ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART
In the year of our Lord one thousand one hundred and eighty-nine,
Richard of the Lion Heart succeeded to the throne of King Henry the
Second, whose paternal heart he had done so much to break. He had been,
as we have seen, a rebel from his boyhood; but, the moment he became a
king against whom others might rebel, he found out that rebellion was a
great wickedness. In the heat of this pious discovery, he punished all
the leading people who had befriended him against his father. He could
scarcely have done anything that would have been a better instance of
his real nature, or a better warning to fawners and parasites not to
trust in lion-hearted princes.
He likewise put his late father’s treasurer in chains, and locked him
up in a dungeon from which he was not set free until he had
relinquished, not only all the Crown treasure, but all his own money
too. So, Richard certainly got the Lion’s share of the wealth of this
wretched treasurer, whether he had a Lion’s heart or not.
He was crowned King of England, with great pomp, at Westminster:
walking to the Cathedral under a silken canopy stretched on the tops of
four lances, each carried by a great lord. On the day of his
coronation, a dreadful murdering of the Jews took place, which seems to
have given great delight to numbers of savage persons calling
themselves Christians. The King had issued a proclamation forbidding
the Jews (who were generally hated, though they were the most useful
merchants in England) to appear at the ceremony; but as they had
assembled in London from all parts, bringing presents to show their
respect for the new Sovereign, some of them ventured down to
Westminster Hall with their gifts; which were very readily accepted. It
is supposed, now, that some noisy fellow in the crowd, pretending to be
a very delicate Christian, set up a howl at this, and struck a Jew who
was trying to get in at the Hall door with his present. A riot arose.
The Jews who had got into the Hall, were driven forth; and some of the
rabble cried out that the new King had commanded the unbelieving race
to be put to death. Thereupon the crowd rushed through the narrow
streets of the city, slaughtering all the Jews they met; and when they
could find no more out of doors (on account of their having fled to
their houses, and fastened themselves in), they ran madly about,
breaking open all the houses where the Jews lived, rushing in and
stabbing or spearing them, sometimes even flinging old people and
children out of window into blazing fires they had lighted up below.
This great cruelty lasted four-and-twenty hours, and only three men
were punished for it. Even they forfeited their lives not for murdering
and robbing the Jews, but for burning the houses of some Christians.
King Richard, who was a strong, restless, burly man, with one idea
always in his head, and that the very troublesome idea of breaking the
heads of other men, was mightily impatient to go on a Crusade to the
Holy Land, with a great army. As great armies could not be raised to
go, even to the Holy Land, without a great deal of money, he sold the
Crown domains, and even the high offices of State; recklessly
appointing noblemen to rule over his English subjects, not because they
were fit to govern, but because they could pay high for the privilege.
In this way, and by selling pardons at a dear rate and by varieties of
avarice and oppression, he scraped together a large treasure. He then
appointed two Bishops to take care of his kingdom in his absence, and
gave great powers and possessions to his brother John, to secure his
friendship. John would rather have been made Regent of England; but he
was a sly man, and friendly to the expedition; saying to himself, no
doubt, ‘The more fighting, the more chance of my brother being killed;
and when he _is_ killed, then I become King John!’
Before the newly levied army departed from England, the recruits and
the general populace distinguished themselves by astonishing cruelties
on the unfortunate Jews: whom, in many large towns, they murdered by
hundreds in the most horrible manner.
At York, a large body of Jews took refuge in the Castle, in the absence
of its Governor, after the wives and children of many of them had been
slain before their eyes. Presently came the Governor, and demanded
admission. ‘How can we give it thee, O Governor!’ said the Jews upon
the walls, ‘when, if we open the gate by so much as the width of a
foot, the roaring crowd behind thee will press in and kill us?’
Upon this, the unjust Governor became angry, and told the people that
he approved of their killing those Jews; and a mischievous maniac of a
friar, dressed all in white, put himself at the head of the assault,
and they assaulted the Castle for three days.
Then said Jocen, the head-Jew (who was a Rabbi or Priest), to the rest,
‘Brethren, there is no hope for us with the Christians who are
hammering at the gates and walls, and who must soon break in. As we and
our wives and children must die, either by Christian hands, or by our
own, let it be by our own. Let us destroy by fire what jewels and other
treasure we have here, then fire the castle, and then perish!’
A few could not resolve to do this, but the greater part complied. They
made a blazing heap of all their valuables, and, when those were
consumed, set the castle in flames. While the flames roared and
crackled around them, and shooting up into the sky, turned it
blood-red, Jocen cut the throat of his beloved wife, and stabbed
himself. All the others who had wives or children, did the like
dreadful deed. When the populace broke in, they found (except the
trembling few, cowering in corners, whom they soon killed) only heaps
of greasy cinders, with here and there something like part of the
blackened trunk of a burnt tree, but which had lately been a human
creature, formed by the beneficent hand of the Creator as they were.
After this bad beginning, Richard and his troops went on, in no very
good manner, with the Holy Crusade. It was undertaken jointly by the
King of England and his old friend Philip of France. They commenced the
business by reviewing their forces, to the number of one hundred
thousand men. Afterwards, they severally embarked their troops for
Messina, in Sicily, which was appointed as the next place of meeting.
King Richard’s sister had married the King of this place, but he was
dead: and his uncle Tancred had usurped the crown, cast the Royal Widow
into prison, and possessed himself of her estates. Richard fiercely
demanded his sister’s release, the restoration of her lands, and
(according to the Royal custom of the Island) that she should have a
golden chair, a golden table, four-and-twenty silver cups, and
four-and-twenty silver dishes. As he was too powerful to be
successfully resisted, Tancred yielded to his demands; and then the
French King grew jealous, and complained that the English King wanted
to be absolute in the Island of Messina and everywhere else. Richard,
however, cared little or nothing for this complaint; and in
consideration of a present of twenty thousand pieces of gold, promised
his pretty little nephew Arthur, then a child of two years old, in
marriage to Tancred’s daughter. We shall hear again of pretty little
Arthur by-and-by.
This Sicilian affair arranged without anybody’s brains being knocked
out (which must have rather disappointed him), King Richard took his
sister away, and also a fair lady named Berengaria, with whom he had
fallen in love in France, and whom his mother, Queen Eleanor (so long
in prison, you remember, but released by Richard on his coming to the
Throne), had brought out there to be his wife; and sailed with them for
Cyprus.
He soon had the pleasure of fighting the King of the Island of Cyprus,
for allowing his subjects to pillage some of the English troops who
were shipwrecked on the shore; and easily conquering this poor monarch,
he seized his only daughter, to be a companion to the lady Berengaria,
and put the King himself into silver fetters. He then sailed away again
with his mother, sister, wife, and the captive princess; and soon
arrived before the town of Acre, which the French King with his fleet
was besieging from the sea. But the French King was in no triumphant
condition, for his army had been thinned by the swords of the Saracens,
and wasted by the plague; and Saladin, the brave Sultan of the Turks,
at the head of a numerous army, was at that time gallantly defending
the place from the hills that rise above it.
Wherever the united army of Crusaders went, they agreed in few points
except in gaming, drinking, and quarrelling, in a most unholy manner;
in debauching the people among whom they tarried, whether they were
friends or foes; and in carrying disturbance and ruin into quiet
places. The French King was jealous of the English King, and the
English King was jealous of the French King, and the disorderly and
violent soldiers of the two nations were jealous of one another;
consequently, the two Kings could not at first agree, even upon a joint
assault on Acre; but when they did make up their quarrel for that
purpose, the Saracens promised to yield the town, to give up to the
Christians the wood of the Holy Cross, to set at liberty all their
Christian captives, and to pay two hundred thousand pieces of gold. All
this was to be done within forty days; but, not being done, King
Richard ordered some three thousand Saracen prisoners to be brought out
in the front of his camp, and there, in full view of their own
countrymen, to be butchered.
The French King had no part in this crime; for he was by that time
travelling homeward with the greater part of his men; being offended by
the overbearing conduct of the English King; being anxious to look
after his own dominions; and being ill, besides, from the unwholesome
air of that hot and sandy country. King Richard carried on the war
without him; and remained in the East, meeting with a variety of
adventures, nearly a year and a half. Every night when his army was on
the march, and came to a halt, the heralds cried out three times, to
remind all the soldiers of the cause in which they were engaged, ‘Save
the Holy Sepulchre!’ and then all the soldiers knelt and said ‘Amen!’
Marching or encamping, the army had continually to strive with the hot
air of the glaring desert, or with the Saracen soldiers animated and
directed by the brave Saladin, or with both together. Sickness and
death, battle and wounds, were always among them; but through every
difficulty King Richard fought like a giant, and worked like a common
labourer. Long and long after he was quiet in his grave, his terrible
battle-axe, with twenty English pounds of English steel in its mighty
head, was a legend among the Saracens; and when all the Saracen and
Christian hosts had been dust for many a year, if a Saracen horse
started at any object by the wayside, his rider would exclaim, ‘What
dost thou fear, Fool? Dost thou think King Richard is behind it?’
No one admired this King’s renown for bravery more than Saladin
himself, who was a generous and gallant enemy. When Richard lay ill of
a fever, Saladin sent him fresh fruits from Damascus, and snow from the
mountain-tops. Courtly messages and compliments were frequently
exchanged between them—and then King Richard would mount his horse and
kill as many Saracens as he could; and Saladin would mount his, and
kill as many Christians as he could. In this way King Richard fought to
his heart’s content at Arsoof and at Jaffa; and finding himself with
nothing exciting to do at Ascalon, except to rebuild, for his own
defence, some fortifications there which the Saracens had destroyed, he
kicked his ally the Duke of Austria, for being too proud to work at
them.
The army at last came within sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem; but,
being then a mere nest of jealousy, and quarrelling and fighting, soon
retired, and agreed with the Saracens upon a truce for three years,
three months, three days, and three hours. Then, the English
Christians, protected by the noble Saladin from Saracen revenge,
visited Our Saviour’s tomb; and then King Richard embarked with a small
force at Acre to return home.
But he was shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea, and was fain to pass
through Germany, under an assumed name. Now, there were many people in
Germany who had served in the Holy Land under that proud Duke of
Austria who had been kicked; and some of them, easily recognising a man
so remarkable as King Richard, carried their intelligence to the kicked
Duke, who straightway took him prisoner at a little inn near Vienna.
The Duke’s master the Emperor of Germany, and the King of France, were
equally delighted to have so troublesome a monarch in safe keeping.
Friendships which are founded on a partnership in doing wrong, are
never true; and the King of France was now quite as heartily King
Richard’s foe, as he had ever been his friend in his unnatural conduct
to his father. He monstrously pretended that King Richard had designed
to poison him in the East; he charged him with having murdered, there,
a man whom he had in truth befriended; he bribed the Emperor of Germany
to keep him close prisoner; and, finally, through the plotting of these
two princes, Richard was brought before the German legislature, charged
with the foregoing crimes, and many others. But he defended himself so
well, that many of the assembly were moved to tears by his eloquence
and earnestness. It was decided that he should be treated, during the
rest of his captivity, in a manner more becoming his dignity than he
had been, and that he should be set free on the payment of a heavy
ransom. This ransom the English people willingly raised. When Queen
Eleanor took it over to Germany, it was at first evaded and refused.
But she appealed to the honour of all the princes of the German Empire
in behalf of her son, and appealed so well that it was accepted, and
the King released. Thereupon, the King of France wrote to Prince
John—‘Take care of thyself. The devil is unchained!’
Prince John had reason to fear his brother, for he had been a traitor
to him in his captivity. He had secretly joined the French King; had
vowed to the English nobles and people that his brother was dead; and
had vainly tried to seize the crown. He was now in France, at a place
called Evreux. Being the meanest and basest of men, he contrived a mean
and base expedient for making himself acceptable to his brother. He
invited the French officers of the garrison in that town to dinner,
murdered them all, and then took the fortress. With this recommendation
to the good will of a lion-hearted monarch, he hastened to King
Richard, fell on his knees before him, and obtained the intercession of
Queen Eleanor. ‘I forgive him,’ said the King, ‘and I hope I may forget
the injury he has done me, as easily as I know he will forget my
pardon.’
While King Richard was in Sicily, there had been trouble in his
dominions at home: one of the bishops whom he had left in charge
thereof, arresting the other; and making, in his pride and ambition, as
great a show as if he were King himself. But the King hearing of it at
Messina, and appointing a new Regency, this Longchamp (for that was his
name) had fled to France in a woman’s dress, and had there been
encouraged and supported by the French King. With all these causes of
offence against Philip in his mind, King Richard had no sooner been
welcomed home by his enthusiastic subjects with great display and
splendour, and had no sooner been crowned afresh at Winchester, than he
resolved to show the French King that the Devil was unchained indeed,
and made war against him with great fury.
There was fresh trouble at home about this time, arising out of the
discontents of the poor people, who complained that they were far more
heavily taxed than the rich, and who found a spirited champion in
William Fitz-Osbert, called Longbeard. He became the leader of a secret
society, comprising fifty thousand men; he was seized by surprise; he
stabbed the citizen who first laid hands upon him; and retreated,
bravely fighting, to a church, which he maintained four days, until he
was dislodged by fire, and run through the body as he came out. He was
not killed, though; for he was dragged, half dead, at the tail of a
horse to Smithfield, and there hanged. Death was long a favourite
remedy for silencing the people’s advocates; but as we go on with this
history, I fancy we shall find them difficult to make an end of, for
all that.
The French war, delayed occasionally by a truce, was still in progress
when a certain Lord named Vidomar, Viscount of Limoges, chanced to find
in his ground a treasure of ancient coins. As the King’s vassal, he
sent the King half of it; but the King claimed the whole. The lord
refused to yield the whole. The King besieged the lord in his castle,
swore that he would take the castle by storm, and hang every man of its
defenders on the battlements.
There was a strange old song in that part of the country, to the effect
that in Limoges an arrow would be made by which King Richard would die.
It may be that Bertrand de Gourdon, a young man who was one of the
defenders of the castle, had often sung it or heard it sung of a winter
night, and remembered it when he saw, from his post upon the ramparts,
the King attended only by his chief officer riding below the walls
surveying the place. He drew an arrow to the head, took steady aim,
said between his teeth, ‘Now I pray God speed thee well, arrow!’
discharged it, and struck the King in the left shoulder.
Although the wound was not at first considered dangerous, it was severe
enough to cause the King to retire to his tent, and direct the assault
to be made without him. The castle was taken; and every man of its
defenders was hanged, as the King had sworn all should be, except
Bertrand de Gourdon, who was reserved until the royal pleasure
respecting him should be known.
By that time unskilful treatment had made the wound mortal and the King
knew that he was dying. He directed Bertrand to be brought into his
tent. The young man was brought there, heavily chained, King Richard
looked at him steadily. He looked, as steadily, at the King.
‘Knave!’ said King Richard. ‘What have I done to thee that thou
shouldest take my life?’
‘What hast thou done to me?’ replied the young man. ‘With thine own
hands thou hast killed my father and my two brothers. Myself thou
wouldest have hanged. Let me die now, by any torture that thou wilt. My
comfort is, that no torture can save Thee. Thou too must die; and,
through me, the world is quit of thee!’
Again the King looked at the young man steadily. Again the young man
looked steadily at him. Perhaps some remembrance of his generous enemy
Saladin, who was not a Christian, came into the mind of the dying King.
‘Youth!’ he said, ‘I forgive thee. Go unhurt!’ Then, turning to the
chief officer who had been riding in his company when he received the
wound, King Richard said:
‘Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him
depart.’
He sunk down on his couch, and a dark mist seemed in his weakened eyes
to fill the tent wherein he had so often rested, and he died. His age
was forty-two; he had reigned ten years. His last command was not
obeyed; for the chief officer flayed Bertrand de Gourdon alive, and
hanged him.
There is an old tune yet known—a sorrowful air will sometimes outlive
many generations of strong men, and even last longer than battle-axes
with twenty pounds of steel in the head—by which this King is said to
have been discovered in his captivity. Blondel, a favourite Minstrel of
King Richard, as the story relates, faithfully seeking his Royal
master, went singing it outside the gloomy walls of many foreign
fortresses and prisons; until at last he heard it echoed from within a
dungeon, and knew the voice, and cried out in ecstasy, ‘O Richard, O my
King!’ You may believe it, if you like; it would be easy to believe
worse things. Richard was himself a Minstrel and a Poet. If he had not
been a Prince too, he might have been a better man perhaps, and might
have gone out of the world with less bloodshed and waste of life to
answer for.