Shuttle Diplomacy
In the summer of 1415 two kings set out on expeditions. King Sigismund of Hungary, King of the Romans, left Constance on a journey which would take him south through France to the Mediterranean, north to Paris and London, back through the Low Countries and Germany, returning to Constance only eighteen months later. On 12 August King Henry V of England embarked at Southampton. ‘Fair stood the wind for France,’ and on the 15th a formidable striking force landed at Harfleur. In May 1416 the two kings met in London; in that short period the course of European history had been altered.
Dealing with the subsidiary matters of Jan Hus and Jean Petit had delayed Sigismund’s departure. Only on 18 July, accompanied by a retinue of 4,000 delegates, knights, imperial and Hungarian officials, was Sigismund finally able to quit Constance, leaving behind him a sulky College of Cardinals, who had pressed to be included in the party and the reliable Duke Ludwig of Bavaria, in charge. This small army of followers was not all vain extravagance, although Sigismund was always ostentatious. He was not only representing the Council, but managing the Kingdom of Hungary and the German Empire at a distance. A large staff of secretaries, councillors, lawyers and messengers was essential to enable the King to fulfil his threefold role. Funding so extensive an expedition was made possible by another of Sigismund’s real estate deals. His personal fief of Brandenburg had already been mortgaged to Frederick of Nuremburg for 150,000 florins, and was now sold outright for another 250,000, establishing the Hohenzollern family on their career, which eventually resulted in the establishment of the second German Empire in 1871.
Before his departure the King announced his future programme to the Council: the schism was to be ended, peace made between France and England, and Poland and the Teutonic Knights. United under one Pope and one Emperor (which Sigismund confidently expected soon to be) a great crusade would be mounted to drive the Turks out of Europe. Since Henry V was even then gathering his fleet at Southampton, this was to prove much more challenging a task than it appeared. Benedict still claimed the allegiance, faltering though it was, of the three Spanish kingdoms and the Counts of Foix and Armagnac and of Scotland, all with their own sometimes conflicting interests and internal difficulties. King Ferdinand of Aragon, elected in 1412, was also joint regent for the King of Castile and had been confirmed by Pope Benedict as ruler of Sicily and Sardinia. Since the Kingdom of Aragon itself had been, as recently as three years previously, divided into the provinces of Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia, and also comprised Corsica and the Balearics, Ferdinand would find it difficult to speak with confident authority – and Ferdinand was ailing. Castile was nominally ruled by the eleven-year-old King Juan II, but in fact by the magnates. Navarre was semi-attached to France, which tended to irritate Castile, and had family links with Aragon, and the Scots were even then planning a raid into England; all things considered, Sigismund faced a delicate diplomatic test.
Disposing of the sole remaining Pope was not a simple matter. Pedro de Luna – Pope Benedict – was not going to be an easy man to persuade. With his two competitors out of the way he remained the only Pope, and as the only Cardinal who had been appointed before the schism by Gregory XI, the last unquestioned pontiff, could claim to be the only person legally able to elect his successor. A man of puritan habits, he could not be accused of any of the wickednesses that had brought down Pope John. As a Spanish nobleman, related to the Kings of Aragon and descended too from the Arab Kings of Majorca (to whom he perhaps owed his short stature and eagle-owl beak) Pope Benedict was admittedly obstinate and proud, but these were not capital sins in a pope. Benedict obediently presented himself at Perpignan at the beginning of June, the agreed date, knowing that the meeting had been postponed, and waited there for the whole month before solemnly declaring Sigismund to blame for not arriving.
There had indeed been complications with the timing. Forcing Pope John and encouraging Pope Gregory into abdication had delayed Sigismund in Constance until well past the original date of June. The King’s party reached Narbonne on 15 August and was stuck there for a month while Pope Benedict was persuaded to a meeting, once more at Perpignan. A further delay was caused by the serious illness of King Ferdinand of Aragon but it was hoped that his medication, a mixture of squill, celery, parsley, asparagus, mandrake, hensbane, cloves, cinnamon, hartshorn, viper’s flesh, dragon’s blood and slugs would enable him to take part; rather remarkably it did and at the end of September the three major participants were assembled at Perpignan.
Benedict made it clear that he would condescend to attend a meeting with admittedly influential laymen, but that he came as the rightful Pope, attended by a – much reduced – Curia, and occupying himself with ecclesiastical administration in the regions of his obedience. Bishops were translated, promotions effected and sanctions enforced. For his part Ferdinand, although reinforced by his joint-regency of Castile, could speak only for Aragon, and even in that kingdom Benedict still retained a strong following: according to Dietrich of Niem he was assiduously attempting an alliance with Joanna II of Naples. Sigismund could exert only moral authority: all the rest of Christendom were in agreement, and had, through the Council, authorized him to end the schism.
He was nevertheless determined to be conciliatory, but not to the lengths of acknowledging the Pope, since that would have negated the whole purpose of the negotiations. Benedict’s demands were simple, and stated in a speech which was reported to have lasted for seven hours when the meeting eventually took place in Perpignan. He was willing to abdicate – but only on many conditions: the Council of Pisa’s deposition to be revoked, that he be recognized as the one true Pope; the Council of Constance be dissolved and another council called by him, preferably in Avignon and when it came to electing a new Pope, it should be Benedict alone who made the choice, as the only surviving Cardinal appointed before the schism.
The demands were clearly impossible. Gregory had already been recognized as the rightful Pope, and there was nothing left to offer Benedict except an honourable retirement and the satisfaction of having done his duty by the Church. Ferdinand, his eldest son Don Alfonso, the ambassadors of Castile and of Navarre, the Counts of Armagnac and of Foix, all attempted to persuade the old man, but in vain. Following the example of Pope John, Benedict disappeared, first to Collioure, and then to the family refuge of Peniscola, in Valencia, where he was to spend the rest of his long life. Once again he issued his demands, refusing to have anything to do with Constance or the schismatic and heretical cardinals gathered there; the King of Aragon had no right to withdraw his obedience, he was the Pope’s vassal and as the rightful Pope, Benedict gave notice of his intention to summon a true Council to forgather in February the following year.
Once again it was up to Sigismund to act, which he did by abruptly quitting Perpignan, with the clear implication that he had washed his hands of the whole business, leaving the Aragonese to sort out their difficulties with their Pope as best they might. A desperate appeal from Ferdinand followed, but Sigismund refused to return: if Ferdinand was serious, they should meet in Narbonne; if not, he was on his way to Paris. The bluff – if that is what it was – worked, and the Aragonese duly followed to Narbonne, where they were joined by all but two of Benedict’s remaining cardinals, and prepared an agreement to be announced on 13 December.
The Capitulation of Narbonne was a long and carefully phrased document, calculated to soothe the sensibilities of Benedict and his Spanish adherents. Some concessions were offered to Benedict if he came, or sent representatives to Constance, failing which he would simply be deposed. Ending the schism was still some way off; that could be done only in the Council, with all the nations assembled, but a holding operation had been achieved, with Benedict isolated at Peniscola. The King of Aragon, the most powerful monarch in southern Europe, was committed to the Council: it was a diplomatic triumph for Sigismund; even if the schism was not yet formally ended, at least Christendom was not divided, since to all intents and purposes only the garrison of Peniscola recognized Benedict. It was not until July 1417 that Pedro de Luna was finally deposed, and before that happened one other nation had to be consulted, as it seemed that the Council had forgotten that Scotland still obeyed Benedict. In some haste, therefore, in February 1416, an envoy was sent to Edinburgh to invite the Scots to join.
Christendom’s abandonment of Benedict was marked by the defection of his own constant supporter, St Vincent Ferrer, who had recorded the Perpignan negotiations. Ferrer’s sermon, given on the day of the publication of the Capitulation, compared the Kings of Aragon, Castile and Navarre to the Magi, bringing the news of peace to the Christian world. That, unfortunately, was too optimistic but in the course of the year all the nations who had supported Benedict had agreed to the Capitulation of Narbonne.
By the time King Sigismund was able to leave Narbonne King Henry of England had completed his first campaign in France, which had concluded with the remarkable victory at Agincourt on 25 October. Once again the French had shown themselves to be slow learners. All the mistakes of Nicopolis were repeated. The English secured a strong defensive position, with their numerous long-bowmen protected either in woods or behind the sharpened stakes that Bayezid had employed. Making little use of their own missiles, artillery and cross-bowmen, the French had charged to their deaths. Marshal Boucicault, who had devised the French tactics, was wounded and died a prisoner of the English. As Bayezid had done, Henry ordered the killing of many captives: ‘killed in cold blood and cut in pieces, heads and faces, which was a fearful sight to see’. Two of Jean de Nevers’ – now Duke of Burgundy – brothers were among the dead; the son of his murdered enemy, the Duke of Orléans, was captured, and spent the next twenty-five years as an English prisoner, writing beautiful verse.
Travelling up the valley of the Rhone, Sigismund halted at Lyon, where a splendid encounter with Amadeus VIII of Savoy was arranged. Count Amadeus, who reigned from 1391 to 1451, was one of the most remarkable men of his time. Related to almost every royal house in Europe, temperate and prudent, he consolidated a domain that stretched from Lac Leman to the Mediterranean, and after 1439 was elected as Pope Felix by the dissident Council of Basle. At their meeting Sigismund promoted him to be Duke and made Savoy a Duchy; an imperial prerogative from which he was able to levy a handsome fee.
King Sigismund arrived in Paris on 1 March 1416. It was the last possible moment to have any chance of success in reconciling France and England. Both sides were preparing to renew the war. Paris was thoroughly demoralized: 1413 had seen violent riots in the city; a war with the Duke of Burgundy followed the next year; in December 1415 the Dauphin died; the King was almost permanently insane, and the fat and gouty Queen exiled. Sigismund was politely received, and allowed to attend a session of the Parliament where he occupied the royal place and made a typical gesture. A case concerning the appointment of the Seneschal of Beaucaire was being heard when one of the claimants was told that, not being a knight, he lacked the proper standing. Sigismund took a sword and promptly dubbed the man, suggesting that the case could now continue.
The royal dukes of Bourbon and Berri supported Sigismund’s peace plans, while the Duke of Burgundy assured both France and England of his loyal support. Count Bernard of Armagnac, now also back from the Perpignan meeting, and appointed Constable of France after the losses of Agincourt, headed the resistance. His subsequent attack on the English-held town of Harfleur had enjoyed at least an initial success, and the Count was adamant that the war must continue unless the English could be persuaded to scale down their outrageous demands. Sigismund exerted himself to be agreeable, although his visit was very generally resented and his free and easy behaviour condemned as barbarous. He offered to marry his daughter Elizabeth to the new Dauphin, which would give him title to the Hungarian crown, but in such circumstances it was impossible for serious negotiations to start; the best that could be done was to offer to try to persuade King Henry to moderate his conditions.
When he left Constance Sigismund probably had no intention of visiting England, assuming that he would either succeed or fail in Paris. It was when the news of Agincourt reached him while at Narbonne that he suggested a meeting with Henry at Calais, and, when the Duke of Savoy’s fees provided funds for the journey, decided on visiting London. The prospects here were somewhat better than they had been in Paris: England was a traditional ally of the Empire, and Anne of Bohemia had been a much-loved Queen. Accompanied by some French delegates, headed by the Archbishop of Rheims, the King rode to English-held Calais in full armour except for a Montauban cap, under a black surcoat which was inscribed ‘O que Dieu puissant est misericors!’ The thousand-strong party was ‘marvellously feasted’ at Calais, and made a quick passage to Dover, in thirty ships.
They were met at the port by the King’s brother Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and his knights, who rode out, swords drawn, to the King’s ship. Did he come claiming Imperial powers, or as a friend? On being reassured, Sigismund was welcomed into the realm. On 7 May Sigismund entered London, welcomed by the Mayor on Blackheath, and was received by King Henry and his brothers ‘in the most honourable manner that in before time had not been used and seen’. It was followed by continuous festivities, which included Sigismund’s instalment as a Knight of the Garter at Windsor. In spite of the difference in age, Henry being twenty years Sigismund’s junior, the two kings were natural allies. Both were experienced soldiers, who had responsibilities thrust on them at an early age, and had developed reserves of charm and deviousness to enable them to survive.
Although the battle of Agincourt had been a hard-won victory, and the retreat to Calais accomplished only by the skin of English teeth, King Henry was set on recovering all the previous English possessions in France, and had been granted by Parliament sufficient funds to make this possible. On 20 June Henry announced that he was about to join the army already assembled at Southampton; eight days later he changed his mind and agreed to discussions with the French. Sigismund had been helped in inspiring this change of mind – not an easy thing to do – by the arrival of Count William of Holland, connected by marriage with both Burgundy and Paris. The discussions that followed, in which the French prisoners also took part, held in Sigismund’s Leeds Castle quarters, resulted at least in Henry being prepared to abandon his claim to the throne of France, if the territories that should have been transferred in 1360 were ceded to him. With objections from both the House of Commons and the City of London, a three-year truce was at last proposed, subject to agreement in Paris.
For a time this seemed possible; Charles VI agreed to meet King Henry at Beauvais, but the Count of Armagnac dissented; he had hopes of regaining Harfleur and was playing for time. Sigismund had done his best but when the news came that a French army had descended on the Isle of Wight and a fleet was blockading Portsmouth all discussions were cancelled. Henry was set on heading a relief party to Harfleur, but was persuaded by Sigismund to entrust this to his younger brother Duke John of Bedford, who was later to prove himself one of the most skilful soldiers and rulers of the time. Duke John’s expedition was opposed by a French navy, reinforced by Genoese galleys, which was, however, beaten after a stiff fight on 14 August and Harfleur relieved.
King Sigismund, who had evidently perceived that the French were ‘neither by the justice of God executed upon them, or by his own mediation would not condescend to any reasonable peace’, concluded a formal alliance with England, the Treaty of Canterbury, on 15 August, but did not give up hope of persuading the French to join. Announcing this pact in a letter to the German nation at Constance he explained his prolonged absence by the pressing need to secure that absolutely essential peace between the two enemies. In fact a peace agreement was impossible, since there was no longer a unified French nation with which to negotiate but rather a continuous faction fight in which Armagnacs, Royalists, Burgundians and English contended among themselves. Sigismund, however, persisted and at the beginning of September presided over protracted negotiations held in Calais, with the delegations headed by two Archbishops, Rheims for the French and Canterbury for the English. Although the talks continued for six weeks there was little prospect of anything better than a limited truce, which was eventually agreed.
If France and England could not be reconciled then the best alternative would be a quick victory for the English. As soon as the French had left Calais, Duke John of Burgundy, still nominally ‘an ally of the French’ was recruited into the Anglo-German pact by the Earl of Warwick and ‘a certain Earl of the Romaines’, at Lille, by which Burgundy’s neutrality in the by-now-inevitable war was assured. The King of France was the Duke’s sovereign and it should have been impossible to take arms against him, but the Duke, the Earls and their principals all knew that this was no more than a pious sentiment, and that Jean-sans-Peur would change sides when it suited him.
Meanwhile in Constance
Sigismund had insisted that nothing of importance be decided at the Council during his absence, and very little was. Life was agreeable; excursions into the Aichorn were popular, where ‘there were taverns that sold all manner of wines … and roast fowls, sausages, meat and grilled fish and gay women who belonged to the establishments’. On 24 June 1416 the Florentine bankers commemorated St John’s Day by giving a feast to all comers. The English celebrated St Thomas of Canterbury on 14 January with ‘sweet English hymns on the organ’, beautiful singing, and a dinner to all the clergy and scholars who cared to come. The cardinals, whose relations with the English were deteriorating, did not attend.
The case of Jean Petit was revived – Gerson was particularly angry that the general condemnation of tyrannicide had not specifically mentioned Petit. He contrasted that with the severity shown towards Hus: if Hus had been allowed an advocate he would never have been condemned; rather than be tried by the Council, Gerson asserted, he would prefer a court of Jews and heathens. In turn, Gerson was accused of heresy by the Franciscan Vicar-General, and d’Ailly by the Bishop of Arras. Sigismund and the Italian cardinals carried on the arguments by letter: it was one of those incandescent politico-academic quarrels that scholars still find so pleasurable and are so very quickly forgotten.
More unanimity was available in the judgement of another Bohemian heretic, Master Jerome of Prague. Flamboyant, impetuous and immensely learned – he had studied at Heidelberg and Cologne as well as Paris and Oxford – Jerome made no secret of his unorthodox opinions. He had first come to Constance in April 1415, and was questioned and imprisoned. After Hus’s death, Jerome was an embarrassment. One heretic burned was all that was needed; two, from the same country, would constitute a provocation. Every persuasion was tried to show Jerome the error of his ways, and succeeded in procuring a formal recantation. It would have been wiser then to have dismissed Jerome, but he was kept imprisoned, and put on trial in May the next year. Given the opportunity, unlike Hus, to make a formal speech, Jerome then did so and retracted his recantation, making the death sentence inevitable. Before that was pronounced there was a vituperative exchange between Fillastre and Jerome, which clarifies the different views of the two types of reformer.
Finally, [Jerome] professed the Catholic faith in general and refused to recant in any particular. He said also that Hus had been called a heretic because he preached against the arrogance of the clergy. To which the Cardinal of St Mark [Fillastre] replied that he ought not to invent such grounds for Hus’s condemnation. The sacred Council knew and deplored the fact that many ecclesiastics did assume excessive arrogance and pomp, and had assembled in order to reform that and other bad customs and expected to do so. But it was characteristic of heretics to mix some truth in with their false doctrines, so that simple people who heard the truth would believe the false remainder was true.
Poggio wrote to his friend Bruni describing both the trial and death of Jerome; who seemed ‘to welcome death’.
His voice was soft, clear, and resonant; he had the dignity of an orator in expressing indignation or in moving pity … he stood fearless and intrepid, a man worthy of being for ever remembered …
With a smiling, joyous, and cheerful countenance he went to his fate; he feared not the fire nor the torment nor death. No one of the Stoics ever suffered death with so steadfast and brave a resolution as he exhibited. When he came to the place he himself took off his coat, and knelt down before the stake to which he was bound. Large logs, and straw, were piled round him breast-high: and when they were lighted he began to sing hymns, until the fire and smoke stopped him.
So was this marvellous man burned; I saw his end and witnessed his actions.
In his reply Bruni warned Poggio to beware of seeming too sympathetic to heretics. The Council could feel that they had done everything in their power to restore order in Bohemia.
Some, but not very much, useful work was done at Constance. Concord was established between the rival Franciscan orders, the Conventuals and the Brothers of the Strict Observance, who were not to be ‘tormented’ by being called ‘a new and reprobate sect’. Trouble at Strasbourg occupied much debate. One William had been bishop-elect for twenty-three years without ever taking office: he apparently was a layman, never setting foot in a church or appearing in clerical garb, and had sold valuable church property. At the end of their tether, the canons and citizens of Strasbourg had thrown William into prison. Arguing that case took three months of the Council’s time, before the disgraced William was confirmed in his see.
Without Sigismund’s brisk discipline, and lacking enough serious work to keep them occupied, the nations started squabbling among themselves. Problems began with the arrival of the Portuguese delegation at the beginning of June, who immediately asked to be considered as a separate nation. It was not an unreasonable request, since Portugal possessed with England the most marked national characteristics of any European country: ancient borders, a common language and a single government. And in 1416 the Portuguese had particular reason to feel pleased with themselves. Their hero-king Joao I (1385–1433) had – with the help of the English – defeated the Castilians in a decisive battle (today marked by the wonderful monastery of Batalha) and only a few months previously had brought off a tremendous Christian victory by capturing, and retaining, the north African city of Ceuta. The ambassador was able to boast that:
The name of the damned Mahomet has been erased and expunged, and Christ is this day worshipped there and adored. The victory should bring great gladness and rejoicing to the whole Church and all Christian people, for by capture of that city, a power on sea and land and the port and key of all Africa, the Almighty has opened a way to his people by which to press on to the salvation of souls and successful operations against the Saracens.’
For the time being, however, since there was so little business on hand, the Portuguese request was allowed to lie.
The arrival of the Aragonese delegates on 5 September shifted the balance of power. Previously the English and German nations joined with the King in forming what might be called the ‘liberal wing’ consistently advocating reform, occasionally supported by some of the French, with the Italians and most of the Curia being more conservative. France, however, was now an enemy of both England and the Empire, and as the Spaniards arrived the conservative faction was strengthened. They began by denying that the English constituted a nation in any real sense; the isles were nothing more than a small country with a single monarch, comparable perhaps, although much less ancient and dignified, to a single Iberian state. Aragon, Castile, Navarre and Portugal, not to mention the satellite states of Majorca, Sardinia and Sicily, had been compressed into a single nation, so why not Britain? The remedy was that either England should become part of the German nation, or that every state, however small, should constitute a ‘nation’.
The French could not be expected to ignore so fine an opportunity to annoy the ancient enemy. Compare, they suggested, England with France. Christendom was divided into thirty-six provinces, of which six were in France and only two in England; France was much larger, had more universities, cathedrals and churches; the French nation comprised many states not subject to the King of France while King Henry was king only of England.
Matters were further complicated by the refusal of the Aragonese to recognize the Council until the Castilians arrived, and the Castilians, still suspected of supporting Benedict, were dragging their feet. Meanwhile the Aragonese were making heavy weather of the preliminary discussions. They must either sit with the English nation, as they said had been done at Pisa, or form a nation of their own, as the Portuguese had claimed. That seemed absurd to the other members of the Council, since the other Spaniards – Castile and Navarre – would surely also claim the right to constitute separate nations, and completely unbalance the Council. The Portuguese, who had been very patient, threatened to withdraw if any more concessions were made to Aragon, and insisted that the Spanish nation must fall in line with established practice. After a month’s wrangling, increasingly bad-tempered, a compromise was reached. Aragon would have votes within a single Spanish nation based on the number of prelates in its widely scattered territories, including Sardinia and Sicily.
Another complication came from the unwelcome presence of Queen Joanna II of Naples and her husband Jacques Bourbon, who claimed both Aragonese Sicily and Hungary as well. A dispute about the actual seating followed: the Neapolitans were made to change from the right side, next to the French, to the left, behind the English. The French protested. On 15 October at the Twenty-second General Session, it seemed that all was done, and Aragonese and Neapolitans took their places in the Council, which was then able to begin with the arrangements for deposing Pedro de Luna. They were almost immediately halted by another international squabble over a document of no real importance which needed to be sealed by all five nations. The presidents of the Italian, French, German and Spanish nations fixed their seals, leaving the last place for the English, whose president objected. He tore off the Spanish seal, replaced it with the English and wrote ‘The same for Spain’ underneath.
The indignation that followed was only soothed by the Germans agreeing to go last, allowing the Spaniards third place, the English keeping their position as fourth, and the real business of the Council was allowed to proceed. But only for a few days: on 4 November Cardinal d’Ailly, acting for the French King, announced his intention of proposing that the English did not warrant being counted as a nation at all. The other cardinals persuaded d’Ailly not to present so inflammatory a suggestion to the full Council, but the English got to know of d’Ailly’s move, and the Twenty-third General Session, held the following day, ended in uproar. Ironically, it marked the second anniversary of the formal opening of the Council in 1414.
On the evening of the 5th over a hundred of the English, in armour, joined the delegates. It was assumed that they intended to seek out d’Ailly. When the French appealed to Duke Ludwig as Protector in the King’s absence he was unsympathetic, the English being, as Fillastre wrote, the favourites with both the Duke and the Germans. D’Ailly was, for the time being, quelled, and the business of the Council was resumed. The envoys of both the Count of Foix and the King of Navarre arrived and took their places in the Council, but the French delegation picked up their attack on the English. Of the 735 Catholic dioceses, the English numbered only twenty-five. ‘Hence it was absurd that the English should be considered as the equal of France, with a hundred and one dioceses.’ A measure of seasonal goodwill was restored when the Council’s envoy to Scotland returned with a message of goodwill from the Regent, the Duke of Albany, welcomed by a ‘eulogy’ from an English doctor on the King of Scotland … ‘even though they were enemies’.
Business Resumed
On 27 January 1417 Sigismund returned to Constance, to a warm welcome, particularly from the English nation. Tact was never one of the King’s most marked virtues and Henry’s secret agent at the Council, Sir Thomas Forster, reported Sigismund’s arrival with some glee. The King came wearing the collar of the Order of the Garter, and attended the first High Mass in full Garter robes and gave a private audience to the English nation – all gestures calculated to infuriate the French. Bishop Hallam had ridden in from the welcoming ceremony in great haste to be sure of getting to the pulpit before d’Ailly and preached on the text ‘He shall be great in the sight of the Lord’. The English bishops gave a sumptuous banquet to 152 lords and many others, three courses with eight dishes to each course, all on platters of gold or silver. Richental, of course, had found his way at least to the corner of the Hall,
During the banquet there were shows and pantomimes by players in rich and costly raiment. They played Our Lady holding her Son God our Lord and Joseph standing beside her and the three holy kings bringing their tribute. They had prepared a shining gold star that went before the kings on a fine iron wire. They played also King Herod sending after the three kings and slaying the children. All the players wore mostly costly garments and broad gold and silver girdles and played their parts with great diligence and modesty.
There was a general expectation that the arrival of Sigismund would settle the international quarrels, but it became clear that he was now closely allied with England. The truce that Sigismund had negotiated with so much trouble expired on 2 February, but the Duke of Burgundy had continued to attack the Armagnac territories through the winter, and both England and France had been raising huge sums of money – together quite enough to fund a major Crusade – in order to equip armies for the summer campaign. Very soon after his arrival Sigimund sent noteworthy presents to King Henry, the first being one of the two salted bison, previously donated by the King of Poland, despatched from Constance ‘with trumpets blown before it so that everyone might see it’. The bison was followed next month by a huge copper candlestick, ‘as tall as a tall man can reach and as broad at the bottom as the top of a table at which six men can sit’.
Such obvious signs of friendship could only irritate the French delegates, and on 3 March the French royal proctor opened their attack by observing that, compared with the other nations, England was ‘incomparably smaller’ and it was ‘altogether absurd’ that it should constitute a fifth part of the Council. The proctor, Jean Campagne, compared England with France:
In brief, the boundaries of Gaul stretch from the Great Ocean to the Mediterranean and the Spanish seas, from the Pyrenees to the Alps and the Rhine. How many great cities, clergy, and people are situated in that space you all know, as also that in spaciousness of cities, number of dioceses, and other respects it excels the kingdom of England more than ten times.
Even if England was joined with its ally Germany,
Italy would still unquestionably far excel it in the magnificence of its kingdoms, the number of its great lords, ecclesiastical provinces, dioceses, and church edifices. In brief, the Italian nation includes, beside Greece, the city of Rome that is head of the world, twenty-seven provinces and three hundred and thirteen dioceses, as well as large islands, containing many churches and shrines.
If the ‘abuse and iniquitous absurdity’ of a fifth English nation was allowed to continue Campagne demanded that the Kingdom of France ‘be counted as six or seven or even more quotas or parts as large as the Kingdom of England’.
The English response was not long in coming. On 20 April the delegation issued a long document which, although often absurd, represented a significant assertion of an English sense of identity. It was issued on behalf of ‘Henry, King of England and of France’, and ‘our most Christian Lord and King and the renowned nation of England or Britain’. Scotland, it was admitted, did not obey the English king, but it was certainly part of Britain, and of the English/British nation, ‘just as Provence, Dauphiné, Savoy, Burgundy, Lorraine and other territories which have nothing to do with our French enemy, are included in the French or Gallic nation’. If comparisons – ‘odious inventions of the Prince of Darkness’, Fillastre called them – were to be made then ‘the glorious realm’ of England was equal, if not superior to France in the ‘antiquity of its faith, dignity and honour’. Had not the Emperor Constantine himself, the great founder of Roman Christianity, been born in York? And was not Christianity brought directly to Britain immediately after the crucifixion by Joseph of Arimathea? As for mere size,
Whereas the said lords are aiming to exalt the realm of France to the stars, comparing it with the realm of England in number of provinces and dioceses and claiming eleven provinces and one hundred and one broad and spacious dioceses for the realm of France, we reply that on doubtful or disputed points they may well be telling impossible falsehoods, when on a point that is obvious and well known they deviate so shockingly far from truth. For the realm of France, as everyone knows, contains but two provinces, Rheims and Sens, and twenty dioceses, while the realm of England alone has two extensive provinces, Canterbury and York, and twenty-five dioceses. Beneath the sway of our enemy of France there are about sixty dioceses and of the King of England one hundred and ten of great size …
Our opponents assert that there are four counties in the realm of France, each greater than the realm of England, but the contrary is the truth. In the realm of England, beside various duchies and baronies, there are thirty-two spacious counties, of which, needless to say, four or five, by God’s will, are equivalent to the whole realm of France, except in frivolous verbiage. Britain itself is so broad and spacious that the distance from its north to its south, even if one travels a straight road, is, we all know, about eight hundred miles or forty legal days’ journey. By common report the realm of France is not so vast.
In the realm of France, there are barely 6,000 parish churches, as they say who know, but in the realm of England, in addition to a multitude of cathedrals, collegiate churches, monasteries, priories, hospitals, guest houses, and other pious edifices, there are over 52,000 honourable parish churches, richly endowed.
And, in a meaningful aside, the English replied that these things changed; had not the Norsemen once been masters of England, France and Italy? Who knew what the relative positions of France and England might soon be?
Once Sigismund had returned to Germany he was faced with a backlog of Imperial business which had accumulated in his absence. He had to adjudicate a dispute between the King of Denmark and the Holsteiners, settle a municipal quarrel in Lubeck and a contest between the two Schwartzenburg Counts of Bavaria. Together with the angry quarrels between the English and French the serious business of ending the schism had been delayed, and began to revive only in April 1417. Not that the Council had been idle in the meantime. A precedent for deposing a pope had been established with the dismissal of John XXIII, and it was duly followed, complicated by the fact that Benedict was more than a thousand miles away, safe in his fortress of Peniscola. Two envoys – appropriately Benedictine monks – had been sent there to deliver the Council’s summons, and on 10 March they were able to report back to Constance. On their arrival at Peniscola they had found Benedict ‘surrounded by over 100 armed men and attended by three cardinals … sitting on a throne in full papal array. “Here come the crows of the Council,” said Benedict. The muttered response was “Yes, crows gather around a dead body.”’
The courageous monks had nevertheless ‘saluted him merely with an inclination of the head’ and addressed him only as a bishop, commanding him to appear at Constance for judgement on 1 April 1417. Pedro replied at length, with calm dignity, and pointed out that since he had deposed every prelate in his own obedience, except those who stood by him, and that Gregory had done the same for his, there were therefore no true cardinals or bishops present in Constance: all were schismatics and heretics. It was too logical an argument to be comfortable and the matter was complicated by the arrival at Constance of the Castilian embassy on 30 March. Two days later the Thirty-second Session of the Council solemnly ordered two cardinals to go to the cathedral door and call for Pedro de Luna three times in loud voices. On his failure to appear he was therefore denounced as contumacious and proceedings for his trial in absentia began, and very quickly faltered. An investigative committee was appointed which gave Pedro de Luna ‘who some call Benedict XIII’ another seventy days in which to present himself before the Council.
The Castilians promptly objected that they had been mandated only to join the Council after a method of electing the next pope was agreed, but Benedict could not be deposed until the Castilians, who after all represented the largest Iberian kingdom, had agreed. But how was a new pope to be chosen and by what electorate? It was impossible that a pope elected by so tattered a College of Cardinals would ever be accepted by all Christendom. With some reason the cardinals suspected that, once Benedict had been formally deposed the King would ensure that someone of his own choice was elected by the Council as a whole. Robert Hallam and Jean Mauroux, the Patriarch of Antioch, were thought of as particular royal favourites. Sigismund was determined that the Curia should not stand in the way of reform, and had ensured that the national committees all included senior supporters of his – Hallam and Mauroux in the English and French, Bartolomeo de la Capra, Archbishop of Milan, and Johann Wallenrode, Archbishop of Riga, in the Italian and German. Their enemies in the Curia scoffed that the Council was ruled by MARS (the initial letters of their sees: Milan, Antioch, Riga and Salisbury).
There followed three months of wrangling, daily meetings of the nations, informal committees, drafts, alterations and redrafts of proposals. It seemed as though the Council was fragmenting. The Germans were solidly behind King Sigismund in demanding the deposition of Benedict as the most pressing business, to be followed by Church reforms, with the election of a pope coming later. The English invariably adopted the same attitude, sometimes more aggressively after the argument with the French. Italy usually supported the majority of the College of Cardinals, although Gregory’s cardinals sided with the King, while Spain became divided between Portugal and Aragon, on the King’s side, and Castile and Navarre, pursuing their own agenda. France was similarly split between the royal party, allied with d’Ailly and the other French cardinals, defending the College of Cardinals’ role in electing a pope, and the Burgundians, supporting their English and German allies. From 30 July, when the English fleet embarked for the invasion of France which was eventually to bring King Henry to Paris, Anglo-French relations grew even worse.
By 26 July enough progress had been made to satisfy the Castilians and allow them to back the deposition of Benedict. On that day ‘Pedro de Luna, an incorrigible and notorious perjurer, schismatic, heretic and supporter of schism’ was finally deposed from the papal office. Unlike Gregory, Benedict received nothing in return, but was able to continue his peaceful existence in Peniscola. There was no need for all the scandalous charges that had been pressed against Pope John; it was more than enough to proclaim him ‘guilty of schism, a heretic devoid of faith and a man who rejected God’. Not only the pontificate but every other ‘title, degree, honour, dignity, benefice and office’ were solemnly removed; there was to be no dignified departure for the old man. A Te Deum was sung, and trumpeters alerted Constance to the news that the current schism, which had lasted for nearly forty years, was ended.
It was Sigismund’s personal achievement. His own effort, energy and money had been poured into the enterprise for three years. It was, however, a limited triumph. The obstacles to unity had been removed, but until a new pope was elected with unanimous support unity could not be said to have been restored: and nothing but debate had yet been done on the question of reform.
Reform
The argument was now one of priorities: should the Council continue with its reform agenda, or should they first elect a new pope? The reformers, not trusting a future pontiff to stick to any prior commitments, preferred the first. Lay rulers, whose main interest was maximizing their own revenues, were divided. Conciliar approval would be gratifying, but the appointment of a compliant pope might be more effective.
Although the crisis of the schism was over, the problems of reform had scarcely been tackled. It was something that ‘scandal’ had been established as a valid reason for deposing a pope, but the conduct of some subsequent popes – the Borgia, Alexander VI, for example – would prove this was a blunt tool. The misdeeds of John XXIII, disregarding the more highly coloured accusations, almost amounted to a catalogue of the necessary reforms that needed to be addressed, and which were discussed by the first formal reform committees that began to meet in the summer of 1415. Even if reforms could not be officially declared in Sigismund’s absence, the committee was active enough. Before the end of 1415 at least forty proposals were drafted and discussed, their subjects ranging from the deposition of a pope to the proper clerical dress – no red or green, slashed coats or long sleeves – and the necessity of appointees to know the language of the country they were to work in. Few of these were ever formally enacted, but the catalogue clearly indicated the clerical concerns. The main discussion centred around finance. Both French and Germans attacked the system of annates, which they contended bore too heavily on them; the Italians, miserably aware of the permanently unsettled political conditions, would not countenance any reduction in papal income, while the English, who had so successfully resisted papal taxation, were smugly neutral.
Once the committee’s proposals were completed, by December 1415, there was not much that could be done before the King’s return and the formal conclusion of Benedict’s case. Once Benedict had been deposed previous differences between the cardinals of the various obediences closed up, and a solid curial policy developed. The French Cardinals Fillastre and d’Ailly who had previously pressed for reforms, moved to join the Italians and Spaniards in requiring a speedy papal election. With Germany and England now allied, a fresh division loomed, which could be avoided only by the unanimous election of a new pope. This was opposed by Sigismund unless he could be sure that the new pope would be acceptable, since the wrong choice could ruin all the work of the Council. Debates became progressively crosser. The agreement on 26 July led to the appointment of a new reform committee, which included no cardinals: that was enough to ensure that its work met with difficulties.
The Spanish had continued to quarrel between themselves on a variety of pretexts. On 16 August they seemed to have patched up their arguments over the number of votes, but this was succeeded by a squabble over the choice of the president for the month of September. On one occasion the Aragonese and Portuguese came with swords hidden under their coats, and only Sigismund’s presence, stalking furiously outside the church, prevented a fight.
What seemed to be a deadlock was suddenly broken by Bishop Hallam’s death on 4 September. Hallam had always been outspoken – arrogant, according to Fillastre – but with his death much energy seemed to leave the English. When on 9 September the cardinals pressed again for the method of papal election to be discussed the English prevaricated, thus implicitly, at least, suspending the reform agenda. Sigismund was unaware of this when, at a meeting of the nations on 9 September, Cardinal Adimari demanded that a formal protest of the cardinals and the Latin nations be read to the Council. Sigimund shouted, ‘By God, you won’t read it’; an Italian notary cried, ‘Then post it to the doors of the churches’, on which Sigismund roared that it was the notary who should be nailed to the church doors, and punched the lawyer, shouting, ‘These Italians and Frenchmen want to give us a pope. By God they shall not do it.’ Not unnaturally, the meeting broke up. When, two days later, Adimari succeeded in reading the protest, Sigismund and the Germans walked out; as they went some jeered, ‘The heretics are leaving’.
In the evening there was another Spanish dispute and the following morning some of the Castilians left. Once more the Council seemed in danger of breaking up, but Sigismund promptly sent men after the Spaniards, stopping them and preventing any Italian, Frenchman or Spaniard from leaving. Only on the 27th did the Castilians return, and the ban was lifted.
As Sigismund suspected, the English were about to modify their enthusiasm for reform. Even before Hallam’s death King Henry V sent his uncle Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, previously Chancellor of England, ostensibly on a pilgrimage. Bishop Henry arrived during the first week of October and set about reconciling the by now thoroughly discontented Council. It was not before time. Together with Sir John Tiptoft, furnished with secret instructions from the King himself, the English delegation were to stop insisting on reforms, but to press for the election of a pope, with whom agreements on national issues could be reached. How they arranged things is not recorded, but Fillastre was darkly suspicious that it was another dastardly English plot which would end up with the Bishop as pope. Whether it was due to Beaufort’s efforts or not, the breaches in conciliar unity closed.
In a funeral sermon for Hallam his colleague Richard Fleming pleaded that a new election should not be delayed by a needlessly radical reform. It also probably suited the King that Constance should be wound up as soon as possible to allow Sigismund to settle with the French and begin that long-overdue Crusade. The cardinals made the first approach in an offer designed specifically to meet Sigismund’s personal priorities, which they presented on 19 September. Sigismund was to have the right to nominate all Hungarian prelates, on which annates would not be due, and have the same rights as the English King in refuting papal jurisdiction.
On Saturday October 9 the Council attempted to perpetuate its successes in the decree ‘Frequens’. Its language was sugared: ‘Whereas the Roman pontiff wields the most lofty power among mortals, it is right to bind him by the glorious chains of faith and control him by the rites laid down in the sacraments of the Church’ but the chains were real enough. Another General Council of the whole Church must be held within five years of the closure of the Constance Council, followed by a second within seven years, and thereafter every ten years ‘for ever’. In an emergency a pope might shorten the intervals, but ‘on no account prolong’. A second decree ‘Si vero’ dealt in detail with the actions that must be taken should a future schism arise. Taken together the two decrees envisaged a much more representative Church in which all Catholics would have a voice. Up to a point, this worked. The next grave crisis in the Church fell at the time when the second Council was due to be held in 1429, and was competently dealt with. Thereafter, however, the conciliar movement declined, at least until the Second Vatican Council returned to the subject many years later by establishing regular synods of all Catholic bishops, a long-delayed benefit of the Council of Constance.
Apart from ‘Frequens’, which also dealt with some old clerical grievances, the Council’s main achievements were financial, and brought with them unexpected consequences. Previous regular papal sources of income were either cut off or severely reduced. Procurations – originally a sort of subsistence allowance – had become a simple tax payable by non-resident clerics which accounted for no less than 20 per cent of all income during the last period of undivided administration at Avignon. They were abolished. ‘Spoils’, the papal sequestration of deceased prelates’ property, and ‘Fruits’, the income from vacant benefices, were similarly done away with. The actual sums involved were not very substantial – 4 per cent of the total – but they had aroused considerable annoyance.
Perhaps a third of the papacy’s income came from the much-criticized annates, and ‘Services’. The taxes paid by every cleric entering into a post either conferred or confirmed by the Curia proved an impossibly difficult subject to agree, and it was left for each nation to make a separate agreement, but the worst abuses, such as those so impressively extorted by Boniface, were ended. The taxes were payable only when the post had been peacefully occupied, and could be paid by instalments. Tenths, the other major clerical tax, had already been largely diverted to lay rulers during the schism; proposals to abolish this tax did not attract much support from the national delegates, and once again it was left to each state to make its separate agreement.
Such drastic reductions threw the papal administration back on what was meant to be its primary source of income, the revenues from the Papal States, which during the Avignon administration had produced a heavily negative cash flow, since some 80 per cent of gross income had been spent on financing Italian campaigns. From now on papal finances were going to depend on negotiated agreements, and the one remaining source of income that only the Pope could command, and which was not to be snaffled by lay rulers, was indulgences. As had been demonstrated in Bohemia, and was to be even more powerfully exemplified a century later in Germany, indulgences were dangerous.
The ideas behind indulgences were not questioned by the reformers, but papal plenary indulgences, such as those guaranteed to Crusaders, were strongly attacked by Cardinal d’Ailly’s reform sub-committee. All previous Jubilee and Crusading indulgences were revoked (raising, surely, questions about the fate of those beneficiaries now deceased) and others granted by cardinals as ‘tending more to the deception of the Christian people than to the salvation of souls … all such abuses and extortions of money are to be totally extirpated’.
Had the committee’s recommendation been followed, Hus’s stand – and subsequently Martin Luther’s – would have been validated, but no decree was issued. As it was, the concordat with the German nation negotiated with the new pope did in fact revoke all plenary indulgences granted during the schism, which would have the effect of cancelling John XXIII’s contentious grant. The English nation did even better, obtaining for the bishops the right in perpetuity to demand revocation of any indulgences they believed scandalous.
There remained the question of how a new pope should be chosen. Those liberals who had seen so many reforms sidelined by succeeding popes were reluctant to leave their work to the mercies of a still-unknown pontiff, especially were he to be elected by what was now (Zabarella died on 27 September) a rather shop-soiled College of Cardinals. In the end it was the cardinals themselves inspired by d’Ailly, who drafted an acceptable solution. It was an ingenious plan but adopted only after many more very fretful discussions. The election was to be by the cardinals, but accompanied by thirty others, selected by the nations in equal proportions. The successful candidate had to win two-thirds of the cardinals’ vote and also two-thirds of each of the nations’ delegates; in this way three laymen from a single nation could block the election. Given the split between the parties it was impossible for an English, German or French pope to be elected, and an Italian was almost the inevitable choice.