Revisiting Decadence: A Behavioral Interpretation of Fifteenth-Century Historical Narrative 1443819565, 9781443819565

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
WAR LEADERSHIP
STAGED VIOLENCE
POWER PLAYS
INTIMACY AND VICTIMIZATION
ALIEN ENCOUNTERS
CONCLUSION
BIBLIOGRAPHY

Citation preview

Revisiting Decadence

Revisiting Decadence: A Behavioral Interpretation of Fifteenth-Century Historical Narrative

By

L. B. Ross

Revisiting Decadence: A Behavioral Interpretation of Fifteenth-Century Historical Narrative, by L. B. Ross This book first published 2010 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2010 by L. B. Ross All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-1956-5, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-1956-5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. Introduction .............................................................................................. 1 II. War Leadership..................................................................................... 18 III. Staged Violence................................................................................... 65 IV. Power Plays ....................................................................................... 105 V. Intimacy and Victimization ................................................................ 152 VI. Alien Encounters ............................................................................... 199 VII. Conclusion ....................................................................................... 245 Bibliography............................................................................................ 255

I. INTRODUCTION

I.1 Behavior and Historians This work looks at some aspects of fifteenth-century society and culture through the lens of historical narrative of that period. It examines how the actions of a variety of individuals and groups were described and how the writers attributed motivation to their actors, in order to assess what was the range of acceptable interpersonal behavior, and in some cases what personality types incurred more or less approval. The material consists of various anecdotes (some well known and some less known) taken from chronicles, diaries, memoirs, and even autobiographical poems. As stated in the title, this work does not claim to be uncovering new information, nor does it propose a new general theory about the mentality of a period that is still often perceived as one of decadence in respect to the High Middle Ages. However, it differs from other recent works of latemedieval scholarship in that it takes a more overtly interdisciplinary approach as it makes extensive use of citations from articles and books of psychology.1 While psychology is here limited to an ancillary function, its use is still controversial enough that it requires some clarification. In relating events that occurred in 1445-1446 the chronicler Mathieu d’Escouchy reported the visit to Paris of a gifted young Spaniard, who so amazed the doctors of the University with his prodigious memory and vast knowledge that they debated whether he might be the much-announced Antichrist. What made the hypothesis at least plausible was that the Antichrist was supposedly to be born in a period when people are “unkind

1

The only exception that I can find is the work of F. C. Famiglietti, which I will discuss in a few pages. Some well-known works on medieval historiography do examine the mentality of the writers themselves, but not so much that of the subjects of their writings (for example, William J. Brandt’s The Shape of Medieval History or Robert Hanning’s The Vision of History in Early Britain). Also, they usually abstain from research outside their own field.

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Introduction

to each other.”2 This statement is intriguing because it reveals a fifteenthcentury writer characterizing his era through interpersonal behavior. He seems also to imply that, when viewed through that lens, his was a bad period in which to live. Similarly, a few decades later the memorialist Philippe de Commynes remarked despondently that “we are losing all trust and loyalty toward each other.”3 Clearly, the quality of social relations had an impact on those writers’ views of their world, centuries before social psychology, the discipline that studies the behavior of people in groups, would make its debut.4 Dominant figures of the early twentieth century, such as Norbert Elias and Lucien Febvre, have advocated it as an aid to history, but since then the very mention of psychology usually elicits an instinctive aversion in most historians, because in the more recent past it has meant almost exclusively the study of historical personalities based on psychoanalysis. 5 It is commonly believed that the casus belli against psychohistory was the brilliant and controversial Young Man Luther (1958) by Erik Erikson. Thanks to Erikson psychoanalysis leapt boldly into the field of history, claiming its methodological niche, as this was rather a work of psychiatry than history and written by a clinician, which had as subject a historical 2 (“peu charitable le ung envers l’autre”). Mathieu d’Escouchy, Chronique, ed. G. du Fresne de Beaucourt, 3 vols. (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1863), 1:71. The other attributes that he lists are: being born out of wedlock of Christian father and Jewish mother (who feigned being Christian), and to be instructed in all arts by the Devil. The Bourgeois of Paris gives a slightly different version, more attuned to his perception of “class” relations: the Antichrist would be born in a period when the great lords will be hated “pour ce qu’ils seront très cruels au menu peuple.” Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris: 1405-1449, ed. Colette Beaune (Paris: Livre de poche, 1990), 430-1. 3 (“nous sommes affoibliz de toute foy et loyauté les ungs envers les autres”). Philippe de Commynes, Mémoires, ed. Joseph Calmette avec la collaboration du chanoine G. Durville, 3 vols. (1924; Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion), 1:129. 4 More formally, it is defined as “the science which studies the behavior of the individual in so far as his behavior stimulates other individuals, or is itself a reaction to their behavior; and which describes the consciousness of the individual in so far as it is a consciousness of social objects and social reactions.” Floyd Henry Allport, Social Psychology (New York: Johnson Reprints Corp, 1967), 12. 5 Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Oxford & Cambridge: Blackwell, 1994), 485-9, and Lucien Febvre, “Sensibility and History: How to Reconstruct the Emotional Life of the Past,” in A New Kind of History from the Writings of Febvre, trans. K. Folca (New York: Harper and Row, 1973), 3-9. However, Elias warns against the use of psychoanalysis and Febvre cautions against anachronisms.

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figure. As expected, this provocative book generated a flurry of arguments, both in its defense and against it. For example, Lewis W. Spitz acknowledges Luther as a great achievement in what he call “psychological history,” that is, psychology applied to the lives of great figures, but points out, cautiously, some shortcomings of Erikson’s “central assertions.” In particular, he argues that some of his assumptions to explain Luther’s adult attitudes (for example, conflict with father figure and fear of demons) were either not sustainable or amenable to be interpreted outside psychoanalysis.6 The debate has expanded beyond Luther, with some unexpected consequences. For example, David Stannard has attacked psychoanalysis itself because of its supposed conceptual flaws (such as the universality of the Oedipus complex, or the concept of ego defense mechanism), and has discouraged its use as historical tool because of its “assumption of immutability in man’s basic vision of himself and his environment.” This author warns against rushing “to apply retrospectively contemporary psychoanalytic or any other highly structured explanatory concepts of motivation to the historical figure’s behavior.” Still, he makes only an oblique reference to social psychology, with a brief negative comment on “extreme” behaviorism, thus effectively equating psychohistory with the application of psychoanalysis (and perhaps, Skinner’s “radical behaviorism”) to the study of past lives.7 Another collection of critical essays, Psycho/History: Readings in the Method of Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and History, discusses the validity of psychoanalysis as a historical tool in general. Some of its authors take extreme positions, from advocating the elevation of psychohistory to an independent discipline removed from history, to backing Stannard’s position that psychoanalytical methods are not scientific, their “evidence” being clinical rather than experimental, and in addition, that some classical psychoanalytical hypotheses have been proven wrong.8 One of the 6

Lewis W. Spitz, “Psychohistory and History: the Case of Young Man Luther,” Soundings, 56 (1973):182-209. 7 David E. Stannard, Shrinking History: On Freud and the Failure of Psychohistory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 57, 65, 88-94, 121-33. He attacks even more vehemently than Luther (Shrinking History, 3-20) an earlier work of Freud on Leonardo, Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of his Childhood (1910). 8 Lloyd deMause, “Independence of Psychohistory” in Psycho/History: Readings in the Method of Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and History, ed. Geoffrey Cocks and Travis L. Crosby (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 51-54, and H. J. Eysenck, “What is Wrong with Psychoanalysis,” in Cocks and Crosby, Psycho/History, 10-15. Another misguided attempt by a clinician turned historian is cited in Jean-Marie Cauchies, Louis XI et Charles le Hardi De Péronne à Nancy (1468-1477): le conflit (Brussels: DeBoeck Université, 1996), 157 and will be

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Introduction

contributions to the volume, however, suggests an intriguing use for social psychology, and has deeply influenced my methodology for the present work. In “Non-Psychoanalytical Approaches to National Socialism” Harvey Asher suggests dissociating psychohistory from psychoanalysis for a study of Nazism, and in particular for delving into the issue of whether “all Germans” were victims of some collective delusion. He argues that a minority of deviants gained control over the majority of normal people, and demonstrates, from the evidence of psychosocial research, that this is a phenomenon that can happen in any society. He starts from Gustave Le Bon’s early studies on crowd behavior, which revealed crowds’ propensity for “suspension of critical judgment […] extreme credulity, fleeting sentiments, and irritability,” rendering them prone to collective delusions. He then moves on to more recent theories on imitation and exposure to social models by Albert Bandura and J. Walters, to analyze how Germans reacted to the new authority sources by imitating their (rewarded) behavior. In refining his investigation into the hold exerted by the new authorities over the masses, he cites the classical studies on social power by J. R. P. French and Bertram Raven, and explains the sudden willingness to discredit the Weimar Republic and to accept the new ideology in terms of a mechanism for the reduction of “cognitive dissonance.” As for the apparently collective acceptance of Nazi atrocities he recalls the notorious experiments by Solomon Asch and Muzafer Sherif that demonstrated how subjects do alter verifiably correct beliefs in the face of group pressure. And finally, to explain the willingness of many to stay with Hitler to the bitter end, he recalls the findings of the controversial experiments of Stanley Milgram, conducted on American subjects, which demonstrate extremes of obedience to a perceived authority even when it involves (apparently) inflicting pain on other humans.9 In his article Asher has offered a plausible psychosocial explanation for a disturbing historical phenomenon and in so doing has avoided overt referenced in Chapter IV. On the opposite side of the controversy see the spirited defense of psychoanalysis in Peter Gay, Freud for Historians (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). 9 Harvey Asher, “Non-Psychoanalytical Approaches to National Socialism,” in Cocks and Crosby, Psycho/History, 268-79. Le Bon is considered the founding father of modern crowd psychology. Some works of Bandura and others on aggression are cited in Chapter III. For the classical taxonomy of power bases (1959) see J. R. P. French Jr. and Bertram Raven, “The Bases of Social Power,” in Group Dynamics: Research and Theory, ed. D. Cartwright and F. Zander (New York: 1960), 613. Milgram’s notorious experiments on obedience conducted in the 1960s, with their sombering results on how far “average” people would go to obey orders, are now a classic in psychology literature.

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and intrusive clinical terminology. He has also skirted the weaknesses of psychoanalysis, with its goal of understanding the innermost thoughts, fears, and neuroses arising from childhood experiences, all topics unlikely to be amenable to investigation when the subjects in question are dead.10 Instead he has postulated, for the benefit of historians, a series of processes by which “normal” people may under certain circumstances behave abnormally. What attracts me to social psychology is precisely its emphasis on (socially accepted) normalcy and verifiable rules that affects the dynamics of groups, and also the fact that, unlike radical behaviorism, it does not display excessive concern with contingencies external to the individual. It seems to me that in making a discreet use of this discipline historians might progress beyond sometimes testy arguments of methodology and overcome the long-standing debate over psychohistory.11 Social psychology may deserve criticism for apparent weaknesses of its own. First, because it does not form an organized body of knowledge, rather it has evolved from the bottom upward, through a series of clever if disparate experiments, from which unrelated laws of behavior have emerged. Yet, for the purpose of the present research, its “ad-hoc,” practical nature is actually an advantage. This is a work of history that makes use of psychology, not vice versa, and it assumes that no single text of psychology can form the theoretical basis for all arguments. Instead, each topic finds support in a varied number of articles or books, a process followed by Asher in the development of his theory on Nazism. Another criticism of this science is its excessive reliance on laboratory experiments rather than field studies, which – it is argued – may lead to an overlysimplified view of social interactions. Bandura, an authority on the phenomenon of aggression, refutes this criticism quite persuasively. He argues that a major purpose of psychological research is to identify the determinants of human behavior, but it “is difficult to ascertain the direction of causal relationships by observing behavior occurring 10 In addition, social psychology’s recent excursion into the study of personality and collective behavior has increased its potential applicability to history. See, for example, Arthur A Staats, Behavior and Personality (New York: Springer Publishing Company, 1996). 11 Its use could address, at least in part, Hayden White’s opposite concern that history is inadequate to explain human events because of its faulty methodology, a mixture of outdated art and outdated science, which causes it to lag behind other social sciences. Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore/London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 28-29, 43, 51. Robert Muchembled, L’invention de l’homme moderne (Paris: Fayard, 1988), 3334 cautions that the use of social psychology to examine the past leads inevitably to anachronism, but his examples are taken from psychoanalysis.

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Introduction

naturally.” As an example, he cites the classical conundrum of the relation between real and staged violence (which will be the topic of Chapter III). To find out what influences whom when studying violent behavior, controlled studies are needed in which diverse influences are held constant, while varying only those under investigation. He adds that “findings from experimental studies are often discounted on the ground that the artificiality of laboratory conditions precludes extrapolation to everyday situations. This attitude represents a misunderstanding of the manner in which knowledge is advanced […] Experiments are valuable precisely because they do not duplicate natural occurrences.” Investigators study basic process, not exact reproductions of natural events, a view that is taken for granted in other sciences. “Laws are formulated on the basis of simulated conditions and then evaluated in terms of how well they enable one to predict and control natural phenomena […] It is predictive power, not likeness, that should be the guiding criterion of research.”12 These arguments, of course, do not concern historical sources that deal with natural occurrences. Despite its potential for controversy, psychology may still claim a role in historical research in general, and specifically it can be a useful tool in the study of the fifteenth century, a period that offers a wealth of records including well-documented examples of mental aberrations. Given that the madness of kings was so important a factor in the tragic political developments of this era, some authors have deliberately waded even into the treacherous waters of psychiatry. The most notable effort in this direction is the work of R. C. Famiglietti on the intrigues at the court of Charles VI. The author follows the progression of the king’s mental illness from the early (acute but intermittent) violent episodes between 1392 and 1405 to its later progressive stages that left him almost continuously incapacitated. The author supports his conclusions through parallel sources, on the one hand the narratives of Froissart and the Religieux of Saint-Denis, and on the other the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which classifies various types of schizophrenia by symptoms.13 Within the sphere of normalcy other psychological themes have been addressed, if obliquely, by medievalists. For example, some recent studies on the late Middle Ages have concentrated on the formal aspect of relationships through service and manners, and others have ventured to discuss collective emotions, with some even suggesting the 12

Albert Bandura, Aggression: a Social Learning Analysis (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973), 62-63. 13 R. C. Famiglietti, Royal Intrigue: Crisis at the Court of Charles VI 1392-1420 (New York: AMS Press, 1984), 1-21.

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necessity of a new discipline, “emotionology.” On the last subject Barbara Rosenwein, echoing Febvre, has cautioned historians against defining some historical periods as particularly emotional (and, by implication, more childish and spontaneous than others). Rather – she argues – for all historical periods one may more appropriately talk of “emotional communities,” social environments with their peculiar rules that set the limits of emotional expression, an argument that suggests at least a potential for the use of psychological tools in the study of behavior across time.14 However, my objective in this work points to a different direction. Rather than pursuing a specific thesis about emotions in late-medieval society (either to refute or to propose an alternative “grand theory” of emotionalism), I suggest that the emotionality and irrationality (when present) of late-medieval people could be evaluated using some techniques that have proven useful with modern subjects. Beside encompassing an analysis of a range of emotions, that is, primitive uncontrolled reaction such as anger and fear, a study of interpersonal behavior goes further to delve into rules of group dynamics, for example feelings (suspicion, hostility) and techniques to overcome them (manipulation, aggression, submission). It also tends to categorize persistent emotions into personality types and in some cases distil them into systems of beliefs. In 14 Febvre, “Sensibility and History,” 17. Rosenwein criticizes Elias’s “civilization paradigm” that assumes that history of western civilization “is characterized by some kind of advancing repression of natural emotionality […] in favour of a growing sensitivity to reason and self-discipline.” Barbara H. Rosenwein, “Worrying about Emotions in History,” American Historical Review 107 (2002), 821-45. Recently Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruaene have dedicated an entire volume to the subject of emotions, with abundant references to the field of social psychology. Emotions in the Heart of the City (14th-16th century), ed. Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin and Anne-Laure Van Bruaene (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005). In this work Jeroen Deploige observes that when historians study emotions “they become armchair anthropologists,” relying by necessity on secondhand observations; nevertheless their approach is not much different from that of historians who study mentalities. Jeroen Deploige, “Studying Emotions; The Medievalist as Human Scientist?” in Lecuppre-Desjardin and Van Bruaene, Emotions, 20-22. Another earlier work that approaches the theme is Richard E. Trexler, Persons in Groups – Social Behavior as Identity Formation in Medieval and Renaissance Europe (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Studies vol. 36, 1985). This work, however, discusses rather expressions in dance, burials, performance, and literature than psychology. A collection of essays on the English mystic Margery Kempe makes deliberate and direct reference to findings in psychology. I will discuss some of the essays in question in Chapter V. Margery Kempe: A Book of Essays, ed. Sandra J. McEntire (New York, 1992).

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Introduction

an ideal situation this level of analysis could be done for each example produced. However, when dealing with an uneven quantity and quality of information, which is the case with my sources, it would be unrealistic to expect consistently perfect results. Therefore, in this work psychology performs two secondary (but to me important) roles: first, it serves to frame the topics of the various chapters, such as leadership, violence, manipulative behavior, victimization of women, and incompatibility of communication across heterogeneous groups; and second, imparts a standardized set of recognizable labels, a commonly-defined language, to the same, thus bridging the gap between modern and medieval perceptions. An experiment in the use of these techniques in the absence of live subjects obviously depends on an abundance of written sources. Luckily, unlike some other historical periods, the fifteenth century offers a wealth of information about itself and its events, at least on the continent. It is unfortunate that England endured a dearth of written histories (apart from sketchy city chronicles, which suffer also from the interpretative limitations posed by their poverty of expression) precisely during this formative period that includes the Wars of the Roses, leaving it to be covered often inaccurately by continental writers in their own language.15 The absence of historical narrative in native language has unfortunately rendered this century rather remote to a reader familiar only with English. In this work I have tried to include the (scattered) opinions of English writers whenever possible, and to dedicate quite a few pages to the autobiographical work of Margery Kempe in order to redress the imbalance.

I.2.The Book and its Sources The following five chapters are loosely-related essays that look at various aspects of behavior in situations that are most relevant to the medieval sources, namely war, tournaments, political intrigue, and urban revolts. In addition, one chapter examines a theme more cherished by modern historians, women’s presence in the private and public arena. My purpose is to explore how fifteenth-century writers of “factual” narrative (I will generally refer to them simply as “writers” rather than “historians”) 15 The sources and their limitations will be discussed in the next section. Jayn Dumolyn and Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, “Propagande et sensibilité: la fibre emotionelle au coeur des luttes politiques et sociales dans les villes des anciens Pays-Bas bourguignons. L’example de la révolte brugeoise de 1436-1438,” in Lecuppre-Desjardin, Emotions, 48 discusses how poverty of language affects the interpretation of the emotional content of writings. The one English chronicler of this era, the so-called Crowland Chronicler, will be cited in chapters III and IV.

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interpret personalities and motives and define acceptable and unacceptable behavior. The examples that I will explore are not meant to offer a comprehensive view of that society. Rather they are, in psychological parlance, a series of case studies, each illustrating snippets of a society in action, and as such organized thematically rather than chronologically. The titles are often deliberately provocative, as in some cases the contents will prove precisely the opposite of what is stated in the titles. In other terms, the titles provide a topic, not a thesis. In general each chapter has its own set of examples, but occasionally I will revisit the same character or tap multiple times into one anecdote to illustrate it from a different viewpoint. Because this work depends largely on a coherent narrative, one that recreates the background of relations and even ventures into intelligent guesses, the bulk of anecdotes are based on the works of a few writers gifted with an analytical mind, and who took a personal interest in their subjects. Chapter II is dedicated to war, the single most common topic in historical works of that tormented century. But it looks at war only obliquely, as a convenient background for analysis of behavior that is brought into focus in this setting. In particular, it discusses the elusive latemedieval concepts of leadership, obedience, and treatment of prisoners. Its psychological background is provided by the pioneering work of Donelson Forsyth and Arnold Buss on leadership.16 The centerpiece of the chapter is the controversial military career of Duke Charles the Bold of Burgundy, a character who will reappear often throughout this work, as he was one of the most notorious and discussed figures in contemporary literature. Chapter III looks at the relationship between staged violence and aggressive behavior. Taking its lead from the authoritative works on aggression by Konrad Lorenz and Bandura, among others, it examines popular late-medieval entertainments for their violent content.17 The bulk of the chapter deals with tournaments and how they compared to chivalric literature, two topics that enjoyed wide appeal among some of the sources. Chapter IV analyzes power plays within the nobility, another theme dear to some fifteenth-century historians. Because this century has endured a negative publicity thanks to the perceived “Machiavellianism” of its princes, I cast a different light on these figures through a study of the modus operandi of modern “Machiavellian” and “non-Machiavellian” 16 Donelson Forsyth, Introduction to Group Dynamics (Pacific Grove, CA: Brooks/Cole Pub. Co, 1990) and Arnold Buss, Social Behavior and Personality (Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publisher, 1986). 17 Konrad Lorenz, On Aggression, trans. Marjorie Kerr Wilson (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1966). Bandura’s work is cited above (6n12).

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Introduction

personalities conducted by Richard Christie and Florence L. Geis.18 This century is also notorious for psychological aberrations, from the presence of verifiably mad kings to the alleged general depression of the upper crust posited by Huizinga.19 Here I discuss both issues, briefly straying into the realm of the abnormal, thus making this chapter one of the most intensely “psychological” of the entire work. Chapter V examines the world of women, in their relations with other women and men at home and in public, from a viewpoint dear to feminist literature, namely family life and the often thwarted attempts at breaking free of its bonds. The psychological basis for this chapter is the synoptical work of Florence L. Denmark and Michele A. Paludi, while its anecdotal component makes use of the abundant (if only recently fully appreciated) narratives of women’s lives that occur in medieval historical literature.20 In contrast with the preceding chapter, this one widens the social horizon to include commoners among the principal actors, a rare treat in medieval studies, as it illustrates the interpersonal behavior of two notorious non-noble women, Joan of Arc and Margery Kempe. Chapter VI discusses violent encounters between nobles and commoners during urban revolts, a subject that primary sources approach through generalities and often with open contempt. I will examine two diverse urban settings, Paris and the great cities of Flanders, Ghent and Bruges, to illustrate how a likely difference in the perception of relationship between rulers and ruled produced two different types of miscommunication. Rather than a single major supporting work of psychology this chapter makes use of a few classical studies on crowd behavior and also of the encyclopedic Theory of Collective Behavior by Neil Smelser on the mechanism of revolts.21

18

Richard Christie and Florence L Geis, Studies in Machiavellianism (New York and London: Academic Press, 1970). 19 Johan Huizinga, Herfsttij der Middeleeuwen / The Autumn of the Middle Ages, trans. Rodney J. Payton and Ulrich Mammitzsch (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996), 32-37. Among works that I will cite, Lars Fredén, Psychosocial Aspects of Depression (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 1982) offers a comprehensive survey of works on depression. Patrick O’Brien, The Disordered Mind (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc. 1978) is a handy, if rather old, text on the categorization, symptomatology, and prognosis of schizophrenia, written by a clinician. 20 Psychology of Women: A Handbook of Issues and Theories, ed. Florence L. Denmark, and Michele A. Paludi (Westport, CN: Greenwood Press, 1993). 21 Neil J. Smelser, Theory of Collective Behavior (New York: The Free Press of Glencoe, 1963).

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Stannard has brought attention to the limitations of observable behavior, given humans’ ability to deceive others.22 But behavior, as outside manifestation of inner attitudes and response to outside influences, is often all that is left to make sense of past lives, and, as mentioned at the opening of the chapter, there are clues that some late-medieval writers were quite aware of its significance. For example, Commynes is genuinely intrigued by the relationships between his characters, and attempts something akin to psychology when he describes the depressive crisis of his ex-master Charles the Bold or the restless compulsion of his new master, Louis XI.23 Still, we seldom give these writers credit for their psychological insight. Probably this is due to a major difference between late-medieval and modern taxonomy, the latter showing a stronger tendency to classify people according to their outward behavior. Today, in certain societies, this tendency goes to the extreme of labeling a person (for example) as a “coffee drinker,” or a “drug user,” thus affixing a permanent attribute of personality to an incidental activity. Medieval thinkers, on the other hand, were less prone to this type of classification, but more concerned with individual achievements or social standing. Thus, Olivier de la Marche (another source that I will often cite), in addressing his declared audience the young archduke Philip the Fair, explains at length the use of nicknames that supposedly reflected the personality of Burgundian rulers, and Commynes often refers to princes as a social group with its own peculiar mentality and practices (apparently, something close to what Bourdieu would call a “champ.”)24 More serious criticism has been leveled at fifteenth-century authors for their dubious reliability and alleged superficiality. In addressing the first limitation, it seems natural for authors who participated in a contentious society to reveal strong partisan opinions. These authors were seldom exclusively writers (that is, professional observers), but usually clerks or knights and squires involved in court activities, military campaigns, and diplomatic missions. Also, their intent was not always to describe social behavior per se. In fact, often their purpose was selfjustification, explaining or deploring a difficult political situation, or moral teaching. Often enough, though, it is possible to paste together their observations to come to a sufficiently coherent portrait of a person or a group, or at least a better one than what emerges from exclusive reliance 22

Stannard, Shrinking History, 65. See, for example, his arguments on why princes should not meet in person but only act through intermediaries. Commynes, Mémoires, 1:87, 135-41. 24 Pierre Bourdieu, Questions de sociologie (Paris: Les editions de minuit, 1984), 114-5. 23

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Introduction

on direct documentary sources (such as letters), which shift the full task of interpretation to the modern scholar. In addition, in this work contemporary chroniclers and diarists are less sources of factual information than of opinions, attitudes, and customs; therefore their very opinions and biases are central to this research, rather than a problem to be avoided or a handicap to be justified. The reason is that the psychological motivation of actions and the narrators’ perception of the same are here (within limits) more important than verifiable assertions. In other terms, the fact that something happened or not exactly as described (for example, on a specific date) matters less than the fact that it appeared so to the observer (and I include in this term all those who describe first- or second-hand information), because the focus of this work is less on specific biographical data of various individuals than on how they fit into “personality types” from the viewpoint of the narrators. In this context, the writers’ reality is usually an acceptable reality.25 Paradoxically, therefore, the authors whom I will quote more often are those who are also more opinionated, because these are also the most analytical in portraying their actors, reporting conversations, and examining motives. While others whose narrative is most factual (some authors of local chronicles and city journals, for example) often give too sketchy a description of events to be useful in deciphering personalities in action. And since my focus is on the description of behavior, I place historians and memoirists in the foreground, with a few works of literature far in the background, and almost no mention of art. The obvious reason for this ranking is that still artistic expressions are at best ambiguous gages of social interaction, and literary works of that period deal with the ideal rather than the real, the introduction of realism in literature not being in vogue at the time.26 25

I have to qualify this statement because occasionally a writer gets his facts so confused that his conclusions become useless. For example, Molinet’s narrative of the usurpation and reign of Richard III, full of chronological and factual errors, is obviously second-hand and from an unverified and biased source, and therefore largely ignored. Jean Molinet, Chroniques, ed. Georges Doutrepont and Omer Jodogne, 3 vols. (Brussels: Palais des académies, 1935-1937), 1:430-5. 26 Philippe Braunstein mentions that in dealing with late-medieval memoirs “we tend to place greater trust in the painter than in the chronicler,” because Flemish portraits of the period “combined to produce a new illusion of realism.” Philippe Braunstein, “Toward Intimacy: the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” in A History of Private Life, ed. Philippe Ariès and Georges Duby, trans. Arthur Goldhammer, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988),2: 561-2. Also, as Huizinga observed (Herfsttij, 296), few art works of the period survive apart from altar pieces and tomb monuments, a double limitation for the study of characters.

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The names of the authors are quite familiar. Official or semi-official chroniclers, such as Enguerrand de Monstrelet, the Religieux of SaintDenis, Georges Chastellain, Jean Molinet, Jacques Du Clerq, and Mathieu d’Escouchy; and authors of polemical, self-justificatory, or didactic works, such as the anonymous Bourgeois of Paris, Thomas Basin, Jean de Wavrin, Philippe de Commynes, Olivier de la Marche, Jean de Haynin, Aliénoir of Poitiers for the continent, and John Blakman, Margery Kempe, and the Crowland Chronicler for England, to name just the core group. Among them are some who enjoyed a great reputation in their days, but are not very useful as sources for a psychological portrait of their period. For example Monstrelet was an “exact and conscientious” chronicler who recorded the events of the civil wars in France, but did so with an impartiality that borders on inscrutability, coupled with a rather colorless narrative technique.27 Others were more emotional, which permits the reader to guess not only their biases but also their personalities, as sometimes they go so far as to engage the reader as confidant, in particular Basin, Commynes, the Bourgeois, Kempe, and Chastellain. They are not all good writers; in fact, the Bourgeois, Kempe, and Commynes make no attempt at literary style. Chastellain, known for his vivid and emotional prose, regales the reader with the most dramatic dialogues, but his baroque language may be one of the reasons why such an oft-cited author has so far not been translated. Only Basin, the fiery humanist bishop who wrote in Ciceronian Latin, imparted to his histories a classical, structured character. This group of authors, more than others, has colored modern perceptions of that period, and in the process has caught the attention of modern historians and literary critics, so that they are the subject of scholarly works in their own merit.28 Paul Archambault, in asking what caused 27

(“exact et conscientieux”). La Chronique d’Enguerran de Monstrelet, ed. L. Douët-d’Arcq, 6 vols. (Paris: 1857-1863), 1:i (Préface). 28 A brief list of critical works used here: for the Bourgeois, Janet Shirley, trans., A Parisian Journal, 1405-1449 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), for its insightful critical introduction; for de la Marche, Catherine Emerson, Olivier de la Marche and the Rhetoric of Fifteenth-Century Historiography (Rochester, N.Y.: Boydell Press, 2004); for Chastellain, Jean-Claude Delclos, Le témoinage de Georges Chastellain, historiographe de Philippe le Bon at de Charles le Téméraire (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1980) and Graeme Small, George Chastelain and the Shaping of Valois Burgundy (Woodbridge-Rochester: The Boydell Press, 1997); for Basin, Mark Spencer, Thomas Basin (1412-1490): the History of Charles VII and Louis XI (Nieukwoop: de Graaf Publishers, 1997); for Commynes, several works by Jean Dufournet, especially Jean Dufournet, Sur Philippe de Commynes: quatre etudes (Paris: Societé d’édition d’enseignement supérieur, 1982); for Kempe, Lynn Staley, Margery Kempe’s Dissenting Fictions (University Park, PA:

14

Introduction

during the reigns of Charles VII and Louis XI of France to “suddenly raise the writing of history to a level of sophistication” not previously reached, suggests that it was at least partially the personal experiences of authors such as Basin and Commynes with their alternating periods of favor and disfavor.29 Still, while some enjoyed contemporary fame, none of these historical works is a masterpiece, with the possible exception of Basin’s Charles VII (as Mark Spencer has observed).30 There is a wealth of advice in historiographical literature about treading with caution around personal narrative from the past, most of which ends up questioning whether it is possible at all, to use Georges Duby’s expression, “to see the world the way those men saw it.” Ian Miller stated it best, in discussing his favorite sources, ancient Icelandic sagas: “the risk of misidentifying the emotions we assume are required to motivate action is greater when the actor is not our cultural and social contemporary and when the text in which the actor resides is reticent about talking about motivation explicitly […] With distance comes, I think, a certain methodological humility. We cannot make complacent assumptions about the sameness of their words, categories, and values to ours because we cannot make any sense of them until we can read what they say.”31 And Philippe Braunstein, in a chapter of Ariès’s and Duby’s History of Private Life, advises caution for the reader of personal writings from latemedieval period, first, against “the trap of modernity,” that is, the assumption that “nothing is ever new, that men expressing themselves in private speak the same language across the centuries,” and second, against expecting too sharp a break with previous practices, thus treating the period as if it were the beginning of the modern age. He adds that fourteenth- and fifteenth-century memorialists found it difficult to distinguish between public and private, as “men did not speak of themselves without good reason; the authority of Proverbs, Aristotle, and Saint Thomas combined to curtail narrative in the first person.” In fact – he adds – some scholars even argue that autobiography did not exist until the modern age, and carefully dissect what passes for personal narrative in The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994). I also refer to Paul Archambault, Seven French Chroniclers: Witnesses to History (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1974), which contains critical essays on a subgroup of these authors. 29 Archambault, French Chroniclers, 24. 30 He calls it “an outstanding historiographical achievement.” Spencer, Basin, 134. 31 Ian Miller, Humiliation and Other Essays on Honor, Social Discomfort, and Violence (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 112, 197. Georges Duby, William Marshal the Flower of Chivalry, trans. Richard Howard (Pantheon Books: New York, 1985), 38.

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late-medieval period: “[e]gocentric narrative sprang sometimes from the model of Augustinian confession […] and sometimes from the habit of recording memorable events in conveniently accessible form. […] Latemedieval confessions, journals, and chronicles are sources of information about individual private lives, that is, about people’s bodies, perceptions, feelings, and ideas. The insights they contain are sincere insofar as sincerity is possible in memoirs based on memory.” He warns, however, that the intimate is usually avoided, for example, bodily functions and sexual acts, especially by the powerful.32 Keeping Braunstein’s warnings in mind, I would like to add some final comments about the primary sources. The reader of early medieval authors may derive an illusion of uniformity of opinions from the fact that only a few works have made it as far as our times. But by the High Middle Ages and certainly by the fifteenth century the glut of authors produces a cacophony of voices, giving the impression that no source is “reliable,” because of so many versions of an event or its causes. Everyone who writes, of course, has an agenda, but particularly those who write contemporary history, and the partiality of the chroniclers and diarists surveyed in this work pops up in various ways, for example through a favorite argument (Chastellain’s was how Burgundy and France should live in peace, and Basin’s how tyrants would be punished). Their voices are varied and often dissonant but that is because they were writing of contemporary or nearly-contemporary events, which in some cases affected them directly, and so were enmeshed in a genre much closer to modern journalism than to modern historiography. And, much like modern journalists, at times they resort to an unspecified “public opinion” to validate their statements, without revealing how prevalent the opinion was, or whether there were dissenting voices, or even whether their issue was of general relevance.33 And unfortunately, only occasionally do they grant the reader captivating glimpses of the inner working of their mind, for example when the Religieux of Saint-Denis debates whether to include in his history the letters of challenge between Henry IV of England and Duke Louis of Orléans, and then decides against it because these challenges “had as much consequence as the quarrels of old women.”34 32 Braunstein, “Toward Intimacy,” in Ariès and Duby, Private Life, 2:536, 541, 589-90. 33 Bourdieu (Questions de sociologie, 222-35) dismisses altogether the validity of “public opinion.” 34 (“sed quia more contencionum anilium effectu penitus caruerunt”). Religieux de Saint-Denis, Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422, trans. M. L. Bellaguet, 6 vols. (1842; Paris: Éditions du Comité

16

Introduction

Not only has a multitude of voices surfaced from that period, but also in an ambiguous form: there is too fine a distinction between chronicles and memoirs, and too great a variety within each genre to rigidly classify such works.35 A chronicle may be a fragmentary set of notations, such as the Chronicle of London by William Gregory, or enriched by the author’s opinions and personal recollections, such as the work of Chastellain, or a simple but complete narrative of events, like Monstrelet’s. In some socalled memoirs the writer is barely visible, as in the work of de la Marche (who seems almost uncomfortable with his own presence within the narrative), while in those of Commynes he is forever on stage, observing, critiquing, and reasoning with his audience. Some personal recollections, such as the journal of the Bourgeois, may contain scant autobiographical detail, while others, deceptively labeled “histories,” such as the works of Basin, may be quite informative as to the author’s own place within contemporary events. An added complication is the multiplicity of roles of some historians. Molinet and Chastellain were also poets and playwrights and Wavrin (probably)a novelist, which compounds the task of grasping the “true nature” of an author and his views on history as a discipline. Despite the authors’ variety of opinions, and the fact that they represented a wide cross-section of society, lower nobility, bourgeoisie, or clergy, most had a tendency to look upward to the elites for inspiration.36 This is unfortunate for a study of behavior, because it limits the sample to “important” people, that is, those who were perceived to shape events, while the masses remain anonymous and at times quite forgotten. This tendency is evident even in writers (like Commynes) who were probably des travaux historiques et scientifiques, 1994), 3:60. Monstrelet, instead, included them (Chronique, 1:43-67) as well as other challenges, as for him such events were important. 35 An in-depth discussion of the evolution of some of those terms from classical times through the Renaissance is found in Bernard Guenée, “Histories, annales, chroniques. Essai sur les genres historiques au Moyen Age,” Annales-Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 28 (1981): 997-1016, Politique et histoire au Moyen Âge (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1973): 279-298. See also Bernard Guenée, “Temps de l’histoire et temps de la mémoire au Moyen Age,” Annuaire-Bulletin de la Société de l’histoire de France (1976-77):25-35, Politique et histoire au Moyen Âge (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1981): 253-63 and Archambault, French Chroniclers, x-xi. 36 The only two authors that can be properly identified as “bourgeois” in their outlook are the anonymous Bourgeois of Paris, who left a dramatic record of the hardships faced by the French capital before and during the years of the civil wars (1405-1449), and the self-proclaimed English mystic Margery Kempe. The first will be discussed in chapters II and VI, and the second in Chapter V.

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not consciously imitating classical historiography, with it concentration on the actions and personalities of the powerful. Still, the obsession with the lives of celebrities is an important clue as to a widespread mentality across social groups. Another quality that ties together most authors is more elusive, but perhaps more significant: even the most superficial among them seem to write not for the sheer joy of telling a tale (unlike, for example, Froissart in the preceding century) but rather to explain a grim reality, as they appear burdened with the awareness of living in sad times, as will become evident in the following chapters. From their somber accounts no real great figure emerges and in fact many result diminished: it is possible that by projecting their own dark views of their century and of those who ruled it these authors may have contributed to the reputation of decadence of this era.

II. WAR LEADERSHIP

II.1. Framework Leadership suffers from the paradox of being a ubiquitous theme in social sciences and yet one of the most misunderstood. It is sometimes believed to be an inborn quality of some people and at other times something easily taught by few formulas. Forsyth, in Introduction to Group Dynamics, defines it as “a reciprocal, transactional, and transformational process in which individuals are permitted to influence and motivate others to promote the attaining of group and individual goals.” This definition emphasizes reciprocity and commonality of goals between leaders and followers, with emphasis on the verb “permitted.” Forsyth dedicates a long discussion to the nature of power, which, in whichever way it is exerted, has a “metamorphic effect” on the group. In his views, dominance and submission are complementary; and while most coercion only generates compliance and not agreement with the power holder’s views, reciprocity tactics are desirable as they generate identification.1 On the other hand, Buss in Social Behavior and Personality defines leadership as the sum of qualities of the leader alone: initiative, decisiveness, and the willingness to take responsibility and risk blame. In his views leadership brings admiration, prestige, and even power, and, like other forms of dominance, ends in self-esteem for the power holder alone.2 These two concepts are clearly antithetical, and reflect a dilemma that probably has always existed in human societies: while the first definition implies that authority is effective only when shared through a hypothetical “social contract” between leader and led, the second opens the door to coercion. The present question is, what style was prevalent in the period under study, and was it also the most desirable in contemporary views? 1 2

Forsyth, Group Dynamics, 216, 191-3. Buss, Social Behavior, 63.

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A discussion of fifteenth-century leadership goes to the core of contemporary debate on the very reason for the existence of the aristocracy. A few years into the sixteenth century, Erasmus would poke fun at the enervated and useless nobles, now enthralled by the rituals of the hunt, their last bastion of privilege. Through his pen early modern nobility, bereft of its exclusive military role, is reduced to hanging on to its ancestral prerogative as the “hunting class.” He describes the quasi-sacred ceremony of the hunter cutting the prey with his special knife, while “the silent company stands as if spellbound by some novelty […] If one of them is given a piece to taste, he feels that he has risen somewhat in the ranks of nobility.” In another passage, he belittles their life-style: “They sleep until noon, when a hired chaplain comes to their bedside and races through matins before they are really awake. Then to breakfast, which is nearly interrupted by dinner. After that come dice, checkers, cards, jesters, fools, whores, games, and horse-play. And in between, a round or two of drinks.”3 Given that the nobility as a class owed its existence to war, it seems logical to portray styles of leadership in this context, a perspective that offers two additional advantages.4 First, it is easier to define something in the obvious presence of its opposite, and the military structure, with its dichotomy of command and obedience, is an ideal medium for this analysis. Second, war is the single most common topic described by fifteenth-century historical sources, and therefore should be considered a valid gauge of contemporary culture and values. This chapter, then, is not about the description of battles or their political consequences, but about the behavior of leaders and followers toward each other in those settings. The sources for this chapter are quite numerous and, for the most part, eyewitnesses. Beside major authors such as Commynes, Basin, Molinet, and Monstrelet, the list includes the anonymous Bourgeois of Paris; Haynin, a knight from a gentry’s family who reminisced about past campaigns for the benefit of an intimate circle; Wavrin, the illegitimate scion of a noble family and professional soldier, whose Chronique contains both personal recollections, notable for their terse impartiality, and passages transcribed from the official Chronique of Monstrelet; and Jean de Margny, a poor Burgundian knight who in his late years wrote an

3

Desiderius Erasmus, The Praise of Folly, trans. Leonard F. Dean (York: Hendricks House, 1949), 109, 78. 4 For the military role of the French nobility in the late Middle Ages see Philippe Contamine, La noblesse au royaume de France de Philippe le Bel à Louis XII (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1997), 198.

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autobiographical poem recalling his earlier adventures, awful in style but rich in anecdotal information.

II.2. Leadership Styles It is not accidental that fifteenth-century writers dedicated so many pages to war leaders, as this debate inserted itself in the ongoing discourse on the nature of military service and of chivalry itself. On the one hand, it was becoming fashionable to praise the merit of the large national armies of antiquity. Alain Chartier’s Quadrilogue invectif exalted what was perceived as the selfless regimentation of Roman armies (who in reality had a lively history of mutinies) in contrast to the impulsive selfishness of feudal contingents, and to back this opinion Vegetius’s De Re Militari featured prominently among the popular texts of the period.5 On the other hand, chivalric romances still crowded the bookshelves, inspiring young noblemen to adventure and the pursuit of personal glory. In spite of a reality increasingly unfavorable to individual exploits, chivalry found a vocal advocate in Basin, who thought the baronial nobility as the natural “national army,” the only one needed by a country that wished to maintain its freedom. As usual in such debates, there emerged also an “inclusive” theory, which attempted to combine the two, by claiming that chivalry itself was a Roman institution, and attributing to Roman law the international rules regulating its practices.6 By necessity the debate came to include leadership styles, even if these writers never explicitly refer to Roman versus chivalric leaders. In fact, the very term “leadership” is an anachronism, used here for simplicity’s sake, to represent a concept that was nevertheless familiar to them, as the sum of qualities that made up a chef de guerre. These two terms, Roman and chivalric, should then be explained for what they meant to those writers, stripped of their modern qualifications. Of course, both 5

For a specific example see Michael K. Jones, Bosworth 1485: Psychology of a Battle (Stroud: Tempus Publishing Ltd., 2002), 161. 6 Thomas Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, ed. Charles Samaran, 2 vols. (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1933-1944), 1:33-47. Popular translations of Vegetius had the term “chivalry” in the title, and heralds traced their office to Julius Caesar and “argued rules of armoury” from Justinian. Maurice Keen, The Laws of War in the Late Middle Ages (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965), 57. Christine de Pisan, in her popular Livre des faits d’armes et de chevalerie deliberately applies Roman military thinking to contemporary warfare. Huizinga (Herfsttij, 76) also noted the literary connection between chivalry and Roman military tradition.

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definitions refer to an ideal, and do not translate unaltered into practice, but they establish a good framework to evaluate behavior. A Roman leader is one who commands (or acts as if he commands) large resources and absolute obedience, and who feels the right to treat subordinates and enemies as tools for his success. His leadership is characterized by organization, impersonal and even ruthless management, with focus on the goal of total victory. The chivalric leader, on the other hand, seems barely aware of armies under his command, as he perceives himself as fighting alone against a personal enemy. His actions are individualistic, flamboyant, and may border on rashness. If he leads at all, it is by accident or at best by example, not by plan. He acknowledges only ties of equality with few chosen friends, with whom he maintains lifelong bonds, more sacred than any others, including those of kinship and service. This fits Duby’s concept of the ideal knight, encompassing the qualities of prowess and loyalty.7 The chivalric leader seems to look only at himself, and perhaps at a narrow circle of companions but not at his lowly subordinates, and even rejoice in his loneliness, perhaps with an implicit aristocratic disdain for the minutiae of management, and certainly with a singleminded purpose that leaves the followers no choice but going along, unless they are willing to shoulder the responsibility for failure. But the Roman leader, too, aims only at his personal glory through the regimentation of followers. It appears, then, that both leadership styles fall within Buss’s definition, at least for the princes who embodied them. As will become apparent, however, fifteenth-century writers had a more nuanced concept in mind. Just as books dealing with the two styles of warfare coexisted in contemporary libraries, these two models of leadership did not evolve one from the other, and one would look in vain for a turning point in the course of the century in which chivalry gave way to an impersonal, utilitarian view of command. Rather, both models seem to have coexisted, and the adoption of one or the other depended mainly on the personality of the individual leader. As an example, at the beginning of the century, Henry V of England (r. 1413-1422), despite being regarded by contemporaries and posterity as a model of the ascetic knight, behaved like a Roman dux, with a keen practical attitude toward both his own troops and enemies. At the battle of Agincourt in 1415, he exhorted his men, vastly outnumbered by the French, with the candid, but not very “chivalrous” argument that they needed to fight their way to safety to Calais because, in the event of defeat, the king and his brothers would be safe and eventually ransomed, but the rest of them would be slaughtered like sheep by the French. During the 7

Duby, Marshal, 87.

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battle, he had enemies mercilessly butchered as they surrendered, such as the duke of Alençon, and afterwards had prisoners disposed of because he did not have enough forces to guard them.8 Both French and English accounts (including a poem celebrating his victories) offer a consistent portrait of Henry’s leadership. Hieratic, stern, solemn, relentless in pursuit of his aims, pitiless and immovable toward enemies and prisoners, he carried an otherworldly aura about him, alien to the emotional world of chivalry. His statements appear incisive, final; his disregard for human life, whether of his own troops, enemies, or even his own relatives, appalling. He recalls the severe image of a Roman legislator of the early republic, later popularized by Jacques-Louis David’s painting of Brutus as he sternly turns his back to the bodies of his dead sons. When Henry’s brother the duke of Clarence fell in the ill-advised attack on the French at Baugé, the king was reported as having remarked that, had he survived, he would have had him executed for disobeying orders.9 He did not tolerate the slightest hint of disrespect. One day, the lord of the Ile 8 Basin, Charles VII, 1:41. A slightly different version is given by Jean Le Fèvre, who has Henry remind them that the French had vowed to cut off three fingers from the right hand of captured archers. Jean Le Fèvre, Chronique de Jean Le Fèvre, seigneur de Saint-Remy, ed. François Morand, 2 vols. (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1876-1881), 1:246. The anonymous English author of the Gesta Henrici laments the killing of prisoners as if the act had happened without the king's participation. Gesta Henrici Quinti, trans. Frank Taylor and John S. Roskell (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 93. Maurice Keen states that the act was not much criticized, as Henry believed a French force on its way. Maurice H. Keen, Chivalry (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), 221. This opinion is in “Le livre des trahisons de France envers la maison de Bourgogne,” in Chroniques relatives a' l'histoire de la Belgique sous la domination des ducs de Bourgogne, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove (Brussels: Commission Royale d'Histoire, 1870-1876), 1289. But Christopher Allmand mentions strict rules of conduct and reciprocity in the treatment of prisoners. Christopher Allmand, The Hundred Years War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 49. Also Contamine, except in case of war “de feu et de sang.” Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. Michael Jones (Oxford: Basil Blackwell Publisher, 1984), 254-5, 288-9. For a rare mention of war “de feu et de sang” in this period see Jean De Roye, The scandalous Chronicle or Secret History of Louis XI, ed. Andrew R. Scoble (London: George Bell and Sons, 1900), 346. 9 Basin, Charles VII, 1:77. The classical analogy did not escape Basin. The writer adds that this is how Manlius Torquatus acted toward his son, who had attacked the enemy (and defeated it) against orders. But the anon. chron. (Monstrelet, Chronique, 6:293) states that Henry was “très dolans de sa mort.” For other acts of brutality, the Gesta Henrici reports that he had villages burnt down when they refused to pay a collective ransom. Gesta Henrici, 69.

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D’Adam, who was marshal of France, came to him dressed in plain clothes. The king challenged him by asking derisively whether his clothes were appropriate for his high status. The other, who resented the invader, answered that he was dressed for a boat ride, and in so doing looked at him. Henry immediately changed tone, and harshly asked how dared he look a prince in the face. The knight answered that in France it was customary to look a man in the face when talking, lest one thought that the interlocutor was hiding something. Henry shut him up with, “this is not our custom,” and later had him arrested and apparently would have him executed if not for the intervention of the duke of Burgundy.10 The positive element of Henry’s reputation rested especially on his literal application of the laws of war. Whenever he was present in person, he was adamant in protecting the rights of civilians where the current laws of war specified such rights, but equally merciless when rules did not apply.11 After his death his less-than-admirable legacy of conflict was white-washed in a climate of revival of his “cult,” managed by his youngest brother Humphrey, who committed the dead king’s posthumous reputation to the pen of an Italian humanist bearing the name of the celebrated Roman historian Titus Livius.12 Whether the sponsor (and author) were deliberately resurrecting a Roman ideal, or saw echoes of Roman greatness in the subject, is hard to tell. Henry’s environment, however, was medieval, and his romanitas is to be found rather in his style of impersonal, stern, cold leadership. He did have a string of victories, yet even those were not as effortless or fulminating as one may suppose. Like other medieval leaders he had to ask for funds and gather an army for each 10 (“Ce n’est point nostre guise”). Monstrelet, Chronique, 4:9-10. Chastellain accuses him of brutality and duplicity and calls him “tyran.” Georges Chastellain, “Chroniques,” in Œuvres, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 8 vols. (Brussels: Heussner, 1863-1866; Geneva: Slatkine, 1971), 1:179, 219-20, 310. See also Pierre de Fenin, Mémoires de Pierre de Fenin, ed. Mlle. Dupont (n.p.: 1837; New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1965), 147. It is likely that the marshal did not hide his hostility and stared at the king, a universal gesture of hostility, but the writers wanted to emphasize Henry’s despotic traits. Dismissing the negative judgment against Henry as politically motivated by hatred of the foreign invader would be simplistic, as Basin (Charles VII, 1:89) praises the duke of Bedford. 11 An example of this is discussed in Keen, Laws of War, 46-47. Chartier says of him that he was “un cruel et très-dur justicier, for obéi des ses sujets, subtil conquérant et habile aux armes.” Jean Chartier, Chroniques de Charles VII, roi de France, ed. A. Vallet de Viriville, 3 vols. (Paris: P. Jannet Libraire, 1858), 1:6. 12 Tito Livio dei Frulovisi, Translator of Livius, The First English Life of King Henry the Fifth, ed. Charles Lethbridge Kingsford (Oxford: At the Clarendon Press, 1911).

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expedition. Like most continental wars, his was mainly a war of sieges, often long and frustrating, and which in the end elicit more admiration for the losers than for the winner. The long siege of Rouen ended in the winter of 1417, after the starving city, despairing of aid from the French court paralyzed by the civil war, was reduced to throwing out its poor to huddle in the rain-soaked ditches and beg from the enemy. According to John Page, the English soldier who described their suffering, Henry’s comment was that he “had not put them there.”13 The citizens of Meaux, abandoned by the meager forces of the dauphin Charles, were even more remarkable. During the eleven-month siege they dared taunt the enemy camped outside the walls by parading a braying donkey on the ramparts, and yelling at the English that their king was beckoning. This act of bravado did not amuse Henry, who had the perpetrators of the joke hanged after the city eventually fell.14 Henry’s standing as a leader was high in England, where he returned loaded with booty to raise funds for the next campaign, but among contemporary continental writers his legacy is more ambiguous. French authors did not judge him as negatively as expected, principally (it appears) because of his impartial application of justice, which much impressed a country in disarray eager for some law and order. The Religieux of Saint-Denis, one of the most objective historians of the period, relates in these terms his reputation for eliciting both fear and respect among French prisoners who had known him personally: “This prince, whose countenance and speech gave the impression of arrogance and who had a common reputation for vindictiveness […], nevertheless behaved in a true royal fashion and while pitiless with those who rebelled, nevertheless protected those who submitted, and exacted that they be

13 John Page, “Poem on the Siege of Rouen,” in The Historical Collection of a Citizen of London in the Fifteenth Century, ed. James Gairdner (London: Camden Society, 1876), 18-20, 33. 14 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:302-3, “Trahisons,” 167-8. But Monstrelet (Chronique, 4:93-96) does not explicitly link the execution of some prisoners (among the hundreds taken) to this episode. He only mentions “ung, qui avoit buisiné d’un cornet durant le siége.” The vindictive behavior was not unique to Henry. Charles VII, universally praised for his mercy, committed a similar act when he had been made the personal target of ridicule by a Burgundian garrison in 1418. M. G. A. Vale, Charles VII (London: Eyre Methuen, Ltd, 1974), 42. And Philip the Good ordered the destruction of rebellious Dinant in 1466 because the inhabitants had insulted his family. Thomas Basin, Histoire de Louis XI, ed. Charles Samaran and M. C. Garand, 3 vols. (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1963-1972), 1:217-9.

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treated with kindness and consideration.”15 The same sentiments find echo in the dispassionate epitaph by Jean-Juvénal des Ursins: “Of great courage, valiant in arms, prudent and wise, great dispenser of justice to great and small without distinction; he was feared and revered by all his relatives, subjects, and neighbors: no prince ever was ever better equipped to acquire and conquer.”16 Chastellain, on the other hand, detested him and noted pointedly that he had caught France in particularly bad circumstances, an act of opportunism that would provoke the fall of his blood line.17 Even in England Edward IV, a victorious commander with more field battles to his credit than Henry himself, felt no need to model his behavior on that of the famous warrior, and displayed qualities completely opposite to his, being rather approachable, easy-going, and ready to forgive all except enemy leaders.18 On the opposite end of the spectrum, chivalry, abundantly featured in the literature of the Burgundian court of Duke Philip the Good (r. 141915

(“quamvis in incessu et responsis modum principis presumptuosi ostendens, et appetitivus vindicte a cunctis reputaretur […], per viam regiam gradiens, et sibi rebelles sine misericordia persequebatur, et obedientibus parcens, eos precipiebat benignissime tractari et absque impedimento”). Religieux, Chronique, 6:162. 16 (“de haut et grand courage, vaillant en armes, prudent, sages [sic], et grand justicier, qui sans acception [sic] des personnes, faisoit aussi bonne justice au petit au grand, selon l’exigence du cas: il estoit craint et reveré des tous ses parens, subjets, et voisins: ny oncques prince ne fut plus suffisant pour conquester et acquerir” ). Jean-Juvénal des Ursins, “Histoire de Charles VI, roy de France” in Choix de chroniques et mémoires sur l’histoire de France, ed. J-A-C Bouchon (Paris: Auguste Desrez, 1838), 571. A notorious example of his stern justice was the hanging in 1420 of the Bastard of Vaurus, a bandit who terrorized the villagers near Meaux. Religieux, Chronique, 6:450-1. 17 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:334-40. The writer’s hostile sentiments against England are well known, but his argument is backed by some modern historians. See, for example Richard Vaughan, John the Fearless: the Growth of Burgundian Power (Woobridge: Boydell Press, 2002), 205, where he labels Henry “perfidious.” 18 Wavrin has a young Edward, still earl of March and “preu et hardy chevallier,” address his troops before the battle of Towton “à usage joyeuz, tout en sousriant.” Jehan de Wavrin, Anchiennes croniques d’Angleterre, ed. L. M. E. Dupont, 3 vols. (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1858-1863), 2:276-7. Also, Henry’s most enthusiastic posthumous supporter, his surviving brother Humphrey, was celebrated in England on his own merits as the flower of chivalry for his punitive expedition against the “traitor” Philip of Burgundy. And Humphrey was not at all like Henry, rather resembling the impulsive Philip. Historical Poems of the Xivth and Xvth Centuries, ed. Russell Hope Robbins (New York: Columbia University Press, 1959), no. 30, 86-89 and no. 73, 180-3.

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1467), emphasized individual feats of courage and reckless impulsiveness, while almost deliberately rejecting planning and reliance on moderating advice. Chivalric wars, as described by contemporary romances, were not so much about winning, but about how one played the game (even if the hero usually won). This is also the message that transpires from the pages of Froissart, who provided a model for the chivalric historiography of the fifteenth century. In one of his famous scenes, King Jean II’s surrender to the Black Prince after his defeat at Poitiers, the reader may even forget who actually won the battle. The prince received the king as he was brought to his tent, bowed low to the illustrious captive, entertained him at dinner with other prisoners, served him at the table, and refused to dine next to him, as unworthy of the honor to sit by such a valorous warrior. He seemed so enthralled by the king’s chivalric virtues, that the mundane issue of who actually would control France was politely cast aside for the moment.19 Philip himself had embraced the chivalric ideal without hesitation. As an adolescent, he apparently had to be forcibly prevented from participating in the disastrous battle of Agincourt where his uncles lost their lives in fighting for France. Once an ally of Henry V against the dauphin, he performed heroically at his first battle of Mons-en-Vimeu in 1421 (where he was knighted), despite desertions and mishaps, among which was the false rumor of his death. At Saint-Dizier in 1422 he sent a herald to challenge the dauphin to a personal duel. In his mid-twenties he was ready to resolve the issue of the succession of Holland and Hainault in single combat against Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, and it took the full authority of the duke of Bedford, regent of France, to avert the duel. Again, in 1443 he was ready to challenge to personal combat the duke of Saxony (or the young king of Bohemia) over the ownership of Luxembourg. Soon, he enjoyed a reputation as “valorous, vigorous, fierce, and hard enemy.”20 In another episode of the ongoing conflict with Charles VII of France (r. 1429-1461), some French knights challenged him to battle near Roye. 19 For example, the Histoire des seigneurs de Gavres, in which the hero almost stumbles on battles, which he regularly wins. The anecdote is in Jean Froissart, Froissart’s Chronicle, trans. John Jolliffe (London: Harvill Press, 1967), 170-6. 20 (“valereux de soy-mesmes, vert et fier et dur ennemy”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:36. The various episodes are in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:25166, 324, Monstrelet, Chronique, 3:98-99, 4:244 and Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires d’Olivier de la Marche, ed. Henri Beaune et J. d’Arbaumont, 4 vols. (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1883), 1:93, 2:25-29. Huizinga (Herfsttij, 108) noted his propensity for solving political issues with personal duels (even if none of these duels ever materialized).

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According to Chastellain the duke wanted to accept, but was advised not to risk his life against common soldiers not led by a prince. Reluctantly he agreed, and sent a herald to the French, to propose that Jean of Luxembourg represent him in battle on the following day. The French, who were running out of food, sent the herald back with a second demand for immediate combat. The herald returned to them with the duke’s offer to victual them if they would accept his conditions, and found that the enemies had in the meantime approached the city, and were openly challenging the duke, despite the advanced hour. The Burgundians had no choice but set out in battle array with the duke in front, on foot, to stare down the French, who only then withdrew hurling insults. The duke retired, but spent a sleepless night agonizing over whether he acted honorably in having refused battle three times.21 The actual purpose of the prospective battle, if a purpose existed at all, seemed irrelevant. In 1453, by then in his late fifties, we find him again throwing himself angrily and carelessly into the fray at the battle of Gavere against the rebellious Ghenters, which prompted his worried knights and young son to come to his rescue. And after this last field victory he seemed obsessed until death, which came at the age of seventy-two, with the idea of leading in person a crusade against the Turks. Chroniclers agree that his spirited and impulsive leadership transformed battles into a personal vindication of honor. Chastellain remarks on his bravery and on how handsome he looked in armor at the age of sixty, and Du Clerq casts his eulogy in similar terms.22 They never hail him as a great military leader, but as a brave and honorable knight, and a victorious prince. Two contributing reasons for this positive opinion seem to be, first, that before battle he appears to have followed advice from his entourage, even if at times reluctantly, and second, that he always preferred negotiation to war, except in cases touching on personal honor, as when he had to avenge his father’s 21

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:134-41. Monstrelet (Chronique, 4:427) adds that the French withdrew to Compiègne “faisant grans moqueries dudit duc” and of his captains for not having fought them. 22 Philip’s prolonged and apparently serious plans for a crusade, which never materialized, are discussed at length in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:6, 70-76, 134 (the comment on his youthful looks), 6:370-2, 436-9, 468-71, and de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:380-2. See also the pratical reasons for its failure in Dispatches with Related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy 1450-1483, ed. Paul M. Kendall and Vincent Ilardi, 2 vols. (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1971), 2:109-10. Jacques Du Clerq, “Mémoires,” in Collection des mémoires relatifs à l’histoire de France, ed. M. Petitot (Paris: Foucault Libraire, 1825), 118 says he was “plain de largesse, plain d’honneur, plain de hardiesse et vaillance.”

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murder against the dauphin. In those cases he was ready to intervene personally, otherwise he prepared for war only in self-defense, as during the French provocation of the late 1450s. When it came to rebellious cities, such as Ghent and Liège, he resorted to military action only after other avenues had been precluded, but then he behaved fiercely toward the subjugated citizens. Philip, as will become evident in later chapters, had a strong authoritarian streak, but war was not the medium in which he proved it. Things did not go as well with Philip’s successor Charles the Bold (r. 1467-1477), possibly the most controversial military leader of the century both among contemporaries and modern historians (and because of this, the most studied). In Charles both types of leadership, Roman and chivalric, coexisted uneasily, a fact that may have contributed to his briefly exalted reputation (as he impersonated two ideals) but also to his eventual fall (as these two models are mutually exclusive). Since his youth Charles loved Roman history, and was enamored with the lives of classical heroes, as Commynes relates, but was also exposed to the chivalric literature prevalent at his father’s court, which idealized the opposite type of leader.23 From the pages of de la Marche, Charles’s faithful childhood companion and later captain of his guard, emerges a young prince restless for action and eager to prove himself. Still, he was forcibly kept away from battles by his father, and allowed to show martial qualities only in the jousting arena, a fact that is particularly evident during the wars against Ghent of 1451-1453. There we find the mature duke boldly throwing himself in the vicious melees of an increasingly nasty war, while leaving his nineteen-year-old son, then count of Charolais, on the sidelines, in what appears to be an attempt to shelter his only heir from harm. Chafing at the inaction, Charles finally received his first nominal command, flanked by experienced captains, to take the fortress of Morbecque from the rebels. From this very early episode emerges a disturbing pattern not only in tactical decisions but also in relating to his staff. He insisted on the risky and unimaginative plan to camp outside the walls through the night, send for artillery, and bombard the fortress incessantly into surrender. His captains instead decided to lift the siege as nightfall approached, and the

23

(“Il desiroit grant gloire, qui estoit ce qui plus le mectoit en ces guerres que nulle autre chose, et eust bien voulu resembler à ces anciens princes dont il tant esté parlé après leur mort”). Commynes, Mémoires, 2:154-5. Philip’s taste for chivalric literature in contrast to that of his son is discussed in Ann F. Sutton and Livia Visser-Fuchs, Richard III’s Books (Straud: Sutton Publishing Ltd - Phoenix Mill, 1997), 233-5.

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count was led back to his lodging in tears. Shortly afterward, his bastard half-brother Antoine took the fortress from its unfortified side.24 A more significant episode confirms his tendency to stubborn recklessness. After a long hiatus, Charles suddenly emerged as a war leader in 1465, when he became involved in the rebellion of the French aristocracy against Louis XI (r. 1461-1483), known as the war of the Public Weal. By then his aging father did not object to him assuming command of a Burgundian army. He was to lead it to the gates of Paris to join with his allies, the dukes of Brittany and Berry among others, and force the king to negotiate. However, Charles marched fast into enemy territory, apparently unconcerned that his allies had barely started to move eastward to join him. When the time came to cross the Seine and advance against the capital and their own king, the troops balked at such a risky adventure. The count answered in melodramatic terms that he was ready to cross alone, with only one page, definitely a chivalric statement. As expected, they followed, hesitant but disciplined.25 Commynes states that the king panicked at the news of this sudden advance, and led his troops in a forced march from the Bourbonnais (where he was), in an attempt to reach the capital before the enemy, and avoid battle if possible. The contrast in style between the future duke of Burgundy and Louis XI is immediately apparent. Louis, whose generalship is much debated, participated reluctantly to the ensuing battle, and more often than not seemed happy to delegate command to experienced professionals, a policy successfully established by his father and that had brought no detriment to his reputation as ruler. In this case he showed up in person only under obligation to do so, as his own authority was under challenge. Still, Commynes claims that his presence at the battle motivated his troops and actually saved the day. Charles, on the contrary, from then on rested his prestige on leading armies, yet his disturbing personal style did not seem to have produced a positive effect in this battle or in others.26 24

(“pensoient et pesoient la personne du conte et sa premiere course […] dont il larmoyoit de despit et de couraige”). De la Marche, Mémoires, I:277-9. The episode occurs in much the same terms in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:312-3 (“car on doutoit la personne du comte de Charolois, qui faisoit fort à peser […] trèsdesplaisant et courroucé à merveilles”). 25 Jean de Haynin, Mémoires (1465-1477), ed. D. Browers, 2 vols. (Liège: D. Cormaux, 1905-1906), 1:51- 52. 26 Commynes, Mémoires, 1:33. The importance of a king’s participation in battle when his authority was disputed is testified by the fact that Charles VII, notoriously averse to war, took personal command at the siege of Montereau in 1437, during the Praguerie. Vale, Charles VII, 74. See also Jones, Bosworth, 140. Louis, as dauphin, led a rather successful expedition against the Swiss in 1444, but

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When Charles’s vanguard and artillery, under the count of Saint-Pol, camped few miles from Paris at Montlhéry, royal forces soon intercepted them. Despite the presence of experienced captains on the Burgundian side, such as the count of Saint-Pol, Philippe de Lalaing, and the bastard Antoine, things did not look up for the Burgundians. Commynes, who was present, mentions scornfully the haphazard organization of their archers in contrast with the discipline of seasoned royal troops, veterans of years of warfare against the English. Eyewitness accounts of the battle itself are rather confusing, but Charles’s behavior is described in similar terms by all authors, lending veracity to their statements. In Haynin’s account Charles had his troops rush into battle order early in the morning, without the benefit of the traditional pre-battle mass or breakfast. Soon, however, they settled into a long and unnerving wait under the hot sun, broken only by the failed attack of Saint-Pol with six-hundred lances and threethousand archers, which did not slow down the relentless French advance. Commynes, who was close to Charles, omits these particulars, and both he and de la Marche tactfully skirt details of Charles’s leadership. All three authors, however, convey the impression that, while the French advanced in order, confusion reigned on the Burgundian side, among orders and counter-orders, and much mounting and dismounting. Charles, fresh from his experiences in team tournaments and little else, exhibited an amateurish eagerness to rush here and there with a few men to engage in isolated skirmishes and pursuits, only to return to his command post at unpredictable times. In one of these excursions courting disaster, he found himself surrounded by the French, wounded in the neck, almost taken prisoner, and rescued after the enemies had already laid hands on him, to return blood-stained to his battle. The day dragged on, hot and dusty, the exhausted and hungry men from both sides alternately fighting viciously and escaping to nearby villages to rest. By evening, the king suddenly left the battlefield with a few followers for the nearby Corbeil, abandoning some artillery, and the bulk of his army followed suit. his actual presence in combat is not certain. D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:19-22. Kendall is impressed by his personal courage and military skills. Paul Murray Kendall, Louis XI (New York: W. W. Norton & Co, 1971), 166. See also Panigarola’s comments at the siege of Hérisson: “Et esso signore Re, sopravedendo tutto, riprendeva cum mirabile ragione alcuni errori erano facti in assidiare dicto castello, in piantare bombarde, et alter cose; dicendo luy che era stato alevato in la guerra.” Dépèches des ambassadeurs milanais en France, ed. B. De Mandrot, 4 vols. (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1916-1919), 3:168. But then he states (3:209-24) that the king was “terrified” at the news of the advancing Burgundians. Basin, who hates the king, openly calls him a coward (“timidum pocius, pusillanimem et fugacem”). Basin, Louis XI, 3:329.

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The Burgundians, who had suffered the worse casualties, were left alone and still unaware of the enemy’s moves. That night, says de la Marche, Charles sat on a tree stump on the deserted battlefield, and asked his captains whether he had won. Yes ʊ they answered ʊ because the enemy had left him master of the field. And they recalled his father’s very first battle of Mons-en-Vimeu, when everything had seemed lost and Philip had turned defeat into victory, capturing three Frenchmen by himself. But the parallel was contrived, as the result of that old battle was not disputed, while Montlhéry did not quite feel like a victory. Years later de la Marche would invoke chivalric rules of contests, and argue against French historians, who claimed it as their victory because they had inflicted the most damage on the enemy and had left of their own free will. 27 A few weeks after this event, when his slow allies reached him at Péronne, the count seemed to have abandoned the initial self-doubt and accepted his “victory” as a reality, as if relieved to keep his newly-found glory all to himself. Commynes airs his frank admiration for the count’s personal courage when under attack and his endurance of hardships, but is tactfully silent about his leadership. He allows himself to criticize it obliquely when he states with relief that after the battle his troops were joined and led by the marshal of Burgundy and the duke of Calabria. Haynin reports a mock prayer, attributed to Louis XI and dating from the days following this event, to be saved from the strength of Charolais, not 27

Commynes (Mémoires,1:26) remarks that before the battle the count’s archers marched “en mauvais ordre.” Later (1:29-39) he gives a version of the engagement and aftermath not very flattering for Charles, and comments on how discouraged and scared were the Burgundians. Haynin (Mémoires, 1:56-77) is the most factual and concludes that technically this was a Burgundian victory but that the French had inflicted the most damage. Before the battle, Panigarola (Mandrot, Dépèches, 3:200) echoes the general skepticism about Charles’s leadership (“Monsignor Ciarloes dicono, che non credo, ma piu’ tosto el conte di San Polo, cum grossa compagnia”), and afterwards (233-46 ) leans toward giving the victory to the French. De la Marche (Mémoires, 3:10-18) defends the count, but is not very convincing. The anonymous author of the Livre des Trahisons, an avowed Burgundian partisan, is more generous in praising Charles (“Moult se monstra ce jour le dit Charolais d’un noble et magnanime coraige, voire comme invincible […] demoura là ferme, constant et asseuré […] vaincre et chassier du champ”). “Trahisons,” 240-5. Among modern critics, Calmette concludes that Montlhéry was “such a confused encounter” that not even participants like Commynes could describe what really happened. Joseph Calmette, The Golden Age of Burgundy: the Magnificent Dukes and their Courts, trans. Doreen Weightman (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc, 1963), 174. Emerson states that there are as many different narratives of the battle of Montlhéry as there are authors. Emerson, Olivier de la Marche, 63.

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his skill (which is instead attributed to Calabria). Eventually, writers would question even his personal valor, leaving to “Charles the Toiler,” as he is labeled by de la Marche, only obdurate persistence as his most lasting leadership quality.28 Richard Vaughan affirms that Charles derived an enormous reputation from this engagement, because he had faced alone the most powerful army in Western Europe and stood his ground. Yet he adds that this narrow victory was not due to his dubious generalship. In another passage he states that Charles’s well-organized and presumably well-trained armies would in the future suffer disastrous defeats under his command, and that his renown as military leader would rather rest on his remarkable ordinances.29 For the future of Burgundy, and of Charles himself, it would probably have been better if his first battle had been a decisive defeat. This is what happened to his grandfather, John the Fearless (r. 1404-1419), who started his military career at the age of twenty-five by (nominally) leading the Western forces at the disastrous battle of Nicopolis against the Turks in 1396. He remained a prisoner of the sultan for the next two years, and came home with a sobered attitude toward war. Of the four Valois dukes of Burgundy, Vaughan remarks, he was the only one who knew what to do with an army; and his initial defeat, for which he was hardly to blame, did not weigh negatively against his future reputation, which could only improve. After defeating the rebellious Liégeois at Othée in 1408, John, 28

Of Calabria, who brought along Italian men-at-arms and five-hundred Swiss infantrymen, the author says, “lequel sembloit aussi bien prince et grant chef de guerre quel nul autre que je veisse en la compaignie.” Commynes, Mémoires, 1:4849. For the prayer (“sens de Callabre […] puisanse de Charolois”) see Haynin, Mémoires, 1:115. For the nickname “Charles le Travaillant” see de la Marche, Mémoires, 1:122. But Panigarola (Mandrot, Dépèches, 3:275) states that after the battle “Chiarloys fa e governa tuto.” 29 Richard Vaughan, Philip the Good: the Apogee of Burgundy (Woobridge: Boydell Press, 2002), 388 and Richard Vaughan, Charles the Bold: the Last Valois Duke of Burgundy (Woobridge: Boydell Press, 2002), 205. Charles instituted a permanent army on the French model after his father’s archaic methods of recruitment became inadequate and he felt threatened by France and its ally Warwick in 1470. His ordinances of 1471 and 1472 established a permanent force of nearly 10,000 combatants, and those of 1473 and 1476 modified their organization and chain of command. Contamine, War, 171. For a professional opinion on Charles’s organizational abilities but lack of tactical instincts see Col. EMG Daniel Reichel, “Essai d’approche pluridisciplinaire d’une action militaire di xve siècle,” in Grandson 1476: essai d'approche pluridisciplinaire d'une action militaire du 15e siècle (Lausanne: Centre de Documentation de l'Armement, 1978), 235.

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like his grandson, repeatedly led armies against France, but unlike him drafted careful plans with prudent alternatives.30 Among contemporary historians there is little reference to Montlhéry after the event, which was, after all, a bloody episode in a civil war and not a glorious deed. Chastellain, whose description of the battle is missing, later mentions the “damned Public Weal,” while Commynes muses with measured disapproval over the count’s sudden and lasting love for war and confidence only in his own judgment. A flaw in Charles’s personality began to be noticeable. Despite his well-documented love for detail, which seemed to originate from a need for control over the unpredictability of war, Charles started a pattern of relying on his (often wrong) instinct and hasty improvisation when he was faced with the enemy, a quality that does not fit in the concept of leadership of either Buss or Forsyth. Worse still, he seemed never to consider any other than the military option in all subsequent crises, whether to chastise the rebellious Liégeois, or to lead a series of vindictive raids into France, always in the name of supporting his allies.31 In describing the fruitless expeditions in the years 1468-1472, after he had succeeded his father to the duchy, writers appear less ready to indulge him. Jean de Roye, that mouthpiece of royalist propaganda, refers contemptuously to the duke’s “mad pranks” and “obstinate ways,” but there is more than a hint of weariness even among Burgundian writers. Haynin, careful not to criticize his lord, but not having much to write in 30

For Nicopolis and its consequences see Vaughan, John the Fearless, 4. He records in full (148-50) the duke’s plans for attacking Paris in 1417, notable for the inclusion of an escape at every step. Also the Religieux (Chronique, 4:166-71), in talking of the battle of Othée, praises John’s valor. 31 (“ce maudit Bien Publique”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:310-3. The term was apparently used to justify rebellions by the nobility, for example by the Yorkists (“la chose publicque du royaulme”). Wavrin, Angleterre, 2:193. The same author (2:357) quotes a typically bellicose statement of the duke, to the effect that if the king “entroit deux pas en ses pays, il en marcheroit quatre en siens, s’il povoit.” For his obstinacy in fighting the Liégeois, rejecting diplomatic initiatives (“mais je mourrai en l’entreprise, ou je les auray au fouet de leur extresme perdition et ruyne”) see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:340-4, and the same author (5:366) for Charles’s love for details (“ordonnant de fil en aiguille”). Molinet (Chroniques, 1:86-89) quotes a speech of 1475, in which the duke boasted of having repeatedly faced France “moy seulet” and won, and scorns truces. For his sudden love of war see Commynes, Mémoires, 1:37. But (1:146) he also gives Charles credit for some prudent decisions, as not to dismiss part of the army in front of Liège in 1468. Paravicini attributes both Charles’s successes and failures to his character flaws. Werner Paravicini, Karl der Kühne. Das Ende des Hauses Burgund (Göttingen: Musterschmidt, 1976) [translation by Anita Obermeier], 26.

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the way of conquests, concentrates on accidents befalling the troops; Commynes relates with disgust the destruction of Liège, echoing French sentiments, and criticizes him indirectly when he states that he had never seen Charles giving good battle orders except during the battle of Brusthem against Liège in 1467.32 One cannot but conclude that Charles’s ambiguous reputation rested more on the advantage of commanding overwhelming resources than on his tactical brilliance. These resources brought him close to realizing his dream of being recognized as a great general, even if his actual goal might have been one less of supremacy than of independence. After 1472, to coincide with his new “imperial” policy and abandonment of French affairs, his style of leadership changed and he embraced wholeheartedly the Roman model. Now in command of a (partly) national army, and flanked by experienced captains, his shortcomings could at least be masked, and he started being portrayed on coins in the fashion of a Roman dux, his head crowned with laurel leaves.33 As befitting his new image, he became more controlling, authoritarian, and increasingly concerned with large-scale mobilization of forces and the details of their organization, one is tempted to say, almost as an end in itself. Still, the obsessive quality of his personal involvement, the need to challenge himself repeatedly with something that he could not do very well, may attest to lingering doubts about his early performance at Montlhéry. Molinet, who succeeded Chastellain in 1474 as court indiciaire, inherited the dubious honor of recording this phase, which was inaugurated by what the duke apparently perceived as his greatest military triumph, the expensive, showy, excessively lengthy and rather useless siege of Neuss of 1474-1475. It was conceived as a rapid punitive action against the city, which had sided with Cologne in a rebellion against its bishop, but soon evolved into an eleven-month static war against its citizens and later against the Imperial troops who came to their rescue, but in the end achieved nothing. Still, this siege shows Charles in his new element, and his reluctance to abandon it as a matter of honor attests to

32

Roye, The scandalous Chronicle, 367, Haynin, Mémoires, 2:100-24, Commynes, Mémoires, 1:106, 166. Even the Burgundian knight Jean de Margny, talking about the failed siege of Beauvais says that the duke “ne gaigna-il point granment; / Il s’en partit honteusement.” Jean de Margny, L’Aventurier, ed. J. Robert de Chevanne (Paris: Librairie E. Droz, 1938), 55. De la Marche (Mémoires, 1:145) argues that he wanted to be his own sovereign to lead a crusade. 33 Paravicini, Karl der Kühne, 48.

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Maurice Keen’s thesis that sieges, even more than battles, involved the prince’s honor.34 Apparently overly-eager in his new assignment, Molinet pours an excess of fanciful praises upon the enterprise, transforming the account of the siege into a panegyric to Charles, short on detail and overflowing with rhetorical flourishes and mythological analogies. The Burgundian camp was a masterpiece of military architecture: wide streets, orderly and luxurious tents, commercial centers with shops, food stalls, tennis courts, billiard rooms, cabarets, hospitals, and wedding chapels. The duke was everywhere, participating and directing all activities with the willfulness of Alexander, the prudence of Caesar, and the diligence of Semiramis (the author, for good measure, throws in also references to Xerxes, Hannibal, Constantine, Hercules, Jason, and Sampson). He moved “like a swallow” from one end to the other of this artificial city, his brainchild, now administering stern justice, now receiving grandiosely foreign ambassadors and holding court. There he could indulge in his love for maneuvers, ordered ranks, and insignia, and spend the nights writing endless ordinances, meticulous, detailed, spelling out the troops’ marching orders and daily drills.35 The author, perhaps unwittingly, lets slip some hints that things did not quite work out. Some ambitious war machines on which the duke rested so much hope were never used: a huge crane became stuck in the rain, and a cat never worked, provoking “great laughter” among the enemies. The Italian mercenaries, left leaderless after the sudden departure of their captain, the competent count of Campobasso, lost some carefully dug tunnels to the Germans.36 Rigidly following his own ordinances, the duke had rotated captains at the beginning of January 1475, leaving Campobasso without a command, and reassigning his much diminished company of three-hundred lances among the count’s two sons and other 34

Jehan Nicolay, Kalendrier des guerres de Tournay (1477-1479), ed. Fréderic Hennebert, 3 vols. (Tournai: Malo et Lavasseur, 1853), 2:10 calls it “frustre et inutile.” Keen, Laws of War, 131-2. 35 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:56-60, 96-101. At least in part, Molinet is citing a colorful letter sent in 1474 by the count of Chimay to Chastellain, when the latter was still alive and the indiciaire of the duke: for example, the reference to Charles flying like a swallow (“nous avons ung duc voulant et plus mouvant que une aronde”). The letter is reported in full in Haynin, Mémoires, 2:177-84. Molinet’s enthusiasm is shared by de la Marche (Mémoires, 3:92.), who calls it “le plus beau siege et le mieulx estoffé de toutes choses que l’on veit pieça.” The duke even organized contingents of working women, who would march under their own banner. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 325. 36 (“grandes risées”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:44-45.

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non-Italian units. At one point Molinet seems to be aware that all the elaborate setup achieved remarkably little in the way of actual accomplishments, and digresses on the duke’s famed chastity as if it were a strategic objective. Finally, when the papal legate mediated peace with the emperor, Charles seemed hesitant to dismantle his masterpiece and go home. The theft of a few Burgundian boats loaded with artillery became the excuse for a skirmish, in which, naturally, he took part, and whose modest outcome, despite his boasting of a great victory, was the restitution of the boats and a butchery of Germans.37 Molinet’s style changes radically in describing the duke’s shocking defeats in two encounters with the Swiss, in the spring and summer of 1476. The apparent reason for conflict with this emerging bellicose nation, which had impressed the dauphin Louis thirty years before, was an attack against Charles’s ally the count of Romont. Taking charge, as was his custom, even of such a petty punitive expedition, he forced the fourhundred-strong Swiss garrison of Grandson to surrender, and then had most of the prisoners hanged in a fit of vindictiveness. Molinet, writing after the duke’s death and suddenly finding the gift of impartiality, in recalling this “sad act of war,” relates how a tree, whose branches were used as gallows, came crashing down from the weight of the victims. As the duke moved his camp, the Swiss, determined to avenge this massacre, advanced rapidly on him in force. At this point Molinet’s narrative becomes more effective, as he abandons classical analogies in favor of a somber, factual style. Charles refused to believe reports that the enemies were massing troops, even as their tents and standards became visible to the naked eye, insisting that they could not be so foolish as to attack him. When they poured down onto him from the nearby hills, he was left with little time to prepare for battle. Hastily, he ordered a tactical retreat to make space for cavalry and archers, while sending ahead a (probably too small) detachment to delay the incoming attack. When these men were cut down, the rest of the army, already shaken by the withdrawal, fled in panic. On that day, adds the writer with ill-concealed spite, the duke rode without stopping all the way to Nasaret, fourteen leagues from the German border. Meanwhile, the rough and poor Swiss, left masters not only of the famed Burgundian artillery, but also of the baggage of the richest duke in

37 The disappointed mercenary leader had gone “on pilgrimage” for the several months, leaving his master at a critical time. Molinet, Chroniques, 1:129, 79-84. For the episode of the boat see Haynin, Mémoires, 2:185-8 and Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 344. On the importance of mercenary leaders see Allmand, The Hundred Years War, 74.

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Europe, picked through priceless jewels, tapestries, and vessels of his portable wooden cottage, wondering at their use. 38 The defeat, which was received with joy in France and disbelief elsewhere, sent the duke into a fit of depression. Charles himself used the term “melancholia” to describe his state, admitting to psychosomatic symptoms, and Molinet hints at the duke’s disturbed emotional state for the last act of his personal tragedy. While outwardly he made show of readiness to avenge his shame, equipped with new artillery, men, and, naturally sumptuous pavilions, his failure of leadership was exposed as he lashed out at his men, charging them with cowardice for their flight at Grandson.39 By summer he set out to besiege the fortified and strongly garrisoned city of Morat (Murten), near the lake of Neuchâtel, where he suffered his second, even more disastrous defeat, under similar circumstances. Molinet, switching focus from leader to followers, remarks that the second disaster was even worse that the first, because of the significant Burgundian casualties, even if the loss of baggage was less notable. Not only was Charles defeated once more, but again, while the elated Swiss and their new ally Duke René of Lorraine shared the booty, he rode to the safety of Saint-Claude, “quite confused and angry at 38 (“très doloureux exploit de guerre”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:138-41. According to Keen, this was accepted behavior, as the laws of sieges did not include safeguards for the garrison or for the able bodied citizens, once defeated. Keen, Laws of War, 124, 130. It is remarkable, however, that Molinet thinks outside strictly legalistic terms. The duke’s behavior is consistent across narratives. Commynes, however, gives a slightly different version (Mémoires, 2:103-4) in which the duke, against advice, decides to attack the Swiss with a hundred archers close to their mointains, instead of waiting in the plain near the lake where he kept his men and artillery. Margny‘s version is kinder to the duke. After the defeat, Jacques Galiot [Giacomo Galeotto, a leader of Italian mercenaries] begged the duke to withdraw, but the latter did so reluctantly: “De honte en bas a regardé, / Et au cueur se est prins à touloir, / Et dist: ‘Me fauit-il honte avoir?’” Margny, L’Aventurier, 64. Today the consensus is that Charles tried a reasonable if tricky maneuver, but showed lack of “instinct tactique” in handling his men. Hans-Rudolf Kurz, “Grandson – 2 mars 1476 – le déroulement de la bataille,” in Grandson 1476, 211. 39 He was ill in Lousanne and let his beard grow. Molinet, Chroniques, 1:143. Charles apparently thought that some attacks of stomach pains, which caused him to lose consciousness, were due to melancholia. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 384. De la Marche (Mémoires, 3:211) limits himself to stating that the duke was “bientriste et bien melancholieux.” Commynes (Mémoires, 2:104) records his flight after Grandson and his loss of “lhonneur et chevance.” Haynin’s accounts of this period are little more than annotations. Kendall (Louis XI, 309) postulates that “had begun to unfold within him the dark flower of a death wish.”

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himself.” And, not content to have lost two encounters, adds Molinet, he “strove” to lose a third one, soon demanding even more resources to fight his last, tragic battle at Nancy. The writer concludes this episode with a curious choice of words, “[a]nd so, for not appreciating his enemies, not listening to the advice of captains experienced in war, and for being too neglectful in his affairs, on that day terrible dishonor and horrible misfortune befell the house of Burgundy, which for a long time had enjoyed a glorious renown.”40 This statement is significant, because after eleven years of continuous life in the field, leading armies in person, Charles was still not taken seriously as being “experienced in war.” After Morat, there was more than his judgment in question. Commynes records another, longer, depressive crisis after the second defeat. The duke withdrew to La Rivière for six weeks, where he lived like a hermit growing a beard as part of a vow to shave only after meeting the Swiss again. Angelo Cato, the future archbishop of Vienne, cured him with hot packs to the chest (to bring up the blood and relieve depression), forced him to forego his ascetic reluctance to straight wine, and finally convinced him to shave. Molinet relates the facts tersely and without comment, but the more opinionated Basin labels Charles an incompetent leader, rash and pitiless with the defeated, and not really brave.41 In the eyes of these writers, he was guilty not only of stubborn stupidity, but also of selfishness and cowardice. His repeated theatrical statements that he 40

(“très fort confus et desplaisant de sa personne […] labouroit […] Ainsy appert que, par non admirer ses ennemis, par non croire conseil de gens experimentéz en la guerre et par estre trop negligent de pourveoir à ses affaires, grant deshonneur et horrible dommage tresbucha ce jour sur la maison de Bourgoigne, que longuement paravant avoit esté de glorieuse renommée”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:147. The description of the battle is in Molinet, Chroniques, 1:143-6. In this battle, the Swiss were joined by a new ally, the dispossessed duke René of Lorraine. Charles had occupied the Lorraine a few months earlier in revenge for René’s defection to King Louis XI. 41 (“fortasse crudelisque in supplices ab aliquo fuisse dici, fortis vero vel strennuus nullatenus potest”). Basin, Louis XI, 2:359. The other details of his state of mind are in Commynes, Mémoires, 2:128-9. Bartier, in his elegant biography of Charles, records the duke’s statement that he did not want to live with the “confusion d’avoir été défait par un peuple de brutes et de rester exposé à perdre ses domains pièce par pièce,” and even if aware of risking everything in seeking another battle with the Swiss, he had to fight them “pour se débarasser d’eux et pour s’affranchir de cette obsession.” John Bartier, Charles le Téméraire (Brussels: Arcade, 1970), 210. Vaughan de-emphasizes the clinical aspects of Charles’s behavior, concentrating on his outward display of optimism and self-confidence to the Milanese envoy Panigarola and his own Estates. He also presents the upcoming battle of Nancy as a rational decision. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 394-5, 420.

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was ready to fight alone and lose his life, had so far translated in practice into the loss of life for thousands of his men and several experienced leaders. This rashness and self-centeredness was going rapidly out of fashion in a society that did not expect extreme sacrifice in battle, but respected healthy survival instincts.42 Individualism had been admired in his father, who had not demanded the useless sacrifice of troops, and who had wisely kept his distance from the details of their management. Charles, who rotated his captains as interchangeable parts in a machine, remained the one constant, and ever more uncomfortable, presence, as he took over the minutiae of daily management of his men, from disciplinary to even salary issues, and thus bore the brunt of their disappointment. Some modern historians have noticed that these authors (in particular Molinet), writing after the duke’s third and final disastrous battle, tend to lead the reader to expect more mistakes on his part and more debacles, and do not give him credit for reasonable assumptions.43 This is probably quite true, as we always tend to reorganize past events into neat patterns to fit our current beliefs. However, the duke’s tactical talent, or lack thereof, is not central to this discussion. What is important here is to observe the consensus among contemporary writers that his leadership style was not successful in bringing his followers to victory, and to notice how the writers did evaluate his altered psychological state to make sense of his sudden demise.

42 At this time there was a literary debate on the nature of courage in battle, resulting in a consensus that individual feats of suicidal valor were inferior to a disciplined collective courage. Contamine, War, 254-5. A rare exception is related by Commynes (Mémoires, 1:154-5), when a few hundreds desperate rebel Liégeois attempted a suicidal night attack on the lodgings of the king and the duke in 1468, to avert an upcoming assault. 43 This is the theory of J. Devaux, who accuses Molinet of having consistently and unjustly blamed Charles for his defeats that were attributable rather to the Swiss changing tactic at Morat and the treason of his mercenaries at Nancy. J. Devaux, “La fin du Téméraire … ou la mémoire d’un prince ternie par l’un des siens,” Le Moyen Age XCV (1989), 105-11. Louis-Edouard Roulet attributes the negative bias to Commynes and Panigarola, and argues that the duke had taken reasonable precautions, had a clear tactical plan at Morat, and was likely the victim of political intrigue. Louis-Edouard Roulet, “Le Téméraire à Morat: plaidoyer pour une réhabilitation,” Publication du Centre européen d’études bourguignonnes xxvi (1986), 39-56. As for Molinet’s dubious loyalty, Emerson reminds the reader that before being hired into ducal service, he had tried in vain for employment at other courts (Brittany, Artois, Saint-Pol, France, and England). Emerson, Olivier de la Marche, 78.

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One may draw an intriguing parallel between the duke’s failed leadership and that of Captain Bligh, which led to the famous mutiny of the Bounty in 1789. At the ensuing double court-marshal it became obvious that Bligh had not been nearly as rigorous in applying corporal punishment as other Navy captains did in that brutal age, and yet he was perceived by his officers to be more tyrannical. He had limited his attacks against them to insults and threats, but these were apparently provoked by trivia, such as the theft of a few coconuts. The general impression that emerges from the trials is one of a capricious, petty, and inconsistent meddler rather than a disciplinarian. Despite his proven technical abilities, he did not inspire respect and was the victim of an unprecedented second rebellion.44 Other captains were known for their harshness, but apparently their consistency generated predictability, which allowed their subordinates to adjust their behavior to avoid punishment and thus develop coping mechanisms. In addition, these captains were protected from personal attacks by their aristocratic aloofness, an attitude not shared by the plebeian Bligh, who allowed too many a glimpse at his personal weaknesses. Whether Charles was not entirely to blame for his defeats, he had either not communicated his plans clearly, or had not convinced others that they would work. It is ironical that he was perceived as inconsistent, irresolute, and yet obstinate and petty, while he seemed obsessed with projecting a consistent image of one “in charge.” It is tempting to suggest that his could have been a deliberate act of creating a superimposed persona, likely inspired by his bookish encounters with Roman history, and not by first-hand experience in handling troops (which he lacked in his formative years). The inconsistency did not escape his contemporaries, who noticed his efforts at keeping a physical distance from unsolicited contacts through a rigid protocol, as he militarized his court and multiplied the number of body-guards and yet constantly looked for contact. Apparently, he had the habit of inspecting his camp practically alone every evening, of haranguing or scolding troops even outside the traditional prebattle “pep talks,” and of intervening in the minutiae of discipline, including breaking up scuffles.45 But his inconsistency in alternating severity 44

Caroline Alexander, The Bounty (New York: Viking, 2003), 127-8, 135-8, 384-5. Commynes, Mémoires, 2:95-96, 142, Haynin, Mémoires, 2:118-9, Molinet, Chroniques, 1:79-81, de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:96. For his formality when at court see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:370-1. See also Philippe Wielant, “Recueil des Antiquités de Flandre,” in Recueil des Chroniques de Flandre, ed. J.-J. de Smet Tome IV (Brussels: C. Mucquardt, 1865), 52-55 for a contrast between his harsh personality and that of his easygoing father. For the progressive

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41

with leniency and aloofness with what we call “micromanagement” made him less respected and eventually less feared. After the second defeat, as Charles demanded more funds and supplies, in ever more strident tones, from his subjects, the Burgundian garrison of Nancy, consisting mostly of English mercenaries, capitulated to the forces of René of Lorraine in October 1476, despite the efforts of the Burgundian captain who begged them on his knees to resist until the duke could send reinforcements.46 Molinet’s writing at this point is enriched by a new sensitivity to the plight of common troops, whether the Swiss hanged at Grandson or the duke’s own men. He lingers on the fate of the meager Burgundian garrison left to defend the dilapidated fortress of Vomacourt, which Charles, in his precipitous flight after Grandson, had left to fend for itself. The poor men, threatened with massacre by the surrounding Swiss, spent an agonizing night confessing and forgiving each other, then resorted to a harrowing escape before dawn, and after an almost impossible mountain climb, managed to reach the duke’s main forces.47 After Morat more stragglers joined the duke’s camp near Pons, anticipating a winter lull in the fighting. Instead, they found themselves on the painful trek to retake Nancy in full winter, led by a man in whom they were losing confidence. Apparently, the duke felt the same. His shaky selfrespect, propped up by displays of grandeur, had suffered a terrible blow, and at this point he started showing signs of breakdown. Molinet states that he was irritable and prone to episodes of violent anger, coupled with an ever-increasing reluctance to face reality, and that his servants revealed that at times he would withdraw alone as if to read a book, but from behind a closed door they would hear him giving vent to his grief and shame with loud sobbing. Granted, there may be more than a trace of exaggeration in portraying him as bordering on irrationality, as some modern authors have suggested. But it suited contemporary writers to project for this particular person a tragic image of one destined to fail.48 militarization of Charles’s court see Hans Cools, “The Burgundian-Habsburg Court as a Military Institution from Charles the Bold to Philip II,” in The Court as a Stage: England and the Low Countries in the later Middle Ages, ed. Steven Gunn and Antheun Janse (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2006), 160-2. 46 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:148-50. The Burgundian captain tried to move the English by reminding them that his duke and their king were brothers-in-arms, as Edward was a knight of the Toison d’Or and Charles of the Garter. But practical arguments prevailed. 47 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:141-2. 48 (“estoit fort melancolieux et facilement incité à yre […] par grant couroux tiroit cheveulx et se detordoit en faisant les plus angoisseux regretz et plaintis que jamais furent oys”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:163-4. Paravicini (Karl der Kühne, 108)

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Against a tradition of fatalism (for example invoking God or Fortune striking down a worthy man) they opted instead for a morality play: the man who had made a dogma of his absolute control of armies was losing control both of armies and of himself. Soon, the situation within the Burgundian camp near Nancy became desperate, and Molinet’s narrative assumes an anguished tone. When Charles had to face the combined forces of René and his nemesis, the Swiss, he reluctantly asked his captains to assess the battle readiness of his troops, as if his organizational skills had suddenly left him. They found an appalling loss of eighty-percent of his men. Many had died of disease, cold, and hunger; others had quietly slipped away and returned home. Ominously, there were daily reports of defections, while Campobasso was by then openly negotiating with the enemy.49 The duke, informed to expect treason, told his captains evasively that he would deal with it in its own due time, again skirting a painful reality. His captains deliberated on how to press upon him that his once powerful army had been reduced to perhaps three-thousand battle-ready men, facing an enemy ten times stronger. Finally the count of Chimay volunteered. He found the duke inside his portable pavilion lying on his cot fully clothed, as was his habit, according to Commynes. When Chimay told him that the situation was hopeless, Charles replied, as he had many years before in crossing the Seine, that he had to fight on, even if alone. He then forbade his valet from admitting anyone unless summoned by him. Chimay left, warning that it would take an act of Heaven to give them victory. 50 reports Charles’s statement to the Milanese ambassador to the effect that he had to fight to win or die, and if death in battle was denied to him, he was ready to commit suicide. Vaughan does not accept the theory of his irrationality, as mentioned above, but, of course, irrationality is a relative term. For the cognitive distortions brought about by depression see Peter C. Whybrow, Hagop S. Akiskal, and William T. McKinney, Jr., Mood Disorders: Toward a New Psychobiology (New York: Plenum Press, 1984), 91, 186-7. A notable exception to the chorus of critics was de la Marche, notoriously defensive of his long-time master. It is possible to perceive his discomfort at Charles’s performance, however, as he barely mentions these events. 49 The numbers vary, but it appears that he was left with two-thousand to fourthousand men. Molinet, Chroniques, 1:164 and Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 427. It is noteworthy that Molinet (Chroniques, 1:162-3) does not blame Campobasso for his treason, understanding his strapped financial circumstances. Commynes, on the other hand, accuses him (Mémoires, 2:136-8, 141-3) of offering to the indignant Louis XI to murder his lord. 50 (“J’os ce que vous dittes, mais je les debvoye combatre seul, se les combaterai ge”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:164. Devaux claims that this episode is false, and that

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When the attack came, the duke went through the drill logically enough. As the enemies advanced in two columns parallel to the river, he tried to stop or delay the stronger of the two with artillery fire. Having failed, he deployed his scant forces in two wings, under the command respectively of Chimay and of Giacomo Galeotto, another Italian mercenary. But soon the Swiss advanced in force, firing their harquebuses, and the Burgundians were immediately routed. Some fled in panic toward the river, only to find the bridge blocked by Campobasso, who had finally been hired by Duke René. Those who were not killed or drowned tried to flee through the forest, only to be butchered by local peasants. The hunt for the stragglers lasted all night, but Charles’s body was not found until two days later, a fact that fueled the ongoing controversy over his personal courage. Did he die fighting, close to the battle, or attempting once again to flee? Commynes abstains from venturing a personal opinion. De la Marche loyally defends his master’s valor to the end, stating that he was found “dead on the battlefield, and prostrated like the poorest of men.” Molinet, giving vent to pity and not noticing his inconsistency, mourns “the noble body, whose spirit had been so brave.” Even Basin, who had condemned his cruelty and temeritas, has him seeking death rather than the dishonor of a third defeat by throwing himself deliberately to the charging Swiss.51 Charles, the most notorious war leader of the century, and the one who incorporated both Roman and chivalric qualities, ended up eliciting only pity. I propose to show him in a different (and kinder) light in Chapter IV, but it is hard to refute that his love of armies was not reciprocated; that there was not much trust in his judgment; that years spent on the saddle and among physical risks and discomforts had not paid off in terms of respect; and that his military career was perceived as a personal hobby, costly and cumbersome to others, rather than a heroic

this statement was more likely made in a meeting. Devaux, “La fin du Téméraire,” 122-3. Commynes backs Molinet’s “irrational” theory, as he states (Mémoires, 2:150-1) that “avecques parolles d’homme insensé” the duke decided to wait for the enemy and to give battle with his few “gens espoventéz.” For the duke’s habit of dropping half-dressed on his cot like the humblest of soldiers see Commynes, Mémoires, 1:237, 2:331-2. 51 (“mort au champ de la bataille, et estendu comme le plus pauvre homme du monde”). De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:240. (“le noble corpz, don’t l’esperit estoit fort corageux”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:167. Basin, Louis XI, 2:341, Commynes, Mémoires, 2:153.

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necessity.52 He was a failure at both concepts of leadership, despite his administrative abilities and his undeniable intelligence. So far, none of the princes mentioned seems to have been the unchallenged embodiment of military leadership in the eyes of contemporary chroniclers. This ideal eludes both the brave but impulsive chivalric hero and the severe but remote Roman dux, two leadership styles that fit only Buss’s definition. Curiously, a new set of qualities emerge when looking at less elevated figures. A popular one seems to be a rugged, practical professionalism; yet even in such examples, enthusiasm is tempered with criticism at the first hint of brutality. This is the case, for example, of the Earl of Shrewsbury John Talbot. He is introduced to readers from the very early days of the English occupation of France as a participant in the conquest, then as prisoner of Joan of Arc in 1429, and later as advisor to the duke of York at the siege of Pontoise in 1440. In 1452, after the French had retaken Normandy and Gascony, he was called by the recently reconquered Bordeaux to help it in reverting to English rule, and was killed in 1453 by the French at the battle of Castillon. There is a discrepancy in the accounts of Basin and d’Escouchy about this illfated battle, which leaves the reader at a loss on how to interpret this elusive, yet renowned character. The Norman Basin, perhaps because he was from a region that had suffered much from English misrule, is the most severe. He has Talbot imprudently decide to attack the French camp, while d’Escouchy has this man “full of good sense and valorous” pushed into action by the citizens of Bordeaux against his better judgment.53 Both writers narrate how a standard-bearer warned him against attacking the French camp, advising him rather to besiege it and let famine do the rest. 52

Dufournet goes beyond the judgment of those writers, stating that Charles, “subit, après une existence sans joie, une mort sans gloire.” Dufournet, Commynes, 27. For a similar account of the battle and a negative evaluation of Charles’s bellicose leanings see also Nocolay, Kalendrier, 2:21-27. But for a more balanced modern opinion on the battle and its background see Cauchies, De Péronne, 137. Apart from historians, the low opinion of the duke’s military initiatives seems corroborated by his testy exchanges with the magistrates and Estates of Flanders over the issue of recruitment and war contributions. L. P. Gachard, Collection de documens inédits concernant l’histoire de la Belgique, 3 vols. (Brussels: Louis Hauman et comp. libraires, 1833), 1:177-8, 220-4, 249-70. These documents will be discussed in more detail in Chapter VI. 53 (“garny de sens naturel et vaillant en armes”). D’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:34. Wavrin calls him “le plus sage et vaillant chevallier du royaulme d’Engleterre.” Wavrin, Angleterre, 1:284. Joan of Arc will be discussed in Chapter V under “exceptional women” as the same historians seem to look at her as a religious figure rather than a conventional war leader.

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Talbot, however, whose actions (in Basin’s words) were determined “by ill-advised rashness,” assumed that the French would be terrified at hearing his very name, and ordered the man to carry the standard forward. D’Escouchy adds that the standard-bearer received a blow to his face from Talbot’s sword for his ill-timed advice. The French calmly welcomed the English with cannonades followed by a counter-attack. In the ensuing battle many were killed, among whom the prophetic standard-bearer and a son of Talbot. In Basin’s account the lord himself was wounded in the foot and captured by French archers, whom he begged in vain for his life, promising ransom money. They chose rather to kill him in revenge for his past cruelty against their own.54 D’Escouchy, less opinionated than the fiery bishop, lingers on Talbot’s more attractive qualities. After the French conquest of Rouen, and while still a prisoner, the knight was kindly received by Charles VII, who took him by the hand as the other knelt, and said, “Talbot, you are welcome,” and asked whether he was there to swear allegiance to him. Talbot replied politely that he was not yet advised to do so, and after this exchange, he was feasted by king and court, because he had the reputation of being “the most prudent and brave knight” of England. At Castillon, “with his usual valor,” he attacked the enemy, and was cut down by blows to the throat, face, thighs and legs, quite a contrast to the cowardly scene described by Basin. His fate remained unknown for a couple of days, and when his corpse was found, bloated in the hot summer sun, the French enlisted his old herald, now a prisoner, for identification. Next, the writer describes a touching scene in which the herald knelt by the disfigured body, and felt with his hand inside the mouth for a missing molar. Recognizing his dead master, he kissed him on the lips, addressing him tearfully, “My lord and master, it is you! I pray that God will forgive your sins. I have worn your arms for over forty years, and now it is time to return them.” Then he took off his coat of arms and placed it over the body, while the victors stood by in respectful silence.55 This version, if 54

(“audacia et inconsulta temeritate”). Basin, Charles VII, 2:195-9. D’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:40. 55 (“le plus prudent et vaillant chevallier […] Monseigneur mon maistre, ce estesvous! je prie à Dieu qu’il vous pardonne vos meffais. J’ay esté votre officier d’armes XL ans ou plus, il est temps que je le vous rende”). D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:230, 2:42-43. Chartier gives a neutral account of the battle of Castillon, essentially confirming the words of d’Escouchy, and adds his own epitaph for Talbot: “Et ainsi fut la fin de ce fameux et renommé chef anglois” who for the longest time had been one of the most obdurate and terrifying enemy of France. Chartier, Chroniques, 3:7. In a previous passage (Chroniques, 3:5) he gives a curious detail omitted by others: Talbot had gone to battle with several

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compared to the previous interview with the French king, appears more believable than the spiteful portrait of Basin, and we may conclude that Talbot’s professional dedication earned him at least the grudging respect of his enemies. There is something else of note in this episode, a new social sensitivity that separates this narrative from (for example) those of Froissart. In this somber scene the old herald is the protagonist, and the writer renders in full the pathos of his loss, lingering on the consequences of battle. A like sensitivity is present in Molinet, when he remarks on how melodious was the music of minstrels emanating from the camps of the Burgundians and the Germans of the duke of Lorraine, but only for those not involved in the struggle, or his description of the strapped Burgundians’ brave resistance at Vomacour, discussed earlier. It appears in the pages of the anonymous and fiercely partisan author of the Livre des Trahisons, who (uncharacteristically, as he hates the French nobility) has the young duke Charles of Orléans curse “all those who had led him to start the war” when he hears of the destruction of his city of Ham. It is ever-present in Commynes, who relates how the young duke of Berry, in whose name the war of the Public Weal was fought, was so horrified at the losses at Montlhéry to doubt his own cause; who lingers on the memory of his tired and thirsty horse lapping up a whole pail of wine after the same battle; and who recalls the killing of “poor prisoners” after the defeat of rebellious Liège in 1468.56 This sensitivity translates into admiration for a different kind of commander, one who could be liked besides being feared or admired. The prize seems to go to Jean, bastard of the murdered duke Louis of Orléans, and later count of Dunois. This amiable, prudent, and valorous general receives the universal praise of writers, and is particularly extolled by Basin as the ideal military hero. D’Escouchy says of him that he was “well known as being wise, prudent, and of good character, and loved [Italics mine] by all the men as much or more than all other lords and captains.”57 He was a self-made man. While his legitimate half-brother Charles standards, some of which invented and embroidered with insults against the French. 56 (“pouvres gens prisonniers”). Commynes, Mémoires, 1:166. The other episodes are in Commynes, Mémoires, 1:37, 42-43, Molinet, Chroniques, 1:152 and (“tous ceux quy luy avoient loé la guerre à encommenchier “). “Trahisons,” 101. 57 (“fort renommé d’estre saige, prudent et de bonne conduitte, et aussy fort aimé de tous les gens de guerre, autant ou plus que nulz autres seigneurs et cappitaines”). D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:186. Commynes (Mémoires, 1:20) says of him that he was “fort estimé en toutes choses.” Louis of Orléans was murdered in 1407 by assassins sent by John the Fearless (Chapter IV).

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languished in comfortable but prolonged captivity in England after being taken prisoner at Agincourt, Dunois was a major participant in the arduous but successful reconquest of France. His qualities, beside wisdom and eloquence (which always ranks high among leaders in an essentially oral society), seem to be summarized in what we call being a “team player.” He took his place wherever he was needed, finished the job, and never once is he reported as vainglorious or conceited. Two episodes illustrate these qualities. The first took place during the French reoccupation of Normandy in 1449, after more then thirty years of foreign domination. As Charles VII was readying for his victory parade into Rouen, led by Dunois, a city official was overcome with emotion in presenting the king with the keys to the city, and faltered, tears streaming, while attempting to deliver his prepared speech. Gently, Dunois rescued him from embarrassment, and spoke for him to the king, who accepted the keys, equally touched by the scene. The second was the unpleasant and delicate task of arresting a fellow nobleman, the duke of Alençon, whom Charles VII suspected of conspiring with England. D’Escouchy’s narrative illustrates the count’s loyalty to the king, his prudence through the careful planning of the mission, and his tact, as he arrested the duke in secret, while the latter was in his residence in Paris, quickly and efficiently to avoid any clash with the duke’s men, and always using the utmost courtesy toward his prisoner (who ended up confiding in him).58 His amiable personality traits are in evidence from documents outside explicit narrative. During the siege of Orléans in 1429 he readily accepted the help of the young Joan of Arc and took his place beside her. Many years later, in 1456, when he testified at the trial for her rehabilitation, he recalled her in terms of frank professional admiration. She was sent by God, a holy woman who liked to be alone in prayer and a brave and competent soldier. He related how she always liked to hear the ringing of bells and how she tended to brag with the troops, but never about herself (and besides, the men needed encouragement).59 Joan, at the time of this interview, had been dead for twenty-five years, and Dunois could have used this trial as an opportunity for self-aggrandizement. Yet he did not, and shared with her the success of their campaigns.

58

D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:232-3, 2:319-21. Procès en Nullité de la Condamnation de Joan of Arc, trans. Pierre Duparc, 4 vols. (Paris: Librairie C. Klincksiec, 1986), 4:4-11. Robert Garnier, in his biography of the Bastard, laments that rigid inquisitorial rules prohibited a star witness like Dunois from indulging in personal memories of the pucelle. Robert Garnier, Dunois: le bâtard d’Orléans 1403-1468 (Paris: F. Lanore, 1999), 286-8. 59

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Finally, Dunois reappears years later, during the war of the Public Weal in 1465, old and gouty, carried on a litter outside Paris among other rebel nobles. Disappointed at the ingratitude of the new king Louis XI toward the aristocracy, who had liberated the kingdom for his father, he had become their spokesman. Among dukes (Brittany, Bourbon) and powerful counts (Saint-Pol, Charolais) it was he, the bastard son of a murdered and unpopular figure, who was elected to address the envoys of Paris, and demand through them that the king restore their ancestral privileges. As he rose from little-known bastard to unofficial doyen of the peers, his quiet professionalism was unanimously rewarded, and he is one of the few to sail through the pages of contemporary history unscathed, despite his participation in a civil war.60

II.3. Followers and Pawns A natural question arises: what kind of followers would respond to such diverse leadership styles? For historians trained in the nineteenth- and twentieth-century tradition of large national armies of conscripts or volunteers there is something alien, disorganized, and even amateurish about late-medieval armies, composed as they were in part of citizen militias, in part of mercenaries, and in part of feudal contingents brought forth by individual nobles.61 In addition, armies could be made up from several nationalities, as in the case of Charles the Bold’s truly European army, composed of Italians, English, and Germans, beside men from his own territories. Only France, ahead of the rest, could claim the nucleus of a national army since the mid-century, the compagnies d’ordonnance paid for and kept in peacetime for emergencies. It amazes a modern reader to realize, from the scathing words of Basin, with what suspicion (or rather indignation) the beginnings of a permanent army were received in those days. Charles VII started the experiment with his usual caution, by hiring 60 Commynes, Mémoires, 1:45, 55, Haynin, Mémoires, 1:83 and Jean Maupoint, Journal parisien de Jean Maupoint, prieur de Sainte-Catherine-de-la-Couture, 1437-1469, Gustave C. Fagniez (Paris: Chez H. Champion, 1878), 63-65. During the Praguerie he is mentioned among the ranks of the disaffected nobles (1442) as intermediary with the king. D’Escouchy, Chronique (pièces jusfificatifs, no. VI), 3:41-49. Garnier (Dunois, 331) mentions that, after the rebellion of 1465, he obtained full pardon from Louis XI and the position of first chamberlain, which he had covered under Charles VII. The pardon may have not been sincere, as Louis XI accused Dunois of having betrayed his predecessor twenty-five times. Mandrot, Dépèches, 2:139-140. 61 Huizinga (Herfsttij, 72) observed that wars appeared to contemporaries as “extremely formless and […] disconnected.”

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only fifteen-hundred lances. Basin tells us that this paltry force of seventytwo hundred was deliberately scattered throughout the kingdom in small companies of one-hundred men each, under the command of a captain, to be called to action as needed. They were billeted in private homes, selected on a rotating basis, in small groups, so as not to be too disruptive. Still, their very existence was unsettling, and, according to Basin, alarming. The presence of armed men, rendered invulnerable by the royal authority they represented, was a perfect medium for abuse, such as thefts, requisitions, bullying, and the inevitable rapes or more or less willing seductions. But what arouses Basin’s indignation is the very idea of the institution, which forced free citizens to pay taxes for the permanent presence of an instrument of tyranny. He sees in it the end of public freedom, the transformation of France into an absolute monarchy on the model of ancient empires, with its citizens browbeaten into subservience.62 As Spencer has observed, Basin was an admirer of Cicero, and shared with his idol the suspicion of anything that smacked of overwhelming interference from government. Yet, even the less passionate d’Escouchy, who entertains no such suspicions on the intentions of kings, notes how carefully Charles VII went about this innovation. Basin’s prediction started to come true when Charles’s successor Louis XI found the ground already prepared to increase the number of permanent troops. In Spencer’s views, the seed of absolutism was sown in the fifteenth century, and Basin deserves credit for his dark but accurate vision.63 In fact, however, civilians even before the institution of royal troops were expected to pay taxes to support the armed quarrels of the nobility unquestioningly. Monstrelet relates a significant anecdote that took place in 1414. The dauphin had imposed yet another peace on the warring parties of Burgundians and Orléanists, to which they swore (as usual) amidst melodramatic and hypocritical displays of good faith. The Parisians, who had been victimized by the Orléanists, complained to the old duke of Berry, then their governor, of not having been consulted. His answer summarizes the attitude of the ruling class: “This does not concern you at 62

Basin (Charles VII, 2:17-47) assumes a lance equal to five men. D’Escouchy (Chronique, 1:52-58) reports the same total lances as Basin, but brings the lance to six men, the sixth being a second archer. Contamine (War, 168-9) gives the lance as four men: one mounted man-at-arms, two archers, and one coutilier for support, to care for weapons and the horse. To an impartial reader, the timing of the reform, immediately following the Praguerie and the campaign against the écorcheurs appears significant, but Basin, protective of the privileges of the nobility, does not draw attention to this coincidence. 63 Spencer, Basin, 119, 249-55.

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all, nor should you interfere with our lord the king and us who are of his blood, because we may quarrel one with another whenever we please, and also make peace whenever we please.”64 Popular opinion apparently did not improve much after the civil wars had abated: by the last part of the century, when royal troops had been around long enough to be an accepted presence, in the minds of civilians they progressed only from being objects of fear to objects of ridicule, and the theme of farces.65 Others must have shared Basin’s fears of permanent troops, as suspicion of armies in general, whether friend or foe, seems to be a constant among fifteenth-century writers. Armies were not viewed as the heroic embodiment of nations, but rather as reflections of the extreme particularism that permeated other aspects of medieval societies. Paradoxically, this was less true for mercenaries, who were a permanent presence in Europe since the early fourteenth century, and commonly regarded as a curse.66 Every writer goes through a litany of atrocities committed by these troops against civilians. They scattered throughout the countryside terrorizing trade routes, kidnapping merchants and peasants for ransom, robbing, killing, imposing arbitrary tolls, occupying various castles, and behaving generally like bandits. Roads and forests were infested with roaming troops looking for prey, a scourge so pervasive that it fills every other page in the narrative of Monstrelet, the Bourgeois of Paris, and especially Basin, who gives an unforgettable description of the wasteland to which Normandy was reduced under the anarchy brought about by the English irregulars.67 The Bourgeois records battles and sieges during the regency of the duke of Bedford, in which treachery and petty 64

(“Ce ne vous touche en riens, ne entremectre ne vous devez de monseigneur le Roy, ne de nous qui sommes de son sang, car nous nous courrouçons l’un à l’autre quant il nous plaist, et quant il nous plaist aussi, la paix est faicte”). Monstrelet, Chronique, 3:42. 65 For example, the hilarious “Monologue du Franc Archer de Bagnolet.” 66 Mercenaries had been engaged in Italy by city-states, who lacked their own armies, since the mid-thirteenth century. Allmand, The Hundred Years War, 73. 67 Basin, Charles VII, 1:107-9, 2:52-57. The most dramatic account is that of the brigand bastard of Vaurus who, at the head of an armed gang, committed many murders. One time he kidnapped and tortured a young man, demanding an exorbitant ransom for him of his pregnant wife. The woman was not able to collect the money on time. On hearing that her husband had been killed, she imprudently berated the bandits, who then beat her, tied her to a tree, and left her to be devoured by wolves. In her agony she gave birth, and the newborn was eaten too. Journal d’un bourgeois, 184-7. Vaurus was executed by Henry V, but apparently only for having attacked English troops (which attests to a military role that the Bourgeois does not make explicit). Fenin, Mémoires, 175.

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cruelties took the place of bravery. In his narrative, treason, trickery, and stratagems seem to replace chivalry and honor. In one example, the Orléanists (labeled Armagnacs, after one of their leaders) did not dare attack the well-disciplined forces of the regent to rescue a besieged castle. They only sent a contingent, acting as the vanguard of a larger army, but which only vainly raised the hopes of the besieged, while the main forces withdrew in a hurry, saving their baggage carts. They resorted to even worse treachery when they used their Scottish mercenaries, tied together and spattered with blood, to act as English prisoners and convince the demoralized fortress of Verneuil to surrender. In another passage he relates how the Armagnacs, under the terrible La Hire, in the 1430s cut the throats of the dead whom they found wearing English emblems, in a new vicious turn of the protracted war.68 Not only there seems to be little difference in the perception of foreign mercenaries and national troops in the eyes of the civilians, but even enthusiasm for citizens’ militias was purely regional and usually short-lived, and did not change the schizophrenic attitude toward armies in general. As apparent from the pages of the Bourgeois of Paris, people welcomed victory for their side, but mistrusted and feared even their own troops and wished them as far away as possible.69 For their part, troops seemed to regard civilians as sources of food, lodging, and supply, but seldom, if ever, as valuable partners, defenseless victims to be rescued, or even only a cheering audience. In a world in which one’s sense of self depended on regional identity and professional identification, soldiers and civilians had many opportunities to be mutual strangers. In addition, when it comes to relations within the armies themselves, composed of alien and disparate elements, there are hints of strain and tension.70 Their behavior may be an extreme result of job instability (as most armies were disbanded immediately after each action) 68

Journal d’un bourgeois, 211-2, 329. The Bourgeois regularly refers to armies of any side as “larrons” (ex. 89, 201, 234, 270, 322, 372, 376, 393, 399, 414) but mentions that their stealing and kidnapping could be motivated by necessity, as they were not paid (102). The Religieux (Chronique, 2:334-5) considered it extraordinary that the multi-national troops of John the Fearless were so well fed and paid that during a whole six weeks in Paris none of them had to be arrested. Allmand (The Hundred Year War, 48) remarks on the paradox of the knight depicted in art as defender of the innocents while the common soldier was a symbol of violence and destruction against people and property. 69 For example Journal d’un bourgeois, 420. 70 As previously mentioned, during the siege of Neuss Duke Charles had to intervene to quell a riot between English and Italians. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:96.

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and uneven contractual terms, which at times affected even citizens’ militias and created problems for their own side. Monstrelet relates the troublesome behavior of Flemish militias raised reluctantly by cities to help their duke John the Fearless in his fight against the Armagnacs. In 1411 the duke could not keep them past the expiration of their contract, even as the Armagnacs were in sight and a battle could be engaged within a week. He rode to the decamping Flemings hat in hand, together with his brother the duke of Brabant, to beg them to delay their departure for a few days. In answer, they shoved the contract in his face, threatening to cut in pieces his son (who resided in Ghent), and he had to let them go. They also insisted on a higher pay to defray expenses above the per diem, which points to a strictly contractual view of relations even with such a powerful lord.71 Once on the march homeward, the troops sowed havoc in their wake throughout the countryside, and, as they approached armed and threatening their own cities, issued demands of a specific social nature to the magistrates as a price to reenter and disarm peacefully. The worst trouble came from the men of Bruges. Their demands for abolition of taxes and restoration of ancient privileges illustrate how these militias, far from representing their own city as a unified political entity, identified only with a specific class, and were willing to use their sudden position of strength to force the civic authorities to take notice of social issues.72 From the viewpoint of civilians, therefore, military leadership could be summed up as the ability to keep one’s army under control to prevent its worst excesses. This may account for the surprising lack of hostility of 71

Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:182-5 and Anon. Chron. 6:211. For the uncertainties of pay for soldiers see Commynes, Mémoires, 2:216, and Margny, L’Aventurier, 8283, 91-93. Mutinies were not exclusively against Burgundian dukes and caused by Flemish militias. According to the Religieux (Chronique, 3:456-7) Duke Louis d’Orléans had faced a mutiny from within his army during the frigid winter of 1406 at the long siege of Bourg His men told him politely but firmly that they had fought without pay for too long, enduring cold and hunger, while he was spending their pay in gambling. Despite his threats they stood firm and he had to lift the siege. Cities found many to respond to the call to arms, and the money to pay their own mercenaries, only in cases of self-defense, witness the large contingents put in the field by Ghent in the 1450s. Chastellain,”Chroniques,” 3:317-20, 368-72. And Roye (The scandalous Chronicle, 374) displays civic pride in local militias (but in peacetime) when Louis XI reviewed Parisian troops in 1473. 72 For a similar situation during the private war between Philip the Good and Humphrey of Gloucester in 1431 see Wielant, “Flandre,” 315-6. Among modern writers who have commented on this, Vaughan (John the Fearless, 165-8) and George Holmes, Europe: Hierarchy and Revolt 1320-1450 (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. 2000), 216.

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most writers against the occupying army of Henry V, a king with a reputation for strictness, while opinion of the English under his weak successor, young Henry VI, was considerably harsher, as noted early.73 In reality, however, the majority of commanders displayed an uneven mixture of paternalism and diffidence toward their men. They addressed them soothingly, their fear of mutiny barely below the surface. Haynin recounts that during the battle of Montlhéry, when many Burgundians had fled the field, the count of Charolais was asked by his captains to bring back the fugitives. Unsure of himself on his first command, he addressed them with humble pleading,” My children and my friends, I beg you to return to me, and not leave me at this time.” Heralds were sent to rally other deserters who had taken refuge in various churches with, “Gentlemen, come back. Our lord of Charolais is fighting hard against the French.”74 Despite Charles’s later dream of Roman-style absolute control, this was the reality of commanding late-medieval troops. Probably the strength of regional particularism and the different contractual arrangements for various contingents served to impart a less homogeneous character to armies, and thus allow for different responses to authority. As a result, these men appear resistant to becoming mentally regimented into what Forsyth calls an “agentic state,” that is, losing their own identity and sense of personal responsibility to become blind instruments of a higher power. As Keen has stated, in the late Middle Ages “soldiering was regarded as a Christian profession, not as public service […]. The soldier took up arms as an individual, and rights were acquired by him and against him personally.” As a consequence, a soldier may have perceived his military allegiance as temporary. Medieval military identity, nurtured on the ideals of chivalry, translated into the quest for individualism, or at least close bond between “brothers in arms,” chosen through personal selection, followed at a distance by the feeling of

73

John the Fearless seems to have enjoyed a similar reputation for restraining his forces, and also for purchasing, rather than stealing, victuals and other supplies. Journal d’un bourgeois, 29. This conduct apparently continued with his successors: see de la Marche’s proud statement (Mémoires, 3:75) that the Burgundian army at Abbeville was kept under “discipline de guerre que nous eusmes plus d’honneur que de honte.” 74 (”Mes enfans et mes amis, je vous prie que vous retournes avecque moi, et que vous ne me lassies ne abandones point a chest heure. […] Mes seigneurs, retournes, monsieur de Charolais combat tres fort les Francois”). Haynin, Mémoires, 1:74-75. Louis XI also addresses his troops at Monhléry as “mes enfans et mes amis.” Haynin, Mémoires, 1:62.

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comradeship with fellow citizens of the same social class.75 Even the good soldier Haynin, who answered summons to perform his duty as vassal, did so only as a personal obligation to his lord and relative, and felt free to vent his disappointment at the upper nobility. And the soldier-poet Margny recalls without shame how he enlisted in the armies of Louis XI after the death of his master Charles the Bold, thus effectively abandoning Charles’s heiress Duchess Marie. Perhaps Jean Le Fèvre, who became king-at-arms of the Burgundian chivalric order of the Toison d’Or, offers the most extreme example of this tendency, as he cheerfully recalls the battle of Agincourt, to which he participated on the English side, while two brothers of his duke John the Fearless died fighting on the French side.76 Individualism could explain the strangely “intimate” style of recruitment, so alien to our mass mentality, and so unlike its contemporary literary ideal L’imagination de vraie noblesse, which lists the obligations of a retainer during a war of a king or prince: the gentleman presents himself to his captain with the promise to serve and obey completely and without fearing death or harm, take on all tasks required, and refuse to abandon his post without leave or use words that discourage the company. But in reality things went more like interviews for an office position. Margny, in recalling his own induction into the king’s service, relates how his prospective new captain asked him to meet him in his lodging at a local inn, where he shook hands and asked him what he would like to do once in his service.77 The tendency to independent thinking renders almost believable the statement of John the Fearless, in a letter written in 1413 to Charles VI, that the presence of Burgundian armies on French soil was not his responsibility: he had dismissed his men and if some companies were still active it was on their own initiative. Occasionally, it could even translate into personal acts of mercy. For example, Commynes relates that, when the Burgundians took the town of Nesle by storm and Duke Charles ordered the members of the French garrison killed or mutilated, some were 75 Forsyth, Group Dynamics, 208. Keen, Laws of War, 24. The concept of individual identity in the Middle Ages is, of course, problematic. See, for example, Colin Morris, The Discovery of the Individual 1050-1200 (London: S.P.C.K. for the Church Historical Society, 1972). Here “medieval individualism” is intended in the restricted sense used by Keen. 76 Margny, L’Aventurier, 70-71, Le Fèvre, Chronique, 1:250 (but then he adds that it was “dommage” that the gallant attack of eighteen French knights failed to kill Henry V!) 77 Margny, L’Aventurier, 80-81. L’imagination de vraie noblesse is cited in Contamine, La noblesse, 201.

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spared “whom the men let go out of compassion.”78 And the Bourgeois of Paris, forgetting for once his anti-Armagnac feelings, deplores the massacre of the very Armagnacs in a minor skirmish that was provoked for no other reason than booty, in which, he says, both sides damned their souls through needless killing.79 It could also lead to a surprisingly critical view of war and its leaders even from within the military caste. After the encounter at Montlhéry of 1465 the forces of the count of Charolais advanced wearily toward Paris, from time to time intercepted by royal forces. The two armies faced each other wearily, skirted one another in an eerie dance (probably skittish after the recent bloody experience), and occasionally attacked each other with ferocity. Sadly, Haynin lists the casualties, which included some close friends and acquaintances. Then, unexpectedly, the news spread that the king had gone to a friendly meeting with the count at Conflans, where they vied in honoring each other. The war, which had been preceded by a barrage of noble statements of principle, now ended abruptly as the two princes inspected artillery together. The author, recalling the old days in which King Louis, then dauphin, had been a refugee at the Burgundian court, remarked that the two had been friends, then enemies at Montlhéry, and now friends again in three-months time. “And meanwhile, those who are dead are dead for good, while the princes are now friends. This shows you that one should be surprised at nothing, until one sees a pregnant man.”80 Monstrelet reports a similar reaction from a Burgundian knight who witnessed the theatrical reconciliation between Philip the Good and his brother-in-law the duke of Bourbon in 1434. As the two former enemies greeted each other with newly-found “brotherly affection,” accompanied by their families and followers, the witness remarked aloud, “Between us, we are ill-advised to risk our bodies and souls for the will of princes and great lords, who, when they please, reconcile with one another, while often we are left poor and ruined.” The author added that many overheard this statement, in which there was much truth.81 78

The first example is in Religieux, Chronique, 5:216 and the second (“que les gens d’armes laissèrent courre par pitié”) in Commynes, Mémoires, 1:228. 79 Journal d’un bourgeois, 252. 80 (“Et pour tant qi est mort, il est mort toujours, sont les prinches a la fin bien dacort. Par quoi on ne se doit esmayer ne esbahir de chosse quon voie, son ne voit ung homme gros d’enfant”). Haynin, Mémoires, 1:105. 81 (“Entre nous aultres, sommes bien mal conseillés de nous adventurer et mettre en péril de corps et de ame pour les singulières voulentés des princes et grans seigneurs, lesquelz, quand il leur plaist, se réconcilient l’un avec l’autre, et souvent en advient que nous en demourons povres et détruis […] Et bien y avoit raison”). Monstrelet, Chronique, 5:108.

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Wars, not surprisingly, were the doing of those in power, who made heavy use of propaganda to justify them to both civilians who had to support them with taxes and to troops who had to take risks. They had to appear as being defensive, or initiated to right a wrong, and propaganda did work with a segment of the population. We can surmise this from the pages of Roye and Jean Maupoint, two intensely royalist figures eager to demonize the rebellious princes and in particular Charles the Bold for bringing armies repeatedly into French territory, without realizing how the king’s stance was also very much self-serving.82 Still, propaganda did not reap universal success. Disparagement of the sacrifice of the many to defend the honor of the few did not sit well with intellectuals, and there are examples of civilians sharing the critical attitude registered by disillusioned combatants, as Monstrelet quotes a poem overflowing with disgust, written after the disaster of Agincourt by “some clerks of the realm, much shaken.”83 The poem is an anguished cry for social justice,

82 Roye (The scandalous Chronicle, 354-6, 369, 371, 377) states that when Charles the Bold reduced Liège in 1468, his troops killed old men, children, nuns, ravished and killed women, defiled nuns in churches, and murdered priests while they were consecrating the host; and the Bastard of Burgundy committed a series of butcheries after taking Nesle. He also exaggerates Burgundian losses at Neuss and French victories in Spain. Jean Maupoint (Journal parisien, 53, 72-73, 102-3, 1101) says that the princes in 1465 waged war against the king out of covetousness, and their armies ravaged Brie and Champagne raping, pillaging, setting fires, capturing men and animals; during the destruction of Dinant by Philip the Good in 1466 churches and monasteries were desecrated, robbed, and ravaged, their records burnt, clerics killed, nuns raped and killed, then the city was burnt and rendered uninhabitable; in 1468 Charles occupied and destroyed Liège without the king’s knowledge (the king forbade his troops from participating); but Charles, “en grant orgueil et en grant felonnie” had 28,000 or 29,000 people killed there. The positions of the various parties at the war of the Public Weal will be discussed in Chapter IV. 83 (“aucuns clercs du royaume de France, moult esmerveillez”). The full text of the poem is worth reproducing, since it is not generally known: “Cy voit-on que par piteuse adventure / Prince règnant plein de sa voulenté, / Sang si divers que de l’autre n’a cure, / Conseil suspect de parcialité, / Peuple destruit par prodigalité, / Feront encore tant de gens mendier, / Qu’à ung chacun fauldra faire mestier. / Noblesse fait encontre sa nature, / Le clergié craint et cèle vérité, / Humble commun obéit, et endure, / Faulx protecteurs lui font adversité. / Mais trop souffrir induit neccessité. / Dont avendra, que jà veoir ne quier / Qu’à ung chacun fauldra faire mestier. / Feble ennemi en grant desconfiture / Victorien, et peu débilité. / Provision verbal qui petit dure / Dont nulle rien n’en est exécuté / Le roy des cieulx mesme est persècuté. / La fin viendra et nostre estat derrenier, / Qu’à ung chacun

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and for the end to the civil war among nobles, not a patriotic call to arms. Here the enemy is the capricious will of the powerful, who expect to sweep up in the passion of their hostilities the ranks of commoners, only to let them down when hostilities cease for reasons unclear to them. Monstrelet reports the poem without comment, but his (albeit collective) mention of its authors seems at least to imply approval. The widespread involvement of civilians in wars is another factor that complicates the picture and limits the establishment of a culture of obedience. Keen states that in this period peace was not regarded “as the natural condition of states.” Also, war was not confined to battlefields, and in fact, it was rarely fought that way on the continent. The majority of engagements consisted of sieges of cities followed by either negotiated surrenders or the storming of castles. In the course of these oftenprotracted events, nerves would get raw. The Livre des Trahisons reports that the Armagnacs besieged at Ham made fun of the Flemish troops of Burgundy saying that they ”were fed on butter and would melt in the sun, and should go back to their mooing cows.” When the situation was reversed, and the Armagnacs were besieging Paris, one of their knights used to ride once or twice a day from la Chapelle to the suburbs of the city, yelling, “clear out your hen-houses, you two-faced shits,” until the besieged finally killed him.84 Citizens had a direct stake in the siege as potential hostages and likely victims of the violence of the conquerors. Thus, men and women alike participated in the defense of their own turf, and both felt the heavy hand of the winners if the place fell. Women would help, and sometimes lead, as they did at Beauvais in 1472, where they sent Charles the Bold retreating. They would boil water and oil, bring ammunition, help in digging trenches and build ramparts, and then presumably go home and cook supper. An example of the sangfroid of women of the period is a letter of Margaret Paston to her husband John from the fortress of Gresham, which she was defending. In almost adjacent sentences she asks for a pound of almonds and sugar and material to make clothes for the children and axes and padded corsets for the defenders.85 fauldra faire mestier.” Monstrelet, Chronique, 3:123. (123-4n6 gives a slighltly different version taken from the registers of parlement). 84 (“disoient que Flamens estoient paissus et nourris de burre, at qu’ils se fonderoient à ung chault soleil, avec ce que les convenoit retourner pour ouyr leur vaches véeler […] widiés vostre poulier, faulsse merdaille”). “Trahisons, ” 95-96, 116. For the acceptance of war and legality of massacres see Keen, Laws of War, 23, 121-2. 85 (“ij or iij schort pelle-axis to kepe wyth doris, and als many jakkys […] j li. of almandis and j li. Of sugyre, and […] byen summe frese to maken of zwr childeris gwnys”). Paston Letters and Papers of the Fifteenth Century, ed. Norman Davis

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It seems that late-medieval society demanded a lesser degree of conformity, or rather that conformity was so fractured and scattered among small groups as to effectively prevent the rise of an esprit de corps that would permeate an entire army. The individualism of their members may be a reason why medieval armies appear to a modern writer like William Brandt “skittish and unpredictable like elderly female relatives,” an “unmilitary” attitude by our standards, reflecting what Keen calls the “medieval idea of war being a kind of lawsuit.”86 War leadership in the late Middle Ages tried but could not assume the elitist character defined by Buss, because the will of the leader could not transcend contractual limitations (and the contracts were by necessity of short duration, as they depended mainly on private funds). From the viewpoint of interpersonal behavior, then, we see appreciation for a low-key, “collegiate” type of leadership based on consensus, and qualities in a leader that we associate in common parlance with amiable personalities. The only true followers were from within the very class that supplied the leaders, namely the nobility. If the latter rested its justification for being on its direction in war, its decadence, derided by Erasmus, was inevitable. Individualism and the contractual view of relationships are dramatically illustrated in the treatment of prisoners. Despite the absence of formalized international agreements between nations on what were the limits of mistreatment, jurists and heralds expected that laws of chivalry would be respected by combatants of any nation, because chivalry was an international institution, and consequently writers assumed that rules of decency would be observed. As Keen explains, different norms applied to fighters taken on the field and to civilian inhabitants of a city or fortress taken by assault. Paradoxically, standards of respect and humanity were invoked in the first case, where soldiers recognized social equality with the enemy, but not in the second, where obstinate resistance to the prince’s demands for surrender was only regarded as a reason for brutality. A soldier who surrendered on the battlefield was not to be harmed, yet he immediately became the personal possession of his captor or captors, and (in case of death) of his master’s heirs. The faith pledged to his new master was personal, and bound the prisoner to a state of quasienslavement. He lived in limbo, spared from the risks of war, but not master of his own fate (including the option of taking up arms again), until (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 130:226-7. For the siege of Beauvais see Basin, Louis XI, 2:127-31, Haynin, 2:138-41, and Commynes, Mémoires, 1:235-9. The detail of the women’s participation is in Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 80. 86 William J. Brandt, The Shape of Medieval Histor (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 116, Keen, Laws of War, 207 and Chivalry, 226.

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his ransom was paid. As Keen explains, he was treated not as a person, but “as a capital asset in which a large number of people may hold shares” and if he escaped, he had to be returned “as a stray cow.”87 This commercial view of the enemy, which seems to derive from the high medieval practice of “capturing” the adversary during team tourneys, could turn sour for those who lacked the means for payment. The Livre des Trahisons cites an episode in which the French attacked an English fortress early one morning while the occupants were still asleep. The assailants set fire to the buildings, and their officers ordered to kill the men as they rushed out rather than hold them for ransom because they had nothing of value.88 In practice, the ransoming of prisoners did not occur as smoothly or as routinely as expected, due to the excessive demands of captors. Haynin relates a tragicomic event in which two French brothers-in-arms captured a minor Burgundian nobleman. One of them let the prisoner go after ransom was paid, but the other did not agree on the sum. The issue went to the Burgundian ducal council, and the prisoner was advised to either resolve the matter with adequate payment, or return to his captors. Even the effects of a short imprisonment could be traumatic, as we read from de la Marche’s narrative of his own ordeal to collect the huge sum demanded by his captors after the battle of Nancy. The effects of a prolonged imprisonment, therefore, could be much more serious. Charles, duke of Orléans, was taken at Agincourt in his early twenties and kept in England for the best part of his life, because of his potential as a rival for the French crown, claimed by the Lancastrian kings. He was finally freed in 1440, thanks to the ransom collected by Duke Philip and Duchess Isabel of Burgundy, only to return a mature man to a country and society that hardly remembered him. While in his forced exile, he had occupied the time writing melancholic poems full of longing for peace and for his freedom. Yet the possibility of becoming a permanent prisoner was an accepted part of the life of a nobleman and warrior, and he did not complain about the injustice of this tradition.89 87

Allmand, The Hundred Years War, 49. Keen, Laws of War, 47, 53, 56, 121-4, 154, 177. 88 (“car c’estoient gens tout nuds et tout deschaux, et n’avoient solers ne braie en cul”). “Trahisons,” 141-2. Sometimes the personal contract worked to the prisoner’s advantage. Soon after the Burgundian lord of Humbercourt was made prisoner by the French lord of Haultpanne the latter was killed, so Humbercourt was free. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:87. 89 Haynin, Mémoires, 1:113 (the prisoner was able to appease both captors), de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:241. Excessive ransoms are discussed in Keen, Laws of War, 171. For Charles’s melancholic poems see Charles Bruneau, Charles d’Orléans et

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The implication of the iron law concerning ownership of a prisoner is not to be underrated, as it adds yet another facet to the already complex picture of leadership. A war leader by a twist of fate could suddenly become a non-person, a passive possession, excluded from action, only to re-emerge perhaps years later, financially ruined, his exclusion from society enforced by both warring sides. Ransoming lives was part of a widespread phenomenon typical of the age, and not limited to war activities. There was a general commercial attitude toward people, both rich and poor, a utilitarian view of men and women as cash, as noble prisoners were expected to be ransomed by their families, and commoners to be ransomed collectively by their community. This attitude was likely present well before the fifteenth century, and it is difficult to tell whether it was aggravated by the continuous wars of this period. Considering however how widely accepted was the situation, relationships with prisoners could have some warmth. Chastellain narrates how the seneschal of Normandy Pierre de Brézé, after incurring the wrath of Louis XI, found himself a fugitive and obtained a sympathetic ear and advice from an Englishman who had been his prisoner since the reconquest of Normandy.90 Physical violence to a prisoner, by contrast, was frowned upon. Even civilian hostages were respected, and in the rare instances in which they were executed, writers deplore the inhumanity of the act. When Henry V ordered civilian hostages hanged in front of Montereau after they had failed to convince their garrison to surrender, even the unemotional Monstrelet lingers on their pathetic farewells to their families. In another case, the writer may point to the retaliatory nature of a massacre, as when the French killed eight-hundred English after the surrender of Rouen, against the wishes of their own king, to avenge the cruelty of Talbot, who had brutally hacked to pieces a French prisoner during the siege, against “divine and human laws.” More merciful attitudes usually prevailed. When Liège rebelled once again against Duke Charles after having given him three-hundred hostages, the ducal council and Charles himself chose to let the hostages go free, provided that they would not take up arms against him, instead of killing them as agreed.91 Today there is a common

la poésie aristocratique (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1973), especially 24-33, 7276. 90 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:177-80. 91 Commynes (Mémoires, 1:103-4) is indignant with the old lord of Contay, the only voice for mass execution at the ducal council, and who died shortly after this cruel advice. The episode of Montereau is in Monstrelet, Chnonique, 3:405-6 (the garrison surrendered in any case one week after the mass execution, and its captain

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misconception that the prosecution of war crimes is the result of modern sensitivities. But the killing of prisoners, violence to civilians, especially to women, destruction of property, and breaking of truces were universally condemned by these authors and by the actors of their histories, despite the legality of these acts under some circumstances. This attitude was certainly present before the fifteenth century, but there is little evidence of this in the father of chivalric history, Froissart. From his pages war and massacre emerge as innocent fun, an attitude that may have been his own, rather than representative of his age. While diverse fifteenth-century authors seem to share a widespread disgust toward violence, an outlook not limited to clerics or non-combatants, but extending to professional soldiers such as Haynin and the author of the Siege of Rouen. Charles the Bold, whose initial campaigns were animated by noble intentions, and whose early mild treatment of civilians deserved mention, ultimately failed his own high standards in the handling of prisoners, and fell into a downward spiral of violence, from cutting off the right hand of francs-archers taken at Nesle to the massacre at Grandson.92 After the defeat at Nancy historians, like some of his subjects, seemed almost relieved to be rid of this unsettling figure, and only then would they give vent to pity. For two days Duke René had his men search the countryside littered with bodies and inquire in nearby cities for news of the duke. Finally a page came forward to reveal that he has seen Charles’s horse cut down from under him and the duke killed, and led them to a place near a creek. There his corpse was found stark naked, among a group of other corpses equally stripped, his head cleaved by a halberd all the way to the teeth, the body pierced through the backside and thighs, and too disfigured for identification. A sad group of prisoners was led to identify him by other signs, the intimate nature of which was gleefully publicized by Roye. Molinet, after his earlier criticism, was moved to compassion in reflecting on the past reputation of the splendid prince, now in such miserable state. When news of his tragic death reached the French court, Louis XI, beside himself with joy, invited the shocked bystanders to celebrate with a lunch

was criticized for it, even more than Henry, who had simply applied the rule “by the book”). The episode of Talbot’s brutality is in Basin, Charles VII, 1:275. 92 For example, after Liège was taken, in 1467, Charles had set up safe houses for women, and went through pains to spare churches from pillage and destruction. Basin, Louis XI, 1:275-7. A smilar episode is in Haynin, Mémoires, 1:236. Both Basin (Louis XI, 2:125) and Commynes (Mémoires, 2:137-8, 154-5) deplore his descent into brutality.

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that nobody else was able to finish.93 But Charles’s own subjects, rendered indifferent to his fate by his lengthy absences on campaigns and hostile by his incessant and threatening requests for war funds, did not even stage a spontaneous mass for his soul. It was left to René, a fellow aristocrat, to give him decent burial in Nancy, and to place a cross where his body was found, to remember his soul to passers-by. The sad and humiliating end of the man who had been a “mirror of princes” leads to some further observations on the wars of this century and their leveling action on their leaders. For example, the author of the Livre des Trahisons (who seems always so well informed about the ghastly thoughts of the French nobility) records how after the civil war had embittered spirits, the duke of Bourbon cheered the young duke of Orléans with the prospect of capturing their arch-enemy John the Fearless, placing him inside an eviscerated ox, and roasting him on a spit until the beef was cooked. This threat should not be taken textually, but it is illustrative of the mutual feelings among “dear cousins.” After the death of Charles the Bold, when the northern portion of the Burgundian states fell into anarchy and fighting between French and Flemish cities, the young duke of Guelders became the self-styled paladin of the orphaned Marie of Burgundy and the leader of the Flemish cities. After he was killed in a skirmish with Tournai, the victors stripped his body, threw it on his horse, and paraded it “dead and disfigured” through the streets.94 After Henry V’s early sermon on the different fate in battle for commoners and aristocrats, it is sobering to see how the latter, by the end of the century, could receive no better treatment. In fact, in England, during the Wars of the Roses, the fate of defeated leaders was more often than not execution or murder, while common followers were pardoned. Molinet offers an example of this in the fate of Richard III, whose naked corpse after the battle of Bosworth Field was thrown on his horse “like a sheep,” hair dangling, to be taken to 93 Roye, The scandalous Chronicle, 385-7, Molinet, Chroniques, 1:167-9 (in the last page he gives a tortuous reason for the absence of official mourning). Basin (Louis XI, 2:345-7) repeats the list of physical marks, which must have been widely circulated in France. Louis’s reaction is in Commynes, Mémoires, 2:15961. These authors do not specify whether the place where he was found was close to the battlefield. Kendall, partial to Louis XI, reserves for the duke (Louis XI, 314) the most severe epitaph, “The furious devotee of Mars, who had shown all qualities of a great general except generalship, and all the trappings of a conqueror except victories, lay face down on a frozen pond, stripped naked.” 94 (“mort et disfiguré”). Molinet, 1:216. Nicolay (Kalendrier, 2:72-73) gives a different version: the French honored their dead adversary who had died bravely, and the women shed tears over his beauty.

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his burial without funeral.95 The vilification of dead nobles is the behavioral side of the demise of the baronial aristocracy. The constant internecine wars for supremacy, and probably the absence of a long-lived leader who could dominate the battlefields, in the end cheapened the very perpetrators of these wars. In conclusion, how did fifteenth-century historians perceive war leadership? Although Buss’s model seems to have been popular among princes, writers seem to prefer a concept closer to that of Forsyth, a sum of qualities that defined the leader’s effectiveness in inspiring trust and liking in subordinates and peers. They appear to have respected consistency, whether one projected himself as severe Roman general or impulsive knight. Leadership in actual warfare was expected to be temporary, and even delegated; in fact, continuous campaigns and the continuous presence of a leader who insisted in waging them in person elicited criticism. Charles was not the only ruler who led armies, nor the only one to meet with difficulties in so doing, but he was the only one who appeared to truly love war. They found this love unnatural, and their persistence in expressing a negative opinion of his qualities as a war leader, or in ignoring him to praise others for those very qualities, could be a reflection of their disapproval, as even his faithful de la Marche felt the need to justify his bellicosity.96 They deplored violence in general, and especially violence against civilians and prisoners. They praised commanders who relied on collective decisions, showed respect for expert opinions, and refrained from impulsive actions, which could endanger troops and civilians. They appreciated bravery but despised rashness, and knew the difference 95

(“comme l’on feroit ung mouton”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:433-5. For other examples see the fate of the duke of Somerset and Prince Edouard after the battle of Tewksbury. The Crowland Chronicle Continuations, 1459-1486, ed. Nicholas Pronay and John Cox (London: Alan Sutton Publishing, 1986), 127. Wavrin (Angleterre, 2:299-300) describes the gruesome execution of the earl of Oxford in 1461 for his Lancastrian activities, which included disembowelment and flaying, a punishment usually reserved for commoners. 96 On the topic of the siege of Neuss, de la Marche (Mémoires, 3:88-89) states that the duke “ne domandoit que d’entretenir et employer ses gens d’armes.” Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 5:340-4) suggests through the count of Saint-Pol that Charles should not attack Liège, but retire from fighting while he was ahead. Nicolay (Kalendrier, 2:19-21, 26) says of him “quy jamais ne fust las de guerroier […] ne estoit joueux ne a son aise synon en armes.” Commynes (Mémoires, 1:37) has been quoted earlier. And Basin (Louis XI, 2:349-51) explicitly says that Charles should have remained on the defensive and not sought war against his powerful neighbor.

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between the two.97 They seem to have looked at war, especially a civil war, as an evil, and justified it only as a last resort. In addition, they convey a definite impression that most people, soldiers or civilians, did not much care to be led, and accepted warfare only in self-defense, or as a way to make a living, or as the fulfillment of a contract, but nothing more. They did not readily accept their status as followers, and were not ready to lose their individuality to a collective, obedient body, or defer to a leader in all matters of judgment and decisions. In other words, they lacked propensity to regimentation of thought, and more specifically for “militarism” as we know it. It is fair to conclude that the background of these writers, which was overwhelmingly lower nobility and educated bourgeoisie, the same classes that patronized chivalric romances and idealized histories of classical heroes, fostered a culture of moderation and even pacifism.98

97

See, for example, Commynes’s (Mémoires, 1:114.) praise of Humbercourt’s protracted negotiations with Liège in 1467, just to gain time and prevent a dangerous night attack. 98 For common tastes in literature see Sutton and Visser-Fuchs, Books, 224-7. For the presence of pacifism see Contamine, War, 292-3.

III. STAGED VIOLENCE

III.1. Framework In opening Herfsttij der Middeleeuwen with a chapter on the “passionate intensity of life,” Huizinga was making a dramatic statement that violence was one of the most visible manifestations of late-medieval life. Not only was the contrast between “sudden cruelty and tender emotions” one of the most distinguishing characteristics of this period, but also “all things in life had something about them glitteringly and cruelly public.” In particular public executions, which raised “gruesome fascination and coarse compassion,” formed “an important element in the spiritual nourishment of the people.”1 It is undeniable that real-life violence, and its specific manifestation against other humans, aggression, was pervasive in a century of almost constant wars, political upheavals, and social unrest.2 Some modern authors have observed that violence was generally more tolerated by late-medieval society than by our own. For 1

Huizinga, Herfsttij, 1-3, 24. Kendall (Louis XI, 16) echoes this concept in the opening of his biography of Louis XI, “Human behavior in the times of Louis XI was stretched between extremes of pleasure and pain, enjoyment and misery, rage and repentance, violence and passivity. Men of the fifteenth century liked life highly spiced and hot on the heart.” 2 This forms the basis for modern social studies on late medieval crime. For example, Jacques Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1988), a work on rape, prostitution, and their social environment, rests heavily on the abundant and revealing police records of Burgundy, Provence, and Northern Italy. Wife and Widow in Medieval England, ed. Sue Sheridan Walker (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1993), a collection of English court records and wills illustrating the lives of married and widowed women of the period, uncovers the violence endured by working class widows. And Georges Bataille, Le procès de Gilles de Rais (Paris: Jean-Jacques Pauvert, 1972) ) documents the career of the notorious Breton serial killer through the testimonies collected for his trial.

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example, Bernard Guenée explains that “rough manners,” aggressive stance, swift change from tears to joy, and brutal spectacles, were all encouraged by a legal system that accepted violence as legitimate in many more cases than today, and not only among nobles (who found justificatory examples in the Old Testament and classics), in retaliation for a wide range of injuries, not excluding simple slander.3 While in part at least the century’s reputation for violence is due to better police records, which supply an abundance of evidence, it is also true that some of its literary figures bear witness to a widespread acceptance of violent life. Both the poète maudit François Villon and Thomas Malory served prison terms; the courteous and even-tempered chronicler d’Escouchy and the good-hearted soldier-poet Margny led less than exemplary lives that brought them into trouble with the law; and the notorious Paston Letters, invaluable sources of fifteenth-century attitudes, illustrate how a mother could die of shame at the thought of her daughter marrying beneath her, but accept without a hint of embarrassment her husband’s prison sentence. According to Stephen Knight, feuds between families were more common and more severe in the fifteenth century than previously, testimonies to a litigious and aggressive society.4 However, the subject of crime and criminal life is barely touched by late-medieval historians, who treat it as a major topic only when associated with the tumultuous political scene.5 This chapter is not about confirming how pervasive crime and deviant behavior were in this period, which would be repetitious, nor about 3

(“rudesse de moeurs”). Bernard Guenée, Un meurtre, une société: l’assassinat du duc d’Orléans, 23 novembre 1407 (Paris: Gallimand, 1992), 95-96. 4 John Gillingham, The Wars of the Roses: Peace and Conflict in Fifteenth-Century England (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981), 13 observes that the very presence of more and better records has given the impression that this century was crime-ridden. Huizinga (Herfsttij, 28-29) notices the contrast between d’Escouchy’s “simple, exact, and impartial […] moralizing” chronicle and his personal record. For Malory’s turbulent life see Stephen Knight, Arthurial Literature and Society (London: The MacMillan Press Ltd. 1983), 124. Paston Letters, 203: 341-4,192:318-22 refer specifically to the example above. 5 Among the few examples, all involving knights: du Clerq (“Mémoires,”100-3) talks about a knight who raped a girl and then kept her as concubine; Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 4:340-2, 434-8) mentions a retainer of the count of Eu who maintained a gang of ruffians, and the horrible murder and mutilation of a suitor of a young heiress by another suitor, a knight at the service of a retainer of the count of Saint-Pol; Chartier (Chroniques, 2:5-6) mentions briefly the execution of Gilles de Rais in Brittany for the murder of several children and acts of sorcery; Monstrelet (Chronique, 5:425-6) also mentions it but without delving on the murders, and emphasizing instead how the “vaillant chevalier” was mourned by the Breton nobility.

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denying the same, which would be incongruous. Rather, it will deal with whether violence played a role as cultural force, that is, if and how it was presented to a viewing and reading audience, and whether it appeared to have influenced or reflected a general attitude. Elias believed that in the Middle Ages aggression was connected with social superiority, and therefore tolerated, which is the reason why outbursts of cruelty did not exclude the perpetrators from society. Similarly, Miller makes the connection between a culture of honor and one of violence, a theory based on Icelandic saga, but still valid in the fifteenth century, especially among the nobility, as already mentioned, when blood feuds could arise from mere insults. Taking the argument a step further, this seems to imply a generalized tendency to aggression among members of the ruling elite. However, one should be careful to distinguish between aggressive behavior that occurs in society and aggressive behavior that is condoned or even encouraged. The pervasive attitude of tolerance toward violence may represent a weakness in the structures of authority, which forced society to deal leniently with violent behavior when committed by powerful people, rather than a celebration of violence and identification with it. This is the position of Robert Muchembled, who states that medieval justice is “an offer of mediation rather than an imposed punishment […] The law that reigns in this world is neither that of external institutions nor that of the strongest, but rather a kind of delicate equilibrium between the two, from within the eternal cycles of vendettas and peace.”6 And in his essay ”Violence and Rule-Following Behaviour,” the psychologist Leonard Berkowitz argues that just because a certain violent behavior is displayed among a group of people (a social class, or an ethnic group), this does not necessarily imply that it is an integral part of the group’s subculture, which may in fact oppose and condemn it. He has found, instead, that the pervasiveness of a certain aggressive behavior may rather be the reflection of increased opportunity for its display, and decreased opportunity for conformist behavior.7

6

(“plutôt un arbitrage offert qu’une punition imposée […] La loi qui règne sur ce monde n’est ni celle des institutions extérieures ni celle du plus fort, mais une sorte de subtil équilibre entre ces deux ordres de choses, dans la cadre de cycles éternellement recommencés de vengeances et de paix”). Muchembled, L’invention, 32. The other citations are from Elias, The Civilizing Process, 158 and Miller, Humiliation, 83. 7 Leonard Berkowitz, “Violence and Rule-Following Behaviour,” in Aggression and Violence, ed. Marsh Peter and Anne Campbell (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1982), 91-100.

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A second factor to be considered, as noted by Paul Heelas, is that the concept of violence is not universally uniform, but culturally determined. Therefore, a behavior that may appear aggressive to a society and period (for example, modern historians) may not have seemed so to fifteenthcentury writers, and vice versa.8 To evaluate the acceptable level of violence in the society under investigation, I have chosen to examine how this society depicts it in public displays and how it reacts overtly to it, through the narrative of its writers. This approach by necessity inserts this chapter into the debate, dear to modern sociology, on the influence of performed violence on collective behavior, that is, whether the representation of violence stimulates violent behavior or has a cathartic influence that renders it less likely. Social scientists are fascinated with aggression, which they discuss from various angles, and on which they offer several theories, some of which will be discussed in the course of the examples. The issue is far from resolved, despite a wealth of studies supported by experiments, which have yielded ambiguous results at best. Berkowitz makes a persuasive case that it takes more than the depiction of violence alone to stimulate emulative aggressive behavior, an argument consonant with Bandura’s concept of “social learning analysis,” according to which aggression is the product of several cultural components, of which visual patterns are only a subset. For Bandura aggressive instincts are not enough. Even given that humans are born with an innate predisposition to aggression, they do not come with a repertoire of aggressive acts, which have to be learned from family, subculture, and models represented pictorially or verbally.9 This distinction, usually overlooked, is necessary 8

Paul Heelas (“Anthropology, Violence and Catharsis,” in Marsh and Campbell, Aggression, 47-60) gives an example of the Yanomamö of South America, among whom wife abuse is considered a manifestation of affection. And Miller (Humiliation, 82) discusses the paradox of the “peaceful, egalitarian” Gebusi of New Guinea who have the highest homicide rate in the world, not because of violence, but rather because they believe that each time one of them dies of illness, this is due to witchcraft. When the “witch” is killed, this act does not trigger vengeance, but rather relief among the kin of the “witch.” 9 Bandura argues against the “catharsis theory” (first advanced by Seymour Feshbach in the 1950s), since experimental results have not backed claims that “television furnishes rewarding substitutes for aggressive actions.” Albert Bandura, Aggression: a Social Learning Analysis (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973), 139-40. He also lists factors influencial in acting out of aggression in Albert Bandura, “Social Learning Analysis of Aggression,” in Analysis of Delinquency and Aggression, ed. Emilio Ribes-Inesta (Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum Associates, 1976), 204-7, 219-23. Elias (The Civilizing Process, 166) believes that as society’s

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because people do not always exhibit the behavior that they have learned, in particular when such behavior has limited functional value. Bandura also argues that in observing behavior that occurs naturally, such as aggression, it is difficult to ascertain the direction of causal relationships. For example, it has been found that hyper-aggressive boys view more televised violence than others. Yet, it is not clear whether they are attracted to displays of violence because they are violent, or the repeated observation of televised violence fosters aggressive behavior in them. Given, however, the impossibility of conducting social experiments with long-dead subjects, this chapter will focus on the message conveyed by the staging of violence, based on examples from the area of public spectacles and literature, with a short foray into examples of real-life violent behavior. Spectacle has the additional feature of acting as a filter between actor and audience, in effect allowing the latter to become the “observer” and enjoy what Miller calls the “arbitral” position in evaluating violence, empowered to define the nature of the event at stake.10 If indeed violence (by fifteenth century standards) figured preeminently in literature and public shows in a context that seems to convey approval, or even only neutrality, I would conclude that this was indeed a violent society, not only by necessity but also by choice.

III.2. Fictional Violence The historical sources record mainly two types of public manifestations, processions and tournaments, both frequently staged in conjunction with courtly festivities, and private theatrical shows performed during some courtly banquets. To this we may add the rare mention of sport events, which, although interesting, are not described in sufficient detail to be of relevance in this analysis. Processions were by definition peaceful (even if they could turn unpredictably violent, as will be shown in outlets of aggression are reduced, they are allowed to increase in spectators’ sports or in movies. Heelas (“Anthropology,” 60) relates conflicting reports on whether watching violent games and shows cause “stimulation or purgation from violence.” Graham Murdock states that the (unsolved) issue goes back to the nineteenth century, when popular entertainment (i.e. melodramas of crime and passion) was assigned a central role “as a force at work to unpick the social fabric,” and was a powerful “independent factor in stimulating aggressive behaviour.” Graham Murdock, “Mass Communication and Social Violence,” in Marsh and Campbell, Aggression, 62-87. 10 Miller, Humiliation, 59. For the role of theater as “serious game” see Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: a Study of the Play Element in Culture (London: Maurice Temple Smith Ltd., 1970), 13.

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Chapter VI) while in the entremets that were part of banquets whimsical themes prevailed over violence.11 This leaves tournaments, which were reaching new heights of popularity in this period, as the best candidates for the staging of aggression. Richard Kaeuper has demonstrated the violent component of real-life chivalric culture, given its association with the warrior lifestyle during its heyday in the eleventh and twelfth century. Apparently high-medieval chivalric contests were rooted in an economic culture that forced cadet sons of noble families to make a living in the armed service of others, and tournaments served as stages for displays of skills that could impress potential employers. The economic incentive was institutionalized by the requirement that the loser would ransom himself (or his armor and horse). As Duby explains, in the twelfth century tournaments were mostly team tourneys, emulating real battles, and, given that most contestants were poor, the idea was to capture the wealthiest opponent.12 The practical character of these battles, with their goal of providing income and, hopefully, to ensure a contract with an expert judge (a nobleman with money), imparted to them an improvised and down-toearth character. Whether indeed this was the case, by the fifteenth century their original purpose seems to have been quite lost. It is possible that a knight or squire who distinguished himself in tournaments could find employment more easily among his audience, yet from contemporary narrative this seems no longer to be a central point. Huizinga saw in latemedieval tournaments an aristocratic pastime through which the melancholic nobility created for itself a vision of beautiful life. Steven Gunn and Antheun Janse suggest instead that this game served the social function of “deliberately creating a divide between nobility and merchant class,” and could represent the “continuation of a military conflict with other means,” for example during a truce. Whether staged within cities, to be viewed by a larger audience or strictly in a court setting, this show was “a public manifestation of princely power and prestige.”13 In fact, despite 11

Occasionally, entremets could include some violence, as in the staged fight between Jason and the magic warriors during the famous banquet “du voeu du faisan” offered by Philip the Good in 1454. But there, too, the fantastic element seems to have prevailed. De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:360-70. 12 Keen, Chivalry, 83, 92, 100. He says that early tournaments were mock wars while later ones had more of a “courtly and amorous appeal […] a preparation for something else […] a step on the scale of chivalrous perfection.” Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 28-35, and Duby, Marshal, 92-93, 100-9. 13 Antheun Janse, “Tourneyers and Spectators: The Shrovetide Tournament in The Hague, 1391,” in Gunn and Janse, The Court as a Stage, 39-52 (here 39, 40, 41). It

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evidence that since at least the thirteenth century civic tournaments were staged in northern France and southern Low Countries, during which on some occasion burghers jousted against knights and noble squires, court historians only describe in detail knightly jousts, and even in this case they do not record the reaction of the general public. Such events seem rather to have evolved into a highly recommended step in the process of building a reputation among peers. Their trademark feature was an apparently random representation of knights and squires, democratically mixed, so long as both came from noble houses. Some participants were very close to the head of the house (for example, a cadet brother, a bastard halfbrother, or a son), and others were attached to illustrious households in subordinate positions. The challenge became a ritual as important, and potentially much more protracted, than the show itself. Monstrelet opens his Chronicle, and the fifteenth century, with a series of missed challenges between an Aragonese squire and an English knight. The former, while residing in France, challenged any Englishman to remove the emprise on his leg.14 By the time the Englishman accepted the challenge the squire had to leave France and did not receive the answer. The English knight, after two unanswered letters months apart, was at first surprised (and hinted delicately that “the god of love” may be detaining the gentleman), then miffed and a little offended, but suggested a judge and location for the duel anyway. When the Aragonese finally answered, he was in turn offended that the Englishman had doubted his seriousness in keeping his word and had dared to suggest a different place and judge from his own. The sergeant-at-arms to the king of England now intervened to reply on behalf of the English knight, offering to accept the challenge, provided that the Aragonese would refund the expenses incurred by the latter for his useless trip to Calais, and asked curtly that the squire refrain from further insulting English chivalry. Nothing more was heard of the affair, which, between letters and missed dates, went on between 1400 and 1404.15 We may read with mild amusement, and not a little boredom, the saga of the

is known that bourgeois staged their own tournaments. See Keen, Chivalry, 209 and David Nicholas, The Later Medieval City 1300-1500 (London: Longman, 1997), 300. Also Huizinga, Herfsttij, 89-91. 14 It was an object (in this case a piece of metal), carried by the challenger, and invested of symbolic meaning, as explained below. 15 Monstrelet, Chronique, 1:11-31. This was supposed to be a sporty challenge, not a judicial duel like those mentioned in Chapter II (Philip the Good and Humphrey of Gloucester, Philip the Good and the dauphin) to resolve an issue of rights.

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missed encounters, but for Monstrelet it clearly stood on the same footing as major political events. The issue at stake in this episode was honor among peers. The (perceived) refusal to accept the challenge was a social slap in the face, not unlike refusing an invitation to share dinner with business colleagues. The concept is common to several cultures, to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the value attributed to personal honor among peers and the social consequences of losing it. This is the thesis of Miller, developed from his studies on Icelandic saga, and applied (at least partially) to modern western societies. According to his view, honor societies lack a sense of private self-esteem outside the group. In these societies “the honorable person is one whose self-esteem and social standing is intimately dependent on the esteem or the envy he or she actually elicits in others.” Frank Stewart, in extending the concept to Bedouin society, talks of “reflexive honor” (aptly called by Schopenhauer “knightly honor”) as one that, in order to be preserved, presupposes a certain set of standardized responses when challenged. In honor societies, while insults from inferiors are either ignored or dealt with through intermediaries, those from peers must be avenged openly and immediately.16 In the above example, the slight to be avenged was in reality just a misunderstanding due to flaws in the medieval postal services. D’Escouchy, on the other hand, narrates an episode in which the insult was deliberate and directed against Louis of Luxembourg, count of Saint-Pol. During a banquet at Philip the Good’s court, Saint-Pol announced that he would hold a tournament on the theme of the unicorn in a park outside the imperial city of Cambrai, with teams of forty knights on each side. It was an ambitious and costly project for which he had special lists built, and, being scheduled to take place at Lent, the count went through the additional effort of securing rare fish to be served at the banquet to impress the duke and his family. But when the day came only two minor knights showed up from the duke’s household. The count understood that this was a deliberate snub planned by the count of Étampes, his rival for the duke’s favors, with whom he had previously quarreled over command of the avant-garde during the wars against Ghent. Saint-Pol put up a brave front and entertained his guests grandly at the local bishop’s palace,

16 Miller, Humiliation, 84. Frank Henderson Stewart, Honor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 64-67. See also Kaeuper (Chivalry, 150-2) who cites M. James on the “assumption of hostility” of honor-based societies, in which aggressiveness and sense of honor are so correlated that fights over precedence and motivated by jealousy are readily accepted.

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among whom many prominent bourgeois of the city.17 Significantly, however, there is no further mention of him hosting tournaments during the duke’s lifetime. The two preceding examples illustrate the potential for aggression associated with the preliminary phases of tournaments. Generally, however, things were expected to flow more smoothly. Typically, the challenge was posted in a public and accessible place. The solemn ritual of acceptance, supervised by heralds, with the reverent touching of symbolic objects (for example, variously painted shields) to signify commitment to a certain set of “chapters,” would seem ridiculous, unless one compares it to similar rituals accompanying entrance into modern Olympic contests (and incidentally, the quasi-ambassadorial role of the contestants recalls a similar function in Olympic games, ancient and new). The issue of the emprise itself is significant, both to illustrate how the whole affair was meant to be divested of violent connotations, and as a commentary on the importance of visual symbols. It was a bizarre token (usually a gift from a lady) worn by the entrepreneur, for example a bracelet, or a handkerchief attached to a sleeve or to a hose, which he asked the challengers to remove thus “relieving him” of the discomfort.18 If nobody accepted the challenge, the poor man had to go on dragging the uncomfortable and ridiculous object for the duration of his vow, as if to advertise his shameful rejection. Chastellain, a writer who usually dismisses anything related to tournaments as frivolous, uncharacteristically narrates a lengthy episode that occurred at the court of Duke Philip, in which such an object assumed unexpected emotional proportions. A German knight named Henry Sasse, appeared as spectator at a tournament and at the ensuing banquet wearing in full view on his arm a gold-embroidered woman’s sleeve. This provoked general shock, because he seemed to be wearing an emprise, and thus invite challenge, without the duke’s permission. A household knight named Meriadec approached him to inform him that Monsieur had not given him leave to wear it. Sasse claimed innocently that it was a gift of his lady, and that in his country it was legitimate to wear such object at a 17

D’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:238-41. The concept of “needing relief” is emphasized in Antoine de La Sale, Le Petit Jehan de Saintré, ed. Jean Misrahi and Charles A. Knudson (Genève: Droz, 1965), 84 where the challenger wears the object in public for a few days, before returning it to the entrepreneur, to symbolize his acceptance of the challenge. De la Marche (Mémoires, 2:69, 81) describes one such emprise as a woman’s sleeve of violet cloth, embroidered and enriched with pearls and jewels, sewn to the left sleeve of a knight’s coat, and another as a golden circlet hanging from a chain and clasped to the leg of the entrepreneur. 18

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banquet as a sign of love, without needing leave from anyone. Meriadec went to the duke, who was sitting at dinner, and whispered to him that Sasse was going around brazenly displaying an emprise without permission, and that he would certainly go home and boast that nobody at the duke’s court had the courage to challenge him. The duke agreed with the interpretation, and remarked that Sasse had been bothering him to be allowed to fight, had tried to take the emprise of a knight while at the table, and then had asked yet another, the bastard of Comminges, to fight him. Since he was so hot, concluded the duke, he needed cooling down. Apparently, the duke was bothered by the lowly knight’s presumption at wanting to challenge social superiors, so Meriadec suggested as challenger Jean de Rebremette, a humble man of equal status to Sasse, who belonged to the household of the duke’s bastard Antoine. Meriadec asked the Bastard permission to “borrow” his knight, and the latter agreed, but reminded him that Rebremette was due to leave for a crusade, and also that he was poor. The implication was that, in order to participate to a tournament, one needed money for the panoply that accompanied the show. Rebremette was approached by his master, and immediately proclaimed his readiness to do anything for Monsieur, despite his poverty and obligations, indicating that accepting a challenge on a point of honor could be more important than a crusade. The Bastard promised to equip him with everything he would need, and that Monsieur would amply reward him for this favor. The duke was discreetly informed that his plan had worked, so he got up from the table quite relieved and went to the hall to dance with the ladies. Sasse, aware of the general grumbling and afraid of having gone too far in displeasing the duke, came over to him to ask forgiveness for his daring, when Rebremette, in the presence of the guests, challenged “Messire Henry” declaring himself ready to touch his emprise for the honor of Sasse’s lady. Sasse thanked “Messire Jehan” for the honor, repeated that he wore it only to please his lady, but that the other was free to touch it and receive an answer. Rebremette answered that he would touch it for any conditions Sasse wished (meaning choice of weapon and number of blows), and Sasse again thanked him and told him that he would be welcome. It appears from this ritualized exchange that the emprise was a symbol representing the lady herself, and the act of touching it (her) sealed the challenge. But the extreme stylization of the whole charade removes it from the universally understood hostile gesture of kidnapping one’s mate, a gesture not limited to humans, or to primates alone. The duke was kept informed, but feigned ignorance of the whole affair, not to expose himself to the embarrassment of having an apparently unauthorized challenge take

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place in his court. Nevertheless, he sent the marshal of Burgundy to the contenders, to assign a place and time for the tournament, thus underlying the importance of the affair.19 In less contested situations, one could send a herald to touch the emprise, an act as binding as if he had done it in person, as the object would be guarded by heralds of the entrepreneur at an established place. It was possible, then, to have layers of stand-in symbols, with the heralds representing both challengers and the defender of the place. In this period the symbolic site was often a mound or pass that the entrepreneur would defend, and the ensuing chivalric encounter was called a pas d’armes.20 Another factor to consider is how important the staging of the event was, and how much time and care was lavished on the conception of the storyline, the setup, the props, and the costumes. In the pas the duke’s court portrays itself as a center of romance, a purveyor of myths, thus reinforcing its corporate aspects while encouraging individual creativity. De la Marche describes in detail an entire pas d’armes based on the theme of the “Lady of Tears” that took place in Burgundy in 1449. The idea was based on a painting executed for this specific purpose that featured a tearful lady kneeling next to the Virgin and Child and whose flood of tears converged into a fountain adorned with a unicorn. On the side of the fountain were the shields of the “defender of the pass,” Jacques de Lalaing, a famous Burgundian knight. In order to remain within the theme, his dressing pavilion would be of black satin sprinkled with blue tears. The herald of each challenger knelt in front of the painting and touched one of the shields, to indicate his choice of combat, whether on horseback with lances or on foot with sword or axes, in a display of devotion that was quite serious, even as it appears ridiculous centuries later. One of the challengers, Sir Amé Rabutin, lord of Espiry, presented himself as “the unknown knight” because he wished to fight twice, against the rules. His formal challenge consisted of an eloquent letter to Lalaing, explaining that 19

Chastellain, Chronique: les fragments du livre IV révélés par l’additional manuscript 54146 de la British Library, ed. Jean-Claude Delclos (Genève: Droz, 1991), 133-8. The author does not mention the actual duel, switching abruptly to another subject in the next chapter (unless this portion is simply lost). 20 See, for example, the pas d’armes of 1443 on the theme of the “Tree of Charlemagne,” sponsored by Pierre de Bauffremont, lord of Charny, which took one year to set up. The emprise was represented by two shields hanging from a tree, carrying the symbolic name of “Tree of Charlemagne.” The herald of each challenger would touch the violet shield studded with black drops to request a duel on foot, and the black shield studded with gold drops to request one on horseback. De la Marche, Mémoires, 1:284-5. For the significance of the artificial mound (perron) as location for the challenge see Keen, Chivalry, 205.

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he wanted to bring comfort to the Lady of Tears and join that great assembly of valiant men. De la Marche, without a hint of humor, extols this letter as a great example of courtesy and wisdom.21 Another famous tournament, hosted by the Bastard Antoine on the occasion of the wedding of his half-brother Charles the Bold, had a complicated storyline centered on the theme of an evil dwarf who was keeping a giant prisoner and bound to a golden tree (a real pine, with the trunk painted gold, erected in the lists). A herald, referred to as “Arbre d’or,” introduced the contestants, as each announced himself by knocking on gilt doors and stating that he had come to “accomplish the adventure of the golden tree,” like actors reciting from a script.22 Authors do not explicitly point this out, but from the originality and variety of themes and their elaborate and clever execution, it appears that the entrepreneur and his staff planned the event months in advance, with the suspense created by the plot being an integral part of the entertainment. For example, the popular Burgundian novel Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre has a (fictional) duke participating in a tournament incognito, leaving puzzled heralds to discuss the possible background of the mysterious contender by the odd device on his helm. Once the rituals of challenge and acceptance were over, the actual tournament was staged in a public place, such as a city market square, accessible to all, even if the judges (members or representatives of the ruling family) were seated apart from the general public. The elites was thus on display for all to see, potentially to achieve fame, but also vulnerable to exposing themselves to ridicule in front of the population.23 21 (“le chevalier mescongneu”). De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:146-51, 177. For a similar example see also Jennifer R. Goodman, “Display, Self-Definition, and the Frontiers of Romance in the 1463 Bruges “Pas du perron fée,” in Trexler, Persons in Groups. 47-54. Such a mixture of traditional combat and staged performance was a Burgundian specialty. Jacques Lemaire, Les visions de la vie de cour dans la littérature française de la fin du Moyen Âge (Paris: Klincksiec, 1994), 218. 22 De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:123-7. 23 The presence of the general public can be surmised, for example, by the Bourgeois of Paris (Journal d’un bourgeois, 310) lamenting the miserly joust staged on the occasion of the coronation of Henry VI. Monstrelet (Chronique, 4:306-8) describes tournaments in Brussels in 1428, and de la Marche (Mémoires, 2:214-5) mentions a tournament that took place in the market square of Brussels in 1452, sponsored by the young count of Charolais. As for the possibility of ridicule, de la Marche (Mémoires, 3:182-3) relates the bad luck of the marquis of Ferrara during a tournament to accompany the wedding feast of Charles the Bold. As the marquis was already in the lists and ready to charge his opponent, his horse refused to budge, and he had to withdraw.

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On the day of the tournament, parades would take up as much time as the actual combat. Each challenger showed his wealth and taste in a veritable procession, accompanied by a picturesque following of pages, squires, or knights, to culminate in a presentation to the judge, with an elaborate homage. A clever disguise to spice up this phase was much admired, as when the Bastard of Burgundy, who was a famous jouster, disguised himself in the simple gray habit of hermit, only to reveal his bedazzling costume underneath when the ladies ʊ his accomplices ʊ ordered him unmasked. In another occasion, the lord of Ravenstein showed up reclining on a litter among pillows, dressed in a long furred robe through the slits of which one could see his armor. A secretary mounted on a little mule presented him to the duchess and the ladies as an old knight who had given up jousting, yet was asking permission to fight one more time on this exceptional occasion. It is expected that this charade would be long remembered. In another tournament staged by Adolf of Clèves, nephew of Philip the Good, the centerpiece was the swan (the heraldic symbol of the House of Clèves). Adolf had himself announced as “the knight of the swan” by drummers and by his poursuivant d’armes who wore a coat of arms embroidered with swans, and showed up on a horse adorned with a blanket of white damask, leading a swan on a gold chain, and flanked by archers who acted as if defending the bird. He was accompanied by young pages, dressed in white “like angels” and mounted on chargers also caparisoned in white, and followed by a whole procession of men and horses similarly attired.24 After the lengthy parades came the arming of the opponents, which took place in sumptuous pavilions set up for the occasion at opposite ends of the lists, and adorned with the contestants’ colors, devices, or anything else that would inspire wonder. The actual combat would happen on foot or on horseback, between two contestants alone or in teams, and often a combination of all the above. Writers mention general reactions to the show, and it is difficult to decipher whether this refers to the public at large, or if it was limited to members of the court. The number of strokes with sword or axe and the number of (blunted) lances to be broken were carefully spelled out in the chapters, and heralds watched the match closely for adherence to the rules. The contestants were judged, apart for their panoply and playing along with the storyline, for how politely they addressed the judge during the presentation, how boldly they marched (or rode) against each other, how well they endured the blows, and how controlled and skillful were their 24

The three examples are respectively in Chastellain, Fragments, 131, de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:127-30, and d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:125-6. The contrived anonymity of a knight was, of course, a well-known literary device.

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attacks. The entire performance was critiqued later at the inevitable banquet, and could become the subject of talk for a long time after the event. Restraint was especially valued. For example, in 1414, when a Burgundian team was to tourney against a French team led by the young bastard of Bourbon, the Burgundian leader, hearing that his adversary was a “child,” replaced his heavy lances with lighter ones to avoid hurting him.25 Using an analogy with modern sports, these events resembled an unlikely combination of figure skating and professional wrestling, even if all this display of orderliness and brotherhood among the elite could be a warning to the urban audience and foreign guests to beware of any challenge to the powerful and united ruling class, a message not unlike that of modern military parades. When the prescribed number of blows or broken lances had been reached, or when the fight threatened to turn a little too emotional and thus dangerous, the judge would throw his baton into the lists and stop the action. And if the contestants, in the heat of the moment, would appear reluctant to part, they were forcibly separated. They were then commanded to “touch” each other (either with an embrace or a handshake) and cheerfully bow out of the lists. At the ensuing banquet the judge would seat the best performers next to himself, where they were expected to submit in good spirits to the judgment of the ladies, who would award the prize (usually a jewel). Many friendships were established through such competitions, the banquet being a ritual of reconciliation, and the entrepreneur, at the end of the celebrations, had the props used for the event displayed in a local church as a memento of this significant and formative episode of his life.26 Buss distinguishes two types of violence: angry violence, the purpose of which is to hurt the victim, and instrumental violence, in which the primary goal is other than hurting the victim, for example, economic benefit or acceptance by a group. In fact, as Berkowitz has found out, gang violence occurs more often in this second context.27 Tournaments, as 25

(“lances gracieuses”). Le Fèvre, Chronique, I:179. See Lecuppre-Desjardins’s observation that this was “une violence soumise à des règles qui la subliment.” Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville des cérémonies (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), 205. 26 For example, the paintings and shields used for the staging of the pas d’armes of the “Lady of Tears” were ceremoniously dismantled and taken to the local church of Nôtre-Dame de Boulogne, then to the ducal oratory as reminder of this great feat. De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:204. For the forced interruption of fighting see de la Marche, Mémoires, 1:292. 27 Buss, Social Behavior, 52, Berkowitz, “Violence,” 100. The latter offers an apt parallel to the present example, the difference being that gangs are not part of the

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staged events, fostered a controlled, instrumental aggression, whose goal stopped short of injury, and they seem rather designed to reaffirm various social roles in a rigidly hierarchical society. Contestants had to be matched with social equals (as Henry Sasse found out), and needed permission from the ruler, whose presence, either in person or through a representative, remained the focus of their attention, both before and after the combat, when the formal presentation and seating arrangements at the table confirmed his control. The requirement of impeccable courtesy between contestants (the mandatory touching) was also for the comfort of the judge. The entire show implied acceptance of hierarchy, starting with the presentation to the presiding lord, and also recognition of equality between peers, to culminate in a ritual of brotherhood with the banquet, and, for the benefit of the general audience, display of wealth and physical bravura to reaffirm their right to be a ruling class.28 Then there was the inevitable economic advantage for the city that was to be the stage for such an event, and the enhancement of prestige for the court that hosted the festivities. As for the church that housed the paraphernalia after the fact, I would see this less as a manifestation of the contamination of the sacred with the profane (a theme dear to Huizinga) than the practical use of the most available public building. What is significant is the fact that such events were taken seriously enough to assume civic significance. But violence, reduced to a minor role during the actual combat, was so stylized, so repressed, so distilled and channeled along rigid behavioral paths, that it had all but lost its impact. Huizinga saw this when he placed tournaments in the context of the “great game of the beautiful life” of the elites, rather than among manifestations of violence. In fact, in the rare cases in which a contestant was wounded, it was accidental (the lists marshals saw to that), because the judge would invariably stop the fight at the first appearance of blood.29 In the even less likely cases in which an injury was serious, the perpetrator was expected to pay a visit to his recognized social structure. Bandura (Aggression, 3), however, rejects the distinction, arguing that the so-called hostile aggression is equally instrumental, and it is more useful to differentiate aggressive actions in terms of their functional value. 28 Lemaire (Les visions, 222-3) states that Burgundian protocol in general aimed at establishing ducal authority. 29 Huizinga, Herfsttij, 91. This rule apparently applied also to combats à oultrance, which, as Keen (Chivalry, 205) points out, were not “to the death” but just fought with real weapons. Maupoint (Journal parisien, 25-26) records one such tournament that took place in 1439 in Paris, in the presence of the king and several nobles, between four French and four English knights, which resulted in one French contestant being wounded and others receiving some minor injuries.

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unintended victim and apologize for the mishap, lest the accident would mar his victory.30 Often the tournament was only an ancillary event to a celebration. In the previously mentioned example of the count of Saint-Pol, the exotic theme of the unicorn and the banquet among flowers seem to have inspired the tournament, and not vice versa. The notorious Feast of the Pheasant held in Lille in 1454 was staged as a backdrop for Philip’s campaign for a crusade against the Turks, and included a parade of allegorical figures whose purpose was to inspire the attending gentlemen to pledge their participation to the warring enterprise. Yet, nothing in the pantomime suggests violence. First a figure representing the captive Church was introduced, a veiled woman on an elephant led by a man dressed vaguely like a Turk. She was a helpless damsel in distress, but her religious habit removed from her any sexual connotation, and was intended to incite righteous violence against the conquering heathens. The king-at-arms of the Toison d’Or followed, carrying a live pheasant, a traditional prop to invite a general pledge from the guests to participate in the crusade. The evening was completed by an elaborate allegorical dance of elegant couples, with the ladies representing the Twelve Virtues. The ensuing onslaught of written pledges by the guests carried the atmosphere of makebelieve to absurd extremes.31 Chivalric events, then, represented virtual violence, without consequences, and in this form they were accepted across frontiers, because most descriptions of tournaments, whether taking place in Burgundy, Spain, Scotland, or England, seem to follow the same lines. Throughout Europe the very act of conferring chivalry had evolved, 30

For example see how solicitous was Edward IV toward the Bastard Antoine when the latter was injured in a famous joust against Lord Scales. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:52-54. Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 2:18-25) mentions a joust between pairs of Burgundian and French knights in 1429, a period leading to reconciliation between the two powers. When a Frenchman was thrown, Duke Philip sent a herald to inquire about his health, and when another was wounded in the face both sides rushed to help. Later the Burgundian who wounded him went to visit him, asking forgiveness, which the Frenchman granted readily, accepting these things as “les aventures des armes.” The same episode is in Monstrelet, Chronique, 4:376-8. 31 De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:348-80. The list of overstated pledges occupies an entire chapter (2:381-94). The lord of Pons included a vow not to sleep in a bed on Saturdays until the vow was fulfilled; Sir Claude de Toulongeon vowed to carry an emprise to challenge any Turk to single combat; the lord of Crequi referred to the grief of the Church “dont mon cueur a receu amère et douloureuse déplaisance.” Keen (Chivalry, 200) also notices the habit of extravagant vows, typical of an age enamored with “floridity of ritual.”

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progressively losing its significance as rite of passage into a world of acceptable violence. Duby tells how dubbing used to be such a defining event in the life of a knight, that the twelfth-century William Marshal did not remember his date of birth (which was not important for a cadet son), but remembered the date in which he was dubbed by his protector, William of Tancarville, chamberlain to the king. Dubbing was a sacrament, the most important ceremony in a warrior’s life before marriage, the emblem of his right and duty to fight. It marked the end of childhood, a second birth, so that the prospective knight had to bathe before the ceremony, as he had been bathed at birth and would be after death. For William, it inaugurated a life of tournaments together with his companions, which brought him to France and back. He started poor, owning only his sword and his horse, and the temporary money that he earned in his wandering and fighting would be properly squandered in ritual displays of largesse. In describing the life of these knights, Duby depicts an unstable society characterized by a “harsh, permanent rivalry,” of young men without ties except loyalty to each other, founded on the one solemn ritual that bound them together.32 In contrast, the dubbing of Duke Philip of Burgundy in 1421 was a relatively minor affair. Chastellain tells how the young duke was riding side by side with the count of Saint-Pol (who was a knight) to what he expected to be a major battle against the dauphin Charles. Suddenly and unemotionally Philip asked his companion to knight him and gave him his sword for the purpose. Just as simply, the count dubbed him, “in the name of Saint George.” Haynin describes the knighting of his lord of Fiennes in similar terms. The initiative came not from Fiennes, but from the lord of Ravenstein, who addressed him with, “fair cousin of Fiennes, you need to be knighted.” Fiennes answered, “Sir, as it pleases you to honor me so, I am very willing.” And he gave him his own sword asking him formally to knight him in the name of God and Saint George. Ravenstein tapped him on the sides of the neck with the sword, and then Fiennes knighted others. It is noteworthy how in both examples (and in many others) knighting occurred as a prelude to an exceptional event, such as a definitive battle or a tournament, its apparent function being to instill renewed courage and esprit de corps among the new knights, that is, to act as catalyst to group cohesion.33 The low-key ritual of knighting itself is dwarfed by the 32

Duby, Marshal, 3, 69, 72, 76. Keen defines dubbing as a ritual associated both with coming of age and entry into a war band. Keen, Chivalry, 66-67. 33 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:259. In Haynin’s account (Mémoires, 1:236) Ravenstein addresses Fiennes with, “cha biau cousin de Fiennes, il vous faute estre chevalier,” to which the latter replies, “[m]onsieur a vostre plaisir, puisquil vous

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elaborate ceremony of initiation and participation into a chivalric order, a privilege reserved for the few, usually members of the upper aristocracy, but also others whose membership served as reward for past services or encouragement for future ones. Thus, initiation into a wide and ancient body of warriors had to share the stage in contemporary imagination with initiation into a recent and restricted club, in which the religious ritual overtook the military one, and in which the bonds of political alliance overshadowed personal bonds, to form what Guenée calls a “fictitious brotherhood”34 One is left to argue that raw violence was at least allowed to take center stage in literature, where the unbridled ingenuity of writers was not confined by socially-determined scenarios. The climactic moment of chivalric romances is the encounter between knights, followed by the inevitable duel, a sequence that constitutes the archetype, so to speak, of staged tournaments. Through the more or less fanciful but mostly repetitious descriptions of this essential ritual, the warrior class could give free rein to imagination, depicting a heroic and uninhibited view of self. Out of the abundant chivalric literature, I will use only a few original latemedieval examples, not remakes of earlier stories, in an attempt to capture a more authentic “flavor” of the period, rather than the authors’ or translators’ homage to well-known classics.35 An intriguing example, plait amoy ferre cheste honneur, il me plait bien.” For example of mass knighting, Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 2:263-4.) records one performed by the king-at-arms of the Toison d’Or before a battle in the war with Ghent. See also Keen, Chivalry, 80. 34 (“fraternité fictive”). Guenée, Un meurtre, 110. See Le Fèvre’s (Chronique, 2:201-8) lengthy descriptions of the annual festivities of the order of the Toison d’Or, with its ritual parades, banquets, masses for dead members, initiations of new ones, and interminable rules. Or the elaborate ritual of initiation of Maximilian of Austria into the Toison d’Or, described by Molinet (Chroniques, 1:250-1). It took place in the church of Sint-Salvator in Bruges, officiated by the lords of Lannoy, Ravenstein, Gruuthuse, Chimay, and Nassau, as the young duke (husband of Marie of Burgundy) sat on the throne, flanked by the knights. The duke offered his sword to the lord of Ravenstein, who knighted him. Then he descended, was ceremoniously dressed in crimson velvet, and returned to the podium where the lord of Lannoy, as senior member, placed the collar of the order on his neck and made a speech. The duke then kissed his “brothers.” Elias (Civilizing, 465) talks of the “courtization of warriors” in early modern times, when they had to bend “to the constraints of interdependence that were not planned by any individual person or group of persons.” And Keen (Chivalry, 183-4) characterizes chivalric societies as “curial orders,” bound together under a princely founder and his successors, and in which propaganda and diplomacy were intimately associated with membership. 35 Keen (Chivalry, 204) has recognized the “literary imprint” of late-medieval tournaments, despite the influence of judicial duels. The storyline that

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which fascinated Miller, is the anonymous fourteenth-century poem “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”36 In this haunting story, which can be interpreted as a gentle satire of chivalry, the magical element outshines violence. The duel (if duel it can be called, as each stroke takes place at the distance of a year) between Gawain and the mysterious green creature ends up with very little damage, except to Gawain’s pride, as he receives a well-deserved chastisement. The Green Knight is a magical figure, who only apparently issues a generic challenge in the hall of King Arthur’s court, but in reality sets out to show the shortcomings of the renowned knight of the Round Table. His role is didactic, as he answers Gawain’s anger and frustration with smiling imperturbability. Violence is absent from the poem because the “hero” has no real rival, the Green Knight being only a mirror of Gawain’s own imperfection, a character out of a morality play, in short, an allegory.37 Another example is the story of Sir Gareth of Orkney in Morte Darthur, which, amongst the voluminous production of Thomas Malory, alone may represent the product of his own imagination.38 “Gareth,” however, is not much different from other stories of the genre. Here the dramatic tension is limited to the mystery of the identity of the young accompanied many pas d’armes also points to their conscious imitation of romances. The reworking of old classics can also be quite revealing of contemporary culture, such as Malory’s remake of the story of the Knight of the Cart, which departs from the original in showing the kidnapper of Guinevere fighting with mercenaries. Knight, Arthurial Literature, 132-3. But a proper discussion of such examples would necessitate too long a detour into literary criticism. 36 Miller, Humiliation, 185-95. The poem may actually have been performed on stage for Richard II. Michael J. Bennett, "The Historical Background," in A Companion to the Gawain-poet, ed. Derek Brewer and Jonathan Gibson (Woodbridge, Suffolk: D.S. Brewer, 1997), 80-81, 90. 37 At the end he assumes some qualities of a real person, as he reveals his name, Bertilak de Hautdesert. “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” in The Poems of the Pearl Manuscript, ed. Malcolm Andrew and Ronald Waldron (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1994), line 2445, 296. The smiling knight is also a figure of reality. The most famous Burgundian knight, Jacques de Lalaing, who was the subject of a chivalric romance, is a smiling, friendly figure. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:360-3. 38 At least, no source for it is known, but theories circulate as to a possible folk tale origin, centered on the exploits of a younger brother who deliberately competes with an older brother, combined with elements of the so-called romances of the “fair unknown” (bel inconnu). Barbara Nola, “The Tale of Sir Gareth and the Tale of Sir Lancelot,” in A Companion to Malory, ed. Elizabeth Archibald and A. S. G. Edwards (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1996), 156, 164.

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knight, quite artificially preserved throughout the story, and his humble origins as a kitchen helper (also quite contrived). The hero goes through a predictable progression of challenges to prove his worth, until he earns the hand of the beautiful lady, who happens also to be richly endowed with lands of her own. The drama centers on a series of aggressive encounters. At each encounter a mysterious enemy appears out of nowhere, identified merely by a visual attribute, such as the Black Knight, the Green Knight, the Red Knight (actually, two of them), and the Blue Knight. Like the Lady of Tears, they are nothing but props and pretexts for action. Each one in turn immediately challenges the hero to a duel, a gesture that appears almost a ritualized greeting. Kaeuper has remarked that in this literary genre knights seem to fight each other without provocation and for no apparent reason, when “no great cause, no great love” is at stake, only seemingly out of an “obsession with prowess.”39 In these late literary examples at least, it seems to me that such rituals (not unlike tournaments) were devices to establish a hierarchy, a ranking order of who will serve and who will be served. As the plot evolves the various rivals perform the role of training tools, through which the hero, who had started from an artificially subordinate social position, acquires the skills needed for a warring life. As for his adversary, there is no shame in losing and performing the ritualized act of submission, which starts with begging mercy and ends with offering services. The loser was as socially necessary as the winner, and his sudden deferring to superiority marked also the beginning of a bond. At the happy conclusion, the importance of those of lesser status to the social order is celebrated in a mass wedding. Gareth and the lady Lyonesse, the “alpha” couple in ethnological parlance, will enjoy the privilege of selecting their mates, but the minor characters will be matched by King Arthur, to ensure the continuation of auxiliary bloodlines.40 Notably, duels only potentially end in the death of an opponent, and in practice only in the case of those irrelevant to the plot (two petty criminals and a minor thug). Once the correct social order is established with the inevitable victory of the hero, the defeated rival begs for mercy, and mercy is given, even if through the 39

Kaeuper, Chivalry, 148-9. Perhaps the author was also thinking in ethnological terms when he named his main female character Lyonesse. Bandura (Aggression, 90-91) observes that combat experience (explored in experiments with animals) can teach nonaggressive animals to become ferocious fighters through a series of progressive encounters under conditions in which the trainee can win without being hurt. Thus, “[c]onsistent victors assume a dominant social position; repeated losers become subordinates that submit passively.” 40

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device of the cruel and spoiled damsel who intervenes on his behalf. The act of mercy itself established the supremacy of the winner, and as such was imitated in real life. For example, during an execution of rebels in Malines shortly after his accession to the duchy, Charles the Bold ordered a man spared just as the executioner was readying to strike the blow, and the audience was apparently quite impressed by this theatrical act.41 The defeated challengers will end up as stewards, carvers, sommeliers, and chamberlains to the hero’s rapidly growing court. Malory, a knight himself and a rather violent one at that, was well qualified to describe the raw essence of the hostile encounters.42 Yet, the duels themselves are seldom described in details, except when the opponent is (almost) equal to the hero in strength and prowess, such as the “Red Knight of the Rede Laundis,” who starts out as the arch-villain of the story. He is the one who is besieging Lady Lyonesse in her castle, and his presence as un-chivalrous cad is announced by the eerie sight of hanged knights. At this point, the indignant hero blows a huge horn, conveniently suspended from a tree for the purpose, thus announcing his presence to the evil knight. The latter immediately takes up arms and rides to meet the enemy. After the first clash on horseback, with spears, sends them both sprawling on the ground, they attack each other on foot with swords. The duel is long and hard, the contestants are both bleeding from various wounds, their armor in tatters, exposing bare flesh. At a certain point, panting and bleeding, they agree to rest, each unfastening the other’s helm to breathe better, a gesture that anticipates reconciliation. They resume the fight viciously, and after a dramatic moment in which the hero is toppled, he recovers (thanks to the less-than-gentle prodding of the damsel), and downs his adversary. He unfastens his opponent’s helm, preparing to cut his throat, when the enemy, as expected, begs for mercy. At this point the Red Knight offers a reasonable explanation for his murders. He was ordered to do so by a ladylove determined to avenge the killing of a brother by one of the Knights of the Round Table (while waiting for the real culprit, she had him kill everyone in sight). To add to the sudden

41

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:316-9. But when the executioner tried to help the man up he found that he had fainted, the duke’s flair for the dramatic not fairing so well in real life. 42 Malory’s alleged crimes included robbery, theft, two cattle-raids, extortion, rape, and attempted murder, but at least some of the charges may have had a political intent, as he was a retainer of the earl of Warwick, and thus involved in the fleeting loyalties of his master. Thomas Malory, The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, ed. Eugene Vinaver (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), xxii-xxvi.

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change in situation, a chorus of retainers of the defeated man joins in begging for his reprieve, and Gareth relents.43 It is noteworthy how the literary description of encounters like this was enacted, but with changes, in live tournaments. Lorenz lists three mechanisms for inhibiting animal aggression: an increase in the time elapsing between the situation that provokes it and the attack itself, an increase in the value of visual displays, which become an end in itself, and the presence of inhibitors to the aggressive act.44 Unlike literary situations, all three factors were present in the tournament. The first meeting, which in romance leads immediately to the armed clash, is delayed by the lengthy and involved ritual of the parade with presentation of the contestants to the presiding judge. Secondly, while in literature the arming of the contestants happens immediately, and the only details about the challenger are splashes of color, the rules of tournaments attributed tremendous importance to the visual display of elegance, and chroniclers regale the reader with minute details about the paraphernalia of the participants, their retinue, and horses. Also, creativity (playing up to the “theme” of the event or a clever disguise) was as important as the fighting itself. And lastly, the presence of the presiding authority, flanked by his court, was a strong inhibitor. A noteworthy difference between the imaginary world of literature and that of live performance was in the status of the players. The ideal knight-errant is a loner, perennially wandering through enchanted forests, isolated castles, and mysterious islands. His tenuous ties to society are painfully reinforced in the course of his adventures. Every character he encounters inquires about his family, social status, and provenance, but most are frustrated until the very end, when the obvious nobility of blood, which he has so amply shown by deed, is confirmed by proclamation. In the current example, when Gareth finally overcomes the Red Knight after the agonizing fight, and goes to the castle that he has delivered from the siege, Lady Lyonesse has the drawbridge lifted and refuses him admittance until she has found out who he actually is, despite the hero’s obvious merits.45 He is thus chastised for not playing up to social values, which are emphasized in tournaments through the lengthy rite of presentation. Still, his anonymity helps the hero in presenting himself as victim, a common dramatic device popular also with modern action movies. Only after undergoing trials and tribulations in which he proves 43

Malory, 318-25. Lorenz, On Aggression, 113. 45 Malory, 326. 44

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himself, will he have “earned” the status that birth has set out for him.46 The trials were so important to test the moral fiber of the hero that they were repeated through his entire life by Charles the Bold, a man who had to endure humiliations in his youth, and once in power never stopped striving to prove to himself and others his personal worth and right to his title. The duel, then, was not a celebration of aggression, but the culminating act to confirm by merit a hierarchy established by birth, with each man in his proper place, each serving the most deserving of respect, and all ideally living in harmony and with very little bloodshed.47 Lorenz discusses the ubiquity of rituals such as this, both in the animal kingdom and among humans, to cement the bonds of society by diminishing violence. He adds, significantly, that a society without violence, whose members live side by side in peace, is also one without friendship. He calls this society the “anonymous flock,” after the indifferently gregarious birds, which feed peacefully together without acknowledging each other’s presence. Lorenz states that bonds of friendship are only found in “animals with highly developed intra-specific aggression,” in fact they are stronger in species that display the stronger aggression, their importance tied to the need to team up to face violence.48 Chivalry is a proof of this theory as friendship features prominently in most romances and was the expected outcome of tournaments. Even the loner Gareth ends up with a close relationship as apprentice to Lancelot, the man who has knighted him. A related concept, also mentioned by Lorenz, is that of “redirected activity.” This occurs when the subject who elicits aggression is also a source of fear, so that the aggression is redirected against an animate or inanimate third party. In chivalric novels women may fill both roles at different times.49 In the story of Gareth, the villain has committed acts of 46 For example see Lancelot’s tribulations in The Knight of the Cart, or Gareth’s “ennobling” tolerance of Lyonet’s insults, or the painful series of tests overcome by the hero Louis in the Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre, before being recognized by his father. Their anonymity throughout the story leaves them exposed to humiliations that their true identity would have deflected. In this respect, see above the mock anonymity flaunted by the Bastard of Burgundy. 47 Keen sees tournaments as rituals to reaffirm chivalry and cement ties between the increasingly rich upper nobility and the impoverished lower nobility, which risked being divided by a social gulf. Keen, Chivalry, 217-8. 48 Lorenz, On Aggression, 144-8, 216-7. 49 Lorenz, On Aggression, 170. In sagas “women are expected to goad their men folk to vengeful action, and men use their goading as an opportunity to discourse disapprovingly about female vengefulness and irrationality.” Miller, Humiliation, 104.

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brutality because a woman had commanded him, and the almost deadly duel takes place in front of the castle that he is besieging, as we learn at this point, because he wishes to marry the lady. This changes his status from villain to near-victim of a woman’s whim, a common situation among knights, and one on which they could base a friendship, looking forward to many hours of mutual commiseration. The sister of the lady in question, damsel Lyonet, is the force that puts into motion the entire action. She presents herself at King Arthur’s court asking for a knight to take on her sister’s cause, and for the first half of the story never stops chiding Gareth for being a “kytchen knave.” At one point, with psychological insight, the hero blurts out that her constant belittling of his person and efforts has angered him so much that he has redirected his anger against the various challengers, a strong contributor to his numerous victories.50 He knew that the woman could not be attacked directly. The rule can be voided when dishonorable behavior knocks the woman from her pedestal. This is the case, for example, of the mysterious lady of the novel Le Petit Jehan de Saintré. This extremely dull didactic work is nevertheless a valuable historical document because it abandons the Arthurian setting, with its obligatory template of the lonely knighterrant in a sea of magic, prosaically tying the narrative to a “real” person and his career. The story takes place in the period of King Jean II of France, which was perceived as a golden age of chivalry, possibly thanks to the influence of Froissart, but in reality it is contemporary, as it shows the idealized view of the knight as courtier, acting within his social environment.51 Young Jean starts his career as a page and progresses to becoming a squire. Significantly (and realistically) he is not knighted within the pages of the book, as by this century knights and squires were, for all practical purposes, interchangeable. A lady-in-waiting to the queen, apparently older than he and widowed, falls in love with him, takes him under her wing, gives him money to start dressing properly and equips him for tournaments. Her role is both that of lover and teacher, and she even instructs him on his readings, which should include Roman history, and on personal hygiene. The actual love scenes are barely sketched, except for mentions of “passionate kissing,” and formal speeches in which Jean addresses her as “my goddess.” Through her, the young man goes through a curriculum that reflects several rites of passage: his first challenge, his 50

Malory, 293-8, 306-7, 313. In fact, it apparently takes inspiration from the court of René of Anjou, where the author had been employed. Its emphasis on stiff protocol, however, reveals its Burgundian origins, as it was commissioned by the count of Saint-Pol. Lemaire, Les visions, 178, 207.

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first hosting of an event, his mandatory participation to real combat (a crusade, therefore legitimate violence). Throughout the repetitive sequences we learn mundane details, for example that the goddess’s secret signal to her lover consists of picking her teeth in public with a pin. Still, she coaches him on the proper demeanor, poised between humility and ostentation, on the mandatory gifts to highs and lows to ensure their motivation in seeking his advancement, and the courteous treatment of opponents.52 Curiously, she is the recipient of the only true act of nasty violence in the entire story, for while the hero has been far away at a crusade, fighting for the faith, she betrays him with a monk. When dealing with a tainted woman, no longer a “goddess,” and a despised lecherous monk, the stuff of lowly comedy, the stifling politeness of the youth gives way to true aggression, and this unexpected explosion of violence, which Huizinga saw lurking as an undercurrent beneath the veneer of courtliness of this society, gives the work its only dramatic relief.53 The monk, the hero’s only worthy adversary, is an unabashed portrait of raw virility. At first he impresses the lady with his courtesy and largesse, but then he flirts with her openly, and she responds in kind. The hero undergoes the mandatory humiliation when the monk, after stealing his woman, easily defeats him in a wrestling match. Before the match, the rival leaps in the air, showing his “big hairy thighs” to the youthful hero, grabs him like a chicken, and throws him down repeatedly amidst hostile laughter. The squire’s revenge is elaborate, slow, and does not require brute force, thus revealing his superiority: he tricks the monk into a match on his own terms, defeats him, and humbles him. At this point the monk begs for his life, an act of submission perfectly acceptable among knights, but ludicrous in an outsider.54 52

(“ma tresnoble et souveraine deesse”). De la Sale, Saintré, 188. Also, 44-45, 60, 67, 72, 76. On the subject of manners, Elias (The Civilizing Process, 50-56) sees this century as a period of transition in the evolution of manners, but still with “fewer psychological nuances” than later ages, and less restrained “impulses and inclinations” associated with less embarrassment about one’s and others’ bodily functions. 53 Huizinga (Herfsttij, 50) talks of the “serious struggle with its own arrogance and rage of a race prone to violence and passion.” 54 De La Sale, Saintré, 280-3, 296-8. Earlier (243) he describes the monk as “grant de corps, fort et abile pour luictier, saillir, gecter barre, pierre, et a la paulme jouer.” The monk’s behavior is consistent with experimental findings by Berkowitz and cited by Bandura (Aggression, 137): “People […] attack not only those whom they have learned to dislike, but also those whom it is relatively safe to attack and those whom it is advantageous to attack. […] A less disliked person

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Extreme courtesy and self-control within one’s group (courtiers) coupled with vicious aggression against members of another group (monks, or even women, under some circumstances) fits Lorenz’s paradigm. The question that comes to mind is, why such hostility? Both women and monks belonged to protected groups in chivalric lore, as both, in theory, were defenseless. It is significant that the only true and realistic (one is tempted to add, release of pent-up) violence is directed at members of these very groups.55 The monk is not killed, even if the hero’s mercy is offensive and brutal, but the real violence is against the cheating woman. The taboo against hurting a woman is riddled with ambiguities. Kaeuper notices that in chivalric society women were worshipped and at the same time insulted and mistrusted, which led to a definite tension between the sexes, avoidance of marriage and of permanent ties.56 In Malory’s story, damsel Lyonet (a classical example of demoiselle maledisante of romances) praises Sir Gareth for tolerating her cruel taunts with forbearance, a self-control that reveals his true nobility, as he keeps in check an aggression that she consciously fosters. But as a mirror of actual knightly behavior toward women this is wide off the mark, and latemedieval historians do not record such displays of abject masochism in their male characters. Jean, instead, pulls the lady by the hair, insults her openly, and barely refrains from slapping her face in public.57 His violent reaction is more realistic, because the woman (like the monk) is not quite an object of fear, yet is at times a rival for social supremacy, a vital part of the chivalric apparatus, yet too often ready to play the game by other rules, for example, by rejecting the courtier in favor of a member of the clergy (a rival group). The other protected groups, widows and orphans, do not appear in Saintré, except in a perfunctory way (his lady is a widow, but obviously in no need of protection). Widows only make a cameo appearance in Malory’s story: Gareth fulfills his life quota of protecting them by stumbling on a castle with thirty of them, all in tears over the tombs of their respective husbands. In one quick paragraph, the (otherwise unknown) Brown Knight who harasses them is dispatched, and the who cannot easily counter-aggress is more likely to be selected as a target than a highly provoking person who has the power to retaliate.” 55 It also conforms to the different treatment reserved for defeated soldiers and civilians discussed in Chapter II. Lorenz (On Aggression, 237) states that a social structure in which group cohesion is coupled with hostility to other groups of the same species is common to men and rats. 56 Kaeuper (Chivalry, 212, 220, 227) suggests that women were the targets of real violence, reflected in chivalric literature. They were “insulted and mistrusted” and treated as “prizes to be possessed.” 57 De La Sale, Saintré, 296-8.

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grateful ladies offer their services at Gareth’s wedding feast.58 The writer obviously thinks that, with a grandiose rescue of widows, his hero is exempted from having to deal with orphans, so that none appear in the story.

III.3. Real Violence and its Control Looking at chivalric romance and tournaments, this does not appear as a society that cherishes violence as a spectacle, even if it ready to use it as tool of social dominance. In the above examples, violence is only vented obliquely at groups protected by mandatory “political correctness,” such as women and monks, a phenomenon not limited to the fifteenth century. In turning to factual narrative, one finds a pervasive attitude of disapproval among writers describing the rare shows of combat in which chivalric rules did not apply. The judicial duel that took place in Valenciennes in 1455 between two commoners was an episode so unusual and so brutal that it is recorded by at least three chroniclers who covered this period. It also appears in Huizinga’s work to illustrate “the full brutality of the age” as opposed to its chivalric ideals. The most dramatic version of the event is Chastellain’s, who takes the time to explain the strange custom by which this city, which he knew so well, received confessed debtors and murderers, provided that they would openly state their crime, and be ready to defend themselves in combat against accusers.59 A confessed murderer, a valet named Mahiénot, who had obtained asylum in the city, was approached by a Jacotin, a relative of the victim, with a request for money to appease the family. Mahiénot refused, and Jacotin challenged him. The city magistrates had not been faced with a similar situation for a century, and seemed at a loss on what to do. So they notified Duke Philip, who was absent in Germany on a political tour, and he asked for the duel to be postponed to allow him to be present. While awaiting his return, the two rivals were kept in custody and trained in combat at city’s expense. On the appointed day, a special list was built, a high ring enclosed with tight ropes and guarded by city’s archers. The executioner waited outside, while bells rung incessantly, making a “horrid” noise. Jacotin entered first, dressed in a slick and tight suit of 58

Malory, 355, 362-3. The quote is in Huizinga, Herfsttij, 109 and the original narrative in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:38-49 and Fragments, 325-7, d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:297-305 (the most detailed) and de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:402-7. A mention of this custom is also in “Trahisons,” 204. I have selected Chastellain’s version because of his dramatic style, which best reveals the writer’s feelings. 59

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black leather, his head shaven. He knelt, crossed himself, and then went to his chair on a side of the ring. Mahiénot followed suit, similarly attired. Both looked pale as they kissed the Gospels and swore to abide by the rules. Followed a ritual by which they were smeared all over with grease, received sugared spices which were first ceremoniously assayed, then rubbed ashes on their hands, to increase their grip on clubs and wooden shields issued for the combat. Both started the fight boldly, but soon Mahiénot stumbled like a drunk and was thrown to the ground. Jacotin quickly jumped on his back, forcing his face to the ground and throwing sand into his eyes and mouth. Mahiénot bit a finger of his adversary, but soon was forced to surrender, and confess the murder aloud, while Jacotin broke his back with his knee.60 Mahiénot begged the duke for mercy, and Jacotin at this point joined his pleas. The duke, feeling pity at the horrible spectacle, twice sent a knight to the city magistrates asking to be allowed to spare the man’s life. But they answered that they would abide by their ancestral privileges, which the duke had sworn to respect, to hang the loser, dead or alive. The duke then gave up, and Jacotin told Mahiénot to ask for God’s mercy, because he would find none there. Then he hit him again until the other was motionless, and rolled the body outside the lists “like carrion.” Mahiénot was received by the executioner and by priests, who quickly confessed him and gave him a drink. His face was horribly swollen and disfigured, his eyes popping out, and he made a hideous sight. Jacotin threw out of the lists the shield and club of his adversary, then asked the law enforcers whether he had done his part. They agreed that he had, so he knelt and thanked God aloud. Then, smeared with blood, he went to church, followed by a cheering crowd and by his overjoyed wife. When he returned to greet the duke, the latter praised his moderation in victory.61 Far from showing fascination with the episode, as Huizinga seems to suggest, the author concludes about this famous affair that it was “the most inhuman thing to write about.”62 The attitude of the duke is more ambiguous. On the one hand he acted as expected when he tried to channel 60

Chastellain, “Chronique,” 3:41-49. He calls the ringing of bells “hideux.” De la Marche (Mémoires, 2:404) states that the citizens sided with Mahiénot, the outsider who fought to uphold their privileges, and not their own citizen Jacotin. 61 Chastellain, Fragments, 325-7. 62 (“le plus inhumain dont on porroit escripre”). Chastellain, Fragments, 327. D’Escouchy (Chronique, 2:305) calls the episode, “abominable que de le recorder.” De la Marche (Mémoires, 2:407) states that Valenciennes derived “plus honte que honneur” from this murder perpetrated in the presence of the prince. Huizinga’s interpretation of Chastellain’s attitude is in Herfsttij, 110.

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the duel along familiar lines and have it stopped before the death of one of the opponents. But the city magistrates saw this not as a tournament, but rather as a public execution, a sort of gladiatorial fight between convicted criminals, and carried it to its extreme consequences, afraid of forfeiting their ancient privilege if they lost control of it in such unusual circumstances. On the other hand, one may detect a hint of morbid curiosity on the duke’s part in wanting to attend this spectacle. His attitude, however, is not unusual, and probably it was not the violence itself that he relished, but the novel way (in his eyes) of channeling it.63 I find only one other episode like this recorded for this entire period, which occurred in England. William Gregory described it with his typical paucity of details, but with no less disapproval than his continental counterparts. In this case, too, the contestants were of lowly origins, both were dressed in leather and had to fight with pointed sticks and bare fists. The false accuser was defeated and forced to confess when the innocent defendant bit his nose and poked him in the eyes. The defeated man was hanged, but the victor was so traumatized by the episode that he became a hermit and died soon afterwards.64 These two isolated episodes speak of relics of ancient traditions, which seem barbaric to modern and fifteenthcentury audiences alike. The tone of the writers suggests a mixture of deference toward exotic and disgusting customs, the thrill at being privileged in describing them, and moral indignation molded by the sensitivities of one’s own culture, an attitude not dissimilar from that of

63 Jean-Marie Cauchies, “Duel judiciaire et franchise de la ville. L’abolition d’une coutume à Valenciennes en 1455,” in Mélanges Fritz Sturm, vol. 1 (Liège: Editions Juridiques de l’Université de Liège, 1999), 655-68 reports that the duke’s original objection was due to the low status of the contestants. The costume was frowned upon by the Church and on its way out since 1200. 64 William Gregory, “Chronicle of London,” in The Historical Collection of a Citizen of London in the Fifteenth Century, ed. James Gairdner (London: Camden Society, 1876), 200-2. As in the continent, the defeated man was hanged and buried outside consecrated ground as a suicide. Monstrelet (Chronique, 1:99-100) mentions a “champ mortel” that took place in 1405 in Quesnoy in the presence of Count Guillaume of Hainaut and Holland, but without gruesome details. A gentleman named Bornete, native of Hainaut, claimed that another gentleman Sohier Barnage of Flanders had killed a relative of his. In vain the count asked the parties to make peace. The rivals fought with lances and swords and Bornete easily defeated the other, who confessed to the murder and was beheaded. Perhaps because both were members of the warrior class the mortal combat was more accepted (and may have occurred in a more “private” setting).

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Captain Cook as he describes cannibalistic practices among the natives of New Zealand.65 Judicial duel, then, unless properly performed by members of the aristocracy in matters of honor, seems not to have been a popular spectacle among historians. Their reaction to public executions (which, of course, are not exclusively a fifteenth-century phenomenon) is more nuanced and harder to interpret. First, it is doubtful that they perceived them as spectacle, as many apparently did not witness any at all, or did not consider them worthy of description. Second, when the do record an execution they do not seem to look at it as “violent spectacle,” but rather as an act of justice or one of personal or political revenge, as expected. What appears puzzling, and peculiar to their culture, is an odd tendency to leniency toward the violence that prompted the execution itself. At times, this is noticeable even in cases of capital crimes, especially if committed by people with no previous criminal record, or, more accurately, people whose social standing was expected to place them above reproach. Accountability for errors or crimes was stratified, and punishment did not fit the crime, but the criminal, so that a “nice” man of good family could expect a mild punishment for something that would bring death to a less well connected one. Chastellain offers a baffling example of this mentality. In 1468, almost at the eve of his wedding in Bruges, Charles the Bold sentenced to death for murder a young member of a knightly family. The man’s family interceded with the duke, reminding him of the culprit’s past services to him at Montlhéry, but Charles was adamant, because the murderer had refused reparations to the victim’s kin (later, reparations were made and the victim’s family joined in the pleas). The author was so shocked by the duke’s response as to hint at some sinister personal reason for such severity, and apparently the executioner himself shared this opinion. Against ducal orders, he delayed the execution beyond the prescribed hour, to give the prisoner’s uncle time to intercede with the old duchess Isabel. As all these efforts brought no results, the author echoes the indignation of the boy’s family, based on the opinion that he had to die for a crime for which the king had pardoned many others. As if to further chastise the duke, he describes in lyrical terms the handsome young man on the day of his execution, riding in a cart to the scaffold all dressed up as for his wedding, blond curls in the wind, and chased all the way by a gaggle of crazed women screaming their willingness to marry him to save 65 The Journals of Captain Cook, ed. Philip Edwards (Penguin Classics, 1997), 319.

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him from death.66 Chastellain conveys the impression that family connections and even good looks (which in his mind seem to reflect rank) conferred a privileged status to at least some perpetrators of violence, and that common people, too, expected rules to be bent in such cases, much as we judge sport and entertainment stars more leniently than others.67 Given that he was a court historian, who identified with the ruling caste, it is easy to see more than a hint of elitism in his disdain of “angry” violence, with its association with the lower classes, while showing the elites as paradigms of courtesy and refinement of manners. Capturing popular reaction to violence is more problematic. To answer Huizinga’s statement about “cruel excitement” one would have to determine whether society at large enjoyed the sight of agony and the vicarious inflicting of pain. The scant examples from non-courtly writers point rather to what one could label “modern sensitivity.” In describing the public execution of an Orléanist knight, before the protracted civil wars accustomed citizens to the sight of death, the Bourgeois of Paris records with horror how, after the head was cut off, the body banged against the block with its shoulders, and this so terrified the executioner that he died a few days later. Gregory relates how the frequency of executions was so exceptional following the Kentish revolt of 1450 that the heads exposed on London Bridge had to be rotated to make place for new ones, an indication that the sight made an impression on him. The very hint that Joan of Arc enjoyed violence was a major charge brought against her, and her compassion for the poor and for animals was a main point in favor of her rehabilitation.68 And on the 66

(“povres folles femmes”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:397-405. The tradition of saving a prisoner from execution through marriage is reported by the the Bourgeois of Paris (Journal d’un bourgeois, 413) in the case of a a prisoner who had been ransomed and resold (“vendu et revendu”) several times and was condemned to be drowned, but ended up instead married to a girl of good family (in 1443). 67 A dramatic example of double standards is the famous case of Gilles de Rais. Despite the frequent complaints of the parents of his low-status young victims, he was not prosecuted until some unrelated crimes brought him into conflict with the duke of Brittany and the bishop of Nantes in 1440. Bataille, Le procès de Gilles de Rais, 71. Miller (Humiliation, 110) states that in honor societies “the morality of an action was never separated from who did it” and “honorable” men got the benefit of the doubt. 68 Journal d’un bourgeois, 45 (interestingly, in this case, too, the writer notices that the knight in question was handsome), Gregory, “Chronicle,” 191-4, The Trial of Joan of Arc trans. W. P. Barrett (London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., 1931), 126, 140, 161, 162, 166, and Duparc, Procès en Nullité, 3:248, 251, 257, 263, 268, 272, 275, 292, 296-7.

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subject of animals, I could think of at least one anecdote that shows how violence against them was also condemned. The anonymous Crowland Chronicler, in relating an armed robbery at the Crowland monastery by a band of ruffians, concludes with, “and (which showed their great inhumanity) they cruelly transfixed with arrows the cellarer’s guarddog.”69 It is possible that the edge of violence in spectacles (as in literature) was blunted by the ubiquitous presence of women. Kaeuper believes that the primary audience of chivalric literature consisted of men, unless we assume that medieval ladies “could not get enough of combat and war.”70 While this may be true so far as readers go, female characters do appear in chivalric texts and there is evidence of women attending tournaments. In addition, both fictional and real settings reveal commonality of taste and culture across genders. In contemporary literature it is remarkable not so much how women share the manly culture of honor (which we would expect), but how they may assume a strong part within it. The fictional Lady of Saintré is interested in the chivalrous performance of her lover as much as he is, while the ladies of Sir Gareth’s story, true to Darwinian laws, always fall in love with the strongest. And from historical narrative there is evidence of men and women eating and socializing in mixed groups to discuss the best moves at the afternoon joust and determine the distribution of prizes (which reveal a common taste for sartorial extravaganza, a similar love of velvet and precious stones). Gift giving in general was the prerogative of men and women alike, and the gifts consisted of precious cloth, jewels, or horses for members of either sex.71 On the other hand, there is something feminine in props such as the languid Lady of Tears or the swan on a golden leash. Women may have influenced the evolution of tournaments into stylized affairs, choreographed like ballets and staged like fashion shows for clever coups de scène, as when the Bastard of Burgundy revealed his gaudy costume under a 69

Crowland Chronicle, 167. On the subject of sensitivity to the suffering of animals, the Bourgeois of Paris (Journal d’un bourgeois, 336) remarks how during the terrible winter of 1434-1435 over one-hundred-forty birds may have died from the cold. 70 Kaeuper, Chivalry, 32. 71 For examples of the presence of women at chivalric events see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:452-3, 4:136 and de la Marche (Mémoires, 2:123-4, 380). The latter (2:214-5) even thinks exceptional the fact that Duchess Isabel of Burgundy rarely participated, especially when her son Charles was in the lists. For evidence of men and women sitting together at banquets and giving or exchanging gifts see, among the many examples, d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:119, Gregory, “Chronicle,” 139-40, and Gachard, documens inédits, 2:74-75.

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pilgrim’s habit. Such domesticated, tongue-in-cheek chivalry was more about controlling aggression (at least toward peers and superiors) and observing ever more complicated rules of behavior than celebrating an exclusively masculine bond through displays of prowess.72 The very knights and squires who had fought shortly before, or accompanied the contestants, would be honored to serve at the table. There, from the snippets of information related by our authors, they seemed content to make small talk with the ladies in what appears as a common androgynous language filled with small rituals to foster team spirit and cooperation rather than ruthlessness and individualism. In fact, real-life knights might deliberately seek feminine company, as when the duke of Clèves asked to be seated at a lower table with the ladies at the coronation banquet of Louis XI, giving up his right to a higher seat closer to the king.73 To pursue the argument that we are dealing with a culture of control rather than of aggression, it may be fitting to turn now to an episode of real, spontaneous rage, to see how chroniclers handled it. Chastellain, who loved family dramas, has left us a famous example of an outburst of anger of Duke Philip against his son Charles at a time when the dauphin Louis (future Louis XI) was a refugee at the Burgundian court to escape his father’s wrath. This anecdote, which is also related by Du Clerq, was cited by Huizinga as an example of Chastellain’s “strongly visual perception of things.”74 The focus of the antagonism between the duke and his son was a powerful family of favorites of Philip, the lord of Croy, his brother, and their respective sons, who had built an independent power base apparently in direct challenge to the heir’s own. One day in 1457 the duke summoned Charles to his oratory and ordered him to give a position of chamberlain in his household to a member of the Croy family. Charles, politely but firmly, refused, as he had already decided for a favorite of his own. His father, angrily switching to the “tu,” yelled at him, “Boy, you defy me? Get out of my sight!” The duchess, who was present, quickly asked the usher to let her and Charles out before the duke would kill them both, then she made the mistake of dragging her son to Louis’s room to ask for his intercession, given his influence over the duke. Louis went to the oratory, and tried to calm a furious Philip. As the dauphin went down on his knees, the duke, angry and embarrassed at having his future lord witness the family quarrel, switched to cold fury. He told Louis that if he wanted 72 Contamine (La noblesse, 298) remarks that the “nietzschéen” ideal of the “chevalier-brigand,” the proud exalter of force, is absent from courtly literature, even if present in reality. 73 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:86-87. 74 Huizinga, Herfsttij, 343-6.

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Charles back, he could have him and care for him, but then he (Louis) would never see Philip again. Now it was Louis’s turn to be in tears, and he rushed out of the oratory, chastised. When he ran back to his room, the duchess and her son saw their cause lost.75 Charles left Brussels and kept a low profile for a few days, while the furious duke, out of his mind, rode alone into the night towards the forest of Soignes.76 At this point Chastellain has transformed court narrative into something of a fairy tale, and we have to assume that the duke himself was his source for what happened next. Philip found himself hopelessly lost, cold and hungry, until late in the night he came to the hut of a peasant, who was already asleep with his wife. The duke knocked insistently at the door to be let in. The peasant did not recognize him, but saw that he was a gentleman, and accepted his offer of money in exchange for warmth and food. Chastellain becomes ecstatic in describing the prince tearing coarse bread with his own hands, without a valet, diving into a piece of rough cheese, and drinking plain water, as his anger slowly left him. With the help of the peasant, the duke reached a nearby village, where he awoke one of his gamekeepers demanding his bed for the night. Next day he was found by a relieved knight of his household, who humored him with a joke and then led him back in a more reasonable mood. The word at court was not to mention the incident, or Charles.77 What is notable in this episode is Philip’s explosion of unbridled anger, completely at odd with the serene demeanor that he usually strove to project. Also, his impulsive and dangerous action of riding off alone and in the dark occurred only after his anger had been stifled by the dauphin’s inopportune intervention. Paradoxically, Philip’s murderous rage and melodramatic self-punishment seem to illustrate the limits of paternal authority rather than the opposite, as he quickly directed his anger against himself. Joel Rosenthal, in discussing families of privilege of the period, states that “there is evidence aplenty of coercion, of social control of the crudest sort, and of ambivalence if not of open hostility. Families were ‘about’ authority as well as about lineal continuity.” But he adds that the 75 (“Ha! Garsson, désobéyras-tu à ma volonté? Hors de mes yeux”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:232-9. He states dramatically (3:238) that Philip’s words had been like “un seau praint en acier.” Du Clerq (“Mémoires,” 49) adds that during the altercation the duke drew his dagger. 76 Ostensibly, his intention was to meet with his servants at Hal. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:240-1. 77 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:242-84. The recognition of a noble by his manners is a common theme of contemporary romances. Du Clerq’s version (Mémoires, 5051) is shorter and without the embellishments, but confirms the story in the essential details.

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“iron law of primogeniture” worked against fathers by building a separate power source through the sons, which could be adversarial. Fathers would go as far as denying primogeniture, skirting the laws of inheritance to move toward a “nobility of service,” and reward personal loyalty with a share of power, in an effort to render everyone else equal under them (in fact, Philip threatened Charles repeatedly with disinheritance and sided with his own servants against his son). This, of course, is not a phenomenon new to the fifteenth century. In fact, these conflicts seem to be a side effect of primogeniture itself, witness the well-documented upheavals within the family of Henry II of England three centuries earlier, and the bizarre fourteenth-century example of the count of Foix, immortalized by Froissart.78 What is interesting in Chastellain’s example, however, is that Philip, under the unnerving presence of his future lord, felt keenly his inability to chastise his son, and resorted, after the first impulsive outburst, to a theatrical escapade from which he (and not the rebellious son) was to emerge as the victim.79 His wife, Duchess Isabel, who knew him quite well, was convinced that he was playacting at being lost to elicit sympathy. In the end, the duke was more embarrassed by the episode than anyone else, and gave vent to his resentment against Charles, the only person whom he could hurt (a little) with impunity (and in fact, Chastellain informs us that the count saw his entourage and status quite reduced for a long time even after a formal reconciliation brought about by the dauphin).80 But the quasi-homicidal rage that had made the duchess fear for her son’s very life was soon spent. Chastellain extricates his favorite character from an unpleasant situation by hinting that Philip’s rage was caused by the dauphin’s interference, thus placing this father-son conflict within the wider canvas of contemporary dynastic upheavals. Still, there were limits beyond which a prince could not go, despite the common myth of “medieval emotionalism.” There is a wealth of literature on the subject of “medieval 78 Joel T. Rosenthal, Patriarchy and Families of Privilege in Fifteenth-Century England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991), 60, 67. He notices parallels in the conflict between Philip and Charles, Charles VII and Louis, and Edward IV and his younger brother George. Jones (Bosworth, 73) speculates on a conflict between Richard of York and the future Edward IV. Muchambled (L’invention, 313) emphasizes instead the relative absence of father figure from affective conflicts within medieval families, with the sons following rather “la loi de la honte.” For the episode of the count of Foix and his bizarre murder of his own heir see Froissart, Chronicle, 287-9. 79 F. G. Bailey, The Tactical Uses of Passion: An Essay on Power, Reason, and Rality (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1983), 67-69. 80 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:275, 293-4.

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emotionalism,” which I intend to examine only briefly and obliquely by reviewing how Stephen White partly dismantles it in his essay “The Politics of Anger.”81 First, he summarizes the principal scholarly positions on the subject: Marc Bloch saw it as an integral characteristic of medieval mentality, which at first he attributed to poor diet and a “low standard of hygiene,” together with the perception of being at the mercy of “ungovernable forces.” Huizinga noted the “perpetual oscillation between despair and distracted joy, between cruelty and pious tenderness” which characterized life in the late Middle Ages. Huizinga’s thesis is that emotionalism went out of control precisely at a time when the constraints of etiquette reached a climax, and the evolutionary impact of social repression seemed to be lacking. The theme was elaborated by J. E. A. Jolliffe, who wrote that “tears and prostrations, violence and contrition, the kiss of peace and the stab in the back, were recurrent moods of statecraft when nerves lay closer to the surface than they do today and conventions of restraints were weaker.” Bloch turned eventually to explain medieval emotionalism in term of medieval culture, sensitivity to the supernatural, and the absence of “moral or social” conventions that would later require even “well-bred people to repress their tears and their raptures.” Elias backed these arguments, focusing on the parallel “psychical process” of civilization and repression. The authors mentioned in the article describe a very long period of history, Bloch and Jolliffe focusing on high-medieval society, Huizinga on late-medieval, and Elias on early modern. White (who does not investigate past the thirteenth century), however, brings attention to the fact that medieval anger seems to have been appropriate when expressed by ruling males in political settings, where it was used to justify violent responses, involving “a quasi-juridical appraisal of the action,” which was construed “as an injury.” His own thesis is that what appeared as incoherent anger was rather a staged emotion, with precise juridical implications. He concludes that displays of anger were actually appropriate “in a relatively stable, enduring discourse of disputing, feuding, and political competition.” In other terms, these were not emotional displays at all.82

81

Stephen D. White, “The Politics of Anger,” in Anger’s Past: The Social Uses of Emotion in the Middle Ages, ed. Barbara H. Rosenwein (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998), 127-52. All quotes in the following page come from this essay. 82 As an aside, it may be permissible to dismiss poor diet as contributing factor to emotionalism, at least for the nobility, whose behavior is the subject of this analysis. For the richness and quality of medieval diet see Two Fifteenth-Century Cookery Books, Harleian MS. 279 (1430) & Harleian MS. 4016 (1450), ed.

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Chastellain’s account could be the flip side of White’s argument. Anger may well be a political tool for the powerful, but in this period such tool (and the power that it conveys) is so restricted that it is even unavailable to an independent duke chastising his own son. In many situations there were expectations of restraint, whereby actions and statements assumed much higher credibility when dissociated from anger. As an example, Chastellain narrates a scene in which a son of the count of Saint-Pol went to the court of Louis XI to represent his father, who had been summoned to answer various charges. The young man marched into the hall, then in the king’s presence threw his gauntlet on the floor and excitedly challenged anyone to combat who dared accuse his father. The reaction was shock: the king asked him earnestly to calm down, and then had “this madman” forcibly removed from his presence, as he was afraid of his temper.83 Far from aiding his father’s cause, the display of uninhibited anger damaged the young man’s credibility. Likewise, JeanJuvénal des Ursins, in a letter to his brother Guillaume who had been appointed chancellor of the king in 1445, advises him to control his temper, first, by avoiding “activeté” that is, the tendency to jump to hasty opinions interrupting others, and then by controlling displays of anger: “at times you are irascible, despite your good temper, and when you were young I could tell from your expression and gestures […] And for this be warned to take care; and you may in the privacy of your room look at your face when you are angry, and this may help you to control it.” But he distinguishes between shows of anger and rightful anger (indignation) that the honest man feels at seeing things go badly.84 The ability to forbid open expressions of anger in others was a sign of supremacy, and the fact that many had lost the privilege of such public displays is a sign of an evermore inhibited and regulated society. This applied also to the prince, whose angry outbursts, far from providing juridical legitimacy to his actions, could be ridiculed. The judgmental Commynes often lingers on the weaknesses of princes in general, who end Thomas Austin (London: Early English Texts Society, 1888). Paradoxically, anger was reputed to be caused by eating “choleric” foods, like meat. 83 (“Beau seigneur, parlez un peu plus bas, et refroidez vostre sang. Vous estes malement esmu. […] ce fol”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:432-3. 84 (“et tant plus est ung homme preudomme, et tant plus se courrouce […] toutevoye vous estes aucunement collorique [sic], non obstant que ayez bonne complexion, et ay veu que quant vous estiez jeune que il paroit bien a vostre visage et maniere que estiez courroucé; […] Et pour ce advisez y et vous en gardez; et appart povez en vostre chambre regarder en ung mirouer vostre visaige quant estes courroucé, et ce vous pourra refrener”). Jean-Juvénal des Ursins, Écrits politiques de Jean Juvénal des Ursins (Paris: C. Klincksieck, 1978), 468-72.

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up being “less controlled in their actions than others, both because of less discipline imposed on them as children, and because, once they are grown, most men learn to adapt to their moods and wishes.” Yet he supplies an explicit example of how this habit could damage a reputation. He recalls a scene that took place at Louis XI’s court: the king had instructed the author and a Burgundian envoy to hide behind a screen and listen in while an unaware emissary of the count of Saint-Pol performed a pantomime for the king’s amusement, parodying Charles the Bold in a fit of rage, with much stomping of feet and swearing by Saint George. The king had a great time embarrassing the Burgundian envoy, and made his unwitting actor perform the scene repeatedly, feigning partial deafness.85 Rather than serve as examples of medieval tendency to excess, the above anecdotes mark the boundaries of acceptability, much as in our culture we forgive open displays of anger only by certain people and in selected situations (for example by athletes under stress).86 In general, one notices an erosion of independence of the nobility, manifested in part by the loss of the prerogative to anger, as the indignant baron was being replaced by the repressed, cautious courtier. Even chivalric romances of the period accept anger only in certain situations, while cold and clever revenge was much more admired (as in the above example of Jean de Saintré). Far from seeing these people as uncontrolled, I would venture to say that, if the sophistication of a society can be judged by its level of hypocrisy, fifteenth-century nobility, with its politeness, mandatory use of terms of endearment (such as “brother” or “cousin”) even in hostile situations, was quite sophisticated. When situations involved third parties, the careful weighing of risks in situations of potential conflict was even more inhibiting. Chastellain narrates how Philip’s valet Jean Coustain, fearing loss of employment under his successor, plotted to poison the count of Charolais. An accomplice revealed the plot to two knights of the duke’s household, and 85 (“sont plus enclins a toutes choses voluntaires que autres hommes, tant pour la nourriture et petit chastoy qu’ilz ont eu en leurs jeunesses, que pour ce que, venans en l’aage d’homme, la pluspart des gens taschent à leur complaire et à leurs complexions et condicions”). Commynes, Mémoires, 1:1-2. The comical scene is in Mémoires, 2:49-50. The author may have embellished the story for his audience, but the point that the duke’s childish anger was ridiculous is well made. 86 Forsyth (Group Dynamics, 155) contends that low status within a group demands conformity (which in some societies implies controlling emotions), while high status tolerates non conformity, and cites Hollander’s theory of “idiosyncrasy credits,” which accumulates for certain members during the course of group interaction. Apparently, at this point few could claim them, not even princes.

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they in turn revealed it to Charles, who then went to his father seeking justice with a letter implicating the culprits. Chastellain explains that, knowing his father’s aversion to drama, Charles had been coached to remain calm in talking about his upcoming murder. In keeping with the light tone of the interview, after the count had told Philip how he had been “close to losing his heir,” the father replied casually that if God wanted to deprive him of his last son, so be it. Apparently, however, Charles and his friends had not fully anticipated the duke’s reaction. The latter showed less indignation against his murderous valet than against the knights who had gone to the intended victim without warning him first, thus preventing him from handling discreetly the potential scandal. He did allow his son to have Coustain and the accomplice executed, but secretly and out of town, and soon returned the culprit’s confiscated property to the widow, who remained in the duke’s good graces.87 It appears that explosions of rage, even among the elites, were either suppressed or allowed expression only to be followed by embarrassment or ridicule. This uniformity of reaction points to a society that valued selfcontrol above the venting of (even rightful) anger, quite the opposite of White’s findings for an earlier period. While this control of overt aggression seems to go hand-in-hand with the absence of aggression displayed in chivalric encounters, these findings paradoxically complicate the issue, rather than simplifying it. Lorenz believes that aggression is an adaptive instinct bred into all animals, to preserve a healthy space among individuals of the same species and thus ensure the availability of resources for the entire species. Man, as the result of this evolutionary process, is born with a need for aggression, but the constraints of civilization confine him to “insufficient discharge of his aggressive drive,” hence the need for cathartic relief of aggressive instincts through playacting and sports.88 Yet the stifled rituals of tournaments and real-life inhibition of violence at least among the upper crust, seem to argue for a different conclusion, which bears witness to Bandura’s assertion (cited at the opening of the chapter) that aggression is the product of more than one cultural component. As an added twist, from other testimonies we find that the ruler most imbued with chivalric culture, Philip the Good, seemed least interested in real-life aggression, and in fact strove to control his own 87

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:234-69. Du Clerq (Mémoires, 104-8) reports the episode more succinctly, but in similar terms. 88 Lorenz, On Aggression, 243, 280. Going back to literature, see the repressed humiliation of Gawain, who, under extreme provocation, “schrank for schome” as “Alle Þe blode in his brest blende in his face.” Andrew and Waldron, “Gawain,” lines 2371-2, 294.

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anger or at least give vent to it only in private. While Louis XI, a man of bourgeois tastes and who (medieval and modern historians agree) despised the culture of chivalry, displayed ruthless aggression in interpersonal dealings.89 At this point it becomes apparent why a question as simple as “does staged violence influence violent behavior” is still baffling psychologists. If staged “violence” had so little impact on fifteenth-century reality, what was its function? And if it was a tool of social control, why was it so appealing? It seems likely that its popularity was due to its claim to be a repository of rituals that preserved cherished aristocratic values and traditions. Precisely at a time when chivalry was in danger of losing its normative value because of its diminishing role in various aspects of society, the importance of its alleged rituals was extolled beyond reason, while in fact by then they survived only as obsessive fantasies, which were not a mirror of reality but a substitute for it. In its staged form knighthood was supposed to be a meritocracy and a knight was ennobled by his deeds, therefore, given the nature and purpose of the warrior class, the hero’s ascent had to be achieved through violence, and also through the observance of rules that softened it. Reality, though, was membership to chivalric clubs reduced to a matter of politics, when it was open even to infants, as long as they belonged to the princely caste, and being used as reward or lure for potential adult supporters; or John Paston I declining knighthood perhaps because it represented more of an expensive bother than an honor; or Edward IV, who appreciated the trappings of jousts but revealed the practical mentality of a wool trader, settling for money to forsake the conquest of France and with it the potential glory for the House of York.90 It seems that societies tend to overemphasize a belief when it is no longer practiced, yet assumed to have been widely practiced in an idealized past. It is not surprising, then, that precisely at a time in which displays of chivalric prowess were becoming less relevant and were losing their function as outlets for real aggression, their importance in reaffirming a common culture was reaching its apogee. 89

For his aversion to chivalric displays see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:136-7. But apparently (Mandrot, Dépèches, 4:157) the king declared himself ready to break ten lances in honor of Count Galeazzo’s wedding (a vain boast?) 90 For example, Henry VI was knighted as a toddler by his uncle the duke of Bedford, and Charles the Bold at the baptismal font. A Chronicle of London from 1089 to 1483, ed. A. Nicholas Herris and E. Tyrrell (London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, 1827), 114; Monstrelet, Chronique, 5:81. The other examples are in Paston Letters, liv; Commynes, Mémoires, 2:75-76, Basin, Louis XI, 2:241.

IV. POWER PLAYS

IV.1. Framework Bertrand Russell wrote that “the fundamental concept in social science is Power, in the same sense in which Energy is the fundamental concept in physics.” Power plays are central to understanding the interpersonal behavior of princes of this period, who have captured popular imagination with their reputation of plotters and murderers.1 The fifteenth century, which was announced with the suspicious death of the deposed Richard II in England, opened as well with the scandalous murder of the most powerful man in France, the king’s brother Louis, duke of Orléans. In the course of the bloody civil war that ensued, the instigator of the murder, Duke John the Fearless of Burgundy, was in his turn murdered, and this gave rise to a series of dramatic power plays, which spanned France, Burgundy, and England. At different times through the century and in all three countries bonds of vassalage seemed suddenly to be broken, leading to dog-eat-dog lawlessness. On the continent, even after the treaty of Arras of 1435, that formally ended hostilities between Burgundy and France, rivalries and conspiracies continued, associated at first with the flight to Burgundy of the dauphin Louis, then with the revolt of the French nobility against the same Louis, now King Louis XI, known as the war of the Public Weal, and finally with the protracted rivalry 1

The quote is in Forsyth, Group Dynamics, 180 (in the following page he gives Max Weber’s definition of power as “the probability that one actor within a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his own will despite resistance”). Huizinga (Herfsttij, 12) talks of the “undertone of dark hatred” of French history of the period. The dark reputation of princes of this era has become a truism among modern authors. Spencer (Basin, 229) mentions “the sordid intrigues, conspiracies, and court rivalries that make up so much of fifteenth-century politics.” And Vaughan (John the Fearless, 73), in talking about the punishment requested for John the Fearless by his Orléanist adversaries (rather mild in my opinion) comments on it being “characteristic of the mental or moral savagery of the age.”

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between the king and the duke of Burgundy that eventually led to the dismemberment of the duchy to the profit of France and the Empire. Likewise, continental writers such as Commynes and Molinet remarked with horror and fascination on the infighting, murders, and usurpations that characterized English history after the loss of French territories. Commynes in particular drew direct parallels between the turmoil he had witnessed on the continent and that which occurred in England.2 Despite a general absence of familiarity with the facts, these events have helped to paint the century of the “mighty subjects” with the dark colors of intrigue, faithlessness, and treason. John Gillingham summarizes the phenomenon concisely when he states that the English nobles of that period are unjustly perceived as “a savage, turbulent, and greedy lot of over-mighty subjects, whose only historical function was to commit suicide in the Wars of the Roses, so leaving the way open for the Tudors to take England into a better and more modern world.”3 The social background of these fractured relations was well known to contemporaries. On the one hand, the Hundred Years War brought about heightened expectations of territorial gains on the part of the English nobility, soon frustrated, and on the continent a similar expectation was raised by the rapid ascent of the quasi-independent Burgundian state.4 On the other hand, crown’s prerogatives became cheapened as the century started under long-reigning, weak and mad kings, reduced to watching helplessly on the sidelines the mutual destruction of their most powerful supporters. The presence of feeble rulers opened up the field to jousting for position on the part of the upper nobility and complicated successions: in France, it allowed a bid on the part of a foreign king, and in England it brought into question the continuity of the Lancastrian dynasty. By (roughly) the second half of the century, strong-willed rulers followed the weak ones, and further encouraged divisions and jealousies by creating a 2

Molinet, Chroniques, 1:430-5 (his information on English events is confused and often inaccurate) and Commynes, Mémoires, 1:52-54, 2:332-4. 3 Gillingham, War of the Roses, 6. 4 On the attitude of the English lords, forced to abandon France under Henry VI after heightened expectations during the previous reign, Commynes (Mémoires, 1:53) says, “nul ne voulut diminuer son estat. Les biens n’estoient au royaulme d’Angleterre pour satisfaire à tous. Guerre se meut entre eulx pour leurs auctoritéz…” See also Basin, Charles VII, 2:61-63. Rosemary Horrox presents the idea of service as central to the medieval mentality, and analyzes its breakdown in England in the years 1483-1485. Rosemary Horrox, “Service,” in FifteenthCentury Attitudes: Perceptions of Society in Late Medieval England, ed. Rosemary Horrox (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 61-78.

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class of courtiers to rival the landed nobility. The controversial nature of fifteenth-century leading figures, John the Fearless, Louis XI, Charles the Bold, the Earl of Warwick, and Richard III, has attracted the attention of biographers, while the most dramatic of conflicts (for their consequences), those between John the Fearless and Louis of Orléans and Charles the Bold and Louis XI, have been the subject of several articles and monographs. In addition, the presence of mad kings has inspired a few works that openly make use of psychiatric terminology.5 The paradox concerning nobles of this period is that so many seem to fit the popular view of the “Machiavellian” prince. This trait is summarized cleverly by Brandt, who, in his provocative work on the mentality of medieval chronicles, The Shape of Medieval History, argues that they depict the aristocrat’s life as a series of “prescribed stances,” taken within the confines of a chivalric universe in which interest in the motives of his peers was limited to “a very simple kind of anticipation of response.” Relationships among aristocrats, in his views, were reduced to a chess game in which one-upmanship was the only possible outcome.6 On the other hand, Huizinga’s powerful image of late-medieval aristocrats as a shallow and hedonistic lot, languidly conjuring a sublime lifestyle to cover up their lack of purpose in political life, still resonates with the public, also because it vaguely recalls another aspect of medieval “emotionalism,” a tendency to tearfulness and unrestrained displays of grief and shame, which I will also discuss in this chapter.7 What to make, then, of latemedieval princes? Were they calculating and ruthless conspirators, cold machines programmed for deadly games of supremacy, or depressed and useless remnants of an obsolete breed of warriors wallowing in self-pity? And are these two apparently opposite visions mutually exclusive after all?

IV.2. Machiavellian Princes To look for answers this chapter examines some of the most notorious princely rivalries through the insight gained from the intriguing work of a group of researchers led by two psychologists, Richard Christie and Florence Geis, in 1970. This is a study on the behavior of peer groups in which the goal is one-upmanship (in an artificial laboratory setting, but not so far removed from that of our princes). Christie and Gies noted that there 5

Some of these works are cited throughout this book. Famiglietti’s work on the madness of Charles VI is mentioned in the Introduction. 6 Brandt, Medieval History, 106, 146. 7 Huizinga (Herfsttij, 32, 34.) does not use clinical terms, but reflects on the “deep melancholy,” “despair,” and “pessimism” of contemporary sources.

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seem to be two broad categories of personalities to which correspond two opposite ways of approaching adversarial interactions. Members of one group, whom they call “high-Machs,” score high on so-called “Machiavellian” traits. The authors define these traits in popular terms, and this meaning, admittedly anachronistic, is used here for simplicity’s sake. Taking inspiration from the portrait of Machiavelli’s purportedly ideal prince, they think of high-Machs as people who display “notable lack of affect in interpersonal relationships, lack of concern with conventional morality […] and low ideological commitment,” and who enter interactions “from the belief that man is weak and gullible and that an intelligent person can use this knowledge to his ends.”8 By inference, they come up with an opposite group, whom they call “low-Machs,” people who approach interactions from the opposite belief of reciprocity and fair play (naturally, these two are extreme on a continuum, with most subjects falling somewhere in between).9 The usefulness of this study goes beyond its function of enhancing understanding of fifteenth-century actors and interpreting more systematically their sometime puzzling behavior. Here psychology may also serve as a tool to debunk the myth of exceptional deviousness associated with this era. In fact, despite the compelling portraits of some high-Mach princes provided by contemporary historians, I suspect that low-Mach traits were far more common among them.10 The bulk of 8

Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 7. Christie and Gies were pioneers in studies on Machiavellianism, and their research spurred a brief but intense interest among psychologists, that has since waned. For a recent review of their theory and differing evolutionary perspectives see David Sloan Wilson, David Near, and Ralph R. Miller, “Machiavellianism: A Synthesis of Evolutionary and Psychological Literatures,” Psychological Bulletin 119 no.2 (1996): 285-99. 9 From a theoretical viewpoint, however, the results of their study insofar as establishing an accurate correlation between Machiavellian personality traits and Machiavellian set of beliefs have been criticized as incomplete (and even misleading). John E. Hunter, David W. Gerbing, Franklin J. Boster, “Machiavellian Beliefs and Personality: Construct Invalidity of the Machiavellianism Dimension,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 43 No. 6 (1982): 1293-1305. Also Simon Kemp (whose work will be examined in detail in the Conclusion) observes that studies in Machiavellianism, now not popular, may have been victim of the recent tendency to abandon personality typology based on dimensions. Simon Kemp, Medieval Psychology (New York: Greenwood Press, 1990), 103. 10

Paravicini comes close to the same conclusion (but without explicit reference to works of psychology) in an article in which he investigates the origin of the repeated conspiracies against Louis XI, to find their motivation in a general sense of insecurity. Werner Paravicini, “Peur, pratiques, intelligences. Formes de

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primary evidence comes from the works of Basin, Chastellain, Commynes, and (to a lesser extent) the Crowland Chronicler, all writers who shared a common opinion on their subject matter. First, that the conflicts that they recorded were exceptional and of far reaching consequences, and second, that they had much to do with individual personalities. The second point is noteworthy, because it illustrates a psychological focus on explaining human actions, which is absent in previous writers. For example, Monstrelet, who deals with the first half of the century, is punctilious and methodical when describing behavior, but limited in analysis of motives (even if a great improvement over Froissart), leaving the early characters of these histories rather pale and ill-defined. But as events approach the living memory of the second generation of writers, from Chastellain to Commynes, the stage becomes much livelier. Burgundian writers appear uncomfortable with John the Fearless. His cowardly murder of Louis duke of Orléans seems to embarrass them, as it placed Burgundy in the wrong at the onset of the civil wars. Some of them attempted (with more or less success) to portray the victim as deserving of his fate: he was haughty and capricious, an irresponsible spender, a selfish oppressor of common people through taxes, not quite a villain, but neither totally innocent. Monstrelet bemoans the events of the fateful evening of November 23, 1407, when hired assassins hacked him to death in the streets of Paris, but mainly because of the wider consequences of the murder.11 During the hasty funeral the coffin was carried by the peers of the realm, including an innocent-acting John. But witnesses had spotted the assassins as they took refuge in the Hotel d’Artois, Burgundy’s Parisian residence, and the provost of the city was sniffing the truth. Shaken, John confessed to his uncles the dukes of Berry and Anjou that he had ordered the murder, “tempted by the devil,” then, seeing the shock with which his confession was received, fled the capital for his northern l’opposition aristocratique à Louis XI d’après les interrogatories du connétable de Saint-Pol,” in La France de la fin du XVe siècle. Renouveau et apogee, ed. B. Chevalier and P. Contamine (Paris: Editions du centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1985), 183-96. 11 Monstrelet (Chronique, 1:154) calls the murder “la plus doloreuse et piteuse adventure que en long temps par avant fut advenue ou très chrestien royaume de France, pour la mort d’un seul homme.” De la Marche (Mémoires, 1:198-200) reluctantly admits that John “fist tuer” his rival. Basin, more partisan, calls him (Charles VII, 1:11), “vir utique generosi et excelsi animi” and tries to justify the murder (as discussed later). The author of the Livre des trahisons (“Trahisons,”1617) accuses Louis of plotting John’s death, thus introducing an element of selfdefense. Chastellain starts his first book with the murder of John the Fearless in 1419 and Commynes with 1464.

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lands.12 Once safe he completely changed attitude: now he openly boasted of the murder, representing it as tyrannicide and going on the attack against the victim. Monstrelet narrates the painful and protracted civil war that ensued, during which the victim’s widow and orphan sons fought in vain with their adherents to force the culprit to confession, penance, and exile, only hinting obliquely at the real cause for all this, namely the absence of royal initiative to punish the murderer of his own brother, a painful consequence of the long-lasting madness of Charles VI. The more opinionated Basin, whose Burgundian sympathies arouse his passions, uses the victim’s reputation as a ladies’ man to build a theory based on jealousy. Orléans allegedly flirted with the beautiful duchess of Burgundy, Margaret of Bavaria. When the virtuous lady rejected his distasteful advances, he attempted to force her, and her husband naturally had to avenge her honor.13 The anonymous Burgundian apologist author of the Livre des Trahisons is more openly dishonest. First, he reminds the reader of the victim’s bad qualities, his failure at retaking Calais from the English (incompetence) and his aborted attempt at obtaining the regency (deviousness). Then, casually, he informs us that he incurred “a bad wind” for which he “was thrown” from his horse and lost a hand, as the provost of Paris in vain rushed in with his men. The author then immediately switches to the false display of grief by the Parisians, for whom the late duke had only represented high taxes.14 As a matter of fact, John never mentioned personal reasons in his brazen defense, a long harangue delivered by Master Jean Petit, a theologian of the University of Paris, and reported in full by Monstrelet. On the contrary, he built a case for having acted in the common interest, consistent with his policy of representing the “popular” party, which had in vain opposed the mad expenditures and out-of-control taxation of the 12

(“par l’introduction du dyable”). Monstrelet, Chronique, 1:162. Le Fèvre (Chronique, 1:6) adds his own (realistic) opinion, “par la temptacion du Diable, par envie d’avoir le gouvernement du roialme, comme l‘on disoit.” Vaughan (John the Fearless, 45-46) reports the colorful narrative of the murder by an eyewitness, who described the attackers hitting the already prostrate victim like “a mattress” as he cried out who were they and why were they killing him. Jean-Juvénal des Ursins (“Histoire de Charles VI,” 437) does not indulge in speculations, but makes it clear that there had been rivalry between Burgundy and Orléans. 13 Basin, Charles VII, 1:13. Since he is the only author to report this, it is possible that he misinterpreted an open letter of Charles VI justifying the murder, among other things, because the victim had attempted to rape the wife of the dauphin, daughter of Duke John. Wielant, “Flandre,” 366. 14 (“un mauvais vent […] rués”[sic]) “Trahisons,” 20-21. Calmette (Burgundy, 8081) also states that the people were relieved that Orléans.had been killed.

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reckless nobility headed by Orléans. For good measure, he added dark hints at royal ambitions on the part of the victim, twisting every innocuous episode of his life to expose it as an attempt at murdering the king and his legitimate heirs. Petit, who was not a lawyer, based the defense entirely upon biblical examples of judicial murders, anecdotes in which loyal servants had taken the initiative to remove from a king’s side a dangerous presence (for example, Joab’s killing of the rebellious Absalom against King David’s orders). Guenée states that the harangue was received by most as “scandalous and perverse,” and Vaughan labeled it “one of the most insolent pieces of political chicanery and theological casuistry in all history.”15 Contemporary historians, however, felt compelled to find personal reasons for a crime that approached fratricide, as murderer and victim were cousins and, in theory, shared the same interest in the welfare of the kingdom. A public act if ever there was one, and applauded by the proBurgundian Parisians who accepted it as such, it was not interpreted so easily by the shocked authors. Clearly, the writers, who represented the legitimate government, did not like John’s brand of violent populism with its potential for inciting rebellions. As Guenée has argued, political murder was not rare in that period, but at this high level among close relatives it was so far unprecedented, whence the unease of aristocratic chroniclers in dealing with it. On the other hand, political panegyrists like the author of the Livre des Trahisons seem much more detached from the human aspects of the drama, and ready to justify John’s actions. In the allegorical poem Le pastoralet, written in the 1420s, a period of partisan tensions when the outcome of Burgundy’s war against the dauphin Charles was far from evident, one continues to find malicious attacks against the dead Louis of Orléans: in not-so-veiled form the writer accuses him of having

15

(“scandaleuse et perverse”). Guenée, Un meurtre, 198 and Vaughan, John the Fearless, 70. For the lengthy arguments of the defense see Monstrelet, Chronique, 1:177-242 and Religieux, Chronique, 3:764-5 (who mockingly leaves to theologians to decide whethere the arguments of the defense were erroneous or ridiculous). The most notorious episode of “attempted regicide” appears instead caused by Louis’s carelessly childish behavior. At a costume party in 1392, where the king and other courtiers were masquerading as wild men and wearing furs glued by tar, the duke teasingly approached the dancers with a torch to unmask them, and accidentally set their costumes on fire. The king and another knight survived the ordeal, but five others burned like torches in front of the horrified guests, an event for which the duke felt quite contrite. Froissart, Chronicle, 343-6.

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been the queen’s lover, and having thus provoked (unspecified) disasters.16 Writing half a century after the events, when the partisanship of the two sides had evolved into a permanent political stance, Chastellain moved closer to accepting the most logical and simple motive for the murder, the long-standing rivalry between the two dukes for influence over the weak king.17 What turned this private blood feud into a civil war was that the offender, after the first moment of panic and hasty confession, refused categorically to apologize for the murder, trying instead to smear both the young successor of his victim, the adolescent Charles, and the memory of the victim himself. A typical exchange is a letter of John to Charles of Orléans, in which he addresses the young duke with the contemptuous “Charles, who call thyself duke of Orléans,” a typical formula of challenge, adding “We had to kill your father, a traitor to the king. Our duty as doyen of peers and closer to the king than anyone else” was to stop his “false actions and disloyal felonies […You and your brothers] have lied and lie falsely, evilly, and disloyally, like the false disloyal traitors that you are.”18 The war of words at the top translated into a war of sieges and brutal acts of revenge among followers. But this was also a war of propaganda, as both sides tried to convince cities to turn themselves over to them, each claiming to represent legal authority and in turn dragging along the hapless king to add evidence to their claims. From its onset the conflict seems also cast along social lines, with the princes eventually coalescing to the Orléanist party while some guilds, such as the powerful butchers of Paris, stood by the Burgundians. The endless open letters and proclamations issued from each side and carefully recorded by Monstrelet impart to the conflict the character of a nasty political campaign, in which the passions aroused among the common people have nothing to do with the judicial case that originated it. This conflict clearly was not ideological but personal, and yet much of the vehement language of outraged principles seems created for public consumption, with ideologies or “values” fitted in by propagandists. As for John’s populism, publicized by his connection with the Parisian butchers, it still amazes how well it strengthened his hand for a 16

Le pastoralet, ed. Joel Blanchard (Paris: presses universitaires de France, 1983), 13-14. The accusation may be unfounded, given the queen’s lack of physical appeal by this time. Guenée, Un meurtre, 147. 17 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:15-20. 18 (“Charles, quy te dis duc d’Orléans […] faulseté et desloyalle félonnie […] avés menty et mentés faulssement, mauvaisement et desléalement, comme faulx et desloyaux traystres que vous estes”). “Trahisons,” 85.

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while.19 The obvious conclusion seems to be that John was a high-Mach, a prototype of the devious princes of the period. He deliberately played on the victim’s unpopularity, was willing to gamble that his military superiority would earn him immunity, and showed no scruples in his choice of allies from lowly commoners to the invader Henry V. However I suggest that he was a low-Mach. One of the most useful findings from the research of Christie and Gies is not that there are major differences in behavior between high- and low-Machs, but in the motivation for behavior. In particular, they examined patterns of cheating (admittedly rather tame as bad behavior goes, but the worst that can be legitimately elicited in a laboratory settings), and found that both groups are capable of cheating, but for different reasons. High-Machs cheat when the inducement is great and the risks low, that is, they act from a purely cognitive framework. This because they see the world as a hunting ground where no rules apply except to grab anything that is theirs for the taking. While the low-Machs cheat when personal reasons are high (for example to help a partner) and always act from a “moral” framework. They tend to see human relationships as operating within rules of fairness, and act “badly” when they perceive these rules to be broken by someone else.20 John’s motivation for the murder seems to have been the perception that Orléans, who already had increased his personal power at the expense of John’s late father Philip the Bold, now was usurping a position of privilege that rightly belonged to Burgundy. The first clue is his attitude toward the victim and toward the murder itself. Jean Petit did not come up with the brazen defense all by himself. The argument of tyrannicide, albeit contrived and tortuous, seems to have reflected John’s true thinking. His subsequent loyalty toward his supporters, hired assassins and rebellious Parisians alike, in the face of the disadvantages brought about by such behavior, is understandable only when placed within a framework of this “moral” belief. Modern historians are as baffled as some medieval ones at his apparent lack of scruples when dealing with his peers, and yet at his steadfast loyalty toward his servants, even when it could have been expedient for him to throw the murderers to the Orléanists as a compromise. They think of John as a high-Mach (terminology apart), yet cannot explain why he failed to manifest some of the most typical high-

19

For example in removing John’s adversaries from around the dauphin through “spontaneous” mob action. Religieux, Chronique, 5:16-18. The Paris revolt of 1413 will be discussed in Chapter VI. 20 Christie and Gies, Machiavellianism, 251-6.

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Mach behavior. But his many supporters seem to have understood John and acted toward him from within his same system of beliefs.21 Despite the indignant and persuasive rebuttal of the widow’s lawyer, John stuck to his version of facts for the rest of his life. Guenée reports that some of his own servants begged him to reconcile himself with young Orléans, or at least apologize for murdering his father, but that he stood firm, as “his honor” was at stake. And in a letter to the king written in the fall 1413 he uses typically low-Mach arguments to speak of the victimization of his servants left at the royal court, where it was becoming a crime “to mention even one word in my favor.”22 He really seems to have believed himself the victim of a plot headed by Orléans to remove him from a position of prominence close to the king that was his due. In the psychological parlance of Christie and Gies, he judged his rival from an idealized assumption of fair tactics. Once the latter was out of the way, he never seems to have seen that young Charles and his brothers, denied justice, were only doing their duty in seeking vindication for their father’s murder. One must not be fooled by John’s initial confession. While clinging to the belief in his righteousness, John knew that this act placed him outside his own circle of peers, and tried to hide his part in it. Once faced with a dangerous investigation, he blurted out his guilt to trusted elderly uncles as if appealing for forgiveness. On the following day, he tried to cajole the count of Saint-Pol to stand by his side as a council meeting convened to discuss his case. Once these attempts at leaning on family did not succeed, he had no recourse but to walk the road alone and build a new persona in the role of outsider and champion of the people. The very need for allies in a moral cause when faced with a crisis is a typical low-Mach attitude that will be encountered again in other characters. Further, as the civil wars unfolded John did not seem to have predicted, and even less manipulated, critical situations, rather he seems strangely out of control, as in the aftermaths of the cabochien revolt of Paris (which will be discussed in Chapter VI), or in his relations with the series of young dauphins, all situations in which he came out emptyhanded more than once. John, Guenée argues, was clumsy at court, perhaps a consequence of the two years that he spent as prisoner in Turkey 21

Vaughan (John the Fearless, 214) calls him one of the “champion doublecrossers of the age,” but mentions (47-48) that he gave a pension and lifelong protection to the ringleader of the assassins. Guenée (Un meurtre, 145) mentions that he was relentless against his enemies but loyal to his own. For an example of steadfast loyalty among his supporter see “Trahisons,” 105-7. 22 (“michi eciam verbo favere”). Religieux, Chronique, 5:214-5. The “honor” argument is in Moranville’s Chroniques as cited in Guenée, Un meurtre, 227.

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after the disaster of Nicopolis. Despite his attempts at influencing the king and later the queen, his position was far from stable, and as a low-Mach he preferred the well-defined relation with his own subjects than the ambiguous one with the court. A generation later, in England, John’s outlook will find echo in that of Richard duke of York, another powerful outsider who would drink, in Michael Jones’s words, from the “poisoned chalice” of victimization.23 When the civil war among the French nobility favored Henry V in his bid for the French throne, John played an ambiguous part. But was this ambiguity the fruit of cynical calculation, as Vaughan has suggested, or uncertainty? As he was negotiating with the conqueror he was approached by the last surviving son of Charles VI, the adolescent Charles. While a high-Mach would have seized the opportunity to manipulate the two pretenders to the throne to fight each other, John first launched attacks against the dauphin’s entourage, calling them (falsely) “low-born” and “foreigners” (meaning southerners or Bretons), thieves, bent on robbing the royal treasury, “false traitors, rebels, perjurers […] tyrants […] poisoners,” since Charles’s elder brothers had “obviously” been poisoned. Then, after provoking their anger and steeling their determination to be rid of him, he accepted a risky personal meeting with the dauphin, who was convinced by the conspirators to allow them to murder the duke on that occasion. John’s statement as he prepared for his last encounter with destiny on a bridge at Montereau is typically low-Mach: “that were he to be killed in going to that interview, he would consider himself a martyr.”24 In other terms, he did suspect a murderous plot, but once again compelled by “honor” he could not refuse the meeting, a fatalism that does not sit well with high-Machs, for whom potentially antagonistic situations are approached cognitively to seek personal advantage, and not emotionally. The rest of the story is well known: the duke advanced through the elaborate gates, welcomed by smiles from the dauphin’s retinue. When he knelt to his prince, suddenly he was struck in the face with a sword, then, as he tried to stand up, another blow to the stomach pinned him to the bridge. The few Burgundians with him fled, and the dauphin coldly left, 23

Jones, Bosworth, 55. Guenée, Un meurtre, 145. For his relation with the dauphins see Guenée, Un meurtre, 223-4, 266. 24 (“faux traistres, seditieux, perjures […] tirans […] que si on le tuoit en allant à ladite assemblée, qu’il se tiendroit pour martyr”). Guenée, Un meurtre, 269, 280. Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 1:30-31) also has him assume the mantle of martyrdom. According to Christie and Geis (Machiavellianism, 51, 131) highMachs prefer ambiguous, ill-defined situations where they can manipulate events to their advantage.

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his task as accessory complete. This time, the author of the Livre des Trahisons does not mince words: the dauphin’s servants “with a terrible and detestable murder killed treasonably the noble duke John.”25 Lest one may think that low-Machs are less intelligent than highMachs, Christie and Geis emphasize repeatedly that low-Machs are bested only in situations of “ego involvement” that is, emotionally charged ones. A good example of a low-Mach who almost always was successful in his endeavors and often victorious in power games is John’s successor Philip the Good, who also illustrates the vast range of personalities that can be grouped under the same label. One of the most important differences between Philip and his father is that John had been extremely suspicious while Philip tended to be trusty (the adjective that writers consistently pin on him is “débonnaire”).26 During his whole reign, but in particular in his later years, he projected the benign image of a happy man, satisfied with his achievements and magnanimous with others. The appellative of “good” stuck even while he was also known for his years of relentless warring against the dauphin (later Charles VII) on the side of Henry V and then of Henry VI, to avenge his own murdered father.27 The long period of his rule fills the bulk of the Chroniques of Chastellain, who, with not little relief, starts his narrative from John’s murder in 1419, after a rather lame attempt at showing the late duke as repentant. With that uncomfortable presence out of the way, the writer pours out his indignation and laments treason, turning the readers’ attention to a picture of injured innocence. When the young count of Charolais, Philip, aged twenty-two, received the news of the events at Montereau, he fainted on his bed with a scream. A flurry of ladies rushed to succor him, while his wife, Michelle of France, sister of the murderous dauphin, swooned in tears. Chastellain, who is in his element with family dramas, lingers on the pity surrounding the 25 (“par ung terrible et détestable murder occhirent le noble duc Jehan trayteusement”). “Trahisons,”143-5. The meeting took place on September 10, 1419. For the rapprochement between John and the dauphin, and the possibility of double-crossing on the Burgundian side, see Monstrelet, Chronique, 3:338-46. But Vaughan (John the Fearless, 284-6) dismantles the “Burgundian treason” theory. 26 De la Marche (Mémoires, 1:83) says of John that he “fut homme subtil, doubteux et souppechonneux, et ne se fioit pas en chascun. Et à ceste cause estoit tousjours armé soubz sa robe, et avoit tousjours son espée chainte, et se faisoit doubter et craindre sur tous autlres.” For Philip’s “débonnaireté” and “goodness” see De la Marche, Mémoires, 1:89, Wielant, “Flandre,” 55, and Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:243-8. 27 Paradoxically, it is the Livre des trahisons that judges Philip’s long war of revenge against France in the harshest terms (“mortelle et orrible, sans paix et sans trèves”). “Trahisons,” 146-7.

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orphan, now bent on the grim task of revenge. Naturally, he turned to the only power capable of supporting his quest, and Henry V prodded him to active intervention on his side (one would think, relieved to see a powerful and cautious ally replaced by an inexperienced boy).28 Basin affirms that, in fact, Philip was never of much help to Henry V, while Chastellain, a loyal Frenchman by choice and apparently himself quite a low-Mach, detests the idea of the “unnatural” alliance. He is more than happy to characterize the new duke’s ambiguous policy as one dictated by necessity and filial duty and soon abandoned, and never tires to play up his French loyalties. He also emphasizes the reliance of the English on the young duke: according to him, Henry himself seemed to be aware of the tenuous link that tied him to this essential ally, and condescended to treat him with consideration. During the campaigns of 1422, he rushed to Philip’s bedside when the latter was afflicted by fever, and when the duke asked him for help in fighting the dauphin at SaintDizier, he vowed to come in person, through by now terminally ill. From his deathbed Henry advised his brother the duke of Bedford to allow their “brother” of Burgundy to have the regency of France, if he wished.29 The treaty of Arras of 1435 marks a watershed and a change in the style of Chastellain’s narratives, as the end of open hostilities with France offers the writer the opportunity to focus more on personalities. Philip had imposed the peace from a position of strength while part of France was still in English hands, and the treaty guaranteed his territories a quasiindependent status, at least during his own lifetime. He was now approaching forty, the father of a number of bastards and of one surviving legitimate son, Charles, aged two. The duke was entering his golden years, accepted as a permanent feature on the European scene. His former rival and almost nominal lord, Charles VII, started the long road to reconquest, fighting the tired proxies of the child Henry VI. The two rulers, close in age and destined to long reigns and similar posthumous reputations, and who had risen to power under dramatic circumstances almost at the same time, began a long uneasy relationship. Chastellain, who in his own words 28

Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 1:49-51, 57-61, 69, 73-77). He presents Henry hiding his glee behind harsh demands for military aid, using words that “tranchoient comme rasoirs” (1:73). 29 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:237, 328, Basin, Charles VII, 1:75. Monstrelet (Chronique, 3:98-99) affirms that Philip had to be forcibly kept from going to fight at Agincourt against the invader. But Vaughan (Philip the Good, 16) says that Philip, far from being a loyal ally of Henry V and his successors, sold dear his neutrality while pursuing his own game of aggrandizement in the Low Countries and other northern territories.

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loved both, expresses his bitterness at their cautious and only partial reconciliation that almost ended in open war with interminable pages of lamentations and analyses of motives and in the process leaves us with quite compelling psychological portraits of both.30 Unfortunately, an important component of Charles VII’s personality still remains elusive, despite modern biographies. Even Basin begins his biography of this prince after 1422, which is a problem, as it leaves unanswered his motives for the murder of John the Fearless, an act that may have determined the course of his whole life. According to Chastellain he felt unease, if not guilt, over his early act, and confessed his fears of retribution to his halfsister, hinting at the fact that he mistrusted Philip because he knew that the duke had a legitimate complaint against him.31 In evaluating the behavior of the two rivals in light of Chastellain’s portrayal (and assuming it for the most part accurate), it may be helpful to turn again to Christie and Geis’s terminology. Charles VII appears to have acted more and more as a high-Mach in his relations with Philip. The king’s style transpires especially after the flight of the dauphin to Burgundy in 1456, from his way of dominating exchanges with Philip’s frequent embassies. The king appears tactful, dignified, clever, polite yet direct, and especially in full control of issues and demands, whether asking or chastising. This – as noted earlier – is a characteristic of high-Machs, who approach interactions cognitively and not emotionally, and it is significant that Charles could do this in a matter as personal as this second conflict with his own son (the first being the so-called Praguerie of the 1440s). Chastellain goes on for pages in explaining the two parties’ position, anguished at witnessing his favorite princes at odds. Neither man seems to have met the other in person after the treaty of Arras, as all their communications were through intermediaries. Personal contact might have been distasteful after their odd beginnings, and prudent after the experience of Montereau, but it seems to have caused a hardening of positions under the influence of their respective courtiers. On this point, however, is noteworthy how Chastellain affirms that Charles was never swayed by the 30

In particular see Chastellain, Fragments, 89-94, 178-9, 313 (where he calls it a “paix souppeçonneuse”) and “Chroniques,” 4:1-22. The writer’s disappointment was not altogether naïve: the new relationship between the two rulers had started auspiciously enough, witness the friendly letter of Charles VII to the duke on the occasion of the birth of a son in 1436, who was named after Philip, and addressed to his “[t]rès chier et très amé cousin.” The duke’s reply appears sincere as he wishes happiness and prosperity to the king, queen, and their “noble lignée.” Le Fèvre, Chronique, 2:366-73. 31 Chastellain, Fragments, 312. See also Guenée, Un meurtre, 288.

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“war party” toward open hostilities and a breach of the treaty of Arras, and the borders remained inviolate. This control over the ability of others to influence decisions is typical of high-Machs, who command their own game.32 As time passed, the two men, while still barely respecting the treaty that had been achieved at such a price, became even more estranged. Still, physical distance kept peace, as they were forced to react to each other’s provocations at the stately pace of embassies.33 Basin, like Chastellain, admires Charles and praises his sense of justice and mercy, deploring only his sensuality and laziness. Significantly, Chastellain adds that he was adept at exploiting differences among his courtiers. After his dubious beginnings, writers introduce him as an attractive figure, intelligent, educated, and articulate, once again showing how Machiavellian traits are not limited to shady personalities. The emphasis on intelligence as important quality in kings is a new one, and typically only applied to high-Machs, most likely because of their ability to assume control in unstructured situations (authors attribute the same quality to Louis XI, the ultimate high-Mach). It seems from Chastellain’s perhaps wishful interpretation that Philip thought highly of the king too, and truly wanted to resume Burgundy’s old role as the favorite of the French monarchy, a role that it had enjoyed under Philip the Bold, the much-respected uncle of Charles VI. Even though his contacts with the king were not face-to-face (unlike Christie and Geis’s experimental groups), his emotional low-Mach traits are revealed through the words of his envoys, full of appeals to justice and to the king’s need to read into Philip’s honorable intentions.34 The duke’s tone was always obsequious, overly-eager to adhere to the formalities of vassalage, yet alert to the possibility of straying into subservience, which he considered a breach of the spirit of the treaty of Arras. During the war with his rebellious city of Ghent in 1451-1453 (mentioned in Chapter II), at a time when France had 32

Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 153-5, 250. Calmette, Burgundy, 161. A dramatic series of meetings between Charles and the duke’s envoys is reported in Chastellain, Fragments, 36-75. Only once did the king lose his temper, when he suspected members of his council of having leaked a plan to attack Burgundy (Fragments, 301-3). 33 Commynes (Mémoires, 1:87) warns of the misunderstandings that arise when powerful men deal with each other in person, yet this extreme avoidance was probably not healthy after a while. 34 Chastellain, Fragments, 36. For examples of the king’s qualities see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:181-5, and Basin, Charles VII, 1:275, 2:297-303. On the other hand (2:279-81), he was always surrounded by concubines, whom he lodged with his wife. Christie and Geis (Machiavellianism, 94) make the point that intelligence is found in both types.

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already conquered Normandy and was submitting Gascony, the duke was angrily fighting to reestablish his authority as count of Flanders. Philip kept his lord informed with frequent letters, announcing his progress to forestall any interference, but maintaining the fiction of a loyal subject announcing happy news to a sovereign who would certainly be pleased with victories accomplished in his honor.35 When Charles VII sent ambassadors to “mediate” between duke and rebels, this drove Philip to panic. He begged the king with the utmost urgency to leave the matter to him, not to interfere with his prerogatives to chastise his rebellious subjects, and not to debase his authority. His arguments were based on an assumption of reciprocity, that the king would not wish to humiliate a faithful subject, as Chastellain explains at length, and in line with typical low-Mach mentality. He then did something that, as we saw before, lowMachs do just as much as high-Machs. He cheated, resorting to a hefty bribe to convince the French envoys to pronounce their judgment in his favor. Chastellain evades details, apparently confused by its inconsistency with the duke’s expected honorable behavior, but Christie and Gies would not be surprised.36 The necessity that propelled Philip to a dishonorable action was that everyone sensed a turning of the tables. Now France was the stronger and ready to reaffirm its prerogatives, while Burgundy could no longer count on its traditional ally, as England, under the feeble-minded Henry VI, was inaugurating its own era of civil wars.37 Charles knew this and took his slow, sweet revenge. At a time when, as Chastellain assures us, Philip had the best of intentions, Charles started his game of control. Never the warrior, he preferred more subtle ways of affirming his presence. Deliberately, he weaved a web of alliances to isolate Burgundy, in Basin’s words, like a farmer who prepares to uproot a grand old tree by digging all around it. He sent ushers of parlement to Philip with annoying subpoenas at inopportune moments, and the duke had to remind him, through yet another embassy, that the treaty of Arras exempted him from these petty

35

A typical letter concludes with, “vous suppliant humblement qu’il vous plaise toujours moi mander et rescripre vos bons plaisirs, pour iceulx accomplir à mon pouvoir […] Votre très-humble et très-obéissant, Philippe.” Chastellain, “Choniques,” 2:237n1. 36 Chastellain, “Choniques,” 2:309-10, 326-33. 37 Henry VI reveals his weakness in a series of letters to Charles VII (his “oncle” of France) which show how little he was obeyed. D’Escouchy, Chronique, 3:20410 (pièces justificatifs).

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acts of dominance. The king, in what seem to the reader velvety tones, conceded the point to the ambassadors, but the effect had been reached. 38 The catalyst for this palpable increase in hostility was an unexpected action of the dauphin. Charles’s heir, the restless thirty-three year old Louis, had withdrawn from court for several years and lived in his territories of the Dauphiné, following a failed revolt of the nobility, in which he had been implicated. There he lost his father’s pension and was forced to live off the country. Whether in fact he had overtaxed his subjects and the local church, as Basin states, or had been a model administrator, as Paul Kendall contends, in 1456 the king ordered the occupation of the Dauphiné and the forcible return of Louis. The prince, mistrusting his father’s intentions, fled to his “uncle” Philip (he had been married to an aunt of Louis) to ask asylum, an arrangement that would last until his coronation in 1461. The king sent repeated embassies to demand his son back, alternately appearing to accept the duke’s promises of mediation, at times allowing rumors of war to make their way across the border, and at times openly accusing the duke of having “seduced” his son and influenced his decision.39 Philip, according to Chastellain, at first saw in Louis a great card to play against his father, but as time went by realized that he was actually an irksome and overbearing presence, and a paradoxical situation ensued. The duke was probably more than truthful in wishing to be rid of the guest, who merrily settled in the palace of Genappe, where he invited his new wife and built a growing court, all at his uncle’s expenses. Soon he meddled in internal Burgundian affairs, appearing solicitous, helpful, yet a little too curious about the wealth and state of the Burgundian country, weighing courtiers’ and burghers’ future usefulness to himself, and finally

38 Basin, Charles VII, 2:243. For the duke’s evermore frantic complaints and Charles’s suave replies see Chastellain, Fragments, 185-211. The king’s answers to Burgundian embassies are reported as always preceded by “amazement” at being so misunderstood and protestations of “benignité, douceur et clémence” that contrast with Philip’s anger at parlement (see, for example, Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:68, 89). In an answer to royal summons, however, Philip scored a point against the king: he instructed his envoy (3:420-1) to tell the king that he would appear in person in France as ordered, but only with a proper escort to honor his sovereign. Nothing less than forty-thousand armed men would do! 39 D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:328-9, Basin, Charles VII, 2:225-35, Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:52-53, 220-1, and du Clerq, “Mémoires,” 60-62. Kendall (Louis XI, 70) claims that Louis was an active and dynamic ruler in the Dauphiné, where he founded a university, promoted agriculture, interacted with his subjects, and forbade private wars among the nobles.

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interfering with the young Burgundian heir.40 But at this point, with the king aging and this unsettling figure representing the future, there was no way to send him packing. The duke tried at first to resolve the issue within the family and sent a couple of trusted knights of his household to talk in confidence with King Charles. This approach is typical of low-Machs, who prefer the “soft touch” in dealing with others, but the high-Mach king acted true to his personality. In a deliberate display of formality, he received the ducal envoys enthroned and in the intimidating presence of the entire council, then made them wait for days for an answer, which was delivered by a chancellor. Significantly, while the low-Mach Philip reminded his king of his past acts of loyalty toward him to elicit gratitude, the king answered that the duke had only done his duty as vassal, pointedly reminding him of his role as tool of the sovereign’s power. D’Escouchy conveys Charles’s elegant irony as the king reminds Philip of the latter’s unsuccessful and belated intervention against England in 1436: “and if he [Philip] had informed the King of his intention, the King would gladly have advised him of what would have been more useful and profitable in that matter.” As for the duke’s “help” in recovering Normandy, the king “does not recall” his participation in the campaign.41 Philip was left to play his own game of control, which he typically did tactfully and only when safe to do so. In one episode relished by Chastellain the duke keeps the king’s ambassador on pins and needles about the marriage of his heir Charles to the daughter of the duke of Bourbon. The marriage to an illustrious but impoverished French ducal family was naturally much coveted by the king, who was probably aware of Charles’s own desire to marry within the royal English House. Philip ordered one of his chamberlains, Philippe Pot, to go to the count his son to have him conclude and consummate the marriage. Then he announced the fait accompli to the astonished ambassador through a peal of laughter, but, naturally, he had done exactly as the king wished. In another episode Philip managed to be obnoxious with his excessive politeness when he insisted in entertaining Queen Charlotte of Savoy, the timid wife of Louis XI, in his castle of Hesdin well beyond the time allotted by the king for her visit. The poor woman, terrified of her husband, begged in vain to be let go, but the duke would not hear of it until he had properly honored his 40

Basin, Charles VII, V:267-9, Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:194, 303-6, 310, 314. (“et s’il eut communiqué au Roy son intencion de ce qu’il vouloit faire, le Roy l’eust adverty de bon cueur de ce qu’il lui eust semblé plus utile et proufitable en ladicte matière […] n’est point memoratif”). D’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:399-400. The envoys’ plea is in Chastellain, Fragments, 34-36. For the “soft touch” preferred by low-Machs see Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 285. 41

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royal guest. While these anecdotes reveal the “soft touch” of a low-Mach, this should not mask the fact that Philip was able to enjoy the results of his often-ruthless territorial annexations, contested inheritances, and equivocal alliances. What seems to have sealed his reputation of “goodness” among his subjects is that for the most part of his reign he kept wars from affecting his territories and that when he did wage war he was successful in stating his case as honorable. In this respect (and helped by the pathetic circumstances of his accession) he was even more successful than his father. This result is in line with the findings of Christie and Gies that under certain situations low-Machs can be as successful as high-Machs.42 Fortunately for his reputation, Philip died before having to measure his wits against the new king, and it fell to his successor Charles to inherit the dangerous situation, wrought with generations-old hostilities. Contemporary historians, from Chastellain to Commynes, saw this last great conflict of the century, with its dramatic consequences for European history, as a clash of titans, the result of opposite personalities that would end tragically with the demise of the Valois dynasty in Burgundy, and in the process left us with a wealth of anecdotes. These accounts, backed by an abundance of letters and other documents, contribute to make these two figures the best known of the period. Modern historians, more objectively, have seen other and greater forces at play, and have tended to minimize the personal aspect of this conflict.43 But even skirting the issue of what caused the demise of Valois Burgundy, it is useful to evaluate the exchanges between Charles the Bold and Louis XI from the framework of studies in Machiavellianism, because whenever the two interacted, their positions were usually adversarial and revealed their opposite social styles. Further, whenever Charles is quoted, he seemed to believe that Louis was behind most of his troubles, and his perception should not be discounted, as the belief in the king’s omnipotence may be a consequence of Louis’s high-Mach personality. According to Chastellain Louis deliberately tried to drive a wedge between the aging Philip and his son, first by defending Charles when he defied his father, showering him with exaggerated tokens of affection, in an attempt to make him his own man. When he failed in this (a sign that the two operated from opposite value systems), he changed tack, now offering Philip his help in chastising the rebellious 42

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:22-26, 5:27-32. Low-Machs are as successful as high-Machs in “prosaic” situations. Christie and Gies, Machiavellianism, 295. 43 Vaughan (Charles the Bold, 41) plays down the role of the personal conflict between Louis XI and Charles the Bold in determining the events of the latter part of the century. And Cauchies (De Péronne, 5-6) observes that they were not always engaged in conflict.

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son.44 The fact that this maneuver also backfired (as he managed only to annoy the old duke) is consonant with further findings by Christie and Gies, which will be examined shortly. Chastellain, quite the psychologist, sees through these efforts, and does not spare the king his contempt. Of Charles Henri Pirenne wrote: “Passionate, but reserved, he held himself aloof from court life and had neither friends nor confidants.” Hard-working, ambitious, proud and head-strong, from his mother he inherited a tendency to suspicion and to extremes. “Hard on himself and others, impatient and brutal, vindictive and hot-headed […] His youth was austere and studious”45 His classical education brought him in contact with heroes of the past, such as Caesar and Alexander, who became ideals to emulate. The very tendency to long for abstract perfection suggests a lowMach personality. His upbringing is in stark contrast with that of Louis, whom Basin accuses of being ignorant and vulgar in taste. Yet Louis’s disregard for idealized models of the past left room to learn from successful “real-life” models such as King Ferrante of Naples and Duke Francesco Sforza of Milan, and his natural curiosity enriched him with practical knowledge. Contemporaries attest to Charles’s obsession with immortal glory: the Milanese ambassador Panigarola says of him that “[H]is thoughts are all about acquiring immortal glory, and he says that all other things are fleeting and transient.” Faithful to his idealized view of his role, he engaged in a series of wars but always attacking in the open and facing danger in person (like the lion, he would say), while Louis was often the aggressor, but deviously and behind the scenes.46 Awed and yet repelled by the king’s slyness, contemporary writers used analogies from the animal world to describe him, and called him a spider or a fox. But was deception a mean to a goal for Louis or a goal in itself? Modern historians have successfully dismantled the myth of the ever-present puppeteer maneuvering from behind the scene to bring about the ruin of his archenemy, and there seems to be a consensus that his ultimate victory came rather from his ability to exploit situations cautiously and patiently. Still, the image of restless schemer persisted 44 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:183-9, 412-4. For Charles’s perception of Louis see, for example, Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:448-50 (on the king’s sponsorship of Warwick’s attacks). 45 Quoted in Calmette, Burgundy, 171. 46 (“Li pensieri soi sono tutti di acquistare Gloria immortale et dice che le alter cose sono tute fluxe et caduche”). Cited in Cauchies, De Péronne, 155. See also Wielant, “Flandre,” 54-55. Bartier (Charles le Téméraire, 252) says that he surpassed his contemporaries “en raffinement intellectuel et en pureté morale.” For Louis’s taste and models see Basin, Louis XI, 1:155, 3:303 and the more favorable opinion of Commynes (Mémoires, 1:130).

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among his contemporaries, fueled not in the least by the king’s constant meddling in all affairs, which belies the modern notion of the patient and wise observer. Commynes says of him that he was relentlessly stirring up others, seeking peace where there was war and vice versa, and Chastellain, while acknowledging his fertile mind, observes that not all his machinations were useful. Louis, then, seems to have actively worked at building the image of universal spider, but was not always successful in his endeavors. This is consistent with the findings of Christie and Gies, who noticed that high-Machs are not always successful, but more often than not are perceived as such because they seem in control of situations.47 This king is probably the most puzzling figure of this period, and contemporaries either frankly loathed him or regarded him with a fascination usually reserved for reptilians. As Basin concluded at the end of his scathing biography, he was a study in contrast. Manipulating, sagacious, clever, curious, unconventional, Louis created his own standards away from, and opposite to, the chivalric code prevalent at his father’s court, and maintained a life-long aversion to displays of luxury, pageantry, and elaborate ceremonies. Basin depicts him as part buffoon and part tyrant, a sort of medieval Nero, authoritarian, capricious yet calculating, dressed shabbily or even grotesquely, loquacious and vulgar among his “low born” servants.48 Chastellain starts with a neutral to 47 (“la vivité de son engin faisoit fantasier maintes besongnes, peut-estre non toutes utiles […] esprit soubtil […] actif engin”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:122, 1957, and Commynes (Mémoires, 2:327) says of Louis, “[q]uant il avoit la guerre, il desiroit paix ou trèves; quant il avoit la paix ou la trève, à grant peine la povoit-il endurer.” The Milanese envoy to Burgundy, Prospero da Camogli, wrote (Dispatches, 2:162-3) to his duke’s secretary that “there is none superior to him in perspicuity, intelligence, efficiency and in true magnanimity.” For a thourogh analysis of contemporary and modern writing on Louis’s personality see Cauchies, De Péronne, 142-7. According to Christie and Gies (Machiavellianism, 277) in fast-changing situations the rigid cognitive approach favored by high-Machs is less useful than the “mutual feedback control” favored by low-Machs, who are more people-oriented. For a discussion on deception as a goal in itself see the phenomenon of “duping delight” discussed in Gerald R. Miller and James B. Stiff, Deceptive Communication (Newbury Park: Sage Publications, 1993), 30. Also the conclusion in Florence L. Geis and Tae Hyun Moon,”Machiavellianism and Deception,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 41, No. 4 (1981): 766775 that high-Machs are better liars because they can hide anxiety about lying. 48 Basin, Louis XI, 3:285-9. As for his “low born” followers, Chastellain (Fragments, 48) has Charles VII call them “gens murtriers, larrons et tresmal famèz.” Louis’s preference for commoners was proverbial: a vignette in Nicolay (Kalendrier, 2:245-7) portrays the king chatting, eating, and singing with his guards and troops from Tournai.

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benevolent attitude, as he introduces him at his first encounter with Philip in 1456. The old duke, to honor the illustrious guest, made the most of the ceremonial occasion, kneeling twice in the courtyard of his own palace, as the duchess restrained the dauphin who was eager to run toward his host. When they got closer, the dauphin tried to informally hug the duke, but the latter slipped from his embrace and fell on his knee for the prescribed third genuflection.49 On several other occasions we see the same pattern of ceremonious deference on Philip’s part and a more informal, intimate style on Louis’s. Each side was manipulating the other, forcing his own method of control over the situation, but in the end Louis cleverly exploited his uncle’s vanity and love for show. Once back in Paris as king, in 1461, to reward Philip for all the years of support and a splendid coronation, Louis staged a grandiose meeting at the Hotel d’Artois, followed by a public procession, during which he called the duke his savior, bulwark of his kingdom, and father. Then he breezed off before the latter could ask for anything concrete, leaving him “in charge” of the Bastille, a purely symbolic and calculated act of trust. Philip’s son Charles understood the game soon enough, and the old duke, having to overcome his own vanity, finally came to see it too.50 Once back in his lands, Philip was constantly pestered by the king, who would drop in on him suddenly and expect lavish hospitality and full attention. When he did not come in person, he would send his cumbersome relatives, such as his old gouty father-in-law 49

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:208-11. The ritual is described in Aliénor de Poitiers, “Les honneurs de la cour,” in Mémoires sur l’ancienne chevalerie, ed. La Curne de Sainte Palaye (Paris: Chez la Veuve Duchesne, 1781), 208-12. 50 For the staged meeting in Paris the king interrupted the duke’s dinner, perhaps deliberately. Du Clerq, “Mémoires,” 94-97 and Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:14755. Before his coronation he had staged similar public praise for his uncle by the University of Paris and Parlement (perhaps a cheap way of humiliating the two proud bodies), and had the archbishop of Rheims place (symbolically) the keys of the city into the duke’s hands. But he did not appoint any of the duke’s candidates to office and received well the rebellious Liégeois. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:39, 47-50, 99-101, 119. Kendall, however, sees the opposite: an overbearing Burgundian presence in Paris that forces a wary Louis to escape. Kendall, Louis XI, 114-5. Philip complained about the king’s snubs in terms that reveal his lowMach personality, in the words of the Milanese Malleta (Mandrot, Dépèches, 2:299-300): “sempre ho compiazuto a quanto me ha rechesto el re de Franza, e mai non pote obtenere de luy cosa che volesse [...] e de mi che sono suo parente et vassalo non ne fa concepto alcuno et non se fida de mi in mandare dal duca de Bertagna [...] Guarda che honore me fa el re de Franza che ad uno porcerio del re Odoardo el gli dice Monsignore, e l’ha facto sedere a tavola appresso luy e donato quanto fosse un signore.”

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Duke Louis of Savoy. Finally, Philip made himself scarce, literally fleeing Hesdin early in one morning to avoid the king’s visit, for which the latter took offense. 51 Once both Louis and Charles were in power, Chastellain remarked, their two opposite personalities were a significant reason for their never reaching a durable settlement. It appears that Louis was definitely more of a high-Mach than his father, while Charles was even more a low-Mach than his own. Louis was at his best in controlling situations from behind the scenes, his success apparently tied to his ability to focus on the goal and avoid emotional distractions by depersonalizing others. He felt no interest in partners or adversaries, and approached power plays with detachment (a trait that was invariably interpreted as ungratefulness by his rival), while on the ethical plane he did not expect loyalty, only compliance. Commynes even attributes to him a saying that kings seldom reward competent service; in fact prefer those who are obliged to them to those to whom they are obliged.52 Charles, instead, assumed reciprocity because of a typical low-Mach belief that most people are trustworthy, with the result that he often felt betrayed in his dealings with others. He was obsessed with the fairness of a relationship, so that, for example, he offered low rewards to lowercontributing partners, and thus appeared much more rigid than Louis, who as a high-Mach was more willing to enter into fifty-fifty partnerships when necessity demanded it. In fact, Louis was notorious for breaking coalitions of his adversaries by promising key members anything they wanted, as he did after the imposed peace of Conflans (1465) and of Péronne (1468). His low-Mach adversaries, that is, his own brother and the dukes of Brittany and Burgundy, accepted each treaty at face value, but soon the king manipulated the results to his advantage. For example, after Conflans, Louis at first ignored the duke of Bourbon, who felt betrayed by his partners; then he suddenly showered him with rewards, and made him his own creature. Likewise, he made generous arrangements with Edward IV of England in 1475 and, more importantly, with key men in Edward’s entourage able to influence their king in the decision to withdraw from 51

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:99-106. He says (5:40-41) that Louis had sent the old duke of Savoy to Philip “pour passer temps.” 52 (“Avoient conditions et moeurs incompatibles, et volontés toutes discordantes”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:455. Louis’s statement is in Commynes, Mémoires, 1:251-2. ”Trahisons,” 147 accuses Louis of forgetting all gratitude for Burgundy after his coronation and working to “ruer jus, deffaire, desconfire et murdrir le duc Charles,” and compares the king to Jugurtha, who had long tricked Rome but finally was defeated by Marius.

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France. Once he was convinced that Edward would no longer pose a threat, he reneged on his promises to him, but continued to pay off his servants.53 Commynes saw him as an extremely divisive personality, relentless in wooing at any price whomever he perceived as useful or harmful to himself. But no sooner did he cease to need that person, that he would cast him away, only to be ready to cheerfully buy him back when he needed him again.54 Charles, on the other hand, voiced indignation dramatically when he felt betrayed, a behavior noted by Christie and Geis in low-Machs, who cannot detach themselves from personal involvement and thus always lose against high-Machs on emotionally loaded issues. An example is an episode narrated by Chastellain, which occurred in 1470. In a breach of the spirit, if not the letter, of the treaty of Péronne, the king was supporting the exiled earl of Warwick in his successful attacks on the Burgundian fleet. In response to the indignant letters of Charles the king sent an embassy to offer reparations, but Charles by now was convinced that the king was after the destruction of Burgundy by proxy and that his offer was only a play for time. In a turbulent scene, the duke acted with uncharacteristic rudeness toward the envoys, and interrupted their speech by blurting, “We Portuguese have a costume, that [is] when those whom we hold as friends befriend our enemies, we send them to all the devils of hell.” Chastellain, who disapproves of the outburst, adds that the shocked audience interpreted this as a double slap in the face for the king, who was indirectly being sent to hell in public by a vassal, and by a member of the Valois family, who rejected kinship with his sovereign. Typically, Charles,

53

Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 153-6. The arrangements after Conflans are in Commynes, Mémoires, 1:76-77, and the treatment of Bourbon in Basin, Louis XI, 1:229. Panigarola (Mandrot, Dépèches, 3:326, 371) relates to the duke of Milan that Louis XI, forced by the treaty of Conflans to support the duke of Calabria’s ambitions in Italy, assured the ambassador “che sara’ cosa ficta et simulata et le quale non voria servare, ma facte per dividere et partire questa armata de presenti.” The king, who considered Calabria the ringleader of the princely revolt, was ready to “help” him reconquer Naples, but supplying him with so few troops that King Ferrante would easily defeat him. For the aftermath of Péronne see Commynes, Mémoires, 1:144-5. Gachard (Documens inédits, 1:197) shows the king cheerfully ready to embrace his former enemy. For the pension and promises to Edward IV (which included the falsely-promised marriage between Elizabeth of York and the dauphin) and the secret pension to Lord Hastings see Commynes, Mémoires, 2:46, 52-53, 242-4. 54 Commynes, Mémoires, 1:67. The opinion is shared by de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:414.

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and not Louis who had driven him to this exasperated outburst, was criticized for it.55 Christie and Geis state that high-Machs are less prone to dissonance, that is, they decide for themselves what they will or will not do, and are less easily influenced by others. Low-Machs, on the other hand, tend to rely on the word of others and internalize their causes, which increases the chances of dissonance.56 In fact Louis made and broke treaties as it pleased him, and usually of his own initiative, thus throwing his adversaries into disarray. When he was forced by events to comply with another’s request, he acknowledged this much, thus separating the compliance from endorsing the activity involved, and, consequently, making it easier for him to renege later. This pragmatism allowed him to admit inconsistencies easily, to be less embarrassed at being bested on occasion, and to display sudden and disconcerting changes in manners. He could be suave, charming, and solicitous with people he needed, but brushed aside subjects and subordinates, an odious trait noted by Basin and Commynes. One may notice in his written directives to royal officials a tendency toward high-handed brusqueness beyond the common threats of “incurring our displeasure” in case of disobedience that was customary in the princely correspondence of the period. And for his less than ethical deeds, he chose potential partners based on prior information about them (his use of spies was well known), not on feelings for them elicited by their behavior, another high-Mach quality.57 55

(“Entre nous Portugalois, avons une coustume devers nous, que quand ceux que nous avons tenus à nos amis, se font amis à nos ennemis, nous les commandons à tous les cent mille diables d’enfer”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:450-3. Charles also declared his feeling of betrayal openly toward Edward IV, who made peace with Louis; toward Louis’s sister Yolande of Savoy, whose House he accused of being the source of his trouble with the Swiss; and toward René of Lorraine, whom he had helped in acquiring his duchy. Commynes, Mémoires, 2:53-54, 123, Haynin, Mémoires, 2:199-200 56 The authors define dissonance informally as “the uncomfortable state of having just done something without quite enough justification.” They add that people faced with dissonance try to “save face” and bolster justification by altering their beliefs. Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 236. 57 Basin (Louis XI, 3:301) quotes Louis as stating that he only felt bound to promises to other rulers, never to his subjects. Commynes (Mémoires, 1:68, 2:284) says that “il estoit maistre avec lequel il failloit charrier droict” and that he attacked and offended people without thinking. Samples of Louis’s letters are in Charles Pinot Duclos, Oeuvres Complètes, 5 vols. (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1968), 5:346, 376-7. Compare with the (more conventional) frustrated tone of ducal letters in Gachard, Documens inédits, 1:160, 172-3, 178. For use of prior information see Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 251.

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Charles, on the other hand, over-trusted the word of others, a trait noted by Chastellain, and probably also by his own father, who consistently tried to remove “bad” influences from his son, to the point of appearing to take lightly his frequent complaints of being a target of conspiracies. Paradoxically, this suspicious young man believed anyone who reported the latest plot against him, and remained pathetically grateful to the informant, without accurately evaluating the veracity of the information. Commynes says of him, anticipating Christie and Geis, “he had not enough sense or malice to take care of his affairs.”58 Charles was also steadfast to his allies, and only broke coalitions to enter others, feeling uncomfortable without friends. In 1468, when he was painfully aware of risking his reputation and life in French soil and against royal forces, while his allies were nowhere in sight and Liège was in revolt, he refused to withdraw out of principle, not to break his word. And his final ruin, even if technically caused by his ongoing conflict with independent cities, as Vaughan has argued, started with a typically low-Mach involvement in avenging his ally the count of Romont against the Swiss, who had not attacked Charles directly.59 Charles himself, perhaps unconsciously imitating his successful adversary, became more controlling, even obsessively so, in the end. But, I would suggest, his need to control was dictated by his fear of becoming irrelevant once again, as he had been in his youth, while Louis appeared comfortable in his belief that he would outsmart others. The one acted out of weakness, the other out of strength. And I would add that peace eluded them also because for Louis peace was only a truce, until a next step could be taken toward his ultimate goal of control over independent princes. Ironically, it was he and not the “warrior” Charles who saw conflict not as something ugly to overcome, but as a way of life. It is significant that Charles’s hobby was sailing in the stormy waters of the North Sea, measuring his own courage alone against the elements, while Louis’s was

58 (“il n’avoit point assez de sens ne de malice pour conduire ses entreprises”). Commynes, Mémoires, 1:189. The same author (1:93) remarks that princes who too readily trust the word of others end up not knowing who is serving them well, and “sont incontinent muéz d’amour en hayne et de hayne en amour,” a statement that describes Charles well. For Charles’s readiness to believe in conspiracies and his father’s attitude toward his son’s servants see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:243-55, 262-3, 350-3, 485-6. 59 Molinet, Chroniques, 1: 86-89, 163 (Charles could not believe in the the treason of Campobasso). For Romont see Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 245, 360. The need for allies is discussed in Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 153-5.

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hunting with dogs, as he enjoyed the sight of an angry pack cornering a prey for the kill.60 The one true weakness of high-Machs, according to Christie and Geis, is in the evaluation of others. While their emotional detachment gives them the belief that they can do so, they lack sensitivity to individual differences, and evaluate others always in respect to themselves. Authors talk about Louis’s ability to use individuals as instruments of his policies, in particular his flair for seducing servants of a powerful adversary (Charles, or Edward IV). Yet, paradoxically, he was only able to exploit their selfishness (a high-Mach trait) or their tendency to respect power structures (as he represented a centuries-old legal authority). Despite his cunning, however, he made some gross miscalculations with those who did not fit his mold, like Charles himself or the duke of Brittany, who remained steadfast, even after finally submitting, in his friendship to Burgundy and to the king’s brother. It is likely that some of Charles’s servants who shared their master’s low-Mach personality (de la Marche is a good example) might also have shared his antipathy toward such a manipulative personality and been harder to buy off. The defection of others (like Commynes, or the duke’s illegitimate half-brother Baudouin to name the most notorious) may be due more to Charles’s own failings rather than to Louis’s persuasion.61 Low-Machs, on the other hand, are better at perceiving individual differences because of their personal orientation, which focuses on others as people rather than objects; however they consistently underestimate the high-Mach level of their adversary. Thus Charles was able to predict the behavior of his adversary Croy, yet he (and his allies) repeatedly signed treaties with Louis, despite his proven faithlessness.62 As mentioned earlier, despite an obvious difference in ethics and interpersonal approaches, both high-Machs and low-Machs are just as prone to cheating to attain their goals. Louis, as high-Machs in general do, 60 Their respective hobbies are mentioned in de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:206, Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:272, and Basin, Louis XI, 3:289. Bartier (Charles le Téméraire, 253) sees a touch of Romanticism in Charles’s love of the sea. But, of course, he also had the sea in his blood, as Henry the Navigator was his uncle. Aline S. Taylor, Isabel of Burgundy: The Duchess Who Played Politics in the Age of Joan of Arc, 1397-1471 (Lanham: Madison Books, 2001), 31. 61 Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 211-3, 225-30. For Brittany’s attitude see Basin, Louis XI, 1:133-5, 161 and Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:460-2. As for Charles’s failings (before 1476) Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 5:469) complains of the duke’s excessive strictness with his staff: his obsession with punctuality and his insistence on imposing fines for absences made them feel like “serfs.” 62 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:194.

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was ready to cheat when given a good justification, that is, when incentives were high and risks low. For example, he sent his barber to stir up a revolt in Ghent in 1477 under cover of negotiating the marriage between his young son and the Burgundian heiress Marie. Charles, on the other hand, operated within the mystique of chivalry, and was successful so long as rules of interpersonal relations were in place. To use Christie and Geis’s terminology, he was “ego involved with details” of the bargaining process itself, the loyalty of partners, justice, and reciprocity. Still, he ended up cheating in just as dramatic a way as his adversary, when he betrayed to him Louis of Luxembourg, count of Saint-Pol and constable of France. In this case, as expected of a low-Mach, the inducement for cheating was made more personal by the duke’s own indignation at the constable.63 Chastellain states that Saint-Pol was an ambitious, clever, and wealthy Burgundian subject, and one of the early victims of Philip’s favoritism toward the Croys. His eldest daughter, when still a child, was betrothed to the eldest Croy’s son, despite the count’s fierce opposition to her marrying a parvenu. The duke punished the father’s outrage with a high-handed confiscation of part of his properties. The count had to give in, and was later reconciled to his lord, but the reconciliation remained skin-deep, and soon he approached Charles, a fellow victim then living in Holland away from court. Charles apparently was overjoyed to receive an ally, and the two became very close, in fact, Chastellain quotes Charles’s typical low-Mach expression of solidarity, “I will drink from the same cup as you.” The author believed their friendship genuine, but it deteriorated after the king was forced to the humiliating peace of Conflans, by which Saint-Pol was made constable of France. Louis set out to tear this capable councilor from his adversary, and soon a minor breach between Charles and Saint-Pol gave him the opportunity. Immediately the king showered the constable with honors and wealth, and gave him in marriage his own sister-in-law. Saint-Pol, now the highest military official in France, apparently tried honestly to do his duty for the king, but probably being a low-Mach himself, fence-sitting did not suit him well. This man, whom Chastellain described as handsome, elegant, and capable, had never previously obtained a position of trust with any of the rulers, nor servants whom he could call his own and in whom he could

63

Christie and Geis, Machiavellianism, 295. For Charles’s grievances against Saint-Pol see Commynes, Mémoires, 1:243-4. The episode of the barber Olivier le Dain is in Commynes, Mémoires, 2:176-81.

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confide, as all of them came from either Burgundy or France.64 His deepest wish would have been to serve Charles, according to Chastellain, but he may have honestly felt that his position as intermediary between king and duke could benefit himself and both parties. In the end, however, his continuous double-dealings rendered him mistrusted by all. I suspect that the king disliked him for the same reason why Philip the Good had disliked him, namely for his tendency to place himself on an equal footing with his “betters.” This is consonant with low-Mach attitude, because lowMachs relate to others from a presumption of fairness, in itself an egalitarian attitude. In this respect, there are similarities between his behavior (and ultimate destiny) and that of the earl of Warwick in England, another ambitious man who had basked in the fully deserved position of kingmaker and who turned against his king Edward IV when he felt inadequately compensated and discarded for a family of favorites.65 In the end, Charles agreed to arrest the constable and hand him over to the king for execution, despite having given him a safe-conduct. In exchange he obtained some of Saint-Pol’s properties and the city of Saint-Quentin, which prompted the king, with typical cynicism, to claim that the duke had cleverly kept the pelt of the fox, and given away the worthless meat. As this behavior of Charles was inconsistent with his previous chivalrous one, writers criticized him for the treasonable action, and not Louis, whose self64 (“à telle coupe que vous buverez, et moy en mesmes”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:417-9, Fragments, 80-82 (on his punishment for opposing the marriage), “Chroniques,” 4:79-81 (where he is described as pompous but insecure), 4:485-6, 495-8 (on his early friendship with Charles and Philip’s reaction, and wish to serve Charles), 5:213-7, 224-7 (on his first break with Charles over his wish to marry Jeanne of Bourbon and the king’s honors), Chastellain, 4:132-4 (on his qualities but lack of career). Commynes, Mémoires, 2:84 (on his servants). 65 Especially Warwick’s maneuvers after his break with Edward IV in 1464 as he feared being in disgrace. Wavrin, Angleterre, 2:332. As for the constable, he had apparently misrepresented the English threat to Louis XI and the French threat to Edward IV, inviting the latter to invade France, and even participating in a conspiracy to dismember France and perhaps murder the king in 1475. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:336-44 (on his attempts at staying in good terms with both parties). Commynes, Mémoires, 2:24-25, 33, 36, 49. Basin, Louis XI, 2:225-7 (over his dealings with Edward IV and his fear of both king and duke), Molinet, Chroniques, 1:130-1 (over the cession of Saint-Quentin and his arrest). See also the cold letter of Louis (Duclos, Oeuvres, 5:351-2) to Saint-Pol, in which he reminds the constable that he is still “votre chef et souverain seigneur.” The long saga of the cession and retaking of the Somme cities, which Louis, with an act of creative taxation, ransomed from Philip before the duke’s death, was one of the main sources of strife between Charles and Louis.

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seeking attitude was known and expected. Commynes and Basin go so far as to state that this act brought about God’s punishment on the duke and was the beginning of his end. Werner Paravicini believes that Saint-Pol had in fact been involved in a conspiracy, whose motivation was fear and mistrust of the king, the same motivation that brought together the nobles in 1465 and 1468, rather than a (high-Mach) tendency to intrigue and manipulation.66 This repeated pattern of conspiracies, and the repeated success of Louis in breaking alliances, is not so much a demonstration of stupidity on the part of the nobility. Rather, its likely cause is that lowMach traits were common among them, and they took their commitments seriously, but could not compete with a man who played a different game. Likewise, their swift changing of alliances seems to have been the result of suspicions about the others’ intentions, and thus related to insecurity, rather than the effect of cold calculation. Christie and Geis conclude that high-Machs enjoy an advantage in interpersonal situations. They get others to recognize their claims, take informal leadership of groups, attract power, and find themselves in charge, especially in motivating situations where they can improvise (and Louis was a great improviser). On the other hand, low-Machs perform best in a structured setting, and Charles, probably aware of his weakness, tried all his life to build a rigid structure around him, and give his servants precise rules to follow.67

66 Paravicini, “Peur, pratiques,” 183-5. Molinet, Chroniques, 1:132-4. Commynes (Mémoires, 2:74-75) relates a grim joke of the king: in his last letter to the doomed constable he writes that he “avoit bien à besongner d’une telle teste comme la sienne,” adding to those present that he wanted just the head. Basin (Louis XI, 2:257-9) condemns the duke’s act in strong terms (“inhumane crudeliterque ac perfide”). But Delclos (Le témoinage de Georges Chastellain, 288) believes that Saint-Pol was guilty, and Chastellain was deluded about him. 67 For Charles’s need for a formal retinue see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:366. This may also be why he liked to operate as much as possible in the rule-bound world of armies. As for high-Machs’ advantage, Wilson, Near, and Miller qualify that assumption: “In evolutionary game theory, cooperative strategies are favored in long-term interactions that allow the cooperators to avoid or retaliate against defectors. One of the most fundamental predictions we can make, therefore, is that high-Machs will fare poorly in long-term interactions or succeed only by becoming cooperative.” They 1996, therefore, that Machiavellianism is only adaptive as a short-term coping mechanism (but no experiment has actually tested this hypothesis). David Sloan Wilson, David Near, and Ralph R. Miller, “Machiavellianism: A Synthesis of Evolutionary and Psychological Literatures,” Psychological Bulletin 119 No. 2 (1996): 285-299 (here 292).

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Fifteenth-century writers seem to have preferred low-Mach qualities in their rulers, even in the extreme childlike innocence of mad kings.68 They report how those kings were well loved and sincerely mourned at their death in terms that reveal not only a rigid respect for legitimate authority, but also real compassion for the suffering man behind the illness. Jean-Juvénal des Ursins left a touching epitaph of Charles VI (“merciful, mild and benign toward his people, loving and serving God, and great alms-giver”), and both Monstrelet and the Bourgeois described his funeral in heartfelt tones. And Henry VI’s murder while in custody was universally condemned; witness a rare indignant outburst of the Crowland Chronicler against “whoever it may be, who dared to lay sacrilegious hands on the Lord’s Anointed!” when he reports how the prisoner’s lifeless body was found in the Tower.69 68 Charles VI’s madness is implied in all accounts and sometimes referred to explicitly, but always respectfully. For example, Religieux, Chronique, 2:288, 3:38, Jean-Juvénal des Ursins, “Histoire de Charles VI,” 412, Basin, Charles VII, 1:11 (the most explicit: “furorem atque amentiam”). Continental writers are less cautious when talking about the foreign Henry VI: for example, Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 4:65, 159-60) uses the term “simple” or “idiot,” perhaps reflecting a simplistic perception of his condition, and d’Escouchy (Chronique,1:302) says that he did not have much “sens naturel.” Wavrin (Angleterre, 2:288) remarks that the king, prisoner of the Yorkists after the second battle of Saint Albans, “n’avoit pas le sens de concepvoir les grans maulz qui en advendroient.” Yet, among the few English writers, only his confessor John Blakman, who left a psychological portrait of this king in the attempt of having him canonized, saw (or tried to see) his periods of absence from reality as signs of saintliness. John Blakman, Henry VI, ed. M. R. James (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1919), 36, 38, 42. Despite his overly-optimistic interpretation, the king’s “visions” and “absences,” coupled with two well-documented episodes of what may be catatonia suggest a borderline state of schizophrenia or a severe affective disorder. For a discussion of symptoms of schizophrenia see, for example, O’Brien, The Disordered Mind, 3339, 72-79, 120-5. For an argument that catatonia is a syndrome associated more often with psychotic depression and metabolic diseases than schizophrenia see MA Taylor and M. Fink, “Catatonia in psychiatric classification: a home of its own,” The American journal of psychiatry 160 no. 7 (Jul 2003):1233-41 and M. Fink and MA Taylor, “Catatonia: subtype or syndrome in DSM?” The American journal of psychiatry 163 no. 11 (Nov 2006):1875-6. Gregory (Chronicle, 209) is more opinionated and thinks Margaret of Anjou “more wyttyer than the kynge.” See also an anonymous poem lamenting the demise of England under Henry VI, who “by gret foly /All hath retourned unto huge langoure.” Robbins, Historical Poems, no. 93, 223. 69 (“piteux, doux et benin à son peuple, servant et aimant Dieu, et grand aumonsnier”). Jean-Juvénal des Ursins, “Histoire de Charles VI,” 572; Monstrelet, Chronique, 4:120-4; Journal d’un bourgeois, 192-7; Crowland Chronicle, 129-30.

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The continental authors’ own preconceptions and their often secondhand information renders more difficult an analysis of Machiavellian traits among English princes. In general, sources tend to depict a trusty, serene, generous Edward IV as a low-Mach victim of high-Mach traitors among his very own family members and finally succumbing to the devious Louis XI and thus dying prematurely of grief.70 This king, whose propensity for reaching deep into women’s bodices (and men’s pockets) rivaled Duke Philip’s, was remembered like his Burgundian ally mainly as a chivalrous fighter and good-natured bon vivant radiating an air of ease and benevolence. Still, to me Edward appears at least a medium Mach. Like Louis, he was a self-seeker, ready to forge ad-hoc alliances. His (eventually unsuccessful) wooing of the young duke of Somerset, whom he honored above Yorkist loyalists, indifferent to their chagrin, recalls Louis XI’s courtship of Warwick. He built his own entourage of courtiers from within his wife’s family, members of the middle nobility who depended on him for advancement, while keeping the barons, from his own brothers to his cousin Warwick, at a friendly but unambiguous distance. His behavior, which seems to reflect a calculated rejection of family ties in favor of dependents, recalls similar attempts of Philip with the Croys and of Louis with the “low born” associates so despised by Basin. As for his successor Richard III, Jones has made a persuasive argument for placing his actions within accepted limits for his class and family, and in the process dispelling the myth of his exceptional Machiavellianism. He has also drawn believable parallels between his personality and that of his father, who (admittedly from scant and rather murky accounts) appears to have been a low-Mach, and has inserted his usurpation, in which other historians have seen a large component of selfdefense (a low-Mach stance) within the context of larger family issues, and probably even backed by his mother.71 And like Duke Charles, both he Blakman (Henry VI, 41) also condemns the murder and talks of miracles at Henry’s tomb. Apparently, sensible attitude in regard to mental illness was not unknown in that period. Kemp, Medieval Psychology, 111-28. 70 Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 5:499-508) presents Edward IV in a heroic light in 1471 (an about-face from his previous attitude toward this king). Commynes (Mémoires, 2:245-6) is less complimentary and lingers on Edward’s greed and laziness and (2:303-4) has him die of grief and humiliation at being duped by Louis XI. 71 This is also largely the thesis of Kendall, in his now-classic and controversial biography. Paul M. Kendall, Richard the Third (New York: W.W. Norton, 1956). Chastellain (“Chronique,” 5:463-9) reports the general hostility with which Louis’s ouvertures to Warwick and his allies were received in France (“gens forfais, lâches et recrans, paillars, sans honneur et sans vergogne […] leur eussent voulu avoir

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and his father received the most criticism when their behavior strayed from the expected, that is, when they surprisingly claimed the crown for themselves. In general, it is evident that low-Mach princes could be just as violent and murderous as high-Machs. The difference is the motivation for their actions: while high-Machs seem to be self-driven by the need to win, lowMachs seem to be driven by external factors, such as moral obligation, revenge for a perceived injustice, or fear of another (usually a high-Mach). The distinction may not be so important to modern writers, who are dealing with past events, but seems to have been important to latemedieval writers, who almost to a man showed sympathy for low-Machs and mistrust or even loathing for high-Machs, unless low-Machs acted out of character.

IV.3. Tears and Submission The second question raised at the opening of the chapter is how the so-called “medieval propensity to tears” fits into this picture. Was tearfulness Machiavellianism by other means, that is, an attempt at forcing someone’s hand by demanding compassion and forgiveness? Or was it a manifestation of general depression, perhaps related to the widespread presence of low-Machs, that is, a declaration of helplessness? The first step to answer the question is to see in what context historical sources actually mention tears. Perhaps surprisingly, outside literature writers seldom resort to this device, and when they do so, it is in situations that do not strike the modern reader as inappropriate. For example, Monstrelet mentions tears on the occasion of the reconciliation between the old duke of Berry and the dauphin at the height of the civil wars; or in depicting the helpless young dauphin as he witnessed his mother’s royal apartments invaded by the mob during the cabochien revolt of 1413; or when a group of hostages bid farewell to their families before being executed by Henry V. Even the sentimental Chastellain, apart from scenes of collective grief or chastisement (in which tears may be an expected literary device) mentions crying in situations that seem quite appropriate. For example, in conjunction with executions, or emotional situations involving women (for crevé les yeux”). As for the duke of York, d’Escouchy (Chronique, 1:298, 2:113) is ready to accuse him of plotting to seize the crown while still in Ireland and (later) to remove the duke of Gloucester, but Wavrin (Angleterre, 1:316-20, 2:17881, 194, 241-2) presents him as a loyal subject until provoked to the breaking point.

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example, Margaret of Anjou’s account of her narrow escape from Yorkist hands to the duchess of Bourbon), or news of sudden death (for example, when Philip the Good cannot hold back tears upon hearing of the death of the great knight Jacques de Lalaing).72 In other cases, the hand of the rhetorician is visible. In the episode of Philip’s fury against his son discussed in Chapter III, Chastellain says that the dauphin Louis failed in his attempts at mediation and fled in tears to his room: given that Chastellain loved victims, this may be a figure of speech to indicate helplessness rather than factual reporting. His early infatuation with the dauphin was later replaced by loathing, at which point, significantly, he never reported Louis shedding tears again.73 Another scene, the farewell of the young Jean of Coimbra to Philip’s court, where he had been raised, to go in marriage to the princess of Cyprus, seems to fall in the realm of the conventional. The writer knows that the joyous adventure was to end with the groom’s premature death and prepares the reader for the outcome. Probably some family members did cry at the separation, which seems rather logical given the difficulties of travel to a faraway place, and the writer generalizes the sorrowful mood.74 Another nobleman shedding tears, this time of bitter relief, is the duke of Alençon in receiving his death sentence. This character had started his career as a supporter of the crown and Joan of Arc’s companion, but later became suspect to both Charles VII and Louis XI. According to M. G. A. Vale, his behavior became more “reckless” after an apparent attack of kidney stones. He absented himself for long period from court, was involved in some suspicious (if not openly treasonable) dealings with the English, which led to a notorious trial, and was heard making selfdisparaging comments. Vale attributes all this to his physical illness, his lack of abilities, and to his financial situation, aggravated by a ruinous ransom, all adequate reasons for anyone to be depressed. Chastellain shows a great sympathy for this duke fallen on ill-luck, and attributes his disgrace to his ties to Burgundy (he was a knight of the Toison d’Or). After his trial he was on house arrests, and was sitting at the table when a 72 Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:287, 354, 3:406. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:402-5, 4:298-308, 2:360-3. I cannot find examples of tears in scenes involving English noblemen. 73 Huizinga (Herfsttij, 8) raised the possibility of tears as rhetorical device. For Chastellain’s initial high opinion of Louis see “Chroniques,” 4:1-22. Later (“Chroniques,” 5:140-9) he calls him “homme bestial” who found the reign in peace and led it to war with his abuses. See also Delclos, Le témoignage de Georges Chastellain, 62-63, 166-8 for a discussion on the writer’s evolution of thought. 74 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:122-5.

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messenger brought him the court’s sentence, at which he stood up, his hands joined and eyes streaming, to thank God that his ordeal was finally over, a natural reaction given the sad circumstances.75 On what is then based the impression of excessive tearfulness in latemedieval characters? Chastellain freely sprinkles with tears a series of episodes that center around Charles the Bold when he was still count of Charolais, and in these episodes tears strike the reader as excessive, odd, and almost infantile, but not inconsistent. In Chapter II Charles is depicted in tears at age nineteen, on the occasion of his first failed military initiative, an episode narrated by de la Marche (quite an unsentimental author, and therefore believable when describing excessive displays of emotions). This should make the reader pay more attention to Chastellain in regard to this character. The violent episode of the oratory described in Chapter III ended in a forced (and temporary) reconciliation in which the dauphin’s authority was re-established. Once back in Brussels after his night adventure Philip let himself be convinced to forgive Charles, but only because his beloved daughter-in-law the countess of Charolais was pregnant and in danger of losing the infant because of all the turmoil. A little scene was staged in which Louis “ordered” Philip to forgive his son, and he “obeyed” his lord. Charles, quite forgotten in this exchange, was on his knees asking forgiveness.76 It is noteworthy that his attitude of submission was not the determinant in eliciting a favorable outcome, just as in the episode of the valet Jean Coustain (also from Chapter III) Charles was coached to avoid melodramas when denouncing the attempted murder, and to show self-control. Did his friends realize that his tendency to emotional outbursts (and perhaps tears) annoyed his father? Sometimes, even in exchanges that show affection between Charles and his father, the reader cannot but be amazed at the prolonged state of childhood to which the young but adult count was relegated. In one anecdote, that takes place in 1458 when Charles was twenty-five, we find him in Zeeland, when an epidemic of plague forced him to return home. Some of his household members fell ill on the way, and so did he as soon as he reached Mons. His mother was frantic, imagining him already dead, and lamented her fate as an old woman unloved by her husband, alone and 75 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:478-90 (more on his rebellious activities and punishment in “Chroniques,” 3:417, 422-3 and Fragments, 121-4). Also d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:318-24 for his first arrest. The death sentence was later commuted and he died in prison. After an “accident” perhaps in 1447, he complained of kidney pains, headaches, infertility, and of being “fat and sluggish.” Vale, Charles VII, 159-60. 76 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:289-93.

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unwelcome in a foreign land (we can see from whom Charles inherited his dramatic imagination). One day, seeing a bruise on his hand, Charles became convinced that he was dying. Tearfully, he said farewell to his desperate servants and his loving wife. He called to his bedside his enemies, the Croys and the marshal of Burgundy, to ask forgiveness for all the ugly things that he had said about them, and so die without bitterness. His father, calm among the general hysteria, tried to comfort him and convince him to take his medicine, by taking a draught of the awful potion himself with the words, “Oh, how good! I wish I were ill myself to drink it up.”77 Charles recovered, only to end up in another row with his father, and another exile to Holland, as the duke cut his pension, thus forcing him to live on borrowed money. In an anecdote rendered famous by Huizinga, Chastellain reports how Charles assembled his household servants, from nobles to kitchen scullions, to announce that he was penniless. His words are significant because they illustrate his pathetic and very personal style of speech. After declaring himself resigned to his destiny but undeserving of the harsh punishment, he adds, “I am a man of no means, without wealth, without lands or roots, naked like a tree without leaves.” If any of his servants have independent income, and are willing to stay without a salary, he would some day pay them back. If instead they wish to leave for home, he would hire them all back as soon as possible. At this everyone, in tears and in unison, pitch in what money they have and swear to stand by him, buying all that is necessary and continuing service. The count is also in tears and replies, “Children, I thank you for your love […] Now go on living and suffering; and as for me, I will suffer for you even more.” And, concludes the writer, from than on there was “never a chicken missing in the kitchen.”78 By the time he reached his thirties, Charles was becoming adept at being a victim, controlling his natural hot temper to elicit pity. A bizarre episode that took place in 1464, involving an alleged plot of Louis XI to kidnap or murder the count, brought about a final family reconciliation 77 (“Ha, qu’il est bon! A peine que je ne desire a estre malade pour en boire”). Prior to this, he ha comforted him with, “Mon filz, n’ayés telle ymagination a la mort.” Chastellain, Fragments, 138-45. 78 (“[Je] suis homme à tous riens, sans richesse, sans terre et sans fondement, despouillé tout nud comme un arbre sans feuille […] Enfans, je vous mercye de vostre amour […] Or vivez doncques et souffrez; et moy je soufferay pour vous, premier que vous ayez faute […] jamais un poulet n’en vint moins en la cuisine”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:333-6. Huizinga (Herfsttij, 9-10) presents the anecdote as an example of the fairy tale qualities of princely life in the chroniclers’ views.

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(also because by then Philip had enough of Louis, and father and son ended up sharing a common enemy). This time, the oratory was theater to a pathetic scene, the son once again on his knees tearfully asking forgiveness for his rebelliousness, and pouring out his bitterness against the duke’s courtiers who had persecuted him. The father apparently felt pity, and tried to reassure him of his love, but asked him to proceed with caution and not to provoke a public scandal. The author adds that the old duke was also afraid of losing power to his son, whom he knew to be “proud and bold.”79 Charles, however, showed real affection toward his father, but again in a strange and excessive way. Earlier in 1461, during one of the duke’s illnesses, he rallied his subjects for a mass prayer, spent four days and nights at his father’s bedside without sleep, and his relief when the old duke recovered seemed genuine to the writer. And when Philip was on his deathbed, after a short illness in July 1467, Charles again rushed to his bedside, knelt in tears, and begged him to forgive his past disobedience and bless him. At the age of thirty-three, he still seemed in need of his father’s approval. The old duke, now too weak to speak, turned to him and gave him his hand. After he had expired, Charles could not find peace. Chastellain remarks that everyone (the writer included) was shocked at the new duke’s unchecked grief: “he cried, shed tears, wrung his hands, threw himself on his bed, and behaved with no moderation or measure, so that everyone was amazed at his excessive grief.”80 Again, shortly after his accession and at the height of his power after his wedding in 1468, he underwent a depressive crisis over the premature death of his beloved brother-in-law Jacques of Bourbon, an episode recorded by both Wavrin and Chastellain. The latter says of Charles that no doctor could “restore him to happiness or peace of heart, so much did he abandon himself to dread and melancholia” despite the absence of physical symptoms.81 Chastellain’s repeated mention of tears seems to confirm the notion that in the case of Charles he might have recorded actual behavior, but Charles’s personality was neither typical nor indicative of his entire class. As mentioned above, in addition to being a low-Mach (and likely because 79

(“fier et de haut courage”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:194-201. (”il crioit, ploroit, tordoit ses mains, se laissa cheoir sur sa couche, et ne tenoit règle, ne mesure, et tellment qu’il fit chacun s’esmereviller de sa démesurée douleur”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:227-8. Also Du Clerq, Mémoires, 102-3, 116-8. 81 (“[le] remettre en joie, ne en paix de coeur, tant se donnoit peur et mérancolie”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:381. The duke himself brought to the dying man the collar of the Toison d’Or. Wavrin, Angleterre, 2:375. 80

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of it), Charles suffered from the additional handicap of being prone to depression.82 Kept for so long in uncertainty, his status deliberately lowered into irrelevance, once in charge he appeared to feel the obsessive need to prove his worth, working to excess, as if requiring posthumous approval from his successful father. It is significant that his famous wedding feast was enlivened by shows on the theme of the labors of Hercules, which emphasized selfless hard work. He may even have manifested cyclic tendencies, alternating severe depressive crises with (possible) manic phases during which he felt all-powerful, and would indulge in extravagant displays of pomp.83 Since by necessity the physiological and psychoanalytical theories of depression must be disregarded in this analysis, it is encouraging to see how others, based on the social components of this affective disorder, seem so easily to apply to him. Ernest Becker’s theory, cited in Lars Fredén’s Psychosocial Aspects of Depression, is centered on a threat to self-esteem coupled with a limited number of avenues for recuperating it. Charles had been showered with honors as a child, receiving the collar of the Toison d’Or at the baptismal font and his own household at the age of eleven, but once an adult was given no official position of responsibility, except once, when his father was on a tour of Germany, and then he saw his only decision overruled.84 Given his frustrating youth and the apparent success of his predecessor, he was constantly under threat to his self-esteem, which in addition depended on success in a limited range of actions, such as victory in war, good reputation among one’s peers, and shows of wealth.

82 Some of his depressive crises have been mentioned in Chapter II. See also Paravicini, Karl der Kühne, 106. For young Charles’s feelings of low self-worth see his curious comments about being nobody’s at his father’s court (“je leur sois de petit poix et comme de nul”) despite princely circumstances, see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:321-4. 83 His excessive work schedule and equally excessive love of pomp were noted with mild disapproval by de la Marche (Mémoires, 1:121-3), Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 5:360-6), and Commynes (Mémoires, 2:154), who also says of him (1:189), “car il taschoit à tant de choses grandes, qu’il n’avoit point le temps à vivre, pour les mectre à fin; et estoient choses presque impossibles, car la moytié d’Europe ne l’eust sceü contenter.” The symptoms of manic-depressive states are listed in Whybrow, Mood Disorders, 1-8. 84 For Charles’s early favor with his father and temporary assignment see de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:216-7, 400-1 and d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:243-5. Later in the same anecdote (2:301-3) he mentions the duke overruling his son. Paravicini (Karl der Kühne, 25) adds that it took Charles nine years of struggle to formally achieve heir status.

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Another central point of Becker’s theory is the concept of rigid action patterns. This means that the individual who has “too small or restricted range of action […] focuses doggedly on certain fixed solutions.” Charles’s tendency to risk all in decisive battles (discussed in Chapter II) could be interpreted in this light. I also find intriguing another aspect of the same theory, the search for a “primary value,” which Becker links to the concept of hero. The hero conceives of himself not in relation to present people, but in relation to the future of mankind. Thus heroism can be regarded as an extension of self-esteem, and depends on a world-view that supports belief in absolute values. Becker goes so far as to define mental illness a failure to become a hero, that is, a person of primary value, and this could well apply to Charles, who wanted to live a hero’s life, inspired by classical models.85 M. B. Cohen and R. Gibson have instead developed a less individualistic theory: they have found that children who develop depressive personalities have grown up in families where status is important, and are pushed to achievement in order to bring (or return) status to the family. In other terms, these families perceive the child as a tool for their success, a condition that Charles shared with many in his social class. These children are also pushed to conform to social norms and expectations, an attitude that may be lacking in their parents or al least in their father. In these cases, the mother sometimes takes over the father’s function, counting on the chosen child to restore family status. In Charles’s case, Isabel may have been the determining influence, as she saw the diminished role to which the duchy was to be relegated by King Louis, and felt it her mission to “restore” Burgundy to its status. It is tempting to see in these last statements a depiction not of one person, but of the entire aristocracy of the period (in fact, of the aristocracy of the previous two-hundred years), which would support Huizinga’s claim of a state of depression that affected the nobility in general. For members of this class few roads were open except fighting to keep one’s inheritance and, in exceptional cases, increase it. The 85

Fredén, Depression, 7-8, 149-50. Cauchies (De Péronne, 157-9) reviews some psychological theories about Charles, from the most extreme (A. Charlin diagnosed him not only as depressive but as an alcoholic gone irrational after 1476), to the more insightful (P. Troalen has seen him as a perfectionist, prey to a depressive crisis after his first two defeats, alternating with euphoria). For his part, Cauchies thinks him ill, with depression and psychosomatic symptoms, but definitely not deranged; in fact, a victim of a lack of infrastructure and means to realize his – otherwise reasonable – plans of full autonomy. And Vaughan (Charles the Bold, 384,420) argues that Charles’s illness in between the critical battles of 1476 was physical, and that his plans were realistic.

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possibilities of losses were enormous, those of success very limited, and, in addition, they felt pressure to internalize parental rule. As Cohen and Gibson would say, both parents and children seem to have “upheld stereotyped values and beliefs,” which forced children to suppress “their own needs and strive to adapt to other people’s patterns.”86 This could well result in a society with depressive traits, transmitted through generations of rigid rules, with the prospect of an uncertain life dominated by a capricious Fortune, and with few means of coping except along established patterns. The problem is that there is no evidence of a general clinical depression affecting the nobility from contemporary historical works. Philip, despite his traumatic accession and a life of challenges, loved fun and deliberately eschewed melancholy.87 His make-believe staging of the adventures of Jason, gaudy dinners and dances, and the pageantry accompanying rituals of the Toison d’Or in no way appear as abnormal escapism. Charles of Orléans, whose real-life experience as a permanent hostage would justify depression, found relief from his forced idleness in poetry, and his melancholy seemed to have lifted in later years, witness the serene poems to which he turned once restored to freedom and a stable family life. The count of Saint-Pol, despite years of uncertainty and frustration, and the fact that he approached sixty, received with shock his death sentence. There is no indication of melancholy in Charles VII, even as he started his career a poor fugitive, or in Louis XI, whom Kendall labels an “indefatigable optimist.” This man, who came to the throne in his maturity after years of conflict (a fact which could in itself lead to depression), could not bring himself to leave life. In his last months, his efforts at keeping control of his destiny achieved tragic-comic qualities, much derided by Basin, as he tried to harness the powers of heavens in

86

Cited in Fredén, Depression, 47. It is known that Duchess Isabel favored a powerful English marriage for her son. De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:396. A similar attitude is discussed by Jones (Bosworth, 85-90) in relation to Duchess Cecily of York and her son Richard. 87 Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 3:442) says of him, “avoit coutume de fuir mérancolie et toutes occasions de courroux, parce que les sentoit ennemies de vie humaine et aveugleresses de raison, par lesquelles l’homme devient tout inutile à soy-mesme et tout inapt à bien faire.” Also chivalric literature seems to have encouraged joyful attitudes, as in the instructions of the Livre de noblesse (“estre liez, gais et jolis, chanter, dancer” and eschew “la solitude, la mélancolie, la médisance”). Cited in Contamine, La noblesse, 165.

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acquiring some of the most rare of relics, and hiring the holiest of hermits to pray not for his soul but for his recovery.88 Further, some heirs, the very people who, according to Cohen and Gibson would have been forced into stereotyped patterns of behavior, displayed distinctively unconventional behavior. For example, Louis’s rebellion against the chivalric values of his father’s court, or Edward IV’s libertine and middle-class attitudes after half a century of strictly religious Lancastrian rule. In Edward’s case, his father had been for a period cornered and shunned, leaving his mother to lead the restoration of family greatness, a familial pattern that should lead to depression. Yet, as Jones has demonstrated, the need for vindication seems to have showed up in York’s youngest son, not his eldest.89 To add to the paradox, it appears that in this period it was the “middle class” who had a wider range of possibilities for self-achievement (Jacques Coeur and Joan of Arc being extreme examples) and who was less oppressed by family demands on matters of honor. One could become a great artist, a rich merchant, a famous preacher, a writer or entertainer, and was less bound to carry the family torch. Still, the two documented suicides reported by Chastellain were committed by well-to-do commoners, one of whom appears clinically depressed. Master Roland Pipe, treasurer of Flanders and general receiver of the count of Charolais, “inspired by the Devil” (but then the author explains that he had been investigated for irregularities), tried to kill himself by jumping into a well in his home. Rescued, he was taken to his room and watched closely. At first he acted enraged, gnawing his hands, but finally some priests calmed him down. Shortly after this episode, however, he again threw himself into a well and died. The other was an elderly and rather well-off cobbler of Valenciennes, who one morning got up from the bed where his wife was still asleep and hanged himself. He was found later, with his legs dragging horribly on the ground. Chastellain also mentions the attempted suicide of a maitre d’hôtel of Croy, who suddenly stabbed himself in the chest, assailed by “some irrational ideas,”

88

Orléans’s capture at Agincourt and his long emprisonment are mentioned in Chapter II. For an example of late poem see Bruneau, Charles d’Orléans, 103. The “gentle epicureism” of his late production is mentioned by Lemaire, Les visions, 170-2. Saint-Pol’s reaction to his sentence is in Molinet, 1:133 (“O mon Dieu, quelz nouvelles, vecy une dure sentence!”). For the dauphin Charles’s desperate beginnings see the testimony of an Aragonese knight, in Vaughan, John the Fearless, 224. For Louis’s last-ditch efforts see Basin, Louis XI, 2:307 and Commynes, Mémoires, 2:294-5, 308-9. 89 Jones, Bosworth, 41-43.

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was rescued by servants, but then expelled from the household and shamed for his act.90 The picture, then, is not as clear-cut as to permit generalizations. My conclusion is that Charles had a predisposition to depression probably inherited from his mother, and that life events and his father’s own behavior drove him to full-fledged symptoms in times of stress. His presence in fifteenth-century writings looms so large that he may have colored perceptions of an entire society, which appears quite normal by comparison. His pattern of tearful explosions lends credibility to the reports of the Milanese ambassador that Charles talked of suicide after his defeats in 1476, to the much-criticized anecdote of Molinet about the duke’s secret crying fits behind closed doors, and even to account by the less-than-credible Commynes of his voluntary seclusion in 1476 (as discussed in Chapter II). Certainly, as Vaughan and others have amply proven, Charles was never irrational; in fact, he seems quite a sensible and intelligent person. But this does not preclude the presence of an affective disorder, attested by a variety of contemporary writers. It may be argued that in the two examples of tearful exchanges with his servants Charles is not the only one in tears. The dependence on servants, a low-Mach trait because it implies reciprocity, appears pervasive among aristocrats. Their instinct was to protect their dependents, and their greatest humiliation the realization that they could not. In an episode narrated by Monstrelet and by Pierre de Fenin Hélion de Jacqueville, a chamberlain of John the Fearless, was mortally wounded by another of the duke’s retainers, Hector de Saveuse, over a private quarrel. The dying man was taken to the duke, who immediately jumped on his horse to give chase to the culprit, but within few days was convinced to forgive him, as the perpetrator was a valorous knight, whose services he would need again.91 Charles himself, during his 1468 campaign in France, 90

(“aucunes frénésies”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:169-70, 191, 203-4. The numerous examples listed in Alexander Murray, Suicide in the Middle Ages, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998) are commoners. Fredén (Depression, 14) argues that lower classes usually have fewer action alternatives while upper classes tend to develop rigid action patterns, the two canceling each other and making depression a disease that crosses social class. 91 Monstrelet, Chronique, 3:235-7, Fenin, Mémoires, 83. The presence of attendants was so important that it was the last thing nobles were willing to give up. For example, Chastellain (Fragments, 126-7) pities Alençon who was deprived of his servants after his arrest. In order to punish Warwick and Clarence for their disobedience, Edward IV made all their servants quit their service. Wavrin, Angleterre, 3:24-25. And Maximilian of Austria, while imprisoned in Bruges, requested to retain a few of his servants. Molinet, Chroniques, 2:605-6.

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was reminded brutally of this reality, when his captains threatened to leave him, adding that, “if he wanted to act alone, he would find himself alone, and once alone, he was a man like all others.” Closeness with servants should not be viewed exclusively in sentimental terms as if providing an “extended family.” Rather, it carried the benefits of feedback, advice, a buffer for unpopular decisions, information on rivals and allies, status, and ultimately, power. Still, interdependence may have disturbed those who felt most vulnerable to the threat of equalizing forces. Thus Charles, who had to rely so much on the sympathies of social inferiors while powerless and in disgrace, immediately upon succeeding his father imposed on his household the visible barrier of differentiation, reorganizing knights and squires in a strict hierarchy, with narrowly defined tasks, and fining them for infractions. Chastellain criticized his innovation, which regimented his staff and circumscribed their areas of competence, relegating subordinates to the position of “serfs.”92 It appears likely that Charles’s belated severity was another consequence of his low-Mach personality: he lashed out at servants, subjects, and even fellow members of the Toison d’Or when he felt that the bond of interdependence was broken, that is, when they looked out for their own interests. For their part, servants seem to have perceived their dependence on masters at least partly in utilitarian terms (an extreme case being the valet Coustain who tried to poison a prospective master for fear of losing his job). The idea of service, which Rosemary Horrox argues was central to medieval culture, was becoming tainted by self-interest, and self-interest may be at the root of some behavior that has been considered overly melodramatic. When the ailing count of Charolais announced that he was going to die (in the anecdote reported earlier), this meant the loss of employment and of a future for his servants, and at least part of their grief may have been for themselves. Chastellain, despite his tendency to sentimentalize motives, apparently realized this; in fact he remarked that they feared the death of the sole heir, their only hope of career, because the duke was too old to have other legitimate children.93 Given that the main actor in this scene represented the livelihood of several families, his destiny was not only an individual one, and general tearfulness was not 92 (“Quand il voudroit user de sa teste tout seul, il se trouveroit tout seul; et luy tout seul, ce n’estoit que un homme comme les autres”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:4357. The rest is in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:370-1, 469. 93 Chastellain, Fragments, 142. For Charles’s habit of lashing out at his fellow members of the Toison d’Or see Vaughan, Charles the Bold, 172-5 (on the Valenciennes chapter). His language toward his Flemish subjects is discussed in Chapter VI.

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just an act of participation to an alien drama, but also a reflection of personal fears. When looking at the variety of examples, then, the presence of tears becomes a complex issue. It may be explained as either the invention of the writer, trained in a rhetorical tradition which demanded emotional displays in certain situations (much like our socially approved behavior of crying at weddings or at exceptional athletic events) or the depiction of real behavior motivated by either depression or self-interest. In addition, the nobility of the period does not result excessively given to either depression or tearfulness; and when it displayed this behavior it was not with an implicit motive of manipulation. The preceding examples should help in dispelling the myth of medieval propensity to “acting out” feelings, as they show (as in the case of anger, discussed in Chapter III) how these actors exhibited a high level of emotional complexity, ranging from ambivalence to hypocrisy, stifled hostility, and feigned concern. Modern research on adult crying has likewise recognized the complexity of the phenomenon, in which physiological, social, behavioral, and cognitive components often appear in group. Crying, whether solitary or in public, conveys a message of helplessness, and therefore has a voluntary component, but can be prompted by complex factors, such as loss, lowered self-esteem, fear, helplessness, or sadness.94 One component that has been found significant by psychologists, is “the salience of social norms concerning crying,” that is, the reactions elicited by crying adults in different cultures, which affects the appraisal of the situation that provoked it. In other terms, even if the degree of emotion (caused by the appraisal of the situation) remains the same, the behavior (whether to cry or not to cry) is in part culturally determined. This statement may be interpreted in the present context as implying that medieval people were not “more emotional” than we are, but rather that crying elicited a positive response in certain poignant situations for which today it may not do so. In reality, though, the list of emotional settings described by late-medieval authors is remarkably similar to the one supplied by modern psychologists: grief at loss or separation, shame, anger and powerlessness, or joy and relief. In the few other situations in which tears occurred then but no longer do (for example, during mass chastisements of populations, which will be examined in Chapter VI) one should still be cautious in attributing the phenomenon to “excessive emotionalism.” Studies agree the crying, a 94

J. J. M. Vingerhoets, Randolph R. Cornelius, Guus L. Van Heck, and Marleen C. Becht. “Adult Crying: A Model and Review of the Literature,” Review of General Psychology 4 No. 4 (2000):360-4.

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reverting to childhood helplessness, is not quite a manifestation of hopelessness, on the contrary, it carries an expectation of rescue. Tearfulness, with its infantile connotations, conveys a more personal message to the powerful from their wards or victims. Today it is rarer among adults not because helplessness is gone from social relations, but because the hope of reprieve is much less present for “average” people. Tearful contrition is nonetheless common today among movie stars and athletes, who enjoy an exceptional and pampered status of permanent childhood. We are also used to witnessing public tearfulness in hostages, people from whom the protocol of normal social exchanges has suddenly been ripped away, and find themselves in the hands of captors who are likely not to feel personal animosity against them, so that the possibility of reprieve or rescue is quite real. On the other hand, I would suggest that in truly hopeless situations there is no crying and even less contrition: after the last pardon has been denied the “dead man walking” to his execution usually does not cry.95 Given this complex psychological canvas, it is no wonder that the picture of the nobility of the period has suffered such drastic simplification over the centuries. The responsibility for this distortion, however, may not rest with fifteenth-century writers. Apart from Shakespeare, Huizinga himself may have unwittingly contributed to it, thanks to his effective portrayal of a society of violent contrasts. Contemporary authors, for their part, discuss personalities and motivations in all their nuances, share with the reader their perplexity over ambiguous situations, and in general abstain from superficial judgments. If they reveal a bias, it is toward a narrowly legalistic view of power, an attitude that did contribute to the negative posthumous reputation of rebellious “mighty subjects.” This was not a period that demanded great maverick leaders, despite its literary admiration for Cesar and Alexander. Cooperation, prudent management of people and institutions, walking with ease the tightrope between lassitude and tyranny, these were the preferred qualities of princes. In this era of pomp and pageantry, people were less ready to follow a leader in conquest than to be entertained by his display of wealth as a tangible sign of common prosperity. The tragic villain of Seneca, loathed by Basin, is the man who dares go beyond reasonable limits, and is rightly punished.96 In politics as in war, the inclination of these authors is toward extolling moderation, self-control, and respect for “due process” and hierarchies. 95

For the social effects of crying see Vingerhoets et al., “Adult Crying,” 356-8. The argument about the impersonal nature of modern justice is in Michel Foucault, Surveiller et punir: Naissance de la prison (Gallimard, 1975), 24-25, and passim. 96 Spencer, Basin, 88-89.

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Since most of these writers shared the outlook of the nobility, they were ready to defend the social contributions of this class, but also to disapprove of any rebellion against legitimate kings. Even Basin was not an exception to this rule. He was a strong partisan of the nobility, which he saw as the best bulwark against the tyranny of a willful king, and defended the war of the Public Weal on principle, justifying the intentions of the conspirators, while admitting that in the end each participant accepted a separate settlement to his own immediate advantage. Yet even he concluded that Charles the Bold should have tried to reach some accommodation with his lord. Chastellain, who despised the French king, eventually removed himself from court after the duke’s complete break with his sovereign. And Commynes, who expressed negative opinions of princes, never denied Louis’s rights over his barons. In fact, he saw Charles’s European designs as improper for a vassal, so that the duke’s turning away from France and a sensible modus vivendi with the king may point to some reasons behind the writer’s defection in 1472.97 Above all, as in war leadership, they preferred continuity and stability to sudden change, and tended to accept a prince who projected an aura of calm serenity. Charles VII, Philip the Good, and Edward IV came as close to this ideal as any, despite their personal immorality and the fact that all three, paradoxically, left a legacy of instability and resentment.98 Still, when examined in the light of social psychology, the rash acts of preemptive aggression of the nobility, which meet with the authors’ harshest condemnation as disruptive to social order, appear for most part to be self-defense against the less criticized initiatives of a few rulers who 97 Basin, Louis XI, 1:169-85, 2:351. The claim of the wronged nobility to be fighting for the “Public Weal” was not confined to France. See Wavrin (Angleterre, 2:193) on the Yorkists‘ similar assertion in 1459. Commynes (Mémoires, 1:69-70) says of princes, “ne les nourrissent seullement que à faire les folz en habillemens et en parolles.” 98 As Vaughan observes (John the Fearless, 9 and Philip the Good, 188-9), while both Philip’s predecessor and successor were creative reformers, Philip made few if any innovations to his state, despite his long reign, which may be the consequence of his sharing paternal authority early on (John had bestowed on his son at least symbolic authority since adolescence, making him his representative in the key regions of Burgundy and later of Flanders). But Charles the Bold, who spent his formative years away from his father’s administration, did not internalize his father’s policies. The same was true of Louis XI: Charles VII appeared to realize, if too late, the drawbacks of such a policy, and one of his arguments for demanding the return of his son from Burgundy had been to introduce him to government under his guidance. Chastellain, Fragments, 190-5. The legacy of Edward IV is well known and needs no additional comments here.

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happen to also have been high- or at least medium-Machs. As for the rest, with few exceptions they failed to display the traits commonly associated with high-Machs, perhaps thanks to the popularity of chivalric ideals within their class. Despite later reinterpretations, there seem to be remarkably little long-term plotting on the part of men like John the Fearless, the duke of York, Charles the Bold and his allies the dukes of Berry and Brittany, the count of Saint-Pol, the earl of Warwick, Richard of Gloucester, and the duke of Alençon, given that changing circumstances and the very unpredictability of life precluded it. What may be mistaken for deviousness and ruthlessness is something less sinister: as resources became scarce, rivalries became more acrimonious, behavior less controlled, and willingness to take risks more pronounced. Yet seldom were they able to do more than play a rudimentary chess game, guessing the adversary’s next move from a limited repertoire of possibilities. Their Machiavellian actions, the shifting alliances or even murders, followed by improbable reconciliations, seem rather to be attempts by low-Machs to achieve a minimum of control over their lives.99 In all three countries the landed nobility, inflated and then suddenly threatened with irrelevance, reacted to events in permanent flux, and self-destroyed through nonadaptive behavioral patterns, to the advantage of few high-Machs. In later centuries, and through a new set of writers, those who lost by not being able to play the game were either forgotten or vilified, while the successful few were accepted as morally superior, the Machiavellian means by which they succeeded brushed aside. It is ironic to conclude that the most picturesque manifestation of fifteenth-century nobility, the figure of the wily, intriguing, murderous prince of popular fame, was actually the result of the actions of men who probably never belonged to this category.

99 The concept of relations among nobles as chess game is in Brandt, Medieval History, 104. The continuous validity of chivalric ideals is in Keen, Chivalry, 198.

V. INTIMACY AND VICTIMIZATION

V.1. Framework It is an axiom of both social psychology and history that women should be treated as a separate subject. Psychologists agree that males and females are fated with a different social destiny that is difficult to overcome, and that brings about a different interpersonal behavior in adulthood, even if there is a lack of consensus as to its causes. There is also agreement that these differences favor an increased feminine presence in the sphere of intimacy (in the broad sense of family relations) and masculine presence in the public sphere.1 This in turn translates into an asymmetry of power, which renders women more prone to victimization, in particular as a form of punishment for wandering outside the prescribed sphere. At times the two themes intersect, when the intimate world of family relations becomes abusive. In turning from social psychology to medieval history, we find that gender-related social differences color the thematic spectrum. The rich modern literature on women of the late Middle Ages situates itself within a specialized field with its own favorite topics, which can be grouped in two broad categories: social studies on general issues such as education, family life, hygiene, child-rearing, cooking, manners, prostitution, and business activities of women at large, and intense topical studies on the small but significant group of exceptional women, such as Joan of Arc, famous queens, or religious figures.2 The first group of works has made use of the

1

Phyllis A. Katz, Ann Boggiano, and Louise Silvern, “Theories of Female Personality,” in Denmark and Paludi, Psychology of Women, 247-80 (here 266) and Pamela T. Reid and Michele A. Paludi, “Developmental Psychology of Women: Conception to Adolescence,” in Denmark and Paludi, Psychology of Women, 191-212, according to whom there is a general consensus that girls are expected to be verbal, compliant, passive, physically weak, quiet and clean. 2 Lay medieval chroniclers (the majority of the authors represented in this work) also refer to “men and women” as two distinct groups, for example as victims of

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abundant educational, judicial, and accounting documents of this period, while the second relies on contemporary hagiographies or chronicles. A subset of the social genre has focused on the portrayal of women in literature vis-à-vis the undercurrent of alleged medieval misogynism to examine whether it translated to actual oppression.3 Recently, some writers have come to deny that such attitude was prevalent, at least outside the Church, and have reached the opposite conclusion that medieval women were quite aggressive and commanded their own space. But was this alleged dominance restricted to the sphere of intimacy? The answer appears to be positive when looking at late-medieval literature. For example, the satirical fifteenth-century novel Les .xv. joies de mariage follows a naïve and henpecked husband through an exemplary troubled relation with his selfish and useless gossip of a wife. This is also the theme of many medieval farces, which could lead to the conclusion that medieval households were far from being seats of dominance for the hard-working men. To compound this picture, Muchembled brings to notice the surprising masculine powerlessness in the raising and controlling of sons in medieval households, which further shrunk the husband’s sphere of influence to sharing in the education of daughters. Still other writers have offered examples of medieval feminine presence in areas traditionally reserved to men. As an example, Carolyne Larrington’s Women and Writing, a collection of samples from unusual literary works by and about medieval women, shows them involved in all kinds of activities, economic, artistic, literary, and political.4 With every piece of evidence the myth of the medieval woman as helpless victim of male dominance grows fainter while the picture of real women as participants in society at all levels becomes more vivid.

wars and diseases, as sources of public opinion, and so forth, in preference to the all-inclusive term “men.” 3 Examples of a “traditional” current in examining the lives of medieval women (in the sense of emphasizing inequality in their treatment) are Barbara A. Hanawalt, “Remarriage as an Option for Urban and Rural Widows in Late Medieval England,” in Walker, Wife and Widow, 143,159 (widows were forced to live in chastity unless they were wealthy, in which case they were forced to remarry to find protection against violence from the deceased husband’s dependents) and P.J.P. Goldberg, “Women,” in Horrox, Fifteenth-Century Attitudes, 112-31 (control and domesticity were a priority in the education of girls). 4 Carolyne Larrington, Women and Writing in Medieval Europe: A Sourcebook (London: Rutledge, 1995) will be discussed later in this chapter, and Margaret Wade Labarge, A Small Sound of Trumpet: Women in Medieval Life (Boston: Beacon Press, 1986), xii-xiii rejects the myth of female powerlessness.

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Despite remarkable results in the field of medieval women studies, which until the twentieth century was practically nonexistent, current literature has not quite addressed the topic of medieval women from the viewpoint of social psychology, an area that instead has opened such vast horizons in the study of modern women. Granted that an exhaustive analysis of the topic could fill several volumes, in this chapter I will concentrate on the behavior of some fifteenth-century women toward other women and men as described by contemporary authors, to evaluate the social styles described with either approval or disapproval, as they are presumably indicative of the range of manners and even idiosyncrasies that were expected or tolerated in women (keeping in mind that they occurred within a masculine power structure). The subject presents both tantalizing possibilities and challenges. For example, the already-cited work of Phyllis A. Katz, Ann Boggiano, and Louise Silvern (a vast survey of works on psychology of women) finds multiple gendered differences in development and adult manifestations of social behavior, in particular aggression, sensitivity to non-verbal cues, conformity, and helping others. And in the same volume Kay Deaux and Mary Kite remark that “[i]n research covering thirty different nations, Williams and Best (1982) observed considerable consensus in the perceived attributes of women and men. Men were typically seen as stronger and more active, characterized by high needs for achievement, dominance, autonomy, and aggression. Women, in contrast, were believed to be more concerned with affiliation, nurturance, and deference […] For the most part stereotypes have shown remarkable durability across time and place […] The ubiquity of stereotypes is evidence that they are not limited to the belief system of a few prejudiced individuals, but rather that they are part of the fabric of general societal beliefs and norms.”5 Given such impressive geographical uniformity of findings, it is tempting to look for a similar uniformity across chronological dimension. Yet here is precisely where the reader meets with troubling inconsistencies. As Margaret Labarge has noted, “medieval society displayed a constant, if subordinate, presence of the feminine.”6 In social literature, however, often late-medieval authors deal with women only in generalities and as abstract models. For example, Christine de Pisan’s Treasure of the City of Ladies illustrates the ideal behavior of women within a range of social classes. Not surprisingly, the bourgeois wife is the one whose behavior 5

Kay Deaux and Mary Kite, “Gender Stereotypes,” in Denmark and Paludi, Psychology of Women], 107-39 (here 114, 130) and Katz, Boggiano, and Silvern, “Female Personality,” 253. 6 Labarge, A Small sound of Trumpet, xi.

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best survives the test of time, and also the meekest and most passive of all groups. A self-effacing, quietly efficient, gracious hostess and calm manager of the household, completely dedicated to the success of her spouse, this figure moves effortlessly between kitchen help and the husband’s business associates. Interestingly, though, this ideal of the feminine that stems from affluence without the pressures of nobility is also the most confining of images. The bourgeois lady alone is sheltered from the ugliness of an outside world wrought with conflictual relationships and personal risks, hidden behind her man and totally enveloped in the house, busy embroidering napkins.7 Paradoxically, though, when examining historical sources dealing with the behavior of real-life women, this image fits best ladies of the nobility, and not commoners. High-born ladies, attached to the very courts that are the focus of the attention of most chroniclers, remain but shadows behind their male counterparts, locked in a rigid pattern of expected behavior not unlike Pisan’s ideal wife.8 All that writers have left on the lives of these persons are a few bare facts incidental to those of their male counterparts, but that shed little light on their own attitudes and characters. For example, Isabel of Portugal, the powerful third wife of Philip the Good and a long-lived and politically active personality at one of the most written about courts of Europe, is rendered through rare snippets in the works of official chroniclers like Chastellain and memorialists like de la Marche and Aliénor of Poitiers. Thankfully, these snippets are picturesque enough to convey a general impression of her style, but not frequent enough to build a study of her personality. By necessity, then, a modern biography of such a figure, even when the product of exhaustive research (like the impressive work by Isabel Sommé), approaches its topic through reconstruction of people and events around the main figure, whose individuality still eludes definition. Even less transpires from contemporary sources on more conventional personalities, for example, Isabel’s two daughters-in-law Isabelle of Bourbon and Margaret of York, the latter the subject of a couple of modern biographies, among which the thoughtful work by Christine Weightman. This fact alone renders futile 7

Christine de Pisan, Treasure of the City of Ladies, trans. Sarah Lawson (Harmondsworth: Penguin), 145-9. Cited in Larrington, Women and Writing, 3034. 8 As an example of this attitude, de la Marche dismisses the feminine presence at his master’s court with the terse comment that he would not talk about the ladies, despite the fact that their estate and pensions cost over forty-thousand livres a year. Olivier de la Marche, “L’Estat de la maison du duc Charles de Bourgoingne, dit le hardy,” in de La Marche, Mémoires (pièces annexées), 4:11.

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any attempt at constructing the present chapter as a “parallel universe” of the previous one. While fifteenth-century princesses are smothered under a blanket of conventionality, two unusual and unusually strong figures spring from the middle class. Joan of Arc and Margery Kempe, the two women of this period whose lives are best known to modern publics, defied stereotypes and succeeded in influencing others and their environment. The first elicited a flurry of opinionated mentions from late-medieval authors, and even a chronicle dedicated to her brief but adventurous life, while Margery Kempe has (perhaps unwittingly) left us a dramatic and psychologically significant portrait of herself and her world in what she conceived as the narrative of a spiritual journey.9 This situation may just not be the result of accident, nor of the fact that noble women were defined by the male historians who worked for the ladies’ male kin. After all, the deeds of Joan of Arc were recorded by male chroniclers, and we know Margery Kempe through memoirs dictated to (and possibly reinterpreted by) a priest. Their different treatment may originate from the fact that noble women, and in particular princesses, operated within a protected world that demanded discretion, while women of the common classes were allowed to express their individuality, as they represented less pressing corporate values.

V.2. Noble Women and Conventional Role How to define the sphere of intimacy for the noble woman? Talking of modern women, Nancy Betz has argued that staying at home is not a true “career” option because the work performed is not paid, does not require training, does not offer opportunities for advancement, and would not be considered a legitimate career choice for a male.10 However, marriage for ladies of the upper crust can hardly be described as “staying at home,” and therefore may be looked at not as an alternative to a career, but a career in itself. It started with an interview of the interested parties, a background check of qualifications and negotiations for the dowry, and ended with the set of formal steps for the bride to be received into the firm. 9

The works cited are: Monique Sommé, Isabelle de Portugal, duchesse de Bourgogne - une femme au pouvoir au XVe siècle (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion, 1998), Christine Weightman, Margaret of York Duchess of Burgundy 1446-1503 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1989), and The Book of Margery Kempe, trans. and ed. Lynn Staley (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2001). The works on Joan of Arc are cited later in the chapter. 10 Nancy Betz, “Women’s Career Development,” in Denmark and Paludi, Psychology of Women, 627-84 (here 630).

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Not surprisingly, then, a noblewoman’s behavior around her wedding time was little noticed unless it did not fit expectations. About those who rose to the task (and they seem to have been the majority) chroniclers leave us with a series of vague statements about “noble lady” and “powerful princess” but very few actual anecdotes that may depict their personality. Likewise, these princesses were honored because of what they represented, not for their inherent qualities, and therefore their features are vague and lack individuality. For example, the Livre des Trahisons, in mentioning the marriage of Henry V with Catherine of France, calls the latter “beautiful, noble and powerful young lady.”11 And de la Marche, who dedicates a hundred pages of his Mémoirs to the description of the wedding in Bruges between his master, Charles the Bold, and Margaret of York in 1468, does not describe the bride, but mentions in passing that the princess wore a wedding dress of white cloth of gold and a rich crown on her head. Yet, in reporting the daily jousts that accompanied the festivities, he notices how a “handsome knight […] sits well on the saddle,” and also every detail of the participants’ clothing, from material (silk, satin, velour) to accessories (hats and pins), down to the attire of their pages and even the trappings of their horses. Clothes, clearly, were a status symbol, and not an accessory to natural beauty. Molinet follows the same model when he describes the festive entrance of Juana of Aragon into Antwerp in 1496 to marry the archduke Philip the Fair: “That most illustrious and virtuous lady, aged … years, of fine bearing and gracious demeanor, the most elegantly adorned that had ever appeared in the territories of our lord the archduke, was mounted on a mule Spanish-style, her head bare, accompanied by sixteen noble young ladies.”12 The age of the princess, that is the only personal detail, is never filled in the dotted line, and she is represented as an object 11 (“belle, noble et puissant [sic] demoiselle”). The author also says of Queen Isabeau, wife of the mad Charles VI and a character who has not enjoyed a high reputation among historians, “quy moult estoit prudente et saige,” an apparent homage to her belated Burgundian sympathies. “Trahisons,” 70, 142-3. 12 (“Icelle très illustre et vertueuse dame, eagie de …, de beau port et gracieux maintieng, le plus ricemment aornée que jamais fut paravant veue ès pays de monseigneur l’archiduc, estoit montée sur une mule à la mode d’Espaigne, ayant le chief descouvert, estoit accompagnie de .xvi. nobles jeunes dames”). Molinet, Chroniques, 2:429. The reception of Margaret of York is in de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:106. For generic praises of a princess see also Monstralet (Chronique, 4:118-9) talking of the death of Michelle of France, first wife of Philip the Good. She was mourned by the population because “principalment qu’elle estoit de haulte extraction, belle et bien formée, aornée de toute bonne condicion et bien morigenée.”

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of admiration for her noble demeanor, her rich clothes, and her following, but a physical description is deemed unnecessary. While the marriage was in the negotiating phase, physical qualities of the bride could be openly discussed, but again in rather vague terms indicating general health, as when the Milanese ambassador Malleta, after much demurring, attempted a portrait of the younger daughter of the duke of Savoy, prospective bride of King Edward IV: “she looks like an attractive and lively girl […] and to all of us it seems that she has beautiful eyes and nice complexion.”13 At times the most intimate moments of the happy event were not those shared with the spouse: Isabel of Portugal, during their stay at Sluis to be wedded to Philip the Good, shared the bed for two nights with the duke’s sister, the duchess of Bedford.14 Even courtship at this level is cast in lackluster terms devoid of intimacy. For example, when Charles the Bold’s prospective bride Margaret of York was recovering from the sea trip at Sluis for a few days the duke came to visit her to make her welcome and formally engage her. The bishop of Salisbury (who had conducted the marriage negotiations on the English side) affianced them by asking the princess if she accepted the duke as husband. Her answer was that she had come to her new country for that precise purpose, to obey her brother the king, and so, naturally, she would. An answer less than romantic, but entirely acceptable under the circumstances, which saved her virginal state of “disinterested party” and yet implied consent. During the actual wedding celebrations, which lasted ten days and were apparently the most lavish of the century, the marriage was only suggested through entremets based on heraldic symbols, a lion for the duke and a leopard for the new duchess, or other visual icons (a daisy offered to the duke in reference to her name), while the whole extravaganza remained a celebration of Burgundian power and of the strengthening of the alliance with England by honoring the English guests, with only the most superficial allusion to love, marriage, family, or even the beauty of the bride. The couple did not sit at the same table, as expected, and according to de la Marche,

13

(“mi pare una puta assay bella et de bona aire, et molto viva […] e pare a nui tuti ch’el habia belli ochii et bella carne”). Mandrot, Dépèches, 1:195. Significantly however, he describes (196-7) in similar terms her brother Charles (“bello putto et allegro […] bello et animoso”). In contast see the outpouring of details in Jean Nicolay’s (Kalendrier, 2:71-72) lament for the duke of Guelders, killed in a skirmish against Tournai: “très mignot et très bel […] ses cheveulx passant ses espaules doulx come soye, blonds, jaunes et luisans come or de Cipre et pigniez et mis al ouis come graviers de mer.” 14 Gachard, documens inédits, 2:81.

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consummated the marriage after an exhausting day of parades and banquets that lasted well over twenty hours.15 After the wedding was over, the general laconism of writers about the daily life of these noble ladies bears witness to their smooth adaptation to their expected part. It is frustrating to modern readers because such an important component of the ruling class and indeed of the population escapes analysis, but it means that they fulfilled their role in the eyes of the narrators. It is therefore more likely to hear of the rare case in which things did not work out, as in the strange story of Jacquelina of Bavaria, as told by Chastellain. The young woman was the daughter of Margaret of Burgundy, dowager countess of Hainault, and married to a cousin of Philip the Good, Duke Jean of Brabant. Apparently she was a robust, healthy and lively girl, while her husband was weak and effeminate. She assumed as confidant the lord of Escaillon, a knight in the service of the English (significantly, not a woman), who mediated a marriage between her and Humphrey, duke of Gloucester and youngest brother of Henry V. Chastellain, in one of his notorious vignettes, has the young duchess gaze longingly at the white English coastline anticipating her freedom, but does not mention whether Gloucester was part of her dreams. Apparently, at stake here were her disputed possessions in Holland and Zeeland, and not love. At any rate, Jacquelina seemed little concerned with the fact that she was still legally married to Jean (just as later on Humphrey himself would be little concerned of being still married to Jacquelina when tying a new knot with one of her ladies). Their unusual marriage was not a traditional arranged one, even if Henry V was overjoyed at welcoming the headstrong sister-in-law and her lands. The Burgundian side of the family, that is her mother and Philip, where aghast, as this was widely regarded as a dynastic coup rather than a romantic escapade. Chastellain, always the psychologist, delves into the irreconcilable differences in personality between Jaquelina and her husband, hinting obliquely that his lack of virility might have been a contributing cause to the break-up. But the subsequent bigamous marriage and attempts at gaining control over her duchy on the part of the rogue couple (who soon lived separate lives),

15 The day-to-day description of the wedding feasts is in de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:101-202. On the first day the party ended at three in the morning, and the wedding had been celebrated before five on the previous morning (3:137-8). As for reference to love, he only records a jocular love song (3:151-3).

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shows them as two accomplices in a heist rather than two lovers in a classic elopement.16 At times one has to read between the lines to realize that the writer may be communicating something significant. The deferential de la Marche proffers a curious example. Early in his Mémoirs, in the portion dedicated to the family tree of his young pupil Archduke Philip the Fair, he announces that he will speak little of the noble lady Margaret of York because no children issued from her marriage to Philip’s grandfather Charles the Bold. In other terms, the dowager duchess can be ignored because she did not contribute to the young prince’s ancestry. But in fact he soon returns to her in terms of personal devotion as he admonishes Philip, who has known her “noble habits and virtuous acts of goodness in her widowhood” to always remember her as she had been his godmother and had raised him as a real mother would. Later on he adds that the marriage of Philip’s mother Marie of Burgundy (daughter of Charles the Bold) to Maximilian of Austria was strongly favored by the dowager: “[i]n which marriage the lady Margaret, sister of the king of England and dowager of Burgundy played a strong part.” Notable in this passage is the deferential list of Margaret’s titles and the emphasis on her political stance. He repeats the point a little later, to emphasize the complete accord between the dowager and the archduke’s mother: “[a]nd the one who had the strongest influence in this alliance was the lady Margaret […] for whom my lady our princess felt exceptional love and trust.”17 Surprisingly, however, de la Marche’s habitual deference toward his masters and mistresses fails him when talking about the young prince’s great-grandmother Duchess Isabel. In relating a diplomatic mission that she undertook to the court of Charles VII in Chalons in 1445, he makes the curious observation that she was honorably received by Queen Marie of France “because both were already aged princesses beyond any gossip. And I truly believe that both suffered from the same ailment and illness 16

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:171, 210-7, 295, 2:79. See also Monstrelet, Chronique, 4:26-28. Further details are in anon.chron (Monstrelet, 6:291-3). After the new couple returned to the continent at the head of an army to reaffirm Jacquelina’s possessions, Philip had her arrested and kept under lock and key, and later assumed direct rule of Brabant after the death of his cousin. For a (surprisingly) informative narrative on the latter phase of this episode see “Trahisons,” 179-87. 17 (“nobles meurs et vertueuses bontez d’elle en son vesvaige […] Et auquel mariage madame Margherite, seur du Roy d’Angleterre, douagiere de Bourgoigne, tint fort la main […] Et qui plus fort tint la main à ceste aliance, ce fut madame Margherite […] en laquele madicte demoiselle, nostre princesse, avoit singulier amour et fiance”). De la Marche, Mémoires, 1:129, 155, 157.

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called jealousy, and therefore often they vented their anger in secret, and this was the reason for their intimacy.” He goes on to explain that the king at the time had elevated above all others a beautiful but poor young lady, Agnès Sorel, who with her beauty did much good to the kingdom, as she attracted to court young knights and squires who served the king well. As for the duke of Burgundy, he was “the greatest womanizer and gallant prince known, and he had a nice troop of bastard sons and daughters. And so the queen and the duchess met frequently to share their grief and commiserate each other over their broken hearts.”18 Why this piece of gossip about an ancestor in a work destined to a child of her blood? And why this abrupt introduction of intimacy tinged with the suggestion of failure in an account of dynastic glories? This short paragraph stands almost alone in departing from the conventional portrayal of a great lady honored for her status, and is puzzling because it seems to introduce an element of passion in an essentially political relation. Why should the duchess of Burgundy or the queen of France, highly-placed ladies who had fulfilled their duties to produce heirs with husbands who mattered only as political partners, care for their men’s love affairs? If de la Marche’s comments reflect their true feelings, then the ladies’ displeasure could well be attributed to their loss of status at court. The wife should be the closest confidant of the ruler, but these two ladies had been “demoted” from the inner circle. Even the overly-deferential and careful Jean Chartier, the official French chronicler, affirms that Agnès Sorel was better dressed and had a more splendid retinue than the queen, a statement rephrased by the equally tactful de la Marche when he says that she attracted illustrious young men to her lover’s court. Chastellain, too, in referring to the same situation, speaks of Queen Marie as being resentful of the presence of Agnès as the king’s favorite at court, because the king’s mistress had better lodgings, servants, and even food. The fact that the king preferred to share her bed, too, seems rather incidental to the queen’s distressed reaction. She behaved, in short, rather like an executive of a firm, with the correct set of credentials, who fails to obtain a coveted promotion because of capricious favoritism. Chartier, to protect the 18

(“car toutes deux estoient desjà princesses eaigées et hors de bruyt. Et croy bien qu’elles avoient une mesme douleur et maladie qu’on appelle jalousie, et que mainteffois elles se devisoient de leurs passions secrettement, qui estoit cause de leurs privaultez […] un prince le plus dameres et le plus connoyseulx qu l’on sceut; et avoit de bastards et de bastardes une moult belle compaignie. Et ainsi la Royne et la duchesse se rassembloient souventeffois pour eulx douloir et complaindre une à l’aultre de leur creve cueur”). De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:5455.

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queen’s honor and Agnès from scandal, rushes to report the numerous children produced by the royal couple during the period of the king’s alleged affair with the low-born beauty.19 But this statement, too, should be qualified, as producing children, an undeniable proof of physical intimacy, was very much part of the couple’s job description. The case of Isabel is a little different, though. Unlike the king, who had a string of mistresses each in turn quite influential at court, Duke Philip kept his love affairs separate from court politics. Isabel was the respected mother of the heir, and if her influence with her husband was lower than her ambitious and energetic personality demanded, there was still little loss of status to be feared from her husband’s amorous wanderings. In emphasizing her jealousy de la Marche seems to deliberately attribute a certain bourgeois quality to her, as if to imply that she perceived this marriage not as political arrangement (as she should) but as an intimate relation, which demeaned her. In this he follows his mentor Chastellain, who also introduces the duchess in a strangely diminished light in her rare cameo appearances in the Chroniques. Chastellain also hints at Isabel’s jealous rages against Philip, for which she was banished from court. The duke apparently thought her reactions inappropriate for her role and punished her for her transgression, but the focus of her tirades could have been her replacement in the sphere of intimate advisers. In fact, this period of “jealousy” seems to coincide with the ascent of the Croy family, and therefore to fall within a conflict of interest rather than a betrayal of intimacy. According to the writer she took the initiative of retiring from court to her property of la Motte-au-Bois, where she lived a life of charity dedicated to the poor and the sick.20 Her charity gave way to cynicism when the object of pity was her own husband. In the episode of the oratory narrated in Chapter III, after Philip rode away alone into the night and was feared lost, she was the only person in his household to keep a distant calm, openly scoffing at his servants’ anguish and claiming that the duke was deliberately feigning being lost to get attention. She reappears briefly in another intimate vignette that illustrates her alienation: during the serious illness of her only surviving son Charles, narrated in Chapter IV, Chastellain shows her 19 Chartier, Chroniques, 2:181-6. Chastellain, (“Chroniques,” 4:366-7), less kindly, calls Agnès “une ribaude, povre ancelle de petite basse maison.” Forsyth (Group Dynamics, 132) states that, “[o]ne of the major factors in dissatisfaction is position at the periphery of a centralized communication network.” 20 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:442-4. Emerson (Olivier de la Marche, 185) says that de la Marche’s comment “suggests that the reaction of the wives to their husbands’ infidelity is unnatural, and even culpable.”

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giving vent to her grief with “angry cries,” foreseeing her lonely future as an old woman, unloved and unwelcome, forced to return to her own country (presumably in a much-diminished state) once left without children. Despite her good works of charity, honestly praised by Chastellain, her long married life in which she produced three sons (of whom the first two died in childhood), she felt and acted like an outsider.21 De la Marche presses this point when he gives his own version of the scene in the oratory. Once the duke calmed down, he complained publicly that his wife had taken the son’s side and left the room with him. Her reply was that she had rushed Charles out of the oratory because she knew her husband’s temper and was afraid that he would hurt their son. For this she asked forgiveness of her lord, adding pointedly that “she was a foreigner here and had no support other than her son.”22 In de la Marche’s narrative Isabel does not display the mandatory commonality of goals with her husband. In her biography of the duchess, Sommé has minimized Isabel’s alleged jealousy, citing as proof of her continued good partnership with Philip some friendly letters in which the duke thanked her for her longdistance care of him (she had sent him some home-made marmalade), her friendly relations with the duke’s bastards, and her periodic reappearances at court.23 While these arguments are certainly valid, de la Marche’s persistent, if delicate, hints at friction should not be ignored, also because Isabel did not completely forgo her retirement even after her beloved son inherited the duchy. She (and perhaps others) may have perceived that her personality did not quite fit the narrow role that was reserved for her, and that she would be happier in her own private space. On the opposite end of the spectrum her daughter-in-law Margaret of York led a remarkably successful public life in her adopted country, despite considerable odds against her. Some courtiers (who find echo in Chastellain) strongly disapproved of the duke’s English marriage, with its anti-French implications. Worse yet, she produced no children of her own and was relegated to an almost shadowy status until the death of her longlived mother-in-law. Still, she ended up a respected wife and widow, a loved surrogate mother to her stepdaughter Marie and grandmother to Marie’s children, confident enough in her standing with the family to protest in public her loyalty to Marie’s subjects in Ghent. During her twenty-six years of widowhood (which she entered at the age of thirty), 21 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:275 and (“en rage de cris et de lamentations”). Fragments, 143-4. 22 (“qu’elle estoit une estrangiere pardeça et n’avoit point de soubstenue que de sondit filz”). De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:419. 23 Sommé, Isabel, 46-47, 67-68.

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she refused to remarry or to leave the country, and was regularly appearing carrying yet another ducal infant to baptism, a permanent feature of Burgundian life.24 Among contemporary writers only Philippe Wielant mentions an anomaly in her marital status, and this only to blame her husband for deliberately keeping her away from himself and his court. True, Charles’s court soon acquired a masculine and military aspect, but no hint of dissent transpires from the couple’s behavior toward each other. Weightman suggests that once it became obvious that they were unable to conceive children their physical proximity became useless, and Margaret settled in her role of stepmother to the heiress and loyal collaborator to her husband.25 In fact their physical separation could possibly have served also as a face-saving device for both the duke and Margaret, as it offered a ready explanation for the couple’s lack of offspring. Margaret had other handicaps: she was supposed to bridge relations with a powerful neighbor, but she was unable to influence English attitudes, as events escaped her grasp. Her brother Edward IV, despite an apparently loving and respectful relationship with his sister, never saw eye-to-eye with his brother-in-law, and at any rate his shaky hold of the throne forced him to actions dictated almost exclusively by domestic events. Additionally, Edward never paid in full her huge dowry, which rendered volatile her financial independence after Charles’s unexpected death.26 Not enough is known about her relations with her youngest brother Richard III, but likely his short reign that ended so tragically the Yorkist rule affected negatively her last years, as she no longer represented a reigning dynasty. Yet, against all odds, she lived the rest of her austere life of service respected, loved by her adopted family, and afterwards mourned and praised universally by Burgundian writers, the most successful member of an otherwise unsuccessful family, and all thanks to her own efforts. In announcing her death in 1503 in Malines (where she 24

Molinet, Chroniques, 1:275-7, 2:451-2 and Haynin, Mémoires, 2:222-4. For the hostility toward Charles’s English marriage see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:310-4. 25 Wielant, “Flandre,” 56. Weightman posits that infertility came from Margaret’s side, as the duke supposedly had two illegitimate sons (she cites a 1955 work on the bastards of Burgundy, but no other auhor does). Weightman, Margaret of York, 42, 65, 72. But years earlier Charles had complained that his wife Isabelle of Bourbon was unable to conceive other children after Marie, and accused the Croys of poisoning her. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:475-80. 26 Weightman, Margaret of York, 72. According to Commynes (Mémoires, 1:2067, 215) Edward was kept at a distance after he lost his throne in 1470 and became a refugee in his brother-in-law’s lands, and the duke was not very happy about his victories and restoration. Their relations soured even more affer the fiasco of his expedition to France in 1475 (2:53-54).

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resided as ruler in her own right) Molinet wrote a heartfelt epitaph: “She was much missed, mourned and regretted by reformed religions and by many devout people, to whom she had given her wealth generously; and she had been a mother to the orphans, comfort to the poor, and refuge and solace to the sad aggrieved hearts.”27 Isabel had also been a charitable princess, so why was Margaret alone to enjoy such popularity? It seems that her own personality helped her: she was perceived as married to the firm, working solidly in tandem with her husband, totally devoted to his interests, and this corporate attitude earned her the trust and devotion of his family and courtiers. So long as she fulfilled this role, her less-thanharmonious interpersonal relations with others were readily tolerated, for example, her well-publicized feud with Henry VII, which should have brought her some embarrassment. In fact, not only did she outlive the various Yorkist pretenders without being discredited, but she did not lose her privileged position with the Habsburgs even after the marriage of the widowed Maximilian with Bianca Maria Sforza in 1494, and continued to raise ducal heirs.28 The most intriguing aspect of her ever-growing influence is that it rested on a personal intimacy, carved entirely on her own, with the heiress Marie. Through her she avoided the lonely destiny that affected childless women in dynastic marriages. The bond between the two might have risen out of duty, but it seems to have blossomed into a genuine affection. Maximilian of Austria, the young man whom she had been instrumental in bringing into the family, became her “son-in-law” and always referred to as such. As young Marie lie dying in 1482, after an accidental fall from her horse, her last words were directed to her “mother and sister,” into whose hands she placed the care of her two surviving children. Once Margaret’s grandmotherly role was established, it continued effortlessly, as she raised Philip the Fair and his sister Margaret of Austria, and then Philip’s children, including the future emperor Charles V.29 After the first generation, it might have been difficult to remember that this matriarch, whose palace was a veritable imperial nursery, had never had children of her own, in fact, had probably barely consummated her marriage. Her 27

(“Elle fut fort regretée, plainte et plourée des religions reformées et de pluseurs personnes devotes, ausquels ell donna de ses biens largement, et fut mere des orphenins, nourrice des povres et refuge et solas des tristes coeurs dolens”). Molinet, Chroniques, 2:526. 28 For the dowager’s and Maximilian’s obstinate support of various impostors, pretenders to the English throne, see Weightman, Margaret of York, 156-60, 170-9. 29 Luc Hommel, Marguerite d’York ou la Duchesse Junon (Bruxelles: Librairie Hachette, 1959), 138, 153, 173-4, 247, 291-4.

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success was fortuitous, in that she met with a pliable partner in young Marie, yet attributable in great part to her own adaptability in the face of a potentially difficult situation. Oddly enough, the personalities of the duchesses’ respective husbands may have contributed to their different degree of success. Philip was notoriously chivalrous toward women, whose company he ostensibly enjoyed, but showed strong manipulative tendencies toward them (despite his low-Mach behavior toward his sovereigns) and may not have felt comfortable with a willful, intelligent wife. The portrait that emerges from few anecdotes about his interactions with women is one of an emotional, prickly, selfish, and extremely vain man. In one example, Chastellain reports that one of his archers had been wooing a young woman of a wealthy but peasant family of Lille, and asked his lord to intercede with the girl’s parents to bring about a marriage. But her father, “harsh and rebellious,” not only refused the honor, but also told the duke bluntly that his daughter would marry according to his own wishes. The duke had the family over for an interview, but to his dismay the girl stood by her parents’ decision. Philip had her removed from their custody and gave her to one of his castellans, the lord of Antoing, to keep under watch until she would change her mind. The desperate father appealed to the king’s justice, and a royal bailiff ordered the castellan to hand over his ward. The perplexed man, caught between the king and his own direct lord, wrote Philip for instructions. The duke was then in Holland but, immediately upon receiving the letter, put to sea in the middle of a storm headed for Sluis, from where he rode directly to the bewildered lord of Antoing to demand the girl. He then had her placed in custody in Lille, deeper within his territories. Finally, the family despaired of help and gave in. One day, as the duke left church, the mother threw herself on her knees, begging him to forgive her husband’s rudeness. Philip asked her repeatedly whether she would hand over to him her daughter willingly, and only when the woman answered that he could do as he wished did the duke return the girl to her family, declaring disdainfully that she would never marry within his household. He then forbade the archer from having any further contact with her. Chastellain shows this as example of righteous wrath as if Philip’s generous intention to elevate the girl’s status had been rewarded with ingratitude. But the reader cannot avoid noticing the disturbing element of coercion and the total disregard for family rights in this sordid affair.30 30

(“dur et rebelle”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:82-88. In fact, du Clerq (“Mémoires,” 52), writing outside the ducal household and therefore more objectively, casts a darker light on similar episodes. He reports that it had become

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When necessary Philip could be playfully tactful with women while always ready to use them for his ulterior purposes. In another anecdote Chastellain narrates how he managed a clever little piece of propaganda directed at the Parisians (who, as will be discussed in the next chapter, had been staunch Burgundian supporters in the past) through their women. By the end of his reign and that of Charles VII, after years of absence from his Parisian residence, the duke’s relation with the king had reached its nadir, to the point that the latter had forbidden manifestations of Burgundian sympathies under penalty of the loss of royal posts. When a young Parisian woman came to visit Philip’s court with a friend the duke showered her with attentions, sniffing an opportunity. Lamenting that the people of Paris now saw him as an ogre, he gave the girl a beautiful diamond, and sent similar ones for other Parisian ladies, as a token to show that he “was not such a devil.” When the flushed girl thanked him, he returned profuse thanks for the honor made to “a Burgundian” who still loved so much his good city. The girl left also loaded with gifts from the rest of the ducal family. As Philip had planned, the rumor of his generosity spread and soon served him well during a diplomatic mission headed by one of his favorite nephews, the duke of Clèves, in 1459.31 Philip’s dealings with women, noble or not, appear consistently to have had jocular, protective, yet manipulative overtones. Not surprisingly, however, he displayed little patience for politically-involved women. In 1463 he found himself unexpectedly host to the exiled Lancastrian queen of England Margaret of Anjou, who had fled from Edward IV. The duke, whose Yorkist sympathies were well known, felt nevertheless obliged to protect the fugitive. He sent knights of his household to receive her and escort her to the safety of Bruges, where he later offered the impoverished queen a banquet, and money to defray expenses. Margaret, however, was a habit for the ducal family to force wealthy women to marry their archers and servants, as a cheap way to reward service at others’ expenses. To this effect, he relates the pitiful case of a widow who escaped this forced destiny by remarrying on the very day of her husband’s funeral. 31 (“il n’est pas si deable qu’il est noir”). Chastellain, Fragments, 238-41. Clèves, a showy, handsome ladies’ man, was heading a Burgundian embassy to the pope on the occasion of the Council of Mantua. The duke instructed him to stop in Paris, entertain splendidly at his long-abandoned Hotel d’Artois, and feast all the ladies of the city. But their husbands forbade them from attending, fearing the king’s anger. So the women tipped Clèves not to expose himself to humiliation by throwing a party that would not be attended. Then, casually, they set up their own festivities in the streets of the city, as was customary on the occasion of important visits. When Clèves and his entourage happened to drop by, entirely by accident of course, the ladies could not refuse them food and entertainment.

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there on a political mission, and caught the occasion to launch into a passionate plea for the Lancastrian cause, which the duke found extremely boring. Politely, he interrupted her with the statement that with women, “one should only talk about happy things,” and led her to the table. As soon as he could, he turned her over to his sister the duchess of Bourbon, who was eager to listen to Margaret’s tearful story of her escape from Yorkist hands and the rescuing of her young son.32 It is quite understandable that a man given to flirtatious oneupmanship with women would respect but not necessarily like his austere, businesslike, and independent duchess. Realizing his wife’s penchant for administration (a quality that he lacked) he was probably glad to leave to her the dreary details of finances. And seeing how she did not eschew conflict, he also left her in charge of tasks that could make her unpopular, such as collecting the hefty ransom for the duke of Orléans, or negotiating the release of hostages from a recalcitrant vassal. He allowed her diplomatic missions to represent him at times, but made no secret of his displeasure (even if perhaps contrived) when she acted independently. He was also not above criticizing her in public. For example, in 1464, at a dramatic audience with the French envoys over a mysterious affair involving a French spy and obscure plots against his son, he remarked that the count of Charolais must have inherited his mistrustful nature from his mother, who was “the most suspicious lady whom he had ever known.”33 A completely different attitude emerges instead from anecdotes about his son Charles, who allegedly despised women.34 On the contrary, he

32 (“aux dames on ne doit parler que de joye”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:279300. 33 (“qui avoit esté la plus suspessonneuse dame qu’il eust jamais congneue”). Commynes, Mémoires, 1:5-6. This muddy episode was the arrest in Holland of the bastard of Rubempré, who allegedly was sent by Louis XI to kidnap or kill the count of Charolais. The French argued that he was sent instead after a Breton envoy. For more details on the episode (backing Charolais’s version of facts) see “Trahisons,” 234-7. For the duchess’s administrative and diplomatic tasks see de la Marche, Mémoires, 1:257 and Sommé, Isabel, 375-80. Philip was apparently displeased when she negotiated in France the partial remission of the ransom of René of Anjou. D’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:50-51. 34 Wielant, “Flandre,” 56. There are also (veiled and unconfirmed) allegations of homosexuality in the letter of the defector Jean de Chassa, who accuses the duke of having committed acts “contre Dieu, notre créateur, contre nature et contre notre loi; en quoi il m’a voulu attraire et faire condescendre d’en user avec lui […]” in Duclos, Oeuvres, 5:307-11. The allegedly treasonable episode that prompted this response is analyzed in Jean-Marie Cauchies, “Baudouin de Bourgogne (v.1446-

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appears to have regarded women as people in their own right. When the count of Saint-Pol (by then constable of France) wanted to marry Charles’s young sister-in-law Jeanne of Bourbon against her wishes, Charles chose to forgo an advantageous political alliance with him to respect her feelings. Also, unlike his father, he seems to have admired the exiled queen Margaret of Anjou and vied to honor her. His faithfulness to his wives, presumably Margaret included, was proverbial, and recorded in awed tone by both Molinet and de la Marche. His wives apparently rewarded him with perfect loyalty, making him one of the most happily married men in the chronicles.35 It is therefore more challenging to guess his intentions regarding marital relations with Margaret. It is entirely possible, as Commynes claims, that Charles preferred the docility of an only female child to the potential rivalry posed by a male heir, and deliberately avoided producing a son. More personal considerations of an affective nature (loyalty to his dead wife Isabelle, lack of physical interest in Margaret) may also be possible, but less likely, given that his previous marriage to Isabelle was at first not at all pleasing to him or his mother, yet turned out to be a love match.36 The frequent absences of the duke from Margaret’s side in the few years left to his life and reign were detrimental to the foundation of a strong dynasty, and in that sense the marriage was a failure, reflecting the ambiguous position of the duke vis-à-vis the Yorkist dynasty. But there is no direct evidence from historical narrative that anything of a more personal nature was amiss between the two, and Margaret, unlike her mother-in-law, is never quoted as voicing a complaint. Isabel, more independent and perhaps more capable, had perceived herself as a separate entity from her husband, pursuing her own agenda. She let transpire her differences, as when she evaluated with detachment and even some humor her husband’s irrational outburst after the episode of the oratory, while Margaret, married to a man with many more outbursts to his credit, kept a straight face and seems to have never wavered in her devotion.37 Sadly for Isabel, after being in charge of ducal 1508), bâtard, militaire et diplomate. Une carrière exemplaire ?” Revue du Nord LXXVII no. 310 (April-June 1995):257-281 (here 261). 35 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:213-5, 309-14, and Fragments, 140-1, de la Marche, Mémoires, 2:334, Molinet, Chroniques, 1:60, Haynin, Mémoires, I:118. 36 Commynes (Mémoires, 1:189) thought that the duke was averse to having sons or a son-in-law during his lifetime. The initial objection to Charles’s marriage to Isabelle of Bourbon is in Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:20-21. 37 Margaret refused to remarry after the duke’s death, apparently influenced the naming of the future emperor Charles V, and had her husband featured on a stained glass window that she donated to the church of Saint-Rombaut in Malines. Weightman, Margaret of York, 67-68 and Hommel, Marguerite d’York, 56-57.

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finances, having discharged diplomatic tasks, and demonstrated her fertility, she ended up perceiving her own destiny as entirely dependent on her last surviving son. The social behavior of these high-born women necessitates some clarifications about their sphere of intimacy. It seems evident that for this group the concept of intimacy loses much of its bourgeois meaning of “married home life.” Even if in the late-medieval period conjugal families were the norm, this was not the case among noble families, and therefore for their members intimacy has to be sought in subsets of relationships, between mother and children (or step-children), in-laws, uncles or aunts and nephews, and especially between the two poles of power, husband and wife, and their respective circles of servants, but hardly ever with each other.38 These women certainly did not lack affective life, but marriage was not the venue in which it was expected to be revealed, and if at times business and personal life came together, this was wisely kept within limits. It is therefore surprising to witness the rare examples of spontaneous marital affection, like a letter of Maximilian of Austria to a friend in which he describes in tender terms his wife Marie of Burgundy.39 But the fact remains that intimacy was not the foremost goal of married life for the aristocracy, and that its domestic environment was very much a public arena. Among commoners it was expected that a woman would marry, have children, and run a household, while being first subject to paternal and then to spousal authority (keeping in mind local differences). When it comes to the noblewoman the picture is both more faceted and simpler. More faceted, because the physical world in which such woman lived spanned several residences, often in places with disparate local traditions, and each with its own staff and local connections. Her marrying a set of 38 Muchembled (L’invention, 292, 310-1) states that the conjugal family, which is not the norm in most societies, was instead the norm in late-medieval one (but he is talking about commoners). 39 Maximilian wrote to Sigmund Prüschenk, “Elle a la peau blanche comme neige, les cheveux bruns, un petit nez, la tête et le visage petits, des yeux gris brun, beaux et clairs. Le paupière inférieure est un peu descendue, comme après un sommeil. Ses lèvres sont un peu fortes, mais pures et rouges. C’est la plus belle femme que j’aie jamais vue.” Cited in Bartier, le Téméraire, 236. Apparently, Marie also “aymoit fort son mary.” Commynes Mémoires, 2:259. I do not consider as signs of intimacy the friendly letter of Philip to Isabel thanking her for sending him a plum confection (cited above in Sommé, Isabel, 46-47), or the letter of Charles the Bold to Margaret reassuring her on the issue of her dowry, in which he uses the expected formula of “singulière amour et delection” for “mon trèschere et tres amée compagne la duchesse.” Weightman, Margaret of York, 98.

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political interests rather that a person suggests that she would not perceive her wifely role as an alternative to a career; rather she saw it as a career, with all its possibilities, risks, frustrations, and potential gains. What is absent from her condition is the sheltering that we associate with the life of women of means between, say, the early nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries. Noblewomen were expected to perform tasks that were administrative, managerial, diplomatic, and often military, in other terms, spanning the full gamut of contemporary male activities for the same social class, and share (at least in part) in the dangers. The result, as mentioned in Chapter III, was a remarkable conformity of views with their male partners. This is clear even for what concerns the lower nobility, as evidenced from the correspondence of the Paston family in England. Margaret Paston managed properties while her husband did the same at a different location; represented the family with her social superiors; provided for the defense of castles; arranged family marriages, which were perceived as investments and not necessarily love matches, witness her fury at a wayward daughter who betrayed expectations and married a social inferior.40 In short, the woman married the firm, and her career was set in dealing with collective interests, subordinates, recipients of services, and debtors. Her social world was not limited to an inner protective circle implicit in the modern sense of “traditional family life,” and therefore the language used to describe her relationships should be borrowed from the world of business rather than from that of intimacy. One should not be disconcerted, then, in not finding traces of the language of family intimacy in the memoirs of Aliénor of Poitiers. Aliénor, whose attitudes were shaped in her formative years at Isabel’s strict court, recalls fondly in her old age that public stage where everyone conformed to expected patterns of behavior. Strict precedence was mandated for members of the royal family: John the Fearless and his wife Margaret of Bavaria addressed their daughter-in-law Michelle of France (first wife of Philip the Good and daughter of Charles VI) as “Madame,” genuflected to her, served her in person after-dinner épices, and would not tolerate that she walk at their side, but always ahead of them. Philip and Isabel, in turn, did the same for their first daughter-in-law Catherine of France, daughter of Charles VII. De la Marche recalls that at the wedding of her son in 1468 Isabel received her daughter-in-law Margaret of York, led her to the table, and reserved for her the honor of being served à couvert. She performed for her the role that many years earlier Philip’s sister (the duke’s mother being dead) had performed at her own wedding. The honor was not to the young woman, but to the royal house she 40

Paston Letters, 203:341-4.

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represented, and was an honor due to her apart from any personal feelings. In fact, as Aliénor observes, Isabel had invested much less effort to honor her previous daughter-in-law Isabelle of Bourbon, whose House was outranked by that of Burgundy (and whose marriage was not perceived as advancing the position of her son), apart from any personal liking. Even a personal event such as the baptism of little Marie of Burgundy offers Aliénor an excuse for a stern lecture on the proper arrangement of plate on the buffet in the new mother’s room, the proper color for furniture and clothes, and the correct amount to tip the wet nurse, while the infant is relegated to the status of a doll to be dressed and carried in state.41 From a different viewpoint the picture of the married status of aristocratic women is also simpler, because more so than for commoners it could be defined through a clear set of expectations, attributes, and rewards. Little of what we regard as family conflict transpires from historical narrative (for example, rejection by in-laws) first because all issues of money, rights, and roles were settled before the wedding, and second, because personality had little to do with the whole affair, except for the basic duty to “fit in” the social milieu of the husband. The perception of “marriage as job” shaped expectations for the couple itself and for those around them. They were expected to live apart at least some of the time, in order to spread the family presence; to have their own team of intimates and collaborators, often reflecting their ethnic provenance (for example, Isabel favored Portuguese servants); to appear together at certain functions, and naturally, often enough to produce heirs. Nothing in the historical narrative of the period suggests that one spouse would miss the other and interpret lack of physical closeness as want of affection, while no marriage based on passion could survive such a regimen. Within the confines of such expectations, an arranged political marriage does not necessarily imply that the bride was treated as chattel; in fact, sometimes the bride would take matters in her own hands, especially when left on her own. For example Anne, the young heiress of Brittany, at the death of her father Duke Francis II in 1488 seemed to have only one goal in mind, to maintain the independence of her duchy. At first she consented to marry the widowed Maximilian of Austria, at the time king of the Romans and designated heir to the Empire, on condition that he would allow her local autonomy. But as soon as she realized that the overstretched Maximilian could not be much help as French troops occupied her country, in 1491 she finally consented to marry Charles VIII of France. At first she had vehemently refused the match, and vowed to 41

Aliénor, “Les honneurs,” 187, 201-2, 216-33, 244-53. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:120-1.

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resist to the end and die with her subjects. But after his promise of autonomy for her duchy she overcame her objections. The existing marriage (which had been celebrated by proxy) was easily annulled, as she had never laid eyes on her groom in three years. During the entire episode she apparently acted for the safety of her ducal possessions, while the husband of the moment was perceived as nothing more than a tool for their defense.42 Given the public nature of the marriage, even the physical side of the arrangement could be openly discussed from within a culture that did not demean it for its utilitarian aspects. For example, the Milanese ambassador Malleta in 1464 informed his lord the duke of Milan of efforts to convince the old duke of Orléans to sell Asti (as part of an arrangement to ensure his young son’s inheritance). The ambassador relates in these terms an interview with the duchess of Orléans, who apparently was quite ready to give up Asti: “I did talk to her so much that she became quite irritated on the subject, and said that she had not slept with the duke of Orléans for about four months, but she would be doing so that very night; and so she did and had a great fight with him, telling him that he was half dead and ready to leave his little son in terrible danger […]”43 To all interested parties the announcement of the venue for the discussion of state matters seemed perfectly natural. It is more likely, then, that Isabel’s mission at Chalons in 1445 had little to do with intimate chats on marital infidelities. In Aliénor’s account the duchess first saw the queen in a formal audience burdened by a complicated ritual (apparently the details of such high-power encounters were debated prior to the actual visits). Aliénor records the number of steps taken by the duchess before her three curtsies, the steps taken by the queen toward her, the hand on the shoulder as sign of favor, the perfunctory kiss, all parts of a choreographed diplomatic dance designed to honor the host without demeaning the guest. Once admitted, the duchess 42 Perhaps with a little malice, to get even for being left to fight alone for so long, she invited to the wedding reception the very German envoy who had previously “married” her by proxy and who knew nothing of the secret negotiations with the French. Molinet, Chroniques, 2:235-7. See also Hommel, Marguerite d’York, 2004. For the exclusively strategic nature of this marriage, perceived from both parties, see Philippe De Commynes, Lettres, ed. Joël Blanchard (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 2001) no. 45, 155-6n181. 43 (“tanto gli dise che se rescalda grandemente in questa materia, e dise che erano da circa quatro mesi che non haveva dormito con el duca de Orliens e che andaria quella nocte ad dormire; e cosi’ fece, e gli dete una grande bataglia, dicendogli che haveva el pede nella fossa et che lasava questo suo figliolo in grandissimo periculo [...]”). Mandrot, Dépèches, 2:59.

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showed the same deference to the dauphiness as to the queen, but refused to walk behind the queen’s sister-in-law, the wife of Duke René of Anjou, known as the king of Sicily. The dominance of the Anjou at court, and their notorious influence with the king was a sore point with the Burgundians, who still claimed preeminence among the peers of France, so that in deliberately snubbing the queen of Sicily Isabel internalized her husband’s political quarrels. Aliénor lingers with satisfaction on the honors showered on the visiting duchess in preference to the queen of Sicily, with the two rivals measuring their respective cliques on opposite sides of the room. For the rest of her lengthy stay, which included a number of formal audiences, any hint of intimacy was absent; in fact the duchess never ate with the royal couple, but only with the dauphiness, the young first wife of the future Louis XI.44 Another major function peculiar to Burgundian duchesses was fundraising to support the dukes’ frequent wars. As the ducal territories, unlike France or England, lacked a uniform tax structure, both Isabel and Margaret made constant appearances in front of the Estates of the various regions, cajoling them, in letter and in person, on behalf of their husbands. Their physical presence in areas of potential discontent, such as Flanders, or remote but vital to the state, such as Burgundy, attests to their role as stand-ins for their lords, or rather, as the kinder side of the rulers.45 Considering the nature of the duchesses’ functions, one may be tempted to think of them as “political wives,” but this seems to me a false analogy. The modern “political wife” is basically the home-bound wife without a career of her own, who is called upon to make social appearances for the sake of her husband, much like the bourgeois wife praised by Christine de Pisan at the opening of the chapter. At most she has to find fulfillment in an innocuous and politically-neutral activity aside from the husband’s own, such as a charity, lest she incur general resentment. Additionally, it is 44

Aliénor, “Les honneurs,” 192-3, 196-200, 207. An episode relative to the peace of Tournai (1385) between the duke of Burgundy Philip the Bold and the rebellious Ghenters reveals how the “gentle touch” of the lady could be counted upon to resolve a difficult situation.The ducal family had indicated that it was ameanable to peace if asked with proper humility. But the Ghenters were so “fiers et si obstinez” that they refused to “ploïer le genoul” and ask mercy, stating that they were not the ones who asked for peace. The duchess of Brabant and the countess of Nevers performed then the face-saving act of submission in their name. At this point Duchess Marguerite of Burgundy got up from her husband’s side, knelt with them, and joined them in begging the duke for mercy. Wielant, “Flandre,” 310-2. The duchesses would also raise funds on their own. See, for example, the request of Isabel and young Marie to the Estates of Flanders in 1467. Gachard, documens inédits, 1:190-1. 45

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considered good form, to avoid charges of opportunism, that the couple be already married before embarking on the political path, and that their personal life be as normal (that is, as intimate) as possible to reflect an attainable ideal for the benefit of the general public. The relation of the late-medieval noble couple was much more interdependent and opportunistic, and also much less lopsided in favor of the husband. In fact, as evidenced in the case of Anne of Brittany, once the advantage was no longer there for one of the partners, one might even forget the vows. If intimacy was absent in aristocratic marriages, victimization seems largely limited to the potential or actual loss of status, as illustrated by the examples of Queen Marie and Duchess Isabel. Of course, the pre-nuptial contract eliminated many potential risks by the time of the wedding, but not all. A rare example happened in 1493 when Charles VIII, as a consequence of his hasty marriage to Anne of Brittany, repudiated his betrothed, the thirteen-year-old Margaret of Austria sister of Philip the Fair. The spunky girl, who had been raised in France for almost ten years in the expectation of becoming its queen, was sent back to her country with an honorable escort. Once across the border, she silenced the crowd that was cheering her with chants of “Noël!” with, “Do not cry ‘Noel’ but ‘long live Burgundy!”46 The dread of diminished honor was not limited to princesses. Chastellain in one of his short literary works puts these words in the mouth of a young lady of the middle nobility suddenly deprived of her father: “I have lost all my worldly hope, I have lost my honor and my joy, my valuable and only treasure […] I am not visited or wished well. I am not praised or commiserated; nobody treats me with affection, charity, or respect.” This young lady is the daughter of the seneschal of Normandy Pierre de Brézé, a friend of the writer who had been arrested by Louis XI. After the writer has the wife and son of the unfortunate man lament his fall from royal grace, he has the daughter express her sense of loss in these materialistic terms to signify that her father represented for her a source of status in the world, which translated into being praised and commiserated, revered and treated kindly by her peers.47 Occasionally the reader perceives a more gender-specific victimization (or at least attempts at one). The conflict between Margaret of York and Henry VII, which, as argued above, did not negatively affect her standing 46

(“Ne criiez pas Noel! Mais, vive Bourgoigne!”). Molinet, Chroniques, 2:372. (“J’ay tout perdu mon espoir mondain; j’ay perdu mon honneur et ma joye, ma chierté et mon seul trésor […] Je ne suis ne vue, ne bien voulue. Je ne suis ne louée, ne complainte; ne d’affection, ne de charité, ne de noblesse n’est usage envers moy”). Chastellain, “Déprécation pour messire Pierre de Brézé,” in Œuvres, 7:64-65. 47

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in the Burgundian states, nevertheless made her the object of vicious antiYorkist propaganda in England, a proof that one could deal with an “alien” princess without kid gloves. Henry’s apologists and his ambassadors to the archducal court of her step-grandson portrayed her as an irrational, obsessive, vindictive she-monster. Edward Hall wrote that she was “lyke a dogge revertynge to her olde vomyte” and “lyke a spyder that dayly weaueth when hys calle is tarne […] farther in her fury and frantyke moode.”48 This portrait appears inconsistent with that of the Margaret of Burgundian historiography, but it was convenient for Henry as it protected Archduke Philip and his father Maximilian from criticism, and (I would add) appears tinged with more than a subtle veneer of misogyny, as it shows how easily a man could attack a woman by making her appear irrational. When it comes to the real violence of war, a topic closer to the chroniclers’ main subject matter, we find little victimization, as these ladies were spared much of the violence reserved for their male counterparts. But even so their possessions (by which they were defined, if one listens to Chastellain) could be in peril. The young and inexperienced Marie of Burgundy suddenly catapulted to a position of power after the death of her father, comes across consistently as a pathetic figure, as she tries to cope with the disaster looming over her country, or as she begs the rebellious Ghenters for the lives of her ministers. Significantly, Molinet refers to her as “the poor desolate girl, orphan of father and mother […] very humble and good young lady” and Commynes as “poor young princess,” a most unusual set of attributes that convey just how endearing she was in her helplessness.49 In another anecdote, Margny writes that a Burgundian knight fell prisoner to Louis XI during the partial French occupation of 1477, and was threatened with death unless he would change side and serve the king. He was allowed to go to his lady Marie to explain his

48

Cited in Weightman, Margaret of York, 153. (“La povre desolée fille, orphenine de père et de mère […] très humble et bonne damoisele”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:209-10, (“povre jeune princesse”). Commynes, Mémoires, 2:201-3 (where he talks about the execution of her ministers in Ghent shortly after her accession in 1477). Marc Boone remarks that this episode has “fortement impressionné les contemporains et les historiens, aisi que les écrivains et les peintres ultérieurs, surtout de la période dite romantique.” Marc Boone, “La justice en spectacle. La justice urbaine en Flandre et la crise du pouvoir bourguignon 1477-1488,” Revue historique CXXV (2003): 43-59 (here 55). 49

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predicament, and she generously released him of his allegiance to her and even urged him to serve the king as well as he did her father and herself.50 Probably the most victimized among the highly-placed women of the period was the tragic queen of England Margaret of Anjou. Chastellain, whose sympathy toward women is usually quite restrained, dedicates to her a long essay, Le temple de Bocace (remonstrances, par manière de consolation, a une désolée reyne d’Angleterre). In this ambiguous work he praises her as “well-informed and of noble habits,” manly or at least genderless attributes, but then he hints at her misfortune being due to the illegal appropriation of the French crown by her husband, and compares her life unfavorably to the exemplary one of Queen Marie, wife of Charles VII, who shared her husband’s misery for so many of the couple’s early years.51 Given the late-medieval propensity for finding tragic material only in biblical or classical past, Margaret is indeed a rare exception, as she provides that emotional writer with the double drama of fallen royalty and tragic motherhood. As mentioned earlier in this chapter, he did seize the opportunity to narrate (in the Chronique, and perhaps with embellishments) her fall from power and narrow escape from the hands of Yorkists and bandits: reduced to an abject fugitive she begged from a soldier a meager token for alms, was captured and almost killed, and finally had to leave her son in the safe-keeping of a bandit, after offering herself in his place as potential victim. Finally she fled the country to resort to the mercy of none other than the old enemy Duke Philip, whom she went to meet (and the symbolism should not be lost) in a humble cart. Finally, thanks to his charity she obtained a safe-conduct to return penniless to her own father’s lands. In this account, which Chastellain leaves largely to her own words, the contrast between her previous haughtiness (which Chastellain not-sodelicately chastises) and her present condition was designed to elicit shudders of horror among her aristocratic audiences.52 Still, the writer does not exploit the tragic material on hand with his usual skill. In defining his attitude toward this unlucky queen, one would have to settle for a distant respect tinged with aversion, as he appears 50

Margny, L’Aventurier, 78-79. De la Marche (Mémoires, 1:156) records her death in these terms: “Et depuis ne vescut guaires celle noble princesse, vostre mere, et trespassa à Bruges d’une fievre continue. Et morut princesse plaine de toutes les bonnes vertus et graces que dame peut avoir en ce monde.” 51 (“pleine de savoir et de nobles mœurs”). Chastellain, “Le temple de Bocace (remonstrances, par manière de consolation, a une désolée reyne d’Angleterre),” in Œuvres, 7:97, 116-9. 52 He calls her “seignieurieuse.” Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:293-4, 300-6. The theme of the cart as symbol of humiliation may have derived from the famous tale of Chrétien de Troyes.

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ambivalent in the Chronique and openly reluctant (by his own admission) in the Temple de Bocace, to jump wholeheartedly into the subject. He prefers to leave the reader with an image of futile stubbornness, as the exqueen pretends that her incompetent husband Henry VI had “commanded” her to ask for Burgundian help. Similarly, in the narrative of the Yorkist Wavrin she casts a formidable image as a warrior who leads her armies until the Lancastrian cause becomes desperate, but then even her pathetic protectiveness toward her son has unpleasant connotations: in an obvious attempt at building up his authority she has him pronounce sentence of death on a knight, which the young prince does in harsh and cruel tones.53 Paradoxically, more so than other figures this tragic woman could be imagined as a man, given the reactions that she elicited from contemporary writers. In fact, in many respects she resembled her father, whom Chastellain judged a valiant knight but unsuccessful in his undertakings.54 Objectively examined, her fate finds some bizarre parallels in that of Margaret of York. Like her Lancastrian homonym the duchess was also destined to see her husband and royal relatives die prematurely and her dynastic hopes vanish; and while the former lost her son after the battle of Tewksbury, the other was never given the opportunity to have one. Yet Margaret of York is not a tragic figure. The basic difference between the two seems to be the level of personal violence inflicted on each: high on the first, who sustained the Lancastrian cause single-handedly on many occasions, and restrained on the other, who sponsored the ill-fated last stand of her party through real and imaginary nephews. The destinies of these two different personalities, cast into challenging roles without the cards to play a winning game, depended less on gender than on fortuitous circumstances. The world of violence and war that engulfed their two states touched them personally no more than it did their men, in fact less, as in both cases their lives were spared. This was perhaps a small consolation, but a significant one to counter the argument that women in general were more often the victims of violence than men.55 53

Wavrin, Angleterre, 3:265. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:286 and “Temple de Bocace,” 7:76. Her arrogance did not endear her to others: Malleta relates the reaction of Louis XI to a letter in which she demands help in recovering her kingdom while Edward IV and Warwick are at war: “Guarda como scrive costei superbamente.” Mandrot, Dépèches, 3:40. And Commynes remarks (Mémoires, 2:333) that she should have been a mediator and not a partisan among the English nobles. 54 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 1:162. 55 One of the grim aspects of violence being evenly distributed between the two sexes is the equal sharing of torture as part of the judicial process. Labarge, A Small Sound of Trumpet, 205.

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V.3. Common Women and Unconventional Roles Moving downward in the social sphere, where writers could talk more freely about their subject, the depiction of women changes to become more detailed and also more idiosyncratic. But here, too, emerges a picture less of intimacy and victimization than of unusual career choices bolstered by tremendous self-confidence. Naturally, the most extreme example that comes to mind is Joan of Arc, probably one of the most famous and unusual women of all times. Given the abundant contemporary and modern literature on this figure, there is no need to recapitulate the details of her public career.56 Few of those documents, however, delve on areas of intimacy, and those few are in a volume of interviews related to her rehabilitation trial (which started with a preliminary inquiry in 1452 and ended in 1456). From examination of these records, those of her trial of 1430-1431, and the narrative of chroniclers sympathetic or not she emerges as an intelligent, practical, willful, self-assured adolescent, at times cunning and brash, but basically good-hearted and extremely brave. If one throws in her well-advertised chastity, hers is the portrait of the perfect knight (with her intelligence being a bonus), and in fact she was praised as an ideal of chivalry in overtly feminist tones by the most celebrated writer of the period, Christine de Pisan, who not incidentally was also the author of the respected and popular military treatise the Livre des faits d’armes et de chevalerie.57 This puzzling phenomenon, whose career remains outside not only contemporary, but modern frames of reference, has obsessed late-medieval authors. However, they have paid attention almost exclusively to her religious character and military exploits, avoiding the more mundane aspects of her personal relations with others. Fortunately, all this is documented well enough from the abundant records of her trial and retrial, which are invaluable pieces of oral history. On the professional aspect, 56 Nadia Margolis lists over fifteen-hundred works on her, between history, literature, and various treatises (and this just up to 1990). Nadia Margolis, Joan of Arc in History, Literature, and Film (New York & London: Garland Publishing Co., 1990). 57 The poem is the Ditié de Jehanne d’Arc (1429). Among the sources for the present work, those who mention her deeds are: Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:4050, 202-9 (very hostile); Monstrelet, Chronique, 4:314-6, 319-31, 384, 384-9, 4427 (neutral); Chartier, Chroniques, 1:66-69 (favorable); Wavrin, Angleterre, 1:27880, 287-98 (generally neutral, with parts copied from Monstrelet); Basin, Charles VII, 1:127-63 (very favorable); “Trahisons,” 197-9 (hostile – he even makes a curious comment that she liked to “courre et […] virer la lance” because women are “de légier esprit”).

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contemporary witnesses admired her ability in tilting and handling horses, her endurance of hardships in marches and on the battlefield, all which convey an impression of robustness. She tended to boast, according to her comrade the count of Dunois, but never about herself. In fact, she appears rather a loner, reluctant to talk about herself in intimate terms, preferring to pray in seclusion to find strength in her “voices,” rather than people. When entering a newly liberated town, she welcomed the enthusiasm of the crowd (something that few would refuse), but this would not let her lose track of more practical goals, and of the necessity to move on quickly. And she seems to have always carried with her the belief of living a part on borrowed time and to be destined for a more conventional fate: she even confided to the archbishop of Rheims that she planned to return soon to her parents’ home.58 What is unclear is whether she was ready for a conventional destiny through marriage, or was determined to keep a permanent state of maidenhood. Her distinctive brand of faith was the justification, to herself and others, for her unusual abilities. She based her credibility on prophetic skills, irreproachable personal life, and direct contact with the divine. She perceived herself in the role of the angel Gabriel, genderless and therefore above the weaknesses of gender, as she announced to Charles VII his royal destiny. It was this angelic quality that in her mind and others’ placed her above the rules and permitted her a directness verging on rudeness in dealing with social superiors. She touched the dauphin’s knees; stood by him at his coronation; ate and slept on the field close to dukes; and wrote with brisk familiarly to the count of Armagnac on the papal schism. Unaware of threading on dangerous ground, at times she addressed with rough disdain the learned clerics who presided over her trial. Her irreverent attitude irked quite a few of them, but she seemed undeterred, counting on her intelligence and memory to send them scurrying after one of her bold answers. Apparently the sentence came as a total shock to her, and only at that point the strong, defiant fighter gave way to the tearful young girl headed for a horrible death.59 Her relations with others outside the narrow professional circle of the upper nobility are more interesting, because they illustrate a down-to-earth Joan dealing with commonplace situations. For example, she was quite efficient and determined in defending her own turf against other selfappointed mystics. She derided the popular preacher Brother Richard, who had shown fear in approaching her at their first meeting, and set out to unmask as a fraud Catherine de la Rochelle, a woman who claimed visions 58 59

Duparc, Procès en Nullité, 4:10. Duparc, Procès en Nullité, 4:11, 21-22, 59, 62-63, 70, 84.

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of “a lady dressed in white” who would visit her at night, and who allegedly had political goals not quite aligned with Joan’s own (for example, she advised concluding peace with Burgundy). Revealing a practical approach to visionaries at odd with her own view of herself, Joan demanded to sleep with Catherine to witness the apparition. But after waiting until midnight she fell asleep, and in the morning Catherine insisted that the lady had indeed showed up. So Joan slept during the day to remain awake on the following night, but no apparition came. Clearly, Joan did not believe in others’ mystical visions, yet she had no doubt about her own claim: she apparently did not see the inconsistency here.60 She is an example of how wide a range of behaviors would be acceptable for a woman in her period. Except for Chastellain, whose hostility toward her is suspicious and perhaps disingenuous, most other chroniclers less imbued with Burgundian partisanship, and also various acquaintances from her childhood to her imprisonment, describe her deeds and report anecdotes on her either without comments or sympathetically. Even the bishop Basin dissented from those who condemned her and left a favorable portrait of her, thus demonstrating that the Church did not display a monolithic façade in this matter. She was apparently liked and respected by men and women alike, and by people of diverse social classes. Her comrades the count of Dunois and the duke of Alençon offer appreciative comments on her professionalism and ability, in terms that demonstrate acceptance of a woman in such “nontraditional” role. Granted, the interviews were conducted to rehabilitate her, and the sample carefully filtered, but the abundance of witnesses testifies to widespread approval of her behavior. Naturally, they emphasized her gentleness and love for animals or her innocence (as a child she liked dancing and waving garlands), in an obvious attempt at burying the image of bloodthirsty virago portrayed by her persecutors. Some episodes of her childhood are also indicative of attitude toward children, even female children, which would amaze our allegedly permissive societies. A woman from her village remembered how she insisted in leaving her bed to indigent house guests and sleep in the kitchen; a church bell ringer recalled how little Joan, who loved the sound of bells, chided him for not playing well enough and promised to bring him cookies if he would do better. Later on, aged about fifteen, she traveled to a nearby town to testify in court against an unwanted suitor, 60

Jules Quicherat, Procès de condamnation et de réhabilitation de Jeanne d’Arc dite le Pucelle 5 vols. (Paris: J. Renouard et cie, 1841-1849; New York, Johnson Reprint Corp., 1965), 1:99-100, 106-9, 215.

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determined to keep her maiden status.61 One can see in the bossy but generous little girl the future leader, allowed to blossom through the indulgent acceptance of a behavior that would have appeared brazen in different times and societies. Still, her independence may not have been all that exceptional for her social class in her period. The trial of her Breton companion-at-arms Gilles de Rais, better known as sexual predator and serial child-killer, also confirms the wide range of horizons opened to children of lower classes. They could find placement in homes to serve or learn a trade, or choose to stay with their family or go to school. They seem to have been exceptionally mobile and able to change residence to follow opportunities, and even negotiate directly with adults their compensation, so that their prolonged absence from home did not raise an immediate alarm, in these cases with tragic consequences.62 From the numerous testimonies of the desperate parents it is clear that such freedom was not the result of neglect, and that children were loved and cherished even by the poorest of families who were forced to send them to beg at the castle of the lord of Rais, where many met their death. If one keeps in mind this evidence, some episodes of the life of young Joan (for example, her trip to Vaucouleurs to start her adventure) no longer appear all that exceptional. Another stunning example of a middle class woman charting her own destiny is Margery Kempe.63 Since her bizarre autobiographical work cast in the mold of mystical journey has been rediscovered in the 1930s, she has been the subject of numerous studies, mainly focused on her mysticism. Margery has been placed in the context of lay religiosity of the late-medieval period, and compared to her contemporary Julian of Norwich. But Kathleen Ashley has noted how this figure does not fit among mystic anchorites, because her physical space was much wider, spanning part of Europe and of the Middle East. Nobody who reads The Book of Margery Kempe could imagine this restless wanderer confined to a room in solitary contemplation. Recent literature with feminist overtones has attempted with mixed results to rescue her from the clinical judgment of writers from the 1980s. The issue at stake, today as among her contemporaries, is the sincerity of her vocation and the reality of her 61

Duparc, Procès en Nullité, 3:259, 270. Bataille, Le procès de Gilles de Rais, 303, 309, 312-6, 319, 323-4. See also Muchembled (L’invention, 64-67, 296) on the tolerance of sexual freedom and loose language in the youth of both sexes and young boys joining gangs. 63 Staley aptly says of her that she “seems to belie any preconceived notions we might have of the status and expectations of medieval women, and perhaps of women in general.” Staley, Dissenting Fictions, 4. 62

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mystical experiences. Margery, who wanted to leave us a narrative of her spiritual awakening on the footprints of Saint Augustine, has instead left a valuable document of bourgeois life in late-medieval period, and, even more important for the present study, a psychological portrait of a woman in a permanent state of conflict with her society.64 The opening remarks of her Book are noteworthy. She begins the story when in her twenties, after the birth of her first child, she became seriously ill. A confessor came to her bedside, but she would not confess a hidden sin. Recovered physically, the guilt and anxiety of her unconfessed sin drove her to madness for months. She would slander husband and family and throw furious fits during which she would bite her hand in selfdirected rage. She found solace only when Christ appeared to sit by her bedside speaking soothing words and addressing her as “daughter.”65 Modern writers have talked of post-partum psychosis, and in fact the parallel between her symptoms and those of this condition is remarkable. Even more notable is her interpretation: while modern clinicians debate the physical (hormonal) origin of the psychosis, Margery offers an explanation based on repressed memory that anticipates psychoanalysis, and recalls how years later she was be able to soothe another woman who manifested the same symptoms. Modern research concludes that this condition (regardless of precipitating factors) apparently affects women who have a need for exceptional status, a need that was satisfied throughout pregnancy through the interest aroused by the condition, only to give way after delivery to the realization that interest has shifted to the newborn, and that the mother is left with the chore of tending to it. This clinical picture fits Margery perfectly; in fact she remarks that her return to sanity was accompanied by a desire to be “worshipped by the people.”66 64

For her wanderings see Kathleen Ashley, “Historicizing Margery: the Book of Margery Kempe as Social Text,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 28 (1998): 371-88. Reproduced in Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 264-76. For the 1980s debate on her personality and possible pathology see David Aers, “The Making of Margery Kempe: Individual and Community,” in Community, Gender, and Individual Identity (London: Routledge, 1988), 73-80. Reproduced in Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 256-63. Labarge (A Small Sound of Trumpet, 139) seems to agree with Margery’s critics, as she remarks that including her in a discussion on mysticism “may be a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous.” 65 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 6-7. 66 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 1:8, 131. For a discussion of post-partum psychosis see JL Klompenhouwer, AM van Hulst, JHM Tulen, ML Jacobs, BC Jacobs, F Segers, “The clinical features of postpartum psychoses,” European Psychiatry: the Journal of the Association of European Psychiatrists 10 (1995): 355-67 (schizo-affective nature of symptoms, prevalence of paranoid delusions,

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At this point her vanity manifests itself through an obsession with luxury goods, especially clothes, and later in an exaggerated rejection of the same in a quest for a quasi-monastic status. The basic motive for both extremes, however, seems to have been the same, and in fact the entire book is a testimony to her compelling desire to achieve the exceptional status that she felt she deserved but had given up when her free spirit had been channeled into the narrow role of bourgeois wife and mother.67 Soon she found out that she attracted notice with her excessive religious zeal, the long hours spent in church weeping, the wearing a hair shirt, and confessing two or three times daily. The attention was negative, and she was accused of hypocrisy, but even negative attention was better than being ignored, and she imagined herself a martyr. The Book documents her reactions to everyday reality. After each unpleasant interpersonal exchange (an attraction not reciprocated, a conflict with fellow pilgrims, or a disappointing encounter with a figure of authority) Margery shares with the reader her inner experience, a soothing counterpart to a harsh world that did not understand her. First, obsessive thoughts about what just happened, followed by a series of adaptations, with adjustments dictated by necessity or convenience, but all coming in the form of commands from above. She must wear a hair shirt then dismiss it; she must forgo meat then resume eating it, but replacing the sacrifice with the wearing of a special color, and so on.68 Each regulation is preceded by a long inner conversation with the divinity from which she exits with a renewed sense of self-confidence. It is admittedly a stretch to examine mystical experiences as social behavior; still Margery herself invites this interpretation. Even if she is careful to point out that the aggression and suicidal thoughts) and O. Todarello, F. Matarrese, L. Natilla, “Psicosi puerperale: indagine psicopatologica su 107 casi,” Rivista Sperimentale di Freniatria e Medicina Legale delle Alienazioni Mentali, Vol 107(6), Dec 1983, 1351-68 (complexity of symptoms, predisposition, megalomania and sexual fixation, peak incidence at age twenty-four, symptoms recalling paranoia and depression, history of difficult identification with mother-figure). 67 Eluned Bremner, “Margery Kempe and the Critics: Disempowerment and Deconstruction,” in McEntire, Margery Kempe, 117-35 (here 120) observes that as a merchant wife she had less autonomy and freedom than a woman of the lower class. 68 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 11, 14, 25-26, 45, 118. For the pattern of obsessive-compulsive disorders see Obsessive Compulsive Disorders, ed. E. J. Hollander, D. Zohar, D. Marazziti, and B. Olivier (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons, 1993), 12-14-, 18-19. It is interesting to note how some obsessive thoughts (in her case blasphemy) and compulsive rituals (in her case prayer) may be culturallydetermined.

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conversations with God in all forms of the Trinity occurred only in her mind, yet she clearly indicates the presence of the divine as external to herself. The visions take two aspects. The first is an intimate, one-on-one conversation, usually with God the Father or the Son. She also hears the Holy Ghost, but the latter as an undifferentiated humming or chirping. The conversations follow a precise script. The divine presence praises her lavishly for her faith, devotion, and “sufferings,” and promises her a special status in Paradise, bypassing Purgatory. Occasionally, the vision goes as far as to announce punishment for her detractors. These “conversations” are incantations, compulsively repeated, accompanied by a list of her special qualities that render her so deserving: with her copious tears she “torments the devil” and reveals her special love of Christ, and her tolerance of the verbal abuse that they elicit is so worthy that she is reassured that nothing worse will ever happen to her. In fact, as she was inspired apparently by the lives of the thirteenth-century mystic Marie d’Oignies and by Birgitta of Sweden, Margery believed that her tears were sent by the Holy Ghost, and that her special favor with God was demonstrated precisely by her uncontrollable crying.69 Nowhere does she emerge from the inner dialogues with a revelation of a plan outside her person. The godhead is a tool for her success, a sympathetic audience, a parental figure without the potentially adversarial authority. This God never punishes, only supports, and seems to do so just for her.70 One has only to compare her “conversations” with those of Julian of Norwich to detect an enormous difference. With Julian the divine presence is a tool of enlightenment, and the writer only a privileged recipient of grace.71 But with Margery, she is the star of the show, and the 69

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 38-39, 66, Clarissa W. Atkinson, “Female Sanctity in the Late Middle Ages,” in Mystic and Pilgrim: The Book and the World of Margery Kempe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983), 159-61, 168-79, 19094 Reproduced in in Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 225-36 (here 233). 70 This point is made by Elizabeth Psakis Armstrong.: “with Kempe, Christ never forgets that he is speaking to a particular daughter. […] Christ has, in short, all the time in the world to do nothing more than reassure her over and over again.” Elizabeth Psakis Armstrong, “Understanding by Feeling in Margery Kempe’s Book,” in McEntire, Margery Kempe, 17-35 (here 23). Armstrong’s point, however, is that this apparent triviality is “emblematic of her spirituality” which anticipates Luther (24). Deborah S. Ellis, “Margery Kempe and King’s Lynn,” in McEntire, Margery Kempe, 139-159 (here 147) remarks that she relates to Christ as an idealized husband, but one who is a “public figure” able to defend her. 71 The Shewings of Julian of Norwich, ed. Georgia Ronan Crampton (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1994), 41-44, 50-60, 66-68, 69-73, and especially 78-79.

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divinity an instrument of reassurance, an invisible therapist. The single most disconcerting aspect of her mysticism is precisely this self-serving quality, and, since she complains that many doubted her sincerity, it may have contributed to skepticism (since she continued to seek validation for her experience from humans, confessors, bishops, preachers, and anchorites, it is not surprising that the details that she shared in her book would have been known). In the second type of vision a real drama is performed in her mind, a biblical play in which she is on stage next to sacred figures: she helps deliver Mary, Saint John, and Jesus; she soothes a grieving Virgin after the Crucifixion; and she converses with Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection.72 Her role is ancillary, yet important, and all the actors make a point of thanking her and promise her heavenly rewards. Her visions, then, consist of imagining herself perform for the Sacred Family precisely those functions in which she (apparently) failed in real life, as she builds an idealized intimacy that she seems not to seek in her own home. In her thoughts she lingers on receiving elaborate gratitude, which might have eluded her when she tended to her fourteen children. Interestingly, in the rare instances in which she asks favors for others than herself, she prays for father, husband, and children, but never mentions her mother. And when she identifies with victims, it is usually male characters. Perhaps she had lost her mother when young or had a poor rapport with her, but in any case the absence of a mother figure in her pages and the frequent references to the Virgin as a substitute is puzzling and perhaps significant.73 When it comes to her relations with real people she exhibited two types of behavior that apparently a significant portion of her acquaintances found irritating. First, she insisted in preaching (or “conversing,” as she called it, to avoid accusations of Lollardy). She would preach and talk of the Gospel insistently and at what were perceived as inappropriate times, for example, during social visits, travels, or at the table. Second, during and after a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, she exhibited ever more frequent crying fits when exposed to anything that would remind her of the Passion (the mere sight of a beautiful man, looking at a crucifix in a church, or the priest handling the host), a behavior that seemed exaggerated to most bystanders. These fits could last for hours and included loud screaming (as 72

Example of her sacred ministrations, are in Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 15, 140-4. 73 See, for example, the tale of the man who was grateful to be insulted for free. Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 22-23. The family history of poor relation with the mother is one of the findings in Todarello at al., “Psicosi puerperale,” 1365.

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she “felt” Jesus’s pain), throwing herself to the ground, and copious tears. Afterwards, she reported feeling exhausted as after an epileptic seizure. This behavior was annoying to others during religious functions, such as mass or processions, because it distracted the congregation from its own devotions and smacked of hypocrisy. The second point is ubiquitous in her story, as “the people” seemed to believe that she tried to attract too much attention on herself as a ploy to obtain special treatment.74 In fact, somehow she did exact actual privileges from Church authorities, who granted them with more or less enthusiasm: for example, permission to take communion at will, and to wear a white robe and a gold ring with engraved “Jesus is my love” despite being married and having been delivered of children. In addition, she insisted on private meetings with priests and friars sent to her parish of Saint Margaret in Lynn, and while at various destinations of her pilgrimages, both in England and elsewhere.75 Most people, according to her own account, believed her fits self-serving and deliberate, but she swore in her book that they were sent by God and completely out of her control. Still, she records a couple of instances in which her “uncontrollable” crying was indeed controlled, when two preaching friars, who were sent to Lynn at different times, practiced on her what today is known as “behavior modification.” The first, who was informed of her dispensation to receive communion at will, would simply withhold the host while she was crying, even turning his back to her and facing the altar, only to return to offer it when she stopped her disturbing act. The ploy worked, and she was able to control herself, only slipping occasionally into subdued weeping. Another friar went even further, displaying quite an insight into the workings of the human mind. He was a famous preacher, who would give sermons in various churches of Lynn, always to a full congregation, among whom, naturally, was Margery. A local priest warned the friar that a certain woman may start screaming and weeping during his sermon, and asked him to overlook her behavior, as she was “a good woman.” And so it went, and the friar suffered her outbursts in silence. Apparently, though, some in the audience remonstrated with him, and he decided on a proactive approach: he asked the priest to forbid her access to the church during his sermons unless she behaved. When the latter observed that she was inspired by the Holy Ghost and could not control herself, he answered 74 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 11, 28, 48-50, 62-63, 77, 91-93, 110, 1278, 171. Experiencing the Passion was a common trope among mystics, and Margery’s own version fits the pattern (51). 75 (“Jesus est amor meus”). Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 13, 26, 74, 76, 85, 102-3.

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that he did not believe it. If indeed it was uncontrollable, then she was ill, and he was willing to tolerate her and ask others to be tolerant as well, but only if she admitted publicly that hers was a disease. Now Margery was in a quandary: either she kept away from his sermons, which “gave her solace,” or she had to stop making a scene in church, or she had to admit indeed of being different, but not exactly divinely inspired. One of the accusations leveled at her was that of needing an audience, and she was determined to prove this wrong. For a while she held on to her pride, and went on to prayʊand cryʊ in empty churches, while the friar was preaching rather aggressively against her in front of a large audience. But in reality she did suffer from her isolation until, quite conveniently, God came to her rescue and freed her from her weeping from then on, as she had proven her obedience well enough.76 As she and the friar had expected, once she returned to church in a subdued mood, everyone was ever more convinced that hers had all been an act. In her impotent rage against the skeptical friar who was gnawing at her image, Margery had only God to whom to turn. The lengthy conversation “in her mind” with God about her latest enemy is instructive as it reveals an almost amusing level of (perhaps unconscious) conceit on her part. God confides to her his spite for false, evil clerics who preach against her, and his plans for their eternal damnation. She demurs. He really should not go to such lengths for her sake: why not just punish them now on Earth and be done with them? The concluding arguments are also revealing. God orders her from now on to eat meat and obey her confessors, even if this about-face was to provoke more scorn. One is tempted to see a (temporarily) defeated Margery grant herself a little indulgence, and realistically plan the next survival tactic. She pokes one last stab at her adversary, though, before moving on, as she recalls two preachers who respected her opinions and her crying, and who, unlike her adversary, had degrees in divinity.77 76

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 102-3, 110-4. On the second friar’s response Bremner (“Margery Kempe and the Critics,” 127) explains that her tears “are threatening to male clerical authority. The friar is angry that Kempe disrupts his speech with her own and thereby distracts the attention of the listeners. He sees her as a rival and battle begins between the two.” Kemp (Medieval Psychology, 145-7) cites the contemporary case of St. Lidwyna (1380-1433). Her curate refused to listen to her visions and prophecies and asked the congregation to pray for her as she was obviously crazy. The congregation, however, sided with her (and in general the Church no longer regarded visionary experiences as sign of mental illness). It would be interesting to have the viewpoint of an unbiased observer in Margery’s case given that many sided with the friar against her. 77 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 117-8, 121.

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Margery is often driven by God’s inspiration to take trips, usually for the purpose of pilgrimage, so that she willingly leaves her family to pursue them. During her lengthy stays in foreign lands she never mentions longing for her husband or children. In fact, except for an irresistible need to kiss male infants because they remind her of little Jesus, she seems completely indifferent to children.78 In the course of these trips she joins groups of pilgrims, sometimes earning a meal in exchange for prayers, and spends the time sightseeing among holy places. Apparently only once, in Rome, she is given work to do as “penance” (for what, she does not specify) by her temporary confessor, a German priest who apparently overcomes the language barrier and understands her quite well. He makes her serve a poor local woman for six weeks, which prompts Margery to add the priest to her list of enemies. In general, unlike her model Birgitta of Sweden, she does not seem to accept works of charity cheerfully. Instead she trots from Lynn to Yarmouth, the Netherlands, Jerusalem, Venice, Rome, and back, attaching herself to groups of people of various nationalities, most of whom receive her well at first, but invariably end up either fleeing or shunning her. During her pilgrimage to Jerusalem she meets a group of fellow English, and she fills pages of complaints about their spite and arrogance. They dress her like a fool, at mealtimes they relegate her to an end of the table, where she is forced to sit in silence, and they even threaten to leave her behind. She even suffers the defection of her maid, who leaves her service to work for her tormentors. Once in Jerusalem their behavior compares unfavorably with that of local Saracens, who guide her all over (for tips). She recalls especially a handsome man who took her on a hike on Mount Quarantine. On her way to Rome she is reduced to paying for companionship, and once in the city she is expelled from the hospice where she dwells thanks to the “slander” of fellow pilgrims. At first she fares better with the natives, and her crying fits have women run to her assistance, as they did not understand her words. But after she has sojourned a few weeks in the city, and presumably the language barrier is lowered, suddenly the friendly locals turn nasty. So, when her confessor forces her to give up her new white coat the wives of Rome chide her by asking whether she had been 78

Even this behavior may have stricken people as odd, as revealed by an amusing episode. Once, while trekking back from a country church outside Lynn, she saw a group of mothers carrying babies. She asked whether any of them was a boy, and all rushed to answer in the negative. Was it true or had they heard of her? Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 146. Ellis, “Margery,”142 notes that Margery does not make much mention of children and other acquaintances, despite coming from a close-knit society.

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robbed.79 Apparently, familiarity always breeds contempt for Margery and it is time to move on. The occasion for another trip abroad presented itself much later when her wayward son (the only one of her offspring whom she mentions, and perhaps the only survivor) married a young woman from Prussia. After a while he and his wife came to visit his parents in Lynn, where the young man died within a month, soon to be followed by his father. This left the daughter-in-law alone in a foreign land under the authority of the nowelderly and widowed Margery. Understandably, she longed to return home, where she had left a daughter before the trip, but inexplicably she lingered in England for a year and a half. Inexplicably, because Margery does not explain her motives; however, her mention of the girl asking eventually to be let go suggests that she may have been forced to stay. Margery, who has an admitted phobia of sea travel, nevertheless is anxious to follow the girl to Germany. As usual, God inspires her to be of help to the poor daughter, who seems not at all eager for her help. After a harrowing crossing of the North Sea, during which the girl apparently tries to slip away from her at every occasion, they land in Norway, and from there they make their way to Germany, where the girl exits the scene. Margery, left alone in alien land, starts her trek back to England, a march that takes her slowly across northern Europe from Pomerania to Aachen and from Aachen to Calais, stopping at every shrine for a cry and a public scene. Soon, Germans, too, learn to avoid her.80 In Aachen she catches sight of a rich English widow traveling with her servants, and she sees her ticket home. The lady graciously invites her for dinner, then (inexplicably like all others) when time comes to leave, slips away and races for the border, chased all the way by the determined mystic. Margery alternately hires friars to be her escorts and joins a caravan of flee-ridden poor people (whom she soon abandons), until she catches up with her quarry. At this point, the book of mystical revelations is starting to take on the character of a picaresque novel, as Margery reaches Calais where she attaches herself to a band of English pilgrims, who go to desperate ends not to have her along, including not telling her on which ship they plan to sail. But nothing deters the heroine, who spies them until she locates the ship, then shows up on board with all her 79

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 24, 45-50, 54-62, 68, 72. Typically, she does not report all episodes in chronological order. A discussion of Birgitta as inspiration and example is in Julia Bolton Holloway, “Bride, Margery, Julian, and Alice: Bridget of Sweden’s Textual Community in Medieval England,” in McEntire, Margery Kempe, 203-21. 80 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 162-7, 170-2.

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baggage ahead of them. The pilgrims try a last diversion and board a different ship, but Margery abandons her bedding and baggage and follows them onto the other ship, where she also finds the English widow. The ship sails, and all have to coexist during the crossing.81 From her frequent comments accompanying the narrative one has to conclude that many Europeans of the period, led by the English, were horrid people, blasphemers, and potential rapists. However, from the strict viewpoint of interpersonal behavior, it is much easier to conclude that she affected people in a predictable sequence. At first, when they did not know her (and lack of familiarity with English seems to have prolonged this phase), they felt that she was ill and tried to help her out (in various episodes, people take her to an inn to restore her with a drink, offer her food, clothes, a bath, and even lodging). It is opportune to remember that Julian of Norwich, whom Margery visited, and who allegedly advised her to pursue her religious vocation undeterred, did not actually witness this behavior. Then came the phase in which people tried to rid themselves of her company, fleeing her, or ostracizing her if they were captive audience in a confined space (such as a ship). This by far is the most common reaction recorded in her own words. A third phase, one of resigned acceptance, would follow for people who could not avoid her for various reasons, such as her husband, her confessors, or some priests in Lynn. Her husband, after some initial bargaining, gives in to most of her demands, and ends up as the most henpecked man after the fictitious character of Les .xv. joyes de marriage: he accompanies her in her wanderings within the confines of England, allows her long trips abroad, accepts to live in chastity (at least with her) at her bidding, and finally slips quietly into senility and death, eliciting hardly a mention on her part.82 Then there is the archbishop of York Henry Bowet, whom she subdues in a debate then drives to desperately offering money to anyone of his servants who will accompany her out of his diocese (he suffers the ultimate indignity of having to haggle for the price of riddance with a particularly greedy clerk). Finally a priest whom she befriends goes through a brief spurt of independence as he slips from her grip, swayed by ill speakers, but soon is

81

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 173-6. Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 18-19, 25, 76, 100, 132, 164. To fully appreciate his personal sacrifice, one should bear in mind that, according to canonists “both spouses had equal rights over each other’s body, so that neither could take a vow of chastity, retire to religious life, or even go on crusade without the willing agreement of the other.” Labarge, A Small Sound of Trumpet, 32. 82

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driven back into her fold and ends up being recruited to write the book for her.83 As Margery apparently died of natural causes at an old age (at least by fifteenth-century standards), after having done rather as she pleased all those years and feeling quite satisfied with herself, the reader has to conclude that hers was a successful life. One could add that, as a frosting on the cake, she allowed herself an extremely open attitude toward sex. It is admittedly unfair to assume that the unspeakable sin of which she accuses herself was a sexual transgression; however, she admits having attempted (unsuccessfully) to seduce at least one man, and having entertained some rather risqué fantasies involving churchmen, laymen, and heathens (which did in time provoke remorse). In fact, the only hint at intimacy in her memoirs is of an openly physical nature, as she seems attracted to a variety of men and ready to demand chastity only from her husband (the latter, however, deserves an honorable mention, as she recalls the lust that she had felt for him in her youth).84 The Book of Margery Kempe is hardly the text on which to base assumptions that late-medieval women had to lead a confined, strictly regulated life as described in the didactic works of Christine de Pisan and of the fourteenth-century knight de la Tour Landry. And despite Margery’s successful attempts at provoking negative reactions (what Gail McMurray Gibson calls “martyrdom by slander”), that they were invariably victimized when caught overstepping prescribed boundaries.85 So far we have met with remarkably little intimacy, or even emotional or physical confinement, in the behavior of these unusual middle-class women. The similarity of attitudes with their noble counterparts leads to the observation that marriage, and family in general, do not seem to have been a significant limiting factor in the self-expression of a woman, or at least a determining factor. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Joan’s virginal state was in no way associated with helpless innocence, this being a late interpretation resulting from Michelet’s Romantic imagination rather than of medieval views on her. 83

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 5, 91-94. Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 6, 12, 106-7, 132. 85 Gail McMurray Gibson, “St. Margery: The Book of Margery Kempe,” in The Theater of Devotion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 47-53. Reproduced in Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 276-84 (here 277). The other treatise (beside Christine de Pisan’s, mentioned at the opening of the chapter) is Geoffroy de la Tour Landry, The book of the knight of the tower: manners for young medieval women, ed. Rebecca Barnhouse (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006). 84

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But what about victimization? It has been argued that, had Joan been a man hers would have been a linear success story. Once a prisoner, she may even have been approached with offers to change side rather than undergoing a trial on religious grounds. The problem was that she was a woman. Not the only woman to have performed in war, even in a position of leadership, or the first to claim a special relationship with the divinity, but the only one to have combined war with religious visions, and having been successful at both. Still, chroniclers hardly lead the reader toward expecting her tragic end as a fitting punishment for violating gender codes in a gender-repressive society. If anything, they delve on her extreme (and for some, undeserved) popularity with audiences of both sexes: her male comrades appraised her largely in professional terms and the female acquaintances appreciated her other qualities such as generosity and devotion. Even the Burgundian poet Martin Le Franc dedicates to her an admiring passage in his poem Le champion des dames, a passage also noteworthy for its populist overtones, as he praises her for victories that would have eluded noblewomen.86 The only group that victimized her for her warlike behavior and masculine attire was that of clerics, and even among this group there was no unanimity in condemning her. It appears, then, that we are faced with something more complex than a manifestation of medieval prejudices. First, as Labarge has observed, misogyny was a typically clerical attitude, as women embodied threats to their chastity. And in Joan’s case, the already negative attitude of the clerics sitting in judgment was aggravated by her fame and abrasive personality.87 Her persecutors seemed obsessed with breaking her self-assuredness and pride, while in turn their English masters punished in her the symbol of a France that suddenly had refused to be a pliant victim to become a victorious rival. With Margery, however, we are closer to a more “average” potential for victimization, as she mentions repeatedly the (realistic) fear of rape during her travels in seeking the safety of companionship.88 However, today a woman traveling alone is still considered a rarity, especially in 86 (“What could duchesses have done/Against their fierce destructive foe;/Could queens and princesses have won?”). Martin Le Franc, The Trial of Womankind: A Rhyming Translation of Book IV of the Fifteenth-Century Le Champion des Dames, trans. and ed. Steven Millen Taylor (Jefferson and London, 2005), 74-79. But see the heroic countess of Montfort in Froissart, Chronicle, 122-5. 87 .Labarge, A Small Sound of Trumpet, xii. For Joan’s attitude and the judges’ reaction see Karen Sullivan, The Interrogation of Joan of Arc (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), 4-6, 27-28, 39, 63-64, 72-73. 88 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 172, 175. For the pervasive occurrences of rape in urban setting see also Rossiaud, Medieval Prostitution, 11-14.

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certain regions of the world, and women who decide to travel without a male partner lean toward a female companion or a group, rather as Margery did. Not only does safety in number play a part, but also the very practical consideration of better service and better accommodations. If the danger of physical violence was indeed abnormally high in her days, one is left to wonder why she continued to travel widely between Europe and the Middle East without actually ever suffering an attack; and why such concerns do not seem to be shared by her daughter-in-law or her maid. The first apparently felt just as safe without Margery and tried consistently to avoid her, while the maid left her service to join the company of other pilgrims (apparently strangers) during the very first pilgrimage to Jerusalem and Rome. Occasionally, Margery’s lonely wandering raised eyebrows, as when a canon of the York Minster asked her whether she had a husband. Margery seemed offended by the question, thus implicitly defending her choice, and in fact there is no indication that she ever asked her husband to share her travels or chose to go alone reluctantly. If she failed to enjoy the advantage of number it is because she was constantly pushed to the edge of groups thanks to her behavior, which appears too aggressive.89 But was her aggressive behavior less tolerated because of her gender? Katz, Boggiano, and Silvern summarize recent research on this topic with the observation that gender differences in aggression seem to be a matter of degrees rather than of content: verbal aggression is often more pronounced in women, while physical aggression more so in men (this is supported by crime statistics). In addition women, and in general people who describe themselves as feminine, display more self-directed aggression in the form of depression, are more verbal about their symptoms, and more concerned about keeping one’s aggressiveness in check because of fear of being overwhelmed. Those differences project a different set of social expectations and solicit a different response; in fact they appear as nothing 89

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 89-90. Margery’s aggressive stance (except, at times, in the presence of social superiors) seems to conform to findings on modern aging women. As Claire Etaugh explains, as women age they are more likely to display also masculine characteristics. In many societies they appear to become more assertive, independent, and accepting of aggressive and egocentric feelings. Claire Etaugh, “Women in the Middle and Later Years,” in Denmark and Paludi, Psychology of Women, 213-46 (here 218). However, in Margery’s case, little seems to have changed in the forty-odd years that comprise her narrative, and she appears to be “frozen in time” as a person. This may be due to the fact that the final version of her book was written in her later years and during a short span of time, so that it may project backwards a more constant image of her mature self. Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 4

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more than “an accommodation to maltreatment.” Feminist researchers have attributed gender differences to a “political, economic, and social system that has traditionally discriminated against women for centuries.” They argue that what seems distinctive about women is shared “by other low-power groups. This would include traits as greater sensitivity to social cues, less expressed aggression, higher deference, and better knowledge and understanding of the group in power than that group has of them.”90 Along the same lines, Miriam Polster has argued that victimization can be extended to all groups with low societal impact, not women alone, and associates it with powerlessness. Quoting David McClelland, she also observes that women and men define power differently at different stages of psycho-social development. During youth power is vicarious, and the individual achieves it through identification and alliance with a powerful figure, who for both men and women is a powerful man. In the next stage (independence) men seek freedom from established authority, while women still rely on outside influence. The third stage is when power is experienced as “having impact on others,” and now women finally “show a significantly lower need for affiliation than do women at the earlier stages.” Their influence becomes reciprocal, and they feel more comfortable in being affected by others. The fourth and last stage is governed by the belief that associates power with a sense of duty. Throughout these stages, women are more concerned about sharing, and men about pushing ahead.91 If we look for historical clues to this attitudinal progression, it seems that six centuries ago (at least some) women reached the third and fourth stage earlier than modern women, a conclusion that is also consistent with Muchembled’s findings about the fast social development of medieval males. I suspect that, had Margery and Joan filled in a questionnaire, they would have revealed masculine traits.92 One needs only look at their distinctly individualistic ambition and love for the trappings of privilege. 90

Katz, Boggiano, and Silvern, “Female Personality,” 253, 269, 271. Miriam E. Polster, Eve’s Daughters: the Forbidden Heroism of Women (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1992), 178-9. 92 Labarge (A Small Sound of Trumpet, 26, 157) mentions that medieval women could be “quick with words and occasionally with blows […] easily offended and prone not only to jealousy and angry words but often to physical violence.” An extreme example of lack of inhibition is the wife of the lord of Flavy, who was an accessory to the murder of her husband. A document in D’Escouchy’s Chronique (pièces justificatifs, 3:348) describes her as a swearing hag urinating against a wall “comme ung homme” when drunk. For the early socialization of young medieval males see Muchembled, L’invention, 295, 298-300. For a discussion of women and power see Larrington, Women and Writing, 155-63. 91

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Margery is disarmingly candid in revealing her failed attempts at acquiring wealth through various business ventures, and Joan enjoyed the adoration of the crowds, dictating peremptory letters to order the English out of the country, and chasing female camp followers away from “her” troops. In addition, and by their own admission, both fell for the well-known fifteenth-century addiction to extravagant clothing.93 And in both is absent a “Cinderella-like” aspiration, the dream of meeting a handsome prince and being lifted through him into a higher social sphere, as they saw success entirely in personal terms and through their own efforts. In fact, it is evident that Joan had little taste for marriage (even if she was apparently ready to accept it as inevitable) and that Margery perceived herself, like the unfulfilled wife of Les .xv. joies de mariage, as having married beneath her. One may retort that for them there was no way out of their social sphere, but obviously there was such a thing for men, as attested by Margery’s own husband. Women did not even have an outlet for upwardly-mobile fantasies in so-called escape literature, as chivalric novels, written for aristocrats, assumed the heroine to be always highborn. The rest had to make do with Boccaccio, whose cruel novel of Griselda shows the pitfalls of upward marriage for a humble girl. But the question could be posed, since Boccaccio himself admits apologetically to having written Decameron for the amusement of women, whether an escapist literature in which the common woman is rescued and elevated by a man was unknown to that era and why.94 If the personalities of the two ladies in question are indicative of a widespread attitude, we have the answer. As a last point, what to conclude about the oft-repeated argument of medieval scholars, that late-medieval women had lost status in respect to an earlier age, before the eleventh century and before primogeniture, when women wielded real authority?95 Certainly, Christine de Pisan’s complaints 93

Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 8-9. Joan’s love for rich (masculine) clothing was well known. Daniel Rankin and Claire Quintal, trans., The First Biography of Joan of Arc (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1964), 118. See also Chastellain, “Chronique,” 1:46-47. 94 Giovanni Boccaccio, Decamerone, John Payne, trans. (New York: Stravon Publishers, 1947), 10, 516-25, 27. 95 Larrington, Women and Writing, 162. See also Ennen’s argument that the fourteenth-century spread of university education among the sons (but not daughters) of burghers marked the beginning of the disappearance of women from business. Edith Ennen, The Medieval Woman, Edmund Jephcott trans. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 221-2. Some writers have argued that women had more freedom throughout the Middle Ages than in later periods, including their own. See the survey of writers in Barbara A. Hanowalt, “Golden Ages for the History of

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of contemporary misogyny originated from a perception of a chasm between what was right and what was happening. But how to determine whether her position was a consequence of her awareness of a decayed status, or part of a contemporary discourse that stemmed from the desire for more power? If indeed women’s behavior became more restricted in the late Middle Ages, this is no different from what was happening to men, as argued in Chapter IV. Once again the example of the anonymous Lady of Saintré, already mentioned in Chapter III, may turn useful. Given the complete lack of imagination of the book, this figure might have been modeled on a real person; unlike most female figures in chivalric novels. One may recall that she holds the upper hand until the very end of the story, when the dramatic reversal occurs with the unmasking of her unfaithfulness, so that the young squire finally takes on a life of his own. But until that time she is bossy, initiates all encounters, and assumes a role that has strong maternal overtones; for example, she instructs him on the proper attire and behavior and even personal cleanliness and she finances all his endeavors. Her status gives her complete control, and is accepted without question by the squire, an attitude that strikes the modern reader as odd, as we may expect the man to assume a dominant role in an action novel. The woman here is not the mysterious cause of great deeds, but a real, down-to-earth mother figure to which he confides his doubts, whose company he seeks apart from sexual gratification, and whom he trusts implicitly to look after his affairs. In exchange, he appears obliged only to be faithful to her, in other terms, to continue his dependence. This is a quite a leap from the imaginary knight as servant of a lady, ready to obey her often capricious commands or rescue her and her relations from various perils. Being closer to the queen, she outranks him at court, so it is she (and not he) who needs to be discreet about the affair to protect reputation and career. Toward him, kisses apart, she acts as a corporate mentor with a new employee. Interestingly, she assumes a passive role only in relation to a monk, a man outside the power structure in which she works. It appears from this treatise (because a treatise it is, rather than a novel) that women, like men, made a distinction between career choices and private sentimental ones. Unlike clerical sources, then, the historical sources of this century do not supply examples of marked separation in roles between genders. On the contrary, they show that noble ladies were expected to perform complex administrative tasks, like Isabel of Burgundy, and share in the risks of their spouses’ policies, like Margaret of Anjou, and that selfMedieval English Women,” in Women in Medieval History and Historiography, ed. Susan Mosher Stuard (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987), 7-8.

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actualizing women such as Joan of Arc and Margery Kempe found little limitations to their self-expression. The former was rewarded with approval, ranging from professional respect to adulation, because of her altruism, dedication, and extraordinary abilities, while the latter was illtolerated because of what people who knew her considered selfish vanity. Violence to women was present, but it is doubtful how much more so than in other periods and not at all evident that it affected their outlook on life. Women participated in all aspects of society, sometimes pushing beyond traditional limits, and with mixed reviews, as they do today. They might have sought fame, honors, control, and love too, but not exclusively or above other quests. The proper behavior for a woman, given her role as child-bearer, was stricter than for a man, but the harem-like seclusion of women which pops up whenever writers refer to “traditional” domestic roles, was rather conspicuously absent; in fact one notices if anything an extended range of acceptable behavior over that of modern women. Further, these examples show that differences in personality seem to have been quite a factor in handling interpersonal relations, in particular conflicts. The fact that contemporary historians seldom mention women directly is a consequence of the themes of their narratives, military campaigns and politics, in which women’s supporting role was more often than not in the background. In the rare times when women are included in the narrative, they say so, using the expression “men and women” to refer to a distinct collectivity, and when a woman is the protagonist of an episode, they say so, too.96 The “traditional” woman who lives only for a man, swathed in feelings, basking in his reflected light, trained from childhood to attribute quasi-magical purposes to the mere act of marriage, the subject (and at times the victim) of so many popular romances, seems to be the creation of more recent times.

96 They even report matter-of-fact anecdotes involving women in some situations that a modern writer would find anomalous, and in need of explanation. For example, the Bourgeois of Paris (Journal d’un bourgeois, 319) records without comment that the abbess of Saint-Antoine was thrown in prison when it was found out that she had conspired with some of her nuns to open the gate Saint-Antoine to the Armagnacs in 1432.

VI. ALIEN ENCOUNTERS

VI.1. Framework The apparently unrestrained emotionalism of medieval crowds has alternately fascinated and repelled modern historians, an effect that has ensured its permanent presence in historical research. In addition, the subject of late-medieval urban attitudes, identity, and space has witnessed a spurt of interest in recent scholarship, especially about North-Western Europe, an area that was the center of an intense urbanization similar in some aspects to contemporary Italy. In turn, this interest has resulted in a variety of works that go beyond Pirenne’s vision of cities as commercial enclaves to recognize them as living organisms.1 At the root of the trend may be an increased sensitivity to the right of self-determination of small ethnic and religious communities, which in the past two centuries used to be buried within the larger scope of national imperatives. And as a consequence of the changed attitude toward the complexity of life of latemedieval urban communities, the theme of medieval urban violence has 1 Shaping Urban Identity in Late Medieval Europe - L’apparition d’une identité urbaine dans l’Europe du bas moyen âge, ed. Marc Boone and Peter Stabel (Leuven: Garant, 2000), vii-xi. This chapter makes use of a few background works on civic history and structure, such as: Fritz Rörig, The Medieval Town (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1967), David Nicholas, The Later Medieval City, 1300-1500 (London: Longman, 1997); Adriaan E. Verhulst, The Rise of Cities in North-West Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), which covers the period up to the twelfth century; George Holmes, Europe: Hierarchy and Revolt 1320-1450 (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. 2000); Peter Stabel, Dwarfs among Giants – The Flemish Urban Network in the Late Middle Ages (Leuven-Apeldoorn: Garant. 1997); and Keith D. Lilley, Urban Life in the Middle Ages 1000-1450 (New York: Palgrave, 2002). Among recent works that examine relations between high- and low-born in ritualized civic settings, Peter J. Arnade, Realms of Rituals: Burgundian Ceremony and Civic Life in Late Medieval Ghent (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996); and the previously-cited LecuppreDesjardin, La ville des cérémonies and Emotions in the Heart of the City.

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also been revised in the direction of renewed acceptance of its expression of a culturally-determined language. This chapter takes this conclusion as its starting point. Here I will relate contemporary accounts of a handful of urban uprisings to illustrate significant failure in communication between two worlds that were becoming progressively more alien to each other, at one extreme the princely courts and at the other the disaffected city dwellers. Since the sources represented one or the other of these opposite worlds (mainly that of courts), I will let them speak with their own voices and leave their narratives intact with all their gaps and inconsistencies, to show how in themselves they reflected the miscommunication. This chapter, then, departs somewhat from the psychology of in-groups, whose members shared a culture, to return to a theme introduced in Chapter II, the dynamics of relations between the upper crust and a collectivity of commoners. What will emerge is a gamut of attitudes, ranging from protectiveness to manipulation, from veiled hostility to cautious trust, which flow in both directions through the encounters of two heterogeneous cultures, each with its own language and repertoire of posturing. To the modern reader they are illustrative of a complex set of mutual expectations that demand definition well beyond that of sporadic and primitive outbursts of anger in a marketplace. But to most contemporary historians they appeared as something quite different. Even when native to those very cities, most writers have portrayed urban resistance to fiscal oppression and progressive loss of autonomy as a product of irrational pride. And (with few exceptions) they have been prone to look at urban rebels as anonymous crowds or even mobs, whether they were describing an actual street insurrection or the activities of an organized “revolutionary party” in power.2 Occasionally some rebel leaders are made known by name; and yet their personalities and motives elude us, either because the author was only too familiar with them and not writing “official” history (like the Bourgeois of Paris), or because he expected his courtly audience to disdain the details of such insignificant lives (like Chastellain and Molinet). This prejudice is not confined to fifteenth-century authors. As George Rudé has observed, pre-industrial crowds have been a neglected and 2

In the words of Elodie Lecuppre-Desjardin (La ville des cérémonies, 50) court chroniclers “non seulement emprisonnent leur récit dans une forme apologétique qui s’écarte de toute impartialité, mais encore privilégient le « vivre noblement » au détriment de toute autre catégorie sociale.” A notable exception is Basin’s account of the rebellion of Utrecht against Maximilian of Austria, which is not included in this chapter because it is not focused on the actual uprising.

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misunderstood historical phenomenon. Conservative writers, such as Burke and Taine, have labeled them “mob” or “rabble,” while sympathetic authors schooled in Marx and Weber have “read history backwards” and attributed to them modern characteristics, calling them representatives of the “working class,” or of “the people.”3 They have also suffered from the negative but authoritative comments of Henri Pirenne, who saw latemedieval urban movements as attempts to thwart the positive progress of a larger state to maintain the ideals of obsolete corporate civic entities. Today medieval crowd behavior (even when violent) is the beneficiary of better understanding. For example, Marc Boone affirms that Flemish cities traditionally initiated bargaining with the quasi-monarchical state through a public demonstration, which was no more than a tool to “bring issues to the foreground;” Jelle Haemers talks of the contrast between a serene unemotional prince and urban violence in terms of “a precise culturallydetermined choreography,” whose purpose was to establish a discourse to start negotiations with authority; and Elizabeth Crouzet-Pavan notices that the apparent unrestrained emotions of urban revolts from Languedoc to Flanders may have been ritualized expressions, a sort of protocol to communicate between prince and cities beyond the standardized expectations of feudal ideology (with its recurrent themes of loyalty and breach of the same). She warns that, “we should always ponder what constitutes rebellion and what constitutes violence,” a significant observation, because often we perceives as more violent a language that is alien, much as we tend to be shocked by (the translation of) obscene words in an unfamiliar tongue but incorporate many such words in everyday expressions of our own.4 It appears that the reason why urban manifestations seemed so out of control is not so much because the language of the cities was becoming more violent; in fact, as David Nicholas has argued, it was 3

George Rudé, The Crowd in History (New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. 1964), 79. 4 (“il faut encore toujours réfléchir sur ce qu’est la rebellion et sur ce qu’est la violence”). Elizabeth Crouzet-Pavan, “The Politics of Emotions in Urban Revolts,” in Lecuppre-Desjardin and Van Bruaene, Emotions, 27-29. Marc Boone, “Urban Space and Political Conflict in Late Medieval Flanders,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 32 No. 4 (Spring 2002): 621-40 (here 629). Jelle H. Haemers, “A Moody Community? Emotions and Ritual in Late Medieval Urban Revolts” in Emotions, 68-74. See also Jan Dumolyn and Elodie LecuppreDesjardin, “Propagande et sensibilité: la fibre emotionelle au coeur des luttes politiques et sociales dans les villes des anciens Pays-Bas bourguignons. L’example de la révolte brugeoise de 1436-1438,” in Lecuppre-Desjardin and Van Bruaene Emotions, 60.

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tamer than in the previous century.5 It rather appears that the expectation of the rulers was of a more submissive populace, as their contacts were increasingly limited to peers and subordinates. Ronald Weissman has captured the intricate nature of urban life in the Renaissance when he states that central to its problem was “the process of untangling the complex web of obligations [of] overlapping, conflicting, simultaneous commitments to family, neighbors, political allies, competitors, friends, associates, clients and patrons.”6 To complicate the issue, the late Middle Ages manifest a paradox that has commonly been attributed to the Renaissance alone: this is a period renowned for “rags to riches” stories of commoners suddenly elevated to the highest spheres of political power through the accumulation of personal fortunes. Heather Arden in her intriguing work Fools’ Play: a Study of Satire in the Sottie examines the negative effects of such possibilities, visible to all but hardly within the realms of the attainable for most. The very social fluidity of the period created the basis for envy and a general sense of insecurity as to the hierarchy of power, which in turn engendered cynicism and a sense of hopelessness that fed a peculiar brand of comic action in the sottie. It is not, she concludes, that the traditional tripartite division of medieval society was suddenly resented, but that a new class of nouveaux riches was emerging to demand a larger share of resources for its support and step over the urban poor.7 Even members of the power elite and the writers who echoed their attitudes manifest a great deal of ambiguity toward this phenomenon. Chastellain dedicates the longest passage of his previouslymentioned Temple de Bocace to the rise and fall of the famous tycoon Jacques Coeur, who became argentier of Charles VII. In his words, this “intelligent and ambitious” man, through “diligence and initiative” brought his worth “from one hundred to one hundred thousand, and then to millions, [all] thanks to his ability.” Once powerful and feared by all, he augmented the renown of his king so that all ships in the Orient flew the fleur-de-lys and all ports were “his own,” from Cairo to Alexandria, as if 5

Nicholas, Medieval City, 137. Along these lines, he argues that the Burckhardtian view of Renaissance individualism is unsound. Ronald F. E. Weissman, “Reconstructing Renaissance Sociology: The ‘Chicago School’ and the Study of Renaissance Society,” in Trexler, Persons in Groups, 39-46 (here 40, 45). Staley (Kempe’s Dissenting Fictions, 78) sees the same phenomenon reflected in the world of Margery Kempe: Margery’s “sharp eye” captures a society “more fluid and more insecure than Chaucer’s, a society whose codes and rituals have come to signify exclusivity, rather than community. 7 Heather Arden, Fools’ Play: A Study of Satire in the Sottie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 133-7. 6

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aiming at circumnavigating the world. But Fortune, who had suddenly elevated him higher than anyone else, just as suddenly threw him down. After loaning his king four-hundred-thousand écus to reconquer Normandy he was arrested, tried, and obliged to pay three-hundredthousand of them back in fines. Forced to live in exile, he died in Rhodes away from the “source of his honor, the French kingdom that he had served so gloriously.” The author cannot help admiring the self-made man, yet he introduces him as an example of immoderate greed.8 The trend toward concentrating wealth in few hands goes in parallel with the changed composition of leading guilds, which since the preceding century show a marked tendency to stratification. While more people seem to rise in society, many more join the ranks of the low-wage workers, who also count less and less in guild structure (paradoxically, after the remarkable political gains of artisans in the early fourteenth century).9 The frequent social revolts of the fourteenth century (the Ciompi, the Mallotins, the Jacqueries, and the English Peasants Revolt) were all attempts at limiting the pace of progressive exploitation, and as such have received ample recognition in modern historiography, also because they thrust into the limelight strong personalities like Philip van Artevelde in Ghent and Wat Tyler in England. Nicholas emphasizes their political and factional, rather than economic, causes (in fact, he observes that the insurgents included people who were rather well-off economically). He adds, however, that for the most part they originated as tax revolts, which seems to imply that factional movements, too, have at their root a conflict

8 (“subtil d’entendement et de haut emprendre […] diligence et activité […] Estoit venu de cent à cent mille, et de cent mille à nombre de millions, par son sens […] revestus sinon des fleurs de lis […] et ne voloient ses yeaux qu’en la circuition du monde pour tout seul l’estraindre […] ventre de son honneur, le royaume françois, à qui avoit fait tant de glorieux services”). Chastellain, “Le temple de Bocace,” 7:91-92. Jacques Cœur was framed by charges of embezzlement, treason, and having poisoned the king’s mistress Agnès Sorel. D’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:280-9 (like Chastellain, he calls him a man of “sens, vaillance et bonne conduitte”). The Bourgeois of Paris (Journal d’un bourgeois, 34), from his middle class perspective, is less sympathetic when narrating the arrest and execution of the powerful Jean de Montaigu, grand maitre d’hôtel of King Charles VI, who had amassed enormous riches and acted more arrogantly than any aristocrat. 9 Stabel (Dwarfs among Giants, 151, 153, 177) states that in the course of the fourteenth century the draper and master-weaver “became the central figures of the industry” and the leaders of the guilds connected with the cloth export industry secured political power, which they kept away from the low-wage fullers. This resulted in social turmoil in industrial cities like Ghent and increase in poverty.

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of interest.10 Revolts continued with less energy and success into the fifteenth century, a watershed marking the end of civic liberties and the first step in the long march toward stronger centralized governments.11 In the period under discussion, however, absolutism was barely on the horizon, and governments were still relatively weak. What was visible to urban populations was the spectacular rise to power and fall from grace of princes and powerful court servants that made them alternately objects of envy and of spite. Margaret Aston summarizes the late-medieval decadence of authority in the following terms, “The ruined gentry, and even men of princely blood, took on a life of robbery and brigandage […] It was a period of public and private uncertainties, [in which] monarchies appeared more assailable, popular insurrections more probable.”12 Everything was on the table, old urban privileges and ducal rights, illustrated by the succession of more-or-less polite requests from princes to borrow or rent resources (including war equipment) from cities for their armed expeditions, and innumerable examples of extortion, from resale of privileges to open blackmail through forced “gifts.”13 The long saga of independent communes, this typical medieval institution, came to a bitter end in this century, yet, not surprisingly, their members did not seem to be aware of the inevitability of their fate. In fact, a common characteristic of 10

Nicholas, Medieval City, 126-37. Late fourteenth-century revolts, even if originating outside towns, coincided with urban revolts in London, Paris, and Ghent. See Froissart’s (Chronicle, 238-45) description of the huge crowds of Wat Tyler sympathizers pouring into London. Jack Cade’s revolt of 1450 was an exception as it involved angry rural masses, but the actual “mob scenes” took place in London. Herris and Tyrrell, A Chronicle of London, 136-7. For the rise of artisans to government in the fourteen century see Boone, “Urban Space,” 629. 11 Guenée (Un meurtre, 192) observes that by the fourteenth century people were less and less able to confront the “tyrannie d’exercice” or abuse of legitimate power. There were successful exceptions. For example, as Vaughan (Charles the Bold, 40, 311) has observed, Charles the Bold was eventually defeated by cities, first by Neuss (backed by Cologne), and then by the Swiss League led by Bern. The present chapter, however, does not concern itself with cities that battled a foreign power, but only with the most notorious among those who rose in rebellion against their own ruler. 12 Margaret Aston, The Fifteenth Century (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1968), 22-23, 117. Spencer observes (Basin, 254) that medieval governments were generally weak and people had ample means of resistance. And Arden mentions (Fools’ Play, 93) that decline in status is a factor for social groups to become target of satire. 13 For examples of borrowing (tents, victuals, troops, etc.) and demanding gift (a horse) see Gachard, documens inédits, 2:114-28, 191-4, and for “sale” or “resale” of privileges, Gachard, documens inédits, 1:1-36.

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the revolts of this period is their non-ideological and essentially conservative character, as their perpetrators saw themselves in the role of guardians of a pre-existing and valid status quo, which did not need theoretical redefinition and which was violated by the prince or (more often) by his servants. The sociologist Neil Smelser in his encyclopedic Theory of Collective Behavior states that the motivation of social movement in general is the presence of strains in the various components of “social action,” the highest being values and the lowest being “situational contingencies.” As an example of strain in values he cites Tocqueville’s observation that at the eve of the French Revolution the greatest revolutionary fervor occurred in areas where the lingering presence of feudal taxes, dues, and other traditional obligations of the peasants coexisted with the simultaneous decline of the feudal responsibilities of the nobility. On the contrary, in areas where feudal institutions were in full vitality, the revolutionary spirit was relatively weak. Smelser sees in the weakness accompanying the partial decay of normative order a potential for social strain and the cause of the greatest outbursts.14 Put in less technical terms, the greater the divergence between the theory and reality of social relations binding rulers and ruled the greater the potential for violent outbursts. But for the realization of the potential there needs to be also a perception of weakness in authority (manifested, for example, by conflicting directives) that supplies the “green light” to proceed with violent demands. As it will become apparent, this theory fits quite closely the urban revolts of the period in question. From contemporary accounts the reader may deduce that time after time northern cities experienced social dissent, fell under a government of “extremists” representing a subset of guilds, and openly rebelled, only to end up asking forgiveness in repeated rituals of submission. Within this uniformity of motivation and mechanism, however, it is still possible to distinguish two distinct patterns of violent collective behavior, which derive from two different perceptions of the relations of the urban community vis-à-vis the court. The first model, illustrated by Paris, seems to be based on the assumption of dependence on the “higher ups” for one’s economic and civic destiny. The strain in this normative pattern results in an opportunistic alliance with the disaffected nobility (so long as it is perceived as outside the court) that sanctions (or seems to sanction) the explosion of angry outbursts. Just as suddenly, these outbursts come to a stop when the alliance breaks apart, leaving the urban mob bereft of 14

Smelser, Collective Behavior, 26-28, 61.

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princely patronage, and enthusiasm gives way to lingering resentment. Two such episodes find their principal recorders in quite different writers. Monstrelet, the Religieux, and Jean-Juvénal des Ursins described the Parisian cabochien movement of 1413 from the viewpoint of the court, and the Bourgeois of Paris the brutal massacre of the Armagnac leaders in 1418, on the occasion of the Burgundian re-occupation of the city, from the opposite viewpoint of the citizenry. In addition to the Bourgeois, Roye and Maupoint have left accounts of the general mood in Paris after the two revolts, accounts that deserve mention because they explain the mixture of devotion and violence that coexisted within popular sentiments. The second model, illustrated by Flemish cities, presupposes an initial state of equality or at least semi-independence that is perceived (correctly, as it turns out) to be disintegrating due to some high-handed actions of the duke or his subordinates. Two of these revolts, in Ghent in 1467 against the new duke Charles the Bold, and in Bruges in 1488 against Maximilian of Austria (then king of the Romans and future emperor) are described in horrified tones respectively by Chastellain and Molinet.15

VI.2. Early Riots: Paris in 1413 and 1418 As Janet Shirley explains in the Introduction to A Parisian Journal, this city was “unusual, indeed extraordinary, among the large towns of northern Europe in that it never got an independent government of its own, and never had a charter of customs or privileges; the power of the Crown seems to have stifled other growth.” It fits Eric Hobsbawm’s portrait of pre-industrial metropolis, symbiotically tied to a court and looking upon its rulers as providers. In such an environment angry riots were endemic; in fact, the accepted language of political dialogue, facilitated by the proximity of rich houses to those of the poor.16 When violence would 15

A third model is represented by the rather tame but well organized rebellion of Utrecht in 1481-1483 against its Valois bishop, which forms the core of sixteen long chapters of Basin’s biography of Louis XI. It is omitted here for reasons explained a few pages earlier. 16 Shirley, Journal, 8 and Eric Hobsbawm, Primitive Rebels: a Study in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries (New York: Norton, 1965), 114-5. In his words, “[i]n such cities the popolino lived in an odd relationship with its rulers, equally compounded of parasitism and riot.” As for the nearness of noble hotels to popular quarters, Chastellain (“Chroniques,” 4:74-75) remarks that the Hotel d’Artois, which belonged to the duke of Burgundy, was so close to the market of the Halles, that a common anti-Burgundian slur referred to the smell of herrings (“vous puez les harengs”). For this argument see also Peter Stabel, “The Market Place and Civic Identity in Late Medieval Flanders,” in Boone

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erupt in such a close environment it was all the more significant because accompanied by anger, as the populace felt alternately a sense of entitlement over the activities of the princely courts (a sentiment not shared by the nobles) and a feeling of betrayal and helplessness when the latter showed themselves unresponsive. Paris had been rocked by several tax riots in the fourteenth century, led by the “solidly middle class” butchers, after which it had been punished with the loss of its échevinage.17 Jacques Lemaire, in his vast work on political and courtly and Stabel, Urban Identity, 58-59. London was luckier than Paris, because, despite being a capital and conscious of its special relationship with the Crown, it never fell into the status of helpless metropolis described by Hobsbawm. It remained a commercial city, wealthy in its own right, and aware that kings needed it more than vice versa, witness the regard in which its government was held. De La Marche (Mémoires, 3:50-51), in describing a tournament presided by Edward IV, relates how the mayor of London made his entry preceded by his sword and followed by the aldermen. Quickly, he knelt to the king with his sword pointed toward the ground in a perfunctory sign of submission then just as quickly stood up and went to his seat of honor. And the anonymous author of the Chronicle of London relates (Herris and Tyrrell, A Chronicle of London, 142) an episode that confirms the mayor’s power and prestige. In 1465, during the king’s absence, he was invited to the feast of the king’s sergeants, but found his place of honor already occupied. He left in a huff with all the aldermen and had a magnificent banquet set up at his own house in revenge. 17 Nicholas (Medieval City, 123-8) explains that fourteenth-century revolts in French cities were led by “solidly middle-class persons” such as the butchers in Paris and Lyon, and notaries and scribes in Lyon and Metz. Even when “the poor participated in urban rebellions, the issues were usually the individuals in the magistracy, not government policy, which did not change much after any of the uprisings.” For example, in the “aristocratic revolt” of Paris in 1357, during the captivity of King John II, Etienne Marcel, provost of merchants and purveyor of goods to the royal argenterie, seized the city government. He was later killed during a riot, leaving no change in government structure after his tenure. By the end of the century, in 1380-1381 a series of severe urban movements originated, like in England, as tax rebellions, accompanied by millenarian doctrines with visions of equality for the poor. Yet, Nicholas adds, most rioters were not poor, and in fact enjoyed better living standards than their ancestors before 1348, in the form of higher wages, lower prices, and a higher volume of consumer goods. In France rebellions erupted in twenty-seven cities after the regents of the young Charles VI re-instated the taille (a direct tax) that Charles V had rescinded on his deathbed. The most famous revolt was that of the Maillotins (“mallet-wielders”). in Paris, a spontaneous riot with no program except pillaging churches and the homes of the rich, which exploded in 1382 when a grocer woman refused to let go of fruit that a tax collector was seizing in lieu of taxes. The mob irrupted into the new Châtelet, where lead mallets had been stored for use against the English, and

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literature, places the revolt of 1413 in a similar context of spontaneous popular movements, mere outbursts against fiscal oppression, and not proper bourgeois revolutions with a program of changing the current political structure. In his view, intellectuals had not developed a concept of class, and could and would not yet influence insurrections; in fact, the bourgeois themselves seemed more concerned with the use of tax moneys than with their amount. The absence of a leading ideology allows the writers who described these revolts a variety of interpretations as to their motives, but popular discontent against waste at court seems to have been a common motif. At the opening of the new century it found an outlet in pamphlets, such as the Songe véritable (1406), a poem by an anonymous clerk of Paris, rich in personal touches as, for example, the complaint of not being adequately paid for his work. In this poem the author accuses courtiers of keeping lower servants in misery, and ruthlessly dismissing them after years of service. He excuses King Charles VI because of his poverty and mental incapacity, reserving his attacks for the dukes of Orléans and Berry and Count Gaston Fébus of Foix, all of whom exploited the king’s illness for their personal enrichment. The anonymous author does not question the king’s rights or the aristocracy’s wealth, but rather the excesses of privilege, and reserves his most vehement attacks for a fellow bourgeois, the exceedingly wealthy and arrogant Jean de Montaigu, grand maitre d’hôtel of the king.18 It is possible that this pamphlet reflected the influence of the malcontent duke of Burgundy John the Fearless and set the tone for the politically motivated murder of his rival Louis of Orléans in 1407 (discussed in Chapter IV). But while aristocratic chroniclers focused almost exclusively on the murder itself, it seems that this act did not make much of an impression on the population. On the contrary, if one has to believe the anonymous authors of the Livre des Trahisons and Le pastoralet (as discussed in Chapter IV) they welcomed the news with relief. For them the victim had been an object of hatred, the symbol of courtly waste and corruption, so that they immediately dressed up with normative values the cowardly and illegal act that they would have opened the prison. Many master artisans and guild militias fought the rebellion, which was broken by the royal government in 1383. One hundred leaders were executed; Paris lost its échevinage, and the office of provost of merchants, which was joined to the provostship of the city. 18 Lemaire, Les visions, 287, 292-3. Another example of the pervading mood against Louis of Orléans is a statement in “Trahisons,” 19 about a dishonest action of his (“Ainsy fut aliewé et perdu le trésor que maint povre laboureur et bon marchant avoient guaignie et payé à grand labeur”).

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condemned under different circumstances. Orléans had been the closest figure to the seat of power for the last five years of his life, and therefore he was blamed for all the ills that befell the people, while Burgundy was able to capitalize on his role as outsider (much as the duke of York would do in England one generation later). He presented himself as the champion of reforms, and in at least one occasion delivered a public speech in Paris urging opposition to Orléans. Guenée observes that violence in that period was an accepted phenomenon that trickled downward from aristocracy and clergy to the common people, and the indifference of the latter to the murder of Orléans seems to confirm a widespread acceptance of violent solutions and extreme partisanship.19 Since 1411 John had relied on the support of the powerful butchers’ guild to maintain dominance in Paris, and in April of 1413 the mutual confidence allowed for an impressive bout of violence to erupt, led by the butcher Simon Caboche and the surgeon Jean de Troyes (a well-educated man who would become the spokesman of the rebels). Ironically, the spark that ignited it was the unwelcome presence in the city of Pierre des Essarts, the very person who, as provost of Paris, had been responsible for the fall of the hated Montaigu, and had since enjoyed a period of extreme popularity with the Parisians. More recently, however, he antagonized Duke John over a corruption scandal, and the latter was successful in turning popular feelings against him and having him exiled. He seems to have found a new protector in the adolescent dauphin Louis, duke of Aquitaine and a son-in-law of John the Fearless, who was starting to discover his own political voice, and under his protection he returned to the city to reside in the well-protected Bastille. After briefly covering this background, the narrative of Monstrelet starts at the point when the crowd gathered outside the fortress to demand – and obtain – the ex-provost’s surrender, and ends a few months later with the complete defeat of the insurgents. As revolts go, this was brief and not particularly bloody, and has not been much noticed by modern historians. Vaughan, in particular, sees its only significance in the ominous mass demonstration in front of the Bastille, but then discounts the impact of the episode on the destiny of France or Burgundy.20 19 Guenée, Un meurtre, 89. John’s harangue against Orléans is documented in Religieux, Chronique, 3:340 and Jean-Juvénal des Ursins “Histoire de Charles VI,” 429. 20 Vaughan, John the Fearless, 99-100. He summarizes it thus: it amounted to only two serious riots in April and May 1413 (the first one accompanied by the murder of four Armagnacs), five or six executions in June and July, and less than fifty persons imprisoned, and later freed. Some modern historians skim over the event

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Apparently, however, this is not the way that contemporary writers saw it, as they seem much more interested in describing what they perceived as shocking behavior than in drawing conclusions about its potential long-lasting effect. Monstrelet’s account of the event, for example, is quite dramatic and one of the very few instances in which the usually detached author loses his equanimity.21 In shocked tones, he narrates how a mob of six-thousand led by knights of Duke John’s household and inspired by Caboche and de Troyes, became emboldened by the success at the Bastille and invaded the hotel of the young dauphin. They burst into his private apartment demanding the surrender of a dozen or so “traitors,” among whom the prince’s chancellor and his cousin the duke of Bar. Over the dauphin’s irate protests, they seized their victims by force and dragged them to prison, and in the aftermath of the riot they killed three men of lower rank, who had been associated with the Orléanist party. The dauphin, beside himself, accused Burgundy of having caused the arrests, which the other sheepishly did not deny. Then the mob forced the dauphin to dwell with the king his father at the hotel Saint-Pol, and guarded the city gates lest he escape. As Orléanist princes ominously assembled troops in the neighborhood of the city, the insurgents convinced the king to emanate an edict outlawing such armed gatherings.22 The indignant writer then goes on to describe the effect of the “detestable and cruel” mob rule on the city, as thousands of Parisians took to wearing white hoods to signify adherence to the movement, and forced (including Guenée and Nicholas). S. H. Cuttler, The Laws of Treason and Treason Trials in Later Medieval France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 191-2 states that John did not abuse his powers to punish his enemies under the law of treason while he was in control of the city. Confiscations were few, executions even fewer. But after the Armagnacs returned to power, over one hundred persons were banished and more confiscations and executions occurred. 21 The whole episode is in Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:343-98; the Religieux (Chronique, 5:2-182) dedicates to it the greater part of Book Thirty-Four of his work, while the more succinct version of Jean-Juvénal des Ursins (“Histoire de Charles VI,” 477-87) is interesting because of more personal recollections not available to other authors, as his father found himself a participant to the events. Here I have not drawn extensively from these other accounts for two reasons. First, because I have written specifically about this revolt in another work, L. B. Ross, “Anger and the City: Who Was in Charge of the Paris cabochien Revolt of 1413?” in Urban Space in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Age, ed. Albrecht Classen (Berlin, N.Y.: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 433-62. And second, because the focus here is just on aristocratic versus “populist” perceptions rather than in the complex unfolding of events. 22 Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:343-8.

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nobles, prelates, and even the king to wear the same, in a manifestation of mass acquiescence. The rebels, relying on Burgundy’s support and by now in control of the city, presented the dauphin yet again with a list of over sixty “traitors,” twenty of whom were immediately arrested. Then they started to accompany the king (who had temporarily recovered) everywhere, to and from his apartment and posted guards at his hotel. In vain did Burgundy himself plead with the mob to withdraw their watch not to upset the ailing monarch: they refused unless he would hand over those listed in the “roll of traitors,” among whom the duke of Bavaria, brother of the queen, who had come to Paris for his wedding. The roll also included the names of some of the queen’s ladies, and Burgundy went to the queen in person to ask that she deliver them to the mob. The latter humbly begged reprieve for few days, and the dauphin retired to a room to weep in private over his helplessness. Still the insurgents refused to relent, even as the duke of Bavaria begged the crowd to try him alone and promised (probably quite sincerely!) never to return to France if they were to let him go. The ladies also had to surrender, and were carted away weeping, tied in pairs on horseback, and surrounded by the ever-present armed mob. Soon a commission was set up to examine the crimes of the prisoners and determine their punishment, and on this occasion the duke of Burgundy, against his sworn word, turned over to the Parisians the important prisoners whom he had kept under his direct custody and protection (Bar and des Essarts).23 Soon, however, a counter-revolutionary movement also started to form (the narrative is rather unclear at this point). The insurgents tried in vain to enlist the approval of the University on the matter of the arrests, and ended up seeking a written royal pardon for their actions. This was spelled out in a tortuous document that praised their loyal intentions and attributed to the king all initiative against the “traitors.” Meanwhile, 23

(“détestables et cruelles”). Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:349-55. The wearing of white hats is confirmed by the Bourgeois (Journal d’un bourgeois, 59) and the Religieux, (Chronique, 5:26, 38). These were symbols of Flemish autonomy, and will be mentioned again in the next section (the Ghent revolt of 1467). The analogy with Louis XVI forced to participate in mass enthusiasm is striking. Rudé narrates how, during the riots at the Tuileries of summer 1792, rioters invaded the royal apartments through a side entrance to the palace that had been left unlocked. “[U]ntil eight or ten at night, an incessant procession of men and women filed past the king who, having donned the Cap of Liberty, was compelled to listen to the endlessly repeated slogans of the hour. Eventually […] the demonstrators dispersed peacefully.” Rudé, The Crowd in the French Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959), 100. For the chance of “social remission” of schizophrenia see O’Brien, The Disordered Mind, 85.

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members of the nobility were leaving town to swell the ranks of Orléanist princes, while inside the city men and women were drowned in mass without trial (a statement not quite confirmed by other writers).24 Monstrelet ends the account rather briefly with an accord between court and Orléanist princes that saw the dauphin taking charge of an armed force to free the prisoners. His intervention stripped the cabochien revolt of its legitimacy and precipitated its implosion and the quiet exit of Burgundy from the Parisian scene. The Orléanists entered Paris and were received in great pomp by the royal family, then reoccupied their various hotels. The royal council met to issue an edict which reversed all previous ones, which the king now claimed had been forced on him. In it (predictably) the Orléanists were portrayed as victims of slander and Burgundy as a monster who led lowly (and by implication irresponsible) people to horrible massacres and abuses in his efforts at securing sole control over court and treasury.25 Monstrelet’s account relies on two contrasting images: one of uncontrolled violence centered on the two plebeian irruptions into princely palaces accompanied by dark – if unspecific – hints at massacres, and the other of orderly process, through the prolix, contradictory, pompous, but reassuring royal edicts. It is left to other authors to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle and enhance understanding of this little-known revolt. The insider Jean-Juvénal adds details of the background intrigues that led to the fall of the cabochien party. For example, he attributes an active role not only to the dauphin, but also to the old duke of Berry (even as he depicts him as a rather comical figure lamenting the horrid mob rule while 24

Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:360-2. No other author reports mass killings of prisoners. Jean-Juvénal des Ursins (“Histoire de Charles VI,” 479-80) records one knight killed by de Jacqueville (who was at the service of Duke John and therefore not one of the cabochiens) and mentions (486) lists of people whom the insurgents had planned to drown. The reference to mass executions is in the royal edict that accompanied the restoration of Orléanist princes (Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:445), and sems to be an exaggeration. As for the role of the University, it had apparently taken a reformist side in the beginning, with some of its members actively speaking out against the corruption of the royal court. Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:352 and Journal d’un bourgeois, 57. The Bourgeois (Journal d’un bourgeois, 62-63) thought the late about-face unforgivable (“comme si le diable les eût conseillés”). 25 Monstrelet, Chronique, 2:398-403, 442-57. The duke is accused of elevating to power “gens populaires de meschant et bas estat.” As for the reception of the princes, the Religieux (Chronique, 5:148-50) relates that they had to swear to pay for their own food and not to harass the citizens; and, as a measure to encourage the reluctant crowd to cheer them, a man was posted to distribute silver pieces.

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dutifully wearing his white chaperon). And it is from his narrative that one learns that there was an anti-cabochien movement among other guilds within the city, mainly among drapers and carpenters. He is the only author to relate a tumultuous meeting at City Hall to discuss the king’s proposal for peace with the Orléanist princes, disrupted by the irruption of armed cabochien leaders and by their angry exchanges with pro-peace artisans. After the failure of a rally organized by the cabochiens the dauphin and the nobles acted as if graciously acceding to the demands of the good citizens and the new slogan of the day was “peace” (that is, peace with the Orléanists, which meant the end of Burgundian rule). On the opposite side of the political spectrum, the Bourgeois offers his own vehemently partisan version, full of opinions but short of facts, with an occasional vivid image that reinforces the reader’s impression of witnessing events in two parallel and alien worlds: for example, as he reports that the dauphin and his supporters freed from prison the dukes of Bar and of Bavaria, he sneers at the honors bestowed on the two exprisoners as if they were heroes “returning from a Crusade.” 26 Above all, Monstrelet’s account fails to provide motives for the collective actions of the Parisians; in fact he shows the anonymous crowd as an amorphous mass with a single rudimentary will, and proves (albeit indirectly through royal proclamations) that Burgundy was the mind behind the entire movement. He even glides over an important reformist document that was submitted to the royal council at this time, the so-called Ordonnance cabochienne, a long list of articles demanding specific measures to bring under control royal expenditures and the multiplication of government posts: for example, it demanded the reduction of the size of the royal council, the dismissal of all excess servants and notaries, and suspension of the sale of offices and of gifts to royal secretaries. Even a conservative writer like the Religieux deems this document praiseworthy enough to be preserved for posterity, and Jean-Juvénal regrets that such orderly set of reforms was to be superseded by events and never enacted.27

26

(“comme s’ils vinssent de faire le plus bel fait qu’homme pût faire en ce monde de sarrasinemie”). Journal d’un bourgeois, 64. The other episodes are in JeanJuvénal des Ursins (“Histoire de Charles VI,” 480-3) and the Religieux (Chronique, 5:120-2), who gives a similar, but much abbreviated version of the fateful meeting. 27 Religieux, Chronique, 5:48-52 and Jean-Juvénal de Ursins, “Histoire de Charles VI,” 479, 486. The full text of the Ordonnance is in Alfred Coville, L’ordonnance cabochienne 26-27 mai 1413 (Paris: A. Picard, 1891), 4-181. See also Lemaire, Les visions, 294-6.

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All three historians – even Jean-Juvénal and the Religieux, who seem more aware of nuances among civic political currents – focus on the deeds and motives of princes more than on those of commoners. They seem almost relieved to point out that the real action was a palace coup, orchestrated by John the Fearless to remove from the dauphin any advisors of the Orléanist party, a coup that eventually failed and dragged with it its humble allies: where he had provided the brain they had provided the brawn. Among the elites he alone is shown mediating or negotiating directly with the mob, and his familiarity with this alien world seems to baffle the writers, who do not linger on these scenes.28 The Parisians, on the other hand, are essentially divided in two groups: the seditious few and the respectful many, the partisans of a traitor and the good citizens loyal to the crown and to those who represented it best. However, in judging crowd behavior from the snippets of information, it seems that the insurgents saw their role, too, as one of restoring the proper authority in freeing their king and the young dauphin from “bad” influences. Even the mandatory donning of white chaperons appears less an act of domination than one of inclusion on their part, a symbolic way to re-establish a direct rapport with a court that had been alienated. Those two distinct worlds that had come into such odd contact during the revolt drifted apart immediately in its aftermath. While chroniclers now switch the spotlight to the English invasion and high-level politics, the Bourgeois records the five bitter years of Orléanist repression from within his walled city in a permanent state of siege. With their powerful protector back in his northern lands the reaction against the butchers went into motion, and then spread to the population at large. In his account the regime, under the iron fist of the count of Armagnac, was responsible for illegal arrests and executions, petty acts of revenge (such as removing the protective street chains), new taxes on street cleaning and on salt, the usual brutalities committed by troops, and devaluation of the currency. Citizens scurried about with downcast eyes, afraid of being noticed by Armagnac henchmen, who would rough up small children caught singing proBurgundian songs. The white band of the Armagnac party became the ubiquitous symbol of the new order, to be worn by residents and even by religious images in churches. By 1415, with the taking of Harfleur, the 28

Jean-Juvénal des Ursins (“Histoire de Charles VI,”476) recalls that the Burgundian nobility tried in vain to convince John the Fearless to abandon the unseeming alliance with butchers, and the Religieux (Chronique, 3:8) refers to the butchers as “abjecti.” John, however, did protect the cabochien leaders, who fled Paris and found asylum in Flanders, and negotiated for the pardon of some of them. Vaughan, John the Fearless, 204.

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invading English were added to the list of woes. At first they seemed to the writer more decent than the Armagnacs, but soon they joined in the general ruin of the country, robbing, raping, and killing, while the Orléanist confederates, instead of rallying the citizens against the invaders at this critical hour, were busy forbidding gatherings, keeping Burgundy away from the king and both away from the capital, and forcibly disarming the populace.29 This irresponsible behavior during a state of emergency sealed a further rift between rulers and ruled, as the citizens could not find a common enemy to serve as focus of patriotic fervor. The Armagnacs had lost the propaganda war, if the author is to be believed, and their rule was reduced to a few blandishments, barely concealed hostility, and armed repression. By May 1418, as the war raged outside the city and food became scarce inside, suspicion toward the Orléanists fueled rumors that they planned to turn the city over to the king of England and to butcher all men and drown all women not of their party (those to be spared were identified by a secret token). Partisans of Burgundy became ever more active inside the city, and finally toward the end of the month news spread that Burgundy and his troops were marching to Paris. The vanguard of his army was secretly introduced inside the gate of Saint-Germain before dawn, and as war cries echoed inside the walls the citizenry exploded in an anti-Armagnac frenzy. This time we witness a true leaderless mob, and not an organized rebellion. The author is at first elated at the victory of “his” side, and launches into an allegory of Fortune aroused from her torpor, for him an indication of unusual emotion. As the Burgundians swarmed inside Paris, the citizens hunted down Armagnacs and sympathizers in a house-to-house search. During a murderous spree that lasted days, the crowds killed and mutilated bodies, and whenever they could not force their way into a prison, they burnt it with the occupants trapped inside. At first the author is glad to hear that the mob had butchered the hated leaders, the constable of France Bernard of Armagnac himself (whom he compares to Nero), the chancellor Henri of Marle, and Jean Gaudet master of the artillery, who incurred the author’s wrath for refusing to pay his workers. But as the details of more arrests and massacres of prisoners become known he is increasingly shocked. As if anxious to justify his party’s actions, now he conjures a scene in which the new Burgundian city provost, the lord of the Ile D’Adam, invokes Pity, Justice, and Reason in an attempt to calm down an enraged crowd. But Anger and Madness answer through the voice of the people, “Damn your Justice, sir, your Pity and Reason! Damned be 29

Journal d’un bourgeois, 70, 89-98, 101.

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those who have more pity of these false treacherous English Armagnacs than of dogs! The whole kingdom of France is ruined and destroyed by them!” Then the “people” reiterate the list of crimes of the fallen regime to justify the present horrors: they had sewn sacks for drowning women and children, and they had planned to turn the city over to the English. At the end of the butchery, in the author’s estimate, fifteen-hundred-eighteen men and women had been killed, and their bodies left unburied and piled high in the streets for days and washed down by the heavy rain. Official executions followed, and some terrified victim denounced others before being beheaded.30 The violence did not quite abate even after the duke of Burgundy finally arrived on the scene on July 14. He entered the city among general jubilation, in the company of the queen, who had been exiled by the Armagnacs, and the crowd lined the streets chanting, “Noël!” But soon he proved helpless or too timid to control a new riot (this time a bread and price riot) that erupted in August, caused by the exiled party blocking supplies from reaching the city. The crowd, by now used to violence, again took the two prisons of the Petit and Grand Châtelet by assault and slaughtered all those inside, threw them from windows, or beat them to death as they were brought outside. They also massacred some women including a pregnant one who was “innocent.” Not only was Burgundy unable to save the victims, but he was even forced to witness the symbolic gesture of the mob trampling and tearing up a banner bearing the image of a dragon (supposedly English) found in the Hotel of Bourbon. The uneasy duke, suffocated by the demands of the citizenry, appears perturbed and indecisive, and at this point the author shows his exasperation and labels him the “slowest man that one could find.”31 Ironically, this loyal 30

(“Maugré Dieu, sire, de votre Justice, de votre Pitié [et] de votre Raison! maudit soit de Dieu qui aura pitié de ces faux traîtres Armagnacs Anglais ni que [de] chiens! Car par eux est le royaume de France tout détruit et gâté”). Journal d’un bourgeois, 108-20. It is during this violent episode (114) that the author refers to garlands of red roses being worn by the crowd in the church of Saint Eustace, which ended up smelling of rosewater. This supplied the inspiration for Huizinga’s (Herfsttij, 24) famous expression about the smell of “blood and roses.” The Livre des trahisons (135-8) which brings the number of victims to six-thousand (probably an exaggeration) remarks that, “et bien sont communes gens de telle nature quant ils sont esmus car ils aiment mieulx la mort d’un homme que riens qu’on leur sceuist donner.” Also of note in this narrative is the fact that the author either ignores or refuses to acknowledge Burgundy’s dealings with the English, and continually refers to the Armagnacs alone as traitors and collaborationists. 31 (“le plus long homme […] qu’on pût trouver”). Journal d’un bourgeois, 125-8, 131. The mob did have a valid argument for killing the Armagnac prisoners kept in

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Burgundian partisan now would like to see the duke take the situation firmly in hand, and stop the massacre of his very enemies. The social scientist Everett Dean Martin, in an article dedicated to destructive mob behavior, describes the pathological aspect of the unbridled fury of a crowd aroused to passion. The crowd (which is a potential mob and therefore potentially homicidal), displays symptoms of paranoia, including a tendency toward hostile behavior, “generally disguised as the vindication of some moral principle.” In the process it becomes “credulous, passionate and irresponsible,” prone to “all-or-none” reactions, in which “all sensible discriminations and third alternatives are brushed aside.”32 The fury that transpires from these entries of the Journal reveals the flip side of the city’s helplessness vis-à-vis authority, a confirmation of Hobsbawm’s theory about the dependence of the menu peuple of the preindustrial metropolis on the sovereign and aristocracy. If the Bourgeois is representative of at least a section of the population, he shows that it was common to turn to the ruling class to solve all problems, from law and order to the economy, only to lash out in anger and spite when help was not forthcoming. In this respect, the Bourgeois’ favorite refrain soon becomes that all authorities, whether English or French, did no good for the city. They seem to have taken expensive supplies, forced the citizenry to put up with violent troops, but did not give anything in return, either in the form of donation to churches or charities, or of employment to the locals (such as commissioning construction, ordering luxury items, or foodstuff). It seems that each power coming into town would bring along all needed supplies, perhaps afraid of becoming dependent on the turbulent citizenry, and soon left. Work became scarce, wages fell, and the population decreased, thanks to famine and emigration. Worse yet for the city under siege and ruled by a vacillating and unresponsive government, the frequent violent shifts in weather from hot and dry to excessive cold with freezing rains, snow, and gale winds, caused a wide fluctuation in the availability and prices of foodstuff. The author records obsessively the price of meat, bread, fruit, and wine, sometimes falling and at other times soaring, with the poor people completely at the mercy of war and elements. This last problem could not the Châtelet: they claimed that those special prisoners were always able to buy their freedom and leave town to join the Armagnac forces that were starving the citizens (127). For a horrified reaction to this episode see also Jean-Juvénal des Ursins, Écrits politiques, 226-7. 32 Everett Dean Martin, “Some mechanisms which distinguish the crowd from other forms of social behavior,” Journal of Abnormal Psychology and Social Psychology 3 (Oct-Dec 1923), 190-3.

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be pinned on the authorities, but contributed to a general state of irritation and impatience. In this situation, troops of the defeated side (first the Armagnacs, then the English), locked outside the city, prowled throughout the countryside terrorizing trade routes, while wolves prowled inside the city itself, feeding on cadavers.33 No wonder that the most pressing issues for the author, as for others (as he always speaks collectively), were order, justice, and lower taxes. Eventually he disapproved of the behavior of all rulers because they failed the citizens in these essential functions. In the earliest entries (1405-1418) he had expressed respect and even love for the duke of Burgundy, whom he believed was looking after the interests of the king, and was the enemy of the “false traitor” Orléanists. But the most practical reason for the duke’s popularity with this writer was that he always paid for victuals and other supplies and kept his troops from pillaging. On the contrary, the Orléanists who had dominated the helpless king were enemies of the people: not only capricious and self-absorbed, surrounded by court dandies and intriguers, but also criminals who pillaged, raped, murdered, and extorted money like “Saracens.” After the failure of princely authority to stop the massacres of 1418, the author turns more indiscriminately judgmental. In describing the solemn entry into Paris of the kings of France and England, their queens, and the new duke of Burgundy Philip the Good, in November 1420, he remarks that the Parisians who could still afford nice clothes wore red, decorated Notre Dame, and staged a mystery play and a solemn procession, while the poor starved. Coldly, he adds that within a week from the royal entry the price of grain and flour increased, and describes the queues forming in front of bakeries before daybreak. There is a tone of dull resentment as he dedicates few lines to the royal progress and entire pages to the misery of the people, the cries of the dying children, the overflowing charity hospitals, and the indifference of the sovereigns. Indignation and anger at times leave place to despair, as he describes people and pigs scavenging together for refuse, cabbage stalks, and grass. After the death of Henry V, his (lukewarm) acceptance of the duke of Bedford as regent because he employed local labor in construction projects speaks volumes as to the economic basis for his tolerance.34 His early 33

Journal d’un bourgeois, 172. Journal d’un bourgeois, 162-7, 355. However, the writer does not spare his sarcasm toward Bedford, as he depicts him reentering Paris after winning a skirmish against the forces of the dauphin Charles like a Roman general to celebrate his triumph (217). At least part of the sympathy for him could be due to the popularity of his wife Anne, sister of Philip the Good, who died of the plague in 1432, apparently mourned by the population (321).

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naïve enthusiasm and partisanship had cooled down to give way to perplexity, then disillusionment, and finally a permanent state of mistrust. After the French re-occupation of Paris in 1436 his most common adjective to define princes and their retainers is “larrons” (“robbers”).35 The upper classes, now that the odd “demagogue” John the Fearless was dead, were not trained to inspire or lead citizens, and they seem at a loss on what to do except avoid Paris, which in the years of the regency and then of the reign of Charles VII they would frequent less often. Still, a truce of sort at length took place: in spite of Charles VII’s frequent absences, the city remained cowed for a long time, resisting belated attempts on the part of Philip the Good at rekindling partisan passions in his later years, both during the last of the reign of Charles VII and during the splendid coronation of Louis XI.36 Once a modicum of order was reestablished, together with enough of a royal presence to re-create a focus for collective loyalties, the bond between Parisians and their court was renewed, and in the latter half of the century the diaries of Roye and Maupoint reflect this changed mood. For example, during the princes’ rebellion of 1465 (discussed in Chapter II) these two authors eagerly repeated official royalist propaganda, apparently unaware of the patent manipulation of public opinion on the part of the king, who first removed and then restored some local privileges to ensure the loyalty of the capital. Both writers, products of a new generation for whom John the Fearless was a figure of a distant past, believed that the Burgundians under the count of Charolais had “invaded” the Ile-de-France under the false pretense of “public weal.” Roye goes so far as to assert straight-faced that the Burgundians had “committed great disorders and outrages” in several cities, among which destroying tax records and distributing tax-free salt to the populace!37 Their diaries are significant because they may reflect a 35

Journal d’un bourgeois, 393, 399, 401, 414. In previous entries (201, 234, 270, 288, 322, 367, 372, 376) he seems to have reserved that term for regular or irregular troops. 36 The two anecdotes (of his lingering in Paris in 1461 and of his gifts to the Parisian ladies) are respectively in Chapter IV and V. 37 Roye, The scandalous Chronicle, 314, 321-2. While attacking the count he abstains from criticizing the king, who had to resort to forced loans from wealthy Parisians, and to dismissing the recalcitrant from their posts, in order to pay for the war. Maupoint (Journal parisien, 59-60) records that the king restored the franchises for the sale of wine, and lifted all aides and subsidies and most fermes from Paris and neighborhoods, to general rejoicing. See also Rörig (Medieval Town, 63-64): Louis XI strengthened the “community of interests between city and state,” but demanded sacrifices of the towns “to overcome the hated feudal system.” The issue of the salt tax or gabelle was central to popular malcontent,

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transition in the citizens’ political consciousness, from an alliance with alienated nobility to identification with the king, a new bond that would last well into the next century, until broken again by the Wars of Religion.

VI.3. Late Riots: Flanders in 1467 and 1488 In contrast to Paris, there is a striking clarity in the relation between Flemish citizens and their princes that testifies to a lingering belief in an original state of civic autonomy and near-equality. Rather than a dependent capital of a powerful kingdom, prey to the capricious policies of its rulers, these were semi-independent commercial and manufacturing centers once again in the throes of defending past liberties from the growing centralizing tendencies of their lord. They were the descendants of those twelfth-century burghers who, caught in the anarchy that followed the murder of the count of Flanders Charles the Good, took matters into their own hands, organized a punitive expedition against the murderers, then bargained with the king of France for a replacement, and informed him pointedly that he was included in the process purely as courtesy to a relative of the deceased.38 Here commercial interests dominated political affiliations. In Ghent, as Nicholas writes, a Francophone merchant patriciate saw in a remote but powerful ducal authority a defense against the local demands of the lower guilds, which were caused by a long history of class divisions. The polarization of interests, which caused violent swings in policy throughout the late-medieval period, as the two groups alternated in power, was not helped by the fact that Flanders was a French fiefdom, but economically closer to England. After a series of rebellions in the fourteenth century most of the numerous non-textile trades became excluded from power, while landowners or old lineages either had guaranteed seats on the council or joined guilds nominally, but dominated the government through their wealth. Nicholas concludes that, and the symbolic gesture of the count of Charolais was apparently an attempt at assuming the “populist” mantle of his grandfather. Commynes (Mémoires, 1:51), who portrays the city as ready to accept the princes in 1465, adds that some were attracted by the promise of posts, “qui sont plus desiréz en ceste cité là que en nulle autre du monde.” 38 Galbert of Bruges, The Murder of Charles the Good., trans. James Brice Ross (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 195-204, 285. The attitude continued, if muted, into the later Middle Ages. For example, when Emperor Frederick III demanded homage from the Ghenters in 1488, they consented but only as grandfather of their lord Philip the Fair, not as emperor. Wielant, “Flandre,” 334.

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“although guilds, merchant or ostensibly craft, gave access to civic life virtually everywhere, the cities were governed by commercial elites.”39 This already tense, in fact deteriorating, social situation forms the background for the subsequent revolts. While the bourgeoisie of these cities identified with the ruling Valois dukes, from whose authority they benefited through lucrative appointments, the artisans and laborers remained firmly particularistic and jealously attached to their waning privileges. Whenever the artisans managed to take over the city government, the conflicting goals of the two social groups erupted in violence.40 The fact that the repeated rebellions of these cities in the new century, tame by their previous standards, seemed appalling to contemporary courtly sources, Chastellain and Molinet, may have much to do with the increasingly authoritarian outlook of their lords. Both writers document in detail the repeated rebellions of Ghent and Bruges so far as crowd dynamics and the dukes’ reactions. However, given their cultural outlook, they too often pass over the rebels’ motives.41

39

By the fourteenth century one could identify three professional groups: the fullers (usually allied with the count of Flanders), the weavers (who favored an English alliance, because they depended on English wool), and fifty-nine small guilds tied to the local market. The latter were dominated by shippers, butchers, fishmongers, carpenters, brewers, that is, forty-percent of the work force, which held a balance between the other two. By the opening of the fifteenth century, gaps between rich and poor were widening. David Nicholas, The Domestic Life of a Medieval City: Women, Children, and the Family in Fourteenth-Century Ghent (Lincoln: The University of Nebraska Press, 1985), 2-3 and Medieval City, 120, 143-55, 194. 40 Vaughan (Philip the Good, 303) frames the social background of urban revolts in uncharacteristically dramatic tones: “The fires of social discontent smouldered in every late medieval town which was large enough to support an artisan population. Intermittently this discontent was fanned into open revolution as a result either of the oppressive measures of some princely government, or of the policies and activities of the ruling urban oligarchies. […] It was the brute force of dire economic circumstance, even stark poverty, which drove the communes or populace into desperate armed uprising.” The strictly local outlook of the lower classes was not limited to Flanders: for example, during the rebellion of Liège of 1467-1468 the “menu peuple” of Huy, a city who had sided with the ousted bishop of Liège and was therefore protected by ducal armies against their powerful neighbor, resented that their former allies and relatives from Liège were being killed by “outsiders” (“de main estrange”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:331-4. 41 As Emerson (Olivier de la Marche, 111) puts it, “Disapproval of towns disobeying their overlord was […] a convention of fifteenth-century historiography.”

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The violent demonstration in Ghent against Charles the Bold to coincide with his investiture as count of Flanders in 1467 was apparently a consequence of the well organized rebellion of the same city against Duke Philip in 1451, which led to the bloody war already mentioned in Chapter II. After the costly defeat at the battle of Gavere in 1453 Ghent surrendered, and the duke imposed severe penalties. The gate from which the rebels had marched against him would be walled; the city would surrender its banners to his officials; gatherings would be forbidden; local magistracies would be curtailed in favor of ducal ones; the city would pay a heavy fine; and, as final humiliation, two thousand leading citizens would come to Philip or his son to beg forgiveness on their knees. Chastellain, with his celebrated pictorial instincts, paints a compelling closing scene to this drama, as the city leaders lined up in a field, dressed only in their shirts, barefooted and bareheaded (the fifteenth-century equivalent of total nakedness), kneeling in front of the duke in a rainstorm. As the downpour ran in rivulets under their knees they asked forgiveness in French, according to the wording of the treaty, and then surrendered their banners.42 The consequences of this moment extended beyond the curtain fall. Until then the city had remonstrated against (real or perceived) ducal abuses through its own government, in effect relating to its lord as a foreign authority. Except for acts of partisan violence against ducal officials (acts which Chastellain barely mentions), he shows the city as a solid political block in the hands of a rebellious but functional government, and mob scenes are practically absent from his pages. The potential anger of the crowd had apparently found an outlet in a local political structure, which reduced strain and limited the need for circumventing due process.43 After the defeat of 1453, with civic liberties brusquely curtailed, the groups representing populist and particularistic interests lost the means to express their views through peaceful channels, as the city seems to have returned into the hands of pro-Valois bourgeois groups during the following decade. In fact, the new leaders requested that the duke make an appearance in person a few years later, to seal the mutual reconciliation, 42

For the articles of the treaty and the humiliating ritual see Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:334-40, 389. Delclos (Le témoinage de Georges Chastellain, 2) believes Book III of the Chroniques to have been erroneously attributed to Chastellain, which would make this colorful scene the work of someone else. For a concise account of the Ghenters’ hostile acts against ducal officials see d’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:368-72. 43 Smelser (Collective Behavior, 71-72) regards riots as the irrational result of a need to “short-circuit” due process and get to the source of social strain.

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or, as it appears from veiled hints, to show his support for his backers, whose power was (perhaps) starting to slip again. Chastellain states that they sent envoys to the ducal court begging for an official visit, claiming that they longed to see their lord, and were “burning with love” for him. They disavowed the past “bad government,” declared the city ready to receive him magnificently, and give him hostages to ensure his safety. They referred to themselves as “poor sheep,” a recurring term in the accounts of Chastellain (and later of Molinet), and one that may reflect the attitude of the writer and of his employers rather than of the subjects of his writing. The duke’s chancellor was wary. He argued that some citizens, who had seen their families killed or their property destroyed during the war, might plot to murder the duke and his family during his stay. In addition, the large city was full of “bad boys,” and security would be an issue. But the ambassadors assured him that the bourgeoisie was now in full control and that the majority of people were like “poor sheep and the simplest friendly people,” ashamed of their past rebellion. After a series of precautionary measures the duke consented to go, but left behind his guest the dauphin and his heir. 44 Chastellain’s emotional statement that the Ghenters collectively “burned with love” for Duke Philip strikes the reader as disconnected from reality, especially when compared with the harshness of their language, which will be illustrated shortly. More realistic, because fitting into the required protocol, are their expressions of extreme submission, with talk of “natural lord” and “humble sheep.” In practice, however, members of the party that assumed control dealt with the ruler as an adversary or a tool. Even the acknowledgment of submission and the invitation to feast their lord seem a ploy by members of the (temporarily) dominant party to parade a powerful supporter. They appeared to accept reluctantly an outside protector for their safety, only to go alone when not personally threatened. In fact, since the duke’s acceptance of the invitation was also tied to his specific goal of rallying support for a potential war against

44

(“brullant en amour […] mauvais garssons […] povres brebis et les plus simples amies gens”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:396-406. Froissart (Chronicle, 238-9) had used the term “sheep” to indicate scorn toward the English peasants on the occasion of their revolt. Significantly, though, the Bourgeois does not make use of this term, even when he narrates the (frequent) surrenders of the city, nor does Basin in talking about the revolt of Utrecht. The duke’s fears were well founded. Apparently, after the Ghenters’ defeat the marshal of Burgundy had ordered eight thousand houses burned, and the drowning of many prisoners (397n1). But Philip’s visit occurred without incidents.

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France, both sides belie Chastellain’s intimate language of relationship to reveal a cold political game. 45 This is the background of the events of 1467, as Philip’s successor Charles readied himself to make his first official entry into the city for his investiture.46 Ghent was still paying the fines imposed by Philip, doubled or tripled by ducal agents who pocketed the difference, so that, once again, the greed of mid-ranking officials provided the sparks for open manifestation of popular discontent, as in Paris in 1413. Before the trip, the wary duke had inquired about his safety and whether there would be any requests of him, so as not to cause strife by granting or denying the wrong thing. The envoys of the ruling bourgeoisie assured him (imprudently, as it will turn out) that there was no need to pay attention to popular demands. Charles, who had taken refuge in Ghent during a quarrel with his father, was apparently willing to lighten the city’s burden in a show of good will.47 Unaware of his intentions, some (unidentified) citizens planned in secret a revolt against the fines and the tax collectors (not, Chastellain insists, against the duke), with the argument that the city had already paid enough. The yearly ritual of carrying the relics of Saint Lievin from the cathedral of Saint Bavo to a nearby village on the saint’s feast day provided the spark for the revolt. The procession had in the past degenerated into riots, as gangs of laborers carried the relics, shouting and disturbing the peace, equipped with hauberks, helmets, and swords. For this reason, Duke Philip had forbidden carrying arms at these gatherings thirteen years earlier. Now, as the new duke waited outside the city for the ritual admission, the magistrates sent the journeymen (carpenters, brick layers, and rope makers) out of town with the relics of the saint as a precaution. The duke was received in great pomp, took the oath as count 45 For example, the cities of Flanders balked at participating in the defense of any territory except their own immediate surroundings, and preferred to vote taxes rather than men in all other cases, as noted by Vaughan (John the Fearless, 142). Peter Arnade (Realms of Rituals, 13) observes that in the predominantly urban territories of the dukes of Burgundy, “all urban terrain, because it carried its own political and cultural traditions, was to some degree antagonistic to ducal authority.” 46 For a discussion of the meaning of official ducal entries into a city see, for example, Martha C. Howell, “The Spaces of Late Medieval Urbanity,” in Boone and Stabel, Urban Identity, 18-19, and Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville, 136-62. For this specific episode, Peter J. Arnade, “Secular Charisma, sacred Power: Rites of rebellion in the Ghent entry of 1467,” Handelingen van de Maatschappij woor Geschiedeis en Oudheidkunde te Gent 45 (1991) 69:94. 47 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:249-51.

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of Flanders, was feasted among the general goodwill, and spent the night in the city, where his young daughter resided. But during the night, the “bad boys,” who were still outside town with the relics, started drinking and boasting and buying souvenirs of lead hauberks to wear on their sleeves as symbols of the past, obviously as a form of emprise. Apparently emboldened by the presence of an inexperienced new ruler, they staged a violent demonstration against the tax collectors, who had enriched themselves in the prince’s name. The “bad boys” re-entered town yelling and chanting through the Vrijdagmarkt (Grain Market), where they tore up a booth set up for the collection of taxes, and soon the mob poured into the square, armed and waving forbidden banners, and crying, “Kill, kill all the dirty robbers.” 48 Chastellain pointedly claims that at the time the duke was in his room, discussing with an intimate how best to show favor to the city, when the alarm reached his men, who then rushed inside the building for safety. Rashly, as was his habit, Charles asked for his horse to ride in person to the square and find out, by Saint George, what all the commotion was about. At this, the lord of Gruuthuse, familiar both with the locals and the duke’s hot temper, told him brusquely, “My lord, by God! Control yourself and do not get so excited; your life and ours depends now on your good behavior.” He then reminded him that his father had known how to soothe the Flemings when they were in a riotous mood, tolerating their repeated outbursts. The duke for the moment sent Gruuthuse to find out what they wanted and promise to hear them and to remedy injustices. They replied to the knight’s soothing words with protestation of love for their prince, adding that they were only after the “evil robbers” who kept stealing from them and from the duke. Again, they used the familiar analogy of sheep forced to become “rabid wolves” in response to abuse. Gruuthuse answered gently, “My children: calm down and behave with restraint,” and he would relate their complaints to their lord, who would guarantee justice. He then advised the duke to appease them and grant their requests, to which the duke grudgingly agreed, seeing his new 48

(“mauvaise garçonnaille […] Tuez, touez tous ces paillars machefains [machefoies ? 261n4]”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:252-61. An essential phase of urban religious procession was a pilgrimage outside the protective city walls followed by a triumphant reentry of the relics or sacred image. The local Saint Lievin became a symbol of the people, while the aristocratic feast was taking place in parallel at Saint Pierre. Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville, 94, 298-9. For the importance of banners in past Ghent rebellions see Arnade, Rituals, 106-7. He also observes (51) that a rigid civic morality was reflected in categorizing adolescent boys and young men as threatening. The the symbolism of the emprise was discussed in Chapter III.

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authority already challenged.49 Two elements of this first exchange are worthy of notice. First, the implicit understanding that a language of familiar deference toward commoners in position of strength was acceptable without loss of honor (a practice recognizable in dealing with armies, as discussed in Chapter II). In the mind of these nobles there was a compartmentalization of situational responses, which allowed for the acceptance of compromise in front of “irrelevant” people, as the only reputation that mattered to them was that of peers. Second, the presence of a local (or almost, as he was from Bruges) intermediary, the lord of Gruuthuse, to act as interpreter in the dialogue. This mediation goes beyond the bridging of linguistic barriers, to allow for a temporary transmission of cultural stances between two alien worlds, the equivalent of modern politicians showing up in shirt sleeves when participating in “popular” events.50 From here the author jumps to the next scene without offering further explanation; yet Gruuthuse’s conciliatory remarks are an eloquent commentary on the just anger of the populace, and contrast with the perfunctory attribute of “bad boys.” The reader has to follow the unfolding drama to reach another passage that will, again timidly, reveal the writer’s sympathies. The crowd kept swarming into the Vrijdagmarkt, armed, clamoring, and with banners flying, but still trying to reassure the terrified ducal courtiers. The duke rode in person to the square, dressed in a long black coat and brandishing a baton, and surrounded by his battle-ready archers, which further unnerved the crowd. Barely concealing his anger, 49

(“Monseigneur, pour Dieu! contretenez-vous et ne vous eschauffez; vostre vie et la nostre de nous tous pend en vous sçavoir bien conduire […] mauvais larrons […] loups rabis […] Mes enfans, rappaisez-vous et vous maintenez doucement”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:262-5. The market place constituted the focal point of urban life in the pre-industrial city. Peter Stabel, “The Market Place and Civic Identity in Late Medieval Flanders,” in Boone and Stabel, Urban Identity, 43. 50 Another example of mediation between a city and ruler through a local nobleman took place during the revolt of Liege in 1466. Charles, then count of Charolais, was ready to attack the rebels, but a knight from Liège named Renaud de Rouveroy, seeing his people in danger, offered to mediate with the soothing words, “Monseigneur, ce povre peuple ne vous demande riens; ils entendent d’avoir traictié avecques vous, et vous prient que les veuillez tenir paisibles.” The count, “qui moult estoit fier,” answered that he would not forgo battle, but the knight went back and forth so many times that he managed to allow the Liégeois to withdraw to the city without harm. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:46-47. For the concept of “horizontal honor,” only valid within a peer group and not shared with social inferiors, see Stewart, Honor, 64-68. Also Elias, The Civilizing Process, 124 and Miller, Humiliation, 120.

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he attempted to force his way through the press and reach the nearby Tooghuis, yelling, “What is the matter? What upsets you, rabble?” and hit a man with his baton. Immediately, the man turned on him with a pike, and in that moment, says the writer, everyone in his entourage would rather have been in India. Again, the lord of Gruuthuse, who rode by the duke’s side, intervened, yelling at him roughly, “Do you want to have us all killed here ignominiously for your temper? Don’t you see that all our lives hang from a thread? [They] are in a rage, and cannot see reason or light. If you want to die, I do not, and you must appease them and save your honor and your life. Your determination has no business here, except to mollify these poor sheep, a blind mob whom you may calm down with a word.” Seeing the duke in danger, some citizens formed a protective wall around him, and asked him to be patient with these “bad boys with no respect”51 Once safe inside the building, the duke showed up at a window flanked by Gruuthuse and some courtiers and addressed the crowd in Flemish, “My children, God save you. I came as your prince and natural lord to ask that you behave gently and calm down; and I will do for you what I can, and grant you what I can, except against my honor.” Switching to warm enthusiasm, they cried back, “you are welcome,” and “we are your children.” Gruuthuse then added that the duke was their lord by ancient right, and would be good to them, if only they would ask “doucement” (“politely”) and properly as good children. Soothed, they thanked him and asked permission to send an embassy to complain about some of his officials who enriched themselves with his and their money.52 But as this civilized exchange took place, a “rough villain, abusive and 51

(“Que vous faut-il? Et qui vous esmeut, mauvaises gens? […] Nous voulez-vous faire tuer nous trestous et mourir ici honteusement sans défense par vostre chaleur ? […] Ne veez-vous que vostre vie et la nostre pend ã moins que ã un fil de soie ? […] sont en fureur, là où il n’y a raison, ne lumière […] si vous estes content de mourir , ce ne suis-je pas, que ce ne soit maugré moi: car vous pouvez bien faire autrement, et les rappaiser pour doux et sauver vostre honneur et vostre vie […] vostre courage n’est point de lieu ici, sinon que vous l’amoliez et le tournez envers ces povres brebis, un povre desvoié people que vous remettrez en sa quoieté par un mot […] mauvais garçons icy sans révérence”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:2658. For the ceremony of investiture and the ritual of receiving the collective oath of the citizens from the Tooghuis of the Vrijdagmarkt see Arnade, Rituals, 129-30. 52 (“Mes enfans, Dieu vous garde et sauve ! je suis vostre prince et naturel seigneur […] Sy vous prie qu’en faveur de moi vous vous veuilliez doucement porter et vous contretenir ; et tout ce que je pourray faire pour vous, sauf mon honneur, je le feray ; et vous accorderay ce qui me sera possible”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:269-70.

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arrogant” made his way to the window next to the lords. Ignoring the prince, he banged on the sill with his gloved fist, to attract the crowd’s attention, yelling, “You my brothers below who want to submit to the prince your complaints, in particular about his governors, who rob him and you, do you want them punished? – Yes, they answered – And your punitive taxes abolished? – Yes, yes! – And the city gates reopened and your banners restored as in the old days? – Yes, yes! – And your castellanies back, and your white hoods and your traditions? – Yes, yes!” Then he turned to the duke and said, “My lord, this is why they are gathered here, and this is what they want. I beg your pardon, but I am speaking best for all of them.” The author, indignant at such audacity, pours pity on the prince who had to hide his humiliation under a false laughter. Gruuthuse, too, had to dissimulate his shock like his master, and told the “villain” gently, “My friend, there is no need for you to come up to this place, reserved for the duke and nobles. You can be heard from below, and our lord will please his people without an advocate.” The man was escorted below and left, and the author states that he does not know what happened to him. The duke rode back to his lodgings with his followers, where all spent the night in armed vigil.53 The crowd’s fleeting mood swings from fury to warm enthusiasm and again to rebellious anger under impromptu leadership confirms Martin’s observations about its unstable tendency to oversimplification and wishful thinking; while its attempts at bypassing channels to establish a personal 53

(“rude vilain outrageux et fier […] Vous, mes frères là en bas, qui quérez à faire vos plaintes et doléances à nostre prince ici présent d’aucunes grandes causes qui vous compètent, et primièrement de ceux qui ont le gouvernement de ceste villeici, qui desrobent le prince et vous, vous les voulez avoir punis? Ne faites pas? – Ouil, ce dirent les autres. – Et sy voulez avoir mises jus les cueilloites? N’est-ce pas ce que vous quérez? – Ouil! ouil! – Et sy voulez avoir vos portes condamnés réouvertes et vos bannières autorisées, comme de tout temps ancien? – Ouil! ouil! – Et sy voulez et priez de ravoir vos chastellenies, vos blancs chapperons et vos anciennes manières de faire? Ne faites pas? – Ouil! ouil! […] Monseigneur, c’est icy en brief pourquoy ces gens là bas sont icy assemblés pour vous faire requeste, et affin que vous y pourvoiez. Et moi, en nom de eux tous, je le vous déclare, et ils m’en aveuent, vous l’avez oy, sique, pardonnez-moi, je le vous ai dit pour eux et pour un mieux”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:270-3. The writer’s comments begin with, “O glorieuse majesté de Dieu! Et que vecy une outrageuse et intolérable vilenie commise en la face d’un prince, et d’un tout vil bas homme”. The editor’s 272n1 states that the man (whose name was Hoste Bruneel) was executed later with many of his friends once the Ghenters were reduced to asking for the duke’s pardon. A more succint version of this episode is in Commynes, Mémoires, 1:117-9. For a discussion of Ghent castellanies see Stabel, Dwarfs among Giants, 83-84, 88.

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dialogue directly with the duke fits Smelser’s “short-circuit” model, not unlike the Parisian revolts encountered earlier. Still, unlike the essentially powerless mob of a royal capital, this was a powerful and independent population, which had defied Charles’s father, and had to be treated with respect, even if mixed with the habitual patronizing address of “my children.” The fear and discomfort of the duke and his entourage are palpable, and the writer, interpreting their feelings, has to explain the public outburst in terms of the “simplicity” of the ignorant people, reducing them to the condition of mere “boys,” because this was the only way for duke and courtiers not to lose face.54 He sees that the new duke felt humiliated, and that he had to impose his will, even at the (ridiculous) cost of granting of his own initiative the very requests of the populace. Seen as an attempt at leveling his subjects through the redress of a specific injustice and without acknowledging their preexisting rights, the duke’s benign intent sounds less contrived, and it rather fits Charles’s personality. He was far from showing the arrogance of the duke of Berry telling the Parisians to mind their business (discussed in Chapter II), but his background was the same, and his reaction to a direct contact with urban groups just as prickly. What the ruling class and courtly writers could not accept was negotiation on equal terms, a perfectly acceptable protocol for the citizens of Flanders, still attached to vanishing egalitarian ideals. On the other hand, while deploring their manners, the author admits that the poor Ghenters had a valid reason to complain, as fines were indeed too high and ducal officials did enrich themselves at their expenses. Significantly, he adds that such greed could hardly be curbed by recourse to the courts, which notoriously colluded with the powerful. He seems to conclude that their only hope resided in their lord, after all, and had the citizens only asked politely, he would have been more than willing to help. He had intended to give justice to his Flemish subjects, but in his own terms and in his own space, not theirs. Instead, he had to give in completely under armed threat (also for fear that they would harm his young daughter) and promise to eliminate taxes, punish corrupts officials,

54 Also Commynes (Mémoires, 2:195, 203) after describing the execution of the ministers of Marie of Burgundy by the government of Ghent, concludes indulgently that these people did not act out of malice, but because “c’estoient gens qui n’avoyent point esté nourriz en grandz matières […] grosses gens de mestier” ignorant “de grandz choses.”

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reopen their gates, and restore their supremacy over surrounding towns, but in secret he vowed revenge.55 The city magistrates, who had invited the duke in good faith, were dismayed and feared for their future. Once Charles was back in Brussels, they rushed to him a large embassy representing the dominant social groups of the powerful guilds. Meekly, they declared their willingness to renounce all privileges extracted from him by force and to place themselves and all who had offended him in his grace. Referring to him as “their natural original father, prince, and lord, the most noble and virtuous in the world,” they abjectly admitted having sinned horribly against his lordship, for which they felt “a deep personal grief” and begged his mercy, even if undeserving. Using biblical references to God’s mercy toward the Israelites who had repeatedly turned away to adore false idols, they defended their loyalty: at least, they had not challenged his lordship or adored “images of another king,” an oblique reference to the fact that they had not rushed to involve the king in “mediation” as in the days of Duke Philip (this statement alone reveals how well they had figured out how to soothe their new ruler). The duke’s chancellor replied that the prince was pleased with their contrition, but would only forgive fully if the petition was followed by proper action. He complained that they had taken by force what the prince had intended to give them of his own free will, and that their appalling behavior on his first official visit had put at risk his inheritance, his very life, and that of his servants.56 In fact, the presence of a new and vulnerable ruler after the long and stable reign of his predecessor caused urban subjects to rise against injustices that they had previously tolerated as unavoidable (a phenomenon that had also occurred in some cities of France in 1461 with the accession of Louis XI). It is also possible that the dukes’ personalities had played a role in stifling or fomenting conflict. Philip came to reign over diverse provinces early in his life and in a topsy-turvy environment caused by the civil wars and the unexpected inheritances from relatives. Being successful at aggrandizement 55

Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:275-8. Here he sides with the duke, but he defends the Flemish city in his contemporary booklet “Advertissement au duc Charles,” in Chastellain, Œuvres, 7:285-333. 56 (“son naturel original père, prince et seigneur, le plus noble et le plus vertueux de la terre […] viscérale intime doleur […] images d’autre roy”). Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:292-306. In fact, as the duke had feared, other towns soon rebelled, and the author sees parallels in the revolt of Rheims and other French cities that had accompanied the coronation of Louis XI, in an attempt to force lowering of the gabelle and other taxes. For example, in Malines and Lierre the mob sacked and destroyed the homes of city officials, terrorizing the owners. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:307-10.

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and also quite vain, he may even have enjoyed to an extent (that is, until directly challenged) the role of mediator among disparate interests and competing power centers, all turning to him as the sole element of unity. Charles, more dogmatic and less sure of his charms, tended to rely on processes rather than on personal touch and to favor uniformity of institutions. In examining the incident in Ghent objectively, however, it does seem to be a matter of miscommunication. In the first place, the lowly workers who staged the demonstration had no way of knowing a priori that the duke had nice plans for them, just as they had no direct “official” way to communicate to him their grievances, as his various public appearances had been carefully choreographed by the elites. So they resorted to familiar methods and staged a manifestation within the accepted local tradition known as a wapening, which, unlike a spontaneous outburst of anger, did follow a recognizable protocol.57 Chastellain (like his duke) would have been quite familiar with such methods used by Flemish cities to frame a political dialogue with an external authority, but he had so completely absorbed the attitudes of the ducal court that he joined it in judging the event as a threat to the prince and his entourage. The lack of communication between ruler and ruled was due, at least in part, to the discomfort of the nobility in dealing with people who made an independent living rather than as their servants. This discomfort has already surfaced, for example, in the anecdote of Philip trying to force a peasant girl to marry one of his archers, assuming that she and her family would be honored (discussed in Chapter V). Another factor was the lack of specific rules of interaction common to the two sides. While both courts and cities had their own parallel governing structures, there was no bridge to convey the results of separate in-group discussions from one environment to the other, leaving ample room for ambiguity of interpretation, and therefore strain, during mutual exchanges. This situation 57

Jelle Haemers (“A Moody Community,” 68-74, 79) defines it “an armed assembly of the urban guilds in the city market,” a “temperate” response to a disadvantageous situation, which happened rarely, and only when the guilds perceived that the authorities had violated their rights and privileges. The ritual “followed an accustomed script,” starting with the ringing of bells to summon the crowd to an “emergency meeting,” which represented an entry point to negotiations with the authority, a form of communication through “ritualized emotions.” But court chroniclers, often unfamiliar with the “political discourse used in the revolts,” because they were foreigners and misunderstood Flemish political gestures, labeled them “a mad rampage of the furious masses.” By the sixteenth century, with a stronger state, the wapening lost its usefulness as bargaining tool.

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was aggravated whenever expectations from either side were not met. Thus, the contrast in behavior between the French capital, imbued with court culture, and the Flemish cities, is striking. In the first, a symbiotic relationship with the ruler was assumed, and the repeatedly frustrated needs for care, unreciprocated by the nobility, gave rise to dull resentment alternating with murderous anger. In the second case, the anger seems muted, and the violence of the situation more a result of a self-confident and aggressive collective mentality. There is almost good humor in the “rude villain” of Ghent banging his fist, as he proudly showed the duke what his people really wanted, blissfully unaware of how his intervention was received. And the complacently protective attitude of the populace toward Charles, which placed them in an unexpected (for him) position of control, was received with temporary relief, soon to be replaced by resentment. Despite obvious goodwill on both sides, the duke’s relationship with these self-sufficient people was to deteriorate further as his regime became more centralizing, so that in the last years of his reign the Flemings seemed ready to pay taxes just to keep him out of their way. The different evolutionary paths of court life, informal to the point of shabbiness in France, rigid and archaic in Burgundy, may very well be the result of different perceptions of the balance of power between ruler and ruled. The authority of the French king had gone unchallenged for centuries and Parisians had identified with his court, so that nothing more was needed to drive home this point on the king’s part. On the other hand, the Burgundian court was dealing with an independent urban body imbued with a strong sensitivity toward its local traditions. It is quite possible that the pomp and public shows of submission by the nobility repeated during tournaments (discussed in Chapter III) could have had a didactic purpose, namely to show citizens the proper behavior toward their lord.58 Once again, however, the relative distance between court and urban communities evolved with time but also reflected the dukes’ personalities. John the Fearless, who knew how to address commoners in a time when Valois control of the region was taken less for granted, had begged them “as much as a prince can beg his subjects and loyal friends” to come to his aid. Philip, in an earlier angry exchange with the Ghenters had come as close as a duke could to a dialogue on their terms when he announced that he would “rather be cut in a thousand pieces” than see his enemy Daniels Sersanders be part of the city government. But in his dealings with urban communities in general, he was rather aloof. He felt morally obliged to 58

For a discussion of the different atmosphere at the courts of France and Burgundy, and the “archaic” Burgundian protocol see Lemaire, Les visions, 194, 207-8, 222-3.

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defend them from outside attacks, grant some rights now and then for good behavior, and show up at times in grand pomp to reaffirm “mutual affection,” which more often than not included asking for a handout.59 Charles, too, had opened his dialogue with them through honeyed words when he was still powerless, for example when he had ended a letter to the échevins and council of the Franc of Bruges, detailing his conflict with the Croys, with a conspiratorial, “we inform you of all these facts, dearly beloved, in the present letters as good and loyal friends to whom we wish to open up with full confidence.”60 The evolution of his manners from familiar to imperious is striking. In 1470, when the Flemish cities balked at his request for war funds, he lashed out with, “And you Flemings with your hard heads, you have always either despised or hated your prince[s], in fact, when they have not been powerful you have despised them, and when they have been powerful and you could do nothing to them, you have hated them. I prefer that you hate me rather than despise me.” As his demands for financial support for his wars met with progressively more resolute refusals, the pathos of his invectives against them grew. In the same year in a letter to the Estates of the provinces he stated that their constant oppositions to his fiscal exactions “fatigued him” and offered impulsively to abdicate if he was not agreeable to his subjects. Still later, in a speech to the same dated 1475, he claimed in exasperate tone that for their defense “he had not spared his body, his weapons, and his safety […] When they sleep he watches; when they are warm, he is in the cold; when they are in their homes, he is in the rain and wind; and when he fasts they are at home eating and drinking in comfort.” This vision of the prince who pays in person for the security of his subjects was, as Lecuppre-Desjardins puts it, “a veritable leitmotif in the communication strategy” of this prince, who at his wedding banquet had projected himself through the image of the pelican gouging his own chest to feed his young.61 Yet, even more than deliberate strategy, his explosions 59 For example, Philip’s sojourn in Holland after his trip to Germany. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 3:70-77. 60 (“De toutes lesquelles choses, tres chiers et bien amez, vous advertissons par ces présentes, comme à nos bons et loyaulx amis, ausquels voulons et desiderons plainement ouvrir et manifester le secret de notre pensée”). Gachard, documens inédits, 1:141. The previous two citations are from “Trahisons,” 52 (“Sy vous supplie, tant comme prince peult supplier ses subgets et amis loyaulx, que a ceste besongne me veuilliés faire ayde et secours”) and Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 2:224-5n1. 61 (“et entre vous, Flamengs, avecq vous dures testes, avez tousjours contempné ou hay vostre prince, car, quant ilz n’estoient point bien puissant, vous les contempnastes, et quant ilz estoient puissans et que vous ne leur povoyés riens

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against a perceived betrayal reveal once again the powerless anger of the low-Mach. Despite his efforts, the Estates remained unimpressed and in the last years of his reign opposed every request of his. He then gave up attempts at convincing, trying instead to intimidate them, and his rhetorical style became ever more incisive and sarcastic as he berated everyone in forceful prose that jars with the pompous and mellifluous style of the period. He threw back on their faces the nice words that they had uttered upon his accession and that had since “gone up in smoke” and added ominously that, “he had done enough begging, and from then on he would demand.” While, paradoxically, his new strident language brought him closer to the directness of the “rude villain” who had addressed the crowd at his inauguration, by now the reader senses that the respective positions were becoming ever more entrenched.62 His premature death allowed them a final taste of independence with the complicity of Louis XI, soon supplanted by disappointment when their young duchess Marie married Maximilian of Austria. Molinet, now official historiographer of the Habsburg prince, describes these last bursts of violence. He lacks the pictorial and analytical skills of his predecessor, so that his account is at times confusing and at times (inadvertently, I am sure) almost comic, but seldom artfully dramatic. Further, he reveals almost at every phrase his concern with protecting Maximilian’s honor. Therefore, to a larger extent than Chastellain, he is vague on the motives that precipitated violent actions. He barely introduces the events leading to a brief rebellion of Ghent against the alien prince, and one has to read between the lines to conclude that the city guilds saw in him a worrisome siphoning of resources toward Germany, a sign that the duke’s interests were even farther removed from them than had been the case with Marie’s father. After the duchess’s death in 1482 they repeatedly tried to assume custody of the young heir Philip (who, according to tradition, was raised in that city) and deny his father the authority that came with the regency. In faire, vous les haystes. J’ayme mieulx que vous me hayés que contempnez […] le fatiguent […] qu’il est prêt à se déporter de la souveraineté, s’il n’est pas agréable à ses sujets […] il n’avoit espargnié son corps, ses armes et sa chevance […]: car quant ilz dorment, il veille; quant ilz sont au chault, il est au froit; quant ilz sont en leurs hostelz, il est en la pleuve et ou vent, et quant il jueune, ilz sont en leurs maisons buvant, menguant, eulx tenant bien aises”). Gachard, document inédits, 1:131, 223, 252. The detail about the image of the pelican at Charles’s wedding banquet is in de la Marche, Mémoires, 3:116. The quote “un véritable leitmotif dans la stratégie de communication” in LecuppreDesjardins, La ville, 58. 62 (“passent en fumee d’alchamie […] il avoit assez longement esté prieur, et qu’il seroit doresenavant commandeur”). Gachard, document inédits, 1:256, 258, 25966.

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1485 they reluctantly allowed the widowed duke into town to visit his son. The author describes the touching scene as the little boy went to meet his father, doffed his hat, and then both embraced and kissed, which drew tears from some bystanders. But soon the city rebelled, and the writer, abandoning himself to hyperbole, says, “[t]he county rebelled against the duchy, the peasants against the nobles, the subjects against their masters, and the students against their teachers.”63 The spark for the revolt, however, was ignited by something more concrete. A few German soldiers had been arrested for attempted rape, and some of their companions took the initiative to free them from jail. They attacked a lonely servant woman who was guarding the jail, stole the keys and locked her inside. But her loud cries were heard, she was freed, and soon an angry crowd marched to City Hall demanding justice against the perpetrators. Maximilian, from inside the building, “begged” them to disperse. They replied with the known refrain that they had nothing against him but only against his subordinates. As he did nothing (and he may not have been able to impose discipline), the crowd gathered in the market square with banners, carts, barricades, and artillery. At ten in the evening they marched from the market against the palace. The duke was ready to send troops to attack the mob, but the lord of Ravenstein and some bourgeois of Ghent begged him on their knees to desist, in what may be a display of Flemish solidarity across class lines. He then allowed a parley led by two gentlemen of his household, but these were turned away by the angry mob. In the scuffle they lost their hats, cloaks, shoes, and other clothing, to Maximilian’s chagrin. To add to the provocation, the citizens rung the bell de l’effroy, called “le gros Rolant.” Soon German and English troops attacked the crowd, pushing it back to the old market. On the following morning the insurgents dispersed to their homes with their banners, and a handful of their leaders were arrested. The duke removed his son to Malines and forced the rebels to rebuild the damaged buildings and pay fines. Thirty-two of them were tortured and seven executed. The next scene is a familiar one. The duke, seated in the great hall surrounded by prelates, foreign ambassadors, and knights of the Toison d’Or, received the leaders of Ghent, dressed in black and bareheaded, to be chastised. He

63

(“rebellèrent la comté contre la ducé, les villains contre les nobles, les subgetz contre leurs seigneurs, et les escoliers contre leurs maistres”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:436-7, 462-3. See Boone, “La justice en spectacle,” 59-62 for the reasons of the widespread opposition to Maximilian.

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revoked their privileges, they begged his mercy, and he ended up forgiving them.64 This mini-uprising was only the prelude to new troubles for Maximilian in 1488, this time as Bruges and Ghent teamed up against him. This last revolt is significant, because for the first time in this series the prince in person was the primary target, and also because more than previous narratives it places the rebels’ organized self-government, led by the lower guilds, in the limelight, a situation reminiscent of the cabochien regime in Paris. By now Maximilian had been elected king of the Romans, prelude to his future destiny as emperor, and Molinet refers to him with this title. If anything, however, the unfolding of events demonstrates that the title of king of a foreign nation made no impression whatsoever on the guild members; in fact, since their direct lord was his son Philip, count of Flanders and still a child, and above him young Charles VIII of France, they never considered Maximilian as their ruler, or themselves as rebels. Molinet offers oblique explanations for the revolt of Bruges of 1488 two chapters ahead of the one that actually narrates the revolt itself, where he alludes to the long stay of the king in Bruges at the expense of his hosts and also to popular hatred for his German troops. Without explicit reference to the latter, he talks about “intimidations, abuses, and violence [committed] by some bad boys” who had bragged that they “would soak their arms in Flemish blood,” a statement that strikes the reader as quite unambiguous. The author then relates that in February of that year, while the king was residing in Bruges, a violent insurrection occurred against him led by the city artisan guilds that assembled in arms everywhere (another wapening). Maximilian got up early and went to the square in front of the church of Saint Donatian, accompanied only by a few gentlemen, to inquire on the reason for the commotion. A carpenter rudely informed him that they were “guarding their city,” against what is not clear. Soon, some gentlemen of the king’s household made a bonfire on the square “to warm up,” then started “going around” armed with pikes, which caused a general panic among the crowd, with many ending up trampled to death. The king prudently withdrew his troops and returned to his hotel, but the crowds returned to assemble inside their respective guildhouses; then marched with their banners to the market square, where they spent the night. Soon the mob requisitioned weapons and ransacked the

64

Molinet, Chroniques, 1:464-8. For the management of city jails see David Nicholas, The Domestic Life of a Medieval City: Women, Children, and the Family in Fourteenth-Century Ghent (Lincoln: The University of Nebraska Press, 1985), 89.

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houses of city magistrates and royal officials, demanding that they be handed over, thus prompting a general flight.65 Then a rumor started that reinforcements were on their way from Anvers to set the city on fire. Immediately the people rung the bell de l’effroy and some “bad boys” (the usual term) took up the standard of Flanders and marched to the hotel where the king was residing, with the purpose of killing everyone inside. There was a scuffle with some of the king’s guards, who repelled them, followed by a tense watchful night. On the following day the men who had started the rumor were publicly tortured and then banished for ten years, but Maximilian, who had watched the scene from a window, in a generous impulse gave them ten écus. Soon a public proclamation placed a bounty on the heads of some royal governors, and the new “revolutionary” authority received a letter from the magistrates of Ghent – the experts in the field, so to speak – to the effect that they should seize the king’s person. That same evening he was summoned to appear, on foot and with few attendants, in the market square, where he was shown the letter from Ghent, probably to demonstrate how united were the cities of Flanders in their hostility to him. After a lengthy discussion, the carpenters and other extremists decided that he should dwell not in his palace, but in town, in the small house of an apothecary close to the market. The author is appalled that a “sacred” king of the Romans, future emperor, be forced to beg favors of a band of low-born subjects in his own city. He then describes the panicky flight of royal courtiers and officials, unwittingly regaling the reader with some comic vignettes. The Benedictine abbé of Saint-Bénigne exchanged his black habit for a red cloak, placed a wig over his tonsure and a knife on his belt, and dressed like a Spaniard slipped from town with a false passport. Sir Charles de Saveuse escaped capture by hiding behind a door of a room that was being searched. Other creative minds escaped popular fury dressed as merchants, falconers, or mendicant friars. Only Sir George de Guiselin met with ill luck, when he was recognized, despite his disguise as an Augustinian, and led back to town.66

65

(“menaces, opbrobres et villonnies d’aucuns malvais garchons […] baigneroyent leurs bras au sang des Flamengz”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:583-9. In reality, the king had attempted a military occupation. Boone, “La justice en spectacle,” 60. Hommel (Marguerite d’York, 186) interprets the action of the king’s guard in the square as a maneuver, perhaps to intimidate the crowd, as the king had been awaiting the arrival of imperial troops but the suspicious citizens had barred the gates. 66 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:590-3.

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While this went on, envoys from Ghent were received in town with all honors to discuss the situation and formulate a common plan. Together the two civic governments agreed to place eight men to watch over the king’s apartment. Unhappy and ashamed (according to Molinet), the would-be watchdogs made their way to the king’s lodgings, waited to be invited in, then excused themselves for the intrusion, claiming to have been forced to the task under threats. The king, seeing that he was surrounded almost exclusively by lowly people, complained aloud, and in an emotional scene asked his few gentlemen left to take care of his son. A couple of days later a large band of guildsmen marched to the king’s now empty hotel, broke doors and locks, windows and closets, and took armor, pikes, halberds, and light artillery. In the meantime, the constitution of a new government was under discussion, with the Ghenters asking that the young Philip (now archduke), who derived his authority from the king of France, be recognized as its head. They declared Maximilian incapable of governing and ward of his own son, who was about ten. Next, instigated by the Ghenters, the leaders of Bruges arrested several members of the king’s household, and removed from his company the last few knights who had been his faithful companions. These dropped on their knees, begging the king to remember them, then were led to the city jail, leaving in their master’s company only two Germans. One of them, the count of Sorne, slipped away a few days later dressed as a village woman, with a basket of onions on his head. At this point a revolutionary tribunal seems to have been in session. The unlucky Guiselin, who had been arrested in a friar’s habit, the waultregrave Jean de Vanenove, and a sergeant were in jail undergoing interrogation, when some carpenters burst in demanding the prisoners. They dragged them to the market square and tortured them in the presence of the guild masters, self-appointed judges. Vanenove was tortured so badly that his armpits split from the stretching, and both he and the sergeant begged to be killed. But after an animated discussion between members of different guilds the moderates won, and the prisoners were thrown back in jail to be questioned further.67 Then the citizens tried to rid themselves with a trick of the “poor German and Walloon” royal servants and troops. A public announcement to the sound of trumpets called to a gathering in the market all those who had served in the king’s forces, unarmed, to receive their severance pay. On the prescribed day three- or four-hundred archers assembled, attracted by the prospective of money. 67

Molinet, Chroniques, 1:595-600. Two days later, the scene repeated, again with the executioners ready to behead the waultregrave, but he was found innocent and returned to jail, and apparently not executed.

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Suddenly, the head of the carpenters’ guild, accompanied by a large band of security guards, charged against them to the cry of “Kill them all!” The men, surprised, fled, with the Flemings hunting them down through streets and houses. Many were “kicked, beaten and despoiled,” while a few were rescued by local women. A similar announcement was (incredibly) repeated, and this time the Germans were arrested but the Walloons let go. At this point, afraid that the king would escape, the city leaders decided to move him to the hotel of the lord of Ravenstein, which they reinforced with iron bars, like a prison. At first the king refused to go, then, in “meek and amiable terms” he protested his treatment. He had left his father’s lands twelve years before to marry their “natural princess” and for all these years he had had no rest, fighting to keep away their enemies. He was the son of an emperor, king of the Romans, and should be treated as befitting his dignity. He was aware of being mortal, and that they could kill him, but they should consider the consequences of such an act. His arguments left the guilds unmoved, and finally he gave in. But first he went to the guild masters in the market, dressed in black damask and holding a little red beret in his hand, to ask for three things: not to be subject to physical violence, not to be handed over to the French or the Ghenters, and to be allowed to keep a dozen of his knights and servants. They consented, and he mounted his horse and went to his new residence under guard. The author pours pity on the prince, who only two years earlier had been elected king of the Romans in Frankfurt in the presence of his father the emperor, and now was so humiliated and trampled by his subjects. As usual, he concludes that, “those simple and rustic sheep, to please the wolves that would kill them, kept in captivity the shepherd and his dogs,” a reference to the helpless state of the northern cities once left undefended.68

68 (“batus et abatus, pillés et petelléz […] dulces et amiables parolles […] les simples et rudes moutons, pour complaire aux leupz qui les estrangleront, tindrent le bregier et ses chiens prisonniers”). Molinet, Chroniques, 1:600-7. The iron bars may be the “cage” mentioned by de la Marche (Mémoires, 3:292-3) in his more succinct narrative of this episode. Maximilian was was freed by Easter (roughly two months later) through the joint intervention of his son Philip, the German princes, the emperor, and the pope, leaving in his place as hostage Philippe de Clèves, but had to renounce the regency and withdraw to Cologne. Molinet, Chroniques, 2:8-11. Flanders will be subjugated only after another bloody war that lasted until 1492. Hommel, Marguerite d’York, 190-2. One may be surprised at the attack against foreign troops, given Bruges’s earlier tolerance of foreigners. But this tolerance was imposed when the ducal government was stronger, and only thanks to severe legislation that prescribed polite behavior and was accompanied by a policy of repression. Lecuppre-Desjardin, La ville, 84.

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By now the reader may be experiencing an eerie feeling of dejà vu: for largely unclear reasons a mob invades princely palaces, hunts down and arrests royal servants, arrogates the right to determine the fate of royal children, forces princes to the humiliation of negotiating on equal terms or even begging, sets up an illegal government to plot even more outrageous acts, and – one can easily predict – will end up properly chastised. The major difference between the earlier example of Paris and the late of Ghent and Bruges remains that in the latter there was no powerful noble acting as puppeteer, as Louis XI was dead by then and Charles VIII (or rather, his regents) was concerned with other matters. The Flemish citizens seem to have felt entitled to act on their own to re-establish local order, and did not seem eager to engage even the king of France, except when it suited them. In spite of differences, though, all of the preceding examples of revolts illustrate aborted attempts at communication with the ruling prince. These attempts start with a sudden outburst of violence, which, despite the physical proximity to the source of grievance, seems to take the prince by surprise. At a given point give way to negotiation that ends with a written agreement initiated by the insurgents and accepted reluctantly by the prince. But then the prince regains the upper hand (usually thanks to an outside intervention) and the agreement is broken. It seems clear enough that the prince never feels bound by it, and yet the citizens time after time act as if he were dealing in good faith. Gifted with hindsight, the modern reader may share in the exasperation of medieval historians: in the face of repeated defeats and appalling results, what could be the ultimate goal of fifteenth-century urban movements? Unfortunately, the authors are less helpful in providing answers. They talk about “liberties” and often “privileges” as a preexisting set of rights, acquired by unspecified means, and with the implicit expectation that they should be maintained not through revolts but through the modest and often painstaking process of collective bargaining through proper channels. They do not actually provide examples of successful outcome from bargaining (in the sense that both prince and urban populace felt satisfied), but still resist the idea that the citizens’ readiness to defend their rights through violence could have been the very reason for the endurance of those rights.69 The writers’ bias, as already seen, is toward 69

Even some modern authors question the reason for being of independednt cities. Henri Pirenne saw their defence of outdated privileges as being rooted in obstinate near-sightedness, which in the long run hurt their commercial interest. Henri Pirenne, Early Democracies in the Low Countries, trans. J. V. Saunders (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1963), 188-92. Also Le Goff affirms that independent medieval cities were becoming “anachronisms.” Jacques Le Goff,

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law and order and respect for princely authority; and so, although at times understanding or even sympathetic of urban demands, at the first hint of violence they switch focus from underlying rivendications to some inherent flaw in the mentality of urban commoners and end up with superficial conclusions that stop at mob behavior: these people were especially unreasonable, narrow-minded, easily persuaded by seditious elements, and so forth. In the absence of a satisfactory contemporary analysis, one is left with the interpretation by modern authors of more recent movements, an interpretation that is based on analogies and only partially appropriate. For example, it appears that those protests and riots (except perhaps the massacre of Armagnacs in 1418) aimed at the preservation of past rights, not at the addition of new ones or at changes in political structure. They seem to fit somewhere between the spontaneous “bread riots” described by Hobsbawm and Smelser’s “normative movements,” which are set off by events that threaten to transform the existing order through structural changes (a new tax imposed by outsiders, a limitation of civic autonomies, an alien magistrate). Like normative movements, but unlike modern “value based movements,” those uprisings advocated no replacement of values, but rather new norms to enforce current ones. Neither the mob nor its leaders envisioned themselves as revolutionists, but as guardians of established customs based on a pre-existing contract between themselves and their lord, which was repeatedly threatened from his side (although usually not directly by him). These angry outbursts, which translated into action a message of protest, originated as conservative movements. Their paradoxical nature is best revealed in the relationship that developed during the cabochien revolt between royal family and mob, a situation that Monstrelet portrays as a bizarre comedy of errors, with the royal family (except, perhaps, the king), feeling trapped by a threatening crowd, while the latter saw itself as protecting its rulers from the “traitors,” and therefore as the ultimate repository of legitimacy. This is evident, too, in the protective attitude of the Ghenters toward their new prince in 1467.70 The analogy is sustained also in respect to the composition of the revolutionary crowds and the mechanism of the riots: the first resemble Medieval Civilization, 400-1500, trans. Julia Barrow (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988), 297. 70 Rudé, Crowd in History, 228-30. The claim to conservative ideals was not limited to popular insurrections. See Warwick’s speech to the people of Kent in 1460 on the Yorkists’ drive to restore England as it was under their ancestors and preserve king and crown, just as they were preparing for revolt. Wavrin, Angleterre, 2:217.

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closely those of Rudé’s early modern ones, small artisans, shopkeepers, and laborers who had nowhere else to go and had to make a living in the city; and the second occurred in periods in which authority was weakened or slipping (as with the alternate power grabbing by Burgundians and Armagnacs, or the presence of a new or foreign prince), that is, in settings “permissive of hostility or prohibitive of other responses, or both.”71 Unfortunately, though, the analogy partially breaks down when examining the most critical aspect of the movements, namely the leaders’ motives and their group dynamics. Lorenz observed that the key stimuli to the release of militant enthusiasm are the presence of a hated enemy who threatens group values, other individuals also influenced by the same emotions, and an inspiring leader figure. In the preceding examples only the first two components are well documented, specifically the presence of a hated enemy (such as Pierre des Essarts and the count of Armagnac in Paris, the ducal tax collectors in Ghent, the German troops in Bruges) and the presence of others partaking of the same emotions (as the writers convey the impression of large and like-minded crowds). But the element of charismatic leaders is severely lacking, because all that these authors have recorded is a few names: none of them, not even the Bourgeois, has left us with a portrait of the leading figures such as Caboche.72 Given that (unilateral) violence dominates the various narratives, writers do not make a distinction between the mob that pours onto the streets and the revolutionary autonomous governments that re-establish order according to their own rules. This process is instead evident in later revolutions, where a different class of people, better educated and ideologically committed, usually assumes permanent leadership. The prolonged miscommunication between court and city culture seems to have led to progressive alienation, even as ad-hoc alliances between disaffected nobility and small bourgeoisie resurrected sporadically throughout the century. Lecuppre-Desjardin, in defining the history of complicities and conflicts between princes and northern cities, concludes that, “[f]rom these numerous passionate episodes in which the feelings of love and hatred clash, emerges slowly the idea of a raison d’état, in which

71

Smelser, Collective Behavior, 224-5. Authorities may fail to control hostile outburst by not being willing to use force, or they may encourage hostilities, willingly or unconsciously, by creating an atmosphere of mistrust and thus precluding legitimate channels of protest. Smelser, Collective Behavior, 234-6. For the composition of revolutionary crowds see Rudé, Revolution, 178. 72 Lorenz, Aggression, 272-3. For a discussion of the role of charisma in crowd leaders see Max Weber, cited in Forsyth, Group Dynmamics, 185.

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the preservation of the res publica is paramount.”73 The language of “love” was in fact often used in open letters but belied by actions. There are indications that many commoners did not much sympathize with the nobles’ claims until they reflected their own (in which case they would still strike an alliance of convenience). Even Paris’s early love affair with Burgundy cooled down, while by mid-century the conflicts of the nobility in England roused only a mild partisanship among the citizens, much less intense, for example, than the mass demonstrations in favor of Wat Tyler and the Kent insurgents in 1381.74 Likewise, the war of the Public Weal in France seems to have left common citizens cold, if one listens to Roye and Maupoint. The cities had even become quite effective at playing one source of power against another, as did the Ghenters in 1477, when they dealt directly with Louis XI in opposition to their duchess’s pro-Imperial policies.75 On the princes’ side, where the presence of initial “love” is more debatable, one finds a great consistency of response. The memory of excessive humility, forced on Charles during his visit to Ghent, or on

73

(“[D]e ces nombreux épisodes passionnés où s’affrontent les sentiments d’amour et de haine emerge progressivement l’idée d’une raison d’Etat, où la préservation de la chose publique l’emporte”). Lecuppre-Desjardins, La ville, 56. Peter Arnade (Realms of Rituals, 182-6) observes that urban energies were later channeled toward the innocuous rhetorical competitions that became popular in the sixteenth century in cities of the Netherlands. 74 For example, the sincere sympathy for the misfortunes of the dukes of Gloucester and York in Herris and Tyrrell, A Chronicle of London, 135. But see the suspicious attitude of the citizens of York toward the ousted Edward IV upon his return in 1471. Wavrin, Angleterre, 3:103-6. The best way for a nobleman to earn warm support from the Londoners was borrowing money from them, as the earl of Warwick did. De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:69. For a similar opinion see a dispatch by the Milanese envoy Prospero da Camogli (Dispatches, 2:286) in which he states that the English wished for more disorders, as “the fewer lords that are left, the happier the people will be, for they will thus think themselves closer to securing political freedom, to which, I am told, the citizens of London much aspire.” Some examples of late fifteenth-century alliances of convenience between a noble and a city are that of the duke of Guelders and the cities of Flanders against Tournai (mentioned in Chapter II), and of the count of Montfoort and the city of Utrecht in rebellion against its bishop David of Burgundy in the 1480s. Basin, Louis XI, 3:127-217, 237-81. On the other hand, Charles Ross affirms that Richard, duke of Gloucester, had tried to lighten the tax burden of the city of York under the reign of his brother Edward IV, and that the city mourned him sincerely after his violent death in 1485. Charles Ross, Richard III (Berkeley: University of California Press), 58. 75 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:209-14, Commynes, Mémoires, 2:190-5.

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Maximilian, who went hat-in-hand begging grace from carpenters, had to be erased through contrasting scenes of mass contrition. At times the full pathos of these endlessly conflictual relations is rendered through more direct sources, unfiltered by historical narrative. When Charles the Bold communicated his already-cited remonstrance against his Flemish subjects, a torrent of accusations that they, alone among his subjects, had failed him in the moment of need, the deputies of the Estates of Flanders responded in obsequious but firm tone. They argued that they had in fact discharged their duty toward him and that his new exactions were excessive, and concluded with an exasperate plea: he has to understand that they are merchants, laborers, and seamen, not warriors; that “trade is incompatible with war” and if they suddenly were to drop all activities to answer his peremptory call to arms the economy of his wealthy provinces would collapse.76 Implicit in the duke’s harangue is the argument that he was providing all his subjects equally with the advantages of a large and powerful state, and that such endeavor required a centralized government. Implicit in the Estates’ heartfelt plea is the opposite argument that they did not care about glory or the attitude of his other dominions, but just wished to be left to their own lives. Something was changing in the balance of power to favor sovereigns, but it is doubtful that chroniclers of that time saw the inexorable march toward the early modern state as the outcome, or the squashing of civic privileges as the dark side of their rulers’ affirmation of supremacy. Even Basin, the most nostalgic of contemporary historians, and one ready to lament the demise of the nobility to make room for national armies, did not perceive a danger in the loss of independence of cities. While he thundered against the institution of royal armies in defense of a purely medieval tradition, that of feudal levies, he did not see the rights of the very towns on which fell the burden of billeting troops, as equally defensible. This is the single area in which those historians fail at representing the “independent observer” so necessary to the analysis of interpersonal transactions. And yet, their instinctive reaction is a valid piece of information in itself, as it illustrates how ingrained was the psychology of control (and self-control) of the courtly environment, and how uncomfortable, if not terrifying, was the contact with an aggressive collectivity that was only asking, in its own way, to be heard.

76 (“merchandise […] est incompatible avecq la guerre”). Gachard, documens inédits, 266.

VII. CONCLUSION

At this point two sets of questions come to mind, the first related to methodology and the second to a general assessment of the topics discussed. On the first issue, I have earlier suggested that the (modest but visible) use of psychology was appropriate here because the areas of interest were framed in modern psychological parlance. However, given that both narrative and conclusions in the preceding chapters have rested largely on the opinions of fifteenth-century writers, could the writers also have supplied the standards to classify and evaluate behavior? In other terms, did late-medieval people have their own brand of social psychology that could have been a better fit to explain the actions of their contemporaries? Unfortunately the answer is not so obvious. Medieval psychology did exist, and is the subject of an intriguing work by Simon Kemp (himself a psychologist), but its usefulness in this case is debatable. In the first place, Kemp notices that medieval psychology had a different purpose from modern one. It appears to have been essentially cognitive (concerned with memory and the processing of sensations) and relegated, possibly because of this very reason, to the sphere of philosophy. Additionally, it was interested mainly in a systematic view of human nature (for example, the hierarchy of will and senses) and remained alien to the modern preoccupation with a “rather narrow area of human functioning.” This difference in purpose translated into a different methodology: medieval scholars “did not perform experiments or other research to test the validity of reported facts,” as their view of psychology was deductive rather than empirical. He observes, however, that the purpose of medieval personality theories seems to have been the same as modern ones, namely to classify people and judge their decisions in order to predict behavior and therefore prepare responses. Thomas Aquinas did study emotions, and did come to conclusions that are in line with the results of some modern findings (for example, the physiological basis of some emotions, the perception of change as a source of pleasure in itself, the relation between levels of fear and reasoning ability). Additionally, a fundamental tenet of medieval psychology, which Kemp attributes

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tentatively to its Christian roots, is that all actions are the result of conscious will, an argument that denies any function to the unconscious (and he notes a rising interest in conscious choices also in modern psychology).1 However, I do not see much application of Aquinas’s ideas on personality or emotions in the writings of fifteenth-century historians, in the sense of explicit references to an established body of knowledge. Kemp lists two other medieval examples of evaluation of personality by “naïve perceivers” (what we may call “pop psychology”), namely the so-called humors theory and astrology, which have persisted through time in lay culture. Astrology, then as now, was criticized for ignoring environmental circumstances as causes for behavior, and both theories allow for only a limited set of personality traits (but – he observes – not much more reduced than some modern ones). As an example, humors theory hypothesizes that the melancholic would be “suspicious, wrathful, and anxious [or] hardy, light, unstable, and impetuous.”2 It is possible that this theory may have influenced fifteenth-century writers when evaluating opposite personalities like Charles the Bold and Edward IV, with the first fitting into the melancholic and the second into the opposite “jovial” personality. Could Commynes, who knew both princes, have expected their personalities to fit those templates and judged them accordingly? If this is the case, I suspect that Commynes was not aware of any influence, as he never makes explicit reference to humors theory, but rather claims to judge those princes from personal experience. As for astrology, the only overt reference to it that I found in the sources is in the Journal of Maupoint, which records the astrological chart made at the birth of Charles VII’s second son Charles (the future duke of Berry). According to the royal astrologer, the prince would be “irritable, changeable and timid, envious and covetous of others’ possessions, and cautious.” He would also know strife and grief in his youth and live to a ripe old age. Except for timidity and covetousness (the latter a trait that could apply to all younger sons of princely families), the other qualities do not seem to fit this young man (who also defied the astrologer and died in 1472 at the age of twentyfive).3 1

Kemp, Medieval Psychology, 20-27, 70, 77, 82-85. Kemp, Medieval Psychology, 94-96, 101, 111. Also, the melancholic supposedly had specific physical traits, dark complexion and dark hair, which was true of Charles, as apparent from his portraits and from Basin’s description (Louis XI, 2:347-9). 3 (“[i]racundus, mobilis et timidus, rerum alienarus invidus et cupidus, homo cautus”). Maupoint, Journal parisien, 36-37. Chastellain (“Chronique,” 3:444-8) derides the faith in astrology of Charles VII and his successor Louis XI. But it 2

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After stating, significantly, that the methods for evaluating behavior have not altered appreciably since the Middle Ages, Kemp concludes that the individual was of supreme importance both in medieval scholarship and in “the simple medieval model that has persisted in modern lay culture.” This might have been due to the importance of individual salvation in medieval theology. Therefore, apart from didactic texts that prescribed manners and moral principles in dealing with others, or literature on love, analysis of behavior in groups was not important, hence the lack of “a systematic study of social psychology.”4 This attitude did not prevent some writers from expressing interest in group behavior, as mentioned in the Introduction, nor did it, as apparent from the preceding chapters, prevent them from exhibiting personal insight into the motivations of their actors and the reception of their action by others. For example, the previously-mentioned observations of Commynes that princes lack inhibitions thanks to their early education and that they should avoid dealing with each other in person, or that members of a princely council tend to accept bad decisions because they do not dare contradict an authoritative figure illustrate situations in which the writer shares with the reader the wisdom derived from his own practical knowledge, not from a psychological theory. Likewise Chastellain, another author ready to evaluate the motivations of individuals, informs the reader that Charles the Bold and Louis XI had “opposite personalities and customs,” and that this was the reason for their conflict, but does not tell us what those personalities were and how he came to that conclusion.5 These are all reasons why I have relied on medieval authors for personal opinions, but not for verification of the same through a body of medieval theories. As a last point on the subject of methodology, I have tended to disregard the most obvious manifestations of late-medieval otherness, that is, language, rituals, and gestures. All three are valid objects of study on their own, and in fact have stimulated intriguing research, past and recent. However, being cultural artifacts, they have hardly been noticed by my sources, and for that reason they have only a cameo role in this study. Language use changes with time, so that what was once a common expression may now be deemed odd, and lead to misinterpreting the sense appears that both kings trusted astrology mainly as a tool to forecast the future, not to understand personalities. 4 Kemp also cites (Medieval Psychology, 105-6, 159) Redding’s A World Made by Man for the argument that the idea of people relating to one another as equals was almost unknown in the early Middle Ages. 5 Commynes, Mémoires, 1:1-2, 87, 103-4, 135-41, and Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:455.

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of a conversation (for example, the habit of social superiors to address inferiors as “children” could be interpreted as a term of endearment or as patronizing). As for rituals and gestures, they are a treacherous vehicle for conclusions about interpersonal behavior because of their automatic nature (so that, by the writer’s time, they may have ceased to reflect their origin), and also because of the lack of reliable criteria for their interpretation across time.6 In a few cases they have turned out to be useful: for example, the formal reception of Duchess Isabel by Queen Marie, described in Chapter V, has helped in dismissing de la Marche’s interpretation of that encounter as intimate chit-chat. Generally, however, I have followed the sources’ lead in largely ignoring gestures in evaluating social exchanges. For example, the characters presented throughout this work are often kneeling, whether to a superior (a father, a lord) or a spiritual guide (as the dying Louis XI to Saint Francis da Paula). The gesture was apparently prescribed in certain situations, as when asking a favor or begging forgiveness, but not in others, when a bow by bending a knee was more common as sign of deference. However, foregoing such etiquette was apparently understood to be due to lack of breeding rather than hostility, and thus ignored by writers (for example, the rough familiarity of Joan of Arc with social superiors was usually accepted without comment). As to the second sets of issues, related to a general evaluation of the topics discussed, I should repeat what already stated in the Introduction, that the purpose of this work is not to establish a comprehensive theory of late-medieval mentality or attitudes. If anything, in fact, it should have highlighted contradictions and idiosyncrasies. But taken as a whole, the contributions of the various sources have provided a level of familiarization with these past figures and events that may permit some cautious generalizations. The qualities of war leaders offer a very apt example. Despite that being the century of Henry V, Joan of Arc, and Edward IV (the latter less well known as such, but probably better deserving of fame for his consistent military successes), and an era of almost continuous warfare, it had a noticeable shortage of what we may 6

Some recent works on rituals have been cited in Chapter VI, but only as background information. Philippe Buc has argued (in the case of Carolingian rituals, at least) the futility of attempting “access to a ritual as historical fact” because of the layers of interpretation superimposed by the very writers who described the event Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 4-8, 248-9. An example of recent work on gestures, J. A. Burrow, Gestures and looks in medieval narrative (Cambridge, UK, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002) is based on medieval literary sources.

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call “great generals.” Even the above-listed figures earned at least as much recognition from contemporaries for qualities other than generalship: Henry for his stern but egalitarian justice, Joan for her religious visions, which justified her unusual status, and Edward for his charm and approachability. Likewise, the reputation of “great general” was not as much coveted as expected, a rare exception being Charles the Bold, who looked with envy at the autonomy of past figures, such as Alexander and Caesar, who could count on a social environment conducive to easier regimentation. To his chagrin, the necessary sociopolitical structure was simply not in place during his lifetime; rather, the haphazard money flow and widespread suspicion of armies favored ad-hoc formation of contingents for quick campaigns. The nature of those unnerving latemedieval wars, in which the line between combatants and civilians was blurred, mercenaries fought alongside feudal or budding national armies, and rules of conduct were spelled out but seldom obeyed, of wars that were personal, inconclusive, and prone to negotiated endings, suggests at least a reason why, despite their pervasiveness in contemporary writings, they did not engender an attitude of militarism even among writers who belonged to the “warrior class.” Likewise, the contractual nature of recruitment caused a weak identification of citizens with their own armies, which in turn renders more understandable both the late-medieval disaffection for troops and, on the opposite end, the strong bond among groups of fighters to the exclusion of outsiders. The paradox of controlled aggression, stylized and staged to enforce conformity within a world of real violence, may explain why a society rife with aggression at all levels condemned violence, as it reminds us of common gaps between standards of conduct and actual behavior, except in the context of what is perceived as rightful retribution. The dual standard allowed for the persistence of chivalric ideals well past their usefulness in warfare; in fact, what rendered staged violence attractive to medieval spectators seems to be precisely its talent for creating a make-believe world in which rules are always followed and the hero wins.7 The power plays within and between princely courts seem to have been more often than not the result of uncertainty and fear. Late-medieval princes, grown to a heightened feeling of self-importance during the Hundred Years War, within one generation saw their usefulness gone, and their authority doled out to more pliable courtiers. Their reaction was the 7

Apparently, these ideals have continued well into modern times: Peter Burke talks about the popularity of the legend of Charlemagne among Brazilian cowboys. Peter Burke, Varieties of Cultural History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 136-47.

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one expected of any such group, resistance and infighting, followed by resignation or angry withdrawal, depending on personalities.8 In France, the upper nobility that had risen in importance under Charles VI and Charles VII was summarily dismissed from the inner circle with the advent of Louis XI. In England, the Woodville in-laws of Edward IV appropriated scant resources which were claimed by independent barons who perceived their service as deserving better rewards, such as the earl of Warwick and the king’s own brothers. And in Burgundy, the Croys were able for a long time to overwhelm even the legitimate claims of the heir. The ensuing frustration, anger, and litigiousness, with their well-known tragic consequences, all arose within this environment. Worse still, this trend assumed a character of inevitability as even the most vocal advocates of ancestral privilege fell prey to its iron law and ended up relying on men outside their class. Thus, John the Fearless had to count on the backing of Paris artisans and Charles the Bold, criticized by Commynes and Molinet for his stubborn reliance on his own judgment, welcomed among his confidants a crowd of “useless and greedy” people.9 In France the trend of cheapening the nobility, by making it a commodity for sale, continued even under successors who had rejected the un-chivalrous model of Louis XI. The very idea of service changed, as the few leaders at the top became remote figures, oddly enough also interchangeable in the eyes of the subjects, and a crisis of loyalty ensued, with each side able to blame the other for its onset. It could be reasonably argued that, rather than being a sign of superficiality, the joyless frivolousness exhibited by the upper classes might have been a reaction to their newfound uselessness, as they were left to weigh each slight as a possible sign of disfavor and impending 8

Forsyth (Group Dynamics, 197-9) dedicates a long discussion to power groups. He argues that those who hold power tend to use it, rather than persuasion, to deal with subordinates; to develop an inflated view of themselves, believing that they are most influential to the success of the group, with an accompanying “devaluation of the target of influence;” and to increase distance from the group and belittle its non-powerful members. Eventually power becomes its own reward and a goal in itself. When people high in “power motivation” cannot exert it, they experience frustration and stress. 9 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:360-9. In justifying Chastellain’s pessimism on the fate of contemporary nobility, Delclos (Le témoinage de Georges Chastellain, 280) remarks that the valiant count of Étampes did not become constable as he wished; the duke of Clèves, handsome and refined, was not received by Louis XI as he tried to take his leave from Paris in 1461; the duke of Bourbon was deprived of the governorship of Guyenne, despite his valor in defending Bordeaux; the noble knight Antoine de Chabannes was banished; Brézé and the “handsome, virtuous” Philip of Savoy were imprisoned for a while.

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ruin.10 And naturally, this attitude trickled downward to courtiers and was dutifully recorded by historians. Basin, reacting to what he saw as a sign of decay from a prior state of natural order, felt that the princes, natural bulwark of the realm, were under attack in their most vital rights, while Chastellain echoed the complaints of squires and servants when he criticized the excessive regimentation of Charles’s court.11 Anecdotal evidence is more ambiguous in evaluating women seeking a place outside the domestic sphere. In the first place, because the two examples (used here because of the excellent documentation) fall under the now-remote category of mystics: it is remarkable that those who were hostile to either one did not accept their “visions,” and were critical of their use to “manipulate” others, but also that having visions was generally accepted. And second, because despite widespread clerical misogynism, definite evidence is lacking of a pervasive attitude of submission, or signs of a traumatized female population bearing the scars of a struggle for selfidentity. On the contrary, when Katz, Boggiano, and Silvern conclude that only eight-percent of modern women have never been assaulted or harassed, a set of statistics that does not compare favorably with any past period, the late Middle Ages may be seen in a neutral or even positive light. After all, this is the period that saw the play Mary of Nijmegen, an early variant of the Faust legend in which the female protagonist sells her soul to the devil in return for knowledge and goes on to astonish customers in taverns with her rhetorical and mathematical abilities.12 Twentiethcentury researchers on women psychology (as the ones cited in Chapter V) evaluate the current status of their subjects only vis-à-vis the immediately preceding era, a period of exceptional sheltering of the bourgeois woman and perhaps exceptional disparagement of the working woman, low-paid and desperate to earn a living. But it can still be disconcerting for a nonpsychologist to realize that the hard-won modern tokens of equality were common fare in the distant past, when women could stand on their own even within a masculine power structure, free to succeed or fail and to be exposed to hostility and ridicule, but also allowed to reap success on their own merit. 10

See, for example, the irate reaction of the count of Armagnac to the perceived slight of Philip the Good in not receiving him promptly. Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 4:110-2. 11 Chastellain, “Chroniques,” 5:469-72. 12 Larrington, Women and Writing, 210-4. The play is attributed to Anna Bijns, a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century poetess from Antwerp. E. Collerdge trans. and ed. Medieval Netherlands Religious Literature (New York: London House and Maxwell), 195-8, 204-6.

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The mass uprisings of the period seemed excessive in frequency and violence to contemporary court writers (and in some cases, as we have seen, to the very citizens), who were inclined to attribute their origin to an ambiance of pervasive contentiousness among the lower classes. Probably one of the reasons for this perception is the apparently widespread presence of weapons in the hands of citizens and their willingness to use them.13 The modern reader, especially from western countries, may instinctively share this distaste, because of expectations that the political dialogue be conducted within a “civilized” protocol accepted by the various parties. Another mental leap required of a reader familiar with more recent revolutions is accepting the apparent weakness, if not complete absence, of ideologies to accompany such bitter partisanship. Late-medieval historians make us aware of hatred for certain figures that represented the prince (or a princely party), but do not delve into the inner dynamics of guild rivalries, or dedicate to them the same analysis of personalities and motives that they apply to nobles. At least in part the sense of otherness that emanates from those accounts is dispelled when considering parallels with mob behavior in other times that have been better studied from a psychological standpoint. But it would be very desirable to rely on better information on how certain fixed ideas came to be disseminated and move beyond the acceptance of miscommunication between social groups. As a last general comment, I have stated in the Introduction that the historians and diarists of this period might have contributed to its reputation for decadence. After the brief survey of writings of the previous chapters I think that this impression is proven right. The despondent tone of late-medieval literature, famously noted by Huizinga, is not coincidental as in several cases the poet, fiction-writer, and the historian were the same person. Some of them were people who saw contemporary social mutations mainly through the personal conflicts of the nobility, a fact that imparted a special poignancy to their interpretation, as for them the fate of the actors marked the fate of their world. While this was an era of technological innovation and in its tail end of discoveries that would expand horizons and create new opportunities, nothing of this transpires from their writings. They seem to conceive their major role as to explain what went wrong, and in so doing they paint a dark view of their own milieu that would be incorporated in future interpretations. 13

Rare is the mention of rioters having to seize weapons from a stronghold. An example is Molinet’s statement (Chroniques, 1:593) that the citizens of Bruges invaded Maximilian’s palace in 1488 for that express purpose.

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The most notorious historians of this period, Burgundians by birth or loyalties, saw their world fall within a couple of generations and, in their resulting despondent outlook, turned to the past for clues. Basin, who witnessed the human cost of the unification of France, identified with Sallust and Suetonius, and conceived his task as one of illustrating the end of liberties and prophesizing a frightening new world of tyranny and permanent taxes.14 Commynes illustrated at length his deterministic belief in the futility of striving for glory on the part of princes, and suggested that the past wealth and luxury of Burgundian subjects brought upon them God’s wrath and their eventual ruin.15 Chastellain, who loved princes, ended his chronicle with a long diatribe against both Louis XI and Charles the Bold, calling them “rabid dogs” bent on ruining and destroying the world while “enriching and giving joy to the devil.”16 On a more personal note, Aliénor ends her Honneurs de la cour with a pinch of reproachful nostalgia for more proper days, when no lady in childbirth would have dared to place her bed near the fireplace, a privilege then reserved for the nobility. She concludes, despondently, “but today everyone does as he pleases; which makes ones fear that things will end badly.”17 Among writers with a more “bourgeois” outlook, the world of the nobility with its constant turmoil is either ignored or denigrated, and what results is a impression of incompetence at the top. Chapter VI contains several examples of the low esteem in which the Bourgeois of Paris held the aristocracy, while Margery Kempe, always the practical woman, seems to welcome with some relief the death of the great warrior Henry V because that king had summoned to France her favorite prior from Lynn, and now the prior could be left where he belonged.18 Indeed, a striking feature of most “great ones” in this brief survey of narratives is the absence of a grand vision, especially when compared to the safe and universally recognized heroes of the mythical or quasihistorical past. There is something tentative and haphazard about the actions of many subjects of these stories. Even if a few seemed at first on 14

Spencer, Basin, 83-85. Commynes, Mémoires, 1:14, 2:325-41. 16 (“chiens rabis, ne veulent que perdre et désoler le monde, et faire lucre et donner joye au deable”). Chastellain, “Chronique,” 5:178. 17 (“mais un chacun fait à cette heure à sa guise: par quoy est à doubter que tout irat mal”). Aliénor, “Les honneurs,” 242. In another passage (“Les honneurs,” 267) she recalls “the good old days” when hierarchies were properly respected, against those who think them obsolete: “telles allégations ne sont pas suffisantes pour rompre les choses anciennes & ordonnées, & ne les doibt-on estimer pour ce qu’il ne se doibt pas faire.” 18 Staley, The Book of Margery Kempe, 126. 15

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the path of achieving greatness, their premature deaths followed only too often by a damnatio memoriae, echoed or initiated by these very writers (as Basin did with Louis XI and Molinet with Charles the Bold), relegated them to the limbo of controversy. But if greatness is absent it is also true that from these disparate sources emerge some vivid portraits, both princely and not, set against a varied background of picturesque family dramas, public acts of vanity, displays of courage and cowardice, unlikely encounters, and violence both legal and illegal inside and outside city walls. The material is there, I think, to build a realistic dramatic rendition of this society. It seems odd that no major effort has so far been made to deliver to the stage a figure as compelling as Margery Kempe, or one as mesmerizing as Louis XI, who seems instead destined to an ill-deserved oblivion in favor of a handful of much less colorful but much better known successors. And it would be helpful to attempt to capture (finally?) the personality of Joan of Arc, who has suffered innumerable reincarnations from unapproachable otherworldly being, to gentle maiden, to Amazon, after her brief life, all the products of later artistic or literary reinterpretations with little resemblance to the character of the chronicles. This is a modest goal, perhaps, and one that can easily be considered trivial; yet if pursued it could spur more interest in the studies of a period that is still largely the play field of a narrow segment of medieval scholarship and in the process reassess a facet of late-medieval writings that is often overlooked.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

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