The historian Tacitus, whose description of the German tribes we have

already quoted, had told the people of Gaul that, unless these same

Germans were kept at bay by the Roman armies on the Rhine frontier,

they would ‘exchange the solitude of their woods and morasses for the

wealth and fertility of Gaul’. ‘The fall of Rome,’ he added, ‘would be

fatal to the provinces, and you would be buried in the ruins of that

mighty fabric.’

This prophetic warning proved only too true when Vandal and Visigoth,

Burgundian, Hun, and Frank forced the passage of the Rhine, and swept

in irresistible masses across vineyards and cornfields, setting fire

to those towns and fortresses that dared to offer resistance. The

Vandal migration was but a meteor flash on the road to Spain and North

Africa; while on the battle-field of Chalons the Huns were beaten back

and carried their campaign of bloodshed to Italy: but the other three

tribes succeeded in establishing formidable kingdoms in Gaul during the

fifth and sixth centuries.

At the head of the Visigoths rode Athaulf, brother-in-law of Alaric,

unanimously chosen king by the tribe on the death of that mighty

warrior.[1] Instead of continuing the campaign in South Italy, Athaulf

had made peace with the Emperor Honorius and married his sister, thus

gaining a semi-royal position in the eyes of Roman citizens.

‘I once aspired,’ he said frankly, ‘to obliterate the name of Rome

and to erect on its ruins the dominion of the Goths, but ... I was

gradually convinced that laws are essentially necessary to maintain

and regulate a well-constituted state.... From that moment, I proposed

to myself a different object of glory and ambition; and it is now

my sincere wish that the gratitude of future ages should acknowledge

the merits of a stranger, who employed the sword of the Goths, not

to subvert, but to restore and maintain the prosperity of the Roman

Empire.’

Fortified by such sentiments and the benediction of the Emperor, who

was glad to free Italy from his brother-in-law’s presence, Athaulf

succeeded, after a short struggle, in establishing a Visigothic kingdom

in southern Gaul, stretching from the Mediterranean to the Bay of

Biscay. This, under his successors, was enlarged until it embraced the

whole of the province of Aquitania, with Toulouse as its capital, as

well as both slopes of the Pyrenees.

The Burgundians, another German tribe, had, in the meanwhile, built up

a middle kingdom along the banks of the Rhone. Years of intercourse

with the Romans had done much to civilize both their manners and

thoughts, and they were quite prepared to respect the laws and customs

that they found in Gaul so long as they met with no serious opposition

to their rule. The fact that both Burgundians and Visigoths were Arians

raised, however, a fatal barrier between conquerors and conquered, and

did more than anything else to determine that ultimate dominion over

the whole of Gaul should be the prize of neither of these races, but

of a third Teutonic tribe, the Salian Franks, whom good fortune placed

beyond the influence of heresy.

[Sidenote: The Franks]

The Franks were a tall, fair-haired, loose-limbed people, who, emerging

from Germany, had settled for a time in the country we now call

Belgium. Like their ancestors, they worshipped Woden and other heathen

gods of the Teutons, while in their Salic law we see much to recall the

German customs described by Tacitus five centuries before.

The king was no longer elected by his people, for his office had become

hereditary in the House of Meroveus, one of the heroes of the race. No

woman, even of the Merovingian line, might succeed to the throne, nor

prince whose hair had been shorn, since with the Franks flowing locks

were a sign of royalty. Yet, in spite of the king’s new position, the

old spirit of equality had not entirely disappeared. The assembly

of freemen, still held once a year, had degenerated into a military

review: but the warriors thus collected could demand that the coming

campaign should meet with their approval. When a battle was over and

victory obtained, the lion’s share of the booty did not fall to the

king, but the whole was divided by lot.

A great part of the Salic law was really a tariff of violent acts,

with the fine that those who had committed them must pay, so much for

shooting a poisoned arrow, even if it missed its mark; so much for

wounding another in the head, or for cutting off his nose, or his great

toe, or, worst of all, for damaging his second finger, so that he could

no longer draw the bowstring.

The underlying principle of this code was different from that of

the Roman law, which set up a certain standard of right, inflicting

penalties on those who fell short of it. Thus the Roman citizen who

murdered or maimed his neighbour would be punished because he had dared

to do what the state condemned as a crime. The Frank, in a similar

case, would be fined by the judges of his tribe, and the money paid as

compensation to the person, or the relations of the person, whom he had

wronged: the idea being, not to appease the anger of the state, but to

remove the resentment of the injured party.

For this purpose each Frank had his _wergeld_, literally his

‘worth-gold’ or the sum of money at which, according to his rank, his

life was valued, beginning with the nobles of the king’s palace and

descending in a scale to the lowest freeman. When the Franks left

Belgium and advanced, conquering, into northern Gaul, they also fixed

_wergelds_ for their Roman subjects; but rated them at only half the

value of their own race. The _wergeld_ of a Frankish freeman was two

hundred gold pieces, of a Roman only one hundred.

By the beginning of the sixth century, when the Franks were well

established in Gaul, the management of their important tribal affairs

had passed entirely into the hands of the nobles surrounding the king.

These bore such titles as _Major Domus_ or ‘Mayor of the Palace’, at

first only a steward, but later the chief minister of the crown; the

‘Seneschal’ or head of the royal household; the ‘Marshal’ or Master of

the Stables; the ‘Chamberlain’ or chief servant of the bedchamber.

[Sidenote: Clovis, King of the Franks]

The most famous of the Merovingian kings, as the descendants of

Merovius were called, was Clovis, who established the Frankish capital

at Paris. He and his tribe, though pagans, were on friendly terms with

the Roman inhabitants of northern Gaul, and especially with some of the

Catholic clergy. When Clovis sacked the town of Soissons he tried to

save the church plate, and especially a vase of great beauty that he

knew St. Remi, Bishop of Reims, highly valued. ‘Let it be put amongst

my booty,’ he said to his soldiers, intending to give it to the bishop

later; but one of them answered him insolently, ‘Only that is thine

which falls to thy share by lot,’ and with his axe he shivered the vase

into a thousand pieces.

Clovis concealed his fury at the moment, but he did not forget, and a

year afterwards, when he was reviewing his troops, he noticed the same

man who had opposed his will. Stepping forward, he tore the fellow’s

weapons from his grasp and threw them on the ground, saying, ‘No arms

are worse cared for than thine!’ The soldier stooped to pick them up,

and Clovis, raising his battle-axe high in the air, brought it down on

the bent head before him with the comment, ‘Thus didst thou to the vase

at Soissons!’

Clovis married a Christian princess, Clotilda, a niece of the

Burgundian king, and, at her request, he allowed their eldest child

to be baptized, but for a long time he refused to become a Christian

himself. One day, however, when in the midst of a battle in which his

warriors were so hard pressed that they had almost taken to flight, he

cried aloud--‘Jesus Christ, thou whom Clotilda doth call the Son of the

Living God ... I now devoutly beseech thy aid, and I promise if thou

dost give me victory over these my enemies ... that I will believe in

thee and be baptized in thy name, for I have called on my own gods and

they have failed to help me.’

Shortly afterwards the tide of battle turned, the Franks rallied, and

Clovis obtained a complete victory. Remembering his promise, he went to

Reims, and there he and three thousand of his warriors were received

into the Catholic Church. ‘Bow thy head low,’ said St. Remi who

baptized the King, ‘henceforth adore that which thou hast burned and

burn that which thou didst formerly adore.’

When he became a Catholic, Clovis had no idea that he had altered the

whole future of his race, for to him it seemed merely that he had

fulfilled the bargain he had made with the Christian God. He did not

change his ways, but pursued his ambitions as before, now by treachery

and now by force. It was his determination to make himself supreme

ruler over all the Franks, and in the case of another branch, the

Ripuarians, he began by secretly persuading their heir to the kingly

title, the young prince Chloderic, to kill his father and seize the

royal coffers.

Chloderic, fired by the idea of becoming powerful, did so and wrote

exultingly to Clovis, ‘My father is dead and his wealth is mine. Let

some of thy men come hither, and that of his treasure which pleaseth

them I will send thee.’

Ambassadors from the Salians duly arrived, and Chloderic led them

secretly apart and showed them his money, running his hand through the

pieces of gold that lay on the surface of the coffer. The men begged

him to thrust his arm in deep that they might judge how great his

wealth really was, and as he bent to do so, one of them struck him a

mortal wound from behind. Then they fled. Thus by treachery died both

father and son; but Clovis unblushingly denied to the Ripuarian Franks

that he had been in any way responsible.

‘Chloderic murdered his father, and he hath been assassinated by I know

not whom. I am no partner in such deeds, for it is against the law

to take the life of relations. Nevertheless, since it has happened,

I offer you this advice, that you should put yourselves under my

protection.’

The Ripuarian Franks were without a leader, and like all barbarians

they worshipped success; so, believing that Clovis would surely lead

them to victory, they raised him on their shields and hailed him as

king.

‘Each day God struck down the enemies of Clovis under his hand,’ says

Bishop Gregory of Tours, describing these events, ‘and enlarged his

kingdom, because he went with an upright heart before the Lord and did

the things that were pleasing in His sight.’ It is startling to find

a bishop pass such a verdict on a career of treachery and murder, the

more that Gregory of Tours was no cringing court-flatterer but a priest

with a high sense of duty who dared, when he believed it right, to

oppose some of the later Frankish kings even at the risk of his life.

Yet it must be remembered that a sense of honour was not understood by

barbarians, except in a very crude form. They believed it was clever

to outwit their neighbours, while to murder them was so ordinary as

to excite little or no comment, save the infliction of a _wergeld_ if

the crime could be brought home. Centuries of the civilizing influence

of Christianity were needed before the men and women of these fierce

tribes could accept the Christian principles of truth, justice, and

mercy in anything like their real spirit.

The Romans in Gaul had almost given up expecting anything but brutality

from their invaders if they aroused their enmity, and therefore

welcomed even the smallest sign of grace. Thus the protection that

Clovis afforded to the Catholic Church, after her years of persecution,

blinded their eyes to many of his vices.

When Clovis had made himself master of the greater part of northern

Gaul, he determined to strike a blow at the Visigoths in the south.

‘It pains me,’ he said to his followers, ‘to see Arians in a part of

Gaul. Let us march against these heretics with God’s aid and gain their

country for ourselves.’

Probably he was sincere in his dislike of heresy, but it was a politic

attitude to adopt, for it meant that wherever he and his warriors

marched they would find help against the Burgundians and Visigoths

amongst the orthodox Roman population. It seemed to the latter that

Clovis brought with him something of the glory of the vanished Roman

Empire, kept alive by the Catholic Church and now revived through her

in this her latest champion.

In a fierce battle near Poitiers, Clovis defeated the Visigoths and

drove them out of Aquitaine, leaving them merely narrow strips of

territory along the Mediterranean seaboard and on either slope of the

Pyrenees. He also fought against the Burgundians and, though he was not

so successful, reduced them temporarily to submission. When he died, at

the age of forty-five, he was master of three-quarters of Gaul, and had

stamped the name of his race for ever on the land he had invaded.

His work of conquest was continued by his successors and reached its

zenith in the time of King Dagobert, who lived at the beginning of

the seventh century. Dagobert has been called ‘the French Solomon’,

because, like the Jewish king, he was world-famed for his wisdom

and riches. Not content with maintaining his power over Gaul to the

west of the Rhine, he fought against the Saxon and Frisian tribes in

Germany and forced them to pay tribute. At last his Empire stretched

from the Atlantic to the mountains of Bohemia; the Duke of Brittany,

who had hitherto remained independent of the Franks, came to offer

his allegiance, while the Emperor of Constantinople sought a Frankish

alliance.

A chronicler of the day, speaking of Dagobert, says, ‘He was a prince

terrible in his wrath towards traitors and rebels. He held the royal

sceptre firmly in his grasp, and like a lion he sprang upon those who

would foment discord.’

Another account describes his journeys through his kingdom, and how he

administered justice with an even hand, not altogether to the joy of

tyrannical landowners. ‘His judgements struck terror into the hearts of

the bishops and of the great men, but it overwhelmed the poor with joy.’

In the troublous years that were to come his reign stood out in

people’s minds as an age of prosperity, but already, before the death

of the king, this prosperity had begun to wane. Luxury sapped the

vigour of a once-powerful mind and body, and the authority that ‘the

French Solomon’ relaxed in his later years through self-indulgence was

never regained by his successors.

With the contemptuous title ‘The Sluggard Kings’ the last rulers of the

Merovingian line have passed down to posterity. Few were endowed with

any ability or even ambition to govern, the majority died before they

had reached manhood looking already like senile old men; and the power

that should have been theirs passed into the hands of the Mayors of the

Palace who administered their demesnes. On state occasions, indeed,

they were still shown to their subjects, as they jolted to the place

of assembly in a rough cart drawn by oxen; but the ceremony over, they

returned to their royal villas and insignificance. ‘Nothing was left to

the king save the name of king, the flowing locks, the long beard. He

sat on his throne and played at government, gave audiences to envoys,

and dismissed them with the answers with which he had been schooled.’

[Sidenote: The Carolingians]

It was a situation that could only last so long as the name ‘Meroveus’

retained its spell over the Franks; but the day came when the spell

was broken, and a race of stronger fibre, the Carolingians, usurped

the royal title. The heads of this family had for generations held

the office of ‘Mayor of the Palace’ in the part of Gaul between the

Meuse and the Lower Rhine, then called Austrasia. It was their duty to

administer the royal demesnes in this large district, that is, to see

that the laws were obeyed, to superintend the cultivation of the soil,

and to collect a share of the various harvests as a revenue for the

king.

This was more important work than it may sound to modern ears; for in

the early Middle Ages the majority of people, unlike men and women

to-day, lived in the country. Ever since the decay of the Roman Empire,

when the making of roads was neglected and the imperial grain-fleets

disappeared from the Mediterranean, the problem of carrying merchandise

and food from one part of Europe to another had grown steadily more

acute. As commerce and industry languished, towns ceased to be centres

of population and became merely strongholds where the neighbourhood

could find refuge when attacked by its enemies. People preferred to

spend their ordinary life in villages in the midst of fields, where

they could grow corn and barley, or keep their own sheep and oxen, and

if the crops failed or their beasts were smitten by disease a whole

province might suffer starvation.

The Mayor of the Palace must guard the royal demesnes, as far as

possible, from the ravages of weather, wolves, or lawless men, for

the King of the Franks, as much as any of his subjects, depended on

the harvests and herds for his prosperity rather than on commerce or

manufactures. By the end of the seventh century the Mayors of Austrasia

had ceased to interest themselves merely in local affairs and had begun

to extend their authority over the whole of France. Nominally, they

acted in the name of the Merovingian kings, but once when the throne

fell vacant they did not trouble to fill it for two years. The Franks

made no protest: it was to their mayors, not to their kings, that they

now turned whether in search of good government or daring national

exploits.

The Carolingian Charles ‘Martel’, Charles ‘the Hammer’, was a warrior

calculated to arouse their profound admiration. ‘He was a Herculean

warrior,’ says an old chronicle, ‘an ever-victorious prince ... who

triumphed gloriously over other princes, and kings, and peoples, and

barbarous nations: in so much that, from the Slavs to the Frisians and

even to the Spaniards and Saracens, there were none who rose up against

him that escaped from his hand, without prostrating themselves in the

dust before his empire.’

It was Charles Martel who saved France from falling under the yoke of

the Saracens, a race of Arabian warriors who, crossing from Africa at

the Strait of Gibraltar, subdued in one short campaign three-quarters

of Spain. Describing the first great victory over the Gothic King

Rodrigo at Guadalete, the Governor of Africa wrote to his master the

Caliph, ‘O Commander of the Faithful, these are no common conquests;

they are like the meeting of the nations on the Day of Judgement.’

Puffed up with the glory they had gained, the Saracens, who were

followers of the Prophet Mahomet, believed that they had only to

advance for Christian armies to run away; and over the Pyrenees they

swept in large bands, seizing first one stronghold on the Mediterranean

coast and then another. Before this invasion Charles Martel had been

engaged in a quarrel with the Duke of Aquitaine, but now they hastily

made friends and on the field of Poitiers joined their forces to stem

the Saracen tide. So terrible was the battle, we are told, that over

three hundred thousand Saracens fell before the Frankish warriors

‘inflexible as a block of ice’. The number is almost certainly an

exaggeration, and so also is the claim that the victors, by forcing

the remnant of the Mahometan army to retreat towards the Pyrenees in

hasty flight, saved Europe for Christianity. Even had the decision

of the battle been reversed, the Moors would have found the task of

holding Spain in the years to come quite sufficient to absorb all

their energies. Indeed, their attacks on Gaul were, from the first,

more in the nature of gigantic raids than of invasions with a view

to settlement, though at the time their ferocity made them seem of

world-wide importance.

Thus it was only natural that the Mayor of the Palace, to whom the

victory was mainly due, became the hero of Christendom. The Pope, who

was at that time trying to defend Rome from the King of the Lombards,

sent to implore his aid; but Charles knew that his forces had been

weakened by their struggle with the Saracens and dared not undertake so

big a campaign.

[Sidenote: Pepin, King of the Franks]

Some years later his son, Pepin ‘the Short’ (751-68), who had succeeded

him, received the suggestion with a different answer. Pepin, as his

nickname shows, was short in stature, but he was powerfully built

and so strong that with a single blow of his axe he once cut off the

head of a lion. Energetic and shrewd, he saw a way of turning the

Pope’s need of support against the Lombards to his own advantage. He

therefore sent Frankish ambassadors to Rome to inquire whether it was

not shameful for a land to be governed by kings who had no authority.

The Pope, who was anxious to please Pepin, replied discreetly, ‘He who

possesses the authority should doubtless possess the title also.’

This was exactly what the Mayor of the Palace had expected and wished,

and the rest of the story may be told in the words of the old Frankish

annals for the year 751: ‘In this year Pepin was named king of the

Franks with the sanction of the Popes, and in the city of Soissons he

was anointed with the holy oil ... and was raised to the throne after

the custom of the Franks. But Childeric, who had the name of king, was

shorn of his locks and sent into a monastery.’

The last of the Merovingians had vanished into the oblivion of a

cloister, and Pepin the Carolingian was ruler of France. With the

Pope’s blessing he had achieved his ambition, and fortune soon enabled

him to repay his debt, mainly, as it happened, at another’s expense.

In the last chapter we described the effect of the Lombard invasion

of Italy, and how that Teutonic race sank its roots deep in the heart

of the peninsula, leaving a Greek fringe along the coasts that still

considered itself part of the Eastern Empire. Rome in theory belonged

to this fringe, but in reality the Popes hated the imperial authority

almost as much as the aggressions of Lombard king and dukes, and

struggled to free themselves from its yoke.

When Pepin, his own ambition satisfied, turned his attention to the

Pope’s affairs, the Lombards had just succeeded in over-running the

Exarchate of Ravenna, the seat of the imperial government in Italy.

Collecting an army, the King of the Franks crossed the Alps without

encountering any opposition, marched on Pavia, the Lombard capital, and

struck such terror into his enemies that, almost without fighting, they

agreed to the terms that he dictated.

Legally, he should have at once commanded the restoration of the

Exarchate to the Empire, but there was no particular reason why Pepin

should gratify Constantinople, while he had a very strong inclination

to please Rome. He therefore told the Lombards to give the Exarchate

to Stephen II, who was Pope at that time, and this they faithfully

promised to do; but, as he turned homewards, they began instead to

oppress the country round Rome, preventing food from entering the city

and pillaging churches.

[Sidenote: The Temporal Power of the Papacy]

Pepin was very angry when he heard the news. Once more he descended on

Italy, and this time the Lombards were compelled to keep their word,

and the Papacy received the first of its temporal possessions, ratified

by a formal treaty that declared the exact extent of the territory and

the Papal rights over it. This was an important event in mediaeval

history, for it meant that henceforward the Pope, who claimed to be the

spiritual head of Christendom, would be also an Italian prince with

recognized lands and revenues, and therefore with private ambitions

concerning these. It would be his instinct to distrust any other ruler

in the peninsula who might become powerful enough to deprive him of

these lands; while he would always be faced, when in difficulties, by

the temptation to use his spiritual power to further purely worldly

ends. On the way in which Popes dealt with this problem of their

temporal and spiritual power, much of the future history of Europe was

to depend.

Pepin, in spite of his shrewdness, had no idea of the troubles he had

sown by his donation. Well pleased with the generosity he had found so

easy, with the title of ‘Patrician’ bestowed on him by the Pope, and

perhaps still more by the spoils that he and his Franks had collected

in Lombardy, he left Italy, and was soon engaged in other campaigns

nearer home against the Saracens and rebellious German tribes. In these

he continued until his death in 768.

VII

MAHOMET

Christianity, first preached by humble fishermen in Palestine, had

become the foundation of life in mediaeval Europe. Some three hundred

years after Constantine the Great had made this possible another

religion, ‘Islam’, destined to be the rival of Christianity, was also

born in the East, in Arabia, a narrow strip of territory lying between

the Red Sea and miles of uninhabitable desert.

On the sea-coast of Arabia were some harbours, inland a few fertile

oases, where towns of low, white stone houses and mud hovels had

sprung into being; but from the very nature of the soil and climate

the Arabs were not drawn to manufacture goods or grow corn. Instead

they preferred a wanderer’s life, to tend the herds of horses or sheep

that ranged the peninsula in search of water and pasturage, or if more

adventurous to guard the caravans of camels that carried the silks and

spices of India to Mediterranean seaports. These caravans had their

regular routes, and every merchant a band of armed men to protect

his goods and drive off robbers along the way. Only in the ‘Sacred

Months’, the time of the sowing of seeds in the spring and at the

autumn harvest, were such convoys of goods safe from attack; for then,

and then only, every Arab believed, according to the traditions of his

forefathers, that peace was a duty, and that a curse would fall on him

who dared to break it.

The Arab, like all Orientals, was superstitious. He worshipped ‘Allah’,

the all supreme God, but he accepted also a variety of other gods,

heavenly bodies, spirits and devils, stones and idols. One of the most

famous Arabian sanctuaries was a temple at Mecca called the ‘Ka’bah’,

where a black stone had been built into the wall that pilgrims would

come from long distances to kiss and worship. Amongst the youths of

the town who saw this ceremony and himself took part in the religious

processions was an orphan lad, Mahomet (576-632), brought up in the

house of his uncle, Abu Talib.

[Sidenote: The Young Mahomet]

Mahomet was handsome and strong: he had looked after sheep on the edge

of the desert, taken part in tribal fights, and from the age of twelve

wandered with caravans as far as the sea-coast. What distinguished him

from his companions was not his education, nor any special skill as a

warrior, but his quickness of observation, his tenacious memory, and

his gift for bending others to his will. Unable to read, he could only

gain knowledge by word of mouth, and wherever he went, amongst the

colonies of the Jews who were the chief manufacturers in the towns, or

lying beside the camp fires of the caravans at night, he would keep

his ears open and store up in his mind all the tales that he heard. In

this way he learned of the Jewish religion and a garbled version of

Christianity. Soon he knew the stories of Joseph and of Abraham and

some of the sayings of Christ, and the more he thought over them the

more he grew to hate the idol worship of the Arabs round him.

When he was twenty-five Mahomet married a rich widow, Khadijah, whose

caravan he had successfully steered across the desert; and in this way

he became a man of independent means, possessing camels and horses of

his own. Khadijah was some years older than Mahomet, but she was a very

good wife to him, and brought him not only a fortune but a trust and

belief in his mission that he was to need sorely in the coming years.

To her he confided his hatred of idol-worship, and also to Abu Bakr,

the wealthy son of a cloth merchant of Mecca, who had fallen under his

influence. Mahomet declared that God, and later the Angel Gabriel, had

appeared to him in visions and had given him messages condemning the

superstitions of the Arabs.

‘There is but one God, Allah ... and Mahomet is His Prophet.’

This was the chief message, received at first with contempt but

destined to be carried triumphant in the centuries to come right to the

Pyrenees and the gates of Vienna.

The visions, or trances, during which Mahomet received his messages,

afterwards collected in the sacred book, the Koran, are thought by

many to have been epileptic fits. His face would turn livid and he

would cover himself with a blanket, emerging at last exhausted to

deliver some command or exhortation. Later it would seem that he could

produce this state of insensibility at will and without much effort,

whenever questions were asked, indeed, in answering which he required

divine guidance. Much of the teaching in the Koran was based, like

Judaism or Christianity, on far higher ideals than the fetish worship

of the Arabs: it emphasized such things as the duty of almsgiving,

the discipline that comes of fasting, the necessity of personal

cleanliness, while it forbade the use of wine, declaring drunkenness a

crime.

With regard to the position of women the Koran could show nothing of

the chivalry that was to develop in Christendom through the respect

felt by Christians for the mother of Christ and for the many women

martyrs and saints who suffered during the early persecutions. Moslems

were allowed by the Koran to have four wives (Mahomet permitted himself

ten), and these might be divorced at their husband’s pleasure without

any corresponding right on their part. On the other hand the power

of holding property before denied was now secured to women, and the

murder of female children that had been a practice in the peninsula was

sternly abolished.

As the years passed more and more ‘Surahs’, or chapters, were added to

the Koran, but at first the Prophet’s messages were few and appealed

only to the poor and humble. When the Meccans, told by Abu Bakr that

Mahomet was a prophet, came to demand a miracle as proof, he declared

that there could be no greater miracle than the words he uttered; but

this to the prosperous merchants seemed merely crazy nonsense. When he

went farther, and, acting on what he declared was Allah’s revelation,

destroyed some of the local idols, contempt changed to anger; for the

inhabitants argued that if ‘Ka’bah’ ceased to be a sanctuary their

trade with the pilgrims who usually came to Mecca would cease.

For more than eight years, while the Prophet maintained his unpopular

mission, his poorer followers were stoned and beaten, and he himself

shunned. Perhaps it seems odd that in such a barbarous community he

was not killed; but though Arabia possessed no government in any

modern sense, yet a system of tribal law existed that went far towards

preventing promiscuous murder. Each man of any importance belonged to

a tribe that he was bound to support with his sword, and that in turn

was responsible for his life. If he were slain the tribe would exact

vengeance or demand ‘blood money’ from the murderer. Now the head of

Mahomet’s tribe was Abu Talib, his uncle, and, though the old man

refused to accept his nephew as a prophet, he would not allow him to be

molested.

In spite of persecution the number of believers in Mahomet’s doctrines

grew, and when some of those who had been driven out of the city

took refuge with the Christian King of Abyssinia and were treated by

him with greater kindness than the pagan Arabs, the Meccans at home

became so much alarmed that they adopted a new policy of aggression.

Henceforward both Mahomet and his followers, the hated ‘Moslems’, or

‘heathen’ as they were nicknamed in the Syriac tongue, were to be

outlaws, and no one might trade with them or give them food.

In an undisciplined community like an Arabian town such an order

would not be strictly kept, and for three years Mahomet was able to

defy the ban, but every day his position grew more precarious and the

sufferings of his followers from hunger and poverty increased. During

this time too both Khadijah and Abu Talib died, and the Prophet, almost

overwhelmed with his misfortunes, was only kept from doubting his

mission by the faith and loyalty of those who would not desert him.

Weary of trying to convert Mecca he sent messengers through Arabia to

find if there were any tribe that would welcome a prophet, and at last

he received an invitation to go to Yathrib. This was a larger town than

Mecca, farther to the north, and was populated mainly by Jewish tribes

who hated the Arabian idol-worshippers and welcomed the idea of a

teacher whose views were based largely on Jewish traditions.

[Sidenote: The Hijrah]

In 622, therefore, Mahomet and his followers fled secretly from Mecca

to Yathrib, later called Medinah or ‘the city of the Prophet’; and

this date of the ‘Hijrah’ or ‘Flight’, when the new religion broke

definitely with old Arab traditions, was taken as the first year of the

Moslem calendar, just as Christians reckon their time from the birth of

Christ. Here in Medinah was built the first mosque, or temple of the

new faith, a faith christened by its believers Islam, a word meaning

‘surrender’, for in surrender to Allah and to the will of his Prophet

lay the way of salvation to the Moslem Garden of Paradise.

So beautiful to the Arab mind were the very material luxuries and

pleasures with which Mahomet entranced the imagination of believers

that in later years his soldiers would fling themselves recklessly

against their enemies’ spears in order to gain Paradise the quicker.

The alternative for the unbeliever was Hell, the everlasting fires of

the Old Testament that so terrified the minds of mediaeval Christians;

and between Paradise and Hell there was no middle way.

The Jews in Medinah were, like Mahomet, worshippers of one God, but

they soon showed that they were not prepared to accept this wandering

Arab as Jehovah’s final revelation to man. They demanded miracles,

sneered at the Koran, which they declared was a parody of their own

Scriptures, and took advantage of the poverty of the refugees to drive

hard bargains with them. At length it became obvious that the Moslems

must find some means of livelihood or else Medinah, like Mecca, must be

left for more friendly soil.

Pressed by circumstances Mahomet evolved a policy that was destined to

overthrow the tribal system of government in Arabia. Mention has been

made already of the caravans of camels that journeyed regularly from

south to north of the peninsula, bearing merchandise. Many of these

caravans were owned by wealthy Meccans, whose chief trade route passed

quite close by the town of Medinah, and they were protected and guarded

by members of the tribe of Abu Talib and of other families whose

relations were serving with the Prophet.

At first, when Mahomet commanded that these caravans should be attacked

and looted, his followers looked aghast, for the sacredness of

tribes from attack by kinsmen was a tradition they had inherited for

generations. Their Prophet at once proved to them by a message from

Allah that a new relationship had been formed stronger than the ties

of blood, namely, the bond of faith, and that to the believer the

unbeliever, whether father or son, was accursed. In the same way, when

the first marauding expeditions were unsuccessful because the caravans

attacked were too well guarded, Mahomet explained away the ‘Sacred

Months’ and chose in future that very time for his warriors to descend

upon unsuspecting merchants.

[Sidenote: Battle of Badr]

The Meccans, outraged by what they somewhat naturally considered

treachery, soon dispatched some thousand men, determined to make an

end of the Prophet and his followers; and at Badr, not very far from

the coast on the trade route between the two towns, this large force

encountered three hundred Moslems commanded by Mahomet. It is difficult

to gain a clear impression of the battle, for romance and legend have

rendered real details obscure; but, either by superior generalship,

the valour and discipline of the Moslems as compared to the conduct of

their forces, or, as was later stated, through the agency of angels

sent by Allah from Heaven, the vastly more numerous Meccan force was

utterly put to rout.

Moslems refer to the battle of Badr as ‘the Day of Deliverance’, for

though, not long afterwards, they in their turn were defeated by the

Meccans, yet never again were they to become mere discredited refugees.

Success pays, and, with the victory of Badr as a tangible miracle

to satisfy would-be converts, Mahomet soon gained a large army of

warriors, whom his personality moulded into obedience to his will.

The Jews who had mocked him had soon cause to repent, for Mahomet,

remembering their jibes and the petty persecution to which they had

subjected his followers, adopted a definitely hostile attitude towards

them. Taking advantage of the reluctance with which these Jews had

shared in the defence of Medinah and in the throwing-up of earthworks

to protect it, when the Meccans came to besiege it in the year 5 of

the new calendar, Mahomet as soon as the siege was raised obtained his

revenge. Those Jews of the city who still refused to recognize him as

a Prophet were slaughtered, their wives and children sold into slavery.

The teaching and ritual of the Koran also, once carefully based on the

Scriptures of Israel, began to cast off this influence, and where of

old Mahomet had commanded his followers to look towards Jerusalem in

their prayers, he now bade them kneel with their faces towards Mecca.

In this command may be seen his new policy of conciliation towards

his native town; for Mahomet recognized that in the city of Mecca

lay the key to the peninsula, and he was determined to establish his

power there, if not by force then by diplomacy. After some years of

negotiation he persuaded those who had driven him into exile not so

much of the truth of his teaching as of the certainty that his presence

would bring more pilgrims than ever before to visit the shrine of

Ka’bah.

In A.D. 630 he entered Mecca in triumph, and the worship of Islam was

established in the heart of Arabia. As a concession to the Meccans,

divine revelation announced that the sacred black stone built into the

temple wall had been hallowed by Abraham, and was therefore worthy of

veneration.

Instead of a general scheme of revenge only two of Mahomet’s enemies

were put to death; and it is well to remember that, judged by the

standards of his age and race, the Prophet was no lover of cruelty.

In his teaching he condemned the use of torture, and throughout his

life he was nearly always ready to treat with his foes rather than

slay them. Those amongst his enemies who refused him recognition as

a Prophet while willing to acknowledge him as a ruler were usually

allowed to live in peace on the payment of a yearly ransom divided

amongst the believers; but in cases where he had met with an obstinate

refusal or persistent treachery, as from the Jews of Medinah, Mahomet

would put whole tribes to the sword.

In 632 the Prophet of Islam died, leaving a group of Arabian tribes

bound far more securely together by the faith he had taught them than

they could have been by the succession of any royal house. ‘Though

Mahomet is dead, yet is Mahomet’s God not dead.’

While Mahomet was still an exile at Medinah it is evident that he

already contemplated the idea of gaining the world for Islam. ‘Let

there be in you a nation summoning unto good,’ says the Koran, and in

token of this mission the Prophet, in the years following his Arabian

victories, sent letters to foreign rulers to announce his ambition.

Here is one to the chief of the Copts, a Christian race living in Egypt:

‘In the name of Allah ... the Merciful.

‘From the Apostle of Allah to ..., Chief of the Copts. Peace be

upon him who follows the guidance. Next I summon thee with the

appeal to Islam: become a Moslem and thou shalt be safe. God shall

give thee thy reward twofold. But if thou decline then on thee is

the guilt of the Copts. O ye people of the Book come unto an equal

arrangement between us and you that we should serve none save God,

associating nothing with Him, and not taking one another for Lords

besides God,--and if ye decline, then bear witness that we are

Moslems.’

[Sidenote: The Kingdom of Persia]

Similar letters were sent to Chosroes, King of Persia, and to

Heraclius, the Christian Emperor at Constantinople. The former tore

the letter in pieces contemptuously, for at that time his kingdom

extended over the greater part of Asia; Jerusalem, once the pride of

the Eastern Empire, had fallen into his grasp; while his armies were

besieging Constantinople itself. A letter that he himself penned to

the Christian Emperor shows his overweening pride, and the depths into

which Byzantium had fallen in the public regard:

‘Chosroes, Greatest of Gods, and Master of the whole earth, to

Heraclius, his vile and insensate slave. Why do you still refuse to

submit to our rule and call yourself a king? Have I not destroyed

the Greeks? You say that you trust in your God. Why has he not

delivered out of my hand Caesarea, Jerusalem, Alexandria? and shall

I not also destroy Constantinople? But I will pardon your faults if

you will submit to me, and come hither with your wife and children,

and I will give you lands, vineyards, and olive groves, and look

upon you with a kindly aspect. Do not deceive yourself with vain

hope in that Christ, who was not even able to save himself from the

Jews, who killed him by nailing him to a cross. Even if you take

refuge in the depths of the sea I shall stretch out my hand and

take you, so that you shall see me whether you will or no.’

Christendom was fortunate in Heraclius. Instead of contemplating

either despair or surrender, he called upon the Church to summon all

Christians to his aid, and by means of the gold and silver plate

presented to him as a war loan by the bishops and clergy, and in

command of a large army of volunteers, he beat back the Persians from

the very gates of his capital. Not content with a policy of defence, he

next invaded Asia, and at the battle of Nineveh utterly destroyed the

hosts of Chosroes. The fallen King, deposed by his subjects, was forced

to take refuge in the mountains, and later was thrown into a dungeon

where he died of cold and starvation.

Had the reign of Heraclius ended at this date, it would be remembered

as a glorious era in the history of Constantinople; but unfortunately

for his fame another foe was to make more lasting inroads on his

Empire, already weakened by the Persian occupation.

When the Emperor (610-41), like Chosroes, received Mahomet’s letter,

he is said to have read it with polite interest. It seemed to him that

this fanatic Arab, who hated the Jews as much as the Christians did,

might turn his successful sword not only against them but against the

Persians. In this surmise Heraclius was right, for under Abu Bakr, now

Caliph, or ‘successor’, of Mahomet, since the Prophet had left no son,

the Moslems invaded Persia.

Unfortunately for Heraclius, they were equally bent on an aggressive

campaign against the Christian Empire. ‘There is but one God, Allah!’

With this test, by which they could distinguish friend from foe, the

Arab hosts burst through the gate of Syria, and at Yermuk encountered

the imperial army sent by Heraclius to oppose them. The Greeks fought

so stubbornly that at first it seemed that their disciplined valour

must win. ‘Is not Paradise before you?... Are not Hell and Satan

behind?’ cried the Arab leader to his fanatical hordes, and in

response to his words they rallied, broke the opposing lines by the

sudden ferocity of their charge, and finally drove the imperial troops

in headlong flight.

[Sidenote: Mahometan Victories]

After the battle of Yermuk Syria fell and Palestine was invaded. In

637 Jerusalem became a Moslem town, with a mosque standing where once

had been the famous temple of Solomon. Mahomet had declared Jerusalem

a sanctuary only second in glory to Mecca; and his followers with a

toleration strange in that age left under Christian guardianship the

Tomb of the Holy Sepulchre and other sacred sites.

After Syria, Palestine; after Palestine, Egypt and the north African

coast-line. The dying Heraclius heard nothing but the bitter news of

disaster, and after his death the quarrels of his descendants increased

the feebleness of Christian resistance. A spirit of unity might have

carried the Moslem banners to the limits of the Eastern Empire, but

in 656 the Caliph Othman was murdered, and the civil war that ensued

enabled the Christian Emperor, Constans II, to negotiate peace. He

had lost Tripoli, Syria, Egypt, and the greater part of Armenia to

his foes, who had also succeeded in establishing a naval base in the

Mediterranean that threatened the islands of Greece herself. In the

north his borders were overrun by Bulgar and Slav tribes, while in

Italy the Lombards maintained a perpetual struggle against his viceroy,

the Exarch of Ravenna.

Constans himself spent six years in Italy, the greater part in

campaigns against the Lombards. He even visited Rome, but earned hatred

there as elsewhere by his ruthless pillage of the West for the benefit

of the East. Thus the Pantheon was stripped of its golden tiles to

enrich Constantinople, and the churches of South Italy robbed of their

plate to pay for his wars. At last a conspiracy was formed against him,

and while enjoying the baths at Syracuse one of his servants struck him

on the head with a marble soap-box and fractured his skull. Constans

had been a brave and resolute Emperor of considerable military ability.

His son, Constantine ‘Pogonatus’, or ‘the bearded’, inherited his gifts

and drove back the Mahometans from Constantinople with so great a loss

of men and prestige that the Caliph promised to pay a large sum of

money as tribute every year in return for peace.

Constantine ‘Pogonatus’ died when a comparatively young man and was

succeeded by his son, Justinian II, a lad of seventeen, arrogant,

cruel, and restless. Without any reason save ambition he picked a

quarrel with the Moslem Caliph, marched a large army across his Eastern

border, and, when he met with defeat, proceeded in his rage to execute

his generals and soldiers, declaring that they had failed him. At home,

in Constantinople, his ministers tortured the inhabitants in order to

exact money for his treasury and filled the imperial dungeons with

senators and men of rank suspected of disloyalty.

Such a state of affairs could not last; and the Emperor, who treated

his friends as badly as his foes, was captured by one of his own

generals, and, after having his nose cruelly slit, was exiled to the

Crimea. Mutilation was supposed to be a final bar to the right of

wearing the imperial crown; but Justinian II was the type of man to be

ignored only when dead. After some years of brooding over his wrongs he

fled from the Crimea and took refuge with the King of the Bulgars.

On his sea-journey a terrific storm arose that threatened to overwhelm

both him and his crew. ‘My Lord,’ exclaimed one of his attendants, ‘I

pray you make a vow to God that if He spare you, you also will spare

your enemies.’ ‘May God sink this vessel here and now,’ retorted his

master, ‘if I spare a single one of them that falls into my hands,’

and the words were an ill omen for his reign, that began once more in

705 when, with the aid of Bulgar troops and of treachery within the

capital, Justinian II established himself once more in Constantinople.

During six years the Empire suffered his tyranny anew; and those who

had previously helped to dethrone him were hunted down, tortured, and

put to death. Like Nero of old he burned alive his political enemies,

or he would order the nobles of his court who had offended him to be

sewn up in sacks and thrown into the sea. At last another rebellion

brought a final end to his reign, and that of the house of Heraclius,

for both he and his young son were murdered, and the Eastern Empire

given up to anarchy.

[Sidenote: Leo the Isaurian]

The man who did most to save Constantinople from the next Mahometan

invasion was one of the military governors of the Empire called Leo the

Isaurian. Conscious of his own ability he took advantage of his first

successes to seize the imperial crown; and then, having heard that the

Mahometan fleet was moored off the shores of Asia Minor, he secretly

sent a squadron of his own vessels that set the enemy’s ships on fire.

In the panic that ensued more than half the Arabian ships were sunk.

About the same time a Mahometan land force was also defeated by the

King of the Bulgars, who had allied himself with the Emperor on account

of their mutual dread of an Eastern invasion. The result of these

combined Christian victories was that the Caliph Moslemah, whose main

forces were encamped beneath the walls of Constantinople, grew alarmed

lest he should be cut off from support and provisions. He therefore

raised the siege, embarked his army in what remained of his fleet, and

retreated to his own kingdom, leaving the Christian capital free from

acute danger from the East for another three hundred years.

Elsewhere the Mahometans pursued their triumphant progress with little

check. After the fall of Carthage in 697 North Africa lay almost

undefended before them; and the half-savage tribes such as the Berbers,

who lived on the borders of the desert, welcomed the new faith with its

mission of conversion by the sword and prospects of plunder.

It was the Berbers who at the invitation, according to tradition, of

a treacherous Spanish Governor, Count Julian, crossed the Strait of

Gibraltar and descended on the plains of Andalusia.

Spain, when the power of the Roman Empire snapped, had been invaded

first by Vandals and then by Visigoths. The Vandals, as we have

seen,[2] passed on to Africa, while the Visigoths, like the Lombards

in Italy, became converted to Christianity, and, falling under the

influence of the civilization and luxury they saw around them,

gradually adapted their government, laws, and way of life to the system

and ideals of those whom they had conquered. Thus their famous _Lex

Visigothorum_, or ‘Law of the Visigoths’, was in reality the Roman code

remodelled to suit the German settlers.

In this new land the descendants of the once warlike Teutons acquired

an indifference to the arts of war, and when their King Rodrigo

had been killed at the disastrous battle of Guadelete and his army

overthrown, they made little further resistance to the Saracen hordes

except in the far northern mountains of the Asturias. From France we

have seen[3] the Mahometans were beaten back by Charles Martel, and

here, established in Spain and on the borders of the Eastern Empire,

we must leave their fortunes for the time. If Mahomet’s life is short

and can be quickly told the story of how his followers attempted to

establish their rule over Christendom is nothing else than the history

of the foreign policy of Europe during mediaeval times.

VIII

CHARLEMAGNE

Just before his death Pepin the Short had divided his lands between his

two sons, Charles, who was about twenty-six, and Carloman, a youth some

years younger. As they had no affection for each other, this division

did not work well. Carloman gave little promise of statesmanlike

qualities: he was peevish and jealous, and easily persuaded by the

nobles who surrounded him that his elder brother was a rival who

intended to rob him of his possessions, it might be of his life. There

seems to have been no ground for this suspicion; but nevertheless he

spent his days in trying to hinder whatever schemes Charles proposed;

and when he died, three years later, there was a general breath of

relief.

Enumerating the blessings that Heaven had bestowed on Charlemagne, a

monk, writing to the King about this time, completed his list with the

candid statement: ‘the fifth and not least that God has removed your

brother from this earthly kingdom’.

Charlemagne was exactly the kind of person to seize the fancy of the

early Middle Ages. Tall and well built, with an eagle nose and eyes

that flashed like a lion when he was angry so that none dared to

meet their gaze, he excelled all his court in strength, energy, and

skill. He could straighten out with his fingers four horseshoes locked

together, lift a warrior fully equipped for battle to the level of his

shoulder, and fell a horse and its rider with a single blow.

It was his delight to keep up old national customs and to wear the

Frankish dress with its linen tunic, cross-gartered leggings, and long

mantle reaching to the feet. ‘What is the use of these rags?’ he once

inquired contemptuously of his courtiers, pointing to their short

cloaks--‘Will they cover me in bed, or shield me from the wind and rain

when I ride abroad?’

[Illustration: The EMPIRE of CHARLEMAGNE]

This criticism was characteristic of the King. Intent on a multitude

of schemes for the extension or improvement of his lands, and so eager

to realize them that he would start on fresh ones when still heavily

encumbered with the old, he was yet, for all his enthusiasm, no vague

dreamer but a level-headed man looking questions in the face and

demanding a practical answer.

[Sidenote: The Chanson de Roland]

By the irony of fate it is the least practical and important task

he undertook that has made his name world-famous; for the story of

Charlemagne and his Paladins, told in that greatest of mediaeval

epics, the _Chanson de Roland_, exceeds to-day in popularity even the

exploits of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. This much is

history--that Charlemagne, invited secretly by some discontented Emirs

to invade Spain and attack the Caliph of Cordova, crossed the Pyrenees,

and, after reducing several towns successfully, was forced to retreat.

On his way back across the mountains his rearguard was cut off by

Gascon mountaineers, and slaughtered almost to a man; while he and the

rest of his army escaped with difficulty.

On this meagre and rather inglorious foundation poets of the eleventh

century based a cycle of romance. Charlemagne is the central figure,

but round him are grouped numerous ‘Paladins’, or famous knights,

including the inseparable friends Oliver and Roland, Warden of the

Breton Marches. After numerous deeds of glory in the land of Spain,

the King, it was said, was forced by treachery to turn back towards

the French mountains, and had already passed the summits, when Roland,

in charge of the rearguard, found himself entrapped in the Pass of

Roncesvalles by a large force of Gascons. His horn was slung at his

side but he disdained to summon help from those in the van, and drawing

his good sword ‘Durenda’ laid about him valiantly.

The Gascons fell back, dismayed by the vigorous resistance of the

French; but thirty thousand Saracens came to their aid, and the odds

were now overwhelming. Oliver lay dead, and, covered with wounds,

Roland fell to the ground also, but first of all he broke ‘Durenda’

in half that none save he might use this peerless blade. Putting his

horn to his lips, with his dying breath he sounded a blast that was

heard by Charlemagne in his camp more than eight miles away. ‘Surely

that is the horn of Roland?’ cried the King uneasily, but treacherous

courtiers explained away the sound; and it was not till a breathless

messenger came with the news of the reverse that he hastened towards

the scene of battle. There in the pass, stretched on the ground amid

the heaped-up bodies of their enemies, he found his Paladins--Roland

with his arms spread in the form of a cross, his broken sword beside

him: and seeing him the King fell on his knees weeping. ‘Oh, right arm

of thy Sovereign’s body, Honour of the Franks, Sword of Justice.... Why

did I leave thee here to perish? How can I behold thee dead and not

die with thee?’ At last, restraining his grief, Charlemagne gathered

his forces together; and the very sun, we are told, stood still to

watch his terrible vengeance on Gascons and Saracens for the slaughter

of Christians at Roncesvalles.

The _Chanson de Roland_ is one of the masterpieces of French

literature. It is not history, but in its fiction lies a substantial

germ of truth. Charlemagne in the early ninth century was what poets

described him more than two hundred years later--the central figure

in Christendom, the recognized champion of the Cross whether against

Mahometans or pagans. ‘Through your prosperity’, wrote Alcuin, an

Anglo-Saxon monk and scholar who lived at his court, ‘Christendom is

preserved, the Catholic Faith defended, the law of justice made known

to all men.’

[Sidenote: Invasion of Lombardy]

When the Popes sought help against the Lombards, it was to Charlemagne

as to his father Pepin that they naturally turned. Charlemagne had

hoped at the beginning of his reign to maintain a friendship with King

Didier of Lombardy and had even married his daughter, an alliance that

roused the Pope of that date to demand in somewhat violent language:

‘Do you not know that all the children of the Lombards are lepers, that

the race is outcast from the family of nations? For these there is

neither part nor lot in the Heavenly Kingdom. May they broil with the

devil and his angels in everlasting fire!’

Charlemagne went his own way, in spite of papal denunciations; but

he soon tired of his bride, who was plain and feeble in health, and

divorced her that he might marry a beautiful German princess. This was,

of course, a direct insult to King Didier, who henceforth regarded the

Frankish king as his enemy; and Rome took care that the gulf once made

between the sovereigns should not be bridged.

In papal eyes the Lombards had really become accursed. It is true that

they had been since the days of Gregory the Great orthodox Catholics,

that their churches were some of the most beautiful in Italy, their

monasteries the most famous for learning, and Pavia, their capital,

a centre for students and men of letters. Their sin did not lie in

heretical views, but in the position of their kingdom that now included

not only modern Lombardy in the north, but also the Duchy of Spoletum

in South Italy. Between stretched the papal dominions like a broad

wall from Ravenna to the Western Mediterranean; and on either side

the Lombards chafed, trying to annex a piece of land here or a city

there, while the Popes watched them, lynx-eyed, eager on their part

to dispossess such dangerous neighbours, but unable to do so without

assistance from beyond the Alps.

Soon after the death of his younger brother Charlemagne was persuaded

to take up the papal cause and invade Italy. At Geneva, where he held

the ‘Mayfield’ or annual military review of his troops, he laid the

object of his campaign before them, and was answered by their shouts of

approval.

It was a formidable host, for the Franks expected every man who owned

land in their dominions to appear at these gatherings prepared for

war. The rich would be mounted, protected by mail shirts and iron

headpieces, and armed with sword and dagger; the poor would come on

foot, some with bows and arrows, others with lance and shield, and the

humblest of all with merely scythes or wooden clubs. Tenants on the

royal demesnes must bring with them all the free men on their estates;

and while it was possible to obtain exemption the fine demanded was so

heavy that few could pay it.

When the army set out in battle array, it was accompanied by numerous

baggage-carts, lumbering wagons covered with leather awnings, that

contained enough food for three months as well as extra clothes and

weapons. It was the general hope that on the return journey the wagons

would be filled to overflowing with the spoils of the conquered enemy.

The Lombards had ceased, with the growth of luxury and comfortable town

life, to be warriors like the Franks; and Charlemagne met with almost

as little resistance as Pepin in past campaigns. After a vain attempt

to hold the Western passes of the Alps, Didier and his army fled to

Pavia, where they fortified themselves, leaving the rest of the country

at the mercy of the invaders.

Frankish chroniclers in later years drew a realistic picture of Didier,

crouched in one of the high towers of the city, awaiting in trembling

suspense the coming of the ‘terrible Charles’. Beside him stood

Otger, a Frankish duke, who had been a follower of the dead Carloman

and was therefore hostile to his elder brother. ‘Is Charles in that

great host?’ demanded the King continually, as first the long line of

baggage-wagons came winding across the plain, and then an army of the

‘common-folk’, and after them the bishops with their train of abbots

and clerks. Every time his companion answered him, ‘No! not yet!’

‘Then Didier hated the light of day. He stammered and sobbed and

said, “Let us go down and hide in the earth from so terrible a

foe.” And Otger too was afraid; well he knew the might and the

wrath of the peerless Charles; in his better days he had often

been at court. And he said, “When you see the plain bristle with a

harvest of spears, and rivers of black steel come pouring in upon

your city walls, then you may look for the coming of Charles.”

While he yet spoke a black cloud arose in the West and the glorious

daylight was turned to darkness. The Emperor came on; a dawn

of spears darker than night rose on the beleaguered city. King

Charles, that man of iron, appeared; iron his helmet, iron his

armguards, iron the corselet on his breast and shoulders. His left

hand grasped an iron lance ... iron the spirit, iron the hue of

his war steed. Before, behind, and at his side rode men arrayed in

the same guise. Iron filled the plain and open spaces, iron points

flashed back the sunlight. “There is the man whom you would see,”

said Otger to the king; and so saying he swooned away, like one

dead.’

In spite of this picture of Carolingian might, it took the Franks six

months to reduce Pavia; and then Didier, at last surrendering, was

sent to a monastery, while Charlemagne proclaimed himself king of the

newly acquired territories. During the siege, leaving capable generals

to conduct it, he himself had gone to Rome, where he was received with

feasting and joy. Crowds of citizens came out to the gates to welcome

him, carrying palms and olive-branches, and hailed him as ‘Patrician’

and ‘Defender of the Church’. Dismounting from his horse he passed on

foot through the streets of Rome to the cathedral; and there, in the

manner of the ordinary pilgrim, climbed the steps on his knees, until

the Pope awaiting him at the top, raised and embraced him. From the

choir arose the exultant shout, ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name

of the Lord.’

A few days later, once more standing in St. Peter’s, Charlemagne

affixed his seal to the donation Pepin had given to the Church. The

document was entered amongst the papal archives; but it has long since

disappeared, and with it exact information as to the territories

concerned.

[Sidenote: Donation of Constantine]

About this time the papal court produced another document, the

so-called ‘Donation of Constantine’, in which the first of the

Christian emperors apparently granted to the Popes the western half of

the Roman Empire. Centuries later this was proved to be a forgery, but

for a long while people accepted it as genuine, and the power of the

Popes was greatly increased. We do not know how much Charles believed

in papal supremacy in temporal matters; but throughout his reign his

attitude to the Pope over Italian affairs was rather that of master

to servant than the reverse. It was only when spiritual questions

were under discussion that he was prepared to yield as if to a higher

authority.

When he had reduced Pavia Charlemagne left Lombardy to be ruled by one

of his sons and returned to France; but it was not very long before

he was called back to Italy, as fresh trouble had arisen there. The

cause was the unpopularity of Pope Leo III in Rome and the surrounding

country, where turbulent nobles rebelled as often as they could against

the papal government. One day, as Leo was riding through the city at

the head of a religious procession, a band of armed men rushed out from

a side street, separated him from his attendants, dragged him from his

horse, and beat him mercilessly, leaving him half dead. It was even

said that they put out his eyes and cut off his tongue, but that these

were later restored by a miracle.

Leo, at any rate, whole though shaken, succeeded in reaching

Charlemagne’s presence, and the King was faced by the problem of going

to Rome to restore order. Had it been merely a matter of exacting

vengeance, he would have found little difficulty with his army of

stalwart Franks behind him; but Leo’s enemies were not slow in bringing

forward accusations against their victim that they claimed justified

their assault. Charlemagne was thus in an awkward position, for he was

too honest a ruler to refuse to hear both sides, and his respect for

the papal office could not blind him to the possibility of evil in the

acts of the person who held it, especially in the case of an ambitious

statesman like Leo III.

He felt that it was his duty to sift the matter to the bottom; and yet

by what law could the King of France or even of Italy put Christ’s

vice-regent upon his trial and cross-examine him?

One way of dealing with this problem would have been to seek judgement

at Constantinople as the seat of Empire, a final ‘appeal unto Caesar’

such as St. Paul had made in classical times: but, ever since Pepin

the Short had given the Exarchate of Ravenna to the Pope instead of

restoring it to Byzantine Emperors, relations with the East, never

cordial, had grown more strained. Now they were at breaking point. The

late Emperor, a mere boy, had been thrown into a dungeon and blinded

by his mother, the Empress Irene, in order that she might usurp his

throne; and the Western Empire recoiled from the idea of accepting such

a woman as arbiter of their destinies.

Thus Charlemagne, forced to act on his own responsibility, examined the

evidence laid before him and declared Leo innocent of the crimes of

which he had been accused. In one sense it was a complete triumph for

the Pope; but Leo was a clear-sighted statesman and knew that the power

to which he had been restored rested on a weak foundation. The very

fact that he had been compelled to appeal for justice to a temporal

sovereign lowered the office that he held in the eyes of the world;

and he possessed no guarantee that, once the Franks had left Rome, his

enemies would not again attack him. Without a recognized champion,

always ready to enforce her will, the Papacy remained at the mercy of

those who chose to oppose or hinder her.

In the dramatic scene that took place in St. Peter’s Cathedral on

Christmas Day, A.D. 800, Leo found a way out of his difficulties.

Arrayed in gorgeous vestments, he said Mass before the High Altar, lit

by a thousand candles hanging at the arched entrance to the chancel. In

the half-gloom beyond knelt Charlemagne and his sons; and at the end

of the service Leo, approaching them with a golden crown in his hands,

placed it upon the King’s head. Instantly the congregation burst into

the cry with which Roman emperors of old had been acclaimed at their

accession. ‘To Charles Augustus, crowned of God, the great and pacific

Emperor, long life and victory!’ ‘From that time’, says a Frankish

chronicle, commenting on this scene, ‘there was no more a Roman Empire

at Constantinople.’

[Sidenote: Foundation of Western Empire]

Leo had found his champion, and in anointing and crowning him had

emphasized the dignity of his own office. He had also pleased the

citizens of Rome, who rejoiced to have an Emperor again after the

lapse of more than three centuries. Charlemagne alone was doubtful

of the greatness that had been thrust upon him and accepted it with

reluctance. He had troubles enough near home without embroiling himself

with Constantinople; but as it turned out the Eastern Empire was too

busy deposing the Empress Irene to object actively to its rejection in

the West; and Irene’s successors agreed to acknowledge the imperial

rank of their rival in return for the cession of certain coveted lands

on the Eastern Adriatic.

Other sovereigns hastened to pay their respects to the new Emperor,

and Charlemagne received several embassies in search of alliance from

Haroun al-Raschid, the Caliph of Bagdad. Haroun al-Raschid ruled over

a mighty empire stretching from Persia to Egypt, and thence along the

North African coast to the Strait of Gibraltar. On one occasion he sent

Charlemagne a present of a wonderful water-clock that, as it struck the

hour of twelve, opened as many windows, through which armed horsemen

rode forth and back again. Far more exciting in Western eyes was the

unhappy elephant that for nine years remained the glory of the imperial

court at Aachen. Its death, when they were about to lead it forth on an

expedition against the northern tribes of Germany, is noted sadly in

the national annals.

Rulers less fortunate than Haroun al-Raschid sought not so much the

friendship of the Western Emperor as his protection, and through

his influence exiled kings of Wessex and Northumberland were able to

recover their thrones. Most significant tribute of all to the honour

in which Charlemagne’s name was held was the petition of the Patriarch

of Jerusalem that he would come and rescue Christ’s city from the

infidel. The message was accompanied by a banner and the keys of the

Holy Sepulchre; but Charlemagne, though deeply moved by such a call to

the defence of Christendom, knew that the campaign was beyond his power

and put it from him. Were there not infidels to be subdued within the

boundaries of his own Empire, fierce Saxon tribes that year after year

made mock both of the sovereignty of the Franks and their religion?

The Saxons lived amongst the ranges of low hills between the Rhine and

the Elbe. By the end of the eighth century, when other Teutonic races

such as the Franks and the Bavarians had yielded to the civilizing

influence of Christianity, they still cherished their old beliefs

in the gods of nature and offered sacrifices to spirits dwelling in

groves and fountains. The chief object of their worship was a huge tree

trunk that they kept hidden in the heart of a forest, their priests

declaring that the whole Heavens rested upon it. This _Irminsul_, or

‘All-supporting pillar’, was the bond between one group of Saxons and

another that led them to rally round their chiefs when any foreign army

appeared on their soil; though, if at peace with the rest of the world,

they would fight amongst themselves for sheer love of battle.

[Sidenote: St. Boniface]

A part of the Saxon race had settled in the island of Britain, when the

Roman authority weakened at the break-up of the Empire; and amongst

the descendants of these settlers were some Christian priests who

determined to carry the Gospel to the heathen tribes of Germany, men

and women of their own race but still living in spiritual darkness. The

most famous of these missionaries was St. Winifrith, or St. Boniface

according to the Latin version of his name that means, ‘He who brings

peace.’

About the time that Charles Martel was Duke of the Franks Boniface

arrived in Germany and began to travel from one part of the country to

another, explaining the Gospel of Christ, and persuading those whom he

converted to build churches and monasteries. When he went to Rome to

give an account of his work the Pope made him a bishop and sent him to

preach in the Duchy of Bavaria. Later, as his influence increased and

he gathered disciples round him, he was able to found not only parish

churches but bishoprics with a central archbishopric at Mainz; thus,

long before Germany became a nation she possessed a Church with an

organized government that belonged not to one but to all her provinces.

Only in the north and far east of Germany heathenism still held sway;

and St. Boniface, after he had gone at the Pope’s wish to help the

Franks reform their Church, determined to make one last effort to

complete his missionary work in the land he had chosen as his own. He

was now sixty-five, but nothing daunted by the hardships and dangers of

the task before him he set off with a few disciples to Friesland and

began to preach to the wild pagan tribes who lived there. Before he

could gain a hearing, however, he was attacked, and, refusing to defend

himself, was put to death.

Thus passed away ‘the Apostle of Germany’ and with him much of the

kindliness of his message. Christianity was to come indeed to these

northern tribes, but through violence and the sword rather than by

the influence of a gentle life. Charlemagne had a sincere love of the

Catholic Faith, whose champion he believed himself; but he considered

that only folly and obstinacy could blind men’s eyes to the truth of

Christianity, and he was determined to enforce its doctrines by the

sword if necessary.

The Saxons, on the other hand, though if they were beaten in battle

they might yield for a time and might promise to pay tribute to

the Franks and build churches, remained heathens at heart. When an

opportunity occurred, and they learned that the greater part of the

Frankish army was in Italy or on the Spanish border, they would sally

forth across their boundaries and drive out or kill the missionaries.

Charlemagne knew that he could have no peace within his Empire until he

had subdued the Saxons; but the task he had set himself was harder than

he had imagined, and it was thirty-eight years before he could claim

that he had succeeded.

[Sidenote: Conquest of Saxon Tribes]

‘The final conquest of the Saxons’, says Eginhard, a scholar who

lived at Charlemagne’s court and wrote his life, ‘would have been

accomplished sooner but for their treachery. It is hard to tell how

often they broke faith, surrendering to the King and accepting his

terms, and then breaking out into wild rebellion once more.’ Eginhard

continues that Charlemagne’s method was never to allow a revolt to

remain unpunished but to set out at once with an army and exact

vengeance. On one of these campaigns he succeeded in reaching the

forest where the sacred trunk _Irminsul_ was kept and set fire to it

and destroyed it; but the Saxons, though disheartened for the moment,

soon rallied under the banner of a famous chief called Witikind. We

know little of the latter except his undaunted courage that made him

refuse for many years to submit to a foe so much stronger that he must

obviously gain the final victory.

Charlemagne, exasperated by repeated opposition, used every means to

forward his aim. Sometimes he would bribe separate chieftains to betray

their side; but often he would employ methods of deliberate cruelty

in order to strike terror into his foes. Four thousand five hundred

Saxons who had started a rebellion were once cut off and captured by

the Franks. They pleaded that Witikind, who had escaped into Denmark,

had prompted them to act against their better judgement. ‘If Witikind

is not here you must pay the penalty in his stead,’ returned the King

relentlessly, and the whole number were put to the sword.

At different times he transplanted hundreds of Saxon households into

the heart of France, and in the place of ‘this great multitude’, as the

chronicle describes them, he established Frankish garrisons. He also

sent missionaries to build churches in the conquered territories and

compelled the inhabitants to become Christians.

Often the bishops and priests thus sent would have to fly before a

sudden raid of heathen Saxons hiding in the neighbouring forests and

marshes; and, lacking the courage of St. Boniface, a few would hesitate

to return when the danger was suppressed. ‘What ought I to do?’ cried

one of the most timid, appealing to Charlemagne. ‘In Christ’s name go

back to thy diocese,’ was the stern answer.

While the King expected the same obedience and devotion from church

officials as from the captains in his army, he took care that they

should not lack his support in the work he had set them to do.

‘If any man among the Saxons, being not yet baptized, shall hide

himself and refuse to come to baptism, let him die the death.’

‘If any man despise the Lenten fast for contempt of Christianity,

let him die the death.’

‘Let all men, whether nobles, free, or serfs, give to the Churches

and the priests the tenth part of their substance and labour.’

These ‘capitularies’, or laws, show that Charlemagne was still half

a barbarian at heart and matched pagan savagery with a severity more

ruthless because it was more calculating. In the end Witikind himself,

in spite of his courage, was forced to surrender and accept baptism,

and gradually the whole of Saxony fell under the Frankish yoke.

The Duchy of Bavaria, that had been Christian for many years, did not

offer nearly so stubborn a resistance; and after he had reduced both it

and Saxony to submission, Charlemagne was ruler not merely in name but

in reality of an Empire that included France, the modern Holland and

Belgium, Germany, and the greater part of Italy. Some of the conquests

he had made were to fall away, but Germany that had suffered most at

his hands emerged in the end the greatest achievement of his foreign

wars.

He swept away the black deceitful night

And taught our race to know the only light,

wrote a Saxon monk of the ninth century, showing that already some of

the bitterness had vanished. ‘In a few generations’, says a modern

writer, ‘the Saxons were conspicuous for their loyalty to the Faith.’

No story of Charlemagne would be true to life that omitted his harsh

dealings with his Saxon foe; and yet it would be equally unfair to

paint him only as a warrior, mercilessly exterminating all who

opposed him in barbaric fashion. Far more than a conqueror he was an

empire-builder to whom war was not an end in itself, as to his Frankish

forefathers, but a means towards the safeguarding of his realm.

The forts and outworks that he planted along his boundaries, the

churches that he built in the midst of hostile territory, belonged

indeed to his policy of inspiring terror and awe: but Charlemagne had

also other designs only in part of a military nature. Roads and bridges

that should make a network of communication across the Empire, acting

like channels of civilization in assisting transport and encouraging

trade and intercourse: royal palaces that should become centres of

justice for the surrounding country: monasteries that should shed the

light of knowledge and of faith: all these formed part of his dream of

a Roman Empire brought back to her old stately life and power.

A canal joining the Rhine and Danube and thus making a continuous

waterway between East and West was planned and even begun, but had to

wait till modern times for its completion. Charlemagne possessed the

vision and enterprise that did not quail before big undertakings, but

he lacked the money and labour necessary for carrying them out. Unlike

the Roman Emperors of classic times he had no treasury on whose taxes

he could draw; but depended, save for certain rents, on the revenues

of his private estates that were usually paid ‘in kind’, that is to

say, not in coin but at the rate of so many head of cattle, or of so

much milk, corn, or barley, according to the means of the tenant. Of

these supplies he kept a careful account even to the number of hens on

the royal farms and the quantity of eggs that they laid. Yet at their

greatest extent revenues ‘in kind’ could do little more than satisfy

the daily needs of the palace.

The chief debt that the Frankish nation owed to the state was not

financial but military, the obligation of service in the field laid on

every freeman. As the Empire increased in size this became so irksome

that the system was somewhat modified. In future men who possessed less

than a certain quantity of land might join together and pay one or two

of their number, according to the size of their joint properties, to

represent them in the army abroad, while the rest remained at home to

see to the cultivation of the crops.

[Sidenote: Court of Charlemagne]

Charlemagne was very anxious to raise a body of labourers from each

district to assist in his building schemes, but this suggestion

awoke a storm of indignation. Landowners maintained that they were

only required by law to repair the roads and bridges in their own

neighbourhood, not to put their tenants at the disposal of the Emperor

that he might send them at his whim from Aquitaine to Bavaria, or from

Austria to Lombardy; and in face of this opposition many of his designs

ceased abruptly from lack of labour. A royal palace and cathedral,

adorned with columns and mosaics from Ravenna, were, however, completed

at Aachen; and here Charlemagne established his principal residence and

gathered his court round him.

The life of this ‘new Rome’, as he loved to call it, was simple in

the extreme; for the Emperor, like a true Frank, hated unnecessary

ostentation and ceremony. When the chief nobles and officials assembled

twice a year in the spring and autumn to debate on public matters,

he would receive them in person, thanking them for the gifts they

had brought him, and walking up and down amongst them to jest with

one and ask questions of another with an informality that would have

scandalized the court at Constantinople.

In this easy intercourse between sovereign and subject lay the secret

of Charlemagne’s personal magnetism. To warriors and churchmen as to

officials and the ordinary freemen of his demesnes he was not some

far-removed authority, who could be approached only through a maze of

court intrigue, but a man like themselves with virtues and failings

they could understand.

If his temper was hasty and terrible when roused, it would soon melt

away into a genial humour that appreciated to the full the rough

practical jokes in which the age delighted. The chronicles tell us

with much satisfaction how Charlemagne once persuaded a Jew to offer

a ‘vainglorious bishop ever fond of vanities’ a painted mouse that he

pretended he had brought back straight from Judea. The bishop at first

declined to give more than £3 for such a treasure; but, deceived

by the Jew’s prompt refusal to part with it for so paltry a sum,

consented at length to hand over a bushel of silver in exchange. The

Emperor, hearing this, gathered the rest of the bishops at his court

together--‘See what one of you has paid for a mouse!’ he exclaimed

gleefully; and we may be sure that the story did not stop at the royal

presence but spread throughout the country, where haughty ecclesiastics

were looked on with little favour.

We are told also that Charlemagne loved to bombard the people he met,

from the Pope downwards, with difficult questions; but it was not

merely a malicious desire to bring them to confusion that prompted his

inquiries. Alert himself, and keenly interested in whatever business he

had in hand, he despised slipshod or inefficient knowledge. He expected

a bishop to be an authority on theology, an official to be an expert on

methods of government, a scholar to be well grounded in the ordinary

sciences of his day.

Hard work was the surest road to his favour, and he spared neither

himself nor those who entered his service. Even at night he would

place writing materials beneath his pillow that if he woke or thought

of anything it might be noted down. On one occasion he visited the

palace school that he had founded, and discovered that while the boys

of humble birth were making the most of their opportunities, the sons

of the nobles, despising book-learning, had frittered away their time.

Commending those who had done well, the Emperor turned to the others

with an angry frown. ‘Relying on your birth and wealth,’ he exclaimed,

‘and caring nothing for our commands and your own improvement, you

have neglected the study of letters and have indulged yourselves in

pleasures and idleness.... By the King of Heaven I care little for your

noble birth.... Know this, unless straightway you make up for your

former negligence by earnest study, you need never expect any favour

from the hand of Charles.’

[Sidenote: Government of Charlemagne]

It was with the wealthy nobles and landowners that Charlemagne fought

some of his hardest battles, though no sword was drawn or open war

declared. Not only were most of the high offices at court in their

hands, but it was from their ranks that the counts, and later the

viscounts, were chosen who ruled over the districts into which the

Empire was divided and subdivided.

The count received a third of the gifts and rents from his province

that would have otherwise been paid to the King; and these, if he were

unscrupulous, he could increase at the expense of those he governed.

He presided in the local law-courts and was responsible for the

administration of justice, the exaction of fines, and for the building

of roads and bridges. He was in fact a petty king, and would often

tyrannize over the people and neglect the royal interests to forward

his selfish ambitions.

The Merovingians had tried to limit the authority of the counts and

other provincial officials by occasionally sending private agents of

their own to inquire into the state of the provinces and to reform

the abuses that they found. Charlemagne adopted this practice as a

regular system; and at the annual assemblies he appointed _Missi_, or

‘messengers’, who should make a tour of inspection in the district to

which they had been sent at least four times in the year and afterwards

report on their progress to the Emperor. Wherever they went the count

or viscount must yield up his authority to them for the time being,

allowing them to sit in his court and hear all the grievances and

complaints that the men and women of the district cared to bring

forward. If the _Missi_ insisted on certain reforms the count must

carry them out and also make atonement for any charges proved against

him.

Here are some of the evils that the men of Istria, a province on the

Eastern Adriatic, suffered at the hands of their lord, ‘Johannes’, and

that the inquiries of the royal _Missi_ at length brought to light.

Johannes had sold the people on his estates as serfs to his sons and

daughters: he had forced them to build houses for his family and to go

voyages on his business across the sea to Venice and Ravenna: he had

seized the common land and used it as his own, bringing in Slavs from

across the border to till it for his private use: he had robbed his

tenants of their horses and their money on the plea of the Emperor’s

service and had given them nothing in exchange. ‘If the Emperor will

help us,’ they cried, ‘we may be saved, but if not we had better die

than live.’

From this account we can see that Charlemagne appeared to the mass

of his subjects as their champion against the tyranny of the nobles,

and in this sense his government may be called popular; but the old

‘popular’ assemblies of the Franks at which the laws were made had

ceased by this reign to be anything but aristocratic gatherings

summoned to approve of the measures laid before them.

The Emperor’s ‘capitularies’ would be based on the advice he had

received from his most trusted _Missi_; and when they had been

discussed by the principal nobles, they would be read to the general

assembly and ratified by a formal acceptance that meant nothing,

because it rarely or never was changed into a refusal.

Besides introducing new legislation in the form of royal edicts or

capitularies, Charlemagne commanded that a collection should be made

of all the old tribal laws, such as the Salic Law of the Franks, and

of the chief codes that had been handed down by tradition, or word of

mouth, for generations; and this compilation was revised and brought

up to date. It was a very useful and necessary piece of work, yet

Charlemagne for all his industry does not deserve to be ranked as a

great lawgiver like Justinian. The very earnestness of his desire to

secure immediate justice made his capitularies hasty and inadequate. He

would not wait to trace some evil to its root and then try to eradicate

it, but would pass a number of laws on the matter, only touching the

surface of what was wrong and creating confusion by the multiplicity of

instructions and the contradictions they contained.

Sometimes the _Missi_ themselves were not a success, but would take

bribes from the rich landowners on their tour of inspection, and this

would mean more government machinery and fresh laws to bring them under

the royal control in their turn. If it was difficult to make wise laws,

it was even harder in that rough age to carry them out; for the nobles

found it to their interest to defy or at least hinder an authority that

struck at their power; while the mass of the people were too ignorant

to bear responsibility, and few save those educated in the palace

schools could become trustworthy ‘counts’ or royal agents.

Dimly, however, the nation understood that the Emperor held some high

ideal of government planned for their prosperity, ‘No one cried out

to him’, says the chronicle, ‘but straightway he should have good

justice’: and in every church throughout France those who had not been

called to follow him to battle prayed for his safety and that God would

subdue the barbarians before his triumphant arms.

To Charlemagne there was a higher vision than that of mere victory in

battle, a vision born of his favourite book, the _Civitas Dei_, wherein

St. Augustine had described the perfect Emperor, holding his sceptre as

a gift God had given and might take away, and conquering his enemies

that he might lead them to a greater knowledge and prosperity.

[Sidenote: Charlemagne and the Church]

Charlemagne believed that to him had been entrusted the guardianship of

the Catholic Church, not only from the heathen without its pale, but

from false doctrine and evil living within. To the Pope, as Christ’s

vice-regent, he bore himself humbly, as on the day when he had climbed

St. Peter’s steps on his knees, but to the Pope as a man dealing with

other men he spoke as a lord to his vassal, tendering his views and

expecting compliance, in return for which he guaranteed the support of

his sword.

‘May the ruler of the Church be rightly ruled by thee, O King, and

may’st thou be ruled by the right hand of the Almighty!’ In this prayer

Alcuin probably expressed the Emperor’s opinion of his own position.

Leo III, on the other hand, preferred to talk of his champion as a

faithful son of the mother Church of Rome; thereby implying that the

Emperor should pay a son’s duty of obedience: but he himself was never

in a strong enough position to enforce this point of view, and the

clash of Empire and Papacy was left for a later age.

Within his own dominions Charlemagne, like the Frankish kings before

him, reigned supreme over the Church, appointing whom he would

as bishops, and using them often as _Missi_ to assist him in his

government. Yet the Church remained an ‘estate’ apart from the rest

of the nation, supported by the revenues of the large sees belonging

to the different bishoprics and by the _tithe_, or tenth part of a

layman’s income. When churchmen attended the annual assembly they were

allowed to deliberate apart from the nobles and freemen: when a bishop

excommunicated some heretic or sinner, the Emperor’s court was bound

to enforce the sentence. Thus the privileges and rights were many; but

Charlemagne determined that the men who enjoyed them must also fulfil

the obligations that they carried with them.

In earlier years Charles Martel and St. Boniface had struggled hard to

raise the character of the Frankish Church, and Charlemagne continued

their task with his usual energy, insisting on frequent inspections of

the monasteries and convents and on the maintenance of a stricter rule

of life within their walls.

The ordinary parish clergy were also brought under more vigilant

supervision. In accordance with the laws of the Roman Church they were

not allowed to marry, nor might they take part in any worldly business,

enter a tavern, carry arms, or go hunting or hawking. Above all they

were encouraged to educate themselves that they might be able to teach

their parishioners and set a good example.

‘Good works are better than knowledge’, wrote Charlemagne to his

bishops and abbots in a letter of advice, ‘but without knowledge good

works are impossible.’ In accordance with this view he commanded that

a school should be established in every diocese, in order that the

boys of the neighbourhood might receive a grounding in the ordinary

education of their day. His own court became a centre of learning; for

he himself was keenly interested in all branches of knowledge, from a

close study of the Scriptures to mathematics or tales of distant lands.

Histories he liked to have read out to him at meals. Eginhard, his

biographer, tells us that he never learned to write, but that he was

proficient in Latin and could understand Greek.

It was his desire to emulate Augustus, the first of the Roman Emperors,

and gather round him the most literary men of Europe, and he eagerly

welcomed foreign scholars and took them into his service. Chief

amongst these adopted sons of the Empire was Alcuin the Northumbrian, a

‘wanderer on the face of the earth’ as he called himself, whom Danish

invasions had driven from his native land.

Alcuin settled at the Frankish court, organized the ‘palace school’ of

which we have already made mention, and himself wrote the primers from

which the boys were taught. His influence soon extended beyond this

sphere, and he became the Emperor’s chief adviser, inspiring his master

with high ideals, while he himself was stirred by the other’s vivid

personality to share his passion for hard work.

[Sidenote: Character of Charlemagne]

It is this almost volcanic energy that gives the force and charm to

Charlemagne’s many-sided character. We think of him first, it may be,

as the warrior, the hero of romance, or else as a statesman planning

his Empire of the West. At another time we see in him the guardian of

his people, the king who ‘wills that justice should be done’, but we

recall a story such as that of the painted mouse, and instantly his

simple, almost schoolboy, side becomes apparent. The ‘Great Charles’

was no saint but a Frank of the rough type of soldiers he led to

battle, capable of cruelty as of kindness, hot-tempered, a lover of

sport, strong perhaps where his ideals were at stake, but weak towards

women, and an over-indulgent father, who let the intrigues of his

daughters bring scandal on his court. Yet another contrast to this

homely figure is the scholar and theologian, the friend of Alcuin, who

believed that without knowledge good works were impossible.

Many famous characters in history have equalled or surpassed

Charlemagne as general, statesman, or legislator--there have been

better scholars and more refined princes--but few or none have followed

such divers aims and achieved by the sheer force of their personality

such memorable results. Painters and chroniclers love to depict him in

old age still majestic; and in truth up till nearly the end of his long

reign he kept the fire and vigour of his youth, swimming like a boy in

the baths of Aachen, or hunting the wild boar upon the hills, drawing

up capitularies, or dictating advice to his bishops, doing, in fact,

whatever came to hand with an intensity that would have exhausted any

one less healthy and self-reliant.

Fortunately for Charlemagne he had the sturdy constitution of his race,

and when at last he died an old man in 814 people believed that he did

not share the common fate of humanity. Nearly two hundred years later,

it was said, when the funeral vault was opened, he was found seated in

his chair of state, firm of flesh as in life, with his crown on his

snowy hair, and his sword clasped in his hand.

‘Our Lord gave this boon to Charlemagne that men should speak of him

as long as the world endureth.’ It is a boast that as centuries pass,

sweeping away the memory of lesser heroes, time still justifies.

_Supplementary Dates. For Chronological Summary, see pp. 368-73._

Charlemagne, King of the Franks 768-800

Charlemagne, Emperor of the West 800-14

Battle of Roncesvalles 778

Invasion of Lombardy 773

Haroun al-Raschid died 809

St. Boniface 715

IX

THE INVASIONS OF THE NORTHMEN

At the death of Charlemagne the Empire that he had built up stretched

from Denmark to the Pyrenees and the Duchy of Spoletum south of Rome,

from the Atlantic on the West to the Baltic, Bohemia, and the Dalmatian

coast. It had been a brave attempt to realize the old Roman ideal of

all civilized Europe gathered under one ruler; but he himself was well

aware that the foundations he had laid were weak, his own personality

that must vanish the mortar holding them together. Without his genius

and the terror of his name his possessions were only too likely to fall

away; and therefore, instead of attempting to leave a united Empire, he

nominated one son to be emperor in name, but made a rough division of

his territory between three. Only the death of two just before his own

defeated his aims and united the inheritance under the survivor, Louis.

The new Emperor was like his father in build, but without his

wideness of outlook. His natural geniality was sometimes marred by

uncontrollable fits of suspicion and cruelty, as in the case of his

nephew, Bernard, King of Italy, whom he believed to be secretly

conspiring to bring about his overthrow. Louis ordered the young man

to appear at his court, and when Bernard hesitated, fearing treachery,

his uncle sent him a special promise of safety by the Empress, whom

he trusted. Reluctantly Bernard at last obeyed the summons, whereupon

he was seized, thrust into a dungeon, and his eyes put out so cruelly

that he died. Shortly afterwards the Empress died also, and Louis who

had loved her believed that God was punishing him for his broken word.

Overcome by remorse he became so devout in his religious observances

that his subjects called him ‘Louis the Pious’.

Louis, like his father, was ever ready to listen to the petitions of

those who were oppressed and to pass laws for their security. For the

first sixteen years of his reign the Carolingian dominions, put to

no test, appeared unshaken, and then of a sudden, just as if a cloud

were blotting out the sunlight, prosperity and peace were lost in the

horrors of civil war.

Louis the Pious had three sons by his first wife, and following

Charlemagne’s example he named the eldest, Lothar, as his successor in

the Empire, while he divided his lands between the other two. It was

only when he married again and another son, Charles, was born to him

that trouble began. This fourth son was the old Emperor’s favourite,

and Louis would gladly have left him a large kingdom; but such a gift

he could only make now at the expense of the elder brothers, who hated

the young boy as an interloper, and were determined that he should

receive nothing to which they could lay a claim.

When Charles was six years old Louis insisted that the country now

called Switzerland and part of modern Germany (Suabia) should be

recognized as his inheritance; and on hearing this all three elder

brothers, who had been secretly making disloyal plots, broke into open

revolt.

The history of the next ten years is an ignominious chronicle of

the Emperor’s weakness. Twice were he and his Empress imprisoned

and insulted; and on each occasion, when the quarrels of his sons

amongst themselves led to his release, he was induced to grant a weak

forgiveness that led to further rebellion.

When Louis died in 840, the seeds of dissension were widely scattered;

and those of his House who came after him openly showed that they

cared for nothing save personal ambition. Lothar, the eldest, was

proclaimed Emperor, and obtained as his share of the dominions a large

middle kingdom stretching from the mouth of the Rhine to Italy, and

including the two capitals of Aachen and Rome. To the East, in what is

now Germany, reigned his brother Louis, to the West, in France, Charles

‘the Bald’, the hated younger brother who had succeeded at the last in

obtaining a substantial inheritance.

[Sidenote: Oath of Strasbourg]

This division is interesting because it shows two of the nationalities

of Europe already emerging from the imperial melting-pot. When the

brothers Louis and Charles met at Strasbourg in 842 to confirm an

alliance they had formed against Lothar, Charles and his followers took

the oath in German, Louis and his nobles in the Romance tongue of which

modern French is the descendant. This they did that the armies on both

sides might clearly understand how their leaders had bound themselves,

and the Oath of Strasbourg remains to-day as evidence of this new

growth of nationality that had already acquired distinct national

tongues.

The Partition of Verdun, signed shortly afterwards by all three

brothers, acknowledged the division of the Empire into three parts,

France on the West, Germany in the East, and between them the debatable

kingdom of Lotharingia, that, dwindled during the Middle Ages and

modern times into the province of Lorraine, has remained always a

source of war and trouble.

It would be wearisome to trace in detail the history of the years that

followed the Partition of Verdun. One historian has described it as ‘a

dizzy and unintelligible spectacle of monotonous confusion, a scene of

unrestrained treachery, of insatiable and blind rapacity. No son is

obedient or loyal to his father, no brother can trust his brother, no

uncle spares his nephew.... There were rapid alterations in fortune,

rapid changing of sides, there was universal distrust and universal

reliance on falsehood or crime.’

In 881 Charles ‘the Fat’, son of Louis the German, of Strasbourg Oath

fame, succeeded, owing to the deaths of his rival cousins and uncles,

in uniting for a few years all the dominions of Charlemagne under his

sceptre; but, weak and unhealthy, he was not the man to control so

great possessions, and very shortly he was deposed and died in prison

on an island in Lake Constance. With him faded away the last reflection

of the Carolingian glory that had once dazzled the world. In France the

descendants of Charles ‘the Bald’ carried on a precarious existence for

several generations, despised and threatened by their own nobles, as

the later Merovingians had been, and utterly unable to defend their

land from the hostile invasions of Northmen, that, beginning in the

eighth century, seemed likely during the ninth and tenth centuries to

paralyse the civilization and trade of Europe as the inroads of Goths,

Huns, and Vandals had broken up the Roman Empire.

The long ships of the Northmen had been seen off the French coasts even

in the days of Charlemagne, and one of the chroniclers records how the

wise king seeing them exclaimed, ‘These vessels bear no merchandise but

cruel foes,’ and then continued, with prophetic grief, ‘Know ye why

I weep? Truly I fear not that these will injure me; but I am deeply

grieved that in my lifetime they should be so near a landing on these

shores, and I am overwhelmed with sorrow as I look forward and see what

evils they will bring upon my offspring and their people.’

The Northmen, we can guess from their name, came from the wild, often

snow-bound, coasts of Scandinavia and Denmark. Few weaklings could

survive in such a climate; and the race was tall, well built, and

hardy, made up of men and women who despised the fireside and loved to

feel the fresh sea-wind beating against their faces. Life to them was

a perpetual struggle, but a struggle they had glorified into an ideal,

until they had ceased to dread either its discomforts or dangers.

Here is a description of the three classes, thrall, churl, and noble,

into which these tribes of Northmen, or ‘Vikings’, were divided.

‘Thrall was swarthy of skin, his hands wrinkled, his knuckles bent,

his fingers thick, his face ugly, his back broad, his heels long.

He began to put forth his strength binding bast, making loads,

and bearing home faggots the weary day long. His children busied

themselves with building fences, dunging ploughland, tending swine,

herding goats, and digging peat.... Carl, or Churl, was red and

ruddy, with rolling eyes, and took to breaking oxen, building

ploughs, timbering houses, and making carts. Earl, the noble, had

yellow hair, his cheeks were rosy, his eyes were keen as a young

serpent’s. His occupation was shaping the shield, bending the bow,

hurling the javelin, shaking the lance, riding horses, throwing

dice, fencing and swimming. He began to wake war, to redden the

field, and to fell the doomed.’

‘To wake war.’ This was the object of the Viking’s existence. His gods,

‘Odin’ and ‘Thor’, were battle heroes who struck one another in the

flash of lightning and with the rumble of thunder as they moved their

shields. Not for the man who lived long and comfortably and died at

last in his bed were either the glory of this world or the joys of

the next. The Scandinavian ‘Valhalla’ was no such ‘paradise’ as the

faithful Moslems conceived, where, in sunlit gardens gay with fruit

and flowers, he should rest from his labours, attended by ‘houris’, or

maidens of celestial beauty. The Viking asked for no rest, only for

unfailing strength and a foe to kill. In the halls of his paradise

reigned perpetual battle all the day long, and, in the evening, feasts

where the warrior, miraculously cured of his wounds, could boast of his

prowess and rise again on the morrow to fresh deeds of heroic slaughter.

[Sidenote: Northmen Raids]

In their dragon-ships, the huge prows fashioned into the heads of

fierce animals or monsters, the Viking ‘Earls’, weary of dicing and

throwing the javelin at home, or exiled by their kings for some

misdeeds, would sweep in fleets across the North Sea, some to explore

Iceland and the far-off shores of Greenland and North America,

some to burn the monasteries along the Irish coast, others to raid

North Germany, France, or England. At first their only object was

plunder, for unlike the Huns they did not despise the luxuries of

civilization--only those who allowed its influence to make them ‘soft’.

At a later date, when they met with little resistance, they began to

build homes, and thus the east coast of England became settled with

Danish colonies.

‘In this year’, says the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_, writing under the

date 855, ‘the heathen men for the first time remained over winter in

Sheppey.’

[Sidenote: Alfred the Great]

During the fifty years that followed it seemed as if the invaders might

sweep away the Anglo-Saxons as completely as the ancestors of these

Anglo-Saxons had exterminated the original British inhabitants and

their Roman conquerors. That they failed was largely due to one of the

most famous of English kings, Alfred ‘the Great’, a prince of the royal

house of Wessex. Wessex was a province lying mainly to the south of

the River Thames, and at Wantage in Berkshire in the year 849 Alfred

was born, cradled in an atmosphere of war and danger. From boyhood he

fought by the side of his brothers in a long campaign of which the

very victories could not hold at bay the restless Danes. When Alfred

succeeded to the throne he secured a temporary peace and began to build

a fleet and reform his army; but in a few years his enemies broke

across his boundaries once more, and he himself, overwhelmed by their

numbers, was forced to take refuge in the marshes of Somerset. Here at

Athelney he built a fort and, collecting round him the English warriors

of the neighbouring counties, organized so strong a resistance that at

last he inflicted a decisive defeat upon the Danish army. King Guthrum,

his enemy, sued for peace and at the Treaty of Wedmore consented to

become a Christian and to recognize Alfred as King of Wessex, while he

himself retained the Danelaw to the north of the Thames.

This was the beginning of a new England, for from this time Alfred and

his descendants, having secured the freedom of Wessex, set themselves

to win back bit by bit the territory held by the Danes. First of all

under Edward ‘the Elder’, Alfred’s son, the middle kingdom of Mercia

was won back, and the Danes beyond its border agreed to recognize the

King of Wessex as their overlord, while later other Wessex rulers

overran Northumbria and the South of Scotland, so that by the middle of

the tenth century it could be said that ‘England from the Forth to the

Channel was under one ruler’.

The winning back of the Danelaw had not been merely a matter of hewing

down Northmen, nor did Alfred earn his title of ‘the Great’ because

he could wield a sword bravely and lead other men who could do the

same. He was a successful general because in an age of wild fighting

he recognized the value of discipline and training. In order to obtain

the type of men he required he increased the number of ‘Thegns’, that

is, of nobles whose duty it was to serve the King as horsemen, while

he reorganized the ‘fyrd’ or local militia. Henceforth, instead of a

large army of peasants, who must be sent to their homes every autumn

to reap the harvest, he arranged for the maintenance of a small force

that he could keep in the field as long as required. Its arms were to

be supplied by fellow villagers released from the obligation to serve

themselves on this condition.

Alfred, besides remodelling his army, set up fortresses along his

borders, and constructed a fleet; and, because he believed that no

great nation can be built on war alone, he made wise laws and appointed

judges, like Charlemagne’s _Missi_, to see that they were carried out.

He also founded schools and tried, by translating books himself and

inviting scholars to his court, to teach the men around him the glories

and interests of peace. Amongst the books that he chose to set before

his people in the Anglo-Saxon tongue was one called _Pastoral Care_, by

the Pope Gregory who had wished to go to England as a missionary, and

_The Consolations of Philosophy_, written by Boethius in prison.[4]

‘I have desired,’ said Alfred the Great, summing up his ideal of life,

‘to leave to the men who come after me my memory in good works’; and

English people to-day, descendants of both Anglo-Saxons and their

Danish foes, remember with pride and affection this ‘Wise King’,

this ‘Truth-teller’, this ‘England’s darling’, as he was called in

his own day, who like Charlemagne believed in patriotism, justice,

and knowledge. For three-quarters of a century after Alfred’s death

his descendants kept alive something at any rate of this spirit of

greatness, but in 978 there succeeded to the crown a boy of ten

called Ethelred, who as he grew up earned for himself the nickname of

‘rede-less’ or ‘man without advice’.

It is only fair before condemning Ethelred’s conduct to point out the

heavy difficulties with which he was faced; both the renewed Danish

attacks on his shores, and also the jealousies and feuds of his own

nobles, the Earls, or ‘Ealdormen’, who had carved out large estates for

themselves that they ruled as petty kings. Even a statesman like Alfred

would have needed all his strength and tact to unite these powerful

subjects under one banner in order to lead them against the invaders.

Ethelred proved himself weak and without any power of leadership. The

policy for which he has been chiefly remembered is his levy of a tax

called ‘Danegeld’, or Danish gold, the sums of money that he raised

from his reluctant subjects to pay the Danes to go away. As a wiser man

would have realized, this really meant that he paid them to return in

still larger numbers in order to obtain more money. At last, alarmed at

the result of this policy, he did something still more short-sighted

and less defensible: he ordered a general massacre of all the Danes in

the kingdom.

The Massacre of St. Brice’s Day, as this drastic measure is usually

called, brought on England a bitter revenge at the hands of the angry

Vikings. One well-armed force after another landed on the coasts,

combining in an attack on the Anglo-Saxon King that drove him from the

country to seek refuge in France. Very shortly afterwards he died, and

Cnut, one of the Danish leaders, forced the country to accept him as

her ruler.

This accession of a Danish foe might have been expected to undo all

the work of Alfred and his sons, but fortunately for England Cnut was

no reckless Viking with his heart set on war for war’s sake. On the

contrary, he was by nature a statesman who planned the foundation of

a northern Empire with England as its central point. He maintained a

bodyguard of Danish ‘Hus carls’ supported by a tax levied on his new

subjects in order to ensure his personal safety and the fulfilment of

his orders, but otherwise he showed himself an Englishman in every way

he could. In especial he made large gifts to monasteries and convents,

bestowed favour and lands on English nobles, and accepted the laws and

customs of the country whose throne he had usurped. King of Denmark,

and conqueror of England and Norway, he was anxious to ally his Empire

with the nations of the Continent. With this in view he went on a

pilgrimage to Rome to win the sympathy of the Pope and took a great

deal of trouble to arrange foreign alliances. He himself married

Emma, widow of Ethelred ‘the Rede-less’, and a sister of the Duke of

Normandy, thus pleasing the English and bringing himself into touch

with France.

The mention of Normandy brings us to a second invasion of Northmen,

for the Normans, like Cnut himself, were of Scandinavian origin.

When some of the Vikings during the ninth century had sailed up the

Humber and the Thames in the search of plunder and homes, others, as

Charlemagne, according to the chronicler, had foreseen, preferred the

harbours of the Seine, the Somme, and the Loire. In their methods they

showed the same reckless daring and brutality as the early invaders of

England, leaving where they passed smoking ruins of towns and churches.

Charles ‘the Bald’ and the feeble remnant of the Carolingian line who

succeeded him were quite unable to deal with this terror, and it was

only the creation of a Duchy of Paris, whose forces were commanded by a

fighting hero, Odo Capet, that saved the future capital of France.