“Hitherto,” says William of Tyre, whom we have been principally following, “hitherto the events I have described were related to me by others. All that follows I have either seen with my own eyes or have heard from those who actually were present. I hope, therefore, with the assistance of God, to be able to relate the facts that I have yet to put down with greater accuracy and facility.”
He was a young man when Fulke died, and preserves in his history that enthusiasm for his successor which one of his own age would probably entertain, and which Baldwin’s early death, if not his admirable qualities, prevented from dying out. He writes of him as one might have written of Charles I., had he died five years after he came to the throne, or of Louis XIV., had he finished his reign thirty years earlier.
Baldwin was only thirteen when with his mother, Milicent, as Queen and Regent, he was crowned king. Like his great ancestors, the young king grew up taller and stronger than the generality of mankind; his features were firm and undaunted, and a light beard covered his lips and chin; he was not “too fat like his brother, nor too thin like his mother.” In short, Baldwin, when he grew up, was a tall and handsome man. As for his mental qualities, his biographer exhausts himself in praises. He was prompt to understand; eloquent and fluent of speech; affable in manners; full of compassion and tenderness; endowed with an excellent memory (in which he must have presented a pleasing contrast to his father); tolerably well educated—“better, that is, than his brother”—the biographer’s standard of education is difficult to catch, because he afterwards tells us of Amaury that he was educated, “but not so well as his brother:” he was fond of having read to him the lives of great kings and the deeds of valiant knights; he knew thoroughly the common law of the realm; his powers of conversation were great and charming; he attached to himself the affections of everybody high and low. “And,” says the worthy bishop, “what is more rare in persons of his age, is that he showed all sorts of respect for ecclesiastical institutions, and especially for the Prelates of the Churches.” Where could a finer king be found?
If he had a fault it was that he was fond of gaming and dice. As the greater part of his life was spent on horseback, it was only occasionally that he could indulge in this vice. Another fault he had as a youth which he entirely renounced in later years. To the credit of King Baldwin it is recorded that he was, after his marriage, entirely blameless in respect of women. Now by this time the morals of the Kingdom of Jerusalem were in an extremely bad way, and the example of the young king could not fail of producing a great and most beneficial effect.
Queen Milicent was an ambitious woman, like her sister Alice, and had no intention at all of being a puppet. She accordingly insisted on being crowned together with her son. The kings of Jerusalem had ceased to affect that proud humility which made Godfrey refuse to wear a crown when his Lord had only worn thorns, and sent Baldwin I. to Bethlehem to be crowned, as it were, out of sight of the city of Christ’s sufferings. Now the ceremony was held in the very church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was the cathedral of the Christian city. In the king’s hands was placed the sword, with which to defend justice and Holy Church: on his finger they put the ring of faith; on his head the crown of honour; in his right hand the sceptre of authority and the golden apple of sovereignty.
Mother and son were crowned together, and the unhappy state, which wanted the firm hand of a Godfrey, found itself ruled by a boy and a woman. The barons began to take sides and form parties. There was no leader in the councils, none to whom they could look to as the common head, and if one advanced above the rest they regarded him with suspicion and envy. Worst of all, they began to fight with each other. In the north, Raymond of Antioch and young Jocelyn of Edessa looked upon each other as enemies, and spent most of their time in trying to devise means of mutual annoyance. Jocelyn, who ought to have been occupied in organising means for the defence of his dominions against the formidable Zanghi, when he was not harrying Raymond, lay inactive at Tellbasher, where he indulged in his favourite pleasures, hoping to spend the rest of his life in ignoble ease, looking out upon the world with those goggle eyes of his, the only feature, and that not a lovely one, recorded of this prince.
But he was to be rudely shaken from his slumber. It was in the early winter of 1144, the year of Baldwin’s accession, when news came to him that Zanghi was before the walls of Edessa with an immense army. Jocelyn, roused too late, sent everywhere for assistance. Raymond would not help him; his own knights reproached him with his indolence and apathy, and declared that they would not march to certain death. Queen Milicent issued orders for the army to move northwards, which were not obeyed; and Edessa was doomed.
Zanghi, finding success almost certain, redoubled his efforts, and sent for reinforcements in all directions. He even offered favourable terms of surrender; but these were refused. Zanghi’s plan of siege was the ordinary one, quietly to undermine the towers, propping up the earth as it was removed with timber. When the proper time arrived, the timber would be set fire to, and of course the tower would fall. The Latin archbishop, who appears to have been in command, would hear of no surrender, and exhorted the people daily, holding forth the promise of the crown of martyrdom. But on the twenty-second day of the siege the towers which had been undermined fell with a crash, and the enemy poured in. The first thought of the people was to fly for shelter to the citadel. Many were crushed or trampled to death in the attempt, among whom was Archbishop Hugh, who had been storing up gold, and now tried to carry it into the citadel. The weight of his treasure helped to bear him down. The enemy were before them at the gates of the citadel, and the slaughter of the helpless people commenced, with all the horrors usual after a siege. Islam was triumphant; Christendom in despair.
But Zanghi died next year, being assassinated by his own slaves, and a lively joy was diffused throughout Palestine. “A certain Christian,” says William of Tyre, with admirable modesty, for, of course, he was himself the accomplished poet, directly he heard of this event, delivered himself of the following melodious impromptu:[[64]]
“Quam bonus eventus! fit sanguine sanguinolentus