The age of the crusades

by James M. Ludlow

It is not to the discredit of the personal character of Louis IX. that he was not entirely free from the bigotry and superstition of his age. He treated heresy as of the nature of rebellion, and did not stay the heavy hand of persecution in some instances. He especially revered relics. When a nail, which was believed to have been one of those that pierced the hands of Jesus, was temporarily missing from its casket, he cried, “I would rather that the best city in my kingdom had been swallowed up in the earth.” With joy he paid a large price to Baldwin II., the Latin King of Constantinople, for our Saviour’s crown of thorns. The “Holy Chapel,” which he built to shield the precious relics, still remains one of the finest monuments of mediæval times. In private life Louis would have preferred the daily routine of a monk to the diversions of the court. He prided himself on the hard haircloth worn next his skin as a token of perpetual humility more than he cared for his royal robe. At his waist hung, instead of silken tassels, a scourge of iron chains, which drew blood from his back once a week. He never laughed on a Friday. Except where the dignity of his throne required public defence, Louis scarcely maintained his royal self-respect, so meek did he try to be. A common woman once brazenly said to him, “You are unfit for a king of France, fit only to be a king of monks and priests.” Louis humbly replied, “You say the truth,” and with a smile gave her a handful of money.

As early as 1239, when Louis IX. was twenty-four years of age, he manifested great zeal for the crusades, and sent Amaury de Montfort to fight as his personal representative on the field. Five years later (1244) he was afflicted with such serious illness that at one moment he was believed to be dead. The watchers were startled by his sepulchral voice: “He, by God’s grace, hath visited me—He who cometh from on high hath recalled me from among the dead.” Reviving from his swoon, he bade the Bishop of Paris place upon his shoulder the cross of the voyage over the sea. Three years passed, during which he seemingly forgot the vow, but an incident proved that the holy enthusiasm still burned in his heart. Allusion being made one day to the cross he wore as having been assumed at a moment when he was of wavering mind through bodily weakness, the king instantly undid the emblem from his shoulder and gave it to the Bishop of Paris; he then added, “Now assuredly I am in my senses. He that knoweth all things knoweth that until that cross is replaced upon my shoulder no food shall enter my lips.”

At this time Pope Innocent IV. was attempting to arouse Europe to a new crusade, but since his greater zeal was for a crusade against Frederick II., the holy war lacked recruits. Germany was in the midst of the civil dissension which Innocent had stirred up by acknowledging his subservient tool, Henry, Landgrave of Hesse, as emperor. Italy was rent with the contention between Guelph and Ghibelline, fostered by the same mistaken judgment of Innocent. England was at war with Scotland and Wales. Frederick II., in order to avert the thickening disasters from his realm, proposed to personally abdicate the imperial throne in favor of his son Conrad, and himself to lead an army to Palestine, with an oath never to return, if even this personal sacrifice would appease the papal resentment. Louis IX. besought the Holy Father to accede to this proposal and to assume a different attitude towards a Christian monarch, but Innocent was obdurate to all entreaties. The church of Christ was ruled by the hatred and wrath of one who, above all men, should have remembered the Lord’s prayer, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” The penalty of breaking the precepts of human wisdom and divine charity at length fell upon him. The Pope lost the sympathy of the kingdoms; even the French nobles, though jealous of Germany, formed a league for their defence against papal encroachments. This, if not the origin of, greatly favored the movement for Gallican liberties, which has continued ever since.

Louis IX. took upon himself the duty of leading the crusade; he convoked a parliament of the dignitaries of his realm, and by his eloquence moved the princes and nobles to follow his example. His queen, Marguerite, with many of her proudest ladies, assumed the cross. Among the warriors was the Prince de Joinville, the endeared companion and adviser of the king, to whose prolific and graceful pen the world is indebted for the history of Louis’s time and personal adventures. Those who did not at once volunteer to join the crusade were variously persuaded by the zeal of the monarch. It was the custom for the French kings at certain solemnities to present their courtiers with mantles, which they put on in his presence and wore afterwards as the sign of royal favor. Louis observed the custom on Christmas eve. As the guests marched from the shaded robing-room to the lighted chapel they were amazed to discover the cross of voyage sewed upon every man’s shoulder. The courtiers laughed at the joke perpetrated upon them, but, feeling its significance, yielded to the royal will and honored their investment by taking the crusaders’ vow.

The example of the king affected the entire population. In every village was seen the procession of volunteers seeking the blessing of the altar and enrolling themselves under their lords. Whole territories were thus stripped of their defenders and even of the tillers of the soil; rising arts were bereft of their workmen. France was despoiling itself for the sake of an idea. Modern utilitarianism may deride it, but our sentiment applauds where our judgment condemns. It was indeed still the “age of faith.”

In June, 1248, Louis took up the pilgrim staff together with the oriflamme of France. He left the kingdom to the care of his mother, Blanche, and with his wife set out upon what proved to be one of the most romantic and tragic of adventures. At Lyons he made confession to the Pope, whom he again unavailingly entreated to be at peace with Frederick. As the cavalcade was nearing Avignon his men were assaulted, and begged to be permitted to avenge the insult by an attack upon that city. “No,” replied the king; “I go from France not to avenge my own injuries, but those of my Lord Jesus Christ.” At Marseilles a similar outrage occurred. The king refused to retaliate, saying, “God forbid that Satan should prevail, for he is angered at our expedition and is seeking to put obstacles in the way.”

In August he set sail from Aigues-Mortes, a place he had purchased and in whose harbor he had prepared his fleet; he here diminished his host by discharging with abundant recompense all such as he deemed not of the right sort either in character or pious purpose. As the French had no experience in navigation, the movement of the fleet was committed to Genoese captains. Joinville’s experience will be appreciated by many landsmen: “A great fool is he who, having any sin on his soul, places himself in such danger; for if he goes to sleep at night he cannot be certain he shall not find himself at the bottom of the sea in the morning.” Landing in Cyprus, the expedition was warmly received by the king of the island, but found scanty supply of provisions. Louis appealed to the Venetians, who sent him much corn and wine. Frederick II., learning of the crusaders’ need, also sent supplies. Louis replied with thanks to the emperor, and sent another appeal to the Pope to forego his wrath upon so generous a friend to the cause of the Master; but it evoked no compassion in the relentless heart of the pontiff.

Louis was prevailed upon to spend the winter in Cyprus, under pledge of the Cypriotes to accompany him in the spring. Luxury brought relaxation of discipline and all its accompanying vices. This was followed by a pest, which caused the death of two hundred and fifty knights. During the winter there arrived an embassy of Tartars, who announced the conversion to Christianity of one of their great princes, and solicited alliance with the French. Louis apparently credited the story, and sent to the Tartar chief a scarlet tent, in the canvas of which were wrought in silken letters many texts of Scripture, which it was hoped might assist the convert’s meditation. The embassage proved to be a ruse—doubtless an attempt to spy out the destination and power of the crusaders.

A more significant overture was received from the Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, who proposed, rather than war, to open negotiations with the Sultan of Cairo, who might be disposed to grant more than the Christians could wrest from him. This Louis regarded as an insult to his prowess and vow.

It had been determined to strike the enemy in Egypt. Of the wisdom of this project few were persuaded. The Arabian writers speak of it as showing an imbecile mind. Egypt was at this time governed by Negmeddin, son of Malek-Kamel, the conqueror of the Christians in their former attempt at Damietta. This chieftain had united in his hand all the Moslems from the Nile to the Euphrates. Aware of the plans of the coming invaders, he massed a great fleet to descend the Nile and meet the fleet of the Christians, and an army of commensurate proportions to guard the banks.