Winners and losers – a reflection on historical depictions

I am presently struggling with the depiction of one of my main characters in my WIP. I give you Pedro I of Castile, at times labelled “the Cruel”, at times “the Just”. (And as an aside, it is interesting to note that his uncle and namesake, Pedro I of Portugal, is also at times referred to as “the Just”, at times as “the Cruel”)

Most people with a vague insight into Castilian history will generally agree with “the Cruel”. In one of my previous posts, I’ve written about Pedro’s unfortunate young French wife, Blanche, who wed him in 1353, was immediately abandoned by him, ended up spending the rest of her life locked up in “comfortable” captivity, before suddenly dying. In that post, I blame Pedro. Almost everyone does, because that’s what the few surviving chronicles indicate. Except . . . can we trust them?

In 1369, Pedro was murdered by his half-brother, Enrique who then became king. Pedro lost. The narrative of his life was no longer in his hands. The man who’d been his chronicler for most of his life, Pero Lopez de Ayala, did a thorough revision of his original text, likely to please his new master, Enrique II. Evidently, Pedro does not come out smelling of roses. Further to this, essentially all records from parliaments (cortes in Spanish) held under Pedro’s rule have been lost. Documents that could have shed light on his laws, his care for his subjects went “poof”. The fact that in many places he was still remembered as “the Just” indicate some did see him as a good king, a young ruler who did his best to ease the plight of, especially, the lower classes and the regions most affected by the Black Death.

My conclusion: writing about historical figures who ended up on the losing side comes with its own very particular challenge: how correct are the surviving depictions of them?

A classic example of this is, of course, Richard III. To this day, there’s an ongoing debate as to whether he did or didn’t murder his nephews. People argue that his record prior to Edward IV’s death was that of a loyal brother, standing staunchly at his brother’s side. And yet, in a matter of months, he usurped the crown, locked up two young boys who were never seen again. Those are facts we all know, but we don’t truly know who ordered the boys’ death—or if they even died at all. I believe they did die—most historians do as well. And the most reasonable suspect is Richard III: he had motive, he had access. But expressing that out loud in some circles leads to loud protests along the lines of character assassination.

Now, had Richard III won at Bosworth, he’d have controlled the presentation of facts. He’d have come up with a feasible explanation for Hastings’ “execution”, for the boys’ disappearance. But he didn’t win, and it was in his Tudor successor’s interest to depict his acts as vile, culminating in that caricature of evil, Shakespeare’s Richard III. Most of us realise there is likely some bias in the Tudor narratives. Surely he wasn’t that bad! Hence the doubts that still remain among some as to whether he did or didn’t murder his nephews.

When it comes to Pedro, there are several huge stains on his reputation that are irrefutable: in 1359, he had his two youngest half-brothers, Pedro and Juan, murdered in Carmona where they’d been held as prisoners since the civil war between Pedro and Enrique broke out. He also murdered one of his cousins by throwing him out of a window, had another half-brother, Fadrique, beaten to death in the Alcazar of Sevilla, ordered the assassination of his aunt and of Juana de Lara, heiress in her own right to the lordship of Biscay. So yes, plenty of blots. But medieval kings often sported blots. I give you Edward I, and Scotsmen and Welshmen still growl in anger. Edward III was not exactly a softie when he made war in France, and Pedro’s own father, Alfonso XI, did not hesitate to have his rivals assassinated.

Had Pedro won the war, the murder of his half-brothers would have been described as expedient, and as to his aunt, well, everyone knew just how manipulative the former queen of Aragon was. His cousin was an airhead, lusting for Pedro’s throne, so what was Pedro to do? Allow him to live?

The depiction of Pedro that has come down the centuries is that of an evil, bloodthirsty king, as described by Edward Storer in his book Peter the Cruel (title gives it all away, doesn’t it?) The contemporary Chronicle of Don Pedro I, edited thoroughly by its author Pero Lopez de Ayala once Enrique became king, is probably the best description we have of Pedro’s reign—but is it true? Factually, it probably is. But does it tell the whole truth? What parts were cut out of it so as to please Enrique? We will never know.

I am faced with the challenge of making more than an evil caricature out of Pedro—this was, after all a man, not a monster. When he had his mother’s men cut down, he was avenging their treason against him. (Yes, his own mother betrayed him) When Fadrique was beaten to death on that stone tiled patio, Pedro had reason to assume Fadrique would always support his full brother, Enrique. Those two young boys in Carmona? Well, history is rife with examples of those in power getting rid of potential future threats. With modern sensibilities, Pedro is blood-thirsty and—yup—cruel. But to his contemporaries he was a king, fighting for his crown. Until he lost, that is, when Enrique benefitted from painting him as bad, bad, bad.

There are other aspects of Pedro I find much more difficult to understand: why was he so cruel to Blanche? Yes, he was in love with another woman, yes, he was strong-armed into this marriage by dear Mama and her most loyal supporter, yes, the French king defaulted on the promised dowry, but none of that was Blanche’s fault.  And why did he “marry” Juana de Castro when he was already married to Blanche, forcing two bishops to declare his first marriage invalid? Even worse, why did he abandon her after only three days? Oh, right: he realised her brother was a traitor.

A complicated man, this Pedro. Was he cruel? Just? Or was he merely a typical ruthless medieval king, determined to do whatever it took to hold on to his power?
“It was my crown,” he mutters in my head. “Mine.”
It was.
But he ended up losing it, his brother’s dagger buried in his chest.

When Pedro was murdered, John of Gaunt swept in and claimed the Castilian crown on behalf of his new wife, the young Constanza, daughter of Pedro. Most Castilians were less than impressed: they did not want an English king, and besides, Constanza was illegitimate (on the other hand, so was Enrique II) In the fullness of time, the conflict was resolved by that medieval panacea, a marriage. In 1388, Enrique II’s nine-year-old grandson, Enrique III, married John of Gaunt’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Catalina. The two warring factions of the ancient royal dynasty were thereby united, and as a consequence, a certain rehabilitation of Pedro was performed—after all, no future king wanted a bloodthirsty monster as his antecedent. Still, the epithet the cruel lingered. It still does.

My Pedro suffers from blinding attacks of rage, constant headaches and recurring hallucinations. (He was very ill in 1351, so I am building on that) A man who blows hot and cold, who detests his half-brothers but yearns for family. Pedro grew up alone, with no siblings. His mother (for obvious reasons) detested the mistress that held Pedro’s father’s heart and ensured her precious son, the heir, was kept well away from the loud and boisterous company of all his half-brothers. Maybe if she hadn’t, things would not have ended as they did. Yet another of the many, many what-ifs that litters history!