It is perhaps impossible to gauge the precise extent to which Richard regarded the crusade as an expression of Christian devotion, but there were other forces that would have made it almost inconceivable for him to ignore the pope’s call to arms. At a number of levels, the Lionheart’s behaviour may have been informed, or even conditioned, by societal pressures and expectations. In the course of the twelfth century it became customary for Western European kings to participate in crusades, providing leadership, financial resources and manpower. The standard was set, in 1147, when both Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany embarked on the ill-fated Second Crusade, hoping to defend the Holy Land. By the 1180s, Latin monarchs were all but obliged, as part of their sacred duty as God’s anointed rulers on Earth, to lend their support to the cause of the holy war. Once Richard became King of England, this responsibility settled upon his shoulders. This in itself might have been enough to force his hand, but he also was living through the period in which the ideals of chivalry were beginning to exert a palpable, even prevailing, influence over the conduct of Western Europe’s ruling nobility.
To speak of chivalry as a formal code of practice in the 1180s would be misleading. It was still evolving as an idea and, as yet, lacked strict or universal parameters. Even so, there was already a widely held sense that the behaviour of the knightly warrior class ought to be controlled – conditioned by a range of mutually accepted expectations – and that the greatest knights deserved to be lauded within aristocratic society as the ‘best of men’, or what contemporaries would have called preudhommes. Martial prowess, bravery and loyalty were all revered as qualities, and the leaders of knights, be they lords or kings, were also expected to display a significant degree of generosity, or largesse, to their followers. The public display of these virtues could earn an individual honour and renown, but equally transgression – whether in the form of cowardice, defeat or infidelity – would bring shame and social reprobation.
The deepening obsession with chivalric virtue coloured contemporary aristocratic culture by the time Richard I ascended the throne, and the pursuit of honour and renown seem to have featured heavily in his own thinking about the Third Crusade. Clergymen may have promoted this holy war as a pathway to spiritual redemption, but within lay society it was also popularized as a glorious endeavour that could earn participants unparalleled fame – an expedition, akin to the greatest tournament on Earth, in which warriors could prove their worth against Saladin and his Muslim horde. Failure to participate in such a monumental venture would be the cause of shame. Around this time, one of Richard’s contemporaries – the French knight and Third Crusader Conon of Béthune – composed an Old French verse avowing these sentiments. ‘Now we will see who will be truly brave,’ he wrote, ‘[and] if we permit our mortal enemies to stay [in the Holy Land] our lives will be shameful for evermore.’ Conon also declared that any who are ‘healthy, young and rich cannot remain behind without suffering shame’. As enthusiasm for the war swept across Western Europe, men who did not join the crusade were exposed to accusations of cowardice and publicly humiliated by receiving gifts of ‘wool and distaff’ (the tools for spinning), to intimate that they were fit only for women’s work – the medieval equivalent of the white feather.6
Richard himself was not immune to this type of vocal criticism. At first he was praised for the speed with which he committed to the crusade. In 1188, the southern French knight and troubadour Bertrand of Born penned a verse declaring that Richard, ‘the one who is count and duke and will be king, has stepped forward, which doubles his renown, for he loves renown more than anyone of the two religions, the Christians and the unbaptized’. But a year and a half later, when the departure of the main Angevin and Capetian armies on crusade continued to be delayed by protracted succession disputes and bitter wrangling between the Lionheart and Philip Augustus, Bertrand’s tone soured markedly. ‘I know of two kings who hold back,’ he declared. ‘King Philip is one, because he fears King Richard, who in turn fears him. Would they were both now in Sir Saladin’s chains, for they are cheating God: they have taken the cross and do nothing about leaving.’7
The devotional allure of the holy war, when combined with Richard’s own crusading pedigree, and the compelling forces of social expectation and chivalric obligation, meant that the Lionheart’s participation in the Third Crusade was essentially unavoidable. It would have been unthinkable for him to turn his back on the war in Palestine once he became king. Nevertheless, the depth of his commitment to the cause – the steadfast pursuit of the Holy Land’s recovery – was not a given. His rival and contemporary, King Philip of France, also felt the inescapable pull of the crusade. Like Richard, Philip led an army to the Near East, arriving at the great siege of Acre in April 1191. But his approach to the conflict was more limited and pragmatic. Once Acre was reconquered in early July, Philip immediately announced his intention to return to Europe. He had achieved a degree of success in the Levant, but the more pressing business of defending and expanding the interests of the Capetian realm in France demanded his attention. Many contemporaries considered this a betrayal, with one crusader later pointedly writing: ‘God’s mercy! What a turnaround!’8 Yet, at one level, Philip was merely prioritizing his role as a monarch above that of a crusader – putting the needs of his kingdom first. Arguably, Richard could have followed this lead.
At the other end of the spectrum, however, were kings whose staunch dedication to the crusading cause was near-absolute. Somewhat ironically, the prime example in this case was Philip Augustus’s own grandson, King Louis IX of France. He fought on two crusades in the mid thirteenth century: the first saw him absent himself from Europe for close to six years, and precipitated a period of significant instability in France; the second culminated in his death in north Africa. Louis IX may eventually have been canonized as a saint in recognition of his devotion to the holy war, but there can be little doubt that, in pursuit of victory in the East, he neglected his duties at home.
Richard I’s behaviour placed him somewhere between these two extremes. Though he never truly turned his back on the kingdom of England, or the Angevin realm as a whole, he was clearly captivated by the prospect of leading the Third Crusade on to a successful conclusion, and thus proved willing to dedicate the early years of his reign to this cause. His motives may well have had more to do with the secular rewards of this endeavour than any supposed spiritual benefits. This is not to suggest that he sought wealth or territory in the Levant, but rather that he craved the unprecedented fame and glory offered by the holy war. A fundamental feature of Richard’s life that shaped much of his behaviour is that he thought of himself not only as a nobleman, duke or king, but also as a knight. This meant that he aspired to achieve greatness both as a monarch, ruling over a powerful realm, and as a chivalric warrior earning renown in battle. And the Lionheart’s ambitions were not confined to his English realm, or even to the broader territories of the Angevin empire: his sights were set on the wider world and the international arena.
All of this begs the question: did Richard carelessly exploit England’s resources in pursuit of crusading victory? In fact, his actions during the first year of his reign suggest that two interlocking objectives were prioritized: gathering the financial means with which to fund the holy war; but also ensuring the kingdom’s security in his absence. Though new to the throne, the Lionheart already had some experience of war and clearly understood that military campaigns were not won through bravery and prowess alone. In the Middle Ages, as in any era, successful armies needed resources – from weapons and armour to horses, ships and above all food. These essentials cost money, and the sheer scale of the coming expedition meant that it would be more expensive than most.
From the moment he came to power, Richard set his sights on amassing the largest possible war chest. Some significant progress had already been made in this regard by his father. In 1188, Henry II had instituted the so-called Saladin Tithe – a levy of 10 per cent on all
movable goods, enforced by threat of excommunication – and though this tax proved hugely unpopular, it nevertheless brought in the vast sum of 100,000 marks. Collections continued under the new king, but Richard also looked to broaden and intensify the crown’s money-raising efforts by auctioning off lands, titles and privileges. According to one eyewitness, in England ‘he put up for sale all he had – offices, lordships, earldoms, sheriffdoms, castles, towns, everything’. Indeed, the Lionheart was supposed to have joked that he would have sold London if he could.9
In reality, Richard’s approach does not seem to have been quite so reckless. It was the case, for example, that he replaced all but five of the twenty-seven sheriffs in post in England at the end of Henry II’s reign, with each new sheriff having to pay the crown a handsome ‘fine’ in return for this valuable honour. But recent research has concluded that these appointments were made with ‘prudence and foresight’, as candidates were carefully vetted for their prospective administrative efficiency and loyalty to the king.10 The measures adopted by Richard at the start of his reign also helped to shape English history by setting many of the realm’s most important urban settlements on the path to prosperity. On 18 November 1189, the burgesses of Northampton were granted a measure of self-governance and freedom from tolls in exchange for the payment of £120, while a few weeks later the members of the merchant guild in the cathedral city of Bath purchased the right to hold their own markets.
All told, Richard’s efforts to increase royal revenue proved remarkably successful. In the first accounting year of the Lionheart’s reign, the crown amassed more than £31,000 – double the income recorded from the preceding twelve months. This reservoir of wealth enabled Richard to dominate and direct the Third Crusade, in part because his financial resources far surpassed those possessed by Philip of France. The Lionheart also spent around £14,000 preparing for the expedition: readying transport and shipping; stockpiling essential supplies. This included the purchase of at least 60,000 horseshoes and some 14,000 cured pigs’ carcasses.
Through all of these measures, however, Richard did not go so far as to strip England of its resources and defences; nor could his approach to the governance of the realm be fairly described as negligent. In fact, he was at pains to prepare the kingdom for the prolonged period of royal absence demanded by the crusade and introduced a series of measures designed to preserve stability and security. There can be no doubt that, although the Lionheart craved victory in the East, he was also determined to return home to a realm that remained intact.
One of Richard’s first priorities was to ensure that he retained the support of a well-ordered Church in England. A critical step in this regard was resolving the feud between Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Benedictine monks of Canterbury’s cathedral priory. This heated dispute had long sapped the energy and attention of the kingdom’s leading churchmen, but by taking a personal role in negotiations, Richard deftly orchestrated a swift reconciliation in the autumn of 1189. He also moved to fill a range of prominent ecclesiastical offices left vacant by his father – including the sees of London, Winchester and Worcester – thus helping to ensure the Church’s efficient governance and its continued loyalty to the crown.
Ecclesiastical affairs also impacted upon another obvious area of concern: the potential for disloyalty by members of Richard’s family during his absence. The ambitions of Henry II’s bastard son Geoffrey were duly quietened by his appointment as Archbishop of York. However, the question of the Lionheart’s younger brother, John, was not so readily resolved. Now in his early twenties, John had acquired a well-earned reputation for duplicity and possessed few redeeming qualities in terms of character or capability. Having lived the life of the youngest son – a landless and stunted princeling, ever in the shadow of his greater forebears – John made for an unreliable ally and would become an open threat. Where their father, Henry II, had sought to keep John in check by depriving him of lands and wealth, Richard opted to feed his sibling’s appetite for power until it was sated. John’s rights to the county of Mortain in Normandy were confirmed, and he also received lands in west and south-west England, as well as control of the major crown fortress at Marlborough. In England alone, he stood to receive an annual income of £4,000, but in return he was required to swear an oath that he would remain on the continent and not set foot in the kingdom for three years – a sure sign that Richard harboured deep misgivings about his brother’s fidelity.
To counter any threat to his position and the crown’s authority during his absence, Richard also instituted an innovative and largely effective system of administration. It was customary for kings of England to deputize a representative, or justiciar, to wield power in their stead when outside the realm. Richard appointed his Norman-born chancellor, William Longchamp, to this office (while also making him Bishop of Ely, guardian of the Tower of London and keeper of the royal seal), but to ensure that the fate of the realm did not lie in the hands of just one man, four so-called ‘co-justiciars’ were selected – trusted nobles, tasked with supervising the management of the kingdom. In addition, Richard looked to rely upon the sage counsel and steadying hand offered by his mother, Queen Eleanor, who would oversee affairs of state in England and the wider Angevin world for the duration of the Third Crusade. At the same time, he planned to maintain a channel of communication with his European domains through the regular exchange of letters.
Richard also looked to shore up the defences of England’s borders in advance of his departure to the Levant. To the north, peace was secured with William the Lion, King of Scotland, by the restoration of a number of frontier castles previously confiscated by Henry II. In the west, along the Welsh march, the Lionheart installed the formidable knight William Marshal – a warrior of proven quality, with a record of staunch loyalty to the crown – as lord of Chepstow Castle. Marshal was also to serve as one of the four co-justiciars. But as ever, the thorniest issue, eclipsing even the danger presented by John, was the looming threat posed by Richard’s neighbour and rival, Philip of France. Richard could be sure that, were he to make a hurried departure for the East, the Capetian monarch would seek to capitalize upon his absence, making mischief at every turn and threatening to seize contested territory in regions such as Normandy and Berry. The only solution was to orchestrate a simultaneous departure. After a succession of planning meetings held on 30 December 1189 and on 16 March and 2 July 1190, all of the complex preparations were finalized. At last, on 4 July 1190 – the third anniversary of the terrible disaster at Hattin – the main Angevin and Capetian armies set out from Vézelay to wage the Third Crusade.
On the whole, Richard’s precautions proved to be broadly effective, but problems arose with his choice for the office of chief justiciar, William Longchamp. Though unquestionably loyal to the king, Longchamp’s brusque and overbearing manner soon alienated much of the remaining English court. By late 1190, the group of co-justiciars had seen fit to despatch a letter complaining about Longchamp’s conduct, and this duly reached the Lionheart in February 1191 on the island of Sicily, where he was waiting for the sea lanes to open with the end of winter. Richard responded by sending the trusted prelate Archbishop Walter of Rouen back to England with a pair of royal writs authorizing him to depose Longchamp should the need arise. The embattled justiciar remained in post until October 1191, but was eventually stripped of his powers and fled into exile in Flanders. According to one particularly lurid account of these events, Longchamp tried to evade imprisonment by disguising himself as a woman, but this scheme supposedly misfired when, while waiting for a ship on the coast near Dover, he was accosted by an amorous fisherman and ended up being chased down the beach.11
At the same time, John sought to capitalize upon his brother’s absence on crusade. The promise not to visit England was broken in 1191, as John pressed his claims to be recognized as Richard’s formally designated heir and led the calls for Longchamp’s deposition. By that autumn, his role as ‘supreme governor of
the realm’ – in essence the regent – had been acknowledged by England’s leading nobles, and he was also permitted to assume control of a clutch of royal castles.12 But John’s independence was still curtailed by Queen Eleanor and Archbishop Walter of Rouen, who had replaced Longchamp as chief justiciar. Once Philip had returned to Europe in December 1191, John seems to have considered the idea of forming a direct alliance with the Capetians, but he soon relented when Eleanor threatened to confiscate all of his English lands and strongholds if he crossed the Channel to meet the French king.
In fact, it was only after the end of the crusade and King Richard’s capture in Austria that the system of checks and balances began to crumble, leaving England and the wider Angevin territories exposed. On these grounds, it might be fairly concluded that Richard made the best of an intractable situation when seeking to balance his desire (and perhaps need) to prosecute a sustained crusading campaign in the Near East against the necessity of defending his kingdom at home. Even so, the Lionheart perhaps was guilty of one major failing when it came to ensuring the future security of the realm: the provision of an heir and successor.
The issue of royal succession weighed heavily upon the minds of most medieval monarchs. England’s tangled history through the course of the eleventh and twelfth centuries attested to the grave disorder that might result from the contested transfer of power. When Edward the Confessor died childless in 1066, he left the door open to the Norman Conquest, while the accidental drowning of Henry I’s only son in 1120 precipitated the dreadful anarchy of King Stephen’s reign. It seems to have been Henry II’s deep concern with the question of succession that prompted him to take the unusual step of crowning his eldest son, Young Henry, as co-ruler in 1170. On the face of it, Richard by contrast appeared to have an almost cavalier attitude to the essential question of who might succeed him as ruler of England and the broader Angevin realm. Even as he departed for the Holy Land, the matter lay open to debate, with the Lionheart seemingly poised between two potential candidates – his brother John, or his young nephew Arthur of Brittany (the son of Richard’s late brother Geoffrey).
Richard I Page 3