KING BALDWIN II. A.D. 1118-1181.
Veramente è costui nato all’impero
Si del regnar del commandar sa l’arti;
E non minor che duce è cavaliere.
As the soldiers bearing the body of King Baldwin entered the city at
one gate, his cousin, Baldwin du Bourg, Count of Edessa, came in at
another. He was in time to be present at the funeral. Immediately
afterwards a council was held to determine on his successor. On the
one hand, by the laws of succession, and in accordance with the
king’s own request, Eustace, his brother, should have been the heir.
But Eustace was in France. It would have been many months before he
could be brought to Palestine, and the state of affairs brooked no
delay. While the minds of the electing council were still uncertain
what to do, Jocelyn stood up and spoke: “We have here,” he said,
“the Count of Edessa, a just man, and one who fears God, the cousin
of the late king, valiant in battle, and worthy of praise on all
points; no country could furnish us a better king; it were better to
choose him at once than wait for chances full of peril.”
Jocelyn was the old enemy of Baldwin; he was supposed, but unjustly,
to bear him a grudge for the ill-treatment he had received at the
count’s hands; his advice, therefore, bore the more weight, as it
seemed entirely disinterested. Arnold, the patriarch, seconded him,
and Baldwin was chosen king unanimously. Whether Jocelyn’s advice
was altogether disinterested may be doubted. At all events he
received from the new king the investiture of the principality of
Edessa, as a reward for his services. Baldwin was crowned, like his
predecessor, in Bethlehem, on Ascension Day.
The new king, the date of whose birth is uncertain, was the son of
Count Hugh of Rethel and his wife Milicent. He was the cousin of
Godfrey, with whom he started for Palestine. He had two brothers,
one of whom was the Archbishop of Rheims, and the other succeeded
his father, but dying without children, the archbishop gave up his
episcopate, and married, in order to continue the family. Baldwin
himself was above the ordinary stature, wonderfully active, skilful
in horsemanship, and of great strength and bravery. His hair, we are
told, was thin and fair, and already streaked with grey. He was
married to an Armenian princess, by whom he had several daughters,
but no sons. He wore a long Oriental beard, but though he conformed
in many respects to Eastern habits, he had not forgotten his early
piety, and scrupulously obeyed the rules of the church, insomuch
that we are told that his knees were covered with callosities, the
result of many prayers and penances. He was already well-advanced in
years.
Count Eustace, hearing in France of his brother’s death, set off at
once to take possession of the kingdom which was his by right of
succession. But on arriving in Apulia, he heard the news of
Baldwin’s succession, and immediately turned back, content to spend
the rest of his days in obscurity, rather than disturb the peace of
Palestine by an unseemly rivalry.
The first year of the king’s reign was marked by the customary
invasion of the kingdom from Egypt and the dispersion, this time
without a battle, of the invaders. The next was a year of calamity.
For Count Roger of Aleppo, with his little army, was utterly
defeated by the Turks, the Count himself being slain, and a large
number of his knights taken prisoner and treated with the greatest
cruelty. Nor was this all. Ilgazi, the Prince of Aleppo, who had
defeated Roger, died, and was succeeded by his much abler nephew,
Balak, who made an incursion into the territory of Edessa, and
captured Count Jocelyn with his nephew, Galeran, and sixty knights.
Thus the two most important out-lying provinces were deprived of
their rulers. Moreover, the whole country was afflicted with
countless swarms of locusts and rats, which devoured every green
thing, so that the Christians were threatened with famine. Baldwin
called together a general council at Nablous, and the patriarch
preached to the people on the sinfulness of their lives, pointing
out that their afflictions were due to their own crimes and
excesses, and calling on them to amend and lead better lives. After
confession and protestations of repentance, the king and his army
moved northwards to Antioch and defeated the Turks in their turn.
Certain small changes in the internal administration, only of
importance as pointing to the decadence of the old ferocity against
the Saracens, were introduced by the king in Jerusalem. For, besides
remitting the old heavy dues on exportation and importation, so far
as the Latins were concerned, Baldwin granted a sort of free trade
to all Syrians, Greeks, “and even Saracens,” to bring provisions of
all kinds into the city for sale without fear of exaction. His wise
idea was to increase the population of the city, and therefore its
strength, by making it the most privileged town in his realm, and
the central market of Palestine.
But in 1124 a misfortune fell upon him which might have been fatal
to his kingdom. For, after Jocelyn’s capture, he led his forces into
Edessa, and there, marching one night in February, without taking
proper precautions, his men being allowed to disperse in various
directions, he fell into an ambuscade, and was made prisoner himself
by Balak, who sent him in irons to the fortress of Khortbert.
And now the country was without a ruler. In this emergency, the
barons assembled at Acre and elected as Regent, Eustace Garnier, the
Baron of Sidon and Cæsarea, who proved worthy of their confidence.
The story of the king’s captivity is like a chapter of a romance.
For while he was in fetters with Jocelyn at Khortbert, certain
Armenians, fifty in number, swore a solemn oath to one another that
the king should be released. Disguising themselves as monks,[59] and
hiding daggers under their long robes, they went to the citadel, and
putting on a melancholy and injured air, they pretended to have been
attacked and robbed on the road, and demanded to be admitted to the
governor of the castle, in order to have redress. They were allowed
to enter, and directly they got within the walls they drew out their
weapons, slaughtered every Saracen, made themselves masters of the
place, and released the king from his fetters. But not from his
prison, for the Turks, furious at the intelligence, which spread
quickly enough, gathered together from all quarters, resolved to bar
their escape till Balak could send reinforcements strong enough to
retake the place. After a hurried council, it was resolved within
the fort that Jocelyn should attempt the perilous task of escaping.
Three men were deputed to go with him, two to accompany him on his
road, and one to return to the king with the news that he had safely
got through the enemy. Jocelyn took a solemn oath that he would lose
no time in raising an army of assistance, and swore, besides, that
he would neither shave his heard, nor drink wine, till the king was
released. He then slipped out under cover of the darkness, and the
king, resolved to defend the castle till the last, set to work on
his fortifications.
Footnote 59:
This is William of Tyre’s account. He says that, according to
others, they were disguised as merchants.
That night Balak had a fearful dream. He thought that he met the
terrible Jocelyn, alone and unprotected, and that the Christian
knight, hurling him to the ground, tore out both his eyes. Awaking
with fright, he sent off messengers in hot haste to behead Jocelyn
at once. They arrived too late. The castle was taken and the bird
was flown. But the flight of the count was full of dangers. He got
safely enough to the banks of the Euphrates, but here an unforeseen
difficulty met him, for he could not swim. How to cross the river?
They had two leathern bottles. These, inflated, they tied round
Jocelyn’s body, and the other two men, who could swim, steering by
the right and left, managed to get him across the water. Then they
went on, bare-footed, hungry, and thirsty, till Jocelyn could travel
no farther, and, covering himself with branches, in order to conceal
himself, he lay down to sleep. One of the attendants, meantime, was
sent off to find some inhabitant of the country, and either beg,
buy, or rob provisions of some kind. He met an Armenian peasant
loaded with grapes and wild figs, whom he brought along to his
master. The peasant knew him. “Hail, Lord Jocelyn!” he cried, at
sight of the ragged knight. “At these words,” says Foulcher, “which
the count would fain not have heard, he replied, all in alarm but
nevertheless with mildness, ‘I am not he whom you name; may the Lord
help him wherever he be,’
“‘Seek not,’ said the peasant, ‘to conceal thyself. Fear nothing,
and tell me what evil has befallen thee.’
“‘Whoever thou art,’ said the count, ‘have pity on me; do not, I
pray, make known my misfortune to my enemies; lead me into some
place where I may be in safety.... I am a fugitive and a
wanderer.... Tell me what property thou hast in this place, and what
is its value; and I will give thee property of far more worth in my
own dominion.’
“‘Seigneur, I ask nothing,’ replied the other. ‘I will lead thee
safe and sound where thou wishest to go; once thou didst deprive
thyself of bread to make me eat. It is now my turn. I have a wife,
an only daughter of tender years, an ass, two brothers, and two
oxen. I will go with thee and carry everything away. I have also a
pig, which I will bring here immediately.’
“‘Nay, my brother,’ said the count, ‘a whole pig may not be eaten in
a single meal, and we must not excite suspicions.’”
The peasant went away, and presently returned with all his
family—though, curiously enough, Foulcher says nothing at all about
his wife. Perhaps she was left behind, like Creusa. The count mounts
the ass, takes the child in his arms, and they start. On the road
the child began to cry, and “to torment the count with its wailing.”
He did not know how to appease it; “for Jocelyn had never learned
the art of soothing infants by caresses;” he began at first to think
of throwing away the baby, or of leaving it by the wayside, and so
getting rid of a travelling companion who might bring them all to
grief; but “perceiving that this project did not please the peasant,
and fearing to afflict him,” he continued, with the greatest
consideration, to endure “this new trouble,” till they arrived at
his castle at Turbessel, where there was great rejoicing. Can there
be a quainter figure than this of the count mounted on the ass,
carrying the squalling baby, and divided between rage at its screams
and gratitude to the peasant, his deliverer?
Meantime, the king was not prospering. Balak, in a rage that one of
his enemies had escaped him, hastened himself to the castle of
Khortbert with so large an army as to deprive Baldwin of any hope of
success. The fort was built on a chalk hill easy to cut into. Balak
sent sappers, who made excavations under the principal tower, and
then filling the cavern with wood, he set fire to it. When the wood
was consumed the chalk was softened and the tower came down with a
crash. Then Baldwin, against his will, surrendered unconditionally.
Life was granted to him, to Galeran, and to the king’s nephew. But
the poor faithful Armenians, the cause of Jocelyn’s escape and the
massacre of the garrison, were treated with the most cruel
inhumanity. All were murdered, most by tortures of the most horrid
description, of which sawing in halves and roasting alive, being
buried alive, and being set up naked as marks for children to fire
arrows at, are given as a few specimens. Jocelyn, who had been
hastily collecting an army, gave up the design of a rescue in
despair, and went to Jerusalem.
And then the Egyptians made a formidable incursion. This time things
looked desperate indeed. A rigorous fast was ordered. Even the babes
at the breast were denied their mothers’ milk, and the very cattle
were driven off their pastures, as if the sight of the sufferings of
these helpless creatures would incline the Lord to pity. At least,
it inclined the Christians to fury. They issued from Jerusalem to
the sound of the great bell, under Eustace Garnier, the Regent, to
the number of three thousand combatants only. With them was carried
the wood of the true Cross, the Holy Lance, and a vase containing
some of the milk of the Blessed Virgin. Again the Christians were
victorious, and the army of the enemy fled in panic behind the walls
of Ascalon. But the Christians could only act on the defensive.
There was not only no chance of extending their dominions, but even
only a slender one of keeping them. Relief came, in the shape of a
great Venetian fleet.
The Venetians had held serious counsel as to whether they should go
on with their old traffic with the Mohammedans, by which they had
enriched themselves, or should imitate the example of their rivals,
the Genoese, and make money out of the Christians in Palestine. They
decided on the latter course, and fitted out a strong and well-armed
fleet. On the way they fought two victorious battles, one with their
rivals, the Genoese, returning laden with the proceeds of the
season’s trade, whom they stripped, and one with the Egyptian fleet,
which they cut to pieces. This accomplished, they arrived off
Palestine, and offered to make terms for assistance in the year’s
campaign. Their terms, like those of the Genoese, were hard. They
were to have, if a town was taken, a church, a street, an oven, and
a tribunal of their own. Of course these were acceded to. To find
money to pay the knights, the Regent had to take all the vessels and
ornaments of the churches and melt them down.
Of all the towns on the coast between Antioch and Ascalon, only two
remained in the hands of the Mohammedans. But these two were of the
greatest importance. For while Tyre remained a Saracen city it could
be made the centre of operations against the principality of Antioch
on the north and the Kingdom of Palestine on the south; while if
Ascalon were taken the Egyptians would be deprived of their means of
attack, and would be obliged to invade the country through the
desert. Opinions were so much divided on the matter that it was
decided to refer the decision to lot, and a child, an orphan, was
selected to take from the altar one of two pieces of paper,
containing the names of the two towns. The lot fell on Tyre, and
Eustace Garnier marched northwards, with all the troops that he
could raise.
About this point William of Tyre, who has been gradually passing
from the vague hearsay history of events, which happened while he
was a child, to a clear and detailed narrative of events of which he
was either a spectator or a contemporary, becomes more and more
interesting. We cannot afford the space, nor does it fall within the
limits of this volume, to give more than the leading incidents in
the fortunes of the provinces of the Christian kingdom. We cannot,
therefore, linger over the details of this siege, of the greatest
importance to the safety of the Christians. The town belonged to the
Caliph of Egypt, who held two-thirds of it, and to the Emir, or
King, of Damascus, who owned the rest. The Christian army,
demoralized by the absence of the king, and disheartened by the
reverses which of late had attended their efforts, began badly. They
murmured at the hardships and continual fighting they had to
undergo, nor would they have persisted in the siege but for two
things, the presence of the Venetians, which stimulated their
ardour, and the joyful news that the formidable Balak was dead. He
was killed by Jocelyn himself, who ran him through with his sword
and then cut off his head without knowing who was his adversary.
Thus Balak’s dream, says the Christian historian, was in a manner
fulfilled, though the Arabs, not having a dream to accomplish, tell
the story of his death in another way.
The people of Ascalon, “like unquiet wasps, always occupied with the
desire of doing mischief,” seeing that the whole army was away at
Tyre, and hoping to catch Jerusalem unguarded, appeared suddenly
within a few miles of the city, in great force. After ravaging and
pillaging for a time, they were seized with a sudden panic, and all
fled back to their town, without any enemy in sight.
The siege of Tyre was concluded on the 29th of June, 1124, on the
conditions which had now become customary. The Tyrians could go away
if they pleased. Those who chose to stay could do so without fear.
And the historian tells how, when the treaty of surrender was
concluded, Tyrians and Christians visited each other’s camp, and
admired the siege artillery on the one hand, and the walls and
strength of the town on the other. We are therefore approaching the
period of what may be called friendly warfare. Godfrey thought an
infidel was one with whom no dealings were to be held, to whom no
mercy was to be shown. Baldwin, taught by his Armenian wife, and by
his experience in Edessa, went so far as to shock the Christians by
an alliance with the Damascenes. His successor could not prevent his
men, even if he tried, from friendly intercourse with the enemy.
The changes which had been wrought by time are graphically put forth
by our friend Foulcher de Chartres: “Consider,” he says, “how the
West has been turned into the East; how he who was of the West has
become of the East; he who was Roman or Frank has become here a
Galilæan or an inhabitant of Palestine; he who was a citizen of
Rheims or of Chartres is become a citizen of Tyre or of Antioch. We
have already forgotten the places of our birth; they are even by
this time either unknown to most of us, or at least never spoken of.
Some of us hold lands and houses by hereditary right; one has
married a woman who is not of his own country—a Syrian, an Armenian,
or even a Saracen who has abjured her faith; another has with him
his son-in-law, or his father-in-law; this one is surrounded by his
nephews and his grandchildren; one cultivates vines, another the
fields; they all talk different languages, and yet succeed in
understanding one another.... The stranger has become the native,
the pilgrim the resident; day by day our relations come from the
West and stay with us. Those who were poor at home God has made rich
here; those who at home had nothing but a farm here have a city. Why
should he who finds the East so fortunate return again to the West?”
The plenty and sunshine of Palestine, where every Frank was a sort
of aristocrat by right of colour, no doubt gave charms to a life
which otherwise was one of constant fighting and struggle. Palestine
was to France in this century what America was to Europe in the
sixteenth, the land of prosperity, plenty, and danger. How the
country got peopled is told by another writer, Jacques de Vitry, in
too glowing colours.
“The Holy Land flourished like a garden of delight. The deserts were
changed into fat and fertile meadows, harvests raised their heads
where once had been the dwelling-places of serpents and dragons.
Hither the Lord, who had once abandoned this land, gathered together
His children. Men of every tribe and every nation came there by the
inspiration of heaven, and doubled the population. They came in
crowds from beyond the sea, especially from Genoa, Venice, and Pisa.
But the greatest force of the realm was from France and Germany. The
Italians are more courageous at sea, the French and Germans on land,
... those of Italy are sober in their meals, polished in their
discourse, circumspect in their resolutions, prompt to execute them;
full of forethought, submitting with difficulty to others; defending
their liberty above all; making their own laws, and trusting for
their execution to chiefs whom themselves have elected. They are
very necessary for the Holy Land, not only for fighting, but for the
transport of pilgrims and provisions. As they are sober, they live
longer in the East than other nations of the West. The Germans, the
Franks, the Bretons, the English, and others beyond the Alps are
less deceitful, less circumspect, but more impetuous; less sober,
more prodigal; less discreet, less prudent, more devout, more
charitable, more courageous; therefore they are considered more
useful for the defence of the Holy Land, especially the Bretons, and
more formidable against the Saracens.”
But evil came of prosperity. As for the bishops and clergy, they
took all, and gave nothing. To them, we are told, it was as if
Christ’s command had not been “Feed my sheep,” but “Shear my sheep.”
The regular orders, infected with wealth, lost their piety with
their poverty, their discipline with their adversity; they fought,
quarrelled, and gave occasion for every kind of scandal. As for the
laity, they were as bad. A generation dissolute, corrupt, and
careless had sprung from the first Crusaders.[60] Their mothers had
been Armenians, Greeks, or Syrians. They succeeded to the
possessions, but not to the manners of their fathers; all the world
knows, says the historian, how they were lapped in delights, soft,
effeminate, more accustomed to baths than to fighting, given over to
debauchery and impurity, going dressed as softly as women, cowardly,
lazy, and pusillanimous before the enemies of Christ, despised by
the Saracens, and preferring rather to have peace at any price than
to defend their own possessions. No doubt the climate of Syria
rapidly produced a degeneracy in the courage and strength of the
Latin race, but the writer’s style is too full of adjectives. He
screams like an angry woman when he declaims against the age, which
was probably no worse than its predecessors, and the heat of his
invective deprives it of most of its force.
Footnote 60:
They were called Pullani, see p. 200.
It was in Baldwin’s reign that the Knights Templars were founded,
and the Hospitallers became a military order.
From very early times an order, known as that of St. Lazarus, had
existed, dedicated to the service of lepers and of pilgrims. They
had a hospital, at first, in Acre; they were protected by the late
emperors, their brethren accompanied the army of Heraclius as a sort
of ambulance corps; they obtained permission to establish themselves
in Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and Nazareth, and they had a settlement at
Cyprus. After the first Crusade they divided into three classes, the
knights, or fighting brothers; the physicians, or medical brothers;
and the priests, who administered the last rites of the church to
dying men. These establishments spread over France, Italy, and
Germany; they became rich. The knights appear to have disappeared
gradually; they spent their money in sending pilgrims out in ships,
and in paying the ransoms of those who were taken prisoner.
The origin of the Knights Hospitallers, originally only the Brothers
of St. John, took place just before the first Crusade. The order was
founded by a certain citizen of Amalfi, Gerard by name. There are
many stories about his life. By some he is confounded with that
Gerard d’Avesnes, who, a hostage in the hand of the Emir of Arsûf,
was bound by him to a piece of timber in the place against which the
machines were chiefly directed, in hopes that the sight might induce
Godfrey to desist. But Godfrey persisted, and Gerard, though pierced
with arrows, eventually recovered. Probably, however, this was
another Gerard. The order began with a monastery near the Church of
the Sepulchre, and in 1113 received a charter from the Pope. Their
immediate object, like that of the Brothers of St. Lazarus, was to
help the wounded; their bread and meat were of the coarsest, they
did not disdain the most menial offices; and, in spite of their
voluntary hardships, and the repulsive duties of their office, they
rapidly grew, and became wealthy. Raymond Dupuy, grand master in
1118, modified the existing statutes of this order, and made every
brother take the oath to fight, in addition to his other duties.
Henceforth it was a military order, divided into languages, having
commandories for every language, and lands in every country. Its
habit consisted of a black robe, with a mantle to which was sewn a
hood; on the left shoulder was an eight-pointed cross; and later,
for the knights, a coat of arms was added. And this habit was so
honourable that he who fled was judged unworthy to wear it. Those
who entered the order out of Palestine might wear the cross without
the mantle. Riches presently corrupted the early discipline, and
pope after pope addressed them on the subject of the laxity of their
morals. Their history, however, does not belong to us. How they
fought at Rhodes, and how they held Malta, belong to another
history. It is the only one of the military orders not yet extinct.
It was in the year 1118 that the proud and aristocratic order of
Knights Templars was first instituted. Nine knights, nobly born,
consecrated themselves, by a solemn vow, to protect pilgrims on the
roads, and to labour for the safety and welfare of the Church. Their
leaders were Hugh de Payens and Geoffrey de St. Aldemar. They had no
church or place of residence, and the king assigned to them the
building south of the Dome of the Rock, now called the Jámi‘ el
Aksa. It was then called the Palace of Solomon, or the Royal Palace,
and William of Tyre is careful to distinguish between it and the
Dome of the Rock, which he calls the Temple of the Lord. The canons
of the Temple also allowed the knights to make use of their own
ground, that is, of the Haram Area. For nine years they wore no
distinctive habit, and had no worldly possessions. But at the
Council of Troyes, where they were represented by deputies, their
cause was taken up by the Church, and they obtained permission to
wear a white mantle with a red cross. Then, for some reason or
other, they became the most popular of all the orders, and the
richest. Their wealth quickly introduced pride and luxury, and
William of Tyre complains that even in his time, writing only some
fifty years after their foundation, there were 300 knights, without
serving brothers, “whose number was infinite,” that, though they had
kept the rules of their first profession, they had forgotten the
duty of humility, had withdrawn themselves from the authority of the
Patriarch of Jerusalem, and were already rendering themselves
extremely obnoxious to the Church by depriving it of its tithes and
first-fruits. Here we see the first appearance of that hostility to
the Church which afterwards caused the fall of the Templars. The
reception of a new knight was a kind of initiation. The chapter
assembled by night with closed doors, the candidate waiting without.
Two brothers were sent out, three times in succession, to ask him if
he wished to enter the brotherhood. The candidate replied to each
interrogatory, and then, to signify the poverty of his condition,
and the modest nature of his wants, he was to ask three times for
bread and water. After this he was introduced in due form, and after
the customary ceremonies and questions, was made to take the oath of
poverty, chastity, obedience, and devotion to the defence of
Palestine. The following is given as the formula, or part of it:—“I
swear to consecrate my speech, my strength, and my life, to defend
the belief in the unity of God and the mysteries of the faith; I
promise to be submissive and obedient to the grand master of the
order; when the Saracens invade the lands of the Christians, I will
pass over the seas to deliver my brethren; I will give the succour
of my arm to the Church and the kings against the infidel princes;
so long as my enemies shall be only three to one against me I will
fight them and will never take flight; alone I will combat them if
they are unbelievers.”
Everything was done by threes, because three signifies the mystery
of the Trinity. Three times a year the knights were enumerated;
three times a week they heard mass and could eat meat; three times a
week they gave alms; while those who failed in their duty were
scourged three times in open chapter.
In later times the simple ceremony of admission became complicated
by symbolical rites and ceremonies. The candidate was stripped of
all his clothes; poor, naked, and helpless, he was to stand without
the door and seek admission. This was not all. He yet had his
religion. He was required to spit upon the cross and deny his
Saviour. And then with nothing to help him, nothing to fall back
upon, he was to be rebaptized in the chapter of the order: to owe
everything to the Templars, to belong to them by the sacred kiss of
brotherhood, by the oaths of secrecy, by the memory of his
readmission into Christianity, by the glorious traditions of the
order, and lastly, as is more than probable, by that mysterious
teaching which put the order above the Church, and gave an inner and
a deeper meaning to doctrines which the vulgar accepted in their
literal sense. It is impossible now to say whether the Templars were
Gnostic or not; probably they may have imbibed in the East not only
that contempt for the vulgar Christianity which undoubtedly belonged
to them, but also whatever there was left of Gnosticism floating
about in the minds and memories of men. In that strange time of
doubt and restlessness, the revolt against Rome took many forms.
There was the religion of the Troubadour, half a mocking denial,
half a jesting question; there was the angry protest of the
Provençal, that every man is a priest unto himself; there was the
strange and mysterious teaching of the Abbot Joachim; and there was,
besides, the secret creed, which owned no bishop and would obey no
pope, of these Knights Templars.
But this was to come; we are still in the time when St. Bernard can
write of them, “O happy state of life, wherein one may wait for
death without fear, even wish for it, and receive it with firmness!”
This was when their banner _Beauséant_ was borne in the front of
every battle, with its humble legend, “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto
us, but unto Thy name give the glory.”
In the thirteenth century, the Hospitallers had nine thousand
manors, and the Templars nineteen thousand. Each of these could
maintain a knight in Palestine. And yet they did nothing for the
deliverance of the country.
Li frères, li mestre du Temple,
Qu’estoient rempli et ample
D’or, et d’argent, et de richesse,
Et qui menoient toute noblesse,
Où sont ils?
After the reconquest of Palestine, and until their final and cruel
suppression, they seem to have given up all thoughts of their first
vows, and to have become an aristocratic order, admission into which
was a privilege, which involved no duties, demanded no sacrifices,
and conferred great power and distinction. To be a Templar was for a
younger son of a noble house to become a sort of fellow of a
college, only a college far more magnificent and splendid than
anything which remains to us.
The Teutonic order was founded later, during the Crusade of
Frederick Barbarossa. It was at first called the Order of St.
George. After a stay of some time at Jerusalem, the knights, who
were always Germans, went to Acre. And thence, receiving the
provinces of Livonia, Culm, and all they could get of Prussia, they
removed to Europe, where they founded Königsberg in honour of Louis
IX. of France, and did good service against the pagans of Prussia.
The order did not remain a Roman Catholic one, as was decided after
the Reformation, and to gain admission into it it was necessary to
prove sixteen quarterings of nobility.
History, about this time, occupied chiefly in relating how the Turks
on the north, and the Egyptians on the south, made incursion after
incursion, to be beaten back, each time with more difficulty,
becomes somewhat monotonous. King Baldwin II., when the enemy found
that his capture did not affect the success of the Christian arms,
and agreed to accept a ransom for him, directly he got out of prison
assembled his army and laid siege to Aleppo. Here he was assisted by
the Mohammedans themselves, but in spite of his auxiliaries, was
compelled to raise the siege, and returned to Jerusalem, where he
was welcomed by his people. If he was unfortunate in attack, he was
at least fortunate in repelling invasion, and beat back the Turks
near Antioch, and again near Damascus. The Turks were only
formidable when they were united; when, as often happened, their
forces were divided by internal dissensions among the emirs and
princes, the Christians were at rest, and when these discords were
appeased an invasion followed. With the Egyptians the invasion was
annual, but every year growing weaker. Still, though always beaten
back, the Mohammedan troops came again and again, and the crown of
Jerusalem was ever a crown of thorns. Among those who came at this
time to Palestine was young Bohemond, son of that turbulent Norman
who gave Alexis so much trouble. Baldwin gladly resigned into his
hands the principality of Antioch, which after the death of Count
Roger had been under his own care. Bohemond was young, brave, and
handsome. Great things were expected of him. Baldwin gave him his
daughter Alice to wife, and for a little while all went well,
through the young prince’s activity and prudence. But he was killed
in Cilicia, leaving no heir but an infant girl. After this a very
curious story is told.
The princess Alice, widow of young Bohemond, resolved, if possible,
to keep for herself, by any means, the possessions of her late
husband. In order to effect this, as she knew very well that her
daughter would become the king’s ward and heiress of all, she
resolved to try for the help of the Christians’ greatest enemy,
Zanghi. She sent a messenger to the Turk, to open negotiations with
him. As a symbol of her good faith, the messenger was provided with
a white palfrey, shod with silver, with silver bit, and harness
mounted all in silver, and covered with a white cloth. On the way
the messenger was arrested and brought to the king, who was
travelling in haste to Antioch. He confessed his errand and was
executed. But Alice closed the gates of the city, afraid to meet her
father. These were opened by some of the inhabitants, who did not
choose to participate in this open treason to the Christian cause,
and Alice retreated to the citadel. Finally the king was prevailed
on to pardon her, and she received the towns which had been already
settled on her by the marriage deeds, of Laodicea and Gebail. But
she was going to cause more trouble yet.
Another son-in-law of the king was Fulke, who succeeded him. He came
to Palestine as a pilgrim, bewailing the death of his wife
Ermentrade. Here he maintained in his pay a hundred men-at-arms for
a whole year, in the king’s service. Baldwin, who had no sons,
offered him his daughter Milicent, and the succession to the crown.
Fulke, then thirty-eight years of age, gratefully accepted the
offer, and consoled himself for his bereavement.
Baldwin the Second died in the year 1131. He had ruled Edessa for
eighteen years, and Jerusalem for twelve, during which time he had
spent seven years in captivity. He was lamented by his subjects,
though his reign had not been fortunate or successful. Still, by
dint of sheer courage, the boundaries of the realm had not been
contracted. What was really the fatal thing about his reign was that
the Mohammedans knew now by repeated trials that the Christians were
not invincible. It was a knowledge which every year deepened, and
every petty victory strengthened. The prestige of their arms once
gone, the power of the Christians was sure to follow.
Religious as Baldwin was, his piety did not prevent him from
asserting the rights of the crown over those claimed by every
successive patriarch, and many quarrels happened between him and the
prelates, who tried perpetually to extend their temporal power.
During one of these, the patriarch fell ill. Baldwin went to see
him. “I am,” said the revengeful priest, “as you would wish to see
me, Sir King,” implying that Baldwin wished his death, even if he
had not compassed it. William of Tyre, a priest to the backbone,
relates this incident without a word of comment. It must be
remembered that the position of the Latin clergy in Palestine was
not by any means so good as that which they enjoyed in Europe. Their
lands were not so large in proportion, and their dignity and
authority less. On the other hand, they were neither so nobly born,
nor so well bred, nor so learned as their clerical brethren of the
West. Thus it is reported that a Flemish pilgrim was once raised to
the patriarchal seat, simply because, at the imposture of the Holy
Fire, his taper was the first to light, and it will be remembered
how, after the deposition of Dagobert, Ebremer, a simple and
perfectly ignorant monk, was put into his place. And when the pope
refused to confirm the appointment, they made him archbishop of
another diocese by way of compensation.
We have seen, so far, the growth of this little kingdom, created in
a single campaign, sustained by the valour of kings whose crown was
an iron helmet, whose throne was seldom anything but a camp-stool in
a tent, or the saddle of a horse, whose hands grasped no sceptre but
a sword, who lived hardly, and died in harness. We have next to see
its decline and fall.
Legends of Baldwin’s prowess grew up as the years ran on. As a
specimen of the stories which gathered about his name we subjoin the
following translation, almost literal, from a French romance of the
fourteenth century. It treats of a visit made by Baldwin with two
Mohammedan princes, secretly Christian, to the Old Man of the
Mountains:
“Now,” said the Prince,[61] “great marvels have I here;”
And summoning from those who waited near
One of his own Assassins, bade him go
Up to the highest tower, and leap below.
Strange was it when the soldier ran
Joyous, and quick, and smiling, as a man
Who looks for great reward, and through the air
Leaped fearless down. And far below him there
King Baldwin noted how his lifeless bones,
Mangled and shattered, lay about the stones.
When leapt the first man marvelled much the king,
More when five others, as ’twere some light thing,
At his command leaped down from that tall height.
“Sir,” said the Prince, “no man, of all my might,
But blindly hastens where I point the way,
Nor is there one so mad to disobey.”
“Now by Mahound,” the Caliph cried, “not I:
Far be it from me your power to deny.
For, as it seems, the greatest man on earth,
A very god, a greater far in worth
Than Mahomet himself art thou; for none
Can do, or shall do, what thyself hast done.”
“Thou speakest truth,” the Prince replied, “and lo!
As yet thou knowest not all, for I can show
The fairest place that ever yet was found.”
And so he led, by many a mazy round
And secret passage, to an orchard fair,
Planted with herbs and fruit trees: hidden there,
Deep in a corner, was a golden gate.
This to the Prince flew open wide, and straight
Great brightness shone upon them, and behind
Upwards long flights of silver stairs did wind.
Two hundred steps they mounted: then, behold,
There lay the garden as the Prince had told.
Ah! what a garden! all sweet hues that be,
Azure, and gold, and red, were here to see:
All flowers that God has made were blooming here,
While sparkled three fresh fountains bright and clear—
With claret one; with mead all honey-sweet
The second ran; while at their thirsty feet
The third poured white wine. On a dais high
Was set a golden table, and thereby
Sat Ivorine, the fairest maid of earth.
Round her, each one a jewel of great worth,
Two hundred damsels waited on her word,
Or sang as never Baldwin yet had heard
The maids of Europe sing: and here and there
Minstrels with golden harps made music fair;
Ever they danced and sang: such joy had they,
So light seemed every heart, each maid so gay;
So sweet the songs they sang, so bright their eyes,
That this fair garden seemed like Paradise.
But Lady Ivorine smiled not, and sat
Downcast and sad, though still content to wait
Her knight—the flower of knighthood—who some day
Would surely come and bear her far away.
Baldwin bethought him of the maiden fair,
Whose fame had gone abroad, and everywhere
Looked, till his eyes fell upon one who seemed
Fairer than mind had pictured, brain had dreamed.
She sat upon a golden seat, alone,
In priceless robes; upon her head a crown,
Well worth a county: there, row over row,
Full many a sapphire shone with richest glow,
And many a pearl and many a gem beside
Glittered therein the gold beneath to hide.
Her robe was broidered: three long years and more
Toiled on it he who wrought it; and thrown o’er
A costly mantle lay: from far ’twas brought
In some sweet isle beyond the ocean wrought.
Full seven years a Moslem lady bent
Above her loom, and still her labour spent,
While slowly grew the robe; for buckle light,
A rich carbuncle glowed, which day and night
Shone like the sun of heaven clear and bright.
* * * * *
And when Lord Baldwin saw this damsel fair,
So mazed he was, he nearly fainted there.
“Baldwin,” said Poliban, “look not so pale,
If ’tis for doubt or fear your spirits fail.”
“Nay,” said Lord Baldwin, “but a sudden pain,
Yet see I what would make me well again.”
Then the Prince led them all, these nobles three,
And to his daughter brought them courteously.
“Fair daughter,” said he, “is there none of these,
Great princes all and brave, that can you please?”
“Yea, sire,” the maid replied, “I see my lord,
The noblest knight is he who wears a sword.
These ten long years I sit, and hope, and wait,
For him, my husband, promised me by fate.
Now leaps my heart: the weary time is past,
My knight, my liege, my lord, is come at last.”
When Baldwin heard these words, joy and surprise
Held all his heart; but then, across his eyes,
Fell on him a sudden cloud of doubt, and fear
Ran through his chilled brain lest those praises dear
For a companion, not himself, were told.
And, for he could not silence longer hold,
For all the gold of Europe. “Can it be,”
He asked the maid, “that you have chosen me?”
She smiled upon him, “Baldwin, be my knight.”
“By heaven,” he cried, “mine is this jewel so bright.”
But then the Prince, her sire—who liked not well,
That on the poorest lord her favour fell—
Angry and wrath, cried, “Foolish daughter, know,
Your idle words like running water flow,
And matter nothing, until I have willed.”
“Father,” cried Ivorine, “I am your child;
And yet, alas! through my words must you die.
Yes; for know well that God who dwells on high
Hates those who own him not: and so hates you.
That lying demon whom you hold for true,
And so teach others, has deceived your heart.
But as for me, ah! let me take my part
With those who trust in Christ, and place my faith
In that sweet pardon won us by his death.
Father, renounce thy superstitions vain;
And leave this place, or die, if you remain.”
“Fool!” cried the Prince, “I curse thee from this day.”
Then to the Caliph: “Slay my daughter, slay.
Strike quickly, lest some evil chance to you.
My daughter kill.”
His sword the Caliph drew,
And struck—but not fair Ivorine. The blade
Smote down the wrathful Prince, and spared the maid.
“Right well,” cried Poliban, “hast thou obeyed.”
Footnote 61:
Le Vieux de la Montagne.