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Authors: Jonathan Phillips

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The wood was mounted in a large metal cross, decorated with gold and silver; it was kept in a special chapel in the church of the Holy Sepulchre and was carried into battle by the Franks who regarded it as a protective talisman. In July 1187, however, at the Battle of Hattin, Saladin had captured the cross and it had not been seen since. Its recovery was a central preoccupation for the Church and there had been unsuccessful attempts to negotiate its return. Martin incited his audience to help regain this relic so intimately connected with Christ’s presence on earth. The fact that he had chosen to deliver his oration on the feast-day of the True Cross added even greater potency to his appeal and shows again how carefully calculated his entire approach to the sermon was.
15
The abbot then shifted his focus and commented on the military situation in the Levant: ‘virtually all of our people who used to inhabit that frontier have been eliminated’. The abbot noted that the survivors, centred upon the city of Acre (today in the far north of Israel), were subject to repeated enemy attacks and for this reason as well, ‘such is Christ’s plight, which forces him today to appeal to you through my mouth’. In reality the circumstances in the Levant were not quite as Martin described. Although the Frankish lands were massively truncated after Saladin’s conquests of 1187, the work of the Third Crusade meant that they had a reasonably firm hold on the coastal strip. Furthermore, because the Muslim world had disintegrated into a bitter struggle between Saladin’s heirs, it was not in a position to mount a serious assault on the Christians. In the context of a crusade sermon, however, strict accuracy was not essential. It is unlikely that either Martin or his audience knew the full facts and it was fundamentally true that the Franks were weak and did not hold Jerusalem. In any case, exaggeration and hyperbole were staples of crusade preaching from the very start. In 1095 Urban II’s descriptions of Christians in the Holy Land being tied to posts and used as archery practice by the infidel, or else being eviscerated, were absolutely groundless. But, true or false, they served a purpose and succeeded in whipping up his listeners into a frenzy of religious fervour and a wish to revenge themselves on the Muslims. People had to believe that they were risking their lives for good reason and the perilous position of their fellow-Christians in the Holy Land formed a substantial part of that cause.
16
After this powerful exposition of the need to perform God’s work, the abbot appealed directly to his audience: ‘And so now, true warriors, hasten to help Christ. Enlist in His Christian army. Rush to join the happy ranks. Today I commit you to the cause of Christ, so that you might labour to restore Him to His patrimony, from which He has been so unmercifully expelled.’ This brought home the urgency of the situation. It also touched upon a theme familiar to the knighthood of western Europe, namely the notion of the rightful inheritance of property. There were endless disputes over land succession, and the idea of losing land that was properly due to an individual would strike a strong chord; if the dispossessed individual was Christ Himself, then the need to restore the proper order would be even greater.
Abbot Martin then acknowledged an awareness of the dangers that faced crusaders and the worries that confronted them, and he tried to fortify his audience by remembering the deeds of their predecessors. ‘Lest you be frightened by the fact that presently the heathens’ savagery against our people has greatly increased in its fury, I want you to remember the accomplishments of ... that famous expedition led by Duke Godfrey ... the first Frankish ruler of Jerusalem].’
This history lesson was designed to appeal to the knights’ sense of honour and a wish to emulate the deeds of their forefathers, as well as to fulfil their Christian duty. Martin also offered encouragement by pointing out that the First Crusaders succeeded without having any base in the Levant. In 1200, on the other hand, the Christians held Acre and Antioch and many other castles, and these could provide a springboard for the recovery of Jerusalem.
The final section of the sermon focused on the rewards for a crusader. After putting the case for a moral commitment to the cause, the abbot backed this up with a simple and direct appeal to two of medieval man’s greatest interests: the afterlife and money. The crusade was God’s work, and Martin promised ‘absolutely’ that ‘whoever takes the sign of the Cross and makes sincere confession will be totally absolved of every sin and when he leaves this present life, no matter where, when, or by what happenstance, he will receive life eternal’. It is difficult to overstate the medieval preoccupation with making good the consequences of sin and avoiding the eternal torments of hell. One historian has described it as ‘the most guilt-ridden age in history‘, where sins of violence, lust, greed and envy were never far from the thoughts and deeds of its people. One glance at the graphic and terrifying sculptures surviving over the doorways of churches such as Autun, Conques or Arles demonstrate unmistakably the horrors of hell (see plate section). Fearsome devils, with terrible teeth and claws, draw hapless sinners towards a variety of grim and eternal torments; promiscuous women have serpents attached to their breasts; those guilty of minting false coins have molten metal poured down their throats; a sinful knight is slowly roasted on a spit, while another is simply pushed into the jaws of a huge monster. Yet a crusader could—if he confessed his sins—be absolved from all his misdeeds. It was a bargain: performing the work of God on a crusade was such an arduous act of penance that the participant would receive a reward of appropriate generosity. This deal lay at the heart of the offer that had proven so attractive to generations of crusaders, dating back to the launch of the First Crusade in 1095. Incidentally, the statements making plain that the time of death made no difference to the crusader receiving his heavenly reward were designed to address a specific and important concern. The audience would be aware that many could die on the way to the Holy Land, through shipwreck, by enemy action or, most likely of all, from illness. Martin was reassuring crusaders that once they had taken their vow and confessed their sins, their place in heaven was certain. In other words, if his intentions were proper, a crusader would not be denied his heavenly rewards through failing to complete his journey to the Holy Land.
17
Alongside the offer of this spiritual jackpot, Martin buttressed his case by holding out the hope of secular rewards as well. Some reports of Urban II’s sermon at the Council of Clermont in 1095 mention the pope describing a ‘land of milk and honey’ to which the crusaders were travelling. Few preachers from the Second and Third Crusades were so explicit in their use of secular gains as a lure to take the cross. Martin, however, was not at all coy. He said: ‘Now I shall not even mention that the land to which you are headed is by far richer and more fertile than this land, and it is easily possible that many from your ranks will acquire a greater prosperity even in material goods there than they will remember enjoying back here.’ The cynic might argue that Gunther was preparing his readers for events later in his account when Martin—on behalf of the Church, of course—had gathered great riches. The writer may have been suggesting that the crusaders had been encouraged towards such acts by the preaching of the expedition, which here, we must remember, was said to have Christ’s endorsement. Equally, given the lack of surviving sermons from the time, such a message might have been no more than routine. In fact, because so many Frankish knights had been killed or captured at the Battle of Hattin in 1187, if the Fourth Crusade did succeed in retaking the Holy Land, then there would have been quite genuine possibilities to secure lands and wealth.
Martin rounded off this section of his appeal with a reminder: ‘Now, brothers, look at how great a guarantee comes with this pilgrimage. Here, in the matter of the kingdom of Heaven, there is an unconditional pledge; in the matter of temporal prosperity, a better than average hope: Who could resist such an attractive proposition?
As he moved towards the end of his oration, Martin pulled off one final flourish: ‘I, myself, vow to join in both the journey and the labour and, insofar as it is God’s will, I hope to share in all your successes and trials.’ Many crusade preachers did not actually take part in the expedition, but here Martin fervently assured his audience that he was prepared to suffer and to face the same risks as they. Once again, therefore, he added a new ingredient to the power of his words and the pressure of his arguments.
After this rousing exhortation, in the last moments of the sermon he demanded that his audience should act. ‘Now, therefore, brothers, take the triumphal sign of the Cross in a spirit of joy, so that, by faithfully serving the cause of Him who was crucified, you will earn sumptuous and eternal pay for brief and trivial work:
By this time Martin was emotionally and physically exhausted. He had to strain his voice in so large a space and he had put every ounce of concentration and energy into his message. His own tears and cries peppered the performance, such were the depths of feeling he brought forth. His audience, too, was deeply affected by his words. In the course of his sermon, ‘You could see tears ... from everyone ... you could hear groans, and sobs, and sighs, and all manner of similar signs that gave an indication of personal remorse.’ The careful construction of the speech and the astutely chosen messages were designed for maximum impact upon the listener. Coupled with Martin’s compelling delivery, they ensured that all those present had shared in Christ’s suffering, had appreciated the danger of the Christians in the East, had been reminded of the heroes of the First Crusade, and were offered substantial spiritual and material rewards. ‘When, with compressed lips, the wise man fell silent, the mob roared on every side, stung by sweet pain; they hurry to assume cruciform tokens and divine service, to enlist in the ranks of the Leader, who leads us to the stars by way of the cross:
In spite of his fatigue, Martin must have felt elated. Crowds surged forward to commit themselves to God’s work. While many had probably decided to take the cross beforehand, his words would have turned these thoughts into reality and almost certainly persuaded others to join the crusade. Once the tumult had died down, Martin could turn to practical matters: he set a date by which all were to have put their private affairs in good order. They were to reassemble at the cathedral and then ‘take up with him the path of holy pilgrimage’.
18
CHAPTER THREE
 
‘The Tournament was a fully pitched battle and never
was there a better seen’
The Tournament at Écry, November 1199
 
A
BBOT MARTIN’S HEARTFELT appeal touched sharply upon the hopes and aspirations of his audience in Basel. Other preachers delivered powerful and passionate sermons across western Europe through 1199 and 1200 and a growing number of people came forward to join the expedition. One particular occasion brought recruitment for the crusade to life, yet intriguingly this was not a sermon or religious assembly, but a much more worldly event: a tournament, the dramatic and glamorous playground for the knightly classes of northern Europe.
1
On 28 November 1199, at the castle of Ecry-sur-Aisne, Count Thibaut of Champagne and his cousin, Count Louis of Blois, assembled the elite of northern French knighthood for a great festival to celebrate prowess at arms, to offer a forum for social advancement and to entertain. Today the castle has all but disappeared and only a few foundations remain in the village of Asfeld on the River Aisne, around 16 miles north of the city of Reims, the seat of the duchy of Champagne.
Tournaments were a spectacular and integral part of courtly life during the Middle Ages and some aspects of the purpose and ethos of such events help to explain why many at Écry chose to enlist in the crusade. At the time of the Fourth Crusade, however, tournaments were very different from the familiar images provided by television and film. We are accustomed to a formal setting: two knights facing one another in a joust; they couch lances under their arms, hunch behind their shields, then charge at top speed; a crash, and the splintering of wooden lances as they hit each other, the thump as one hits the ground; cheers for the victor. Grandstands full of brightly costumed admirers applaud, while at each end of the lists cluster the knights’ tents, topped with banners fluttering in bright sunlight. By the fourteenth century this picture may hold true, but earlier on the reality of an event such as that at Écry was far more chaotic and considerably more brutal.
Tournaments were rambling, anarchic occasions, laced with bloodshed and vengeance. They were not held in the enclosed setting of a jousting list, but ranged over many acres of land; the arena was usually defined by two designated villages or castles. In 1199 the tournament ground lay between Écry and the village of Balham, 2½ miles to the north-east. A long, gentle slope leads out of Écry towards Balham. To the left runs the Aisne, a broad, swift-running channel that loops gently along a shallow valley. Outside of this the wide, chalky plains of the region provided ample ground for a fast and free-ranging contest.
Such an open space was needed because men rarely participated in single combat, but gathered into two contingents, with up to 200 knights on each side. The formation of the groups often reflected real political alliances and this could generate razor-sharp tensions. On the signal of a herald the tournament began with a lance-charge. The two forces hammered towards each other at maximum speed, the bellowing of the men blended with the thundering of hooves and the rattle of harness. Then, the seismic impact of two fully armed contingents of knights in collision, the thud of bodies, the clash of metal on metal, flesh absorbing the momentum of a charge; the first cries of the injured. Hand-to-hand fighting would break out and helmets would ring from the blows that crashed down upon them. Amidst the fury of clashing steel, men were often wounded; occasionally they died. There were few rules and no referees. At times a mêlée or a scrum would develop and the scene frequently descended into near-mayhem, with the group that preserved better order the more likely winner. Little regard was given to the physical surroundings: orchards, vineyards and crops were damaged or trampled underfoot; the knights might use a barn or other farm building in which to hide or prepare an ambush; and the streets of a village might suddenly become the location of a full-scale clash between rival parties.
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