The Military Orders Volume VIII: In a Wider World [1 ed.] 9781032472690, 9781032472706, 9781003385349

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of figures
List of contributors
List of abbreviations
1 Editors’ preface
Part 1 Interactions
2 Ubicunque orbis terrarum: the military orders across the globe
3 Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity, ca.1150–1300
4 Fortified positions of the military orders in the Amanos and Cilicia region: Baghras, Trapesac, Çalan, Amuda, and Silifke Castles
5 The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal: background and impact
6 Of battles and escorts: the Hospitallers in the wider tapestry of the 17th century
7 Honour and discord in the Spanish Council of the military orders: prosecutors versus secretaries in the quest for institutional pre-eminence, 1593–1691
Part 2 Administration
8 The election of heads of military orders in the 12th and 13th centuries
9 The English Hospitallers in holy war and papal schism, 1378–1417
10 Appointing power: the military orders as lords of Muslim communities in medieval Iberia
11 The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes in the 14th and 15th centuries
12 The ovens of Augusta: naval victualling in Sicily in the 17th and 18th centuries
13 A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders: Osto of Saint-Omer and the Maiden of Carcassonne
Part 3 Religion
14 The Knights Hospitaller in the monastic landscape of medieval Silesia
15 Multiple environments for the military orders according to Jacques de Vitry
16 ‘Universal and Particular’: framing the Order of St John’s post-Tridentine devotions in the context of a universal Church
17 From Malta to eternity: the Order of St John and its visual culture of death
Part 4 Perceptions
18 The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources: Muslim attitudes and perceptions
19 The deteriorating image of the Templars: a paradox
20 The Hospitallers in a wider world
21 John Taaffe: poet and historian of the Order of St John
Part 5 Approaches
22 Aslackby Templar preceptory: a 2021 research excavation to establish its location and layout
23 Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques in the Hospitaller auberges of the langues (Valletta, Malta)
24 Sleeping memories: preliminary remarks on the langues of the Order of St John and their archives (16th-18th centuries)
Index

Citation preview

The Military Orders Volume VIII

The genesis of this volume lies in the online conference held by Nottingham Trent University in 2022. This was the eighth in the series of military orders conferences organised since 1992. The conference fostered rich exchange and debate, as reflected in the twenty-three chapters in this book. The Military Orders Volume VIII – organised around five thematic axes: interactions, administration, religion, perceptions, and approaches – offers a broad coverage in terms of geographical variety, chronological spread, and thematic focus, as well as a wide variety of approaches and methodologies. As such, this book shows the dynamism of the study of the military orders – a subject of continued scholarly focus and widespread popular interest – and holds the promise for many more exciting initiatives in the future. This book will appeal to students and scholars alike interested in the military religious orders and the crusades, as well as all those interested more generally in the medieval and early modern world. Emanuel Buttigieg (PhD Cantab) is Associate Professor in early modern history at the University of Malta. He read history at the Universities of Malta and Cambridge. Key publication includes Nobility, Faith and Masculinity: The Hospitaller Knights of Malta, c.1580–c.1700 (Continuum, 2011); Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798 (Ashgate, 2013) co-edited with Simon Phillips; and The University of Malta: Legacies & Bearings (Malta University Press, 2020) as co-editor and co-author. He is a member of the Editorial Board of the Routledge Military Religious Orders series and Associate Editor of the Hospitaller Sources Project sub-series. Clara Almagro Vidal (PhD University of Granada) is Senior Postdoctoral researcher in the Department of Medieval History and Historiographical Sciences at UNED (Madrid). Her research focuses on the landscape of lands owned by military orders and on their lordship over Muslims in medieval Iberia. She has authored a monograph titled Medieval Landscapes in the Campo de Calatrava (ed. La Ergástula, 2016), co-edited Minorities in Contact in the Medieval Mediterranean (Brepols, 2020) with Jessica Tearney-Pearce and Luke Yarbrough, and co-edited Forms of Unfreedom in the Medieval Mediterranean (CIDEHUS, 2021) with Filomena Barros.

The Military Orders Volume VIII In a Wider World

Edited by Emanuel Buttigieg and Clara Almagro Vidal

First published 2025 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2025 selection and editorial matter, Emanuel Buttigieg and Clara Almagro Vidal; individual chapters, the contributors. The right of Emanuel Buttigieg and Clara Almagro Vidal to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-47269-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-47270-6 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-38534-9 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349 Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

To Michael Heslop, organiser, participant, and supporter of the Military Orders conferences over many years

Contents

List of figures List of contributors List of abbreviations   1 Editors’ preface

x xii xvi 1

EMANUEL BUTTIGIEG AND CLARA ALMAGRO VIDAL

PART 1

Interactions

7

 2 Ubicunque orbis terrarum: the military orders across the globe

9

HELEN J. NICHOLSON

  3 Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity, ca.1150–1300

27

GORDON M. REYNOLDS

  4 Fortified positions of the military orders in the Amanos and Cilicia region: Baghras, Trapesac, Çalan, Amuda, and Silifke Castles

39

MUHITTIN ÇEKEN

  5 The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal: background and impact

55

PAULA PINTO COSTA AND JOANA LENCART

  6 Of battles and escorts: the Hospitallers in the wider tapestry of the 17th century EMANUEL BUTTIGIEG

66

viii  Contents   7 Honour and discord in the Spanish Council of the military orders: prosecutors versus secretaries in the quest for institutional pre-eminence, 1593–1691

76

HÉCTOR LINARES

PART 2

Administration

93

  8 The election of heads of military orders in the 12th and 13th centuries

95

ALAN FOREY

  9 The English Hospitallers in holy war and papal schism, 1378–1417

105

ANTHONY LUTTRELL

10 Appointing power: the military orders as lords of Muslim communities in medieval Iberia

110

CLARA ALMAGRO VIDAL

11 The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes in the 14th and 15th centuries

120

NICHOLAS COUREAS

12 The ovens of Augusta: naval victualling in Sicily in the 17th and 18th centuries

134

RAY GATT

13 A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders: Osto of Saint-Omer and the Maiden of Carcassonne

144

MIRIAM RITA TESSERA

PART 3

Religion

159

14 The Knights Hospitaller in the monastic landscape of medieval Silesia

161

MARIA STARNAWSKA

15 Multiple environments for the military orders according to Jacques de Vitry JESSALYNN BIRD

171

Contents ix 16 ‘Universal and Particular’: framing the Order of St John’s post-Tridentine devotions in the context of a universal Church

184

MATTHIAS EBEJER

17 From Malta to eternity: the Order of St John and its visual culture of death

192

CHRISTIAN ATTARD

PART 4

Perceptions

207

18 The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources: Muslim attitudes and perceptions

209

JESSE W. IZZO

19 The deteriorating image of the Templars: a paradox

219

SOPHIA MENACHE

20 The Hospitallers in a wider world

230

VICTOR MALLIA-MILANES

21 John Taaffe: poet and historian of the Order of St John

237

ELIZABETH SIBERRY

PART 5

Approaches

247

22 Aslackby Templar preceptory: a 2021 research excavation to establish its location and layout

249

CHRISTER CARLSSON

23 Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques in the Hospitaller auberges of the langues (Valletta, Malta)

256

VALENTINA BURGASSI

24 Sleeping memories: preliminary remarks on the langues of the Order of St John and their archives (16th-18th centuries)

269

VALERIA VANESIO

Index280

Figures

4.1 Location of some castles of the military orders in the Amanos and Cilicia regions. 40 4.2 South-east tower of Baghras Castle (photo: the author). 41 4.3 View of the Syrian border as seen from the summit of Baghras Castle (photo: the author). 42 4.4 View of the plain of Antioch from Trapesac Castle (photo: the author). 45 4.5 Distant view of Çalan Castle, which is almost impossible to reach due to its high location (photo: the author). 46 4.6 View of Ceyhan River from Amuda Castle (photo: the author) 49 4.7 Silifke Castle (photo: the author). 50 7.1 Royal Decree issued by Charles II in 1691 on the matters that should be managed by the Secretaries and Scribes of the Royal Council of Military Orders, 1691. AHN OOMM, Consejo de Órdenes, leg. 5436. 78 7.2 Unknown maker, Magistrates of the Royal Court in session, 1764. Antonio Martínez Salazar, Colección de Memorias y Noticias del Gobierno General y Político del Consejo (Madrid: 1764). National Library of Spain, Madrid, Spain (Hispanic Digital Library). 80 7.3 Arguments that Gaspar de Salzedo, secretary of the Council of Military Orders, has to provide again to H.M. on why he should precede the prosecutor of the Council. 1624. AHN OOMM, Real Consejo de las Órdenes, leg. 3708. 85 17.1 Unknown 18th-century artist, Death of the Good Man, Collegiatae et Basilicae Hellenianae Museum, Birkirkara (photo: Ian Noel Pace). 193 17.2 Unknown 18th-century artist, Administration of the Viaticum, Tal-Ħerba Marian Sanctuary, Birkirkara, Malta (photo: the author). 195 17.3 Romano Carapecchia, Cappella Ardente, St John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation). 197

Figures xi 17.4 Domenico Guidi, Funeral Monument of Grand Master Cotoner, St John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation). 200 17.5 Unknown 17th-century artist, Funeral Monument of Fra Giovanni Bichi, Church of Our Saviour, Kalkara, Malta (photo: the author). 202 17.6 Mattia Preti, Triumph of the Order of St John, St John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation). 204 22.1 Temple Farm in the village of Aslackby with the locations of Test Pits 1–6 marked. 250 22.2 The medieval tower was documented in this painting prior to its demolition in 1892. Note the two different roof lines on the east elevation. 252 23.1 Francesco Villamena, Valletta citta Nova di Malta, Rome, 1601, 43.4x33 cm. Courtesy of Stanford Libraries, G6791.V2.1601. V4, David Rumsey Map Center. 258 23.2 Rusticated masonry in the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author). 259 23.3 Verdala Palace, Malta, ‘Vis de Saint Gilles’ or Saint Gilles’ winding staircase (photo: the author). 260 23.4 Façade of the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author). 261 23.5 Photograph showing the Grand Master’s effigy and arms sculpted by La Fé, and the main portal of the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author). 263

Contributors

Clara Almagro Vidal is Senior Postdoctoral Researcher in the Department of Medieval History and Historiographical Sciences at UNED (Madrid), where she leads a research project on the Muslim presence in the medieval lordship lands of the Iberian Peninsula. Her publications include the monograph Medieval Landscapes in the Campo de Calatrava (La Ergástula, 2016), and co-edition of Minorities in Contact in the Medieval Mediterranean (Brepols, 2020) and of Forms of Unfreedom in the Medieval Mediterranean (CIDEHUS, 2021). Christian Attard lectures at the University of Malta, and his research interests include Visual Culture methodologies, the iconographies of plague and death, and the art of the late 19th/early 20th century. He has published extensively, and his most recent book is The Art of Dying Well, Visual Culture in Times of Piety and Plague, Malta 1676–1814 (2022). Jessalynn Bird is Associate Professor and Department Chair of Humanistic Studies at Saint Mary’s College (Notre Dame, IN) and a regional fellow of the University of Notre Dame’s Medieval Institute. She has published widely on the writings and activities of Peter the Chanter’s circle, pastoral and reform movements, the crusades, and heresy. You can find her work on academia.edu. Valentina Burgassi is Assistant Professor in History of Early Modern Architecture at Politecnico di Torino. She holds a joint PhD in Architectural and Landscape Heritage at Politecnico di Torino and in Histoire de l’Art at École Pratiques des Hautes Études (PSL). She is author of a book on the Renaissance in Malta, Il Rinascimento a Malta. Architettura e potere nell’Ordine di San Giovanni di Gerusalemme (2022). Emanuel Buttigieg is Associate Professor in early modern history at the University of Malta. He read history at the Universities of Malta and Cambridge, obtaining his PhD from the latter in 2008. Key publication includes Nobility, Faith and Masculinity: The Hospitaller Knights of Malta, c.1580–c.1700 (Continuum, 2011); Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798 (Ashgate, 2013) co-edited with Simon Phillips; and The University of Malta: Legacies & Bearings (Malta University Press, 2020) as co-editor and co-author.

Contributors xiii Christer Carlsson obtained his PhD from the University of Southern Denmark in 2010. He has ever since carried out research related to the history and archaeology of the military orders in Scandinavia and England. He is the manager of the commercial archaeological unit Independent Archaeology Consultants. Muhittin Çeken is Assistant Professor at Aydın Adnan Menderes University in Turkey. His main research fields are the crusaders and military orders, especially the Knight Templars. He is at present focused on studies in relation to the crusades and the military orders in the Near East. He is also working on the translation of some sources on the Templars into Turkish. Paula Pinto Costa is Professor at the Faculty of Arts and Humanities of the University of Porto and a researcher at CITCEM. She has very extensive experience in researching the military religious orders from the 11th to the 16th centuries, in the context of their origin in the Latin East and their insertion in Portuguese and European contexts. Nicholas Coureas is Senior Researcher at the Cyprus Research Centre in Nicosia, focusing on Lusignan Cyprus (1191–1473). His published works deal mostly with ecclesiastical, economic, and social history. His latest monograph is The Burgesses of Lusignan Cyprus 1192–1474 (2020). Matthias Ebejer has a doctorate in History and Civilization from the European University Institute in Florence. He is currently Senior Collections Specialist with the Archdiocese of Malta, responsible for the management of the ecclesiastical collections of art, as well as the curator of the Capuchin Provincial Museum of Malta. He is also working on a research project on the spirituality of female cloistered communities in the Mediterranean region in the aftermath of the Council of Trent. Alan Forey taught at the universities of Oxford, St Andrews, and Durham, prior to retirement. Most of his research has been on the military orders, and his publications include The Military Orders from the Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Centuries (1992). He has also written articles on a number of other aspects of crusading history. Ray Gatt is a practising consultant orthopaedic surgeon and holds a PhD in History from the University of Malta on the state and development of the Hospitaller Grand Priory of Messina in the 17th century (also published by Routledge). His research interests include the Hospitaller landed assets in Sicily, and jus patronatus commanderies of the Order. Jesse W. Izzo has been a Lecturer and Visiting Scholar with the Abbasi Programme in Islamic Studies at Stanford University since Fall 2019. He received his PhD from the University of Minnesota (2016), an MPhil from Cambridge University (2005), and a BA from Yale University (2004). Joana Lencart holds a PhD in History (2018) from the University of Porto. She is a researcher at CITCEM/FLUP, and she has been involved in several national

xiv  Contributors and international projects. Her main research topics are the military orders, namely the Templars and the Order of Christ, medieval history, custodial history, and cartularies. Héctor Linares holds a Ph.D. in early modern global history from The Pennsylvania State University. His research interests include military orders, Iberian nobility, the African diaspora, Indigenous studies, and imperial governance. He is the author of dozens of peer-reviewed publications, including five edited volumes on political culture, legal mobilization, and patronage in the Spanish Empire. His research has been generously funded by numerous institutions, including the Renaissance Society of America, the Folger Library, the Newberry Library, the John Carter Brown Library, the European Union, and Penn State University. Anthony Luttrell studied at Oxford, Madrid, Pisa, Rome, and elsewhere; he taught at Swarthmore College and at the Universities of Edinburgh, Malta, and Padua; he has published widely, especially on medieval Malta and on the Hospitallers on Rhodes and in the West. Victor Mallia-Milanes is Professor of Early Modern History at the University of Malta and Commander ‘Pro Merito Melitensi’ of the Sovereign Order of Malta. His main research interest is the early modern history of Venice, the Hospitaller Order of St  John, Malta, and the Mediterranean, on which he has written extensively. Sophia Menache is Emerita Professor of medieval history at the University of Haifa, and former secretary of the SSCLE. She has published on Church history, medieval communication, the crusades, and the military orders. Her books include, inter alia, The Vox Dei: Communication in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1990), L’humour en chaire (Geneva, 1994), Communication in the Jewish Diaspora: The Pre-Modern World (Leiden, 1996), Clement V (Cambridge, 1998), and Un retazo del olvido (Buenos Aires, 2014). Helen J. Nicholson is Emerita Professor of Medieval History at Cardiff University. She has published widely on the military orders, crusades, and various related subjects, including an edition of the Templars’ trial proceedings in Britain and Ireland (2011), and a history of Queen Sybil of Jerusalem (2022). Gordon M. Reynolds is a medievalist and heritage professional. He received his PhD from the University of Edinburgh in 2021, where his research focused on the gendered ideals within the crusading movement. Gordon is also the author of Laywomen and the Crusade in England 1150–1300 (Woodbridge, 2024). Elizabeth Siberry has written extensively on the way in which the crusades and the military orders have been remembered and portrayed in Britain, particularly in the 19th and 20th centuries. The New Crusaders was published in 2000, Tales of the Crusaders in 2021, and Knightly Memories: Remembering and Reinventing the Military Orders in Britain in 2024.

Contributors xv Maria Starnawska is Professor at the Institute of History of the University of Siedlce (Siedlce, Poland). Her main area of research is Church history and religious culture in Poland in the Middle Ages, especially the history of the military orders, the reception of the crusading idea, and the veneration of the relics of the saints. Miriam Rita Tessera (PhD Milan, Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, 2003) is an independent scholar who has published a book on the papacy and the Latin Church of Jerusalem in the 12th century (2010) and many essays about her research subjects: the crusades and the Latin East, moving relics between East and West, Cistercian culture, and the Milanese mediaeval Church. She is currently working as Archivist of the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio, Milan. Valeria Vanesio is Lecturer at the University of Malta and an archivist by profession. She is an International Associate of the Malta Study Center (HMML, MN), where she leads research and cataloguing projects in Malta, Italy, and England and was in charge of the first three-years reorganisation project of the historical documents at the Magistral Archives of the Order of Saint John in Rome. Recent publications include ‘The Order of St John’s archival entanglements: cataloguing experiments at the Magistral Archives in Rome’, Nuovi Annali della scuola speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari 37 (2023), pp.89–107.

Abbreviations

AALD Archivio Aldobrandini, Villa Poggi Banchieri a Castel Martini, Larciano (PI) AASS Acta Sanctorum Bollandiana ACB Archivio Casa Buonarroti, Via Ghibellina, Firenze (FI) AdeP Archivum de Piro (Valletta, Malta) AHN OOMM Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid, Órdenes Militares AIM Archive of the Roman Inquisition in Malta ANTT Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo AOL Archives de 1’Orient Latin AOM Archive of the Order of Malta Arm Documents arméniens ASMOM Archivi Sovrano Militare Ordine di Malta (Rome) ASV Archivio Segreto Vaticano ASVen Archivio di Stato, Venice BAV Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana BAV Barb. Lat. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Fondo Barberini Latino BCAE Biblioteca Comunale e dell’Accademia Etrusca di Cortona BL British Library BN Bibliothèque Nationale de France CCCM  Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 316 vols (Turnhout, 1945–) CH Cartulaire général de 1’Ordre des Hospitaliers de Saint-Jean de Jerusalem, 1100–1310, ed. J. Delaville le Roulx, 4 vols (Paris, 1894–1906) Cont WT La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. M.R. Morgan, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des croisades, 14 (Paris, 1982) CT Cartulaire général de 1‘Ordre du Temple 1119?–1150. Recueil des chartes et des bulles relatives à 1‘ordre du Temple, ed. Marquis d’Albon (Paris, 1913) ep. Epistola, Latin for letter Eracles L’Estoire de Eracles Empereur et la Conqueste de la Terre d’Outremer, in RHC Occ, 1.2 (Paris, 1859)

Abbreviations xvii HC A History of the Crusades, gen. ed. K.M. Setton, 2nd edn, 6 vols (Madison, 1968–89) HMML Hill Museum and Manuscript Library (USA) MGH SS Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores MO 1 The Military Orders: Fighting for the Faith and Caring for the Sick, ed. M. Barber (Aldershot, 1994) MO 2 The Military Orders, vol. 2: Welfare and Warfare, ed. H.J. Nicholson (Aldershot, 1998) MO 3 The Military Orders, vol. 3: History and Heritage, ed. Victor Mallia-Milanes (Aldershot, 2008) MO 4 The Military Orders, vol. 4: On Land and By Sea, ed. Judi Upton-Ward (Aldershot, 2008) MO 5  The Military Orders, vol. 5: Politics and Power, ed. Peter W. Edbury (Aldershot, 2012) MO 6.1  The Military Orders, vol. 6.1: Culture and Conflict in the Mediterranean World, ed. Jochen Schenk and Mike Carr (Routledge, 2017) MO 6.2  The Military Orders, vol. 6.2: Culture and Conflict in Western and Northern Europe, ed. Jochen Schenk and Mike Carr (Routledge, 2017) MO 7  The Military Orders, vol. 7: Piety, Pugnacity and Property ed. Nicholas Morton (Routledge, 2020) MOA Militarium Ordinum Analecta Montjoie  Montjoie. Studies in Crusade History in Honor of Hans Eberhard Mayer, ed. B.Z. Kedar, J. Riley-Smith and R. Hiestand (London, 1997) NLM AOM National Library of Malta, Archive of the Order of Malta NLM Libr Ms National Library of Malta, Library Manuscript collection Occ Historiens occidentaux Or Historiens orientaux P&C  Prier et combattre: dictionnaire européen des ordres militaires au Moyen Âge, ed. N. Bériou and P. Josserand (Paris, 2009) PL Patrologia Latina PPTS Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society PUTJ Papsturkunden für Templer und Johanniter, ed. R. Hiestand, 2 vols (Gottingen, 1972–84) QuStDO Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte des Deutschen Ordens RHC Recueil des Historiens des Croisades RHGF Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France RIS Rerum Italicarum Scriptores ROL Revue de 1’Orient Latin RRH Regesta Regni Hierosolymitani and Additamentum (Ad), ed. R. Rohricht (Innsbruck, 1893–1904) RS Rolls Series

xviii  Abbreviations RSJ The Rule of the Spanish Military Order of St James, 1170–1493, ed. E. Gallego Blanco (Leiden, 1971) RT  La Règle du Temple, ed. H. de Curzon (Paris, 1886) SDO Die Statuten des Deutschen Ordens nach den ältesten Handschriften, ed. M. Perlbach (Halle, 1980) SRP Scriptores Rerum Prussicarum, ed. T. Hirsch et al. (Leipzig, 1861) WT Guillaume de Tyr, Chronique, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, 63,63A (Turnhout, 1986)

1

Editors’ preface Emanuel Buttigieg and Clara Almagro Vidal

The genesis of this volume lies in the online conference held by Nottingham Trent University from 8 to 16 September 2022, under the direction of Nicholas Morton. This was the eighth in the series of, more or less, quadrennial military orders conferences organised since 1992. It was also shaped by a world that was still coping with COVID-19, with the uncertainties of a new disease and the anxieties of mass lockdowns, but it also reflected a quick learning curve as people turned to online tools to work and communicate. Just like the military orders that were the subject of their studies, the scholars in the conference found that they had to navigate ‘in a wider world’, that is, to deal with extensive political, spiritual, economic, technological, and other dynamics that were outside of their comfort zones. Despite the challenges, or maybe because of them, the conference fostered rich exchange and debate. A good number of the papers presented at the conference have been selected for publication. By nature of the series (which started in 1994) of which it forms part, this book holds within its fold a very wide range in terms of scholars, themes, and periods. Both the conference and the book aim to situate and observe the military orders ‘in a wider world’. This presented scholars with an opportunity to think in varied ways about what the term means, as shown by the contributions included here. The military orders did not exist or operate in a vacuum. At the same time, they integrated external elements into their internal workings. This is shown by the contributions presented here. They focus on interactions with other entities, the effects that their actions had on individuals and communities under their purview, their integration in the bigger spiritual scope of the time, and the reverberation of their actions through external and internal perceptions of them. They also show a wide array of possible methodologies and sources to deepen the study of the military orders. Five broad thematic axes emerged, around which the chapters coalesced. These are interactions, administration, religion, perceptions, and approaches, and they came to constitute the sections of the book. *** The chapters that together make up the section on interactions speak of reciprocal bonds, conflicts, and collaborations established by the military orders and their brethren with other persons, things, and each other, in different settings. Helen DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-1

2  The Military Orders Volume VIII J. Nicholson offers a synoptic survey of the activities of various military orders beyond their usual European and Mediterranean stomping grounds. The spread and level of activity varied between one order and another, and none ever really became a truly active global player, but many were involved in specific actions outside of their usual geographic spheres, including service to a government. The extension, by the Portuguese, of the Order of Christ to their colonies became a welcome channel of prestige and mobility for non-Europeans, and in Kongo the kings even created their own version of the Order, so useful was it as a vehicle of patronage. This chapter is a reminder that there are little-tapped perspectives from which the military orders can be studied, and a global outlook is one of them. Conversely, the following two chapters illustrate how one can fan out from the specific in order to appreciate its far-reaching implications. Gordon M. Reynolds draws us into the context of high medieval Scotland where a longing for the crusading spirit and adventure, particularly among the royal family, balanced conversely by a limited ability to participate in a direct manner, meant that patronage of the military orders acted as a form of substitute for direct involvement. This benefited the orders, but also the king, both spiritually (in that supporting the military orders was an indirect way of supporting the wider crusading movement) and in practical terms (since it added prestige to the crown and provided a source of able and trusted advisors). Roughly in the same period as these developments in Scotland, Muhittin Çeken shifts our gaze to the territories of the Principality of Antioch and Cilician Armenia, and to the castles held by military orders in the region, which were crucial for the stability of these territories. As such, they were in turn both menaced and supported by external powers in the area and played a pivotal role in the shifting balance of power. The Templars were particularly involved in this region, and through their control of strategic castles in the border zone they found that they were right in the thick of it, deeply involved in the developments related to political powers of the region during the 12th and 13th centuries. A similar dynamic can be seen in the case study that links Portugal, the Order of St John, and the Ottoman siege of Rhodes in 1522 discussed in the chapter penned by Paula Pinto Costa and Joana Lencart. Events that took place far from Portugal such as the siege of Rhodes were of great interest to the monarch of this kingdom, who contributed and tried to benefit from it. The entanglement and ­tension between the king and an order that tried to maintain its independence was transformed by the events of 1522, with a clear loss for the Hospitallers. This is an example of how the military orders interacted with and were relevant to other powers. They could be collaborators, pawns, or even victims of these powers, and the survival of the military orders depended on knowing how to play the game well. In the 17th century, the Hospitallers, by now based in Malta, sought to maintain their relevance by assisting the crowned heads of Europe militarily, and by providing an escort service to dignitaries, particularly princesses. Emanuel Buttigieg demonstrates that in doing so, the Order of St John participated in regional Mediterranean affairs and maintained its relevance in the eyes of those that mattered. A rather different situation can be observed in the case of Spanish military orders which had become extensions of royal authority but did not necessarily benefit from that situation. In his contribution, Héctor Linares charts a century of

Editors’ preface  3 antagonistic exchanges between the holders of the roles of secretary and prosecutor in the Royal Council of the Military Orders. Disputes over precedence practically paralysed the workings of the council, yet these were not trivial matters. Instead, they illustrate how the military orders became a vehicle for the display of bureaucracy and honour in the administration of the global Spanish empire. Administration involves managing people and resources, usually to attain a specific goal, which can be limited to routine day-to-day functions, or involve dealing with unexpected or complicated challenges. It also involves people who did not belong to the military orders but depended on them or worked for them. Alan Forey deals with a core aspect in the administration of the military orders: the election of the head. He carries out a comparative analysis of the procedures – in so far as these are still available to consult – of the military orders and other religious orders and draws out commonalities and differences in the 13th century. The question of autonomy was an important one, but this varied from case to case, and no military order was always or ever free from external influences. Foremost among these influences were those exercised by kings and popes during the papal schism of 1378, which meant that more than one prelate was claiming leadership of Latin Christendom. Anthony Luttrell discusses the generally pragmatic relationship between English kings (who tended to support the pope in Rome) and Hospitaller Rhodes (which tended to support the pope in Avignon) who found a mutually beneficial understanding. Here again, events and characters in far-flung places found themselves in tightly knit dynamics. Of course, as major landowners, the military orders were responsible for the administration of property and the people linked to it. In the case of multi-ethnic, multi-religious late medieval Spain, this meant being Christian overlords of Muslim populations. Clara Almagro Vidal weaves together examples of these Christian-Muslim interactions based around notions of governance, to come up with a tapestry of regional dynamics and wider implications. Back in Rhodes itself, the Hospitallers had to deal with a whole range of administrative issues, including, here too, land management. Nicholas Coureas focuses on the relationship between the Hospitallers and the burgess population, which was a very diverse group. Their interactions were based on land transactions, services, titles, and so on, creating a mutuality between the Order as the government of Rhodes, and the people on Rhodes. The burgenses were an element in a developing and increasingly sophisticated island order state, which successfully managed to attract migrant settlers from various backgrounds. In Malta, the Hospitallers continued building on the lessons learnt in Rhodes on how to manage an island. In addition, from here, they also administered a sophisticated victualling operation in Sicily, and from the late 1640s, specifically Augusta. Ray Gatt describes the extensive operation, varied equipment, and organisation of the ovens at Augusta, which were essential to the operations of the Order’s fleet. When, in 1693, eastern Sicily, including Augusta, was devastated by an earthquake, the Order not only helped to organise relief for the stricken but also embarked on an energetic rebuilding programme to get its victualling operation in Augusta back on its feet. Such events were typically understood through a religious lens, and religion was a natural cornerstone of the military orders. The contributions gathered in this section deal with belief, codes of living, administrative issues, and artistic patronage.

4  The Military Orders Volume VIII Miriam Rita Tessera takes a deep dive into a letter by a Templar to Countess Sybil of Flanders in the mid-12th century that reveals a strong complementarity between Cistercians and Templars, and the integration of at least some Templars into the wider intellectual and spirituality networks of their time. This case study also shows that Templars – and by extension members of other military orders – should not be thought of in monolithic terms but rather that there was a range of callings and roles within their ranks. Maria Starnawska’s chapter shows the importance of the landholdings of the military orders, comparing those of the Hospitallers with other religious orders in medieval Silesia. It shows that the Hospitallers held a prominent position in the area and outlines the parallels and differences with other medieval religious orders with reference to the support or restrictions imposed by third agents and lay powers. As the chapters in this book make clear, the military orders could be found in many places, doing varied things. This point is at the heart of Jessalyn Bird’s examination of Jacques de Vitry’s sermons on the military orders, and what they tell us about how they fitted in within a wider Christian framework. In one particular sermon, de Vitry equated the Templar, Hospitaller, and Teutonic orders, and the militia Christi in Livonia and Prussia as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who used their swords to defend the Church from physical threats. In a similar vein, albeit in a different context, Matthias Ebejer positions the religious devotions of Hospitallers in the wake of the Counter-Reformation. The Hospitallers tried to bolster the image and substance of their own array of saints by making effective use of the rules of the external authority that was the Roman Catholic Church. They utilised pre-existing local traditions and strove to make them universal. Through a focus on religious cults, we see how their interactions in different geographical spheres – Malta, Sicily, Rome, and so on – contributed to a wider spiritual phenomenon. Continuing within a Counter-Reformation framework, Christian Attard sheds light on the funerary rituals and procedures of high-ranking members of the Order of St  John. A  nuanced line had to be navigated between conspicuous consumption and sober simplicity, and between the vain dream of immortality and pious quietude. This world and the divine were intimately connected, so that the passing of a grand master could be seen as a harbinger of rain to a dry earth, or at least, that is how some chose to perceive it. Perception is about the effort to take in something, to interpret it, and to make sense of it. The contributions in this section illustrate different ways in which the military orders were regarded. A running thread in many of the chapters are the interactions between military orders and Muslim forces. Jesse W. Izzo turns the tables in his chapter so that we can view these relationships from the point of view of Muslim attitudes and perceptions found in Arabic sources. He shows that the military orders and their actions were perceived very differently by third parties depending on their interests and the relationship between them. The same institution could be interpreted significantly differently, depending on context and on the goal of the Muslim author in question. That said, and ironically, for the military orders it was often their fellow Christians – especially sections of the clergy – who presented an adversary far more formidable than the Muslims. Sophia Menache

Editors’ preface  5 paints a picture of the Templars finding themselves increasingly under attack across Christendom after the loss of the Holy Land, and yet this did not automatically and necessarily need to have led to their extinguishing. The papacy generally remained supportive of the Templars, but aggressive French propaganda tarnished the Templars’ reputation to such an extent that they could not shake it off. While Philip IV of France managed to get rid of the Templars, his grisly death, the extinguishing of his male line, and the Black Death were all perceived as divine retribution for his attack on the Templars. In the case of the Hospitallers, they too faced their fair share of criticism but, as Victor Mallia-Milanes shows, they were adept at adapting to circumstances and at projecting the right image to the right people at the right moment. After the fall of Acre in 1291, the Order of St John was, in a sense, forced into a wider world. Its response to this was to widen its scope and goal as an organisation, doing more things, in more places. Rhodes, and then Malta, illustrate the evolution of an ever-more sophisticated entity and island order state, and an ability to project such a perception of itself to the wider world. The Order of St John survived after the loss of Malta in 1798, and continues to exist to-date, as has an often-gripping fascination with it in the 19th and 20th centuries. Elizabeth Siberry gives us a pen portrait of the Irish Catholic knight commander and author John Taaffe who produced a four-volume history of the Order. In works such as his, the memory of the military orders survived and developed in line with contemporary needs and expectations. Fascinatingly, Taaffe presented a plan for a new order state in the Middle East, similar to what there had earlier been in Malta, yet also adapted to the circumstances of the 19th century. The volume closes with a section on approaches – archaeological, architectural, archival – that allow us to draw nearer to the military orders through methodologies that are still relatively novel for the subject. Christer Carlsson describes an archaeological excavation at the Templar Preceptory of Aslackby in Lincolnshire, UK, carried out between 2020 and 2021. By digging into the earth, layers of human activity are brought back into the light, offering insights into the local activity of these international organisations. In turn, we are reminded how simple daily activities on such properties of the military orders, in places such as the one examined here, were the source of their financial strength and ability to operate in a wider world. Complementing this archaeological perspective is the historical architectural approach adopted by Valentina Burgassi in studying the Hospitaller auberges in Valletta. These centres of sociability were like a bit of home away from home for many Hospitallers, so that they were conduits for ideas from across Europe to flow into Malta and merge with the local milieu. The Auberge of Italy is an example of how Tuscan, Sicilian, and other influences in architecture coalesced in this one building in Valletta, with an added Maltese flavour to it. Continuing on the subject of the auberges in Malta, Valeria Vanesio seeks to show us the archival practices of these important institutions. Through an innovative methodology, she begins to sketch out the administrative dynamism of the langues of the Order of St John, and of the auberges as the places where centre-periphery administrative aspects met and were dealt with and their reflection in archival records and organisation.

6  The Military Orders Volume VIII Many of the previous volumes in the Military Orders book series carried a short introduction by Jonathan Riley-Smith, which ‘became a commentary on the continuing development of research into the Military Orders: on the breadth and variety of topics covered, the chronological spread of research – from the eleventh century to the modern day – and the international range of scholars working on the subject’.1 A recurring observation in these introductions concerned the general prevalence of medievalists working on the military orders, and a strong focus on the Hospitallers, and hence an appeal to broaden out from there. A look at the conference programmes and the tables of content in the books over the years serves as something of a barometer for the field of studies of the military orders in the English language. The twenty-three chapters in this book perhaps reflect one of the broadest coverages in all the volumes in terms of geographical variety, chronological spread, and thematic focus. While many of the contributions focus on the Mediterranean and western Europe, there are some forays beyond that; on the other hand, Scandinavia and eastern Europe are not really covered. There is a fairly even balance between chapters dealing with the Middle Ages, and chapters dealing with the early modern period, which is an encouraging development. At the same time, there is still only one chapter dealing with the post-1798 period. Thematically, there is a broad spectrum of approaches and methodologies which indicates the continuing dynamism of the study of the military orders and holds the promise for many more exciting initiatives in the future. In this sense, we feel that this volume has contributed to bringing the military orders’ studies into the wider world. *** We are grateful to the Military Orders Conference Scientific Committee – Jonathan P. Phillips, Natasha Hodgson, Gregory O’Malley, Mike Carr, Helen J. Nicholson, and Nicholas Morton – who entrusted us with the task of editing this volume and supported us along the way. Nic was particularly patient and good humoured in answering our many questions and in providing us with valuable advice. We thank Routledge for their professional support, in particular Michael Greenwood and Louis Nicholson-Pallett. A word of thanks must go to all the contributors in this book who have been exemplary in their collaboration and timeliness. Finally, we are grateful for the friendship we have built over the course of editing the book. Emanuel Buttigieg (University of Malta) & Clara Almagro Vidal (UNED) November 2024 Note 1 H.J. Nicholson, ‘Introduction’, in MO 7, p.1.

Part 1

Interactions

2

Ubicunque orbis terrarum The military orders across the globe Helen J. Nicholson

Introduction: military orders across the globe Ubicunque orbis terrarum, ‘everywhere in the globe’, was how the Templars in Ireland described their order in February 1310, during the proceedings against the Order.1 With rising scholarly interest in the Global Middle Ages, it is timely to consider how wide the world of the military orders is now and has been in the past. This chapter examines the global extent of military religious orders and considers how and why the concept and the members of the military religious orders have spread so widely. An internet search reveals that in the third decade of the 21st century, military orders are indeed everywhere in the globe, mainly undertaking charitable work – none now take part in warfare. The modern Sovereign Order of Malta has world-wide associations, and its website speaks of ‘activities in 120 countries’.2 Four Protestant orders of St  John are associated with it, of which one, the British Venerable Order, has global reach. In contrast, the Teutonic Order now operates only within German-speaking states in Europe.3 The Order of St Lazarus is more contentious: commentators disagree whether the modern organisation, which undertakes charitable work in Europe, Russia, North America, central and south Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, is a legitimate continuation of the medieval order.4 The Order of St Maurice and St Lazarus, created in the 1570s when Pope Gregory XIII amalgamated the Italian commanderies of the Order of St Lazarus with Savoy’s Order of St Maurice, continues as a chivalric order with membership bestowed on men and women around the world in reward for merit and charitable work.5 The Iberian military orders are now national secular orders of merit.6 Until the middle of the 20th century, the concept of the military order was still attractive in western society as a basis for charitable movements intended to combat wrong and promote right, and in the 19th and 20th centuries many such institutions were established in the western world. However, most of these have now changed their name or no longer exist.7 An examination of military orders across the globe should include military religious institutions belonging to faiths other than Christianity. Although there are no longer any formally acknowledged institutions actively combining military activity with a spiritual purpose, such organisations did exist in the Middle Ages and early DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-3

10  The Military Orders Volume VIII modern period. The medieval Japanese historical epic The Tale of the Heike depicts Buddhist monks in 12th-century Japan fighting battles in defence of their interests. Typically, these Japanese soldier-monks were private monastic armies defending their monastery’s interests rather than fighting as part of a greater spiritual purpose for the faith as a whole, although monks also attacked religious rivals and people they regarded as heretics. Their conduct was regarded as ‘morally problematic’ but necessary in a degenerate world, in order to defend their monasteries against intruders and false teaching; and some Buddhist teachers maintained that it was acceptable to use violence to stop another person from committing murder, or to kill enemies of the faith. There were also armed Buddhist monks in China and Korea.8 Medieval Islam had the ribāt, whereby men volunteered to give military service in defence of Islam for a limited period, but – unlike the Christian military religious orders – not for life; the ribāt is the name of the fortress which formed their base.9 These medieval military religious institutions outside Christendom provide some support for the statements during the proceedings against the Templars that the military religious orders and their concept were a global movement. The medieval military orders’ knowledge of the globe The proceedings against the Templars of 1307–1312 saw the statement that the Templars were received in the same way ubicunque orbis terrarum, ‘everywhere in the globe’, used in Ireland, Scotland, and by some of the external witnesses and the summary documents produced in England.10 The phrase was also used in France: a written statement submitted by four French Templars on 7 April 1310 maintained that ‘outside the kingdom of France no Brother Templar may be found in the whole globe who says or will have said those lies’ in their testimonies.11 They agreed that all Templars were of one profession and this was kept per universum orbem, ‘through the whole globe’, by all the brothers of the Order from the foundation of the Order to the present day.12 As the Templars did not operate across the globe but only in the Middle East and Catholic Europe, this statement is puzzling: perhaps it was simply a current idiom for ‘everywhere’. However, the people of early 14th-century Europe were well aware that the world is a globe – as John Mandeville would write later in the century, it would be possible to sail all around the world if one could only find a suitable ship.13 Europeans had gone west: Scandinavians had settled in Greenland and Newfoundland in the 10th, and early 11th centuries; the Greenland settlements continued until the end of the 15th century.14 They also went east: in 1291 the Vivaldi brothers of Genoa set off ‘for the regions of India by way of the Ocean’ in search of ‘routes of spices’; they were never heard of again, but their attempt indicates that Europeans had sufficient knowledge about the globe to attempt the same voyage that the Portuguese explorers would undertake successfully two centuries later in ships more suitable to weather Atlantic storms.15 Sometime between 1307 and 1317, the Dominican friar William of Adam travelled ‘in the Indian Sea’ for about twenty months, and stayed on the island of Socotra in the Gulf of Aden and visited Ethiopia. As part of his plan to recover Jerusalem, he recommended a naval blockade

Ubicunque orbis terrarum 11 of the Red Sea to cut off trade to Mamluk Egypt – a policy the Portuguese would attempt two centuries later – and recommended that the Genoese should undertake it, as they were already building ships in ‘the sea of India’.16 The missionary and diplomatic journeys of friars such as the Franciscans John of Plano Carpini in the 1240s and William of Rubruck in the 1250s to Mongolia brought some information about the Far East to Europe, although Marco Polo’s account of his travels from 1271 to 1292 circulated much more widely.17 Given that this knowledge of the world was circulating in Europe by the early 14th century, perhaps the Templars did mean the whole globe. The military religious orders had been supra-national orders almost from the start, and the Hospitallers and the Templars had to develop new administrative systems to manage their territories across Catholic Europe that supported their headquarters in the Middle East. No religious order had previously operated on this scale, but the supra-national framework that they produced was emulated by the later friars: an overall master or chief minister assisted by an advisory council, overseeing provinces (which aligned with linguistic boundaries) under a provincial head, with regular meetings of all provincial heads to ensure that the order was operating effectively across its territories.18 Brothers (although not sisters) travelled widely around European Christendom and the eastern Mediterranean on embassies for their own order and for kings and popes.19 Yet there is little evidence of Templar contact with the wider world beyond European Christendom. Marco Polo’s account of his youthful journey to the Great Khan with his father Messer Niccolò and his uncle Messer Maffeo, merchants of Venice, mentions that the Templar Grand Master joined them at Ayas in Cilician Armenia when they heard that Sultan Baybars of Egypt had invaded Armenia; two Dominican friars who had been travelling with them departed with the Grand Master, who presumably escorted them back to the safety of Acre.20 But did the Templars know any more about the Great Khan’s domains than the fact that merchants and friars travelled there? The surviving evidence of their literature does not suggest that they did: they owned a wide range of liturgical texts and some works on pastoral care and on theology, legends of saints and martyrs, Bibles and translations of books of the Bible into Old French, history and historical legends, and at least one medical text – but none of these related to the world outside the Biblical world, the crusader states and Catholic Europe.21 On the other hand, brothers of the Teutonic Order do appear to have taken an interest in Asia beyond the Holy Land. The oldest known German translation of Marco Polo’s book was produced for the Teutonic Order from the Latin translation; the manuscript dates from the later 14th century.22 Gregory Leighton has discussed a version of the story of Barlaam and Josaphat – a Christian version of the life of the Buddha – surviving in an early 15th-century manuscript owned by the Teutonic Order. Leighton argues that the story not only would have served as an exemplum for the brothers and ‘may have been meant for spiritual edification of the brothers as a group or at an individual level’ but also reflects the Order’s contacts with the Tatars who lived within the Baltic area, and the wide world view represented by the (now lost) mappa mundi at the Order’s headquarters at Marienburg, which may

12  The Military Orders Volume VIII have been owned by Grand Master Konrad von Jungingen (1393–1407). Again, in the late 14th century the Apostle Thomas, apostle of India, was depicted on the walls of the grand master’s study at Marienburg, representing taking Christianity to distant regions of the world. Leighton concludes: ‘Barlaam and Josaphat should be contextualized within the recent scholarly trends demonstrating that Europe in the Middle Ages was connected to and aware of a broader world, as opposed to a monolithic culture’.23 All this said, although the Teutonic Order confronted the Rus and the Mongols on Europe’s eastern frontier and fought the Ottoman Turks in the Balkans, the brothers did not advance further east to seek out new areas to conquer for Christ.24 The Hospitallers’ estates stretched more widely across Catholic Christian Europe than those of the other international military orders, from Scandinavia in the north (unlike the Templars) and Ireland in the northwest (unlike the Teutonic Order), to Portugal in the south west and what is now Poland and Hungary on the eastern frontier of Catholic Christendom, and south to the Mediterranean, as well as in the crusader states. Some individual brothers took an interest in the wider world: Juan Fernández de Heredia (who was grand master 1377–1396) had a number of works translated into Aragonese that recorded extra-European events: a life of Ghengis Khan, Marco Polo’s travels, and the Oriental histories of the Armenian prince Hetoum.25 We may speculate that the Hospitallers’ anti-Mamluk naval activity in the eastern Mediterranean in the early 16th century was not only to make the Mediterranean safe for Christian shipping but also had a wider aim, as it impeded the Mamluks from attacking the Portuguese invaders/traders in the Indian Ocean. In August 1510 the Hospitaller fleet, commanded by Andreas do Amaral, a Portuguese brother, lieutenant chancellor of the Order, and Philip Villiers de L’Isle Adam, the seneschal, intercepted and destroyed a fleet of ships carrying timber from Lebanon to Mamluk Egypt for shipbuilding in the Red Sea. The raid set back Mamluk naval capability by several years and prevented the Mamluks from opposing Portuguese operations in the Indian Ocean.26 But was this deliberate Hospitaller policy or simply an opportunistic attack? Even if the Hospitallers were interested in Christian advance in the Indian Ocean, they did not become directly involved, and in 1740 they declined to be involved in a proposed alliance with Ethiopia to clear Muslim traders out of the Red Sea.27 Perhaps it was King Manuel of Portugal who prompted the Hospitallers’ raid in 1510, as Manuel’s Mediterranean policy of recovering Jerusalem was linked to his expansionist policy in the Indian Ocean.28 In the 17th century individual French Hospitallers became involved in colonisation projects in the New World. In the 1630s Brother Brulart de Sillery founded a ‘chapel, convent, hospital and dwellings for converted Indians’ near Quebec (Canada), using resources from his commandery at Troyes (France).29 French Hospitallers were involved in John Law’s Mississippi venture between 1717 and 1720; between 1761 and 1765 the Chevalier de Turgot planned a colony of the Order in Guiana (which came to nothing); in addition, several French Knights of Malta fought in the American War of Independence. In 1794 a treaty was proposed between the United States and the Order of Malta, through which ‘American

Ubicunque orbis terrarum  13 commerce’ would find at Malta ‘fine ports, provisions, and even protection against the Algerine pirates’, while in exchange the United States would ‘grant, in full right, to the Order of Malta some lands in America, in such quantity as might be agreed on between the two governments, placing such lands under the immediate protection and safeguard of the American loyalty’. However, this proposal went no further.30 The Hospitallers briefly held four islands in the Caribbean, purchased in 1653 at the instigation of Philippe de Lonvilliers de Poincy, knight of the Order of St John. After his death in 1660, the Order reconsidered this investment and eventually sold the islands to the French West India Company. The Order’s only interest in holding this property was the hope of making large profits from sugar production, but this would have required considerable initial investment – for example, importing slaves to work the plantations.31 While individual members might involve themselves in world events, the Hospitallers as an institution had to focus on their vocation, not wasting money on speculative schemes. Although before the modern period the international military orders and their individual members had an awareness of and interest in the wider world, they became involved in the world outside Europe and the Mediterranean region only where this could progress their core purpose. The Iberian military orders, however, expanded further. The Iberian military orders The majority of the military religious orders in the Iberian Peninsula were founded in the 12th century: primarily the Order of Santiago and the Order of Calatrava (together with its affiliates, the Order of Alcántara in León and the Order of Avis in Portugal). They were joined after 1319 by the Order of Christ in Portugal, which was endowed with the Templars’ former property, and the Order of Montesa in Valencia, endowed with the property of the Templars and Hospitallers.32 As the Iberian military orders were always closely linked to the secular rulers of the peninsula, they became involved directly or indirectly in the kings’ wars of expansion into the non-Christian world. In 1456 the papacy issued documents compelling the military orders to take part in war against the Turks or manning military convents in North Africa. But in the event the Iberian military orders’ ongoing involvement in warfare was very limited.33 The Spanish military orders of Santiago, Alcántara, and Calatrava were involved in the capture of Granada in 1492 but did not become formally involved in the Spanish conquest of North Africa despite suggestions in the 16th and 17th centuries that they should, preferring to contribute money to hire troops. They sent troops to the Spanish campaigns of 1508, 1511, and 1512 against the North African cities of Oran, Bougie (Béjaïa) and Tripoli, but they did not formally participate in the capture of Melilla in 1497 or of Mers el Kébir (Mazalquivir) in 1505. ­Following the capture of Oran, King Ferdinand of Aragon suggested to the general chapter of the Order of Santiago in 1509 that the Order should establish a convent in the city where new knights would go to take the habit, and the Pope agreed, but this was never put into effect.34

14  The Military Orders Volume VIII The military orders of Portugal were drawn into the crown’s expansion into the Atlantic and Africa, but again they did not play a formal military role. King João I of Portugal (1385–1433) had been Master of the Order of Avis and in 1420 he made one of his younger sons, Prince Henry the Navigator, lay administrator of the Order of Christ. Linking territorial expansion to the Order of Christ enabled the Portuguese crown to persuade the papacy that Portuguese expansion would lead to the spread of the Christian faith. In 1443 the pope gave the Order of Christ spiritual rights over the Atlantic islands, and in 1454 gave it spiritual administration and jurisdiction over any lands it conquered in future in Morocco, the Atlantic, and overseas, implying that he expected the Order to be involved in military activity. These areas were nullius diocesis, belonged to no diocese, and were sedi apostolice immediate subiectus, directly subject to the pope. The Order could nominate the bishops and clergy in the churches, meaning that in theory as the Portuguese empire expanded the Order of Christ became immensely influential in making ecclesiastical appointments across a large part of the globe. In fact, it was Prince Henry who benefited most from the papal gift, as his administration of the Order of Christ meant that he had access to the funds allocated to the Order by Pope Martin V in 1420 to fight against ‘the Saracens’, and his conquests could be depicted as holy war approved by the papacy. As the Order of Christ lacked the personnel to administer and the preachers to evangelise the new territories under its spiritual authority, other religious orders took the Order’s place in the mission field.35 In 1514 Pope Leo X ended the Order of Christ’s spiritual pre-eminence in Portugal’s overseas territories when he founded the diocese of Funchal in Madeira and made it a suffragan of the archbishop of Lisbon; the bishop of Funchal then held spiritual administration and jurisdiction over the Atlantic Islands and the Portuguese establishments in the Atlantic (Brazil and Angola) and Indian Oceans until 1534, when the pope created new dioceses in these regions. The Order of Christ retained only some restricted rights of patronage. In the 17th and 18th centuries some members of the Order of Christ were made bishops in overseas dioceses, but far fewer than the orders of friars or the Jesuits. The Order of Christ did receive tithes on the Portuguese lands in Brazil, but because the king was secular master of the Order this money passed to the crown.36 In short, as Fernanda Olival has argued, the military orders had very little agency in Portuguese expansion: it was the crown which reaped the rewards, not the orders.37 The Portuguese crown inherited Prince Henry’s possessions on his death in 1460 and the royal family continued to control the Order of Christ, exploiting the Order’s crusading ideology, its territories, its incomes, and the service of the Order’s members. King Manuel I (1495–1521) appointed his own household knights to the Order’s commanderies and after 1496, when Pope Alexander VI allowed the knight-brothers to marry, Manuel used the Order as a tool of political patronage, granting membership to his allies and rewarding loyal service to the crown.38 The Portuguese crown also gained control over the Orders of Santiago and Avis: in 1550 Pope Julius III granted these to King João III (1521–1557) for his lifetime, and then granted him and his successors the administration of all three Orders in perpetuity.39 The military orders in Spain had been incorporated into the crown in 1523.40

Ubicunque orbis terrarum  15 The involvement of the military orders in King Manuel I’s voyages of exploration and conquest gave ideological legitimacy to his actions, although it is unclear how far the orders agreed with his policy of conquest.41 Like the Spanish military orders, the Portuguese military orders were not extensively involved in hostilities. They took part in the Portuguese attack on Tangier in 1437, but in 1456 they and the Portuguese Hospitallers refused to take on responsibility for the defence of Ceuta in North Africa, and although in 1462 the pope reiterated that the Orders of Christ, Avis, and Santiago should send a third of their brothers to Ceuta each year, he had to withdraw the instruction in 1467 in the face of objections from the king’s brother Fernando, master of the Orders of Christ and of Santiago, that the Orders were responsible only for the defence of the peninsula, not of North Africa. However, the view remained that these orders should contribute towards the defence of territories conquered in North Africa, and in 1503 King Manuel I obtained the agreement of the general chapter of the Order of Christ that some commanderies should be reserved for brothers who had served in North Africa.42 By the end of the 15th century the Order of Christ had eight commanderies on the Atlantic islands colonised by the Portuguese. King Manuel also created commanderies for the Order of Christ from income streams from overseas trade: one ‘commandery’ comprised one-twentieth of the revenues of gold from the Guinea coast. Many commanderies were set up to encourage ‘military participation in Morocco’: before 1503 ten were set up for knights ‘who had served in Morocco for at least four consecutive years’; another thirty were given to knights who relocated to Morocco with their families. Again, some of these were income streams rather than physical buildings. These new members would continue to serve the king as soldiers: some of the Portuguese troops who invaded Morocco in 1513/14 wore the livery of the Order of Christ. But later plans for further expansion of commanderies came to nothing, and even when a commandery was based around landholding most commanders were absentees.43 Many of the Orders’ members were appointed to lead the exploratory expeditions which laid the foundations of Portugal’s seagoing empire in the late 15th and early 16th centuries: Luís Adão da Fonseca identified ninety-seven knights of the military orders who were in the Portuguese East (India or Malaysia) in the first two decades of the 16th century.44 The most famous example is Vasco da Gama, who became a knight of the Order of Santiago in 1488, and in 1497–1499 commanded the first Portuguese fleet to reach India.45 Pedro Álvares Cabral, admitted to the Order of Christ before 1495, was appointed in 1500 as captain-general of a fleet sailing to India; the commanders of this fleet also included a captain from the Order of Santiago and two knights from the Order of Christ.46 On Vasco da Gama’s voyage to India in 1502–1503, more than half the captains were connected with the military orders.47 The register of supplications to the pope (the Penitenzieria Apostolica) includes several requests from members of the military orders which illuminate their careers in the new Portuguese overseas empire. One knight of the Order of Christ asked for the Order’s strict rules on fasting and prayers to be relaxed for him, as he was in Africa fighting for the faith.48 Some knights of the Order of Santiago who had

16  The Military Orders Volume VIII been banished to Africa as punishment appealed against their sentences.49 In 1508 a knight of the Order of Santiago explained that he had gone to India and ‘infidel parts’ with many other Christians by the command of the King of Portugal to fight the infidel and spread the Christian faith, but after three years had returned and found his wife pregnant. He killed her and was banished to Africa, and now he was appealing to the Pope against his sentence.50 Another knight of the Order of Santiago appealed against being placed on a ship and sent by the King of Portugal to fight the ‘Turks’ (Turcos) in Africa.51 In addition to members of the orders going to fight in Africa or India, men who had served the King of Portugal in North Africa, Brazil, or India were rewarded with membership of a military order, so that the orders were indirectly supporting Portuguese global expansion even though this was no longer explicitly a holy war. By 1577 viceroys going to India were awarding knighthoods in the orders to those who accompanied them, in view of service to be performed rather than service already performed. The same practice occurred in Spain, where officials working for the Spanish government in the Indies would routinely apply to the Orders of Calatrava, Santiago, and Alcántara for membership as a reward for their service.52 How far did these new members continue the original purpose of these orders? Although the new members of these orders did not live a communal religious life, they were expected to follow a pious life, praying every day, giving charity, and attending mass a certain number of times each year.53 Some took part in holy war in defence of Christendom: many of the Portuguese nobility who died with King Sebastião I (1557–1578) at Alcácer Quibir (El-Ksar el-Kebir) in 1578 during the king’s Moroccan crusade were members of the Order of Christ. During Sebastião’s reign at least twenty-five men who had served in North Africa were awarded ­hábitos – the habit – of the Order of Christ in recognition of their efforts (the award of the hábito was only the first stage of membership, so that not all of these men would necessarily have eventually become members; they also had to undergo an investigation by the Order to establish their suitability). However, men working in regions where they did not fight non-Christians were also awarded membership: during Sebastião’s reign two governors-general of Brazil, the nephew of one, and other government officials in Brazil were made members of the Order of Christ, as were viceroys of India and others who had given outstanding service in the Far East. King Philip II of Spain (who also ruled as Filipe I of Portugal from 1580 to 1598) rewarded men serving in North Africa in Tangier, Mazagão (now El Jadida, a port city in Morocco) and Ceuta, and in India and Brazil. Along with fighting men, judicial officials were also rewarded with membership, and not only high officials but also those of lower rank.54 In time, even those who had undertaken artisan work were admitted, including seamen – work which hitherto had barred them from entering these knightly orders. Francis Dutra estimates that in the early 18th century ‘more than thirty men with maritime services’, mostly on the voyage to India, became knights of the Order of Santiago. Five surgeons who had served in India, three who had served in Brazil and two who had served in Angola also became knights of Santiago; and in 1739

Ubicunque orbis terrarum  17 another who was born in Goa (the Portuguese base on the south-western coast of India) was authorised to receive the knighthood in India.55 By the 1620s men could become members of a military order for defending Portuguese territory against Christians, albeit heretical Christians. A  number of military men who had taken part in the defence of Macau against the Dutch in 1622 were rewarded with authorisations to become knights of Santiago.56 When in 1635 King Filipe III (1621–1640) of Portugal decided to send an armada to drive the Dutch out of Pernambuco (which they had invaded in 1630), he instructed each member of the Order of Christ either to sail on the expedition or provide and equip a soldier to replace him; the commanders of all three Portuguese military orders were also to go in person or contribute a portion of the income from their commanderies.57 Arguably this was the last time that the Order of Christ was involved in action in any sort of holy war.58 Men were also awarded membership for service against the Spanish in the Azores (in 1642), or in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714).59 Men who were born in Brazil or India could also win membership of a military order. In 1631 Baltasar de Aragão de Sousa, born in Portuguese Brazil, became a knight in the Order of Santiago in recognition of his military service in recapturing Bahia from the Dutch in 1625. In 1628 Manuel Gonçalves Doria, an Afro-Brazilian, was awarded a knighthood in the Order of Santiago in recognition of his military service in Bahia in 1624 and 1625, although it was not until 1647 that he received authorisation to take up the award. Another native Brazilian, Henrique Dias, was awarded membership of the Order of Christ in around 1633 in view of his heroic role in the expulsion of the Dutch from Brazil, but the Order refused to approve the award because Dias was black and had been a slave; apparently King João IV awarded him a medal instead. In 1736 membership of the Order of Christ was denied to a military commander from Goa because he was not a native of Portugal, but he was authorised to become a member of the less prestigious Order of Santiago instead. Men could also win membership in recognition of services performed by their deceased relatives; the equivalent award for a woman was to receive as a dowry the right for her husband to hold a knighthood in a military order.60 Many Brazilian indigenous men from north-east Brazil, especially tribal leaders, were awarded a military order habit and even a commandery in Portugal to reward them for their military service for Portugal.61 In short, the Iberian military orders became a royal resource for rewarding political allies and servants for their work in government service. Membership of a military order strengthened the status of those who were already noble and enabled those who were not to rise in status. Becoming a knight of a military order made a man noble, allowing some social climbing in a highly stratified society. In particular, the orders provided a route for non-noble families who had risen to prominence through service in the Indies, Macau, Goa, Angola, or Brazil, and non-Europeans such as the tribal leaders in Brazil, on whose loyalty the royal government relied to retain control of these far-off regions, to gain standing in the home nation. The prospect of membership within the orders was also an incentive to the high nobility

18  The Military Orders Volume VIII to remain loyal.62 How far they were an effective means of social mobility, however, is debated by scholars.63 The Portuguese military orders outside the Portuguese Empire Non-Europeans who were not subjects of the king of Portugal could also be rewarded with membership of a military religious order in view of services rendered, or to confirm a diplomatic relationship and ensure future loyalty or favours. For instance, in 1609 Dom Domingos, eldest son of Olu (King) Sebastian of the trading city of Warri (south of Benin in what is now Nigeria) was knighted and made a member of the Order of Christ.64 The cross was already a familiar symbol in West Africa, featuring prominently in the art of Benin’s northern neighbour, the Yoruba kingdom of Ife, perhaps representing cosmic order and (as the art historian Suzanne Preston Blier has expressed it) ‘the interstices of the human and spiritual worlds’. Ife was already part of the international Mediterranean trading network by 1300, trading silk for Coptic prestige goods, some of which featured cross motifs. Art from Benin also shows figures bearing crosses.65 The spiritual and prestige symbolism of the cross would have given membership of the Order of Christ a particular attraction to the Olu of Warri, quite apart from the advantages of the diplomatic link to the powerful Portuguese. Domingos was the eldest son of the Olu, who had been baptised Sebastian (after the then king of Portugal, King Sebastião I) by Augustinian missionaries. Domingos was sent by his father to Portugal in 1600 to be educated in European ways, to be able to help his father in governing the kingdom. In 1608 his father recalled him, but before departing in 1610 Domingos made a trade agreement on his father’s behalf with King Philip III of Spain (who also ruled as King Filipe II of Portugal from 1598 to 1621), which put Warri on the same terms trade-wise as the Kingdom of Kongo, received the membership of the Order of Christ, and obtained memberships for his father and a brother.66 As Domingos went on to become Olu of Warri after his father’s death, bestowing membership of the Order of Christ on him was a means for the king of Portugal to reinforce what could be a valuable diplomatic and commercial connection in this important trading zone. There were many other such examples within the Portuguese sphere of influence in Africa and India. In 1515 a young Ethiopian nobleman named Ya‘eqob, who had come to Portugal with Mateus the Armenian as ambassadors of Empress Eleni of Ethiopia, was made a knight of the Order of Christ.67 In 1579 one Don Pedro da Silva, described as cavaleiro fidalgo da casa real, homen preto, and embaixador (a noble knight of the royal court, a black man, and emissary of the king of Ndongo) was authorised to become a knight of the Order of Santiago.68 In 1631 Mavura Mhande Felipe, the Portuguese-supported ruler of the Kingdom of Mutapa (now within Mozambique) was granted membership of the Order of Christ, perhaps a reward for his becoming a vassal of the king of Portugal.69 In 1730 Pedro Gy, an envoy of the Moghul emperor from Hindustan with no Portuguese ancestry but whose parents and grandparents were Catholics, was granted authorisation to become a knight of the Order of Santiago.70 These cases indicate that membership

Ubicunque orbis terrarum 19 of a military order was valued by men and social groups outside European culture. The most striking examples come from the Kingdom of Kongo. In the late 15th century the Kingdom of Kongo was, in the words of John Thornton, ‘an extensive and highly centralized kingdom’ with ‘a strong central government’. As in West Africa, the cross was already an important spiritual symbol in Kongo before the Portuguese arrived.71 Consequently the concept of crusading and membership of the Order of Christ were readily taken up by the king as a means of levering power and authority within and without his realm, and by his subjects as readily recognisable indicators of prestige. The kingdom converted to Christianity in 1491, when King Nzinga-a-Nkuwu was baptised as João I; many of his nobles were also baptised. Catholic Christianity became part of the indigenous religion of Kongo. The country educated its own religious elite and was not dependent on outsiders to lead the faith, although the kings appealed to the pope to resolve religious issues.72 Adam Simmons has argued that the second Christian King of Kongo, Afonso I (1506–1543) adopted ‘elements of crusading discourse’ ‘as a political tool’;73 the kings’ interest in crusading reflected their loyalty to the papacy. The Portuguese granted membership of the Orders of Christ and of Santiago to individuals within Kongo as a mark of honour and gratitude for services rendered. In 1512 Pedro de Sousa, who had been ambassador from the King of Kongo to King João II of Portugal in 1493, was made a knight of the Order of Christ.74 In 1550 the master of the Order of Santiago and Avis authorised the lord chamberlain and noble of the king of Kongo’s court, named Luís Peres, to receive the habit and knighthood of the Order of Santiago.75 When Prince Dom Nicolas (d. 1860), son of King Henrique II of the Kongo, visited the Queen of Portugal in November 1845, a portrait produced tirou do vivo (from life) by the artist Pedro Augusto Guglielmi to mark the occasion showed him wearing the cross of the Order of Christ.76 Until 1607 the king of Kongo also bestowed membership of the Portuguese Order of Christ on his own followers. In 1607 King Filipe II of Portugal and his council discussed a request from King Álvaro II of Kongo (1587–1614), communicated through his ambassador Antonio Manuel, to confirm Álvaro’s donations of habits of the Order of Christ to some of his nobles for the many services they had done for him in the wars he had waged against his relatives. King Filipe replied that he did not have the authority to do this, as bequeathing such habits relied on bulls and privileges bestowed by the pope, and the king’s council advised that the king of Kongo should be told that he had gone too far in giving habits without having the king of Portugal’s faculty or permission to do so.77 Álvaro II’s successors must have decided to go directly to the Pope on this matter, as a document of 1617 in the Vatican Library records instructions from King Álvaro III (1615–1622) to Juan Bautista Vives, ‘Protonotario Apostolico’ (Álvaro’s ambassador to the Apostolic See), to obtain papal approval for un ordine militare, contra li Gentili di quelle parti in difesa et aumento della santa fede cattolica (a military order, in defence against the gentiles of those parts and the augmentation of the Holy Catholic Faith). The king would be master, the habit would be white with a red cross of Christ with a sword and an arrow ‘which are the weapons and insignia of the king of that

20  The Military Orders Volume VIII kingdom’, and it would be endowed from his royal revenue rather than from tithes or other ecclesiastical revenues. Members would be allowed to marry, and it would be exempt from visitation by other orders.78 Although the record in the Vatican Library does not include the Pope’s reply, since the Kingdom of Kongo did found its own ‘knighthood of Christ’, the fact that the king’s instructions were preserved among the papal records indicates that the Pope agreed.79 By 1645 the new knighthood of Christ was widespread in the Kingdom of Kongo, as the Capuchin friar Giovanni Francesco Romano noted in his record of the Capuchin mission to the kingdom in that year that there was a large number of knights of the Cross of Christ in the kingdom, the king and even lords of poor condition wore the cross of the Cavaglieri della Croce de Christo (knighthood of the Cross of Christ), and many knights of the Cross of Christ attended on the king at court.80 Membership of the Order brought power and prestige.81 In the early 18th century Marcellino d’Atri, a Capuchin missionary from Atri in the Kingdom of Naples who spent several years in the Kingdom of Kongo, recorded that in 1696 he had seen Kongolese knights of Christ attending on King Pedro IV of Kongo as part of his ceremonial court: di cavalieri, detti dell’habito di Christo, ordine molto stimato e nobile istituito da primi Re Conghesi, che riceverno il battesimo . . . e tenuto sino al presente in molta stima (knights, called of the habit of Christ, a highly esteemed and noble order established by the first Kongolese King who received baptism . . . and held in great esteem until the present).82 The Order of Christ remained part of court ceremonial until the kingdom lost its independence in the late 19th century: when Father António José de Sousa Barroso arrived at San Salvador, the capital city of Kongo, in February 1881 the King invited him to take part in a ceremony of admission to the Order.83 As in Portugal, the kings of Kongo bestowed membership of their Order of Christ to win allies and maintain control over the noble families of the kingdom. Brother Rafael de Castello de Vide, who arrived as a missionary in Kongo in 1780 and remained in the country until 1788, recorded that to make peace in his kingdom in 1787/88 King Álvaro XII (1787–1790/93) agreed to grant the hábito de Cristo (habit of Christ) to the members of the factions who opposed him: they would each receive robes and a sword.84 In contrast, King José I’s (d. 1785) refusal to grant the Order of Christ to the leaders of the rival branch of his family had exacerbated power struggles in the kingdom.85 In the early 1860s King Pedro V (1859–1891) gave habits of the Kongolese Order of Christ to local rulers to win their loyalty.86 For the kings of Kongo, their Order of Christ was a valuable asset. Although – despite the terms of its initial foundation – it does not appear that the Order ever fought non-Christians, as a prestigious military religious institution it supported the king as an upholder of Christianity and obedient son of the pope, its members adorned his court, and its membership rewarded his most loyal and deserving subjects. The symbols carried by members – the cross and the sword – accorded with existing Kongolese culture, proclaimed both their Catholic

Ubicunque orbis terrarum 21 faith and military prowess, and so upheld their prestige among both the Kongolese and Europeans.87 The Kongolese Order of Christ exemplifies how successfully the kings of Kongo adopted and adapted European culture and symbolism to bolster their domestic and international power and prestige. By associating themselves with the Order of Christ and Christ’s Cross, they ensured their standing among the Catholic nations of the globe while preserving their independence of government and culture. Conclusion This survey suggests that the concept and the members of the military religious orders have spread so widely across the globe, both within and outside Christianity, because they have been so adaptable to the needs of both individuals and states. Not only have they protected co-religionists, but they have also provided support to governments and acted as a reward for service to the State, thus supplying a route for social mobility. As religious institutions they have provided a means of spiritual development for their members to a greater or lesser extent and are involved in charitable work; they are generally regarded as prestigious and some hold considerable political influence. Although they no longer fight on the battlefield, in their current role as charitable or state-controlled organisations that reflect and bolster the prestige of their members it appears that their global history is far from over. Notes 1 The Proceedings against the Templars in the British Isles, ed. and trans. H.J. Nicholson, 2 vols (Farnham, 2011), MS A  134r, 136r, 137v, 139v, 142r, 143v, 144v, 145r, 147r, 147v, 148r, 148v, 149r (vol. 1, pp.284, 292, 297, 301, 306, 310, 312, 314, 317, 318, 321, 323, 324; vol. 2, pp.319, 327, 333, 337, 343, 346, 348, 350, 353, 355, 357, 358, 360). 2 ‘Order of Malta’, https://www.orderofmalta.int/ [16 February 2023]. 3 ‘Deutscher Orden’, https://www.deutscher-orden.at/site/lang/en [16 February 2023]. 4 P. Bander van Duren, Orders of Knighthood and Merit: The Pontifical, Religious and Secularised Catholic-founded Orders, and Their Relationship to the Apostolic See (Gerrards Cross, 1995), pp.495–513. 5 Bander van Duren (1995), pp.314–19, 510; see the order’s official website at ‘The Dynastic Orders of the Royal House of Savoy’, https://www.ordinidinasticicasasavoia. it/en/the-dynastic-orders/ [16 February 2023]. 6 Bander van Duren (1995), pp.404–18, 432–37. 7 See, for example, J. Riley-Smith, The Crusades, Christianity, and Islam (New York, 2008), pp.45–61; E. Siberry, ‘Variations on a Theme: Harry Pirie-Gordon and the Order of Sanctissima Sophia’, in MO 7, pp.237–46; the chapter by E. Siberry in this volume; H.J. Nicholson, Knights Templar: A Brief History of the Warrior Order (London, 2010), pp.272–74; R. Wettenhall, ‘The Templars and Australia: Crusading Orders and a Statutory Authority’, Australian Studies, 16 (2001), pp.131–50; ‘Temple Society Australia’, https://templesociety.org.au/about-temple-society.html [16 February 2023]. 8 The Tale of the Heike, translated by H. Kitagawa, 2 vols (Tokyo, 1975); C. Kleine, ‘Evil Monks with Good Intentions? Remarks on Buddhist Monastic Violence and Its Doctrinal Background’, in Buddhism and Violence, ed. M. Zimmermann with C.H. Ho and P. Pierce (Lumbini, 2006), quotation at p.74, and pp.75–76, note 28; S. Turnbull, Japanese Warrior Monks AD 949–1603 (Oxford, 2003).

22  The Military Orders Volume VIII 9 K.Y. Blankinship, ‘Monasticism’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Islamic World (Oxford, 2009), https://www-oxfordreference-com.abc.cardiff.ac.uk/view/10.1093/ acref/9780195305135.001.0001/acref-9780195305135-e-1203 [17 August 2022]. 10 Proceedings (2011), MS A fol. 91r, 134r, 136r, 137v, 139v, 142r, 143v, 144v, 145r, 147r, 147v, 148r, 148v, 149r, 151r–v, 152v, 153r–154r, 156r, 158v, MS C fol. 10v, MS D fol. 174v (vol. 1, pp.181, 284, 292, 297, 301, 306, 310, 312, 314, 317, 318, 321, 323, 324, 329, 330, 333, 334, 335, 337, 340, 346, 404, 412; vol. 2, pp.186, 319, 327, 333, 337, 343, 346, 348, 350, 353, 355, 357, 358, 360, 365, 368, 371, 374, 377, 380, 384, 394, 461, 472). 11 Processus contra Templarios in Francia: Procès-verbaux de la procedure menée par la commission pontificale à Paris (1309–1311), Édition critique, ed. M. Satora, Later Medieval Europe 21, 2 vols (Leiden, 2020), vol. 1, p.246; date on p.244. 12 Processus (2020), vol. 1, p.246. 13 R. Simek, Heaven and Earth in the Middle Ages: The Physical World before Columbus (Woodbridge, 1992); Mandeville’s Travels, ch. 20, ed. M.C. Seymour (Oxford, 1967), p.132; J. Mandeville, The Book of Marvels and Travels, trans. A. Bale (Oxford, 2012), p.80. 14 K.A. Seaver, The Frozen Echo: Greenland and the Exploration of North America, ca. AD 1000–1500 (Stanford, CA, 1996). 15 F. Fernández-Armesto, Before Columbus: Exploration and Colonisation from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, 1229–1492 (Basingstoke, 1987), pp.152, 167. 16 William of Adam, How to Defeat the Saracens/Guillelmus Ade Tractatus quomodo Sarraceni sunt expugnandi, ed. and trans. G. Constable (Washington, DC, 2012), pp.2–3, 102–05, 110–11. 17 The Mission of Friar William of Rubruck: His Journey to the Court of the Great Khan Möngke 1253–1255, trans. P. Jackson, Introduction, notes and appendices by P. Jackson and D. Morgan, Hakluyt Society Second Series 173 (London, 1990), pp.28–30, 42–47, 51; Marco Polo, The Travels of Marco Polo, trans. and intro. R. Latham (Harmondsworth, 1958), pp.16, 24. 18 K. Borchardt, ‘The Military-Religious Orders of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries as an innovative step for Western Religious Life’, in Ordens Militares, Identidade e Mudança: Textes selecionados do VIII Encontro sobre Ordens Militares, ed. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes (Palmela, 2021), pp.163–76. 19 International Mobility in the Military Orders (Twelfth to Fifteenth Centuries): Travelling on Christ’s Business, ed. J. Burgtorf and H.J. Nicholson (Cardiff, 2006). 20 Polo (1958), pp.13–14, 39. 21 J. Schenk, ‘The Documentary Evidence for Templar Religion’, in The Templars and Their Sources, ed. K. Borchardt, K. Döring, P. Josserand, and H.J. Nicholson (London, 2016), pp.199–211; H.J. Nicholson, The Everyday Life of the Templars: The Knights Templar at Home (Stroud, 2017), pp.17–18, 66–70, 73–75. 22 K. Helm and W. Ziesemer, Die Literatur des Deutschen Ritterordens, Gießener Beiträge zur deutschen Philologie 94 (Giessen, 1951), pp.137–38, p.198 note 369, citing Der mitteldeutsche Marco Polo, ed. E. Horst von Tscharner, Deutsche Texte des Mittelalters 40 (Berlin, 1935). 23 G. Leighton, ‘How Global Was Medieval Prussia? An Analysis of the Barlaam and Josaphat Manuscript of the Teutonic Knights at the Turn of the Fifteenth Century’, History, 107 (2022), pp.484–506. 24 J. Sarnowsky, ‘The Teutonic Order Confronts Mongols and Turks’, in MO 1, pp.253–62. 25 A. Luttrell, ‘Juan Fernández de Heredia’s History of Greece’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 34.1 (2010), p.31. 26 R. Crowley, Conquerors: How Portugal Seized the Indian Ocean and Forged the First Global Empire (London, 2015), p.288; E. Rossi, ‘The Hospitallers at Rhodes, 1421–1523’, in A History of the Crusades, ed. Kenneth M. Setton, vol. 3: The Fourteenth

Ubicunque orbis terrarum  23

27 28 29 30 31 32

33 34

35

36

37 38 39

40 41

42 43

and Fifteenth Centuries, ed. H.W. Hazard (Madison, Wisconsin, 1975), pp.331–32; H.J. Nicholson, Knights Hospitaller (Woodbridge, 2001), p.65. R. Cavaliero, The Last of the Crusaders: The Knights of St John and Malta in the Eighteenth Century (London, 1960), pp.124–26. See the chapter by Paula Pinto Costa and Joana Lencart in this volume. E.E. Hume, ‘A Proposed Alliance between the Order of Malta and the United States, 1794’, William and Mary Quarterly, series 2, 16.2 (1936), pp.227–28. D.F. Allen, ‘The Social and Religious World of a Knight of Malta in the Caribbean, c. 1632–1660’, Libraries and Culture, 25.2 (1990), pp.147–57 at 148–49; quotations from Hume (1936), pp.226–27. W. Zammit, ‘The Order of St  John and Its Caribbean Islands, 1653–1665: A  Cartographic Record’, in Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798, ed. E. Buttigieg and S. Phillips (Farnham, 2013), pp.257–58. A.J. Forey, The Military Orders from the Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Centuries (Basingstoke, 1992), pp.25–32; N. Morton, The Medieval Military Orders, 1120–1314 (Harlow, 2013), pp.37–41, 46–52; G. Rossi Vairo, ‘The Dissolution of the Order of the Temple and the Creation of the Order of Christ in Portugal’, Ordines Militares: Colloquia Torunensia Historica. Yearbook for the Study of the Military Orders, 21 (2016), pp.43–60. F. Olival, The Military Orders and the Portuguese Expansion (15th to 17th Centuries), trans. J.W.N. Novoa and M.M. Elbl, Portuguese Studies Review Monograph Series vol. 3 (Toronto, 2018), pp.82–83. L.P. Wright, ‘The Military Orders in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century Spanish Society. The Institutional Embodiment of a Historical Tradition’, Past & Present, 43 (1969), p.41; F. Olival, ‘Afrique du Nord’, in Prier et Combattre: Dictionnaire européen des ordres militaires au Moyen Âge, ed. N. Bériou et P. Josserand (Paris, 2009), pp.51–52. Olival (2018), pp.78–82, 93, 97–98, 152; L. Adão da Fonseca, ‘The Portuguese Military Orders and the Oceanic Navigations: From Piracy to Empire (Fifteenth to Early Sixteenth Centuries’, in MO 4 (2008), p.68; L. Adão da Fonseca, ‘The Portuguese Military Orders, the Royal Power and the Maritime Expansion (Fifteenth Century)’, in MO 5 (2012), pp.405–06; S. Humble Ferreira, The Crown, the Court and the Casa da Índia: Political Centralization in Portugal, 1479–1521 (Leiden, 2015), pp.20–21, 23–24. F. Olival, ‘The Knights of the Portuguese Order of Christ on the Island of Madeira (1640–1755): A  Socio-historical Approach’, in Islands and Military Orders, c.1291– c.1798, ed. E. Buttigieg and S. Phillips (Farnham, 2013), p.128; Olival (2018), pp.101–03, 105–07, 112–13, 114–16 (especially tables 5 and 6), 121–25. Olival (2018), pp.147–53. Humble Ferreira (2015), pp.121, 126–27, 165, 167. Humble Ferreira (2015), pp.120–21, 127; F.A. Dutra, ‘Knights and Commanders and the General Chapters of the Order of Santiago of 1550 and 1564: A Preliminary Study’, in The Military Orders in the Early Portuguese World, ed. F.A. Dutra (Aldershot, 2006), article IV, p.1. Wright (1969), p.35. Fonseca (2008), pp.71–73; Fonseca (2012), pp.409–11. See also Olival (2018); B. Tadeu Salles, ‘A Ordem de Cristo, seus compromissos com a aristocracia e as propostas da Global History: Possibilidades para pensar uma história conectada das Ordens Militares (séculos XII-XVI)’, in Ordens Militares Identidade e Mudança: Textes selecionados do VIII Encontro sobre Ordens Militares, ed. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes (Palmela, 2021), pp.1111–30. A. Luttrell, ‘The Military Orders, 1312–1798’, in The Oxford Illustrated History of the Crusades, ed. J. Riley-Smith (Oxford, 1995), p.332; Olival (2009), p.50. Humble Ferreira (2015), pp.122, 124, 127, 144–45; Olival (2009), p.51; Olival (2018), pp.127–29, 139–40, 143–45, 149; A. Esch, ‘The Early History of Portuguese Expansion

24  The Military Orders Volume VIII

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60

61 62

Reflected in Individual Fates: The Atlantic Islands and the African Coast in Supplications to the Pope (ca. 1440–1510)’, Anuario de estudios medievales, 50.1 (2020), p.156; see also F.A. Dutra, ‘Evolution of the Portuguese Order of Santiago, 1492–1600’, Mediterranean Studies, 4 (1994), p.67 (reprinted in Dutra (2006), article II). Fonseca (2008), p.70; Fonseca (2012), pp.406–07; Humble Ferreira (2015), pp.45, 55. F.A. Dutra, ‘Vasco da Gama and the Order of Santiago’, in Vasco da Gama, Homens, Viagens e Culturas 1 (Lisbon, 2002), pp.540–41, 545–46; reprinted in Dutra (2006), article IX. J.P. Oliveira e Costa, ‘Pedro Álvares Cabral’, in Prier et Combattre: Dictionnaire européen des ordres militaires au Moyen Âge, ed. N. Bériou et P. Josserand (Paris, 2009), p.700; Fonseca (2008), p.71. Fonseca (2008), p.71. Esch (2020), p.163. Esch (2020), p.164. Esch (2020), p.161, and note 28 for the Latin text. Esch (2020), p.168 and note 69. Dutra (2002), pp.540–41, 545–46; F.A. Dutra, ‘The Order of Santiago and the Estado da India, 1498–1750’, in The Portuguese and the Pacific, ed. F.A. Dutra and J. Camilo dos Santos (Santa Barbara, 1995), pp.288, 290, reprinted in Dutra (2006), article XI; Wright (1969), pp.59–60, 62. F.A. Dutra, ‘Membership in the Order of Christ in the Seventeenth Century: Its Rights, Privileges and Obligations’, The Americas, 27.1 (1970), pp.12–16; reprinted in Dutra (2006), article VI. F.A. Dutra, ‘Membership in the Order of Christ in the Sixteenth Century: Problems and Perspectives’, Santa Barbara Portuguese Studies, 1.1 (1994), pp.228–29, 234–36, reprinted in Dutra (2006), article V; F.A. Dutra, ‘The Order of Santiago and the Portuguese Atlantic Islands 1492–1777’, in Portos, Escalas et Ilhéus no Relacionamento entre o Ocidente e o Oriente 2 (Lisbon, 2001), pp.266–67; reprinted in Dutra (2006), article X. On the process of assessing applications for membership of the Military Orders see F. Olival, ‘Inquiring about Honour in the Portuguese Military Orders (Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries)’, MO 5 (2012), pp.427–36. F.A. Dutra, ‘The Order of Santiago in the Age of Pombal’, in Actas. Congresso. O Marquês de Pombal e a Sua Época/Colóquio. O Século XVIII e o Marquês de Pombal (Oeiras/Pombal, 2002), pp.241–50, reprinted in Dutra (2006), article VIII, pp.4, 5–6. Dutra (1995), pp.292, 295. Dutra (1970), p.24. Dutra (1970), p.5. Dutra (2001), pp.269–70; Dutra (2006), article VIII, pp.9–10. F.A. Dutra, ‘A Hard-Fought Struggle for Recognition: Manuel Gonçalves Doria, First Afro-Brazilian to become a Knight of Santiago’, The Americas, 56.1 (1999), pp.91, 92–93, 98–99, 101, 107, 112; Dutra (2001), pp.268, 272, 273; Dutra (1995), p.298; F.A. Dutra, ‘Blacks and the Search for Rewards and Status in Seventeenth-Century Brazil’, Proceedings of the Pacific Coast Council on Latin American Studies, 6 (1979), pp.25–35, at 26–28, reprinted in Dutra (2006), article XIII. See also H. Linares, ‘Imaging Black Knighthood in Early Modern Iberia: Joao de Sá, the African Knight of Santiago in Chafariz d’el rei’, in The Routledge Companion to Race in Early Modern Artistic, Material, and Visual Production, ed. N.R. Jones, C.H. Lee, and D. Polanco (New York, 2025); F.A. Dutra, ‘Dowries of Knighthoods in the Portuguese Military Orders of Santiago and Avis in Portugal and Brazil in the Seventeenth Century’, in Dutra (2006), article XIV. Dutra (1970), p.11; Dutra (2002), p.10, note 23, gives three examples from 1721. F. Olival, ‘The Military Orders and the Nobility in Portugal, 1500–1800’, Mediterranean Studies, 11 (2002), pp.71–88.

Ubicunque orbis terrarum  25 63 Dutra (1979), pp.25–26; F.A. Dutra, ‘The Maritime Profession and Membership in the Portuguese Military Orders in the Late Seventeenth and Early Eighteenth Centuries’, in Marginated Groups in Spanish and Portuguese History, ed. W.D. Phillips Jr and C.R. Phillips (Minneapolis, MN, 1989), p.89, reprinted in Dutra (2006), article XVI; for an alternative view see Olival (2002). 64 A.F.C. Ryder, ‘Missionary Activity in the Kingdom of Warri to the Early Nineteenth Century’, Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 2.1 (1960), p.6. 65 S.P. Blier, Art and Risk in Ancient Yoruba: Ife history, power, and identity, c. 1300 (Cambridge, 2015), pp.57, 61, 96, 152–53(a), 161(c), 241, 282–83, 473n.1, 514n.69; London, British Museum: 16th-century cast brass figure from Benin, Nigeria, wearing cross pendant (Museum Number: E_Af 1949, 46.157). 66 Dutra (1979), pp.30, 34; Ryder (1960), pp.2–3, 4, 5–6. 67 K. Lowe, ‘ “Representing” Africa: Ambassadors and Princes from Christian Africa to Renaissance Italy and Portugal, 1402–1608’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, sixth series, 17 (2007), pp.113–14; V. Krebs, Medieval Ethiopian Kingship, Craft, and Diplomacy with Latin Europe (Cham, 2021), pp.146–47. 68 Dutra (1999), p.93. 69 Dutra (1970), p.12; J. Labard, Bringers of War: The Portuguese in Africa during the Age of Gunpowder and Sail from the Fifteenth to the Eighteenth Century (Barnsley, 2013), pp.186–87. 70 Dutra (1995), p.296. 71 C. Fromont, ‘Under the Sign of the Cross in the Kingdom of Kongo: Religious Conversion and Visual Correlation in Early Modern Central Africa’, RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 59 (2011), pp.115–21; G. Heimlich, ‘The Kongo Cross Across Centuries’, African Arts, 49.3 (2016), pp.22–31. 72 J. Thornton, ‘The Development of an African Catholic Church in the Kingdom of Kongo, 1491–1750’, Journal of African History, 25.2 (1984), pp.147–67, at p.148; J.K. Thornton, ‘The Kingdom of Kongo and the Thirty Years’ War’, Journal of World History, 27.2 (2016), pp.189–213, at 194 (quotations); J. Thornton, ‘The Kingdom of Kongo and Palo Mayombe: Reflections on an African-American Religion’, Slavery and Abolition, 37.1 (2016), pp.1–22; J.K. Thornton, ‘Afro-Christian Syncretism in the Kingdom of Kongo’, Journal of African History, 54 (2013), pp.53–77; J.K. Thornton, ‘The Kingdom of Kongo and the Counter Reformation’, Social Sciences and Missions, 26 (2013), pp.40–58, esp. pp.41–42; J. Thornton, ‘The Military-Political Strategy of the Medieval Kingdom of Kongo’, in Routledge Handbook of Medieval Military Strategy, ed. J.D. Hosler and D.P. Franke (London, 2024), pp.365–75, esp. pp.368–69. 73 A. Simmons, ‘African Adoption of the Portuguese Crusade during the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries’, Historical Journal, 65.3 (2021), p.582. 74 Lowe (2007), pp.112, 113. 75 Dutra (1999), p.93; F.A. Dutra, ‘New Knights in the Portuguese Order of Santiago during the Mastership of Dom Jorge, 1492–1550’, eHumanista, 2 (2002), p.110, 160; reprinted in Dutra (2006), article III. 76 D.L. Wheeler, ‘Nineteenth-Century African Protest in Angola: Prince Nicolas of Kongo (1830?–1860)’, African Historical Studies, 1.1 (1968), p.43; lithograph of the prince’s portrait in Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal: Biblioteca Nacional Digital, at https://purl. pt/1012/3/ (image) and https://permalinkbnd.bnportugal.gov.pt/idurl/1/35012 (catalogue entry) [16 February 2023]; citing E. Soares, Dicionário de iconografia portuguesa (Lisbon, 1947–1960), no. 2176 A. 77 J. Thornton, A History of West Central Africa to 1850 (Cambridge, 2020), p.90, note 3; document in Monumenta Missionária Africana: África Ocidental (1611–1621), ed. A. Brásio, first series, V (Lisbon, 1955), no. 102, pp.291–92. 78 Thornton (1984), p.161, citing instructions from King Alvaro III to Juan Bautista Vives, 25 October 1617, printed in Monumenta Missionária Africana: África Ocidental

26  The Military Orders Volume VIII

79 80

81 82

83 84 85 86 87

(1611–1621), ed. A. Brásio, first series, VI (Lisbon, 1955), no. 101, pp.292–93; original written record preserved in the Vatican, Biblioteca Vaticana, Cód. Vat. Lat. 12516, fol. 67–67v (online at: https://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Vat.lat.12516 [16 February 2023]). L.M. Heywood and J.K. Thornton, Central Africans, Atlantic Creoles, and the Foundation of the Americas, 1585–1660 (Cambridge, 2007), p.173 note 72. Heywood and Thornton (2007), p.173 note 72; text in Giovanni Francesco Romano, Breve Relatione del Successo della Missione de’frati minori Capuccini del Serafico Padre San Francesco al regno del Congo (Milan, 1649), chapters 5, 12, pp.82–83, 102 (online at https://www.digitale-sammlungen.de/en/view/bsb10024659?page=,1 [16 February 2023]). S.H. Broadhead, ‘Beyond Decline: The Kingdom of Kongo in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries’, The International Journal of African Historical Studies, 12.4 (1979), pp.615–50, at p.632. J.K. Thornton, The Kongolese Saint Anthony: Dona Beatriz Kimpa Vita and the Antonian Movement, 1684–1706 (Cambridge, 1998), p.64; Marcellino d’Atri, ‘Giornate apostoliche fatte de me Fra M. d’Atri . . . 1690’, in L’Anarchia Congolese nel sec. XVII. La relazione inedita di Marcellino d’Atri, ed. C. Toso (Genoa, 1984), p.273. J. Cuvelier, L’Ancien royaume de Congo. Fondation, découverte, première évangélisation de l’ancien royaume de Congo, règne du grand roi Affonso Mvemba Nzinga (†1541) (Paris, 1946), p.294. Thornton (2020), p.280, citing Fr. Rafael de Castello de Vide, Viagem do Congo do Missionário Fr. Rafael Castello de Vide, Hoje Bispo de S. Tomé (1788) (text online at: https://www.arlindo-correia.com/021107.html [16 February 2023]), p.297. J.K. Thornton, ‘Mbanza Kongo/São Salvador: Kongo’s Holy City’, in Africa’s Urban Past, ed. D.M. Anderson and R. Rathbone (Oxford, 2000), pp.67–84, at p.73, citing Castello de Vide (1788), p.260. J. Thornton, ‘Master or Dupe? The Reign of Pedro V of Kongo’, Portuguese Studies Review (2011), pp.97–114, notes 27, 30. C. Fromont, ‘Foreign Cloth, Local Habits: Clothing, Regalia and the Art of Conversion in the Early Modern Kingdom of Kongo’, Anais do Museu Paulista: História e Cultura Material, 25.2 (2017), pp.14, 20, 24–25; Fromont (2022), especially 117–19. See also Broadhead (1979), pp.620, 632, 634; A. L’Hoist, ‘L’ordre du Christ au Congo’, Revue de l’Aucam, 7 (1932), pp.258–66.

3

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity, ca.1150–13001 Gordon M. Reynolds

Introduction For Latin Christians, crusade was a highly chivalric endeavour: it fused knightly ideals of piety and martial prowess and became an important aspect of a knight’s prestige.2 In an age where every king was a knight, these ideals soon formed part of many rulers’ ambitions. This ethos was already going into motion when, in the 1130s, Abbot Suger of St Denis wove the language of holy war into his book on model kingship: Deeds of King Louis the Fat. His work instilled an interest in Louis the Fat’s son (Louis VII), who went on to lead the Second Crusade (1145–1150).3 Later kings, like Richard the Lionheart of England and Philip Augustus of France, won acclaim and notoriety for their leadership of the Third Crusade (1189–1192). By the 1200s, Plantagenet, Capetian, and wider Latin Christian dynasties had a crusading benchmark that they strived for. So much so, that the reigns of King Henry III of England and Louis IX of France were frequently coloured by their competition to demonstrate commitment to retaking Jerusalem. Over the course of the High Middle Ages, good kingship became synonymous with participation in crusade. That said, not all rulers were able to commit to going on armed pilgrimage. This is certainly true of the Kingdom of Scotland – none of this realm’s kings, and only a minor number of its nobles, actively partook in crusade.4 Though landholders in medieval Scotland undoubtedly had an interest in holy war, the scarcity of sources regarding their involvement, compared to neighbouring England or France, has generally meant that historians have seldom investigated crusading culture within this kingdom.5 Travelling to the Holy Land, however, was not the only means to become involved in crusading. Royalty, nobility, and commoners demonstrated their enthusiasm for crusade by supporting the movement – often by offering funds to the military orders.6 These orders established a presence in Scotland too, largely due to the benefaction of kings and royal circles. This chapter will examine Scottish royal patronage of the military orders, considering how this practice featured in Scottish rulers’ concepts of good kingship with respect to wider crusading and dynastic ideals.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-4

28  The Military Orders Volume VIII The establishment of the military orders in Scotland King David I  of Scotland (r.1124–1153) is famed for the eponymous Davidian Revolution, bringing a swathe of Anglo-Norman religious, social, artistic, and martial culture to his kingdom.7 David was also aware of another recent ­phenomenon – ­crusading.8 He is known to have associated with people with a keen interest in this. For example, when he assumed kingship, his friend and confidant, John Capellanus, Bishop of Glasgow, attempted a journey to Jerusalem.9 Later, in 1128, David hosted Hugh de Payns, the master of the newly founded Knights ­Templar.10 David apparently offered gold and silver gifts to Hugh to use to support his new enterprise. According to Aelred of Rievaulx, King David later kept members of the Templars in his retinue as advisors.11 David soon embarked on what has been described as a mission of prestige-building.12 He set about distributing lands to a variety of new military orders. Although we cannot be sure of the dating of all of his gifts, he gave the Templars lands in Midlothian to form a commandery – an area now known as Temple.13 David also granted them a church in Inchinnan (Renfrewshire) and three tofts (rural houses with adjoining lands) in St Andrews (Fife).14 To the Hospitallers, David granted land in Torphichen (Lothian) for a preceptory, and possibly also property in Newcastle-upon-Tyne (Northumberland).15 David even granted the Church of St  Giles in Edinburgh to the Knights of St Lazarus. This was a highly significant donation – David Marcombe suggested that this was the first establishment of the Lazarites in the British Isles.16 Indeed, Rory MacLellan has pointed out that, unlike other military orders, the English Lazarite records lack information on their Scottish property, and that this is quite telling. He argues that this indicates that, aside from St Giles’s Church, there were probably more Lazarite houses across Scotland (perhaps founded by Scottish royalty: David I is the only known patron of the order in Scotland during the 1100s), which kept the Orders’ Scottish accounts.17 This religious patronage was not simply a reflection of trends on the ­continent – David held a genuine interest in crusade. It is perhaps no coincidence that he sent ‘friendly letters’ along with a gift of narwhal tusks to Abbot Suger of St  Denys – the literary champion of crusading-kingship.18 Supposedly David intended on accompanying Louis VII’s crusade in 1147, but he was dissuaded from leaving his kingdom.19 There does appear to have been a crusading ‘mood’ in the royal circle. Geoffrey Barrow speculated that David’s royal Steward, Walter Fitz-Alan, joined the Anglo-Flemish crusaders who sacked Lisbon at this time.20 King David’s thoughts certainly lingered on holy war. That same year, he confirmed a grant and dated it by saying it occurred ‘the year that the king of France and many Christians headed to Jerusalem’.21 David’s son, Henry, similarly dated a charter that year with identical language.22 The specific lands that David gave to the military orders are also suggestive of his motivations for engaging these groups. Many of the military orders’ houses in Europe were established on contested frontiers – perhaps in the hope that the knights would defend their benefactors. Yet, as Helen J. Nicholson has noticed,

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity 29 this is not the case in Scotland. None of the Templar or Hospitaller properties were positioned on the Kingdom of Scots’ frontiers with the Highlands or Galloway, which were hotspots for conflict at this time.23 Instead of providing defence, it is plausible that these orders held lands that generated profit and gave a performance, that is, their presence in the heartland of the king’s powerbase displayed his interests and priorities. Many aspects of David’s reign were idealised in Scottish royal circles during the Middle Ages; to future generations, this king became something of an icon.24 His grandsons, and successors, Kings Malcolm IV of Scotland (r.1153–1165), and William the Lion (r.1165–1214), were eager to be seen following in David’s footsteps, and this included patronising the military orders.25 Malcolm confirmed his grandfather’s bequests to these institutions.26 He later granted the Hospitallers a toft in every burgh within his kingdom.27 He too retained these knights as advisors; one of Malcolm’s grants (ca.1160) was witnessed by ‘brother Richard of the Hospitallers and a brother Robert of the Temple’.28 Like David, Malcolm’s interest in pilgrimage and crusade was not simply performative: by 1165, he had taken a vow to make a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, though he would die aged 24, before he was able to depart.29 Malcolm was succeeded by his brother William. He too patronised the Templars, giving them lands in Craigloun (Fife), and in North Ferriby (Yorkshire).30 When William was on the brink of war with King John of England (r.1199–1216) in the winter of 1208, he sent his personal almoner – a financial representative who oversaw charitable donations – to England as his trusted messenger: the man picked was a Templar.31 Templars were routinely appointed as Scottish royal almoners throughout the century, and it has been suggested that this was again a tradition started by David I.32 Like his grandfather in the 1140s, William’s attention hovered over current crusades. In 1190, during the Third Crusade, William issued a charter that he dated by saying it was written while Kings Richard and Phillip were setting off for Jerusalem.33 During the 1100s, the Templars acquired a series of lands across England, and far-reaching privileges throughout Scotland, which must have been given to them by a king (or kings) of Scots.34 Unfortunately, the surviving records are patchy and so the details are obscure, yet it seems that royal patronage was not uncommon. The Scottish nobility at this time offered grants to these orders – and placename evidence suggests that there were far more grants made to the military orders during the Middle Ages than the surviving written records cover – but there is little evidence of widespread enthusiasm.35 Patronising the Templars, Hospitallers or Lazarites may have been a way for Kings of Scots to align their culture of kingship with their counterparts in the rest of Christendom, rather than exhibiting local noble trends. Crusade and 13th-century kingship By the 1200s, crusade and kingship had become ever more culturally intertwined. We see this manifested in the Scottish context. The author of the Melrose Chronicle

30  The Military Orders Volume VIII reported the death of Phillip II of France in 1222 and claimed that Philip had gifted 50, 000 pounds to the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the King of Jerusalem. The chronicler called it ‘a Kingly gift’.36 Kings of Scots were also imbuing their office with crusading overtones. In 1212, as part of a renewed display of Anglo-Scottish friendship, King William had his son, Alexander (r.1214–1249), knighted by King John of England (r.1199–1216). A future king’s induction into knighthood was a highly symbolic event, and this ceremony was staged in a suggestive place – the headquarters of the English Knights Hospitaller, Clerkenwell Priory (London).37 When Alexander II assumed the throne two years later, a new crusade was being organised. Pope Innocent III (r.1198–1216) called for an expedition in 1213, and his legates were preaching in Scotland.38 King John of England himself took the cross along with some Anglo-Scottish nobles.39 Although John’s sincerity may be questioned, pressure would have mounted for the young Alexander to demonstrate backing of the crusade. Patronising the military orders may have been the most painless option – Alexander issued confirmations of all the Templars’ rights in Scotland.40 He issued similar confirmations intermittently in his reign – in 1231 for the Hospitallers, and then in 1236 and 1242 for the Templars, ensuring the latter kept a church at Aboyne (Aberdeenshire).41 There are, however, no known gifts of land by Alexander to these orders. Alexander was more intent on displaying his patronage of the mendicant orders, particularly the Dominicans. Though this order was not as distinctly connected to crusading as the military orders, they (alongside the Franciscans) provided most crusade preachers during the 1200s.42 Alexander was closely associated with Clement, Bishop of Dunblane (the first Dominican to achieve this rank in the British Isles).43 In 1243, Alexander granted the royal garden in Perth and a space within the royal manor in Edinburgh to the Dominicans.44 He also gave the Order lands for a convent in Aberdeen, and a stipend of 10 marks annually (i.e. equivalent to 1, 600 pence in silver) to their brothers in Edinburgh, amongst other grants.45 Keeping this Order close to the royal person was a display of enthusiasm for their wider efforts, but whether crusade preaching was of especial interest is unclear. Alexander III (r.1249–1286) likewise had a more distant relationship with the military orders. In 1262, the papacy attempted to convince Alexander to take the cross himself and encourage the Scottish Church to be more forthcoming in collecting money for the recovery of the Holy Land. Two Dominican preachers, ­Garnerius and Raynerius of Florence, were dispatched to make the case.46 They were not successful in convincing the king to become a crucesignatus. However, the following year, Alexander forgave a fine that had been imposed on the Master of the Hospitallers in Scotland – possibly indicating an attempt to soften his attitude.47 He also confirmed gifts of Aboyne Church and rights on the Templars in 1277, and to the Hospitallers in 1284.48 But, Alexander III’s manner was otherwise somewhat cold.49 English monarchs of this period, particularly Edward I (r.1272–1307) and Edward II (r.1307–1327), appear to have relied less on the Templars than their predecessors.50 Perhaps there was some dissatisfaction with the Order, and Alexander II and Alexander III merely maintained the status quo. It must also be said that after

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity  31 the Templars were disbanded in Scotland in 1309, the Hospitallers took custody of much of their lands and records – but they discarded many of these documents, clouding our view of Templar life.51 Changing attitudes: the First War of Scottish Independence (1296–1328) The relationship between the military orders and the Scottish royalty was in a precarious position at the close of the 1200s. Both the Templars and Hospitallers houses in Scotland were considered part of the English Langue. Likewise, all the masters of Scottish houses appear to have come from England.52 Similarly, it was English administration that extracted (or at least demanded) taxes from Scotland for the aid of the Holy Land – often causing tensions.53 The military orders’ closeness to English leadership would become all the more apparent in the ensuing conflicts of the First War of Scottish Independence. After Alexander III fell from his horse and died in 1286, a succession crisis ensued in the following years, in which King Edward I of England attempted to subjugate the Scottish realm. During this time, the leaders of both the Templar and Hospitaller houses in Scotland quickly did homage to Edward I  at Edinburgh in 1291.54 Armed resistance to Edward I flared up under John Balliol, but the fight was brief. The Scottish nobility capitulated in 1296, and both the Master of the Temple and the Warden of the Hospitallers in Scotland submitted to King Edward.55 Their siding with the English cause was well received by the king: Edward soon ordered the sheriff of Stirling to give three oak trees to the Hospitallers at Torphichen to develop their house.56 The military orders soon became a target for those resisting Edward. William Wallace’s rebellion ignited in 1297, and by March, Wallace was personally issuing letters from Torphichen, having driven off the Hospitallers.57 In 1298, the Master of the Templars in England and the Preceptor of Torphichen joined the English army that fought the Scots at the Battle of Falkirk – both died in the fighting.58 Torphichen supposedly served as a camp for Edward I after the battle.59 People in Scotland may have retained some distrust of these orders during these wars.60 By 1304, the prior of the Hospitallers in England made a petition to Edward I, asking that their brothers in Scotland should be allowed to take refuge in the Castle of Linlithgow – ‘only two leagues from Torphichen’ – if the need arose: perhaps evidence of a hostile populace.61 Donations to the Hospitallers largely ceased in Scotland at this time, again, indicating local frustration with the Order and destabilisation from the war.62 One fascinating charter from the mid-14th century records these tensions. The document explains a land dispute between one Robert Symple and the Hospitallers, concerning a property called Esperston (Lothian) – a piece of land once violently seized by the Templars. The charter details how Brian le Jaye (d.1298), then Preceptor of Temple (Lothian), had forcibly taken the property sometime before 1296 from a widow named Christiana: his men apparently chopped off one of Christiana’s fingers in the act.63 The text went on to claim that when war broke out Brian led a group of Welsh mercenaries against the Scots, and

32  The Military Orders Volume VIII used the chaos of the conflict to murder Christiana’s eldest son in order to bury any claims on Esperston. The Templars had been declared heretical and disbanded in the early 1300s, so later records may be coloured by this demise – nevertheless, local people clearly had long memories of Brian’s wild behaviour.64 It was in this context that Robert Bruce (r.1306–1329) took the Scottish throne, having murdered a rival claimant – John Comyn – within a Franciscan church in Dumfries. Robert’s campaign brought him into direct conflict with the military orders.65 For example, in 1318, Roger Outlaw, Prior of the Hospital in Ireland, was compensated by Edward II of England for the losses he endured fighting against the Bruce invasion of Ireland.66 By 1338, Prior Philip of Thame made a striking report on the Hospitallers’ properties in Scotland – all had been: ‘burned through intense war that has continued over many years’.67 Despite this, Robert had deep connections to crusading culture. His father and grandfather had both been crusaders.68 On his deathbed, Robert asked that his heart be taken to Jerusalem.69 Even his claim to kingship was based on his descent from David Earl of Huntington – a man who patronised the Templars, and who Robert’s contemporaries believed had joined either the Third Crusade or the Albigensian Crusade (he had, in fact, joined neither).70 Perhaps Robert’s desire to live up to crusading ideals was well known – the first time he convened a royal parliament, in 1309, King Phillip IV of France sent emissaries who opened the discussion by proposing a new crusade.71 Robert would have been aware that, meanwhile, English propagandists routinely solicited the Papacy by decrying his campaign as a hindrance upon Christendom.72 He may have felt some need to demonstrate his concern for the wider affairs of Christendom. Robert made only one known grant to the military orders in his reign, but its timing and implications neatly show the importance of these religious houses (and perhaps wider crusading culture) to Scottish kingship. Having won his most triumphant victory at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, Robert finally had a sincere foothold in Scotland. As Michael Penman observed, huge numbers of Scots – who had been reticent to support Bruce or actively fought against him – would have flocked to Robert’s banner.73 Robert had humiliated King Edward II, and was now in a critical position where he needed to consolidate and legitimise his rule.74 He travelled to Dumfries – a town that resonated with his personal sins, having committed murder here on holy ground. Robert met with English representatives and negotiated for the return of his imprisoned wife, daughter, and the Bishop of Glasgow.75 Although this would have been an emotional discussion, it is worth noting that, for medieval rulers, being seen to retrieve captured family members and supporters was an accepted way to display good leadership.76 It was during these crucial proceedings that Robert confirmed all the land and possessions that the Hospitallers had owned in Scotland during the reign of Alexander III.77 The charter even included the lines, ‘lest anyone presume to vex them’ – highlighting how negatively the Bruce faction and their supporters viewed the pro-English Hospitallers.78 To put this grant in context: Robert’s religious patronage was typically directed towards distinctly Scottish saints’ cults, so much so that his benefactions have been viewed as an intentionally anti-English stance.79

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity  33 Robert’s gift to the Hospitallers, then, did not line up with his personal inclinations or political support base, nor would it necessarily have appeased the Scottish people. Instead, Robert may have patronised the Hospitallers to help solidify his status as an ideal king on Christendom’s stage, reflecting not only European trends but the acts of his predecessors in office. Robert was eager to support holy war if, and when, it benefited his kingship – his entire reign was dedicated to gaining formal recognition as king. Only three years after Bannockburn, Pope John XXII (r.1316–1334) entreated Robert to observe a truce with the English, to jointly orchestrate an Eastern crusade. Robert rebuffed the pope, as John had failed to address Robert with his royal title as ‘king’.80 Likewise, Robert’s highly unusual deathbed request – that his heart be carried to Jerusalem – has been interpreted as an elaborate propaganda tactic to promote his kingship.81 He may have held a genuine personal enthusiasm for crusade, however, Robert shrewdly used crusading culture as a bargaining chip to sue for peace and to advance his status as a king on the European stage. Conclusion The 13th- and early 14th-century kings of Scots extended their influence over much of the landmass we now recognise as ‘Scotland’, and the conflicts that erupted at this time set the geopolitical tone for the remainder of the medieval period. Historians have often analysed Scottish royal, cultural, and national identities at this time and especially the decades around 1300; it is only natural, then, for commentators to discuss the similarities before and after this period of change. Modern discussions on this era typically centre on the Bruce dynasty’s propaganda, such as the so-called Declaration of Arbroath – Robert I, his descendants, and supporters all flaunted a supposed lineage of kings who ruled entirely independently of England and English customs.82 We understand now that Scottish kingship reflected all manner of wider Latin Christian trends, all of which were integral to a king’s attempts to validate their rule within and outside of Scotland. Backing crusade and the military orders, however, appears to have formed a little-discussed aspect of Scottish rulers’ attempts to display their links with their Latin counterparts and the romanticised rule of their forebear King David I. This potent duality could have been uniquely useful for a ruler attempting to cultivate the tricky balance of pedigree and relevance. The uses here in creating legitimacy were not lost on Robert I. He patronised the Hospitallers in a period where their popularity was at an all-time low; this is highly suggestive of the ideals that Robert felt would be most critical to his reign and the image he was attempting to cultivate. To take that thought a step further, we may be able to interpret these acts as being suggestive of what Robert felt a Scottish king should do, too. If we reflect that numerous Scottish rulers supported the Templars and Hospitallers, in part, to cement their sense of rulership within Christendom, we uproot other questions that are harder to answer. How, then, did these orders view that aid, and did the military orders’ prestige grow with new royal Scottish patrons? Scotland’s position within the Hospitallers’ English Langue, and both military orders’ decisive

34  The Military Orders Volume VIII siding with the English Crown during the Wars of Independence, suggests that the value of that relationship was a little one-sided. In studying Scotland’s relationship with crusading, however, it is important to contextualise this society’s engagement. We should not downplay this kingdom’s participation; this is an important point for nuancing modern perceptions of Scotland’s impact on the wider world. Our abilities to assess that impact, however, are limited. Medieval Scottish records fared very poorly in the wars of the later Middle Ages and the Reformation. So few medieval documents survive that David I’s latest biographer, Richard Oram, pointed out that our knowledge of much of David’s important religious benefactions (including those of the Templars and Hospitallers) is ‘almost wholly obscure’.83 Nevertheless, there are clear inroads here for re-evaluating the significance of crusading culture and the military orders for medieval Scottish society and constructs of identity – offering dynamic new ways of understanding this kingdom. Notes 1 This chapter benefited greatly from the keen insights and observations of Dr  Emma Trivett and Ms Anna Brow. I am also indebted to Dr Sonny Angus and Dr Laing Croll for their assistance during the filming of the recorded paper that this chapter is based on. 2 J. Naus, Constructing Kingship: The Capetian Monarchs of France and the Early Crusades (Manchester, 2016), pp.28, 39. 3 M.M. Mesley, ‘Performing Plantagenet Kingship: Crusading and Masculinity in ­Matthew Paris’s Chronica Majora’, in Crusading and Masculinities, ed. N.R. Hodgson, K.J. Lewis, and M.M. Mesley (Abingdon, 2019), p.278. 4 D. Ditchburn, ‘Saints and Silver: Scotland and Europe in the Age of Alexander II’, in The Reign of Alexander II, 1214–49, ed. R.D. Oram (Leiden, 2005), p.206. 5 The following studies are exceptions: A. Macquarrie, Scotland and the Crusades, 1095–1560 (Edinburgh, 1985); K. Hurlock, Britain, Ireland and the Crusades, c.1000–1300 (Basingstoke, 2013); G.M. Reynolds, ‘Asking for Forgiveness as an Aspect of Crusade: Case Studies from 13th-century Scotland’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 152 (2023), pp.135–46. 6 J. Schenk, Templar Families: Landowning Families and the Order of the Temple in France, c. 1120–1307 (Cambridge, 2012), pp.203–49. See also: M. Barber, ‘Supplying the Crusader States: The Role of the Templars’, in The Horns of Hattīn, ed. B.Z. Kedar (Jerusalem, 1992), pp.314–26. Rory MacLellan has, however, challenged the idea that there was a correlation between support for crusade and support for the military orders. Nevertheless, supporting the military orders did, in effect, aid crusading culture. See: R. MacLellan, Donations to the Knights Hospitaller in Britain and Ireland, 1291–1400 (London and New York, 2020), pp.27–40. 7 R.D. Oram, David I: King of Scots, 1124–1153 (Edinburgh, 2020); G.W.S. Barrow, Kingship and Unity: Scotland 1000–1306, 2nd edn (Edinburgh, 2015), p.41; R.D. Oram, David I: The King Who Made Scotland, 2nd edn (Stroud, 2009). 8 Barrow (2015), p.91. 9 Early Scottish Charters, ed. A.C. Lawrie (Glasgow, 1905), pp.44–46, no. 50. 10 The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, trans and ed. M. Swanton (London, 2000), p.259. 11 Aelred of Rievaulx, ‘Eulogium Davidis Regis Scotorum’, in Pinkerton’s Lives of the Scottish Saints, ed. W.M. Metcalfe, 2nd edn (Paisley, 1889), p.276. 12 H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Knights Hospitaller on the Frontiers of the British Isles’, in Mendicants, Military Orders, and Regionalism in Medieval Europe, ed. J. Sarnowsky (Aldershot, 1999), p.56.

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity  35 13 The Charters of King David I: The Written Acts of David I King of Scots, 1124–53 and his son Henry Earl of Northumberland, 1139–52, ed. G.W.S. Barrow (Woodbridge, 1999), p.164, no. 234. 14 Charters of King David I (1999), p.164, no. 235; Early Scottish Charters (1905), pp.213–14, no. 268. 15 Charters of King David I (1999), p.164, no. 233; p.166, no. 252. For more on Torphichen Preceptory, see: R. Fawcett, ‘From Preceptory to Parish Church: The Church of the Knights Hospitallers at Torphichen’, in Crusader Landscapes in the Medieval Levant: The Archaeology and History of the Latin East, ed. M. Sinibaldi et al. (Cardiff, 2016), pp.305–22. 16 Charters of King David I (1999), p.166, no. 256; D. Marcombe, Leper Knights: The Order of St Lazarus of Jerusalem in England, 1150–1544 (Woodbridge, 2004), p.34; R. MacLellan, ‘The Leper and the Lion: The Order of St Lazarus in Scotland’, The Scottish Historical Review, 96 (2017), at pp.219–21. 17 MacLellan (2017), pp.223–26. 18 The Acts of Malcolm IV King of Scots 1153–1165, ed. G.W.S. Barrow (Edinburgh, 1960), p.169, no. 79. 19 Macquarrie (1985), pp.17–18. 20 Charters of King David I (1999), p.35. 21 Early Scottish Charters (1905), pp.139–40, no. 178; Charters of King David I (1999), pp.128–29, no. 158. 22 Charters of King David I (1999), p.131, no. 163. 23 Nicholson (1999), p.50. See also: K. Hurlock, Wales and the Crusades, c.1095–1291 (Cardiff, 2011), pp.145–46. 24 Oram (2020), p.407–38. 25 For more on their reigns, see: A.A.M. Duncan, Kingship of the Scots, 842–1292: Succession and Independence, 2nd edn (Edinburgh, 2016), pp.82–126. 26 Acts of Malcolm IV (1960), p.237, no. 202. 27 Acts of Malcolm IV (1960), p.230, no. 193. 28 Acts of Malcolm IV (1960), pp.218–19, no. 174. 29 Acts of Malcolm IV (1960), pp.276–77, no. 265. 30 The Acts of William I King of Scots, 1165–1214, ed. G.W.S. Barrow (Edinburgh, 1971), p.476, nos. 550–51. 31 Walter Bower, Scotichronicon, trans and ed. D. Watt et al. (Aberdeen, 1993–8), IV, p.451. 32 S. Tibble, Templars: The Knights who made Britain (New Haven and London, 2023), pp.35–36. 33 Acts of William I (1971), p.330, no. 319. 34 Acts of Malcolm IV (1960), pp.167–68, no. 71; Charters of King David I (1999), p.166, no. 259. 35 For example, A. Macquarrie, ‘The Bethlehemite Hospital of St. Germains, East Lothian’, East Lothian Antiquarian & Field Naturalists’ Society, 17 (1982), pp.1–10; P. McNiven, ‘Spittal place-names in Menteith and Strathendrick: Evidence of Crusading Endowments?’, Innes Review, 64 (2013), pp.23–38. 36 Chronica de Mailros, ed. J. Stevenson (Edinburgh, 1835), p.140. 37 ‘Annales S. Edmundi a. 1–1212’, in Ungedruckte Anglo-Normanische Geschichtsquellen, ed. F. Lieberman (Strasbourg, 1879), pp.97–155, at p.150; Calendar of Documents Relating to Scotland, 4 vols, ed. J. Bain (Edinburgh, 1881–8), I, p.91, no. 518. 38 Macquarrie (1985), p.34. 39 S. Lloyd, ‘ “Political Crusades” in England, c.1215–17 and c.1263–5’, in Crusade and Settlement, ed. P.W. Edbury (Cardiff, 1985), pp.113–20; Hurlock (2013), pp.94–102. 40 Handlist of the Acts of Alexander II, 1214–1249, ed. J.M. Scoular (Edinburgh, 1959), p.9, no. 2. 41 Acts of Alexander II (1959), p.29, nos. 151–52; p.37, no. 209; p.38, no. 220; p.45, nos. 267–68. See also: A. Taylor, The Shape of the State in Medieval Scotland, 1124–1290 (Oxford, 2016), p.355.

36  The Military Orders Volume VIII 42 C.H. Lawrence, The Friars: The Impact of the Early Mendicant Movement on Western Society, 2nd edn (London and New York, 2013), pp.185–88. 43 A. Ross, Dogs of the Lord: The Story of the Dominican Order in Scotland (Edinburgh, 1981), p.2. Alexander’s contemporary, Henry III of England, was also a keen patron of the friars: D. Carpenter, Henry III: The Rise to Power and Personal Rule 1207–1258 (New Haven and London, 2021), pp.282–85. 44 Acts of Alexander II (1959), p.45, nos. 267–68. 45 Acts of Alexander II (1959), p.59, nos. 380–81. See also: The Acts of Alexander III King of Scots, 1249–1286, ed. C.J. Neville and G.G. Simpson (Edinburgh, 2012), p.186, no. 154; pp.232–33, no. 329; p.234; p.231, no. 323; The Acts of Robert I King of Scots, 1306–1329, ed. A.A.M. Duncan (Edinburgh, 1988), p.689, no. 545. 46 P.C. Ferguson, Medieval Papal Representatives in Scotland: Legates, Nuncios, and Judges-Delegate, 1125–1286 (Edinburgh, 1997), p.115. 47 Acts of Alexander III (2012), p.210, no. 220. 48 Acts of Alexander III (2012), pp.138–39, no. 105; pp.182–83, no. 149. For another lost confirmation, see p.203, no. 185. 49 Alexander repudiated members of his council in 1255, including brother Richard of the Temple: Acts of Alexander III (2012), pp.71–74, no. 22, at p.72. 50 A. Sandys, ‘The Financial and Administrative Importance of the London Temple in the Thirteenth Century’, in Essays in Medieval History Presented to Thomas Frederick Tout, ed. A.G. Little and F.M. Powicke (Manchester, 1925), pp.147–62, at p.159; Parker (1963), p.63; Slavin (2013), p.41. 51 H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Trial of the Templars in Britain and Ireland’, in The Templars: The Rise, Fall, and Legacy of a Military Religious Order, ed. J. Bugtorf, S. Lotan, and E. Mallorquí-Ruscalleda (London, 2021), pp.209–33; H.J. Nicholson, ‘Memories of the Templars in Britain: Templar Charters in Hospitaller Records after the Dissolution of the Templars’, paper presented at the 49th International Medieval Congress, Kalamazoo (2014), pp.1–13, https://doi.org/10.13140/2.1.2765.1204 [11 February 2023]; P. Slavin, ‘Landed Estates of the Knights Templar in England and Wales and Their Management in the Early Fourteenth Century’, Journal of Historical Geography, 42 (2013), pp.36–49; S. Philips, ‘The Hospitallers’ Acquisition of the Templar Lands in England’, in The Debate on the Trial of the Templars (1307–1314), ed. H.J. Nicholson, P.F. Crawford, and J. Burgtorf (Farnham, 2010), pp.233–42; T.W. Parker, The Knights Templars in England (Tucson, 1963) pp.58–59. 52 MacLellan (2020), p.79; H.J. Nicholson, The Knights Templar on Trial: The Trial of the Templars in the British Isles, 1308–1311 (Stroud, 2009), pp.134–35. 53 C. Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 1095–1588 (Chicago, 1988), p.330. 54 Calendar (1881–8), II, p.125, no. 508; H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Hospitallers’ and Templars’ Involvement in Warfare on the Frontiers of the British Isles in the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries’, Ordines Militares, 17 (2012), pp.105–19, at 109–14. See also: Nicholson (1999), p.52. 55 Calendar (1881–8), II, pp.193–215, no. 823, at p.202. 56 Calendar (1881–8), II, p.219, no. 833. 57 The Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland, Vol. I: 1124–1423, ed. T. Thomson and C.N. Innes (Edinburgh, 1844), pp.453–54. 58 William Rishanger, Chronica Monasterii S. Albani, ed. H.T. Riley (London, 1865), pp.188, 415. 59 Blind Harry, The Wallace, ed. A. McKim (Edinburgh, 2003), bk. 11, ll. 63–7 (p.306). 60 M. Penman, Robert the Bruce: King of the Scots (New Haven and London, 2018), pp.40–41. See also: Tyerman (1988), pp.330–31. 61 Calendar (1881–8), II, p.468, no. 1733. 62 MacLellan (2020), pp.55–56, 78.

Reconsidering the military orders and Scottish royal identity  37 63 J. Edwards, ‘The Templars in Scotland in the Thirteenth Century’, Scottish Historical Review, 5 (1907), pp.13–25. 64 See also G.W.S Barrow, ‘The Aftermath of War: Scotland and England in the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries: The Prothero Lecture’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 28 (1978), pp.103–25, at pp.112–15; M.B. Callan, The Templars, the Witch, and the Wild Irish: Vengeance and Heresy in Medieval Ireland (Dublin, 2015), pp.31–77. 65 See generally: C. McNamee, The Wars of the Bruces: Scotland, England and Ireland, 1306–1328 (Edinburgh, 1998). 66 Nicholson (1999), p.53. See also: N. Gallagher, ‘The Franciscans and the Scottish Wars of Independence: An Irish Perspective’, Journal of Medieval History, 32 (2006), pp.3–17. 67 The Knights Hospitallers in England: The Report of Prior Philip de Thame to the Grand Master Elyan de Villanova for A.D. 1338, ed. L.B. Larking and J.M. Kemble (London, 1857), p.129. 68 Macquarrie (1985), pp.58–59; B. Beebe, ‘The English Baronage and the Crusade of 1270’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research, 48 (1975), App A, p.144; R.M. Blakley, The Brus Family in England and Scotland, 1100–1295 (Woodbridge, 2005), pp.81–82; Penman (2018), p.14; Reynolds (2023), pp.139–40. 69 Penman (2018), p.300. 70 K. Stringer, Earl David of Huntingdon: A Study of Anglo-Scottish History (Edinburgh, 1985), App, p.270, no. 87; ‘From Tracts Relating to the English Claims’, in Chronicles of the Picts and Scots, ed. W.F. Skene (Edinburgh, 1867), see section C, p.255. 71 A. Macquarrie, Medieval Scotland: Kingship and Nation (Stroud, 2004), p.166; Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland (1844), p.459. See also: Penman (2018), pp.110–11. 72 K. Stevenson, Power and Propaganda: 1306–1488 (Edinburgh, 2014), pp.25–26; L.H.S. Dean, ‘Projecting Dynastic Majesty: State Ceremony in the Reign of Robert the Bruce’, International Review of Scottish Studies, 40 (2015), pp.34–60, at p.36; Vita Edwardi Secundi, ed. W.R. Childs (Oxford, 2005), pp.134–37. 73 Penman (2018), p.150. 74 This attitude is palpable in the following: John Barbour, The Brus, ed. A.A.M. Duncan, 3rd edn (Edinburgh, 2007), bk 13, ll. 664–70. 75 Acts of Robert I (1988), p.333; Penman (2018), p.156. 76 R. Ambühl, Prisoners of War in the Hundred Years War: Ransom Culture in the Late Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2013), pp.31–39, 128–37. See also: A.J. Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 2012); Y. Friedman, ‘Captivity and Ransom: The Experience of Women’, in Gendering the Crusades, ed. S.B. Edgington and S. Lambert (New York, 2002), pp.121–39. 77 Duncan (1988), pp.332–33, no. 45. 78 Duncan (1988), p.72; MacLellan (2020), pp.79–81. See also: H.J. Nicholson, ‘Holy Warriors, Worldly War: Military Religious Orders and Secular Conflict’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 17 (2019), pp.61–80. 79 Penman (2018), p.326; M. Penman, ‘ “Sacred Food for the Soul”: In Search of the Devotions to Saints of Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, 1306–1329’, Speculum, 88 (2013), pp.1–28. 80 Stevenson (2014), pp.25–26. 81 G.G. Simpson, ‘The Heart of King Robert I: Pious Crusade or Marketing Gambit?’, in Church, Chronicle and Learning in Medieval and Early Renaissance Scotland: Essays presented to Donald Watt on the Occasion of the Completion of the Publication of Bower’s Scotichronicon, ed. B.E. Crawford (Edinburgh, 1999), pp.173–86; MacLellan (2020), p.30.

38  The Military Orders Volume VIII 82 For example, B. Weiler, Paths to Kingship in Medieval Latin Europe, c.950–1200 (Cambridge, 2021), pp.318–20; F. Young, ‘ “A  Nation Nobler in Blood and in Antiquity”: Scottish National Identity in Gesta Annalia I and Gesta Annalia II’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Edinburgh, 2018), pp.139–79; D. Broun, Scottish Independence and the Idea of Britain: From the Picts to Alexander III, 2nd edn (Edinburgh, 2013); D. Broun, ‘The Picts’ Place in the Kingship’s Past Before John of Fordun’, in Scottish History: The Power of the Past, ed. E.J. Cowan and R.J. Finlay (Edinburgh, 2002), pp.11–28; F. Watson, ‘The Enigmatic Lion: Scotland, Kingship and National Identity in the Wars of Independence’, in Image and Identity: The Making and Re-making of Scotland Through the Ages, ed. D. Broun, R.J. Finlay, and M. Lynch (Edinburgh, 1998), pp.18–37. 83 Oram (2020), p.380.

4

Fortified positions of the military orders in the Amanos and Cilicia region Baghras, Trapesac, Çalan, Amuda, and Silifke Castles1 Muhittin Çeken

Introduction The Amanos Mountains form a natural border between Syria and Cilicia, the south-eastern extension of Asia Minor. The region is surrounded by the Gulf of İskenderun in the south and the Taurus, anti-Taurus, and Amanos Mountains in the west, north, and east, respectively.2 With fertile lands, proximity to water resources and commercial routes, this region has long been of geopolitical and strategic significance and has attracted the attention of many powers throughout history.3 In the 12th and 13th centuries, the region was ruled by the Crusader Principality of Antioch and the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia. These neighbouring states were in conflict with each other, and with the Byzantine Empire and the Turkish-Islamic states that sought to dominate the region. Security was therefore a major concern for the Principality of Antioch and Cilician Armenia. In fact, the Amanos Mountains, geographically part of the Taurus Mountain chain, served as a natural line of defence for regional powers. However, mountain passes provided a two-way access from Antioch to Armenia or Asia Minor, making attacks possible and highly likely. Such raids posed a serious security risk. The defence of these passes was therefore vital. In this respect, the presence of fortresses in the region was of great importance. The castles of Baghras, Trapesac, Çalan, Amuda, and Silifke on the Amanos mountain line and the transit routes of the Armenian region of Cilicia were strategically placed to create the desired safe zone. Having such tactically positioned castles was a great advantage for the Principality of Antioch and the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, which needed political and especially military support. The military orders were in a position to provide the support needed. The military orders and the castles of Baghras, Trapesac, and Çalan When I came to your land and inquired to whom the castles belonged, I sometimes received the reply: “This belongs to the Temple; elsewhere I was told: It is the Hospital’s.” I found no castle or city or town which was said to be yours, except three.4

DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-5

40  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 4.1  Location of some castles of the military orders in the Amanos and Cilicia regions.

These were the words of the Armenian King Thoros, who visited the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the 1160s, to King Amaury of Jerusalem. This chapter will explore this aspect of the story of the castles in and around south-eastern Turkey. Baghras (‫بغراس‬/Bağrâs), called Pagrae by Strabo and described as a fortified position on the road from Amanos to Syria,5 is located about 20 kilometres from Antioch.6 It was built at an altitude of 640 metres, just south of the eastern entrance of the Belen Pass (Belen Geçidi), which cuts across the Amanos Mountain range from the north of Antioch and provides the shortest passage to the Syrian border.7 At the same time, it provided direct transportation between Antioch and Cilicia and Anatolia.8 The castle was in the strategic position that connected Antioch along the Gulf of Iskenderun to the ports and settlements in the region,9 and played an important role in ensuring the security of the port of Iskenderun.10 The castle, which was used as a transit and security station during the Umayyad and Abbasid periods, came under Byzantine rule during the period of Emperor Phocas (d. 969). Phocas placed a

Fortified positions of the military orders 41

Figure 4.2  South-east tower of Baghras Castle (photo: the author).

military force of 1, 000 men in the fortress and placed it under the command of Michael Boustzes. It was then captured by the Armenians and Seljuks successively.11 According to Ibn al-Qalanisi (‫)ابن القالنسي‬, al-Azimi (‫)العظيمي‬, and Ibn al-Adim (‫)ابن العديم‬, the Franks carried out their attacks on Antioch and its surroundings via Baghras.12 In other words, the castle was most likely ‘used as a base’ by the Franks and played an important role in the crusader’s incursion into Antioch and its surroundings.13 Baghras is thought to be the first stronghold the Templars held in Amanos. In the absence of a surviving charter, the date when the castle fell in the hands of the Templars cannot be determined, and this issue is still debated by historians.14 The fact that the Templars were responsible for the northern defensive line of the Principality from the 1130s onwards has led to some speculation that the castle was given around this time. However, the general opinion is that Baghras was given to the Order in the 1150s.15 Although not certain, one of the developments that makes

42  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 4.3 View of the Syrian border as seen from the summit of Baghras Castle (photo: the author).

the 1150s seem more plausible is the collapse of the Crusader Lordship of Marash around this time. This was because the Lordship of Marash served as a buffer zone between Antioch and the Seljuks of Anatolia. The disappearance of Marash created the risk of direct confrontation between the Principality and the Seljuks. For this reason, it could be that the Principality tried to keep this region safe by handing over the fortified positions on the northern line to the Templars. Between 1150 and 1170, the Templars and Armenians fought each other to obtain or retain possession of this important stronghold. It did fall to the Armenians during these years, but the Templars retook it and held it until 1188, when it fell to Muslim forces.16 Baghras was one of the castles captured in the region by the Muslim armies that came to besiege Antioch in 1188 under the leadership of Saladin (‫صالح الدين األيّوبي‬/Salâhaddîn-i Eyyûbî). Muslim historians Imâd ad-dîn al-kâtib al-Iṣfahânî (‫)عماد الدين اإلصفهاني‬, Ibn Al-Athîr (‫ابن األثير‬/İbnü’l Esir), Ibn Shaddad

Fortified positions of the military orders  43 (‫ابن شدّاد‬/İbn Şeddâd), Abū Shāma (‫أبو شامة‬/Ebû Şâme), and Ibn Wāsil (‫ابن واصل‬/İbn Vâsıl) have provided some details about the siege of Baghras. According to these historians, who praised the strategic significance and fortifications of Baghras, there was no difference between besieging the castle and besieging Antioch. During the siege, Muslim forces patrolled the borders of Antioch to prevent aid from coming to the castle. With their lines of communication cut off, the Templars sued for peace.17 They surrendered the castle on 26 September 1188 in exchange for safe passage to Antioch. Once in possession of the stronghold, the Muslim forces fortified it and left it under the command of Alam ad-Din Sulaiman bin Jandar (Alumiddin Süleyman b. Candar). Some of the aforementioned historians were amazed by the alleged amount of grain seized (twelve thousand sacks).18 The Eastern sources bear slight differences in their accounts of the siege of the Baghras Castle by Saladin (d. 1193). In essence, however, there is agreement. The strategic location of Baghras and its importance for the security of the Principality of Antioch were issues on which these sources agreed.19 After the fall of Baghras, the Principality sought to make peace and agreed to release one thousand Muslim prisoners in exchange for a treaty.20 This was one of the indicators of the importance of the castle for the security of the Principality. Muslim rule over Baghras was quite short-lived. Saladin felt that the castle was harming the Muslims and ordered its destruction. His decision was likely motivated by the Armenian threat and the danger of an approaching crusader army. The Armenian King Leon (d. 1219) took advantage of this opportunity to rebuild and strengthen it.21 This led to a new deterioration of relations between the Templars and the Armenians, who demanded that Leon hand over Baghras to them. However, the king did not want to lose this strategic stronghold which controlled the passage to the Principality of Antioch.22 The castle could be used by the Armenians as a base from which to carry out raids on neighbouring states, especially Antioch and Aleppo.23 The conflict between the Templars and the Armenian king escalated into a diplomatic issue that required papal intervention. Pope Innocent III (d. 1216) accused the king of failing to return Baghras and of attacking the Order’s property in the region. The Pope justified the antagonistic stance of the Templars towards the King and would not make concessions to him. He therefore used a harsh diplomatic language towards the King. The Pope warned the King that he was acting unlawfully and that he must return the castle, or he would face serious consequences. Eventually, Leon was excommunicated for his actions towards the Templars and under intense pressure from the papacy, could not resist any longer and returned the castle to them in 1216.24 Baghras remained in their hands until 1268. According to Ibn Abd al-Zahir (‫ابن عبد الظاهر‬/İbn Abdüzzâhir), in 1268, the Templars abandoned the castle, leaving all ammunition and provisions as they had done three-quarters of a century earlier. The fortress was completely evacuated except for an old woman. What surprised Ibn Abd al-Zahir was the amount of merchandise found in the castle. According to him, such an amount of purveyance could not be preserved anywhere else.25 The Mamluk historians al-Maqrizi (‫المقريزي‬/ el-Makrîzî) and Ibn al-Furat (‫ابن الفرات‬/İbnü’l-Furât), confirming the information

44  The Military Orders Volume VIII given by Abd al-Zahir, state that the Templars surrendered the castle with all its booty without resistance.26 The information given by these historians coincides with the information about this event in the Catalan version of the Rule of the Templars. 27 According to the Rule, the Commander of the Land of Antioch, Gueraut de Saucet, had learned that Baybars (d. 1277) was moving towards Antioch with a large army. The Commander sent news to the Master and asked for the support of soldiers and ammunition. When the expected help did not come, the Templars handed over the castle to Baybars.28 The constant contention for ownership dictated the fate of the castles in this region. Trapesac (‫دربساك‬/Derb-i Sâk), another castle held for some time by the Knights Templar on the Amanos Mountain line, had a similar fate. Trapesac is located 10 miles to the east of Baghras Castle.29 The name of the fortress was a combination of darb/derb (‫ )درب‬meaning ‘road’,30 and sak (‫ )ساك‬meaning ‘mountainside’. Thus, the name ‘Derb-i Sâk/‫ ’دربساك‬meant ‘the road passing through the mountain’. It has also been referred to as ‘Deyr Bessak’, which means ‘house of high priests-church’.31 Its location, surrounded by rich vegetation and the proximity to the fertile plain of Amik, as well as its position on a route that provides direct passage from the Amanos to Syria, made the castle geopolitically and strategically important.32 The fact that the mountain road from the Gulf of Iskenderun ensured the eastern and the northern entrances of the Belen Pass was another factor that increased the strategic importance of the castle.33 Seljuk Turks held it in 1084. It fell into Latin hands after the First Crusade.34 Again, the date when this stronghold passed to the Order of the Temple is not known. It was likely in Templar hands around the same time as Baghras Castle. Trapesac fell to Muslim forces in 1188 during Saladin’s campaign to take Antioch. According to Muslim historian al-Isfahânî, Muslims on the Demir Köprü (‫جسراحديد‬/Cisrü’l-Hadîd) reached the area after a few days and attacked the Tem� plars (‫ )الداوية‬in the Trapesac Castle,35 which was described as Baghras’s sister (‫)أخته دربساك‬.36 The position and fortifications of the castle made the task a daunting one for Muslims. The Muslim forces kept a constant shower of boulders from catapults. This, coupled with the mining strategy beneath one of the walls, had the desired effect. Despite the brave resistance of the Templars, they had no choice but to surrender on 13 September 1188, when the wall collapsed. The Templars were granted safe passage to Antioch in exchange for the stronghold. Muslim historians rapturously celebrated the victory in their books, describing Trapesac as impregnable, and therefore even more prestigious. They also claimed that the castle contained significant booty since the Templars had used it as a grain store.37 The use of Trapesac as a base in the campaign against the Armenians shows that the castle was still in Muslim hands in 1205. In 1237, the Templars sought to wrest it back from the Muslims. The expedition failed, and according to Matthew Paris, more than a hundred knights lost their life in battle.38 Kristian Molin claims that this incident ranks among the worst events in that Order’s history.39 In 1261, the castle was captured by the Mongols and given to the Armenians of Cilicia.40 Another fortified position held by the Knights Templar on the Amanos line was Çalan Castle, also known by the names of Şuğlan, Çıvlan, and Şıvlan.41 The castle,

Fortified positions of the military orders  45

Figure 4.4  View of the plain of Antioch from Trapesac Castle (photo: the author).

which was built on cliffs at an altitude of about 1, 200 metres, is thought to have been constructed to control the passage known as ‘Hajar Shuglan’.42 The fortress of Trapesac protected the south-east of Çalan. It is not known what this castle was called during the Crusader period. This issue is highly debated among historians. Some claim that Çalan is La Roche de Roissol, while others argue that it is the Roche de Guillaume.43 The area where the castle is located is also called Hacar Şuğlan (Hadjar Shouglan/Choglan). Some modern scholars contend that Hacar Şuğlan was in fact the Castle of Çalan.44 This name, which is of Arabic origin, means stone (‫حجر‬/hacar), workmanship (şuğlan). The name Çalan/Şalan/Chilvan is probably the corruption of the word ‘şuğlan’ over time. The area where Çalan Castle is located is famous for its large stones, and there are many stone quarries there even today. There is little information about Çalan Castle during the time when it was held by the Knights Templar. Again, it is not known when the Templars settled here. The

46  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 4.5 Distant view of Çalan Castle, which is almost impossible to reach due to its high location (photo: the author).

Templars provided support to the Armenians in their struggle with the Seljuks in 1154, thus it can be deduced that by that date the Templars were safely ensconced in the castle.45 Unlike Baghras, Trapesac, and other fortresses in the region, Islamic sources do not mention Çalan among the fortresses captured by the Muslims in 1188, so it is not known whether it was captured or not. On the other hand, it is also possible that Çalan was known by a different name. Bekas and Shugur (Şuğur), also known as the twin castles, were certainly captured by the Islamic armies at that time.46 Particularly, Shugur shares similar characteristics with Çalan in terms of its location and more strikingly the name Shugur closely resembles the name ‘Shouglan’, by which Çalan was also known. Therefore, it can be argued that Çalan was also captured and mentioned by a different name. Nevertheless, the available information remains quite insufficient to definitively establish that these two are the same castle.47 Another possibility was that the fortress was ignored by the Islamic

Fortified positions of the military orders  47 armies because of its inaccessible high position. For this reason, the name of this fortress is not mentioned in the sources. The castle was a point of contention in the struggles between the Principality of Antioch and the Armenians of Cilicia. When the Templars challenged the Armenian attack on Antioch in 1203, the Armenians retaliated and captured the castle.48 However, Armenian control did not last long, and the castle soon fell back into Templar hands. In 1237, the Templars used it as a base from where to launch an expedition to take Trapesac Castle from the Muslims. It is believed that the castle saw further hostilities during the 13th century when it was caught in the midst of the struggles between the Muslims and the Armenians.49 There is, however, little information to go on. Çalan is a stronghold important enough to be the subject of popular culture in Turkey. The most important example in this context is the novel Çete by Refik Halit Karay, one of the most important writers of 20th-century Turkish literature. Karay, who claims to have realised his narrative about Çalan in the light of the information provided by military historians, depicts the strategic position of the castle and its importance for the region in a literary style. According to Karay, the castle dominated all the passes in the region and could be easily defended from all four sides. Calling it an ‘eagle’s nest’, Karay stresses its strength by saying that a small garrison could defend the castle against a large army. He emphasised that the castle played a major role in the struggles between the Armenians, Byzantines, and Franks during the Crusader Principality period of Antioch. These statements by Karay are valuable for a better understanding of the strategic importance of the castle; however, in his novel, the author provides information that is not found in or supported by any academic studies and claims that Çalan Castle was built by the Templars.50 Karay’s claim was probably based on the widespread opinion among the local population in that region. Therefore, this information should be treated with scepticism. However, it is important to understand how the activities of the Templars in the region through this castle, even after nearly eight centuries, have remained in the memory of the people and have become the subject of popular culture. The topography of Amanos and Cilicia lent itself to erect strategic strongholds. The region is mountainous with narrow passes. Large armies were forced to use a limited number of passages. The castles of Baghras, Trapesac, and Çalan were in a position to control all of these.51 In particular, the security of the borderline between Cilicia and Aleppo, which constituted a key border point for Antioch, was extremely significant for the Principality.52 The castles of Baghras, Trapesac, and Çalan, dotted at intervals of about 20 kilometres, formed a secure area of some 60 kilometres north of Antioch. It is possible to say that these castles had a deterrent effect in preventing or at least controlling the raids that could pose a threat to the Principality.53 Indeed, contemporary historians Abū Shāma and Ibn Wāsil both described Bagras and Trapesac as ‘two wings of Antioch and the strongholds of the armed infidels’ in a comment which they attributed to al-Iṣfahânî.54 It was the Templars who manned this area for a significant part of the 12th and 13th centuries. The Principality of Antioch tried to create a formidable first line of defence against Muslim powers, and especially Armenian attacks. However, donating the castles to the

48  The Military Orders Volume VIII Templars did not render the region impregnable, nor did it guarantee that relations between the Templars and Antioch were always smooth. The attacks by Muslims and Armenians alike sometimes led to political and military complications which involved the Principality of Antioch, as well as the Templars. Despite this, the Principality aimed to benefit from its relations with the Templars since it meant it could rely on a professional fighting force manning these daunting defensive structures. It was hoped that the Templar presence in the area could act as a deterrent to enemies. However, while the Templars did resist some attacks and gain time for the Principality, it is debatable whether they made the expected contribution to Antioch’s security.55 What is certain, however, is that the cooperation between the Principality and the Templars was not enough to protect Antioch from Baybars’ attack in 1268. The military orders and the castles of Amuda (Hemite) and Silifke The castle of Amuda/Amouda is in today’s Osmaniye province, while that of Silifke is in Mersin province. Positioned in the centre of the plain containing the Armenian Kingdom, Amuda Castle commanded control over the routes from Amanos to Sis.56 Its location on these routes and its proximity to the Ceyhan River made the castle strategically important. In April 1212, the castle, which is understood to have been one of the important administrative centres of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, was donated, together with the surrounding lands and properties, by the Armenian King Leon to the Teutonic Knights, the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem founded in Acre in 1190. However, this date was probably when the charter of donation was drawn up. It is likely that the Teutonic Knights were already managing the castle before. In fact, Wilbrand of Oldenburg, who visited the region in 1211, wrote that the castle already belonged to the Teutonic Knights at that point.57 It is possible to consider King Leon’s donation of the castle to the Order as a diplomatic ruse. Relations between King Leon, the Principality of Antioch, and the Temple were soured because of Baghras, so it seemed quite rational for King Leon to seek support in the face of these circumstances. The Teutonic Knights were an ideal ally for the king. An alliance with the Teutonic Order could have secured the support of the Holy Roman Empire and restored relations with the papacy. In addition, together with the Principality of Antioch, the support of a military force in the region could be a useful balance against the power of the Templars and offer stronger resistance to Muslim attacks. Therefore, Amuda Castle served both military and diplomatic strategies. Amuda enabled King Leon to achieve an international alliance, and, with the help of the Teutonic Knights, he strengthened the line of defence of the kingdom and provided security to the people of the region against enemy attacks coming from the north-east.58 Amuda Castle was surrounded by fertile land and was very close to the routes where intensive commercial activities were carried out. Thus, rather than its military function, the castle’s primary purpose is thought to have been to protect the local economy.59 The castle being in such a fortunate position certainly offered significant economic advantages to the Teutonic Order that managed it. Wilbrand of Oldenburg underlined this point when he visited the region in the early 13th century. For instance, he mentioned that the castle was close to the Ceyhan River,

Fortified positions of the military orders 49

Figure 4.6  View of Ceyhan River from Amuda Castle (photo: the author).

which contributed greatly to meet the Order’s need for fish.60 The castle allowed the Order to achieve a military and economic significance in the Armenian Kingdom, and to move freely in the region.61 Amuda Castle remained in Teutonic hands for more than half a century, until it fell to the Mamluks during Sultan Baybars’ expedition in the region in the 1260s. The Muslim historian, Ibn al-Furat, confused the Teutonic Knights with the Knights Templar in his description of the capture of the castle by the Mamluk army. He stated that 2, 200 people were living in the castle area during the Mamluk attack and that some of them were killed and some were taken prisoner. Praising Amuda’s fortifications, al-Furat said that the castle was set on fire after its occupants were put to the sword.62 Another castle used by the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia as a means for forging alliances was Silifke. The strategic importance of this castle was enhanced by the fact that it controlled the few roads that allowed passage through the Cilician

50  The Military Orders Volume VIII region from the west and linked Cilicia to the coastal regions.63 Alexios Komnenos (d. 1118) fortified the castle in order to strengthen Byzantium’s position in Western Cilicia and to safeguard its commercial interests in the Levant. The castle frequently changed hands between Byzantium and the Armenians, but it was definitely under Armenian rule towards the end of the 12th century.64 In 1210, the Armenian King Leon donated the town of Silifke and Silifke Castle along with all its rights to the Hospitallers. This donation was approved by Pope Innocent III.65 The basis of this donation was undoubtedly military interests. With this move, King Leon both protected the kingdom’s western borders against the Seljuk raids that had been raging for a long time and gained an ally he could trust to protect his country when he ventured on campaigns in northern Syria. He also gained the support of a significant force against the Principality of Antioch and the Templars, with whom relations were poor. In return for King Leon’s generous donation, the Hospitallers provided him with military support in case of need. The fact that the Hospitallers

Figure 4.7  Silifke Castle (photo: the author).

Fortified positions of the military orders  51 allocated 400 knights in aid of the Armenian Kingdom against the Seljuk attack in 1216 serves as a concrete example of the military support that the Order provided. The Hospitallers stayed for sixteen years in Silifke Castle, where they had settled in 1210 and rebuilt it in their architectural style. They sold the castle to the Armenian Baron Constantine in 1226.66 Conclusion The donation of the castles of Baghras, Trapesac, Çalan, Amuda, and Silifke to the military orders, in regions dominated by the Crusader Principality of Antioch and the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, was a survival policy adopted by states locked in intense struggles over sovereignty. The Principality of Antioch and the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia resorted to the strategy of donating these castles to military orders in order to protect themselves against external attacks and interventions. This strategy of the two neighbouring states laid the groundwork for the military orders to settle and become part of the military, political, and economic activities in the region.67 In short, mutual need and interest played a role in shaping the military and political events in this volatile area. From this perspective, collaboration resulted from needs concerning security and sovereignty, as dictated by a challenging geography. The strategic position of these castles, combined with military, political, and economic aspects, shaped the stories of these places and the people involved with them. While it is the subject of modern historical debate as to whether such donations yielded the desired results for the states concerned, it did seem like a pragmatic option at the time. Such castles are the only remaining physical evidence of the influence the military orders once exerted in Anatolia. However, many are in a poor state of conservation. One of the goals of this study is to draw attention to these structures. In addition, this chapter hopes to encourage interdisciplinary study with the contribution of scholars from various fields of history, archaeology, art history, and geography. Such an approach would help shed light on these strongholds, enabling a holistic approach to the study of the fortified positions of the military orders in the Amanos Mountain line and the Cilicia region. This endeavour has acquired increased urgency in the wake of the devastating earthquake of February 2023, wreaking further damage to these castles. The photos that appear in this chapter were taken prior to the earthquake and therefore represent important documentary evidence of the state of these structures, and may prove useful in any initiative aimed at their conservation. By following the vicissitudes of the military orders in these castles, it is possible to add a further dimension to the writing of Crusader history. Notes 1 This study was supported by TUBITAK (Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey) within the scope of BİDEB-2219. I  would like to thank Dr  Andrew D. Buck and Dr Adrian Scerri for reading this text and offering their advice on it. I am also grateful to Dr Musa Gümüş, Dr Tülay Yürekli, Onuralp Şahan, and A. Onur Çalışır for listening to my ideas and sharing their thoughts with me.

52  The Military Orders Volume VIII 2 The Geography of Strabo, trans. H.L. Jones, vol. VII (London, 1930), 16.2.1. K. Molin, Unknown Crusader Castles (New York and London, 2001), p.152. 3 Ibn Havkal, 10. Asırda İslam Coğrafyası, trans. Ramazan Şeşen (Istanbul, 2014), p.157. P. Pınarcık, ʽGeç Hitit Dönemi’nde Toroslardan Amanoslara Uzanan Bölgedeki Ekonomik Faaliyetler’, Belleten, 294 (2018), pp.384–85. 4 Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le trisorier, ed. L. de Mas Latrie (Paris, 1871), pp.27–28, as quoted in A.J. Forey, The Military Orders: From the Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Centuries (Toronto and Buffalo, 1994), pp.59–60. 5 The Geography of Strabo (1930), 16.2.8. 6 Ebü’l-Fidâ Coğrafyası, trans. Ramazan Şeşen (Istanbul, 2022), p.220. 7 A.J. Boas, Archaeology of the Military Orders (Routledge, 2006), pp.139, 242. F. Müderrisoğlu, ‘Bir Osmanlı-Türk Şehri Olarak Belen’, Vakıflar Dergisi, 24 (1994), p.237. M. Çeken, ʽTapınak Şövalyeleri ve Bağrâs Kalesi: Yayılma Stratejilerinin Askerî Örüntüleri’, Manisa Celal Bayar Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Dergisi, 20 (2022), p.154. 8 C. Cahen, La Syrie du Nord à l’époque des croisades et la principauté franque d’Antioche (Paris, 1940), p.141. 9 B.K. Molin, ʽThe Role of Castles in the Political and Military History of the Crusader States and the Levant 1187 to 1380’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, the University of Leeds School of History, 1995), p.232. 10 According to Robert W. Edwards, the possession of Baghras Castle also meant dominance over the Port of Iskenderun. Edwards does not find it objectionable that the Port of Iskenderun was referred to as a Crusader port during the period when the Crusaders dominated Baghras. R.W. Edwards, The Fortifications of Armenian Cilicia, in Dumbarton Oaks Studies, XXIII (Washington DC, 1987), p.39. 11 A.W. Lawrence, ʽThe Castle of Baghras’, in The Cilician Kingdom of Armenia, ed. T.S.R. Boase (Edinburgh and London, 1978), pp.39–41. According to Yahya of Antioch, Baghras held importance for raids against Antioch and its surroundings, and for this reason, the Byzantines had stationed troops there. Histoire de Yahya-Ibn Sa’id D’Antioche Continuateur de Sa’id Ibn Bitriq, ed. J. Kratchkovsky and A. Vasiliev, Patrologia Orientalis (Paris, 1924), pp.816–17. 12 İbnü’l-Kalânisî, Târîhü Dımaşk, critical edition. S. Zekkâr (Damascus, 1983), pp.218–19. A. Tarihi, Selçuklular Dönemiyle İlgili Bölümler, trans. A. Sevim (Ankara, 2006), p.37. İbnü’l Adîm, Zübdetü’l-Haleb min tarihi Haleb, Dârü’l Kütübi’l İlmiye (Beirut, 1996), p.237. 13 Lawrence (1978), p.41. A.U. De Giorgi, A. Asa Eger, Antioch: A History (London, 2021), p.354. 14 A.D. Buck, ‘The Military Orders and the Principality of Antioch’, in MO 7, pp.286–88. 15 J. Riley-Smith, ‘The Templars and the Teutonic Knights in Cilician Armenia’, in The Cilician Kingdom of Armenia, ed. T.S.R. Boase (Edinburgh and London, 1978), pp.93–95. Forey (1992), p.61; J. Upton-Ward, ‘The Surrender of Gaston and the Rule of the Templars’, in MO 1 (Aldershot, 1994), p.181. M.-A. Chevalier, ʽLes Ordres Religieux-Militaires et les Pouvoirs Arméniens En Orient (XIIe-XIVe siècles)’, in Élites et ordres militaires au Moyen Âge, ed. P. Josserand, L.F. Oliveira, and D. Carraz (Madrid, 2015), pp.334–35. A.D. Buck, The Principality of Antioch and Its Frontiers in the Twelfth Century (Woodbridge, 2017), pp.29–30. Çeken (2022), pp.156–57. J. Burgtorf, ‘The Military Orders in the Crusader Principality of Antioch’, in East and West in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean I, ed. K. Ciggaar and M. Metcalf (Leuven, 2006), pp.223, 233. 16 Burgtorf (2006), pp.233–34. S.J. Wilson, ‘The Latin Principality of Antioch and Its Relationship with the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, 1188–1268’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, the University of Nottingham Trent, 2016), p.82. 17 Although Ibn Shaddad and Abū Shāma did not give numbers, they mentioned the presence of many soldiers in the castle. See B. İbn Şeddâd, en-Nevâdirü’s-sulṭâniyye ve’l-meḥâsinü’l-Yûsufiyye (Cairo, 2012), p.62. Compare the Turkish version İbn

Fortified positions of the military orders  53

18

19 20 21 22 23 24

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Şeddâd, Kâtibinin Gözünden Sultan Selâhaddin Eyyubi, trans. A. Usta (Istanbul, 2021), p.125. Ebû Şâme el- Makdisî, Kitâb el- ravzateyn fî aḫbâri’d-devleteyn, vol. IV, critical edition. İ. ez- Zeybek (Beirut, 1997), p.40. However, Abu’l-Farac states that, unlike the others, the castle was surrendered because there were not enough soldiers. See Gregory Abu’l-Farac, Abu’l-Farac Tarihi, vol. II, trans. Ö.R. Doğrul, TTK (Ankara, 1950), p.449. İmâd ed-dîn el-kâtib el-İsfahânî, El-Fethu’l-Kussî fi’l-Fethi’l-Kudsî: Hurûbu Salahaddin ve Fethu Beyti’l-Makdis (Dâru’l-Menâr, 2004), pp.139–41. İbn Şeddâd (2012) pp.62–63. İbn Şeddâd (2021), pp.125–26. İbnü’l Esir, El Kâmil Fi’t-Tarih Tercümesi, XII, trans. A. Ağırakça-Abdülkerim Özaydın (Istanbul, 1987), pp.23–24. İbnü’l Adîm (1996), p.416. İbn Vâsıl, Müferricü’l Kurûb fi ‘Ahbari Beni ‘Eyyûb, vol. II, critical edition. C. ed- Din el- Şeyyâl (Cairo, 1957), pp.268–69. Ebû Şâme (1997), pp.40–42. Çeken (2022), p.158. el-Makrîzî, es-Sülûk li-maʿrifeti düveli’l-mülûk, Dârü’l Kütübi’l İlmiye, vol. I, critical edition M. Abdülkadir ‘Ata (Beirut, 1997), pp.213–14. İbnü’l-Esir (1987), pp.23–24. Abu’l-Farac (1950), pp.457–58. R. Şeşen, Selâhaddin Eyyûbî ve Devlet (Istanbul, 1987), pp.127–28. Lawrence (1978), p.44. P. Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés en Terre Sainte III: La défense du comté de Tripoli et de la principauté d’Antioche (Paris, 1973), p.359. İbnü’l Esîr (1987), p.24. Lawrence (1978), p.44. Upton-Ward (1994), p.182. Çeken (2022), p.159. J.P. Migne (ed.), Patrologiae cursus completus sive biblioteca universalis, integra, uniformis, commoda, oeconomica, omnium SS. Patrum, doctorum scriptorumque eccelesiasticorum, vol. 216 (Paris, 1891), no. 45, 64, col.54–56, 430–31; Riley-Smith (1978), pp.101–07. İbn Abdüzzâhir, Kâtibinin Gözünden Sultan Baybars, trans. A. Usta (Istanbul, 2021), p.233. el-Makrîzî, II, p.52. Ibn al- Furât, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders: Selection from the Tarikh al-Duwal wa’l Mulûk I-II, trans. J.S.C. Riley-Smith (Cambridge, 1971), p.127. The Catalan Rule of the Templars: A Critical Edition and English Translation from Barcelona, Archivo de la Corona de Aragon, Cartas Reales, MS 3344, ed. J. Upton-Ward (Woodbridge, 2003). The Catalan Rule of the Templars (2003), pp.81–87, no. 180. Upton-Ward (1994), pp.179–88. Ebü’l-Fidâ Coğrafyası (2022), p.222. R. Dussaud, Topographie historique de la Syrie antique et médiévale (Paris, 1927), p.445. F.M.T.-M. Çiftyürek, ʽHatay – Kırıkhan’da Bayezid-î Bestami Hz. Türbesi ve Haziresi Mezartaşları’, in Hatay Araştırmaları VI, ed. A. Gündüz, H. Çoruh, S. Hatipoğlu, and Y. Yılmaz (Ankara, 2021), pp.35–37. Ebü’l-Fidâ Coğrafyası (2022), p.222. Dussaud (1927), p.436. Deschamps (1973), pp.72, 361. T.C. Hatay Büyükşehir Belediyesi 2015–2019 Stratejik Planı, critical edition, Bilgi İşlem Dairesi Başkanlığı Strateji Geliştirme ve Ar-Ge Şube Müdürlüğü (Hatay, 2014), p.19. A. Sevim, Anadolu’nun Fethi: Selçuklular Dönemi (Ankara, 1988), p.89. Temiz (2021), pp.36–37. The Demir Köprü on the Asi River was among the important passages of the region in the Middle Ages. It had a great role in the defence of Antioch; https://hatay.ktb.gov.tr/ TR-60890/kopruler.html [10 January 2024]. el-İsfahânî (2004), pp.139–40. el-İsfahânî (2004), p.139. İbn Şeddâd (2012), p.62. İbn Şeddâd (2021), pp.124–25. İbnü’l-Esir (1987), p.22. İbnü’l Adîm (1996), p.416. İbn Vâsıl (1957), pp.267–68. Matthew Paris’s English History, vol. I, trans. J.A. Giles (London, 1889), pp.62–63. Deschamps (1973), p.174.

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57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Molin (2001), p.73. Wilson (2016), p.96. Riley-Smith (1978), p.109. T.C. Hatay Büyükşehir, p.20. D. Vandekerckhove, Medieval Fortifications in Cilicia: The Armenian Contribution to Military Architecture in the Middle Ages (Leiden and Boston, 2020), p.96. Boas (2006), p.251. Cahen (1940), pp.143–44. Deschamps (1973), pp.363–65. Riley-Smith (1978), pp.92–93. Vandekerckhove (2020), pp.68, 73. Cahen (1940), p.142; Vandekerckhove (2020), p.83. Riley-Smith (1978), pp.92–93. For the capture of these fortresses by Saladin see el-İsfahânî (2004), pp.133–35. İbn Vâsıl (1957), p.264. For discussions on this issue, see also Cahen (1940), pp.143–44. Riley-Smith (1978), pp.102–03. Deschamps (1973), p.133. Molin (2001), p.185. Vandekerckhove (2020), p.45. Refik Halit Karay, Çete (Istanbul, 2021), pp.85–89. Vandekerckhove (2020), p.75. T.S. Asbridge, The Creation of the Principality of Antioch 1098–1130 (Woodbridge, 2000), p.90. In his excellent study, Andrew Buck argues that in addition to their importance for the security of Antioch, the castles in the Amanos served as important junctions for determining border policy and managing flows in the region. He also considers that they gave the Principality an important advantage in maintaining and even extending its authority in the region against other regional powers. See and compare to A.D. Buck, ‘Castles and the Frontier: Theorizing the Borders of the Principality of Antioch in the Twelfth Century’, in VIATOR: Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 50:2, ed. H.A. Kelly (Los Angeles, 2020b), pp.88–94. Ebû Şâme (1997), p.42. İbn Vâsıl (1957), p.269. For a discussion of the contribution or detriment of the presence of military orders in Antioch to the Principality, see Buck (2020a), pp.285–95. K. Molin, ‘The Teutonic Castles in Cilician Armenia: A Reappraisal’, in MO 3, p.131. Edwards (1987), p.59. M.-A. Chevalier, ‘Les forteresses des ordres militaires en Arménie: un atout indispensable dans l’accomplissement de leur mission’, in Castelos Das Ordens Militares (Lisbon, 2014), p.209. V. Langlois, Le trésor des chartes d’Arménie ou Cartulaire De La Chancellerie Royale Des Roupéniens (Venice, 1863), No. 6, pp.117–20. V. Langlois, Voyage dans la Cilicie et dans les montagnes du Taurus exécuté pendant les années (Paris, 1861), p.445. D. Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291 (London and New York, 2016), p.25. Pringle (2016), p.25. Chevalier (2015), pp.337–38. Vandekerckhove (2020), p.41. Molin (2008), pp.131–36. Chevalier (2014), p.209. Molin (2008), p.136. Pringle (2016), p.80. At the time, Christianity prohibited the eating of meat every Friday and throughout all Lent and Advent; therefore, fish was in great demand. Chevalier (2014), pp.208–09. Ibn al-Furât (1971), p.99. Molin (2001), p.152. Vandekerckhove (2020), p.92. M. Piana, ʽThe Castle of Silifke, A Neglected Hospitaller Fortification in Cilicia’, in Castelos das Ordens Militares, ed. Direção-Geral do Património (Lisbon, 2014), pp.227–28. Langlois (1863), No. 3, 4, pp.112–15. Piana (2014), pp.228–29. Chevalier (2015), pp.337–38. Wilson (2016), p.90. For some of the economic activities and gains of the orders in the region, see Riley-Smith (1978), p.108. Pringle (2016), p.80. Chevalier (2014), pp.208–10.

5

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal Background and impact1 Paula Pinto Costa and Joana Lencart

Introduction The 1522 siege of Rhodes had a significant impact on Portugal. At the time, the Portuguese strategy for the Mediterranean was focused on two main areas: control of the Order of Saint John in Portugal, and participation in the war against the Ottomans. The Portuguese monarchy envisaged the Mediterranean as a unique foreign and religious affairs arena within the late crusade environment, so that Rhodes and the Hospitallers were seen as inseparable from this context. While being committed to the fight against the Ottomans in Rhodes, the Portuguese King tried to take advantage of the siege of Rhodes. The historical sources for the study of the siege are scarce, particularly for the Portuguese participation and the legacy of this in the aftermath of the siege. While some chronicles, novels, and poems concerning the siege are preserved in other countries,2 only miscellaneous and scattered documents are known in Portugal. Some of the reasons for this include the absence of documents from the Portuguese branch of the Order’s archive in Portugal (located in Crato), which was largely destroyed by fire in the 17th century; the destruction of the Order’s international archives due to conflict and the subsequent move of the headquarters to another location, which finally settled in Malta in 1530; the difficulty or unwillingness, during the 1522 siege itself, to produce or maintain written memories of a military defeat against a lifelong enemy. The island of Rhodes had a privileged advanced position where Christian and Muslim powers met each other. Although, in theory, amicable relations were not allowed, the Holy See’s position became less strict in this matter from the mid-14th century onwards. The Grand Master was often a privileged interlocutor for Western monarchies facing the Ottomans. However, the Ottoman Empire faced profound changes at the beginning of the 16th century.3 As a result, in the summer of 1522, Suleiman I besieged Rhodes; facing him was Grand Master Phillippe Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. Behind the siege: the Mediterranean as a focus of Portuguese politics Since the beginning of the 16th century, the Portuguese monarchy was focused on Mediterranean affairs due to its recent expansion into the Indian Ocean, and the DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-6

56  The Military Orders Volume VIII Ottoman expansion towards western territories.4 King Manuel I had set a utopian goal for himself: to be the king of Jerusalem.5 In this context, the Order of the Hospital became particularly relevant, given the location of its headquarters. The King was very keen on interfering in the choice of the prior of the Hospitallers in Portugal. According to the Order’s regulation, this was under the exclusive competence of the Grand Master and the chapter general. The political purpose of the King was to prevent the Order from exercising this prerogative. The Portuguese King improved relations with the papacy and the Order’s headquarters in order to achieve his goal of bringing the Order into the Portuguese political ambitions for the Mediterranean.6 The other military orders present in Portugal were administrated by masters who, from 1418 to 1434, were appointed by the crown and not chosen by their convents. In the first stage, these masters, usually called administrators or governors, were the King’s sons or, later, the King himself. This means these military orders were increasingly under the control of the crown. In contrast, the Hospitallers were left out of this process, although the son of King Manuel managed to enter the Portuguese priory in 1532.7 Since its very beginning, the Order of St John had a different status. During the late medieval period, it had remained committed to its original mission, embracing a charismatic welfare programme, and with its international profile, maintained its prestigious link to the Holy Land. As a result, and due to political evolution across the Mediterranean, the Order was recognised as a vital element of Mediterranean politics. This background explains why, at the beginning of the 16th century, the Portuguese King had challenging discussions concerning the crown’s aspirations to exercise control over the Hospitallers’ priory in his kingdom, known as the priory of Crato. Through greater control over the Order of the Hospital, Portugal aspired to exercise a more effective approach across the Mediterranean framed within a late crusading ideology. Portuguese involvement in the 1522 siege of Rhodes must be seen from this broader perspective. Since the Hospitallers’ establishment on Rhodes at the start of the 14th century, the island had acquired a special significance for Western monarchies, including Portugal. As the end of the 15th century approached, Ottoman pressure on the West was much more widespread. The Hospitallers at Rhodes were seen as Europe’s leading defenders in that vast frontier due to the geostrategic value of their headquarters and the religious stereotypes used to define the idea of the frontier itself. But, at the same time, these knights were the core target for the enemy.8 From a Portuguese military and economic perspective, the Mediterranean added value to the Order of St John and was part of its identity. The Hospitallers’ navy had a good reputation. The brethren living inside the headquarters needed a special license from the Grand Master to accomplish those shipbuilding activities. The 1480 and 1522 sieges of Rhodes were highly symbolic as they tested the Order’s capacity to attract people and mobilise material resources in support of its settlements in the Aegean.9

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal  57 Some events showed the increasing problems for the Hospitallers in Rhodes and the steady commitment of some Portuguese knights to assist Rhodes. Among those knights, Henrique de Castro was in Rhodes in 1480, and he designed part of the protection plan to react to the offensive by Mehmed II against the island. After this operation, he came back to Portugal where he was appointed as provincial prior.10 Some other Portuguese knights who contributed to this military campaign in Rhodes were Álvaro Carolho, Álvaro Godinho, Diogo Fernandes de Almeida, Fernando Gonçalves, Gomes Godinho, Gonçalo, Luís de Pedrosa, Pedro Lourenço, and Rodrigo Mendes Botelho.11 Another Hospitaller from Portugal, André do Amaral, distinguished himself onboard Rhodes’s vessels.12 There may well have been others, but identifying medieval people is sometimes difficult, if not impossible, because some had homonyms, and the written records did not note their surnames. The way the Portuguese king handled the Mediterranean situation was influenced by his broader interests across the Indian Ocean, where Vasco da Gama had reached India in May  1498. Shortly afterwards, the global relationship with the Ottomans became more hostile due to their territorial expansion towards the West. The Portuguese and the Ottomans were effectively meeting and clashing on two fronts, one in the Mediterranean and one in the Indian Ocean.13 Aware of an enemy fleet destined for India,14 King Manuel I  sent out a fleet which operated between 1499 and 1503 to fight the Ottomans.15 In 1502, the Portuguese Hospitaller and Prior of Crato Diogo de Almeida joined this significant military effort. In May, the prior of Crato departed from Sicily to Rhodes.16 Diogo de Almeida commanded seven vessels: three galleys, one fuste or foist, and three brigantines. In his own words, he had provided a ship with 120 men to the squadron, very carefully trained by himself.17 Diogo de Almeida had a broad range of action. During his journey in the Eastern Mediterranean (in the document described as ‘por Asia adiante’), he attacked some Ottoman settlements and captured 100 men.18 According to Jean-Christian Poutiers, the Hospitallers in Rhodes had a war fleet and a trade fleet in which vessels could be equipped for corsairing activities. There was also a fishing fleet composed of ships of diverse typologies and with varying amounts of tonnage.19 After this mission, the Catholic Monarchs of Spain, Isabel, and Fernando, sent a letter to Manuel I remarking on these military victories against the Ottomans by the Prior of Crato and praising him.20 In 1512, Fra André do Amaral, Grand Chancellor of the Order and ambassador to Portugal, drew the King’s attention to the Ottoman Sultan’s actions which were detrimental to Portuguese interests.21 Amaral noted that he had prevented some Ottoman vessels from taking wood to reinforce the Sultan’s fleet against the Portuguese in the Indian Ocean. Rewarding this knight’s loyalty, the King nominated him to the royal council on 7 February 151422 and provided him with a coat of arms in 1515.23 Alongside the military dimension, economic interests were also crucial in these considerations. The enthusiasm Christians and Muslims put into late medieval Mediterranean war was not supported exclusively by ideological and religious reasons. It was also due to material purposes and economic profit. The Mediterranean

58  The Military Orders Volume VIII was a vital trade area, including for pirates and corsairs. The Hospitallers were very keen on these activities and improved their business by taking advantage of the seaport network they were part of. Within their governance structure, they created the commerchium, a specific building for trade activities, which played a significant role in Rhodes. The Order maximised its profits by providing transportation for people and goods on its vessels and developing a wide range of opportunities for participating in economic initiatives, which were also attractive to the Portuguese.24 This island had one of the best commercial ports in the Mediterranean, and it benefited from its geostrategic location to reach the great grain markets.25 The Hospitallers were also deeply involved in the slave trade.26 Textile exports from several western regions to Rhodes provided much money to the Order, which it invested in its eastern territories.27 Portugal and the other Iberian kingdoms had developed their Mediterranean connections and joined broader geographical networks.28 Several historians have studied these developments and the consequences they produced.29 Based on the contribution by Virgínia Rau, for whom the Mediterranean was a laboratory where the Portuguese acquired soft and hard skills, including innovative economic, political, and social behaviours,30 the historiography has produced new and broader interpretations. During the late medieval period, the Mediterranean increasingly became a focus for Portuguese international politics, and the Order of St John significantly influenced the Portuguese conception of the Mediterranean.31 Portuguese participation in the siege of 1522 In the summer of 1522, Suleiman the Magnificent besieged Rhodes with a powerful army to fight against Grand Master Philippe Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. Regardless of how many Portuguese knights personally participated in this siege, the consequences of this war were significant for Portugal. The reign of King Manuel I (1495–1521) was crucial to evaluate the extent to which the Order of St John was essential for the Portuguese kingdom’s projection abroad. This same royal approach was continued by the next king, his son João III (1521–1557), who was brother to the infante Luís, the first member of the royal family to become prior of Crato in 1532. As the Ottoman forces raced ahead, Rhodes was at risk. For this reason, the papacy encouraged Portuguese participation in the island’s defence. On 5 July  1517, Leo X asked King Manuel I  to motivate the Portuguese Hospitallers to actively defend Rhodes.32 This initiative overlapped with the Grand Master’s prerogative of calling the brethren, who were duty bound to obey him according to the religious vow they took. A few days later, the King received the same appeal from the Grand Master.33 On 10 September 1518, the Grand Master again asked Manuel I for military assistance against the Ottoman threat.34 The Pope’s and the Grand Master’s appeals were decisive for the Portuguese participation in the siege. The Grand Master asked the Portuguese authorities to call all knights, commanders, and the people who oversaw some of the Order’s assets there to participate in a preparatory assembly held in Lamego (Portugal) in 1522 and be ready to take their weapons to fight in Rhodes.35 Those who would not adhere to this appeal would be deprived of the habit and lose all the benefits they enjoyed.36

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal  59 On 2 October  1522, Don Miguel da Silva, Portuguese ambassador to Rome, asked for urgent relief for Rhodes. He noticed that 10, 000 people had already died.37 This estimation of casualties is always subjective. Sir Nicholas Roberts, writing on 15 May 1522 to the Earl of Surrey, said that 703 knights and Hospitallers were killed.38 This last figure cannot be compared with the previous one because the authors of both letters were referring to different constituencies. The first pointed out all the people who died, while the second focused on the Hospitallers. Nevertheless, these are significant numbers. A report written by a Portuguese monk, Diogo de Castilho, stated that the Great Master had killed so many people that it was possible to fill the city’s ditch with the corpses. In contrast to those frequent readings that point to Christians and Ottomans as being radically opposed, Diogo de Castilho’s report highlighted a different attitude. In his opinion, the Ottomans had preserved Saint John’s church and respected the people in the town.39 This perspective calls for a survey that takes into consideration multicultural elements in past societies, rather than just the traditional dichotomy that is generally assumed.40 The mobilisation of people from Portugal was required in this war scenario. However, it is not possible to know precisely who went. There is a catalogue with knights’ and sergeants/servants-at arms’ names from Castile and Portugal who participated in the defence of Rhodes in 1522.41 However, it is difficult at times to identify the nationality of all these men. This information and other data collected from chroniclers’ texts, such as those by Giacomo Bosio42 and Juan Augustín de Funes,43 were summarised by José Anastácio de Figueiredo (Table 5.1), which is here augmented with further supportive archival material.44 The list above only contains the names of some people who participated in the siege since only the knights who held a particular office were registered. However, they would have been accompanied by some other Hospitallers and individuals, especially those in charge of technical services. It is impossible to quantify precisely how many Portuguese did go. According to the Grand Master, he had about 16, 000 men in the siege. However, an eyewitness of the blockade, Jacobus Fontanus, states that only around 5, 000 free men could carry arms, among whom were 600 Hospitallers (knights and sergeants) and 500 Cretans. The remaining men were sailors, rowers, and mariners.45 Besides the data provided by José Anastácio de Figueiredo, other brethren may have taken part in this siege. In the chapter held in Lamego in 1522, a magistral bull was read, ordering all Hospitallers to move to Rhodes. Jorge Varela was the scribe who served at this assembly, which was attended by the commanders Álvaro da Gama, João Borralho, João Correia, Álvaro Chora, and Eitor, the priest of the monastery of Leça.46 However, there is no evidence of their participation in the siege. Unfortunately, there are no Portuguese written records on the preaching of this mission and people’s motivation and mobilisation. In an attempt to motivate knights to adhere to their duty and participate in the siege, on 16 July 1522, the Grand Master authorised those who would go to the headquarters to lease their assets for a period of three years and to receive in advance the amount equivalent to two years.47 Some Portuguese Hospitaller priests, such as João Balieiro, Pedro Mexia, Fernando Álvares, António Maio, and Mestre Gaspar, had missed the Lamego chapter,48 but were still obliged to reach Rhodes. We do not know if

60  The Military Orders Volume VIII Table 5.1  Portuguese Hospitallers who were at Rhodes during the siege of 1522. Name

Source

André do Amaral

Figueiredo (1800), III, pp.131–133 ANTT, Chancelaria D. Manuel I, l. 11, f.6 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), I, pp.398–99; III, p.17

António de Almeida António de Brito, with special responsibility for coordinating the Rhodes fortification programme António [Vaz] da Cunha António Maio Baltazar Pinto Cristóvão Cernache [Pereira] Diogo de Castro Diogo Nunes Diogo de Torres Fernando Álvares Filipe Afonso Francisco Rebelo Mestre Gaspar Gil de Barbosa Gonçalo Pimenta Henrique Pereira Henrique Teles João Balieiro Jorge Correia João de Meneses Luís de Velasco Martim da Cunha Paio Correia Pedro Mexia Pedro Vasques

Figueiredo (1800), I, p.399; III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.134 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.134 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.134 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 30, no. 32, f.15 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 ANTT, Gav. XV, m. 19, no. 151 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 São Payo (1993), p.87 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.135 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.131 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17 (possibly from Castile) Figueiredo (1800), III, p.18 Figueiredo (1800), III, pp.135–36 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.134 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.17

Figueiredo (1800), III, p. 88, quoted Gonçalo, who, according to him, could be Gonçalo Correia or Gonçalo Pimenta.

1

all these priests were forced to go or if they wanted to go at all. Some procedures were defined to make the departure possible. For instance, João Balieiro, prior at St John of Castelo de Vide, received a licence to rent out his assets. As a result, in November, he leased the church he was in charge of and made an inventory of all properties, liturgical objects, vestments, and books.49 João Balieiro died while fighting in Rhodes, and consequently, in October 1523, Afonso Vasques took office as receiver of the Priory of Crato.50

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal  61 Other Hospitallers who participated in the siege, and survived it, pursued their lives and careers in various settings. Gonçalo Pimenta returned to Portugal in 1523 and was promoted to the position of prior of Crato,51 although the King never recognised him. After returning to Portugal, Henrique Teles, who had participated in Rhodes’s defence, and in the move of the headquarters to Malta in 1530, held the prestigious task of being the collector and receiver of the incomes of the Order in Portugal.52 By contrast, André do Amaral, who, while in Rhodes had significant disagreements with Grand Master Philippe de Villiers de l’Isle Adam, was accused of facilitating the enemy’s actions and executed for treason.53 Some interesting questions remain unanswered and require further research: who were these brethren’s families, and what was their social background? Did they try to find sponsors? Did they try to raise finance or other support (e.g. prayers, horses)? What information did they have? Did they leave alone, with their families, women, children, friends, vassals, or mercenaries? Did they send messengers in advance to obtain support along their travel? Did they organise their journey along the Order’s network of commanderies? How long did they stay there? Did they take weapons from Portugal? After the death of João de Meneses in 1522, the priory of Crato was under pressure on the issue of the new prior, which was becoming a political question. According to the pope, the Order’s privileges should be respected, particularly given its contribution to Christendom. At the same time, Pope Adrian VI warned about the lack of motivation of some knights who only took part in the defence of Rhodes with the hope of personal promotion.54 The logistical challenges of such an enterprise were complex, and only incomplete information has reached us. From the mid-14th century, the Order allocated four galleys connecting Eastern and Western territories.55 At the time, Portugal had up to 1.5 million inhabitants,56 and its external projection, first in the Mediterranean and then across the Atlantic Ocean, placed substantial demands on that population.57 Limited human resources and long-distance journeys were severe constraints for the success of those projects. To understand and value the Portuguese participation in the siege, one must consider some figures of the military operation. Jacques de Bourbon, the most trusted of Hospitaller eyewitnesses, says that the Ottoman fleet had around 250 vessels, alongside another fleet from Syria.58 However, according to Diogo de Castilho, Suleiman had taken 400 large ships (nau), 200, 000 men, and much artillery.59 The Order’s army and navy were limited, and the Hospitallers were supplemented by mercenaries, rural and urban militias,60 sailors, rowers, and mariners.61 According to Anthony Luttrell, the number of Hospitallers permanently in Rhodes was small.62 Around 16, 000 people participated in the defence of Rhodes against the Ottomans.63 Many logistical problems arose concerning people accommodated at the collachium. In 1466, 350 brethren was the upper limit the Order had fixed for those who could stay in the convent; in 1513, that limit was increased to 531 people, and in 1522, more than 500 knights and sergeants were hosted in the convent.64 As a result of the siege and consequent defeat, the Order was impoverished by the massive loss of human and material resources. On 30 June 1523, Adrian VI asked the Portuguese King João III to sponsor the fortification of the future headquarters,

62  The Military Orders Volume VIII given the limited means the Order had at its disposal.65 In Portugal, similar problems were raised by Álvaro Pacheco, for whom the priory was mismanaged and not visited enough.66 Although the joint commitment to the war against the Ottomans had been strong, the 1522 siege ended with a defeat for the Western forces. In March of 1523, the Portuguese ambassador Miguel da Silva noted the enemies’ victory,67 which for Rhodes itself was the beginning of an economic downturn.68 Conclusion Understanding the role played by the Portuguese branch of the Order of St John in the siege of Rhodes means being aware of two key aspects: the Portuguese Hospitallers who participated in the siege in person, and Portuguese politics towards this Order and broader international interests. The Portuguese crown looked to the Mediterranean as a particular area of interest for its foreign affairs and religious policy within the late crusade environment. The island of Rhodes had a specific role within this context. While committed to the fight against the Ottomans in Rhodes, the Portuguese King tried to take advantage of the siege of Rhodes by asserting control over the appointment of the Portuguese Prior. Following the 1522 siege, the future of the Order of the Hospital was often discussed in Portugal, alongside the monarchy’s purposes. King Manuel I tried to take advantage of the involvement of the Hospitallers in his wider plans. The Portuguese participation in the 1522 siege was shaped by this situation and by the previous experience of the knights from their customary military efforts in the Mediterranean. Of the brethren who fought in the 1522 siege of Rhodes, some died, while others were promoted within the Order’s hierarchy, or their social and political status was augmented. The shipment of people and money to Rhodes impacted Portugal because lands were left uncultivated in some parts of the kingdom. As a result, the Portuguese commanderies suffered from mismanagement. The death of the Prior of Crato João de Meneses in 1522 worsened the situation. The Order’s weakness encouraged the Portuguese monarchy to demand a say in the nomination of a new prior. For the Order itself, the results were not favourable. It lost its island headquarters and significant human and material resources and faced homelessness and aimlessness. Settlement in Malta in 1530 allowed the Order to start reorganising itself. In due course, Portugal and Portuguese brethren would come to play a significant, but often neglected, part in the affairs of Hospitaller Malta down to 1798. Notes 1 CITCEM, Faculdade de Letras, Universidade do Porto, Via Panorâmica, 4150-564 Porto, Portugal. This work was supported by FCT – Fundação para a Ciência e Tecnologia, I.P. by project reference UIDB/04059/2020 and DOI identifier https://doi. org/10.54499/UIDB/04059/2020. This publication is part of the project: ‘Las memorias del Temple y del Hospital en la Corona de Aragón y Navarra (siglos XII-XV). Construcciones, funciones e imágenes’ (PID2023-152674NB-I00). 2 J.-L. Nardone, ed., La prise de Rhodes par Soliman le Magnifique. Chroniques et textes turcs, français, italiens, anglais et espagnols (XVIe–XVIIe siècles) traduits et commentés (Cahors, 2010).

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal  63 3 N. Vatin, ‘Ottomans’, in P&C, pp.674–75. 4 P. Limão, Portugal e o Império Turco na área do Mediterrâneo (século XV), 2 vols (Lisbon, 1994). 5 L.F. Tomás, ‘L’idée imperiale manueline’, in Actas do Colóquio La Découverte, le Portugal et l’Europe, Arquivos do Centro Cultural Português, vol. XXVII (Lisbon and Paris, 1990), pp.35–103. 6 P.P. Costa, ‘O poder régio e os Hospitalários na época de D. Manuel’, in Atas do III Congresso Histórico de Guimarães. D. Manuel e a sua época, vol. II (Guimarães, 2004), pp.569–79. 7 Visconde de Santarém, Quadro elementar das relações políticas e diplomáticas de Portugal com as diversas potências do mundo, desde o princípio da Monarchia Portugueza até aos nossos dias, vol. X. (Paris and Lisbon, 1842–1876), p.374. 8 P.P. Costa, ‘O espaço marítimo mediterrânico: a experiência dos Hospitalários nos séculos XII-XVI’, in A Formação da Marinha Portuguesa. Dos Primórdios ao Infante. XII Simposium de História Marítima, ed. J.A. Fonseca, L.C. Soares, and J. dos S. Maia (Lisbon, 2015), pp.53–65. 9 P.P. Costa, ‘O Mediterrâneo e a Ordem de S. João’, in Portogallo mediterraneo, ed. L.A. da Fonseca and M.E. Cadeddu (Cagliari, 2001), pp.75–97. 10 C.C. Bello, A Soberana Militar Ordem de Malta e a sua acção em Portugal (Lisbon, 1931), p.67. 11 J.A. Figueiredo, Nova história da Militar Ordem de Malta e dos senhores grão-priores della em Portugal, vol. III (Lisbon, 1800), pp.81, 82, 88, 90, 91. 12 Bello (1931), p.68. 13 R. Crowley, Conquerors: How Portugal seized the Indian Ocean and forged the First Global Empire (London, 2015). 14 J. Osório, Da vida e feitos de El-rei D. Manuel, vol. 2 (Porto, 1944), p.196. 15 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 4, no. 74 e II, m. 7, no. 56. J.R. Magalhães, ‘Os régios protagonistas do poder’, in História de Portugal. No alvorecer da Modernidade, vol. 3 (Lisbon, 1993), p.528. 16 As Gavetas da Torre do Tombo, vol. X (Lisbon, 1974), pp.457–61. 17 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 4, no. 74 e II, m. 7, no. 56. 18 F.R. Lobo, Cartas dos grandes do mundo (Coimbra, 1934), pp.39–45. 19 J.-C. Poutiers, Rhodes et ses Chevaliers: 1306–1523. Approche historique et archéologique (Sal Araya, Liban, 1989), pp.156–57 and 186. 20 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 4, no. 74 e II, m. 7, no. 56. 21 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 11, no. 61. 22 ANTT, Chancelaria D. Manuel, l. 11, fl.6. 23 A.B. Freire, Os Brasões da Sala de Sintra, vol. I (Lisbon, 1996), p.7. 24 A. Luttrell, ‘Actividades económicas de los Hospitalarios de Rodas en el Mediterráneo occidental durante el siglo XIV’, in The Hospitallers in Cyprus, Rhodes and the West: 1291–1440 (London, 1978), pp.178–79. 25 M. Fonteney, ‘De Rhodes à Malta: l’évolution de la flotte des hospitaliers au XVIe siècle’, in Atti del V Convegno Internazionale di Studi Colombiani. ‘Navi e navigazione nei secoli XV e XVI’, vol. I (Genoa, 1990), pp.107–33. 26 Poutiers (1989), p.159 and J. Heers, Gênes au XVe siècle. Activité économique et problèmes sociaux (Paris, 1961), pp.365–76. 27 Luttrell (1978), pp.178–79. 28 V. Rau, Portugal e o Mediterrâneo no século XV. Alguns aspectos diplomáticos e económicos das relações com a Itália (Lisbon, 1973), p.14. 29 L.A. da Fonseca, ‘Portugal e o Mediterrâneo no final da Idade Média: uma visão de conjunto’, in Portogallo mediterraneo, ed. L.A. da Fonseca, and M.E. Cadeddu (Cagliari, 2001), pp.13–25. L.Th. Barata, Navegação, comércio e relações políticas: os portugueses no mediterrâneo ocidental (1385–1466) (Lisbon, 1998). A. Barros, Porto: a construção de um espaço marítimo nos alvores dos tempos modernos (Porto, 2004).

64  The Military Orders Volume VIII P. Iradiel Murugarren, D. Igual Luis, ‘Del Mediterráneo al Atlántico. Mercaderes, productos y empresas italianas entre Valencia y Portugal (1450–1520)’, in Portogallo mediterraneo, ed. L.A. da Fonseca and M.E. Cadeddu (Cagliari, 2001), pp.143–94. 30 Rau (1973), p.3. 31 Costa (2015), pp.53–65. P.P. Costa, ‘O Mediterrâneo: uma área estratégica para as Ordens Militares’, in O mar como futuro de Portugal (c.1223–c.1448): a propósito da contratação de Manuel Pessanha como Almirante por D. Dinis. Actas do XV Simpósio de História Marítima (Lisbon, 2019), pp.147–59. 32 ANTT, Bulas, m. 36, no. 39. 33 ANTT, Gav. XV, m. 16, no. 30. 34 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 7, no. 41. 35 ANTT, Corpo cronológico, I, m. 30, no. 32, f.14v. 36 ANTT, Corpo cronológico, I, m. 30, no. 32, f.15. 37 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 28, no. 98. 38 R.D. Smith and K. DeVries, Rhodes Besieged. A New History (Stroud, 2011), p.119. 39 D. de Castilho, Liuro da origem dos turcos he dos seus emperadores (Louvain, 1538), ff.81–82. 40 This reflects our participation in the project ‘Cohesion building of multiethnic societies, 10th–21st century’ (0102/NPRH3/H12/82/2014). 41 R.A. Vertot, Histoire des chevaliers hospitaliers de Saint Jean de Jerusalem, appelez depuis les Chevaliers de Rhodes, et aujourd’hui les Chevaliers de Malte, t. VII (Paris, 1778), pp.431–32, names 46 friars, representatives from the ʽDe la Langue de Castille & de Portugal’. This information, together with that from the chroniclers of the Order, such as Bosio and Funes, was incorporated by Figueiredo. 42 G. Bosio, Dell’istoria della sacra religione ed illustrissima militia di San Giovanni Gierosolimitano, 2 vols (Rome, 1594). 43 Fr. J.A. de Funes, Coronica de la ilustrissima milicia, y sagrada religion de San Juan Bautista de Jerusalem, 2 vols (Valencia, 1626–1639). 44 A first analysis was made by Costa (2001), pp.75–97. 45 Smith and DeVries (2011), p.99. 46 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32, ff.24–27. Figueiredo (1800), III, p.133. 47 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32, ff.25–26. 48 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.134. 49 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32, ff.11–14. This case study was discussed in P.P. Costa, ‘Os bens da igreja de S. João de Castelo de Vide à morte de Fr. João Balieiro’, in Estudos em Homenagem ao Prof. Doutor José Amadeu Coelho Dias, vol. 2 (Porto, 2006), pp.273–88. 50 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, parte 1, m. 30, no. 32 e no. 33. 51 ANTT, Gav. XV. m. 19, no. 15. 52 L.M.V. São Payo, ‘O Bailio de Leça Frei Henrique Teles’, in Filermo, no. 2 (Porto, 1993), p.87. 53 Figueiredo (1800), III, p.133 and Albuquerque (1992), pp.11, 16. 54 ANTT, Bulas, m. 13, no. 12. 55 Poutiers (1989), pp.130–31, 145, 151, 156–57, 186. 56 A.H. de O. Marques, Portugal na Crise dos Séculos XIV e XV. Nova História de Portugal, ed. J. Serrão and A.H. de O. Marques, vol. IV (Lisbon, 1987), p.16. 57 L.A. da Fonseca, Os Descobrimentos e a formação do Oceano Atlântico (Lisbon, 1999). L.A. da Fonseca, ‘Le Portugal entre la Méditerranée et l’Atlantique au XVe siècle’, in Le Portugal au XVe siècle (Paris, 1989), pp.147–62. 58 Smith and DeVries (2011), p.95. 59 Castilho (1538), f.80v. 60 Poutiers (1989), pp.182–90. 61 Smith and DeVries (2011), p.99.

The 1522 siege of Rhodes and Portugal  65 62 A. Luttrell, ‘The Military and Naval Organization of the Hospitallers of Rhodes: 1310–1444’, in A. Luttrell, The Hospitallers of Rhodes and Their Mediterranean World (Aldershot, 1992), p.137. 63 Luttrell (1992), p.137. 64 Poutiers (1989), pp.183–85. 65 ANTT, Bulas, m. 36, no. 12. 66 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 29, no. 92. 67 ANTT, Corpo Cronológico, I, m. 29, no. 30. 68 N. Vatin, ‘La conquête de Rhodes’, in Soliman le Magnifique et son temps, ed. G. Veinstein (Paris, 1992), pp.435–54.

6

Of battles and escorts The Hospitallers in the wider tapestry of the 17th century Emanuel Buttigieg

Introduction Various descriptions, both written and visual, survive from the 17th century that show the Hospitaller-Maltese galley fleet engaged in battles against Muslim vessels across the Mediterranean. These events and the narratives that stemmed from them were about war, but they were also about faith, politics, adventure, ritual, protocol, and at times also fun and pleasure, with the line between these aspects being porous. The crowned heads of Europe regularly called upon the Religion (the Order of St John/Malta) to assist them in their naval engagements. A somewhat lesser-known aspect of the activities of the Hospitallers was when they were summoned to provide an escort service to princesses and other royal figures. The presence of the Hospitaller-Maltese fleet provided tangible security and intangible but palpable prestige. Through the letters and reports of the Hospitaller captains general, this chapter will present two case studies from the 1660s that will serve as illustrative examples of how battles and escorts functioned to keep the Order of Malta anchored within the tapestry of 17th-century European and Mediterranean affairs in a manner that sustained the relevance of the Religion on the stage of a wider world. Protagonists and background The office of captain general of the galley fleet was one of the most prestigious and onerous within the Religion and was generally held for a period of two years. This ensured that various members of the Religion could get a shot in this role, with many of its holders subsequently moving to other senior positions, including at times that of Grand Master. Fra Don Giovanni Galdiano and Fra Gilberto del Bene served, in succession, as captains general in the 1660s.1 The Grand Master during these years was Fra Nicolas Cotoner (r.1663–1680), himself a seasoned man of the sea and hailing originally from Mallorca. In the background loomed the long-running War of Candia (Crete) from 1645 to 1669, between Venice and the Ottoman Empire. The Religion was deeply involved in this, sending galleys, men, and resources to the East almost every year for twenty-four years.2 The other protagonists were the galleys themselves. The Hospitaller fleet at this time typically hovered between six to seven galleys. Each galley could carry as DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-7

Of battles and escorts  67 many as 500 men, ranging from high-ranking knights to lowly, chained Muslim slaves who rowed the vessels. The galley had sails, but its real feature and strength were its oars. It was low lying, very crammed, and there was not much space for food and water. A galley relied on speed and frequent stops to replenish its supplies. It had cannons and guns, which were concentrated at the bow, so the galley had to be front facing to fire. It often served as a platform that would deliver men who would then attack an enemy target, usually by boarding their opponent’s vessel at close distance, or landing troops to fight on land.3 A final, humble, but essential protagonist was the biscuit. Malta, being so small and barren, could not provide all the needs of the galleys. Rather than shipping in vast quantities of supplies to Malta, it made more sense for the Order to have a depot in Sicily, and since the late 1640s it was generally Augusta.4 Here the Order had ovens that produced the mainstay of every galley in the Mediterranean: il biscotto, dry biscuit or hardtack. This was a simple type of dense biscuit or cracker made from flour, water, and sometimes salt, which was inexpensive and long-lasting, so it was ideal – if rather dull – for sea voyages.5 The ovens at Augusta baked huge quantities of biscuit; in the accounts of the captains general there are frequent references to biscuit: quantities left on board, its quality, where they could procure more, and so on. It was fundamental to life at sea, and it was standard procedure that Augusta would be the first port-of-call for the Hospitaller-Maltese fleet after it left Malta and before it proceeded anywhere else. Operation Jijel Galdiano was invested with the office of captain general on 21 April 1664, and that very same night he led the squadron from Malta towards Augusta. After taking on supplies, they left Augusta on 26 April, with Galdiano remarking on the foul weather which slowed them down considerably. He also referred to coming across the ‘fregata della neve’, the snow boat. This was a light and fast craft that sailed between Malta and Sicily on an almost daily basis to take ice procured from Mount Etna so that it could be used for various purposes in Malta. Because of its speed and regularity, it often doubled as an express mailing service and in fact Galdiano sent a quick note to the Grand Master with it.6 They set sail towards the islands of Lampedusa and Linosa, and from there to Trapani, on Sicily’s western shore. As they were approaching Lampedusa, they were caught in a frightening storm: ‘we were overtaken by a deep dark sky with thunder and lightning’ which fortunately did not last and allowed them to reach Lampedusa, where on 1 June they celebrated the feast of Pentecost and took on water. While at Lampedusa, on 8 June, they spotted a suspicious-looking vessel which they chased down and discovered to be an English vessel full of smuggled goods which were intended for Tripoli in North Africa. The Hospitaller-Maltese galleys duly escorted the ship into harbour.7 Two observations can be made here. The first has to do with religion. Though out at sea, the Hospitallers still made sure to adhere to the Catholic calendar of feast and saints’ days. The second observation stems from the reference to the English vessel. These, along with the Dutch, feature

68  The Military Orders Volume VIII regularly in the accounts of captains general, and they attest to what Fernand Braudel called ‘the northern invaders’ of the 16th century, who by the mid-17th century were firmly embedded in Mediterranean maritime routes.8 Louis XIV, King of France (r.1643–1714), had wide-ranging ambitions, not least on the Mediterranean front, where he aimed to carve out a French empire in North Africa. To this end, he authorised an attack on the Algerian coast, and he summoned the galleys of Malta to assist his navy, which was the reason for this particular cruise by the fleet in 1664.9 By 24 June they were at Trapani. From here they were to go to Port Mahon on Menorca to rendezvous with the French navy. The ‘tartana del biscotto’, the ship carrying a large part of the biscuit supply, was sent ahead, with the squadron following soon after. Here they were following a well-trodden pattern, even if not a favoured one. The galleys preferred to sail close to the shore – costeggiare – but in this case, it was necessary to sail across an open stretch of water, from Trapani to the island of St  Peter on the southern coast of Sardegna, and from there to Port Mahon.10 This island was a regular pitstop for the galleys of Malta when they were in this part of the Mediterranean. On this occasion, they found some Tuscan galleys also harbouring there, and they carried out some joint reconnaissance of the neighbouring waters, which in recent weeks had been ravaged by Algerian corsairs. After a few days, the Hospitaller-Maltese galleys sailed towards Menorca, where they happened to arrive at the same time as the French fleet, a situation which called for tact and diplomacy.11 There was a round of artillery salutes between the two navies, which were guided by established rules of protocol regarding the types of guns to be used, the number of rounds to be shot, and so on. With that seen to, there was the question of the order in which they would sail into harbour. In this case it was agreed that the French Reale would sail in first, followed by the Maltese Reale, and then the rest of the French and Maltese vessels, each according to its seniority. Soon after, a very important and colourful figure reached Port Mahon, the Admiral of the French fleet, François de Vendôme, duc de Beaufort. Beaufort and Louis XIV were both grandchildren of King Henri IV of France (r.1589–1610), but from different maternal lines. While earlier in his life Beaufort had been a firebrand around which opposition to the French crown coalesced, by this point he was close to Louis XIV and in charge of the French fleet in the Mediterranean.12 On 8 July Galdiano visited Beaufort and there was much feasting. It was planned to sail out towards Algeria on the 10th, but because of disagreements over rank among the French officers, and because of contrary winds, they had to wait until the 17th. It was a considerable force: fifteen galleys (almost half of which were the Maltese ones), twelve large sailing war vessels, another fourteen smaller sailing vessels, and forty-eight smaller craft (tartane) mostly intended to carry supplies.13 Their destination was Béjaïa, or as they called it, Bugeya, in North Africa, east of Algiers. On the way they met foul weather. On the 21st a very thick fog descended, which created a serious risk of the ships colliding. To avert this, Galdiano ordered the blowing of trumpets and the playing of drums, while the French shot a cannon every now and then. Blinded by the fog, they relied on sound to keep themselves

Of battles and escorts  69 safe. Eventually, the fog lifted and on the 22nd they were close to Béjaïa. Beaufort called a council of war, which decided that Béjaïa was not in fact a target worthy of the King’s attention, and instead they would focus on the nearby Jijel – or Gigeri as they called it – further east.14 Despite strong contrary winds, by the 23rd they were within cannon shot of the town. Things moved rapidly at this point. Galdiano noted that ‘our people wanted the glory of being the first to set foot on the land of Africa’, and in fact it was the task of the Hospitaller-Maltese battalion to create a beachhead that would then allow the French infantry to disembark. Having succeeded in this, Beaufort ordered the ships to fire at the walls of the city to create a breach, and having accomplished this, the town was stormed and swiftly taken. Galdiano was proud to remark how it was one of his men who raised the first Christian banner on the walls of the town, that is, the flag of the Knights of Malta. This was always an important strategic and emotional moment in a battle.15 After that, the French-Maltese forces set about securing the town, its coast, and its immediate hinterland. Local Muslim forces made attempts both to parley with the French and to carry out attacks against the Christian forces. This pattern continued for the next few days of July, until the French-Maltese forces felt that they had established enough of a secure perimeter – both on land and at sea – around Jijel. There were problems, of course, such as the heat, which Galdiano said the French – particularly the soldiers from Normandy – found very difficult to deal with. On 31 July, Galdiano unloaded his supply of biscuit from the biscuit vessel, which he then sent to Malta with news of their success for the Grand Master, and a list of the dead and injured. He also sent a note to the Order’s ambassador in Paris so that he would inform Louis XIV.16 On 3 August Galdiano noted a short but fascinating episode. It was after vespers when a Moor was allowed on board his galley. This Moor claimed to have served as a slave of the Order, rowing on the galley Santa Maria, and to prove this he showed Galdiano a shirt he still had from those days. It was his way to certify the veracity of his story and somehow create a sense of trust. The Moor told them that his compatriots had decided to wait until the departure of the Hospitaller-Maltese squadron, and then speak to the French to negotiate peace. In other words, he was saying that the local Muslims acknowledged the militancy of the Maltese forces, and that they would ultimately find it easier to negotiate with the French alone. Galdiano noted that the French had made an alliance with a local Muslim potentate called Solimano Moro who was now helping them obtain supplies, but that the local Muslim population was livid at Solimano’s behaviour.17 It was now time for the Hospitaller-Maltese squadron to take its leave and sail back to Malta. Beaufort visited Galdiano on his galley, itself a mark of honour, and showed Galdiano a letter that he, Beaufort, had drafted for Louis XIV in which he told the King of the great contribution made by the Maltese forces to the success of the capture of Jijel. Beaufort also asked Galdiano for his advice on the viability of Jijel as an outpost for further French expansion in North Africa. Galdiano’s assessment was that while the harbour had potential, it required a lot of work and

70  The Military Orders Volume VIII investment to make it adequate to the needs of France. This included building a tower armed with cannons, among other infrastructural works. If this were done, the King would have a secure base in Africa. And with that, on 10 August, the Maltese squadron sailed away.18 They headed to Port Mahon, where on the 12th they took on fresh supplies and careened the galleys. On the 16th they sailed to Mallorca. Both at Mahon and Mallorca the Hospitaller-Maltese squadron was warmly welcomed. The Grand Master back in Malta was a Cotoner, a distinct family originating from the Balearic Islands. Hence, the Cotoner family in Mallorca could not pass the chance of putting up an adequate display of conspicuous consumption and welcome to what was, in effect, their brother’s navy. Don Francesco Cotoner, brother to Grand Master Nicolas and a Knight of St James himself, went to visit Galdiano, and later in the day, Don Francesco treated Galdiano and his knights to a wonderful feast on land: ‘on a pleasant breezy evening, with music reaching us from the town, numerous servants of Don Francesco brought us buckets of sweetened Genoese fruits and refreshing beverages’.19 The following day, the 20th, another brother of the Grand Master, Monsignor d’Orestan, went to see Galdiano and asked to be ferried to Sardegna, where he was to take possession of his diocese. The monsignor sent lavish gifts of food to all the captains of the squadron. They left on the 21st, encountering strong winds and rough seas, and it took them till the end of August to reach the island of St Peter. On the way they met a French vessel coming from Jijel that informed them that the situation in the enclave was not going well for the French. It was common practice for ships to exchange news and, in this way, they created a network of intelligence and news sharing across the Mediterranean. After a brief stop at the island of St Peter, by 4 September they were at Cagliari, Sardegna. Here, Monsignor d’Orestan’s journey came to an end, while Galdiano and the fleet were warmly received by the Viceroy and Vicequeen of Sardegna.20 On the 6th, Galdiano, the captains, and other knights were invited to a comedy in Spanish at the Palace. At the end of each act, they were served a range of sweet beverages. On the 9th they left Cagliari and, after another rough crossing, reached Trapani on the 14th. By 19 September they were back in Malta where the fleet received a rapturous welcome. Some days later, two letters from Louis XIV reached Malta, one addressed to the Grand Master and another to Galdiano. In his letter to the Grand Master, Louis praised the performance of the Maltese battalion that had fought for his glory and for the service of Christendom. The letter to Galdiano was accompanied by a medallion encrusted with diamonds, which he often pinned to his chest to show how much he appreciated such a signal gift from his Most Christian Majesty.21 The Spanish princess Over time a tradition developed of Hospitallers, either in their individual capacity or as an organisation, to provide protection when dignitaries were on the move. In 1548, Fra Nicolas De Villegagnon captained the French fleet that escorted the young Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, from Scotland to France.22 In 1600, Fra Don

Of battles and escorts  71 Pedro Gonzalez de Mendoza accompanied Marie de Medici from Florence to Marseille, to marry Henri IV of France.23 This is captured in a grandiose painting by Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), part of a whole set of paintings centred on the life of Marie de Medici (1575–1642).24 Crucially, because a large part of the survival and success of the Religion depended on maintaining family relationships across Europe, and on constantly reminding rulers – women included – of the ongoing work of the Religion, there are several instances in its documentation when influential women were brought into the narrative. This includes women who, although they were important players in their territories and in their time, may not be as well-known today, particularly to wider English-speaking audiences. In the accounts by the Hospitaller captains general, some of these women’s voices and actions are captured in their wider framework. For instance, on 9 August 1638, Fra Giovanni Battista Vertova, knight of Malta and military engineer, set off on a journey that saw him visit Messina, Genoa, Savona, Turin, Pinerolo, Felizano, Alessandria, Milan, Florence, Rome, and Naples, before returning to Malta in February 1639. He was tasked by Grand Master Jean Paul de Lascaris Castellar (r.1636–1657) to consult with a range of military experts and political figures about much-debated fortification plans for Malta.25 Among the many figures he met was Christine de Bourbon (1606–1663). She was a daughter of King Henri IV of France and Marie de Medici, sister to King Louis XIII (r.1610–1643) and wife of Duke Vittorio Amedeo I of Savoy (r.1630–1637). Upon the death of the latter in 1637, Christine became regent for their sons, in whose capacity she exercised extensive authority, championing French influence in northern Italy against Spain, while maintaining the distinctiveness of Savoy. Known as Madama Reale, which is how Vertova referred to her, she was a formidable figure on the European political stage.26 Vertova met her a number of times. On one occasion, he thanked her for the gracious hospitality and asked for leave to depart her duchy, to which ‘she gave no reply, save to smile and ask to see the drawings of Malta’.27 This vignette offers an intimate and fascinating window into the power and gender relations of the ancien régime. To oblige Madama Reale, Vertova stayed on in Turin for a few more days, until she recalled him back to show her the designs. They were a small group: Madama Reale, Vertova, and three other military engineers. While the delay in departing had irritated Vertova, he now seemed to succumb to her charms, or at least to put up the right appearance. He described her as being of a vivacious Spirit, of a manner truly Regal, and so proficient in the art of fortifications as to be able to understand the rules and terminology, so that she could proffer her judgement, as she did, about our fortifications advising me about certain aspects. The language he uses evinces surprise that a woman should be familiar with such technical material, but for the most part he described her and her input in much the same way as he described all the other male experts in his report.28 Some years later, in 1654, the Hospitaller-Maltese galleys had gone to Livorno to collect a new galley under Captain Fra Gabuccino. On the way back to Malta,

72  The Military Orders Volume VIII they stopped at the papal port of Civitavecchia for maintenance, and Fra Gabuccino was asked to select a small group among his senior men and proceed to ‘San Martino the principality of Signora Donna Olimpia’, where the Pope expected them.29 Safe on land after the travails at sea, Gabuccino and his brethren now had to navigate the equally challenging waters of the papacy of Innocent X (r.1644–1655) and the powerful Pamphilj family that dominated Rome at this time. The ‘signora’ referred to here was the Pope’s widowed sister-in-law Olimpia Maidalchini Pamphilj (1592–1657), a figure so powerful during those years that she was referred to – pejoratively and/or out of envy – as ‘la papessa’, and who was immortalised by great artists such as the sculptor Alessandro Algardi (1598–1654) and the painter Diego de Velázquez (1599–1660).30 The account of this occasion draws a beautiful image of a rather intimate meeting between the ageing pontiff and these seadogs at the palace of the papessa. They discussed various things and, after two days, the Hospitaller delegation was allowed to return to Civitavecchia, from where they sailed on to Malta, with the Pope (and presumably the papessa) satisfied in what they had managed to learn from these Hospitallers. In 1666, Captain General del Bene and the fleet were called upon to accompany ‘the Spanish Army, as it escorted the Empress’, the term ‘army’ meaning the navy.31 The Empress referred to here was the Spanish Habsburg princess Margaret Theresa (1651–1673), daughter of King Philip IV (r.1621–1655) and sister to King Charles II (r.1665–1700). She was the protagonist in Velázquez’s well-known painting Las Meninas.32 Her story takes us into the complicated world of Habsburg weddings and family relations. Margaret Theresa’s mother was Mariana of Austria (1634–1696), who as an Austrian Habsburg had gone to Spain to marry her uncle, Philip, and from their marriage were born Margaret Theresa and Charles. Now, Margaret Theresa, a Spanish Habsburg, was going to undertake the reverse journey to her mother and marry her uncle the Austrian Habsburg Leopold I (r.1658–1705), the Holy Roman Emperor. When her father Philip IV died in 1665, her ill-fated brother Charles became king. Known as ‘El Hechizado’, the bewitched, he was beset by a whole range of health problems because of the in-breeding of the family. She seems not to have had as many problems. After various political manoeuvring, on 25 April 1666, Margaret Theresa was married by proxy in Madrid. That is why the Hospitallers refer to her as the Empress.33 As Empress, it was her duty and destiny to reach Vienna. She was 15 or 16 years old at this point. It was decided that she would travel overland from Madrid to Barcelona, from there sail to Italy, and then continue the journey overland to Vienna. Given the complicated relationship between the Habsburgs and France, it was out of the question that she could go through French territory. The Hospitallers were summoned to be part of the escort. On 27 June 1666, Del Bene led the navy from Malta towards Spain. By about 10 July, they were close to the island of Caprera in north-east Sardegna. Here Del Bene started receiving news of the movements of the Empress across Spain, which allowed him to calculate the time-frame necessary to reach Barcelona on time. On 15 July they sailed north in order to careen the galleys and take on board biscuit. Their next stop was at Capo di Noli, west of Genoa. There del Bene learnt that Margaret Theresa would not sail before the end

Of battles and escorts  73 of August. He also met with the Governor of Milan, who had moved to the area to await the coming of the Empress.34 From here they proceeded to Antibes. The various family connections to the Order of St John are evident in the way that they either found knights who were serving in some local office, or found relatives of such knights, and who, as such, were happy to assist the fleet of Malta. When one of the galleys needed some repairs to be seen to, del Bene found full co-operation from local authorities. On a different note, he recorded how while in those environs, eight men escaped from his galleys. Therefore, to avoid such incidents, he was determined to avoid entering French harbours. Except that, since he was short on biscuit, del Bene needed to enter Toulon where this could be found, since according to the latest reports, there were not enough resources in Spanish harbours to procure biscuit.35 On the way to Toulon, around 21 July, when they were close to the Îles d’Hyères, a Genoese vessel passed by the Hospitaller-Maltese fleet without saluting. Del Bene quickly summoned his captains to seek their advice, and they all agreed that such a slight could not be allowed. So – putting aside for a moment their ­mission – they turned around to chase the Genoese vessel. Having reached it, del Bene questioned the Captain as to why he had failed to salute the banner of Malta. He replied that he had mistaken it for the banner of Bizerte, in Tunisia. Del Bene was not amused, and he forced it to render a salute with all its guns, which amounted to fourteen. He then proceeded to salute in turn, as protocol dictated. All of this might seem petty to us, but it was important to them, for at stake was nothing less than the issue of sovereignty and tradition. Having cleared the air, del Bene learnt from these Genoese that the Empress had reached Barcelona but that she was ill. He proceeded to Toulon, from where he took biscuit on board. This was on 23 July  1666. On 2 August he was on his way to Barcelona.36 Upon arrival at Barcelona, del Bene fired the requisite gun salutes for the Empress, the Reale, and the city of Barcelona. A key point he insisted upon from the start was that his galley, as the Capitana of Malta, had to sail on the right hand of the Reale, that is, the vessel on which the Empress would sail. This was agreed upon. In Barcelona, he threw himself into a round of social events. On 8 August he had an audience with the Empress, to whom he presented a letter from the Grand Master. On the 10th, the Empress embarked on the Reale and they set sail, the Order’s Capitana always on the right-hand side of the Reale, making sure to never go ahead of it, but just be at the right place. On the 18th they reached Villefranche, at this time a harbour of the Duchy of Savoy. The weather was rough, and the Empress waited until the 20th to disembark. There are various references again to issues of precedence, salutations, and so on, which often reflect how objects carried meaning. In this case, it had to do with the status of the Reale, the ship on which the Empress had sailed. Del Bene recorded how, the moment the Empress stepped ashore and left the Reale, the Reale, which had up to this point carried three lanterns, now removed two of them, since without the person of the Empress, the ship reverted to its normal status as the Capitana of Spain. All the other vessels adjusted their banners accordingly. Lanterns were large objects, the size of a grown man, so these were really visible, obviously practical, but also symbolic objects. And with

74  The Military Orders Volume VIII that, Del Bene’s task was done, and he could return to Malta. Once again, the fleet had acquitted itself diligently and maintained the good name of the Religion.37 Conclusion The reports and letters of Hospitaller captains general shine a light on many facets of early modern life. In these documents it is often stated that a particular letter or report was read out to the grand master and council. It was written down, of course, that is how we still have it, but that phrase, ‘read out to’, is significant. These are written sources, but this was still a highly oral society. The grand master and his councillors in Malta were all men who had sailed the seas, fought battles, escorted dignitaries, and so on; when reports of such activities by their younger brethren were read out to them, it was not just an exercise in reporting. It was an exercise in emoting, in empathy, in rekindling memories of similar events in their own lives. The captains did not need to provide much context in their reporting because their audience knew the context perfectly well, and at times had even shaped it. In the act of writing down these accounts, copying them for posterity, reading them out, and listening to them, we witness a very old tradition that went back many centuries, and which was still being perpetuated. The physical cruise at sea was mirrored by the imaginative cruise in the mind. There was an undeniably intimate link between the men of the galleys and the sea. Throughout the 17th century the Hospitaller-Maltese fleet lived up to its reputation as the guardian of Christian shipping, shores, and persons. In pre-industrial societies, far more than today, people’s lives were closely dictated by the rhythms of nature. The galleys, no matter how strong, could not match the force of the weather and often had to bow their will to it. Furthermore, all these great voyages depended on a very humble object: the biscuit. This, along with drinking water, delineated the opportunities and limitations available to them. Whether it was with Muslim warriors and slaves, or with Christian princesses, the Religion thrived on human relationships that served to remind it and the wider world of its mission and purpose. Notes 1 J.F. Grima, ‘The Galley-squadron of the Order of St  John: Its Organisation between 1596 and 1645’ (Unpublished M.A. dissertation, University of Malta, 1975), Chapter 3. 2 P. Fava, ‘Malta and Venice: The War of Candia 1645–1669’ (Unpublished M.A. dissertation, University of Malta, 1976). 3 J.F. Guilmartin, Gunpowder & Galleys. Changing Technology & Mediterranean Warfare at Sea in the 16th Century (Cambridge, 1974; London, 2003). 4 R. Gatt, ‘The State and Development of the Hospitaller Grand Priory of Messina in the seicento’ (Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Malta, 2020). 5 Guilmartin (2003), p.91. 6 NLM AOM1770, ff.237r-239r, 20 September 1664. 7 NLM AOM1770, ff.240v-244v, 20 September  1664, ‘soprafatti da una oscurità con tuoni e lampi continui’. 8 F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, trans. S. Reynolds, 2 vols (New York, 1972), i, pp.615–42. 9 M. Martin and G. Weiss, The Sun King at Sea. Maritime Art and Galley Slavery in Louis XIV’s France (Los Angeles, 2022).

Of battles and escorts  75 10 cf. Guilmartin (2003), p.58. 11 NLM AOM1770, ff.246v-248v, 20 September 1664. 12 E. Buttigieg, ‘Rituals and Politics in the Seventeenth-Century Mediterranean: The Hospitaller Island Order State of Malta ca.1611-ca.1715’, in The Struggle for Supremacy: The Mediterranean 1453–1699, ed. G. Cassar and N. Buttigieg (Malta, 2018), pp.126–27. 13 NLM AOM1770, ff.249r-251v, 20 September 1664. 14 NLM AOM1770, ff.252r/v, 20 September 1664. 15 NLM AOM1770, ff.253r-254r, 20 September 1664, ‘potesse questa nostra gente haver la gloria d’esser stata tra primi à porre il piede in terra d’Africa’. 16 NLM AOM1770, ff.254r/v, 20 September 1664. 17 NLM AOM1770, ff.254v-256r, 20 September 1664. 18 NLM AOM1770, ff.256r-258r, 20 September 1664. 19 NLM AOM1770, ff.258r/v, 20 September  1664, ‘godendo di quel fresco, e di alcun canto e suono, che da musica del paese per lor solazzo veniva fatto, quando numerosi serventi di esso Signor de Cotoner comparivano con bacilli di frutti conditi di Genova, et acque d’ogni concia’. 20 NLM AOM1770, ff.259v-261r, 20 September 1664. 21 NLM AOM1770, ff.261v-262r, 20 September  1664. NLM AOM261, ff.8v-9r, 12 October 1664. 22 J. Guy, My Heart in My Own: The Life of Mary Queen of Scots (London, 2004), p.41. 23 B. dal Pozzo, Historia della Sacra Religione di Malta (Verona, 1703), vol. 1, pp.433–35. G. Bonello, Histories of Malta: Figments and Fragments (Malta, 2001), p.52. 24 https://www.louvre.fr/en/explore/the-palace/to-the-glory-of-a-queen-of-france [27 December 2023]. 25 D. De Lucca, Giovanni Battista Vertova. Diplomacy, Warfare and Military Engineering Practice in Early Seventeenth-century Malta (Malta, 2001). 26 G. Claretta, Storia della reggenza di Cristina di Francia (Turin, 1868–1869). L. Bély, ‘Christine de France et son siècle’, Dix-Septième Siècle, 262.1 (2014), pp.21–29. 27 NLM AOM257, f.8r, 25 February 1639, ‘al che ella altro non rispose, se non sorridendo, che voleva veder i disegni essa ancora, e di Malta’. 28 NLM AOM257, f.8r, 25 February 1639, ‘di Spirito vivacissimo, di manière veramente Reali, e della professione del fortificare intendi cosi bene li regoli, & i termini, che può farne giuditio, come fece delli nostre fortificationi accennandomi alcuni particulari avvisi’. 29 NLM AOM1769, f.290v, 16 June  1654, ‘San Martino principato della Signora D. Olimpia’. 30 Guida al Palazzo Doria Pamphilj (Rome, 1997; 2021), p.72. ‘Maidalchini, Olimpia’, https://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/olimpia-maidalchini_(Dizionario-Biografico)/?sea rch=MAIDALCHINI%2C%20Olimpia [16 November 2023]. 31 NLM AOM1770, ff.328r-336r, 17 July 1666. 32 https://www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/las-meninas/9fdc78009ade-48b0-ab8b-edee94ea877f?searchMeta=las%20meninas [27 December 2023]. 33 E. Zarevich, ‘Who Was the Little Girl in Las Meninas?’, https://daily.jstor.org/ who-was-the-little-girl-in-las-meninas/ [27 December 2023]. 34 NLM AOM1770, ff.328r-330r, 17 July 1666. 35 NLM AOM1770, ff.330r-331r, 17 July 1666. 36 NLM AOM1770, ff.331r-333r, 17 July 1666. 37 NLM AOM1770, ff.333v-335r, 17 July 1666.

7

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council of the military orders Prosecutors versus secretaries in the quest for institutional pre-eminence, 1593–16911 Héctor Linares

Introduction On 17 July 1691, after more than a century without any legislative reform in the Council of the Military Orders (Real Consejo de las Órdenes Militares), the Spanish King Charles II (r.1665–1700) issued a royal decree concerning the administrative structure and authority of the Council’s secretaries.2 The Council of the Military Orders was founded by Emperor Charles V in 1523. It was established when the monarch received the mastership of the three Castilian military orders of Santiago, Calatrava, and Alcántara through the Dum Intra papal bull conferred by Pope Adrian VI.3 The Council of the Military Orders was composed of ecclesiastical magistrates who administered the orders on the king’s behalf.4 The 1691 royal decree did not result in the reform of the council’s structure. Nevertheless, the document constituted a royal effort to clarify the purported jurisdiction of the principal officers of the Council with the objective of delineating their often-disputed administrative functions and authority. For decades, officers at the Council of the Military Orders engaged in a contentious struggle to preserve corporate privileges, at times encroaching upon the competencies of other offices and precipitating conflicts between the officers. The origin of these jurisdictional disputes was ancient, stemming from the legislative reforms that Philip II (r.1556–1598) approved for the Council of the Military Orders in the late 16th century.5 The 1588 royal decree reformed the administrative and jurisdictional structure of the Council but did not resolve the disputes between officials over the control of certain offices and jurisdictions. The Council’s vague and imprecise legislative body fostered these disputes, which dragged on throughout the 17th century. This was in part because the Habsburg monarchs had not established a clear and systematic legal framework delineating the functions and authority of each office. As a result, legislation was subject to the interpretation of each official.6 Habsburg administrators’ numerous attempts to resolve these legal disputes at the Council were ultimately unsuccessful. Upon assuming the Spanish throne in the early 18th century, the Bourbons attempted to implement an ambitious model of centralisation for the council’s administration.7 DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-8

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  77 The struggles and disputes of authority were especially intense among secretaries, prosecutors, and scribes, who held the main administrative positions within the council. In theory, each officer was responsible for a specific administrative and legal matter. Secretaries were in charge of overseeing the administrative operations of the Council, maintaining the Council’s records, organising the archive, and, most importantly, managing the grants of estates, honours, offices, and dignities of the military orders in direct consultation with the sovereign.8 The prosecutors (fiscales) were legal experts (letrados or lawyers) whose main function was to issue legal reports on behalf of the councillors and the president of the Council to defend the Crown’s interests.9 The scribes were entrusted to draft administrative documents. Although they were originally under the authority of the secretary, by the mid-16th century, their position became a distinct office with independent administrative functions.10 Despite Philip II’s efforts to centralise the administrative system following the models of the Catholic Counter-Reformation, secretaries, prosecutors, and scribes fiercely competed to appropriate each other’s jurisdiction.11 The struggle continued for over a century, warranting Charles II’s 1691 decree to finally terminate the archaic administrative model that caused these overlapping spheres of jurisdiction. This chapter analyses the 1691 Royal Decree and other 16th- and 17th-century reports written by the Council secretaries and prosecutors of the Military Orders to track the origin and development of the Council’s administrative structure over nearly a hundred years. In particular, this chapter examines the conflict between secretaries and prosecutors, which formed the most pressing controversy within the Council’s administration. For centuries, secretaries and prosecutors competed for honorific institutional precedence. Both claimed precedence to enter the Council chamber at its weekly meeting with the right to sit next to the president of the institution. The conflicts of institutional precedence, however, were not limited to prosecutors and secretaries; they pervaded all officers and even standing knights and other dignitaries of military orders who fought fiercely to defend their privilege and honour.12 In the early modern Iberian world, social performance was a crucial aspect in establishing one’s position within the social hierarchy. Scholars have widely demonstrated the inherent performativity of social identities in the early modern period, revealing the importance of visual, physical appearance and behaviour in attaining tenets of public respectability, honour and status in the community.13 As historian José Antonio Maravall reminds us ‘everything that a person was . . . [was] equivalent to the position they occupy in society’.14 In order to properly embody authority, an officer had to display it. Performativity encapsulated the power of state positions.15 While the conflict between secretaries and prosecutors may appear insignificant, their century-long struggle to assert their rights and privileges in the Council suggests otherwise. In fact, secretaries eventually refused to attend in person and avoided council sessions altogether. The secretary’s absence from council meetings caused widespread administrative chaos and a lack of coordination regarding administrative matters. The dysfunction caused by this conflict of institutional primacy led to a more serious dispute of jurisdictions between these positions when

78  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 7.1 Royal Decree issued by Charles II in 1691 on the matters that should be managed by the Secretaries and Scribes of the Royal Council of Military Orders, 1691. AHN OOMM, Consejo de Órdenes, leg. 5436.

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  79 the scribes began to take advantage of the Secretary’s absence to gradually usurp the Secretary’s traditional authority over ecclesiastical affairs. A careful analysis of this struggle for institutional pre-eminence between prosecutors and secretaries and their litigations to obtain the support of the Council and the sovereign shows that both factions employed the Council’s archives to produce apologetic narratives and discourses. These legitimised and endorsed their own ambitions at the expense of other parties’ aspirations. The outcome was a campaign of propaganda characterised by the systematic production of reports, letters, and petitions in which secretaries and prosecutors relied on official documentation and institutional memory to assert their rights and privileges. This chapter reveals the institutional and political tensions within the Council, its ambiguous administrative and legislative framework, and the Habsburg’s unsuccessful attempts to resolve a conflict of jurisdictions between officers that hampered the efficiency of the main institution of honour, privilege, and social discrimination in early modern Iberia. More broadly, this chapter contributes to expanding understandings of Iberian legal pluralism, the inconsistency of law, the litigiousness of Iberian subjects, and the numerous institutional conflicts derived from overlapping spheres of jurisdiction.16 Finally, it helps us to gain a deeper insight into the complexities of the Habsburg administration and the limits of royal authority in 16th- and 17th-century Spain.17 A widespread struggle for institutional pre-eminence: secretaries versus prosecutors in the Council of the military orders and beyond King Charles II initiated his 1691 decree by affirming that the precedence dispute between prosecutors and secretaries had negatively impacted the institution’s efficiency. Secretaries argued that from the institution’s founding they were permitted to enter the Council chamber before the prosecutors and therefore occupied a privileged space at the Council table, just to the right of the Council’s president. However, prosecutors likewise argued that these rights belonged to them, following the institutional framework of the rest of the Monarchy’s tribunals and councils.18 In the late 16th century, council secretaries, intellectuals, and jurists began to compose reports, letters, and books to defend their institutional primacy. The authors of these works relied on several different sources to support their arguments, including Roman law, institutional memory, administrative tradition, and legal custom. The circulation of numerous copies of these works demonstrates that conflicts of institutional pre-eminence were a pervasive phenomenon across all major institutions within the Spanish monarchy. Some of the most famous works of this genre were penned by Bermúdez de Pedraza, the royal attorney of Philip III (r.1598–1621) and Philip IV (r.1621–1640). In 1620 Pedraza published El Secretario del Rey (The King’s Secretary) in Madrid.19 Fifteen years later, in 1635, he published his well-known Panegírico Legal (Legal Panegyric) in Granada.20 In both books, Bermúdez advocated for the primacy of the secretaries in all the councils of the Spanish monarchy. Although there are numerous cases of memoriales,

80  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 7.2 Unknown maker, Magistrates of the Royal Court in session, 1764. Antonio Martínez Salazar, Colección de Memorias y Noticias del Gobierno General y Político del Consejo (Madrid: 1764). National Library of Spain, Madrid, Spain (Hispanic Digital Library).

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  81 letters, and apologetic statements in defence of the secretaries’ interests, this is not the case for the prosecutors.21 Either prosecutors published fewer of these reports than the secretaries, or they have not survived to this day. Therefore, the information we have on this struggle for pre-eminence is skewed towards the side of the secretaries because their surviving documents outnumber any memoriales that may have existed in defence of the rights of prosecutors. It is not clear when this conflict began in the Council of the Military Orders. We know that the controversy had already arisen when Francisco González de Heredia was secretary of the Council and García de Medrano was its prosecutor. García de Medrano was appointed prosecutor in 1599 when the conflict was already underway.22 However, the struggle for precedence affected González de Heredia from the early years of his term. In 1588, Heredia was simultaneously appointed as secretary to the Council of the Military Orders and secretary of Ecclesiastical Affairs to the Council of Castile when Philip II merged both offices to manage ecclesiastical gifts more efficiently.23 In this double appointment, Heredia faced the same conflict of precedence. The president of Castile, Vázquez de Arce, sent Philip II a letter in 1583 asking whether Heredia should attend the meetings of the Council of Castile and precede the Council’s prosecutor as secretary of both Ecclesiastical Affairs and the Council of the Military Orders.24 The king ordered council ministers to discuss the convenience of including Heredia in council sessions to offer him a privileged place in the council chamber at the right hand of the president. Philip II foresaw conflicts of precedence and therefore proposed that the secretary and prosecutor alternate the privileged position at each session. Heredia had long maintained a close relationship with Philip II, and the monarch clearly sought to favour him because of his vast experience in ecclesiastical affairs and past services to the Crown. The king even proposed Heredia to be the first secretary to occupy this privileged seat.25 The president and councillors of Castile were not satisfied with the Sovereign’s recommendation. Members of the Council outlined at length the inconvenience of allowing Heredia to attend the Council sessions. Vázquez de Arce declared that the office of the secretary did not entitle the appointee to regularly attend council sessions but only in rare instances where it was required for their professional duty: ‘by reason of their offices, they have never had a seat in the Council with the councillors, nor has His Majesty until now been served to order them to have one [a seat]’.26 Vázquez affirmed that the prosecutor’s presence was justified when he had the right to vote in the Council and advocate for the institution as he was an expert in law who watched over the good administration of justice. Indeed, Philip II concurred with Vázquez’s arguments in 1597. Juan de Ibarra, secretary of the Council of the Indies, requested that the king clarify whether he would have precedence to enter into the council’s chamber over visiting members of other councils. While Ibarra was referring to the right of preeminent entering, the king’s response served to confirm that council members with the right to vote should always have priority over ministers without it.27 Voting represented a significant marker in determining institutional pre-eminence. The king’s inconsistency in denying precedence to

82  The Military Orders Volume VIII Ibarra for lacking the right to vote while defending Heredia’s entitlement to precede the prosecutor reveals the monarch’s bias towards Heredia. In Vázquez’s opinion, the prosecutors ‘are preferred as they have always been preferred, in place and seat of the secretaries of H.M’. The president indicated that it would be an anomaly if in the Royal Council the secretary had a seat and precedence over the prosecutor, since this did not occur in the rest of the councils of the monarchy.28 Philip II’s response on the matter was quite confusing. He stated: In order to avoid this conflict, the attendance [entrada] of Francisco González [Heredia] to the Council may be excused for this time. And when it is necessary to know about it, he may ask to report to those he deems appropriate, either orally or in writing.29 The king offered no solution or legislative clarification to resolve these conflicts of institutional precedence. He simply appeared bothered by the quarrel’s perseverance. Less cryptic and sincerer was Heredia’s response after learning the contents of the Council’s memoranda. Heredia expressed his deepest repulsion and disgust in stating that the ministers of the Council were biased and concealed from him that they had been consulted by the monarch on this matter. He lamented: ‘What this consultation contains was sinister, and much for reasons and acts to the contrary, as it was done without my knowledge’.30 This was not Heredia’s final effort to precede the prosecutor of the Council of Castile, though he would wait seven years for his next attempt coinciding with Philip II’s death. In October of 1599 he submitted a consulta de parte (a memorandum requested by himself) to newly enthroned Philip III (r.1598–1621) stating why he should precede the prosecutor of the Council of Castile. Like the previous request, this memorial refers to Heredia’s dispute with the prosecutor of the Council of Castile in his role as secretary of Ecclesiastical Affairs.31 This documentation indicates that since the last decade of the 16th century, Heredia was immersed in several struggles of precedence with various prosecutors from different institutions. Arguments put forth in Heredia’s consultation clearly relate to his conflicts with the prosecutor of the Council of the Military Orders, García de Medrano. In his report, Heredia stated that his rights as secretary were not being respected since he was entitled by seniority to a pre-eminent position. Heredia denounced that the recently appointed prosecutor, Gregorio Tapia, had begun to usurp his precedence: ‘I am the most senior one [González de Heredia], and he claims it [the pre-eminence] now, when none of his predecessors ever had it’.32 Heredia’s memorial does not just attempt to achieve his aspirations of institutional pre-eminence; it seeks redress from the Council ministers’ consultation of 1593. In his 1599 memorial Heredia lashed out at the president and councillors of the Council of Castile by affirming that their decisions and opinions were not based on professional criteria but on patronage and clientelism: ‘Undoubtedly these ministers preferred to favour those who are like them and favour their pretentions’.33 Heredia declared that the Council’s decisions were based on purely corporate

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  83 interests, without considering jurisprudence, truth, and justice. He stated in his memorial that he knew first-hand that the councillors of the military orders made pacts of loyalty behind the king’s back. They did not pursue the common good nor the general interests of the monarchy and were entirely self-serving. He declared: Because all of them are friends, they banded together. When they [the councillors] were appointed, they made an oath to help and endorse each other, and they help each other so much that they never achieve any other common good than the one that benefits them.34 Heredia describes the Council as a corrupt institution in which the councillors spuriously exercised their power against those who did not agree with their ideas or interests. According to Heredia, both the prosecutor Tapia and his predecessor Ruy Pérez (with whom he had quarrelled in 1593) begged their fellow Council members to issue consultations in their favour and against the interests of the secretary: ‘because they [those of the Council] are notoriously not people of cloak and sword (capa y espada, like the secretaries), the aforementioned prosecutor [Tapia] went to the seek favour in the Council, where he belongs’.35 Publicly declaring the impartiality of the Council of Castile, Heredia had taken precautions. He sent a copy of the memorial to the Duke of Lerma (the King’s favourite) so that both (the King and the favourite) would take the decision without considering those of the Council. Heredia asked the King to grant him a certificate that would protect his precedence over the prosecutors, similar to the privilege that the secretaries of the Council of the Indies had: Having said that this [the decision] is up to your Majesty and not to the Council, please order that the Marquis of Denia [i.e. the Duke of Lerma] make a report on this and that your Majesty be so kind as to grant me another certificate like the one that the secretary of the Council of the Indies has.36 Heredia also took advantage of the fact that this royal decree was applicable not only in the Council of Castile but also in that of the Military Orders: The offices with which I serve Your Majesty are not of less consideration, but of more, and I am in possession of documents that confirm that secretaries should precede the prosecutors of the Royal Council, and those of the Inquisition, and of the Military Orders, and this and other things related to it are mentioned in these papers.37 We do not know the response of the Monarch and his favourite in this regard, but the conflict may not have been resolved through Heredia’s memorial since the secretaries of the orders continued to fight after his death to precede the prosecutors in the Council of the Military Orders.

84  The Military Orders Volume VIII After Heredia’s death: 17th-century secretaries and the quest for institutional pre-eminence In 1624, Gaspar de Salcedo, secretary of the Council of the Military Orders, submitted an extensive memorial to the newly enthroned King Philip IV (r.1621–1665) outlining the reasons why secretaries should precede Council prosecutors. Salcedo had probably read Heredia’s memorial since his report follows Heredia’s main arguments and narrative basis. However, unlike Heredia’s memorial, Salcedo’s is not primarily based on defaming the members of the Council of the Military Orders. Rather, it was much more detailed and well-written to solidly back up his argument. Salcedo’s memorial lists a dozen justifications why the secretary of the orders should enter before the prosecutor in the council chamber and occupy a place of pre-eminence at both the table and in public ceremonies. Salcedo started his memorial by extolling the figure of the secretaries who in all the ‘monarchies and republics of the world have been honoured with pre-eminent places and seats’. According to Salcedo, the dignity and authority of the secretaries was so great that no officer could ‘obscure it’.38 Salcedo refers to the legal precepts ‘Antiquissimus Quisque [Prior]’ (the most senior come first), which mandates that among equal dignities, the most senior precedes the more recent.39 Salcedo indicates that this pre-eminence of the secretary over the prosecutor had been respected throughout the 16th century in most councils. Secretaries Cristóbal de Ipeñarrieta (Treasury), Esteban de Ibarra (War), and Juan de Ibarra (Indies), all preceded the prosecutor in their respective councils. Salcedo also indicates that in the Council of the Military Orders, the president, Juan de Idiáquez (1598–1614), had always given priority to the secretary over the prosecutor, and that González de Heredia was entitled to ‘precede all the prosecutors of this Council when he coincided with them in meetings and public acts’.40 Salcedo cites the executive meeting of the Council of Ecclesiastical Patronage held in 1593, in which the transfer of the Royal Chapel of Granada to the main church of the same city was discussed. In that meeting, González de Heredia, as secretary of ecclesiastical affairs, preceded Ruy Pérez de Rivera, prosecutor of the Council of Castile. Salcedo cites numerous examples of acts, boards, meetings, and ceremonies in which the secretaries of the Military Orders and Ecclesiastical Affairs preceded the prosecutors and other ministers of the councils of the monarchy. Salcedo states that ‘González de Heredia always preceded the mentioned prosecutors and attorney generals of the orders, even when they were knights of orders and had a seat in the council’.41 Salcedo’s statement suggests that Philip II’s resolution of Heredia’s 1599 request would have been favourable to the secretaries’ interests. According to Salcedo, it was after the death of Heredia in 1614, when Alonso Núñez de Valdivia was appointed secretary of the Council of the Military Orders, that the prosecutors of the Council began to institutionally precede secretaries. Salcedo’s assertion is quite coherent, given that Heredia was one of the most powerful ministers of the Council of the Orders during the reigns of Philip II and Philip III, and was a loyal ally of the royal favourite, the Duke of Lerma.42 It is strange that during his ministry, as Álvarez-Coca affirms, his rights as secretary

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  85

Figure 7.3 Arguments that Gaspar de Salzedo, secretary of the Council of Military Orders, has to provide again to H.M. on why he should precede the prosecutor of the Council. 1624. AHN OOMM, Real Consejo de las Órdenes, leg. 3708.

86  The Military Orders Volume VIII were violated by the prosecutors.43 It is more probable that after his death in 1614 the prosecutors took the opportunity to recover this privilege that they had lost with the royal resolution of 1599. This hypothesis seems feasible when considering that an unauthorised 17th-century memorial housed at the British Library affirms that Heredia received a royal decree from Philip III that confirmed his precedence over the prosecutor in both the Council of Castile and the Council of the Orders.44 Since this memorial confirms Salcedo’s narrative, the struggle of precedence must have resurfaced in the months immediately after Heredia’s death, when a series of interim secretaries occupied the office (among them, Tomás de Angulo45 and Mateo Hurtado).46 This interim situation lasted for a year, until Núñez de Valdivia was finally appointed as secretary in February 1615.47 When Valdivia took possession of the position, the struggle for precedence resumed.48 This sequence of events is confirmed by Bermúdez de Pedraza, who noted that the secretaries ‘were in possession of such precedence, because there is a royal decree that confirms that the secretary must precede the prosecutor’.49 For Salcedo, the fact that the secretary’s position was always cited and listed before the prosecutor in official documentation was further proof of institutional pre-eminence. He affirmed that in the payrolls ‘where the salaries of the president and the other ministers and officials of the Council are listed, the secretary is placed immediately after the councillors, and after him, the prosecutor’.50 The order in which the ministers of the Council were listed on the payroll was not improvised or insignificant; it had an institutional logic based on the Council ministers’ public performances. In the Corpus Christi procession held in Madrid in 1594, Philip II ordered that the only members of the Council who should attend were ‘the president, the councillors, the secretary and the prosecutor’.51 For Salcedo, the fact that Philip II placed the secretary before the prosecutor was another unequivocal indicator of the secretary’s precedence: ‘it is clear that His Majesty considered that the secretary had to go in a more pre-eminent place than the prosecutor, since he listed him first’.52 This is the same argument put forth by Bermúdez de Pedraza who stated ‘in the payroll of the salaries of the Council of the Orders officers, which is dispatched every year signed by H.M., the secretary comes in first place than the Prosecutor, and the order of the letter gives precedence’.53 Among his arguments, Salcedo also cited the monarchy’s promotion system.54 He held that the rank of the secretary had always been superior to that of the prosecutor, noting that secretaries were commonly promoted to prosecutors, but this change in rank almost never occurred in reverse. Salcedo states that Arenillas de Reynoso, prosecutor of the Holy Office, ‘was rewarded and promoted on 3 August 1586 from his office of prosecutor to that of secretary after many years of services to the Crown’. 55 Prosecutors, for Salcedo, did not have the rank of ‘councillors’; ‘they only had the title of lawyers or attorneys’ whose office was just intended ‘to defend the causes in which H.M. or his Chamber and Treasury may be interested in’.56 In actuality, the secretary retained a higher rank and responsibility than the prosecutor. In the Council of Orders, the secretary’s precedence over the prosecutor lay in the fact that the secretary was the only official of the council who had the right and privilege of ‘consulting alone with His Majesty,

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  87 without the intervention of the president, councillors, or any other minister, on matters of the robes, land-grants, public offices, notary offices, and other positions of the orders’.57 For Salcedo, proximity to the monarch and the right to enter the royal chamber and discuss with the king was a prerogative that evidenced the superior dignity of the secretary with respect to the prosecutor, who had no authority to meet with the sovereign or to discuss government affairs directly with him. This is one of Salcedo’s most compelling arguments, since the secretary was effectively the only minister of the institution that possessed this power to set himself up as the king’s eyes by receiving the title of ‘private secretary’.58 Seventeenth-century treatises supported Salcedo’s reasoning. Bermúdez de Pedraza states in his 1635 Legal Panegyric that the second reason for the pre-eminence of secretaries over prosecutors was in fact their proximity to the monarch. He affirmed that those who are closest to the royal ministers are those who enjoy more of their favour . . . therefore the occupation closest to the prince in the matter of government is the noblest exercise and greatest dignity, and this is that of the secretary.59 Pedraza projected the secretary’s authority and jurisdiction through metaphorical analogy in his El Secretario del Rey60 (1635); affirming that secretaries were ‘ministers of God’, ‘[the] throat of the sovereign’, and [the]‘hand of the king’. Saavedra Fajardo’s 1637 Idea de un Príncipe Politico61 echoed Pedraza´s remarks (1637) by likewise adhering to these metaphors of the secretary as a constituent of the king’s political and corporeal body. Saavedra’s defence of the secretary’s pre-eminence was particularly significant, given that he was a knight of the Order of Santiago and a member of the order’s senate (called Capítulos). Saavedra expressed the sentiments of knights who generally felt a greater respect for the secretary than the prosecutor since they dealt with secretaries as a conduit between the Order’s chapters general and the Council in all administrative matters.62 Charles II ultimately favoured the Council’s prosecutors in his 1691 decision despite Salcedo’s strategic memorial and the Military Order secretaries’ best efforts to maintain their pre-eminence over the prosecutors. In the Royal Decree of 17 July 1691, the King ended this century-long controversy by giving precedence to the prosecutors of the Council.63 In the decree, the Monarch affirmed that although it is possible that this controversy was born from the fact that in the beginning of the formation of the Council [of the Orders] the kings had granted this prerogative of the secretary preceding the prosecutor, it is time [for] it be solved.64 Charles II thought it was unnatural for the secretaries to precede the prosecutors in the Council of the Military Orders. His solution was to equalise the authority, privileges, and jurisdiction of the prosecutors and secretaries of the orders ‘to the current practice and style of all councils’.65

88  The Military Orders Volume VIII Conclusion The 1691 royal instruction might have ended the long-running controversy over precedence within the Council, but internal power struggles continued and their consequences were felt by other offices of the Council. The scribes in the Council of the Military Orders appropriated some of the secretaries’ authority when they did not attend the institution’s executive sessions, initiating another conflict between the secretaries and scribes. This power struggle continued throughout the last half of the 17th century and the entire 18th century, affecting the Council of the Orders’ administrative and institutional efficiency. Not even the Bourbon dynasty was able to solve the institutional problems that had permeated the institution’s system of government due to its poor administrative and legislative definition, and the Habsburg’s indifferent attitude. The struggle for precedence in the Council of the Military Orders more broadly demonstrates that various overlapping spheres of jurisdiction existed within one of the main institutions of the Spanish Empire. These spheres were based on clientelism and patronage networks that resulted from the monarch’s inefficiency in centralising his authority. The ensuing struggles demonstrate that the Habsburgs ultimately failed in their attempts to delimit the authority of officials and better define their imperial administration. Nor did they offer a lasting solution to these conflicts of honour and authority in the Council of the Military Orders, which deeply hampered their bureaucratic functioning. This shows that the early modern Iberian administration was not as centralised and efficient as previously thought. Rather, it was quite inefficient, and its legal and institutional framework was highly ambiguous and often subject to the personal ambitions of its constituents. Notes 1 I presented a draft of this chapter at the annual conference of the American Catholic Historical Association in Philadelphia in January 2023, where I received constructive feedback that strengthened this piece. I  would like to express my gratitude to Kyle Marini for providing suggestions that substantially improved this chapter. 2 AHN, OOMM, Consejo de Órdenes, leg.5436, Royal Decree issued by Charles II in 1691 on the matters that should be managed by the Secretaries and Scribes of the Royal Council of the Military Orders. 3 E. Postigo, ‘El Consejo de las Ordenes Militares: Fundación y reformas de Carlos V’, Hispania Sacra, 39.80 (1987), pp.537–66. 4 E. Postigo, Honor y Privilegio en la Corona de Castilla: El Consejo de las Órdenes y los caballeros de hábito en el siglo XVII (Valladolid, 1988), pp.67–109. 5 AHN OOMM, lib.1.350. 6 J.M. Millán, ‘Las luchas por la administración de la gracia en el reinado de Felipe II. La reforma de la Cámara de Castilla, 1580–93’, Annali di Storia Moderna e Contemporanea, 4 (1998), pp.31–72. 7 AHN OOMM, leg.5436, Original report of Sebastián de Piñuela, secretary of this council [Military Orders], dated on 24 November 1794, and its addition of 10 November 1795. 8 M.J. Álvarez-Coca, ‘La concesión de hábitos de caballeros de las Ordenes Militares: procedimiento y reflejo documental, ss. XVI-XIX’, Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, 14 (1993), pp.277–98. H. Linares, ‘Será obra pía cualquier socorro de que vuestra Majestad

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council  89

9 10

11

12 13

14 15

16

17 18 19 20

21 22

23 24

les haga merced: Procedimiento de concesión y perfiles de acceso a las regidurías de las órdenes militares en el reinado de Felipe III, 1598–1621’, Historia y Genealogía, 11 (2021), pp.49–90. A. Masters, We, the King: Creating Royal Legislation in the Sixteenth-Century Spanish New World (Cambridge, 2023), p.219. M.J. Álvarez-Coca, ‘La Figura del Escribano’, Anabad, 27.4 (1987), pp.555–65. M.V. López-Cordón, ‘Secretarios y secretarías en la edad moderna: de las manos del Príncipe a relojeros de la Monarquía’, Studia Historica. Historia Moderna, 15 (1996), pp.107–31. For an overview of this conflict, see: M.J. Álvarez-Coca, ‘El Consejo de las Ordenes Militares’, Cuadernos de Historia Moderna, 15 (1994), pp.297–324. About the Counter-Reformation administrative centralization, see: R. Po-Chia Hsia, The World of the Catholic Renewal, 1540–1770 (Cambridge, 1997). Also: R. Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation: Central Europe 1550–1750 (New York, 1992). AHN OOMM, lib.1532. J.M. Bristol, Christians, Blasphemers, and Witches: Afro-Mexican Ritual Practice in the Seventeenth Century (Albuquerque, 2007). Barbara Fuchs, Passing for Spain: Cervantes and the Fictions of Identity (Urbana, 2010). R.C. Schwaller, ‘For Honor and Defence’: Race and the Right to Bear Arms in Early Colonial Mexico’, Colonial Latin American Review, 21.2 (2012), pp.239–66. J. Rappaport, The Disappearing Mestizo: Configuring Difference in the Colonial New Kingdom of Granada (Durham, 2014). T.J. Walker, Exquisite Slaves: Race, Clothing, and Status in Colonial Lima (Cambridge, 2017). J.A. Maravall, Poder, Honor y Élites en la España del Antiguo Régimen (Madrid, 1984), p.27. J.A. Escudero, Los hombres de la Monarquía Universal (Madrid, 2011), p.96, ‘Behind the claims of councils or people to precede others and not be preceded by others hides the institutional weight of the organizations, or of the positions and the valuation to which they are creditors in the structure of the State’. R.L. Kagan, Lawsuits and Litigants in Castile, 1500–1700 (Chapel Hill, 1981). L. Benton, Law and Colonial Cultures: Legal Regimes in World History, 1400–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2002). L. Benton and Richard J. Ross, Legal Pluralism and Empires, 1500–1850 (New York, 2013). R. MacKay, ‘Banishment’s Vanishing Act: The Inconstancy of Law in Early Modern Spain’, Renaissance Quarterly, 76.4 (2023), pp.1272–302. R. MacKay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in Seventeenth-Century Castile (Cambridge, 1999). AHN OOMM, leg.5436, ff.308–13. F.B. de Pedraza, El Secretario del Rey (Valladolid, 1620). F.B. de Pedraza, Panegírico legal, preeminencias de los secretarios del Rey deducidas de ambos derechos y precedencia de Luis Ortiz de Matienzo, Antonio Carnero, y don Iñigo de Aguirre, sus secretarios, y de su Consejo en el supremo de Italia al fiscal nuevamente criado en él (Granada, 1635). Escudero (2011), p.96. In the Acts of the Cortes de Castilla of October 1599, García de Medrano is mentioned as prosecutor of the Council of Orders. Actas de las Cortes de Castilla, Cortes de 1598 a 1601. Vol. 18, Tomo 18, p.385. Álvarez-Coca points out that he was appointed in 1599; Álvarez-Coca (1994), p.305. The institutional reform of the Council of Orders and Castile was made by Philip II in 1588. AHN OOMM, leg.1.350. There are copies of the decree at the British Library, Egerton, Ms.339, ff.258–63. BL, Egerton, Ms.2082, ff.5–13. BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, y su respuesta sobre si el secretario Francisco González de Heredia ha de tener asiento en el Consejo y preceder al Fiscal, 4 September 1593. J.A. Escudero, Los Secretarios de Estado y del Despacho, 1474–1724 (Madrid, 1976), pp.827–33.

90  The Military Orders Volume VIII 25 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, ff.154–55. Escudero (1976), pp.830–32. 26 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, f.157. Escudero (1976), pp.830–32. 27 Memorandum of the Council of the Indies, dated on August 17, 1597. Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Indiferente General, 743. 28 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, f.157. Escudero (1976), pp.830–32. 29 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, f.157. Escudero (1976), pp.830–32. 30 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, Consulta del Consejo Real a Su Majestad, Felipe II, f.157. Escudero (1976), pp.830–32. 31 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia, secretario del Consejo de Cámara, al rey don Felipe III, dando las razones por que debía preceder al Fiscal del Consejo de Castilla, 14 October 1599. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 32 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia, ff.156–58. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 33 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia. Escudero (1976), pp.83–33. 34 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 35 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 36 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 37 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.157–62, Copia de la Consulta hecha por Francisco González de Heredia. Escudero (1976), pp.832–33. 38 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, secretario de Su Majestad en el Consejo de las Órdenes, tiene que representar para que haya de preceder al Fiscal del Consejo. 39 Pedraza (1635), f.53r. 40 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.1. 41 AHN OOMM, leg. 3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, ff.1–2. 42 A. Feros, Kingship and Favoritism in the Spain of Philip III, 1598–1621 (Cambridge, 2006). 43 Álvarez-Coca (1994), p.305. 44 BL, Egerton, Ms.337, ff.162–63. Escudero (1976), pp.833–64. 45 From the death of Heredia until July 1614, Tomás de Angulo continued to be interim secretary of the Orders. J.A. Álvarez y Baena, Hijos de Madrid ilustres en santidad, dignidades, armas, ciencias y artes . . . (Madrid, 1790), p.327. 46 Most secretary appointment decrees are found in AHN OOMM, lib.105. 47 AHN OOMM, lib.125, ff.133v–34r. 48 AHN OOMM, Consejo de Órdenes, leg. 5436, f.17r, Respetosa (sic) justificada representación al Real Consejo de las órdenes por D. Mauro Varela Bermúdez, secretario de S.M y escribano de la cámara del mismo Real Consejo en lo tocante a la Orden de Santiago. 49 Pedraza (1635), f.51v. 50 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.2. 51 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.2. 52 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.2. 53 Pedraza (1635), f.51v.

Honour and discord in the Spanish Council 91 54 On the system of internal promotion in royal institutions, see: J. Fayard, Los Ministros del Consejo Real de Castilla. 1621–1788 (Madrid, 1982). See also A. Álvarez-Ossorio, ‘Las Esferas de la Corte. Príncipe, Nobleza, y Mudanza en la Jerarquía’, in Poder y Movilidad Social. Cortesanos, Religiosos, y Oligarcas en la Península Ibérica, ss. XV– XIX, ed. F. Chacón and N. Monteiro (Madrid, 2006), pp.129–81. 55 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.3. 56 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.4. 57 AHN OOMM, leg.3708, ff.1–4, Memorial sobre las razones que Gaspar de Salcedo, f.3. 58 J.A. Escudero, Felipe II. El rey en el despacho (Madrid, 2019), p.45. 59 Pedraza (1635), ff.9r/v. 60 F.B. de Pedrada, El Secretario del Rey (Madrid, 1637), p.15, and following. 61 D. Saavedra Fajardo, Idea de un Príncipe Político Cristiano Representada en Cien Empresas . . . (Madrid, 1658), Empresa LVI, p.377, and following. 62 S. Boadas, ‘Diego de Saavedra Fajardo, caballero de la Orden de Santiago’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia, 92 (2016), pp.2–20. 63 AHN OOMM, leg.5436. 64 AHN OOMM, leg.5436, f.1, Royal Decree of 17 July 1691. 65 AHN OOMM, leg.5436, f.1, Royal Decree of 17 July 1691, ff.1–2.

Part 2

Administration

8

The election of heads of military orders in the 12th and 13th centuries Alan Forey

In the 12th and 13th centuries many new religious orders were devising procedures for the election of their heads. The measures adopted by military orders differed in some respects from those of others, but there were also similarities, and elections in several military orders were conducted partly in accordance with Cistercian regulations. In this period, however, it was also common for church appointments to be influenced by lay rulers, and the extent of secular interference in elections in military orders requires consideration, as does any intervention by popes. In an examination of procedures for the election of masters of military orders, a distinction should first be made between foundations which were affiliated to the Cistercians and those which were not. The former group includes not only Calatrava and its daughters Alcántara and Avis but also the short-lived orders of Mountjoy and Santa María de España, the latter being affiliated to the monastery of Grandselve. In the Cistercian Order abbots were elected by the monks of a house, but the abbot of the mother house supervised the procedure and abbots of daughter houses also participated. These practices to some extent influenced the way in which masters of the associated military orders were chosen. In the early 13th century it was decreed that only the abbot of Morimond, the mother house of Calatrava, could depose or institute a master of that Order.1 In 1238, the Master of Calatrava quashed the election of the master of Avis because it had not been carried out in the proper form, and declared that the master of Calatrava or his delegate should be present at elections of masters of Avis. At the same time it was ruled that the master of Avis should be summoned to elections of masters of Calatrava.2 It had similarly been agreed in 1218 that the master of Alcántara should participate in the elections of masters of Calatrava.3 In 1275 the Cistercian general chapter decreed that the election of the head of Santa María de España should be confirmed by the abbot of Grandselve,4 and in statutes drawn up in the late 13th century it was reiterated that elections of masters of Calatrava should be confirmed by the abbot of Morimond.5 Yet Cistercian regulations were drawn up for the appointment of heads of individual houses which were associated by a system of affiliation, and Calatrava and other military foundations linked to the Cistercians could not be fitted neatly into the Cistercian scheme. Calatrava did have daughters, including two convents of sisters,6 and some papal bulls were addressed to ‘the master and convent of Calatrava, of the Cistercian Order, and their daughter houses’.7 Yet most brothers of DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-10

96  The Military Orders Volume VIII Calatrava and other orders with ties to the Cistercians lived in encomiendas,8 which were not daughters in the Cistercian sense: they were similar to the commanderies or encomiendas of other military orders. The orders affiliated to the Cistercians were in fact of a hybrid nature and, like other military orders and some other religious orders founded in the 12th and 13th centuries, they convened special general chapters for the election of a new head. Early sources appear to have envisaged that all brothers of a military order would participate in electoral chapters,9 but in many instances this quickly became impossible. Surviving sources do not, however, usually provide full information about the composition of these chapters. Hospitaller statutes decree merely that ‘all brothers on this side of the sea, namely the bailiffs and the wisest and most prudent of the others, should be summoned’.10 Templar regulations state that provincial masters in the East were to be summoned, and they were to come with some of the prodomes of their provinces, while ensuring that security was not endangered. These were to gather with the central convent on the day of the election, but ‘the majority of the good men of the house, but not all brothers’, were to be involved in the proceedings.11 While Templar and Hospitaller elections were determined by brothers resident in the East, in the Teutonic Order a suitable time limit was given to allow masters of European provinces to attend, although the presence of the master of Livonia, because of distance, was not obligatory.12 By contrast the Dominicans expected all provinces to be represented in electoral chapters, although in practice not all attended.13 In the Order of Santiago, the prior of the leading house was instructed to summon the members of the council known as the Trece (the Thirteen), but nothing was decreed about the attendance of others, while late-13th-century definiciones of Calatrava refer merely to the ‘assembly of the aforesaid brothers’.14 Greater precision about composition is encountered in the regulations of some other religious orders, such as the Dominicans and the Gilbertines, and the electoral chapter of the Dominicans included representatives chosen by provincial chapters, a practice which contrasts with that of military orders, which, because of military and financial demands, had a less decentralised organisation.15 The three leading military orders in the East had similar procedures for appointing an electoral college of thirteen to act on behalf of the electoral chapter. In the Hospital a commander of the election was appointed by the chapter and he chose a knight, a sergeant, and a priest, and others were then co-opted by these until there were thirteen electors; in the Teutonic Order the commander of the election was similarly responsible for initiating the selection of thirteen electors, while in the Temple the process was begun by the commander of the election and his socius. In the latter two orders it was ruled that those chosen were to have their origins in various provinces.16 The regulations of the Temple were adopted by the Swordbrethren and those of the Teutonic Order by St Thomas of Acre,17 but as these were small foundations, they may not have needed elaborate procedures of this kind. But definiciones drawn up for Calatrava in the late 13th century ruled that an electoral college should be set up, comprising the comendador mayor, the sacristan, the cellarer, and ten of ‘the most experienced, worthy and suitable knights of their order’, and this arrangement was also to be followed by the daughters of Calatrava.18 In

The election of heads of military orders  97 the Order of Santiago, however, no process of selection was necessary, as a new master was chosen by the Trece.19 Electoral committees are also encountered in some other religious orders, such as the Gilbertines and Grandmont,20 but in the Dominican Order all provincial priors and representatives at the electoral chapter participated in an election.21 Elections in military orders differed, however, from those in most other religious orders in that the person appointed was a layman, although several ransoming and hospitaller foundations did have lay heads in the 12th and 13th centuries: these included the Order of Mercy and that of the Holy Spirit.22 The electors were also mostly laymen, and in some military orders consideration was given to the existence of different ranks, which was not usually the practice elsewhere, although regulations of Grandmont in the late 12th century stated that its electoral committee should consist of six clerics and six conversi.23 The electoral colleges of the Templars and the Teutonic Order comprised eight knights, four sergeants, and one priest: although these regulations do not distinguish between sergeants-at-arms and freres des mestiers, it seems likely that the sergeant electors were drawn from the former group. The three ranks were also represented in the Hospital’s electoral college. All the members of Santiago’s Trece, however, were knights. 24 There appear to have been few brother sergeants in that Order, and Spanish orders affiliated to the Cistercians apparently had no sergeants but only conversi, and these – unlike those of Grandmont – had no role in elections.25 In 1181 the Cistercian general chapter had in fact ruled that conversi should not participate in abbatial elections.26 Some military orders also had convents of sisters but, as elsewhere, these were not represented in electoral proceedings: prioresses did attend electoral chapters of the Gilbertines, but they met separately, and were not among the electors.27 In Omne datum optimum, Innocent II had ruled in 1139 that a Templar master should be chosen unanimously by the brothers or by ‘the wiser and more upright part of them’, and similar phrasing is found in some other papal documents.28 Yet, if unanimity were lacking, there could be differences of opinion as to which group could be considered wiser, and in practice the members of an order were usually expected to accept the choice of the numerical majority. Templar statutes note that ‘he is master who is named and chosen by the common accord of the majority’.29 In the Teutonic Order, the candidate who was preferred by all or the larger part of the electors was to be accepted, and a similar clause was included in Hospitaller regulations.30 The electoral procedures which have been described were, of course, not always in force in an order’s early years. The first heads of orders were in some instances their founders, and the first master of the Teutonic Order, Henry of Walpot, was appointed by an assembly of prelates and magnates.31 The procedures adopted by the Order of Santiago are mentioned in Alexander III’s bull of confirmation in 1175, only five years after the creation of the Order,32 but the dating of electoral procedures in other orders is not always known. Hospitaller rulings about elections are contained in statutes issued in the first decade of the 13th century, but some of the regulations enacted at that time were confirmations of earlier decrees, and already in the early 1170s an election had been decided by a committee of thirteen

98  The Military Orders Volume VIII brothers.33 This is not the only instance when it is not known whether a ruling was a confirmation of an earlier decree. There is also uncertainty about the dating of Templar regulations relating to the elections of masters.34 Nor is it always easy to discern whether institutions were influenced by a particular precedent. Some orders are known to have adopted the customs of an earlier order, as in the case of the Swordbrethren and St Thomas of Acre, although it has already been noted that the borrowings by these two orders may not have included the detailed provisions about the election of masters. But presumably the Teutonic Order’s regulations about magisterial elections were based on those of the Templars, whose rulings on clerics and knights were adopted by the German foundation.35 Some decrees for Calatrava were also applied to its daughters. Yet, although there were often similarities in the procedures adopted by various orders in the electing of masters, lack of precise information hinders any comprehensive discussion of the extent to which orders consciously adopted practices in use elsewhere. Evidence about the implementation of electoral regulations is slight. Elections conducted in accordance with established procedures were not likely to elicit comment, but several references survive to elections which, like that in the Order of Avis in 1238, appear to have been irregular. When the Hospitaller Master Gilbert of Assailly resigned in 1171, he – rather than a specially chosen official – presided over the election of a new master and acted with twelve brothers: it is not known on what basis these were chosen.36 The Excidium Aconis (II) reports that only ten Templars survived the attack on Acre in 1291 and that these immediately elected a new master, Theobald Gaudin, although the ‘Templar of Tyre’ places the election later at Sidon.37 When the Limousin Templar Hugh of Fauro was questioned during the Templar trial, he implied further irregularities in the appointment of Theobald’s successor: he maintained that brothers of the Limousin and Auvergne, who made up the majority of the central convent, supported Hugh of Peraud, but that James of Molay imposed himself as the new head of the Order. The election was presented as a conflict between a group of brothers and James of Molay. No mention was made of an electoral committee, which was meant to include Templars from various provinces. But his account is lacking in detail and not altogether convincing: it is very unlikely, for example, that brothers from one province were in the majority in the central convent.38 There were clearly some occasions, however, when factions could not agree and rival masters were elected, as happened in the Teutonic Order in 1249, when Günther of Wüllersleben was opposed by William of Urenbach, and in Calatrava in 1297, when both García López de Padilla and Gutierre Pérez were elected.39 Although military orders had procedures for the election of their masters, these were not necessarily free from intervention by lay powers. Episcopal and abbatial elections were, of course, commonly subject to lay interference. Information about the way in which individual appointments in military orders were made is, of course, limited, but it has been claimed that in the 12th and 13th centuries secular rulers did at times exert an influence over the choice of heads of some military orders, such as the Temple, Santiago, and Calatrava. At least seven of twenty-two Templar masters are said to have been appointed through royal influence.40 Joinville certainly reports that Reynald of Vichiers gained

The election of heads of military orders 99 office in 1250 with the help of the French King Louis IX.41 Other alleged interventions in Templar elections, however, rest merely on circumstantial evidence. The appointment of Robert of Craon as the Temple’s second master has been seen as part of Fulk of Anjou’s policy of placing Angevins in important posts in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.42 Later in the 12th century Amalric is thought to have interfered on two occasions. Philip of Nablus, appointed in 1169, had been an ally of the king, and his successor, Odo of Saint Amand, had long been in royal service, and both were elected shortly after they had entered the Order. They have therefore been regarded as Amalric’s candidates, although in 1173, according to William of Tyre, Odo refused to surrender to the king the Templar who had killed an Assassin envoy.43 Besides these interventions by kings of Jerusalem in the 12th century, Everard of Barres, who assisted Louis VII on the Second Crusade, is thought to have been favoured by the French king, while Robert of Sablé, who had been a leading vassal of Richard I and who was elected in 1191, soon after entering the Order, has been regarded as the protégé of the English king.44 It has further been argued that in the 13th century, Charles of Anjou secured the appointment in 1273 of William of Beaujeu, who at that time was provincial master in south Italy and Sicily.45 Lastly, it has been maintained that after the fall of Acre, Otto of Grandson intervened in the election of a new master on behalf of the French King Philip IV, who supported the candidature of the French Templar Hugh of Peraud.46 Amalric may have wished to assert control over the Templars after they had, according to William of Tyre, abandoned a supposedly impregnable fortification beyond the Jordan in 1166 and apparently opposed the invasion of Egypt in 1168,47 but there is no evidence of constant intervention by kings of Jerusalem in elections. Odo of St Amand’s successor, for example, was the Catalan Arnold of Torroja, who for the preceding fourteen years had been provincial master in Provence and north-eastern Spain; and, of course, for much of the 13th century there was no resident ruler in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Furthermore, some alleged interventions by western rulers can be challenged. William of Beaujeu’s election took place only seven weeks after the death of Thomas Berard, and Charles of Anjou was not at that time in the East; and the only evidence adduced for intervention by Philip IV is that in 1308 the French king assigned Otto of Grandson 2,000 livres annually on certain Templar property which was then in royal hands, but Philip was merely confirming a grant made earlier to Otto by the Templars.48 Furthermore, when western crusading kings did seek to influence elections, it was not to assert control but to reward men who had aided them: Joinville states that Louis IX gave support to Reynald of Vichiers in gratitude for the help which the Templar, who then held the post of marshal, had provided in the payment of the king’s ransom in Egypt. Western rulers were usually more concerned with controlling the appointment of local officials of orders based in the Holy Land, and according to Clement IV their help was often also sought by brothers who were hoping to obtain provinces or commanderies.49 Yet Iberian rulers might be expected to have sought to influence elections of masters of Spanish military orders. Certainly in the late 12th and early 13th centuries the kings of Leon were anxious to ensure that the headquarters of the Order of Santiago were located in that kingdom.50 Rades y Andrada, the

100  The Military Orders Volume VIII 16th-century chronicler of the Spanish military orders, maintained that in 1186 the kings of Castile and Leon each had a master of Santiago appointed; that in 1195 Alfonso IX of Leon persuaded the brothers of Santiago in Leon and Galicia to set up a rival to Gonzalo Rodríguez, who had been appointed in Castile; and that in 1217 Alfonso IX also set up Martin Peláez Barragán as a rival master to the Castilian García González de Arauzo.51 By a close examination of the surviving documents and their dates, however, Derek Lomax was able to show that Rades was misinformed: there were no schisms.52 There is in fact no clear evidence of royal intervention in elections in Iberia before the middle decades of the 13th century. The Spanish orders had, of course, become increasingly important from a military perspective, but royal charters of donation commonly included the condition that both war and peace were to be made at the king’s command, and this injunction was normally observed.53 As the 13th century progressed, however, the Christian/ Muslim frontier became stabilised and Spanish rulers were seeking to assert their authority, while the orders’ role was to some extent changing. In these circumstances royal intervention in elections became more frequent. Fernando III apparently persuaded Gómez Manrique, the Master of Calatrava, to abdicate in 1243 in favour of a rival candidate, Fernán Ordóñez, who was said to be very close to the King.54 In 1254 Peter Ibáñez, the Master of Alcántara, was made head of Calatrava through the influence of Alfonso X.55 This action was linked with the king’s proposal to amalgamate Calatrava and Alcántara, which was submitted to the Cistercian general chapter.56 After the heavy losses suffered by the Order of Santiago at Moclín in 1280, Alfonso X amalgamated it with the Order of Santa María de España, and had the master of the latter appointed as master of Santiago.57 At the end of the century the tutors of the young Fernando IV also sought to promote a rival in the Order of Calatrava to García López de Padilla, who was on amicable terms with the Aragonese King.58 Yet some of these actions occurred in particular circumstances, and it was not until the 14th century that Iberian rulers regularly intervened in elections of masters of Santiago and Calatrava.59 Although papal rulings decreed that masters of military orders were to be chosen by brothers,60 it has been claimed that Pope Alexander III may have influenced the election of the Templar Master Arnold of Torroja in 1181. Yet no evidence has been produced to support this assertion.61 The papacy usually intervened only when there were difficulties over an appointment. This happened, for example, during the Hospitaller crisis in the early 1170s occasioned by the resignation of Gilbert of Assailly; and when the Master of the Teutonic Order Gerard of Malberg was unwilling to accept his demotion after he had been forced out of office and replaced, Innocent IV in 1245 sought to resolve the problem by giving him permission to transfer to the Templars.62 Boniface VIII similarly became involved in the disputed election in Calatrava at the turn of the century.63 Popes did not, however, normally seek to disregard established procedures for the election of masters. In the 12th and 13th centuries, elections of masters rested mainly in the hands of the members of military orders: only those foundations which were affiliated to the Cistercians were subject to regular external involvement. Yet the procedures adopted were hardly representative of the membership as a whole. Elections in

The election of heads of military orders 101 the leading orders based in the Holy Land were dominated by brothers in the East. Although in the Temple and the Teutonic Order the electoral college was to consist of brothers originating in various provinces, it was only in the latter that members resident in the West had any direct say in proceedings through the presence of western provincial masters. In all orders the knightly element prevailed, even though it is clear that in some, such as the Temple, the majority of brothers were sergeants.64 The electoral committees of the leading international orders did include some sergeants and chaplains, but knights were in the majority, and in those orders which admitted women and conversi, these groups had no voice in elections. At the time, however, the procedures adopted appear to have been accepted without question. Notes 1 D.W. Lomax, ‘Algunos estatutos primitivos de la orden de Calatrava’, Hispania, 21 (1961), p.492. 2 Bullarium ordinis militiae de Calatrava, ed. I.J. de Ortega y Cotes, J.F. Álvarez de Baquedano, and P. de Ortega Zúñiga y Aranda (Madrid, 1761), p.69; A.L. Javierre Mur, ‘La orden de Calatrava en Portugal’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia, 130 (1952), pp.361–62. The defect in the election in question was presumably the absence of the master of Calatrava or his delegate. 3 Bullarium (1761), pp.46–47; Colección diplomática medieval de la orden de Alcántara (1157?–1494). I. De los orígenes a 1454, ed. B. Palacios Martín (Madrid, 2000), pp.33–34 doc.63; Documentación medieval de la iglesia catedral de Coria, ed. J.L. Martín Martín (Salamanca, 1989), p.38 doc.8. 4 J. Menéndez Pidal, ‘Noticias acerca de la orden militar de Santa María de España instituida por Alfonso X’, Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas y Museos, 11 (1907), p.175 doc.2; J. Torres Fontes, ‘La orden de Santa María de España’, Miscelánea medieval murciana, 3 (1977), pp.102–03 doc.4. 5 L.F. Oliveira, ‘Em torno da normativa de Calatrava: Umas Definições inéditas de finais do século XIII’, in Cister e as ordens militares na idade média: Guerra, igreja e vida religiosa, ed. J. Albuquerque Carreiras and C. de Ayala Martínez (Tomar, 2015), p.130 § 5; L.F. Oliveira, ‘De volta à normativa da ordem de Calatrava: Novo testemunho das Definições de finais do século XIII’, En la España medieval, 43 (2020), p.22 § 5. 6 C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘San Felices de Amaya, monasterio medieval de la orden de Calatrava’, in Medievo hispano: Estudios in memoriam del Prof. Derek W. Lomax (Madrid, 1995), pp.17–34; E. Solano Ruiz, ‘El convento de San Salvador de Pinilla a fines de la edad media’, Revista de Historia de Canarias, 38 (1984–1986), pp.533–53. 7 See, for example, Bullarium (1761), pp.52–53; La documentación pontificia de Honorio III (1216–1227), ed. D. Mansilla (Rome, 1965), pp.266–68 docs.360–62. 8 C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘Comendadores y encomiendas: Orígenes y evolución en las órdenes militares castellano-leonesas de la edad media’, in Ordens militares: Guerra, religião, poder e cultura, ed. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes, 2 vols (Lisbon, 1999a), 1, p.132, suggests a figure of 80%. 9 CH, 1, pp.29–30 doc. 30; PUTJ (1972), pp.204–10 doc.3; PUTJ (1984), pp.194–98 doc.1; Colección diplomática (2000), pp.6–8, 10–13 docs.13, 16. 10 CH, 2, pp.31–40 doc.1193. 11 RT, pp.143–45 § 200, 203, 206; Il corpus normativo templare: Edizione dei testi romanzi con traduzione e commento in italiano, ed. G. Amatuccio (Galatina, 2009), pp.116, 118 § 1, 3–4. 12 SDO, p.91 Gewohnheiten 2. The procedures for electing masters of the three leading orders in the Holy Land have been described by C. Vogel, ‘Meisterwahlen in den

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13 14 15 16 17

18

19 20 21 22

23

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25 26 27 28 29 30

mittelalterlichen Ritterorden – Johanniter, Templer und Deutscher Orden im Vergleich’, Ordines Militares, 17 (2012), pp.137–53. G.R. Galbraith, The Constitution of the Dominican Order, 1216 to1360 (Manchester, 1925), p.93; H. Denifle, ‘Die Constitutionen des Prediger-Ordens vom Jahre 1228’, Archiv für Litteratur- und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters, 1 (1885), p.215. J.L. Martín, Orígenes de la orden de Santiago (1170–1195) (Barcelona, 1974), pp.248–54 doc.73; D.W. Lomax, La orden de Santiago (1170–1275) (Madrid, 1965), p.227 § 48; RSJ, p.120 § 43; Oliveira (2015), p.129 § 5; Oliveira (2020), p.22 § 5. Galbraith (1925), pp.93–94; Denifle (1885), p.215; R. Graham, Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertines: A History of the Only English Monastic Order (London, 1903), p.51. CH, 2, pp.31–40 doc.1193; SDO, pp.92–93 Gewohnheiten 4; RT, pp.146–47 § 210–11; Corpus (2009), p.120 § 6. F.G. von Bunge, Der Orden der Schwertbrüder: Dessen Stiftung, Verfassung und Auflösung (Leipzig, 1875), p.34; F. Benninghoven, Der Orden der Schwertbrüder: Fratres Milicie Christi de Livonia (Cologne, 1965), p.58. For St Thomas of Acre, see A.J. Forey, ‘The Military Order of St Thomas of Acre’, English Historical Review, 92 (1977), p.487. Oliveira (2015), pp.122–23, 129 (§ 5), 135 (§ 28); Oliveira (2020), pp.22 (§ 5), 25 (§ 27). On the thirteen electors in the orders of Alcántara and Avis in the 14th century, see Bullarium (1761), pp.173–76; M.C. Almeida e Cunha, ‘A eleição do mestre de Avis nos séculos XIII-XV’, Revista da Faculdade de Letras. História, 13 (1996), p.105. Martín (1974), pp.248–54 doc.73; Lomax (1965), p.227 § 48; RSJ, p.120 § 42–43. Graham (1903), pp.51–52; C.A. Hutchinson, The Hermit Monks of Grandmont (Kalamazoo, 1989), p.78; J. Becquet, ‘La première crise de l’ordre de Grandmont’, Bulletin de la Société Archéologique et Historique du Limousin, 87 (1960), pp.306, 314. Galbraith (1925), p.93; Denifle (1885), p.215. J.W. Brodman, Ransoming Captives in Crusader Spain: The Order of Merced on the Christian-Islamic Frontier (Philadelphia, 1986), pp.43, 70–72; J.W. Brodman, Charity and Religion in Medieval Europe (Washington, 2009), p.141. The minister major of the Trinitarians was, however, a cleric: PL, 214, pp.444–49. Hutchinson (1989), p.78; Becquet (1960), pp.306, 314. Conversi (lay brothers) can be traced in various monastic foundations, but their use was particularly marked in Cistercian monasteries, where they were employed as a permanent labour force. They were illiterate and followed a simplified monastic regime. Military orders affiliated to the Cistercians followed the latter’s example and recruited conversi, although little evidence survives about their activities in these orders. In 1274 and 1275 it was ruled that members of the Trece had to be fidalgo e legitimo: P. Josserand, Église et pouvoir dans la péninsule ibérique: Les ordres militaires dans le royaume de Castille (1252–1369) (Madrid, 2004), pp.845 (§ 4), 850 (§ 11); M. López Fernández, Pelay Pérez Correa: Historia y leyenda de un maestre santiaguista (Badajoz, 2010), pp.562, 577. C. de Ayala Martínez, Las órdenes militares hispánicas en la edad media (siglos XII-XV) (Madrid, 2003), pp.169–71; C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘The Sergents of the Military Order of Santiago’, in MO 2, pp.225–33; Lomax (1961), p.494 § 25, 39. Twelfth-Century Statutes from the Cistercian General Chapter: Latin Text with English Notes and Commentary, ed. C. Waddell (Brecht, 2002), p.92. Graham (1903), pp.51–52; B. Golding, Gilbert of Sempringham and the Gilbertine Order, c.1130–c.1300 (Oxford, 1995), pp.102–03. PUTJ (1972), pp.204–10 doc.3; Colección diplomática (2000), pp.6–8, 10–13 docs.13, 16. RT, pp.149–50 § 218; Corpus (2009), p.122 § 7. SDO, p.95 Gewohnheiten 6; CH, 2, pp.31–40 doc.1193.

The election of heads of military orders  103 31 SDO, p.160; Die Hochmeister des Deutschen Ordens, 1190–2012, ed. U. Arnold (Weimar, 2014), p.9. 32 Martín (1974), pp.248–54 doc.73. 33 CH, 1, pp.300–01 doc.434; 2, pp.31–40 doc.1193; PUTJ (1984), pp.227–30 doc.20. 34 J. Burgtorf, The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars: History, Organization, and Personnel (1099/1120–1310) (Leiden, 2008), pp.10–11; C. Vogel, Das Recht der Templer (Münster, 2007), pp.104–07. 35 Tabulae ordinis theutonici, ed. E. Strelhke (Berlin, 1869), p.266 doc. 297; see also SDO, p.160. 36 CH, 1, pp.300–01 doc.434; PUTJ (1984), pp.227–30 doc.20. 37 Excidii Aconis gestorum collectio, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, CCCM 202 (Turnhout, 2004), p.91; Cronaca del Templare di Tiro: La caduta degli stati crociati nel racconto di un testimonio oculare, ed. L. Minervini (Naples, 2000), p.226 § 273. 38 Procès des Templiers, ed. J. Michelet, 2 vols (Paris, 1841–51), 2, pp.224–25; Processus contra Templarios in Francia: Procès-verbaux de la procédure menée par la commission pontificale à Paris (1309–1311), ed. M. Satora, 2 vols (Leiden, 2020), 1, pp.916–17; see the comments in P. Josserand, Jacques de Molay: Le dernier grand-maître des Templiers (Paris, 2019), pp.107–09. 39 Hochmeister (2014), p.27; J.F. O’Callaghan, ‘The Affiliation of the Order of Calatrava with the Order of Cîteaux’, Analecta sacri ordinis Cisterciensis, 16 (1960), p.256; C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘Un cuestionario sobre una conspiración: La crisis del Maestrazgo de Calatrava en 1311–1313’, Aragón en la edad media, 14–15 (1999b), p.73. 40 M. Barber, The New Knighthood: A History of the Order of the Temple (Cambridge, 1994), p.186. 41 Vie de Saint Louis, cap.413, ed. J. Monfrin (Paris, 2010), p.284. 42 Barber (1994), p.36; see also H.E. Mayer, ‘Angevins versus Normans: The New Men of King Fulk of Jerusalem’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 133 (1989), pp.6–7, although it is accepted there that the election may not have been influenced by the king. 43 Barber (1994), pp.106–07; M. Barber, ‘The Career of Philip of Nablus in the Kingdom of Jerusalem’, in The Experience of Crusading. 2. Defining the Crusader Kingdom, ed. P. Edbury and J. Phillips (Cambridge, 2003), pp.73–74; M.-A. Chevalier, ‘The Templars and the Rulers of the Christian East: Collaboration or Conflict of Interest?’, in The Templars: The Rise, Fall and Legacy of a Military Religious Order, ed. J. Burgtorf, S. Lotan, and E. Mallorquí-Ruscalleda (Abingdon, 2021), p.54; WT, 20.30, pp.954–55. On Odo, see also J. Burgtorf, ‘The Templars and the Kings of Jerusalem’, in The Templars and Their Sources, ed. K. Borchardt, K. Döring, P. Josserand, and H.J. Nicholson (Abingdon, 2017), p.29. 44 Barber (1994), pp.70, 119. 45 Barber (1994), p.169. 46 B. Frale, L’ultima battaglia dei Templari: Dal codice ombra d’obbedienza militare alla costruzione del processo per eresia (Rome, 2007), pp.22–23. 47 WT, 19.11, p.879; 20.5, p.918; cf. H.J. Nicholson, ‘Before William of Tyre: European Reports of the Military Orders’ Deeds in the East, 1150–1185’, in MO 2, p.116; Burgtorf (2017), pp.31–34. 48 Registres du Trésor des Chartes, ed. R. Fawtier, 3 vols (Paris, 1958–99), 1, pp.64–65 no. 406; Regestum Clementis papae V, 8 vols (Rome, 1885–92), 3, pp.137–38 doc. 2938; 4, pp.213–16 doc.4404. 49 A.J. Forey, The Templars in the Corona de Aragón (London, 1973), pp.310–11; H.J. Nicholson, ‘“Nolite confidere in principibus”: The Military Orders’ Relations with the Rulers of Christendom’, in Élites et ordres militaires au moyen âge: Rencontre autour d’Alain Demurger, ed. P. Josserand, L.F. Oliveira, and D. Carraz (Madrid, 2015), p.267; A. Ferreira, Memorias e noticias historicas da celebre ordem militar dos Templarios na Palestina, 2 vols (Lisbon, 1735), 2, pp.915–16.

104  The Military Orders Volume VIII 50 Lomax (1965), p.34. 51 F. de Rades y Andrada, Chronica de las tres ordenes y cavallerias de Sanctiago, Calatrava y Alcantara (Toledo, 1572), Santiago, ff.16v–17, 20–20v, 26–26v. 52 D.W. Lomax, ‘The Order of Santiago and the Kings of León’, Hispania, 18 (1958), pp.14–15, 17–18, 22–23. 53 H. Grassotti, ‘ “Facere guerram et pacem”: Un deber del que no estaban exentas las órdenes militares’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, 11 (1981), pp.73–80; A.J. Forey, ‘The Military Orders and the Spanish Reconquest in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, Traditio, 40 (1984), pp.220–21. 54 Rades y Andrada (1572), Calatrava, f. 40v; C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘Las órdenes militares en el siglo XIII castellano: La consolidación de los maestrazgos’, Anuario de Estudios Medievales, 27 (1997), p.249; E. Rodríguez-Picavea, ‘La Orden de Calatrava en tiempos de Fernando III’, in Fernando III, tiempo de cruzada, ed. C. de Ayala Martínez and M. Ríos Saloma (Madrid, 2012), p.107. 55 C. de Ayala Martínez, ‘Las órdenes militares y los procesos de afirmación monárquica en Castilla y Portugal (1250–1350)’, Revista da Faculdade de Letras. História, 15 (1998), pp.1282–83; Josserand (2004), p.526. That there were irregularities in the election is suggested by a decree of Alexander IV in 1256 that rules relating to the election and deposition of masters of Calatrava should be observed: Bullarium (1761), p.109; La documentación pontificia de Alejandro IV (1254–1261), ed. I. Rodríguez de Lama (Rome, 1976), pp.155–56 doc. 143. 56 Statuta capitulorum generalium ordinis Cisterciensis ab anno 1116 ad annum 1786, ed. J.M. Canivez, 8 vols (Louvain, 1933–1941), 2, p.406 (1254 § 29). 57 Josserand (2004), pp.624–25; Menéndez Pidal (1907), pp.169–70; Ayala Martínez (1998), p.1283. 58 Josserand (2004), pp.531–32. 59 Josserand (2004), pp.537–40; Ayala Martínez (2003), pp.715, 721; see also Cunha (1996), pp.107–08. 60 PUTJ (1972), pp.204–10 doc.3; Martín (1974), pp.248–54 doc.73. 61 B. Hamilton, The Leper King and his Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge, 2000), pp.163–64. Hamilton attributes this suggestion to Barber (1994), p.109, but the latter does not mention the pope. 62 CH, 1, pp.300–01 doc.434; PUTJ (1984), pp.227–30 doc.20; Burgtorf (2008), pp.65–71; Tabulae (1869), pp.361–62 doc.483; Epistolae saeculi XIII e regestis pontificum Romanorum selectae, ed. C. Rodenburg, 3 vols (Berlin, 1883–1894), 2, p.60 doc.83; Hochmeister (2014), pp.22–23. Gerard did not in fact join the Templars. 63 Ayala Martínez (1999b), p.74. 64 A.J. Forey, ‘Recruitment to the Military Orders (Twelfth to Mid-Fourteenth Centuries)’, Viator, 17 (1986), pp.144–45.

9

The English Hospitallers in holy war and papal schism, 1378–1417 Anthony Luttrell

Fourteenth-century English kings did not lead Jerusalem expeditions though after 1378 the English did launch what were technically crusades against Christians in the West, in Flanders and Castile for example.1 The crown also permitted much other crusading enthusiasm and activity amongst its nobles and knights.2 The English presence in the Eastern Mediterranean was much reduced after the loss of Latin Syria in 1291 but donations made in England to the Hospital, which was established on Rhodes in 1309, continued though they apparently declined late in the 14th century.3 Nevertheless, from about 1380 there was a marked English interest in Rhodes both through visiting pilgrims and in notable financial contributions. Such developments served to increase Englishmen’s awareness of a wider world as English Hospitallers served in defence of Rhodes and participated in occasional crusades against Muslims; Fr. Robert Hales and Fr. William Middleton were at the assault on Alexandria in Egypt in 1365, and Middleton died at Tripoli in Syria in 1367.4 The Turcopolier, normally the senior English Hospitaller on Rhodes, Fr. Richard Overton, apparently died on the Hospitaller expedition which was badly defeated in Epiros in 1378.5 In 1378 the cardinals elected opposing popes, Urban VI in Rome and his Avignon rival Clement VII. The English crown recognised the Roman pope. With much local variation this schism affected the Western manpower and money sent to Rhodes where the Hospital’s Conventual brethren largely supported Clement VII. The Order’s leaders presumably resented the Roman pope’s lack of support; a French source reported that when those Hospitallers then campaigning in Epiros sought papal help in 1378, Urban ‘detained’ their envoys in Rome and revoked what his predecessor Gregory XI had ordained.6 Technically Fr. Juan Fernández de Heredia, who had been provided to the Mastership by Pope Gregory in 1377, was undoubtedly the legitimate Master,7 but in Italy, Bohemia, and elsewhere many Hospitallers recognised Urban VI who in 1383 named his fellow Neapolitan Fr. Riccardo Caracciolo as in effect ‘anti-Master’.8 The Hospital with its extensive estates constituted a significant element in English society. The crown did on occasion prevent men and money leaving for Rhodes and it could influence the choice of prior, so that leading Hospitallers served as royal servants, envoys, captains and admirals.9 Fr. Robert Hales became Prior of England and later royal treasurer; he was beheaded during the great uprising of DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-11

106  The Military Orders Volume VIII 1381 after introducing an unpopular poll tax.10 The next prior, Fr. John Raddington, served as a royal official in England and also spent considerable time on Rhodes.11 There was no English contingent among the crusaders at Nikopolis on the Danube, but Prior Raddington apparently died there on 25 September 1396.12 His successor Fr. Walter Grendon was probably chosen in England; he held a chapter as Prior of England in June 1397,13 and his appointment was confirmed shortly before 27 October 1400; it was backdated, perhaps for financial reasons involving the payment of mortuaries and annates, to 25 September 1396 which was the day of the Nikopolis battle.14 The English crown generally ignored the schism in its treatment of the Hospitallers and had almost no dealings with the Urbanist anti-Master or his followers.15 King Richard II prevented Urban VI from replacing Prior Hales and he took the English Hospital under his protection, while from Rhodes on 13 November 1381 Fernández de Heredia named Raddington as prior and made other English appointments much as before the schism. Thus, Fr. Brian de Grey was named Turcopolier by the Master who was then in Southern France on 19 April 1383. In 1384 parliament wanted to use the priory’s incomes in England, but the king decreed that they should be employed in holy war to defend the ‘frontier of Christianity’. The priory paid Rhodes, including extensive arrears, no less than 25, 000 florins in 1384.16 Roughly calculated, between 1382 and 1415 the priory sent to Rhodes no less than between 7, 000 and 9, 000 florins yearly, which was perhaps more than one-sixth of the apparent average of roughly 46, 750 florins being transferred to Rhodes from various Western priories between 1378 and 1399. Following the Hospital’s construction of a castle at Bodrum on the Turkish mainland in 1406/1407 the royal family, a group of senior nobles, and other English donors supported the castle financially and eventually constructed an English tower there.17 In 1418 Henry Beaufort, Henry V’s influential uncle, probably visited Rhodes while on his way to and from Jerusalem; while returning, at Venice on 24 September 1418, he secured a licence for the export free of tax from Crete to Rhodes of much timber destined for use in the Hospital’s castle at Bodrum.18 On 1 May 1408 Henry IV declared, with regard to Fr. Peter Holt and the separate Priory of Ireland, that appointments to priories and other offices should be made by the Master and Convent on Rhodes.19 The French withdrew their obedience from the Avignon Pope Benedict XIII in 1408, and in 1409 a number of English Hospitallers were due to attend the council at Pisa which elected a third pope, Alexander V, with the Master Fr. Philibert de Naillac as guardian of the conclave. Henry IV recognised the new pope. Thereafter the English crown and the Rhodian Convent accepted the same pope, and in 1410 the Master visited London as a papal envoy.20 In 1411 the Lieutenant and Convent on Rhodes claimed that the English king and prior had ordered that the English responsions be paid directly to Rhodes and nowhere else; they also claimed that Alexander V’s successor John XXIII, was destroying the Hospital through his abuse of papal provisions to its commanderies.21 The English Hospitallers on Rhodes, while few in number, had their own communal life centred on their auberge22 together with vineyards and other country

The English Hospitallers in holy war and papal schism  107 property.23 As Turcopolier, Fr. Peter Holt was a senior Hospitaller repeatedly active as a diplomat. In 1400, he accompanied the Byzantine emperor, Manuel II, to the Hospital’s priory at Clerkenwell just outside London; Holt died on Rhodes in 1415 and was buried in the Conventual church.24 That English support for Rhodes ran contrary to English recognition of the Roman popes was perhaps due in part to a general opposition to papal pretensions and interferences in English affairs. The English brethren probably calculated that payments to Rhodes and some service there would help to justify their wealth and privilege to a critical public. Their attitude also reflected an enthusiasm for a crusade which placed holy warfare above considerations of papal politics and schism. That policy was implicit in about 1390 in the fictitious person of Geoffrey Chaucer’s knight who fought in a lengthy and entirely realistic list of English participants in battles waged exclusively ‘four oure faith’ in ‘hethenesse’, always against Muslims but never against Christians.25 English nobles and knights visited the Levant, sometimes to fight Mamelukes or Turks, more often as pilgrims; the future Henry IV was on Rhodes with a large entourage during his pilgrimage in 1392 and 1393.26 Years later, on 3 June 1413, the Lieutenant Master on Rhodes pardoned a murderer named Luciano de Salvo, who was possibly a Neapolitan inhabitant of Rhodes town.27 He did so at the request of Thomas Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and of Roger, younger brother of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March: ad requisitionem illustris principis et domini domini Thome de Monteagut comitis de Solusverj ac domini de Mortimier.28 The two were connected since Roger Mortimer’s mother Eleanor de Holland had a sister, also named Eleanor, who was Thomas Montagu’s wife. Thomas Montagu was 25 in 1413. His father’s lands had been forfeited in 1400 on account of his treason against Henry IV, but he was summoned to parliament in 1409. Much later in 1426 Montagu received a papal dispensation from a vow he had made to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem if he were to survive a grievous illness suffered during a return journey from a previous visit to Jerusalem.29 That earlier pilgrimage evidently took place in 1413. Montagu was presumably back in England at latest by April 1414 when he petitioned parliament for the restoration of his lands.30 The position of Edmond Mortimer and his younger brother Roger, who was aged 20 in 1413, was different; they too had claims to the throne and they had been detained by Henry IV. Following his accession on 21 March 1413, Henry V released the two brothers and on 8 April both were created Knights of the Bath. Roger was on Rhodes apparently in early June 1413 but did not appear thereafter. Possibly he died on the return journey from Jerusalem, perhaps from the same illness as that suffered by Thomas Montagu. Edmund Mortimer, who was granted livery of his estates on 9 June 1413,31 presumably stayed in England. Shields of both Montagu and Mortimer were on the English Tower at Bodrum.32 English visitors mingled with the English Hospitallers on Rhodes who after 1382, probably in about 1400, somehow acquired a former Byzantine chapel which was above a tower in the main walls in the south-east corner of the castrum and close to the apparent site of the English auberge. Within it were murals depicting a mounted Saint George, patron of England, and the arms of the English king, of the Master Naillac, of a number of contemporary English Hospitallers, and of a

108  The Military Orders Volume VIII few secular English nobles or knights.33 That pictorial display must have served to assert the English presence among the Hospitaller brethren on Rhodes, a participation which largely avoided what was essentially a legal dispute between rival popes; instead, the English successfully maintained a dedication to holy warfare.34 Notes 1 C. Tyerman, England and the Crusades 1095–1588 (Chicago, 1988). 2 T. Guard, Chivalry, Kingship and Crusade: The English Experience in the Fourteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2013). 3 R. MacLellan, Donations to the Knights Hospitaller in Britain and Ireland, 1291–1400 (Abingdon, 2021). 4 A. Luttrell, ‘English Levantine Crusaders: 1363–1367’, Renaissance Studies, 2 (1988), pp.143–53. 5 C. Tipton, ‘The English Hospitallers during the Great Schism’, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History, iv (1967), pp.89–124, is fundamental; further detail in A. Luttrell, ‘La chapelle anglaise à Rhodes’, Bulletin: Société de l’histoire et du patrimoine de l’Ordre de Malte, 47 (2023). 6 A. Luttrell, Latin Greece, the Hospitallers and the Crusades 1291–1440 (London, 1982), XIV p.584, n. 11. 7 A. Luttrell, The Hospitallers in Cyprus, Rhodes, Greece, and the West 1291–1440 (London, 1978), VIII, p.323; I. Garcia-Lascurain Bernstorff, Die Athleten und der Vikar Christi: Untersuchung zur Semantik der Beziehung zwischen dem Johanniterorden und dem Heiligen Stuhl (1393–1503) (Sankt Ottilien, 2021), p.60, misinterprets Gregory’s bull of 1377 as showing that Fernández de Heredia was elected on Rhodes. 8 J. Delaville le Roulx, Les Hospitaliers à Rhodes jusqu’à la mort de Philibert de Naillac: 1310–1421 (Paris, 1913), pp.199–358; Luttrell (1978), XXIII; A. Luttrell, The Hospitallers of Rhodes and their Mediterranean World (Aldershot, 1992), XI; Garcia-Lascurain (2021), pp.54–66, with significant deficiencies. 9 H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Hospitallers in England, the Kings of England and Relations with Rhodes in the Fourteenth Century’, Sacra Militia, 2 (2001); S. Phillips, The Prior of the Knights Hospitaller in Late Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2009). G. O’Malley, The Knights Hospitaller of the English Langue 1460–1565 (Oxford, 2005), is very relevant. 10 Phillips (2009), pp.36–38, 49–50; H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Hospitallers and the “Peasants’ Revolt” of 1381 Revisited’, in MO 3. 11 Tipton (1967), pp.100–13; Phillips (2009), pp.50–53, 63–65. 12 A. Luttrell and E. Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History in the Hospitallers’ Rhodian Archive 1389–1422 (Athens, 2008), pp.45–47, confirming C. Tipton, ‘The English at Nicopolis’, Speculum, 37 (1962), pp.538–40. 13 M. Gervers, The Cartulary of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem in England: Secunda Camera Essex (Oxford, 1982), pp.51–52. 14 Luttrell and Zachariadou (2008), p.46 n. 90. Tipton (1967), p.114, and Phillips (2009), p.65, date Grendon’s nomination to 25 September  1396, but he could scarcely have been appointed on the day of the Nikopolis battle. Grendon was acting as prior by 12 May 1397: Calendar of the Close Rolls, Richard II: vi, 1396–1399 (London, 1927), p.105. 15 For example, Nicholson (2001), pp.40–43. 16 Tipton (1967), pp.100–32; Luttrell (2023). 17 Tipton (1967), pp.107–08, 118; A. Luttrell, ‘English Contributions to the Hospitaller Castle at Bodrum in Turkey: 1407–1437’, in MO 2; A. Luttrell, ‘The Hospitaller Castle at Bodrum after 1407’, in Castellos das ordens militares, ed. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes, 2 (Lisbon, 2013); L. Butler, ‘The Heraldry on the English Tower at Bodrum

The English Hospitallers in holy war and papal schism 109

18 19

20 21 22 23 24

25 26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33

34

Castle – Turkey’, The Castle Studies Group Journal, 29 (2015–2016), with much detail and hypothesis now requires further study, especially concerning the date which Butler suggests was most likely 1413–1418. G. Fedalto, La Chiesa Latina in Oriente, iii (Verona, 1978), pp.186–87. Gervers (1982), pp.566–67. The situation was very different in Ireland where from 1384 the priory recognized the Urbanist anti-Master and from 1399 resisted Fr. Peter Holt as prior: C. Tipton, ‘The Irish Hospitallers during the Great Schism’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 69 section C, no. 3 (1970); G. O’Malley, ‘Authority and Autonomy: Relations between Clerkenwell, Kilmainham and the Hospitaller Central Convent after the Black Death’, in Soldiers of Christ: The Knights Hospitaller and the Knights Templar in Medieval Ireland, ed. M. Browne and C. Ó Clabaigh (Dublin, 2016), pp.26–29. Delaville (1913), pp.305–09; Garcia-Lascurain (2021), pp.81–83; A. Luttrell, ‘Philibert de Naillac, Master of Rhodes: 1396–1421’, Ordines MiIitares, xxviii (2023), pp.187–88. K. Borchardt, Documents Concerning Central Europe from the Hospital’s Rhodian Archives, 1314–1428 (Abingdon, 2021), pp.220–22. A. Luttrell, ‘Hospitaller Auberges and Lodgings on Rhodes after 1309’ (forthcoming). A. Luttrell and G. O’Malley, The Countryside of Hospitaller Rhodes 1306–1423 (Abingdon, 2019), pp.235–36. C. Tipton, ‘Peter Holt Turcopolier of Rhodes and Prior of Ireland’, Annales de l’Ordre Souverain Militaire de Malte, 22 (1964) (with errors); Tipton (1967), pp.119–21; Luttrell and Zachariadou (2008), pp.41, 65, 104–05, 114–15, 121–22, 142–43; A.-M. Kasdagli, Stone Carvings of the Hospitaller Period in Rhodes: Displaced Pieces and Fragments (Oxford, 2016), pp.31–32, 150, figure 165. Many examples in A. Luttrell, ‘Chaucer’s English Knight and his Holy War’, in Tribute to Alain Bondy (Malta, 2017). Tyerman (1988), pp.313–15; Luttrell (1988, 2017); G. O’Malley, ‘British and Irish Visitors to and Residents in Rhodes, 1409–1522’, in The Hospitallers, the Mediterranean and Europe: Festschrift for Anthony Luttrell, ed. K. Borchardt et al. (Aldershot, 2007), pp.176–77; S. Düll, A. Luttrell, and M. Keen, ‘Faithful unto Death: The Tomb Slab of Sir William Neville and Sir John Clanvowe, Constantinople 1391’, Antiquaries Journal, 71 (1991). In 1385 Covello de Salvo de Neapoli was a habitator Rodi: Luttrell and O’Malley (2019), pp.197–98. NLM AOM 339, f. 187v. The document is dated 1412 (duodecimo), which is not ­possible; AOM 339 did enter documents in considerable confusion. Calendar of Entries in the Papal Registers Relating to Great Britain and Ireland, ed. J. Twemlow, 7 (London, 1904), pp.439–40, 468. C. Allmand, Henry V (London, 1997), p.371. Calendar of the Close Rolls, Henry V (1413–1419) (London, 1929), pp.20–21. Butler (2015–2016), pp.10–13. I. Bitha and A.-M. Kasdagli, ‘Saint George “of the English”: Byzantine and Western Encounters in a Chapel of the Fortifications of Rhodes’, in Intercultural Encounters in Medieval Greece after 1294: The Evidence of Art and Material Culture, ed. V. Foskolou and S. Kalopissi-Verti (Turnhout, 2022); Luttrell (2023); J.-B. de Vaivre, ‘La chapelle Saint Georges “des Anglais” à Rhodes: Certitudes et hypothèses,’ Bulletin: Société de l’histoire et du patrimoine de l’Ordre de Malte, 47 (2023). R. Swanson, ‘Obedience and Disobedients in the Great Schism’, Archivum Historiae Pontificiae, 22 (1984).

10 Appointing power The military orders as lords of Muslim communities in medieval Iberia1 Clara Almagro Vidal Introduction Both in the Iberian Peninsula and the Levant, military orders exercised lordship over Muslim communities who lived on their lands.2 In doing so, the military orders interacted with political and social structures that were alien to them and sought to adapt them to their benefit. The ways in which the military orders intervened in the lives and self-government of Muslims under their rule reflect the shapes of the bonds of dependence and their effects: they imposed on Muslims labour and tax obligations, limited Muslims’ mobility, and access to economic and social spheres, and generally restricted Muslims’ autonomy in exchange for the right to live and work there, and the offer of protection to their dependents. The conditions of these relationships set the Muslims who were under the rule of military orders apart from those who were not. The goal of this chapter is to analyse the mechanisms through which the authority of the military orders superimposed itself on the self-government of Muslim communities and explore some of the implications and ramifications of these actions. In particular, it will focus on the election of officials within their bodies of government from the 13th to the 15th century. Muslim communities under the rule of military orders (and elsewhere under Christian rule) experienced different degrees of self-governing autonomy. This variability can be observed across one kingdom, and even under the lordship of one single military order. Muslim communities under Christian rule had forms of internal administration and government, and this crystalised most visibly in institutions called aljamas (in Castile, Navarre, and the Crown of Aragon) and comunas (in Portugal). These terms, when applied to Muslims (and Jews) under Christian rule, refer to communities with their own internal forms of government that were recognised by Christian authorities. As such, they had power to decide and represent their own community and were accepted as interlocutors on behalf of the Muslim collectives. In many ways, aljamas mirrored functions from Christian councils (concejos in Castile, conçelos in Portugal, and universidades or concejos in the Crown of Aragon), albeit usually in a more limited manner. They did not enjoy the same prerogatives in every case. At one end of the spectrum, aljamas could come to substitute Christian town councils. This happened under the rule of military orders, for example in the town of Hornachos (Badajoz), in the territories DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-12

Appointing power 111 of the Order of Santiago in the Kingdom of Castile, and in that of Magacela (Badajoz), of the Order of Alcántara, also in the Kingdom of Castile.3 Inhabitants in both towns were either exclusively Muslims (Hornachos)4 or a significant majority (Magacela)5 throughout the Middle Ages; hence, the main form of communal organisation was the Muslim aljama. In the case of Hornachos, the aljama assumed most of the obligations generally associated with a Christian town council. In towns and villages where Muslims and Christians lived together, coexistence between an institutionalised aljama and the Christian town council seems to have been a most common solution. In these cases, the interactions between these two administrative entities reflect uneven equilibriums of power. Such was the case in Caspe (Zaragoza), a town under the rule of the Hospitallers. During the Middle Ages, Caspe had both a Christian town council and a Muslim aljama. The Muslim aljama was strong enough that it survived after the forced conversion of Muslims (1524–1526). After that point, there was no more need for the aljama as a governing institution, but the former aljama endured nevertheless by forming a second town council in the town that operated in parallel with the original Christian one.6 In other instances, such as that of the town of Almagro (Ciudad Real),7 a Castilian town under the rule of the Order of Calatrava, some information points towards the fact that Muslims had a voice in the Christian town council, although it is not clear whether they had a recognised aljama as such for much of the Middle Ages.8 We can gleam this from some information contained in the judicial proceedings that passed before the Supreme Court of Justice in Granada about the nobility of Diego Cabeza de Vaca, neighbour of La Guardia de Jaén (Jaén). The plaintiff presented as proof some regulations referring to Almagro from the beginning of the 16th century that referred to others issued by a previous master of the Order of Calatrava, García López de Padilla, in the 14th century. In the early modern ordinances there is a mention of the existence of a regidor or alderman that represented the ‘new Christians’ of the town. Considering the tradition and chronology of the ordinances, it is very possible that this position also existed in the 14th-century version of the text, with the alderman representing the Muslims of the town. There is no reference – or only very late ones from the second half of the 15th century – to aljamas or other forms of Muslim government in certain areas under the rule of military orders. Cases such as that of the Castilian town of Bolaños de Calatrava (Ciudad Real), where a significant Muslim community lived under the rule of the Order of Calatrava, fell on this end of the spectrum. We do not know its exact size, but it must have been significant, given that it was one of the five Muslim communities in this area that negotiated the terms of conversion to Christianity in 1502.9 Despite the importance of the Muslim community in that town throughout most of the Middle Ages,10 there is no reference to it as an aljama until the final years of the 15th century.11 In cases such as this, and that of the neighbouring town of Almagro, it is possible to consider that Muslims may have had a voice within the Christian town council, in a similar manner as in the Portuguese town of Loulé, under the lordship of the Portuguese kings.12 The military orders operated within this framework, determining the extent to which aljamas and comunas had autonomy, and interfering in their functioning when it was felt necessary to do so. The available

112  The Military Orders Volume VIII information stems from those Muslim communities that were the more structured and recognised. By observing them, some common patterns of action have surfaced. The appointment of Muslim officials under the rule of the military orders One of the facets that drew the attention of the military orders concerned the appointment of Muslim officials. It was important for military orders to have collaborative interlocutors within the Muslim communities under their rule since it prevented conflicts and facilitated the extraction of services and income from Muslims. Certain Muslim officials were an object of particular interest by their lords, which translated into interventions in their selection and appointment. These officials did not always bear the same title in the written sources, but what they all had in common was that they fulfilled key tasks in the communities and interacted with their lords, often also acting as the lords’ delegates before their Muslim communities.13 The interventions by military orders did not always operate the same way. On most occasions, the representatives of the military orders had the prerogative to appoint their Muslim candidate for office. We find information relating to this right in various cases and at different points throughout the Middle Ages. For example, the population charter granted in 1316 by the Order of Montesa to the Muslims of Perputxent (Alicante), in the Kingdom of Valencia, clearly states that the military order could appoint the judges: ‘and we may elect whom we want as judge’.14 Similar arrangements are found in other population charters granted to Muslims from the Kingdom of Navarre and different areas of the Crown of Aragon, both before and after 1316. In the charter of L’Aldea (Tarragona), the Hospitallers allowed the community to have a Muslim town crier (‘sayonem’) in perpetuity. At the same time it stated that the representatives of the Order were the ones who could appoint him: ‘we want and grant that there always be and you have a Saracen town crier’.15 During the 15th century, the comendador mayor of the Order of Alcántara appointed a Muslim judge each year to mediate in the conflicts among Muslims in the town of Alcántara (Cáceres). The comendador mayor of the Order also elected the ‘judge for Moors and Jews’ (‘alcalde de moros y judíos’), who was a Christian man in charge of settling conflicts that involved members of different religions. The visit of the representatives of the Order refers to this official: We found that the aljama of the Moors of the town and its lands has a Moorish judge among them who sees to the civil conflicts among them [the Moors] and who is appointed each year by the major commander and that this has been their custom for a long time, and that now Ali Escudero, Moor, was appointed by the major commander and that he sees and decides on civil conflicts among these Moors.16 The attention of most lords was focused on those officials who were responsible for the administration of justice and the collection of taxes. In Tortosa, the qadi or judge of the community fulfilled the task of administering justice and acted as the link with their lord; from early on, the selection of the qadi was subject to the

Appointing power  113 prerogative of the town’s Christian overlord.17 In other cases it was the alamines who were affected by these actions. In the Crown of Aragon, alamines were in charge of regulating weights and measures in the market, and often also took over the collection of taxes.18 On some occasions the commander also appointed the town crier or saion in the Kingdom of Valencia. This was the case in Xivert: Item, we give to all Moors, that is to say to all the aljama, an alamin and a saion of their law for the business that were made amongst you and to govern the Moors.19 In the kingdoms of Portugal and Castile, the judges or alcaldes who had, among their responsibilities, the role of arbitration in conflicts among Muslims, were also affected by the appointment by their lords. It seems that certain Muslim communities were awarded some level of say in the appointment of their officials. A testimony from the early 13th century informs us that the representatives of the Order of the Templars selected the Muslim head of the aljama or qadi of Tortosa (Tarragona), for which they received the formal acquiescence of the Muslim community: [W]ith the agreement and will of the whole Saracen aljama of Tortosa, we institute, send, and name you Abobacher Avinahole, Saracen, as judge.20 After some time, seeking agreement from the Muslim community was dispensed with, and this tradition was abandoned by 1279.21 We are not given a reason for this change. In all probability, the consolidation of the position of domination by the conquerors, and the internal changes in the town at this period, were the likely causes for this shift, making it unnecessary to seek such agreement from the Muslim population. Some communities offered resistance against these interferences when selecting their officials. They did so with different degrees of success. Two examples of the conflicts generated by the interference of the military orders have reached us, both dating from the 14th century. The first dispute took place in Portugal, specifically between the Muslim community of Avis and the military order of the same name. In 1331, Gil Perez, Master of the Order of Avis, and a Muslim man called Mafamede Francelho came in front of King Dinis because Mafamede had been appointed together with another unnamed Muslim as alcaides or judges of the Muslim community22 against the wishes of the Master. The Master of the Order alleged that, contrary to the affirmations of Mafamede: the judges from the population of the land were always appointed by the masters [of the Order of Avis] and that he [the Master] and his predecessors used to name whomever they wished as judge.23 For his part, Mafamede argued that the Muslims of Avis followed the tradition of the foral or privilege applied to the Muslims of Elvas, who could appoint their own judges. Mafamede’s appointment was revoked by the king’s court, as he either

114  The Military Orders Volume VIII refused to or could not prove his position. As Filomena Barros stated in her analysis of this episode, the vacillation by the Muslim community played a significant role in the outcome of this conflict. They sent their representative late – he arrived five days after the judicial proceedings had started – and did not present any proof supporting the statements of Mafamede.24 A similar conflict can be found in the Kingdom of Valencia in the case of the Muslim community of Xivert (Castellón) between the late 13th and beginning of the 14th century. This town was first under the rule of the Templars and then, after the extinction of that Order, passed to the Order of Montesa. Two charters have reached us that mention the selection of Muslim officials in this town. One was granted under the Order of the Temple in 1234,25 the second under that of Montesa in 1359.26 In the first one, the aljama secured the existence of an alamin and of a saion. It includes no major details about the process of these officials’ appointment: Item, we give to all the Moors, that is to say, all the aljama an alamin and a town crier of their law for the business that were to be made among you and to govern the Moors. . . . Also, the said Moors are to have an alamin to guard and receive the rights of the lord Brothers, and the town crier and the janitor or porter in their quarter outside the town walls, and these three must be Moors, either from the castle of Xivert or from another place, as they can be found for this office.27 We can assume that the aljama originally held some autonomy in this selection under the supervision of the commander. From the 14th-century document we learn that at some point the commander had taken over the appointment of the alamin. The document states that: all the time the commander who is and who has the castle, names and appoints the alamin who he pleases, and the alamin has his position as long as the commander wants it.28 The Muslim community successfully negotiated a new compromise with the Order of Montesa. They proposed and obtained that they would put forward three names, and the commander would choose from that pool. They also ensured that the other two persons would be nominated jurats, or representatives of the council of the Muslim community: They requested that each year three Saracens be selected from the aljama, and that from those three the commander choose whom he wants to be alamin and the two remaining ones be jurats.29 How they went from the first position to the second is not stated in the documents. Perhaps the instability brought by ramifications from the so-called Mudejar uprising that took place in 1264, as well as the changes brought about by the transmission of this land to the Order of Montesa after 1309, gave rise to occasions for the

Appointing power  115 commanders to strengthen their hold over the appointment of this official of the aljama. At that point, it would be especially important for the Order of Montesa to assert its control over the Muslim community under its rule. However, ongoing resistance from the community, together with the passage of time, seems to have allowed them to gain back some ground and reach a new compromise. Conclusion These conflicts, and their uneven results, were a manifestation of the tensions created by the military orders’ interference in the internal issues of Muslim communities. Muslim’s conditions for self-government were not homogeneous, nor did they remain unchanged over time. The characteristics of each Muslim community and the relationship that they built (or not) with their lords, as well as other external factors such as the presence of Christian settlers in that location, the general characteristics of the kingdom, and the pressure of other authorities such as the monarchs, all had a bearing on the shape and form of self-government practised therein. Muslims’ autonomy in the appointment of their officials could vary within the confines of each kingdom, and even under the lordship of one single military order. The factors that played into these divergent evolutions included the size of communities, their origin and level of organisation before they came under the rule of the military orders, the terms under which that transition took place, and the interest of their new lords to preserve or transform the status quo. The analysis presented here is necessarily limited by the fact that internal records from Muslim communities have been lost, or not yet found. Therefore, we only have the information contained in Christian sources, which relay an outside perspective on how Muslims governed themselves in the Christian kingdoms of medieval Iberia. Information about the aspects that did not involve their lords or their Christian neighbours are scarcer. Hopefully in time, new sources will surface that will permit us to fill the gaps. Nevertheless, some important insights are possible. The officials affected by these interventions from the military orders shared some common characteristics. All of them were related to either the judicial or the economic administration of the Muslim community. The mechanisms that they employed were remarkably similar to those that affected the main officials of Christian town councils. Wherever the town council was not strong enough, the military orders tended to directly appoint the main officials.30 Such officials acted as representatives of the military orders, while also being dependent on them not only for their appointment but also for the enjoyment of the prerogatives that came with the office. For instance, the Muslim judge of the town of Alcántara was exempt from paying taxes.31 In Cervera (Tarragona), the alcaide and çabaçala were exempt from work obligations and other customary taxes: Item, the alcaide and çabaçala are free from work obligations and other customs, except for the percentage that they must give to us, just like the other Moors of Cervera do.32

116  The Military Orders Volume VIII These privileges make sense if one considers that these representatives of the communities were intermediaries in the dealings with their lords and key elements in power relationships. Their role as brokers began as early as the swearing of fealty of these Muslim communities and the negotiation of the terms of dependence in the charters granted to Muslim communities in the Crown of Aragon and Navarre in the 13th and 14th centuries,33 and went on well into early modern times.34 The personal appointment and granting of prerogatives to qadis, alamines, and other officials created a subordinate relationship of dependence where the military order could name and dismiss them at will and in which the wishes and interests of their lords were probably more important than that of the Muslim community they purportedly served.35 They were the lords’ officials, who had sworn personal fealty to them.36 Not only that, but one must also consider that these appointments would also play with the power and social dynamics of the communities, enhancing certain families at the expense of others.37 In between their own and their communities’ interests and those of their lords, the military orders, these Muslim officials show the tensions in the power relationships between these institutions and the Muslims under their rule, and the degree to which the latter were affected by being under their lordship. Notes 1 This contribution was developed under the framework of the research project ‘Musulmanes en tierras de señorío: una visión integrada’, funded through the Programme for Talent Attraction of the Regional Government of Madrid (2020-T1/HUM-20291). 2 Outside of the Iberian Peninsula, some very interesting studies have been done on Christian-Muslim relations in the context of Crusades; for example, A.J. Forey, ‘The Military Orders and the Conversion of Muslims in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, Journal of Medieval History, 28–1 (2002), pp.1–22. However, for the most part they do not focus on military orders (e.g. B. Kedar, Franks, Muslims and Oriental Christians in the Latin Levant: Studies in Frontier Acculturation (Aldershot, 2006); and M. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East. Cross-Cultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades (Leiden, 2013). For the Iberian Peninsula, some relevant works have been published on the subject. Among them, A. Mur i Raurell, ‘El elemento múdejar y morisco como factor económico en la encomienda santiaguista de San Marcos en Teruel (s. XIII–XVI)’, in IV Simposio Internacional de Mudejarismo: Economía (Teruel, 1993), pp.177–86; F. Barros, ‘A ordem de Avis e a minoria muçulmana’, in Ordens militares: guerra, religião, poder e cultura. Actas do III encontro sobre ordens militares, coord. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes (Lisboa, 1999), vol. 2, pp.167–73; P. Ortega Pérez, Musulmanes en Cataluña. Las comunidades musulmanas en las encomiendas templarias y hospitalarias de Ascó y Miravet (siglos XII–XIV) (Barcelona, 2000). C. Barquero Goñi, ‘Mudéjares bajo el señorío de la Orden Militar del Hospital en la España medieval (siglos XII-XV)’, in Biografías mudéjares o la experiencia de ser minoría: biografías islámicas en la España cristiana, ed. A. Echevarria Arsuaga (Madrid, 2008), pp.183–99; A. Echevarria Arsuaga, ‘Esclavos musulmanes en los hospitales de cautivos de la orden militar de Santiago (ss.  XII–XIII)’, Al-Qantara, XXVIII.2 (2007), pp.463–86; C. Almagro Vidal, ‘La Orden de Calatrava y la minoría mudejar’, in As Ordens Militares. Freires, Guerreiros, Cavaleiros. Actas do VI Encontro sobre Ordens Militares, coord. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes, vol. 2 (Palmela, 2012), pp.617–30; C. Almagro Vidal, ‘ “Religious Minorities” Identity and Application

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of the Law: A  First Approximation to the Lands of Military Orders in Castile’, in Law and Religious Minorities in Medieval Societies, ed. A. Echevarria Arsuaga, J.P. Monferrer-Salas, and J. Tolan (Turnhout, 2017), pp.197–210. J. Rebollo Bote, ‘La presencia islámica en las tierras extremeñas de los Zúñiga’, Espacio, Tiempo y Forma: Serie III: Edad Media, 37 (2024), p.181. J.-P. Molénat, ‘Hornachos fin XVe-debut XVIe siècles’, En la España Medieval, 31 (2008), pp.161–76; J. Rebollo Bote, ‘La pervivencia de la identidad en las minorías: mudéjares y moriscos de Hornachos, Magacela y Benquerencia de la Serena’, in Jiménez de Cisneros: sus ideas y obras. Las minorías en España y América (siglos XV– XVIII), ed. R. Amran and A. Cortijo Ocaña (Santa Barbara, 2019), pp.120–32. Rebollo Bote (2024), p.181. G. Colás Latorre, La bailía de Caspe en los siglos XVI y XVII (Zaragoza, 1978), p.26. Archive of the Royal Supreme Court in Granada, sign. 14539–003. I  thank the late Dr Luis Rafael Villegas Díaz, from the University of Granada, for sharing this information with me. C. Almagro Vidal, ‘Revisando cronologías. Nuevas hipótesis sobre la formación de las aljamas en el Campo de Calatrava’, in De la alquería a la aljama, ed. A. Echevarría Arsuaga and A. Fábregas García (Madrid, 2016), pp.123–24. 20 April 1502, AGS, Cámara de Castilla, Memoriales, bundle 200, no. 44. L.R. Villegas Díaz, ‘Algo más sobre el mudejarismo manchego: el caso de Bolaños’, in Homenaje a Tomás Quesada (Granada, 1998), pp.635–51; C. Almagro Vidal, ‘Bolaños de Calatrava en la Edad Media: Algunas notas sobre su origen y evolución’, in Jornadas de Historia Local. Bolaños de Calatrava (Bolaños de Calatrava, 2024), pp.421–37. Almagro Vidal (2016), pp.125–26. F. Barros, ‘Ordenar o povoamento e vizinhança: muçulmanos, cristãos e judeus’, in Loulé: Territórios, Memórias, Identidades (Lisboa, 2017), p.594. Muslim officials became brokers with the local communities and delegates of the military orders. See P. Ortega Pérez, ‘La sociedad de las tierras del Ebre: el señorío templario y hospitalario de Ribera D’Ebre y Terra Alta’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University Rovira i Virgili, 1995), chapter 7, footnotes 1108 and 1215 (The pagination of the dissertation for chapter 7 is incorrect. Footnote numbers will be used instead to identify the referred pages). 13 June 1316, Perputxent. E. Guinot Rodríguez, Cartes de poblament medievals valencianes (Valencia, 1991), pp.475–77, ‘Et que nos possimus eligere alcaldi, illum quam voluerimus’. 12 February 1258. M.V. Febrer Romagueras, Cartas Pueblas de las Morerías Valencianas y documentación complementaria (1234–1372) (Zaragoza, 1991), pp.53–56, ‘volumus et concedimus quod semper instituamus et habeatis sayonem sarracenum’. J.M. López de Zuazo y Algar, ‘Visitación de la villa de Alcántara por Frei Nicolás de Ovando y Frey Garcí Álvarez de Toledo en el año 1499’, Revista de estudios extremeños, 63.2 (2007), p.837, ‘Hallamos quel aljama de los moros de la villa e su tierra tiene entre si un alcalde moro que conoce de las cabsas civiles que son entrellos que lo pone e nonbra en cada un año el comendador mayor e que en esta costunbre an estado y están de muchos tiempos a esta parte e que es alcalde Ali Escudero moro que ffue puesto por el dicho comendador mayor el qual libra e determina las cabsas civiles que son entre los dichos moros’. Ortega Pérez (1995), chapter 7, pages with footnotes 1192, 1199, and 1207. As analysed by Pascual Ortega in his thesis, the alamin had judicial role and tax responsibilities, Pascual Ortega Pérez (1995), chapter 7, pages with footnotes 1102 and 1192. 28 April 1234, Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.100–05, ‘Item, dabimus omnibus mauris scilicet toti aljama, unum et unum Saionem de sua lege pro negotiis que inter vos et ipsos fuerint faciendi et pro gubernandum mauros’. Furthermore, in L’Aldea, the charter includes the clause: ‘volumus et concedimus quod semper instituamus et

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31 32 33

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habeatis sayonem’ (‘we want and grant we always institute that you have a saion’) 12 February 1258. Febrer Romagueras (1991), pp.53–56. 1 June 1216. Publ. L. Paragolas i Sabaté, Laureà, Els templers de les terres de l’Ebre (Tortosa). De Jaume I fins a l’abolició de l’Orde (1213–1312) (Tarragona, 1999), Vol. II, doc. 4, pp.10–11, ‘assensu et voluntate tocius algeme serracenorum Dertose, statuimios, mittimus et concedimus per alcaydum te Abobacher Avinahole, sarracenum’. Ortega Pérez (1995) chapter 7, page with footnote 1217. About the term ‘alcaide’, see F. Barros, ‘The Muslim Minority in the Portuguese Kingdom (1170–1496): Identity and Writing’, e-Journal of Portuguese History, 13.2 (2015), p.22. ANTT, Chancelaria de D. João II, book 23, f.16. Transcription provided by F. Barros, ‘A ordem de Avis e a minoria muçulmana’, p.170, ‘senpre da pobraça da terra forom fectos os alcaijdes pelos Meestres E que el e os seus anteçessores sempre asij husaron de fazerem qual alcajde eles por ben teuessem’. F. Barros, ‘A Ordem de Avis e a minoría muçulmana’, in Ordens militares. Guerra, religião e Cultura, coord. I.C. Ferreira Fernandes (Palmela, 1999), vol. 2, p.170. 28 April 1234, Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.100–05. 29 October 1359, Alcalá de Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.537–39. 28 April 1234, Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.100–05, ‘Item, dabimus omnibus mauris scilicet toti aljama, unum Alaminum et unum Saionem de sua lege pro negotiis que inter vos et ipsos fuerint faciendi et pro gubernandum mauros . . . Ceterum, sarraceni predicti habeant Alaminum ad incautandum et accipiendum iura dominorum fratrum, et saionem et ianitorem sive portarium in suo arravallo et isti tres sint mauri aut de castro Exiverti aut de loco alio, sicut ad officium istud poterint inveniri’. 29 October 1359, Alcalá de Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.537–39, ‘tots temps lo dit comanador qui tro ara és, hi és stat del dit castell, met e ordena alamí aquell que li plau, e aquell dit alamí té en son offici aytant com o dit comanador plau’. 29 October 1359, Alcalá de Xivert. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.537–39, ‘han-nós supplicat que per cascun any fossen elets tres serraïns de la aljama, e que d’aquells III lo comanador prengués qual se volgués per ésser Alamí e los dos romanents fossen jurats. E nos volem e ordenam que la dita costum sia servada, enaxí que’l dit comanador o a nós plaura’. On this topic, see, among others, D. Rodríguez Blanco, ‘Los Concejos de Ordenes Militares en la Baja Edad Media: organización y relaciones con el poder’, Historia. Instituciones. Documentos, 18 (1991), pp.425–44. Also, C. Barquero Goñi ‘La Orden de San Juan de Jerusalén como entidad señorial en Castilla durante los siglos XII y XIII”, in Historia de la Orden de Malta. Nuevos Estudios, ed. J. Alvarado and J. de Salazar (Madrid, 2018), pp.65–67. J.M. López de Zuazo y Algar, ‘Visitación de la villa de Alcántara por Frei Nicolás de Ovando y Frey García Álvarez de Toledo en el año 1499’, Revista de estudios extremeños, 63/2 (2007), p.807. 22 November  1233. Guinot Rodríguez (1991), pp.95–98, ‘Item, alcaidus et çabaçala semper sint liberi de çofris et de aliis usaticis, excepto quod de portionibus suis dent nobis partem nostram sicut alteri mauris Cervarie fecerit’. For example, the alamin of Miravet swore fealty in the name of the whole community to the Hospitallers after the dissolution of the Order of the Templars. In exchange, he received some lands. There are also testimonies attesting to the capacity of the orders to extend and restrict the attributions of these officials and even name them at will (Ortega Pérez (1995), chapter 7, pages with footnotes 1110–13). Similar dynamics can be found among the Muslim slaves of Malta in the 17th century. They could put forward the names of other slaves for the position of qadi from which the Grand Master could choose one. The qadi was the point of contact between the Grand Master and his officials on the one hand, and the slaves on the other. He was also

Appointing power 119 used to communicate with Muslim authorities outside Malta. G. Wettinger, Slavery in the Islands of Malta and Gozo. Ca. 1000–1812 (San Gwann, Malta, 2002), pp.59–61. The qadi also had better conditions than his fellow slaves (more mobility, single room lodgings, and so on). 35 Ortega Pérez (1995), chapter 7, page with footnote 1108. 36 Ortega Pérez (1995), chapter 7, page with footnote 1214. 37 The selection of certain families for posts of confidence by the kings may well serve as a possible parallel; see J.-P. Molénat, ‘Alcaldes et alcaldes mayores de moros de Castille au xve siècle’, in Regards sur al-Andalus (viiie- xve siècle), ed. F. Géal (Madrid, 2006), pp.147–68, http://books.openedition.org/cvz/1490; A. Echevarria Arsuaga, ‘De cadi a alcalde mayor. La elite judicial mudéjar en el siglo XV (I)’, Al-Qantara, XXIV.1 (2003), pp.139–68.

11 The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes in the 14th and 15th centuries Nicholas Coureas

Introduction Rhodian burgesses seem to have been free artisans or merchants, non-noble, and resident in the town of Rhodes. They had a corporate organisation and appointed representatives acting for them in specific situations. For instance, in 1356 a tax to finance work on the harbour of Rhodes Town was imposed with the assent of the burgenses, who probably assembled to grant their consent. In 1385, moreover, the officials controlling the import of foodstuffs had to act in the presence of two Latin and two Greek burgesses. Likewise, in 1386, it was decreed that two Latin and two Greek burgesses would supervise expenses on victuals as was customary. Furthermore, the muhtasib (matacetus) of Rhodes Town, whose title had Muslim origins and who was responsible for fair trade, public morality, and the maintenance of standards in crafts and professions, or his lieutenant, was expected not to make any acquisitions or estimations without the burgesses decreeing this, and was to act in this respect in accordance with the town statutes.1 When a new sales tax of 8.5% was imposed on 31 August 1439, two burgesses elected on an annual basis, one Latin and one Greek, were nominated to collect and administer the sums collected.2 Grants of land or privileges to burgesses and services rendered by them Some of the extant documentation records the Order’s grants of lands or incomes to burgesses, not always unconditionally. On 15 February  1359, the Master and Convent of the Order confirmed to a Catalan burgess and resident of Rhodes named Lodovico Moresco a locality named Pitharion, originally granted to Lodovico’s father Pietro by the Hospitaller Grand Master Helion de Villeneuve in return for an abattoir consisting of two adjacent hospicia in Rhodes Town that fronted the sea.3 Another example is a grant in return for revenues that consisted of a property the Order granted on 8 October 1347 to Sir Petrus de Jacob, a burgess and resident of Rhodes Town. He acquired the casale or village of Myrtonas and 5 modiates of land reputed to contain olive trees, as well as another 60 modiates of land in the contrata or region of Salakos, in return for paying the Order 40 florins of Florence annually. The Byzantine modiate was apparently 850 to 1, 000 square metres in DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-13

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes 121 extent, but for the Hospitaller period it was simply the area required for producing 1 modium of grain, and its extent varied from place to place depending on the fertility of the land. The currency of this transaction suggests that he was a Florentine. He must have been of Latin origin and cannot have been Greek, for casalia on Rhodes were never granted in their entirety to Greeks.4 There are, in fact, clear recorded instances of grants by the Order to people originating from the Italian peninsula. On 20 May 1366, the Master and Convent granted the islands of Episkopi (Telos) and Chalki to the noble Borello Aschanti of Ischia, a burgess of Rhodes. They were granted on a lifetime basis in return for an annual payment of 200 gold florins. In addition, Borello had to build a stone tower with a room and water cistern attached to it on the islet of Alimnia near Chalki, maintaining three men as a garrison there, with the Order providing another three. He would enjoy the traditional right to buy half of all the goods sold by the islanders at the customary price but could not demand from them any service not previously demanded by the Order.5 Another grant of land on a lifetime basis on 6 March 1382 concerned Dragonetto Clavelli, a burgess and resident of Rhodes. He acquired two pieces of land with a total area of 170 modiates, bordering the road from Rhodes to Dyaskoros to the east, with the river called Kalovrekhtis forming the southern boundary. In return for this Dragonetto had to give the Order two capons every year.6 Sometimes burgess properties on Rhodes were granted to the Order through the death of those possessing them. At some point before 4 July 1389, the Treasury of the Order acquired an income of 150 Rhodian bezants and 4 modia of grain deriving from the inheritance of Antonina de Garibaldis, the heiress of a burgess of Rhodes named Opitino de Garibaldis. This income had subsequently been granted to Brother Domenico de Alamania, the Hospitaller commander of Naples and Santo Stefano di Monopoli, who, by the terms of a document dated 4 July 1389, donated it along with a chapel dedicated to God and the Virgin Mary, some shops, two windmills, and two hospitals to the Order.7 The aforementioned casale of Myrtonas, granted by the Order in 1347 to the burgess Sir Petrus de Jacob and again in 1361 to Georgio de Leone, reverted to the Order according to the terms of a document dated 4 June 1401. It recorded how Brother Domenico de Alamania granted Myrtonas to the Order, and specifically to the Langue of Italy, on 31 May 1401. He had purchased it from a Genoese burgess and resident of Rhodes named Ilario Usodimare and his wife Lascarina on 3 November 1385. In this manner a casale initially granted by the Order to a burgess eventually reverted to it through sequential processes of inheritance, sale, and donation.8 The Order granted land in return for services rendered. On 8 May 1433, Grand Master Anthony Fluvià and the Convent granted the Majorcan burgess of Rhodes John Cortal, and to his heirs, an estate bordering public highways commonly known as Lebanque in the area of Parambolino, consisting of vines, a garden, salt lakes, and other appurtenances. This grant was unconditional and heritable, not given on a lifetime basis like other grants mentioned earlier, although the services of John Cortal are unspecified.9 Other than land, the Order granted social status, privileges, safe conducts, and exemptions to various burgesses in return for their

122  The Military Orders Volume VIII services. On 16 February 1448, the Hospitaller Grand Master Jean de Lastic had Nicholas Moschos, a Greek of Rhodes Town, appointed as a scribe on board a war galley of the naval watch on a lifetime basis to reward his probity, thoroughness, and loyalty when serving the Order. He is described as a citizen and burgess (civi et burgensi) of Rhodes, indicating that these kinds of social status were not mutually exclusive.10 Likewise, on 10 December 1450, Jean de Lastic granted various privileges to Samuel Orphanos, a Jewish doctor and burgess of Rhodes Town originating from the Aegean Island of Chios, because of the latter’s ability in his profession. Samuel could circulate at night within Rhodes Town and its suburbs as often as he wished, carrying a light, and with an escort to visit the sick who summoned him. On Saturdays, he was entitled to visit the synagogue with his family to perform the honorary custom of veneration with pomegranates. His Jewish in-laws residing in the lower Jewish neighbourhood were entitled to visit the synagogue or their son-in-law’s house by night, with or without lighting, Samuel being entitled to do the same. Samuel, his wife, and their daughter could visit the public baths by night, carrying a light, as many times as they wished. These privileges would be valid so long as the authorities decided they would be so.11 On 13 March 1452, Jean de Lastic granted privileges to a Greek burgess of Rhodes named Anthony Lambadinos in return for services towards the Order. The privileges granted were a quinquennial exemption on the animal tax known as the tenth (decatia) for the 300 sheep and goats that he owned. Furthermore, the castellans, the village headmen (protoi) and other officials of Rhodes were instructed not to seize any lambs or kids from among his animals, except on behalf of the Grand Master himself.12 The Order could grant privileges to future children of burgesses as a reward for services rendered. On 8 November 1448, Jean de Lastic, acknowledging the services of the Rhodian burgess Theodore Stratiotes, as well as those of his brother Michael, approved a request he and his wife had submitted to the Order regarding the status of their future children. In normal circumstances and according to a recent statute of the Grand Master, the children of freed serfs and slaves and of those considered marinarii, male and female, were forbidden to marry serfs, for the offspring of such marriages would be considered serfs. The relevant statute, passed in 1440, decreed that the scribes registering the marinarii could not accept substitutions or changes without permission from the Admiral of the Hospitaller fleet and two prodomi nominated by the Grand Master and the Council of the Order. The marinarii were native Greeks conscripted for the servitudo marina, service on board Hospitaller galleys compelling them to row galleys for part of the year as a corvée, to augment the Order’s military strength. However, this statute did not apply to Theodore and his wife, whose social standing as marinarii was indisputable. Therefore, any future children of theirs would be considered marinarii. In view of this, the Grand Master instructed the Order’s officers not to subject these children to any labour services or other obligations normally imposed on serfs or slaves.13 The Order also granted testimonials confirming the services of burgesses. On 30 November 1437 Jean Claret, the deputy of Grand Master Jean de Lastic, made it known that Peter Andree, whose name indicates Latin ethnicity, was a

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes  123 notary public who drew up public instruments and public documents, vouching for his personal honesty, his professional competence, and adding that no one had submitted complaints to the contrary.14 Burgesses of Rhodes served the Order as diplomats overseas. The burgess and inhabitant of Rhodes Antonius Myverbeti became the Rhodian consul at Alexandria in 1413.15 Rhodian burgesses were sent on diplomatic missions to Cyprus. On 1 February  1413, Brother Luce de Vallins, the lieutenant of the Hospitaller Grand Master Philibert de Naillac, wrote to King Janus of Cyprus informing him of intelligence received from Bernardo Pateri of the mahona of Genoese Chios. Bernardo had informed him that the Ottoman naval commander Musa had a fleet of thirty ships, including nine recently armed galleys, near Gallipoli intending to journey to Thessalonica or Constantinople. The king was urged to resist them if they reached the eastern Mediterranean. The emissary bearing this message was the burgess of Rhodes Thomas Grillo, who brought the king a warhorse previously belonging to the deceased Brother Raymond de Lescure, prior of Toulouse.16 On 28 September 1427, Grand Master Anthony Fluvià appointed the burgess Pietro de San Martino, probably Italian, as consul of the Order in Alexandria, Egypt, and throughout Mamluk territories. This appointment empowered Pietro, like his predecessors, to collect various revenues; customs dues, and incomes from harbour-dues (avarijs) and from other imposts. He could pass judgement in matters within his jurisdiction over subjects and members of the Order in disputes. Subjects of the Order resident in Alexandria and its environs were urged to solicit his advice, assistance, and favour in matters concerning the Order, likewise assisting him when necessary. The office of consul was an exalted one and was hence accorded to persons of Latin ethnicity.17 Burgesses settling on Rhodes and transporting foodstuffs and other goods Sometimes the Order specified the services to be rendered. On 10 February 1453, Jean de Lastic praised the Florentine Bernardo Salviati’s merits and services towards the Order during wars against the Mamluk sultan and the Muslims, for which he would be bountifully rewarded. The wars are those of the 1440s when the Mamluks attempted without success to capture Rhodes. Jean de Lastic stated that he was admitting Bernardo Salviati to settle on Rhodes as a citizen, burgess, and subject of the Order to encourage excellent citizens to settle there, granting him the same rights and privileges as they had. Salviati would come under the Order’s protection after first swearing upon the Holy Gospels to be faithful to the Grand Master, to his successors and the Order wherever in the world he happened to be. Furthermore, he had to inform the Order if he learnt of anything being planned to the detriment of the Order.18 This document shows that the Order could grant burgess status to individuals as a reward for their services, together with citizenship and being a subject of the Order. It explains the procedures involved, an oath on the Holy Gospels, as well as the rights, privileges, and obligations of the recipient. Bernardo Salviati

124  The Military Orders Volume VIII soon received additional privileges. On 3 March  1453, in return for his services to the Order, Salviati was granted a reduction by one-half of the import tax (commerchium) payable on bringing alum to Rhodes from Chios, Old and New Phocaea, and Mytilene, on any form of shipping, galleys, caravels, or any other kind of great or small vessels, irrespective of the language or nationality of the owners and crew of these vessels. Furthermore, this exemption was extended to the brothers of the Order, those collecting the import tax, scribes, and subjects of the Order in general.19 George Suriano, a doctor and pharmacist resident in Cairo, and perhaps hailing from Syria, was likewise made a citizen, a burgess, and a subject of the Order on Rhodes under similar conditions. On 4 July  1453, Grand Master Jean de Lastic expressed his wish for the town of Rhodes to have good, law-abiding, and prosperous inhabitants, while citing other reasons for his decision. George would enjoy the rights and privileges pertaining to the aforementioned groups, after swearing upon the Holy Gospels to serve the Order and be faithful to the grand master and his successors anywhere in the world. Should he discover something to the detriment of the Order he would inform the Grand Master or his successors.20 One observes that Suriano sought permission to migrate to Rhodes along with his wife, children, slaves, and goods sometime before 18 May  1453, when Grand Master Jean de Lastic urged the skippers of various ships and the Aragonese admiral Bernard de Villamari, commander of the fleet of King Alfonso V of Aragon, to assist and protect Suriano during his journey from Egypt to Rhodes. The Order was especially keen to attract doctors to settle on Rhodes.21 The population of Rhodes increased under Hospitaller rule, so the import of foodstuffs and other products had to be facilitated. This explains the privilege Salviati had acquired and the grant of safe conducts to persons, burgesses, and others, involved in the transport of goods to and from Rhodes. Grand Master Déodat de Gozon decreed on 14 June 1347 that because of the shortage of victuals, inhabitants of Rhodes Town trading by ship away from the island of Rhodes could only transport grain to Rhodes Town, or else risk penalties on their persons and goods. He instructed the commander of Kos, Brother Bertrand de Cantesio, to order the inhabitants of Kos trading by ship to transport grain only to Kos until the island acquired enough supplies.22 On 18 June 1347, the Grand Master instructed the commander of Kos not to export grain nor allow others to do so to places besides Rhodes.23 Shortages of grain in Rhodes nevertheless continued. On 23 December 1347, the Grand Master instructed Brother Alamanus de Molari to order every burgess and resident of Rhodes on land or at sea absent from Rhodes and possessing grain to transport it solely to Rhodes Town because the island lacked grain. Otherwise, the offender’s person and goods would undergo punishment. Such prohibitions indicate that some burgesses on Rhodes owned or chartered ships, journeying to and from the island to trade in foodstuffs and other commodities.24 Burgesses transporting goods and foodstuffs appear elsewhere. Grand Master Jean de Lastic issued a safe conduct on 17 May 1450 commending the Greek burgess and subject of the Order Anthony Kalothetos, born in Rhodes, whose ship travelling westwards was sailing under the Order’s protection. It was carrying various goods belonging to Kalothetos himself and to other burgesses and

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes  125 subjects of the Order, so the various owners and skippers of Christian ships were enjoined to assist him, his crew, passengers, and goods, to facilitate his journey.25 But not all such safe conducts were for burgesses and others transporting goods. On 14 January 1451, the Chancery of the Order issued a letter patent that was in effect a safe conduct, urging the owners of the various ships and galleys to facilitate the voyage that Joseph Messina, a Jew from Candia town in Crete, was making to Rhodes with his father and mother to settle there. Joseph was the son-in-law of Moses Graziani, a Jewish physician and burgess of Rhodes. Clearly a safe conduct for a sea voyage was issued here for someone related to a Jewish burgess of Rhodes Town to encourage his settlement on Rhodes.26 The Order encouraged the settlement or repatriation of burgesses on Rhodes, facilitating their movement to and from Rhodes and other destinations. On 22 February 1449, Jean de Lastic granted permission and a safe conduct to George Karantino, a burgess of Greek ethnicity resident in Candia town, Crete, where he had relations and friends, to return to Rhodes with his wife, children, and other members of his family, to settle there and engage in commerce like other burgesses. Likewise, he could depart from Rhodes together with his wife, children, relations, and goods to journey to Crete with the Grand Master’s permission. A note added towards the end of this document records that a permission similar to this one had previously been given to George Karantino. Karantino apparently moved between Rhodes and Crete with his family and goods, living regularly for a time on either island.27 Rhodian burgesses sometimes sought safe conducts to come to Rhodes on account of damages inflicted on them by officers of the Order. Brother Luce de Vallins and the Convent issued a safe conduct on 25 August 1413 for the Rhodian burgess Antonio Ruffin, whose merchant ship and goods had been seized in waters off Cyprus by an armed galliot commanded by Brother Richard de Pontailler, the preceptor of Ensigné of the French langue. Antonio alleged that this had been done simply because the preceptor wished to seize these goods and sell them. Therefore, he wished to come to Rhodes and obtain legal redress. The outcome of this case is not known.28 The Order even allowed fugitives from justice to return to Rhodes. On 10 April  1438, John Claret, the deputy Grand Master, wrote to Antonio, the son of the burgess and cloth-shearer Guillermo Grimaldi, clearly an Italian. He referred to Antonio’s petition in which the latter recounted how he had left Rhodes to avoid trial following a fight with a neighbour one night, and was now seeking permission to return to Rhodes without standing trial. John Claret reassured him that he could return without being tried and punished, granting him a safe conduct. Furthermore, the safe conduct would be valid in perpetuity, the various officers of the Order being notified of this. The applicant’s father was a burgess of Rhodes, which probably worked in his favour. Perhaps the father interceded with the Order for his son’s return.29 The dearth of people on Hospitaller Rhodes explains a document of 26 October 1410, recording that King Janus of Cyprus, at the request of Theodore Sozomenos, the bailli of the comerc of Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, asked the Master and Convent of the Order to allow the bailli’s sister Euphemia to leave Rhodes and settle in Cyprus permanently with her children. Euphemia was married

126  The Military Orders Volume VIII to the Rhodian burgess Nicolao Rocondo, who had brought the letter to the Order’s notice. Domenico d’Alemania, the Hospitaller brother and preceptor of Santo Stefano de Monopoli, acting for the Hospitaller Grand Master Philibert de Naillac, granted this request, permitting Nicolao and Euphemia to leave for Cyprus with their children and possessions. Nicolao Rocondo was connected through his wife’s marriage to the Sozomeno, a prominent Greek family in Cyprus. The Sozomeno, the Podocataro, the Sinclitico, and the Contostephano were the four recorded Greek families attaining noble status by crossing from the Greek to the Latin rite. As bailli of the comerc, Theodore handled the registration and proper implementation of commercial transactions in Nicosia, the comerc being a tribunal of commerce.30 The financial contributions of burgesses Moses Graziani appears in a deed of sale dated 20 July 1451. It records the sale of a house in the lower Jewish quarter within the borgo of Rhodes Town by Theophylactos Markezis, clearly a Greek, to the Jewish doctor Samuel originating from the Aegean Island of Chios, for 200 Rhodian florins. The Hospitaller Grand Master Jean de Lastic intervened in this sale invoking the jus praelationis or right of preference. He bought the same house for the identical price, 200 Rhodian florins, and then sold it for 350 Rhodian florins to a Jewish man called Moses Graziani. The difference in price of 150 Rhodian florins was earmarked for the repair of the circuit of walls of Rhodes Town, as the Grand Master observed in his letter. Clearly, in purchasing this house Moses Graziani was contributing to the defence of Hospitaller Rhodes, albeit indirectly.31 Ezekiel Mauristiri was another Jewish burgess buying houses from the Order. A document of 4 July 1427 records the sale of houses in various parts of Rhodes Town to him for seventy Rhodian florins. These houses, formerly belonging to Dragoninus Clavelli, had been sold to the Order by his widow Agnes before the death of Grand Master Philibert de Naillac in 1421, as recorded by Godescalcus Voger, scribe and notary of the court, in a deed signed by Agnes and Philibert. Therefore, the Order had bought the houses located in the borgo of Rhodes Town and the neighbourhood of St Barbara in the upper Jewish quarter (Judaica Superiora), at least six years before Ezekiel purchased them. This quarter remained underpopulated after Philibert de Naillac relocated the Jews from there to the lower Jewish quarter (Judaica Inferiora) in the north-west of the borgo. Grand Master Anthony Fluvià, who succeeded Philibert in 1421, encouraged Jews to move back to the upper quarter, allowing them to reconstruct the houses and the synagogue there. The aforementioned sale of houses to Ezekiel must be seen in this context. Jean de Lastic, who succeeded Anthony Fluvià as Grand Master in 1437, continued to encourage Jews to resettle in the upper quarter. He permitted Ezekiel, his family, and at least one other Jew and his family to be chosen by Ezekiel himself, to settle in the upper quarter by a bull dated 23 May 1439, but with limited success.32 Burgesses served the Hospitaller Order on Rhodes as moneylenders. A document of 1428 recounts how several burgesses living on Rhodes had lent money to the Order’s Grand Master, baillis, prior, and other officers during operations

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes  127 conducted by the Mamluks, who in 1426 had invaded Cyprus capturing King Janus and reducing his kingdom to vassalage. In March 1427 a Hospitaller ambassador visited Cairo to prevent a Mamluk invasion of Rhodes, with the Order renewing its truce with the Mamluk Sultanate in 1428. Nevertheless, the prospect of war must have seemed real enough at the time.33 The sums lent in descending order ranged from 400 gold ducats to ten gold ducats. Italian and Greek burgesses are mentioned, but the Italians generally lent greater sums than the Greeks; Soffredo Calvi, to be discussed in greater detail later, lent the largest sum of all. These burgesses included two doctors of law, two moneychangers, one scribe of the court and one baker, indicating how burgesses of varying ethnicities, wealth, and occupations contributed to the Order’s finances when necessary.34 Burgesses served the Order as accountants. On 5 April 1382, Grand Master Juan Fernández de Heredia accepted accounts submitted to him by the burgess Ferrando de Vignoli, whose name indicates Genoese origins. The accounts concerned wine, grain, and other products acquired from Rhodes and pertaining to the Order, with de Vignoli absolved of any further obligations.35 Disputes over property brought burgesses into conflict with the Order. The Catalan burgess Bartolomeo Sunyer and his wife Alamana provide an example of this. Bartolomeo was a familiar of King Martin I of Aragon and enlisted his help in this dispute, with the king threatening reprisals against the Order. Sunyer had written on 27 September 1408 to the King, complaining that Grand Master Phillibert de Naillac had unjustly impounded warehouses in Rhodes Town that Alamana had inherited as the heiress of Nicoleta de Leone and the widow of her former husband Bernat de Santurin. Bernat had given Nicoletta 2, 000 ducats according to their marriage contract, but she had given him a receipt for 4, 000 ducats, expecting subsequent repayment. Bernat nominated his brother Artal as his heir, but Naillac did not give Artal his due inheritance and Artal’s curator was afraid to claim these 4, 000 ducats. Alamana herself had been condemned to pay this sum, appealing in vain against this sentence. To make Alamana raise the sum, Naillac forced her to sell a casale for 2,100 florins that he could resell for 6, 000 florins, and he made her sell other numerous valuable goods. Naillac, moreover, did not present the accounts for the 5, 000 ducats from Nicoleta de Leone’s inheritance which Sunyer and his wife Alamana claimed. Instead, he undertook to pay them from his own goodwill. King Martin I angrily threatened retaliation. The outcome of this dispute is unknown. Nevertheless, it illustrates the powerful friends that some Latin burgesses on Rhodes had and their readiness to confront the Order.36 A prominent creditor of the Order, Soffredo Calvo, described as a noble burgess of Rhodes in a deed of 30 July 1438, undertook to lend 1, 500 gold Rhodian ducats to the Order without charging interest for certain unspecified needs of the Order’s common treasury. As security for this loan, the Grand Master’s lieutenant Robert de Diana and the Convent promised Soffredo all the Order’s moveable and fixed properties to the value of the sum lent, which he could recall whenever he wished. Soffredo Calvo had lent money to the Order on previous occasions. On 29 November 1437, he had lent it 2, 000 Rhodian florins in gold ducats. Four senior officers of the Order were to collect this sum on behalf of the recently elected

128  The Military Orders Volume VIII Grand Master Jean de Lastic, who was still in western Europe. These were Raphael Zaplana, the Catalan Draper of the Order, William Tuug the Prior of England, the preceptor of Limoges John Cotetti and John Dolfin, squire (scutifer) of the Order. The money lent, which the Order could not obtain elsewhere, would be used to pay the customary subsidy given on the election of a new Grand Master. As security, the Order would provide its fixed and moveable properties and various incomes that the Grand Master received ex officio, namely the revenues from the town’s soap factory, the customs dues of 4%, the rentals received on infidels, and the revenues on the grain sold on a daily basis. Should the Grand Master die or decline his election to the office, John Claret his lieutenant and the Convent would ensure that Soffredo was repaid in full with interest, expenses, and possible damages.37 The aforementioned Jewish burgess Ezekiel Mauristiri likewise lent 1,152 Rhodian florins, corresponding to 720 gold Rhodian ducats, to the Order on 26 November 1437, for the same reason and under the same conditions as those granted to Soffredo Calvi on 29 November 1437. Ezekiel made additional loans to the Order in the 1440s. In 1446 the Order owed him 1, 025 gold ducats. It had borrowed 625 ducats on the security of incomes it enjoyed from the macellum or market in Rhodes Town, while the remaining 400 had been delivered by Ezekiel to the Order’s chancellor Brother Melchior Bandini and to Johannes Bocherii, for distribution among high-ranking pilgrims stranded on Rhodes, either in 1440 or in 1444, when Rhodes Town had been besieged by a Mamluk fleet. Furthermore, Ezekiel lent the Order an additional 1, 000 gold ducats in 1447, accepting as security spices and aromatic products. Ezekiel’s good relations with the Order appear in his will of 18 March 1448, composed in Latin by the imperial notary public Elisseo della Manna and ratified by Grand Master Jean de Lastic and the Convent on 28 March  1448. Amongst its provisions, mainly concerning the division of his estate between his daughters Rebecca (Rescha) and Efdoquia, legacies for poor Jews, dowries for Jewish girls, the redemption of Jewish slaves, and other worthy causes, he bequeathed 25 florins to Grand Master Jean de Lastic.38 The Order remembered Ezekiel’s good services. Following his death before 8 March 1453, the Order absolved Rebecca and her husband Ezrah from forcibly lending money to it on account of these good services, with Rebecca and Ezrah invoking her father’s good services and subsequent exemption granted to them by the Order, to justify their unwillingness to do so. Furthermore, it also absolved them from paying the 4 gold florins constituting their contribution to the annual tax of 50 gold florins that the Order levied on the Jews. It also granted them freedom to circulate between the upper and lower Jewish quarters, day and night, to visit the bathhouse, doctors, or pharmacists. The affluence of Jewish burgesses like Ezekiel Mauristiri or Moses Graziani was not typical. When visiting Rhodes in 1487, the Jewish traveller Obadiah da Bertinoro observed that most Jewish families were poor people ‘who subsist with difficulty on vegetables, not eating bread or meat’.39 As a burgess, Soffredo Calvi was prominent in Rhodian society. Sometimes referred to as Soffretus Crispus alias Calvus, indicating origins from Venice or Verona, he was related to Anna Crispa, daughter of Francis I Crispo, duke of the Aegean archipelago and wife of the known Rhodian Dragoninus or Dragonettus

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes 129 Clavelli. He owned real estate in Rhodes Town and, after 1428, one-half of the chapel of St Nicholas within the church of the Order of St Augustine of the Hermits, acquired by a proprietary right duly acknowledged by the incumbent Grand Master Anthony Fluvià on 12 March 1428. He also possessed a house nearby in the square of St Sebastian. Furthermore, he was married to Eleanor de Lusignan, daughter of Phoebus de Lusignan, the titular marshal of the lost kingdom of Cilician Armenia and a son of Peter the titular count of Tripoli. He died sometime before 1459, when his widow sold a house that had belonged to him to Brother Louis de Magnac, the Hospitaller preceptor of Cyprus, for 1, 500 Rhodian ducats.40 Besides the Italian Soffredo Calvi, Greek burgesses also acquired great wealth. Costas Megulusiane, his surname perhaps originating from the Greek Megalousianos, provided his daughter Angelina a dowry of 4, 000 ducats when she married the Venetian burgess Andrea Janni.41 Rhodian burgesses acquired slaves with their wealth. On 8 March 1410, Domenico d’Alemania, the Hospitaller brother and preceptor of Santo Stefano de Monopoli, acting for the Hospitaller Grand Master Philibert de Naillac, issued a pardon to a certain Petrus Chipriotus. The latter, along with his companions, had seized and taken away slaves belonging to Rhodian burgesses. This notwithstanding, Petrus and his companions were pardoned, partly because Rhodes lacked inhabitants and the Order hoped to gather back its scattered subjects. Petrus was cautioned and allowed to return to Rhodes Town, to his home, wife, and daughter. Although both the perpetrator and the victims were resident in Rhodes, Petrus’s surname indicates Cypriot origins. People settling on Rhodes from Syria or Euboea, the medieval Negroponte, likewise sometimes had surnames denoting origin, such as Suriano and Negroponte.42 Burgesses on Rhodes generally owned properties and conducted business in towns, but some had rural properties. On 1 February 1422, Grand Master Anthony Fluvià granted the burgess Nicholas Belloch and his heirs a pen (mandra) of sheep and goats. In return, Nicholas would owe the Order one-tenth (decima) of the lambs and the kids each year. Ethnically the Bellochs were Latins, possibly a branch of the Bellochs originating from the town of Girona in Catalonia, north of Barcelona, who enjoyed close connections to Rhodes and to the Hospitallers.43 This tax of one-tenth on animals was by no means limited to Rhodes, being encountered on both Crete and Cyprus. In Cyprus, from the 15th century if not earlier and until Venetian rule ended in 1570, the marechaussée, a tax on animals payable by the Cypriot peasantry, was collected by the Lusignan crown and then by the Venetian administration. On Venetian Crete, taxes known as the decatia and the pentameria-quintana, levied on one-tenth and one-fifth respectively of the animals that peasants possessed, were collected by the State, although from the second quarter of the 14th century the tax was reduced and the decatia was levied on only 4% to 5% of the total number of animals. On Rhodes exemptions were sometimes granted, as appears from documents of the years 1437, 1446, 1450, and 1452. These exemptions, given for two years, five years, or for a lifetime, usually concerned individuals, but once involved an entire community.44 Not all burgesses were financially solvent. A  document from 8 March  1421 records how George Paloukes, a burgess of the town of Rhodes, was indebted to

130  The Military Orders Volume VIII numerous creditors. He beseeched Grand Master Philibert de Naillac to let him live and circulate freely by night and day throughout the town for a trimester to reach some accommodation with his creditors. The Grand Master granted him leave and a safe conduct in compliance with his creditors’ petition, hoping that an agreement would be reached.45 Another document of 1 January 1428 records the debts of a burgess of Italian ethnicity, Emmanuele Sagudino. He was unwilling to remain in Rhodes Town, fearing arrest and incarceration, but the good services that Sagudino had rendered the Order compelled Grand Master Anthony Fluvià to let him come and reside or circulate freely in Rhodes Town or other Hospitaller territories for one year. During this time no creditor could harm him or his assets. Sagudino had obtained a longer period of grace, one year as opposed to three months, probably due to his services and his Italian ethnicity.46 Burgesses and religious practice on Rhodes Burgesses on Rhodes founded or administered religious houses. On 1 April 1366, Grand Master Raymond Berengar and the Convent of the Order confirmed to Vestiarites Mirodi, a Greek burgess of Rhodes and his heirs, their possession of the monastery of Sancta Maura. He had constructed it in the neighbourhood (contrata) of Kyparissi (Quiparissi) in the castellany of Rhodes together with the church of St Solas. Two hospices (hospicia), one lower and one higher, adjoined the monastery and the church. Vestiarites had made additional donations to this monastery, a garden in the neighbourhood of Quiporia (Kipouria?) in the castellany of Rhodes, a vineyard in the neighbourhood of Sotira in the same castellany and a higher and lower hospice (hospicium) within the borgo. This was the section of Rhodes Town outside the walled collachium where many Greeks and Latins resided. The hospice, situated in the square of St Mary of the borgo, adjoined two other hospices, a shop, and a public thoroughfare. The annual census or rental value of these properties was 10 aspers of Rhodes, 20 aspers being worth a Rhodian florin and 32 aspers one Rhodian ducat. The Grand Master and the Convent promised Vestiarites never to grant out these properties, despite a provision of 1309 to the contrary. In return, Vestiarites and his heirs would maintain the aforementioned properties, appointing a chaplain and one other minister. The reference to how vacant monasteries and churches were usually granted out indicates that this monastery and its attached church was a monkless monasterium, a feature of Hospitaller Rhodes.47 The aforementioned Nicholas Belloch founded and endowed a church or chapel dedicated to St Onouphrios, along with the institution of a chaplain, located outside the suburbs of Rhodes Town in the neighbourhood (contrata) of Helemonitra. This was done when the Grand Master’s lieutenant, Brother Pierre de Culant, granted permission sometime before 2 August  1390. Later, Grand Master Juan Fernández de Heredia, himself a Catalan like the Belloch family, confirmed this foundation. In this document, Nicholas Belloch is referred to as a habitator or resident of Rhodes, not as a burgess, as he is described in the document of 1 February 1422 in which he was granted a pen for keeping sheep and goats. He clearly acquired burgess status between 1390 and 1422. Such status was normally granted after a

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes  131 long residence, as also happened on Lusignan Cyprus. The Grand Master’s lieutenant Brother Pierre de Culant reappears in another document of 20 April 1391. It states that on 4 April 1391 he had allowed the Hospitaller Commander of Naples, Brother Domenico de Alamania, to found and endow the hospice of St Catherine and its internal chapel, located in the borgo of Rhodes near the walls by the harbour mole. Alamania ruled that after his own death and that of Brother Buffillo Panizzati, their proprietary rights (iuspatronatus) should devolve on the Admiral of the Order. The Admiral would appoint a secular procurator to administer the hospice and its attached properties. He would also appoint two chaplains to celebrate mass for the dead on the feast of the Virgin Mary in September and on the anniversary of de Alamania’s death. He would appoint these chaplains on the advice of one or two of the burgesses ‘of the better sort’ (ex melioribus) in Rhodes. This phraseology indicates gradations within the Rhodian burgesses, their particular status not indicating social or economic equality.48 The burgesses of Rhodes undertook to improve public education in the early 16th century. On 13 December 1510 Latin and Greek burgesses on Rhodes requested to hire a teacher of Latin and Greek grammar for all children before the Council of the Order. They proposed to transfer from Famagusta in Cyprus Mattheus Laurus, reputed to be ‘highly educated in both tongues’. He would be paid 150 ­Rhodian florins annually from the public treasury, 50 Rhodian florins privately by the Grand Master Émery d’Amboise and another 100 Rhodian florins by the burgesses for 1 biennium. The Grand Master wrote to Laurus in a letter wrongly dated 3 November 1310, but which must postdate the letter of the burgesses, inviting him to Rhodes to teach the island’s children for 300 Rhodian florins per annum. It is not known whether Mattheus Laurus accepted. Nevertheless, this initiative shows that right until the end of the Hospitaller period, burgesses worked proactively as a group, submitting proposals to the Grand Master and Council.49 Conclusion From the above it transpires that the Order valued the burgesses for the services they rendered to it and for their contribution to the economic wellbeing of Rhodes. The Order encouraged burgesses from elsewhere to settle on Rhodes, granting burgess status to persons arriving there. Burgess status co-existed with other forms of social standing, like being a citizen (cives) or noble of Rhodes. The burgesses had a corporate character, collectively monitoring expenditure on public projects, the supply of victuals, and new forms of taxation. Through lending money, engaging in trade and in transporting much-needed foodstuffs to Rhodes, the burgesses – diverse ethnically and confessionally – played an important role in the life of the island. Notes 1 The Countryside of Hospitaller Rhodes 1306–1423: Original Texts and English Summaries, ed. A. Luttrell and G. O’Malley (Abingdon, 2019), no. 132; S. Edgington, ‘Medicine and Surgery in the Livre des Assises de la Cour des Bourgeois de Jérusalem’, Al-Masaq 17 (2005), pp.88–92: G. Karmi, ‘State Control of the Physicians in the

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2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31 32

Middle Ages: An Islamic Model’, in The Town and State Physician in Europe from the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment, ed. A.W. Russell (Wonfenbüttel, 1981), pp.69–77. A. Luttrell, The Town of Rhodes: 1306–1356 (Rhodes, 2003), pp.150–51; Anekdota engrapha gia te Rhodo kai tis Noties Sporades apo to Arkheio ton Ioanniton Hippoton, ed. Z. Tsirpanlis (Rhodes, 1995), pp.39–40 and no. 99. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 68. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), p.8, no. 19 and p.40. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 95. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 114. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 133. Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 171. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 28. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 173. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 229. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 250. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 181; A. Luttrell, ‘The Servitudo Marina at Rhodes: 1306–1462’, in A. Luttrell, The Hospitallers in Cyprus, Rhodes, Greece and the West, 1291–1440, IV (Variorum, 1979), pp.50–65. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 65. A. Luttrell, ‘The Greeks of Rhodes under Hospitaller Rule’, in A. Luttrell, The Hospitaller State on Rhodes and Its Western Provinces, 1306–1462, vol. III (Aldershot, 1999), p.201. Documents concerning Cyprus from the Hospital’s Rhodian Archives: 1409–1459, ed. K. Borchadt, A. Luttrell, and E. Schöffler (Nicosia, 2011), no. 34; Sources for Turkish History in the Hospitallers’ Rhodian Archive 1389–1422, ed. A. Luttrell and E.A. Zachariadou (Athens, 2008), pp.116–17 and 146–47. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 15. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 289. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 292. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 307. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 306; J. Sarnowsky, ‘Muslims and Jews on Hospitaller Rhodes (1421–1522)’, in Union and Separation: Diasporic Groups and Identities in the Eastern Mediterranean (1100–1800), ed. G. Christ, F.-J. Morche, R. Zaugg. W. Kaiser, S. Burkhardt, and A.D. Beihammer (Rome, 2015), pp.419–20. Countryside on Rhodes (2019), no. 11. Countryside on Rhodes (2019), no. 12. Countryside on Rhodes (2019), no. 35. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 207. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 232. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 187. Documents concerning Cyprus (2011), no. 41. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 71. Documents concerning Cyprus (2011), no. 7; B. Arbel, ‘The Cypriot Nobility from the Fourteenth to the Sixteenth Century, a New Interpretation’, in Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204, ed. B. Arbel, B. Hamilton, and D. Jacoby (London, 1989), p.187; G. Grivaud, ‘Sur le Comerc chypriote de l’Epoque latine’, in ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’: Papers Given at the Twenty-Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991, ed. A.A.M. Bryer and G.S. Georghallides (Nicosia, 1993), pp.133–45. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 242. Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 12; Sarnowsky (2015), pp.417–18; C. Borchardt and A. Luttrell, ‘The Latin Will of a Jewish burgensis of Rhodes, 1448’, in Crusading and Trading between West and East: Studies in Honour of David Jacoby, Crusades Subsidia 12 (2019), p.162.

The Hospitallers and the burgesses of Rhodes  133 33 E. Rossi, ‘The Hospitallers at Rhodes, 1421–1523’, in A History of the Crusades, ed. K.M. Setton, 6 vols (Philadelphia and Madison, 1955–1989), vol. 3, pp.317–18; P.M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Middle East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London and New York, 1986), p.186. 34 J. Sarnowsky, Macht und Herrschaft im Johanniterorden des 15. Jahrhunderts: Verfassung und Verwaltung der Johanniter auf Rhodos (1421–1522) (Münster, 2001), p.650, no. 31. 35 Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 124. 36 Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 188. 37 Anekdota engrapha (1995), nos. 63 and 80. 38 Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 64; Borchardt and Luttrell (2019), pp.160–69. 39 Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 296; Sarnowsky (2015), p.418. 40 Anekdota engrapha (1995), pp.57–58 and no. 20; Documents Concerning Cyprus (Nicosia, 2011), no. 330. 41 Luttrell (1999), p.201. 42 Documents Concerning Cyprus (2011), no. 5; N. Coureas, ‘The Migration of ­Syrians and Cypriots to Hospitaller Rhodes in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries’, in The Hospitallers, the Mediterranean and Europe: Festschrift for Anthony Luttrell, ed. K. Borchardt, N. Jaspert, and H.J. Nicholson (Aldershot, 2007), pp.104–05. 43 Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 204 and p.207 note 1. 44 Anekdota engrapha (1995), nos. 48, 161, 224 and 250; N. Coureas, ‘For Pleasure and Profit: The Recreational and Fiscal Exploitation of Animals on Lusignan and Venetian Cyprus’, Journal of Mediterranean Studies, 25.1 (2016), pp.40–48. 45 Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 1. 46 Anekdota engrapha (1995), no. 18. 47 Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 90 and p.7; A. Luttrell, ‘Monkless Monasteria on Hospitaller Rhodes’, in Studi di onore del Prof. Giorgio Fedalto (Athens and Venice, 2016), pp.264–65; A. Luttrell, The Town of Rhodes: 1306–1356 (Rhodes, 2003), pp.78–85. 48 Countryside of Rhodes (2019), no. 142; M. Balard, ‘Les orientaux en Chypre au début du XIVe siècle’, in M. Balard, Les marchands italiens à Chypre (Nicosia, 2007), X, p.199. 49 Z. Tsirpanlis, ‘Hellenike kai Latinike Paideia ste Rhodo (14os – 16os ai)’, in Z. Tsirpanlis, He Rhodos kai hoi Noties Sporades sta chronia ton Ioanniton Hippoton (Rhodes, 1991), pp.398–406.

12 The ovens of Augusta Naval victualling in Sicily in the 17th and 18th centuries Ray Gatt

Introduction In its goal to maximise the efficient use of its landed assets, the Hospitaller Order attempted to use specific locations exclusively for the production, on a quasi-industrial scale, of specific foodstuffs, not only as cash crops but also to service and support its military organisation. The substantial sugar factory at Kolossi on Cyprus is one classic example of the former case;1 the industrial production of ship biscuit on their ricetta at Augusta in Sicily typified the latter.2 Ship biscuit (biscotto) was prepared in the Order’s bakeries in Valletta up to the middle of the 17th century, but it was afterwards supplied by the bakeries in Augusta because of difficulties in their production caused by the lack of firewood and the periodic shortages of grain on the island. The factory at Augusta reveals the Order as a driving force in successful corporate planning, excelling in the implementation of economic efficiency, and embracing technological advances in their bakery to foster these. Following the earthquake of January 1693, the Order rebuilt a veritable commercial enterprise in Augusta where the main item was the production of ship biscuit. A financial audit of one of the procurators of the Order towards the end of the 18th century confirms the industrial scale of the operation, and the methodical care taken to infuse a best practice mind-set in the running of the enterprise.3 The move from Syracuse to Augusta in 1648 After the Hospitallers relocated their convent to Malta in 1530 following their seven-year perambulations in southern Europe, an increasing number of provisions necessary for them and the indigenous population on the island had to be sought from mainland Europe. The exploratory commission visiting Malta in 1524 depicted the island as too barren and infertile to produce much more than a modicum of agricultural products to support the existing demographics on Malta.4 This was certainly disingenuous on the part of the commission as Malta, in truth, was certainly more productive than was portrayed in its report.5 Although wheat cultivation had indeed shrunk in acreage, this was done in lieu of cash crops, such as cumin and cotton, which generated more income for the land-owner.6 DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-14

The ovens of Augusta  135 The nearest place where food staples could be sought was neighbouring Sicily, politically under the same Spanish hegemony as Malta. The three closest Sicilian ports from where these provisions could be off-loaded were all aligned on the eastern seaboard. Furthest north was Messina, one of the largest municipalities of the island and where the Order had a Grand Priory. To the south was the harbour town of Syracuse, the closest of the three to Malta and, up to 1648, the main provider of all types of supplies, including the essential tax-free wheat and other cereals, where local importers in Malta had to deal with the Sicilian caricatori.7 In-between lay Augusta, which after 1648, became the favoured town the Hospitallers chose from where to acquire their provisions. There had been increasing turbulence between the Order’s galleys and the Syracusan Università prior to the point when Hospitaller commercial transactions were transferred to Augusta in 1648. The reason for this is unknown, although it must have been significant enough since the jurats of Syracuse were foregoing the financial benefits of the commercial dealings supplying a very busy island-state. The Order’s official historian, Bartolomeo dal Pozzo (1637–1722), suggests that the jurats’ intransigence was focused not only on taxed commodities (robbe angariate), including the tax-free grain, but also on cash-based commerce (commercio per il denaro).8 Apart from the loss of business in comestible goods with the Maltese importers, there was also a substantial secondary loss from the Order itself. It was customary for the galleys of the Order to sail to Syracuse on a regular basis to take on the necessary supplies for the Order’s naval fleet. These replenishment crossings usually occurred around April, July, and December. In 1648, Grand Master Lascaris and his Council, having had repeated altercations with the jurats of Syracuse and the captain-at-arms of the city, decided to transfer all the commercial dealings the Order had with Syracuse further north to Augusta.9 There were several factors which recommended the port town of Augusta. It was only 19 nautical miles further north; it enjoyed a safe harbour; abundant commodities were available; and the Hospitallers had a good rapport with the local population. Augusta was also labelled il granaio, indicating that the region had a surfeit of wheat and other cereals.10 The procurator of the Common Treasury residing in Syracuse at the time, Fra Marcello Beringucci, was requested to transfer both the Order’s business dealings and his residence forthwith to Augusta. This transfer was also approved by Don Juan José de Austria, the Viceroy of Sicily (1649–1651), a year later.11 The memoriale, sent to the jurats of Augusta and the captain-at-arms, also advised that French soldiers and sailors on the Order’s galleys would not be allowed to disembark when in harbour.12 In the following time span of almost fifty years, from 1648 to 1693, the Order developed a veritable industry of naval victualling in Augusta. Operating from leased premises, this enterprise included not only the manufacture of the biscotto from its raw materials but also the production of salted meat, the storage of oil and wine in massive warehouses, as well as large and deep wells to hold a ready supply of potable water.13 This ensured the steady replenishment of naval supplies to the Hospitaller galleys in preparation for their offensive forays. This particular set-up, however, was about to change.

136  The Military Orders Volume VIII The cataclysmic events of January 1693 in Augusta On 3 January 1693, four Hospitaller galleys left Malta on their regular voyage to Augusta and other ports to stock up with provisions.14 The Padrona was skippered by Fra Giovanni Giorgio Caulet. The four were carrying the ordinance of the San Pietro (presumably for repairs) which, together with the Capitana and the San Antonio, had remained in the harbour in Valletta. Prior to leaving, Fra Caulet was reminded by the Order’s Council that French officers on board the four galleys were not permitted to land in Augusta or in any other part of Sicily.15 Unbeknown to them, they were soon to become unwilling spectators as nature unleashed its awesome forces across the eastern Sicilian littoral just six days later. John Shower, renowned lecturer and preacher, gave a record of the trail of catastrophes which engulfed eastern Sicily in the early days of 1693.16 On 7 January at 10 pm, Mount Etna began to erupt; this continued for a period of two days and was followed, around midday of 9 January, by the first tremors. This caused little structural damage, but within 40 hours, on 11 January, around mid-afternoon, another major earthquake enveloped eastern Sicily.17 This time, the devastation was total. About sixty towns and villages on the eastern coast and hinterland of Sicily were destroyed, from Messina up north, to Capo Passero in the south.18 Augusta sustained extensive damage.19 During the ensuing carnage, a large proportion of the inhabitants of Augusta tried to find shelter in the town’s castle; during the confusion, 400 barrels of dry gunpowder exploded, costing the life of 2, 000 people inside.20 The Order of St John suffered major financial losses during these events. It was apparently the second set of earthquakes that caused the wholesale destruction of its bakeries, mills, and warehouses. The warehouses had been packed with victuals ready to be loaded on the waiting galleys; all these commodities were lost.21 Even worse, most of the ciurme, the gang of galley rowers, had disembarked and some were probably helping with the loading in the storehouses.22 Others were shackled to deter escape. Some of the galley crews resting on shore, and members of the Order (housed at the Receiver’s lodging), were also exposed to the same danger.23 It was only the French knights, not allowed to disembark, who did not suffer this particular fate, but even these did not escape the fracas of that day. In the aftermath of the second massive earthquake, the open sea receded from the shoreline for about a mile out. This left the berthed vessels in the harbour of Augusta, including the four galleys of the Order, stranded on the dry sea bed. Sometime later, the sea returned with a vengeance, inundating the four galleys as they lay defenceless on the dry seabed. Despite all this turmoil, the four galleys remained sea worthy. They sailed out of Augusta the following day, presumably under a much-reduced rowing power, and arrived in Malta on 15 January.24 Other Sicilian assets of the Order suffered a similar outcome. A memoriale sent by the Grand Master on 20 February  1693 to Fra Nicolo Qurattesi, one of the Order’s procurators, discussed the state of the priory of Messina and the priory buildings. The Hospitaller commissioners who came to Messina to inspect the damage sustained by the priory were reportedly embittered by the structural damage caused by the earthquake in many cities and places in the Kingdom of Sicily

The ovens of Augusta  137 but were particularly so when they saw the assets of their priory of Messina reduced to a lamentable state.25 This also meant that the income from their leases would be lost for that year; an earnest appeal was made to recover most of their back-dated leases at least.26 The grand priory, both structurally and economically, was in such a distressed state that the incumbent prior, Fra Andrea Minerbetti, installed on 18 August 1692, renounced his position on 5 March 1693 in view of the severe loss of revenue that the priory had sustained.27 Apart from the considerable economic losses, these catastrophic events also brought some political embarrassment to the Order. The Order had been preparing to join the Papal and Venetian navies in their continued offensives in the Morea.28 The embarkation of the galley’s victuals and the repairs to the San Pietro ordnance were in preparation for this venture, and this was foremost in the Grand Master’s mind, as is stated in his letter to his ambassador in Rome. The loss of a substantial part of the ciurma, a very necessary component for a battle-ready naval squadron, was an added complication.29 Deliberations by the Order in the aftermath Grand Master Adrien de Wignacourt (1690–1697) became aware of the catastrophic events in Sicily almost immediately, as the same events had also impinged on Malta, causing structural damage both to the cathedral at Mdina and to the conventual city of Valletta.30 News of the extent of the damage in Sicily came later. Almost immediately after the second earthquake on 11 January, Grand Master Wignacourt wrote to his receiver in the region, Fra Marino, and informed him that five galleys of the Order would come to Sicily to assess the damage and offer immediate assistance.31 By 15 January 1693, the four galleys which had ridden the tsunami with minor damage had returned safely to Malta. By then the Grand Master and council were au courant of the minutest details of the events that had occurred in neighbouring Sicily.32 The reaction of the Grand Master to this catastrophe was two-fold. The first response was the immediate need to succour the beleaguered inhabitants of the area by sending support and assistance.33 The Order loaded five galleys with a large store of bandages, dressings, and all sorts of medical and nursing paraphernalia. Provisions were also sent, as well as a huge quantity of iron nails to help in the setting up of temporary shelters for the survivors in Augusta.34 The second reaction was more mundane. Soon after the disastrous events, the returning galleys had brought to Malta Fra Domenico Firrao, Procurator of Augusta.35 Firrao was asked to return to the beleaguered island in order to assess the damage sustained to the biscuit factory in Augusta and offer advice on whether the establishment could be restored to some semblance of productive activity. If this was found to be untenable, Firrao was instructed to find alternative sources for the navy’s victuals, either from Augusta itself or from some other city which had not been hit as badly by the geological events. Failing this, he was given instructions to procure the necessary provisions for the eventual naval expedition to the Morea from the Receiver in Venice.36

138  The Military Orders Volume VIII On his return to Sicily, and having inspected the destruction in Augusta, Fra Domenico Firrao realised the futility of trying to resurrect the factory. The site had been totally demolished and had become essentially a mass grave. The ravaged town had no potential of supplying the necessary victuals to the Hospitaller navy. The only advice proffered by the procurator was for the eventual rebuilding of the factory. Firrao also provided some estimates to support his argument. Prior to the tragedy, the Order had been leasing the site for an annual payment of 71 onze 10 scudi.37 Firrao suggested that a sum of 500 onze would be enough to rebuild the factory with all the necessary paraphernalia, and if an early decision was taken, the production of biscuit would be normalised by the end of that current year. In the meantime, victuals would have to be sourced out from other establishments, the major part supplied by the Venetian Receiver, and possibly a minor part from their own bakeries in Valletta. The Order’s holdings in Augusta in the late 18th century There is a dearth of information about the bakeries in Augusta from the time they were rebuilt after the earthquake of 1693 to the end of the 18th century. Over this period of more than a hundred years, and as often happens in such enterprises, working practices changed, probably several times over. It appears to have been a very successful venture, as the financial balance of the ricetta in 1796 was in the black, and it would appear, from an inventory prepared by its procurator at the time, that it was still very much a going concern. Fra Giacomo Maria Chiarandà was the Order’s procurator in Augusta in the last decade of the 18th century.38 His notarial-certified balance sheet for the financial year 1796–1797 was exhaustive, with detailed lists of the income and expenditure, which passed through the ricetta of Augusta.39 The large number of payments and the respective sums give an inkling of the many different categories of occupation that were necessary to keep the bakery in Augusta working efficiently. The Order’s property on Augusta occupied an area of 5, 000 square metres.40 To date, no cabreo (land survey document) of the asset has been found in the Order’s archives. However, in the absence of this, the detailed inventory does give an idea of the size of the enterprise and how it functioned. The bakery accommodated eight ovens, together with several preparatory rooms where the flour was processed, and the biscotti prepared and stored after baking. The place was furnished with several wooden surfaces where the work was carried out before and after baking. There was a hayloft (magazzino della pagliarola),41 and another storeroom where firewood was stored.42 There were animal holding pens for small and large animals and an abattoir for the processing of meat. Other warehouses were used to store grain and sacks of flour.43 The house of the procurator was on site and consisted of several rooms.44 Currently its roofless ruins still remain extant, close to the foreshore of Augusta. There was one windmill for the milling of wheat.45 Finally, the site also enclosed an Oratorio, sumptuously furnished with all the accoutrements of a functioning place of worship.46 The various stages involved in the production of biscuit, from the initial procurement of raw materials to the transhipment of the finished product, needed a

The ovens of Augusta  139 small army of workers. This is evidenced from Chiarandà’s accounts, which registered the various salaries and tariffs. Besides the manual workers, the enterprise in Augusta also needed a full back room of clerical staff to help the procurator in his day-to-day management. This included a notary, a clerk, a secretary, as well as a reckoner (computista), responsible for the correctness of the weight and quantity of the merchandise bought and for the accounts. There was also a watchman and other workers, including blacksmiths, coopers, and maestri di fabbrica,47 who carried out construction work and maintenance repairs of the factory structures. They were also involved in the building of a new oven, which incorporated a low gaseous vault as requested by the Maltese chief baker, Salvo Sciberras, to save on the consumption of wood.48 This does indicate an embracing of technological advances on the Order’s side in an attempt to achieve cost-effectiveness and efficiency of the enterprise. Grain was procured from various locations around Augusta, and from as far away as Caltagirone, some 56 miles away.49 Each business transaction was certified by the notary.50 The bordonari, or muleteers,51 would then transfer the commodity to the warehouses under the watchful eyes of persone fidate (trustworthy individuals),52 where the misuratori, or quantity surveyors, checked and audited volumes and weights of the merchandise on its arrival to the warehouse for storage. In the financial year 1796–1797, the procurator in Augusta paid a total of 3, 821 onze for about 200, 000 kilos of grain. There was one miller in charge of the windmill. The procurator also had several gente di fuori on his books, who were employed as temporary workers, hired from outside the factory to cover sick workers and ensure that work continued uninterruptedly.53 By the end of the 18th century, the number of ovens in the factory had increased to eight: there were six full-time working ovens; the other two were partially used. Each oven had its own governor, and all of them hailed from Malta, including the master baker Salvo Sciberras. It would appear that the ovens were being fired daily, with occasional temporary workers supplementing the full-time bakers when needed to keep the ovens going. Together with the governor of the oven and the unskilled manual labourer, each unit also had a ragazzo, a minion who probably did unskilled work.54 A great amount of firewood was necessary to fire these six ovens.55 In the business year 1796–1797, 4,179 salme of firewood were consumed.56 Most of the wood bought by the bakery was medium-sized branches, but part of the outlay included 67 salme (15, 700 kgs) of more expensive legna grossa. The bakery had a sizeable inventory of bakery equipment.57 There were large copper water heaters, iron rakes to sweep up the embers, large knives, horsehair sieves, large basins for kneading the dough, iron tongs and shovels, wooden paddles to take out the baked biscuits and bread from the ovens, several large wooden barrels and vats. There was a stock of 300 brooms, and enormous lengths of sackcloth for the production of sacks, necessary for the transport of the finished items, together with lanyards for the sacks.58 Once baked, the ship biscuits were stacked on benches and wooden boarding, and covered by thin, almost transparent, coverlets,59 before being transported in sacks to the quay and loaded on one of the Order’s galleys or ships-of-the-line.60

140  The Military Orders Volume VIII Conclusion The Hospitallers’ connection with Augusta implicitly reveals the various fundamental facets that moulded this hospitality and military institution in the early modern age. Their deeply ingrained belief in charity and compassion as Knights Hospitaller emerges when, despite a massive economic hit sustained from the earthquake in Augusta, they promptly returned with their galleys, now transformed into first-aid ships, filled with provisions and necessities to offer their assistance to the beleaguered population. In doing this, they also had to put their immediate military preparation for the battle on the back burner. The Order’s assistance to the beleaguered Augustans had also reached the ear of King Charles II, who through the Viceroy, the Duke of Uzeda, gave them a testimonial.61 The diplomatic savviness for which the Order was also renowned is again shown here, when they transferred their business dealings from Syracuse to Augusta. These events also show excellent business acumen and an entrepreneurial way of thinking in the way that the Order set up the new baking establishment for naval victualling, initially renting the space but later embarking on a more cost-effective ownership of the factory after the 1693 earthquake. A century later, the Augusta enterprise’s records were still solidly in the black. The Order’s history in Augusta typified what was essentially the material and spiritual strength of an institution that, despite various crises, continued to live its raison d’être. Notes 1 G. O’Malley, ‘Some Aspects of the Use and Exploitation of Mills by the Order of St  John in Rhodes and Cyprus’, in Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798, ed. E. Buttigieg and S. Phillips (Farnham, 2013), p.229. 2 J.F. Grima, The Fleet of the Knights of Malta (Malta, 2016), p.58. 3 This chapter is based on the audit study of income and expenses for the Order’s financial year 1 May 1796 to 30 April 1797 in NLM AOM815. 4 Giacomo Bosio, Dell’Istoria della Sacra Religione et Illustrissima Militia di San Giovanni Gierosolimitano (1683), iii, pp.30–31, ‘Non produrre l’istessa isola vettovaglie, se non per la terza parte dell’anno provedendoli i Maltesi dei restante dalla Sicilia. . .’. 5 See G. Wettinger, ‘Agriculture in Malta’, in Proceedings of History Week, ed. M. Buhagiar (1981), p.3. 6 See J. Abela, Hospitaller Malta and the Mediterranean Economy in the Sixteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2018), pp.66–111. 7 Abela (2018), pp.66–68. These caricatori were Malta’s main grain suppliers. See also C. Vassallo, ‘Commercial Relations between Hospitaller Malta and Sicily and Southern Italy in the mid-Eighteenth Century’, in Rapporti Diplomatici e Scambi Commerciali nel Mediterraneo Moderno, ed. Mirella Mafrici (Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi, Fisciano, 23–24 Ottobre 2002), p.450. 8 Bartolomeo Dal Pozzo, Historia della Sacra Religione Militare di S. Giovanni Georosolimitano detta di Malta, vol. I (Verona, 1715), p.166. 9 Dal Pozzo (1715), p.166. According to the author, the Order had been ‘poco civilmente trattato’. 10 ASV, Segreteria di Stato, Malta, vol. 44, ff.44r–46r. Letter from the Malta Inquisitor Francesco Aquaviva to the Vatican Secretary of State, Cardinal Fabritio Spada. 11 Don Juan José de Austria (1629–1679) was an illegitimate son of Philip IV of Spain and acknowledged as such by the King.

The ovens of Augusta 141 12 Dal Pozzo (1715), p.167. This was happening in the first phase of the Franco-Spanish War (1635–1659), and at the time of the Peace of Westphalia which closed this first phase of the conflict. Understandably, French knights were not welcome on Habsburg territory, and they had to remain offshore. 13 ASV, Segreteria di Stato, Malta, vol. 44, f. 44v. The Inquisitor to Malta lists the material damages that the Religion had sustained, including ‘il vestiario per le ciurme, il panno da far le tende, il biscotto, vini, olii, carne salata, et ogni’altra cosa’. 14 These were the Padrona, the Magistrale, the Annuntiata, and the Paola. 15 NLM AOM263, f.136v, ‘Non permetterete per degni rispetti, che sbarchino in detta citta d’Augusta, ne in altre parte di Sicilia Cavallieri della natione Francese’. These instructions were certainly not trivial. Brethren could lose their habit if they disobeyed, and seculars faced capital punishment. France and the Habsburg Monarchy had been involved for the past five years in the Nine Years War (1688–1697); and Spain was still smarting from a previous conflict during the Messina insurrection of 1674. 16 J. Shower, Practical Reflections on the Late Earthquakes in Jamaica, Sicily, Malta etc Anno 1692 (London, 1693). According to Shower, the timeline of events of the geological upheavals was 7 January at 10 pm, Etna erupts; 9 January at 12 pm, eruption stops; 9 January at 1 pm, first earthquake which lasts three minutes and Etna erupts again; and 11 January at 2 pm, second earthquake which lasts three minutes followed by a tsunami. 17 M. Ellul, ‘The Earthquake of 1693 – A Historical Survey’, in Mdina and the Earthquake of 1693, ed. J. Azzopardi (Malta, 1993), pp.24–44. 18 A. Leanti, Lo Stato Presente della Sicilia (Palermo, 1761), vol. 1, p.6. 19 NLM AOM263, fff.137rv, NLM AOM1459, ff.15rv. See also V. Auria, Historia Cronologica dell Signor Viceré di Sicilia (1409–1697) (Palermo, 1697), p.106. 20 Auria (1697), p.106. 21 ASV Segreteria di Stato, Malta, vol. 44, f.44r. 22 NLM AOM1459, f.15r. 23 ASV Segreteria di Stato, Malta, vol. 44, f.45r. It is suggested that the Order lost about 200 men, including the best rowers, sailors, bombardiers, and other officials. 24 NLM AOM263, f.137r. 25 NLM AOM1459, f.24v, ‘viene amareggiata dal racconto dei danni cagionati dal terremoto in tante cittá e luoghi del regno di Sicilia e particolarmente nei beni del nostro priorato di Messina, quale vediamo ridotto in cattivissimo stato’. 26 NLM AOM1459, f.24v. 27 See Marullo di Condojanni, La Sicilia ed il Sovrano Militare Ordine di Malta (Messina, 1953), p.145, and NLM AOM2171, f.161r. Subsequently, Fra Minorbelli was given an annual pension of 500 scudi for a period of three years in a decree given by the Grand Master on 18 April 1693. 28 This was in the final months of the Morean War, or the Sixth Ottoman-Venetian War (1684–1699). 29 In a letter to the Ambassador at the Apostolic See, Grand Master Wignacourt regretted the loss of the crew, and realised that he would not have enough men to commission the eighth galley, the ottava, for the next campaign in the Levant. Wignacourt asked the ambassador to intercede with the Pope to supply the Order with an adequate number of forzati, or convicts to help replace the losses sustained in Augusta. NLM AOM1459, f.15v. 30 Ellul (1993), p.31. Grand Master Wignacourt set up a commission of three knights, Fra Claudio de Moreton Chabrillan, Fra Roberto Solaro, and Fra Don Ignazio Lores, with help from the capo mastri to assess the condition of the buildings in Valletta. 31 NLM AOM1459, f.14v. This letter to Ricevitore Marino is dated 10 January, but the Grand Master describes the events that happened on the 11th of the same month, so the missive must have been written after. 32 NLM AOM263, f.137v.

142  The Military Orders Volume VIII 33 NLM AOM263, f.137v, ‘Con il ritorno delle galere da Augusta havendo l’Emmentissimo et Reverendissimo Gran Maestro e Venerando Consiglio inteso le rovine, mortalitá, et altre afflittioni accadute nella detta cittá d’Augusta e come si suppone anco in quella di Syracuse a causa de terremoti, hanno stimato debito della charitá christiana e delle professione di questa sacra Religione il porgere tutto il sollievo possibile a quei popoli e perció Vostro Emmentissimo hanno ordinato, che il Venerando Generale con le cinque galere che si trovano atte a navigare parta subito per detta cittá al fine di soccorrerle nel miglior modo che sará possibile in una sciagura ovi deplorabile, et a questo effetto porteranno medicamenti per li feriti, et infermi, et anco quantitá di chiodi per quello che porrá occorete con il rimanente che si stimera opportuno a detto effetto’; ‘With the return of the galleys from Augusta, the Most Eminent and Most Reverend Grand Master and the Venerable Council, having understood the ruins, mortality and other afflictions due to the earthquakes, which had occurred in the city of Augusta and, as is presumed, also in that of Syracuse, finding themselves indebted to Christian charity and the profession of this sacred Religion to provide all possible relief to the population, therefore His Eminence has ordered that the Venerable General with the five galleys that are fit for navigation, leave immediately for the aforementioned city, in order to assist them in the best possible way, in this deplorable calamity, and for this purpose, they will bring medicines for the wounded and sick, and also quantities of nails for what may be needed, with the remainder that is deemed appropriate for the purpose’. 34 NLM AOM263, f.137v; These were under the command of Fra Giovanni di Giovanni, Prior of Barletta, and Captain General of the Galleys. 35 NLM AOM263, f.138r. 36 NLM AOM263, f.137v. 37 NLM AOM263. f.146v. ‘cosi vedendo in sentimento l’ Emenentissimo e Reverendissimo col suo Venerando Consiglio d’ordinare la costruzzione del designato edificio, la Religione sará libera dall’annuo peso d’onze 71.10 che pagasi d’affitto, circostanza da non trascurarsi, se si riflette alla spesa, che non e grave, mentre non oltrepassa la somma d’onze 510; et all’acquisto, che si sara d’un sito nella città d’Augusta a beneficio della Sacra Religione’; ‘thus agreeing the Most Eminent and Most Reverend with his Venerable Council to demand the construction of the designated building, the Religion will be free from the annual burden of 71.10 onze which is paid for rent, a circumstance not to be overlooked, if one reflects on the expense of rebuilding, which is not serious, if it does not exceed the sum of 510 onze; and to the purchase of a site in the city of Augusta, which will be made for the benefit of the Sacred Religion’. 38 Most of the information on the Hospitaller enterprise in Augusta comes from NLM AOM815, Primo Conto del Commendatore Chiarandá Procuratore in Agosta, 1 May 1796 to 30 April 1797. 39 The commercial year that the Hospitaller Order endorsed in its accounts started from 1st May to the end of April of the following year. 40 http://www.augusta-framacamo.net/monumenti-ricetta.asp [23 June 2022]. 41 NLM AOM815, f.14r. 42 NLM AOM815, f.14v. 43 NLM AOM815, f.15v. 44 NLM AOM815, f.16v. 45 NLM AOM815, f.17v. 46 NLM AOM815, f.18v. 47 NLM AOM815, f.5v. 48 The low vault bears a direct relationship to how fast the oven heats up, so the lower the vault the faster the heat transferred to the body of the oven and the less wood used. 49 NLM AOM815, f.2r. 50 NLM AOM815, f.2 r. Each salma was equivalent to a volume of about 0.295 cubic metres of wheat, corresponding to 190.6 Kgs.

The ovens of Augusta  143 51 The origin of the name ‘bordonaro’ should be sought in the Sicilian word, burdunaru, from the Latin burdonarius, meaning ‘one who leads beasts of burden’. A loaded mule could travel an average distance of 15 kilometres daily, carrying a load of 275 lbs. See R.A. Gabriel, Hannibal: The Military Biography of Rome’s Greatest Enemy (Washington, DC, 2011), p.54. See also H.A. Applebaum, The Concept of Work: Ancient, Medieval, and Modern (Albany, 1992), p.156. 52 NLM AOM815, f.6r. 53 NLM AOM815, f. 4r, ‘pagate gente di fuori per difetto di fornari ammalati’. 54 NLM AOM815, f.4r. 55 NLM AOM815, f.5r. See also P. Warde, Ecology, Economy and State Formation in Early Modern Germany (Cambridge, 2006), p.272. 56 E. Sakellariou, Southern Italy in the Late Middle Ages: Demographic, Institutional and Economic Change in the Kingdom of Naples, c.1440–c.1530 (Leiden, 2011), p.161. One salma of wood was the load of wood which one mule could carry. This was equivalent to three cantari, which was about 240 kgs. See also H. Bresc, ‘Palermo in the 14th–15th Century: Urban Economy and Trade’, in A Companion to Medieval Palermo, vol. 5 (Leiden, 2013), p.247. Each salma of firewood came at a cost of 1 scudo, AOM815, f.5r. 57 NLM AOM815, f.12v et seq. 58 NLM AOM815, f.5v. 59 NLM AOM815, f.12v, ‘tende di strazza luna per coprire le gallette’. 60 An item in the accounts, dated January 1797, indicates that the loading of 110 quintali and 61 rotoli of ship biscuit (over 11,000 kgs) on the ship of the Order, San Zacaria, cost one onze, 18 scudi and 10 tari. 61 NLM AOM264, f.10r.

13 A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders Osto of Saint-Omer and the Maiden of Carcassonne Miriam Rita Tessera Introduction: an unknown 12th-century Templar letter Just after the middle of the 12th century, an unnamed Cistercian monk belonging to the abbey of Vauclair (north of Laon) copied a puzzling letter on the last leaf of a manuscript containing Ambrose’s Commentary on Psalm 118.1 The letter involved a knight, a countess, and a young maiden, but it was not an Arthurian romance: the knight was a prominent Flemish Templar, Osto of Saint-Omer; the countess was Sybil of Anjou, one of the most remarkable female characters of her age, and the maiden was a hitherto unknown Provençal 12-year-old girl called Bona, who lived in Carcassonne. Writing to encourage Countess Sybil’s religious piety, Osto told her the story of little Bona of Carcassonne. When the child was eight, she experienced an apparent death, and when she awoke three days later, she began to fall into ecstasy every week from Thursday night until dawn on Sunday. With her eyes closed, inspired by the Holy Spirit, Bona spoke to the people thrice a day. On Thursday she delivered sermons about Judas’s treason and the value of sacramental confession; on Friday she spoke about Christ’s passion, describing the crown of thorns in detail; on Saturday she explained the grace of baptism, focusing on the sinful condition of the baby child. On Sunday morning she talked about the resurrection of Christ and the joy of Christian living, then she awoke from her ecstasy without any memory of her declarations. After that, she washed her hands and face, attended Mass, and received the Holy Communion; meanwhile, people looked for the water she had touched to use it to treat the sick and tried to confess their sins to her. Bona kept none of the gifts the crowd offered her for herself, but she gave everything to the poor, except for some food she ate in order not to disappoint the donors. Osto also added that in a private conversation with the Templar Master of Provence, who had told him the whole story, Bona, now 12 years old, indicated the three worst human sins – pride, lust, and usury – and proclaimed that she would dedicate all her life to praying for sinners. Closing his letter, the Templar promised Countess Sybil that he had much more to tell her in person when possible. The text of this unnoticed letter was printed from the Vauclair copy2 in the 1849 catalogue of the manuscripts of Laon, with the misleading attribution to ‘a certain Osto, monk of Saint-Omer’,3 and from a second copy in a short article by F. Roth in DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-15

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  145 Neues Archiv (1910), a miscellany including Elisabeth of Schonau’s visionary writings, now in Berlin,4 with an equally wrong identification of its author as a Dominican friar.5 Osto’s letter is a new historical testimony that places Templar literacy and religious practice in a broader context, with special reference to the influence Templars had on the piety of high-ranking families (in particular of noblewomen) and on the role they played in the spread of popular religion and in the fight against religious dissent in the middle of the 12th century. ‘To his venerable lady Sybil, by God’s grace countess of Flanders, Brother Osto, servant of your sanctity’: the Templar and the Countess Osto’s confidential letter to Countess Sybil implies a certain degree of acquaintance between the two, which can be detected through a close – yet brief – examination of their careers and their common interest in Flemish politics and religious matters. Osto was the distinguished heir of the lords of Saint-Omer, a well-known crusader family.6 Together with Hugh of Payns, his uncle Godfrey co-founded the military brotherhood of the pauperes commilitones Christi; his father William II, castellan of Saint-Omer (ca.1128–1145), supported the Templars during their recruitment campaign in Northern Europe (1127–1128) and in the Holy Land (1137–1138). Moreover, some of his relatives led honourable careers in the Latin East, such as his brother Walter, prince of Galilee from 1159.7 Of notice here are three fundamental steps in his long career, which started around 1126/1129 in the household of Stephen of Blois’ wife Matilda of Boulogne (her obituary entry was recorded in Osto’s Psalter).8 First, his family pursued a shrewd territorial policy focused on a perfect balance between old (Counts of Boulogne) and new (Counts of Flanders) lords of the region. In addition, they constantly supported new religious orders such as the Templars and Cistercians, as did their patrons.9 In 1137–1138, while in Jerusalem, William II together with his son Osto confirmed a gift of properties and rights belonging to his family estates of Slijpe and Leffinge, which he had given to the Templars about ten years before.10 Three years later, in spring-summer 1141, Osto renewed these grants which led to the establishment in Slijpe of one of the most important Flemish Templar commanderies.11 Second, after joining the Templars in about 1139,12 Osto quickly gained international experience and a remarkable reputation in promoting his Order’s interests from Flanders and Northern France, to Jerusalem and Spain.13 Third, as a result of all this, he played a consistently important role in King Henry II’s Anglo-Norman diplomacy from 1153 until 1173, dealing with sensitive cases such as the Thomas Becket affair and the disputed dowry of the Vexin castles.14 As Katie Bougyis pointed out, Osto’s last record was an obituary entry on 11 May of an unknown year (perhaps 1174) in his Psalter (now Oxford, St John’s College C 18), which was inherited by his niece Matilda of Bailleul, abbess of the powerful Wherwell abbey (Hampshire).15 As for Countess Sybil, her life and acts have received considerable scholarly attention.16 Just to summarise a few relevant points, she was the daughter of Fulk

146  The Military Orders Volume VIII V – count of Anjou and King of Jerusalem from 1131 – and Ermengarde of Maine. In 1123 she married the Count of Flanders William Clito, Robert of Normandy’s son, but the marriage was soon annulled. In 1134 she became the wife of the new Count of Flanders, Thierry of Alsace. She played the role of ‘religious conscience of her husband’: she promoted Church reform and was a patron of new religious foundations, such as the Canons Regular of Premontré and the Cistercians, and to older traditional religious communities.17 Her deep concern for religious communities was clearly emphasised in the intitulatio of some charters, where she declared that she helped God in establishing peace within the Church: ‘Ego Sibilla Dei gratia Flandrensium comitissa eiusdemque inspiratione sanctarum ecclesiarum quieti et paci cooperatrix devota’.18 She also vigorously supported her husband in the government of the county during Thierry’s frequent journeys to the Holy Land (1138–1139, 1147–1149) and was instrumental in securing the support of Count Thierry for Henry II Plantagenet, who was her nephew.19 In 1157, she followed her husband to Outremer, and she decided not to come back, retiring to the royal cloister of St Lazarus at Bethany where, together with her stepmother Queen Melisende, she tended to the ecclesiastical matters of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, and was involved in the education of Melisende’s niece, Princess Sybil.20 She died there in about 1165 and was credited with the reputation of a holy woman caring for the poor, as stated in the French Psalter21 written for Laurette of Alsace, Thierry’s daughter from his first marriage.22 Osto and Sybil’s political and religious paths crossed in at least three points: the attendance at Count Thierry’s court, the personal relationship with the old Benedictine abbey of Saint-Bertin in Saint-Omer, and the patronage towards the new Cistercian abbey of Clairmarais, located in the marshland area north of the town of Saint-Omer. Since 1128, Thierry of Alsace had adopted a favourable policy towards the Templars,23 following his predecessor William Clito, Sybil’s first husband, who had granted the Order the right to levy feudal relief tax (an inheritance tax) a year earlier.24 Since Sybil’s father, Fulk of Anjou, was a close supporter of the new-born Order from its very beginning,25 it is possible that the interest shown to the Templars by both Counts William and Thierry was due in part to their wife’s influence. Count Thierry had personal knowledge and a high esteem of Osto. In a charter dated spring-summer 1141, he confirmed to the Templars some estates donated by the Saint-Omer family and proudly stated that he did so ‘especially moved by the prayers of our friend (amicus noster) Osto’ and of his colleague Robert of Furnes, a member of a family that was equally well connected to the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Bertin in Saint-Omer.26 The latter, the most powerful religious establishment in the area, was headed by Abbot Leontius (1138–1163), who was another close supporter of Thierry of Alsace,27 and was instrumental in shaping both Countess Sybil’s and Osto’s devotions. Later in life, Sybil gave the abbey of Saint-Bertin a lavishly decorated Gospel book28 whose dedicatory inscription reads ‘omnibus exuta, tua iussa Sibilia secuta, ut sibi sis lumen, dedit hoc tibi, Christe, volumen’, thus showing her deep piety and her patronage for the monks.29

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  147 As for Osto, the presence in his Psalter of special prayers pro congregatione Sancti Bertini seems to demonstrate that the Templar was already a confrater of the cloister.30 Thus, it is not surprising that the countess and the Templar signed a privilege that Thierry of Alsace granted to Leontius on the eve of his departure for a crusade in 1147, confirming all the properties that Saint-Bertin claimed.31 When the abbot returned, Osto was instrumental in retrieving some rights and disputed properties belonging to Saint-Bertin from local lords and from Count Thierry; in one of these charters he acted together with Sybil.32 Osto and Sybil were also involved in the complicated foundation of the Cistercian abbey of Clairmarais. Since its very beginning, Clairmarais was a crossroad of ecclesiastical policy in the region. In about 1140, Matilda of Boulogne and King Stephen gave the monks of Dunes some woods 3 miles north-east of Saint-Omer to establish a new foundation, but soon the community fell under the influence of Thierry of Alsace and Sybil.33 By bequest of Bernard of Clairvaux – who in turn recommended the cloister to Leontius of Saint-Bertin – the counts of Flanders granted the whole area to the Cistercian monks.34 In 1149, Osto signed the charter by which Count Thierry, with the consent of Sybil, confirmed a huge gift of lands and buildings that his brother Walter of Saint-Omer made to Clairmarais abbey, which was the burial place of their father William II.35 According to the 17th-century librarian of Clairmarais Bertin de Vissery, an old wall painting in the western cloister portrayed Count Thierry, his wife Sybil and their son Philip as founders of the abbey, together with William II of Saint-Omer, standing next to the Virgin Mary.36 Thus, Osto’s well-established acquaintance with Thierry of Alsace, and the Saint-Omer family interest in both Templar and Cistercian regional matters, plus a common connection with Saint-Bertin Abbey, can explain his strong relationship with Thierry’s wife Sybil, and his particular attention in counselling the countess in her spiritual life. In doing so, he participated in a well-established tradition of spiritual guidance of secular women through letter-writing, an activity engaged in by many clerics of his time – like Bernard of Clairvaux37 – but never attested for a Templar knight. At the same time, some aspects of the relationship between Osto and Sybil deserve further research, such as the absence of Countess Sybil’s obituary entry from Osto’s Psalter, where that of his former patron Matilda of Boulogne is noted. ‘Entirely concerned with the sake of Your soul’: Templar literacy and noblewomen’s piety Even if Templar knights are generally credited with a low level of literacy in Latin due to their secular education, Osto’s case seems quite different. In the 12th century, high dignitaries of the Order could write Latin letters, or at least had the possibility of dictating them to literate personnel.38 The extant Templar letters for this period are charters or narrative reports of the deeds performed by the Order overseas: none of them deal with religious matters as extraordinary (mira et inaudita)

148  The Military Orders Volume VIII as the story that Osto told about Bona of Carcassonne.39 Yet Osto was clearly used to consider literacy as an ordinary tool to both improve his own spiritual life, as his Psalter demonstrates, and help his brethren increase their religious knowledge. After 1155, together with Richard of Hastings, he had an Old French verse translation of the Book of Judges made, a practice followed by another contemporary English Templar, Henry d’Arci, who ordered an Old French translation of some devotional texts to be written for his fellows in Temple Bruer.40 It is also possible that a deep concern for spiritual life inside the Order was considered a precise duty of higher officers and preud’hommes like Osto, and that this responsibility was extended to prominent individuals supporting the Templars, like Countess Sybil.41 The anonymous author of the Old French prologue to the Book of Judges praised Osto and Richard for their lives (‘vostre bone vie’), which were a perfect example of militia Christi. He also emphasised how involved they were in helping the knights to follow in the footsteps of Christ through the translation they had commissioned (‘ou molt porront grant bien trover/de cens et de bele voudie/ qu’afiert a lor chevalerie’).42 A suggestion made by Helen J. Nicholson can also explain why Osto dedicated so much care to the religious instruction of Sybil. Nicholson noticed that the French text of Judges commissioned by the two Templars emphasised the glorious role of Deborah, always adding to her name the adjective preus (‘valiant’), which was not present in the Latin text. If weak women could be so strong in masculine fields, they could become an example for the Knights Templar’s spiritual battles against pride, honour, and impatience.43 Could this sensibility play a part in fostering Osto’s esteem for Sybil and identifying her as a contemporary mulier fortis like Deborah? The importance that the Templars accorded to saintly women could also explain why Osto and his brethren were so deeply interested in Bona’s story.44 A few years after Osto’s death, the Cistercian Herbert, later bishop of Torres, included in his Liber miraculorum a curious tale from Spain about a young Muslim girl who desired to become Christian and was brutally murdered by a Christian knight. According to Herbert’s source, the Templars of a nearby castle asked Pope Alexander III for permission to bury her in their graveyard and to venerate her like a martyr.45 Stories like this, shared by the Templars who dwelt on the Spanish border and in Provence, could explain why the provincial master of Provence was so careful in reporting Bona’s visionary speeches to his confratres when they were assembled in Paris together with the general master and King Louis VII of France. A Templar report of extraordinary deeds: female visionary writings, heresy, and popular religion in Provence Osto’s source was the Master of Provence Peter of Rovira, a very busy Templar from a family of Catalan milites who held this office until 1158, and whom Osto personally met in Gerona in 1143.46 In late winter, and again in summer 1147, Peter was regularly attested in the vicinity of Carcassonne – where the Templars held considerable properties and the powerful commandery of Douzens47 – so that he could be well informed about the extraordinary events that took place in that area,

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders 149 and had plenty of time to learn about Bona.48 It is pretty clear why Osto assured Sybil that she could believe his report ‘as if you heard it from my own mouth’. The gathering which Osto was attending while he received this piece of news was – as all the evidence suggests – the Templar chapter held in Paris on 27 April 1147, on the eve of the crusade, whose party included the Templar Master Everard of Barres, 130 knights, King Louis VII, many bishops and Pope Eugenius III.49 Thus, Osto’s letter to Sybil can be dated approximately to the end of April 1147, before his return to Flanders in spring-summer 1147. If this dating is correct, the religious context in which Bona’s deeds were performed was rapidly evolving from popular religion to non-orthodox movements. Osto noticed that Bona had been preaching since she was eight,50 that is in about 1143, two years before the preaching tour of Bernard of Clairvaux in southern France against the wandering monk Henry.51 Since the beginning of the 12th century, the northern European countries experienced similar religious movements, as proved by the rebel priest Tanchelm near Antwerp in 1112–1114, by the presence of heretics in Liège in 1145, and in Cologne in 1143 or 1147, when the same Bernard of Clairvaux was urged by Propst Everwin of Steinfeld to challenge them.52 Bona’s experience fitted well within this wider religious context. She originated from the sensitive region of Languedoc, and she promoted a conventional – ‘­Catholic’ – understanding of matters of faith which many heretical movements criticised, such as baptism or sacramental confession.53 Her visionary speeches emerged from the same shadowy cradle of popular religion shared by unorthodox groups, so that the episcopal hierarchy of Provence-Languedoc chose to use Bona’s preaching to oppose a ‘spontaneous’, yet truly Catholic, devotion to the heretical beliefs that spread in restless cities like Carcassonne.54 In fact, Bona’s behaviour shared many features with heretical practices, but she – or the Templar who described her deeds – seemed to be aware of the subtle distinction existing between heresy and the Catholic faith, so that she could avoid any misconception of her actions. As in the case of Tanchelm, the people of Carcassonne used the water in which she had washed her hands to heal illness but, contrary to the Flemish priest, she did not encourage this practice at all.55 She also forced herself to eat some of what people gave her ‘pro evitando scandalo’,56 so as not to foster the refusal of some impure foods as supported by dualistic heretics, like those described in the Liber contra hereses katarorum of Eckbert of Schonau.57 Neither Peter of Rovira nor Osto of Saint-Omer seemed troubled by the fact that Bona, a lay maiden, preached to the people of Carcassonne, even if she was not aware of the contents of her speeches. Already in 1160, Hildegard of Bingen was very careful in declaring which books of the Bible she was allowed to comment on in public because of her being a woman.58 Within fifty years, the possibility of female preaching outside the cloister became increasingly rare and exceptions needed a proper justification, as Jacques of Vitry did in defence of his protégé Marie of Oignies by comparing her deeds to those of St Mary Magdalene, and by qualifying her sermons to her female companions as edifying ‘exortationes’ rather than ‘preaching’.59 Bona’s case pre-dates these restrictions and offers the opportunity to look inside the beginning of a new kind of participation for women in

150  The Military Orders Volume VIII religious life which, especially in the 13th-century Low Countries, resulted in the movement of the beguines and its Cistercian aftermath.60 Given her interest in religious matters and her choice of the Holy Land as her final abode, Countess Sybil was of course deeply involved in considering these newborn movements, even in regions removed from her domain like southern France. In light of the state of research to-date, no other medieval source gives a more precise insight into ‘those bishops of that region and wise and religious men’ who favoured Bona, even if they tried to prove the truthfulness of her visions by subjecting her to cruel yet classical tests during her ecstasy, like burning her feet and hands with hot irons.61 Neither Arnaud de Lévézou, archbishop of Narbonne (died in 1149), who assigned the Templars the tax collection in that region,62 nor Pons de Tresmal, bishop of Carcassone (died in 1159), who was on friendly terms with the powerful family of the Trencavel,63 leave any record about her story. Bona was apparently close to other visionary females engaged in criticising heretics and teaching the basics of the Christian faith.64 However, unlike her contemporaries Hildegard of Bingen, Elisabeth of Schonau or the less known Alpais of Cudot or Angelucia of Fontevrault – not to speak of Mary of Oignies65 – she lacked a man who could help her in writing her preaching or who celebrated her in a hagiographical life.66 This was not due to low-level Templar literacy, but because of the Order’s different priorities from traditional Benedictines or Augustinian canons. Around the middle of the 12th century, the Templars were engaged in the Second Crusade and its aftermath, which drained huge resources, both human and material.67 Moreover, even if their establishment in southern France immediately met the favour of local bishops,68 the Templar knights were not involved in the repression of heresy in Languedoc as the Cistercians were later. In such a context of change, Bona’s anti-heretical message was no longer one of the priorities pursued by the Order. Conclusion: Templar news and the Cistercian network in a wider world The gap between the extraordinary deeds performed by Bona and the lack of a proper dissemination fostered by the Templars was filled to some degree by the manuscript tradition of Osto’s letter, which circulated in a wider Cistercian network. Many texts related to the 12th-century crusading experience were preserved and copied only in Cistercian monastic libraries because of Bernard of Clairvaux’s legacy in the Second Crusade.69 This was exactly the case with the letter to Countess Sybil, which enjoyed a limited but interesting diffusion in some Cistercian abbeys. The oldest surviving copy comes from the Cistercian abbey of Vauclair, north of Laon – where the Templars held a powerful commandery since 1130 – added by chance to the last leaf of Ambrose’s Commentary of Psalm 118 just after the middle of the 12th century.70 Some years later (third quarter of the 12th century, or even before) according to Patricia Stirnemann’s dating,71 a second copy was inserted within a thick miscellany of spiritual, prophetical, and mystical texts collected in the Cistercian abbey of Pontigny, now split in two parts.72 This copy is the most

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  151 intriguing one because it mirrors the growing interest that the Cistercians developed in female visionary texts: here, Osto’s letter followed some commentaries on the Song of Songs, minor prophetical texts, and a large collection of Elisabeth of Schonau’s writings, whose influence was greatly increased by the diffusion of Cistercian copies.73 But how did Osto’s letter enter the Cistercian literary network? Perhaps thanks to a third, now lost, copy. When in 1672 Claude Estiennot and Jean Mabillon made a survey of the monastic library of Clairmarais, the latter made some notes about the manuscripts of the Cistercian abbey,74 where he wrote down an entry about the incipit of a letter sent to Sybil, countess of Flanders, from a certain Dominican friar Osto.75 There is little doubt that this letter was Osto of Saint-Omer’s one, but the manuscript that Mabillon saw at the time has since disappeared. It is highly possible that this was the manuscript model of the Templar’s text, copied by a Clairmarais monk who had access to the original letter on its way to (or from) Countess Sybil. Further textual research could confirm this possibility or disclose new manuscript copies, thus providing a more accurate insight into the wider world of Templar and Cistercian networks. This is precisely the last crucial point that Osto’s letter demonstrates: the transmission of news within the Templar Order, through general chapters and/or written records, could spread in an effective way when it was part of a more structured and wider network such as the Cistercian one. A few decades after Bona’s story, this pattern – which deserves further examination76 – became familiar on the eve of the Third Crusade. The Templars sent desperate news from the failing East, and the Cistercians gave them adequate diffusion in a wider world.

Appendix Osto’s letter to Countess Sybil

This edition is based on the extant manuscripts Laon, Bibliothèque municipale, ms.31, ff.120v–121r, from Vauclair abbey (L), and Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preussisches Kulturbesitz, Theol. Lat. Fol. 666, ff.46rv, from Pontigny abbey (B). They were not copied from each other, nor from a common manuscript model. The diphthongs are restored according to the older fashion of the Berlin copy.77 (1) Reverendae dominae suae Sibillae, Dei gratia Flandrensium78 comitissae, frater Osto de Sancto Audomaro, servus sanctitatis vestrae, desiderio supernorum a bonorum operum nulla occupatione tepescere. (2) De salute animae vestrae omnino79 solliciti mira et inaudita quae in partibus Provinciae80 evenerunt excellentiae vestrae notificare curavimus. (3) Haec autem omni semota hesitatione, tanquam ex ore meo audissetis, credere non dubitetis: ab illo enim fratre nostro haec accepi qui nullatenus mentiretur, qui etiam regi et magistro nostro et multis fratrum nostrorum, qui ibidem eramus, sicut viderat et audierat, haec retulit. (4) Est itaque in partibus illis81 in urbe Carcasona puella quaedam XII82 annorum, mirae sanctitatis et inauditae bonitatis, quae vocabulum ex re accepit Bona. (5) Haec autem, cum octo esset annorum, in prandendo expiravit, et ita per tres dies et quattuor83 noctes intumulata remansit. (6) In quartae vero diluculo diei anima ad corpus rediit et his qui aderant prae timore stupefactis a saeculis inaudita puella retulit. (7) Ab illo ergo die singulis ebdomadibus in crepusculo noctis feriae quartae, animam caelo reddit, et ita usque ad84 diluculum dominicae diei velut mortua remanet. (8) Per illud itaque transitus eius spacium Spiritus Sanctus corpus eius intrat, qui per eam tanquam instrumentum suum docet populum et instruit, oculis eius non apertis sed motis tantum85 ore et manibus. (9) In die siquidem Iovis primo sermonem facit ad populum de proditione qua prodidit Christum Iudas Iudeis et de penitentia qua sacerdotibus peccata confiteri in remissionem peccatorum nos oporteat; Deo enim, cui nichil extat86 occultum, non indigemus confiteri. (10) De his et de caeteris similiter ter sermonem faciens,87 quaque vice tanto spacio loquitur quanto leugam aliquis posset ire. (11) Sexta autem feria de passione Domini nostri Ihesu Christi et de cruce88 et eius virtute et de vulnere89 quo vulneratus est et de alapis quas ei90 dederunt Iudei, manibus ostendens qualiter omnia facta fuerunt ter in die ad populum loquitur, et quaque vice eo quo supradictum est spacio. (12) Spineam vero coronam huiusmodi fuisse dicit: ad modum videlicet parvi pulvinaris sacculum fecerunt quem spinis impleverunt et capiti Christi imposuerunt

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  153 et baculis desuper percusserunt. (13) Sabbato vero de sacramento baptismi et eius virtute ter in die et quaque vice eo quod supradictum est spacio ad populum loquitur. (14) Docet etiam qualiter infans in peccatis concipiatur et qualiter in utero matris alatur et eius naturam, racionabilius quam aliquis physicus disserere possit, elucidat. (15) Dicit preterea qualiter diabolus possiedat infantem ex quo vivere incipit, unde non mirum, ut ait, si cum nascitur infans clamet velut possessus a demone, donec ad sacramentum baptismatis provehatur.91 (16) Tunc vero diabolus, videns cum stola et aqua benedicta sacerdotem venientem, pavet et miratur; sed, cum immergitur aqua, diabolus rugiens a puero exit, semper tamen insidiando comitatur, nec mirum, cum prorsus doleat tale habitaculum se amisisse. (17) In diluculo autem dominicae diei, antequam anima ad corpus redeat, decimum et ultimum facit92 sermonem de Domini resurrectione et gaudio eorum qui Deum in presenti saeculo digne coluerunt et ei93 servierunt. (18) Cum autem anima ad corpus redit, ea qua surrexit Christus hora surgit a lecto et, abluto ore et manibus, audit missam, deinde adorat crucem et postea accipit corpus Domini. (19) De aqua vero, qua ipsa abluit manus et os, febricitantes et egroti sanantur bibentes.94 (20) Si quis autem, postquam anima ad corpus redit,95 ab ea quaesierit quid dixerit in transitu illo, nescire se aliquid dixisse asserit, velut somnians, fortuitu loquens, evigilans nescit quid dixerit. (21) Post haec multitudo populorum quae illam sequitur ei offerre festinat et ei peccata96 sua confitetur; et quae ei offeruntur pauperibus erogare iubet, nil sibi retinens. (22) Si quis autem ad comedendum ei aliquid dederit, quicquid97 sit comedit, parum tamen, et dicit se numquam comesturam nisi pro evitando scandalo. (23) Deinde frater noster magister Provintiae, qui haec nobis retulit quando ab ea discedens ad nos venit, secreto ab ea quaesivit pro quibus peccatis plures dampnantur apud inferos; ipsa vero dixit quod pro superbia, luxuria et usura, et assidue perseverat in orationibus et lacrimis, non pro suis, quam nullo modo putant peccare, sed pro sceleribus impiorum. (24) Episcopi quoque98 partium illarum et sapientes religiosique viri multum illam appreciantur et ei per omnia favent; ipsa vero maxime aecclesiam et clericos diligit et veneratur, quamvis ei multa tormenta intulerint. (25) Nam plumbum ferventem99 et calidum ferrum inter scapulas et in plantis pedum temptando miserunt: ipsa vero inmota velut lapis manebat. (26) Haec audivimus et multo plura quae vobis nequaquam scribere100 possumus, quae vobis ore ad os, Deo favente, loquar. Notes 1 Laon, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 31, ff.120v–121r. 2 Laon, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 31, ff.120v–121r. 3 Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques publiques de France, I: Autun, Laon, Montpellier, Albi (Paris, 1849), pp.66–68. 4 Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preussisches Kulturbesitz, Theol. Lat. Fol. 666, ff.46r/v. 5 F.W.E. Roth, ‘Aus einer Handschrift der Schriften der heil. Elisabeth von Schonau’, Neues Archiv, 36 (1910), pp.219–25, 223–25 (edition); P.J. Becker and T. Brandis, Die theol. lateinischen Handschriften in Folio der Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz Berlin, 2: Ms. theol. lat. fol. 598–737 (Wiesbaden, 1985), pp.175–77. 6 P. Rogghé, ‘Osto de Saint Omer: Vlaams Tempelier uit de XIIe eeuw’, Appeltjes van het Meetjesland, 20 (1969), pp.245–69; Records of the Templars in England in the Twelfth

154  The Military Orders Volume VIII

7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15 16

17 18 19

20 21 22 23

Century. The Inquest of 1185, ed. B.A. Lees (London, 1935), pp.XXXIX, XLIV, XLVII– LIV; K.A.-M. Bugyis, ‘Made for a Templar, Fit for an Abbess: the Psalter, Cambridge, St, John’s College, MS. C 18 (68)’, Speculum, 95.4 (2020), pp.1010–50. CT, no. 17; A. Giry, ‘Les châtelains de Saint-Omer, 1042–1386 (I)’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 35 (1874), pp.339–44; H.E. Mayer, ‘The Crusader Principality of Galilee between Saint-Omer and Bures-sur-Yvette’, in Itinéraires d’Orient. Hommage à Claude Cahen, ed. R. Couriel and R. Gyselen (Bures-sur-Yvette, 1992), pp.157–67; M. Barber, The New Knighthood. A History of the Order of the Temple (Cambridge, 1994), pp.51, 259–60. CT, no. 204; Bugyis (2020), pp.1019–27. On Stephen and Matilda’s patronage of the Templars: E. Amt, The Accession of Henry II. Royal Government Restored, 1149–1159 (Woodbridge, 1993), pp.103–06. CT, no. 141; J. Schenk, Templar Families. Landowning Families and the Order of the Temple in France, c. 1120–1307 (Cambridge, 2012), p.127. CT, nos. 205, 275; Schenk (2012), p.83; Bugyis (2020), pp.1021–24. The Latin Cartulary of Godstow Abbey, ed. E. Amt (Oxford, 2014), no. 870; Bugyis (2020), pp.1024–25. CT, nos.205, 217–18, 225, 231, 260–61, 275, 285, 314, 330, 353, 375, 445; Regesta regum Anglo-Normannorum 1066–1154, III, ed. H.A. Cronne and R.H.C. Davis (Oxford, 1968), nos.272, 848, 864; Bugyis (2020), pp.1026–27. Chronica magistri Rogeri de Hovedene, ed. W. Stubbs, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores, 51 (London, 1868–1871), I, pp.218, 221–22; Gervasii Cantuariensis Opera historica, ed. W. Stubbs, Rerum Britannicarum Scriptores, 73 (London, 1879), I, p.177; Records of the Templars (1935), pp.LII–III; Amt (1993), pp.107–08. Bugyis (2020), pp.1048–49. In July 1173, Osto’s horse badly wounded King Henry II’s leg: Chronica magistri Rogeri (1968–1971), II, p.64. N. Huyghebaert, ‘Une comtesse de Flandre à Béthanie’, Les cahiers de Saint-André, 21 (1964), pp.1–15; T. De Hemptinne, ‘Les épouses des croisés et des pèlerins flamands aux XIe et XIIe siècles. Les examples des comtesses de Flandre Constance et Sybille’, in Autour de la première croisade. Actes du Colloque de la Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East, Byzantina Sorbonensia, 14 (Paris, 1996), pp.83–95; T. De Hemptinne, ‘Women as Mediators between the Powers of comitatus and sacerdotium. Two Countesses of Flanders in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, in The Propagation of Power in the Medieval West, ed. M. Gosman, A.J. Vanderjagt, and J.R. Veenstra (Groningen, 1997), pp.295–99. De Hemptinne (1997), p.296; K.S. Nicholas, ‘Countesses as Rulers in Flanders’, in Aristocratic Women in France, ed. T. Evergates (Philadelphia, 1999), pp.122–23. Charter for the abbey of Anchin (1139): Th. De Hemptinne and A. Verhulst, De Oorkonden der graven van Vlaamderen (Juli 1128–September 1191), II/1: Regiering van Diederik van der Elzas (September 1128–17 Januari 1168) (Brussel, 1988), no. 48, pp.85–86. Amt (1993), pp.83–84; C. Oksanen, Flanders and the Anglo-Norman World, 1066–1216 (Cambridge, 2012), pp.68–72. In 1153 Osto attended the meeting at Westminster between the Angevin count and King Stephen, and in 1154 he was present at Henry II’s coronation, together with Countess Sybil: Amt (1993), pp.84–85. WT 20, 9–10; 19, 5–6; 19, 10, 5–6 (‘religiosa et deum timente femina’); Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, publié par M.L. De Mas Latrie (Paris, 1871), pp.21–22. New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, ms.338. C.-J. Liebman, ‘Remarks on the Manuscript Tradition of the French Psalter Commentary’, Scriptorium, 13 (1959), pp.61–69. CT, no. 16 (13 September 1128); William II of Saint-Omer did the same two days later: CT, no. 17; X. Baecke, ‘The Symbolic Power of Spiritual Knighthood: Discourse and Context of the Donation of Count Thierry of Alsace to the Templar Order in the County of Flanders’, in MO, 6.2, pp.46–56.

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  155 24 CT, no. 7; Bugyis (2020), pp.1021–24. 25 In 1120, during his first journey to the Holy Land, Fulk become an associatus of the Temple: G. Ligato, ‘Fra ordini cavallereschi e crociata: “milites ad terminum” e “confraternitates” armate’, in Militia Christi e crociata nei secoli XI-XIII. Atti della undecima settimana internazionale di studio, Mendola, 28 agosto – 1 settembre 1989 (Milan, 1992), pp.667–68. 26 CT, no. 231. 27 J. Phillips, ‘The Murder of Charles the Good and the Second Crusade: Household, Nobility and Traditions of Crusading in Medieval Flanders’, Medieval Prosopography, 19 (1998), pp.59–60. 28 Darmstad, Hessisches Landesmuseum, Kt. Nr.54. 29 S. Gianolio, ‘Alcune osservazioni sulla Crocifissione eburnea della legatura dell’Evangeliario di Sibilla di Fiandra’, Predella, 48 (2020), pp.79–90; S. Gianolio, ‘L’evangeliario di Sibilla di Fiandra: un’aggiunta alla produzione dello scriptorium di Saint-Bertin a Saint-Omer’, Rivista di storia della miniatura, 25 (2021), pp.37–48 (especially note 41 on Osto’s letter from the Berlin copy). 30 Bugyis (2020), pp.1027–44. In 1132 William II and Osto signed a confirmation that Count Thierry issued in favour of Abbot Leontius: De Hemptinne and Verhulst (1988), no. 19, pp.43–45. 31 De Hemptinne and Verhulst (1988), no. 109, pp.174–78. 32 CT, nos. 285, 375; De Hemptinne and Verhulst (1988), no. 131, pp.213–15. 33 J.-F. Nieus, ‘L’abbaye cistercienne de Clairmarais et les comtes de Saint-Pol au XIIe siècle’, Revue Mabillon, n.s., 10 (1999), pp.205–29. 34 San Bernardo, Lettere, in Opere di san Bernardo, 6:2, ed. F. Gastaldelli (Milan, 1987), no. 383. 35 Bugyis (2020), p.1018. 36 Bertin de Vissery, Synopsis historiae cronologicae perantiqui ac celeberrimi monasterii beatae Mariae de Claromarisco ordinis Cisterciensis, 1748, Saint-Omer, CAPSO, ms.850, I, p.78: ‘anno Domini 1140 6to Kalendas Maii Theodoricus comes et Sybilla uxor eius, hoc monasterium in hereditate propria fundaverunt’. 37 J. Leclercq, La femme et les femmes dans l’oeuvre de Saint Bernard (Paris, 1983), pp.29–44. 38 A.J. Forey, ‘Literacy and Learning in the Military Orders in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, in MO 2, pp.185–206; on Templar writing practices: D. Carraz, ‘ “Segnoria”, “memoria”, controversia’. Pragmatic Literacy, Archival Memory and Conflicts in Provence (Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries)’, in MO 6.2, pp.57–75. 39 Alongside the debated letter assigned to Hugh of Payns (D. Poirel, ‘Les Templiers, le diable et le chanoine: le Sermo ad milites Templi reattribué à Hugues de Saint-Victor’, in Amicorum societas. Mélanges offerts à François Dolbeau pour son 65e anniversaire, ed. J. Elfassi, C. Lanéry, and A.-M. Turkan-Verkerk (Florence, 2013), pp.635–63, there are few extant twelfth-century Templar letters: Gerard of Ridefort’s autograph (V. Abel, ‘Lettre d’un Templier trouvée récemment à Jérusalem’, Revue biblique, 35 (1926), pp.288–95; B.Z. Kedar, ‘Vestiges of Templar presence in the Aqsa Mosque’, in The Templars and Their Sources, ed. K. Borchardt, K. Döring, P. Josserand, and H.J. Nicholson, Crusades. Subsidia, 10 (London, 2017), pp.7–8, 24); a short collection preserved in Hugh of Champfleury’s register of chancery (Vat. Reg. lat. 179), and the reports written by brother Thierry in 1187 (J. Pryor, ‘Two excitationes for the Third Crusade: The Letters of Brother Thierry of the Temple’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 25.2 (2010), pp.147–68). 40 K.V. Sinclair, ‘The Translations of the Vitas Patrum, Thais, Antichrist and Vision of Saint-Paul made for Anglo-Normans Templars: Some Neglected Literary Considerations’, Speculum, 72 (1997), II, pp.760–61; K.V. Sinclair, ‘The Earliest Old French Livre des Juges: A Note on the Translator and his Patrons’, Neophilologus, 81 (1997), pp.349–54.

156  The Military Orders Volume VIII 41 An association with the Temple offered many possibilities for women: D. Carraz, ‘Presence et dévotions féminines autour the commanderies du Bas-Rhône (XIIe-XIVe siècle)’, in Les ordres religieux militaires dans le Midi (XIIe-XIVe siècle), Cahiers des Fanjeaux, 51 (2006), pp.71–99. See also Schenk (2012), pp.177–84. 42 Le Livre des Juges. Les cinq textes de la version française faite au XIIe siècle pour les chevaliers du Temple, ed. Marquis d’Albon (Lyon, 1913), p.1; Sinclair (1997), pp.350–52. 43 H.J. Nicholson, ‘Templar Attitudes towards Women’, Medieval History, 1.3 (1991), pp.74–80. Peter of Rovira’s talk with Bona was about the three deadly sins generally attributed to the Templars: A. Demurger, ‘Les Templiers, Matthieu Paris et les sept pechés capitaux’, in I Templari. Mito e storia, ed. G. Minnucci and F. Sardi (Siena, 1989), pp.153–69. 44 H.J. Nicholson, ‘The Head of Saint Euphemia. Templar Devotion to Female Saints’, in Gendering the Crusades, ed. S. Edgington and S. Lambert (Cardiff, 2001), pp.108–20. 45 J. Schenk, ‘Some Hagiographical Evidence for Templar Spirituality, Religious Life and Conduct’, Revue Mabillon, n.s, 22 (2011), pp.109–11. 46 J. Vilaginés y Segura, ‘Pere de Rovira, primer mestre provincial del Temple, i la conquesta de Tortosa (1148)’, Analecta sacra Tarraconensia, 93 (2020), pp.23–62. 47 Cartulaires des Templiers de Douzens, ed. P. Gérard and E. Magnou, Collection de documents inédits sur l’histoire de France, 3 (Paris, 1964); M.C. Barber, ‘The Templar Preceptory of Douzens (Aude) in the Twelfth Century’. in The World of Eleanor of Aquitane: Literature and Society in Southern France between the Eleventh and Thirteenth Century, ed. M.G. Bull and C. Lèglu (Woodbridge, 2005), pp.37–56; Schenk (2012), pp.104–14. Roger I  Trencavel, viscount of Carcassonne (1130–1150), was a staunch supporter of the Temple: Schenk (2012), pp.62–64. 48 Vilaginés y Segura (2020), pp.38–40; that is, CT, nos. 427–33, 437–38, 459–62 et passim, ad indicem. 49 ‘Ab illo enim fratre nostro hoc accepi qui nullatenus mentiretur, qui etiam regi et magistro nostro et multis fratrum nostrorum, qui ibidem eramus, sicut viderat et audierat, haec retulit’. On the Templar chapter in Paris see CT, no. 448. 50 The Laon copy claims that Bona was 11 when she met Peter of Rovira. If this is true, her visionary experience should be dated to 1144, but the evidence for this manuscript is far from conclusive. The reading of the Berlin copy must be preferred because, according to canon law, in the Middle Ages a child was considered an adult at the age of 12; moreover, the age of 12 immediately recalled the 12-year-old Jesus teaching among the doctors in Jerusalem. 51 A. Bredero, ‘Henri de Lausanne. Un reformateur devenu héretique’, in Pascua medievalia. Studies voor Prof. J.M. De Smet, ed. R. Lievens, E. van Mingrot, and W. Verbeke, Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, 10 (Leuven, 1983), pp.108–23; R.I. Moore, ‘St  Bernard’s Mission to the Languedoc in 1145’, Bullettin of the Institute of Historical Research, 47 (1974), pp.1–10; U. Brunn, Des contestataires aux “cathares”. Discours de réforme et propagande antihérétique dans les pays du Rhin et de la Meuse avant l’Inquisition, Collection d’Études Augustiniennes, Moyen Age et Temps Modernes, 41 (Paris, 2006), pp.172–78. 52 Tanchelm: Brunn (2006), pp.61–68. Everwin and Cologne: Brunn (2006), pp.124–57. 53 See H. Grundmann, Movimenti religiosi nel Medioevo (Italian translation: Bologna, 1974), pp.18–28. 54 One may wonder if the name of the young girl ‘Bona’ was actually a precise choice to counteract the name ‘boni homines’ by which the southern French heretics defined themselves: Grundmann (1974), p.47 note 18. 55 See Brunn (2008), p.64 on Tanchelm’s behaviour. 56 Compare Grundmann (1974), pp.20, 48 n.23. 57 Eckbert of Schonau: Brunn (2008), pp.207–19; U. Brunn, ‘Quand Dieu et les démons délivrent des vérités sur les cathares: visions et exorcismes dans la propagande

A Templar letter to Countess Sybil of Flanders  157

58 59 60 61

62 63 64 65

66 67 68 69

70 71 72 73

74 75

antihérétique’, in Les controverses religieuses. Entre débats savants et mobilisations populaires, ed. P. Nagy, M.-Y. Perrin, and P. Ragon (Rouen, 2011), pp.45–78. M. Lauwers, ‘ “Noli me tangere”. Marie Madeleine, Marie d’Oignies et les pénitentes du XIIIe siècle’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen-Âge, 104.1 (1992), p.247. Lauwers (1992), pp.241–50. Grundmann (1974), pp.147–70; M. Lauwers, ‘Expérience béguinale et récit hagiographique. À propos de la Vita Mariae Oigniacensis de Jacques de Vitry (vers 1215)’, Journal des savants (1989), pp.61–103. A comparable case – a woman ‘dying’ on Thursday and ‘resurrecting’ on Saturday after three days of preaching, whose truthfulness was proved by senior clergy in about 1180 – is described by Robert of Torigny: Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I, 4: The Chronicle of Robert of Torigny, ed. R. Howlett, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores, 82 (London, 1889), pp.292–94 (in this case the woman’s visions were used to obtain her husband’s repentance for a sin against Our Lady of Rocamadour). A. Sarbathès, ‘Arnaud de Levezon’, in Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie écclésiastiques, 4 (Paris, 1930), pp.430–32; D. Carraz, ‘Les ordres militaires et la paix dans le Midi au XIIe siècle’, Provence historique, 63 (2013), pp.242–45. E. Graham-Leigh, The Southern French Nobility and the Albigesian Crusade (Woodbridge, 2005), pp.72–74. Brunn (2008), pp.241–74. J.-M. Bienvenu, ‘Une visionnaire fontevriste du XIIe siècle: Angelucia’, in Les religieuses dans le cloître et dans le monde des origines à nos jours (Poitiers, 1994), pp.139–48; P. Henriet, ‘La recluse, le corps, le lieu: à propos d’Alpais de Cudot (†1211)’, in Paradoxien der Legitimation. Ergebnisse einer deutsche-italienisch-französischen Villa Vigoni-Konferenz zur Macht in Mittelalter, ed. A. Kehnel and C. Andenna, Micrologus Library, 35 (Florence, 2010), pp.403–23; Lauwers (1989). See Hildegard’s and Elisabeth’s spreading of visionary writings: L. Moulinier-Brogi, ‘Elisabeth de Schonau et Hildegarde de Bingen, un tandem paradoxal’, in Existe-t-il une mystique au Moyen Age? ed. D. Poirel (Turnhout, 2021), pp.71–89. Barber (1994), pp.66–71. Compare D. Carraz, ‘Templiers et Hospitaliers en France méridionale (XIe-XIIe siècles). À propos d’une ouvrage récent’, Provence historique, 200 (2000), pp.225–27. On Cistercian textual transmission: Les cisterciens et la transmission de textes (XIIe-XVIIIe siècles), ed. I. Falmagne, D. Stutzmann, and A.-M. Turcan-Verkerk (Turnhout, 2018); on Cistercian spirituality and crusade: W. Purkis, Crusading Spirituality in the Holy Land and Iberia, c.1095–c.1187 (Woodbridge, 2008), pp.86–118. Laon, BM 31, ff.120r–121v. Bibliothèques cisterciennes dans la France médiévale. Répertoire des Abbayes d’hommes, ed. A. Bondéelle-Souchier (Paris, 1991), pp.316–21. M. Peyrafort-Huin, La bibliothèque médiévale de l’abbaye de Pontigny. Histoire, inventaires anciens, manuscrits, Documents, études et répertoires publiés par l’IRHT, 60 (Paris, 2001), pp.70, 78. Berlin, Theol. lat. fol. 666, and Bruxelles, Bibl. Royale Albert I, IV, 187. Peyrafort-Huin (2001), pp.86, 194–96. On the manuscripts: Peyrafort-Huin (2001), pp.503–04 no. 58 (Berlin, Theol. lat. fol. 666), and pp.510–12 no. 65 (Bruxelles, IV, 187). K. Koster, ‘Das visionäre Werk Elisabeth von Schonau. Studien zu Entstehung, Überlieferung und Wirkung in der mittelalterlichen Welt’, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 4 (1952), pp.79–119. On Cistercian interest in visions: P. McGuire, ‘A lost Clairvaux exemplum collection found: the Liber Visionum et Miraculorum copiled under Prior John of Clairvaux (1171–1179)’, Analecta Cisterciensia, 39 (1983), pp.27–62. Now collected in BNF, Picardie, 631. S. Staats, Le catalogue médiéval de l’abbaye cistercienne de Clairmarais et les manuscrits conservées, Documents, études et répertoires publiés par l’IRHT, 87 (Paris, 2016), p.164 (with misleading attribution).

158  The Military Orders Volume VIII 76 Interesting remarks in P.-V. Claverie, ‘Les Templiers, informateurs de l’Occident à travers leur correspondence’, in As Ordens militares. Freires, Guerreros, Cavaleiros. Actas do VI Encontro sobren Ordens militares, 2, ed. I.C.F. Fernandes (Palmela, 2012), pp.715–35. 77 Many historical and philological questions arising from Osto’s letter will be discussed in further ongoing research. I would like to thank the editors of this book Clara Almagro-Vidal and Emanuel Buttigieg, who gave me the possibility to present here the first relevant results. 78 Flandrensium] Flandrensi B. 79 omnino] omnimodo L. 80 in partibus Provinciae] in partibus Carcasone L. 81 in partibus illis om. L. 82 XII] XI annorum L. 83 quattuor interl. L. 84 ad] in B. 85 tantum] tam L. 86 nihil extat] nil constat B. 87 ter sermonem faciens] sermonem faciens ter B. 88 et de cruce om. L. 89 vulnere] eius add. B. 90 ei om. B. 91 ad sacramentum baptismatis provehatur] a sacramento baptismi provocatur B. 92 facit om. L. 93 ei om. B. 94 bibentes sanantur L. 95 redit] redierit B. 96 ei (peccata) om. L. 97 quiquid L. 98 quoque] autem B. 99 ferventem] fervens L. 100 nequaquam scribere] scribere nequaquam L.

Part 3

Religion

14 The Knights Hospitaller in the monastic landscape of medieval Silesia1 Maria Starnawska

Medieval Silesia was a very specific region within the Polish lands. Silesian distinctiveness began during the feudal disintegration that started with the division of the state among members of the Piast dynasty after the death of Duke Boleslaw the Wrymouth in 1138. Located in the west of Poland, Silesia bordered upon the Bohemian lands to the south and, as such, it was the first to experience influences from Western Europe. Silesia was the most economically advanced part of Poland in the 13th century, as illustrated, for instance, by its very dense network of towns.2 The 13th and 14th centuries also saw many knightly families from eastern Germany settling in Silesia,3 which, together with German settlers coming to towns, resulted in a considerable Germanisation of Silesia in the late Middle Ages. These factors led to Silesia becoming a Bohemian fiefdom from the mid-14th century rather than part of the Kingdom of Poland in 1320. At the same time, from the mid-13th century onwards, Silesia started to become increasingly more fragmented into numerous duchies because of the growing number of members within the Silesian branch of the Piast dynasty. In addition to Wrocław, towns such as Opole, Świdnica, Brzeg, Legnica, Głogów, and Żagań also became capitals, which further promoted urban development.4 It was probably from the very onset of Christianity in Silesia that the Benedictines were present there, although little is known about their activity.5 The first half of the 12th century saw the emergence of the first permanent monastic foundations. In the 13th century, extensive settlement activities in, and economic development of Silesia, went hand in hand with an intensive development of a network of monasteries belonging to various orders. As a result, it was also the network of monasteries in Silesia that became densest when compared to the rest of the Polish lands within the Gniezno ecclesiastical metropolis. Thus, in ecclesiastical as well as in other spheres, Silesia became a transmission belt of West European models to other parts of Poland.6 Of all the Polish lands, Silesia also had the largest number of Knights Hospitaller outposts established during the Middle Ages: sixteen, including fourteen permanent ones. Controlled by the Prior of Bohemia, the outposts or houses formed a separate group within the Priory and were subordinate to the Prior’s representative for Silesia and Poland. Therefore, both the situation and the role of Knights DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-17

162  The Military Orders Volume VIII Hospitaller are worth examining in comparison with other orders active in medieval Silesia.7 By the end of the 15th century, there were approximately seventy-five male monasteries of religious orders other than the Hospitallers, and thirteen female monasteries, alongside the fourteen permanent houses of the Hospitallers. The number of male monasteries is far from being precise, as some monasteries were not permanent; available information on the short lives of some monasteries is sometimes questionable; moreover, branches or provostries of abbeys are unevenly treated in the literature. The Hospitallers’ outposts constituted 15.73% of all male monasteries and nearly 13.73% of the overall number of female and male monasteries. Obviously, the dynamics of the foundation of the various Hospitaller houses varied over time when compared with the monasteries of other orders. The Knights Hospitaller arrived in Silesia in the last quarter of the 12th century, creating two outposts which turned out to be permanent: Tyniec Wielki in Ślęża before 1189 and Grobniki in Opavian Silesia before 1183, and a short-lived outpost in Bardo (1189).8 Other orders also had possessions in Silesia. The Benedictines had five outposts but actually just a single abbey in Ołbin near Wrocław that was lost to the Premonstratensians in ca.1190 or at around the same time when the Knights Hospitaller arrived in Silesia. None of the Benedictines’ outposts survived the end of the 12th century.9 In the late 12th century the Regular Canons (Piasek Island in Wrocław)10 and the Cistercians of Lubiąż11 each had an abbey. At that time, with two outposts in Silesia and one outpost in Opavian Silesia, the Knights Hospitaller enjoyed a significant presence. They were the first example of a new style of an order that was active and non-contemplative.12 The 13th century marked the most dynamic development and the largest diversity of the monastic network in Silesia. There was the foundation of outposts by both old-style orders, that is the Benedictines, the Cistercians, and the Regular Canons, and by new-style orders. The new orders left the old ones behind in terms of the number of foundations. In the 13th century, the Benedictines gained just one abbey that turned out to be permanent, and made several unsuccessful attempts to establish provostries,13 while the Regular Canons gained one permanent abbey and one more in Kamieniec that was taken over by the Cistercians in 1246–1248.14 The Cistercians considerably increased their possessions by founding five new abbeys (including Kamieniec).15 Hospital orders also built their outposts: the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre, the Order of the Cross with the Red Star, the Order of the Holy Spirit, and the military order of the Templars built four, six, one, and one outposts, respectively.16 The largest number of new outposts is attributable to the mendicants: the Franciscans (18), the Dominicans (11), and the Order of Hermits of Saint Augustine (2).17 With nine outposts, these were also female orders that emerged in Silesia in the 13th century.18 There were, therefore, forty-five non-Hospitaller outposts, while nine Hospitaller outposts were founded in the 13th century. Hospitaller houses accounted for 16.67% of all male orders’ outposts founded in the 13th century. When the monasteries built in the 12th century are included, there were fifty-nine outposts, including eleven of the Hospitallers, that accounted for nearly 18.64%. When the female monasteries are included, the proportions are as follows:

The Knights Hospitaller in medieval Silesia  163 nine monasteries of the Knights Hospitaller built in the 13th century accounted for 14.28% of the total number of sixty-three monasteries built in the 13th century. However, the ratio of the Hospitallers’ houses existing in the 13th century (11) to the total number of monasteries (66) is 16.67%. In the 14th century, the intensity of the monastery foundation process decreased. At that time, eleven male monasteries of orders other than the Knights Hospitaller were established: the Benedictines, the Order of Hermits of Saint Augustine, the Dominicans, the Order of the Holy Spirit, each founded two monasteries, while the Carmelites, the Pauline Fathers, and the Antonine Hospitallers founded one monastery; another four female monasteries were also established.19 The Knights Hospitaller created three new houses and took over the commandery in Mała Oleśnica from the Templars.20 The number of new Hospitaller outposts accounted for 26.67% of all new houses of male orders and 21.05% of all new monasteries. At that time, there were in total eighty-six monasteries in Silesia, including fourteen houses of the Knights Hospitaller that accounted for 16.27% thereof, and 19.17% of the seventy-three male monasteries. In the 15th century, there were no new foundations by the Knights Hospitaller, while eleven houses were founded by the Observants, one house was built by the Dominicans, one house was founded by the Order of the Holy Spirit and one by the Carthusians.21 Generally, the foundation activity slowed down. By the end of the 15th century, there were eighty-seven male monasteries and thirteen female monasteries. The ratio of Hospitaller houses to the total number of monasteries remained approximately the same during the entire medieval period, varying from 14.28% to 21.05%. As far as the number of monasteries that were founded in Silesia after the end of the medieval period, the Knights Hospitaller ranked second, together with the Dominicans. With eighteen monasteries, the Franciscans were in the top position, followed by the Knights Hospitaller and the Dominicans each having fourteen monasteries; then came the Observants with eleven monasteries; the Cistercians, the Order of the Cross with the Red Star, and the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre, each with six monasteries; the Regular Canons with two monasteries; and the Carmelites, the Pauline Fathers, and the Antonine Hospitallers, each with just one monastery. The total number is thus considerable. The location of houses belonging to particular orders is most interesting. The vast majority of male monasteries were located within towns. Only the Benedictine monasteries in Orłowa and six Cistercian abbeys were located within villages.22 Monasteries of other orders were located within towns. This reflects the nature of the mendicant and hospital orders that tended to settle in towns.23 Orders of that type had huge opportunities for action in a highly urbanised Silesia. On the other hand, the Knights Hospitaller were based both in villages, where they had six outposts, that is, nearly a half of their outposts, and in towns. The Hospitallers no longer founded rural outposts after the mid-13th century, while they started taking over the patronage of, and establishing commanderies at parish churches in towns since the mid-13th century.24 The period during which the Order took over urban parishes in towns corresponds with one of intense development of the network of so-called location towns, that is, towns founded under German Law. The dual

164  The Military Orders Volume VIII rural-urban nature of the Order is an exception among other religious communities active in Silesia. In addition to the Knights Hospitaller, pastoral activities in parishes were also conducted by the Order of the Cross with the Red Star (in Wrocław and Kluczbork), although pastoral work was by no means typical of the orders in Silesia.25 The fact of entrusting parishes in seven towns and in a stronghold located near a town to the Knights Hospitaller proves that the pastoral activities of the Knights Hospitaller were valued. In every town in which they were active, the Knights Hospitaller had their houses co-existing with other monasteries; although, in the case of Głubczyce, the Observants became their neighbours only in the mid-15th century. Sometimes, the Knights Hospitaller took parishes in which other orders were already active. This was the case in Złotoryja (the house of the Hospitallers founded before 1267, the house of the Franciscans founded in 1243), Lwówek (the house of the Hospitallers founded in 1281, that of the Franciscans founded in 1248), and Rychbach (the house of the Hospitallers founded in 1338, the house of the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre founded in 1302–1310, the house of the Order of Hermits of Saint Augustine founded before 1329). Brzeg was settled by the Knights Hospitaller almost at the same as it was by the Franciscans (1280) who were later joined by the Antonine Hospitallers (after 1314) and the Dominicans (1333–1336). In Koźle, the Knights Hospitaller were already present in the 14th century, while the Observants were not seen there until 1431.26 Apparently, neither the presence nor the absence of any other order whatsoever was a significant reason for entrusting a parish to the Knights Hospitaller, or for the Order to accept a parish. Among orders neighbouring the Knights Hospitallers within towns, there were the Franciscans, who were the most popular in Silesia (four cases: Złotoryja, Brzeg, Lwówek, Wrocław27), followed by the Observants (Głubczyce, Koźle, Wrocław28), the Dominicans (Brzeg, Wrocław29), the Order of Hermits of Saint Augustine (Rychbach, Wrocław30), the Antonine Hospitallers (Brzeg), and the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre (Rychbach). The situation was different in Wrocław, where the Regular Canons, the Premonstratensians, the Dominicans, the Franciscans, the Order of the Cross with the Red Star, the Order of Hermits of Saint Augustine, and from the mid-15th century, the Observants, were active. Obviously, relations among the orders must have been quite different within the capital in relation to those in smaller cities of the province. In Strzegom, there was also an abbey of Benedictine nuns that co-existed with the Knights Hospitaller.31 The presence of two or more male monasteries in towns gave rise to conflicts from time to time. At the heart of such conflicts were generally issues about the parochial authority of the Knights Hospitaller, questions about the burial of parishioners outside parish churches; we find, however, no example of any dispute arising from differences in rules or spirituality.32 An important factor in defining a social position of a monastery was also the personality and rank of its founder. Hospitaller monastery founders originated from circles that were similar to those who founded monasteries of other orders. Until the mid-13th century, the earliest rural foundations were made by magnates (Tyniec before 1189, Grobniki before 1183, Strzegom between 1201 and 1203, Maków during the Fifth Crusade). These founders were dukes as town rulers who

The Knights Hospitaller in medieval Silesia  165 handed over the power of patronage over parishes within towns, while it was a town council that handed over a hospital in Wrocław to the Knights Hospitaller.33 The case was similar for monasteries embracing other rules. The oldest Silesian abbeys, that is, those of the Canons Regular on Ślęża that were then moved to the Piasek Island in Wrocław, of the Benedictines, and, from around 1190, of the Premonstratensians on Ołbin near Wrocław, were founded by the magnate Peter Piotr Włostowic.34 Cistercian monasteries were usually founded by dukes or, in one case, a ducal notary (Henryków) except for Kamieniec abbey, the foundation of the magnate family Pogorzela.35 The rule of mendicant monasteries required them to have no significant property and live off donations from the faithful. Therefore, magnates could not promote their foundation in the way that they did for other orders. Moreover, the circumstances in which their monasteries were founded are not always known, so any precise comparison is difficult.36 When it came to the foundation of Hospitaller houses, initiatives by magnates tended to eclipse those by dukes. However, support from dukes did not lead to the establishing of ducal necropolis in any of the Knights Hospitaller’s churches. Such burial sites were to be found in the following monasteries: the Cistercian nuns in Trzebnica (22 burials); the Cistercians in Lubiąż (18 burials); the Poor Clares in Wrocław (17 burials); the Franciscans in Opole (12 burials); the Regular Canons in Żagań (9 burials); the Carthusians in Legnica (6 burials); the Cistercians in Krzeszów (6 burials); the Dominicans in Racibórz (4 burials). The latter were the favoured burial site for particular lines of the Piasts. Individual members of the ruling family were also buried in the monasteries of the Dominicans in Brzeg, Cieszyn, Głogów, Legnica, Opole, and Wrocław; of the Premonstratensians in Czarnowąsy; of the Franciscans in Głogówek, Świdnica, and Wrocław; of the Cistercians in Henryków and Jemielnica, of the Dominican nuns in Racibórz; and of the Regular Canons in Wrocław.37 We know of twenty-three monastic churches in total in which at least one member of the dynasty was buried. It should be noted, however, that except for Wrocław and Brzeg, the Knights Hospitaller’s houses were not located in ducal capitals. In addition, except for Mała Oleśnica granted to the Templars by Duke Henry the Bearded of Wrocław, rural commanderies were not ducal foundations. The absence of any ducal burials identified in the Knights Hospitaller’s churches seems, therefore, understandable. The importance of any particular monastery was also determined by the size of its endowment, this being particularly vital for rural abbeys of the Regular Canons, the Benedictines, or the Cistercians. Located within towns, houses of the mendicants or parochial commanderies of the Knights Hospitaller usually had no large, landed estates. The endowment of several Silesian rural commanderies consisted of one or several villages,38 so they were definitely smaller than those of at least some of the most important abbeys of the Regular Canons on Piasek Island, such as that of Wrocław, which had more than seventy villages,39 or of the Cistercians in Lubiąż that had several dozen villages.40 One should, however, remember that there were also abbeys that had smaller endowments. A good example here is the Cistercian abbey in Rudy which probably had seven villages.41 Its endowment was

166  The Military Orders Volume VIII therefore similar to that of the Knights Hospitaller’s commanderies. Sources of income to maintain urban parishes, that is, rents and offerings from the faithful, were also similar to those of the mendicants. It is difficult to identify how large the communities of brethren attached to monastic houses operating in Silesia were. Any abbey of the Cistercians or the Regular Canons had a population of several dozen people, while the population of the oldest Cistercian house in Lubiąż exceeded 100 people.42 As far as houses of mendicants are concerned, we know that there were sixty to eighty people in the Dominican monastery in Wrocław, while communities of other monasteries were certainly smaller. Some Dominican monasteries found it difficult to maintain the number of twelve brothers prescribed by the rule.43 Nevertheless, given the large number of monasteries, it can be assumed that in Silesian male monasteries there were approximately 1, 030 brothers other than the Hospitallers, while also excluding the Observants. This number is hypothetical and certainly also varied over time. In contrast, the houses of the Knights Hospitaller were much less populated. In each of the rural commanderies, there were several brothers, while the populations of urban commanderies consisted of about ten.44 Therefore, in the 14th century, the total number of the Knights Hospitaller in Silesia was likely to be slightly over 200. That is twice the population of the probably most populated abbey in Lubiąż. Thus, there might have been approximately 1, 230 male monastics in late medieval Silesia. According to our estimates, the Knights Hospitaller would have accounted for slightly more than 16% of all male monastics; this figure, however, remains an approximate one. Nevertheless, the ratio between the number of Hospitaller houses and that of knights assigned to those houses corresponds with that between houses and members in the other orders. Although our knowledge is far from complete, the recruitment activities of the Knights Hospitaller are somewhat better known. It seems that urban commanderies were recruiting chiefly among burghers,45 thus following a path similar to that of male monasteries of other orders, as well as abbeys of the Cistercians or of the Regular Canons.46 In rural commanderies, on the other hand, members of knightly families, including specifically families of German origin newly settled in Silesia, were quite numerous. Their joining of the Hospitallers’ monasteries was part of their strategy of building their position in their new domicile.47 Yet it is also noteworthy that the following three members of the Piast dynasty joined the Knights Hospitaller: Mieszko, Duke of Bytom, who was not residing in Silesia but tried to achieve the dignity of Grand Prior of Hungary and died in 1344 as a bishop of Veszprèm; Siemowit, Duke of Cieszyn, Commander of Mała Oleśnica, and Prior of Bohemia, who died in 1390; and Rupert, Duke of Lubin, who held the same offices and died in 1431.48 It is also known that yet another Piast named Henry, is mentioned in the Hospitallers’ Rhodian records as being a Hospitaller in 1407, although ʽHenry’ may fairly well be just another name for Rupert of Lubin.49 Henry, Duke of Ziębice, who joined the Teutonic Order, was the only known case of a Silesian Piast joining an order other than the Knights Hospitaller.50 It is therefore clear that the Silesian Piasts did not join any other orders. On the other hand, daughters of Piast dukes readily joined female orders, including specifically the Poor Clares in

The Knights Hospitaller in medieval Silesia  167 Wrocław and the Cistercian nuns in Trzebnica.51 Joining an order was probably much more attractive for a woman from a ruling family since it ensured her independence, than it was for a man who had the opportunity to satisfy his ambitions by being in power. Knightly orders, including the Knights Hospitaller, offered the opportunity to reconcile a spiritual career and some elements of the secular life of a knight. This opportunity distinguished the Knights Hospitaller from other male orders. What also distinguished the Knights Hospitaller was obviously the variety of the roles that they played: from that of a semi-secular brotherhood of knights, through parish ministry work, to hospital service. Although the Knights Hospitaller were certainly not the most important order in medieval Silesia and did not play a dominant role in the religious life of the region, they did form a significant group among the monastic communities. Their success was due to their great flexibility, which enabled them to fulfil a variety of roles and made them attractive to various circles. Notes 1 My thanks to Andrzej Dubina for translating this chapter into English. 2 M.L. Wójcik, ‘Dolny Śląsk w latach 1138–1326’, in Dolny Śląsk. Monografia historyczna, ed. W. Wrzesiński (Wrocław, 2006), pp.55–65, 73–82; W. Korta, Historia Śląska do 1763 roku (Warsaw, 2003), pp.114–15. 3 T. Jurek, Obce rycerstwo na Śląsku do połowy XIV wieku (Poznań, 1996), passim; U. Schmilewski, Der schlesische Adel bis zum Ende des 13. Jahrhunderts. Herkunft, Zusammensetzung und politischgesellschaftliche Rolle (Würzburg, 2001), pp.71, 77–98. 4 R. Żerelik, ‘Dzieje Śląska do 1526 roku’, in Historia Śląska, ed. M. Czapliński, E. Kaszuba, G. Wąs, and R. Żerelik (Wrocław, 2007), pp.62–75; Wójcik (2006), pp.66–73. 5 A. Pobóg-Lenartowicz, ‘Benedyktyni i benedyktynki na Śląsku w okresie średniowiecza’, in ‘Spem suam Deo committere’ – Szkice benedyktyńskie. Historia – duchowość – kultura, ed. W.W. Szetelnicki (Legnica, 2014), pp.10–12; M. Derwich, ‘Zarys dziejów benedyktynów i benedyktynek na Śląsku’, Śląski Kwartalnik Historyczny Sobótka, 53 (1998), pp.442–44; T. Jurek, ‘Ryczyn biskupi. Studium z dziejów Kościoła polskiego w XI wieku’, Roczniki Historyczne, 40 (1994), p.57. 6 J. Kłoczowski, Wspólnoty zakonne w średniowiecznej Polsce (Lublin, 2010), pp.207–08, 294. 7 M. Starnawska, ‘Der Johanniterorden und Schlesien im Mittelalter’, Würzburger medizinhistorische Mitteilungen, 22 (2003), pp.405–08, 414–15; M. Starnawska, ‘The Hospitallers in Medieval Poland’, in The Orders of St. John and Their Ties with Polish Territories, ed. P. Deles and P. Mrozowski (Warsaw, 2014), pp.122–26, 129–30; R. Heś, Joannici na Śląsku w średniowieczu (Kraków, 2007), pp.60–97, 100–22. 8 Starnawska (2003), pp.405–06, 414–15; Starnawska (2014), p.122; Heś (2007), pp.60–64, 67–69. 9 Pobóg-Lenartowicz (2014), pp.11–16; Derwich (1998), pp.442–45, 447; S. Trawkowski, ‘Wprowadzenie zwyczajów arrowezyjskich we wrocławskim klasztorze na Piasku’, in Wieki średnie. Medium aevum. Prace ofiarowane Tadeuszowi Manteufflowi w 60 rocznicę urodzin, ed. A. Gieysztor, M.H. Serejski, and S. Trawkowski (Warsaw, 1962), pp.112–16; M. Derwich, ‘Der Prämonstratenserorden im mittelalterlichen Polen. Seine Rolle in Kirche und Gesellschaft’, in Studien zum Prämonstratenserorden, ed. I. Crusius and H. Flachenecker (Göttingen, 2003), pp.317–18; J. Rajman, ‘Norbertanie polscy w XII wieku. Możni wobec ordinis novi’, in Społeczeństwo Polski średniowiecznej, ed. S.K. Kuczyński, vol. 7 (Warsaw, 1996), pp.78–80; K. Dola, Dzieje Kościoła na Śląsku, vol. 1, Średniowiecze (Opole, 1996), pp.32–33; T. Silnicki, Dzieje i ustrój Kościoła

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katolickiego na Śląsku do końca w. XIV (Warsaw, 1953), pp.93–100; I. Płaczek, ‘Zasadnicze linie rozwoju sieci klasztorów mniszych i kanoniczych na Śląsku do końca XIII wieku’, Acta Universitatis Wratislaviensis, 1471.106 (1993), pp.16, 24. A. Pobóg-Lenartowicz, A czyny ich były liczne i godne pamięci. Konwent klasztoru kanoników regularnych NMP na Piasku we Wrocławiu do początku XVI wieku (Opole, 2007), pp.21–24; L. Milis, ‘Les origines des abbayes de Ślęża et du Piasek à Wroclaw’, Roczniki Humanistyczne, 19, fasc. 2 (1971), pp.6–26. K.K. Jażdżewski, Lubiąż. Losy i kultura umysłowa opactwa cystersów (1163–1642) (Wrocław, 1992), pp.23–27; A. Harc, L. Harc, E. Łużyniecka, ‘Lubiąż’ in Monasticon Cisterciense Poloniae, ed. A.M. Wyrwa, J. Strzelczyk, and K. Kaczmarek, vol. 2 (Poznań, 1999), pp.203–07, W. Könighaus, Die Zisterzienserabtei Leubus in Schlesien von ihrer Gründung bis zum Ende des 15. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden, 2004), pp.23–32. J. Kłoczowski, Wspólnoty chrześcijańskie w tworzącej się Europie (Poznań, 2003), pp.237–38. Płaczek (1993), pp.26–27; Derwich (1998), pp.447–48; M. Derwich, ‘Piastowie śląscy a benedyktyni (XII-XIII w.)’, Acta Universitatis Wratislaviensis, 1782 (1997), p.41; Silnicki (1953), pp.367–68. G. Steller, ‘Die Anfänge des (Saganer) Augustinerstiftes in Naumburg am Bober (1271–1284)’, Archiv für schlesische Kirchengeschte, 26 (1968), pp.20, 33–48; A. Pobóg-Lenartowicz, Kanonicy regularni na Śląsku. Życie konwentów w śląskich klasztorach kanoników regularnych w średniowieczu (Opole, 1999), pp.35–36, 41–42, 45–49; J. Mandziuk, ‘Dzieje kanoników regularnych św. Augustyna na Śląsku’, Saeculum Christianum, 14 (2007), pp.58–59; P. Tworkowski, ‘Jakub z Leodium jako arbiter w sporze między kanonikami a cystersami o klasztor w Kamieńcu’, in Poszukiwanie przeszłości. Szkice z historii i metody badań historycznych, ed. P. Wiszewski and J. Wojtkowiak, vol. 1, Potestas et societas. Władza w średniowiecznej Europie (Wrocław, 2014), pp.25–32; F. Lenczowski, ‘Zarys dziejów klasztoru cystersów w Kamieńcu Ząbkowickim na Śląsku w wiekach średnich’, Nasza Przeszłość, 19 (1964), pp.63–69; S. Kozak, A. Tarnas-Tomczyk, and M.L. Wójcik, ‘Kamieniec’, in Monasticon (1999), pp.114–15. S. Kozak, A. Tarnas-Tomczyk, and M.L. Wójcik, ‘Henryków’ in Monasticon (1999), pp.65–67; J. Rajman, A. Wolska, and M. Wolski, ‘Jemielnica’, in Monasticon (1999), pp.80–81; H. Dziurla, ‘Krzeszów’ in Monasticon (1999), pp.165–66, A. Barciak and J. Gorzelik, ‘Woszczyce-Rudy’, in Monasticon (1999), pp.362–63. J. Rajman, ‘Die Gründung der Zisterzienserabtei Himmelwitz aud dem Hintergrund der Siedlungsgeschichte im Raum von Groß Strehlitz und Tost’, Archiv für schlesische Kirchengeschte, 49 (1991), pp.231–55. M. Starnawska, ‘Crusade Orders in Polish Lands during the Middle Ages. Adaptation in a Peripheral Environment’, Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae, 2 (1997), pp.138–42. D. Karczewski, Franciszkanie w monarchii Piastów i Jagiellonów w średniowieczu. Powstanie – rozwój – organizacja wewnętrzna (Kraków, 2012), pp.172–74, 204, 210, 213, 215–16, 232, 235–40, 244, 246, 249–50; Dola (1996), pp.85–86; Silnicki (1953), pp.375, 390–91; J. Kłoczowski, ‘Bracia Mniejsi w Polsce średniowiecznej’, in Franciszkanie w Polsce średniowiecznej, ed. U. Borkowska, C. Deptuła, S.C. Napiórkowski, J. Skarbek, and A. Witkowska, Part 1, Franciszkanie na ziemiach polskich (Kraków, 1983), p.19; J. Kłoczowski, Dominikanie polscy na Śląsku w XIII-XIV wieku (Lublin, 1956), pp.52–54; Silnicki (1953), pp.388–90; G. Wąs, ‘Zakony mendykanckie na Śląsku w średniowieczu’, Sobótka, 53 (1998), p.425. P. Wiszewski, ‘Nonnenklöster in Schlesien bis 1810. Forschungsstand und Forschungsperspektiven’, in Geschichte des christlichen Lebens im schlesischen Raum, ed. J. Köhler and R. Bendel (Münster–Hamburg–London, 2002), p.328. Derwich (1998), pp.448–52; Silnicki (1953), p.375; Dola (1996), pp.85–86; Wąs (1998), p.425; Kłoczowski (1956), pp.54–55; Starnawska (1997), pp.140–42; T.M. Trajdos,

The Knights Hospitaller in medieval Silesia  169

20 21

22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

U zarania karmelitów w Polsce (Warsaw, 1993), p.17; L. Wojciechowski, ‘Najstarsze klasztory paulinów w Polsce. Fundacje – uposażenie – rozwój do około 1430 roku’, Studia Claromontana, 11 (1991), pp.154–59; Wiszewski (2002), p.328. Starnawska (2003), pp.414–15; Starnawska (2014), p.123; Heś (2007), pp.79–83. G. Wąs, ‘Śląskie klasztory franciszkanów obserwantów w XV wieku’, in Studia z dziejów Europy Zachodniej i Śląska, ed. R. Żerelik (Wrocław, 1995), pp.75–78, 82–100; L. Teichmann, ‘Schlesiens Observantenklöster vor der Reformation’, Archiv für schlesische Kirchengeschichte, 3 (1938), pp.88–96; Starnawska (1997), p.142; Dola (1996), pp.85, 160–61. J. Rajman, Jemielnica. Wieś i klasztor cysterski na Górnym Śląsku (Katowice, 1995), pp.32–43; Kozak, Tarnas-Tomczyk, and Wójcik (1999), pp.64, 113; Rajman, Wolska, and Wolski (1999), p.79; Dziurla (1999), p.164; Harc, Harc, and Łużyniecka (1999), p.202; Barciak and Gorzelik (1999), p.361. Kłoczowski (2010), p.86; Wąs (1998), p.430. Starnawska (2003), pp.406, 412–14; Starnawska (2014), pp.123–26, 141–43; Heś (2007), pp.60–83. M. Starnawska, Między Jerozolimą a Łukowem. Zakony krzyżowe na ziemiach polskich w średniowieczu (Warsaw, 1999), pp.119–21. Starnawska (2014), p.123; Starnawska (1997), pp.140–42; Heś (2007), pp.71–72, 74–75, 82: Dola (1996), pp.85, 160; Silnicki (1953), pp.375, 390; Kłoczowski (1956), p.55. Karczewski (2012), pp.232–35. Wąs (1995), p.82–87. Kłoczowski (1956), p.52. Dola (1996), p.86: Wąs (1998), p.425. Wiszewski (2002), p.328; Heś (2007), pp.388–89. Starnawska (2014), p.143; Heś (2007), pp.386–88; Wąs (1998), p.433. Starnawska (2003), p.406; M. Słoń, Die Spitäler Breslaus im Mittelalter (Warsaw, 2001), pp.150–55. Pobóg-Lenartowicz (2007), pp.22–24; Milis (1971), pp.14–15; Derwich (1998), p.445. H. Grüger, Heinrichau. Geschichte eines schlesischen Zistercienserklosters 1227–1977 (Cologne and Vienna, 1978), pp.7–10; S. Rybandt, Średniowieczne opactwo cystersów w Rudach (Wrocław, 1977), pp.24–28; J. Rajman, ‘Die Gründung der Zisterzienserabtei Himmelwitz aud dem Hintergrund der Siedlungsgeschichte im Raum von Groß Strehlitz und Tost’, Archiv für schlesische Kirchengeschte, 49 (1991), pp.247–48; Jażdżewski (1992), pp.29–32; Könighaus (2004), pp.23–26; T. Jurek, ‘Najdawniejsze dobra śląskich Pogorzelów’, Roczniki Historyczne, 68 (2002), pp.30–48. Kłoczowski (1983), p.19; Wąs (1998), pp.416–17. K. Jasiński, Rodowód Piastów śląskich (Kraków, 2007), pp.63–64, 79, 82, 85, 89–90, 96, 100, 102, 104, 106, 109, 110, 112, 117, 124–25, 128, 132, 138–39, 142, 144, 149, 152, 155, 163, 166–67, 171–72, 178, 180, 188, 190, 194, 196, 202, 204–05, 207, 297, 300, 304, 308, 317, 321, 325–27, 339–40, 352, 355, 357–58, 360, 363, 367–68, 372, 377–78, 380, 386–87, 392, 394, 396–97, 406, 433, 448, 454, 501, 508, 511, 513, 520, 522, 536–39, 541, 547, 554, 558, 560, 563, 568, 574–75, 577–79, 582, 589, 614, 618, 625, 644. Heś (2007), pp.124–45, 158–65, 179–81. A. Pobóg-Lenartowicz, Uposażenie i działalność gospodarcza klasztoru kanoników regularnych we Wrocławiu (Opole, 1994), pp.9–44, table 1. Könighaus (2004), pp.146–71, 413–16. Rybandt (1977), pp.27–32. Könighaus (2004), pp.102–04. Kłoczowski (1956), pp.127–29; Dola (1996), pp.159–60. Starnawska (2003), pp.409, 413; Heś (2007), pp.243–54. Starnawska (1999), Appendix 10.

170  The Military Orders Volume VIII 46 Pobóg-Lenartowicz (2007), pp.76–77; K. Bobowski, ‘Ze studiów nad życiem codziennym mnichów krzeszowskich w okresie średniowiecza’, in Krzeszów uświęcony łaską, ed. H. Dziurla and K. Bobowski (Wrocław, 1997), p.86; Könighaus (2004), pp.104–05. 47 M. Starnawska, ‘Karrieren innerhalb des Johanniterordens (in den schlesischen ländlichen Kommenden des böhmischen Priorats) als Bestandteil familierer Strategien’, Ordines Militares. Colloquia Torunensia Historica, 22 (2015), pp.112–16. 48 S. Sroka, Z dziejów stosunków polsko-węgierskich w późnym średniowieczu (Kraków, 1995), pp.84–101; M. Starnawska, ‘The Priors of the Knights Hospitaller from the Piast Dynasty in the Province of Bohemia: Hereditary Princes or Ecclesiastical Dignitaries?’, in MO 5, pp.311–20. 49 K. Borchardt, ‘Herzog Heinrich von Schlesien, Johanniter zu Klein Oels 1407’, Schlesiche Geschichtsblätter, 46 (2019), pp.46–53. 50 Jasiński (2007), p.336. 51 H. Manikowska, ‘Klasztor żeński w mieście średniowiecznym’, Roczniki Dziejów Społecznych i Gospodarczych, 52 (2002), pp.26–28; M. Warzecha, ‘Księżniczki z domu Piastów górnośląskich w klasztorze trzebnickim’, in Cysterki w dziejach i kulturze ziem polskich, dawnej Rzeczypospolitej i Europy Środkowej, ed. A.M. Wyrwa, A. Kiełbasa, and J. Swastek (Poznań, 2004), pp.489–95; A. Sutowicz, Kultura religijna mniszek śląskich w okresie średniowiecza (Legnica, 2016), pp.75–78.

15 Multiple environments for the military orders according to Jacques de Vitry Jessalynn Bird

Introduction Jacques de Vitry’s sermons on the military orders have often been cited as a reflection of ecclesiastical perceptions of the military orders, or more recently, as evidence for the ways in which Latin Christians struggled to define and retain their identities in competition and collaboration with the heterogeneous cultures and religions inhabiting the Holy Land.1 However, we also ought to investigate how the involvement of Jacques de Vitry, Oliver of Paderborn, and their co-workers in crusade recruiting and various reform projects shaped their praise and critiques of the image, identity, and perceived mission of the military orders. Their letters, histories, and sermons influenced public images of the military orders during the anti-heretical crusades, the Fifth Crusade, the crusade of Frederick II, and through their incorporation into the reform proposals of Guibert of Tournai and Humbert of Romans at the Second Council of Lyon (1274).2 Visions of multiple environments In his History of Jerusalem, Jacques de Vitry split his descriptions of the military orders into those which originated in Europe, including the orders of Calatrava and Santiago and the Trinitarians (founded by a fellow Paris master, John of Matha), and those originating in the Holy Land: the Hospitallers, Templars, and Teutonic Knights.3 Similarly, his sermones ad status collection contains sermons intended for those involved in hospital work and those belonging to military orders. This chapter will focus on the latter, and will begin by stressing that Pitra’s edition of them is highly faulty and incomplete; a new critical edition is needed.4 Begun during the campaign of the Fifth Crusade (1217–1221) which followed the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) attended by his colleagues Robert of Courson and Oliver of Paderborn, Jacques’ History of Jerusalem reflected Innocent III’s and Paris masters’ adaptation of Gregory VIII’s declaration that the reform of the West was essential for the success of the crusades. In turn, this justified their own desire to reform the institutional Church, religious orders, and the laity, who could aid the crusade effort by joining a religious order, living a quasi-regular life as pious layperson, or embracing the religio of the crusade.5 Unlike some earlier critics troubled by the DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-18

172  The Military Orders Volume VIII permanent fusion of spiritual and temporal warfare, monastic and military duties, Jacques de Vitry and Oliver of Paderborn followed Bernard of Clairvaux in viewing the military orders as opportunities for warriors (milites) and other estates to abandon the world and earn salvation. They presented the military orders as a valid variation of the monastic life and held up the orders’ combination of military discipline with the monastic purity of life needed to earn divine favour as an ideal to be emulated by crusaders.6 As witnesses to the military orders’ role in the campaign of the Fifth Crusade, Jacques and Oliver praised the Hospitaller, Templar, and Teutonic orders for their monastic renunciation, their charity towards pilgrims and the poor in their hospitals, and their warlike zeal and willingness to be martyred for Christ; the military orders manifested these ideals through fierce discipline on the battlefield and the maintenance of spiritual purity through fasting, prayer, and mental detachment from their possessions, unlike many crusaders who forgot the conversion implicit in taking the crusade vow and descended into indiscipline and debauchery.7 Jacques knew of Eugenius III’s and Bernard of Clairvaux’s sponsorship of the Templar order and frequently cited Bernard’s treatise on the military orders and De consideratione in his sermons to the military orders. He was particularly impressed by the Hospitallers’ and Templars’ humiliating punishments for those breaking their Rule, including imprisonment and eating on the floor with the dogs, and praised them for maintaining the purity and zeal of the first crusaders, unlike their civilian contemporaries, who often fought against each other, mistreated pilgrims, and made treaties with Muslim rulers.8 Jacques’ history praised the three main military orders’ poor and modest origins and religious fervour which initially preserved them from pride, avarice, litigiousness, and other problems associated with material prosperity.9 However, his sermons to them follow other critics in warning members of the military orders against boasting, anger, torpor, avarice, carnal desires, and pride stemming from worldly birth, riches, or power. Jacques also reappropriated Old Testament images of the chosen people and holy warriors initially borrowed to describe the monastic life (and crusaders) to demonstrate the spiritual and physical battles awaiting ‘the soldiers of Christ’ (milites Christi).10 His sermons warned that penitents could not escape the Devil unless they renounced all their possessions, engaged in charitable work, and were prepared to die for Christ. Even then, the Devil would tempt them with prosperity, tribulations, pride, boasting, and worldly power. Holy warriors ought to resist the temptation to despise weak or humbly born brothers and refrain from boasting or seeking human praise, as did David and the Maccabees, who realised that victory came from God.11 Referring to the Templar seal which showed two men riding one horse, Jacques asserted that pride loses divine favour, causes strife, and undermines the discipline essential for spiritual and military victory. The military orders ought instead to embark on war cautiously with constancy, moderation, and discretion, attending to how and when they should fight.12 Jacques, Oliver, and other reformers had collaborated with members of the military orders during preparations for the Fourth and Fifth Crusades and the crusade of Frederick II, and had confirmed various donations to and privileges for

Multiple environments for the military orders  173 the orders while serving as legates, crusade organisers, and cardinals.13 Jacques and Oliver witnessed the military orders’ crucial role in the campaign of the Fifth Crusade and praised them in their histories, which recruiters for the crusade of Frederick II used to exculpate the military orders from charges that their misuse or diversion of crusade funds was responsible for the Fifth Crusade’s failure.14 Even during the campaign (1217–1221), returning crusaders had charged the military orders with misappropriation of the crusading funds which Honorius III entrusted to their members to convey to Pelagius and pay out to the crusaders in the East, leading some prelates known to Jacques and Oliver, including Stephen, bishop of Noyon, William, bishop of Meaux, and Peter Corbeil, archbishop of Sens, to refuse to entrust crusade monies to papal nuncios who were Templars or Hospitallers.15 Paris-trained crusade preachers were familiar with the military orders’ involvement in banking, management of royal monies, and crusade finances, and many had collaborated with them in the collection, storage, transport, and disbursement of crusade monies during the Fourth and Fifth Crusades. Pelagius, Jacques, and Oliver quickly wrote to Honorius, stressing that the orders had bankrupted themselves by subsidising many warriors and crusaders and the Fortification of ‘Atlit, which they claimed directly caused the destruction of a Muslim fortress on Mt Tabor (its construction had been cited as the casus belli for the Fifth Crusade).16 As a direct result, Honorius instructed prelates in the West to publicly and repeatedly preach the military orders’ innocence so that donations to them were not cut short at a crucial point in the crusade campaign.17 After the failure of the Fifth Crusade in 1221, Jacques and Oliver remained convinced that the military orders were essential for the crusade and collaborated with the masters of the Hospitaller, Templar, and Teutonic orders and their former acquaintances, including Conrad of Porto, Conrad of Hildesheim, and John of Xanten, during delicate negotiations between pope, emperor, and the Lombard league, and the preaching, crusade-planning councils, and preparations essential for Frederick II’s crusade.18 Both Jacques and Oliver also aided Hermann von Salza in obtaining imperial charters confirming the Teutonic Order’s rights in the Holy Land and the transfer of properties to the Order in preparation for its planned role in Frederick’s crusade.19 Oliver also promoted the expansion of the Teutonic Order in Germany and Frisia; donations to the Order boomed in the regions where Oliver preached the crusade.20 Those involved in recruiting for Frederick II’s crusade were also firm supporters of the Teutonic Order’s involvement in the Baltic and Prussian crusades. For example, Jacques and Oliver’s collaborator, the papal legate Conrad of Porto, also attempted to persuade Andrew, king of Hungary to reinstate the Teutonic Order in Hungary to fight the Cumans. When Andrew had returned from the Fifth Crusade, he had initially defended the Order against noblemen angered by the Order’s tendency to exclusively rule newly conquered lands. Sensing that after Andrew’s death the Order might become defenceless, Hermann von Salza persuaded Honorius III to declare Transylvania a papal fief; however, this intervention alienated Andrew, who expelled the Order from Hungary.21 Together with Hermann, Engelbert, archbishop of Cologne, and Oliver of Paderborn, Conrad also successfully intervened

174  The Military Orders Volume VIII in the case of Henry of Schwerin’s kidnapping of Waldemar of Denmark, which threatened to destabilise the region and cripple both the Baltic crusades and the crusade of Frederick II.22 Hermann also worked with Oliver in negotiating favourable terms for his Order’s future involvement in Prussia but delayed committing to the region until after Frederick II’s crusade. For Jacques, Oliver, and their collaborators conceived of the crusades as a multi-pronged assault upon pagans, schismatics, heretics, and Muslims. Moreover, through preaching the Albigensian Crusade, friendships with Cistercians, and recruitment of noblemen from the Ȋle-de-France and Flanders-Brabant for the Fourth Crusade (who then formed the leadership of the newly created Latin Kingdom of Constantinople), they were also aware of the military orders’ role in the Midi, the Baltic region, and Greece.23 In fact, one of Jacques’ sermons to the military orders presented the various ‘enemies’ of the Catholic faith as a group of related threats while calling for remedies tailored to each category. Holy doctors opposed the intellectual attacks of Jews and heretics; schismatics were reconciled by the communion of the saints, the rule of prelates, and the obedience of their flocks; the violence of pagans and Muslims could be countered by the material sword; while the spiritual sword of excommunication could compel tyrants, false brothers, heretics, and schismatics to repent and return to the Roman Church. Jacques felt that the military orders’ raison d’être was the exercise of the material sword in defence of the Church, particularly against the Muslims in the Near East and Spain, and the pagans in Prussia, Livonia, and Cumania. The four horses of the Apocalypse represented the Templar, Hospitaller, and Teutonic orders, and the militia Christi in Livonia and Prussia, united in defence of the Church although varying in statutes, customs, and the colour of their crosses.24 The military orders and heresy Jacques’ second sermon develops the implication that military orders ought to be fighting heretics, opening with the strongly eschatological image of the Church shielded by the military orders against opponents rising up in the last days of the Antichrist, including idolaters, false prophets, pagans, Jews, martyricides, heretics, and false brothers.25 Jacques’ emphasis on heresy seems strange, particularly as many have stressed that the three major military orders adopted a policy of studied neutrality during the crusades in the Midi, despite papal calls for their involvement.26 The military orders’ identification with the holy war in the East and their charitable functions as monks enabled patrons to combine zeal for the Holy Land with sponsorship of a source of local suffrages and spiritual benefits. Local lords’ generous patronage and grants of exemption from military service and levies meant that the Hospitallers and Templars remained ideologically and practically removed from private wars and the anti-heretical crusade. Although the Templars may have lent non-military aid to the crusaders and foiled a plot against Fulk, bishop of Toulouse, the Hospitallers in Saint-Gilles had a long and amicable relationship with the counts of Toulouse, aided Raymond VI in negotiations, and accepted him as a confrater.27 This was despite the fact that, by June 1221, Conrad of Porto had

Multiple environments for the military orders  175 obtained the ability to make inquests into all exempt monastic orders and secular and regular prelates suspected of aiding heretics.28 As a recruiter for the Albigensian Crusade from circa 1211 to 1214, and possible aide to Cardinal Romanus in the 1220s, Jacques de Vitry personally knew of the white confraternity which Fulk of Toulouse had founded to fight usury and heresy in the Toulousain and of the anti-heretical militia of the Faith of Jesus Christ, created to protect Amaury de Montfort and his lands and to suppress heresy, which Conrad of Porto had approved during his legation to the Midi (1220–1223).29 As a cardinal in Gregory IX’s curia, Jacques also would have known of the militia of Jesus Christ founded in Parma and the confraternity of the Faith founded by Peter Martyr in Milan (1232).30 His second sermon’s reiteration of anti-heretical material and arguments for and against military interventions against heretics in the south of France seems intended to counter contemporary ambivalence towards these new anti-heretical confraternities and military orders. Drawing on Parisian commentaries on the Apocalypse, Jacques depicts heresiarchs who, with the support of evil princes, entrap the gullible with feigned piety and depraved teaching, infecting prelates and their flocks with heresy. Like armoured locusts swarming from an Apocalyptic abyss, heretics attack the Church, scriptures, and sacraments, and defend themselves against orthodox doctors of theology.31 Moreover, heresiarchs were persuading the credulous and incautious that the military orders must not wield the material sword against the Church’s internal enemies, by constructing fallacious arguments and misinterpreting scriptural authorities on not repaying evil for evil, turning the other cheek, living and dying by the sword, and the parable of the tares.32 However, Jacques de Vitry and other members of Peter the Chanter’s circle had developed sophisticated arguments to justify the dispossession of local lords in the Midi and had utilised them in sermons intended to recruit noblemen from northern Europe for the negotium fidei et pacis in the Midi.33 Jacques rehearsed them again in his sermon, countering heretics’ arguments by giving spiritual rather than literal interpretations to the verses cited. He also drew upon a venerable tradition of just war arguments, including Ambrose and Augustine, and the biblical examples of John the Baptist’s advice to soldiers to be content with their wages, Cornelius the centurion, and David to counter the anti-violence arguments of ‘Cathars’ and ‘Waldensians’ and the critiques of contemporary poets who saw the Albigensian Crusade as a travesty which diverted resources from the Holy Land and dispossessed fellow Christians.34 Jacques reminded his audiences that those who failed to oppose the perverse abetted the impious and were justly suspected of societas with the heretics they neglected to suppress; warfare motivated by a desire to obtain lasting peace and restrain evil was not only justifiable but laudable. If not for forceful resistance, Muslims and heretics would have consumed the entire Church. Those who attack the Church from which they received so many benefits deserve to be called ‘infidels’; because preaching had failed to convert both groups, like gangrenous limbs, they must be amputated before they infect the entire Church.35 Citing Bernard’s defence of the military orders from their twelfth-century critics, Jacques reassures members of them that their orders were justly instituted and

176  The Military Orders Volume VIII necessary to the Church in these last days, as one’s life must embrace either warfare (militia) or wickedness (malitia).36 Drawing on the teachings of Peter the Chanter’s circle, he suggested the provision of stipends for militia members to prevent campaigns from being motivated by a desire for material gain. He cautioned the military orders to trust God rather than fraternising with, revealing secrets to, or seeking praise and support from secular and unjust men, false Christians, Bedouins, or Muslims, even if they seemed trustworthy. His warnings may reflect critics’ accusations that the orders’ collusion and alliance with Muslims impeded the crusade and his own disapproval of the Hospitallers’ well-known support of Raymond of Toulouse.37 Liminalities and subterfuge Uri Shachar has rightly argued that Jacques’ letters and histories reveal his deep unease about the interpenetration of cultures and religions in the East. However, his assertion that Jacques’ sermons to military orders and the exempla in them reflect a change of mind and also material mostly delivered during Jacques’ preaching tour of the Levantine coast is problematic.38 Jacques’ sermones ad status were composite works, almost certainly revised and compiled during his cardinalate (1229–1240) while drawing on materials employed during a long preaching career. Shachar argues that Jacques’ first sermon to the military orders (no. 37) reflects a shift from ‘his early reproach of those who engage in social and physical proximity to the Saracens’ to an acknowledgement that ‘pious warriors inevitably become entangled in a dense web of cultural affinities, sharing a common repertoire of militaristic and somatic symbols’. According to Shachar, it is through the ‘interplay of cultural vectors’ that ‘specific categories that constitute the identity and piety of knights emerge’; he glosses Jacques’ story of a bald and bearded knight (martyred by his Muslim captors after being mistakenly identified as a Templar) as evidence of the process by which ‘proximity to the enemy’ plays ‘a role in defining the spirituality of warriors’.39 However, this tale, and others Jacques used in his later-revised sermons to military orders, were not entirely products of Jacques’ experiences in the East; in fact, they were employed in recruiting sermons delivered in Paris during a period when preachers, including Jacques, were promoting multiple crusades against heretics in the Midi, schismatics in Greece, and Muslims in the Holy Land. Fascinatingly, these anonymous sermons combine exempla in which Saladin’s generosity and the tale of the four friends are used to urge Christian audiences to give alms, take the cross, and be prepared to die with a good conscience, in combination with other exempla on the count of Montfort (presumably Simon), a bald knight who dies for the faith, a knight and his horse Morel, and a wounded knight fighting before Toulouse. Several of these exempla were later reutilised by Jacques for his sermons to the military orders and by Jacques and his contemporary, Odo of Cheriton, for generic sermons on the dead, raising the tantalising possibility that the earlier sermons mentioned were delivered by either of these men or one of their associates.40 Similar tales, including that of a horse named Morel and warriors or

Multiple environments for the military orders  177 Templars willingly martyred in battle during the Third and Albigensian crusades, were included in the Brevis ordinacio and the Itinerarium peregrinorum, both composed in the West during the early stages of the Fifth Crusade.41 If the story of the bald knight demonstrates mobility between categories of holy warrior and the dangers of shared identities, Jacques witnessed plenty of conversions and apostasies both in Europe and in the Mediterranean, and yet he and Oliver always praised the military orders for their moral and martial discipline. The bald knight perhaps instead demonstrates the dangers of identity and identification based on superficial markers of piety, a message well-suited to the anti-heretical crusade. There were convergences and struggles between the ideals and identities required by the chimeric blend of regular religious and warrior on crusade and in the military orders. The same liminalities applied to the targets of anti-heretical militias: how could one detect and combat an enemy who shared many of the same cultural markers and values and claimed to be ‘good men’? While this proved true for the warrior classes of the Middle East, it was perhaps even more difficult to identify heretics in Lombardy and the Midi, where anti-heretical confraternities and militias were fighting their neighbours. In fact, Jacques’ second sermon may well also reflect exhortations delivered to anti-heretical militias in Italy and the Midi during Jacques’ involvement in the Albigensian Crusade in league with Cardinal Romanus. Jacques clearly considered the military orders’ colonisation and fortification of territory recently seized from Muslims and pagans as one solution to the difficulties that orthodox crusaders faced in attempting to hold lands conquered from ‘heretical’ lords in the Midi. During negotiations for the Peace of Paris in 1229, the possibility of the future involvement of the Templars in the Midi was mentioned during the negotiations of terms to be imposed upon Raymond of Toulouse. However, although the papal legates appointed to the Midi viewed service in the Holy Land or Spain followed by entry into a military order as the ideal penance for Raymond VI, the spectre of ‘fautorism’ (aiding and abetting those accused of heresy) was raised by Raymond becoming a confrater of the Hospitallers in Toulouse (under the condition that he could take the habit when he chose); the military orders’ ability to bury and communicate their confraters during an interdict (a right severely restricted and redefined during the Fourth Lateran Council) potentially enabled Raymond to circumvent his legatine excommunication and avoid doing penance.42 ‘Abuses’, friction, and collaboration In fact, the military orders’ ‘abuse’ of their privileges and competition for donations and spiritual jurisdiction routinely caused friction with the secular clergy, particularly in France. Jacques de Vitry and other reformers warned against an obsession with worldly possessions and behaviours which destroyed religious life. Like Gehazai, Judas, Ananias and Sapphira, and Achan, some entering these orders sought what they could not have in the world, mentally or physically retained possessions instead of renouncing them, or maintained secular habits. Because of their need for funds to minister to the poor and support their wars against the ‘infidel’,

178  The Military Orders Volume VIII hospitaller and military orders were particularly prone to simoniacal entry, and the use of quaestores (fundraisers) who willingly preached false promises in order to reel in donations and accepted tainted money derived from usury and rapine. The proliferation of papal privileges was countered by attempts to redefine and restrict them from the Third Lateran council onwards, and Jacques spoke for many when he criticised the military orders’ use of papal privileges to avoid paying tithes to bishops or submitting to episcopal visitations while simultaneously poaching parishioners.43 Many often frequented the military orders’ churches for preaching and the sacraments, and by becoming confraters, potentially crippled bishops’ ability to use excommunication to punish criminal sinners and force restitution while depriving parish priests of burial offerings and legacies. Jacques urged the military orders to send literate brothers to study theology rather than secular or canon law so that they would have educated priors and priests who would rule their order according to the scriptures’ precepts.44 A collaborator with both Jacques and John of Saint-Quentin, Robert of Courson had observed the resentment caused by the papal reservation of prebends in John’s chapter for members of the Templar and Hospitaller orders. To ensure the cooperation of grudge-laden cathedral canons and local priests otherwise deprived of offerings, Robert and John excluded Templars and Hospitallers from the collection of crusade monies in Saint-Quentin and ensured that part of the funds were dedicated to the cathedral building programme and to the priests of deceased individuals who had taken the cross (crucesignati), presumably to ensure that secular clergy were not deprived of customary bequests.45 Papal privileges for exempt religious orders typically included freedom from paying tithes and the right to possess their own cemeteries, churches, and priests. Bishops fought to restrict the burial rights and offerings given to religious houses and to reserve the right to appoint or approve chaplains and priests in chapels owned by religious houses to protect the provision of pastoral care and parish priests’ income and spiritual jurisdiction. Military and hospitaller orders’ preachers were also allowed to open churches, celebrate mass, and exhort people to give offerings once annually in interdicted areas and were permitted to celebrate mass behind closed doors and bury the dead during interdicts, useful functions for donors who wished to circumvent episcopal discipline.46 Thomas Chobham echoed Innocent III’s and irate bishops’ concerns with restricting the abuse of these privileges, partly by strictly defining which categories of persons could benefit from the hospitals’ burial rights, that is the religious and their confraters. The latter included oblates and those who donated their possessions to the order while remaining in the world but excluded those who made a nominal annual donation.47 Jacques de Vitry experienced these problems first hand. Elected bishop of Acre, he despaired of reforming it in preparation for the crusade because his episcopal jurisdiction was denied by the port’s Italian quarters and many exempt religious houses and displaced prelates in exile.48 After the fall of Damietta ended the Fifth Crusade (1221), Jacques joined the bishops of Tyre and Caesarea in implementing a ruling forcing the Templars to make restitution for infringing on episcopal jurisdiction in the city of Tortosa.49 With the mediation of Cardinal Pelagius, Jacques

Multiple environments for the military orders  179 made a similar compact in 1221 with Guérin, master of the Hospitallers in Acre concerning tithing and jurisdictional issues in Acre, and obtained papal letters granting him authority over all clergymen in Acre as their diocesan bishop. The written compact with Guérin addressed several crucial issues. Jacques claimed that according to a previous agreement, the Hospitallers ought to pay a twentieth from their vineyards near Acre and a quarter of all offerings (relictorum) given to them in Acre. He attempted to block their chaplains and priests from preaching in the Hospitallers’ churches in Acre, and to ban them from giving the sacraments to his parishioners unless they paid one-quarter of their offerings to the church of the Holy Cross in Acre. The Hospitallers claimed that their privileges exempted them from tithing and that the previous written agreement pertained to grain crops, not vineyards. Their churches in Acre were not under Jacques’ jurisdiction, and their chaplains and other ministers did not need his permission to take the corpus Christi and cross to the sick, preach in their churches and cemeteries, or hear confessions in any parish.50 Pelagius’ settlement granted tithes from two vineyards to Jacques and his cathedral canons, who, in return, forfeited their claim to a portion of the offerings. The Hospitallers’ prior and chaplains could preach in their churches and cemeteries but were not to call people to sermons on set days, thereby ‘stealing’ diocesan preachers’ audiences. They were allowed to give the sacraments and confession to the infirm in any parish and could bury those who died in their hospitals or requested it. Individuals who were not members of the orders’ houses were to resort to the diocesan clergy for the sacraments, including pilgrims. However, since part of the Hospitallers’ mission was to take in and bury the sick and dead from the streets, they could continue to do so unless the ailing requested otherwise. Donations, alms, legacies, and other gifts would belong to the Hospital and when the bishop’s chaplain visited the sick, he would exhort them to give both to the church of the Holy Cross and to the Hospitallers. Jacques would ordain clerks nominated by the Hospital’s prior provided they were assured of a living or obtained his permission.51 However, by 1225, Jacques felt the need to obtain a papal command to observe the settlement, and three years later, his successor as bishop of Acre, master John of Pruvino (formerly archdeacon of Paris), asked Pelagius to clarify certain clauses. Hospitallers were to cease carting off dead parishioners unless they could prove that the deceased had chosen burial with them through a will, confessor, or witnesses. Other parishioners were choosing burial in Hospitaller houses far in advance and claiming exemption from the bishop’s jurisdiction as confraters. Pelagius ordered that they continue to obey John and receive the sacraments from the diocesan clergy, and forbade the Hospitallers to make further inroads into episcopal income by churching women after childbirth, luring parishioners into confraternity or burial, or preaching to the people on set days. The two casales which the Hospitallers claimed were exempt from tithing were to show written exemptions or pay the tithe, as were casales where sugarcane or another crop replaced the grain referred to by the original agreement.52

180  The Military Orders Volume VIII Conclusion The careers of Jacques de Vitry, Oliver of Paderborn, and their colleagues illustrate an entire spectrum of relations between the secular clergy and the military orders, and challenge the concept that all felt that the military orders should remain aloof from the conflict against heresy in the Midi and Lombardy. Jacques’ and Oliver’s defence of the military orders in preparation for the Fifth Crusade and the expedition of Frederick II’s crusade contrasts markedly with Jacques’ conflict with the Hospitallers in Acre, which provides a specific and well-documented case of bishops’ and monastic houses’ negotiations with the military orders over jurisdictional and financial issues, a portrait seconded by detailed regional research. His sermons and history should retain the privileged place they have assumed as sources for the history of the military orders in the late 12th and early 13th centuries. Notes 1 U.Z. Shachar, A Pious Belligerence: Dialogical Warfare and the Rhetoric of Righteousness in the Crusading Near East (Philadelphia, 2021), esp. pp.4–6, 9, 36–50, 63–64; H.J. Nicholson, Templars, Hospitallers, and Teutonic Knights: Images of the Military Orders, 1128–1291 (Leicester, 1993). 2 See Nicholson (1993), pp.48–49, and the discussion later in the chapter. 3 See Jacques de Vitry, Historia Orientalis, ed. J. Donnadieu (Turnhout, 2008), pp.254–72; Jacques de Vitry, Historia Occidentalis, ed. J.F. Hinnebusch (Fribourg, 1972), pp.139–42; A.J. Forey, ‘The Military Orders and the Spanish Reconquest in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, Traditio 40 (1984), pp.198–99; G. Cipollone, Trinità e liberazione tra cristianità e islam (Assisi, 2000). 4 In the Pitra edition, both sermons lack their prothemes, and the main text of each sermon is based on a poorly copied manuscript full of textual errors. The sermones ad status will soon appear in the CCCM series. For Pitra’s partial edition of Jacques de Vitry’s sermons to military orders, please see Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, in Analecta novissima spicilegii Solesmensis: altera continuatio, ed. J.B. Pitra, 2 vols (Paris, 1888), 2, pp.405–14, no. 37; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, in Analecta novissima, ed. Pitra, 2, pp.414–21, no. 38. For the sermons to hospital workers, see J. Bird, ‘Medicine for Body and Soul: Jacques de Vitry’s Sermons to Hospitallers and their Charges’, in Religion and Medicine in the Middle Ages, ed. P. Biller and J. Ziegler (Woodbridge, 2001), pp.91–108; J. Bird, ‘Texts on Hospitals: Translation of Jacques de Vitry, Historia Occidentalis 29, and Edition of Jacques de Vitry’s Sermons to Hospitallers’, in Religion and Medicine in the Middle Ages, ed. P. Biller and J. Ziegler (Woodbridge, 2001), pp.109–34. 5 J. Bird, ‘The Religious’ Role in a Post–Fourth Lateran World: Jacques de Vitry’s ­Sermones ad status and Historia Occidentalis’, in Medieval Monastic Preaching, ed. C.A. Muessig (Leiden, 1998), pp.209–29. 6 See the list of works by Jacques and Oliver cited in footnote 7. 7 Nicholson (1993), pp.50–52, 71, 82, 84, 101, 131; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, ed. Pitra, 2, pp.405–14, no. 37 (checked against Douai, Bibliothèque municipal, MS 503, ff.336v–40r); Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, ed. Pitra, 2, pp.414–21, no. 38 (checked against Douai, Bibliothèque municipal, MS 503, ff.340r–43v); Jacques de Vitry, Lettres, ed. R.B.C. Huygens (Leiden, 1963), ep.3, p.99; ep.4, p.100, ep.5, pp.115, 121, ep.6, p.124; R. Röhricht, Quinti belli sacri scriptores minores (Geneva, 1879), pp.99–100, 130–31, 157, 80, 103, 121, 132, 135 145, 159,

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8 9 10

11 12

13

14

15

16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23

161–62; Oliver of Paderborn, Historia regum terre sancte, in Die Schriften des Kölner Domscholasters, späteren Bischofs von Paderborn und Kardinalbischofs von S. Sabina Oliverus, ed. H. Hoogeweg (Tubingen, 1894), pp.80–158, at pp.118–20, 126, 129, 134, 142–43; Oliver of Paderborn, Historia Damiatina, in Schriften, ed. Hoogeweg, p.180, 194–95, 209–11, 214–15, 217, 223–24, 234, 244–45, 254–56, 271, 273, 279. See the primary sources listed in footnote 7 and the discussion later; The Rule of the Templars: The French Text of the Order of the Knights Templar, trans. J.M. Upton-Ward (Woodbridge, 1992), sects. 45, 57, 66, 95, 136, 366–81, 520–22, pp.30, 33, 35, 43, 101–04. See the primary sources listed in footnote 7. See the primary sources listed in footnote 7. For similar criticisms, see Nicholson (1993), pp.43–45, 47. For Old Testament examples and militia Christi being applied to monks and crusaders, see Pitra, 2, pp.415, 421; K.A. Smith, War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture (Woodbridge, 2011); K.A. Smith, The Bible and Crusade Narrative in the Twelfth Century (Woodbridge, 2020). Pitra, 2, pp.408, 412–15, 421. For the Maccabees, see Nicholson (1993), pp.15–16; N. Morton, ‘The Defence of the Holy Land and the Memory of the Maccabees’, Journal of Medieval History, 36.3 (2010), pp.275–93. Pitra, 2, p.408. For the two horsemen, see T.A. Archer, and C.L. Kingsford, The Crusades: the Story of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (London, 1894), p.176, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Seal_of_Templars.jpg [5 May  2023]. Matthew Paris included a similar image in his Historia Anglorum, see London, BL, MS Royal 14.C.VII, f.42v. J.L. Bird, ‘Prophecy, Eschatology, Global Networks, and the Crusades, from Hattin to Frederick II’, Traditio, 77 (2022), pp.31–106; M. Dickson and C. Dickson, ‘Le cardinal Robert de Courson: sa vie’, Archives d’Histoire Doctrinale et Littéraire du Moyen Âge, 9 (1934), pp.53–142; and the discussion later in the text. Nicholson (1993), pp.51, 71, 82, 84, 101, 131; T.W. Smith, Curia and Crusade: Pope Honorius III and the Recovery of the Holy Land, 1216–1227 (Turnhout, 2017), pp.297–341; P.-V. Claverie, Honorius III et l’Orient (1216–1227) (Leiden, 2013), pp.235–70. Nicholson (1993), pp.51, 71, 82, 84, 101, 131; Smith (2017), pp.297–341; Claverie (2013), pp.235–70; J. Bird, E.M. Peters and J.M. Powell, Crusade and Christendom: Annotated Documents in Translation from Innocent III to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291 (Philadelphia, 2013), pp.133–40. See the primary sources listed in footnotes 7 and 14; Epistolae saeculi XIII e regestis pontificum romanorum selectee per G.H. Pertz, ed. C. Rodenberg, 3 vols (Berlin, 1883–1894), 1, pp.57–8, no. 79; Bird, Peters, and Powell (2013), pp.37, 63–65, 109, 126, 139, 162–65, 167–69, 173–75, 177, 179–83, 186–88, 190, 195–96, 200–03, 207, 213, 215–17, 219–24, 226–31. A. Gottlob, Die päpstlichen Kreuzzugssteuren des 13. Jahrhunderts (Heiligenstadt, 1892), pp.180–81; P. Pressutti, ed., Regesta Honorii papae III, 2 vols (Rome, 1888–1895), nos. 3005, 3637, 4182, 4244; CH 2, p.257, no. 1643. Bird (2022). Hoogeweg (1894), l–lii; E. Weise, ‘Der Kölner Domscholaster Oliver und die Anfänge des Deutschen Ordens in Preußen’, in Im Schatten von St. Gereon, ed. E. Kuphal (Cologne, 1960), pp.385–94. J.A. Mol, ‘The Beginnings of the Military Orders in Frisia’, in MO 2, pp.307–18. Weise (1960); F. Neininger, Konrad von Urach (1227): Zähringer, Zizterzienser, Kardinallegat (Paderborn, 1994), p.239; E. Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, 2nd edn (London, 1997), pp.100–04; Nicholson (1993), p.28. Neininger (1994), p.234. See footnote 24, P. Locke, ‘The Military Orders in Mainland Greece’, in MO 1, pp.333–44; N.G. Chrissis, Crusading in Frankish Greece: A Study of Byzantine–Western

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24 25

26

27 28 29

30

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Relations and Attitudes, 1204–1282 (Turnhout, 2013). J.L. Bird, ‘Paris Masters and the Justification of the Albigensian Crusade’, Crusades, 6 (2007), pp.117–55. Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, ed. Pitra, 2, p.405; Christiansen (1997), pp.76–78, 95–98; Oliver of Paderborn, Historia regum, pp.156–57. Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad fratres ordinis militaris, ed. Pitra, 2, pp.414–21. For eschatology, see L.M. Walker, ‘Living in the Penultimate Age: Apocalyptic Thought in James of Vitry’s Ad Status Sermons’, in The Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources, ed. E. Lapina and N. Morton (Brill, 2017), pp.297–315; J. Vandeburie, ‘ “Consenescentis mundi die vergente ad vesperam”: James of Vitry’s Historia Orientalis and Eschatological Rhetoric after the Fourth Lateran Council’, in The Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources, ed. E. Lapina and N. Morton (Brill, 2017), pp.341–59. É. Delaruelle, ‘Templiers et Hospitaliers en Languedoc pendant la croisade des Albigeois’, in Paix de Dieu et guerre sainte en Languedoc au XIIIe siècle, Cahiers de Fanjeaux 4 (Fanjeaux, 1969), pp.315–34; H. Blaquiere, ‘Les Hospitaliers en Albigeois a l’epoque de la croisade: la commanderie de Rayssac’, in Paix de Dieu et guerre sainte en Languedoc au XIIIe siècle, Cahiers de Fanjeaux 4 (Fanjeaux, 1969), pp.335–51; D. Selwood, Knights of the Cloister. Templars and Hospitallers in Central–South Occitania (1100–1300) (Woodbridge, 1999), pp.43–46, 101–04; Nicholson (1993), pp.18, 26, 77; A.J. Forey, ‘The Military Orders and Holy War against Christians in the Thirteenth Century’, English Historical Review, 104 (1989), pp.1–24, at 10. Delaruelle (1969), pp.327–30; Selwood (1999), pp.43–47; Forey (1989), pp.14–15; Nicholson (1993), pp.4–5; CH 2, pp.243–44, 246, nos. 1612, 1617. Neininger (1994), pp.168–69. See Bird (2007); Forey (1989), pp.5–7; Neininger (1994), pp.123–24, 174–213, 176, 188–89, 193, 208 and nos. 79, 96, 100, pp.328–29, 340, 341 (all in 1221); G.-G. Meersseman, ‘Études sur les anciennes confréries dominicains, IV. Les milices de Jésus–Christ’, AFP 23 (1953), pp.275–308, at 285–94; L.W. Marvin, ‘The White and Black Confraternities of Toulouse and the Albigensian Crusade, 1210–1211’, Viator, 40.1 (2009), pp.133–50. Meersseman (1953), pp.295–302; G.–G. Meersseman, ‘Études sur les anciennes confréries dominicains, II. Les confréries de Saint–Pierre Martyr’, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum, 21 (1951), pp.51–196; N.J. Housley, ‘Politics and Heresy in Italy: Anti–Heretical Crusades, Orders, and Confraternities, 1200–1500’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 33.2 (1982), pp.193–208. The archbishop of Auch (Gascony) similarly founded an anti-heretical military order called ‘the militia of the Order of Saint Jacques’ (c. 1227), which received papal confirmation while Jacques was a cardinal (1231). See Forey (1989), p.7. Pitra, 2, pp.415–18. I am writing an article on Parisian commentaries on the Apocalypse of John. Pitra, 2, pp.418–19; Rom. 12:18, Matt. 13:30, 26:52; Luke 12, etc. Bird (2007). L. Paterson, Singing the Crusades: French and Occitan Lyric Responses to the Crusading Movements, 1137–1336 (Woodbridge, 2018), esp. pp.97–166; Bird (2007); Pitra, 2, pp.419–20. Pitra, 2, pp.419–21; Bernard of Clairvaux, Liber ad Milites Templide Laude Novae Militiae, in Opera Omnia, 3, pp.213–39, ed. J. Leclercq, esp. III.1–6, 3, pp.214–19. Pitra, 2, pp.420–21; Bernard of Clairvaux, Liber ad Milites Templide, esp. II.3, 3, p.216; for critics, see Nicholson (1993), pp.10, 23, 25, 38. Pitra, 2, pp.419–21; Bird (2007). Shachar, Pious Belligerence, pp.39–43; Nicholson (1993), pp.109–10; Jacques de Vitry, Lettres, ep. 2, pp.93–94; Pitra, 2, pp.412–13, 420. Shachar (2021), pp.48, 50.

Multiple environments for the military orders  183 40 Anonymous, Videmus nunc per speculum in enigmate, BN MS Lat. 14470, ff. 302rb– 305va (at f.304ra); the tales include those edited by T.F. Crane, The Exempla or Illustrative Stories from the Sermones Vulgares of Jacques de Vitry (London, 1890), pp.39–40, nos. 87 (bald knight), 89 (Morel). There is a shorter version of the sermon with fewer exempla in BN MS  Lat. 14593, ff.68vb–69ra. See also Jacques de Vitry, Sermo ad dolentes Douai MS  503, ff.360v–363v, at ff.362v–363v (Saladin, see Crane [1890], no. 119, pp.54–55); Odo of Cheriton, De defunctis s. iohannem, BN MS Lat. 16506, ff.265rb–266va. 41 Anonymous, Brevis ordinacio, in Röhricht (1879), pp.1–26, here pp.24–26; Chronicle of the Third Crusade: a Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, trans. H.J. Nicholson (Aldershot, 1997), pp.25–26, 34, 258. 42 Neininger (1994), pp.188–89; Selwood (1999), pp.43–47; Forey (1989), pp.10, 14–15; Peace of Paris (1229), in Histoire générale du Languedoc, ed. J. Vaissète et al., 16 vols, 2nd edn (Toulouse, 1872–1904), 8, pp.197–98, 883–93; L. Auvray, ed., Les registres de Grégoire IX, 3 vols (Rome, 1899–1945), 2, pp.267–74, doc. 4783; Fourth Lateran Council (1215), c. 57, in Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, ed. J. Alberigo et al., 3rd edn (Bologna, 1973), p.261. 43 Nicholson (1993), p.41; Bird (2001a), pp.96–99, 101, 105–07; Bird (2001b), pp.110–11, 117, 121, 127; and the primary sources cited in footnote 7. 44 Nicholson (1993), pp.19, 29–31; Pitra, 2, pp.408–11; and the sermons cited in footnote 43. 45 M.L.-P. Colliette, Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire ecclésiastique, civile, et militaire, de la province de Vermandois (Cambrai, 1772), nos. 92–93, 2:407–09; R. Röhricht, Studien Zur Geschichte Des Fünften Kreuzzuges (Innsbrück, 1891), no. 11, pp.60–61. 46 See the primary sources cited in footnotes 43–44; Pressutti, nos. 5910, 5963, CH 2, pp.223–24, 271–72, 276–77, 280–81, 285–86, 292, 304–05, 343–44, 366, 376, 380–81, 394–95, nos.1572–74, 1680, 1695–96, 1704–05, 1715–16, 1729, 1752, 1825–26, 1867, 1894, 1906, 1908, 1937. 47 Thomas of Chobham, Summa confessorum, ed. F. Broomfield, Analecta mediaevalia Namurcensia, 25 (Louvain, 1968), pp.260–63. 48 Jacques de Vitry, Lettres, ep. 2, pp.83–97; Jacques de Vitry, Historia Orientalis, pp.284–94; for Italians, Pressutti, nos.3213, 5670, 5673, 5968. 49 Pressutti, nos. 5266, 5961; CH 2:305, no. 1754; Jonathan Riley-Smith, ‘The Templars and the Castle of Tortosa in Syria: An Unknown Document Concerning the Acquisition of the Fortress’, The English Historical Review, 84.331 (1969), pp.278–84. 50 CH 2, pp.286–88, 344–45, nos. 1718, 1827. For context, see J. Riley-Smith, The Knights of St. John in Jerusalem and Cyprus, c.1050–1310 (Macmillan, 1967), pp.406–09. 51 CH 2, pp.286–88, 344–45, nos. 1718, 1827. 52 CH 2, pp.382–83, no. 1911.

16 ‘Universal and Particular’ Framing the Order of St John’s post-Tridentine devotions in the context of a universal Church Matthias Ebejer The Order of St John fascinates, captures the imagination, perplexes, and sometimes even attracts disdain for being apparently too ostentatious. It did so in the past as it does now. Historians have attempted to engage with both the way the Order was perceived across time and with the polarities that exist at its core, since one might argue that what constitutes the Order’s historical identity is the embodiment of versions of itself that might seem contradictory. A crusading Order with no hope of ever returning to the Holy Land, an island-state led by an elected head of a religious-military Order, a diplomatic entity present in almost all Christian courts but in a perpetual state of war irrespective of any peace treatises their allies may sign. By shifting perspectives, from the military to the medical, to the diplomatic and the cultural history of the Order, a clearer picture of how the knights managed to balance these activities for centuries has started to emerge. A similar assessment could be attempted if one considers the Order’s devotional imprint. Since its very inception, the Order had to find a delicate middle-ground between papal obedience and regional adaptation. This became much more complicated when individual members were related by blood to the reigning pontiff or when the pope’s plans for the Order interfered with its internal government. The pope was, after all, the spiritual head of the Order, and it was not unheard of that individual knights complained that the pope was going to be the ruin of the Order.1 Nevertheless, this chapter wants to shift the focus from the jurisdictional to the devotional, since this seems to be where a deeper analysis is most lacking. When the papal bull Pie Postulatio gave the Order an exemption from all other ecclesiastical authorities, it implied that the Order had to be responsible for the spiritual care of its own members, and by extension, of all those who fell under its ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The consequences of this were twofold: it had to create a framework that would allow it to effectively manage this task, as well as gradually build a devotional pattern that reflected its charisma, setting the Order of St John apart from all other religious orders of the Catholic Church. All this, whilst also providing the required liturgical services that were mandatory in any church, anywhere in the world. This dichotomy translates into what Simon Ditchfield termed as ‘Universal and Particular’,2 the balance between what was common for all Catholicism, and what was specifically unique for, in our case, the Order of St John. DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-19

‘Universal and Particular’  185 For the sake of brevity, this chapter shall focus on how devotion within the Order reflected the institution, specifically those elements such as saints and their liturgy that were unique to the Hospitallers, despite being firmly grounded in wider devotional activities. We shall be restricting our assessment to the first decades of the 17th century. A  few of the reasons for choosing this chronology include the accessibility of documentation, the renewed calls for spiritual reform within the Church at large and within the Order itself, as well as Catholic efforts to address matters of universality. The process of making new saints had become more complicated in the aftermath of the Protestant Reformation.3 Historians emphasised the polemical nature and the harsh criticism that the Catholic Church received but saying that Rome was not declaring new saints because it wanted to avoid Protestant criticism is not correct. Making new saints involved more than simply canonising individuals; it consisted in keeping a liturgical calendar that specified how exactly would those saints, new or old, be venerated. This often also included the presence of relics that generally warranted a different ritual, possibly with the issuing of indulgences. In sum, saint-making involved all the aspects of Catholic worship that the Council of Trent set about reforming,4 but which would only be resolved gradually, and later. In this negotiated process, the publication of a Vita5 and the dissemination of the printed likeness of the candidate in question became quintessential stepping-stones in obtaining Rome’s approval.6 In this regard, saints represented more than mere parochialism; they signified the preservation of a particular liturgy, and for religious orders, their charisma and legacy. It was only through Papal permission that the particular could be universalised. At the beginning of the 17th century, the Order of St John was also redefining itself on many levels. One of these included exploring the spectrum of ways one could express a religious vocation within the Order, both male and female, lay or ordained. This could be best achieved by documenting cults of individuals within the Order who best exemplified this spectrum of vocations. The Catholic Church, at this point, had officially recognised none of these individuals as universal saints, and we know this since there are no Hospitallers in the first edition of the Martirologium Romanum,7 Cesare Baronio’s monumental work that sought to universalise medieval cults of saints. This is not surprising since the majority of Hospitaller saints were so localised to specific commanderies that most members within the Order itself were not even aware of their existence, let alone prayed to them.8 As of 1588, this task of sanctioning cults of saints fell upon the newly established Congregation of Rites and Ceremonies.9 The fact that this body was both responsible for saint-making and liturgical practices denotes the growing importance of saints in daily Catholic ritual. The Congregation of Rites retained a two-part procedure whereby a diocesan authority identified an individual, assessed the fama sanctitatis, and collected documentation, whilst auditors of the Sacra Rota (Apostolic Tribunal) authenticated the documents and presented them to the Congregation in the second instance,10 – therefore a procedure that can be considered as ‘universalising the particular’. In 1622, however, the veneration of any individuals that were not officially canonised by Rome was completely forbidden, thus shifting the

186  The Military Orders Volume VIII dynamics of how a saint’s cult was formed.11 The following case study involves the publication of a series of hagiographies of Hospitaller saints and takes places specifically in the interval between the two procedures. Through a series of letters unearthed in three separate archives – a private archive in Pistoia,12 the State Archives in Florence, and the National Library of Malta – the efforts of the Order to prepare detailed dossiers on its medieval saints, to have them celebrated in its churches in Malta and abroad, has become much clearer. These letters bring to the fore the various individuals who took the initiative to serve the Order through roles they already occupied, thus challenging any understanding of a ‘Rome calling’ Tridentine devotion. In other words, this series of documents proves that the idea of Rome dictating terms and the regional authorities blindly obliging is a simplistic reading of how the post-conciliar Church functioned. The most interesting discovery that emerges from these letters is a more nuanced understanding of the role that the Grand Master had in promoting new devotions. From the letters of Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt (r.1601–1622), it becomes immediately apparent that he made extensive use of pre-established Hospitaller networks, the commanderies, and the various ambassadors and agents, to not only promote Hospitaller saints but also collect, collate, and publish hagiographical material that would help the canonisation of Hospitaller candidates. Early in his magistracy, he had already been pivotal in promoting centres of devotion with the addition of an oratory to the Conventual Church in Valletta, and the elaboration of the theme of mercy and good death through the imagery of the beheading of St John the Baptist.13 Meanwhile, a Spanish hermit settled in Malta and withdrew to the ancient Grotto of St Paul in Rabat, which had been neglected for years. Through him, Wignacourt became a patron of the Grotto and of the Pauline cult at large, obtaining from Rome many indulgences, relics, and eventually the transfer of the rectorship of the Grotto from the Diocese to the Order itself.14 Towards the later part of his magistracy, Wignacourt turned his attention to medieval Hospitallers who had been considered saints by the Order, primarily in the commanderies of their origin, but whose memory and commemoration in Malta was somewhat lacking. Two letters from April 1616, one to the Receiver in Sicily Fra Valdina,15 and another to the commander of Caltagirone Fra Giuseppe d’Inga,16 showcase how Wignacourt commissioned the Order’s historian and agent in Rome, Giacomo Bosio, to publish a second edition of the history of the Order. This second edition had to include extended information on the saints of the Order, possibly even their imagery. Valdina and Inga were both tasked with collecting material on two saints of the Order, St Nicasius and Blessed Gerland of Poland. Wignacourt showed particular interest in the fact that St Nicasius was celebrated in the small Sicilian village of Caccamo, which indicates that he had knowledge of a canonical procedure whereby a saint’s canonisation by public acclamation could be confirmed based on an old, uninterrupted cult.17 As for Blessed Gerland of Poland, he ordered Inga to copy any archival documents that listed the miracles attributed to the saint and any information about his relics and also, more importantly, to document the existence of an image of the knight that was extant in the Sicilian Church of Saint James of Caltagirone. A  copy of this image was certainly intended for

‘Universal and Particular’  187 replication purposes in Bosio’s book18 and in other Hospitaller devotional spaces,19 and it was perhaps the most important indicator of the liturgical value that this research exercise had. There was undoubtedly a link between the pictures, the cult, and the cause for a candidate’s sainthood.20 Wignacourt’s orders to Valdina and Inga to give priority to this task are the final proof that the Grand Master was aware of the direction that the reform in the canonisation procedure was taking. The ultimate task fell on the Order’s agent in Rome, Giacomo Bosio. The role of agent of the Order is relatively understudied.21 Therefore, the completeness of the documentary evidence in this case study, as well as Bosio’s success in his dual role of historian and diplomatic attaché contribute to a better understanding of why and how the Order deployed agents and in what manner their role differed from that of the Order’s ambassadors. Parts of Giacomo Bosio’s personal papers are conserved in a private archive in Larciano, Pistoia. They were collected by the Order’s receiver in Rome, Fra Carlo Aldobrandini, owner of the Palace in Via dei Condotti where Bosio resided. The Aldobrandini/Bosio archive answers two questions: the first concerning how a 17th-century historian who was not even a member of the Order would convincingly write a history of an organisation that by his time had been in existence for five hundred years, and, second, how he would go about extracting individual biographies from that history and have them reprinted together as a collection of hagiographies, accompanied by images, with the clear intent of universalising Hospitaller devotions. The answer brings to the fore an elaborate network of other knights who, much like Fra Valdina and Fra Inga, used their influence to obtain the information that the Congregation of Rites requested, and had it all sent to Bosio. The letters also prove that the list of Hospitaller saints was not as consolidated as later testimonies tend to indicate. The langues of the Order wanted to contribute to the search for saints by themselves proposing individuals to add to the list. Provençal knights Fra Balthezar D’Agoult and Fra Jean de Mons-Savasse wrote to Bosio proposing the addition of the Commander Charles Rochechinard22 and the nun Galiotte Genouillac to the process of ‘verification and addition to the number of martyrs and blessed of the Religion’.23 A manuscript biography of Sister Galiotte survives in the archive;24 however, these two candidates did not make the cut, presumably because they could not satisfy the antiquity clause. On the other hand, the Langue of Italy was by far more co-ordinated and more successful in obtaining for Bosio ancient hagiographies and documents on miracles and relics. It is very likely that Wignacourt obtained information on the Sicilian saints from his secretary, Fra Alessandro Benci, commander of Caltagirone.25 We know this thanks to copies of some hagiographies and other letters that the secretary of the langue, Fra Francesco Buonarroti, sent to his brother for safekeeping a few months before he died, and consequently remained a family heirloom, to this day still conserved in the Buonarroti house in Florence. Thanks to Buonarroti’s indiscretion it has become easier to appreciate how central the langues were as semi-autonomous administrative bodies within the Order, contributing much more than simply administrating the auberges, a case in point being the advancement of the liturgies of saints. It should not come as a surprise that the Florentine Buonarroti’s involvement in

188  The Military Orders Volume VIII the matter of publishing the Imagini de Beati e Santi resulted in a heavy Tuscan undertone to the whole enterprise, with no less than three saints (Ubaldesca, Pietro da Imola, Gherardo Mecatti) having cults native to Tuscany. Buonarroti involved other Tuscan knights in the search for documents and old images of the saints, chief among them the influential commander of Florence, Fra Francesco dell’Antella,26 his friend from Siena Fra Giocondo Accarigi,27 the Pisan Fra Ottavio Cevoli,28 and ultimately his own host Fra Carlo Aldobrandini who was also from Florence. In a manner of speaking, these knights were Giacomo Bosio’s research group. Fra Dell’Antella’s watercolour copy of the tomb of Blessed Pietro da Imola in the Florentine church of San Jacopo in Campo Corbolini survives among the Bosio papers and was reproduced in the Beati e Santi exactly as Dell’Antella drew it.29 Fra Cevoli obtained two images of St  Ubaldesca and some old hagiographies, which he sent to Dell’Antella who in turn forwarded them to Bosio. The likeness of Beato Gherardo Mecatti from Villamagna, a few miles from Florence, was also obtained through Dell’Antella. In recognition for their help, Bosio mentions him and the Sienese Fra Accarigi in the Beati e Santi.30 By the end of 1619, Bosio had collected the evidence he needed and submitted the final manuscript complete with images of the saints to the Maestro del Sacro Palazzo. The Maestro del Sacro Palazzo was a high official of the Papal court, traditionally a Dominican who also served as the Pope’s theologian. Printers in Rome were required to obtain the Maestro del Sacro Palazzo’s permission before printing books, and in 1599 the Maestro’s remit was extended also to the publication of etchings and engravings.31 In 1619, this position was occupied by a protégé of Cardinal Scipione Borghese by the name of Don Giacinto Petroni, described by Bosio as being ‘a very scrupulous and difficult man’.32 On 14 December 1619, Bosio wrote to Grand Master Wignacourt to tell him that after all the travails of obtaining the images, the Master of the Palace refused to give him the authorisation to print them, telling him that ‘it is not customary to print images of saints who are not canonised, that is, who are not included in the Martirologium [Romanum]’.33 Disappointed by this rejection, Bosio referred back to the Order, who mobilised once more its contacts in Rome for assistance. The Order’s Ambassador in Rome, Fra Gerolamo Guevara prepared a defence of the case that he presented directly to the Pope. This defence rested on three pillars: that the lives of the saints had already been published, and at the time vetted by the Congregation of the Index; that these were not modern saints but ones who had enjoyed veneration for a few centuries; and that it was difficult to imagine that an Order that had served the Church for five centuries, a service that included many shedding their blood for the religion, did not have a single saint among its ranks. To push the matter further, Bosio and Guevara had the help of Fra Vincenzo Averoldo,34 chamberlain of Cardinal Scipione Borghese, the Pope’s nephew, and, as mentioned earlier, patron of Don Petroni. The issue was summarily resolved in the Order’s favour by Christmas of 1619. It would be one of the last instances in which saints that were not included in Baronio’s Martyrologium were endorsed without a full canonisation procedure. Although the Chapter General of 1631 explicitly mentioned that the Order’s ambassador in Rome and the Prior of the Conventual Church in Malta had to

‘Universal and Particular’  189 make the necessary arrangements for some Hospitallers to be beatified,35 other pre-Tridentine candidates such as Blessed Adrian Fortescue, Thomas Ingley, David Gunson, Sancha of Aragon, or Andrea of Hungary failed to obtain the same liturgical traction of those saints that were part of the Bosio research mission.36 These testimonies show that in matters of devotion and spirituality, the bigger picture differs considerably from the tug-of-war that often characterised the legal, administrative, and diplomatic activities of the Order. It would be a mistake to think of the Order’s spirituality in terms of its many jurisdictional battles with the Diocese or the Papal Nuncio, and even more so to present the Order’s relationship with the Roman Curia as the latter being solely the arbiter of the former’s many squabbles with other religious entities on the island and elsewhere. We must think less of individual Hospitallers as being passive receivers of instructions from above, and more of them acting as agents in a complex network, each playing a specific role that has a resulting effect on the manner that spirituality was perceived and devotion expressed. Even more importantly, Tridentinism in devotional patterns is not expressed along the ‘broadcaster-receiver’ model, whereby Rome dictated and the peripheries followed37 but rather we have to think of the Roman Curia’s post-Trent Congregations as tools to sanction and promote local devotions on a wider scale where deemed fit. The Papacy was the Order’s main ally when it came to preserving what was particular for Hospitaller liturgy. Universality in this case did not translate into how Rome influenced the local reality but rather how the local reacted, contradicted, drew from, or used what the Church proposed. Notes 1 BAV, Barb. Lat.6676, f.31v., ‘che il Bosio [Giovanni Ottone] l’haveva tenuto in camera più di due hore predicandoli il medesimo, et concludendo spesso, che il Papa vuol’essere la ruina di questa Religione’; E. Buttigieg, ‘ “The Pope Wants to Be the Ruin of This Religion”: The Papacy, France, and the Order of St John in the Seventeenth Century’, Symposia Melitensia, 5 (2008), pp.73–84. 2 S. Ditchfield, Liturgy, Sanctity and History in Tridentine Italy: Pietro Maria Campi and the Preservation of the Particular (Cambridge, 2002), pp.11, 132. 3 See: M.V. Hernández Rodríguez, ‘El Proceso de Ius Condendum para normativizar las causas de beatificación y canonización: de la Const. Immensa Aeterni Dei (Sixto V, 1588) al breve Caelestis Hierusalem Cives (Urbano VIII, 1634)’, in A la luz de Roma: Santos y santidad en el barroco iberoamericano, ed. F. Quiles García, J. García Bernal, P. Broggio, and M. Fagiolo Dell’Arco (Rome and Seville, 2020); M. Gotor, Chiesa e santità nell’Italia Moderna (Roma-Bari, 2004); C. Claire, ‘Sanctity’, in The Ashgate Research Companion to the Counter Reformation, ed. A. Bamji, G. Hannsen, and M. Laven (Farnham, 2013), pp.225–42. 4 See: P. Burke, ‘How to become a Counter-Reformation Saint’, in The Counter-Reformation: The Essential Readings, ed. D.M. Luebke (Oxford, 1999), pp.129–42. 5 J.E. Greenwood, ‘Floral Arrangements: The Compilation of Saints’ Lives in Early Modern Europe’, Journal of Early Modern History, 22 (2018), pp.181–203. 6 R.S. Noyes, ‘On the Fringes of Centre: Disputed Hagiographic Imagery and the Crisis over the Beati moderni in Rome ca. 1600’, Renaissance Quarterly, 64.3 (2011), pp.800–46. H. Hills, ‘How to Look Like a Counter-Reformation Saint’, in Exploring Cultural History, Essays in Honour of Peter Burke, ed. M. Calaresu, F. de Vivo, and

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J.-P. Rubies (London, 2010), pp.207–30; E. Leuschner, ‘The Papal Printing Privilege’, Print Quarterly, 15.4 (1998), pp.359–70. C. Baronio, Martyrologium Romanum ad nova calendarii rationem . . . (Venice, 1583). On Baronio see J. Machielsen, ‘An Aspiring Saint and His Work: Cesare Baronio and the Success and Failure of the Annales ecclesiastici (1588–1607)’, Erudition and the Republic of Letters, 2.3 (2017), pp.233–87; Cesare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica, ed. G.A. Guazzelli, R. Michetti, and F. Scorza Barcellona (Rome, 2012). For example, the archives in Casa Buonarroti, Florence, belonging to Fra Francesco Buonarroti, shed light on how little these ‘beati’ were known outside of their regional context; ACB, V.110, ff.66, f.72 shows the attempts by the Order to copy hagiographies and lists of miracles from regional documents. S. Ditchfield, ‘Coping with the ‘Beati Moderni’: Canonization Procedure in the Aftermath of the Council of Trent’, in Ite Inflammate Omnia, Selected Papers from Conferences Held at Loyola and Rome in 2006, ed. T. McCoog (Rome, 2010), p.418. S. Ditchfield, ‘San Carlo and the Cult of Saints’, Studia Borromaica 20 (Milan, 2006), pp.145–54. Hernández Rodríguez (2002), p.57. I would like to thank Matteo Calcagni, who first brought this private archive to my attention. K. Sciberras, ‘Caravaggio, the Confraternita della Misericorordia and the original context of the Oratory of the Decollato in Valletta’, The Burlington Magazine, CXLIX (November 2007); D. Stone, ‘Signature Killer: Caravaggio and the Poetics of Blood’, Art Bulletin, XCIV.4 (December 2012). J. Azzopardi and A. Blondy, Marc’Antonio Haxiac and Malta’s Devotion to St Paul (Malta, 2012); T. Freller, St Paul’s Grotto and Its Visitors: Pilgrims, Knights, Scholars and Sceptics (Malta, 1996). NLM AOM1395, f.151r. NLM AOM1395, f.151v. For a more detailed study see G. Papa, Le Cause di Canonizzazione nel primo periodo della Congregazione dei Riti (1588–1634) (Vatican City, 2001). Giacomo Bosio, Le Imagini de’ Beati e Santi della Sacra Religione di s. Giovanni Gerosolimitano (Rome, 1622), p.77. A cycle of saints and martyrs of the Order adorned the oratory of St John’s since its earliest days. As clearly outlined by Hills and others for Catholicism at large, see: Hills (2010). One exception is Chiara Cecalupo’s monumental work on Antonio Bosio, nephew of Giacomo, also an agent of the Order. I am deeply grateful to Chiara for her valuable advice on research into the Bosio family and for sharing with me a copy of her work. See: C. Cecalupo, Antonio Bosio, La Roma Sotterranea e I Primi Collezionisti di Antichità Cristiane (Vatican City, 2020). On Prior Rochechinard see: S. Guido, ‘Suppellettili sacri da Rodi a Malta per Cavalieri Gerosolimitani. Sopravvivenze e riuso: le quindici statue d’argento EX DONO VENERANDI PRIORIS SANCTI AECIDII fra’ Charles Allemand de Rochechinard’, in Tribute to Alain Blondy, ed. J. Azzopardi, D.R. Busuttil, and A. Darmanin (Malta, 2017), pp.183–212. AALD. MS  17, f.250; ‘Il Gran Commendatore e li Procuratori sottoscritti della Ven. Lingue di Provenza havendo presentito doversi far una verificatione et ampliatione del numero del Santi Martiri e Beati di Nostra Sacra Religione conforme alla licenza ottenuta dalla Santa Sede Apostolica nel felicissimo magisterio di V.A. come appare nell’inclusa supplica che ne fu data alla Santita del Papa dal mag. Iacomo Bosio Istoriografo di Nra. religione aiutato e favorito dalla bona merita del S. Commendator Fra Don Geronimo di Guevara Ambasciatore ordinario di V.A. nella corte Romana’. AALD. MS 5, no pag.

‘Universal and Particular’ 191 25 ACB, vol. 110, f.72, ‘Notitia della vita e miracoli del Beato Gerlando dell’ordine nostro per la Historie della Religione: ‘Et per una lettera scritta di Caltagirone adi 12 Novembre 1618 dal Sig. Don Francesco Paterno Barone di Rumione et Patrizio di detta Citta, a Fra Alessandro Benci Commendatore di quella Commenda appare come per revelazione di Santo Costantino, fu ritrovato il corpo del Beato Girlando d’Alemagna nella Chiesa del Tempo che e nella più alta parte del fego di detta commenda. L’anno 1327 fu transportato in Caltagirone nella Chiesa di San Iacopo, et fece più di cento Miracoli insigni, come si vede per il Processo che si conserva in detta Città’. 26 AALD. MS  17, ff.408–12, 14 July  1618: Lettera Originale dell’Comm. Fra Francesco dell’Antella per verificare il Beato Pietro da Imola che si trova in Campo Corbolini di Firenze; Arch. Aldob. MS7, no pag. Informationi della vita e Miracoli di Santa Ubaldesca Monaca dell’Ordine di S. Giovanni Gierosolimitano mandatami dal Sr Commendatore Fra Francesco dell’Antella per servigio dell’Istoria. 27 AALD. MS 17, ff.408–12, 14 July 1618: ‘Havendomi detto il Comm. Accarigi che e stato qui da me alcuni giorni che V.S. vuol far ristampare, con alcune aggiunti, la prima e seconda parte delle storie di Nra. Religione’. 28 AALD. MS7, no pag., Informationi della vita e Miracoli di Santa Ubaldesca Monaca dell’Ordine di S. Giovanni Gierosolimitano mandatami dal Sr Commendatore Fra Francesco dell’Antella per servigio dell’Istoria (the original information was prepared by Ottavio Cevoli and then forwarded by dell’Antella to Bosio in the second instance.) 29 AALD. MS 17, ff.408–12. 30 Bosio (1622), pp.75, 86. 31 Leuschner (1998), p.359. 32 AALD. MS 17, f.251, 28 December 1619. 33 AALD., MS 17, f.253, 14 December 1619. 34 NLM AOM1399, ff.126r/v, 28 March 1620, Letters to Averoldo and Bosio from Wignacourt, thanking them for their work in the Roman Curia. 35 Statuti della Sacra Religione . . . celebrato nell’anno 1631 (Borgo Nuovo, 1674), p.38. 36 NLM Libr Ms.235, Trattato della Maggior Chiesa. This treatise by Fra Domenico Manso lists the liturgical practices in the Conventual Church of St John. He also included transcriptions from other documents relating to indulgences and relics. The relative absence of these ‘saints’ compared to some of the others is indicative of the limits of their cults. 37 The inadequacy of the top-down model of liturgical reform is discussed in S. Ditchfield, ‘Tridentine Worship and the Cult of Saints’, in The Cambridge History of Christianity, Vol. 6, Reform and Expansion 1500–1660, ed. R. Po-chia Hsia (Cambridge, 2007), pp.201–24.

17 From Malta to eternity The Order of St John and its visual culture of death Christian Attard

Introduction This chapter focuses on the visual culture that manifested itself around the death of high-ranking members of the Order of St John, which since 1530 had established itself on the island of Malta. It also delves into the manner these senior hospitallers would have meticulously stage-managed their death to prepare themselves for a successful afterlife, often following the example set by saintly archetypes. Such a carefully predetermined art of dying well had at least two main purposes: one earth-bound, the other transcendental. The former meant to immortalise the deceased brother’s many worldly (and perceived) glories and to perpetuate his memoria among those generations yet to come; the latter (somehow less pronounced) seeking to contract the intervening time which spans that same brother’s passage from this world to Purgatory and into Eternity. The Agonia of Fra Antonio Manoel de Vilhena The way the 73-year-old Grand Master Fra Antonio Manoel de Vilhena prepared for his death in late 1736 is a telling example. As soon as it became evident that his days were numbered following his doctors’ repeated, but failed, attempts to stem an infection of his urinary tract, the well-rehearsed process of dying well commenced. This was a momentous hour that was understood by the rest of the community, made up of members of the Order as well as Vilhena’s Maltese subjects, as a definitive reminder of the universality of death and an exemplar of the art of dying.1 In their turn, even the humblest of Vilhena’s subjects would have tried their utmost, once their time was up, to orchestrate their own death in a similar fashion. Yet, the whole process of a grand master’s death was a nuanced affair. It tried to walk the impossibly thin line between fastidious Baroque spectacle and modesty. For humility, even if often only given lip service, was especially important to the Order and its members. Along with chastity and obedience it was, at least since the mid-12th century, well-entrenched in the Order’s ethos when Raymond de Puy laid it down as a fundamental vow in the Hospitaller’s first statute.2 The hour of one’s death could be referred to as agonia, but the word agonia effectively denoted much more than the dying person’s final agonising earthbound days. DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-20

From Malta to eternity  193 It is etymologically derived from the Greek agon, or struggle, and within this context it essentially referred to the deathbed battle which people believed took place at the agonizzante’s feet, between the forces of light and those of darkness. It was held that at this point the devil laid one final assault on the person’s soul and, if

Figure 17.1 Unknown 18th-century artist, Death of the Good Man, Collegiatae et Basilicae Hellenianae Museum, Birkirkara (photo: Ian Noel Pace).

194  The Military Orders Volume VIII successful, might even claim a virtuous life as his own. An 18th-century painting in the parish museum of Birkirkara in Malta, illustrates this very moment. As must have been the case with the devout Vilhena, the agonizzante’s soul is here all ripe for Heaven, for the devil is depicted cowering defeatedly beneath the bed. Vilhena’s agonia, as was customary, started with the drawing up of his spoglio, or his last will and testament. It was only with his worldly belongings all put in order that the dying Vilhena could peacefully set his sights exclusively on his next life. One must, however, bear in mind that 18th-century testaments had a sacramental quality about them and were construed in a manner which distinctly removed them from what today amounts to an essentially straightforward and secular notarial transaction. They were crucial to one’s preparation for the next life and dying ab intestato, or without a testament, would have dangerously jeopardised one’s chances of making it to Heaven. Vilhena’s testament addresses the testator with the majestic plural and, as was customary of such deeds, it starts with a note of solemn piousness: ‘We, Fra Antonio Manoel de Vilhena, humble master of the Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre, and custodian of the poor of Jesus’.3 This was followed by a peculiar – and unlikely – caveat: ‘To all the priests of our Order and all the secular and regular priests of our Diocese, we leave alms for three masses that they will celebrate, partly during our time of death and partly soon afterwards’.4 The limosina di tre messe mentioned made for a chastening wish. To the consternation, if not derision, of the Protestants, immense amounts of money used to be channelled by Catholics towards the recitation of masses in aid of their souls.5 Grand masters who reigned both before and after Vilhena and who emphatically had the necessary wherewithal typically requested thousands of masses. Vilhena’s last demand, however, could have amounted to much more than the paltry three masses mentioned. Another reading of the grand master’s beguiling request could possibly convey the meaning that rather than just three masses, he would have liked each member of the Order and of the Diocese to recite individually three masses on his behalf. If that were the case, then Vilhena’s testamentary wish was not any different from Fra Ramon Despuig’s, which amounted to three thousand masses, or from that of Fra Ramon Perellos y Roccaful which went up to an exorbitant six thousand.6 The only difference was that whereas Perellos’ thousands of masses went on into perpetuity, Vilhena, perhaps better conversant with the Catholic theology of immediate judgement, chose the short-but-sharp stratagem. The Grand Master must have known that according to Catholic eschatological theology, immediately following his death his soul was to be subjected to a Particular Judgement.7 Here his soul’s destiny would have been sealed. If found lacking, as Vilhena most probably believed that it would be, his soul would be sentenced to do time in Purgatory. There, plunged in purgatorial fires, the soul underwent the necessary cleansing in preparation to meeting the Godhead. Vilhena undoubtedly believed that those thousands of masses celebrated in almost-unison on his soul’s behalf would help reduce his time in Purgatory by a considerable amount.

From Malta to eternity  195 Grand Master Vilhena’s death-bed ritual continued with the administration of the Last Rites and the Viaticum. An 18th-century votive picture at tal-Ħerba Sanctuary in Birkirkara (Malta) provides a visual interpretation of the sacrament. Here the agonizzante’s close affiliations with the Order of St John are underlined by the eight-pointed cross that hangs on the headboard of his canopied bed. A priest of the Order and his acolyte, who respectively hold a ciborium and a lantern, are there to assist him in this most delicate of hours. Their presence would have been requested by the doctor, here also included holding the sick-man’s wrist, presumably measuring his heartbeat. This was a moment wherein the doctor’s role was pivotal for he was the one to decide the instance when science was to make way for religion, when the requirements of the soul were to take precedence over those of the body.8 During the administration of the Viaticum a small table was placed right next to Vilhena’s bed on which a glass phial filled with sacred oil and a white wax candle were set. This kind of set-up is present in Francesco Zahra’s triumphantly Baroque Death of St Philip in the parish church of Żebbuġ (Malta).9 These were the tools necessary for the administration of the Extrema Unctio, which was the last, and possibly the most irrevocable, of the three sacraments administered to the dying person; the other two were Penance and Communion, with the latter – and within

Figure 17.2 Unknown 18th-century artist, Administration of the Viaticum, Tal-Ħerba Marian Sanctuary, Birkirkara, Malta (photo: the author).

196  The Military Orders Volume VIII the context of the deathbed ritual – also referred to as Viaticum. The word Viaticum, which means to take it with you, was effectively the last ‘meal’ given to Vilhena, and it was meant to sustain him for his ensuing long journey into the afterlife. Extrema Unctio or anointment, involved the administering priest rubbing sacred oil on the five senses – eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands – plus the feet for good measure, each time uttering the words: Per istam Sanctam unctionem et suam Piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum (in the case of the sense of sight) deliquisti.10 Vilhena’s spoglio made so much of his denigration of worldly glories but, years before his death, it was Vilhena who had commissioned, for the perpetuation of his own memory, a bronze-and-marble funeral monument made by the Florentine sculptor Massimiliano Soldani Benzi. Again, it was Vilhena who upon his death made first use of the new cappella ardente, a wooden, triumphant construction designed by architect Romano Carapecchia. Caught within the paradox of worldly glory and eternal damnation, those who belonged to the noble classes did their utmost to deflect all the anxiety their wealth must have generated. One way how to go about it, exactly like Vilhena did, was turning humility into ritual, and hand token portions of your wealth to the poor. The very notion of thinking of the poor and working in their favour was entrenched in the Order’s very own Rule. Grand Master Perellos drove this point home when he instructed Giuseppe Mazzuoli, the sculptor of his funeral monument, to include the figure of a lactating mother as a reference to his charitable spirit. Grand Master Ramon Despuig i Martínez de Marcilla’s celebration of death Once a grand master died, a celebration of death ensued which consisted of all that theatrical pomp the 18th-century Baroque in Malta could muster. Grand Master Ramon Despuig’s death celebration, taking place in January 1741, was no exception. He had succeeded Vilhena and, even though his short reign barely lasted four years, his subjects must have readily understood that their death could only be, at best, just a pale reflection of his. Above all they could never hope that their passing away could bring, like Despuig’s miraculously did, rain to a critically parched land.11 The Magisterial Palace in Valletta which, for the previous years, was Despuig’s living quarters and seat of power, was transformed into a palace of death almost overnight. This was the place from where Despuig’s long journey into the next life commenced, and its exceptional role was marked with black hangings and the production of macabre ephemera. The throne-room, one of the major halls inside the Palace, decorated by Matteo Perez d’Aleccio’s frescoed frieze narrating the Order’s valiant victory during the Great Siege of 1565, was to encapsulate the ultimate paradox between worldly glory and human ephemerality. In this hall the barber-surgeons or barberotti embalmed the Grand Master’s body, in the process discovering that Despuig’s heart was too small and the opening of his stomach almost blocked. It was also determined that his brain was of an incredibly large size; a phenomenon somewhat implying a more-than-human characteristic.12

From Malta to eternity  197

Figure 17.3 Romano Carapecchia, Cappella Ardente, St John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation).

198  The Military Orders Volume VIII The lying-in-state ceremony which followed happened within the same hall. Here, attired in pontifical robes, a magisterial cape, and a sceptre in hand, Despuig’s body was elevated on a five-stepped podium and covered in black fabric. Four knights and four pages, holding banderols and flags, kept vigil around it during the protracted ceremony.13 Like the Magisterial Palace, the Order’s Conventual Church was also transformed. Covered in black hangings, and each of its massive pilasters decked out in figure di morte and Despuig’s coast-of-arms, it must have made for an awesome sight. As soon as the body of the Grand Master was introduced into the church, a low mass started to be celebrated within every altar of the church, and on the main altar Grand Prior Bartolomeo Rull started intoning a high mass.14 Once brought inside the church, the grand master’s body was put inside Carapecchia’s aforementioned cappella ardente, which was erected in the church’s nave and elevated on a five-stepped podium. In the very true sense of the term the cappella flamed with a ‘numero infinito di candele’. Standing around the chapel there were forty-eight torch bearers.15 In many ways the symbolism of such flaming chapels was meant to call to mind the Christian hope of a life after death as much as the transience of worldly existence. In the case of the former, the surrounding darkness of the church (death) was dispelled by the light (life) emanating from the cappella’s myriad candles;16 and in the case of the latter, the very ephemerality of such chapels was meant to suggest finite existence. Yet, in the case of Carapecchia’s chapel, since rather than destroyed it was simply dismantled and reutilised, the second meaning was somewhat lost. Grand Master Despuig was eventually laid to rest in the chapel of Aragon inside the Conventual Church. His funeral monument, compared to the rest of the monuments erected within the Conventual Church in honour of grand masters – certainly next to Vilhena’s – is a simple, watered-down affair.17 It merely consists of two bronze relief panels set on the bases of the columns framing the chapel’s altar reredos: a portrait of Despuig on the gospel side, and his family’s coat-of-arms present on the epistle side.18 Grand masters’ monuments and the Order’s Conventual Church With their carefully selected symbols, grand masters’ monuments located around the Order’s Conventual Church create the perfect sacred ceremonial space. Secular and religious conceptions of virtue often coalesce to manifest the prince’s incomparable qualities and his responsibilities towards both state and church. It is said that when the Encyclopaedist Denis Diderot saw Jean-Baptiste Pigalle’s model for the tomb of Maréchal Maurice de Saxe he was quite taken aback by its many symbols. The year was 1767, a time when the world was on the verge of change. One imagines, however, that if Diderot were to stroll around the Order’s Conventual Church and study the funeral monuments erected there, his judgement would have been less caustic. Admittedly, the mood within all the monuments remains persistently exuberant and extroverted, having none of that introspective character which Diderot loved.19

From Malta to eternity 199 Yet macabre elements, the main target of Diderot’s criticism, are hardly present. Starting with Domenico Guidi’s high baroque monument to Grand Master Nicolas Cotoner made during the mid-1680s and ending with the sober 1770s monument to Grand Master Emanuel Pinto de Fonseca, symbols of death are hardly present. Thus, whereas that of Fra Cotoner adopts a distinctly celebratory language, with two chained captives set right within its pedestal made to look as if they are supporting the whole monumental ensemble – the imagery manifesting the patronising ways adopted by the Order in relation with all those who did not share its faith – that of Grand Master Pinto is almost neoclassical in its sombre, restrained language.20 If truth be told, the monument to Cotoner makes for a complete reversal in the concept of tomb-design for the grand masters. The language used is no longer dependent on military triumph and a few coy allusions to death. It is, instead, a language that is perhaps best embodied in the triumphant trumpeting angel of fame. This angel heralds not just a new celebratory visual language of death but an enduring love affair between the Order and the late Baroque. Despite the Order’s self-defining role as the scourge of Islam, when it comes to the grand masters’ funeral monuments, it is only in Cotoner’s that this idea is given full visual vent. It is, nevertheless, alluded to, if perhaps less persuasively, in two other instances. In Gregorio Carafa’s monument, a bronze putto holding a trumpet, steps impertinently on a Moor’s turban; in Vilhena’s, the defeated turban is in the clutches of a merciless lion. Grand Master Marc’Antonio Zondadari’s monument made by Massimiliano Soldani Benzi is the only one that tackles all three Theological Virtues: Faith, Hope, and Charity. Once again, its iconography denies ‘any theological opposition between worldly success and a virtuous life’, bringing it so unwittingly close to post-Reformation ideology.21 Thus, symbols of military prowess effortlessly unite with the religious virtues here symbolised by the two putti respectively holding a chalice (Faith) and an anchor (Hope); while Charity – in the monument’s centre leans forward as if to console the dying Zondadari who is here portrayed in the (at-the-time) unfashionable gisant-accoudé tradition.22 These monuments were made to eternally exalt the figure of the dead princes; they were meant to extend the memory of the living grand masters with all their noteworthy qualities, rather than dwelling on their dead, putrefying bodies. Diderot, as explained, might have almost agreed with all this, however, he would have been quite taken aback were he to bear witness to the actual funeral ceremonies held at St John’s. He would then have realised that those Baroque macabre qualities which were so much held in check in the monuments were let loose in funeral ephemera. As expected, nothing remains of these artefacts, and one could only surmise their appearance. The ephemera used during such ceremonies were by their very nature symbols of life’s transience. As already stated, only the theatrical and reusable cappella ardente went so significantly against this tradition. Allusions to death that are just about intimated on the funeral monuments are, however, more than present on the church’s floor, which in its entirety it effectively amounts to a campo santo, a hallowed burial ground. It is entirely covered by intricately crafted intarsia marble slabs which taken together make for the ultimate

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Figure 17.4 Domenico Guidi, Funeral Monument of Grand Master Cotoner, St  John’s Co-Cathedral, Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation).

From Malta to eternity 201 memento mori. The commemorative slab of Fra Anselme de Cais, for example, positioned in the church’s side entrance, cautions that You who tread on me will be trodden upon.23 On the slabs there are images depicting Father Time or skeletal Death wielding its scythe jostled with clocks, and winged hourglasses, and together they underscore the ephemerality of human existence. Such is the tomb-slab of the Bailiff of Lora Luis Francesco Velerde y Cespedes whose iconography includes a winged putto blowing his trumpet of fame in one hand, but who ominously holds a scythe in the other, all the while precariously balancing over a clock which marks unstoppable time. An emphasis upon the deceased brothers’ charitable life was of utmost importance. It bore witness to their candidature for a quick passage to Heaven with only the briefest of stops in Purgatory. Inscriptions accompanying a good number of the intarsia tombstones underline this idea. The one on Mattia Preti’s reads, He gave an immense sum of money, earned from his paintings to the poor. Preti would have known that charitable acts were an effective shield against Bad Death. Portraiture and the fear of worldly glory This ambivalence between worldly ambition and self-denigration is also present on several painted portraits where the sitter, high ranking and typically male, tries to deflect some of his worldly glory with the inclusion of vanitas emblems. Such is the portrait of the Bali’ Ramon Soler (today at MUŻA, the Community Art Museum in Valletta, Malta). Soler belonged to the Order’s Aragonese Langue and though he may have enjoyed his fair share of worldly trappings, he seems to have been equally preoccupied with life’s transience. When the artist and knight Pedro Núñez da Villavicencio painted his likeness, Soler must have specifically asked for the inclusion of references alluding to the meaninglessness of worldly glory. In his full-length portrait, where he is depicted proudly wearing the Order’s black uniform with the eight pointed cross emblazoned on both breast and cape, Soler makes for an interesting contrast with the vanitas still-life included right next to him, made up of books (symbolising the futility of learning) and an hourglass (symbolising life’s transience). The Caravaggesque portrait of Grand Master Alof de Wignacourt (Cathedral Museum, Mdina, Malta), even if less technically accomplished, conveys a similar mind-set. Like a death-contemplating post-Tridentine saint, the 70-year-old Wignacourt sits in front of a standing crucifix and holds a string of rosary beads which ends with a wendhaupt terminal – a Janus-like carved bead having a skull on one side and Christ’s face on the other.24 The story of Fra Giovanni Bichi, Prior of Capua, makes for a Vanitas lesson. The prior had arrived in Malta almost on the eve of the plague of 1675. His plan was to retire on the island and live in a large sprawling villa after an illustrious career at sea, but he was to succumb to a devastating plague epidemic just a year later. In his memory, the Prior’s brother commissioned a funeral monument which was set up in the church of San Salvatore, next to the Prior’s former residence. This is a stone monument, possibly of local workmanship, which is dominated by the

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Figure 17.5 Unknown 17th-century artist, Funeral Monument of Fra Giovanni Bichi, Church of Our Saviour, Kalkara, Malta (photo: the author).

From Malta to eternity  203 Prior’s portrait relief – hooked nose, large lips, long hair – set within a framed oval and flanked by two palm fronds, questionably suggesting a martyr’s death. Saints of the Order and the Oratory of the Decollation of St John Stories and images of saintly missionaries suffering whilst evangelising amongst the heathens were to inspire thousands of young men across the Catholic world to die for their faith. Brothers of the Order of St John, members of a chivalric order whose principal aim was to defend Catholicism, were especially susceptible to this death-wish. As expected, the Order’s textual and visual lore is full of stories of men and women who readily faced a martyr’s death.25 According to their hagiographies, narrated by Giacomo Bosio, the Order’s historian, most of the Order’s saints and heroes were somehow involved in the struggle against Islam. During the last decades of the 17th century, Mattia Preti produced a cycle of saints of the Order for the Oratory of the Decollation, carried out to replace an earlier one. The Oratory of the Decollation which abuts the Order’s Conventual Church must have aspired, perhaps more so before Mattia Preti’s 1680s transformation, to function as a pedagogical macchina intended to promote those values which the Order held dear. It must have left a real impact upon the young novices who made up its typical audience. The Oratory was dominated by Caravaggio’s altarpiece, in which John the Baptist – the saint to whom the Order owed its life and soul – is depicted in the throes of martyrdom. The programme then moved out on to the walls of the Oratory where images of the saints and the beati of the Order, exemplars who through mortification or martyrdom had sacrificed themselves, were exhibited. This cycle of saints was at only one remove from the Order’s namesake. For the programme to be considered complete, it needed an exemplar which would have brought it down to a more human level. This was provided by the lunette over Caravaggio’s Beheading, which was the Oratory’s most crucial picture and the one with which the novices could have most readily identified. Its terrifying imagery, depicting members of the Order being brutally slain as they heroically defend Fort St Elmo during the Great Siege, must have been intended to instil within its audience a compulsion for a martyr’s death.26 Mattia Preti altered the oratory’s arrangement and because of him the former darkness was dispelled in favour of light. Apart from producing a new cycle of the Order’s saints, windows were opened, gilding and other embellishments were introduced, and paintings depicting Christ’s passion were inserted within a newly installed soffit. The sinister martyred knights lunette was removed. In its stead, Mattia Preti painted another lunette, not for the Oratory but for the church’s western inner façade, which was meant to convey comparable ideas. In his version, Preti did not opt to restrict the image to one event but decided instead to open it up to the whole spectrum of the Order’s missions. Even if, similarly to the martyrs’ lunette, it focuses on the yoke of physical suffering, it is more intent upon relaying the bliss of Heavenly apotheosis merited through martyrdom.

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Figure 17.6 Mattia Preti, Triumph of the Order of St John, St John’s Co-Cathedral, ­Valletta, formerly the Conventual Church of St  John the Baptist (Copyright of the St John Co-Cathedral Foundation).

In Preti’s painting (Figure 17.6), a female figure akin to Cesare Ripa’s Fortezza,27 brandishes a flame-bladed sword and a standard of the Order whilst trampling upon chained Moors. It is an image which is at once triumphant but also revealing of the Order’s self-righteous and condescending ways. On either side of this figure the two Cotoner grand master brothers, Rafael and Nicolas, exemplify the Order’s twofold mission: military and hospitaller. On one side, Rafael is using his baton to draw attention to a framed picture which illustrates the Order’s fleet of galleys and vessels; Nicolas, on the other side, is depicted administering to the sick. In the immediate background and spanning the whole breadth of the composition, young knights heroically succumb to their wounds as a fierce battle rages on. They are consoled by angels who descend from heaven to dole out palm fronds. One knight lies headless with blood oozing out of the severed neck. He mirrors the dead Baptist whose decapitated body is depicted at the other end of the vault, just above the presbytery. The symbolism could not be made more explicit. Within a culture that highly prized mirror literature – this was a type of writing which offered an unmasking of concealed ills – Preti proffers the perfect speculum example. Conclusion This chapter has shown how brethren of the Order of St John managed to orchestrate their passage from this world to eternity with studied efficacy. It delved into

From Malta to eternity  205 the failsafe mechanisms they employed which would have bestowed upon them a degree of worldly glory as much as a coveted place in heaven, with only the briefest of stops in Purgatory. In this quest, art and images played a vital role. They both reified the brothers’ belief in a Catholic afterlife, and they functioned as a tangible and eternal substitute to their ephemeral, fading mortal remains. Images were also discussed as visual reminders of the art of dying. Of course, for all the ways with which knights were induced to follow these archetypes there were still those who failed to fit the mould. These would have been cautioned and punished, but if all else were to fail, especially if the crime committed included murder, the errant knight would have been condemned to death. This was not a desirable martyr’s death, but an inglorious dispatch where the despoiled knight was strangled, his body sewn in a sack, and thrown into the sea.28 Notes 1 NLM AOM145, ff.266r–167r. 2 E.J. King, The Rule, Statutes, and Customs of the Hospitallers 1099–1310 (London, 1934; Reprint, 1981). 3 NLM AOM925, Emminentissimi B, ff.85v–87v, ‘Noi Fra Antonio Manoel de Vilhena umile maestro dell’Ordine dell’Ospedale di San Giovanni di Gerusalemme del So. Seplocro e custode de poveri di Gesù Cristo’. 4 NLM AOM925, Emminentissimi B, ff.85v–87v, ‘A tutti I sacerdoti del nostro Ordine ed ai secolari e regolari di questa Diocesi lasciamo la limosina di tre messe che celebranno parte nel tempo di nostro transito e parte doppo (sic)’. 5 P. Lindley, ‘ “Pickpurse” Purgatory, the Dissolution of the Chantries and the Suppression of the Intercession for the Dead’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 164.1 (2011), pp.277–304. 6 NLM AOM925, Eminentissimi B, f.25. 7 E. Townsend, Death and Art 1200–1530 (London, 2009). 8 C. Attard, The Art of Dying Well, Visual Culture in Times of Piety and Plague, Malta 1675–1814 (Malta, 2022), pp.302–03. 9 K. Sciberras, Baroque Painting in Malta (Malta, 2009), pp.300–01. 10 J. Donovan, trans., The Catechism of the Council of Trent, Part 2, Extreme Unction, 1892, ‘Through this Holy Unction, and through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed (by evil use of sight – smell, touch etc. – depending on the organ anointed)’. 11 NLM Libr Ms 9, f.350. 12 NLM Libr Ms9, f.348 (Ignazio Saverio Mifsud). 13 NLM Libr Ms 9, f.348. 14 Ignazio Saverio Mifsud, NLM Libr Ms 9, ff.353–54, ‘Nell entrare il corpo del defunto principe in chiesa fece un saluto con l’azzarini i soldati, che stavano d’inanazi la chiesa sudetta di san giovanni. Entrato poi li fu il cadavere fu posto dentro la cappella ardente inalzata dal suolo 5 gradini e circondata da un numero infinito di candele. La sudetta cappella ardente era posta d’innanzi l’altare quasi nel mezzo del tempio; nelle parti che miravano l’altare maggiore, e la porta grande della chiesa si vedevano in alto due stemme di . . . attacate nella medesima ardente cappella. La chiesa era appartata di lutto ed ad ogni colonna si miravano . . . figure di morte e una stemma gentilizia di questo principe. In altre colonne 4 stemme ed una figure di morte. Vicino la cappella ardente verano da 48 antorcie a 4 micci, ogni cappella con sei candele; ed entrato il cadavere incominciarono a celebrarsi messa lette in ogni altare, e a tutti i monaci che accompagnarono s’era elemosina per celebrare e molti di essi celebrarono’.

206  The Military Orders Volume VIII 15 NLM Librs Ms  9 (Ignazio Saverio Mifsud), f.355, writes: ‘Tutti i vistosi, cioe’ tutti quelli, che erano vestiti con gramaglie sedetero attrono La Cappella Ardente, dove anche vi stavano alcuni Soldati per riparere il Popolo che vi concorse in Chiesa in gran numero’. 16 C.M.N. Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory, The Art & Craft of Dying in Sixteenth Century Spain (Cambridge, 2002; first published 1995). 17 K. Sciberras, Roman Baroque Sculpture for The Knights of Malta (Malta, 2012) p.187. 18 Sciberras (2012), p.187. 19 D. Irwin, ‘Sentiment and Antiquity: European Tombs 1750–1830’, in Mirrors of Mortality, Studies in the Social History of Death, ed. J. Whaley (New York, 1981). See also Attard (2022), p.268. 20 Sciberras (2012), pp.239–61. 21 N. Llewellyn, Funeral Monument in Post-Reformation England (Cambridge, 2000), p.348. 22 E. Panofsky, Tomb Sculpture, Four Lectures on Its Changing Aspects from Ancient Egypt to Bernini (New York, 1992). 23 D. Munro, Memento Mori, A Companion to the Most Beautiful Floor in the World (Malta, 2005). 24 F. Balzan, Jewellery in Malta (Malta, 2009), p.7. 25 Giacomo Bosio, the Order’s historian, wrote a book about the saints of the Order entitled Le Imagini de’ beati, e santi della sacra religione & illustrissima militia di S. Gio. Gierosolimitano (Rome, 1622). 26 D. Stone and J. Azzopardi, ‘Above Caravaggio, The Massacre of the Knights at Fort St Elmo’, Treasures of Malta, III.1 (1996), pp.61–66. 27 Cesare Ripa, Iconologia overo descrittione dell’imagini universali cavate dall’antichità et da altri luoghi da Cesare Ripa Perugino, opera non meno utile, che Gigliotti, MDXCIII, con Privilegio et con Licenza de’ Superiori (Venice, 1645). 28 This morbid punishment was typically referred to as Morire in sacco. An illustration of such an execution is present in the De Prohibitionibus et poenis illustration to Statute XVIII by Philippe Thomassin. See also D. Stone, ‘The Context of Caravaggio’s Beheading of St John in Malta’, The Burlington Magazine, 139.1158 (1997), pp.161–70.

Part 4

Perceptions

18 The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources Muslim attitudes and perceptions Jesse W. Izzo

Introduction In his Kitab al I‘tibar (The Book of Contemplation),1 Usama ibn Munqidh describes how he was accosted by a Frank while praying on the Temple Mount sometime in the early 1140s: When I went into the al-Aqsa mosque – where the Templars, who are my friends, [aṣdiqā’ī] were – they would clear out that little mosque so I could pray in it. One day, I went into the little mosque, recited the opening formula ‘God is great’! and stood up in prayer. At this, one of the Franks rushed at me and grabbed me and turned my face towards the east, saying ‘Pray like this’! Some Templar brothers quickly intervened and pulled the harassing Frank away. Usama resumed praying, but when the brothers turned their attention elsewhere, the meddling Frank challenged him again: So the Templars came in again, grabbed him and threw him out. They apologized to me, saying ‘This man is a stranger, just arrived from the Frankish lands sometime in the past few days. He has never before seen anyone who does not pray towards the east’.2 This passage is well known to scholars of the crusades and the Latin East. However, there are many other notices about the military orders scattered throughout various Arabic sources that are generally much less well-known. Indeed, research on how the orders were understood by Arabo-Islamic authors is still in its infancy. That is not to say that there has not been any important work. R. Stephen Humphrey’s brief entry on ‘Dāwiyya and Isbitāriyya’ in the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam is the starting point for any investigation of the topic.3 Articles by James Hamblin and Kevin James Lewis have also made important contributions, illuminating Arabo-Islamic views of the Hospitallers and Templars specifically as monastic orders and in the context of Islamic views on western monasticism.4 Betty Binysh has also made a key intervention, arguing that Saladin’s ‘propaganda machine deliberately built up’ the image of the Hospitallers and Templars DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-22

210  The Military Orders Volume VIII as fearsome warriors and implacable foes of Islam in order to ‘unite his former . . . rivals’. In contrast, nearly a century later the Mamluk sultan Baybars, operating in a profoundly different geopolitical context than Saladin, tended to treat the military orders ‘like any other Frankish enemy group’.5 Still, much work remains to be done. The image of the military orders as fighting monks is by no means the exclusive – or even the principal – one evident in Arabo-Islamic sources. Indeed, there is a range of other ways that the Hospitallers and Templars are presented. First, in some sources, especially those dealing with the life and career of Saladin, the military orders are cast as impure, disease-like (or diseased), and wicked.6 Second, the Hospitallers and Templars are usually depicted as brave in battle and an important element of Frankish military might. Third, several Arabic sources deal with the matter of the military orders’ trustworthiness. While they are sometimes cast as deceitful, the Templars in particular are typically shown to be reliable negotiating partners. Finally, in several instances, the Arabic sources present the orders as partisan political actors engaged in intra-Frankish or intra-Christian strife. Ultimately, and with only a few notable exceptions, the evidence suggests a range of beliefs and attitudes, rather than a stereotyped, overly ideological stance towards the military orders. Impure, disease-like, and wicked The notion of the Hospitallers and Templars as impure, disease-like or diseased, and wicked, is most apparent in the work of ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani. ‘Imad al-Din regularly deploys the language of disease and filth to describe them, as well as the language of cleansing, purification, and cure to characterize their defeat at the hands of Saladin. Moreover, in keeping with his poetic style, he also frequently puns on the Arabic word for ‘Templars’ and its similarity to words for disease, sickness, or impurity (dā’ or dawan).7 In commenting on the aftermath of Saladin’s victory at the Battle of Hattin on 4 July 1187, ‘Imad al-Din states that ‘The grand Master (muqaddam) of the Templars (al-dāwiyya) arrived (qadama) in his disease (or wickedness/sins) (bi-dā’hi)’.8 ‘Imad al-Din plays on the similarity of the sound and closeness of the spelling of the Arabic words for ‘master’ (muqaddam) and ‘arrive’ (qadama), as well as ‘Templars’ (dāwiyya) and ‘disease’ (or wickedness/ sins) (dā’). Saladin is reported as saying, ‘I shall cleanse the earth of these two kinds of filth’.9 Here ‘Imad al-Din again plays on the similarity of sounds and spelling of the Arabic words for ‘kind’ or ‘sort’ (jins) and ‘impure’ or ‘unclean’ (najis).10 He then says about anyone who took up a sword to kill one of the captives: ‘many ills did he cure by the ills he brought upon a Templar’.11 Once again, he plays on the similarity of sounds and spellings of the words for disease/ills, cure, and Templar. Elsewhere, ‘Imad al-Din refers to the Templars as ‘demons’ (shayāṭīn) and as a ‘band of miscreants’. He refers to ‘their extreme malfeasance’ and says that they ‘followed the caprice of their misguided demon’.12 He also refers to one of their fortifications, Trapessac (Darbasak), as a ‘nest’,13 implying that it was the home of wild beasts or vermin, and refers to another, Gaston (Baghras), as a ‘lair of hyenas’, a ‘wasp’s nest’, and a refuge for similar wretched and unpleasant types.14

The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources 211 ‘Imad al-Din stands out for the venom he displays. Rarely do other Arabic authors vilify the military orders quite so strongly, although there are a few cases. Ibn al-Athir says about the Muslim attacks on Hospitaller Belvoir (Kawkab) and Templar Safad shortly after the Battle of Hattin that ‘people gained some relief from the wickedness (sharr) of their inmates.15 In explaining Saladin’s execution of Hospitaller and Templar prisoners, Ibn al-Athir says that the sultan ‘wished to rid the Muslims of their wickedness (sharr)’.16 A poem attributed to al-Jilyani, a contemporary of Saladin who wrote many verses in praise of the sultan, associates the Hospitallers and Templars with a Quranic reference to Gog, who – along with Magog – is a harbinger of apocalypse.17 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir uses similar rhetoric in his biography of the Mamluk Sultan Qalawun. In introducing his account of Qalawun’s conquest of Hospitaller Margat (Marqab) in 1285, Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir states that the fortress was a base from which the Hospitallers had ‘increased their iniquity and enmity, and their vandalism had multiplied’.18 Comparable language is also in Shafi‘ ibn ‘Ali’s account of the same event.19 Elsewhere, Shafi‘ ibn ‘Ali refers to the ‘infamy’ (khasīsa) of the Franks – including the masters of the military orders – who came to petition Qalawun for a renewal of a truce between Cairo and Acre that had been agreed to by Sultan Baybars.20 Unsurprisingly, the most hostile language in the Arabic sources comes from biographies of rulers who were actively and regularly engaged with fighting the Franks. Brave and indispensable troops Such vilifying presentations of the Hospitallers and Templars are closely related to, yet distinct from, the notion found in many Arabic sources that they were the bravest, most essential troops of all the Franks. As Humphreys has noted, in the work of Ibn al-Athir this fact is explicitly connected to a belief that they constituted an especial threat to Muslims and Islam.21 On two occasions, Ibn al-Athir uses the word jamra – a word that literally means ‘live coal’ but can also mean a band of troops tightly bonded together – to describe the Hospitallers and Templars.22 About Roger of Moulins, the Grand Master of the Hospital who had been killed in an engagement near Acre in May of 1187, Ibn al-Athir writes that he ‘was one of the renowned knights of the Franks and the cause of great damage to the Muslims’.23 In his account of the execution of Hospitaller and Templar prisoners after Hattin, Ibn al-Athir says that Saladin ordered them to be killed ‘because they were the fiercest fighters of all the Franks’.24 He also states that it was Saladin’s ‘custom to kill the Templars and the Hospitallers because of their intense hostility to the Muslims and their bravery’.25 Even so, Gerard of Ridefort, the Templar Grand Master captured at Hattin and ‘one of the most important Franks’, was spared execution and later released from prison in Damascus with the understanding that he would help negotiate the surrender of Franks who were still resisting Saladin.26 However, he returned to fighting the sultan; when he was captured a second time in 1190 in fighting around Acre, Saladin avoided repeating his previous mistake and put Gerard to death.27 The view of the Hospitallers and Templars as the most outstanding of Frankish troops is also evident in later sources. In an account of the battle of La Forbie

212  The Military Orders Volume VIII (1244), Ibn al-Furat distinguishes the Hospitallers and Templars from the general mass of Franks, who had ‘sent off their kings and counts and gave them safe escort back to their own lands’, once the battle appeared to be lost. However, ‘the Templars and Hospitallers held firm in the face of the Egyptians and Khwarizmians and fought until they were all killed’.28 Another chronicler, Ibn ‘Abd al-Rahim, compares the Bahriyya, an elite regiment of Mamluks who were renowned for inflicting a devastating defeat on Louis IX and his crusaders at the Battle of Mansurah (1250), to the Templars: In the battle the Bahrite mamluks of al-Malik as-Salih distinguished themselves by their courage and audacity: they caused the Franks terrible losses and played the major part in the victory. They fought furiously: it was they who flung themselves into the pursuit of the enemy: they were Islam’s Templars [dāwiyya al-Islām].29 This comparison underscores the sense of both the Bahriyya and the Templars as elite fighting forces. Baybars al-Mansuri, a soldier who participated in the 1291 siege of Acre, notes the courage and tenacity of the military orders: ‘A great muster was made of the Templars and Hospitallers, and they fortified the towers and walls, manifested readiness, and indifference to the siege. They did not even close the city gates, nor did they lower the portcullis (ḥijāb)’ – presumably so they could make sorties against the besiegers.30 Somewhat complicating this image of bravery are a few instances in which Arabic sources impute fear to members of the military orders. Ibn al-Furat claims that the Templars of Gaston (Baghras) ‘became afraid’ and ‘they fled away and left it’, when the Mamluk sultan Baybars was on campaign in the vicinity of the fortress early in 1268.31 Similarly, Ibn Taghribirdi claims that after the fall of the main city of Acre in 1291, when the last Frankish holdouts had locked themselves and other survivors in the Templar fortress in the southwest of the city, the ‘Templars begged for their lives’.32 Trustworthy or untrustworthy? Inconsistency in portraying the military orders is also evident with respect to the matter of their trustworthiness (or lack thereof). In his account of Qalawun’s move against Margat (Marqab) in 1285, Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir says about the Hospitallers that ‘oaths did not stop them. They performed all sorts of ugly betrayals’.33 There is also the case of Master Gerard of Ridefort who, as mentioned earlier, was spared from execution after the Battle of Hattin and released from imprisonment in Damascus on the understanding that he would be a partner for peace, but instead returned to leading Frankish opposition to Saladin. Nevertheless, it is more common for the military orders – especially the ­Templars – to be construed as trustworthy – or, at least, more trustworthy than other Franks. Ibn al-Athir describes the correspondence between the Franks and Saladin about a ransom of 200, 000 dinars to release Muslim prisoners held by

The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources  213 the Franks after the latter captured Acre in July of 1191. It is worth quoting Ibn al-Athir at length: After he [Saladin] had collected 100, 000 dinars of the money, he assembled the emirs to consult them. They advised him not to send anything until he had again got them to swear to release his men and that the Templars should guarantee this because they were people of religion who hold with keeping faith. Saladin wrote to them about this and the Templars replied, ‘We shall not swear nor give any guarantee, because we fear our side’s treachery’.34 Still, Saladin sent an envoy to Acre saying he would pay the 100, 000 dinars he had already collected, release his Frankish prisoners, and return the True Cross in exchange for the Franks giving over their Muslim prisoners. Furthermore, he said that he would ‘give you hostages for what is outstanding [that is, the remaining 100, 000 dinars] and you can free our men. The Templars can guarantee the hostages and swear to keep faith with them’.35 A similar impression that the Templars were trusted by Saladin is given in accounts by ‘Imad al-Din, Ibn al-Athir, and Ibn Shaddad of a plan for al-‘Adil, Saladin’s brother, to marry King Richard I of England’s sister Joan. According to Ibn Shaddad: Saladin should make al-‘Adil Monarch of the coastal lands in addition to the lands al-‘Adil currently controls and possesses. The sultan should also give the king the relic of the Holy Cross. The villages would remain in the hands of the Templars and Hospitallers, but the castles would be under the control of the married couple.36 Ibn al-Athir also reports this plan (which he says was merely a ‘stratagem’ on the part of Richard). Although he does not make any statement about villages being placed into the hands of the military orders, he does claim that the Templars were willing to ‘accept whatever was agreed upon’ by the English king and the sultan.37 These portrayals reflect an understanding that the military orders were the most permanent element of Frankish settlement in the Holy Land and that they would remain behind when the crusaders had gone home. Moreover, there is a recognition that already by the late 12th century the military orders had at least as much power and influence in the Kingdom of Jerusalem as its king and lords. It also speaks to the fact that the large-scale fighting of Hattin and the Third Crusade, or that which occurred during the reigns of Baybars and Qalawun, was certainly not the prevailing norm in the intervening decades. In the view of many Arabic sources, if the military orders were not necessarily invested in peace, they generally were invested in maintaining regional stability. The military orders continued to play a vital role in Frankish diplomacy over the course of the 13th century. Of the eleven extant treaties between the Franks and Sultan Baybars or Sultan Qalawun, three were made directly with either the Hospitallers (1267, 1271) or Templars (1282).38 The masters of the Hospitallers and

214  The Military Orders Volume VIII Templars along with other prominent Franks (including the deputy master of the Teutonic Knights, who are rarely mentioned in Arabic sources) were also named in a 1283 treaty between Qalawun and Acre.39 The Hospitaller and Templar masters also played a key role in negotiating that treaty. Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir describes their role as envoys: [T]he truce of Acre was renewed. Its envoys had gone back and forth during the peace, then they presented themselves; two brothers from the house of the Templars, two from the Hospitallers, and two knights from the Kingdom.40 William of Beaujeu, the master of the Templars from 1273 to 1291, also played a key role as an intermediary in the 1285 treaty between Qalawun and King Leon III of Cilician Armenia. According to Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, Qalawun ‘wanted to use the assistance of the Templar commander . . . as a go-between’ because he ‘had rendered service to our master the Sultan which made answering his petition necessary in this case’.41 The Hospitallers, the Templars, and intra-Frankish conflict The military orders are also presented in some of the Arabic sources as prominent political operators who at times were embroiled in intra-Frankish (and intra-Christian) rivalries and struggles. ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani refers to a disagreement between the Templars and Count Raymond III of Tripoli.42 Ibn al-Athir claims the military orders became involved in political strife during the 1220s between the prince of Antioch (Bohemond IV) and the Armenians of Cilicia. Although Ibn al-Athir does not name the individuals in question, he tells of the 1222 marriage between Bohemond’s son, Philip of Antioch, and King Leon II of Armenia’s daughter, Isabella, which made Philip king-consort in Armenia.43 According to Ibn al-Athir, having a Frank rule over them stirred up resentment among the Armenians and they revolted, capturing Philip and putting him in prison. Prince Bohemond IV (simply al-brins/‘the prince’ in the Arabic) wanted to free his son and was prepared to use force, but ‘[T]he Templars and the Hospitallers . . . opposed’ him.44 Nevertheless, Bohemond proceeded to attack Armenian lands. When the Pope learned of this, ‘he sent to the Franks in Syria to inform them that he had excommunicated the prince’. As a consequence, ‘[t]he Templars, the Hospitallers and many of the knights would not meet with him [Bohemond] or hear what he had to say’.45 This is an abbreviated and somewhat confused account of events as they are generally understood by scholarship.46 Moreover, this was merely the latest in a lengthy series of contests over the successions in Armenia and Antioch in which the Hospitallers and Templars were involved. However, contrary to Ibn al-Athir’s understanding, the two orders generally supported opposing causes, sides, and policies in Cilician-Antiochene affairs rather than cooperating against a shared antagonist. Still, while Ibn al-Athir’s account reveals that Arabic authors did not always clearly apprehend the specifics of the military orders’ involvement in intra-Frankish or intra-Christian struggles, it also indicates that these authors correctly perceived

The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources  215 that the Hospitallers and Templars often somehow played a vital and sometimes partisan role in them. Also revealing in this connection is Sibt ibn al-Jawzi’s statement about Emperor Frederick II’s visit to Jerusalem in 1229. He claims that Frederick ‘only stayed in Jerusalem two nights and returned to Jaffa out of fear from the Templars who were seeking to kill him’.47 Similarly, Ibn al-Furat writes about the difficulties of King Hugh III of Jerusalem and Cyprus with the Templars: ‘The King of Acre, knowing that the House of the Templars would act against him, had a conversation with the emir Saif al-Din on this point, saying that Beirut was included in his truce’.48 Writing about the capture of Safad by Baybars in 1266, Ibn al-Furat also claims that a survivor who had escaped the siege became a source of conflict between the Hospitallers and the Templars: As for the other survivor. . . . He was one of the house of the Hospitallers and he had come out as a messenger. The Sultan spared him, but he did so of design, as when this man came to Acre, he hid himself away with the Hospitallers while the Templars, who had been the owners of Safad, looked for him. . . . So this man almost caused a feud between the Templars and the Hospitallers.49 While the Arabic sources generally do not elaborate on the specifics of the Hospitaller or Templar positions in these feuds, they nevertheless demonstrate an awareness of the orders’ participation in intra-Frankish political conflict, and that the orders themselves were by no means unified and could potentially be at cross-purposes with each other. Conclusion To return to Usama on the Temple Mount in the 1140s, how do we fit his image of the Templars together with the other evidence? Much more research needs to be done. In particular, we need further consideration of individual authors, and contextualisation of their references to the Hospitallers and Templars within their ideological and rhetorical commitments, and the programme of their works. Further consideration of Arabic-language Christian authors would also be helpful. Finally, inquiry into Islamic sources in languages other than Arabic (i.e. Persian, Turkish), and extending past the fall of Acre in 1291 will be needed. Still, some preliminary conclusions are possible. There is an obvious recognition in the Arabic sources treating the 12th and 13th centuries that the Hospitallers and Templars were important and prominent among the Franks as well as a view that they were brave and dangerous warriors. While Arabic authors who are particularly taken up with the military exploits of Saladin and the early Mamluk sultans tend to use harsher language about the military orders, presenting them as diseased, impure, and wicked, many Arabic authors also demonstrate a view that they could be trustworthy and reliable – more so than other Franks – when undertaking negotiations. These authors also demonstrate an awareness that the

216  The Military Orders Volume VIII Hospitallers and Templars could be rivals, support rivals, or be at cross-purposes with other powerbrokers among the Franks. Ultimately, other than a few notable exceptions, the Arabic sources are strikingly clear-eyed, knowledgeable, and varied in their presentation of the military orders, demonstrating an awareness of the various and sometimes paradoxical roles they played in both peace and war in the Levant during the crusader period. Notes 1 Usama ibn Munqidh, Kitab al-I’tibar, ed. P.K. Hitti (Princeton, 1930), pp.134–35; Usama ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation, ed. and trans. P.M. Cobb (New York, 2008), p.147. The system and conventions of Arabic translation used here are those of the International Journal of Middle East Studies: https://www-cambridge-org. stanford.idm.oclc.org/core/journals/international-journal-of-middle-east-studies/ information/author-resources/ijmes-translation-and-transliteration-guide [30 January 2024]. 2 Usama ibn Munqidh (1930), p.134; Cobb (2008), p.147. 3 Humphreys notes that isbitāriyya (or sometimes istibāriyya), an Arabized form of hospitalis or hospitalarius, first appears in Ibn al-Qalanisi’s Dhayl Ta’rikh al-Dimashq (Chronicle of Damascus). The Templars, or al-dāwiyya, are first mentioned in the same place. He argues the term is an Arabisation of Latin devotus/Old French devot. The Teutonic Knights are rarely named. When they are, they are called the ‘German Hospitallers’ (isbitār al-almān), or simply ‘Germans’. R.S. Humphreys, ‘Dāwiyya and Isbitāriyya’ in Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, ed. P. Bearman, T. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, W.P. Heinrichs, P.J. Bearman et al., 2nd edn (Leiden, 1960), http:// dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_COM_1400 [14 August 2023]. 4 W.J. Hamblin, ‘Muslim Perspectives on the Military Orders during the Crusades’, BYU Studies Quarterly, 40.4 (2001), pp.97–118; K.J. Lewis, ‘Friend or Foe: Islamic Views of the Military Orders in the Latin East as Drawn from Arabic Sources’, in MO 6.1, pp.20–29. Lewis’s chapter is particularly valuable for its discussion of how the military orders are presented in the work of Yaqut al-Rumi (or Yaqut al-Hamawi), a contemporary Islamic author that both Humphreys and Hamblin overlooked, but who made ‘a meaningful connection between the military orders and traditional Islamic attitudes towards Christian monasticism’, p.24. 5 B. Binysh, ‘Massacre or Mutual Benefit: The Military Orders’ Relations with Their Muslim Neighbours in the Latin East (1100–1300)’, in MO 6.1, p.30. 6 See Binysh (2017), pp.30–35. 7 For example, ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, al-Fath al-Qussi fi al-fath al-Qudsi, ed. S.M. Mahmoud (Cairo, 1965), p.384; F. Gabrieli and E.J. Costello, trans., Arab Historians of the Crusades (Turin, 1957; Eng. trans., Berkeley, 1969), p.136. See H. Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic, ed. J.M. Cowan, 4th edn (Wiesbaden, 1994), pp.343, 351; E.W. Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon, 8 vols (London, 1863), vol. 1, pp.928, 940. 8 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), p.80; Gabrieli and Costello (1969), p.133. 9 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), p.86; Gabrieli and Costello (1969), p.138; James E. Lindsay and Suleiman A. Mourad translate the phrase as ‘this type of filth’. See J.E. Lindsay and S.A. Mourad, Muslim Sources of the Crusader Period (Indianapolis, 2021), p.95. 10 Wehr (1994), pp.167, 1109. 11 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), p.86; Gabrieli and Costello (1969), pp.138–39. See Wehr (1994), pp.351–52 and Lane (London, 1863), vol. 1, p.940. 12 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), pp.105, 229–30; Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin, trans. H. Massé (Paris, 1972), pp.41, 124–25.

The Hospitallers and the Templars in Arabic sources  217 13 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), p.255; Massé (1972), p.141. 14 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), p.257; Massé (1972), p.142. 15 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-Tarikh, ed. C.J. Tornberg, 13 vols (Beirut, repr.1965–1967), vol. 11, p.558; The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh, trans. D.S. Richards, part 2 (Abingdon, 2016), p.339. 16 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 11, p.538; Richards (2016), p.324. 17 O. Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword: Muslim Poetic Responses to the Crusades (Boston, 2018), p.176. On al-Jilyani see pp.14–15. See also E. van Donzel and C. Ott, ‘Yadjudj wa-Madjudj’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, 2nd edn, http://dx.doi. org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_COM_1353 [14 August 2023]. 18 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, Tashrif al-ayyam wa-l-‘usur fi sirat al-malik al-Mansur, ed. M. Kamil and M. Najjar (Cairo, 1961), p.77; partial translation in D. Cook, Chronicles of Qalawun and al-Ashraf Khalil (New York, 2020), p.101. For ‘iniquity’ (baghy), ‘enmity’ (‘udwān, idwān), and ‘vandalism’ (fasād) see Wehr (1994), pp.83, 700, 834. 19 Shafi‘ ibn ‘Ali, Al-Fadl al-Ma’thur min sirat al-sultan al-Malik al-Mansur, in Šafi‘ibn ‘Ali’s Biography of the Mamluk Sultan Qalawun ed. P.B. Lewicka (Warsaw, 2000), p.377; Cook (2020), p.213. 20 Shafi‘ ibn ‘Ali (2000), pp.397–98; Cook (2020), p.228. 21 Humphreys (1960). 22 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 11, p.531, vol. 12, p.465. Richards (2016), p.319; Ibn al-Athir, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh, trans. D.S. Richards, part 3 (Aldershot, 2010), p.280. See Lane (1863), vol. 1, p.453. 23 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 11, p.531; Richards (2016), p.319. 24 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 11, p.538; Richards (2016), p.324. 25 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, pp.22–23; Richards (2016), p.356. For ‘hostility’ (‘adāwa) see Wehr (1994), p.700. 26 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 11, p.536; Richards (2016), p.323. 27 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, pp.7, 38–39; Richards (2016), pp.345, 368. 28 Ibn al-Furat, partial translation in Ayyubids, Mamlukes, and Crusaders: Selections from the Tarikh al-duwal wa’l-muluk, text and trans. U. and M.C. Lyons with a historical introduction and notes by J.S.C. Riley-Smith (London, 1971), vol. 1 (Ar.), p.7; vol. 2 (Eng.), p.6. 29 Ibn ‘Abd al-Rahim was a student and continuator of Ibn Wasil, and this passage is sometimes mistakenly attributed to the latter. Gabrieli and Costello (1969), p.294; Die Chronik des ibn Waṣil, ed. M. Rahim (Wiesbaden, 2010), pp.69, 70 n. 2. Also see P. Jackson, The Seventh Crusade, 1244–1254: Sources and Documents (Aldershot, 2007), p.5 n. 22 and p.148 n. 93. 30 Baybars al-Mansuri, Zubdat al-fikra fi ta’rikh al-hijra, ed. D.S. Richards (Beirut, 1998), p.279; Cook (2020), p.347 and p.387 n. 13. 31 Ibn al-Furat (1971), vol. 1 (Ar.), p.162; vol. 2 (Eng.), p.127. 32 Gabrieli and Costello (1969), p.348. 33 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir (1961), p.77; Cook (2020), p.101. 34 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, p.68; Richards (2016), p.389. 35 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, p.68; Richards (2016), p.389. This is also in ‘Imad al-Din. See Massé (1972), p.329. 36 Baha’ al-Din ibn Shaddad, al-Nawadir al-sultaniyya wa-l-mahasin al-yusufiyya, ed. J.-D. al-Shayyal (Cairo, 1964), p.195; Ibn Shaddad, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, trans. D.S. Richards (Aldershot, 2002), p.187; Lindsay and Mourad (2021), p.194. See ‘Imad al-Din, Massé (1972), p.349. 37 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, p.72; Richards (2016), p.392. 38 P.M. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalawun with Christian Rulers (Leiden, 1995), pp.32–41, 48–57, 66–68. For another version of the 1282 truce, see Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir (1961), pp.20–22; Cook (2020), pp.62–64.

218  The Military Orders Volume VIII 39 Holt (1995), pp.74, 77; Lindsay and Mourad (2021), p.200. They are also named in the 1290 treaty between Alfonso III of Aragon and Qalawun: Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir (1961), pp.156–64; Cook (2020), pp.161–70; Holt (1995), pp.131–40; and a 1293 treaty between James II of Aragon and the Mamluk sultan al-Ashraf Khalil: Cook (2020), pp.203–09. 40 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir (1961), p.34; Cook (2020), pp.72–73. This is also mentioned by Shafi‘ ibn ‘Ali (2000), pp.397–98 and Baybars al-Mansuri (1998), p.232; Cook (2020), pp.228, 302. 41 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir (1961), pp.92–93, 103; Cook (2020) pp.113–14, 122; Holt (1995), pp.93–94. Cp. Cronaca del Templare di Tiro: 1243–1314: la caduta degli stati crociati nel racconto di un testimone oculare, trans. L. Minervini (Naples, 2000), pp.204–07 and P. Crawford, trans., The ‘Templar of Tyre’, Part III of the ‘Deeds of the Cypriots’ (Aldershot, 2003) pp.104–05. 42 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (1965), pp.67–68; Massé (1972), p.19. 43 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, pp.464–65; Richards (2010), p.279. 44 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, p.465; Richards (2010), p.280. 45 Ibn al-Athir (1965–1967), vol. 12, p.465; Richards (2010), pp.280. 46 For a reconstruction and analysis of events entailing Cilician Armenia and Antioch in the early 13th century, including this episode, see J. Burgtorf, ‘The War of the Antiochene Succession’, in The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas, paperback edn (London, 2019), pp.196–211. See also J. Riley-Smith, The Knights Hospitaller in the Levant, c.1070–1309 (New York, 2012), pp.54–56. 47 Sibt ibn al-Jawzi, Mir’at al-zaman, 8/2 (Hyderabad, 1951–1952), p.657; Linsday and Mourad (2021), p.120. 48 Ibn al-Furat (1971), vol. 1 (Ar.), p.209; vol. 2 (Eng.), p.164. 49 Ibn al-Furat (1971), vol. 1 (Ar.), p.122; vol. 2 (Eng.), pp.95–96.

19 The deteriorating image of the Templars A paradox Sophia Menache

There is a broad consensus in the historiography that Christendom became more critical of the military orders, particularly the Temple, during the 13th century. Supporters of this view include, among others, Jonathan Riley-Smith,1 Joshua Prawer,2 Alan Forey,3 and Sylvia Schein.4 In this regard, Malcolm Barber called attention to the possibility that, the empathy between the Templars and the interests of lay aristocratic society which can be seen in the 12th century had its dangers, for when it began to be believed that the Templars fell short of the ideal, the reaction could be as hostile as the initial reception had been enthusiastic.5 It is reasonable to wonder, however, what the values and beliefs of 12th-century nobles were and what they consequently expected from the Templars, the majority of whom were themselves drawn from the ranks of the aristocracy.6 Moreover, it is noteworthy that the most vociferous critics of the brothers were not secular nobles but members of the clergy and the monastic orders, who stood to lose more in status and income to the warrior monks than any other social sector.7 It is the thesis of this chapter that the deteriorating status and image of the Templars in the last quarter of the 12th and throughout the 13th centuries did not stand as an isolated phenomenon. Instead, they were shaped by the changing attitudes of Christendom to the crusades and the Holy Land. The growing disillusionment resulting from repeated defeats on the battlefield dimmed the haloes of the milites Christi, who did not succeed in maintaining Christian supremacy in the Levant. Yet, notwithstanding the gradual deterioration of its image and status, there was a clear opposition to the dissolution of the Order ‘since the Templars were most powerful, both in riches and renown’.8 The contradiction between the declining image of the Templars and the opposition to the abolition of the Order thus creates a paradox that calls for further research. De laude novae militiae by Bernard de Clairvaux faithfully reflects the role and the behavioural norms that the Cistercian Abbot envisaged for the ‘New Knighthood’: A new sort of knighthood . . . unknown to the world is fighting indefatigably a double fight against flesh and blood as well as against the immaterial forces of evil in the skies. Indeed, where resistance is offered to a physical enemy DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-23

220  The Military Orders Volume VIII by physical force alone, I do not deem this surprising, nor think it rare. . . . However, each time war is waged against vices or demons by the force of the mind, then I would not call this miraculous, even if it is laudable, since the world is seen to be full of monks. However, when both sorts of men gird their swords of power and don their belts of nobility, who will not consider this to be most worthy of total admiration in as much as it is clearly unusual. . . . However, the knights of Christ fight the battles of their Lord in all peace of mind, in no way fearing to sin in killing the enemy or to die at his hands, since indeed death, whether inflicted or suffered, is not tainted by crime but is marked by a large degree of glory.9 Bernard de Clairvaux’s vehement rhetoric, however, did not depict the real knights fighting in the difficult conditions of 12th-century Palestine but was meant to encourage wide support of the Order in its early stages. Notwithstanding the propagandistic value of the Templars’ image as shaped by the abbot of Clairvaux, the gap between the ideal milites Dei and the ordinary malitia seculi, would eventually become a gap between theory and practice, which dogged the Order from at least the second half of the 12th century, if not from its very inception. Guigo, Prior of the Grand Chartreuse, called attention to the challenging double battle that the Templars took upon themselves (ca.1129): It is pointless to wage war against external enemies without first overcoming internal ones. If we are unable first to subject our own bodies to our wills, then it is extremely shameful and unworthy to wish to put under our control any sort of military forces. Who could tolerate our desire to extend our domination abroad over vast tracts of land while we put up with the most ignominious servitude to vices in those minute lamps of earth that are our bodies?10 The fact that the prior asked the first Master, Hugh of Payns, to read his letter before the entire congregation perhaps hints at his doubts about whether the new monastic knights would overcome or resist their fleshly weaknesses. At the same time, however, the Latin Rule established the Templars’ commitment to obedience and stability, coupled with their devotion to the Holy Church.11 Moreover, the French Rule, written before 1187, established the social and religious behaviour expected from the new knighthood while illustrating some awareness of the delicate web of relations between them and other members of the ecclesiastical order: Each brother should strive to live honestly and to set a good example to secular people and members of other Orders in everything, in such a way that those who see him cannot notice anything bad in his behaviour, not in his riding, nor in his walking, nor in his drinking, nor in eating nor in his look, nor in any of his actions and works.12 Initially, therefore, the Templars’ rules of conduct aligned with external, mainly ecclesiastical expectations of how the new knighthood should behave. As long as

The deteriorating image of the Templars 221 this consensus persisted, one may therefore expect that so would clerical support for the Order. William of Tyre reflects the initial reactions to the new knighthood in the ecclesiastical order; he underlines the early Templars’ piety and emphasises their subordination to the Patriarch of Jerusalem, as well as their commitment to the defence of vulnerable pilgrims on their journey to the most sacred Christian shrines in the Holy Land: In the same year (1118) some noblemen of knightly rank, devoted to God, pious and God-fearing, placed themselves in the hands of the lord patriarch for the service of Christ, professing the wish to live perpetually in the manner of regular canons in chastity, and obedience, without personal belongings. . . . Their main duty . . . was that they should maintain the safety of the roads and the highways to the best of their ability, for the benefit of pilgrims in particular, against attacks of bandits and marauders.13 The Archbishop of Tyre’s positive attitude was therefore shaped, or at least influenced, by the Templars’ submission to the secular clergy and their pious defence of Christian pilgrims on their journey in the Holy Land. Michael the Syrian, the Jacobite Patriarch of Antioch, corroborated that the Templars behaved in accordance with monastic principles, a peculiar amalgam with warfare that gained them wide admiration.14 Hugo Peccator, the sinner, went much further. While acknowledging that ‘people of no wisdom’ condemned ‘carrying arms against the enemies of the faith and peace in defence of Christians’, he claimed that the Templars’ pugnacious devotion was more valuable to God than prayer and contemplation.15 Although some theologians continued to insist upon the Gospels’ injunction against violence,16 which was clearly inconsistent with the Templars’ commitment to Holy War, the emergence of warrior monks did not seem to have aroused significant opposition. In some sectors, moreover, their courage on the battlefield was not only justified but also admired.17 The wide appreciation of the early Templars is also largely confirmed by Muslim sources.18 No wonder, then, that Pope Innocent II addressed them as ‘beloved sons in the Lord . . . true Israelites and warriors most versed in holy battle . . . defenders of the Church and assailants of the enemies of Christ’ (29 March 1139).19 Papal esteem, however, was not free of political considerations. Indeed, as claimed by Jonathan Riley-Smith, the raison d’être of the Templars, as the other military orders, was to serve as an extended branch of the Apostolic See across the Mediterranean.20 A quid pro quo thus prevailed, with the knights extending the influence of the papacy in the East and the papacy, in turn, conferring its blessing on the Templars’ activities, along with extensive privileges. The delicate balance between the Apostolic See, the military orders, and Christendom at large, however, was not immune to change. The traumatic Christian defeat at the Horns of Hattin (3 July 1187) soon turned into a most critical test while acting as a watershed for the deterioration of Western attitudes towards the crusades, the Holy Land, and, eventually, the Templars, as well. Conrad of ­Montferrat – ruler of the Kingdom of Jerusalem as consort to Queen Isabella I – reported to Baldwin,

222  The Military Orders Volume VIII the Archbishop of Canterbury, on the tragic consequences of the Christian defeat at the Horns of Hattin: God has stood back as if from the defilement of our evil, and Mohammed has taken over; where Christ was prayed to day and night at the appointed hours, now Mohammed is praised with uplifted voice.21 The traditional justification of peccatis nostris exigentibus could not assuage the trauma of the crushing defeat of the Christian forces by the Muslim soldiers, and a growing sense of frustration and disillusionment began to fester. The original biblical concept of ‘a land flowing with milk and honey’ (Ex. III: 8) retreated before the ominous threat of ‘a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof’ (Num. XIII: 32). The much treasured and foreseeable Holy Land thus blatantly exposed its most dangerous threats. Thomas Agni of Lentini, papal legate and Bishop of Bethlehem, bitterly mourned the unexpected consequences of the devastating defeat for those living in Outremer, namely, the gradual dissociation of European Christendom from its brothers across the sea: We have turned a deaf ear to the tribulations suffered by the cities of the eastern regions from afar and from so near that they seemed to come from the other side of the wall. Fear and paralysis have blunted our sense and those of our children.22 Repeated military failures and the consequent growing feeling that the crusaders were no match for the armies of Islam resulted in the increasing disengagement of European Christendom from the crusaders, which Thomas condemned so strongly. The frequent fiascos further required a scapegoat, for which the Templars, on account of their privileged status and purported mythical wealth, offered a most convenient target. Moreover, since the knights’ raison d’être was to ensure the Christian victory on the battlefield, their recurring defeats could be interpreted as proof of God’s displeasure at them. It should be noted in this regard that the Templars were more vulnerable to criticism than were the other two great military orders, which enjoyed greater public favour: the Hospitallers because of their continuous charitable works in the Holy Land, and the Teutonic Knights due to their military achievements against the Baltic Prussians. On the other hand, it is rather doubtful whether the financial activities of the Templars could compensate for the disastrous military situation in Outremer. One of the first and perhaps most important source of this critical view was William of Tyre,23 who was quoted almost verbatim by Matthew Paris, one of the most influential chroniclers of 13th-century Christendom:24 They are said to have vast possessions, both on this side of the sea and beyond . . . and their property is reported to be equal to the riches of kings. . . . For a long time, they remained faithful to their noble purpose and carried out their profession wisely enough. At length, however, they began to neglect

The deteriorating image of the Templars  223 humility, the guardian of all virtues. . . . They withdrew from the patriarch of Jerusalem, from whom they had received the establishment of their Order and their first privileges, and refused him the obedience which their predecessors had shown him. To the churches of God, also they became very troublesome, for they drew away from them their tithes and first fruits and unjustly disturbed their possessions.25 John of Würzburg, a German priest who came to the Holy Land around 1165,26 John of Salisbury,27 Walter Map,28 and Jacques of Vitry,29 among others, shared similar views.30 Walter Map used the occasion to further delegitimise the Templars’ military actions, convinced that they ‘take up in defence of Christianity the sword that had been denied to Peter in the defence of Christ’.31 Clearly, the knights’ exemption from episcopal patronage and their discharge from the tithe, coupled with their defeats in the battlefield, became a source of resentment on the part of the clergy, with the Patriarch of Jerusalem leading the charge. As time went by, the Templars’ alleged failure to uphold their monastic vows left its mark on popular idioms, such as ‘to drink like a Templar’, ‘to swear like a Templar’, or worse still, the German appellation of Tempelhaus for brothel, because of the knights’ supposed predilection for womanising.32 Matthew Paris further reminds his readers of the ‘ancient infamy’ of the Templars, accusing them of futilely prolonging the war against the Saracens only to fill their coffers at the expense of defenceless pilgrims.33 It was further said that when King Henry III of England was reprimanded for his behaviour, he claimed in his defence that he had followed the Templars’ example.34 The knights were further criticised for their pride, avarice, simony, never-ending struggles with other military orders, and for prioritising their Order’s interests above those of the Holy Land.35 No wonder, therefore, that no Templar was ever canonised and only four brothers were ordained to bishoprics, mostly in areas under the Order’s rule.36 As Christendom soured towards the Templars, the knights increasingly came to rely on papal support to defend themselves against not only the Saracens but the very faithful whose safety the Order was originally established to defend. Thus, Pope Honorius III found it necessary to remind his flock in Sicily of the knights’ meritorious role (24 November 1218): Indeed, we do not believe that you are all unaware of the fact that since the beloved . . . brothers of the knighthood of the Temple have up until now had a special status among other Christians throughout the world, and still are the defenders of the orthodox faith, their hearts are so fired with the flame of the Holy Spirit that not only do they continually fight the Lord’s battles for which they will receive the crown of martyrdom.37 Papal appeals of this kind were not exceptional. Pope Alexander III had already issued a bull prohibiting people from pulling Templars off their horses, treating them dishonestly, or abusing them.38

224  The Military Orders Volume VIII Notwithstanding sporadic attacks, the Templars’ aura of heroism persisted across the 13th century and sometimes even increased.39 Their participation in the Damietta campaign (May 1218 to September 1220), for example, contributed to establishing an almost mythical image of the knights. Hugh, Lord of Berze, declared that the Templars ‘give up their bodies in martyrdom and defend the sweet land where the Lord died and lived’.40 Matthew Paris used the occasion to confer on the knights both the mythical image of the biblical Samson and the honour of martyrdom reserved for Christian champions.41 The Templars’ mythical image inspired contemporary epic texts praising the Order,42 such as the Cistercian Queste,43 Parzifal,44 the Nouvelle complainte d’outre-mer,45 and the Speculum Stultorum.46 One may therefore conclude that prior to the Templars’ arrest in France in 1307, the condemnation of the knights was neither universal nor decisive. Their reputation as the courageous milites Christi persisted and continued to be voiced by supporters and detractors alike. Moreover, notwithstanding sporadic disagreements, the Apostolic See proved itself the most devoted defender of the Order against the many accusations of misconduct from both the clergy and the laity.47 This complex and ambiguous situation was the background of the Templars’ unexpected arrest in the Kingdom of France: In the early hours of the morning, on Friday, October  13, a strange event occurred, the likes of which have never been heard since ancient times. The Grand Master of the Temple . . . was arrested in the Temple of Paris and, on the same day, all Templars in France were suddenly arrested and incarcerated in various prisons.48 The testimony of John of St Victor faithfully reflects the wide-ranging astonishment following the royal detention of the Knights Templar.49 It further hints at the ambiguous reactions of contemporaries to the continuous Capetian aggressive policy against an ecclesiastical, exempt organisation.50 Indeed, the arrest of the Templars came only four years after the Capetian attack on Pope Boniface VIII at Anagni.51 This time, moreover, it did not occur in some far-flung village in the Italian peninsula, but in the heart of the Ile de France and, in parallel, throughout the Capetian Kingdom. At this critical stage, Capetian propaganda performed a reductio ad unum that cast the Templars as the main and perhaps the only cause of the downfall of the Crusader Kingdom sixteen years earlier. Once again, Philip the Fair returned to his former, cherished role of advocatus ecclesiae, this time vis-à-vis a weak Pope, who chose to condemn the apostolic curia to wanderings across the Languedoc.52 Gervais du Bus, a Norman clerk in the Capetian court, expressed the Church’s disappointment in light of the Templars’ alleged treason: The Templars, whom I (the Church) loved so much And had so much privileged Had despised and committed felony against me.53

The deteriorating image of the Templars  225 Denunciations of treachery and cowardice sweepingly replaced the martyrological fervour attributed to the Templars over generations. In a meeting with Pope Clement V at Poitiers (May 1308), William of Plaisians, the senior adviser to Philip the Fair, further contended, ‘because of their many vices we lost the Holy Land since, as is well known, they made secret agreements with the Moslems’.54 The Templars’ fictional lack of Christian zeal acquired the weight of fact during their prolonged trial, when Philip the Fair’s representatives looked for any scrap of evidence that might corroborate the accusations of heresy, a charge that had never been levelled against the Templars before their arrest in France. The pact between the Rex Christianissimus and the Summus Pontifex did not enjoy universal support outside of France, notwithstanding the former criticism of the knights’ many vices and the political pressure exerted by Philip the Fair. Even in the ecclesiastical ranks, some members reacted with suspicion, if not antagonism, to the charges of heresy, as voiced at the Council of Vienne.55 From a later perspective, the English writer William Langland convincingly solved the paradox between the clergy’s former antagonism to the knights and its hesitancy, if not open disgust, about acquiescing to papal and royal pressure, ‘as a time is approaching when men of the Holy Church would share the Templars’ fate’.56 It seems, therefore, that the clergy’s unexpected support of the Order was not motivated by any particular belief in the Templars’ innocence nor by their support of the military orders, but by fears that this unparalleled royal move against traditional ecclesiastical privileges – first and foremost its complete immunity from secular courts – might create an unwelcome precedent. Indeed, different concerns, if not interests, shaped the otherwise surprising reactions against the abolition of the Templar Order. The hesitant policy of Edward II towards the knights, coupled with his suspicions regarding his father-in-law’s true motives,57 hints at the contemporaries’ distrust in the unholy agreement between Pope Clement V and the Most Christian King. As to the reactions of the ecclesiastical order in the Kingdom of England, it is noteworthy that the Council of York (1311) was ultimately satisfied with the Templars’ pledge of innocence under oath, after exhaustive deliberations.58 Chroniclers from the Holy Roman Empire and the Italian Peninsula, outside of the Capetian sphere of influence, were at the forefront of the opposition to the Temple’s suppression. Most authors regarded the agreement between Pope Clement and Philip the Fair as a blow to justice to satisfy the endless ambition of the Capetian king.59 De laude novae militiae inspired Johann von Vitring to reproach the pope by echoing Patriarch Abraham’s grievance to the Almighty: ‘Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?’ (Gen. xviii: 23).60 Dante Alighieri labelled Philip IV as a new Pilate and cautioned that the dissolution of the Order would eventually bring about the destruction of Christendom.61 The burning of the Templar leaders in Paris ultimately brought about the popular worship of their remains as holy relics.62 When the Black Death struck Europe, it was deemed as divine retribution for the iniquity of suppressing the Templar Order.63 The paradox between conflicting images and expectations thus ultimately gave rise to new myths,64 with the knights continuing to be active and remaining a topic of interest to this very day.

226  The Military Orders Volume VIII One may therefore conclude that the deteriorating image of the Templars was the result of a combination of factors, namely, Christendom’s worsening attitude to the crusaders and the Holy Land following the defeat at Hattin, and the Order’s declining image if not status throughout the 13th century. However, the same political factors that resulted in the Order’s dissolution, paradoxically, brought about the clergy’s support of the knights because of the far-reaching consequences of the close alliance between the Rex Christianissimus and the Summus pontifex. Notes 1 J. Riley-Smith, The Knights of St. John in Jerusalem and Cyprus, 1050–1310 (London, 1967), pp.201–2, 385–89. 2 J. Prawer, ‘Military Orders and Crusader Politics in the Second Half of the Thirteenth Century’, in Die geistlichen Ritterorden Europas, ed. Josef Fleckenstein and Manfred Hellman (Sigmaringen, 1980), pp.227–28. 3 A.J. Forey, ‘The Emergence of the Military Order in the Twelfth Century’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 36.2 (1985), pp.191–94. 4 S. Schein, Fidelis Crucis: The Papacy, the West, and the Recovery of the Holy Land 1274–1314 (Oxford, 1991), pp.97, 130–31, 153, 220–21, 243, 259. 5 M. Barber, ‘The Social Context of the Templars’, in Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th series, 34 (1984), pp.31, 37, 39. Compare with A.J. Forey, ‘How the Aragonese Templars Viewed Themselves in the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries’, Ordines Militares: Colloquia Torunensia Historica, 13 (2005), pp.59–68. 6 The French nobility’s support of the Templars was notable during their trial, notwithstanding royal pressure. See S. Menache, ‘Contemporary Attitudes Concerning the Templars’ Affair: Propaganda Fiasco?’, Journal of Medieval History, 8 (1982), p.142. 7 Helen J. Nicholson rightly specified, ‘The most savage criticism of the Military Orders came from the regular rather than from the secular clergy’. H.J. Nicholson, ‘Images of the Military Orders, 1128–1291: Spiritual, Secular, Romantic’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Leicester, 1989a), p.125. 8 Jean de St Victor, Prima Vita, in Vitae Paparum Avenionensium hoc est historia pontificum romanorum . . . ab anno Christi 1305 usque ad annum 1394, ed. Etienne Baluze, new edn, Guillaume Mollat, 4 vols (Paris 1916–28), vol. 1 (Paris, 1916a), pp.8–9; E. Baluze, Notae ad vitas Notae ad vitas paparum Avenionensium, ed. E. Baluze (Paris, 1927b), in Vitae, vol. 2, pp.52–55. 9 Liber ad milites Templi de laude novae militiae, in S. Bernardi Opera, vol. 3, ed. J. Leclercq and H.M. Rochais (Rome, 1963), pp.205–08. Trans. M. Barber and K. Bates, The Templars: Selected Sources Translated and Annotated (Manchester, 2002a), pp.216–19. 10 Lettres des premiers Chartreux, vol. 1, Bruno, Guiges, S. Anthelme, Sources Chretiennes 118 (Paris, 1966), p.154. Trans. M. Barber and K. Bates (2002a), pp.213–15. 11 Regular pauperum commilitonum Christi Templique Salomonici, ed. S. Cerrini, Corpus Christianorum. Continuatio Medievalis. Trans. Barber and Bates (2002a), pp.34, 43–44. Simonetta Cerrini, ‘A New Edition of the Latin and French Rule of the Temple’, in MO 2, pp.207–15. 12 La Règle du Temple, ed. H. de Curson, Société de l’histoire de France (Paris, 1886), pp.195–296. Trans. Barber and Bates (2002a), p.117. 13 WT 12. 7, pp.553–55. Trans. Barber and Bate (2002a), pp.25–26. Friedrich Lundgreen, Wilhelm von Tyrus und der Templerorden (Berlin, 1911), p.1179 and passim; see, also, P. Edbury and J.G. Rowe, William of Tyre, Historian of the Latin East (Cambridge, 1988), pp.123–26.

The deteriorating image of the Templars  227 14 Chronique de Michel Le Syrien. Patriarche Jacobite d’Antioche (1160–99), ed. and trans. J.B. Chabot, vol. 3 (Paris, 1905), 15.11, pp.201–02. Trans. Barber and Bate (2002a), p.27. 15 Hugo Peccator, in Barber and Bate (2002a), pp.55–59. 16 H.J. Nicholson, The Knights Templar (Leeds, 2021), pp.21–26. 17 M. Bennet, ‘La Règle du Temple as a Military Manual or How to Deliver a Cavalry Charge’, in The Rule of the Templars: The French Text of the Rule of the Order of the Knights Templar (Woodbridge, 1992), pp.182, 187. 18 RHC Occ, vol. 4, pp.246–47; J. Prawer, A History of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 2 vols (Jerusalem, 1963) [Hebrew], vol. 1, pp.509, 529–30. Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani (1125–1201), secretary of Saladin, accompanied his master’s victories over the Crusaders with rhetorical observations, such as ‘What evils he cures in harming a Templar!’. See Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani, Conquete de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin, trans. H. Masse (Paris, 1972), p.31 et passim. 19 ‘Omne datum optimum’, CT, no. 5, pp.375–79. 20 Riley-Smith (1967), pp.201–02, 385–89. 21 Ralph of Diceto, Opera Historica, in Chronicles and Memorials of the Reign of Richard I, R.S., ed. W. Stubbs, 2 vols (London, 1865), vol. 2, pp.60–62. Trans. P.W. Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade: Sources in Translation (Aldershot, 1998), pp.168–69. 22 Menkonis Chronicon, ed. L. Weiland, MGH SS, vol. 23 (Hanover, 1874), p.547. Trans. M. Barber and K. Bate, Letters from the East: Crusaders, Pilgrims and Settlers in the 12th–13th Centuries (London, 2013b), pp.153–54. 23 WT, 12. 7, pp.553–55. P. Edbury and J.G. Rowe, William of Tyre, Historian of the Latin East (Cambridge, 1988), pp.123–26. 24 R. Vaughan, The Illustrated Chronicles of Matthew Paris: Observations of Thirteenth-Century Life (Cambridge, 1993), p.x; B. Smalley, Historians in the Middle Ages (New York, 1974), p.161; Arthur L. Smith, Church and State in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1913), p.168. 25 Chronica Majora, ed. H. Luard, RS, 7 vols (London, 1872–1883), vol. 2, pp.144–45. 26 ‘Description of the Holy Land by John of Wurzburg’, PPTS, ed. E. Tobler, vol. 5 (New York, 1974), p.21; Annales Herbipolenses, ed. G. Pertz, MGH SS, vol. xxvi, p.7. 27 John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 7. 21, ed. C. Webb, 2 vols (Oxford, 1909), vol. 2, pp.198–201. 28 Walter Map, De nugis curialium, 19, 20, 23, ed. M.R. James (Oxford, 1914), pp.29–31, 34–35. F. Seibt, ‘Die Schrift De nugis curialium: Studien zum Welbild und zur geistigen Personlichkeit Walter Maps’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Munich Universität, 1952), pp.36–37. 29 Jacques de Vitry, ‘Sermo 37, ‘ad fratres ordinis militaris’, in Sermones Vulgares, Analecta novissima: Spicilegii Solesmensis altera continuatio, ed. J.B. Pitra, 2 vols (Paris, 1888), vol. 2, pp.409–11, 419. 30 See for instance Continuatio Weichardi de Polhaim, MGH SS, vol. 11, p.813; Eberhard of Regensburg, Annales, MGH SS, vol. 17, p.594; Ptolemy of Lucca, Die Annalen, ed. B. Schmeidler, MGH SRG, vol. 8 (Berlin, 1955); John Elemosina, ‘Liber historiarum’, in Bibliotheca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente francescano, ed. G. Golubovich (Quaracchi, 1906–27), vol. 2, p.109; Bartholomew of Neocastro, Historia Sicula, RIS, n.s., ed. G. Carducci et al., vol. 13, p.131. 31 Walter Map, De nugis curialium, I, 18–20, pp.27–31. 32 Gontiers de Soignies: il canzoniere, ed. L. Fornisano (Milan and Naples, 1980), lines 63–64; Li romans de Claris et Laris, ed. J. Alton (Tübingen, 1884), lines 9863–71; Antoine Le Roux de Lincy, Le livre des proverbs français (Paris, 1859), 2 vols, vol. 1, pp.54–55. 33 Chronica Majora, vol. 4, p.291.

228  The Military Orders Volume VIII 34 Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. W. Stubbs, 4 vols, R.S. 57 (London, 1871), vol. IV, pp.76–77; Chronica Majora, V, p.339. 35 H.J. Nicholson, Templars, Hospitallers and Teutonic Knights: Images of the Military Orders, 1128–1291 (Leicester, 1993), pp.25–34, 41–48. 36 Nicholson (1989a), pp.187, 281–84. 37 CH, vol. 2, p.253. Trans. Barber and Bates (2002a), p.231. 38 Malteser Urkunden und Regesten zur Geschichte der Templeherren und der Johanniter, ed. H. Prutz (Munich, 1883), no. 4, p.38. Prutz recorded twenty-one renewals of the papal document. 39 Chronica Majora, vol. 2, pp.327, 529–30; vol. 3, p.14, 44, 49; vol. 4, pp.197, 304–05, 310–11; vol. 5, p.108. 40 La ‘Bible’ au seigneur de Berze, ed. F. Lecoy (Paris, 1938), lines 261–93. 41 Cronica Majora, vol. 3, pp.44, 49. 42 Nicholson (1989a), pp.189 ff. 43 The Quest of the Holy Grail, trans. P.M. Matarasso (Baltimore, 1969), p.20. 44 H. Adolf, Visio pacis: Holy City and Grail (Philadelphia, 1960), p.72. 45 Onze poèmes de Riteubef concernant la croisade, ed. J. Bastin and E. Faral (Paris, 1946), p.129. 46 Le Roux de Lincy (1859), vol. 1, pp.54–55. 47 S. Menache, ‘The Relationship between the Templar Order and the Holy See’ (Unpublished M.A. dissertation, University of Haifa, 1973), passim. 48 Jean de St Victor (1916a), pp.8–9. 49 The trial of the Templars and the political balance between King Philip the Fair and Pope Clement V has attracted the attention of historians throughout generations. See the pioneering research of M. Barber, The Trial of the Templars (Cambridge, 1978); M. Barber, The New Knighthood: A History of the Order of the Temple (Cambridge, 1994), pp.280–313 and S. Menache, Clement V (Cambridge, 1998), pp.205–46. 50 According to J. Théry, ‘the suppression of the Templars’ heresy was an important moment for the rise of French royal absolutism, which initially took the form of a royal theocracy’. It was a crucial step ‘in the transformation of the kingdom into a united and autonomous entity in the form of an indissoluble political and religious community, cemented by a Christian faith whose guarantor was the king’. See, J. Théry, ‘A Heresy of State: Philip the Fair, the Trial of the “Perfidious Templars”, and the Pontificalization of the French Monarchy’, Journal of Religious Cultures, 39.2 (2013), pp.135–37. 51 J. Théry, ‘Pourquoi le roi de France Philippe le Bel a-t-il attaqué l’ordre du Temple? Une Nouvelle Aliance’, in Gli Ordine di Terra Santa, ed. A. Baudin, S. Merli, and M. Santanicchia (Perugia, 2021), pp.333–47; E.A.B. Brown, ‘The Excommunication of Guillaume de Nogaret, Letamur in te, and the Destruction of the Templars’, Gli Ordine di Terra Santa (2021), pp.349–417. 52 Clement’s pontificate heralds the beginning of the papal exile from Rome (1305–1374), which during his successor’s reign finally settled in Avignon. See, Menache (1998), pp.23–30. 53 Gervais du Bus, Le Roman de Fauvel, ed. A. Langfors (Paris, 1914), p.38. 54 Papsttum und Untergang des Templerordens, ed. H. Finke, 2 vols (Münster, 1907), vol. 2, pp.139–45. 55 Menache (1982), pp.135–47. 56 ‘Bothe riche and religious, ƥat Rode ƥei honoure, Hat in grotes is ygraue and in golde nobles, For coneityse of ƥat crosse, men of holykirke Shul tourney as templeres did, ƥe tyme approcheth faste’. W. Langland, The Vision of William concerning Piers Plowman, text B, passus XV, ed. W. Skeat, Early English Text Society (Oxford, 1869), p.282.

The deteriorating image of the Templars 229 57 Foedera, Conventiones, Litterae et cujuscunque generis acta publica . . ., ed. T. Rymer (London, 1739), vol. 2, pp.94–95, 100; Gesta Edwardi de Carnavan, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. W. Stubbs, R.S., 2 vols (London, 1882), vol. 2, p.32. 58 Councils and Other Documents Relating to the English Church, ed. E. Powicke and C. Cheney, 2 vols (Oxford, 1964), vol. 2, pp.1277–88; Walter of Hemingburgh, Chronicon, ed. H. Hamilton, English Historical Society, 2 vols (London, 1848), vol. 1, p.395. 59 Papsttum und Untergang des Templerordens (1907), p.245; Vitae (1693), vol. 2, p.590; Cronaca Senese aggribuita ad Agnolo di Tura del Grasso detta la Cronaca Maggiora, in RIS, vol. 11–6 (Bologna, 1939), p.299. 60 Iohannes Victoriensis, in Fontes Rerum Germanicarum, ed. J. Böhmer, 4 vols (Stüttgart, 1843), vol. 1, pp.369–70. 61 Dante Alighieri, Divina Comedia, Purgatorio, 25, ed. L. Magugliani (Milan, 1949), pp.91–93. 62 Agnolo di Tura, p.300; Annales Hibernie, in Cartulaires of St. Mary’s Abbey, ed. J. Gilbert, RS, 2 vols (London, 1885), vol. 2, p.341. 63 Storie Pistoresi (1300–1348), ed. Adrasto Barbi, in RIS, vol. 11–1 (Città di Castello, 1927), p.224. 64 Nicholson (2021), pp.84–90.

20 The Hospitallers in a wider world Victor Mallia-Milanes

The Hospitallers’ gradual evolution from a purely charitable institution to a religious-military order lay in the logic of history. Ever since the early 1070s, over two decades before Jerusalem fell in Christian hands as a result of the First Crusade, they had been professing ‘absolute commitment’ to all the ‘holy poor’, without discrimination, offering them ‘refuge and infirmary’. To pilgrims visiting the holy shrines and arriving in a wretched state, they extended hospitality and excellent caring treatment.1 From this original mission, they were progressively involved, as it has been pointed out, first in the acquisition and protection of these places, and then in the defence and administration of the strongly fortified Latin Kingdom.2 The crusade, with its ‘powerful religious impulses’, along with its other ‘expansionist and commercial interests’,3 determined and confirmed the essentially intrinsic character of the Order of the Hospital – religious, charitable, military, and secular. It was with this nobly cultivated personality that the Hospitallers, along with the other military orders, were permanently thrust out of their restricted geophysical confines of the Latin Kingdom in 1291 and forced into the cold and political wilderness of a far wider world. By this time the Hospital had grown into an exempt, privileged, and wealthy institution, owning massive landed estates throughout Latin Europe.4 The atrocious disaster at Acre shattered the Hospitallers’ morale, thrust them into a major crisis of identity, and deprived them of their Syrian possessions and revenue.5 They retired insecurely to Limassol on Cyprus. ‘For the next few years’, remarks Jonathan Riley-Smith,6 ‘the Order was divided and adrift’, dominated by ‘self-doubt, dissension and rebellion’,7 and the urgent need of internal reform. Opinion in Europe turned against them. Were they still capable of successfully confronting the enemy of the faith? To the covetous eyes of Western patrons, their widespread possessions appeared too irresistibly enticing. These were, in brief, the problems which the Hospitallers had to face on being driven out of Acre, problems which impaired their institution’s international reputation and seriously threatened its very survival. In history, however, crises often constitute a determining force of radical change, for better or for worse. This is true of the chequered history of the Hospitallers. The catastrophe of 1291 was one such. And so was the loss of Rhodes in 1523 and the subsequent eight-year odyssey without a permanent home. The same may be claimed for 1551. The devastation of Gozo and the loss of Hospitaller DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-24

The Hospitallers in a wider world  231 Tripoli that year determined the building of new forts on Malta, dictated the need to strengthen the existing ones, and contributed considerably towards the successful defence of the island against the Ottoman siege of 1565. Similar changes were brought by the loss of Malta in 1798. In the long term, the Hospital that we encounter after each of these disasters, devastated and discredited though it was on each occasion, was a different and more consolidated institution. The fact that it survived these enormous shocks without the need of any modifications to its original statutory structures showed the institution’s extraordinary strength and resilience. In the early years of the 14th century, the conquest of Rhodes and the adjacent Dodecanese islands, however unscrupulously manipulated by Master Foulques de Villaret, was a clever move in more than one sense.8 In the first place, it saved the Hospital; then, after 1312, in part as a result of this achievement, the Hospital inherited most of the wealthier lands of the suppressed Templars;9 and, third, it set the institution on the steady road to political independence, autonomy, and sovereignty, turning the Order State it had created in the Dodecanese into a near principality.10 Once taken, Rhodes was converted into a ‘great fortress which probably had the most elaborate and skilfully contrived defence system in the world’.11 The island’s strategic position, its geographical proximity to Ottoman Anatolia, and the Order’s determination to resume its military responsibilities to confront the Turks are evidenced in their first two victories over the Turkish fleet, first at Menteshe12 and then Aydin,13 which placed the Hospitallers on the way to regain their lost reputation and their international position by satisfying the highly demanding and constraining Western expectations. Both victories underscored their commitment to re-establish themselves ‘at the forefront of crusading activities’.14 If security was the first and most pressing concern, their ‘mission of mercy’15 retained its central position in their institution’s scale of values. Within a decade of their new settlement, a great hospital was built,16 a visual and vociferous symbol of continuity. The new home soon began to attract not only professed members of the institution but also settlers from Latin Europe and Greeks, not least, according to Anthony Luttrell, because of the introduction of new agricultural policies and practices.17 Over the next few decades, society there became stable, rich, and, above all, secure.18 Rhodes’s insularity dictated two other urgent developments which would grow into permanent characteristics of the institution and become even more pronounced after 1530 when it settled on another island, this time on central-Mediterranean Malta. On the one hand, there was the pressing exigency for the Order to assume a new role, that of a naval and maritime power; on the other, the institution’s compelling need to integrate solidly with the wider world. The Order achieved the first shortly after it had settled on Rhodes, although it had owned ships long before the early 14th century.19 The Order’s enduring relationship with the wider Latin world may be approached through the intricate web of contacts and communication that it gradually forged over the years.20 It was a complex process of creating, expanding, and consolidating contacts within ever-widening circles of influence, without compromising ‘the complexity of their political allegiances and loyalties’.21 The first of such networks, in fact, predates Rhodes. Since the First Crusade, the Order had never been

232  The Military Orders Volume VIII confined entirely to within the walls of the Latin Kingdom. Throughout western Europe, the Hospitallers not only owned vast landed estates on which several of them lived along with the native inhabitants; they also enjoyed rights and privileges there. Since 1113 these Hospitaller colonies – its priories and preceptories – were exempt of secular and episcopal jurisdiction. After the loss of its Syrian resources, the Order’s survival depended totally on these estates, whose privileged character in turn depended ultimately on the goodwill of the kingdoms and principalities where they lay. The revenue that these European estates yielded in the form of responsiones financed all the Order’s activities. In exchange for their patronage, the increasingly war-oriented Hospitaller institution created of Latin Europe a new ‘holy land’, to which it extended defence against both the enemy of the faith and the tyranny of disease, in particular the frequent manifestation of the deadly plague. The exigencies of the Order State on both Rhodes and Malta determined another extensive network, this time of diverse economic activities – with mariners and corsairs, merchants and pirates, bankers and traders from various points in the entire Mediterranean. All were offered access to attractive, indispensable, and wide-ranging facilities, including a very efficient quarantine system, free hospitalisation, spacious store magazines for trans-shipment, an international slave and ransom market,22 a commercial tribunal (the Consolato del Mare), interpreters, shipbuilding, ship repair, other arsenal services, and a host of other forms of assistance. Trade determined cross-confessional relationships and wide diplomatic interactions.23 From the moment the Order had left Rhodes on 1 January  1523, its attitude around certain old practices shifted considerably. There was a marked departure from certain traditional policies and methods, a departure which helped integrate further the institution with the rest of Europe and the Mediterranean. Nowhere perhaps is this more evident than in its extensive diplomatic and consular network. What factors were instrumental for this change of direction? Did Grand Master Philippe Villiers de l’Isle Adam’s long eight-year odyssey (1523–1530) in search of acceptable conditions for a permanent home and his first-hand acquaintance with the royal courts of Europe inspire new perspectives that challenged some of the institution’s Rhodian practices? Unlike the situation on Rhodes, the island Order State on Malta held resident ambassadors or ministers in most of the major courts in Christian Europe. And when there was none, as, for example, in the Venetian Republic, the Hospitaller receiver, a Treasury official resident on every priory to look after the revenue it yielded, acted as such. Likewise, the evolution of early modern Malta’s consular system appears to have been what I have elsewhere defined as ‘a symptom of the metamorphosis the Order itself’ experienced since its eviction from Rhodes.24 Late medieval Malta had a handful of consulates set up at some Sicilian port cities and at the odd Spanish one; a Catalan consul was similarly accredited to Malta in the 1470s.25 Maltese consulates ramified rapidly, fanning out across every corner of the Mediterranean; by the 18th century they numbered over 110.26 The Maltese consul, like all consuls in early modern times, was, in theory, a commercial agent. In practice, the role he performed was far wider than that. He

The Hospitallers in a wider world  233 was expected to deal with nearly everything that pertained to the Order and Malta at that port and the surrounding area. He promoted Malta’s trade and helped Maltese merchants and sailors in all their needs. He tapped new markets and other new sources of supply. He obtained strategic information on the movements of the Ottoman fleet, and knowledge on current developments, like outbreaks of the plague, and had it transmitted to the grand master’s court in Valletta. Consulates were new contacts, points of reference, and centres of help in cases of difficulty and distress. Above all, they stimulated integration for the benefit of all. Trade provided a total indispensable relaxation which blurred the decisive differences of language, faith, and cultural peculiarities. Commercial relationships in the early modern Mediterranean knew no borders, no frontiers, no peculiarities. Early modern Malta’s consular network in turn encouraged foreign merchants from over twenty-two states to seek similar facilities on the island.27 This practice was not allowed on Rhodes. In the latter’s own strange way, no head of any sovereign state, other than the papacy, could accredit an ambassador to the grand master’s court, or indeed a consul, on either Rhodes or Malta. The principle of reciprocity just did not apply on either island. In Malta, this idiosyncratic and absurd system was slightly modified. At long last, the Order had begun to see the light of the wider world. With the sole exception of the inquisitor/nuncio, all foreign ministers resident on Hospitaller Malta had to be high-ranking members of the Order. That made them answerable only to the grand master. At the same time, those who acted as consuls for foreign cities on the island were the grand master’s own nominees. No one, again, other than the inquisitor/nuncio was allowed any modicum of diplomatic immunity on early modern Malta.28 Did this reflect a sense of insecurity on the part of the island Order State? Why was the magistracy so reluctant to relinquish a tiny fraction of its princely sovereignty? The answer could possibly be found in Malta’s highly restricted physical extent, a small population which hardly ever reached the 90, 000 mark and, ironically, three distinct, independent jurisdictions – the local Church’s, the Inquisition’s, and the Magistracy’s. These could have possibly been determinant factors. Whatever the explanation, it was this impressive diplomatic-consular network, notwithstanding its flaws and shortcomings, which firmly integrated, in an uncompromising way, the Hospital on Malta with the rest of Europe and the Mediterranean. There was yet another major Hospitaller network which consolidated the significant, at times decisive, role the Order played in the wider world with great conviction. This network may be termed the Mediterranean theatre of war or counter currents. In the longue durée, close contacts, encounters, exchanges, and economic, commercial, and technological interactions that the Hospitallers shared with the Mediterranean world failed to bring conflict to an end. These clashes were motivated by political and ideological concerns, religious rivalry, language, culture, or indeed inspired by the lure of potential territorial gains. Confrontation persisted in the inland sea, both in formal war and in the war of pirates and corsairs. The Hospitallers were widely engaged in this ‘clash of civilisations’ under both forms. This was evidenced in their regular statutory excursions to the eastern regions of the Middle Sea or along the North African coast; in their consistent participation

234  The Military Orders Volume VIII in Holy Leagues and the Habsburgs’ allied hostile expeditions; and in the island’s conversion into a renowned base for Christian corsairs. From the moment they had settled on Malta, their performance in this war theatre dispatched, in very clear language, two unequivocal messages. The first was addressed directly to the Ottoman Porte and to the rest of the Muslim world. The Hospitallers’ expulsion from Rhodes had failed to change their unshaken determination to defy Islam by one single iota. In 1531 they sacked the island of Modon. The next year, they participated in the successful allied expedition to Coron, soon to be followed by those to Tunis, Preveza, and Algiers. The list can be stretched indefinitely. The siege of 1565 was in fact the Ottoman Empire’s clear admission of the pervasive and profound impact caused by the hostile performance of these ‘corsairs parading crosses’.29 Sultan Suleyman must have regretted his strategically faulty decision to allow the Hospitallers to sail out of Rhodes in full freedom. Whatever the Sultan’s political philosophy and strategic perspectives, and notwithstanding the enormous difficulties that the homeless Order faced on 1 January 1523, the Hospitallers were left free to act and react. It was, in fact, their successful hostile performance that ultimately caused the Ottoman siege of their Conventual headquarters. The besiegers’ objective in 1565 does not appear to have been the capture and occupation of Malta, as Carla Keyvanian claims,30 but to wipe the Hospital off the face of the earth.31 The second message, addressed to their patrons and the rest of the Christian world, underscored their institution’s commitment both to its original beliefs (to love the sick, the weak, the poor, and the roofless) and to its resolve to employ all its military capabilities in their defence against the enemy of the faith. It was vital for the survival of the Hospital to spell out its political relevance; it was synonymous to shielding its ownership of massive, landed estates on their territory. Over the grand sweep of history, from the loss of Acre to the loss of Malta, the Hospital’s record was an unrelenting exercise to integrate with the wider world, a complete immersion in all the spheres of activity in Christian Europe and the Mediterranean. At no stage were the several depressing difficulties it encountered, the flaws, the stressful and devastating experiences, along perhaps with minor or temporary diversions, profoundly instrumental in bringing about a weakening of its traditional role. Through sheer determination, the Hospital remained faithful to its two fundamental precepts – charity32 and war – however great the concessions the wider world and the ever-changing society in which the Hospitallers lived had succeeded in unavoidably and forcefully extracting from the institution.33 However, two observations need to be made here. First, it is historically inaccurate to attribute the loss of Malta to the Order’s so-called decline in the 18th century. The claim relies on frail, too frail, foundations – even though perhaps, over the years, it has been refined and rendered more eloquent. Second, attributing the loss of the Mediterranean island to this decline is an even greater myth, however confident its adherents may sound. In 1798, the fall of the powerful Order State of Malta was the direct result of the degenerating economic impact the great French Revolution had had on it. The three wealthiest Hospitaller langues (Provence, France, and Auvergne) were the first to be suppressed and confiscated. When, in 1792, the

The Hospitallers in a wider world  235 revolutionary armies moved beyond the French borders, similar measures were taken in other kingdoms and principalities. On 20 April 1792, France declared war on Austria. Between 19 and 22 September that year, the loi spoliateur nationalised all Hospitaller estates in France; the French monarchy, the Order’s most powerful patron and protector, was abolished, and France was declared a Republic. On 22 October the National Convention decreed the end of the Order in France.34 Within a decade of its outbreak, the revolution succeeded in debilitating the Hospitaller institution, rendering it too fragile to offer any military resistance to Napoleon’s invading armies.35 It was one other temporary crisis in the long evolutionary process of the Hospital. Admittedly, both stands – the Order’s decline and what lay behind the fall of Hospitaller Malta – clash with the prevailing view. Only access to new archival documentation, clear and convincing, can open up possibilities for a new interpretation, for an entirely different perspective on the issue. Notes 1 J. Riley-Smith, The Knights Hospitaller in the Levant, c.1070–1309 (London, 2012), p.22. See also B. Martin, ‘Il beato Gerardo e i primi anni dell’Ospedale’, Studi Melitensi, xxviii (2020), pp.9–54. 2 A. Luttrell, ‘The Hospitallers of Rhodes Confront the Turks’, in The Hospitallers of Rhodes and their Mediterranean World, ed. A. Luttrell (Aldershot, 1992), p.81. A. Luttrell, ‘Gli Ospitalieri di San Giovanni di Gerusalemme dal continente alle isole’, in The Hospitaller State on Rhodes and its Western Provinces, 1306–1462, ed. A. Luttrell (Aldershot, 1999), ch. II, pp.75–91. 3 Luttrell (1992), p.81. 4 Luttrell (1992), p.82. 5 Luttrell (1992), p.83. 6 Riley-Smith (2012), p.215. 7 Riley-Smith (2012), p.218. 8 On Foulques de Villaret, see Luttrell (1992), ch. IV, pp.73– 90. 9 Luttrell (1992), ch. IV, pp.85–86. 10 See, for example, Luttrell (1992), ch. XVIII, p.4. On the Order State, A. Luttrell, ‘The Island Order State on Rhodes’, in Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798, ed. E. Buttigieg and S. Phillips (Farnham, 2013), pp.19–28. 11 K.M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571) (Philadelphia, 1984), vol. iii, p.207. Luttrell (1992), ch. V, p.273. 12 Luttrell (1992), ch. IV, p.80; ch. XIX, p.147. 13 Luttrell (1992), ch. II, pp.80–81, 89–92, 94, 96, 101; Luttrell (1992), ch. XIX, p.147. 14 See M. Carr, ‘The Hospitallers of Rhodes and their Alliances against the Turks, 1306–1348’, in Islands and Military Orders, c.1291–c.1798, ed. E. Buttigieg and S. Phillips (Farnham, 2013), pp.167–76. 15 Riley-Smith (2012), p.229. A ‘magnificent new hospital’ was built in 1440. 16 Luttrell (1992), ch. V, p.274. 17 Luttrell (1992), ch. V, p.273. 18 Luttrell (1992), ch. V, p.276. 19 See, for example, D. Jacoby, ‘Hospitaller Ships and Transportation across the Mediterranean’, in The Hospitallers, the Mediterranean and Europe. Festschrift for Anthony Luttrell, ed. K. Borchardt et al. (Aldershot, 2007), pp.57–72; A. Luttrell, ‘The Earliest Documents on the Hospitaller Corso at Rhodes: 1413 and 1416’, in Luttrell (1992), ch. VIII. 20 See, for example, Luttrell (1992), ch. XIX, pp.138–39.

236  The Military Orders Volume VIII 21 M. Fusaro, C. Haywood, and M.S. Omri, ed., Trade and Cultural Exchange in the Early Modern Mediterranean: Braudel’s Maritime Legacy (London, 2010), p.18. 22 D. Abulafia, The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean (London, 2011), pp.435–36. 23 See, for example, M. van Gelder and T. Kristić, ‘Introduction: Cross-Confessional Diplomacy and Diplomatic Intermediaries in the Early Modern Mediterranean’, Journal of Early Modern History, xix (2015), pp.93–105. 24 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Order of the Hospital, the Maltese Consul, and the Early Modern Mediterranean 1530–1798: Some General Observations’, in Festschrift für Carlo Ginsburg (forthcoming). 25 Abulafia (2011), p.401. 26 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Maltese Consulate in Venice during the XVIII Century: A Study in the Manner of Appointment of Maltese Consuls Overseas’, Melita Historica, v.4 (1971), pp.338–43. See also V. Mallia-Milanes, Al servizio della Repubblica di Venezia: Le Lettere di Massimiliano Buzzaccarini Gonzaga, Commendatore di Malta, inviate alla Magistratura dei Cinque Savii alla Mercanzia 1754–1776 (Vatican City, 2008), pp.626–27, Indice dei soggetti, s.v. ‘Consoli, consolati’. 27 Mallia-Milanes (2008); see also Alfredo Mifsud, ‘I nostri Consoli e le Arti ed i Mestieri’, Archivum Melitense, iii.2 (1917), p.67. 28 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘A Living Force of Continuity in a Declining Mediterranean: The Hospitaller Order of St  John in Early Modern Times’, in Mediterranean Identities: Environment, Society, Culture, ed. B. Fuerst-Bieliš (Zagreb, 2018), p.36. 29 A term the Venetian Senate applied on one occasion to the Hospitallers. See V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘Corsairs Parading Crosses: The Hospitallers and Venice 1530–1798’, in MO 1, pp.103–12. 30 C. Keyvanian, ‘Maps and Wars: Charting the Mediterranean in the Sixteenth Century’, in Cities of the Mediterranean from the Ottomans to the Present Day, ed. B. Kolluoglu and M. Toksöz (London, 2014), p.43. 31 Keyvanian (2014). 32 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Knights Hospitaller’s Service of Love’, in Tra Fede e Storia: Studi in onore di Don Giovannino Pinna, ed. M. Contu et al. (Cagliari, 2014), pp.163–75. See also L.M. de Palma, Servus Pauperum et Miles Christi (Roma, 2015): Part II, La spiritualità giovannita da Rodi a Malta, pp.47–90. 33 See E.W. Schermerhorn, Malta of the Knights (Surrey, 1929), p.150 et seq. 34 See, for example, F.W. Ryan, The House of the Temple: A Study of Malta and its Knights in the French Revolution (London, 1930); F. Panzavecchia, L’ultimo periodo della storia di Malta sotto il governo dell’Ordine Gerosolimitano (Malta, 1835); M. Miège, Histoire de Malte (Paris, 1840); R. Cavaliero, The Last of the Crusaders (London, 1960), pp.181–242; M.P. Arana Barbier, ‘Spain, the Order of the Hospital, and Malta, 1796–1797: Some Exploratory Observations’, in Storja, ed. E. Buttigieg (Malta, 2019), pp.101–20. 35 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘Decline and Fall? The Order of the Hospital and Its Surrender of Malta, 1798’, in Valletta: Malta’s Hospitaller City and Other Essays, ed. V. Mallia-Milanes (Malta, 2019), pp.137–58; V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘Towards the End of the Order of the Hospital: Reflections on the Views of two Venetian Brethren, Antonio Miari and Ottavio Benvenuti’, in MO 5, pp.165–85.

21 John Taaffe Poet and historian of the Order of St John Elizabeth Siberry

Introduction In 1852 John Taaffe, an Irish Catholic knight commander of the Sovereign Order of Malta, published a four-volume history of the Order of St John, but his connection with the Order predated this. He was also the author of two long poems set against the background of the crusades, and friend of the poets Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley. His life and writings, as well as his wide and interesting network of friends across Europe, provide an insight into the Order and how it was both remembered and regarded as it sought to re-establish itself following the loss of Malta in 1798 and facing a new world order. Early life The main source for Taaffe’s early life is his autobiography (not published but surviving in copies in several libraries in America).1 Written in Taaffe’s distinctive and discursive style, it is dated 1845 but, apart from a brief concluding sentence, only covers his life up to 1835. It is however a valuable source for this period, his travels in Europe and his wide range of contacts. Taaffe was born in 1787 or 1788, the son of another John Taaffe of Smarmore Castle in County Louth in Ireland and a member of a prominent Irish Catholic family who had fought on the side of King James II at the battle of the Boyne in 1690.2 Smarmore castle, now a private medical clinic,3 was built in the 14th century, but the family long predates this, as do their links with the military orders. The Taaffe lands had adjoined the Templar preceptory at Kilsaran, near Castlebellingham and in 1284, Lord Nicholas Taaffe donated land to the Order.4 The family’s Templar connection is also said to be reflected in their coat of arms, which includes a scimitar.5 John Taaffe had a Catholic education in Ireland and Britain, attending Stonyhurst school in Lancashire, which inspired his ambition to become a poet. He also enjoyed the country pursuits of a gentleman of those times, such as dancing, hunting, and shooting. As a Catholic, attending university in Oxford, Cambridge, or Trinity College Dublin was not an option, but in 1810 he persuaded his parents to allow him to go to Edinburgh to study. Whilst there, he became acquainted with a young Walter Scott, who was beginning to make his reputation as an author, DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-25

238  The Military Orders Volume VIII and with Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the newly established Edinburgh Review.6 Taaffe’s time in Edinburgh was, however, cut short as a result of his affair with Mrs Belinda Colebrooke. The couple initially lived together in Scotland, but in due course parted and Taaffe was sued for maintenance. In disgrace, he fled to Europe, where he was to spend most of the rest of his life. The affair also caused him to be disinherited by his father in favour of his younger brother George7 and legal action was still continuing some forty years later, in connection with the alleged marriage between Mrs Colebrooke and Lord Henry Butler.8 Padilla Taaffe began his European travels in Lisbon, then journeyed on through Spain and North Africa. In his autobiography he recounted various adventures and narrow escapes on land and sea during the time of the Napoleonic wars. In 1816, he published his poem Padilla, which is described as a Tale of Palestine. Its subject is a young Spaniard and his fate in the battle of Tiberias after the conquest of Jerusalem on the First Crusade. In the advertisement for the poem, Taaffe wrote of the heroes of that time – Tancred, Raymond, Godfrey, and the blessed Cid – referring to ‘Mr Southey’s ‘incomparable translation’ of the Chronicle of the Cid’, published in 1808. Taaffe’s poem is romance rather than history and does not seem to have been very popular, but Scott had a copy on his library shelves, perhaps sent to him by his erstwhile friend.9 The Pisan poets In the summer of 1815, Taaffe moved to Italy and in due course became a member of the Pisan literary circle, which included the poets Shelley and Byron. Taaffe was a regular visitor to Shelley’s home, although Mary Shelley is said to have found him rather overbearing, and he had an annotated copy of Shelley’s ‘Adonais’, written to commemorate the death of John Keats.10 At the time, Taaffe was busily engaged on his translation of Dante’s Inferno and the first volume of what was intended to be an eight-volume Commentary on Dante’s Divine Comedy. Keen to get his work published, he wrote seeking to enlist the help of Scott, who observed: I should fear that the original is too little known amongst us to make the commentary however valuable to Italian scholars a matter of great interest to the general reader.11 Both Byron and Shelley, however, tried to help their friend to get his work into print. In 1822, Byron wrote to his fellow author, Thomas Moore, asking for his help with the publisher John Murray: We must give him [Taaffe] a shove through the press. He naturally thirsts to be an author and has been the happiest of men these two months, printing, correcting, collating, dating, anticipating and adding to his treasures of

John Taaffe  239 learning. Besides, he has had another fall from his horse into a ditch the other day, while riding horse with me into the country.12 The Commentary was duly published in 1822 to a mixed reception.13 The friendship between Byron, Shelley, and Taaffe cooled after an incident during a shooting party in 1822 involving a violent altercation with an Italian sergeant major, in which Taaffe was considered not to have been sufficiently supportive in giving testimony on behalf of his friends.14 Poets apart, Taaffe had a wide and interesting social circle in Italy, including Napoleon’s sister Pauline Borghese and numerous members of the European royalty and nobility. His love of riding and horses features regularly in his autobiography, and he kept his horse in the stables of Madame Regny, whose husband was an adviser to Otto of Bavaria when he became king of Greece. She is also said to have painted a portrait of Taaffe still in his family’s possession.15 Taaffe’s legal complications meant that his first marriage in 1816/17, to Catherine Fitzgerald, the daughter of an Irish Army General, was kept secret. After her death in childbirth, their children, a son and a daughter, were unable to live with their father. Following the death of his parents in 1825, however, Taaffe was reunited with his family, and he received regular visits from several of his brothers and sisters. In 1836 he married again, this time to the widowed Marchese Adriana Gabuccini and their marriage lasted until her death in 1860.16 Knight commander After his marriage, Taaffe brought his bride on a visit to England and Ireland, and in February 1836, he became a member of the Sovereign Order of Malta. He then wrote to King William IV seeking permission, which was granted, to appear at a royal levee at Windsor Castle in his uniform and insignia of the Order (an exception for a member of what was regarded as a foreign order of chivalry). At this time, the English Langue was seeking to establish itself and Robert Bigsby, one of those involved and the author himself of a history of the Order published in 1869, wrote of some of the sensitivities and precedent which this created: I know not what reason suggested the exercise of an act of royal favour on the part of the late King William IV towards the Commander Taaffe, a member of a foreign branch of the Order of St John, whom His Majesty permitted to accept the Cross, and invited to his court as a knight of the Order. His Majesty might simply be disposed to perform a good-natured act, like the genial man and warm-hearted Prince that he was. The honour certainly meant a great deal to Taaffe, who wrote that he would happily show Bigsby the letter from the King’s secretary ‘were it not from my fear to let it out of my own hands, lest it should be blown up on the railway, or lost in the Post office’.17 Taaffe’s son John, an army officer who served with distinction in various European campaigns, also became a knight of the Order in 1839.

240  The Military Orders Volume VIII Adelais Taaffe still had poetic ambitions and had been working on ‘Adelais’ for some years, his second lengthy poem set against the background of the Third Crusade, hoping that it would be regarded as his masterpiece. The crusading subject was apparently suggested to him by one of his French literary acquaintances, and it includes in the medieval crusading mix, references to great British victories at Crecy, Blenheim, Trafalgar, and Waterloo, as well as contemporary figures such as Nelson and William Wilberforce. ‘Adelais’, however, did not live up to Taaffe’s expectations. It was eventually printed at his own cost in 1852 and all but five copies were subsequently burnt. The British Library copy, which belonged to Denis Florence MacCarthy, another 19th-century Irish poet, has manuscript amendments in Taaffe’s hand, and another manuscript sold at auction in 2021 bore similar signs of constant revision.18 It is interesting, however, that the title page of the history of the Order of St John lists him as the author of ‘Adelais’, so perhaps at that stage he still had hopes of its favourable reception. History of the Order of St John This brings us to the publication of Taaffe’s history of the Order, published four years after he had visited Malta. He was of course not alone in producing such a work, but as an Irish Catholic member of the Sovereign Order, he offers a particular perspective on the Order in the mid-19th century after its eviction from Malta, and he had personal experience of the continuing threat posed by the Ottoman Turks. He also advocated a curious scheme to re-establish the Order in the East. Taaffe entitled his work The History of the Holy, Military, Sovereign Order of St John of Jerusalem; or Knights Hospitallers, Knights Templars, Knights of Rhodes, Knights of Malta. A product of detailed research, it amounted to some 1, 000 pages, along with a two-hundred-page appendix of supporting documents and it chronicled the Order’s history from the time of the First Crusade to his own day. The text reflects Taaffe’s interests not only in the Order’s organisation, but also in its English and Irish members, and his footnotes provide evidence of his use, and the availability, of primary and secondary source material. In the opening chapter, Taaffe explained that he had decided to undertake the history because of recent discoveries in the Vatican and other archives which: Show things in a totally different light; and enable a modern to reveal many secrets and render clear what before had been so obscure that it appeared a kind of neutral ground where everyone might fearlessly erect their castles.19 In the first book he takes the story of the Order up to the disastrous defeat at Hattin in 1187, and drawing a contemporary parallel, notes that Napoleon’s victory at the battle of Cana in April 1799, ‘took place on nearly the same spot; and there are not wanting Frenchmen who may consider this as reprisals of that-tremendous

John Taaffe 241 length of interval!’.20 Book two then covers the period up to 1421 and book three the period up to the loss of Rhodes in 1522. The final book covers the period of the knights’ residence in Malta and its loss to Napoleon in 1798. Taaffe’s interest in the English Langue is clear throughout, and he regularly lists some of its English and Irish members and comments on their family history, drawing on the work of genealogists and antiquarians. He names two of the priors of Ireland, Sir James Heting and Sir Marmaduke Lumley, as well as a knight from Kilkenny. His personal interest in horses is also reflected in a description of a gift sent by the King of England to Grand Master D’Aubusson, ‘several riding horses, extraordinarily rare in their kind and highly prized, as very nobly bred and gentle, from the island of Ireland called Eburi’.21 Taaffe also offers a perspective on the demise of the English langue and the various attempts to revive it after the dissolution of the Order by Henry VIII in 1540. He notes that only one English knight, Sir Oliver Starkey, was officially recorded as taking part in the siege of Malta in 1565, but suggests that there may have been more: As to the hapless English language, though mightily fallen it was not utterly annihilated as yet. And those unwilling to circumscribe to one solitary one, the Englishman present at that magnificent danger, may prefer thinking that they disguised their names by some foreign termination; valiant hearts, unwilling to bring down persecution on their families at home. Taaffe, however, sees little prospect of a successful revival: The English language fell then of inanition; and though some melancholy bystanders, and even doctors, retouched its pulse, and considering life not wholly gone, may have essayed a palliative, yet it has never really lifted up its head since? Parties notwithstanding, in this all Englishmen will perhaps agree that it was not quite generous to hurl destruction on a body that had for ages been a glory to their country, and to whom all Christendom owed so much. . . . But that was over long since. Regret is now as vain as defamation. Taaffe mentions a brief and unsuccessful attempt to recreate the langue in 1687, perhaps linked with the arrival in Malta of the illegitimate sons of James II and Charles II, but he lamented the state into which the Order had fallen in the 18th and 19th centuries, noting the ‘first indubitable evidence of the knights degenerating from their ancestors. . . . To palliate their degeneracy is not to defend, but sorrowfully avow it to some degree’. As a member himself of the Sovereign Order from 1836, he was also aware of the tensions between the Catholic Order and those in the mid-19th century seeking to revive the English Langue and its Protestant membership: We may regret the severity which bade the noble English language cease existing-and fearlessly do we add the sooner it is restored the better, but

242  The Military Orders Volume VIII first by inevitable relation to the order to which it can no more live than the Branch without the trunk.22 Six years after the publication of Taaffe’s history, in December 1858,23 the Sovereign Order broke all links with the revived English Langue and, dying in 1862, in Fano in Italy, Taaffe did not live to see the successful establishment of the Order of St John of Jerusalem based at Clerkenwell. Sources Taaffe’s history was the product of detailed research, and his footnotes and lengthy appendix of sources in book four provide important evidence of his extensive reading and access to original material. For example, he cites material from archives in Rome, Florence, and Vienna, as well as the British Museum in London, where he saw some of the Cottonian manuscripts which had been damaged in the fire of 1731. He was also familiar with published collections such as Jacques Bongars’ 1611 Gesta Dei per Francos and Joseph Francois Michaud’s 1829 Bibliotheque des croisades and refers to a collection of documents assembled and printed in only twenty-five copies in Edinburgh by James Maidment in 1825. His main source for the siege of Rhodes in 1480 was Guillaume Caoursin, noting that the best edition of the text ‘may be found in the British Museum among the printed books’.24 Taaffe also cites other histories of the Order such as Bosio and Boisgelin and he is very critical of Vertot, described as ‘often inexact . . . occasionally grossly so’. His wide reading and intellectual curiosity are shown in comments about family genealogy where he corrects some previous authors who had not properly understood English surnames such as Montacute. He even quotes from the Engineer’s Dictionary when describing a cannon at Rhodes.25 Proposal for a new era The most interesting aspect of Taaffe’s final volume is, however, his idea for the re-establishment of the Order in the Middle East. He described the state of the Order after the surrender of Malta as poor: [N]ot able to do anything practically useful, and without a home; but poor only in comparison to what it should be. . . . Some have proposed reform, but it is hard to come to practical utility in our days. Among them is one . . . who, like myself, hates this vile status quo, and wants to be engaged in a sovereign and independent spot in some exertions that may be practically useful to mankind, loathing an unmeaning level with ex kings, who perhaps were never of much use, as we certainly were. But for them (our knights) Christendom would have been overrun. An Italian knight had apparently suggested that the Order should sail off and leave Europe ‘the region of despair’ for the South Sea Islands or South America. Taaffe, however, proposed a return to more familiar territory, albeit with allegiances much

John Taaffe  243 changed. He supported the claims of the young Archduke Friedrich of Austria, a naval officer and veteran of the capture of Acre in 1840, whom he had met, to be appointed Grand Master: He would have been one of the order’s most illustrious grand masters; and by that restoration too, would have acquired a celebrity at least equal, and perhaps superior, to that of D’Aubusson or L’Isle Adam.26 This plan was apparently supported by Austrian Chancellor Metternich but ruled out by Pope Gregory XVI.27 In any event, Friedrich died aged only 26 in 1847. Taaffe claimed that he had subsequently unsuccessfully approached ‘personages whom he had not the honour to be in the least acquainted with, in France, Italy, England and Germany and other countries’.28 He finally concluded that all he could do was to publish his ideas as an appendix to his history. Taaffe put forward his plan proudly as a knight commander in the hope that it would be endorsed by the whole Order: The honour of the idea of this reform, and now proposing it on his own individual responsibility, appears to the writer quite too dear and unique a distinction not to appropriate it entirely to himself, as he does in the most total sense by signing it with his name, John Taaffe. Taaffe’s proposal was that the Order should be divided into two classes; knights profest and knights free, and the latter class should be open to all religions ‘since the Order no longer has Mahometans to make war with, but to be their cordial friends’. The aim of the Order would be to render ‘the passage by the Euphrates to India and towards Mecca safe and excellent for all the protecting powers’ and the latter should include Turkey. The key principles would be sovereignty, independence, and neutrality, and the new knights would ‘form one little military school to furnish all the protecting powers with excellent young officers’. The Sultan was asked to cede a strip of land in Syria to form a small monarchy: From the sea a little south of St  Jean d’Acre, in a slanting line over the hills on the east of the lake of Galilee to Zebdeni and thence to Anah on the Euphrates-and northwards directly from Scanderoon through Aleppo to Bir. It would certainly be a new glory to the Porte to have an independent Christian sovereign for one of its dignitaries reigning over a distinguished collection from all Europe with the guarantee of every European nation. Security would be assured by the Order’s navy (its ‘steamers of war’) and Taaffe saw commercial advantages with the possibility of building roads, railroads and canals to facilitate trade and travel. He painted a romanticised picture of life in this state: From the Mediterranean to El-Bir, there shall be a continuous line of cottages, like the walk in a garden, small proprietors-all European. No duties

244  The Military Orders Volume VIII whatsoever, the Order’s whole territory shall be a free port, religious liberty on the most complete scale, as in the best parts of America- a place of universal refuge.29 As I have discussed elsewhere,30 in the 1840s, others such as Sir William Hillary had campaigned unsuccessfully for the reestablishment of the Order in the East and it is unclear whether Taaffe’s own plan had any supporters. It certainly has a rather fantastical air. Reception, reaction, and final years The History itself seems to have been more successful than Taaffe’s poetry or territorial schemes. It was quoted in for example as a source for the article on the Knights of St John in the 1886 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the 1892 edition of Chambers Encyclopaedia.31 We can also get a sense of its reception through reviews in a variety of periodicals. These provide a critique of the work from the standpoint of both the reviewer and the editorial position of the periodical for which he wrote. They accordingly have different views of Taaffe’s work and the significance of his extensive use of original sources. For the Athenaeum, an influential Victorian literary review, the history was the standard work on the Order of St John and its advertisement for Taaffe’s book went on to quote from reviews in the Observer newspaper and the Weekly Dispatch. The Observer declared: [T]his is substantially the best history of that branch of the church militant that has perhaps ever been published. Vertot’s history is a romance; Mr Taaffe’s is the minute truth. The reviewer went on to highlight the value of the documents published in the appendix ‘acquired from sources the most distant and remote’ and presented to the reading public for the first time. His recommendation was unqualified: [T]o recommend the book to the reader as a useful compendium of the annals of a most extraordinary body of men, is an act of imperative duty. The Weekly Dispatch, which had reviewed the volumes as they emerged, also agreed that it was of ‘permanent value’.32 The Spectator, however, was less convinced: Already familiar to the world in the animated pages of Vertot; and though more particular information may be discovered by modern research, it is to be doubted whether the general effect of the Frenchman will be improved upon.

John Taaffe  245 The reviewer also did not share Taaffe’s enthusiasm for primary sources: In examining the deeds, bulls, and other documents, he has to rely on his own art for extracting the essential particulars, which art is not very great, for his genius is peculiar and uncultivated.33 And a fellow historian of the Order, Whitworth Porter, writing in 1858, described it as ‘couched in such obscure and foreign English as to be almost unavailable to the general reader’.34 As yet, I have found no specific comment in these periodicals on Taaffe’s plans for the reestablishment of the Order in the East. Taaffe’s later years, 1856–1862, were spent compiling an Arabic grammar with the help of his son. He was buried at Fano with his wife but, still thinking of his native land, he asked that his right hand should be buried at Smarmore.35 Conclusion In considering what might be termed the ‘afterlife’ of the medieval military orders, one can discuss the attempts, successful and otherwise, to revive them and find a contemporary purpose, but a different and complementary light is shed by looking at some of the individuals involved and considering why they were interested in the Orders; what they wrote about them; how this was received and their social milieu. John Taaffe took up his pen as a proud member of the Sovereign Order, with family links to both the Order of St John and the Templars, and a poetic interest in the crusades. His history takes the story up to his own day amidst controversial attempts to revive the English Langue and even if his scheme for a new sovereign state in Syria seems rather fantastical, it illustrates ideas which were being debated and considered in the second half of the 19th century and places the Order in a wider world. Notes 1 J. Taaffe, Autobiographical Notes. Unpublished manuscript, 4 November  1845. Photocopy, Special Collections, Claremont Colleges Library, Claremont, California. I am grateful to Claremont College for permission to consult and quote from this work. 2 See R. Taaffe, ‘Taaffe of Co. Louth’, Journal of the County Louth Archaeological Society, 14 (1958), particularly pp.61–63. 3 https://smarmore-rehab-clinic.com [7 December 2022]. 4 See K. Taaffe, Memoirs of the Family of Taaffe (Vienna, 1856), p.1; D. McIvor, ‘The Knights Templar in Co. Louth’, Seanchas Ardmhacha, 4 (1960–1), p.77, and H. Wood, ‘The Templars in Ireland’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 26 (1907), pp.366–67. 5 Taaffe (1845), p.11. 6 Taaffe (1845), pp.22–24, 30–32, 45, 50–51. 7 Taaffe (1845), p.54. 8 Household Narrative of Current Events, 5 (August 1854), p.180. 9 Taaffe, Padilla: A Tale of Palestine (London, 1816). See also Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford, ed. John G. Cochrane (Edinburgh, 1838).

246  The Military Orders Volume VIII 10 C.L. Cline, Byron, Shelley and Their Pisan Circle (London, 1952), pp.16–25; and R.H. Fogle, ‘John Taaffe’s Annotated Copy of Adonais’, Keats-Shelley Journal, 17 (1968), pp.31–52. 11 Notes and Index to Sir Herbert Grierson’s Edition of the Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. J.E. Corson (Oxford, 1979), pp.197–98. 12 A. Fleming, Byron the Maker: Liberty, Poetry and Love (Brighton, 2009), p.403. 13 W. Bowers, The Italian Idea. Anglo Italian Radical Literary Culture, 1815–23 (Cambridge, 2020), pp.149–50; Cline (1952), pp.56, 68–69. 14 Cline (1952), pp.91–154. 15 Taaffe (1845), pp.67, 69, 78; Cline (1952), p.225 n.4. 16 Cline (1952), pp.20, 201–02. 17 R. Bigsby, Memoir of the Illustrious and Sovereign Order of St John of Jerusalem (Derby, 1869), p.98. 18 https://www.forumauctions.co.uk/33074/Taaffe [8 December 2022]. 19 Taaffe, The History of the Holy Military, Sovereign Order of St John of Jerusalem, 4 vols (London, 1852), i, pp.1–2. 20 Taaffe (1852), History, i, p.325. 21 Taaffe (1852), History, iii, pp.87, 121, 174–75. 22 Taaffe (1852), History, iv, pp.6, 122–23, 166–67, 175–76, 234. 23 J. Riley-Smith, ‘The Order of St John in England, 1827–1858’, MO 1, pp.121–41. 24 Taaffe (1852), History, iii, pp.49, 237 and iv Appendix, pp.x–xiii, xvii, lvi, lxxxvii, cl, cxiv and cciii. 25 Taaffe (1852), History, ii, p.92, iii, pp.50, 130. 26 Taaffe (1852), History, iv, pp.198–99, 230. 27 H.J.A. Sire, The Knights of Malta (Yale, 1994), p.251. 28 Taaffe (1852), History, iv, p.231. 29 This proposal is printed as an appendix to book four, pp.cxcii–cc. 30 See E. Siberry, The New Crusaders. Images of the Crusades in the 19th and Early 20th Centuries (Aldershot, 2000), pp.76–82, 203–07. 31 Encyclopaedia Britannica, 9th edn (London, 1886), pp.173–75; Chambers Encyclopaedia (Edinburgh, 1895), p.100. 32 Athenaeum, 16 April 1853, p.469. 33 Spectator, 4 December 1852, p.1148. 34 W. Porter, A History of the Knights of Malta or the Order of St John of Jerusalem (London, 1858), p.viii. 35 Cline (1952), p.202.

Part 5

Approaches

22 Aslackby Templar preceptory A 2021 research excavation to establish its location and layout Christer Carlsson

Introduction The 2020–2021 Covid pandemic caused massive problems for academic communities worldwide. University courses and conferences were cancelled, and research projects were delayed. Being a commercial archaeologist, the pandemic also had the effect that a number of development projects could not start on time due to problems with obtaining planning permissions. This led to considerably more free time for the staff in our organisation. Hence, from the spring of 2020 onwards, the author of this article could spend more time with his favourite research topic: the history and archaeology of the military orders in Western Europe and the wider world. Between 2020 and 2021, an archaeological research project was carried out at the previously fairly unknown Templar Preceptory of Aslackby in Lincolnshire, UK. The history of the preceptory and the present farm complex According to William Dugdale, Aslackby Templar Preceptory was founded either in or just before 1164.1 This is recorded in Dugdale’s Monasticon Anglicanum, which states that Hubert de Rye presented the Templars with a church in Aslackby ‘in the year when Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury departed from King Henry II at Northampton’. When the Order was suppressed in the first decade of the 14th century, the property passed to Temple Bruer and was thereafter controlled by the Knights Hospitaller until the Protestant Reformation in the 16th century.2 The Royal inventory for the Lincolnshire Templar estates from the year 1308 has been studied by Joseph Michael Jefferson in his PhD dissertation. The entry for Aslackby Templar Preceptory states that, other than carts and ploughs, the inventory only includes the contents of a kitchen, a brewhouse and a chapel.3 This could maybe be expected for the smallest of the Lincolnshire preceptories, as it probably did not have a need for the same number of various buildings as larger preceptories, such as the nearby, and fully excavated, South Witham Templar Preceptory.4 The present Temple Farm is located in the small village of Aslackby in Lincolnshire, UK. Human activity in the village can be traced back to Prehistoric times, and the village name, with the ‘-by’ ending, indicates Scandinavian presence DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-27

250  The Military Orders Volume VIII during the Danelaw in the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries. It is today bounded by Temple Road in the north, a stream in the west and south, and modern dwellings in the east (Figure 22.1). The present farmhouse is a three-storey stone and brick building, with its main entrance located on the east side. The second floor consists entirely of yellow bricks from the beginning of the 20th century, while the ground floor and the first floor have external limestone walls. Much of the stonework in the outer walls gives an impression of having been re-used from earlier structures, as they contain holes and markings that do not fit in with the present building.5 The western outer wall contains a section of masonry that may go back to the medieval period. This also appears to be the case for some of the internal walls in the farmhouse, where walls are now covered by thick layers of 19th- and 20th-century plaster. At some point in the late 19th century the north end of the building was foreshortened by about five metres.

Figure 22.1 Temple Farm in the village of Aslackby with the locations of Test Pits 1–6 marked.

Aslackby Templar preceptory  251 Southeast of the farmhouse there are a number of 19th- and early 20th-century outbuildings. These structures have until recently been used as garages, storage buildings, and sheep shelters. Satellite images over the last twenty-five years indicate that the farm was until recently well looked after, but since the beginning of the Covid pandemic, the farm has been left empty and is today in need of internal and external restoration.6 The 2021 archaeological investigation After spending some time trying to track down the contact details of the present owner of the farm, it was agreed that the first step of archaeological works was going to consist of a geophysical survey of the garden and the surrounding fields. The geological survey was carried out in May 2020 and the results suggested that a large number of stone structures survived ca.0.5m below the existing ground surface. At the same time further information about Temple Farm was acquired from old photographs, maps, satellite images, and drawings. The combined data analysis allowed the selection of suitable locations for hand-dug test pits. This work was undertaken in the autumn of 2020. The largest geophysical anomalies were investigated first. After six test pits had been opened up, it became clear that medieval finds and features were present in all of the test pits. Pottery recovered from lowest layers could generally be dated to ca.1100–1500 AD, while post-medieval pottery in the upper layers reflected the later history of the farm complex, right up to the present day.7 Test Pit 1 was located some 10m east of the present farmhouse. The first archaeological deposits were found only 0.1m below the ground surface. These 19th-century remains were expected, as older maps and photographs indicated that an east-west orientated wing was standing at this location until 1892, when it was pulled down after a severe storm swept through the village destroying parts of the farm complex. At the same time a medieval tower, located just south of the present farmhouse, was also pulled down. This three-storey tower was, with its many buttresses and battlements, a beautiful example of British medieval architecture. The upper remains in Test Pit 1 consisted of a 19th-century floor made of limestone slabs in a yellow limestone mortar, and the remains of the outer southern wall from the 19th century east-west orientated wing. Concealed beneath these 19th-century remains were older archaeological layers that could be dated to the medieval period. These remains consisted of a limestone wall and a floor of glazed medieval floor tiles. The floor had mostly been taken out, but some of the tiles were still in-situ. A similar floor was found during excavations at Templecombe Templar Preceptory in Somerset in 1995.8 It was clear that the medieval wall and floor in Aslackby had been re-used as a foundation for the younger 19th-century wall and floor. The pottery sequence in Test Pit 1 confirmed activity from the medieval period onwards at this location within the farm. Once the two layers of archaeology in Test Pit 1 had been dated it became clear that further information could be drawn from the written sources: the Ordnance Survey (OS) Map of Aslackby from 1886 has the text: ‘Temple Farm on Site of

252  The Military Orders Volume VIII Church of the Knights Templar’ written all over a large enclosed field just to the south of the farm complex.9 This indicates that a chapel of the Knights Templar seems to have existed within the grounds of the present farm. A  chapel at the Aslackby Preceptory is also, as mentioned previously in this text, mentioned in the Royal inventory of former Templar buildings in Lincolnshire from 1308.10 The exact location of the medieval tower is also shown on the 1886 OS-map. It stood in the angle between the present north-south oriented farmhouse and the east-west oriented wing. The farm is shown on the map as having an L-shape, where the east-west oriented wing respected the former, medieval, farm layout. The medieval tower, therefore, tied the two wings together with its location in the angle between the two buildings. A detailed survey of the medieval tower was carried out prior to its demolition in 1892. This is the only survey of its kind that has ever been carried out at Temple Farm. The survey drawing clearly shows a roof-line scar from the earlier wing on the tower’s east wall.11 The same scar is shown on a watercolour painting of the tower by an unknown mid-19th-century artist.12 Corroborative evidence was also found on an 18th-century oil painting, now in a private collection, which provided confirmation of the existence of a former building adjoining the east side of the tower (Figure 22.2).13 The existence of an earlier and demolished structure on the east side of the medieval tower could now be definitely confirmed.

Figure 22.2 The medieval tower was documented in this painting prior to its demolition in 1892. Note the two different roof lines on the east elevation.

Aslackby Templar preceptory  253 This conclusion concurred with the archaeological results of Test Pit 1, where two walls and floors were found east of the former tower foundations. In addition, the 18th-century painting revealed that the medieval wing was already gone well before the 1886 OS map was made. If the medieval building found in Test Pit 1 is indeed the former Templar chapel, it would be of great scientific interest to investigate it further. This work would, however, be complicated, since the remains of the 19th-century wing are still largely covering it, and the farm driveway would partly be destroyed by the excavation works. In Test Pit 2, located some 25m north of the present farm building, further medieval remains were uncovered. A well-preserved floor from a substantial stone building was uncovered in the 1m × 1m large test pit. When it became clear that this must have been an important structure within the preceptory complex, the area of excavation was enlarged to ca.50m2. The remains belonged to a substantial north-south oriented building, whose southern end was at the time of excavation covered by large trees. The southern end could not, for this reason, be fully exposed. The expanded excavation area also revealed a medieval garden wall just to the east of the building. A well-preserved stone-lined drain ran east-west through the floor. Similar drains are known from medieval castles and monastic kitchens across Europe.14 The large assemblage of broken pottery and animal bones suggests that the building was the former preceptory kitchen. A kitchen at Aslackby Templar Preceptory is also mentioned in the Royal inventory from 1308.15 On the stone floor there were also some important architectural fragments that could provide the research team with information regarding the design of the medieval kitchen. A squared limestone slab with a drilled hole apparently came from the roof covering, and a fragment of a green-glazed ridge roof tile is typical for high-status medieval buildings. This type of green glazed ridge roof tiles is known from the excavations at Templecombe Templar Preceptory in Somerset16 and the excavations of South Witham Templar Preceptory in Lincolnshire.17 In Test Pit 3, located some 15m northwest of the presumed kitchen, a section of the medieval precinct wall that once surrounded the preceptory area was uncovered. The wall was constructed of limestone and bonded in lime mortar. It was just over 1m wide and had an east-west orientation, which suggested that it followed Temple Road, the old main street through the village of Aslackby. In the soil next to the wall were sherds of high-status, green-glazed 13th-century pottery. Such pottery would be typical for a Templar preceptory during the 12th to early 14th centuries. Test Pit 4, located some 20m south-east of the present farmhouse, contained two different levels of a cobbled courtyard. This indicated that the test pit was located outside the former preceptory buildings. The upper layer of cobbles had a spread of sherds of post-medieval pottery above it, while the lower layer had occasional pieces of medieval pottery on its surface. A small bronze object, possibly from a medieval book cover or a medieval crucifix, was also recovered on the medieval cobbled surface. Test Pit 5 was located some 15m to the south of the existing farm building. It contained no medieval features. Towards the bottom of the pit, however, were a

254  The Military Orders Volume VIII few sherds of medieval pottery and further fragments of glazed medieval floor tiles. This is of great interest since Test Pit 5 was located just 15m from Test Pit 1, with a partly preserved floor of similar medieval tiles. Since the two test pits were so close to each other, it is likely that all fragments of glazed medieval floor tiles come from the former potential chapel. Test Pit 6 was located in a field some 25m west of the existing farm building. The reason for opening up this test pit was to investigate a geophysical anomaly which was registered at this location during the geophysical survey in May 2020. It seemed, at first impression, that another stone building was present, as a thick layer of demolition material was being uncovered. However, no foundation walls were discovered in the test pit, so the material may come from a demolished outbuilding west of the main preceptory buildings. The stream west and south of the farm may have worked as a natural barrier in the landscape for centuries. A water mill is mentioned in the Royal inventory of 1308, and it is possible that the mill was sited alongside this watercourse. The stream can still be followed through the modern landscape to the point where it joins up with larger watercourses south-east of Aslackby.18 Such waterways must have been of great importance to the Templars in a period when most roads in England were still of very poor quality. This means that Aslackby could most likely be reached by smaller boats from the English east coast some 700 years ago. A windmill is also mentioned in the Royal inventory of 1308 and may have been located on a hill south-east of the farm complex. Also of interest is an overgrown pond in the southern part of the farm complex. This pond has not yet been studied in depth, but it may date back to the Templar period. Conclusions and suggestions for further work The 2020–2021 research project at Aslackby Templar Preceptory has revealed a great deal of new information about this previously fairly unknown medieval complex. There have been clues that led people to believe that Temple Farm contained important archaeological remains, but before the current research project nobody knew anything about the location and layout of the former preceptory. The six test pits opened up within the existing farm area have so far revealed medieval remains that are likely to belong to the chapel, the kitchen, the precinct wall, and the courtyard of the former Templar preceptory. The partly preserved floor with glazed medieval floor tiles from the potential Templar chapel can be dated to ca.1300, while the medieval pottery collected from the test pits is broadly dated to the period ca.1100–1500. This indicates that the Knights Hospitaller, who inherited the former Templar preceptory, had an interest in the property and had some kind of presence here until the early 16th century. It is known that stone shields, depicting coats of arms, were once inserted in the vaults of the now-lost tower. Many of these shields have recently been identified as belonging to various 15th-century noblemen.19 This makes it likely that the vaults were built by the Hospitallers rather than the Templars, and that some building activity must have taken place in Aslackby during

Aslackby Templar preceptory  255 the Hospitaller period. All of the post-medieval pottery, however, comes from the period when the farm passed between different families in the centuries following the Protestant Reformation in the mid-16th century. The 2020–2021 research project has laid the foundations for more in-depth archaeological research at Temple Farm. An important focus would be the potential chapel, which is now partly buried beneath 19th-century remains and the farm driveway. It would also be crucial to identify additional preceptory outbuildings in order to gain a better understanding of the economy of the preceptory. Additionally, the overgrown pond in the southern part of the farm has the potential to yield valuable environmental evidence pertaining to the Templar period. As a previously wet area, the pond may be suitable for the analysis of pollen- and/or other environmental samplings. The Temple Farm in the small Lincolnshire village of Aslackby has a high scientific potential, as it may be able to contribute towards a better understanding of Templar life in Lincolnshire during the 12th to early 14th centuries. Notes 1 W. Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum (London, 1655–1673). 2 S. Brighton, In Search of the Knights Templar: A Guide to the Sites in Britain (London, 2016). 3 J.M. Jefferson, ‘The Templar Land in Lincolnshire in the Early Thirteenth Century’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Nottingham, 2016), p.86. 4 P. Mayes, ‘Excavations at a Templar Preceptory, South Witham, Lincolnshire 1965–67’, in The Society for Medieval Archaeology Monographs, no. 19 (Leeds, 2002). 5 Historic England, Temple Farm, Grade II Listed Building, List entry Nr 1062758 (London, 1952). 6 Oral information from the present owner of Temple Farm, Mr Edward Conant. 7 P. Blinkhorn, Pottery from a Research Excavation at Temple Farm. Aslackby, Lincolnshire (Northampton, 2022), unpublished. 8 P. Harding, S. Ainsworth, J. Butterworth, and J. Gater, ‘Archaeological Investigations at Templecombe, 1995’, Somerset Archaeological and Natural Society Journal, 147 (2004), pp.143–63. 9 Ordnance Survey Map from 1886 over the village of Aslackby and its surroundings (London, 1886). 10 Jefferson (2016), p.388. 11 The original survey drawings are kept in the collections of the Office of the Lyndon Estate amongst the papers belonging to the Conant family. 12 This is held in a private collection, but a copy exists in the County Council collections. 13 Oil painting of Temple Farm by Samuel Hieronymus Grimm from ca.1770. 14 B. Söderberg, ‘Dalaborg- ett nyutgrävt medeltidsfäste’, Fornvännen. Journal of Swedish Antiquarian Research (1940), pp.50–54. 15 Jefferson (2016), p.388. 16 Harding, Ainsworth, Butterworth, and Gater (2004). 17 Mayes (2002). 18 The stream can still be followed on the satellite images on Google Maps 2023. 19 Ongoing research by heraldry specialist Robert Meads, unpublished.

23 Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques in the Hospitaller auberges of the langues (Valletta, Malta)1 Valentina Burgassi Introduction This research provides a comprehensive exploration of the architectural features and Renaissance influences in the auberges or palaces of the langues in Valletta. The first part explores the influence of Florentine Renaissance art in Sicily and Malta and its impact, particularly in terms of architecture, focusing on artists such as Giovannangelo Montorsoli (1507–1563) and Andrea Calamech (1524–1589). The chapter then delves into the features of the auberges, describing their architectural expressions of power and magnificence and specifically identifying for the first time a clear construction chronology for the Auberge of Italy. The architectural and artistic connection between the auberges and the palaces of the Italian capitals is discussed together with the architectural treatises of the time. The characteristics of the Auberges, including their façades and rusticated masonry, are explored in relation to the architectural tradition of the Renaissance. Hybridisation and the role of local materials, such as the globigerina limestone, are also discussed with regard to the construction process of the auberges, along with the building techniques employed during the period. Florentine Renaissance architecture in Hospitaller Malta In order to address the typically Florentine architectural characteristics of the auberges,2 it is necessary to review how these influences arrived in Malta via Sicily. The knights were divided into langues that were organisational units based on their native languages. It is evident that the native languages of the grand masters influenced the political and architectural choices in the capital city.3 A particular predominance of the Langue of Italy can be observed in political choices and in the construction of the new city between the mid-16th century and the beginning of the 17th century, where the models of the Tuscan and Sicilian (Messina) tradition are evident. Between the mid-17th century and the mid-18th century, predominance shifted to the French langues due to the prestige acquired by the French crown and the state of Savoy via its influence on the Grand Priory of Lombardy.4 By the middle of the 18th century, the Order can be said to have become influenced by various DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-28

Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques  257 Mediterranean cultures via models, books, and men, which made the Maltese archipelago a true European crossroads.5 Tuscan influences arrived in Malta primarily through Messina, one of the most important port cities in the Mediterranean due to the cross-Mediterranean trade flows.6 The language of the Renaissance flourished in Sicily in the 1540s, which was an especially significant moment in the island as a result of the construction of the city of Carlentini (Sicily) under Emperor Charles V. As part of the intellectual and artistic migration to Sicily, the figure of the Florentine sculptor Giovannangelo Montorsoli is of particular importance as the artist who brought Tuscan Renaissance art to Sicily and then later to Malta. He arrived in Messina in 1547 and was the bearer of a Renaissance culture dictated by the Florence of Michelangelo Buonarroti and Bartolomeo Ammannati. As Vasari reports in his biography of Montorsoli,7 he had been called upon to redesign the church of San Lorenzo in Messina and to create a monumental fountain in front of the city’s Chiesa Maggiore inspired by the fountains of Neptune in Florence and Bologna, thus initiating a process of renovation in sculpture in the southern Mediterranean. Another relevant Tuscan architect and sculptor was Andrea Calamech, a pupil of Bartolomeo Ammannati and a native of Carrara. He developed a remarkable artistic career spanning between Florence and Messina. In Florence, he was responsible for the construction of the fountain in Piazza della Signoria. In Messina he held the title of protomastro di scultura or master of sculpture, from 1565 to 1589, and also worked as an architect and urban planner under the supervision of the Spanish Viceroy Juan de Vega. The viceroy was an important figure and had close relations with the Hospitallers. Due to the presence of the viceroys in Sicily and for economic and commercial reasons, there was a strong connection between Hospitaller Malta and Sicily. The newly founded cities of the Renaissance, such as the Sicilian Carlentini, served as constant references for Francesco Laparelli from Cortona and his pupil, the Maltese Girolamo Cassar, who were both responsible for the construction of the Order’s new city, Valletta.8 Laparelli hailed from Cortona, while Cassar visited Rome and Florence, where he studied the buildings of the Late Renaissance constructed under popes Julius II and Leo X. Cassar chose to draw inspiration from this architecture rather than contemporary models by Michelangelo, Bartolomeo Ammannati, Giorgio Vasari, or Vignola. Cassar’s preference reflects the Order’s inclination towards a sober language influenced by Vitruvius, evident in the plain surfaces of the auberges highlighted by the corner ashlar, and the austere St John’s Conventual Church. The assimilation of these architectural languages from Rome and other Italian artistic centres is highly significant in the specific Maltese context, characterised by a Mediterranean culture strongly influenced by Sicily and North Africa. In this process of hybridisation, local materials, such as the globigerina limestone sensitive to intense light, played an important role.9 Features of the auberges in Valletta Despite numerous transformations over time, the Order’s power and grandeur is still expressed today by the magnificent architecture of the auberges. While maintaining

258  The Military Orders Volume VIII

Figure 23.1 Francesco Villamena, Valletta citta Nova di Malta, Rome, 1601, 43.4x33 cm. Courtesy of Stanford Libraries, G6791.V2.1601.V4, David Rumsey Map Center.

an austere character, they exhibit features similar to those found in Italian capitals and architectural treatises of the time,10 blended with local traditions. Originally, the buildings consisted only of a ground floor, but during the 17th century, they usually became elevated: a mezzanine floor with windows and the piano nobile, or main floor, were added to the auberges, reflecting characteristics of the Italian Renaissance palace. The palaces of the Order featured a main vaulted entrance leading to an open courtyard surrounded by portico wings, reminiscent of traditional Florentine and Roman palaces that Laparelli was familiar with due to his origins. The light-yellow colour that characterises all the auberges is derived from the Maltese stone used in their construction. According to Laparelli’s original plans, these palaces were to have a square in front of them, but today only the Auberges of Aragon, Auvergne, and Castile still preserve those squares.11 The auberges were strategically located within the city, with each being positioned near the fortified bastion corresponding to its respective langue. Additionally, each auberge was required to have an associated church, such as the Auberge of Aragon with Tal-Pilar and the Auberge of Italy with Santa Caterina.12 The façades typically exhibited common features, including a centrally placed decorated portal and symmetric windows, often including the characteristic finestre

Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques  259

Figure 23.2  Rusticated masonry in the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author).

inginocchiate or Michelangelesque windows. The ground floor was characterised by rusticated masonry on the façade. In his treatise, architect Sebastiano Serlio presented various types of rustic stones and the contrast between roughness and elegance, which were typical of the Tuscan order. Rusticated masonry was well-known and employed in numerous palaces in Tuscany, such as the basement of Palazzo Salviati and later in Palazzo Pitti, which was transformed by the renowned architect Bartolomeo Ammannati for Cosimo I around 1549. This technique was also experimented by Giulio Romano in Mantua, exemplified by Palazzo Te, which harmoniously combines painting and architecture. Rusticated masonry was part of the Roman tradition as seen in structures such as the perimeter wall of the Forum of Augustus, the amphitheatre of Verona, and the Theatre of Pola. Its use in Tuscany dates back to the 14th and 15th centuries. Before becoming more complex in structures like the Palazzo dei Diamanti in Ferrara, the famous Palazzo dei Tribunali in Rome, and even in Malta’s Auberge of Italy, rusticated masonry also held military connotations. This is evident in the Fortezza da Basso in Florence, with the work of architect Antonio da Sangallo the Younger. These elements connected well with the austerity of the Hospitallers’ military style. The influence of local traditions is also evident, such as the Melitan moulding found in windows and doors of buildings in Rhodes, the former seat of the Order, and the use of globigerina stone in Birgu, Malta. Nevertheless, Cassar’s unknown background suggests that his works are not solely the result of applying Renaissance theories with Gothic influences. Examples of Cassar’s unique architectural innovations

260  The Military Orders Volume VIII include the use of stereotomy13 and the proposal of the ‘vis de Saint Gilles’ or Saint Gilles’ winding staircase,14 ribbed cross vaults in the Holy Infirmary, and the austere coffered barrel vaults in stone, reminiscent of French castle experiences. The Grand Master Jean de Valette, after all, hailed from the Langue of Provence in France.

Figure 23.3 Verdala Palace, Malta, ‘Vis de Saint Gilles’ or Saint Gilles’ winding staircase (photo: the author).

Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques  261 Construction of the Auberge of Italy Recent restoration works together with the study of new documentary sources has made it possible to trace the construction site of the Auberge of Italy. This auberge was one of the first to be constructed due to the presence of numerous and powerful knights of this langue. The purchase of the land was arranged in the Council by a notarial deed on 23 September 1569, signed by notary Placido Abel. Within the Order’s rigid administrative structure, the knights obtained the necessary economic resources for completing the construction of the auberges. Grand Master Pietro del Monte demanded a 10% increase in extraordinary taxation, as indicated in the deliberation documents or ‘Collette’ found in the National Library of Malta.15 These extraordinary charges were paid to the Treasury by the commanderies and later by all the Langues until the expected completion date on St John’s Day (24th June) in 1572. The first site planned for the auberge was soon claimed for the grand master’s palace. Forced to find an alternative location for their palace, the knights unwillingly sought additional funding. Documents show that the Italian knights had not yet found a new location by 1575. A site near the church of Our Lady of Victory was chosen. Originally, the auberge was single-storeyed, with a large inner courtyard like other auberges, featuring a symmetrical arrangement of openings and a surrounding loggia. Architectural elements, such as the significant presence of the

Figure 23.4  Façade of the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author).

262  The Military Orders Volume VIII Tuscan order, clearly showcased Italian influences. The use of rusticated ashlars in the corners of the building served as a reference to the Order’s military architecture, following the recommendations of Leon Battista Alberti in De Re Aedificatoria. Rusticated ashlars were also widely used by Francesco di Giorgio Martini in his treatises and by Antonio da Sangallo in Florentine fortification works with the intention of representing military strength and power. Later, the use of rusticated ashlars extended to civil buildings, deviating from their initial military purpose. Relevant architectural treatises, such as Tutte l’opere d’architettura, et prospetiva by Sebastiano Serlio and Regola delli cinque ordini by Vignola, addressed the theme of rustication. In 1572, it was decided to build the Church of St Catherine since the existing chapel pertaining to the Langue of Italy was considered too small for the increasing number of Italian knights. No specific documents have been found regarding the completion of the church, but it is assumed that it was completed by 1583 when the decision was made to expand the auberge with a second vaulted floor due to insufficient space for the knights of the langue. The construction was likely finalised by 1595. In the Colletta, or decree, of 10 March 1594, payment was arranged for Andrea Farrugia, the master bricklayer, for his services to the Langue. The construction was finally completed in 1596 with the placement of the Langue’s coat of arms. After Cassar’s death in 1592, Francesco Anitrini took charge of the construction of the addition of the vaulted upper floor. The Collette indicate that stained glass windows were added to all the Auberge’s windows, along with a stained-glass lamp in the great hall. In 1627, expenses for the purchase of timbers and doors were recorded. It is possible that Anitrini incorporated the Tuscan taste into the façade, as evident in the detail of Michelangelesque windows. In 1649, a mezzanine floor was constructed, divided into several rooms as its original size was unsuitable for the langue. The mezzanine window frames display typical features of Italian Renaissance architecture while integrating the Maltese style of Melitan moulding, similar to the mezzanine openings of buildings in Mdina, Malta. The style of the window frames bears resemblance to Roman Renaissance palaces, such as Palazzo Altemps, which also features rusticated corner ashlars like the Auberge of Italy. The alterations to the façade on Merchant Street, Valletta, occurred during Grand Master Gregorio Carafa’s tenure (r.1680–1690). On 6 June 1682, a marble bust was installed with a new decoration bearing the grand master’s effigy and arms, sculpted by La Fé.16 Interior transformations also took place during this period, with the upper floor being divided into dwellings for the langue’s knights. Towards the end of the 18th century, a major project was initiated to transform the palace and the city block in which it is situated. However, this ambitious project was never completed due to its vast scale and cost. Stefano Ittar, an architect of Polish origin who was active in Sicily and Rome, was commissioned for this project.17 Building the auberges: materials and construction techniques All materials used in the construction of the auberges were locally available. Documents prepared by notaries and preserved in the notarial archives in Valletta, as

Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques  263

Figure 23.5 Photograph showing the Grand Master’s effigy and arms sculpted by La Fé, and the main portal of the Auberge of Italy, Valletta, Malta (photo: the author).

well as those drafted by military engineers, play a crucial role in the comprehension of the complexity of the construction process, the origins of the materials, and the methods of transport. According to the Capitoli sopra le Case, or building regulations, the designated source of stone was the Manderaggio or Mandracchio,18 as

264  The Military Orders Volume VIII outlined in the original Valletta project. Laparelli depicted the Manderaggio in the city’s four drawings, gradually providing greater detail.19 The earliest detailed observations of natural resources in Malta were made by Francesco Abela in the first half of the 17th century, as documented in his work Della Descrittione di Malta.20 The globigerina limestone, as described by military engineers consulted for the construction of the capital city, was abundant on the island, easily workable but susceptible to rapid decay. The characteristics of the stone were also documented in the Relatione dell’Isola di Malta,21 dated 1 December 1568, which is preserved in the Vatican Library. The Maltese globigerina limestone had been extensively used in the construction of the Hospitallers’ buildings since their arrival on the island. This was due to its abundant availability and ease of processing. The advantages of this type of stone include its ability to be cut, polished, and sculpted into architectural elements of various sizes and shapes. Additionally, globigerina limestone can be employed for decorative details. Its malleability allows for precise fitting of joints between different elements. However, one significant drawback of globigerina limestone is its tendency to degradation. The stone is susceptible to the action of atmospheric agents, particularly humidity. Similar stones with comparable characteristics, structure, and geological age can be found in Sicily, as well as in southern Italy, Provence, and North Africa.22 The Lecce stone of the Salento peninsula shares similarities, although Maltese stone exhibits a more intense yellow colour. The colour of globigerina limestone can vary from white to a soft yellow, featuring a medium-fine grain and sediments with little cement between them. The extraction areas for the stone were located in south-central Malta and north-west Gozo. Archival documents indicate that the main quarries in Malta were situated in St Julian’s and Santa Venera.23 St Julian’s, located on the coast, likely provided stones that were convenient for transportation by boat, making it the preferred quarry. Santa Venera, located in the centre of the island, supplied large-sized stones, which were crucial for the strength of ceiling slabs subjected to strong structural pressure. The stones were transported in wagons as part of caravans from the ‘marina’, the area of the port where boats arrived from Messina and other locations. In 18th-century construction, the cost of stone transportation was indicated as load of stones or balate di pietra,24 a term already used in contemporary Sicilian construction to refer to the quantities of stones for paving; the direct relationship between Sicily and Malta was centuries-old. The most widespread building technique in Malta involved using an outer masonry shell set with ashlars and filled internally with raw material. During the 16th and 17th centuries, a minimal amount of binder was used with ashlars. Layers of ground stone were often interspersed with ashlars to facilitate sliding during construction. The most prevalent construction system in Malta involved an external wall envelope fitted with exposed ashlars and filled internally with raw material. Documents from the 17th and 18th centuries frequently mention the use of plaster to cover stone, especially for interior applications. The plaster was applied with a rendering coat, followed by a coat of terra d’ombra obtained by grinding and leaching a natural pigment to achieve a yellow to brown shade. Finally, an infrascatura, or finishing coat, was applied.

Florentine Renaissance influences and construction techniques  265 Wood was a scarce but crucial resource. The Relatione dell’Isola di Malta (1568) also acknowledged the limited availability of this material and highlighted its use, primarily in military construction where it was strictly necessary. Archival documents often mention the procurement of timber from outside sources, particularly for initial use in fortresses, while wood was imported from Venice for indoor applications, especially for wooden coffered ceilings and floors. From the 18th century onwards, wooden vaults in the upper floors of Hospitaller palaces were built using a lightweight technique that involved wooden ribs, reeds, and a layer of lime and plaster. This technique likely gained further popularity after the 1693 earthquake in the Val di Noto area, which emphasised the need for lightweight roofing in Malta, as in Sicily. Wood was also used to create the distinctive balconies that were already present in Malta during the 18th century, as evidenced by documentary sources. Recycled wooden materials, such as ladders, beams, and scaffolding poles, were used for installing elements at the top of the vault or for painting the frescoes. Similar to other construction projects, these items were often borrowed by the Order as a means of circular use among the island’s construction sites. For instance, two ladders from Siġġiewi were brought from the Inquisitor’s summer palace in Girgenti for the painter’s inspection of the frescoes. Additionally, a ‘portable ladder for the lantern with four large window glasses, and its irons’25 was placed in the main staircase to install a lamp for illuminating the hall. Transportation followed an established practice based on chartering and trusted relationships with ship-owners or armatori, and galley masters or capitani di galere. The galleys arrived from the port of Messina, which held significant political, military, and economic importance at that time. Construction timber of various types was sourced from Venice, Calabria, Dalmatia, and Sicily.26 According to Laparelli’s report, the highest quality woods were oak and chestnut. Conclusion This study has investigated the architectural features and Florentine Renaissance influences on the Hospitaller auberges of the langues in Malta. An analysis of historical records, architectural models, and construction techniques provided valuable insights into the development and significance of these buildings. The findings highlight the strong Tuscan and Sicilian influence on these Renaissance palaces. The architects of the Order of St John adopted Tuscan decorative models and military features, reflecting their origins and the political and cultural context of the time. The auberges exhibit similarities with continental Italian palaces and incorporate elements from contemporary architectural treatises, blending them with the local architectural tradition. The palaces of the langues in Valletta stand as enduring testaments to the intersection of military defence, cultural influences, and architectural expression during this significant historical period. This study has also shed light on the role of the different langues within the Order and their impact on the architectural choices in Valletta. The Langue of Italy, in particular, exerted a considerable influence during the construction of the city due to the numerous Italian knights on the island in the

266  The Military Orders Volume VIII 16th century, while influences from French langues, and other Mediterranean cultures, became prominent in later periods. This chapter presents a construction chronology for the Auberge of Italy that has been developed through the analysis of previously unpublished archival documents and a study of the architectural features of the palace. The connections between the auberges and the palaces of the Italian mainland were identified on the basis of contemporary architectural treatises. The auberges were characterised by a strong military decorative programme that reflected the nature of the Order. Rusticated masonry based on massive corner ashlars is a typical feature of these palaces. Materials and construction techniques were also investigated, allowing a deeper understanding of the craftsmanship and engineering practices employed by the Hospitallers in Malta. Hybridisation between external influences and local traditions and materials characterised the architecture of the auberges. The local globigerina limestone was, as in southern Italy and the islands, the main material employed in Malta. An extended construction technique for vaults and staircases was stereotomy, in line with southern European construction of the time. Ribbed cross vaults and austere coffered barrel vaults of French influence are present in the auberges. The local craftsmen’s knowledge of stereotomy was fundamental for the building of the ‘vis de Saint Gilles’ or Saint Gilles’ winding staircases. From the 18th century and as a result of the 1693 earthquake in Sicily, a new construction technique was introduced, involving lightweight wooden vaults as can be seen in the Inquisitor’s Palace in Birgu, Malta. This study contributes to our knowledge of the architectural heritage in Valletta and lays the ground for future research on Hospitaller Malta. It serves as a foundation for further exploration of the architectural heritage of the Langues of the Order in Valletta, enriching our understanding of their historical and cultural significance within the context of Renaissance architecture and the Order of St John. The insights gained from this research not only advance our understanding of 16th-century architectural and construction techniques but also contribute to the broader field of Renaissance studies. Further investigation could usefully be carried out on the influence of individual architects on the Auberges, on the social and cultural contexts that shaped the architectural choices, or on the transformations of the palaces through the centuries.

Notes 1 A very special thanks goes to Prof Emanuel Buttigieg, Mr Christian Mifsud, and Dr Valeria Vanesio for collaborating on the research project entitled ‘Stories of the Auberge of Italy’. This study was carried out in partnership between Heritage Malta, the University of Malta and the Politecnico di Torino, and supported by the Malta Council for Science and Technology. Dr Marta Serrano Von der Laan was very supportive in revising the text. 2 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Hospitaller Auberge: A  National Centre of Power-politics, Sociability, and Solidarity in Early Modern Malta’, in 60th Anniversary of the Malta Historical Society. A Commemoration, ed. J.F. Grima (Malta, 2010), pp.163–74.

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11 12

13 14 15 16 17

E. Buttigieg, Nobility, Faith and Masculinity: The Hospitaller Knights of Malta, c.1580– c.1700 (London, 2011). V. Vanesio, ‘Rediscovering the archival history of the Order of Saint John: The Proofs of Admission of the Langue of Italy (c.15th–18th century)’, Cahiers de la Méditerranée, 104 (2022), pp.27–50. See also Valeria Vanesio, ‘Un’istituzione millenaria attraverso i suoi Archivi. I processi di ammissione dell’Ordine ospedaliero di San Giovanni secc. XVI–XIX’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Sapienza University of Rome, 2018), https://iris.uniroma1.it/handle/11573/1176880 [17 July 2023]. The Grand Priory of Lombardy included Piedmont, a part of Lombardy and Liguria. V. Burgassi, Il Rinascimento a Malta. Architettura e potere nell’Ordine di San Giovannidi Gerusalemme (Florence, 2022). L’Ordine di Malta e la Lingua d’Italia. Architettura e temi decorativi dalla Controriforma al Settecento, ed. F. Bulfone Gransinigh, V. Burgassi, D.K. Gullo, A. Spila (Palermo, 2024). V. Burgassi, ‘I Trattati del Rinascimento a Malta. Modelli, migrazioni e architettura in età moderna’, Lexicon. Storie e architettura in Sicilia e nel Mediterraneo, 30 (2020), pp.21–36. Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori, et architettori . . ., ed. G. Milanesi (Florence, 1878–1885), vol. VI, p.647. C. Mifsud, ‘Forging an Architecture of Diplomacy: The Foundation and Building of Valletta’, in Malta and the Sovereign Order of Malta: Historic Relations, Future Histories, ed. C. Mifsud Briffa (Malta, 2024). See also C. Thake, ‘Renaissance and Mannerist architecture in Valletta, the “City of the Order” ’, in Valletta: città, architettura e costruzione sotto il segno della fede e della guerra, ed. N. Marconi (Rome, 2011), pp.137–56. N. Baldassini, L.M. Foresi, R. Mazzei et al., ‘Calcareous Plankton Bio-chronostratigraphy of the Maltese Lower Globigerina Limestone Member’, Acta Geologica Polonica, 63.I (2013), pp.105–35. See also S. Guido, ‘Identità maltese nella pietra globigerina: da materiale da costruzione a componente della mestica nella pittura di Caravaggio e Mattia Preti’, in Città tangibili e identità in Italia Meridionale, ed. S. D’Ovidio, J. van Gastel, and Y. Michalsky (Rome, 2020), pp.153–79, and M. Pedley, M.H. Clarke, and P. Galea, Limestone Isles in a Crystal Sea (Malta, 2002). E. Garofalo, ‘L’Architettura obliqua in Sicilia e l’influenza del trattato di Caramuel’, in Testo, immagine, luogo. La circolazione dei modelli a stampa nell’architettura di età moderna, ed. S. Piazza (Palermo, 2013), pp.135–46. See also S. Piazza, ed., Testo, immagine, luogo. La circolazione dei modelli a stampa nell’architettura di età moderna (Palermo, 2013). G. Bonello, Art in Malta: Discoveries and Recoveries (Malta, 1999), pp.47–50. For an in-depth study on the Auberge of Italy refer to V. Burgassi and V. Vanesio, ‘L’Albergia della Lingua d’Italia a Malta. L’avventurosa storia di un palazzo e delle sue carte (secoli XVI-XIX)’, Nuovi Annali della scuola speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari, 31 (2017), pp.163–90 and Burgassi (2022a). See also G. Darmanin Demajo, Storia dell’Albergia della Lingua d’Italia, Archivio Storico di Malta (1930), pp.261–306. M.R. Nobile and F. Scibilia, ed., Tecniche costruttive nel Mediterraneo. Dalla Stereotomia ai criteri antisismici (Palermo, 2016). A. Antista, Costruire la frontiera. L’architettura a Malta fra XVI e XVII secolo (Palermo, 2021). See also G. Antista and M.M. Bares, ed., Le scale in pietra a vista nel Mediterraneo (Palermo, 2013). See Section no. 14 (National Library of Malta, Archivum Ordinis Melitae 2125–2184, Deliberations of the Langue of Italy). For an attribution refer to S. Debono, ‘In segno di gratitudine ed affetto: The marble frontispiece on the main entrance to the Auberge d’Italie’, Treasures of Malta, 85.29 (2022), pp.20–35. About the figure of Stefano Ittar see Antista (2021).

268  The Military Orders Volume VIII 18 A similar place known as Mandraki must have already existed in Rhodes, from which the name probably derives. See E. Maglio, Rhodes: Forme urbaine et architecture religieuse (XIV–-XVIIIe siècles) (Aix Marseille, 2021). 19 BCAE, Francesco Laparelli, planimetria C e D. 20 G.F. Abela, Della Descrittione di Malta, isola nel mare siciliano con le sue antichità, ed altre notitie, Libri Quattro del commendatore Fra Gio. Francesco Abela, Vicecancelliere della Sacra ed Eminentissima Religione Gerosolimitana (Malta, 1647). 21 BAV, Ottob. Lat.833, c.143v. 22 F. Riccobono, Malta e la Sicilia. Due isole nella storia del Mediterraneo (Caltanissetta, 1999), p.13. 23 Among the active construction sites, reference is made to the detailed account for the 18th-century transformation of the Inquisitor’s palace in Birgu. 24 AIM, Mem.5, f.357v. 25 AIM, Mem.5, f.354r. Dr Kenneth Cassar has carried out recent studies on the Inquisitor’s palace and its genesis; see K. Cassar, ed., The Inquisitor’s Palace – an Architectural Gem Spanning Centuries and Styles (Malta, 2013). See also V. Burgassi, ‘The Inquisition Palace Staircase in Birgu by Carapecchia (18th Century): Architecture and Construction under the Order of St. John of Jerusalem’, in Scale e risalite nella Storia della Costruzione in età moderna e contemporanea, ed. V. Burgassi, F. Novelli, and A. Spila (Turin, 2022), pp.301–18 and D. De Lucca, Carapecchia: Master of Baroque Architecture in Early Eighteenth Century Malta (Malta, 1999). 26 BAV, Ottob. Lat.833, c.145r, ‘. . . li legnami si potrebbero condurre da Venetia in Sicilia et di Calabria come si conducono in Malta’.

24 Sleeping memories Preliminary remarks on the langues of the Order of St John and their archives (16th-18th centuries) Valeria Vanesio Introduction Investigating Hospitaller archival history is, as Sir Hannibal Scicluna stated in 1911, ‘of utmost importance to the full understanding of the history of the Knights Hospitaller’.1 It is a story intertwined with a plurality of archival and cultural patterns, holding institutions, political decisions, suppressions, dispersions, and reconstructions. Such an investigation requires delving into the dynamics, fractures and continuities of a multi-faceted millenary institution that crossed the life of different countries, organisations, and people throughout multiple historical dimensions. It is in this intricate and multifaceted context that this study has its roots. This chapter looks at the institutional workings behind the production, use, and preservation of records; it also delves into the dynamics and forces that influenced the dispersion of the Order’s archives in Malta and Europe to provide a better understanding of the current archival settings, a fragmented scenario that often generates a distorted picture of Hospitaller institutions, their roles, and functions within a broader context, including relations with their wider societies.2 As part of a broader research project aimed at contributing to the reconstruction of the archival history, practices, and record-keeping traditions of the Hospitallers, this preliminary study intends to throw light on the forgotten archives of the langues of the Order of St  John in the early modern age. The langues will not be analysed as geographical and administrative subdivisions (this would include, indeed, a study of the priories, commanderies and other local Hospitaller offices in Europe) but as key bodies located at the convent and influencing decisions, politics, and social change. Through the discovery and analysis of the original early modern finding aids of the archives of the langues, this intervention commences the process of exploring a plural archival and institutional dimension that still needs to be fully investigated, and provides some preliminary remarks. A first study of the rules, procedures, use, and management of the archives of the Order between Malta and Italy already led to the identification and rediscovery of the archive of the Langue of Italy and provided the methodological basis to investigate the lost archives of the other langues.3 These first results offered an interesting testing ground to explore the Order’s archival tapestry, an investigation which requires some methodological observations. DOI: 10.4324/9781003385349-29

270  The Military Orders Volume VIII In his impressive Cartulaire général de l’Ordre des Hospitaliers de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem, the French palaeographer Joseph Delaville Le Roulx (1855–1911), adopting the archival theories and criteria used at the time in France and Belgium, structured the Hospitaller archives in archives générales/centrales and archives particulières by mirroring the traditional dichotomy of the organisation into a central convent and peripheral offices.4 Investigating the complex administration of the Order, a structure about which we still know very little for the early modern age, requires establishing some key points of orientation. The centre-periphery dynamic proved to be an invaluable first approach for understanding the archival procedures internal to the Order. However, this approach is also a modern interpretative category that needs to be constantly re-evaluated in order not to fall into rigid institutional boundaries, pre-constructed narratives, and historiographical models. Such an approach intends to be consciously based on the point of view of the Hospitaller hierarchical-administrative paradigm, without at the same time losing sight of the importance of the Order’s periphery, the complexity and multidimensional contribution of other external and local powers, and the global political and cultural transformations. Moreover, adopting a flexible centre-periphery perspective also provided, in this broader research, a better understanding of the essential and multidimensional role of the langues and their early-modern transformations. This investigation also undertakes a comparative and case-study approach by going through the rules and archival procedures of the langues. Among these, there were two main procedures in which the langues played a pivotal decision-making role and which were particularly significant and involved the central and local offices of the Order and other external powers: the evaluation and admission of new members, generating a set of records defined as ‘proofs of nobility’, and the cabrevatio bonorum, which dealt with the management of properties and the protection of rights and privileges related to them. Given their progressive formalisation, these processes offer the opportunity to analyse a variety of records across borders, and investigate differences between the rule and the practice. This approach allows for a cross-analysis of the different langues by discovering the similarities dictated by the Order’s early modern process of centralisation, and also highlighting the differences between the diverse record-keeping systems and the influence of many different legal frameworks. By approaching the Order from an archivist’s point of view, this exploration is mainly focused on the context and the history of the documents, more than on their content. The archival dispersion and fragmentation of the Hospitaller archives in Malta and in Europe requires an in-depth analysis to reconstruct the provenance(s) of the records, the history of the holding institutions that preserve them today, and the subsequent rearrangements over the centuries. Indeed, the current shape of the Hospitaller archival collections, each one with its own history, reorganisations, and peculiarities, prevents us from fully understanding the Order, its institutional workings and offices, and their changing role in the broader context(s). Except for some key contributions,5 Hospitaller archival history is still a thorny issue that lacks a systematic investigation. As is known, the largest part of central records of the Order is still preserved in Malta, fragmented between the National Library and

Sleeping memories  271 other holding institutions, but much more needs to be explored in and outside the island, using modern criteria of investigation.6 Therefore, turning to the langues, the questions are: which were the archives of the langues as central offices, and where are they now preserved? How does one define what a Hospitaller langue was in the early modern period, what was its role in the life of the Order, and how did it work? The langues and their archives: a forgotten story From a small and isolated place, Malta became an international melting pot of noble and powerful men from all over Europe:7 one body with many souls roughly definable as nationes. Born between the end of the 13th and the beginning of the 14th century in the context of administrative and political reforms, the Hospitaller langues were the result of the organisation of knights and European peripheral properties according to linguistic and geographic criteria.8 Although a recognition of knights with the same provenance or speaking almost the same language was naturally already in place, the langues were formally created to achieve a dual purpose: to control and manage the peripheral properties and members scattered many miles away, and to represent the peripheries in the government of the central convent.9 These originally were Provence, Auvergne, France, England,10 Germany, Spain,11 and Italy. According to Anthony Luttrell and Stanley Fiorini, the langues gradually developed administrative functions and a juridical personality in Rhodes: they owned and managed properties, foundations, and received incomes. Carrying out administrative duties also meant producing records: it was Luttrell and Fiorini who identified the earliest known register of deliberations of the Langue of Italy (1437–1462).12 The Langues had their own buildings called auberges where the brothers of the same natio used to live, an organisational system that they brought to Malta. However, as stated by Victor Mallia-Milanes, during the Maltese period the auberges acquired an even more complex structure and transformed into national centres of sociability and solidarity.13 Such a transformation is also related to the process of institutional change that the Order and the langues were undertaking throughout the early modern age. After a first ‘rehabilitation’ period,14 the centralisation of power related to the progressive transformation of the Order into a modern state, administrative offices naturally developed into more bureaucratic machines, diplomatic activities expanded, and increasing communications generated more complex administrative procedures. In this scenario, the langues played a key role in many governing matters, like membership and property management, and became protagonists of articulated decision-making processes.15 This phenomenon can be better understood through the rediscovery and reconstruction of their lost archives in the broader archival context. Looking at the history of archives and archival holding institutions as a palimpsest of rules, practices, organisational customs and traditions, and interactions with other entities – dynamics influenced by cultural models and political trends – the vicissitudes of the Hospitaller documentary heritage are similar, with all its peculiarities, to those of many long-existing organisms. At the end of the 18th century,

272  The Military Orders Volume VIII many of these institutions faced a radical identity and institutional fracture. All over Europe, the arrival of the French Republican army and the suppression of religious orders meant a traumatic event in which the records, those of the suppressed governments and those produced by the new regime, played a key role and became the symbol ‘of an unreconciled and unresolved relationship with a very recent past yet now ineluctably remote’.16 The arrival of the French Republican army in Malta in 1798 marked a watershed in the history of the Hospitaller central archives, which began a new life independently from the fate of their creator. When the Order left the island, a series of operations of destruction, merging and dismemberment gave the structure of the records – today preserved in different holding institutions and in private hands – an artificial shape. The dispersion of the archival sources and the subsequent rearrangements between the 19th and the 20th centuries clouded the understanding of the Hospitaller institutions and the natural archival bond with their records.17 The last mention of the archives of the langues in Malta dates back to about a century ago, after which no systematic information can be traced. In 1912, Monsignor Alfredo Mifsud (1866–1920), librarian at the Royal Library of Malta (now National Library), while retracing the steps of the Maltese and Hospitaller archives from 1798 to his times, stated: I will only point out that this documentary heritage notably lacks the papers of the archives of the seven Langues. . . . This lack is not entirely due to the action of the French republican government or to the aforementioned relocations or to inconsistency of rules and decisions to remove some archival volumes, but to the deplorable dismemberment and destruction of the parchments and ancient papers which once existed in the rooms now converted into the office of the Principal Secretary of Government.18 As royal librarian, Mifsud himself acquired a number of documents once belonging to the archives of the langues, in particular the Langue of Italy, from the antique market to preserve them at the Royal Library; many were incorporated into the manuscripts section.19 A few years later, the Maltese historian Giuseppe Darmanin Demajo (1871–1943) provided an account of the auberges and sketched the life of the langues by briefly mentioning their archives.20 Both Mifsud and Darmanin Demajo recognised that the langues had once preserved their own records on-site in the auberges as independent archival bodies from the central records, a significant piece of evidence of their changing role. However, with the exception of Mifsud’s acquisitions for the Royal Library, what they did not – and probably could not – identify was if some records still survived and where, a story that, especially in the case of the Langue of Italy, is strictly related to other holding institutions and unfolded beyond the shores of the island.21 The first dismemberment of the archives of the langues in Malta happened in 1798, when the French Republican government ordered the separation of the records certifying properties from the documents once belonging to the Hospitaller chancery, the treasury, and the langues, to be sent to the Commission of Government.

Sleeping memories  273 At the same time, many of them were either used for artillery cartridges, burned, or dispersed on the antique market.22 With an order issued on 26 of July 1798, the Hospitaller records were merged by the French government in a repository called Dépôt Générale des Chancelleries et Tribunaux Supprimés together with patrimonial records once belonging to other institutions on the island. Among the surviving documents, the Council’s registers, some privileges, and the statutes were moved to the library (today National Library) and reorganised in artificial archival collections. More archival material was merged in subsequent years.23 As mentioned, the re-discovered archival history of the Italian Langue has pointed to the methodological foundations necessary to retrace the steps of the archives of the other langues. Only a few essential key points will be highlighted here. First, in order to unravel the knots of the Hospitaller archival scenario, a new perspective on Malta was needed, and it was provided by the archival collections of the Magistral Archives of the Order in Rome, located in the current Hospitaller headquarters. A very deep analysis of the archival material preserved in Rome revealed that the repository worked as a magnetic core by attracting records of different provenance and different nature strictly related with the Maltese archival context.24 Second, a case study approach was adopted by focusing on the admission procedure into the Order. Being a very complex procedure, involving internal and external legal, political, and social dynamics, it offered a unique testing ground to rediscover the role of the langue and measure the gap between rules and practice. The reconstruction of the multiple provenances of the Italian proofs of nobility kept in Rome through the analysis of the old archival reference codes, which were then matched with the newly discovered Langue’s inventories, as well as the reconstruction of the archival history through the Langue’s deliberations in Malta, brought to light a hidden story. After the loss of Malta, part of the archive of the Langue of Italy was acquired on the antique market by a handful of knights who were trying to give a new lease of life to the Hospitaller convent in Sicily. On the one hand, this acquisition is a testament of the recovery and identity-reconstructing operations of the ‘new’ convent: most of the knights were Italians but, most importantly, they were in Italy and needed to recover as many properties, members, and privileges as possible in order to survive. On the other hand, the merging of these records in the Magistral Archives in 1834, when the convent arrived in Rome, changed the shape of that repository but, most of all, created an indissoluble connection between Rome and Malta through the archive of the Langue. Finally, this archival relationship also revealed the nature of several wrong rearrangement operations of the Archives of the Order in Malta and disclosed many of the original archives lost over time.25 Among these, were the archives of the langues. The analysis conducted for the rich collections of records once belonging to the archive of the Langue of Italy is not always possible with the same accuracy for the other langues. It is important to emphasise that from the first data gathered at the National Library of Malta, there seems to be just a few surviving records once produced or preserved by these institutions. However, crossing information between the few registers of deliberations and the newly discovered old repertories, it is still possible to sketch out their profile, analyse their content, and get the

274  The Military Orders Volume VIII gist of what once existed. Since this research is in its early stages, only preliminary results will be mentioned. Looking for instance at the Langue of Auvergne, in 1766 the assembly deliberated the appointment of Fra Bosredon, commander of Masdieu,26 to prepare an alphabetical list of all the proofs of nobility preserved in the archive of the Langue, today partially destroyed. The introductory note informs the reader that the inventory was created ‘to facilitate the retrieval of the ancient and modern proofs of nobility for anyone needing to find them, arranged according to the family name’.27 It is interesting how the probative value of the archive and the importance of having it in order emerges from these lines: Bosredon writes that the decision of rearranging and creating that list was to ‘dispel all doubts of those who want to appeal against the Langue’. The Langues also had, indeed, judicial power on specific matters, a function they fine-tuned in Malta. Although most of their decisions needed to be confirmed by the grand master and the council, the appointment of certain dignities (e.g. the head of the Langue), the admissions, and the management of their properties located in the archipelago and abroad were discussed by the langues’ assemblies. The langues could also autonomously grant particular graces, were in charge of handling controversies, their resolutions were mostly irrevocable, and their records were authentic and used with probative/judicial value. According to the statutes, ‘whoever dares to contradict the authenticity of the records of the Langues, must undergo the necessary penance’ (lex talionis).28 Another important inventory discloses the content and the codex-based organisation of the archive of the Langue of Auvergne, and allows the identification of some surviving documents. For instance, in a particular section entitled Papiers originaux qui sont dans l’archives de la Vénérable Langue d’Auvergne concernent ses preminances et celles de mr. le marechal,29 it is possible to identify two of the volumes related to the controversies between the Langue, its head – the marshal – and Grand Master Antoine de Paule on the right of pre-eminence, still preserved at the National Library (AOM2108 and AOM2109). Both of them bear the old archival reference codes matching the inventory.30 While these two volumes are preserved today within section  14 (second classification), called Lingua di Alvernia, other records such as land surveys and proofs of nobility listed in the inventory are scattered in section number 15 and section 16 with the same documents of the other langues. After the destruction of a substantial part of the archive,31 what remained was fragmented by outdated rearrangements according to topic and documentary typology, which can only be overcome through virtual reconstruction of what survives and the use of archival description and modern technology.32 The data gathered in this pilot study suggests that much more can be investigated about the langues and their records in Malta. Looking at the other langues, these first findings are guiding the next steps of the research. For example, very little survives of the archive of the German Langue. According to Mifsud, a few records were recovered at the Public Registry in Malta while many genealogical trees and a land survey were found and kept in private hands.33 However, a complete 18th-century inventory of this archive made before the arrival of the French

Sleeping memories  275 Republican army testifies to the richness of the Langue and its records, including proofs of admission, land surveys, improvements (miglioramenti), and miscellaneous material.34 The deliberations of the Langue of Castile, Leon, and Portugal throw light on the reorganisation of its archive in 1729 with the acquisition of a new mobile closet (armario portatile) to collect and preserve the records, and move them in the apartment where the Langue’s procurators lived. This also shows common patterns of preservation and records management with the other langues that also relied on knights procurator for this task.35 An inventory of the Langue of Aragon dated 1787 lists all the proofs of nobility from the 16th to the 18th centuries, and clearly shows that the documents were identified by a particular alphanumeric system. This information is currently guiding the research to identify them in different archival sections within and outside the National Library.36 Finally, a rich index of the Langue of France opens a window on the diplomatic and administrative activities of this institution by providing a full description, document by document, of its archive.37 It is still not clear when the langues started preserving and taking care of their records in the auberges. At the end of the 15th century in Rhodes, the records of the langues were still kept in a dedicated cabinet (armarium) in the chancery of the Order.38 However, an important set of documents, the registers, including the deliberations of the langues’ assemblies, testifies that when the knights moved to Malta – in Birgu and then to Valletta – some of their documents were probably already held by them, at least in the case of the Italian Langue. Indeed, according to the only surviving inventory of the chancery – which was only recently found – no records of the langues were being preserved in the chancery at the beginning of the 18th century.39 Crucially, the very well documented example of the Langue of Italy mentions for the first time, in 1573, that its records were preserved in a chest (archa Venerandae Linguae Italiae)40 and the first surviving inventory dated to 1581.41 It is possible then that at the date of the inventory, the archive was already kept under the jurisdiction of the Langue, especially considering that the knights were already in the new auberge from 1579.42 It is interesting to note that in 1590, a ceremony for the delivery of the keys of the archive and the accounts of the langue from one group of procurators to the newly appointed ones was already in place, consolidated, and supervised by two commissioners and the secretary of the langue.43 It is also quite remarkable that the archive, internal chancery procedures (such as the issuance of documents or their certified copy), and the appointments to dignities were also used as pecuniary sources for the langues. These funds could be spent on the construction/renovation of the auberges and represent a steam of income alongside the better-known revenue from lands (responsiones) coming from Europe. As testified by a newly discovered document of the Langue preserved in a private collection in Malta,44 in 1558, when the Order was still in Birgu but planning the construction of a new city on the other side of the harbour, it emerges that the Langue of Italy was using money from its taxation of internal chancery rights, and financial resources deriving from issuing records (bolle) to certify promotions and appointments, to finance the building of a new auberge. The care devoted to the archive throughout the centuries also shows up in a short but dense set of rules to manage

276  The Military Orders Volume VIII and access the records, drafted by the Langue in 1641, and in the many inventories and indexes created for the smooth management of the knights’ business, politics, and diplomatic missions.45 Intertwined with the story of these archives there is the life of the langues. Looking at their deliberations, the records management systems, and the progressive development of more sophisticated archival procedures for the creation, validation, and preservation of records, the Langues were not only working as powerful filters between the centre and the periphery, but they developed their own identity as central offices of government and a strong system of self-representation in their own archives. Final remarks and future research pathways The rediscovery of these old finding aids and the analysis of some of the main archival procedures of the langues are throwing new light on their fragmented and lost archives, tracing the archival gaps, their roles and functions in the Hospitaller system, and revealing new stories hidden in the folds of the complex Hospitaller archival fabric. Grounded in different cultural dimensions, but sharing and coexisting in the same environment, the langues offer a unique testing ground for a comparative approach between the administrative history and record-keeping systems of these institutions. Indeed, the next step of this work in progress will be delving into their specific archival procedures to better understand common patterns and different legal contexts. During the early modern age, such procedures became quite complex and challenging. For these reasons, between the 17th and 18th centuries, several manuscript manuals were written to facilitate the understanding of how to move within these processes and which documents were required. Looking at these manuscripts it is clear that the Order, working as a supranational authority in certain matters, was dealing with a plurality of legal systems that, in turn, influenced Hospitaller procedures. For instance, the peculiarities of the Italian legal tradition in certifying documents and legal processes (e perché in Italia si fa più conto delle scritture) were sometimes different from other contexts in Europe. Certainly, the need to produce records according to the local use (fatto diligentemente ed intieramente secondo l’uso del Paese) throws light on the complexity and diversity of the legal contexts existing in the different langues, and coexisting within each langue like, for example, the fragmentation of Italy in different states.46 Although the langues represented differences and peculiarities, at the same time they embodied a ‘centralised’ Hospitaller identity. In parallel, the langues are also providing food for thought for the study of another body and its dispersed archive, this being the assembly of the conventual chaplains which had a similar institutional structure, with differences and peculiarities, to the one of the langues.47 Further multidisciplinary collaborations are leading to new research pathways. Starting from the Auberge of Italy, the role of these palaces in the urban and social context of Valletta is the subject of a study in connection with the Langue’s institutional workings and records, providing a research model and the foundations to awaken the sleeping memory of the langues in Malta.48

Sleeping memories  277 Notes 1 H.P. Scicluna, Some Important Documents of the Archives of the Sovereign Military Order of St John of Jerusalem and of Malta (Malta, 1931 reprint), p.3. 2 As a starting point of this research, see the author’s Ph.D. dissertation in Archival and Library Science, V. Vanesio, ‘Un’istituzione millenaria attraverso i suoi Archivi. I processi di ammissione dell’Ordine ospedaliero di San Giovanni secc. XVI–XIX’ (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Sapienza University of Rome, 2018), 2 vols, https://iris. uniroma1.it/handle/11573/1176880 [17 July 2023]; V. Vanesio, ‘Il valore inestimabile delle carte. L’archivio del Sovrano Militare Ordine di Malta e la sua storia: un primo esperimento di ricostruzione’, Collectanea Bibliothecae Magistralis, 2 (2014), https:// www.orderofmalta.int/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/Collectanea-II.pdf [17 July 2023]. 3 V. Burgassi and V. Vanesio, ‘L’Albergia della Lingua d’Italia a Malta. L’avventurosa storia di un palazzo e delle sue carte (secoli XVI-XIX)’, Nuovi Annali della scuola speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari, 31 (2017), pp.163–90; V. Vanesio, ‘Rediscovering the archival history of the Order of St John: the proofs of admission of the Langue of Italy (c.15th–18th)’, Cahiers de la Méditerranée, 104 (2022), pp.27–50, https://journals. openedition.org/cdlm/15509 [17 July  2023]; V. Vanesio, ‘ “Per la distanza de’ luoghi e la varietà delle Nationi”. People, Properties and Archival Procedures of the Order of St John in the Early Modern Period’, in The Land and the Cross. Properties of the Order of St John between Centre and Periphery (16th–18th Century), ed. V. Burgassi, G.A. Said Zammit, and V. Vanesio (London, 2025), pp.86–114. 4 J. Delaville Le Roulx, Cartulaire général de l’Ordre des Hospitaliers de S. Jean de Jérusalem (1100–1310), vol. 1 (Paris, 1894), p.XII and Documents concernant les Templiers. Extraits des Archives de Malte (Paris, 1882), pp.2–3; A. Brenneke, Archivistica. Contributo alla teoria ed alla storia archivistica europea (Milan, 1968), pp.211–23. 5 Refer to some of the more recent material: Gli Archivi per la storia del Sovrano Militare Ordine di Malta, Atti del III Convegno Internazionale di Studi Melitensi, Taranto 18–21 ottobre 2001, ed. C.D. Fonseca and C. D’Angela (Taranto, 2005); K. Borchardt, A. Luttrell, and E. Schöffler, Documents Concerning Cyprus from the Hospital’s Rhodian Archives: 1409–1459 (Nicosia, 2011); Documents Concerning Central Europe from the Hospital’s Rhodian Archives, 1314–1428, ed. K. Borchardt (Abingdon, 2020); M. Camilleri, ‘The Archives of the Order of St. John at the National Library of Malta’, in Treasures of the Order of Malta. Nine Centuries in the Service of Faith and Charity, ed. L. Mikhaĭlovna Gavrilova (Moscow, 2012), pp.58–65; M. Camilleri, ‘The Archives of the Order of Malta. AOM 6520–6577: A Case of Irrespect des Fondes?’, in Scientia et Religio. Studies in memory of Fr. George Aquilina OFM (1939–2012). Scholar, Archivist and Franciscan Friar, ed. John Azzopardi (Malta, 2014), pp.39–54. 6 The most recent landmark study in the field is Documents Concerning Central Europe from the Hospital’s Rhodian Archives, 1314–1428, ed. Karl Borchardt (Routledge, 2022). 7 See E. Buttigieg, Nobility, Faith and Maculinity. The Hospitaller Knights of Malta c.1580–c.1700 (London, 2011); A. Brogini, Une noblesse en Méditerranée. Le couvent des Hospitaliers dans la première modernité (Aix-en-Provence, 2017). 8 Buttigieg (2011), p.19. 9 A. Luttrell and S. Fiorini, ‘The Italian Hospitallers at Rhodes: 1437–1462’, Revue Mabillon, 68 (1996), pp.209–33, 210, https://doi.org/10.1484/J.RM.2.305558. About the auberges, see A. Luttrell, The Town of Rhodes 1306–1356 (Rhodes, 2003), pp.14–15, 72–74; J. Burgtorf, The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars. History, Organization and Personnel (Leiden, 2008), pp.95–96, 139–40, 146, 152. 10 The Langue of England was suppressed in 1540 by Henry VIII. See Gregory O’Malley, The Knights Hospitaller of the English Langue 1460–1565 (Oxford, 2005). 11 The general chapter held in 1462 decided to divide the Langue of Spain into two different Langues, the Langue of Castile, Leon and Portugal, and the Langue of Aragon, Catalunya and Navarre. See O’Malley, pp.269–70.

278  The Military Orders Volume VIII 12 Luttrell and Fiorini (1996), p.215. 13 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Hospitaller Auberge. A  National Centre of Power-politics, Sociability and Solidarity on Early Modern Malta’, in 60th Anniversary of the Malta Historical Society: A Commemoration, ed. J.F. Grima (Malta, 2010), pp.163–74. 14 V. Mallia-Milanes, ‘The Birgu Phase of the Hospitaller History’, in Birgu. A Maltese Maritime City, ed. L. Bugeja, M. Buhagiar, and S. Fiorini, vol. I (Msida, 1993), pp.76–77, 79–80; see also A. Brogini, ‘Crisis and Revival. The Convent of the Order of Malta during the Catholic Reformation (16th–17th Centuries)’, in MO 6.1, pp.169–76. 15 For the mediaeval and early modern developments of chanceries and archives, see R.C. Head, Making Archives in Early Modern Europe: Proof, Information, and Political Record-keeping, 1400–1700 (Cambridge, 2019). 16 F. Cavazzana Romanelli, ‘Storia degli archivi e modelli culturali. Protagonisti e dibattiti dall’Ottocento veneziano’, in Archivi e storia nell’Europa del XIX secolo. Alle radici dell’identità culturale europea, ed. I. Cotta and R. Manno Tolu (Rome, 2006), pp.96–97. 17 See Vanesio (2018). 18 A. Mifsud, ‘Appunti sugli archivi di Malta’, Archivium Melitense, 2 (1914), p.25. 19 Mifsud (1914), pp.26–30; M. Camilleri, ‘The National Library of Malta’s Manuscript Collection’, in Celebratio Amicitiae: Essays in honour of Giovanni Bonello, ed. M. Camilleri and T. Vella (Malta, 2006), pp.45–60. 20 For Darmanin Demajo’s works on the Langues, see ‘Le albergie delle Lingue iberiche e le loro chiese nazionali’, Archivio storico di Malta, 3.1/4 (1932), pp.70–114; ‘L’Albergia della Lingua d’Alemagna’, Archivio storico di Malta, 4.2/4 (1934), pp.65–96; ‘L’Albergia di Francia e la chiesa della Madonna di Liesse’, Archivio storico di Malta, 2.2/3 (1931), pp.57–75; ‘L’Albergia della Lingua d’Alvernia e la cappella d’Alvernia in S. Giovanni’, Archivio storico di Malta, 2.4 (1931), pp.201–09; ‘Storia dell’Albergia della Lingua d’Italia’, Archivio storico di Malta, 1 (1930), pp.261–306; ‘Memorie storiche delle albergie dei cavalieri francesi dell’Ordine militare di San Giovanni’, Archivum Melitense, 8.2 (1930), pp.51–65. See also E.W. Schermerhorn, Malta of the Knights (Kingswood, 1929). 21 See Vanesio (2018, 2022). 22 E. de Rozière, ‘Notice sur les archives de Malte’, in Bibliothèque de l’ècole des chartes, vol. 7 (Paris, 1846), p.568; Mifsud (1914), pp.18–19; C. Testa, The French in Malta, 1798–1800 (Malta, 1997), p.271. 23 Mifsud (2014), pp.19–20; Testa (1997), p.781. For the decrees issued by the French government, see H. Scicluna, Actes et documents relatifs à l’Histoire de l’Occupation Française de Malte 1798–1800 et à La Fête du Juillet 1798 à Malte (Malta, 1979), pp.180–86. 24 See Vanesio (2014). 25 See Burgassi and Vanesio (2017); Vanesio (2018, 2022); V. Vanesio, ‘The Order of St  John Archival Entanglements: Cataloguing Experiments at the Magistral Archives in Rome’, Nuovi Annali della scuola speciale per archivisti e bibliotecari, 37 (2023), pp.89–107. 26 Most probably he is François-Louis de Bosredon who was still commander of Masdieu in 1779. See Archives départementales et métropolitaines du Rhône. Ordre de Malte 48H1-48H3432, 1113–793, Inventaire rédigé par Georges Guigues, Claude Faure et René Lacour, directeurs des Archives du Rhône; reprise de l’indexation et vérifications par Isabelle Flattot et Juliette Curien-Mangel, avec le concours de Laurence Hugot, p.770, https://archives.rhone.fr/media/cfcbe585-edef-4f4c-8eca-7ebbc221d4df.pdf [18 April 2023]. 27 NLM AOM2099, f.2r, Liste alphabétique des preuves des chevaliers reçu depuis 1551 jusqu’ajourd’huy et en continuant ainsi de mesme par la suitte faite par monsieur le chevalier de Bosredon commandeur du Masdieu commissaire nommé par la Vénérable Langue, ca. 1766.

Sleeping memories  279 28 Compendio delle materie contenute nel Codice del Sacro Militare Ordine Gerosolimitano (Malta, 1783), p.86. 29 NLM AOM2101, f.186r. 30 See the archival description in vHMML.org. AOM 2108 (https://w3id.org/vhmml/ readingRoom/view/221976) and AOM 2109 (https://w3id.org/vhmml/readingRoom/ view/221977). 31 Mifsud (1914), pp.25–26. 32 See the work of the Malta Study Center, https://hmml.org/research/msc/ [17 July 2023]. 33 Mifsud (1914), p.26. 34 NLM AOM2199, III, Catalogo dei processi di nobiltà dei cavalieri del gran priorato di Alemagna, de’ processi di legittimità de’ cappellani e serventi d’armi, de’ miglioramenti, cabrei, e carte diverse, relative alle dignità e commende del detto gran priorato per rango di preminenza di dignità e commende per ordine alfabetico. A German genealogical tree, probably belonging to the Langue of Germany, has been identified at the Cathedral Archives Mdina; for a description see Stanley Fiorini, The parchments of the Mdina Cathedral Archives. Malta 1420–1959 (Malta, 2019), p.246, parchment n.473. 35 NLM AOM2204, ff.15r–16r. See also Darmanin Demajo (1932), p.78. 36 NLM AOM2217. In the 1890 NLM catalogue, the index is erroneously identified as belonging to the Langue of Castile. 37 NLM AOM2120, f.IV, 1773, Repertoire general des affaires qui concernent la Ven. Langue fait en 1773 par le chevalier d’Hannonville. 38 Mifsud (1914), p.11; M. Camilleri, ‘ “Una delle officine più importanti del ­nostro Sagr’Ordine”. The Chancery of the Order of St. John’, in Guardians of Memory. Essays in Remembrance of Hella Jean Bartolo Winston, ed. C. Farrugia (Malta, 2008), pp.157–92. 39 ASMOM CT 472, L’Archivio Segreto della Sagra Religione Gerosolimitana e sua Cancelleria aperto in questo libro per riconoscere tutte le materie che in esso si contengono, dal Sacerdote Fra Ignazio Ricci già scrivano di essa cancelleria sino dalli due gennaio 1700. See also V. Vanesio, ‘Tracing Hospitaller Archival Fragments (16th–18th ­Century). Some Preliminary Remarks’, in Los archivos y documentos de la Edad Media a la Contemporánea en Europa y América (estudios de caso), ed. L. Zozaya-Montes (Gijón, 2024). 40 NLM AOM93, f.119v. 41 NLM AOM2125, f.271v. 42 NLM AOM2125, ff.269, 279. 43 NLM AOM2125, f.206v. 44 AdeP Box AD1, privilege granted by Grand Master Jean de Vallette to the Langue of Italy, 1558 (parchment). 45 NLM AOM2129, ff.97rv. 46 Both quotations are from HMML, Rare Book and Manuscript collection, Malta Study Center, HMML 00436, no pagination, https://w3id.org/vhmml/readingRoom/ view/502186. 47 A project of reconstruction of its archive and institutional structure is currently ongoing and being curated by the author. 48 See Burgassi and Vanesio (2017); Vanesio (2022). The research project mentioned is entitled The Auberge of Italy. Faces, Facets, Facades. It is funded by the Internationalisation Partnership Awards Scheme Plus (IPAS+) 2022 of the Malta Council for Science and Technology, and it is conducted by Christian Mifsud (Heritage Malta), Valentina Burgassi (Politecnico di Torino), Emanuel Buttigieg (University of Malta), and Valeria Vanesio (University of Malta).

Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate a figure and page numbers in bold indicate a table on the corresponding page. Words that appear with great frequency in the text, such as military orders, Malta, Rhodes, and Cyprus, are not included in the Index. In addition, terms that appear in the titles of the chapters have not been indexed, except when they are used in other chapters. Aberdeen, city 30 Aboyne, village 30 Acre, city 11, 48, 98, 99, 178 – 180, 211 – 216, 230, 243 Adrian VI, Pope 61, 76 Aelred of Rievaulx 28 Afonso I, King of Kongo 19 Alberti, Leon Battista 262 Alcántara, town 116 Alcántara, Order of 13, 16, 76, 95, 100, 111, 112; in the Indies 13, 16; in North Africa 13, 16 Alemania, Domenico de, Hospitaller 126, 129 Alexander II, King of Scotland 30 Alexander III, King of Scotland 30, 31, 32 Alexander III, Pope 97, 100, 148, 223 Alexander VI, Pope 14 Alfonso IX, King of Leon 100 Alfonso X, King of Castile 100 Algiers, city 234 Alighieri, Dante 225 Aljama 110 – 115 Almagro, town 111, 112 Almeida, Diogo de, Prior of Crato 57 Álvaro II, King of Kongo 19 Álvaro III, King of Kongo 19 Álvaro XII, King of Kongo 20 Amalric, King of Jerusalem 99 Amanos Mountains 39, 40, 42, 44, 47, 48 Amaral, Andreas do, Hospitaller 12 Americas, Hospitaller colonisation projects in 12, 13; see also Brazil

Ammannati, Bartolomeo 257, 259 Anatolia 40, 42, 51, 231 Andrea of Hungary 189 Andrew, King of Hungary 173 Angola 14, 16, 17 Anitrini, Francesco 262 Antioch, principality 39 – 51 Antonine Hospitallers 163, 164 Apocalypse 174, 175, 211 Apostolic 19, 55, 221, 224 Archduke Friedrich of Austria 243 archival dispersion 270 archival reconstruction 271, 273, 274 Assailly, Gilbert of, Master 98, 100 ‘Atlit, fortress 173 auberges 271, 272, 275; of Aragon 258; of England 107; of Italy 258, 259, 261 – 266, 275, 276 Augusta, city 67 Austria, Juan José de 135 Averoldo, Vincenzo, Hospitaller 188 Avis, town 113 Avis, Order of 13, 14, 95, 98, 113; in North Africa 13, 14 Aydin, city 231 Baghras, fortress 210, 212, 215 Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury 221 Bannockburn, battle 32, 33 Barber, Malcolm 219 Baronio, Cesare, Cardinal 185, 188 Barres, Everard of, Master 99 Barros, Filomena 114

Index  281 Barrow, Geoffrey 28 Baybars, Mamluk Sultan of Egypt 44, 48, 49, 210, 212, 213, 215 Beaufort, Henry, Cardinal 106 Beaujeu, William of, Master 99 Béjaïa, city 13, 68, 69 Belen Geçidi, mountain pass 40, 41 Belvoir, castle 211 Bene, Gilberto del, Hospitaller captain general 70 – 74 Benedict XIII, Pope 106 Benedictines 150, 161 – 163, 165; nuns 164 Berard, Thomas, Master 99 Berengar, Raymond, Grand Master 130 Beringucci, Marcello, Hospitaller 135 Bernard de Clairvaux 147, 149, 150, 172, 175, 219, 220 Bichi, Giovanni, Hospitaller 201, 202 Bigsby, Robert 239 Birgu, city 259, 266, 275 biscuit 67 – 69, 72 – 74, 134, 135, 137 – 139 Black Death 225 Bodrum, castle 106, 107 Bohemond IV, Prince of Antioch 214 Bolaños de Calatrava, town 111 Bonaparte, Napoleon 235, 239, 240 Boniface VIII, Pope 100, 224 Borghese, Scipione, Cardinal 188 Bosio, Giacomo 59, 186 – 189, 203 Bougyis, Katie 145 Bourbon, Christine de, Duchess of Savoy 71 Braudel, Fernand 68 Brazil 14, 16, 18 Brian le Jaye, Templar 31 British medieval architecture 251 Buonarroti, Francesco, Hospitaller 187, 188 buttresses and battlements 251 Calamech, Andrea 256, 257 Calatrava, Order of 13, 76, 96, 98, 100, 111, 112, 171; in the Indies 16; in North Africa 13 Caltagirone, city 139, 186, 187 Canons of the Holy Sepulchre 162 – 164 Capetians 28, 224, 225 Cappella Ardente 196, 197, 198 Caracciolo, Riccardo, anti-Master 105 Carafa, Gregorio, Grand Master 199, 262 Carapecchia, Romano 196, 197, 198 Caravaggio, Michelangelo Merisi 203 Carlentini, city 257 Carmelites 163

Carthusians 163, 165 Caspe, town 111 Cassar, Girolamo 257, 259, 262 Castilho, Diogo de, Portuguese monk 59, 61 Catalans 121, 127, 128, 131 Caulet, Giovanni Giorgio, Hospitaller 136 Cervera, town 115 Ceyhan, river 48, 49 Charles II, King of Spain 72, 76 – 88, 140 Chaucer, Geoffrey 107 Cheriton, Odo of 176 Chiarandá, Giacomo Maria, Hospitaller 138, 139 Christ, Order of 13, 14; in Atlantic 14, 17; in India 15; in Kongo 16; in North Africa 16; in Warri 18; in world exploration 15; see also Kongolese Order of Christ Christendom 29, 32, 33, 61, 70, 218, 219, 221 – 223, 225, 226, 241, 242 Christiana of Esperston 31, 32 Cilicia, kingdom 214 Cistercians 95 – 97, 100, 144, 147, 150, 151, 162, 163, 165 – 167; nuns 165 – 167 Clairmarais, Cistercian abbey 146, 147, 151 Clement IV, Pope 99 Clement V, Pope 225 Clement VII, Pope 105 Clement, Bishop of Dunblane 30 Clerkenwell, priory 30 Comyn, John 32 Confraternity of the Faith (Milan) 175 Conrad of Montferrat 221 Conrad of Porto, cardinal and papal legate 173 – 175 Coron, city 234 corsairing 57, 58, 68, 232 – 234 Cotoner, Nicolas, Grand Master 66, 70, 199, 200, 204 Cotoner, Rafael, Grand Master 204 councils, church 173; Council of Vienne (1311) 225; Council of York (1311) 225; Council of Pisa (1409) 106; Council of Trent (1545) 185; Fourth Lateran Council (1215) 171, 177; Second Council of Lyon (1274) 171; Third Lateran Council (1179) 178 Courson, Robert of 172, 178 Craigloun, village 29 Craon, Robert of, Master 99 Crato, priory 56 – 58, 60 – 62

282 Index Cross with the Red Star, Order of the 162 – 164 Crusade: 27 – 29, 32, 33, 41, 55, 62, 105, 107, 171, 212, 216, 220 – 222, 230, 231, 237, 245; Albigensian Crusade 32, 174, 175, 177; anti-heretical crusades 171, 174, 176, 177, 180; Baltic 173, 174; crusader states 11, 12, 224; First Crusade 44, 172, 230, 238, 240; Fifth Crusade 164, 171 – 173, 177, 178, 180; finances and the military orders 173, 178; Fourth Crusade 30, 172, 174; Frederick II, crusade of 171 – 174, 180; Livonian 174; Prussian 173; recruiting 30, 171, 173, 175, 176; Second Crusade 27, 28, 99, 147, 150; Third Crusade 27, 29, 32, 151, 177, 213, 240 Cumans 173 d’Amboise, Émery, Grand Master 131 Dal Pozzo, Bartolomeo 135 Damascus, city 211, 212 Damietta, campaign 178, 224 Danelaw 249, 250 Darmanin Demajo, Giuseppe 272 David I, King of Scotland 29, 33 Davidian Revolution 28 de Cais, Anselme, Hospitaller 201 Declaration of Arbroath 33 del Monte, Pietro, Grand Master 261 Delaville Le Roulx, Joseph 270 dell’Antella, Francesco, Hospitaller 188 de Puy, Raymond, Master 192 de Rye, Hubert 249 Despuig, Ramon, Grand Master 194, 196 – 198 de Vilhena, Antonio Manoel, Grand Master 192 – 196 de Villegagnon, Nicolas, Hospitaller 70 Diderot, Denis 198, 199 Dinis I, King of Portugal 113 Ditchfield, Simon 184 Dominicans 10, 11, 30, 96, 97, 145, 151, 162 – 166, 188; nuns 165 Dugdale, William 249 Dumfries, town 32 Dutch, empire 17 Edinburgh, city 28, 30, 31, 238, 239, 242 Edward I, King of England 30, 31 Edward II, King of England 32, 225 Elisabeth of Schonau 145, 149 – 151 Elvas, city 113 Epiros, region 105 Ethiopia, empire 10, 12, 18

Etna, mountain 67, 136 Eugenius III, Pope 149, 172 Falkirk, battle 31 Female religious piety 144 – 147, 158, 185 Female visionary preaching 149, 150 Ferdinand II, King of Aragon 13, 57 Fernández de Heredia, Juan, Grand Master 12, 105, 106, 127, 130 Fernando III, King of Castile 100 Fernando IV, King of Castile 100 Figueiredo, José Anastácio de 59, 60 Filipe I, King of Portugal see Philip II, King of Spain Filipe II, King of Portugal see Philip III, King of Spain Filipe III, King of Portugal see Philip IV King of Spain Fiorini, Stanley 271 Firrao, Domenico, Hospitaller 137, 138 Fitz-Alan, Walter 28 Florence, city 71, 186 – 188, 242, 257, 259 Fluvià, Antonio, Grand Master 121, 123, 126, 129, 130 Forey, Alan 219 Francesco, Zahra, Death of St Philip 195 Franciscans 11, 30, 32, 162 – 165 Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor 215; see also crusade French Revolution (1789) 234, 235 Fulk of Anjou, King of Jerusalem 99, 145, 146 Fulk, Bishop of Toulouse 174, 175 Funes, Juan Augustín de, chronicler 59 Galdiano, Giovanni, Hospitaller captain general 66 – 70 galley 57, 61, 66 – 74, 122 – 125, 135 – 137 Galloway, region 29 Gama, Vasco da 15, 57 García López de Padilla, Master 98, 100, 111 Gaston see Baghras Gaudin, Theodore, Master 98 Genouillac, Galiotte, sister 187 Gerard of Ridefort 211, 212 Gervais du Bus 224 glazed medieval floor tiles 251 globigerina limestone 256, 257, 259, 264, 266 Goa, city 17 González de Arauzo, García, Master 100 González de Heredia, Francisco 8, 81, 82, 84 Gozon, Déodat de, Grand Master 124

Index  283 Greeks 120 – 123, 125 – 127, 129, 130 Gregory VIII Pope 171 Gregory IX, Pope 175 Gregory XI, Pope 105 Gregory XIII, Pope 9 Gregory XVI, Pope 243 Grendon, Walter, Prior of England 106 Grey, Brian de, Turcopolier 106 Guérin de Montaigu, Grand Master 179 Guevara, Gerolamo, Hospitaller 188 Guidi, Domenico 199, 200 Guigo, Prior of the Grand Chartreuse 220 Gunson, David 189 Hales, Robert, Hospitaller 105, 106 Hattin, battle 210 – 213, 221, 222, 226, 240 Henri IV, King of France 69, 71 Henry II, King of England 145, 146, 249 Henry III, King of England 27, 223 Henry IV, King of England 106, 107 Henry the Navigator, Prince of Portugal 14 Henry V, King of England 106, 107 Henry VIII King of England 241 Herbert, Bishop of Torres 148 heresy 10, 17, 32, 148 – 150, 174 – 177, 180; see also crusade Hermann von Salza, Grand Master 173, 174 Hermits of Saint Augustine, Order 162 – 164 Hildegard of Bingen, Abbess 149, 150 Holt, Peter, Turcopolier 107 Holy Land 11, 27, 30, 31, 56, 99, 101, 145, 146, 150, 171, 173 – 177, 184, 213, 219, 221 – 223, 225, 226 Holy Spirit, Order 162, 163 Honorius III, Pope 173, 223 Hornachos, town 111 Hospitallers 11 – 13, 29 – 34, 50, 51, 55 – 62, 96 – 100, 111, 112, 134, 135, 140, 161 – 165, 171 – 174, 176 – 180, 222, 237, 239 – 242, 245, 249, 254, 255; archival history 269, 270; blessed 186, 188, 189; chancery 272; decline 234; institutional history 269 – 272, 276; Portuguese knights 57, 60; power and identity 256, 257; saints 185 – 187; treasury 272 Hugh III, King of Cyprus and Jerusalem 215 Hugh of Payns, Master 28, 145, 220 Hugh, Lord of Berze 224 Ibáñez, Peter, Master 100 Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir 211 – 214 Ibn al-Athir 211 – 215

Ibn al-Furat 212, 215 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani 210, 214 Inchinnan, village 28 Index, Congregation 188 India 10 – 18; see also Goa Indian Ocean 55, 57 Inga, Giuseppe, Hospitaller 186, 187 Innocent II, Pope 97, 221 Innocent III, Pope 30, 43, 50, 171, 178, 241 Innocent IV, Pope 100 Innocent X, Pope 72 Ireland 9, 10, 12, 32, 106, 237, 239, 241 Isabel I, Queen of Castile 57 Isabella I, Queen of Jerusalem 221 Italians 121, 123, 125, 127, 129, 130 Ittar, Stefano 262 Jacques de Vitry 149, 223 Janus, King of Cyprus 123, 125, 127 Jefferson, Joseph Michael 249 Jerusalem 10, 12, 27 – 30, 32, 33, 48, 105 – 107, 145, 215, 230, 238; Kingdom 40, 56, 99, 146, 213; Patriarch 221, 223 Jews 110, 112, 122, 125, 126, 128, 174 Jijel, town 67, 69, 70 João de Meneses, Prior of Crato 61, 62 João I (Nzinga a Nkuwu), King of Kongo 19 João I, King of Portugal 14, 19 João II, King of Portugal 19 João III, King of Portugal 14, 58, 61 João IV, King of Portugal 17 Johann von Vitring 225 John Balliol, King of Scotland 31 John Capellanus, Bishop of Glasgow 28 John of Salisbury 223 John of St Victor 224 John of Würzburg 223 John XXII, Pope 33 John XXIII, Pope 106 John, King of England 29, 30 José I, King of Kongo 20 Julius III, Pope 14 Kolossi, fortress 135 Kongo, kingdom 18 – 21 Kongolese Order of Christ 19 – 20 L’Aldea, village 112 La Forbie, battle 211 langue: Aragon 201, 271; Auvergne 234, 271, 274; Castile, Leon and Portugal 271, 275; England, 31, 33, 239, 241, 242, 245; France, 125, 234, 275;

284 Index Germany, 271; Italy, 121, 187, 256, 262, 265, 269 – 275; Provence, 234, 260, 261 Langland, William 225 Laparelli, Francesco 257, 258, 264, 265 Lascaris Castellar, Jean Paul de, Grand Master 71, 135 Lastic, Jean de, Hospitaller 122 – 128 Leo X, Pope 14, 48, 257 Leon I, King of Cilician Armenia 43, 48, 50 Leon II, King of Cilician Armenia 214 Leon III, King of Cilician Armenia 214 Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor 72 Limassol, city 230 Lincolnshire, region 249, 252, 253, 255 Linlithgow, town 32 López de Padilla, García, Master 98, 100, 111 Lord Byron 237 – 239 Louis VI, King of France 27 Louis VII, King of France 27, 28, 99, 148 Louis IX, King of France 27, 99, 212 Louis XIV, King of France 68 – 70 Loulé, town 111 Luís, Prince of Portugal and Prior of Crato 58 Luttrell, Anthony 61, 231, 271 Macau, city 17 MacLellan, Rory 28 Magacela, village 111 Magnac, Louis de, Hospitaller Preceptor of Cyprus 129 Maidalchini Pamphilj, Olimpia 72 Malcolm IV, King of Scotland 29 Mallia-Milanes, Victor 271 Mamluks 11, 12, 49, 123, 127 – 129, 212, 215 Manrique, Gómez, Master 100 Mansurah, battle 212 Manuel I, King of Portugal 12, 14, 15, 56 – 58, 62 Manuel II, Byzantine Emperor 107 Map, Walter 223 Marcombe, David 28 Margaret Theresa, Empress 72 Margat, castle 211, 212 Mariana of Austria, Queen of Spain 72 marinarii 122 Martin I, King of Aragon 127 Martin V, Pope 14 Matilda of Boulogne, Queen of England 145, 147 Matthew Paris 44, 222 – 224 Mazzuoli, Giuseppe 196 Mdina, city 137, 201, 262 Medici, Marie de, Queen of France 71

Mediterranean 11 – 13, 18, 55 – 58, 66 – 68, 70, 105, 123, 177, 230 – 235, 243, 257, 266 Mehmed II, Ottoman Sultan 57 Mendoza, Pedro Gonzalez de, Hospitaller 71 Messina, city 71, 135 – 137, 256, 257, 264, 265 Michael the Syrian, Jacobite Patriarch of Antioch 221 Middleton, William 105 Mifsud, Alfredo 272, 274 military-religious institutions, non-Christian 9 – 10 Militia of Jesus Christ (Parma) 175 Militia of the Faith of Jesus Christ 175 Minerbetti, Andrea, Hospitaller 137 Modon, island 234 Mohammed, Prophet 222 Molay, James of, Master 98 Montagu, Thomas 107 Montesa, Order 13, 112, 114, 115 Montorsoli, Giovannangelo 256, 257 Morea, region 137 Morimond, abbot of 95 Mortimer, Edmond 107 Mortimer, Roger 107 Mountjoy, Order 95 Mudejar uprising (1264) 114 Musa, Ottoman admiral 123 Muslims: 43 – 48, 57, 69, 107, 174 – 177, 211, 221 – 223; judges 112, 113, 115, 116; officials 110, 112 – 116; self-government 110, 111, 115; slaves 67 Mutapa, kingdom 18 Nablus, Philip of, Master 99 Naillac, Philibert de, Grand Master 106, 107, 123, 126, 127, 129, 130 Newcastle-upon-Tyne, town 28 Nicholson, Helen J. 28, 148 Nicolas (Nicolau), prince of Kongo 19 Nikopolis, battle 106 non-Europeans as members of military orders 17, 18 North Ferriby, village 29 Núñez Da Villavicencio, Pedro, Hospitaller 201 Observants 163 – 166 Oram, Richard 34 Oratory of the Decollation of St John, Valletta 203 – 204 Ordóñez, Fernán, Master 100 Ordnance Survey map 251 – 253

Index  285 Ottomans 12, 55 – 58, 61, 67, 123, 231, 233, 234, 240 Outlaw, Roger 32 Overton, Richard 105 Paderborn, Oliver of 171 – 173, 180 Pauline Fathers 163 Pedro IV, King of Kongo 20 Pedro V, King of Kongo 20 Peláez Barragán, Martin, Master 100 Pelagius, papal legate 173, 178, 179 Penman, Michael 32 Peraud, Hugh of, Templar 98, 99 Perellos y Roccaful, Ramon, Grand Master 194, 196 Perez d’Aleccio, Matteo 196 Pérez, Gil, Master 113 Pérez, Gutierre, Master 98 Perputxent, village 112 Perth, town 30 Peter Martyr, Dominican preacher 175 Peter of Rovira, Templar 148, 149 Philip II, King of France 27, 30 Philip II, King of Spain 16, 76, 77, 81, 82, 84, 86 Philip III, King of Spain 18, 79, 83, 84, 86 Philip IV, King of Spain 17, 72, 79, 84 Philip IV, King of France 32, 99, 224, 225 Philip of Thame, Prior 32 Pigalle, Jean-Baptsite 198 pilgrimage 27, 29, 105, 107, 128, 172, 179, 221, 223, 231 Pinto de Fonseca, Emanuel, Grand Master 199 Poland 12, 161, 186 Pontigny, Cistercian abbey 150, 152 Poor Clares 165, 166 Portugal: world exploration 18 – 21; in Indian Ocean 12 Prawer, Joshua 219 Premonstratensians 162, 164, 165 Preti, Mattia 201, 203, 204 Preveza, city 234 Qalawun, Mamluk Sultan of Egypt 211 – 214 Qurattesi, Nicolo, Hospitaller 136 Raddington, John, Prior of England 106 Raymond III, Count of Tripoli 214 Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse 174, 176, 177 Raynerius of Florence 30 Regular Canons 162 – 166 Richard I, King of England 27, 29, 99, 213

Richard II, King of England 106 Richard of Hastings, Master 158 Richard of the Hospitallers, brother 29 Riley-Smith, Jonathan 219, 221, 230 Ripa, Cesare 204 Robert I, King of Scotland 32, 33 Rodríguez, Gonzalo, Master 100 Roger of Moulins 211 Romans, Humbert of 171 Romanus, Cardinal and papal legate 175, 177 Rull, Bartolomeo, Grand Prior 198 Sablé, Robert of, Master 99 Sacra Rota 185 Safad, town 211, 215 Saint Amand, Odo of, Master 99 Saint Thomas of Acre, Order 96, 98 Saint-Omer, family 147 Saint-Quentin, John of 178 Saladin, Sultan of Egypt 42 – 44, 176, 209 – 215 Salcedo, Gaspar de 84, 86, 87 Sancha of Aragon 189 Santa María de España, Order 95, 100 Santiago de Compostela, city 29 Santiago, Order 13 – 19, 76, 87, 96 – 100, 111, 171; in India 16; in Kongo 16; in North Africa 16; in world exploration 13 – 18 Scandinavian presence 10, 249 Schein, Sylvia 219 Sciberras, Salvo, chief baker 139 Scicluna, Hannibal 269 Scott, Walter 237, 238 Sebastião I, King of Portugal 16, 18 Seljuks 41, 42, 44, 46, 50, 51 Serlio, Sebastiano 259, 262 servitudo marina 122 Shafi‘ibn ‘Ali 211 Shelley, Percy 237 – 239 Shugur (Şuğur), castle 46 Sicily 57, 67, 99, 186, 223, 256, 257, 262, 264 – 266, 273 Silva, Miguel da, Portuguese ambassador to Rome 59, 62 Syracuse, city 134, 135, 140 Soldani Benzi, Massimiliano 196, 199 Soler, Ramon, Hospitaller 201 South Witham, village 253 Sovereign Order of Malta see Hospitallers St Andrews, city 28 St Augustine of the Hermits, Order 129 St Bertin, Benedictine abbey 146, 147

286 Index St John of Jerusalem, Order see Hospitallers St Lazarus, Order 9, 28 St Maurice and St Lazarus, Order 9 St Paul, grotto (Malta) 186 Stuart, Mary, Queen of Scots 70 Suger of St Denis, Abbot 27, 28 Sulaiman bin Jandar 43 Suleiman I, Ottoman Sultan 55, 58, 61 Swordbrethen, Order 96, 98 Tabor, mountain 173 Templars 9 – 13, 28 – 34, 39 – 51, 96 – 101, 113, 114, 162, 163, 165, 171 – 180, 231, 237, 240, 245; knowledge of the globe 11; literacy 145, 147, 148, 150; trial of 9, 10 Teutonic Knights 10 – 12, 48, 49, 96 – 98, 100, 101, 171 – 174, 214, 222; knowledge of globe 12 Thierry of Alsace, Count of Flanders 146, 147 Thomas Agni of Lentini, papal legate and Bishop of Bethlehem 222 Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury 249 Thoros, King of Armenia 40 Torphichen, village 28, 31 Torroja, Arnold of, Master 99, 100 Tortosa, city 112, 113 Tournai, Guibert of 171 Trinitarians 171 Tripoli, city 13, 67, 105, 129, 214, 231 Tunis, city 234 Urban VI, Pope 105, 106 Urenbach, William of, Master 98 Usama ibn Munqidh 209, 215

Valdina, Carlo, Hospitaller 186, 187 Valletta, city 134, 136 – 138, 186, 196, 201, 233, 275, 276 Vauclair, Cistercian abbey 144, 150, 152 Velerde y Cespedes, Luis Francesco, Hospitaller 201 Vendôme, François de, duc de Beaufort, Admiral of the French fleet 70 Venice, city 11, 66, 106, 128, 137, 265 Vertova, Giovanni Battista, Hospitaller 71 Vichiers, Reynald of, Master 98, 99 Villaret, Foulques de, Grand Master 231 Villeneuve, Helion de, Grand Master 120 Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Philip, Grand Master 12, 55, 58, 61, 232 Vittorio Amedeo I, Duke of Savoy 71 Waldemar, King of Denmark 174 Wallace, William 31 Walpot, Henry, Master 97 Warri, Kingdom 18 Wignacourt, Alof de, Grand Master 137, 186 – 188, 201 William IV, King of Great Britain 239 William of Plaisians 225 William of Tyre 99, 221, 222 William I, King of Scotland, 29, 30 Wüllersleben, Günther, Master 98 Xivert, village 114 Zondadari, Marc’Antonio, Grand Master 199