Chapter XXX

THE COMING OF PHILIP AUGUSTUS AND RICHARD—FALL OF ACRE.

Richard I. was crowned King of England in September, 1189. In October there arrived in England a messenger from Philip of France, reminding the king of their mutual oaths to make the crusade. The adventurous spirit of Richard did not need this appeal. He drained the resources of his realm in gathering means. All the money left him by his father, Henry II., was first appropriated. He then sold the manors and prospective income of the crown. Next the chief offices of honor and responsibility went to the highest bidder who had ready cash. Thus Hugh de Puzas, Bishop of Durham, became chief justice of England for a thousand marks. Having abundant soldiery at his command, Richard then allowed any one to purchase the privilege of staying at home; he even declared that he would sell the City of London for a reasonable price. The vassalage of Scotland went for a thousand marks, together with the fortresses of Roxburgh and Berwick. When he had nothing more to sell he forced his richer subjects to make him loans, which they knew he never would repay. A plain-spoken preacher advised him, before he set out on an expedition in the name of religion, to dispose of some of his notorious vices, naming especially his pride, avarice, and voluptuousness. Richard replied, “You counsel well, and I hereby dispose of the first to the Templars, of the second to the Benedictine monks, and of the third to my prelates.”

Consigning the administration of England to Hugh, Bishop of Durham, and an unsavory Frenchman, Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, he left England, accompanied by a turbulent crowd of adventurers. He made his rendezvous with the French king at Vezelay (June, 1190). Here the monarchs swore fraternity and to sacredly respect each other’s domains during the crusade. They invoked upon themselves the curses of Heaven and the church if they should prove unfaithful. The joint armies numbered a hundred thousand men. Warned by the reverses experienced by their predecessors in crusading overland, they chose the sea route to Palestine.

Philip sailed from Genoa for Sicily. He entered the port of Messina, September 16, 1190. Richard sailed from Marseilles, hugging the Italian coast, according to the sea travel of the day, visiting port towns _en route_, and paying worship at the shrines of the various local saints. He reached Messina a few days later than Philip (September 23d).

The main English fleet, leaving England and Normandy, had gone southward along the coast of France and Spain. The lands they passed in sight of were strange to the navigators, so little was known of the geography of even the countries of Europe. At Lisbon they could not resist the temptation to help the Portuguese Christians in a war with the Saracens, nor of indulging a less laudable sort of prowess, which Hovenden describes: “Disembarking from their ships, they made their way into the city, and as they went through streets and lanes talked to the people, giving themselves airs and committing violence upon the wives and daughters of the citizens; they drove away pagans and Jews, plundered their property, and burned their houses. They then stripped their vineyards, leaving them not so much as a grape.” This faithful chronicler also narrates that during a storm at sea St. Thomas à Becket appeared to them and calmed the waves. “They passed the city of Silva(?), which was the most remote of all the cities of Christendom.” At Marseilles they missed King Richard, who already had departed; but they were compensated for their disappointment in being enabled to worship the identical “rods with which our Lord was scourged, the jaw-bone of Lazarus, and one of the ribs of Lawrence.” Approaching Sicily, they saw the marvellous fish of St. Agatha, the story of which they believed: how that the heat of the volcano of Mount Gebel (Stromboli?) once threatened the town of Catana; but the people took the veil of St. Agatha from her tomb, “carried it before them, facing the fire, on which the flames returned to the sea and, parching it, dried it up for nearly a mile, and scorched the fish, many of which were half burned; and there are to this day many fish there of the same kind.” But the marvels of that voyage are too many for our pages, if not for the credulity of the reader.

Richard himself remained six months in Marseilles, a delay that nearly caused the destruction of his enterprise. A quarrel was started with Tancred, ruler of Sicily, about certain rights of Richard’s sister Joanna, who was the widow of Tancred’s predecessor. Says the chronicler: “Quicker than priest could chant matins did King Richard take the city.” Philip resented Richard’s audacity and forced him to take down his standard. Richard had once solicited and gained from Philip the hand of the French princess Alice; but, his advantage now blowing from another direction, he preferred Berengaria, a princess of Navarre. Berengaria, through the connivance of Eleanor, was brought to Messina. Only at the entreaty of utmost piety and discretion could Philip be persuaded to lay aside his rage at this new insult. He sailed at once for the East.

Richard followed eleven days later (April, 1191), taking with him Berengaria and Joanna, ex-Queen of Sicily. Three ships of the English fleet were wrecked on Cyprus, and their crews imprisoned by the inhabitants. Isaac, the king of the island, refused to redress the wrong. Richard administered swift punishment. Within three weeks he conquered the entire country, and, binding its ruler in a chain of silver, took him along on an involuntary pilgrimage to Palestine. Richard had celebrated his prowess at Cyprus by his nuptials with Berengaria. The new queen took with her as companion the daughter of Isaac, whose constant presence is said to have disturbed the already uncertain marital habits of her husband.

The French welcomed the arrival of their English allies with great bonfires, which were designed to proclaim the joy of the Christians and to flash dismay to the Moslem camps. The plain of Acre was soon filled with the tents of a host which represented the strength of combined Europe. Peoples strange to one another in speech, manners, and arms were one only in their cause. It is not to be wondered at if, at times, these races more sharply accentuated their differences than their unity. The contention between Guy and Conrad for the kingship of Jerusalem, which was referred to Philip and Richard for settlement, only gave opportunity for renewed hostility between these monarchs, Philip declaring for Conrad, and Richard for Guy. The matter was finally settled by agreement that Guy should reign and that Conrad should be his successor.

The jealousy of French and English prevented mutual help in the battles daily occurring, wherefore it was agreed that but one army should fight at a time against the walls of Acre, while the other should guard against a rear attack by Saladin. Thus the honors were easy, as the tasks assigned were equally hazardous. The courtesies of the camp were more readily extended to their enemy than to one another. Saladin, during the sickness of both sovereigns, sent to them his own physicians, and such luxuries as the East provided. While they received these from their foe without suspicion, Philip and Richard each attributed his sickness to the poisoning of the other, and each accused his Christian associate with using Saladin’s favors with a view to treasonable alliance.

Often tournaments were arranged between Moslem and Christian in the sight of both armies. Knight and emir entered the lists, abusing each other with their tongues like twin Thersiteses, then fighting with the valor of Hector and Achilles. Women did not disdain rivalry for the palm in swordcraft, and bands of children from either side fought to the death in the presence of their parents. The Infidel played for the dance of the Christian, and the minstrel of Europe gave the rhythm to the feet of the Saracen. The table of Saladin was sometimes graced by the presence of the foremost European knights, and in turn emirs feasted at the board of those whom they most dreaded to meet on the field. Saladin so respected the courtesy and devotion of the true Christian knight that he willingly wore the decoration of Chivalry, while Richard rode into battle one of the two splendid steeds which were the gift of the sultan’s brother. The lowest vices of the East and the West became the open indulgence of the camps of both. But each party maintained the utmost outward reverence to the symbols of his own religion; Saladin pausing in the midst of battle to read a chapter of the Koran, and the King of Jerusalem advancing to fight with the Gospels borne aloft before him.

The besieged in Acre were reduced to extremities, the Christians completely investing the city on the land side in spite of the forays of Saladin from the hills, and their fleets cutting off all succor from the sea. At length, after two years of incessant fighting, during which nine great battles were fought, the standard of the cross was seen floating from the ramparts of the city (July 12, 1191). The besieged had capitulated upon condition that their lives should be spared, and that Saladin should pay their ransom in two hundred pieces of gold. In the original proposal it was agreed to surrender the wood of the True Cross, the possession of which by the Infidels was imagined to be the cause of all sorts of disasters to the Christian world; among the least of which, if we are to believe a chronicler of the time, was that all children born in Christendom since the capture of the cross at Hattîn had but twenty-two instead of thirty-two teeth. Richard was not religious enough to insist upon the restoration of this precious symbol.

Saladin, after the city had fallen, delayed in fulfilling the condition that the defenders of Acre had put upon him relative to their ransom money. Richard avenged this assumed breach of faith by massacring five thousand unarmed Moslems before the city wall. Philip, in disgust at this action, turned over his army to the Duke of Burgundy and returned to France.

Richard, thus left in sole command, crossed Mount Carmel and proceeded southward, keeping close to the shore that he might have timely assistance from his fleet. At every stream and sand-dune he met the omnipresent Saladin. The Christians’ march was under an incessant rain of arrows, which covered the frequent dashes of the Moslem squadrons. At the banks of the Arsur (Nahr Falik) the Christians encountered the entire army of their contestants (September 7, 1191). Though Richard led sixty thousand, the Oriental historian Omad, secretary to Saladin, says that the Mussulmans surrounded them as the eyelashes surround the eye. The cry “Allah! Allah!” was echoed by “Deus vult!” as the mighty hosts sprang upon each other. The Christian infantry, leading the assault, suddenly opened its ranks; the cavalry poured through and made the first attack. Richard followed with the main body. Nothing could withstand the fury of his onset. The Moslems were swept before him; but they as quickly gathered in his rear, compelling him to return and fight over again the battle he had already won. The plain was too small for the multitude to marshal in orderly array. The armies were intertwined as the many folds of two serpents of hostile breed. It is said that more than once Richard and Saladin tested each other’s qualities by personal encounter; the only doubt cast upon this story by Christian writers being from the fact that Saladin survived, the Arabic chroniclers rejecting it on the ground that Richard still lived.

At nightfall the Moslems extricated themselves from the mêlée and disappeared in the forests of Saron, the Christians being wary enough not to follow them. Had Richard pursued his advantage the Arabian historians admit that he might have secured Jerusalem; but the impulsive temper of this leader suffered from sudden reaction. He repaired to Jaffa with the women of his household, and there established a brilliant and festive court. One day while hunting he was surrounded by a troop of Moslems. When he was on the point of being captured a French knight cried out, “I am the king; spare me.” The Moslems, thus diverted, allowed Richard to escape, and brought the knight a captive to Saladin.

Richard soon tired of his rest, and even of revelry, at Jaffa, and projected the siege of Ascalon. Saladin, made aware of that enterprise, burned the city. Richard set about its rebuilding; his orders were disobeyed. Many echoed the words of Leopold of Austria, who declared that he was a warrior, but neither a carpenter nor a mason.

The resentment of this prince had been kindled against the Englishman by an outrage on the part of Richard in ordering the standard of Austria to be thrown from the walls of Acre, where Leopold had presumptuously planted it after the capture of that place. Conrad of Montferrat had also taken umbrage at Richard’s lordly treatment of him, and was detected in courting alliance with Saladin for the restitution of Acre. Richard foiled him with deeper play. He proposed to give his sister, the ex-Queen of Sicily, as wife to Malek-Ahdel, brother of Saladin, that there might be erected at Jerusalem a mongrel empire of Christians and Moslems. Saladin toyed with the proposition sufficiently to delay Richard’s attack upon Jerusalem until that city had been greatly strengthened. Thousands of Christian captives were set to work upon the walls and in the ditches, under threat of being massacred, as were the Moslems by Richard’s order at Acre. Realizing that his scheme of alliance with Saladin had failed, Richard endeavored to engage his antagonist in battle in the open country; but the astute Moslem was too discreet to risk his cimeters against heavy swords, except when necessary. He had also some less martial schemes on foot; he seduced Conrad at least from whole-hearted loyalty to the cross, by promising to defend him in permanent possession of whatever cities he might take from his fellow-Christians. Conrad was soon assassinated by two Moslems. Richard was quickly accused of being accessory to this deed. The suspicion grew in plausibility when he forced Isabella, widow of Conrad, to marry his nephew, the Count of Champagne, who thus, through Isabella’s rights as sister of Sibylla, became titular King of Jerusalem. King Guy was compensated for the loss of his throne by the gift of the government of Cyprus, where his descendants reigned for two hundred years, until the Moslem wave had ingulfed the entire eastern Mediterranean.

Saladin was also thought to have connived at the murder of Conrad. One of the murderers, however, confessed to having been the agent of the Old Man of the Mountain, the chief of the sect of Assassins, who also avowed himself responsible for the deed.

This sect, whose name has given to European languages their word for the most atrocious crime, is one of the many divisions of the Moslem peoples. Their sheik regarded himself as the lineal successor of Hassan, and thus the inheritor of the Imam or Holy Spirit, whose possession is the inner sign of the caliphate. Hassan, after various adventures, retired to Altamont, a strong castle in the mountains of Persia, whence his title, and that of his successors, of “Old Man of the Mountain.” He attempted to enforce his spiritual authority by inspiring universal dread of his vengeance. His successors and agents became adept in the use of poisons, the dagger, and all methods of secretly disposing of human life. So wide were the ramifications of this brotherhood that, not only throughout the Moslem world, but in Christian Europe, sudden death, otherwise unaccountable, was accredited to the Assassins, whose dusky forms were imagined to move unseen in the bedchambers of princes and to stand behind thrones. The name “Assassin” is apparently from “hashish,” the drug with which the murderer stimulated his courage when accepting the desperate commission from his chief.

Richard, thus relieved of his rival, Conrad, again showed his superior powers of command. With marvellous celerity he swept over the country, even to the southern extreme of Palestine, where he captured Dârôm, at the entrance to Egypt. Saladin was apparently forced to retire within the walls of Jerusalem. Richard pressed towards the sacred city (June, 1192). Rumors of Saracen destitution and fright came upon every wind. The crusaders were eager to pluck again the prize of Jerusalem, which Providence seemed to hang within their reach; but Richard was incredulous of the weakness of a foe he had always found as strong as himself, and whom he knew to be his superior in craft. He pointed out to his followers that at that very moment the Moslem armies, scattered everywhere among the Judean foot-hills, actually surrounded their own; that the roads to the city were in places but narrow defiles guarded by precipitous heights, from which a few could hurl destruction upon many. To carry siege apparatus through such a country, facing the menace of a Saladin, was to invoke certain disaster. If repulse should come, what relief could they find so far away from the coast? How could they ever hope to make good a retreat to their ships?

The council of knights to whom the matter was referred agreed with their chief. Richard, with undoubted affliction of his martial pride, if not of his pious spirit, gave one longing look towards the distant domes of Jerusalem. He then covered his face with his shield and turned away, declaring that he was unwilling to gaze upon that which he was unable to conquer.

The retreat from Jerusalem destroyed Richard’s prestige as a strategist and capable leader of great enterprises; but nothing ever lessened his lustre for personal bravery. The lion may be outwitted by the fox; and it is no deep disgrace to Cœur de Lion that he could not circumvent a Saladin. Richard vented his disappointment and rage upon many parts of the Moslem host. Like a wounded lion, he destroyed whatever came within his reach. One day he annihilated a squadron of seven thousand Infidels; another time he captured as many camels laden with provision.

Saladin had outgeneralled him at Jaffa and captured that city, with the exception of the citadel, which promised surrender if succor did not come within a day. Richard in turn outplayed his rival; he slipped from the harbor of Acre with a few galleys and surprised the garrison at Jaffa. Such was the celerity of his approach that the Moslems fled from the city without having time to strike another blow in its defence.

Having obtained all the glory that was possible from his Eastern adventure, Richard proposed peace with Saladin. His emirs, equally wearied with war, urged the reluctant Saladin to accede to the crusaders’ terms. These were that the Christians should possess all the coast, except Ascalon, which should remain unoccupied, and that Jerusalem should be free for the feet of all pilgrims. The compact was made in the presence of the Koran and the Bible, the silent witnesses of the oaths taken respectively in the names of Allah and Jehovah. It was to be faithfully observed, according to some chroniclers, for the space of three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours—a suggestion that came from the crusaders’ reverence for the Trinity. The peace was celebrated by a friendly tournament between chosen Christian and Moslem champions, in which lances clave through armor and swords drew life-blood in mere play. The gates of Jerusalem were thrown open that the warriors of the cross might kneel at the spot where the symbol of their faith had stood when their God hung upon it, and so return to Europe having accomplished a holy pilgrimage, if not a successful warfare.

Thus ended the third crusade, marked by the loss of perhaps a half-million Europeans, the foremost of emperors, an inestimable amount of treasure, and the prestige of Christendom as against the onrolling power of the Moslem world.

Richard returned to Europe (October 9, 1192). He was led to this purpose not more by his evident inability to found a kingdom in Palestine than by the necessity of maintaining his kingdom at home. Philip Augustus was menacing his domain. When this fellow-crusader left Palestine he renewed his oath with Richard not to commence any hostilities against him during his absence. It is said that he applied to the Pope for a dispensation from this vow. If this was not so, his actions showed that its restrictions were irksome to him. Longchamp, whom Richard had left in charge of the English government conjointly with the Bishop of Durham, endeavored to exercise limitless control. Even the mandates of Richard were disregarded by him. Compelled to flee the country, Longchamp became the open promoter of Philip’s designs. Philip made war upon Richard’s possessions in Normandy, and seduced from his allegiance Prince John, the king’s younger brother, destined to be his successor on the throne.

Richard, not daring to pass through France lest Philip should lay violent hands upon his person, sailed up the Adriatic. He was shipwrecked near Aquileia, and in disguise made his way northward through Austria. But no need of caution could restrain the impulsiveness of Richard, either in war or in pleasure. Dressed as a pilgrim, he lived as a prince; his prodigality easily led to his identification. Duke Leopold of Austria, whose banner he had thrown into the ditch at Acre, now took occasion to avenge that insult. He arrested Richard and threw him into prison (1193). The German emperor, Henry VI., also claimed the royal captive, and secured his person by paying to Leopold sixty thousand pieces of silver. The chronicler remarks, in the spirit of that age: “Forewarnings of this calamity had appeared in unusual seasons, inundations of rivers, awful storms of thunder and rain, with dreadful lightning.”

England, through Richard’s mother, Eleanor, appealed in vain to the Pope to intervene, inasmuch as the holy see had guaranteed the humblest—and surely the noblest—crusader against any detriment from Christians. But the priests of Rome were politicians, and made no sign. Philip of France, now in league with Prince John, and relieved of his dread of Richard, boldly made war in Normandy, where, however, he was repulsed by Robert of Leicester, a crusader who, more fortunate than his king, had reached home. Prince John also made an unsuccessful attempt to seat himself on his brother’s throne.

In the meanwhile Richard chafed in a dungeon where he was loaded with irons. His perpetual incarceration, or his assassination, being fraught with too much danger to his captors, it was determined to bring him to judicial disgrace. He was therefore summoned before the Diet of the Empire at Worms, and formally accused of crimes of all sorts, such as having insulted the Duke of Austria, having assassinated Conrad of Montferrat, having concluded a disgraceful treaty with Saladin. The royal captive, with marvellous self-restraint for him, deigned to explain these matters; then he burst out into indignant denunciation of his captors. The princes of Germany were made ashamed of the ignominy that in their name had been thrust upon the foremost hero of the age. Even prelates at length remembered that Richard had remained alone in Palestine when others were wearied with the defence of the faith.

Henry VI. was forced to release his royal captive. Yet he managed to fix as his ransom a hundred and fifty thousand marks. This large amount it was difficult to raise. The churches of England melted their plate; prelates paid a fourth of their income, the lower clergy a tenth, and all ranks a commensurate tax. Queen Eleanor in person bore the sum thus collected to Mayence (1194). Henry, however, could not yet brook his victim’s escape. Having received the ransom, he ordered Richard’s rearrest; but the English ship that bore him slipped from the mouth of the Schelde before the officers could overtake it. Philip of France sent this ungraceful but timely warning to Prince John: “Take care of yourself; the devil is broken loose.” One chronicler notes that at the very hour in which the king landed in England there appeared “a brilliant and unusual splendor in the heavens, of a very white and red color, about the length and breadth of a human body.” He also observes that Duke Leopold of Austria was horribly punished for his cruelty to Richard. Infernal fires were kindled in his limbs, whose progress he in vain tried to stay by amputating his own foot with an axe, and at length expired in dreadful agony. Romance has invented a pleasing story of Blondel, Richard’s friend and minstrel, who discovered the place of his king’s imprisonment by singing in its proximity a familiar song, to which Richard responded. It is true to the times, but the historian cannot vouch for its basis in fact.

Before Richard reached his throne his great competitor for renown in arms, Saladin, had passed away (March, 1193). He had retired to Damascus. A year after the peace, feeling the approach of the last enemy, and realizing that a greater than Richard was upon him, he ordered that his burial shroud, instead of his usual standard, should be carried through all the streets of Damascus, while his herald cried, “This—this is all that remains of the glory of Saladin, who conquered the East.”