Jessical Knauss grew up in Northern California but now lives in Spain. She
earned her PhD in medieval Spanish literature at Brown University, where
her advisor commented, “You like to tell stories, don’t you?” Her
novels, short fiction, and video game scripts transport readers to a
fascinating era that’s more relevant than ever.
Anytime I tell someone that I’ve spent most of my life studying Alfonso X, el Sabio, I get strong opinions. Alfonso X reigned from 1252 to 1284 and is remembered for his extraordinary contributions to the arts and sciences—the reason I’m fascinated. People also tend to recall his apparent ineptitude for governance—the reason they have such passionate, half-informed opinions. If I go on to explain that I’m writing a novel from the point of view of Alfonso X’s queen, few people know her name. That doesn’t stop them from expressing even stronger opinions.
Without spoiling my novel too much, the marriage between Alfonso X of Castile and Violante of Aragon ended dismally. The kingdom was divided by the end of the king’s life, but everyone seemed to agree on one thing: the queen was evil and must be quashed. Her own nephew, the famous writer Don Juan Manuel, accused Violante of Aragón in one of his stories of poisoning her sister because she envied her beauty.
I have a hunch that most of the queen’s problems rooted in the historical moment in which she lived. As Helena P. Schrader argues in The Powerful Women of Outremer: Forgotten Heroines of the Crusader States, in the earlier Middle Ages, queens routinely exercised power, influence, and autonomy equal to or greater than their husbands or sons, the kings. Women in other parts of society also enjoyed what we might think of as greater freedoms than in later centuries. To give two examples I’m intimately familiar with, the tenth-century women featured in my masculine novel Seven Noble Knights get things done and even boss men around with no legal or social repercussions.
In the early thirteenth century, Violante’s mother, Iolanthe of Hungary, was able to exercise tremendous influence over her husband, Jaume I of Aragon, in spite of his big personality. It was obvious to all that she was an equal partner with the king, and she was praised and respected for her decisiveness and ability to take action.
However, by mid-century in neighboring Castile, autonomy and power were being quietly subtracted from the queen’s role at court through legal decrees and customs decided by men. Violante entered the kingdom under the impression that she would be co-ruler. During the first part of the marriage, when that meant having babies and performing political mediation, nothing arose to challenge her assumption. Then, tragedy struck. After a series of terrible incidents, Violante believed she had a say in how the kingdom would continue and that she was free to do anything necessary to bring her plans to fruition. She was so, so wrong. This disconnect is the basis for my novel, Losing the Queen.
During the research phase, I struggled to come up with a sympathetic portrait of what Violante would plausibly have been like. The scarcity of unbiased records has resulted in later historians ignoring the queen’s contributions to the politics of the day at best. At worst, historians writing in the twenty-first century who take great care to document their sources and remain as impartial as possible when writing about Alfonso X have no qualms making sweeping judgments of Violante’s character. These authors most often claim she was bitter and impossible to live with. A character with the name Violante of Aragon appears in recent historical fiction as physically unattractive, vitriolic, and politically weak. Negative appraisals of the queen have become something of a tradition in studies about Alfonso X.
To find evidence that balanced the scales even a little, I had to return to where I started: literature. I came across Violante of Aragon for the first time in Cantiga 345. It’s one of the Cantigas de Santa María, which are the largest collection of medieval songs that narrate miracles of the Virgin Mary. Cantiga 345 describes an incident that happened in southern Spain in June 1264, and Alfonso and Violante have roles and dialogue:
The king awoke from this dream and started describing it
to his wife, the queen, who lay in the bed
next to him. He told her all about this dream.
And she responded to him well and righteously:
“I’ve dreamed a dream just like that…”
Cantiga 345, lines 89–94 (my translation).
This scene takes place during afternoon siesta. Such an intimate image made a lasting impression on me. A husband and wife sharing a bed not only at night but also during the day—Were they ever parted from each other? As well as the bed, they share the same dream. I can’t think of a better indicator of sympathy and understanding between two people. Additionally, what Violante says is described with two positive adjectives, “well” and “righteously.” None of these details are necessary to the plot, which makes them more likely to have been included simply because they were true. From a literary point of view, in 1264, Violante was still considered a good queen. And then there’s the fact that Alfonso and Violante had eleven children. This number far exceeds necessity to ensure the future of the royal line and, like the cantiga, suggests true intimacy and a lack of desire to spend time apart. These are only two pieces of evidence, but I find them compelling enough to approach my novel with the idea that this marriage had a bright, optimistic start.
From a narrative point of view, it’s much better for Violante to begin with the greatest of expectations realized. It creates the opportunity for the kinds of essential changes any story needs in order for readers to keep turning pages. If Violante never had it good, who would be very concerned when she lost it all?
That’s the advantage of historical fiction. As a historian, I wouldn’t be able to contribute anything new to Violante’s story. But as a novelist, I get to take the reader on a journey from a happiness to bitterness by imagining the psychological circumstances that gave birth to the events in the historical record. I can show the reader what Violante’s lived reality might have been like with tastes, sounds, and smells. With such vivid joys and sorrows, the reader can more easily empathize with the historical figure and refrain from passing harsh judgments on someone who lived nearly 800 years ago.
In Losing the Queen, I can break away from accepted interpretations of this fascinating person to tell a story that will be compelling and emotionally true.
And that’s the most interesting truth in any story.
Losing the Queen has not yet been released. But you can find out about Jessica's other books at: www.JessicaKnauss.com
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Blog Host, Helena P. Schrader, is the author of
the Bridge to Tomorrow Trilogy.
The first two volumes are available now, the third Volume will be released later this year.
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