(1157-1199 A. D.)
There was once a prince of England who was married when only five years old. This youthful bridegroom was Richard, the son of Henry II. and Eleanor of Aquitaine; and his bride was a maiden of three, Alice, daughter of Louis VII. of France. The ceremony was a curious one, for of course such babies could not really take the marriage vows. But the parents of the small couple made the required vows in the name of their children, and solemnly promised that the little prince and princess should marry as soon as they were old enough. Though the children were too young to understand the meaning of the ceremony, it was considered as binding upon them as if they had been a man and a woman.
It seems strange for such babies to be married, but it was the custom in those days for kings to arrange marriages for the royal children in order to increase their own power and dominions, or for other reasons connected with the welfare of the country. Thus Henry II., by this marriage, obtained possession of lands in France, and the City of Gisors, given by Louis as a dower to Alice. The little girl and her lands were placed in the hands of Henry to be guarded for Richard until the boy should be old enough to claim his bride.
Doubtless the tiny bride of three and her little groom played together happily after their marriage, with little thought of the imposing ceremony; for it meant nothing to them then, though destined to have sad consequences for both in later years. But not for long were the married children together. Alice was taken to England, while Richard spent most of his early life in France. He was destined to be duke of his mother's French province of Aquitaine; and it was thought best that he should be educated in the country of which he would be ruler.
Richard was a sturdy, bold, and adventurous lad. He engaged in all the boyish sports of the day, and later in those chivalric pastimes that formed part of the training of a noble youth. He was taught every accomplishment deemed necessary for a knight,—to ride like a centaur, to cast a lance, to wield the sword, and to swing the battle-axe. He even learned to bend the great cross-bow, the weapon of the English peasant, and could send an arrow straight to the mark. These exercises were severe training for the young prince, but they developed the prodigious strength and skill in arms that later made him the greatest warrior of his age.
In addition to these knightly accomplishments, Richard learned to read and write,—not such common acquirements in those days as now. From his brilliantly educated mother the prince inherited a taste for literature, poetry, and music. It was an age of poetry, and poets were held in much honor, influencing men to great deeds by their stirring songs. Richard took great delight in the songs of the troubadours of Aquitaine and Anjou. Several of these poets, especially Blondel de Nesle, were his warm friends, and taught him the arts of verse-making and music, in which Richard acquired admirable skill.
In the rich land of Aquitaine, with its gay, pleasure-loving people, Richard was surrounded by luxury and splendor, but, alas! not by an atmosphere of peace or love. His mother was a frivolous woman, and his father, Henry, a violent-tempered, despotic, and wicked man. The two did not love each other, and when together quarreled continually in the most violent manner. So Richard and his brothers—Henry, Geoffrey, and John—passed their youth in an atmosphere of strife; and all that was violent and contentious in their natural dispositions was fostered by their home life and the bad example of their parents.
The princes quarreled among themselves, and as they grew older, naturally took part in the bitter disputes continually taking place between Henry and Eleanor. As Geoffrey once said, it was their inheritance not to love one another. The princes were all proud, headstrong, and selfwilled, and hence little disposed to obey their imperious father; and Henry, though in some ways weakly indulgent to his sons, was most autocratic in disposition. As his sons became young men, he gave them certain provinces in France to rule. But he would allow them no real power, and the proud young princes were determined not to submit to their father's authority, but to be rulers in fact as well as in name. So they rebelled against Henry time and again, and fierce wars took place between the father and his sons.
Their mother, Eleanor, encouraged the princes in their attitude of rebellion against Henry, for he had long treated her with great indignity. He neglected his wife for other fair ladies, and at last put her in prison, where she remained nearly sixteen years. This severe treatment of Eleanor served to enrage her sons and to alienate them still more from Henry; for they loved their mother dearly in spite of all her faults. So the strife continued in the royal family until two sons, Henry and Geoffrey, died while at enmity with their father. Then a reconciliation took place between the other members of the family; but it lasted only a short time.
Richard, who was then of age, wished to claim and really marry his child-bride, Alice; but Henry made excuse after excuse for not giving up Alice to his son, though he maintained that Richard was legally bound to her and could not marry any other woman.
It is said that the wicked old man had himself fallen in love with Alice, and intended to obtain a divorce from Eleanor and marry the young princess. Whether this be true or not, it is certain that Richard's demands to be given his bride, or else to be declared free to marry whom he pleased, were treated with contempt by the old king. Meanwhile the gallant and handsome young prince had met at the court of Navarre the Princess Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho, and had been much charmed by her beauty and grace; but the entanglement with Alice prevented a serious love affair.
At last Richard became weary of his absurd position,—supposed to be married and yet without a wife.
He appealed to the brother of Alice, Philip of France, who readily consented to aid him. The two demanded of Henry that he give up Alice to Richard, and also acknowledge him as heir to the English throne, for they feared that Henry purposed to leave that kingdom to John. During an interview between Henry and Richard, at which Philip was present, Richard demanded that his father recognize him, the elder son, as the future King of England. Henry made an evasive reply, whereupon, referring to the rumor that John would be heir to the English crown, Richard exclaimed passionately,—
"Then I am compelled to believe that which I before had believed impossible!" and ungirding his sword and handing it to Philip, he knelt to him and said,—
"To you, Sire, I commit the protection of my rights, and to you I now do homage for all my father's dominions in France!"
Philip accepted his homage, and gave to Richard all the cities taken from Henry. Naturally, that king was enraged when his son thus haughtily renounced allegiance to him, and war soon followed. Henry was defeated several times, and many of his barons left him to join the cause of Richard. Finally, the king was forced to make peace with his rebellious son on very hard conditions; and this mortified his kingly pride so sorely that he fell ill of grief and rage. During this sickness, he could think of nothing save his own defeat, and raved constantly, "Shame, shame on a conquered king!" When he learned that his best-beloved son, John, had been a party to Richard's rebellion, the blow was too severe for the old king's broken strength. He died of grief, cursing his rebellious sons with his last breath.
No sooner had the fierce but affectionate Richard heard of his father's death at Chinon than he was overcome with sorrow and remorse. He came to take leave of the king's body, but as he drew near the bier, blood gushed from the eyes and mouth of the dead man. Richard was horror-stricken, and rushed away, exclaiming,—
"I have murdered him; his blood accuses me!"
The repentant son caused the corpse to be buried with due ceremony at Fontevraud, the ancient burial-place of the Norman kings, and he showed many signs of penitence for his unfilial conduct.
As soon as the unhappy old king had been laid away, Richard's thoughts turned to his mother, Eleanor, who had been for many years a state prisoner in Winchester Castle. Sending at once to England, he ordered that the queen be released, and appointed regent of the kingdom. Indeed, Richard was always a tender and dutiful son to his mother, who calls him, "My brave, my generous, my high-minded, my all-worthy son, Richard." If he were not a good son to his father also, it is some excuse that Henry was a most unpleasant, tyrannical man, whose treatment of his wife and children was not such as to beget love and dutiful conduct.
After tarrying some months in France, attending to matters in his provinces of Anjou, Poitou, Normandy, and Aquitaine, Richard crossed over to England. There he was received most joyfully by his new subjects.
In Westminster Abbey, on Sept. 3, 1189, his coronation took place with great splendor. It is the first coronation ceremony of an English king fully described by eye-witnesses.
The Archbishop of Canterbury and other bishops, richly robed, and carrying the cross, holy water, and censers, led the stately procession that escorted the king from his palace to the Abbey. After these dignitaries of the Church, came four barons in court dress, bearing each a golden candlestick; then four earls, carrying the king's cup, the golden spurs, the scepter of state, and the royal rod of majesty—a mace adorned with a golden dove. Four great earls walked next, brandishing aloft their glittering swords; and behind these noblemen marched six more, as bearers of the royal robes and regalia. William, Earl of Essex, proudly carried the gold and jeweled crown immediately before Richard himself, who walked beneath a magnificent canopy of state, upheld by richly clad nobles.
Before the brilliant assemblage of lords Richard took the solemn oath to be a just and righteous ruler. Then after the archbishop had anointed him with holy oil, shoes of golden tissue were put on the king's feet, the golden spurs were buckled on, and he was clad in the vestments of royalty and led to the high altar. There he promised to be faithful to his kingly oath, and was crowned with the royal diadem and given the scepter and rod of office.
So Richard Plantagenet became King of England. No one beholding the proud bearing of the new monarch would have supposed that his family emblem, the lowly broom-plant (Planta genista), from which came the name Plantagenet, had been adopted by an ancestor of Richard's in token of humility. For, in very truth, the Plantagenets were an arrogant race, and Richard was the proudest of his line.
As he strode down the aisle of Westminster in all the glittering and jeweled splendor of his coronation robes, Richard's appearance was truly royal. He looked every inch a king. The people gazed with delight on his tall, powerful frame, graceful and strong as that of Mars himself; on his proudly poised head, whose red-gold curls waved beneath the jeweled crown; on the fair, haughty face with its square, determined jaw, aquiline nose, full, proud lips, and fierce, restless blue eyes. Heartily the multitude admired Richard's manly beauty, his lordly air; and with a right good-will they shouted joyously: "Long live the king! Long live our Richard Lionheart!"
Before his accession to the throne, Richard had determined to go as a Crusader to the rescue of the Holy Land. From his mother, who had herself taken part in the Second Crusade, he had heard many stories of the East,—that land of wonders and marvelous adventures. Richard was by nature a rover, a warrior, a knight-errant. So it seemed to him a most delightful prospect to travel, to see strange lands and peoples, to fight in a holy war; and thus to indulge his own love of adventure and of battle while advancing the glory of God. Nay, to do him justice, Richard was religious too, in the strange fierce fashion of those days,—days when one could be pious without being good; when the warrior prayed and fought with equal zeal, deeming both acts of equal merit in the sight of heaven; when the Christian believed the slaughter of infidels well-pleasing to God; when the knight of the Cross was confident that Christ pardoned all sins to the warrior who did battle for His Holy Sepulchre. So Richard, though far from pious or exemplary in his daily life, was moved by a genuine and fervent desire to deliver Jerusalem from the infidels, into whose hands it had fallen again after its conquest by Godfrey de Bouillon.
When all the tedious and costly preparations necessary for the Crusade had been completed, Richard sent his fleet around by the Strait of Gibraltar. He himself crossed over to France with the troops, intending to march through that country to meet his ships at Marseilles, and there to embark for Palestine.
At Vézelai, Richard met Philip of France, who had agreed to join him in the Crusade. The two kings and their great armies marched together for some distance, but finally separated, and proceeded southward by different routes,—the French to Genoa, the English to Marseilles.
When Richard reached that seaport, he was much disappointed to find that the fleet had not arrived. Leaving the main body of troops there to await the arrival of the vessels, he procured a ship, and proceeded on his way by sea, sailing along the coast of France and Italy. He stopped at many cities, and sometimes traveled on land with only a few attendants, like a simple knight-errant.
When he reached the Gulf of Salernum, Richard was joined by his fleet, and sailed toward Messina, a coast town of Sicily, where he was to meet Philip. On approaching the city, Richard ordered every trumpet to be sounded. The people, rushing to the walls, beheld with surprise the great fleet of England, manned by thousands of steel-clad warriors, and flying the red cross of Saint George, the lion-emblazoned banner of Richard, and hundreds of gay baronial flags. The arrival is thus described:—
"O Holy Mary, no man ever saw
Such galleys, such dromonds, such transports before;
Rowing on, rowing on, across the deep sea,
Rowing on, rowing on to fair Sicily!
"What pennons and banners from the top of the spears
To the fair winds are streaming all graceful and proud;
What a great host of warriors, whose breasts know no fears
Pace the decks, whilst the oarsmen are chanting aloud—
Row on, lads, row on, lads, across the deep sea;
Crowd the sail and row on, lads, to fair Sicily!
"Hark, hark to the voice of the trumpets so clear
As they enter the harbor and make for the pier;
See what bright gilded beaks, what finely wrought bows,
And what thousands of shields hang out on the prows.
Oh! such a staunch fleet never sailed on the sea
As this armament anchored off fair Sicily.
"And now from his trim galley, named Cut-the-Sea
The proud Richard lands midst uproarious glee;
Clad in bright scale-linked mail with axe in his hand,
He, the chief of his hero band, paces the strand,
Whilst the people and warriors in wild ecstasy,
Shout hurrah for King Richard and fair Sicily!"
Such was the brilliant spectacle of Cœur-de-Lion's arrival in Sicily. When Richard had landed and camped near Messina, he sent envoys at once to Tancred, the King of Sicily, who had usurped the throne and imprisoned Richard's sister Joan, widow of the former king. These envoys were bidden to demand of Tancred the instant release of Joan, the payment of her dowry, and the delivery of a rich legacy which Richard asserted had been left by her husband to Henry II. This bequest included a gold table twelve feet long, twenty-four gold cups and saucers, a large silk tent, and a hundred fine galleys. On receiving King Richard's peremptory message, Tancred at once sent Joan to her royal brother with a large sum of money, but denied any knowledge of the rich legacy that Richard claimed.
Now the French king had previously arrived in Sicily, and the forces of both kings were encamped about Messina. There was much jealousy between the two monarchs. Philip was envious of Richard's greater fame as a warrior, and Richard resented the fact that as Duke of Normandy he was a vassal of the French king. This feeling of ill-will extended to the soldiers of the two armies, hostile from birth, and gave rise to much quarreling and continual brawls. The French contrived to arouse in the people of Sicily a suspicious dread of the King of England. So when these natives saw Richard building and fortifying strongholds, they concluded that he intended to take possession of their island. Then fierce disputes arose between them and the English soldiers.
At length, the trouble ended in an open fight; and Richard promptly attacked the city of Messina. Though the French sided with the natives, who were fifty thousand strong, "King Richard got possession of Messina quicker than any priest could chant matins. Aye, and many more of the citizens would have perished had not the King in his compassion ordered their lives to be spared."
After the capture of the city, King Tancred agreed to give Richard forty thousand ounces of gold in lieu of all claims against him in behalf of Joan. Richard accepted this offer, and peace was restored. One-third of the money he gave to Philip, and the two kings made a new compact of friendship, solemnly swearing to be faithful to each other in all things during this Crusade.
A period of peace followed, during which the kings and nobles amused themselves in various ways while awaiting a favorable season for their voyage to Palestine.
One day while riding, Richard and Philip met a peasant bringing a load of tough canes to town. The two kings and all their knights took each a reed, and using it as a lance, began to tilt against one another. Richard and a French knight, William des Barres, charged each other. The reeds were shattered, and the headpiece of Richard was broken. Enraged at this mishap, the king dashed furiously on William, but his own saddle was upset, and he fell to the ground "quicker than he liked."
Hastily mounting a fresh horse, Richard again attacked Des Barres, but could not unhorse the knight, who stuck fast to his saddle. Then the Earl of Leicester attempted to aid Richard, but the king cried, "Let be, Robert; hold off and leave us alone!" But when, after many vain efforts, he had failed to overthrow the stout French warrior, Richard flew into a terrific rage, and cried, "Get thee hence, and appear no more before me, for I shall be thine enemy hereafter!" Whereupon William des Barres withdrew in much distress of mind, and asked the intercession of the King of France. Not until Philip, all the bishops, and the chiefs of the army had repeatedly besought Richard for grace, would the mortified king consent to the peaceable return of the knight. So unwise is it to successfully combat a king!
Soon after this episode fresh trouble arose between Richard and Philip. The King of France was brother to Alice, the betrothed bride of Richard. When he heard that Queen Eleanor was on her way to Sicily, bringing Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, as a bride for the English king, Philip was enraged. He insisted that Richard was legally bound to Alice and could not marry any one else. Richard, who had been much charmed with Berengaria some years before while visiting her father's court at Pampeluna, now flatly refused to marry Alice. He accused her of most wicked conduct, such as rendered her unworthy to be his wife. Probably these charges were well founded, for Philip finally agreed, on certain conditions, to release Richard from the engagement with Alice. The French princess, then held prisoner in England by Eleanor, was to be returned to France, and Philip was to receive a large sum of money. An ecclesiastical court was then held, and it adjudged that Richard was no longer bound to Alice, but was free to marry as he pleased.
These matters settled, Philip set sail for Palestine on the very day that Eleanor arrived with Berengaria. The two royal ladies received a joyful welcome from the king, who went to meet them in his gayly decorated galley, Trenc-le-Mer.
He found Berengaria even lovelier than the young girl he had admired so long ago in Navarre. His heart yielded at once to the charms of the dark-eyed Spanish beauty, and the princess could not help loving such a handsome, brave, and eloquent prince; for Richard was no less ready with his tongue than with his sword, and won hearts as easily as battles. He had long before won the devotion and friendship of Berengaria's brother Sancho, a renowned warrior and poet; and this friendship doubtless commended him to Berengaria. At any rate, the betrothed pair were soon a pair of lovers and as happy as humbler sweethearts.
As it was then the solemn season of Lent, they resolved to postpone the wedding until after Easter. Richard, however, in token of his joy, gave a sumptuous betrothal feast, at which he instituted a new order of knights, vowed to deeds of valor in the Holy Land. Queen Eleanor, after remaining a few days with her dearly loved daughter and son, gave Berengaria into the care of Queen Joan, and herself returned to England.
Richard then made final preparations for the voyage. Before leaving, he gave Tancred, to whom he had become reconciled, "that best of swords, which the Britons call Caliburne (Excalibur), formerly the sword of Arthur, once the noble King of England."
At length the great fleet of busses, dromonds, and galleys set sail for Palestine. Berengaria and Joan sailed first in a large ship under the care of Stephen de Turnham, and Richard embarked last on Trenc-le-Mer. Erelong a storm arose, and the fleet was dispersed. Berengaria was very much alarmed for her lover's safety.
"She sighed not for her own,
But King Richard's safety;
And kept crying, 'Oh! look out,
For sore is my fright,
Whilst the King and his galleys
Are all out of sight!'"
Two ships escorting the vessel of the princess and Joan were wrecked on the coast of Cyprus. Isaac, the emperor of that island, plundered the ships and imprisoned the survivors. He also refused to allow the vessel of the royal ladies to take shelter in the harbor of Limasol (now Limoussa).
Meanwhile, Richard's galley had taken shelter at Rhodes. As soon as the king learned of the straits in which the princesses were, he came to their aid with many war galleys. When he found them outside of the harbor, exposed to the violence of wind and sea, he was greatly enraged. But restraining his anger fairly well for so passionate a man, he sent messengers thrice to Isaac, "humbly begging him for the love of God and reverence for the life-giving cross" to free the captive Crusaders, and to restore their goods. The emperor, evidently not knowing with whom he had to deal, returned a haughty refusal.
Then Richard, very wroth, called his men to arms, and said: "Follow me, and we will take vengeance for the wrongs which this villainous emperor has done to God and to us in thus unjustly keeping our pilgrims in chains!" Without delay the forces rowed to the shore, where Isaac had drawn up his army to oppose them.
The English archers landed first, and their arrows fell upon the enemy "as a shower upon the grass." The doughty King Richard and his knights then rushed in, and quickly drove the Greeks before them like a flock of sheep. After Isaac's affrighted army had taken refuge in the mountains, he tried to make peace, but could come to no agreement with Richard, and fled from Limasol. The English king then stormed the town and took possession. Here he first used his famous battle-axe, for the old rhymer tells us:—
"The valiant King Richard, as I understand,
Before he departed from old England,
Made an axe to slaughter that infidel band,
The Saracen dogs in the Holy Land.
The head in sooth was wondrously wrought,
Of steel twenty pounds, the best to be bought.
And when that he landed in Cyprus land,
He first took this terrible axe in hand;
And he hewed and he hewed with such direful slaughter,
That the blood flowed around him like pools of water."
With such a valiant leader, it is small wonder that the English were soon masters of the whole island of Cyprus. Isaac, after making a treaty with Richard and immediately breaking it, was captured by the English king, who bound him with silver fetters, kept him in prison, and gave his beautiful daughter to Berengaria as an attendant.
Ere this, Richard and Berengaria had been married with pomp and ceremony at Limasol, and crowned king and queen of Cyprus. The bride was simply attired in a white lawn dress, but wore a splendid girdle of jewels; and her flowing black tresses were adorned with a double crown. Richard wore a rose-colored tunic of satin, belted with jewels. A mantle of silk tissue, brocaded in silver crescents, fell from his shoulders, and on his head was a scarlet brocaded cap. By his side hung a Damascus blade in a silver-scaled sheath. Before the king was led his beautiful Cyprian steed, Favelle, gorgeously caparisoned, and bitted with gold, the saddle adorned with two little golden lions.
Not long after this grand ceremony, word came to Richard that Acre, a city of Palestine long besieged by the Crusaders already in the Holy Land, was about to surrender. Exclaiming, "Heaven grant that it be not taken before I arrive!" Richard immediately set sail for that port.
When near Beyrout, the English fell in with a large Saracen ship, and after a desperate but vain attempt to board the vessel, pierced its sides with the iron beaks of their galleys. The ship sank, and its crew were slain or drowned. Among the floating bodies that covered the sea, were seen many deadly serpents, which the infidels "had destined to work havoc among the Christians" besieging Acre.
Cheered by this victory, Richard and his men rejoiced still more when the walls and citadels and the great "accursed tower" of Acre came in sight. For long months this famous city, its walls lapped by the blue Mediterranean, had been girt round by a vast host of Crusaders,—"men of every Christian nation under heaven." Their camp was like an immense city, with streets and walls, and strong fortifications, especially on the landward side; for beyond this vast Christian camp, crowned by the high tower from which floated the great white banner of the Crusaders, lay a countless body of Turkish troops, swarming over the adjacent plains and mountain-sides. Thus the besieging Christians were themselves besieged.
The tents of the infidels were gay with colored devices and the yellow ensigns of Islam. As Richard neared the shore, these hated emblems of Mohammed and the famous black standard of Saladin, Sultan of the Saracens, were plainly visible to him, and stirred him to deep wrath. His anger burned the hotter when he recalled the stories told of the terrible havoc wrought by these infidels on the Christian hosts besieging the city. Night and day these fierce warriors of Saladin swooped down on the Christian camp. Scores of bloody battles had taken place. Almost beyond belief was the suffering that had been patiently endured by the soldiers of the Cross. Battles, hunger, and disease had thinned their ranks and sorely tried their souls. No wonder they hailed with joy the arrival of that famous warrior, Richard Cœur-de-Lion, for they believed that he would soon lead them to victory.
So amidst the din of drum and trumpet and clarion, and the deafening shouts of exultant thousands, King Richard set foot upon the Holy Land. And the red glare of huge bonfires and numberless torches carried the alarming tidings to Saladin and his army.
The King of France and the many princes met Richard, and welcomed him in a manner befitting his rank and his renown as the "most skilful warrior among Christian men." The camp was that night a scene of rejoicing and merriment. "Richard Cœur-de-Lion has come; Acre will soon be ours!" was the universal cry.
But, alas! the hopes built on the arrival of Cœur-de-Lion were not speedily realized. Richard fell ill of a fever, and could not lead the assault. Then Philip also became sick; so that the two kings could not lead their armies against the city at the same time. The feeling of jealousy between them also prevented united action. When one king undertook an assault, the other sulked in his tent. All the princes and leaders were at this time disputing about the rival claims of Guy de Lusignan and Conrade, Marquis of Montferrat, to the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Philip favored the Marquis of Montferrat, but Richard supported Guy de Lusignan. These disputes were made more bitter by the haughty bearing of the King of England, who wished to rule in camp and council, and treated with scant courtesy the princes who presumed to oppose him. So discord reigned among the leaders, and prevented the united action that might soon have reduced the city.
Nevertheless, the fighting went vigorously on. Battle after battle was fought on the plain between the forces of Saladin and the Crusaders; assault after assault was made by the Christians on the beleaguered city.
Even during his illness, Richard had directed the making of stone-casters, slings, rams, and wooden towers for assaulting the walls of the besieged city. As soon as he was well enough, the king caused himself to be carried near the city wall and placed under the shelter of a kind of wooden hurdle. Seated there, he directed the movements of his men, who were endeavoring to undermine and carry by storm a tower of the fortifications.
As his soldiers rushed to the assault, Richard shouted that he would give three goldpieces to every man who should detach a stone from the tower wall. So the hope of reward, as well as the love of glory, led to deeds of reckless daring. While some soldiers dug underground, trying to sap the tower foundations, others plied the stone-casters and hurled immense stones into the city,—at one time killing twenty Turks with a single huge missile. Other bands of Christians strove to tear down or scale the walls; while the Turks, equally valiant, strained every nerve to hurl them back. The Christians "climbed the half-ruined battlements as wild goats climb precipitous rocks, while the Saracens threw themselves on the besiegers like stones unloosed from the top of a mountain." Huge stones and Greek fire rained down on the Crusaders.
Meanwhile King Richard, weak though he was, plied his great cross-bow vigorously and slew many Turks. One of the infidels was disporting himself on the wall, clad in the well-known armor of Alberic Clement,—a renowned and beloved Christian warrior, slain several days before by the Turks, after he had fought his way into the city itself. Richard sent a shaft through the very heart of this braggart Turk.
Now, when the tower had been almost battered down, other warriors from the Christian camp gathered to the assault; but the watchers on the city wall raised a cry of alarm, and all the Turkish warriors flew to arms. Then followed a fierce hand-to-hand conflict. In spite of most heroic efforts, the Crusaders were finally driven back. "Never," says the Christian chronicler, "has there been such a people for prowess in battle as these Turks."
Though wroth at this repulse, Richard continued to make frequent attacks of the same sort, and kept his stone-casters and other engines of war busy night and day until the defences of the city were much weakened. The inhabitants, disheartened also by famine and other hardships, finally sent envoys to Saladin, requesting permission to surrender the city. After much parley about conditions, the city capitulated, and the two Christian kings took possession. Soon the red-cross standard of the Crusade, the oriflamme of Saint Denis, and the banner of Saint George crowned the walls of Acre. The standard of Austria was also raised by the Archduke Leopold; but not long did it wave. The haughty Cœur-de-Lion flew into a rage on seeing the ensign of a mere duke flying beside the banners of kings. With his own royal hands he tore down the offending flag, and contemptuously ground it beneath his royal heel. Nor did the outraged archduke dare to resent the insult, though he cherished the memory of it in his heart, and well avenged himself at a later day.
The kings of France and England divided the city between them. Philip lodged himself in the splendid palace of the Templars,—a military order of Christian knights; and Richard established his court in the royal palace, with the two queens, Berengaria and Joan, and their ladies. Here for some time the kings lived in luxury and splendor, while all the Crusaders took their ease and rested from warfare.
But again quarrels arose over the kingship of Jerusalem. Finally it was agreed among the princes that Guy de Lusignan should be recognized as king, and the Marquis of Montferrat as his successor to the throne. After this agreement, Philip fell sick, and actually suspected Richard of having poisoned him. Weary of battle, exhausted by sickness, and mortified by the knowledge that Richard's fame as a warrior far surpassed his own, Philip resolved to return to France. As bound by treaty, he requested the consent of the English king to his departure.
"Eternal shame on him and all France if for any cause he leave the holy work unfinished!" cried Richard, when the messenger of Philip had spoken. But finally he was persuaded to give a reluctant consent in these words,—
"Well, let him go if his health require it, or if he cannot live without seeing Paris."
So the King of France, abandoning the Crusade, gladly set sail for his own country; but he left a large force under the Duke of Burgundy to aid Richard in the conquest of Jerusalem.
Now, Saladin had failed to carry out the terms of the surrender of Acre. At the time agreed upon, he had not delivered to Richard the stipulated sum of money, the Christian captives, or the true cross, which was in his possession. So the English king and the Duke of Burgundy led all their Saracen prisoners outside the walls of Acre and put them to death.
After this massacre and a fierce battle with the outraged warriors of Saladin, who in vain attempted to prevent the execution of their kinsmen and friends before their very eyes, Richard and his army set out by way of the coast for the city of Ascalon, the fleet accompanying them. Saladin, frenzied with rage at the massacre before Acre, though he himself was partly to blame, followed Richard, with vengeance in his heart. At every favorable opportunity, the sultan attacked the Christians and slew all who fell into his hands.
Never was there a more dreadful or fatal march. Countless arrows rained down on the soldiers from the Turks on the mountain heights. The scorching sun of Syria blazed upon their weary bodies by day, and deadly tarantulas poisoned them by night. Ever and anon the Turks, mounted on horses swifter than swallows, swooped down on the struggling ranks of Christians and wrought bloody havoc among them, escaping vengeance by the speed of their steeds. Thus tormented and harassed, it is little wonder that when encamped at night, the distressed Crusaders should all join with tears and groans and heart-felt fervor in the thrice-repeated evening cry of the heralds: "Help us, O Holy Sepulchre!" Sorely did they need divine help.
King Richard did all that valor and kindness could prompt for the protection and aid of his people. He led the van and was ever in the front of every fight, heedless of danger. In one of these battles he was painfully wounded. In another combat that French knight, William des Barres, who had incurred the king's displeasure at Messina, distinguished himself so greatly by his valor that he was fully restored to the favor and friendship of Richard. The king caused the pilgrims who fell from exhaustion or wounds to be carried to the ships and thus saved from death at the hands of Saladin.
When the exhausted Crusaders reached the plain of Arsur, Saladin, with a vast host of Saracens, hemmed in and attacked the Christian army. Never was there a more terrible battle. All day it raged, so furiously that the old chronicler confesses that "in the stress and bitter peril of that day, there was not one who did not wish himself safe at home with his pilgrimage finished." At one time the Hospitallers who were defending the rear, and who had been forbidden by Richard to charge the enemy, were so harassed by the Turks that they sent and besought the king's permission to attack the Saracens. But he forbade the move, commanding them to close their lines and wait in patience. Finally these tormented knights, stuck full of arrows, beaten with mallets, pierced by lances, crushed by maces, became frenzied with rage and shame at their inaction. They cried aloud, "Alas! we shall be convicted of cowardly sloth and disgraced forevermore!" Then, suddenly, exasperated beyond endurance, they faced about, and with a loud shout, "Holy Sepulchre aid us!" charged furiously into the midst of the infidels. Hundreds they slew, but their disobedient act threw the entire army into confusion.
Cœur-de-Lion, seeing this, put spurs to Favelle and galloped into the ranks of the Hospitallers. Then he bore down upon the Turks, "thundering against them, and mightily astonishing them by the blows that he dealt." Right and left they fell. Pressing on furiously and alone, Richard cut a wide path for himself through the Turkish ranks, brandishing his sword and mowing them down like grass before the sickle. For half a mile the ground was strewn with the bodies of those who dared to oppose the irresistible warrior. At last the terrified Turks fled in every direction before the attack of Richard. In vain Saladin strove to rally the Saracens. In vain his brazen kettle-drums and trumpets called to the flying infidels. The battle was lost, and the defeated sultan sadly retreated before the exultant Christians.
After this famous victory, Richard marched to Jaffa, where the army encamped in a fair olive orchard, and there abode some time in peace and plenty. Richard sailed to Acre, where he stirred up slothful pilgrims and entreated them to join his army at Jaffa for the march to Jerusalem. On his return, he brought with him Queen Berengaria and Joan. While waiting for recruits to the army, Richard occupied his time in excursions around Jaffa, and met with many romantic adventures.
One day he rode out with his falcons and a few knights to hunt, and also to spy on the Turks. When tired out by the chase, he lay down in the shade and fell asleep. Some Turks, hearing that he was thus off guard, rode swiftly up, hoping to take the dreaded king prisoner. Richard and his knights, roused by the noise of the hoof-beats, had barely time to mount their horses when the Turks were upon them. Cœur-de-Lion and his comrades met the attack fiercely; and the Turks, making a pretence of flight, drew the little band into an ambush, where it was surrounded by a great number of the infidels. Richard, in spite of his prowess, would certainly have been taken prisoner, had not one of his comrades, William de Préaux, called out, "I am the king; save my life!" The Saracens, knowing no better, quickly seized the generous knight and galloped off, thinking they had captured King Richard. The king, thus saved, returned to his camp, where he found the army in great distress over his reported capture.
Every effort was made to rescue William de Préaux, but in vain, and there was universal sorrow for the knight who had purchased the safety of the king by the sacrifice of his own freedom and the risk of his own life. "O fealty worthy of all renown! O rare devotion! that a man should willingly subject himself to danger to save another!" exclaims the chronicler. Surely there must have been much that was fine and lovable in the character of a king who called forth such rare devotion in a follower,—one who was not a vassal of his own.
As soon as possible, the grateful Richard ransomed his friend by exchanging ten noble Turkish captives for the brave French knight.
The king's friends now tried to persuade him to be more prudent and not to expose himself so rashly to danger. But Cœur-de-Lion delighted in danger, rejoiced to be first in onset and last in retreat. He loved to make the most perilous sallies against the Turks with but a few of his followers, and whether "by reason of his valor or the divine aid," he usually succeeded in capturing or slaying the infidels.
Meanwhile Richard was in communication with Saladin, trying to persuade the sultan to deliver Jerusalem to the Christians. Saladin steadfastly refused to surrender the city, but the two kings became friendly, and frequently sent each other rich gifts. Though they had a sincere admiration for each other, strange to relate, these warring kings never met. Though often opposed in battle, a meeting did not take place on any field; perhaps because Saladin, though personally brave, did not consider it the province of a king to fight in person, as did Richard. This Saracen sultan was a wise, just, and humane ruler,—a most admirable character, and much loved throughout his vast empire, an empire stretching from the Nile to the Tigris.
His brother Saphadin (Saf-ad-Din), a famous warrior, came often to visit Richard, who became very fond of him. The English king proposed to Saladin that Saphadin should marry Queen Joan, and the two be made sovereigns of Jerusalem. But this projected union of heathen and Christian was detestable to both nations, and the plan served only to bring reproach on Richard, who was much blamed for his friendly dealings with the unbelievers. All negotiations with Saladin came to nothing, and Richard finally marched on toward Jerusalem, which had meanwhile been strongly fortified by the sultan. When the army had reached Bêit-Nuba, about twelve miles from the Holy City, a council of the chief men decided that it would be neither prudent to besiege Jerusalem at that time nor possible to take it. The army was smitten with grief at this decision, and it was a sad host that marched back to Ascalon.
This city had been destroyed by Saladin, and the English king thought it necessary to rebuild the town as a base of supplies for his army when the siege of Jerusalem should be undertaken. Richard and his nobles worked with their own hands at rebuilding the walls. But many of the French, unwilling to labor thus in menial fashion, left the army and went off to Acre. Leopold, Archduke of Austria, refused to join in the labor, and when reproached by Richard, replied sulkily, "I am not the son of a mason." Richard, justly incensed, abused him in no gentle terms, and even went so far as to strike the titled shirker. Whereupon the archduke straightway left the camp and hied him back to his own country.
Other bitter disputes broke out among the chiefs, and actual fighting took place between the troops of different countries. Conrade of Montferrat and Richard fell out again, and the marquis left the camp and entered into a secret treaty with Saladin, who agreed to aid him in his schemes of conquest.
Now, Richard, hearing that his brother John was conspiring against him, thought at first that he must return to England. It was necessary to have a leader in Richard's stead, and the council of chiefs elected Conrade to be chief of the armies, and also declared him King of Jerusalem. Richard consented to this choice, though he had no love for Conrade. But shortly afterwards, ere the coronation could take place, the marquis was murdered in the streets of Tyre. It is most probable that he fell a victim to the hatred of "The Old Man of the Mountains." This mysterious and dreaded personage was Sinan, the chief of a strange and fanatical sect of robbers and murderers, called the Ismaelians. He had many castles and strongholds in the mountains of Syria, and his very name struck terror to the hearts of its inhabitants. For this Sinan held despotic rule over his followers, and at his slightest word they were ready to kill themselves or any one else. He was accustomed to send these deluded disciples of his to assassinate any person who displeased him, promising paradise to the murderers in reward for their deed.
This Sinan sent two of the assassins to murder Conrade, who had seized goods from one of his followers. But some of the friends of the marquis accused Richard of the infamous deed,—as if the bold King of England would have stooped to rid himself of an enemy in that cowardly way. The suspicion, though without any foundation, strengthened the enmity that many of the chiefs felt for the English king, because of his haughtiness.
When at last Richard had led them within a few leagues of Jerusalem the second time, disputes arose about the advisability of then attacking the Holy City. Many of the princes did not wish Richard to have the glory of the conquest. Finally, the council of twenty knights, to which the matter was referred, decided that the siege should not be attempted at that time. So the order was given to retreat. It was sadly obeyed by the soldiers, who groaned and wept at giving up their cherished hopes of visiting the Holy Sepulchre.
One of these pilgrims, while the army was near Jerusalem, reached the summit of a hill, and called to Richard in much excitement, "Sire, sire, come hither and I will show you Jerusalem!" But the king, casting his coat-of-arms before his eyes, wept as he cried out, "Fair Lord God, I pray Thee not to let me see Thy Holy City, if so be that I may not deliver it out of the hands of Thine enemies."
As sadly grieved as their king at thus leaving the Holy City in infidel hands, the army marched despondently back to Jaffa, and thence to Acre, the French and English mutually accusing each other of having been the cause of the failure to take Jerusalem. The Duke of Burgundy vented his spite by composing a scurrilous song about Richard, which was sung in the French camp. The King of England, much annoyed, revenged himself in a similar manner by writing a few stinging lines, in which he answered these "trumped-up scandals with a few plain truths" about the duke and his other enemies. The singing of these princely satires did not add to the harmony of the camp.
When Richard reached Acre, he began to make preparations to return to England, for John was again conspiring to seize the throne. As the king was about to embark, envoys came in great haste, and besought him to come to the relief of Jaffa. They related that the town had been taken by Saladin, and that only the citadel yet held out. The king cut short the entreaties of the messenger by exclaiming, "God yet lives, and with His guidance I will set out to do what I can."
The French refused to go with him, but some noble knights started to the rescue by land, while the king and a few chosen comrades set out by sea. When the galleys reached Jaffa, the Turks, by thousands, swarmed to the shore, ready to destroy all who should attempt to land. The king's friends said to him, "It will be vain to attempt a landing in the face of so many enemies." But when a fugitive priest, leaping from the wall, swam to the galley and told Richard that some of his fellow-Christians were still alive and holding the citadel, Cœur-de-Lion exclaimed,—
"Then, even though it please God, in whose service I come hither, that we should die here with our brethren, let him perish who will not go forward with me." So saying, the king, with a shout of "Saint George! Saint George!" leaped from his red galley into the water, with shield hung round his neck and huge battle-axe in hand. Unheeding the countless darts of the enemy, he gained the beach, followed by a few faithful knights. There the redoubtable Richard actually put to flight the thousands of Turks, dashed into the town, rescued the citadel, and drove every infidel out of the gates of Jaffa.
The story seems incredible, but it is true.
Next day the generous Saladin, hearing that Richard had no horse, exclaimed, "It is a disgrace that so great a king should lack a steed!" So he sent one of his men with a charger to Richard. The king accepted the gift and bade one of his men mount the beautiful Arabian. Immediately the spirited steed took the bit between its teeth and galloped back to the Saracen camp. "Right shamefaced was Saladin when the horse returned," for he knew that some would suspect him of trying to entrap Richard. He sent another horse to the king, and many apologies for the bad behavior of the first. Richard, incapable of treachery himself, had no suspicion of Saladin's good faith. He thanked the messenger, and to show his confidence in the sultan, at once mounted and rode the horse.
A few days afterwards, a large body of Turks unexpectedly attacked Richard, who was encamped outside the walls of Jaffa with only fifteen knights and a few thousand foot-soldiers. It was early morning, and a soldier flew to Richard's tent, crying, "O king, we are dead men!"
"Silence," ordered the suddenly aroused king, "or I will kill you!" Richard and his knights, throwing on their armor, mounted their horses amid a shower of arrows from the Saracens. Hurriedly the king posted his men to receive the attack. While doing this, he exhorted them to courage with many brave words.
"Hold out stubbornly," he cried. "It is the duty of brave men to triumph bravely or to die gloriously! Death threatens, but if it come, let us receive martyrdom with a thankful mind. But before we die we will take vengeance, and yield God thanks for granting us the martyr's death! This is the true reward of our toils,—the end at once of life and battles!"
Then this heroic Richard, grasping his lance, rode alone across the whole front of the enemies' lines, defying them to combat; and not one dared to do battle with him single-handed. But they set his armor as thick with javelins as "a hedgehog with bristles," and his horse was soon covered with innumerable arrows sticking to its harness. The Turks, charging the little band of Christians, fought with desperate bravery. They made many attempts to slay Richard, ever pressing on by scores toward his lion-emblazoned banner. But the "incredible valor" and strength of the king not only preserved his own life, but won the battle. After hours of conflict, Richard put the Turks to flight.
Now, these Saracens had boasted to Saladin that they would bring him the captured King of England. After the battle, when they had fled before Richard, the sultan mockingly inquired of these warriors,—
"Where are those who are bringing me Melek (King) Richard as my prisoner? Who was first to seize him? Where is he, I say, and why is he not brought before me?"
The shamefaced Turks were silent at this mockery, until one plucked up the courage to reply thus:—
"Know, O king, for a surety, that this Melek of whom you speak is not like other men. Truly, we tried hard to capture him, but all in vain, for no one can bear the brunt of his sword unharmed; his onset is terrible, and it is death to encounter him. His deeds are more than human."
Though unharmed in this battle, as in so many others, the heroic Richard was soon after laid low by an attack of fever. He grew steadily worse, and despairing of recovery in the unwholesome air of Jaffa, determined to leave the city. But the other chiefs refused to try to hold the town if he should depart. So Richard, not able to fight, was compelled to make a truce of three years with Saladin. The conditions were that Ascalon should be abandoned, and Jaffa remain in the possession of the Christians, who were also to be allowed free access to Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre without payment, and without hindrance from the infidels.
When this treaty had been concluded, and Richard had recovered, he held a magnificent tournament at Acre, in celebration of peace. This festival was attended by many Turks, as well as by Christian knights.
His preparations having been completed, Richard set sail from Acre in October, 1192, having sent the queens ahead in another vessel. As the shore of Palestine faded from his sight, Richard prayed: "O Holy Land, to God I commend thee. May He of his mercy only grant me such space of life that by His good-will I may yet bring thee aid. For it is my hope and intention to bring thee aid at some future day!"
Long did the memory of the king thus bidding farewell to the Holy Land linger in the memory of its people. A hundred years afterwards, the Saracen mother frightened her child into silence by the words, "Hush, King Richard is coming!" And if a horse started aside, the rider would cry, "What! is the King of England in front of thee?"
Perils of battle and sickness had been escaped, but greater dangers were in store for the returning Crusader. After being tempest-tossed for weeks, the vessel of Richard was wrecked on the Adriatic coast. Knowing that the Archduke of Austria had good reason to hate him, Richard tried to make his way through that country in the disguise of a Templar.
After many adventures, he stopped at an inn near Vienna, and sent his only attendant, a young boy, to the market to buy provisions. The youth, in paying, displayed so much money and bore himself so haughtily that he was arrested. But on telling the magistrate that he was the servant of a rich merchant, who would not arrive in the city until three days later, the boy was set free. Returning secretly to the king's retreat, the youth told of his misadventure, and begged the king to flee. But the rash Richard, weary and exhausted, decided to risk remaining a few days longer.
The lad, while visiting the market again, was imprudent enough to carry under his belt the fine embroidered gloves of his master. Knowing these gloves could not belong to a merchant, the suspicious magistrates seized the boy again, and after torturing him, threatened to cut out his tongue unless he revealed his master's name. On learning the truth from the frightened lad, they informed the archduke, who sent soldiers to surround the inn. When the troopers questioned the landlord, he said:—
"There for months he was kept a close prisoner, loaded with chains"
"There is no one here except a poor Templar, who is now in the kitchen turning the spit for the cook." Going into the kitchen, the soldiers saw the Templar sitting before the fire, industriously turning a fowl on the spit. But one of the soldiers who had been in the Holy Land knew Richard, and he shouted, "That is the king; seize him!" Richard sprang up, and using the spit for a weapon, defended himself valiantly; but he was overcome by numbers, and carried prisoner to the castle of Tyernstern. There for months he was kept a close prisoner, loaded with chains. The archduke then gave him up to the German emperor, who imprisoned him at Trifels.
For a long time no one except his jailers knew where the King of England was. Berengaria, who had seen a jeweled belt of Richard's on sale at Rome, knew that some misfortune had happened to him, and she and his mother, Eleanor, were wild with anxiety.
Finally, Blondel de Nesle, the minstrel friend, who had been with Richard on the Crusade, journeyed through Germany, looking for his lost king. One day, beneath the walls of a castle where he had heard that a prisoner of rank was held captive, Blondel halted and sang a verse of a song that he and Richard had composed together:—
"Your beauty, ladye faire,
None views without delight,
But still so cold an air
No passion can excite;
Yet this I patient see,
While all are shunned like me."
Instantly the king's well-known voice took up the strain and sang the next stanza:—
"No nymph my heart can wound
If favor she divide
And smile on all around,
Unwilling to decide;
I'd rather hatred bear,
Than love with others share!"
Then the overjoyed Blondel hastened back to England, and told the queen and people of Richard's sad plight and his place of imprisonment.
Berengaria and Eleanor immediately besought the emperor to release Richard, and also implored the intercession of the Pope and the sovereigns of Europe. The emperor was at last compelled to bring Richard before the council of the empire. To these princes and lords he accused the king of many crimes, among them the murder of Conrade. Richard defended himself with so much force and eloquence that these groundless charges were dropped; but the emperor still refused to liberate his prisoner, except upon payment of a ransom of one hundred and fifty thousand marks,—nearly a million dollars.
The people of England, who loved their heroic king, gladly raised this large sum; and in 1194, Eleanor journeyed to Germany, paid the ransom, and had the happiness of seeing her son set at liberty. She accompanied her beloved Richard to England, where he was received most joyfully. After being crowned again in Westminster, the king made a royal progress through the kingdom. Those nobles who had joined in the rebellion of John were called to account; but on profession of repentance, all were generously pardoned. Richard then set out for Normandy to subdue John, who had fled to that country on receiving King Philip's warning message after Richard's release, "Look to yourself; the Devil is unchained."
But the craven John dared not battle against Cœur-de-Lion. He came to meet Richard, and, falling at his feet, implored pardon. The king, stretching out his hand to the penitent, said,—
"Arise, John, I forgive thee; and may I forget thy misdeeds as quickly as thou wilt my pardon."
Now, Richard fell in with evil companions in Anjou and lived a very dissipated life. But at length some good priests moved him to repentance, and he forsook his evil ways and joined his good Queen Berengaria, whom he had not seen since his release, though she was at Poictiers. Berengaria readily forgave his neglect, and, if we may believe a friendly chronicler, Richard was ever afterwards faithful and kind to her.
The ill-will that had always existed between Richard and the King of France now led to constant petty wars between them. To secure his Norman province, Richard built on its border a splendid fortress, which he called his Château Gaillard,—"Saucy Castle." Amazed and enraged at the wonderful strength of this stronghold, perched on a rocky mount five hundred feet high, the French king exclaimed,—
"I would take it if its walls were of iron!"
Richard, with all of his old insolence, retorted, "And I would hold it, were its walls of butter!"
But the final struggle that both kings were planning never took place.
Richard, who was in much need of money for his army, heard that a vassal of his had found a hidden treasure of great value, including twelve gold knights seated around a golden table. This Vidomar, Lord of Chaluz, when Richard demanded that, according to law, he share the treasure with his lord the king, replied that nothing had been found except a pot of ancient coins. The king did not believe this story, and set siege to the castle of Chaluz, determined to obtain the golden knights. There Richard was struck down by an arrow from the bow of Bertrand de Gourdan, a nobleman of Poictiers. The wound proved to be a mortal one. The king, when assured that he was dying, sent for Bertrand, for the castle had meanwhile been taken and the knight captured.
"Wretch," said the dying king, "what have I done to thee that thou shouldst attempt my life?"
"Thou hast had my father and two brothers put to death, and hast threatened to slay me," replied the undaunted youth. The prostrate king, looking at him in silence a moment, said,—
"I forgive thee." Then turning to his captain, Richard added, "Let his chains be removed, set him free, and give him a hundred shillings."
This act of noble forgiveness was the last deed of the erring but great-hearted king.
The death so often defied on the battlefield, Richard met calmly, with the courage that had never failed him in life,—that splendid courage which won for him the heroic title of Lionheart.
RICHARD'S LAMENT
No captive knight, whom chains confine,
Can tell his fate and not repine;
Yet with a song he cheers the gloom
That hangs around his living tomb.
Shame to his friends!—the king remains
Two years unransomed and in chains.
Now let them know, my brave barons,
My English, Normans, and Gascons,
Not one liege-man so poor have I,
That I would not his freedom buy.
I'll not reproach their noble line,
Though chains and dungeon still are mine.
The dead,—nor friends nor kin have they!
Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay!
My wrongs afflict me—yet far more
For faithless friends my heart is sore.
Oh, what a blot upon their name,
If I should perish thus in shame!
Nor is it strange I suffer pain
When sacred oaths are thus made vain,
And when the king with bloody hands
Spreads war and pillage through my lands.
One only solace now remains—
I soon shall burst these servile chains.
Ye troubadours and friends of mine,
Brave Chail and noble Pensauvine,
Go tell my rivals, in your song, This heart hath never done them wrong.
He infamy—not glory—gains,
Who strikes a monarch in his chains!
Written by Richard I. while prisoner in Germany.
(From Spofford's Library of Historic
Character and Famous Events.)
THE LAST CRUSADER
Slowly The Last Crusader eyed
The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,
And thought of those whose blood had dyed
The earth with crimson streams in vain!
He thought of that sublime array,
The hosts, that over land and deep
The hermit marshall'd on their way,
To see those towers, and halt to weep!
Resign'd the loved, familiar lands,
O'er burning wastes the cross to bear,
And rescue from the Paynim's hands
No empire save a sepulchre!
And vain the hope, and vain the loss,
And vain the famine and the strife;
In vain the faith that bore the cross,
The valour prodigal of life.
And vain was Richard's lion-soul,
And guileless Godfrey's patient mind—
Like waves on shore, they reach'd the goal,
To die, and leave no trace behind!
"O God!" The Last Crusader cried,
"And art Thou careless of Thine own?
For us Thy Son in Salem died,
And Salem is the scoffer's throne!
"And shall we leave, from age to age,
To godless hands the holy tomb?
Against Thy saints the heathen rage—
Launch forth Thy lightnings, and consume!"
Swift as he spoke, before his sight
A form flashed, white-robed, from above;
All Heaven was in those looks of light,
But Heaven, whose native air is love.
"Alas!" the solemn vision said,
"Thy God is of the shield and spear—
To bless the quick and raise the dead,
The Saviour-God descended here!
"Ah! know'st thou not the very name
Of Salem bids thy carnage cease—
A symbol in itself to claim
God's people to a house of peace!
"Ask not the Father to reward
The hearts that seek, through blood, the Son;
O warrior! never by the sword
The Saviour's Holy Land is won."
Edward Bulwer Lytton
Deep is the bliss of the belted knight,
When he kisses at dawn the silken glove,
And goes, in his glittering armour dight,
To shiver a lance for his ladye-love!
Lightly he couches the beaming spear;
His mistress sits with her maidens by,
Watching the speed of his swift career
With a whispered prayer, and a murmured sigh.
THE CHEVALIER BAYARD
"The Adopted Son of Dame Courtesy"
and
"Le Chevalier sans Peur et sans Reproche."
"Bayard was perhaps the only hero of the middle ages who deserved the unmingled praise and admiration bestowed upon him. Simple, modest, a sterling friend and tender lover, pious, humane, and magnanimous, he held together in rare symmetrical union the whole circle of the virtues."