Our main source for Castilian epic poems are the traces they’ve left in – of all things – historical writing. Especially in the workshop of Alfonso X el Sabio in the thirteenth century, medieval Spanish men writing about their local past turned to the stories they knew from minstrels and other oral traditions. It doesn’t seem so odd when we consider that these heroic sagas are more often than not about real-life figures. Spanish literary realism has long roots.
This
Castilian historic/epic tradition, which has a looming responsibility in
forming the notion of Spain, relishes anecdotes about traitors who persist in
the Spanish imagination even today. Readers may be familiar with the betrayal
of King Sancho that sets off the cycle of El Cid. An earlier royal meets a
similar bloody end in the “Romance of Prince García.” The story on which I base
my first novel, The Seven Noble Knights
of Lara, tells of a betrayal that wipes out an entire generation of
Castilian warriors.
The
chapter of history known as “The Traitor Countess” is so full of betrayal that
the title refers to not one countess, but two.
In
the story, García Fernández is Count of Castile, the highest secular authority
in the land at the end of tenth century. His wife Argentina takes a liking to a
minor French noble and escapes with him. García’s subjects pressure him to go
after her and erase this stain on his honor. When he arrives, he meets the
French nobleman’s daughter, Sancha. In exchange for marriage to the count, she
lets him into her father’s – and new stepmother’s – bedroom, where he hides in
wait of the signal. When she tugs on the cord she’s tied around his foot,
García emerges from under the bed and decapitates the lovers, thus regaining
honor for himself and his independent county.
The
new countess is welcomed in Castile, but comes to yearn for more power, which
she intends to gain by marrying a Moorish prince. She malnourishes García’s
horse so that it seems fit, but fails him in battle. García is taken prisoner
to Córdoba, capital of the Islamic caliphate, where he is executed.
But
Sancha can’t run off with her Muslim lover until she does away with her son,
Sancho, García’s heir. Sancho finds out about his mother’s plans and when she
offers him a drink, he insists she take it instead. Thus she dies from her own
poison.
Scholars
love the themes of female disruption of power in this story, but perhaps more
fascinating for the historian is the way it adapts historical facts to create
an even more exciting drama. García was the Count of Castile, and his heir was
Sancho. García perished in battle against Muslim foes. But Sancho’s mother was
not called Sancha, and García had only one wife. Her name was Ava and she left no
evidence of even attempting to betray her husband or son.
I’ve
often wondered why the fictional version ended up in the history books when the
facts made more sense. My hunch is that the man who compiled the histories,
King Alfonso X, was preoccupied with themes of traitors and turncoats because
of treasonous demands the Castilian nobility made of him and the series of
revolts in every corner of the realm during his reign. His son Sancho
eventually deposed him, but that treason probably occurred too late to affect
the writing of the histories.
Perhaps
the most compelling evidence for this psychological reading is that in the epic
versions, all traitors come to the end they deserve, as in the violent deaths
of both of the traitor countesses. It didn’t always turn out that way in real
life.
Jessica Knauss is seeking representation for her first novel, The Seven Noble Knights of Lara. Learn more about Jessica and her writing at:
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