Artale Innamorato
I
Plasencia, 9 December 1488
The great hall was packed, everyone seemed busy. People were running out, people were coming in. The room was filled with racket: voices trying to outshout one another, nervous ‘sorries’ after brushing against or bumping into someone and musical tunes being rehearsed. In the centre of this seemingly chaotic bustle, was a short, unassuming yet extremely bouncy woman, the Queen of Castile and former Queen Consort of Portugal, Juana. She was the reason for that pandemonium; it was at her command that this, at first glance, incoherent gambol took place.
After a while he could discern some, if not pattern, than at least logic in this commotion. A richly-dressed merchant was displaying various types of velvet in front of a distinguished-looking lady, most likely the Queen’s companion. The servants, in groups, were cleansing and decorating the chamber. The musicians were tuning their instruments and discussing either the repertoire or how they should position themselves. In the background the Queen’s ladies were practicing their roles for an ancient-Rome-mythology-themed performance. Considerably closer, a cook was meekly enduring the Queen’s scolding, scrappy phrases of which reached as far as here, under the column, where the applicants were waiting.
On a table to the left of the Queen there was a long scroll with some sketch spread out before a group of lords, presently leaning over it and debating something heatedly. Little counters of different sizes, shapes and colours, were placed on the scroll. The Queen, having finished with the cook, approached the lords and immediately their voices went down. She looked at the scroll with piercing eyes, raised her index finger to her lips and after a while rearranged some of the counters. The clapping from the lords provoked her curt remark, which put an abrupt end to their applause, brought some of them out in a blush and made all of them, save one, lower their eyes. The Queen addressed this one, ‘No, Fonseca, you’re not going to sit next to me.’
II
Eventually, he, along with a group of jugglers, a midget, a pair of holy fools, a knife-swallower and a family of fire-eaters, was ushered towards the Queen. She looked at them critically and spoke, ‘I can easily guess what your respective trades are. I’d like to sample the quality of your performances though. It’s my daughter’s wedding and there’s no room for second bests,’ she said surveying each of them. ‘You, the lute player,’ she turned to him, ‘play and sing us something, but make sure it’s appropriate for this joyous occasion.’ ‘I’ll sing a poem from
Artale Innamorato by Yolande di Sardegna,’ he said. ‘It’s Artale’s response to his dame de couer when she teases him pretending indifference:
I am not and hope never to be free
From the cruel snare I was lured into,
Since my heart has been mortally wounded,
My innocence and candour cut to bits.
And I never will be free of a thought
Which occupies my mind both in the night
And day – that your contemptuous fierce
Heart disdains me because I gave myself to you
You are pitiless so I never will
Be free from fear and torment and open
Wounds rubbed raw, ah, every hour I live
For I never want freedom from these chains
Hour after hour my desire grows
For these feelings, soft, sweet, pleasurable.
‘Hmm, this will do,’ said the Queen, ‘but only because my daughter is too daft to read Yolande de Sardegna and doesn’t know what Artale resolves when his dame bids him farewell and leaves for the mainland, leaving him broken-hearted and disillusioned,’ she added and sang back:
For never did I wish to bind my heart
Again or love and serve another friend,
Believing now that women should be used,
Not idolized nor wooed with flattery,
But rather used as beasts are by their kind,
No passion there…
Though I shall never marry, no indeed,
Nor let myself be bound by any ties
To wife or mistress or revered lady;
I’ll have them all, today or any time,
And they shall give me pleasure when I will.
What made Juana agree to the idea of (second) Iberian Wedding?
I
Pau, 11 January 1489
Dear Lady Catalina,
Or should I start dear Mother, since you, my dearest Lady, has always been like a mother to me. I’m not disregarding my real mother here, oh no; I still remember her and in my memory I treasure those moments, albeit so few, we spent together, before she was murdered so ruthlessly by those barbarians, cowardly women-slayers - the Aragonese. Angels must have taken vigil over my poor soul as, in God’s mercy, amidst my life’s misery, I was fortunate to be blessed with two angel-like mothers.
The grave tidings reached me here, in this golden cage of mine, and I just cannot express how sorry I am and how deeply I sympathise with you. This is my loss too; Lord Pierre’s death feels to me like losing father again. So I join you in grief, my dearest Lady. I know the music will never sound the same, the valleys have faded in their beauty, the rooms have become too spacious. It is not much of a consolation for you, but know it, if I only could hold you, stroke your hair and weep with you, together, I would. Alas, we have to weep apart.
You ask me if I’m in good health and my physicians would answer: ‘yes’. But the truth is, what was dearest to me has been taken away from me: you, my Mother, your home and my newly-found family, the freedom of wandering the valleys, living like a country girl, the company of the ones I love. My hard-fought serenity, which I regained living with you, is gone. All those happy years seem so distant now from within the walls of this fine castle, which my husband and lord had had restored from the outside and freshened up inside with new furniture – all in my honour, honour of the Queen.
The windows in the southern wing overlook the majestic mountains, how different than those at home. You see, I still think ‘Verres’ when I say ‘home’. Oh, Verres! It seems so remote as if I’d never been there, as if these twelve years had never happened. Old memories and bad dreams started haunting me again, as I now so clearly realise that just across this mountain range is my old home, my childhood, and probably my parents’ graves. Yes, my Navarre seems so close and yet it never was more far away than now. Seeing these mountains is like watching birds fly from behind the prison bars.
My husband styles himself King of Navarre now, but he wouldn’t lift a finger to get my land back. My inheritance is my curse and my kingdom is just a pawn in greater schemes. The war, the Iberian wedding, the machinations of French magnates, including my husband; I know why my lord proposed to me. It’s Anne of France’s idea to counterweight the Castilian-Aragonese rapprochement. Of course France, having supported Juana, doesn’t want to get involved, directly. Isn’t it odd that it’s here where I finally learnt what it is to suffer the wretchedness of exile?
It’s because I’m all alone here why I’m so sad. My lord is mostly away, he’s away even when he’s near. He commanded me to stay here in this castle, apparently for my safety; but I feel jailed, not protected. I have very few dear ones, faithful ones, in this country; that’s why I am sad. Every day, I sit under the oak tree in the courtyard, lonely. There I weep my many burdens, our severance, my exile; it’s the second one.
Your loving daughter
Blanca
Bribes and powerful protectors secured the Knights their new home
Pau, 16 February 1492
II
The distant peaks of the mountains on the horizon and the empty, greyish courtyard beneath. Blanca knew the fruit and vegetables would be delivered in a moment and she wasn’t mistaken. First she heard the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the irregular rattle of wheels bouncing on the cobbled forecourt. Than came the muted voice of the driver. Soon the cart will reach the courtyard, the door to the castle kitchen will open and the cooks will come out to receive the supplies. Like every day.
‘So quiet,’ thought Blanca. ‘Nothing’s going on here.’ Despite the protracted war being waged across the Pyrenees. Despite France being now at war too, together with Castile and Savoy. Apparently, Anne of France had persuaded her brother, the King, to be consistent and support Juana I, la Reina Catolica again, this time against the Moors. Despite some lukewarm French initiative in her case. Due to diplomatic French pressure Sanç II granted the Knights of Saint John, chased away from Rhodes, some land on Sicily. But France wouldn’t openly support her claims, ‘Why die for Pamplona?’ was the catch-phrase circulating around various French courts. Despite all this, life in Pau was excruciatingly monotonous.
Blanca was looking out of the window, looking at the mountains, looking ahead to another identical day when she heard Laura walk into the room. Laura was the only lady-in-waiting who accompanied her from Chambèry and stayed here, and whose company Blanca enjoyed. But even she couldn’t be fully trusted.
‘A message from my lord?’ Blanca guessed.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Laura, letting Blanca savour how hollow and sham
Your Grace sounded in the given circumstances. ‘He is inviting you tonight to the dining chamber where he’ll accompany you in the evening meal. He’s hired a group of travelling merry-makers to hopefully lift your moods as his love for you, Your Grace, made him gravely concerned over your unfading sorrow.’
‘I’ll do what my lord tells me to,’ replied Blanca ineptly trying to conceal a sour smirk, thinly disguised as a sincere smile.
No matter how lonely Blanca was, she hardly ever was completely alone. Even now in the room there were two other girls, installed in her retinue by her husband, one sowing and one reading. ‘How decorously!’ thought Blanca. The poor girls didn’t have prospective career here in this little miniature of court with its smell of despair and desperation. But for them, younger daughters with scanty dowries, the chance of service and companionship to an almost-forgotten kingdomless queen was still slightly better than the marriage they might have been forced to undertake if they had stayed at home. They also got a chance to train such handy skills like walking noiselessly, hiding in the shadow, eavesdropping and reporting.
Reconquista
III
The evening meal proved to be less tiring than she’d expected. The jests’ jokes were amusing and the jugglers’ show had something genuinely jaw-dropping about it. Her husband did his best so she almost believed he really cared. She did smile a couple of times and rewarded the entertainers with some extra coin. The meal almost over, a special recitalist was brought in, one who’d apparently travelled the courts of Provence and Castile where his rendition of well-known works gained him a wide acclaim. The fragment of
Artale Innamorato by Yolande di Sardegna was announced, the one where Artale’s loved one, now matured and widowed, comes back to the island accompanied by her daughter, the duchess, to be recognised as queen and to confront and woo back her former admirer; the passage popularly known as the
Triumphal Procession. Blanca was talking to Laura, so at first she didn’t recognise either the words or the voice. But after a couple of tunes her face went white as a sheet.
Up the verdantest of hills,
in his most equestrian of pageants,
wearing the silkiest of cloaks.
Toward a castle with seven towers,
Each of them by far the tallest.
In the foreground, a duke,
most flatteringly unrotund;
by his side, his duchess
young and fair beyond compare.
Behind them, the ladies-in-waiting,
all pretty as pictures, verily,
than a page, the most ladsome of lads,
and perched upon his pagey shoulder
something exceedingly monkeylike,
endowed with the drollest of faces
and tails.
Following close behind, three knights,
all chivalry and rivalry,
so if the first is fearsome of countenance,
the next one strives to be more daunting still,
and if he prances on a bay steed
the third will prance upon a bayer,
and all twelve hooves dance glancingly
atop the most wayside of daisies.
All of a sudden, Blanca rose to her feet and started clapping enthusiastically; the rest of the audience, somewhat startled, followed suit. Having interrupted the player in mid-flow, she didn’t let Artale come into the picture as the fourth knight who’d prove to be the chivalriest of all. ‘Thank you,’ she feigned a merry laughter. ‘It was a brilliant performance,’ she said, ‘but now I’m tired, I’d like to go to my chambers. My lord,’ she turned to her husband, ‘would you mind if this lute player played me and my ladies some madrigals before we go to sleep?’ ‘Not at all, dearest,’ Jean d’Albert replied, ‘I’m happy my gift has cheered you up.’
Gaston, portrayed with his lute
IV
‘Gaston, play on, play on!’ Blanca whispered when certain they were way out of her ladies’ earshot. The lute player smiled back and went on with ‘
all pretty as pictures verily’. ‘What are you doing here?’ Blanca asked. ‘I have something for you.’ Gaston hissed between the two subsequent lines of the poem. He plucked the strings again, then went a cappella, unfastened his sack and gave Blanca a book. She opened it quickly before hiding it in between the pleats of her dress. It was the Holy Scripture, in Provençal, as translated by Peter Valdo. Inside there was a letter but she couldn’t read it now, though she spotted the next line of Yolanda’s verse scribbled across the paper:
Whereas whosoever is downcast and weary,
It was the variant of
Triumphal Procession’s continuation which lady Catalina di Challant never allowed to go into print, but which Blanca knew by heart, and which went on:
Cross-eyed and out at elbows,
Is most manifestly left out of the scene.
Even the least pressing of questions,
burgherish or peasantish,
cannot survive beneath this most azure of skies.
And not even the eaglest of eyes
could spy even the tiniest of gallows –
nothing casts the slightest shadow of doubt.
Thus they proceed most pleasantly
through this feudalist of realisms.
This same, however, has seen to the scene’s balance:
it has given them their Hell in the next frame.
Oh yes, all that went without
even the silentest of sayings.
***
Sorry, in this up-date the in-game pics are loosely connected with the story. But as it’s her(?) story I decided not to focus too much on the military aspect, although forcing the occupation of the lands of Aragon was what I was trying to do with my 4k soldiers. Aragon is owned now, but I’ve grown greedy and keep rejecting their more and more reasonable peace offers. I don’t think I’ll be given a second chance. The Pyrenean ridge: Navarre, Pirineo and Girona are the toughest to conquer; they’re 3k forts and even the large rebellions take time to break through (and I explained my cheap tactics to you last time). Occasionally, Aragon conscripted a sortie, by event - nothing I couldn’t deal with. Strangely, I got occupied flag on Castellon first (till 1501) and Valencia next (1506) and not on Rousillon (my first conquered prov). But I’ve found a thread on boards which made this mechanism clear (no adjacent, not-controlled provs).
The second war is not a problem. I’m blockaded anyway and my 5k men trapped on Sardinia secure the prov, I also count on the combined Castilian and French fleets to keep the infidels away. This war made piracy much more active though, as if I wasn’t suffering enough. I see it as an issue (bug?) that due to Maltese revolt Castile can’t win Granada. As you can see the peace with the target got concluded early now it’s war with Northern African countries.
KoSJ seeking new home is an interesting thing. But it was a shock for me to see Aragon let Palermo go. I’m not complaining, it weakens Aragon even further and hurts them where I wouldn’t be able to. But, given the circumstances, it seems implausible. Anyway, I hope Messina will revolt sooner than later and the revolt will wipe out the remnants of the Aragonese army. (rr in Messina: ~ 15%)
Internationally, poor Denmark got dragged into third(!) war, against Scotland over the PU with Connacht. By April 1492 this one was white peaced, the Germans forced Denmark to release Oldenburg, the Denmark-Norway : Sweden-Russia war is going on with Russia occupying most of Norway (save Jämtland controlled by Sweden), Denmark still miraculously holds on Småland.
OE and Tripoli are at war against the Mamluks and their allies. It’s early stages yet, but OE is winning. Siena still owns Rome but LIV, Portugal and France have now cores on the prov. HRE Emperor, Austria got a ‘mediocre’ Archduke 7-7-7. Bavaria is the rival. High Court has been so far implemented. Strength of the Emperor: +4% local trade income. Poland controls the Pope (who’s got only Avignon).
With Sardinia and some prospects for more coastal provinces Savoy has to mend its lack of maritime focus
Quiz time! The old one is pending. And i have two more quizzes:
1) Who's Juana I? (she's historical)
2) The 3 poems are of course by women. 2 are from the period (more or less), one is contemporary. Can you identify the authoresses?
ps: by the way, in February
the Carnival in Verres, as each year, will commemorate Catalina and Pierre and their dancing/mingling with townsfolk.
If you live nearby...