These travelers may well have come upon enslaved Christians shackled in mournful groups, backs scourged, shoulders flayed, buttocks goaded, feet ulcerated, hopelessly bringing rock to masons fortifying the ramparts of Jerusalem. So much was reported by later pilgrims.
Geoffrey de Vinsauf marched to the Holy City with Ralph Teissun. He declares that when they got near enough to see Mount Olivet they knelt, giving humble thanks to God. Those with horses rode on ahead, says he, to gratify their desire as soon as possible, while we ourselves proceeded to Mount Calvary. We saw the stone in which the cross of our Lord was fixed and reverently kissed it. We proceeded to the church built on Mount Sion, from the left side of which Blessed Mary passed out of this world. We hastened to see the table at which Jesus condescended to eat bread and we fervently kissed the table. After this we left because Turks had strangled three pilgrims who wandered into the crypts. Uneasily we entered the vaulted room in which our Lord was held during the night preceding crucifixion. Our cheeks grew wet with tears. We departed on account of the Turks, grieving at how they used holy places for stables, and made our way to Acre.
Hubert Walter, bishop of Salisbury, led those other pilgrims who would complete the splendid journey. Saladin met him with honor and invited him to lodge at the palace but he refused, saying he was but one of many. Saladin gave him presents, after which they sat and talked a long while. Saladin inquired about Richard, what sort of man he was. Concerning my lord, said Bishop Hubert, he has no equal. In all things he is distinguished above every knight in the world. Were you and he taken together, bating your majesty’s disbelief, no other two men on earth might compare. To these words Saladin listened courteously. Then he answered. I have long known how your king is honorable and brave, yet he is not prudent, often exposing himself to danger. For myself, I should sooner live reasonably and wisely than submit to immoderate zeal.
Saladin told Bishop Hubert to ask for whatever he wished and it would be given him. The bishop considered overnight. Next day he answered that because divine services were performed at the tomb of our Lord in the barbaric Syrian style, if it should please the sultan to grant his request, he would ask that two Latin priests with two deacons be retained. The same should hold true at Bethlehem and Nazareth, hence Christian rites might be conducted according to both traditions. Saladin assented with characteristic grace.
Under the sultan’s license Bishop Hubert led his flock unmolested from Jerusalem to Acre. Having completed the pilgrimage they embarked for Europe but contrary winds drove them ruinously back and forth until great numbers ascended to heaven. Out of love for God and nothing else did they expose their weak flesh to suffering and martyrdom. Who can doubt that their souls found peace in the everlasting embrace of Jesus? Thus we see how the Savior cares for His children.
Be it said that pilgrims long ago met with precarious conditions and a multiplicity of dues. In our year of providence 870 the monk Bernard was imprisoned because he would not pay tax at the gate to Cairo, no matter that he displayed a pass issued by Saracens at Bari. Caliph Hakim ordered Christians to wear about their necks a copper cross ten pounds in weight. Jews should wear the wooden head of a calf. So it is clear how Saladin stood above previous monarchs.
On the ninth day of October, 1192, which is to say almost one hundred years since Peter the hermit called upon Christians to rescue the Holy Land, King Richard departed. However, before embarking he undertook to ransom William de Préaux who had cried out in Saracenic that he himself was Melech, saving Richard from captivity. Turks demanded ten of their nobles in exchange for William. King Richard gladly agreed.
And before embarking he counseled his nephew Henry, who was at times arrogant, to maintain good relations with Saladin. Soon enough Henry would join the celestial host. They say he called up sergeants and crossbowmen for the relief of Joppa and was leaning on a balcony rail to gaze down at them in the palace courtyard when the rail collapsed. More than once he had asked that the rail be fixed. Now he pitched headfirst to the cobbles. His dwarf Scarlet clutched at his leg, went tumbling after him and landed atop him, a bad day for the Holy Land since Henry was accounted wise and puissant, a young man of excellent character. Much benefit might have accrued had he not perished.
All night Richard’s vessel sailed by the stars and next morning at dawn he looked back thoughtfully. He was heard to pray aloud. O Holy Land, in God’s keeping I leave you. May He in His mercy grant me days enough to return with all the succor that is in my heart.
After which he bade his crew hoist sail and cross the sea with timely speed.
But the Lord grew wroth that King Richard elected to return while Jerusalem lay in shackles. He commanded a boiling tempest that scattered and destroyed Richard’s fleet. Now who is able to count the dangers met at sea? Does the anchor break loose? A sail-yard? Does the stern crack, fall asunder? Cables part? At night when clouds lock up the stars who shall steer a course? Or the vessel may grind against a rock. Not least that malaise which causes men to vomit, when the Body of Christ shall end up as bilge. Nevertheless we should not forget the Apostle Paul whose mariners let down a plummet to sound the depth and called it twenty fathoms. But a little further they cried out fifteen fathoms. Yet beside Paul stood the angel of God and they escaped to land. So did Richard, six weeks storm tossed, during which he sailed against his wish toward Barbary, at last make port on the island of Corfu. Knowing full well the courage of pirates he employed two pirate vessels with beaked prows to carry him north and he disguised as a Templar knight. With him went Philip his clerk, Anselm who was chaplain, Lord Baldwin de Betun, and several Templars from whose lips the wretched story was learned.
When they had come to Zara he despatched a servant to the nearest castle, requesting of its lord safe passage. While in the Holy Land, mayhap at Joppa, he had bought three rubies at a cost of nine hundred bezants. One ruby he set into a gold ring. And this he offered as a gift. Now the servant, being asked for whom safe conduct was requested, answered that it was for pilgrims back from Jerusalem. The lord of the castle asked their names. One is called Baldwin de Betun, the servant replied. The other, who sends you this gift, is Hugh the merchant.
For a long time the castle lord did not speak. Nay, said he at last while fondling the ring. Nay, that is not Hugh the merchant. That is Richard of England.
Then he said he had vowed to take captive all pilgrims returning from Jerusalem. Yet by virtue of the nobility of this ring would he send it back to its owner with leave to proceed.
King Richard suspected betrayal. That night his men equipped the horses. Stealthily they rode away from Zara. But the castle lord had sent ahead to his brother, bidding him seize Hugh the merchant. The lord of that territory called for Roger d’Argenton who was a spy, a Norman by birth, and directed him to visit hostels where pilgrims lodged to unmask the king. By much routing and inquiring the spy found him. Now since he was himself Norman through ancestry he bade King Richard leave at once and provided a swift horse. Afterward, returning to his lord, Roger d’Argenton claimed such talk of King Richard passing through was falsehood. These pilgrims, said he, were Baldwin de Betun with several comrades. But the lord of this territory would not have it and gave orders for all to be arrested.
Three days and nights Richard traveled, accompanied only by some youth who could speak German and a certain William di Stagno about whom old documents reveal nothing. At length, pressed by hunger and weariness, they entered a village near the Danube in Austria. The German youth they sent to market but he flourished more bezants than he should and behaved with overmuch conceit, and being asked who he was, claimed to be employed by a very rich merchant. So he was looked at with suspicion. When he once more went to market he imprudently tucked Richard’s gloves beneath his belt to swagger about and show his worth. The magistrates seized him, tortured him, and threatened to cut out his tongue unless he confessed where the king was hiding.
Archduke Leopold, being apprised, felt overcome with joy since at the
conquest of Acre he was humiliated when Richard threw his banner in a cesspool and heard himself mocked by Norman jesters. Thus did he send people to take the haughty king. Richard, with no better idea what to do, slung a cloak about his shoulders, rushed to the kitchen of the hostel where he stayed and sat himself down to turn chickens on a spit. Even so, a king has not the demeanor of a cook. Leopold took him and imprisoned him, charged with murdering Conrad de Montferrat. He languished first at Dürnstein castle, later at Trifels, because Leopold and Emperor Henry VI both were relatives of Conrad. Tedious months he whiled away composing ballads and singing, the legacy of his grandfather Duke William of Aquitaine who was renowned as a troubadour.
Now the jongleur Blondel le Nesle had been much favored by Richard. At court they composed and sang together, for the king had a passing sweet voice. Blondel therefore took upon himself to go about strange lands until someone in a familiar way might speak of the king’s presence. Accordingly he set out, singing as he journeyed. Not for two years did he catch the least tiding, not until he went into Germany to the castle where his sovereign was held. He found lodging nearby with an old woman and when he asked who might own such a fine castle she told him it belonged to the duke of Austria. Is there any prisoner? he asked.
Certes, the old woman answered. Yea, these four years past, albeit we know not who he is. They do guard him well. We think he must be some august lord.
Then it seemed to Blondel in his heart that he had found what he sought and he was joyous. He lay down to sleep until the watchman’s horn, next to church and prayed to God for help. Then to the castle like any jongleur to make friends of the castellan, a merry young knight who bade him stay. So he went and fetched his viol and other instruments to serve the household. There he lived all winter but could not find out who the prisoner was. But one day in spring while he wandered through the garden adjoining the keep he thought of a song he and Richard had composed. He began to sing, loud and clear. Presently he heard from within a gloomy turret the voice of King Richard singing.
Now back to his chamber, took his viol and played a strain, rejoicing because he had found his lord. With the castellan he stayed until Pentecost, then declared he would go to his own country from which he was long absent.
Ah, Blondel, I do entreat thee! the castellan protested. Stay awhile! Abide with us!
But he would not. Seeing how it was, the castellan gave him his discharge, a new robe, and a sumpter horse. Many a day Blondel traveled until he got to England. There he told the barons he had found King Richard. They took counsel, debating who should go to beard the duke and redeem their king. Two wise and valiant knights were chosen.
Anon they greeted the duke. We have come on behalf of England’s barons, said they. We have heard you hold King Richard prisoner. We beseech and pray you to accept ransom, so much as seems to you right and honorable.
Do you wish him, said Leopold, he will cost you two hundred thousand marks sterling. And speak no further, lest your journey be wasted.
The emissaries took their leave and when they got back to England the barons considered. Because they did not want Richard kept in bondage they went about collecting what Leopold wanted. And so the king returned. Still, on his account the realm was grievously impoverished. For a long time after Richard got his liberty, according to the narrative of Reims, mass was said with chalices made from wood or pewter because churches gave up jeweled chalices to help.
He was called an impetuous, violent lord. I am born of a rank that admits no superior save God, said he to Emperor Henry. Would any that knew him gainsay it? While oversea he put up gallows. Young or old, man or woman, native or stranger, no plea availed. Malefactors danced a desperate jig on air. So he was the Lion that let no mischief creep out of sight as King Philip was the Lamb that winked at wrongdoing. Once, from a rocky crag near Andelys, Richard flung three bound prisoners to horrible death. The castellan of Saint Michel, told of his return, dropped dead of fright. Yet here was a monarch eagerly served, as happens with imperious men. Troops winced beneath his fury and would hack their way through mountains or march to the Pillars of Hercules in blood if he should lower one eyebrow. At Messina he summoned the bishops and archbishops to the chapel of Reginald de Moyac, prostrated himself naked at their feet, conceded the foulness of his life and beseeched mercy. From these apprehensive clerics he received penance. Did the Lord God hear? According to Roger of Howden, thorns of lust had grown above Richard’s head, nor was there any hand to root them up.
Are not the conceits and turns of men beyond compare? This chauncy lord sent back to England a Cocodrillus, an evil quadruped flourishing in rivers of the East that like a duck or goose lays eggs not in water but on land. It sports a jagged tail, weak claws, and has a stiff neck so it cannot look behind. No tongue does it have, but three rows of teeth and spiteful red eyes. When prepared to eat some animal or person who approaches the stream it opens wide its mouth to roar. The Cocodrillus that Richard consigned to England escaped its warden and vanished up the river Thames, so we are told. A marvelous queer tale.
Richard surrendered his soul to God not in combat with a Saracen host but through arrogance and sloth. At Chalus castle a peasant tilling the field unearthed a hoard of gold coins with a Roman shield from centuries past and Richard being overlord of Aquitaine would have it. The petty lord would not let go. Then came Richard Lionheart to subdue and punish such insolence. Now as he went riding back and forth to inspect Chalus castle, bereft of armor except shield and helmet because the day was hot, a bolt from an arbalest struck him at the bend of the right shoulder. Physicians drew out the iron and when they had searched the wound they said he need have no concern if he looked to himself. They cautioned him to rest, to eat little.
Once the castle had been taken every defender was hanged save Bertran de Gourdon who drew the mortal shot. Being hailed before the stricken king this vassal spoke defiantly. You slew my father and you have slain my two brothers. I will endure such torment as you devise.
Richard pardoned this upstart and gave him a handful of shillings on account of the wondrous shot. They say that Bertran, as he cocked the bow, shielded himself from English archers with a frying pan. Concerning the truth of that, I have no knowledge.
Richard ignored the wisdom of his leeches. He ate or drank as usual and lay with women. From the meritorious Consolation of Philosophy we learn that he is not master of himself who binds himself with shackles of lust. Accordingly the wound commenced to wax and burn. And now his mother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, hurried to his bedside and held him in her arms. Thus it came about in the year of our gracious Lord 1199, less than seven years after quitting the Holy Land, Richard Lionheart gave up the ghost. His body they laid in Fontevrault Abbey next to the body of his father. His heart they buried in the cathedral at Rouen. His entrails lie buried at Charroux in Poitou.
As for his love, Queen Berengaria, why she did not hasten to visit while he lay dying, God knows. Long afterward, having taken the veil, she herself expired in the abbey of L’Espan.
Through the lawful covenant of things Saladin preceded King Richard in death. Beha al-Din, who understood him well, found him one day seated on a bench in the palace garden, his young children playing nearby. Saladin asked if there might be visitors outside expecting an audience. And being told of Frankish envoys, he ordered them admitted. But at sight of these foreigners with cropped hair and unfamiliar clothes one of his children began to cry. Saladin promptly dismissed the Franks, not waiting to hear what they wished to say. Next, writes Beha al-Din, he turned to me in his courteous fashion and inquired if I would eat, gesturing toward the food. As for Saladin himself, attendants brought milk-rice but he ate little, without pleasure, like one absorbed in a dream.
Bilious fever seized him. Day by day he weakened, complained of a bad memory and lassitude. On the fourth day his physicians drew blood, but the humors of his body were failing. On the sixth day Beha al-Din helped to lift him and place him on a chair with a cushi
on at his back. He was given some emollient to drink followed by a cup of warm water. He thought the water too hot so they prepared another, which he thought too cold. Great God, he said, does no one understand how to fix warm water? Yet he did not throw his cup at the slave who brought it.
At news of his illness the people of Damascus became alarmed. Merchants hid their property, not knowing what to expect when he should die.
On the ninth day he was unable to swallow. On the tenth day his limbs perspired copiously, seeping through mats. Twice the physicians administered enema, which seemed to relieve him and he sipped barley water. This news caused rejoicing. But when the physicians touched his body and felt it parched, withered, they gave up hope. The violence of his thirst surpassed belief. Now and again he would lose his wits. Sheikh Abu Jiafer, who remained at his bedside reading from the Koran, read aloud this passage.
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