Marching through history - doing her duty. Of the woes of a medieval queen

Well, dear peeps, today it is my turn to introduce you to a lady from the past, and after some back-and-forth I locked down on Eleanor of Castile. And yes, I have written about her before as she is a central Real Life character in my Castilian saga, but I am a bit of a fan-girl when it comes to Eleanor, so I am going to indulge myself 😊

Anyone familiar with this blog knows I have a thing about Castilian history. There are various reasons for that—it is hard not to be dazzled by kings like Fernando III, Alfonso VIII and many others. But what really has me returning again and again to medieval Castile are the women, because there are so many female powerhouses in Castilian history.

Where the rest of the known world tended to be sceptical of female rulers and of having women in any position of power, the attitude in Castile was somewhat more relaxed. This doesn’t mean that Castilian men wanted or preferred a female ruler—they most certainly did not—but they did accept that sometimes, it took a lady to get things done. And so we have Urraca of Castile, we have Berenguela, mother of Fernando III, and Maria de Molina. Impressive ladies who actually ruled.

I speculate that the reason why men accepted women as rulers was a consequence of the ongoing Reconquista, this centuries-long conflict with the Moors. The Reconquista started in Covadonga when the famous Pelayo managed to stop the moors from advancing further, and for the coming seven or so centuries little Castilian boys were raised to be brave fighters and ride off to fight with the Moors as, foot by foot, the Christians retook their lands.

A consequence of all this fighting is that men died. Well, all men (and women) die at some point, but what I mean is that men died in their prime. When men died, someone had to step in to handle everything from local government to finances and education of the next generation of fighters. That someone was usually a woman, and as this situation continued for hundreds of years, I am assuming the Castilian men became quite comfortable with strong, take-charge women. After all, they needed them!

When Eleanor of Castile was born, around 1241 or so, Castile was ruled by her father, the great Fernando III. Eleanor grew up with talk of war, with heated discussions over the dinner table about strategies and alliances. She was Fernando’s youngest daughter, her mother being Fernando’s second wife, Jeanne, Countess of Poitou. It is said that no sooner had Fernando’s first wife breathed her last but Fernando’s mother was off to find him a new bride, because she knew just how virile Castilian men were, and she much preferred her son have a wife than a series of mistresses.

Eleanor was given an excellent education. She was raised to be a consort, to be able to take over the ruling should the situation so require. In the event, Eleanor married Edward, future king of England, and if there was one thing her husband had no intention of doing, it was sharing power with his wife. Why? Because he’d seen first hand how his strong mother, Eleanor of Provence, had dominated his father and, due to her insistence that her relatives and countrymen be given preferment, caused a lot of unrest. This, however, doesn’t mean he didn’t discuss things with Eleanor, even listened to her advice. But such conversations were held in private.

Eleanor was around thirteen when she married Edward, who was a couple of years older. The two teenagers hit it off big time. In fact, from the day they were wed they were to spend almost all their time together. Where Edward went, there went Eleanor, be it to Gascony, to the Holy Land or Wales. That initial infatuation grew into a deep, mutual love—testament to which is Edward’s desolation when his wife predeceased him.

A medieval queen had one duty: birth an heir. So when Eleanor gave birth to John in 1266 after three short-lived girls, I imagine she expelled a huge sigh of relief. John was a healthy little boy and was joined a year or so later by a brother, Henry. With two little princes in the nursery, Eleanor and Edward departed for the Holy Land—Edward was determined to free Jerusalem from the Muslims.

While they were away, a couple of things happened: Edward’s father, Henry III, died. So did their John. Fortunately, there was still little Henry, and in 1273 Eleanor gave birth to Alphonso. Phew! The heir and the spare were back in play. By now, Eleanor and Edward also had two healthy little girls, Eleanor and Joan, soon to be three daughter.

Two more short-lived daughters, one more healthy little girl, Mary, a son who died at birth and then in 1282 there was Elizabeth—Eleanor was doing her duty. But it was a road paved by pain, like when Henry died at the age of six, leaving Edward, again, in the precarious situation of having only one surviving son.

So they tried again. Eleanor must have been feeling the consequences of all these childbeds, but a woman had to do what a woman had to do. This her last pregnancy was a difficult one, even more so as a lot of it was spent gallivanting round recently conquered Wales as Edward ruthlessly suppressed any rebellions.

In April of 1284, Eleanor gave birth to a much-desired boy, the future Edward II. Her joy was not to be long-lived, because in August of 1284 her beloved Alphonso died. The heir was gone, and the spare was a fragile baby. Yet again, Edward and Eleanor had to face the loss of a child.

Not only had Eleanor been pregnant for many, many years, but she had also spent most of her life riding about from one place to the other, accompanying her husband wherever he went, be it the Holy Land or Doncaster. And after 1284, her hitherto robust health began to deteriorate.

A planned trip to Gascony had to be delayed for two years, and it wasn’t until 1286 that Edward and Eleanor made it to their French dominions. The queen was not well: there’s a major surge in recorded expenses related to tinctures, potions, physicians and whatnot. The king was obviously worried and may even have tried to convince his wife to take it easy, but Eleanor was no quitter. She likely expended a lot of energy on convincing her husband—and herself—that there was nothing seriously wrong with her.

The royal couple returned to England in 1289. Edward submerged himself in regaining control over his somewhat rambunctious barons, Eleanor focused on sorting her extensive estates. She had business acumen, our Eleanor, and contributed significantly to the household income. She also visited a shrine dedicated to healing, and it was evident to her family her health was weakening by the day.

In the autumn of 1290, Eleanor fell so ill her husband ordered their youngest children to be brought north to see their mother. In mid-November, the queen and king set out for Lincoln. She was not to make it there alive, and spent her last few days in Harby before expiring on November 29, some days after her forty-ninth birthday.

Edward remained by her side throughout those last days. And once she’d passed, he secluded himself. For the first time in his reign, no official business was conducted. But life had to go on, and after arranging for the magnificent procession carrying Eleanor back to London, Edward returned to being the active ruler he’d always been. I do, however, believe that had he had two live sons when Eleanor died, he would never have remarried. As it was, he had no choice, hence that winter-spring marriage in 1299 when he married Princess Marguerite of France.

In the below, an excerpt from His Castilian Hawk. It is April of 1284 and Eleanor is in labour—for the seventeenth time!

Two days on, and Noor was met by a harried Elena in the doorway.

“It has begun,” she said. “At last. Not soon enough to save my wimple, but hopefully by tonight our queen will be relieved of her burden.”

“I am sure the king will not claim your wimple,” Noor said.

“Hmph! Of course he will! And then he will demand a favour in return for it.” But Elena smiled as she said it. “Now find someone to bring up hot water and make sure the king is informed immediately. His lady wife is in labour, and God grant us that it be a healthy child.”

For the first time in weeks, the queen had left her bed. Waddling from one side of the room to the other, she huffed and puffed, sweat dewing her face and causing her shift to cling to the huge belly. Noor was ordered to walk with her, biting back on a surprised exclamation when the queen came to an abrupt halt and sank her fingers into Noor’s forearm. Her breathing quickened, and she leaned heavily on Noor, who desperately looked about for Elena.

“A contraction,” Elena said. She rubbed the queen’s lower back.

“Like having your privates caught in a vice,” the queen said through gritted teeth. She straightened up and took several deep breaths before resuming her waddling.

Several hours later, the queen was lying in bed, breathing through one contraction after the other with her crucifix clutched in her hands. She’d lost what little colour she’d had at the beginning of her ordeal, her face acquiring a wax-like pallor.

“It’s not right,” she said in a weak voice, her thumb brushing back and forth over the piece of dark red glass. “Had I had the Castilian Pomegranate, there would have been no need for all these childbirths. Instead—” She broke off and squished her eyes shut as yet another contraction swept through her. “That damned Violante!” she spat once the contraction abated. “She stole my jewel—mine! And so she gave birth to son after healthy son, while I—”

“Pfff!” Elena wiped the queen’s face. “Surely, you do not believe in something as silly as a charmed jewel?”

The queen’s eyes snapped open. “My grandmother—”

“Si, si! We all know that Doña Berenguela was holding that jewel when your sainted father slipped between her thighs.” Elena carefully smoothed back a strand of sweaty hair from the queen’s cheek.

“And…” the queen began before being swept by yet another contraction.

“And, yes, Queen Beatriz had it too, as she birthed son after son.” Elena helped the queen to sit and gestured for Noor to offer the queen something to drink. “It’s almost over,” she said in a low voice.

“But the worst is yet to come,” the queen said, just as low, her hold on the crucifix tightening.

“Cómo manda Dios, querida. It has nothing to do with a jewel your great-grandfather stole from that Moorish general.”

“And yet Violante, for all that she has hips as narrow as those of a half-grown lad, has given Alfonso numerous healthy sons,” Queen Eleanor said. She sounded bitter, likely finding it unfair that the sister-in-law she dismissed as being less devout, less intelligent, less well-educated than herself had managed to fulfil the duties of a royal consort so much better than Eleanor had.

“Much joy they have had of them,” Elena said. “The eldest is dead, the second has risen in rebellion against his father, and that Juan, well God alone knows what mischief he may be planning to feather his own nest.”

“There is that,” Eleanor panted. “Elena, I think…” For the first time, she uttered something that sounded like a scream. It made Noor jerk, wine sloshing from the goblet she was holding to stain the sheets and the queen’s drenched chemise.

The queen screamed again, half sitting up. She released the crucifix and groped. Noor took her hand, biting her tongue when the queen tightened her hold, sinking her nails into Noor’s hand.

“It’s coming!” the queen announced in a hoarse voice.

“It most certainly is,” the midwife said calmly. “I can see the head.”

“You can?” Noor twisted, attempting to see for herself.

The queen wailed. Once, twice, thrice, and then she slumped back against the headboard. A plaintive cry filled the room.

“A baby!” Noor exclaimed.

“What a relief,” the queen muttered without opening her eyes. “Imagine if it had been a piglet.”

Noor flushed. Elena laughed, her gaze never leaving the babe the midwife was now inspecting. “It is a son,” she said. “Mi reina, you have given your husband a healthy, squalling son.”

As if in response, the newborn babe uttered a loud cry.

***