No sooner was the breath out of Godfrey’s body, than, according to usual custom, the Christians began to quarrel as to who should succeed him. Count Garnier de Gray, a cousin of Godfrey’s, took possession promptly of the Tower of David and other fortified places, and refused to give them up to the patriarch, Dagobert, who claimed them as having been ceded to him by the late king. Unfortunately, Count Garnier died suddenly at this juncture, and his death was of course interpreted by the churchmen as a punishment for his contumacy. Dagobert wrote immediately—the letter is preserved—to Bohemond, urging him to assert his claims. Hardly was the epistle sent off, when the news came that Bohemond was a prisoner. There was, therefore, nothing to prevent Baldwin from stepping quietly into the throne.

Baldwin, the brother of Godfrey, had been originally destined for the Church, and received a liberal education. When he abandoned the robe for the sword is not certain, nor, indeed, do we know anything at all about him until we see him in the Crusade following his brother. He was a man of grave and majestic bearing. Taller by a head than other men, he was also of great strength, extremely active, and well skilled in all the arts of chivalry. His beard and hair were black, his nose aquiline, and the upper lip slightly projecting. He was fond of personal splendour and display. When he rode out in the town of Edessa a golden buckler, with the device of an eagle, was borne before him, and two horsemen rode in front blowing trumpets. Following the Oriental custom, he had allowed his beard to grow, and took his meals seated on carpets. He was not, like his brother, personally pious, nor was he by any means priestridden. His early education had been sufficient to deprive him of any great respect for the cloth, and the facility with which he fell into Oriental customs proves that his Christianity sat lightly enough upon him. As yet, however, there were no declared infidels in the East. His morals were dissolute, but he knew how to prevent scandals arising, and none but those who were immediately about him knew what was the private life of their grave and solemn king. At the same time he does not appear to have been a hypocrite, or to have claimed any merit at all for piety. The figure of Godfrey is clouded with legends and miraculous stories. We hardly seem to see, through the mist of years, the features of the short-lived David of the new kingdom. But that of Baldwin, the new Solomon of Jerusalem, stands out clear and distinct. This king, calm, cold of speech, self-reliant, like Saul, a head taller than anybody else, who will not be seen abroad without a mantle upon his shoulders, who lets his beard grow, and looks out upon the world with those keen bright eyes of his, and that strong projecting upper lip, is indeed a man, and not a shadow of history. He is a clerk, and is not to be terrified, knowing too much of the Church, into giving up his own to the Church, as Godfrey did. His, too, is the sharp, clear-cut, aquiline nose of the general, as well as the strong arm of a soldier, and the Turks will not probably greatly prevail against him. And with Godfrey, as we have said before, vanish for ever those shadowy figures of saints and dead bishops who were wont to fight with the army. King Baldwin believed in no saints’ help, either in battle or in the world, and did not look for any. Jerusalem, henceforth, has to get along without many miracles. For the appearance of saints and other ghostly auxiliaries is like the appearance of fairies—they come not, when men believe in them no more:

Baldwin did not hesitate one moment to exchange his rich and luxurious principality of Edessa for the greater dignity, with all its thorns and cares, of the crown of Jerusalem. He made over his power to his cousin Baldwin Du Bourg, and himself, with a little army of four hundred knights and one thousand foot, started on his perilous journey, through a country swarming with enemies. He got on very smoothly, despite the paucity of his numbers, until he reached Beyrout. Five miles from that town was a narrow pass, with the sea on one side and rocks on the other, too difficult to force if it were held by even a hundred men. The trouble and anxiety into which the army was thrown are well told by Foulcher, the king’s chaplain, who was with him. The worthy chaplain was horribly frightened. “I would much rather,” he tells us, “have been at Chartres or Orleans.... Nowhere was there a place where we could find refuge, no way was open to us to escape death, no passage was left by which we could flee, no hope of safety remained if we stayed where we were. Solomon himself would not have known which way to turn, and even Samson would have been conquered. But God ... seeing the peril and distress into which we had fallen for His service, and through love of Him”—rather a daring assertion, considering that Baldwin had deserted the Crusade, and gone off filibustering entirely on his own account, and was now going to receive a crown for which he certainly had not fought—“was touched with pity, and granted in His mercy such an audacity of courage that our men put to flight those who were pursuing them.... Some threw themselves from the top of scarped rocks, others rushed to places which seemed to present a little chance of safety, others were caught and perished by the edge of the sword. You ought to have seen their ships flying through the waves, as if we could seize them with our hands; and themselves in their fright scaling the mountains and the rocks.” And no doubt it did the excellent chaplain good to see them running away, just after defeat and death appeared so imminent.

In the morning Baldwin rode up to examine the pass, and found the enemy gone. So the little army passed in safety, and went on their way, laden with the spoils of the Turks.

Arrived at Jerusalem, all the people, headed by the clergy, came out to meet the king, singing hymns and bearing tapers. Only the patriarch, Dagobert, chose to be absent and retired to Mount Zion, pretending to be in fear for his personal safety.

Baldwin did not immediately concern himself about the patriarch. Satisfied with the homage of the barons and clergy, and conscious that his crown could only be preserved by establishing respect for his prowess among his own men, and fear among the Mohammedans, he set out with a force of a hundred and fifty knights, and five hundred foot, and appeared before the walls of Ascalon. Here, however, he experienced a check, the garrison having been reinforced. Raising the siege hastily, he ravaged the country round the town, and then directed his march in a south-east direction, taking possession of the cattle everywhere and destroying the crops. At one place he found a large number of Arabs, robbers, we are told, who had taken refuge in caverns. Baldwin kindled fires at the mouth of the cave, hoping to drive them out by the smoke. Only two came. The king spoke kindly to them, kept one, dressed up the other in a magnificent mantle and sent him back. As soon as he was gone Baldwin killed the one who was left. Presently the messenger returned with ten more. Baldwin sent back one, as before, and killed the remaining ten. This one returned with thirty; one was sent back and the rest beheaded. The next time two hundred and thirty came out, and Baldwin beheaded them all. Then more fire was made, and the miserable wives and children were forced to come out. Some ransomed their lives, the rest were beheaded. Baldwin, after this wholesale slaughter, thence travelled down to the Dead Sea, to the great delight of his chaplain, who describes the places he saw, everywhere inspiring terror of his name, and driving the cattle before him. He returned to Jerusalem laden with booty, three days before Christmas, having succeeded in gaining the confidence of his new subjects. Dagobert, the patriarch, deemed it wisest to cease his opposition to the king, and the coronation of Baldwin took place at Bethlehem. Tancred at first refused to recognise his old enemy as king, but giving way, they were reconciled; moreover, he was no longer so much in Baldwin’s way, because in his uncle, Bohemond’s, captivity he was governing his principality of Antioch. The reconciliation, like that between Raymond and Godfrey, was sincere and loyal. By several small expeditions, such as that directed to the south, Baldwin established a terror for his name which served him in good stead. For the kingdom was in an unstable and dangerous condition; there were very few men with whom to form an army, and had it not been for the pilgrims who flocked to the city in thousands, it might have been lost many times over.

The Easter miracle of the Holy Fire served this year to revive the enthusiasm which was beginning to flag. To the astonishment and horror of the people it did not come as usual. For three days they waited. Tears, prayers, and lamentations were uttered. Then a solemn procession was enjoined, and king, clergy, and people marched barefooted round the church, weeping and praying. Suddenly a bright light filled the church. The flame had lit one of the lamps, it flew from lamp to lamp, and when in the evening Baldwin sat at dinner in the “Temple of Solomon,” i.e., the JamÍ el Aksa, two lamps were miraculously kindled there also. We can have very little doubt, inasmuch as this impudent imposture is carried on to the present day, avowedly as an imposture, that Baldwin and the clergy devised the scheme as a means to arouse the flagging zeal of the pilgrims, and especially of certain Genoese and Pisans, who had a large fleet with them, the assistance of which he greatly desired.

To bring about this fraud, a reconciliation had been effected between Baldwin and the unworthy patriarch, Dagobert. For it was not long after the return of Baldwin from his first expedition when he discovered how Dagobert had endeavoured, by any means in his power, to prevent his accession. Doubtless he was informed by Arnold,^[56] the late chaplain to the Duke Robert of Normandy. Arnold, a priest of great ambition, was the heir to Bishop Odo of Bayeux, William the Conqueror’s half-brother, who had left him great wealth. The object dearest to his heart was the acquisition of the post of patriarch. After the siege he performed the duties temporarily, as a sort of vicar, but had been displaced on Dagobert’s appointment. His morals, we are told by William of Tyre, were so notoriously bad as to be the theme of rough verses among the soldiers. But William of Tyre, whose favourite name for him is “that first-born of Satan,” writes from the side of the Church as represented by Dagobert. The morals of the patriarch himself, too, appear to have been at least doubtful, even before his accession to his new dignity, as he is roundly accused of appropriating to his own purposes moneys and presents destined for the pope. But churchmen, when they talk of morality, always mean chastity and nothing else. As soon as Baldwin was informed of Dagobert’s opposition, he wrote a letter to Rome, accusing the patriarch not only of opposing the election of the lawful and hereditary king, but also of trying to procure his death on the road, and of exciting discord among the chiefs of the Crusade. The pope sent his own brother, Cardinal Maurice, to Jerusalem as his legate, with authority to suspend the patriarch until he should be able to purge himself of the charges brought against him. Maurice called a court composed of bishops and abbots directly he arrived in the city, and summoned the king to prove, and the patriarch to disprove, his accusations. Baldwin had, meanwhile, found another charge, no doubt invented by Arnold, as it bears all the marks of private malice, to bring against Dagobert. He had, it was said, purloined and concealed a piece of the wood of the Cross, in addition to his other offences; the king himself must have known well enough that in the eyes of the Church this offence would be far more serious than any of the others. To procure the death of a man would be venial indeed compared with the abstraction of a relic. Dagobert had very little, it would appear, to say, and an adjournment was granted, to give him time to call witnesses in his own defence.

Came, meantime, the season of Easter, and that day, Good Friday, when the Holy Oil was wont to be consecrated for the use of the sick. In place of the patriarch, whom the king assumed to be deposed, but who was really only suspended, the cardinal undertook this duty, and was already on the Mount of Olives, the place assigned to this ceremony, when the patriarch, humiliated beyond all expression by this public degradation from his functions, went to the king and implored him, with tears in his eyes, to reinstate him for that day only. Baldwin refused. Dagobert urged him again not to inflict this punishment upon him in the face of so many pilgrims. But the king remained obdurate. Then the patriarch changed his line. Instead of entreating, he bribed. He offered Baldwin three hundred byzantines. The royal treasury was empty, the knights were clamouring for their pay, and the patriarch obtained his request.

After this some sort of peace was made up between the pope’s legate, Cardinal Maurice, and the patriarch; a peace founded, it would seem, on mutual interest, for we are told that they became so friendly that they were accustomed to spend the day and night together in retired places, secretly feasting, and drinking the wine of Gaza, no doubt in happy ignorance that the eye of Arnold—that first-born of Satan—was upon them, and that he was biding his time.

In the spring, at the same time as the memorable miracle of the Holy Fire, and the arrival of the Genoese and Pisan fleet, came emissaries from the Mohammedan towns of Ascalon, CÆsarea, Ptolemais, and Tyre, with presents and money, asking for permission to cultivate their lands in peace. Baldwin took the money and promised security till Pentecost. He also made a little more money by accepting the ransom of certain prisoners whom he had taken at Beyrout. With this capital of ready money he was able to pay his knights, at least, in part, and to ensure their service for the next campaign. He offered the Genoese, on condition of their granting him their assistance with the fleet, to give up to them a third of the booty in every town which he might take with their assistance, and to name one of the principal streets in it, the street of the Genoese. They agreed, and Baldwin made his preparations for an attack on CÆsarea. The patriarch, bearing the wood of the true Cross—all, that is, that he had not stolen—went with the army. When they arrived before the town, the people of CÆsarea, rich merchants, who desired nothing but to be left alone, and were a peaceful folk, sent deputies, who asked the patriarch the following question: “You, who are the doctors of the Christian law, why do you order your men to kill and plunder us, who are made in the image of your God?” The patriarch evaded the point. “We do not desire,” said he, softly, “to plunder you. This city does not belong to you, but to Saint Peter. We have no wish to kill you, but the Divine vengeance pursues those who are armed against the law of God.” It will be observed that the town was claimed, not for the Christian kingdom, but for the Church. “It belonged to Saint Peter.” Dagobert’s idea seemed to have been that the king was to be like Godfrey, only the Defender of the Sepulchre. Baldwin, however, thought quite differently. The city was taken with the usual form, and with the usual butchery. As some miserable Saracens had been seen to swallow coins, the Christians cut their prisoners in two to find the money, and burned their bodies to ashes, looking for the gold when the fire was out. And with a view to restoring his own to Saint Peter, they pillaged the whole city and divided the spoils, when they had killed all the inhabitants.^[57] As for the Genoese, they found a relic in their booty, precious indeed. It was no other than the Cup of the Holy Grail, which they bore away in triumph. How its authenticity was established does not appear, nor is there, so far as we know, any subsequent account of its fate. The Christians selected an archbishop. There was a poor and ignorant priest called Baldwin. He had tattooed his forehead with the sign of the cross, and made money by pretending that it was a miraculous sign. Everybody knew that he was an impostor, but probably because the pilgrims insisted on believing in his sanctity, and in order to conciliate this important element of the population, he was chosen to be the archbishop.

The Egyptian Caliph, whose plan of operation seems to have been to send constant reinforcements to Ascalon, and use that strong place as a centre from which to harass the Christians, gave orders to try, with the coming of spring, another incursion. Baldwin met the advanced guard of the Egyptian troops near Ramleh. He had got together three hundred knights and nine hundred foot. The Saracens were ten times as numerous. The king, tying a white banner to his lance, led the way, and performed prodigies of valour. And, as usual, the Mohammedans were seized with a panic and fled.

It was at this time that the wretched remains of the new armies of pilgrims arrived in Palestine. Their numbers were not large, as we have seen, but their arrival was the most opportune thing that could have happened for Baldwin. For, having seen the sacred places, they were preparing for their return home when the news arrived of the coming into Palestine of another vast army of Egyptians. They were, as usual, in the neighbourhood of Ascalon. Baldwin hastened to meet them with a handful of knights, among whom was the unfortunate Count of Blois and the Duke of Burgundy. They were all cut to pieces, Baldwin, himself, escaping with the greatest difficulty, and almost alone, to Ramleh. In the morning he found himself, with his little band, in a place without any means of defence, and surrounded by an enormous army, through which it was hopeless to think of cutting a way. And then occurred one of the most singular instances of gratitude on record. A stranger, a noble Mohammedan, was introduced to the king. “I am,” he said, “one to whom you have shown yourself generous. You took my wife prisoner. On the way she was seized with the pains of labour. You made a tent for her on the wayside, laid her in it, and left her provisions, water, and female slaves to help her. So her life was saved. Now, I know the roads which are not guarded. Come with me, but come alone, and I will take you safely through the midst of our army.”

Baldwin, who had really been guilty of this humanity to a poor Mohammedan woman, was constrained to accept the generous offer. He went away alone with his benefactor. The emir kept his word and escorted him to a place of safety, where he left him. All his companions at Ramleh were put to death before he had time to help them.

Meantime, the greatest consternation reigned in Jerusalem. The king was reported to be a captive; the great bell tolled; soldiers and knights gathered together; the gates were shut; and the priests and women betook themselves to prayer. The king, however, at Jaffa, collecting all the troops he could raise, prohibited any pilgrim from leaving the country, and went forth once more with all his force. Their war cry was, “Christ conquers, and Christ reigns, Christ commands,” in place of the old “Dieu le veut,” and “Dieu aide.” After a battle, which lasted a whole day—the spirit of the Egyptians had been raised by their temporary success—victory declared for the Christians, and the Mohammedans fled with a loss of four thousand men: the smallness of their loss shows that the victory was not one of the fights like that of Ascalon, where a panic made the Mohammedans absolutely helpless.

The story of this invasion is much confused, and told by the chroniclers in different ways, only one of them relating the gratitude of the Saracen. But we may fairly assume that another of the periodical invasions took place, which was repelled, though with difficulty, by the valour of Baldwin. The arms of the Christians were not, however, always crowned with success, and an ill-omened defeat took place at Harran, where Baldwin du Bourg and Jocelyn were taken prisoners. Bohemond, who had been released, was there with Tancred, and both escaped with great difficulty. It was evident that the Christian strength lay chiefly in the terror inspired by a long series of victories. Once defeated, the prestige of the conquerors was gone. And when the Mohammedans managed to recover their old self-confidence, the kingdom of Jerusalem was as good as lost, and its destruction was only a matter of time.

Baldwin’s chief difficulty was not in raising armies, for there were always plenty of men to be got among the pilgrims, but in paying an army when he had raised it. The pilgrims brought daily large sums in offerings to the Church of the Sepulchre, to which the patriarch acted officially as treasurer. To him the king went in his distress, and demanded that some of the money should be put into his hands to pay the soldiers with. Dagobert asked for a day’s delay, and then brought the king two hundred marks, with a polite expression of regret that he could do no more. Arnold, who was now Chancellor of the Holy Sepulchre, laughed aloud at the meagreness of this offering, and informed the king that immense treasures had been bestowed upon the church, which were all concealed if not appropriated by the patriarch. Baldwin thereupon urged again on the patriarch the necessity of his contributing towards the support of the army. Dagobert, relying on his friendship with the legate, disdained to take any notice of the king’s representation, and continued, with Cardinal Maurice, to use for his own festivals and private luxuries the riches of the Church. One day, when Baldwin was at his wits’ end for want of money, some one, probably Arnold, brought him a report of the dissolute and selfish life led by Dagobert. “Even at this moment,” he said, “the patriarch is feasting and drinking.” The king took some of his officers with him, and forcing his way into the patriarch’s private apartments, found him and Maurice at a table spread with all the luxuries of the East. Baldwin flew into a royal rage, and swore a royal oath. “By heavens!” he cried, “you feast while we fast; you spend on your gluttony the offerings of the faithful, and take no notice of our distress. As there is a living God, you shall not touch another single offering, you shall not fill your bellies with dainties even once more, unless you pay my knights. By what right do you take the gifts made to the Sepulchre by the pilgrims, and change them into delicacies, while we, who have purchased the city with our blood, who bear incessantly so many fatigues and combats, are deprived of the fruits of their generosity? Drink with us of the cup that we drink now, and shall continue to drink in these times of bitterness, or prepare yourself to receive no more the goods which belong to the church.” Upon which the patriarch, little used to have things set forth in this plain and unmistakeable manner, allowed himself to fall into wrath, and made use of the effective but well-worn text, that those who serve the altar must live by the altar. But he hardly, as yet, knew his man. The king, actually not afraid of a priest, swore again, in the most solemn manner, and in spite of the entreaties of the legate, Cardinal Maurice, that if the patriarch refused to help him he would help himself. There was, indeed, little doubt possible but that he would keep his word. Dagobert, therefore, gave way, and promised to maintain thirty knights. But he soon got into arrears, and, finally, after repeated quarrels with the king, and after being publicly accused of peculation—very possibly he stole right and left for the glory of the Church—he retired to Antioch, hoping that Bohemond would take up his quarrel. In this he was disappointed, for Bohemond had neither the power nor the inclination. Dagobert never returned to the city. Affecting to consider him deposed, the king put in his place a humble and pious monk of great ignorance, named Ebremer. He, however, was speedily displaced, and on the deposition of Dagobert, Arnold was, at last, promoted to the see. He died a year or two afterwards, and in his death William of Tyre sees a plainly marked indication of the Divine displeasure. By others it was read differently.

The career of Bohemond was drawing to an end. Shut up in Antioch, and attacked both by Greeks and Saracens, he could hardly defend himself. But his spirit was as strong as ever. Causing a rumour to be spread that he was dead, he was carried in a coffin on board a ship, and escaped thus through the Greek fleet. Arrived in Italy he went to the pope, and with all his rough and strong eloquence he pleaded his cause, which he represented as that of the Christians against the Greek emperor, the most flagrant of criminals. He went thence to France, with the pope’s express authority, to raise men for another Crusade, this time against Alexis. King Philip gave him his daughter, Constance, in marriage; the princes and knights enrolled themselves in his army; he crossed over to Spain, and thence to Italy, finding everywhere the same success, and awakening the same enthusiasm. His army assembled. He led them first to the city of Durazzo, which he attacked, but without success; the city held out; his troops, who discovered that they had enlisted under his banner solely to advance his personal interest and to gratify his blind and unreasoning hatred against the Emperor of Constantinople, deserted him; and the proud Norman had to return to Tarento no richer, except by Antioch, for all his conquests and ambitions. A treaty was concluded with the emperor, which gave him this city. He was preparing to break the conditions of the agreement when a fever seized him, and he died, greatly to the relief of Alexis.

About the same time died gallant old Raymond of Toulouse, still fighting at Tripoli. He was besieging the town with only four hundred men at his back, and with that heroic self-confidence which never deserted the first Crusaders, when either some smoke from Greek fire affected him, or he fell from the roof of a house, and so came to an end.

Tancred, the bravest, if not the best, of all, was to follow within a very few years, and Baldwin found himself for the last six years of his reign without a single one of the old princes, except his cousin, Baldwin du Bourg, to quarrel with, to help, or to look to for help. And, still more to complicate matters, the crusade, which the ambition of Bohemond had directed against the Greek Empire for his own purposes, had alienated the sympathies, such as they were, and the assistance of the Greek Empire, and deprived the Christian Kingdom of every hope from that quarter. Then Tancred and Baldwin du Bourg, as soon as the latter got his release from captivity, began to quarrel, and, turn by turn, called in the assistance of the Saracens. They were persuaded to desist by the exhortations of the king, who told Tancred plainly that unless he ceased to make war against Christians, all the Christians in the East would make common cause against him. The only resources left to the king were those derived from the constant influx of pilgrims, and therefore of fighting men, and the assistance he derived from the annual visit of the Genoese and Pisan fleets; these came, actuated solely by the desire for merchandise and plunder. In return for concessions and the chance of booty, they fought the Egyptian fleets, and co-operated with Baldwin in his operations against sea-side places. Thus, in 1104, after an unsuccessful attempt upon the town, Baldwin took advantage of the presence of sixty-six Genoese galleys to lay siege to Acre. He invited them to assist him in his enterprise, first, for the love of Christ, and secondly, in the hope of reaping a golden harvest out of victory. The Genoese consented, on the condition of receiving a third of the revenue, and perpetual rights which would be obtained by the capture of the place, and of a street being entirely given up to themselves, where they might exercise their own laws and justice. These conditions, exorbitant as they were, were accepted, and siege was laid in due form, Baldwin investing the place by land and the Genoese by sea. The time was almost gone by for unconditional surrender and capture by assault, and the Christians fought with machines and rams for twenty days before the enemy capitulated. And it was then only on honourable terms. The inhabitants were to take out their wives, families, and whatever they could carry. Those who preferred to remain behind were to be allowed to continue in the peaceful occupation of their homes, on condition of paying an annual tribute to the king. It will be seen that a short space of five years had already materially altered the relative positions of Christians and Mohammedans. The conditions were ill kept, for a large number of the Saracens were massacred by the unruly sailors, and Baldwin seems to have been powerless to interfere. This was, however, a most important position, and threw open a convenient harbour for the Genoese.

Year after year an army came from Egypt and attempted an invasion of Palestine, using Ascalon as the basis of operations and the depÔt of supplies. But every year the attack grew more feeble and the rout of the Egyptians more easy.

The next important place attackedattacked by the help of the Genoese was Tripoli. After the death of Count Raymond, his affairs in the East were conducted by his nephew, William of Cerdagne, until Bertram, Raymond’s son, should arrive. He came in 1109, and immediately began to quarrel with his cousin, who called in the aid of Tancred. Baldwin, however, interfered and substituted a settlement of all the disputed points between them. By his arrangement William kept all the places he had himself conquered, and Bertram had the rest. Moreover, if either died without heirs, Bertram was to have all. A short time after, William was accidentally killed by an arrow in trying to settle a quarrel among his men at arms, and tranquillity among the princes was assured. Operations, meantime, had been going on against the little town of Biblios, which succumbed, after a show of resistance, on the same terms as those obtained by the people of Acre. The strong places which still held out were Tripoli, Tyre, Sidon, Beyrout, and Ascalon. Baldwin’s plan was to take them in detail, and always by the aid of the Genoese fleet. He joined his forces to those of Bertram, and the siege of Tripoli was vigorously taken in hand.

It illustrates the untrustworthy character of the materials from which a history of this kingdom has to be drawn that Albert of Aix, one of the most careful of the chroniclers, absolutely passes over the capture of this important place in silence. The inhabitants defended themselves as well as they were able, but seeing no hope of assistance they capitulated on conditions of safety. These were granted, but pending the negotiations, the savage Genoese sailors, getting over the wall by means of ladders and ropes, began to slaughter the people. “Every Saracen,” says Foulcher de Chartres, who has a touch of humour, “who fell into their hands, experienced no worse misfortune than to lose his head; and although this was done without the knowledge of the chiefs, the heads thus lost could not be afterwards put on again.” All the chronicles but one agree in preserving silence over a barbarism almost worse than the breaking of a treaty. It was this: the Christians found in Tripoli a splendid library. It had been collected in the course of many peaceful years by the family of Ibn-Ammar, who were the hereditary princes, under the Caliph of Cairo, of the place. It consisted of a hundred thousand volumes, and a wretched priest blundering into the place, and finding this enormous mass of books written in “execrable,” because unknown characters, called in the assistance of soldiers as ignorant as himself, and destroyed them all. The Tripolitans had, many years before, placed themselves under the protection of the Egyptian Caliph. They looked now for his help. In the midst of the siege a ship managed to put in with a message from the sovereign. He promised them no assistance, and encouraged them to no resistance. Only he recollected that there was in the city a beautiful female slave whom he desired to be sent to him, and asked for some wood of the apricot tree to make him lutes. After this, the people capitulated.

The next place to fall was Beyrout, and through the same assistance. But in this case the place was carried by assault, and a terrible carnage ensued, stayed only by the order of the king. And after the victory and the conquest of Sarepta, the Genoese retired, carrying with them very many of Baldwin’s best auxiliaries, and left him with his usually small force, barely enough for purposes of defence. But fortune favoured him again. The fame of the Crusades had taken a long time to travel northwards, but in time it had reached to Norway and kindled the enthusiasm even of the Scandinavians. Hardly had the Genoese left the shores of Palestine, when Sigard, son or brother of King Magnus of Norway, arrived at Jaffa with ten thousand Norwegians, among whom were a large number of English. He was a young man, says Foulcher, of singular beauty, and was welcomed by Baldwin with all the charm of manner which made him the friend of all whom he desired to please. The sturdy Norsemen, who desired nothing so much as to fight with the Saracens, met the king’s wishes half way. They were ready to go wherever he pleased, provided it led to fighting, and without any other pay than their provisions. These were better allies than the greedy Genoese, and Baldwin joyfully led them to Sidon, where for a little while they had fighting enough. The Sidonians seeing no hope of escape, endeavoured, says William of Tyre, to compass their own deliverance by the assassination of the king. Baldwin had a Saracen servant who professed extreme attachment to his person. He had apostatized to the Christian faith, and received the king’s own name at the font of baptism. To him the chiefs of Sidon made overtures. They offered him boundless wealth in their city, if he would contrive to assassinate the king. Baldwin the servant agreed to commit the deed, and would have done it, had it not been that certain Christians in the city, getting to know of the plot, conveyed information of it by means of an arrow which they fired into the camp. The king called a council. The unfortunate servant was “examined,” which probably meant tortured, confessed his guilty intentions, and was promptly hanged. This appears to be the first mention of an attempted assassination, a method which the Saracens, by means of the celebrated Ismaelite sect, the “Assassins,” introduced much later on. The story bears the impress of improbability. Moreover, immediately afterwards, we are told, that Baldwin granted the city easy terms of capitulation, with permission for the inhabitants to stay where they were, provided only they paid tribute. The conditions were faithfully observed, the Norwegians being either less bloodthirsty or more amenable to discipline—probably both—than the Genoese. They went away after this, and Baldwin, having made an unsuccessful attempt on Tyre, which was too strong for his diminished forces, retired to Acre. In the same year died Tancred, who recommended his young wife, Cecilia, to marry Pons, the son of Bertram, who was already dead, as soon as he should be of age. Roger, the son of his sister, was to hold all his states in trust for young Bohemond, and Pons.

During these contests on the seaboard, the Saracens inland had been quietly composing their differences and arranging for a combined assault upon the common enemy. In 1112 they had essayed an expedition against Edessa, but received a check serious enough to make them fall back in disorder. Next year, with a far larger force, they formed a sort of encampment south of the Lake of Tiberias, and overran the country, pillaging and burning as far as they dared. Baldwin hastily sent for Roger of Antioch and the Count of Tripoli, to come to his assistance. Meantime, with a small army, of about five thousand in all, he marched to meet them. With his usual impetuosity he charged into a small advance troop of cavalry which the Turks threw out as a trap. These turned and fled. Baldwin pursued, but fell into an ambuscade, whence he escaped with the greatest difficulty, leaving his banner, that white streamer which he bore at the head of his troops in every battle, behind him. The patriarch, now that same Arnold, “Satan’s eldest son,” who was with him, had too a narrow escape. In this disastrous day the Christians lost about twelve hundred men. Next morning came the king’s auxiliaries, and the Christian army, leaving their camp and baggage, retreated into the mountains, where they waited for reinforcements. This was the most serious check yet given to the victorious career of the Christians. The people of Ascalon, as usual, ready to take advantage of every opportunity, sallied forth and invested Jerusalem, now almost entirely without troops. But they do not seem to have attempted a regular siege, or, at least, were unsuccessful, and, after ravaging the country for miles round, they retreated to their own city. Probably their experience of Baldwin’s vigour was greater than their confidence in the success of their coreligionists, and they thought certain plunder was better than the dubious chances of a protracted siege.

Fortunately, it was now late in the summer. With the autumn came the first shiploads of pilgrims, and consequently reinforcements for Baldwin. The Saracens, satisfied with their victory, and fearing reprisals, judged it prudent to retire, and accordingly fell back on Damascus, where their general-in-chief, MaudÚd, was murdered. It was well for the Christian kingdom that they went away when they did. For a universal panic had seized on all the cities, and it wanted but an unsuccessful engagement to put an end to the Christian power altogether. More misfortunes fell upon them. There was a terrible famine at Edessa and in Antioch; and an earthquake was felt through the whole of Syria, from north to south. Whole cities of Cilicia were thrown into ruins. Thirteen towns fell in Edessa; and in Antioch many churches were destroyed. In the famine which devastated Edessa, Baldwin du Bourg looked for aid from Count Jocelyn, but was disappointed. Moreover, when he sent deputies to Antioch, these were insulted by Jocelyn’s knights, who taunted them with the apathy and indolence of their lord. Baldwin du Bourg determined on revenge. Pretending to be sick he sent for Jocelyn, who came without suspicion, and was received by the other in bed. Then, reproaching him in the bitterest terms for ingratitude, he ordered him to be thrown into prison, loaded with chains, and deprived him of all his possessions. As soon as Jocelyn was free he went to join the king at Jerusalem, and seems, like an honest knight and good fellow, as he was, to have entirely forgiven his ill-treatment. Certainly he deserved it.

The next year saw another defeat of the Saracens. The Emir was accused of complicity in the murder of MaudÚd, and a vast army was gathered together, against Damascus in the first instance, and the Christians in the second. Baldwin entered into alliance with the Emir, and though the Caliph’s army avoided a battle, so formidable a coalition sufficed to drive back the invaders. Nevertheless, the Christians looked with horror on an alliance so unnatural. Count Roger of Antioch at the same time dispersed the Turkish army in alliance with Toghtegin, and, for a time at least, Palestine was free from enemies on the north and east.

Baldwin was not, however, disposed to sit down in peace and rest. He employed what little leisure he could get in populating his city of Jerusalem by persuading the Christians across the Jordan to give up their pastures and meadows, and come under his protection. He founded the stronghold of Montreal, in Moab, on the site of the old city of Diban, and he made a second journey to the east and south of his kingdom, with twelve hundred horse and four hundred foot, penetrating as far, we are told, as the Red Sea, probably to Petra—Albert of Aix says Horeb, “where he built in eighteen days a new castle.” These affairs being settled, and there being every appearance of tranquillity in all directions, he turned his thoughts to the conquest of Egypt, and actually set off to accomplish this with an army of one hundred and sixteen knights and four hundred foot soldiers. They penetrated as far as Pharamia, near the ancient Pelusium, which the inhabitants abandoned in a panic. They found here food and drink in plenty, and rested for two whole days. On the third, certain of the more prudent came to Baldwin: “We are few in number,” they said; “our arrival is known in all the country; it is only three days’ march from here to Cairo. Let us therefore take counsel how best to get out of the place.”

The king, seeing the wisdom of this advice, ordered the walls to be thrown down, and all the houses of the town to be set on fire. But whether it was the heat of the day, or the effect of over-exertion, he felt in the evening violent pains, which increased hourly. To be sick in the East was then to be on the point of death, and, despairing of recovery, he sent for his chiefs, and acquainted them with the certainty of his end. All burst into tears and lamentations, quite selfishly, it would seem, and on their own accounts, “for no one had any hope, from that moment, of ever seeing Jerusalem again.” Then the king raised himself and spoke to them, despite his sufferings. “Why, my brothers and companions in arms, should the death of a single man strike down your hearts and oppress you with feebleness in this land of pilgrimage, and in the midst of our enemies? Remember, in the name of God, that there are many among you whose strength is as great or greater than mine. Quit yourselves, then, like men, and devise the means of returning sword in hand, and maintaining the kingdom of Jerusalem according to your oaths.” And then, as if for a last prayer, he implored them not to bury his body in the land of the stranger, but to take it to Jerusalem, and lay it beside his brother Godfrey. His soldiers burst into tears. How could they carry, in the heat of summer, his body so far? But the king sent for Odo, his cook. “Know,” he said, “that I am about to die. If you have loved me in health, preserve your fidelity in death. Open my body as soon as the breath is out of it, fill me with salt and spice, and bear me to Jerusalem, to be buried in the forms of the Church.”

They bore him along, still living. On the third day of the week the end came, and Baldwin died. With his last breath he named his brother Eustace as his successor, but if he would not take the crown, he gave them liberty to choose any other. Odo the cook executed his wishes; his bowels were buried at Al Arish, and the little army, in sadness and with misgivings of evil, returned to Jerusalem, bringing with them the king who had so often led them to victory.

It was on Palm Sunday when they arrived. They met, in the valley of Jehoshaphat, the people of the city all dressed in festival garb, and singing psalms of joy, to celebrate the feast. Joy was turned into mourning, and the procession of clergy which was descending the Mount of Olives met, “by express order of God, and an inconceivable chance,” the little troop which bore back the remains of the king. They buried him beside his brother: Baldwin du Bourg, the Count of Edessa, being the chief mourner, as he was his nearest relation.^[58]

So died the greatest of the Christian kings, the strongest as well as the wisest. His faults were those of the age; he was, however, before the age; not so cruel, not so ignorant, not so superstitious, not so bigoted. He was among the first to recognise the fact that a man may be an infidel and yet be worthy of friendship; he was also the first to resist the extravagant pretensions of the Church, and the greed of the Latin priests. He was, like his brother, the defender by oath of the Holy Sepulchre, but he would not consent to become a mere servant of the patriarch while he was styled the king of the country. We have stated above that his chief fault was an excessive love of women, and this he was wise enough to conceal. But the charge is brought forward by his priestly biographers, who, which is significant, do not advance against him a single definite case to support it. William of Tyre wanted something, perhaps, to allege against a man who dared beard a bishop at his own table, and swear at his gluttony and luxury. In any case he had very little leisure for indulgence in vice. He married three times, his first wife being an Englishwoman, who died on her way out. His second was the daughter of an Armenian prince, whom he divorced on the charge of adultery. Dagobert maintained that she was innocent, probably with a view to blacken the character of the king, but the divorced queen, going to Constantinople, justified by her conduct there the worst accusations that could be brought against her. The third time he married the widow of Roger, Count of Sicily, Adelaide by name. She brought whole shiploads of treasure with her; the marriage was celebrated with every demonstration of joy, and the new queen’s generosity caused rejoicing through all the land. But the year before he died, and three years after the marriage, Baldwin had an illness which led him to reflect on a marriage contracted while his divorced wife was still living, and he sent her back. It was an unlucky wedding for the country, because the Normans in Sicily could not forgive this treatment of one of their blood, and thus another powerful ally was lost to the kingdom. As for Adelaide, she returned to Sicily filled with shame and rage, and died the same year as her husband.

In that year, too, died Alexis Comnenus, Pascal, the pope, and Arnold, the patriarch. Foulcher of Chartres is careful to tell us that he saw himself that very year a red light in the heavens at dead of night. It certainly portended something, most probably something disastrous. “Quite uncertain as to what the event might prove, we left it in all humility, and unanimously, to the will of the Lord. Some of us, nevertheless, saw in the prodigy a presage of the deaths of those great persons who died that same year.” Which doubtless it was.