CHAPTER THREE
‘The Tournament was a fully pitched battle and never
was there a better seen’
ABBOT MARTIN’S HEARTFELT appeal touched sharply upon the hopes and aspirations of his audience in Basel. Other preachers delivered powerful and passionate sermons across western Europe through 1199 and 1200 and a growing number of people came forward to join the expedition. One particular occasion brought recruitment for the crusade to life, yet intriguingly this was not a sermon or religious assembly, but a much more worldly event: a tournament, the dramatic and glamorous playground for the knightly classes of northern Europe.1
On 28 November 1199, at the castle of Ecry-sur-Aisne, Count Thibaut of Champagne and his cousin, Count Louis of Blois, assembled the elite of northern French knighthood for a great festival to celebrate prowess at arms, to offer a forum for social advancement and to entertain. Today the castle has all but disappeared and only a few foundations remain in the village of Asfeld on the River Aisne, around 16 miles north of the city of Reims, the seat of the duchy of Champagne.
Tournaments were a spectacular and integral part of courtly life during the Middle Ages and some aspects of the purpose and ethos of such events help to explain why many at Écry chose to enlist in the crusade. At the time of the Fourth Crusade, however, tournaments were very different from the familiar images provided by television and film. We are accustomed to a formal setting: two knights facing one another in a joust; they couch lances under their arms, hunch behind their shields, then charge at top speed; a crash, and the splintering of wooden lances as they hit each other, the thump as one hits the ground; cheers for the victor. Grandstands full of brightly costumed admirers applaud, while at each end of the lists cluster the knights’ tents, topped with banners fluttering in bright sunlight. By the fourteenth century this picture may hold true, but earlier on the reality of an event such as that at Écry was far more chaotic and considerably more brutal.
Tournaments were rambling, anarchic occasions, laced with bloodshed and vengeance. They were not held in the enclosed setting of a jousting list, but ranged over many acres of land; the arena was usually defined by two designated villages or castles. In 1199 the tournament ground lay between Écry and the village of Balham, 2½ miles to the north-east. A long, gentle slope leads out of Écry towards Balham. To the left runs the Aisne, a broad, swift-running channel that loops gently along a shallow valley. Outside of this the wide, chalky plains of the region provided ample ground for a fast and free-ranging contest.
Such an open space was needed because men rarely participated in single combat, but gathered into two contingents, with up to 200 knights on each side. The formation of the groups often reflected real political alliances and this could generate razor-sharp tensions. On the signal of a herald the tournament began with a lance-charge. The two forces hammered towards each other at maximum speed, the bellowing of the men blended with the thundering of hooves and the rattle of harness. Then, the seismic impact of two fully armed contingents of knights in collision, the thud of bodies, the clash of metal on metal, flesh absorbing the momentum of a charge; the first cries of the injured. Hand-to-hand fighting would break out and helmets would ring from the blows that crashed down upon them. Amidst the fury of clashing steel, men were often wounded; occasionally they died. There were few rules and no referees. At times a mêlée or a scrum would develop and the scene frequently descended into near-mayhem, with the group that preserved better order the more likely winner. Little regard was given to the physical surroundings: orchards, vineyards and crops were damaged or trampled underfoot; the knights might use a barn or other farm building in which to hide or prepare an ambush; and the streets of a village might suddenly become the location of a full-scale clash between rival parties.
The purpose of these savage confrontations was to rehearse and train for real warfare, the only difference being that the aim was to capture the opponent, rather than to kill him. Of course, in the heat of the engagement— and perhaps, if one came across an old adversary - a sword might be swung a little too hard and lives could be lost. Inevitably accidents also happened: Count Geoffrey of Brittany, a younger brother of Richard the Lionheart, died at a tournament in 1186; six years later Duke Leopold of Austria was killed when his horse fell upon him in a ‘warlike game’. Others might be crippled; or misfortune could see a man trapped in his armour. After one particularly fierce encounter William Marshal, the greatest warrior of his day, could not be found. At last he was located in the local smithy, bent over a forge, submitting to the blows of the local blacksmith who was trying to remove a helmet so bent that it could not be taken off the knight’s head. Eventually William was freed. In some ways, the more violent the tournament, the better: as Roger of Howden, an English writer of the late twelfth century, commented: ‘he is not fit for battle who has never seen his own blood flow, who has not heard his teeth crunch under the blow of an opponent, or felt the full weight of his adversary upon him’.2 The fast-moving combat of a tournament provided by far the most realistic preparation for actual warfare that could be imagined; the History of William Marshal described one such occasion as ‘a fully pitched battle’.3
Tournaments were immensely popular in northern Europe (strangely, they hardly occurred in southern France or Italy) and the nobility acquired a genuine taste for these spectacular pageants. Newly knighted youths were sent off to take part in the dozens of events that took place over the tournament season. They would learn to work with their fellow-knights and could practise the use of the lance, as well as closer exchanges with the sword and the mace. One of the attractions of the tournament circuit was the prospect of making money. Captured opponents had to pay to be released and their horses and equipment might also be forfeit. In 1177 William Marshal and his partner, Roger of Jouy, claimed to have taken 103 knights, a feat that did much to make their reputations.4 A young knight from a relatively lowly background might achieve social advancement through his skill at arms, and it was known that the great nobles of the day often visited tournaments to identify the most talented newcomers and try to persuade them to join their households. So alongside military training there was the chance, as a twelfth-century Flemish writer remarked: ‘to live gloriously and to attain secular honour’.5
If a young knight was successful as a warrior there was another prize to be gained: he might also win the favour of a lady at court. At the edge of the tournament area there were special refuges where knights rested or tended their wounds, but also where spectators could gather. We hear of people watching tournaments from town or castle walls, safely above the action. Embedded in chivalric culture was the idea of courtly love: a knight would seek the admiration and patronage of a lady and, if he succeeded in proving his skill in battle, she would bestow a token upon him: a lock of hair, a piece of cloth or a trinket of some kind. The knight would become her champion and, in return for her love and esteem, he would try to perform bold deeds in her name. The Historyof William Marshal reported that the arrival of the ladies at a tournament at Joigny left the knights ‘convinced that they had become better men’. Once the contest began, ‘those who had been in the company of the ladies continually got the better of the other side’.6 The growing body of courtly literature celebrated this erotic interplay between a lady and the knight. Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote a semi-fictional History of the Kings of Britain in the early 1130s, provides this account of events at the court of King Arthur: ‘Every knight in the country who was in any way famed for his bravery wore livery and arms showing his own distinctive colour; and women of fashion often displayed the same colours. They scorned to give their love to any man who had not proved himself three times in battle. In this way the womenfolk became chaste and more virtuous and for their love the knights were ever more daring.’7
In many cases, such a relationship was limited to the bearing of tokens or a kiss for the victor. Moral constraints and the need to preserve a dynastic line usually dictated caution on the part of a noblewoman. Married women of the highest rank were wary of becoming involved with a knight, no matter how brave he was, not least because the penalties for adultery were severe. In some lands it was death; in others, terrible mutilation such as nasoctomy—the slitting of the nose. On occasion, of course, illicit relationships did take place—sometimes with disastrous consequences. In 1182 Count Philip of Flanders discovered one of his retinue in bed with his wife. The knight was given summary justice: he was beaten by the household butchers and then he was hung head-down in a sewer until he suffocated. Sometimes rumours alone were enough to result in a scandal. William Marshal allegedly dallied with the wife of the Young King Henry (Henry II’s eldest son, who died in 1183, six years before his father) and when this became public her husband forced William to leave the court. Nonetheless, some clandestine arrangements did survive and, for the unmarried at least, flirting and innuendo were de rigueur. We must imagine the great ladies of the day, dressed in their finest silks, or shrouded in furs and mantles in winter, as essential players in the ritual of a tournament. 8
Social display was a vital aspect of chivalric society. The best knights were not just daring warriors, but also patrons of music and literature and generous in the giving and making of entertainments. As tournaments became a central part of this culture, the great literary epics of the age celebrated and reinforced their importance. While these fictional writings have to be treated with some caution, when they concerned as familiar an event as a tournament they had to relate fairly closely to reality for the intended audience to feel properly involved.9 Chrétien de Troyes was one of the leading writers of the age and his patron was Count Philip of Flanders, a man known for his huge enthusiasm for tournaments. Chrétien described a tournament in his story ‘Érec and Énide’:
A month after Pentecost the tournament gathered and was engaged in the plain ... There were many bright-red banners, and many blue and many white, and many wimples and many sleeves given as tokens of love. Many lances were brought there painted azure and red, many gold and silver, many of other colours, many striped and many variegated. On that day was seen the lacing on of many a helmet ... some green, some yellow, some of bright red, gleaming in the sunlight. There were many coats of arms and many white hauberks, many swords at the left-hand side, many good shields, fresh and new, of azure and fine red, and silver ones with golden bosses. Many fine horses ... all came together at a gallop.
The field was entirely covered with armour ... the tumult grew. Lances were broken and shields were pierced, hauberks dented and torn apart, saddles were emptied, knights fell, horses sweated and foamed. Swords were drawn above those who fell to the ground with a clatter. Some ran to accept the pledges of the defeated and others to resume ...
Érec was not intent upon winning horses or taking prisoners, but on jousting and doing well in order to make evident his prowess. He made the ranks tremble before him; his skill excited and encouraged those on whose side he fought.10
With so many knights and nobles gathered in one place, a tournament was a wonderful opportunity to display other, non-military, attributes such as hospitality and largesse. Gifts were given in the form of patronage, money and valuable objects, horses or even land. The lords’ desire to outdo each other meant that the cost of staging such events could be enormous. Knights and their entourages had to be accommodated; squires, grooms and servants to be fed; horses stabled. Huge feasts were organised : jongleurs, magicians, dwarves, tumblers and story-tellers were hired and the finest food prepared. Gold and silver vessels were used to carry the food and drink and complex seating arrangements reflected hierarchy and status. Musicians were engaged and the cacophony of tambourines, drums, flutes, panpipes, trumpets and reed pipes resonated around a castle’s Great Hall.
There was also dancing. The Joigny tournament recorded by William Marshal was attended by many beautiful women. As the ladies arrived, the men rose to meet them. One said: ‘Come on, let us dance’; William himself provided a song and the knights took the ladies by the hand and danced.11 The halls would be decked in banners and shields, while some chambers were covered in frescos showing scenes from great battles of the past. In the mid-thirteenth century Henry III of England had Westminster Hall and rooms in the Tower of London, Winchester Castle and Clarendon Palace embellished with images of the deeds of his crusading ancestors, Duke Robert of Normandy and Richard the Lionheart.12 The doge’s palace in Venice contained frescos of the capture of Tyre in 1124. The castle at Écry may have been too humble for decoration on such a lavish scale, but the presence in November 1199 of men such as Thibaut and Louis almost certainly ensured that splendid feasts and entertainments accompanied the tournament.
The depiction of crusading deeds in a lord’s castle reveals a link from this most secular of settings to holy war. The relationship between tournaments, the crusades and the Church was one of mutual tensions and contradictions. In theory, the papacy deeply disapproved of tournaments. In 1139 Pope Innocent II decreed: ‘We entirely forbid, moreover, these abominable jousts and tournaments in which knights come together by agreement and rashly engage in showing off their physical prowess and daring, and which often result in human deaths and danger to souls.’13 For the Church, tournaments promoted nothing but sin: the vices of pride, hatred and vanity; feasts led to gluttony and the knights were aroused to lechery as they sought to impress wanton and immoral women. Given the reality of these events, there was a considerable degree of truth in such arguments. Knights were indeed directing their energies to self-serving ends; there was also the disorder and destruction caused by such contests. Yet in spite of repeated legislation against tournaments (1130, 1139, 1148, 1179), the knights and nobles of northern Europe became ever more enthusiastic about them.
In truth, because the tournament was such an ideal practice for warfare and provided the optimum outlet for display, advancement and patronage, it could not be suppressed. For example, in spite of the papal prohibitions, the great tournament organised by Emperor Frederick Barbarossa at Mainz in 1184 was attended by several important churchmen. Many of these men were relatives of the senior nobility and their close family ties and shared cultural and geographic milieu meant that it was quite natural for them to become involved. More importantly for the history of the crusades, in spite of the opportunities - as the papacy saw it—to commit sin, many of the men who took part in, or supported, tournaments were also well known for their piety. Count Philip of Flanders went on crusade in 1177—8 and then died at the siege of Acre during the Third Crusade in 1191. Count Henry ‘the Liberal’ of Champagne (so called because of his generosity) was known as a lavish benefactor of religious houses and was also an experienced crusader. In fact, Flanders and Champagne, the real heartlands of the tournament, were committed and enduring supporters of the crusading cause.14
The close relationship between crusading and chivalry was plain to see. The military experience acquired at a tournament was also applicable to a holy war. The need for contingents of knights from different regions to meet up and learn how to co-ordinate operations with each other could prove invaluable on crusade. Furthermore, chivalry had a strong religious aspect as well. The idea of serving a lord, the notion of honour, the ritual of dubbing and the blessing of weapons have strong ecclesiastical overtones. Notwithstanding the papacy’s deep mistrust of these events, rather than being a barrier to a crusade, the shared values and comradeship of the tournament circuit would, by the start of the thirteenth century, prove a genuine stimulus to the movement. Later in the thirteenth century some in the Church came to look upon tournaments more positively and saw their worth as a training ground for crusaders. Humbert of Romans, a leading churchman, even described these events as ‘like going to fight the Saracens’.15
Undoubtedly the need to achieve honour through one’s deeds in battle was a powerful incentive to the chivalric knight. What better forum for this than in God’s work? We have seen how earlier crusaders could be fêted for their bravery: Richard I of England’s reputation was made during the Third Crusade where his boldness in battle won admirers on all sides. A Muslim observer wrote: ‘never had we faced a bolder or more subtle opponent’.16 Western writers described him as ‘the finest knight on earth’ and it was on the crusade that Richard acquired his sobriquet of ‘Lionhearted’. Even before his feats of valour in the East, just taking the cross doubled his worth, according to a contemporary writer.17
Conon of Béthune was a Flemish knight who took part in the Fourth Crusade and who also wrote romantic verse. He linked the most worldly aspect of chivalry to the crusades by observing that no amount of success in a tournament could win a knight such admiration from fair ladies as the taking of the cross. His contemporary, Guy of Coucy, expressed his feelings more directly: ‘May God raise me to that honour that I may hold her, in whom I dwell with all my heart and thought, naked in my arms once before I cross the sea to Outremer.’18 The crusade became, therefore, a forum in which to prove all aspects of chivalric, as well as Christian. virtue. The preaching of the crusade in 1198-9 presented an opportunity for a pious, ambitious and chivalric knight. It may be no coincidence that a new generation had just emerged at the head of the major noble houses of northern France—a group ready to step forward and fight for the Lord and to secure their reputations.
At some point during the tournament at Écry, Count Thibaut and his cousin, Count Louis, halted the proceedings and took the cross, committing themselves to God’s service.19 The two men must have been moved to this by a private sermon of which we have no record. Tournaments were often held in conjunction with major religious or family festivals and in 1199 the presence of a churchman preaching the cross would not have been unlikely. This, set against the background of Innocent’s appeal, would have prompted Thibaut and Louis to consider the matter. Both men were too powerful and had too great a set of responsibilities to have acted completely spontaneously. Their family heritages were rich in crusading ancestry and both would have known that their vows were binding before God. The two counts would have been aware of the profound undertakings they had made; to try to avoid them would bring upon themselves ecclesiastical sanctions and great shame. In fact, along with the essential religiosity of the time and the chivalric ethos, the family background of both these young men was almost certainly a fundamental element in their decision to take the cross.
Thibaut was the younger, aged only 20, but he had already ruled Champagne for three years. His lands comprised one of the largest, richest and most prestigious lordships in western Europe; the counts of Champagne were, along with the counts of Flanders, probably the most senior figures of the realm behind the king of France. Thibaut’s grand-parents included King Louis VII of France (1137-80) and Eleanor of Aquitaine (both crusaders as well), and he was also a nephew of Richard the Lionheart, King John of England and King Philip of France. As well as having this superior family tree, Thibaut’s crusading pedigree was highly impressive: his father, Henry, had participated in the Second Crusade and had made an expedition of his own in 1179-80. Thibaut’s brother, Count Henry II, had taken the cross for the Third Crusade and had commanded the French contingent before the arrival of King Philip. To add particular distinction to the family’s achievements, when Conrad of Montferrat, the man designated as the next ruler of Jerusalem, was murdered in 1192, it was Henry who was selected to take his place. On 5 May that year he became ruler of Jerusalem, a position of enormous prestige even though the city itself remained in Muslim hands. Henry reigned until 10 September 1197 when his dwarfish entertainer toppled from a balcony and pulled him down to his death. Henry’s wife Isabella remained the titular ruler of Jerusalem, and Thibaut became the count of Champagne. One can see how Thibaut had a strong incentive to uphold his family’s crusading traditions and to help regain the city that his father had once ruled. He had reached the age of majority in 1198 and now, as a grown man, he could live up to his heritage.20
Louis of Blois was aged 28 when he took the cross. He too was a grandson of Louis VII and Eleanor and a nephew of King John and King Philip. In spite of his young age he already had crusading experience. His father, Thibaut the Good, had taken part in the Third Crusade and there is evidence that Louis had accompanied him. Thibaut the Good was amongst the many nobles who died at the siege of Acre in 1191, but his son survived and prospered. Louis’s wife, Catherine, brought the county of Clermont to him; her first husband, Raoul, had also perished at Acre and so Louis ruled over a considerable territory.21
The actions of Thibaut and Louis ignited recruitment for the Fourth Crusade. At last Innocent’s project had attracted men of real authority. The pope must have been delighted that nobles of such distinguished rank were prepared to take part in the expedition. It was, after all, more than a year since he had first launched the appeal and, with the collapse of his efforts to persuade the kings of England and France to fight for Christ, there was a very real possibility that the whole plan might fade into oblivion: a dismal start to the pontificate of a man of such spiritual fire. The events at Écry were pivotal. As Thibaut’s marshal, Geoffrey of Villehardouin (the author of one of the most important accounts of the Fourth Crusade), wrote: ‘People throughout the country were greatly impressed when men of such high standing took the cross.’22
Once Thibaut had signified his intention to participate in the crusade, there was a huge pressure on many of his vassals—or at least those of fighting age—to join. Geoffrey of Villehardouin provides lists of the nobles and knights who followed Thibaut and Louis and they feature many men with crusading ancestors, including the author himself. Geoffrey was a man in his early fifties and, as the marshal of Champagne, he was the count’s most senior military adviser and officer. Geoffrey took part in the Third Crusade, but on 14 November 1190 he was outside the Christian camp at the siege of Acre when he was ambushed by Muslim soldiers and imprisoned. It would be four years until he returned to Champagne, where he featured prominently in courtly life as an arbitrator of justice and as a key presence at most important events.
Before his death in 1212 or 1213 he narrated his story, probably relying on contemporary notes to support his memory. As a member of the elite inner circle of the crusade leadership, Geoffrey was party to most of its key meetings and his memoir provides an unparalleled insight into its workings. He boldly proclaimed the veracity of his text: ‘the author of this work ... has never, to his knowledge, put anything in it contrary to the truth’.23 Some historians have been less convinced and view him as an apologist, concealing facts that could reflect badly on the crusade (such as the full details of the sack of Constantinople) and covering up any hint that there was a possible plot to divert the crusade to Byzantium. More commonly, however, he is regarded in a more positive light and as a man saturated in the values of his warrior class. As a result he may express distorted judgements and omit certain episodes, but he is generally judged to be without any sinister purpose.24
Others who took the cross at Écry included Reynald of Montmirail, a cousin of Thibaut and Louis, and Simon of Montfort, a man who would later gain notoriety as the leader of the vicious crusade against the Cathar heretics of southern France in 1208-9. Simon had already fought in the Holy Land in 1198-9 and was now prepared to pledge himself to the crusading cause a second time.25
Another contingent came from the Île-de-France region around Paris; its leader was Bishop Nivelo of Soissons. The involvement of leading churchmen in a crusade was commonplace throughout the movement. Such men were often close relatives of the major nobles and they were needed to provide spiritual direction to the troops through regular worship and the confession and absolution so essential before a major battle.
Enthusiasm for the crusade began to filter across northern Europe. On 23 February 1200, Ash Wednesday, Count Baldwin of Flanders and his wife Marie took the cross in the city of Bruges. Above all other noble houses in the West, it was the counts of Flanders who could boast the longest and most intense commitment to the crusades. Count Robert II had been one of the heroes of the First Crusade; Count Charles the Good had fought in defence of the Holy Land for a year in around 1108; Count Thierry had made no fewer than four crusades to the Levant in 1139, 1146-9, 1157-8 and 1164 - a unique record of endurance and piety; Count Philip had been to the Levant in 1177-8 and died at Acre in 1191. With this background, one suspects that Baldwin’s decision to become a crusader was merely a question of timing.26
The count himself was aged 28; his wife Marie was aged 26. She was the sister of Thibaut of Champagne and therefore had the same impressive crusading traditions and ties to the ruling house of Jerusalem. Baldwin and Marie had been betrothed as infants and married at the ages of 14 and 12 respectively, but unlike many arranged marriages from the medieval period, their relationship was (as far as we can tell) genuinely very close. Gislebert of Mons, a contemporary chronicler, wrote of Baldwin’s ‘burning love’ for Marie and praised him for spurning all other women in a way few other nobles of the day did. The count was said to be deeply contented with his wife and did not turn to the usual collection of prostitutes and casual partnerships often found around the loveless marriages in the higher levels of medieval society. Even in official documents Baldwin chose to compliment Marie; instead of simply naming her as a witness to a charter, he described her as ‘my beautiful wife’, ‘my adored wife’ or ‘my most loving wife’; hardly the language of dry diplomacy. This was not mere convention, but a sign of Baldwin’s deep devotion. His love for Marie was widely recognised; the Byzantine writer Niketas Choniates, usually hostile towards those westerners who had sacked his beloved Constantinople, wrote of Baldwin: ‘He was, furthermore, devout in his duties to God, and was reported to be temperate in his personal conduct; for as long as he was separated from his dear wife, he never so much as cast a glance at another woman.’ It seems that Baldwin expected his fellow-crusaders to follow an equally continent code of behaviour because, as Niketas continued: ‘Most important, twice a week in the evening he had a herald proclaim that no one who slept within the palace was to have sexual intercourse with any woman who was not his legal wife.’27
At the time Baldwin and Marie took the cross she was heavily pregnant, expecting their first child, a daughter, Joan, who was born in late 1199 or early 1200. The presence on the crusade of the wives of leading men was not unknown. Marie’s grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, provided an obvious (if infamous) precedent, and Richard the Lionheart had married his bride Berengaria of Navarre on Cyprus as he travelled east on the Third Crusade. Alongside personal feelings for one another —a wish to be together - it was religious devotion, the need to continue trying to provide heirs, and the crusader lord’s ability to protect and feed his own family that explained why women such as Marie could go on crusade. Many other Flemings, including Baldwin’s brother, Henry, took the cross for the Holy Land as well, and they formed a strong, experienced contingent that contained several veterans of the Third Crusade, as well as numerous men with strong crusading traditions stretching back through the twelfth century.
After the Flemings had joined the expedition, Villehardouin recorded that Count Hugh of Saint-Pol, Count Peter of Amiens and Count Geoffrey of Perche, three other important noblemen from northern France, also pledged themselves to the crusade, along with large numbers of their knights and men-at-arms. One particular recruit from the second of these contingents is of great significance for historians of the Fourth Crusade: numbered amongst the vassals of Peter of Amiens was a humble knight, Robert of Clari, who wrote a record of his experiences on the campaign that provides us with one of the most vivid and exciting of all crusade narratives. He returned from the expedition in 1205 and in 1216 wrote up, or dictated, his work, in Old French, rather than the Latin used by the clergy. Robert produced an account from the perspective of an ordinary knight who, unlike Villehardouin, was not privy to the highest decision-making levels. His work is full of ideas and opinions as to how and why the crusade developed and his front-line experiences at Constantinople and his engaging sense of marvel at the size and scale of the great city add true vigour and value to his authority as a first-rate historical source. Like Villehardouin, Robert named many individuals from the French contingents who took the cross and ‘carried banners’ to indicate their status as wealthy knights.28
In the spring of 1200 the leading nobles chose to assemble at the town of Soissons in the north of Champagne. In spite of the encouraging involvement of these important men, there was still some concern that overall the crusaders were too few in number. Another meeting was scheduled to take place at Compiègne two months later and here some serious planning took place.29
Perhaps by this time news had reached northern France that the crusade was attracting support in the German Empire. Abbot Martin’s sermon in Basel and the work of other preachers had led to men such as Conrad, bishop of Halberstadt (in Saxony), joining the crusade with a sizeable contingent. In any case, the nobles at Compiègne settled down to debate the essential framework of the crusade. Presumably they discussed financial matters and how each proposed to finance his expedition. They stated the projected numbers in each of their retinues, and probably debated who else might follow them. Most crucially, they had to decide how to reach the eastern Mediterranean. The First and Second Crusades had chosen to march across Europe, through the Byzantine Empire, and had then fought their way over Asia Minor to northern Syria. Since 1182, however, the Byzantines had been resolute opponents of their fellow-Christians and were bitterly hostile to any western incursions. Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had managed to muscle his way past Constantinople and to defeat the Seljuk Turks in battle in 1190, but Richard and Philip had chosen to sail to the Levant. It was this latter course of action that the French nobles decided to follow. In reality it was the only realistic option open to them, on account of their relatively limited numbers and the continued enmity of the Greeks.
Many of the crusading ancestors of the Flemings - a seafaring people —had sailed from northern Europe, down the English Channel, around the Iberian peninsula and on to the Holy Land.30 But for most on the Fourth Crusade the prospect of sea travel was profoundly terrifying, though it offered a quicker and, in military terms, safer route to the Levant than any other. The landbound expeditions could take at least eight months; by sea it was possible to sail from Italy to the eastern Mediterranean in four to six weeks.31Because the northern French crusaders were not seafarers, and the Flemings lacked the ships to transport an army of the size now recruited, it was necessary to seek the services of the Italian maritime cities of Venice, Genoa or Pisa.
These three cities represented the most developed commercial powers in western Europe and their merchant fleets sailed extensively across the Mediterranean basin, even to trade with Muslim North Africa and Spain. All of these cities had taken part in crusades to the Holy Land and against the Muslims in the Balearics and the Iberian peninsula. The intense sense of religious devotion that permeated western Europe did not, of course, stop at the gates of the great trading centres, and the Italians possessed a potent mix of religious zeal and driving commercial ambition. 32 Each of these commercial centres was deeply imbued with a sense of Christian duty and was drawn to take part in the holy wars for spiritual reward; crusaders from all of the cities were as determined and delighted to secure the Holy Land for the faithful as their fellow-Catholics elsewhere in Europe. They were also keen to bring back relics from the East to venerate in their churches: the treasury of the cathedral of St Lawrence in Genoa still houses a piece of the True Cross, a plate believed to have carried the head of John the Baptist, and a beautiful emerald-green bowl from Caesarea, once thought to be the Holy Grail itself. The Venetians acquired the body of St Nicholas on the First Crusade and in the 1123-4 crusade to Tyre they brought back a block of stone from which Christ was said to have preached.33 Irrevocably entwined with this religious zeal and acute business sense was a growing feeling of pride in the achievements of their respective cities. The Italians did not view spiritual advance, commercial enterprise and civic prestige as the unhappy combination that it may seem today. A Genoese chronicler described the taking of the important southern Spanish trading port of Almeria in 1147 thus: ‘they captured the city for the honour of God and all of Christendom and determined to remain in control of it out of necessity of all Christians and the honour of Genoa’.34
Devout Christians the Italians undoubtedly were, but their support for the crusading movement had always come at a substantial price. In the early years of the Frankish conquest of the Holy Land there was a need to capture many of the coastal towns and cities of the Levant. The crusaders could not provide the ships to transport westerners to take part in these campaigns, nor the naval skills necessary to mount seaborne attacks on places such as Caesarea, Beirut, Acre and Sidon. In return for their expertise, the Italians gained streets and houses in these cities and secured highly profitable rights to use the harbours and trading points within each port. They also had their own churches, dedicated to the patron saint of their home city. Thus we find a church of St Lawrence in the Genoese quarter of Acre, and a church of St Mark’s in the Venetian district. They were also given the right to administer their own justice to their own people - a notable prerogative in that it cut across the authority of the local lord or monarch. In essence, little Pisan, Genoese or Venetian colonies grew up in the Crusader States, manned by personnel sent out from each mother city. Traders and administrators would probably serve for a two- or three-year term before returning home.
The Italians provided the Frankish settlers with an essential lifeline to the West. Twice a year, in March and September (for Easter and Christmas), great fleets set out from Italy to transport pilgrims, new crusaders and new settlers to the Levant. They would also carry items such as cloth, wood and metal, and would trade these for spices, silks, oils and sugar to bring back to their homelands. The most important port of the eastern Mediterranean was, however, the Egyptian city of Alexandria. The fact that it was a Muslim-held city did not prevent the Italians from having outposts there and from engaging in normal trading relations. Obviously at times of crisis the position of those in Alexandria was perilous and they might be expelled by the rulers or, on one rare occasion (1174) killed. Yet the requirements of the commercial world were not delineated by faith. Saladin himself had to justify the Italians’ presence in Egypt to his spiritual overlord, the caliph of Baghdad, and he explained that the trade in metals and military equipment was essential to his cause. In parallel, Muslim traders moved freely through the Crusader States, bringing their goods from Damascus and Aleppo to ports such as Acre and Beirut. They had to pay heavy taxes, but equally Frankish traders who ventured inland into their territories were required to pay dues as well. Ibn Jubayr, a Spanish Muslim who made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 1184, was amazed by this state of affairs and wrote:
One of the astonishing things is that although the fires of discord burn between the two parties ... yet Muslim and Christian travellers will come and go between them without interference. The sultan [Saladin] invested [the castle of Kerak, in Transjordan], but still the caravans passed successively from Egypt to Damascus, going through the lands without impediment from them. In the same way the Muslims continuously journeyed from Damascus to Acre and likewise not one of the Christian merchants was stopped or hindered in Muslim territories ... Security never leaves them [the merchants] in any circumstance, neither in peace nor war.
The lengthy siege of Acre (1189-91) brought trade to a halt for a time, but once relative calm returned, so too did the commercial traffic as the world of business crossed and recrossed the lines drawn by the conflict between Christianity and Islam.35
The three Italian cities were bitter competitors and on many occasions their rivalry spilled over into outright conflict; indeed, at the time of the Fourth Crusade, Genoa and Pisa were engaged in a period of intense feuding. In spite of papal attempts to mediate, their continuing struggle made it difficult for them to contemplate transporting a large army to the Holy Land.36 Furthermore, disputes concerning the Genoese transportation of King Philip’s army during the Third Crusade meant that the French were less willing to engage the Genoese again on an exclusive basis.
It was, therefore, to Venice that the envoys turned. In his crusade bull of August 1198 Innocent had explicitly mentioned the dispatch of his legate Soffredo to Venice ‘in search of aid for the Holy Land’, and, with Pisa and Genoa at odds, he had little or no alternative anyway.37
Villehardouin reported that when the crusade leaders assembled in council at Compiègne they decided to appoint six envoys to negotiate a sea passage on behalf of the crusading army. They were given charters; documents sealed by all the principal nobles who promised to abide by whatever arrangements were settled upon by their representatives. This was obviously an enormous responsibility and the six men were chosen with great care: two each from the contingents of Thibaut, Louis and Baldwin. Amongst these was Geoffrey of Villehardouin, whose presence here gives his chronicle a unique insight into the decision-making process.38
The terms that these men negotiated were amongst the most important influences on the outcome of the crusade. The circumstances fostered by their deal shaped and directed the armies’ actions in ways no one foresaw and did much to draw the crusade towards its terrible conclusion. Villehardouin and his colleagues, of course, could not have anticipated the outcome of the campaign and set out in complete good faith to secure passage for the army of Christ to regain His patrimony. In the early months of 1201 they passed across the Alps and into northern Italy, probably though Piacenza, and thence to Venice itself, reaching the city in the first week of Lent, March 1201.