Having obtained all the glory that was possible from his Eastern adventure, Richard proposed peace with Saladin. His emirs, equally wearied with war, urged the reluctant Saladin to accede to the crusaders’ terms. These were that the Christians should possess all the coast, except Ascalon, which should remain unoccupied, and that Jerusalem should be free for the feet of all pilgrims. The compact was made in the presence of the Koran and the Bible, the silent witnesses of the oaths taken respectively in the names of Allah and Jehovah. It was to be faithfully observed, according to some chroniclers, for the space of three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours—a suggestion that came from the crusaders’ reverence for the Trinity. The peace was celebrated by a friendly tournament between chosen Christian and Moslem champions, in which lances clave through armor and swords drew life-blood in mere play. The gates of Jerusalem were thrown open that the warriors of the cross might kneel at the spot where the symbol of their faith had stood when their God hung upon it, and so return to Europe having accomplished a holy pilgrimage, if not a successful warfare.
Thus ended the third crusade, marked by the loss of perhaps a half-million Europeans, the foremost of emperors, an inestimable amount of treasure, and the prestige of Christendom as against the onrolling power of the Moslem world.
Richard returned to Europe (October 9, 1192). He was led to this purpose not more by his evident inability to found a kingdom in Palestine than by the necessity of maintaining his kingdom at home. Philip Augustus was menacing his domain. When this fellow-crusader left Palestine he renewed his oath with Richard not to commence any hostilities against him during his absence. It is said that he applied to the Pope for a dispensation from this vow. If this was not so, his actions showed that its restrictions were irksome to him. Longchamp, whom Richard had left in charge of the English government conjointly with the Bishop of Durham, endeavored to exercise limitless control. Even the mandates of Richard were disregarded by him. Compelled to flee the country, Longchamp became the open promoter of Philip’s designs. Philip made war upon Richard’s possessions in Normandy, and seduced from his allegiance Prince John, the king’s younger brother, destined to be his successor on the throne.
Richard, not daring to pass through France lest Philip should lay violent hands upon his person, sailed up the Adriatic. He was shipwrecked near Aquileia, and in disguise made his way northward through Austria. But no need of caution could restrain the impulsiveness of Richard, either in war or in pleasure. Dressed as a pilgrim, he lived as a prince; his prodigality easily led to his identification. Duke Leopold of Austria, whose banner he had thrown into the ditch at Acre, now took occasion to avenge that insult. He arrested Richard and threw him into prison (1193). The German emperor, Henry VI., also claimed the royal captive, and secured his person by paying to Leopold sixty thousand pieces of silver. The chronicler remarks, in the spirit of that age: “Forewarnings of this calamity had appeared in unusual seasons, inundations of rivers, awful storms of thunder and rain, with dreadful lightning.”
England, through Richard’s mother, Eleanor, appealed in vain to the Pope to intervene, inasmuch as the holy see had guaranteed the humblest—and surely the noblest—crusader against any detriment from Christians. But the priests of Rome were politicians, and made no sign. Philip of France, now in league with Prince John, and relieved of his dread of Richard, boldly made war in Normandy, where, however, he was repulsed by Robert of Leicester, a crusader who, more fortunate than his king, had reached home. Prince John also made an unsuccessful attempt to seat himself on his brother’s throne.
In the meanwhile Richard chafed in a dungeon where he was loaded with irons. His perpetual incarceration, or his assassination, being fraught with too much danger to his captors, it was determined to bring him to judicial disgrace. He was therefore summoned before the Diet of the Empire at Worms, and formally accused of crimes of all sorts, such as having insulted the Duke of Austria, having assassinated Conrad of Montferrat, having concluded a disgraceful treaty with Saladin. The royal captive, with marvellous self-restraint for him, deigned to explain these matters; then he burst out into indignant denunciation of his captors. The princes of Germany were made ashamed of the ignominy that in their name had been thrust upon the foremost hero of the age. Even prelates at length remembered that Richard had remained alone in Palestine when others were wearied with the defence of the faith.
Henry VI. was forced to release his royal captive. Yet he managed to fix as his ransom a hundred and fifty thousand marks. This large amount it was difficult to raise. The churches of England melted their plate; prelates paid a fourth of their income, the lower clergy a tenth, and all ranks a commensurate tax. Queen Eleanor in person bore the sum thus collected to Mayence (1194). Henry, however, could not yet brook his victim’s escape. Having received the ransom, he ordered Richard’s rearrest; but the English ship that bore him slipped from the mouth of the Schelde before the officers could overtake it. Philip of France sent this ungraceful but timely warning to Prince John: “Take care of yourself; the devil is broken loose.” One chronicler notes that at the very hour in which the king landed in England there appeared “a brilliant and unusual splendor in the heavens, of a very white and red color, about the length and breadth of a human body.” He also observes that Duke Leopold of Austria was horribly punished for his cruelty to Richard. Infernal fires were kindled in his limbs, whose progress he in vain tried to stay by amputating his own foot with an axe, and at length expired in dreadful agony. Romance has invented a pleasing story of Blondel, Richard’s friend and minstrel, who discovered the place of his king’s imprisonment by singing in its proximity a familiar song, to which Richard responded. It is true to the times, but the historian cannot vouch for its basis in fact.
Before Richard reached his throne his great competitor for renown in arms, Saladin, had passed away (March, 1193). He had retired to Damascus. A year after the peace, feeling the approach of the last enemy, and realizing that a greater than Richard was upon him, he ordered that his burial shroud, instead of his usual standard, should be carried through all the streets of Damascus, while his herald cried, “This—this is all that remains of the glory of Saladin, who conquered the East.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
PALESTINE AFTER THE THIRD CRUSADE—HENRY VI.—SIEGE OF THORON.
After the death of Saladin his empire fell to pieces. Afdhal, his eldest son, secured the title of Sultan of Damascus; another son, Aziz, that of Sultan of Egypt; and a third, Dahir, that of Sultan of Aleppo; Malek-Ahdel, his brother, the rule over Mesopotamia. Afdhal warred upon Aziz, and Malek-Ahdel took advantage of the reverses of both.