In the providential year 1112 came word that Countess Adelaide of Sicily, a dowager whose wealth surpassed calculation, might be persuaded to remarry. Nor would she mind becoming queen of Jerusalem. Therefore the king, who anguished over money, being at times unable to pay his knights their monthly stipend, sent to ask for the lady’s hand.
Countess Adelaide sailed to Acre most grandly, her entrance unmatched since Cleopatra came to visit Mark Antony. Latin narratives describe the beak of her galley as plated with silver, a carpet of spun gold beneath her throne. In her wake numerous vessels bearing precious fabric, engraved suits of armor, coins, gems, whatever wealth Sicily could provide. Arabs in handsome white robes looked out for pirates.
King Baldwin met her at the port, he and his entourage dressed in costly silk. The streets had been carpeted, purple banners hung from balconies, mules and horses draped with purple and gold. And people rejoiced throughout the Holy Land. Yet some whispered that Countess Adelaide was tricked, not knowing about King Baldwin’s other wife. They declared he should first have divorced the Armenian. Still, the patriarch of Jerusalem united them. Three years afterward King Baldwin wearied of the countess, having spent the treasure, and ordered her back to Sicily. Almost alone she embarked, impoverished, humiliated.
Tancred refused to acknowledge Baldwin as king, mistrusting so much authority vested in such a man, nor would he consult him except on the banks of a stream called Nahr al-Aiya while water flowed between them. Yet few could be more dissembling and ruthless than this Norman from Sicily who boasted that one day he would pierce the walls of Baghdad with a lance, who fancied himself Islamic and wore a turban, styled himself Emir Tankridos, issued coins with his own likeness, dreamt of a principality in the Orient. Sooner than most he passed from view, aged thirty-six. His remnant they bore to the cathedral of Saint Peter. Greatest of the faithful, according to Matthew of Edessa. Otherwise, not many wept.
Five years after Tancred gave up the ghost a plague of locusts swept across Jerusalem. Vines, leaves, crops in the field, all devoured. As if they had agreed upon it in council these insects approached, hopping, creeping, others flying. When they had feasted on everything green and chewed the bark from trees they moved along by companies. And each day like pilgrims they came to rest. So does the Creator admonish and instruct us, reproach us through merciful lessons. Now, on the fifth night of December all observed the sky suffused in reddish light from the center of which streamed white ribbons. What this signified, no one could say. All wondered, expectantly awaiting the dispensation of our Lord. His Holiness Paschal soon ascended to glory, as did the patriarch of Jerusalem, the Armenian wife of King Baldwin, and Emperor Alexius Comnenus. Each assumed his place in the covenant of things.
Princess Anna with deep sorrow wrote about the illness afflicting her father, of the pain he experienced while breathing. Also, he was seized by fits of yawning. What troubles me? he would ask the empress. The ablest physicians were summoned. Nicolas Kallicles, Michael Pantechnes, and Michael the eunuch. They felt his pulse, conceding that they found irregularity at each motion but could not assign the cause. He ate frugally, moderately, hence there could be no aggregation of humors from rich food. They thought his heart inflamed by incessant worry, by concerns of government, therefore excess matter accumulated from the rest of his body. He could not lie on either side, but had to sit upright. The illness choked like a halter, giving him no respite. They cut his elbow, which did not help. They gave him pepper to swallow, which dispersed the humors but afterward forced them into cavities of the arteries so his belly puffed up, as did his feet. The disease invaded his mouth, obstructing his throat. Anon, the movement of blood stopped. Then suddenly the empress uttered a frightful shriek, took off her purple shoes and laid aside her imperial veil. She cut off her hair with a razor, asked for black sandals and a dark veil. The soul of Alexius had gone to God. Thus does inimitable order embrace the universe.
Tancred’s nephew, Roger, succeeded as governor of Antioch. Chronicles assert that he was lecherous and quick to fight. Before long he subdued the enemy strongholds of Marqb, Azaz, and Biz’a. Looking to further conquest he marched against Aleppo with seven hundred knights and four thousand sergeants. These proud Franks, imagining themselves braver than lions, pitched their tents at al-Abat, which afterward was called the field of blood, Ager Sanguinis. Pagan spies pretending to be merchants eased into camp, so the Turk, Ilghazi, kept himself informed. Eight days he loitered, waiting until hunger and thirst weakened Roger’s men. Then at night he surrounded them with forty thousand Turcomans. At daybreak the Franks understood they would not see Aleppo except in chains, if ever. The archbishop of Albara preached to them, confessed Roger privately in his tent, granting absolution for manifold sins of the flesh. Soon enough Turkish arrows began to fly. Kamal al-Din declares that Muslim arrows darkened the sky, stiffened the morning. Walter the Chancellor tells how these doomed Franks brandished lances, drew their shields in close, set spurs to their mounts and charged. Many Turks crushed by the timber of death hurtled into lower regions, but the forces of Ilghazi assembled like wasps and like wasps could not be contained. Roger’s pilgrims were mutilated in different ways, beaten with stones, pierced by javelins and arrows, which delighted the Turk. And when it ended Ilghazi ordered those clinging to life brought out for destruction. Five hundred or more he had bound like dogs with iron chains, naked, hands cruelly twisted behind their backs. Some felt the skin flayed from their faces. Ilghazi commanded others to be led half a league through bramble and thistle to the vineyard of Sarmedan where they fell down eagerly, biting at grapes in the dust. So, according to the judgment of God, they met death abominably.
Tancred’s nephew Roger was found among innumerable dead at the foot of a great jeweled cross, his skull split to the nose. Ilghazi made off with his head, his armor, and the cross, carrying these trophies to Aleppo. News of the battle preceded him. The citizens of Aleppo butchered sheep and danced in the street when he arrived. They saw naked Franks dragged over stones, Christian heads displayed on lances. This much to the delight of those who recalled how Jerusalem was sacked.
When news of this defeat reached Antioch the people thought Ilghazi would come to murder them and raze the city, but he did not. Muslims say he drank so much wine that he was seized with a violent ague and could not get out of bed for twenty days. Meanwhile he sent word of his victory to the caliph who honored him with a splendid robe and a title, Star of Religion. Three years later Ilghazi dropped shrieking into the fiery pit when the true and unbiased voice of God was heard.
Ibn al-Athir wrote in his account of the Arab world how Turcomans such as fought the pilgrims were brutal nomads oblivious to the teaching of Islam. They enrolled beneath the banner of cupidity, each with a pouch of flour and dried sheep flesh, and consented to follow Ilghazi only so long as they were paid. They put jugs of water in front of captive Franks, killing those who tried to drink. Numerous soldiers of Christ taken alive on that sanguine field gave up the ghost in such a way, yet we know they came face to face with Him.
Pilgrims who determined to visit the Holy Land would travel uneasily by ship past Saracen castles. Should our Lord deign to guide and protect them, at length they came to port at Joppa where they were met with joy by Christians eager for news of the distant West, for news of loved ones in Gaul or England or the Netherlands or Germany. These newcomers told what they knew of kingdoms and families, which was a source of grief or bewilderment or rejoicing. Many perished en route. Albert of Aix declares that in a single year three hundred ships fell victim to pirates. How many servants of Christ were hurled into the sea, sold into bondage? But if they got safely to Jerusalem and Bethlehem and other holy places they were able to fulfill their vows, grateful they did not see the vile crescent of Islam defiling the domes of churches. Most returned to their homes with glorious accounts of what they had seen, such as splinters from the True Cross found beneath the shrine of the Sepulcher. They had seen water that gushed from th
e rod of Moses, shreds of Blessed Mary’s robe, two thorns from the crown that Jesus wore, and in a glass vial they beheld some darkness from one of Egypt’s seven plagues.
Certain pilgrims chose not to return but settled in the East. And with the passing years these Franks, Lombards, Germans, Scots, and Danes who lived in Outremer grew increasingly Asiatic. They forgot the cities of their birth, Marseilles, Düsseldorf, Genoa, Canterbury. They became men of Antioch or Galilee. They wore slippers and loose clothing. Their women wore veils. They slept in the long noon heat. They established fresh codes of law and new tribunals, inherited servitors, possessed homes. Some chose to marry Christian women of Syria or a Saracen that had received the grace of baptism. Therefore Turks might live at a Christian house, related through marriage. Indeed, while speaking various languages they learned to understand all. Hence they asked themselves why they should go back to the West that had been their home, since the East proved generous. Those with few coins in Europe now fondled more bezants than they could count. This seemed a great miracle, enough to amaze the world. Surely the Lord wishes to enrich all of us and draw us to Him. And because that is what He desires, that is what we also desire. What is pleasing to Him, that would His children do with loving and submissive hearts, for we would live in Him throughout eternity.
It happened when King Baldwin neared his sixtieth year that he resolved to punish Egypt for egregious wickedness. Therefore with two hundred knights and four hundred men afoot he marched south to Pharamia, an ancient city close by the mouth of the Nile. Here, too, is an old city called Tanis where long ago the Lord worked signs before Pharaoh through his servant Moses. The inhabitants of Pharamia fled in terror when King Baldwin arrived so he took it without a blow. Next morning he went to contemplate the fabulous river, which is called Gihon by Israelites, which he had not seen. He gazed upon it with delight, marveling at the water because this river originates in Paradise. Yet how could that be? We are told that Paradise is found to the east, but to the east lies the Red Sea. Has the Gihon a second source? Or if it does emanate from Paradise to the east, how shall it resume a course west of the Red Sea? As good Boethius notes, when we observe a thing contrary to expectation there must be error and confusion in our thought.
The Red Sea is red because of discolored rock, yet if its water is poured in a vessel it remains pure and limpid. What better witness to the inimitable strength of God? The Red Sea derives from an ocean to the south but extends like a tongue almost to Mount Sinai, one day’s journey by horse. From this sea to the Great Sea, or Mediterranean, is thought to require five days on horseback through a parched and desolate region encompassing much of Egypt, Numidia, and Ethiopia. As to where the Mediterranean originates, some point to the Straits of Gades with no source but the surging ocean. Others trace it to the Straits of Pontus because tides flow out but do not return. Accordingly we praise the Creator who excels mankind with unimaginable knowledge, who in His wisdom fixes limits and bounds and entrances. We may ask what prevents the Red Sea from joining the Mediterranean across the plain of Egypt since it is lower. Does heavenly law inhibit? The explanation we leave to Him who gives water to the cloud, who appoints the mountain to sustain and nourish countless lakes, who commands the stream to search for one that is larger until, miraculous to relate, all discover and blend with the obedient sea.
We are told by parchment from those days how King Baldwin meditated by the river Gihon while his knights who were deft with lances contrived to spear a number of fish. These they carried back to Pharamia for breakfast. But as King Baldwin arose from the meal he complained of distress in his belly. Also, an old wound began to stir. His spirit flagged. Then a herald was instructed to proclaim that all should at once make ready to depart for Jerusalem. The king was unable to ride so they placed him on a litter made from tent poles and traveled as far as the town of al-Arish where he lost hope. He asked that his body be carried to Jerusalem because he did not want infidels to dig him up and do him some dishonor, saying that he wished to be laid next to his brother Godfrey. Those attending him fell silent and he understood why they would not speak, because in such heat the corpse would putrefy. He told them he should be embalmed. I entreat you to open my stomach with a knife, said he. Take out my entrails. Rub my body with spices and balsam generously in the mouth, nostrils, and ears. Wrap what is left of me in a hide and carry it to Jerusalem for Christian burial. The nobles were hard put to restrain their grief. They answered that he placed on them a heavy burden. As you love me, said the king, or as you loved me when I was in fair health, you will not refuse this task. Then without delay he summoned his cook, Addo, and bound him with an oath to handle the business.
For two days King Baldwin lay motionless in his tent, but at last quit breathing. Then the cook Addo slit his body and took out the organs, which were salted and buried, the poor shell smeared with pungent oil and spices, sewn into a hide adorned with hangings, tied firmly to a horse. Mournfully yet cautiously, since news of Baldwin’s death might incite the pagans, they carried him to the Holy City.
By chance, which is the will of God, on that same day when it is customary to bring palm branches from the Mount of Olives the body of King Baldwin met a procession descending toward Jehoshaphat. And the dead king was brought up in the midst of their singing. So, rather than songs of joy and triumph, groans of sorrow could be heard throughout the valley. Even those Saracens who observed the cortege were seen to weep.
All agreed that since the body had been kept a long while and was stinking it should be given a funeral at once. Now King Baldwin lies in Golgotha alongside his brother Godfrey. The tomb is said to be wondrously crafted of polished white marble.
A cousin to these men, Baldwin du Bourg, ascended the throne. He was not first choice among the barons. By repute he owed much to Count Joscelin of Edessa. Valorous enough, displaying a full beard yet little presence, of such piety that his knees grew callused from kneeling in prayer. Withal he had a tight fist, his virtue tarnished by cravings for silver. Such was Baldwin du Bourg.
His advocate Joscelin was caught by Turks in our year of grace 1122. Joscelin and his cousin Galeran went riding with a small force when they dropped into the arms of Balak. This occurred on the thirteenth of September amid showers of cold rain. Frankish horses floundered in mud, hence the Turks rounded them up without difficulty. Joscelin, Galeran, and sixty knights were captured. Ibn al-Athir tells how Balak wrapped a camel skin around Lord Joscelin and sewed it tight and carried him off to the fortress of Kharpurt. Nor would Balak exchange him for ransom, demanding instead the city of Edessa.
King Baldwin du Bourg rode north in April of the following year to see how Count Joscelin might be liberated. Knights from Edessa guided him to a muddy field near the Euphrates, that same field where Joscelin was trapped. With little thought the king encamped. Next morning he resolved to enjoy some falconry, which art he had learned from Eastern nobles. But all unexpected, once again, here came Balak. Turks say the king of Jerusalem flung down his sword. Perhaps. However it came about, Baldwin du Bourg soon enough joined Count Joscelin in the wretched dungeon of Kharpurt. There they loitered miserably, bound with shackles, hidden from every light save that provided by our Lord.
Anon the count of Edessa contrived a plan to escape. Through promised rewards he got in touch with Armenian peasants and some time later here came fifty Christian Armenians disguised as pedlars with goods to sell, or disguised as monks or beggars, all carrying knives hidden in their clothes. One by one they drifted through outer gates of the citadel, day by day making themselves familiar to guards until they did not seem suspicious. One day while the officer in charge was playing chess they approached to complain about some pretended insult. And as they got close they stabbed him and took spears that had been left unattended and began killing other guards. More Turks rushed up but were likewise slaughtered. Now the captives were freed. Some, hobbled by chains, nevertheless climbed ladders and hoisted a Christian standard to the summit of the cita
del.
Fulcher de Chartres relates that Balak in a vision beheld Lord Joscelin tear out his eyes, so he asked his priests to interpret. Truly, they answered, this will happen, or something equally bad, should you fall into his hands. Balak at once despatched men to kill Joscelin, but they arrived too late. What is this if not proof that our Lord contemplates and protects His subjects?
Soon enough every door to the citadel was shut, bolts shot into place, carts rolled against the gates.
During the night, after commending his soul to God, Joscelin crept out followed by three servants and with the aid of divine intercession succeeded in passing through the Turks. Once beyond the walls he entrusted his ring to a servant. Go to the king, said he, with this proof that I have escaped.
Joscelin traveled by night to avoid being seen and got to the Euphrates but did not understand how to swim. Discouraged, weary, he consulted his servants. They had two goatskins of wine so these were emptied, blown full of air, and affixed to him with rope. Thus, helped by lackeys experienced at swimming, he crossed the Euphrates. Now, feeling exhausted, he lay down beneath a nut tree and pulled brambles over himself and told a servant to look for something they might eat. By God’s grace this servant met a peasant carrying dried figs and clusters of grapes. The servant approached cautiously, fearing betrayal. We are told by Odericus Vitalis that the peasant was a Saracen who in his youth had been Count Joscelin’s vassal. Whatever the truth, when they got to the river bank where Joscelin was resting the peasant hailed him by name and dropped at his feet. Joscelin said he had escaped from the castle of Balak in Mesopotamia and was a fugitive, a wanderer about to perish. If you help me so I do not fall into the hands of Balak, he said, you may spend the rest of your days with me at Turbessel. Let me know the value of your house and I will give you a better house.
The peasant replied that he asked nothing but would guide Count Joscelin to safety. Then he went away. After some time he came back with a donkey, two oxen, a pig, his wife, infant daughter, and two brothers. Joscelin who customarily rode a splendid mule got on the donkey and the child was given him to hold. Thus they continued the journey. It is said that Joscelin grew distraught when the infant screamed or cried and thought of abandoning this company, thinking it might be safer to proceed alone, but he did not want to offend the peasant. At length they got to his castle and he gave the peasant two yokes of oxen.
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