The Critique of Toxic, Noble Masculinity in Los siete Infantes de Lara

Abstract

The legend of Los siete infantes de Lara as redacted in the Estoria de España and Crónica de 1344 stands out from other extant Castilian epics in its focus on cross-border alliances and relationships with al-Andalus, as well as its positive characterization of Muslim Andalusi characters. This article focuses on the obverse of this dynamic and suggests that their favorable portrayal is in fact one of several literary devices that work to emphasize the degenerate behavior of their Castilian counterparts; a critique that heightens from one chronicle to the next and is at times expressed by way of irony. The legend presents a panorama of different Castilian masculinities, from young mozos to established members of the nobility, all of whom exhibit toxic behavioral patterns that have pathological, violent outcomes. This toxicity takes hold in different ways, from an inability to control their pasiones to a covetous pursuit of power and wealth. Their behavior explicitly contradicts the mesura and moral benevolence advocated by theoretical models of masculinity formulated from the classical era to the early fourteenth century, as well as the established therapeutic tradition in medieval medical texts.

Masculinity has long been considered a contextually contingent concept rather than an ahistorical absolute.¹ Much work has been done by medievalists to demonstrate “divergent notions of masculinity, constructed in historically specific contexts” (Hadley 2) through literary and historiographical sources (Lees et al.). No studies of masculinities in medieval Europe have however considered instances in which men, in their embodiment of behaviors peculiar to their sociocultural milieu and historic context, explicitly contradict contemporaneous medical and theoretical discourses on male behavior; a (de)formation of masculinity that can be characterized as toxic masculinity, for its consequences cause physical harm. One such instance is the medieval Castilian epic legend Los siete infantes de Lara (SIL), in which Castilian noblemen demonstrate destructive behaviors that have fatal consequences for almost all involved.

SIL in its earliest extant forms does not survive as a poem in verse but is found in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century chronicles: it is redacted in prose in the versión primitiva of Alfonso X’s Estoria de España (1270–4) (EE) and in an elaborated form in the Crónica de 1344 (C1344).² A third version of SIL was created between the versión primitiva of EE and C1344, found in the versión crítica of EE, also composed under the auspices of Alfonso X from 1280–84 (Fernández-Ordoñez 14). Here I do not refer explicitly to the versión crítica, as it is my view that it does not place as great an emphasis on the degeneration of the male Castilian nobility as in the primitiva and C1344. Moreover, this article constitutes a dual rather than strictly comparative analysis of EE (versión primitiva) and C1344.

The legend tells of seven noble sons of Lara, or Salas,³ who are killed in battle as revenge for murdering their aunt Doña Lambra’s cousin and servant. Their uncle Ruy Velázquez orchestrates their death in alliance with the Andalusi ruler Almanzor, and they are avenged by their half-Andalusi half-brother Mudarra. As a story of dishonor, vengeance, Muslim-Christian alliances, and crossed bloodlines on a territorial frontier with al-Andalus, of the known epic corpus SIL’s singularity is clear: it is an epic on a personal and familial—rather than regional or national—scale and is interwoven with alliances across frontiers with the Umayyad kingdom of Córdoba.

The prevailing critical reading of SIL is that of a moralistic epic that centers on the importance of blood ties and the horror of an internal familial treachery purportedly caused by one woman’s desire for vengeance. Doña Lambra is often read as the “witchlike” villain and sole instigator of the tragedy (Montgomery, “E sobre esto” 883); Marjorie Ratcliffe suggests Lambra is “dramatizando su supuesta pérdida de honor” (133) after the murder of her cousin and servant while Menéndez Pidal refers to her as “la orgullosa y vengativa dueña” (23). Scholarship has also taken a particular interest in the legend’s portrayal of gender relations: Martha Krow-Lucal views Lambra as a non-conformist; “a shrewish wife who is taking far too much interest in revenge—which is (or should be) a masculine concern” (357) while for Bluestine, “Lambra is systematically presented as the evil, immoral temptress” (207).⁴ Others insist on a sexual motive behind the conflict and have suggested Lambra’s planned assault on her nephew Gonzalo with a phallic, blood-filled cucumber is an act of emasculation (Burt 350; Ross 85).

Peter Mahoney views SIL in EE in light of Alfonso X’s Siete Partidas and suggests it centers on the denigration of Ruy Velázquez by demonstrating “la constante contraposición entre su personaje y los Infantes de Lara” (“La diferencia” 185). In a later study Mahoney reads the two EE versions of SIL transcribed under Alfonso X’s patronage biographically: “loyalty to, and the security of, Castilla and its inhabitants are the salient themes of the story” (“The Infantes” 98). A reading of SIL solely in light of the earliest extant version and the ideas of its patron—that is, the versión primitiva of EE and Alfonso X—does however fail to retain the possibility that SIL was an orally-composed legend of unknown and unknowable authorship, composed as early as the turn of the eleventh century.⁵ A further fertile line of inquiry is the representation of religious and racial identity. Irene Zaderenko traces the roots of early modern literary maurophilia to SIL, as it highlights “los aspectos positivos de los moros” (“Maurophilia” 82).⁶ Zaderenko also notes the comparison of Christian-Castilian and Muslim-Andalusi masculinity: “Frente a la pasividad o deslealtad de los personajes que deberían ser líderes entre los cristianos, se erigen las figuras de Almanzor y Mudarra, quienes van a decidir el destino de los otros personajes de la leyenda” (“Maurophilia” 73). Zaderenko notes that Almanzor and Mudarra are portrayed more positively than Count Garcí Fernández and Ruy Velázquez, neither of whom are able to exact vengeance (“Maurophilia” 70). However, a lacuna in scholarship still persists: an acknowledgment of the legend’s consistent critique of the male nobility present in EE and C1344.

The denigration of Castilian noble masculinity has been touched upon but not elaborated in scholarship. Montgomery identifies the youngest Infante Gonzalo’s gratuitous violence and the similarities between his rage and that of Doña Lambra: “when Gonzalo kills her cousin her anger, like his, seems exaggerated and arbitrary” (Medieval Spanish Epic 19). Fernando Gómez Redondo reads SIL as an “‘exemplo’ historiográfico para analizar la conducta social de la clase caballeresca” though proposes only Ruy Velázquez is portrayed negatively (179). Zaderenko persuasively finds that the positive portrayal of Andalusi characters reveals “el ‘verdadero peligro’ que amenazaba al reino, el de los traidores y usurpadores dominados por sus pasiones” (“La imagen” 163–64). Here I contend that it is not solely the “traidores y usurpadores” who fall foul of instinctive “pasiones,” but rather all Castilian noblemen, bar the Count. They are unable to control their emotions and resort to instinctive reactions and conduct that ultimately leads to death or a narrow escape. No scholar has yet identified the consistent and systematic moral degeneration of all levels of Castilian nobility, from the gratuitous violence of the Infantes led by Gonzalo González, to the sexual violence perpetrated by their father, Gonzalo Gustioz, and Ruy Velázquez’s covetousness, which in C1344 afflicts Mudarra. These behaviors are configured in contemporaneous legal and sociopolitical texts as well as in medical treatises as physically harmful, and thus toxic to the body.

What then is toxic masculinity, and how can it operate usefully in the medieval context? The term was first coined informally by Shepherd Bliss, though its transformation into an operable framework in gender studies came with Raewyn Connell’s concept of hegemonic masculinity, which went beyond the idea of a monolithic toxic masculinity by theorizing the existence of multiple masculinities in any one sociocultural context, though one dominates as a result of systemic factors.⁷ This dominant, hegemonic form of masculinity “is always constructed in relation to women and subordinated masculinities” (Gender and Power 296). Connell and James Messerschmidt refined the definition of “toxic masculinity” to its modern form, defined as “the currently most honored way of being a man . . . and it ideologically legitimated the global subordination of women to men” (832). This formulation can be adapted to the Middle Ages, as Connell, following Messerschmidt, has clarified, stating that “[hegemonic masculinity] may mutate in different directions in different environments” (854). While hegemonic masculinity refers to a behavioral system that enables a group of men to dominate in society and over women, “toxic” is a pathologized term that has come to refer to the negative impact of hegemonic masculinity in society.⁸ Toxic masculinity is cogently defined by Bryant Sculos as “a loosely interrelated collection of norms, beliefs and behaviors associated with masculinity, which are harmful to women, men, children and society” (1). These behavioral norms can thus be reinterpreted in each sociocultural context, as masculinity’s toxic deformation is similarly contextually contingent and flexible. Sculos’ general definition is thus workable in multiple historical contexts, including the Middle Ages.

The toxic Castilian masculinities depicted in the two versions of SIL are behaviors that explicitly contradict the counsel provided by medieval medical treatises and the theoretical ideals for the nobility in legal texts and literature. The roots of gender difference in the Middle Ages can be found in humoral theory, derived from Hippocratic medicine and later developed by Galen and Aristotle, whose thought remained influential into the thirteenth century (Allen 7). Woman was conceived of as cold and wet, while man was hot and dry and able to burn off excess humors and thus control his desires (Gardenour 182–84). Aristotle asserted both the intellectual and, crucially, moral superiority of men over women (Bullough 31), and Isidore of Seville later emphasized these spiritual differences, describing men as fundamentally stronger than women who were also inherently lustful (Park 86–87). Women were thus physiologically less able to control desires or pasiones, while men were expected to resist them.

In SIL we conversely witness noblemen uncontrollably yielding to their passions and appetites, that together with affections were later secularized into the blanket term “emotions” (Dixon 2).⁹ In Galenism emotions or passions were considered res non naturales or forces alien to the body that enter from outside and can thus be controlled (Frutos and Guerrero 420). Both Augustine and, later, Thomas Aquinas also maintained that passions and appetites were subject to free will, following the views of Plato and Aristotle who differentiated man’s unemotional intellect from the lower parts of the soul driven by emotion. There was thus a clear connection between agency and health, and to succumb to a passion or appetite was “a sign of deficiency and imperfection” as well as “[a symptom] of the sickness of the soul and of the disordered nature of man” (Dixon 42, 56). Such behavior was pathologized and physically dangerous in the society contemporaneous to SIL.

Many works of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries assert the importance of controlling the passions. The medieval therapeutic tradition, exemplified by the Regimen sanitatis ad regem aragonum (c. 1308), edited by Arnau de Vilanova, advised controlling anger to promote wellbeing (Frutos and Guerrero 421). Alfonso X’s General Estoria explicitly cautions the reader that “ya muchos sabios fizieron grandes yerros por sseguir sus pasiones naturales” (5: fol. 35), while the treatise Castigos from the reign of Sancho IV reinforces that “ninguno non se puede bien gouernar sy non sopiere quales pasiones ha de seguir y de quales se ha de aredrar” (Palmer and Frazier, fol. 162v).

To cede to one’s emotions moreover contradicts the discourse that theorized an ideal noble masculinity in medieval Castilla. H.R. Oliva Herrer has shown how masculinity in the early medieval Castilian context was understood as virilidad, “the behavior that was expected of a man” (162), stemming from varón which Isidore of Seville defined as “la virtud de la fuerza” (40). Etymologically virilidad is predicated upon moral virtud, as well as physical prowess. A delicate balance is thus advocated between virtud and fuerza which then persisted into the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Alfonso X’s Siete Partidas (c. 1265) strikes a similar balance between physical strength and mental mesura: the second Partida emphasizes the need for noblemen to embody “esfuerzo, honra y poderío” (2.21) and describes four main virtues of noblemen as “cordura y fortaleza y mesura y justicia” (2.21.4).¹⁰ SIL in C1344 can be read in light of Gómez Barroso’s pedagogical Libro del consejo e de los consejeros (c. 1306) which likewise promoted moral conduct over physical prowess in the case of noblemen who took the post of royal advisor. An ally to the Lara family in the reign of Alfonso XI in the early fourteenth century, magnate Don Juan Manuel, in his Libro de los estados (1327), echoes the second Partida in its model for nobility, explaining how “loyalty, generosity or honesty were embodied in physical characteristics such as strength and dexterity” (Pedraz 36). Antonio Carreño notes that Manuel’s El Conde Lucanor (1335) defines manhood “como esfuerzo físico y moral” (62). From the era of Isidore through to the context of EE and C1344, noblemen were to temper physical prowess with mental mesura to keep their emotions in check. Yet this ideal proves unrealistic in practice for the nobility of SIL who cannot control their base drives.¹¹ The ensuing behavior has pathological, “toxic” outcomes, for it leads to violence within the Castilian milieu.

Though “toxic masculinity” was coined in the twentieth century, since medieval discourse clearly pathologizes the self-destructive behaviors displayed by the Castilian noblemen of SIL, “toxic” is an apt descriptor for their conduct. Toxic, from the Latin toxĭcum, was rendered in medieval Castilian as both tóxico and tósigo. Only the latter appears in Covarrubias’ 1611 Tesoro de la lengua castellana, defined literally as veneno (50). Both terms were in concomitant use in the thirteenth century. The earliest usage of tóxico in the Corpus Diacrónico del Español is in two translations from Arabic attributed to Alfonso X’s patronage: Lapidario (c. 1250) and Judizios de las estrellas (1254), though in both cases it is used literally. More interestingly for the present study, tósigo is used literally and metaphorically in the 1251 anonymous translation of Calila e Dimna: on two occasions tósigo is used to refer to verbal deception (157, 175). Given that yielding to pasiones is universally pathologized as harmful in medieval medical theory and other contemporaneous writings, it is therefore no surprise that tósigo is used here to allude to amoral behavior. In SIL we witness Castilian noblemen consistently failing to control basic pasiones from anger to sexual desire, as well as being driven to treachery and violence motivated by covetousness, conduct that would have made them appear quite literally bodily defective or diseased to thirteenth- and fourteenth-century audiences.

SIL’s critique of Castilian noblemen is, finally, foregrounded by profound social and economic changes that crystallized across Western Europe in the thirteenth century: the rise of the monetary economy and the growth of urban centers which threatened the hegemony of the landed aristocracy (Le Goff 14–16). In Castilla specifically this is exemplified by the relationship of the monarchy to the nobility and relations between noble families at the end of the thirteenth century through to 1344. The noble revolt against Alfonso X in 1271 as a result of the king’s legal reforms to curtail the nobility’s power, including the promotion of the urban caballeros villanos, leads the aristocracy to pursue “alternating strategies of resistance and rebellion” towards the crown (Doubleday 81). The real Laras were still prominent at court; in 1269 Nuño González de Lara allied himself with the Haro family against the king, before the full-scale noble revolt of 1271. They continued to oppose the monarchy and other noble families in their quest for territorial expansion towards the end of the thirteenth century (Doubleday 83). In light of the continual power struggles of the landed aristocracy during Alfonso X’s reign, it is unsurprising that the most depraved nobleman of SIL, Ruy Velázquez, is increasingly motivated by the acquisition of power and wealth. His covetousness, also echoed in Mudarra’s portrayal in C1344, is moreover symptomatic of the increasing concern in thirteenth-century ecclesiastical works with avarice and the “moral anxiety about the social costs of the commercial revolution” (Young 72).

C1344 coincided with further noble-monarchical tension in the reign of Alfonso XI in Castilla due to his continued centralization, notably through the eventual promulgation of the Siete Partidas in 1348 which limited the nobility’s power (Deyermond, “Written by the Victors” 66).¹² From the analysis that follows it is clear C1344 pursues a more critical line in its portrayal of the nobility, with additional instances of toxic behaviors versus EE. It is a criticism that is framed ironically in places, coming to a head with Gonzalo Gustioz’s lament for his sons. In suggesting the chronicles ironically portray the Castilian nobility, I propose SIL has traces of medieval romance which Dennis Howard Green has found to be inherently ironic.¹³ Green effectively historicizes irony to the medieval European romance with the following definition: “Irony is a statement or presentation of an action or situation in which the real or intended meaning conveyed to the initiated intentionally diverges from, and is incongruous with, the apparent or pretended meaning presented to the initiated” (9).¹⁴

Erich Auerbach’s reading of the Libro de buen amor yields a similar definition, for he finds an “objective irony implicit in the candid, untroubled coexistence of the most incompatible things” (322). I concur with Green and Auerbach that the modern understanding of irony can be utilized in cases of medieval literature, especially romance, that obviously overturn the expectations of its initiated audience. In the case of SIL, that refers to the intended audience of the chronicles who would be familiar with the medical advice and idealized models for noble masculinity in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Castilla, which the nobility explicitly subvert, particularly in C1344.¹⁵

A potential explanation for the heightened and ironic critique found in C1344 is the climax of the real Lara family’s power in the decade before the chronicle’s composition when “hostility between the Lara family and the crown had become endemic” (Doubleday 99). The former was considered “a counterbalance to the Castilian monarchy” by fellow nobles (103), culminating with Juan Nuñéz III de Lara’s seizure of Vizcaya in the 1330s. In such a climate, then, is it all the more likely that SIL contained within royally-sanctioned chronicles is critical of the nobility—or even the Lara family itself—through unveiling their behavior as toxic and thus incongruous with contemporary medical and literary models.¹⁶ I now systematically outline the self-destructive behavioral traits of the Castilian nobles in SIL, all of which are viewed as inherently tósigo in the thirteenth-century worldview. Beginning with uncontrolled emotional responses driven by ira, sexual violence stemming from immoderate desire or lujuria, and socioeconomic covetousness; a form of codicia or avaricia that also induces unbridled deception.¹⁷ In many instances their lack of emotional restraint is an instinctive emotional reaction to present circumstance, and in the case of the couvetousness afflicting the newly-married, lesser noble Ruy Velázquez, we see a reflection of the unstable position of the nobility at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century. Their toxic behavior is moreover underlined by an ironic mode, particularly in C1344, given the incongruity of the nobility’s behavior with copious scientific and literary models. They will then be contrasted to the exemplary Andalusi nobles whose magnanimity and egalitarian conception of identity not defined by religious or racial difference paints them as morally exemplary.

The toxic deformation of noble masculinity is best epitomized by Gonzalo González, whose consistent capitulation to anger or ira leads him to mete out the gratuitous violence that triggers his uncle’s treachery. His impetuousness is well-documented by scholarship: Zaderenko suggests that he “encarna la impetuosidad del guerrero joven” (“Maurophilia” 75) and Gómez Redondo similarly notes how the story’s treachery was “instigada por [sus] acciones imprudentes” (158), though maintains he does so out of loyalty (174). His behavior is symptomatic of his specific social circumstance as a young noble in training: in medieval medical discourse young men were prone to behaviors coded as feminine, such as impetuousness, inconstancy and lust.¹⁸ Gonzalo is not, however, the typical impetuous hero who learns the error of his ways: his violence leads to his and his brothers’ downfall, versus more moderate epic examples such as Las mocedades de Rodrigo, and is importantly enabled by his brothers’ acquiescence that encourages their de facto leader’s instinctive decisions.

In the opening scene, Gonzalo González cannot control his ira and resorts to physical violence after Doña Lambra’s verbal provocation and Álvar Sánchez’s taunt at the tablado. Lambra’s praise of Álvar is indeed suggestive, particularly in C1344, though both chronicles are ambiguous regarding her culpability and mask her motives by denying her direct speech, having her oscillate between a dishonored victim and potential villain.¹⁹ Although C1344 blames Lambra at the outset, “por esto que Doña Lambra dixo se siguio mucho mal,” emphasizing what Lambra “dixo,” her words are paraphrased by the narrator: “dixo aquellos que y feyan con ella que non vedaria su amor a ome tan de pro sy non fuese pariente tan llegado” (251).²⁰ We are kept at a distance from Lambra, whose sexual allusion leads Gonzalo to instinctively react angrily to maintain both sexual and physical dominance in the scene.²¹ As we have seen, Lambra’s lasciviousness was not unexpected behavior for a medieval woman, if uncouth in the context. Conversely, Gonzalo’s choice to engage in the matter and assert his virility disregards the contemporary ideal for noblemen to temper their sexuality and exercise mesura. The inordinate nature of his response is underscored by his brothers’ reaction—laughter at Álvar’s arrogance—which is juxtaposed against Gonzalo’s violence: “E dexose yr para el atan braua miente que mas non pudo, y diole una tan grant puñada en el rrostro” (C1344 252; EE 210).

Gonzalo is thoroughly out of control, approaching his prey Álvar con bravura; with an animalistic ferocity driven by base drives. His brothers immediately support him, “fueronse pora el hermano, ca ouieron miedo que se leuantase dend algun despecho” (EE 210; also C1344 252). Gonzalo’s toxicity is enabled by his deindividualized brothers, who are made automatically complicit in the youngest Infantes’ behavior. Though they are barely characterized and not shown succumbing to passions or base appetites, their loyalty passively facilitates their brother’s impetuosity.²²

The audience may be forgiven for reading this as a justifiable reaction to another man’s obnoxiousness, if the exact same formula were not then used when Lambra’s servant is murdered. Again the Infantes are laughing, this time at Gonzalo being pelted with the blood-filled cohombro. Gonzalo chastises their reaction: “se me pudiera ferir con al, como con esto, et matarme” (EE 214). This is followed by a hyperbolic call for vengeance and Gonzalo murders the cucumber-wielding servant, a reaction incongruous to the crime given even his brothers sense the humor in the episode. His uncontrolled reaction driven by ira was not only medically ill-advised but also explicitly condemned in contemporaneous models of masculinity.²³ Gonzalo’s inability to control his passions even affects those within his kin group: in battle against Almanzor’s army he threatens his own amo, Nuño Salido, for suggesting they turn back due to inauspicious omens, warning him “si non fuessedes mio amo . . . yo uos mataria por ello” (EE 223; C1344 265). This threat is clearly critiqued by the narrators through irony: Gonzalo explains “Munno Salido, dezides muy mal en quanto fablades, et muerte uuscades” (EE 223; C1344 265), thus ironically understanding the pathological consequences of deception causing certain death, but he still disbelieves Nuño. The EE narrator qualifies Nuño as “muy buen aguerero” (222), and C1344 goes further by having the narrator validate the omens: “ouieron agüeros que les fasian muy malas señales” (264).

It is not only the young Gonzalo González who cannot control his pasiones: his actions are mirrored in C1344 by his father, Gonzalo Gustioz, who falls foul to self-destructive instincts, though it is lujuria he succumbs to. Once he hears of his sons’ deaths whilst imprisoned in Córdoba he reacts unthinkingly and self-destructively to the ensuing grief. While in EE he is depicted as murdering Almanzor’s palace guards out of ira, C1344 takes his reaction further by having him rape Almanzor’s sister, a display of uncontrolled lujuria that is in diametric opposition to contemporaneous models for noble masculinity.²⁴ He risks his life in doing so, as Almanzor’s sister warns: “esto non prouedes, ca mió hermano tomarla grant enojo, e pasaria contra vos e vos cortarla la cabeça” (C1344 286). Gonzalo reacts violently regardless of the potentially fatal consequences and is only saved by Almanzor who views Ruy’s treachery as the greater evil.

While EE glosses over Gonzalo’s actions on his return to Castilla, C1344 evidences its toxic consequences. We are told in C1344 that the aging Gonzalo suffers from blindness, because “tantas eran las lagrimas e el llorar que cada dia tenia por sus fijos que non podia ya bien veer” (289). Though grief was a plausible explanation for blindness in the fourteenth century, there was also an almost ubiquitous connection between lust and ocular disease.²⁵ He is only miraculously cured of his ailment once he confesses to his wrongdoing and accepts Mudarra. Like his son and namesake, then, Gonzalo Gustioz is unable to control his instinctive reactions to heightened emotional states, allowing the pasión of sadness to degenerate immediately into a toxic combination of anger and lust. His behavior was pathologized in contemporary discourse as harmful to the body and manifests as blindness in the narrative of C1344.

While the Lara men fall victim to the pasiones of ira and lujuria as a result of youth and grief respectively, Ruy Velázquez’s toxicity is a complex constellation of his situation in the legend and social standing. He exhibits an unrelenting covetousness or codicia, formulated by Augustine as both a desirous passion to be controlled and deadly sin to ward off (Dixon 49), and universally condemned in texts contemporaneous to SIL.²⁶ From the start of EE and C1344 we can surmise that Ruy is a lesser noble who has married up, into the family of Count Garcí Fernández, Doña Lambra’s cousin. Ruy’s pursuit of socioeconomic gain triggered by his betrayal of his nephews likely comes in the wake of him having paid a significant dowry to Lambra’s family, a custom promulgated in the fuero viejo and even maintained by Alfonso X’s legal reforms, even though he reduced the amount required (López Nevot 54). Ruy’s financial situation during the events of SIL is thus defined by both his recent marriage and his status as a socially mobile member of the untitled landed aristocracy, whose position was significantly under threat during the reigns of Alfonso X and Alfonso XI.²⁷

After orchestrating the death of the Infantes, the sheer scale of Ruy Velázquez’s quest to gain territory and fortresses from Count Garcí Fernández suggests the real motivator of his treachery to be the acquisition of socioeconomic and political power.²⁸ Although C1344 far more explicitly details Ruy’s expansionist campaign after the murder of the Infantes, EE sows the seeds of his ambition. Evidence is found in a telling comment Ruy makes to Almanzor, that with the Infantes dead, “auredes la tierra de los christianos a vuestra voluntat” (219), which in hindsight applies to Ruy and his Andalusi ally. Moreover, after Lambra’s servant is murdered in EE Ruy comforts her: “Callad, non vos pese, et soffrit vos, ca yo vos prometo que tal derecho vos de ende que todel mundo aura que dezir dello” (217; emphasis mine).

He is preoccupied with the public impact of his vengeance and finds in it a pretext to gain notoriety—and, by extension, socio-economic power and geographical domination as in C1344, which then takes this further with Ruy opposing the count long after the Infantes’ death.²⁹ After receiving the letter condemning his behavior from Almanzor’s vassal Alicante Ruy is repentant, decrying “christianos nin moros non fiaran de mi, pues fis tan grant trayçion” (277). He initially blames Lambra, who “en mi vida me fiso faser trayçion” (277). His regret and condemnation of his wife are, however, revealed to be false when the real motive for his treachery is made clear; Ruy then quickly moves on to decide a plan of action for “todos los castiellos que tengo del Conde” (277). His plan is set in motion soon after his supposed repentance, for after Gonzalo Gustioz is freed by Almanzor we are told “Ruy Vasques le robaua las tierras quanto podia” (289). Ruy therefore exploits essentialist paradigms of femininity—the idea that it was plausible for him to be under the “manipulative” influence of Lambra—all the while veiling a couvetous and ultimately toxic desire for socioeconomic advancement.

Ruy’s persistent covetousness leads to and is enabled by deception, a behavior that, though not an emotion or passion, was also framed as toxic in the thirteenth century.³⁰ We are told directly of Ruy’s deceptive intentions towards his nephews: “Començo estonces luego a falagar a sos sobrinos con sos engannos et sus palabras enfinnidas et falssas” (EE 217, 21–23; C1344 259, 16–18).

The same narrative judgment is made a few lines later when Ruy plots the murder of the Infantes’ father Gonzalo Gustioz by writing a letter to Almanzor requesting his beheading. We are told in reported speech that Ruy wishes to talk to Gonzalo because “ca auie otrossi mucho de fablar con ell” (EE 218), and soon after Ruy’s deception is acknowledged in a conversation with his own sister, Gonzalo’s wife Sancha: “Dixo a su hermana donna Sancha con palabras de enganno” (EE 219; C1344 261). Further evidence comes later in battle with the Infantes, when Ruy purposefully misreads the omens, flattering his nephews: “Començoles de lisonjar e desir, ‘fijos, estas agueros muy buenos son.’” (C1344 266–267).³¹ Interestingly, several lines later in the midst of the growing Andalusi threat a speech to his nephews is not qualified as deceptive, even though we infer it to be so, as Ruy counsels them, “fijos, non ayades miedo” (EE 228; C1344 269). It is as though Ruy’s deception is so pernicious so as to lull both the narrator and reader into a false sense of security; akin to the Infantes’ own response. Ruy Velázquez’s treacherous plot to eradicate his nephews and thus freely pursue his goals for territorial expansion in Castilla is driven by a covetousness predicated upon his specific social position; the pathological consequences of codicia then degenerate into an unbridled engaño, also framed as toxic in literary and legal formulations.

In stark comparison to a Castilian nobility dominated by pasiones stand the Andalusi men, who are complicit in the events of the SIL as they unfold, yet who remain superior, making consistent, morally admirable decisions. This is clearly illustrated by the clemency granted by Almanzor to Gonzalo Gustioz and by the behavior of the Andalusi vassals towards the Infantes in battle. Mudarra, in alliance with his Christian father and Muslim uncle, finally puts an end to the thus far unremitting cycle of internal Castilian vengeance. Almanzor, ruler of the Umayyads, is at once a military ally, confidant, and father figure who comes to the aid of the Castilian nobles, all the while remaining outside of their familial disputes. Almanzor uses his discretion in response to Ruy and Gonzalo Gustioz’s predicaments, rather than serving Christians out of chivalric largesse, a luxury afforded to him by virtue of his sheer power in comparison to not only Ruy but also Count Garcí Fernández. He crosses the boundaries between Castilian and Andalusi in his allegiances and is the moral arbiter of the text; described by Zaderenko as “siempre magnánimo y compasivo, franco y sutil” (“Maurofilia” 70). He ensures Gonzalo Gustioz’s fair treatment and an exemplary upbringing for Mudarra, all the while continuing to succeed militarily.

Almanzor’s initial role in the text is as a powerful ally whom Ruy attempts to exploit in order to oust the Infantes and Gonzalo Gustioz and to control the Cordovan army that Almanzor has sent to his aid. He is introduced to the family dispute via Ruy’s pleading letter: “Salut como a amigo que amo de todo mio coraçon” (EE 218; C1344 260). The audience can only assume a close chivalric bond between the two men. Yet Almanzor senses Ruy’s treachery: “Vio la nemiga que venie en ella” (EE 220; C1344 262) and refuses to cede to Ruy’s demand to kill Gonzalo, avoiding the sort of gratuitous violence meted out by the Infantes and later Gonzalo Gustioz. We witness the way he addresses Gonzalo in similar language used by Ruy in the letter: “Roy Blasquez me enuia dezir que te descabeçe, mas yo, por que te quiero bien, non lo quiero facer” (EE 220; C1344 260).

Ruy thus incorrectly projects an identity upon Almanzor as the inevitable punisher of Christians. Almanzor in fact subverts Ruy’s expectation by pardoning Gonzalo. He does, however, still raise an army against the Infantes, a publicly sanctioned campaign that stands in stark contrast to the Castilian nobility’s internal violence.

Almanzor’s reaction to the Infantes’ deaths also underscores his role as a moral figure, for he mourns their loss together with Alicante, a detail only present in C1344: “Pesoles mucho e con grant duelo que del ouieron començaron de llorar” (284). Almanzor’s inclusive attitude to mourning reveals the universal nature of Ruy’s treachery: his sadness is not the exclusive preserve of those who live within his kingdom’s borders. He mourns all losses, even those of Gonzalo Gustioz who as his prisoner is at his mercy. A similar role is played by Alicante in C1344, whose disapproval of Ruy’s actions shows their impact to go beyond the realm of the internal conflict of the Castilian nobility as they tarnish his reputation among Andalusis: “La carta desia en como le enbiaua desafiar Alicante por el rrey Almançor, e por si, e por todos los otros que eran con el, e por todos los de allen mar e de aquen mar, e que lo desafiaua asi como traydor que era” (277).

Almanzor and Alicante thus object to Ruy’s behavior as an unaffiliated mercenary with no responsibility towards his allies. Ruy is incapable of a true alliance as he wrongly believes the Andalusi men hold an essential enmity towards Castilians. Moreover, Alicante’s language removes any cultural identity from those fighting in the battle by referring to them as “los de allen mar e de aquen mar.” C1344 thus portrays the Andalusi men as having a fluid conception of identity that is not defined by the socio-cultural position a person is born into and are open to real allegiances across frontiers. Their disapproval of some, but not all Castilian nobles, thus, illustrates their capacity for empathy across sociocultural divides.

The chronicler of the EE also approves of Almanzor’s behavior by closing the tale with news of his ongoing successful conquest of Coyança: “Çercola et prisola, et desi fizola derribar de çimiento et astragarla todo, et despues tomose pora Cordoua” (243). Choosing to end the story thus—instead of, say, with a summary of the glories brought upon Castilla by Mudarra—is testament to the exemplary role played by al-Andalus as a societal model which differs across the two chronicle versions: whilst the EE emphasizes the connection between upstanding morals and ongoing military success, C1344 places more importance on the moral compass of Almanzor and Alicante. The two men take a nuanced approach to allegiances and friendship that is not dictated by the constructed boundary between Christian and Muslim; as a universal human morality prevails. In stark contrast stands a Castilian nobility that cedes to its instincts and resorts to violence to maintain power.

The final example of Andalusi masculinity is the half-Castilian, half-Andalusi Mudarra, whose portrayal differs strikingly across the two chronicles. Whereas the EE depicts him as Andalusi even when he has traversed the border into Castilla, in C1344 Mudarra converts to Christianity. This detail leads Barton to say that Mudarra eschews “his Islamic heritage for good” (Conquerors 141); though the extent of this conversion is dubious, given Mudarra retains his name and ties to al-Andalus. The varied portrayal of Mudarra across both chronicles gives a different inflection to the problem of toxic, Castilian masculinity: while EE depicts the resolution brought about by mixed identities that do not adhere to strict cultural models, C1344 has Mudarra adapt and adopt some tropes of Christian-Castilian masculinity, thereby pessimistically immortalizing its effects.

C1344 is worth more discussion as the text hints that the cycle of Castilian enmity is not yet at an end. Mudarra converts to Christianity for socioeconomic reasons, as he admits to the count that it is in order to “seer cauallero de vuestra mano” (301). Moreover, he keeps his name upon conversion: “el non quiso que le cameasen su nonbre” (302) which implies it is nothing more than strategic. The count then appoints him alcayde mayor: “Entonçe fiso el conde don Garçi Ferrandes alcayde mayor de toda su tierra a don Mudarra Gonçales, como lo ante era el traydor de Ruy Vasques, e dixol que todos los castiellos que ganase de Ruy Vasques que gelos daua por heredat” (303).

The narrator thus makes an ominous association between Mudarra and Ruy, something unique to C1344 and concordant with the heightened level of irony specific to this chronicle. Even in his vengeful campaign against Ruy, Mudarra has one eye on gaining territory, exemplified by his response to Ruy’s men whom he refuses to take into his own mesnada: “Mas quiero que me dedes Castro e Amaya aquellos que lo tenedes, e quanto es las heredades del conde fincar le han, e vos catad a qui siruades” (310).

This passage evokes Ruy’s codicia as Mudarra’s goal is territorial gain. Andalusi men thus expose the universal nature of treachery, and in their interactions with the Castilian nobility expose the latter’s recourse to toxic behavior that leads to violence within their own kin group. Andalusi masculinity exists as an alternative, morally superior model, something then problematized by the chronicler of C1344 who acknowledges Mudarra’s dual heritage and thereby has him fall foul to the covetous instinct to amass socioeconomic power through violence, also exemplified by his uncle Ruy Velázquez.

To conclude, the two primary chronicle redactions of SIL are highly critical in their portrayal of Castilian noblemen. They exhibit behavior that can be considered toxic, akin to the modern formulation of toxic masculinity, given its pathological consequences that clearly manifest as violence within the noble milieu. The noblemen in both chronicles not only subvert contemporary models of chivalry but also fail to heed basic salutary advice for men of any social class to control res non naturales and pasiones, as outlined in medical texts. Gonzalo González immediately succumbs to ira and gratuitous violence in times of verbal threat, aided and abated by the compliance of his brothers. Gonzalo Gustioz meanwhile yields to lujuria which is insinuated to induce bodily harm in C1344. Ruy Velázquez’s precarious social position as an upwardly mobile, newly-married noble has him consumed by codicia in pursuit of landed wealth. Even Mudarra is driven by socioeconomic advancement in C1344, echoing the covetousness that proved fatal for his uncle and half-brothers. SIL thus exposes the impracticality of contemporaneous models for masculinity in practice and shows that they could even serve as justification for further moralization.

Their derision is moreover often expressed through an ironic mode, typical of medieval romance and of historiography that took issue with degenerate social structures.

We see a glimpse of alternative male behavior through Almanzor’s brief cooperation with his captive Gonzalo Gustioz, and the subsequent success of Mudarra in EE. In the legend’s denouement both chroniclers not only criticize Castilian nobility but moreover identify why it has degenerated: because it has become insular. Cross-border cooperative relationships feature throughout the legend and call into question the nature and limits of religio-cultural identity itself, as well as the utility of inward-looking social groups. The moral superiority of the Muslim-Andalusi men goes beyond a mere maurophilia or admiration, as it is the heterogeneous alliance with Gonzalo Gustioz and Almanzor that succeeds, and, later, Mudarra in EE. SIL exposes a decayed nexus of power within the male Castilian nobility: a homogeneous group that has ultimately become an inward-looking caricature of itself.