by Robert Payne
Louis VII came to the throne in 1137 at the age of sixteen. He was already married to Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was said of Louis VII that he was “a very Christian king but somewhat simple-minded.” He attended all church ceremonies as though his very life depended on them and seemed more like a priest than a king. He liked to talk familiarly with his subjects and was always gracious and hospitable, though people were aware of a kingly reserve. Eleanor was more ebullient, delighting in dances and frolics, fine clothes and jewels, and all the secular pleasures of the court. Despite their differing temperaments, they were happy with one another. Both were under the tutelage of two singular churchmen who were among the greatest of the century. One was Abbot Suger, who presided over the Abbey Church of Saint-Denis, and the other was Bernard of Clairvaux, the greatest preacher of his time and distantly related to the house of Aquitaine.
Abbot Suger, the son of a serf, was a small man of extraordinary intelligence and great administrative power. Louis VII rarely embarked on any course of action without consulting him. Bernard of Clairvaux had a silver tongue and spoke so well that audiences were spellbound. The richly poetic words that poured out of him apparently without effort seemed divinely inspired. He was now summoning the nations of Europe to join in a Crusade. On this subject Abbot Suger had his own opinion: at all costs the young king must be prevented from leading a Crusade because it was necessary for him to attend to the affairs of France.
Apparently, Louis VII had not been attending to them very well. He had quarreled with the pope and come under an interdict. This was serious, but even more serious was his quarrel with Count Thibault of Champagne, whose territories he invaded with a large force. He set fire to a castle belonging to the count at Vitry-sur-Marne. The flames spread to the villagers’ huts and then to the church where they had taken refuge. The roof collapsed and some thirteen hundred villagers were burned to death. Louis VII said later that the sight of the burning church and the screams of the dying made him a Crusader, for he had brought so much guilt on himself that his only salvation lay in asking for the pardon of Christ at the Holy Sepulchre. He would be more believable if he had not continued to ravage the land of the count with fire and sword for a few more weeks. He led his knights into battle and did much slaughtering of his fellow countrymen. The fighting ended as suddenly as it began. Louis VII fell ill. His illness was aggravated by thundering letters from Bernard of Clairvaux, who warned the king that he would be condemned to everlasting hell if he continued in his behavior. He spoke of the need for penance, and hinted strongly that the proper penance might take the form of a Crusade.
At Christmas, in 1145, Louis VII convoked an assembly of barons at Bourges. He told them that he had decided to take the Cross and wished as many of his barons as possible to follow him, but they remained strangely silent. Louis felt he was being scorned by men who did not realize that the Kingdom of Jerusalem was in danger.
At the end of Lent in the following year, the king convoked another assembly at Vézelay in Burgundy. This time he was accompanied by Bernard of Clairvaux and armed with a bull issued by Pope Eugenius III, exhorting all Christians to take up the Cross. On Palm Sunday the entire population of Vézelay was invited to hear Bernard. The crowds were so numerous that the meeting was held in an open field.
Bernard promised absolution and a heavenly reward to all those who took up the Cross. The crowd clamored for crosses, and when the supply failed, Bernard threw off his gown and asked that crosses be made from it. These badges, worn on the shoulders, were like badges of knighthood which permitted the knight of the faith to enter the New Jerusalem.
Leaving Burgundy, Bernard traveled through Lorraine and Flanders, continually preaching the Crusade. It occurred to him that the Germans, who had so far shown little interest in fighting in the Holy Land, should be introduced to the delights of battling against the infidels. Conrad III promised to lead a German army to the Holy Land in the shortest possible time. But it was not until nearly a year and a half later, in May 1148, that his army finally set out across Hungary to follow the same road which the men of the First Crusade followed fifty years earlier through Byzantine territory.
Manuel Comnenus, the son of John Comnenus, was now emperor of Byzantium. He was a man with a genuine sympathy and understanding of the West, and he employed Latins in his government. He concealed a ruthless will beneath an exquisite courtesy of manner. When he learned that Conrad’s army was committing depradations during its journey through Byzantine territory, the exquisite courtesy gave way to rage. It was too late to send the army back to Germany, and there was nothing to be gained by fighting it. He would let it pass through his territory, give it as little help as possible, and hope for its eventual destruction.
The army of Louis VII came close on the heels of Conrad’s army. Both Louis and Conrad professed to despise the Byzantines and thought longingly of sacking Constantinople. Both were greeted with courtesy by Manuel Comnenus. Conrad was the first to pass over into Asia, following the route taken by Godfrey of Bouillon. At Dorylaeum, Conrad’s guides deserted him, and the Turks were waiting. Suddenly the Turks were all over them. It was not a battle but a massacre, for the Germans were weary and dispirited after their long march; the Turks were fresh, and their aim was accurate. Conrad lost more than three-quarters of his army. He fought his way back to Nicaea, accusing the Byzantines of deliberately allowing him to enter a trap. In fact the Byzantines had warned him of the danger of crossing Asia Minor diagonally and had urged him to follow the coastal road. The German booty, the slaves and the treasure, were sold in the bazaars of the Near East for many months.
When the French army reached Nicaea, they learned of Conrad’s defeat at Dorylaeum. In spite of this reversal, it was decided that the two armies should continue their march, this time along the coastal road, remaining in contact with the Byzantine fleet patroling the seacoast. They reached Ephesus without too much trouble, and there Conrad fell ill. He returned to Constantinople by sea, and Manuel Comnenus, who had some knowledge of medicine, cared for him and restored him to health. The French marched on, increasingly harried by Turks. Two days beyond Laodicea they met their greatest disaster on a pass between the snow-covered mountains that seemed to touch the sky.
Here, Geoffrey of Rancogne and Amadeus of Savoy, the king’s uncle, made a fatal error. Instead of halting at the top of the pass according to orders they pitched their tents on the southern slope. They were in command of the vanguard, and it was absolutely necessary that they should keep in touch and be visible to the main army. The Turks, established on the mountaintops, shot arrows down at the Franks on both sides of the mountain; heavy stones and tree trunks followed. Then the Turks descended to cut up the survivors. It was another massacre, with no mercy given. Louis VII was almost killed The historian Odo of Deuil, who accompanied the expedition, described the king fighting off a crowd of Turks single-handedly on the mountaintop:
During the fighting the king lost his small and famous royal guard, but he remained in good heart and nimbly and courageously scaled the side of the mountain by gripping the tree-roots that God had provided for his safety. The enemy climbed after him, hoping to capture him, and the archers in the distance continued to fire arrows at him. But God willed that his cuirass should protect him from the arrows, and to prevent himself from being captured he defended the crag with his bloody sword, cutting off many heads and hands.
The story is almost certainly true. Although Louis VII was among the worst of French kings and among the worst of generals, he was capable of feats of endurance and possessed a certain amount of courage. Kings are rarely seen defending themselves alone on lonely mountain tops, and we have a right to be grateful.
After this defeat Louis VII gave command of the army to Everard of Barre, the third master of the Temple, whose detachment of Templar troops henceforth served as a model of discipline for the army. The haphazard French army reformed and fought its way to the rocky plain of Attalia and the seacoast. From Attalia
the king made his way to Antioch by sea, leaving some troops behind. The Turks swooped down on them.
The king with his knights arrived at the port of St. Symeon on March 19, where he was greeted by the prince of Antioch, and festivities were held in his honor. The prince made himself especially agreeable to Queen Eleanor, who was his niece. Out of loyalty to her uncle, the queen supported the plan that was uppermost in the prince’s mind: an attack on Aleppo, Nur ed-Din’s capital. Nur ed-Din’s power was in the ascendant. He controlled nearly all the land east of the Orontes, and he was a perpetual danger to the survival of Antioch. The prince wanted to use all the new knights in a combined operation to capture Aleppo. The king was disinclined to lose more knights to save Antioch. He had duties to perform in Jerusalem. He exasperated the prince by saying that he had no intention of attacking Aleppo until he knew more about the situation in the Holy Land. His army left Antioch at night, in secret; the prince was unaware until it was already on the march.
By now, Conrad III had reached Jerusalem with the pathetic remnants of the German army. He was on excellent terms with Queen Melisende, who was acting as regent. To the two sovereigns the queen of Jerusalem confided her most secret desire: the conquest of Damascus, which was still guardedly in alliance with Jerusalem. This was the purest folly, as the previous attack on Bosra had demonstrated only too clearly. Strategically, an attack on Aleppo made much more sense. But Melisende was accustomed to prevail, she had set her heart on Damascus, and accordingly the army under command of three kings, Louis, Conrad, and the young Baldwin, marched out of Jerusalem to conquer the one Muslim princedom whose friendship was essential to the survival of the Christian kingdom.
The attack on Damascus was a prolonged exercise in futility. Baldwin commanded the vanguard, Louis commanded the middle, Conrad commanded the rear guard. It appears that the army was abundantly provisioned and had no serious difficulty until it reached the orchards on the north and west of the city and was advancing on the river. The Damascenes on the opposite bank held up the advance, until Conrad, who came riding up to see why the army had failed to cross the river, killed a Turkish knight by slicing him through the neck and the left shoulder, so that his head, shoulder, and left arm were in one place and the rest of his body in another. Whereupon the Damascenes fled back to the safety of their walls.
The fighting continued for six days. The Crusaders chopped down the orchards and built stockades from which they could defend themselves against the continual sorties of the Muslims, who by this time had rallied, knowing that help had been summoned from far away. Then something went horribly wrong for the Crusaders. It is not possible to be sure what it was, but what seems likely is that there was a failure of nerve brought about by rumors of treachery in high places, which may have had no substance at all. Perhaps too, as the long battle continued, the Crusaders realized that nothing had been gained by the attack on Damascus, and that, even if they captured the city, they would be unable to hold it.
“From this time,” wrote William of Tyre, “the condition of the Latins in the East became visibly worse.”
The army withdrew from Damascus in good order on July 18. The Christians had not lost many men, but they had lost hope. Conrad III “perceived that the Lord had withdrawn favor from him,” and ordered ships that would take him back to Europe. Louis VII remained for a year, staying long enough to celebrate Easter at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The kings departed from the troubled kingdom ruled by Queen Melisende, who governed according to the vagaries of her whims. She knew nothing and learned nothing. Nor did the prince of Antioch apply himself to the proper government of his princedom. The people of Antioch saw him as an arbitrary ruler, who took very little interest in their fate. Proud and obstinate, despising the Muslims, he rode with a small company of men into land occupied by Nur ed-Din. Nur ed-Din’s spies were everywhere. At night, Nur ed-Din’s army crept up to the prince’s camp, and in the morning there was a great slaughter. The prince fought well, but was hopelessly outnumbered. Nur ed-Din, who had some respect for him as a warrior, ordered that his head and right arm should be cut off and sent as a trophy to the caliph, while the rest of his mutilated body was left on the battlefield.
There was no one now in Antioch to encourage and protect the people. Nur ed-Din swept out of the hinterland, led his army past Antioch and occupied the Monastery of St. Symeon, which lay high up in the mountains between Antioch and the sea. In sight of his army he bathed in the sea, and let it be known that the sea also had been conquered by him. He seized the fortress of Harim, which was only ten miles from Antioch, provisioned it, and left a garrison which could withstand a siege of many days. Nur ed-Din was a power to be reckoned with.
Aimery of Limoges, Patriarch of Antioch, emerged at this time as the one man who could weld the people of Antioch together. He had accumulated a vast fortune, and now he placed the treasury of the patriarchate at the service of the people and the army. He spent prodigally and efficiently. When the young Baldwin III—he was now eighteen years old—arrived in Antioch, he found confidence returning. He immediately took command and pronounced himself regent.
The prince of Antioch had died fighting. Joscelin II, Count of Edessa, died ingloriously. He was on his way to Antioch with a small escort, summoned by the patriarch, when he abruptly left the path to relieve the needs of nature. Some Muslims fell on him and carried him off to Aleppo, knowing there was a price on his head. Nur ed-Din, who despised him, kept him in a dungeon, where he died nine years later. His wife continued to rule over his territories, seeing that the castles were well manned and supplied with food and weapons. She was more of a soldier than he had ever been.
Two kings of Europe had departed; a prince was killed; a count vanished into the darkness of a foreign prison. More and more power fell into the hands of Baldwin III.
King Baldwin III
and the Heroic Age
OF all the kings of Jerusalem Baldwin III is the one we know best. Contemporary historians were awed by the young king who seemed to have no vices, to be at once intelligent, deeply religious, and gentle to all people. Moreover, he possessed the gift of command. He was born at exactly the right time, for his kingdom was in danger of dissolution, and only by superb ability and great gifts of mind could it be maintained. Even so, before he died he may have known that the end was in sight.
William of Tyre, who described him minutely, remembered that in his youth he was an inveterate gambler and that throughout his life he was astonishingly frank, abruptly rebuking high officers of state in public rather than in private, making enemies unnecessarily. These were dangerous elements in his character, and they were to have dangerous consequences.
One of his major gambles took place in 1152, when he quarreled violently with his mother, who had held the regency for seven years which was past the time when Baldwin should, by law, be the single sovereign. Baldwin at twenty-two performed all the military offices demanded of him, presided over the court, and acted in public as though he possessed the real power. Yet he remained under the tutelage of his formidable mother. It was an absurd situation, and the king at long last decided to assert himself.
Queen Melisende was at that time under the influence of a certain Manasses of Hierges, a clever nobleman from the region of Liege, whom she had appointed Constable of the kingdom. Manasses was rich, powerful, and insolent, determined to retain his privileged place at all costs.
Baldwin set about his assumption of real power in two stages. First, he had himself crowned secretly in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, in the presence of only a handful of his knights, thus preventing his mother from being crowned with him. Secondly, the king decided on war. Manasses was closely besieged in his castle at Mirabel near Jaffa. He was captured, brought into the king’s presence, and spared on condition that he leave the kingdom and never return. Queen Melisende fortified Jerusalem against the king’s army and barricaded herself in the citadel, appealing to the people, the nobles, and th
e clergy for their assistance in her righteous war against her son. The people and the nobles had grown weary of her; the clergy were deeply indebted to her. After a few days of token resistance, she surrendered and was allowed to leave for Nablus on condition that she, too, never return to Jerusalem. Baldwin had been perfectly prepared to take the citadel by force; he had mounted siege engines and hurled rocks against the walls, and, if necessary, would have killed his mother. This was a gamble that had to be taken to save the kingdom.
In Antioch, the Princess Constance still ruled, headstrong, improvident, pleasure-loving, and without any skill in government. A new Prince of Antioch had to be found for her, and Baldwin presented her with a list of three noblemen who possessed the requisite qualities of courage and resourcefulness. She wanted none of them. In her own good time she would choose a husband suitable to her needs. She found such a husband in Reynald of Châtillon, the feckless younger son of the count of Gien, who had accompanied Louis VII during the Second Crusade. Reynald was young, handsome, possessed of great courage, and to all outward appearances he would have made an excellent Prince of Antioch. Constance was in love with him and appears to have married him secretly even before securing the permission of the king, who was her suzerain. Baldwin appears to have permitted the marriage reluctantly. He had hoped she would marry someone closer to her own rank.
Reynald of Châtillon was one of those men who rise from obscure origins and somehow change the course of history. He, more than anyone else, was responsible for the fall of the kingdom. He endangered everything and everyone who came near him and seemed oblivious to the damage he caused. He could be counted upon to do improbable, absurd, and terrible things with a kind of casual grace, never realizing the cost.
