In Distant Lands

by Lars Brownworth

  The alliance proved disastrous. In the late fall of 1144, Joscelin left Edessa with the bulk of his troops in support of his new Muslim ally. He hadn't gotten very far when a breathless messenger arrived to inform him that an immense Islamic army was bearing down on the city. Zengi had picked a superb moment to invade.

  Rather than risk the annihilation of his army, Joscelin instructed the archbishop to hold the city while he sent a panicked appeal for help to Antioch. Unbelievably, Raymond refused to budge. Why should he bother to help a vassal who had never shown even a pretense of respect? As far as he was concerned, his colleague was only reaping what he had sowed. This appalling display of pettiness sealed Edessa's fate. Joscelin then appealed to Queen Melisende in Jerusalem, but she was too far away to help. By the time a relief army set out, the defense of Edessa was already weakening.

  The archbishop did what he could to stiffen the garrison, but the soldiers manning the walls were too few and inexperienced to last for long. As Zengi's catapults pounded the walls, his sappers dug tunnels underneath. Somehow the archbishop managed to hold out for a month, but on Christmas Eve a section of the walls collapsed, and the Muslim army poured in.

  There was no more thought of defense, only escape. The clogged streets became death traps as thousands were trampled or suffocated in the press. Thousands more were cut down by Zengi's troops who fanned out through the city cutting down everyone not quick enough to escape. One of their first victims was the archbishop who was vainly attempting to restore order. Finally, Zengi called a halt to the slaughter. The wounded, still moaning, were dispatched where they lay, and all the surviving citizens were rounded up. Edessa, the capital of the first crusader state, was his.

  With the benefit of hindsight, it wasn’t surprising that Zengi had been successful. He had infinitely more resources and experience at his command than his enemies, and was a much better general. The crusaders on the other hand, were foolish, divided, and historically weak. Zengi had timed his attack to do maximum damage. The city was virtually undefended, its count on atrocious terms with his neighbors, and Jerusalem in the hands of a minor and his mother. The only surprise was that it managed to hold out for four weeks.

  The fall of Edessa was greeted with both jubilation and disbelief. For the Muslims it was almost a miraculous victory. The aura of invincibility that had surrounded the crusaders had long since worn off, but there had nevertheless remained a sense of inevitability about the crusader presence in the Middle East. Now, however, Zengi had shown that for the lie it was. Outremer wasn't permanent after all. A generation of Muslims who had grown up with Frankish neighbors were now given license to dream of a time when every last one of them would be driven into the sea.

  For Christians, the fall of Edessa was a bewildering catastrophe whose scale was difficult to comprehend. Even Raymond realized how ruinous his actions had been. However much the princes of Antioch had quarreled with Edessa, its presence meant that they had a buffer against raids and invading Islamic armies. Now that was gone, and Antioch was exposed to the relentless advance.

  The fate of Outremer was now in the hands of Zengi, and he had made his intentions terrifyingly clear. His treatment of Edessa was a signal to every crusader in Outremer. In the days after the disaster, what remained of the population had been rounded up by the new conqueror. The natives were allowed to depart, but the 'Franks' were kept behind. The men and older boys were forced to their knees and brutally dispatched while the women and remaining children were sold into slavery. There was no place in Zengi's world for westerners.

  In case anyone missed the implications of his great victory, Zengi replaced his old title of 'atabeg' with those of 'King' and 'Conqueror'. The call of jihad had sounded. It was time to wipe the Christian kingdoms off the map.

  Chapter 10: The Fire of Clairvaux

  “Behold brethren… now is the day of salvation.”

  – Bernard of Clairvaux83

  In the early months of 1145, pilgrims returning from the Holy Land brought disturbing rumors of death and destruction from Outremer. The news was so shocking – Christians butchered in the streets, matrons hauled off into slavery, an entire crusader state swept away – that people were disinclined to believe them. By the middle of summer, however, the trickle of refugees had become a flood, confirming the worst suspicions. Even the most hardened observer, inured by years of worsening news from the East, couldn’t fail to admit the crisis.

  A new crusade was obviously needed, but Pope Eugenius III (1145 - 53) was hardly the man to set the world on fire. A pious, mild-mannered Italian, he had only occupied the throne of St. Peter for a few months, and owed his election to the fact that no one more qualified had been willing to take the job. Rome had descended back into one of its periodic spasms of political chaos, and the gentle pontiff was unsuited to the task of stamping it out. His very first trip out of the city as pope was a disaster. The moment his escort had disappeared from view the gates of the city were locked and – in a whiff of nostalgia – the Roman Republic was declared restored. A senate was set up, complete with Republican constitution, and a Senator was elected as its temporal head. Pope Eugenius III, now homeless, was reduced to traveling through the courts of Europe looking for support to evict Rome's new masters. Hardly the inspiring leadership needed to unite Christendom.

  Nevertheless, Eugenius gave it his best shot. In December of 1145, he issued the papal bull Quantum praedecessores84 calling for a new crusade. The response, however, was decidedly muted. Despite a generation of Europeans growing up on the grand stories of the heroes of the First Crusade, there seemed to be little interest in joining a new one. Three months later, Eugenius tried again, reissuing the bull and carefully laying out rules that he hoped would tempt the nobility to attend. Creditors were forbidden from collecting interest on any loans made to crusaders and debts were temporarily suspended.

  The fact that the pope was in exile in France may have compromised his moral authority. If God had withdrawn his favor from this pope, then surely there was little need to listen to him? Or perhaps what depressed the turnout was the other rumor that reached Europe with news of Edessa's fall: whispers of a great Christian king in the east named Prester John who was successfully waging war against the Islamic threat.85 He had allegedly already conquered the old Persian capital and was heading west toward Jerusalem. Although he was a Nestorian – a schismatic branch of Christianity – he would surely march to the rescue of the crusader states.

  In any case, no major figure seemed ready to sign up. The German monarch, Conrad III, refused outright, while the pious Louis VII of France was tempted, but strenuously opposed by his influential advisor Abbot Suger of St. Dennis.86

  Fortunately for the pope, there was one figure in Europe who had the moral gravitas and force of personality to keep the crusade from fizzling. Even as a youth, Bernard of Clairvaux had shown remarkable charisma. Born into the privileged world of French nobility, he had been given a first rate education, and had won the esteem of teachers and fellow students alike. At the age of twenty-three he had decided to devote his life to the Church, and was so compelling that he convinced thirty of his friends and family to join a Cistercian monastery with him. His rise was meteoric. In only two years he was promoted to abbot of the monastery of Clairvaux, and before long had the ear of both spiritual and secular authorities.

  Under his fiery and uncompromising leadership, the Cistercians became the most popular monastic order in Western Europe, and Bernard himself dominated continental affairs. He almost single-handedly ended a schism in the church, and his public support of the Templars won them a formal recognition as a monastic order. As a measure of esteem, Pope Eugenius III even took the name 'Bernardo' in his honor.

  The respect that the pope felt for Bernard wasn't reciprocated. The abbot of Clairvaux considered Eugenius to be hopelessly simple-minded and ineffectual. The fact that such a man was the official head of the Catholic Church was a minor detail that could be conveniently ove
rlooked by the abbot most of the time. Nevertheless, Bernard and the pope both shared a concern for the East, and when Eugenius begged him to preach in support of the crusade, he agreed at once.

  The spot chosen was Vézelay, a pleasant hilltop in central France, which sported an impressive abbey that could accommodate large crowds. News that Bernard would preach, however, soon overwhelmed these preparations. A flood of visitors descended on the abbey, eager to hear the great man speak. Most notable was King Louis VII of France, who had never been completely dissuaded from his desire to go on crusade, and had jointly issued the invitation to Bernard in hopes of convincing his nobles to join him.

  Anyone old enough to remember the First Crusade could be forgiven for a faint sense of déjà vu. As in 1095, there were too many people to fit inside the local cathedral, so the decision was taken to have Bernard preach from a platform erected in a nearby field instead. On March 31, 1146 Bernard of Clairvaux took his place next to King Louis in the center of a large dais. The symbolism of the moment – church and state united in a holy cause – was apparent to all, and a hush fell over the crowd. Bernard of Clairvaux didn't disappoint.

  As at Clermont, the specific words said weren't written down. Their effect, however, was recorded with awe. The crowd listened with rapt attention, and when Bernard issued his charge to take the cross, the response was deafening. "Deus vult!" came the roar, an echo of the cry of Clermont. On the stage, Louis knelt with his wife, the beautiful Eleanor of Aquitaine, and both took the crusading oath. Men began to shout for cloth to sew crosses on their coats, and surged forward to receive them. The large quantities of fabric prepared by the monks for this purpose ran out so quickly that Bernard threw off his own outer garment and tore it into strips to provide material.

  The response was even more electrifying in the countryside. Bernard embarked on a tour of central France, preaching and deputizing lieutenants to spread the word further. His message was subtly different from the one that Urban had preached. The deliverance of Jerusalem – the motivation for the First Crusade – was no longer functional since the city was still in Christian hands. Instead, Bernard's audiences were charged with the important work of rescuing the Holy Land itself. The crusade was redemptive, a chance for sins to be forgiven by doing the Lord's work. It was – in Bernard's memorable phrase – a 'badge of immortality' that this particular generation was fortunate enough to be able to seize. No mere armed pilgrimage, this crusade would be a justification of conversion by the sword.

  French audiences were convinced. A few days after his speech at Vézelay, Bernard reported back to Eugenius III of his success in a letter that managed to be both self-congratulatory and bombastic. "You ordered; I obeyed", he trumpeted, "I spoke and at once the crusaders have multiplied to infinity. Villages and towns are now deserted..."

  For all of his bluster, Bernard was acutely aware that his prestige was now on the line. He had breathed the Second Crusade into life, and it was therefore his responsibility to ensure that it did not degenerate into farce. Foremost among his concerns was that the outrages against the Jews weren't repeated. He called them 'living words of Scripture' because in their diaspora they reminded Christians of the suffering of Christ, and carefully emphasized that they weren't to be persecuted. “Under Christian princes they endure a hard captivity,” he said, from which – much like Christians – they waited for deliverance.

  The Holy Roman Empire

  Once again, however, persecutions broke out. A Cistercian monk named Radulf soon crossed into Germany and began to preach sermons against the Jews. This was disturbing for several reasons. Pope Eugenius III had specifically forbidden the preaching of the crusade in Germany because he needed the German monarch’s help in retaking Rome. A furious Bernard fired off letters to the Rhineland ordering them to stop attacking Jews, but for once he was ignored. Only the appearance by Bernard himself in Germany, and a public castigating of Radulf, managed to restore order.

  The appearance of the charismatic abbot in the Holy Roman Empire may have stopped persecution of the Jews, but it also ensured that crusading fervor swept through the empire. Bernard was perfectly well aware that the pope didn’t want the crusade preached in Germany, but had no intention of calling off his efforts. Now that the Germans were responding to the call, he meant to see it done correctly.

  Convincing large numbers of Germans – in French – to participate on a long, perilous march to the Holy Land, should have been an uphill battle. Any imperial subject wishing to expand Christendom needed to look no further than the empire's eastern frontier where a large number of pagan tribes awaited conversion. Most German leaders viewed this work, which had been progressing for nearly a century, as far more important than the remote menace of Islam. Despite these obstacles, and the need for an interpreter, however, Bernard met with his usual success.

  This was not at all welcome news for the German monarch Conrad III. Since he had yet to be crowned in Rome by the pope, he was still technically only the King of Germany, a state of affairs that was both mildly embarrassing and politically dangerous since it undercut his credibility within the empire. As a remedy, Conrad had promised Eugenius III that he would restore the Holy City to the pope in return for a coronation. The last thing he needed now was for the attention of his nobles to be diverted by talk of a crusade.

  His first instinct was to ignore Bernard. When the fiery cleric asked to speak to the king in the fall of 1146, Conrad demurred, protesting that the timing wasn't quite right. But Bernard wasn't one to be brushed off so easily. The German clergy begged him to continue his efforts, and Conrad reluctantly agreed to host him that Christmas.

  The king didn't stand a chance. Bernard unleashed the full force of his eloquence, reducing many of the audience to tears. He finished his sermon with an elaborate listing of the king's many blessings – a large and prosperous kingdom, a beautiful wife, wealth and luxury. What more, he thundered while fixing Conrad with a fierce stare, do you need showered upon you by Christ to be willing to do his work? With that poor Conrad broke, and wracked by sobs just managed to choke out “I am ready to serve Him.”

  When Bernard returned to Clairvaux in the early months of 1147, he had reason to be well pleased with his work. Thanks entirely to him, two massive armies, led by actual kings, were pledged to march to the defense of the Holy Land. If the First Crusade, led by mere nobles had been successful, how much more so would Bernard's be?

  There were, however, some potentially troubling signs on the horizon. When a group of German nobles petitioned Eugenius III to fulfill their vows by waging war on the pagans east of the empire, the pope agreed to a simultaneous 'Wendish' crusade. He then granted the same permission to the Spaniards to continue the struggle against Islam in the west. The Second Crusade was now aimed in three directions at once, and was in danger of diluting its strength.

  Those were distant concerns in early 1147, and could easily be dismissed. The bulk of committed troops were heading to Syria to retake Edessa. They were well-trained, well led, and, unlike their predecessors, had the benefit of marching to the aid of a land with castles and friendly powers already established. If the Lord's favor was with them – and Bernard was fully confident that it was – they could hardly fail.

  Chapter 11: The King's Crusade

  “Trees are not known by their leaves, nor even by their blossoms, but by their fruits.”

  – Eleanor of Aquitaine

  For those who had eyes to see, the signs of divine approval were everywhere in the late spring of 1147. The first group of crusaders to leave was a mix of northern Europeans from France, England, and the low countries. They elected to sail west along the northern French coast, but were driven into Portuguese territory by a storm. There they received emissaries from King Alfonso I, eager to enlist their aid in a siege of Muslim-held Lisbon. The three-month blockade was not particularly difficult, and when the walls were finally breached, the amount of plunder was immense. Most of those who had set out congratu
lated themselves on having fulfilled their crusading vow, and took up a lucrative service with the Spanish king. Those who continued on to Palestine did so loaded down with treasure. Unlike the First Crusade, whose first wave was massacred, the Second Crusade was off to an auspicious start.

  Even the situation in the East seemed to be improving. Just as Bernard of Clairvaux was browbeating the German king, Conrad III, into attending the crusade, Zengi's vast kingdom was unraveling. On September 14, 1146 the atabeg publicly criticized one of his slaves for drinking wine. That night, the offended slave snuck into Zengi's tent and stabbed him to death. In the chaos that followed, the kingdom collapsed in a vicious power struggle between Zengi's sons.

  The German army was in a festive mood when it left the southeastern Bavarian city of Regensburg in early May. The city was resplendent in spring flowers and virtually the entire population turned out to see them off. Conrad looked particularly formidable on a powerful horse, attended by his sturdy nephew, the red-headed future emperor Frederick Barbarossa. Neither made any attempt to curb the enthusiasm of the troops, and their passage through Byzantine territory was rowdy.87 In September they reached Constantinople, where the king was given an immediate interview with the Byzantine emperor, Manuel Comnenus.

  The last thing Manuel Comnenus wanted was to host a crusading army. The First Crusade had been nothing but a headache for his grandfather Alexius, and in the intervening years relations with the west had worsened considerably. Manuel had, in fact, spent the first four years of his reign attempting to repair things. Aside from the constant pressure from Islam, the greatest threat to the empire came from Sicily, where Bohemond's cousin Roger II had recently been crowned king. Manuel had carefully built up an extensive anti-Sicilian alliance, but then Bernard of Clairvaux had showed up with his wrecking ball of a mouth and smashed everything. Now instead of watching the Sicilian kingdom implode, Manuel had to entertain the very troops he had been hoping to enlist.