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Authors: Jonathan Phillips

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In the 1130s the Anglo-Norman monk, Orderic Vitalis, described why he included the story of the First Crusade in his
Ecclesiastical History:
‘a noble and marvellous theme for exposition is unfolded for writers to study ... Never, I believe, has a more glorious subject been given ... than the Lord offered in our own time to poets and writers when He triumphed over pagans in the East through the efforts of a few Christians whom He had stirred up to leave their homes . . .’
46
The Flemish historian Lambert of Ardres wrote of the deeds of his own lord, Arnold the Old: ‘It ought to be known, however, that in this fight at Antioch [June 1098], Arnold the Old was reputed to be the best amongst the many nobles of many nations and peoples, because of the strength of his spirit as much as the skill in knighthood of his outstanding body.’
47
Crusaders such as Count Robert II of Flanders became known as
‘Jerosolimitanus’
in recognition of their exploits in the East.
Against the prospect of fame and admiration other, more negative features emerge. Most crusaders returned in relative poverty, although Guy of Rochefort came home from the 1101 campaign ‘renowned and rich’, according to a contemporary.
48
More commonly, a journey to the Holy Land opened up the possibility of bringing back relics—objects of inestimable value—to present to a local ecclesiastical institution. In part this was to give thanks for a safe return; in part to acknowledge a church’s financial support. Churchmen carried back relics for their own religious houses. In 1148—9, Bishop Ortleib of Basel presented the monastery of Schönthal with a piece of the True Cross along with stones from Gethsemane, Calvary, the Holy Sepulchre, the tomb of Lazarus and Bethlehem: all objects sanctified by their association with the holy places. Aside from relics, one crusader found an altogether more bizarre souvenir to commemorate his experience: Gouffier of Lastours brought a tame lion home with him; its fate is unknown.
49
Yet for crusaders whose campaigns foundered there was the burden of defeat. Expeditions that had, in theory, been divinely blessed at their outset must have failed for a reason and the explanation given usually represented either a practical or a spiritual angle. In the course of the Second Crusade, as the French army crossed Asia Minor, it lost formation and was decimated by the Turks. One man, Geoffrey of Rancon, was consistently mentioned and the chroniclers made it plain that he was held fully responsible for the huge losses. Odo of Deuil was present at the battle and wrote: ‘Geoffrey of Rancon ... earned our everlasting hatred ... the entire people judged that he should be hanged because he had not obeyed the king’s command about the day’s march; and perhaps the king’s uncle, who shared the guilt, protected Geoffrey from punishment.’
50
Bernard of Clairvaux, the churchman who had led the preaching of the Second Crusade, preferred to identify the participants’ thoughts of greed and glory as the cause of their defeat.
Some families, of course, had to learn the tragic news of the loss of one of their kin. Aside from the effect this had on dynastic and political affairs, we have very limited insight into the human and emotional cost of such a loss, although a few rare examples do survive. We know that Ebrolda, the widow of Berengarius, a knight who died on the First Crusade, withdrew from the world and became a nun at the priory of Marcigny. More difficult still were the cases where no one knew for certain whether a man had been captured or killed. In 1106, Ida of Louvain took the remarkable step of making a journey to the East in the hope of finding her husband, Baldwin of Mons, count of Hainault, who had gone missing in Asia Minor in 1098. A local chronicler wrote that ‘out of love for God and her husband, with great effort and expense, she travelled to the Levant, where, unfortunately, she found no comfort or certainty’.
51
Another contemporary wrote: ‘Whether he was killed or captured, no one knows to this day.’
52
Even if a crusader returned safely to the West, he had to deal with the psychological impact of years of warfare and suffering, as well as memories of the loss of friends and relatives in the course of the fighting. Men had to become reaccustomed to their homelands, rather than sharing in the routine labours of the crusade. Sometimes relatives would have died in their absence; on occasion their lands would have been reduced or threatened by the actions of a local rival, which in turn led to negotiations, warfare or a difficult legal case in order to regain lost territory or rights. The crusader’s family and household also had to readjust to an individual whose absence they had compensated for during the time of the crusade. Medieval sources are not especially attuned to providing such information, but in one or two instances the participants’ behaviour hints at what a terrible ordeal they had been through, both physically and mentally. King Conrad III of Germany received a head wound in battle in Asia Minor in 1147 and, although he recuperated at Constantinople before returning to the crusade the following year, the injury troubled him for the remainder of his life. Conrad may also have contracted malaria in the East, because for several years after his crusade he was plagued by a debilitating illness, not connected with his head wound. Another crusader, Guy Trousseau of Montlhery, suffered what appears to have been a nervous breakdown. He had deserted from the First Crusade during the siege of Antioch and, as Abbot Suger recorded, ‘he had been broken by the stress of a long trip and the irritation that comes from various afflictions, and by guilt for his behaviour at Antioch ... Now wasting away and devoid of all bodily strength, he feared that his only daughter might be disinherited.’ In such a status-conscious military society it seems that Guy could not bear the dishonour of his actions and he was, literally, dying of shame.
53
Another glimpse of the human cost of a crusade can be had in a contemporary statue in the Musée des Beaux Arts in Nancy (see plate section). It is believed that the couple are Count Hugh of Vaudémont and his wife Aigeline of Burgundy. The sculpture was originally placed in the abbey of Belval, a priory supported by the Vaudémont family, and it was probably commissioned by Aigeline when her husband died in 1155. Hugh had taken part in the Second Crusade, and the statue shows his wife greeting him on his return. The sculpture conveys genuine emotion and intimacy and is a moving and powerful reminder of the feelings of separation and fear generated by a crusade. The couple cling tightly to each other with Aigeline’s left hand protectively clasped around her husband’s waist, just below his crusader’s cross, while her right hand tenderly rests on his right shoulder and touches his neck. Her head rests against his bearded face, nestling on his left shoulder, determined to feel his warmth and closeness. Aigeline is clearly relieved to see Hugh again, yet her pleasure is mixed with tension and the way she clings to him so closely gives the impression that she never wants to let go of him; after the years of being apart, she cannot bear the thought of losing him again. On Hugh’s part, the strain of completing the journey is apparent in the fixed expression on his face; the count stares straight ahead, exhausted, but resolute and unbowed at the completion of his vow. He grips his pilgrim’s staff tightly (there was a close overlap between the ideas of pilgrimage and crusading at this time, hence the pilgrim’s staff and wallet) and his shoes are in tatters, showing the hardship of the trip. Yet he too reveals his feelings for Aigeline, with his left hand placed protectively around her left shoulder and his fingers just squeezing her for reassurance. Hugh and Aigeline were fortunate in that they were reunited and their mutual devotion still shines through, but for many others, of course, the outcome of a crusade was not so happy.
54
In essence, a crusade was known to be a highly dangerous, expensive business. It could bring fame and honour to an individual and his family; it could also bring death, insecurity and financial ruin. The reasons why generations of westerners chose to engage in this most hazardous of ventures are complex and powerful.
CHAPTER TWO
 
‘Now, therefore, brothers, take the triumphal sign of the Cross’
Abbot Martin’s Crusade Sermon, Basel Cathedral, May 1200
 
I
N LATE 1199 and early 1200 the papacy redoubled its efforts to raise support for the Fourth Crusade. News of the planned expedition rippled across the Catholic West and passed the lips of traders, pilgrims, diplomats and soldiers. Preachers tirelessly worked the courts, market places and cathedrals of France, Germany, the Low Countries, England and Italy. Regardless of language, politics and status, the call to the crusade permeated everywhere: an insistent, relentless reminder to everyone of their Christian duty to regain the Holy Land.
One particularly eminent preacher was Fulk of Neuilly.
1
He had risen from a simple parish priest to become a familiar figure in the schools of Paris and to the public at large. He was described as stern-voiced and rigorous in his rebukes to sinners, especially adulterous women and usurers. He was responsible for many miracles and healings, too. ‘In every place he was received with the greatest reverence as an angel of the Lord,’ wrote the contemporary Cistercian chronicler, Ralph of Coggeshall. Fulk was, in one way, however, a worldly individual. Not for him the grim asceticism of some religious men. He was known to eat very well and never refused food, an enthusiasm that provoked surprise amongst those who preferred their holy men to fast and suffer in their cause.
2
Pope Innocent had heard of Fulk’s skills as an orator and asked him to preach the new crusade.
3
The cleric went to a meeting at the abbey of Citeaux to persuade the Cistercian monks to help him, but they were unwilling to assist, in spite of their long record of involvement in crusade preaching. Fulk was outraged and marched over to the gates urging a crowd assembled for the occasion to make the journey to Jerusalem. Such was his reputation that people flocked to join the campaign. ‘From all points they hasten in large numbers: rich and poor, nobles and the base alike, the old along with the young, an innumerable multitude of both sexes. And they eagerly receive the sign of the Cross from him,’ reported Ralph of Coggeshall.
4
Fulk called upon several co-preachers from amongst his contacts in Paris, but these men proved largely ineffectual. It seems they were too fixated upon ideas of spiritual purity and moral reform (which were particularly important in contemporary Church thinking) to make an effective link to the call for a new crusade.
5
In the spring of 1200 one region yet to be visited by an official preacher was the city of Basel and the Upper Rhineland, an area already rich in crusading history. Finally, an announcement was made: on 3 May, the feast-day of the Discovery of the True Cross, Abbot Martin of Pairis, a Cistercian monastery in Alsace, was to deliver a sermon in St Mary’s cathedral in Basel.
6
At last—an opportunity for the faithful to take the sign of the cross and to carry Christ’s emblem into holy war. Historians usually rely on the contents of chronicles, papal bulls, contemporary letters and charters to piece together the motivation of crusaders. In the case of the Fourth Crusade, however, the narrative of Gunther, a monk from Pairis, contains the text of a crusade sermon that provides a vivid insight into the workings of a crusade appeal.
7
Gunther wrote his
Historia Constantinopolitana
before the end of 1205 and based much of his work on the account of the expedition given to him by his abbot. Martin was later an enthusiastic participant in the sack of Constantinople and was to bring back a rich haul of relics to the abbey. Gunther wrote his work to justify this holy theft and he explained it in terms of God’s benevolent direction of mankind. It is a complex piece of writing, artfully constructed to display its themes to their best advantage.
8
The crusade sermon itself is prefaced by the words: ‘He [Martin] is reported to have spoken in these or similar words.’ Gunther is in effect admitting, therefore, that his text is not a verbatim replica of the speech, but is heavily based on the abbot’s original with (probably) a little shaping from the author. In spite of this caveat, this is one of the earliest and most complete contemporary records of a crusade sermon and its general tenor reflects the papacy’s appeal to the motives, hopes and beliefs of a crusader.
The city of Basel dates back to Roman times and the name comes from the Greek word
basileus,
meaning emperor, and was adopted in honour of Emperor Valentinian I (364—75). It stands on the Rhine, the great arterial waterway running through Germany and central Europe. The cathedral of St Mary’s is positioned on a hill about 100 feet above the river and provided Martin with a large auditorium for his speech: it is more than 160 feet long and the nave is almost 45 feet wide.
9
A fire in 1185 had badly damaged the church, and the slow pace of reconstruction meant that it is unlikely that the nave was properly roofed by 1200. To some extent, therefore, the western side of the church was a building site and may well have been partially open to the elements. By the time of Martin’s speech, however, the series of solid, but stately, arches that extend down the body of the church were probably in place. At its apex each arch was slightly pointed, in what we now call the early Gothic style, and this represented the most modern architectural thinking of the age. Today we can see little other than the pale pink-white sandstone from which the cathedral is largely constructed. This gives the building a rather austere aspect, but in Martin’s time the completed section of the church would have been covered in brightly coloured paintings and decorations, depicting biblical scenes and events from saints’ lives. Complex and intricate sculptures adorned the pillars and tombs of the cathedral and some of these still survive: the same fallen Christians, Old Testament heroes and fierce, mythical animals stare down at today’s tourists and worshippers as scowled and grimaced at Martin and his audience 800 years ago.
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