THE EPIC OF THE CRUSADE.
On the tombstone of Count Raimon VI. the following two lines, in
Provençal, were engraved:—
Non y a homes sus terra, per gran senhor que fos,
Quem gites de ma terra, si la glieza non fos;
that is—‘No man on earth, how great a lord he may be, can drive me from
my land but for the Church.’ These lines are taken from a narrative of
the crusade against the Albigenses, in the _langue d’oc_—a work equally
interesting as a contemporary source of history, and as a literary
document. In the latter respect alone it concerns us here, and the reader
is asked to consider the preceding historic remarks mainly as a necessary
elucidation of the following extracts. A few dates as to the genesis and
character of the poem itself may perhaps be welcome.
The ‘Song of the Crusade against the Albigeois’ is evidently written by
an eye-witness of many of the events described, and was, no doubt, at
its first appearance, what we should call a most successful book. Its
popularity is proved by the quotation already alluded to, as also by
the fact that at an early date an abridgment of its contents in prose,
for more popular use, was found necessary. In spite of this, only one
manuscript[27] of the poem has reached our time. It was edited amongst
the ‘Documents inédits sur l’histoire de France,’ by the well-known
scholar, M. Fauriel, in 1837. The author of the poem is by no means
reticent as to his identity or merits. ‘In the name of the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ he opens his poem, after the manner of his
time, ‘here begins the song which Master W(illiam) made; a clerk who
was brought up at Tudela, in Navarra. He is wise and valorous, as the
story says, and he was much cherished by clerks and laymen. Counts and
viscounts loved him, and trusted his advice, owing to the destruction
which he knew and foresaw by means of geomancy, which he had studied
long. And he knew that the country would be burnt and laid waste, because
of the foolish belief it had adopted.’
But in spite of this emphatic declaration, M. Fauriel saw reason to
call in question not only the authorship, but the very existence of the
wise clerk of Tudela. The pretension of proficiency in the black art
boldly put forward, seemed to him a suspicious circumstance, and his
doubt was confirmed by linguistic difficulties, into which we cannot
enter here. These latter, however, have been conclusively solved by
more recent scholars, and William’s posthumous fame would be securely
established, but for another circumstance fatal to at least part of
his claim. Fauriel already had pointed out that after about the first
third of the poem—at verse 2769 later scholars have determined—a sudden
change takes place in the author’s opinions. Hitherto he has been a warm
defender of the crusaders; the French invaders are called ‘our French
barons,’ and the author would be thankful to any one ‘who would hang
those robbers and villains who kill the crusaders.’ Folquet, the zealous
Bishop of Toulouse, seems to him to have ‘no equal in kindness’ (‘degus
de bontat ab el no s’aparelha’); and Simon de Montfort, the great enemy
of Provence, is described as a ‘good cavalier, liberal and brave and
kindly, sweet-tempered and open-hearted, and of good understanding.’ The
heretical creed the author calls, as has been said, a ‘fola crezensa,’
and the full measure of his wrath is emptied on its adherents. He
complacently relates the cruelties committed against them, and objects
only to the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent and guilty.
But all this is changed in the second portion of the poem. The French
have now become ‘homicides’ and ‘men of the sword;’ sometimes even the
uncomplimentary epithet of ‘taverners,’ or pothouse-keepers, is applied
to them. Folquet is summarily alluded to as the ‘avesque felon,’ or
‘wicked bishop;’ and the Pope himself is reproached with his cruelty to
Raimon. But the most striking contrast between the two portions of the
poem becomes apparent in the judgment of Simon de Montfort’s character.
The author’s hatred against him in the second part vents itself in
bitterest invective, and is not appeased by death itself. The description
of the great leader’s fall in our poem is extremely vivid; it is painted
with the colours of hatred. At the same time the triumph at the enemy’s
fall bears involuntary witness to his greatness. Simon is besieging
Toulouse, the rebellious capital of the dominions lately granted to him
by the Pope, and the author describes an assault made by the crusaders,
and valiantly repelled by the inhabitants. Montfort, incensed at the
little progress made by his troops, is complaining to his brother,
who has just been hit by an arrow. There was in the city, the author
continues, a machine for throwing stones, worked by women, both girls and
matrons. A stone is thrown, and goes ‘straight where it ought to go.’
This ‘ought to go’ is an admirable trait of the fatalism of hatred. ‘It
hits,’ the author continues, evidently gloating over the details, ‘Count
Simon on his helmet, with such force that his eyes and brain, and the top
of his head, and his forehead, and his jaws, are knocked to pieces. And
the Count falls to the ground, dead, and bleeding, and black.’
The terror and grief caused by this sudden event amongst the crusaders
are then briefly alluded to, but the author is again in his element when
he describes the unbounded joy of the besieged, fully shared by himself.
The suggestions of making a martyr and saint of Simon, in his epitaph,
the author treats with the utmost scorn. ‘If by killing men,’ he says,
‘and shedding blood, by destroying souls and consenting to murder, by
trusting in false counsels and by incendiarism, by ruining the barons and
shaming nobility, by fostering evil and crushing good, by the massacre of
women and children, one can gain Jesus Christ in this world, then Simon
must wear a crown and shine in heaven.’
It is difficult to believe that the same hand which thus heaped shame on
Simon’s grave should have penned the eulogistic lines of the first part
of the poem, particularly if one considers that the change of opinion
from the particular point formerly alluded to coincides with certain
metrical and dialectical variations totally overlooked by Fauriel, but
since pointed out by M. Paul Meyer. The theory of there being only one
author, however, has by no means been totally abandoned. Its champions
explain the revolution in the poet’s feeling partly from the impression
made on him by the cruelties of the invaders, partly from a change in his
situation during the interval of several years, which undoubtedly lies
between the end of the first and the commencement of the second part of
his work. Into the philological details of this interesting controversy
this is not the place to enter. Suffice it to say that, all things
considered, the dualistic supposition seems to be decidedly the more
probable of the two, both on external and internal grounds.
One or two specimens from the interesting poem must serve the reader to
judge of the poetic gift of William, or whoever the author or authors
may have been. It has already been said that in his dealings with Count
Raimon the conduct of Innocent III. himself was marked by greater
leniency than that of his legates. This feature in the Pope’s character
has suggested to our author a most curious scene, which he introduces
into his elaborate account of the Council of the Lateran in 1215. Raimon
of Toulouse, the Count of Foix, and several others of the threatened
nobles of Provence, attended personally to plead their cause before
the Holy Father. The legates and many of the local clergy of the south
of France—the implacable Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, foremost amongst
them—upheld the claims of Simon de Montfort. A long and passionate
dispute on the subject between the Count of Foix and the Bishop of
Toulouse is given verbatim. The Pope tries to quiet them. ‘Friends,
justice shall be done,’ he exclaims. At last he retires for a few minutes
to his orchard. But the zealous prelates will not let him rest. The Pope
asks for a few minutes of reflection. He opens a book, and concludes
from the passage that first meets his eye that the Count of Toulouse may
yet hold his own. ‘My lords,’ he says to the prelates, ‘I cannot agree
with you. How can I disinherit the Count, who is a true Catholic?’ But
the prelates do not, it appears, believe in book messages. They clamour
against the sentence, and Folquet, the most dangerous of all, unites his
sweet persuasion with their violent remonstrance. The Archbishop of Auch
and—awful to relate—three hundred cardinals follow suit. No wonder that
the poor Pope at last grants the decree in Simon’s favour. ‘My lords,’
he finally exclaims, ‘the cause is decided. The Count (Raimon) is a
Catholic, and of loyal conduct; but let Simon hold the lands.’
These speeches cannot be accepted in their literal meaning, any more than
those found in the pages of Xenophon or Thucydides. The circumstance
also of the Pope deciding clearly and confessedly against his own
conscience is evidently the high-coloured statement of a partisan of the
oppressed Count. (The scene, it must be remembered, occurs in the second
and anti-clerical division of the poem.) But the incidents are related
with so much freshness of individual characterisation that the author’s
intimate acquaintance with the persons and events described cannot be
doubted for a moment. At any rate it is a quaint picture, and not without
historic significance, to see the great Pontiff, the breaker of thrones
and the umpire of nations, quailing under the storm of fanaticism raised
by himself. Moreover, the idea which suggested the situation to the poet
is not without its grain of sober truth. For, as has already been said,
it is an historic fact that Innocent III. on several occasions showed an
unfortunately abortive desire to protect Raimon against the unfettered
rage of legates and monks.
From the council-chamber we follow our author to the battle-field. Here,
also, he is perfectly at home, and his descriptions, although naturally
less attractive as regards psychological observation, are none the less
vigorous and interesting. There is the true ring of the ‘chanson de
geste,’ the genuine popular epic, in his lines. A few historic remarks
must precede our quotation. The reader will remember the name of Peter
II., the valiant king of Aragon, whose sister was the wife of Raimon of
Toulouse. Although by no means favourably inclined towards the heretics,
Peter could not calmly look on while his brother-in-law was despoiled
of his heritage. His attempts at mediation between Raimon and Simon de
Montfort were many. He appealed to the Pope and the King of France. At
last, when his peaceful efforts proved in vain, he resolved to brave
temporal and eternal perils rather than forsake his friend. He assembled
a large army, and in September 1213 joined his forces with those of the
Count of Toulouse. The immediate object of the allies was the siege of
Muret, a small fortified town, not far from Toulouse, into which Simon
had thrown himself. I now leave the word to the old chronicler.
‘The good King of Aragon, on his good charger, is come to Muret, and has
raised his banner and laid siege to the town with many rich vassals whom
he has called from their fiefs. He has brought with him the flower of
Catalonia, and many great knights from Aragon. They think that no one
will offer resistance to them, or dare to attack them. He sends a message
to the husband of his sister at Toulouse to join him with his barons and
his army and his warlike men. He (the king) is ready to restore their
fiefs to the Count of Cominges and all his relations; after that he
will go to Beziers, and from Montpelier to Rocamador he will not leave
a single crusader in castle or tower. All shall die a miserable death.
The brave Count, when he hears the message, is well pleased, and goes
straight to the Capitol.’
The next tirade[28] relates to the deliberations of the Count of Toulouse
with the chief magistrates of his city, whom, in accordance with the
freedom enjoyed by the burgesses of Provence, he has to consult on this
important occasion. It further describes the departure of the army, and
winds up with a truly epical prognostication of their tragic fate. ‘They
arrive before Muret, where they were to lose all their own; so much
beautiful armour and so many valiant men. Great pity it was, so help me
God, and the whole world felt the loss.’
‘The whole world felt the loss, believe me I speak truth. Paradise
itself was shaken and damaged and all Christendom shamed and downcast.
But listen, sirs, how the thing came to pass. Assembled are at Muret the
good King of Aragon and the Count of St. Giles, with his barons, and all
the citizens and commonalty of Toulouse. They mount their stone-throwing
machines, and batter the walls of Muret on all sides. They enter the
new town all together, and the French who are there are so hard pressed
that they have all to seek shelter in the castle. At once a messenger
is sent to the king. “Sir King of Aragon, know for true that the men of
Toulouse have done so well that, by your leave, they have taken the city.
They have destroyed the houses, and driven the French into the castle.”
When the king hears this he is not well pleased. He goes to the consuls
of Toulouse and admonishes them to leave the men of Muret in peace.
“We should be foolish,” he says, “in taking the town, for I have had a
letter—a sealed message—to say that Simon de Montfort will to-morrow
enter the town, and when he is once enclosed in it, and when my cousin
Nunos has arrived, we will attack the town on all sides, and take all the
French and crusaders captive.”’
The troops vacate Muret accordingly, and retire to their tents. They have
hardly sat down to dinner when Simon, with a band of chosen knights,
appears and at once enters the city. ‘The river was shining with their
helmets and their blades as if it were made of crystal. Never, by St.
Martial, were so many brave vassals seen among so small a band.’
The night is passed by the two armies in preparations for the morrow’s
combat. Disagreement reigns in the camp of the allies. In the council of
war the Count of Toulouse, who does not wish to risk a pitched battle
with his army of citizens, and advises the fortification of the camp, is
cried down by hot-headed fools, and no plan is finally agreed upon. The
confusion of the leaders naturally grows worse confounded amongst the
motley crowd of soldiers and ill-trained citizens. Simon de Montfort’s
scheme, on the other hand, is devised with masterly skill. He desires
what Count Raimon tries to avoid—a pitched battle in the open country.
Bishop Folquet gives his blessing to the departing army. The catastrophe
foreshadowed in the manner alluded to is told briefly, in accordance with
the rapidity of the actual disaster.
‘They (the French) march straight to the tents across the fens, their
banners floating in the air. The whole meadow is resplendent with their
gilt armour. When the good King of Aragon sees them he awaits them with
a small number of followers. But the people of Toulouse come running
by. They listen neither to king nor count. They never hear a word till
the French are come, who all rush to where they know the king to be. He
cries out, “I am the king,” but they hear him not, and so cruelly is he
wounded, that his blood is shed over the land, and there he fell down,
at full length, dead. The others who behold him give themselves over
for lost. Every one flies. No one defends himself. The French follow at
their heels and kill them all. And so roughly have they handled them that
those who escape with their lives think themselves delivered indeed.’ A
general stampede of the men of Toulouse, who had remained in the camp,
and many of whom are now drowned in the swollen waves of the Garonne,
forms the closing scene of this wild battle piece. ‘All their goods,’
the poet once more complains, ‘remained in the camp, and the loss was
greatly felt all the world over. For many a man there remained lying on
the ground quite dead. Great is the pity!’
Such is the description of the battle of Muret by a contemporary, most
likely an eye-witness. For here again the characters of the different
leaders, their speeches, and their demeanour, are sketched with a
boldness of individualisation which can have been derived from personal
knowledge alone. As a historic source, the work under discussion is
absolutely invaluable. English students especially ought to give it every
attention. For the struggle which it describes involved questions of the
utmost importance to the continental dependencies of the English crown.
It ought to be added, that the battle of Muret was a fatal blow to
Raimon’s cause, from which it never recovered. For years he continued
the fight; but it was a struggle against fate, a hope against hope. A
different issue of that day might have changed the development of France.
It might also have given new and lasting vitality to the Reformation of
the thirteenth century.