Isabella claimed to have inherited her rights from her brother Alfonso. Enrique’s broken promises included the fact that he had failed to ask the Cortes to swear an oath to her, that the lands she was due were not handed over and that he had promised to divorce Queen Juana and exile her. She pretended to be too refined to go into the full extent of Juana’s shameful behaviour while also claiming, falsely, that she herself could show a dispensation for her marriage to Ferdinand. More importantly, Enrique had tried to ignore the pledge not to force her into marriage. Among her other reasons for turning the elderly Portuguese monarch down, she said, was that she would have become stepmother to his adult children. ‘Because if all stepmothers are loathsome to their stepchildren and daughters-in-law, how much greater I would be with such a vast inheritance awaiting me,’ she wrote. The French match had been especially bad. ‘The French nation is, and always has been, so odious to our own Castilian nation,’ she said, ignoring a long history of alliances.27
With so many broken promises, she had felt free to choose her own husband, following the advice of those nobles who recommended Ferdinand. This was selfless on her part, Isabella claimed, and her only interest had been the wellbeing of Castile. She also suggested that Ferdinand was, thanks to his Trastámara blood, next in line to the throne after herself. Her choice had been made ‘because he was a son of these kingdoms [of Castile] and that if God disposed of me, the right to succeed in them would belong to him [anyway] and because he was close in age to me and because of the kingdoms he would inherit, which were so neighbourly and matched these kingdoms.’28
She finished her letter with what could be read as either a warning or a threat. ‘If you carry on like this and robbery, arson and death are the result, our Lord God will put those responsible and all of you who consent to such wickedness on trial,’ she wrote. ‘And the prince, my Lord [Ferdinand], and I and our followers will be without blame, as we have behaved according to reason and justice, as everyone can clearly see.’ The letter was circulated freely across the kingdom. A copy was pinned to the doors of the handsome Gothic cathedral in Burgos, with its two octagonal spires, decorated with airy stonework tracery, soaring heavenwards. Burgos was the great wool centre of Spain (and one of the cities that had sent representatives to the Lozoya Valley ceremony) whose mighty cathedral spires outreached even those of Paris and Reims. The letter pinned to the cathedral doors was a demonstration of bravura, mixing fact, conjecture, fantasy and outright lies.29 But it also laid out the arguments on which Isabella based her future insistence that she, not Juana, was the rightful heiress. She would never let go of them. God could be her judge.
9
The Borgias
Rome, 8 August 1471
Isabella and her husband Ferdinand were not the only Spaniards trying to manoeuvre themselves into Europe’s seats of power. In Rome, a smooth and adaptable Spanish cardinal called Rodrigo Borgia emerged, once more, as a winner in the summer of 1471. A new pope, Sixtus IV, was elected in August, with the young cardinal from Valencia a crucial supporter in the conclave that had voted for him. Pope Paul II, famously secretive and immensely wealthy, had died two weeks earlier. Some said he had stuffed himself with melon and died of indigestion. Others claimed he had had a massive heart attack while being sodomised by one of his pageboys. Either way, his death had been one of the few pieces of good news received by Isabella as she sat in Medina de Rioseco1 with her husband and infant daughter while Enrique IV set about disinheriting her. The previous pope had been a staunch Enrique ally, issuing a dispensation that would enable Isabella to marry Afonso V of Portugal if necessary but failing to produce one that would make her marriage to Ferdinand legal.
Borgia had been raised to cardinal at the age of twenty-five by his uncle, the Spanish pope Calixtus III, and the high-living young Valencian had proved to be a shrewd operator. He had enjoyed the lively, dissolute days of Pope Paul II, but could see the wind was blowing in the direction of a more austere and obviously religious figure, the apparently pious Franciscan monk Francesco della Rovere. Borgia had secretly pledged to back his bid for the papacy, pretending to support a different candidate until his vote became crucial – when he dramatically switched sides. Temperamentally the new pope and the powerful Spanish cardinal may have seemed very different, but they had more in common than was outwardly visible. What mattered most, they knew, was to be on the winning side. Rome was a place of power, ambition and opportunity. The pope was ‘Supreme Lord of Rome and of the Papal States’, effectively making him the monarch of a large coast-to-coast block of land that covered a quarter of mainland Italy. He also held the key to the vast wealth of the church across western Europe. The fifty-four silver cups filled with pearls, alongside the gold, diamonds and silver that Borgia and his fellow cardinals were shown in the treasure room of the pope’s castle of Sant’Angelo a few days later, were proof of that.2 The pope’s spiritual might came with extraordinary legal powers. It was he who presided over the Rota, the final court of appeal on the church laws that extended across all of Christendom, directly touching the lives of great and small. This was only too obvious to Isabella, who had married illegally and badly needed a papal dispensation to make right the lies that so weakened her position in Castile.
Borgia was as charismatic as he was ambitious. ‘Beautiful women are attracted to him in a most remarkable way, more powerfully than iron is drawn to the magnet,’ recorded one observer. His officials claimed he was also a man of ‘endless virility’. A previous pope, Pius II, had felt obliged to scold him over rumours that he and another cardinal had attended a particularly lewd garden party in Siena. ‘We are told that the dances were immodest and the seduction of love beyond bounds and that you yourself behaved as though you were one of the most vulgar men of the age … you forbade entry to the husbands, fathers, brothers and other male relations who came with these young women.’
When Sixtus IV was formally crowned, it was Borgia who placed the glittering, wedding-cake tiara of Gregorio Magno on the pope’s head, reminding him that he was the ‘father of princes and kings, the ruler of the world, the vicar of our Saviour Jesus Christ on earth’ (though in rowdy Rome the solemnity was spoiled by riotous behaviour among the crowd in Piazza di San Giovanni in Laterano). Cardinals who were in the pope’s favour could expect to accrue vast power and wealth. For some, indeed, that was the whole purpose of being in Rome. Borgia, whose loyalty was rewarded with the lucrative cardinal-bishopric of Albano and the abbey of Subiaco, was the epitome of the worldly, venal power-merchants produced by this system. As vice-chancellor of the Holy Roman Church since 1457, he was already one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Rome. ‘His plate, his pearls, his clothes embroidered with silk and gold, and his books in every department of learning are very numerous, and all are magnificent,’ commented the Roman diarist Jacopo Gherardi da Volterra.3 The word nepotism (from the Latin word nepos, or grandson) was coined to describe the way he and other members of popes’ families were created cardinals. He was a so-called ‘cardinal-nephew’, a category that had first appeared in the eleventh century. For the previous two centuries almost all popes had appointed at least one nephew, or other close relative (and some so-called ‘nephews’ were thought to be illegitimate sons), as cardinal. Several popes, indeed, had once been cardinal-nephews themselves. Borgia, now aged forty, knew that the papacy itself might eventually be his, but there was no rush. Cardinal-nephews did not need to be priests and Borgia himself had not been ordained as such until twelve years after being made both cardinal and deacon of Rome’s San Nicola in Carcere church. He was, however, a brilliant lawyer and diplomat. He was also, crucially for Isabella and her husband, Spanish.
The rumours about the causes of Paul II’s death were almost certainly wrong, but they fitted the atmosphere of the time. Alfonso de Palencia had travelled to Rome in the early days of Paul II’s papacy and came back disgusted, painting a picture of corruption and venality in his usual uninhibited and exaggerated style. He ma
y well have shared his stories, later, with Isabella, who was often outraged by the goings-on in Rome. Paul II, he claimed, had spent his days gazing on the vast hoard of gold coins and statues that he had collected and cared little for the moral purity of a corrupt church. ‘He paid more attention to the celebration of public entertainments than to correcting customs,’ said Palencia. ‘He organised depraved games in which prostitutes, Jews and donkeys received prizes.’ Youths had charged semi-naked along the running course, slipping in the wet and reaching the finishing line caked in mud while the well-fed cardinals, whose party had despatched thirty oxen, laughed uproariously.4
The cardinals had increased their daily displays of luxury under Paul II, with the pope ordering that they dress in new silk robes with their caps trimmed in gold. ‘And when was this change made?’ asked Palencia. ‘Precisely at a time when vain ornamentation was the last thing they should boast about.’ Under recent popes, Christendom had seen its eastern frontiers retreat as the Ottoman Turks extended their power. Constantinople had fallen only eighteen years previously and the Turks now threatened to head north and west into the kingdom of Hungary. For a Castilian like Isabella, brought up with the crusader mentality of a front-line state, the decadence of Rome helped explain the shrinking borders of Christendom. Palencia, too, painted a picture of the cardinals behaving like the Emperor Nero and playing while Rome burned.
In the days when almost the whole world followed the Catholic religion, the church’s prelates dressed decorously; but now, when all of Asia, Africa and a third of Europe follow the crescent moon [of Islam], when the Great Turk is attacking Catholics and daily putting us in greater difficulty so that the fear now extends to inside the very walls of Rome, our exemplary men give themselves over to luxury and, as if they had no cares in the world, are busy with their scandalous outfits and given over to a dissoluteness worthy of total condemnation.5
It was a reminder of the corrupt, parlous state of Christendom and, for some, of the need for strong new leaders who could reverse the long-lasting period of decline.
With Borgia’s support, the new pope now set about uniting Christian Europe so that it could defend itself, sending legates out to deal with the most powerful princes of the time.6 Crucially, he chose Borgia as his legate to Spain. The latter’s natural sympathy must have lain towards Aragon, his country of birth, even though Castile was more powerful. Borgia knew that Aragon had major interests in Italy – both via Sardinia and Sicily and through the large kingdom of Naples. The latter covered the half of Italy directly south of the papal states and was ruled by a bastard branch of the Aragonese royal family. With that in mind, Sixtus decided to back Isabella rather than Enrique. By December 1471 he had signed the dispensation for Isabella’s marriage. This was a momentous decision for the young princess, which meant that her half-brother could no longer accuse her of throwing away her virginity, and honour, uselessly.7 It was a first glimmer of light at the end of what had become a long, dark tunnel.
With the help of her father-in-law, Isabella fought to hold on to supporters. Juan the Great had worked hard to keep Archbishop Carrillo onside. The two old men shared a similar vision of the world and one can only imagine them, via their envoys, tutting together about the cheeky, impetuous behaviour of a generation whom they tripled in age. Isabella had publicly snubbed Toledo by moving into lands belonging to Ferdinand’s maternal family, but arduous negotiations eventually saw them agree to return to Dueñas late in 1471.8 The new entente almost unravelled instantly after the superstitious archbishop fell under the spell of a fraudster and alchemist called Alarcón who claimed to know the secret of the philosopher’s stone. This was alchemy’s greatest prize, allowing the person who eventually discovered it to turn base metals into gold and silver and even to heal all illnesses and prolong life.
The bilious Palencia, normally one of the archbishop’s greatest allies, claimed that Alarcón had seduced nuns, indulged in incest and left wives behind in Sicily, Cyprus and Rhodes while also promising everyone who loaned him money that they could share the gold that he would soon produce. In fact, said Palencia, Alarcón had laid a subtle trap, knowing the archbishop’s weakness for alchemy. The trickster put out word that he was scared some greedy prince would kidnap him in order to get his hands on the gold and so thought the only place he could be safe would be in the archbishop’s luxurious palaces. The free-spending archbishop fell for him completely. ‘He became the prelate’s most beloved, trusted and befriended person,’ said Palencia, who was damning about the archbishop’s stupidity. ‘There is no proof capable of convincing the minds of those suffering from this sickness of the truth, given that all over there are unfortunates who, in the midst of their own poverty, imagine themselves powerful by dreaming of future treasures,’ he wrote. ‘He wasted much of his bountiful income on this futile business, with the hope [of a discovery] allowing him to make his naturally free-spending nature even more prodigious.’ Palencia was correct in identifying Toledo’s spending as a problem. Money poured into his exchequer from the archbishopric’s lands, but it gushed out at an even faster rate. That was what happened, explained Juan de Lucena, a Castilian contemporary, if you spent like a king on an archbishop’s income. ‘However great the incomings are, the outgoings will always be higher,’ he said. The archbishop just borrowed more, relying on Alarcón’s promises of limitless wealth and in the knowledge thathis enormous debts were as much a problem for his creditors as they were for him. ‘Such is our ambition that, dissatisfied with our income, we try to turn iron into gold and end up turning gold into iron,’ said Lucena.9
‘His [the archbishop’s] empty exchequer, however, did not allow him to pay out the money [Alarcón] needed and so he turned to Doña Isabella, begging her to give the alchemist 500 Aragonese florins of the income received from Sicily,’ Palencia reported. Isabella gave way and, to keep Toledo happy, even allowed Alarcón a daily audience. This provoked fierce encounters with Friar Alonso de Burgos, Isabella’s brash, irascible confessor. Neither man knew how to back down and their rows became legendary, even turning to violence.10
It was not surprising that Isabella, who harboured a strong dislike of sorcery, should have been irritated by the archbishop’s dysfunctional household, though it was Friar Alonso’s ability to make enemies that brought things to a head, with a meeting to try resolve their differences almost ending in disaster. ‘In Dueñas Princess Isabella looked poorly upon the archbishops’ followers and those who opposed Friar Alfonso,’ said Palencia. ‘The archbishop did not like that, which only annoyed the princess more and meant that instead of producing a solution the meeting nearly made things much worse.’11
While Enrique tried, and failed, to woo the archbishop, Juan the Great sent envoys to attract other nobles to Isabella and Ferdinand’s cause. The main target was the mighty Mendoza clan. If they could be won over, the balance of power would shift dramatically. Little progress was made, but a small victory elsewhere provided a sign of how things might change. When Enrique ceded the royal rights over the town of Sepulveda to Pacheco, further augmenting the latter’s wealth, his decision provoked a rebellion among the townsfolk. Ferdinand and Isabella sent a detachment of lancers, who were happily received and saw Sepulveda transfer its allegiance to Isabella. The townsfolk had, in effect, rebelled against the grasping nobles, seeing a threat to their traditions. It was a reflection of a wider rivalry, between citizens of towns (or, often, the local oligarchs who controlled them) and the nobles. A similar sense of outrage was developing among the Basques, where the Count of Haro was trampling over local rights. The Basques also looked angrily on Enrique’s new deal with France.12 They were frontier people, harbouring age-old hatreds and memories of numerous border and other disputes.
Isabella may be expected to have prayed for divine intervention to ease her worries. If so, she soon had further reasons for thanking her God. As Borgia set out by boat for Spain, death once more came to her rescue. It had once freed her of an undesirable future
husband in the form of Pacheco’s brother, Pedro Girón, and had recently given her a friendly pope. Now it struck on her behalf in France. The Duke of Guyenne died in May 1472, just eighteen months after the deal at the Lozoya Valley and before he had managed to muster an army to bring to Spain. Juana la Beltraneja had lost her future husband. That did not change the girl’s status as legitimate heiress, but it robbed Enrique of a valuable ally as France’s interest in sending an army to expel Isabella disappeared.13
A few weeks later, Borgia arrived in Valencia. The port city had grown wealthy from Mediterranean trade, its city walls enclosing impressive Gothic palaces and an imposing, domed cathedral. But it had rarely, if ever, seen the sort of opulence brought by the cardinal to impress his kinsmen, with the city chronicler later declining to write down how much had been spent on throwing parties, ‘so as not to embarrass St Peter’.14
Borgia brought with him immense powers. After a month of celebrations he set off north towards Catalonia where Ferdinand was staying with his exultant father – who was on the point of quashing a long-running rebellion. That allowed Juan to increase Ferdinand’s allowance from Sicily, helping alleviate the young couple’s penury. His father’s optimism extended to Castile, where he believed Isabella’s position was growing stronger and ‘we expect good news shortly’. Ferdinand met Borgia halfway, at Tarragona, where the Spanish cardinal placed in his hands that most precious of documents – the papal bull that not only permitted the marriage but, in an aside that proved the illegality of what Isabella and Ferdinand had done, freed them from the threat of excommunication for breaking church laws. In meetings with Ferdinand and his father, Borgia appears to have pledged to back Isabella’s claim to the crown and, crucially, to help win over the Mendozas.15
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