Anonymous

REIGN OF RICHARD I. (concluded).

Shipwreck of Richard—His Arrival in Austria—His Capture by the Archduke Leopold—He is Surrendered to the Emperor of Germany—Events in England—Renewed Persecution of the Jews—The Massacre at York—Quarrel between Longchamp and Pudsey—Stories about Longchamp—His Rupture with John, and Temporary Compromise—Imprisonment of Geoffrey of York—Longchamp takes Refuge in the Tower—His Deposition and Flight to France—Intrigues between John and Philip—Rumours of Richard's Imprisonment—The Story of Blondel—Richard before the Diet—Loyalty of Richard's Subjects, and Collection of the Ransom—Richard's Reception in England—His Expedition to France—Administration of Hubert Walter—William Fitz-Robert—Recommencement of Hostilities with France—The Bishop of Beauvais—Defeat of Philip—Death of Richard before Chaluz—His Character.

Richard set sail from Acre in October, 1192, with the queen Berengaria, his sister Joan, and all the knights and prelates who held fealty to the English crown. The proud heart of Coeur-de-Lion would not permit him to visit Jerusalem in the lowly guise of a pilgrim, but he quitted Palestine with feelings of the deepest regret; and he is reported to have stretched out his arms towards the hills, exclaiming, "Most holy land, I commend thee unto God's keeping. May He grant me life and health to return and rescue thee from the infidel!"

A heavy storm—attributed by the sailors to the displeasure of Heaven—overtook the returning fleet, scattering the ships, and casting many of them ashore on the coasts of Barbary and Egypt. The vessel which carried Joan and Berengaria arrived in safety at a port in Sicily. Richard had followed in the same direction, with the intention of landing in southern France; but he suddenly remembered that he had many bitter enemies in that country, in whose power it would be dangerous to trust himself, and he turned back to the Adriatic, dismissing the greater part of his followers, and intending to take his way homeward in disguise through Styria and Germany.

His vessel was attacked by Greek pirates; but he not only succeeded in repelling the attack, but in commanding their services to convey him to shore. Possibly his name may have had an influence, even with these robbers of the sea; but whatever were the means employed, it is certain that they placed themselves under his orders, and that he quitted his own ship for one of theirs, in which—the better to secure his disguise—he proceeded to Zara in Dalmatia, and there landed. He was attended by a Norman baron, named Baldwin of Bethune, two chaplains, a few Templars, and some servants. Richard had assumed the dress of a palmer, and, having suffered his hair and beard to grow long, went by the name of Hugh the Merchant. He had, however, not yet learned prudence, and those who were with him seemed to have been as deficient in this quality as himself. Coeur-de-Lion then hastened on his way through Germany, attended only by a single knight, and by a boy who spoke the English language, then very similar to the Saxon dialect of the Continent. For three days and nights they travelled without food among mountains covered with snow, not knowing in which direction they were going. They entered the province which had formed the eastern boundary of the old empire of the Franks, and was called Œsterreich, which means the East Country. This country, known to us by the name of Austria, was subject to the Emperor of Germany, and was governed by an Archduke, whose capital was Vienna, on the Danube. This duke was the same Leopold whom Richard had insulted at Ascalon, and with whom also, on a former occasion, he had a serious quarrel. This occurrence took place at Acre, where the duke having presumed to raise his standard on a portion of the walls, Coeur-de-Lion seized the flag and trampled it under foot.

Richard and his companions arrived at a small town near Vienna, exhausted with fatigue and fasting. It is not probable that the king could have proceeded so near the city without knowing where he was, but his immediate necessities were too pressing to leave any room for hesitation. Having taken a lodging, he sent the boy into the market-place to buy provisions. The boy was dressed in costly clothes, and these, together with the large sums of money which he exhibited, excited the suspicions of the citizens; but he made excuse that he was the servant of a rich merchant who was to arrive within three days at Vienna. When he returned to the king, he related what had happened, and begged him to escape while there was yet time. Richard, however, little accustomed to anticipate danger, and fatigued with his journey, determined to remain some days longer.

Meanwhile Leopold heard the rumour of the landing of his enemy at Zara, and, incited at once by feelings of revenge and by the hope of the large ransom which such a prisoner would command, sent out spies and armed men in all directions to search for him. As the duke was scarcely likely to anticipate the presence of the fugitive so near the capital, the search was made without success, and Coeur-de-Lion would doubtless have escaped undiscovered if another strange act of carelessness had not drawn suspicion upon him. One day, when the same boy who had before been arrested was again in the market-place, he was observed to carry in his girdle some embroidered gloves, such as were worn only by princes and great nobles on occasions of ceremony. He was again seized, and the torture was employed to bring him to confession. He revealed the truth, and pointed out the house in which King Richard was lodging. Coeur-de-Lion was in a deep sleep when the room in which he lay was entered by Austrian soldiers. He immediately sprang up and, seizing his sword, which lay beside him, kept them at bay, vowing that he would surrender to none but their chief. The soldiers, superior as their numbers were, hesitated to undertake the task of disarming him, and the Archduke of Austria having been sent for, Coeur-de-Lion gave up the sword into his hands.

No sooner did the Emperor Henry VI. of Germany learn the news of the arrest of Coeur, de-Lion than he sent to the Archduke of Austria, his vassal, commanding him to give up his prisoner. "A duke," said he, "has no right to imprison a king; that is the privilege only of an emperor." This strange proposition does not seem to have been denied by Leopold, who resigned the custody of the English king, on condition of receiving a portion of his ransom. The agreement having been concluded, Richard was removed from Vienna at Easter, 1193, and was confined in one of the imperial castles in Worms.

Before we follow further the fortunes of this adventurous king, it is necessary to go back to the period of his departure for the Holy Land, and to trace the course of events in England during his absence. The popular feeling which had been excited against the Jews at the time of Richard's coronation, and which he had done so little to repress, found vent in persecutions and massacres throughout the country. In those turbulent times there were among the people a certain number of lawless characters, who, ever eager for plunder, were doubly so when they could obtain it by means which were encouraged by their superiors, and permitted secretly, if not openly, by the clergy. To kill a Jew was regarded not only as no crime, but as a deed acceptable to God; and in England, as in Palestine, the pure and holy religion of peace was believed to give its sanction to acts of merciless bloodshed and plunder. In February, 1190, a number of Jews were butchered in the streets of Lynn, in Norfolk, and immediately afterwards, as though by a preconcerted movement, similar bloody scenes were enacted at Norwich, Lincoln, St. Edmundsbury, Stamford, and York.

RICHARD ASSAILED BY THE AUSTRIAN SOLDIERS. (See p. 236.)

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The massacre of York, which took place in March, 1190, was remarkable no less for the number of victims who were sacrificed than for the circumstances of horror which attended it. At nightfall, on the 16th of the month, a company of strangers, armed to the teeth, entered the city, and attacked the house of a rich Jew who had been killed in London at the coronation. His widow and children, however, still remained, and these the ruffians put to the sword, carrying off whatever property the house contained. On the following day the rest of the Jews in York, anticipating the fate which awaited them, appeared before the governor, and entreated permission to seek safety for themselves and their families within the walls of the castle. The request was granted, and the people of the persecuted race, to the number of not less than 1,000 men, women, and children, were received into the fortress, within whose strong walls they might hope to find shelter from their enemies. But for some reason or other the governor passed outside the gates, and returned attended by a great number of the populace. The Jews, whose misfortunes had made them suspicious, feared that they had been permitted to enter the castle only as into a slaughter-house, and refused to admit the governor, excusing their disobedience by their dread of the mob, who, it was evident, would enter with him if the drawbridge were lowered. The governor refused to listen to such an argument, reasonable as it was; and, whatever may have been his original intention, he now gave orders to the rabble to attack the rebellious Israelites. The command was willingly obeyed, and the populace, whose numbers were continually increased by all the vagabonds and ruffians of the neighbourhood, laid siege to the castle, and made preparations for taking it by assault. It is related that the governor became alarmed at the tumult he had raised, and that he recalled his order, and endeavoured to calm the excitement of the people; if so, his efforts were unsuccessful. Few things are easier than to rouse the passions of men—nothing more difficult than to quell them. The unhappy Jews heard the loud shouts of vengeance without the walls, and, foreseeing that they could make little or no defence against the force brought against them, set the place on fire, slew first their wives and children, and afterwards, with a few exceptions, themselves.

It has been already related that, before the departure of Richard for the Holy Land, he had sold the chief justiciarship of the kingdom to Hugh Pudsey, Bishop of Durham, whose authority he subsequently curtailed by appointing as rival justiciary William Longchamp, Bishop of Ely. Longchamp, who also held the chancellorship, and the custody of the Tower of London, was the favourite of Richard, and he soon secured into his own hands the entire government of the country. The king, who had the greatest confidence in his loyalty and ability, issued letters-patent, directing the people to obey him as their sovereign; and, by the authority of the Pope, the chancellor was also appointed legate of England and Ireland. Thus doubly armed with spiritual and temporal power, the rule of Longchamp was absolute throughout the kingdom.

Pudsey, however, had paid for the justiciarship, and was by no means disposed to see his privileges swept away without making an effort at resistance. He accordingly laid his complaint before the king, and Richard, in reply, sent him letters, authorising him to share with Longchamp the authority which was his due. Armed with these, Pudsey made his appearance in London with great ceremony, but the barons of the kingdom assembled there refused to permit him to take his seat among them. After having in vain insisted upon the king's authority which he carried with him, the discomfited bishop proceeded in search of the chancellor. When the two prelates met, Longchamp approached his brother of Durham with a smiling countenance and courteous demeanour, expressed himself ready to obey the commands of the king, and invited Pudsey to an entertainment on that day se'nnight in the castle of Tickhill. The Bishop of Durham, who possessed either more good faith or less shrewdness than is usual with statesmen in that or any other age, accepted the invitation; and as soon as he had passed the gates of the castle, Longchamp placed his hand on his shoulder and arrested him, saying, that as sure as the king lived, the bishop should not leave that place until he had surrendered, not only his claim to power, but all the castles in his possession. "This," said he, "is not bishop arresting bishop, but chancellor arresting chancellor." Pudsey was accordingly imprisoned, and was not released until he had fulfilled the required conditions.

The power of Longchamp was now employed to the utmost to raise money for the king's necessities, and to further his own schemes of aggrandisement. Among the chroniclers are several who speak in strong terms of his avarice and tyranny, while Peter of Blois alone has a good word to say for him. He, however, was an impartial witness, and an authority whose words carry considerable weight. Matthew Paris says that such was the rapacity of the chancellor that not a knight could keep his baldrick, not a woman her bracelet, not a noble his ring, not a Jew his hoards of gold or merchandise. He used his power to enrich his relations and friends, placing them in the highest and most profitable posts under government, and entrusting to them the custody of towns and castles, which he took from those who had previously held them. He passed through the country with all the pomp and parade of royalty, attended by more than a thousand horsemen; and it is related that whenever he stopped to lodge for the night, a three years' income was not enough to defray the expenses of his train for a single day. His taste for luxury was further ministered to by minstrels and jugglers, whom he invited from France, and who sang their strains of flattery in the public places, proclaiming that the chancellor had not his like in the world.

There is an evident air of exaggeration about these statements, and many of them were to be referred to men as disaffected towards the king as towards his chancellor. If Longchamp reduced the country to poverty by his exactions, it is most likely that he was impelled to obtain the money by the demands of Richard: we shall presently see, however, that the national wealth was by no means exhausted by the burdens—heavy as they were—which it sustained. The loyalty of Longchamp has never been doubted, and there is no reason to believe that his government was generally tyrannous or unjust.

The nobles viewed the increasing power of the chancellor with feelings of envy; and Earl John, the brother of Richard, who had long entertained designs upon the throne, perceived that his chances of success were small indeed so long as a man devoted to the king retained the supreme power in the realm. Some of the turbulent barons, to whom Longchamp had given cause of offence, attached themselves to John, and encouraged him in his ambitious schemes. While Richard was in Sicily he received letters from his brother, containing various accusations against the chancellor of tyranny and misgovernment. It appears that these letters produced their effect, and that the king sent a reply directing that, if the accusations were proved to be true, Walter, Archbishop of Rouen, with Geoffrey Fitz-Peter and William Marshal, should be appointed to the chief justiciarships, and that in any case they should be associated with Longchamp in the direction of affairs. Richard, however, was well aware of the treacherous disposition of his brother, and reflection satisfied him that the chancellor was more worthy of confidence than those who accused him. Before the departure of the fleet from Messina, the king sent letters to his subjects confirming the authority of Longchamp, and directing that implicit obedience should be rendered to him.

When John learnt that his brother was on his way to Acre, he took active measures for bringing his schemes into operation. Various disputes took place between him and the chancellor, and before long an incident occurred which led to an open rupture between them. Gerald of Camville, a Norman baron, and one of the adherents of John, held the custody of Lincoln Castle, which he had purchased from the king. Longchamp—who, it is said, desired to give this office to one of his friends—summoned Camville to surrender the keys of the castle; but the baron refused compliance, saying that he was Earl John's liegeman, and that he would not relinquish his possessions except at the command of his lord. Longchamp then appeared before Lincoln with an army, and drove out Camville, who appealed to John for justice. The prince, who desired nothing better than such an opportunity, attacked the royal fortresses of Nottingham and Tickhill, carried them with little or no opposition, and, planting his standard on the walls, sent a messenger to Longchamp to the effect that, unless immediate restitution were made for the injury to Gerald of Camville, he would revenge it with a rod of iron. The chancellor, who possessed little courage or military talent, entered into a negotiation, by the terms of which the castles of Nottingham and Tickhill remained in the hands of John, and that of Lincoln was restored to Camville. Others of the royal castles, which had hitherto remained exclusively in the power of the chancellor, were committed into the custody of different barons, to be retained until the return of Richard from the Holy Land, or, in the event of his death, to be delivered up to John.

These important concessions satisfied John only for a short time, and an opportunity soon presented itself for pushing his demands further. Geoffrey, son of Henry II. by Fair Rosamond, had been appointed to the archbishopric of York during his father's lifetime, but his consecration had been delayed until the year 1191, when the necessary permission was received from the court of Rome, and he was consecrated by the Archbishop of Tours. As soon as the ceremony was concluded, he prepared to take possession of his benefice, notwithstanding the oath which had been exacted from him that he would not return to England. The chancellor having been apprised of his intention, sent a message to him forbidding him to cross the Channel, and at the same time directed the sheriffs to arrest him should he attempt to land. Geoffrey despised the prohibition; and, having landed at Dover in disguise, took shelter in a monastery. His retreat was soon discovered, and the soldiers of the king broke into the church, and seized the archbishop at the foot of the altar, while he was engaged in the celebration of the mass. A good deal of unnecessary violence seems to have been used, and Geoffrey was dragged through the streets to Dover Castle, where he was imprisoned.

The peculiar circumstances of this arrest, and the indignity thus inflicted upon a prelate of the Church, excited the popular feeling strongly against the government, and John, satisfied that he would be supported by the people, openly espoused the cause of his half-brother, and peremptorily ordered the chancellor to release him. Longchamp dared not resist the popular voice; he asserted that he had given no orders for the violence which had been used, and directed that the archbishop should be set at liberty, and suffered to go to London. An alliance, whose basis seems to have been self-interest rather than mutual esteem, was formed between the two half-brothers, and John, supported by the Archbishop of Rouen, who had been sent by Richard to England, boldly proceeded to London, summoned the great council of the barons of the kingdom, and called upon the chancellor to appear before it and defend his conduct. Longchamp not only refused to do so, but forbade the barons to assemble, declaring that the object of John was to usurp the crown. The council, however, was held at London Bridge, on the Thames, and the barons summoned Longchamp, who was then at Windsor Castle, to appear before them. The chancellor, on the contrary, collected all the men-at-arms who were with him, and marched from Windsor to London; but the adherents of John, who met him at the gates, attacked and defeated his escort; and finding himself also opposed by the citizens, he was compelled to take refuge in the Tower.

ARREST OF ARCHBISHOP GEOFFREY IN A MONASTERY AT DOVER. (See p. 239.)

Immediately afterwards John entered the city; and, on his promising to remain faithful to the king, was received with welcome. The people, though they were willing to join in deposing the chancellor, retained, almost without exception, the utmost loyalty to their brave sovereign, and showed clearly they would permit of no treason against his authority. The act contemplated by the barons involved very important consequences, and John, with the craft and caution peculiar to his character, determined to obtain the assent of the citizens of London, and thus to involve them in a portion of its responsibility. The suffrages of the people were taken in a manner which shows at once the rudeness of the times and the unusual nature of such a proceeding. On the day fixed for the great assembly of the barons, the tocsin, or alarm bell, was rung, and when the citizens poured forth from their houses, they found heralds posted in the streets, who directed them to St. Paul's Church. When the people arrived there in a crowd, they found the chief men of the realm—barons and prelates—seated in council. These haughty nobles, chiefly of Norman descent, whose usual custom had been to treat the native English as mere serfs and inferior beings, now received the people with extraordinary courtesy, and invited them to take part in the proceedings. The debate which followed, being conducted in Norman-French, must have been unintelligible to the majority of the citizens; but they were shown the king's seal affixed to a letter, which was said to authorise the deposition of the chancellor in case he failed to conduct properly the duties of his office. When this letter had been read, the votes of the whole assembly were taken, and it was decreed by the voice of "the bishops, earls, and barons of the kingdom, and of the citizens of London," that the chancellor should be deprived of his office, and that John, the brother of the king, should be proclaimed "chief governor of the whole kingdom."

On the news of these transactions being conveyed to Longchamp, it is reported that he fell upon the floor insensible. It was evident that he had no longer any power to resist the pretensions of John: resistance, to have been of any avail, should have come sooner. The troops of his opponents having surrounded the Tower, the chancellor came out from the gates, and offered to surrender. John, who thought it worth while to buy his adhesion or submission to the new authority, proposed to leave him in possession of the bishopric of Ely, and to give him the custody of three castles belonging to the crown. To the honour of Longchamp, he refused to accept gifts from such a source, or to resign of his own free will any of the powers entrusted to him by his sovereign. "I submit," he said, "only to the superior force which is brought against me." And with these words he gave the keys of the Tower into the hands of John. The barons, however, compelled him to take an oath that he would surrender the keys of the other royal fortresses, and his two brothers were detained as hostages for the performance of these conditions.

The ex-chancellor himself was permitted to go at large; and it appears that he determined, rather than resign possession of the castles, to leave his brothers in danger, and to escape to Normandy. Having reached Canterbury, he stayed there for a few days, and then quitted the town in the disguise of a hawking woman, having a bale of linen under his arm and a yard-measure in his hand. In this strange costume, the ex-chancellor, who had been accustomed to travel with a retinue of 1,000 men-at-arms, took his way on foot to the sea-shore. Having to wait a while for a vessel in which to embark, he sat down upon a stone with his veil, or hood, drawn over his face. Some fishermen's wives who were passing by stopped and asked him the price of his cloth, but as he did not understand a word of English, he made no answer, much to the surprise of his questioners. Presently some other women came up to him, who also took an interest in his merchandise, and desired to know how he sold it. The prelate, who was keenly alive to the ludicrousness of his situation, burst out into a loud laugh, which stimulated the curiosity of the women, and they suddenly lifted his veil. Seeing under it, as Roger of Hoveden hath it, "the dark and newly-shaven face of a man," they ran away in alarm, and soon brought back with them a number of men and women, who amused themselves by pulling the clothes of this strange person, and rolling him in the shingle. At length, after the ex-chancellor had tried in vain to make them understand who he was, they shut him up in a cellar, and he was compelled to make himself known to the authorities as the only way of regaining his liberty. He then gave up the keys of the royal castles, and was permitted to proceed to the Continent.

Immediately on his arrival in Normandy, Longchamp wrote those letters to Richard which reached him in the Holy Land, and apprised him of the unsettled condition of affairs in England, and of the dangerous assumption of power on the part of John. This prince had appointed the Archbishop of Rouen to the chief justiciarship of the kingdom; but it would appear that the new justiciary was too honest a man to assent to all the views of his unprincipled master; and John being in want of money, entered into a negotiation with Longchamp to replace him in his office for a payment of £700. The chief ministers, however, dreading the consequences which might follow the return of the ex-chancellor to power, agreed to lend John a sum of £500 from the treasury, to induce him to withdraw his proposal. The mercenary prince consented to do so, and the negotiation was broken off.

In defiance of the solemn oath which Philip had taken before leaving the Holy Land, he no sooner returned to France than he prepared to invade Normandy. Some of the nobles of his kingdom, however, had more regard for their knightly faith, and they refused to join in the expedition; while the Pope, determined to defend the cause of a king who was so nobly fighting the battle of the faith, threatened Philip with the ban of the Church if he persisted in his treacherous intention. Compelled to abandon this expedition, the French king by no means gave up his designs against Richard, and he entered into a treaty with John, by which he promised to secure to him the possession of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou, and to assist him in his attempts upon the English throne. In return he merely asked that John should marry the Princess Alice, Philip's sister.

To this match John, who probably might have been willing to promise anything that was required of him, did not hesitate to give his consent, in spite of the sinister rumours which were current about the princess, and the fact that she had been affianced to his brother.

As time passed on, and the king still remained absent, strange stories began to get abroad. It was affirmed that he had been driven on the coast of Barbary, and taken prisoner by the Moors; that, like Robert of Normandy, he had been tempted to stay for a while among the groves of Italy; that the ship which carried him had foundered at sea with all on board. The last story, however, found few believers, for the people, imbued with a tinge of that romance which taught the immortality of the hero, were fully convinced that their king was still alive, and would some day return to take possession of the throne. At length it became known that Coeur-de-Lion was in imprisonment in one of the castles of Germany. The news was first conveyed in a letter from the Emperor Henry to King Philip, and quickly travelled over Europe. To the revengeful and ungenerous King of France that letter brought more joy than a present of gold and topaz; but the other nations of Christendom received the tidings with indignation and disgust. The Pope instantly excommunicated the Archduke of Austria, and sent a message to the Emperor Henry, to the effect that he too should be placed under the curse of Rome unless the royal prisoner were instantly released. The Archbishop of Rouen proved his loyalty by summoning the council of the kingdom, and sending two abbots into Germany to visit the king, and confer with him on the measures to be taken for his liberation. Longchamp, however, had already departed in search of his master, and was the first who obtained an interview with him.

There is a beautiful legend, much better known than the authenticated facts, which tells of a minstrel, named Blondel, who had been attached to the person of Richard, and whose love for his master induced him to travel through Germany for the purpose of discovering the place of his confinement. Whenever he came to a castle the minstrel placed himself under the walls, and sang a song which had been a favourite with Coeur-de-Lion. One day when the king was whiling away the dreary hours in solitude, he heard the sound of a harp beneath his window, and when the well-known strains floated up to his ears, he joined in the air, and sang the concluding verse of the song. Blondel immediately recognised the voice, and thus the place of Coeur-de-Lion's imprisonment became known to his countrymen. Such is the story, which has been generally rejected by the historians for want of evidence. There is considerable improbability in the legend, but, at the same time, it is not impossible that it may have had a foundation in fact. It has been argued that Richard's imprisonment was related in the letter of the emperor to Philip, and that therefore there was no need for the journey of Blondel; but although the locality of the king's prison was indicated in this letter, it by no means follows that it was known to Longchamp and others who first took steps to visit him. When at length Longchamp obtained admission into his prison, Richard received him as a friend, and appears to have entirely forgiven that weakness and lack of energy on the part of the chancellor which had proved so favourable to the traitorous designs of Prince John.

Longchamp exerted himself in his master's favour with the Emperor Henry, and that prince at length consented that Richard should appear before the Diet at Hagenau. When the king was on his way thither he was met by the two abbots who had been sent by the Archbishop of Rouen. "Unbroken by distress," Coeur-de-Lion received them with a smiling countenance, and the admiration of all the bystanders was attracted by his undaunted bearing, which was rather that of a conqueror than a prisoner. Within a few days afterwards he appeared before the Diet of the Empire, where he was permitted to offer his defence against the accusations of Henry. These were: that he had entered into an alliance with Tancred, the usurper of the crown of Sicily; that he had unjustly imprisoned the Christian ruler of Cyprus; that he had insulted the Duke of Austria; and that he was guilty of the murder of Conrad of Montferrat. It was also alleged that the truce he had entered into with Saladin was disgraceful, and that he had left Jerusalem in the hands of the infidels. The speech of Richard in reply to these charges has not been preserved, but contemporary writers describe it as having been full of manly eloquence, and assert that its effect on the assembly was entirely to establish in their minds the conviction of his innocence. The emperor, however, was by no means disposed to set his prisoner at liberty, and insisted upon a heavy ransom, which was subsequently raised to the large sum of 100,000 marks. It was also stipulated that Richard should give hostages to the emperor and the Duke of Austria for the further payment of 50,000 marks, which was to be made under certain conditions; and that Eleanor, the maid of Brittany, sister to Prince Arthur, and niece of Richard, should be affianced to the son of Leopold. It is related by Hoveden that Richard did homage to the emperor for the crown of England. This act of vassalage, if it really took place, was but an acknowledgment of the pretensions of the ancient emperors of Germany to the feudal superiority of Europe as heirs of the Roman CÆsars.

When the first news of Richard's imprisonment reached England, John collected a body of troops, and took possession of the castles of Windsor and Wallingford. Thence he marched to London, causing it to be proclaimed wherever he went that the king his brother had died in prison. The people refused to believe this report, and when John required the barons of England and Normandy to acknowledge him as their sovereign, they answered by raising the standard of Coeur-de-Lion. The troops of John were attacked and put to flight, and the prince himself passed across the Channel, and joined his ally, Philip of France. Philip then entered Normandy with a large army, but there, as in England, the people remained loyal to their sovereign, and the French king was compelled to retreat with heavy loss.

The ransom of Richard, which was obtained almost wholly in England, appears to have been raised with great difficulty. The officers of the crown went through the country, compelling men of all ranks to contribute, making no distinction between clergy and laity, Saxons or Normans. The plate of the churches and monasteries was melted down into coin and bullion, and the Cistercian monks, whose poverty had usually exempted them from such exactions, were forced to give up the wool of their sheep. Frauds were practised to a considerable extent by the officers, who exacted money for their own use under the pretence of applying it to the king's ransom; and thus the already grievous burdens of the people increased to such an extent, that they were said to be in dire distress from sea to sea.

At length, after much delay, the sum of 70,000 marks was raised and sent to the emperor, who paid over one-third of the sum to the Archduke of Austria as his share of the booty. It was then agreed that Richard should be set at liberty, on condition of his leaving hostages for the payment of the sum in arrear. The king, whose captivity had now endured for thirteen months, was disposed to agree to almost any terms that might be demanded of him; and the hostages having been obtained, he was released about the end of January, 1194.

Attended by a few followers, Richard left Antwerp in a small vessel, and landed at Sandwich on the 13th of March, 1194. The English people had paid heavily for his freedom, but he seemed to have become more endeared to them on that account. Impulsive and enthusiastic then as now, they crowded about him with uproarious welcome, and accompanied him on his way to London with shouts of rejoicing. The injuries inflicted by the Norman conquest were beginning to disappear from their minds; and though Coeur-de-Lion could not speak their language, he was their king, and his exploits were a national honour. London, at least, was not impoverished by the sums raised for his ransom. So magnificent was the reception given by the citizens—such stores of plate, and jewels, and cloth of gold were displayed, to do honour to the occasion—that one of the German barons who went with him expressed his astonishment at the sight, and said that if the emperor his master had known the wealth of the country, he would not have let his prisoner off so easily. At the moment when Richard entered London, bells were ringing at the churches, tapers were lit, and at every altar in the city sentence of excommunication was pronounced, by order of the bishops, against Prince John and his adherents.

John himself had received timely notice of the release of Richard by a letter which reached him from Philip, containing the significant words, "Take care of yourself—the devil is broken loose"; and the Prince immediately sought safety in flight. At a council held at Nottingham, the barons summoned him to appear within forty days, on pain of the forfeiture of all his estates; they also determined that Richard should be crowned a second time, and though the king was opposed to this extraordinary proceeding, he submitted to a decision which was evidently dictated by loyalty. The ceremony was performed at Winchester on Easter Day following.

On the return of King Richard to London, and immediately after his second coronation, he commenced preparations for a war in France, which he proposed to undertake in revenge for the injuries he had sustained at the hands of Philip. For this purpose, as well as for his own necessities, money was required, and Richard showed no scruple as to the means by which it was obtained. He at once annulled the sales of royal estates which he had made before his departure for the Holy Land, declaring that they had not been sold, but mortgaged, and that the crown was entitled to their restitution; many important appointments were also resumed in the same manner, and these, as well as the lands, were again sold to the highest bidder.

Impatient to take the field, Richard collected as many troops as could be got together, and passed over into Normandy in May, 1194. He landed at Harfleur, and as soon as he had set foot upon the beach he was met by his cowardly brother John, who crouched at his feet and begged forgiveness. His mother, Queen Eleanor, seconded the request with her prayers; and Richard on this occasion showed a magnanimity which was rare indeed in those days. He granted his brother's pardon, and said, "I forgive him; and I hope to forget his injuries as easily as he will forget my pardon." The prince who thus knelt trembling on the beach at Harfleur, had just been guilty of a most foul and treacherous murder. Regardless of the oath he had taken, he determined to desert the cause of Philip, whom he feared less than his brother; before doing so he invited the officers of the garrison placed by the French king at Evreux to an entertainment, and massacred them all without mercy.

The expedition of Richard, hastily undertaken, was attended with only partial success. The French troops were beaten in several engagements, and several towns and castles of Normandy which had been occupied by them were retaken by Coeur-de-Lion; but his finances were soon exhausted, and the people of Aquitaine broke out into insurrection against him. The campaign came to an end in July by a truce for one year.

While Richard was absent on the Continent the government of England was confided to Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was appointed chief justiciary of the kingdom (1195). As Bishop of Salisbury he had accompanied the king to Palestine, and had there shown great courage and ability, as well in the field of battle as in his interview with Saladin. Coeur-de-Lion knew both how to appreciate and reward the ability shown in his service; great men seldom choose bad instruments, and the new justiciary proved himself fully worthy of the trust reposed in him. Under his administration the country began to recover from its depressed condition, although the constant demands for money made by the king rendered it difficult to relax, in any great degree, the burdens of the people. Hubert, however, appears to have promoted their well-being to the utmost of his power; the taxes were raised with as little violence as possible; commerce was fostered, and justice equitably administered in the courts of law.

Before the truce between Richard and Philip had expired, war again broke out, and continued without any important advantage to either side, until the end of the year, when a temporary peace was once more concluded. The citizens of London had for some time complained of the unequal manner in which the taxes were levied, the poor being made to pay much more in proportion to their means than the rich. In the year 1195 the movement took a new form, headed by a man named William Fitz-Osbert, called "Longbeard," from the length of the beard which he wore to make himself look like a true Englishman. His first act, which showed no sign of disloyalty, was to visit Richard in Normandy, and lay before him the grievance of which the people complained. The king made a courteous reply, and promised that the matter should be inquired into. Months passed away, however, without any redress being obtained, and in 1196 Longbeard formed a secret association, which was said to number 52,000 persons, all of whom swore to obey the "Saviour of the Poor," as he was called. Frequent assemblies of the citizens took place at St. Paul's Cross, where their leader delivered political orations, couched in obscure language, and usually prefaced by some text from Scripture. The passions of the people were becoming daily more excited, and it was evident that these meetings could not go on without danger to the public peace. Longbeard was summoned to appear before a council composed of the barons and higher ecclesiastics, where the strange accusation was brought against him that he had excited among the lower classes of the people the love of liberty and happiness. He attended the council, but so large a concourse of his adherents escorted him there, that it was not considered prudent to take proceedings against him. Great efforts were made to counteract the effects of his teaching, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose virtues were recognised and respected by all classes, went personally among the poorest of the citizens, and prevailed upon many of them to give their promise to keep the peace, and to deliver their children into his hands as hostages for their good faith. Two citizens now presented themselves to the council, and since it was dangerous to arrest Longbeard openly, offered to take him by surprise. The offer was accepted, and these men were employed to dog his footsteps, and watch an opportunity of seizing him. At length they found him with only a few companions, and having called to their assistance some armed men whom they had in readiness, they advanced and laid hands upon him. Longbeard immediately drew a knife and stabbed one of them to the heart; then with his companions he effected his escape to the Church of St. Mary-le-Bow, in the tower of which he barricaded himself. Here for several days he maintained his position, but at length the tower was set on fire, and Longbeard and his friends were driven out by the flames. They were immediately seized and bound, but at that moment a youth, the son of the citizen who was killed, approached Longbeard, and plunged a knife into his bowels. The wound did not cause death, and the soldiers—to whom pity would seem to have been unknown—tied the wounded man to the tail of a horse, and dragged him in this manner to the Tower of London, whence, by sentence of the chief justiciary, he was taken to West Smithfield, and was there hanged, together with his companions.

During this cruel torture of their leader the citizens remained passive, making no attempt to rescue him; and yet no sooner was he dead than they proclaimed him to be a saint and a martyr, and cut up the gibbet on which he was hanged into relics, which were preserved with a religious veneration. The fame of the "Saviour of the Poor" had travelled far and wide, and the peasantry from remote parts of the kingdom made pilgrimages to Smithfield, in the belief that miracles would be wrought on the spot where he fell. So great was the popular enthusiasm that it became necessary to maintain a guard of soldiers on the spot, and some of the more troublesome pilgrims were imprisoned and scourged. Even these severe measures were only successful after a considerable lapse of time, so enthusiastic were the people in their attachment to the memory of one whom they believed to have died in their cause, but whom in his death-agony they raised no arm to save.

In the year 1197 hostilities again commenced between Richard and Philip, the latter of whom derived support from the disaffection of the English king's Continental subjects. The people of Brittany—ever impetuous and eager for liberty—joined the standard of Philip, or fought separately against his enemy, without reflecting that their efforts, if successful, would tend only to a change of masters, and not to establishing their independence. The men of Aquitaine had risen in insurrection. The Count of Flanders in the north, and the Count of Toulouse in the south, simultaneously declared war against Richard, and raised large bodies of troops in their territories. The war continued in a desultory manner, fortune leaning now to this side, now to that; but wherever Coeur-de-Lion showed himself in person he maintained his reputation, and overcame his opponents. The king ultimately secured the adherence of the Count of Toulouse, by giving him the hand of his sister Joan, the Queen Dowager of Sicily, who, with the Queen Berengaria, had returned to Aquitaine.

In this campaign the Bishop of Beauvais, a powerful prelate, who had evinced great enmity to Richard, was captured by Mercadi, a captain of the Brabanters in the king's service. He was taken in complete armour, fighting sword in hand, contrary to the canons of the Church. By direction of Richard he was consigned to a dungeon in the castle of Rouen. Two of his priests presented themselves before the king to beg that their bishop might no longer be subjected to such harsh treatment. Richard replied that they themselves should judge if he deserved it. "This man," said he, "has done me many wrongs, one of which is not to be forgotten. When I was a prisoner, in the hands of the emperor, and when, in consideration of my royal birth, they began to treat me with some little respect, your master arrived, and used his influence to my injury. He spoke to the emperor over-night, and the next morning I was made to wear a chain such as a horse could hardly bear. Say, now, what he merits at my hands, and answer justly." The priests are said to have made no reply, and quitted the royal presence. Efforts were then made in a more influential quarter on behalf of the bishop. He appealed to Pope Celestine, who replied that in such a case he could not use his pontifical authority, but would address his request to Richard as a friend. He did so, and sent the king a letter, in which he implored mercy for his "dear son, the Bishop of Beauvais." Richard replied by sending to the Pope the bishop's coat of mail, which was covered with blood, and attaching to it a scroll containing the following verse from the Old Testament—"This have we found; know now whether it be thy son's coat or no?" Celestine, who appears to have relished the joke, replied, "No; it is the coat of a son of Mars. Let Mars deliver him if he can." On this occasion Richard proved implacable; he refused the large sum of 10,000 marks which was offered as a ransom; and until the king's death the Bishop of Beauvais remained in the dungeon in chains.

In the following year (1198) the truce again expired, and war broke out once more, and for the last time between the two kings. The prolonged contest seemed to have increased their hatred, and led them to wreak their vengeance upon the unhappy prisoners who fell into their hands. Great cruelties were practised by both armies, who, as they passed through their enemy's territory, burned up the homesteads of the people, and laid waste the fields. A pitched battle took place near Gisors, in which Richard obtained a complete victory, and Philip, in his retreat, had a narrow escape from drowning in the river Epte, the bridge over which he crossed breaking down under the weight of his troops. Richard then exclaimed exultingly that he had made the French king drink deeply of the waters of the Epte. During the engagement Coeur-de-Lion exhibited all his old prowess. It is related that he rode unattended against three knights, whom he struck down one after the other and made prisoners. This was Coeur-de-Lion's last exploit in the field. A truce was declared between the obstinate belligerents, and was solemnly ratified for the term of five years. In those times an oath of truce or a kingly pledge was little else than a ceremony, and passion or self-interest continually broke down the most solemn vows and attestations. Thus the truce for five years was infringed in as many weeks; but the difference was a trivial one, and was concluded without further hostilities. Richard then marched a body of troops against the insurgents of Aquitaine.

For some time previously the minstrels of the south had been heard to introduce among their love-songs a ballad of more gloomy portent. This ballad contained a prophecy that in Limousin an arrow was making by which the tyrant King of England should die. Such proved to be, indeed, the manner of Richard's death, and the previous existence of the prophecy would appear to indicate a conspiracy to assassinate him. These were the men who, as already related, had attempted the life of Henry II., by shooting arrows at him; and it is not improbable that they should have determined among themselves to get rid of his son in the same manner. The circumstances of Richard's death, however, seem to have had no connection with such a conspiracy; it was provoked by his own spirit of revenge, and by the reckless indifference with which he exposed himself to danger. The story most commonly received is to the following effect:—Vidomar, the Count of Limoges, had found a considerable treasure, which Richard, as his feudal lord, demanded. The count offered one-half, and no more; and the king, who wanted money, and seldom listened to argument in such cases, besieged the rebellious noble in his castle of Chaluz. Famine soon appeared among the garrison, and they sent to the king to tender their submission, on the condition only that their lives might be spared. Richard refused the request, and swore he would storm the castle and hang the whole garrison on the battlements. The unhappy men of Chaluz had received this reply, which seemed to cut them off from hope, and they were consulting together with despairing looks when they observed the king, attended by Mercadi, approaching the castle walls to reconnoitre and determine where the attack should be made. A youth named Bertrand de Gourdon, who stood upon the ramparts, then took a bow, and directing an arrow at the king, lodged it in his left shoulder. The castle was then carried by assault, and the whole of the garrison were massacred, except Bertrand, who was led into the presence of Richard, to learn the more horrible fate which it was supposed would await him. Meanwhile, the arrow-head had been extracted with great difficulty by the surgeon, and it was evident that the wound would prove mortal. In the presence of death none but the most depraved minds retain their animosities; and the dying king looked calmly on his murderer, while the youth, for his part, bore an undaunted brow. "What have I done to thee," Coeur-de-Lion said, "that thou shouldst seek my life?" The youth answered, "Thou hast killed with thine own hand my father and my two brothers, and myself thou wouldst hang. Let me die in torture, if thou wilt; I care not, so that thou, the tyrant, diest with me." Such a speech found an echo in the breast of him of the Lion-Heart: "Youth," he said, "I forgive thee. Let him go free, and give him a hundred shillings." The command was not obeyed, for it is related that Mercadi retained the prisoner, and after the king's death caused him to be flayed alive, and then to be hanged. Like others of the princes, his contemporaries, Richard expressed contrition and remorse at the prospect of death, and in his last moments courted the offices of the Church. He died on the 6th of April, 1199, at the age of forty-two, having reigned, or rather worn the crown, for nearly ten years; during which, with the exception of a few months, he was absent from England. He had no children to succeed to the throne, and he left a will, in which he appointed his successor, and gave directions as to the disposal of his remains. "Take my heart," he said, "to Rouen, and let my body lie at my father's feet in the abbey of Fontevrault."

Richard Coeur-de-Lion appears to us as the type of manhood unfettered by a high civilisation—a strong, passionate heart, with great capacities for good or evil, placed above the control of ordinary circumstances, little influenced by the power of religion, and therefore left in a large measure to its own native impulses. Richard was revengeful, but not implacable; passionate, but not vindictive. The story of his life, like that of other kings of the Plantagenet race, cannot be written without the record of many acts of cruelty, which there is little to excuse or palliate. If he wanted money he seized it wherever it was to be had, with or without pretext; if a man opposed him, he crushed him down or hanged him without scruple. When, on his return from captivity, the garrison of Nottingham held out against his troops, doubting the report of his return, it was not until the prisoners taken by the besiegers were hung up before the castle walls that the rebels became convinced of their error, and realised that the king was there. Absolute power is unfitted for human nature; and since the beginning of the world no man has ever wielded it without blame. But if Coeur-de-Lion was not free from the crimes belonging to his age and kingly position, he surpassed his contemporaries as much in nobility of character, as in bodily strength and valour. His courage was of the highest order; for it combined not only the dash and gallantry common to men whose physical organisation is perfect, and who are incited by the love of military fame, but also that calmer, but not less admirable, quality of fortitude, which sustains the heart of the prisoner in chains, or of the soldier in time of famine and disease. The business of his life was war, and its recreation the tournament or the chase. Then, if ever, were the days of chivalry as they are depicted by the poets—stormy and perilous days, when the pulse of life beat high, and there was enough of intellectual culture to show men how to use their passions, but not to restrain them.

It has been said by a modern historian that the character of Richard was described by the Normans in one word, when they called him Coeur-de-Lion, or the Lion-Heart, but that the tiger might with more fitness have been taken as his prototype. Such an opinion does not appear to be warranted by the facts. To say that Richard was guilty of acts which we now stamp as cruel and tyrannous, is but to say that he was possessed of power, and lived in the twelfth century; but to intimate that his whole life was a course of such acts, is to violate historical justice. This terrible warrior-king had his moments of gentleness, and more than once displayed a magnanimity which, under all the circumstances, must excite our high admiration. If he was false to his wife, as appears to have been the case, his vices of that kind were less conspicuous than those of his predecessors. If he struck down his enemies without pity, he at least used no treachery for that purpose. Whatever he did he dared to do openly, and would have disdained to use intrigues like those which disgraced the sovereigns of France and Germany. Without searching the records of his reign for isolated instances of virtue, we may believe that many noble qualities must have been possessed by the man who could attach his friends and attendants so warmly to himself, and excite in the breasts of his people—ground down as they were by his exactions—such strong sentiments of loyalty and admiration. The great fault in his character is his complete indifference to England and the welfare of his subjects.