Traditional Spanish historiography, centred around the Royal Academy of History —with its permanent headquarters in Madrid— still, upholds the concept of the “Reconquista” in the 21st century. This term is laden with political intent, serving to fuel the most Unitarian postulates of Spanish politics—especially on the right and far right—which perpetuates a monolithic and teleological view of the peninsula’s past.

Fortunately, since the end of Franco’s dictatorship, a new generation of historians has broken with the dogmas imposed by the regime, drawing inspiration from the methodologies of the Annals School and the French scientific model. This shift meant accepting that documentary sources did not reflect the entirety of social reality, but only what those in power had decided to record. Thus, most of the society—especially peasant communities—had been deliberately excluded from this official epic narrative.

The progressive incorporation of archaeology as a primary source made it possible to compensate for the documentary bias. This renewed perspective dismantled the traditional narrative and opened the door to studying forms of social organisation and settlement models that had historically been invisible. Thanks to this, it became possible to investigate productive dynamics, distribution processes and territorial reorganisations that until a few decades ago had remained hidden.

Furthermore, this methodology has revealed flagrant contradictions between the documentary record and archaeological remains, exposing numerous cases of falsified documentation, especially in disputes between ecclesiastical institutions and peasant communities, particularly with regard to property, exploitation rights, and territorial boundaries. This has shown that power not only controlled the production of surplus, but also legitimised its right to do so.

Today, the historiographical consensus is clear: the formation of feudalism in the Iberian Peninsula cannot be understood as a linear or homogeneous process. The most recent research shows that there was no single ‘peninsular feudal model’, but rather a constellation of territorial processes with diverse chronologies, intensities, and forms of articulation. Far from being a simple importation of the Frankish model, Castilian-Leonese feudalism was built on a complex foundation that brought together structures inherited from late antiquity, internal transformations derived from military pressure on the border with Al-Andalus, and the concentration of territorial power in the hands of a minority of local elites.

In short, these studies have shown that, over the centuries, power structures have exerted systemic coercion on the subordinate classes, progressively imposing the generation of surpluses to sustain the most unproductive sectors of society. Only through a multifaceted approach—economic, social, cultural, and mental—will it be possible to understand the complexity of a radically plural and diverse peninsular reality, far removed from the simplification that revolves around the supposed and unalterable essence of Spain.

The creation of a new historical reality

The Castilian-Leonese expansion can be interpreted, if one wishes, as a story of the Wild West due to the striking similarity between the two expansions, both in terms of the dynamics of employment and transformation and in their subsequent territorial consolidation. Thus, if we replace Arab scimitars with Indian bows and arrows, swords with cowboy revolvers, and stone castles with the wooden forts of the Seventh Cavalry, the result is a story worthy of the Western film industry.

However, this analogy should serve to distance us from the Spanish epic based on “destiny in the universal” and to accept — once and for all — that the process experienced by the Asturian world at the end of the 8th century is not an isolated event, nor, by any means, the result of a substantial idea. Rather, these events were very similar to those that occurred in other territories of the Hispanic world.

A paradigmatic case was the kingdom of Pamplona, which, only half a century later, adopted a very similar mechanism of legitimisation: the proclamation reigned —without Carolingian endorsement or immediate Caliphate pressure—, supported by the Church and by a heroic narrative —Roland and Roncesvalles— which, in the image of the Asturian model.

Based on this premise, we can understand how the new political reality of the north-west of the peninsula developed from the 9th century onwards. The emergence of a new oligarchy of Oviedo magnates, enriched by an efficient economy of pillage –on Caliphate lands– altered the tribal status quo of collective election, replacing it with the hereditary transmission of power within a single family. This break with the past took concrete and lasting shape with the founding of a new capital on the remains of an ancient Roman military camp. In this way, León became the new epicentre of Asturian-Leonese royal power.

This gesture not only involved the displacement of the political epicentre from Oviedo to León, but also the adoption of a new title — Rex Hispaniae — which evoked the plural notion of Hispania, configured from the ancient late Roman provinces. However, the Navarrese proclaimed Eneko Aritza—or Íñigo Arista—as Rex Pampilonensium, a title that emphasised their autonomy and, in turn, claimed power anchored in a specific territory and a distinct political community. The coexistence of these two formulas—one with a peninsular scope and the other with strictly regional roots—perfectly illustrates the fragmentation of power and the plurality of political projects that characterised the Iberian Peninsula in the early Middle Ages. In short, the notion of “Hispania” was far from being unified under a single crown, but rather became a disputed space, where each kingdom sought to legitimise itself on the basis of its own tradition and genealogy.

The new Leonese dynasty reorganised its political space into four territories: Galicia, Asturias, Cantabria and Bardulia—known from the 10th century onwards as Castile—linked by a modern urban network designed to meet the needs of an aristocracy increasingly dependent on the royal expansionist policy. At the same time, the south was the subject of intense military fortification to guarantee the security of the kingdom. From then on, the territory south of the border was known—both as a political entity and as a defensive space—by the name of Extremadura, from the Latin Extrema Durii, “the end of the Duero”.

Unlike the Asturian valleys of the north, this Extremadura—that is, the strip between the Duero and Tagus rivers—offered wide plains and forests suitable for the progressive and coercive imposition of large-scale cereal and livestock production, the basis of the survival of the Kingdom of León.

Only this perspective explains the enormous economic dynamism that the Leonese dynasty experienced throughout the 10th–12th centuries. Therefore, continuing with the analogy of the Far West—like a gold prospector gone mad— the kingdom of León always needed new territories to continue feeding its greed and that of its allies in order to maintain the political, economic and cultural structure of the kingdom.

Propaganda as a weapon of mass destruction

Whenever the coffers of the Kingdom of León demanded greater revenues, the recipe was invariable: expand at the expense of the lands under Caliphate jurisdiction. This constant thirst for resources was due, above all, to the whims of the elites: the enlargement of a palace or cathedral, the commissioning of a mural painting that responded to purely ornamental and ideological tastes, the acquisition of relics of dubious origin, the purchase of lavish jewellery with spices from the East, and, even more importantly, several devout—and very costly—journeys to venerate the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. In short, these were expenses that were absolutely essential for the smooth running of the kingdom’s internal economy.

In addition, it was necessary to maintain a warrior elite that would guarantee the status of the elites, which represented such a huge economic drain on the royal coffers—and, incidentally, on the peasant communities—that the only way to legitimise it was to keep these warriors constantly on the move. This was to prevent them from becoming bored and starting to look for enemies at home, as numerous episodes documented in the 11th century show. Faced with this danger, the Leonese elites chose to channel feudal violence outwards, inventing and magnifying an external enemy: the infidel of the Caliphate, who, by defending himself against feudal attacks, further justified Leon’s expansionist policy.

But no conquest can last without a narrative to give it moral cover. The chronicles – like television or cinema today – were the perfect amplifier: they decided the plan, cut out reality, inflated the smallest victory and hid the most humiliating defeat. All wrapped up in heroic discourse that turned looting into a pious work and an unworthy manoeuvre into a founding feat. They did not explain what happened, but rather what was convenient for posterity.

And this is where the Albeldense, Rotense and Sebastianense chronicles come into play: pens that write to the rhythm of the sword, drafted ex post to create a tailor-made memory. Thanks to them, the usurpation was disguised as a feat and the Leonese dynasty proclaimed itself the direct heir to the legendary kingdom of the Basques. The ultimate paradox: the same dynasty that, at the time, had done everything possible to differentiate itself — or even renounce — that legacy, now claimed it as its founding pedigree.

To give substance to the legend, they did not hesitate to invent heroes such as Pelayo and battles such as Covadonga—episodes that, at best, are only mentioned in passing in accounts written centuries after the events they purport to describe. In fact, contemporary Arab chronicles do not even mention them, revealing the extent to which these myths are political constructs rather than historical accounts.

These chronicles—the foundation on which the historiographical idea of the ‘Reconquista’ is built—are not a transparent window into the past, but rather a showcase for political and economic propaganda at the service of a dynasty and an aristocracy hungry for land and eager to perpetuate their status. Far from merely explaining events, they anchor the fiction of a historical mission and construct an invented right to intervene in territories and communities that, until then, had lived on the margins of the new machinery of power. A fiction that, more than a millennium later, still breathes… and which, in some Castilian academic circles, continues to be venerated with the blind faith of a dogma.

A territory of “free people”

From the beginning of feudal expansion in the early 9th century, the territories of the north-western peninsula were organised under the legal and administrative formula of dominium, based on Roman law, which designated a dominus or lord as the owner of the land. Therefore, the king or count became, from the outset, the ultimate owner of all the land that was expropriated.

No lord would have any interest in owning land, water, livestock, or mills if there were no peasants capable of organising stable work processes that would convert their efforts into income. For this reason, from the 10th century onwards, León’s expansionist policy was implemented through the communities of ‘town and land’, which would become the key element of political and legal organisation within the newly expropriated territories.

Contrary to what traditional historiography maintains, these territories were not a desert in the literal sense of the word, i.e. completely unpopulated. The term desert has been used in a self-serving way to justify the use of force, when in reality it referred to areas that were not under the effective jurisdiction of Leonese or Castilian power. Free peasant communities lived there, with their own forms of self-government and resource management, which escaped the fiscal and jurisdictional control of the new lords.

The real danger to the aristocracy was not, therefore, a supposed demographic void, but the existence of these independent groups to be subjugated. To achieve this, brutal debt mechanisms were created — letters of settlement, ‘presura’ contracts — which immobilised the population, tied them to the land and allowed large-scale cereal and livestock production to be imposed, with the aim of ensuring the continuity of the lords’ incomes.

Over time, the lands ended up being ceded to other lords, ecclesiastical entities or monasteries, generating a diversity of property regimes — royal, abbatial, ancestral, behetría — which, from the 14th century onwards, would lead to the concentration of power and land in a few hands. Historiography has defined this process as Lordship.

However, at the beginning of the 13th century, this territorial policy ended up suffocating León society. The ambition of the rentiers—the nobility and clergy—demanded more land and, therefore, more peasants to turn it into income. However, since part of the indigenous population had been expelled or massacred, León—now more than ever—found itself with large unpopulated territories. Furthermore, the population of León did not have sufficient demographic capacity as a result of an insufficient birth rate, which prevented the situation from being reversed. For this reason, the Leonese feudal model became, in the long run, inflexible; and, despite providing social stability, it ended up stifling innovation and expansion.

At the same time, Castilian feudalism, which had also originated on the border with Al-Andalus, was shaped by an even more militarised society, where peasants were both farmers and soldiers, forced to defend the territory while producing surplus crops. Therefore, each new conquest required the construction of fortifications and the establishment of settlements that transformed entire communities into defensive units.

This dynamic made Castile a society that was extremely adaptable to the different expansionary circumstances of the successive centuries. For this reason, both the aristocracy—and the clergy—and the peasants shared the same social function: to guarantee territorial dominance. While León preserved a conservative feudalism, Castile deployed a much more aggressive, adaptable and dynamic feudal system, capable of projecting itself hegemonic over the rest of the territories. This model worked as long as there was enough territory to implement it, that is, until the 14th century.

Faced with this scenario of structural exhaustion, the royal family of León opted for a “pragmatic” solution: to sell the kingdom of León to Castile for an annual sum of 15,000 maravedis — about €2 million today — for each member of the family until their death. The agreement was sealed in the Concordia de Benavent (1230).

The Castilian extractive model

Following the purchase of the Kingdom of León, its integration into the Castilian sphere not only transformed the political balance on the peninsula, but also marked a turning point in the model of land exploitation. The former diversity of political and economic structures was absorbed by a system of government that concentrated power and land in the hands of a rentier minority, often absentee landlords, who lived far removed from productive activity. These elites, whether the monarchy, the high nobility or the upper echelons of the church hierarchy, gradually detached themselves from the material needs of the population and focused on perpetuating their privileges.

The Castilian peninsular economy evolved into an extractive model in which wealth did not come from innovation, manufacturing or internal trade, but from the ability to extract agricultural and fiscal rents from a subjugated peasantry, after having experienced the process of seigniorage or loss of freedoms. The territory was now perceived as an inexhaustible source of exploitation, rather than a space for innovation. This logic consolidated a structure of systemic inequality, in which productive work was relegated to the lowest strata, while the elites concentrated wealth and political power.

When, from the 16th century onwards, massive shipments of gold and silver from America began to arrive on the peninsula, this colossal influx of precious metals was not used to diversify the economy, create infrastructure or promote an industrial base of its own. On the contrary, it became fuel to finance distant wars, sustain a deeply corrupt court, maintain an increasingly parasitic aristocracy and pay perpetual debts to German and Italian bankers. Corruption was not a deviation from the system, but a pillar of its functioning: the distribution of honours, positions, and privileges served to ensure political loyalties and perpetuate the rentier circle. The result was that, while the Castilian royal coffers saw tons of gold pouring in, internal productive structures remained anchored in medieval patterns and dependent on rent extraction.

Thus, at the dawn of the 18th century, Castile was burdened with a structural deficit that turned the weakness of the urban fabric, the fragmentation of markets and the persistent concentration of land into insurmountable obstacles to modernisation and industrialisation. The feudal structures, the lack of an autonomous bourgeoisie capable of challenging aristocratic power, and the pre-eminence of agricultural rents over manufacturing production had shaped a dual country: a north with some dynamic urban centres but no capacity for traction, and a south dominated by large, unproductive estates.

This imbalance was not the result of specific circumstances, but rather the continuation—under new forms and new names—of the economic and political model born with the integration of León into Castile. A model that survived intact through each change of dynasty and which, with the arrival of the Bourbons, would not only remain unreformed, but would end up being amplified.

A dynamic that continues to this day

In the early 18th century, the death of the last Habsburg triggered a bloody war of succession. When the Spanish throne finally passed to the Bourbons, many believed that this would mark the beginning of a profound reform of the state, given that Philip V inherited a healthy treasury thanks to the management of his predecessor, Charles II, and the first documented controlled deflation in Western Europe. The royal coffers showed a surplus, an unheard-of situation for a monarch accustomed to the French court, which was permanently in debt due to the extravagant luxuries of Louis XIV.

But in less than ten years, that economic cushion evaporated. Bourbon centralism did not reform the system, but rather shielded it. The state continued to live off rents and depend on external resources, while public assets remained at the service of the private interests of the circles of power—an inertia that, in fact, has continued to this day.

The new administrative apparatus, modelled on the French system and marked by the French mentality—the conception that France is not just a state, but a territorial project that always seeks to be more compact, more controlled and with “perfect” borders—served to control all the peninsular territories and the flow of wealth they generated more directly. Therefore, this system was not used to modernise the economy, let alone to redistribute opportunities. Cronyism, corruption, and the distribution of positions to loyalists not only continued, but became systemic. In this way, the historical imbalance between the peninsular territories was perpetuated.

The hexagon that never closes

Ultimately, the change of dynasty did not mark the birth of a modern Spain, but rather the continuation of a secular mechanism, now with a French accent and wrapped in a more polished narrative. A narrative that drew on the expansionist mentality of the hexagon, but which remains unfinished to this day.

Following this political logic, Castile reached the Cortes of Cadiz (1812) —in the midst of the war against Napoleon— to formulate ‘Spain’ as a unitary state for the first time. The underlying objective was territorial homogenisation, something that was never achieved due to the existence of internal linguistic, legal, cultural and economic diversity.

Napoleon’s defeat and the subsequent Congress of Vienna (1814–1815) drew up a new continental map. The great European powers, obsessed with containing France, created several ‘buffer states’ —such as the Netherlands, Bavaria and Piedmont-Sardinia— to curb possible future French expansion. In this context, Catalonia, due to its geographical position, historical identity and political tradition, had the opportunity to become the fourth leg of this defensive belt in the south. However, the combination of a Spain ruled by an absolutist and discredited Ferdinand VII and Catalan economic elites more interested in maintaining commercial privileges in the empire than in redefining their sovereignty closed that historic opportunity. This episode demonstrates that borders are not always marked by geography, but by political decisions—and renunciations.

Since then, Spain’s clienteles system and structural corruption have not only survived, but have adapted to each regime: from the networks of influence woven during feudal expansion, later evolved through the process of lordship under the Old Regime, to the caciques of the 19th century, the elites of the Restoration, and the intermediaries of the 20th and 21st centuries. The mechanism has always been the same: to concentrate power and resources in a like-minded minority, while proclaiming a unifying discourse that ignores or erases internal differences.

And this is where the concept of ‘Reconquista’ becomes the cornerstone of all Spanish political ideology over the last two hundred years. Through an apparently historical narrative—spanning an uninterrupted period of about a thousand years—this concept was used by the Castilian elites not only to justify unity, but also to present it as an indispensable condition for sustaining the very structure of the state. This structure is nourished by creating economic and political dependencies of the territorial elites on the centre: privileges, contracts, positions, and aid that ensure their loyalty and neutralise any dissent. Without this network of dependencies—where corruption acts as cement—the system would become ungovernable.

Likewise, this dynamic of the Spanish state has also generated internal resistance in some territories which, despite pressure, have managed to fight to preserve their uniqueness, language, culture, and institutions. But this resistance —often underestimated— has also had to combat not only the offensive from the centre, but also the betrayal of those who, without scruples, have sold their country in exchange for favours and perpetual income.

Thus, the imposition of Castilian supremacy over the peninsular plurality is the mechanism that allows this architecture of power to be perpetuated. The hexagon is still unfinished, not because of a lack of centralising will, but because the peninsular reality—radically diverse since its origins—has never been homogenised towards the centre. Only a multifaceted approach would allow Spain to finally take shape.

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