THE COMING OF PHILIP AUGUSTUS AND RICHARD—FALL OF ACRE.
Richard I. was crowned King of England in September, 1189. In October
there arrived in England a messenger from Philip of France, reminding
the king of their mutual oaths to make the crusade. The adventurous
spirit of Richard did not need this appeal. He drained the resources of
his realm in gathering means. All the money left him by his father,
Henry II., was first appropriated. He then sold the manors and
prospective income of the crown. Next the chief offices of honor and
responsibility went to the highest bidder who had ready cash. Thus Hugh
de Puzas, Bishop of Durham, became chief justice of England for a
thousand marks. Having abundant soldiery at his command, Richard then
allowed any one to purchase the privilege of staying at home; he even
declared that he would sell the City of London for a reasonable price.
The vassalage of Scotland went for a thousand marks, together with the
fortresses of Roxburgh and Berwick. When he had nothing more to sell he
forced his richer subjects to make him loans, which they knew he never
would repay. A plain-spoken preacher advised him, before he set out on
an expedition in the name of religion, to dispose of some of his
notorious vices, naming especially his pride, avarice, and
voluptuousness. Richard replied, “You counsel well, and I hereby dispose
of the first to the Templars, of the second to the Benedictine monks,
and of the third to my prelates.”
Consigning the administration of England to Hugh, Bishop of Durham, and
an unsavory Frenchman, Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, he left England,
accompanied by a turbulent crowd of adventurers. He made his rendezvous
with the French king at Vezelay (June, 1190). Here the monarchs swore
fraternity and to sacredly respect each other’s domains during the
crusade. They invoked upon themselves the curses of Heaven and the
church if they should prove unfaithful. The joint armies numbered a
hundred thousand men. Warned by the reverses experienced by their
predecessors in crusading overland, they chose the sea route to
Palestine.
Philip sailed from Genoa for Sicily. He entered the port of Messina,
September 16, 1190. Richard sailed from Marseilles, hugging the Italian
coast, according to the sea travel of the day, visiting port towns _en
route_, and paying worship at the shrines of the various local saints.
He reached Messina a few days later than Philip (September 23d).
The main English fleet, leaving England and Normandy, had gone southward
along the coast of France and Spain. The lands they passed in sight of
were strange to the navigators, so little was known of the geography of
even the countries of Europe. At Lisbon they could not resist the
temptation to help the Portuguese Christians in a war with the Saracens,
nor of indulging a less laudable sort of prowess, which Hovenden
describes: “Disembarking from their ships, they made their way into the
city, and as they went through streets and lanes talked to the people,
giving themselves airs and committing violence upon the wives and
daughters of the citizens; they drove away pagans and Jews, plundered
their property, and burned their houses. They then stripped their
vineyards, leaving them not so much as a grape.” This faithful
chronicler also narrates that during a storm at sea St. Thomas à Becket
appeared to them and calmed the waves. “They passed the city of
Silva(?), which was the most remote of all the cities of Christendom.”
At Marseilles they missed King Richard, who already had departed; but
they were compensated for their disappointment in being enabled to
worship the identical “rods with which our Lord was scourged, the
jaw-bone of Lazarus, and one of the ribs of Lawrence.” Approaching
Sicily, they saw the marvellous fish of St. Agatha, the story of which
they believed: how that the heat of the volcano of Mount Gebel
(Stromboli?) once threatened the town of Catana; but the people took the
veil of St. Agatha from her tomb, “carried it before them, facing the
fire, on which the flames returned to the sea and, parching it, dried it
up for nearly a mile, and scorched the fish, many of which were half
burned; and there are to this day many fish there of the same kind.” But
the marvels of that voyage are too many for our pages, if not for the
credulity of the reader.
Richard himself remained six months in Marseilles, a delay that nearly
caused the destruction of his enterprise. A quarrel was started with
Tancred, ruler of Sicily, about certain rights of Richard’s sister
Joanna, who was the widow of Tancred’s predecessor. Says the chronicler:
“Quicker than priest could chant matins did King Richard take the city.”
Philip resented Richard’s audacity and forced him to take down his
standard. Richard had once solicited and gained from Philip the hand of
the French princess Alice; but, his advantage now blowing from another
direction, he preferred Berengaria, a princess of Navarre. Berengaria,
through the connivance of Eleanor, was brought to Messina. Only at the
entreaty of utmost piety and discretion could Philip be persuaded to lay
aside his rage at this new insult. He sailed at once for the East.
Richard followed eleven days later (April, 1191), taking with him
Berengaria and Joanna, ex-Queen of Sicily. Three ships of the English
fleet were wrecked on Cyprus, and their crews imprisoned by the
inhabitants. Isaac, the king of the island, refused to redress the
wrong. Richard administered swift punishment. Within three weeks he
conquered the entire country, and, binding its ruler in a chain of
silver, took him along on an involuntary pilgrimage to Palestine.
Richard had celebrated his prowess at Cyprus by his nuptials with
Berengaria. The new queen took with her as companion the daughter of
Isaac, whose constant presence is said to have disturbed the already
uncertain marital habits of her husband.
The French welcomed the arrival of their English allies with great
bonfires, which were designed to proclaim the joy of the Christians and
to flash dismay to the Moslem camps. The plain of Acre was soon filled
with the tents of a host which represented the strength of combined
Europe. Peoples strange to one another in speech, manners, and arms were
one only in their cause. It is not to be wondered at if, at times, these
races more sharply accentuated their differences than their unity. The
contention between Guy and Conrad for the kingship of Jerusalem, which
was referred to Philip and Richard for settlement, only gave opportunity
for renewed hostility between these monarchs, Philip declaring for
Conrad, and Richard for Guy. The matter was finally settled by agreement
that Guy should reign and that Conrad should be his successor.
The jealousy of French and English prevented mutual help in the battles
daily occurring, wherefore it was agreed that but one army should fight
at a time against the walls of Acre, while the other should guard
against a rear attack by Saladin. Thus the honors were easy, as the
tasks assigned were equally hazardous. The courtesies of the camp were
more readily extended to their enemy than to one another. Saladin,
during the sickness of both sovereigns, sent to them his own physicians,
and such luxuries as the East provided. While they received these from
their foe without suspicion, Philip and Richard each attributed his
sickness to the poisoning of the other, and each accused his Christian
associate with using Saladin’s favors with a view to treasonable
alliance.
Often tournaments were arranged between Moslem and Christian in the
sight of both armies. Knight and emir entered the lists, abusing each
other with their tongues like twin Thersiteses, then fighting with the
valor of Hector and Achilles. Women did not disdain rivalry for the palm
in swordcraft, and bands of children from either side fought to the
death in the presence of their parents. The Infidel played for the dance
of the Christian, and the minstrel of Europe gave the rhythm to the feet
of the Saracen. The table of Saladin was sometimes graced by the
presence of the foremost European knights, and in turn emirs feasted at
the board of those whom they most dreaded to meet on the field. Saladin
so respected the courtesy and devotion of the true Christian knight that
he willingly wore the decoration of Chivalry, while Richard rode into
battle one of the two splendid steeds which were the gift of the
sultan’s brother. The lowest vices of the East and the West became the
open indulgence of the camps of both. But each party maintained the
utmost outward reverence to the symbols of his own religion; Saladin
pausing in the midst of battle to read a chapter of the Koran, and the
King of Jerusalem advancing to fight with the Gospels borne aloft before
him.
The besieged in Acre were reduced to extremities, the Christians
completely investing the city on the land side in spite of the forays of
Saladin from the hills, and their fleets cutting off all succor from the
sea. At length, after two years of incessant fighting, during which nine
great battles were fought, the standard of the cross was seen floating
from the ramparts of the city (July 12, 1191). The besieged had
capitulated upon condition that their lives should be spared, and that
Saladin should pay their ransom in two hundred pieces of gold. In the
original proposal it was agreed to surrender the wood of the True Cross,
the possession of which by the Infidels was imagined to be the cause of
all sorts of disasters to the Christian world; among the least of which,
if we are to believe a chronicler of the time, was that all children
born in Christendom since the capture of the cross at Hattîn had but
twenty-two instead of thirty-two teeth. Richard was not religious enough
to insist upon the restoration of this precious symbol.
Saladin, after the city had fallen, delayed in fulfilling the condition
that the defenders of Acre had put upon him relative to their ransom
money. Richard avenged this assumed breach of faith by massacring five
thousand unarmed Moslems before the city wall. Philip, in disgust at
this action, turned over his army to the Duke of Burgundy and returned
to France.
Richard, thus left in sole command, crossed Mount Carmel and proceeded
southward, keeping close to the shore that he might have timely
assistance from his fleet. At every stream and sand-dune he met the
omnipresent Saladin. The Christians’ march was under an incessant rain
of arrows, which covered the frequent dashes of the Moslem squadrons. At
the banks of the Arsur (Nahr Falik) the Christians encountered the
entire army of their contestants (September 7, 1191). Though Richard led
sixty thousand, the Oriental historian Omad, secretary to Saladin, says
that the Mussulmans surrounded them as the eyelashes surround the eye.
The cry “Allah! Allah!” was echoed by “Deus vult!” as the mighty hosts
sprang upon each other. The Christian infantry, leading the assault,
suddenly opened its ranks; the cavalry poured through and made the first
attack. Richard followed with the main body. Nothing could withstand the
fury of his onset. The Moslems were swept before him; but they as
quickly gathered in his rear, compelling him to return and fight over
again the battle he had already won. The plain was too small for the
multitude to marshal in orderly array. The armies were intertwined as
the many folds of two serpents of hostile breed. It is said that more
than once Richard and Saladin tested each other’s qualities by personal
encounter; the only doubt cast upon this story by Christian writers
being from the fact that Saladin survived, the Arabic chroniclers
rejecting it on the ground that Richard still lived.
At nightfall the Moslems extricated themselves from the mêlée and
disappeared in the forests of Saron, the Christians being wary enough
not to follow them. Had Richard pursued his advantage the Arabian
historians admit that he might have secured Jerusalem; but the impulsive
temper of this leader suffered from sudden reaction. He repaired to
Jaffa with the women of his household, and there established a brilliant
and festive court. One day while hunting he was surrounded by a troop of
Moslems. When he was on the point of being captured a French knight
cried out, “I am the king; spare me.” The Moslems, thus diverted,
allowed Richard to escape, and brought the knight a captive to Saladin.
Richard soon tired of his rest, and even of revelry, at Jaffa, and
projected the siege of Ascalon. Saladin, made aware of that enterprise,
burned the city. Richard set about its rebuilding; his orders were
disobeyed. Many echoed the words of Leopold of Austria, who declared
that he was a warrior, but neither a carpenter nor a mason.
The resentment of this prince had been kindled against the Englishman by
an outrage on the part of Richard in ordering the standard of Austria to
be thrown from the walls of Acre, where Leopold had presumptuously
planted it after the capture of that place. Conrad of Montferrat had
also taken umbrage at Richard’s lordly treatment of him, and was
detected in courting alliance with Saladin for the restitution of Acre.
Richard foiled him with deeper play. He proposed to give his sister, the
ex-Queen of Sicily, as wife to Malek-Ahdel, brother of Saladin, that
there might be erected at Jerusalem a mongrel empire of Christians and
Moslems. Saladin toyed with the proposition sufficiently to delay
Richard’s attack upon Jerusalem until that city had been greatly
strengthened. Thousands of Christian captives were set to work upon the
walls and in the ditches, under threat of being massacred, as were the
Moslems by Richard’s order at Acre. Realizing that his scheme of
alliance with Saladin had failed, Richard endeavored to engage his
antagonist in battle in the open country; but the astute Moslem was too
discreet to risk his cimeters against heavy swords, except when
necessary. He had also some less martial schemes on foot; he seduced
Conrad at least from whole-hearted loyalty to the cross, by promising to
defend him in permanent possession of whatever cities he might take from
his fellow-Christians. Conrad was soon assassinated by two Moslems.
Richard was quickly accused of being accessory to this deed. The
suspicion grew in plausibility when he forced Isabella, widow of Conrad,
to marry his nephew, the Count of Champagne, who thus, through
Isabella’s rights as sister of Sibylla, became titular King of
Jerusalem. King Guy was compensated for the loss of his throne by the
gift of the government of Cyprus, where his descendants reigned for two
hundred years, until the Moslem wave had ingulfed the entire eastern
Mediterranean.
Saladin was also thought to have connived at the murder of Conrad. One
of the murderers, however, confessed to having been the agent of the Old
Man of the Mountain, the chief of the sect of Assassins, who also avowed
himself responsible for the deed.
This sect, whose name has given to European languages their word for the
most atrocious crime, is one of the many divisions of the Moslem
peoples. Their sheik regarded himself as the lineal successor of Hassan,
and thus the inheritor of the Imam or Holy Spirit, whose possession is
the inner sign of the caliphate. Hassan, after various adventures,
retired to Altamont, a strong castle in the mountains of Persia, whence
his title, and that of his successors, of “Old Man of the Mountain.” He
attempted to enforce his spiritual authority by inspiring universal
dread of his vengeance. His successors and agents became adept in the
use of poisons, the dagger, and all methods of secretly disposing of
human life. So wide were the ramifications of this brotherhood that, not
only throughout the Moslem world, but in Christian Europe, sudden death,
otherwise unaccountable, was accredited to the Assassins, whose dusky
forms were imagined to move unseen in the bedchambers of princes and to
stand behind thrones. The name “Assassin” is apparently from “hashish,”
the drug with which the murderer stimulated his courage when accepting
the desperate commission from his chief.
Richard, thus relieved of his rival, Conrad, again showed his superior
powers of command. With marvellous celerity he swept over the country,
even to the southern extreme of Palestine, where he captured Dârôm, at
the entrance to Egypt. Saladin was apparently forced to retire within
the walls of Jerusalem. Richard pressed towards the sacred city (June,
1192). Rumors of Saracen destitution and fright came upon every wind.
The crusaders were eager to pluck again the prize of Jerusalem, which
Providence seemed to hang within their reach; but Richard was
incredulous of the weakness of a foe he had always found as strong as
himself, and whom he knew to be his superior in craft. He pointed out to
his followers that at that very moment the Moslem armies, scattered
everywhere among the Judean foot-hills, actually surrounded their own;
that the roads to the city were in places but narrow defiles guarded by
precipitous heights, from which a few could hurl destruction upon many.
To carry siege apparatus through such a country, facing the menace of a
Saladin, was to invoke certain disaster. If repulse should come, what
relief could they find so far away from the coast? How could they ever
hope to make good a retreat to their ships?
The council of knights to whom the matter was referred agreed with their
chief. Richard, with undoubted affliction of his martial pride, if not
of his pious spirit, gave one longing look towards the distant domes of
Jerusalem. He then covered his face with his shield and turned away,
declaring that he was unwilling to gaze upon that which he was unable to
conquer.
The retreat from Jerusalem destroyed Richard’s prestige as a strategist
and capable leader of great enterprises; but nothing ever lessened his
lustre for personal bravery. The lion may be outwitted by the fox; and
it is no deep disgrace to Cœur de Lion that he could not circumvent a
Saladin. Richard vented his disappointment and rage upon many parts of
the Moslem host. Like a wounded lion, he destroyed whatever came within
his reach. One day he annihilated a squadron of seven thousand Infidels;
another time he captured as many camels laden with provision.
Saladin had outgeneralled him at Jaffa and captured that city, with the
exception of the citadel, which promised surrender if succor did not
come within a day. Richard in turn outplayed his rival; he slipped from
the harbor of Acre with a few galleys and surprised the garrison at
Jaffa. Such was the celerity of his approach that the Moslems fled from
the city without having time to strike another blow in its defence.
Having obtained all the glory that was possible from his Eastern
adventure, Richard proposed peace with Saladin. His emirs, equally
wearied with war, urged the reluctant Saladin to accede to the
crusaders’ terms. These were that the Christians should possess all the
coast, except Ascalon, which should remain unoccupied, and that
Jerusalem should be free for the feet of all pilgrims. The compact was
made in the presence of the Koran and the Bible, the silent witnesses of
the oaths taken respectively in the names of Allah and Jehovah. It was
to be faithfully observed, according to some chroniclers, for the space
of three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours—a
suggestion that came from the crusaders’ reverence for the Trinity. The
peace was celebrated by a friendly tournament between chosen Christian
and Moslem champions, in which lances clave through armor and swords
drew life-blood in mere play. The gates of Jerusalem were thrown open
that the warriors of the cross might kneel at the spot where the symbol
of their faith had stood when their God hung upon it, and so return to
Europe having accomplished a holy pilgrimage, if not a successful
warfare.
Thus ended the third crusade, marked by the loss of perhaps a
half-million Europeans, the foremost of emperors, an inestimable amount
of treasure, and the prestige of Christendom as against the onrolling
power of the Moslem world.
Richard returned to Europe (October 9, 1192). He was led to this purpose
not more by his evident inability to found a kingdom in Palestine than
by the necessity of maintaining his kingdom at home. Philip Augustus was
menacing his domain. When this fellow-crusader left Palestine he renewed
his oath with Richard not to commence any hostilities against him during
his absence. It is said that he applied to the Pope for a dispensation
from this vow. If this was not so, his actions showed that its
restrictions were irksome to him. Longchamp, whom Richard had left in
charge of the English government conjointly with the Bishop of Durham,
endeavored to exercise limitless control. Even the mandates of Richard
were disregarded by him. Compelled to flee the country, Longchamp became
the open promoter of Philip’s designs. Philip made war upon Richard’s
possessions in Normandy, and seduced from his allegiance Prince John,
the king’s younger brother, destined to be his successor on the throne.
Richard, not daring to pass through France lest Philip should lay
violent hands upon his person, sailed up the Adriatic. He was
shipwrecked near Aquileia, and in disguise made his way northward
through Austria. But no need of caution could restrain the impulsiveness
of Richard, either in war or in pleasure. Dressed as a pilgrim, he lived
as a prince; his prodigality easily led to his identification. Duke
Leopold of Austria, whose banner he had thrown into the ditch at Acre,
now took occasion to avenge that insult. He arrested Richard and threw
him into prison (1193). The German emperor, Henry VI., also claimed the
royal captive, and secured his person by paying to Leopold sixty
thousand pieces of silver. The chronicler remarks, in the spirit of that
age: “Forewarnings of this calamity had appeared in unusual seasons,
inundations of rivers, awful storms of thunder and rain, with dreadful
lightning.”
England, through Richard’s mother, Eleanor, appealed in vain to the Pope
to intervene, inasmuch as the holy see had guaranteed the humblest—and
surely the noblest—crusader against any detriment from Christians. But
the priests of Rome were politicians, and made no sign. Philip of
France, now in league with Prince John, and relieved of his dread of
Richard, boldly made war in Normandy, where, however, he was repulsed by
Robert of Leicester, a crusader who, more fortunate than his king, had
reached home. Prince John also made an unsuccessful attempt to seat
himself on his brother’s throne.
In the meanwhile Richard chafed in a dungeon where he was loaded with
irons. His perpetual incarceration, or his assassination, being fraught
with too much danger to his captors, it was determined to bring him to
judicial disgrace. He was therefore summoned before the Diet of the
Empire at Worms, and formally accused of crimes of all sorts, such as
having insulted the Duke of Austria, having assassinated Conrad of
Montferrat, having concluded a disgraceful treaty with Saladin. The
royal captive, with marvellous self-restraint for him, deigned to
explain these matters; then he burst out into indignant denunciation of
his captors. The princes of Germany were made ashamed of the ignominy
that in their name had been thrust upon the foremost hero of the age.
Even prelates at length remembered that Richard had remained alone in
Palestine when others were wearied with the defence of the faith.
Henry VI. was forced to release his royal captive. Yet he managed to fix
as his ransom a hundred and fifty thousand marks. This large amount it
was difficult to raise. The churches of England melted their plate;
prelates paid a fourth of their income, the lower clergy a tenth, and
all ranks a commensurate tax. Queen Eleanor in person bore the sum thus
collected to Mayence (1194). Henry, however, could not yet brook his
victim’s escape. Having received the ransom, he ordered Richard’s
rearrest; but the English ship that bore him slipped from the mouth of
the Schelde before the officers could overtake it. Philip of France sent
this ungraceful but timely warning to Prince John: “Take care of
yourself; the devil is broken loose.” One chronicler notes that at the
very hour in which the king landed in England there appeared “a
brilliant and unusual splendor in the heavens, of a very white and red
color, about the length and breadth of a human body.” He also observes
that Duke Leopold of Austria was horribly punished for his cruelty to
Richard. Infernal fires were kindled in his limbs, whose progress he in
vain tried to stay by amputating his own foot with an axe, and at length
expired in dreadful agony. Romance has invented a pleasing story of
Blondel, Richard’s friend and minstrel, who discovered the place of his
king’s imprisonment by singing in its proximity a familiar song, to
which Richard responded. It is true to the times, but the historian
cannot vouch for its basis in fact.
Before Richard reached his throne his great competitor for renown in
arms, Saladin, had passed away (March, 1193). He had retired to
Damascus. A year after the peace, feeling the approach of the last
enemy, and realizing that a greater than Richard was upon him, he
ordered that his burial shroud, instead of his usual standard, should be
carried through all the streets of Damascus, while his herald cried,
“This—this is all that remains of the glory of Saladin, who conquered
the East.”