and post-Carolingian Flanders. Blockmans’ efforts in ‘straight’ economic and social history have always been directed towards the Late Middle Ages, and altogether more to 9 10

‘Voracious states and obstructing cities’ (1994) 241. Ibidem, 243.

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the urban than the rural environment – although he published articles on ‘the profitability of sheep rearing in fifteenth-century Brabant’ (1970) and, much later, on rural communities in preindustrial Flanders (1987) as well as on peasant protest and peasant revolts (1974; 1998). Within Wim Blockmans’ numerous publications on urban history in the narrower sense, a handful of sublines can be distinguished. The oldest has to do with social structures, a line that initially was geared toward the theme of poverty and poor relief in Flanders and Brabant, with an additional excursion to epidemic disease, and its social and economic effects. But, as could be expected, his treatment of the social structure of specific medieval towns was from the start alternated with more generalizing and comparative historiographic surveys, e.g. on the necessity of ‘integrated social history’(1971); on social change in the late Middle Ages (1980); on new research orientations in social history (1983); on formal versus informal social structures in the large towns of Flanders (1994); on the alternation of extended phases of growth and contraction in urbanization (2009). A second subline, the study of urban networks, had this more comparative and systemic approach from the start; it was closely connected to the new urban history that was flourishing since the 1980s. Related are a number of articles on the phenomenon of fairs, hansa’s, and the development of financial instruments in the later medieval period. Finally, two other sublines link urban history to the theme of politics and state formation. One is directed to urban government, in particular to the mobility in city magistracies in Flanders and Holland, and to their representation in meetings of Estates; the other to the extension of the monopoly of violence of public authorities at the expense of all kinds of forms of private violence and violent ‘self-help’, in particular feuding. State formation: models and typologies Even more sustained than these persistent interventions in the field of urban history is Blockmans’ involvement in the history of state formation, that momentous process of the rise of ‘modern’ states in Europe that had gone on its way by the end of the Middle Ages. This very festschrift testifies to the general recognition that Wim is one of the worlds leading experts on this theme. Once again, several sublines can be detected, some more aimed at generalization and the construction of models, others more to subaspects. Certainly in the first category are publications on early state typology, which go back to the article ‘To control and to persuade’ (‘Beheersen en overtuigen’) in the Dutch journal for social and economic history of 1990, which boiled down to the typology of states that Blockmans presented on several occasions – in the successive Dutch and English editions of the textbook Introduction to Medieval Europe, until his contribution on ‘Citizens and their rulers’ in the recent volume Empowering interactions (2009), of

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which he was one of the co-editors. Also in this more generalizing category belong those publications in which the concept of state is closely linked to that of power – again a Dhondtian inheritance. Maybe the first serious attempts were two articles published in 1993: ‘Pluriformity of European state formation’ (originally in Dutch) and ‘The origins of modern states’ (originally in French). Both are reflections on the theorizing historiography of the state, embodied in the work of Norbert Elias, Perry Anderson, Immanuel Wallerstein, Theda Skocpol, Charles Tilly, Michael Mann, JeanPhilippe Genet, and Wolfgang Reinhard. They [the articles] raise a number of basic questions worth of being explored in more detail, e.g. on the capacity of states, c.q. the ability of rulers to mobilize resources, on how to generate and maintain supportive loyalty on the regional and local levels, etcetera. All such questions were addressed again in Wim Blockmans’ monograph on the History of Power in Europe, that appeared simultaneously in six European languages in 1997 on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Treaty of Rome. None other than Jacques Delors, then President of the European Commission, provided the sturdy volume with a forword. Its point of departure was the observation that the long-term political history of Europe was charaterized by two ‘contrary movements’ – one towards the establishment of empires that in the end proved to be quite powerless, the other towards the formation of national states that grew ever more powerful. To find an answer to this puzzle with its paradoxical outcome, research, according to Blockmans, had to focus on the interplay of three ‘integrative forces’: the political system, the nation, and the market – not (surprisingly?) religion (the integrating role of Christianity and the Church was a derivative of state power in the author’s view). The chapters that follow are carefully built around this model: territorialization, (human and other) resources, the transition of private to public forms of power, violent competition and the role of war, bureaucratization, court culture and the development of representative participation in state government, the construction of the European ‘state system’, the impact of the industrial revolution, the demographic transition, the globalization of enterprise, all got their place assigned. Besides this work on the ‘macrohistory’ of the state, that has been partly conceptual, partly aimed at a broad survey of European history, Wim Blockmans has paid attention, in a large number of articles, to every possible single aspect of the state formation process and its centralizing tendencies: bureaucratization and professionalization of government (and its downside: corruption and power brokerage); the creation of hierarchy in the administration of justice; fiscalization; princely presentation, propaganda and public ceremony; popular representation and the ‘emotional’ involvement of subjects; ‘particularism’ and the reinforcement of local and regional versus ‘[supra]national’ identities; resistance and revolt.

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It is almost a matter of course that of all these themes the evolution of representative institutions never stopped showing up. Immediately after the defense of his Ph D thesis Blockmans had started to publish on the ‘typology’ of medieval representative institutions (for the first time in 1974), and this would be a project that he repeatedly took up again in the decades after, until its culmination by the turn of the century, with his long and authoritative treatment of the theme of ‘Representation’ in volume VII of The New Cambridge Medieval History (1998). In this piece, the classical hypothesis on the connection between centralization of government and the rise of representative institutions in later medieval Europe by the German historian Otto Hinze is taken as the starting point for a comparative overview based on a broad definition of representation. The analytical framework is determined by five factors: the strength of the ruling dynasty, physical scale of the political entity, its social and economic structure (and especially the levels of commercialization and urbanization), its wider geopolitical ‘context’, and its ‘institutional traditions’. The comparative analysis that follows, ranges from the Spanish kingdoms, the Papal State and Sicily, via France and the Empire and its constituent principalities to the Scandinavian kingdoms, Hungary and Poland. Evidently, the growing need of princes for money has been a pivotal factor in the further, and divergent, development of representative instutions, as was the ability of their subjects to organize and to mobilize resources – which was primarily dependent on the level of urbanization. Wim Blockmans concludes that, when overlooking the medieval origins of representative institutions, one can distinguish two distinct, and in a sense contradictory, Idealtypische models: a top-down, monarchical model, comprising all representative institutions that took shape ‘on behalf of monarchies in need of political and material support’ versus a bottom-up, communal, model, covering those assemblies that originated ‘as a spontaneous action of communities defending their collective interests’.11 Representative institutions in general, but those answering the first model in particular, proved to be very vulnerable by the end of the medieval period, most of all because ‘the sense of community in all sections of society remained far behind the means of centralisation at the disposal of princes’.12 Under the spell of Burgundy If Wim Blockmans’ typological studies of representative institutions were based on his own detailed investigation of popular representation in late medieval Flanders, his more theoretical and historiographical essays on state building crystallized in two other ‘Flanders-related’ research projects: 11 12

‘Representation’ (1998) 61. Ibidem, 64.

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one on the Burgundian multistate, the other on the towering figure of Charles V, statesman par excellence at the beginning of the early modern period, and a son of Ghent on top of that. In the former, Walter Prevenier was Blockmans’ firm guide and companion. The first step was taken in 1983, when they published what may have been intended initially as a coffee table book for a large audience: De Bourgondische Nederlanden (‘The Burgundian Netherlands’), beautifully illustrated but at the same time well written and based on the best scholarly insights available. In a sense the book also revealed Wim Blockmans’ ‘secret’ passion for art history, that certainly was fed by his wife, An Delva, who is a medievalist herself and usually illustrates Wim’s books. His art-historical interest resulted in a number of articles on artistic production (including manuscript illumination) and the art market in the Burgundian period. The Burgundian Netherlands was a major success, and soon translations were made in French, English, and German. The follow-up appeared in 1988 as In de ban van Bourgondië (‘Under Burgundy’s spell’), which despite its romantic title was a more prosaic version of its 1983 predecessor: more text against less illustrations. An enlarged reedition was published in 1997, now called De Bourgondiërs: de Nederlanden op weg naar eenheid, 1384–1530 (‘The Burgundians: the Low Countries on their way to unity, 1384–1530’), immediately followed by an English translation, published in the US as The promised lands: the Low Countries under Burgundian rule, 1369–1530 – mark the quote from Philippe de Commynes and the absence of any reference to the political unification of the Low Countries in the title of the English version, besides the different dates. All these successive works offered the perfect supplement to Richard Vaughan’s monumental biographies of the Dukes of Burgundy, still indispensable as works of reference for any scholarly research into the Burgundian period, but not very practical as an overview of broad outlines and structuring patterns. That is exactly what the Burgundian books by Blockmans & Prevenier offer: they present in 250 pages of text a chronological-thematical survey of the fascinating expansion of the House of Burgundy in the Low Countries, whether or not their lands should be qualified as one state – a point that Blockmans has always been somewhat ambiguous about.13 Whatever the case, state formation and state power are an important leitmotiv in the monographs on Burgundy, both externally, in terms of dynastic 13

Whereas the Introduction to De Bourgondiërs without much ado refers to ‘the Burgundian state in the Low Countries’ (p. 10), in Blockmans’ successive typologies of states ‘the Low Countries under the Houses of Burgundy and Habsburg’ are classified under the heading of ‘personal unions of territorial principalities in which each of the constituent entities kept its own institutions, but the prince determined a common policy’ (e.g. ‘Citizens and their rulers’, 2009, p. 285).

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politics and international relationships, and internally, in terms of the power balance between princes and towns, of ‘centralistic ambitions’ and real centralization of government etcetera – with the curbing of royal power in France, a Holy war against the Turcs, or the restoration of the ancient kingdom of Lotharingia always in the back of the dukes’ minds. A dramatic turning point was reached under the government of Charles the Bold, when the fuses of state power had blown, while Charles overplayed his hand in an attempt to (re)conquer Lorraine. The dreams of an emperor However, when Wim Blockmans chose a statesman to personify the process of state formation, it was not Charles the Bold he picked out – already ‘portrayed’ in detailed and revealing recent biographies by Vaughan and Paravicini – nor his daughter Mary of Burgundy or his son-in-law, Maximilian of Austria, but his great-grandson, the Emperor Charles V. Blockmans’ new biography appeared right in time for the commemoration of the 500th birthday of the Emperor in 2000. Around the same event a number of volumes of articles appeared; Wim Blockmans was the co-editor of two of them, one together with Hugo Soly, the other with Nicolette Mout. It was not Wim’s intention to write a new biography of Charles V in the classical political-historical tradition, but rather to probe the tension between ‘the will of a man who by some whim of fate had at his disposal an excessive measure of power, and the straitjacket of structures.’14 In many respects, Charles V symbolizes a new era, which heralded the end of a feudal world characterized by extreme political fragmentation. Charles’ princely titles comprised dozens of kingdoms, duchies, counties and lordships, and the illusion was to rule them all even-handedly, as a single new-style monarch. This was indeed dreaming of utopia, because in reality, by giving shape to the territorial ambitions that went with his immense territorial possessions, Charles was swept away in an avalanche of wars and war-like operations in France, Italy, Hungary, North-Africa, and the Low Countries. This created immense financial problems which could only partly be solved by the increasing influx of bullion from the America’s; most of it had to come from taxes which subjects were not always willing to pay; what with a sovereign who was always somewhere but never there? In that sense, the world of Charles V was inevitably the world of high finance, in which the Fugger and the Welser, the Grimaldi and Spinola, the Schetz from Antwerp and the Ducci from Pistoia all pulled their weight. As a judge of the Emperor’s policies and political ‘feeling’, Wim Blockmans is quite severe. For example, in his evaluation of Charles’ religious policy in Germany and the Low Countries, 14

Translated from the Dutch text: Keizer Karel V (1999) 8.

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he blames him for being spoonfed by the popes, for his laxness in finding an autonomous solution for the problems in his northern lands, and for his refusal to make himself better acquainted with the ideas of the Reformation. Blockmans also paints a rather dark picture of Charles V ‘the man’, who was a cold fish, and ‘instrumental’ in his association with other people, even close relatives. His own children were before anything else pawns in international politics, his brothers and sisters servants of the Empire. The political decision-making for the Empire – as a shorthand for the sum total of all Charles’ territories – was in fact extremely centralized (after medieval tradition). All important decisions were made in the Emperor’s personal political ‘council’; it made the great-chancellor (the Piemontese Mercurino da Gattinara until 1530, the Spanish nobleman Francisco de los Cobos and the lord of Granvelle in the Franche Comté, Nicholas Perrenot, after that year) the most powerful man of the Empire. Post scriptum In a summary overview like this it is impossible to do justice to all historical investigations, solidified in MA theses and Ph D dissertations, that have been accomplished under Wim Blockmans’s ever watchful and interested eye. He was the supervisor or co-supervisor of 35 PhD dissertations alone, on subjects ranging from the political thought of the Dutch revolt to diagrammatic representation in Artes texts from the later Middle Ages.15 Neither was an effort made to measure the impact of Wim’s own publications, but one just has to scan the footnotes and indexes of books and volumes on all major subjects that he has covered to realize that it must be huge. And, of course, to really get an idea of the influence Wim Blockmans had, and still has, in the history world, one should take into account his membership of various national academies of science already mentioned, review committees for research quality assessments, and steering committees of international conferences and large-scale research programme’s, as well as of general editorial boards of large publication series. As to the latter I just mention Wim’s positions as president of the European Science Foundation’s Standing Committee for the Humanities in the 1990s, of the same ESF’s study group ‘A historical perspective on trans-cultural/trans-national identities in Europe’ (since 2002), and of the Scientific Committee of the Fondazione Istituto Internazionale di Storia Economica ‘F. Datini’ at Prato since 2006. Highly acclaimed among the international publication series that were brought about under his general (co)editorship is the ESF-sponsored,

15

There is a full list in: Mario Damen and Louis Sicking (eds), Bourgondië voorbij: De Nederlanden 1250–1650. Liber alumnorum Wim Blockmans (Hilversum 2010) 460–464.

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seven-volume Origins of the Modern State in Europe (Oxford: OUP/Paris: PUF 1995–1999; co-editor: Jean-Philippe Genet). This is only a small sample of Wim Blockmans’ ‘scientific entrepreneurship’, an aspect of our professional lives whose importance he understood long before many of his colleagues did. ‘Knowledge is power’, a well-known proverb states. But few who have knowledge know how to get power over knowledge itself. Wim Blockmans is definitely one of them. Both in terms of content and communication, and with respect to the organisation and institutionalization of scholarship and learning, he is in firm command. Selective bibliography 1. source editions Handelingen van de leden en van de Staten van Vlaanderen – excerpten uit de rekeningen van de Vlaamse steden en kasselrijen en van de vorstelijke ambtenaren. De regering van Karel de Stoute (1467–1477) (Brussels 1971). Handelingen van de leden en van de Staten van Vlaanderen – excerpten uit de rekeningen van de Vlaamse steden en kasselrijen en van de vorstelijke ambtenaren. De regering van Maria van Bourgondië en Filips de Schone (5 januari 1477–26 september 1506). Vol. 1. Tot de Vrede van Kadzand (1492) (Brussels 1973). Vol. 2. Na de Vrede van Kadzand (1492) (Brussels 1982). Handelingen van de leden en van de Staten van Vlaanderen – excerpten uit de rekeningen van de Vlaamse steden en kasselrijen en van de vorstelijke ambtenaren. De regering van Filips de Goede (10 september 1419–15 juni 1467). Vol. 1. Tot de onderwerping van Brugge (4 maart 1438) (Brussel 1990); Vol. 2. Vanaf de onderwerping van Brugge (4 maart 1438) (Brussel 1995); Vol. 3 [m.m.v. Justine Smithuis] Overzichtstabel en indices (Brussel 2006).

2. monographs De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen in de overgang van Middeleeuwen naar Nieuwe Tijden (1384–1506)(Brussels 1978). 671 p. [orig. Ph.D Ghent University 1973; 3 vols.] Veranderende samenlevingen: de Europese expansie in historisch perspektief (Kapellen 1978). Mobiliteit van cultuurdragers: zwaartepunten in de Bourgondische Nederlanden (Zutphen 1981) [inaugural lecture Erasmus University, Rotterdam] 32 p.

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[with Walter Prevenier], De Bourgondische Nederlanden (Antwerp 1983). 404 p. French translation: Les Pays-Bas bourguignons (Paris 1983). 404 p. English translation: The Burgundian Netherlands (Cambridge 1986). 403 p. German translation: Die ([Weinheim] 1986). 406 p.

burgundischen

Niederlande

Een middeleeuwse vendetta: Gent 1300 (Houten1987). 160 p. De herleving van de middeleeuwen (Leiden 1988)(inaugural lecture Leiden University]. 20 p. [with Walter Prevenier], In de ban van Bourgondië (Houten 1988). 174 p. Geschiedenis van de macht in Europa. Volkeren, markten, staten (Antwerpen 1997). 402 p. Also published in French, English, German, Spanish and Italian. [with Walter Prevenier], De Bourgondiërs. De Nederlanden op weg naar eenheid, 1384–1530. (Amsterdam/Leuven 1997). 288 p. Revised English translation: The promised lands: the Low Countries under Burgundian rule, 1369–1530 (Philadelphia 1999). 285 p. Cultuur en commercie: Beschouwingen over onze cultuur en haar wetenschappen (Den Haag 1998) [NWO/OKW voorjaarslezing, 21 april 1998] Keizer Karel V, 1500–1558. De utopie van het keizerschap (Louvain, s.a. [2000]). 286 p. English translation: Emperor Charles V, 1500–1558 (London/ New York 2001). 193 p. Spanish translation: Carlos V: la utopía del imperio (Madrid [2000]). 243 p. Revised Dutch edition: Karel V: keizer van een wereldrijk 1500– 1558 (Kampen 2008). 286 p. [with Peter Hoppenbrouwers], Eeuwen des onderscheids. Een geschiedenis van middeleeuws Europa (Amsterdam 2002). 476 p. Enlarged English translation: Introduction to medieval Europe, 300–1550 (London/New York 2007). 372 p.

3a. edited volumes [et al.] (eds), Studiën betreffende de sociale strukturen te Brugge, Kortrijk en Gent in de 14e en 15e eeuw [with an introduction by H. van Werveke and J.A. van Houtte]. 3 Vols. (Kortrijk/Heule 1971–1973)(Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’États; 54, 57, and 63).

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(ed.), Jan Dhondt, Estates or powers: essays in the parliamentary history of the Southern Netherlands from the XIIth to the XVIIIth century (Brussels 1977). 279 p. (ed.), Geschiedenis: prehistorie, oudheid, middeleeuwen (s.l. 1983)(Culturele Geschiedenis van Vlaanderen; 2). (ed.), Le privilège général et les privilèges régionaux de Marie de Bourgogne pour les Pays-Bas, 1477 (Kortrijk 1985). 541 p. [with H. van Nuffel](eds), État et religion aux XVe et XVIe siècles [actes du colloque à Bruxelles du 9 au 12 octobre 1984](Brussels 1986). 390 p. [with Jan Berting](eds), Beyond progress and development: macro-political and macro-societal change (Aldershot 1987). 93 p. [with L.A. van der Valk](eds), Van particuliere naar openbare zorg, en terug? Sociale politiek in Nederland sinds 1880 (Amsterdam 1992)(NEHA Series III; 15). 211 p. [with Jean-Philippe Genet](eds), Visions sur le développement des états européens. Theories et historiographie de l’état moderne. Actes du colloque organisé par la Fondation Européenne de la Science et l’Ecole Française de Rome. Rome, 18–31 mars 1990 (Rome 1993). 336 p. [with J.W. Steyvaert and M. Tahon-Vanroose](eds), Laatgotische beeldhouwkunst in de Bourgondische Nederlanden [exhibition catalogue](Ghent 1994). 352 p. [with Charles Tilly](eds), Cities and the rise of states in Europe, A.D. 1000–1800 (Boulder etc. 1994). 290 p. [with Marc Boone and Thérèse de Hemptinne](eds), Secretum scriptorum: liber alumnorum Walter Prevenier (Leuven 1999). 384 p. [with Antheun Janse](eds), Showing status: representation of social positions in the late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999). 491 p. [with Hugo Soly](eds), Karel V, 1500–1558: de keizer en zijn tijd (Antwerpen 1999). 529 p. German translation: Karl V und seine Zeit: 1500–1558 (Cologne 2000). 532 p. English translation: Charles V, 1500–1558, and his time (Antwerp 1999). 529 p. [with Nicolette Mout](eds), The world of Emperor Charles V [proceedings of the colloquium, Amsterdam 4–6 October 2000](Amsterdam 2004). 364 p. [with Herman Pleij](eds), Plaatsen van herinnering: Nederland van prehistorie tot Beeldenstorm (Amsterdam 2007). 564 p. [with André Holenstein and Jon Mathieu](eds), Empowering interactions: political cultures and the emergence of the state in Europe 1300–1900 (Farnham etc. 2009). 338 p.

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3b. general editorships (gen.ed.), The roots of western civilization. 12 Vols. (Hilversum/Weert 1992–1993). Also published in Dutch (as De wording van Europa) and in Finnish. [with Jean-Philippe Genet] (gen.ed.), The origins of the modern state in Europe: 13th to 18th centuries. 7 Vols. (Oxford 1995–2000).

4a. articles in Open Access (until 2005) The publications under section 4a are only Wim Blockmans’ articles that have been included in the Leiden University Repository (to be accessed via the Leiden University Library). The main consideration to print full title descriptions of them has been that, while most of these articles can be freely downloaded as full-text PDF files, their title descriptions in the Repository are often incomplete. The titles have been printed here in the order of their year of appearance, which does not always correspond to the order in the Repository. ‘De samenstelling van de Staten van de Bourgondische landsheerlijkheden omstreeks 1464’, Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 47 (1968) 59–112 [with R. van Uytven], ‘Constitutions and their application in the Netherlands during the Middle Ages’, Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 47 (1969) 399–424. ‘De rendabiliteit van de schapenteelt in Brabant tijdens de 15de eeuw. Het voorbeeld van het domein te Vossem van het Brusselse Apostelengodshuis’, Bijdragen tot de Geschiedenis 53 (1970) 113–25. [with R. van Uytven], ‘De noodzaak van een geïntegreerde sociale geschiedenis. Het voorbeeld van de Zuidnederlandse steden in de late middeleeuwen’, Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 84 (1971) 276–90. ‘La participation des sujets flamands à la politique monétaire des ducs de Bourgogne (1384–1500)’, Revue Belge de Numismatique 119 (1973) 103–34. ‘Autocratie ou polyarchie? La lutte pour le pouvoir politique en Flandre de 1482 à 1492, d’après des documents inédits’, Bulletin de la Commission Royale d’Histoire 140 (1974) 257–368. ‘Revolutionaire mechanismen in Vlaanderen van de 13de tot de 16de eeuw’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Wetenschappen 19 (1974) 123–40. ‘Typologie van de representatieve organen in Europa tijdens de late middeleeuwen’, Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 87 (1974) 483–502. [revised] English translation: ‘A typology of representative institutions in late medieval Europe’, Journal of Medieval History 4 (1978) 189–215.

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[with W. Prevenier], ‘Armoede in de Nederlanden van de 14e tot het midden van de 16e eeuw: bronnen en problemen’, Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 88 (1975) 501–38. English translation: ‘Poverty in Flanders and Brabant from the fourteenth to the mid-sixteenth century: sources and problems’, Acta Historiae Neerlandicae 10 (1978) 20–57. [with W. Prevenier], ‘Openbare armenzorg te ’s Hertogenbosch tijdens een groeifase, 1435–1535’, Annales de la Société Belge d’Histoire des Hôpitaux 12 (1976) 19–77. ‘Le régime représentatif en Flandre dans le cadre européen au bas moyen âge, avec un projet d’application des ordinateurs’, in: R.C. van Caenegem e.a., Album Elemér Mályusz (Brussels 1976) 211–45. [with P. van Peteghem], ‘De Pacificatie van Gent als uiting van kontinuïteit in de politieke opvattingen van de standenvertegenwoordiging’, Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 89 (1976) 322–34. [with P. van Peteghem], ‘La Pacification de Gand à la lumière d’un siècle de continuité constitutionnelle dans les Pays-Bas, 1477–1576’, in: R. Vierhaus (ed.), Herrschaftsverträge, Wahlkapitulationen, Fundamentalgesetze (Göttingen 1977) 220–34. ‘Mutaties van het politiek personeel in de steden Gent en Brugge tijdens een periode van regimewisselingen: het laatste kwart van de 15e eeuw’, Bronnen voor de geschiedenis van instellingen in België (Brussels 1977) 92–103. ‘Voor wijn en vis. Het politieke optreden van de Vlaamse kustplaatsen aan de vooravond van de nieuwe tijden’, Ostendiana 3 (1978) 119–34. [with F. Blockmans], ‘Devaluation, coinage and seignoriage under Louis de Nevers and Louis de Male, counts of Flanders, 1330–84’, in: N.J. Mayhew (ed.), Coinage in the Low Countries (880–1500)[Third Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History (Oxford 1979) 69–94. [with G. Pieters, W. Prevenier, and R.W.M. van Schaik], ‘Tussen crisis en welvaart; sociale verandering 1300–1500’, in: D.P. Blok e.a. (eds), Algemene Geschiedenis der Nederlanden Vol. 4 (Bussum 1980) 42–86. ‘De representatieve instellingen in het Zuiden’, in: D.P. Blok e.a. (eds), Algemene Geschiedenis der Nederlanden Vol. 4 (Bussum 1980) 156–63. ‘Vlaanderen 1384–1482’, in: D.P. Blok e.a. (eds), Algemene Geschiedenis der Nederlanden Vol. 4 (Bussum 1980) 201–23. ‘The social and economic effects of plague in the Low Countries, 1349–1500’, Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 58 (1980) 833–63. ‘Circumscribing the concept of poverty’, in: Th. Riis (ed.), Aspects of poverty in early modern Europe, Vol. I (Florence etc 1981) 39–45.

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Peter Hoppenbrouwers

‘Verwirklichungen und neue Orientierungen in der Sozialgeschichte der Niederlande im Spätmittelalter’, in: W. Ehbrecht & H. Schilling (eds), Niederlande und Nordwestdeutschland. Studien zur Regional- und Stadtgeschichte Nordwestkontinentaleuropas im Mittelalter und in das Neuzeit. [Franz Petri zum 80. Geburtstag] (Cologne/Vienna 1983) 41–60. ‘Du contrat féodal à la souveraineté du peuple. Les précédents de la déchéance de Philippe II dans les Pays-Bas (1581)’, in: a.a.v.v., Assemblee di Stati ed istituzioni rappresentative nella storia del pensiero politico moderno (secoli XV–XX). Atti del convegno internazionale, Perugia 16–18 settembre 1982 (Rimini 1983) 135–50. ‘Die Niederlande vor und nach 1400: eine Gesellschaft in der Krise?’, in: F. Seibt and W. Eberhard (eds), Europa 1400. Die Krise des Spätmittelalters (Stuttgart 1984) 117–32. ‘Financiers italiens et flamands aux XIIIe–XIVe siècles’, in: B. Dini (ed.), Aspetti della vita economica medioevale [Atti del convegno della morte di Federigo Melis] (Florence 1985) 192–214. ‘Van buitenaf bekeken. Buitenlandse historici over staatsvorming in de Nederlanden’, Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 100 (1985) 588–605. ‘La position du comté de Flandre dans le royaume à la fin du XVe siècle’, in: Bernard Chevalier and Philippe Contamine (eds), La France de la fin du XVe siècle – renouveau et apogée: économie, pouvoirs, arts, culture et consciences nationales (Paris 1985) 71–89. ‘Corruptie, patronage, makelaardij en venaliteit als symptomen van een ontluikende staatsvorming’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 11 (1985) 231–47. ‘Vertretungssysteme im Niederländischen Raum im Spätmittelalter’, Der Ost- und Nordseeraum. Hansische Studien 7 (1986) 180–9. ‘Les institutions représentatives de 1576 à 1609 dans les Pays-Bas’, in: A. Stegmann (ed.), Pouvoir et institutions en Europe au XVIe siècle. Vingt-septième colloque international d’études humanistes (Tours 1987) 131–9. [with J. Mertens and A. Verhulst], ‘Les communautés rurales d’Ancien Régime en Flandre: caractéristiques et essai d’interprétation comparative’, in: Les communautés rurales/ Rural communities. Vol. 5 (Paris 1987) 223–48 [Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin; 44]. ‘Het wisselingsproces van de Gentse schepenen tijdens de 15de eeuw’, Handelingen van de Maatschappij voor Geschiedenis en Oudheidkunde Gent 41 (1987) 75–96. ‘Finances publiques et inégalité sociale dans les Pays-Bas aux XIVe-XVIe siècles’, in: J.-Ph. Genet and M. Le Mené (eds), Genèse de l’état moderne: prélèvement et redistribution (Paris 1987) 77–90.

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‘Mobiliteit in stadsbesturen, 1400–1550’, in: D.E.H. de Boer and J.W. Marsilje (eds), De Nederlanden in de late middeleeuwen (Utrecht 1987) 236–60. ‘“Beziel tot hooger leven!” Sociaal-democratische cultuurpolitiek in Nederland tijdens het Interbellum’, in Jan Berting, Jan Breman, and Percy B. Lehning (eds), Mensen, macht en maatschappij: een bundel sociaal-wetenschappelijke opstellen (Meppel 1987) 189–209. ‘Political culture in Belgium’, in: M. Wintle and P. Vincent (eds), Modern Dutch studies. Essays in honour of Peter King, Professor of Modern Dutch Studies at the University of Hull, on the occasion of his retirement (London etc. 1988) 209–22. ‘Princes conquérants et bourgeois calculateurs. Le poids des réseaux urbains dans la formation des états’, in: N. Bulst and J. Ph. Genet (eds), La ville, la bourgeoisie et la genèse de l’état moderne (XIIe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris 1988) 167–81. ‘Alternatives to monarchical centralization: the great tradition of revolt in Flanders and Brabant’, in: H.G. Koenigsberger (ed.), Republiken und Republikanismus im Europa der frühen Neuzeit (Munich 1988) 145–54. ‘Die Schlacht von Worringen im Selbstverständnis der Niederländer und Belgier’, Blätter für Deutsche Landesgeschichte 125 (1989) 98–107. ‘Vete, partijstrijd en staatsmacht: een vergelijking (met de nadruk op Vlaanderen)’, in: J.W. Marsilje (ed.), Bloedwraak, partijstrijd en pacificatie in laat-middeleeuws Holland (Hilversum 1990) 9–33. ‘Les origines des états modernes en Europe, XIIIe–XVIIIe siècles: état de la question et perspectives’, Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique 61 (1990) 331–347 [reprinted in: idem and J.Ph. Genet (eds), Visions sur le développement des États européens. Theories et historiographies de l’État moderne (Rome 1993) 1–14]. ‘L’histoire parlementaire dans les Pays-Bas, XIIe–XVIIe siècles’, in: J. Valdeón Baruque (ed.), Las Cortes de Castilla y León 1188–1988, 2 Vols (Léon 1990) Vol. 2, 171–92. ‘Beheersen en overtuigen. Reflecties bij nieuwe visies op staatsvorming’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 16 (1990) 18–30. ‘Das westeuropäische Messenetz im 14. und 15. Jahrhundert’, in: R. Koch (gen.ed.), Brücke zwischen den Völkern – Zur Geschichte der Frankfurter Messe. 3 Vols. (Frankfurt a/M 1991) Vol. 1, H. Pohl (ed.), Frankfurt im Messenetz – Erträge der Forschung, 37–50. ‘The devotion of a lonely Duchess’, in: Th. Kren (ed.), Margaret of York, Simon Marmion, and The Visions of Tondal (Santa Monica 1992) 29–46.

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‘From a typology of representation towards the localisation of power centres’, in: H.W. Blom, W.P. Blockmans and H. de Schepper (eds), Bicameralism (The Hague 1992) 41–50. ‘Des systèmes urbains: pourquoi?’, in: Le réseau urbain en Belgique dans un perspective historique (1350–1850). Une approche statistique et dynamique. 15e colloque international, Spa, 4–6 septembre 1990 (Brussels 1992) 243–48. ‘De veelvormigheid van de Europese staatsvorming’, Antropologische Verkenningen 12 (1993) 72–87. ‘Der holländische Durchbruch in der Ostsee’, in: S. Jenks & M. North (eds), Der hansische Sonderweg? Beiträge zur Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte der Hanse (Cologne etc 1993) 49–58. ‘Aux origines des foires d’Anvers’, in: Commerce, finance et société, XIe–XVIe siècles (Paris 1993) 21–26. [Reprinted in Fr. Irsigler and M. Pauly (eds), Foires, marches annuels et développement urbain en Europe (Trier 2007)161–6]. ‘The economic expansion of Holland and Zeeland in the fourteenth-sixteenth centuries’, in E.Aerts e.a. (eds), Studia historica oeconomica. Liber amicorum Herman van der Wee (Louvain 1993) 41–58. ‘Reconstructing the development of governmental organisation: Tasks and limitations in source publication’, in: A.J. Veenendaal jr. & J. Roelevink (eds), Unlocking government archives of the early modern period (The Hague 1993) 56–66. ‘Formale und informelle soziale Strukturen in und zwischen den großen flämischen Städten im Spätmittelalter’, in: P. Johanek (ed.), Einungen und Bruderschaften in der spätmittelalterlichen Stadt (Köln 1994) 1–15. ‘Regionale Identität und staatliche Integration in den Niederlanden 13.–16. Jahrhundert’, in: A. Czacharowski (ed.), Nationale, ethnische Minderheiten und regionale Identitäten in Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Torún 1994) 137–49. ‘Emotionele binding van onderdanen. Een beschouwing naar aanleiding van recente discussies over de vorming en desintegratie van staten en naties’, Beleid en Maatschappij 1994/1–2, 6–14. ‘Privaat en openbaar domein. Hollandse ambtenaren voor de rechter onder de Bourgondiërs’, in: J.-M. Duvosquel and E. Thoen (eds), Peasants and townsmen in medieval Europe. Studia in honorem Adriaan Verhulst (Ghent 1995) 707–19. ‘The creative environment: Incentives to and functions of Bruges art production’, in: M.W. Ainsworth (ed.), Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges. An interdisciplinary approach (New York/Turnhout 1995) 11–20.

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‘La Joyeuse Entrée de Jeanne de Castille à Bruxelles en 1496’, in: J. Lechner and H. den Boer (eds), España y Holanda. Dialogos Hispanicos 16 (1996) 27–42. [with L. Heerma van Voss], ‘Urban networks and emerging states in the North Sea and Baltic areas: a maritime culture?’, in J. Roding and L. Heerma van Voss (eds), The North Sea 1550–1800, a cultural unity? (Hilversum 1996) 10–20. ‘The Burgundian court and the urban milieu as patrons in 15th century Bruges’, in: M. North (ed.), Economic history and the Arts (Cologne 1996) 15–26. ‘La manipulation du consensus. Systèmes de pouvoir à la fin du moyen âge’, in: S. Gensini (ed.), Principi e città alla fine del medioevo (Rome/Pisa 1996) 433–47. ‘De tweekoppige draak. Het Gentse stadsbestuur tussen vorst en onderdanen, 14de–16de eeuw’, in: J. de Zutter e.a. (eds), Qui valet ingenio. Liber Amicorum aangeboden aan dr. Johan Decavele (Gent 1996) 27–37. ‘Institutionelle Rahmenbedingungen der Kunstproduktion in den burgundischen Niederlanden’, in: B. Franke and B. Welzel (eds), Die Kunst der Burgundischen Niederlande, (Berlin 1997) 11–27. ‘Widerstand holländischer Bauerngemeinden gegen das staatliche Beamtentum im 15. Jahrhundert’, in: H.R. Schmidt, A. Holenstein and A. Woergler (eds), Gemeinde, Reformation und Widerstand. Festschrift für Peter Blickle (Tübingen 1998) 329–44. ‘Representation’, in: C. Allmand (ed.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, Vol. VII (Cambridge etc 1998) 29–64. ‘Manuscript acquisition by the Burgundian court and the market for books in the fifteenth-century Netherlands’, in: M. North & D. Ormrod (eds), Art markets in Europe 1400–1800 (Aldershot etc. 1998) 7–18. ‘Regionale Vielfalt im Zunftwesen in den Niederlanden vom 13. bis zum 16. Jahrhundert’, in: K. Schulz (ed.), Handwerk in Europa (München1999) 51–63. ‘Flemings on the move. A profile of representatives, 1384–1506’, in: Wim Blockmans, Marc Boone and Thérèse de Hemptinne (eds), Secretum scriptorum: liber alumnorum Walter Prevenier (Leuven 1999) 307–26. ‘Städtenetzwerke in den Niederlanden’, in: W. Janssen and M. Wensley (eds), Mitteleuropäisches Städtewesen im Mittelalter und frühe Neuzeit (Cologne etc. 1999) 91–104. ‘The feeling of being oneself ’, in: W. Blockmans and A. Janse (eds), Showing status: Representation of social positions in the late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999) 1–16.

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[with E. Donckers], ‘Self-representation of court and city in Flanders and Brabant in the fifteenth and early sixteenth Centuries, in: W. Blockmans and A. Janse (eds), Showing status: Representation of social positions in the late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999) 81–111. [with T. Neijzen], ‘Functions of fiction: Fighting spouses around 1500’ in: W. Blockmans and A. Janse (eds), Showing status: Representation of social positions in the late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999) 265–76. ‘To appear or to be’, in: W. Blockmans & A. Janse (eds), Showing status: Representation of social positions in the late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999) 483–8. ‘The Low Countries’, in: R. Bonney (ed.), The rise of the fiscal state in Europe ca. 1200–1815 (Oxford 1999) 281–308. ‘Europese staten en economische expansie’, Theoretische Geschiedenis 26 (1999) 1–18. ‘Vrijheid in de Bourgondische Nederlanden’, in: E.O.G. Haitsma Mulier and W.R.E. Velema (eds), Vrijheid. Een geschiedenis van de vijftiende tot de twintigste eeuw (Amsterdam 1999) 21–5. ‘Flanders’, in: D. Abulafia (ed.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 5 (Cambridge 1999) 405–16. ‘La représentation de la noblesse en Flandre au XVe siècle’, in: J. Paviot and J. Verger (eds), Guerre, pouvoir et noblesse au Moyen Âge. Mélanges en l’honneur de Philippe Contamine (Paris 2000) 91–9. ‘Stände und Repräsentation von Bürgern und Bauern in Europa’, in: P. Blickle (ed.), Landschaften und Landstände in Oberschwaben (Tübingen 2000) 253–65. ‘The creation and mythification of a classical hero’, in: J. Denolf and B. Simons (eds), (Re)constructing the past [Proceedings Colloquium on history and legitimisation, 24–27 February 1999] (Brussels 2000) 23–34. ‘Unidad dinástica, diversidad de cuestiones’, in B.J. Garcia Garcia (ed.), El imperio de Carlos V. Procesos de agregación y conflictos (Madrid 2000) 29–46. ‘Die Hierarchisierung der Gerichtsbarkeit in den Niederlanden 14.–16. Jahrhundert’, in: P.-J. Heinig (ed.), Reich, Regionen und Europa in Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Berlin 2000) 261–78. ‘Transactions at the fairs of Champagne and Flanders 1249–1291’, in: S. Cavaciocchi (ed.), Fiere e mercati nella integrazione delle economie europee secc. XIII–XVIII - Atti delle Settimane di Studi 32, (Prato 2001) 993–1000. ‘Charles’s ideals, pragmatism and strategy: an impossible mission?’, in: J. Martinez Millán (ed.), Carlos V y la quiebra del humanismo politico en Europa (1530–1558), vol. 1 (Madrid 2001) 179–89. ‘La normativa nelle città fiamminghe (secoli XI–XIII)’, in: G. Rossetti (ed.), Legislazione e prassi istituzionale nell’Europa medievale. Tradizioni

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normative, ordinamenti, circolazione mercantile (secoli XI–XV) (Pisa/Naples 2001) 67–77. ‘Burghers as cultural agents in the Low Countries and the Empire’, in: J. Ehlers, Deutschland und der Westen Europas in Mittelalter (Stuttgart 2002) 407–21. ‘Het democratisch deficit’, in: S.C. Derks e.a. (ed.), Nederland in de wereld. Opstellen bij honderd jaar Rijks Geschiedkundige Publicatiën (Den Haag/ Amsterdam 2002) 87–105. ‘Der Kaiser und seine niederländische Untertanen’, in: A. Kohler, B. Haider, and C. Ottner (eds), Karl V. 1500–1558. Neue Perspektiven seiner Herrschaft in Europa und Ubersee (Vienna 2002) 437–49. [Spanish translation: ‘El Emperador y sus subditos neerlandeses’, in: A. Kohler (ed.), Carlos V / Karl V. 1500–2000 (Madrid 2002) 181–92] ‘Hollands doorbraak’, in: Th. de Nijs and E. Beukers (eds), Geschiedenis van Holland. Deel I tot 1572 (Hilversum 2002) 291–302. ‘Die Abgrenzung der Privatsphäre in holländischen Städten im 15. Jahrhundert’, in: W. Ehbrecht, A. Lampen, F.-J. Post & M. Siekmann (eds), Der weite Blick des Historikers. Einsichten in Kultur- Landes- und Stadtgeschichte. Peter Johanek zum 65. Geburtstag (Cologne etc. 2002) 387–98. ‘Maximilian und die burgundischen Niederlande’, in: G. Schmidt-von Rhein (ed.), Kaiser Maximilian I. Bewahrer und Reformer (Vienna 2002) 51–67. ‘Logistics of warfare in Central Italy, 1527–1530’, in: M. Boone & M. Demoor (eds), Charles V in context: the making of a European identity (Brussels 2003) 35–46. ‘Limitations to monarchical power’, in: R. von Friedenburg (ed.), Murder and monarchy. Regicide in European history, 1300–1800 (New York 2004) 136–45. ‘Politische Propaganda und Selbstdarstellung Kaiser Karls V’, in: U. Zellmann, A. Lehmann-Benz, U. Küsters (eds), “Wider den Müssiggang...”. Niederländisches Mittelalter im Spiegel von Kunst, Kult und Politik (Düsseldorf 2004) 39–52. [with M.E.H.N. Mout], ‘The harvest of a celebration: What more do we need to know about Charles V after the year 2000?’, in: W. Blockmans & N. Mout (eds), The world of emperor Charles V (Amsterdam 2004) 1–11. ‘The stages of new political regimes: the transformation of capital cities’, European Review 13/1 (2005) 33–45.

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4b. selection of articles published in 2005–2010 (not available in Open Access) At the moment of our last check (spring 2010) Wim’s most recent article included in the Repository was from the early part of 2005. For title descriptions of all publications that have appeared since, it is best to consult the Leiden University staff website http://hum.leiden.edu/history/staff/blockmans.html. The following titles are only a selection. ‘Von der Stratifikation zur Gestalt. Der Paradigmenwechsel in der Stadtgeschichte der Niederlande’, in: Heinz Duchhardt and E. Reinsinghaus (eds), Stadt und Region. Internationale Forschungen und Perspektiven. Kolloquium für Peter Johanek (Cologne 2005) 1–12. ‘Wie der Römische König in Flandern zum Gefangenen seiner Untertanen wurde: um 1488’ in: Bernhard Jussen (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit (München 2005) 275–86. ‘Um 1529. Wie Militärorganisation und königliche Herrschaft zusammenhingen’, in: Bernhard Jussen (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit (München 2005) 287–98. ‘Das Ringen Bayerns und Burgunds um die Niederlande’, in: Alphons Huber and Johannes Prammer (eds), 650 Jahre Herzogtum NiederbayernStraubing-Holland. Vortragsreihe (Straubing 2005) 321–45. ‘Wie weit und wie tief ? Die politische Integration der burgundisch-habsburgischen Niederlande’, in: Werner Maleczek (ed.), Fragen der politischen Integration im mittelalterlichen Europa, Vorträge und Forschungen 63 (Ostfildern 2005) 449–71. ‘Women and diplomacy’, in: Dagmar Eichberger (ed.), Women of distinction. Margaret of York, Margaret of Austria (Turnhout 2005) 97–102. ‘Margaret of York. The subtile influence of a duchess’, in: Dagmar Eichberger (ed.), Women of distinction. Margaret of York, Margaret of Austria (Turnhout 2005) 43–48. ‘Kortrijk: Groeningekouter en de Guldensporenslag van 1302’, in: idem and Herman Pleij (eds), Plaatsen van herinnering. Nederland van prehistorie tot Beeldenstorm (Amsterdam 2007) 205–15. ‘Burgundy and its strategic link to the Mediterranean’, in: Eduardo Míra and A. Delva (eds), A la Búsqueda del Toisón de Oro. La Europa de los Principes. La Europa de las Ciudades (Valencia 2007) 605–608 [also in Spanish, ibidem, 247–55]. ‘Geschichte eines nicht-bestehendes Staates’, in: Stefan Ehrenpreis e.a. (eds.), Wege der Neuzeit. Festschrift für Heinz Schilling zum 65. Geburtstag, Historische Forschungen 85 (Berlin 2007) 329–43.

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Wim Blockmans at 65

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‘Zählen die Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaften mit?’, in: H. Matthies and D. Simon (eds), Wissenschaft under Beobachtung. Effekte und Defekte von Evaluationen (Wiesbaden 2008) 213–21. ‘Les pouvoirs publics dans des régions de haute urbanization. Flandre et Italie aux XIVe–XVIe siècles’, in: Elisabeth Crouzet-Pavan, Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Marc Boone (eds), Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe-XVIe siècles): les enseignements d’une comparaison, Studies in European urban history 12 (Turnhout 2008) 65–74. Gent: de Pacificatiezaal. Eendrachtig in de Opstand’, in: Jo Tollebeek (ed.), België, een parcours van herinnering, vol. 1: Plaatsen van geschiedenis en expansie (Amsterdam 2008) 110–23. ‘Die Niederlande, das Haus Habsburg und das Reich im späten Mittelalter. Die Geschichte einer wechselvollen Beziehung’, in: Friedrich Edelmayer e.a. (eds), Plus ultra: die Welt der Neuzeit. Festschrift für Alfred Kohler zum 65. Geburtstag (Münster 2008) 37–52. ‘Showing abstractions. Late medieval images of states and status’, in: Troels Dahlerup (ed.), New approaches to the history of late medieval and early modern Europe. Selected proceedings of two international conferences at the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters in Copenhagen 1997 and 1999 (Copenhagen 2009) 144–56. ‘Breaking the rules: the emergence of the States General in the Low Countries in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’, in: Tim Neu, Michael Sikora and Thomas Weller (eds), Zelebrieren und Verhandeln. Zur Praxis ständischer Institutionen im frühneuzeitlichen Europa (Münster 2009) 185–94. ‘Fasen van openheid en afsluiting’, in: L. Lucassen and W. Willems (eds), Waarom mensen in de stad willen wonen (Amsterdam 2009) 22–41. ‘Citizens and their rulers’, in: idem, A. Holenstein and J. Mathieu (eds), Empowering interactions. Political cultures and the emergence of the state in Europe, 1300–1900 (Farnham etc. 2009) 281–292.

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1 The Dynastic Order

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Entre 1250 et 1350 : Système des états et ordre dynastique Jean-Marie Moeglin Université Paris IV Sorbonne / Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes

Les derniers siècles du Moyen Age ont vu se réaliser en Europe occidentale un gigantesque effort de construction de ce ce que l’on a appelé « l’Etat moderne » ; de nombreux travaux ont été consacrés à cette question au cours des dernières décennies.1 En liaison avec ce processus d’affirmation de l’ « Etat moderne » interne aux différents pays européens, l’on voit s’instaurer un véritable « système des états », caractérisé par une compétition de plus en plus acharnée entre eux. C’est d’ailleurs à la fin du XIIIe siècle qu’apparaît au niveau de la propagande politique le thème de la lutte des nations les unes contre les autres, voire de la volonté d’une nation d’en détruire une autre : en 1295 pour la première fois semble-t-il, mais cette même accusation reviendra par la suite à de nombreuses reprises, le roi d’Angleterre accuse le roi de France de vouloir détruire la « langue anglaise », ce qu’il ne faut pas comprendre, contrairement à l’interprétation souvent donnée de cette expression, comme une volonté de détruire l’anglais comme langue mais bien comme une volonté de détruire les Anglais comme peuple et nation, la « langue anglaise » étant invoquée dans un sens métonymique pour renvoyer à ceux qui parlent naturellement anglais.2 Cette mise en place depuis le XIIIe siècle d’un système des états entre lesquels existent ce que l’on peut désormais appeler des « relations internationales », même si le terme est sans doute encore quelque peu anachronique pour la fin du Moyen Age, n’est pas à contester. Je voudrais cependant 1

2

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Cf. de manière synthétique les volumes publiés sous la direction de Wim Blockmans et Jean-Philippe Genet, The origins of the modern state in Europe, 13th to 18th centuries, 7 vols (Oxford 1995–1998). William Stubbs, Select Charters and other Illustrations from the earliest times to the Reign of Edward the first, 9e éd. par H. W. C. Davis (Oxford 1913; repr. 1948) 480–481 (convocation adressée le 30 septembre 1295 à l’archevêque de Cantorbéry): « ... Sane satis noscis et jam est, ut credimus, per universa mundi climata divulgatum, qualiter rex Franciae de terra nostra Vasconiae nos fraudulenter et cautelose decepit, eam nobis nequiter detinendo. Nunc vero praedictis fraude et nequitia non contentus, ad expugnationem regni nostri classe maxima et bellatorum copiosa multitudine congregatis, cum quibus regnum nostrum et regni ejusdem incolas hostiliter jam invasit, linguam Anglicam, si conceptae iniquitatis proposito detestabili potestas correspondeat, quod Deus avertat, omnino de terra delere proponit. .... ». Cf. Michael Prestwich, Edward I, 2e éd. (New Haven – Londres 1997) 383 qui traduit correctement l’expression par « nation » mais envisage à tort que la référence à la langue puisse renvoyer à une composante linguistique de l’identité anglaise. Je compte revenir dans une publication ultérieure sur ce problème.

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défendre ici l’hypothèse que ce « système des états » ne peut pas être pensé indépendamment de l’existence d’un ordre dynastique qui lui donne son sens et détermine son fonctionnement. Cet « ordre dynastique » a comme pilier l’affirmation d’un certain nombre de dynasties que l’on peut dire « nationales » dans la mesure où l’identité dynastique en vient à constituer un élément essentiel de l’identité des pays gouvernés. Une expression telle que « maison de France » (ou « maison » d’un autre pays) traduit ce processus. Ce sont ces dynasties nationales, telles qu’elles s’affirment dans les décennies 1250–1350, qui sont en fin de compte la clef du système des états qui se met en place. Relations entre états ou relations entre princes ? Dans un important article publié en 2000, Françoise Autrand et Philippe Contamine se sont penchés sur la pratique des alliances dans les derniers siècles du Moyen Age ;3 posant la question de l’« alliance entre deux rois ou entre deux royaumes », ils mettent notamment en évidence les glissements de vocabulaire dans les traités conclus entre princes et rois vers le milieu du XIVe siècle. On serait passé au cours de la première moitié du XIVe siècle d’un formulaire inspiré par les termes de la vassalité à un formulaire pour ainsi dire « étatique », mettant l’accent sur l’alliance entre deux couronnes et finalement entre deux pays indépendamment de la personne de leurs souverains. Ce passage s’observe ainsi entre le traité conclu par le roi de France avec le roi de Castille en 1337 et le renouvellement de ce traité en 1345–1346. De fait, pendant longtemps, la formule employée pour la conclusion d’un traité entre deux rois avait été celle d’un traité d’amitié entre deux princes, un foedus perpetuae amicitiae, une amicitia specialis qui rendait les deux princes l’un envers l’autre verus et fidelis amicus, le tout étant assorti de l’engagement plus ou moins précis et contraignant de se porter aide mutuelle et en tout cas de ne pas se nuire et de n’aider en aucune façon les ennemis de l’autre. Par exemple lorsque, en 1254, Henri III conclut un traité d’alliance avec le roi de Castille, il s’agit d’un traité d’amitié perpétuelle conclu sur une base personnelle entre lui et ses héritiers et le roi de Castille et ses héritiers : Noverint universi, presentes literas inspecturi, et audituri, quod nos Henricus, Dei gratia rex Angliae, dominus Hiberniae, dux Normanniae et Aquitanie et comes Andegaviae, inimus foedus perpetuae amicitiae cum karissimo consanguineo nostro domino Alfonso, Dei gratia rege Castellae et Legionis, pro nobis et haeredibus et successoribus nostris, isto modo. Quod nos et haeredes et successores nostri ab hac hora in antea simus amici 3

Françoise Autrand et Philippe Contamine, « Remarques sur les alliances des rois de France aux XIVe–et XVe siècles. La forme et le fond », dans : Lucien Bély (sous la direction de), avec le concours d’Isabelle Richefort, L’Europe des traités de Westphalie – esprit de la diplomatie et diplomatie de l’esprit (Paris 2000) 83–110.

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et imprisii praedicti regis Castellae et Legionis, et haeredum et successorum suorum, contra omnes homines de mundo imperpetuum; ita quidem quod nos et haeredes et successores nostri juvabimus eundem regem Castellae et haeredes et successores suos, cum toto posse nostro, bona fide, sine fraude, et sine dolo, contra omnes homines de mundo, salva fide ecclesiae Romanae ....4

En 1286, le roi de Norvège rappelle les antiques alliances « attentius deprecantes ut confoederationes et amicitias antiquas inter progenitores vestros et nostros initas, et fideliter observatas, jamque inter nos innovatas, observare velitis ... ».5 En 1294, Edouard Ier et Adolphe de Nassau entendent conclure un « indissolubile confoederationis vinculum, et unionem amicitiae specialis ».6 Et le 16 janvier 1296, le roi d’Angleterre envoie des ambassadeurs conclure un accord avec le comte de Clèves : « ad tractandum cum nobili viro, comite de Clyve, de confoederationis et amicitiae vinculo specialis ».7 Un demi-siècle plus tard, sur ces clauses d’amitié personnelle entre deux princes se sont quasi systématiquement greffées des clauses d’amitié entre leurs sujets et leurs royaumes. Ainsi en 1360, le fameux traité de Brétigny stipulait que item est accordé que bonnes aliances, amitiez, et confederations soient faites entre les ii roys de France et d’Angleterre et leurs royaumes en gardant l’onneur et la conscience de l’un roy et de l’autre, non obstant quelconques confederations qu’ils aient, deça et dela, aveuc quelconques personnes, soient d’Escoce, de Flandres ou d’autres paiis quelconques .8

La formule d’une double alliance entre les rois et leurs royaumes est désormais devenue systématique; ainsi par exemple, le 20 juillet 1364, Edouard III donne-t-il procuration à ses ambassadeurs pour conclure avec le comte de Flandre « bones et perpetueles alliances et confederations [...] entre nous, noz heirs, noz païs et seignuries, tant decea la mier, comme dela, et le dit

4

5 6 7 8

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Thomas Rymer, Foedera, conventiones, litterae et cujuscumque generis acta publica inter reges Angliae et alios quosvis imperatores, reges, pontifices, principes vel communitates, 4ième édition par A. Clarke et F. Holbrooke ..., 4 tomes en 7 vols (Londres 1816–1869) I/1, 299. Ibid., I/2, 662–663. Ibid., 812. Ibid., 835. Ibid., III/1, 492 (article 31), version latine : « item, concordatum est quod perennes alligantiae, amicitiae, et confoederationes, fiant inter duos Reges Franciae et Angliae et sua regna, conservando honorem et conscientiam unius Regis et alterius, non obstantibus quibuscumque confoederationibus quas habent ... » ; à nouveau ibid., 530 (alliance entre les rois de France et d’Angleterre le 26 octobre 1360) : « que nous, noz enfanz, noz hoirs, et successeurs, nôtre royaume, noz terres et noz subgez quelconques presens et a venir, nez et a naistre serons a touz jours mais, a nôtre dit frere, ses enfanz, ses hoirs et successeurs, son ryaume, ses terres et subgez quelconques, bons, vrays et loyaux amis et alliez et leur garderons de tout nôtre povoir leurs honours et leurs droix .... ».

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conte, ses heirs, et leurs paiis »9, le tout étant complété par un mariage entre la fille du comte et un fils du roi ; le 30 octobre 1377, les pouvoirs sont donnés pour traiter avec le roi des Aragonais : de quibuscumque amicitiis, alligantiis, et mutuis auxiliis, inter nos et haeredes nostros, pro nobis, regnis, terris, et dominiis, ac subditis et vassallis nostris quibuscumque, et ipsum regem et haeredes suos, pro se, regnis, terris, et dominiis suis, ac eorum omnibus subditis et vassallis pro perpetuo duraturis, ordinamus, facimus, et constituimus ....10

Et l’on pourrait citer encore bien d’autres exemples de cette même formule binaire.11 Le changement qu’ont mis en évidence Françoise Autrand et Philippe Contamine en analysant le formulaire des alliances entre le roi de France et le roi de Castille est donc bien général ; désormais, l’expression classique des alliances avait pris la forme d’une alliance entre un roi, ses sujets, ses territoires et un autre roi, ses sujets et ses territoires. En fait, cette apparition des états et de leurs sujets aux côtés de leurs princes avait déjà été annoncée par les formules de rétablissement de la paix entre deux princes ; celles-ci en effet stipulaient déjà à la fin du XIIIe siècle que la paix était ou devait être rétablie non pas seulement entre ces deux princes mais aussi entre leurs pays; ainsi par exemple le roi d’Angleterre et le roi de France demandent-ils au pape Boniface VIII de servir de médiateur entre eux « ut bonus pacis mediator, in nullius praejudicium, satageret ad 9 10 11

Ibid., III/2, 744. Ibid., IV, 23. Ainsi ibid., IV, 46, le 12 juillet 1378 (pouvoirs donnés par Richard II pour traiter avec le roi de Navarre) : « faire, passer, accorder et fermer confederacions, amistees et alliances, les plus fortes et plus fermes que se purront faire ou deviser, entre lui et noble et puissant prince notre trescher et tresame cousin Charles roi de navarre, ses successours, roialme, terres, seignuries et subgitz d’autre part, soit par mariages faisant ou autrement, sur tieles forme,condicions ... » ; Ibid., IV, 77, le 1er mars 1380, les représentants de Richard II concluent une alliance avec ceux du duc de Bretagne : « ...seront desore a perpetuite vrais amys et alliez a trespuissant et de France, et a ses heirs roys d’Engleterre, et a roiaume d’Engleterre, et a touz ses autres seigneuries et obeissantz, encontre touz ceux qi purront vivre et morir ... et, en mesme la manere, le dit roy, ses heirs, et touz ses subgitz et obeissantz, qi ore sont, ou en apres serront, serront desores a perpetuite vrays amys et alliez au dit duc, ses heirs, et a son dit paiis de Bretaigne et a touz ses autres seigneuries, et obeissantz, encontre le dit adversaire de Fraunce ....» ; ibid., IV, 104 (pouvoirs donnés par Richard II pour conclure une alliance avec Venceslas en sus du mariage déjà conclu) : « super ligis, confoederationibus, et amicitiis specialibus, temporalibus vel perpetuis, inter eundem fratrem nostrum, subditos suos, regna et dominia sua quaecumque, ex una, ac nos subditos nostros, ac regna et dominia nostra quaecumque, ex parte altera, ineundis ... » (répété par exemple le 2 mai 1381, ibid., 113) ; ibid., IV, 145 (pouvoirs donnés le 15 avril 1382 pour conclure avec le roi de Naples une alliance) : « super quibuscumque ligis, confoederationibus, et amicitiis specialibus, temporalibus, vel perpetuis inter nos, subditos, regna et dominia nostra quaecumque ex una et ipsum regem Neopolitanum, subditos, regna et dominia sua quaecumque, ex parte altera, ineundis ... » ; ibid., IV, 163 (conclusion d’une alliance entre Richard II et Venceslas) « pro nobis haeredibus, et successoribus nostris, necnon regnis, terris, et dominiis nostris quibuscumque cum eodem fratre nostro carissimo, romanorum et boemie rege, haeredibus et successoribus suis, necnon regnis, dominiis et principatibus eorundem, quasdam ligas, confoederationes, sive pacta duximus inienda ... ».

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pacem et tranquillitatem regnorum, regum amicitiam in statum pristinum reformare » – de l’ « amicitia » des princes dépend la tranquillité et la paix des royaumes – et le 10 juillet 1303, est effectivement conclu un traité de paix perpétuelle entre le roi de France et le roi d’Angleterre : Cum super gerris, controversiis, et discordiis, inter nos et magnificum principem Philippum, eadem gratia, Franciae regem illustrem, dudum motis, post multos et varios tractatus, inter nos habitos hinc inde, pacis confoederationis et amicitiae vincula, sub certis formis, viis et modis, cooperante pacis Auctore, tandem sint inita et firmata: Ita videlicet quod inter nos, haeredes et successores nostros, ac eciam regna nostra, sit et esse debeat firma et stabilis pax, ac etiam confoederatio et amicitia, futuris perpetuo temporibus, deo propitio, duraturae; et quod amici et confoederati erimus ad invicem de caetero contra omnes homines; exceptis dumtaxat....12

Lorsque Edouard III et Robert Bruce concluent la paix en 1328 après la calamiteuse expédition décidée par Mortimer, la formule revient: «  premierement qe bone pees, finale et perpetuele soit entre les ditz rois, lour heirs et successors et lour roiaumes et terres, et entre lour soutzmis et poeples dune part et dautre, selonc la forme qe sensuyst ».13 L’idée à laquelle renvoyaient ces expressions était sans doute simplement que c’étaient les territoires des princes qui subissaient les effets néfastes de leurs guerres.14 Le traité qui était combiné avec ce rétablissement de la paix ne prévoyait cependant pas encore d’alliance entre les territoires: « item, il est tretee et acordee qe les ditz rois, lour heirs et successours serront bons amiz et loiaux allietz, et qe le uns aideront a les autres covenablement come bonz allietz ».15 Mais c’est bien dans le prolongement de cette notion d’une paix rétablie entre deux princes et leurs territoires que l’on doit d’être passé ensuite à l’idée d’une alliance entre deux princes, leurs sujets et leurs territoires. Ainsi par exemple, le 1er octobre 1330, Edouard III ouvre-t-il des négociations avec le duc de Brabant: il donne mandat à ses ambassadeurs de 12 13 14

15

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Ibid., I/2, 958. Ibid., II/2, 734, 740. Voir par exemple les formulations employées par Jean le Bon à l’occasion de la conclusion du traité de Brétigny qui devait rétablir la paix entre les deux rois : « les guerres qui ont longuement duré entre notre trescher seignur et piere, jadis Roi de France, lui vivant, et apres son deces, entre nous d’une partie, et le Roi d’Angleterre notre frere, le quel reclamoit soi avoir droit en dit roialme d’autre part, ont porté mout grant damage noun pas seulement à nous et à vous, mais au tout le peuple de notre roiaume, et les roiaumes voisins, et a tout Cristienté; sicome vous meismes le savez bien, car, par les dites guerres sont maintesfoitz avenues batailles mortelles, occisions de gentz, pillemens d’eglises, destructions de cors, et peril de armes, defloracions de pucelles et de vierges, deshonestacion des femes maries et veves, arsures de villes, de manoirs et edifices, roberies et oppressions, guettemens de voies et de chemins, justice en est faillie, et la foi Cristiene refroidie, et marchandise porie, et tant d’autres mauls et horribles faitz s’en sont ensuez, que il ne purroient estre dis, noumbrés, ne escriptz, par les queles non pas seulement les deux roiaumes mais les autres roiaumes par Critienté, ont sustenu moult d’afflictions et damages irreparables » (25 octobre 1360, ibid., III/1, 525 ; également ibid., III/2, 674). Ibid., II/2, 735, 740.

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plenam potestatem et mandatum speciale tractandi pro nobis et nostro nomine, cum nobili viro, domino Johanne duce Brabantie, consanguineo nostro carissimo, de confoederatione et amicitia, inter nos et nostros subditos, ac nobis adhaerentes, et ipsum ducem et suos subditos, ac sibi adhaerentes, ineundis, ac retinentia speciali, tam pro pace quam pro guerra, contra quoscumque reges et principes, et alios, cujuscumque status seu conditionis existant, et easdem confoederationem, amicitiam et retinentiam, quacumque firmitate vallandi.

Les sujets sont déjà mentionnés mais pas encore les territoires.16 Cette idée d’une alliance entre les rois et leurs territoires était ainsi probablement déjà en gestation depuis plusieurs décennies lorsqu’elle s’impose dans le formulaire vers le milieu du XIVe siècle. En 1295, Philippe le Bel avait réussi un beau coup en s’alliant avec John Balliol qu’Edouard Ier avait fait roi d’Ecosse mais qu’il tenait surtout pour son vassal, ce que ce dernier n’acceptait pas; le formulaire d’alliance rédigé par la chancellerie du roi de France était le suivant : inter alia, per quae regnantium et regnorum exaltatio procuratur, et acquiratur pacis et tranquillae quietis amoenitas, ac faelici et prospero statui consulitur; illud videtur, attenta consideratione, praecipuum, ut inter reges et regna solidae caritatis unitas, et fidelis amicitiae foedera nutriantur ... Idem quoque rex [= le roi d’Ecosse], more justi principis, cum ex fervore justitiae, tum etiam ex zelo dilectionis internae, quam ad nos, domum nostram, solium et incolas regni nostri habere dinoscitur, moleste ferens graves injurias, enormes excessus, impugnationes hostiles et aggressiones iniquas, quibus rex Angliae, violato fidelitatis debito (quo nobis tenebatur astrictus) nos, fideles et subditos nostros, tam per terram quam per mare, multifarie, multisque modis hactenus offendisse dinoscitur, et offendere continue satagit et conatur. Ac propterea, ut nos et successores nostros sibi et suis strictius mutui amoris alliget affectibus, ad repressionem salubrem injuriarum, impugnationum, et aggressionum hujusmodi ....17

L’alliance était certes bien conclue entre les princes seuls mais elle était destinée à établir un solide lien d’amour « inter reges et regna ». En réalité, ces belles formules n’avaient pas été inventées par la chancellerie du roi de France mais elle doit les avoir reprises à la rhétorique développée par Pierre de la Vigne et ses émules en Italie au XIIIe siècle.18 En tout cas, elles « sonnaient » bien et la chancellerie du roi de France les utilisait à nouveau en août 1299 16 17 18

Ibid., II/2, 799. Ibid., I/2, 830–831. Cf. Benoît Grévin, Rhétorique du pouvoir médiéval : Les lettres de Pierre de la Vigne et la formation du langage politique européen (XIIIe–XVe siècle) (Rome 2008). Je n’ai pas trouvé citée dans ce livre cette formule mais il n’y a pas de doute qu’elle relève de la transmission dans les chancelleries européennes de la rhétorique mise d’abord en œuvre par Pierre de la Vigne et dont la diffusion est étudiée par Benoît Grévin.

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pour célébrer l’accord de mariage à l’intérieur du vaste traité d’alliance conclu entre Philippe le Bel et le roi des Romains Albert Ier d’Autriche: Notum facimus, quod nos attendentes, quod inter alia, per que regnantium et regnorum exaltatio procuratur, pacis et transquille quietis amenitas acquiritur ac felici et prospero statui consulitur subditorum, illud videtur attenta consideratione precipuum, ut inter reges et regna solide caritatis unitas et fidelis amicitie federa nutriantur, et quod alter alteri libenter assistat in prosperis et non deficiat in adversis, hac consideratione inducti, ut inter nos et inclitum principem Philippum regem Franc(orum) illustrem amicum nostrum carissimum huiusmodi fedus unionis et amicitie stabilius permaneat in futurum, concordavimus, voluimus, consensimus et promisimus ....19

On retrouve donc la légitimation d’une alliance personnelle entre princes par la volonté de nourrir de solides liens d’amour et d’amitié inter reges et regna. La chancellerie du roi de France n’était évidemment pas la seule à trouver belles ces formules ; il en était de même chez le roi d’Angleterre. Le 13 mai 1345, Edouard III envoie ses ambassadeurs traiter avec les rois de Jérusalem, Sicile et Hongrie : considerantes quod, inter caetera, per quae regum et regnorum exaltatio procuratur, fovetur pacis amoenitas, propulsantur injuriae et quieti populi providetur, caritatis et amicitiae foedera inter reges et principes ut, ad honorem Dei, pro defensione fidei catholicae et justitiae, ad auxilia mutua sint ligati, sunt non mediocriter oportuna et proinde ligas hujusmodi affectantes ....20

On notera toutefois que l’amour inter reges et regna est ici l’amour inter reges et principes. Mais le 22 juin 1362, alors qu’il s’agissait de conclure un traité d’alliance avec le roi de Castille, la chancellerie anglaise reprenait également le formulaire consacré: inter caetera, quibus regnorum procuratur exaltatio et quietudini consulitur subjectorum, illud probatur fore praecipuum, ut sibi invicem reges et regna unitatis et indissolubilis amicitiae foedere conjungantur, quo alter alteri libenter assistat in prosperis, et impendendo fructuosa subsidia nunquam deficiat in adversis, praemissa igitur, necnon quod incliti reges Castellae et Legionis, qui pro tempore fuerant ac domus ipsorum tota, clarae memoriae, Anglorum regibus, progenitoribus praefati domini regis nostri, ipsorumque domui, consimilis unitatis et amicitiae nexibus antiquitus mutuo jungebantur. Idem dominus noster rex internis meditationibus revolvens et quod per eosdem sinceris affectibus gestum erat volens continuatis temporibus prosequi opere pariter et sermone, super praemissis et ea concernentibus ....21 19

20 21

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Monumenta Germaniae Historica (MGH), Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum, Jakob Schwalm éd. (Hanovre – Leipzig 1906) IV/1, 58 (n° 74). Rymer, Foedera, III/1, 38. Ibid., III/2 , 656.

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L’amitié entre les princes et l’amitié entre leurs états était donc bien liées de manière indissoluble. Il était inutile de les opposer et même de les séparer; l’une entraînait l’autre et l’autre entraînait l’une. En fait le bien commun de tous, princes, sujets et territoires dépendait du lien d’amour qui avait été créé entre deux princes.22 Une autre formule, empruntée également à coup sûr à la rhétorique de Pierre de la Vigne et qui servait en particulier, mais pas seulement, à justifier les mariages, le disait d’ailleurs fort bien: l’amour entre les princes est la clef du bien commun! On la trouve employée pour justifier en 1381 la conclusion du mariage entre Richard II d’Angleterre et Anne de Bohême illa consuetudo recte regnantium, ille mos juste principantium, semper fuit bonum commune subditorum quibuscumque privatis praferre commodis, talibusque rem publicam munire praesidiis, per quae posset continue, exclusis caecis, inquietationum turbinibus, quieta persistere, et sub optatae pacis votiva foelicitate laetari, quod tunc satis utiliter creditur promoveri, cum principes christiani et potentes in unam fidei catholicae unitatem et veram amicitiam conjuncti, in unam mentis consonantiam affectuose conveniunt, et insimul indissolubilis amoris foedere copulantur .23

Les mêmes termes se retrouvent le 6 février 1385 dans les procurations données par Richard II à ses ambassadeurs pour conclure un traité avec le roi Charles de Sicile.24 Et l’on trouvait encore une variante de ces formules avec l’invocation des « foedera, per quos principatus, hinc inde, amoris indissolubilis nexu conjuncti, insurgentibus ex adverso resistere, et ab omni oppressionis clade, coadunatis viribus, poterunt mutuo se tueri ».25 Les « maisons » princières comme acteurs des relations entre états Le lien d’amour qui existait ou était créé entre leurs princes était donc au cœur de l’alliance entre états. Plus exactement, il s’agissait du lien d’amour entre des dynasties héréditaires, c’est-à-dire entre des maisons. Le terme de « maison » (domus) est déjà présent dans le traité du 22 juin 1362 entre 22

23 24 25

Il existe aussi une version française du formulaire, par exemple dans le traité d’alliance entre le roi et le duc Guillaume de Hainaut : « sachent touz ceux qi cestes lettres verront ou orront que coment entre les choses par queles l’onour et poair des rois et des princes est enhancé, et pees et tranquillité de lour subgitz afforcez, si est un soverein bien que entre rois et princes soient faites bones alliances, et amour et unite entre eux affermez, que par taunt ils soient plus fortz de totes partz, sibien de reboter lour enemys come de bien governir lour subgitz , Nous Edward.... Si avous grantez et grantons, pur nous, noz heirs, et subgitz d’avoir et tenir od l’avantdit duc Guilliam, ses heirs, et ses subgitz et pais queconques, amistees et alliances perpetueles ; et promettons que a lour enemis ou adversairs moevanz, ou fesanz guerre, ou brige au dit duc ... » (Ibid., III/1, 252). Ibid., IV/1, 111. Rymer, Foedera, conventiones, litterae ..., 2e éd., VII, (Londres 1728) 456. Rymer, Foedera (comme en note 4) IV/1, 111 (26 décembre 1380).

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Edouard III et le roi de Castille que je viens de citer. Il est temps de s’y arrêter plus longuement car c’est lui qui permet d’exprimer cette unité indissoluble qui existe entre une famille de princes et un pays; c’est ce qui fait que lorsque deux princes instaurent un lien d’amitié et d’amour, ce sont tout à la fois leurs dynasties et leurs territoires héréditaires qui concluent ce lien qui sera profitable à tous. Le terme de maison pour désigner une famille princière paraît avoir longtemps eu un usage rare.26 Alors qu’il était pourtant bien attesté dans la Bible – et par voie de conséquence dans les commentaires de la Bible – pour désigner la « maison » d’Israël, de Juda ou de David, donc l’ensemble des individus, plutôt masculins mais pas obligatoirement, qui descendent d’un même ancêtre, et qu’il était aussi utilisé à Rome, il ne paraît pas, pendant longtemps, avoir été repris avec ce sens dans l’Europe médiévale, cela à deux exceptions près sur lesquelles je reviendrai plus loin – l’Italie et, sans doute sous son influence, la papauté. Lorsque l’on voulait nommer les descendants d’un ancêtre commun, ceux qui tiraient de cet ancêtre commun des droits, sans pour autant que soit clairement indiqué sur la base de quels critères cette descendance était constituée en groupe, l’on disposait de toute une série de termes d’usage courant: prosapia, progenies, genealogia, genus, stirps.27 Orderic Vital vers 1150 évoque ainsi le prince Roger Ier de Sicile: primus de Tancredina progenie regalem thronum conscendit28, tandis qu’en Angleterre, après la mort d’Henri Beauclerc, Etienne comte de Boulogne se fait couronner roi quartus de stirpe Normannorum regnavit.29 Dans l’Empire, Godefroi de Viterbe à la fin du XIIe siècle utilise également cette palette de termes pour évoquer les dynasties impériales dont il fait l’apologie « sane cum Romanorum et Theutonicorum regum et imperatorum ingenuitas ab una Troianorum regum stirpe procedat eademque Troiana progenies a 26

27

28

29

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Cf. Jean-Marie Moeglin, « Les dynasties princières allemandes et la notion de Maison à la fin du Moyen Age », dans : Les princes et le pouvoir au Moyen Age (Paris 1993) 137–154. Cf. Anita Guerreau-Jalabert, « La désignation des relations et des groupes de parenté en latin médiéval », Archivum latinitatis medii aevi, Bulletin Du Cange 46–47 (1988) 65–108, spécialement 91–92 : ces vocables « se rapportent à telle ou telle manière de considérer ou de fractionner l’ensemble aux contours mouvants que constitue la parentèle; dans un certain nombre de cas, on a affaire à la représentation strictement linéaire d’une relation de descendance ou d’ascendance entre plusieurs individus; mais ces ‘lignes’ peuvent comporter des femmes aussi bien que des hommes et elles omettent souvent les collatéraux, ce qui ne correspond nullement à la définition anthropologique du lignage. Par ailleurs, les mêmes vocables recouvrent des relations qui sont totalement incompatibles avec l’existence de groupes d’unifiliation discrets : ainsi, Gauvain est donné comme appartenant au « lignage » de son oncle maternel Arthur, situation incompréhensible dans un système réellement patrilinéaire ». The ecclesiastical history of Orderic Vitalis, éd. et trad. Marjorie Chibnal (Londres 1969–80) VI, 434. Ibid., 454.

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primo rege Atheniensium trahat originem »,30 ou bien lorsqu’il commente l’origine de la dynastie carolingienne : Hic incipit progenies omnium Karulorum ab Angisio, filio Arnolfi episcopi Metensis ... Nota, Troianam propaginem in duo genera regum quondam fuisse divisam, id est in Eneam et Priamum iuniorem. Eneas venit in Italiam, a quo omnes Romani reges et imperatores exierunt. Priamus vero [iunior] ivit in Iermaniam, a quo omnes Iermani sive Teutonici reges nati sunt. Iste itaque due progenies a Troia venientes in unum Karolum Magnum ....31

Il évoque également la prosapia regum, de même qu’il utilise le terme genus (de genere imperatorum, utriusque propaginis genus, a genere troiano). Dans le royaume de France, c’est aussi cette variété de mots que les protagonistes du reditus regni ad stirpem Karoli ont à leur disposition. André de Marchiennes déjà avait parlé de progenies pour les Mérovingiens et les Carolingiens et il avait expliqué qu’il allait composer son tercium libellum ad genealogiam istius Hugonis.32 Lorsque Vincent de Beauvais dans son De morali principis institutione esquisse l’histoire de la succession sur le trône de France, il mentionne la eius progenies pour évoquer les descendants de Clovis, puis la progenies Pipini, et déclare qu’à l’époque d’Hugues Capet: « regnum translatum est de genealogia Karolensium in progeniem comitum Parisiensium » avant qu’avec Louis VIII le royaume ne soit reductum ad progeniem Karoli magni; il utilise également le terme de stirps (de stirpe Clodovei par exemple).33 Les inventeurs du reditus n’avaient à l’évidence à leur disposition que les termes de progenies, genealogia, stirps dans le sens de descendance et pas celui de domus; ils trouvaient au demeurant déjà ces mêmes mots dans les textes de leurs prédécesseurs34 et leurs successeurs les reprendront: Ex regia et sanctissima prosapia sont ainsi les premiers mots de la préface de Gilles de Rome dans son De Regimine principum dédié au futur Philippe le Bel.35 Les Staufen sont aux yeux des papes du XIIIe siècle une virulenta progenies (à propos de Manfred, Clément IV, le 2 novembre 1265)36 30 31 32 33

34

35

36

Speculum regum, MGH Scriptores (SS) 22, 21. Pantheon, ibid., 199, 206. MGH SS 26, 206. Robert J. Schneider éd., Vincentii Belvacensis De morali principis institutione, Corpus Christianorum. Continuatio mediaevalis 137 (Turnhout 1995) 25–28. L’Historia francorum senonensis avait écrit à la date de 750 : « Hic defecit progenies Chlodovei regis » (MGH SS 9, 364) ; de même Hugues de Fleury parlait pour les Mérovingiens d’une progenies regum (ibid., 351). Aegidii Columnae Romani archiepiscopi Bituricensis... De regimine principum lib. 3, Per Fr. Hieronymum Samaritanium... recogniti, et una cum vita auctoris in lucem editi (Rome 1607; reprint Aalen 1967) 1. MGH Epistolae saeculi XIII e regestis Pontificum Romanorum, K. Rodenberg éd. (Berlin 1894) 636.

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ou une damnata progenies (lettre du pape Clément IV le 28 février 1268 contre les partisans de Conradin).37 Lorsque meurt le dernier représentant de la dynastie, Girard d’Auvergne écrit: « mortuo igitur Coradino sine liberis, periit tota progenies Frederici ...».38 Même pour désigner des familles italiennes habituées à se donner ellesmêmes l’appellation de « maison », les chroniqueurs du nord reprennent leur vocabulaire traditionnel; ainsi, à la date de 1282, les annales de SaintRobert de Salzbourg parlent-elles de la progenies hannibalensis qui a un grave conflit avec les Ursinis. Bien évidemment l’emploi de ces termes pour désigner les faides familiales dans les villes du nord s’imposait: à la date de 1316, les Gesta des abbés de saint Trudpert évoquent les « inter progenies de Awaus et Warois mutua homicidia ».39 On retrouve le même mot dans les annales de Saint-Jacques de Liège: « 1325. Isto anno crastino Bartholomei apostoli progenies de Warons victa est ab hiis de Awans prope Dommartin ».40 Et ce sont également ces termes que l’on employait dans les correspondances diplomatiques pour la conclusion de liens matrimoniaux avec d’autres dynasties; ainsi en 1288, les lettres de procuration données par Sanche IV d’Espagne pour faire la paix avec le roi de France et les enfants de la Cerda et conclure des mariages mutuels disent que ces mariages sont à conclure « inter filios nostros et filiam et alios et alias personas de genere nostro et fratres et sorores ac alios at alias personas de genere illustris principis Philippi Dei gratia regis Francorum prefati ...».41 Du XIIIe au XIVe siècle cependant, aux mots de progenies, prosapia, genealogia, genus, stirps, vient progressivement s’ajouter, de manière de plus en plus insistante, le terme domus. C’est en Italie qu’il paraît avoir été précocement employé dans le sens de famille large, probablement parce que le palais urbain (la domus) était le centre de référence de ces consorterie. Ainsi on lit dans les Annales Ianuenses à la date de 1262 « ... ex tunc capitaneus timere cepit et solicitus esse, ac precipue domum Grimaldorum suspectam habere » ou, un peu plus loin, on entend parler des « viros nobiles domus Grimaldorum » ;42 au milieu du XIIIe siècle, Salimbene pouvait écrire que l’entrée dans les ordres de son frère et lui-même avait signifié la fin de leur « maison » terrestre mais l’espoir de son édification dans le ciel: « Domum nostrum destruximus in masculis et feminis, religionem 37 38 39 40 41

42

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Ibid., 695 ; Conradin est né de stirpe colubri. MGH SS 26, 592. MGH SS 10, 416, 419 : progenies de Warois et de Werfengeies. MGH SS 16, 644. G. Daumet, Mémoire sur les relations de la France et de la Castille (Paris 1913) 181–184 (n°18), ici 182–183. Cesare Imperiale éd., Annali Genovesi di Caffaro et de’ suoi continuatori, IV (Rome 1926) 46, 54.

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intrando, ut eam in celis edificare possemus ».43 Un diplôme de Frédéric II comporte l’expression domus Stoffensis.44 Les papes à leur tour, sans doute sous l’influence romaine et italienne, ont également très tôt employé ce terme de maison.45 L’on peut au demeurant penser que c’est en partie par leur influence qu’il s’est acclimaté au nord de l’Europe. La chronique de Saba Malaspina écrit ainsi du pape Clément IV qu’il était très favorable à Charles d’Anjou parce que « et a domo Francie sub cuius favore creverat, multa et magna beneficia per bonorum incrementa continua suscepisset ».46 En 1281, le pape Martin IV exhortait Philippe le Hardi à proroger pour au moins dix ans les trêves conclues avec Alphonse X de Castille ; il intervenait « ut tibi tueque inclite domui ac ipsi regno honoris et exaltationis votivum proveniat incrementum ...».47 En 1289, Etienne de San Giorgio, au service du roi de Naples, Charles II célébrait l’alliance entre la royauté française et la papauté: Dieu avait « stirpem regiam inclite domus francie altis provexit radicibus ... Ex ipsa siquidem christianissima domo velut virgula fumi ex aromatibus prodiens ... ».48 Boniface VIII à son tour exaltait la Maison de France dans la bulle de canonisation de saint Louis : « Gaudeat itaque domus inclyta Franciae quae talem ac tantum principem genuit per cujus merita sublimiter illustratur  ».49 Le même Boniface VIII écrit en 1298 à Edouard Ierpour lui reprocher de s’être approprié le royaume d’Ecosse et de ne pas écouter ses conseils, alors qu’il éprouve une affection débordante pour lui et sa maison: « Nos enim qui circa te, ac inclitam domum tuam, affectus nostrae dilectionis exuberat ...».50 – une affection que partage bien sûr également son successeur Clément V lorsqu’il écrit au roi d’Angleterre, en 1306, pour s’inquiéter d’une possible guerre du roi et de son royaume contre le roi de France et son royaume: 43 44

45

46 47 48 49 50

Salimbene de Adam, Cronica. Giuseppe Scalia éd., Scrittori d'Italia 232–233 (Bari 1966) I, 78. J. L. A. Huillard-Bréholles, Historia diplomatica Friderici secundi, VI, pars I (Paris 1860) 515 : dans un acte de 1247, l'empereur reproche au pape d'avoir comploté contre lui afin de le déposséder du « Romanum imperium quod a Stoffensi domo longevi jam temporis diuturnitate divertere dedidicit et regna nostra predecessorum nostrorum quesita sanguinibus, dicata funeribus et imaginibus decorata... » C’est cette influence italienne qui pourrait expliquer l’occurrence de domus dans le Ligurinus : « O vere famosa domus, cui totus ab ortu / Solis ad occiduas mundus substernitur undas : / quam qui novit amat ; qui non movere, verentur », Ligurinus, Gunther der Dichter, Erwin Assmann éd., MGH Rerum Germanicarum 63 (Hanovre 1987) 158 ; « gaudeat ista domus, qua gaudet preside mundus » (ibid., 494). MGH SS 35, 148. Daumet, Mémoire, 175–177 (n°16), ici 176. Cité par Grévin, Rhétorique, 408. HF 20, 159. Rymer, Foedera, I/2, 884.

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Intimae ac sincerae dilectionis affectus, quem ad personam et domum tuas, regnumque tuum, ac alias terras tuas (de quibus originem traxisse dinoscimus) nos et nostri habuimus et habemus ...Sane quam gravibus onusta dispendiis quot et quantis plena periculis animarum, corporum atque rerum, posset esse discordia, sive guerra inter te ac regem franciae illustrem, et regnum tuum ac suum ....51

Au nord des Alpes, l’emploi de domus paraît s’être imposé avec un certain retard; dans l’entourage des Staufen du XIIe siècle, il semble n’en avoir été fait qu’un timide usage, peut-être inspiré par l’expérience italienne, avec la mention de la domus imperialis dans un diplôme de Frédéric Ier en 1156/5752 et l’exaltation par l’auteur du Ligurinus à la fin du XIIe de la domus des empereurs ;53 mais Godefroi de Viterbe, qui s’étend pourtant longuement sur le lignage d’origine troyenne des Staufen, ne recourt pas à ce terme. A la fin du XIIIe siècle, Alexandre de Roes qui a longuement séjourné à la Curie pontificale évoque dans ses oeuvres les maisons qui se sont succédé sur le trône impérial: la domus ducum Saxonie, la domus ducum Suevie et il connaît aussi la domus regum Francorum.54 Mais déjà Rodolphe de Habsbourg avait, le 3 mai 1278, dans le cadre des relations qu’il avait nouées avec Edouard Ier à l’occasion des projets de mariage de son fils Hartmann, exalté l’indéfectible lien d’amitié que ce mariage devait créer entre leurs deux maisons et la joie qu’il se faisait d’associer à ce lien d’amitié les parents savoyards du roi d’Angleterre en concluant avec le comte de Savoie un traité de paix et d’amitié perpétuel: ... Tantus amor, tantaque nos cura sollicitant ad perfectam vobiscum, pariter cum vestris, indissociabilis amicitiae contrahendam indivisibiliter unionem, quod vestra domo, affinitate gratuita counita cum nostra, delectat nos ejusdem egregiae domus vestrae praesignes nobis adoptare ramusculos; ut, sicut utraque domus alterius amplexibus insignita, perhenniter in cootivos futurae propaginis palmites adolescat. Idcirco, magnoopere cupientes quod inter nos et illustrem comitem sabaudie comitem, simultatum quarumvis extirpatis omnino radicibus, redivivae dulcedinis seminaria reviviscant. Ecce! quod plenam et liberam vobis tribuimus facultatem 51 52

53 54

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Ibid., 1005. « Serenissimi imperatores nostri utique predecessores divino edocti spiritu sanxerunt ea, que ad beatissime iura spectant ecclesie, tamquam ipsam sacrosanctam et religiosam ecclesiam venerabiliter ab omnibus illibata custodiri et ea potissimum, que ab imperiali domo ad quodcumque religiosum collegium collata sunt, nulla vi aut dolo aut aliquo temerarii contractus nomine alienari », dans H. Appelt (éd.), Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., Teil I : Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1158, MGH, Diplomata 10,1 (1975) n°155. Cf. note 45. Cf. H. Grundmann et H. Heimpel éd., Alexander von Roes Schriften, MGH Staatsschriften I (Stuttgart 1958) notamment 132 (domus ducum Saxonie), 134 (domus ducum Suevie), 137, 163 (domo regum Francie).

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inter nos et comitem praenotatum, perpetuae pacis et amicitiae foedera contrahendi ....55

Certes la mort d’Hartmann le 21 décembre 1281 paraissait tout remettre en question mais, comme l’écrivait le 17 août 1282 Rodolphe à Edouard, elle ne devait pas rompre l’amitié indissoluble qui s’était nouée entre leurs maisons: Licet parentelae vinculum, inter inclitam domum vestram et nostram contractum, per mortem illustris quondam filii nostri Hartmanni comitis, infausto omine sit solutum; lex tamen indissolubilis amicitiae inter nos disrumpi non poterit; sed vobiscum illam servabimus illibatam.56

Les références à la notion de « maison » se multiplient par la suite; ainsi le 18 octobre 1320, le roi Philippe V, très ennuyé, envoie à l’évêque de Burgos la lettre qu’il a écrite à Marie, reine de Castille, pour s’excuser de ne pouvoir marier sa fille Marguerite à Alphonse XI: il se faisait un plaisir d’unir sa fille et le roi de Castille « quoniam domum sicut semper eam dominus progenitus noster, dum viveret, dilexit interne, ita et nos diligimus... »; malheureusement, il a été obligé de marier cette fille au fils du comte de Flandre, de façon à apaiser la guerre qu’il avait avec ledit comte de Flandre; mais la reine ne doit surtout pas penser qu’il ne voudrait plus de l’amitié de la Maison de Castille; c’est tout le contraire: Absit eciam quod credat vel quod vobis aliquatenus cadat in mente ut ita ob hoc fecerimus quod ab amicitia dicte domus Castelle voluerimus causam querere recedendi vel quod inhitam jamdudum proinde inter dominum progenitorem nostrum et inclite memorie Sancium ac Fernandum Castelle reges, quorum anime in pace quiescant, confederacionem rompere quomodolibet intendamus, sed potius eam sicut nos ad id per eundem progenitorem nostrum cognoscimus obligatos tenere firmiter et servare volumus, imo et nos ad ipsius renovacionem in melius offerimus quatenus et quandocumque vobis et vestratibus videbitur expedire.

De ce fait, il propose au roi d’épouser une fille de son oncle, le comte de Valois, qu’il aime autant que ses propres filles et qui est de son sang.57

55

56

57

MGH Legum sectio IV, Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum, Jakob Schwalm éd., III (Hanovre et Leipzig 1904–1906) 159 (n°171). Rymer, Foedera, I/2, 615 ; à nouveau l’année suivante : « licet aeterni imperatoris imperium, cui omnes intendunt et obediunt creaturae, per mortem lugubrem illustris quondam Hartmanni filii nostri karissimi, diri doloris vulneribus cordibus nostris dederit insanabilem cicatricem, per quem inclita domus vestra nostrae perpetuo amicitiae foedere fuerat colligata, tamen quantum ad nos, mors ejusdem filii nostri amicitiam hujusmodi non extinxit, sed erga vos inviolabiliter perpetuo volumus observare quicquid verae amicitiae lex deposcit » (ibid., 635). Daumet, Mémoire, 239–243 (n°31).

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Les rois d’Angleterre à leur tour, dans la première moitié du XIVe siècle, recherchent des alliances matrimoniales dans la Péninsule ibérique, et ils multiplient les références au lien d’amour qui va ainsi se créer entre les deux maisons ;58 mais la concurrence des rois de France, soutenue par le pape, est 58

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Par exemple avec le roi de Castille : « Quanto benignitatis affectu dulcimini, ut domus vestra regia domui nostrae, per viam propinquitatis contrahendae, interni amoris foedere conjungatur, ad nos nuper ...» (18 janvier 1325; Rymer, Foedera, II/1, 585) ; avec le roi de Portugal au sujet d’un éventuel mariage : « quia in votis semper gerimus, ob connexitatem attinentiae, quae inter vestram et nostram domus regias totis temporibus recolimus viguisse, vestris desideriis in cunctis oportunitatibus complacere » (le 19 juillet 1325; ibid., II/1, 603) ; « Efficit affectionis sinceritas quam de vestrae magnitudinis benivolentia gerimus, alligantias ab olim inter vestram et nostram domos regias initas, recolentes, ut in hiis quae vobis insident, aperiamus fiducialiter secreta cordis nostri. [...] pro renovando foedere amicitiae, et amore mutuo inter vestros et nostros subditos confovendo ...» (le 28 mars 1328; ibid. II/2, 736) ; « Ut memor suae [le roi de Castille] promissionis et amicitiae solidae, quae prae caeteris, inter suam et nostram domos regias viguit ab antiquo, quam nostris cupimus temporibus adaugeri, tractata praedicta, juxta condictum super hiis habitum, ex parte sua teneri faciat et compleri » (le 18 mars 1337, ibid. II/2, 961) ; « quia tamen, pensantes exuberantem hactenus inter domos nostros regias amicitiam solidam ab antiquo, de vobis inter alios mundi principes, intime confidimus, ut debemus .... » (le 27 juin 1337, ibid., 977) ; «... quamobrem vestram regalem excellentiam ex corde rogamus, quatenus cum opportunitas arriserit, velitis de completione placida praemissorum, et nos in dilectione solita confovere, ut, ad mutua subsidia, inter vestram et nostram domos regias, crescat semper, sicut cupimus, amoris sincerissimi pulcritudo » (le 8 janvier 1338, ibid., 1010) ; « ...cum amoris exuberantiam qui inter domos nostras regias viguit ab antiquo, et oportuna subsidia, quibus progenitores nostri se mutuo praevenerunt, attenta consideratione recolimus, desideranter appetimus ut, qui proxima consanguinitatis linea ex parentum propagatione conjugimur, in amicitia et alligantia firmius solidemur » (le 23 juillet 1342, ibid., 1207) ; « ...recolentes amicitiam solidam quae inter vestram et nostram domos regias viguit ab antiquo, ac sanguinis necessitudinem, qua invicem attinemus, necnon probitatem et gratiam, quibus altissimus vos dotavit, de prosperis vestris gaudemus succesibus; desiderantes inter nos et nostros subditos augeri amicitiae mutuae firmitatem, et impedimenta subducere quae possent materiam contrariam ministrare » (le 30 août 1343, ibid., 1233) ; accréditation d‘ambassadeurs « pro tractatu super sponsalibus et matrimonio inter illustrem primogenitum vestrum et Johannam filiam nostram carissimam contrahendis, vobiscum vel cum deputatis vestris, habendo; necnon super liga, inter domos nostras regias, juxta condictum, inter excellentiam vestram regiam et quosdam de nostris pridem habitum ...» (1er septembre 1344, ibid., III/1, 21) ; «... ad tractandum et concordandum cum serenitate vestra, seu deputandis per eam, de ligis et amicitiis, inter domos nostras regias ineundis, perpetuis, seu saltem nostris temporibus duraturis, et mutuis auxiliis hinc inde praestandis, necnon super sponsalibus et matrimonio ... » (les 18 et 20 janvier 1345, ibid., 27) ; « ... ad tractandum de ligis inter domos nostras regias ineundis, ac super sponsalibus et matrimonio inter primogenitum vestrum et Johannam filiam nostram ... [le roi était en compétion avec Philippe de valois dont les ambassadeurs offraient beaucoup mais le roi de Castille est prêt à donner la préférence à Edouard] ex praerogativa tamen dilectionis qua nobis et domui nostrae afficimini, praeligitis ut ... [de fait Edouard est prêt à s’engager pour le versement d’une dot importante même si l’argent lui manque] ex intenso tamen desiderio, quod habemus ad renovandum et firmandum antiquas ligas et amicitias inter nostros domos regias dudum factas, praersertim propter dilectionem quam ad personam vestram quae prae caeteris mundi principibus gloriosis fulget strenuitatis et nobilitatis titulis hiis diebus singulariter optinemus, ligam ipsam habere volumus ...» (le 18 juin 1345, ibid., 46) ; «... est semper intentionis nostrae, quod, per presentem tractatum, inter dictum regem et nos, et domos nostras regias perpetuo, vel ad tempus, de praestandis mutuis auxiliis, ligae fiant ...» (le 20 juin 1345, ibid., 47) ; « ...super ligis et amicitiis, temoralibus et perpetuis, inter ipsum et nos ac nostros domos regias, ineundis et mutuis auxiliis hinc inde praestandis ...» (le 30 août 1345, ibid., 58) ; Edouard III se félicite de l’acceptation du mariage par le roi de Castille, la dot est certes un peu élevée mais il accepte tout de même « ne tamen amicitiae foedera inter nos et progenitores nostros ac domos nostras regias hactenus continuata rumpantur, set ut fortioris nexus funiculo solidentur ....» (le 17 mars 1346, ibid., 74) ; le

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acharnée.59 Ce qui n’empêchait pas la Curie pontificale de chercher à régler le conflit des deux rois de France et d’Angleterre par le biais d’un mariage – ainsi lorsque, à Avignon en 1344, les cardinaux évoquent la possibilité d’un mariage entre les « liberis domini nostri [le roi d’Angleterre] et liberos de domo Ffranciae ».60

59

60

même jour Edouard écrit à la reine de Castille : « ... pensata tamen affectione grandi quam vos et prefatus consanguineus noster, conthoralis vester, ad nos et domum nostram regiam sincere geritis ...» (ibid.) ; hélas, le 15 septembre 1348, Edouard III annonce la mort de sa fille Jeanne qui devait épouser Pierre, fils du roi de Castille, alors que « post multos et varios tractatus habitos super matrimonio inter inclitum infantem Petrum filium vestrum primogenitum et Johannam filiam nostram dilectissimam contrahendo pro bono pacis perpetuae et unionis indissolubilis inter domos nostras regias confovendo, tandem praefatam filiam nostram Burdegalis transmissimus ...[Il demande au roi de Castille que les alliances entre leurs deux maisons soient tout de même réactivées] quamobrem celsitudini vestrae regiae quaesumus incessanter ut, ex quo per nos non stat quominus compleatur, ratione tam celebris matrimonii, alligationis vinculum praelocutum, set propterea praeter duram amissionem filiae nostrae, sumptus fecimus excessivos, ad haec vestrae justae considerationis oculos dirigentes, saltem inter domos nostras regias, quae jure sanguinis conjunguntur, amicitiae et verae dilectionis antiqua foedera renoventur, et alligationis vinculum quod inter progenitores nostros, pro eis et suis posteris literis aureis prudenter fuerat confirmatum, inter nos, simili generis fortitudine colligatos, majori gratia roboretur » (ibid., 171). Le 10 mai 1345, Clément VI conseille à Alphonse VI de marier son fils à une princesse française: « ut amor honoris et honestatis qui hactenus inter tuam et Francie domos inclitas regias viguit et viget continue, unione indissolubili stabiliatur solidius et firmetur, quequidem grata quamplurimum nostris accedent affectibus et accepta », Gaston Daumet, Étude sur l’alliance de la France et de la Castille (Paris 1898) 136 (n°6). Le même s’adressant à l’infant Don Pedro : « ... frequenter audivimus, fili, recitari et audivimus etiam incessanter confederationes et amicitias que viguerunt inter domos Castelle et Francie regias et bona innumera que provenerunt ex illis ». Il évoque tous les bienfaits du mariage « ex quibus, ut prefertur, bona provenerunt hactenus multiplicia et utrique domui predicte provenire poterunt in futurum » (ibid., 136 (n°7). Le même recommande à Gil de Albornoz, archevêque de Tolède, de seconder les efforts des ambassadeurs français : « attentis variis honoribus et comodis que Francie ac Castelle domimus regiis ex confederationibus et amicitiis mutuis initis et contractis invicem et fideliter observatis hactenus provenerunt, desiderabiliter affectamus easdem confederationes et amicitias unione indissolubili roborari »; évoquant la princesse à marier, il dit qu’elle doit être « de domo et genere dicti regis francie » (136, n°7) ; plus loin le 27 juillet 1345 (n°11) « natam dilecti filii nobilis viri Johannis ... vel aliam de domo et prosapia tua regali ... » ; et le 27 juillet 1345 Clément VI croit pouvoir annoncer à Philippe VI l’heureuse issue des négociations qui vont aboutir au mariage de l’infant avec Blanche de Navarre : « quod ex eis tibi, fili dilectissime, ac regi predicto et utrique domui felicia honoris et comodi, Deo propitio, proveniant incrementa » (140, n°11) ; le 12 août 1345, le pape félicite Alphonse XI d’avoir suivi ses conseils : « letanter admodum et gratanter percepto quod tu, fili carissime, precibus et exhortationibus nostris super contrahendo inter dilectum filium nobilem virum Petrum infantem primogenitum tuum et unam de puellis inclitis domus regalis frantie, deo propitio, contrahendo, ut amoris vinculum quod inter te dictamque domum viguit hactenus solidaretur et ampliaretur uberius, acquiescens benigne ... » (146–147, n°14) ; il emploie la même formule avec don Pedro « ut ad solidandum et augendum unitatis et amoris vinculum inter Castelle ac Francie domos regias inclitas, unde varia comoda provenisse hactenus dinoscuntur hinc inde, de prosapia domus ejusdem Frantie uxorem tibi copulari consentires, favorabiliter annuens et benigne ... » ; le 27 février 1346, Clément VI insiste auprès du roi de Castille pour que le mariage se réalise et il se réfère à l’amour qu’il porte lui-même aux deux maisons « tanto nos qui tuam et ipsius regis domos inclitas paterne dilectionis affectu prosequimur ... » (152, n°19). Sur cette concurrence entre les deux rois de France et d’Angleterre, cf. Daumet, Étude, 8–18. Kervyn de Lettenhove, édition des Chroniques de Froissart, 28 vols (Bruxelles 1867–1877) t. 18, 248.

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On assiste par conséquent à une diffusion de la notion de maison mais, aussi et surtout, à une évolution du prédicat qui lui est affecté; le processus que, avec prudence, l’on peut reconstituer semble celui-ci:61 tout d’abord l’expression domus est employée sans prédicat ou avec un nom de famille accolé, comme cela est pratiqué en Italie (domus Grimaldorum; domus Ursinorum mais aussi domus Vice comitum pour les Visconti)62 et également avec les Staufen (domus Stoffensis) à l’époque de Frédéric II; puis apparaît une épithète de fonction comme dans la formule domus regalis ou dans les expressions de domus ducum Saxonie, domus ducum Suevie, domus regum Francie employées par Alexandre von Roes. Enfin, l’on peut mettre en évidence le fait que se développe tout au long de la première moitié du XIVe siècle – et c’est bien là l’évolution essentielle – l’établissement d’un lien entre une dynastie et un pays: domus Francie63, Castelle, Sicilie64, Aragonum, Luxemburgensis65, Bavarie66, Austriae67 etc. C’est ce lien héréditaire avec un pays qui est devenu fondamental (en Bavière et en Autriche, le concept de domus Bavarie et domus Austrie finira par intégrer dans un même ensemble la dynastie et le pays).68 La diffusion de

61 62

63

64

65

66

67 68

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Cf. Moeglin, « Dynasties princières allemandes », 139 n. 7, avec différentes références. Henri de Herford rapporte ainsi que le futur Philippe de Valois a conclu un traité de paix en Italie avec Galeas de Milan : « quilibet alteri pollicetur, quod nec domus Francie domum Vicecomitum nec domus Vicecomitum domum Francie, .... », Henri de Herford, Liber de rebus memorabilibus sive Chronicon, August Potthast éd. (Göttingen 1859) 233; dans le même paragraphe, il évoque la domum de Turribus. Le franciscain Thomas Tuscus de Pavie (vers 1280) parle dans ses Gesta imperatorum et pontificum de l’inclita domus illa Francorum (MGH SS 22, 520) mais l’expression domus Francie est en tout cas déjà utilisée en Italie au cours de la seconde moitié du XIIIe siècle (Saba Malaspina, cf. note 46, et Etienne de San Giorgio, cf. note 48, l’utilisent). Le 13 février 1349, le pape Clément VI demande à Charles IV d’intervenir auprès du roi de Hongrie pour obtenir la libération de Robert de Tarente et des autres princes napolitains. Il évoque la captivité de Robert et des autres princes de la maison royale de Sicile : « super captivitate sua, quam longo iam tempore una cum aliis regalibus domus Sicilie passus est et patitur » (MGH Constitutiones 9, 137, n°176). Le 13 mars 1354, Charles IV élève son frère Venceslas à la dignité de prince et duc de Luxembourg : « sane attendentes multiplicia merita probitatis et preclare devotionis insignia, quibus tu et clare memorie progenitores tui domus Lucemburgensis sacrum Romanum imperium ... » (MGH SS Constitutiones 11, 63, n°96). La première mention qui m’est connue apparaît dans un diplôme de Louis de Bavière le 13 mars 1327, au début de son expédition italienne (MGH, Constitutiones 6, 175, n° 226) ; il faut ensuite attendre la fin du XIVe siècle pour retrouver des occurrences; cf. Moeglin, « Dynasties princières allemandes » ; cf. aussi Franz Fuchs, « Das « Haus Bayern » im 15. Jahrhundert – Formen und Strategien einer dynastischen ‘Integration‘ », dans : Werner Maleczek, Fragen der Politischen Integration im mittelalterlichen Europa (Ostfildern 2005) 303–324. Cf. Moeglin, « Dynasties princières allemandes ». Cf. Moeglin, « Dynasties princières allemandes ».

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l’expression mettra évidemment un certain temps à se réaliser partout69 mais on peut considérer qu’à la fin du XVe siècle, au seuil de l’époque moderne, l’évolution était achevée. Le « sang » héréditaire d’un pays Parallèlement, en étroite liaison avec ce concept de domus, la notion de « sang » attaché de manière héréditaire à un pays fait également son apparition. L’idée que la parenté est une parenté fondée sur un sang commun était établie depuis longtemps: l’on évoquait ses consanguinei, l’on se référait au jus sanguinis et à la linea sanguinis; on trouve occasionnellement dès le XIe siècle des expressions dans lesquelles un souverain évoque le fait que ses successeurs seront ses descendants en spécifiant qu’ils seront in sanguine nostro ou de sanguine nostro.70 Dans un diplôme du 20 mai 1073, l’empereur Henri IV parlait même de ses antecessorum en précisant « quorum sanguinis sicut regni gloriam hereditamus » ;71 et Godefroi de Viterbe, à la fin du XIIe siècle, loue l’empereur Henri VI en le rattachant au sang et au mérite de Charlemagne,72 tandis qu’un poème noté dans un manuscrit du XIIe siècle de la Chronica Boemorum de Cosmas de Prague célèbre le duc Henri le Lion comme étant « nobilis ille patre duce famoso generatus / nobilis ex matre regum de sanguine natus ».73 Mais si l’hérédité est incontestablement associée au sang, cela ne paraît pas malgré tout s’accompagner d’une valorisation exacerbée de ce sang comme vecteur de la transmission héréditaire. Les choses semblent bien changer au cours de la première moitié du XIVe siècle lorque la notion de sang héréditaire se trouve liée à un pays de la même façon qu’une « maison » est liée à 69

70

71 72

73

Cf. pour l’exemple du Brandebourg, Cordula Nolte, Familie, Hof und Herrschaft. Das verwandtschaftliche Beziehungs- und Kommunikationsnetz der Reichsfürsten am Beispiel der Markgrafen von Brandenburg-Ansbach (1440–1530), Mittelalter-Forschungen 11 (Osfildern 2005) 52–53. Ce n’est qu’à partir des années 1490 que l’expression « Haus zu Brandenburg » apparaît comme auto-désignation, avant tout dans le contexte de promesses de mariage et de traités. Dans des traités de mariages antérieurs, il arrive que le margrave Albert Achille se réfère à la tradition suivie dans la maison de Brandenbourg . Henri IV dans un diplôme du 1er janvier 1072 « qui in nostro sanguine senior nobis superstes extiterit » (Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser – t. VI – Die Urkunden Heinrichs IV., Dietrich von Gladiss et Alfred Gawlik éd. (Berlin – Weimar – Hanovre 1941–1978) 316 (n°249); Frédéric Ier dans un diplôme du 3 août 1163 à propos de la transmission de l’avouerie d’un monastère : « et post ipsum eius [le duc de Souabe Frédéric, père de Barberousse] heres, qui proximior ei succederet. Cuius nos vestigiis inherentes, utpote qui hereditate sumus proximiores ... post nostrum decessum idem cenobium nulli conservandum relinquimus nisi ei, qui in nostro sanguine nobis heres proximior erit ...» (Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser – t. X/2 – Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1158–1167, Heinrich Appelt éd. (Hanovre 1979) 282 (n°404); également le 16 octobre 1166 : « nostro nostrorumque successorum consilio, qui de sanguine nostro fuerint ... » (ibid., 460, n°519); le même diplôme évoquait le « jus hereditarius ». Ibid., 328 (n°258). « Karulus in reliquis meruit premaior haberi, sanguinis et meriti cuius tu planta videris » (Speculum regum, MGH SS 22, 48). MGH SS 9, 29.

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un pays. On peut en donner quelques exemples : la lettre, citée plus haut, de Philippe V à la reine Marie de Castille pour proposer le mariage d’une fille de Charles de Valois avec le roi de Castille insiste sur le fait que Philippe la chérit comme sa propre fille et la considère comme étant de son propre sang « ut proprium nostrum sanguinem reputamus » ; le roi de Castille ne pourrait épouser une princesse qui soit plus proche de « notre sang » que l’une des filles de Charles de Valois: Unde si de suarum altera filiarum fieret quod de nostra commode complere nequivit, summe gratissimum nobis esset et utique gauderemus predictum inquam nepotem vestrum regem Castelle nec alciorem nec de sanguine nostro propinquiorem in uxorem hiis diebus posse ducere non putamus quam alteram earundem. 74

Il n’est pas nécessaire de revenir ici sur l’émergence contemporaine en France des notions de princes de sang et de sang de France bien étudiée par Bernard Guenée ; la première mention du « sanc de France » semble dater des années 1332–1335.75 L’expression s’est en tout cas diffusée rapidement car le dossier juridique que les juristes d’Edouard III établissent, dès 1340 semble-t-il, à l’appui des prétentions de leur maître réfute l’objection selon laquelle Edouard III ne serait du sang de France que par les femmes « de sanguine domus Francie, nisi per medium mulieris ».76 En 1343, un noble breton justifie son ralliement au parti Montfort : « pour ce que j’ay soustenu la partie de celuy qui est de ma lige seigneurie et dou droit sanc de Bretagne ... ».77 L’expression « sang de France » a de fait son équivalent dans les autres royaumes et principautés. Ainsi, le 23 novembre 1386, Jean Ier de Castille confirme le traité avec le roi de France en évoquant les princes de sanguine regali Anglie.78 74 75

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78

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Daumet, Mémoire, 239–243 (n°31), ici 242. Cf. Bernard Guenée, « Le roi, ses parents et son royaume en France au XIVe siècle », Bulletino dell’Istituto storico Italiano per il Medio Evo et Archivio Muratoriano 94 (1988) 439–470 (repris dans Id., Un roi et son historien - Vingt études sur le règne de Charles VI et la chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis (Paris 1999) 301–324) ; la première attestation connue du « sang de France » paraît figurer dans le « Chapel des fleurs de lis » composé entre 1332 et 1335 par Philippe de Vitry. Pour un exemple des enjeux de la notion de « sang » princier, cf. Jean-Marie Moeglin, « Das Geblüt von Bayern et la réunification de la Bavière en 1505. Les falsifications historiques dans l'entourage du duc Albert IV (1465–1508) », dans : Fälschungen im Mittelalter, I, Monumenta Germaniae Historica Schriften 33/I (1988) 471–496. « Item obicitur predicto regi Anglie quod ipse non est de sanguine domus Francie, nisi per medium mulieris ... »; le document est conservé en abrégé dans les registres de Benoît XII (1334–1342) – Lettres closes et patentes concernant les pays autres que la France, J. M. Vidal éd. (Paris 1935) fascicule IV, n° 2982, col.127–130 (passage concerné col. 127, 129); il est publié dans sa version complète à partir d’un manuscrit du XVe siècle de l’évêque Thomas Beckington par Pierre Chaplais, English Medieval Diplomatic Practice (Londres 1982) I/2, 438–452 (passage concerné 449, 451). Dom Morice, Mémoire pour servir de preuve à l’histoire ecclésiastique et civile de la Bretagne, 5 vols (Paris 1742–1756) I, 1431. Daumet, Mémoire, 172 (n°33).

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Quant au « sang » héréditaire d’un pays, c’est également vers le milieu du XIVe siècle que le lien entre le sang qui coule de génération en génération dans les veines d’une famille et un pays donné prend de l’importance. Cette concomitance avec le triomphe du concept de maison pour désigner ce que nous appelons une dynastie n’est pas fortuite : le concept de maison permettait d’effectuer le lien avec un pays mais il perdait (par rapport à progenies, prosapia, stirps) la possibilité d’exprimer l’hérédité : l’insistance sur le sang vient pallier ce déficit. Naissance des « dynasties » Au milieu du XIVe siècle, on peut dire que la formule domus Francie et, dans son sillage, celle de « sang de France » ou de « sang de la maison de France », s’est désormais établie et présente des expressions équivalentes dans les autres pays et principautés. Ce qui est consacré par cette evolution n’est rien moins que la naissance des dynasties territoriales héréditaires qui inscrivent au centre de leur auto-compréhension le lien entre une lignée princière plutôt agnatique et « sa » (ou ses) terre(s). La « maison » réunissait tous ceux qui avaient un droit sur un pays, qui se situaient les uns par rapport aux autres dans un ordre de succession. Entre ces membres d’une « maison » territoriale et leur (leurs) territoire(s) existait un lien d’amour fondamental et infrangible. Ainsi l’annaliste de Mattsee aux confins des duchés de Bavière et d’Autriche pouvait-il écrire qu’en 1341, à la suite de la mort du dernier duc de la lignée des princes de Basse-Bavière: « Tota fere terra Bawaria plangit, quia sine legitimis dominorum heredibus exstitit. »79 Cette naissance des dynasties en tant que telles était bien entendu l’aboutissement d’un processus de très longue durée commencé depuis plusieurs siècles mais qui s’est véritablement realisé entre 1250 et 1350. Il a été bien montré que, au XIIe siècle encore, ce que l’historiographie contemporaine a pris l’habitude d’appeler les Staufen et les Welfs ne constituait pas véritablement des dynasties achevées. Leurs contours étaient en réalité tout à fait fluctuants.80 Un siècle plus tard, il n’en était plus de même. Richer de Senones rapporte qu’Innocent IV aurait ordonné que Frédéric II, excommunié et déposé, ne soit plus désormais appelé autrement que de Stoupha ;81 moins d’un siècle après, un autre pape ordonnera que l’empereur Louis, également excommunié et déposé, ne soit plus autrement appelé que Bavarus, et

79

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MGH SS 9, 829; ibid., 830 (mort de l’ancienne impératrice) : « que multum dilexit clerum et totam terram Wabarie ». Cf. Werner Hechberger, Staufer und Welfen 1125–1190 – Zur Verwendung von Theorien in der Geschichtswissenschaft (Cologne – Weimar – Vienne 1996). MGH SS 25, 304 : « et sub interminatione anathematis districte inhibuit, ne quis de cetero eum pro imperatore haberet nec imperatorem, sed Fridericum tantum de Stoupha ».

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non pas de Scheyern ou de Wittelsbach. Le lien avec un territoire héréditaire était devenu incontournable. Ce lien entre une dynastie et une terre va désormais se trouver à la fois mis en scène et véritablement constitué en premier lieu à travers l’essor d’une historiographie que j’ai appelée « dynastique et nationale » parce qu’elle raconte l’histoire d’un pays en l’inscrivant dans l’histoire de sa dynastie héréditaire, placée par la volonté de Dieu à la tête de ce pays et destinée à le gouverner jusqu’à la fin du monde. Ce phénomène a fait l’objet depuis plusieurs décennies de nombreuses études.82 Moins étudiée jusqu’à présent est la pratique que l’on voit se développer dans certaines principautés de l’Empire au cours du XIVe siècle, d’organiser à date fixe, dans tout le pays et par l’ensemble du clergé, la célébration de prières pour le salut de l’âme du prince régnant et de l’ensemble de sa dynastie.83 Pour autant, cette confusion entre les destinées d’un pays et celles de sa dynastie ne constitue pas forcément le soubassement d’une évolution « absolutiste » du pouvoir princier car dans l’expression « maison de France », « de Bavière » ou « d’Autriche », l’affirmation du pays avec ses libertés et ses privilèges se trouve établie en face du prince et de sa dynastie, et le prince doit en tenir compte. Ceci étant, il faut bien voir que l’ordre dynastique n’était pas exempt de contradictions internes car la politique des princes les poussait à acquérir toujours plus de terres, de principautés et de royaumes en se référant à leurs droits héréditaires. Mais évidemment, on ne pouvait avoir qu’un seul nom de famille ; la difficulté était par exemple criante pour la « maison de Bourgogne » qui régnait au XVe siècle sur une multiplicité de pays. On peut

82

83

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Cf. avec de nombreuses autres références bibliographiques Jean-Marie Moeglin, « De la “nation allemande” au Moyen Age », Revue française d’histoire des idées politiques 14 (2001) 229–260; Id., « Die historiographische Konstruktion der Nation. “Französische Nation” und “deutsche Nation” im Vergleich », dans : J. Ehlers éd., Deutschland und der Westen Europas im Mittelalter, Vorträge und Forschungen 56 (Stuttgart 2002) 353–377. Cf. par exemple pour la Bavière Michael Menzel, « Die Memoria Kaiser Ludwigs des Bayern », dans : Walter Koch, Alois Schmid et Wilhelm Volkert éd., Auxilia Historica - Festschrift für Peter Acht zum 90. Geburtstag (Munich 2001) 247–283; un autre exemple est fourni par le duché de Brunswick-Lüneburg : le 19 mars 1353, en échange de la liberté de tester, le clergé du duché s’engage à prier deux fois par an pour le salut de l’âme du duc Magnus, de ses ancêtres et de ses descendants : « dicti vero clerici nostro desiderio acquiescere volentes pro se et successoribus suis se firmiter et beeuole obligarunt quod singulis annis bis scilicet feria secunda proxima post misericordia domini, et feria secunda proxima ante mychahelis quilibet archipresbiterum assumptis sui banni clericis in locis sibi competentibus conueniet et sic alii cum suis, et de vespere dictarum dierum, vigilias pro salute animarum videlicet nostre, et progenitorum nostrorum, et heredum seu successorum nostrorum omnium sollempniter decantabunt. Sequenti vero mane, hoc est feria tercia, quilibet missam leget pro defunctis et post summam missam commendationem facient legendo ipsam morose, humiliter et deuote cui omnes interesse tenebuntur » (Urkundenbuch zur Geschichte der Herzöge von Braunschweig und Lüneburg und ihrer Lande, II (Hanovre 1860) 222–223 (n° 433).

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d’ailleurs dire qu’en un sens, elle est morte de n’avoir pas su résoudre cette contradiction interne à l’ordre dynastique.84 Conclusion Conclure une alliance entre deux maisons était donc conclure une alliance entre deux pays et vice-versa; au centre de l’alliance se trouvait un lien d’amour qui ne pouvait évidemment qu’être personnel mais qui entrainait ipso facto l’alliance, l’amitié et l’amour mutuels des pays et des sujets des deux princes. Dans cette perspective et si l’on veut bien admettre que les mots et la rhétorique par lesquels les princes mettent en scène leurs relations sont à prendre au sérieux, il faut bien reconnaître que l’avènement de l’Etat moderne n’entraîne pas à cet égard de recul de l’importance politique des relations personnelles, d’homme à homme; en réalité, ces relations personnelles acquièrent une nouvelle dimension d’autant plus importante que l’identité du royaume se confond avec celle de la dynastie qui le gouverne, que les destinées du royaume se confondent avec celles de la maison qui le gouverne. Tout cela esquisse les contours d’un ordre dynastique qui surplombe, qui se superpose à un ordre étatique qui est également en train de se mettre en place et que l’on peut comprendre comme une autorité qui s’exerce de manière à la fois dépersonnalisée et référée au bien commun. Reste une dernière question : cet ordre dynastique s’est-il imposé partout et pour ainsi dire naturellement et sans rencontrer de résistances? La réponse est bien évidemment négative; on a évoqué plus haut les contradictions internes de cet ordre dynastique tiraillé entre d’une part la référence au lien fondamental qui existe héréditairement et providentiellement entre une dynastie de princes et son pays et la recherche fébrile des dynasties d’accumuler, par le jeu du droit héréditaire, le plus grand nombre possible de pays. Par ailleurs, il existait des forces hostiles à l’établissement de l’ordre dynastique; l’une des principales forces qui s’y sont opposé est assurément représentée par les villes, en Italie mais aussi dans l’Empire et plus particulièrement dans les Pays-Bas, un combat sur lequel les travaux de Wim Blockmans et d’autres ont apporté une vive lumière qui éclaire aussi par contrecoup l’ordre dynastique triomphant.85 Plus généralement, il va de soi que l’ordre dynastique s’est inégalement imposé dans les différents pays européens. La carte des imposteurs politiques – ces personnages qui se font passer pour le roi défunt, disparu ou 84

85

Cf. avec d’autres références Jean-Marie Moeglin, « Les ducs de Bourgogne et l’historiographie flamande », dans : Chantal Grell éd., Les historiographes en Europe de la fin du Moyen Age à la Révolution (Paris 2006) 21–36. Cf. en dernier lieu Wim Blockmans, « Wie weit und wie tief ? Die politische Integration der burgundisch-habsburgischen Niederlande », dans : Fragen der politischen Integration im mittelalterlichen Europa, Werner Maleczek éd. (Ostfildern 2005) 449–471.

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assassiné, à l’occasion d’une crise de succession paraissant remettre en cause l’ordre dynastique (prince disparu sans héritier ; éviction brutale d’une ligne dynastique au profit d’une autre ...)86 – permet en fait de dessiner en creux la carte de l’ordre dynastique : là où l’on ne rencontre pas de tels imposteurs (la Suède par exemple, ou dans l’Empire en ce qui concerne la succession impériale après la fin des faux Frédéric II), c’est que l’ordre dynastique n’a pas pu s’imposer contre le principe de l’élection. Là où il y en a beaucoup (cas de l’Angleterre au XVe siècle), c’est en revanche que l’ordre dynastique est reconnu comme l’ordre légitime mais que les structures politiques n’y sont pas parfaitement adaptées ; d’où ce phénomène des imposteurs, réponse à ce qui est ressenti comme un scandale inadmissible dans le cadre de l’ordre dynastique, l’éviction de la droite lignée avec laquelle se confondent les destinées du pays.

86

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Cf. Gilles Lecuppre, L’imposture politique au Moyen Age. La seconde vie des rois (Paris 2005).

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‘Mon souverain seigneur’ Werner Paravicini Kiel-Kronshagen

In seinem Aufsatz über die Figur des Majestätsverbrechens in Dienste Karls des Kühnen hat Wim Blockmans beobachtet, daß flämische Stadtrechnungen seit Mai 1475 vom Herzog als ihrem harde gheduchte ende souveraine prince sprechen und in gleicher Weise auch von der Herzogin Margarete von York.1 Was ihm vor gut zwölf Jahren aufgefallen war, hat eine längere Vorgeschichte. Zu seinen Ehren möchte ich sie nun erzählen.2 Todesanzeige und Regierungsantritt Am 19. Juni 1467, vier Tage nach dem Tode seines Vaters, ließ Herzog Karl der Kühne in Brügge einen Brief schreiben, den er dann auch eigenhändig unterzeichnete, um König Ludwig XI. den Tod Herzog Philipps und zugleich seinen Regierungsantritt anzuzeigen. Das papierne Stück,3 an dem noch rote Spuren des Verschlußsignets haften, trägt die Außenadresse: A mon tresredoubté seigneur monseigneur le roy. Der Text lautet: Mon tresredoubté seigneur. Je me recommande a vostre bonne grace si treshumblement que faire puis. Si vous plaise savoir, mon tresredoubté seigneur, qu’il a pleu a Dieu, souverain disposeur de toutes choses, prendre a sa part mon tresredoubté seigneur et pere, lequel, en rendant le deu de nature, trespassa de ce mortel monde lundi derrain passé entre neuf et dix heures apres midi. Et pour ce, mon tresredoubté seigneur, que de vostre grace vous avez eu singuliere amour et affeccion a feu mondit seigneur et a sa maison, j’envoye presentement 1

2

3

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W. P. Blockmans, ‘“Crisme de leze magesté”. Les idées politiques de Charles le Téméraire’, in: J.-M. Duvosquel, J. Nazet und A. Vanrie (eds), Les Pays-Bas bourguignons. Histoire et institutions. Mélanges André Uyttebrouck (Brüssel 1996) 71–81, hier 75 mit Anm. 20. Für Auskünfte und Kopien danke ich Valérie Bessey (Paris), Sébastien Hamel (Montréal/Paris) und Harm v. Seggern (Kiel). Die folgende Gabe steht in engem Zusammenhang mit: W. Paravicini, ‘Einen neuen Staat verhindern: Frankreich und Burgund im 15. Jahrhundert’, in: K. Oschema und R. C. Schwinges, Karl der Kühne von Burgund. Fürst zwischen europäischem Adel und der Eidgenossenschaft (Zürich 2009) 31–48, wo manches nachgewiesen ist, was gebotener Kürze halber hier entfallen muß. A.G. Jongkees, ‘Charles le Téméraire et la souveraineté: quelques considérations’, in: Id., Burgundica et Varia (Hilversum 1990) 191–211, der eigens von Karl dem Kühnen und der Souveränität handelt, berührt unseren engeren Gegenstand nicht. Zur Sache s. künftig auch W. Paravicini, ‘Theater of death: the transfer of the remnants of Philip the Good and Isabel of Portugal to Dijon in 1473–1474’. Vortrag auf dem Kolloquium ‘Death at Court’ im Alfried Krupp Wissenschaftskolleg, Greifswald 12.–13. Juli 2010, K.-H. Spiess u.a. (eds)(im Druck). AN, J 247 Nr. 34. Ältere Drucke und Erwähnungen s. W. Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen (1433–1477). Inventar (2 vols., Frankfurt a. M. 1995) I, Nr. 546; zuletzt H. Dubois, Charles le Téméraire (Paris 2004) 140–142.

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pardevers vous mon amé et feal chevalier, conseillier et chambellan messire Emart Bouton, seigneur du Fay,4 porteur5 de cestes, pour vous signiffier ledit cas doloreux, a moy tant desplaisant que plus ne pourroit estre, vous suppliant treshumblement qu’il vous plaise avoir en vostre bonne grace moy et les pays et subgets qui me sont par ledit trespas escheuz, tant en vostre royaume6 comme en l’empire, desquelz je vous desire faire tout service et plaisir, en moy mandant et commandant voz bons vouloirs pour les acomplir a mon povoir comme raison est et ainsi que tenu y suis, a l’ayde de nostre seigneur Jhesu Crist, auquel, mon tresredoubté seigneur, je supplie qu’il vous ait en sa digne et benoite garde et vous doint bonne vie et longue avec acomplissement de voz haulz et nobles desirs. Escript en ma ville de Bruges, le xix7 jour de juing l’an lxvij.

Unterzeichnet ist der Brief mit Vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget Charles, duc de Bourgoingne et de Brabant,8 und eigenhändig mit Charles, sowie in der rechten unteren Ecke vom Ersten Sekretär und Audiencier J[ean] Gros. Aus Dorsualnotizen erfahren wir Ort und Zeit der Ankunft und des Weitertransports des Schreibens: Receu a Chartres le xxviije jour de juing lxvij und Receu a Paris pour mettre ou tresor des chartres le vje jour de juillet oudit an. Angeheftet9 ist ein Schreiben des königlichen Kanzlers Guillaume Jouvenel des Ursins, datiert aus Chartres, vom 5. Juli 1467, gerichtet A mon treschier cousin maistre Dreux Budé, conseillier et audiancier de la chancellerie du roy. Es liest sich wie folgt: Treschier cousin, je me recommande a vous. Le roy m’a chargé vous envoyer ces lectres cy dedans enclouses, lesquelles monseigneur de Bourgoingne, qui a present est, luy escripvoit, et m’a chargé vous escripre que les mectiez ou tresor de ses lettres et qu’elles soient bien gardees pource qu’elles ne sont pas en forme, car il ne l’appelle pas souverain comme il doit. Et aussi y a autres faultes dedans lesdictes lettres. Si me10 vueillez rescripre commant vous les avez receues pour ma descharge.11 Je prie a Dieu qu’i[l] vous doint bonne vie et longue. Escript a Chartres le vejour de juillet. 4

5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Zu diesem burgundischen Edelmann s. M.-Th. Caron, Les voeux du Faisan, noblesse en fête, esprit de croisade. Le manuscrit français 11594 de la Bibliothèque nationale de France (Turnhout 2003) 246f. Philippe de Commines, Mémoires, J. Blanchard (ed.), 2 vols (Genf 2007) I, 92 (l. II, c. 1), erwähnt diese Brief, ohne ihn zu kommentieren: signiffia la mort dudict seigneur au roy. Jean de Haynin, Mémoires, D. Brouwers (ed.), 2 vols (Lüttich 1903-1906) I, 197, erwähnt die Gesandtschaft Boutons (ne sai pour quoy) und die Tatsache, daß Ludwig XI. am Tag von dessen Ankunft bereits einen feierlichen Totengottesdienst abhalten ließ, sehr zum Mißvergnügen manch seiner Parteigänger. Porteurs Ms. Royamme Ms. Das Tagesdatum ist in einen Freiraum nachgetragen. Ein zu erwartendes ‘etc.’ ist nicht ersichtlich. Or. Pap., AN, J 247 Nr. 35, auf dem Rücken eine Signatur des 15. Jh.s: vjxx ij. ‘Me’ am Zeilenende versehentlich am Zeilenanfang wiederholt. Dieser Reversbrief ist verloren.

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Unterschrieben ist der Brief mit Vostre cousin G. des Ursins, chancelier de France. Vieles an diesem Vorgang ist bemerkenswert. Zunächst die Tatsache, daß Karl der Kühne vier Tage verstreichen ließ, bevor er seine Anzeige absandte. Fünf Jahre zuvor, in einem anderen Todesfall von weit geringerer Bedeutung, hatte er noch am selben Abend geschrieben und einen Boten losgeschickt, um eine freigewordene Stelle schneller besetzen zu können als die Konkurrenz, in diesem Fall sein eigener Vater.12 Der Brief an die Königin Charlotte von Savoyen ist einen Tag zuvor datiert,13 derjenige an den herzoglichen Rat in Dijon sogar zwei Tage früher.14 Daß es ganze neun Tage dauerte, bis das Schreiben beim König in Chartres anlangte,15 ist weniger auffällig, denn nicht ein Eilbote beförderte es, sondern ein Edelmann als Gesandter, der langsamer ritt.16 Sehr auffällig ist hingegen, daß der König anordnete, das Stück solle nach Paris gebracht und dort im Urkundenschatz gut aufgehoben werden, wo es am 6. Juli 1467 eintraf und wo es sich noch heute befindet. Missiven wurden üblicherweise nicht im Trésor des chartes aufbewahrt, sondern blieben bei den geschäftsführenden Personen.17 Die Anweisung, es dennoch zu tun, wurde deshalb auch begründet: elles ne sont pas en forme, car il ne l’appelle pas souverain comme il doit. Außerdem gebe es darin noch andere Fehler, aussi y a autres faultes. Wir können nur vermuten, welche damit gemeint sind: Nicht die ironisch anmutende Erwähnung der kaum vorhandenen Liebe und Zuneigung des Königs zu Herzog Philipp und seinem Hause; eher schon, daß die Rede war von les pays et subgets que me sont par ledit trespas escheuz, tant en vostre royaume comme en l’empire, den Ländern und Untertanen, die Karl durch den erwähnten Tod zugefallen seien, sowohl im Königreich Frankreich als auch im Reich: Zwar wird aus beiden der Dienst angeboten, zu dem er, Karl, verpflichtet sei, aber von einer Lehnsnahme ist nicht die Rede. Der König mochte es auch nicht schätzen, daß von sujets, Untertanen des Herzogs die Rede war, wo die Bewohner Flanderns, des Artois, des Herzogtums 12

13 14

15

16

17

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So geschehen im Jahre 1462, s. W. Paravicini, ‘Un suicide à la cour de Bourgogne: Roland Pippe’, in: W. Paravicini und B. Schnerb (ed.), La face noire de la splendeur, in: Revue du Nord 91 (2009) 385–420, Anm. 15. Or. Pap., Brügge, 18. Juni 1467, BNF, ms. fr. 5041, fol. 45, hier weder ‘souveraine’ noch ‘sujet’. Druck: U. Plancher, Histoire générale et particulière de Bourgogne IV (Dijon 1781) preuves, Nr. cxcvij. Er ist dort und in der Umgebung vom 24. Juni bis zum 12. Juli bezeugt, s. sein Itinerar in: J. Vaesen, É. Charavay und B.de Mandrot (ed.), Lettres de Louis XI, roi de France, 11 vols. (Paris 1883–1909) XI 65f. Von Gent via Paris nach Chartres sind es 340 km Luftlinie, zu ergänzen auf ca. 400 km. 40–50 km Tagesleistung entsprechen durchaus den Angaben zur Reisegeschwindigkeit zu Pferde bei H. von Seggern, Herrschermedien im Spätmittelalter. Studien zur Informationsübermittlung im burgundischen Staat unter Karl dem Kühnen (Ostfildern 2003) 107f. Siehe unten Anm. 44.

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Burgund doch seine Untertanen waren, und Brügge in strengen Sinne seine Stadt. Doch unterzeichnete Karl als subget des Königs, was, wie sich noch zeigen wird, Beachtung verdient. Der Hauptvorwurf aber lautete, daß Karl den König nicht seinen souverain nannte, und das nicht weniger als fünfmal, die wichtige Außenadresse eingerechnet. Daß hingegen gleich zu Anfang Gott als souverain disposeur de toutes choses bezeichnet wurde, kann kein Zufall sein, auch wenn Karl sich hier nicht Herzog par la grace de Dieu, von Gottes Gnaden nannte.18 Was war nun am Fehlen des Wortes souverain so anstößig? Streng genommen, und anders kann es nach vier Tagen der Beratung nicht gewesen sein, besagt diese Lücke, daß Karl beabsichtigte und ankündigte, die Oberhoheit des Königs von Frankreich abzuwerfen, alle Lehnsbande zu durchschneiden und jeden Gerichtszug an das Parlament von Paris einzustellen. Es stand also viel auf dem Spiel. Wieviel, das läßt sich daran erkennen, daß dieses gegebene oder verweigerte Wort souverain schon längst in den Beziehungen zwischen Frankreich und Burgund eine wichtige Rolle gespielt hatte. 1435: Der Vertrag von Arras Wir begegnen dem Streit um diese Formel zuerst im Vertrag von Arras vom 21. September 1435. Karls Vater, Herzog Philipp der Gute, war zwar bereit, die 1420 eingegangene englische Allianz aufzugeben und mit Karl VII. von Frankreich Frieden zu schließen. Er weigerte sich aber, zu demjenigen, den er richtig als Mörder seines Vaters Johann Ohne Furcht ansah, in eine persönliche Beziehung zu treten. Nur für seine Person und nur hinsichtlich des gegenwärtigen Königs wurde ihm dies eingeräumt: sera et demoura exempt, de sa personne, en tous cas, de subjeccion, hommage, ressor, souveraineté et autres du roy. Aber einem künftigen König werde er sie wieder schuldig bzw. seine Erben werden es dem gegenwärtigen, wenn er zu dessen Lebzeiten sterben sollte19. Schon in den Jahren 1423 und 1429 war die Forderung nach Exemtion erhoben worden, zunächst auch für alle seine Erben und Untertanen, dann nur noch für seine Lehnsträger, solange Karl VII. lebe; schließlich war nur Philipps Person durchzusetzen.20 Neu 18 19

20

Dazu unten bei Anm. 34. E. Cosneau, Les grands traités de la Guerre de Cent Ans (Paris 1889) 143f., § 28. Auch in Jean le Fèvre, seigneur de Saint-Rémy, Chronique, ed. F. Morand, 2 vols (Paris 1876–1881) II, 352; Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires, ed. H. Beaune und J. d’Arbaumont, 4 vols (Paris 1883–1888) I, 229f. G. du Fresne de Beaucourt, Histoire de Charles VII, 6 vols (Paris 1881–1891) II, 325 § 16 (Bourg-en-Bresse 1423); 406, § 7 (Arras 1429); Plancher, Histoire IV, preuves, lxxviii-lxxix; Cosneau, Les grands traités, 182: Item, que mondit seigneur de Bourgoingne et ses feaulx vassaulx et sujets soyent et demeurent exemps dudit roy Charles, sa vie durant, de lui faire quelque hommaige ou serment de feaulté. Et, en outre, au regart de personne de mondit seigneur, il sera exempt de touttes chouses dudit roy Charles, sa vie durant.

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war 1435, daß Philipp Karl VII. von nun an schriftlich und mündlich den ihm zustehenden Titel geben sollte: cy apres21 mondit seigneur de Bourgoigne, tant es lectres qui se feront de la paix comme en autres lectres et escriptures, et aussi de bouche recongnoistra et nommera et pourra nommer et recognoistre, la ou il appartiendra, le roy son souverain seigneur. Es wird aber zugesichert, daß dies seiner persönlichen Exemtion nicht schaden solle.22 In der urkundlichen Ausfertigung, die er vom Frieden von Arras ausstellte, ist Herzog Philipp unerschüttert dabei geblieben, Karl VII. mon tres redoubté seigneur, le roy Charles zu nennen. Er hat sich an die ausdrücklichen Vorschrift und Zusage also nicht gehalten.23 Leider gibt es - mit Ausnahme der Korrespondenz der Herzogin Isabella von Portugal24 - keine Briefedition der Herzöge von Burgund, so daß ein schneller Überblick darüber, wie sie zu verschiedenen Zeiten den König ansprachen und von ihm redeten, kaum zu gewinnen ist. Es ist ohnehin nicht bekannt, seit wann man überhaupt vom König nicht mehr nur als monseigneur le roy,25 oder nostre sire,26 sondern als souverain seigneur sprach und zu sprechen hatte. Drei Handschriften der Bibliothèque Nationale de France, aus dem Besitz der französischen Hofkanzlei stammend, enthalten jedoch eine größere, für unsere Zwecke ausreichende Zahl von Briefen, die Philipp der Gute und Karl der Kühne an Karl VII. und Ludwig XI. gerichtet haben. Es handelt sich um die Signaturen ms. fr. 5041 und 504427 und Collection Dupuy 762.

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

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Danach hat Philipp die geforderte Anrede bislang verweigert, was zu überprüfen bleibt, zumal gegenüber Karl VI. (gest. 1422). Cosneau, Les grands traités, 144 § 29. Noch im Vertragsentwurf vom 11. Sept. 1435 ( Jean Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, ed. A. Vallet de Viriville, 3 vols (Paris 1858) I, 201, § 24, vgl. Du Fresne de Beaucourt, Histoire II, 545, Anm. 1) sollte Philipp auch den Nachfolgern gegenüber exempt sein: Item, que ledit duc ne sera tenu de faire hommage au roy ne a ses successeurs de ses propres seigneuries ne de ce qui lui pourra escheoir ou royaulme de France pour le temps advenir. Et combien que ledit duc, en passant les lectres du traicté ou autres lectres, ledit duc nomme ou appelle le roy son souverain, neantmoins c’est sur telle condicion que pour ce il ne puisse encourir ou temps advenir aucuns dommages et interestz, apres le deceps duquel son hoir fera devers le roy ce en quoy il sera tenu. Text in Le Fèvre, Mémoires II, 328, auch in Enguerrand de Monstrelet, Chronique, ed. L. Douët d’Arcq, 6 vols (Paris 1857-1862) V, 152; der König von England heißt hier nostre treschier sire (et cousin) le roy d’Angleterre. M. Sommé (ed.), La correspondance d’Isabelle de Portugal, duchesse de Bourgogne (1430–1471) (Ostfildern 2009). So Hz. Philipp der Kühne, E. Petit, Itinéraires de Philippe le Hardi et de Jean sans Peur, ducs de Bourgogne (1363–1419), d’après les comptes de dépenses de leur hôtel (Paris 1888) 455 (1363), 464, 465, 466, 467, 468 (1365); Hz. Johann Ohne Furcht 583 (1406). Z. B. Bertrand du Guesclin 1364 (Petit, Itinéraires, 461), oder die Rechnungskammer in Paris 1423 (Plancher, Histoire IV, preuves, S. xxx). Die Briefe sind einzeln aufgeführt im Catalogue des manuscrits français (Bibliothèque Nationale de France [weiteres: BNF]. Département des Manuscrits), IV Ancien fonds nos 4587–5525 (Paris 1895) 480–484 und 486–489.

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1435–1461: Verweigerung Mit deren Hilfe läßt sich zunächst in neunzehn Fällen feststellen, daß Philipp der Gute zwische 1447 und 1460 Karl VII. stets und unveränderlich A mon tresredoubté seigneur monseigneur le roy adressierte, den König mit mon tresredoubté seigneur anredete und mit vostre treshumble et tresobeissant Phelippe duc de Bourgoingne et de Brabant zeichnete.28 Angefangen mit seiner Ausfertigung des Vertrags von Arras selbst hat er den König in diesem Zeitraum, so weit wir wissen, nie als souverain seigneur bezeichnet, und sich selbst nie als dessen ‘sujet'. In seiner unmittelbaren Nähe läßt sich die Gegenprobe machen: Als der burgundische Hofkanzler am 16. April 1455 aus Brügge an Karl VII. schrieb, adressierte er Au roy mon souverain seigneur, sprach ihn mit mon souverain seigneur an und zeichnete: Vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subject Nicolas Rolin, chancelier de Bourgoingne.29 Daß die aufständischen Genter den König von Frankreich ihren souverain seigneur nannten, war eine Pflicht, der sie gewiß gerne nachkamen.30 Herzog Philipp der Gute hat Karl VII. diesen Vorrang in einem Brief vom 28. April 1452 sogar ausdrücklich eingeräumt, aber gleichzeitig eine eigene Legitimität aufzubauen gesucht, indem er von den Rebellen schrieb: commettant envers vous, qui estes leur souverain seigneur, grande offense, et en eulx demonstrant rebelles et desobeissans envers moy qui suis leur prince et seigneur naturel.31 Die nourriture, das Aufwachsen im Dienstverhältnis beim angeborenen Herrn, konnte sich stärker erweisen als jede lehnsrechtliche Abhängigkeit vom König als souverain seigneur, wie der burgundisch gesinnte Herr von Moreuil Ludwig XI. erklärte, als im Jahre 1463 die Sommestädte (für kurze Zeit) an Frankreich zurückfielen.32 Französische Unterhändler haben bei Gelegenheit ihren burgundischen Kollegen unmißverständlich zu verstehen gegeben, daß ein Rangunterschied zwischen ihrem Herzog und etwa dem König von Dänemark bestand, 28

29

30

31

32

Alle sind im Or. auf Papier überliefert: Brügge, 16. Febr. 1447 (n. St.), ms. fr. 5041, fol. 4 (Regest: Catalogue des manuscrits français IV, 480, Nr. 4). - Brüssel, 29. Jan. 1460 (n. St.), fol. 7 (ibid., 480, Nr. 7); das Stück trägt den Zusatz: Mon tresredoubté seigneur, je vous supplie qu’il vous plaise me pardonner ce que je n’ay signé ces lettres de ma main, car sans faulte je ne le puis faire bonnement. Die anderen Stücke in ms. fr. 5041 tragen im Cat. die Nrr.n (in zeitlicher Reihenfolge) 13, 19, 2, 17, 25, 20, 5, 21, 11, 1, 14, 15, 3 und 9; dazu kommen Nr. 28 und 32 in ms. fr. 5044, und fol. 144 in ms. 762 der Coll. Dupuy. Or. Pap., BnF, ms. fr. 5044, fol. 32 (Catalogue des manuscrits français IV, 487, Nr. 27). Abgebildet und gedruckt bei R. Berger, Nicolas Rolin, Kanzler an der Zeitenwende im burgundisch-französischen Konflikt 1422–1461 (Freiburg/Schweiz 1971) 176, 177; 234f., Nr. 10. Plancher, Histoire IV, preuves, Nr. clvj (24. Mai 1452); Nr. xlix (26. Juli 1452); Nr. clxj (21. Sept. 1452). F. Mercier, La vauderie d’Arras. Une chasse aux sorcières à l’Automne du Moyen Âge (Rennes 2006) 193–196, unter Hinweise auf Beaucourt, Recueil, 417, und 413 (1451). Georges Chastellain, Œuvres, ed. J. B. M. C. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 8 vols (Brüssel 1863–1866) VI, 400f. Vgl. J. Huizinga, Wege der Kulturgeschichte. Studien (München 1930) 233, Anm. 51.

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den der gehörte zu den roys et princes souverains, während der König von Frankreich nostre souverain seigneur war, und damit auch der des Herzogs.33 Sogar die Formel ‘par la grâce de Dieu' wurde Herzog Philipp bestritten (dann 1449 aufgrund der Reichsterritorien aber zugestanden), und das Vorrecht, Nobilitierungen, Legitimationen, ‘lettres de rémission' und andere Gnadenakte auszustellen.34 1461–1467: Anerkennung Am 22. Juli 1461 starb Karl VII. und sein schwieriger Sohn Ludwig XI., der dem Vater auffälligerweise nie als seinem souverain seigneur geschrieben hatte,35 wurde am 15. August in Reims zum König gesalbt. Philipp der Gute, der ihn beschützt und beherbergt und aus seinem brabantischen Exil nach Frankreich geleitet hatte, erfüllte dem neuen König gegenüber sofort die Bedingungen des Vertrags von Arras: Er leistete ihm am 17. August in der Abtei Saint-Thierry-au-Mont-d’Or bei Reims den ligischen Lehnseid36 - und er änderte das Formular seiner Briefe. Nun lautete die Adresse A mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le roy, die Anrede mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur, die Unterschrift Vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget Phelippe ...37 Karl der Kühne, damals noch Graf von Charolais, benutzte dasselbe Formular, wahrscheinlich schon gegenüber Karl VII. Wir haben für ihn lediglich sechs Beispiele aus der Zeit Ludwigs XI., vom 15. Januar 1466 bis zum 8. April 1467, zwei Monate vor Karls Regierungsantritt: A mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le roy sind die Briefe gerichtet, mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur wird angeredet, der Absender ist vostre 33 34

35

36

37

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Plancher, Histoire IV, preuves, ccxxxj (b), 7. März 1459. Du Fresne de Beaucourt, Histoire IV, 335–337, 381 § 53, 384; V, 224 (1451). R. Vaughan, Philip the Good. The Apogee of Burgundy (Woodbridge 20022) 117, 120f. (1445–1449). Adresse und Anrede lauteten mon tres redoubté seigneur, die Unterschrift vostre tres humble et tres obeissant filz (S.) Loys: Vaesen, Charavay, De Mandrot (ed.), Lettres I, Nr. 39f., 52f., 55–57, 60, 63f., 87, 90,101, 103; Bd. 10, 1908, Nr. 1921; auch G. du Fresne de Beaucourt, Receuil de pièces pour servir de preuves à la Chronique de Mathieu d’Escouchy (Paris 1864) 429f. W. Paravicini, ‘Le temps retrouvé? Philippe le Bon à Paris en 1461’, in: W. Paravicini und B. Schnerb (ed.), Paris, capitale des ducs de Bourgogne (Ostfildern 2007) 399–469, hier 407f., 449. Wie sehr Hz. Philipp schon den Dauphin als künftigen König achtete, zeigt u. a. das nicht unwahrscheinliche Gerücht, er habe seinem Sohn Karl untersagt, mit Ludwig, künftig suo soverano segnore, Bruderschaft zu schließen, und dem Dauphin den Wunsch abgeschlagen, in den Orden vom Goldenen Vlies aufgenommen zu werden, denn der Herr dürfe nicht die Livree des Untergebenen tragen, sondern müsse anderen Livreen geben, Raimondo de Marliano an den Hz. v. Mailand aus Dole, 7. Jan. 1457, P. M. Kendall und V. Ilardi (eds), Dispatches with related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy, vol. 1 (Athens – Ohio 1971) Nr. 38, S. 250–253. Erstmals bezeugt am 24. Aug. 1463, aus Boulogne-sur-Mer, Or. Pap., ms. fr. 5041, fol. 8 (Catalogue des manuscrits français IV, 480, Nr. 8; Nr. 12 vom 3. Mai 1464 aus Lille ist ein weiteres Beispiel). - Auch der Vliesritter und einflußreiche Kammerherr Jean de Lannoy verwandte dieses Formular, mit einer kleinen Differenz: Au roy mon souverain seigneur - Mon souverain seigneur - Vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget et serviteur (S.) Jehan de Lannoy. Or. Pap., Lille, 3. Mai 1464, ms. fr. 5041, fol. 32 (Catalogue des manuscrits français IV, 481, Nr. 32).

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treshumble et tresobeissant subget (S.) Charles.38 Vor Paris, auf dem Höhe- und Wendepunkt der ‘Guerre du Bien Public' genannten Fürstenopposition soll Karl am 11. Oktober 1465 sogar in Gegenwart all seiner Leute und des Königs gesagt haben: Messeigneurs, vous tous et moy sommes au roy mon souverain seigneur, qui cy est present, pour le servir toutes les foiz que mestier en aura.39 1467–1474: Zwischen Anerkennung und Verweigerung Herzog Philipp starb am 15. Juni 1467. In Karls Todesanzeige fehlte, wie eingangs berichtet, plötzlich der bislang zuerkannte Titel des souverain seigneur. Es war zu erwarten, daß diese Formel, vermutlich auch die hier noch begegnende Selbstbezeichnung als Untertan von nun an in Karls Briefen immer fehlen würde. So hat man auch immer angenommen. Aber dem ist nicht so. Vom 2. Juli 1467, also kaum zwei Wochen nach der Aufsehen erregenden Todesanzeige, ist ein weiterer Brief Karls an Ludwig XI. erhalten. Das Formular zeigt, daß man einen Schritt zurückgegangen war. Wie vor dem Regierungsantritt heißt es wieder: A mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le roy - Mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur - vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget Charles duc de Bourgoingne et de Brabant etc. (S.) Charles.40 Daß Karl eigenhändig gezeichnet hat, ist wichtig, denn sonst könnte man eine konservative Kanzleiausfertigung vermuten. Ein weiterer, ebenfalls von Karl eigenhändig unterzeichneter Brief vom 26. Juli formuliert ebenso.41 Von besonderem Interesse müssen deshalb die beiden vollständig eigenhändigen Briefe Karls sein, die Karl, undatiert, im September-Oktober 1468 im Vorfeld des Treffens mit Ludwig XI. zu Péronne an den König gesandt hat. Sie tragen die Adresse Au roy mon tresredoubté seigneur bzw. A monseigneur le roy, sprechen den König mit monseigneur an und zeichnen (Escript en haste de la mayn de) vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget.42 Wie schon am 19. Juni 1467 fehlt das Schlüsselwort: souverain und 38

39

40 41

42

en mon logis a Gheleine [Klein-Gelmen] pays de Liege, 15. Jan. 1466 (n.St.), (S.) Charles, mit zwei eigenhändigen Zeilen, Or. Pap., ms. fr. 5041, fol. 43, Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 372. - Namur, 11. Aug. 1466, (S.) Charles, Or. Pap., Coll. Dupuy 762, fol. 162, ibid., Nr. 424. - Namur, 16. Aug. 1466, zeitgen. Kopie (Adresse fehlt), ms. fr. 5041, fol. 47, ibid., Nr. 427. - Brüssel, 29. Sept. 1466, (S.) Charles, Or. Pap., ms. fr. 5041, fol. 46, ibid., Nr. 457. - Gent, 16. Okt. 1466, (S.) Charles, Or. Pap., ms. fr. 5044, fol. 52, ibid., Nr. 461. Brügge, 8. April 1467, (S.) Charles, Or. Pap., Coll, Dupuy 762, fol. 166, ibid., Nr. 497. Jean de Roye, Journal, connu sous le nom de Chronique Scandaleuse, ed. B. de Mandrot, 2 vols (Paris 1894–1896) I, 130. Or. Pap., BNF, Coll. Dupuy 762, fol. 167. Brüssel, 26. Juli 1467, (S.) Charles, ms. fr. 5044, fol. 54; Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 646. Ohne Datum [17. Sept. 1468], Or. Pap., ms. fr. 5041, fol. 39; Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 996; s/w-Abb. W. Paravicini, Karl der Kühne. Das Ende des Hauses Burgund (Göttingen 1976) 33/34, Abb. 4; farbig: S. Marti, T.-H. Borchert und G. Keck (ed.), Karl der Kühne (1433–1477). Kunst, Krieg und Hofkultur (Ausstellungskatalog, Brüssel

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ist nur die Selbstbezeichnung als subget vorhanden. Das gilt auch für den eigenhändigen Geleitbrief, den Karl am 8. Oktober 1468 in Péronne dem König ausstellte, wo die Anrede ebenfalls nur monseigneur lautete.43 Da Karl vor Péronne in der Hoffnung auf definitiven Ausgleich lebte, ist nicht anzunehmen, daß er Ludwig erneut provozieren wollte. Jedenfalls ist nicht bekannt, daß der König darauf empfindlich reagiert hätte. Immerhin sind die Texte aller drei Schreiben erhalten, nicht zufällig.44 Auffälligerweise verweigerte Karl darin die Lehnsoberhoheit, aber nicht die Untertanenschaft, die Ludwig XI. gegenüber dem ebenso widerstrebenen Herzog der Bretagne hervorkehrte, als der den Lehnsakt nicht vollziehen wollte.45 Bei dieser partiellen Verweigerung blieb es aber nicht. Zwei an Ludwig XI. gerichtete Briefe Karls vom Mai 1470 haben wieder die komplette Titulatur, sowohl souverain als auch subget, und da sie mit Charles eigenhändig unterzeichnet sind, entsprechen sie seinem Willen.46 Dann tut sich in der Überlieferung eine Lücke auf: Kein Brieftext ist zwischen dem Frühjahr 1470 und dem Herbst 1475 bekannt. Von Belang ist immerhin, dass in den Rechnungen des herzoglichen Argentiers des Jahres 1470 der König anfangs noch le roi notre sire heißt, gegen Ende aber nur noch le roi, ja sogar le roi de France. In jenem kurz vor dem Waffenstillstand von Soleuvre/Solver vom 13. September 1475 verfaßten eigenhändigen Schreiben jedenfalls adressiert Karl Monseignyeu[r] le roy, redet den König lediglich mit Monseygneur an und zeichnet mit vostre humble et obeissant Charles. Jetzt fehlt sogar die

43

44

45

46

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2008) 41, Abb. 19. - Ohne Datum [2. Okt. 1468], (S.) Charles. Kop. 17. Jh., BNF, Coll. Dupuy 762, fol. 168; Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 1019. Zeitgen. Kopie, ms. fr. 5042, fol. 3/14v; Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 1026, Anrede: Monseigneur, Unterschrift: vostre treshumble et tresobeissant subget Charles. Vgl. Dubois, Charles le Téméraire, 202f. (modernisierter Text). Jean Bourré, kgl. Sekretär, sandte Ludwig XI. au dessen Verlangen die seureté am 3. Okt. 1474 aus Tours zu, ou l’avoye laissee avec d’autres lettres que j’ay de vous. Et si j’eusse voulu croyre ung homme que bien congnoissez [wir kennen ihn nicht], il y a grant temps que je ne l’eusse pas. Der Kg. sandte ihm die cedule am 16. Okt. zurück, et vous prie que la me gardez bien; Er forderte sie am. 11. Mai 1478 wieder an, und Bourré sandte sie ihm am 22. Mai erneut aus Tours zu, als Beweisstück im geplanten Prozeß gegen den verstorbenen Karl den Kühnen. Vaesen, Charavay, De Mandrot (ed.), Lettres V, 295, 383f.; VII, 54f., 306f. Zum Prozeß unten nach Anm. 101. B. A., Pocquet du Haut-Jussé, ‘Une idée politique de Louis XI: La sujétion éclipse la vassalité’, Revue historique 226 (1961) 383–398. Auch der Hz. der Bretagne ließ sich mit souverain seigneur ansprechen, z. B. BNF, ms. fr. 6981 (Coll. Legrand XXII), fol. 105–107v, bretonische Räte an den Herzog, Paris, 16. Juni 1474 (Kopie 18. Jh.). Sluis, 5. Mai 1470, zeitgen. Kopie, ms. fr. 5041, fol 110v-111v; Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, Nr. 1411. - Middelburg in Seeland, 29. Mai 1470., zeitgen. Kopie, ms. fr. 5041, fol 111v–113r; ibid., Nr. 1437. Zum folgenden Absatz s. Ph. Contamines Vorstellung von: W. Paravicini (ed.), Comptes de l’Argentier de Charles le Téméraire, vol. 3: 1470 (Paris 2008), in den Comptes-rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, Sitzung vom 28. Nov. 2008 (im Druck).

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bislang nie vorenthaltene Selbstbezeichnung als Untertan.47 In dem anderen im Text erhaltenen Schreiben späterer Zeit, vom 4. November 1476 aus dem Lager vor Nancy, einer Kanzleiausfertigung, lautet die Adresse A mon tresredoubté seigneur monseigneur le roy, die Anrede Mon tresredoubté seigneur und die eigenhändige Unterschrift Vostre treshumble et obeissant (S.) Charles.48 Karl der Kühne verwandte nun dasselbe Formular wie sein Vater zwischen 1435 und 1461 und hatte somit alle Unterordnung aufgekündigt. Höchster Herr und souveräner Herrscher Bevor wir nun mit Karl einen weiteren, den letzten Schritt gehen, muß bewußt werden, daß souverain nicht notwendig ‘souverän’ bedeuten muß, sondern auch den höchsten oder obersten Rang in jeder beliebigen Hierarchie bezeichnen kann. Auf diese Weise gab es am Hof des französischen Königs einen souverain maistre de son hostel, in seiner Verwaltung einen souverain gouverneur des aides, in Flandern einen souverain bailli oder im Heer souverains capitaines.49 Der Herzogin Isabella von Portugal schrieb Thiébaut de Neufchâtel, Marschall von Burgund, am 9. April 1445 mit der Adresse A ma tres redoutee et souveraine dame madame la duchesse de Bourgoingne et de Brabant, redete sie Anfangs auch mit ma tres redoutee et souveraine dame an (dann aber, mit einer Ausnahme, nur noch mit ma tres redoutee dame) und gab darin auch dem Herzog den erweiterten Titel mon tres redouté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc, den er dann nicht wiederholte.50 Zur selben Zeit machte der herzoglich Rat zu Dijon sich dergleichen Höflichkeiten aber nicht zu eigen und blieb bei den einfachen Anrede.51 In der edierten Korrespondenz der Herzogin (gest. 17. Dezember 1471), die zum größten Teil aus dem 47

48

49 50

51

O. D. [1475 Sept. vor 13], Or. Pap., BNF, ms. fr. 2907, fol. 10;. Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen II, Nr. 3231. Druck (ohne die Adresse): J.B.M.C. Kervyn de Lettenhove (ed.), Lettres et négociations de Philippe de Comines, 3 vols (Brüssel 1867–1874) I, 127f. Dank an Valérie Bessey (Paris) dafür, daß sie in den Handschriften nachgeschaut hat, auch den in der folgenden Anm. genannten. Or. Pap.: BnF, fr. 20.855, fol. 76; Kop. 18. Jh. fr. 6983 (Coll. Legrand XXIV), fol. 216r–v und 217r. Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen II, 1995, Nr. 3503 (Nr. 3511, irrtümlich auf den 30. Nov. datiert, betrifft dasselbe Stück; Nr. 3279 vom 5. Nov. 1475 ist ein Brief des Herzogs der Bretagne, nicht des Herzogs von Burgund). Chastellain, Œuvres V, 423 (1468). Sommé (ed.), La correspondance d’Isabelle de Portugal, 186–188, Nr. 129. Gezeichnet: Vostre tres humble tres obeissant serviteur T. de Neufchastel. Am 11. April 1445, Sommé ed., La correspondance d’Isabelle de Portugal,188f., Nr. 130. W. Brückle, ‘Political Allegory at the Court of Charles the Bold. An Enigmatic Portrait’, in: W.  Blockmans und T.-H. Borchert (ed.), Spectacle, Luxury and Prestige. The Burgundian Court and the Arts (Turnhout 2010) (im Druck, dem Autor Dank für die Einsichtnahme), macht Anm. 20 nach P. Quarré, “La ‘joyeuse entrée’ de Charles le Téméraire à Dijon en 1474’, Bulletin de l’Académie royale de Belgique Classe des Beaux-Arts 51 (1969) 326–340, hier 326, darauf aufmerksam, dass die Stadt Dijon 1469 den Hz. indes mit souverain seigneur ansprach.

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Briefwechsel mit der Rechnungskammer von Flandern in Lille besteht, also mit einem Regierungsorgan, kommt diese Anrede nur dies eine Mal vor. Im selben Jahr 1446 denunzieren ungenannte Leute den späteren Kanzler Pierre de Goux beim Herzog, den sie mit nostre tres redoubté et souverain seigneur ansprechen.52 Olivier de la Marche, der sehr viel später seine Memoiren schreibt, nennt Herzog Philipp souverain seigneur comme conte de Hainaut, als er darüber berichtet, wie er am 9. Juni 1452 den Herrn von Harchies zum Bannerherren erhob.53 Das verweist auf die Bedeutung der Reichsgrenze, denn der Hennegau war Reichslehen und unterstand der Krone Frankreichs in keiner Weise - wohl aber dem fernen römischen König und Kaiser. Ebenfalls aus dem Hennegau stammt der Herr von Chasteller, der auf dem Fasanenfest vom 17. Februar 1454 zu Lille einen Kreuzzugseid leistet und dabei, nach dem Bericht Escouchys, von mon tres redoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur de Bourgoingne sprach.54 Neben ihm taten dies auch Antoine de Rochefort, Guillaume de Vaudrey, Jean du Chasteller, Louis de Moreuil, Jean de Chassa und Olivier de la Marche. Andere Überlieferungen der zahlreichen in Lille abgelegten Eide55 ergeben aber, daß vom Herzog als souverain seigneur sprechen auch die Herren von Charny und von Rougemont, Claude de Thoulongeon, Emart Bouton (dem wir schon als Abgesandter Karls im Jahre 1467 begegnet waren), Étienne de Faletans,56 der Herr von Arcis-sur-Aube, Louis Morel, und erneut Olivier de la Marche (mon tres grant et souverain seigneur). Bei den nachträglichen, in Abwesenheit des Herzogs geleisteten Gelübden zu Arras kommt die erweiterte Titulatur ebensowenig vor wie unter denjenigen, die in Holland eingesammelt wurden; unter denjenigen des Hennegau begegnet sie indes wieder, bei Colart de Letenre aus Mons, der sich an der noble et haute emprise de mon tres redouté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc de Bourgoingne, conte de Hainnau beteiligen will, und ebenso bei dem Hennegauer Jean Rasoir; in Flandern ist dagegen nur von monseigneur die Rede.57 Man erhält aus diesem etwas schwankenden Bild den Eindruck, daß es Edelleuten aus 52

53 54

55

56

57

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J. Bartier, Légistes et gens de finances au XVe siècle. Les conseillers des ducs de Bourgogne Philippe le Bon et Charles le Teméraire (Brüssel 1955) 344, Anm. 2, nach Lille, ADN, B 17.596. Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires II, 268. Matthieu d’Escouchy, Chronique, G. du Fresne de Beaucourt (ed.), 2 vols (Paris 1863) II 160– 222, hier 197. Caron, Les voeux du Faisan, 133–152, mit prosopographischem Kommentar zu allen 218 Personen, die ein Gelübde abgelegt hatten, auf 229–350. In der Liste Escouchys fehlt souverain bei Emart Bouton, Guyot d’Usie, Étienne de Faletans; in derjenigen Carons bei den Herren von Rochefort und von Chasteler. Caron, Les voeux du Faisan, 152–167. Anläßlich eines späteren Einzugs heißt Hz. Karl souverain signeur et prince, Brückle, ‘Political Allegory’ (wie o. Anm. 51) nach Relation en prose et en vers, de la joyeuse entrée à Mons, en 1470, de Marguerite d’York d’Angleterre et de Marie de Bourgogne, ed. A. Lacroix (Mons 1842) 12.

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dem Hennegau und der Freigrafschaft Burgund, die zum Reich gehörten, leichtergefallen sein könnte, den Herzog souverain seigneur zu nennen, als den Untertanen der französischen Krone. Dies taten aber bei weitem nicht alle ‘impériaux'. Ein burgundisches Memorandum vom 17. November 1454, in dem es um Mömpelgard / Montbéliard betreffende Verhandlungen mit Leuten des Herzogs von Österreich geht, also um Reichslehen, spricht indes wohl nicht unabsichtlich von mon tres redoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc et conte de Bourgoingne.58 Die Frage der reichsrechtlichen Stellung ausgenommen, steht also zu vermuten, daß mit solchen Bezeichnungen eine besonders enge Bindung zum ‘höchsten' Herr bezeichnet werden sollte, nicht zu einem Herrn, der als ‘souverän' galt. So ist es auch zu verstehen, daß der erwähnte Olivier de la Marche in seinen Memoiren Karl mon souverain seigneur et maistre nennt59 und Jean de Croy, Herr von Chimay (im Henngau) in seinem Testament vom 1. März 1472 (n. St.) den Herzog mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur.60 Eine besondere Sprachregelung galt innerhalb des Ordens vom Goldenen Vlies. Hier war der Herzog chief et souverain oder auch kurz le souverain, nämlich des Ordens, was ebenfalls ein internes, kein externes Verhältnis bezeichnet. Wenn Jean de Neufchâtel Herr von Montaigu am 13. Mai 1468 vor dem Ordenskapitel a vous, mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc, chief et souverain de la tresnoble ordre de la Toisond’or seine Unschuld zu beweisen suchte, dann ist dies in diesem Zusammenhang zu verstehen.61 Desgleichen, wenn der Hennegauer Jean de Haynin in seinen autograph überlieferten Aufzeichnungen von mon tres redoubté et souverain segneur monsieur le duc Charle de Bourgogne spricht, der (im Mai 1473) das Ordensfest in Valenciennes abhält,62 dann ist auch damit noch nichts über dessen Verhältnis zum König von Frankreich ausgesagt. Im Protokoll der Kapitelsitzung von Valenciennes heißt Karl denn auch nur mon tres redoubté seigneur monseigneur le souverain, und nie mon souverain seigneur.63 Aber es war nur noch ein kleiner Schritt dahin. Als der Herzog am 8. Mai 1473 zu Valenciennes von nostre justice souveraine im teileroberten

58 59 60

61

62 63

ACO B 11.933 (liasse). Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires II, 118. Or., AN, M 384, I, Nr. 1. Er heißt dort an anderer Stelle aber auch lediglich mon tresredoubté seigneur et prince. Vgl. unten Anm. 76. S. Dünnebeil (ed.), Die Protokollbücher des Ordens vom Goldenen Vlies II, Das Ordensfest 1468 in Brügge unter Herzog Karl dem Kühnen (Stuttgart 2003) 175–180, § 1, 15f., 19, 21. Die Bezeichnung kommt im gesamten Band nur hier vor. Jean de Haynin, Mémoires II, 149. Dünnebeil (ed.), Die Protokollbücher III, § 144.

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Vermandois sprach,64 dann überschritt er die Grenze, denn dieses Gebiet unterstand direkt dem König. 1474–1477: selbst Souverän Das Formular jenes Briefes vom September 147565 war nicht zufällig gewählt, denn inzwischen hatte Karl begonnen, sich selbst als souverain seigneur bezeichnen zu lassen, worauf Wim Blockmans, wie eingangs erwähnt, schon hingewiesen hat. Die von ihm angeführten Belege stammen nicht aus der Hofkanzlei, sondern aus Rechnungen flandrischer Städte und Burggrafschaften und nur selten aus der herzoglichen Verwaltung. Den Anfang machen Eintragungen, die Verhandlung mit der Herzogin Margarete von York betreffen, die vom 17.-31. Mai 1475 in Gent stattfanden. Brügge, Kortrijk, Aalst und das Amt Veurne sprechen wie üblich von onze harde gheduchte vrouwe ende princesse, das Brügger Freiamt aber von onze gheduchte ende souverainne vrauwe ende princesse. Anläßlich der Abrechnung des nächsten Treffens vom 4.-11. Juni in Gent machte das Freiamt erneut diese Ausnahme, während Brügge und Ypern an der bisherigen Bezeichnung festhielten. So verhält es sich auch mit der Versammlung vom 15.-21. Juni in Gent, nur daß jetzt erstmals nicht von der Herzogin, sondern dem Herzog die Rede ist: onzen gheduchten ende souverainen heere, schreibt die Rechnung des Freiamts.66 In den Rechnungsaufzeichnungen zu den nächsten beiden Treffen ist die neue Formel wieder verschwunden, aber sie taucht erneut bei Gelegenheit der Versammlung vom 11.-13./15. Juli in Gent auf, aber wiederum allein in der Aufzeichnung des Freiamts.67 Dasselbe gilt für den Tag zu Ypern. Zur Versammlung in Saint-Omer vom 18.-25. Juli fehlt ein Rechnungseintrag des Freiamts, die anderen Teilnehmer blieben bei der gewohnten Bezeichnung. In der Abrechnung der Versammlung zu Arras, die vom 23./27. bis 30. Juli/7. August währte, begegnet die neue Bezeichnung erstmals in der Stadtrechnung von Brügge, während sie in diejenigen von Gent und Ypern nach wie vor keinen Eingang gefunden hatte und in derjenigen des Freiamts aufgegeben war. Kein ‘souveräner Herr’ begegnet in den Aufzeichnungen zu den Treffen in Brügge (26.-30. Juli) und Kortrijk (11.-12. August), allerdings fehlen Texte aus dem Freiamt. Aus Anlaß des Treffens in Valenciennes (12.?-25. August 1475) verwenden nun auch Gent 64

65 66

67

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W. Paravicini, Guy de Brimeu. Der burgundische Staat und seine adlige Führungsschicht unter Karl dem Kühnen (Bonn 1975) 324, Anm. 322. Oben Anm. 47. W. P. Blockmans (ed.), Handelingen van de Leden en van de Staten van Vlaanderen (1467–1477) (Brüssel 1971) 245f., Nr. 165; 247f., Nr. 166; 249f., Nr. 168. Blockmans (ed.), Handelingen van de Leden en van de Staten, 252–256, Nr. 171, hier 253 Z. 22. Erhalten sind Rechnungseinträge der Städte Gent, Ypern, Kortrijk, Aalst, Oudenaarde, Oostende, Damme, Blankenberge, Veurne, der Burggrafschaften Kortrijk und Assende, des Amts Veurne und des (herzoglichen) Rats von Flandern.

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und Brügge den neuen Titel (das Freiamt fehlt), während Ypern noch an dem alten festhält.68 Danach verschwindet die neue Bezeichnung gänzlich aus diesen Quellen. Weder der Herzog, noch Margarete von York, noch die junge Maria von Burgund werden erneut als ‘souverän’ bezeichnet. Die neue Formel begegnet in diesen Texten also erstmals im Mai und zuletzt im August 1475, zunächst allein in den Rechnungen des Brügger Freiamts, dann zweimal in denjenigen Brügges, einmal in denjenigen von Gent, und dann nicht mehr. Das ist ein merkwürdiger Befund, der nach Vergleich und Erklärung ruft. Hierfür wären alle Stadtrechnungen, Memorialbücher, Urkundensammlungen, Korrespondenzen durchzusehen, was hier ‘bonnement’ nicht geschehen kann. Trotz der mehr oder minder großen Zufälligkeit des Quellenkorpus wird es aber dennoch gelingen, das Phänomen chronologisch und sachlich einzugrenzen. Städte, Stände, Einzelpersonen Zuerst ist festzustellen, wie andere Außenstehende unter sich den Herzog bezeichneten. Die holländischen Stände und Städte blieben, wie die fast ausschließlich aus Stadtrechnungsauszügen bestehende Edition ihrer Versammlungsakten zeigen, auch nach der Errichtung des Parlaments von Mecheln bei der üblichen Bezeichnung des Herzogs als ihres genadigen oder geduchtigen heren,69 selbst wenn sie am 7. Februar 1474 an den president ende heeren van den Perlement desselfs mijns genadichs heren, wesende tot Mechelen sandten, oder im September 1474 dem Herzog schrieben.70 Nur einmal, bezeichnenderweise in der Rechnung des herzoglichen Rats von Holland heißt es am 19. Juni 1476 vanwegen mijns harde geduchts ende souverains heren - die französische Vorlage scheint noch durch.71 Die Texte zur Geschichte der Generalstände der Niederlande zeigen ein ähnliches, aber nicht ganz identisches Bild: Es herrschen die üblichen Bezeichnungen vor, jedoch ist ganz vereinzelt doch die neue Formulierung verwandt worden: In der Stadtrechnung von Lille zum Treffen in Gent vom 26. April bis 1. Mai 1475 ist die Rede von mise sus de gens de guerre que

68

69

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Blockmans (ed.), Handelingen van de Leden en van de Staten, 256f., Nr. 172 (außer dem Brügger Freiamt auch Gent und Ypern); 258f., Nr. 174 (Gent, Brügger Freiamt, Ypern, Amt Veurne); 259–261, Nr. 174; 261–263, Nr. 175f.; 263f., Nr. 177. Entsprechend auch für die Herzogin, s. J.G. Smit (ed.), Bronnen voor de geschiedenis der dagvaarten van de Staten en steden van Holland voor 1544 III, 1467–1477 (Den Haag 1998) 269–426. So auch die Texte zum Aufgebot der Holländer zum Neußer Krieg bei von Seggern, Herrschermedien im Spätmittelalter, 433–436. Smit (ed.), Bronnen voor de geschiedenis der dagvaarten, 291; 313: hier ist der formale Aufwand etwas größer, aber dasWort ‘souverän’ fällt nicht. Smit (ed.), Bronnen voor de geschiedenis der dagvaarten, 403.

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requerroit mon dit tres redoubté et souverain seigneur,72 und aus demselben Anlaß spricht auch die Stadtrechnung von Mons – nicht durchweg – von mondit tres redoubté et souverain seigneur.73 Mondit tres redoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc steht ebenfalls in der Stadtrechnung von Namur, die sich aber bei weiteren Nennungen mit dem einfachen Titel begnügt.74 Danach ist es lediglich der Kanzler, der sich der neuen Formel bedient. Hingegen schreiben die Stadtrechungen von Namur unter ihrem dem Herzog sehr nahestehenden Gouverneur Guy de Brimeu ab dem 25. Januar 1475 regelmäßig nostredit tres redoubté et souverain seigneur.75 Philippe de Croy, Graf von Chimay, einer der Großen am Hof, machte am 1. September 1476 sein Testament, en haste pour mon partement du voyage que je pretens aller faire devers mon prince et seigneur souverain.76 Im Memorialbuch des Pieter van der Letuwe zu Ypern begegnet die Formel nur dann, wenn externe Dokumente kopiert werden, so in einem Brief des G[irard] de la Roche an die Herzogin Margarete von York aus dem Lager vor Neuß vom 20. Juni 1475 (ma tresredoubtée et souveraine dame, ebenso der darin erwähnte Herzog) und in Remonstranzen der flandrischen Leden gegenüber dem Herzog aus der Jahresmitte 147577; anderswo heißt der Herzog wie üblich geducht heer. Luxemburgische Urkunden vom 17. April und 16. Dezember 1476 wissen gar nichts vom Herzog als ‘souverain’.78 Die Belege verdichten sich also im Jahre 1475, um danach wieder seltener zu werden. Herzogliche Verwaltungen Wenn irgendwo, dann muß sich ein früher und durchgehender Gebrauch des neuen Titels bei Hofe und in der Umgebung des Herzogs beobachten lassen. Karls Kanzler Guillaume Hugonet sprach in seiner Ansprache zur Eröffnung der Versammlung der niederländischen Generalstände in Gegenwart des Herzogs am 12. Januar 1473 in Brüssel nur und durchweg 72

73

74

75

76

77 78

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Die Herzogin wird indes mit nostre tres redoubtee princhesse madame la duchesse tituliert, J. Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux des anciens Pays-Bas (Brüssel 1948) 244, Nr. 15. Auch hier wird die Herzogin lediglich mit nostre tres redoubtee dame madame la ducesse de Bourgoigne genannt, Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux, 247, Nr. 19. Die Herzogin erhält nicht die erweiterte Anrede, Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux, 248f., Nr. 23 Namur, Archives de l’État, Ville de Namur, II Nr. 33 (1474–1475), fol. 107, 108v, 109, 111, etc. Pieter van de Letuwe, Vernieuwinge der wet van Ypre, van het jaer 1443 bot 1480, met het geene aldaer binnen desen tyd geschiet is, ed. I. A. L. Diegerick (unveröff. Fahnen im Stadtarchiv Ypern). Paravicini, Guy de Brimeu, 366, Anm. 490. Vgl. aber o. Anm. 60 schon das Testament seines Vaters aus dem Jahre 1472. Letuwe, Vernieuwinge der wet van Ypre, 343, 355, 363. F. X. Würth-Paquet, ‘Table chronologique des chartes et diplômes relatifs à l’histoire de l’ancien duché de Luxembourg et comté de Chiny [Regierungszeit Karls des Kühnen]’, Publications de la Section historique de l’Institut Grand-Ducal de Luxembourg 34 (1880) 1–191, hier 171, 184.

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von nostre tres redoubté prince und nostre tres redoubté seigneur.79 Als er aber auf der Sitzung in Gent, die vom 24.-28. Mai 1476 dauerte, die widerstrebenen Deputierten warnte, taucht die neue Bezeichnung auf: gardez bien que vous faites; ne soyez si osé ne hardi de dire mot qui puist desplaire a mon tr s redoubté et souverain prince: l’on parlera bien a vos testes.80 Nach dem 12. Januar 1473 und jenem eingangs erwähnten Mai 1475 muß der Titelwechsel also erfolgt sein. Noch nicht am 13. Juni 1473, als zu Maastricht vom Herzog (mon tres redoubté seigneur) eine Instruktion für Gesandte unterzeichnet wurde, die nach Venedig und zu Bartolomeo Colleoni gehen sollten. Als einige Zeit danach, am 3. Januar 1474 zu Ensisheim im Elsaß erneut eine Gesandtschaft an Colleoni und Venedig instruiert wurde, hatte die neue Sprachregelung jedoch schon gegriffen: mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc de Bourgoingne hieß es jetzt. Sie wurde bei einer dritten Instruktion von Anfang Mai 1474 wiederholt. Der Hauptunterhändler quittierte am 30. Januar 1475 in Dijon ebenfalls als Antoine seigneur de Montjeu, conseillier et chambellan de mon tres redoubté et souverain seigneur. 81 Auffälligerweise fehlt die neue Titulatur in den täglichen Gagenabrechnungen, den écrous; im fraglichen Zeitraum ändert sich nichts und es bleibt bei der Bezeichnung monseigneur le duc de Bourgogne et de Brabant.82 Auch die am 13. Februar 1474 erlassenen Hofordnung verwendet die Formel noch nicht, erst in Nachträgen des Jahres 1475 taucht sie auf.83 Dabei ist stets zu berücksichtigen, daß interne Vermerke nicht notwendig das ausführliche Formular benutzten, so wie in der Urkundenregistratur ein etc. anstelle des vollständigen Titels trat. Olivier de la Marche, Hofmeister und Gardekapitän des Herzogs, nennt zu Beginn seiner Beschreibung des herzoglichen Hofes vom November 1474 jedenfalls in unerwarter Steigerung seinen Herrn sogar mon tres souverain seigneur.84 Steigen wir eine Stufe hinab zu den regionalen Verwaltungen. Hier begegnet die Wendung bereits am 5. Dezember 1473. Damals schrieb Antoine 79

80 81 82

83

84

Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux, 178–188. In seiner Rede vom 1. Nov. 1471 (Bartier, Légistes et gens de finances, 442–447) fehlt ‘souverain’ ebenfalls. Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux, 256. Die Belege bei W. Paravicini, Colleoni und Karl der Kühne (in Vorber., Rom – Venedig 2011). Auskunft von Sébastien Hamel (Montréal/Paris) nach den Photographien der Stücke im Apparat der ‘Prosopographia Curie Burgundiae’ (die die Anreden nicht erfaßt hat) im Deutschen Historischen Institut Paris. BnF, ms. fr. 3867, fol. 1; Nachträge vom 15. Juli (fol. 38), 31. Aug. (fol. 34) und 30. Dez. 1475 (fol. 81r–82v). Künftig: T. Hiltmann, W. Paravicini und F. Viltart (ed.), Die Hofordnungen der Herzöge von Burgund II, Karl der Kühne 1467–1477 (in Vorber., Ostfildern 2011). Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires IV, 2. Siehe zur Datierung dieses Textes W. Paravicini, ‘La cour de Bourgogne selon Olivier de la Marche’, Publications du Centre européen d‘études bourguignonnes 43 (2003) 89–124. Vgl. o. nach Anm. 56 (1454).

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Rolin, Sohn des Kanzlers, Statthalter des Herzogs im Hennegau, an den hennegauischen Edelmann Jean de Haynin: J’ay rechup lettres de mon tresredoubté et souverain segneur dem Herzog.85 Tritt sie hier gleichsam zu früh auf und ist deshalb vielleicht noch dem Hennegau und dem Nahverhältnis zuzuschreiben, so gab unter dem Datum des 24. März 1474 der Chef des herzoglichen Rats zu Dijon, Jean Jouard, dem Bailli von Dijon den Inhalt eines Briefs bekannt, den er soeben de nostre tres redoubté et souverain seingeur monseigneur le duc de Bourgoigne erhalten hatte.86 Das war offensichtlich allgemein Übung in Dijon, denn in Auszügen des 18. Jahrhunderts aus der verlorenen Rechnung des Generalrentmeisters des Herzogtums Burgund über das Jahr vom 1. Oktober 1473 bis zum 30. September 1474 ist zu lesen: ‘Il est a remarquer que toutes les articles raportées dans les comptes a commencer en 1473, lorsque l’on parle du duc il, est qualifié Mon tres redouté et souverain seigneur monseigneur le duc’87 – da die Rechnungen erst am Ende des Jahres niedergeschrieben wurden, hat man damit nicht schon notwendiger Weise 1473 angefangen. Der herzogliche Rat von Holland bezeichnete vereinzelt am 22. Juli 1474 seinen Boten Gerijt Tack als bode etc. van mijnen geduchten ende souveraynen heere, mijnen heere den hertoge van Bourgoendien.88 Guy de Brimeu, Statthalter des Herzogs u. a. in der Grafschaft Namur, erließ am 1. September 1474 Ordonnanzen für die Grafschaft ou nom de nostre tres redoubté et souverain seigneur, monseigneur le duc de Bourgogne, comte de Namur, und diese Formulierung wurde am 1. März und 1. September 1475 wiederholt.89 In einer für ihn ausgestellten hennegauische Lehnsurkunde vom 27. August 1474 begegnet ebenfalls der souverain seigneur.90 Der herzogliche Rat von Geldern zu Arnheim, wo Guy de Brimeu ebenfalls das Sagen hatte, urkundete am 29. Juli 1474 in den name ende van wegen mijns alregeduchtichste ende souverain here den hertoige van Bourgondien ende van Gelre,91 nannte im Oktober 1474 Karl ons

85 86

87

88

89 90 91

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Jean de Haynin, Mémoires II, 163. Plancher, Histoire, Nr. ccxlvij, der Brief des Herzogs vom 20. März (Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen II, Nr. 2530). BNF, Coll. de Bourgogne 65, fol. 171v. Cf. H. Müller, ‘Um 1473. Warum nicht einmal die Herzöge von Burgund das Königtum erlangen wollten und konnten’, in: B. Jussen (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit (München 2005) 255–274, 395–397, hier 289 mit Anm. 50 auf 397, hat auf diesen Passus aufmerksam gemacht. Dank an Valérie Bessey (Paris) für die Verifikation in der Hs. Von Seggern, Herrschermedien im Spätmittelalter, 193 und Anm. 22, nach ’s-Gravenhage, ARA, Rek. Nr. 307, Rechnung des Rentmeisters von Nordholland, 1. Okt. 1473 - 30. Sept. 1474, fol. 176v, genauer Wortlaut und Datum lt. freundlicher Mitteilung des Autors (Kiel). Paravicini, Guy de Brimeu, 252, Anm. 29. Paravicini, Guy de Brimeu, 421, Anm. 102. A.J. Maris, ‘De raadkamers of hoven van Karel den Stoute in Gelre en Zutphen, 1473–1477’, Gelre 56 (1957) 45–123, hier 114.

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alregeduchtichsten ende souverayn heeren, ja sogar souverainsten heren,92 und fertigte am 31. Oktober 1475, erneut unter Beteiligung Guy de Brimeus, aus onder dat signet mijns aler geduchtdichste ende souverain heere den hertoige van Bourgondien.93 Der herzogliche Rat zu Maastricht, an dessen Spitze Guy de Brimeu stand, nannte jedoch unverändert den Herzog mijn genadige here de hertoige.94 Claude de Neufchâtel, Karls Statthalter im Herzogtum Luxemburg, schrieb dem Herzog am 4. Juli 1475 indes unter der Adresse A mon tres redoubté et souverain seigneur, monseigneur le duc de Bourgoingne et de Brabant etc., und sprach ihn an als mon tres redoubté et souverain seigneur.95 Es erübrigt sich, weitere Belege anzuführen.96 Das gesuchte Datum läßt sich nunmehr eingrenzen auf die Zeit zwischen Ende 1473 und Anfang 1474. Angesichts dieses Befundes braucht nicht lange nach demjenigen Ereignis gesucht zu werden, das den Umschwung herbeigeführt hat: Am 8. Dezember 1473 setzte Karl das Parlament von Mecheln ein,97 nostre cour souveraine de parlement, wie es in den Urkunden sogleich hieß.98 In seiner Abwesenheit, am 3. Januar 1474 wurde dieser oberste Gerichtshof für die gesamten Niederlande feierlich eröffnet.99 Das mit diesem Datum einsetzende älteste Register der actes et appointemens dieser court souveraine spricht sofort von Karl als mon tresredoubté et souverain seigneur.100 Hier liegt die Ursache für den neuen, eindeutig gegen die Krone Frankreichs gerichteten Sprachgebrauch.101 92

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96

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99 100

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A.M.C. Asch van Wijck, ‘Tiental brieven en bevelschriften meest van krijgskundigen aard, 1474’, Kronijk van het Historisch Genootschap II, 10 (1854) 325–335, hier 330–333, 2., 3., 8. und 11. Oktober 1474. Paravicini, Guy de Brimeu, 364, Anm. 483. Schon am 8. Mai 1475 stellt er eine Urkunde aus gegeven [...] onder dat zegel myns aldergenedichsten en souvereynen heere, s. Maris, ‘De raadkamers of hoven’, 68 mit Anm. 1. Siehe dessen von P. Gorissen (De Raadkamer van de hertog van Bourgondië te Maastricht (Löwen – Paris 1959)) veröffentlichten Rechnungen und Akten. Die verwalteten Territorien gehörten sämtlich dem Reich an. Unterschrift: Vostre tres humble et tres obeissant subgect et serviteur, P. Ehm-Schnocks u. H. von Seggern (ed.), “Recueil du Fay”. Die Briefsammlung des Claude de Neufchâtel zur Geschichte Karls des Kühnen 1474–1477 (1505) (Ostfildern 2003) 131, Nr. 92. Vorausgehende Briefe sind nur durch Erwähnung bekannt. Siehe noch Okt. 1475 (AGR, CC 290, fol. 76); 1476 vor dem 13. August (AGR, Acquits de Lille, portef. 1983). Die Urkunden bei J. van Rompaey, De Grote Raad van de hertogen van Boergondië en het Parlement van Mechelen (Brüssel 1973) 493–506. Auch z.B. am 12. März 1474 (van Rompaey, De Grote Raad, 513, 517, 519) oder am 22. Nov. 1474 (M.R. Thielemans, ‘Les Croÿ, conseillers des ducs de Bourgogne. Documents extraits de leurs archives familiales’, Bulletin de la Commission royale d’histoire 124 (1959) 1–315, hier 124). Die Einsetzungsurkunde seiner Stellvertreter bei Van Rompaey, De Grote Raad 507–509. Lille, ADN, B 19.984, Nr. 19.431. Ebenfalls am 12. März 1474, s. Van Rompaey, De Grote Raad, 513, 519. So bereits Paravicini, Karl der Kühne, 33.

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Nachspiel 1478: Der Prozeß Karls des Kühnen Die Reaktionen Ludwigs XI., zu Lebzeiten des Herzogs und nach seinem Tode, bestätigen diesen Befund. Während Karl sich zunehmend von der Oberhoheit der französischen Krone befreite, ließ diese keine Gelegenheit aus, dem Herzog von Burgund vor Augen zu halten, in welchem Verhältnis er eigentlich zur Krone stand. Im Auftrage Ludwigs XI. sollten Guy Pot, ein burgundischer Überläufer, und seine Kollegen laut Instruktion vom 17. Mai 1470 erläutern, der Herzog sei par nature a cause de sa nativité originalement subjet du roy et du royaume, qui est une obligation procedant de droit naturel instituee par la providence divine, dont le lieu est si grand et si abstraint qu’il ne peut jamais estre immué; Karl habe nach der feierlichen Salbung und Krönung in Reims in der Abtei Saint-Thierry102 den Vertrag von Arras beschworen und außerdem in Saint-Antoine-des-Champs bei Paris103 für die pikardischen Länder den ligischen Lehnseid geleistet, schließlich sei er durch den Tod des Vaters homme lige, vassal et subjet des Königs geworden; der König könne gar nicht glauben, daß er die querelle d’une prince particulier [des Herzogs der Bretagne] contre le roy son souverain seigneur unterstütze, qui est chef et successeur de la maison dont il est yssu et dont il a receu lesdits benefices.104 Die Antwort Karls am 15. Juli 1470 in Saint-Omer,105 in eigener Person (damals noch mon tres redoubté seigneur), fiel dementsprechend heftig aus: Da der König die Verträge gebrochen habe, seien er und seine Untertanen erblich quittes desdites fidelité, ressort et souveraineté;106 der König habe u.a. Guillaume de Vergys Entführung der Tochter des Herrn von Montferrand, qui en ma garde et souveraineté estoit, nicht bestraft; den vollen Eid zu SaintAntoine bei Paris habe er zu leisten abgelehnt, ihn nur als Sohn zu Lebzeiten des Vaters gegeben.107 Am 3. Dezember 1470 erließ dann Ludwig XI. zu 102 103

104 105

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Am 17. Aug. 1461, s. o. Anm. 36. Es ist nicht bekannt, wann der Graf dorthin kam, jedenfalls in der Zeit, als er sich in Begleitung des Königs und seines Vaters in Paris aufhielt, vom 27. August (der König vom 1. September) bis zum 2. Oktober (der Vater nur bis zum 30. Sept.), s. Paravicini, ‘Le temps retrouvé?’, 450–454. Plancher, Histoire, preuves, Nr. ccxij, hier cclxv (b) und cclxvj (a). W. Paravicini, ‘Die zwölf “Magnificences” Karls des Kühnen’, G. Althoff (ed.), Formen und Funktionen öffentlicher Kommunikation im Mittelalter (Stuttgart 2001) 319–395, hier 345–348. Der Vertrag von Péronne vom 14. Okt. 1468 enthält tatsächlich eine derartige Klausel, s. den Text in Philippe de Commines, Mémoires, ed. N. Lenglet du Fresnoy, 4 vols (London 1747) III, 25f.; Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires I, 132 nimmt darauf Bezug. Pieter van der Letuwe, Schöffe zu Ypern, schrieb vor seine Kopie eines Mandats Karls vom 1. Juni 1470 in sein Memorialbuch: Memorie dat men mercken mach bider copie vander lettren hier naer volghende, wat vander souverainieteit, die de hertoghe Charles maintenerde hebbende by den payse ende tractiete ghemaect tusschen den coninc van Vranckeryke ende hem te Peronne (van de Letuwe, Vernieuwinge der wet van Ypre, 273–275). Druck: Plancher, Histoire, preuves, Nr. ccxix, hier cclxxxvj.

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Amboise sein Manifest gegen Karl, der sich a l’encontre de nostre souveraineté vergehe, obschon nostre vassal, justiciable et subgect, und demgegenüber deswegen keinerlei Vertragsverpflichtungen mehr bestünden,108 verhängte die Konfiskation aller seiner Lehen und begann den danach nur noch von Waffenstillständen aufgehaltenen Krieg. In diesen Zusammenhang gehören die Denkschriften, die begründen sollten, weshalb (auch) Ludwig XI. an den Vertrag von Péronne nicht mehr gebunden sei.109 Als nach dem Tode Karls eine Gesandtschaft der niederländischen Generalstände am 9. März 1477 vor Ludwig XI. in Arras erschienen, setzte der König ihnen seine Sicht der Dinge auseinander: Par [...] les felonnies et emprinses commis par iceluy monseigneur le duc vers le roy, qui estoit son souverain seigneur, demonstroit et denotoit mondit seigneur avoir amiz et confisquet tout ce qu’il tenoit de la couronne, joint ad ce que jamais n’avoit volu relever et faire hommage pour les dits tenements ou seignouries, combien que, au traicté de Peronne, il eust promis et fust en prochain disposition de ce faire, si s’en retira et depuis ne le fist.110

Der Boden war also vorbereitet, als Ludwig XI. am 11. Mai 1478 in Arras dem Parlament von Paris den Auftrag erteilte, gegen den verstorbenen Herzog einen Prozeß zu eröffnen. In diesem Mandat sind alle Vergehen Karls aufgezählt und besonders diejenigen, die sich gegen die Souveränität des Königs richteten, bis hin zur Arrogation der Souveränität durch Karl selbst, der sich souverain seigneur habe nennen lassen: ... a voulu desloyaument et felonement, a l’exemple Lucifer, usurper et appliquer a soi les droits de souverainteté qui nous appartiennent ez pays qu’il occupoit mouvants de nous et de la couronne, et desquieux ledit feu duc Phelipe son pere nous a fait l’homage et tous ses predecesseurs aux nostres, en yceux pays s’est ledit duc Charles fait nommer et appeller souverain seigneur, et pour les cuider distraire de nostre obeissance a fait dresser et tenir a Malines hors nostre royaume une assemblee et abortif conventicule de gens, qu’il faisoit appeler parlement et cour souveraine, a laquelle il faisoit ressortir comme en dernier ressort les pays et sujets qu’il tenoit en nostre 108

109

110

Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen II, 1995, Nr. 1588; Karls Antwort vom 11./16. Dez. s. Nr. 1599–1614. Vgl. R. Gandilhon, Politique économique de Louis XI (Paris 1941) 377; R. Vaughan., Charles the Bold. The last Valois Duke of Burgundy (Woodbridge 20022) 66f., 116 Anm. 4, 238f.; J.-M. Cauchies, Louis XI et Charles le Hardi. De Péronne à  Nancy (1468–1477): le conflit (Brüssel 1996) 42f.; B. Schnerb, L’État bourguignon, 1363–1477 (Paris 1999) 410. Eine kritische Edition dieser Manifeste (Liste: Paravicini (ed.), Der Briefwechsel Karls des Kühnen I, 12, Anm. 20) fehlt. K. Bittmann, Ludwig XI. und Karl der Kühne. Die Memoiren des Philippe de Commynes als historische Quelle I/1–2, II/1 (Göttingen 1964, 1970) I/1, 290, Anm. 3. Daraus 277f. Anm. 46: Premierement il fault presupposer que mondit seigneur de Bourgoingne sçavoit bien que le roy estoit son souverain seigneur et que en actemptant a sa personne il forfaisoit corps et biens et que se une foys il en echappoit, il estoit en dangier de tout perdre; 295, Anm. 12: et en aucuns lieux prenoit ledit du Charles les honneurs qui ne luy appartenoyent pas en la presence et en lieu ou estoit son souverain seigneur. Cuvelier (ed.), Actes des États généraux, 297.

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royaume de nous et de la couronne, en soy efforçant de les distraire contre leur volonté de nostre souveraineté et ressort et de l’obeissance de nostre cour de parlement.111

Dieses Vorgehen wurde in weiteren Schriftstücken des Tages als Majestätsverbrechen bezeichnet: a [...] commmis et perpetré crime de leze majesté, le plus grand, le plus gros et le plus enorme que humainement se puisse commettre, et pour ce a forfait et confisqué envers nous corps et biens.112 Damit wandte er jene Rechtsfigur, die Wim Blockmans in den Händen Karls nachgewiesen hat, nunmehr gegen den Herzog selbst. Aber der war bereits tot, ihm konnte Ludwig XI. nicht mehr schaden, und auch seinen wenig aussichtsreichen Versuch, Maria mit juristischen Mitteln zu enterben, nachdem die militärischen versagt hatten, hat der König bald aufgeben müssen.113 9. Ergebnisse Das Problem der burgundischen Souveränität war alt, brach mit dem Mord an Johann Ohne Furcht 1419 auf, erhielt 1435 eine personale Regelung und schien sich, trotz zunehmender burgundischer Machtfülle, im Jahre 1461 aufzulösen. Karl der Kühne riß es zu Beginn seiner Regierungszeit wieder auf. Seine gezielte Provokation blieb zunächst ein Einzelfall und wurde wenigstens bis in den Mai 1470 nicht wiederholt. Ob und wie lange er Ludwig XI. danach noch als seinen souverain seigneur bezeichnet hat, läßt sich einstweilen nicht feststellen. Im September 1475 tat er es nicht mehr. Er wird dies schon früher unterlassen haben, vielleicht schon nach dem Konfiskationsedikt Ludwigs vom Dezember 1470, der stets wiederholten Behauptung einer aus der Verletzung des Vertrags von Péronne eingetretenen Souveränität, dem Wiederausbruch des Krieges, dem am 12. November 1471 ausgesprochenen Verbot des Appels von Gerichten aus Herzogtum und Grafschaft Burgund an das Parlament von Paris.114 Erst am 8. Dezember 1473 aber tat Karl mit der Errichtung des ‘souveränen’ Parlaments von Mecheln den entscheidenden Schritt und ließ sich von nun an selbst als souverain seigneur bezeichnen. Es war dieser Akt mit seiner folgerichtig aufgenommenen neuen Titulatur, den Ludwig XI. in der Öffentlichkeit als Majestätsverbrechen besonders anprangerte. Auf der anderen Seite stellte auch Olivier de la Marche den Bezug zwischen der Errichtung des Parlaments und der behaupteten Souveränität des Herzogs 111 112 113

114

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Plancher, Histoire, preuves, ccclxxxiij (b). Plancher, Histoire, preuves, ccclxxxiv (a). Hierzu einstweilen P. Champion, Louis XI, 2 vols (Paris 1927) II, 285–288 und Taf. XX. Siehe auch. o. Anm. 44. H. Stein, Catalogue des actes de Charles le Téméraire (1467–1477), mit einem Anhang: Urkunden und Mandate Karls von Burgund, Grafen von Charolais (1433–1467), ed. S. Dünnebeil (Sigmaringen 1999), Nr. 1238.

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her: Wegen der Errichtung des Parlaments und aufgrund des Bruchs des Vertrags von Péronne se disoit souverain en icelles seigneuries, et en jouyt comme souverain jusques à sa mort.115 Wir haben keinen Beleg dafür, daß eine offizielle Sprachregelung verordnet worden wäre. Im Jahre 1475, als Karl auf der Höhe seines Ansehens stand, ist ihm der Titel anscheinend am häufigsten gegeben worden. Seine Untertanen, ja seine eigenen Verwaltungen haben ihm aber nicht den Gefallen getan, ihn alle, sofort, auf Dauer als den zu bezeichnen, der er zeitlebens hatte sein wollte: ihr souverain seigneur.

115

Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires I, 232f.

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État bourguignon ou états bourguignons ? De la singularité d’un pluriel Jean-Marie Cauchies Facultés universitaires Saint-Louis à Bruxelles / Université catholique de Louvain / Académie royale de Belgique

Etat bourguignon (singulier), états bourguignons (pluriel). L’un et l’autre s’écrit ou s’écrivent... Une même plume, parfois, les fait alterner dans l’usage. Beaucoup d’historiens, sans doute, utilisent la première ou la seconde de ces formes par habitude, sans s’interroger davantage sur le « pourquoi » de leur option. Quelques spécialistes de très haut vol ont, il est vrai, contribué à consacrer le recours au singulier.1 Ils étaient certes attentifs au bien-fondé de leur choix, mais celui-ci a souvent été adopté quasi « mécaniquement » par d’autres, sans réflexion de fond, donc sans remise en cause. Un enjeu capital, au cœur même du problème de terminologie posé, consiste à se demander s’il y a eu ou non, dans le chef des quatre ducs Valois de Bourgogne, ou du moins de certain(s) d’entre eux, une volonté consciente de « créer » un Etat, d’ « inventer » quelque chose de politiquement neuf. Précisons d’entrée de jeu que les pages qu’on va lire n’ont pas pour objectif de 1

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Citons en particulier H. Pirenne, ‘The formation and constitution of the Burgundian state (fifteenth and sixteenth century)’, The American historical review 14 (1909) 477–502 (version allemande: ‘Die Entstehung und die Verfassung des Burgundischen Reiches im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert’, Jahrbuch für Gesetzgebung. Verfassung und Volkswirtschaft im Deutschen Reich 33 (1909) 33–63; version française jusqu’alors inédite : « La formation et la constitution de l’Etat bourguignon (XVe–XVIe siècle) », La fortune historiographique des thèses d’Henri Pirenne, Archives et bibliothèques de Belgique, n° spécial 28 (Bruxelles 1986) 155–182); J. Huizinga, « L’Etat bourguignon, ses rapports avec la France et les origines d’une nationalité néerlandaise », Le Moyen Âge 40 (1930) 171–193 et 41 (1931) 11–35, 83–96 (republié dans idem, Verzamelde werken II, Nederland (Haarlem 1948) 161–215); P. Bonenfant, « L’Etat bourguignon », Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin, XXI, La monocratie, 2e partie (Bruxelles 1969) 429–446 (republié dans idem, Philippe le Bon. Sa politique, son action, A.-M. Bonenfant-Feytmans (éd.), Bibliothèque du Moyen Âge 9 (Paris – Bruxelles 1996) 365–376); B. Schnerb, L’Etat bourguignon (1363–1477) (Paris 1999). Une autre monographie: H. Laurent, F. Quicke, Les origines de l’Etat bourguignon. L’accession de la maison de Bourgogne aux duchés de Brabant et de Limbourg (1383–1407) (Bruxelles 1939). Une édition de sources: M. Mollat, R. Favreau et R. Fawtier (éd.), Comptes généraux de l’Etat bourguignon entre 1416 et 1420, 6 vols (Paris 1965–1976). Des articles (parmi d’autres): P. Bonenfant et J. Stengers, « Le rôle de Charles le Téméraire dans le gouvernement de l’Etat bourguignon en 1465–1467 », Annales de Bourgogne 25 (1953) 7–29, 118–133; P. Bonenfant, « Etat bourguignon et Lotharingie », Académie royale de Belgique. Bulletin de la Classe des lettres et des sciences morales et politiques, 5e série 41 (1955) 266–282 (republié dans idem, Philippe le Bon, 351–363) – mais précédemment, recours au pluriel: A.-M. et P. Bonenfant, « Le projet d’érection des Etats bourguignons en royaume en 1447 », Le Moyen Âge 45 (1935) 10–23; ou encore M. Boone, « Apologie d’un banquier médiéval : Tommaso Portinari et l’Etat bourguignon », Le Moyen Âge 105 (1999) 31–54 (voir aussi, du même auteur, une contribution citée n. 29 infra).

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remettre fondamentalement sur le métier ce fructueux débat. Il s’agira plutôt d’y apprécier des résultats acquis, d’émettre une opinion tant soit peu fondée sur l’alternative proposée, un sujet à propos duquel Wim Blockmans, auquel ces lignes sont par priorité destinées, ne pourrait demeurer indifférent. Qu’est-ce donc que l’ensemble constitué avec le succès dans la durée que l’on sait par les ducs de Bourgogne de la maison de Valois ? Une galaxie, une mosaïque, un complexe... Mots et images ne font pas défaut pour le qualifier. Mais force est de constater que pour les principaux intéressés, les dynastes euxmêmes, il n’est pas possible de « nommer », de « baptiser » le tout d’un seul et même nom. Une obligation s’impose, au premier chef en chancellerie, dans l’élaboration des lettres patentes : l’usage d’une titulature de plus en plus étoffée. On conserve pour Philippe II d’Espagne, descendant direct et héritier des ducs, des instructions très précises à cet égard.2 L’absence d’un nom collectif disponible pour les pays d’un même prince considérés dans leur totalité peut passer pour un danger, une faiblesse.3 Elle sera à tout le moins compensée par la propension que l’on aura à désigner l’ensemble des sujets sous le vocable commun de « Bourguignons », fût-ce là un gage d’attachement dynastique davantage qu’un signe de cohésion dans l’espace.4 Une face positive des choses n’est en outre pas à négliger, dans la mesure où une titulature abondante reflète une assise territoriale, imprime une marque de richesse et de prestige. Il est toutefois une façon de « nommer » d’un seul trait les principautés des anciens Pays-Bas agrégées sous un même pouvoir. « Pays de par deçà », lit-on dans des sources de caractère public. « Par deçà », ce seraient ainsi les possessions ducales du nord, distinguées de « par delà », les possessions du sud, duché de Bourgogne et territoires satellites en terre française, FrancheComté de Bourgogne en terre impériale. Pour plus d’un historien, la chose est claire.5 C’est oublier trop vite que nous sommes là en présence d’appellations géographiques tout empreintes de subjectivité. « Par deçà », c’est là où l’on est; « par delà », c’est là où l’on n’est pas : ici versus là-bas. Les princes voyagent, se déplacent, font alterner lieux de séjour. Un article court mais bien documenté, trop souvent ignoré en dépit de son insertion dans une revue de haut niveau 2

3

4

5

Ch. Terlinden et J. Bolsée (éd.), Recueil des ordonnances des Pays-Bas. Deuxième série - 1506– 1700, VII (Bruxelles 1957) 57–58 (16 février 1556, n. st.). B. Guenée, L’Occident aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Les Etats, Nouvelle Clio 22 (Paris 1971) 115 : « Et le fait que ni les Etats ni les sujets du duc de Bourgogne n’avaient en commun un nom était plus menaçant pour Charles le Téméraire que la politique de Louis XI » (nous nuancerions volontiers cette assertion). J.-M. Cauchies, « Bourgogne et Pays-Bas: de la référence dynastique à la construction politique », dans : Fondation et rayonnement de l’Ordre de la Toison d’or, Mémoires de l’Académie des sciences, arts et belles-lettres de Dijon 142bis, 2007 (Dijon 2008) 81–88. Voir aussi A. Duke, « The elusive Netherlands. The question of national identity in the Early Modern Low Countries on the eve of the Revolt », Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 119 (2004) 10–38. S. Dubois, L’invention de la Belgique. Genèse d’un Etat-Nation (1648–1830) (Bruxelles 2005) 66.

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et de diffusion à grande échelle, a clairement tranché : « par deçà » et « par delà » désigneront aussi bien les Pays-Bas ou les deux Bourgogne(s), selon que le maître des terres et des hommes s’y trouvera ou non.6 Cet usage perdurera longtemps. A Madrid, par exemple, en plein XVIIe siècle, « pays de par delà » pourra encore désigner les possessions néerlandaises du monarque espagnol.7 Non relative, plus objective : telle bonne figure pourrait faire le recours à d’autres formules géographiques, traduisant pour leur part les acquis de la nature, quand on parle de « pays d’en bas (embas) » pour caractériser nos lage landen bij de zee et les différencier par conséquent de « pays d’en haut ». Cette expression, à l’origine des « Pays-Bas » de notre terminologie courante, n’apparaîtra à vrai dire que tardivement et ne se justifiera qu’au moment où seront entrés en jeu les premiers Habsbourg, possesseurs pour leur part de contrées au relief plus généreux, Vorlande, Tyrol, Autriche...8 Les monarques espagnols, à partir de Charles Quint lui-même, énuméreront terres de Flandre et voisines en les situant dans leurs « pays bas ».9 Il est admis que les véritables « inventeurs » de la notion d’Etat, si l’on attribue au mot le sens de construction politique, d’espace soumis tout entier à un même gouvernement, furent les caméralistes allemands et autrichiens du XVIIIe siècle. Cela ne gêne sans doute pas grand monde d’appliquer la notion à rebours, en remontant le temps, même si, quoi qu’il en soit de références telles que la res publica, cultivées depuis de nombreuses générations dans la réflexion politique, le mot ne relève pas du lexique officiel. La variété des situations vécues permet de toute manière d’identifier des « types » (Empire, royaume, principauté territoriale, communauté souveraine à la mode helvétique, république urbaine...), parmi lesquels la référence par excellence demeure souvent l’« Etat-nation », modèle triomphant au XIXe siècle. Un « beau corps d’Etat » : voilà comment une source qualifie les anciens Pays-Bas sous la houlette des ducs de Bourgogne. Mais il s’agit de « réflexions » d’un ci-devant haut ecclésiastique prônant, en 1814, la réunification des XVII Provinces sous l’égide de la maison d’Orange...10 6

7

8

9

10

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P. Cockshaw, « A propos des pays de par deçà et des pays de par delà », Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 52 (1974) 386–388. C. Thomas, Le visage humain de l’administration. Les grands commis du gouvernement central des Pays-Bas espagnols (1598–1700) (thèse de doctorat inédite, Université catholique de Louvain 2009) I, 106. J.-M. Cauchies, « Die burgundischen Niederlande unter Erzherzog Philipp dem Schönen (1494–1506): ein doppelter Integrationsprozeß », dans : F. Seibt et W. Eberhard (éd.), Europa 1500. Integrationsprozesse im Widerstreit: Staaten, Regionen, Personenverbände, Christenheit (Stuttgart 1987) 33–34; Dubois, L’invention, 68. F. Tomas y Valiente et J.L. Bermejo Cabrero, « Le cadre géographique et institutionnel de l’Espagne », dans: J.-M. Duvosquel (éd.), Splendeurs d’Espagne et les villes belges (1500–1700), 2 vols (Bruxelles 1985) I, 36. S. Dubois, La révolution géographique en Belgique. Départementalisation, administration et représentations du territoire de la fin du XVIIIe au début du XIXe siècle, Académie royale

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Depuis les années soixante-dix du siècle dernier et dans le cadre plus large de l’étude des institutions, l’historiographie a connu un renouveau intense des travaux consacrés à « l’Etat ». « Etat moderne » est devenu une formule omniprésente, autour de jalons tels que le livre de l’Américain Joseph Strayer, à la recherche de ses prémisses,11 ou le vaste programme international Origines de l’Etat moderne en Europe, XIIIe – XVIIIe siècle, auquel la Fondation européenne de la Science a donné l’impulsion en 1988.12 Chaque terme, dans quelque contexte géographique et chronologique que l’on se situe, peut (et doit) évidemment faire l’objet d’une interrogation fondamentale : quel Etat, pour quelle modernité, fondée sur quelles origines ? Il faut se garder, ici comme ailleurs, de toute option intellectuelle qui affirmerait déceler une évolution fatale prétendument « dans le sens de l’histoire ». L’affirmation de l’Etat « moderne » national et centralisateur, si elle s’est faite, ne représentait pour autant rien d’inéluctable, comme s’est plu notamment à le souligner Wim Blockmans13 ; d’autres formules se sont révélées possibles et viables et les Pays-Bas bourguignons peuvent fort bien en témoigner. Faire réussir une entreprise étatique impose, selon le sens commun, d’assurer à une autorité supérieure, monarchique, princière, collective, le pas sur des structures et des détenteurs de pouvoirs, de prérogatives régionaux et locaux. Entre les niveaux ainsi concernés, deux modes de relations peuvent se nouer, se concurrencer, coexister, se compléter. D’une part, des affrontements vont donner lieu à des oppositions plus ou moins structurées, déboucher sur des révoltes. D’autre part, des collaborations vont s’établir et des réseaux se mettre en place, des toiles se tisser. Révoltes et réseaux constituent ainsi deux grands thèmes fort étudiés de nos jours.14 Pour notre propos, ils rappellent utilement que l’organisation d’un Etat se situe nécessairement au point de contact entre aspirations et actions, tout à la fois, de gouvernants et de gouvernés. La question du singulier et du pluriel doit donc être posée en tournant le regard à la fois vers le haut et vers le bas, afin d’identifier les forces motrices éventuelles de l’œuvre étatique : celle-ci sera-t-elle le produit d’un mouvement descendant ou ascendant, voire d’un mouvement combiné ?

11 12

13

14

de  Belgique. Mémoire de la Classe des Lettres. Collection in-8°, 3e série 48 (Bruxelles 2008) 202. J. R. Strayer, Les origines médiévales de l’Etat moderne (Paris 1979). Pour un aperçu de ce vaste programme, qui a donné lieu à une série de publications collectives, on peut voir, en bref : W. Blockmans, J.-Ph. Genet et Ch. Muhlberg, « The origin of the Modern State », dans : J.-Ph. Genet (éd.), L’Etat moderne: genèse. Bilans et perspectives (Paris 1990) 285–303. W.P. Blockmans, « De Bourgondische Nederlanden: de weg naar een moderne staatsvorm », Handelingen van de Koninklijke Kring voor oudheidkunde, letteren en kunst van Mechelen 77 (1973) 7-26, spéc. 25. On les voit tous deux en bonne place dans un livre récent: J. Haemers, C. Van Hoorebeeck et H. Wijsman, Entre la ville, la noblesse et l’Etat: Philippe de Clèves (1456–1528), homme politique et bibliophile, Burgundica 13 (Turnhout 2007).

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Henri Pirenne n’a pas fabriqué de toutes pièces l’expression « Etat bourguignon », mais il en a pour ainsi dire stimulé l’utilisation – sa notoriété faisant le reste – à l’occasion du troisième Congrès international des sciences historiques, tenu à Berlin en 1908 : « the state created in the Netherlands by the four dukes of Burgundy ». Et d’en justifier l’opportunité par les faits historiques, « a very long existence » – en dépit des apparences –, « a long duration » perceptible dans les fondements donnés aux institutions des futurs Pays-Bas dits catholiques comme des futures Provinces-Unies, « a certain unity of government ». Conscient que l’un ne pouvait réussir sans l’autre, il y voyait conjointement « l’œuvre » des princes et celle des populations, confondant toutefois un peu vite attachement à une dynastie, au-delà de 1477/82, et conscience d’une forme de nationalité « bourguignonne ».15 A la génération suivante, Paul Bonenfant, quoiqu’ adoptant volontiers la formule, exaltera avant tout sa commodité, non sans reconnaître son anachronisme, car « déformant la réalité à laquelle elle s’applique  ».16 Une génération plus tard encore, Bertrand Schnerb, l’un de ceux qui ont le plus saisi la question à bras-le-corps, va plaider pour l’adoption du concept tout en s’efforçant d’en bien cerner les contours. « Construction politique particulière », écrit-il – c’est nous qui soulignons – : particulier parce que princier et non royal, ni national, ni souverain, donc non pleinement accompli selon les normes communément admises. Quels sont donc les caractères qui retiendraient notre attention pour nous convier à opiner dans ce sens ? Une concentration de pouvoirs entre les mains d’un homme, lui-même assisté d’individus et de corps auxquels il délègue en vue de gouverner une population, des objectifs de centralisation intérieure et de reconnaissance de souveraineté à l’extérieur.17 Mais, mis à part le niveau de regroupement auquel tout cela se situe, la nouveauté n’est pas flagrante, les caractères évoqués ne faisant pas défaut dans des principautés médiévales déjà bien organisées au XIVe siècle, voire plus tôt pour certaines d’entre elles, et disposant de moyens politiques, diplomatiques, militaires, administratifs, judiciaires ou financiers dignes de monarques « au petit pied ». Certes ne peut-il être question de nier ou de minimiser les efforts déployés par les ducs et leur gouvernement pour promouvoir une plus grande cohésion interne – en somme, pour permettre le glissement du pluriel au singulier! Nous nous sommes personnellement beaucoup penché sur les débuts d’une législation dite générale, la promulgation de textes applicables « en bloc », d’un seul jet, et non plus « en détail », à toutes les principautés bourguignonnes. Timide encore sous Philippe le Bon, la pratique s’étend sous 15 16 17

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Pirenne, The formation, passim. Bonenfant, L’Etat bourguignon, 429. Schnerb, L’Etat bourguignon, 7–9.

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Charles le Hardi et deviendra monnaie courante dans les années ‘80.18 Le quatrième duc, un « politique novateur », comme l’a qualifié à cet égard et à bon droit son dernier biographe en date,19 a voulu mettre en œuvre par des réformes importantes, dans les secteurs de la justice, des finances, de l’armée, des moyens de renforcer la cohésion interne de ses possessions. Par-là même, il visait aussi à consolider les bases d’un édifice politique indépendant, souverain, socle d’action d’un « vrai » monarque, auquel ne ferait plus défaut qu’une couronne. L’absence formelle d’une capitale – notion moderne s’il en est, fille du succès des « Etats-nations » – pour les ducs n’est pas, selon nous, un élément de faiblesse déterminant, une cause d’empêchement sans appel. Philippe le Hardi et Jean sans Peur ont le plus souvent séjourné en Bourgogne et à Paris, dans leurs résidences favorites, attachés qu’ils étaient au berceau de leur lignée mais mus aussi par leurs intérêts politiques. Leur successeur allait plus nettement opter, les années passant, pour Bruxelles, fruit du déplacement vers les Pays-Bas du centre de gravité de la galaxie bourguignonne. Charles le Hardi, pour sa part, serait beaucoup en campagne : il ne se posera sans doute guère la question de sa « capitale », c’est-à-dire de la fixation d’une ville destinée à remplir « la fonction symbolique et réelle de lieu central du pouvoir ».20 Assurément Malines, siège éphémère de grands corps de justice et de finances, bénéficie-t-elle d’une promotion consciemment voulue, mais qui n’en fait rien de plus qu’une sorte de « capitale par défaut ». Une sentence du genre « pas de capitale, pas d’Etat » ne nous paraît toutefois pas être un argument péremptoire. Les événements survenus dans les Pays-Bas au début de l’année 1477, suite à la mort tragique et inopinée de Charles le Hardi, fournissent un observatoire privilégié. On y voit une autorité ducale, centrale, chancelante sous le poids des événements, qui s’est appliquée au cours des dernières années à renforcer l’emprise d’institutions compétentes au niveau des pays dans leur ensemble. On y voit aussi s’exprimer la volonté de sujets réticents, défiants, pour ne pas dire hostiles envers des pratiques, fruits de la présence d’un personnel princier perçu comme étranger et trop « professionnel », porté dès lors à sacrifier sur l’autel de règles nouvelles, plus savantes, aussi étrangères au terroir que ceux qui les y appliquent, des coutumes qu’il ne connaît ou n’apprécie pas. On sait comment Marie de Bourgogne se voit contrainte de concéder alors une batterie de privilèges. Ils portent en eux les marques de la 18

19 20

Cf. un article de synthèse de ces recherches: J.-M. Cauchies, « La législation dans les Pays-Bas bourguignons: état de la question et perspectives de recherches », Revue d’histoire du droit 61 (1993) 375–386. H. Dubois, Charles le Téméraire (Paris 2004) 442. W. Paravicini, « Paris, capitale des ducs de Bourgogne ? », dans W. Paravicini et B. Schnerb (éd.), Paris, capitale des ducs de Bourgogne, Beihefte der Francia 64 (Ostfildern 2007) 472.

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volonté des sujets exprimée par la voix de leurs représentants aux assemblées : décentraliser. Mais, comme l’écrit Wim Blockmans avec toute la nuance requise, ces privilèges « ont laissé intacte une très large part de l’appareil de l’Etat bourguignon et tendent même à optimaliser son fonctionnement ».21 Il n’y a là, quoi qu’il y paraisse, rien de paradoxal. Certes a-t-on exigé des moyens de lutte contre la corruption, l’emploi de la langue vernaculaire, le respect des coutumes, la désignation de fonctionnaires autochtones, une bonne tenue des assemblées représentatives, ... Mais on ne voulait nullement faire éclater ou s’effondrer comme tel l’édifice bâti par les ducs, on le voulait en somme plus souple, plus harmonieux, plus équilibré. Moins d’« Etat central » – c’est-à-dire pour l’essentiel moins d’impôt et de guerre ! – mais plus de stabilité, dans une formule – on y reviendra – de type fédératif. Au cœur de ce qui constitue le moment de crise majeur de l’époque bourguignonne (au sens étroit22), des structures gouvernementales sont donc bien acceptées, pourvu qu’elles fonctionnent d’abord au niveau des différents « pays ». Cela ne signifie-t-il pas qu’entre le singulier et le pluriel, la balance a déjà penché, un choix a bien été fait ? Le sentiment collectif nourri de la nécessité de se préserver de la menace étrangère, française, peut bien inciter alors à maîtriser les particularismes mais ne vise pas à les éteindre, voire simplement à les faire taire, fût-ce pour un court temps de « sommeil ». La place des assemblées dites représentatives dans le processus de construction et de coopération politique serait donc déterminante pour éclairer la question qui nous retient ici. Rappelons d’ailleurs qu’il s’agit en fait là d’institutions d’origine « princière », puisqu’ issues de curiae médiévales élargies. Elles répondaient à un réel souhait des princes de nouer et d’entretenir des contacts aisés avec leurs sujets à travers des corps intermédiaires consultés mais subordonnés. Elles n’ont jamais pris elles-mêmes que dans des circonstances exceptionnelles l’initiative de se réunir : 1477 allait fournir l’une de ces circonstances. Même après que se soient constitués, par la volonté ducale, des Etats généraux, dans le dernier tiers du XVe siècle, les positions déterminantes pour la politique et l’action des gouvernants – on songe principalement au vote des aides et subsides et à l’impact de la politique monétaire – ont continué à être prises au sein d’Etats dits globalement aujourd’hui, pour la commodité, provinciaux. On ne peut certes épingler là un facteur favorable à la structuration d’ « un » Etat. L’historien par excellence des premières décennies des Etats généraux l’écrit en recourant avec 21

22

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W.P. Blockmans, « La signification “constitutionnelle” des privilèges de Marie de Bourgogne (1477) », dans : idem (éd.), Le privilège général et les privilèges régionaux de Marie de Bourgogne pour les Pays-Bas (1477), Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 80 (Courtrai-Heule 1985) 515–516. Au sens large, la période dite bourguignonne inclut le temps des « règnes » des premiers Habsbourg, Philippe le Beau et Charles Quint, jusqu’en 1555 donc.

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bonheur à une formulation bien actuelle : ils ne parvinrent jamais à jouer vis-à-vis du souverain « le rôle d’une sorte de conseil fédéral ».23 L’œuvre bourguignonne est celle du rassemblement, sous une forme dite d’union personnelle – ce sont les mots les plus adéquats que l’on puisse utiliser – d’une panoplie de territoires dont la diversité de superficie et de structures, voire de statut, n’empêche pas de les désigner toutes sous le vocable : principautés. Qu’est-ce qu’une principauté en cet automne du moyen âge occidental ? Le dernier ouvrage d’ensemble consacré au phénomène, à son évolution et ses mutations, le définit par rapport à l’individu qui a contribué à forger, étymologiquement, le terme qui le désigne : le princeps. Pour pouvoir prétendre à cette « qualité », un dirigeant doit exercer en propre une série de droits que lui-même ou ses prédécesseurs, voire ses ancêtres, se sont vu déléguer ou se sont appropriés. Il peut se comporter comme un roi, disposer d’institutions, d’une administration à la manière royale. Mais il n’est pas, juridiquement en tout cas, l’égal du roi, car il n’en a ni le titre ni la souveraineté et, bien sûr, il n’en reçoit pas l’onction et n’en porte pas la couronne. Cela n’entrave toutefois pas l’utilisation légitime par des historiens, à propos de son ressort territorial, des mots « Etat princier », moyennant un seuil minimal d’organisation, parfois atteint depuis les XIe-XIIe siècles déjà – que l’on songe ici au comté de Flandre.24 Le prince territorial est à tout prendre celui qui exerce sur un sol et des hommes des prérogatives de fondement régalien, sous la réserve éventuelle d’un serment vassalique envers un souverain. Celui-ci, pour autant qu’il puisse (ou veuille) encore le faire, n’intervient plus dans l’espace défini que par l’intermédiaire du prince.25 Leur patrimoine chevauchant les frontières entre Saint Empire et royaume de France, Philippe le Bon et Charles le Hardi ont consenti aux serments avec la grande parcimonie que l’on sait. En terre germanique, on reprochera volontiers au premier de faire fi du droit féodal et de négliger ses obligations vis-à-vis de l’empereur, en n’en sollicitant pas l’investiture pour ses pays relevant du Reichsgut.26 Si Jean sans Peur avait bien prêté l’hommage au roi de France pour les comtés de Flandre et d’Artois en 1405 et si son fils, exempté à titre personnel envers Charles VII, l’avait fait à Louis XI en 1461, Charles le Hardi se dispenserait toujours de toute 23

24

25

26

R. Wellens, Les Etats généraux des Pays-Bas des origines à la fin du règne de Philippe le Beau (1464–1506), Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 64 (Heule 1974) 419. J.-M. Cauchies, « Le pouvoir dans les principautés », dans : B. Demotz (éd.), Les principautés dans l’Occident médiéval. A l’origine des régions (Turnhout 2007) 95–142, spéc. 109–110. B. Demotz, « Introduction », dans: idem (éd.), Les principautés dans l’Occident médiéval, 13–23, spéc. 21–22. M. Kintzinger, Westbindungen im spätmittelalterlichen Europa. Auswärtige Politik zwischen dem Reich, Frankreich, Burgund und England in der Regierungszeit Kaiser Sigmunds, Mittelalter-Forschungen 2 (Stuttgart 2000) 337–338.

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déclaration susceptible de l’assujettir le moins du monde à son pire ennemi.27 S’il y a unité de princeps, il n’y a pas, serions-nous tenté d’écrire, unité de principatus, c’est-à-dire de gouvernement, en dépit de l’existence d’institutions et de normes de plus en plus prégnantes mais nullement exclusives. L’expression « la principauté bourguignonne » utilisée par quelques historiens français pour désigner l’ensemble des Pays-Bas, voire de toutes les possessions ducales, n’est donc pas des plus heureuses, pour ne pas dire, tout simplement, qu’elle est inadéquate.28 « Etat bourguignon » introduit pour sa part une dimension nouvelle, sans gommer la pluralité des composantes, aux fondements et intérêts distincts.29 Ce qui ne signifie pas que cette autre formulation nous enchante... Relisons derechef Paul Bonenfant. Usant d’un mot bien connu aujourd’hui en Belgique parce qu’il y ouvre la Constitution en vigueur dès son premier article,30 il écrivait de « l’Etat bourguignon » qu’il allait « passer de l’union personnelle à un régime que l’on peut qualifier de fédéral  ».31 Toute tentation d’anachronisme étant écartée, cela demeure une manière adéquate de situer l’originalité de l’œuvre ducale sans lui dénier le rôle et la qualité de « puissance », « pouvoir », « Burgundy,... one of the major powers of the west European continent ».32 Si le mot n’existe 27

28

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30

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J.-M. Cauchies, Louis XI et Charles le Hardi. De Péronne à Nancy (1468–1477): le conflit, Bibliothèque du Moyen Âge 8 (Bruxelles 1996) 25; Dubois, Charles le Téméraire, 141–142. Citons, à titre d’exemples, dans des contributions scientifiques de qualité: G. Sivéry, «  L’entrée du Hainaut dans la principauté bourguignonne », Revue du Nord 56 (1974) 323–339; A. Leguai, « Royauté et principautés en France aux XIVe et XVe siècles; l’évolution de leurs rapports au cours de la guerre de Cent Ans », Le Moyen Âge 101(1995) 127; G. Lecuppre, L’imposture politique au Moyen Âge. La seconde vie des rois (Paris 2005) 145 (à propos du goût du pouvoir bourguignon pour « l’Etat-spectacle »). Cela peut mener à de regrettables confusions, telle celle dont est victime un auteur mentionnant l’intégration en 1429 du petit comté de Namur au « duché de Bourgogne » : A. Zorzi, « Introduzione », dans : J. Chiffoleau, C. Gauvard et A. Zorzi (éd.), Pratiques sociales et politiques judiciaires dans les villes de l’Occident à la fin du Moyen Âge, Collection de l’Ecole française de Rome 385 (Rome 2007) 1–29, spéc. 22. Sous la plume de M. Boone, « Les juristes et la construction de l’Etat bourguignon aux Pays-Bas. Etat de la question, pistes de recherches », dans : J.-M. Duvosquel, J. Nazet et A. Vanrie (éd.), Les Pays-Bas bourguignons. Histoire et institutions. Mélanges André Uyttebrouck, Archives et bibliothèques de Belgique, n° spécial 53 (Bruxelles 1996) 105, l’heureuse définition de « l’Etat bourguignon » comme « une collection de principautés diverses » met bien en valeur cette réalité. « La Belgique est un Etat fédéral qui se compose des communautés et des régions » (17 février 1994). Bonenfant, L’Etat bourguignon, 433. R. Vaughan, John the Fearless. The growth of Burgundian power (Londres 1966) 228, 262. Cette manifestation, au-delà des frontières, en qualité de « puissance » est déjà perceptible, selon cet historien, sous le premier duc Valois, thèse que reflète le sous-titre de son premier livre: Philip the Bold. The formation of the Burgundian state (Londres 1962). L’usage courant dans ses travaux de l’expression « Burgundian state » n’empêche pas Vaughan de souligner aussi le caractère épars, difficilement cohérent, des « scattered territories that constituted Burgundy » : Philip the Good. The apogee of Burgundy (Londres – Harlow 1970) 399–400.

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pas alors, les structures juridiques se mettent pour leur part en place et se coiffent progressivement d’institutions et de normes central(isatric)es – nous ne dirons à aucun prix « unitaires », comme pour la Belgique issue des événements de 1830 !33 En ayant une fois de plus recours au vocabulaire d’aujourd’hui, on soulignera que l’essor d’un niveau fédéral au XVe siècle n’éclipse nullement en l’espèce le niveau fédéré. La position que continue à tenir celui-ci dans l’exercice de l’autorité publique et la vie des populations, même s’il est par la force des choses dépossédé d’une part de ses compétences, plaide à nos yeux pour une sauvegarde préférentielle du pluriel. Une publication récente a mis l’accent sur la survivance des autonomies au XVIIe siècle, tempérant ainsi l’opportunité d’appliquer résolument pour cette époque aux Pays-Bas dits espagnols la dénomination a posteriori d’ « Etat fédéral ».34 « Fédérer, c’est unir », disait volontiers le défunt roi Baudouin Ier.35 Pour s’unir, il faut être plusieurs. Et chacun peut vouloir garder ce qui fait sa personnalité. Ainsi l’ont voulu et/ou consenti les principautés ou Etats bourguignons. « Etats », en somme, n’était-ce pas alors un acquis ? Tandis qu’ « Etat » ne pouvait prétendre être qu’un programme? Non le moindre sans doute, puisqu’ ébauché par des gouvernants au « pragmatisme entreprenant ».36

33

34

35

36

Ce processus est particulièrement mis en évidence par J.-M. Cauchies, « Le droit et les institutions dans les anciens Pays-Bas sous Philippe le Bon (1419–1467): essai de synthèse », Cahiers de Clio 123 (1995) 33–68. K. Van Honacker, « Un Etat fédéral », dans : P. Janssens (éd.), La Belgique espagnole et la principauté de Liège (1585-1715) I, La politique (Bruxelles 2006) 183. Cité par F. Delpérée, dans : M. Verdussen (éd.), La Constitution belge. Lignes et entrelignes. Essai (Bruxelles 2004) 24. Schnerb, L’Etat bourguignon, 207.

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The Art of Persuasion: Charles V and his Governors 1 M. J. Rodríguez-Salgado London School of Economics

Son, you will have seen what I have written to you in this [letter]. I am certain that because it is so important to me, you will do everything you can, as a good son is obliged to do, and you will ensure that your father is not left in need in such circumstances [...]. Make every effort to find the means to help us.2

Thus wrote the emperor Charles V in 1543 to prince Philip, governor of the Spanish realms. Things were going well, with an unexpected victory in Guelderland. Yet the psychological pressure on the sixteen-year old prince was considerable. Over the following years, as the situation worsened, similar messages in the emperor’s own hand reiterated the point that it was only by satisfying the demands for money and men that Philip could ‘prove how good a son you are to me’. Time and again he was told that without this support problems would become intractable, and the situation acutely dangerous for the emperor and his lands. In January 1545 Philip was urged ‘to make the impossible possible, because [otherwise] it will be impossible for me to conclude the many affairs I have in hand’. Indeed, the emperor went on to predict his own collapse and insisted that the situation would deteriorate irretrievably unless the prince once again achieved ‘the impossible’.3 Often, he claimed that the fate of Christendom hung in the balance. The burden of personal and collective responsibility Charles V placed on the young prince and the Spanish councils during the 1540s and 1550s was extreme and relentless. Its impact is evident in the anguished letters signed by the prince cataloguing the financial problems and manpower shortages suffered by Spain as a consequence. We know that during the severe crises of the 1550s other governors also came under pressure.4 But were such exchanges the exception or the norm? Were the tactics employed general or specific? In setting out to answer these questions, a separate but related issue has to be taken into 1

2 3

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The art of persuasion seemed an appropriate topic to offer Wim Blockmans who has so aptly demonstrated his eloquence and powers of persuasion over a long and distinguished career. Abbreviations and Notes: AGS = Archivo General de Simancas (Spain); AGR A = Archives Generales du Royaume (Brussels), Audience, cat. T109; CDCV = Corpus Documental de Carlos V, ed. by M. Fernández Álvarez, 5 vols (Salamanca 1971–81). All correspondence is from Charles V unless indicated. CDCV, II, 172–3 (27 October 1543). Examples in: CDCV, II, 183 (15 November 1543); 209 (12 May 1544); and 343 (17 January 1545). M. J. Rodríguez-Salgado, The Changing Face of Empire. Charles V, Philip II and Habsburg Authority, 1551–1559 (Cambridge etc. 1988).

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account: how did Charles V command obedience from those to whom he had officially delegated his powers? To avoid any diminution of sovereign authority, when Charles V left his major realms he would appoint a governor5 and issue a proclamation announcing that during his absence, or for as long as he desired, the governor had the power to ‘govern and administer these realms, give orders, make provisions and do everything as I would do, without exception.’ At the same time, secret instructions would be issued strictly limiting their powers.6 But de jure the governors wielded the full authority of the sovereign, and the fiction had to be maintained in the public sphere to validate the injunction that they must be obeyed as if orders emanated from him directly. That being the case, how could he issue orders to himself ? And if his demands were not met, could he punish what was, in a sense, his own infraction? How did this crucial fiction affect the tactics he used to gain compliance from his governors? Such important questions cannot be answered in one article alone. Here I propose to review briefly the means by which Charles V may have encountered or acquired techniques of persuasion, with a particular emphasis on the two most important treatises on the education of a prince dedicated to him: those by Desiderius Erasmus and Antonio de Guevara. As we do not have evidence of how he spoke to his governors, for detailed evidence and a comparative perspective, some of the emperor’s correspondence during the 1530s with his wife, Isabel, who governed Spain for much of the period after 1528, and his sister Mary of Hungary, governor of the Low Countries from 1531, will be analysed. The choice was governed by the fact that it is generally agreed that during the 1530s Charles V took a more active role in government and became a more assiduous writer. According to Jover, it is also possible to trace ‘his peculiar style and unmistakable personality’ even in the official correspondence of the period.7 Learning the art of persuasion: eloquence and oratory We know relatively little about Charles V’s education although it is universally noted that he was not a good scholar. The Spaniard Luis de Vaca was teaching him reading, writing and the fundamentals of good behaviour with some success in 1507, according to Margaret of Austria. In July of that year the young prince is reputed to have made a brief speech to the Estates.8 Recent biographies 5

6

7 8

Or viceroy, regent, lieutenant etc. The title varied but I have used ‘governor’ here for convenience. CDCV, I, 414–6, to Isabel, 1 March 1535, cit. 414 which also includes restrictions, further amplified in 417–9. Other examples, 533–5 (1537); and 539–44 (1538). José María Jover, Carlos V y los Españoles (Madrid 1963) 76. Correspondance de L’Empereur Maximilien Ier et de Marguerite d’Autriche sa fille, Gouvernante des Pays-Bas, de 1507 à 1519, ed. by Le Glay, 2 vols (Paris 1839) I, 55. The speech mentioned by Thèodore Juste, Charles-Quint et Marguerite d’Autriche (Leipzig 1858) 71 note 3.

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stress his receptiveness to moral teachings under the influence of his principal tutor, Adrian of Utrecht, as well as his lack of application for languages, and his excessive reliance on a few advisers.9 Jardine argued that he was unlikely to have been as familiar with the arts of rhetoric as Italian elites whose humanist education put great stress on acquiring eloquence.10 It is certainly difficult to visualise the young Charles wrestling with enthymemes and much else included in books of Rhetoric, but then for the most part such texts were aimed at those needing professional rhetorical skills, mainly lawyers, teachers and bureaucrats. In any case, some of his entourage actively discouraged princes from being formally trained in rhetoric, chief among then Erasmus. ‘If anyone admires your eloquence – he warned the prince – remember that that is praise for sophists and orators’.11 No book on rhetoric figured in Erasmus’s list of essential reading. Edifying texts such as the Proverbs of Solomon, Ecclesiasticus and the Book of Wisdom, followed by the Gospels, were to be the starting point for a young noble. Plutarch was chief among the classical authors he recommended, followed by political works by Seneca, Aristotle and Cicero. He was fearful of exposing princes to classical history because it glorified war and destruction and was full of bad examples, so he urged that they be carefully censored.12 That may have happened more by necessity than design. Latin was not a subject Charles V enjoyed or applied himself to, and Adrian of Utrecht translated extracts of the classics for him. By then, however, there was a veritable industry for translations and it was mainly in these unexpurgated (if sometimes truncated) texts that Charles V developed a taste for classical history. In 1517 he selected a French version of Livy’s History of Rome to read on his travels to Spain, and is credited with a passion for Thucydides later, also in French. Multiple versions in various languages of the Commentaries of Caesar were part of his reduced library at the end of his life.13 Such works 9

10

11 12 13

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K. Brandi, The Emperor Charles V (London 1970) 47–80; Alfred Kohler, Carlos V 1500– 1558 (Madrid etc. 2000) 42–47, based on Andreas Walther, Die Anfänge Karls V (Leipzig 1911). Manuel Fernández Alvarez, Carlos V, El César y el Hombre (Madrid 1999) 53–62; Wim Blockmans, Emperor Charles V, 1500–1558 (London etc. 2002) 15–24; Harald Kleinschmidt, Charles V. The World Emperor (Stroud 2004) 16–20, 27–8, 30–33. Recent research on the household and court has not dealt with this aspect but can be found in: La Corte de Carlos V, ed. by José Martínez Millán,5 vols (Madrid s.d. [2000]) vol. I. D. Erasmus, The Education of a Christian Prince, ed. by L. Jardine, trans. N.M. Cheshire and M.J. Heath (Cambridge etc. 1997) note 102, 61. Erasmus, Education, 50. Erasmus, Education, cit. 50, books, 61–4. Livy he probably read in the abridged and translated edition of Pierre Bersuire’s, Decades. Thucydides mentioned by Juste, Charles-Quint, 70. On Latin see Raymond Fagel, ‘Charles of Luxembourg. The Future Emperor as a young Burgundian prince (1500–1516)’, in: Pedro Navascués Palacio (ed.), Carolus V Imperator (Barcelona etc. 1999) 8–16, at 12, and Fr Antonio de Guevara, Relox de Príncipes, ed. and introd. by Emilio Blanco, Conferencia de Ministros Provinciales de España (s.d., s.l.) xli. Some details of the emperor’s library at the end of his life in AGS CMC 1a ep. 1145.

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would have provided him with many instances of the power of rhetoric and with model speeches. Within the first few pages of Livy’s History of Rome for example, there are two instances where not only battles but wars were averted through eloquence, which also allowed a father to sway the king to pardon his son. There were also many instances to demonstrate how words could cause violence and have dire consequences, whether in the form of deliberate insults or careless comments.14 Contemporary works such as Guevara’s Libro áureo de Marco Aurelio transmitted and reinforced the message. Charles V borrowed it in 1524 when he fell ill and this was one of the few secular works he took with him to Spain after retirement, along with Guevara’s best-selling Relox de Príncipes, which was dedicated to him. Although in agreement which many of Erasmus’ ideas, Guevara differed on the teaching eloquence and rhetoric. He gave multiple examples from classical antiquity – some true, some invented – to prove its power and insisted that without eloquence the prince could neither acquire honour nor rule well. The right words could secure foreign alliances and calm internal unrest as well as satisfy the insatiable demands for favour by means other than money. An elegant phrase could win hearts.15 The problem – and in this he agreed with Erasmus – was that even the best teachers could not counter the effects of human nature. Character and upbringing could undermine the best education. Besides, it was demonstrably true that ‘deep knowledge and great eloquence are seldom to be found in the same person’.16 Even if nature and inclination did not limit a prince’s ability to acquire eloquence, there were pragmatic arguments against him devoting a great deal of effort in this pursuit. Notwithstanding Guevara’s arguments, it was useful but not fundamental. There were few occasions when a prince might impress with his eloquence. The speeches that opened sessions of representative assemblies were important, but even on the rare occasions when princes spoke in the estates or parliaments, they no more wrote their speeches than modern-day presidents. The elegant and eminently quotable speeches penned and delivered by Pedro Ruíz de la Mota in the Castilian Cortes of 1518 and 1520 have become as indelibly associated with Charles V as if he had written and delivered them, but at the time it is doubtful he even understood them.17 At best he would have some input at the drafting stage, but it was the 14

15 16

17

Livy, The Early History of Rome, trans. Aubrey de Sélincourt (London etc. 2002): averting war, 45–6 and 57; father’s plea, 62; causing civil war, 294. AGS CMC 1a epoca 1145 n.18 f. 244; Guevara, Relox, 560–6; Charles V’s request, 78–9. Guevara, Relox, 570–1, cit. 574. Erasmus and Horace use the proverb: ‘Not every man has the luck to go to Corinth.’ D. Erasmus, On Copia of Words and Ideas, trans. D.B. King and H.D. Rix (Milwaukee, Wis. 1963) 11. Estudios Históricos, ed. by F. Laiglesia, 3 vols (Madrid 1918) I, 335–7 (1518), and 338–42 (1520).

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job of the many experts at court to write them and they reflect the character and skills of these trained orators. When absent from the realm, the process went through multiple hands. For example, in November 1531 a draft for the opening speech of the Castilian Cortes was done in Brussels then sent to Isabel who was instructed to amend it as she and her advisers saw fit.18 As for audiences, these were a habitual and crucial part of government and provided a forum for the display of rhetorical skills, but it was for ambassadors and ministers to trade words. The sovereign was usually surrounded by advisers and was expected either to defer giving an answer or to break off a discussion for consultation before responding. As it states in Proverbs 17:28 ‘Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise’. It was universally accepted that ill-thought or careless comments could cause serious problems and spontaneity was discouraged. Most audiences consisted of an exchange of platitudes and pleasantries and were as much about ritual as about words. A reception was judged good or bad according to countless signs of favour or disfavour expressed in gestures and not just in the choice of greetings and responses. Charles V never acquired a reputation for cleverness or eloquence, but no one thought the worse of him for that. What they criticised was his aloofness. Indeed, if a prince such as the model Marcus Aurelius were to appear, it would have put the likes of Erasmus and Guevara out of a job, which may account for the fact that their advice on rhetoric and learning is frequently contradictory. They wanted the prince to be educated and wise, but also to rely on good counsellors whom they equated with philosophers such as themselves, masters of the art of rhetoric and eloquence.19 Both associated rhetoric with sound counsel and expected princely tutors and counsellors to be well versed in the art. Erasmus recommended they should use his De utraque verborum ac rerum copia to acquire good style, which he thought vital to avoid obscurity and tedium, while enhancing precision and comprehension.20 It is relevant to note that he argued here that appealing to the emotions was useful but so difficult that only memorised ‘precepts of the rhetors’ should be applied. The analysis of character and targeting an audience he discussed in the specific context of law rather than as general techniques.21 Ultimately, he agreed with the general view that the best training for a prince was to practice his office, rather than to read books or memorise rhetorical theory. Guevara went further. He contrasted his own knowledge, which he 18 19

20 21

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CDCV, I, 329, to Isabel, 25 November 1531. This message pervades Guevara’s treatise and several whole chapters e.g. I, xliii –xlvii; II, xxvii and lv. Erasmus, Education, 9, 15 and 28. Erasmus, Education, 63; Erasmus, On Copia, esp. V and VIII and the epilogue. Erasmus, Education, 81; on emotion see Erasmus, On Copia, 105.

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called ciencia (which can be rendered both as ‘learning’ and ‘science’), with that of Charles V, which stemmed from experiencia (‘experience’).22 But they were unanimous in considering it too dangerous to train a prince through a form of apprenticeship since mistakes could cost lives and whole kingdoms. There was no alternative but for princes to have and depend on tutors, and to learn eloquence along with martial pursuits. It is important to stress, however, that many practitioners – especially after Aristotle’s Art of Rhetoric – emphasized that success depended not just on good style but on an accurate reading of character and the ability to adapt words and techniques to the specific audience and particular situation.23 Indeed, for Aristotle, rhetoric was ‘the power to observe the persuasiveness of which any particular matter admits.’24 Rhetoric offered guidance on how to assess character and mood and how to manipulate emotions. Even if his acquaintance with rhetoric was mainly through listening to the exquisite oratory of those around him, and mediated through the books he read, Charles V would have grasped those fundamental lessons. He also appreciated the importance of oral communication. When absent, he relied on frequent embassies to press home the messages contained in his correspondence. While much depended on the skills and expertise of the envoy, the emperor’s written communications were the key to successful government. The art of writing Much of the literature on rhetoric focused on the arts of oratory. According to Cicero ‘the duty of this faculty appears to be to speak in a manner suitable to persuading men; the end of it is to persuade by language’.25 Few addressed the issue of writing, and usually it was in the context of discussions on style. Livy claimed that Evander ‘was revered for his invention of letters – a strange and wonderful thing to the rude uncultivated men amongst whom he dwelt’, but was held in even greater esteem because of his mother’s powers of divination.26 Fortunately for those with limited oratorial skills ‘The divine Plato’ was reputed to have been a poor speaker but ‘at least in writing he transcended human capacity’.27 Nevertheless, eloquence was not frequently associated with the written word, and many remained 22 23

24 25

26 27

Guevara, Relox, esp. 18–9. Aristotle devotes several chapters to the reading of character. The Art of Rhetoric, trans. H. C. Lawson-Tancred (London 2004). A brief account of the long and conflictive history of rhetoric M.L. Clarke, Rhetoric at Rome. A Historical Survey (London 1996). Aristotle, The Art of Rhetoric, 74. Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Inventione, trans. C.D. Yonge (reprint Kessinger Publishing, s.d.) I, 5; III, 7; and V, 9. Livy, The Early History, 38. Guevara, Relox, 27–8, 576–8 (cit. 577), and 580.

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ambivalent about the application of rhetorical theories and devices to writing since it often led to the cultivation of style without concern for meaning or wisdom.28 However, as befitted an increasingly literate and bureaucratic age, Renaissance scholars did much to promote the cultivation of letters and specifically the art of letter-writing. In Italy alone, more than twenty books had been published on the art of writing by 1500. Collections of letters such as those by Cicero, widely believed to be not just ‘the prince of Roman rhetoricians’ but the best letter-writer, were also published. Guevara’s success owed a great deal to the letters he included in his works. In his view, a prince needed to acquire good epistolar skills. By contrast, Erasmus does not touch on the matter.29 Over the next two centuries, nobles received contradictory advice from educators on this issue, not least, as Bouza has demonstrated, because of the desire to distinguish true nobility from the growing numbers of men of letters at court.30 Charles V’s mentor, William of Croy, and his grandfather, Maximilian I, had no such qualms. From 1513 they were anxious for him to cultivate the art by corresponding with other monarchs.31 The scant survival of letters in Charles’ own hand may be partly due to chance, but it also indicates his reluctance to communicate in this fashion. He found it tiring and tiresome, and his handwriting would degenerate fairly quickly, frequently forcing him to proffer apologies for the lack of legibility as well as awkward style. For example, after writing for two hours to his wife on 4 September 1532, he declared that he was too exhausted to write either legibly or cogently to Mary of Hungary. Having written both to Isabel and Ferdinand on the same day, Charles was unable to finalize other matters he should have dealt with, and commented ruefully on the difficulty of combining this task with others: ‘It is too difficult to prepare for confession and write at length at the same time’.32 He was not alone. They all alluded to the fact that they had not been ‘trained as secretaries’ – and with this they excused both their poor handwriting and style.33

28 29 30

31 32 33

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Clarke, Rhetoric at Rome, 159–60. Guevara, Relox, 26 note a; cit. 592; and 594–5; ibid., Blanco, xxxviii–xl. F. Bouza, Corre Manuscrito. Una historia cultural del Siglo de Oro (Madrid 2001), esp. chs. 1, 4, 6, 7 and 8, and pp. 293–4. Fagel, ‘Charles of Luxembourg’, 12. AGR A.47 f. 139 and ff. 186–9. After Charles apologized for his awful handwriting, Mary wrote in September 1532 (AGR A.47 ff.133–8) that he had no need to do this, and that she was at fault for not apologising for hers, to which he replied (A.47 ff.147–8) assuring her the contrary. Clearly both had reason to excuse their limited writings skills – ‘mal en escripre’, as he put it. Charles’ holograph note to Cobos (confesar y escreuir mucho son dos recias cosas juntas) in CDCV, I, 262, s.d. (1531?).

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Reluctant or not, Charles V had to put pen to paper on many occasions to fulfil his office as prince as well as head of the lineage. Moreover, tradition required that intimate exchanges with close kin should be just that. Certain communications, such as news of the death of a close relative or important announcements or requests, were expected in the shape of a personal letter, and preferably the sovereign’s holograph. In some instances even highranking nobles had a right to expect a personal communication. Bouza may be right to assume that the number of words a monarch wrote in his own hand was regarded as a measure of the worth of the recipient.34 At the close of 1530 Charles V offended Mary of Hungary by failing to write to her personally about the death of their aunt Margaret and to transmit details of her appointment as governor. Her sharp reaction forced him into making a fulsome apology – in his own hand, of course.35 The same traditions naturally required his kin (and inferiors) to respond in kind and apologies were proferred if they failed to do so. In April 1529 Isabel sent a brief letter written by a secretary bringing Charles up to date with her recent illness to which she appended a note in her own hand assuring him ‘I am not so ill that I cannot write this in my own hand’, but that she was still so weak it would have taken so long as to delay the courier.36 As this highlights, details of health, ardently sought on all sides, were frequently conveyed by holograph letters or apostils. Despite the fact that poor handwriting made reading and writing slower and harder, this period saw a great increase in holograph exchanges not least among princes. They were regarded as a substitute for personal contact; a way of extending a conversation.37 More importantly, as shall be demonstrated, the nature of the exchanges between Charles V and his governors meant that they needed an unambiguous means to distinguish between negotiable and non-negotiable matters. In 1525, in response to a request from Margaret of Austria for clarity, he determined that any message sent in his own hand represented an irrevocable and unchallengeable ‘decision’. In 1533 he informed Mary that he would write personally to her on all matters he wanted kept ‘secret’, and required her to do likewise.38 Evidence suggests he used the same system with the Spanish regents, although they did not always respond in kind as a result of age or linguistic limitations. Perhaps it was just as well, since the consequences were predictable. The sight of Mary’s long, holograph letters dismayed him, even 34 35 36 37 38

Bouza, Corre manuscrito, 138–9. AGR A.47, ff. 12–6. M.C. Mazarío Coleto, Isabel de Portugal. Emperatriz y reina de España (Madrid 1951) II, 244. Bouza, Corre manuscrito, 139–142. Cited by Laetitia Gorter-van Royen, ‘María de Hungría, regente de los Países Bajos, a la luz de su correspondencia’, in: A. Kohler (ed.), Carlos V / Karl V 1500–2000 (Madrid 2001) 193–202, at 199–200.

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when he admitted that the content justified the length.39 Interestingly, there are few holograph missives to Ferdinand, who discouraged Charles from writing them in the knowledge that he found the task tiresome.40 Multiple occupations, personal disinclination, and possibly an appreciation that his ministers were more likely to write better and thereby secure a better outcome, account for the fact that Charles V frequently resorted to certain ministers to draft secret and intimate correspondence which he would then copy. A note written by Francisco de los Cobos, his chief Spanish counsellor, reads: ‘Here is the draft of what Your Majesty should write to the King and the Empress. Your Majesty might want to add the latest news from Venice to the [letter] for the empress.’41 Cobos drafted the ‘secret orders’ regarding the Spanish government that Charles then copied in his own hand in November 1531.42 By ‘secret’ was meant that the contents were not to be discussed openly in the councils, but it did not exclude discussion with the key advisers the emperor had appointed to guide the governors. In fact, Isabel was frequently instructed to consult Cardinal Tavera on ‘secret’ matters, and for good measure Tavera was sent either copies or summaries of most of the holograph correspondence Charles sent to Isabel. Sometimes the emperor withheld information from her that he sent Tavera.43 It worked both ways. In the spring of 1531, Tavera sent a secret memorandum which Charles V later issued in his own hand as a set of instructions for Isabel. The emperor thanked Tavera and charged him to ensure it was carried out, noting: ‘I know full well that the greater part of the burden of government falls on your shoulders’.44 Cobos later played a similar intermediatory role in prince Philip’s early regency governments. Even brief holograph postscripts that required little effort on the emperor’s part could be the work of secretaries and ministers. Finding a draft of one such comment which Charles then included in a letter to Philip II in 1554 made Fernández Alvarez realize that ‘there is no spontaneity even in the holograph P.D. of Charles V’. He suggested that Charles might have first dictated it.45 This seems implausible, not only because of the duplication of 39 40

41 42

43 44 45

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AGR A.47 ff., 100–103. Christopher F. Laferl, ‘Las relaciones entre Carlos V y Fernando I a través de la correspondencia familiar de Fernando I (1533–4). Idiomas, contenidos y jerarquía entre hermanos’, in: Kohler, Carlos V, 105–117. Four have been found for 1514–1534, 110. CDCV, I, p.262. In a letter to Tavera (CDCV, I, 332, 25 November 1531) Charles V wrote: ‘This matter should be kept secret there, as we have here, consequently I have only written about it to the empress in a letter in my own hand.’ ‘Secret’ orders written by Cobos and copied by Charles in his own hand were sent to Isabel and Tavera, CDCV, I, 394. CDCV, I, 331. CDCV, I, 271–4, cit. 272. CDCV, III, 121.

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effort, but since – as in this case – the postscripts mostly consist of generic statements. What matters is that they thought it vital to maintain the fiction that these were the monarch’s own words and that they used subterfuge to do so. In December 1532 for example, Charles V copied a draft sent by Nicholas Perrenot for a letter to Mary without reading it first, and so failed to notice that Perrenot had added a note advising that some of the instructions at the start of the letter be omitted. Charles clearly agreed but was unwilling to start the letter again, so he pretended he had only realised the potential disadvantages of this course of action as he was writing, and went on to copy Perrenot’s counter-arguments, ending with an instruction to Mary to ignore what he had written earlier!46 Often, however, he would not or could not make the effort. He would send brief holograph notes to Mary and Ferdinand I referring them to the accompanying missives from Perrenot who was instructed to write ‘the rest’ on his behalf.47 Cobos acted in the same capacity for Spanish correspondence. The intervention of key advisers in holograph messages was an open secret and allowed them to be used both as mediators and scapegoats. In 1531 Charles V was offended by Ferdinand I’s comments on the lack of commitment of Christian princes against the Turks, but he decided to avoid a conflict by asking – in a holograph note – Cobos and Perrenot to write to Ferdinand and tell him that Charles believed the offending words had been penned by Ferdinand’s secretary.48 When Mary accused Perrenot of breaching the confidentiality of secret correspondence, Charles V leapt to his minister’s defence and told her bluntly that when dealing with delicate matters and with such important figures, dissimulation was of the essence.49 In sum, it is not possible to attribute authorship even of holograph correspondence. Consequently, we should be wary of assuming that it expresses the emperor’s own ideas and sentiments, or, more to the point here, that it reflects his character and skills of persuasion. Orders without commands It has been argued that the pervasive concern with rhetoric would make both the emperor and his counsellors aware that persuasion depended to a great extent on an accurate assessment of the character of the recipient, and the choice of the right words. This would lead us to expect that the style of Charles V’s correspondence would vary according to the recipient. Given the intervention of secretaries and ministers outlined above, it would be 46 47 48 49

AGR A.47 ff. 196–7 copy of Perrenot’s note, s.d.; A.47 ff. 192–5 to Mary, 17 December 1532. An example in AGS A.47 ff. 147–8, to Mary, 20 September 1532. CDCV, I, 262–3, s.d. [1531]. AGR A.50 ff. 23–26, 6 October 1537.

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natural also to detect their different styles. Yet, there are more similarities than differences. Certain factors militated against diversity. The tendency of students of rhetoric to rely on formulae and exempla, and the use of ‘model’ letters naturally imposed a degree of uniformity. The conventions of letterwriting were not the most important constraint, however. The ideals of government and tradition limited their options and account for the fact that the greatest diversity and most inventive flourishes in this princely correspondence are found in the introductory and concluding formulae and not in the substantial parts of the text.50 The status of the governors and their kinship to the emperor also influenced the correspondence. Charles V prefered to use close relatives as governors because they could command greater authority and loyalty and were bound by a multiplicity of bonds to him. He was their sovereign, but also head of the House, as well as husband, father or elder brother. They owed him obedience on several counts, and as we have seen in Philip’s case, the emperor exploited this to the full, using the power of familial duty to secure political ends. This very kinship, however, entitled them to respect and protection, and their high status, combined with the official transfer of power, constrained the language Charles V could use. Moreover, they had a duty to defend the states they governed which sanctioned their right of resistance and which he had to take into account. The epistolar exchanges were also conditioned by the political ideology they subscribed to, which stressed the superiority of governing by consent rather than force. In theory the emperor’s power was absolute and he was answerable only to God. In practice cooperation and compromise sustained all early modern governments. The forces of coercion were limited and costly and not always trustworthy. It was chiefly through tradition and belief that order and justice were upheld. For Erasmus the ideal was ‘absolute rule over free and willing subjects’.51 All agreed that the ruler must avoid novelties and exercise justice fairly. Erasmus’ chief concern was to instil a strong sense of Christian morality and aversion to tyranny. The terms ‘I desire this, I command this, let my will be the reason’ he dismissed as ‘tyrannical slogans’.52 Guevara extended the argument: relations grounded on demands were incompatible with true friendship. ‘You will be feared if you give orders, but loved if you make requests’, he insisted. And it is love that Erasmus wanted the prince to nurture in his subjects.53 Similar messages were projected at 50

51 52 53

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Christiane Thomas, ‘Die Texte’, in: Herwig Wolfram and Christiane Thomas (eds), Die Korrespondenz Ferdinands, 3 vols (Vienna 1984) I, lxviii; M. J. Rodríguez-Salgado, ‘Charles V and the dynasty’, in: H. Soly (ed.), Charles V 1500–1558 (s.l. 1999) 27–111, this at 67 and 69. Erasmus, Education, 1, 38, 42, and 43. Erasmus, Education, 52. Guevara, Relox, 169 and 154. Erasmus, Education, 66, 69–70.

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the start of Charles V’s reign in visual form and predominate in formal ceremonies, emanating both from the court and from his subjects. These ideas were drawn variously from the Bible, from mediaeval traditions and from classical models. Charles V was meant, above all, to be a wise and virtuous Christian prince.54 This put a premium on the use of persuasion rather than force and matched perfectly the need to maintain the pious fiction that the emperor had delegated total power to his governors. So how were orders issued without commands, and as if from a father to a son, a husband to a wife, a brother to a sibling? Correspondence with the Empress Isabel José María Jover usefully divided the correspondence between Charles V and his wife while she governed the Spanish realms into four categories: letters of recommendation; letters relating to individuals with details of appointments, marriages, grants, etc., both usually brief; those dealing with the government of the Spanish kingdoms; and, finally, letters relating to the emperor’s foreign policy. The latter frequently included information about his plans and explanations of his motives. Both these categories tended to be lengthy. The more hostility he anticipated, the longer and more emphatic the explanations that preceded his requests. Jover pointed out that all categories were entirely formulaic and characterized by their limited vocabulary, yet he thought they demonstrated the emperor’s ‘unsurpassed courtesy’.55 While Jover’s conclusions, based on a very limited sample, are borne out by a broader study, it is important to realize that what has survived of the correspondence between Charles V and Isabel consists almost exclusively of ‘state’ or ‘official’ letters, executed by secretaries, with few personal touches or holograph addenda by either spouse. The emperor was writing not so much to his wife, but to the governor, and many of these letters were meant to be transmitted to ministers and the executive councils.56 Hence, they do not differ from those he addressed at times to the Spanish grandees.57 Charles V invariably indicated to his wife and governor that he wanted things done not by issuing orders, but by ‘entreating her most affectionately’

54

55 56

57

Fernando Checa Cremades, Carlos V y la imagen del poder en el Renacimiento (Madrid 1999) esp. 36–94. Military and classical images dominate after the imperial coronation in Aachen (ibid., 94–101) and the start of the wars with France (ibid., 101 ff.) Jover, Carlos V, 75–80. Some were published by Javier Vales Failde, La Emperatriz Isabel (Madrid 1917) 325–402; Jover, Carlos V, and Fernández Álvarez in CDCV. Mazarío, Emperatriz, published many of her letters to Charles V. Compare the letters to Isabel in July 1532 with those to the duke of Medinaceli, in CDCV, I 368–9, and the General of the Franciscans, 370–1.

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and describing what would ‘please’ him.58 Frequently, and for variation, it would be simply stated that a certain course of action had been discussed and judged appropriate or beneficial by the emperor and his council; or even that something had ‘occurred’ to them.59 Such indirect formulae alternated with requests that Isabel should issue a specific order – ruegole que mande.60 Letters relating to government affairs consisted of a long list of statements of what the emperor needed, and the secretaries clearly varied the form in which they expressed his wishes to avoid constant repetition. Precisely because the correspondence was formulaic, quite minor changes mattered and were remarked upon. To express greater urgency or force, formulae could be prolix, as in: ‘I request her affectionately and as far as I can that by all possible ways and means she should endeavour to obtain and provide the money that is needed...’;61 or more direct and even curt as: ‘Madam, I wish you ... to order’.62 The use of language that suggested rather than commanded action was perfectly well understood. The summaries made of the emperor’s letters by the secretariat automatically turned his suggestions into imperatives: ‘write to...’, ‘execute this..’, ‘draw up a memorandum’, ‘let this be done’, ‘provisions to be made’ etc.63 According to Jover so exquisite was the emperor’s ‘courtesy’ towards his wife, that to put pressure on her he resorted to ‘moral coercion’, by simply requiring her to inform him of progress and completion of the tasks he had designated. To this he would normally add that given her diligence he was confident she would carry them out rapidly, as well as alluding to the harm that would follow if she did not.64 It is worth noting also that when Isabel and the Spanish government took decisions that he did not approve of, he avoided direct or public reproof. Charles’ letters would normally outline what they had done and either state that there was no more to be said,65 or that such things were novel and should be avoided in future.66 Another tactic he resorted to was to feign surprise with remarks such as: ‘I marvel at’, then he would reiterate his suggestions, usually adding dire warnings that they would all suffer grave consequences as a result of the failure of the

58 59 60

61 62 63 64 65 66

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CDCV, I, 213, 216 and 227 etc. CDCV, I, 310–325. CDCV, I, 221. The two were frequently combined – afectuosamente le rogamos mandeys proueer (‘I entreat her most affectionately to order that .... is done’) -, ibid., 258. CDCV, I, 203. CDCV, I, 310–325. Ibid.. Jover, Carlos V, 80. CDCV, I, 402. Examples in CDCV, I, 307 and 319.

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Spanish government to carry out what he had ‘written’ – this being the most frequent euphemism employed.67 This might give the impression that conflict and coercion were absent from these exchanges despite the fact that resistance and attempts to negotiate were frequent on Isabel’s part. It is true that his usual response was repetition. Charles V would remind her of what he had ‘written earlier’ often with circumlocution along the lines of: ‘I am certain that what I wrote to you earlier has already been done, but if it has not....’ Repetition followed by dire warnings: he would normally enumerate the grave consequences that would follow delay or non-compliance. The emperor always claimed to be both well informed and sympathetic to Spain’s problems, but invariably insisted that his need was greater and all his enterprises unavoidable and done for the best possible motives, and that ‘if I am not helped and supported by those realms what we need to do cannot be done under any circumstances’.68 As this demonstrates, rather surprisingly, images of imminent disaster were also generic, vague and unimaginative. Sometimes they were omitted altogether: Charles would assure Isabel that the damage would be so great he could not find words to describe it. Threats were often counter-balanced by assertions that a given policy would benefit not only Spain and Charles V but many others – Ferdinand I and the whole of Christendom made frequent appearances.69 Yet we should not underestimate the psychological impact of such threats. What the emperor was doing was to make Isabel and her advisers feel personally responsible for any harm that befell him, the empire and Christendom. Interestingly, as noted at the start, the techniques he used in relatively calm times scarcely varied from those utilised in times of crisis. Comparison of his letters to Isabel in times of peace in 1529 and in 1532 as the emperor marched to face Suleyman, confirms that his correspondence scarcely varied, although the tone was more insistent and intense in the latter period.70 The emperor resorted to more direct language when dealing with controversial policies. Facing opposition to his military plans or financial dealings he might state, as he did in February 1530: ‘I am still of the same opinion as before and my desire is to see it done with all diligence’.71 Matters relating to the payment and provision of Andrea Doria’s expensive fleet headed the list of conflicts with Isabel at this juncture, and even caused him on one occasion to tell her bluntly to do as he had ‘written’ and to do so immediately, 67 68 69 70 71

CDCV, I, 361–2 and 363. CDCV, I, 376–7; 358–9. Compare the letters in Jover, Carlos V, 61–85 and 90–6 with CDCV, I, 211. For example, CDCV, I, 347 and 292–4. CDCV, I, 211.

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‘because this is our will’.72 Another problematic area was patronage. While his letters would ‘commend’ a person or matter to Isabel, ostensibly allowing her to act freely,73 he frequently used coercive terms in this context, such as: yo tengo voluntad, which can be rendered both as ‘my desire’ and ‘my will’. This formula seldom appears in other contexts and almost invariably its impact was softened by adding a phrase to the effect that it would ‘give him pleasure’ – or even great pleasure - to see something done.74 This minor variant (muy) was used sparingly enough to convey greater favour.75 Only in exceptional circumstances, as over the marriage of Isabel de la Cueva in April 1532, was Charles V sharp and direct with his wife: ‘It is no longer appropriate that we should dissimulate on this matter and I will set out here precisely what is my will and what should be done.’76 However, all these examples (as all Jover’s material) are taken from Isabel’s early regencies. The correspondence during 1535–6 is more terse and dominated by the reiteration of the verb mandar – ‘to order’ or ‘command’. Normally it was used indirectly, as before: ‘Madam will order’, ‘let it be ordered’, and, most frequently, ‘your Ladyship will order’.77 On occasion convoluted phrases communicated greater emphasis, such as: ‘we request as efficaciously as we can’.78 For the most part, however, Isabel now received letters full of unadorned commands: ‘send me the galleys’, ‘let this be put into effect/done’, ‘this should be provided’.79 Only briefly, in the spring of 1536 did a softer tone prevail, with a return to the earlier use of affectionate phraseology.80 Since Cobos was responsible for the correspondence throughout, this suggests a change of attitude; a decision by the emperor to take a tough line with the regency government in Spain that would limit their resistance and leave them no room for maneouvre. This impression is confirmed by the relative lack of sympathy now expressed for their plight, which contrasts with the more emollient phrases included in earlier correspondence.81 The threats that all would collapse unless Isabel complied were also more 72 73 74 75

76 77 78 79

80 81

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CDCV, I, 298. CDCV, I, 208. CDCV, I, 200, 253 and 279. CDCV, I, 264 (to Isabel, 7 January 1531): muy afectuosaménte os ruego (‘I entreat you most affectionately’) and nos hareys agradable plazer (‘you will give us great pleasure’). CDCV, I, 352, reiterated 353. For example: CDCV, I, 458–61, 469–73 and 525–532. CDCV, I, 455–464, 468 and 517. CDCV, I, 474: enviéme, mande luego ejecutar, hágase etc.; ibid., 480: provea, Señora. Most often (480–2): mandará Señora. CDCV, I, 486. CDCV, I, 474, 20 February 1536. Having offered a lengthy justification of his policies he urged her to execute his orders at once and to spare him further accounts of her loneliness and problems.

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insistent: ‘We have often stated how important this is and the danger to our own person and empire if they fail to do this and even if there is any delay’.82 At times, the mask slipped altogether: ‘Madam, I order that this be done’. Interestingly this was included in a letter that was unusual in other respects: it consisted mainly of a long list of things that Isabel had done well, and even ‘very well’.83 Approbation was rare and simple: ‘this was done well’, ‘good’, ‘very good’, ‘I am very pleased that’, ‘good provisions were made’ tend to be all the Spanish government got by way of praise.84 Persuasion in the case of Charles V’s dealings with his wife as governor appears to have relied principally on the application of pressure, and, inspite of their marital bonds, to have remained largely impersonal – and far from Jover’s ‘exquisite courtesy’. Correspondence with Mary of Hungary As was the case with Isabel, Mary of Hungary was appointed governor when she was relatively young and politically inexperienced and therefore was also expected to rely heavily on the ministers the emperor left with her. The official correspondence by secretary hand between Charles V and his sister does not differ greatly from the exchanges with Isabel outlined above, except for the fact that it was in French rather than Spanish. Fortunately, a substantial number of holograph letters between Charles and Mary survive and offer us the possibility of broadening our analysis. The very fact that they exist is significant: it proves that Mary quickly established herself as an independent figure with whom the emperor communicated directly and almost on equal footing. This is confirmed by the fact that he soon extended her powers, giving her greater authority than other governors.85 From the start, Charles V wrote frequently in his own hand and made a point of consulting her about important matters, claiming he would not make a decision until he had received her opinion. Whether true or not she responded accordingly, albeit with constant apologies and self-deprecating comments on the advice she proferred.86 He frequently praised her open and honest advice as well as her efforts.87 Her penchant for straight talking conditioned the language she used. Initially she used phrases such as ‘according to your orders’, and demanded that he should command her, offering 82 83 84

85

86

87

CDCV, I, 513–5, cit. 514 (16 July 1536). CDCV, I, 525–532, cits 530 and 529. CDCV, I, 207: ha sydo muy bien; 223, 295: fue bien; 296: huelgo mucho de (...); 395: muy buenas (provisiones); 397: muy bien. Gorter-van Royen, ‘María de Hungria’, 194–9 and 201–2, and from the same author a fuller study Maria van Hongarije, regentes der Nederlanden (Hilversum 1995). She constantly referred to her advice as ‘folies’, AGR A.47 ff. 51–4, ff. 39–41, ff. 94–9, and ff. 69–75. AGR A.47 f. 48–9; another example A.47 ff. 36–8.

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to obey: ‘I beg you to order what else I should do and you will be obeyed accordingly, to the best of my ability’.88 Significantly, he did not. He established the same patterns he used with Isabel. On the rare occasions he used the terms order or command it was to ask her to issue them – ‘I beg you to give precise orders that ... this be carried out’.89 He would declare that ‘it would please’ him to see something done, or state that he thought it was apposite and beneficial to follow a particular course of action. For emphasis or urgency he would ask her ‘not to omit’ or ‘not to forget’ to do something.90 Exceptionally, in the crisis following the unrest in Brussels in 1532, he resorted to straight-forward terminology: ‘I will declare my intentions’.91 His stock tactics for applying pressure were exactly those he used with Isabel: requests and reminders would be followed by descriptions of the great dangers that would result to the empire, his reputation, and worse, his person, if something was not done.92 Significantly, such comments appear more frequently in letters written either openly or covertly by ministers and secretaries, than in correspondence he seems to have done himself, and even then, only at times of perceived or real crises. When angered or upset by Mary’s failure to do something he would remind her that he had ‘written’ or ‘mentioned’ it before, and urged that she should not ‘forget’;93 or that he was still waiting to know what was happening and would like her to inform him.94 Here also, requests to be informed of progress constituted a form of pressure to execute his plans. Similarly, he would express surprise or disappointment that something he had ‘written about’ (also a habitual euphemism) and/or ‘needed’ had not been done. Seldom did he allow himself a reproach. One such occasion was in 1532 when after repeated, unsuccessful reminders that his guard of archers be paid he wrote: ‘I am displeased that you should forget my archers’.95 Comparing a substantive volume of Charles’ holograph correspondence with Mary and the contemporaneous correspondence he sent her in letters by secretary hand, we can reach some interesting conclusions. In the holographs he tended only to outline what he wanted and seldom gave reasons why it 88

89 90

91 92 93 94 95

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AGR A.47 ff. 39–41 (Mary to Charles, 2 February 1532) – suiyvant votre commandement; vous suplier me commander se que plus oultre doit faire dont selon celuy serz obey selon mon pouvoir; me commander vos bons plaisirs pour iceulx accomplir; similar terms used in ff. 94–9. Other examples in A.48 ff.89–91 (27 August 1534). AGR A.47 ff. 81–6 (draft of letter to Mary, 10 June 1532). AGR A.47, ff.12–6; A.47 ff. 11–8; A.47 ff. 81–6: il seroit fort au propos et convenable de faire.. and ne delaissez de faire faire ... AGR A.47 ff. 11–8: vous declareray mon intençion. AGR A.47 ff. 142–6. AGR A.47 ff. 87–90. AGR A 47 ff. 36–8. AGR A.47 ff. 118–9.

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was required. Explanations and motivation for particular political, military and dynastic plans are found, often at length, in the letters by secretary hand, and follow the patterns noted in the correspondence with Isabel. This highlights their essential function as justifications intended to convince a broader audience. Jover is not alone in thinking that the lengthy justifications Charles penned to Isabel were ‘genuinely personal explanations’.96 Others have assumed that similar correspondence to Mary and Ferdinand should be categorised in the same fashion. But far from being personal revelations of his motives they are set pieces, closely linked to public oratory and intended for public consumption. The emperor’s actions are presented in the best possible light, and perfectly aligned with moral, religious and political ideals, as well as the interests of the state being asked to contribute. They are a form of propaganda. Notwithstanding their evident closeness, disagreements could and did occur between Charles and Mary. The way he handled their first major conflict set the pattern they followed thereafter. He wanted her to dismiss some of her closest household officials. Interference in such matters was always deeply resented by princes and rather than confront her directly, he ensured that someone alerted her of his views. Characteristically, Mary asked him directly if ‘the rumours’ were true and added that if they were, he was free to select her servants. He responded by praising this manifestation of her love and obedience, and expressed his trust in her judgement and capacity to manage her household. He also confirmed her right to determine such matters. He then proceeded to specify whom he considered suspect and invited her – je vous prie – to act appropriately. Through letters and special envoys she tried to convince him that these were good people, but when this failed, she complied with his wishes.97 Sometimes his delicacy bordered on the absurd. In December 1532 he wrote praising her for having written to the French monarchs, then proceeded to state that what she had written was most unwise.98 In the rare occasions that their arguments became truly acrimonious he would simply withdraw and refuse to communicate directly with her. He did this after an impassioned exchange of views on the marriage of their niece Christina of Denmark. Unable to persuade Mary of his controversial policy, he wrote a curt message in his own hand stating that he would not engage further on the matter with her, and she should direct any further comments to Perrenot whom he had instructed to deal with her. He then reminded her of her promises to do as he desired. Reluctantly, she capitualated.99 96 97 98 99

Jover, Carlos V, 77–9, cit. 77. AGR A.47 ff. 12–6; A.47 ff.18–20 (Mary’s instructions for Bossu). AGR A.47 ff. 192–5. K. Lanz (ed.), Correspondenz des Kaisers Karl V., 3 vols (Leipzig 1844–46), II, 87–9, cit. note 363; 89 (Charles to Mary, 11 September 1533). Also Rodríguez-Salgado, ‘Charles V and the dynasty’, 91–2.

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A striking characteristic of the emperor’s holograph correspondence with Mary is the frequency with which he thanked her for her ‘diligence’ and hard work as well as for her advice. She even received a stronger je louhe fort (‘I heartily approve’) in September 1532 for her firm handling of the unrest in Brussels.100 But this was not enough for her. At the end of 1536 she complained that she wanted and needed more information from him, and more regular and clearer instructions. She argued that unless he was more open with her about his intentions and motives, she could not be an effective governor. Neither could she be sure that he really trusted her.101 This may help to explain his greater openness with her later. But it is not the only explanation. He was always more responsive and sympathetic to her than to others. Her letters were frequently pessimistic and alarmist and almost always predicting the collapse of the Low Countries.102 He invariably responded sympathetically, reassuring her he was aware of the situation and shared their pain. Usually this would be followed by statements explaining why he needed even more resources from them. At key moments he urged her ‘to do the impossible’ for him, stressing the danger to his own person unless she did so.103 This, as we noted, he would later use with his young son. On one level it can be seen as exploiting the greater emotional attachment of these two governors; their vulnerability. But it also allowed them to feel like heroic figures, side by side with him, against overwhelming odds. They were saving him, who in turn was saving the empire and the world. As Mary gained in confidence and experience, she was more forthright in her advice and increasingly took the initiative.104 He responded with gratitude, sometimes – as in 1537 – almost effusively, reiterating his confidence in her and promising that no one and nothing would undermine it or his love for her.105 Yet he could be firm when she overstepped the mark, as in the autumn of 1538 when he refused to allow her to negotiate with the French monarchs. Even this, however, was accompanied with fulsome reassurances of his love, trust and satisfaction with her.106 Matters of patronage also caused conflicts, but when he overturned some of her appointments in 1538, telling her bluntly that she could expect nothing else if she acted 100 101

102 103 104

105 106

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AGR A.47 ff. 125–32. AGR A.49 ff. 137–9. Confusingly, she also demanded both greater power to act independently and licence to retire. AGR A.49 ff. 82f–86r. AGR A.49 ff. 69r–71r. AGR A.48 ff. 145r–150r, Mary to Charles, end of November 1535. Compare A.49 ff. 82–6 and A.48 ff. 124r–127r. AGR A.50 ff. 6–9. AGR A.50 ff. 94r–95v.

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in a way that undermined his authority, he still added an apology of sorts for having interfered.107 It is worth noting that this was at a particularly low point in their relationship, when they were locked in conflict over the emperor’s plans to attack Istanbul. The row prompted an intense exchange of letters and embassies and finally, the emperor’s refusal to engage further, leaving Perrenot to continue the argument with Mary. Again, she capitulated. Significantly, the missive in which he announced his withdrawal from the expedition resumed the affectionate tone that characterised earlier correspondence.108 Conclusion It is clear even from this partial analysis of the emperor’s correspondence that the fictional delegation of his authority was maintained by the avoidance of direct commands, and that this was compatible with the orthodoxy that government should be a matter of consent rather than force. The imperial secretariat had recourse to a variety of formulae that avoided direct orders but which indirectly and successfully communicated his will. Small changes would transmit greater urgency, favour or pressure. Such techniques are not signs of the emperor’s ‘courtesy’ and distinctive style, but a necessary device. Similarly, the holograph correspondence from the emperor was less a matter of favour than a pragmatic requirement to express his ‘firm decisions’ in a context where direct commands were not feasible. Consequently, in content and language it frequently resembles official correspondence by secretary hand. The holograph correspondence with Mary is more personal but confidences are infrequent and seldom reveal the emperor’s inner sentiments or motives. The absence of direct commands gave the recipients some room for manoeuvre: where there was no direct command, there was no infraction. They were thus able to negotiate and to defend the states under their authority. But the threat of the emperor’s displeasure sufficed more often than not to gain compliance, and he made good use of their familial bonds to secure political ends. The governors responded positively in part because they acknowledged their multiple duties to obey him. Powerful as they were, they were vulnerable and dependent on him. Many of the texts encouraging monarchs to use the arts of persuasion – including those of Erasmus and Aristotle – also taught the prince to deflect hostility by ‘delegat[ing] to others the tasks which the people resent’ and taking responsibility only for 107 108

AGR A.50 ff. 119–124, holograph P.D. See the exchanges from 1538 and 1539 in AGR A.50, esp. ff. 83r–90r (Mary to Charles, 10 August 1538); ff. 91r–93r (his reply 6 September); ibid. ff. 140r–141r (to Mary, 18 April 1539).

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that which will ‘develop their goodwill’.109 As governors they regularly shouldered the blame for the emperor’s unpopular policies and needed his support to contain a restive population and uphold their authority and status. They were thus hyper-sensitive to the emperor’s favour and disfavour, which explains his constant resort to those words. They were also, frequently, overwhelmed by the enormity of the burdens he imposed on them. It was suggested at the outset that if the emperor had been influenced by the fundamental tenets of rhetoric we would expect to find wide differences in the way he applied persuasion to the very different characters who governed on his behalf. The evidence proves rather the contrary: the form of words, the stock phrases and the stylistic and psychological techniques are similar in all cases and inspite of using different languages. The request to do the impossible for his sake is generic, as are the allusions to the dangers he and others would endure if they failed him. The tactic of making the governors responsible for adverse outcomes was a common one and a masterly stroke. The patterns of persuasion were both predictable and repetitive. Yet there are differences and these are worth highlighting. Greater pressure was exerted on Philip and Isabel, who also received more limited doses of gratitude. Brandi and Jover long ago commented on the fact that the emperor’s letters to Isabel were colder – in Brandi’s word, ‘prosaic’ – and less informative than those he wrote to Ferdinand. Although Jover thought he could detect some personal touches, both concluded that the pressures of office led Charles V to unburden himself with his brother, although neither ventured to give an opinion why this was so.110 Fernández Alvarez argued that while Charles’ letters to Isabel ‘rarely descend to the inclusion of confiding personal details’, these can be found in his letters to Mary. He did not account for the difference either.111 Since the bonds to his wife and son were no less potent than those to his siblings, and arguably stronger, could these differences be an indication that he was applying different forms of persuasion? Before we can answer this we need to take into account that while the holograph correspondence with Mary was seldom truly secret, since it was seen by her closest advisers, it was a more intimate genre of communication than the ‘official’ correspondence by secretary hand that principally survives for Isabel and Philip. This was meant frequently to be seen by councils – including the holograph addenda – and not just ministers. In other words, we must realize that we are not comparing like with like. That caveat aside, the gulf remains wide enough for us to speculate as to why there were so 109 110 111

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Erasmus, Education, 70 citing Aristotle’s Politics, 5.9.16. Brandi, Charles V, 325; Jover, Carlos V, 77–9. CDCV, I, 343–4, note 178; 358–9 note 180; and 380–2.

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few intimate exchanges between Charles and Isabel. In part this may be due to linguistic difficulties. Isabel’s holograph addenda to the state correspondence were brief and in Portuguese.112 He would have used Castilian in his holographs to her, as he was proficient in the language by the time he married.113 The two languages are not unintelligible; nor are they so similar as to make communication easy. The language barrier deepened rather than created the breach caused by cultural and personal differences, not to mention by her strong identification with the interests of the Spanish realms.114 In the case of prince Philip, he was too young at first for a meaningful exchange of holograph missives, which the two men established later. Unfortunately virtually none of them appear to have survived. The greater sensitivity, intimacy and warmth of his correspondence with Mary of Hungary is undeniable. Their shared childhood, language and world view must have played a part, but also undoubtedly the intensity with which Mary expressed her unswerving commitment, loyalty and eagerness to serve and please him.115 Although willing and able to defend the Low Countries, she was politically and emotionally subservient in a way that neither Isabel or Philip appeared to be. Her concern for the emperor’s health was obsessive and she invariably over-reacted to news that he was ill or near danger. Her verbal excesses on these occasions sometimes reduced him to laughter and led him to joke and tease her in return – such as when she told him not to hasten (courir) to do too much too soon when he had hurt his leg and could not even walk.116 The level of support and appreciation she received from him is also striking enough to require further explanation. Was this personal or more than a matter of political calculation? One possible explanation was his concern that she would leave office. If a wife or child were present when the emperor left one of his realms, be they inexperienced or inept, no one of lesser status could assume a regency unless the child was under age. He could not choose anyone but Isabel and Philip while they were in Spain, nor could they choose to refuse the appointment. It was their duty; their fate. Their superior status gave them an extraordinary degree of power which could and did translate into greater and more effective resistance of the emperor’s demands. As Philip grew older, he gained maturity and confidence and from his vantage point as heir to the throne, he was better able to question and qualify his father’s demands, hence, perhaps 112

113 114 115 116

From 1530–1536 she wrote simply: Beijo as maos de vosa magestade (‘I kiss Your Majesty’s hands’), Mazarío, Emperatriz, 243–535. He used it to correct and comment on Cobos’ drafts: CDCV, I, 387–81 (26 August 1532). Rodríguez-Salgado, ‘Charles V and the dynasty’, 64–74. AGR A.47 ff. 18–20. AGR A.47 ff. 42–3 (to Mary 8 March 1532).

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the fact that the emperor was harder on him. Mary and Ferdinand were in a weaker position and more subservient. After Ferdinand acquired the title of emperor-elect in 1531 he was tied to his office as deputy in the Holy Roman Empire and could not leave it, but he remained dependent on Charles. By contrast to them all, Mary could resign and frequently threatened to do so. From the start she had grave reservations as to her capacity to govern and suffered bouts of depression. Life in a convent or with her mother in Tordesillas would not have been entirely congenial, but they were options open to her which she considered more than once. If Charles V frequently lavished praise on his sister, it was surely not because she deserved it more than others, but because he realised it gave her the confidence and courage to remain in post.117 She was the most suitable and least dangerous candidate for that office. The alternative was Philip, who was often needed in Spain, or one of Ferdinand’s sons, and as they had aspirations to acquire the Low Countries for themselves, they were regarded as too dangerous. Charles V may also have perceived Mary to be more responsive, and Isabel and Philip more resistant; and to have had greater sympathy and tolerance for the Low Countries than for Spain which also made a difference. It is impossible to quantify with sufficient accuracy the responses of these governors and the two states. Even calculating their financial contributions is highly problematic.118 This means that we cannot assess in concrete terms the effectiveness of the emperor’s tactics either – nor could he have done so. Consequently, perceptions mattered more than reality. Finally, another factor that may have facilitated the relationship between Mary and Charles was the proximity of Nicholas and Antoine Perrenot de Granvelle to the emperor, and their attachment to Mary and the Low Countries. They were seen by both Charles and Mary as ‘their’ creatures, and they acted as mediators and safe conduits between the two siblings, transmitting and handling delicate and conflictive messages and issues without either monarch engaging their honour or causing offence by direct communication.119 There were also a number of high-ranking envoys who travelled constantly between the two courts, men such as Bossu, Scepperus and Nassau, and who were trusted in almost equal measure by the emperor and Mary. Of course, the Spanish governors also communicated with Charles V through trusted envoys, but there was not the same combination of quality and quantity. Through these regular contacts and frequent visits, persuasion was regularly applied on 117

118

119

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AGR A.48 ff. 104r–108v (Mary to Charles, 5 March 1535); A.48 ff. 109r–110r (to Mary, 6 March 1535); ibid., A.48 ff. 119r–120r (19 April); A. 49 ff. 135–6 (instructions, December 1536). For attempts at comparing the financial contributions during the 1550s see my Changing Face of Empire. There are frequent allusions in the correspondence to the intervention of these men.

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Mary through oral means as well, allowing a greater role for eloquence and indirect pressure, and enhancing the impression of being in closer contact as well as in control. Blockmans concluded at the end of his biography of Charles V, ‘he [Charles] was only a moderately talented man’.120 Analysing the emperor’s correspondence provides further evidence of this and of the extent to which he remained dependent on a few key advisers throughout his life, even for his intimate, holograph correspondence. To judge by the techniques of persuasion he applied, which were chiefly their work, one might conclude that their talents were also limited. It cannot be said that they displayed much sophistication, elegance or imagination. Nevertheless, they, like him, were acting within strict constraints and, in the end, proved effective enough. Together, they managed to raise extraordinary sums of money and men, enabling him to realize some of his dreams. Perhaps the one character Charles V learnt to read well in the course of his life was his own, and he certainly applied distinctive methods to his case. It was self awareness that led him to retire when he realized that he could no longer persuade his governors and his lands to continue to fund his seemingly endless and ruinous wars.

120

Blockmans, Emperor Charles V, 183.

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2 Crown and Polity

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Three Models of Monarchy in Fifteenth-century Castile* José Manuel Nieto Soria Universidad Complutense de Madrid

Recent publications have made it abundantly clear that the fifteenth century produced a rich political culture which was without precedent.1 This fact has been amply demonstrated for various kingdoms in the West,2 and it will not be difficult to add further proof for the Crown of Castile. The intensive conciliar activity that was generated by the attempts to solve the Great Schism contributed decisively to the increase of intellectual contacts favourable to the interchange of ideas. In the particular case of Castile, this exchange accelerated the penetration of the kind of political humanism that was so much present in the thought of some of the most influential political theorists from Castile.3 Moreover, through their travels, occasionally connected with increasing embassy activities, several intellectuals who were particularly interested in political theory had the chance to get acquainted with texts that enriched their analytical scope on questions central to the political discourse of the time. In this respect, one might think of scholars such as, for instance, the Lord Chancellor Ayala and Diego de Valera, or perhaps the bishops Alonso of Cartagena and Rodrigo Sánchez of Arévalo.4 Universities, particularly Salamanca, were highly sensitive to the possibility of exploring new directions in interpretions of Aristotle, and time and again scholars succeeded in finding ways to apply Aristotelian ideas to the most acute political problems of the day. Furthermore, the legacy of the Siete Partidas, the important legal corpus, accomplished during the reign of Alfonso X (1252–1284), became * 1

2

3 4

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This article was translated from Spanish into English by Peter Hoppenbrouwers. John Watts, The Making of Polities. Europe, 1300–1500 (Cambridge 2009), 381ff ; Michel Senellart, Les arts de gouverner. Du regimen médiévale au concept de gouvernement (Paris 1995); Maurizio Viroli, For Love of Country (Oxford 1995). For France: J. Krynen, L’empire du roi. Idées et croyances politiques en France, XIIIe–XV e siècle (Paris 1993); for England: J. Ph. Genet, La génèse de l’Etat Moderne. Culture et société politique en Angleterre (Paris 2003). Angel Gómez Moreno, España y la Italia de los humanistas. Primeros ecos (Madrid 1994). Resp. Michel García, Obra y personalidad del canciller Ayala (Madrid 1982); Jesús D. Rodríguez Velasco, El debate sobre la caballería en el siglo XV. La tratadística caballeresca castellana en su marco europeo (Salamanca 1996); Luis Fernández Gallardo, Alonso de Cartagena. Una biografía política en la Castilla del siglo XV (Valladolid 2002); idem, ‘Legitimación monárquica y nobiliaria en el Memoriale virtutum de Alonso de Cartagena (ca. 1425)’, Historia, Instituciones y Documentos 28 (2001) 91–128; idem, ‘Disidencia política y nuevos valores nobiliarios en Generaciones y semblanzas’, En la España Medieval 25 (2002) 267–297; and Richard H. Trame, Rodrigo Sánchez de Arévalo 1404–1470 : Spanish Diplomat and Champion of the Papacy (dissertation Washington 1958).

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most acute and influential at this stage. This invited new interpretations of regal power that could hardly have been imagined by the Wise King himself. However, apart from the intellectual background, the dynamics of the political events themselves posed new challenges, ambitions, and solutions to the political protagonists. Regarding the monarchy, various options had to be adopted in order to defend a royal preeminence that, in reality, often had difficulties in holding its ground within a balance of power that was decidedly precarious. The nobility, and the high nobility in particular, demanded for itself a certain form of symbiosis with the monarchy that inevitably ‘mediatised’ the latter’s power, at least in theory. And, finally, the towns repeatedly signalled their demands for the application of political concepts which would, within the aggregate of political relations, guarantee their own, irreplaceable, and truly pivotal role in the evolution of the Castilian monarchy. This whole concurrence of circumstances, together with many others that could also have been mentioned, contributed to the establishment of a framework fit for the coexistence of quite distinct conceptions of monarchy as a form of highest government, conceptions which were sometimes even in direct confrontation with each other. I think that these various interpretations of the concept of monarchy can be reduced to three models: 1. absolute monarchy; 2. ‘knightly’ / noble monarchy; 3. urban-populist monarchy. Over the next few pages, I shall try to give a broad outline of the main characteristics of these three models. Absolute monarchy Around the middle of the fourteenth century, a formula started to be rather commonly used in chancery documents of the French royal administration. This formula had appeared in equivalent terms in Castile during the reign of King John I (1379–1390).5 In royal grants of certain favours in particular, it became customary practice to include the expression ‘from my absolute royal power, by my own action and certain knowledge’ (de mi poderío real absoluto, motu propio [proprio] y cierta sciencia).6 According to Kantorowicz this formula was intended to express a form of royal pontificality. It incorporated concepts that went back to the time of pope Innocent III, during whose tenure papal theocracy had been greatly expanded, and which retained one of the most recurrent symbols of the papal claim to absolute power.7 5

6

7

Jacques Krynen, ‘”De nostre certaine science...” Remarques sur l’absolutisme legislative de la monarchie médiévale française’, in: A. Gouron and A. Rigaudière (eds), Renaissance du pouvoir legislatif et genèse de l’Etat (Montpellier 1988) 131–44. Salustiano de Dios, ‘El ejercicio de la gracia regia en Castilla entre 1250 y 1530. Los inicios del Consejo de la Cámara’, Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 60 (1990) 332. Ernst H. Kantorowicz, ‘Mystères de l’état. Un concept absolutiste et ses origines médiévales (Bas Moyen Age)’, in: idem, Mourir pour la patrie et autres études (Paris 1984) 75–103.

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From the very end of the fourteenth century and into the first two decades of the fifteenth century, that which had initially been a formula used occasionally by the royal chancery, and restricted to certain royal grants, now quickly became plentiful in royal documents, while at the same time it started to be applied to more fields of royal activity.8 Consequently, we can discern a clear tendency towards an absolutist phraseology in royal documents from the reign of King John II (1406–1454), in particular from the periods when the condestable – the commander of the royal army – Don Alvaro de Luna, his most trusted confidant and the staunchest defender of the model of absolute monarchy, was most influential. This development can be seen as the rhetorical focus of legitimization to which every actualization of royal power in every manifestation of royal government referred. By the end of John II’s reign, the solidity of royal absolutism was irrefutable, as can be seen in the following phrase from a document of 1453: ‘According to reason, neither natural law, nor divine law, nor any positive law can bind me as I shall not be bound to observe them, neither to keep any oath, nor to honour any security given by me’ (segund razón, nin derecho natural, nin divino, nin aún positivo, caso del tal yo non fuere soluto, lo que soy, non sería obligado de le guardar, nin observar juramento, nin seguridad alguna).9 This position has, with reason, been judged to be a ‘formal affirmation of the legal validity of the maxim princeps legibus solutus. In the early modern age these precepts would turn into a constitutional principle of European monarchies, a principle which reflected the fundamental elements of sovereignty.’10 One author has brought to the fore the fact that a concept of royal absolutism was already visible in a royal ordinance proclaimed in 1427. This was not so much centred on the idea of a universal, unlimited royal power, but rather on its effect on the special relation that had developed between the king and the legal order.11 Here one could say that ‘the proclamation of the king’s competence to give, interpret, declare, and amend law; the quotes from the authoritative authors on the ius commune; and the classical phrase propio motu, cierta ciencia and poderío real absoluto, all come together.’12 This progression towards a further loosening of the ties which bound the king to the observance of laws continued apace during the reign of Henry IV (1454–1474). As 8

9

10

11

12

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José Manuel Nieto Soria, ‘El “poderío real absoluto” de Olmedo (1445) a Ocaña (1469): la monarquía como conflicto’, En la España Medieval 21 (1998) 159–228. Memorias de don Enrique IV de Castilla, II, ed. by Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid 1835–1913) 71. José Antonio Maravall, Estado moderno y mentalidad social. Siglos XV a XVII, vol. I (Madrid 1986) 280. M. A. Pérez de la Canal, ‘La pragmática de Juan II de 8 de febrero de 1427’, Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 26 (1956) 659–68. Salustiano de Dios, Gracia, merced y patronazgo real. La Cámara de Castilla entre 1474–1530 (Madrid 1993).

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a document of 1461 states, he ruled ‘making use of the power procured by the laws of his kingdom, that is to say, both the free and absolute power which he has over the said laws as a King and Sovereign Lord, [and of ] the abovementioned powers of “certain knowledge” and “own action”’.13 In this way, there was an evolution towards a concept of royal sovereignty whose essence seems to have been that the king should not be subject to the Law. So, as a result of these developments, especially during the reigns of John II and Henry IV, royal absolutism in Castile took on four distinctive features. First, a type of relation between king and law, whereby the former affirmed that he would not be submitted to the latter. Second, the king assumed a legislative authority that gave him full rights of initiative to create new laws or to abolish existing ones. Third, a good deal of the king’s governmental activity came close to what one could see as governance by grace. Finally, and following from the other three aspects, there emerged a concept of royal sovereignty, and this characterization of the king as an absolute monarch appeared to turn into its most typical manifestation. As a consequence, the exercise of royal power by the Catholic Kings was characterized by the adoption of the typical, fundamental elements of royal absolutism in the daily practice of government.14 It is quite probable that this evolution towards royal absolutism would have met much more resistance, were it not for the second book of Alfonso X’s Siete Partidas. This book – further mentioned the Segunda Partida – had gained huge prominence as an inspiring point of reference for the monarchical ideal in the course of the fifteenth century, and especially during the reign of John II. In fact, after the Cortes of Olmedo of 1445, it became clear that, although the Segunda Partida was seen as the legislative text par excellence for defining the perfect monarchy, at the same time its interpretation became prompted by the perspective of its compatibility with royal absolutism. Moreover, as it clearly came to the fore at the said Cortes, this absolutism was being reinforced by the tendency towards theologizing the royal image and describing the king as ‘anointed by God’(ungido de Dios).15 Here, 13

14

15

‘[...] usando del poder dado por las leyes de sus regnos é del libre é absoluto poder quél tiende sobre las dichas leyes como Rey é soberano Señor, que de los sobredichos poderes de su cierta ciencia é propio motuo.’ Memorias de don Enrique IV, II, doc. LXVI, p. 222. J. B. Owens, ‘The Conception of Absolute Royal Power in Sixteenth Century Castile’, Pensiero Politico 10–3 (1977) 350–61. ‘Con toda rreuerençia fidelidad subjeçion obidiençia e lealtad los vasallos subditos e naturales deuen ser tenudos e obligados seruir temer amar onrrar obedesçer e guardar a su rrey e sennor natural, asi commo aquel que tiene logar de Dios enla tierra e es puesto por cabeça e sennor dellos, asy commo el rrey o prinçipe o otro qual quier soberano sennor que tal logar tiene’ (‘With all due reverence, fidelity, submission, obedience, and loyalty the [said?] and natural vasals are to be bound and obliged to serve, fear, love, honour, obey, and [guard] their King and natural lord, just as if he were God’s substitute on earth and placed at the head and as overlord over them, just as a king or prince or any other sovereign who holds a similar position’). Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, ed. by Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid 1866) III, 369.

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royal absolutism became manifest as a sort of ‘variant of the theological idea of divine power.’16 With the Segunda Partida’s support, the exercise of royal grace, that is to say, the realization of royal power through grace, was unhampered by normative law and became instrumental in many of the government decisions taken by the Castilian monarchs.17 This became visible in various ways in daily administrative business. The granting of royal favours became one of the most frequently-used manifestations of the exercise of the monarch’s absolute power, and naturally the bigger the favour, the more impressive the effect which it had. This was the case, for example, with concessions of important lordships, which occurred rather frequently, especially during the reign of John II.18 Other types of royal grant with a similar impact were: – the issuing of charters of legitimization, to erase the stain of bastardy which otherwise prevented the bearer from making legal claims; – the concession of charters of naturalization to foreigners; – the designation of special missions; – the annulment of oaths.

All such royal actions were justified under the application of royal absolutism and, accordingly, also as a consequence of the recognition that the king might take decisions which could be considered as being contrary to the legal order. In the same way, absolutist clauses were inserted into royal testaments in order to prevent any contradiction between what was provided and any legal norm that might conflict with the wishes of the king-testator.19 However, the most relevant expression of applied royal absolutism was probably the pardon letters granted in the context of a particular era, namely the entire duration of the Trastámara dynasty, when the royal pardon acquired enormous importance as a political weapon.20 The headway that was made by royal absolutism did not go without resistance from some quarters, just as it could count on adherence from others. 16 17

18

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20

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Maravall, Estado Moderno, I, 283. Salustiano de Dios, ‘Sobre la génesis y los caracteres del Estado absolutista en Castilla’, Studia Historica. Historia Moderna III, 5 (1985) 11–46. Ignacio Atienza Hernández, ‘El poder real en el siglo XV: lectura crítica de los documentos de donación de villas y lugares. La formación de los estados de Osuna’, Revista Internacional de Sociología, segunda época (Oct.-Dec. 1983) 585. There is extensive proof of this in the testament of Queen Isabel la Cátolica. Manuel Ballesteros Gaibrois, La obra de Isabel la Católica (Segóvia 1953) docs. XIV and XV. José Manuel Nieto Soria, ‘Los perdones reales en la confrontación política de la Castilla Trastámara’, En la España Medieval 25 (2002) 213–66. See further on this use of grace the contribution of Walter Prevenier to the present volume.

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Within the framework of certain meetings of the Cortes, complaints were voiced by the representatives (procuradores) of the towns, such as those formulated in petition 11 of the Cortes of Valladolid of 1442 in opposition to the introduction of certain absolutist clauses: There are a lot of legal exorbitancies that are said not to be contrary to existing laws and ordinances and other rights, which Your Lordship demands and which he demands from his “certain knowledge” and wisdom and his absolute royal power, and by which those of the said laws that are opposed to this power, or could oppose it, are revoked and broken and annulled, and for this they [i.e. the procuradores] do not approve of Your Grace.21

Subsequently, the king was asked to declare null and void any royal charters that included absolutist phrases.22 In the meantime, as some authors have argued, there had been a number of occasions on which the nobility also clearly rejected the advance of royal absolutism. One example of this which is often mentioned is the Sentencia Arbitral (‘Arbitration Sentence’) of Medina del Campo of 1465, that came about in the context of the beginning of the civil war between the followers of prince Alfonso and Henry IV.23 On other occasions, however, the highest nobility considered royal absolutism to be an indispensable instrument to consolidate and perpetuate its own privileged position.24 In summary, by the end of the fifteenth century, the exercise of royal power, whether resisted or supported, had acquired a fundamentally absolutist character. ‘Knightly’ monarchy As we have just seen, absolute monarchy received its drive from the input of legal experts and from the political and administrative instruments, 21

22

23

24

‘... se ponen muchas exorbitançias de derecho enlas quales se dize non obstantes leyes e ordenamientos e otros derechos, que se cunpla e faga lo que vuestra sennoria manda e quelo manda de çierta sçiencia e sabiduria e poderio rreal absoluto e que rrevoca e cassa e anulla las dichas leyes que contra aquello fazen o fazer pueden, por lo qual non aprovechan avuestra merçet.’ Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y de Castilla, III, ed. by Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid 1866) 406. See also: Benjamín González Alonso, ‘De Briviesca a Olmedo (algunas reflexiones sobre el ejercicio de la potestad legislativa en la Castilla bajomedieval)’, in: A. Iglesia Ferreiros (ed.), El Dret Comú i Catalunya (Barcelona 1995) 43–74, esp. 66–70, and Idem, ‘Poder regio, Cortes y régimen político en la Castilla bajomedieval’, in: Las Cortes de Castilla y León en la Edad Media, II, ed. by Real Academia de la Historia (Valladolid 1988) 201–53, esp. 252–3. Memorias de don Enrique IV, II, doc. CIX, pp. 355–479. See also: Benjamín González Alonso, Sobre el Estado y la administración de la Corona de Castilla en el Antiguo Régimen (Madrid 1981) 16–54; William D. Phillips, Enrique IV and the Crisis of Fifteenth-Century Castile (Cambridge MA 1978) 81–95, and Isabel Beceiro Pita, ‘Doléances et ligues de la noblesse dans la Castille de la fin du Moyen Age (1420–1464)’, in: A. Rucquoi (ed.), Genèse Médiévale de l’Espagne Moderne. Du refus à la revolte: les resistances (Nice 1991) 120–6. Salustiano de Dios, ‘Sobre la génesis’, 36–7.

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which, while they originated in the idea of a pontifical theocracy, had been resituated in the political realities and government practice of the time. The case of the ‘knightly’ monarchy is quite remarkable insofar as, apart from any intentions of its legal-political formalization, the most characteristic aspect here was its literary representation. For ‘knightly’ monarchy was central to the design of certain literary works, and these works were the source of some of the key features of this ideal.25 Around the mid-fifteenth century, in addition to its position as an essential axis of political dynamics, the relationship between monarchy and nobility was esteemed as a subject of reflection and also of recreation, as amply demonstrated by the literary imagery of that time.26 For this reason, the establishment of a political model responsive to a project of ‘knightly’ monarchy owes a lot to its literary moulding and not just to the development of certain concrete events or to the juridical foundation that one would have liked to provide it with. Nevertheless, this juridical foundation received important attention through a number of diverse texts that can be grouped together under the heading of so-called ‘knightly tracts’, in which the relationship between knighthood and monarchy would occupy a central place. And it is precisely the Segunda Partida which is usually regarded as the ideological point of departure for this type of literature.27 In this way, the Segunda Partida’s importance for political life in fifteenth-century Castile was even further enhanced due to the additions made by famous late medieval jurists, Bártolo de Sassoferrato being no doubt the most influential among their number.28 The model of ‘knightly’ monarchy emerged as an outcome of the growing political importance of the Castilian nobility, especially following the ascendance to power of the Trastámara dynasty in 1369. The dynasty reinstated a model of monarchy whose principal source of legitimation was found in the power of the nobility and their increasing participation in the general 25

26

27 28

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This double dimension of knighthood and the knightly class, the literary and the juridicalpolitical one, is touched upon in the following literature: Rodríguez Velasco, El debate; Pilar Carceller Cerviño, ‘La imagen nobiliaria en la tratadística caballeresca: Beltrán de la Cueva y Diego Enríquez del Castillo’, En la España Medieval 24 (2001) 259–83; Fernández Gallardo, ‘Legitimación monárquica’; Idem, ‘Disidencia política’; Maria Concepción Quintanilla Raso, ‘La Nobleza’, in: José Manuel Nieto Soria (ed.), Orígenes de la Monarquía Hispánica: Propaganda y legitimación (Madrid 1999) 63–103; and José Manuel Nieto Soria, ‘La realeza caballeresca en la Castilla de mediados del siglo XV: representación literaria y formalización jurídico-política’, in: Georges Martin (ed.), La chevalerie en Castille à la fin du Moyen Âge. Aspects sociaux, idéologiques et imaginaires (Paris 2001) 61–79. Luis Suárez Fernández, Nobleza y Monarquía. Entendimiento y rivalidad. El proceso de construcción de la corona española (Madrid 2003). Las Siete Partidas, ed. by Gregorio López (Madrid 1974) Partida II, Título XXI.. Antonio Pérez Martín, ‘El estatuto jurídico de la caballería castellana’, in: La chevalerie en Castille, 13–26.

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government of the realm. According to this ideology, the king should be the creature of the nobility rather than the other way around. In the same vein, the ideology could also be seen as an instrument of revenge, because, historically, the noble-knightly state would have preceded the emergence of the first monarchies. For that reason, the ‘knightly-monarchical’ ideology, more than a mere reinstatement of noble preeminence under the king’s authority, actually aimed for real noble power which was presented as superior to a monarchy that could only be legitimate if it protected the interests of the nobility. We might consider this ideological position to be extreme insofar as it gave an interpretation of the relationship between king and nobility which was highly favourable to the latter and had implications which, to a certain extent, were subversive to the former. However, against this backdrop, there was a second, more royalist, form of ‘knightly’ monarchism. This second model reconciled the reinstatement of a maximum noble preeminence with an incontestable royal superiority over the nobility, seen as the king’s creation. Among the Castilian authors of the fifteenth century who took up this theme with particular interest, it is Diego de Valera, Alfonso de Cartagena, and Gutierre Díaz de Games who stand out. Diego de Valera (1412–1488) was not just interested in the juridicalpolitical aspects of the relations between monarchy and nobility. He also succeeded in combining the perspective of the legal expert with the perspective of someone who, like himself, had acquired ample experience at court, and for that reason was well acquainted with the daily realization of those relations.29 Valera represented a decidedly ‘royalist’ model of ‘knightly’ monarchy.30 He saw it as his mission to reconcile the select and exceptional qualities of the noble condition, qualities which could only be acquired through the merit and virtue of the ‘knight’ (caballero), with an exclusive function which only belonged to the king and was exercised by him as a manifestation of his divine mandate, namely deciding who got access to knightly status.31 In addition to this, Valera, following the argument in the Segunda Partida, considered knighthood to be a form of service to the res publica to the extent that the state was only viable if the knights of the 29 30

31

This line of thought is analysed in depth in Rodríguez Velasco, El debate, 195–274. Valera’s concept of nobility and of the relationship between monarchy and knighthood is presented in most detail in the following work, dated to 1441: Diego de Valera, Espejo de verdadera nobleza, ed. by M. Penna, Biblioteca de Autores Españoles CXVI (Madrid 1959). ‘El príncipe sólo puede dar las dignidades, así como aquel que tiene lugar de Dios en la tierra e no otro; el qual estas dignidades o noblezas tenporales instituye e da por la mano de aquél’ (‘Only the prince can bestow dignities, just as he who is God’s vicar on earth, and no one else. He [the prince] institutes these dignities or secular nobility, and those are conferred by his hand’). Valera, Espejo, 92–3 (cap. IV).

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realm would be willing to concur and conform; without them, it would have no future. Alfonso de Cartagena (1385–1456) developed a theory that was even more in favour of the royalist interpretation of the ‘knightly’ monarchy than the one proposed by Diego de Valera.32 In response to a legal consultation (consulta), formulated by the Marquess of Santillana, Cartagena focused special attention on the knightly obligations towards the king and the monarchy, even if he based his work mainly on Aristotle, Accursius, and, once again, the Segunda Partida.33 One distinct contribution of his line of argument, following Accursius, was his emphasis on the notion of pro patria mori, which he elevated to a pre-eminently knightly duty; that, more than anything else, should connect knighthood to the defence of the common good and the res publica. Thus, the ultimate raison d’être of the knight was to act as a guarantor of law, king and land.34 Cartagena went much further towards his goal to link the nobility to royal service, ending up by exalting the special bond between knighthood and monarchy as some sort of vassalage. Indeed, he circumscribed the former’s function completely in terms of self-effacing and loyal service to the king.35 With this interpretation, which is also ubiquitous in his Doctrinal de Caballeros, Cartagena, as I already have pointed out elsewhere, ‘essentially conceived a knightly kingship so radically royalist that, in fact, the qualification “knightly” almost becomes inappropriate, at least after the knight has turned into the king’s vassal. After that point it is more accurate to speak of a “vasallic kingship”’.36 Compared with the royalist interpretation of Diego de Valera and what we could call the ‘ultra-royalist’ stance of Alfonso de Cartagena, Gutierre Díaz de Games (1378?–1450) postulated a more downright conception of 32

33

34

35 36

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The most comprehensive modern study of Cartagena is Fernández Gallardo, Alfonso de Cartagena. For the text of Cartagena’s response, see: Angel Gómez Moreno, ‘La Qüestión del marqués de Santillana a don Alfonso de Cartagena’, El Crotalón 2 (1985) 349–63. ‘Aquel viejo e sotil glosador Accursio legista en algunas leyes del derecho çevill dixo que este sacramento era de non refusar la muerte por la república, es a saber, que non procurará escapar su vida dopnde al bien publico cunpliere morir (...)que non refuse la muerte por defensión de su ley o por seruiçio de su rey e señor natural o por el bien de su tierra e pueblo’ (‘That old and subtle glossator, the Roman law expert Accursius, [in his comment on] some laws of the Corpus Iuris Civilis, remarked that this oath was to not refuse death for the state [res publica], that is to say, that one should not try to save one’s life when one should die for the common good (...), that one should not refuse to die in defense of the law or because of serving one’s king and natural lord or because of one’s land and people.’ Ibid., 356. Ibid., 361–2. Alonso de Cartagena, Doctrinal de Caballeros, ed. by J. M. Liste (Santiago de Compostela 1994). Cit. Nieto Soria, ‘La realeza caballeresca’, 70.

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knighthood turned into an autonomous source of sovereignty, one completely separate from royal tutelage. In El Victorial, a work that was completed by 1448, Díaz de Games, writing at the point where his main subject becomes ‘the office and art of knighthood’, tells the story of a contemporary knight, Pero Niño, Count of Buelna.37 With this treatise, the author propagated one of the most downright conceptions of a ‘lordly’ variety of the ‘knightly monarchy’ (monarquía caballeresca señorial) quite different from the royalist variety supported by the two authors just mentioned. Díaz de Games demands the return of the dignity of knighthood, and attributes to it a decisive social and political significance. In his view it was completely free from any form of submission to kingship. He supported this position with pericopes from the Old Testament that proved that knighthood and kingship originated at the same time, that is to say, during the reign of Saul. In this way, the beginnings of knighthood were connected to God’s will, by which knighthood was put at the head of a social order that equally was the product of divine intention. The dependent position of the king vis à vis the knightly class reached an extreme point in Díaz de Games’ assertion ‘that a king without good knights is like a man without hands and feet’ (que el rey sin buenos cavalleros es como un hombre sin pies e sin manos).38 Thus we have seen that the three authors I discussed took quite distinct and variegated views on the model of ‘knightly’ monarchy, and along with them of course many others who paid special attention to the problem of the political significance of the Castilian nobility, such as, among others, Fernán Pérez de Guzmán, Ferrán Mexía, Juan de Alarcón or Pedro Chinchilla. The main concern of all these authors was to give centre stage to the political role of the nobility, seen from the perspective of its relationship with the monarch and its importance to the well-being of the kingdom, in a wider analysis of the contemporary political set-up. The urban-populist monarchy An alternative model existed, namely the urban-populist monarchy, whereby the monarchy would be subject to a social ‘contract’ and whose legitimacy would lie in its ability to act in accordance with a compromise to guarantee peace and justice, as well as in its recognition of the political prominence of the towns of the kingdom. This model was part of a ‘programme’ of demands that were quite in the forefront of Castilian urban associationism. 37 38

Gutierre Díaz de Games, El Victorial, ed. by R. Beltrán Llavador (Madrid 1994). Cit. 165–166. Ibid., 204.

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The most typical expression of this associationism was found in the so-called communal brotherhoods (hermandades conjeciles), that were very active, if with varying intensity, from the end of the thirteenth century.39 Their capacity to influence politics in the Castilian kingdom became especially manifest in moments of conflict, during which the position of the monarchy showed clear signs of weakness, particularly in situations when it felt the hostility of powerful noble factions ‘breathing down its neck’. Such moments created the right context for the towns to propitiate the king and negotiate the peace and accord which the monarchy badly needed at that point, yet this peace always came with certain conditions which limited royal government and confirmed the political weight of the towns.40 Already at the time when the communal brotherhoods received their first impetus, i.e. during the decades of conflicts following the political crisis in which the reign of Alfonso X ended, there were clear signs that the towns were trying to develop a relationship with the monarchy in the form of a pact that both limited the exercise of royal power and increased the political weight of the towns. This explains why in written documents produced by the brotherhoods there are so many references to their value and honour. The safeguarding of these brotherhoods, just like that of the kingdom, involved a form of loyalty whereby the towns laid out conditions which the king had to meet, as if the former exercised some right of tutelage over the latter, with the aim of ensuring that the kingdom would not be left undefended.41 This entire line of argumentation, which the towns used to subject the monarchy to a relationship of ‘pact & contract’, was further enriched in the course of the fifteenth century, when an intellectual climate took shape which was favourable to political designs of this sort. This new culture forced the monarchy to occasionally look for support from the towns when it was denied by larger sections of the nobility.

39

40

41

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María Asenjo González, ‘Ciudades y hermandades en la Corona de Castilla. Aproximación socio-política’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales 27/1 (1997) 103–46; Idem, ‘Ciudades y poder regio en la Castilla Trastámara (1400–1500)’, in: François Foronda, Jean-Philippe Genet & José Manuel Nieto Soria (eds), Coups d’État à la fin du Moyen Âge? Aux fondements du pouvoir politique en Europe occidentale (Madrid 2005) 365–401; José Luis Bermejo Cabrero, ‘Hermandades y Comunidades de Castilla’, Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 58 (1988) 277–412; and César González Minguez, ‘Aproximación al estudio del “Movimiento Hermandino” en Castilla y León’, Medievalismo. Boletín de la Sociedad Española de Estudios Medievales 1 (1991) 35–55, and 2 (1992) 29–60. María Asenjo González, ‘Concordia, pactos y acuerdos en la sociedad política urbana de la Castilla bajomedieval’, in: F. Foronda & A. I. Carrasco Manchado (eds), El contrato político en la Corona de Castilla. Cultura y sociedad políticas entre los siglos X al XVI (Madrid 2008) 125–57. José Manuel Nieto Soria, ‘Fragmentos de ideología política urbana en la Castilla bajomedieval’, Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medieval 13 (2000–2002) 203–30, esp. 204–8.

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In actual fact, from the point of view of intellectual history, the phenomenon of conciliarism along with the first signs of the influence of Italian civic humanism in Castile, and the reinforcement of a more developed and complete Aristotelianism at the Castilian universities, were all factors conducive to new political reflections favourable to ‘pact & contract’ formulas. These formulas linked the monarchy to some towns which had become the spokesmen of what could be seen as the more demanding middle classes, and they made new as well as intellectually more profound political argumentations seem appealing. Therefore, it is no surprise that, with respect to the case of Castile, one has often spoken of this intellectual trend of civic humanism, of democratic tendencies, of Aristotelian republicanism, of the political rise of the middle classes, and even of suggestions for an elective monarchy. Taken together, they allow us to identify a collection of concerns with a political colouring, that can be placed, albeit not exclusively, in certain academic circles, and which presents itself as a third model of monarchy, clearly distinctive from the other two I dealt with before.42 From the middle of the fifteenth century, a political Aristotelianism, reinforced with new humanist ideas, started to become popular at the university of Salamanca. Its propapandists were such well-known authors as Alonso de Madrigal el Tostado, Pedro Martínez de Osma, Diego Ramírez de Villaescusa, and Fernando de Roa. A decisive role in the development of their line of argument, that grew into a veritable school of thought, was the availability of Leonardo Bruni’s Latin translation of the three works that had also generated most interest and creativity among the Castilian authors mentioned above: Aristotle’s Ethics (Ethica Nicomachea) and Politics (Politica), and the pseudo-Aristotelian Economics (Economica). The comments of the Salamanca scholars on these three (pseudo-) Aristotelian works crystallized those ideas that seemed most appropriate to embody urban political demands within the context of various conflicts of the time.43 According to Aristotelian rhetoric, the subjects of political action were the cities and their inhabitants, which offered the opportunity to connect the academic study of Aristotle with Castilian urban-political discourse of that age. The analysis of the political ideas of Aristotle, as well as those of Cicero, by Alonso de Madrigal (1401–1455) had a considerable influence in academic circles because, especially in his De optima politicia, it paved the way 42

43

Adeline Rucquoi, ‘Démocratie ou monarchie? Le discours politique dans l’université castillane au XVe siècle’, in: N. Guglielmi & A. Rucquoi (eds), El discurso político en la Edad Media (Buenos Aires 1995) 233–55. For a comprehensive analysis of the contributions of this school of thought, see: Cirilo Flórez Miguel, ‘El humanismo cívico castellano: Alonso de Madrigal, Pedro de Osma y Fernando de Roa’, Res Publica 18 (2007) 107–39.

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for a conceptual clarification that facilitated the use of the same sources by later Castilian authors.44 The authors who came immediately after Madrigal drew more far-reaching conclusions, and developed arguments in favor of the political interests of towns and communal brotherhoods vis-à-vis the monarchy. This was the case with Pedro Martínez de Osma (1424–1480) and with Fernando de Roa († before 1502), whose arguments, tinged with civic humanism, were quite radical, and which would only much later become really influential.45 The contributions of these two authors were in fact closely interwoven. They developed from Aristotelianism certain key thoughts on themes that went to the heart of the institutional profile of the monarchy, such as:46 – The idea that originally all power to rule belonged to the people, who, by their own will, could delegate this power to a king. – The idea that royal power is not necessarily perpetual and hereditary. – The idea that a system of election could be beneficial, and – that the possibility to hold public office without a fixed term of office was potentially dangerous. – The idea that a ruler should be a man of the highest virtue.

Taken together, these ideas led to the conception of a monarchical regime that was more participatory to the extent that, according to its first expression in the thought of Fernando de Roa, there was a preference for ‘the government of the middle classes (mediocres), that would ensure the curbing of royal or monarchical governments ad mediocrem modum by participating in the power of the king.’ ‘The closer a royal government associates with this government of the middle classes’, so Fernando de Roa argued, ‘the better it is upheld, because in the latter there is less pride (superbia) and envy (invidia)’. Such statements came close to demanding a drastic limitation of royal power in favour of a more participatory political model.47 The trail left by such ideas can be traced far beyond the academic environment. When, in 1449, a revolt broke out in the city of Toledo, it was headed precisely by a particular section of the population, namely the middle classes involved in the city’s government to whom Fernando de Roa attributed political prominence. In the course of the revolt, which was aimed against the appointment of Jewish converts to responsible public offices, an ideal of government came to the fore which perfectly embodied the theoretical 44

45

46

47

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J. Candela Martínez, El ‘De optima politicia’ de Alfonso de Madrigal, El Tostado (Murcia 1954), and Nuria Belloso Martín, Alfonso de Madrigal El Tostado. El gobierno ideal (Pamplona 2003). Pedro de Osma y Fernando de Roa, Comentario a la Política de Aristóteles, ed. by J. Labajos Alonso (Salamanca 2006). Cf. Jesús Luis Castillo Vegas, Política y clases medias. El siglo XV y el maestro salmantino Fernando de Roa (Valladolid 1987). Ibid., 73.

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arguments provided by the masters of Salamanca just mentioned. The man who was the ideological inspiration behind the Toledan movement, Marcos García de Mora, had a bachelor’s degree. For that reason, it is not inconceivable that he had picked up an echo of this political Aristotelianism and was therefore susceptible to a reconsideration of the ideal monarchy. In his manifesto in which he expounded the aims of his ‘movement’ we find statements such as the following:48 – All regulations promulgated by the king that are contrary to the common good (bonum commune) and to justice, are without value. – When the king is unjust because of what he does or omits to do, this is ‘defect of justice’ (defecto de jurisdicción). In those circumstances, one has a justified right to resist and defend oneself against the king. – If the king acts like a tyrant, he should be forced to hand over his power to his successor or to the towns of the kingdom, and they should act as guarantors of the common good when the monarch fails to do so. – The natural subjects of the kingdom have the right and the duty to resist and oppose unrightful decisions of the king.

This way of interpreting the monarchy did find new expressions and differentiations in the course of the reign of Henry IV. In the first meetings of the Cortes during this reign, views of the monarchy were circulating that were perfectly in accordance with the model of monarchy just described. Without hesitation they aired the idea that the position of the king as God’s deputy (vicarius Dei) did not automatically guarantee him political legitimacy. This was repeated in the Cortes of Córdoba in 1455 and of Toledo in 1462. Furthermore, the civil war that raged between 1465 and 1468, after the first phase of King Henry’s reign, created a political climate quite favourable to the demand for a contractual monarchy in line with academic Aristotelian thought. Now the striving for a contractual and limited monarchy was initiated by the general Brotherhood (Hermandad) which meant that the principal towns of the kingdom were united to lend support to the king in his struggle with the league of noblemen that opposed him. From this point on, the urban Brotherhood wanted to impose conditions on a king who, like Henry IV at that moment, was heading towards losing his throne. In this way, a new political order presented itself, completely based on a programme of reform which outlined a particular model of government.49 In this model, as far as we know about it from, for instance, the ordinances of the urban Brotherhood which were drawn up in Castronuño in 1467, the 48

49

J. I. Gutiérrez Nieto, ‘Semántica del término “comunidad” antes de 1520: las asociaciones juramentadas de defensa’, Hispania 136 (1977) 346. Asenjo González, ‘Concordia, pactos y acuerdos’, 136–38.

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central role in the ‘execution of justice of the public good of these kingdoms, and the preservation of their royal crown’ (esecucion de la iustiçia del bien público destos Regnos e conservaçion de la corona real dellos) was played by the Hermandad.50 The reformatist aspiration found its most tangible, and because of its determination perhaps also most radical, expression in conjunction with the Cortes of Ocaña in 1469. At that time, following the end of the war, the towns of the kingdom appeared to be in a position to demand from the king a more understanding and conciliatory attitude, as a token of gratitude for the support he had received from the Brotherhood in the most difficult moments of the preceding years. In these Cortes, a whole range of demands regarding the office of king were put forward in quite some detail. They fitted a model of monarchy in which the legitimacy of the monarch did not depend on hereditary succession but on the idea of fulfilling a public function, in this case, that of a king, that could only be judged as being valuable insofar as it was capable of contributing significantly to the common good of the kingdom.51 In accordance with the arguments proposed by the urban representatives who were present at the Cortes of Ocaña, only one who reigned well deserved to be called king.52Although the divine origin of kingship was not called into question, this did not negate one’s right to oppose kings who did not comply with their duty to maintain justice in their kingdom. It was as if this divine justification only applied to the origins of the institution of kingship, and could not be appealed to as a source of legitimacy and rightfulness by every individual king thereafter.53 Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, the figura of the King, in its relationship with the kingdom, came to stand as the expression of an ‘implied/implicit contract’ (contrato callado)54, according to which the king acted as a mercenary, hired 50 51 52

53

54

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Cit. Julio Puyol, Las hermandades de Castilla y León (León 1982) 119. Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, III, 767–69. ‘El ofiçio del rrey asy por su primera ynvençion commo por su nonbre es rregir, y ha se de entender, bien rregir, por que el rrey que mal rrige no rrige, mas disipa’ (‘The office of king, both by its origins and by its name, is to rule, and this means to rule well, because a king who is a bad ruler, is not a ruler but a waster’). Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla III, 767. ‘Propio es a los reyes hazer juyzio e justiçia e por el exerçiçio de aquesta prometió Dios por boca de su propheta alos rreyes, perpetuydad de su poder’ (‘It is the king’s task to judge and procure justice, and in order to be able to execute this task properly, God, through his prophets, gave kings perpetuous power [to rule]’). Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, III, 767. ‘Pues mire vuestra alteza si es obligado por contrato callado alos tener y mantener en justiçia e considere de quanta dignidad es çerca de Dios aquesta virtud deyfica’ (‘Because, look, Your Highness, if you are obliged by “implied contract” to keep up, and maintain, justice, and consider how this divine virtue is a dignity close to God’). Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, III, 768.

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to guarantee peace and justice against the payment of what were seen as taxes.55 Thus a model of monarchy took shape, in which the monarchy was limited and submitted to contract, to the extent that non-compliance by the king with this ‘service contract’ justified any resistance to the king, or even his deposition by the kingdom as represented by its towns and their representatives in the Cortes. These agents possessed a legitimacy of their own and were not dependent on royal acquiescence. Such a view of monarchy, planted in the bossom of the Cortes by the representatives of the towns, was clearly so exceptional that, as has been indicated in a recent article, it was doubtless clear that, should the model ever be put into practice, it would mean a complete institutional rupture, ‘the clear break of the political constitution of the kingdom’.56 This would certainly not be the last time that citizens resorted to demanding this populist form of a limited and contractual monarchy. The very same argumentation, including the reproduction of some of the key terms used in the document drawn up in 1469, such as contrato callado and mercenario, would emerge once again, and summon the same image of the ideal monarchy, on the occasion of the Cortes held in Valladolid in 1518.57 On that moment, the representatives of the towns, seized the first opportunity they had to present the new king, Charles I, who was still very young, and a foreigner, and therefore in need of support, with their concept of a monarchy that should break with the legacy of the era of the Catholic Kings.58 So, this civic humanism can be considered typical for certain intellectual concerns which took root among several scholars at the university of Salamanca from the middle of the fifteenth century onwards. It thus seems fair to suggest that these thinkers had a real influence on the political action

55

56

57

58

‘E vuestro cargo es que mientra vuestros subditos duermen vuestra alteza vele guardando los, y su meresçenario soys pues soldada desto vos dan vuestros subditos parte de sus frutos e de las ganançias de su yndustria, y vos siruen con su personas muy ahincada mente alos tienpos de vuestras nescesidades por vos hacer mas poderoso para que rreleuedes las suyas e quiteys sus vexaçiones.’ (‘And it is your duty that you watch over your subjects while they sleep, and that in return they put at your disposal part of their produce, and earnings, and labour, so that you can pay your soldiers, and that they serve you in person with much urgence in times of your distress so that you can deploy your power to deliver them from their distress, and release them from their vexations’). Cortes de los antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, III, 767–8. For an assessment of the view of the king as ‘mercenary’ under contract, and the devaluation of the royal image that followed from it, see Remedios Morán Martín, ‘”Alteza... merçenario soys”. Intentos de ruptura institucional en las Cortes y Castilla’, in: Coups d’Etat, 93–114, esp. 99–100. Cortes de los Antiguos reinos de León y Castilla, IV, ed. by Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid 1882) 260–2. For a comparative analysis of the texts bearing on these two meetings of the Cortes, see Morán Martín, ‘Alteza’, 108–12.

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as this took shape in the various Cortes we mentioned, as well as on the occasions of political confrontation that we referred to above.59 We may conclude that the political complexity in fifteenth-century Castile ended in the general acceptance of three coexisting models of ideal monarchy, which, however, were quite different, or even difficult to reconcile with each other. The absolutist model enjoyed a steady if far from linear ascension, enjoying particular success during the reigns of John II and Henry IV and gaining the upper hand from the 1480’s onwards – already in the middle of the reign of the Catholic Kings. Yet the increasing success of this model did not impede the more or less simultaneous rise of two other models: one, that of the knighly monarchy, was very close to the interests of the nobility; the other, that of the urban-populist monarchy, was fuelled by the increasing importance of the urban middle classes. The echoes of the ensuing confrontation would resound for a very long time. Even at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in 1812, when a new constitution was drafted in the Cortes of Cádiz, there occurred a clash between various opposite conceptions of what the monarchy should be. Even at this later time, there were those who defended the absolute monarchy against those who favoured a strong position for the Cortes as a permanent assembly of the Estates, or even those viewing the monarchy in terms of national sovereignty. Yet all parties appealed to examples taken from a far-away, medieval, past, that, even if mythologised, stood in the political spotlight for a while.60

59

60

This has led to the hypothesis that a Humanist scholar versed in political thought was the author - or editor? – of the texts of the Cortes of 1469 and 1518. Morán Martín, ‘Alteza’, 99. For further considerations on this debate in the Cortes of Cádiz, see: José María Portillo Valdés, Revolución de nación. Orígenes de la cultura constitucional en España, 1780–1812 (Madrid 2000), and José Manuel Nieto Soria, Medievo constitucional. Historia y mito político en los orígenes de la España Contemporánea (ca. 1750–1814) (Madrid 2007).

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Le premier procès de Jean II, duc d’Alençon (1456–1458) : quels enjeux, quels enseignements politiques ? Philippe Contamine Paris

L’arrestation Le 31 mai et le 1er juin 1456, il se produisit en France un événement de grande importance et de vaste retentissement: suite à une dénonciation auprès des autorités royales présentes en Normandie de la part d’un paysan, « bon et loyal François », la soudaine arrestation en plein Paris par Jean, comte de Dunois, assisté de Robert d’Estouteville, prévôt de Paris, et de ses sbires, et d’Yves de Scépeaux, premier président du Parlement, sur ordre de Charles VII, du neveu de ce dernier, Jean II, duc d’Alençon1, prince des fleurs de lis et pair de France. Cette arrestation, notons-le, intervint très peu de jours après qu’il eut témoigné dans cette même ville, en des termes à la fois admiratifs et réfléchis, lors du procès de réhabilitation de Jeanne d’Arc : au vrai, rien n’y transparaît de ses rancoeurs et de ses intrigues ni non plus d’un quelconque déséquilibre mental.2 Selon Jacques du Clercq, sept de ses serviteurs furent pris à cette occasion, dont trois laïcs, trois prêtres et un héraut d’armes :3 beau coup de filet réussi. D’autres arrestations intervinrent, dans les jours et les semaines qui suivirent : dix au total.4 Leur maître, si l’on suit le chroniqueur Mathieu d’Escouchy, fut d’abord transféré au château de Melun,5 où il résida plusieurs jours, le temps que le roi de France, alors en Bourbonnais notamment pour surveiller les agissements suspects de son fils aîné Louis, dauphin de Viennois, ait été averti. Le duc fut interrogé par plusieurs « depputés » de Charles VII mais refusa de répondre, 1 2 3 4

5

Jean II était le fils de Jeanne de France, fille de Charles VI et sœur de Charles VII. Le témoignage est du 3 mai 1456. Jacques du Clercq, Mémoires, éd. J. A. Buchon (Paris 1838) 93. Bibliothèque nationale de France [désormais BnF], fr. 18441 : ce registre de 126 f. contenant l’instruction du procès mériterait une édition intégrale. En attendant, outre la consultation de l’original, je me suis servi de l’analyse fouillée de Rémy Dinot dans Le procès du duc d’Alençon, mémoire de maîtrise de l’université de Paris X, 1983. Se reporter aussi aux deux chapitres que Gaston du Fresne de Beaucourt consacre à l’affaire au t. VI de son Histoire de Charles VII (Paris 1891). J’ai tenu compte des remarques de Malcolm G. Vale dans Charles VII (Londres 1974), et de celles de S.H. Cuttler dans The Law of Treason and Treason Trials in Later Medieval France (Cambridge 1981). Il y fut conduit sous bonne escorte par Colard de Mouy, bailli de Vermandois. Mathieu d’Escouchy, Chronique, éd. Gaston du Fresne de Beaucourt, t. II (Paris 1863) 322.

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disant qu’il ne s’expliquerait à fond que devant le roi. En attendant, il affirmait n’avoir jamais été « Anglois » et même n’avoir jamais voulu le devenir. En revanche, il était mécontent de la façon dont il était traité à la cour (notion centrale). De plus, il estimait que le roi se faisait gouverner par de « meschans gens et de meschant estat, issus de petite lignee » : doléance classique. Une entrevue eut lieu entre le roi et le duc Jean. Charles VII l’accusa d’avoir « pris alliance » avec ses « anciens ennemis » les Anglais,6 auxquels il avait promis de livrer deux places de son duché. Dans un premier temps, loin de s’humilier, Jean d’Alençon affirma qu’il n’était nullement un traître : certes, il se pouvait qu’il ait pris alliance avec « aucuns grans seigneurs » mais seulement parce qu’il espérait par ce moyen recouvrer la ville de Fougères que Pierre II, duc de Bretagne, prétendait être sienne. Mais la réplique de Charles VII fut foudroyante : il ne s’agissait pas de cela, la preuve écrite existait selon laquelle le duc avait fait alliance avec les ennemis du roi et du royaume. Ce qui n’empêcha pas Alençon de demander sa mise en liberté. Le roi refusa net : s’il ne pouvait se fier à ceux de son sang, à qui pourrait-il le faire ? Impossible de passer l’éponge : il convenait d’instruire son procès « tout au long ». Mathieu d’Escouchy ajoute : « Lequel emprisonnement fut tantost publié par le royalme de France et es pays voisins », ce qui implique une diffusion organisée, « et en parloit chascun selon son intencion et affection », ce qui sous-entend que les réactions furent diverses, les unes défavorables au duc Jean, les autres à Charles VII. Beaucoup demeuraient perplexes.7 Étant donné le contentieux qui existait notoirement de longue date entre le roi de France et Philippe le Bon, duc de Bourgogne, le bruit courut que ce dernier avait comploté contre la couronne de France avec Jean d’Alençon. C’est ce que dit Tommaso Tebaldi, ambassadeur de son maître Francesco Sforza, duc de Milan, auprès de Charles VII, dans une dépêche datée de Lyon, le 19 juin 1456 : Le duc d’Alençon, qui est dit avoir traité avec les Anglais, a été arrêté par le roi et l’on croit que d’autres seigneurs de ce royaume ont trempé dans ce traité avec les Anglais, ainsi le duc de Bourgogne et le comte d’Armagnac, qui est le beau-frère du duc d’Alençon, et d’autres.

La supposition n’avait rien que de vraisemblable : à cette époque en effet, les troupes de Charles VII occupaient les terres de Jean V, comte d’Armagnac, lequel avait pris le large pour échapper au procès dont il était menacé en raison de son inconduite privée8 et de son attitude politique, réputée anglophile et probourguignonne. Une autre dépêche du même ambassadeur, datée de 6

7 8

Philippe Contamine, « Les Anglais, “anciens et mortels ennemis” des rois de France, de leur royaume et des Français pendant la guerre de Cent ans », Revista de História das Ideias 30 (2009) spéc. 201–218. Contamine, « Les Anglais », 321–324. Son inceste avec sa sœur, dont il eut trois enfants.

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Gannat en Bourbonnais le 12 juillet 1456, où se trouvait alors le roi, fournit les précisions suivantes : « On dit peu de chose sur les Anglais qu’on redoute moins pour le moment. Au milieu du présent mois, seront là les seigneurs du sang royal pour juger quoi faire du duc d’Alençon : on croit qu’il sera condamné à la prison perpétuelle. Toutes ses terres et ses places fortes abriteront des garnisons royales. On n’a pas trouvé que le duc de Bourgogne ni un autre seigneur aient su quelque chose de cette affaire : lui seul l’a menée en vue de se faire grand et parce qu’il devait avoir le duché de Normandie et recevoir des Anglais 200 000 ducats et conclure une double alliance de mariage avec le fils et la fille du duc d’York.9 L’excuse qu’il donne est que le roi le tient en peu d’estime et que le diable l’a aveuglé. »10

En quelques mots, tout était dit, et même annoncé, y compris le sort final que Charles VII devait réserver à son parent – non point la mort mais la prison, comme si tous les développements ultérieurs n’avaient été que pour la montre. De fait, une rapide enquête préliminaire ne permit pas de découvrir la moindre collusion entre les ducs d’Alençon et de Bourgogne, d’où la volonté du roi de couper court à des rumeurs qui ne pouvaient que le mettre dans l’embarras : c’est pourquoi il « fist publier et deffendre parmy son royaulme sur le hart qu’il ne feust plus homme ne femme si hardy quy plus murmurast contre l’honneur de son beau frere de Bourgoigne ou le chargast de ceste chose. »11 L’isolement du duc d’Alençon, relégué au loin, à Aigues-Mortes, joint aux problèmes suscités par la fuite précipitée du dauphin Louis, le 30 août 1456, vers les terres de son oncle de Bourgogne en vue de s’y réfugier,12 aboutit à ce que le procès fut décommandé : il ne devait avoir lieu que deux ans plus tard, d’août à octobre 1458. En plusieurs de ses travaux, Wim Blockmans a insisté sur le fait que l’émergence et la croissance multiforme de la notion d’État propres à la période allant du XIVe au XVIe siècle ont revêtu des formes variées à travers l’Europe occidentale, en sorte qu’on aurait tort, comme l’ont fait trop d’historiens français, de privilégier le modèle français, ce modèle réputé incomparable et indépassable qui devait déboucher, comme on sait, sur une monarchie nationale, centralisée et absolue où le monarque constitue 9

10

11

12

Le duc d’Alençon avait un fils, René, qui devait lui succéder, et une fille, Catherine, qui en fin de compte épousa un comte de Laval. Paul M. Kendall et Vincent Ilardi éd., Dispatches with Related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy 1450–1483, t. I, 1450–1460 (Athens, Ohio 1970) 199–204. Jean de Wavrin, Recueil des croniques et anchiennes istories de la Grant Bretaigne, éd. William Hardy et Edward Hardy, t. V (Londres 1891) 372. Il fit son entrée à Louvain au cours du mois de septembre 1456.

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la référence par excellence, sur Versailles, sur le Roi Soleil, sur l’exil forcé des protestants en 1685, etc.13 Avertissement salutaire. Encore convient-il de ne pas oublier que même à l’issue de la guerre de Cent ans le « très victorieux roi Charles VII », le « roi très chrétien », ainsi qu’il était officiellement désigné, demeurait dans une position plutôt fragile, en dépit de ses ressources financières et militaires  : par la force des choses il se devait de dialoguer systématiquement avec ses bonnes villes,14 ce qui était relativement aisé (Bernard Chevalier a pu parler à ce sujet d’« entente cordiale »), mais aussi avec les princes, qu’ils soient issus ou non de la maison de France, ce qui était beaucoup plus aléatoire. C’est ce qu’on va tenter de montrer à travers l’exemple du retentissant procès criminel intenté au duc d’Alençon. Autrement dit, il existait alors en France des personnages, des milieux, des réseaux, non dépourvus d’assise territoriale, qui, sous une forme ou sous une autre, envisageaient ou espéraient comme à la fois viable et légitime ce qu’on pourrait appeler un gouvernement polyarchique du royaume. Un prince des fleurs de lis infortuné Fils de Jean Ier, duc d’Alençon depuis que, par un acte daté du 1er janvier 1415, Charles VI l’avait ainsi promu en même temps qu’il décidait que le nouveau duché d’Alençon serait tenu de lui en pairie,15 et de Marie de Bretagne, fille du duc Jean IV de Bretagne, Jean II, né au château d’Argentan16 le samedi 2 août 1407, devint duc d’Alençon à la mort de son père, survenue lors de la bataille d’Azincourt, le 25 octobre 1415. Comme le dit Perceval de Cagny dans ses Chroniques « il succeda alors aux seigneuries des duchés d’Alençon, conté du Perche, seignouries de Fougieres [en Bretagne], de Saint Christofle de Samblançay [en Touraine] et viconté de Beaumont. »17 Telle était alors son implantation territoriale, plutôt modeste et dispersée. Perceval poursuit : « Il a esté autant fortuné en tres grant adversité que nul jeune seigneur pourroit estre ». En effet, non seulement il était devenu à huit ans orphelin de père mais encore en 1417 Henry V, roi d’Angleterre, conquit son duché, le contraignant à l’exil. Le 23 juin 1420, en même temps que Jean d’Harcourt, comte d’Aumale, il fut fait par le régent Charles, futur Charles VII, «  lieutenant et capitaine general  » au pays et duché 13 14 15

16 17

Roland Mousnier, La monarchie absolue en Europe, du Ve siècle à nos jours (Paris 1982). Bernard Chevalier, Les bonnes villes de France du XIVe au XVIe siècle (Paris 1982). Père Anselme de Sainte-Marie, Histoire généalogique de la maison de France, t. III (Paris 1728) 257. Sur les pairs et la pairie (deux concepts qui constituent le fil directeur de mon propos), Philippe Contamine, « Essai sur la place de XII pairs dans l’ordo de la royauté française à la fin du Moyen Âge », dans : Claude Carozzi et Huguette Taviani-Carozzi éd., Hiérarchies et services au Moyen Âge (Aix-en-Provence 2001) 53–70. Orne, ch.-l. ar. Eure, ar. Bernay, ch.-l. canton. Chroniques de Perceval de Cagny, éd. Henri Moranvillé (Paris 1902) 20–21.

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de Normandie. Il fit ses premières armes lors de la bataille de Baugé, le 22 mars 1421 (treize ans!). Charles VII le choisit comme parrain de son fils premier-né, Louis (4 juillet 1423) : preuve de confiance. Le 29 août de la même année, il épousa Jeanne, fille de Charles, duc d’Orléans, alors prisonnier en Angleterre, et d’Isabelle de France, fille de Charles VI et d’Isabeau de Bavière. Née en 1389, Isabelle avait « épousé » en 1396 Richard II, roi d’Angleterre. Devenue veuve en 1400 suite à la déposition et au meurtre de son « mari », elle avait été mariée en 1406 à Charles d’Orléans mais mourut en couches trois ans plus tard. On est bien dans le cercle royal le plus étroit. Désireux, selon la formule consacrée, de « servir le roy de tout son povoir » et aussi de reconquérir ses terres, Jean fut présent à la bataille de Verneuil le 17 août 1424 : il y fut fait prisonnier, vendu par le comte de Suffolk à Jean, duc de Bedford, régent du royaume de France pour Henry VI, roi de France et d’Angleterre, qui l’enferma au château du Crotoy, en Picardie. En 1425, il se vit proposer d’être libéré et de retrouver son duché s’il acceptait de reconnaître par serment le traité de Troyes. Mais, selon le chroniqueur Enguerran de Monstrelet, il «  fist responce qu’il estoit ferme en son propos de non en toute sa vie faire serement contre son souverain et droicturier seigneur Charles, roy de France ».18 Du coup Bedford s’intitula duc d’Alençon tandis qu’un autre chef anglais, Thomas, comte de Salisbury, devenait comte du Perche : la spoliation était totale. Il fut quand même libéré, moyennant une rançon de 200 000 saluts d’or. Le voilà dès lors ruiné. Toute sa vie, il devait traîner comme un boulet cette impécuniosité : ici réside l’une des clés de son comportement. Le duc Jean rentra à Fougères le 3 octobre 1427. Non seulement il lui fallut liquider sa fortune mobilière mais encore vendre, selon lui à trop bon marché, la seigneurie de Fougères à son oncle maternel, le très prudent Jean V, duc de Bretagne. Nullement découragé, il vint trouver Charles VII à Lusignan en novembre 1427, lui offrant derechef ses services. De fait, des compensations financières lui furent consenties par le roi mais insuffisantes par rapport à l’ampleur des pertes subies. Il devint son lieutenant général en Normandie. En 1429, aux côtés de Jeanne d’Arc, qui l’appelait son « bon duc », son « gentil duc » et parfois son « beau duc », il participa au plus haut niveau à la reconquête des villes de la Loire, réintroduisit dans le camp royal, pour quelques jours seulement, Arthur de Richemont, connétable de France, alors en disgrâce (bataille de Patay du 18 juin),19 rejoignit le roi à Gien, et se trouva au « voyage du sacre ». Il fut présent dans la cathédrale de Reims le dimanche 17 juillet, « en l’estat et office de per de France », jouant le rôle du duc de Bourgogne : celui-ci, alors dans l’autre camp, s’était abstenu 18 19

Enguerran de Monstrelet, Chronique, éd. Louis Douët-d’Arcq, t. IV (Paris 1860) 241. Richemont devait par la suite lui demeurer favorable.

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de répondre à la convocation qui lui fut adressée à ce sujet.20 Le duc Jean y fit le roi chevalier. Durant la décennie suivante, il guerroya aux frontières de Normandie. Il fut sans doute déçu par le traité d’Arras de 1435, où il avait envoyé sa propre ambassade, destinée à défendre sa cause : il n’obtint rien, dès lors que la paix s’était révélée impossible avec l’Angleterre. De plus, il reprochait au roi son inertie militaire. Peut-être fut-ce là l’une des raisons, honorable, de sa participation, en 1440, à la Praguerie, aux côtés et en faveur du dauphin Louis. La Praguerie fut un échec et il perdit sa lieutenance en Normandie, Anjou et Maine. L’on peut penser que la cassure affective avec Charles VII fut désormais définitive, d’autant que, lors du chapitre qui se tint à Saint-Omer le 30 novembre 1440, il fut élu chevalier de la Toison d’or :21 une promotion très peu du goût du roi de France. On le retrouve dans l’opposition en 1442 lors de l’assemblée de Nevers.22 En mars de cette année, il revint aux ambassadeurs des princes mécontents de présenter au roi leurs griefs respectifs. Les doléances du duc d’Alençon étaient les suivantes : la proximité de lignage, les services rendus, l’excessive rançon qu’il a dû verser, le fait que les Anglais occupent encore ses principales terres, « tellement qu’il n’a de quoy vivre ne tenir son estat, qui est grant pitié », si l’on songe à la mort de son ancêtre à Crécy et à la mort de son père à Azincourt, le roi devrait tenir compte de tout cela, or à la place il s’est vu ôter la ville de Niort, sa pension et sa lieutenance. Ses porte-parole ajoutaient que les Anglais lui avaient fait de grandes avances, certes il n’était pas question pour lui d’y succomber mais, compte tenu de sa misère, « est a doubter que par aucuns de ses gens il pourroit estre consellié et faire chose qui tourneroit au grant dommage et prejudice du roy ». Il y avait là comme une forme de chantage. À l’occasion des trêves de Tours de 1444, il se serait rapproché effectivement des Anglais. En 1445, on le voit intervenir, avec les ducs d’Orléans et de Bourbon, le connétable de Richemont, les comtes du Maine, de Foix et de Dunois, en faveur du comte Jean IV d’Armagnac, chargé par le roi de divers méfaits.23 La même année, il envoya son procureur au chapitre de la Toison d’or, à Gand.24 La même année encore, Charles VII envoya une ambassade en Angleterre conduite par le comte de Vendôme et l’archevêque de Reims 20

21

22 23

24

Philippe Contamine, « Les pairs de France au sacre des rois (XVe siècle) : nature et portée d’un programme iconographique », dans : idem, De Jeanne d’ Arc aux guerres d’Italie. Figures, images et problèmes du XVe siècle (Caen et Orléans 1994) 111–138. Notice d’Anne Vallez dans : Raphaël de Smedt (éd.), Les Chevaliers de l’Ordre de la Toison d’Or au XVe siècle (Francfort-sur-le-Main 2000) 90–93. Chronique de Mathieu d’Escouchy, t. III : Pièces justificatives (Paris 1864) 37 et 79–81. Philippe Contamine, « 1445 : Charles VII et l’art de la négociation », dans : María Teresa Ferrer Mallol, Jean-Marie Moeglin, Stéphane Péquignot et Manuel Sánchez Martínez éd., Negociar en la Edad Media. Négocier au Moyen Âge (Barcelone 2005) 321–346. Olivier de La Marche, Mémoires, éd. H. Beaune et J. d’Arbaumont, t. II (Paris 1884) 84.

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pour trouver « bon appointement ou traité de paix entre les deux roys ». « Et pour ce faire, confermer et consentir, envoyerent avecques les embassadeurs dessusdiz le roy de Castille, frere d’armes et allyé du roy de France, le roy de Cecille [René], messeigneurs les ducs de Bourgoingne, de Bretaigne et d’Alençon chacun leur embassades, pour confermer de leur part tout ce que les embassadeurs du roy de France feroient avecques le roy d’Angleterre ».25 Clair indice qu’à cette époque le roi de France était loin d’avoir le monopole des relations extérieures : un éventuel « appointement » avec l’Angleterre impliquait l’adhésion formelle ou le concours avéré de plusieurs entités politiques dans le royaume, dont celle des princes. En 1449–1450, non sans vaillance, il participa avec sa propre « armee » à la reconquête de son duché. Robert Blondel le montre, dux potentissimus, accueilli avec ferveur par les habitants de son duché comme leur « seigneur naturel », notamment parce qu’il bénéficiait de la bonne renommée de ses prédécesseurs, lesquels avaient toujours agi avec justice et piété envers leurs sujets.26 Bien qu’au cours de cette campagne il se soit montré auprès du roi, celuici le tint à distance, en « malgrace » : peut-être aurait-il espéré devenir son lieutenant général en Normandie. Il n’en fut rien, et, selon ses propres dires, à partir de 1453 il n’osa plus revenir à la cour. En revanche, il maintenait des liens discrets et attentifs avec le duc de Bourgogne.27 Les contacts avec l’Angleterre à la lumière de l’instruction du procès De dépit, par vengeance, le duc d’Alençon, dont la devise, inscrite sur les murs des salles dans ses résidences, était « loyaument », alla encore plus loin à partir du printemps 1455. Si l’on se fie aux témoignages recueillis au palais de justice de Rouen, à la Bastille et au Châtelet de Paris par les commissaires du roi auprès de ses complices, lors de l’instruction qu’ils menèrent, non sans recours à la torture,28 entre août et octobre 1456, les choses, brièvement résumées, se déroulèrent comme suit.29 Vraisemblablement à l’insu de son chancelier Raoul Tesson, le duc entra en contact avec des Anglais de très haut rang, non seulement à Calais mais aussi à Londres et à Westminster, par l’intermédiaire d’émissaires plus ou moins tarés et plus ou moins adroits  : le but était d’inviter et d’inciter les Anglais à entreprendre une nouvelle et 25

26 27

28

29

Les chroniques du roi Charles VII par Gilles le Bouvier dit le Héraut Berry, éd. Henri Courtault, Léonce Cellier et Marie-Henriette Jullien de Pommerol (Paris 1979) 274–275. Robert Blondel, Œuvres, éd. A. Héron, t. II (Rouen 1891) 123. Il se fit représenter au chapitre de la Toison d’or de 1451, à Mons. Venu de Tournai, il aurait assisté incognito aux fêtes de Lille en 1454 (Chronique de Mathieu d’Escouchy, t. II, 114–115). Georges Chastellain parle à ce propos de « gehines et interrogations estroites » (Œuvres complètes, éd. Kervyn de Lettenhove, t. III (Bruxelles 1861) 417). BnF, fr. 18441, passim.

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puissante «  descente  » (entre 30 000 et 40 000 combattants, surtout des archers), simultanément jusqu’en Guyenne, en Picardie à partir de Calais, en haute et en basse Normandie (Granville), car, disait-il, les habitants de cette province étaient las de la domination française, notamment à cause de la lourdeur des impôts. Il leur conseillait, une fois débarqués en Normandie, de ne pas s’attarder à des sièges longs et coûteux mais de chevaucher rapidement en direction d’Angers. Lui-même leur ouvrirait discrètement les portes de ses places fortes et mettrait à leur disposition son imposante artillerie, riche, disait-il, de centaines de bombardes, de canons, de couleuvrines et de serpentines. À un certain moment, le roi d’Angleterre ou son représentant le sommerait de lui prêter hommage pour son duché, il demanderait l’aide de Charles VII, ne l’obtiendrait pas et du même coup, sans faillir à son honneur, pourrait se rallier à la cause du vainqueur. En échange, il demandait le maintien de l’intégralité de son duché à l’intérieur de la nouvelle Normandie anglaise, l’octroi de sommes considérables, soit d’un seul coup, soit sous forme d’une pension annuelle, un double mariage, de sa fille et de son fils avec le fils et la fille du duc d’York, et aussi, pour le cas, toujours possible, où l’affaire tournerait mal, un important duché en Angleterre (Clarence, Bedford ou Gloucester). Il conseillait aux envahisseurs, aussitôt descendus, « que ilz feissent crier a son de trompe par tout le pays que nul ne feust si hardi de prendre riens sur les laboureurs sans le payer sur peine de la hart (...) et aussy que chascun peust demourer sur son heritaige paisiblement, tant gentils hommes que autres ». À vrai dire ces propositions tombaient plutôt mal eu égard à la situation politique outre-Manche. On peut la résumer comme suit. La perte de la Normandie et de la Guyenne, en 1449–1451, avait été ressentie par l’opinion anglaise non point comme le résultat nécessaire d’un rapport de force, cette fois favorable à Charles VII et à sa nouvelle armée,30 mais à l’aveuglement niais de Henry VI, mal conseillé par sa femme Marguerite d’Anjou (une Française !) et à l’impéritie, proche de la trahison, de son équipe gouvernementale. Puis en 1452, de façon inattendue, Bordeaux et une grande partie de la Guyenne furent reprises  : prélude d’une nouvelle descente en Normandie ? Naguère pacifiste, le cardinal John Kemp prônait maintenant une « juste guerre » contre un adversaire d’une rare mauvaise foi. Parallèlement, William Worcester, secrétaire de Sir John Fastolf, invitait le roi et les Anglais à agir comme l’avait fait jadis Henry V. Peut-être Henry VI s’interrogeait-il. Mais le 17 juillet 1453 vit la défaite de Castillon et la lamentable mort du vieux Talbot. Ce fut sans doute en apprenant ces nouvelles que le roi tomba dans une profonde dépression, qui devait durer 30

Valérie Bessey, De la France des premiers Valois à la fin du règne de François Ier, Construire l’armée française. Textes fondateurs des institutions militaires t. I (Turnhout 2006).

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du 1er août 1453 au 30 décembre 1454. Du coup, Richard, duc d’York, réputé offensif, comme autrefois Humphrey, duc de Gloucester, revint au premier plan, obtenant le titre de protecteur et défenseur du royaume le 27 mars 1454. Le succès de son clan ne fut toutefois que temporaire puisqu’à partir du début de 1455 Henry VI, ayant retrouvé ses esprits, reprit les choses en main. Il n’empêche que la situation demeurait incertaine : le 22 mai 1455 la première bataille de St Alban’s, remportée par York et ses alliés, laissa le roi libre mais humilié et impuissant. La dépression reprit ses droits, jusqu’en février 1456, époque à laquelle York fut privé de son titre de protecteur, même si subsistaient son poids politique et ses objectifs. C’est dire que durant le premier semestre 1456 on ne savait pas trop, en Angleterre comme à l’étranger, qui avait réellement le pouvoir : une situation incommode pour l’entreprise de Jean d’Alençon.31 Celui-ci eut l’occasion d’exposer ses projets à un certain R. Holgilk alias Huntington, héraut d’armes du duc d’Exeter. De son côté, le principal de ses intermédiaires était Emond Gallet, prêtre natif de Paris mais vivant le plus souvent à Arras : or, ce personnage, âgé alors d’une trentaine d’années, était le fils de Louis Gallet, ancien échevin de Paris, toujours en vie en 1455–1456, lequel avait joué un rôle notable au temps de l’union des deux couronnes et, très engagé du côté anglais, avait dû se replier outre-Manche.32 Bien introduit, et pour cause, Emond Gallet put entrer en contact, presque officiellement, avec les ducs d’York, d’Exeter (Henry Holand) et de Buckingham (Humphrey Stafford), avec Richard Neville, comte de Warwick, avec Henry Bourchier, comte d’Essex et trésorier d’Angleterre, et avec Thomas Bourchier, archevêque de Canterbury. Ces puissants personnages, qui se surveillaient de près l’un l’autre, l’écoutèrent poliment comme ils avaient écouté auparavant Pouancé poursuivant d’armes du duc d’Alençon, mais ils prirent soin de se retrancher derrière l’avis des communes du royaume. Emond Gallet fut en outre admis en audience auprès de Henry VI. Selon son témoignage, en février 1456, le roi d’Angleterre convoqua plusieurs de ses barons « par devers les communes qui tenoient lors le parlement oudit lieu de Wassemaistre [Westminster] pour savoir s’elles vouldroient octroyer ce que autresfois il leur avoit demandé, c’est assavoir vint cinq mil archiers paiez pour ung an ». Les communes ayant demandé quel serait le chef de cette expédition, Henry répondit que ce serait lui, « acompaigné des plus grans de son sang ».33 La réaction fut ou aurait été enthousiaste. On pouvait envisager une descente en août ou septembre 1456, après les récoltes, ce 31

32

33

Bertram Wolffe, Henry VI (Londres 1980); Richard A. Griffiths, The Reign of King Henry VI. The Exercise of Royal Authority, 1422–1461 (Londres 1981). Christopher Allmand, Lancastrian Normandy, 1415–1450. The History of a Medieval Occupation (Oxford 1983) 145. BnF, fr. 18441, f. 64ro.

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qui aurait permis sur place un ravitaillement aisé, comme le suggérait le duc d’Alençon. Mais lors d’une deuxième entrevue les propos du roi furent en retrait : d’une part il conseillait comme préliminaire la réconciliation entre le duc d’Alençon et le comte du Maine, or précisément le premier était violemment hostile au second, dont il enviait la toute-puissance auprès de Charles VII, c’était sa bête noire ;34 d’autre part, Henry affirmait que, s’il avait un jour à mener une guerre, ce ne serait pas contre son « bel oncle » le roi de France, avec lequel il souhaitait conclure une « bonne paix » et dont il attendait du secours afin de rétablir la tranquillité chez lui, mais contre le duc de Bourgogne qui, malgré son serment, l’avait sans motif abandonné au temps de sa jeunesse (allusion au renversement d’alliance lors de la paix d’Arras de 1435). Au cours d’une troisième entrevue accordée à Emond Gallet quasiment au moment de l’arrestation du duc d’Alençon, le roi d’Angleterre, sans couper totalement les ponts, lui déclara qu’il « se donnoit grant merveilles comment les princes de France avoient si grant voulenté de (...) faire desplaisir a leur roi », ajoutant qu’« au fort », ceux d’Angleterre agissaient de même avec lui.35 Ce qui n’était pas mal vu. De tout cela, il ressort que, sur le papier, les « machinations » du duc d’Alençon étaient assez astucieusement combinées. Mais, outre son isolement politique avéré et les réserves anglaises, sa principale faiblesse était qu’il ne pouvait agir que dans l’ombre, non seulement pour ne pas provoquer une réplique du roi de France mais aussi et peut-être surtout parce que, quels que soient les griefs des Français à l’égard de Charles VII, bien peu, y compris en Normandie, envisageaient de gaieté de cœur une nouvelle invasion anglaise, quand bien même cette invasion s’accompagnerait de bonnes paroles et d’un comportement civilisé : l’anglophobie – une anglophobie instinctive – était alors la chose du monde la mieux partagée par les sujets du roi Valois. Le duc d’Alençon ne pouvait agir que masqué, de façon honteuse, comme un traître. La cour garnie de pairs mais quels pairs ? Assez rapidement, le gouvernement de Charles VII se sentit rassuré : d’où la relative clémence qu’il devait ultérieurement manifester envers les piètres complices du duc d’Alençon. En attendant, il fallait régler son sort. Plusieurs solutions s’offraient : le libérer discrètement puisque son complot s’était révélé du vent; le faire juger par une commission uniquement composée d’hommes du roi, se conformant 34

35

Charles du Maine serait intervenu auprès des généraux des finances pour que les impôts royaux levés dans ses terres soient allégés au détriment de ceux levés dans les terres du duc d’Alençon, d’où, selon ce dernier, la fuite de 1500 ménages. De plus, les assignations accordées au comte du Maine pour sa pension étaient situées dans le duché d’Alençon. BnF, fr. 18441, f. 120ro.

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servilement à leurs instructions; le faire juger à Paris, par le parlement, lequel avait une notable autonomie, même s’il était censé juger au nom du roi. Ce fut une autre solution qui s’imposa, non sans délibération préalable du parlement qui recommandait de le faire juger par la cour de parlement garnie de pairs et d’autres seigneurs, en présence du roi, c’est-à-dire, selon l’expression apparue à la fin du XIVe siècle et destinée à faire fortune, par un « lit de justice ».36 Ce fut en avril 1456 que Charles VII posa au parlement une série de questions qui suscitèrent autant de réponses : 1. Doivent siéger non seulement les pairs de France « traditionnels » (les six pairs ecclésiastiques, les six pairs laïcs, mais à l’époque, compte tenu des rattachements au domaine de la plupart des pairies, ne subsistait plus que le doyen des pairs et le premier des pairs laïcs, à savoir le duc de Bourgogne et comte de Flandre) mais aussi les nouveaux pairs, « tenant en pairie » (tel le duc d’Alençon lui-même), c’est ce qui avait été fait pour les procès de Robert d’Artois (1332), de Jean de Montfort (1341) et de Charles II, roi de Navarre (1378); 2. À la question de savoir si les seigneurs du sang qui ne sont pas pairs de France doivent être traités en l’occurrence comme des pairs, la cour ne peut répondre car un cas de ce genre est précisément en train de se poser (allusion au procès du comte d’Armagnac, lequel revendiquait le privilège de pairie, qu’en fin de compte il ne devait pas obtenir37) ; 3. Le duc d’Alençon tient son duché en pairie, il « doit jouir de pareil privilege et prerogatives que feroit un des douze pairs touchant sa personne »; 4. Les précédents montrent que « ceux qui ont esté creez pairs de France et qui tiennent en pairrie furent presens et appellez comme les anciens pairs »; 5. Les pairs doivent être appelés, et s’ils viennent, doivent assister au procès; en revanche, s’ils ne viennent pas, le roi ne doit pas y surseoir; s’ils envoient quelqu’un pour les représenter, ce procureur ne doit pas être « reçu » ; 6. Peut-on procéder sans la présence du roi, car, si elle était jugée indispensable, ne serait-ce pas le mettre « en grande servitude », lui et ses successeurs, et porter atteinte à son autorité royale ? Réponse : les précédents attestent la présence du roi non point au cours des préliminaires mais « au regard des appoinctemens ou jugemens interlocutoires ou diffinitifs », bref la présence du roi serait « tres expedient, convenable et raisonnable » au procès du duc d’Alençon, « mesmement aux deliberations et prononciations 36

37

Elizabeth Brown et Richard Famiglietti, The ‘lit de justice’  : semantics, ceremonial, and the parlement of Paris, 1300–1600 (Sigmaringen 1994). L’expression apparaît, mais de façon épisodique, pour désigner l’ « assemblee » ou la « convention » de 1458. Jean V fut assigné à comparaître devant le parlement le 20 novembre 1456. Le 24 novembre, il fut jugé par contumace. Nouvel ajournement le 15 mai 1457. Cette fois, le comte se présenta. La cause s’ouvrit à huis-clos le 14 mai 1458. Son avocat déclina la compétence de la cour : Jean V, descendant de la maison royale, devait être jugé par la cour des pairs. Après de longs débats, la cour devait se déclarer compétente (19 mai 1459). Gaston du Fresne de Beaucourt, Charles VII, cit.

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des jugemens et appointemens diffinitifs et interlocutoires »; 7. Si la présence du roi était empêchée pour une raison relative à la chose publique, il est préférable que le roi remette à plus tard le procès plutôt qu’il ne désigne quelqu’un à sa place.38 Ainsi, quel que soit son désir profond, Charles VII se voyait pratiquement contraint de faire juger le duc d’Alençon par une cour garnie de pairs, en sa présence au moins lors des moments décisifs des débats. On peut imaginer qu’il aurait souhaité une autre réponse, ce qui lui aurait permis d’échapper à cette triomphale mais aussi pesante mise en scène de la majesté royale (peu dans sa nature, quoiqu’il l’ait parfois acceptée, voire ordonnée, ainsi lors de son entrée dans Paris et dans Rouen, réduites à son obéissance, respectivement en 1437 et 144939), et aussi ce qui lui aurait laissé plus de liberté dans sa décision finale : en effet il pouvait s’attendre à ce que, tout en gardant les formes, les pairs de France, se soutenant mutuellement, n’hésiteraient pas à prendre la parole, il faudrait à son chancelier écouter patiemment leurs « remonstrances », il lui faudrait au final tenir compte de leurs avis. Telle était ce qu’on pourrait appeler la règle du jeu. On possède plusieurs versions, comportant de menues divergences, de la « forme et assiete du parlement et convencion » qui se tint au château de Vendôme le 28 août 1458 : signe de l’importance qu’on y attachait, en soi et pour la suite. La liste la plus complète, et aussi la plus fiable, se trouve dans un rapport destiné à Sir John Fastolf.40 Elle comprend 131 noms : comme le fait remarquer l’éditeur du document, un chiffre presque identique aux 133 personnages représentés dans la célèbre miniature de Jean Fouquet ou de son école figurant en frontispice d’un manuscrit de la traduction par Laurent de Premierfait du De casibus virorum illustrium de Boccace.41 La grande majorité de ces personnages étaient, d’une façon ou d’une autre, des serviteurs du roi, des officiers de la couronne, des conseillers en parlement : pas question pour eux de se dérober à une convocation, si tel était le plaisir du roi. Pour ce qui est des archevêques et des évêques, les six pairs ecclésiastiques furent bel et bien présents (Reims, Laon, Langres, Beauvais, Châlons et Noyon) mais seulement quatre autres évêques, or une liste contemporaine des « cités du royaulme de France » en énumère 9442 : il est vrai que seule la présence des pairs ecclésiastiques était expressément requise. Parmi les princes et grands 38 39 40

41

42

P. Anselme, Histoire généalogique,t. III (Paris 1728) 258–259. Il faut aussi songer à son état de santé, devenu précaire au fil des années. S.H. Cuttler, «A report to Sir John Fastolf, on the trial of Jean, Duke of Alençon» The English Historical Review 96 (1981) 811–817. Ce manuscrit, conservé à la Bibliothèque de Munich, est dit par le copiste Pierre Faure avoir été achevé le 24 novembre 1458 pour Laurent Girard, notaire et secrétaire du roi. Le livre de la description des pays par Gilles le Bouvier, dit Berry, éd. E.-T. Hamy (Paris 1908) 134–137.

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seigneurs laïcs, l’assiete de 1458 mentionne la présence, aux pieds du roi, siégeant « en son siege royal », de Charles de France, fils puîné du roi, alors âgé de 17 ans, de deux ducs (Orléans et Bourbon) et de huit comtes (Angoulême, Maine, Eu, La Marche, Foix, Vendôme, Laval et Dunois). Parmi ces dix personnages, tenaient du roi en pairie Orléans, Bourbon, Angoulême et Maine, plus Charles d’Artois, comte d’Eu, et Gaston IV, comte de Foix43, qui furent promus à la dignité de pairs pour la circonstance.44 Or, suite à la liste des cités de France, figure celle des ducs, au nombre de 18, y compris les trois ducs « spirituels » (Reims, Laon et Langres), et des comtes, au nombre de 86, y compris les trois comtes « spirituels » (Beauvais, Noyon et Châlons), avec la précision qu’ils doivent « par especial et droit royalment (...) estre au sacre bailler au roy de France en la cité de Rains, comme autrefoiz on les y a veu ».45 Autant dire que le lit de justice de 1458 fut loin d’être une photographie complète de la France féodale et épiscopale. Ainsi le roi René, alors en Provence, pair de France pour son duché d’Anjou, ne vint pas, bien que dûment ajourné.46 Grâce notamment au récit de Georges Chastellain, on est assez bien renseigné sur la réaction de Philippe le Bon, qui se disait doyen des pairs, premier pair et même trois fois pair (Bourgogne, Flandre et Artois). Dans un premier temps, il reçut une semonce que lui communiqua, sans plus de façon, un simple conseiller au parlement qui, on le comprend, n’en menait pas large. La réponse du duc fut quadruple : 1. Le traité d’Arras le dispensait formellement de ce type de service ; 2. Au surplus, la date de la réunion était trop proche, les délais étaient trop courts ; 3. Néanmoins par pure courtoisie il acceptait de déférer à la demande du roi ; 4. Mais il viendrait en grand appareil militaire, à la tête de toute une armée.47 Déjà il mobilisait ses troupes, pour le 24 juin, comme, par précaution et par calcul, l’avait fait Charles VII, pour le 1er juin, y compris et peut-être même surtout s’agissant des fieffés de la région de la Somme. Du coup la tension monta. Les gens s’interrogeaient : s’agissait-il pour le roi de marcher contre les Anglais, ou contre le duc de Bourgogne dès lors qu’il avait accueilli le dauphin Louis ? Toutefois, suite à 43

44

45 46

47

Ce dernier fut « fait et creé per de France du roy Charles » en août 1458 (Archives départementales des Pyrénées atlantiques, E 443, et Archives nationales, JJ 192, f. 64ro : Histoire de Gaston IV, comte de Foix, par Guillaume Leseur, éd. Henri Courteault, t. II (Paris 1896) 31 et n.). « En sa propre volonté », dit Jacques du Clercq, ce qui implique un certain blâme : n’aurait-il pas dû en discuter avec les autres pairs ? Le livre de la description des pays, 145–146. Mars 1458 : Archives nationales, P 1334, f. 242vo et P 1345, nos 620–623, d’après Albert Lecoy de La Marche, Le roi René, t. I (Paris 1875) 327. Le comte de La Marche fut ajourné par des lettres royales du 30 mars 1458 : Archives nationales, P 1369, cote 1770, cité par Gaston du Fresne de Beaucourt, Charles VII, t. VI, 185. On songe à la réponse d’Édouard, prince d’Aquitaine, à la semonce de Charles V, en 1368 : s’il venait à Paris, comme il y était convié, ce serait, dit Froissart, à la tête de 60 000 hommes. Plus modeste, Chastellain parle seulement de 40 000 combattants.

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une démarche du roi d’armes Toison d’or, Charles VII se radoucit et décida plus sage de le dispenser de toute présence personnelle : une délégation en son nom suffirait. Le cas d’Arthur, toujours connétable de France, mais devenu duc de Bretagne suite à la mort de Pierre II, le 22 septembre 1457, est aussi intéressant. Par le truchement de Bertrand Briçonnet, son secrétaire, Charles VII lui envoya un adjournement, qu’il reçut à Nantes. Il assembla son conseil et fit la réponse suivante, le 11 mai 1458 : 1. Il estimait que la Bretagne n’était pas un duché-pairie, donc il n’avait pas à obtempérer ; 2. En tant que connétable de France, il se devait d’obéir aux semonces d’armes du roi mais tel n’était pas le cas ; 3. Son duché dépendait de la justice royale en général et du parlement de Paris en particulier dans deux cas seulement : mauvaise justice rendue par ses tribunaux ou refus de rendre la justice, là encore ce n’était pas le cas.48 Si l’on en croit Georges Chastellain, le « lit de justice », tel que dans un premier temps il était prévu devoir se tenir à Montargis, était destiné non seulement à faire juger le duc « par sentence des pairs » mais aussi « pour faire droit a tout le monde tant au grant comme au petit et oïr toutes les plaintes et doleances de son royaume ». Il se peut. De façon plus plausible, si l’on croit la même source, le roi songeait, en ce printemps 1458, à faire d’une pierre deux coups : faire juger à la fois le duc d’Alençon et le comte d’Armagnac. Peut-être aussi visait-il le duc de Bourgogne en personne  : toujours selon Chastellain, il « pensoit et tendoit a donner freeur au duc de Bourgongne lequel il maintenoit a son rebelle. De laquelle chose mise en la congregation des pairs il esperoit conseil et remede et la ou si le dit de Bourgongne eust esté attaint coupable avec celuy d’Alençon, il eust mis sus le lit de justice pour en faire condempner comme de l’autre  ». Vaste programme. Pendant que les ambassadeurs bourguignons, Jean de Croy, Simon de Lalaing, maître Jean L’Orfèvre, dit le Président de Luxembourg, plus Toison d’or, attendaient à Paris le bon vouloir du roi, l’attente se prolongeait. Rien ne venait. On s’interrogeait : « Et sembloit à aucuns que le roy variast encore a tenir la convention ou non et du lieu et du jour ». Parallèlement, des contacts étaient pris entre Philippe le Bon et le comte de Warwick, ce qui pouvait inquiéter Charles VII car Warwick « plus se tenoit vers Bourgongne que vers France et tenoit la bande contraire de la royne [d’Angleterre] ». Le conseil étroit du roi devait soigneusement peser le pour et le contre. Sur ces entrefaites, survint la confession ou la confidence de Jean Le Meunier : cet évêque de Meaux, alors à l’agonie (il devait mourir le 22 juin 1458), « avoit 48

Dom Hyacinthe Morice, Mémoires pour servir de preuves à l’histoire de Bretagne, t. II (Paris 1744) col. 1729.

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esté de par le roy a l’examination du duc d’Alençon  ». Pour la paix de sa conscience, il fit mander Jean L’Orfèvre et lui expliqua qu’on avait cherché en vain auprès des dix ou douze serviteurs du duc d’Alençon arrêtés une quelconque connivence entre lui, le dauphin et le duc de Bourgogne. C’est dire que le lit de justice perdait une grande partie de son intérêt : plus question pour le roi de faire condamner conjointement Alençon, Bourgogne, Armagnac et le dauphin. Malgré tout, la décision fut prise de le maintenir, mais ailleurs et plus tard. Le château de Montargis fut abandonné, malgré sa belle salle (une des constructions majeures de Charles V), au profit du château de Vendôme, lequel, notons-le, n’était pas à l’époque du domaine royal mais appartenait à Jean de Bourbon, comte de Vendôme, qui eut l’honneur d’offrir l’hospitalité au roi. Paris aurait dû s’imposer mais entre Charles VII et les Parisiens il existait de vieilles et tenaces rancunes. Tours aussi fut écarté. Les raisons avancées pour ce transfert furent les suivantes : l’exiguïté de Montargis (ville et château) ne permettait pas d’accueillir tous ceux dont on attendait la venue, l’épidémie sévissait à Montargis, à Orléans et à Sully; quant à Vendôme, la place était située en pays de marche, il était davantage possible, le cas échéant, d’accourir de là en Normandie, en Bretagne ou en Poitou si les Anglais débarquaient. Charles VII fit son entrée dans Vendôme le 21 août 1458 – une entrée à la fois royale et militaire  : s’imposer, faire peur.49 La séance solennelle d’ouverture, dans une salle ornée d’une profusion de fleurs de lis et aussi d’une grande tenture aux couleurs du roi, eut lieu le 28 août (probablement, la miniature de Jean Fouquet la représente-t-elle, avant que l’accusé ne soit introduit et ne s’assoie sur l’escabelle qui lui avait été assignée). Tout le monde prit place, chacun selon son rang (on imagine la tâche des maîtres d’hôtel). Les pairs absents furent appelés à haute voix, en vain. Jacques du Clercq, prenant sous doute ses désirs pour des réalités, mentionne quatre absences  : Bourgogne, Anjou, Bourbon et La Marche. En fait Bourgogne et Anjou furent les seuls à manquer à l’appel, tout en s’étant faits représenter. Il est vrai que ces ambassadeurs furent tenus à l’écart des délibérations. Selon Chastellain, «  les deux chevaliers [Croy et Lalaing] qui estoient envoyés droit la du duc de Bourgongne et pouvoient presenter sa personne comme double pair de France et doyen des pairs, premier duc, premier conte, et qui l’estoit d’ancesserie et par dignité de ses pays naturellement, non pas par don du roy ne par exercer l’office accidentalement comme faisoient les autres, ceux la n’y furent ne evoqués ne appelés, ne pour lui ne pour eux non plus que de lui riens ne fust, et n’y avoit siege reservé pour luy ne aucune mention faite ». On leur notifia seulement que s’ils venaient il y 49

Jacques du Clercq, Mémoires, 116.

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aurait un siège pour eux, « mais jamais n’y fussent allés par pitié que avoient du cas et pour ce que le duc d’Alençon, sur qui la journee se tenoit, estoit de l’ordre de la Toison d’or ». Quelle amertume ! Car « de tout temps on avoit appelé a donner l’ordre de la Toison aux plus nets et les plus honnorables chevaliers que on savoit et en quels on savoit moins de reproche. Et pour tant leur faisoit bien mal que le reproche avoit esté trouvé en leur religion sur un si haut et si noble prince ». Dans ce texte un peu alambiqué se manifestent les deux réactions de Philippe le Bon : d’une part, à la limite, il était le seul pair de France authentique, donc, en son absence, il ne pouvait s’agir d’un authentique lit de justice, mais d’autre part Alençon était coupable et les reproches dont il était à bon droit chargé retentissaient sur l’honneur de l’ordre de la Toison d’or auquel il appartenait. Les opinions Le dénouement intervint le 10 octobre 1458 : « Jehan, duc d’Allenchon, per de France », accusé d’avoir conduit et fait conduire « plusieurs traitiés et apointemens avecques nos anchiens annemis et adversaires les Anglois », « veues et visitees par nous et par nostre court garnie de pers et d’autres ad ce appelez les charges et informacions de tesmoings », était déclaré « criminel de lese magesté et comme tel l’avons privé et debouté, privons et deboutons de l’honneur et dignité de parrie de France ».50 L’essentiel de ses biens était confisqué, il demeurait en prison (à Loches) pour un temps indéfini (jusqu’à la mort du roi ?), mais sa famille était plus ménagée que maltraitée,51 et surtout il avait sauvé sa vie. Mais avant ce dénouement, envisagé dès le départ et qui, en un sens, soulageait tout le monde, se plaça, sous le contrôle ou à l’initiative du chancelier de France Guillaume Jouvenel la consultation des participants au lit de justice. À la limite, chacun aurait eu vocation à intervenir, dans un sens ou dans un autre. En fait, nous connaissons seulement les « opinions » ou les « avis » de trois pairs : Philippe de Bourgogne, Jean Juvénal des Ursins, premier pair ecclésiastique en tant qu’archevêque-duc de Reims, et Charles d’Orléans. Il se trouve en effet que, soigneusement élaborées et rédigées, ces « opinions » circulèrent, furent transcrites dans des manuscrits du temps et même furent introduites dans les récits de tel ou tel chroniqueur. C’est ainsi que Jacques du Clercq déclare au sujet de la « proposition » du duc de Bourgogne, telle qu’elle fut lue par Jean L’Orfèvre, au début de septembre 145852 : « Laquelle proposition je ne ouys pas mais elle me feut depuis bailliee par escript. Et crois 50

51 52

Texte complet de l’arrêt, y compris les attendus résumant l’instruction, dans la Chronique de Jean Chartier, éd. Auguste Vallet de Viriville, t. III (Paris 1858) 91–111. Ainsi son fils René conservait le comté du Perche, quoique sans privilège de pairie. On trouve également le texte de cette proposition dans la Chronique de Chastellain, au t. III, Oeuvres, 468–474.

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aussy que ledit maistre Jehan L’Orfebvre la baillia aussy par escript a la cour, lequel escript feust copié et me vint de ceste copie, comme on me certiffia ».53 Il serait fastidieux de reprendre le détail des arguments présentés par ces personnages ou en leur nom, tous tendant à incliner le roi à la pitié. À grands renforts de citations et d’apologues, le duc de Bourgogne plaida l’indulgence, en raison de la majesté du roi, auquel sied le pardon, de la situation familiale de l’inculpé, des services qu’il avait rendus et aussi de sa « simplesse ». Il y eut une réponse au nom du roi, de la part non du chancelier, car il s’agissait d’une réplique d’avocat, mais de Richard Olivier, évêque de Coutances, orateur important notamment dans le différend entre Charles VII et le duc de Bourgogne, et aussi l’un des juges lors du procès en nullité de la condamnation de Jeanne d’Arc (sentence du 7 juillet 1456) : les rois et les princes doivent être aussi des juges, sans quoi leurs dominations, selon la formule de saint Augustin, ne seraient que des « larronnieres »; les bons exemples des prédécesseurs du duc Jean sont plutôt des circonstances aggravantes; certes il n’a pas été sage, mais sa subtilité, sa « malice » montre qu’il n’est pas si « simple » que cela; le droit écrit est là pour autoriser et même imposer une condamnation majeure.54 À cette date le suspense persistait. Peut-être le 8 octobre, alors que l’arrêt était déjà rédigé et sur le point d’être prononcé, Jean Juvénal des Ursins exposa une exhortation, un «  advertissement ». Il a remarqué qu’on ne parlait que de la terrible loi Quisquis de Jules César. Mais, dit-il au roi, empereur en votre royaume, « vous n’estes de riens sugect aux lois rommaines  ». Certes Alençon a «  grandement delinqué  ». Cela dit, précisément en tant qu’empereur, vous êtes le seul stricto sensu dans votre royaume à pouvoir faire rémission même si dans les faits plusieurs princes, seigneurs, barons et haut-justiciers s’arrogent ce droit. C’est précisément ce monopole de la grâce qui vous invite à l’utiliser, en tant que « vicaire de Dieu ». Comme vous l’avez fait notamment pour les Parisiens auxquels vous avez accordé « abolition générale ».55 Donc ce que vous avez fait pour de simples sujets, trouvés porteurs de la croix rouge, faites-le pour votre parent, qui vous a par ailleurs tant et si bien servi, y compris aux côtés de « Jehanne la Pucelle ». D’autant qu’il s’est montré plus inconséquent que lucidement et consciemment traître : « Et son fait, se semble, n’estoit que une fantasie et forçonnerye, pour cuyder soy venger ou faire desplaisir a aucun particulier sans bien penser a l’inconvenient qui en pourroit advenir a vous et a vos subgetz ».56 53 54 55

56

Jacques du Clerc, Mémoires, 117–118. Ibid., 120–121. Claude Gauvard, « Pardonner et oublier après la Guerre de Cent Ans. Le rôle des lettres d'abolition de la chancellerie royal française », dans Reiner Marcowitz et Werner Paravicini (eds), Vergeben und Vergessen? Vergangenheitsdiskurse nach Besatzung, Bürgerkrieg und Revolution. Pardonner et oublier. Les discours sur le passé après l'occupation, la guerre et la révolution (Munich 2009) 27–55. Jean Juvénal des Ursins, Écrits politiques, éd. Peter S. Lewis, t.II (Paris 1985) 409–423.

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Avec l’avis de Charles, duc d’Orléans, dont il subsiste deux copies du temps, on atteint un degré de plus dans la dimension religieuse de l’affaire. Il remarque d’abord que le roi est son « souverain », mais que signifie ce mot « souverain »? D’où tout un développement : car le roi est un homme de chair et d’os, sujet comme toutes créatures aux tribulations (on songe inévitablement à la conception des deux corps du roi). Et ces tribulations, le roi en a connus dans sa jeunesse, preuve que Dieu l’aimait bien, selon la formule « Qui aime bien châtie bien ». Mais maintenant le roi est prospère, bien mieux « passé a long temps nulz de vos predecesseurs n’ont eu le royaume si entier en leurs mains comme vous l’avez » (sous-entendu, il n’a rien à craindre, l’indulgence lui est permise). Le mot souverain désigne d’abord un lieu (le plus élevé) et ensuite Dieu, qui est « sur tous souverain ». Or, si le roi de France est appelé roi très chrétien, c’est pour être le lieutenant ou le représentant de Dieu au royaume de France (une formule que n’aurait pas désavouée Jeanne d’Arc !), tous doivent le servir, lui obéir, le conseiller. Cela dit, le cas est exceptionnellement grave et douloureux, plus douloureux même pour le duc d’Orléans que le meurtre de son père en 1407, car il était bien jeune, plus douloureux que sa captivité, car elle découlait de ce qu’il avait fait son devoir et il savait qu’il pouvait compter sur les Français. Charles d’Orléans avait donné en mariage à Jean II sa fille unique. Et Jean II affirmait sa prédilection pour Charles d’Orléans : drôle de prédilection alors que sa conduite risquait de lui faire perdre dix mille livres de rente. Puis vient un premier apologue. Dieu avait deux tribunaux, l’un appelé Justice et l’autre Miséricorde. Survint un pauvre pécheur. L’avocat Raison plaida contre lui dans le premier tribunal. Se sentant condamné, le pécheur fit appel du tribunal de Justice au tribunal de Miséricorde. L’avocat Pitié, qui défendait le pécheur, utilisa une citation selon laquelle Dieu n’est pas seulement enclin mais contraint à la pitié. Puisque le roi de France est comme Dieu en France, lui aussi est contraint à la pitié  : «  Doncques puis que Pitié peut contraindre Nostre Seigneur, aura elle point de puissance de contraindre le cuer du tres crestien roy de France et des Françoys ? ». Deuxième apologue. Marie fut la mère du Christ, auquel le Père a donné tout jugement. Or, le premier titre d’honneur qu’a reçu Marie, de la bouche de l’archange Gabriel lors de l’Annonciation, c’est celui de mère de grâce et de miséricorde. Elle est donc en droit de demander à son fils de lui conserver ce titre d’honneur en pardonnant aux pécheurs. « Vous tous Françoys qui me tenez pour vostre advocate et pour maistresse, se vous ne faictes grace et misericorde qui est mon tiltre ne m’appellez point a voz neccessitez  », comment pourrais-je intervenir en votre faveur si vous m’ôtez mon titre d’honneur ?

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On entame un autre registre avec les remarques suivantes  : le mettre à mort serait le priver de l’occasion de faire pénitence, ce serait risquer que son âme soit damnée, il faut lui offrir le temps de la « satisfaction ». Au reste l’expérience du duc d’Orléans en prison lui a montré que la prison était un châtiment plus dur que la mort. Cela dit, il convient de faire en sorte qu’il ne puisse plus nuire, il convient de confisquer ses places, de traiter honorablement sa femme et aussi ses enfants qui du même coup le moment venu serviront le roi, leur bienfaiteur, de meilleur cœur, et de ne pas châtier inconsidérément ses serviteurs.57 Au total, on a l’impression d’un spectacle bien monté, où chaque acteur a joué son rôle. Un seul auteur, le Normand Thomas Basin, qui d’ailleurs n’était pas présent, devait reprocher au roi son indulgence : «  À l’égard de certains grands coupables, il montra une douceur et une clémence extrêmes, et il pardonna souvent des crimes plus que ne le réclamait l’intérêt public. Au duc d’Alençon, convaincu par ses propres aveux d’avoir demandé à plusieurs grands seigneurs et princes anglais d’attaquer la Normandie sous promesse de leur ouvrir et de leur livrer les places et châteaux forts de ses domaines, il fit grâce de la vie. Ce prince cependant avait été reconnu coupable du crime de lèse-majesté dans un parlement solennel réuni à cet effet à Vendôme, par les pairs de France et autres personnages réunis là en grand nombre ».58

Il est vrai que Basin, plus que d’autres, savait d’expérience ce qu’étaient une invasion et une occupation étrangères. Bilan Les agissements et le jugement du duc d’Alençon montrent à l’œuvre plusieurs des composantes majeures de la vie politique dans la France du XVe siècle. Bien sûr, à travers la notion de crime de lèse majesté, désormais d’usage courant, voire systématique, le droit romain venait puissamment au secours de la royauté (mais des princes, tels les ducs de Bretagne et de Bourgogne, pouvaient y avoir recours). Toutefois, la touche chevaleresque n’était pas complètement absente ni oubliée  : le duc d’Alençon était chevalier de la Toison d’or (il ne fut pas déchu, même après sa condamnation), il prétendait avoir le souci de son honneur, il avait adoubé Charles VII lors de son sacre. Le duc d’Alençon était incontestablement un prince, pourvu de dignités et 57

58

On conserve le texte de l’opinion du duc d’Orléans dans un manuscrit lui ayant appartenu contenant ses poésies (BnF, fr. 1104, f. 49ro) et aussi dans le fr. 5738, f. 23ro : « L’opinion donnee au roy par Monseigneur le duc d’Orleans ou parlement a Vendosme touchant le fait de mondit seigneur d’Orleans »; Pierre Champion, Vie de Charles d’Orléans (1394–1465) (Paris 1969) 542–548. Thomas Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, éd. Charles Samaran, t. II (Paris 1944) 301.

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de privilèges, mais il n’était pas un prince comme les autres, il était, comme dit Chastellain, « de la vraye estraction des fleurs de lis et de la royale seve si prochain », ce qui rendait encore plus cruel son misérable quoique juste destin. Il était pair de France. Il était possessionné et non pas simplement pensionné. Là encore suivons Chastellain qui le montre pourvu « de ses subjés et vassaux et de tout son peuple », « doué de terres et possessions plusieurs et commis en gouvernement de haulx vassaux et divers peuples ». Dès lors, il prétendait avoir droit à une certaine autonomie dans sa politique familiale et matrimoniale, dans sa diplomatie et son action militaire. Cela dit, lui et ses pairs avaient conscience d’agir à l’intérieur du cercle royal et de devoir le faire. Et puis, le procès montre à l’oeuvre la dimension religieuse, le « grand style chrétien » compassionnel, au moins dans le discours, la propagande : temps des serments faussés et de la mauvaise foi, temps des «  pratiques  », pour reprendre un mot volontiers employé par Philippe de Commynes encore qu’il n’en soit pas l’inventeur, le milieu du XVe siècle fut aussi le temps de la rémission, le temps de la grâce. De ces diverses composantes Charles VII, par conviction, par pragmatisme, se devait de tenir compte : on ne saurait dire qu’en l’occurrence il l’ait fait maladroitement. Louis XI, comme on sait, ne devait pas suivre ce modèle.

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Parliament, Political Economy and State Formation in Later Medieval England W. Mark Ormrod University of York

Thanks to Wim Blockmans, historians of Europe now have some finely developed models for the medieval theory and practice of statehood. The great historical enterprise to which Blockmans put such intellectual and organisational energy, the Origins of the Modern State in Europe project, took as a principle that, while many of the features associated with the ‘state’ existed at various times and in various places during the early and high Middle Ages, the starting-point of a more continuous history of statehood lies in the thirteenth century.1 The idea that the ideological and institutional frameworks of monarchy established by Philip the Fair of France and Edward I of England provided the sole prototype for state formation has been usefully challenged by Blockmans and others in detailed study of civic state-building in Italy, the Low Countries and the Empire and of the ‘redistributive’ model found in some of the Iberian, Scandinavian and East European monarchies, where statehood existed chiefly to serve the juridical and economic advantages of the nobility.2 All of this work has taught us the powerful truth that the origins of the modern state are found not in one overarching teleological formula but in the multiplicity of experience – and in the failures, as well as the successes – of medieval state systems. One of the issues arising from the agenda of the Origins of the Modern State project is the articulation of political ideas during the later Middle Ages. We know a huge amount about scholastic traditions of political thought, and in particular about the take-up, in the thirteenth century, of Aristotelian principles into the political rhetoric and practices of rulers.3 A greater problem emerges, however, when we attempt to reconstruct the ideas of the ruled. The point is particularly evident in relation to the focus of the present study: 1

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Wim Blockmans, ‘Les origines des états modernes en Europe, XIIIe–XVIIIe siècles: État de la question et perspectives’, Archives et bibliothèques de Belgique 61 (1990) 331–47. Jean-Philippe Genet, ‘L’état moderne: Un modèle opératoire?’ in: idem (ed.), L’état moderne: Genèse (Paris 1990) 261–81; Wim P. Blockmans, ‘Voracious states and obstructing cities: An aspect of state formation in preindustrial Europe’, in Charles Tilly and Wim P. Blockmans (eds), Cities and the Rise of States in Europe, A.D. 1000–1800 (Boulder 1994) 218–50; Wim P. Blockmans, A History of Power in Europe: Peoples, Markets, States (Antwerp 1997); John Watts, The Making of Polities: Europe, 1300–1500 (Cambridge 2009) 23–34. Janet Coleman (ed.), The Individual in Political Theory and Practice (Oxford 1996).

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later medieval England. After the mid-thirteenth century there is strikingly little evidence that the English higher clergy systematically mobilised scholastic theory to defend their opposition to state intrusions.4 Since civil and canon lawyers were rarely called upon to provide intellectual force to political arguments, and the common lawyers who dominated the system of royal justice rarely had university training, the intellectual input that legal experts provided to political debate was rooted not in abstract, scholastic traditions but in specific national applications of customary, feudal and common law.5 In the past, Anglophone historiography has tended to celebrate this position. A long tradition of scholarship has attempted to distance the key debates on consent to royal policy in the later thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries from the canon-law and civil-law principles that were informing the development of representative institutions on the continent, preferring to trace them back to insular origins in Norman traditions of feudal counsel and Anglo-Saxon systems of participatory government.6 No-one would deny, of course, that some Englishmen were capable of framing contemporary issues in the academic tradition. The crown had a vested interest in the lively debate on the relative rights of the papacy and of secular rulers to tax the clergy, and was particularly successful in mobilising the canonists’ principle of ‘urgent necessity’ as a means of justifying general taxation.7 The opening sermons and speeches to parliament that were usually delivered by high-ranking churchmen in the service of the king were also, not surprisingly, replete with canon-legal authority. And more occasionally, as in the debate on the appropriation of ecclesiastical property in 1371, university masters might be invited to contribute arguments providing scholastic justification for radical initiatives.8 In a wider sense, however, recent work has emphasised that the conditions that might have produced among the laity the kinds of sustained intellectual debate on public affairs found, for example, in Charles V’s France, were simply lacking in England for most of the Hundred Years 4

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M. S. Kempshall, The Common Good in Late Medieval Political Thought (Oxford 1999) 254 and n. 70. Anthony Musson, Medieval Law in Context: The Growth of Legal Consciousness from Magna Carta to the Peasants’ Revolt (Manchester 2001) 36–83. Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 900–1300, 2nd edn (Oxford 1997) 250–331; M. T. Clanchy, England and its Rulers, 1066–1272, 2nd edn (Oxford 1998) 14–17. Gaines Post, ‘Plena potestas and consent in medieval assemblies’, Traditio 1 (1943) 355–408; G. L. Harriss, King, Parliament and Public Finance in Medieval England to 1369 (Oxford, 1975), 3–48, 314–20; W. Mark Ormrod, ‘Political theory in practice: The forced loan on English overseas trade of 1317–1318’, Historical Research 64 (1991) 204–15. V. H. Galbraith, ‘Articles laid before the parliament of 1371’, English Historical Review 34 (1919) 579–92; Michael Wilks, ‘Royal Patronage and Anti-Papalism from Ockham to Wyclif ’, Studies in Church History Subsidia 5 (1987) 135–63; Jean-Philippe Genet, ‘New politics or new language? The words of politics in Yorkist and early Tudor England’, in: John L. Watts (ed.), The End of the Middle Ages? (Stroud 1998) 23–64.

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War. Buoyed up by a wave of triumphalism in the age of Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, the secular elite was satisfied to celebrate its strengths; it was only after the collapse of English military fortunes in the 1430s that it was forced to make a more sustained analysis of its serious weaknesses.9 For all these reasons, modern scholarship has been extremely loath to ascribe to the English parliament, the principal mouthpiece of the polity, any real capacity to intellectualise the many challenges facing the realm in the later Middle Ages. Even those most fraught of political acts, the depositions of kings, were enabled not by a sudden new understanding of civiland canon-law defences for those who opposed tyrants, but rather by a set of relatively ill-defined political principles about the distinction between king and crown and the duty of the polity to judge the king’s ‘sufficiency’ to rule.10 The so-called ‘new constitutional history’ has amply demonstrated that medieval public life was driven by a set of principles summed up in the key phrases ‘good governance’ and ‘common weal’.11 But the proponents of this approach tend to see parliament as a side-show and imagine the most meaningful expressions of such value systems to have been had through the law, that complex bundle of principles and practices that preserved property, title and status and so often defined the rights of the subject vis-à-vis the crown. As a result, the search for political ideas has been framed not in the context of parliamentary debate over myriad political, social, economic and cultural issues but within the rather more restricted context of the courts and of the language, values and dynamics of royal justice.12 In what follows, I should like to take issue with these recent historiographical trends. I shall bring parliament back to the centre of the political stage and demonstrate something of the liveliness, complexity and ambition of its debates. My focus will be on the relatively neglected subject of the political economy: that is, the public debate on royal taxation, the economic policies that underpinned it and the regulatory structures set up to enhance the material prosperity of the realm. By the fourteenth century the English economy was not only highly developed and commercialised; it was also 9

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John L. Watts, ‘Ideas, Principles and Politics’, in: A. J. Pollard (ed.), The Wars of the Roses (Basingstoke 1995) 110–33; Craig Taylor, ‘English Writings on Warfare and Chivalry during the Hundred Years War’, in: P. Coss and C. Tyerman (eds), Soldiers, Nobles and Gentlemen: Essays in Honour of Maurice Keen (Woodbridge 2009) 64–84. W. Mark Ormrod, Political Life in Medieval England, 1300–1450 (Basingstoke 1995) 77–82. John Watts, Henry VI and the Politics of Kingship (Cambridge 1996) 1–80. Edward Powell, ‘After “After McFarlane”: The Poverty of Patronage and the Case for Constitutional History’, in: D. J. Clayton, R. G. Davies and Peter McNiven (eds), Trade, Devotion and Governance (Stroud 1994) 1–16; Christine Carpenter, The Wars of the Roses: Politics and the Constitution in England, c. 1437–1509 (Cambridge 1997) 27–66. The more recent move towards a notion of ‘political culture’ has tended to broaden the debate: Watts, Making of Polities, 129–57.

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driven, to a very considerable degree, by the fiscal and legislative frameworks imposed by royal government.13 There was no shortage of economic theory available to support those who might engage in dialogue with the crown on the balance to be struck between its own fiscal advantage and the economic welfare of the realm.14 If, in practice, the parliamentary debates were driven mostly by experience, observation, business know-how and common sense, it does not follow that the participants were incapable of making creative contributions to the evolution of economic strategy and thus, by extension, to the development of the state. Four particular aspects of the political economy will be analysed in turn: the fiscal burden; the regulation of labour; freedom of trade within the realm, and the balance of overseas trade. The principal sources for this task are the parliament rolls, which exist in virtually unbroken series from the late 1330s.15 These included, on the crown’s side, the opening and closing speeches made in plenary session, and, on the commons’ side, the schedules of tax grants and the lists of common petitions. There is a crucial ambiguity arising from the fact that late medieval politics used the same word – ‘commons’ – to describe both the emerging lower house of parliament (stocked mainly by provincial gentry and leading townsmen) and the entirety of the third estate.16 This raises particular issues in relation to parliamentary debates where the welfare of the ‘commons’ was so often at stake. It is also important to understand that various formally- and informallyconstituted groups lobbied in parliament for the pursuit of their own agendas. Particularly conspicuous were: the ‘estate of merchants’, which the crown called into being on an ad hoc basis in the fourteenth century to represent the commercial interest inside and outside parliament; the merchant elites of London and other major cities; privileged aliens such as the German Hanse; and the English merchants of the Company of the Staple of Calais.17 These informal or corporate bodies exploited the tradition that parliament was 13

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R. H. Britnell, The Commercialisation of English Society, 1000–1500, 2nd edn (Manchester 1997). See also, in a European context: The Cambridge Economic History of Europe, III: Economic Organization and Policies in the Middle Ages, ed. by Edward Miller (Cambridge 1965); Bernard Guenée, States and Rulers in Later Medieval Europe, trans. Juliet Vale (Oxford 1985) 148–53; Richard Bonney (ed.), Economic Systems and State Finance (Oxford 1995). Joel Kaye, Economy and Nature in the Fourteenth Century: Money, Market Exchange, and the Emergence of Scientific Thought (Cambridge 1998); Diana Wood, Medieval Economic Thought (Cambridge 2002). The Parliament Rolls of Medieval England, ed. by Chris Given-Wilson, 16 vols (Woodbridge 2005) [hereafter PROME]. John Watts, ‘Public or plebs: The changing meaning of “the commons”, 1381–1529’, in: Huw Pryce and John Watts (eds), Power and Identity in the Middle Ages: Essays in Memory of Rees Davies (Oxford 2007) 242–60. T. H. Lloyd, The English Wool Trade in the Middle Ages (Cambridge 1977); T. H. Lloyd, England the German Hanse, 1157–1611 (Cambridge 1991); W. M. Ormrod, ‘The origins of tunnage and poundage: Parliament and the estate of merchants in the fourteenth century’, Parliamentary History 28 (2009) 209–27.

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open to all for the pursuit of private as well as public business. If their interests elided with those of the commons, their proposals might be adopted as common petitions; if not, they typically sought assistance from the lords, or went straight to the king and council.18 Many of the original proposals of such pressure groups survive and can be usefully mobilised alongside the parliament rolls to reveal the multiplicity of responses to royal economic policy.19 The fiscal burden The Hundred Years War witnessed a major increase in direct taxation in England.20 Not surprisingly, this provoked parliament to efforts at limiting the frequency, intensity and duration of such levies. The principles invoked – that taxes should be limited to the causes for which they were requested, and that they should be proportionate both to those causes and to the ability of the country to pay – seem to have derived from universal principles already embedded in public debates on fiscality in the thirteenth century, though it is interesting that they were also closely compatible with the scholastic notions that more directly informed debates in the French estates during the fourteenth century.21 The particular focus for present discussion is the notion of the fiscal burden: that is, the absolute and relative pressure that state taxation imposed on the economy and the orders of society. The prevailing system of direct taxation relied on the assessment of moveable property and was based, after 1334, on fixed communal quotas (the subsidies known as ‘fifteenths and tenths’). No laypeople were formally exempt from taxation; it is one of England’s constitutional curiosities that the nobility continued to contribute to such levies throughout the later Middle Ages. By modern standards, however, the tax system was blatantly unfair, bearing disproportionately on tenant farmers in the countryside and on propertyholding artisans in the towns.22 The parliamentary commons showed a keen 18

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Gwilym Dodd, Justice and Grace: Private Petitioning and the English Parliament in the Late Middle Ages (Oxford 2007) 156–96. Original petitions from the Hanse tended to be directed to the lords rather than the commons: Kew, The National Archives (hereafter cited as TNA), SC 8/21/1009, /24/1180, /116/5757, /116/5761, /116/5769, /125/6225. The mayor and aldermen of London sometimes addressed their petitions directly to the commons (TNA, SC 8/27/1329, /85/4238), but many of their petitions addressed to king and council were also adopted into the common petitions (e.g., PROME, 5:212, 269, 354–355, 405–406). W. Mark Ormrod, ‘England in the Middle Ages’, in Richard Bonney (ed.), The Rise of the Fiscal State in Europe. c. 1200–1815 (Oxford 1999) 19–52. E. A. R. Brown, ‘Cessante causa and the taxes of the last Capetians: The political applications of a philosophical maxim’, Studia Gratiana 15 (1972) 567–87; Harriss, King, Parliament, 320–27; G. L. Harriss, ‘Theory and practice in royal taxation: Some observations,’ English Historical Review 97 (1982) 811–9. J. R. Maddicott, ‘The English peasantry and the demands of the crown, 1294–1341’, in T. H. Aston (ed.), Landlords, Peasants and Politics in Medieval England (Cambridge 1987) 285–359.

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concern about the adverse effects of royal taxation and were deeply critical of the particularly heavy bout of subsidies during the first years of the Hundred Years War.23 A conventional historiography has it that, after the Black Death, these attitudes changed: becoming uneasy about the new prosperity of the lower orders, the commons now conspired with the crown to draw new groups, particularly landless wage-labourers, into the tax net and thus alleviate the pressure on the proprietary classes resulting from the downward distribution of wealth since the plague. This process supposedly reached its natural culmination in the infamous flat-rate poll tax of 1380 that provoked the equally famous Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.24 It remains uncertain, however, the degree to which parliament aimed to use taxation as a form of economic warfare and social control. Already before the introduction of the poll taxes, the commons had begun a new phase in their resistance to taxation by using the principle of sustainability and the plea of poverty to reject royal demands outright. In 1376 they argued that the country could not bear another tax on the grounds of the demographic and economic effects of the plague, frequent cattle murrains and repeated failures of the harvest.25 The very debate that led to the imposition of the 1380 poll tax was framed, ironically, within the commons’ concern that the ordinary people of the land were ‘too poor and in too weak a state to shoulder any greater burden’ and that fifteenths and tenths were ‘greatly burdensome to the poor commons’. The lords, who advised on the matter, proposed the poll tax because ‘every person in the kingdom would be well able to sustain it, provided that the strong were compelled to aid the weak’.26 It was the fixing of the standard rate at the high level of 12d. per capita that really caused problems, making it impossible to levy sufficient excess funds to subsidise the genuinely poverty-stricken.27 The revolt of 1381 was therefore less the product of a deliberate conspiracy and more the consequence of parliament’s failure properly to appreciate how the new system would work on the ground. That the lesson was learned is demonstrated by the abandonment of poll taxes and the ways in which parliament tried to redress systemic bias within the system. In their first two tax grants after the Peasants’ Revolt, in 1382 and 1383, the commons (with the cooperation of the lords) went to some lengths to point out that ‘all manner of 23

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E. B. Fryde, ‘Parliament and the French war, 1336–40’, in E. B. Fryde and Edward Miller (eds), Historical Studies of the English Parliament, 2 vols (Cambridge 1970) 1:242–261. E. B. Fryde, ‘The financial policies of the royal governments and popular resistance to them in France and England, c. 1270-c. 1420’, Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 57 (1979) 824–60. PROME, 5:297–298. The commons used the same discourse in the 1380s to encourage limitations on the royal prerogative of purveyance: PROME, 6:294–295, 315. PROME, 6:190–191. P. J. P. Goldberg, ‘Introduction’, in W. Mark Ormrod and Phillip G. Lindley (eds), The Black Death in England, 1348–1500 (Stamford 1996) 1–15, at 11–12.

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laymen of landed estate, of whatever degree they be, shall contribute alongside the poor, with none being spared’.28 This emphasis on the obligations of the elite were not repeated thereafter, but from 1404 parliament began to grant income taxes based on landed wealth that were intended to redress a least some of the imbalance in the tax burden.29 Finally, in 1433 the commons demanded that the quotas charged for fifteenths and tenths should be reduced by £4,000, or about 10% of the total burden, the relief to be distributed not pro rata but to those communities that had the greatest and most urgent need.30 This became standard practice in subsequent tax grants, with the total amount of relief being raised to £6,000 in 1446; and until the 1470s each tax grant involved a new inquiry into local economic conditions in order to ensure that the relief was applied in a way that reflected current local conditions.31 There is therefore much to indicate that the parliamentary commons were resolute defenders of the principle that the burdens of taxation should be commensurate with the capacity of the kingdom to pay. Their position was firmly rooted in a tradition of public obligation and in general notions of natural justice. In the later stages of the Hundred Years War, after the Treaty of Troyes (1420), it also became bound up in a logical but increasingly disingenuous argument that the costs of the defence of the king’s possessions in Normandy and the Loire provinces ought to be borne by his French, rather than his English, subjects.32 The self-interestedness of this position reminds us that the commons’ attempts to limit taxation were never merely altruistic. In particular, their views were forged from direct experience as feudal lords, employers, producers and traders. If taxation were kept at bay, then tenant farmers would have more money with which to pay rents and manorial dues and to purchase goods from the widening selection of manufactures available in local markets. Above all, preventing the crown from making more radical changes to the tax base allowed the proprietary elite to make occasional and well-timed acts of generosity while preserving a system whose impact on their own financial stability was still proportionately small. Had the commons voiced a defence of this underlying hypocrisy, it would no doubt have 28

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PROME, 6.283–284, 327; Gwilym Dodd, ‘The Lords, taxation and the community of parliament in the 1370s and early 1380s’, Parliamentary History 20 (2001) 287–310. M. Jurkowski, C. L. Smith and D. Crook, Lay Taxes in England and Wales, 1188–1688 (London 1998) 74–5, 78–9, 91–2, 102–4. PROME, 11:88–9. W. Mark Ormrod, ‘Poverty and privilege: The fiscal burden in England (XIIIth to XVth centuries)’, in: Simonetta Cavaciocchi (ed.), La fiscalità nell’economia Europea secc. XIII–XVIII, 2 vols (Prato 2008) 2:637–56, at 645–6. W. Mark Ormrod, ‘The domestic response to the Hundred Years War’, in: Anne Curry and Michael Hughes (eds), Arms, Armies and Fortifications in the Hundred Years War (Woodbridge 1994) 83–101, at 93.

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been in terms of the general downward redistribution of wealth that was such a marked feature of the fifteenth-century economy.33 But such self-serving attitudes to the burden of taxation also provide a timely reminder that, for all its ‘modernity’, the late medieval English state was still fundamentally conditioned and constrained by private interests and seigniorial rights. The regulation of labour By contrast, the labour laws that were put in place following the Black Death are widely regarded as marking a great leap-forward both in the competence of the state and in public understandings of its ability to deal with economic problems.34 Between 1349 and 1446 a long series of legislation aimed to address the post-plague shortage of labour in the agricultural and manufacturing economies by pegging wages at defined or ‘reasonable’ levels, by restricting the mobility of the labour force in order to guarantee local availability, and by advocating the use of long-term contracts that might prevent free labourers from being tempted to renege on their terms of employment.35 The original framework, established in the Ordinance and Statute of Labourers of 1349 and 1351, was almost entirely the work of the crown. It is quite clear from subsequent debates, however, that the commons felt a close affinity with those hostile official discourses that proclaimed a campaign ‘against the malice of servants, who were idle, and not willing to serve after the pestilence’.36 The regulatory framework established in the 1350s and 1360s only survived because parliament put considerable pressure on the crown to extend the competence of the main enforcers, the justices of the peace, to an increasingly broad range of economic issues. That the commons maintained this pressure in the longer term is especially manifested in two elements of the parliamentary debate on the labour laws: the use of judicial profits to offset the burden of taxation, and the prosecution of employers for breaches of the statutes.37 Throughout the second half of the fourteenth century the commons expressed considerable interest in the idea that the penalties accruing to the crown from the enforcement of the labour legislation might be used to sustain the common business of the kingdom. It was the crown that set the 33

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Christopher Dyer, Standards of Living in the Later Middle Ages: Social Change in England, c. 1200–1520 (Cambridge 1989). R. C. Palmer, English Law in the Age of the Black Death, 1348–1381 (Chapel Hill 1993). Chris Given-Wilson, ‘Service, serfdom and English labour legislation’, in: Anne Curry and Elizabeth Matthew (eds), Concepts and Patterns of Service in the Later Middle Ages (Woodbridge 2000) 21–37. Statutes of the Realm, 11 vols (London 1810–1828) [hereafter SR], 1:307–309, 311–313. Chris Given-Wilson, ‘The problem of labour in the context of English government, c. 1350– 1450’, in: James Bothwell, P. J. P. Goldberg and W. Mark Ormrod (eds), The Problem of Labour in Fourteenth-Century England (York 2000) 85–100, at 85–90.

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precedent by allowing the profits taken from the labour sessions between 1349 and 1355 to be used to provide relief for tax districts left impoverished by the plague.38 After 1355 this scheme lapsed. But during the second phase of the Hundred Years War, beginning in 1369, parliament began to show interest in the idea that a number of the crown’s ordinary revenues – including judicial profits, feudal incidents and the profits of the royal demesne – ought to be reserved for military enterprises and thus be used to alleviate the overall pressure of public taxation. In 1377 the commons specified that the estreats of the labour sessions ought to be used to support war expenditure, and in 1388 they petitioned that these dues be used ‘for the sustaining of the war and for the upkeep of the county where they are levied’.39 If the crown tended to ignore such requests, it was probably because it, rather more than parliament, understood that the sums concerned were often paltry. But it was also aware of the social tensions that could arise at the local level if justice were turned into a means of fiscal extraction and social control. The decision not to repeat the experiment of 1349–55 therefore stands as an interesting example of the crown’s need to prevent the over-exploitation of its rights and ameliorate the harsher elements of the commons’ social and economic programme. A similar discrepancy of opinion emerges in relation to the commons’ campaign for the inclusion within the labour laws of penalties against those who offered overly advantageous contracts and excessive rates of pay. The legislation of 1349 prescribed that employers who offered wages in excess of the going rate should be fined double the difference between the two sums.40 The Statute of Cambridge of 1388, in laying down specific guidelines for what payments might be offered in annual contracts, stated (at the instigation of the commons) that the same penalties would apply to givers and receivers, whichever party was deemed culpable.41 A decade earlier the commons had also begun a campaign to prevent employers and employees from disguising high wages by counting holy days as days of labour. They specified that in such instances both contractor and labourer should be subject to financial penalties.42 When the crown eventually conceded the latter point in 1402, however, it did so with the proviso that only the recipient

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Bertha Haven Putnam, The Enforcement of the Statute of Labourers (New York 1908) 100–49. PROME, 6:36; 7:125. Given-Wilson, ‘Problem of labour’, 87, is inaccurate on this point. The ordinance of 1349 remained in force throughout, itself being confirmed as a statute in 1378, and subsequent legislation reiterated the power of the justices of the peace to interrogate masters, as well as servants, under the terms of the labour laws: PROME, 9:48; SR, 2:11, 177. PROME, 7:125; SR, 2:57. PROME, 6:37.

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could be made culpable.43 Its logic is evident in the parliamentary debate in 1416, when the commons declared that contractors were refusing to bring charges under the Statute of Cambridge for fear that they would be charged with collusion. To the request that it abolish the liability of the giver, the crown cautiously allowed a three-year amnesty in order that the unintended effects of the statute could be righted.44 In 1423, when the commons asked that the king’s council extend to all employers the liability to be examined by the justices of the peace, as established for labourers in 1414, the crown again only conceded on a temporary basis.45 In this debate, particularly, we see an interesting tension between the concerns of crown and commons. While the state focused on the culpability of the labour force, parliament showed a greater diversity of responses, sometimes siding with, but sometimes also blaming, employers. Their position is perhaps explicable by the particular concern they expressed over the position of substantial peasant freeholders and petty craftsmen, whose inclination to bow to pressure for higher wages and better terms of service was perceived as a dangerous breach of the solidarity that ought to prevail among employers.46 More generally, the commons’ campaign for the enforcement of standard wages and contracts demonstrates vividly their firm determination to subordinate the free workings of the labour market to the furtherance of social stability. Whereas parliament was the conservative force in the debate on the late medieval fiscal burden, it was the commons who aimed to push forward the principles of public authority in the operation of the labour laws and the crown itself that acted as a restraint on the further expansion of the frontiers of the state. Internal trade The instincts that drove the landed and commercial classes represented in parliament to such assertive forms of regulation also manifested themselves in relation to internal trade. In this case, though, such attitudes took rather longer to coalesce, and were determined by a particular desire to limit the rights of aliens within the domestic economy. From the Statute of York of 1335 to the 1380s, the crown actively pursued the principle that trade in domestic markets ought to be open to all and that, with the necessary exception of the subjects of enemy states, foreigners in general should have

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PROME, 8:195. PROME, 9:197. PROME, 10:196. PROME, 5:211; M. M. Postan, The Medieval Economy and Society (Harmondsworth 1975) 170.

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exactly the same rights as denizens to buy and sell within the realm.47 At the instigation of the commons in the 1330s and 1340s, it also attempted to promote the domestic cloth trade by providing important guarantees to alien cloth-workers coming to England to ply their craft and by keeping the duties on cloth exports lower than those on wool. There is clear evidence that aliens, both clothiers resident in England and merchants engaged in overseas trade, were able to make direct representations in parliament that were taken up in further guarantees of legal rights and trading privileges offered in 1352–4.48 Until the 1370s, the commons were strongly in support of such principles, mainly because they were equally strongly opposed to the restrictive practices being simultaneously applied upon the wool trade to the private advantage (as they saw it) of closed cartels of merchant capitalists.49 A good example of the spirit of creative compromise that prevailed in these years is the common petition of 1353 for the abolition of the alnage, the regulatory system operated by the crown to maintain a national standard of measure and fineness in the production of woollen cloth. The crown was happy to dispense with the existing system in order to promote manufactures and sales, but expected to be compensated for the resulting loss of income; and the commons themselves liaised with the council to devise a new process in which the king’s alnagers simply took fees for the formal approval of all woollen cloths exposed for sale in English markets.50 From the 1370s, however, fissures began to appear. One reason for this, discussed more fully below, was the deteriorating balance of overseas trade and the resulting attack on the advantages enjoyed by alien merchants. Equally vital was the political voice of the mayor and aldermen of London, who argued that the Statute of York infringed their rights, confirmed by royal charter, to regulate aliens and denizens alike when they came into the city to trade. In the parliaments of 1373 and 1376 the Londoners complained that the economy of the city was being jeopardised by the crown’s policies and criticised the rights of aliens to buy and sell in retail and to sell on to other foreigners for re-sale, ‘to the great inflation of the price of the merchandise’.51 Denizen clothworkers in London also maintained a sustained campaign in parliament against alien privileges during these years.52 Although the commons were still seeking the full operation of the Statute of York in 1388, they had fully assimilated the Londoners’ programme by 1393 and now persuaded the crown to adopt, at the 47 48 49 50

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SR, 1: 269–271. PROME, 5:62–63, 90. PROME, 5:18, 402; Harriss, King, Parliament, 420–49. PROME, 5:67, 83–84; SR, 1:330–331. For earlier opposition to the alnage from the merchants of London and Norwich see TNA, SC 8/124/6196, 127/6305. PROME, 5:354–355. TNA, SC 8/43/2127, /123/6147, /143/7128.

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national level, a ban on alien involvement in the retail market and on wholesale transactions conducted within the realm where both parties were foreigners.53 The conflicts of interest experienced under this new dispensation are evident again in the debates on the cloth trade. The commons held strongly to the promotion of domestic manufactures, and usually managed to accommodate a wide range of interests: in 1390, for example, they adopted petitions from the makers and sellers of worsteds of Norfolk (a popular low-quality cloth) and the buyers of cloth in the West Country as well as protesting on behalf of export merchants about the unwarranted customs duties being levied on kerseys (another cheap East Anglian cloth).54 Significantly, they also tried to protect alien merchants trading in cloth. In 1431 the commons argued that recent legislation requiring payment in cash in all wholesale purchases made by alien merchants within the realm caused problems for denizen cloth sellers and asked that foreigners be allowed to purchase cloth only by exchange of merchandise or by credit notes. This, however, cut directly across the wider efforts of parliament and crown to draw bullion from the continent into England, and the government of Henry VI rejected the proposal.55 If the promotion of the native cloth industry became an article of faith for the commons in the later fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, it was not always easily reconciled with the restrictive practices that they favoured in so many other parts of the political economy. Overseas trade Of all the economic matters that fell with the purview of parliament, it is not surprising that the cluster of issues relating to overseas trade dominated the commons’ debates. It was well understood that England’s prosperity relied very heavily on the export of a major cash commodity, raw wool. By the 1350s the commons were generally reconciled to the crown’s attempts to maximise its profits from the wool trade by establishing a compulsory staple, one or more fixed locations through which wool had to pass before being put up for sale in foreign markets.56 In 1348 the commons were already advising the king that the staple was ‘the sovereign treasure of your land’ and engaging in their own statistical calculations as to the profits to be had from the wool subsidy, the largest of the various customs duties imposed on wool exports.57 Their rapid conversion to the particular benefits of the staple established 53 54 55 56

57

PROME, 7:71. PROME, 7:161, 163–164. PROME, 10:465. W. Mark Ormrod, The Reign of Edward III: Crown and Political Society in England, 1327– 1377 (London 1990) 191–193. PROME, 4:414, 452. See also PROME, 6:52.

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in the new English possession of Calais in the 1360s is well known.58 Equally, they remained committed to foiling the crown’s attempts to force other goods through this compulsory entrepôt. After the 1376 ordinance re-establishing the liability of worsteds to the Calais staple, the clothiers of Norfolk successfully sought exemption through parliament on the basis of a quaint argument that the market for cheap cloths was mainly among ‘the Saracens’.59 And in 1382 a group of the commons representing parts of the country that produced lower-quality wools launched an unsuccessful campaign to allow cheap wool to be exempt from the Calais staple.60 It was the perceived need to maintain a healthy balance of trade that also drove the commons’ resistance to the crown’s attempts to increase the customs duties on cloth exports and their enthusiasm for sumptuary laws designed to protect domestic manufactures.61 There is much to be said, though, for the idea that parliament only really came to appreciate the hugely favourable balance of trade that had obtained in the mid-fourteenth century when it withered away so dramatically in the later stages of the Hundred Years War. In 1429 the commons entered a particularly vivid petition reminiscing on times and benefits now sadly lost: It may well be remembered that in the time of King Edward [III] and King Richard [II], in whose reigns much fortune and privilege was common in the households of this realm ... the merchandise that came [into the realm] was half the price that it is now; that is to say, ginger was 9d., pepper 8d., cloves, mace, cinnamon, canel and green ginger between 12d. and 13d., malmsey, tire and rumney [wines] 4 or 5 marks at most. And at that time [foreign merchants] bought fine Cotswold wool for 16 and 17 marks [and] fine strait [cloths] of Essex for 24s. ... whereas it is now reduced to half the price that it was. And their merchandise has increased in value twofold, so that the greater quantity of merchandise that they bring into the realm, the dearer it is, and the more they buy, the cheaper they make it. Unless a remedy is provided soon, this will lead to the destruction of this realm.62

The commons’ essential remedy to this problem, evident since the 1390s, was to impose fiscal and legal restraints on the activities of foreign merchants 58 59

60

61

62

Lloyd, English Wool Trade, 194–224. Dorothy Greaves, ‘Calais under Edward III’, in: George Unwin (ed.), Finance and Trade under Edward III (Manchester 1918) 313–348, at 340–347; TNA, SC 8/85/4243. Gwilym Dodd, ‘The Calais staple and the parliament of May 1382’, English Historical Review 117 (2002) 94–103. PROME, 4:191; SR, 1: 280–28; E. M. Carus-Wilson and Olive Coleman, England’s Export Trade, 1275–1547 (Oxford 1963) 194–196; A. R. Bridbury, Medieval English Clothmaking (London 1982) 86–97. Because the major reduction in the duties on wool exports by denizens, applied in 1422, was part of the policy of throwing the fiscal burden onto Henry VI’s subjects in France, it was impossible for the crown to argue the case for a concomitant increase in the duties on cloth: Ormrod, ‘Domestic response’, 93–4. PROME, 10:430.

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and thus provide systemic advantages to denizens. From 1398, parliament began to differentiate between the rates paid by English and foreign merchants for the subsidy on wool exports; from 1422 to 1453 the supplement paid by aliens was of the order of £1 3s. 4d. per sack.63 The first decade of the fifteenth century witnessed a particularly sustained attack by the commons on the rights of alien traders, who now had to register with a host supervisor, to provide surety that they would sell imported goods and buy those they planned to take out of the country within three months (subsequently reduced to 40 days) of entering the kingdom, and were once again banned from trading with each other and selling retail.64 At the beginning of Henry VI’s reign various groups of English merchants agitated hard in parliament against the renewal of the charters of the German Hanse, and in the process the crown was forced to override earlier privileges and require the Hanseatics to pay the full alien rates in the English customs system.65 In the debates on overseas trade and its contribution to the domestic economy, then, the state’s remarkable shift from a qualified free-trade system at the start of the Hundred Years War to a distinctly mercantilist one at its end can be shown to have been driven, to a significant degree, by parliament’s increasingly assertive efforts to disadvantage over-privileged foreigners and allow native merchants their natural right to control English trade. One of the major reasons why both crown and commons persisted in this ultimately disastrous protectionism was that it was meant to service the sterling currency and thus promote the general prosperity of the kingdom. The English parliament, like many of its counterparts on the continent, was a ferocious opponent of debasement, and expressed grave disquiet with the reduction in the weight of sterling undertaken by Edward III’s government in the 1340s and 1350s.66 It was also highly suspicious of those foreigners – particularly French and Italians – who were perceived to be draining off sterling coin and putting it in the hands of England’s enemies abroad.67 The deterioration in the balance of trade from the 1370s brought these debates into focus, and for some years the commons made most of the political pace on the state of the coinage. In 1379 they informed the king that they had consulted with the masters of the mint on the deteriorating state of the currency, and effectively set up their own commission to make specific 63

64 65 66

67

W. Mark Ormrod, ‘Finance and trade under Richard II’, in: Anthony Goodman and James L. Gillespie (eds), Richard II: The Art of Kingship (Oxford 1999) 155–86, at 166. Lloyd, Hanse, 109–10. PROME, 10:10, 63–65; Lloyd, Hanse, 130. PROME, 4:394–395, 417; 5:15, 20, 48, 84, 107; Peter Spufford, ‘Assemblies of estates, taxation and control of coinage in medieval Europe’, Studies Presented to the International Commission for the History of Representative Institutions 31 (1966) 113–30. E.g. in 1376: PROME, 5:318, 334, 336, 341, 342, 343–344, 362.

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recommendations ‘for the profit of the merchants of England who sell their wool at Calais, and for the profit of the merchants of England who buy their merchandise in Flanders to be brought to England, and for the profit of all those who distribute the said merchandise’.68 In the years that followed, this self-consciously inclusive rhetoric came under strain as various interest groups vied for the moral high ground. The ‘merchants of the realm’ articulated firm opposition to the bullion regulations incepted in 1379.69 And in 1382, when the compulsory staple was restored after a brief intermission, a group of the commons representing parts of the country that produced low-quality wools challenged prevailing enthusiasm and launched an unsuccessful campaign to allow cheap wool to be exempt from passage through Calais.70 Out of the push-and-pull of these debates in the 1380s and 1390s there slowly emerged a consensus position, though one that spoke particularly powerfully to the interests of the Company of the Staple.71 This emergent English bullion strategy was two-pronged. First, the socalled Employment Acts required alien merchants to use (‘employ’) a proportion of their sterling receipts from sales of imports to purchase English goods for export. The text of the first Employment Act (1390) reads as a royal initiative; but it is clear from the conditions that were attached to the grant of supply in the same assembly that the legislation represented a fraught and ultimately unsuccessful attempt at compromise with a range of interested parties among the commons and the merchant lobbyists.72 Secondly, in 1391 alien merchants were required to make deposits of gold at the English mints of London and Calais for each sack of wool exported to the continent.73 This measure was again presented as a government ordinance, but it is perhaps as well to remember that the commons had been proposing precisely such a strategy of bullion deposits as far back as 1339.74 The natural culmination of these policies, the Bullion and Partition Ordinances issued in the parliament of 1429–30, has usually been interpreted as an official scheme put together by the crown in consultation with the Company of the Staple, whose leaders were certainly its principal potential beneficiaries.75 68 69 70

71

72 73 74 75

PROME, 6:128; TNA, C 49/9, no. 17; SC 8/19/932; SC 8/271/13512. TNA, SC 8/125/6205. Gwilym Dodd, ‘The Calais staple and the parliament of May 1382’, English Historical Review 117 (2002) 94–103. For petitions from the Company of the Staple addressed to the commons see TNA, SC 8/23/1142; SC 8/290/14463. For those adopted by the lords or commons see PROME, 8:119–120; 9:108–109, 110; 10:180–184; 11:36. PROME, 7:172, 176, 178–179. PROME, 7:194–195. For the reaction of the staplers see TNA, SC 8/101/5022. PROME, 4:243–244; 6:134. John H. Munro, Wool, Cloth and Gold: The Struggle for Bullion in Anglo-Burgundian Trade, 1340–1478 (Toronto 1972) 84.

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It is striking, however, that the parliamentary record represents the ordinances as arising from a series of quite detailed proposals presented by the commons ‘for [the king’s] prosperity and wellbeing and that of his universal realm, as well as for the good policy, government and maintenance of his staple at Calais’.76 The process and the rhetoric are particularly revealing, indicating that all sides acknowledged the vested interest of the staplers and, equally significantly, that the crown preferred, wherever possible, to have its economic policies seen as the product of active and open engagement with the polity in parliament. The need for such a position was hardly surprising, for the bullion policy turned out to be one of the greatest disasters of English commercial and diplomatic policy in the later Middle Ages, provoking a bullion war with the dukes of Burgundy and fundamentally compromising England’s search for allies against the French during the later stages of the Hundred Years War.77 In the case of bullion regulations, the ability of parliament directly to determine royal policy was therefore significantly compromised by the crown’s consciousness that the management of the currency was a matter of prerogative, and the commons only really came to be seen to be making a contribution to the debate when they were persuaded to adopt the official line promoted among their own number by the Company of the Staple. Conclusion Historians of statehood have long acknowledged that the emergence of representative institutions in later medieval Europe was of fundamental importance to the creation of a more coherent political dialogue between rulers and ruled. Wim Blockmans’ own comparative study of European parliaments stressed the key distinction between those assemblies where the first and second estates dominated and those (in relatively urbanised and commercialised areas) where the third estate, represented by leading townsmen and merchants, came to have significant influence.78 In the case of the English parliament, the fact that the commons were a hybrid of the landed and mercantile classes could be said both to have extended the repertoire of economic issues that fell within their purview and, indeed, to have complicated the resulting debates by admitting such a variety of sometimes competing voices. On occasions, the crown could certainly take advantage of a lack of unanimity and decisiveness among the commons to seize the moment for itself. But this is not to argue the functionalist case of so much recent 76 77

78

PROME, 10:426–427. Munro, Wool, Cloth and Gold, 43–92; Wim Blockmans and Walter Prevenier, The Burgundian Netherlands (Cambridge 1986) 119–121. Wim Blockmans, ‘A typology of representative institutions in late medieval Europe’, Journal of Medieval History 4 (1978) 189–215.

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scholarship and to suggest that the commons were generally content with the subsidiary role formally allocated to them as mere assenters to the official policies of the crown.79 It is clear from the foregoing discussion that, for much of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, some of the key elements in the English crown’s fiscal, monetary and economic policies were significantly conditioned by the attitudes of the county and urban representatives and their associates among the country’s landholders, merchants, manufacturers and employers. From this position, two important and essential truths emerge about the nature of the late medieval English state. First, the commons’ defence of their own and others’ interests acted as the greatest practical constraint on the crown’s ability more aggressively to pursue its own fiscal policies. Secondly, conversely, and rather more momentously, public interest in the role of national government vis-à-vis the economy greatly expanded both the range of human activity over which the state had influence and the expectations of the polity about the crown’s capacity to apply the principles of common utility in such contexts. In this latter sense, the parliamentary debates on the political economy in the fourteenth and fifteenth century stand alongside the other, rather better-known issues – ministerial regulation, financial probity, access to impartial justice, preservation of public order and so on – that determined contemporary perceptions of good governance and ensured that the late medieval English state emerged not solely in the image of its kings but as a participatory regime sustained by repeated negotiation and re-negotiation between crown and polity.80

79

80

As, for example, in A. L. Brown, ‘Parliament, c. 1377–1422’, in: R. G. Davies and J. H. Denton (eds), The English Parliament in the Middle Ages (Manchester 1981) 109–40. G. L. Harriss, ‘Political society and the growth of government in late medieval England’, Past and Present 138 (1993) 28–57.

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Meeting the King in Late Medieval Denmark Bjørn Poulsen University of Aarhus

Power in late medieval Denmark was first and foremost in the hands of the monarch and the noble council of the realm which elected him.1 In this article, I intend to examine closely the interplay between king and council in the last decade of the fifteenth century, particularly considering the question of how and when the two parts met each other. This question is too big to be fully dealt with in this context, but I shall try at least to illustrate the broad character of these meetings. Evidently, it is of considerable interest to know to which degree they were ‘closed meetings’ or whether commoners, that is to say, representatives of towns and villages, could have a say in the power negotiations by the monarchy. Naturally another related question is that of whether in general more commoners had access to the king. To answer these answers, I shall try to give a broad overview of the development of political culture of late medieval Denmark. My principal case study will be the meeting of the Danish Estates in 1494, and I am going to start by considering the very concrete problems facing people who were invited to attend. Two journeys in 1494 In May 1494, two men set off to meet the king of Denmark and some of the representatives of his kingdom. The royal person whom they were going to see was the 39-year old Hans ( Johannes) who was residing temporarily in the town of Kalundborg on the east coast of the Danish isle of Sjælland. King Hans had taken over the thrones of Denmark and Norway in 1483. Because the Union of the three Nordic realms was still very much a political reality he also laid claim to the Swedish Crown but this claim would not be substantiated until 1497. From 1482 onwards, Hans also ruled as Duke of Schleswig and Holstein, but he had to share power with his brother Frederik, or Friedrich, as he was called in German, who was sixteen years younger than he. Only in 1490 were the Duchies divided into two parts, one for King Hans, and the other for Duke Frederik.2 However, this territorial settlement did not satisfy Frederik who was one of the men who were to meet king Hans in 1494. 1

2

For an overview, see Herman Schück, ‘The political system’, in: The Cambridge History of Scandinavia, I, ed. by Knut Helle (Cambridge 2003) 679–709. Bjørn Poulsen, ‘Slesvig før delingen i 1490. Et bidrag til senmiddelalderens finansforvaltning’, Historisk Tidsskrift 90 (1990) 38–63.

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142 Bjørn Poulsen

We can follow Frederik’s travel in quite some detail from the ducal accounts. Let me first give a somewhat detailed outline of the trip and expenditures made, in order to support my broader argument. The duke’s scribe Helmold Alverding carefully noted all income and expenditure connected to the trip. He began the relevant account, written in Low German, with the words: Dit nabeschreven hebbe ich Helmoldus vtegegeuenn von mynes g. heren wegen vppe de reyse na Denemargken vppe den dag to Callundeborg, de dar werdet des sondages erst na trinitatis anno etc. 94 (‘I, Helmoldus, have spent the following on behalf on my gracious lord on his travel to Denmark to the meeting at Kalundborg which is going to be on the first of June in the year 1494’).3 The coffers of the scribe contained quite a sum of money. From Frederik personally, he received 300 Rhine guilders and he got the same amount from the custom house of Gottorp, outside the town of Schleswig, where all departing oxen and horses belonging to Hanseatic, North West German and Dutch customers were liable for a toll. Near the beginning of May, the duke left his main residence at the old castle of Gottorp and traveled to the north. For some time he stayed in the town of Tønder, on the west coast of Schleswig, but by 24 May he was definitely headed for Kalundborg. His first destination was the town of Haderslev on the east coast of Schleswig, where he gathered an entourage of servants and met his chancellor, his councilors (de rede), and the bishop of Lübeck, Dietrich Arndes, who was accompanied by at least two servants. All these people were to make up the entourage of the young prince. A visit was paid to the town’s newly re-built church where offerings were made, and one servant rode to the nearby ferry port to prepare the wagons so that the next morning they could be ferried, along with the entire company, to Funen, across the narrow strait of the Little Belt. The next day, the party got up early and the staff of the local castle, where Frederik had slept and taken dinner, were given tips; the horses were also shoed here. The next stay was in a private house in the small town of Assens on Funen, a place which benefited greatly from its function as ferry station. By 27 May, Frederik and his followers had covered the 40 kilometers to the largest town of Funen, Odense, where a suitable place to spend the night was found. After having paid the landlady on Thursday 28 May, the duke rode to the next ferry point, Nyborg, at the Great Belt. There, he and his company took quarters in the castle where once the large meetings of the Danish nobility, the Danehof, the parlamentum quod dicitur hof, had taken place, and, as the payments made the next day demonstrate, while he was there the duke was served by the castle’s cook and cellarer, among others. 3

Danske middelalderlige Regnskaber, 1st Ser., vol. 1, ed. by Georg Galster (Copenhagen 1953) 350–9.

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The following day, Friday 29 May, Frederik first donated one guilder to an altar and, after having bought a barrel of beer, boarded a ship which took him to the town Korsør on the other side of the belt. A special ship was hired for all the accompanying horses. In Korsør he had dinner and slept at the small local castle where the staff were given tips. On Saturday 31st May he traveled some fifty kilometers further north on the last part of his journey towards the final destination, namely the thriving town of Kalundborg. Frederik was on horseback while his servants and councilors were transported by peasants in wagons. They made a stop halfway, at a mill. After arrival at Kalundborg, the peasants were given a barrel of beer for their trouble and the company went through the gates of Kalundborg to enter the fine town with its bishop’s house and its large royal castle where the central archives of the realm were kept.4 Frederik and his men were apparently not quartered in the castle but had to find lodgings with local townsmen, wealthy burghers, but it goes without saying that the duke got his own gemake, his apartment. From there he had sent for two barrels of Einbeck beer from Copenhagen and (presumably in the evening) the duke went to see his brother, the king, at the castle, bringing a lot of small Danish change with him (hvide) to be used while he played cards with the king: do sine g. spelede vnde kartede mit mynem g. heren koninge (‘when his Grace was playing games and cards with my gracious Lord the King’). This was the first journey to the 1494 Kalundborg meeting that can be followed in detail. The other was undertaken by a man of the highest Danish aristocracy, Mourids Nielsen of the family which came to be designated Gyldenstierne (internationally best known from Shakespeare’s figure Guildenstern in the play Hamlet). Mourids Nielsen was one of the most prominent Danish noblemen of his time. He owned the manors Aagaard in Northern Jutland, Bregentved on Sjælland and Markie and Førløv in Scania. These four manors and their adjacent 516 tenant farms made him one of the richest men in Denmark.5 He also administered a number of royal districts (len) and in 1476 he was made a member of the Council of the Realm (Rigsrådet), the most important decision-making organ that supported the king.6 However, this did not make him any ever-obedient follower of the king’s wishes. He had his own political agenda and advocated a strong position for the Councils of both Denmark and Sweden. This was perhaps the reason why, in spite of his wealth and position, he was never given the title of knight (ridder) but had to remain an esquire (væbner). 4

5 6

Lars Holleufer, Kalundborg i middelalderen. En undersøgelse af byens topografiske udvikling indtil 1547 (Aarhus 1990). Erik Ulsig, Danske adelsgodser i middelalderen (Copenhagen 1968) 230–3. Harry Christensen, Len og magt i Danmark 1439–1481 (Aarhus 1983) 349. The council comprised c. 40 men.

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The recently-edited travel accounts of Mourids show us the route he took when he left his North-Jutland manor.7 The scribe of the account notes in a mixture of Latin and Danish: Feria tertia ante corporis Christi tha foer Mawris aff Aagard (‘On 27 May, Mourids took off from Aagaard’). While passing through the villages on his land, and in royal districts he and some of his men collected fines and rents from local peasants. On the 29th May, the town of Randers on East Jutland was reached by wagon, and four skilling and some beer were given to the men who drove them. Also the town executioner was given some money so that he could buy himself a pair of shoes. The following day, Mourids went to the royal castle Tordrup, just outside Randers, where several kitchen personnel and the local fisherman were given tips, no doubt after a well-served dinner. On the same day, Mourids continued his journey down the coast to the large town of Aarhus. There, he took up residence in the house of a citizen and his wife, was shaved by a barber and he ordered a jug of wine. The next day he went to mass in a monastery and drank some more wine. Early on Sunday, the first day of June, he attended mass and made offerings, after which he embarked on a rather long sea crossing over the southern part of the Kattegat. The sailing party stopped on the small island of Tunø where they went to church and they then travelled on to Kalundborg. The scribe noted that ‘on the same Sunday they reached Kalundborg and the ferrymen were given four marks to take Mourids across’. Once they had arrived, Mourids found private lodgings in the house of a local woman, who was assisted by her two daughters and a female cook. The 1494 meeting of the Estates in Kalundborg The gathering in Kalundborg to which the two men were traveling was the second of a not very long series of Danish meetings of Estates.8 The practice of formally dividing society into estates was already present in the Danish accession charters, the håndfæstninger, of 1320 and 1326, but how this was implemented in politics only became clearer during the fifteenth century.9 In 1468, for the first time King Christian I summoned the Council 7

8

9

Troels Dahlerup, Jeppe Büchert Netterstrøm and Bjørn Poulsen, ‘Mourids Nielsen Gyldenstjernes regnskaber. Rejseregnskaber 1493–94, inventarium 1494, julelagsliste 1496 og mandtal 1496’, Danske Magazin 50 (2008) 303–42. Edward Kleberg, De danska ständermötena intill Kristian IV’s död. Till belysning av de konstitutionella strävandena i Danmark under äldre tid (Göteborg 1917); Poul Johannes Jørgensen, Dansk Retshistorie (Copenhagen 19746) 497–500; Herman Schück, ‘Royal Assemblies (Parliaments, Estates)’, in: Phillip Pulsiano (ed.), Medieval Scandinavia. An Encyclopedia (New York, London 1993) 544–5. Aksel E. Christensen, ‘Det danske stændersamfunds epoker. Et rids’, in Aksel E. Christensen, Danmark, Norden og Østersøen. Udvalgte afhandlinger, udgivet på halvfjerdsårsdagen den 11. september 1976 (Copenhagen 1976), 261–276; Jens E. Olesen, Unionskrige og stændersamfund. Bidrag til Nordens historie i Kristian I’s regeringstid 1450–1481 (Aarhus 1983), 12–13.

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of the Realm, the nobility, and representatives of the towns and peasantry, to a common meeting at Kalundborg. His goal was to secure support against the noble magnates.10 The 1494 meeting was similar to the first, at least judging from the only other source that has, until now been discussed in relation to the Kalundborg meeting. This source is normally termed the ‘letter of indivisibility’ and is quite well-known in Danish medieval history.11 It is clearly the product of a gathering of the Estates, as the text states that it reports the verdict of a meeting where the Council of the realm met with four noblemen of each diocese, one mayor plus one councilor and two common citizens from each town, as well as some peasants, all having some kind of mandate from their constituency. It also declares that the letter was the outcome of a common meeting with all present members of the Estates.12 However, this letter was not actually drawn up by the Estates. It was issued and sealed only by the Council of the Realm which, on that day consisted of the highest clergy and the noble magnates, in this case the archbishop of Lund, six bishops, one abbot and a provost as well as thirteen lay noblemen of whom nine were knights. One of them, according to the letter, was our Mourids Nielsen. The council evidently acted as interpreters of the result of the meeting of the Estates and as representatives of the realm while the king is not mentioned. Their letter first explained the background of the decision: Duke Frederik had often demanded from the king and the Council of the Realm that he should be given a part of the realm; here, the Duke was thinking particularly of the south Danish islands of Lolland, Falster and Møn. Recently, the letter says, he had put forward his demands at a meeting with king and council in Copenhagen but they had answered that only a council of all estates of the realm could decide on this matter. Therefore, as stated in the letter, the Estates and the duke were summoned to a meeting in Kalundborg on trinitatis søndag, which that year was 25th May. According to the letter, Duke Frederik had put forward his territorial claims and the Estates which were gathered there had answered that Denmark was a ‘free election kingdom’ (ith friith koeræ riige), and accordingly they could not permit for the 10

11

12

Thelma Jexlev, ’Kalundborgmødet 1468 – stændermøde eller særdomstol?’, in: Festskrift til Troels Dahlerup på 60-årsdagen den 3. december 1985, ed. by Aage Andersen, Per Ingesman and Erik Ulsig (Århus 1985) 277–94. Repertorium diplomaticum regni Danici mediævalis. Fortegnelse over Danmarks Breve fra Middelalderen med Udtog af de hidtil utrykte, 2. Ser., ed. by William Christensen, vol. 1–9 (Copenhagen 1928–39) IV, no. 7672. For the full text of the ‘letter of indivisibility’ see Danmarks Riges Historie, ed. by Johannes Steenstrup et al. (Copenhagen 1896–1907) III, 33. The original is in the Danish National Archives, but it was recently exhibited in the Museum of Kalundborg: http://www.kalmus.dk/html/exudstil.html. ‘Tha sammell ginge alle forscreffne oc gaffue the hannom sambdrechtelige swodant ith swar’ (‘Then, all the persons mentioned came together and united they gave him the following answer’).

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kingdom, its castles, and towns to be divided or given to more than one prince at the same time. Frederik, strongly supported by his powerful mother, Queen Dorothea, was here fighting for his dynastic rights as he understood them. He had received half of the duchies outside Denmark, and was now also aiming to get a fiefdom in the kingdom of Denmark in the same way and in the same geographical areas as younger princes had obtained such land as apanages in the thirteenth century. The last prince to achieve Lolland as a fief had been King Valdemar Atterdag’s son Christoffer who held the island from 1359 to his death in 1363. Since then, strangely enough, there had been no Danish younger princes in need of fiefdoms. So, in 1494, Frederik thought he had a rightful claim, even more so because Lolland was already in the possession of Queen Dorothea. The Council of the Realm, however, was definitely in favour of retaining an undivided country as it saw this as the only way of securing its own right of election. The Council’s answer was in direct accordance with more theoretical contemporary writings that underlined the importance of safeguarding the election rights of the Council and the inhabitants of a kingdom, and presumably the situation was perceived exactly in this sense by those members of the Council who were well-versed in political theory. Although the Council and the Estates of the Duchies of Schleswig and Holstein had proven weak and had elected both Hans and Frederik as rulers and had permitted a division of their lands in 1490, such a course of things was not viable in the kingdom of Denmark. Now, there is something strange about the ‘letter of indivisibility’, which becomes apparent if we compare it to the travel accounts of Mourids Nielsen. The letter states that meetings took place from the 25th onwards and the letter itself was dated after one such meeting at the leuerdagen nest efftir helge legomes dag (i.e. Saturday after the Feast of Corpus Christi), that is to say, on 31 May. Evidently this does not correspond to the accounts of Mourids Nielsen who, on that last day of May, was at Aarhus in Jutland. There is every reason to believe the accounts of Mourids: he simply could not have been present at the meeting at Kalundborg on the 31st, nor could he have put his seal on the letter issued that day. This he must have done later, perhaps on Sunday the first of June, after arriving by boat from Jutland. This incident should perhaps shake our confidence a little in the witness lists of charters, which modern medieval historians normally consider to be of great value. In addition, it is also peculiar that the scribe of Duke Frederik noted that an important meeting was to take place on the first of June whereas the ‘letter of indivisibility’, itself issued on the last day of May, states that the Duke was summoned to the meeting of the 25th. But the travel accounts of Frederik, as we saw, would only have allowed him to have attended a meeting late on the last day of May.

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Presumably, the concept of the ‘letter of indivisibility’ was outlined some time in advance of the Kalundborg meeting by the inner circle of the Council of the Realm, and subsequently discussed by the Estates in several meetings between 25 and 31 May. Nevertheless, the fast production of a written answer may have come as a surprise to Frederik and his councilors when they arrived on the 31th. It must have been quite confusing after a long day’s travel to be confronted with a gathering of the some hundred people who constituted the Estates and who definitely had already made their minds up. In this situation, Frederik had no alternative than to put forward his territorial demands and accept the negative answer that he, admittedly, must have expected. At the moment when the letter was presented to Frederik, the seal of Mourids Nielsen must still have been missing, but there will have been a space left for it. It was probably added at a more ceremonious gathering next day, on Sunday 1 June, when Mourids made a legal promise that he accepted the letter. A note in Frederik’s accounts underlines the solemnity of that day as it states that the Duke donated six Rhine guilders to the royal trumpeters in the castle. However, it is very revealing that Mourids seems not to have really cared about attending the meeting of the Estates. He knew both that everything had been decided upon earlier, and, in any case, that real power rested in the Council of the Realm or with the king. The position of king Hans in these negotiations is not made clear by the sources. Even if he may have had more sympathy than his Council did for the territorial claims of his brother and the dynastic policy of his mother, it was in his own interest to remain ruler of an undivided country. We must therefore assume that he played a central role in shaping the whole scene denying Frederik’s right to a fiefdom in Denmark. The reigns of King Hans and his predecessor were quite like those of other European monarchs in the second half of the fifteenth century; they were characterized by increasing royal power. The noble council of Denmark was strong, yet not as strong as its contemporary Swedish counterpart, and the meetings of Estates in late medieval Denmark should merely be regarded as useful instruments in the hands of the Danish kings. The large Swedish meetings which took place from the 1430s included all estates, and to some degree were forerunners of the later riksdag. These perhaps constituted the model for the Danish meetings of the Estates after 1468, but the Danish Estates certainly never assumed the same political influence as those in Sweden. The meeting at Kalundborg in 1494 seems to have been a typical expression of the mixed government of king and noble council in Denmark. They had a common goal and that was achieved.

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Social life at the Kalundborg Meeting According to Danish historiography, ultimately going back to the court history of Duke Frederik, who from 1523 ruled Denmark as Frederik I, the duke became disappointed and angry because of the negative answer he received at Kalundborg.13 He is said to have returned to his Schleswig castle Gottorp were he stayed grumbling until he took over the Danish throne about thirty years later. Recently, the Danish historian Mikael Venge has modified this view of the duke as an embittered and passive person and stressed that in the years after 1494, Frederik constantly worked to improve his income. Frederik not only continued to stress his right to inherit Norway through his title erfgename to Norwegen (‘heir to Norway’) but in 1495 he also gained substantial financial compensation for Lolland, which had been the possession of his mother who was, by now, deceased. Territorial aspirations could certainly also be seen in the (failed) military campaign against the free peasant state of Ditmarschen which he launched together with his royal brother in the year 1500.14 The accounts of Frederik further show that he did not hurry away after the meetings of the 31th May and 1st June. In fact he stayed in Kalundborg until some time after 22 June. During this time, he spent money on expensive cloaks, cloth and sugar sent from Copenhagen. He played cards on the ninth, eleventh, fourteenth, seventeenth and twentieth of June, drank with his councilors in their house and heard trumpeters play. On 17 June, he went to one of his ships which had moored in the town harbor and himself acted as a merchant, making sure that large quantities of malt were bought from the mayor of Kalundborg and another tradesman, and that these were loaded onto the ship. On 22 June, he was at the royal castle where one of his men had a child baptized while Frederik acted as Godfather. The duke also conducted diplomatic business with the Sjælland towns and sent his chancellor, Johannes Rode, to the German Emperor Friedrich III. It was only after spending nearly a month in Kalundborg that Frederik paid for his lodging and hired wagons to make his way back to the ferries waiting in Korsør. We can safely conclude that there is no indication at all of a sharp diplomatic break between the duke of Schleswig and Holstein and his brother the Danish king and his men. The accounts of Mourids Nielsen reveal that this nobleman’s stay in Kalundborg was in fact much shorter than the duke’s, as he remained there 13

14

Arild Huitfeldt, Danmarks Riges Krønike. Kong Hans Historie (Copenhagen 1599) 114: ‘For dette Svar skyld bleff Hertug Frederich vred ...’ (‘Because of this answer Duke Frederik got angry’). Mikael Venge, Christian 2.s fald. Spillet om magten i Danmark januar-februar 1523 (Odense 1972) 58–66.

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for only a fortnight. Mourids left on 15 June for his Sjælland manors. Part of his expenses in Kalundborg had been to buy food such as fish, vegetables, bread, sugar, spices. He had himself shaved several times so that he could appear decent at the various banquets he attended. There was general wine drinking on the sixth, thirteenth, and fourteenth. On 4 June, Mourids went to a banquet where the trumpeters of duke Frederik and the bishop of Vendsyssel performed; afterwards Mourids played cards. On the twelfth, he was at a banquet where the musicians of the archbishop played and later Mourids met with his half-brother, Axel Lagesen (Brok), and another nobleman, Laurids Mogensen (Løvenbalk), to drink the tasty Einbeck beer. On 14 June, he heard a musician named Plancke play at a banquet that was laid on by the rich and clever Eskil Mogensen Gøye, who was marsk, that is, commander in chief of the realm and supervisor of the staff of the royal court. Mourids also had had some legal business to take care of, as well as fulfilling several obligations related to his seat in the Council of the Realm, and corresponding with various persons. He had traveled to Kalundborg with a large sack of money containing 700 Danish marks collected as income from the royal domains which he administered. This sum of money was paid to the royal chancery at the castle on 6 June. As was typical for the monetary problems of the period, the chancellor only accepted 650 marks of that amount as solid money. The rest was kept by Mourids’ scribe who immediately gave away one lightweight guilder to the king’s trumpeter. It is clear that many such transactions were taking place during the meeting at Kalundborg, even if just a few sources mention payments to the chancery. One of these sources is a receipt issued on 11 June at the castle of Kalundborg to the townsmen of Vejle on Jutland, who had bought a permission to cultivate the fields of a deserted village.15 Another is a receipt dated the same day stating that the king had redeemed the pledge of a royal castle by paying off his debt to the heirs of a certain nobleman.16 Superficially, judging from the accounts, Mourids seems to have been more pious than duke Frederik during their Kalundborg stay. The accounts show that he attended the town’s Franciscan monastery and offered small alms donations there on the second, third, seventh, eight and eleventh of June. We should, however, not be too impressed by this. Other sources reveal that the monastery was the meeting place of the king’s high court of justice,

15

16

Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, o.c. , vol. 4, no. 7683. Lone Hvass, Steen Hvass, Jakob Kieffer-Olsen, Per Kristian Madsen and Henrik Becker-Christensen, Vejles Historie, 1. Fra vadested til by – indtil 1786 (Vejle 1997) 78. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, IV, no. 7680. A financial transaction is also behind the letter issued by the king in Kalundborg on the seventh of June 1494, ibid., no. 7676.

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the retterting, in which Mourids held a seat, so it was part of Mourid’s duty towards the king to go the monastery. The King’s Court of Justice at work In the accounts of Mourids, we find some parts where the content briefly shifts from being purely financial into being a real diary. For example, the accounts contain indications that the king had to leave the meeting of Kalundborg on two occasions. On the fifth, he went to the town of Kolding in Jutland, and on the twelfth there is just a short note that the king left Kalundborg. However, the personal presence of the King was vital for the meeting. The other party which was vital to the long meeting in June 1494 was not the Estates. The many noblemen, urban representatives and peasants who had been summoned to take part in the general meeting were probably dismissed after they had done their duty on 31 May and 1 June. Rather, the other indispensable party was the Council of the Realm, or at least most of it. In Denmark, a royal court of justice had been built up over the fourteenth century by the powerful regents of King Valdemar Atterdag and Queen Margrete. In the fifteenth century, under the kings Erik the Pommeranian and Christoffer the Bavarian, the Council increasingly came to participate in the administration of justice which took place in this court. It was, in practice, the highest court of justice of the realm but its degree of institutionalization should not be stressed too much. It was an important body, but because it still lacked a permanent seat, its composition changed according to where sessions took place. In his accession charter of 1483, king Hans had promised to hold his royal court of justice all over the country and this is what he did, mostly in towns with a royal castle.17 The Kalundborg meeting of 1494 has left us a number of sources illustrating the work of the court of justice. All the judgments that have been preserved deal with matters concerning ownership of land, which evidently was also a major field of the court’s work, although by no means the only one. For instance, on 5 June, a court presided over by King Hans confirmed verdicts from two preceding sessions of the court which had concerned land ownership in Scania.18 On 11 and 12 June, extensive decrees were issued from sessions during which the king had presided over nearly the whole council of the realm, when final verdicts had been passed in several cases of conflicting ownership rights.19 On the eleventh, the king used the court of justice in a somewhat different way. He submitted a principally legal question which 17 18 19

Den danske rigslovgivning 1397–1513, ed. by Aage Andersen (Copenhagen 1989) 152. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, IV, no. 7675. Ibid., no. 7681, 7685.

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the court answered by establishing what was ‘right’.20 On such occasions, the court actually acted as a legislative power. In still another case, the king just ordered conflicting noblemen to find a compromise.21 Different juridical situations arose during the King’s presence at Kalundborg. His majesty was constantly supported by the chancellor of the realm, Jørgen Marsvin, Georgio Marswin justiciario nostro, as he is styled in the verdicts, yet the council of the realm was also crucial in guaranteeing the matters that were dealt with. According to the ‘letter of indivisibility’ from 31 May, the archbishop, six bishops, and thirteen lay noblemen were present. In two verdicts of the royal court of justice from the eleventh and twelfth, the archbishop plus respectively six and five bishops, and respectively eleven and thirteen noblemen figured. Practically the whole of the council of the realm that had gathered for the meeting of the Estates participated in the juridical deliberations of the court of justice. And as mentioned above, this also included Mourids Nielsen. Those who came to the meetings of the king’s court of justice were people with problems they wanted to have settled. As shown by the few verdicts which are still in existence from the 1494 meeting in Kalundborg, these people who participated in court procedures might be members of the council of the realm or more common noblemen, as well as bishops and members of the high clergy. The following source pertaining to a very modest member of the nobility only survived by chance, but it can be taken as an illustration of how essential it was for every nobleman or woman who was seeking justice to meet the king and his court. Birgitte Pedersdatter Flemming had become a widow in 1474 and ran her tiny manor Atterup about 45 km north of Kalundborg.22 As a widow she was very vulnerable and had to constantly fight to defend her possessions. She therefore sought protection from the queen mother, Dorothea, and in 1493 she also obtained a verdict from the Royal Court that supported her position. Here we can see that the split in the power structure of the realm between, on the one hand, the king and council of the realm, and on the other hand, Dorothea (and Duke Frederik) was not only evident in the meeting of Kalundborg, but also came to the surface in the actions of an individual. Birgitte appointed Dorothea’s official, Oluf Holgersen Ulfstand, to defend her rights; he was in charge of the queen’s castle, Nykøbing Falster, and also happened to be Birgitte’s nephew. From a letter in Birgitte´s archive dated 15 May 1494 it seems that, on that day, 20 21 22

Ibid., no. 7679. Ibid., no. 7678. Bjørn Poulsen, ‘Den kvindelige godsejer som aktør i 1400-tallets Danmark. Eksemplet Birgitte Pedersdatter Flemming’, Den Jyske Historiker 125 (2010) 21–33.

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Birgitte had informed Oluf Holgersen that she would not be able to attend the coming meeting in Kalundborg during which her property rights were to be dealt with by the royal court of justice. Incidentally, it is interesting that Oluf terms the Kalundborg meeting a herredag, a ‘meeting of the lords’, and thereby used a new term for this kind of assembly. However, more important for our purposes, it seems that it was apparently quite normal for women from the lower nobility such as Birgitte to conduct their business in the king’s court of justice in person.23 In the letter, Oluf Holgersen then asked if he should take her place, and requested the relevant deeds. Then, on 17 May Oluf wrote again; through his scribe he had received a letter from the King’s chancellor, Jørgen Marsvin, in which Birgitte Flemming was advised to attend the herredag in Kalundborg in person in order to defend her rights24 which she probably then did. In summary, it may be said that the Kalundborg meeting of 1494 started as a meeting of the Estates, but after a couple of days it changed character and turned into a session of the royal court of justice, dominated by the council of the realm in close cooperation with their king. There is evidence that parts of the broader population took part in both assemblies. There were indeed representatives of peasants and townsmen, nobility and clergy present in the politically less important meeting of the Estates. Perhaps it is more surprising that members of the lower nobility also brought their cases to the royal court of justice and then personally negotiated with the king. We should, in fact, not rule out the possibility that common people from even lower echelons of Danish society may have appeared before the king. The King, his Court of Justice, and the common man The struggles of the noble widow, Birgitte Pedersdatter, remind us of the paragraph of the Law of Jutland of 1241 that specifies that it is the duty of the king and his magnates to keep an eye on the passing of lawful verdicts, to do right, and to make a stand for those who are threatened with violence. It was the duty of the king to protect the vulnerable including poor and sick people and widows. Erik Ottesen was a member of the Rosenkrantz family and was a leading figure in Danish policy until 1481. He similarly stated that a Christian lord should not impose violence upon the poor.25 As was 23

24 25

Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, IV, no. 7662. On the concept of herredag see Jørgensen, Dansk Retshistorie, 495. Cf. duke Frederik’s scribe used the word den dag to specify the meeting. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, IV, no. 7665. Anders Bøgh, ‘De ti bud ifølge hr. Erik Ottesen Rosenkrantz’, in: Mentalitet og historie. Om fortidige forestillingsverdener, ed. by Charlotte Appel, Peter Henningsen and Nils Hybel (Gylling 2002) 11.

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also expressed in peace legislation of the medieval Danish kings and other European monarchs, the generally accepted social norm was to protect the lower echelons of society. This norm certainly permitted the king to act in favour of the most humble members of his realm. The source material bearing on the Kalundborg meeting of 1494 is too meager to answer the question of whether the ‘common man’ actually could and did seek the king’s support in times of trouble. Let us therefore widen our approach. The most convincing proof of contact between the king and a broad spectrum of the population would be if it could be proven that he had met with his peasants, and it is in fact, possible to establish this. There are certainly many individual cases documenting direct contact between peasants and the king, either individual peasants or groups who got access to the king when he was in their vicinity. Some peasants came to see the king through their involvement in the royal administration. Royal taxes were not necessarily handled just by local royal officers such as Mourids Nielsen Gyldenstierne. There were also cases where peasants paid taxes personally to the king or at least to his central administration. This was the case with Jep Smed, a peasant from the village of Lundby on South Sjælland, who, in 1487, delivered 50 marks directly to the royal scribe. Not surprisingly, the same Jep Smed had headed the peasant delegates at the meeting of the Estates in 1468.26 Most of the time, however, direct contact between king and peasant subjects originated from the problems which peasants wanted to be solved. In 1477, for instance, we see that a peasant from the Danish island of Langeland met his king, Christian I, at the local royal castle, where he told him about the high level of his tax assessment. The king wrote a letter to his local official, the lensmand, and referred to the complaints of the peasant, explicitly stating that the latter had visited the king (haffuer berett fore oss) and told him about the problem.27 The castle of Kalundborg, where the meeting of the Estates took place in 1494, was also visited by local peasants who wanted to promote their case. This happened for example in 1454 and 1514 when the men from the village of Rersø, near the castle, had the opportunity to talk to the majesties and their councils and thereby obtain letters which permitted them to pay lower rents and taxes.28 Similarly, in 1532 while King Frederik was at his castle on the island of Falster, he personally met a delegation of local peasants, freeholders and tenants, who complained over a number of new duties that had been imposed on them. The 26

27

28

Troels Dahlerup, De fire stænder. 1400–1500, Gyldendal og Politikens Danmarkshistorie, ed. by Olaf Olsen, vol. 6 (Copenhagen 1989) 217 and 239. Missiver fra Kongerne Christiern I’s og Hans’s Tid, ed. by William Christensen (Copenhagen 1914) 56–7 (no. 78). Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, I, no. 325.

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king took the case with him to Copenhagen and, after consulting the council of the realm, he issued a provision dealing with the issue.29 Although on some occasions, meetings between peasants and king evidently came about quite informally, the most frequent place to meet the king seems still to have been the king’s Court of Justice, as is documented by a rather long series of court verdicts. In 1475, the men of the Lolland village Sørup had to travel over a hundred kilometres to reach the king and his court in the castle of Tryggevælde on Sjælland. They presented several letters from local courts and the royal court simply confirmed these.30 For the inhabitants of the village of Stubberup on Falster it was much easier when in 1494, they had to cover the twenty kilometres to meet King Hans and his court at the castle of Nykøbing, and have their wood rights confirmed.31 The fact that the king and the royal court were regularly involved in local peasant politics is further demonstrated clearly by the documents of a long dispute on northern Lolland which went on for most of the fifteenth century between, the villages of Radsted and Rørbæk on the one hand, and, on the other, the villages of Majbølle og Hjelm. Once again, it was a dispute over the rights to a wood. The peasants of Radsted, to the south, defended their old, sole, rights to the wood, and in 1438, these rights were confirmed by a committee appointed by the king. Evidently, the Radstedders themselves had appealed to King Erik the Pommeranian to issue them with such a document. Then, in the 1450s, the small settlement of Hjelm tried to claim the wood, but the people of Radsted once again took action. They collected signed statements saying that the wood only belonged to them from quite a number of local law courts, some of which were based on the parish structure.32 In the following year, Radsted peasants Per Suder, Per Beyer and some of their fellow villagers went to the nearby town of Maribo, where king Hans was holding his royal court of justice. They presented eight letters to the king, including all the witness statements from the parishes, and could be satisfied with the king’s verdict that Hjelm had no right to the wood.33 Subsequently, the verdict was approved by a board established by the king.34 These letters and verdicts in favour of Radsted went into the village’s archive, and then had to be brought out again in 1498. During his stay in the local 29

30 31 32

33 34

Kong Frederik den Førstes danske Registranter, ed. by Kr. Erslev and W. Mollerup (Copenhagen 1879) 318–20. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, II, no. 3671. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, IV, no. 8227. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, I,. no. 763, 770, 774, 778. For a not entirely precise description of this dispute see Bo Fritzbøger, A Windfall for the Magnates. The Development of Woodland Ownership in Denmark c. 1150–1830 (Odense 2004) 155–6. Repertorium Diplomaticum Regni Danici Mediævalis, I, no. 894. Ibid., VII, no. 12743.

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castle of Ålholm, the village to the north had managed to persuade King Hans to grant the villagers a privilege allowing them to collect firewood and hedge stakes in the woods of Radsted and Rørbæk.35 This privilege was then revoked by the same king in 1499 when he presided over the royal court held in the church of the nearby town of Sakskøbing; for after the men of Radsted had presented their pile of old letters to his majesty there could be no doubt as to their rightful possession of the wood.36 The short distance between king and subject To a certain degree, it seems that every Dane in the late Middle Ages was close to his king. One could speak of Königsnähe even for the humble peasant. It was part of Danish political culture that the majesty could be approached and talked to. A central stage for negotiations between the holder of the throne and his subjects seems to have been the king’s court of justice. Many people, lords as well as peasants, traveled far to appear there. It may be that most of the peasants who dared to approach the king were living on a royal domain (len). The tenants of other lords, lay and ecclesiastical, presumably were obliged to seek their own masters’ advice and help. Neither should we put too much stress on the occurrence of peaceful negotiation. Feuds and violence were widespread. There were certainly cases when levies or other duties were exacted through sheer violence. For example, there was no doubt an armed conflict behind a declaration of the local court (ting) of the district of Vendsherred on Funen from 1440. In this declaration, the local peasants promised King Christopher the Bavarian that they would not carry crossbows or armour nor would they rally against their lords. The peasants were also forced to promise obedience to the king in the future.37 Moreover, the large-scale peasant rebellions of the period 1438– 1441 and 1535–1536 are of course clear evidence of a society full of conflict. But this observation should not lead us to dismiss the evidence of a kingdom that was also marked by consensus and negotiations. Denmark was certainly a society dominated by an elite group consisting of the king and council, yet members of the wider public could also certainly have their voices heard. Interestingly enough, the meetings of the Estates were not the first place were these voices resounded. These meetings had little political importance, and, significantly, in 1494 one member of the council of the realm, Mourids Nielsen Gyldenstierne, did not even bother to take part in their political discussions. The important, apparently well-functioning 35 36 37

Ibid., V, no. 8644. Ibid., V, no. 8861. Ferdinand H. Jahn, Danmarks politisk-militaire Historie under Unionskongerne (Copenhagen 1835) 511.

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channel between king and people could be found in what at first sight might be seen as an aristocratic body, namely the king’s court of justice. For here, Mourids Nielsen was present. It has often been noted that in late medieval Denmark there was a constant struggle between royal power and nobility.38 However, in line with recent European research, Danish scholars now stress that the relationship between king and nobility was fundamentally characterized by consensus, cooperation, and fruitful negotiation, even if now and again conflict could arise over office holding.39 Together, king and nobility overcame both the challenges that were put to the kingdom and the economic problems facing its ruling elite in the fifteenth century.40 Certainly the power of the nobility rested on its nearly unlimited access to the king and its more or less direct political influence on the decisions he took. However, we should nevertheless be prepared to revise to some degree our image of a society that was ruled by an exclusive elite alone. There also existed a political culture that allowed for direct contact between the bottom of society and its highest members. And although the meetings of the Danish Estates support the fundamental assumption that voices of all parts of society were important, the royal court of justice proved to be the real channel of communication between the ruling elite and the rest of the population. If, from one point of view, the late medieval kingdom of Denmark was fundamentally characterized by conflict, it was, from another perspective, united by continuous negotiations between king, aristocracy and people.

38

39

40

Aksel E. Christensen, Kongemagt og aristokrati. Epoker i middelalderlig dansk statsopfattelse indtil unionstiden (Copenhagen 1945). See for instance Erik Ulsig, ‘Senmiddelalderen 1340–1523’, in: Danmarks historie – i grundtræk, ed. by Steen Busck and Henning Poulsen (Aarhus 2000) 65–107. For more general thoughts on the relationship between the late medieval and early modern monarchial state and the aristocracy see Hillay Zmora, Monarchy, aristocracy and the state in Europe 1300–1800 (London 2001).

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The Military Resources of the Kings of Castile around 1500* Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada Universidad Complutense, Madrid

Introduction In late medieval Europe, political power was organized in many ways, some of them horizontal, others vertical-hierarchical. The ideal of universal power, symbolized by the Holy Roman Empire, could be reconciled with fragmentation, which in all three constituent parts of the imperial territory (i.e. the old kingdoms of Germany, Burgundy, and Italy) had given rise to autonomous principalities and city-states. In the rest of the West, hereditary kingdoms extending over large, consolidated, territories predominated. It was in these kingdoms that first steps were taken towards a ‘modern state’, starting from the end of the thirteenth century, an counting on the support of an ever more sophisticated theory of monarchical power. This theory can be found in the writings of Thomas Aquinas, Egidius Romanus and Dante Alighieri, which were circulated widely at the time. The instruments of power were increasingly concentrated in royal courts, and this process was accompanied by the proclamation of laws – the king assumed legislative authority – and by the development and refinement of specialized institutions. Two aspects are of special interest in this respect: first, the so-called ‘fiscal revolution’, which put huge economic resources at the disposal of late medieval monarchies. These resources flowed from new types of rents and taxes, and accordingly the administration changed profoundly as well. Second, the diversification and increase of military resources. Here, monarchies acquired continuous or permanent control over at a much slower pace than they did in the field of taxation, succeeding only in the last decades of the fifteenth century. How things were and how they developed was different in every kingdom, depending on the point of departure and the basic characteristics of the kingdom. However, the over-all pattern of change and its results were the same, and one of these unmistakable results was the fact that open warfare, which must be clearly distinguished from times of peace or from the usual common violence, became ever more frequent during these centuries, as a prelude to what lay ahead in the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries. One chief conflict at this time was of course the lengthy clash between England and France, which started *

This article was translated from Spanish into English by Peter Hoppenbrouwers.

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around 1300 over the Guyenne question, and subsequently, between 1340 and 1450, widened into the Hundred Years War. This conflict went through various stages, intervals of truce or peace, and had repercussions on other European kingdoms, not least in Castile, which was firmly allied to France from 1368, as opposed to Portugal which became England’s confederate in 1383.1 In Castile, warlike conflicts multiplied from the end of the Reconquista of al-Andalus by 1265. This period witnessed a transition away from a time characterized by the frequent repartition of booty and land, which, whether directly or indirectly, had been part of the payment of military services. A new era began, in which the maintenance and deployment of the army had to be paid for from the kingdom’s own resources, without there being much profit to be expected from wars. The larger part of the king’s revenues from the new taxes that were introduced between the reigns of Alfonso X and Alfonso XI (i.e. between 1265 and 1348), therefore went towards funding the army, and the repartition of these funds became a key element in the power struggle between the king and the kingdom’s nobility.2 The most important theatre of war continued to be the Granada frontier, where a situation of continuous warfare, open or latent, remained in existence from 1265 until the emirate’s final conquest in 1492. It was imperative to keep up a fixed defense system in that area, with numerous castles, and also to continuously preserve the capacity to mobilize the Andalusian population: noblemen, urban militias, troups of the military orders. However, the monarchy could also use the defence issue to justify the concession by the pope that special financial resources were to be used to sustain those wars, because they were considered to be crusades. These concessions included ‘royal thirds’ (tercias reales; actually, two-ninth parts of the ecclesiastical tithe on agricultural produce), clerical ‘subsidies’ (usually, the tenth part of the revenue from ecclesiastical benefices in the year they were granted), and the preaching of indulgences for those who contributed to the war by paying crusade alms – sometimes quite considerable sums of money.3 In addition, there were frequent wars with other kingdoms on the Iberian Peninsula, most of them motivated by dynastic crises and territorial claims, 1

2

3

See the contributions to the volume Guerra y Diplomacia en la Europa Occidental 1280–1480. XXXI Semana de Estudios Medievales. Estella 19–23 de julio 2004 (Pamplona 2005), esp. my introductory essay ‘Guerra y paz: teoría y práctica en Europa Occidental, 1280–1480’, ibid., 21–67. Unless indicated otherwise, all works referred to in the footnotes are authored by myself. Cf. Fiscalidad y poder real en Castilla. 1252–1369 (Madrid 1993), and ‘De la « Reconquista » à la fiscalité d’Etat dans la Couronne de Castille (1268–1368)’, in: J.Ph. Genet (ed.), Genèse de l’Etat moderne. Prélèvement et Redistribution (Paris 1987) 35–51. ‘La Guerra del Estrecho. 1275–1350’, in Guerra y Diplomacia, 255–93; Las guerras de Granada en el siglo XV (Barcelona 2002); and ‘La frontera de Granada, 1265–1481’, Revista de Historia Militar (número extraordinario: Historia militar: Métodos y recursos de investigación) 45 (2002) 49–121.

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which almost always were, or became, connected to internal conflicts in Castile. The following list summarizes the most important peninsular conflicts and their causes:4 – 1282–1284 and 1295–1304: succession to the throne of Alfonso X and Sancho IV. Definitive establishment of the frontiers with Portugal and the Crown of Aragon. – 1336: confrontation of Alfonso XI with rebellious members of the high nobility who were supported by Portugal and Aragon. – 1356–1365 and 1366–1375: war of Peter I against Aragon. Violent take-over of the Castilian throne by Henry II of Trastámara, and realignment of the relationships with those kings in the region who had supported the new king. – 1383–1387: war of succession in Portugal. John I of Castile defends his rights against John I of Portugal, founder of the Avis dynasty. The aftereffects of this war last until 1402, and there is no firm peace between Portugal and Castile until 1432. – 1409–1412: Change of the ruling dynasty in Aragon. Ferdinand of Antequera, regent of Castile, is elected king of Aragon as a result of the Compromise of Caspe (1412). Castilian military and economic support remains necessary. – 1429–1431: War of John II against Alfonso V of Aragon or, more generally, against the Infantes de Aragón, i.e. the sons of Ferdinand of Antequera. – 1444–1445: Civil war in Castile between de ‘Infantes de Aragón’ and John II. Both parties receive support from outside. – 1465–1468 and 1475–1479: struggle over the succession to the throne of Henry IV. Intervention of Aragon in support of Isabel, the late king’s sister, and married to Ferdinand, son of John II of Aragon; and of Alfonso V of Portugal in support of his niece Joan, daughter of Henry IV. – 1479: dynastic union of Castile and Aragon. Peace with Portugal and ending of the peninsular wars. – 1482–1492: conquest of the emirate of Granada. – 1512–1515: Ferdinand the Catholic incorporates the kingdom of Navarra into the kingdom of Castile.

In addition, the kings of Castile were involved in various military operations outside Spain. Alfonso X was involved as a pretender to the imperial throne by lending support to his followers in Italy or by riding to Lyon in 1274 with a strong military following in order to reinforce his talks with the pope. Of much greater importance was the naval support which Castile gave to France during the Hundred Years War following the Treaty of Toledo of 1368. On some occasions, Castilian ships and royal officials intervened directly, on others support was indirect, for example when Bask or Castilian sea captains were licensed to act against enemy ships on a private basis. Apart from that, many mercenaries from Castile participated in the Hundred Years 4

‘La genèse de l’Etat dans les royaumes hispaniques médiévaux (1250–1450)’, in: Chr. Hermann (ed.), Le Premier âge de l’Etat en Espagne (1450–1700) (Paris 1989) 9–65.

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War. Some of them reached fame and were given important military commands, such as Rodrigo of Villandrando, the future Count of Ribadeo, in the years after 1415. The names of others would remain obscure, as also occurred to the many biscaini, Spanish mercenaries in the service of princely courts in Italy, for instance those of Milan and Rome at the end of the fifteenth century. The military resources of the monarchy Naturally, the way in which wars were financed differed depending on the nature of the conflict. However, one way or another, they still had to fit into the various types of military resources that had traditionally stood at the disposal of the Castilian monarchy. I would propose the following list outlining these types:5 1. First of all, there was the king’s own supreme command, which he had respected and effectively exercised since the Central Middle Ages. The king depended on the [chance] presence of experts in organisation and military command at the court or in its surroundings, people capable of setting up, starting, and controlling the mobilisation of men and the concentration of resources, and of putting these together for war. Some of these persons actually held official military functions, for instance the alférez, an office that was replaced in 1382 by the Condestable (Constable), or the admiral and the adelantados mayores, military offices which Alfonso X had instituted. In other instances, offices derived from temporary commissions made by the king; think of capitán general (‘general commander’) or capitán de la frontera (‘commander of the frontier’), etc. One must also not forget the use of members of the king’s entourage or of high noblemen specialised in the execution of military tasks without having an official office – the kind of men who turn up in every war but are difficult to pigeon-hole because of the diversity of their background and employment. 2. Many small noblemen (hidalgos) and knights (caballeros), living in the towns and villages of the royal domain (realengo), had personal military obligations, in particular when they were royal vassals. In fact, these vassals were the king’s mesnada (lit. ‘retinue’), spread, if unevenly, over the entire kingdom. Alfonso X started to organise this force in a more systematic way, by paying a fee, called tierra (‘land’) or sueldo (‘pay’), and, much later, acostamiento (‘favour’), to several 5

‘La organización militar de la Corona de Castilla en la Baja Edad Media’, in: La incorporación de Granada a la Corona de Castilla (Granada 1993) 195–227; and ‘Recursos militares y guerras de los Reyes Católicos’, in: Los recursos militares en la Edad Media hispánica, special vol. of Revista de Historia Militar (2001) 383–420.

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thousands of knights. This compensation system achieved full stature between 1272 and 1391, but then degenerated in the course of the fifteenth century. Although ‘men of acostamiento’ maintainted a certain importance and military efficiency during the peninsular wars and the times of the Catholic Kings, they were no permanently serving professionals, but rather men trained in the use of arms and prepared for war who could be summoned personally to do military service to the king, who then had to pay them extra money for the duration of a campaign. 3. The mobilisation of the ‘neighbours’ (vecinos), the ordinary inhabitants of towns and villages, by their local communal authorities, led to the presence and integration of ‘communal forces’ in the kings’ military operations. All commoners had military obligations, but these obligations varied according to personal wealth. In the case of war, the vast majority of commoners would fight on foot, armed with a spear. If their economic position was somewhat better, they might fight with a crossbow, or, when portable fire arms came into use, with the espingarda (harquebus or primitive musket). In fact, the number of crossbowmen and especially harquebussiers (espingarderos) used to be quite small, although a special procedure did encourage commoners’ preparation and training with this weapon. The wealthiest commoners had to keep horses and adequate armament. Even from the twelfth century onwards, the kings favoured the social and political prominence of such non-noble horsemen, but it was not until the middle of the fourteenth century that the level of wealth and the privileges of such commoners were formally linked to an obligation to keep a war horse. This measure was taken by Alfonso XI, who formally instituted the category of commoners who were obliged or ‘pressed’ (apremiados) to become knights due to the ‘quantity’ of their goods – the so-called caballeros de premia or de cuantía. The royal summons to do military service appealed to this group in particular, given their superior capacity and specialization in the use of arms. In practice, general conscription of all commoners was not fully applied. When conscripting, the kings were content to mobilise a number of horsemen and foot soldiers that was inferior to the total number of commoners fit for service; the local authorities divided the obligation between their citizens by way of apportionment or appointment by lot. Moreover, those who were picked out could buy themselves out of the obligation by contracting replacements, and this gave rise to a sort of mercenary profession that did not break with the public and general character of military service.

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Commoners, and in fact all inhabitants of a town or village, whether they were recognized as ‘neighbours’ (vecinos) or not, also had to contribute to many different taxes that could be levied to pay for all kinds of extra expenses entailed by the royal army, especially in the field of military engineering. This included expenses such as wages paid to woodcutters, diggers, masons, carpenters, stonecutters, etc., as well as providing for the transports of material and provisions during a mobilisation or manferimiento, and for hiring carts and mules with their drivers. In addition, there were requisitions of grain and other essentials to be sent to the troops on campaign. Usually, prices of essentials were fixed by the king, and he established the locations where and means by which transactions could be made. If necessary, requisitions were made, or payments to purveyors delayed, or troops in the field were supplied with wheat, barley and other produce from rents in kind due to the king, in particular the ‘royal thirds’ (tercias reales). It will be clear that such expedients could be deployed in all kinds of combinations. 4. Next are the retinues of the great noblemen, who had earlier been paid by the king in ready money, confusingly called ‘land’ (tierra). However, from the reign of Henry II (1369–1379) onwards, localities started to be granted to noblemen as lordships subject to their jurisdiction on condition, among others, that the lord would use part of the income from his lordship to maintain a retinue. This meant that the king’s recompense diminished or sometimes even stopped altogether, whereas the obligation to obey the royal summons with a retinue remained, even if the king had to pay extra money for the duration of active service. At the same time, noblemen had the capacity to mobilize commoners from their lordships, just like the king did in the royal domain (realengo), which gave them additional military resources. 5. For the lordships of the military orders, the situation was similar to that of the high nobility, except that these orders could only act within the possibilities allowed by their specific institution, which obliged them to make more military resources available. This meant that with the income of their lordship they had to maintain larger retinues which were divided into companies under the command of the grand master and companies under other commanders. If need be, the orders could also enlist commoners living in their lordships. 6. As far as we can see, mercenaries and volunteers were only sporadically present in the Castilian royal armies, although it is precisely this rareness which has drawn the attention of historians. The phenomenon of contracting complete bands of mercenaries did not exist in Castile

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as it is known from Italy in the same period. On the contrary, as we just indicated, those in power in Castile, starting with the king, were totally capable of mobilizing their own resources when an appeal was made on the military duties of various social classes. The only exception of importance was the war between Peter I and Henry of Trastámara between 1366 and 1369, when both contenders employed bands of mercenaries that were available after the end of the first phase of the Hundred Years War: Peter hired Englishmen, Henry Frenchmen, and both were prepared to pay high prices, both in financial and political terms. Another quite remarkable case was the presence of considerable numbers of volunteers, either individuals or small groups, in the wars against Granada or in the frequent skirmishes at the border. These were generally knights from other European countries, eager to test their courage and their arms in an appealing theatre of war. Then there were homicianos or men convicted for violent crimes. They could earn redemption and regain their liberty by doing military service in the garrisons of certain castles on the frontier or by taking part in campaigns or actions that were deemed to be particularly dangerous. Yet another form of military service that could be done by only a few people, was to enlist in the squadron of the so-called ‘Moorish knights’ (caballeros moriscos) in the royal guard of John II and Henry IV between c. 1430 and 1470. These knights were exiles from the Granada area, some of them even relatives of the royal Nazarí family or aristocrats, who did their military service to the king of Castile on special conditions of trust and fidelity. Their equivalent in Nazarí Granada were the elches, or deserters of Christian origin who formed part of the royal guard and the army of the emirs. 7. The means to defend the state and control its territory were a substantial, and very costly, drain on military resources. Kings, municipal councils, noblemen, and military orders all constructed and maintained castles, and in addition had to bear the costs of their upkeep, the provisioning of their garrisons, and their armament. On top of this, municipalities paid for the construction and repair of town or village walls, often with financial aid of the king in the royal domain, or of noblemen in noble lordships. From the end of the thirteenth century, numerous walls were built or improved, while the number of castles, erected by possessors of lordships from the nobility, increased enormously in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In the meantime, great technical advances were made, both in the construction and the design of these fortifications and also in their defensive armament, including their being equipped with artillery.

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In this manner, this type of military resources, fundamental to the preservation of sovereignty and the safety of the land, was further perfected during the late Middle Ages. The kings maintained direct control over their citadels (alcázares), fortresses and other fortifications throughout the realm, and indirect control over all municipal castles in the royal domain. Their control over strongholds in noble lordships or in the hands of the military orders was less secure. However, there always was a legal handle to make royal rights and power prevail, since all castellans, when taking up their office, had to swear an oath, and pay homage according to ‘the law of Spain’ (a fuero de España). That is to say, they owed allegiance, and were answerable to the titular lord of the castle, and if he were not the king, obedience to the king always came before that to anyone else, even if in practice this principle was not always respected prior to the reign of the Catholic Kings. Finances Our present knowledge will allow only for an assessment of military spending by the Castilian monarchy in broad terms. Here one must always keep in mind that the king only paid a portion of the expenses of noble retinues, the military orders, and municipal troops when they were mobilized for war; for the remainder, the noble possessors of lordships, the military orders and the municipal councils had to foot the bill themselves. Likewise, they defrayed the costs of defense within their jurisdictions while the monarchy did so for the royal fortresses and castles. The kings were able to meet the rising military expenditure thanks to fiancial resources put at their disposal by the so-called ‘fiscal revolution’ of the late Middle Ages. This ‘fiscal revolution’ occurred in all western monarchies in this period, although of course in every case it was manifested in a different form. However, in general it sealed the final transition from a signorial to a ‘fiscal’ conception of royal income, and the public, and to a certain extent ‘pre-state’, character of the royal income became much more evident. This transition was accompanied by the development of new forms of taxation and tax collection that brought a concentrated amount of money into the hands of the monarchy. At the same time, the means and mechanisms or royal taxation were institutionalized and began to be covered by more specific legislation. The importance of these innovations – taxes, institutions, legal norms – becomes clear when one realises how long they endured, remaining in place at least until the fiscal reforms of the nineteenth century. These developments were definitely one of the great foundations of the Ancien Regime which started to take shape in the late Middle Ages. In

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terms of Castile, the fiscal revolution was a boon for the kings, resulting in the concentration of power in the hands of the Castilian monarchy in such a way that it never became completely subject to bargaining with the estates of the realm, which otherwise would have limited the use of these resources. The new financial resources in Castile can be classified as follows: – direct taxes: the contributions or aids, granted to the king by the Cortes. – indirect taxes on traffic and consumption: customs duties, excises (alcabalas), gabelles (salt-tax), charges and tollage on the mesta. – ecclesiastical income transferred to the crown: royal ‘thirds’, clerical subsidies (taxes paid by the clergy), alms for crusade indulgences. – profits from monetary policies: i.e. from alterations and debasements of ‘billon’ (silver-copper) coin. – compulsory provision of services and goods which were paid for in ready money or with other resources of the monarchy’s patrimony: rent sales, alienation or ‘tying up’ of public offices with their accompanying financial benefits, cession of local jurisdictions (the origins of many noble lordships), the farming out of royal revenues to companies of moneylenders, etc. – direct appeal for credit by collecting money ‘in exchange’ (a cambios) on a shortterm basis and against the payment of interest. In addition, from 1490 onwards, the payment of interest in coin was normalised by way of compensation for money loans on medium and long terms. This gave birth to the so-called juros (‘pensions’), the precursors of modern forms of consolidated public debt. – ‘takings’ (tomas) and confiscations in extreme emergencies: the Jewish communities or aljamas were the most frequent victims of this procedure.

In terms of fiscal policies, the age of the Catholic Kings was one of total legislative and institutional continuity. There were just minor adjustments and additions to an apparatus of fiscal legislation that was already quite sophisticated with its general ordinances (cuadernos) and concrete ‘conditions’ to calculate the receipt of rents for each period of farming out, as well as the specific ordinances for the administration offices of the Royal Treasury (the Contadurias and the Escribania de Rentes), and rules for how to proceed with the farming out of taxes.6 In the field of ‘ordinary’ revenues, that is to say, revenues that could be collected without previous agreement or permission from the Cortes, the kings aimed both to improve how the existing system functioned and also to redeem rents that had been alienated unlawfully. One effect was that either or both of fiscal pressure and the total amount of money collected increased thanks to improved administrative efficiency; this aspect deserves further

6

La Hacienda Real de Castilla. 1369–1504. Estudios y documentos (Madrid 2009) (new edition of existing publications), and Legislación hacendística de la Corona de Castilla en la Baja Edad Media (Madrid 1999).

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and detailed study at a future date. The increase of ordinary revenues for the whole kingdom can be seen clearly in the following table: Year

total amount in maravedíes

total amount in ducats

1481

150,582,000

401,552

1486

178,174,000

475,130

1491

211,454,000

563,877

1496

268,764,000

716,704

1501

271,146,000

723,056

1505

312,188,000

832,501

Source: see footnote 6

Although tax revenues more than doubled between 1481 and 1505, this only brought the total amount back to the level it had been at in 1429, and even this was inferior to the amount which had been collected in 1400. This proves the enormous deterioration in tax collection during the reigns of John II and Henry IV. The Catholic Kings only partially succeeded in reversing this trend, in particular by the collection of royal rents in several large lordships, whose holders had continued to levy excises, either by agreement with the king or simply de facto. Even so, one has to bear in mind that overall, fiscal pressure decreased in the course of the fifteenth century, particularly when compared to indirect taxation, since over this period the total population under the Crown of Castile actually increased, reaching around 4.5 million by 1500. These patterns can be clearly demonstrated by the case of Seville, a city of the royal domain, where tax collection was quite efficient. The indexed proceeds from excises (taking 1429 as 100) grew from 70 to 100 between 1399 and 1429, and from 100 to just 105 between 1429 and 1459. There then occurred a sharp drop – to index level 55 between 1464 and 1469 – followed by slow recovery: to 65 in 1480 and to 81 in 1504. Over the same period, the total population of the city had increased from around 5,000 registered vecino households – meaning about 25,000 inhabitants – to twice that number at the beginning of the sixteenth century.7 There were even greater increases in the proceeds from extra-ordinary sources of revenue, as can be seen from the following survey:8 7

8

‘Fiscalidad regia y sector terciario en la Andalucía bajomedieval’, in: II Coloquio de Historia medieval andaluza (Sevilla 1982), 7–38, and ‘Las alcabalas de Sevilla y su reino en 1399’, in: Estudios en Homenaje a Don Claudio Sánchez Albornoz en sus 90 años (Buenos Aires 1986) IV, 195–214. For the decade 1495–1504, see the very detailed account edited by R. de Andrés Díaz, El último decenio del reinado de Isabel I a través de la tesorería de Alonso de Morales (1495–1504) (Valladolid 2004).

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‘Services’ (aids) granted by the Cortes, and contributions made by the town league (Hermandad, lit. ‘Brotherhood’) in maravedíes (mrs): Service by the Cortes, 1476–1477

162,000,000 mrs

Ordinary contributions by the Hermandad, 1478–1485

124,600,000 mrs

Extraordinary contributions Hermandad, 1482–1485

44,000,000 mrs

Ordinary contributions Hermandad, 1486–1498

436,000,000 mrs

Extraordinary contribution Hermandad, 1487–1491

217,125,000 mrs

Extraordinary contribution Hermandad, 1495–1496

66,000,000 mrs

Service Cortes, 1500–1502

150,000,000 mrs

Service Cortes, 1503–1504

200,000,000 mrs

TOTAL

1,399,725,000 mrs

3,732,600 ducats

‘Services’ (aids) granted by the Muslims of Granada: in 1497, 1499, and 1504

7,500,000 mrs

60,000 ducats

Crusade taxes and ecclesiastical subsidies: Crusade, 1484–1492

500,000,000 mrs

Subsidies, 1484–1492

178,875,000 mrs

Crusade, 1495–1503

170,000,000 mrs

Subsidies, 1495–1503

139,726,000 mrs

TOTAL

988,601,000 mrs

2,636,269 ducats

New sources of extraordinary tax income: Contributions by mudéjares and Jews to the Granada war:

92,410,000 mrs

246,426 ducats

Sale of juros (‘pensions’): 1489–1490

100,000,000 mrs

1495–1503

203,251,000 mrs

Total

303,251,000 mrs

808,669 ducats

443,500,000 mrs

1,167,560 ducats

Various other extraordinary revenues including revenues from grain exports (saca de pan), sales of slaves, public loans, the Inquisition, and the incomes of the maestrazgos (Grand Masters) of the military orders, over 1495–1504

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In sum, extraordinary revenues between 1476 and 1504 added up to at least 3,682,125,000 mrs or 9,819,084 ducats, while ordinary revenues between 1480 and 1504 totalled around 5,671,186,000 mrs or 15,123,162 ducats. Overall, under the Catholic Kings, extraordinary tax revenue increased total revenue from ordinary sources by around 65%, whereas this had not amounted to more than about 50% during the two preceding reigns. Moreover, this increase proved to be quite stable during the reign of the Catholic Kings. Gross income from the royal demesnes (la Hacienda real) amounted on average to 1,000,000 ducats a year. In fact, this income steadily increased over the years, from the lowest level of 600,000 ducats a year in 1480/1482 to 1,200,000 ducats a year in 1502/1504. Towards a new era The character of warfare as well as its financing changed profoundly and quickly during the era of the Catholic Kings, starting in 1481. Nonetheless, when the conquest of Granada was brought to an end, this happened with recourse to the traditional military resources. However, the resources were used in a much more efficient and potent way than before. Moreover, some new resources were made available and there was also more systematic and rational organization of the means to pay and provision troops.9 The light cavalry, the jinetes, played a more prominent role in the Granada campaigns than the heavy cavalry, the hombres de armas: for every hombre de armas who was used, up to ten jinetes might be engaged. Moreover, the participation of many tens of thousands of peones (infantrymen) proved crucial for the destruction, siege, and assault operations that were so frequent in this war, and they also carried out transport services. However, it was the artillery which proved to be the decisive Castilian weapon in the major campaigns of the war, when it was deployed against fortifications, walls and towers ‘that had been constructed in a time when wars were fought with lances and shields.’10 The number of fire arms such as lombardas and ribadoquines, went up from very few units to more than 200 with thanks to the assistance of experts from Burgundy, Brittany, and Aragon. In some respects, the composition of the army also saw developments and changes. The kings already had at their disposal a permanent cavalry unit, that was made up of 1,000 ‘lances’ of the Royal Guard, and another 1,400 ‘lances’ paid from the ‘ordinary contribution/aid’ of the Hermandad 9 10

Castilla y la conquista del reino de Granada (Granada 19933; orig. Valladolid 1967). Jerónimo Zurita, Anales de la Corona de Aragon, ed. by Ángel Canellas López (Zaragoza 1967) lib. XX, cap. 60.

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(the town league).11 In addition, the kings mobilised their retinue or ‘body vassals’ (vasallos de acostamiento), who at the time numbered 1,500 jinetes at the most, and they also paid for the pieces of artillery to be cast. This meant that from the start, the artillery was shaped into a tactical unit under royal control. The troops of the high nobility and of the military orders were also enlisted; in the big campaigns of Málaga (1487), Baza (1489), and Granada (1491), their numbers reached a maximum of 7,000 light and heavy cavalrymen, 400 harquebussiers (espingarderos), 1,200 crossbowmen, and 4,100 spearmen for the nobility, and 2,300 cavalry, 300 harquebussiers, 600 crossbowmen, and 2,400 spearmen for the Orders. As far as the contribution of the municipalities is concerned, the novelty consisted in the fact that the Catholic Kings made use of the town league or Hermandad, founded in 1476 under royal auspices, to levy an extraordinary aid. The revenues from this were diverted to employ infantry – several tens of thousands of peones in various campaigns – as well as to pay for other services. In addition, the crown engaged several thousand mercenaries from the northern coastal areas (men from Galicia, Asturias, Cantabria, and the Basque region); these came over by ship to participate in the major campaigns of the war. Only the municipalities of Andalusia, Murcia, as well as some of Toledo and the Estremadura, areas that were closer to the theatre of war, actually sent their own urban militias, totalling at most 2,400 jinetes and 13,000 peones. In sum, the Castilian armies that conquered Granada, were composed of a maximum of 13,000 horse and 50,000 infantry, plus the knights’ assistants, woodcutters, muledrivers, etc. This was a war fought mainly on land; apart from the ships operating as privateers there was only a small fleet of naos (naves) and caravels patrolling the waters of the Alborán Sea and the Strait of Gibraltar. The war was financed almost completely from ‘extraordinary’ resources: crusade taxes, ecclesiastical subsidies and contributions (aids) granted by the Hermandad, supplemented with short- and long-term loans. A conservative estimate of the total costs of the conquest of Granada amounts to about a billion maravedíes for the royal domain, and more or less the same amount for each of the nobility, the military orders, and the municipalities and villages of the Hermandad, which adds up to a sum total of 5,300,000 ducats. After Granada The circumstances and objectives of the wars in which Castile participated changed completely after 1494, when the kings started to get more 11

La Hermandad de Castilla. Cuentas y memoriales 1480–1498 (Madrid 2005).

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heavily involved into wars and conflicts outside the kingdom or, more precisely, outside the Iberian Peninsula. This set in motion a chain reaction of changes, caused both by the magnitude of the means that had to be mobilised and to the lack of precedent for such military engagements. From the end of 1492, there came into existence a small but permanent war fleet known as the Armada of Bizcaya after the origins of the ships and their crews. This set the scene for better provision of security for overseas traffic, and was an innovation that was meant to establish at sea what the Hermandad had brought about on land. Indeed, it was no coincidence that the royal Treasurer (contador mayor de cuentas), Alonso de Quintanilla, was in charge of organizing both undertakings.12 However, there is no doubt that the wars against the kings of France in Naples and in the Roussillon, between 1495 and 1504, were the first manifestations of this new era in military history. The formation of standing armies and permanent fleets which were subject to direct control and organization by royal powers, was directly related to the great wars against foreign enemies, and was a sign of the intensification of contacts between nations from the beginning of the Early Modern period, which also gave birth to stable diplomacy.13 While the mobilization of large armies would become a common characteristic of all western monarchies, it was the Castilian experience, perhaps along with France, which was the most pioneering. This is evident from the fully developed variety of armies in the time of the Catholic Kings, as well as from the systematic organization of a military administration and a stable assessment of the ordinary and extraordinary financial resources for the payment of troops, equipment, and all other kinds of military activities, both in times of peace and in times of war, that ran parallel to it.14 In 1495, once the conquest of Granada was a fact, the kings drew up plans to establish a system of permanent domestic militias. These were organized on the basis of the conscription of ‘one out of every eleven vecinos’; this system was supposed to be sufficient not only to cater for internal conflicts and wars on Castilian soil, but also facilitate the forced conscription of troops in case of wars abroad. This idea had a precedent in France from the middle of the fifteenth century, and would come to be copied successfully much later, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in Sweden and Prussia; however, in Castile it eventually came to nothing and as yet the tra12

13

14

‘La “armada” de Vizcaya (1492–1493): nuevos datos documentales’, En la España Medieval 24 (2001) 365–94. ‘Francia y España en tiempos de los Reyes Católicos’ / ‘La France et l’Espagne au temps des Rois Catholiques’, in: España y Francia: una historia común (Madrid 2008) 97–141. Also in La España de los Reyes Católicos (Madrid 20063). The most important synthesis of information for the period until 1536 is R. Quatrefages, La revolución militar moderna. El crisol español (Madrid 1996).

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ditional procedures to mobilize the vecinos through the municipal councils and lordships remained in use, although this quickly degenerated.15 Conversely, the monarchy, although it did suppress the military power of the Hermandad in June 1498, concentrated ever greater financial resources on a standing army, ready for military operations both in Castile and, especially, abroad. The principal stages in this development were as follows: 1. In 1495, and again in 1502, there was increases in the number of cavalry commands (capitanías) within the Royal Guards – eventually ending up with 65. The payment of these commands was secured by the assignment of royal rents to so-called ‘contractors of the Guards’ (obligados a Guardas), who, in exchange for a percentual salary, had the task of delivering the total amount of money agreed, without delay, to the paymaster of the Guards. 2. Many thousands of foot soldiers (peones) were enlisted for the campaigns in the Kingdom of Naples and in the Roussillon. Galicia and Asturias were still the primary regions where they were recruited, although additional mercenaries were hired from the German Empire and Switzerland. 3. At the end of the war, many foot soldiers were kept in active service, and a new, standing ‘infantry of ordinance’ (infantería de ordenanza) was created in 1505. This consisted of ten to fifteen companies (capitanías) each of one hundred men. Their operational effectiveness was demonstrated immediately at the capture of several fortified places on the North-African coast (Mazalquivir, 1505; Oran, 1509; Tripoli, 1510). Even so, their deployment did not make the hiring of foreign mercenaries completely redundant, when this was necessary. 4. Between 1495 and 1505, the first artillery stations were set-up in Málaga, Medina del Campo, and Perpignan. The experience gained during the conquest of Granada resulted in focued efforts in this field: small groups of specialized personnel were hired to use new techniques to cast canon, both from bronze and from iron. Already in this period more than a thousand pieces of artillery were in use in the Roussillon, the Kingdom of Naples, and on war ships.16

15

16

Even so, in 1502 musters were held in the municipalities of the Crown of Castile to know how many vecinos were capable to got to war, and how they were armed: cf. ‘La caballería y la población de Extremadura según los alardes de 1502’, Norba. Revista de Historia 17 (2004) 157–86. A. Ladero Galán, ‘Artilleros y artillería de los Reyes Católicos’, in: E. García Hernán and D. Maffi (eds), Guerra y sociedad en la Monarquía Hispánica (Madrid 2006) I, 805–830.

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5. Large and costly war fleets, consisting of naos, caravels, Genovese carracks and galleys, were organized by hiring ships from private owners in the harbours on the Cantabrian, Castilian, and Andalusian coasts. In the war of Naples of 1495–1497, three Castilian naval formations, totalling 58 ships and 3,600 crew, were in action.17 For the infante Johanna’s trip to Flanders in 1496, when she was going to be married to the archduke Philip, a fleet of 22 large ships with 3,500 sailors was mobilized.18 In the second war of Naples, between 1500 and 1504, more than 70 ships with a total crew of about 4,500, were active in the service of the king of Castile, even if some units were actually replacements or were deployed in rotation. These figures for ships and sailors have to be augmented with the large numbers of soldiers and many hundreds of canon on board. Meanwhile, between 1495 and 1504 numerous other ships made a total of 285 round trips between Andalucia and Catalonia to supply the troops stationed in the Roussillon with wheat and barley.19 Everything was paid for by the royal government; the financial capacity of the monarchy could not as yet provide for the permanent upkeep of warfleets, but it did suffice for streamlining procedures of hiring and paying sailors, as well as for organizing and dispatching war fleets by means of guidelines, ordinances, and executive directives, which were all developed in order to successfully arrange the quick mobilisation, equipping, and command of war fleets. 6. The defense strategy on land was reconsidered in two central ways. On the one hand, by writing off a substantial number of castles both in Castile and in the Granada area, which, under the new circumstances, were of little or no practical use; on the other hand, by making greater efforts to build or rebuild castles of particular strategic value, and making use of the latest construction techniques aimed at successful defense against artillery bombardments. The finest example is the new fortress of Salsas in the Roussillon, built between 1498 and 1504 at a cost of more than 150,000 ducats. 7. At the same time, a number of high officials in the royal administration were appointed who were specialists in military logistics, especially provisioning and transport. The kings made use of their services in various theatres of war. One example was bishop don Juan Rodríguez de Fonseca, who from 1493 until 1523 was responsible for the organisation 17

18

19

‘Fuerzas navales y terrestres de los Reyes Católicos en la primera guerra de Nápoles. 1494– 1497’, Revista de Historia Naval 100 (2008) 11–57. La armada de Flandes. Un episodio en la política naval de los Reyes Católicos (1496–1497) (Madrid 2003). A. Ladero Galán, ‘La “frontera de Perpiñán”. Nuevos datos sobre la primera guerra del Rosellón (1495–1499)’, En la España Medieval 27 (2004) 225–83.

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and provisioning of war fleets in Seville, which were headed to the Americas, the Kingdom of Naples, Roussillon and North-Africa.20 Another one was the royal secretary Hernando de Zafra, who, from the conquest of Granada until his death in 1507, acted as a sort of Secretary of War and Navy avant la lettre.21 8. Specialist bookkeepers and paymasters were also engaged to work for the army, taking orders from these military specialists as well as working in close collaboration with them. An example was Juan de la Torre, paymaster of the Royal Guards and the artillery stations from 1493 until his death in 1510, who also had been paymaster of the troops and garrisons of the kingdom of Granada. In short, in the very short period between 1495 and 1504, a specialized, military administration was set up, organized functionally and the accounts and muster-rolls of this administration still serve as a base for modern historical research. The innovations mentioned above happened quickly, over the same short period, and led to the legal regulation (ordenanza) of all kinds of things related to the military. Probably the most difficult to regulate was financing and punctual payment. Military expenditure by the Castilian royal domain rose to 5,544,000 ducats between 1495 and 1504, a sum already twice as high as the funds put into the conquest of Granada. Almost half of this money was spent on the wars in the Kingdom of Naples and the Roussillon.22 At the start of the sixteenth century, military expenditure represented 40% of the normal income of the monarchy in times of peace, not including extraordinary outgoings in times of war. If we take into consideration all the parameters discussed above, we can be sure that, in times of war, military expenditure will have amounted to 70–80% of the total revenue of the Royal Treasury, a percentage that was quite common in many European kingdoms during the wars of the Early Modern Age. In order to have even more money at their disposal, the Castilian kings needed to obtain credit. However, the ever increasing impossibility of arranging loans on a shortterm basis meant an increase in the number of occasions on which medium and long-term loans in the form of juros were contracted. Of course this was also an experience typical of the history of the kings of the House of Austria in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, yet a precursor of this

20

21 22

Juan Rodríguez de Fonseca. Su imagen y su obra, ed. by A. Sagarra Gamazo (Valladolid 2005), and my book Las Indias de Castilla en sus primeros años. Cuentas de la Casa de la Contratación (1503–1521) (Madrid 2008). Hernando de Zafra, secretario de los Reyes Católicos (Dykinson/Madrid 2005). Figures based on calculations I made on data from accounts preserved in the Archivo General de Simancas, Contaduría Mayor de Cuentas (various registers). The same data and figures are in my book Ejércitos y armadas de los Reyes Católicos. 1494–1505 (Madrid 2010).

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phenomenon already existed in 1490, and again from 1495 onwards, that is to say, in those initial years of the ‘military revolution’. I would like to conclude with a brief recapitulation of the composition of the standing royal army in 1504, when the war ended, albeit without including either the number of ships of the war fleets or of mercenaries that had already been disbanded. At this time the standing army comprised: 64 companies of cavalry with 1,817 hombres de armas and 3,266 jinetes, divided over the Roussillon, the Kingdom of Naples, Navarra, Castile and Granada; and 146 artillery men, 152 harquebussiers (espingarderos), and 2,797 infantry men garrisoning the royal fortresses of Granada and Roussillon. These are no figures of an enormous army. But they definitely are much higher than the figures we have for previous years. These cavalry and artillery men, with their professional commanders, together with standing or mercenary groups of pikemen and harquebussiers, made up the core of a new type of army, quite distinct from those of the Middle Ages.

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3 Clients and Networks

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The Two Faces of Pardon Jurisdiction in the Burgundian Netherlands. A Royal Road to Social Cohesion and an Effectual Instrument of Princely Clientelism Walter Prevenier Sint-Martens-Latem

In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries pardon jurisdiction in the Netherlands had evolved into the exclusive competence of the duke of Burgundy. Soon after the first prince of this dynasty, Philip the Bold succeeded as count of Flanders, he introduced in 1386, after the model of the French kingdom, the authority of the prince to give and to refuse grace. This was in fact part of a more global strategy to create a counter power for the powerful Flemish cities, proud on their independent decision making in matters of politics, and on their impact on jurisdiction, by increasing, step by step, their discretionary competence to base the judgments in their courts on other arguments than the pure principles of criminal law. More generally we might consider the use of pardon as one of the many elements of the duke’s policy of domestic centralization, and as one of the innumerous ingredients of the so called Burgundian Theatre-State.1 The pardon procedure allowed the duke of Burgundy to adjust dubious decisions. Because of the high amount of cases the prince accepted, for many years, to share his competence for pardon with one of his top officials, the souverain-bailli of Flanders. But in 1448, he decided to finish this double track, so that his monopoly was now complete.2 In 1510 top lawyer Philip Wielant (1441– 1520) clearly defined the duke’s competence: ‘Nobody else than the prince grants remission, nor forgives crimes’.3 This unlimited power of the prince to grant pardon certainly could have been a gateway to misuse and arbitrariness. That is why a number of controls 1

2

3

Philippe Godding, ‘Les lettres de justice, instrument du pouvoir central en Brabant (1430– 1477)’, Archives et bibliothèques de Belgique 61 (1990) 385–402; Wim Blockmans and Walter Prevenier, The promised lands. The Low Countries under Burgundian rule, 1369–1530 (Philadelphia 1999) 132–40. Marc Boone, ‘Want remitteren is princelijck. Vorstelijk genaderecht en sociale realiteiten in de Bourgondische periode’, in: Luc Stockman and Peter Vandermeersch (eds), Liber Amicorum Achiel De Vos (Evergem 1989) 53–9, esp. 55. Filips Wielant, Verzameld werk. Corte Instructie in materie criminele, ed. by Jos Monballyu (Brussels 1995) 280, cap. 150, 1.

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and restrictions have been introduced. The first step in the pardon procedure is the submission of a request by a convicted individual. This request is then checked by a local justice, connected to the location of the crime. From the sixteenth century on the check is mostly implemented by the Secret Council, in which a prosecutor (‘procureur’) is endowed with a general control of the exact circumstances of the criminal act. But the final political decision, after the preceding juridical check, has always been the exclusive privilege of the duke, who was capable to accept or to refuse the request for grace, and to deliver a letter of remission without any condition or restriction. Nevertheless, the recipient of a pardon letter was not certain at all to escape effectively to the original punishment and to restore his previous juridical condition.4 Pardon made avoid direct execution, but did not guarantee impunity. A third element in the procedure enabled eventually to reduce the remission letter to a dead letter, and to bring the grace back to zero. Indeed, the letter did not acquire full validity and effect before the judicial confirmation (‘intérinement’) of the document. This approval was not evident: the grace could be rejected. The recipient of the letter was expected to submit the text to a judicial instance, mostly one of the regional courts of the duke, such as the Court of Flanders, the Court of Holland, the Court of Brabant, etc.5 These Courts could decide that a second formal inquest was needed, on top of the first rather limited preliminary control before the ducal decision, in order to check the elements of the former conviction (before the pardon happened), and to verify if the arguments used by the recipient of the pardon in the remission letter did actually correspond with the real facts and spoken words. The Court prosecutor could also decide to summon new witnesses to testify on the case. He could even recall former witnesses to testify a second time (recollement), and should the occasion arise these witnesses were fully authorized to change their first testimony before local aldermen or local bailiffs.6 If the judges discovered that crucial information had been hidden or omitted in order to obtain the pardon more easily, the pardon became invalid (subreptice). If they found 4

5

6

The possibility of rejection of remission letters was a reality in all regions where the royal grace existed, or where the royal model was followed (Burgundy and the Burgundian Netherlands); Claude Gauvard, “De grace espécial”. Crime, état et société en France à la fin du moyen âge (Paris 1991) 67–8. For fifteenth century Toulousain, see Leah Otis-Cour, ‘Les limites de la grâce et les exigences de la justice: L’entérinement et le refus d’entériner les lettres de rémission royales d’après les arrêts du Parlement de Toulouse à la fin du moyen âge’, Recueil de mémoires et travaux de la Société d’histoire du droit et des institutions des anciens pays de droit écrit 17 (1996) 73–89. Godding, ‘Les lettres de justice’, 388–9; Hugo De Schepper, ‘Het gratierecht in het BourgondischHabsburgse Nederland, 1384–1633, vorstelijk prerogatief en machtsmiddel’, in: Herman Coppens and Karin Van Hoonacker (eds), Symposium over de centrale overheidsinstellingen van de Habsburgse Nederlanden, Standen en Landen, bijz. reeks 2 (Brussels 1995) 44–5 and 79–83. See the case of Matthieu Cricke in 1476: Walter Prevenier, ‘Vorstelijke genade in de praktijk. Remissiebrief voor Matthieu Cricke en diens mede-acteurs voor vermeende vrouwenroof in oktober 1476, slechts geïnterineerd na kritische verificatie door de raadsheren van het Parlement van Mechelen’, Handelingen Koninklijke Commissie voor Geschiedenis 175 (2009) 247–254, text 3, sub 1, 7, etc.

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false statements, twisting the facts, by the candidate, the letter was formally rejected as untrue (obreptice).7 If the checks did not reveal fraud, lies or mistakes, the Court accepted the letter without further conditions. Eventually the prosecutor in charge, however, could propose the Court to change some elements of the pardon text. At the end the judge may give green light for the corroboration of the pardon, in the form of an intérinement, i.e. the formal registration and authentication at the ducal Chambre des Comptes, department of the Audiencier.8 The remission was valid only after the supplicant of the pardon paid the required tax to the Audiencier.9 This sophisticated entirety of checks and balances certainly reduced the discretion of the cities and of the duke. It brought experienced researchers to the conclusion that this system was juridically consistent. Hugo De Schepper considered the pardon procedure as a higher form of justice than the discretionary competence of the customary judge, who was often not a professional, and whose sentences were often irrational, incomplete, purely oral and not well protected, and so gave poor legal security to the delinquent.10 Marjan Vrolijk explained in detail, in her excellent monograph on grace for homicide in Flanders, Holland and Zeeland in the sixteenth century, that the pardon procedure of the prince was a superior treatment of delinquents, given the many critical checks, and because it avoided arbitrariness and favoritism of the princes and of the local authorities. Pardon was an excellent alternative for the previous system of deals (compositiones) made in the past by local bailiffs, aldermen and other officials.11 Many remission letters conclude indeed on the following sentence: voulans en ceste partie grace et misericorde preferer a rigueur de justice.12 Claude Gauvard observed that the high number of pardon letters in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries are no sign of royal weakness, but rather une façon d’officialiser le processus normal de la resolution des conflits.13 7

8

9

10 11

12

13

On the definition of subreptice and obreptice Gauvard, “De grace espécial”, 67–8; Marjan Vrolijk, Recht door gratie. Gratie bij doodslagen en andere delicten in Vlaanderen, Holland en Zeeland (1531–1567) (Hilversum 2004) 381–4. The 145 registers of the Audiencier, covering the entire Burgundian territories, go from 1386 to 1661, and are now kept in the Archives Départementales du Nord in Lille, Série B, 1681– 1824. Cf. Léo Verriest, Les archives départementales du Nord à Lille (Brussels 1913) 50–5. Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 42–52 (general procedure), 303–336 (request), 337–75 (first check), 375–406 (check for the intérinement). De Schepper, ‘Het gratierecht’, 52–3. Vrolijk, Recht door gratie. 105–62: local compositions and local grace. On the system of compositio: Jan Van Rompaey, ‘Het compositierecht in Vlaanderen van de veertiende tot de achttiende eeuw’, Tijdschrift voor Rechtsgeschiedenis 29 (1961) 43–79; Raoul C. Van Caenegem, Geschiedenis van het strafrecht in Vlaanderen van de XIe tot de XIVe eeuw (Brussels 1954) 311–9. E.g. in the pardon letter for Cricke (1476): Prevenier, ‘Vorstelijke genade’, text 1 (‘preferring in this case grace and mercy to the rigors of justice’). Gauvard, “De grâce especial”, 920, 940.

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One factor in the procedure reveals an other ideological background of the pardon philosophy. One of the multiple steps of the judicial check of the validity of a given remission letter was the opportunity for the victims or the offended family to oppose, on a solid juridical basis of course, the delivery of the pardon letter, and to claim to stay with the original conviction. In most cases a dialogue was organized between the offender(s) and the victim(s), that in most cases was leading towards a compromise with moral or financial compensation, and finally to the maintenance of the pardon decision. Marjan Vrolijk demonstrated convincingly that the legal practice of pardon was a prominent factor in the fair application of the laws and the promotion of social reconciliation, because grace was realized with the consent of all concerned parties: the prince, the provincial Court, the local justice, the family of the victim and the perpetrator. Vrolijk enlarged this interpretation into a broader discourse on the usefulness of the pardon procedure at large, which might be considered to be a better strategy for social regulation than the option of an implacable public justice. For the recipient the remission letter was a license that allowed him ‘to escape to the army of fugitives and exiles’.14 Reconstruction of social peace and promotion of social cohesion in a specific urban or rural community must have been the dominant underlying idea for the legal option of pardon for crimes of passion. ‘Honor killings’, especially cases of homicide by the duped husband of the lover of his spouse, were frequently settled by the pardon procedure in the fifteenth-century Low Countries.15 The normal sanction would have been death sentence or perpetual banishment. However, a murder of the lover, or of the adulterous wife, as the result of anger in a context of adultery (chaude colle), was considered to deserve indulgence of the courts, at least if there was no clear premeditation.16 From the fourteenth century on, premeditation was indeed considered as aggravating circumstances.17 The execution of the capital sentence could be avoided by a negotiation before the court, by which certain compensations for the victims were accepted. The ‘social’ advantage of such a settlement was the possibility of social reintegration of the pardoned killer, and probably also that of the reconstruction of the perpetrator’s family life. It is clear that most of the pardon letters of the dukes of Burgundy on passion crimes tell stories full of emotions, jealousy, honor and dishonor, family 14 15

16

17

Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 457. An identical attitude has been discovered in late medieval Toulousain: Leah Otis-Cour, ‘De jure novo: Dealing with adultery in the fifteenth-century Toulousain’, Speculum 84 (2009) 357–9. Natalie Zemon Davis, Fiction in the archives. Pardon tales and their tellers in sixteenth-century France (Stanford CA 1987) 36–7. Van Caenegem, Geschiedenis van het strafrecht, 31–35; Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 168.

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conflicts, tensions with neighbors, treason by good friends, gossips that may kill reputations, in one word, on very recognizable social realities. Natalie Davis, following Roland Barthes,18 qualified this part of pardon letters, giving concreteness and credibility, as ‘the reality effect’.19 The argument of restoration of social cohesion is not explicitly expressed, it is true, but it is clearly implicitly present. The prince, the ducal officers, the court judges, and especially public opinion exhibited in the fifteenth century an unmistakable clemency, understanding and clear empathy for this technically unjustified behavior of uncontrollable outburst of anger. The ‘chaude colle’ is often used as a successful argument before medieval courts, as well as in the applications for pardon, even if the vengeance took the form of a homicide.20 The sympathy for the perpetrator was evident as soon as the adultery was a public scandal, if the adulterous lover was a personal friend of the husband, if the gossips of neighbours in the village or in the urban parish turned the love affair into social drama. Pierre de Scelewe, a poor innkeeper of Langemark, a village north of Ypres, became aware in 1458 of the frequent sexual intercourses of his neighbour Christian le Cloot with his wife. The public scandal became evident since Le Cloot publicly and painfully insulted Scelewe in his own inn, by calling him an impotent. The weight of public scandal became unbearable: la fame commune, divers rappors par pluseurs personnes, and the vraies presumptions of Scelewe himself, made him kill the lover. In the letter of grace a double humiliation was mentioned: the doubt about the virility of Scelewe, and the laughing reaction of Le Cloot when his friends warned him for violence by Scelewe if he would not stop his adulterous actions (s’en mocquoit).21 Vrolijk’s interpretation of the pardon procedure by medieval princes as a fair social regulation gets significant credibility by the fact that the recipients belong to all social levels. They can be as well members of the elites, as middle class and working class people, and occasionally even marginal citizens and social underdogs. I am convinced that the hypothesis may acquire additional strength by referring to the numerous symptoms of concern demonstrated by many urban aldermen with the perspective of the exclusion of longstanding conflicts between families, and of a pacific solution of social problems. Mid fifteenth century the city of Ghent was confronted with the loss of honour of many young maidens by actions 18

19 20 21

Roland Barthes, ‘The Reality Effect’, in: Tzvetan Todorov (ed.), French Literary Theory Today (Cambridge 1982) 11–7. Davis, Fiction, 44–5. Gauvard, “De grâce especial”, 796. Pardon letter in: Lille, Archives Départementales du Nord, B 1688, f. 3v (‘public rumor’; ‘several reports by various persons’; ‘true presumptions’; ‘he laughed at them’).

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of a certain jeunesse dorée, the sons of wealthy bourgeois families, with a lot of unwanted pregnancies and unmarried mothers as a result. In 1451 Gherem Borluut, a member of one well-known family, deflowered Lysbeth van de Steene, but could or would not marry her, because of the difference in social class.22 The Ghent aldermen forced him to pay a substantial sum for her trouble and for her lying-in, and for the rest of her life an annuity of 10 shillings groat, a sum which would be transferred to the natural child of their union should the mother misbehave. It is clear that the Ghent aldermen worked for a solution as well for the unmarried woman and her child, as for the son of the patrician family. They preferred compassionate social care and reconstruction of mainstream family life over rigid morality.23 Until now pardon jurisdiction seems to belong entirely to the domain of ‘fair justice’, seems to function as one big search for social realities beyond violence and human emotions, anger, shame and dishonour. It seems to show the great ambition to bypass the criminal accident by steering into a socially useful compromise, into global social cohesion. Probably circa 90% of the pardon letters belong to this noble category. Within this context of ‘fair justice’ we may presume that the prosecutors and other ducal officials in charge of the pardon procedures displayed significant efforts to reach the highest level of reality by checking, through eyewitnesses, medical doctors involved in the crime, how much truth and how much deceit the pardon request contained. Jurist Filip Wielant, competent as a writer on criminal justice, and experienced practitioner as a councillor of the ducal Court, the Parliament of Mechelen at the end of the fifteenth century, warned his contemporaries that ‘if anyone introduces an application that is false and beneath truth, his request becomes invalid, the pardon cancelled’.24 Marjan Vrolijk devotes a full chapter to ‘the degree of truthfulness of the requests’, and her conclusion is ‘that it is very improbable that the request was based on fantasy and halve truths’,25 because that would be a stupid risk, given the two following 22

23 24 25

A sign for the fact that difference in social class was indeed a real impediment for a socially mixed marriage in the fifteenth century is the use of the theme as an argument for the failure of a love story in fiction literature of the time. In the play ‘Mirror of Love’ by the Brussels poet Colyn van Ryssele, ca. 1480, the poor seamstress Catherine complains that she cannot marry Dirk, son of a rich merchant in Middelburg, with whom she is in love, because his family is socially superior to hers. The other option of becoming Dirk’s mistress is also excluded, because that would kill hope for a marriage in her own environment. Walter Prevenier, Thérèse de Hemptinne and Marc Boone, ‘Fictie en historische realiteit: Colijn van Rijssele’s “De Spieghel der minnen”, ook een spiegel van sociale spanningen in de Nederlanden der late middeleeuwen?’, Koninklijke Souvereine Kamer van Rhetorica van Vlaanderen de Fonteyne 34 (1984) (2de reeks, nr. 26) 9–33. Ghent, City Archives of Ghent, Series 301, section 41, vol. 1, f° 99 r°. Monballyu, Filips Wielant Verzameld werk, p. 249, cap. 125, sub 2. Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 336 (conclusion); 303–36 (chapter).

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judicial checks and examinations, one before the decision of the prince, and one before the registration.26 This ‘idealistic’ behaviour of fifteenth century princes, prosecutors and judges, is, however, not the full picture. In a limited number of cases, probably some 10%, I suspect the working of a very different decision making, less, or not at all, based on ‘fair justice’ and ‘social concern’, but on underlying, very deviating, political and materialistic motivations and backgrounds. The declared reason for pardon is, in this category, still the same commonplace ‘grace et misericorde preferer a rigueur de justice’. But the unconditional belief in this noble cliché would show an evident naïveté, or, even worse, an unrealistic interpretation of the use of judicial formalism. If the Burgundian duke has indecent calculations or sophisticated political strategies in mind he will not be so stupid to explicit these in his official remission letter. One clearly ‘politically motivated’ pardon is the case of squire Adriaan Vilain. In the town of Mechelen, on 13 December 1477, this nobleman, together with some of his clan members, forcibly abducted, with a view that she would accept a marriage, Antoinette de Rambures, the wealthy widow of Guy de Brimeu, lord of Humbercourt, one of the duke of Burgundy’s top officials. Her husband had been executed in Ghent together with Chancellor Hugonet eight months before, on 3 April 1477, both considered responsible for the unsuccessful policy of Charles the Bold. The very day of the abduction, as well as the following days, archduke Maximilian, his wife Maria of Burgundy, and her mother Margaret of York, all of them sojourning in their Mechelen residences, send four letters, in Dutch and in French, to the aldermen of Mechelen, in which they require a speedy search for the abducted widow. They set everything in motion to rescue her. The discourse of their letters reveals genuine concern for the security of a prominent member of the ducal ‘family’. The widow was indeed soon liberated, Vilain arrested and put in jail. In September 1478 Vilain, however, escaped from prison, and took refuge in Calais, outside the Burgundian Netherlands, in order to avoid conviction. From there Vilain worked himself into the clientele of the lord of Saint-Pol, count of Romont, lieutenant-general of the archduke, an army officer, so efficient and successful in the war against the French, that the archduke made him a knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece. By this roundabout way of the Romont clan the former rapist Vilain became a useful member of the ducal clan, and indeed a performing officer in the ducal army, by keeping the castle of Bohain out of the hands of the French. That is the political and military context in which Vilain obtained, some time before August 1481, a pardon letter from the archduke, forgiving 26

Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 337–406.

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and eliminating the abduction of 1477. Because of the ongoing wars, it took ten more years, until 26 August 1491, before he was able to submit his letter of remission for intérinement at the ducal Court of Flanders in Ghent. In the meanwhile the prescribed deadline was expired, and so Vilain had to bring himself back in prison, starting up again the procedure of grace, including the check of the consent for this pardon by the widow Humbercourt. The widow made no objections, did even not appear before the Court after three reminders, and so Vilain was restored in his former grace and rights.27 The dramatic switch of the archduke, and the ducal family members, from their insistence of 1477 to secure so much efforts to arrest and to rule out the criminal Vilain, towards the generous and even excessive clemency of pardon in 1481, is by no ways an innocent or gratuitous decision. But where is the key and where is the smoking gun? The Vilain case is not exceptional at all. All along the reigns of the dukes of Burgundy we can refer to innumerable analogous habits in pardon granting, that I studied in the last years: the case of the abduction of a widow by Cornelis Boudinszoon, the valet of the squire of Kruiningen (Zeeland) in 1447, the case of a seduction by Dirk Van Langerode in Leuven in 1476, the case of nobleman Clais van Reimerswaal accused of homicide in 1473. They all have in common the interests of ducal politics.28 They all are part of strategies to connect men in key positions of political and economic decision-making to the political and social network of the dukes, to reward them for former services, or to stimulate them for future loyalty to the crown. A membership of the Order of the Golden Fleece was one other way.29 But the royal road in the strengthening of the ducal clientele were the political pardons. They were the most convincing demonstration of the efficiency of clientelism and of the thesis that the protection of the prince provided an excellent and reliable safety net. Even after the death of a network member the surviving family should receive support. That is exactly what happened to 27

28

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Walter Prevenier, ‘Geforceerde huwelijken en politieke clans in de Nederlanden: de ontvoering van de weduwe van Guy van Humbercourt door Adriaan Vilain in 1477’, in: Hugo Soly and René Vermeir (eds), Beleid en bestuur in de oude Nederlanden. Liber amicorum prof. dr. M.  Baelde (Gent 1993) 299–307. I suggested this interpretation of ducal pardon letters in: Walter Prevenier, ‘Violence against Women in Fifteenth-Century France and the Burgundian State’, in: Barbara A. Hanawalt and  David Wallace (eds), Medieval Crime and Social Control (Minneapolis, London 1999) 193–195; on the Langerode case: Walter Prevenier, ‘Huwelijk en cliëntèle als sociale vangnetten. Leuven in de vijftiende eeuw’, in: J.P.A. Coopmans and A.M.D. Van der Veen (eds), Van Blauwe Stoep tot Citadel, Varia Historica Brabantica Nova Ludovico Pirenne dedicata (‘s-Hertogenbosch 1988) 83–91. Jean Richard, ‘Le rôle politique de l’ordre sous Philippe le Bon et Charles le Téméraire’, in: Pierre Cockshaw and Christiane Van den Bergen-Pantens (eds), L’ordre de la Toison d’or, de Philippe le Bon à Philippe le Beau (1430–1505) (Brussels 1996) 67–70.

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the widow Humbercourt, for whose release the archduke made such a great effort. One should not forget that the final registration of Vilain’s remission was postponed until the widow decided not to bring up any objections. Obviously, some years after the crime madame Humbercourt considered her vulnerability to be over. Some researchers, such as Hugo de Schepper and Marjan Vrolijk, did not focus so much on network backgrounds, and rather believed in the tenacious ambition of the prosecutors and judges, involved in the pardon procedure, to check the facts in a pure judicial perspective, as part of a fair justice philosophy. My guess is that the princes indeed allowed them to execute this duty in most of the cases. But in a few dossiers, sensitive for the dynasty’s network, they fully assumed the case, considering the remission letters as strategical weapons in political and social games. I acknowledge that these arguments are not explicitly mentioned in the letters. But I consider the following arguments, appearing in several cases, as a convincing disclosure. Clais van Reimerswaal, accused of an undeniable homicide that happened at night in Middelburg in 1473, fled from Zeeland and asked duke Charles the Bold for pardon. In his remission letter there is no single word of motivation for the pardon, not the least legal argument, no mention of any extenuating circumstances. Silences in historical documents are just as important as the explicit discourse. Duke Charles the Bold is not hiding at all the details of the unjustifiable actions that brought Reimerswaal to the homicide, thus proving that a duke can forgive the smallest and the greatest crime, without any justification of this clemency. The most revealing phrase, however, is one sentence, in which the duke relates, as if it were an innocent anecdote, on the reason why Clais van Reimerswael came to Middelburg the day before the night: ‘stating that by our order and decree the nobles of our land of Zeeland had been summoned to assemble in our city of Middelburg of Zeeland, around January 18 of this last year, so as to find the ways and means of issuing and collecting certain taxes from the inhabitants of our aforesaid land of Zeeland for our profit. For this session Clais van Reimerswael had appeared in person’. On the one side these details are not essential for the explanation of the accident. On the other side there is an intriguing silence, not telling us if this point is significant for the pardon. With the words ‘for our profit’ the duke is suggesting that the momentum of the meeting, that is the theatre of the crime, is of essential importance for the finances of the Burgundian State, in a time of continuous wars. He is, however, not making an explicit link between the clemency to Reimerswael and the role of this nobleman in the discussions of the Estates of Zeeland on the approbation or the refusal of the aids, for which their formal consent was required. As no single other reason for the pardon is mentioned, I feel authorized to claim the political

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interest of the prince as a plausible, if not explicit, motivation for the remission, and that this pardon is an example of the machinery of clientelism.30 Both types of fifteenth-century remission, the social regulation pardon and the ‘political’ pardon, have a clear prehistory.31 The social peace philosophy may be considered as a follow-up of the early medieval Peace of God, a movement by which the Church, first in Aquitaine between the tenth century and the early twelfth century, attempted to pacify the feudal structures of society through non-violent means. The Pax Dei took the form of proclamations by local clergy that granted immunity from violence to certain categories of population, and to the prohibition of violence on certain days of the year.32 From the late eleventh century on (Aire-sur-la-Lys), and definitely in the twelfth century, the secular authorities, such as the count of Flanders and the Flemish cities, took over the care for public order, and introduced numerous ordinances to secure the procedure of the ‘zoen’, which is a solemn agreement (reconciliation), with the aim to eliminate deathly feuds between families (vendetta, guerre privée),33 and to promote the reconstruction of peace between the parties.34 In Ghent one of the aldermen benches, that of Ghedele, functioned precisely, from the fourteenth century until 1570, as a board of arbitrage for feuds between patrician families and other domestic urban conflicts (paisierders).35 The prehistory of the supreme ruler, distributing pardon without limitation and without obligation to justify the act, goes back to the kings of France, and especially to Charles V (1364–1380). Their remission letters show that no single crime is unpardonable.36 The king is the roi justicier, and the remissions are the perfect expression of his power as chief justice.37 During 30

31 32

33

34

35

36

37

Walter Prevenier, ‘De Zeeuwse adel in de ban van Bourgondië in 1473. Loyauteit als motief voor gratie na doodslag’, in: Eef Dijkhof and Michiel van Gent (eds),Uit diverse bronnen gelicht. Opstellen aangeboden aan Hans Smit ter gelegenheid van zijn vijfenzestigste verjaardag (Den Haag 2007) 265–76. On the early signs of pardon and reconciliation: Gauvard, “De grace especial”, 904–6. Thomas Head and Richard Landes (eds), The Peace of God: Social violence and religious response in France around the year 1000 (Ithaca NY 1992); Egied I. Strubbe, ‘La paix de Dieu dans le Nord de la France’, Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin XIV, La Paix (Brussels 1962) 489–501. Marvellous cases in Flanders around 1300: Wim Blockmans, Een middeleeuwse vendetta, Gent 1300 (Houten 1987). Van Caenegem, Geschiedenis van het strafrecht, 21–4 and 280–311; on the sixteenth century conditions of this procedure in the Low Countries: Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 407–28. Johan Decavele, ‘Bestuursinstellingen van de stad Gent’, in: Walter Prevenier and Bea Augustijn (eds), De gewestelijke en lokale overheidsinstellingen in Vlaanderen tot 1795 (Brussel 1997) 293; in the second half of the fourteenth century the ‘paysierders’ took care in average of 325 reconciliations a year. Van Caenegem, Geschiedenis van het strafrecht, 320. Claude Gauvard, ‘De la théorie à la pratique: justice et miséricorde en France pendant le règne de Charles VI’, Revue des Langues Romanes 92 (1988) 317–25. Claude Gauvard, ‘L’image du roi justicier en France à la fin du moyen âge d’après les lettres de rémission’, in: Ph. Braun (ed.), La faute, la répression et le pardon, Actes du 107e congrès national des sociétés savantes (Paris 1984) 165–92.

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the reigns of Charles V and VI (1380–1422) public opinion was strongly divided on the question of the need to observe or to avoid limitations in the execution of royal grace. Justicia and misericordia (with its religious background) were the components of a subtle balance. A strong reformist movement tried, since the middle of the fourteenth century, to reduce the importance of misericordia, and considered some of the pardons as a disavowal of the previous sentences of the courts. Writers such as Philippe de Mézières and Christine de Pizan critically discussed the matter, and one of the characters in the Songe du vergier posed that he prefers prince trop rigoureux que piteux.38 But it is out of doubt that the power to use misericordia by Charles V and VI remained in full force, and the efforts for limitation by the reformist theorists continued to be no more than a noble dream. The royal power ended up strengthened. Claude Gauvard concludes that the royal loyalists were successful in their effort to ‘magnifier le pardon pour exalter le lien individuel que le prince entretient avec ses sujets et avec Dieu’.39 I am convinced that the ideological views of the dukes of Burgundy on this issue are very close to those of the kings of France. One should not forget that Philip the Bold, the first Burgundian duke in the Low Countries, was a brother of Charles V, and that this king was in many ways the model Philip most admired, as well in politics and diplomacy, as in artistic and cultural matters, and probably also in his ambitions on pardon granting.40 Philip the Bold was aware of the impact, and informed by the same critical voices on this theme his brother heard. Just like Charles V he had a copy of Le songe du viel pelerin of Philippe de Mézières in his library,41 so that, just like his brother, he was informed on the warnings of this famous writer against the tradition of pardonner les villains cas criminelx, and of Mézières’ concern about the pardons for members of the networks of the prince, what the writer considered to be contre le bien public, et a grant peril de ton ame.42 And just like Charles V, Philip the Bold and his successors used the pardon procedure cynically, and as broadly as they needed and wanted, without any moral inhibition. But the controversy on the advisability of limitations of the pardon discourse, based on moral and juridical lines, remained alive throughout the fifteenth century. It came up in several of the Fürstenspiegel 38 39 40 41

42

Gauvard, “De grâce especial”, 907–20. Gauvard, “De grâce especial”, 934. Blockmans and Prevenier, The promised lands, 17. Thomas Falmagne and Baudouin Van den Abeele, The Medieval Booklists of the Southern Low Countries, V, Dukes of Burgundy (in press in the editions of the Koninklijke Vlaamse Academie van België); this work is mentioned in five successive catalogues, from the first to the last duke of Burgundy; the manuscripts of the catalogues are not mentioned in the edition by Coopland (see footnote 42), and perhaps not surviving. G. W. Coopland, Philippe de Mézières, chancellor of Cyprus, Le songe du vieil pelerin, 2 vols (Cambridge 1969) II, 324–326.

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(‘mirrors of princes’). One of them is the Instruction d’un jeune prince by Guillebert de Lannoy, a prominent knight, active as a military leader and as a diplomat of duke Philip the Good, who made him, from the start in 1430, a member of the prestigious Order of the Golden Fleece.43 His moralizing advices for ‘a good prince’ are written on de Lannoy’s personal initiative, and not as a commission of the duke, and may give a relative independent reflection of public opinion. Guillebert defends the presence of competent officials in government, criticizes corruption in the administration and at the courts, recommends the constant consultation by the prince of the representatives of the Estates.44 Within this context of good policy and ‘common good’ philosophy Guillebert advocates in his ‘Instruction’, written between 1439 and 1442, a large but selective use of pardon granting by the ‘ideal’ prince. He acclaims the type of pardons that redresses excessive sentences of judges on simple, ignorant and peace-loving subjects, he appeals for extenuating circumstances, but he protests against clemency for real criminals, and for those using their influence and connections at the court and in upper class circles: En telz cas pitieables doivent princes et grans seigneurs qui ont la justice a maintenir, user de clemence et de pitié et espargnier les simples, paisibles et ignorans, ceulx de bonne volenté et de vie honneste, et de tous poins moustrer la rigueur de justice sur les felons, cruelz, malicieux et provoqueurs qui par engin, propos deliberé et force de leur lignages ou d’aide en court conduisent leur crismes, tenses, convoitises et cruaultez.45

For us, historians, the most instructive part of all these critical voices in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is that they would never have been so strongly formulated if the behavior of the kings of France and the dukes of Burgundy would not have been so shocking for at least some well informed contemporaries. Ducal pardon politics must have been the negative of what they proclaimed to be ‘fair politics’. That is the first and most decisive argument for my thesis on the frequent handling of pardon as a political instrument by these princes. But there are more solid arguments to found the thesis. The phenomenon of the use of ‘arrogance of power’ by the dukes is indeed not limited to the granting of grace. The dukes and the duchesses have not 43

44

45

Françoise de Gruben, Les chapitres de la Toison d’Or à l’époque bourguignonne (1430–1477) (Louvain 1997) 246, 583. Jan Dumolyn, Staatsvorming en vorstelijke ambtenaren in het graafschap Vlaanderen (1419– 1477) (Louvain 2003) 50–1; Gerard Nijsten, In the shadow of Burgundy. The court of Guelders in the Late Middle Ages (Cambridge 2004) 110–11. Quotation from the edition: Cornelis Van Leeuwen, Denkbeelden van een vliesridder. De Instruction d’un jeune prince van Guillebert van Lannoy (Amsterdam 1975) 20, lines 15–21; on the datation: XXVIII; on the ideas on ‘public good’: 78–9.

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been averse to use and misuse shamelessly and boldly political power to force people against their will, and the will of their parents, into marriage. Here also the French kings may have been the model: Louis XI (1461–1483) was notorious for his merciless appeal to blackmail in order to impose his tyrannical desire to enforce marriages.46 In the fifteenth century dukes and duchesses of Burgundy made excessive use of the immoral technique of invitations de marriage, in such a brutal way that Werner Paravicini called them ‘cases of state racketeering’.47 In 1440 John of Uutkerke, the son of a councillor of duke Philip the Good, is executed for sodomy. His widow, Bonne d’Herbaumez, in financial trouble, introduces a complaint to the duke, because it was precisely on the urgent request of the prince that she married, at the age of eight, the man, who wasted the entire family patrimony. Philip considered the complaint, because le marriage avoit esté fait par son ordonnance.48 In 1465 Isabel of Portugal, duchess of Burgundy, had in mind to marry one of her servants to a girl from a wealthy family in Ghent. She wrote a letter to the aldermen of Ghent to let them know that some of the family members agreed to follow the duchess’ plans, but others did not. The duchess strongly instructed the aldermen to put pressure upon the recalcitrants: ‘par bons moyens et doulces voies vous induisez les dessusdiz a eulx consentir au dit mariaige ... ilz nous feront plaisir’.49 The third case, in 1456, is that of Colinet de la Tilloye, an archer of the duke, hoping to marry the daughter of Jean Robault, a rich brewer in Lille, but her parents opposed. Colinet called for assistance and protection of the duchess, who indeed helped to abduct the girl from Lille into the castle of Jehan de Melun, sire of Antoing and partisan of the Burgundian duke. This refuge was located in Hainault, under the German Empire, what gave the hope to stay immune to complaints from the parents in Lille, under the French crown. Finally the Parlement de Paris condemned the lord of Antoing to release the girl and to refund the goods to the family.50 The phenomenon of the enforced marriages is no more than the 46

47

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50

Philippe Contamine, ‘Un aspect de la “tyrannie” de Louis XI. Variations sur le thème du roi marieur’, in: Michel Rouche and J. Heuclin (eds), La femme au moyen âge (Maubeuge 1991) 431–42. Werner Paravicini, ‘Invitations au marriage. Pratique sociale, abus de pouvoir, intérêt de l’état à la cour des ducs de Bourgogne au XVe siècle’, Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres (Paris 1995) 687–711. Marc Boone, ‘Une famille au service de l’Etat bourguignon naissant. Roland et Jean d’Uutkerke, nobles flamands dans l’entourage de Philippe le Bon’, Revue du Nord 77 (1995) 252–4 (‘the marriage had been concluded by his order’). Ghent, City Archives of Ghent, Series 2, H 1, f° 6 r° (‘by good means and soft ways you induce the aforesaid to consent into the said marriage; they will please us’). Raoul Van Caenegem, Les arrêts et jugés du Parlement de Paris, II, Textes, 1454–1521 (Brussels 1977) 84–7. In this case we have a second, totally contradictory, statement on the case by chronicler Georges Chastellain: J. Kervyn de Lettenhove (ed.), Oeuvres de Georges Chastellain (8 vols., Brussels 1864) III, 81–9); Chastellain, who was an official writer at the Burgundian court, delivers a version of this case that is much more positive than the text of the Paris court on the goodwill of the duke and the duchess.

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top of the iceberg. The weaknesses of the administrative machinery of the Burgundian State were the origin of continuous irregularities, corruptions, financial frauds and briberies. Nepotism in the appointment of favourits in public and ecclesiastical functions, and many forms of patronage and clientelism constantly betrayed the idea of the public weal.51 One of the most interesting polemics around remission letters is about their degree of veracity. Researchers agree on only one point: the request written by the applicant of a pardon letter, with the story of the events of the crime, never reflects reality in a reliable way. It is evidently subjective and biased, it always tries to minimize the guilt, in order to realize and justify the pardon. From this point on believers and disbelievers disagree. Law and institutional historians are rather convinced that the two successive checks, the first by the local authorities at the introduction of the request, the second by the ducal courts at the application for the intérinement, are carried out with such an efficiency and accuracy, with double checks by prosecutors and interviews of witnesses, that the final letter contains reasonable guarantees in reflecting the real course of events. I can follow this optimism for the remission letters that I qualified as ‘social reconstruction’-instruments, as can be shown in the case of Mathieu Cricke. This leader of a bohémien theater group convinced one Bruges prostitute, Maria van der Hoeven, to leave her life as fille de joie and to become an actress in his company. At one performance in Malines, Jacob van Musene, a wealthy burgher of this town, convinced Maria to become his mistress. But soon she regretted her betrayal to the actors, came back to Matthieu, left him again for Van Musene, regretted once more and joined the group again. During the third flight of Maria to the adulterous burgher, Matthieu found out that they were spending the night in the hostel of widow Lysebethe Hekelmakers in Diest, entered that house with other members of his group, and after the use of some verbal violence and some threat of clash of arms, Maria agreed to follow him. Van Musene, of course, introduced a complaint for abduction of ‘his’ woman, and so the whole company was put in jail. From prison Cricke and his companions introduced a request for grace, and indeed got a letter of remission from duke Charles the Bold in 1475. But when, a few months later, Cricke started the required procedure for the definitive registration (intérinement) of his pardon letter at the ducal Court of the Parlement of Mechelen, Van Musene opposed. So started a process of months focusing on two possible 51

Alain Derville, ‘Pots-de-vin, cadeaux, racket, patronage. Essai sur les mécanismes de décision dans l’Etat bourguignon’, Revue du Nord 56 (1974) 341–64; Wim Blockmans, ‘Corruptie, patronage, makelaardij en venaliteit als symptomen van een ontluikende staatsvorming in de  Bourgondisch-Habsburgse Nederlanden’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 11 (1985) 231–47; Marc Boone, ‘Dons et pots-de-vins, aspects de la sociabilité urbaine au bas moyen âge. Le cas gantois pendant la période bourguignonne’, Revue du Nord 70 (1988) 471–87; Blockmans and Prevenier, The promised lands, 100–2 and 129–30.

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interpretations of the facts, that of Van Musene with the thesis of abduction, that of Cricke claiming a case of seduction and free will of Maria to reunite with Cricke and his group. In this case we can understand the obstinacy of the Court in the use of critical checks: the delineation of abduction and seduction has often been a delicate matter in medieval trials. The earnestness of the pardon procedure is proved here by the presence of no less than four types of documents informing on the events: 1. the pardon letter, that reflects dominantly the version of Cricke, as originally assumed by the duke; 2. the request introduced by Cricke with no less than 50 points of discussion, some brought up by Cricke and by Van Musene, with some answers on critical remarks by Cricke, with some statements of the prosecutor; 3. the report of the interrogation of 18 witnesses, in Diest and Leuven, and especially some crown witnesses, such as the widow Hekelmakers, the landlady of the house in Diest where Cricke took Maria away from Van Musene, and the keepers of the inns in Leuven where Cricke and Van Musene took residence; 4. the accounts with the discussions and the conflicts on the payment of the fines by Cricke and his allies, proving that they belonged to rebellious and dangerous fringes of society.52 The critical confrontation of the four channels of information allows to come fairly close to the reality of this medieval event, what also must have been the aim of the medieval prosecutor at the Parlement of Mechelen. So far for the belief in the veracity of most of the pardon letters. It is my conviction that text decoding should be very different for the remission letters that I qualified as ‘politically motivated pardons’. Here the language strategies are much more complex and sophisticated. These letters do not care about the check of reality, they are full of violence, deception, fraud, lies, protection, favouritism, corruption, and all other variations on immoral behaviour. In this category of ‘political’ remission documents, I think that the question of reality check (by the medieval court, and by the historian) is totally irrelevant here, because none of the prosecutors or judges cares or is able to care about the real facts. The prince and his notaries only care about the opportunity and the usefulness of a pardon, and the construction of a more or less credible discourse. I illustrate his thesis with the case of Cornelis Boudinszoon, the valet of a squire living in a manor on the isle of Kruiningen in Zeeland, who made up his mind in 1447 to enforce a marriage with a rich widow, Anna 52

The four texts have been edited in: Prevenier, ‘Vorstelijke genade in de praktijk’; comments on the story of Cricke: ‘Een Brugs meisje van plezier, een Brusselse theateracteur en een Mechelse overspelige burgerman, in 1475. Emoties en berekeningen van een flamboyant laatmiddeleeuws trio’, in: Frank Daelemans and Ann Kelders (eds), Miscellanea in memoriam Pierre Cockshaw (1938–2008). Aspects de la vie culturelle dans les Pays-Bas méridionaux (Brussel 2009) 447–63.

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Willemszoon, he knew living in Hulst, as a way of social promotion. The criminal facts are evident. The valet abducted the widow at night, with the help of seven fellow servants. They forced her into a marriage by so called free will. In fact they threatened to kill her, and to abduct her to Scotland, if she did not accept. Cornelis’ master, Zweer lord of Kruiningen, was involved, since Cornelis had free disposal of the squire’s manor. The local bailiff did his job and arrested the criminals. The court of the city of Ghent (a Ghent burgher was involved in the affair) took the expected decision: banishment from Flanders for 50 years for the rapist, for his friends, and for his squire, the lord of Kruiningen, all co-responsible for the crime. One year later, however, the duke of Burgundy granted pardon to all of them against any vestige of juridical logic.53 Like in the before mentioned ‘political’ remission cases, there is a hidden agenda, and a preceding family story, that reveals more realistic motivations for the pardon and believable backgrounds of the crime. It was easy to reconstruct the position of the criminals. The squire was at the same time politically important and dangerous for the duke: he was one of the Zeeland noble families involved in the struggle of the Zeeland elites for their independent status in opposition against Burgundisation of the area. These families also had impact on the grant or the refusal of the regional taxes to the central state. The duke could better have him as an ally. The lord of Kruiningen also had family ties with top judges at the ducal Court of Flanders. These friends could not avoid the conviction: the facts were spectacular and a public scandal. But they may have helped for the granting of the pardon.54 There was, however, a second side of the coin. The victim was not an anonymous widow. This Anna Willemszoon was indeed the mother of Jan Crabbe, abbot of Ten Duinen, the most prestigious and richest abbey of the county of Flanders, a renowned humanist, patron of literature and arts. This abbot commanded a triptych to the famous painter Hans Memling in Bruges, and because he had no spouse to appear in the usual way on the painting, he asked Memling to paint his mother on the left side panel. Anna Willemszoon first married a rich Flemish burgher, Hans Crabbe (father of the abbot), and after his death a second rich patrician, Christoffel de Winter from Hulst. In 1448 the second husband died, and Anna became widow a second time. A rich widow, as she accumulated inheritances of the two husbands. That explains the rumours on her high social status that made Clais Boudinszoon ambitious to enforce a marriage. But the raped lady was protected: she was a member of the high society in Flanders, mother of the 53 54

Pardon letter in: Lille, Archives Départementales du Nord, B 1684, f. 10r–13r. Walter Prevenier, ‘Vrouwenroof als middel tot sociale mobiliteit in het 15de-eeuwse Zeeland’, in: Dick E.H. De Boer and J.W. Marsilje (eds), De Nederlanden in de late middeleeuwen (Utrecht 1987) 410–24.

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influent abbot of Ten Duinen, close to the court circles of the duke. It is clear that the bailiff of Hulst and the judges of the Ghent court had to take her complaint seriously.55 For the duke two significant networks were here in the balance. He managed to buy the loyalty of the one (the Kruiningen clan) and to keep the loyalty of the other (the abbot Crabbe group). The clemency of the duke was simply based on calculation, the seduction of an important segment of the political opposition. In a case like this I can not imagine that any juridical check happened between the request for and the granting of the grace, simply because there were no excuses or good juridical reasons for pardon available. And so the ducal notary, editing this pardon letter, had to go for the brutal and cynical style of the infallible and unquestionable prince, just like in many of the remission letters of the French king, also without any justification?56 The first part of the letter is indeed a brutal story of violence and terror, explicit protest (clamor) of the widow, testified by witnesses, marriage under pressure. In the description of the conviction the Ghent aldermen use the words: ‘villainous, horrible, and enormous wrong-doing’. The second part of the pardon tale is an unconvincing portrait of the ‘good’ squire, trying to prevent crime and violence, without any success. Between this long report on violence, on the one side, and the traditional reference to Christian clemency and ‘rigueur de la justice’, on the other side, there is no other justification for the pardon than one sentence that certainly takes our breath away: ‘observing the fact that the mentioned persons have never been accused before on foul actions or bad crimes, but had always lived courtly, always had a good fame and name, as we learned’. The sentence might have been simply replaced by the famous reply of a recent French president: Et alors?. This is pure bravery, arrogance, bluff. The only type of strategy that we can presume here is the cynical demonstration of protectionism and of the advantages of paternalistic networks, a show of the daring brutality and transgressions of moral and judicial standards. Without any logical link, a second part of the story is presenting the perpetrators as ‘honorable men’, an unjustifiable euphemism. I understand that for legal history it is crucial to determine to which degree the application of the reality checks by the prosecutors may have been accurate.57 But other approaches are equally valuable. For the historians of 55 56

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Prevenier, ‘Violence against Women’, 186–203. Gauvard, “De grâce especial”, 923: in the pardon letters of the French king 75% have no word of justification. Vrolijk, Recht door gratie, 458, prefers to consider pardon letters in the first place as juridical documents; these letters are not ‘discourses on social and psychological matters’; for her the goal of the requests by the prosecutor is not a psychological analysis, but the juridical demonstration of the absence of premeditation.

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the ‘histoire des mentalités’ the degree of truthfulness is a very different concept. Truth is in their mind a constructed reality, useful in the social game of repression and grace. ‘The fidelity to “real events”’ and the questioning on ‘what truth status they enjoyed in society at large’, are part of a more or less successful technique of ‘creating a sense of the real’.58 For these games we are less helped by the knowledge of legislation and legal procedure, than by the ‘thick description’ of anthropologist Clifford Geertz,59 the analysis of sociologist Lawrence Rosen’s ‘bargaining for reality’,60 Thomas Luckmann’s discourse on social constructions,61 the deconstructions of linguist Jacques Derrida.62 Natalie Davis used the term ‘verisimilitude’ to characterize the grey zone between reality, and fiction and lies.63 Robert Muchembled called this zone un subtil composé de demi-teintes, une vérité que l’on peut qualifier de judiciaire, and une règle impérative de vraisemblance.64 Within this approach the historian is confronted with a plurality of truths, simultaneous voices on the unique and indivisible reality.65 In one and the same pardon letter we are confronted with the truth of the criminal, the truth of the victim, that of the bailiff, of the prosecutor (in the first check), of the court judges (in the second check), and, above all, the (political and opportunistic) truth of the pardoning prince. It is true that part of the original form of these voices may have been lost, since they are assembled and recycled by the notary in charge of the editing of the pardon. In most cases, however, the original content and even the colour of the voice is respected, by the use of literal quotations, especially in the testimonies. Remission letters, as products of the legal system, deliver in the first place direct information on crime, repression, and the option of pardon, as a judicial review on the fairness of justice. A significant amount of the pardon letters have had a useful function for social cohesion, as they reintegrate people into society that otherwise would be lost. But a restricted part have been used, beyond this logic, by princes as instruments of power politics, within 58 59

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Davis, Fiction, 5 and 47. Clifford Geertz, ‘Thick description’, in: idem, The interpretation of culture (New York 1973) 3–30. Lawrence Rosen, Bargaining for reality. The construction of social relations in a Muslim community (Chicago, London 1984) 1–5, 18–9, 180–1. Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The social construction of reality: a treatise in the sociology of knowledge (New York 1980). Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie (Paris 1967) 21–33. Davis, Fiction, 45. Robert Muchembled, La violence au village. Sociabilité et comportements populaires en Artois du XVe au XVIIe siècle (Turnhout 1989) 16–8. On this plurality of the notion ‘truth’: Walter Prevenier, ‘Les multiples vérités dans les discours sur les offenses criminelles envers les femmes dans les Pays-Bas méridionaux (XIVe et XVe siècles)’, in: S. Gouguenheim e.a. (eds), Retour aux sources. Textes, études et documents d’histoire médiévale offerts à Michel Parisse (Paris 2004) 955–64.

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the frame of networking and clienteles. Pardon letters reveal that a tale and a confession may be a lie. They contain mostly a well developed story on the social, political and psychological backgrounds of the offense and the grace, and so they become the most exciting sources for the study of mentalities and human behaviour.

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La Hollande, source de capital social pour un Flamand ambitieux ? Les intérêts et les aventures de Pierre Lanchals, grand commis de l’État Burgundo-Habsbourgeois (vers 1441/42–1488) Marc Boone1 Université de Gand

Le contexte : un État en formation, un territoire plus ou moins uni Dans l’État composite que fut l’État dit Bourguignon, qui se constituait dans une des parties les plus urbanisées de l’Europe et où une élite politique au service du prince partageait le pouvoir avec des élites urbaines, veillant scrupuleusement au respect de leurs intérêts avant tout économiques, le service de l’État offrait des possibilités d’ascension sociale et d’enrichissement personnel sans précédent à des individus ambitieux et sans scrupules. La première qualité nécessaire pour profiter des opportunités, était de se trouver au bon endroit à un moment opportun. Dans ce qui suit nous évoquerons une partie de la carrière hors du commun qu’a parcourue un serviteur des ducs Charles le Téméraire et du couple archi-ducal Marie de Bourgogne et Maximilien d’Autriche, parti de sa ville natale de Bruges et issu de l’élite corporative locale, à la conquête d’un statut social et d’une réussite hors du commun. En évoquant cet État bourguignon il faut, impérativement, préciser les mots et les choses. Suivant ce qu’écrivait en 1999 Bertrand Schnerb, qui s’est inspiré lui-même des considérations consacrées au phénomène de l’État par Bernard Guenée, l’État bourguignon a bel et bien existé, même s’il ne s’agit pas d’un État-nation, ni d’un État souverain.2 Si l’on accepte le principe qu’on peut parler d’un État dès que dans un territoire donné, des populations y vivant se soumettent à un même pouvoir, il est bel et bien permis de parler d’un État princier. Ceci vaut pour le territoire – bien que fluctuant et de 1

2

La recherche est à cadrer dans le contexte du programme PAI (pôles d’attraction interuniversitaire) phase VI n 32: City and society in the Low Countries, 1200–1800 que je dirige avec des équipes des universités de Gand, Bruxelles, Anvers et Utrecht, de la Bibliothèque royale de Bruxelles et du Musée royal des Beaux-Arts de Bruxelles, voir: http://www.cityandsociety. be/. Abréviations utilisées: ADN: Archives départementales du Nord (Lille, France); AEB: Archives de l’Etat à Bruges (Belgique); AEG: Archives de l’Etat à Gand (Gand, Belgique); AEZ: Archives de l’Etat en Zélande (Middelbourg, Pays-Bas); AGR: Archives générales du Royaume (Bruxelles, Belgique); ANLH: Archives Nationales La Haye (Pays-Bas); AVB: Archives de la ville de Bruges (Belgique); AVD: Archives de la ville de Dordrecht (PaysBas); AVG: Archives de la ville de Gand (Belgique); AVH: Archives de la ville de Haarlem (Pays-Bas). B. Schnerb, L’État bourguignon,1363–1477 (Paris 1999) 8–10.

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surcroît ni homogène, ni uni – sur lequel les ducs Valois de Bourgogne ont exercé un pouvoir certain aux cours des XIVe et XVe siècles. La discussion soulevée par l’État bourguignon a longtemps tourné autour de la question de savoir si oui ou non une politique bourguignonne a été menée en marge, en opposition mais rarement en synergie avec l’État incontesté qu’était la France royale. Des historiens chevronnés comme dans leur temps Henri Pirenne et Johan Huizinga, et à la génération suivante Paul Bonenfant, Richard Vaughan et tant d’autres se sont engagés dans cette discussion.3 Le débat s’est momentanément arrêté sur un constat qualifié de « juste milieu » par Bertrand Schnerb et formulé par Walter Prevenier et Wim Blockmans pour qui, en partant du point de vue des Pays-Bas bourguignons, l’opportunisme politique permettait aux ducs à la fois de travailler lentement à une construction étatique tout en tirant profit de la politique française dans laquelle ils restaient très impliqués.4 Une vision qui part de la réalité des territoires du Nord appelés graduellement à peser davantage dans l’État bourguignon et qui a l’avantage de ne pas se focaliser trop sur une discussion gallocentrique, qui a tendance à limiter le débat au problème de savoir si les ducs Valois ont oui ou non trahi « la cause nationale »?5 Depuis les recherches phares d’un John Bartier datant déjà des années 50 du siècle dernier mais qui n’ont pas pris une ride, concernant le personnel juridique et financier au service des ducs Valois de Bourgogne, le récit d’une gestation lente d’un État bourguignon dans les anciens Pays-Bas fortement déterminé jusqu’alors par une approche institutionnelle et juridique, s’est enrichi d’une analyse des carrières, des ambitions sociales et politiques des familles dont sont issus les grands corps des officiers ducaux.6 Ensuite, des projets de recherche, dont celui que j’ai eu l’honneur et le plaisir de diriger avec entre autres Wim Blockmans, concernant les élites administratives au niveau des principautés (Flandre et Hollande en premier lieu) et qui ont donné lieu à

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Il m’est arrivé d’évoquer ces débats dans: M. Boone, ‘“L’automne du Moyen Age”: Johan Huizinga et Henri Pirenne ou “plusieurs vérités pour la même chose”’ dans: Paola Moreno, Giovanni Palumbo (éd.), Autour du XVe siècle. Journées d’étude en l’honneur d’Alberto Varvaro. Communications présentées au Symposium de clôture de la chaire Francqui au titre étranger (Liège, 10–11 mai 2004), Bibliothèque de la Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres de l’Université de Liège, 292 (Genève 2008) 27–51, spéc. 27–28, 49 et M. Boone, ‘Langue, pouvoirs et dialogue. Aspects linguistiques de la communication entre les ducs de Bourgogne et leurs sujets flamands (1385–1505)’, Revue du Nord, 91 (2009) 9–33, spéc. 9–15. W. Prevenier, W. Blockmans, Les Pays-Bas bourguignons (Anvers, Paris 1983) 207 et des mêmes auteurs The promised lands. The Low Countries under Burgundian rule, 1369–1530 (Philadelphia 1988) passim. Une telle discussion a été à l’ordre du jour concernant l’action politique du duc Jean sans Peur, longtemps vu comme le fossoyeur de l’unité française face à l’ennemi héréditaire anglais, voir le survol historiographique qui fait état de la légende noire du duc Jean: B. Schnerb, Jean sans Peur. Le prince meurtrier (Paris 2005) 11–14. Point de départ de ce qui est devenue une grande tradition de recherche: J. Bartier, Légistes et gens de finances au XVe siècle. Les conseillers des ducs de Bourgogne Philippe le Bon et Charles le Téméraire, Mémoires de l’Académie royale de Belgique, coll. in-8° L/2 (Bruxelles 1955).

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des thèses et des banques de données, ont remis à neuf nos connaissances.7 A côté de ces études, basées sur une prosopographie systématique et ciblée, des dossiers individuels peuvent et doivent compléter le tableau. Ils sont en effet de nature à permettre au chercheur d’introduire dans l’analyse des aspects concernant les relations familiales et informelles qui se situent dans les marges des relations officialisées et formelles mais sont tout aussi révélateurs des moteurs d’une société politique en construction et de ses défaillances systématiques.8 Pour en arriver là, l’historien doit avoir à sa disposition un dossier riche et diversifié, permettant de joindre les aspects publics liés aux fonctions officielles d’un personnage aux aspects privés jetant une lumière sans équivoque sur les motivations et les intérêts qui restent trop souvent cachés derrière le discours officiel. La période dite « bourguignonne » de notre histoire est une des premières qui permette une telle approche combinée, par le fait que tant de sources officielles nous ont été léguées par l’activité des institutions centrales – véritables instruments visant à conserver la mémoire collective – que furent les Chambres des Comptes, et que d’un autre côté les villes ont produit une abondante documentation de droit privé et ont mis sur pied une culture documentaire plus qu’impressionnante.9 La cour et l’administration des ducs de Bourgogne n’ont pas cessé de fasciner les historiens et les historiens de l’art depuis le temps des Huizinga, Cartellieri, et autres, pour en arriver aux constats plus équilibrés et plus pondérés des générations actuels. Les noms de Walter Prevenier et Wim Blockmans, auteurs de synthèses récentes, ou de Werner Paravicini, infatigable éditeur de textes qui ont réorientés en grande partie la recherche actuelle,

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Voir les résultats d’un projet de recherche d’histoire sociale et institutionnelle comparative menée par M. Boone, W. Blockmans, W. Prevenier et H. Symoens dans les années 1990, financé par ce qui fonctionnait à la plus grande satisfaction de tous concernés, hormis celle des bureaucrates qui gèrent la politique scientifique, les projets VNC (Vlaams-Nederlands comité du FWO flamand et du NWO néerlandais). Parmi les résultats (en attendant une étude comparative par R. Stein): deux thèses: J. Dumolyn, Staatsvorming en vorstelijke ambtenaren in het graafschap Vlaanderen (1419–1477) (Antwerpen, Apeldoorn 2003), avec dossier prosopographique sur CD rom, et M. Damen, De Staat van dienst. De gewestelijke ambtenaren van Holland en Zeeland in de Bourgondische periode (1425–1482), Hollandse Studiën 36 (Hilversum 2000) et R. Stein (éd.), Les courtiers du pouvoir au bas Moyen Age. Les Pays-Bas Bourguignons dans un contexte Européen, Burgundica 4 (Turnhout 2001). Comme l’a démontré de nouveau W. Blockmans, ‘Corruptie, patronage, makelaardij en venaliteit als symptomen van een ontluikende staatsvorming in de Bourgondisch-Habsburgse Nederlanden’, Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 11 (1985) 231–247. R.-H. Bautier, J. Sornay, Les sources de l'histoire économique et sociale du moyen âge. Les états de la maison de Bourgogne I, Archives des principautés territoriales 2, Les principautés du Nord (Paris 1984 ); I. Archives centrales de l’Etat bourguignon (1384–1500). Archives des principautés territoriales. 1, Les principautés du Sud, 2, Les principautés du Nord (supplément) (Paris 2001). Un exemple d’une telle approche mobilisant des sources issues de l’action des échevins de la ville de Gand, combinées avec la documentation de la Chambre des Comptes: M. Boone, ‘De la ville à l'Etat: les Tolvins, clercs de la ville de Gand, serviteurs des ducs de Bourgogne’ dans: W. Blockmans, M. Boone, Th. de Hemptinne (éd.), Secretum scriptorum. Liber Alumnorum Walter Prevenier (Leuven, Apeldoorn 1999) 327–349.

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viennent à l’esprit.10 Dans ce sillon l’attention a grandi pour les aspects plus sombres de la vie de cour, les intrigues, complots et toutes les occasions offertes et saisies par des individus peu scrupuleux attirés par la splendeur, les fastes et les richesses.11 Dans ce qui suit je me propose de traiter un dossier sur lequel je travaille depuis plusieurs années et qui m’a déjà permis d’illustrer différents aspects de la mobilité sociale dans les Pays-Bas bourguignons, celui du financier d’origine brugeoise, Pierre Lanchals, receveur général sous Charles le Téméraire et Marie de Bourgogne, promu maître d’hôtel et anobli sous Maximilien d’Autriche. Je privilégierai ses relations multiples avec le comté de Hollande, tombé un peu plus tard dans l’escarcelle des ducs de Bourgogne, en tout cas en comparaison avec le comté de Flandre, mais prometteur en possibilités d’enrichissement pour un courtier d’influence et de pouvoir.12 Un terrain vierge en quelque sorte, offrant les possibilités d’une économie en pleine expansion.13 Cette économie hollandaise était alors encore fortement liée aux marchés limitrophes, en premier lieu ceux situés autour des métropoles commerciales de Bruges et d’Anvers, des villes et marchés que Pierre Lanchals connaissait fort bien, pour y avoir grandi et accumulé les expériences. Le dossier de « Lanchals en Hollande » permet en outre de mettre en avant quelques aspects qui lient l’histoire individuelle et l’histoire sociale du processus de formation d’un État, ainsi que d’éclairer des pratiques de gestion politique et de techniques financières mises à l’épreuve et sujettes à un renouvellement certain dans cette fin du XVe siècle mouvementée.14 10

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Voir la synthèse citée à la note 4, à compléter par W. Prevenier (éd.), Le prince et le peuple. Images de la société du temps des ducs de Bourgogne 1384–1530 (Anvers 1998) et une collection d’essais: W. Paravicini, Menschen am Hof der Herzöge von Burgund. Gesammelte Aufsätze, éd. par K. Krüger, H. Kruse et A. Ranft (Stuttgart 2002). Les éditions par W. Paravicini concernent essentiellement le règne de Charles le Téméraire, voir les références dans : K. Oschema et R. C. Schwinges (éd.), Karl der Kühne von Burgund. Fürst zwischen europäischem Adel und der Eidgenossenschaft (Zürich 2010). Cette face cachée de la splendeur bourguignonne a déjà été abordée par un auteur comme John Bartier, plus systématiquement elle est le sujet d’un numéro spécial de la Revue du Nord 91 (2009): W. Paravicini et B. Schnerb (éd.), La face noire de la splendeur: crimes, trahisons et scandales à la cour de Bourgogne aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Concernant les différents scénarios possibles et réalisés quant à l’intégration des territoires dans l’Etat bourguignon: W. Blockmans, ‘Wie weit und wie tief ? Die politische Integration der burgundisch-habsburgischen Niederlande’ dans: W. Maleczek (éd.), Fragen der politischen Integration im mittelalterlichen Europa, Vorträge und Forschungen 63 (Ostfildern 2005) 449–471. Un état de la question concernant l’économie hollandaise en lien direct avec les économies des principautés des Pays-Bas méridionales: W. Blockmans, ‘The economic expansion of Holland and Zeeland in the fourteenth-sixteenth centuries’ dans: E. Aerts, B. Henau, P. Janssens et R. Van Uytven (éd.), Studia Historica Oeconomica. Liber amicorum Herman Van der Wee (Louvain 1993) 41–58. La démarche ainsi formulée s’inscrit dans la tradition de recherche stimulée par le programme ‘Génèse de l’Etat moderne’ animé par W. Blockmans et J.-Ph. Genet grâce à l’aide de programmes du CNRS français et de l’ESF européen dans les années 80 du XXe siècle. Un survol des productions et initiatives qui en sont le résultat: W. Blockmans et J.-Ph. Genet (éd.), Visions sur le développement des Etats européens. Théories et historiographies de l’Etat moderne.

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Pierre Lanchals : esquisse d’une carrière au service des ducs de Bourgogne et d’un prince habsbourgeois Pierre Lanchals, né vers 1441–42 à Bruges et exécuté sur la grande place de la même ville le 22 mars 1488, compte parmi ces officiers flamands qui, tout en étant tributaires des villes qui les ont vu naître et des réseaux sociaux dans ces cités, se sont graduellement éloignés de leur milieu d’origine. Ils ont finalement embrassé la cause ducale et joui des pompes et des honneurs liés à la vie de cour dans la Flandre Bourguignonne du XVe siècle finissant. Ce fils de menuisier, Simon Lanchals, et d’une femme issue du milieu des courtiers brugeois, Isabelle Joncman, a payé de sa vie son ascension sociale fulgurante. Il a fini sur l’échafaud, en sacrifice expiatoire pour l’Etat burgundo-habsbourgeois qui traversait alors un des moments les plus noirs de son histoire.15 Tandis que Maximilien d’Autriche était lui-même retenu prisonnier à Bruges par ses adversaires les plus farouches, les élites politiques et corporatives des grandes villes flamandes s’engageaient dans un combat intransigeant avec l’État bourguignon. La confrontation tournait autour de leurs prérogatives et de leurs privilèges ainsi que de la sauvegarde du modèle fédérateur de concertation et de dialogue entre gouvernés et gouvernants, le fondement même de la construction politique menée par les ducs de Bourgogne jusqu’à cette date.16 Avant d’en arriver à cette triste fin, Pierre Lanchals avait graduellement franchi les différentes étapes d’une carrière au service des ducs. Il avait commencé au bas de l’échelle comme collaborateur de Guilbert de Ruple à

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Actes du colloque organisé par la Fondation européenne de la science et l’Ecole française de Rome, Rome 18–31 mars 1990, Collection de l’Ecole française de Rome 171 (Rome 1993). Je ne retracerai pas en détail la vie de Pierre Lanchals à laquelle j’ai l’intention de consacrer un livre. A titre provisoire, le lecteur peut se référer à M. Boone, ‘Lanchals, Pieter, ridder en Bourgondisch topambtenaar’ dans: Nationaal Biografisch Woordenboek 13 (Bruxelles 1990) col. 471–480. A compléter avec la thèse de J. Haemers, For the Common Good. State power and urban revolts in the reign of Mary of Burgundy (1477–1482), Studies in European Urban History 1100–1800, 17 (Turnhout 2009) passim, et avec la publication tardive (le texte et les références datent de 2005) de M. Boone, ‘Un grand commis de l’Etat burgundo-habsbourgeois face à la mort: le testament et la sépulture de Pierre Lanchals (Bruges, 1488)’ dans: F. Daelemans, A. Kelders (éd.), Miscellanea in memoriam Pierre Cockshaw (1938–2008). Aspects de la vie culturelle dans les Pays-Bas bourguignons, (Brussel 2009) (= Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique, Numéro spécial 82) 63–88. L’exécution de Pierre Lanchals ne fut pas l’unique règlement de compte qui a frappé le sommet de l’Etat bourguignon: déjà en 1477, le chancelier Hugonet et le confident par excellence du Téméraire, Guy de Brimeu, seigneur d’Humbercourt l’avaient précédé: M. Boone, ‘La justice en spectacle. La justice urbaine en Flandre et la crise du pouvoir “bourguignon” (1477–1488)’, Revue Historique 308 (2003) 43–65. Sur les événements à Bruges: voir R. Wellens, ‘La révolte brugeoise de 1488’, Handelingen van het genootschap ‘Société d’émulation’ te Brugge 102 (1965) 5–52 et la thèse citée de Jelle Haemers. Sur la nature consensuelle de la politique bourguignonne en Flandre: M. Boone, ‘“In den beginne was het woord ”. De vroege groei van “parlementen” in de middeleeuwse vorstendommen der Nederlanden’, Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 120 (2005) 338–361. En général voir également: E. Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville des cérémonies. Essai sur la communication politique dans les anciens Pays-Bas bourguignons (Studies in European Urban History 1100–1800, 4) (Turnhout 2004) passim.

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partir de la nomination de ce dernier, le 28 septembre 1464, par Philippe le Bon au poste de « receveur général de toutes les finances ».17 Pour percer dans le milieu relativement fermé des officiers ducaux, il fallait un guide, la main ferme d’un maître, prêt à lancer la carrière d’un disciple fidèle et prometteur.18 C’est de Ruple qui tint ce rôle pour Lanchals. Guilbert de Ruple, natif de Poperinge, fief de l’abbaye de Saint-Bertin à Saint-Omer, était luimême un protégé de Guillaume Fillastre, abbé de Saint-Bertin à partir de 1451 et évêque de Tournai et chancelier de l’ordre de la Toison d’Or en 1461. Fillastre était le chef du Grand Conseil et commissaire chargé de la réforme des finances ducales avant de tomber lui-même en disgrâce an 1465.19 A ce moment, la carrière de De Ruple dans l’administration financière, avait démarré pour de bon, celle de Pierre Lanchals allait suivre. En effet, parmi les clercs entourant De Ruple figure, dès le premier compte que celui-ci soumet au contrôle des maîtres des comptes à Lille, un certain Pierquin Lanchals. Selon le compte ce dernier est employé à partir d’avril 1465 comme « messager », bien qu’il faille attendre août 1465 pour apprendre qu’il était aussi clerc du dit receveur general.20 Les déplacements effectués par le jeune Pieter Lanchals – l’emploi du diminutif flamand Pierquin, faisant probablement référence à son jeune âge – ont trait à la guerre liégeoise qui a marqué la fin du principat de Philippe le Bon.21 La dernière mention dans le compte de la recette générale de 1465 le plonge, avec Guilbert de Ruple, dans la vie de cour : les deux hommes se rendent le 27 septembre 1465 de Bruxelles à Anvers afin d’y acheter « plusieurs menus parties » pour l’organisation des obsèques de la défunte dame de Charolais. Les occasions d’être impressionné par les fastes de la cour de Bourgogne n’allaient pas tarder à se présenter à Pierre Lanchals. En effet, le 29 novembre 1465, Pierquin se rend auprès du noble hennuyer et homme de guerre bourguignon Simon de Lalaing, chevalier de la Toison d’Or, homme de confiance 17

18

19

20 21

Sur de Ruple, voir l’étude de mon élève K. Papin, ‘Guilbert de Ruple. Biografie van een topman uit de Bourgondische financiële administratie’, Handelingen der Maatschappij voor Geschiedenis en Oudheidkunde te Gent 53 (1999) 99–123, spéc. 99 e.s. Bartier, Légistes et gens de finances au XVe siècle, 83 e.s. sur cette tendance au népotisme et finalement à la vénalité des offices; prenant Lanchals d’ailleurs comme exemple d’un clerc qui remplace le maître au moment où celui-ci se retire des affaires. Fillastre fait apparition dans chaque étude concernant l’Etat bourguignon. On dispose depuis peu d’une étude exemplaire qui lui est consacrée: M. Prietzel, Guillaume Fillastre der Jüngere (1400/01–1473). Kirchenfürst und gelehrter Rat (Beihefte der Francia, 51) (Stuttgart 2001). ADN, série B 2054, f. 154v, 157v, 165r, 166r, 167r et v, 171v, 174r. Concernant l’utilisation des diminutifs et leur interprétation: G. Dupont, ‘Van Copkin over Coppin naar Jacob. De relatie tussen de voornaamsvorm en de leeftijd van de naamdrager in het Middelnederlands op basis van administratieve bronnen voor het graafschap Vlaanderen einde 14de-midden 16de eeuw’, Naamkunde 33 (2001) 111–217, spéc. 155: un prénom en diminutif devient relativement rare (moins de 10% de possibilités) chez les jeunes gens à partir de 20 ans. Sur la guerre liégeoise à ce moment: R. Vaughan, Philip the Good. The apogee of Burgundy (Woodbridge 20022) 391–397.

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de la duchesse Isabelle de Portugal et de son fils, le comte de Charolais, ainsi que chez Gilbert de Ruple à Beaumont (en Hainaut).22 Lanchals entre ainsi en contact avec une véritable dynastie, celle des Lalaing, dont plusieurs membres ont occupé les plus hautes fonctions à l’intérieur de l’État bourguignon, notamment en représentant le pouvoir ducal dans les principautés septentrionales, la Hollande en premier lieu.23 Charles de Charolais se trouvait également au rendez-vous à Beaumont, et ce fut probablement le premier contact entre les deux hommes que l’âge rapprochait (Charles de Charolais étant né en 1433, Lanchals appartenait à la même génération). Le jeune clerc de Gilbert de Ruple a dû faire bonne impression car quelques huit mois plus tard, le 22 juillet 1466, on lui confie des tâches qui trahissent une confiance accrue de la part du jeune comte de Charolais. Ce dernier l’envoie à Bruges auprès de Tommaso Portinari porteur des lettres closes du duc «  pour recouvrer de luy en prest la somme de VIM livres de XL gros (...) a en estre remboursé des deniers venant de l’anticipacion a luy accordee par ses villes de Hollande ».24 La relation avec Portinari, le représentant de la banque des Médicis à Bruges, allait bien sûr marquer la carrière du receveur Lanchals ultérieurement. Les chemins des deux hommes se croisèrent continuellement.25 Hasard ou pas – la première rencontre entre Lanchals et Portinari avait pour objet une demande d’aide aux villes hollandaises... A partir du 1er mars 1472 et jusqu’au 28 février 1477, date à laquelle l’Etat bourguignon dut faire face aux conséquences de l’annonce du décès de Charles le Téméraire, Lanchals servit son duc comme « receveur général de toutes les finances », fonction dans laquelle il avait succédé à son maître De Ruple. Il demeura au sommet de la hiérarchie administrative sous Marie de Bourgogne et sous l’époux de celle-ci, Maximilien d’Autriche, à tel point que progressivement il ne se limita plus à être l’exécuteur de la politique des princes de la maison de Bourgogne-Habsbourg. Il inspira bientôt cette politique et la façonna à partir du cercle restreint des hommes de confiance du prince habsbourgeois. Sa présence à la cour se concrétisait souvent en 22

23

24 25

Sur lui: P. De Win, ‘Simon de Lalaing, seigneur de Montignies’ dans: R. De Smedt (éd.), Les chevaliers de l’Ordre de la Toison d’Or au XVe siècle. Notices bio-bibliographiques (Kieler Werkstücke. Reihe D: Band 3) (Frankfurt am Main, Berlin 2000) 60–63. Un survol avec détails sur Josse, Samson et Guillaume de Lalaing: Damen, De Staat van dienst, 470–471. Il se peut bien sûr qu’une certaine tradition de liens politiques et administratifs entre le Hainaut et les comtés de Hollande et Zéelande ait pu inspirer cette sélection, liens qui remontent à la période de la dynastie des Avesnes (fin 13e – début 14e siècle), voir les recherches en cours dans le contexte d’un projet de recherche VNC (Universités de Gand et d’Amsterdam/Leyde). ADN, B 2058, f147r. Dans les années suivantes, les relations multiples entre Portinari et l’Etat bourguignon allaient passer presque obligatoirement entre les mains (et le contrôle) de Lanchals: M. Boone, ‘Apologie d'un banquier médiéval: Tommaso Portinari et l'État bourguignon’, Le moyen âge 105 (1999) 31–54, spéc. 32 e.s.

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relation avec la gestion des deniers publics en provenance de Hollande. Ainsi, le compte du receveur de Hollande méridionale mentionne pour l’année 1477–78 le paiement de deux lourdes décharges présentées par Lanchals qui apparemment s’était occupé du préfinancement de l’achat de textiles et parements de luxe pour le mariage de Marie de Bourgogne à Bruges. Ces décharges engagent les revenus existants et attendus de Hollande.26 Déjà en 1483, une année à peine après que la mort inopinée de Marie de Bourgogne eut provoqué l’opposition politique et finalement la confrontation militaire entre Maximilien et les Membres de Flandre auxquels se joignait rapidement une forte délégation de la noblesse du pays, Pierre Lanchals avait reçu l’adoubement de la main de Maximilien. Il fut désormais désigné comme « chevalier ».27 L’ascension sociale semble parfaite. En témoigne la présence toujours plus fréquente de Lanchals et de sa femme Catharine Van Nieuwenhove (fille de Michel et de Catharine de Belle) dans les cercles qui comptaient le plus dans la vie sociale et politique à Bruges. Les événements politiques semblent toutefois éloigner Lanchals de sa ville natale. Ainsi, le bannissement promulgué contre lui par les Membres de Flandre (surtout à l’initiative de la ville de Gand) le 22 septembre 1483 le poussa à chercher une résidence dans la ville de Malines. Un choix qui s’explique aisément : depuis la politique centralisatrice du Téméraire, Malines était graduellement devenue la capitale administrative de l’Etat bourguignon.28 Ce fut également à Malines que Maximilien d’Autriche le nomma, le 19 mai 1484, écoutête (ou bailli) de Bruges, fonction qu’il allait effectivement exercer à partir du 5 juillet 1485. Voilà donc Lanchals de retour à Bruges, ville de commerce par excellence, pivot économique des Pays-Bas bourguignons, dont 26

27

28

ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, n° 575 (sans folio: ‘dépenses pour officiers qui en doivent compter’): décharges du 12 et du 16 août 1477 respectivement pour un montant de 1762 livres 10 sous de 40 gros de Flandre chaque, payés à Oudart Aubert, pelletier à Bruges et pour un montant de 1768 livres 6 sous de 40 gros de Flandre chaque, payés à Jan Nyuart pour soies et draps d’or. Sur les relations politiques détériorées à l’extrême à partir de 1482, voir toujours outre les publications de J. Haemers: W.P. Blockmans, ‘Autocratie ou polyarchie? La lutte pour le pouvoir politique en Flandre de 1482 à 1492 d’après des documents inédits’, Bulletin de la Commission Royale d’Histoire 140 (1974) 257–368. Concernant l’acquisition d’un titre de noblesse par Lanchals, aucune trace d’une lettre d’anoblissement ne nous est connue, malgré le fait qu’une grande partie de ses archives personnelles ait été conservée, ce qui incite à classer son anoblissement parmi les décisions unilatérales du prince qui anoblit par adoubement, formule, selon Paravicini, la plus exclusive et la plus recherchée qui ne s’accompagnait pas d’une lettre d’anoblissement: W. Paravicini, ‘Soziale Schichtung und soziale Mobilität am Hof der Herzöge von Burgund’ Francia 5 (1977) 127–182 réimprimé dans ses essais complets: Menschen am Hof der Herzöge von Burgund, 371–426, spéc. 388–391, 415. Voir également F. Buylaert, Eeuwen van ambitie. Edelen, steden en sociale mobiliteit in laatmiddeleeuws Vlaanderen (Université de Gand, thèse de doctorat non éditée; une publication dans la série du “Koninklijke Vlaamse Academie van België” est en préparation), avant tout le chapitre consacré au processus d’anoblissement par la voie du service du prince. Concernant Malines comme capitale d’un Etat bourguignon en construction: W. Prevenier, Mechelen: lieu de mémoire van de Bourgondische Nederlanden (Academiae Analecta, nieuwe reeks nr. 9) (Brussel 2001).

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la maîtrise était essentielle pour le prince, tant d’un point de vue financier que politique.29 Dans ce scénario, Pierre Lanchals joua un rôle de premier plan, avant tout dans l’organisation de la répression contre ses concitoyens qui avaient milité pour le parti des opposants à Maximilien d’Autriche. Par contrecoup, il devenait à son tour l’homme à abattre, une fois Maximilien neutralisé par des Brugeois révoltés, ce qui finalement le mena à l’échafaud lors d’un procès et une exécution hautement médiatisés.30 Pierre Lanchals et la Hollande : rapports de force et pratiques formelles et informelles de gestion publique Étant à partir de 1472, receveur général de « toutes les finances » du Téméraire, Pierre Lanchals se retrouvait à répétition dans le comté de Hollande, source de toujours plus de richesses alléchantes pour un État en quête permanente de revenus. Sa façon de fonctionner y était très différente du comportement d’un officier bourguignon dans sa Flandre natale. Là-bas, traditionnellement, le Tiers État, dominé par le collège des Quatre Membres de Flandre, au sein duquel les représentants des grandes villes Gand, Bruges et Ypres donnaient le ton, agissait comme contre-pouvoir aux ambitions princières.31 Le contrôle du comportement des officiers ducaux, en premier lieu officiers judiciaires et receveurs, figurait parmi les préoccupations primordiales des institutions représentatives. Sous Charles le Téméraire cette relation entre gouvernants et gouvernés et l’état d’équilibre, qui avait fait le bonheur des sujets du duc Philippe le Bon, a subi un changement brutal et sans équivoque.32 Désormais, le monde urbain et l’entourage du prince se trouvaient sur pied de guerre, ce qui impliquait une recrudescence des vio29

30 31

32

Sur la ville de Bruges comme centre économique et commercial des Pays-Bas, en dernier lieu (bien que chronologiquement limité à l’époque pré-bourguignonne): J. M. Murray, Bruges, cradle of capitalism, 1280–1390 (Cambridge 2005) 360–372. Le procès contre Lanchals s’inscrit dans la longue liste de procès à forte connotation politique qui ont secoué le comté de Flandre dans ce dernier quart du XVe siècle, voir: M. Boone, ‘La justice politique dans les grandes villes flamandes. Etude d’un cas: la crise de l’Etat bourguignon et la guerre contre Maximilien d’Autriche (1477–1492)’ dans: Y.-M. Bercé (éd.), Les procès politiques (XIVe–XVIIe siècles), Collection de l’École française de Rome 375 (Rome 2007) 183–218, spéc. 206–214. Boone, ‘La justice en spectacle’, 60–61. L’étude de base qui a analysé le fonctionnement de la représentation politique en Flandre est toujours: W.P. Blockmans, De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen in de overgang van Middeleeuwen naar nieuwe tijden (1384–1506) (Verhandelingen van de Koninklijke Academie, klasse der letteren, jg. XL, n° 90) (Bruxelles 1978). Au dire souvent cité de l’historiographe Philippe de Commynes ils auraient vécu un âge d’or dans les ‘terres de promission’ que furent selon cette image d’Épinal les Pays-Bas bourguignons: Ph. de Commynes, Mémoires, tome I (introduction, livres I à VIII), éd. J. Blanchard (Genève 2007) 13: ‘Pour lors estoient les subgetz de ceste maison de Bourgogne en grande richesse, a cause de la longue paix qu’ilz avoient eue et pour la bonté du prince soubz qui ilz vivoient, lequel tailloit peu ses subgectz; et me semble que pour lors ses terres se pouvoient myeulx dire terres de promission que nulles autres seigneuries qui fussent sur la terre. Ilz estoient comblés de richesses et en grand repos, ce qu’ilz ne furent oncques puys, et y peult bien avoir vingt trois ans que cecy commença’.

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lences dans les relations entre officiers et sujets.33 Les premiers se sentaient soutenu par le discours musclé, voire même agressif tenu par le duc et ses collaborateurs les plus importants. Si tel était déjà le cas en Flandre, alors dans le comté de Hollande, fortement perturbé et affaibli sur le plan politique à cause des guerres intestines que se livraient depuis les années 1350 les partis dits des Hoeken et Kabeljauwen, l’impact d’un pouvoir centralisé désireux d’imposer son agenda à une élite et une population régionale si fortement divisées s’en trouvait potentiellement renforcé.34 Si sous le duc Philippe le Bon, la priorité fut donnée à la pacification interne et à l’intégration des élites régionales et urbaines dans l’État bourguignon, son fils et héritier préférait une politique de centralisation et d’efficacité de la fiscalité princière. Un des résultats était que les oppositions internes revenaient en force à la surface et qu’un champ d’action s’offrait aux officiers, tel Lanchals, incarnant la politique intransigeante et exigeante de leur maître. Ainsi, les mentions dans les comptes traditionnellement laconiques et formulés à partir du seul souci de la comptabilité, trahissent dès l’année 1472 une avarice et une brutalité dans les mœurs administratives de Pierre Lanchals.35 Les échevins des villes de Haarlem, Dordrecht, Leyde, Delft, Gouda et Amsterdam se font ainsi ordonner avec grande instance – zeer scarpelic bevelen – par l’intermédiaire d’un messager envoyé le 10 août 1472 par le conseil de Hollande, d’apporter à Pierre Lanchals à La Haye l’argent des ventes (de rentes).36 Une lettre datée du 23 juillet 1473 émanant d’un receveur de la ville de Zierikzee en Zélande et adressée au maire et aux échevins de cette ville, relate comment Pierre Lanchals l’a menacé d’arrestation et de confiscation de ses biens, s’il ne trouvait pas immédiatement la somme de 1967 livres de 40 d. gr. chacune en 33

34

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36

Je viens d’en faire le point dans: M. Boone, ‘Charles le Téméraire face au monde urbain: ennemis jurés et fatals?’ dans: Klaus Oschema, Rainer C. Schwinges (éd.), Karl der Kühne von Burgund. Fürst zwischen europäischem Adel und der Eidgenossenschaft (Zürich 2010) 185–201. Concernant les conflits entre Hoeken en Kabeljouwen, la littérature est abondante, une analyse concernant le dernier quart du XVe siècle: M.J. Van Gent, ‘Pertijelike saken’. Hoeken en Kabeljauwen in het Bourgondisch-Oostenrijks tijdperk, Hollandse historische reeks 22 (La Haye 1994). Une synthèse récente nous est offerte dans les chapitres écrits par A. Janse, ‘Een in zichzelf verdeeld rijk. Politiek en bestuur van de tiende tot het begin van de vijftiende eeuw’, dans: T. De Nijs, E. Beukers (éd.), Geschiedenis van Holland tot 1572 (Hilversum 2002) 98–102 et par L. Sicking, ‘De integratie van Holland. Politiek en bestuur in de BourgondischHabsburgse tijd’, dans: ibid., 259–269. En août et septembre 1472 Jan van Assendelf, receveur de Hollande du Nord, relate comment il a accompagné le receveur général Lanchals (sous les ordres de ce dernier ‘by bevele ende ordinancie van Pieter Lanchals, ontfanger general van alle mijns genadichs heeren demeynen ende financien’) à partir de la Haye dans les villes de Dordrecht et Den Briel pour y recevoir les deniers dûs au prince, en mentionnant comment il a financé l’achat de sacs en lin pour y mettre l’argent liquide que Lanchals emmenait avec lui à Bruges (‘verleyt ende betaelt als boven voir zeker lynnen sacken dair den selven ontfanger alrehande gelt in stack ende mit him nam tot Brugge gelijc al dit volcommelicker blijcken mach bij certificacie van den voirs. ontfanger’): ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, compte n° 305, f. 116r. ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, compte n° 305, f. 152v.

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guise de payement d’une somme due par sa ville. Le receveur pouvant prouver que la ville avait envoyé un secrétaire à Bruges afin d’y obtenir un prêt, Lanchals se déclarait satisfait à condition d’avoir l’argent en liquide entre les mains dans les trois jours à venir ou une obligation pour le même montant émanant d’un certain Jean Nutin, changeur-prêteur à Bruges Jan Nutin, wysselair te Brugge op die borsse.37 Un tel comportement à la limite de ce qu’un officier du pouvoir central pouvait se permettre a fortement marqué les relations entre gouvernants et gouvernés en Hollande : encore en 1496, huit ans donc après l’exécution de Lanchals à Bruges, un procès mené par les habitants de Pijnacker au Delfland (pays de Delft), contre Arnold Henricxzn. Thou, un écoutète accusé de corruption, mentionne comment ce dernier a menacé ses subordonnés de les faire passer devant Pierre Lanchals.38 Cette allusion sans équivoque dans un dossier juridique renforce considérablement le sens à donner au passage du Divisiekroniek de Cornelius Aurelius qui en relatant les événements de 1477 fait référence aux considérations formulées par les représentants des États de Hollande et qui concerne die grote ende sware malestacien ende tribulacien die hen van den Vlamingen in voerleden tiden in groter hoemoedicheden ghetoont ende bewesen waren (‘les importantes et graves malversations et les disfonctionnements que dans le passé les Flamands leur avaient arrogamment fait subir’).39 On ne sera donc pas trop étonné que, lors de la réaction de 1477 suite au décès du duc Charles, les sujets hollandais des ducs de Bourgogne obtinrent par le Grand Privilège accordé aux comtés de Hollande et de Zélande qu’ils ne fussent désormais plus jamais gouvernés que par des officiers originaires de leurs propres comtés.40 Une exigence «  xénophobe  » en soi pas trop 37

38

39

40

Archives de la région Zierikzee, lettre originale non numérotée. Le receveur Bolle ajoutait ‘ende en is dit niet, dat men dan alle die poirteren op houden sal ende dat hij mijn persoen sal doen vangen ende mijnen goede doen vercopen’. Je remercie Hanno Brand de m’avoir communiqué le texte de cette lettre, le 11 octobre 1991. Jan Nutin n’est pas un inconnu: son nom réapparaît dans plusieurs affaires dans les années 1470–80 à Bruges, il fait partie d’un groupe de professionnels du commerce d’argent qui ont accordé des prêts afin de financer la politique de Maximilien d’Autriche: Haemers, For the Common Good., 54, 89, 139. Il faut constater aussi que la ville de Zierikzee s’est traditionnellement comportée d’une façon plus libre face aux exigences du prince: J. G. Smit, Vorst en onderdaan. Studies over Holland en Zeeland in de late middeleeuwen (Miscellanea Neerlandica 12) (Louvain 1995) 387. A. G. R. (Bruxelles), Grand Conseil de Malines, procès émanant de Hollande, n° 11 (liasse B) ‘onder tdexel van heeren Pieter Lanckhaels metten welken hij den voors. ondersaten plach te dreygen ende te dwinghene’. C. Aurelius, Die cronycke van Hollandt, Zeelandt ende Vrieslandt (Leyde 1517) 367. La réalité qui ressort du dossier Lanchals plaide à mettre en question l’interprétation trop timide que propose Damen, De Staat van dienst, 196, supposant qu’Aurelius construit aussi dans ce passage le mythe Hollando-Batave qui l’a fait entrer dans l’histoire de l’historiographie, voir C. Tilmans, Aurelius en de Divisiekroniek van 1517. Historiografie en humanisme in Holland in de tijd van Erasmus (Hollandse studiën 21) (Hilversum 1988). A.G. Jongkees, ‘Het Groot Privilegie van Holland en Zeeland (14 maart 1477)’ dans: W. Blockmans (éd.), 1477. Le privilège général et les privilèges régionaux de Marie de Bourgogne pour les Pays-Bas, Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 80 (Courtrai 1985) 145–234, spéc. 219.

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étonnant, elle fait apparition dans un grand nombre de cas à cette époque. En effet, depuis l’installation du pouvoir bourguignon dans les Pays-Bas septentrionaux, des officiers venant du Sud, en premier lieu des Flamands, avaient représenté le pouvoir bourguignon aux postes clés (lieutenant général, président du Conseil, membres du Conseil et de la Chambre des Comptes).41 Les multiples manifestations d’un mécontentement certain et de xénophobie expliquent que Jean de Halewijn, président du Conseil, et le seigneur de Gruuthuse, dernier lieutenant-général du Téméraire et dernier Flamand à occuper cette fonction, ont quitté la Hollande précipitamment, pour trouver « refuge » auprès de la princesse héritière Marie de Bourgogne en Flandre.42 Il est clair que des motifs linguistiques, mais aussi la loyauté incontestée vis-à-vis d’une dynastie qui était déjà implantée en Flandre depuis 1384, ainsi qu’une indépendance certaine face aux conflits internes entre Hoeken et Kabeljauwen avaient été à la base du choix de fonctionnaires flamands pour administrer les affaires de Hollande. Déjà tout au début de l’époque bourguignonne, lors de la conquête militaire, le chevalier Roland d’Uutkerke avait ouvert cette voie.43 Le successeur de Gruuthuse, Wolfert van Borselen, un grand noble Zélandais étant par contre trop impliqué dans la lutte entre Hoeken et Kabeljauwen pourque ses actions continuaient à être perçues comme efficaces et utiles; l’année 1480 fut marquée par le retour, en contradiction flagrante avec le Grand Privilège de 1477, des Hennuyers en la personne de Josse de Lalaing. Après la mort de ce dernier lors du siège d’Utrecht en 1483, la nomination d’un noble hollandais dont l’appartenance au parti Kabeljauw était au dessus de tout soupçon, le comte Jean d’Egmond, apportait un certain apaisement, au moins en ce qui concerne la fonction de lieutenant-général, puisque Egmond resta à ce poste jusque peu avant sa mort en 1516.44 Dans une lettre adressée à l’abbé de Saint-Pierre à Gand et à Pierre Lanchals, datée du premier mai 1478, Maximilien d’Autriche avait d’ailleurs en préparation d’une réunion avec les Etats de Hollande et Zélande à la Haye, protesté contre l’exclusion d’officiers non originaires de Hollande. À cette fin il développait une comparaison avec le Hainaut, terre où selon ses dires

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Un survol des tensions qui se manifesteront plus ouvertement à l’occasion de la crise de 1477: Damen, De Staat van dienst, 193–198. Jongkees, ‘Het Groot Privilegie’, 157–158. Sur Gruuthuse, voir en dernier lieu: J. Haemers, ‘Gruuthuse, Lodewijk van, Brugs edelman, politicus en bibliofiel’, dans: Nationaal Biografisch Woordenboek, 18 (Bruxelles 2007) col. 388–396. M. Boone, ‘Une famille au service de l'Etat Bourguignon naissant. Roland et Jean d'Uutkerke, nobles flamands dans l'entourage de Philippe le Bon’, Revue du Nord 77 (1995) 233–255, spéc. 240–243. H. Kokken, Steden en staten. Dagvaarten van steden en Staten van Holland onder Maria van Bourgondië en het eerste regentschap van Maximiliaan van Oostenrijk (1477–1494), Hollandse historische reeks 16 (La Haye 1991) 269.

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les officiers non indigènes étaient naturellement acceptés après avoir été à l’œuvre dans la principauté.45 La première intervention officielle de Pierre Lanchals dans le comté de Hollande en tant que mandataire du nouveau prince Maximilien d’Autriche en personne, se situe dans le suivi immédiat de la promulgation du Grand Privilège. Elle allait carrément à l’encontre des dispositions prévues par le Privilège de 1477. Il s’agissait d’une instruction officielle donnée par Maximilien le 21 décembre 1477 à Bruxelles, autorisant Pierre Lanchals et Jacques Croesinck, premier maître de la Chambre des Comptes à la Haye, à contrecarrer les dispositions du Grand Privilège, en utilisant au maximum tous les moyens, à la fois licites et informels pour extorquer un maximum de moyens financiers aux comtés au profit de la caisse de guerre de Maximilien.46 Les carrières de Lanchals et de Croesinck (ou Cruesinc) présentent de nombreuses similitudes  : les deux sont de descendance relativement modeste, leurs carrières ont démarré de façon traditionnelle, en apprenant leurs tâches administratives dans la pratique quotidienne de gestion des deniers publics, les deux se trouvent à l’origine d’une dynastie de serviteurs d’Etat anoblis et collectionneurs de titres et de propriétés foncières. Quoi qu’il en soit, dans l’actualité de 1477 l’instruction donnée à Lanchals et Croesinck semble avoir été suivie d’effets contraires aux stipulations du Grand Privilège. Les comptes des receveurs de Hollande et de Zélande témoignent d’une activité tous azimuts avec le seul but d’atténuer les effets financiers du Grand Privilège néfastes pour Maximilien.47 La lecture des comptes des receveurs généraux et spécifiques apprend d’ailleurs que l’instruction de décembre 1477 ne faisait que codifier et synthétiser un ensemble de pratiques déjà mises en application auparavant. Contrairement à la défense explicite formulée par le Grand Privilège de donner à ferme ou de louer des offices financiers ou juridiques, dès la même année 1477 cette pratique, si typique pour le fonctionnement de l’Etat bourguignon et révélatrice par excellence des relations et rapports de force à l’intérieur des 45

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En faisant allusion au passé commun de la Hollande et du Hainaut: ‘die van onsen lande van Henegouwe, die van eenre nature zyn als zy, admetteren ende toelaten dat alle de gene...’: J. De Saint-Genois, ‘Lettres adressées par Maximilien I, archiduc d’Autriche, depuis empereur à l’abbé de Saint-Pierre à Gand et à quelques autres personnages. 1477–1478’, Messager des sciences historiques (1845) 193–205 et 368–398, spéc. 202. Voir l’édition et le commentaire au sujet de cette instruction: M. Boone, H. Brand, ‘De ondermijning van het Groot Privilege van Holland, Zeeland en West-Friesland volgens de instructie van 21 december 1477’, Holland. Regionaal-historisch tijdschrift 24 (1992) 2–21. L’identification de Croesinck est à compléter par Damen, De Staat van dienst, passim et 454– 455 pour un dossier prosopographique et par Y. Bos-Rops, ‘The power of money. Financial officers in Holland in the late 15th and early 16th century’, dans: Stein (éd.), Les courtiers du pouvoir, 47–66, spéc. 53–60. AEZ, Chambre des comptes n° 71 (receveur Bewesterschelde, 1477/1478), 61 v-66r; n° 72 (receveur Bewesterschelde, 1478/1479), f. 76 v (intervention des deux officiers, avec Guy de Baenst concernant la nature des fiefs en Zélande), Chambre des comptes n° 886 (receveur Beoostenschelde, 1477/1478), f. 35r–35v.

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rouages d’État fait sa réapparition.48 Dans ce genre de « transactions » Pierre Lanchals semble avoir été omniprésent et très actif, par exemple : le 31 mars 1477 (deux semaines seulement après la promulgation du Grand Privilège !) un receveur qui ne gère pas les sommes les plus importantes, Pieter Hugenzn., responsable de la recette de la Zélande Beoostenschelde, s’engage à prêter la somme coquette de 900 lb. de 40 gros flamands; il reçoit une décharge pour la même somme signée par Lanchals et les deux autres «  commis sur les finances ». Un commentaire lié au deuxième remboursement partiel révèle que le prêt avait été accordé en échange de la nomination d’Hugenzn. en tant que receveur.49 Il est clair qu’en agissant ainsi, les serviteurs de l’État mettaient à la disposition du prince un crédit qui n’était autre que la mobilisation au profit de cet État d’une partie des revenus accumulés par les mêmes officiers, grâce à l’État. Ou pour reprendre une formule percutante utilisée par l’avocat d’un maître de la monnaie royale parisien, accusé de fraude au début du XVe siècle, au sujet des serviteurs-prêteurs « ils ont accoustumé et sont tenus de prester, pour ce qu’il scevent mieux trouver maniere de soy rembourser ».50 Pieter Lanchals était bien sûr informé jusque dans les petits détails de ce qui touchait de loin ou de près à la gestion financière des comtés de Hollande et de Zélande.51 Ainsi, quand vers la fin de l’année 1479 la mise à ferme de l’important tonlieu de Yersekeroord était fortement perturbée par l’action d’un ivrogne, un certain Jan Maertszn. qui avait « haussé » la somme sans pouvoir en garantir le payement au receveur général, l’officier local alerté envoyait par trois fois un clerc-messager – deux fois à Bruxelles, une fois vers la Haye – pour obtenir les instructions des commis sur le fait des finances en cette matière. Dans ce collège Lanchals donnait le ton, c’est par exemple lui qui contresignait toute cédule autorisant et finançant les déplacements.52 L’affaire se soldait par la révocation du fermier et la remise à ferme du tonlieu 48

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M. Boone, J. Dumolyn, ‘Les officiers créditeurs des ducs de Bourgogne dans l'ancien comté de Flandre: aspects financiers, politiques et sociaux’ dans: J.-M. Cauchies (éd.), Finances et financiers des princes et des villes à l’époque bourguignonne, Burgundica 8 (Turnhout 2004) 63–77. AEZ, Chambre des comptes, n° 889, f. 37v et 38v. Les deux autres commis étant maître Pieter Bogaert et Hypolite de Berthoz. Bogaert était doyen du chapitre Saint-Donatien à Bruges, traditionnellement le centre névralgique de l’administration financière flamande: Haemers, For the Common Good., 37. A. Bossuat, ‘Études sur les emprunts royaux au début du XVe siècle. La politique financière du connétable Bernard d’Armagnac (1416–1418)’, Revue historique du droit français et étranger 28 (1950) 351–371. On retrouve ainsi dans un fonds d’archives qui contient une partie des archives personnelles de Pierre Lanchals une copie contemporaine et relativement systématique des nominations d’officiers (baillis, écoutètes, receveurs) en Hollande pendant les règnes de Marie de Bourgogne et de Maximilien: AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 1511. AEZ, Chambre des comptes, n° 73 (compte du receveur Bewesterschelde, 1479–80), f. 96v– 97v: ‘den inconveniente dat int verpachten van den selven tol ghebuert was bij eenen dronckaert ghenoemt Jan Maertszoon die in zijn dronckenscippe den voirs. tol hoechde, ende daer na mynde, zonder dat hij den selven tol machtich was te verborgen, zoe dat de selve rentmeester nyet verder en dorste in deser zaicke procederen zonder eerst den selven gecommitteerden

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en question. De telles interventions et une présence administrative très nette de Lanchals se fait sentir tout au long de ses années passées au service de l’État bourguignon, ou faut-il préciser au service de Maximilien d’Autriche. Car, après sa nomination le 1er février 1481 comme maître d’hôtel de Maximilien, Pierre Lanchals faisait désormais partie du cercle des intimes et des courtiers de pouvoir ayant une possibilité d’accès et une influence directe sur le prince lui-même. Il était à ce moment le premier maître d’hôtel non noble, bien que peu de jours avant cette nomination il avait été désigné comme châtelain et capitaine du château de Male, ancienne résidence comtale dans les environs immédiats de Bruges.53 Ce premier pas vers l’adoubement et vers les possibilités de pratiquer le « vivre noblement » fut suivi par un anoblissement formel par l’archiduc en 1483.54 Dans son analyse de la politique et du personnel de l’État bourguignon dans les années suivant la crise de 1477, Jelle Haemers n’hésite pas à présenter Lanchals comme le type même du parvenu, arrivé à se tailler une place au sommet de l’État, grâce à une combinaison de facteurs positifs  : les compétences fort utiles de l’intéressé pour l’administration centrale dans les domaines des finances et de la politique, avec des facteurs plutôt négatifs  : les défaillances structurelles de l’État, que les mêmes parvenus étaient censés aider à se développer.55 Comparé à la Flandre les faiblesses de l’État dans le comté de Hollande sautaient plus au yeux  : un niveau d’intégration moindre de l’organisation politique et financière, d’où une pénurie de structures aptes à y remédier, une plus grande influence des guerres privées entre nobles et factions urbaines, une corruption généralisée du personnel de l’État lui-même impliqué dans les luttes entre les parties.56 Nul étonnement donc à ce que Pierre Lanchals se soit choisi cette même Hollande comme terrain de chasse préféré. Il y connaissait d’ailleurs bien la situation, comme le prouve le fait que déjà en juin 1479 il avait joué un rôle déterminant afin d’éviter que les antagonismes et les luttes entre les Hoeken et Kabeljauwen, dans lesquels le nouveau lieutenant de Maximilien, occupé

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daer af geadverteert te hebben’. Dans la missive suivante le receveur précise que la somme en question s’élève à quelques 2600 lb. de 40 gr. de Flandre. Voir en attendant le livre sur Lanchals: Boone, ‘Lanchals (Pieter)’, col. 474 et Idem, ‘Biografie en prosopografie, een tegenstelling? Een stand van zaken in het biografisch onderzoek over Pieter Lanchals (ca. 1430/1440–1488): een Bruggeling in dienst van de Bourgondische staat’, Millennium. Tijdschrift voor middeleeuwse studies 7 (1993) 4–13, spéc. 10. Sur ce que représente ce principe de ‘vivre noblement’ à l’aide de deux autres dossiers fascinants de promotion sociale, bien que non sans ressemblances avec le parcours de Lanchals: W. De Clercq, J. Dumolyn, J. Haemers, ‘“Vivre noblement ”. The material and immaterial construction of elite-identity in late medieval Flanders: the case of Peter Bladelin and William Hugonet’, Journal of interdisciplinary history 38 (2007) 1–31. Haemers, For the Common Good, 127–128. Comme il ressort des exemples abondants donnés par W. Blockmans, ‘Privaat en openbaar domein. Hollandse ambtenaren voor de rechter onder de Bourgondiërs’, dans: J.-M. Duvosquel, E. Thoen (éd.), Peasants and townsmen in medieval Europe. Studia in honorem Adriaan Verhulst (Gand 1995) 707–721, spéc. 708–709, 718–719.

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lui-même par la guerre avec le roi de France, le noble zélandais Wolfert van Borselen était personnellement impliqué, ne deviennent incontrôlables.57 Un mois plus tard, Lanchals avait négocié un accord mettant provisoirement fin au siège du Binnenhof, la résidence comtale à La Haye et symbole par excellence du pouvoir central, par le parti Kabeljauw, mené par les seigneurs de Wassenaar et quelques autres nobles, soutenus par les villes de Haarlem, Delft, Leyde et Amsterdam.58 Cet arrangement formalisé par un accord de paix proposé par Lanchals et signé à Delft permettait aux enfants de Van Borselen et à ses familiers d’avoir la vie sauve, le Binnenhof était toutefois pillé et mis à sac. Que Pierre Lanchals intervenait pour littéralement sauver la peau de Van Borselen et de sa famille, témoigne à la fois de la confiance que Maximilien avait en lui, de son pouvoir d’influence en Hollande et du fait qu’il se mêlait au jeu d’influences auquel se livraient les grandes familles nobles au sommet de l’État bourguignon.59 Ce choix de s’occuper avant tout des affaires hollandaises a pu être inspiré par des considérations personnelles : l’opposition contre le prince et ses officiers, nettement plus organisée en Flandre poussait Lanchals à s’enrichir hors des frontières du comté de Flandre. En effet, l’action des Quatre Membres était considérablement renforcée dans le contexte de la confrontation qui a suivi la disparition tout aussi inopinée que celle de son père, de Marie de Bourgogne, par une opposition nobiliaire. Cette dernière s’est alliée au Tiers État dans un Conseil de Régence au nom du prince héritier mineur Philippe le Beau. Et c’était par eux que Lanchals s’était vu accuser formellement et son système de trafic d’influence avait été mis au grand jour en la même année 1483 qui l’avait vu rejoindre les rangs de la noblesse.60 Les thèmes de corruption, de courtage ou de trafic d’influence et de vénalité se sont taillées une position de choix avec le renouveau de 57

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En juin 1479 Maximilien avait envoyé des lettres de Saint-Omer à Lanchals et Croesinck concernant les differens et debatz estans entre les Houcx et les Cabilleaux, Van Gent, ‘Pertijelike saken’, 220, qui note que malgré l’interdiction de mentionner publiquement les noms des deux partis, les dénominations revenaient sans cesse dans la correspondance à l’intérieur de l’administration ‘bourguignonne’. Van Gent, ‘Pertijelike saken’, 223–224. Pendant l’été 1479 Lanchals tenait Maximilien et le sommet de l’État bourguignon informé ‘roerende die commocie ende difference wesende in desen lande van Hollant ende dair of antwoirde gebrocht te hebben dair men geen breder declaracie of gemaect en woude hebben’: ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, n° 312, f. 126r, 131v (pour la citation), 144v, 145r, 146r, 148v, 152r, 154r–154v, 164r–164v. Un exemple: l’analyse des stratégies patrimoniales, familiales et politiques des familles de Clèves, de van Borselen, Gruuthuse et autres J. Haemers, ‘Philippe de Clèves et la Flandre. La position d’un aristocrate au cœur d’une révolte urbaine (1477–1492)’, dans: J. Haemers, C. Van Hoorebeeck et H. Wijsman (éd.), Entre la ville, la noblesse et l’Etat: Philippe de Clèves (1456–1528). Homme politique et bibliophile, Burgundica 13 (Turnhout 2007) 21–99 (avec édition de textes). Voir l’accusation au nom du jeune prince Philippe (le Beau) contre Lanchals: ADN, B 19445, f. 340v–343v. Sur la guerre qui a accompagné l’action du Conseil de Régence: Blockmans, ‘Autocratie ou polyarchie?’, 257–368.

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l’histoire sociale dans les années 80 du XXe siècle.61 Comme ces thèmes sont intimement liés à la genèse d’un État moderne, ils font désormais partie de chaque analyse du fonctionnement des institutions du bas moyen âge.62 Les activités de Pierre Lanchals en Hollande ne sont pas une exception à cet état de fait, bien au contraire. Il ne se contentait pas d’exercer des pressions sur les officiers subalternes s’occupant de la gestion des domaines. Le trafic d’influence s’étendait au monde urbain, aux finances urbaines et à l’économie urbaine, là où la vraie richesse, base des revenus princiers non négligeables en provenance de Hollande, s’accumulait et que connaissait Lanchals comme personne, vu ses origines. En 1477, peu de temps après la promulgation du Grand Privilège, la ville de Haarlem payait en pièces trébuchantes à Pierre Lanchals l’équivalent de mille couronnes de 48 deniers de gros flamands afin d’obtenir le droit de donner à ferme l’office d’écoutête de la ville. S’y ajoutaient plusieurs dons aux officiers du prince qui avaient facilité l’opération et au clerc de Lanchals, pour avoir préparé les documents nécessaires.63 Autres exemples des pratiques évoluant vers un système : en 1485, comme nous apprennent les comptes de la ville de Dordrecht, un tonneau de vin et divers dons sont offerts à Pierre Lanchals et à ses collaborateurs en guise de remerciement pour les multiples interventions auprès du prince au profit de la ville.64 Lanchals se faisait nommer à plusieurs reprises comme commissaire pour superviser au nom du prince le renouvellement des échevins urbains, occasion non seulement de se faire inviter et arroser copieusement, mais comme nous en informe une série de lettres adressées à son compagnon en la matière, Philippe Conrault, abbé de Saint-Pierre à Gand, d’établir un réseau de confidents et d’hommes de main 61

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Un article précurseur en la matière pour les anciens Pays-Bas: Blockmans, ‘Corruptie, patronage, makelaardij en venaliteit’, 231–247 qui a repris le thème dans une collection internationale: W. Blockmans: ‘Brokerage and Corruption as Symptoms of Incipient State Formation in the Burgundian-Habsburg Netherlands’, dans: A. Maczak (éd.), Klientelsysteme im Europa der frühen Neuzeit (Munich 1987) 117–126. Une mise au point basée sur la recherche faite depuis dans le numéro thématique autour de la corruption dans les anciens Pays-Bas dans la période 1400–1800: P. Wagenaar, O. Van Der Meij et M. Van Der Heijden, ‘Corruptie in de Nederlanden, 1400–1800’, Tijdschrift voor sociale en economische geschiedenis 2 (2005) 3–21. Voyez un des derniers produits de cette tradition de recherche et qui met en avance le thème des réseaux d’influence, du patronage et des liens familiaux: S. Te Braake, Met recht en rekenschap. De ambtenaren bij het Hof van Holland et bij de Haagse rekenkamer in de Habsburgse tijd ((1483–1558), Hollandse studiën 42 (Hilversum 2007) 258–330. AVH, compte du trésorier 1477–78, armoire 19 n° 52, f. 106r: 100 livres de Hollande en dons aux officiers dont le nom n’est pas précisé (Lanchals lui-même?), deux livres au clerc de Lanchals, Jennijn Pels, 18 s. 8 d. au clerc à la chambre des comptes pour l’enregistrement, 83 livres à Aelbrecht van Raephorst, titulaire précédent en remboursement d’une dette, et finalement en guise d’emprunt 191 lb. 1 s. 4 d. de Hollande à Symon Barwoutszoon, le nouveau titulaire de l’office pour la première année qu’il occupait la fonction. AVD, compte du trésorier anno 1485, n° 437, f. 78v, 80v, 81r (intervention du pensionnaire de la ville de Dordrecht à Bruges auprès de Lanchals concernant l’aide de 80.000 florins du Rhin réclamée au comté de Hollande), 84r, 94r, 99v, 102r–102v, 103r.

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à toutes fins utiles.65 La lecture des comptes de la ville de Leyde confirme l’impression que Lanchals avait réussi à s’imposer aux villes hollandaises comme l’intermédiaire par excellence à travers lequel on pouvait espérer communiquer avec Maximilien, et comme celui par qui les affaires de l’État sinon celles du prince en Hollande se réglaient. Pots-de-vin et amadouements financiers et autres graissaient copieusement la relation.66 La culture bien implantée dans les villes hollandaises d’offrir des dons à ceux censés de promouvoir les intérêts de la ville se caractérisait, d’ailleurs, à partir du principat du Téméraire vers la fin du XVe siècle, par un net glissement vers une influence toujours plus directe et performante d’un cercle restreint de dignitaires et officiers de la cour, à l’œuvre dans l’entourage immédiat du prince au détriment des officiers régionaux.67 L’action de Pierre Lanchals, receveur général du Téméraire et homme de confiance en matières financières et politiques de Maximilien fait mieux qu’illustrer cette évolution, il l’a sans doute promue. Un exemple très éloquent de l’utilisation sans réserve des possibilités qu’offrait la situation spécifique de la Hollande pendant cette période confuse de recrudescence des guerres entre partis suivant la crise généralisée de l’État bourguignon après 1477, fut la façon dont Pierre Lanchals a pu bénéficier de la nécessité de nommer un nouvel écoutête à Leyde en 1487.68 Un candidat ambitieux, le chevalier Guillaume Van Boschuijsen (auparavant bailli du Rijnland, mais fortement contesté par les échevins de Leyde lorsqu’il voulut déplacer son terrain d’action vers leur ville) avait déposé 700 florins d’or du Rhin (l’équivalent de quelques 11,5 salaires annuels d’un maître artisan à Bruges) dans les mains de Pierre Lanchals à Bruges, moyennant la promesse orale de ce dernier d’intervenir auprès de Maximilien pour que 65

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Un exemple parmi d’autres: les comptes de Haarlem pour les années 1478–79 et 1480–81: AVH, compte du trésorier, armoire 19, n° 53, f. 92r–92v, n° 55, f. 96r. Voir l’édition des lettres: J. De Saint-Genois, Lettres adressées par Maximilien I, passim. L’espace manque pour donner toutes les références et pour rendre justice à toutes les preuves disponibles, le lecteur se référera entre autres à la relation du périple de trente trois jours en Flandre et Brabant et dans le nord de la France actuelle qu’une délégation de Leyde s’est imposé en suivant Maximilien et son maître d’hôtel Pierre Lanchals: AVL, secrétariat avant 1575, n° 558 (compte pour l’année 1484–1485), f. 106r–107r. M. Damen, ‘Corrupt of hoofs gedrag? Geschenken en het politiek netwerk van een laatmiddeleeuwse Hollandse stad’, Tijdschrift voor sociale en economische geschiedenis 2 (2005) 68–93. Voir l’affaire traitée par mon ex collègue gantois Hanno Brand dans sa thèse sur l’élite de Leyde, où il vient à la conclusion que de telles affaires mettaient fortement en danger l’équilibre politique à l’intérieur d’une ville comme Leyde. La ville avait dépensé rien qu’en pots-de-vin destinés à convaincre Maximilien de son point de vue 20% des dépenses de la ville pour l’année 1487: H. Brand, Over macht en overwicht. Stedelijke elites in Leiden (1420–1510) (Leuven, Apeldoorn 1996) 133–139. Van Boshuijzen appartenait à une famille en vue de l’élite de Leyde dont au moins deux membres, Guillaume en était un, portaient le titre de chevalier, voir A. Janse, ‘Marriage and noble lifestyle in Holland in the late Middle Ages’ dans: W. Blockmans, A. Janse (éd.), Showing status: representations of social positions in the Late Middle Ages (Turnhout 1999) 113–138, spéc. 123–124.

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la nomination de Boschuijsen se fasse.69 L’accord, conservé parmi les archives personnelles de Lanchals, aujourd’hui intégré dans une collection d’archives nobiliaires issues de familles descendant en partie de lui, prévoyait le remboursement de ‘l’investissement’ si la nomination ne se réalisait pas. Comme Lanchals fut fait prisonnier et exécuté à Bruges en 1488, Van Boschuijzen se rendit à Bruges en compagnie de deux témoins hollandais, le chevalier Gerrit van Abbenbrouk et le doyen de la chrétienté de Schieland, Willem Cant. Les deux témoins mentionnent expressément avoir assisté en personne à la scène à Bruges en 1487, et renforcent ainsi l’action de Van Boschuijzen consistant à réclamer à la veuve Lanchals et à ses héritiers le retour de la somme investie. Le prêtre Cant précise que Lanchals « en homme d’honneur et de fidélité » avait promis le remboursement !70 Van Boschuijsen réussissait le remboursement de la moitié de la somme.71 Un cas isolé ? Pas du tout : dans les années suivant le décès de Lanchals, plusieurs officiers locaux, surtout Hollandais, ont réclamé au gestionnaire financier au service des héritiers Lanchals des sommes investies dans le même contexte et avec le même but.72 Lanchals d’ailleurs avait pressenti ce qui pourrait bien se passer, en prévoyant dans son testament de régler ses dettes morales et financières envers les pouvoirs publics et envers ceux qu’il a gouvernés au nom du pouvoir princier. Dans une phrase très révélatrice il se dévoile – étant receveur général, commis sur le fait des finances et maître d’hôtel de Maximilien – responsable pour la façon dont les deniers publics ont été gérés. Les exécuteurs de son testament auront à veiller à ce que les princes – Maximilien et son fils Philippe dit le Beau sont nommés expressément – fassent payer à ses héritiers tous les arriérés qui lui sont dus et dont les traces se retrouvent dans ses comptabilités. Si cela a eu lieu, alors in quitingen van mijnder conscientie (‘pour apaiser sa conscience’) ils doivent faire don aux princes de la somme impressionnante de 500 lb. 69

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AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 215. Malgré l’image d’Epinal très répandue d’un âge d’or du salariat, la fin du 15e siècle fut à court terme caractérisée par une perte sensible de pouvoir d’achat et donc d’une chute du niveau de vie sur tous les plans. Calcul sur base d’un salaire type de 6 d. gr. par jour pour un non qualifié, de 12 d. gr. pour un maître. Voir les considérations méthodologiques et des données de base chez J.-P. Sosson, ‘Corporation et paupérisme aux XIVe et XVe siècles. Le salariat du bâtiment en Flandre et en Brabant, et notamment à Bruges’, Tijdschrift voor geschiedenis 92 (1979) 557–575. AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 215, deuxième charte: original signé par le doyen de Schieland, date du 8 mai 1490 ‘zo beloofde hij [Lanchals] als goet heer van trou ende van eeren dat hij als dan de voirs. heer Willem die somme van penningen weder betalen soude sonder eenich gebreck in te wesen’. AVG, fonds Lanchals de Ladeuze, n° 1439: payements effectués au nom de la veuve Lanchals, le dossier de son testament contient également des états des avoirs et de payements dus: AEB, fonds Onze-Lieve-Vrouw, n° 1062. En partie éditée: J. Gailliard, Inscriptions funéraires et monumentales de la Flandre occidentale I, 2e partie (Bruges 1861) 340–343. AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 218 où l’on parle de l’écoutète de Delft et des receveurs de Zuidholland et de Vroenland: il s’agit d’une liste des arriérés que les héritiers de Lanchals doivent payer à Thomas Beukelaer, receveur de Hollande, confident et chargé d’affaires de Lanchals en Hollande. La même liasse contient la copie d’un accord entre les héritiers et Beukelaer daté du 19 avril 1508 (n.s.) mettant fin aux tractations internes.

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gr. mids dat ic langhe officier van hemlieden en huerlieder voorders gheweest hebbe ende ter causen van dien vele proffyts ghehadt (‘parce que j’ai été longtemps leur officier et celui de leurs prédécesseurs et que cela m’a beaucoup rapporté’).73 C’est vers cette imbrication entre deniers publics et avoirs personnels qu’il faut tourner notre attention. Lanchals en Hollande : construction d’un réseau, accumulation de capitaux sociaux et réels De par les fonctions qu’il a occupées au cœur même de l’organisation financière de l’État burgundo-habsbourgeois, Pierre Lanchals a pu réaliser une accumulation de capitaux et de richesses hors du commun, si on tient compte de sa situation relativement moyenne sinon modeste au début de sa carrière. Le testament, l’état des biens laissés aux héritiers Lanchals, l’abondante documentation concernant ses avoirs au moment de son exécution par ses concitoyens brugeois en 1488 témoignent d’une accumulation impressionnante de richesses.74 Soutenu par un réseau d’influences et de relations personnelles, ce capital réel se nourrissait et se développait grâce au capital social, témoignant du fait que les deux notions sont à prendre en considération conjointement.75 La Hollande et les multiples occasions d’accumulation de capital qui s’y offraient à un officier de la taille et de la nature de Lanchals, reviennent en force dans ce récit. Ce n’est pas un hasard si ce dernier, entrevoyant de façon lucide les risques qu’il courait dans sa ville natale de Bruges en y agissant comme fer de lance d’une politique dure et répressive au nom de Maximilien, avait pris la précaution de transférer une partie essentielle de ses archives et papiers personnels ainsi que quelques joyaux et une série de vêtements luxueux en Hollande chez son complice Thomas Buekelaer.76 Ces derniers objets ne figurent pas par hasard sur la liste que ce dernier en a dressé par après ; l’ostentation de son statut caractérisait le personnage Lanchals, qui jusqu’à ses derniers moments prenait soin de faire la démonstration visuelle de son statut en portant des vête73 74 75

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Gailliard, Inscriptions funéraires, 276. Une analyse du testament dans: Boone, ‘Un grand commis’, 63–88. Un survol et une mise au point de la notion de ‘capital social’ empruntée au sociologue français Pierre Bourdieu et illustrée à l’aide d’exemples tirés d’une recherche qui s’appuie sur la même période et les mêmes élites que ma recherche sur Lanchals: J. Haemers, ‘Protagonist of antiheld? Over sociaal kapitaal en geschiedenis’, Tijdschrift voor sociale en economische geschiedenis 5 (2008) 31–54. La liste (contrats d’achats de terres et de rentes, obligations et décharges, accords financiers et politiques en tous genres impliquant le sommet de l’État burgundo-habsbourgeois et les représentants de plusieurs maisons de financiers italiens présents à Bruges etc.) a été conservée parmi les papiers privés de Lanchals: AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 218. Elle contient entre autre des références à des transactions de grande envergure concernant le commerce de l’alun dans les anciens Pays-Bas, voir: Boone, ‘Apologie d'un banquier médiéval’, 46–47.

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ments somptueux lors de son exécution.77 La liste des documents et objets ayant appartenu à Lanchals, que Buekelaer a fait dresser chez lui dans sa maison de Dordrecht a été, à la demande des exécuteurs testamentaires de Lanchals, intégrée dans un acte notarié, passé devant le notaire Cornelis Jacobszoon Backer le 26 avril 1490. Elle est très impressionnante et offre une vue d’ensemble sur les multiples affaires et arrangements dans lesquels Lanchals était encore pleinement impliqué au moment même de sa mort. Avec Thomas Buekelaer entre en scène un officier central en Hollande, véritable pilier de l’Etat habsbourgeois au début du XVIe siècle et lui-même au cœur d’un réseau qui, partant de sa ville de Dordrecht, lui a permis de nouer des liens familiaux et autres avec l’élite des villes de Delft et de Leyde (les familles de Heuyter, Van Oudheusden, Oom van Wijngaarden et Van Zwieten) pour aboutir à la Chambre des comptes à La Haye où il réussissait à introduire plusieurs de ses ‘amis’ et clients. Finalement, tout comme De Ruple avait lancé Lanchals, Buekelaer réussira à mettre en orbite son collaborateur Vincent Cornelisz. (1469–1550), un des officiers les plus influents en Hollande au début de l’époque habsbourgeoise.78 Il devient clair, les recherches de Serge te Braake le confirment abondamment, qu’on est là devant un modèle, où des liens de confiance et d’amitié – une notion qui revient très souvent dans les discours tenus par les protagonistes en question – renforcés par des liens familiaux grâce à des mariages, soudent une relation au début formelle. Ainsi, De Buekelaer effectuait le transfert des documents et objets laissés en sûreté chez lui par Lanchals à Clais van Delft, collaborateur administratif de Lanchals, mais aussi le gendre de ce dernier car marié à sa fille bâtarde, Catherine.79 Van Delft, futur bourgmestre de Bruges en 1490, était un des quatre exécuteurs du testament de Pierre Lanchals, et avait joué un rôle malencontreux dans l’arrestation de

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Ainsi son exécution est relatée par le chroniqueur officiel, l’indiciaire actif à la cour de Bourgogne: J. Molinet, Chroniques, éd. G. Doutrepont et O. Jodogne, I, 1474–1488 (Bruxelles 1935) 638: parlant des habits portés par Lanchals qui apparaissait au moment suprême vêtu: 'd'une robe noire de camelot fourré de martres sebelins, d'ung palletot de veloux cramoysy fourré de blans aingeaux et d'ung pourpoint de satin noir; et, quand il fut administré de son salut et qu'il eut prié mercy aux assistens, il fut decapité sur ung drap vermeil'. Sur la chasse à l’homme avec Lanchals comme objet et son exécution: Boone, ‘La justice en spectacle’, 60-61. Sur les signes extérieurs du rang social voir Blockmans, Janse ed., Showing status, passim (avant tout le chapitre sur les vêtements par R. Stein). Te Braake, Met recht en rekenschap, 290–300, 368–369. Les enfants bâtards étaient des éléments forts utiles dans la construction et l’entretien de réseaux d’influence. La dynastie ducale donnait le ton dans cette façon de faire fructifier le phénomène de la bâtardise, voir M. Carlier, Kinderen van de minne? Bastaarden in het vijftiendeeeuwse Vlaanderen, Verhandelingen van de Koninklijke Vlaamse academie van België, n.r., 3 (Bruxelles 2001) 251–262. La liste de documents en dépôt chez de Buekelaer mentionne le contrat de mariage entre Clais van Delft et Cathérine, heer Pieters natuelicke dochtere: AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 218, non folié, article nr. 10 (ma numérotation).

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son beau-père.80 Lanchals avait demandé expressément lors de la rédaction finale de son testament, peu avant de subir la décapitation, à l’un des quatre exécuteurs testamentaires, à savoir son successeur comme écoutête, Pierre Metteneye, de bien vouloir sceller l’acte, avec deux échevins de la ville de Bruges en fonction au moment des faits, Boudin Hendricx et Joos Andries.81 Les autres exécuteurs, le prêtre Louis Witkin, maître Georges Baert et Nicolas van Delft n’entraient en action que plus tard.82 Si le prêtre Witkin recevait de la part de De Buekelaer au nom des avoués qui agissaient pour les enfants légitimes mais mineurs de Lanchals, son fils Pierre (né en 1482) et sa fille Catherine (née en 1484) tous les papiers concernant les terres et rentes ayant appartenu à Lanchals situées à Bruges et en Flandre (à Woumen, Cadsant, Heist, Varsenare et Damme) ainsi que quelques vêtements et joyaux, le sceau personnel et une tapisserie portant les armes de Lanchals, destinés aux enfants et à la veuve, Van Delft semble avoir géré les papiers de valeurs concernant la vie publique de Lanchals, et ses avoirs situés en Hollande. Parmi ces derniers des terres de pâturages, tourbières et terres à exploiter et à endiguer, se situant dans le pays de Putte.83 L’inventaire des transactions effectuées par Lanchals durant sa carrière reste à faire, il est important ici de noter que les archives personnelles de Lanchals permettent de situer ses activités les plus spéculatives dans le contexte d’importants transferts de terres et de revenus entre les grands de l’État bourguignon au moment où celui-ci fut confronté aux passions et dangers suscités par 80

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Une percée fut réalisée dans la recherche de Pierre Lanchals à Bruges le 9 mars 1488, date à laquelle on arrête Nicolas Van Delft, bourgeois de Bruges, auparavant pensionnaire au service de la ville, et marié à la fille bâtarde de Lanchals, Catherine. Ce beau-fils de Lanchals survécut à la série d’exécutions, mais mit les Brugeois sur la trace présumée de Lanchals. C’est ainsi que l’on fouilla d’abord le couvent des Augustins, en total irrespect envers le privilège de sauvegarde, pour la seule raison que Nicolas Van Delft avait avoué y avoir dîné avec Lanchals le samedi précédent, comme en témoigne la correspondance des représentants de la ville d’Ypres, présents à Bruges: I. Diegerick, Correspondance des magistrats d’Ypres pendant les troubles de la Flandre sous Maximilien, I (Bruges 1853) 73. Les deux échevins ont rejoint les bancs échevinaux le 12 février 1488 (n.s.) occupant respectivement la 8e et 9e position: AVB, register wetsvernieuwing, f. 172r. Dans le contexte de l’année insurrectionnelle 1488 ce nouveau banc d’échevins sera sujet à un contrôle administratif et financier de la part du nouveau gouvernement de la ville qui entre en fonction dès le 2 mars: A. Janssens, ‘Macht en onmacht van de Brugse schepenbank in de periode 1477–1490’, Handelingen van het genootschap voor Geschiedenis 133 (1996) 5–45, spéc. 25, 42–43. Sur l’opulente famille brugeoise des Metteneye: J. Dumolyn, De Brugse opstand van 1436–1438, Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 101 (Courtrai 1997) 123, 290. Cette famille fut également impliquée dans la gestion des éléments du domaine comtal à l’intérieur de Bruges, tel l’épier de Bruges, ainsi, le 13 octobre 1482, Denis Metteneye prêta serment à la Chambre des Comptes à Lille comme receveur de l’épier: ADN, B 33, f. 80r. Maître Georges Baert avait été bourgmestre de Bruges en 1486. Il il avait alors été avec le chroniqueur Olivier de la Marche témoin du deuxième mariage de Lanchals avec Cathérine van Poucke, fille du chevalier Roland, seigneur de Poucke et bourgmestre du Franc de Bruges, voir Boone, ‘Lanchals, Pieter’, col. 472. Pour situer les terres, voir l’introduction dans: J. L. van der Gouw, Rekeningen van de domeinen van Putten 1379–1429, 1, Rekeningen 1379–1419, RGP, Grote serie 171 (La Haye 1980) passim.

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la disparition du Téméraire. L’accord et le transfert des terres entre Marie de Bourgogne et sa cousine Anne de Bourgogne, dame de Ravenstein en février 1477 en est le point de départ.84 Une transaction que Lanchals semble avoir court-circuitée, comme le fait supposer la raison du déplacement en juin 1479 de Jacques Croesinck de La Haye à Malines, afin d’y conférer avec Jean le Doubz jadis président de la chambre des comptes unifiée.85 En 1481 Lanchals deviendra propriétaire d’une partie des terres concernées (Sint-Adolfsland et Galentee), après les avoir acquises auprès de la dame de Ravenstein. Ces terres ne seront vendues par son fils et héritier Pierre Lanchals junior qu’en 1512.86 Les archives privées de Lanchals contiennent plusieurs comptes rendus entre-temps aux avoués au nom des héritiers et exécuteurs testamentaires pour les années 1487-1489, 1497, 1499, 1501 et 1506.87 Un des comptes fait comprendre que le revenu annuel ‘normal’ des terres mentionnées, essentiellement en provenance de l’élevage ovin montait à 83 lb. 10s. gros de Flandre, et en tourbe à une valeur de 24 lb. 12 s. gros de Flandre. La liste des archives conservées temporairement chez De Buekelaer pendant la crise de 1488, apprend que jusqu’en automne 1487 Lanchals s’était occupé directement des mêmes terres.88 L’état des ses biens dressé après son exécution mentionne en outre un revenu de 32 lb. gros par an tiré de ces propriétés89. Peu après l’intervention de Lanchals en 1479, à peine un mois plus tard, Marie de Bourgogne et Maximilien confirment que Pierre Lanchals a acquis le quart d’un (autre ?) ensemble de terres et de droits dans la même

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Voir les copies contemporaines des documents en question: AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschot, n° 1523. Anne de Bourgogne, veuve d’Adrien de Borselen († 1468) et deuxième épouse d’Adolphe de Clèves, se trouve au cœur de la vie de cour et d’une possible alliance (qui n’a pas eu lieu) entre les familles de Clèves et Van Borselen: J. Haemers, ‘Philippe de Clèves et la Flandre’, 29–33, 84–87 (édition de texte). La même liasse renferme des copies qui permettent de voir comment les terres sont endiguées (permis donné en 1481). ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, compte n° 312, f. 127v: ‘Item, van tgors van der Galente int lant van Putte dair of mijn vrouwe van Ravestein vercregen hadde brieven van mijnre genadich vrouwe der hertoginne niet jegenstaende die welck die vander rekeninge in Hollant mitgaders Pieter Lanchals tresorier van den financien tvoirs. gors hadden van nyeus doen verpachten bij der kerssen om IIIcXXIX lb. van XL gro. tpont siaers dat te voren en galt mer CIIII lb. om te weten tadvijs van den voirs. president of mijn voirs. vrouwe huer woude behelpen mit hueren brieven, wat dan dair inne te doen soude om dat te wederstane van wegen mijns voirs. genadich heeren en der vrouwen’. ANLH, Grafelijkheidsrekenkamer, régistres n° 4 (régistre G), f. 1r–4v (note marginale). Je remercie Hanno Brand pour m’avoir communiqué cette référence. AVG, fonds Lanchals de Ladeuze, n° 1444, 1445 et 1450. AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 218: (non folié, article n° 76) ‘Item, eene missive ende eene copie van eender lettre ghesonden bij Jan Oudaert an mijn heere den hofmeestere anegaende de cavelijnghe van Sinte Adolfs landt, Galentee etc., in daten de voors. missive XV septembre LXXXVII, ende de date van der vors. copie es XXIII in ougst LXXXVII’. AEG, fonds van Pottelsberghe, n° 36bis, une copie contemporaine dans: AVG, fonds Lanchals de Ladeuze, n° 1440–43 (rouleaux en parchemin).

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circonscription, qu’il vend à son tour en 1485 à ... Thomas Buekelaer.90 La suite chronologique des transactions confirme l’impression que Pierre Lanchals profitait pleinement des connaissances du marché, réservées à un « initié ». La même impression domine quant il s’agit des terres féodales situées en Zélande sur lesquelles Pierre Lanchals mettait la main en 1474 et en 1484.91 Une autre transaction supervisée et vidimée par Lanchals concerne des terres (dites Dirxland) au Land van Voorne endiguées récemment et provenant de la douairière de Marguerite d’York, veuve du Téméraire, et vendues par cette dernière au conseiller flamand Jacques Donche pour la somme de mille livres.92 Enfin, une toute autre formule d’investissement particulièrement appréciée et mise en application par Pierre Lanchals apparaît  : l’achat de rentes émises par des collectivités, en premier lieu, urbaines. La technique ne constituait évidemment pas une nouveauté : les ducs de Bourgogne en avaient fait une de leurs stratégies financières de choix afin d’accaparer les réserves disponibles sur le marché financier urbain, sans devoir se plier aux fastueuses négociations d’une aide particulière.93 Lanchals ne semble pas avoir lésiné sur les moyens quant il s’agissait d’investir dans cette manière de faire fructifier ses avoirs. L’énumération des rentes dans la liste de De Buekelaer et dans l’état des biens dressé après la mort de Lanchals montait pour le seul comté de Hollande à un revenu annuel de 61 lb. gros de Flandre.94 En comparaison : en Flandre il pouvait compter, basé sur les émissions faites à Bruges, Nieuport et Gand sur un revenu annuel de 118 lb. 13 90

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P. A. Meilink, Archieven van de Staten van Holland en de hen opgevolgde gewestelijke besturen I, Archieven van de Staten van Holland voor 1572 (La Haye 1929) 248, 255. Comme mentionné, une réconstruction minutieuse et cartographique des propriétés immobilières de Lanchals reste nécessaire. R. Fruin, De leenregisters van Bewesten Schelde 1470–1535 (La Haye 1911) 98, 130: il s’agissait de terres dans la seigneurie Ter Mare sur les îles de Walcheren et Zuid-Beveland. Les diverses étapes des transactions dans un vidimus des échevins de la Brielle daté du 22 juin 1482 conservé dans les archives Lanchals: Fonds Piers de Raveschot, n° 1523. Sur le douaire de Marguerite d’York auquel Marie de Bourgogne avait ajouté en 1477 les villes et terres de la Brielle et de Voorne: S. Dauchy, ‘Le douaire de Marguerite d’York, la minorité de Philippe le Beau et le Parlement de Paris 1477–1494’, Bulletin de la commission royale d’histoire 155 (1989) 49–127, spéc. 55. Avec références à la littérature précédente: M. Boone, ‘Systèmes fiscaux dans les principautés à forte urbanisation des Pays-Bas méridionaux (Flandre, Brabant, Hainaut, Pays de Liège) au bas moyen âge (XIVe–XVIe siècle)’ dans: S. Cavaciocchi (éd.), La fiscalità nell’economia europea secc. XIII–XVIII. Fiscal systems in the European economy from the 13th to the 18th centuries, Atti della 39a Settimana di Studi, Fondazioni istituto internazionale di storia economica “F. Datini” (Prato 2008) 657–683, spéc. 680–683. J’avais attiré l’attention sur les ventes de rentes dans: Boone, ‘“Plus dueil que joie”. Les ventes de rentes par la ville de Gand pendant la période bourguignonne: entre intérêts privés et finances publiques’, Bulletin trimestriel du Crédit Communal 45 (1991) 3–25. AEG, fonds van Pottelsberghe, n° 36bis, une copie contemporaine dans: AVG, fonds Lanchals de Ladeuze, n° 1440–43 (rouleaux en parchemin). Et pour la liste de De Buekelaer: AEG, Fonds Piers de Raveschoot, n° 218.

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s. 4 d. gros de Flandre. Les 61 livres susmentionnées se divisaient en cinq rentes à vie pour une somme totale de 36 livres sur la ville de Delft, opération dans laquelle Pierre Lanchals avait impliqué en tant que bénéficiaires son frère Adrien, moine cistercien à l’abbaye de ter Doest près de Bruges, sa sœur Francine, son épouse et ses deux enfants, et une rente perpétuelle de 25 livres par an conjointement sur les cinq villes de Dordrecht, Haarlem, Delft, Leyde et Gouda. Le seul revenu tiré des rentes sur les villes de Hollande ne représente pas moins que l’équivalent de cinq salaires annuels d’un maître maçon à Bruges ou le double si on se base sur le salaire d’un valet de maçon.95 Par ce genre d’investissements Lanchals s’inscrit dans une évolution importante : celle qualifiée par James Tracy de « révolution financière ». Par cette notion le moderniste américain a attiré l’attention sur une toute nouvelle manière de financer la dette publique et à travers elle de financer la politique de guerrière des princes habsbourgeois – après un certain temps bien sûr la guerre de leurs propres sujets contre ces mêmes princes.96 La nouveauté résidait dans la pratique qu’ à partir de 1515 les États de la Hollande vendaient des rentes (rentes à vie et rentes constituées) garanties collectivement et donc populaires auprès d’un large public, d’autant plus qu’à partir de 1542 l’empereur Charles Quint autorisait la levée de nouveaux impôts régionaux qui avaient pour but de garantir le payement des rentes. La façon de voir de Tracy a inspiré un débat important, mais c’est relativement récemment qu’on a attiré l’attention sur les antécédents médiévaux de cette révolution « moderne ». Les recherches menées sur la constitution d’une dette publique urbaine au bas moyen âge et au début des temps modernes et plus précisément les résultats des recherches de J. Zuijderduijn pour la Hollande ont contribué à modifier l’image d’Epinal construite par Tracy et ses commentateurs.97 Notamment pendant la période où Pierre Lanchals fut actif et où il a investi personnellement dans les rentes vendues par les villes hollandaises, les premières tentatives d’organiser le financement de la dette publique de façon collective ont été mises en application. Lanchals a d’ailleurs, en tant que gestionnaire des finances princières et en tant qu’investisseur privé pris part très activement à la grande vente de rentes sur les cinq villes de Hollande en 1482 et à la vente particulière par la ville de Delft vers 95 96

97

Voir la note 69 pour la base de calcul. Essentiellement dans: J. Tracy, A financial revolution in the Habsburg Netherlands. Renten and renteniers in the county of Holland 1515–1565 (Berkeley LA, London 1985). Plus tard il a élaboré ses idées afin d’embrasser le champ de la politique en général: J. Tracy, Holland under Habsburg rule 1506–1566. The formation of a body politic (Berkeley LA, London 1990). Il faut dire que J. Tracy, ‘On the Dual Origins of Long-Term Urban Debt in Medieval Europe’, dans: M. Boone, K. Davids et P. Janssens (éd.), Urban Public Debts. Urban Government and the Market for Annuities in Western Europe (14th–18th Centuries), Brepols, Studies in European Urban History 1100–1800, 3 (Turnhout 2003) 13–24 est lui-même revenu sur la chronologie de certains développements. Voir pour les antécédents médiévaux en Hollande: C. J. Zuijderduijn, Medieval capital markets. Markets for renten, state-formation and private investment in Holland (1330–1550), Global economic history series 2 (Leiden, Boston 2009).

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la fin de 1481, vente pour laquelle Maximilien d’Autriche manifestait un grand intérêt personnel.98 Les ventes de rentes par les villes hollandaises en 1482 se sont faites à l’initiative et à la demande expresse du prince, qui espérait ainsi financer sa guerre contre Utrecht. Bien que le principe d’une responsabilité financière collective avait été conçu comme la pierre angulaire de la construction, les villes concernées se sont vite vues confrontées à des difficultés énormes menant à l’octroi de plusieurs moratoires pour faire face à l’état d’urgence, ce qui poussait les villes davantage dans une position d’assujettissement au prince et à son administration financière.99 L’exemple était toutefois donné, graduellement les sentiments de méfiance entre villes s’estompaient et l’organisation d’une dette collective était améliorée, menant à une gestion plus efficace. Peut-être pas une révolution proprement dite, mais en tout cas une évolution notoire. Toutefois, si le comté et les villes de Hollande étaient un terrain d’expérimentation (et sur le plan privé, d’investissement) de choix pour le maître d’hôtel et commis sur les finances de Maximilien, ces villes subirent à leur tour à cause des faiblesses dues à des luttes intestines, le sort que subissaient au même moment les villes brabançonnes et flamandes.100 Dans ces dernières, on peut toutefois remarquer une réaction précoce. Cette réaction se manifestait par la reprise de l’initiative d’une dette publique à responsabilité collective, mais cette fois pour financer une politique urbaine, allant à l’encontre de la politique princière. Une première vente de rentes à l’initiative du conseil de régence opposé à Maximilien et engageant la totalité du territoire et non plus une seule ville était envisagée et en partie, pour les quartiers de Gand et de Bruges au moins, mise en route en 1485. Une deuxième émission semblable allait suivre en 1488. Dans ce cas précis une unification fiscale du territoire, élément essentiel et idée novatrice est prévue : les crédirentiers pouvaient, le cas échéant, avoir recours à n’importe quel revenu fiscal dans le comté (villes et châtellenies confondues) pour se faire payer leur rente.101 Entreprise sans lendemain, car contrairement à ce qui allait se produire au XVIe siècle, il manquait 98 99

100

101

Haemers, For the Common Good, 90. C. J. Zuijderduijn, ‘The emergence of provincial debt in the county of Holland (13th–16th centuries)’, European review of economic history 14 (2010) (in press) et du même: ‘Een gevaarlijke mogelijkheid. De laatmiddeleeuwse crisis van de overheidsfinanciën en de financiële revolutie’, Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 125 (2010) (in press). Une belle analyse ponctuelle concerne la ville de Bois-le-Duc en Brabant: J. Hanus, Tussen stad en eigen gewin. Stadsfinanciën, renteniers en kredietmarkten in ‘s-Hertogenbosch (begin zestiende eeuw) (Amsterdam 2007) 27–44 (survol chronologique et analyse critique des politiques d’assainissement). Blockmans, De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen, 391–400 et J. Haemers, “Ende hevet tvolc goede cause jeghens hemlieden te rysene”. Stedelijke opstanden en staatsvorming in het graafschap Vlaanderen (1477–1492) (Université de Gand, thèse de doctorat non éditée, 2005– 2006) 394–396. Il faut préciser qu’en Flandre les villes pouvaient se baser sur la pratique déjà attestée en 1407 de lever des impôts sur leurs quartiers afin de se faire récompenser pour leurs activités représentatives: Blockmans, De volksvertegenwoordiging in Vlaanderen, 389–391.

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la création d’un nouvel impôt appelé à servir de garantie pour l’opération. Les impôts existants (donc indirects en ville) devaient une fois de plus porter le poids de l’opération. Cette esquisse sommaire des entreprises de Pierre Lanchals dans le comté de Hollande entre 1472 et 1488 illustre à quel point le parcours d’un individu peut éclairer des processus en cours plus généraux. Pour l’individu en question les affaires se sont soldées au printemps de 1488 par une mort brutale, certes, mais les investissements en capital réel et social qu’il a réussis ont permis à ses descendants et à son entourage de réaliser une ascension sociale indéniable. Le réseau qu’il a mis sur pied a aussi trouvé un prolongement dans des réseaux permettant à d’autres officiers de l’État burgundo-habsbourgeois – l’on pense à celui autour de Thomas De Buekelaer – de perpétuer leurs activités. Si l’absence d’une autorité incontestée à l’intérieur du territoire et des villes de Hollande a permis à Lanchals de mettre en application la politique autocratique de son maître Maximilien, les mêmes pratiques de gestion ont également soudé l’opposition au même prince, en Flandre et à Bruges en premier lieu. On peut en outre émettre l’hypothèse qu’elles ont provoqué de façon plus large des réflexions autour des thèmes du bien public et de la gestion équitable des deniers publics dans les anciens Pays-Bas en général.

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4 Towns and Commerce

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Urban Population, Urban Territories, Small Towns: Some Problems of the History of Urbanization in Northern and Central Italy (Thirteenth-Sixteenth Centuries)* Giorgio Chittolini Università degli Studi, Milan

The sketchy considerations that follow, originate from an observation I have often wanted to make, that is to say, that for the period between the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the Modern Age relatively little research inspired by the models and methods of ‘urban history’ has been done on towns in Italy. With the latter term I refer to those ‘urban studies’ that in many European countries have long constituted a solid tradition of research. For example, there have been few attempts in Italy to study not just a single urban centre, but an aggregate of towns; an aggregate that has some unity of its own, or that makes up a unifying configuration. Equally rare are studies that, while being devoted to a single urban centre, set out to throw light on the relations that existed between that centre and other towns in the same region – towns that were located at various distances, towns that were bigger or smaller – in order to grasp the urbanization process in all its complexity in a larger area consisting of one or more regions. In short, what is missing for Italy is research inspired above all by the goals and by the methods of ‘urban network analysis’. However, there are concise overviews in general histories of European urbanization and of the complex evolution of the phenomenon of the ‘town’ in Europe; histories in which urbanization in Italy is inadequately represented due to the scarcity of available information.1 With the exception of research traditions and research orientations that are deeply rooted in Italian historiography (which nonetheless regularly produces studies on European urbanization in a broader perspective2), this lack of urban network analysis may be caused not simply by a lack of interest, but also by a certain difficulty in applying the methods and models of urban network analysis *

This article was translated from Italian into English by Peter Hoppenbrouwers. Demographic data on various Italian cities have been brought together in M. Ginatempo and L. Sandri, L’Italia delle città. Il popolamento urbano fra Medioevo e Rinascimento (secoli XIII– XVI)(Florence 1990). A second, updated edition is in preparation. Cfr. also P. Malanima, ‘Italian cities 1300–1800: a quantitative approach’, Rivista di Storia Economica 14 (1998) 91–126; idem, ‘Urbanisation and the Italian economy during the last millennium’, European Review of Economic History 9 (2005) 97–122. The same author is collecting systematically all kinds of demographic data of places with over 5,000 inhabitants: www.issm.cnr. 2 E.g. M. Berengo, L’Europa delle città. Il volto della società urbana europea tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna (Turin 1999). 1

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to the history of Italy, in particular of its northern regions. In this article I would like to reflect briefly on this problem. Models This is not the place to examine the rich theoretical instruments that have been designed in the context of European urban studies. Suffice it to underline the importance of those models that describe the system of relations between various urban centres, as well as between urban centres and their rural environs. It reminds us of the enduring influence of the so-called central place theory – the city as a ‘central place’. It stresses the fact that within a region one can identify several major centres, each surrounded not only by rural areas and villages, but also by smaller towns, according to a geographical distribution that reflects on the one hand the importance and the scale of these various centres in terms of population, and on the other hand the central functions they exercise, in particular in trade – markets – and industries, as well as in services, including those administrative, justiciary, and cultural services that we would now call tertiary. Hence one can identify around major urban centres a hierarchy of towns according to their relative importance and their in-between distance. The same hierarchy can subsequently be ‘translated’ into spatial models, which can be plotted on geographical maps. Such procedure fits into a tradition of research that has made a come-back, but which actually reaches back to the classical German studies by J.H. von Thünen on the relationship between urban centres and agrarian hinterlands, and by W. Christaller on zentralen Orten.3 In comparison, the central place-model has become more articulated nowadays, and has also broadened its field of application; for example, it sometimes covers quite large regions that contain several central places of superior and inferior order, depending on their central functions.4 These models work better when they take into consideration local commerce while at the same time larger-scale manufacturing and long-distance trade are of minor importance (like in Prussia during the first decades of the nineteenth century, which Von Thünen had in mind). For these particular circumstances they appear better suited to describe many aspects of the organization of economic space in the late medieval and early modern periods than other more sophisticated and complex models might do. All the same, it has to be stressed that those older, and simpler, models are seriously limited by the fact 3

4

The first part of J.H. von Thünen, Der isolierte Staat (1826) was translated into English in 1966, with an introduction by P. Hall: The isolated state (Oxford, New York 1966). One year earlier, a lucid reinterpretation had appeared, aimed at the analysis of agricultural growth: E. Boserup, The conditions of agricultural growth. The economics of agrarian change under population pressure (London 1965). W. Christaller’s book, Die Zentralen Orte in Süddeutschland. Eine ökonomisch-geographische Untersuchung über die Gesetzmäßigkeit der Verbreitung und Entwicklung der Siedlungen mit städtischen Funktionen ( Jena 1933), was also translated into English in 1966, under the title Central places in Southern Germany (Englewood Cliffs NJ 1966). D. Nicholas, Urban Europe 1100–1700 (Houndmills 2003) 34–5.

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that they see cities primarily as isolated market or service centres, rather than as nodal points, junctions, within a system, a commercial and relational network – which is what countless urban centres in the Late Middle Ages already were. Besides, the spatial distribution of towns should not be seen simply as a neutral sum total of minor urban systems around major central places. Instead, minor centres could have quite different ‘preferential’ relations with their Zentralorten: commercial, cultural, ecclesiastical, political, etcetera. So, the geography of the distribution of cities that could be deduced from central-place theory, usually turns out to have been more complex in reality, always reflecting the importance of urban networks and the relational patterns within them, which act like blood vessels. Such a view allows us to recognize the variety and complexity of these patterns, which are linked to specific geographical locations and traffic flows. These in their turn determine the facility of transit, the level of transaction costs, and the degree of market integration. Subsequently, we can derive from those patterns a geography in which not only central places are outlined according to their centrality and population density, but also those places can be identified that have strategic locations from the perspective of trade, traffic and communication (for example, cities with gateway functions), or of other special functions they might fulfil. The interconnectedness between major and minor urban centres is expressed in a sort of hierarchy in which classification – ‘urban ranking’ – is determined by mutual importance. It is a classification based on multiple, complex, and preferably quantifiable parameters, which changes over time following the specific fortunes of either individual towns or entire urban systems, and which also expresses a certain geographical distribution. Closely related to those orientations in modern research are also ‘regional geographical’ studies, aimed at the identification of regions with relatively uniform characteristics, both in their institutions and their historical development; regions whose structures are always narrowly connected to, as well as often reinforced by, urban networks. Cities, so to speak, ‘produce’ regions and a regional geography.5 So, it is wise to pay attention to the identification of the interconnectedness of regions and ‘urban systems’. On these models and research directions have been based such wellknown general works on the history of European and global urbanization, as those by De Vries, Bairoch, and Hohenberg and Lees from the 1980s6, as 5

6

W.P. Blockmans, ‘Stadt, Region und Staat: ein Dreiecksverhältnis – der Kasus der Niederlande im 15. Jahrhundert’, in: F. Seibt and W. Eberhard (eds), Europa 1500: Integrationsprozess in Widerstreit: Staaten, Regionen, Personenverbindungen, Christenheit (Stuttgart 1987) 211–26; M. Prak, ‘Regions in Early Modern Europe’, in: Debates and controversies in economic history, Eleventh International Economic History Congress, A-Session (Milan 1994) 19–55; D. Nicholas, Urban Europe, 24–61. J. de Vries, European urbanisation 1500–1800 (London 1984); P. Hohenberg and L.H. Lees, The making of urban Europe, 1000–1950 (Cambridge MA 1985); P. Bairoch, De Jéricho à Mexico. Villes et economie dans l’histoire (Paris 1985); P. Bairoch, J. Batou and P. Chèvre, La population des villes européennes (Geneva 1988).

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well as countless research projects dedicated to the historical geographies of urban networks in separate countries.7 Trends in Italian urban history In the end, the impact of these studies on Italy was limited. This certainly has to do with a tradition of urban history that, for the Middle Ages and the early modern period, has long focused on the history of individual urban centres and their territories, rather than a more comprehensive history of urbanization – even if there have been some recent exceptions, which will be discussed further on. But, on the whole, ‘urban history’ in Italy meant studying one of the big city states, or rather, one of the big cities with its surrounding contado. It could have led to as many case studies, analysed according to central place theories. But in fact the research efforts in this direction underlined the strong prominence of one city, of one single urban centre, that was placed in a strongly polarized position with respect to its entire territory, which was seen as a countryside (campagna). In other words, a territory in which the presence of other central places was completely outshone by the radiance of the one and only city that itself painted, as it were, all the lights and shades of its surrounding countryside. Just as incompatible with the theory and historiography of ‘urban history’ were the countless Italian ‘community studies’ of the 1980s in particular.8 Although from a demographical and economic-historical perspective they were similar to urban history, their premise always was to offer something different, something ‘other than the city’, a research object that was specific and distinct in its economic and social structures, in its communal feelings, in its cultures; in short, something that was the opposite of the urban world, rather than being connected to it. Perhaps the greatest resemblance to ‘urban history’ was borne – especially from the 1990s – by the large number of research projects on so-called minor urban centres, quasi-towns or boroughs (borghi), etcetera. These were central places that, in terms of their population, economy and social articulation, are to be classified as towns according to European standards, even if 7

8

E.g. B. Lepetit, Les villes dans la France moderne (1740–1840) (Paris 1988); Le réseau urbain en Belgique dans une perspective historique (1350–1850). Une approche statistique et dynamique. Actes du 15e Colloque International du Crédit Communal de Belgique, Spa 4–6 septembre 1990 (Brussels 1992); P. Clark (ed.), Towns and networks in Early Modern Europe (Leicester 1990). Between the 1980s and 1990s the number of studies multiplied – see the further notes to this article, and also P. Moraw (ed.), Raumverfassung und Raumbewußtsein im späteren Mittelalter (Stuttgart 2002). ‘Community studies’ in the sense that the authors of this type of research had in mind. See e.g. C. Povlovo, ‘Per una storia delle communità’, Annali Veneti 1 (1984); G. Tocci, ‘Introduzione’, in: idem (ed.), Le communità italiane negli stati di Antico regime (Bologna 1989) 9–58; and also E. Grendi, ‘Storia locale e storia delle communità’, in: P. Macry and A. Massafra (eds), Fra storia e storiografia. Scritti in onore di P. Villani (Bologna 1994) 321–36.

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towns of secondary importance. However, they looked in some way different, and that is because they were tied to the principal city in a relationship of opposition rather than integration.9 In both trends, this image of polarization between a principal city and its surrounding territory often emerges, whether the focus is on communality or on minor urban centres. There has been hardly any interest in studying an aggregate of central places, in writing a ‘history of urban systems’. An English scholar was quite right, when he remarked in 1995 that ‘the [Italian] historians have concentrated on the city or, alternatively and increasingly, on the countryside, heightening and re-emphasising the sharp implied distinction between the urbanised city and the rural remainder.’10 Apart from these traditional historiographical ‘scripts’ (often followed by economic historians)11, the scarcity of endeavours to undertake urban history in the same way as it was done elsewhere in Europe follows from certain objective difficulties. One of them is to bring into play those economic and demographic factors that are commonly used in ‘urban history’ (size of population, social classification of population, production, costs, prices, market integration, consumption, traffic flows) in an area, characterized by strong political and territorial definitions, such as Northern and Central Italy between the communal era and the early modern period. This was not ‘an even space’ within which economic forces and factors could freely unfold, and in which the various actors and statistical ‘indicators’ (bigger and smaller circles that ring larger and minor centres; measures of production and consumption; arrows and vectors that indicate directions and volumes of trade, etcetera) can be arranged in more or less geometrical figures reflecting specific economic models that are derived only from those forces and those factors.12 ‘The weakness of such theories’, D. Nicholas recently wrote, referring to various theories proposed by geographers, historians, and sociologists to better understand urban development in early modern Europe, and in particular to central-place, rank-size, and network theories, ‘consists in the assumption that natural forces, in particular considerations

9

10

11

12

On the other hand, studies dedicated to estimating economic and demographic forces within or above state structures, or to recognizing the urban systems that took shape, remained rather isolated. A comprehensive scope is offered by M. Ginatempo, ‘Dietro un’ eclissi: considerazioni su alcune città minori dell’ Italia centrale’, in: Italia 1350–1450: tra crisi, trasformazione, sviluppo (Pistoia 1991) 35–76; and S.R. Epstein, ‘Cities, regions, and the late medieval crisis: Sicily and Tuscany compared’, Past and Present 130 (1991) 1–50. P. Musgrave, ‘The small town in northern Italy in the seventeenth and eighteenth century’, in: P. Clark (ed.), Small towns in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge 1995) 250–70, there 251. Cfr. A. Grohmann, ‘La storiografia economica relativa all’ età medievale (1966–1989)’, in: A. Grohmann (ed.), Due storiografie economiche a confronto: Italia e Spagna (Milan 1991) 75–125. The expression ‘even space’, with reference to the models of Von Thünen and Christaller, is in M. Prak, ‘Regions’, 22.

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of an economic nature, work limitlessly.’13 In the same vein H. Schilling, in a dense volume of survey articles on German towns in the early modern period that appeared some years ago, wrote very appreciatively of research that had been done in agreement with what he called ‘the Anglo-Saxon model’ – with special reference to De Vries, and Hohenberg & Lees – because it tackled urban history as ‘history of the way Europe urbanized.’ In addition, he stressed the urgent need for new types of research into political, institutional, and cultural history that would take into account both the specific political dimension in which the intensification of the urban fabric took place in Germany – actually ‘die Verdichtung und Formierung der frühmodernen Staatlichkeit’ in a large number of quite dissimilar territories – and also the fact that in Germany this ‘process of concentration of activities and urban functions’ developed largely on the level of small towns (Kleinstädten), and not around large nuclei of urbanization, as appears to have happened in France, England, and Holland.14 By comparison, Northern and Central Italy looked like Germany in their political fragmentation. It is the background of urbanization processes in both areas during the central and late Middle Ages. But they differ in the organization of territory, which in Italy seems largely to have been given shape by the towns. In Italian historiography, only a limited number of central places – maybe a couple of dozens in the entire area of Northern and Central Italy – are called towns. They were the civitates of Antiquity, old episcopal sees which developed into large urban communities or even into small ‘city states’ that backed up their demographic and economic ascendancy, directed at territorial expansion, with political, jurisdictional, fiscal and administrative instruments. Basically, Northern and Central Italy made up a system of urban territories, although not continuously and not without meshes, but even so a system that was in place quite early and that would have a long existence. And within these structured and articulated settings of urban dominion the dynamic formation and development of ‘minor’ urban centres, as well as their hierarchical order, took shape. With all this in mind, it becomes easy to understand that some key concepts that are used in ‘urban studies’, even if in a general sense, can have a different ring when they are applied to the situation in Italy. One could think of such concepts as ‘urban ratio’, ‘urban territory’, ‘urban ranking’ and ‘small town’, which I shall briefly consider in the following. 13 14

Nicholas, Urban Europe, 26. H. Schilling, Die Stadt in der frühen Neuzeit (Munich 1993) 56–59, who discusses the important book by R. Kiessling, Die Stadt und ihr Umland. Umlandpolitik, Bürgerbesitz und Wirtschaftsgefüge in Ostschwaben vom 14. bis ins 16. Jahrhundert (Cologne, Vienna 1989). Quite in line with Schilling’s approach is T. Scott and B. Scribner, ‘Urban networks’, in: B.  Scribner (ed.), Germany: a new social and economic history. Vol. I, 1450–1630 (London etc. 1996) 113–143. Cfr. also W. Rösener, ‘Aspekte der Stadt-Land Beziehungen im spätmittelalterlichen Deutschland’, in: J.-M. Duvosquel and E. Thoen (eds), Peasants and townsmen in medieval Europe. Studia in honorem Adriaan Verhulst (Ghent 1995) 665–80.

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Urban ratio The urban ratio, that is to say, the percentage of the entire population living in towns, is generally recognized as the foremost indicator of the degree and the intensity of urbanization. While essentially a demographic indicator15, it is also seen as a suitable proxy to ‘measure’ the urban phenomenon in all its complexity and in all its aspects. The truth is that the concept of urban ratio itself is complex. Scholars who use it do not hesitate to stress its approximative value, and often enough there have been discussions about the validity of this indicator, about the criteria that should be used to calculate the ‘urban ratio’, and about the extrapolations that have to be made.16 One of the difficulties is to select and circumscribe the territory one would like to analyse17; another to establish a ‘threshold value’ (demographic, but not only demographic), which all boils down to the old question of what makes a place into a town, and how to answer that question just by using dry numbers. Besides, when calculating the urban ratio of a region, one must take into account the number of central places that has been included, and also distinguish between regions in which the urban population is spread over a substantial number of ‘towns’, and regions in which there are only one or a few urban centres. For instance, the calculated urbanization rate will be the same for regions with one city of 50,000 inhabitants as for regions in which the same number of people is distributed over, let us say, ten smaller towns. In short, the growth of the urban population and the rate of urbanization could be quite different depending on the demographic threshold value chosen. In that way, urban ratio figures easily loose their value for meaningful comparison. Take, for instance, the figures calculated for two regions that are both characterized by relatively high levels of urbanisation: the County of Flanders and the Duchy of Milan. For the former, the urban ratio in the second half of the fifteenth century has been calculated by various scholars at between 33–36%, a figure that places Flanders among the most highly urbanized regions of

15

16

17

J. de Vries, ‘Problems in the measurement, description, and analysis of historical urbanisation’, in: A van der Woude, A. Hayami and J. de Vries (eds), Urbanisation in history. A process of dynamic interaction (Oxford 1990) 43–60. See for some sharp debate E.E. Arriaga, ‘A new approach to the measurement of urbanisation’, Economic Development and Cultural Change 18 (1969–70) 206–18; A. Derville, ‘Le nombre d’ habitants des villes de l’Artois et de la Flandre wallonne’, Revue du Nord 65 (1983) 277–300; C.A. Smith, ‘Types of city-size distribution: a comparative analysis’, in: Van der Woude, Hayami and De Vries, Urbanisation in history, 20–42; and B. Lepetit, ‘In search of the small towns in early nineteenth-century France’, in: Clark, Small towns, 166–83. De Vries, ‘Problems’, 45–6. On the difficulty of setting apart a Flemish territory in contrast to Hainaut, Brabant, and Holland – adjacent territories that were all closely connected to Flanders, while Antwerp, the undisputed ‘gateway city’ of the sixteenth-century Low Countries, was in Brabant; see Nicholas, Urban Europe, 31.

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Europe.18 With ‘towns’ / ‘cities’ are meant in this case those settlements that were mentioned as towns or cities in contemporary sources: some 50 places in all.19 Among these there were, around 1470, two major cities: Ghent with 50,000 inhabitants, and Bruges, with 46,000 inhabitants. By then, Ypres, the third of the traditional ‘Members of Flanders’, had already been suffering from economic crisis for decades, and may have counted no more than 10,000 inhabitants. Of the remaining towns, only seven had more than 5,000 inhabitants, while all the others, some 40, had substantially less; 30 of them even less than 2,000 inhabitants. Around the same time, the Duchy of Milan – for which demographic data are far less certain, so that we have to rely on estimates – would have had an urban ratio between about 20% and 22%, while there were about a dozen places formally recognized as ‘town’ (città).20 However, these percentages would be quite different if different criteria were applied. If the calculation were limited to the ten largest towns of each of our regions – a criterion that is sometimes applied21 – the percentage for Flanders would evidently be much lower, whereas the figure for Milanese Lombardy would more or less hold. The Flemish percentage would likewise be much lower were other criteria used which are often applied in general histories of urbanization, for example the threshold value of 10,000 inhabitants 18

19

20

21

36% is the figure (around 1470) according to E. Thoen and A. Verhulst, ‘Le réseau urbain et les campagnes dans l’ancien comté de Flandre (ca. 1350–1800)’, Storia della Città 36 (1985) 53–60, there 53; 33% according to W. P. Blockmans and W. Prevenier, The promised lands. The Low Countries under Burgundian rule, 1369–1530 (Philadelphia 1990) 152, as well as P. Stabel, Dwarfs among giants. The Flemish urban network in the late Middle Ages (Louvain, Apeldoorn 1997) 182. For a recent update on the population of the towns in all the Low Countries, see P. Stabel, ‘Composition et récomposition des réseaux urbains des Pays-Bas au Moyen Âge’, in: E. Crouzet-Pavan and É. Lecuppre-Desjardin (eds), Villes de Flandre et d’Italie (XIIIe–XVIe siècles). Les enseignements d’une comparaison (Turnhout 2008) 29–63; and idem, ‘Demography and hierarchy: the small towns and the urban network in sixteenth-century Flanders’, in: Clark, Small towns, 206–28. Stabel, Dwarfs among giants, 241, presents a list of about 50 towns and ‘rural centres with central functions’. Between 1384 and 1405 there were 48 ‘towns’ that sent their representatives to the Flemish Estates. W. Prevenier, De Leden en de Staten van Vlaanderen (1384–1405) (Brussels 1961) 369. In the the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries their number fluctuated around 60 according to P. Stabel, ‘Urbanisation and its consequences: spatial developments in late medieval Flanders’, in: P. Moraw (ed.), Raumverfassung und Raumbewusstsein im Mittelalter, Vorträge und Forschungen 49 (Stuttgart 2002) 179–202, there 182. For a map, see H. Nowé, Les baillis comtaux de Flandre des origines à la fin du XIVe siècle, Académie de Belgique, Classe des Lettres et des Sciences morales et politiques, mémoires in 8o 25 (Brussels 1929) 413–5, and loose maps. This is within the borders of the Duchy in the 1430s. The cities were Milan, Como, Lodi, Cremona, Pavia, Novara, Tortona, Alessandria, Piacenza, Parma, Bergamo, and Brescia. The last two passed to Venice later on, although they remained in the economic orbit of Lombardy. The population estimates are based on data published in Ginatempo and Sandri, L’Italia della città. E.g. S.R. Epstein, ‘I caratteri originali. L’economia’, in: F. Salvestrini (ed.), L’Italia alla fine del medioevo: i caratteri originali nel quadro europeo (Florence 2006) 381–431, there 385–7 (on the basis of criteria suggested by L.A. Craigh and D. Fisher, The European macroeconomy. Growth and integration (Cheltenham 2000) 117.

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(used by Hohenberg and Lees) or of 5,000 inhabitants (used by P. Bairoch).22 In the latter case, the urban ratio for Flanders would be 15–16% against 25–26% for Milanese Lombardy.23 Even if the threshold value were lowered further to 1,000 inhabitants, more than ten Flemish ‘towns’ would remain excluded; now, the urban ratio would be slightly below 30%, as against 45–50% for Milanese Lombardy – a meaningless figure as an indicator of urbanization, because so many villages in the Milanese area counted more than 1,000 inhabitants. Creating a hierarchy of central places according to their dimensions would also have two different results.24 For Milanese Lombardy a quite balanced and integrated pattern of urbanization unfolds. There is one large centre, Milan, with 80,000–100,000 inhabitants, surrounded by a circle of cities of medium size, such as Cremona, Pavia, Piacenza, and nearby Brescia, all counting more than 30,000 inhabitants; next, there are five or six towns with 8,000 to 22,000 inhabitants, and further down half a dozen small towns of more than 5,000 inhabitants. By comparison, the picture for Flanders is topflat, a sign of immature urbanization because of the lack of a major city of sufficient size in the centre – despite a strong degree of complex integration.25 In short, the differences between these two regions with a high urban ratio were significant.26 Most noticeable may have been the fact that within the Lombard urban network, despite a clear pressure to integration with Milan, various poles became visible which had been created by despotic lords of city-states (signori), and which, each in its own right, formed an autonomous political-administrative and economic zone. Urban ranking Numerous parameters have to be taken into consideration to estimate the importance and the role of a town (otherwise put: its ranking) relative to other towns and within the urban system of a region. Besides demographic 22 23

24

25

26

Bairoch, De Jéricho, 81ff and 281ff, for a justification of the 5,000 inhabitants threshold. The Flemish figures – here and further on – are based on Stabel, Dwarfs among giants. In the figures for Lombardy are included the towns of Monza, Treviglio, Caravaggio, and Vigevano around Milan; Voghera and Mortara around Pavia; Pizzighettone and Casalmaggiore around Cremona; Borgo San Donnino near Parma; and Crema, Chiari and Orzinuovi in the area that went to Venice. Epstein, ‘Caratteri originali’ 384, Table 1. Cfr also the considerations on comparison in M. Boone, ‘D’un particularisme à l’autre: la Flandre et la Bretagne face à l’état centralisateur (XIVe–XVe siècles)’, in: J. Kerverhé and T. Daniel (eds), 1491. La Bretagne, terre d’Europe (Brest, Quimper 1992) 193–204. On the concept of ‘mature’ urban systems: Smith, ‘Types’, 20–42. On the Flemish urban system in particular: Stabel, Dwarfs among giants, 28. Cfr the lucid overview by W. P. Blockmans, ‘Rapport de synthèse. Les pouvoirs publics dans les régions de haute urbanisation. Flandre et Italie aux XIVe et XVIe siècles’, in: Crouzet-Pavan and Lecuppre-Desjardin, Villes de Flandre et d’Italie, 64–75.

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parameters, there are economic, social (including trades and professions, and their internal differentiations), cultural (including degrees of literacy and institutionalization of education and professional training), and ecclesiastical/religious (including the presence of convents and the residence of ecclesiastical dignitaries) indicators to take into account. Because these are so different, there has been a lot of discussion about their reliability and functionality.27 But only rarely is ‘lordship’ – public authority – over a more or less extended space used as a measure (although the idea of an ‘urban territory’ is present in every discourse on urban history) because, almost by definition, every town had its territory or, as Ferdinand Braudel put it, its own small ‘empire’, whether territorial or maritime. As a matter of fact, many recent studies on urbanization pay attention to town-country relationships, and to the various ways in which towns succeeded in getting hold of an adequate ‘territory’.28 Once again, it has to be stressed that such a territory of a Lombard or Venetian town was something quite different to the territory of a town in, say, France, Germany or the Low Countries. Where, as in Northern Italy, there existed of old a framework of civitates, an ‘urban territory’ normally stands for a quite extended and well-defined space over which the town ‘ruled’, so in fact for a ‘city state’.29 Elsewhere in Europe, the same term can take on quite different meanings, which all, however, ‘run’ in a common denominator of urban centrality.30 That centrality could be generated, or reinforced, by, for example, the presence of the seat of a royal official, or a prince, or some tribunal, or else of a bishop, or a school or university, of lawyers or land lords. It could also have its source in economic institutions, markets in particular, or other centres of exchange of supra-local importance. 27

28

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De Vries, ‘Problems’, 48–53. P. M. Hohenberg, ‘The city, agent or products of urbanisation’, in: A. van der Woude, A. Hayami and Jan de Vries (eds), Urbanization in History. A process of dynamic interactions (Oxford etc. 1990) 351–64; Stabel, Dwarfs among giants, 262–9; R. van Uytven, ‘Brabantse en Antwerpse centrale plaatsen (14de–19de eeuw)’, in: Le réseau urbain en Belgique, 27–79, there 60–1. S. R. Epstein (ed.), Town and country in Europe, 1300–1800 (Cambridge 2001), and especially the articles by P. C. M. Hoppenbrouwers, ‘Town and country in Holland, 1300–1550’, 54–79, and T. Scott, ‘Town and country in Germany, 1350–1600’, 202–38. On the concept of the city-state (also with respect to its differences from ‘just’ cities with surrounding territories), see M.H. Hansen ed., A comparative study of thirty city-state cultures (Copenhagen 2000), especially 277–93. On the specific character of town-country relations in the German Empire, Flanders, and Holland (actually part of the German Empire in the later Middle Ages), see respectively P. Johanek, ‘Imperial and free towns in the Holy Roman Empire: city-states in pre-modern Germany?’, in: Hansen, Comparative study, 141–167; D. Nicholas, Town and countryside: social, economic, and political tensions in fourteenth-century Flanders (Bruges 1971), esp. 350–1; and Hoppenbrouwers, ‘Town and country’, esp. 76–9. Further: T. Brady, ‘Conclusion’, in P. Blickle (ed.), Résistance, représentation et communauté (Paris 1998) 419–23; and, for the wider picture, Berengo, L’Europa delle città, 111–70. Stabel, Dwarfs among giants, 78. Some further indications in G. Chittolini, ‘Städte und Regionalstaaten in Mittel- und Oberitalien zwischen spätem Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit’, in: Res Publica. Bürgerschaft in Stadt und Staat. Tagung der Vereinigung für Verfassungsgeschichte in Hofgeismar am 30./31. März 1987 (Berlin 1988) 179–200.

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But, as just noted, this centrality ‘runs’, becomes diluted, in a wide gradation of areas (represented on maps with various patterns of dots, lines or circles), in which the influence of the town appears to have been rather diverse – as is indicated by the use of a diversity of terms in German historiography: Herrschaftsbereich, Umland, Hinterland, Einflussbereich. Generally, however, the area over which towns exercised real political power and administrative authority was normally rather limited, because local lordships and/or territorial principalities determined the framework of territorial organization. How different is the situation in Lombardy and the Po Valley: there, the towns in the fifteenth century, although they were subjected either to a despotic lord (signore) or to a major ruling city, had kept a firm administrative grasp on their traditional territories, now ‘provinces’ of regional states, especially in the fields of legislation, taxation, and the administration of justice. Of course, there was the signore or the dominant city that made its own power felt through its officials who also resided in town. But the towns had succeeded in maintaining important administrative and government functions, with their own magistrates, next to the officials of the prince or the capital city. The old contadi had sometimes become smaller, because local autonomy was conceded to feudal lords or to rural communes. But even then, towns exercised extensive rights over vast territories, in particular in the rich agricultural plains of the Po valley, where private citizens owned large tracts of land. Urban territories, economic regions This typical character of urban territories in Italy, in terms of either extent of control or of sheer geographical extension, had a direct influence on the geography of its economic regions. This fact could be put to the test of the concept of ‘coercion coefficient’, which, rather opportunistically in my opinion, has been constructed to measure the control exercised by a town over its surrounding territory.31 The problem is, as noted above, that the areas to be compared are so different: on the one hand, the urban territories in Lombardy and the Veneto that were more like economic regions with a high degree of interconnectedness and enforcement which could enclose thousands of square kilometres; on the other hand, the urban territories in Flanders, the German Rhine valley, or Switzerland, that could comprise secondary towns of medium or medium-large size, but that, on the whole, were less coherent, more frayed, in which capital towns more often had to share power with other lords. 31

Epstein, ‘Caratteri originali’, underscores the presence of ‘coercive’ relationships, characterized by the use of forceful authority of jurisdictional discrimination, in particular in Northern and Central Italy, compared to areas elsewhere in Italy, where the power of towns over their surrounding countrysides was much weaker. Cfr for the same problem in a Europe-wide context: idem, ‘Introduction’ to Town and country.

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Next to ‘coercion coefficient’, the concept of ‘economic region’ has been introduced to describe the situation of a capital town’s dominance over minuscule ‘urban economies’ lower down the urban hierarchy. Often the expression ‘regional towns’ is used to denote cities that were at the top – and in the centre: gravitational nuclei like Ghent and Bruges.32 In Italy, the easy equation of ‘urban territory’ with contado and ‘primary economic region’ is often paralleled with the problem whether or not the ‘regional states’ (stati regionali) that took shape in the centre and north during the fifteenth century equally constituted much larger, ‘secondary’, economic regions. After J. C. Russell’s attempt from the early 1970s to identify ‘urban regions’ mainly on the basis of demographic data33, more recent research has focused on the problems of the influence of territorial-political structures on economic resources and dynamics, as well as of the dialectics between urban space and regional space. As to the latter, in the case of Tuscany it is argued that urban and regional space largely coincided from early on; further north, in Lombardy and the Veneto34, the relation between the two was more uneasy and some degree of correspondence took much longer to develop. Nonetheless, everywhere in Northern and Central Italy, urban economies, including economic ties between town and country, had long histories.35 Small towns The economic weight and typical quality of the ‘urban territory’ in Northern and Central Italy are also reflected in the appearance of ‘small towns’. This concept, which has gained popularity in European urban history 32

33 34

35

For Ghent and Bruges: Stabel, Dwarfs among giants, passim; M. Boone, ‘Brügge und Gent um 1250: die Entstehung der flämischen Städtelandschaft’, in: W. Hartmann (ed.), Europas Städte zwischen Zwang und Freiheit. Die europäischen Stadt um die Mitte des 13. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg 1995) 97–110. For the Holy Roman Empire, see H. Eiden and F. Irsigler, ‘Environment, hinterland and market integration, c.1300–1600’, in: J.A. Galloway (ed.), Trade, Urban hinterlands and Market Integration c. 1300–1600 (London 2000) 43–57. J.C. Russell, Medieval regions and their cities (Bloomington, Newton Abbot 1972). P. Malanima, ‘La formazione di una regione economica: la Toscana nei secoli XIII–XV’, Società e Storia 6 (1983) 229–69; S. Ciriacono, ‘Venise et ses villes. Structuration et déstructuration d’un marché regional, XVI–XVIIIe siècle’, Revue Historique 276/2 (1986) 287–307; P. Lanaro, I mercati nella repubblica di Venezia. Economie cittadine e stato territoriale (secoli XV–XVIII)(Padua 1999); G. Chittolini, ‘Alcune note sul ducato di Milano nel Quattrocento’, in S. Gensini ed., Principi e città alla fine del Medioevo (Pisa 1996) 413–431. Cfr also M. Ginatempo, ‘Gerarchie demiche e “sistemi urbani” nell’Italia bassomedievale: una discussione’, Società e Storia 18 (1996) 347–83. Several research projects on the Po valley area seem to prove that such ties extended into the eighteenth century, because only then did important elements of the economic system that had been constructed by the city-states, and subsequently continued with adaptations by the regional states, fall apart, and give way to a ‘regionalization’ of markets. R.P. Corritore, ‘Il processo di ruralizzazione in Italia nei secoli XVII–XVIII. Verso una regionalizzazione’, Rivista di Storia Economica 10 (1993) 353–86.

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from the 1970s, was introduced to fill the need of putting in the picture a category of urban settlements that was easily lost in the classical historical definition of towns/cities, which ranged from metropolises of 80,000– 100,000 inhabitants to tiny settlements of several hundred souls.36 By ‘small towns’ we understand places with anything between, approximately, 500 and 2,000 inhabitants, which still exercised clear central place functions within a rural area. Small towns had markets and were modest centres of manufacturing and services. They had populations that were socially diverse, accommodated noble families of local standing, and always contained some imposing private dwellings and public buildings. Over the last decades, small towns both in specific regions of Europe and in Europe as a whole have been the subject of research projects, also collective ones.37 Attempts have been made to establish the total number of small towns, to calculate their density (their number per area unit)38, and to bring the concept into greater focus by discussing its characteristics and the criteria to ‘measure’ its impact. It has led to interesting and lively discussions.39 When, some years ago, the English historian Peter Musgrave tackled the problem of small towns in Italy, he was faced with a mysterious obstacle – ‘an elusive beast’ – that is to say, a sort of historiographical and documentary conspiracy aimed at covering up the small town’s existence.40 So much had been written about the large cities, he noted, and so much was being done to deal with the countryside. But no one bothered about the small towns. In addition to the typical orientation in Italian historiography, discussed above, there is also, according to Musgrave, a number of more objective reasons that hamper a precise identification of a category of ‘small towns’ in Italy, in particular with respect to rural centres, with which they are often confused. Even so, he insisted that there had been small towns, and he took the trouble to identify and to count them, and, as far as possible, to categorize them, and 36

37

38 39 40

In an article on Early Modern Germany the authors distinguish seven classes of towns: two classes of ‘large towns’ (more than 20,000 inhabitants, and between 10,000 and 20,000 inhabitants, respectively), one class of middle-large towns (between 5,000 and 10,000 inhabitants), one class of medium-sized towns (between 2,000 and 5,000 inhabitants), two classes of ‘small towns’ (1,000–2,000 inhabitants, and 500–1,000 inhabitants, respectively), and one class of ‘dwarfs’ (less than 500 inhabitants). T. Scott and B. Scribner, ‘Urban networks’, 116. E.g. J.P. Poussou and Ph. Lupès (eds), Les petites villes du Moyen-Âge à nos jours (Bordeaux 1987); Les petites villes en Lotharingie/ Die kleine Städten in Lotharingen. Actes des 6es journées lotharingiennes, 25–27 octobre 1990 (Luxemburg 1992); Clark, Small towns, o.c.; M. Strecker, ‘Kleinstadtgenese und herrschaftliche Raumverfassung in der spätmittelalterlichen Schweiz’, in: Moraw, Raumverfassung, 233–274; and Epstein, Town and country, passim. P. Clark, ‘Introduction’ in: idem, Small towns, 1. B. Lepetit, ‘In search’. P. Musgrave, ‘The small town’, quotes from 250, 252, and 255. The ‘conspiracy against the small town’ may partly be caused by the lack of documents; the communal institutions of small towns have left relatively few archival sources. Cfr. A. Bartoli, A. Langeli, A. Giorgi and S. Moscadelli, Archivi e comunità fra Medioevo ed Età Moderna (Rome, Trento 2008).

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describe their characteristics. On the basis of his own more detailed research on the Veronese area, he hazarded an estimate for the entire North.41 In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there would have been 300–500 small towns in this area; 150–200 with populations of between 2,000 and 5,000 inhabitants, and 150–300 with populations below 2,000 inhabitants. This is a large number, maybe too large, although not so much in terms of population sizes. Both from the demographic perspective and from the angle of economic weight, many of Musgrave’s ‘small towns’ do not seem to have been very much different from ‘straight’ towns/cities elsewhere in Europe: they should be categorized as ‘middle towns’ or even ‘middle-large towns’ according to the existing listings.42 But more importantly, in the North Italian context, with its strong contrast between civitates and contadi, many of these smaller urban centres were in a subordinate position, either economically or from a perspective of local government and taxation. So, they may have looked more colourless, less discernible, and less dynamic than their transalpine European counterparts.43 In the fifteenth century, there certainly were places that could qualify as ‘small towns’ or ‘quasi-towns’ within the regional states, and also in that area of the Po valley in which town-country relations were strongly antagonistic and the urban presence in the contado was quite coercive.44 Such minor centres were more numerous in areas where the civitates were weaker and less capable of organizing territories in their surroundings, such as the Marches of Ancona and Umbria, or certain parts of Tuscany.45 But even there, their numbers must be counted in tens rather than in hundreds. Moreover, in general, the number of minor centres that acquired a non-rural, ‘urban’, aspect should be downgraded, even if such places had higher populations and should be ranked above the category of villages. On the other hand, the towns/cities that had their roots in ancient civitates normally preserved their economic preponderance in the late Middle Ages, as well as their capability of draining resources and people from the countryside.46 The artisans and 41

42

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P. Musgrave, Land and economy in Baroque Italy: Valpolicella, 1630–1797 (Leicester, London 1992). However, the population figures of these ‘small towns’ should be related to population densities in the countryside, which are always substantially higher in Italy than in England or Germany. Clark, ‘Introduction’, 2, refers to the ‘strict integration (and subordination) of small towns in the more developed core regions of Western Europe, especially the Low Countries and Northern Italy’, without distinguishing between these two. G. Chittolini, ‘”Quasi-città”. Borghi e terre in area lombarda nel tardo medioevo’, Società e Storia 47 (1990) 3–26; reprinted in: idem, Città, comunità e feudi negli stati dell’Italia centrosettentrionale (secoli XIV–XVI) (Milan 1996) 85–104. Ginatempo, ‘Dietro un’eclissi’. For the effects on the long-term development of the Italian economy, see Epstein, ‘Caratteri originali’, 429–431. Epstein reaches the conclusion, not entirely new, that ‘the fundamental

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merchants who lived in so many small places and who were so different in their economic and social activities from peasants and agricultural labourers, often seem to have oriented their professional activities towards the town, where many of them owned a house or a workshop. Only much later does a strong local elite take root in the countryside, a kind of gentry that kept away from the nearby large towns.47 Until that time, a landed nobility that took such small rural centres as their point of reference was lacking. Most of the large landowners were still citizens who may have constructed a villa or some other stay of secondary importance on their country estates; large tenant farmers, on the other hand, often had a house in town. Eventually, it was in this environment of urban prominence and of urban economic districts that an articulated variety of minor centres could take shape. Even if these are not easily pigeon-holed in existing urbanisation models, they are still worth studying.48

47

48

causes of the economic stagnation of the [Italian] peninsola after 1500 were institutional rather than technological.’ For the Duchy of Milan see V. Beonio Brocchieri, Piazza universale di tutte le professioni del mondo: famiglie e mestieri nel Ducato di Milano in età spagnola (Milan 2000). In conjunction with this ‘repossession’ of central places in the contado, both the Venetian Republic and the Duchy of Milan set up a new administrative body, called ‘of the territorial [administrative] bodies’ (dei corpi territoriali) or ‘of the rural districts’ (dei contadi), in the course of the sixteenth century. Whereas for Europe (outside Italy) the main classification problem is that the category of town/city is too broad to accomodate the entire variety of urban centres, for Italy the problem is that a too rigid and selective concept of town/city makes the class of ‘minor centres’ overcrowded. Cfr. G. Pinto, ‘Poids démographiques et résaux urbains en Italie entre le XIIIe et XVe siècle’, in: Crouzet-Pavan and Lecuppre-Desjardin, Villes de Flandre, 13–27.

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Joan Fogassot and ‘los fets de Flandes’. A Forgotten Episode of the Catalan Mercantile Connections with Flanders in 1460–1461 Dick E.H. de Boer University of Groningen

Introduction In the town archives of Barcelona a remarkable codex presents itself as the ‘second book containing all kinds of secret and other decisions and measures’ (secundum liber consiliorum secretorum aliorumque actuum) taken by the institution which we now know as the Consolat de Mar.1 The register roughly covers the period from 1460 to 1462, three years that were among the most dramatic in the history of Catalonia. It starts in February 1460, when it was kept by Johannes Carovira and Nicholaus Viyastrosa, merchants and citizens of Barcelona, as consuls of the sea. Their names are immediately followed by an indication of the things which kept them busy that year, and also what I have chosen as my title for this contribution, namely: ‘the events of Flanders’ (los fets de Fflandes).2 In fact, about a third of the register is filled with reports concerning the relations with Flanders, and letters to and from delegations who were sent to Duke Philip the Good. One key figure in these delegations and embassies was the name which makes up the other half of my title, Joan Fogassot.3 As notary and scribe of the Consolat de Mar, he was a man who knew the ropes and how to pull them, while as a poet he commented on the events of his time. Within the framework of this contribution it is impossible to present a full analysis of the places, persons and networks mentioned in the register, so I will instead offer a survey of the ‘Flemish’ content of the register until 1

2 3

Barcelona, Arxiu Municipal, Seccio Consulat de Mar, serie 1I.I–1 (hereafter: BAM CM 1I.I–1). A major part of the archives of the Consols del Mar is preserved in the Biblioteca de Catalunya, Fons de la Junta de Comerç de Barcelona. In section 4 (Deliberacions del Consell de Vint i dels cònsols de mar), the first register is the Sextus liber consiliorum, secretorum etc., covering the years 1480 – 1481: Llibre de consells, secrets i altres actes dels cònsols de mar de Barcelona del notari Joan Fogassot (61f ) ( JC 145). For reasons of time and distance, it was impossible to collect and study these and other sources, kept in different locations. However it is clear that they contain a very rich source for the history of commerce between Flanders and Catalonia. BAM CM 1I.I–1, fol. 1r. In this article, I will spell personal names, as standardized in the literature, in the way they are spelled in the sources. For several main characters whose names have English versions, I nevertheless use the Catalan form, in order to make a distinction between others with the same name, as Charles/Carlos, Joan/John.

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the end of 1461, hoping to stimulate further research that can throw a light on the often neglected Catalan connections of the Burgundian commercial and political network. Catalonia and the Flemish connection The Consolat de Mar was established in 1258 by King James I of Aragon, in a charter he granted that year to the city of Barcelona.4 In this way he created a quasi-judicial body to administer maritime and commercial law. It had the authority to settle commercial disputes without interference from the royal courts and soon grew to be the mayor maritime board in the Mediterranean. Its rules, based upon the customary rights and traditions of the Barcelonese trade, were soon applied across Christian parts of the Mediterranean as a general set of customs and ordinances for shipping and trading. These regulations were collected over the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries as the Costums marítimes de Barcelona universalment conegudes per Llibre del Consolat de mar (the ‘Maritime customs of Barcelona, universally known as the Book of the Consulate of the Sea’).5The Barcelonese Consolat de Mar as an institution had affiliations in Valencia (1283), Mallorca (1326), Tortosa (1363), Girona (1385), Perpignan (1388) and Sant Feliu de Guixols (1443), all within the territories of the Crown of Aragon. Later on, this was followed by foundations in Montpellier (1463), Marseille (1474), Bilbao (1511), Seville (1543) and San Sebastian (1682). Outside the Mediterranean, the text of the Llibre del Consolat de Mar was strongly related, at least in an intertextual way, to the most important collection of maritime law along the European Atlantic shores, the Roles d’Oléron.6 These relations underline the importance of Barcelona as a nodal point in the development of maritime trade in the western part of the Mediterranean. One may therefore assume that Catalan merchants, in particular those from 4

5

6

Printed as ‘The Barcelona Maritime Code of 1258’, in: Herbert H. Coulson (ed.), A Source Book for Medieval Economic History (Milwaukee 1936; reprint New York 1965) 160–8; in this charter esp. art. 21. Aquilino Iglesia Ferreirós, ‘La formación de los libros de Consulado de Mar’, Initium: Revista Catalana d'Història de Dret 2 (1997) 1–372. Christiane Villain-Gandossi, Jean-Jacques Larrère, ‘Le Llibre del Consolat de Mar: les gens de mer, leurs droits et leurs obligations’, in: Actes du 106e Congrès national des Sociétés savantes. Perpignan, 1981. Section de philologie et d'histoire jusqu'à 1610. Les pays de la Méditerranée occidentale au Moyen Age. Etudes et recherches (Paris 1983) 153–67. Manuel Broseta Pont, ‘El Llibre del Consolat del Mar. Aspectos mercantiles’, in: En torno al 750 aniversario. Antecedentes y consecuencias de la conquista de Valencia, Monografies del Consell Valencià de Cultura, 4–5, 2 vols (Valencia 1989) II:57–64. Georges Peyronnet, ‘Un document capital de l’histoire du droit maritime: les rôles d'Oléron XII–XVII siècles’, Sources, travaux historiques 8 (1986) 3–10. Karl-Friedrich Krieger, Ursprung und Wurzeln der Rôles d'Oléron. Quellen und Darstellungen zur hansischen Geschichte, Neue Folge, Bd. 15 (Cologne etc. 1970). On the relation between the Roles d’Oléron and the Llibre des Consolat, see Julia Schweitzer, Schiffer und Schiffsman in den Rôles d’Oléron und im Llibre del Consolat de Mar. Ein Vergleich zweier mittelalterlichen Seerechtsquellen. Rechtshistorische Reihe 331 (Frankfurt am Main etc. 2007) esp. 198 ff.

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Barcelona, were among the first to establish contact with Flanders in the period during the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries when commercial relations between the Mediterranean and the North Seas basin started to increase. Although it was merchants from the Gulf of Biscay who, in 1230, were the first inhabitants of the Iberian Peninsula to make a recorded apparition in the Zwin,7 by the first half of the fourteenth century, the Catalans were taking over. Then, in later years the Aragonese and the merchants from the kingdom of Valencia were incorporated into the merchant nation that was termed the Consulat dels mercaders Cathalans en Bruges, and which consequently became known as the ‘Nation of the Aragonese’. These merchants had settled near the Oosterlingenplein, at the Krom Genthof, and in its surroundings.8 Unlike merchants from other nations, the Catalans did not establish special guilds or confraternities in Bruges, rather they continued to come under the Consolat de Mar.9 Following the political division of Spain, a second nation was founded in 1428 to be the organization of the Castilians in Bruges, and this soon usurped the name ‘Spanish nation’, while by 1455, this group was then split into in a nation of Biscay and a nation of Castile. In the literature, the ‘Castilian from Burgos’, a member of the Spanish nation who was living in Bruges, is seen as the classical Spanish merchant in the Low Countries. The sources on the relations between Portugal and Burgundy, as edited by Paviot, have more information made available on the group which, along with Castile, Aragon-Catalonia and Biscaye, could be called the fourth Iberian party in the Burgundian sphere during the late Middle Ages.10 However, this emphasis on the Portugese connection makes one even more aware of the fact that the sources only offer glimpses of the Catalan connection. In the Portuguese documents, these glimpses are related to a case in 1455, when the Catalans accused a certain João Pires of operating as a corsair under the banners of Burgundy, which - in the words of Paviot - ‘n’était pas très loin de la vérité’.11 The two documents published about this case show Duke Philip the Good ordering his treasurer, maistre Goutier de la Mandre, to pay the sum of 1,000 ecus d’or to Jehan Perye, portingalois, maistre de nostre 7

8 9 10

11

J. Maréchal, ‘La Colonie espagnole de Bruges, du XIVe au XVIe siècle’, Revue du Nord XXXV (1953) 5–40, esp. 7, also published, embellished with illustrations, in his Europese aanwezigheid te Brugge. De vreemde kolonies (XIV–XIXde eeuw), Vlaamse historische studies 3 (Brugge 1985). Ibid., 9. Ibid., 13. J. Paviot (ed.), Portugal et Bourgogne au XVe siècle (1384–1482). Recueil de documents extraits des archives bourguignonnes (Lisbon, Paris 1995); see also J. Paviot, ‘Les Portugais à Bruges au XVe Siècle’, in: P. Stabel etc. eds, International Trade in the Low Countries (14th– 16th centuries) (Louvain, Apeldoorn 2000) 55–74. Paviot, Portugal et Bourgogne, 119.

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balenier,12to enable him to repair and equip his ship since it had been captured and damaged by Catalans.13 Earlier, in 1450 when he had supervised the construction of vessels, the same João Pires had been called patron des gallées de mon tres-redoubté seigneur.14 Protected by the duke of Burgundy, the Portuguese may have been in a better position than the Catalans to defend their interests in Flanders. The invisibility of the Catalans in the literature on Flemish trade of the fifteenth century raises the question of what really happened. Had Catalan commercial activities in Bruges declined? And if so, what might have been the reason for this? It is conceivable that competition in the Mediterranean trade led to a decrease in the Catalan involvement in international trade relations between the Mediterranean basin, the Atlantic coastal system and the North Sea basin. On the other hand, political forces might have worked contrary to the Catalan interests. The dynastic relation with Portugal, the shift of the political weight in Spain to Castile, and the development of the CastilianBurgundian connection may well have also had a commercial effect. Barcelonese trade in decline? Several years ago, Dolors Pifarré Torres made an important contribution to our understanding of the development of the Barcelonese trade through the publication of her study on international trade relations between Barcelona and the North Sea. Focussing particularly on Bruges at the end of the fourteenth century, her research analysed the commercial correspondence of the Barcelonese branch of the Datini firm with their Italian companions, the Diamante e Altobianco degli Alberti-firm in Bruges.15 It is clear that the period studied by Pifarré Torres represents the time at which relations between Catalonia and Flanders was at their peak, while the Castilians were less active and less visible. The rise of the Castilian trade may have blurred the image of the Catalan merchants. However, there are also aspects of mercantile practice which have hampered a clear understanding of Catalan activities during the fifteenth century. From early on, Catalan merchants already predominantly used Italian vessels to transport their merchandise.16 Even if the 12

13

14 15

16

Martin Malcolm Elbl, ‘The Portuguese caravel and European shipbuilding: phases of development and diversity’, Revista da universidade de Coimbra 33 (1985) 543–72, esp.547 ff. Ibid., 393–5, João Pires from his side declared that he had received the mentioned sum; documents dating from 5 and 6 April, 1455. Ibid., 378. Dolors Pifarré Torres, El comerç international de Barcelona i el mar del Nord (Bruges) al final del segle XIV (Abadia de Monserrat 2002), based on her PhD-thesis defended in Barcelona in 1997. Pifarré, Comerç, 27.

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first half of the fifteenth century witnessed a substantial increase of the use of Catalan vessels, the Italians still seem to have handled about 4/5 of the maritime movements between Barcelona and the northern part of the Atlantic at this time.17 The usual itinerary was: Venice, Messina, Palermo, the Baleares (where the Barcelonese merchandise and passengers were picked up), the Spanish south coast, Cadiz, Lisbon, Sluis and London, taking an average of roughly three months for the passage between Bruges and Barcelona. This situation was of course the outcome of the Venetian-Aragonese alliance that, during the fourteenth century, became one of the main factors determining the commercial balance in the Mediterranean, with Genoa as the main adversary of the system.18 Venetian vessels were a decisive factor in the transport of merchandise bought by the Catalans in Flanders and England. However, this reasoning still leaves many questions unanswered. If Catalan merchants overwhelmingly made use of others to transport their goods, did they leave the buying and selling and the supervision of loading and unloading in Flanders to agents or partners as well? It is possible that commercial practice did not need a full Catalan nation in Bruges to be active. In the opinion of Pifarré Torres, a major contraction took only place after 1462. This view attributes a decisive role to the civil war that broke out in that year as the outcome of a dynastic crisis. There is, however, reason to assume that even before 1462, the size of that nation was decreasing. In sources from 1455, there was mention of the fact that, in 1452, when the galleys of Alfonso of Aragon, king of Naples, had arrived in Bruges, restoient en la ville de Bruges aucun aultres Cathalans que eulcx cinq que representoient la nation.19 However, it is unclear if this small number of Catalans representing the nation is indeed indicative of the structural decimation of the numbers of Catalan merchants. In his study on the Spaniards in Bruges, Maréchal loses trace of the Catalans and Aragonese during the fifteenth century, instead focusing on the Castilians, until he mentions the granting of special privileges on 1  September 1493 by the Bruges authorities to Aragonese-Catalan merchants who had previously migrated to Antwerp. The privileges were intended to make the merchants use Bruges as the main seat of trade for 17

18

19

Ibid., 27–34, 49; with reference to M. del Treppo, Els mercaders Catalans i l’expansió de la Corona catalano-aragonesa al segle XV (Barcelona 1976) 90–2. J.Cl. Hocquet, Le sel et la fortune de Venise, vol. 1: Production et monopole; Vol. 2: Voiliers et commerce en Méditerranée, 1200–1650 (Lille 1979) 268–70. L. Gilliodts van Severen (ed.), Cartulaire de l’ancient consulat d’Espagne. I. (1280–1550) (Bruges 1901) 65–6, as quoted by Del Treppo, Mercaders, 103, n. 234.

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their most important goods (oil and alum).20 The Catalan ‘silence’ halfway through the fifteenth century is neither mentioned, nor explained by him. It therefore seems necessary to examine the Catalan crisis and to wonder if indeed the Catalans had left Bruges in this period. The register kept in the Town Archives of Barcelona offers the clue to a better understanding of developments during the years preceding the civil war. It enables us to verify how the Catalan community in Bruges had functioned before and also to establish the nature of Flemish-Catalan commercial relations. Let us therefore start by examining the background to the dynastic crisis. Backgrounds of the Catalan crisis of the fifteenth century In giving the title De la plenitud a la crisi to his volume on the late medieval period, part of the Biblioteca Bàsica d’Història de Catalonia, Ernest Ferreres was certainly not the first author to label the second half of the fifteenth century in Catalonia a period of crisis.21 Even more than elsewhere in Europe, where the closing decades of the Middle Ages are often characterized as a time of crisis and transformation, Catalonia was confronted with problems. The social and political tensions of the Trastamara era had been followed by a long period of unrest, during which the town of Barcelona was tending to develop into a city-state after the Italian model, tolerating royal power at a higher level. Urban society was divided into two factions, the patrician Biga, and the more egalitarian Busca, uniting the less wealthy export merchants and artisans, and promoting the interests of the poble minut, the lower strata of the population. From 1453 onwards, the Busca, supported by the royal governor Galçera de Requesens, were in power in the town.22 In 1462, the Biga took power again, leading to the Catalan civil war. In fact – as is so often the case – internal tensions came to the fore as a result of dynastic problems that offered points of reference and thus contributed to polarization and escalation. The dynastic crisis in this case was connected to the behaviour of king Joan of Aragon-Navarra – which, in the eyes of some, was malicious. Through his marriage to Blanche, heiress of Navarra, Joan had become the male consors regni of Navarra in 1425. Notwithstanding the fact that this gave him no rights other than to label his children as heirs, after his wife 20

21

22

Maréchal, ‘Colonie Espagnole’, 21. All foreign consulates had left Bruges formally on 30 June 1488, by privilege of Maximilian of Austria, in his function as Habsburg count of Flanders. Ibid., 187. Ernest Ferreres, De la plenitud a la crisi. La Baixa Edat Mitjana (segles XIII–XV) (Barcelona 1991). Compare a.o. Daviod Abulafia, The western Mediterranean Kingdoms 1200–1500. The Struggle for Dominion (London, New York 1997) 215–20, chapter 9, § 5 ‘The Catalan crisis’. Ibid., 58.

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died in 1441, Joan acted as if he were king.23 His wife’s successor as lord of Navarra ought to have been their firstborn child – primogenit in Catalan – prince Carlos d’Evreux, born 24 May 1421 and called de Viane after the small town of Viana in Navarra. King Carlos de Navarra had created the title ‘Prince de Viane’ in 1423 for his grandson and heir, and effectively granted him this title in 1428. Prince Carlos was well-educated,24 yet in 1441 king Joan immediately disinherited his son and grasped power in Navarra. When Carlos was eighteen years old, he had married Agnes of Cleves, a daughter of Adolph I, duke of Cleves (1373–1448), and his second wife Mary, the eldest sister of Philip the Good. This marriage established a dynastic relation with the house of Burgundy that lasted seven years. Agnes died in 1446, without offspring. For several years Carlos remained more or less satisfied with a role as lieutenant in Navarre, but in the early 1450’s open hostilities broke out. Carlos was even imprisoned by his father, who did release him after a while, but, contrary to Navarese law, then named Carlos’ sister Eleanora, who had married count Gaston IV of Foix, as his successor in Navarra. In 1451, the birth of another royal son – Ferdinand – by Joan’s second spouse, Juana Enríquez, added a new problem: the boy was not a true heir, as he had no Navarrese ancestor, yet later on he was to be treated as a pseudo-heir of Navarra. One year later, Carlos managed to escape his father’s control, and sought protection in Naples, at the court of Joan's elder brother, Alfonso V, absentee king of Aragon and lord of Catalonia. At that moment, royal power in Catalonia was represented by a lieutenant. Between 1436 and 1438, Joan had already been acting as such, but in the early 1450’s the Catalan nobleman Galçera de Requesens held the office, as we saw above. In 1454, ‘King’ Joan took the reins of power into his own hands, forcing the abdication of Requesens and governing the lands of the Crown of Aragon himself; formally acting as his absent brother’s lieutenant, but in practice ruling as sole lord.25 In December 1455, King Joan took a further step by appointing his daughter and third child Eleonora, whom he earlier had named successor, also as heir of Navarra, at the same time disinheriting Carlos.

23

24

25

Thomas N. Bisson, The Medieval Crown of Aragon. A Short History (Oxford 2000) 147 suggests that the last will of his wife enabled Joan to make such a hostile move. Denis Labau, L'existence tourmentée de Don Carlos, prince de Viane (1421–1462) (Monein 2009) 19 ff.: the emphasis was placed more on his intellectual training, and preparation for a political career seems to have been neglected. Ibid.; Ferreres, Plenitud, 75; see also Flocel Sabaté i Curull, Historia de Catalunia. II. Catalunya Medieval (Barcelona 2006) 398 ff.

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Towards Civil War When Alfonso of Aragon died in 1458, Joan became his brother’s successor to the Crown of Aragon, while Alfonso’s son Ferdinand inherited the throne of Naples. In this situation, Carlos of Viane went to his nephew, into a self-chosen exile.26 In an effort to gain better control over the Mediterranean through appeasing the region, Joan halted the long-lasting hostilities against Genoa. This aroused the discontent of the Barcelonese merchants, both those of the Biga and the Busca groups, and thus encouraged them to support Prince Carlos, whom they favoured as heir to the throne of Catalonia. When Carlos made a move to Mallorca, he stayed there for a while in a situation of limited confinement.27 In the spring of 1460, the primogenit managed to leave Mallorca and set sail for Barcelona, and when he arrived there he was received with enthusiasm by the Barcelonese factions, for all of them increasingly disliked the authoritarian behaviour of King Joan. The register of the Consols del Mar rarely includes comment on events outside the strict order of commerce and shipping; however, in this case our source is very explicit. Undeniably, for the Consols del Mar these political circumstances destined their activities. Under the heading Entrada del princip, on fol. 7ro of the register, ample attention is given to the arrival of Prince Carlos on Friday 28 March 1460 on the beach near Barcelona,. The wording of the text of the Consols del Mar echoes the description of the event in the Dietari del antich Consell Barceloni, as quoted by Calmette.28 Calmette describes in his thèse de doctorat how Carlos landed in the harbour of Barcelona on the aforementioned day between three and four in the afternoon. The inhabitants of Barcelona welcomed the primogenit with enthusiasm, as indeed the prince himself stated afterwards in a letter to the duchess of Milan.29 The register is even more detailed on this matter, mentioning how, at tres hores passat mig jorn (‘three hours past noon’) the prince had arrived on a ship from Mallorca that belonged to the Barcelonese patron Guillem Boffry,30 accompanied by five other vessels, among them a galley from mosser Sureda de Mallorques and the calavera31 of mister Lombart from Barcelona and three more round ships 26 27

28 29

30

31

Bisson, Crown of Aragon, 148. Vera-Cruz Miranda Menacho, ‘La estancia del príncipe de Viana en Mallorca (1459–1460)’, Príncipe de Viana 66 (2005), 429–48. J. Calmette, Louis XI, Jean II et la révolution catalane (1461–1473) (Toulouse 1902) 42–3. Ibid., n. 2., a letter written in Barcelona one month after the event, on 28th April, stated how ‘arrivamo in la platgia de la cita de Barchelona, dove per tutta manera de gente et nobili et baruna simo stati cum multa festa, honore, triumpho et Gloria ricevuti’. I only found a Guillem Boffry, mestre de Girona, in Pere Freixas i Camps, L'art gòtic a Girona: segles XIII–XV (Barcelona 1983) 70. Calavera translates as skull. Probably a caravel is meant.

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(fustes rodones).32 The register further relates how the prince set foot ashore and then processed to the Cistercian convent, Santa Maria de Valldonzella, which was then situated outside the town walls. This proved a prudent move, respecting the urban sentiments and testing the political waters. There he stayed until the next Monday, which was 31 March.33 In the meantime great festivities took place, among others in the Lotja, the churches and other places in town, and many fireworks were lit. After the prince entered town, King Joan II allowed him to stay there peacefully, and invited Prince Carlos to his palace in Igualada, without falling into his habit of incarcerating his son. He even simulated a reconciliation when he himself came to Barcelona on 15 May 1460, with the primogenit in his retinue.34 New escalation Over the following few months, the situation seemed to de-escalate. However, as Carlos started to gain substantial support, King Joan struck a fast blow: he invited Carlos to a meeting of his court in Lleida – seemingly to discuss the intended marriage of Carlos to Isabella, daughter and heiress of Enrique IV of Castile. The prince of Viane himself had already started negotiations to arrange such a marriage started in 1459, but the faction of Joan favoured a nuptual agreement between the nine-year old Isabella and Carlos’ by then seven-year-old half-brother Ferdinand.35 When Carlos 32

33

34

35

Juan Cortada a.o, El libro verde de Barcelona. Añalejo de costumbres populares, fiestas religiosas y profanas, usos familiares, efemérides de los sucesos mas notables acaecidos en Barcelona (Barcelona 1848) (consulted as webedition: http://oreneta.com/libro-verde/?s=1460) mention as further events that year: 27 April 1460: ‘Los concelleres obsequian al príncipe de Viana con una collació de confits de sucre y ricos vinos. Parece que la glotonería de algunos convidados dió lugar á varios desórdenes’ (‘The councillors welcome the Prince of Viane with sugar confits and fine wines. It seems that the gluttony of some guests led to various disorders’). Mosser Sureda belonged to the group of Mallorcese who assisted king Alfonso of Naples and supported Barcelona in fitting out armed ships for the protection of trade against pirates; as mentioned in 1442–43 by Clements R. Markham, The Story of Majorca and Minorca (London 1908) 163–4. See: Miguel Raufast Chico, ‘Ceremonia y Conflicto. Entradas Reales en Barcelona en el Contexto de la Guerra Civil Catalana (1460–1473) = Ceremony and Conflict. Royal Entries in Barcelona in the context of the Catalan Civil War (1460–1473)’, Anuario de estudios medievales 2008 (38) 1037–85, who describes the royal entries in Barcelona between 1460 and 1473, in the light of the Catalan Civil War. Calmette, Louis XI, 44, n.1, mentions him there actively working on May 17th.; Cortada a.o, Libro verde, gives for 15/05/1460: ‘Entran el rey D. Juan y su esposa doña Juana Enriquez, con su hijo D. Fernando, que despues fue el Católico. Iba en la comitiva el principe de Viana hijo del primer matrimonio del rey; y se hicieron grandes fiestas en celebridad del buen término que por mediacion de los barones de Sicilia habian tenido las discordias entre D. Juan y el príncipe’ (‘King Joan and his wife, Joanna Enriquez, have their entry, with their son, Fernando, subsequently “the Catholic”. In his retinue was the Prince of Viane, the king’s son from his first marriage; and great feasts were held to celebrate the successful ending, facilitated by the mediation of the Sicilian barons, of the discords between King Joan and the prince’). That wedding eventually took place indeed in 1469, and would destine the history of the Low Countries through their ‘courting’ of the Habsburg dynasty.

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arrived in Lleida, he was arrested on 2 December 1460 and again imprisoned, first in Aitona, later in Morella. Meanwhile the count of Foix – who as the husband of Carlos’ sister Eleanora was a rather dark horse at Joan II’s chessboard – had sponsored a tournament in Barcelona on 23 November 1460, in an obvious attempt to gain support, offering a diamond to anyone better than him.36 Bread and games, however, were no guarantee for success. The reactions in Catalonia and Navarra were of outrage. The Diputació del General, the municipal council of Barcelona, which was the highest institution in Catalonia, supported Carlos and Navarra also went along with this. Six days after Carlos’ imprisonment, the Generalitat even created a Consell del Principat (‘Council of the Principality’), a step towards a takeover of royal authority, intending to submit the question of the royal succession to a parliamentary decision. When Joan nevertheless refused to restore Carlos to his formal position as primogenit and heir, the Barcelonese officials started negotiations with the king to have their favourite released. On 6 February, the ambassadors of Joan II of Aragon arrived in town to discuss with the parliament of Catalonia the imprisonment of Carlos of Viane. Two days later the Catalans increased pressure by means of a call to arms on land and at sea in favour of the primogenit.37 The armies of the Catalan and Navarrese estates quickly gained ground, forcing Joan to cede to the growing opposition. Carlos was released from captivity on 25 February, 1461 and was received with great joy in Barcelona on 12 March. Thereafter negotiations started which led to the famous Capitulacio de Villafranca del Penedès, on 21 June, 1461. At the news of its signing, spontaneous festivities broke out.38 This treaty established a constitutional system, drastically limiting royal power in Catalonia: the king was not even allowed to enter Catalonia without permission of the Diputació del General and Prince Carlos was appointed lieutenant general of the principality.39 Effectively, at this moment Joan lost his sovereignty over Catalonia.

36 37

38

39

Cortada, Libro verde, at this date. Cortada, Libro verde, gives for 8-2-1461: ‘Armamento por mar y tierra en favor del príncipe de Viana y fuga secreta del gobernador D. Galceran de Requesens’ (‘Call to arms on land and at sea in favour of the Prince of Viane. Secret flight of the governor, Galceran de Requesens’). Cortada, Libro verde, mentions for that day: ‘Llegan de Villafranca los embajadores enviados á la reina, con la nueva de que esta, como procuradora de su esposo D. Juan II habia firmado la concordia con el príncipe de Viana y con Cataluña. Hubo mucha alegría, procesion é iluminaciones’ (‘Arrival from Vilafranca of the ambassadors sent to the queen with the news that representatives of her husband, lord Joan II, had signed a pact with the Prince of Viane and with Catalonia. There was much happiness, with processions and illuminations’). Bisson, Crown of Aragon, 149, Ferreres, Plenitud, 77.

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Joan Fogassot, the notary poet The unrest caused by the imprisonment and release of the primogenit, is echoed in a poem written by the man who in Catalonia became famous as the notary-poet: Joan Fogassot.40 Among his works are love poems, rhyming comments on political issues, and a rhyming cycle of poems promoting the idea of a crusade for the liberation of Constantinople, probably written during an embassy with that goal to Naples in 1453. He held the function of city notary from at least 1453 to 1474, and became, as we saw above, notary and scribe of the Consol del Mar.41 Two of the most remarkable fruits of his quill were related to the imprisonment of the prince of Viane. The first is known as the Romanc fet per Johan Foguasot notari, sober la presó o detenció del illustrissimo Senyor don Karles Princep de Viana e primojenit d'Aragó etc., lo qual feu en la vila de Bruxelles del ducat de Barbant en lo mes de fabrer any mcccclxi (‘romance written by Joan Fogassot, notary, on the imprisonment and detention of the very illustrious lord, sir Carlos, prince of Viane and firstborn successor to Aragon, which was done in the town of Brussels in the duchy of Brabant in the month of February of the year 1461’). Here the two threads of my story intertwine: the dynastic crisis in Catalonia, and the fets de Fflandes. The reason why Joan Fogassot wrote his romanc in Brussels was that he was involved in solving the complex of problems which was troubling the Catalan merchants in Flanders. He did so, not only by writing letters that dealt with legal aspects of different conflicts, but also by offering juridical support to official ambassadors, sent by the king of Aragon at the instigation of the Barcelonese Consols del Mar, to negotiate with the duke of Burgundy. It was on one of these missions that the news of the detention of the primogenit, who embodied the hope of the exporting merchants, reached the Low Countries. A short quotation of the romanc reflects the convictions of Joan Fogassot, and the typical style of a rhyming lawyer:42 40

41

42

See a.o. Amédée Gilles Pagès, Auzias March et ses prédécesseurs; essai sur la poésie amoureuse et philosophique en Catalogne aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Paris 1911) 172 ff., or Ramon Aramon i Serra, Estudis de llengua i literatura (Barcelona 1997) e.g. 228 ff, 316 ff., 349. A.W. Atlas, Music at the Aragonese Court of Napels (Cambridge 1985) 144–5. For his works see also Viçens Beltran, El cançoner de Joan Berenguer de Masdovelles (Montserrat 2006). Quotation from the version as preserved in the Cancionero catalán del Ateneu, written in the final decade of the fifteenth century, containing works by a large number of Catalan poets, among them Francesc Ferrer, Lluis de Requesens and Joan Fogassot. Biblioteca de l'Ateneu, Barcelona, inv.nr. BA1; edited in the Biblioteca Virtual Joan Lluís Vives. The present texts cover the ff. 30r–34v, and 35r–36r. This text is available in several manuscripts. I thank Hedzer Uulders of Groningen University, who is preparing a PhD-thesis at the University of Padova on Catalan literature, for his support in translating these texts. All errors, of course, are mine.

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.... Apres que fou lo rey ab son estat After the king with his retinue junt en la gran e farta Ceragossa, had arrived in the great and strong Zaragossa los cathalans fan lur deguda cossa the Catalans did what they had to do per obtenir del princep libertat. to obtain the freedom of the prince. Suplicant ne la reyal excellença Begging his royal excellency com se pertany de bons e fels vassalls, as is fitting to good and loyal vassals, molt humilment, de paraules ab talls very humbly, with words of well chosen apunctants be, composts ab providença... bounds, composed with providence ... En nostre temps vists n’avem prou grans In our times we have seen so many great deeds actes / pel virtuos don Carles d’Arago of the virtuous lord Carlos of d Aragon tant desijat, detengut en preso who is so much esired, but now held prisoner contra statuts, libertats, leys e pactes; against all statutes, liberties, laws and treaties; car crech ferm yo per lo mortal divis indeed, I believe because of the deadly discord qu’estav’ances dins la gran Barselona, that before was in Barcelona del Principat mestressa e patrona ... the mistress and patroness of the principality...

This text is immediately followed by a Obra feta per lo dit Johan Fogassot sobra la liberació del dit senyor primogènit (‘work written by the mentioned Joan Fogassot on the liberation of the mentioned sir, the firstborn’) that was written under the immediate influence of the news of Carlos’ release from prison: Donchs, abitants de la gran Cathalunya, pus clar veheu quant’operacio es procehint de vera hunio, siam units, car de tals be no·s lunya!

E pus que Deu tanta merce nos fa, que de l’anyell la preso ha rompuda, alegrants nos, ab lengua no pas muda, cantem contents lo gran alleluya.

Therefore, inhabitants of the great Catalonia, as you can now see more clearly the result that may be obtained from true unity, let us be united,as from such a thing one does not distance oneself ! And as God does us so much mercy that he has broken the imprisonment of the Lamb, let us sing, rejoicing, without a mute tongue, and satisfied: the great ‘Halleluja’

Where in the first poem the notary-poet stresses how the lack of unity in Barcelona was the main reason why an action could happen that violated all laws, in the second poem the release of the prince is stressed as signalling the triumph of unity. Joan Fogassot clearly is a critic of king Joan, a champion of unity. And last, but certainly not least, he is a fervent Catalan, who sees it as his mission to defend Catalan interests and values: indeed, the same interests that he defended on his missions to Flanders. Before following him on that mission we have to return briefly to the events that destined the epoch.

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The primogenit is dead, long live the primogenit The new arrangement based on the Capitulacio de Villafranca del Penedès seemed to solve the deeply-rooted problems. For at least three months the primogenit again resided in Barcelona, where he acted formally as lieutenant of his father, but was really the de facto ruler of the principality of Catalonia. However, on 23 September 1461 Carlos of Viane suddenly died in his Barcelonese palace, shortly before three o’clock in the morning.43 This unexpected, mysterious death, put the spark to the tinder. Immediately, factional strife broke out again.44 The following day, Catalan trustees of the late Carlos sent immediately letters to the French king Louis XI, announcing the death of their lord from a ‘serious and deadly illness’ (greu e mortal malalatia).45 Since the cause of death was unclear, rumours that the primogenit on whom most Barcelonese and Catalans had built their hopes had been murdered, or even that queen Juana Enríquez had poisoned her stepson, were predictable, and politically deadly weapons. On 27 September King Joan, from his residence in Calatayud, wrote a letter to his envoy Charles d’Oms, who was on a political mission to the north, asking him to inform the king of France and the duke of Burgundy that his ‘very dear and much beloved firstborn son’ (molt car e molt amat fill primogenit) had fallen seriously ill in Barcelona and consequently had died. Joan called it a ‘sad and deplorable day’; in fact, he must have felt relieved. At the same time, it was essential for Joan not to spoil the good relations that had developed between the young French king and Carlos of Viane. He had to act fast and prudently. Popular support of the primogenit survived the death of the prince, as was evident at his burial, on the 5th of October, when an estimated 15,000 persons or more followed the funeral cortège.46 The Capitulacio de Villafranca had granted, in case of Carlos’ death without heir, the right of succession to Joan of Aragon’s young son Ferdinand. However, Juana Enríquez – acting as regent of her son and thereby exercising the function of lieutenant of Catalonia – made the situation escalate again. Immediately she pushed Ferdinand to the fore as the new primogenit, and on 23 November 1461, she forced the 9-year-old boy to step in the footsteps of the deceased prince when she made him swear the fueros del pais, as an heir to the crown. The nature of that act was acceptable, yet the speed was considered improper. Playing on the old controversies between the Busca and 43 44

45 46

For the time of death see Calmette, Louis XI, 53–4, n. 2 and 3. There even arose a spontaneous cult of Sant Karles de Cathalunya at his grave, soon to give way to a more pragmatic approach of historical events, Bisson, Crown of Aragon, 49. Calmette, as in n. 43. Cortada, Libro verde, states on that day: ‘Entierro de D. Cárlos principe de Viana, cuyo féretro seguian mas de quince mil persona’ (‘Burial of Prince Carlos of Viane, whose cortege was followed by more than 15,000 people’).

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the Biga parties in Barcelona, the queen triggered a new outbreak of public unrest and hostilities.47 Within weeks this developed into civil war when ‘peasants’ revolted against the Consell del Principat, hoping to receive royal support.48 These political developments undeniably influenced the position of the Consols del Mar. Once they had lost their dynastic trump card, they had to reconcile with the king again. As their separate Catalan status suffered a setback, they had to turn more Aragonese than before. Now – at least in theory –their mercantile policy-making forced them to become more dependent on the relations between King Joan and the Burgundian powers, in order to further their Flemish interests. An analysis of the register of the Consols del Mar allows us to see commercial diplomacy at work during the crucial years between early 1460 and the last weeks of 1461. Los fets de Flandes Let us therefore, with Joan Fogassot as our guide, turn to the early months of 1460. The register in the Barcelonese town archives permits us to get a closer look at the problems that Catalan merchants in Flanders were faced with. Its opening pages show that already before the outbreak of the Catalan crisis various problems were hampering commercial activities by Catalan residents in Bruges. On 28 February 1460, the Consols del Mar wrote a letter to their colleagues in Perpignan, in the French part of the principality of Catalonia better known as the Rousillon, to let them know how they had been informed in letters from Bruges that the duke of Burgundy ‘does many large annoyances’ (fa molts grans vexacions) ‘contrary to every law’(contra tot dret) to the subjects of the king of Aragon, who are ‘for the sake of commerce residing’(mercantivolment residents) in his lands and seigneuries, and how he refuses to grant them safe-conducts.49 They mentioned how the duke of Burgundy had done so already before, and how therefore they had asked King Joan II to send ambassadors to the said duke to remedy these annoyances, for the benefit of ‘their friends in Bruges’ (lurs amichs a Bruges). This letter confirms that inhabitants of Catalonia not only were involved in trade between Flanders and their native land, but that they still were residing in Bruges. Almost two weeks later, further steps were taken, when on 12 March a special council of prohomines per los dits fets de Fflandes assembled to investigate the Flemish affairs, to take place in the ‘house of the archive, next to the 47 48

49

A. F. C. Ryder, The wreck of Catalonia. Civil war in the fifteenth century (Oxford 2007) 94. The idea that the remences were mainly revolutionary uprisings determined by economic factors, is no longer supported by modern scholarship. The war was mainly politically instigated: the tensions between Busca and Biga following Vilafranca have triggered strife; see Bisson, Crown of Aragon, 149–50. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 1r–2r.

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orchard of the Lodge’ (casa del archiu contigua al verger de la lotge), where the Consolat de Mar was housed.50 Its members – Pere Çaclosa,51 Bernat Oliver, Guillem Ponçgem, Lorenç Ros, Bernat Dalgas, Barthomeu Ferrer and Ffrancesch de Junyent – belonged to the Biga.52 It was decided to write again to the king of Aragon and to the Consols del Mar of Valencia, Perpignan and Mallorca. This resulted in a letter, of which the copy that was sent to Valencia the next day has been preserved. The letter speaks of a ‘delegation or embassy’ (missatgeria o ambaxada) sent to the duke of Burgundy to stop and compensate all vexations. The episode at stake dealt especially with a case where very bad weather (tempestat de temps) caused the loss of all cloths and merchandise (robes e mercaderies) from a ship of a certain Castilian Johan da Sant Johan as it was arriving in Zeeland from Le Havre. They express their hopes that with the help of their amichs a Bruges it will be possible to settle the problems so that they may ‘peacefully and quietly ... negotiate in the mentioned ports of Flanders, lands and seigneuries of the mentioned duke’ (pacifficament e queita ... negociar en les dictes ports de Fflandres, terres e senyories del dit Duch).53 Other letters were sent to inventory the damages. The consuls and committee met again on the following day. During this meeting of the special commission, two letters were specially discussed. They were written by Joan Fogassot, who was hired by the Consols del Mar to offer juridical support in these difficult cases. We encounter him here for the first time in the register as the author of letters written in the town of Bruges on 18 February 1460.54 One letter was from Celdoni Ferrer and Pere p.Andreu, merchants residing in Bruges, who reported that advancements were made by the duke of Burgundy, for which they had sent to the Consols two letters of exchange (cambis): one of these had been written to a member of the special commission, Guillem Ponçgem, the other to 50

51

52

53 54

Joan Bassegoda i Nonell, La Casa Llotja de Mar de Barcelona. Estudi històric crític i descriptiu de l'edifici i de les seves colleccions descultura i pintura (Barcelona 1986). The lodge was built between 1384 and 1397. The upper store where the Consolat de Mar was housed had just been finished in 1459, shortly after the addition of a special chapel to the building. Aurell, Mercaders, 144, 163, 177, 335 refers to the basically juridical library of Pere Çaclosa / Saclosa, with an inventory of 1471, among others containing also a Livius: Lo seten libre de la primera decada, which was simply part of Livy’s History of Rome, which in the medieval tradition was divided into compartments called decades. For instance, for Francesc de Junyent and his brother Joan, see M. del Treppo, Els mercaders Catalans i l’expansió de la Corona catalano-aragonesa al segle XV (Barcelona 1976) 46, 47, 58, 72, 111, 126, 194, 286, 414, 513, 523, 530 and 532 and for Bernat Oliver ibid., 55, 61. 81, 172, 178, 366, 444 and 445. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 3r–4r. Ibid., fol 5r. Other professionals serving the Consols del Mar in writing duties were, a.o. Gaspar Vilana, who was paid 10.-.- to write manyfets, ordonades and supplicactions and requests, BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 12r., see also 1458, 19 Jan. Barcelona, Consell de Trenta-dos AHBC, Deliberacions II-II, pp. 177v–179r, deliberations on requests by Gaspar Vilana; XVII Congrés d'Història de la Corona d’Aragó = Congreso de Historia de la Corona de Aragón I (Barcelona, Lleida 2000) 367.

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a certain Beringuer Aguilar.55 Celdoni Ferrer was one of the five Catalan residents who, around the middle of the fifteenth century, seem to have formed the core of a steady Catalan colony in Bruges.56 Along with this ‘a deed of protest and request’ (una carta de protest e requesta) was presented, produced by Joan Fogassot, as the written expression of complaints of different Catalan merchants – unfortunately not mentioned by name – to and against several officials of Duke Philip the Good, requesting the safe-conduct of their vessels and another safe-conduct especially for the aforementioned Beringuer Aguilar. Several days later, on 18 March 1460, the consuls sent a letter to their colleagues of Mallorca, in response to the letter they received from Mallorca on the 1 March about two galleys and one galliot of ‘armed corsairs’ (cossaris armades) that were stationed in or near Syuiça – the term obviously referring to Sluis in Flanders – that had done much damage.57 The letter added that the consuls had been informed from Bruges that the ‘duke of Burgundy and count of Flanders’ had done much damage to residing subjects of the king of Aragon, violating their safe-conducts and harming them in a totally unacceptable way. They therefore requested that King Joan send messengers or ambassadors to the duke to remedy, and to ask full restitution. They also refer to how merchants, citizens and inhabitants of ‘that city and reign’ have supported him. ‘For the use and benefit of the exercise of commerce’ (por lo util e beniffici dels exercits la mercaderia) the consuls asked their colleagues in Mallorca to inquire diligently if they also had suffered any damage in any form or any kind, in order to inform the king fully, to ensure that justice be done. On 26 March 1460, a letter was sent to the aforementioned Catalan merchants in Bruges who earlier had acted ‘in the name and on behalf of the whole nation’ (en nom e per part de tota la nacio), explaining that the case had now been placed in the hands of the ambassadors who had been sent by the king to the duke of Burgundy, as he had not stopped ‘to vex and afflict the nation’ (vexar e congoxar la nacio).58 This first set of letters and decisions by the consuls of the sea and the special committee, installed to take care of the Flemish affairs, offers a representative image of the issues at stake. Catalan merchants saw their rights inflicted, their safe-conducts violated, their merchandise seized, their 55

56 57 58

The Palacio Aguilar in Barcelona is one of the finest fifteenth century palaces, once owned by this merchant. During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the palace belonged to several noble families attached to the court of Aragón. It was bought in 1386 by members of the Barcelona haute-bourgeoisie who, in 1400, sold it to the merchant Berenguer d’Aguilar, who may have been our merchant’s grandfather. Information provided by the Palacio Aguilar. See above n. 19. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 5v–6v. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 6v–7r.

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requests for compensation rejected or delayed. A closer analysis reveals that two forces seem to be at work here. On the one hand we find an almost unsolvable chain of mutual claims of indemnities for damage suffered from others. Acts of pirates, corsairs and privateers, tolerated or even stimulated by the authorities, could lead to lengthy procedures which dragged on, especially when compatriots of wrong-doers and victims got involved in acts of retaliation and retribution. On the other hand, dynastic alliances and political opportunism could hugely complicate efforts to settle disputes, and thus fundamentally hamper economic interests. It is very possible that even long before the outbreak of the Catalan civil war, the problem of the succession in Aragon was already complicating the commercial activities of Catalan traders. King Joan must have been aware of the fact that the Barcelonese, in spite of paying lip-service to his high authority, supported his son. This may have made him less eager to promote their case in his dealings with Philip the Good. At the same time, at the level of international diplomacy the transient Burgundian connection of Carlos of Viane through his marriage to Agnes of Cleves neither outweighed, nor outlived his father’s political relations. Moreover, potentially good relations between the ‘next generation’ of Charles the Bold and Carlos (and between both of them and the French Dauphin) did not yet have real political importance. Considerations of the political balance of power may in any case have made the Burgundian duke reluctant to settle disputes so long as the political future of Catalonia was unclear. Long-winded diplomacy and protected corsairs Along with political complications, the fact that information had to be exchanged over a long distance, of course had a negative influence on the speed of action. A letter sent from Barcelona to Bruges would usually take between three weeks and a month to arrive at its destination; the issue then had to be discussed in a meeting, an answer had to be prepared and written and a letter of reply dispatched. Therefore, between formulating a question and receiving an answer, an interval of three months could easily pass. It was sometimes more effective to let the messengers do the work, or have the specialist travel about. In the years covered by the register, Joan Fogassot regularly returned from Bruges to Barcelona to ask for new instructions or to report back. On 9 May 1460, a special meeting of the Consuls and the prohomines for Flanders affairs met to discuss a letter sent from Bruges on 5 April by Pere p.Andreu, now indicated as mercader Aragones resident a Bruges, to the aforementioned Guillem Ponçgem. The letter was complaining that no improvement at all had been effectuated.59 This labelling of Pere p.Andreu as 59

BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 18r–19v.

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Aragonese instead of Catalan might be read as an indication that a prudent shift was being made for fear of confusion of the commercial relations with the dynastic tensions, at least in the self-identification of the Catalan merchants who lived in a political reality in which the preferences of the hostruler favoured the dynast who emphasised Aragonese force. It was decided to send a letter to Philip the Good and to entrust notary Joan Fogassot – who obviously had returned to Barcelona – ‘to carry as promptly as possible’ (per mes promptament portar) this letter to Flanders. At the same time, another letter was sent to King Joan II mentioning all misdeeds and violations of safe-conducts in the case of the detention of a balaner by Johan Peris Portugues, who was operating as a corsair. Here we again encounter the man who had operated in the service of Philip the Good as João Perez, mentioned in the sources about the relations between Flanders and Portugal in 1456.60 Both cases are probably even related to one another, and the conflict, which can be glimpsed in the sources edited by Paviot, was still dragging on. During the months to come, it remained a source of discontent between the Consols del Mar and the Burgundian authorities, and for the next two years notary Joan Fogassot would be permanently involved in solving these problems. Even in 1462, no solution could be found for the ‘case Joan Pirez’ and it seems that personal ties between the duke of Burgundy and hired officers like the Portugese corsair were an impediment to solving other cases.61 This is confirmed by another case of piracy, in which it was no accident that one of Jaques Paviot’s other characters was involved: on 19 February 1461, the Consols del Mar wrote a letter to Bruges, asking for the special attention of the duke and his chancellor – which can only refer to Nicolas Rolin62 – regarding the case of the naufrats e morts from the calavera of a certain Brasiana.63 This man was a Portugese ship-owner with whom a huge conflict had arisen. He must have been the same person as the Bras Eanes/ Yanes mentioned repeatedly in the context of Portuguese-Burgundian relations.64 This Bras may have come to Flanders in the train of Duchess Isabelle. 60 61

62

63

64

See n. 11 and 13, and the accompanying text. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol. 136v–137 contains a letter to the Catalan merchants, and a separate letter to Joan Fogassot in Bruges, both written 31-5-1462, about the capture of a ship sailing under a Castilian patron Joan Garcia de Licona, between Nice and Antibes with cargo for Barcelona which had been taken by Joan Peris Portugues. Either this is an addition to a long list of anti-Catalan acts, or the aftermath of the (c)old case. Marie-Thérèse Berthier, Le chancelier Rolin, 1376–1462. Ambition, pouvoir et fortune en Bourgogne (Précy-sous-Thil 1998). Mentioned in different spellings as Bras Iana, Brasyana, Bras Yana, Bras Ianyes, Bras Yanes, Bras Ianes. Paviot, Portugal et Bourgogne, 70, 72, 85, 100, 251, 309, 324, 351-352, 358, 362.

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He had become a trusted shipmaster of Philip the Good, sailed a caravel of the duke of Burgundy to Rhodes in 1441 and in 1445 he received payment for the repairs of his ship. In 1455 Brasien, portingalois received a sum of money pour lui aidier a deffraier des pays de Bourgoigne et soy retourner en Portugal.65 It is unclear if he really returned to Portugal; in any case, the case of Bras Eanes as a protégée of Philip the Good was also hampering the general solution of the problems. Therefore, the Consols del Mar allowed the delegates to give this element priority, provided that a solid arrangement for all Catalans and other vassalls subdits al senyor Rey dArago would be negotiated which would guarantee a general safe-conduct (salconduyt general) and the application of the law. Yet, just as in the previous case, the real problem here was that an exchange of opinions did not bring the parties even an inch closer to one another. On 17 July 1461, when the full delegation had returned to Barcelona to report about the mission for which they had left Barcelona one year before, they stated that there was a precondition to making final arrangements, namely that the case of the damage caused by the capture of the calavera – whose patron was the Portugese Bras Eanes - by a galley of the guard of Barcelona should be solved. All those who were captured and damaged on the aforementioned calavera, who were vassals and subjects of the duke of Burgundy, should be reimbursed. If not, the duke would not be willing to offer any further cooperation. One year earlier, when the instruction to the ambassadors had been written, it had already been considered advisable to express admiration for the willingness of king and duke to help in solving the problems, especially in compensating the injustice done to the duke of Burgundy through the capture of the calavera of Bras Eanes. The ambassadors were to stress that they were fully aware of the gran amicicia, fraternitat e confederacio that had existed between the late King Alfonso and the duke of Burgundy. At the same time, the original instruction maintained that they should argue that the galley of the Barcelonese guard was doing armed duty in concordance with the privileges awarded by previous kings to remove corsairs and pirates. Their action was justified by the fact that the captured calavera had been equipped like corsairs and pirates, and had already caused problems previously. As an example, they referred to a case in 1449 when that same ship, together with a calavera of the Portuguese Joan Franco, had been sailing with the arms and banners of Burgundy and had taken two Catalan ships loaded with wheat. In fact, these and other arguments were a repetition – as is stated – of information already presented in writing to the council of the 65

Ibid., 391 (not mentioned in the index).

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duke. Therefore, the Consols del Mar urged that the duke should have more faith in the documents produced about this capture. They then conclude that, if any lawsuit would be necessary in this case, it should happen before the veguer of Barcelona, a regional judge, comparable to a sheriff or bailiff in the English royal administration.66 This strange mixture of understanding and tenacity was not the stuff out of which compromises could be built. Yet compromises would be necessary to be able to solve the real problems, the most important of which were: the question of the right of periatge, the freedom of the right of shipwreck,67 and the general safe-conducts for merchants and their goods. The main issues During the deliberations in May 1460, when it was decided to send an embassy, the Consols del Mar confirmed a previous decision which had been taken by themselves, the majority of Consell de XX, and the prohomines e deffenedors in January 1458. That decision had been regarding the application of the right of periatge in order to defend and support the ‘mercaderia’.68 The periatge was a tax levied on merchandise imported to Catalonia by sea, and had already been established by the Consulate of the Sea in the thirteenth century. As a payment at the rate of two pennies per pound, it was a 0,8% tax. Obviously this tax was now one of the relevant issues in the conflict with Flanders.69 It was decided that notable and sufficiently capable persons would be sent to Flanders and elsewhere to explain why this tax was being levied within the context of the commercial relations with Flanders. At the next meeting of the council, two days later, the logical next steps were taken. Two men were chosen to go to negotiate with the ‘duke of Burgundy and count of Flanders’ as ambassadors and messengers of the king of Aragon to redress all problems caused to subjects of the king of Aragon, 66

67

68 69

From the end of the 13th century onwards, Catalonia had been divided in 21 vegueries. Obviously the veguer of Barcelona had authority in cases of marine conflicts. Flocel Sabaté Curull, ‘Vegueria de Barcelona’, in Enciclopèdia de Barcelona, Vol. 4 (Barcelona 2005) 222–223. On the arrangements about shipwreck in the northern seas, the impending publication of the PhD-thesis by Edda B.I. Frankot, Medieval maritime law and its practice in the towns of northern Europe. A comparison by the example of shipwreck, jettison and ship collision, defended in 2005 in Aberdeen, will offer a first survey and a point of reference that can be used to understand the controversies. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 23v. Jordi Bolòs, Diccionari de la Catalunya medieval (ss. VI–XV) (Barcelona 2000) 203. In the Biblioteca de Catalunya, Fons de la Junta de Comerç de Barcelona, Consolat de Mar, section 6. Dret del pariatge. àpoques i albarans, the first three registers are related to this right, and our main characters: 1470–1473 Sextus liber apocarum... Llibre d’àpoques i albarans del dret de pariatge, del notari Joan Fogassot (181f ) ( JC 144), 1476–1477 Llibre de comptes de Nicolau Viestrosa, clavari del dret del pariatge. ( JC 175-I), 1480–1481 Undecimus liber apocarum... Llibre d’àpoques i albarans del dret de pariatge del notari Joan Fogassot. ( JC 146).

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especially those of Barcelona. Those elected were the honourable mister Joan Dalmau, doctor,70 and Ffranchesch de Junyent, combining the roles of a legal specialist and representative of the prohomines.71 Joan Fogassot – who at that moment seems to have returned to Barcelona – was elected as notary of the embassy.72 This election was followed by a new letter sent to the Catalan merchants residing in Bruges, on 18 June 1460, in which the Consols del Mar inform the merchants that the king of Aragon had confirmed the composition of the embassy, and that the delegation was to leave within a few days, although the King had to pay special attention to lo fet del Royalme de Napols. When, one week later, the Consols met again, this time in the house of consul Ffrancesch Pallares, near the plaça de Santa Anna, the instructions to the ambassadors were read.73 Moreover two letters were discussed which had been received from Valencia on 18 April; one carried by the Consols del Mar in Valencia, and the other by a merchant, Pere Eximenis, mercader, in answer to the letters concerning the embassy ‘that had to go to Flanders’ (qui deu anar en Fflanders). It became clear that the merchants from Valencia did not want to pay for a mission concerned with the cargo of cloths and merchandise in the aforementioned ship of Johan de Sant Johan which had been robbed by the duke of Burgundy in Zeeland as it fell under regulations of the periatge.74 On 19 February 1461, when Catalonia was still in turmoil about the imprisonment of the primogenit, the Consols del Mar stressed that they first and foremost wanted to settle the problems with the right of periatge, in combination with the question of the capturing of the balaner of Joan Periz, and the verdicts issued in this case by King Alfonso.75The inevitable 70

71

72 73

74 75

Isabel Sánchez de Movellán Torent, La Diputació del General de Catalunya (1413–1479) (Barcelona 2004) 50 n. 116 mentions the decision of the Consell de Cents in 1454 to appoint 5 ‘syndics’ one of whom had to be a lawyer, Joan Dalmau doctor in decretis as one of the house-lawyers of the Conselll de Cents; in ibid., 38 n.70 he is also mentioned as canon of the Barcelona cathedral. Josep Antoni Iglesias Fonseca, ‘El bibliòfil Bernat d’Esplugues (†1433), notari i escrivà del Consell de la ciutat’, Barcelona quaderns d’història 5 (2001) 12 ff, mentions him also as auditor of the Accounts of the Generalitat of Catalonia in 1433. For Ffranchesch de Junyent see above, n. 53. Due to lack of further documentation, it is unclear if the mention made in Ernest Moliné y Brasés (ed.), Les costums marítimes de Barcelona : universalment conegudes per Llibre del Consolat de Mar : ara de nou publicades en sa forma original, ilustrades ab noticies bibliogràfiques, històriques y llingüístiques y ab un apèndix de notes y documents inèdits relatius a la historia del Consolat y de la Llotja de Barcelona (Barcelona 1914) 320, in his index dels libres de concells about an ambaxada de dos, un de scientia y laltre mercader, al Comte de Flandes, 5 Feb. 1460, is a prelude to this embassy. The composition of the embassy is identical. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 30v. This Francesc Pallarès was executed in May 1462, as deputy leader of the Consell, along with two former leaders. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 25r. Which must refer to the Portugese king Alfonso (1432 –1481), not the deceased Alfonso I of Naples (1442–1458).

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delay, due to the time the letters took to arrive from Flanders in Brussels meant that the Consols del Mar only on 22 March formulated an answer to a letter written in Flanders on 14 January 1461, which had arrived in Barcelona on 17 February.76 It was the council’s opinion that the replies given by the duke and his chancellor to the Catalan demands were ‘very unjust and unreasonable’ (molt iniusta e deviant ala raho), which they explained as being due to the fact that the duke and his councillors were in their own patria e terra. They therefore once again urged for a prudent and diligent approach, to gain those so deeply desired safe-conducts and the arrangement of the right of shipwreck, and not to restrict the arrangements to the cases of Sent Johan and Brasyana, or to other subjects or allies of the duke, but to work out an arrangement that would satisfy all Catalans and subjects of the king of Aragon. They moreover expressed the hope that such an arrangement be realised within short (en breu temps). Time and again the need for a solution was underlined in letters from Bruges sent to Barcelona which urged the authorities to serve the needs of the merchants who were frequentants e negociants en Fflandes e alters terres e senyories del dit duch.77 There thus arises an image of a vivid commercial interaction between Flanders and Catalonia, interrupted and frustrated through a combat of prestige. Gradually the argumentation was reduced to a statement that the Catalan merchants simply wanted to be treated like others. On May 14 1461, in a new letter to the Ambassadors, replying to a letter they had received three days earlier, the consuls specified the desire to acquire a safe-conduct for the Aragonesos, Navarresos, Sicilians, Valencians, Mallorquinis, Sarts e ... tots los ciutadans e habitadors de Barchinona e de Rossello hoc e del principat de Cathalunya i generalment a tots e qualsevol altres vassalls e subdits ala prefata Maiestat, meaning that the Catalan case now was to be extended to all subjects of the king of Aragon.78 The text expresses hope that the arrangement will be bon e util for the whole nation, and for the development of commerce, on both sides. Two months later, the demand for a general safe-conduct for all merchants was repeated, together with the desire, to the benefit of both parties, to allow them grace and freedom of the right of shipwreck for ships of any kind and for cargo loaded in ships of whatever other nation, especially because Genovesos, Spanyarts i alters nacions en la senyoria del dit duch (‘Genoese, Spaniards and other nations within the seignories of the said duke’) were already exempted from shipwreck, although their lords

76 77 78

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 65v–66v. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 81v–82r. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 73r–74r, esp. 73v.

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were not united through friendship or alliance.79 This last argument touched on an interesting point: the degree to which the personal ties between king and duke influenced commercial relations. Ties and collars, between hope and reality The repeated expression of a hope of establishing an agreement proved to be in vain. It had already previously seemed as if a solution was at hand. This was the case, for instance, when in their letter to the ambassadors in Bruges on 17 October 1460, the Consols del Mar showed a clear sense of rejoicing about the news they had received from Bruges two days earlier: ‘about which we have been not a little happy’ (de la qual no poch som stats alegrats). Mention was made of negotiations in Valenciennes in the presence of mosser de Xaraloys fill del duch, the future Charles the Bold, followed by a trip to Brussels, where Duke Philip the Good held domicile. The negotiations fed the expectation that recuperation of the goods lost and a restoration of trade might be possible, and consequently that there would be a ‘reintegration of the greatness that their nation in the past had maintained’.80 This was probably the result of the temporarily stable situation that had been established in Catalonia following the landing of Carlos de Viane on the beach near Barcelona and his acceptance as the ruler of the principality. It is not clear at present whether some understanding was reached between the two semi-youngsters who suffered the ‘Prince Charles-syndrome’, of being dominated by an elderly ruler who did not resign, but it seems as if the climate for change had begun. However, this climate chilled again when in December 1460 Joan of Aragon imprisoned his son. It seems as if the authorities were paralyzed and obsessed by the political problems. When they finally acted, the Consols del Mar apologised to their friends in Bruges for the delay, caused by ‘the liberation of the “firstborn lord” – prince Carlos of Viane – who through the grace of God our Lord is now in this city’ (la liberacio del senyor primogenit lo qual per gracia de noster senyor Deu es en la present ciutat). Once the crisis had been warded off, the Consols del Mar again conferred full powers on the ambassadors and informed them that, in the absence of the king, they had acquired two letters: one from prince Carlos, the other from the disputats de aquest principat, the delegates in the Generalitat of Catalonia, directed to the duke of Burgundy, which recommended that the problems be solved. The new balance of powers that had existed since Carlos was released from captivity on 25 February 1461, clearly started to bear fruit. 79 80

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 82v. BAM CM 1I.I-1, fol 40r.

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King Joan finally seemed to accept the political reality. This was confirmed when on 12 March, the prince arrived in Barcelona and the Catalans swore him in as heir to the throne. In a letter written on 26 June 1461, the consuls reported on the last political developments, and formulated their ultima conclusio. Above all, they used the opportunity to let the ambassadors in Bruges know that ‘the great sorrow and fear’ which the country had been put through because of the discord between king and prince had come to an end. They mentioned how three days previously in Vilafrancha de Penades, on the day before St. John, an agreement had been reached.81 Henceforth, Carlos would reign and the great powers entrusted by the king to the queen, allowing her to sign capitularies and deeds, had been annulled. After St. John’s-day, the primogenit had come to the seu, meaning the St. Eulalia-cathedral of Barcelona. There, he had sworn to observe all privileges, constitutions and costumes, before going in a procession through town. The elaborate description here reflects both the importance attributed to the events in Catalonia, and the effects that were expected for the international position of Catalonia and especially the relations with Burgundy. Immediately after the text of this letter, Barthomeu Masons, who in the absence of Joan Fogassot served as scribe and notary of the Consols del Mar, relates how on 2 July both ambassadors, doctor Joan Dalmau and Ffranchesch de Junyent, accompanied by Joan Fogassot, arrived in Barcelona.82 One wonders when they had left Flanders. Probably they felt so insecure about the events at home that they had decided to travel south. In any case, now that the ambassadors had returned to a Barcelona radiating ideas of political changes, a new meeting on 14 July 1461 allowed the Consols to consult their representatives directly. The third issue discussed in that meeting was the fact that the members of the delegation had been summoned to come as soon as they could to the king, most of all because a delegation from the duke of Burgundy was also on its way to King Joan. Therefore, the Consols wanted to discuss what to do, and this discussion happened with the new council of twenty elected on that very day.83 Three days later, a consell particular was convocated. Here, the ambassadors presented their report about ‘all actions [they had] undertaken’ (tots los actes fets) on the mission for which they had left their hometown almost one year previously, and they produced all relevant documentation in order to tie things up neatly.

81 82

83

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 74r–v. See also at n. 38. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 75r. Barthomeu at the same time announces that he will be responsible mia propria ma (‘with my own hand’) for the continuation of the register from 11th July onwards. Here we find the first major change of writing hand. Possibly indicating that until that moment an underscribe had executed the notations. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 76r–77r.

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Yet that was easier said than done: what seemed to be a new stability was in reality a highly confusing situation. In Barcelona the primogenit was the actual ruler, yet at the same time the treaty of Villafranca had made King Joan acceptable again as overlord. Against this background, the political move made by Philip the Good was shrewd: he did not just send a delegation to King Joan. As well as carrying proposals in the endless discussions about pirates and corsairs, safe-conducts, periatge and shipwreck, this delegation were carrying the ultimate chain of princely friendship which could easily turn into a political cluster. Before they left Bruges, the Catalan ambassadors had been informed there that Philip the Good’s embassy had left before them la qual li porte lo collar del orde del dit Duch.84 This meant that Philip the Good offered king Joan of Aragon the honour of becoming knight in the Order of the Golden Fleece, an essential political gesture.85 Earlier Joan’s brother Alfonso had been a member of the Order from 1445 until his death in 1458. Therefore, in a sense Joan’s entering the Order confirmed an already existing alliance. However the timing, against the backdrop of the turbulent events in Catalonia and during the negotiations about the position of the Catalan merchants in Flanders, deprived the ambassadors of the Consolat de Mar of their trump cards. For a while, the Consols did not seem to be fully aware of this. They were ben contents with the advances made, in spite of the fact that the embassy had achieved nothing concrete, and they decided to meet as soon as possible to discuss whether the same ambassadors would be sent to the king, and on what conditions. That decision was indeed taken a week later, on 21 July. In their missive to King Joan, the consuls reported – through the pen of Joan Fogassot – that during the previous negotiations the bisbe de Tornay, canceller deles finances del dit duch – by which none other than Guillaume Fillastre jr. could be meant –86 had indicated that if an arrangement could be made, then a new kind of tax would be levied on 84 85

86

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 77v–78r. See R. Vaughan, Philip the Good. The apogee of Burgundy (London and New York 1970) 162: Joan of Aragon was indeed elected member in 1461, together with Adolf the Young, Duke of Guelders, Thiebault de Neufchâtel, Marshal of Burgundy, Philippe Pot, Seigneur de La Roche de Nolay, Loys of Gruuthuse and Guy, Seigneur de Roye. The formal inauguration took place at the 10th Chapter of the Order in Saint Omer, in May 1461. Françoise de Gruben, Les chapitres de la Toison d’or à l’époque bourguignonne (1430–1477) (Louvain 1997) 399. Guillaume Fillastre (1400 or 1407–1473), after a career as bishop of Verdun (1437–1448) and Toul (1448–1461) had just been elected as bishop of Tournay, which he stayed until his death. Along with this he had served since 1461 as chancellor of the order of the Golden Fleece. See among others: De Gruben, Les chapitres, 24 ff., Malte Prietzel, Guillaume Fillastre der Jüngere (1400/07–1473). Kirchenfürst und herzoglich-burgundischer Rat (Siegmaringen 2001), id., ‘Guillaume Fillastre II. Évêque de Tournai. Un prélat et son diocèse au XVe siècle’, Publications du Centre européen d’Études bourguignonnes XIVe–XVIe siècle 38 (1998) 147–158, and Myriam Carlier, ‘”Niet wederstaende dat hi bastaert es”. Legitimatie van onwettige kinderen in de Bourgondische Nederlanden als sociaal-politiek fenomeen’, Jaarboek voor Middeleeuwse Geschiedenis 1 (1999) 149–50.

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all merchandise entering Flanders from the lands of Aragon, replacing the periatge. They declared, in a repetition of earlier moves, that this should be seen as completely unrelated to the other problems at stake, and that such a tax would only be acceptable if levied not only on all goods entering or leaving Flanders from or to Aragon, but if all nations were to contribute. If not, it should be finit e extinct.87 At this point they even started to play bluff-poker, in that they were demanding that full compensation of all costs of the embassy be paid. Hoping that no time would be lost in solving these problems, they added Joan Fogassot as professional scribe to the embassy. As King Joan must have been aware that Joan Fogassot was the author of the romanç on the primogenit, this can not have been in every sense an ‘easy’ presence. In any case, on the same day the Consols also directed a very polite letter, written as if no dynastic conflict had ever existed, to the sacra magestat del senyor Rey, molt alt en molt excellent princep e virtuos senyor to help him solve the problems, for the benefit of commerce, lo qual es un member principal (‘which is a primary element’) of his reign.88 After all this paperwork and a final brainstorm, the delegates left Barcelona again, on 3 August ‘after lunch at three o’clock’, to travel to Calatayud, where King Joan was again in residence. Finally some kind of break-through seems to have been accomplished, as the king himself made known on the 4th September that his talks with the ambassadors of his ‘cousin and friend’ (cosi e amich) the duke of Burgundy, for which reason he had made the ambassadors from Barcelona stay with him, had resulted in a general safe-conduct and freedom of shipwreck.89 But then disaster hit the Catalan society, when suddenly, on the 23rd of September, the primogenit died in his Barcelonese residence. Remarkably enough, the Register does not mention the tragic decease that shook society like an earthquake. The letter, written three days later to the molt honorables los mercaders Cathalans residents en la vila de Bruges, relates how the delegates that had come to Flanders had reported to the king in Calatayud, that the negotiations had essentially ended in a ruptura. The king had spoken with mosser de Criqui90 and Toyzon d’Or,91 who had come as ambassadors from the duke of Burgundy, 87 88 89 90

91

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 83r. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 85r/v. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 90r/v. Jean de Créquy (1395–1474) became seigneur of Créquy, Canaples and Fressin on the death of his father (in 1411). Consequently he was in his mid-sixties at the time of this embassy. In 1430 he was among the first Knights of the Order of the Golden Fleece. As such he was a trustree of Philip the Good, but he also served the French king as ambassador to Aragon. Vaughan, Philip the Good, 119, mentions him as knight of honour of duchess Isabella, Philip’s Portugese spouse, ibid., 156, 322. See also R. Lesage, ‘Un grand seigneur bourguignon: Jean de Créquy, chevalier de la Toison d’Or (1400–1471)’, Bulletin historique du Haut Pays 12 (1995) 35–51. Later in the text it is added that he was rey darmes underlining that the embassy was composed of a high nobleman and a herald, in this case the Burgundian King of Arms, as had become

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and had brought them the collar del orde del dit Duch, which he had gladly accepted.92 The consuls qualify the answer given by the king regarding the case of the calavera of Bras Eanes as even a virtuossa resposta and express their hope that this problem will also be solved soon, as the king is intending to go himself, or to send his ambassadors, to the duke of Burgundy and the king of France within a short time. They therefore urge their colleagues in Bruges to be confident and restrain themselves, ‘as it is our hope that these facts will turn out all right for the benefit and rest of commerce’ (car nostre sperança es que los fets vindran be a beneffici e repos dela mercaderia). It seems as if, deprived of their favourite by the death of the primogenit, political opportunism at least made the Barcelonese aware that good relations with king Joan were their only hope now. What had been a threat, as long as they were playing Carlos as their trump-card, could now prove to be a blessing in disguise. At the same time the Barcelonese lost control of their interests, when royal diplomacy took over. The trusted royal procurator Carlos d’Oms – Karlos Dolms as phrased by Joan Fogassot – was now to deal with the Flemish problems as part of his diplomatic package.93 Calmette has demonstrated this situation offered Louis XI two very interesting options: either to favour the Catalans and to checkmate Joan and Gaston de Foix, or – following the policy of his father – to support Joan. The obvious solution here was to avoid overt choices and slow down negotiations, which was an interesting case of double play.94 In an effort not to lose control entirely, the Consols del Mar decided on 19 October 1461 to send Joan Fogassot again (this time on his own) to the duke of Burgundy.95 The next day they expressed their hopes that – through a mediating role of lo magniffich en Romeo de Marimon – they might gain the support of the king of France for their case. Remi de Mérimont had served as the special envoy of Louis XI then still the dauphin of France, and had prepared a treaty with Carlos of Viane.96 In the early days of August 1461, Louis had appointed him as master of the harbours of Languedoc. Obviously, the case had already been discussed with Romeo, who had shown a great willingness to serve as an

92 93 94 95 96

usual in diplomatic practice, see Pierre Chaplais, English diplomatic practice in the Middle Ages (London, New York 2003) 139 ff. At this moment in time Jean de Créquy’s contemporary, Jean le Fèvre (1395–1468), was probably still serving as roi d’armes of Burgundy. He started as herald Charolais, but became king-of-arms at the very start of the Order and one of the main Burgundian chroniclers; see Vaughan, Philip the Good, 38, 145, 297. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 92r. Calmette, Louis XI, 53. Ibid., 56–67. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 93r.; his salary was fixed at 22 barcelonese solidi per day. Calmette, Louis XI, 49–50.

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intermediary.97 Moreover the consuls had offered to pay his expenses and a bonus in case of success. The instructions, written on earlier occasions for the Catalan embassy, were repeated, and it was decided to ask King Joan if he would be so kind to send written support and instruction from his side to mosser Carlos Doms, to facilitate good relations between him and Joan Fogassot. Moreover, as it was unclear when exactly Joan Fogassot might arrive at the court of Burgundy, the king was asked to write a letter to the duke, asking him to come to a conclusion which would favour an increase of commerce, hoping that the duke ‘is willing to give faith and belief ’ (vulle donar fe e crehença) to him.98 All this happened in order to make the gran e bona amicicia... novament ...contractada between king and duke bring about the longed-for general safe-conduct for all subjects of the king, the freedom of shipwreck and the establishment of a right concerning all cloths, goods and merchandise entering over land or sea the lands of king and duke or ‘any other nation’ (qualsevulla altra nacio). These proceedings proved that no real arrangement had been accomplished yet. Indeed, even the long, dragging cases of the capture of the ships of João Pirez and Bras Eanes were again to be part of a full annihilation of points of conflict. Introducing the case of Bras Eanes by no means made the proceedings more expeditious. Rather, by stressing that even though he was protégé of Philip the Good, Bras Eanes was also a ‘notorious pirate and corsair, who with the mentioned calavera has made quite a number of robberies in the seas of the said lord our King’ (famos pirata e cossari e ab la dita calavera hama fets alguns robatoris en les mars del dit senyor Rey) and pointing out how badly the actions Eanes and his Portugese companion Joan Franco had affected subjects of the crown of Aragon,99 the consuls actually ensured that negotiations once again were set to become a difficult tug-of-war. To influence the highest nobles at court in Burgundy, Joan Fogassot was also ordered to beg King Joan to mention all these cases in letters of credentials to the egregi don Anthoni de Cruhi, comte de Porcien. This latter man, qualified as one of the ‘outstanding leaders of the court of the said duke’ (principals dela cord delo dit duch), was of course Antoine I de Croÿ (the Great), count of Porcien, the eminence grise of the Burgundian court, where he was the leader of a group that had strong ties with the French crown as well. As leader of the Croÿ-clan and chamberlain of Philip the Good, in these years he was at the apogee of power, which only came to an end in 1465 97 98 99

BAM CM 1I.I-1, 94r. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 94v–95r. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 95v.

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when he fell into disgrace.100 It was almost self-evident that, once again, Jean de Créquy and Toyson d’Or had to receive the same documents. The bird is flown Henceforward the Catalan case was lodged with the highest courtly levels, and mercantile interests became vulnerable to the whims of dynastic interplay once more. It is almost symbolic that an unexpected, new element was added to the problems, an aspect close to the heart of court culture and to the personal involvement and interests of both Philip the Good and King Joan, given the interest of the Burgundian duke in falconry.101 A separate part of Joan Fogassot’s instructions were that he had to inform the majesty how it had come to the ear of the Consols del Mar that there was a ‘man from Brabant called Walter, merchant of falcons’ (brabanso lo qual ha nom Galter, mercader de falcones), who had served the late king Alfonso and was willing to serve King Joan; however, on his way to Lleida with a number of ffalcons griffans (which might be best translated as ‘clawed falcons’), he had been attacked by men who feared neither God nor justice and who took five birds from the men who were carrying the falcons.102 This falconer was a vassal of the duke of Burgundy. The death of don Carlos de gloriosa memoria (the primogenit) meant that justice had not yet been done. Therefore, Joan Fogassot had to ask the king to satisfy the falconer quickly. Even more than personal ties with Portuguese corsairs, an attack on a falconer from Brabant, carrying Burgundian falcons to King Joan, could strike a severe blow to the diplomatic process. In November 1461, problems with subjects of the French king started to complicate the situation further, as there was a prohibition preventing subjects of the French king from entering Catalonia to do business. And it was decided that this had to be discussed with the governador de Mont Payller (Montpellier). On Thursday 26 November, Joan Fogassot returned from his mission to King Joan, and one week later he received new instructions regarding the decision to do justice to Gualter falconer. It was stressed that is would be essential for the negocis de Ffandes to do justice in this case. In this case at least, the persecution of the wrongdoers would be brought before the illustrissima senyora reyna e son illustrissimo primogenit.103 Indeed, new forces were in power since Ferdinand, the future el catolico, had sworn to 100

101 102 103

See, for instance, Mario Damen, ‘The Nerve Centre of political Networks? The Burgundian Court and the Integration of Holland and Zeeland into the Burgundian State, 1425–1477’, in: Steven J. Gunn and Antheun Janse eds, The court as a stage: England and the Low Countries in the later Middle Ages (Woodbridge 2006) 70 ff. Vaughan, Philip the Good, 150. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 96r. BAM CM 1I.I-1, 101v.

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observe the Catalan fueros. However, this resolution was not going to offer very much to the Catalan merchants in Bruges; and in any case, the register of the Consols del Mar anyway produces no evidence that the deadlock was over. It seems as if in the fets de Fflandes the fundamental conditions that are necessary to make commerce flourish, (safe transport of men and goods, good arrangements in cases of natural disaster or robbery, reduction of financial burdens) had become jammed between dynastic interests and prestige. The Catalan Civil War, which would start in the early months of 1462 and has been regarded the explanation for the weakening of the Catalan commercial relations with Flanders, merely worsened a situation which was already afflicted by long conflicts which dragged on. And at this intersection of commerce and dynastic favours the mercaders residents en Bruges lost the game.

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5 Church and Religion

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Image, représentation et communication politique Jean-Philippe Genet LAMOP - CNRS-Paris

L’un des mérites de ces recherches sur l’État moderne grâce auxquelles j’ai eu l’immense plaisir de travailler avec Wim Blockmans dans une atmosphère de complicité et d’échange intellectuel qui ne s’est jamais troublée, est d’avoir contribué à mettre au centre des réflexions des historiens du politique les problèmes de la communication.1 Ce n’était pas évident quand nous avions commencé à développer ces programmes de recherche dans les années quatre-vingt : à vrai dire, la préoccupation des realia l’emportait alors de beaucoup sur celle des spiritualia, si j’ose employer ces termes. L’impôt, la guerre, la bureaucratie, les institutions représentatives, le refus de l’État ou la résistance à son développement, la sociologie de ces processus ou la prosopographie des personnels qu’ils impliquaient, voilà quels étaient les objectifs principaux sur lesquels les premiers groupes qui avaient travaillé sur ce projet s’étaient accordés. Non que le programme n’ait pas dans certains cas opté pour des voies originales : pour éviter l’histoire des idées politiques classique à laquelle on songe pourtant naturellement quand on évoque l’histoire de l’État, nous avions choisi, dans le cadre de cette entreprise européenne, de consacrer l’atelier animé par Janet Coleman à l’individu et à ses métamorphoses pendant la période médiévale et moderne.2 De façon qui peut apparaître plus convenue aujourd’hui, mais en consonance avec l’historiographie du moment,3 le thème de l’image avait été associé à celui de la propagande,4 et celui de la résistance aux institutions représentatives.5 Bien sûr, il y avait de bonnes raisons pour cela, et ces volumes ont, du moins à mes yeux, parfaitement rempli les objectifs qui leur étaient 1

2

3

4 5

Pour un survol de cette évolution: J.-Ph. Genet, ‘Political society and the Late Medieval State’, dans: Troels Dahlerup et Per Ingesman (éd.), New Approaches to the History of Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Selected Proceedings of Two International Conferences at the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters in Copenhagen in 1997 and 1999, Det Kongelinge Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, Historisk-filosofiske Meddelelser, 104 (Copenhague 2009) 11–36. J. Coleman (éd.), L'individu dans la théorie politique et dans la pratique (Paris 1996); Janet Coleman a par ailleurs écrit une histoire des idées politiques dans l’Antiquité et au Moyen Âge. Ce choix explique d’ailleurs sans doute que Quentin Skinner, qui avait participé à la première réunion de cet atelier, se soit désinteréssé de l’entreprise. Depuis, la question a été rouverte: D. Iogna-Prat et M. Bedos-Rezak (éd.), L’individu au Moyen Âge (Paris 2005). Voir les actes du colloque: Paolo Cammarosano (éd.), Le Forme della Propaganda Politica nel due e nel Trecento, Collection de l'École Française de Rome, 201 (Rome 1994) qui adopte d’ailleurs une position critique sur l’usage de ce concept (cf. la conclusion de Jacques Le Goff ). A. Ellenius (éd.), Iconographie, propagande et légitimation (Paris 2001). P. Blickle (éd.), Résistance, représentation et communautés (Paris 1998).

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assignés. Mais en même temps, au fur et à mesure que les discussions nous permettaient d’approfondir ces thèmes, de nouvelles interrogations se sont fait jour et une dimension nouvelle de la problématique de l’État est apparue. Ces interrogations tournent autour d’un point nodal, qui est aussi celui que bien des anthropologues ont placé au cœur de leurs propres problématiques : celui de l’acceptation de l’autorité et du pouvoir. En fait, tout se passe comme si les historiens, y compris non marxistes, se focalisaient sur les luttes, et les anthropologues, y compris marxistes, sur l’acceptation et le consentement.6 C’est bien entendu de la même pièce qu’il s’agit, dont on peut voir une face ou l’autre. Mais le point de vue de l’anthropologue est particulièrement adapté à l’étude de la mise en place de cette forme originale de structuration du pouvoir qu’est l’État moderne, parce que le consentement, l’accord entre le ou les détenteurs du pouvoir et leurs sujets est explicitement une partie intégrante de cette structure, l’un de ses mécanismes légitimants essentiels. Dans le cadre de l’État moderne, l’impôt n’est pas seulement fondé sur la coutume – ce qui en cas de besoin ne laisse place qu’à la force arbitraire pour en augmenter le rendement –, mais il est aussi fondé sur un consentement obtenu après une discussion, que celle-ci ait lieu ou non dans un cadre institutionnel (ce qui deviendra la règle). Le fait est qu’à partir du XIIe siècle dans les cités italiennes et du XIIIe siècle dans les royaumes féodaux d’Occident d’abord, puis dans bien d’autres lieux, avec une chronologie et des rythmes différents, en recourant à des méthodes et à des solutions très diverses, ce que l’on peut appeler un second prélèvement se superpose au prélèvement seigneurial, le dépassant parfois de beaucoup. Nombreuses sont les causes que les historiens ont su isoler et mettre en évidence, même si leur impact peut être dosé de façon très variable selon les lieux et les époques  : la territorialisation du pouvoir et la concurrence induite pour le contrôle de l’espace, la constante pression des guerres qui justifie les exigences fiscales et en facilite l’acceptation, les besoins d’une classe dominante dont la crise économique a mis en danger la rente et qui est la première bénéficiaire de la redistribution des sommes prélevées, l’efficacité croissante d’appareils administratifs en rapide expansion, le besoin éprouvé par des populations plus cultivées et pratiquant des activités (notamment économiques) de plus en plus sophistiquées d’un niveau de paix intérieure et d’ordre que le morcellement des pouvoirs des cités et des seigneurs ne peut garantir ... Tout cela a évidemment joué son rôle. Remarquons cependant que l’explication marxiste fondée sur la lutte des classes ne fonctionne pas ici : de façon d’ailleurs tout à fait perspicace, Marx a bien vu que les transformations de l’économie médiévale, si elles étaient importantes, n’étaient pas suffisantes pour permettre un changement de mode de production : il faut attendre la révolution industrielle pour que la classe bourgeoise puisse 6

Je pense ici aussi bien à Clifford Geertz qu’à Maurice Godelier.

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par l’intermédiaire du capitalisme installer son pouvoir et créer l’état bourgeois, instrument de sa domination. Dans le cas de l’État moderne, on ne peut parler, de façon vague et même parfois contradictoire, que d’une société politique, dont la nature de classe est par essence diverse.7 La véritable question est de savoir ce qui a rendu ces causes efficientes. Dire que cette structure et ce prélèvement nouveaux sont acceptés par la société politique au travers d’une série de mécanismes institutionnels construits peu à peu au cours des XIIIe et XIVe siècles, avec la naissance et le développement d’assemblées représentatives, d’appareils administratifs, et de corpus législatifs et juridiques assurant la légitimité du fonctionnement des processus par lesquels s’affirme l’État, ne résout pas le problème de l’acceptation. L’historien continue à analyser la genèse de l’État comme une lutte finalement victorieuse menée par les souverains (j’entends par ce terme tous ceux qui se considèrent comme tels, rois, princes, signori ou cités républicaines...), leurs partisans et leurs serviteurs contre leurs adversaires. Sur ces derniers, le flou reste de rigueur : c’est le plus souvent la noblesse « traditionnelle » ou « féodale » qui est montrée du doigt, quand bien même on la retrouve identifiée sous d’autres noms (noblesse de robe, aristocratie ou tout simplement « élites ») comme la grande bénéficiaire du processus, pendant que la bourgeoisie continue inlassablement à « monter ».8 Cette lutte a sa dramaturgie, ses héros négatifs ou positifs, mais cette vision qui est encore aujourd’hui celle de presque toutes les histoires nationales (mais qui n’était pas celle de Genèse de l’État moderne, même s’il a été de bon ton de nous en faire grief ) est un trompe l’œil, puisque dans bien des cas les acteurs sont d’accord sur l’essentiel : la « lutte » que met en texte le récit historique porte sur des modalités, et surtout – pour aller vite – sur la légitimité des demandes (d’argent, de pouvoir ...), voire sur la personne ou le statut du souverain, non sur l’existence de l’État en lui-même, c’est-à-dire sur la nécessité de créer ou de renforcer une forme d'organisation sociale qui, au nom de sa propre légitimité, garantit sa propre sécurité et celle de ses membres (ou sujets), disposant à cette fin d'un contrôle sinon d'un monopole de la justice, d'une force militaire et, dans le cas de l’État moderne, d’une fiscalité qui n'est pas complètement arbitraire. Pourquoi cet accroissement du prélèvement, pourquoi cet appesantissement du contrôle social ont-ils été acceptés ? Comment s’est fabriquée cette acceptation globale, au sens où l’entendent les anthropologues quand ils évoquent, par exemple, l’acceptation de l’autorité des pharaons ou la soumission volontaire à celle de l’Inca ? Comment ce consensus qui fait tenir une société – jusqu’à nouvel ordre, il n’en existe pas de juste, 7

8

Cf. V. Challet, J.-Ph. Genet, H. Rafael Oliva et J. Valdéon Baruque (éd.), La société politique à la fin du XVe siècle dans les royaumes ibériques et en Europe (Valladolid, Paris 2007). Un paradoxe bien mis en évidence par Joseph Morsel, L’aristocratie médiévale, Ve-XVe siècle (Paris 2004).

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c’est-à-dire où il n’y ait pas des dominants et des dominés – s’est-il adapté à cette transformation, profon de, spectaculaire et relativement rapide (de un à deux siècles selon les cas) ? Il est clair que nous devons, pour trouver la réponse à ces questions, interroger la culture médiévale pour identifier, en analysant où et comment ont pu se produire des transformations d’une envergure telle qu’elles permettent la construction de ce consensus, un phénomène qui est sans parallèle dans les autres cultures / civilisations héritières de Rome (Byzance, le monde islamique), ni d’ailleurs sans modèle antique évident.9 L’histoire culturelle est en plein renouvellement, et les virages succèdent aux virages en ce terrain mouvant : après le linguistic turn, le picturial turn et l’iconic turn,10 nous voici en plein cultural turn !11 L’historien n’est pas forcément le mieux armé pour aborder ces virages dangereux : certes, l’histoire culturelle, comme les autres champs historiques, s’occupe des hommes et du temps : mais elle doit en plus les scruter et les comprendre à travers un univers de signes que l’historien– je parle ici du médiéviste – devrait prendre comme tels, alors que s’il sait se montrer à juste titre pointilleux dans l’établissement critique des textes, il se contente trop souvent de cette « synthèse subjective » que dénonçait Michel Foucault il y a quarante ans. Encore a-t-il quelques compétences dans le domaine du texte, même s’il ne l’aborde pas toujours comme l’exigeraient les méthodes de la sémantique ou de la linguistique quantitative ; mais il est encore plus démuni devant les signes sonores, cris12 ou musique,13 devant l’image14 et les objets, qu’ils soient porteurs d’une charge esthétique ou non, devant l’architecture, l’urbanisme et la répartition spatiale des signes, et devant leur distribution séquentielle dans le temps par la performance (liturgie, rituels, théâtre etc.). De fait, ce sont plus souvent certains historiens d’art ou certains philosophes qui lui montrent la voie, même si la dette envers Jacques Le Goff et ses disciples de tous ceux qui s’aventurent dans ces parages est immense.

9

10

11

12 13

14

Se pose le problème de la comparaison avec la fiscalité de la cité grecque et de monde romain, un problème trop vaste pour être abordé ici. Hans Belting, ‘Die Herausfordung der Bilder. Ein Plädoyer und eine Einführung’, dans : idem (éd.), Bilderfragen. Die Bildwissenschaften im Aufbruch (Munich 2007) 11–23, avec les deux lettres de Gottfried Boehm et de W.J.T. Mitchell consacrées à chacun des deux turns. Lynn Hunt (éd.), The New Cultural History (Berkeley 1989); Richard Biernacki, Victoria E. Bonnell et Lynn Hunt (éd.), Beyond the Cultural Turn. New Directions in the Study of Society and Culture (Berkeley 1999). D. Lett et N. Offenstadt (éd.), Haro! Noël! Oyé! Pratiques du cri au Moyen Âge (Paris 2003). Voir A. Coeurdevey et Ph. Vendrix (éd.), Musique, théologie et sacré, d’Oresme à Erasme (Ambronay 2008). L’exception qui confirme la règle est évidemment Jean-Claude Schmitt dont l’article ‘Image’ dans: J. Le Goff et J.-Cl. Schmitt (éd.), Dictionnaire raisonné de l'Occident Médiéval (Paris 1999) 374–386, est une lecture indispensable.

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Une histoire culturelle construite sur l’étude des signes implique donc une analyse des signes, une analyse de leurs producteurs et de leurs récepteurs, et une analyse des processus de production et de réception. Il me semble qu’une telle histoire doit nécessairement poser deux exigences, une exigence anthropologique, et une exigence quantitative. Quant à la seconde, s’il est clair que le quantitatif n’est pas une fin en soi et n’est en aucun cas suffisant, c’est le seul ensemble de méthodes qui nous permette d’y voir clair dans des informations et des données foisonnantes, et de déceler des évolutions et des ruptures qui risqueraient de passer inaperçues. Leur application à des domaines comme ceux de la prosopographie et de l’analyse lexicale est évidemment essentielle – et désormais fréquente. Mais, pour notre propos, c’est surtout l’exigence anthropologique qui est importante. Peut-être est-il opportun d’emprunter à un anthropologue un concept qui est opératoire dans la mesure où il clarifie un certain nombre de distinctions indispensables à l’analyse historique des faits culturels. Maurice Godelier propose en effet le concept d’idéel, dans la mesure où il permet d’articuler deux notions essentielles, celle d’imaginaire et celle de symbolique. L’idéel, c’est : L’ensemble des représentations, des règles de conduite, des valeurs, positives ou négatives, attachées par le contenu et la logique d’une culture, aux êtres, aux choses, aux actions, aux évènements qui entourent les individus, évènements qu’ils subissent ou qui procèdent d’eux ... La présence idéelle et émotionnelle dans les individus des rapports sociaux qui caractérisent leur société constitue la part subjective de ces rapports sociaux, un ensemble de représentations et de valeurs qui se trouvent présentes tout autant dans l’individu que dans ses rapports aux autres, puisqu’elles donnent sens à leurs rapports.15 À partir de là, il est possible d’opérer une distinction entre ce qui est de l’ordre de l’imaginaire, et ce qui est de l’ordre du symbolique. L’imaginaire c’est l’ensemble des représentations qui peuplent l’esprit des individus, à propos de tout (religion, valeurs, relations sociales, rapport au monde), qui sont autant de « réalités idéelles »; et le domaine du symbolique, particulièrement important pour l’historien, c’est l’ensemble des pratiques, des processus et des objets qui constituent le système de communication.16 On 15

16

Maurice Godelier, L’idéel et le matériel (Paris 1984) et Id., Au fondement des sociétés humaines. Ce que nous apprend l’anthropologie (Paris 2007) 178–179. Ibid., 38–39: ‘le domaine du Symbolique, c’est l’ensemble des moyens et des processus par lesquels des réalités idéelles s’incarnent à la fois dans des réalités matérielles qui leur confèrent un mode d’existence concrète, visible, sociale. C’est en s’incarnant dans des pratiques et des objets qui le symbolisent que l’Imaginaire peut agir non seulement sur les rapports sociaux déjà existants entre les individus et les groupes, mais être aussi à l’origine de nouveaux rapports entre eux qui modifient ou remplacent ceux qui existaient auparavant. L’Imaginaire n’est pas le Symbolique, mais il ne peut acquérir d’existence manifeste et d’efficacité sociale sans s’incarner dans des signes et des pratiques symboliques de toutes sortes qui donnent naissance à des institutions qui les organisent, mais aussi à des espaces, à des édifices, où elles s’exercent’.

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retrouve là une définition « souple » du symbolique qui est très répandue chez les anthropologues (voir Clifford Geertz17) et étroitement liée aux processus de communication et à la sémiotique, une définition qui n’est pas toujours acceptée chez beaucoup d’historiens18 qui, comme Roger Chartier, adhèrent plutôt à une vision « arbitraire » du symbole (le symbole a une signification donnée). En s’appuyant sur cette clarification, l’on peut se tourner vers l’histoire culturelle, dont les différents champs répertorient et analysent l’ensemble des signes qui constituent le domaine du symbolique, et l’étudier comme vecteurs de l’idéel, un ensemble dont le système de communication est la pièce maîtresse. Un tel système implique en fait quatre niveaux différents. Il y a d’abord celui, préalable, de l’espace dans lequel il se déploie. Peut-on parler d’espace public? Le deuxième niveau est celui de la nature et de la forme des composants élémentaires des messages qui sont mis en circulation dans le système, c’est-à-dire les signes, et des medias par lesquels ils transitent. Le troisième est celui de leur fonctionnement, et plus précisément de leur fonctionnement symbolique, quand le signe prend (ou reçoit) valeur de symbole. On arrive alors au dernier niveau, celui de la diffusion du message et de son impact, un niveau auquel les méthodes quantitatives évoquées plus haut doivent être mises en œuvre quand cela est possible, par exemple pour mesurer les transformations du lexique dans les différentes langues en usage. Dans le cadre d’un bref article, il est évidemment impossible d’analyser en détail comme il conviendrait ces quatre niveaux. Je laisserai donc entièrement de côté le quatrième et ne donnerai qu’un bref survol des trois premiers afin de m’arrêter sur un problème particulier, celui de la représentation, qui, comme on le verra, est en fait un révélateur crucial. Comme nul ne l’ignore, le concept d’espace public (ou plus précisément de « sphère publique ») est une création de Jürgen Habermas qui n’en estimait pas l’utilisation légitime avant la fin du XVIIe siècle anglais, excluant même spécifiquement les société médiévales sur la foi des analyses de Norbert Elias qui les caractérisaient comme dominées par la représentation des états.19 La rétro-projection médiévale du concept n’est cependant pas 17 18

19

Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York 1973). Allusion à la critique par Roger Chartier du livre de Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History (New York 1984): ‘Text, Symbols and Frenchness’, Journal of Modern History 57 (1985) 682–695, et à la réponse de Robert Darnton, ‘The Symbolic Element in History’, ibid. 58 (1986) 218–234 qui s’appuie sur Peirce lui-même et sur les travaux des anthropologues pour plaider la polysémie sociale des symboles; voir aussi le débat entre les deux historiens et Pierre Bourdieu dans Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 59 (sept. 1985) 86–93. J. Habermas, L'espace public. Archéologie de la publicité comme dimension constitutive de la société bourgeoise (Paris 1968). Les deux concepts qu’il introduit sont celui de «  sphère publique (Öffentlichkeit) bourgeoise » et d’ « opinion publique » (öffentliche Meinung), ibid., 14.

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impossible, mais peut-être souffre-t-elle d’une vision anachronique du politique.20 La matrice de la société politique médiévale est l’ecclesia chrétienne : Augustin – nous allons le retrouver souvent – avait une claire conscience, dans l’Empire romain en pleine crise, de ce qu’était une respublica, c’est-àdire un peuple défini comme «  le regroupement d’une multitude raisonnable dans une communauté harmonieuse », dont « la chose, sans doute aucun, est une république »21 et il en bornait strictement les prérogatives à la « mise en ordre des volontés humaines autour des sujets qui intéressent la vie mortelle », puisque l’existence du péché interdit à une véritable respublica christiana de se réaliser dans la cité terrestre. Mais cette limitation va graduellement s’effacer, d’abord avec Grégoire le Grand, mais surtout avec la vision messianique des réformateurs qui à partir du XIe siècle, tout en distinguant deux ordres nettement séparés, celui des clercs et celui des laïcs, entendent donner une réalité sur cette terre à une ecclesia où se déploie le publicum. Elle est soumise à l’auctoritas suprême du pouvoir pontifical, qui se superpose à la potestas des princes. Cette ecclesia a son lieu, l’Église : « devenue la nécessaire porte d’entrée dans l’Église, l’église-monument est logiquement le lieu où s’affiche la société chrétienne et où se comptent les pouvoirs qui la régulent ».22 Son pouvoir est strictement territorialisé, par la transposition dans le droit canon des vieux principes du droit romain. Dans cette vision, il n’y a pas de place pour une dichotomie entre une société politique qui puisse être pensée en dehors de la société chrétienne. Mais on sait aussi, entre autres depuis Kantorowicz et ses deux corps du roi, qu’empereurs, rois et princes n’ont pas tardé à s’emparer de ces principes de la théologie et du droit romain pour formuler leur propre vision et exprimer leurs propres prétentions : il est en fait impossible de détacher la société politique de l’ecclesia chrétienne dont elle n’est que l’une des formes potentielles. En ce sens, on peut parler de sphère publique médiévale, un espace où le religieux et le laïc sont structurellement indissociables. Ceci conditionne notamment la compréhension et l’interprétation de tous les signes que produit et utilise la culture médiévale. Venons-en au signe, que l’on doit envisager à la fois sous l’angle matériel du signifiant, donc de sa forme, et sous celui, plus complexe, du signifié. Il est sans doute possible de concevoir une sémiotique générale du Moyen Âge (c’est-à-dire qui ne se limite pas au seul langage),23 mais il ne s’agit pas de cela 20

21

22

23

Voir les actes des deux journées sur l’espace public organisées par Patrick Boucheron et Nicolas Offenstadt, pour le moment en ligne sur le site du LAMOP: http://expedito.univ-paris1.fr/ lamop/LAMOP/espacepublic/index.htm. De Civitate Dei, XIX, 21. J’utilise ici la traduction de Lucien Jerphagnon, Saint Augustin, La cité de Dieu, Bibliothèque de la Pleïade (Paris 2000) 880–882. Dominique Iogna-Prat, La Maison Dieu. Une histoire monumentale de l’Église ua Moyen Âge (Paris 2006) 570. Voir Umberto Eco, Sémiotique et philosophie du langage (Paris 1984).

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ici. Dans le scolastique médiévale, le signe est toujours à la fois une chose, et une relation. Comme le rappelle Irène Rosier-Catach, « le signe médiéval n’est pas purement dans l’ordre objectif de la valeur, du rapport au signifié, puisqu’il pose toujours cette relation interpersonnelle entre celui qui le produit et celui qui le reçoit ».24 Ceci découle de la définition, universellement acceptée (mais interprétée de façons variées) d’Augustin : « le signe est une chose qui, au-delà de l’impression qu’elle offre aux sens, fait venir à partir de ce qu’elle est quelque chose d’autre [quid aliud] à la connaissance ».25 Cette relation est incertaine, angoissante même, pour le sujet individuel confronté au «  signe mental  », par rapport au «  signe vocal  », mais elle l’est plus encore si l’on envisage ce mouvement vers « quelque chose d’autre » dans le cadre du système de communication, c’est-à-dire d’une circulation des signes.26 Car si celui qui produit le signe lui attribue un sens ou une fonction, celui qui le décode le fait en fonction de ses propres valeurs et cadres mentaux. Irène Rosier-Catach s’appuie sur les travaux de Jacques Le Goff et de Jean-Claude Schmitt pour rappeler que les théories médiévales du langage soutiennent l’idée qu’ils expriment du passage d’une parole verticale à une parole horizontale, c’est-à-dire où l’obligation de sincérité ne se limite plus à Dieu mais s’étend à l’autre,27 une vision qui, si on la sort du contexte des sacrements pour la généraliser à l’ensemble des échanges entre les membres de l’ecclesia et en particulier de la société politique, crée les conditions théoriques – seulement théoriques, bien entendu, car, pas plus que dans le cas du baptême ou du mariage, l’obligation n’est pas forcément respectée – d’une communication dans l’espace public. Ces considérations sont particulièrement importantes quand l’on veut passer du niveau du signe à celui du symbolique, c’est-à-dire à l’usage et au fonctionnement du signe dans la société médiévale.28 Le concept de domination symbolique formulé par Pierre Bourdieu nous offre un précieux outil d’analyse qu’il convient cependant d’utiliser avec prudence. En effet, l’histoire culturelle des sociétés médiévales n’est pas une façon détournée de se débarrasser de l’histoire des luttes sociales : ce n’est pas parce que la bonne vieille lutte des classes marxiste ne se déchiffre pas 24

25 26

27 28

Irène Rosier-Catach, La parole efficace. Signe, rituel, sacré (Paris 2004) 483. C’est là une conséquence de la définition du signe donnée par saint Augustin dans le De Doctrina Christiana, II, i, 1. Le texte d’Augustin est repris dans le quatrième livre des Sentences de Pierre Lombard et à ce titre, il est un passage obligé des discussions scolastiques des facultés de théologie. C’est la traduction d’ Irène Rosier-Catach, ibid., p. 42. Cf. Alain Rey, ‘Introduction’ dans: Lucie Brind’Amour et Eugène Vance (éd.), Archéologie du signe, Papers in Medieval Studies, 3 (Toronto 1983) 1–16. Rosier-Catach, La parole efficace, 490. Irène Rosier-Catach insiste sur la nécessité absolue, pour pouvoir comprendre la pensée des médiévaux, de ne pas traduire le mot signum par symbole dans le cas de l’eucharistie, ce que des siècles de traductions chrétiennes bien intentionnées ont pourtant fait (ibid., 481–483).

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facilement dans les sociétés politiques dont nous parlons ici – parce qu’elles sont trop segmentaires, les clivages socio-économiques étant traversés par des liens interpersonnels ou des solidarités collectives extrêmement puissantes – qu’il n’y a pas de luttes sociales. Pierre Bourdieu distingue trois sortes d’instruments symboliques, les structures structurantes (les formes symboliques et les structures subjectives), les structures structurées (les moyens de communication comme les langues et les cultures), et les instruments de domination qui permettent par la violence symbolique l’exercice de la violence politique.29 Comme toujours, le médiéviste doit adapter l’outil, pensé pour la société contemporaine, à son usage, et tenir compte, pour analyser aussi bien les signes que les valeurs et les langages (le pluriel pour traduire qu’il n’y a pas « un » langage, celui de la parole écrite ou parlée, mais qu’il y en a plusieurs, nous y reviendrons), du caractère englobant du christianisme et de la place de l’Église comme « institution totale ». Pierre Bourdieu en était d’ailleurs conscient, et il s’était particulièrement intéressé pour la période médiévale au parallèle construit par Erwin Panofsky entre l’architecture gothique et la pensée scolastique30 et à son recours au concept de forme symbolique.31 L’idée même de système de communication impose en effet de tenir compte simultanément de tous les langages (textuel, gestuel, musical, sonore, visuel etc.) employés, dans la mesure où, au moins en partie, ils ne font sens que les uns par les autres. Pourtant, je voudrais restreindre le reste de cet essai au seul cas de l’image, ne serait-ce que parce qu’elle occupe une place très particulière dans le système des signes de l’Occident médiéval. Jean Wirth et bien d’autres encore ont attiré l’attention sur les Libri Carolini, cette réponse adressée par Charlemagne et ses conseillers ecclésiastiques à l’iconodoulie triomphante de Byzance, au point de parler d’ « iconoclasme occidental ».32 Sans doute faut-il se garder d’un texte dont rien ne garantit la circulation et la pérennité, mais il a au moins valeur de symptôme, et même s’il subsiste très peu d’édifices de cette époque, l’austérité et la réticence carolingiennes devant l’image sont incontestables. Toujours est-il que dès le XIe siècle le mouvement s’inverse et l’on constate la rapide prolifération des images, en liaison avec la réalisation de nombreux reliquaires et la construction des grandes églises à travers l’Occident qui offrent d’immenses 29

30

31

32

Pierre Bourdieu, ‘Sur le pouvoir symbolique’, Annales E.S.C. 32 (1977) 405–411: ‘le pouvoir symbolique est un pouvoir (économique, culturel ou autre) qui est en mesure de se faire reconnaître, d’obtenir la reconnaissance; c’est-à-dire de se faire méconnaître dans sa vérité de pouvoir, de violence arbitraire’. E. Panofsky, Architecture gothique et pensée scolastique (Paris 1975) avec une postface de Pierre Bourdieu (qui est aussi le traducteur du texte). Il a publié dans la collection qu’il dirigeait E. Panofsky, La perspective comme forme symbolique et autres essais (Paris 1975). J. Wirth, L’image médiévale. Naissance et développements (VIe–XVe siècle) (Paris 1987) 113– 162 et id., L’image à l’époque romane (Paris 1999), qui évoque le ‘rigorisme augustinien’ des Libri (39).

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surfaces sur lesquelles va pouvoir se déployer un décor peint ou sculpté  : Cluny, les églises othoniennes dans l’espace rhénan, la reconstruction du réseau des cathédrales (le plus souvent sur une échelle qui dépasse celle des édifices othoniens) et la construction des nombreuses églises des fondations normandes en Angleterre,33 grandes cathédrales du domaine capétien, cathédrales des cités italiennes, monastères cisterciens, en même temps que l’Europe se couvre de ce « blanc manteau d’églises » pour reprendre l’expression de Radulphus Glaber tandis que se tisse le réseau serré des paroisses. L’églisebâtiment donne ainsi à voir l’Église-communauté, l’ecclesia,34 dont il devient à la fois le signe et le symbole, parce qu’elle est le lieu du rite qui est devenu central à la religion chrétienne, la célébration de l’eucharistie. Or, la structure de ces grands églises – et plus particulièrement des cathédrales gothiques – est conçue pour leur permettre d’atteindre une hauteur sous voûte de plus en plus impressionnante. Roland Recht35 a mis ce phénomène en relation avec le développement des rituels eucharistiques et en particulier avec l’invention de l’élévation de l’hostie après la consécration, qui se répand à partir de la fin du XIIe siècle.36 En effet, pour asseoir et consolider sa domination symbolique sur la societas christiana, l’ordre des clercs dirigé par la papauté doit rendre chacun conscient de la dette immense qu’il a contractée envers son sauveur, une dette qu’il ne pourra compenser qu’en s’engageant lui-même sur la voie exigeante (et contrôlée par l’Église) de son propre salut individuel et en s’intégrant ainsi totalement dans l’ecclesia des chrétiens. Un ensemble concordant d’innovations théologiques et liturgiques donne force à ce principe. Ainsi, un réaménagement complet du devenir de l’âme humaine dans l’autre monde par la création du Purgatoire37 fait du salut individuel un objectif envisageable pour chaque homme, qui peut dès lors envisager le Jugement dernier avec un peu plus dé sérénité.38 Surtout la nouvelle doctrine de l’eucharistie, dont la nature avait provoqué dès le milieu du XIe siècle à une violente querelle entre Bérenger de Tours et Lanfranc, est la principale innovation des théologiens des écoles parisiennes, qui ont fait triompher la notion de 33 34 35

36

37

38

E. Fernie, The Architecture of Norman England (Oxford 2000) Iogna-Prat, La Maison Dieu. Roland Recht, Le croire et le voir. L’art des cathédrales, XIIe–XVe siècles (Paris 1999) 397: ‘L’élévation de l’hostie rend visible, en un point donné de l’espace, la présence réelle du Christ. Elle est comme un point de mire, ou un point de fuite, vers lequel convergent tous les regards. C’est à partir de ce point que prend son sens tout le dispositif spatial ...’. Elle est attestée pour la première fois dans un statut synodal de l’évêque de Paris, Eudes de Sully, ce qui ne saurait être un hasard, étant donné le rôle des théologiens parisiens dans la mise en place de la nouvelle théologie de l’eucharistie. J. Le Goff, La naissance du Purgatoire (Paris 1981); voir également J. Baschet, Le sein du Père. Abraham et la paternité dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris 2000). J. Baschet, Les justices de l’au-delà. Les représentations de l’enfer en France et en Italie (XIIe-XVe siècles) (Rome 1993).

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transsubstantiation : simple symbole commémoratif du sacrifice du Christ, l’hostie devient le corps du Christ à partir du moment où elle est consacrée par les paroles du prêtre, et le vin devient son sang.39 La présence réelle du Christ dans l’hostie consacrée est réaffirmée par le concile de Latran IV qui impose au chrétien de communier au moins une fois par an, après s’être longuement confessé à un prêtre. On comprend dès lors l’importance de la consécration de l’hostie et de son élévation, puisque celle-ci renouvelle à chaque célébration de la messe le souvenir du martyre du Christ, en y impliquant la communauté des fidèles. La nouvelle architecture évolue donc en même temps que la liturgie, puisque la messe est un spectacle où il s’agit de « rendre visible l’invisible » par l’élévation de l’hostie dans le vaste vaisseau que constitue désormais l’église. Mais le sacrifice du Christ doit être aussi rendu visible : les crucifix auxquels sont attachés des Christ mourants ou torturés, encore relativement rares à l’époque carolingienne, prolifèrent et l’image du Dieu mort pour le salut des hommes devient l’image dévotionnelle par excellence, soit directement sous la forme dramatique d’une représentation de la Crucifixion ou d’un de ses éléments (portrait du Christ mort, descente de Croix, instruments de la passion), soit indirectement sous une forme plus douce et plus touchante mais qui n’en laisse pas moins percevoir la fin inéluctable, à savoir la Madonne portant sur ces bras l’enfant promis au martyr.40 L’Église latine se trouve alors engagée dans une voie nouvelle. Retournant à l’image, elle ne peut se contenter de reprendre l’icône byzantine, dont ni le répertoire, ni le principe fondé sur la répétition du prototype censé remonter à l’image originelle ne répondent pas à ses besoins41  : certes, la conquête de Constantinople a mis à nouveau en contact les Occidentaux et les Grecs, mais ce «  moment byzantin  » de l’art d’Occident ne dure pas. Pour rendre visible l’invisible, ou, comme préfère le dire Jean Wirth, le surnaturel,42 c’est une autre solution qui va peu à peu se dégager, celle de la ressemblance, qui passe par la personnification. Le Christ, parce qu’il s’est incarné, reçoit une forme humaine de plus en plus réaliste, d’abord dans les statues, puis dans les peintures, qu’il s’agisse de peintures murales ou d’enluminures. Il en va de même pour la Vierge, puis pour les saints. La sculpture a ici largement précédé la peinture : les églises gothiques, en permettant aux corps de retrouver toute leur hauteur et en les laissant se dégager de l’à-plat 39

40 41 42

Excellente introduction à ces problématiques complexes par Nicole Bériou, ‘Introduction’, dans: N. Bériou, B. Caseau et D. Rigault (éd.), Pratiques de l’eucharistie dans les Églises d’Orient et d’Occident (Antiquités et Moyen Âge), 2 vols. (Paris 2009) I, 33–77. Hans Belting, L’image et son public au Moyen Âge (Paris 1998). Hans Belting, Image et culte. Une histoire de l’art avant l’époque de l’art (Paris 2007). J. Wirth, ‘L’apparition du surnaturel dans l’art du Moyen Âge’, dans: F. Dunand, J.-M. Spieser et J. Wirth (éd.), L’image et la production du sacré (Paris 1991) 139–164.

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du mur, permet de prendre les leçons des sculpteurs de l’Antiquité et de donner des représentations non seulement « vraies » (ce que l’on traduit parfois par « réalistes ») du corps humain, mais encore « belles ».43 Les sculpteurs italiens du XIIe siècle font de même. Cette évolution conduit rapidement au portrait  : les tombeaux des rois et des grands dignitaires ecclésiastiques ont commencé très tôt à s’orner d’effigies, mais ces effigies sont typologiques, comme la célèbre physionomie des rois de France capétiens, qui jusqu’à Philippe le Bel au moins se ressemblent tous parce qu’ils ne sont pas la représentation d’un souverain précis, mais du type du roi de France. L’évolution est plus rapide en Italie, où le premier portrait sculpté d’un pape clairement individualisé est sans doute la statue de Clément IV, édifiée à San Francesco de Viterbe en 1268.44 Notons que parallèlement s’est affirmé dans l’aristocratie le port des armoiries, dont Hans Belting fait remarquer qu’elles sont une autre forme de portrait.45 Le cas du portrait est évidemment symptomatique, parce qu’il conjugue à la fois le nouveau statut de l’image comme image de vérité, ressemblante et donnant ainsi à voir l’image du réel, que celui-ci existe ou non, et le mouvement général vers l’individualisation. Il n’est pas dans mes intentions de donner ici dans les quelques paragraphes qui me sont impartis un résumé de l’évolution de l’art occidental médiéval! Simplement, je veux suggérer que l’exploitation symbolique des signes a pris une direction originale, en liaison avec la transformation de la théologie du christianisme. Et cette direction est infiniment paradoxale, comme l’a d’ailleurs très bien relevé Olivier Boulnois :46 parce que le christianisme latin donne une valeur centrale à quelque chose qui ne se voit pas – la transsubstantiation ne change nullement l’aspect du pain et du vin – et parce qu’il entend donner à chaque homme une conscience aigue du sacrifice que le Christ a consenti pour lui, c’est l’image qui par une figuration vraie va donner à voir cet invisible, si important. Mais cette profonde transformation ne se limite pas au domaine du religieux  : tout se passe comme si une frontière bornant les capacités de l’expression individuelle avait été franchie dans les dernières décennies du XIIIe siècle et qu’elle s’étend alors rapidement à tous les signes et tous les messages qui circulent dans le système de communication. Déjà, l’exemple 43

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J. Wirth, ‘Le reflet du divin’, dans Id., L’image à l’époque gothique (1140–1280) (Paris 2008) 133–176. I. Herklotz, “Sepulcra“ e “Monumenta“ del Medioevo. Studi sull’arte sepolcrale in Italia (Naples 2001) 238–242; Gerhard Ladner, Die Papstbildnisse des Altertums und Mittelalters, 3 vols (Rome 1941–1984) II, 127–131 pour le tombeau d’Urbain IV (le troyen Jacques Pantaléon) qui apparaît fortement individualisé d’après la copie de Vasari). H. Belting, ‘Blason et Portrait’ dans: Id., Pour une anthropologie des images (Paris 2004) 153–181. Olivier Boulnois, Au-delà de l’image. Une archéologie du visuel au Moyen Âge, Ve–XVIe siècle (Paris 2008).

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des premiers portraits, s’il est religieux puisqu’il s’agit d’abord d’effigies funéraires, montre qu’une coupure hermétique entre le religieux et le séculier n’est pas possible : les galeries de portraits peints des grands hommes vont apparaître rapidement en Italie, tandis que les portraits «  ressemblants  » des personnages importants voués à des utilisations publiques se multiplient au XIVe siècle. Mais surtout, l’Église va faire usage de son incontestable domination du symbolique pour affirmer ses positions politiques et attaquer ses adversaires, qui vont bien entendu rétorquer par les mêmes moyens. L’introduction dans les fresques d’Assise de la perspective et d’éléments de décor réalistes – c’est-à-dire reconnaissables, comme l’image de certains lieux et de certaines personnes – peut être interprétée en ce sens47 : comme le dit si bien Hubert Damisch, l’élément fondamental du dispositif perspectif est « la capacité à produire un espace de représentation » qui « confère dés l’abord valeur de scène à toute représentation »48 : c’est d’ailleurs pourquoi on n’a pas reconnu le rôle de Giotto (et, à en croire Dominique Raynaud, de ses inspirateurs franciscains), dans l’introduction de la perspective dont il fait d’ailleurs un usage irrégulier et parfois cavalier, pour en donner tout le crédit à Brunelleschi, certes important, mais dont la technique perspective telle qu’elle est reprise par Alberti va renforcer le caractère théâtral de l’espace des peintures italiennes de la fin du Moyen Âge. Cette structuration particulière de l’espace de la fresque ou du panneau peint facilite en tous cas le recours à la narration qui va organiser les images pour leur donner la cohérence d’une historia, d’ailleurs souvent parallèle à un texte. Les formes narratives s’imposent ainsi dans la représentation picturale en même temps qu’elles s’imposent dans le domaine littéraire. De ce fait, à partir du moment où elle peut être liée au réel et être interprétée sans trop de difficulté – ce pourquoi je préfère quant à moi parler d’un effort pour rendre l’image lisible plutôt que de réalisme –, l’utilisation politique de l’image se répand rapidement. Nombreuses sont les fresques italiennes du XIVe siècle auxquelles on peut prêter une signification politique,49 même si la plus célèbre d’entre elles est sans nul doute la fresque

47

48 49

J.-Ph. Genet, ‘Revisiter Assise: la lisibilité de l’image médiévale’, dans: Corinne Penneau (éd.), Itinéraires du savoir. De l’Italie à la Scandinavie (Xe–XVIe siècle). Etudes offertes à Elisabeth Mornet, Publications de la Sorbonne (Paris 2009) 391–419. H. Damisch, L’origine de la perspective (Paris 1987) 207. H. Belting, ‘The New Role of Narrative in Public Painting of the Trecento: Historia and Allegory’, Studies in the History of Arts 15 (1985) 151–168; Id., ‘Das Bild als Text. Wandmalerei und Literatur im Zeitalter Dantes’ dans: H. Belting et H. Blume ed, Malerei und Stadtkultur in der Dantezeit. Die Argumentation der Bilder (München 1989) 23–64; R. Kuhns, ‘The Writer as Painter. Observations on Boccacio’s Decameron’, dans: Belting et Blume (éd.), Malerei und Stadtkultur, 65–70. Et en général J. Poeschke, Fresques italiennes du temps de Giotto, 1280– 1400 (Paris 2003).

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du palais communal de Sienne.50 En effet, de même que l’on peut représenter l’invisible religieux, l’invisible civique et politique devient représentable. Les personnes morales ou les vertus politiques sont tout aussi représentables que les saints. D’ailleurs, le religieux et le politique se mêlent étroitement, ne serait-ce que parce que la république est toujours une république chrétienne. Et la recherche constante du renforcement de l’effet de vérité se poursuit tout au long des XIVe et XVe siècles, jusqu’à arriver à redonner vie, comme chez Mantegna ou Botticelli,51 à des formes antiques d’expression qui sont en réalité les méthodes classiques de la rhétorique de la persuasion, destinées à susciter l’empathie du spectateur et à lui donner l’illusion qu’il perçoit l’intériorité des personnages représentés. Ce renforcement de la capacité expressive de la peinture n’est évidemment pas un phénomène isolé : on le retrouve aussi bien dans le domaine littéraire, où il se manifeste surtout dans les littératures vernaculaires, que dans celui de la musique, qui connaît une rapide transformation de ses formes à partir du triomphe de l’Ars nova dans la première moitié du XIVe siècle. Cette brève analyse a permis de suggérer que les transformations des composantes du système de communication ne sont pas dissociables des transformations du système des pouvoirs. Le cas de l’image nous montre qu’elle est étroitement dépendante du pouvoir symbolique de l’Église, non pas dans une relation directe, mais parce que l’image se transforme au gré des changements qui s’opèrent en matière de théologie et dans les pratiques dévotionnelles aux XIIe et au XIIIe siècles. L’entrée en scène des pouvoirs laïcs ne bouleverse pas les choses, parce qu’ils n’ont tout d’abord que peu d’influence sur le système de domination symbolique. Et pourtant, ils empruntent vite à l’Église : à la cathédrale correspond dans les monarchies d’Occident le château fort monumental, symbole du pouvoir militaire féodal ou princier,52 et dans la cité italienne, le palais communal qui finit par presque effacer le palais épiscopal. Les souverains s’emparent du sacre et, s’estimant sacralisés, prétendent régner par la grâce de Dieu.53 Sans doute construisent-ils soigneusement leur légitimité sur le double plan juridique et politique : mais aucun n’hésite à faire appel à tout ce qui peut renforcer sa « gloire », c’est-à-dire à donner à voir dans la 50

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P. Boucheron, ‘Tournez les yeux pour admirer, vous qui exercez le pouvoir, celle qui est peinte ici. La fresque du Bon Gouvernement d’Ambrogio Lorenzetti’, Annales H.S.S. 60 (2005) 1137–1199. Charles Dempsey, The portrayal of love. Botticelli’s Primavera and Humanist Culture at the time of Lorenzo the Magnificent (Princeton-Oxford 1992); mais pour une toute autre vision de ce que l’art botticellien aboutit à révéler, voir G. Didi-Huberman, Ouvrir Vénus: nudité, rêve, cruauté (Paris 1999). Voir sur ce point la très belle thèse de Fanny Madeline, Les grands chantiers de construction dans les domaines Plantagenet sous Henri II et ses fils (Paris 2009). J.-Ph. Genet, ‘Légitimation religieuse et pouvoir dans l’Europe médiévale latine’ dans: J.-Ph. Genet (éd.), Rome et l’Etat moderne européen, Collection de l’Ecole Française de Rome (Rome 2007) 381–418.

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splendeur qui l’entoure la marque éclatante d’un consentement populaire, d’un consensus que rien n’est venu en réalité formaliser : non sans humour, Giorgio Agamben remarque que le consensus entre le pouvoir et le peuple continue à être manifesté, comme dans les rituels de l’Empire romain, par les acclamations et les applaudissements rythmés, c’est-à-dire par la gloire, même si celle-ci prend aujourd’hui des formes adaptées aux caractéristiques de notre système de communication (notamment l’existence de l’opinion publique).54 Aller jusqu’au quatrième niveau de l’analyse évoqué plus haut, en nous obligeant à traiter des mutations de la culture et de l’éducation médiévales, ainsi que de l’apparition d’une catégorie relativement nombreuse et diversifiée d’élites laïques capables de lire et d’écrire, y compris en latin, aurait sans doute conféré à notre propos une dimension sociologique importante. Pourtant, en s’en tenant aux systèmes de communication et à l’univers des signes auxquels sont confrontées les sociétés politiques médiévales, nous avons peut-être identifié l’endroit où, dans les jeux de miroir des représentations et les ombres de la connotation et de la variation se trament les transformations politiques et sociales, par l’intermédiaire de l’exercice d’une domination symbolique progressivement partagée entre l’Église et les sociétés politiques émergentes, ainsi que par le jeu des vecteurs de l’idéel.

54

Giorgio Agamben, Le règne et la gloire. Homo sacer (Paris 2008) II, 2.

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Crusading and State-Building in the Middle Ages Norman Housley University of Leicester

The practice of crusading was inherently paradoxical. It hinged on each believer’s response to a call to take the Cross, and this call succeeded when it registered with a spectrum of spiritual, social and familial concerns and values that varied from person to person. But to be effective militarily this myriad of individual responses had first to be mobilized, then despatched as quickly as possible to the frontline. It was a collective process that posed enormous challenges, and virtually every form of social grouping known to medieval Europeans played its part, including family, lordship, parish, region, city, diocese and, last but not least, the state.1 Because the practice of crusading enjoyed such a long life, from 1095 to at least the early sixteenth century, it functions as a mirror, in whose evolution we can witness European society becoming steadily more complex and sophisticated. This applies inter alia to the role that governments came to assume in the organization of crusaders’ efforts. Crusading and state-building shadowed each other throughout the central and late Middle Ages, and it is arguable that the failure of crusading to persist as a significant element in Europe’s religious and political life beyond the early 1500s (with the possible exception of Iberia) was due not just to its declining popularity as a devotional exercise, but also to the unwillingness of rulers any longer to shoulder the enormous burden of its organization and management. It was a widespread and disastrous ‘withdrawal of labour’.2 This thesis calls for further investigation and it is currently receiving it.3 Just as important, however, is the complementary question: how governmental involvement with crusading interacted with the rise of the European state, the research topic to which this volume’s dedicatee has made such a distinguished contribution. The ‘classical period’, 1095–12914 It has become clear that from the start crusading possessed organizational structure. Famously, the First Crusade had no single leader, but it 1

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N. Housley, Fighting for the Cross: Crusading to the Holy Land (New Haven and London 2008) chs 2–3. N. Housley, The Later Crusades, 1274–1580: From Lyons to Alcazar (Oxford 1992) 454: ‘the crusade in the East fell victim to its own inherent weakness as the only expression of religious enthusiasm in Christian history which came to depend on large-scale secular organization’. Research on crusading in the late Middle Ages is thriving, thanks above all to Daniel Baloup’s collaborative project Les Croisades tardives: Conflits interconfessionnels et sentiments identitaires à la fin du Moyen Âge en Europe (ANR-06-CONF-020). For details see J. Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A History (2nd, revsd edn, London, New York 2005).

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was far from being a shapeless mass. The early stage in the crusade, the march across the Balkan peninsula to Byzantine Constantinople in 1096, had the unplanned effect of purging the enterprise of its least organized forces, those led by charismatics. The groups that followed were more coherent, thanks largely to the interweaving of kinship, lordship and regional affiliations, with the ability to provide food and finance usually playing crucial roles. The various forces underpinning this solidarity made themselves most evident in military decision-making, the army’s response to food shortages, and planned diversions like that to Edessa. During the protracted period of inactivity around Antioch in 1098–9 we can witness the army’s princes (principes) behaving in much the same way, for good and ill, that they were accustomed to acting at home in the west. True, the crusade’s extraordinary lotteries meant that Fortune’s wheel sometimes revolved in spectacular fashion. Lords who were powerful in their home localities were sometimes reduced to near-indigence;5 while others achieved what they could not have hoped for in the west. Above all, Bohemund of Taranto turned his military skills, ruthless ambition and good fortune to best effect, winning the region’s greatest city, Antioch. But even Bohemund was the lord of substantial territory in Italy, and the major players during the crusade’s operations in the east were all powerful men. The welcome attention that has recently been paid to the demands that crusading posed in terms of provisioning has emphasized the importance of both careful preparations and responsive leadership;6 most of the participants in the First Crusade perished during the expedition, but this was due to the exceptional privations and stress that they endured, not because they were poorly equipped or lacked leadership. This synergy of voluntarism and structure was largely replicated on the Second Crusade. The thousands of French and Germans who took the Cross made preparations which were as thorough as their tight timetable permitted. On this occasion the military outcome was the reverse of the First Crusade, the armies led by Louis VII and Conrad III both suffering catastrophic losses in Anatolia. But it would be wrong to infer from Odo of Deuil’s tirades against the unarmed pilgrims who accompanied Louis’s host that the French were less well prepared than their predecessors on the First Crusade had been.7 The problem was that the Turks were better briefed about what their opponents were likely to do, with the result that the inherent disadvantages of carrying out a 5

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E.g. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, bk 4, ch. 54, ed. and tr. S. Edgington (Oxford 2007) 332–5. Notably the essays in J.H. Pryor (ed.), Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades (Aldershot and Burlington 2006). Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici VII in orientem, bk 5, ed. and tr. V.G. Berry (New York 1948) 94–5.

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march from the European heartlands to the east made themselves fully felt. In such circumstances royal leadership could make little difference one way or the other. Actually some of Louis’s efforts to save the situation were both valiant and well-considered, and given the intransigence of his nobles and the limited authority that he possessed, little more could reasonably have been expected of him. In organizational terms one of the most revealing aspects of the Second Crusade was the modus operandi of the Dartmouth contingent. This was composed of crusaders from England, the Low Countries and the Rhineland; they travelled eastwards by sea, helping to take Lisbon en route. The detailed ordinances by which the contingent’s participants ran their affairs tell us a good deal about the strong instinct for order shared by all early crusaders.8 It improved their chances of success, though not to the extent of mastering the enormous challenge posed by carrying out gruelling marches through inhospitable terrain that was dominated by a redoubtable foe. In the period that followed the Second Crusade it was taken for granted that regnum would assist sacerdotium by assuming responsibility for leading the relief force that all parties knew to be essential to combat the threat that was posed by Nur ed-Din and Saladin. Arguably this is the earliest point at which we can talk of a relationship between state and crusade. The mainspring of change was the papal curia’s recognition that Plantagenet and Staufen power and authority alone could streamline crusading’s organizational efficiency. The weaker Capetian court was brought within the remit of the papacy’s thinking both because of its close dynastic links with the rulers of the crusader states and because Henry II could not be expected to go east unless there was a matching commitment from Paris. Breaking the log jam of warfare in the west was essential to address the burgeoning crisis in the east. The popes knew too that even within the crusade’s ongoing context of volunteer service, commitment at the highest level of secular authority counted for much in persuading men to take the Cross. After the disillusionment created by the terrible losses of the Second Crusade, a resurgence of interest on the part of combatants was much more likely to happen if these people knew that Christendom’s greatest lords were prepared to lead them, giving them logistical and financial support while they were fulfilling their vows and guaranteeing peace at home. Mercenary service was playing a growing role in warfare between Christian princes, and against such a background Urban II’s formula of peace at home and war abroad acquired additional resonance, albeit operating at a higher level of military activity than when it was first announced in 1095 at Clermont.9 8 9

De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, ed. and tr. C.W. David (New York 1939, repr. 2001) 56–7. See J. France (ed.), Mercenaries and Paid Men: The Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages (Leiden 2008). The issue of paid service on crusade, including its function, form and development, still calls for detailed investigation.

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It took Saladin’s great victory at Hattin in July 1187, and his subsequent capture of Jerusalem, to bring these patterns of thinking to fruition in the Third Crusade. In terms of the expeditions organized and commanded by Richard I and Barbarossa, the exertion of secular power on the Third Crusade outclassed anything visible earlier. This is particularly the case with the Plantagenet dominions, where the survival of official documentation coupled with revealing narrative sources enables us to reconstruct preparations that were remarkably thorough and far-reaching. Just as significant as Richard I’s preparations in Europe was the king’s solvency throughout the time that he spent in the east. This gave the king the resources to complement his natural abilities of command, placing his coalition partner Philip II in a situation that he soon found intolerable, and making Richard, in the months following the recapture of Acre, the undisputed leader of the Christian war effort. This concentration of strategic decision-making, battlefield command and logistical support in the hands of a single crowned head was new to crusading, and it is certainly striking. But it was largely a product of circumstances, including Philip Augustus’s weakness, Barbarossa’s death in Cilicia, Richard’s famed excellence as a commander and the precocity of Plantagenet administration. It could not be sustained. Around 1200 crusading ‘matured’, and a substantial group of reflective commentators, including the greatest crusading pope, Innocent III, placed a premium on military efficiency. But this did not lead them to promote the institutional association of crusading with European kingship. Taking the Cross remained voluntary, and after the traumas of the Third Crusade rulers were increasingly unwilling to take command. Nor was their leadership essential. Even the hiring of ships for the journey eastwards could be undertaken by leaders whose power was located at a lower social level, as on the Fourth Crusade. The Fifth Crusade was decentralized to almost as full an extent as the First Crusade, and this did not stop it achieving some remarkable military successes. Ultimately it failed, but then so too did every crusading effort to the east that was organized and led by a king. One prominent feature of the Third Crusade did have the potential to accelerate crusading’s convergence with the operations of secular government: the Saladin tithe. The tithe was levied on the faithful to provide the massive funding that was clearly a sine qua non for the defeat of Saladin after Hattin, and the process clearly fits trends that Wim Blockmans and Peter Hoppenbrouwers have recently identified as characteristic of state development – especially the management of war-making, the emergence of bureaucracies and the collection of taxes.10 Possibly it was linked to a 10

W. Blockmans and P. Hoppenbrouwers, Introduction to Medieval Europe 300–1550 (London and New York 2007) ch. 14, esp. pp. 305–21. For England see R. Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings 1075–1225 (Oxford 2000) 166–7.

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view of the Holy Land that depicted it as the second patria of all faithful Christians, for which they bore a common duty of defence.11 Had this argument attracted support, crusading might have followed a radically different trajectory in the thirteenth century, because Europe’s emerging states would have had solid reason to incorporate the funding of the negotium Terrae Sanctae into their broader juristic and bureaucratic programmes. But the Saladin tithe did not succeed. Even in the emotionally charged atmosphere generated by the loss of Jerusalem and the preaching of the Third Crusade for its recovery, the tithe was resisted strongly in the Capetian and Plantagenet lands. Much money was collected in England but the tithe was highly unpopular there. Collection was abandoned in France, and as far as we know it was never attempted in Germany. In June 1235 Gregory IX came close to renewing the Saladin tithe when he declared that every Christian should pay a penny a week towards the relief of the Holy Land.12 But the pope made payment voluntary, and it was not until 1274, at the Second Council of Lyons, that Gregory X made another attempt to impose a mandatory payment on the laity for the benefit of crusading to the Holy Land. The logic for this proposed annual tax of a penny (a striking contrast with 1235) was that since every Christian ought to feel sympathy for the plight of the Holy Land, nobody should be exempt from supporting its relief.13 Gregory’s poll tax, however, proved to be even less successful than the Saladin tithe, leaving few traces beyond its initial announcement in the Council’s crusade decree.14 Evidently the laity nourished a firm though unvoiced conviction that both the decision to crusade and its support (through alms and legacies) ought to remain voluntary, the exceptions being service and fines that were imposed as punishment for criminal behaviour. And it was unlikely that rulers would take issue with that conviction, given their own need to impose forced levies to meet their interminably rising war costs in Europe. So thirteenth-century crusading remained a practice that revolved around individual response. Even the authors of the many ‘recovery treatises’ written in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, who could be iconoclastic in their prescriptions, continued to view recruitment within

11

12

13

14

R.C. Smail, ‘The international status of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, 1150–1192’, in: P.M. Holt (ed.), The Eastern Mediterranean Lands in the Period of the Crusades (Warminster 1977) 23–43, at 23–5. M. Lower, The Barons’ Crusade: A Call to Arms and its Consequences (Philadelphia PA 2005) 32–4. See the text edited by B. Roberg in ‘Subsidium Terrae Sanctae. Kreuzzug, Konzil und Steuern’, Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 15 (1983) 96–158, at 148–9. Roberg, ‘Subsidium Terrae Sanctae’, 138, hesitates to dismiss the lay tax as a non-starter, but if it had been implemented anywhere it is likely that evidence would have come to light by now.

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a largely traditional perspective.15 The effective mobilization of those men who took the Cross continued to hinge on a broad range of social, religious and political groupings. Government was just one of these; though there is no doubt that increasingly it was the one that counted most, witness the importance of securing the backing of the secular power both in enforcing the crusade vow and in removing impediments to its discharge. In purely military terms, the problem was not that rulers alone could prepare and lead crusades, but that only they could make an effort that was commensurate with the Holy Land’s increasingly grave military situation. The so-called Barons’ Crusade of 1239–41 is revealing on this. A recent study has revealed the wealth of careful planning that went into it; yet the gains that resulted were comparatively meagre.16 Another full-scale assault on the Nile delta was required, and that would have to be initiated and managed at a high level. When it came about, under Louis IX of France in 1250, it manifested two new developments. One of these, as W.C. Jordan showed in his seminal 1979 study, was that crusading’s demands – its ‘challenge’ – not only pushed governmental resources to their limits, but could generate innovation: in this instance the enquêteurs. This was significant, though it would be wrong to exaggerate crusading’s role as a stimulus for administrative advance. It was war-making within Europe which acted as the key motor for that. What was most ‘challenging’ about crusading was the compressed timescale within which preparations had to be made, and the unusual character of some of them: in Louis IX’s case, famously, the construction of an embarkation port for the crusaders at Aigues-Mortes.17 The second development that was highlighted by Louis IX’s Egyptian expedition of 1248–54 was the importance of papal taxation of the Church for crusading ends. There is no doubt that systematic taxation of the Church was the most significant factor that was shared by crusading and medieval state-building. It was put in place by Pope Innocent III and his immediate successors, but it was Louis’s first crusade that most clearly signalled its impact, for Jordan confirmed that about two-thirds of Louis’s expenditure (950,000 out of 1,537,000 livres) was met from the proceeds of Church taxation.18 Unlike taxation of the laity, that of churchmen proved eminently practicable. Of course this was largely because clerics could more easily be dragooned into paying, provided their superiors had been won over. But in theological terms 15

16 17

18

A. Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land: The Crusade Proposals of the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries (Aldershot 2000) 61, 205. Lower, The Barons’ Crusade. W.C. Jordan, Louis IX and the Challenge of the Crusade: A Study in Rulership (Princeton NJ 1979) 51–64, 141–2, 153–4 (enquêteurs), 71–6 (Aigues-Mortes). Jordan, Louis IX, ch. 4, esp. 80, 82, confirming J. Strayer, ‘The crusades of Louis IX’, in: K.M. Setton, gen. ed., A History of the Crusades, 2nd edn, 6 vols (Madison WI 1969–89) vol. 2, 487–518, at 491.

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too it was easier to justify than lay taxation: since the Church was the bride of Christ it was appropriate that its beneficed members should support the financial burden of recovering His patrimony. As part of the last major bout of planning for a crusade that occurred before the loss of the Holy Land, Pope Gregory X in the 1270s divided the whole of Catholic Europe into 26 collectorates. After this there was no turning back: crusading of almost every kind became synonymous with papal taxation of the Church.19 It is worth emphasizing the contrast with Gregory X’s abortive attempt to tax the laity at the same point. This was a period when secular governments across western and central Europe were meeting their rising costs by instituting measures of permanent taxation, often in conjunction with embryonic assemblies that expressed the vox populi. The papacy of course had no organized vox populi to contend with, though its agents attempting to collect on behalf of the crusade were met with the same spectrum of resistance that tax collectors faced everywhere.20 The papacy’s attention to detail and the preservation of its accounts means that clerical taxation for the crusade is exceptionally well-documented. And its international character gave it uniquely widespread ramifications, because to collect money from the whole of Christendom the papal camera had no option but to employ the services of the Italian banking houses. These measures of crusading finance played a leading role in the creation of an international system of commerce that was for a long time dominated by the Italian companies.21 With no ruler after 1270 willing to assume command of another passagium to the east, it was too late for the Holy Land to reap the benefit. Instead it was the central and western Mediterranean that witnessed the most active consequences. For it was during the thirteenth century that crusading achieved its broadest reach, a process of extension that was stimulated by Innocent III’s innovation and Gregory X’s administrative measures. Two developments were of particular importance. In the first place, vast sums of money that were assembled from the universal tax levied at the Second Council of Lyons were diverted, following the Sicilian Vespers in 1282, towards the long crusade that the popes promoted in their determination to recover Sicily for its Angevin rulers. Not only did the papal curia fail to regain Sicily, but the stress that its efforts imposed on a still nascent banking system proved so great that it triggered a break-down in the

19

20

21

This is not to brush aside the resistance mounted against the Second Lyons tenth, which was extensive and protracted. See Roberg, ‘Subsidium Terrae Sanctae’, esp. 123, 128–9. The classic studies remain those of W.E. Lunt, Financial Relations of the Papacy with England, 2 vols (Cambridge Mass. 1939–62) and Papal Revenues in the Middle Ages, 2 vols (New York 1934). See Y. Renouard, Les Relations des papes d’Avignon et des companies commerciales et bancaires de 1316 à 1378 (Paris 1941); idem, Recherches sur les companies commerciales et bancaires utilisées par les papes d’Avignon avant le Grand Schisme (Paris 1942).

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1290s, though recovery followed.22 Secondly, the Iberian kings developed claims over the crusading decima paid by their clergy that were effectively proprietorial, tying it in with ongoing control over the tercias, the third of the tithe that was normally used for church maintenance.23 For the French monarchy in particular the establishment of an institutional link between crusading and Church taxation proved deeply problematic. Louis IX’s successors constantly lobbied the papal curia on behalf of projects to recover the Holy Land, winning from the curia generous grants of Church taxes which they proceeded to spend on other concerns, in the mean time postponing their passagia to the east. Contemporaries soon began to suspect that their real motivation was to get their hands on the tax money. Whether or not these rulers, from Philip the Fair to Philip VI Valois, were acting duplicitously remains open to question, but it is undeniable that the French Crown’s chronic fiscal weakness made it dangerously reliant on the Church’s financial support. Following the failure of Clericis laicos and Boniface VIII’s capitulation to Philip the Fair and Edward I over royal taxation of the Church, it became possible for lay rulers to tax churchmen pro defensione regni without any reference to crusading, but in France it remained easier to access their incomes through the crusading route. So for more than a century the French monarchy’s financial solvency was bound up with its crusading and proclaimed intentions to undertake crusades. Only when the issue of national taxation finally began to be addressed, in the light of King John’s capture at Poitiers in 1356 and the need for massive taxes to pay for his ransom, was this Gordian knot cut.24 ‘Some Christian princes have their eye on the Church’s tenth, and as we know from experience, they use it to promote their secular affairs.’25 Many contemporaries would have agreed with Ramon Lull’s comment in his crusade treatise De fine (c. 1305). The diversion of the Lyons tenth towards the Sicilian crusade, the divorce of Church taxation in Iberia from actual military activity against the Moors, and the suspicions nourished à propos Philip the Fair’s crusade plans, added up to a situation in which it seemed that nobody in authority could be trusted. This was hardly surprising: given the huge difficulties associated with crusading to the Holy Land, and the many other calls on papal and royal attention, the invention of the crusade tenth was a recipe for diversion, division and discouragement. Emerging state and mature crusade appeared to have conflicting interests, and this led 22 23 24

25

N. Housley, The Italian Crusades, 1254–1343 (Oxford 1982) 103–4, 231–45. J.F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia 2003) 155–62. J.B. Henneman, Royal Taxation in Fourteenth Century France 1322–1356 (Princeton NJ 1971). N. Housley (ed. and tr.), Documents on the Later Crusades (Basingstoke 1996) 37.

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to strategic stalemate: small passagia to the east produced few results, while large-scale passagia were an invitation to fraud. Lull’s way around the problem in De fine was to suggest that the pope merge the military orders, place a ‘warrior-king’ (bellator rex) in overall charge of them, and channel all crusade tenths through him. ‘So the Church’s goods are deployed towards the end for which they are given.’26 Enthusiasm for crusading would then revive, equipping this ‘warrior-king’ with both the money and the soldiers needed to recover the Holy Land. The idea was ingenious but impracticable, because the powers that would have to cooperate in implementing it, the papacy and Europe’s secular governments, also stood to lose by it. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? The late Middle Ages, 1300–150027 This impasse over funding was not the only reason why the Catholic west failed to recover the Holy Land after 1291, though it was certainly central to the issue. Elsewhere crusading continued, but for most of the fourteenth century it was fragmented and small-scale. Much of it sprang from the commercial demands of the Italian trading republics and/or from the chivalric aspirations of western Europe’s nobility, rather than from Europe’s royal and imperial courts, whose attention was directed elsewhere. There were no centrally organized expeditions that compared in scale with the royal and imperial passagia of men like Barbarossa, Richard I and Louis IX. In some ways the closest that we get to such ventures was Bishop Despenser’s crusade to Flanders in 1383, a product of the Great Schism that harnessed English strategic and commercial interests in the Low Countries to a military solution to the schism, the so-called via facti. Despenser’s organization of his expedition was nothing if not painstaking, and it is well-documented. From some angles the bishop’s crusade looks like any other English campaign on the continent: he was employed in the Crown’s service, enjoyed national funding that was granted by parliament and subject to audit, and raised his troops through indentures monitored by kit inspection at the point of embarkation. But these tried and tested practices and procedures were cleverly synergized with crusade preaching.28 Other fronts called for different techniques. The most widespread and popular expression of crusading zeal, the Preussenreisen, are best described as a fusion of private enterprise with a support system of encouragement, assistance and reward put in place by the Prussian Ordensstaat 26 27 28

Ibid.. For details see Housley, Later Crusades. N. Housley, ‘France, England and the “national crusade”, 1302–1386’, in: idem, Crusading and Warfare in Medieval and Renaissance Europe (Aldershot 2001) study VII.

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and its agencies.29 Most significantly, the century’s biggest expedition, the Nicopolis crusade of 1396, looks like a throw-back to the ad hoc, baronial patterns of recruitment and leadership that prevailed during the First and Fourth Crusades. Recruitment and finance were managed at the level of the individual entourage (montre). Nobody assumed overall responsibility, a vacuum at the centre of operations that had a lot to do with the campaign’s failure.30 Given the wide variety of foes and combat zones that fourteenth-century crusaders encountered, this heterogeneity in recruitment and funding alike was probably inevitable. The trajectory of convergence between crusade and government that ran from the Third through to the Seventh Crusade had been a response to the Muslim challenge to the Christian states in Palestine and Syria. It was another such challenge, this time posed by the Ottoman Turks, which brought about a renewal of the convergence in the fifteenth century. The period of richest interaction now began. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the stimulus had come from the demands that everybody, rulers included, had to face in mounting the large-scale passagia to the Holy Land. The situation in the fifteenth century was very different. The popular appeal of crusading had shrunk dramatically; despite heroic efforts it proved impossible to stimulate the laity at large to more than a passing enthusiasm for taking the Cross. With the contraction of popular response the stimulus passed to Europe’s burgeoning states. Increasingly, the challenge to raise men and money was interiorized, moulded to domestic governmental contexts. It usually derived from court policies that were often unprecedented in their ambition, and whose pursuit required support from any quarter that seemed to offer it. This included the crusade, whose historical legacy still exerted a potent appeal and whose mobilization was all but constantly advocated by the papal curia, largely because of the Turkish threat. Let us take first the issue of recruitment. In the course of the fifteenth century substantial state involvement in the organization of crusading efforts returned to the foreground. There were major impetuses behind it. One was the growing use of artillery, which it was only practicable to organize and sustain through the operation of central agencies. The practice of fighting in teams (‘lances’) also militated against decentralized methods of raising troops. And crusade preaching was increasingly directed towards raising cash rather than locating volunteers. This trend was of course facilitated by the migration of crusading away from the Holy Land and its pilgrimage shrines: crusading was still penitential warfare, but the penance was channelled into the financial fuel that drove the engine, rather than the engine 29 30

W. Paravicini, Die Preussenreisen des europäischen Adels, 2 vols (Sigmaringen 1989–95). N. Housley, ‘Le maréchal Boucicaut à Nicopolis’, in idem, Crusading and Warfare, study XVI.

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itself.31 We have seen that earlier leaders like Barbarossa, Richard I and Louis IX had not recruited their combatants: most of these men were volunteers, responding to the Church’s call to make crusading vows. Of course many of them were encouraged to take the cross by the fact that their monarchs had already done so; their commitment might well be reinforced by contract and their financial burden was often lightened by subsidies or pay. None the less, their obligation remained at heart a religious one. It is instructive to compare those precedents with the memoranda that were prepared for Philip the Good in the 1450s and1460s to raise and equip the military personnel who would accompany the duke on his crusade against the Turks. Over a century ago Jules Finot published and analyzed two texts produced during the flurry of activity that followed the fall of Constantinople (1453) and the Feast of the Pheasant (1454); and recently Jacques Paviot performed the same service for a group of documents written when hopes for a crusade briefly revived under the spur of papal diplomatic encouragement in the winter of 1463–4.32 Notwithstanding some differences of detail, a coherent overall picture emerges. It was anticipated that Philip’s army would be of modest size – about 1700 men-at-arms and 4000 archers. Combatants would be recruited from the whole spread of Philip’s lands, the two Burgundies and the Low Countries. The author of the 1457 text envisaged 400 lances (800 combatants) being recruited in Picardy and 300 lances (900 combatants) in Burgundy. The differing figures derived from the fact that each Burgundian lance included a crossbowman. The lances raised in Picardy would be complemented by 4000 archers and there would be 600 auxiliaries including 300 miners: a total fighting force of 6300 men.33 In 1463 it was proposed that Philip should command 4000 foot and 2000 horse; for each lance (each comprising two men) raised in Burgundy, six archers should be recruited in Picardy.34 Close attention was paid to their costs, embarkation, provisioning and equipment. In 1463, for example, it was advised that the lord of Moreuil should take charge of ‘tout le fait de l’artillerie de mondit seigneur necessaire audit voyage’.35 The duke could not do everything, nor was that expected of him. The ambitious military ordinances of Charles the Bold lay in the future, and Philip relied on his great lords to raise and equip some 31

32

33 34 35

N. Housley, ‘Indulgences for crusading, 1417–1517’, in: R. N. Swanson (ed.), Promissory Notes on the Treasury of Merits: Indulgences in Late Medieval Europe (Leiden 2006) 277–307. J. Finot, ‘Projet d’expédition contre les Turcs préparé par les conseillers du duc de Bourgogne Philip-le-Bon (janvier 1457)’, Mémoires de la Société des Sciences, de l’Agriculture et des Arts de Lille, 4th ser. 21 (1895) 161–206; J. Paviot, Les ducs de Bourgogne, la croisade et l’orient ( fin xive siècle-xve siècle) (Paris 2003) 328–34. Finot, ‘Projet’, 197–9. Paviot, Les ducs, 331–2. Ibid., 329.

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of the men-at-arms. One 1463 text allocated 1000 (50%) of them to those lords who alongside the duke had taken vows at the Feast of the Pheasant.36 But the hopes placed in ducal leadership, supervision and intervention were substantial. As for how the soldiers would be recruited, it is likely that the combatants specified in the documents edited by Finot and Paviot would have been raised in the same way as for other Burgundian campaigns.37 In Lent 1455 the bailli of Dijon, Jehan Damas, assembled all the nobles in his balliaige ‘pour savoir et assentir d’eulx lesquelx d’eulx seroient contens d’accompaignier Monsiegneur le duc en son saint voyage qu’il a entreprins faire à l’encontre du Turch’.38 Some might have found the prospect of war against the Turks particularly attractive – perhaps including the seasoned veteran Jehan Ryolet, who volunteered to serve Philip in 1455 ‘monté et armé tout le mieulx et si avant qu’il pourroit’.39 It is possible that such recruits would have ensured that they carried out the rites required to gain remission of sins.40 But the key point was that an army of professionals serving the duke was to be assembled. The locus of authority and obligation had shifted. The process of change is viewed at its most streamlined in the plan that was submitted by the envoys of the European powers to Innocent VIII’s crusade congress of Rome in the summer of 1490. They urged that crusading be nationalized as well as professionalized. ‘On the way to pay wages to the army, each nation and the princes will take thought among themselves, and make provision for the number [of men] in each army, so that each nation gives full wages to its army ... Nations will also make provision for reinforcing their armies if, God forbid, severe losses should occur, especially if more than a third of a particular nation’s army should perish.’41 None of this could be done, of course, without the sort of centralized measures advocated by the Burgundian advisors a few decades previously. When the envoys set out their views in 1490 such measures had been under way for some years in the Granada war. But the approach did not work in the case of the anti-Ottoman crusade; and even if it had, it is likely that the character of the resulting war would have been radically different from earlier crusading. In relation to Early Modern Europe, Gérard Poumarède has recently argued that the more crusading became the preserve of soldats de métier, the more it lost its special ethos; 36 37 38

39 40

41

Ibid., 330. See B. Schnerb, L’État bourguignon 1363–1477 (Paris 1999) 262–74. J. Richard, ‘Les états de service d’un noble bourguignon au temps de Philippe le Bon’, Annales de Bourgogne 29 (1957) 113–124, at p. 115 note 1. Ibid., 115. Compare Peter I’s hired troops during the Alexandria crusade: Housley (ed. and tr.), Documents, 86–7. Housley (ed. and tr.), Documents, 166. For circumstances see K.M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571) vol. II: The Fifteenth Century (Philadelphia 1978) 413–16.

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it became ‘banal’ (i.e. everyday) in character. Even among enthusiasts for the conquest and partition of the Ottoman sultanate, Poumarède maintained, there was ‘[un] rejet quasi unanime du modèle spirituel et militaire de la croisade’. As a result, ‘les troupes exaltées sont passées de mode et ... on leur préfère désormais le bon ordre et l’endurance des soldats de profession’.42 There was nothing to stop state-managed crusade ending up as just another state-driven war, however special the cause at stake, and even if indulgences were being simultaneously publicized back in the homeland to assist with the campaign’s funding. The second area in which we see a much more interventionist line being taken by the state is that of crusade funding. We have seen that in all the Iberian kingdoms to some degree the Church shouldered the burden of paying revenues to the lay powers in the forms of tenths and tercias, in association with the ongoing programme of Reconquista. As the Ottoman threat came to receive increasing attention, the Iberian rulers succeeded in piggy-backing it by associating the two areas of military activity. The capture of Granada and the end of the Reconquista in 1492 brought no relief to Spanish clerics: the institutionalized siphoning off of Church revenues in Spain continued for most of the sixteenth century. Nor was the laity exempt. Taxation of the Church became entwined with the cruzada, the systematic hawking of indulgences, which persisted in the teeth of objections, until the reforming measures that were introduced at the Council of Trent. For several generations the cruzada was deeply entrenched in Iberian devotional life, in the process totally shedding the ‘Jubilee’ associations of the crusading indulgence that St Bernard had established with rhetorical skill at the time of the Second Crusade. Like recruitment, preaching of the cruzada became quotidian in character. Yet it remained profitable. We have a reasonably clear picture of the yields that the peninsula’s lay rulers received from Church taxes and indulgences. Even if we did not possess such figures, based solely on the tenacity with which rulers defended them we would be able to judge that the yields played an important role in sustaining state finance in the face of rising expenses.43 It is possible that fifteenth-century Hungary was in a similar situation, though here the money mainly originated (or was intended to) outside the kingdom rather than within it. To a greater extent than any other Catholic 42

43

G. Poumarède, Pour en finir avec la croisade: Mythes et réalités de la lutte contre les Turcs aux xvie et xviie siècles (Paris 2004) 196. The classic studies remain J. Goñi Gaztambide, Historia de la Bula de la cruzada en España (Vitoria 1958); M.A. Ladero Quesada, Castilla y la conquista del Reino de Granada (Valladolid 1967). For a recent update, see J. Edwards, ‘Reconquista and crusade in fifteenth-century Spain’, in: N. Housley (ed.), Crusading in the Fifteenth Century: Message and Impact (Basingstoke 2004) 163–81, 235–7.

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state, Hungary faced pressure on its frontiers from the advancing Ottoman Turks, and its rulers, particularly Matthias Corvinus, strenuously lobbied the papal court for financial assistance. It has been argued that Matthias became heavily dependent on the flow of subsidies from Rome, and the king certainly lost no chance to state his opinion that he was entitled to such assistance because of his kingdom’s imperilled status. Matthias is the classic example of the Renaissance ruler whose lands were so situated that he needed and could justify the deployment of crusade, and whose heavy expenses and ambitious policies made crusading’s increasingly finance-oriented character highly attractive. For the king’s heavy expenditure on one of Renaissance Europe’s greatest libraries coincided with his creation of one of its earliest standing armies. And this was happening at a time when he was almost constantly fighting the Habsburgs, while the defence of Hungary’s southern perimeter fortresses against the Turks absorbed annually between 150,000 and 200,000 florins.44 It is not easy to work out how much money Matthias did receive from Rome, but in his study of one key source, the Depositeria della crociata, Iulian-Mihai Damian traced the definite transfer of substantial sums of money in the aftermath of Pius II’s death: 40,314 ducats in August 1464, 57,500 in May 1465, 10,000 in the spring of 1466. There were further payments in 1467–9, directly to the king or indirectly to his captains. Damian concluded that in these difficult early years of the reign the curia was making large efforts to shore up Matthias’s position, the goal being as much political as military.45 During the winter of 1475–6 Matthias Corvinus besieged the troublesome Turkish fortress of Šabac, which overlooked the Sava River in northwestern Serbia. Pope Sixtus IV made the mistake of writing to the king urging him to persevere with the struggle against the Turks. The irritated king replied that such exhortations were superfluous. Since his accession to the throne at the age of eighteen he had fought without rest against the Turks and Hussite heretics. No other Christian ruler had his track record for personal engagement, a point which he rammed home in a telling if unsophisticated word-picture drawn at the conclusion of his letter. ‘Given at the siege of Šabac castle, hastily as the circumstances of the siege allowed, in the midst of many great preoccupations, by the rapid hand of

44

45

J.M. Bak, ‘Hungary and crusading in the fifteenth century’, in Housley (ed.), Crusading in the Fifteenth Century, 116–27, 224–7, at 125–6. I.-M. Damian, ‘La Depositeria della Crociata (1463–1490) e i sussidi dei pontefici romani a Mattia Corvino’, Annuario dell’Istituto romeno di cultura e ricerca umanistica di Venezia 8 (2006) 135–52, at 143–8. See Setton, The Papacy, 276 and note 18 for other figures allegedly paid in 1465. A number of papers about Matthias Corvinus’s crusading policies were given at the conference ‘Matthias Corvinus and His Time’, Cluj-Napoca, October 2008: publication forthcoming.

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our secretary, between snow and ice.’46 This image of the prince as athleta Christi, selflessly defending faith and Church against the enemies of Christ, formed a further area of interaction between crusade and state-building in the fifteenth century. Crusading had a part to play in the process of legitimating states and projecting the images that rulers wanted to convey. But assessment of intentionality and impact alike is difficult. It is simplistic to depict rulers like Matthias Corvinus reaching for such images with Machiavellian cynicism, not least because they and their counsellors knew that it could work against them. This applied both to using past crusading exploits – dynastic or national - as reference points, and to advancing aspirations to embark on a new crusade, or securing support for one-off sieges like that of Šabac. It was all too easy to use past crusades to make unfavourable comparisons with current rulers, while the expression of aspirations obviously aroused expectations that could prove dangerous. And on many occasions when the crusading image features, it is thoroughly interwoven with other themes – especially piety, chivalry and dynastic continuity – which make it hard to ascribe value specifically to the employment of crusade. The example of Philip the Good of Burgundy is instructive. Jacques Paviot was surely right to conclude that Philip’s yearning to take part in a crusade was deeply-rooted and genuine. And it is flawed logic to infer that his plans had positive value in terms of a policy of international prestige, given that they highlighted the duke’s position of subordination to both of his lords, the king of France and the Holy Roman Emperor.47 In practice Philip was severely constrained: his relations with Cyprus and Hospitaller Rhodes, for example, were uniformly reactive.48 Decades of planning, expenditure and diplomatic negotiation did create a ‘symbolic capital’ of sorts that was duly inherited by Charles the Bold, but Charles’s failure to act meant that by the time he died this capital had been spent.49 None of the Valois dukes needed crusading, past or present, either to legitimate or to enforce their rule over their lands. It is hard to point to any specific gains that it brought them. It represented rather a private fascination that their position and wealth enabled them to pursue, or at least try to. And images that originated in crusading could as easily be directed against them as used by them, as the demonization of Charles as the ‘western Turk’ shows. Even would-be champions of Christ were not safe from being tarred with the ‘Turkish’ brush in the late-fifteenth century.50 46

47 48 49 50

Mathiae Corvini Hungariae regis epistolae ad Romanos pontifices datae et ab eis acceptae, 1458– 1490 = Monumenta Vaticana Hungariae series 1, vol. 6 (Budapest 1891) no 81, pp. 104–8. Paviot, Les ducs, 292–3. Ibid., 256. Ibid., 293. C. Sieber-Lehmann, ‘Der türkische Sultan Mehmed II. und Karl der Kühne, der “Türk im Occident”’, in F.-R. Erkens (ed.), Europa und die osmanische Expansion im ausgehenden Mittelalter (Berlin 1997) 13–38.

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306 Norman Housley

It could be argued that Valois Burgundy was unusual, an arriviste state that lacked deep historic roots. And it is true that the situation in France as a whole was more nuanced. Here the crusade, past and present, was undeniably embedded in the way kingship was viewed. The cluster of ideas that assembled around the crusading exploits of Louis IX resonated through the reigns of his immediate successors, not least because of the financial issues discussed earlier. But after the various crises that afflicted the Valois monarchy in the fourteenth century, crusade construed as an active expectation featured less, though there were periods when it recurred, notably during the brief careers of both Joan of Arc and Charles VIII. The most we can say is that a variety of ideas that were entwined with France’s crusading past continued to be woven into the period’s cultural fabric, above all the myth of France’s Trojan origins and the Second Charlemagne prophecy. Colette Beaune included Louis IX’s crusades among the group of historical events that enjoyed iconic status, together with the reigns of Clovis and Charlemagne and the battle of Bouvines.51 The later Valois kings did not shun their predecessors’ crusading deeds, but they were selective in the references that they made to them. As for crusade in the present day, the court expressed its commitment to a pan-European crusading enterprise largely in order to gain political advantage and forestall others staking a claim to any French revenues.52 Other rulers in the late Middle Ages were not able to pick and choose: for them the struggle against Islam remained a living reality. Above all, this was the situation that faced the rulers of both Castile and Hungary. Willy-nilly, continuing the Reconquista was one of the attributes of being king of Castile, and the propaganda directed against Peter I and Henry IV by their enemies showed the danger attached to any element of Islamophilia.53 The image could lay largely dormant for decades only to be revived when the military situation called for it, or (as after the marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand in 1469) dynastic circumstances allowed.54 Antemurale ideology in Hungary did not possess the venerable pedigree of Castile’s Reconquista programme, dating back only to King Bela IV’s reaction to the Mongol incursions in the mid-thirteenth 51

52

53

54

C. Beaune, The Birth of an Ideology: Myths and Symbols of Nation in Late-Medieval France, tr. S.R. Huston (Berkeley CA 1991) 172–97, 310. E.g. in Francis I’s response to Pope Leo X’s proposal in 1517: E. Charrière (ed.), Négociations de la France dans le Levant, 4 vols (Paris 1848–60) vol. i,.41–6. C. Estow, ‘War and peace in medieval Iberia: Castilian-Granadan relations in the mid-14th century’, in L.J.A. Villalon and D.J. Kagay eds, The Hundred Years War: A Wider Focus (Leiden, Boston 2005) 151–73; W.D. Phillips, Enrique IV and the Crisis of Fifteenth-Century Castile 1425–1480 (Cambridge MA 1978) 81–95. T.F. Ruiz, ‘Unsacred monarchy: The kings of Castile in the late Middle Ages’, in: S. Wilentz (ed.), Rites of Power: Symbolism, Ritual, and Politics since the Middle Ages (Philadelphia 1985), places the impact of the Reconquista in a broader setting.

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century.55 But the impact of Hungary’s frontier location and bulwark status on the kingdom’s political culture was still marked. The Turks posed a much greater threat to Hungary than the Moors did to Spain, and the institutions of central government were less advanced than they were in Castile. So ideas and rhetoric that derived their force from interfaith conflict impacted as much on social as on political relations. The ferocity of the Dózsa uprising and its suppression in 1514 provided terrible proof of this. For those many peasants who took the Cross in response to the preaching of the Observants, the opposition that they encountered from their landlords, the very men who should be offering them military leadership, led them to redirect their aggression against the ‘internal Turk’.56 Conclusion The keys to assessing the contribution made by the practice of crusading to medieval state-building are attention to period and a due sense of proportion. The aspect of crusading that posed the greatest challenge to Europe’s lay authorities, just as it did to the Church, was the organization of the series of great passagia to the east between 1095 and 1291. A creative response to this became most apparent in the thirteenth century, when papal crusading taxes opened up a rich seam of Church wealth for secular rulers systematically to exploit. Before that point there is evidence that the administrations of Europe’s rulers were pushed to the limits by what they were called on to do in preparing for the big expeditions; but there is less evidence that this process propelled them into developing new ways of doing things. Crusading in the last medieval century, in the forms of the grinding struggle against the Ottoman Turks and the last phase of the Reconquista, exercised more influence, and it did this from two distinct angles. The first was the full-blown development of fiscal mechanisms that enabled some rulers, with papal partnership, consent or collusion, to tap into the wealth of laypeople and Church alike. The second was the integration of crusading or neo-crusading ideas, images and rhetoric into the ways in which rulers, dynasties and their peoples were portrayed. They did not play a fundamental role, but they did become part of the political and cultural discourse in a number of Europe’s emerging states, especially those that had rich crusading pasts and/ or interfaith frontiers. In other words, it was largely when crusading started to put down distinctive national or regional roots, and within well-defined contexts of authority and government, that it proved its worth to rulers who 55

56

E. Artner and others eds, Magyarország mint a nyugati keresztény művelődés védőbástyája. A Vatikáni Levéltárnak azok az okiratai, melyek őseinknek a Keletről Európát fenyegető veszedelmek ellen kifejtett erőfeszítéseire vonatkoznak (cca 1214–1606) (Budapest, Rome 2004). N. Housley, ‘Crusading as social revolt: The Hungarian peasant uprising of 1514’, in Housley, Crusading and Warfare, study XVII.

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308 Norman Housley

were determined to advance their state-building ambitions. Even then, the contribution that crusading made could never be wholly straightforward: it was after all a universal Christian endeavour, one that was embedded in religious beliefs rather than in secular obligations. But it did help; and it is hard not to be impressed by the inventiveness that was displayed by the lay powers of late-medieval Europe, driven by the ever-present spurs of interstate rivalry and nagging financial need.

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Die Gesetzgebung der kirchlichen Synoden in Polen im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert1 Wacław Uruszczak Kraków

Das Recht der Kirche als eine Gemeinschaft von Gläubigen besteht nicht nur aus den allgemein geltenden Normen, die heute in Codex iuris canonici, früher in Corpus iuris canonici, gefasst wurden, sondern auch aus dem partikularen Recht einzelner Kirchenprovinzen, Diözesen oder sogar der noch kleineren Gemeinschaften. Den Grund für dieses Recht bilden die lokale partikulare Gesetzgebung und örtliche Bräuche. Die letztgenannten können unter gewissen Bedingungen das Gemeinderecht ausschließen oder einschränken, obgleich sie meistens dieses Recht präzisieren und ergänzen. Zu den wichtigsten der partikularen Gesetze gehören wohl die Gesetze der Provinzialsynoden, das heißt der Vollversammlungen der Bischöfe sowie anderer höherer Geistlicher aus einer kirchlichen Provinz. Diese Gesetzgebung bildet für den Mediävisten ein ausgesprochen interessantes Forschungsgebiet; sie spiegelt nämlich die für die nationale Kirche wichtigsten Probleme wider. Sie stellt auch die wirkliche Lage der Kirche in einer konkreten historischen Zeit dar – oft sogar besser als die allgemeine Gesetzgebung.2 Diese Bemerkung gilt auch für die polnische synodale Gesetzgebung im Mittelalter. Als der polnische Fürst Mieszko im Jahre 966 die Taufe empfing, wurde Polen Mitglied der großen Familie der europäischen christlichen Länder geworden. Mit diesem Datum beginnt auch die Geschichte der polnischen Kirche. Wegen Mangel an Quellenmaterial wissen wir nicht, ob in den zwei ersten Jahrhunderten der Kirchengeschichte in Polen irgendwelche Provinzial- oder Diözesansynoden stattfanden. Man kann vermuten, dass sie wahrscheinlich anlässlich der vom Monarchen berufenen Staatsversammlungen stattfanden, oder auch anlässlich des Aufenthaltes des päpstlichen Legaten in Polen, wie zum Beispiel des Legaten Gwalon aus Beauvais im Jahre 1103, des Kardinals Aegidius aus Tusculanum 1123, Johann Melebrances 1189 oder Peters aus Kapua im Jahre 1197.3 1

2

3

Diese Artikel ist ein überarbeitete Fassung meines polnischen Textes ‘Ustawodawstwo synodów Kościoła Katolickiego w Polsce w XIII i XIV wieku’, in: Czasopismo Prawno-Historyczne LI (1999) Heft 1–2, 133–148. Über die Rolle der kirchliche Synoden im Mittelalter siehe z.B. Partikularsynoden im Mittelalter, hg. von Natalie Kruppa und Leszek Zyner (Göttingen 2006). I. Subera, Synody prowincjonalne arcybiskupów gnieźnieńskich (Warszawa 1971) 13 ff.; K. Ożóg, ‘Prawo kościelne w Polsce w XIII – XIV stuleciu’, in: Sacri Canones servandi sunt. Ius canonicum et casus ecclesiae saeculis XIII – XV, hg. von Pavel Krafl, Praha: Historicky ustav AV ČR, v.v. i. 2008, Opera Instituti Historici Pragae, series C – Miscellanea, vol. 19 (2008) 73–77.

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310 Wacław Uruszczak

Es ist wichtig zu wissen, dass die polnische Kirche als Organisation während der zwei ersten Jahrhunderte ihrer Geschichte sehr stark dem herrschenden König untergeordnet war. Der Fall des Krakauer Bischofs Stanislaus, der es wagte, die Willkür des Königs Bolesław zu verurteilen, wodurch er selbst dieser Willkür zum Opfer fiel, ist nur eine rühmliche Ausnahme. In diese Zeit fällt jedoch die Bildung und Erstarkung der kirchlichen Organisation in Polen. Die im Jahre 1000 gegründete Metropole in Gniezno umfasste an der Schwelle des dreizehnten Jahrhunderts folgende Diözesen: Kraków, Wrocław, Poznań, Płock, Lubusz. Im zwölften Jahrhundert existierten schon die Pfarrgemeinden, die in Dekanate und Archidiakonate gruppiert wurden. Im elften Jahrhundert wurden in Polen Benediktinerklöster gegründet, im zwölften die ersten Zisterzienserklöster. Im dreizehnten Jahrhundert erfolgten mehrere Stiftungen von den Bettlerorden der Franziskaner und Dominikaner. In den zwei ersten Jahrhunderten gewann auch die Kirche in Polen einen besonders starken materiellen Grund für ihre Tätigkeiten. Das waren vor allem Landgüter, sowohl von den Herren als auch von privaten Personen der Kirche gegeben. Nach den geschichtlichen Quellen soll der Comes Piotr Włast rund 300 Kirchen gestiftet und reichlich ausgestattet haben. Von der Größe des Landbesitzes, welches die kirchlichen Institute damals besaßen, gibt unter anderem die Bulle Innozenz II. aus dem Jahre 1136 Zeugnis; sie bekräftigt nämlich den damaligen Besitzstand des Erzbischofstums in Gniezno – insgesamt 149 Dörfer. Nach zwei Jahrhunderten, etwa um 1311, waren es schon 259 Dörfer.4 Die Geschichte der kirchlichen Synode in Polen und somit die Geschichte der synodalen Gesetzgebung beginnt jedoch erst im dreizehnten Jahrhundert. Ihre Anfänge gehen auf das Pontifikat des Erzbischofs Henryk Kietlicz (1199–1219) zurück, des großen Kämpfers für die Freiheit der polnischen Kirche, das heißt für deren Befreiung aus der Kuratel der weltlichen Gewalt und für deren Unabhängigkeit und Handlungsfreiheit.5 Diese Politik verwirklichten er und seine Nachfolger durch die Provinzialsynoden und durch die synodale Gesetzgebung.6 4

5

6

C. Skrzeszewski, ‘Kościół Katolicki w Polsce wobec zagadnień społeczno-gospodarczych (966–1918)’, in: Księga Tysiąclecia Katolicyzmu w Polsce, I (Lublin 1969) 266. J. Fijałek, Średniowieczne ustawodawstwo synodalne biskupów polskich, Rozprawy Akademii Umiejętności. Wydział historyczno-filozoficzny 30 (1984); A. Vetulani, Statuty synodalne Henryka Kietlicza, Studia i materiały do historii ustawodawstwa synodalnego w Polsce 7 (Kraków 1938); W.Baran-Kozłowski, Arcybiskup gnieźnieński Henryk Kietlicz (1199 – 1219). Działalność kościelna i polityczna (Poznań 2005); J. Maciejewski, Episkopat polski doby dzielnicowej 1180 – 1320 (Kraków, Bydgoszcz 2003) 41–51. J. Umiński, Henryk arcybiskup gnieźnieński zwany Kietliczem (1199–1219) (Lublin 1926). 132; A. Vetulani, ‘La pénétration du droit des Décrétales dans l’Eglise Polonaise au XIIIème siècle’, in: A. Vetulani, Institutions de l’Eglise et canonistes au Moyen Age. Recueil d’études édité par Wacław Uruszczak, Variorum (Aldershot 1990) II, 6 (388) ff.; K. Skwierczyński, Recepcja idei gregoriańskich w Polsce do początku XIII wieku (Wrocław 2005) 290–294.

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Die Provinzialsynoden wurden von dem Erzbischof in Gniezno oder von dem päpstlichen Legaten einberufen. Im letztgenannten Fall haben wir es mit einer spezifischen Art der Synoden zu tun, und zwar mit den sogenannten Legationssynoden. Die in anderen Ländern angenommene und durch das 4. Lateraner Konzil sanktionierte Gewohnheit, jedes Jahr eine Synode zu berufen, hat sich in Polen nicht eingebürgert. Die Synode wurde bei Bedarf einberufen, was jedenfalls ziemlich oft vorkam. Als Beweis kann hier das Pontifikat des schon erwähnten Erzbischofs Henryk Kietlicz gelten: zu seiner Zeit fanden etwa fünfzehn Synoden und andere Versammlungen der Bischöfe statt. Wenn man die Regierungszeit dieses Erzbischofs in Gniezno berücksichtigt, so fand – durchschnittlich gerechnet – alle sechzehn Monate eine Synode statt. Erst im Jahre 1486, auf der Synode in Kalisz, hat man den Rechtsgrundsatz angenommen, jede drei Jahre eine Provinzialsynode zusammenzurufen.7 Die Synode wurde von dem Metropoliten berufen. Das im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert geltende Verfahren des Zusammenrufens ist uns nicht näher bekannt. Man kann nur vermuten, dass der Erzbischof die anderen Bischöfe und das Domkapitel zu Rate gezogen hatte, bevor er die Synode einberufen ließ. Die Synoden fanden nicht immer an demselben Ort statt. Gniezno, die Hauptstadt der Provinz, war kein dazu besonders geeigneter Ort, denn die Stadt lag im damaligen Polen eher peripher. Die Synoden wurden also meistens in die Orte Zentralpolens verlegt, wie Sieradz, Łęczyca, Piotrków, Kamień, Kalisz. Einige Versammlungen fanden auch in Wrocław statt, und zwar wegen des Aufenthaltes des päpstlichen Legaten in dieser Stadt.8 An den Synoden nehmen vor allem Diözesanbischöfe teil – persönlich oder durch Stellvertreter repräsentiert –, ferner Äbte und Ordensoberen, sowie die Sonderbeauftragten des Domkapitels. Die entscheidende Stimme hatten hier sicherlich die Bischöfe. Die Präambeln der synodalen Statuten bezeugen es, dass der Hauptautor der Gesetze immer der Metropolit war, dass er jedoch nie ohne Rat und Einverständnis der Bischöfe (consilio et consensu) die Gesetze festlegte. Die anderen Mitglieder der Provinzialsynoden hatten dagegen nur eine beratende Rolle zu spielen. Wenn die Synoden unter der Leitung des päpstlichen Legaten stattfanden, war selbstverständlich dieser der eigentliche Gesetzgeber; die anderen Teilnehmer – das heißt vor allem Bischöfe samt Erzbischof – stimmten ihm zu.

7

8

R. Hube, Antiquissimae constitutiones synodales provinciae Gnesnensis (Petersburg 1856) 219–222. I. Subera, Synody, 14 ff.; A. Vetulani, ‘La pénétration du droit des Décrétales’, 14 (396) ff.; P. Krafl, ‘Provinciálni synody hnězdenske cirkevny provincie do začatku 16. stoleti’, Prawo Kanoniczne 43 (2000) 37 ff.; P. Krafl, ‘Legátska statuta pro Polsko a provinciálni statuta Hnězdna do konce 15. stoleti’, Sbornik archivnich praci 51 (2001) 395 ff.

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312 Wacław Uruszczak

Die polnische synodale Gesetzgebung aus der Zeit des Mittelalters, genauer gesagt aus dem 13. und 14. Jahrhundert, die uns heutzutage bekannt ist, umfasst 18 verschiedene Statuten. Vier daraus wurden an die Legationssynoden gegeben.9 Diese Zahl spiegelt gewiss nicht die volle legislative Tätigkeit der Synoden wider. Viele ältere Statuten sind einfach verloren gegangen, insbesondere nachdem im Jahre 1357 die erste amtliche Kodifikation des polnischen partikularen kanonischen Rechts erlassen wurde, das sogenannte Jaroslaus’ Gesetzbuch (Synodyk Jarosława).10 In Polen, wo man immer an einem gewissen Mangel an Schreibmaterial litt, wurden damals viele ältere Handschriften der synodalen Statuten vernichtet. Man fand es nämlich überflüssig, solche Handschriften aufzubewahren, wenn eine neue amtliche Gesetzsammlung für das ganze Land galt. Den Rest haben die Stürme der Geschichte besorgt, die – wie bekannt – eben an diesem Teil Europas besonderes Gefallen gefunden haben. Die bis heute erhaltenen Statuten stammen also hauptsächlich aus zwei Quellen: dem oben erwähnten Gesetzbuch aus dem Jahre 1357 und aus der früheren, am Anfang des 14. Jahrhunderts entstandenen privaten Sammlung der synodalen Gesetzgebung von Mikołaj Czech (Nikolaus Böhme). Darüber hinaus verfügen wir auch über Notariatsabschriften mancher synodaler Statuten, wie zum Beispiel über die 1316 verfertigte Abschrift, die eine Art Notariatsinstrument für die im Jahre 1309 erlassenen Statuten ist.11 Im Grunde genommen hat jedoch der Forscher der mittelalterlichen synodalen Gesetzgebung in Polen mit einem fragmentarischen Material zu tun, welches nur einen Teil des wirklichen Ertrags der polnischen Kirche bildet.12 Übrigens weicht dieses Material gewiss von seiner ursprünglichen Form ab. Es ist nämlich bekannt, dass die Redaktoren des Jaroslaus Gesetzbuches ziemlich sorglos mit den Texten der älteren Statuten umgingen, indem sie diese Texte umarbeiteten und den neuen Bedürfnissen anpassten. Verkürzungen und Interpolationen, das Weglassen ganzer Artikel, waren hier oft ausgeübte Praxis.13 Die Darstellung der polnischen synodalen Gesetzgebung im Mittelalter möchte ich mit manchen Quantitätsangaben beginnen, die ich in Tabellenform zusammengestellt habe.14 9

10

11

12 13 14

Veröffentlicht von A. Z. Helcel, Statuta synodalne z XIII i XIV w. do statutu z r.1406, w: Starodawne Prawa Polskiego Pomniki I (Kraków 1856) und R. Hube, Antiquissime Constitutiones Synodales Provinciae Gnesnensis (Petersburg 1856). F. Śliwonik, ‘Pierwszy zbiór prawa kościelnego w Polsce (Synodyk Jarosława Bogorii Skotnickiego z r. 1357)’, in: Działalność naukowa ATK, 2 (Warszawa 1971) 428–429. W. Abraham, ‘Statuta legata Gentilisa wydane dla Polski na synodzie w Preszburgu 10 listopada r.1309’, in: Archiwum Komisji Prawniczej V (Kraków 1897) 11–36. S. Kutrzeba, Historia źródeł dawnego prawa polskiego, II (Lwów 1926) 105. Śliwonik, ‘Pierwszy’, 429. In meine Forschungen wurden die Editionen von A.Z. Helcel und R. Hube berücksichtigt. Die Numeration der Artikeln nach Helcel, Starodawne Prawa Polskiego Pomniki (zitiert infra: SPPP I).

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Die erste Tabelle stellt die Gesetze der Provinzialsynoden bis 1357 einschließlich dar; es sind insgesamt zehn juristische Texte. Das Statut aus dem Jahr 1217 ausgenommen, sind es Texte, die in Jaroslaus Gesetzbuch (1357) berücksichtigt wurden. Die spätere Gesetzgebung habe ich hier nicht miteinbezogen. In der ersten Kolumne der Tabelle wird die Zahl der Artikel angegeben. Wie man sieht, war sie sehr differenziert. Das umfangreichste Statut wurde 1285, zur Zeit des Erzbischofs Jakub Świnka in Łęczyca, erlassen. Dieses Grundgesetz zählt 34 Artikel, die Statuten aus den Jahren 1298 und 1309 hingegen je einen Artikel. In anderen Kolumnen der Tabelle werden die entsprechenden Zahlen für die Sachgehalte einzelner Statuten angeführt. Die Kolumnen betreffen der Reihe nach solche Probleme, wie: die Zucht des Klerus, die Organisation des Kirchendienstes samt anderen Kultfragen, das kirchliche Vermögen, die Jurisdiktion, die Unverletzlichkeit der Geistlichen, privilegium fori, die Ausführung der Exkommunikationsund Interdiktesstrafe, das Eherecht, Judengesetze und andere Bereiche. Wie aus der obigen Zusammenstellung zu schliessen ist, nehmen hier jene Vorschriften viel Plazt ein, die die kirchlichen Güter, die Zucht des Klerus und die Organisation des Kirchendienstes betreffen. Diese Vorschriften wiederholten sich übrigens in einzelnen Statuten. Die zweite Tabelle stellt analoge Daten für die Legationsstatuten zusammen. Diese Statuten, deren Gesamtzahl lediglich vier Rechtsdenkmäler umfasst, enthalten ein viel umfangreiches Material: insgesamt sind es 170 Artikel. Von größtem Umfang sind die im Jahre 1279 in Buda erlassenen Statuten des Legaten Philipp, des Bischofs in Firmano. Philipp wurde als Legat des Papstes sowohl nach Polen als auch nach Ungarn gesandt, die erwähnten Statuten betrafen also gleichermaßen beide kirchlichen Provinzen. Aus der zweiten Tabelle ist es auch ersichtlich, dass die Anzahl der Problemebereiche, die in den Legationsstatuten ihre Regelung gefunden haben, größer ist als in den Provinzialstatuten. Neben den oben genannten Problemen wurden hier auch andere Bereiche berücksichtigt, insbesondere die Sakramentenlehre, der Gerichtsprozess, das Erbrecht, sowie manche Sonderprobleme, von gegenwärtigem (politischem) Charakter, je auf die Erfordernisse der Zeit bezogen. Zusammenfassend kann man sagen, dass sich die Legationsstatuten hauptsächlich auf den Angelegenheiten vor allgemeinem Charakter konzentrierten, während die Provinzialstatuten mehr auf Einzelheiten eingingen. Die einen und anderen ergänzten sich gegenseitig. Das Ziel der oben erwähnten und quantitativ dargestellten Rechtsbereiche war die Regelung, also Besserung der herrschenden Verhältnisse – sowohl innerhalb als auch außerhalb der polnischen Kirche. Im letztgenannten Fall

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POPE_LY_ch05_03.indd 314

10

5

8

34

9

1

1

25

14

114

100

1233

1257

1262

1285

1290

1298

1309

1326

1357

Insgesamt

%

7

1217

22,8

26

7

5

2

3

6

3

17,5

20

4

3

1

10

2

26,3

30

2

9

1

1

3

5

6

2

1

7,9

9

1

8

4,4

5

1

2

2

4,4

5

2

1

1

1

8,7

10

4

1

3

1

1

2,6

3

3

1,7

2

2

3,5

4

2

2

die Zahl Organisation des Exkommunikations der die Zucht Kirchendienstes, Kirchliches Jurisdiktion Unverletzlichkeit privilegium und Andere Artikel des Klerus Kultfragen Vermögen des Bischofs der Geistlichen fori Interdiktesstrafe Eherecht Judengesetze Sachen

Tabelle I. Gesetze der Provinzialsynoden

314 Wacław Uruszczak

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Die Gesetzgebung der kirchlichen Synoden in Polen im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert

315

ging es um ihr Verhältnis der Laiengesellschaft und der staatlichen Gewalt gegenüber. Was die innerkirchlichen Probleme betrifft, mit welchen sich die synodale Gesetzgebung beschäftigte, so rückte die Zucht des Klerus in den Vordergrund. Es ging hier vor allem um sittenstrenges Benehmen und um angemessene Bekleidung der Geistlichen. Die synodalen Statuten betonen immer, dass die Priester habeat tonsuram competentem, vestes in qualitate clericali officio competentes, videlicet, ut non rubee nec virides nec virgulatae, nec nimis longitudine, nec brevitudine, nec aliter indecentes manicas habeabt, nec consutiles calceos nec rostratos (1233, Art. 1). Den Geistlichen war es verboten, Würfel zu spielen, in den Orten von zweifelhaftem Ruf – also vor allem in der Schenke – zu verbleiben. Mit besonderer Sorgfalt behandelte man das Problem des Zölibats, wovon eindeutig die Zahl der in diesem Bereich erschienenen Gesetze zeugt. Immer wurde also in den synodalen Statuten das Gebot wiederholt, die Geistlichen sollten sich ab omni genere fornicationis zurückhalten, sie durften weder Ehen schließen noch im Konkubinat leben. Das Letztere kam wohl trotz alldem oft vor, denn fast alle Statuten enthielten entsprechende Verbote und drohten mit schweren kirchlichen Strafen. Nos tamen, steht es in den Statuten aus dem Jahre 1233,

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Filip 1279 Buda

116 21

13

16

7

Gentilis 1309 Preszburg

15

1

2

Insgesamt

170 29

19

29

%

100 17,1 11,2 17,0 7,6 21,2 5,3

1

6

3

3

35

1

2

4

1

3

13

36

9

6

11

1

1

2

1

2

2

4

2

5

1

5

Erbrecht

1

Sittichkeit

13

4

Andere Sachen

Guidon 1267 Wrocław

2

Gerichtsverfahren

2

Juden

5

Strafrecht

Jurisdiktion des Bischofs

5

Eherecht

Kirchliches Vermögen

6

privilegium fori

Organisation der Kirchendienstes, Kultfragen

26

Unverletzlichkeit der Geistlichen

die Zucht des Klerus

Jakub Abp. Leod.1248 Wrocław

Die Sakramente

die Zahl der Artikel

Tabelle II. Die Legationsstatuten

2

4

2

7

3

2,9 6,5 2,4 1,2 4,1 1,7 0,6 1,2

amplius nullomodo nec pro aliqua persona volumus tollerare et cum aliquibus talium transgressorum aliter penis canonicis infratactis disponere intendimus, quod pena eorum erit ceteris in exemplum. (Art. 2). Man berief sich dabei direkt auf das gemeine Recht. So wurde zum Beispiel in den Statuten

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aus dem Jahre 1285 die Norm aus dem Gratians Dekret angeführt: Non audiatur missa presbyteri, qui concubinam habet, und ferner zitierte man das Dekret wörtlich D. 32 C. 6. Zu den Aufgaben der zu kanonischen Visitationen verpflichten Archidiakonen gehörte es, die in Konkubinat lebenden Priester aufzufinden. Diese Verfahren erwies sich jedoch als unzulänglich, denn die Synode aus dem Jahr 1285 ließ strengere Maßnahmen unternehmen. Die Bischöfe erhielten den Auftrag, Vertrauenspersonen im Geheimen zu schicken, um die Konkubine samt ihrem Nachwuchs zu verhaften. Ihr weiteres Schicksal sollte der Bischof pro arbitrio suo bestimmen.15 Es wurde auch verboten, einem Priestersohn die Priesterweihe zu erteilen, wenn dieser keinen päpstlichen Dispens erhalten hatte, der seine Geburt legitimiert hätte (1248, Art. 10). Die besprochene Frage des priesterlichen Zölibats bildete nur einen Teil des viel umfangreicheren Problems: es ging nämlich um das moralische Niveau der Geistlichkeit. Die Statuten aus 1285 erließen in diesem Bereich eine ganz allgemeine Norm; es war verboten, solche Männer zum Priester zu weihen, die in der Todessünde lebten (1285, Art. 23). Die in den Legatenstatuten im Jahre 1279 formulierten Sondervorschriften regelten das Verhalten des Ordensklerus. Es wurde verboten, ohne Einwilligung des  Vorgesetzen das Kloster zu verlassen (Art. 59). Die Mönche waren verpflichtet, entsprechende Kleider zu tragen und die Ordensregel zu beachten (Art. 58). Zum wichtigsten Problem wurde auch die Disziplin des Klerus, besonders der Gehorsam den Vorgesetzten gegenüber. Die sich gegen den Bischof verschwörenden Priester ließ die Synode in Kamień mit dem Bann bestrafen und ihnen die Benefizien entziehen. Derselben Strafe unterlagen diese Geistlichen, die den Laien bei einer der Kirche schadenbringenden Tätigkeiten Hilfe leisteten. Die schon mehrmals erwähnten Statuten der Synode aus dem Jahr 1285 ließen zur Priesterwürde keinen zu, cuius status, condicio, genus et conversatio ignota est (Art. 20). Der außerhalb der Provinz von Gniezno geweihte Priester durfte den geistlichen Dienst nicht ausüben nisi prius per diocesanum fuerit admissus et hoc per litteras eiusdem diocesani petentes ostendat. Von den Priestern verlangte man Residenzpflicht. Das 1248 in Wrocław erlassene Statut legte Bischöfen die Pflicht auf, ‘in den Kathedralkirchen, falls es möglich sei, viel Zeit zuzubringen, Predigten zu halten, Beichte zu hören 15

(§ 15) Capte autem, cum sua prole taliter acquisita, pro arbitrio dyocesani redigantur in perpetuam servitutem, aut si dyocesanis visum fuerit, recepta fideiussoria caucione, pro qualitate delicti, fustigata dimittatur. SPPP I, 385. Nach Wincenty Wójcik wurde dieser Artikel nicht verwendet. W. Wójcik, Ze studiów nad synodami polskimi (Lublin 1982) 116.

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und auf diese Weise den Klerus und dem Volk seiner Stadt den Glauben und gute Sitten zu lehren’. Dem Statut aus dem Jahr 1233 gemäß, ließ man die Abwesenheit des Pfarrers in der Kirche nur dann zu, wenn es schwerwiegende triftige Gründe (iusta causa) dazu gab, und dies auch ausschließlich mit des Bischofs Genehmigung. Die Verletzung der Residenzpflicht wurde mit einer finanziellen Strafe belegt: der Bestrafte verlor – für wenigstens ein Jahr – das Recht auf das Benefiziumseinkommen (1279, Art. 17). In Bezug auf den Kirchendienst, das heißt auf das Spenden der Sakramente, das Abhalten des Gottesdienstes und anderer kultischer Tätigkeiten, auf das Unterrichten und desgleichen mehr, enthielten die synodalen Statuten eine ganze Reihe von wichtigen Vorschriften, die der schädlichen und ungebührlichen Praxis in diesem Bereich entgegenwirken sollten. In den Statuten aus dem Jahr 1285 wurde zum Beispiel die fundamentale Regel ausgegeben, dass die Sakramente kostenlos gespendet und nicht verkauft werden sollten. (§10. Item statutimus, ut non vendantur ecclesiastica sacramenta; cum gratia debeat gratis dari). Die Statuten des Legaten Jakob aus 1248 entbanden die deutschen Ansiedler in Polen von dem örtlichen Brauch, ab dem Sonntag Septuagesima bis zu Ostern sich vom Fleischessen zu enthalten. Die Synode erlaubte den Deutschen, erst ab Aschermittwoch zu fasten, dem in Deutschland üblichen Brauch gemäß. Die von den polnischen Bischöfen erlassenen Exkommunikationsstrafen mussten also aufgehoben werden (1248, Art. 12). Dieselben Statuten regelten eingehend die Grundsätze für das Spenden der Sterbesakramente (die letzte Ölung) sowie für das Weihen der Speisen durch den Priester (Art. 8, 9). Die Synoden sorgten für die richtige Verkündigung der Religionswahrheiten. Man verordnete also, wie z. B. in den Jahren 1279 und 1285, Predigten in der polnischen Sprache zu halten. Die Bischöfe und Äbte wurden verpflichtet, die Schulen den polnischsprechenden Professoren zu überlassen, die possint pueris auctores exponere in polonica lingua (1285, Art. 6). In den Legationsstatuten von 1279 fanden auch eingehende Anweisungen hinsichtlich des Wesens der einzelnen Sakramente Platz, wohl deswegen, weil der Legat Philipp während seiner Mission keine einheitliche Praxis in diesem Bereich festgestellt hatte. Mehrere Vorschriften betrafen die Ordnung und Struktur der kirchlichen Gewalt, was damals ein wichtiger Problembereich war. In den synodalen Statuten wurden also Vorschriften berücksichtigt, die die Besetzung der kirchlichen Würden normierten. Die Statuten des Legaten Gentilis aus dem Jahre 1309 brachten eine ausführliche Erklärung der Grundsätze für die kanonische Elektion per

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scrutinium, per compromissum et per inspirationem.16 Man wiederholte auch hier die schon früher mehrmals formulierte Anordnung: Ne quis recipiat ecclesiasticum beneficium de manu laici (1309, Art. 3). Die Statuten aus dem Jahr 1279 reglementierten die Zeitdauer der Provinzialsynode sowie die Frage der Stellvertreter. In diesen Bereich würde ich auch das Erfordernis einreihen, dass die Archidiakonenkandidaten das Recht kennen sollten (Art. 38). Die in Łęczyca 1285 erlassenen Statuten enthalten die Bestimmungen, die die jurisdiktischen Prärogativen des Metropoliten in Gniezno vor jeglichen Exemptions- und Separationsversuchen schützen sollten. Der 18. Artikel der erwähnten Statuten drohte mit hohen kirchlichen Strafen denjenigen Personen oder Kollegien, die die Privilegien der erzbischöflichen Kirche zu schwächen versuchten, indem sie ihr den Gehorsam aufkündigten oder sich der Jurisdiktion einer anderen Gewalt unterzogen. Solche Personen sollten ihre Benefizien verlieren, es wurde ihnen auch das Recht auf die Sakramente und ein katholisches Begräbnis abgesprochen. Mit diesem Gesetz waren hauptsächlich einige Klöster in Schlesien gemeint, die sich darum bemühten, nicht der erzbischöflichen Jurisdiktion in Gniezno, sondern einer der deutschen Provinzen untergeordnet zu werden. Einen wichtigen Kreis der durch die synodalen Gesetze geregelten Probleme, bildeten die Verhältnisse zwischen Kirche und Bevölkerung. Dieser Problembereich fand seine Regelung in einer umfangreichen Gruppe von Vorschriften, die sowohl der Wahrung der politischen als auch der Vermögensinteressen der Kirche dienen sollten. Hier sind in der ersten Reihe die Vorschriften zu nennen, die dem persönlichen Schutz der Geistlichen und dem Schutz des kirchlichen Vermögens vor der Aggression der Laien dienten. In der Zeit der Zersplitterung Polens in Teilfürstentümern waren Kriege und innere Kämpfe gang und gäbe. Nicht selten fielen die Geistlichen, Episkopatsmitglieder nicht ausgenommen, solchen Kämpfen zum Opfer. Einige Bestimmungen aus der erwähnten Gruppe findet man schon in den ältesten bekannten synodalen Statuten, nämlich den in Kamień erlassenen Statuten. So gibt es hier zum Beispiel die Anordnung, die das ganze Episkopat verpflichtet, dem durch den Fürsten vertriebenen Bischof, Hilfe zu leisten. Die Verweigerung der Hilfe zog die Suspension des Priesters als Strafe nach sich (suspensio a divinis). Eine analoge Anordnung befindet sich auch in den späteren Statuten des Legaten Gwido aus dem Jahre 1267. Diejenigen, die die weltliche Gewalt in der antibischöflichen Tätigkeit unterstürzten, wurden mit dem kirchlichen Bann belegt. Waren es Geistliche, so sollten ihre Kirchen dem örtlichen Interdikt verfallen. Auf eine analoge Weise wurden auch die Berater bestraft, die die Fürsten gegen die Kirche aufbrachten. 16

AKP [=Archiwum Komisji Prawniczej] V, C. 15, S. 25.

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Auch 1257 fasste man in Łęczyca Beschlüsse von ähnlichem Inhalt. Den Anlass zu entsprechenden juristischen Verordnungen gab diesmal der Streit zwischen dem Bischof Thomas aus Wrocław und dem Fürsten Bolesław Rogatka aus Legnica. Dem Inhalt dieser Dispositionen gemäß sollte das ganze Land des Fürsten ipso facto dem Interdikt verfallen, falls der Bischof durch den Fürsten verhaftet würde. Man erlaubte nur, Kinder zu taufen und Sterbenden Beichte abzunehmen. Ein christliches Begräbnis wurde jedoch in solchem Fall verboten. Hätte man den Bischof ermordet, sollte die Kirche das ganze Vermögen des Täters bekommen. Ähnliche Gesetze galten im Falle der Verhaftung oder Ermordung eines Prälaten, Kanonikers oder irgendeines anderen Geistlichen. Damals betraf jedoch das Interdikt nur den Ort der Festnahme und der Verhaftung des Priesters. Den Täter belegte man hingegen mit dem Bann. Die Statuten des Legaten Guido aus dem Jahre 1267 enthalten eine bezeichnende gegen die Gesetze der weltlichen Fürsten gerichtete Anordnung, wenn jene Gesetze die kirchlichen Privilegien verletzten. Die Fürsten, ihre Berater, die diese Gesetze realisierenden Beamten, sogar die Schreiber, die diese Gesetze nur schriftlich verfassten, verfielen in die Bannstrafe. Den Richtern, die auf Grund solcher Gesetze Urteile gegen die Kirche fällten, drohte die Exkommunikation. Alle oben besprochenen, in ihrem Wesen kasuistischen, gerichtlichen Verordnungen wurden 1309 in den Statuten des Legaten Gentilis gewissermaßen zusammengefasst. Hier erklärte man jede Art des Angriffs gegen die Kirche oder eine geistliche Person als Grund für den Ausschluß aus der christlichen Gemeinschaft ; seine Güter wurden mit dem Interdikt belegt. Die Söhne des Verbannten durften weder Priesterwürde erhalten, noch Ordensgelübde ablegen. Vasallen und Diener des Verbannten wurden von dem Gehorsam dem Herrn gegenüber entbunden. Diese Anordnung hatte selbstverständlich eine politische Bedeutung; sie wurde weniger durch die Verhältnisse in Polen, sondern vielmehr durch die Situation in Ungarn diktiert, wo die Wahrung kirchlicher Interessen notwendig war. Der päpstliche Legat Gentilis, dessen Hauptaufgabe es war, die Herrschaft des durch den Heiligen Stuhl unterstützten Karl Robert zu sichern, verteidigte auf diese Weise seine politische Position gegen den Angriff der Gegner. Zu den wichtigsten Problemen, denen die synodale Gesetzgebung in Polen viel Aufmerksamkeit schenkte, gehört die Wahrung des kirchlichen Vermögensbestandes. In den Vordergrund rückt die Zehntfrage, die in viele Artikeln berührt wurde. Alle betonten beständig das Recht des Klerus auf den Zehnten und drohten mit schweren Strafen für die Abtragungsverweigerung oder für die eigenwilligen Änderungen der

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Zahlungsart. Und so zum Beispiel drohten die Statuten aus dem Jahr 1233 mit kirchlichen Sanktionen für Missbräuche bei der Zahlung des so genannten Freien Zehnten. Das Rittertum durfte nämlich kraft des Brauches den Zehnten einer frei gewählten Kirche abtragen (vgl. 1233, Art. 3). Die Statuten verbaten namentlich, den durch die Bauern im sogenannten System in gonitwam abgetragenen Zehnten gegen den freien, also den ritterlichen Zehnten, zu tauschen, wenn ein Ritter den bäuerlichen Boden übernommen hat. (1262, Art. 6). Der kirchliche Bann drohte auch für den eigenwilligen Tausch des Getreidezehnten gegen eine bestimmte Geldsumme (1267, Art. 7). Die Zehntgesetzgebung war aber nicht völlig einseitig. Die Statuten aus dem Jahr 1248 befahlen nämlich den zur Abnahme des Zehnten Berechtigten, die Gröβe des Zehnten gleich in der ersten Woche nach der Ernte zu bestimmen. Die Statuten aus 1267 verkürzten diese Frist auf drei Tage, vom Tag der Benachrichtigung des Berichtigten (denuntiatio) gerechnet. Der Aufschub in der Bestimmung des Zehnten verhinderte die Ernte und fügte den Bauern einen Schaden zu. Die synodalen Statuten widersetzten sich der Praxis, wegen der Neugründung von Dörfer, die Bauern von der Zehntpflicht zu befreien. Die Synoden erklärten solche – von den Gutsherren eingeführte – Praxis als Verletzung des Gottesrechtes (ut sic aliquando omne ius, quod Deus habet in decimis, deleatur. Quia igitur ex predictis et Deus et homines offenduntur... 1248, Art. 7). Die synodale Gesetzgebung nahm auch die kirchlichen Güter vor direkter Aggression seitens des Laien in den Schutz. Mit kirchlichen Strafen drohte man den Führern von Heerestruppen, falls die Soldaten in Kirchengütern das Getreide vernichtet oder einen anderen Schaden verursacht hätten. Den fürstlichen Beamten verbat man unter der Bannstrafe, von den Bauern aus den Kirchengütern Abgaben und bäuerliche Dienstleistungen, insbesondere Transportdienste (die sog. Fronfuhre), zu erzwingen (1262, Art. 3). Darüber hinaus verordneten die Legatenstatuten aus dem Jahre 1262 ein besonderes Gerichtsverfahren gegen diejenigen, die die persönliche Unverletzlichkeit des Geistlichen oder die Vermögensinteressen der Kirche antasteten. Die Täter wurden dem Gericht des Bischofs oder des Offizials ausgeliefert. Diese Richter sollten nach der Einreichung der Klage die Zeugen verhören und erforderlichenfalls die notwendige (Güter) Inquisition anordnen.17 In allen synodalen Statuten aus dem besprochenen Zeitraum befindet sich die Vorschrift, die sich auf das privilegium fori der Geistlichen beruft, das heißt den Geistlichen verbietet, vor einem weltlichen Gericht zu erscheinen. Dem weltlichen Richter, der es wagen würde, einen Geistlichen vor sein Gericht zu fordern, drohten die Statuten mit der Exkommunikation. 17

SPPP I, 18.

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In den synodalen Statuten, vor allem jedoch in den Legatenstatuten aus den Jahren 1248 und 1279 werden in vollem Maβe die neuen Grundsätze des römisch-kanonischen Prozesses sichtbar. Wir finden darunter Vorschriften, die die althergebrachte Praxis aufheben. Man führte eine neue Praxis ein, und zwar die Wahrheit durch das Beweisverfahren, insbesondere durch die Zeugenvernehmung, festzustellen. Als Zeichen des Fortschritts galten manche Gesetze aus dem Jahr 1279. Zum Beispiel jenes, welches den Richtern Geschenke von den streitenden Seiten einzunehmen verbat oder ein anderes, welches das Wesen der Rechtsgültigkeit (res iudicata) und der Appellation erklärte (1279, Art. 52–54). Die synodale Gesetzgebung des polnischen Mittelalters lässt selbstverständlich die Eheproblematik nicht unbeachtet. Für die Kirche, für die die Ehe als Sakrament galt, hatte die Möglichkeit, die volle Kontrolle über dieser Sphäre des gesellschaftlichen Lebens zu übernehmen, die erstrangige Bedeutung. Die in den polnischen synodalen Statuten enthaltenen Verordnungen betreffs der ehelichen Verhältnisse spiegelten die Politik der Kirche wider. Sie trachtete nämlich das kirchliche Modell der Ehe, der Gesellschaft aufzudrängen, sowohl in Bezug auf die Art und Weise der Eheschließung als auch auf das Wesen und Dasein der Ehe. Bedeutende Anweisungen enthielten die 1248 in Wrocław erlassenen Statuten des Legaten Jakob. Sie geboten den Priestern, unter anderem an der Verlöbniszeremonie teilzunehmen. In der Tat bedeutete dieser Brauch, der alten, noch heidnischen Tradition nach, einen Ehevertrag (desponsatio). Er wurde dann in weiteren Akten des Verlöbnisses und in der Zeremonie des feierlichen Geleitens der Neuvermählten in die Schlafkammer verwirklicht. Die genannten Statuten erklärten das Verlöbnis für die Verlobung (sponsalia de futuro), die darin bestand, dass das junge Paar einander die Eheschließung versprach. Die jungen Leute sollten, sich an den Händen haltend – wie die erwähnten Statuten angeben – folgende Formel aussprechen: Ego do tibi fidem meam, quod ego ducam te matrimonialiter in uxorem (virum) meam, si sancta ecclesia consentit. (1248, Art. 17). Der Priester (unbedingt der örtliche Pfarrer) war verpflichtet, nach diesem Versprechen die Verlobten daran zu erinnern, dass das körperliche Zusammenleben vor der eigentlichen Eheschließung in der Kirche nicht erlaubt sei. Dieser Zeremonie musste aber obligatorisch ein dreimaliges Aufgebot vorangehen: es wurde während der heiligen Messe gleich nach der Lesung des Evangeliums an drei aufeinanderfolgenden Sonntagen verkündigt. Unter Bannstrafe wurden damals alle, denen irgendein Ehehindernis bekannt gewesen wäre, aufgefordert, es ans Tageslicht zu bringen. Hat man keine Hindernisse festgestellt, durfte die Ehe geschlossen werden.

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Dieselben Statuten aus Wrocław enthalten auch einen wichtigen Artikel De raptu virginum. Er stellt fest, dass die Ehezusage einer Entführten keine juristische Geltung hatte, falls die Entführte den Eltern oder Verwandten nicht zurückgeführt worden wäre. (Consensum autem rapte diximus non tenere, donec in pristinam parentum et amicorum redierit potestatem, secunium canonicas sanctiones. 1248, Art. 48). Die polnischen synodalen Statuten sind also weiter gegangen als das Gemeinderecht, das – wie bekanntlich – nur die Feststellung erforderte, ob das Einverständnis der Entführten aus ihrem freien Willen erfolgte. Den Statuten aus dem Jahre 1285 gemäß erhielt der Priester, der den Ehebund zwischen dem Entführer und der Entführten gesegnet hätte, die Geldstrafe von 3 Silbermark. Die Statuten des Legaten Gentilis aus 1309 drohten mit schweren kirchlichen Strafen Eltern, die ihre christliche Tochter an einen Heiden verheirateten. Es gaben auch Vorschriften, die die jüdische Bevölkerung betrafen. In dieser Hinsicht verordneten die Statuten des Legaten Philipp aus dem Jahre 1279, dass sich die Juden durch besondere äußere Zeichen von der christlichen Bevölkerung absondern sollten. Dasselbe betraf alle Nichtchristen, die in Ungarn und in Polen lebten. Diese Statuten erlaubten auch nicht, das Rechtsprivileg, öffentliche Abgaben oder Zoll zu erheben und an Juden zu verpachten. Die Statuten von 1285 dagegen verpflichteten die Juden, gestohlene Sachen, die in ihren Besitz gelangten, den ursprünglichen Besitzern zurückzugeben, und dies ohne Anspruch auf die Rückgewinnung des Ankaufpreises. Man hat dabei ausdrücklich darauf hingewiesen, dass eine identische juristische Norm seit langem für die christliche Bevölkerung gelte. Es ist eine unbestreitbare Tatsache, dass die kirchliche Gesetzgebung vor allem solche Probleme aufgriff, die als die wichtigsten für die damalige Kirche galten. Es waren einerseits die inneren Probleme, also Fragen die mit der kirchlichen Ordnung in Polen, mit der Zucht des Klerus, mit den Aufgaben der Kirche, das heißt mit deren Lehr- und heiligenden Tätigkeit, verbunden waren. Andererseits zielten viele Vorschriften darauf ab, durch die Sicherung der inneren Autonomie und der Unverletzbarkeit der Kirche, ihre Position – vor allem der staatlichen Macht gegenüber – zu stärken. Ein beträchtlicher Teil dieser Verordnungen hatte die Wahrung der Vermögensinteressen, insbesondere des Zehntprivilegs zum Ziel. Die synodale Gesetzgebung verteidigte hauptsächlich die Interessen der Kirchen, zugleich aber wurde in diesen Gesetzen die Sorge um das polnische Wesen, um die Ordnung und den inneren Frieden in Polen zum Ausdruck gebracht, denn in der Zeit der feudalen Zersplitterung Polens war es nicht so einfach, den Frieden aufrechtzuerhalten.

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Die synodalen Gesetzgebung war sicher einer der wichtigen Faktoren, die die Wandlung der polnischen Gesellschaft nach dem westlichen Muster beschleunigten; so hatte sie zur Latinisierung Polens wesentlich beigetragen. Diese Gesetzgebung wurde auch zu einer Art Situationsspiegel für die Verhältnisse innerhalb der Kirche und in der polnischen Gesellschaft.

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The Coming of the Gypsies: Cities, Princes and Nomads David Abulafia Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge

A reader of classic nineteenth-century novels about fifteenth-century France will be struck by the prominent role accorded to the Gypsies in Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame and in Sir Walter Scott’s Quentin Durward. Both authors were attracted by the image of an exotic group that stood outside conventional society, and was supposedly able to function as spies and messengers in the times of trouble Scott and Hugo sought to describe. Both writers took care to read relevant source material, but one would not, of course, wish to base any assessment of the role of Gypsies in the late medieval European state on these two highly imaginative authors. Yet, as will be seen, the image of organised communities led by ‘dukes’ or ‘counts’, loyal to its own customs even when they were at odds with the norms of fifteenthcentury French or German society, is an intriguing one, all the more so when western European dukes, counts or city governments were prepared to treat these nomads with at least as much respect as fear. European rulers were puzzled by what they saw, and the Gypsies added to the puzzlement by presenting themselves as Christian pilgrims, and as bearers of papal and imperial letters of protection. This essay is concerned with some early attempts to fit the Gypsies into existing social categories, and with the ambiguous response of the public authorities to their arrival. How could groups of nomads be accommodated within the emerging state of the late Middle Ages? The essay is thus also concerned with the ways public authorities did or did not impose their will on the Gypsies, sometimes accepting what appeared to be guarantees of their good faith from higher authorities, and sometimes expressing concern about the conduct of groups of nomads who saw themselves as self-governing and exempt from the authority of local power structures. The essay is also necessarily concerned with the creation of stereotypes about the appearance and conduct of the Gypsies, some of which have sadly endured into modern times, notably in countries such as the Czech Republic and Romania. For this reason, as well as the fact that groups of Roma and Sinti filtered into Europe in subsequent centuries, it has been thought best to call the nomads by one of the names Europeans used to describe them, names that reveal something about how they were classified in European minds: Gypsies or gitanos, that is, ‘Egyptians’.

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The early history of the Gypsy communities in Europe has generally been treated from the perspective of the internal history of the Gypsies themselves, emphasizing the problem of their ethnic origins and the reasons for their migration into first eastern and then western Europe. Close attention has also been paid to evidence for the language they spoke at the time of their arrival in Europe. This has led to the creation of a compact and rather closed area of study (known to German scholars as Tsiganologie), while the question of western European reactions to their presence has featured less prominently in the classic literature. No one now doubts that they originated in the Indian sub-continent, even if the date of their departure is debated and the routes they took to the west, via Persia, have to be mapped using linguistic evidence as much as hard evidence for their presence. A masterly account of what is known about the early Gypsies has been provided by Sir Angus Fraser.1 Gradually, though, there has been a shift towards the question of European reactions to their arrival.2 As historians of late medieval and early modern Europe have given greater emphasis to the presence of the ‘other’, there has been more interest in approaching the problem of reactions to the Gypsies from the perspective of wider changes in European society either side of 1500. In 1982 Bronisław Geremek published a short piece on the coming of the Gypsies to Italy in the proceedings of a conference at Cremona. The conference was devoted to the history of the poor in early modern Italy, and its title, Timore e Carità, elegantly drew out the paradoxes in the treatment of groups of the poor. Both fear and charity played their role in the treatment of the Gypsies – or, from the perspective of the state, we have what Geremek called a shift from public support to repression.3 However, the literature on the history of the Gypsies in eastern Europe is much richer than that on western Europe, not surprisingly, in view of the lasting presence of large numbers of Roma and Sinti in those regions. An elderly study by P. Bataillard of their arrival in western Europe needs to be fully revised in the light of additional information and new perspectives.4 1 2

3

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A. Fraser, The Gypsies, The Peoples of Europe (Oxford 1992) 10–129. M. Eliav-Feldon, ‘Vagrants or vermin? Attitudes towards Gypsies in early modern Europe’, in: M. Eliav-Feldon, B. Isaac and J. Ziegler (eds), The orgins of racism in the West (Cambridge 2009) 276–91. B. Geremek, ‘L’arrivée des Tsiganes en Italie: de l’assistance à la repression’, in: Timore e Carità: I Poveri nell’Italia moderna. Atti del convegno ‘Pauperismo e assistenza negli antichi stati italiani’ (Cremona, 28–30 marzo 1980), ed. by G. Politi, M. Rosa and F. della Peruta (Cremona 1982) 27–44; Italian version entitled ‘L’arrivo dei Zingari in Italia: dall’assistenza alla repressione’ in: B. Geremek, Uomini senza padrone (Turin 1992) 151–80 – references here are to the French text. P. Bataillard, ‘Beginning of the immigration of the Gypsies into western Europe in the fifteenth century’, Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society, ser. 1, vol. 1 (1888–9) 185–212, 260–86, 324–45; vol. 2 (1890) 27–53; useful corrective taking note of documentary sources in: E. Winstedt, ‘Some records of the Gypsies in Germany, 1407–1792’, Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society, ser. 3, vol. 11 (1932) 97–111; vol. 12 (1933) 123–41, 189–96; vol. 13 (1934) 98–116.

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Even so, interest in western Europe has developed in recent years. Ethnological studies of the Spanish Gypsies, partly inspired by the work of the polymath Julio Caro Baroja, have now been complemented by an accomplished account of the Gypsies in the life and literature of early modern Spain.5 One area that has been especially well favoured is Germany and Switzerland. Reimer Gronemeyer’s collection of texts concerning the Gypsies in those lands, which includes facsimiles of early printed sources, is invaluable in tracing the response of late medieval and early modern chroniclers to the arrival of the Gypsies.6 This still leaves much work to be done in the archives, searching out the records of city councils and other bodies that recorded decisions about hospitality towards the Gypsies. This essay does not pretend to have examined all those sources. Its theme is, rather, the evidence provided by narratives for the evolution of public opinion concerning the Gypsies. The subject is of special interest because it is in this period that we see increasingly tough treatment of other minority groups: the Sephardic Jews and the mudéjar Muslims in Spain, not to mention the Jewish communities of several major German cities such as Regensburg and Nuremberg. It is also the period when western Europeans had to come to terms with the discovery of peoples untouched by Christianity, first in the Canary islands, and then in the Caribbean and the two American continents.7 There was a powerful temptation to fit previously unknown peoples into already known categories, and the Gypsies were no exception. This essay is therefore intended to contribute to the study of the Gypsies by considering in what respects accounts of their appearance, beliefs and organisation coincided with or differed from those of other Others. This is not to claim that (say) accounts of the Canary islanders influenced accounts of the Gypsies. Rather, many of these accounts reflected similar anxieties and prejudices. A curious feature of early Gypsy history is that the supposedly nomadic Gypsies appear to have established long-term settlements in some parts of eastern Europe, including Greece. It was in fourteenth-century Greece that Venetian observers first encountered the Gypsies, who had gathered at Nauplion, in the north-eastern Peloponnese, and at Modon, on its 5

6

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R. Pym, The Gypsies of early modern Spain, 1425–1783 (Basingstoke 2007); ethnological studies include P. Gay y Blasco, Gypsies in Madrid: sex, gender and the performance of identity (Oxford 1999). R. Gronemeyer, Die Zigeuner im Spiegel früher Chroniken und Abhandlungen: Quellen vom 15. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert (Gießen 1987; also published as Jahrbuch 1987 of the Gießener Hefte für Tsiganologie); references to sources cited from Gronemeyer are given in the form of a reference to Gronemeyer’s source, followed by a reference to the page in Gronemeyer’s book where a facsimile, or occasionally a transcription, is provided. I have checked the facsimiles against early editions, though it has not always been possible to find the same edition as that used by Gronemeyer. D. Abulafia, The discovery of Mankind: Atlantic encounters in the age of Columbus (New Haven 2008).

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southern tip, as well as on Corfu where (if Fraser is correct) the presence of Gypsy smiths preceded the Venetian acquisition of the island in 1386. Both Modon and Nauplion were in Venetian hands, and the first clear testimony of a Gypsy presence at Modon appears as early as 1384, when Lionardo di Niccolò Frescobaldi, a Florentine, passed through Modon on his way to the Holy Land and noticed that there were people called Romiti who were camped outside the city walls. Only an arch-sceptic would fail to accept that these were members of the Roma branch of the Gypsy people. He assumed that, like him, they were pilgrims. This may be the first evidence for a story the Gypsies themselves were anxious to propagate in the next century, for their status as penitents guaranteed them the sympathy of the local governor. By the end of the fourteenth century, the Gypsies of Nauplion seem to have acquired privileges from the Venetian governor, and were recognised as a self-governing community under their own drungarius or military commander.8 The existence of their own leader confirmed the sense that they were something akin to crusaders – pilgrims living under military discipline. On the other hand, the involvement of the Corfiote Gypsies in metalwork suggests that they were in part able to survive by means of the specialised skills they possessed, and an account of the Gypsy settlement at Modon from the end of the fifteenth century portrays them as cobblers and metalworkers.9 Their presence at Modon was paradoxically both lengthy – they were still active there a century after Frescobaldi – and nomadic, for they lived in what Arnold von Harff described as two hundred ‘little houses roofed with reeds’ outside the walls. The same author described them as ‘poor black naked people’ and, judging from his stories about papal and imperial letters of protection, he was already influenced by the stories and attitudes that had developed in western Europe during the fifteenth century. On the other hand, he did not really believe that they were van kleynem Egyppten, and thought they came from a place he called Gyppe, only forty miles from Modon, which the Turks had overwhelmed – and indeed in this period the Gypsies who arrived in Spain often presented themselves as refugee ‘Greeks’, as will be seen.10 He observed them in 1497, only a few years before the Ottomans expelled the Venetians from this much-valued port. Once the Turks were in charge, the Gypsies did not stay put. In 1519 there were a mere thirty Gypsy 8 9

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Fraser, Gypsies, 51–3. Arnold von Harff, Die Pilgerfahrt des Ritters Arnold von Harff von Cöln durch Italien, Syrien, Aegypten, Arabien, Aethiopien, Nubien, Palästina, die Türkei, Frankreich und Spanien, wie er sie in den Jahren 1496 bis 1499 vollendet, beschrieben und durch Zeichnungen erläuert hat, ed. by E. von Groote (Cologne 1860) 67–8; English versions in Fraser, Gypsies, 53–4, and in The pilgrimage of Arnold von Harff, knight: from Cologne through Italy, Syria, Egypt, Arabia, Ethiopia, Nubia, Palestine, Turkey, France, and Spain, which he accomplished in the years 1496 to 1499, ed. by M. Letts, Hakluyt Society, ser. 2, vol. 94 (London 1946). Pym, Gypsies of early modern Spain, 14–15.

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huts on the outskirts of Modon, which had lost its commercial importance and therefore its attraction to skilled Gypsy craftsmen.11 Around 1400 the Gypsies would have appeared to the Venetian lords of ‘a quarter and half a quarter of the empire of Romania’ as one among several wandering groups, darker and more exotic, perhaps, but easily confused with the Vlachs and the Albanians who also made constant inroads into Greece. This relationship with the Gypsies changed significantly as they began to enter western Europe itself from 1417 onwards. Around this time Gypsy nomads are also recorded in Transylvania, at Braşov, where they were given alms in 1416. Their troop consisted of Emaus, ‘lord of Egypt’, and 120 followers.12 This brought them to the south-eastern edges of the vast Hungarian realm ruled by Sigismund of Luxemburg, and it was in Hungary that they would soon claim to have received a privilege from Sigismund, issued before they entered his other kingdom, that of Germany. Their entry into western Europe was accompanied by elaborate tales about why they had arrived, which helped condition the European response to their arrival. The city accounts of the Saxon town of Hildesheim mentioned a visit by ‘Tartars’ who seem to be Gypsies in 1407. They presented themselves in the office of the town clerk, where letters of accreditation they carried were examined, and they were given alms. In 1417 the same archive recorded a gift of alms to the ‘Tartars from Egypt, for the honour of God’.13 In 1414, ‘heathens’, Heiden, received gifts from the city of Basel, and around this time some other German cities were also apparently visited. The term Heiden became widely diffused – it was used to describe them when they reached Deventer in the Netherlands in 1429, and lingered despite an awareness that these ‘heathens’ insisted they were actually penitent Christians.14 Notwithstanding the apparent generosity shown in Basel and elsewhere, they were treated with suspicion, and at Hildesheim they were placed under guard. The distance between offering protection and ensuring segregation was not a vast one. Equally the distance between free gifts of alms and donations of protection money was not vast. As the reputation of the Gypsies for thievery spread some cities may have hoped that gifts would win their goodwill, distract them from theft and encourage them to go on their way. In western Europe, these nomads were well-organised. It is generally recognised that their entry into western Europe coincided with a transformation in their way of operating. To cite Fraser: ‘Suddenly, we find Gypsies behaving 11 12 13 14

Fraser, Gypsies, plate 5, p. 52, and p. 55. Fraser, Gypsies, 61. Winstedt, ‘Some records’ (1932), 109–10. Bataillard. ‘Beginning of the immigration’ (1890), 34–9; M. de Goeje, ‘The Heidens of the Netherlands’, Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society, ser. 1, vol. 2 (1890) 129–37; Fraser, Gypsies, 62, 65; Eliav-Felden, ‘Vagrants or vermin?’, 279.

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in an almost unprecedented manner. They are no longer unobtrusive, but almost court attention. They are no uncoordinated rabble, but move in an apparently purposeful way under leaders with impressive titles’. It is not clear whether the troops of Gypsies commanded by ‘dukes’ and ‘counts’, and mentioned in any number of fifteenth-century German chronicles, represent a single peregrinating group of nomads, or whether they had already divided into several branches before they reached western Europe. Often the term ‘duke’ is used in the singular, and ‘counts’ in the plural, and sometimes it is linked to the term ‘Little [or Lesser] Egypt’, as at Tournai in 1429. But the names of these dukes vary: a Duke Michael appears between 1418 and 1422, and again at Utrecht in 1429, while Duke Andrew was active in 1419, 1420 and 1422.15 A good starting-point is the chronicle of the Dominican friar Hermann Cornerus of Lübeck, which goes up to 1435. He made extensive use of other sources, but his account of the arrival of the Gypsies in northern Germany during 1417 surely reflects his own response to what he saw.16 He insists on the novelty of the Gypsies: quedem extranea et previe non visa. They were a vagabond multitude that arrived in Germany from lands further to the East, beginning in Lüneburg and passing on to Hamburg, Lübeck, Rostock, Greifswald and other towns. They travelled in columns, some on foot and some on horseback, and would spend the night outside the city walls, which suited them better since they were thieves and were afraid of being arrested if they lingered within the walls. The women were the worst malefactors and many of them were arrested for theft and put to death (the sense seems to be that they were executed according to some legal process, rather than killed at random, but it is impossible to be sure). As for their number, there were about three hundred of them, male and female, in addition to their children. They were forma turpissimi, nigri ut Tartari. This comparison with Tartars, who in reality were not black-skinned, is an important and early example of the use of existing categories to classify the Gypsies. As has been seen, it was not unique to this chronicler. Yet the comment goes further, in insisting on a link between their supposedly unpleasant appearance and their evil character. The relationship between character and appearance was something that would obsess those who encountered the peoples of West Africa and the New World over the course of the next century. Cornerus tells us that they called themselves Secani. A contemporary writer, Andreas of Regensburg, uses the form Cigani or, ‘in everyday speech’, Cigäwnär, the

15

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Bataillard. ‘Beginning of the immigration’ (1888–9), 265; Bataillard. ‘Beginning of the immigration’ (1890), 44–5. Hermann Cornerus, Chronicon, in: Jo. Georgius Eccardus, Corpus Historicum Medii Aevi (Leipzig 1723), vol. 2, col. 1225, = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 15–16, and facsimile of MS text [no location given] in Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 17; English version in Fraser, Gypsies, 67; EliavFelden, ‘Vagrants or vermin?’, 285.

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word from which their German name, Zigeuner, descends; the Hungarian name was cigány.17 Cornerus tries to fit the Gypsies into existing categories in other ways, too. He stresses that they had their own leaders or principes, that is, a ‘duke’ and a ‘count’, who exercised justice among them and whose commands they followed. They also were said to have their own ‘bishops’. While we can obviously expect that bands of Gypsies were organised hierarchically, it is not clear whether the Gypsies took these titles from the inhabitants of Europe, mimicking the societies they encountered, or whether these titles were simply a manner of speech among those who observed their arrival, and sought to fit them into existing social categories. The probable answer is a mixture of both explanations. The nomads studied the societies they encountered, and made an effort to present themselves in terms readily comprehensible to western Europeans. Their information network was impressive. As will be seen in a moment, they knew who was king of Germany and Hungary, were aware of at least one claimant to the papal throne, and were capable of producing documents that seemed to emanate from the courts of these and other rulers. For this they presumably relied on the complicity of western Europeans, perhaps city notaries, who were willing to produce the documents they needed. There was no concerted action against them because they carried letters of protection apparently issued by several princes, most notably Sigismund, king of Germany and Hungary. Thus when they arrived at towns and castles they were admitted by the city government, bishop or lay lord and humaniter tractati. The explanation of the wandering style of life lay in their abandonment of Christianity in favour of paganism (Paganismum); when they reverted to the true faith they were subjected by their own bishops to the penance of spending seven years on pilgrimage. This explanation would recur many times, long after the first seven years had elapsed. This account needs to be compared with that of Andreas Presbyter, already briefly mentioned. His references to the presence of Gypsies at Regensburg date from 1424, 1426 and 1433, by which time troops of Gypsies had appeared much further south in Germany than those encountered by Cornerus. According to his editors, Œfelius and Leidinger, Andreas only speaks of thirty Gypsies, and fewer in subsequent years, but in his translation of the Latin Gronemeyer optimistically magnifies ad xxx Personas into ‘300 Personen’. Though he does not explain why he does so, 17

Andreas Presbyter of Regensburg, Diarium Sexennale, in: Andreas Felix Œfelius, Rerum Boicarum Scriptores nusquam antehac editi (Augsburg 1763) 21, and Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, München, MS Lat. 903, f. 245r; = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 18–19, 23 [facsimile of MS]; Andreas von Regensburg, Sämtliche Werke, ed. by G. Leidinger, Quellen und Erörterungen zur Bayerischen und Deutschen Geschichte, Neue Folge, vol. 1 (Munich 1903; repr. Aalen 1969) 318–19.

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and even appears to accept the figure of thirty in a footnote, this emendation makes sense: the manuscript reads xxx and the final x is topped by a small flourish [˜], which would normally provide the reading triginta.18 This is arguably a scribal error for either ccc or iijc. Thirty people, succeeded by even fewer, would surely not attract the attention that Andreas then devoted to the Cigäwnär. On the other hand, it is possible that the original troop of about 300 adults had fragmented into smaller bands. Andreas talks of the tents they set up in the fields outside cities, for they were not permitted to live within the walls – whether this was a rule they imposed on themselves as self-proclaimed wandering pilgrims, or a rule imposed by the public authorities because of their reputation for theft is not made clear. But Andreas insists that they were clever thieves. He knew that they had arrived from Hungary but explained their origins no further. What he felt he could explain was the reason for their wandering. They had chosen to exile themselves from their native land in commemoration of the flight of Joseph, Mary and the baby Jesus to Egypt, when Herod sought to kill the little boy. But the word went around that they were experts on secret things, a point made again and again by later writers who insisted on the role of the Gypsies (especially Gypsy women) as necromancers. Andreas, like Cornerus, knew that the Gypsies carried letters of accreditation from Sigismund, king of the Romans: more of their contents shortly. They appear to have been at Lindau on Lake Constance in about 1417, where they obtained privileges from Sigismund, who was present in the region during the Council of Constance, though at this point his mind was more pre-occupied with the resolution of the papal schism and the election of the new pope, Martin V, not to mention the Hussite threat to the Catholic Church and Ottoman expansion towards the borders of Hungary.19 Among those attending this council were, if the chronicler Ulrich Richental is to be believed, members of many exotic Churches, including ‘the two Indias, the Greater and the Lesser, ruled by Prester John, the kingdom of Ethiopia, where the Moors live, the kingdom of Egypt, and the kingdom of Nineveh’. All these Asian and African Christians were assigned to the ‘English nation’, along with the Scots and the Irish.20 Admittedly, Richental’s chronicle is ambiguous, and it is unclear whether Ethiopians actually attended, as has sometimes been assumed (though Ethiopians and Copts did attend the later Council of Florence, arriving in 1441). However, it is likely that the Gypsies, 18

19 20

Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 23, facsimile of f. 245r, line 4. Leidinger, Sämtliche Werke, 319, prints ad 30 personas using Arabic numerals; cf. Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 21n. Fraser, Gypsies, 64. ‘Richental’s Chronicle’, in: L.R. Loomis, J.H. Mundy and K.M. Woody (eds), The Council of Constance: the unification of the Church (New York 1961) 108; J. Wylie, The Council of Constance to the death of John Hus (London 1900) 8.

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as natives of ‘Lesser Egypt’, were assumed to originate from somewhere near Ethiopia, and were welcomed as penitent Ethiopian pilgrims – as will be seen, similar confusion probably occurred in Spain a few years later. If they were not Ethiopian, then surely they were Copts, Indians or the natives of some other land close to Ethiopia and mainly known by rumour. They had timed their visit to Lake Constance very well indeed. (There were certainly Gypsies in Constance in 1430, when a city chronicle spoke of ain schwarz folk who had arrived in the region).21 Sigismund’s charity to the self-proclaimed Gypsy nomads could therefore stem from a willingness to support those who insisted they were loyal sons of the true Church, and who seemed to originate in the lands that were being overwhelmed by the Turk and Tartar. It was only a few years since Timur Leng (Tamerlane) had wreaked havoc in central Asia and Anatolia. Treating the Gypsies well was thus a minor way of affirming opposition to the danger from the East. With their tale of penance, the Gypsies seemed to qualify well for Christian charity. The Gypsies proved adroit learners and developed their own tale of misfortune and redemption in order to appeal to Christian princes and cities throughout western Europe. The relationship between the privilege to the Gypsies and the Hussites emerges in other ways too. Cornerus notes the burning of Hus at the Council of Constance in 1417, and he goes on to describe the actions of a Jew called Jacobus who, ‘in some city’, stole a communion wafer only to find the figure of a boy within the wafer. He tried to eat the wafer, but the image of the boy turns hard and bony, and he failed. After an encounter with a demon, he attempted to bury the boy but all his efforts to hide the body were frustrated, and the story ends with his conversion, along with that of many other Jews.22 In telling this tale, Cornerus was defending the teaching of the Church on transubstantiation, in the face of the Hussite rejection of this concept. Similar motifs can be found in the development of the cult of the Holy Blood at Wilsnack in northern Germany, which Caroline Walker Bynum has examined.23 In fact, Cornerus turns back to the Hussites after telling this story. He makes no comparison between the Jews as outsiders and the Gypsies, but there is a parallel between the Jew who converts following an act of host desecration, and the Gypsies who have come out of the East (the lands of heretics and Saracens) after returning to their faith. In Cornerus’ account, both the converted Jew and the repentant Gypsy represent a new order in which unbelief will be vanquished. 21 22 23

Winstedt, ‘Some records’ (1932), 102–3. Cornerus, Chronicon, vol. 2, cols. 1220–2. C.W. Bynum, Wonderful Blood: theology and practice in late medieval northern Germany and beyond (Philadelphia 2007).

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No surviving privilege in favour of the Gypsies dating to 1417 has been identified; in looking for a text it is necessary to turn to the evidence from 1423–4, as recorded by Andreas of Regensburg. Since they had arrived from Hungary, one of Sigismund’s domains, the idea that he had issued letters of protection for them at Sepus (Spiš castle, in what is now eastern Slovakia) in 1423 made perfect sense. Andreas not merely heard about these letters; he saw at least one, and copied it into his chronicle. It is possible that the letter was genuine, or a copy of an authentic letter. Its authenticity has been accepted in a recent biography of Sigismund. Moreover, Sigismund was in present-day Slovakia around the time the privilege was apparently issued.24 The document begins by stating that it is addressed to all Sigismund’s subjects in his many kingdoms – Germany, Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia – and specifically to his nobles, officials, castles and cities. The privilege describes how ‘Ladislaus waynoda of the Cigani came in person with others into our presence’ to request Sigismund’s favour, and he and his companions were promised that, when they arrived in cities within his dominions, they would be protected from all interference, offence and obstacles, while any trouble that might arise while they were present was to be judged not by the city courts or by Sigismund’s officials but by the leader of the Gypsies, Ladislaus (it is unclear whether this refers solely to disputes among the Gypsies or to disputes between Gypsies and the local population as well).25 Once again there is an assumption that the Gypsies move around under the command of a leader, but the Slavonic term voivode has been put to use instead of dux or comes, in the form waynoda (n and u/v being easily confused in most fifteenth-century scripts). The name of the waynoda, Ladislaus, is also Slavonic, and – while it is far from impossible that wandering troops of Gypsies were taken under the wing of opportunistic eastern European soldiers – the use of the name and epithet can best be understood as part of a process of acculturation among the Gypsies. They were keen to adapt themselves to the political language and religious assumptions of the Europeans sufficiently to ensure that they would gain acceptance and support. But they had no intention of abandoning their wandering lifestyle, which over the centuries had become an important aspect of their cultural identity. In particular, they expected to be able to judge themselves by their own codes of practice, and this right was emphatically confirmed by the emperor. Parallels to this exemption can be found elsewhere, for instance in royal and princely grants to the Jews of 24

25

W. Baum, Kaiser Sigismund: Konstanz, Hus und Türkenkriege (Graz 1993) 177; also J. Hoensch, Die Luxemburger: eine spätmittelalterliche Dynastie gesamteuropäischer Bedeutung 1308–1437 (Stuttgart 2000) 254–6; general accounts of Sigismund at the Constance Council in: K. Schelle, Das Konstanzer Konzil 1414–1418: eine Reichsstadt im Brennpunkt europäischer Politik (Constance 1996) 83–9; F. Welsh, The battle for Christendom: the Council of Constance, 1415, and the struggle to unite against Islam (London 2008) 168–79. Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 18–20, 22–23 [facsimiles, f. 245].

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the right to follow their own laws in internal disputes. Even so, this is hardly proof of the authenticity of the diploma. Yet even if the diploma was forged, it betrays a good understanding of the movements of the emperor. The document was certainly plausible enough to convince several German and Swiss towns that they had a duty of hospitality to the Gypsies. Andreas records other visits to Regensburg. In 1426 ‘the same people’, eadem gens, raised its tents in an area called inter waiteras.26 This is quite easy to identify, on an island site in the Danube, hard by the Hospital of St Katharine and the Stadtamhof, and opposite neighbouring islands in the Danube now known as the Oberer and Unterer Wöhrd. Technically these island suburbs of Regensburg were not part of the Imperial Free City; but they were much less built-up, while enjoying the advantage of very close proximity to the Stone Bridge that led, and still leads, into Regensburg. In other works Andreas mentioned the arrival of the Gypsies: in 1424 quedam gens Ciganorum volgariter Cygänwär in terris nostris vaga exulabat;27 and they re-appeared in 1433; they claimed to come from Egypt, but Andreas clearly had doubts – he reported that this was what they claimed [dicebant se esse ex Egypto], rather than asserting that this was where they actually originated.28 This would be elaborated into stories that they originated in ‘Little Egypt’, a land distinct from Egypt proper, and it was, of course, through their supposed Egyptian origins that they came to be known as Egypciens, and hence as ‘Gypsies’. Andreas provides valuable evidence, then, that the stories these nomads told about themselves were beginning to wear thin. Evidence from account books confirms important elements in the narratives. From Frankfurt-am-Main come references to payments to den elendigen luden ußdem cleynen Egypten for meat and bread, in 1418, but later references show greater hostility: in 1469 a ‘count of Little Egypt’ was sent packing without gifts, and again and again the city council tried to keep Gypsies out of the town.29 Hospitality turned into hostility. Elsewhere, the mood was more forgiving. In Hildesheim, gifts to the Tateren uit Egipten were recorded in 1417, 1454 and several intervening years, and it has been seen that they may even have reached this town as early as 1407. But in Hamburg a series of gifts to the Tartars of Little Egypt, recorded from 1434 26

27

28

29

Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 19 [source citation, giving maiteras], 22 [waiteras, after Leidinger, Sämtliche Werke, 319]. Andreas Presbyter, Chronica pontificum et imperatorum Romanorum, in: Leidinger, Sämtliche Werke, 465. 1424: Andreas Presbyter, Chronica pontificum et imperatorum Romanorum, in: Leidinger, Sämtliche Werke, 482; = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 24; 1433: Andreas Presbyter, Chronica de principibus terrae Bavarorum, in: Leidinger, Sämtliche Werke, 576 [reading Egipto]. Winstedt, ‘Some records’ (1932), 106–7.

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onwards, became by 1468 a bribe to send them away.30 Indeed, it is perfectly possible that the Gypsies came to prefer a frosty welcome, since this was more likely to ensure they were paid to disappear. The Gypsies ranged far beyond Germany and Switzerland in these years. It is simply the impressive concentration of German town chronicles, and especially of Swiss ones, that leads to an emphasis on the movement of the Gypsies around Germany and neighbouring lands. In fact, the richest account of the Gypsies in this period was written down in Paris, and can be found in the famous Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris.31 Here we see how a well-to-do Parisian of the upper middle class reacted to the arrival of the Gypsies. The anonymous author records the arrival of twelve ‘penitents’ in Paris on 17 August 1427. At their head was a single duke, accompanied by a count and ten mounted men. ‘They said that they were good Christians; they came from Lower Egypt.’ The Bourgeois reports the story of their Christian past, though he provides plenty of detail absent elsewhere. They originally lived in a land that had become Christian, following its conquest by other Christians. Their heathen rulers had accepted the new faith and were permitted, therefore, to remain in power as king and queen. Conquered by the Saracens (a term the Bourgeois uses for any pagans or idolaters), they had then abandoned their faith, only to become Christian once more when the Holy Roman Emperor and the king of Poland overran their land. The emperor was unhappy about their disloyalty and insisted that jamais ne tiendraient terre en leur pays, si le pape ne le consentait. So they were sent to Rome to receive the consent of the pope to their eventual return, for which they desperately hoped. The pope then imposed a penance on them. They must wander the world for seven years without ever sleeping in a bed. Yet their harsh life was to be made less difficult to bear, since the pope ordered every bishop and abbot to give them a one-off gift of ten livres tournois (thereby ensuring that they kept moving). The pope supposedly issued letters in their favour, though needless to say none has ever been found in the papal archives.32 The Parisian response to their arrival was to keep them outside the city walls, at Chapelle-Saint-Denis, even though they only numbered between 100 and 120. They became quite an attraction to a grande allée de gens who were curious to see them at Chapelle-Saint-Denis. Among them was this author, who provides a detailed description of the Gypsies. Most wore silver ear-rings, which they said was a sign of gentillesse in their homeland. In other words, they wanted to be recognised as people of high standing despite their 30 31

32

Winstedt, ‘Some records’ (1932), 109–10. Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris de 1405 à 1449, ed. by C. Beaune (Paris 1990); A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, ed. and transl. by J. Shirley (Oxford 1968). Journal d’un Bourgeois, 235–6; Parisian Journal, 216–8.

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poor clothes and simple style of life. The men are described as très noirs, with black frizzy hair and pony-tails, and this author thought that the women were the ugliest one could ever see. They wore the simplest clothes: a blanket above a long smock. Bref, c’étaient les plus pauvres creatures qu’on vit oncques venire en France d’âge d’homme. They were pickpockets and fortune-tellers, for among them were sorcières qui regardaient ès mains des gens and predicted the future, sometimes sowing discord when they convinced men and women that they were being cuckolded by their spouse. News of their necromancy reached the bishop of Paris, who decided to put an end to this nonsense: he arrived with a Franciscan friar and excommunicated the fortune-tellers along with those who believed their false claims. On 8 September the Gypsies, under pressure from the bishop, moved on, towards Pontoise.33 It is striking that the author of the Paris journal, who cannot have been aware of the opinions of chroniclers in Germany and Switzerland, attributes similar characteristics to the Gypsies. They are accused of theft and necromancy, and they are described as hideous-looking; one criterion for ugliness is evidently their dark skin. On the one hand they are penitents, and must be respected for their wish to atone for their sins; on the other hand they give way to temptation, stealing and defrauding good Christians, and practising dark arts that act as a reminder of their heathen past and their backsliding after they were first converted to Christianity. The Bourgeois de Paris thus expresses similar ambiguities to the German and Swiss writers who have already been encountered. There are also striking similarities to the account of a Bolognese chronicler who described the arrival of the Gypsies in his home city in 1422. Once again they were a great focus of public attention. Among the most prominent fortune-tellers was the Gypsy duke’s wife; she and her husband were honoured with accommodation in the albergo del re within the city, while the others had to stay outside the walls. But those who visited the fortune-tellers often had their money stolen. Bands of Gypsies wandered around Bologna, calling on citizens in their homes. While they distracted their hosts with silly stories, their accomplices pocketed what they could. One Gypsy woman gave birth in the market-place.34 The Bologna chronicler makes similar points to the Bourgeois de Paris: they were skinny, black and ugly, the ugliest people ever encountered in that region, and they ate like pigs. The description of their clothing is also quite similar to that provided by the journal from Paris. What is striking in the description from Bologna is its negativity. Whereas the German chronicles and city records suggest an ambiguity in attitudes, also to some extent visible in the Bourgeois 33 34

Journal d’un Bourgeois, 237–8; Parisian Journal, 218–9. Chronica di Bologna, in: L.A. Muratori (ed.), Rerum italicarum scriptores, vol. 18 (Milan 1730) cols. 611–12; Geremek, ‘Arrivée des Tsiganes’, 29–30; Fraser, Gypsies, 72–3, citing the text in extenso; Miriav-Felden, ‘Vagrants or vermin?’, 285.

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de Paris, the Bolognese writer shows hostility from the start. Elsewhere in northern Italy, as Geremek demonstrated, there were more open displays of charity. The prince of Carpi guaranteed passage and protection to Counts Michael and John of Lesser Egypt, but in a second document, of 1485, the prince insisted that this protection would be withdrawn if the Gypsies misbehaved.35 We can fit the response to the Gypsies in Spain into the same framework. As Richard Pym has noted, the stigmatization of the Gypsies on the grounds that they were criminals led to their further exclusion from society, making it impossible for them to settle and strengthening the stereotype that established itself across western Europe. And yet one of the first certain references to Gypsies within Iberia shows that a Gypsy has had his property stolen by some town-dwellers in Aragon in 1425. The citizens of Alagón were ordered to return to Count Thomas of Egypt two hunting dogs that they had stolen. King Alfonso V had already issued a safe-conduct to Don Johan ‘of Little Egypt’, on 12 January 1425, and the dispute at Alagón shows that the king was serious in insisting that these pilgrims would travel under his protection. Even earlier, in 1415 at Perpignan (then part of the Crown of Aragon) Alfonso of Trastámara, heir to the kingdom of Aragon, had issued a safe-conduct permitting Thomas, son of Duke Bartholomew de Sabba of Ethiopia in Greater India, to pass through Aragonese lands on his way to Santiago de Compostela. It has been asserted that this traveller was a Gypsy rather than an Ethiopian. Either attribution remains plausible. Later in his life, Alfonso tried to maintain ties with Christian Ethiopia.36 But the confusion was most probably contemporary one as well. It has been seen that the Gypsies probably benefited from the presence of eastern, and possibly Ethiopian, priests at the Council of Constance. Christian dukes from Lesser Egypt and princes from Christian Ethiopia were easily assumed to be more or less the same people, while the term ‘India’ was of almost infinite extension, often including East Africa as well as the Asiatic shores of the Indian Ocean. Thus the Gypsies could be seen both by Alfonso of Aragon and Emperor Sigismund as evidence for the travails of Ethiopian Christians, who were famously dark-skinned. This Ethiopian connection, or rather confusion, needs to be discussed further. Negative imagery of ‘Ethiopians’, ranking them alongside Saracens, Tartars and Jews, can be found in medieval art, but, as awareness of the survival of Christianity in that part of the world grew, a positive image of 35 36

Geremek, ‘Arrivée des Tsiganes’, 31. Pym, Gypsies of early modern Spain, 1–2; on Thomas: Pym, Gypsies of early modern Spain, 168, n.10; on Alfonso and Ethiopia: C. Marinescu, La politique orientale d’Alfonse V d’Aragon, roi de Naples (1416–1458), Institut d’Estudis Catalans, Memòries de la Secció historico-arqueológico, vol. 46 (Barcelona 1994) 13–28.

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the Ethiopian began to predominate. As with the Gypsies, we find a combination of positive and negative imagery, for the association of black skin and African facial features with demons did not vanish (as, for instance, in Zurara’s hostile description of the first black slaves brought to Portugal by Henry the Navigator’s caravels).37 From the twelfth century onwards one of the Three Magi, Balthasar, was generally assumed to have been black, at least by artists in Germany, the Netherlands and England. He was portrayed as a precursor of Prester John, and was enormously popular in fifteenth-century German art, which showed what has been called ‘a love of the specific and even eccentric’. Engravings of the Adoration scene at Constance around 1460, by an artist simply known as ‘E.S.’, show a king who, while not black, has what might loosely be called African features – curly hair, a turban, flowing robes. Constance was the main centre from which images of a black king were diffused across southern Germany and Switzerland. This can be taken as further evidence that the earlier arrival of the Gypsies and of exotic churchmen had left particularly strong memories in this region.38 Indeed, the model for the earliest engravings may well be Gypsies (with whom a south German artist would probably have been familiar), rather than blacks (with whom he would probably have been unfamiliar). Within Iberia, the Gypsies did not immediately acquire a nefarious reputation. In 1462 Thomas and Martin, ‘counts of Little Egypt’ were accorded a public welcome by the Constable of Castile when they reached Jaén in southern Spain, and were plied with wine, meat, fish and other food. As well as receiving safe-conducts, the first Gypsies in Spain were granted the right to judge their own affairs. Increasingly, they passed themselves off as Greek Christians, for this elicited sympathy at a time when the Turkish threat was seen to be real.39 The Iberians were used to seeing people with dark skins, including (by now) many black slaves, and – if anything – the Gypsies benefited by comparison with Muslims or Jews from their insistence that they were penitent Christians.40 But it is no surprise that they were eventually caught up in the attempts by Ferdinand and Isabella to re-order their realms on Christian principles. What dismayed the Catholic Monarchs was their conduct, not their supposed religious identity; but even their religion was 37 38

39 40

Abulafia, Discovery of Mankind, 91. P. Kaplan, The rise of the black Magus in western art (Ann Arbor 1985) 48–62, 107–9, and plates 73–6; D. Strickland, Saracens, demons and Jews: making monsters in medieval art (Princeton NJ 2003) 79–93, 249–50; K. Lowe and T. Earle (eds), Black Africans in Renaissance Europe (Cambridge 2005); paintings of the Three Magi that show a black king include one by Quentin Matsys in the Metropolitan Museum, New York (1526); an English alabaster carving in the Victoria and Albert Museum (late fifteenth century) also shows a black Magus. Pym, Gypsies of early modern Spain, 4–7, 14–15. On black slaves: D. Blumenthal, Enemies and familiars: slavery and mastery in fifteenth-century Valencia (Ithaca NY 2009).

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cast in doubt by their practice of ‘sorcery’. In March 1499 Ferdinand and Isabella issued an ordinance to the wandering ‘Egyptians’, in which they complained that the Gypsies had sustained themselves not from honest crafts but from begging, stealing and fortune-telling. They were ordered to settle down and to find a master for whom they could work. Otherwise they would have to leave Castile. If they continued to offend they would be enslaved. The survival of los gitanos in Spain amply proves that these orders had little effect, even though Charles V (who also legislated against wandering Gypsies in the Low Countries) kept reiterating and strengthening the decrees of 1499, for instance in 1539. It has been observed that legislation against the Moriscos was also increasing in intensity during the sixteenth century. The Gypsies became caught up in the debate about the place of the Moriscos within Spanish society, even though ethnically and religiously they were entirely separate.41 Any number of similar accounts of the arrival of the Gypsies, similarly constructed, then led to the crystallisation of the image that would be conveyed down the centuries, attributing to the Gypsies a love of theft, a taste for necromancy and a strangely threatening physical appearance. Albertus Krantzius or Krantz, from Hamburg, appears to have known Cornerus’ account, though he was only born in the middle of the fifteenth century and died in 1517. He wrote of a strange people who arrived in the towns of the north German sea-shore in 1417, dark-skinned and ugly, ‘cooked by the sun’, dressed in filthy clothes; they were skilled thieves, especially the women, whose stolen goods sustained the men. In north Germany they were known as ‘Tartars’ but in Italy they were called Ciani, an obvious corruption of Cigani. They had their own duke, counts and knights. But none of this earned them Krantz’s respect. Where the earlier chroniclers had limited themselves to calling the Gypsies thieves, Krantz painted an altogether darker picture. They travelled the world but lived lazy lives, and did not recognise any country as their own. They had no religion [nulla religionis illi cura] and lived from day to day [in diem vivit]. Indeed, this was more the way of life of dogs than of humans [canino ritu degit]. They observed the absence of peasants in the fields and burgled their houses while they were away.42 Although he knew that the Gypsies could show privileges issued by Emperor Sigismund, he was sceptical about their tales of penitential wanderings: sed fabelle sunt. Of course, by his time the Gypsies had performed their seven-year penance many times over. Krantz’s reference to 41

42

De Goeje, ‘Heidens’, 130; Pym, Gypsies of early modern Spain, 24–31, 173 n. 20; Eliav-Felden, ‘Vagrants or vermin?’, 283, 287. A. Krantzius, de Saxonicae gentis vetusta origine, longinquis expeditionibus susceptis, & bellis domi pro libertate diu fortiterque gestis (Frankfurt-am-Main 1580) 285–6 s.a. 1417 (lib. XI, cap. ii) = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 25.

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Italy reveals that he was aware of the movement of the Gypsies far beyond his native territory. Krantz’s observations form part of a wider trend clearly visible in early sixteenth-century writers. Kaspar Hedio or Heid (1494–1552) called the Gypsies Mauri fusci, squalidi, difformes and saw them as refugees from ‘Lesser Egypt’; they camped outside towns and spent their time in thievery – rapientes, furentes, & clam quicquid nobile repererint, diripientes.43 Interestingly, he then referred his reader to a tract entitled de nobilitate et rusticate by the fifteenth-century canon of Zürich Cathedral, Felix Hemmerlein; and, though Heido failed to indicate which passages by Hemmerlein were particularly relevant, one possible point of comparison is Hemmerlein’s description of the inhabitants of the Canary Islands, who seemed to live according to no law.44 For Johannes Stumpf, whose Swiss chronicle was first printed in 1538, the Gypsies who reached Zürich in 1418 waren mengklichen seltzam, und hervor in disem land nit mehr gesehen. By now the tale of their origins was well-established: Sie gaben für, wie sie auß Egypten verstossen weren, and they were wandering for seven years.45 Finally, the Hebraist and polymath Sebastian Münster read Krantz closely while he was preparing his Cosmographia in the 1540’s. Describing the arrival of the Gypsies, to whom he also attached the label ‘heathens’ (von den Zigeunern oder Heyden), he observes: the Gypsy lebt wie ein Hund, ist kein Religion bei ihnen, though he adds that they did let their children receive Christian baptism, and German editions of his work were adorned with engravings of a Gypsy family dressed in capacious robes.46 It has been seen that the term ‘heathen’ had been attached to the Gypsies at the time of their first appearance in Germany. But it has also been argued that the Gypsies were easily confused with Ethiopian Christians, who attracted attention in precisely this period. The puzzlement of Europeans was encapsulated in the persistence both of this term and of the story that they were Christian pilgrims seeking alms during a penitential journey. The balance between Christian hospitality and xenophobic hostility was, as has been seen, a fine one. It was particularly difficult to maintain within the increasingly centralised bureaucratic state of the fifteenth and 43

44

45 46

K. Hedio, Paralipomena rerum memorabilium a Friderico II ad Carolum V Augustum, hoc est ab anno 1230 usque ad 1537 (Strasbourg 1537) 210 [also Bern, 1540]; = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 31. Felicis Malleoli vulgo Hemmerlein Decretorum Doctoris Iureconsultissimi, De nobilitate et rusticitate Dialogus (Strasbourg 1497) ff. 105r-v; Abulafia, Discovery of Mankind, 68–70. J. Stumpf, Schweytzer Chronik (Zürich 1606) XIII. Buch, cap. x; = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 32. S. Münster, Cosmographiae uniuersalis lib. VI: in quibus iuxta certioris fidei scriptorum traditionem describuntur, omnium habitabilis orbis partium situs, propriæque dotes (1628) 603–4; = Gronemeyer, Zigeuner, 34–5.

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early sixteenth centuries, to which the alien customs and sheer mobility of the Gypsies seemed to pose a challenge. In the course of the fifteenth century, western European princes and cities gradually decided that they had no place for wandering nomads within their states, trapping the Gypsies within the negative stereotypes that condemned them as thieves and sorcerers.

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6 Perspectives

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Konvergenz und Divergenz von Machtgeschichte und Rechtsgeschichte im Aufstieg und Niedergang des modernen Staates Wolfgang Reinhard Freiburg / Erfurt

Die schlichte Feststellung ‘Europa hat den Staat erfunden’ wirkt auf viele Leute provozierend. Sie scheint nämlich den unbestreitbaren Sachverhalt in Frage zu stellen, dass auch Nicht-Europäer, in vorderster Linie die Chinesen, Gemeinwesen geschaffen haben, die den europäischen vergleichbar oder sogar überlegen gewesen sind. Aber diese Gemeinwesen oder ‘Reiche’ waren dennoch keine ‘Staaten’ im modernen Sinn und sind keineswegs zufällig von der Bildfläche verschwunden, um modernen Staaten Platz zu machen. Denn nicht nur in China, sondern weltweit treffen wir heute ausschließlich auf Varianten jenes modernen Staates, den die Europäer in über tausend Jahren ihrer Geschichte geschaffen und anschließend wie vieles andere in den Rest der Welt ‘exportiert’ haben. Dazu gehört auch der Export ihres Rechts, und zwar weniger im materialen Sinn der verschiedenen Rechtskreise der Rechtsvergleichung als im formalen, dass einerseits der Staat Rechtsstaat sein soll, andererseits das Recht ausschließlich vom Staat gesetzt und durchgesetzt wird. Diese spezifisch europäische Symbiose von Recht und Staat war bis vor kurzem so zwingend, dass niemand auf den Gedanken kam, sie historisch oder systematisch in Frage zu stellen. Dabei ist sie doch ebenfalls ein Ergebnis der europäischen Geschichte und eigentlich alles andere als selbstverständlich. Denn Recht muss nicht notwendigerweise mit Staat zusammengedacht werden.1 Der Staat hat es mit Macht zu tun, das Recht aber mit Gerechtigkeit. Das ist von Haus aus weit eher ein Widerspruch als ein Komplementärverhältnis. Dass Staatsmacht einerseits rechtmäßig ausgeübt werden soll und dass der Staat andererseits unbegrenzte Macht über das Recht hat, sind nämlich relativ junge Entwicklungen der Menschheitsgeschichte. Die Geschichte der Gemeinwesen, aus denen der moderne europäische Machtstaat geworden ist, und die Geschichte des Rechts in Europa verliefen keineswegs deckungsgleich oder auch nur parallel, sondern in Phasen unterschiedlicher Konvergenz und Divergenz, bis der genannte Zustand erreicht war. 1

Vgl. z. B. Detlef von Daniels, The Concept of Law in Transnational Perspective. A Study on Jürgen Habermas and H.L.A. Hart (Göttingen 2006 (Ms)).

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346 Wolfgang Reinhard

Inzwischen scheint die Divergenz im Zusammenhang mit dem Niedergang des modernen Staates bezeichnenderweise wieder zuzunehmen. In diesem Sinne möchte ich erstens den Aufstieg der europäischen Gemeinwesen zu modernen Staaten als historisches Problem behandeln, zweitens auf den historischen Weg von der Divergenz zur Konvergenz von Recht und Gemeinwesen eingehen, drittens einen abschließenden Blick auf den Niedergang des modernen Staates und die Rolle des Rechts in diesem Zusammenhang werfen. Dabei soll einerseits deutlich werden, was den modernen Staat eindeutig von anderen Gemeinwesen unterscheidet, andererseits was das Recht durch die Symbiose mit ihm gewonnen und verloren hat.2 Aufstieg des modernen Staates Den Staat konsequent als geschichtliche Größe betrachten, führt sofort zu zwei unausweichlichen Schlussfolgerungen. Erstens ist der moderne Staat nicht etwa aus Notwendigkeit entstanden, sondern streng kontingent, quasi zufällig. Allerdings nur quasi zufällig, weil diese Entstehungsgeschichte zwar nicht geradlinig verlief, aber durchaus eine Richtung aufweist, ganz einfach deswegen, weil eine einmal ausgelöste Entwicklung nicht ohne weiteres hinter ihren erreichten Stand zurückfallen kann. Eher konnte es zu Entwicklungsschüben kommen wie in der Französischen Revolution oder den beiden Dekolonisationen um 1800 und nach 1945. Zweitens ist der moderne Staat als geschichtliches Phänomen an und für sich weder gut noch böse, sondern ein moralisch zwar nicht neutrales, wohl aber mehrdeutiges Phänomen. Beides zu betonen, ist vor allem in Deutschland von Nöten, wo immer noch Restbestände der ‘Andacht zum Staate’ wirksam sind. Nicht zufällig ist auch die Redeweise vom ‘Vater Staat’ eine deutsche Gepflogenheit. Denn paradoxerweise war es die deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft des 19. Jahrhunderts, die dem Staat ahistorisch-zeitlose ontologische, bisweilen geradezu metaphysische Qualitäten zugeschrieben hat. Nachdem der Philosoph Friedrich Hegel erklärt hatte, der Staat sei das sittliche Ganze, die Verwirklichung der Freiheit und damit das Ziel der Weltgeschichte, erklärte der Historiker Leopold Ranke die Staaten zu ‘Gedanken Gottes’, denn für ihn stand nichts auf Erden der göttlichen Ordnung so nahe wie die Staatsordnung. Demgemäß war der Staat angeblich wie die Sprache dem Menschen von Anfang an gegeben. 2

Die folgenden Ausführungen stützen sich überwiegend auf meine früheren Veröffentlichungen, die deshalb nur pauschal zitiert werden: Geschichte der Staatsgewalt. Ein vergleichende Verfassungsgeschichte Europas von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (München 1999); Verstaatlichung der Welt? Europäische Staatsmodelle und außereuropäische Machtprozesse (München 1999); Geschichte des modernen Staates von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (München 2007); ‘Staat machen als organisiertes Verbrechen? - Kriminalität der Mächtigen aus der Perspektive der Geschichte der Staatsgewalt’, in Cornelius Prittwitz u.a. (eds), Kriminalität der Mächtigen (Interdisziplinäre Studien zu Recht und Staat; 46)(Baden-Baden 2008) 174–184.

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In Wirklichkeit sind zuerst Gemeinwesen und dann Staaten viel bescheidener als indirekte Konsequenz der Notwendigkeit entstanden, die Machtbeziehungen im Zusammenleben der von Natur aus immer ungleichen Menschen zu regeln. Macht als die Chance, den eigenen Willen gegen andere durchzusetzen, mag theoretisch eine wertneutrale Zuschreibung sein. In der Praxis freilich neigen Inhaber von Macht dazu, sie weiter zu steigern, und sei es nur, um sich durch überlegene Macht gegen andere Machthaber abzusichern. Hat dieses Streben Erfolg und findet Akzeptanz, dann gerinnt Macht zu Herrschaft, das heißt, sie gebiert eine politische Institution. Damit beginnt der lange Weg zum organisierten Gemeinwesen und unter besonderen Bedingungen auch zum modernen Staat. Denn dieser ist seinem Wesen nach Machtstaat, das heißt die machtvollste Art Gemeinwesen, die Menschen geschaffen haben. Die Akzeptanz von Herrschaft mag auf ihre Nützlichkeit oder auf Furcht vor ihr zurückzuführen sein. Meistens dürfte beides im Spiel gewesen sein, denn Herrschaft im Allgemeinen und die Gründung von Staaten im Besonderen waren lange Zeit überaus gewalttätig. Machthaber gaben zwar vor, ihre Untertanen vor der Gewalt von Dritten zu schützen, aber dabei handelte es sich oft um Gewalt, die sie selbst durch ihre Rivalität untereinander erzeugt hatten. Denn die Grundlagen der Staaten wurden in Kriegen gelegt. Unter diesen Umständen ist es angebracht, die Macher von Krieg und Staat als selbstsüchtige und gewalttätige Manager der Macht zu betrachten, die freilich nie im Sinn hatten, einen oder gar den modernen Staat zu gründen. Aber ihre Politik des Machtgewinns lief langfristig aus den genannten Gründen oft genug darauf hinaus. Diese Sicht der Dinge ist erheblich wirklichkeitsnäher als die Versuche, den Staat auf einen fiktiven Gesellschaftsvertrag, auf den Wertekonsens einer Gesellschaft oder auf Angebot und Nachfrage eines freien Machtmarkts zurückzuführen. Damit soll nicht bestritten werden, dass nackter Machtwille allein selten Erfolg hat, sondern in der Regel der Legitimation bedarf. Es wird nicht einmal behauptet, dass die Machthaber Legitimationsverfahren nur zynisch zur Täuschung ihrer Untertanen instrumentalisiert hätten. Im Gegenteil, oft genug haben sie selbst daran geglaubt. Es wird nur festgestellt, dass die Dynamik politischen Wachstums daraus nicht zu erklären ist und ihre Legitimation insofern eine sekundäre Rolle spielt. Doch wer waren die bedenkenlosen Machtmenschen, die seit dem hohen Mittelalter mit ihrer Herrschaftsbildung erfolgreich den Weg zum modernen Staat eingeschlagen haben? Es waren Adelige, die sich langfristig unter ihresgleichen erfolgreich zu behaupten wussten und ihre Rivalen sogar zu unterwerfen verstanden. Aus geographischen wie historischen

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348 Wolfgang Reinhard

Gründen war Europa politisch stets pluralistisch. Aber aus einem Europa zahlloser Adelsherrschaften und autonomer Gemeinden entstand bis zum 20. Jahrhundert ein Europa von rund zwei Dutzend modernen Staaten. Die Ausbildung übergreifender Großherrschaften, aus deren Reihen diese modernen Staaten hervorgehen sollten, wurde durch die Rivalität konkurrierender ‘Reichsgründer’ vorangetrieben, konkret durch häufige Kriege, die seit dem 17. Jahrhundert mit stehenden Heeren geführt wurden. Die steigenden Kriegskosten machten aber gesteigerte Ressourcenabschöpfung erforderlich, was wiederum zu weiterer Zunahme der Kontrolle durch die Zentralgewalt führte. Dieser Coercion-Extraction-Cycle (Samuel Finer) ist wohl die wichtigste Triebkraft der Entstehung des modernen Staates. Denn als Machtstaat ist der moderne Staat schon seinem Ursprung nach Kriegsstaat. Dabei hatten die Inhaber traditionaler Königtümer in England, Frankreich und Spanien einen Wettbewerbsvorteil. Aber die äußerst erfolgreichen Habsburger und Hohenzollern waren von Haus aus nur ‘gewöhnliche’ Adelsfamilien. Es fehlt auch nicht an gescheiterten Anläufen zur Reichsbildung wie Burgund oder Mailand. Das Werk von Reichsgründern ist nach deren Tod rasch zusammengebrochen, wenn ein Fortsetzer fehlte. Der ‘Königsweg’ im doppelten Sinn des Wortes war eine Abfolge tüchtiger Herrscher, eine kompetente Dynastie wie in Preußen 1640–1786. Die Gegenprobe sticht ebenfalls: dynastische Krisen pflegten Herrschaftskrisen auszulösen. Obwohl eindeutig alle modernen Staaten Europas aus Monarchien hervorgegangen sind, erregt diese Feststellung immer wieder ärgerlichen Widerspruch. Dabei liegen die Gründe auf der Hand. Anwachsen der zentralen Gewalt bis zum modernen Staat setzt einen einheitlichen und kontinuierlichen politischen Willen voraus, wie ihn die oligarchischen Regimes der Geschichte nie für längere Zeit zustande gebracht haben. Erst durch Strukturwandel zu modernen Staaten wurden Republiken politisch konkurrenzfähig. Damit ist jedoch keineswegs ausgeschlossen, dass Elemente der kommunalen und republikanischen Tradition Europas in den modernen Staat eingegangen sind. Im Gegenteil, in der Gestalt von Grundrechten und Demokratie gehören sie inzwischen sogar zu seinen Wesensmerkmalen. Aber sie konnten dazu nur werden, weil die wachsende Staatsgewalt es langfristig verstanden hat, autonome politische Konkurrenten zu unterwerfen und zu Stützen der eigenen Macht umzudrehen. Das gilt für das Rechtswesen wie für die Kirche, für Adelsherrschaft und Ständewesen ebenso wie für die politische Kultur der Städte und Landgemeinden und sogar für die notorische Widerspenstigkeit der Untertanen.

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Doch dazu wurden Helfer benötigt, Machteliten, die aus eigenem Interesse die zentrale Herrschaft über das Gemeinwesen auf Dauer zu ihrer Sache machten und gegenüber den Untertanen durchsetzen halfen. Ursprünglich stammten diese aus dem Adel und der Kirche. Aber Adel und Klerus hatten eine Stellung aus eigenem Recht inne und blieben bis zu einem gewissen Grad sozial unabhängig. Anders die Juristen städtischer Herkunft, die seit dem hohem Mittelalter mehr und mehr deren Stelle einnahmen. Sie hatten alles, was sie waren, ihrem fürstlichen Herrn zu verdanken, und waren für den sozialen Aufstieg ihrer Familien in den Dienstadel ebenfalls auf diesen angewiesen. Mit solchen Leuten ließ sich leichter regieren. Das spezifische Zusammenspiel europäischer Dynastien mit Adel, Klerus und Juristen ist auf die besondere politische Kultur Europas zurückzuführen, die durch die Verbindung des antiken und des christlichen Erbes mit demjenigen der ‘jungen’ Völker des Nordens und Ostens zustande kam. Die Vermittlerrolle der römischen Kirche kann in diesem Zusammenhang gar nicht überschätzt werden. Sie hat die Literatur, das Recht und damit auch die institutionelle Kultur der Antike konserviert, bis sie seit dem Hochmittelalter von den Laien selbständig wieder entdeckt wurden. Auf diese Weise entstand zunächst, von oben gesehen, ein Satz von Institutionen mit der Funktion, Entscheidungen zu treffen und zu vollziehen sowie soziale Kontrolle auszuüben, von unten gesehen, ein koordiniertes und territorial begrenztes Netzwerk von Agenten zur Ausübung politischer Macht.3 Zentralbehörden kamen durch Ausdifferenzierung des Herrscherhofes zustande. Lange Zeit entsprach ihnen aber kein effektiver Verwaltungsapparat auf regionaler und lokaler Ebene. Hier blieb die Zentralgewalt auf Zusammenarbeit mit Adelsherrschaft und Kommunalautonomie angewiesen. Preußische Landräte und englische Justices of the Peace waren daher in Personalunion Beauftragte der Krone und Vertreter der lokalen Oligarchie. Außerdem mussten die Fürsten in Fällen von außergewöhnlicher Bedeutung durch Einberufung eines erweiterten Rates den Konsens des Landes herstellen. Daraus entwickelten sich zwischen dem 12. und 17. Jahrhundert Ständeversammlungen, die meist vom Adel dominiert wurden. Da nach gemeineuropäischer Rechtsauffassung ein Fürst mit seinem Eigengut auskommen musste, blieb ihm der Zugriff auf das Eigentum der Untertanen versagt. Steuern, wie sie in Kriegszeiten nötig waren, durften nur mit Zustimmung der Besteuerten erhoben werden. Erst im 17. Jahrhundert konnten die meisten Fürsten sich von der ständischen Bewilligung mehr oder weniger unabhängig machen. In einigen Fällen, vor allem in England, 3

Michael Braddick, State Formation in Early Modern England, c. 1550–1700 (Cambridge 2000).

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350 Wolfgang Reinhard

mussten sie allerdings stattdessen ein stabiles System parlamentarischer Mitregierung akzeptieren. Gemeinwesen lassen sich eben nicht einfach auf eine Institution wie die Zentralregierung reduzieren. Sie beruhen auf einem komplexen organisationalen Gefüge, dessen Funktionieren zusätzliche mentale Dispositionen voraussetzt, die wir politische Kultur nennen. Das heißt aber, in seinen Institutionen ist ein Gemeinwesen nicht vollständig zu fassen. Es kann durchaus in Auflösung begriffen sein, während seine Institutionen unverändert weiter bestehen. Diese grundlegende Erkenntnis gilt nicht nur für den Niedergang des Ancien Régime und die Umbruchszeit der Französischen Revolution, sondern ebenso für den Niedergang des modernen Staates in der Gegenwart. Auf der genannten Grundlage konnte im 18. Jahrhundert die staatliche Verwaltung vor Ort erheblich intensiviert werden. Wichtige Länder Europas waren jetzt von moderner Staatlichkeit nicht mehr weit entfernt. In Gestalt der Monarchie und ihrer Behörden dominierte die zentrale Staatsgewalt. Sie war unbestritten souverän und hatte dank gesteigerter Kontrolle über die Machtmittel und Verstaatlichung der Streitkräfte ihr äußeres Gewaltmonopol vollständig, das innere weitgehend realisiert. Die Vereinheitlichung des Rechts und die Verstaatlichung der Justiz waren weit fortgeschritten. Demgemäß war die Zugehörigkeit zum staatlichen Untertanenverband für die Bevölkerung wichtiger geworden als der Besitz der weiter bestehenden ständischen Sonderrechte. Auch das Territorium mochte immer noch seine traditionelle bunte Gliederung aufweisen, faktisch war es ebenfalls weitgehend vereinheitlicht. Die äußeren Landesgrenzen hingegen hatten an Trennschärfe gewonnen. Den letzten Schritt tat die Französische Revolution, aber sie tat noch viel mehr. Denn die Abschaffung der Ständegesellschaft bedeutete den Anfang der gesellschaftlichen Modernisierung Europas, die allerdings erst mit der Gleichberechtigung der Frau in jüngster Zeit ihr Ziel erreichen sollte. Die neue politische Gleichberechtigung lief aber dialektisch zugleich auf weiteres Wachstum der Staatsgewalt hinaus, denn die Nivellierung der Untertanen wurde damit vollendet. Der Mensch, genauer der Mann, kam nicht mehr als Mitglied eines Haushalts, einer Korporation, einer Gemeinde, eines Standes mit der Staatsgewalt in Kontakt, sondern wurde als Individuum staatsunmittelbar. Damit ließ sich die Vorstellung einer politischen Nation von wenigen Privilegierten auf das gesamte, politisch zu mobilisierende Volk ausweiten. Die weiterlebenden Korporationen und die neuen Vereine wurden zur Privatangelegenheit, denn sie gehörten hinfort zur vom Staat unterschiedenen ‘bürgerlichen Gesellschaft’. Auf der anderen Seite entstand auf dem Umweg über die nivellierte Untertanengesellschaft die neue Figur des

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‘Staatsbürgers’, ein Begriff, der jetzt die gesamte politische Bevölkerung umfasste, während das Wort ‘Bürger’ sich bisher nur auf eine bestimmte Stadt bezogen hatte. Die Bürgergemeinde einer privilegierten Minderheit verwandelte sich in die Einwohnergemeinde, in der jeder Staatsbürger, der zufällig dort wohnt, dieselben Rechte hat. Staatsunmittelbarkeit des Individuums bedeutete auch unmittelbaren Zugriff der Staatsgewalt auf den Einzelmenschen, konkret die Ersetzung aller Zwischengewalten durch eine staatliche Verwaltung durch Berufsbeamte, die den letzten Untertan erfasste. Kommunale Selbstverwaltung wurde auf staatliche Auftragsverwaltung reduziert, lokale Adelsherrschaft verschwand völlig. Stattdessen entstand eine Regional- und Lokalverwaltung mit standardisierten Einheiten. Die neuen Departements der Französischen Revolution sollten zunächst sogar quadratisch sein und nur durch ihre Nummer unterschieden werden. Die revolutionäre Beschränkung der Monarchie oder ihre Verdrängung durch eine demokratische Republik nehmen sich nur auf den ersten Blick als Begrenzung der Staatsmacht zugunsten der Bürger aus. Dass es sich in Wirklichkeit um deren letztmögliche Steigerung handelte, ergibt sich aus der Argumentation des Jean-Jacques Rousseau, nach der ein politischer Mensch dann frei ist, wenn er als Untertan nur Gesetzen gehorchen muss, die er sich als Bürger selbst gegeben hat. Diese Volkssouveränität ist ebenso fiktiv wie die britische, wo das Parlament sich in der Tradition der Ständevertretungen zum Souverän erklärte. Aber die Staatsgewalt vermag sich jetzt selbst zu legitimieren, ihre traditionelle Begrenzung durch Fremdlegitimation geht verloren. Gott, die Natur oder auch nur die Idee der Gerechtigkeit spielen keine Rolle mehr, wo die Staatsgewalt selbst in letzter Instanz entscheidet, was ihre Befugnisse sind und was Recht ist. Die Staatsgewalt ist damit selbstreferentiell, der Staat Selbstzweck geworden. Dass der Bürger diesen neuartigen Sachverhalt bejaht und sich mit ihm identifiziert, bis zur Hingabe von Gut und Blut, ist freilich weniger der demokratischen Partizipation zu verdanken als der damit zusammenhängenden Ideologie des Nationalismus, den die Französische Revolution erstmals in breitem Umfang entbunden hat. Im Ergebnis war bis zum 19. Jahrhundert in verschiedenen nationalen Varianten der moderne Staat entstanden. Er unterscheidet sich durch die spezifische Verbindung verschiedener Eigenschaften von seinen Vorläufern und von allen anderen Gemeinwesen der Geschichte. Diese Merkmale sind zunächst: 1. die Einheit des Staatsgebiet; 2. des Staatsvolks; 3. der souveränen Staatsgewalt. Das gemeinsame Prinzip der Einheitlichkeit stellt nachweislich den Inbegriff politischer Modernität dar. Der Wille zur Einheit und Einheitlichkeit gilt geradezu als mentale Obsession der westlichen Moderne.

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352 Wolfgang Reinhard

Politische Pluralität kennzeichnet demgegenüber nicht nur vormoderne, sondern auch postmoderne politische Verhältnisse. Souveränität der Staatsgewalt bedeutet konkret: 4. das Monopol der legitimen Anwendung physischer Gewalt nach innen durch Justiz, Verwaltung und Polizei; 5. das Monopol der legitimen Anwendung physischer Gewalt nach außen, das heißt, das Recht, nach Belieben Krieg zu führen, wozu die Streitkräfte der ausschließlichen Kontrolle der Staatsgewalt unterstellt sind. Seit den Revolutionen des späten 18. und des 19. Jahrhunderts gewann der moderne europäische Staat noch weitere Eigenschaften hinzu, die ihn heute mehr denn je kennzeichnen. Denn der vollendete moderne Staat ist 6. Rechts- und Verfassungsstaat, wobei aber kein zwingender Zusammenhang mit der Demokratie zu bestehen braucht; 7. ist er Nationalstaat, was ihn zum Tummelplatz scheußlicher Varianten des modernen Einheitswahns machen kann; 8. ist er eine Demokratie, die sich in einer Verfassung zur Volkssouveränität sowie zu den Grund- und Menschenrechten bekennt und ihre Staatsgewalt durch Wahlen mit einer parlamentarischen Komponente konstituiert. Der demokratische Verfassungsstaat war allerdings nach der Französischen Revolution bald wieder verschwunden und musste in den Revolutionen und Reformen des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts neu erkämpft werden. Diese Entwicklung lässt sich am Wahlrecht verfolgen, bis zur Durchsetzung des Frauenstimmrechts in der Eidgenossenschaft 1971. Dazu kommt in der Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts der Wandel zum Sozialstaat, eine Eigenschaft, die sich aber im Gegensatz zu den übrigen nicht mehr weltweit generalisieren lässt. Konvergenz und Divergenz von Staatsbildung und Rechtsgeschichte Im Zuge des geschilderten Staatsbildungsprozesses wurden Recht und Justiz restlos der staatlichen Hoheit unterworfen und im Sinne von Modernität vereinheitlicht. Die professionellen Juristen entwickelten sich dabei regimeunabhängig zum harten Kern jeder Staatsklasse. Das war freilich nicht immer so und wird möglicherweise auch nicht so bleiben, zum Teil deswegen, weil abweichende ältere Verhältnisse im modernen Staat ihre Spuren hinterlassen haben und ihr kritisches Potential entfalten können. Das archaische Recht des Frühmittelalters gehörte noch in den Zusammenhang von Religion und Sitte. Es blieb mündlich formuliertes, volkssprachliches Gewohnheitsrecht und gestattete den geregelten Gebrauch von Gewalt gegen Unrecht, etwa in der Blutrache, aber auch deren Abgeltung durch eine compensatio. Denn das Recht war vor allem mein Recht. Nur ein betroffener Kläger konnte einen Prozess in Gang setzen. Nicht eine noch gar nicht vorhandene ‘staatliche’ Justiz, sondern sozialer

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Druck mit Gewaltdrohung als extremer Möglichkeit trieb die Gegenseite zur Anerkennung gerichtlicher Verfahren, die aber lokalen Konsenscharakter hatten und noch nicht von institutionalisierter Justiz getragen wurden. Stattdessen handelte es sich um ein durch ritualisiertes Vorgehen legitimiertes Verfahren, bei dem die richtige actio zur richtigen Zeit am richtigen Ort stattfinden musste. Das Urteil wurde von Rechtskundigen durch Übereinstimmung gefunden. In Strafverfahren ging es weniger um die individuelle Verantwortung des Täters als um die rituelle Wiederherstellung der gestörten kosmischen Ordnung. Eideshelfer und Gottesurteile gehören in diesen sakralen Zusammenhang.4 Da Herrschaft weitgehend justizförmig auf Betreiben von Betroffenen stattfand, galten für Herrschaftsträger dieselben Regeln. Sie regierten mit dem Rat von Rechtskundigen, um sich gegen die Unrechtsvermutung von Untertanen abzusichern, die gewaltsamen Widerstand gerechtfertig hätte. Sie waren Richter und sogar Hüter des Rechts, nicht aber dessen Urheber. Reisende Könige hatten sich nach dem lokalen Gewohnheitsrecht zu richten. Das Recht existierte unabhängig von ihnen und sie wurden an ihm gemessen. Die Divergenz könnte kaum größer sein. Viel davon lebt in der Folgezeit weiter, manches bis heute. So blieb etwa der englische König im Gegensatz zum Papst und den übrigen Monarchen Europas prinzipiell dem Recht des Landes unterworfen, weil es sich bei der frühen Zentralisierung der englischen Justiz zwar um seine Richter, nicht aber um sein Recht handelte. Insofern herrschten in England weiter archaische Rechtsverhältnisse, aus denen sich noch bemerkenswerte Folgen ergeben sollten. Der entscheidende Konvergenzschub seit dem 11./12. Jahrhundert wurde mit guten Gründen als ‘päpstliche Revolution’ bezeichnet,5 denn die römische Juristenkirche tradierte wichtige Bestandteile des hoch entwickelten antiken Herrschafts- und Rechtssystems schon vor der Wiederentdeckung des vollständigen Römischen Rechts und stellte damit Instrumente zum Umgang mit diesem bereit. Demgemäß entwickelten sich kirchliches und römisch orientiertes weltliches Recht künftig parallel, wenn nicht sogar Hand in Hand, im römisch-kanonischen Zivilprozess so gut wie im strafrechtlichen Inquisitionsprozess. Aus guten Gründen war der Doctor utriusque juris künftig der Standardabschluss jeder Juristenausbildung. 4

5

Hans Hattenhauer, Europäische Rechtsgeschichte (Heidelberg 19942); Gerhard Dilcher, ‘Recht ohne Staat. Rechtsdurchsetzung ohne Staat? Überlegungen zur Rolle der Zwangsgewalt im mittelalterlichen Rechtsbegriff ’, Quaderni Fiorentini 30 (2001) 139–158; ders., ‘Die Zwangsgewalt und der Rechtsbegriff vorstaatlicher Ordnungen im Mittelalter’, in: Albrecht Cordes und Bernd Kannowski (ed.), Rechtsbegriffe im Mittelalter, (Frankfurt 2002) 111–153. Harold J. Berman, Recht und Revolution. Die Bildung der westlichen Rechtstradition (Frankfurt 1991).

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354 Wolfgang Reinhard

Das Wiederaufgreifen des Römischen Rechts schuf rechtsanthropologisch eine neue Situation. Recht verlor den Kontakt mit dem Leben, denn es konnte jetzt durch Auslegung eines Textcorpus von kanonischer Geltung gefunden werden, das aber aus einer fremden Kultur stammte und mit fremden Begriffen operierte. Das führte zu seiner gelehrten Professionalisierung durch den Juristenstand, der bald auch eigene Interessen entwickelte. Das führte weiter zur Institutionalisierung der Justiz unter der Hoheit des Herrschers, der sich in zunehmendem Maße auch das Recht zuschrieb, neues Recht zu schaffen, legitimiert durch die necessitas des Gemeinwesens. Hauptamtliche Gerichtshöfe mit Instanzenzug und Offizialmaxime entstanden. Zwar galt das Römische Recht im Gegensatz zum Kanonischen nur subsidiär, aber seine Methoden wurden eben auch auf das herkömmliche Recht angewandt. Recht löste sich damit aus dem Zusammenhang von Religion und Sitte. Es wurde zu einem selbständigen Regelungssystem, das sich vor seiner eigenen Rationalität als vernünftig und gerecht rechtfertigen musste. An die Stelle religiöser Entscheidungshilfen wie Gottesurteile oder Eideshelfer traten rationale Verfahren zur Beweisbeschaffung wie die Folter. Für den englischen juristischen Klassiker Blackstone ist die Folter immer noch kein Instrument des Rechts, sondern ein solches der Staatsgewalt.6 Aber dieser entscheidende Konvergenzschub von Herrschaft und Recht belässt es immer noch bei beträchtlicher Divergenz. Das Recht ist noch alles andere als einheitlich und die Herrscher sind noch nicht seine einzigen Urheber. Recht und Gesetz erheben selten allgemeinen Regelungsanspruch, sondern betreffen wenige Gegenstände und suchen konkrete Probleme zu lösen. Partikulares dominiert, Recht bleibt weitgehend Privileg. Gesetzgebung ist eher selten und klärt nur Zweifelsfälle. Noch im 18. Jahrhundert verabschiedete das englische Unterhaus 50 % private bills. Auch regiert wird immer noch nach dem Reskriptprinzip, d. h. durch spezifische Reaktion auf Anliegen von Untertanen, die allerdings inzwischen schriftlich stattfindet. Die politische Kultur orientierte sich weiter an der Idee der Gerechtigkeit, die Widerstand gegen Rechtsverletzungen der Machthaber legitimiert. Dabei konnte es sich auch um kollektive Ansprüche der inzwischen korporativ organisierten Juristen handeln, die immerhin auf diese Weise in Frankreich und England Revolutionen ausgelöst haben. Solange die Staatsgewalt nicht die einzige Quelle des Rechts war, blieb ein beträchtlicher Spielraum für Juristenautonomie. Im Extremfall führte dies zum Anspruch richterlicher Überprüfung kraft überlegenen juristischen Sachverstandes, 6

William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, 4 vols (Oxford 1765–1769)

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wie ihn englische Juristen im 17. Jahrhundert nicht nur für Regierungsakte des Monarchen, sondern sogar für Gesetze des Parlamentes anmeldeten. Aus diesem Prinzip der judicial review sollten sich in Deutschland Artikel 19,4 GG und die Aktivitäten des Bundesverfassungsgerichts ergeben. Ungeachtet der weiter bestehenden richterlichen Unabhängigkeit hat sich der moderne Staat dennoch die Juristen und die Justiz vollständig unterworfen. Das wurde möglich dank der vollständigen Unterwerfung des Rechts, das mit Hilfe des Naturrechts, anschließend mit historischen Methoden von Staats wegen zwischen 1683 und 1912 systematisch und umfassend neu begründet wurde.7 Künftig gab es nur noch ein Recht, nämlich das staatliche. Die Juristen blieben auf dessen Dienst beschränkt. Schon seit dem 16. Jahrhundert haben die Gesetzgeber die Juristen mittels Kommentier- und Auslegungsverboten zu disziplinieren versucht. Diese Tendenz verstärkt sich im Zeitalter der Kodifizierung8 - bis sie dank Unterwerfung der Juristen politisch entbehrlich wurde. Allerdings hat die wissenschaftliche Begründung des Rechts und der Gesetzgebung das Recht endgültig aus dem religiösen und ethischen Zusammenhang gelöst, ihm seine autonome moralische Würde genommen und es der Willkür der selbstreferentiellen Staatsgewalt ausgeliefert.9 Zwar versteht sich der moderne Staat als Rechtsstaat, in dem alles Staatshandeln nach Recht und Gesetz stattzufinden hat. Aber was Recht und Gesetz sind, bestimmen die Juristen im Dienst der Staatsgewalt nach Belieben. Dass der uralte Grundsatz rule of law, not of men (der auf Aristoteles zurückgeht) heute im Klartext bedeutet rule of lawyers, not of men ist keine neue Botschaft ( John Dewey). Demgemäß werden Recht und Verfassung in atemberaubendem Tempo den jeweiligen politischen Bedürfnissen angepasst; dass Recht noch irgendetwas mit Gerechtigkeit zu tun haben könnte, glaubt inzwischen niemand mehr. Formal hat sogar das ‘Dritte Reich’ weithin rechtsstaatliche Grundsätze beachtet.10 Aber nichts kann eine hinreichend mächtige Staatsgewalt daran hindern, auf rechtsstaatlich korrekte Weise vom Rechtsstaat zum Unrechtsstaat überzugehen. Partiell hat uns die Musterdemokratie USA 7

8

9

10

1683: Danske Lov; 1794: Allgemeines Landrecht für die Preußischen Staaten; 1804: Code civil, 1806–1810 vier weitere französische Codes, 1812 Allgemeines Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch für die gesamten deutschen Erbländer der Österreichischen Monarchie; 1871: Strafgesetzbuch; 1900: Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch; 1912: Schweizer Zivilgesetzbuch. Wilhelm Brauneder, ‘Kommentier- und Auslegungsverbot’, in: Enzyklopädie der Neuzeit, VI (Stuttgart, Weimar 2007) 979 f. Vgl. Rober Berkowitz, The Gift of Science. Leibniz and the Modern Legal Tradition (Cambridge/ Mass. 2005) nach Historische Zeitschrift 285 (2007) 137f. ‘The principal instrument of terror in Nazi Germany was not the concentration camp but the law’, zumindest vor Ausweitung des Lagersystems ab 1937 (Richard J. Evans, ‘Coercion and Consent in Nazi Germany’ Proceedings of the British Academy 151 (2007) 53–81).

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gerade vorgemacht, dass Grund- und Menschenrechte nur solange und soweit gelten, wie es der Staatsgewalt beliebt. Die vollständige Konvergenz von Recht und Staat hat zur vollständigen Instrumentalisierung des Rechts durch die Macht geführt. Niedergang des modernen Staates 191 Gemeinwesen betrachteten sich 1999 als moderne demokratische National- und Verfassungsstaaten. Die Wirklichkeit sieht freilich anders aus. Dieser Befund hängt mit dem Niedergang des modernen Staates zusammen, dessen Beginn ich auf die Mitte der 1970er Jahre datieren möchte. Denn damals wurden seine Schwächen erstmals offenbar. Freilich hat sein Niedergang erst begonnen, während wir beim Aufstieg des Staates eine über tausend Jahre währende abgeschlossene Entwicklung vor uns hatten. Infolgedessen ist nicht einmal klar auszumachen, ob es sich bei den unübersehbaren Zerfallserscheinungen, die wir zur Kenntnis nehmen müssen, um Ursachen oder bloße Symptome des Niedergangs handelt. Dennoch möchte die Hypothese wagen, dass es sich, metaphorisch gesprochen, um eine Art von Autoimmunreaktion des politischen Körpers handelt, um im System angelegte Zwänge zur Selbstzerstörung, die bei alten Staaten durch zuviel Staat, bei den jungen durch zuwenig Staat ausgelöst werden. Als Erbe der Kolonialherrschaft fehlt es den letzteren oft nicht nur an materiellen Ressourcen, sondern auch an der nur in einem langwierigen Lernprozess zu erwerbenden politischen Kultur, die mit dem modernen Staat entstanden ist, so dass er ohne sie nicht funktionieren kann. Die alten Staaten hingegen leiden daran, dass die vier Prinzipien universale Zuständigkeit, Rechtsstaatlichkeit, Nationalität und Demokratie, deren Entfaltung sie auf den Höhepunkt ihrer Macht geführt hat, an einem Punkt angelangt sind, wo ihr Beitrag zum Wachstum der Staatsgewalt ins Gegenteil umschlagen muss. Solange dem werdenden modernen Staat seine Fremdlegitimation, vor allem das Gottesgnadentum seiner Monarchen geglaubt wurde, war er gegen delegitimatorische Kritik immun. Seit er kraft der Volkssouveränitätsfiktion legitimatorischer Selbstversorger geworden ist, steht der neuartigen Möglichkeit zur grenzenlosen Ausweitung seiner Befugnisse zugleich eine erhöhte Anfälligkeit für Delegitimation gegenüber. Es ist kein Zufall, dass der moderne Anarchismus 1793 gleichzeitig mit dem modernen Staat ins Leben trat. Denn der moderne demokratische Nationalstaat lebte von der bedingungslosen Identifikation seiner Bürger mit ihm. Sobald diese schrumpft, beginnt sein Niedergang. Dazu hat sogar die Entmythologisierung des Staates durch die Wissenschaft beigetragen, ebenso die ständige Entlarvung von Inhabern der Staatsgewalt durch die Massenmedien.

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Vor allem aber die historische Erfahrung mit dem Staat als Verbrecher, wie sie keineswegs nur die Deutschen machen mussten. Anderswo hat sich der eigene Staat im Dekolonisationsprozess in Algerien oder in Vietnam als Übeltäter entlarvt. Oft genug bekämpft der Staat nicht nur Terroristen, sondern handelt selbst als Terrorist. Zusätzlich haben sich auch ethno-regionalistische Gegner des modernen Staates von antikolonialen Freiheitskämpfen inspirieren lassen. Viele Korsen, Flamen, Basken und andere fühlten sich von ihrem jeweiligen Nationalstaat durch ‘inneren Kolonialismus’ unterdrückt und beanspruchten demgegenüber das nationale Selbstbestimmungsrecht. Nationalismus und demokratischer Selbstbestimmungsanspruch dienten auf einmal nicht mehr der Stärkung der Staatsgewalt, sondern dem Versuch, sie zu untergraben. Denn es gibt weltweit eine Tendenz, sich nicht mehr mit den Nationalstaaten zu identifizieren, sondern mit kleineren Einheiten, nicht nur mit Mini-Nationalismen, sondern auch mit anderen Minderheiten, und dies häufig mit destruktiver Intoleranz. Man(n) oder Frau reagieren damit auf die Fremdbestimmung des Menschen durch anonyme Instanzen, die in Gestalt der Staatsgewalt ein Gesicht bekommen, auch wenn es nur eine Maske sein mag, hinter der sich wirtschaftliche Mächte verbergen. Grundsätzlich können immer neue Gruppen auftreten und ihre Ansprüche auf Kosten jener anmelden, die bereits erfolgreich waren. Demokratische und nationale Selbstbestimmungsansprüche haben keine natürlichen Grenzen. So lässt sich die partikularistische Dekonstruktion des modernen Staates bis zu seiner Auflösung fortsetzen. Die so genannte ‘Zivilgesellschaft’, die Gesamtheit aller von Staat und Wirtschaft unabhängigen Vereinigungen, Zusammenkünfte und Medien, in denen Bürger gemeinsam handeln, könnte unter diesen Umständen statt gesellschaftliche Voraussetzung des demokratischen Staates ein Faktor seiner Desintegration werden. Demokratische Partizipationsansprüche haben durch Organisation der Bürgerinteressen zur Mutation des Staates zur Interessendemokratie geführt. Politik besteht längst nicht mehr im Durchsetzen der Vorstellungen der jeweiligen Inhaber der Staatsgewalt, sondern im Aushandeln mit Gruppierungen innerhalb der Parteien und vor allem mit gesellschaftlichen Organisationen, die ein weit reichendes Mitspracherecht für das Staatshandeln und vor allem für den Staatshaushalt besitzen. Der demokratische Sozialstaat erweckt zwar mit seiner universalen Zuständigkeit immer noch den Eindruck von Stärke, ist aber im Hinblick auf seine Handlungsspielräume längst zum schwachen Staat geworden. Er wurde zum Opfer der Anspruchsdynamik der von ihm selbst geschaffenen

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sozialen Besitzstände und der Verschuldungsdynamik, die sich daraus ergab, als seit der ersten Ölpreiskrise in den 1970er Jahren die öffentlichen Mittel für diese Art demokratischer Politik nicht mehr ausreichten. Die jeweiligen Inhaber der Staatsgewalt wollen an der Macht bleiben und müssen deshalb die Gunst der Wähler gewinnen. Die Folge sind Wahlgeschenke oder zumindest eine Politik der Besitzstandswahrung ohne Rücksicht auf die Kosten. Reichen die Steuereinnahmen nicht aus, werden die Ausgaben durch Kreditaufnahme finanziert, was viele Staaten in der allseits bekannten ‘Schuldenfalle’ enden lässt. Unter diesen Umständen ist der diskrete Abbau des Sozialstaates angesagt. Das trifft sich gut mit den gesteigerten Renditeerwartungen des neoliberalen Sozialdarwinismus und dem Verschwinden des real existierenden Sozialismus. Inzwischen sind Arbeitnehmerrechte und soziale Sicherung nämlich nicht mehr Teil des westlichen Verteidigungssystems, sondern bloße Hindernisse auf dem Weg zur Profitmaximierung. Allerdings verlieren die Bürger dabei den Glauben an den Staat, dessen Legitimität damit weiter schrumpft. Das erleichtert den Bürgern den allgemeinen Rückzug in die so genannte ‘Schattenwirtschaft’, wo heutzutage an staatlicher Regulierung vorbei ein Zehntel bis ein Drittel des Sozialprodukts erwirtschaftet wird, zum Schaden der Staats- und Sozialkassen. Freilich geht der Staat mit Pseudoprivatisierungen und Schattenhaushalten dabei mit schlechtem Beispiel voran. Was alten Gemeinwesen durch überentwickelte Staatlichkeit verloren geht, fehlt vielen neuen wegen unterentwickelter Staatlichkeit. Wo sich der Anspruch des modernen Staates auf depersonalisierte Herrschaft gegen die traditionellen personalisierten Herrschaftsvorstellungen nicht durchsetzen lässt, wird eine Politik der Gefräßigkeit (politique du ventre) praktiziert.11 Eine Staatsklasse aus Politikern, Bürokraten und nicht zuletzt auch Militärs bemächtigt sich des Sozialprodukts, ohne dafür Sicherheit, Gerechtigkeit und Wohlfahrt zu liefern. Regierbarkeit lässt sich nur mit mikropolitischen Techniken des Familismus und Klientelismus herstellen oder als ‘Parastaatlichkeit’, als ‘Herrschaft der Intermediären’, von ‘NGOs’ oder Häuptlingen, die einen Teil der Staatsgewalt an sich ziehen. Man hat solche Gemeinwesen als ‘Quasi-Staaten’ bezeichnen, denen die Mittel fehlen, die Nachfrage ihrer Untertanen nach staatlichen Dienstleistungen zu befriedigen und eine selbständige Außenpolitik zu betreiben. Stattdessen werden sie von internationalen Organisationen bevormundet und müssen sich gegebenenfalls Interventionen gefallen lassen. Vom äußeren Souveränitätsverlust sind aber auch die meisten der alten Staaten betroffen. Durch Verträge sind sie in zahlreiche internationale 11

Jean-François Bayart, L’état en Afrique. La politique du ventre (Paris 1989).

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Organisationen eingebunden. Theoretisch wird dadurch ihre Souveränität zwar nicht beeinträchtigt, weil sie die völkerrechtliche Grundlage für jene Verträge darstellt. In Wirklichkeit ist die außenpolitische Beweglichkeit der Staaten durch die außerordentliche Verdichtung derartiger Bindungen aber erheblich eingeschränkt. Juristisch mag es zwar kein Mehr oder Weniger an Souveränität geben, politisch hingegen ist das offensichtlich durchaus der Fall. Die seit 1951 aufgebaute Europäische Union ist auch ohne Verfassung längst kein Staatenbund mehr, sondern fast wie weiland die alte Eidgenossenschaft ein Bündnisgeflecht mit bundesstaatlichen Elementen. Dass ihm demokratische Legitimation und sozialstaatliche Zuständigkeit weitgehend fehlen, entspricht durchaus den angesprochenen Tendenzen der Gegenwart. Aber ihre Mitglieder haben zum Beispiel nicht mehr die Möglichkeit zur Kriegführung nach Belieben, die einst den Inbegriff der Souveränität ausgemacht hatte. Dafür sind sie an den neuen Formen der Kriegführung beteiligt, wo sich ohne Kriegserklärung und Friedensschluss Bürgerkrieg und internationale Intervention verbinden. Konflikte von begrenztem Umfang, aber ohne Schutz für die Zivilbevölkerung, wie sie früher vorgesehen war. Die Reaktion der Völkergemeinschaft auf die Verbrechen in Jugoslawien und Ruanda hat schließlich 1998 zur Errichtung eines internationalen Strafgerichtshofs für Kriegsverbrechen und Verbrechen gegen die Menschlichkeit geführt. Die vertragliche Schaffung eines internationalen Völkerstraffrechts mag eine wegweisende Errungenschaft darstellen. Sie wird allerdings dadurch beeinträchtigt, dass die USA und andere Länder ihre Beteiligung zurückgezogen haben und den damit verbundenen Souveränitätsverslust nicht hinnehmen wollen. Dennoch hat der klassische moderne Staat als Regelfall bereits aufgehört zu existieren. Vor allem das Kriterium von Modernität schlechthin, die einst dem Ancien Régime abgerungene Einheit von Staatsvolk und Staatsgewalt, Staatsgebiet und Staatshoheit (Souveränität) trifft kaum mehr zu. Die Rechtseinheit beginnt sich aufzulösen; staatliche Rechtsprechung greift auch hierzulande bereits auf jüdisches oder islamisches Recht zurück.12 Das staatliche Politikmonopol hat bereits zugunsten intermediärer Instanzen und substaatlicher Verbände abgedankt. Auf der anderen Seite sind die Staaten übernational in einer Weise gebunden, die mit den alten Kategorien eines Völkerrechts souveräner Staaten nicht mehr angemessen erfasst werden kann. Das will nicht besagen, dass der Staat völlig ‘absterben’ wird, wie es von Utopisten behauptet wurde. Er wird in reduzierter Gestalt und in 12

Erik Jayme, Religiöses Recht vor staatlichen Gerichten, Schriften der Philosophisch-Historischen Klasse der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften 15 (Heidelberg 1999).

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Konkurrenz mit anderen Instanzen weiterleben. Schließlich gibt es überall eine Staatsklasse, deren Existenz davon abhängt. Außerdem finden sich immer noch Regulierungs- und Repressionsfunktionen, für die er gut geeignet ist, auch wenn er das Monopol äußerer und innerer Gewaltanwendung bereits verloren hat, neuerdings sogar im Strafvollzug. Statt eines zentralisierten Staates erscheint ein Gemeinwesen mit zahlreichen intermediären Instanzen angesagt, ein postmoderner Rückgriff auf die Vormoderne, ein ”neues Mittelalter“, dem aber die gemeinsamen Wertvorstellungen des Mittelalters fehlen. Die Gesellschaft als Ganze hat keinen gemeinsamen Willen mehr, denn der staatstragende Gemeinwille der demokratischen Identitätsphilosophie hat zugunsten konkurrierender Gruppenidentitäten abgedankt. Diese Gruppen aber begegnen sich nur noch auf dem Markt. Deshalb ist wegen des allgemeinen Überangebots an Arbeitskraft unter den Bedingungen eines enthemmten Kapitalismus weltweit eine in neuer Weise polarisierte Gesellschaft zu erwarten. Ein Teil der Bevölkerung, der in der jeweils gerade gefragten Weise qualifiziert ist, wird in Wohlstand und Luxus leben. Dem Rest bleibt die Wahl zwischen ungesicherter Niedriglohnarbeit und Arbeitslosigkeit, vielleicht nicht immer Elend, aber viel Frustration. Das politische Problem wird binnenstaatlich im Zahlenverhältnis der beiden Gruppen bestehen. Eine Zweidrittelgesellschaft von Reichen und einigermaßen Wohlhabenden hätte die Mehrheit und könnte bei der Demokratie bleiben. In einer Gesellschaft mit zwei Dritteln Armen hingegen würde Demokratie die angesagte rücksichtlose Bereicherung gefährden; sie müsste zu einem autoritären Regime oder Schlimmerem übergehen. Weitsichtige Strategen rüsten bereits für neuartige Konflikte, die der ‘Planet der Slums’ hervorbringen wird. Denn der Ruin der Landwirtschaft der armen Länder veranlasst immer mehr Menschen in die Slums der Megastädte zu strömen, so dass deren informellen Selbstheilungskräften die Möglichkeiten ausgehen. Den Beherrschern des Globus fehlt es demgegenüber zwar nicht an Repressionstechnologie, aber die Ausgestoßenen haben ‘die Götter des Chaos auf ihrer Seite’.13 Wer auf den Staat wartet, wird wohl vergeblich warten müssen. Wer aber auf das Recht wartet, könnte sich an den staatskritischen Ursprung der Grund- und Menschenrecht erinnern und daraus Hoffnung schöpfen.

13

Mike Davis, ‘Planet der Slums’, Blätter für deutsche und internationale Politik 7 (2006) 805–816.

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Tabula Gratulatoria David Abulafia, Cambridge Erik Aerts, Leuven Wim van Anrooij, Leiden Wiljan van den Akker, Utrecht Martyn Atkins , London Paul J.J.M. Bakker, Nijmegen J.Th.M. Bank, Amsterdam Xavier Barral i Altet, Paris Anna Bergmans, Gent Arnaud-Jan Bijsterveld, Tilburg Claire Billen, Bruxelles Peter Blickle, Bern Dick E.H. de Boer, Groningen Marc Boone & Thérèse De Hemptinne, Gent R.A.A. Bosch, Groningen Martin Bossenbroek, Den Haag Eric Bousmar, Bruxelles H. Brand, Leeuwarden J.W.J. Burgers , Den Haag & Amsterdam Frederik Buylaert, Gent Jean-Marie Cauchies, Bruxelles Giorgio Chittolini, Milano Sybren Cnossen, Den Haag Dirk Coigneau, Bredene Commission royale d’histoire Koninklijke Commissie voor Geschiedenis, Bruxelles Philippe Contamine, Paris Hans Cools, Antwerpen S. Corbellini, Groningen C.L.E. Cornelisse, Sassenheim Paul Courtney, Leicester Mario Damen, Leiden & Amsterdam Mayke De Jong, Utrecht Jan De Maere, Brussel Marc De Mey, Brussel Jeroen Deploige, Gent Martine De Reu, Gent Hilde & Leo De Ridder - Symoens, Gent Hugo De Schepper, Malden Raphaël de Smedt, Mechelen Georges Declercq, Brussel

Herwig Deumens, Antwerpen Theo D’Haen, Leuven Alain Dierkens, Bruxelles Henri Dubois, Paris Jan Dumolyn, Gent Sonja Dünnebeil, Wien Bunna Ebels-Hoving, Groningen L.J. Engels, Hellum H.J. Ernst, Amsterdam R. Feenstra, Leiden Willem Frijhoff, Amsterdam Noël Geirnaert, Brugge Michael H. Gelting, Copenhagen Guy Geltner, Amsterdam Jean-Philipe Genet, Paris G.H. Gerrits, Port Williams Matthijs Gerrits, Leiden & Leeuwarden Corien Glaudemans, Den Haag T. van Haaften, Leiden Peter Henderikx, Veere G. van Herwijnen, Amsterdam Peter Hoppenbrouwers, Leiden Norman Housley, Leicester Antheun Janse, Leiden Gustaaf Janssens, Leuven Irina Katkowa, St.Petersburg Atsushi Kawahara, Tokyo Jacqueline A.M. Kerkhoff, Heeswijk-Dinther Johann-Christian Klamt, Utrecht H.K. Klemettilä, Turku Th.M. Koornwinder-Wyntjes, Bussum Yolande Kortlever, Bergen op Zoom Johanna Kossmann-Putto, Groningen Jaap Kruisheer, Maarssen Martje Kruk - de Bruin, Voorhout Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada, Madrid Marie Christine Laleman, Gent Marie-Charlotte Le Bailly, Antwerpen Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, Lille

364 Tabula Gratulatoria

Max Lejbowicz, Paris Guido en An Marnef-Kint, Schoten Olivier Mattéoni, Antony Rob Meens, Utrecht Aart J.J. Mekking, Utrecht Ludo & Greta Milis - Proost, St-Martens-Latem Jean-Marie Moeglin, Paris Ruth-E. Mohrmann, Muenster Hans Mol, Leeuwarden & Leiden Dominik Moric, Rotterdam Marco Mostert, Utrecht José Manuel Nieto Soria, Madrid Aart Noordzij, Leiden & Rotterdam Takashi Okunishi, Osaka Johan Oosterman, Nijmegen W. Mark Ormrod, York Kristof Papin, Aalter Werner en Anke Paravicini, Kiel Geoffrey Parker, Columbus Jacques Paviot, Paris Jacques Poirson, Mouvaux Judith Pollmann, Leiden Bjørn Poulsen, Aarhus Walter Prevenier en Frieda De Koninck, St-Martens-Latem Maarten Prak, Utrecht Cynthia M. Pyle, New York Raad voor Geesteswetenschappen, KNAW, Amsterdam Pierre Racine, Eckbolsheim Peter Raedts, Nijmegen Andreas Ranft, Halle (Saale) Wolfgang Reinhard, Freiburg & Erfurt Bernhard Ridderbos, Groningen Albert Rigaudière, Paris Rijksacademie van beeldende kunsten, Amsterdam M. J. Rodríguez-Salgado, London Xavier Rousseaux, Louvain-laNeuve Catrien Santing, Groningen Remi van Schaik, Groningen

Niceas Schamp, Brussel Louis Sicking, Leiden Walter Simons, Lebanon, New Hampshire Hugo s’Jacob, Leiden Ineke Sluiter, Leiden J.G. Smit, Leidschendam Justine Smithuis, Leiden Tjamke Snijders, Gent Tim Soens, Antwerpen Hugo Soly, Brussel en Antwerpen Stadsarchief Ieper, Ieper Rombert Stapel, Leeuwarden & Leiden Juliette Staüdt, Solna Arie van Steensel, Leiden Robert Stein, Leiden Peter Tindemans, Den Haag Richard W. Unger, Vancouver Wacław Uruszczak, Kraków Bas Van Bavel, Utrecht Anne-Laure Van Bruaene, Gent Bram Van den Hoven van Genderen, Utrecht Steven Vanderputten, Gent Ed Van der Vlist, Den Haag Herman & Monique Van der Wee, Sint-Pauwels Werner Verbeke, Leuven Annemieke Verboon, Paris René Vermeir, Gent Harm Von Seggern, Kiel P.H.H. Vries, Wien Monique Weis & Jean Houssiau , Bruxelles Henk Wesseling, Wassenaar Hanno Wijsman, Leiden Frank Willaert, Antwerpen Johanna Maria van Winter, Utrecht Dirk Wolfson, Rotterdam Justyna Wubs-Mrozewicz, Leiden Andreas Würgler, Bern