The Last Straw
The fifteenth century began gloomily. The brief flicker of crusading enthusiasm that had survived Nicopolis died out, as the Emperor Manoel wandered unhappily about Europe asking for help in vain. England was beginning to accept the deposition and subsequent murder of King Richard II and the violent assumption of the throne by the Earl of Derby as Henry IV in 1399. Rebellions in Wales, reinforced by a French expedition, and in England, led by ‘Hotspur’ Harry Percy, threatened the new dynasty. Society seemed in danger from the sect of ‘Lollards’ who combined the less complex of John Wycliff’s doctrines with widespread dislike of hierarchical religion.
King Charles VI of France, after his first attack in 1392, was growing progressively and more frequently mad, leadership in the royal council being fought over by his wife, the Bavarian Queen Isabeau, Duke Louis of Orléans, his younger brother, and Duke Philip of Burgundy, the most experienced of French politicians. On Duke Philip’s death in 1404 Jean Sans Peur, the survivor of Nicopolis, succeeded to the Duchy, and three years later, in one of the most famous scandals of the period, arranged to have Duke Louis of Orléans murdered in Paris; demonstrating his inexperience, he admitted it. For some years afterwards it is difficult to define any policy as specifically ‘French’. At least three centres of power, the royalists, the Burgundians and the University of Paris, followed their own interests and ideals.
Germany was similarly divided. Václav had failed as German King, much preferring to stay in Bohemia – for ten years after 1387 he never set foot in the German lands. Even in Bohemia his authority was shaky: in 1394 he spent some months imprisoned by discontented barons led by his younger brother John. Two years later Václav covered his rear by acknowledging Sigismund as his successor to the Empire, and appointed him immediately as Imperial Vicar. There was nevertheless general approval when, in August 1400, the electors decided to depose Václav and appoint his deputy the Elector Palatine Rupert, in his place. Since the deposition was illegal, however, there was considerable nervousness lest Václav, who as King of Bohemia was potentially the most powerful of the princes, should pull himself together and reinstate his authority. Sigismund, who had briefly seemed to offer leadership, was struggling to regain authority in Hungary after the defeat at Nicopolis.
There was little likelihood that such divided countries would provide the initiative needed to end the schism. An example of the possible difficulties was given at a meeting between King Charles of France and Václav in Rheims in March 1398, as supporters of Benedict and Boniface respectively. Unkindly described as a meeting between a madman and a sot – it seemed that business could be discussed only in the mornings, before Václav became incapably drunk – it was predictably inconclusive. Each monarch undertook to force his pope to abdicate, on conditions, but neither had the power to do so. With such divisions within the nations, and the erosion of ecclesiastical authority, the impetus for action was passing to the leaders of opinion, and even, to a limited extent, to the people.
The full extent of the defeat at Nicopolis was only gradually appreciated, as the survivors made their way home and the more prominent captives were ransomed, at enormous cost. It was not until the following year that Jean Sans Peur could make his report to the King. ‘Amurath-Sawuin’ – Bayezid – had been ‘right courteous’ but had made it clear that he intended to reach Rome and ‘make his horse eat corn upon St Peter’s altar’. And that the Turks just as well as the French ‘knew that it should be so, by reason that the Christian men were abused upon two popes … and the Saracens had great marvel how the heads of Christendom in every realm would suffer it’. The heads of Christendom could do little to reverse the defeat, and, as after the failure of the earlier Crusades, agitated debate ensued. Since nothing much could be hoped for from either papacy the French Council looked to the universities for guidance, and primarily to Paris.
Among the best-known Paris masters was a group of young men who came from peasant or small-town families (the names tell it all: Jean Courtecuisse from Allaines on the Loire, Jean Petit from Hesden, Gilleon Deschamps). Of similar ages, born between 1350 and 1360, they represented a new type of university intellectual, men with little interest in a profitable career in the Church administration, but intent on ideas, and sometimes bold in pursuing these. The most influential was Jean Charlier (commonly called Jean Gerson, from his native Champagne village), elected Chancellor of the University in 1395.
Whereas his predecessor and mentor Pierre d’Ailly had become a career Chancellor, Bishop and finally Cardinal, Gerson resembled his two contemporaries, Jan Hus and John Wycliff, respectively head of Prague University and, for a time, Balliol College, Oxford. Like them, Gerson combined theological learning and mastery of debating techniques with popular appeal, preaching in the vernacular to large audiences. All three were deeply troubled by the follies and corruption of the ecclesiastic establishment but Gerson remained, often unhappily, faithful to the traditional idea of reform, and to the customary rituals and practices of the Church, whereas both Wycliff and Hus were prepared to challenge these, in a struggle that proved to be, for Hus, to the death.
As Chancellor of the University of Paris, a post sometimes known as the third pillar of Christendom, the French equivalent of the papacy and the German Empire, Gerson would have been listened to with great respect, but his personal qualities also were admired during his lifetime, and for long after. Two such dissimilar men as Luther and Rabelais identified Gerson as the last great medieval teacher: Luther wrote of Gerson as ‘that good loving man who … delivered many poor sorrowful consciences from despair’, and gave him the name of Doctor Consolatorius. Rabelais, in his (imaginary) catalogue of the library of St Victor which includes ‘Bede, on the Excellence of the Belly; The Scrawlings of Scotus; The Body-Odours of the Spaniards, by Brother Inigo (de Loyola)’, there is one ironical title: Gerson ‘De Auferibilitate pape ab Ecclesia’ – Concerning the Popes’ robbery of the Church.
The Paris masters, who had been the centre of debate on all questions philosophical and theological for three centuries, now enthusiastically addressed the problem of how the Church might be reformed when no single acknowledged head existed. Three possibilities suggested themselves: one of the competitors should stand down, as Benedict XIII had originally offered; both should resign to allow a third to be elected; or the competing claims should be adjudicated by an ecumenical Council. And, some argued, an independent Council could dismiss both as pretenders. Only slightly less radical was the suggestion that the national Churches should simply declare unilateral independence by withdrawing their allegiance; it was understood that this would be purely temporary, but some were prepared to consider that papal authority was now so tattered as to be no longer acceptable.
Following the University’s advice an assembly of French bishops and universities, meeting between May and August 1398, decided to force Benedict to abdicate, by 247 votes to 36, albeit after a little vote-rigging. The Church in France would formally renounce the Avignon pope, thereby cutting off all sources of finance; but there was no suggestion of acknowledging Boniface instead. Had this been done, the schism would have been ended forthwith, but it was a political impossibility. For twenty years France had denounced the Roman popes as heretics and schismatics, devoid of any authority in France; a sudden about-turn, which would implicitly invalidate all benefices awarded by the Avignon popes, could hardly be expected. Perhaps the English might be persuaded to withdraw their obedience from Pope Boniface? It was a faint hope, and in the meantime a dual mission from University and court was sent to cajole or coerce Benedict into submission. Pierre d’Ailly attempted persuasion; Marshal Boucicault stood by with his troops in Lyon.
The Avignon cardinals were convinced by the French arguments, and eighteen of the twenty-three wrote to King Charles renouncing Benedict, as did Flanders, Sicily, Castile and Navarre, leaving only Aragon and Scotland still acknowledging the Avignon pope, who nevertheless refused to submit. Marshal Boucicault duly moved on the city, and waited for instructions; and waited, since the French government assumed – a common fault of governments – that their plans would succeed. If Benedict could only be removed by physical force, what was the next move to be?
The best that might be done would be to hope that when Boniface died, the Roman cardinals could be persuaded to elect a pope who would be generally acceptable. In the meantime France would pretend that no valid pope existed, and that the French Church would be controlled by the state – a temporary remedy anticipating the solution Henry VIII of England made permanent a hundred and forty years later. Benedict, confined in his Avignon palace, promised to abdicate if Boniface went, and to co-operate with any Council that might be held to discuss union, which was indeed becoming the only way ahead for the Catholic Church. It was nothing more than an uneasy truce, and it did not hold.
Since there was no need to negotiate the division of Church income and property, the French crown and its supporters helped themselves. Benefices had to be given, in due order, to nominees of the King, the Queen, the Dauphin, the King’s brothers and uncles, and to the University of Paris; if there were not enough posts to go round, existing holders were ejected. Naturally enough those who were not sharing in the proceeds objected, including the great majority of the population who found themselves paying far more to Paris than they had to Avignon. The experiment was a failure. The royal family disagreed among themselves and the other French universities, jealous of the Parisians’ share of the spoils, produced excellent reasons to counter their arguments. The Duke of Orléans, by some way the ablest of the Council, took matters into his own hands, and arranged for Benedict to escape from Avignon, which he did in March 1403. Avoiding more tricky negotiations with Benedict, the Duke took soundings among the clergy which convinced the King that France should return to the papal fold and swear to maintain Benedict ‘as the true Vicar of Jesus Christ on earth’. For his part Benedict undertook to forgive his opponents, recognize all appointments made in his absence, resign if his competitor died, and call a General Council; as was only to be expected, he kept none of these promises. He did, however, go so far as to send two bishops to Rome to propose a conference, an approach immediately rejected by Boniface, very shortly before that Pope’s death on 1 October 1404.
There is little doubt that, whatever pledge he may have made, Benedict had no intention of resigning; he was convinced that he was indeed himself the rightful Vicar of Christ, a conviction reinforced by his remaining, as the other cardinals died off, the only member of the college elected before the schism by an undoubted pope. Benedict was personally the most impressive of all the schism’s popes. The intense little Spaniard had been a professor of canon law at the University of Montpellier, had a blameless private life, and the courageous pride of a Spanish nobleman which distinguished him from the money-grubbing French and Italian popes, but these very qualities made it impossible for him to compromise. As the true representative of Christ on earth it was his duty to remain at his post.
In Rome Pope Boniface had more practical reasons for sticking to his guns, since although the last Jubilee had been in 1390, Boniface decided to proclaim another ten years later. A Jubilee at the turn of the century, with all its eschatological overtones, had much more resonance than one so arbitrarily selected as 1390. If the Day of Judgement was approaching a full pardon and instant admission to Paradise were well worth having. Again crowds of pilgrims flocked to Rome, accompanied by thousands of Flagellants, dressed in white, throwing themselves on the ground and crying ‘Mercy’ or ‘Peace’, lacerating themselves while chanting the ‘Stabat Mater’. Marvellous phenomena predicted the end of the world, as statues wept and crucifixes shed blood. Blood was shed in earnest during the Jubilee year when Colonna rebels rushed on the capitol. Their attempt failed, and thirty-one were decapitated by one lad who was pardoned in return for acting as executioner: among those he beheaded were his father and brother
England, by contrast with France, had been improving relations with their Roman pope, reaching in November 1398 an agreement allowing Rome formally to invest bishops, previously nominated by the king (officially, by the cathedral chapter, but the canons were reliably obedient to royal wishes). Again, unlike Paris, neither Oxford nor Cambridge could exert such powerful moral influence; Oxford’s authority had been prejudiced by Wycliff’s revolutionary ideas, which were beginning to attract followers and therefore official nervousness; Cambridge produced a sensible paper recommending a General Council, but the difficulty remained that, if an authoritative council had to be summoned by a pope, which of the contenders was the true pontiff?
Both English and French governments were too much occupied with other problems to spend much time on Church affairs, but popular unhappiness deepened. Froissart expressed a gentlemanly distress that:
the Church should fall into such trouble and endure so long … but from the great lords of the earth at the beginning did nothing but laugh at the Church, till I chronicled these chronicles in the year of our Lord Jesu Christ 1380 and ten. Much of the common people marvelled how the great lords, as the French king, the king of Almaine and other kings and princes of Christendom, did provide no remedy in that case.
Rabelais later wrote of the struggle between two ‘popehawks’ who did so ‘peck, clapperclaw and maul one another that there was the devil and all to do’.
The Roman popehawk, secure, buttressed by a welcome flow of Jubilee funds which enabled him to buy enormous estates for his brothers, his rival deserted for the time being by his chief supporter, had no reason to consider any compromise. Naples, the permanent threat to his predecessors, had been neutralized. Young King Ladislas, who succeeded after his father Charles III had been murdered in Hungary, had successfully resisted his rival Louis of Anjou’s attempts to take over the throne. Free of Neapolitan interference Boniface, with a well-stocked treasury, was able to consolidate his rule in the Papal States. His very capable emissary, Cardinal Baldassare Cossa, re-established papal government in the important city of Bologna. For the first time in many years the Bishop of Rome was able to remain in the Holy City, where he perfected the art of raising money. Dietrich bitterly wrote that ‘All fear of God and shame of men [were] set aside.’ When he taxed his fellow-civil servants with these misdeeds they replied that the Pope had simply said that everything was legitimate since in such matters the Pope could not sin. Boniface died in October 1404, still in possession of the Holy See but tormented both by insatiable greed (‘all would be well, if only I were richer’ he lamented to Dietrich) and by kidney stones which had caused gangrene in his genitals.
It was the best and last opportunity to end the schism by mutual agreement. Benedict had slipped out of Avignon to find refuge in Marseille, attended by only two cardinals, and only nine of Boniface’s remained in Rome. Surely neither pope would be able to act convincingly in the name of the whole Catholic Church? Pope Benedict’s ambassadors, who had been imprisoned on the news of Boniface’s death, were released (upon payment) and implored the Roman cardinals at least to delay the election of a new pope, but the Roman Curia accurately assessed their opponents’ likely response. ‘Would Benedict resign?’ they asked his representatives, who had to reply that they were not authorized to negotiate on the subject. Nevertheless the Roman cardinals signed a mutual agreement that whoever should be elected would undertake to end the schism, by resignation, if need be, and in October 1404 proceeded to elect another Neapolitan, Cosimo del Migliatori, as Innocent VII.
Two days later King Ladislas of Naples entered Rome to assert his authority; from then on Innocent’s power evaporated and the Pope reigned entirely at the mercy of Ladislas, who possessed the only force capable of subduing the perennially rebellious Romans, and who was not going to allow so useful a pawn to resign. And Innocent, although personally inoffensive, had, like almost all popes, demanding nephews, one of whom, Ludovico, provoked a rebellion by murdering eleven respectable Roman burgesses, including two magistrates and eight personal friends of the Pope. Rome erupted in fury at the outrage and Innocent, together with the cardinals, took flight. It was three days, in the hottest of Roman Augusts, before the fugitives reached Viterbo; thirty had died on the way. Eight months were passed in exile before the Pope was able to return to Rome, where he immediately pardoned Ludovico and presented him with the important lordships of Ancona and Forli. It was hardly surprising that so morally feeble a man did nothing to end the schism. He announced that a Synod would be held in November 1405, postponed until May the following year, but its prospects were immediately ruined by Innocent’s refusal to admit Benedict’s envoys; a long series of querulous letters between the rival popes followed as each created an impression of action without any actual commitment.
Benedict attempted a masterstroke when he came personally to Italy in May 1405, at first to Genoa, under French control since 1396. Both Genoa and Innocent’s Legate there, Cardinal de Flisco, followed by the city of Pisa, transferred their loyalty from Rome to Avignon – although the term is now geographically inept since Benedict never returned to that city after his flight in 1403. The University of Paris continued snapping at Benedict’s heels, succeeding in getting the rival University of Toulouse’s case for recognizing Benedict burned at the gates of that city as ‘scandalous and seditious’. Pope Benedict was forced to retreat westwards along the coast to Savona.
Innocent died on 6 November 1406 and what was now the comedy of a papal election began once more. The fourteen cardinals present in Rome resolved not to elect a pope, but rather to appoint a commissioner charged to restore the Church’s unity. They solemnly swore on the Gospels that whoever was elected would make every effort to end the schism, and to create no new cardinals until this was done. Angelo Correr seemed ideal, eighty years old, emaciated and personally grubby. He was well known as honest and sincere and promised to travel anywhere to meet his rival, on a fishing boat or on foot if need be. Before his coronation as Pope Gregory XII he repeated the oath he had sworn as a cardinal, and his inaugural sermon was on the text ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord.’ French opinion was impressed, and the pressure on their Pope, Benedict, increased.
Benedict, that skilled negotiator, elegantly avoided the assault. He welcomed Gregory’s proposals, and was quite ready to agree a joint resignation. The question was now to agree a place for the subsequent face-to-face meeting between the rival popes, each of whom wanted it to be in a place where he, and he alone, would be recognized as the true pope. Savona, in Italy, but part of Benedict-friendly Genoa, was accepted as a compromise, and arrangements began to be made for a conference to open, at the latest by 1 November 1407.
It is doubtful if it were ever intended that the conference should take place. King Ladislas had every reason to retain an obliging pope in Rome, knowing that any chosen under French influence would be likely to support Louis of Anjou in his claims. England and the Empire, the old supporters of Urban, were suspicious of any solution to which the French would agree. When the French representatives arrived in Rome in July 1407 they found Gregory ready primed with excuses. Ladislas was only waiting for an opportunity to pounce and it would be too dangerous to leave Rome. The French ambassador offered to stay in Rome as a hostage and to provide Gregory with the ships to take him to Savona, their captains to leave their families in Rome as guarantees of the Pope’s safe return. Gregory decided that, after all, going by land might be preferable: he would try, really try, to get to Savona by the due date.
By the end of the month, both the French and Gregory’s own cardinals doubted the Pope’s sincerity, but Gregory did start to move in the general direction of Savona, and by the end of September, he had reached Siena. On 1 November, the appointed day for the meeting, he was still in Siena. His cardinals attempted to persuade him: he need not go himself; delegates could be despatched; on his resignation he would be given rich benefices (the archbishopric of York among them) and his nephews would be generously rewarded. Benedict moved nearer, to Porto Venere; Gregory shuffled a few miles to Petra Santa; the Popes were now within three days’ travel of each other, but there they stuck. One disillusioned official, Leonardo Bruni, commented that ‘One pope, like a land animal, refused to approach the shore; the other, like a water-beast, refused to leave the sea.’
Pope Benedict moved to break the deadlock by abandoning negotiation for action. Suspecting, rightly as it turned out, that King Ladislas might use the Pope’s absence to make a dash for Rome, Benedict persuaded Marshal Boucicault, in charge at Genoa, to send a fleet to take over Rome, which would have given him an enormous advantage over Gregory. It was too late, since the day (25 April 1408) that the galleys left Genoa, Ladislas was welcomed in Rome. Gregory now had the double advantage of being able to point to Benedict’s treachery, and claim to be defending the Holy See against the French assault, while making it impossible for him to move on to a conference: he was then in Lucca, and Pisa had been proposed as a venue. He abandoned his election oath, denouncing the proposed abdication as a ‘damnable and diabolical suggestion’ and feeling free to nominate four new cardinals, two of whom were his own nephews, Antonio Correr and Gabriele Condulmer, later the lamentable Pope Eugenius IV.
It was the last straw, and raised a storm of protest among the other members of the Curia. They refused to recognize the new appointments, made in breach of the sacred undertaking they had all given. Gregory’s announcement was made on 8 May 1408: by the 12th seven cardinals had left Rome, making for Pisa as the most suitable place for a conference, were this ever to take place. Pope Gregory had proved that he had neither the will nor the power to end the schism, and that any successful initiative could come only from the cardinals alone. From Pisa they sent a letter denouncing the Pope, followed by an invitation to all the bishops and rulers of Christendom to a Council, to be held in that town the following May. Their action was just too late to help Benedict. With the murder of Louis of Orléans in the previous November, the Pope had lost his most loyal supporter. Both the King and the University of Paris had become disillusioned, and on 12 January 1408 threatened that unless a conference was called by Ascension Day France would cease to support Benedict.
If Benedict had known of Gregory’s cardinals’ action in deserting their Pope, he would not have announced his Bull of 14 May, which called for the excommunication of anyone who took any action against him, including withdrawal of obedience, or who even entered an appeal against papal decisions. For the University of Paris, the guardian of the country’s conscience, it was too much. On 21 May Jean Courtecuisse attacked Benedict and his Bull as high treason: Benedict was schismatic and a heretic and must go. The Bull was publicly shredded by the University Rector, and on the next day King Charles wrote to both sets of cardinals begging them to abandon their popes and find a solution to the thirty-year-old schism. Benedict, with only four cardinals now following him, took refuge in Perpignan, Aragonese territory where he could rely on protection: if a Council was needed, he would call one, to meet at Perpignan in November.
Gregory followed suit: he too would have a Council, the following spring, but exactly where he could not say, for once more, accompanied by the only remaining loyal cardinal, the Pope was on the move. At Siena he created ten new cardinals, all undistinguished, and finally found refuge at Rimini. Both Popes had shown that they were firmly entrenched in their opposition, and that the time for negotiation was over. On 14 July both sets of cardinals united in calling for bishops from all of Christendom to attend an ecumenical Council to be held in Pisa, beginning on 29 May 1409, and for all rulers to send what representatives they wished.
Taking Council Together
A place and a date had been fixed, but little more. Although General Councils had been from very early days a feature of Church government, the meeting at Pisa was taking place in entirely new circumstances. A century previously Pope Boniface had bluntly claimed to be a divinely appointed autocrat whose word was – or ought to be – a universal law. Almost equally bluntly lay rulers had declined to accept this idea, and generations of theorists had attempted to find a formula which would allow a workable system of Church government to develop: only a few extremists questioned the need for a single head, but it was becoming accepted that papal rule should be a constitutional monarchy. The spectacle of two individuals both claiming to be Christ’s only representative on earth, possessing the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, hurling anathemas at each other, had demanded the restoration of unity. But the establishment of a new, single, undoubted head of the Church required radical political action.
The theory was well established, but the practice fraught with difficulties. The Church could function without a pope, as it had been obliged to do, sometimes for years on end, during the various papal interregnums. Administration was then the responsibility of the College of Cardinals, but this could only be a temporary measure: cardinals were mortal men, and only a pope could create new cardinals. It was established, too, that a pope could be persuaded, by one means or another, to stand down: the example of Celestine was in everyone’s mind. There was therefore a very general agreement that the cardinals’ projected meeting offered a real prospect of ending the schism. This proved too optimistic.
The Council of Pisa was to attempt a conservative, constitutionalist settlement. Nobody disputed the cardinals’ right to elect a pope; it was clear enough that at least one, and perhaps both of the claimants were impostors, schismatic, heretical, and therefore illegal. If this were so then the College of Cardinals must elect a successor. But only a General Council of the whole Church could decide, and General Councils had to be summoned by a pope. Permitting the cardinals themselves to summon the Council was therefore a bold innovation, complicated by the fact that neither existing pope would co-operate, but pressed ahead with their own Councils, each called by a pontiff who had been accepted by many Christians as a lawful pope.
Gregory’s support had melted away and his Council, which opened in June 1409 at Cividale in Friuli, one of his few remaining areas of obedience, attracted few prelates. Benedict, however, could still claim the obedience of the Spanish kingdoms, and his Council at Perpignan began impressively, a considerable gathering of cardinals, prelates and representatives of the Spanish states and universities: St Vincent Ferrer, a staunch and influential supporter, was also there. But only nine cardinals remained faithful to Benedict – eighteen had deserted in 1398, before the Pope’s nearly five-year house arrest in Avignon – and as the months went by it was clear that the participants required a clear indication by Benedict of the conditions under which he would step down, and this he was resolutely refusing to give. The Council appointed a committee to discuss his case, which concluded, in February 1409, that Benedict must indeed abdicate. By the time the Council dissolved only eighteen representatives were left, all but one of whom advised the Pope to renounce his rights; for a moment it seemed that he would agree, but the moment passed with Pope Benedict determined to hang on to what was left of his power.
Defending the authority of a Council not convoked by a pope, Chancellor Gerson addressed the representatives from Oxford and Cambridge who called at Paris on their way to Pisa. Taken together with a more detailed paper ‘On the Union of the Church’, presented to the members of the Pisan Council, Gerson’s ‘Proposals made to the English’ is truly revolutionary. Human laws and traditions, however venerable, are transient and can be – must be in matters of urgency – superseded by divine and natural law. Just as the human body heals itself, the Church must bind up its own wounds. As a matter of tradition and for practical convenience worldly governance was entrusted to a hierarchy headed by a pope; but no member of the hierarchy was inviolate and infallible. The only true Head of the Church is Jesus Christ, not the pope, who is an official entrusted to carry out certain functions, who can be dismissed if unsatisfactory and even – in extremis – executed. But the whole body of believers, in other words, the people, not only cardinals, but ‘any prince or any other Christian’, had a duty to ensure the Church’s survival: it could be interpreted as nothing less than a justification for the English and French revolutions. Gerson, who was devoted to the idea of the Church as it should be, probably never intended his proposals to be carried to their logical conclusions; he was concentrating on solving an immediate and urgent problem, but later reformers, particularly Martin Luther, made considerable use of the Chancellor’s theories.
The Council of Pisa opened in the cathedral, promptly on the appointed date, 25 March 1409, and with great pomp. The cardinals were supported by a very fair representation of all Western Christendom, including four patriarchs, thirteen archbishops and eighty-two bishops, 721 abbots, the generals of the four mendicant Orders; the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights together with ambassadors of monarchs and magnates, and the representatives of eleven universities, came to Pisa. There were, however, some notable absentees, for Rupert of Bavaria, elected in 1400 to replace Václav as German King, continued to recognize Gregory. His envoys at Pisa would not admit the authority of the Council, refused to take their place with the others, and on 21 April unceremoniously left. Václav, for what it was worth, acknowledged the Council, but nobody was paying much attention to him. For his part Sigismund was practically running the Hungarian Church himself, taking half its income and claiming the right to appoint all benefices: there was nothing to be gained in Pisa, at least until a single pope emerged with whom he might negotiate.
Once having made their minds up to act, the cardinals pushed things ahead. The two claimants were given until 15 April to show up, which, predictably, neither did. Tardy and reluctant envoys from Gregory and Benedict arrived at Pisa and Carlo Malatesta of Rimini, Gregory’s most loyal supporter, made an attempt to compromise, but had no authority to negotiate. A list of charges against the absentees was produced on 22 May. Constitutionally all that needed to be done at Pisa was to denounce both popes as schismatic, proved by their lack of support, but public opinion was encouraged by accusing Benedict of persecuting clergy – he had Bishop Mendoza of Bayonne hanged – of sorcery, for Pedro de Luna apparently kept two confidential demons in a small purse, and of employing numerous magicians, including a hermit with his own personal demons. The cases were very summarily dealt with and judged to be proven. On the 28th all the doctors of theology present, over a hundred, declared both Popes to be schismatic and therefore heretical. On 5 June the deposition of both Benedict and Gregory was publicly proclaimed. It had taken only six weeks from the beginning of what purported to be a trial, and although all present agreed, there were those very awkward and powerful absentees to be considered.
These potential difficulties were illustrated when an embassy from the King of Aragon, escorting Benedict’s envoys, appeared. They claimed to have full authority to finalize anything which was needed to restore unity, but the Council refused to hear them: the cardinals were frightened by their own courage and, probably rightly, continued to distrust Pope Benedict. Their best protection was to elect a new pope, but this produced another problem: should it be an old-style election, by the cardinals in conclave, or should the Council underline its authority by insisting on a wider representation? A reasonable compromise seemed to be that the Council as a whole would authorize the cardinals – by now ten of Benedict’s and fourteen of Gregory’s – to elect a pope, subject to a two-thirds majority in each college. Another necessity, unspoken but clearly understood, was that a new pope should not be French, and indeed there was never to be another French pope in the history of the Catholic Church. After the Reformation the papacy became a uniquely Italian office until the election of Karol Wojtyla as Pope John Paul II in 1978. Petros Philargos, who took the name Alexander, was an ideal choice, being neither French nor Italian but Greek, a Franciscan friar, popular and erudite – the first pope to have graduated from Oxford – and seventy years old.
The members of the Council were too anxious to declare it to have been a success and to go home – after negotiating some supplementary benefices from the new Pope – for them to spend much time on considering the likely future. Potential dissidents were for the moment ignored. The Aragonese had seen the claims of their Pope summarily dismissed: Gregory still had his supporters, including King Rupert. Sigismund, who as King of Hungary and heir-expectant to Bohemia, and quite probably the German Empire, was the most powerful prince in Europe, remained an unknown quantity; while the University of Paris waited to see what would happen. If Alexander was clearly not the man to stamp his authority over the whole Church and to outface his competitors, he was too old to continue for long, and his successor could be chosen without so much pressure.
Pope Alexander’s prospects would be much better if he were securely installed in Rome, presently occupied by Ladislas of Naples. Cardinal Baldassare Cossa, always the man of action, took charge; in firm control of Bologna, he had already founded an alliance with Florence and Siena, and assembled a combined force, nominally led by Louis of Anjou, to eject Ladislas. It took altogether seven months to expel the Neapolitans from Rome, but by New Year’s Day 1410 the papal troops had entered the city. The Pope, however, was now seriously ill and on 3 May 1410 died peacefully at Bologna, much regretted. Happily without nephews, he was one of the few popes who did not make himself rich: he used to say that he had been rich while a bishop, poor as a cardinal, and now, as Pope, was a beggar.
His brief papacy had hardly been productive and nothing had been done to reform the Church’s administration. There was to have been a debate held on 15 July 1409 but this was repeatedly postponed. What might be termed the northern countries, England, France, Germany, Poland and Bohemia – which also included those countries in which Protestantism later became influential – pressed for control of the abuse of papal powers, but were unsuccessful; the discontents that had been exacerbated by past exactions went unassuaged. The Council presented a schedule of their suggestions to Pope Alexander, most of which were concerned with cutting back the papacy’s income by cancelling all those devices perfected in the previous century. The Pope prevaricated, suggesting that they should be discussed at a future meeting, which he promised should be convened in the reasonably near future, and which would be regarded as a continuation of the present Council.
Alexander’s one constitutional act as Pope went dead against reformers’ demands since his Bull of October 1409 conceded extensive privileges to his own order, the Franciscans, enabling them to carry out freely all the functions of parish priests. Even if a fee was involved, it was more agreeable to confess to a strange friar than to one’s own parish priest, and his absolution was just as valid. Chaucer’s friar ‘hadde power of confessioun … moore than a curat’ and was capable of extracting a widow’s last farthing to spend in the taverns. The opposition to this Bull, even among the other mendicant Orders, was so vigorous that it was later quietly rescinded.
When it came to the election of a successor there could be no question of waiting to see if negotiations would be resumed with the other two Popes; the whole of the Catholic Church had spoken in the Council. The fact that the conclave was to be in Bologna, Baldassare Cossa’s own town, ensured that he would be the cardinals’ choice, and in fact he was the only man capable of reestablishing the Roman papacy. Although never likely to be a reformer, Baldassare Cossa has acquired a shabby reputation, which needs to be qualified. A complete contrast to Alexander, Cossa was a member of the Neapolitan nobility, from an Ischian family; two of his brothers were hanged as pirates, while a third became a royal admiral. Suitably tall and handsome, Baldassare himself was a typical condottiere of his time; brave, plausible and deceitful; always retaining a barrack-room sense of humour, he earned an impressive reputation for seducing, impartially, wives, widows, virgins and young boys. After attending, but not apparently graduating from the University of Bologna, he was recruited by Boniface IX, where he controlled the great and profitable army of indulgence sellers and was congratulated on his creative ability to extort money.
Much admired for his ruthless efficiency as legate of Bologna, Cardinal Cossa became famous as Cardinale Diavolo. One exploit that earned him the title was his treatment of Ettore di Manfreddi, ruler of Faenza. Offering to buy the signiory, Cossa borrowed the money from Bologna, and, rather than pay Manfreddi, had him executed for treason in the Faenza marketplace; and, of course, kept the money, which he used to finance a capable army of mercenaries. As an effective commander with no pretension to spiritual or moral leadership, the vigorous Neapolitan had made himself essential to the safety of the papacy; without his skilled manipulation in bringing Florence and Siena into line against Ladislas the Council of Pisa could never have taken place. Cardinal Cossa could offer, it seemed, stability and protection both were sorely needed, and Cossa was duly elected as Pope John XXIII on 17 May 1410.
For more than 500 years the Catholic Church accepted the Pisan popes as rightful pontiffs, but this verdict was quickly reversed when in 1958 Angelo Roncalli took the name of John XXIII, thereby stigmatizing his predecessor as an anti-pope. Historians were either wryly amused or embarrassed, but serious issues are raised. At Pisa the Council’s case against the rival popes was based not only on the legal arguments, but upon the almost universally acknowledged idea that the Church included all believers, equally, and that its head was Jesus Christ. If the Church was in ultimate danger, then drastic measures must be taken, and even its most senior member displaced. In an emergency – and everyone admitted that the schism threatened the whole existence of the Church – exceptional action was essential; but did the College of Cardinals have the authority to assume the lead?
Some, a small and absent minority, still supported Benedict; the others were either those who had, only two years before, elected Gregory, or those who had been appointed by him – four, including two Correr nephews. All, with one exception, deserted the Pope for the Council. They could argue that because Gregory had broken all his pre-election promises, he was perpetuating the schism – but so had his predecessors. The actions taken in Pisa in 1409 provided no miracle cure, but the attention of Christendom had been concentrated, and a demonstration made that the nations – or most of them – and the factions within the Church – again the majority of them – could unite publicly and formally to debate those intractable problems.