Crusades [16] 9781138296855, 9781315143316

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Abbreviations
Articles
Mediterranean Notables and the Politics of Survival in Islamic and Latin Syria: Two Geniza Documents on the Frankish Siege of Tripoli
A New Document Concerning the Bishopric of Sebastea
A Ridge Too Far: The Siege of Saone/Sahyun in 1188 and Contemporary Trebuchet Technology
“The Sins of the Sons of Men”: A New Letter of Pope Celestine III Concerning the 1195 Crusade of Alarcos
A Crusader Manuscript from Antioch? Reappraising the Provenance of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963
Otto of Grandson and the Holy Land, Cyprus and Armenia
A Crusader Lineage from Spain to the Throne of Jerusalem: The Lusignans
Ending and Starting Crusades at the Council of Basel
Research Output in Medieval and Crusade Studies 1981–2011: A Bibliometric Survey
Reviews
Niall Christie, Muslims and Crusaders: Christianity’s Wars in the Middle East, 1095–1382, from the Islamic Sources
Kristin Skottki, Christen, Muslime und der Erste Kreuzzug: Die Macht der Beschreibung in der mittelalterlichen und modernen Historiographie
Les ordres militaires dans la ville médiévale (1100–1350). Actes du colloque international de Clermont-Ferrand, 26–28 May 2010, ed. Damien Carraz
Élites et ordres militaires au moyen âge. Rencontre autour d’Alain Demurger, ed Philippe Josserand, Luis F. Oliveira and Damien Carraz
Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, ed. Kathryn Hurlock and Paul Oldfield
Jean Donnadieu, Jacques de Vitry (1175/1180–1240) entre l’Orient et l’Occident. L’évêque aux trois visages
Legati, delegati e l’impresa d’Oltremare (secoli XII–XIII). Papal Legates, Delegates and the Crusades (12th and 13th century). Atti del Convegno
Internazionale di Studi Milano, Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore,
9–11 marzo 2011, ed. Maria Pia Alberzoni and Pascal Montaubin
Jean-Bernard de Vaivre et Laurent Vissière, “Tous les deables d’Enfer.” Relations du siège de Rhodes par les Ottomans en 1480
Sarah Kate Raphael, Climate and Political Climate: Environmental Disasters in the Medieval Levant
The Chronicle of Amadi, translated from the Italian by Nicholas Coureas and Peter Edbury
The Crusades: A Reader. Second Edition, ed. S. J. Allen and Emilie Amt
Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury, ed. Susan B. Edgington and
Helen J. Nicholson
Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France,
ed. Simon John and Nicholas Morton
Short Notices
Alan V. Murray, The Franks in Outremer: Studies in the Latin Principalities of Palestine and Syria, 1099–1187
Benjamin Z. Kedar, Crusaders and Franks: Studies in the History of the Crusades and the Frankish Levant
Bulletin no. 37 of the SSCLE
Guidelines for the Submission of Papers
Membership Information

Citation preview

Crusades Volume 16, 2017

Crusades Edited by Benjamin Z. Kedar and Jonathan Phillips with Nikolaos G. Chrissis Editorial Board Benjamin Z. Kedar (Editor; Hebrew University, Jerusalem, Israel) Jonathan Phillips (Editor; Royal Holloway, University of London, U.K.) Nikolaos G. Chrissis (Associate and Bulletin Editor; University of Athens, Greece) Torben Kjersgaard Nielsen (Reviews Editor; Aalborg University, Denmark) Denys Pringle (Archaeology Editor; University of Cardiff, U.K.) Michel Balard (University of Paris I, France) James A. Brundage (University of Kansas, U.S.A.) Robert Cook (University of Virginia, U.S.A.) Jaroslav Folda (University of North Carolina, U.S.A.) Stefan Heidemann (University of Hamburg, Germany) Robert B. C. Huygens (University of Leiden, The Netherlands) David Jacoby (Hebrew University, Jerusalem, Israel) Kurt Villads Jensen (Stockholm University, Sweden) Thomas F. Madden (Saint Louis University, U.S.A.) Catherine Otten (University of Strasbourg, France) Jean Richard (Institut de France) François-Olivier Touati (Université François-Rabelais de Tours, France)

Crusades Volume 16, 2017

Published by ROUTLEDGE for the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East

First published 2017 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2017 by the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-29685-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-14331-6 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by N2productions

CONTENTS Abbreviations ix Articles Mediterranean Notables and the Politics of Survival in Islamic and Latin Syria: Two Geniza Documents on the Frankish Siege of Tripoli Brendan Goldman A New Document Concerning the Bishopric of Sebastea G. A. Loud

1 21

A Ridge Too Far: The Siege of Saone/Sahyun in 1188 and Contemporary Trebuchet Technology Michael S. Fulton

33

“The Sins of the Sons of Men”: A New Letter of Pope Celestine III Concerning the 1195 Crusade of Alarcos Miguel Gómez and Kyle Lincoln

55

A Crusader Manuscript from Antioch? Reappraising the Provenance of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963 Philip D. Handyside

65

Otto of Grandson and the Holy Land, Cyprus and Armenia Alan Forey

79

A Crusader Lineage from Spain to the Throne of Jerusalem: The Lusignans Clément de Vasselot de Régné

95

Ending and Starting Crusades at the Council of Basel Norman Housley Research Output in Medieval and Crusade Studies 1981–2011: A Bibliometric Survey Torben Kjersgaard Nielsen

v

115

147

vi

CONTENTs

Reviews Niall Christie, Muslims and Crusaders: Christianity’s Wars in the Middle East, 1095–1382, from the Islamic Sources (Alex Mallett)

165

Kristin Skottki, Christen, Muslime und der Erste Kreuzzug: Die Macht der Beschreibung in der mittelalterlichen und modernen Historiographie (Nicholas Morton)

167

Les ordres militaires dans la ville médiévale (1100–1350). Actes du colloque international de Clermont-Ferrand, 26–28 May 2010, ed. Damien Carraz (Judith Bronstein) 169 Élites et ordres militaires au moyen âge. Rencontre autour d’Alain Demurger, ed Philippe Josserand, Luis F. Oliveira and Damien Carraz (Karl Borchardt)

172

Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, ed. Kathryn Hurlock and Paul Oldfield (Andrew Jotischky)

174

Jean Donnadieu, Jacques de Vitry (1175/1180–1240) entre l’Orient et l’Occident. L’évêque aux trois visages (Jessalynn Bird)

175

Legati, delegati e l’impresa d’Oltremare (secoli XII–XIII). Papal Legates, Delegates and the Crusades (12th and 13th century). Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Milano, Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, 9–11 marzo 2011, ed. Maria Pia Alberzoni and Pascal Montaubin (Christoph T. Maier)

177

Jean-Bernard de Vaivre et Laurent Vissière, “Tous les deables d’Enfer.” Relations du siège de Rhodes par les Ottomans en 1480 (François-Olivier Touati)

179

Sarah Kate Raphael, Climate and Political Climate: Environmental Disasters in the Medieval Levant (Adrian Boas)

182

The Chronicle of Amadi, translated from the Italian by Nicholas Coureas and Peter Edbury (Mike Carr)

184

The Crusades: A Reader. Second Edition, ed. S. J. Allen and Emilie Amt (Ane L. Bysted)

186



CONTENTS vii

Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Helen J. Nicholson (Andrew Jotischky)

188

Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, ed. Simon John and Nicholas Morton (Andrew Jotischky)

188

Short Notices Alan V. Murray, The Franks in Outremer: Studies in the Latin Principalities of Palestine and Syria, 1099–1187 189 Benjamin Z. Kedar, Crusaders and Franks: Studies in the History of the Crusades and the Frankish Levant 190 Guidelines for the Submission of Papers

269

Membership Information

271

Abbreviations Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana. History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. Susan B. Edgington (Oxford, 2007) AOL Archives de l’Orient latin Autour Autour de la Première Croisade. Actes du colloque de la Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East: Clermont-Ferrand, 22–25 juin 1995, ed. Michel Balard (Paris, 1996) Cart Hosp Cartulaire général de l’ordre des Hospitaliers de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem, 1100–1310, ed. Joseph Delaville Le Roulx. 4 vols. (Paris, 1884–1906) Cart St Sép Le Cartulaire du chapitre du Saint-Sépulcre de Jérusalem, ed. Geneviève Bresc-Bautier, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des croisades 15 (Paris, 1984) Cart Tem Cartulaire général de l’ordre du Temple 1119?–1150. Recueil des chartes et des bulles relatives à l’ordre du Temple, ed. Guigue A.M.J.A., (marquis) d’Albon (Paris, 1913) CCCM Corpus Christianorum. Continuatio Mediaevalis Chartes Josaphat Chartes de la Terre Sainte provenant de l’abbaye de NotreDame de Josaphat, ed. Henri F. Delaborde, Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 19 (Paris, 1880) Clermont From Clermont to Jerusalem: The Crusades and Crusader Societies 1095–1500. Selected Proceedings of the International Medieval Congress, University of Leeds, 10–13 July 1995, ed. Alan V. Murray. International Medieval Research 3 (Turnhout, 1998) Crusade Sources The Crusades and their Sources: Essays Presented to Bernard Hamilton, ed. John France and William G. Zajac (Aldershot, 1998) CS Crusade and Settlement: Papers read at the First Conference of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East and Presented to R. C. Smail, ed. Peter W. Edbury (Cardiff, 1985) CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum FC Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed. Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913) GF Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum, ed. and trans. Rosalind M. T. Hill and Roger Mynors (London, 1962) GN Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 127A (Turnhout, 1996) AA

ix

x

Horns

abbreviations

The Horns of Hattin, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar (Jerusalem and London, 1992) Mansi. Concilia Giovanni D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio Mayer, Urkunden Die Urkunden der lateinischen Könige von Jerusalem, ed. Hans E. Mayer, 4 vols. (Hanover, 2010) MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica  SRG  Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum  SS  Scriptores (in Folio) MO, 1 The Military Orders: Fighting for the Faith and Caring for the Sick, ed. Malcolm Barber (Aldershot, 1994) MO, 2 The Military Orders, vol. 2: Welfare and Warfare, ed. Helen Nicholson (Aldershot, 1998) MO, 3 The Military Orders, vol. 3: History and Heritage, ed. Victor Mallia-Milanes (Aldershot, 2008) MO, 4 The Military Orders, vol. 4: On Land and by Sea, ed. Judi Upton-Ward (Aldershot, 2008) MO, 5 The Military Orders, vol. 5: Politics and Power, ed. Peter W. Edbury (Farnham, 2012) Montjoie Montjoie: Studies in Crusade History in Honour of Hans Eberhard Mayer, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar, Jonathan RileySmith and Rudolf Hiestand (Aldershot, 1997) Outremer Outremer. Studies in the History of the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem Presented to Joshua Prawer, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar, Hans E. Mayer and Raymond C. Smail (Jerusalem, 1982) PG Patrologia Graeca PL Patrologia Latina PPTS Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society Library Pringle, Churches Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 4 vols. (Cambridge, 1993–2009) RHC Recueil des Historiens des Croisades  Darm  Documents arméniens  Lois  Les assises de Jérusalem  Oc  Historiens occidentaux  Or  Historiens orientaux RHGF Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France RIS Rerum Italicarum Scriptores  NS  New Series RM The Historia Iherosolimitana of Robert the Monk, ed. Damien Kempf and Marcus G. Bull (Woodbridge, 2013) ROL Revue de l’Orient latin



RRH RRH Add RS Setton, Crusades WT

abbreviations xi

Reinhold Röhricht, comp., Regesta regni hierosolymitani (Innsbruck, 1893) Reinhold Röhricht, comp., Additamentum (Innsbruck, 1904) Rolls Series A History of the Crusades, general editor Kenneth M. Setton, 2nd edn., 6 vols. (Madison, 1969–89) William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, with Hans E. Mayer and Gerhard Rösch, CCCM 63–63A (Turnhout, 1986)

Mediterranean Notables and the Politics of Survival in Islamic and Latin Syria: Two Geniza Documents on the Frankish Siege of Tripoli Brendan Goldman Johns Hopkins University [email protected] Abstract Well over a hundred documents relating the experiences of Near Eastern people living, traveling and trading in the Frankish Levant – from the capture of Antioch in 1098 to the fall of Acre in 1291 – have survived in the Cairo Geniza. This article presents an edition, translation and discussion of one such document and a revision to the dating of a second one previously published by Moshe Gil. The two documents concern the period of the Franks’ successful campaign to seize the Syrian port of Tripoli in 1109. The first relays how the leader of the Palestinian Academy, Evyatar ha-Kohen b. Shelomo, petitioned the head of the Jews of Egypt, Mevorakh b. Seʿadya, to deploy his ties to the Fatimid navy to rescue Evyatar and his family from the besieged port. The second details how Evyatar successfully escaped the Frankish sack of Tripoli and subsequently found refuge in Damascus. The article contends that these Geniza documents elucidate Syrian notables’ lived experience of conquest and strategies for survival that both Latin and Arabic chronicles had obscured. It suggests that further study of such Arabic documentary sources may provide additional insight into how these Near Easterners – whom chroniclers who served (and often were themselves) state elites often overlooked – experienced the crusades to the Holy Land.

Over the last two decades, scholars have published a series of compelling monographs and doctoral dissertations examining how Near Eastern people experienced and understood the Crusades.1 These works have mainly drawn on literary and archaeological sources.2 Narrative texts such as the Arabic chronicles I would like to thank Tamer el-Leithy, Eve Krakowski, Marina Rustow, Gabrielle Spiegel, Oded Zinger, Moshe Yagur, Craig Perry and Jennifer Grayson for their comments on drafts of this article. 1  Ronnie Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge, 1998); Adrian Boas, Crusader Archaeology: The Material Culture of the Latin East (London and New York, 1999); Carole Hillenbrand, Islamic Perspectives on the Crusades (Edinburgh, 1999); Christopher MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East: Rough Tolerance (Philadelphia, 2009); Paul Cobb, The Race for Paradise: Islamic Histories of the Crusades (Oxford, 2014); Uri Z. Shachar, “Dialogical Warfare: Figurations of Pious Belligerence among Christian, Muslim and Jewish Authors in the Crusading Near East” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2014); and Ann Zimo, “Muslims in the Landscape: A Social Map of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Thirteenth Century” (PhD diss., University of Minnesota, 2016). 2  Few scholars have written histories of the Crusades based on Near Eastern documentary sources. Two critical works of diplomatic history based on Arabic documents are M. A. Köhler, Alliances 1

2

BRENDAN GOLDMAN

of the period are retrospective accounts that privilege the worldview of military and state elites; they limit the questions that scholars can ask about the real-time experiences of other strata of Syrian society.3 The chroniclers generally relegate these other classes to an undifferentiated “townspeople” (ahl al-balad), who appear powerless to save themselves from a fate determined by greater men and God.4 The following, for instance, is how the Syrian chronicler Abū Yaʿlā Ḥamza ibn al-Qalānisī (d. 555/1160) describes events surrounding the Frankish siege of Tripoli in 502/1109. Ibn al-Qalānisī , like most contemporary Near Eastern chroniclers, was not only a historian, but also a member of the state elite: he served as the leader (ra ʾīs) of Damascus and the head of the chancery (ʿamīd dīwan al-rasā ʾil).5 Ibn al-Qalānisī informs his readers that a group of Frankish nobles had been engaged in a political dispute but, when they resolved their differences, they joined together to attack Tripoli.6 The chronicler then relates:

and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East: Cross-Cultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades, trans. P. M. Holt, rev., ed. and intr. Konrad Hirschler (Leiden, 2013); and Peter Malcolm Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalawun with Christian Rulers (Leiden: 1995). Cairo Geniza documents from the period of the crusades are synthesized in S. D. Goitein’s Palestinian Jewry in Early Islamic and Crusader Times in the Light of the Geniza Documents (Jerusalem, 1980) [in Hebrew]; and Joshua Prawer used Goitein’s Geniza editions and other Hebrew manuscripts in writing his The History of the Jews in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Oxford, 1988). Goitein only published a fraction of the Geniza documents he discovered related to the crusader states in Palestinian Jewry. Mordechai Akiva Friedman also published an article based on Geniza documents from the crusader period: “Geniza Sources for the Crusader Period and for Maimonides and his Descendants,” Cathedra 40 (1986), 63–82 [in Hebrew]. Goitein translated a few select Geniza documents in “Geniza Sources for the Crusader Period: A Survey,” in Outremer, 306–22. 3  See Hillenbrand, Islamic Perspectives, 32. As Hillenbrand notes, few of the authors of Arabic narrative sources lived during the period of the events they purport to describe. There are small collections of poems, the Kitāb al-jihād of ʿAlī ibn Ṭāhir al-Sulamī , and contemporary personal reflections in travelogues like Ibn Jubayr’s Riḥlah and the autobiographical Kitāb al-iʿtibār of Usāmah ibn Munqidh. Ibn al-Qalānisī ’s Ta ʾrī kh Damashq, one of the closest chronicles to a contemporary account, was written toward the end of the author’s life, i.e., four to five decades after the events related here. For a discussion of the challenges of using these late sources to obtain historical data, see Konrad Hirschler, “The Jerusalem Conquest of 492/1099 in the Medieval Arabic Historiography of the Crusades: From Regional Plurality to Islamic Narrative,” Crusades 13 (2014): 37–76. However, as Benjamin Z. Kedar has noted, Hirschler does not utilize evidence from the Geniza documents in his analysis of these histories: see Kedar, Crusaders and Franks: Studies in the History of the Crusades and the Frankish Levant (Abingdon, 2016), Addenda, p. 1. 4  Chase F. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (New York, 2003), 100–102, 118–23, 166–70. Robinson argues that court histories that emerged after the tenth century, including those of Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ibn al-Athī r and their contemporaries, were intended to present a small group of ruling elites to an audience of literate subjects whose support the court hoped to gain by demonstrating that state elites were “upholders of God’s law” and “guardians of the good life” (119). On God and predestination in Islamic histories, see ibid., 129–34. 5  Niall Christie, “Ibn al-Qalānisī ,” in Medieval Muslim Historians and the Franks in the Levant, ed. Alex Mallett (Leiden, 2014), 7–28. 6  The dispute was between Raymond of St. Gilles’s son, Bertrand, and the count of Cerdagne over who would control Tripoli once it was conquered. The Genoese were also an active party in this dispute. Ultimately, King Baldwin I of Jerusalem was compelled to resolve the disagreement. See Jonathan



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 3

When the townspeople [of Tripoli] (ahl al-balad) saw the [Frankish] army and warriors they were at a loss and were convinced of their (imminent) destruction. Their spirits were lowered to total despair at the delay of the Egyptian fleet (ta ʾakhkhur wuṣūl al-usṭūl al-miṣrī) at sea [with its] provisions and auxiliary troops. For the grain supplies of the fleet had been removed (uzīḥat ghallat al-usṭūl) and the direction of the wind kept the fleet at bay. Through this, what God, may He be exalted, had wanted concerning the implementation of the preordained decree was accomplished [i.e., Tripoli fell] (li-mā yurīd Allāh tāʿalá min nafādh al-amr al-maqḍīy) … [The Franks] took possession of the city by force … They captured its men and enslaved its women and children.7

In this passage, Ibn al-Qalānisī portrays Tripoli’s townspeople not as actors shaping their own fate, but as objects acted upon: an Egyptian fleet fails to resupply Tripoli in a timely manner; Mediterranean winds exacerbate the fleet’s delay; Tripoli’s downfall is predetermined, since God had foreordained it. The townspeople are made despondent, compelled to surrender and forced into slavery. While recent scholarship has subjected such accounts to critical scrutiny, relatively few studies have examined Near Eastern documentary sources from this period – personal letters, legal documents, petitions, charity lists and responsa – that can flesh out human experiences obscured by narrative texts. Scholars have recently digitized contemporary Near Eastern documentation that will make these sources more accessible to future researchers.8 Sources like the two Geniza documents presented here take us beyond the chroniclers’ faceless ahl al-balad, elucidating the strategies that Syrian townspeople employed to protect their lives and their loved ones from the Frankish invaders. Syrian Notables and Their Mediterranean Networks Most of the authors of the documents that survive in the Cairo Geniza were members of the notable class: merchants, religious scholars, moneylenders, tax collectors, physicians and minor courtiers.9 This group is elided in Ibn al-Qalānisī ’s Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A History, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT, 2005), 90–91. Also Cobb, The Race for Paradise, 110. 7  Ibn al-Qalānisī, Dhayl Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq, ed. H. Amedroz (Beirut, 1908), 163/89. Translated H. A. R. Gibb, The Damascus Chronicle of the Crusades: Extracted and Translated from the Chronicle of Ibn Al-Qalanisi (Mineola, NY, 2002 [1932]), 88–89. My translation is more literal than Gibb’s. For further information, see Christie, “Ibn al-Qalānisī,” 7–28. 8  I refer here to the Princeton Geniza Project (https://geniza.princeton.edu/pgp/), the Friedberg Genizah Project (http://fjms.genizah.org/), the Cambridge Digital Library (http://cudl.lib.cam.ac.uk/ collections/islamic/), the Arabic Papyrology Database (www.apd.gwi.uni-muenchen.de:8080/apd/ project.jsp), Trismegistos (www.trismegistos.org/) and other databases. Several other universities have also recently digitized their collections of Arabic documents or are in the process of doing so. 9  These notables are the group that S. D. Goitein termed “the middle class.” They constituted a relatively small minority of the population of the medieval Mediterranean world. Nevertheless, as Goitein notes, they are the group most prominently represented among the writers of the Cairo Geniza documents. This is not surprising, since the vast majority of the population was not literate. S. D. Goitein,

4

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ahl al-balad. Notables could be Sunni or Shiʿi Muslims, Qara ʾite or Rabbanite Jews, Armenian or Coptic Christians. Often their professions required that they be itinerant and cultivate relationships with partners across the eastern Mediterranean – including associates who served the courts of Islamic states.10 They sustained their social and political networks through the exchange of letters relating to trade, religious matters and communal administration.11 Well-connected notables did not hesitate to call upon the state to protect their interests and to intervene in inter- and intra-communal disputes.12 Notables like Evyatar ha-Kohen b. Shelomo, the head (ga ʾon) of the Palestinian Academy (yeshivah), recognized that during times of war these connections could mean the difference between life and death. Evyatar learned this lesson firsthand. Military conflicts in Syria compelled him and his Academy to relocate three times over the course of four decades: first, from Jerusalem to Tyre (c.1073–c.1102); then, from Tyre to Tripoli (c.1102–1109); and, finally, from Tripoli to Damascus (c.1109–1200s). According to Moshe Gil and S. D. Goitein, the Academy’s leaders chose to move to these specific cities because they hosted prominent Jewish notables who maintained close relationships to local Muslim rulers.13 Gil and Goitein provided only circumstantial evidence for their theory, finding no documentation of how Evyatar employed his alliances to protect himself and his Academy from enemy armies. The two documents presented here confirm Gil’s and Goitein’s suspicions about the rationale behind the Academy’s first two relocations by illustrating how Evyatar deployed his political alliances during the Academy’s third migration from Tripoli A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 6 vols. (Berkeley, 1967–93), 1:148–266. On the problems of the middle class as representative of Islamicate society, see Phillip I. Lieberman, The Business of Identity: Jews, Muslims, and Economic Life in Medieval Egypt (Palo Alto, CA, 2014), 200–203. 10  Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 1: 273–352. On how the Mediterranean facilitated these relationships, see Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford, 2000), 342–400. 11  Menahem Ben-Sasson outlined these overlapping networks of religious authority, commerce and personal correspondence in two excellent Geniza studies: “Fragmentary Letters from the Geniza: On the History of the Renewed Links between the Babylonian Academies and the West,” Tarbiz 56 (1987): 31–82 [in Hebrew]; and The Emergence of the Local Jewish Community in the Muslim World: Qayrawan, 800–1057 (Jerusalem, 1996) [in Hebrew]. 12  Marina Rustow, “The Genizah and Jewish Communal History,” in From a Sacred Source: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif, ed. B. M. Outhwaite and S. Bhayro (Leiden, 2011), 289–318. See also eadem, Heresy and the Politics of Community: The Jews of the Fatimid Caliphate (Ithaca, 2008), 67–108, 176–99. 13  Gil, Palestine During the First Muslim Period (634–1099), 3 vols. (Tel Aviv, 1983), secs. 249– 50, 418–19 [in Hebrew]; and idem, “The Scroll of Evyatar as a Source for the History of the Struggles of the Yeshivah of Jerusalem during the Second Half of the Eleventh Century – A New Reading of the Scroll,” in Jerusalem in the Middle Ages: Selected Papers, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar (Jerusalem, 1979), 45–46, 72 [in Hebrew]. See also, Mark Cohen, Jewish Self-Government in Medieval Egypt: The Origins of the Office of the Head of the Jews, ca. 1065–1126 (Princeton, 1980), 82–83; and Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 1:296.



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 5

to Damascus. These sources reveal that Levantine notables like Evyatar were not simply the passive victims of the volatile politics of Islamic and Latin Syria. Instead, they were deft players of the political game, keenly aware of how they could utilize their social ties to save themselves from Frankish forces. The Context: The Palestinian Academy and the Port Politics of Islamic Syria (1062–1109) The ports of Islamic Syria were known for their fiercely independent politics.14 Starting in the 1060s, Tyre and Tripoli revolted against Fatimid rule, forming autonomous city-states under rebel qāḍīs.15 These successful rebellions took place at the same time as the Seljuq invasions of the Levant in the 1070s. The Seljuq advances precipitated an exodus of Jews, Christians and Muslims from the Syrian hinterland.16 Tyre accepted some of these refugees, including the leader of the Palestinian Academy, Eliyyahu b. Shelomo, his son, Evyatar and fellow members of their institution. Tyre not only took in Evyatar, but also the leading Shāfiʿī scholar of Syria, Abū l-Fatḥ Naṣr b. Ibrāhī m al-Maqdisī al-Nāblusī .17 Prior to this period, when Eliyyahu and his Academy had lived under Fatimid rule, the Fatimid state had granted him and his predecessors the right to appoint Jewish judges and communal leaders, to resolve intra-communal Jewish disputes, to organize drives to redeem captives and to confer titles of municipal leadership on Jewish notables across the Fatimid caliphate.18 The head of the Academy, in turn, relied on notables – courtiers, merchants and bankers, both Qara ʾite and Rabbanite Jews – to enforce his rulings through state-sanctioned coercion and to defend his interests at the Fatimid court.19 14 

David Bramoullé, “Les villes maritimes fatimides en Méditerranée orientale (969–1171),” Histoire Urbaine 2/19 (2007): 93–116. 15  Ibid., and Gil, Palestine, secs. 603–11. 16  The extent of the destruction wreaked by the Seljuq conquests is evident in the dramatic decline in trade-related documents from Syria that Moshe Gil discovered in the Geniza. See Gil, Palestine, 3:96–331. It is telling that, among the dozens of documents that Gil included in his “letters of merchants” section, there is only one letter (doc. 529) that may date from the period after the Seljuq conquests. There are a few trade-related documents from Ascalon during this period (ibid., 3:463–510), but this is unsurprising since Ascalon never rebelled against the Fatimids, nor was it ever cut off from Egypt. See Moshe Yagur, “Between Egypt and Jerusalem: The Geopolitics of the Jewish Community of Ascalon in the Geniza Period” (MA diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2012) [in Hebrew]; and Jessica Goldberg, Trade and Institutions in the Medieval Mediterranean: The Geniza Merchants and their Business World (Cambridge, 2016), 300–305. 17  See Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 2:201, 562 n. 14; Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 81–84; Gil, “Scroll of Evyatar,” 82 n. 6; and Rustow, Heresy, 329. 18  For a discussion of these roles, see Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 2:5–40; Rustow, Heresy, 67–108; Gil, Palestine, secs. 746–61; and Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 28–29, 34–35, 40, 45–46. On Evyatar specifically, see Rustow, Heresy, 20, 63, 326–40, 348; and Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 81–82, 97, 110, 112, 124, 140–41, 180–85, 193–94, 202, 206, 210, 222–27 and 232. 19  Rustow, “Jewish Communal History,” 289–318.

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Why, then, did Eliyyahu, a man who depended on ties to the Fatimid state, choose to move his Academy to Tyre, a port then ruled by an anti-Fatimid qāḍī, Ibn abī ʿAqī l? Moshe Gil has argued that Eliyyahu chose Tyre because the city hosted wealthy Jewish merchants with close ties to the qāḍī. These elites and their Muslim allies could collectively protect the financial and political interests of the Academy and its leader.20 Furthermore, Tyre was in relatively close proximity to the Holy Land, and the Palestinian Academy’s ties to it were one of the bases for its legitimacy in the medieval Jewish world.21 The port was also nearly impregnable, meaning the Seljuqs and other antagonists were unlikely to breach its walls.22 Evyatar ha-Kohen (r. 1083–c.1112), Eliyyahu’s son and successor, affirmed his father’s decision to keep the Palestinian Academy in Tyre. In 1089, however, the Fatimids retook Tyre, only to see their victorious general, Munī r al-Dawlah al-Juyūshī , rebel against their rule and claim the port for himself. Subsequently, three different rebel factions ruled Tyre in turn over a period of eight years (1089–97).23 Letters from the Geniza suggest that residents of the port attempted to escape the city during this period.24 Evyatar and his Academy finally managed to do so sometime between 1095 and 1102. The First Crusade (1096–99) had nothing to do with Evyatar’s decision to leave Tyre; the port remained in Muslim hands for two decades after most of its neighbors had fallen to the Franks.25 Evyatar probably abandoned Tyre because of internal political turmoil, the collapse of Ibn abī ʿAqī l’s friendly regime and the exodus of his prominent Jewish allies from the city.

20 

See above n. 13. Eliyyahu’s son, Evyatar, asserted the claim of the Palestinian Academy’s authority based on the sanctity of the Land of Israel in a work known as Megillat Evyatar or “the Scroll of Evyatar.” The scroll provides Evyatar’s account of the Palestinian Academy’s conflict with the Egyptian leader, David b. Daniʾel. The scroll (Cambridge University Library, Taylor-Schechter Collection [hereafter T-S], 10 K 7.1) is edited in Gil, Palestine, 3:391–413 (doc. 559). With regard to the claims relating to the Land of Israel, see especially ll. 20–21. These points are discussed in Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 180–85. 22  Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, 4 vols. (Cambridge, 1993– 2010), 4:208–30. 23  Gil, Palestine, secs. 610, 611. 24  Manchester, John Rylands Library L 213, edited in Gil, Palestine, 3:518–20 (doc. 602); New York: The Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, Elkan Nathan Adler Collection (ENA), 1822 A 44–45, edited in Gil, Palestine, 3:382–84 (doc. 557). One letter from a member of the Palestinian Academy traveling through Tripoli c.1100 refers to the situation in Tyre as “foul” (qabī ḥa). The writer makes no mention of the Academy, but it is possible that its members still resided in Tyre at this time. T-S New Series (NS) 264.15 r. l.8, ed. Gil, Palestine, 3:443–44 (doc. 576), ll. 7–9. 25  Mark Cohen and Jacob Mann argue that the First Crusade was the reason for the collapse of the Palestinian Academy and its flight from Tyre; see Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 227; and Jacob Mann, The Jews in Egypt and in Palestine Under the Fāṭimid Caliphs: A Contribution to Their Political and Communal History Based Chiefly on Genizah Material Hitherto Unpublished, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1920–22), 1:170, 194–95. Gil argues more convincingly that the Academy moved because of conflicts between Muslim forces in the city: Palestine, sec. 916. Tyre only fell to the Franks in 1124, over a decade after every other major Syrian port with the exception of Ascalon. 21 



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 7

Evyatar went ninety miles northeast to the Syrian port of Tripoli.26 Why did Evyatar choose Tripoli? His choice was likely based on the same economic and political factors that had prompted his father to move to Tyre three decades before. Tripoli was one of the wealthiest ports in Syria.27 Among its more affluent citizens were a group of prominent Jewish merchants.28 These merchants had close ties to the Banū ʿAmmār, a family of qāḍīs who, like Ibn abī ʿAqī l’s family in Tyre, had rebelled against Fatimid rule and established their own city-state in Tripoli in 1070. Unlike Ibn abī ʿAqī l’s descendants, however, the Banū ʿAmmār had managed to hold off the Fatimids and maintain relative peace and order in their port.29 The family was overthrown only in the summer of 1108, when the citizens of Tripoli faced the full brunt of the Frankish war machine and decided that the Fatimids would be more capable military allies against the Franks than a petty emir. The Fatimids gladly obliged the Tripolitans’ request and sent a new governor to oversee the city’s defense.30 Over a period of decades, then, the heads of the Palestinian Academy – Evyatar and his father, Eliyyahu – had survived rebellions, imperial reprisals, sieges and military occupations. How did they and their Academy manage to prevail in these hostile contexts? The answer to that question lies in the petition and letter analyzed here.31 26 

A Geniza letter concerning a messianic movement among Constantinople’s Jews, likely during the period of the First Crusade, mentions that Evyatar was residing in Tripoli: University of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Heb a3.27, ll. 8–9, ed. in A. Neubauer, “Egyptian Fragments II,” in Jewish Quarterly Review 9 (1896–97): 28; and ed. Jacob Mann, “Messianic Movements during the First Crusades,” Hatequfa 23 (1924–25): 253–59 [in Hebrew]. 27  Bosworth F. Buhl and Marc Lavergne, “Ṭarābulus (or Aṭrābulus) al-Shām,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., (Leiden, 2002). Goldberg notes Tripoli’s role as the main port of Damascus for Jewish traders in her Trade and Institutions, 227–29. 28  For ties between the Geniza merchants and the Muslim leaders of Tripoli, see Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 1:310–11; 2:366. 29  Cobb, The Race for Paradise, 108–11. 30  See Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq 226/51–55, 88–92; Ibn al-Athī r, al-Kāmil, 10:310–12, 355– 56, 452; Claude Cahen, “La Chronique abrégée d’al-Aẓīmī,” Journal Asiatique 230 (1938): 361–63. 31  Two scholars, S. D. Goitein and Menahem Ben-Sasson, made reference to this petition. Goitein dated it to around 1120 and stated that it concerned a head of the Palestinian Academy who had been seized by pirates and was being held in the Muslim city-state of Tripoli. Tripoli, Goitein stated, was then under the leadership of a petty local ruler and therefore could be bullied by the royal fleet into surrendering the ga’on. Ben-Sasson accepted Goitein’s analysis of the contents of the manuscript with regard to pirates and ransoming, but dated it even later to c.1126. There are several problems with these chronologies. First, in 1120, Tripoli had already been under crusader rule for over a decade, having fallen to Frankish forces in July 1109; it is highly improbable that the ra ʾī s al-yahūd would ask the head of the Fatimid fleet to intervene in crusader-held Tripoli. Second, there is no mention of either pirates or ransoming in the document. Third, neither scholar justified why they dated the manuscript to 1120, but, according to our limited knowledge of the chronology of the Academy’s movement at this period, it seems unlikely that its leadership would have been in Tripoli in 1120, since the Academy was in Damascus then (see discussion above). Goitein, Mediterranean Society, 1:329–30; and Menahem Ben-Sasson, “The Axis of the Land of Israel and Syria: The Formal Aspect,” Peʾamim 66 (1996), 14 [in Hebrew].

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Evyatar’s Petition: Genre and Dating Petitions in the medieval Near East constituted a versatile genre: victims of illfortune sent requests to potential patrons; individuals and communities wrote appeals to the caliphs or their viziers; and non-Muslim officials conveyed pleas to their communal leaders.32 In all these contexts, both petitioner and addressee shared an understanding of a code of conduct between ruler and ruled, patron and client. That code was based on the principle of the exchange of a patron’s benefaction (niʿmah) for a client’s expressed dependence on (and thus legitimation of) the benefactor.33 Among Jewish notables, another motive to respond to petitions was a conviction that fate was fickle and the patron could plummet to the status of the petitioners.34 Therefore, a successful petition was not so much the plea of the powerless, as a carefully crafted claim to protection, which, if upheld, would augment the standing of both petitioner and patron. How do we know this fragmentary text is a petition? Beyond the document’s supplicatory subject and tone, we can observe that its distinct graphic features (see Fig. 1 below) follow the norms of what Marina Rustow has called “Hebrew-script chancery style,” which was common to late-eleventh and twelfth-century JudeoArabic petitions. The style was modeled on the aesthetics of Fatimid chancery documents, especially state petitions.35 The petition is undated, but there are other ways to determine when it was written. The author says that at the time of his writing, the head of the Palestinian Academy is in Tripoli (l. 11). Previous scholarship has determined that Evyatar 32 

Mark Cohen, Poverty and Charity in the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton, 2005), 1–72. Cohen discusses the petitions of the conjunctural poor (i.e., those who had fallen on hard times but otherwise were self-sustaining) versus the community-supported chronic poor. Geoffrey Khan provides Arabic-script petitions relating similar relationships between the poor and patrons. He also compiles petitions to government figures; see Khan, Arabic Legal and Administrative Documents in the Cairo Genizah Collections (Cambridge, 1993), ch. 12, 302–409. Marina Rustow discusses the use of the petition in Jewish communal administration in “The Diplomatics of Leadership: Administrative Documents in Hebrew Script from the Cairo Geniza,” in Jews, Christians and Muslims in Medieval and Early Modern Times: A Festschrift in Honor of Mark Cohen, ed. A. Franklin, R. Margariti, M. Rustow and U. Simonsohn (Leiden, 2014), 306–51. 33  Marina Rustow, “Formal and Informal Patronage among Jews in the Islamic Near East: Evidence from the Cairo Geniza,” al-Qanṭara 29/2 (2008): 341–60. 34  Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 174–88. 35  T-S 20.145 is written on paper; the verso is blank; there is a broad right margin and almost no left one; the line-spacing is extraordinarily wide (the letters measured from baseline to headline occupy less than one-fifth of the vertical space between lines); there is a slight downward curvature to the start of the line followed by a slight upward one; and there is stacking of words at the ends of lines. These features follow the norms of Rustow’s “Hebrew-script chancery style”; see Rustow, “Diplomatics of Leadership,” 307–13. Rustow’s analysis is based on the eight-part structure for petitions laid out in Geoffrey Khan’s “The Historical Development of the Structure of Medieval Arabic Petitions,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 53 (1990): 8–30. Rustow and Khan note that petitions sent to lower officials (i.e. not to caliphs or viziers) often used truncated imperatives like the one that appears in the second-to-last line of T-S 20.145 (“please remind [the nagid] about it…”): Rustow, “Diplomatics,” 327–28; and Khan, Administrative Documents, 306–17.



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did not reach Tripoli until c.1102, a reasonable conclusion based on the available evidence.36 The Academy moved to Damascus sometime before 1116.37 It remained there for at least the next eight decades before disappearing from history.38 This document, then, must come from the period after c.1102 and before 1116, when Evyatar was in Tripoli. Furthermore, the petition invokes the political influence of the ra ʾīs al-yahud, the head of the Jews of Egypt, asking him to appeal to the admiral of a state fleet to rescue Evyatar and his children from Tripoli (ll. 8–12). The political influence of the head of the Jews was limited to the Fatimid Egyptian court, so Evyatar could only have asked this of the ra ʾīs if the Fatimids ruled Tyre. Therefore, this petition must have been written between the summer of 1108, when the populace of Tripoli overthrew the Banū ʿAmmār, and 12 July 1109, when the Franks sacked Tripoli. It is possible to be even more specific about the date of the petition’s composition. The document mentions that Evyatar is expecting the arrival in Tripoli of an entire government fleet (al-usṭūl al-saʿīd, lit. “the auspicious fleet,” l. 9), not one or two ships (markab, pl. marākib).39 Ibn al-Qalānisī provides an extensive account of the Franks’ extended siege of Tripoli and records only one Fatimid fleet being sent to the city during the final, successful Frankish campaign against Tripoli in the mid-spring or summer of 1109. That fleet had been delayed for months on end (“their spirits were lowered to total despair at the delay of the Egyptian fleet at sea [with its] provisions and auxiliary troops”), but news of its arrival had probably reached the port, and in any case Evyatar apparently knew that a relief effort was underway.40 This petition, then, was composed sometime during the Franks’ final siege of Tripoli in 1109 (1 Shaʿbān–11 Dhū al-Ḥijjah / 6 March–12 July).41 These 36  See S. D. Goitein, “Tyre, Tripoli- ‘Arqa: Geniza Documents from the Beginnings of the Crusader Period,” Jewish Quarterly Review 2 (1975): 74–75; Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 227; and Gil, Palestine, sec. 916. 37  ENA, 2806.8, ed. Gil, Palestine, 3:487 (doc. 589), r. l.7. The letter is to Evyatar’s son, Eliyyahu, and refers to the ga ʾon as having passed away (zekher ṣadiq li-vrakhah, i.e. “may the memory of the righteous be a blessing”). We know the Academy was well established in Damascus by 1116 from a letter that Evyatar’s brother and successor, Shelomo ha-Kohen, sent to a prominent member of the Academy in Fustat that refers to ongoing correspondence between the head of the Palestinian Academy and people in Fustat. See Cambridge University Library, Oriental Collection (Or.), 5535.1, ed. Gil, Palestine, 3:541–42 (doc. 611), rt. margin, ll. 6–7. 38  Neubauer, “Egyptian Fragments II,” 28; Jacob Mann, Texts and Studies in Jewish History and Literature, 2 vols. (New York, 1972), 1:194–95. 39  Geoffrey Khan has demonstrated that the qualifying adjective sa’ī d – “auspicious” or “fortunate” – used in contexts like this one, suggests that the preceding noun is associated with the government (in this case, a government fleet). See Khan, Arabic Legal and Administrative Documents, 165. 40  Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq 163/89. Ibn al-Athī r’s account copies almost word-for-word from ibn al-Qalānisī ’s version concerning the fleet’s delay, but provides a specific (if spurious) detail that the fleet had been expected for over a year. Ibn al-Athī r’s account is much later than ibn al-Qalānisī ’s, so the detail about the year-long siege may have been added for literary effect. See Ibn al-Athī r, al-Kāmil, 9:136. The chronicler Ibn al-Ẓāfir, on the other hand, supports Ibn al-Qalānisī ’s more modest, fourmonth estimate: Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī Ibn Ẓāfir al-Azdī, Akhbār al-duwal al-munqaṭiʿah, ed. André Ferré (Cairo, 1972), 78. 41  Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq, 163/88.

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four months must have been a period of great anxiety, but also, perhaps, of eager if waning hope. A Notable in Tripoli and his Allies at the Egyptian Court The content of the petition – or what remains of it – presents a straightforward narrative: ʿAmram ha-Kohen b. Aharon, Evyatar’s son-in-law, scribe and “the seventh (ranking member of the Palestinian Academy)” (ha-sheviʿi) writes to “the third (ranking member of the Academy)” (ha-shelishi), most likely Ṣadoq b. Yeshayahu, in Fustat, Egypt.42 In the petition, ʿAmram informs Ṣadoq that Evyatar was suffering (ll. 5–7). He mentions that he has already written a letter to the head of the Jews of Egypt, Mevorakh b. Seʿadya (r. 1078–1082 and 1094–1111), in which he had implored Mevorakh to ask the commander of the Fatimid fleet to rescue Evyatar and his children from Tripoli (ll. 7–12). Apparently, however, Mevorakh had yet to act. The petition continues with a series of epistolary blessings for Mevorakh (ll. 14–20), and then asks Ṣadoq to remind Mevorakh of Evyatar’s plight and to be persistent in raising the issue with him (ll. 20–22). This text provides contemporary documentary evidence of the general sense of fear and dread that Ibn al-Qalānisī ascribed to the people of Tripoli. The scribe’s anxiety is palpable in the petition’s physical state: wet ink stains its fibers, suggesting it was folded in great haste before the ink could dry.43 But the scribe’s words take us beyond the realm of docile terror to the sphere of action – more specifically, action through state power. Mevorakh was a close counselor of the Fatimid vizier, al-Afḍal b. Badr al-Jamālī , and therefore one of the most prominent Jews at the caliphal court.44 The relationship between Evyatar and Mevorakh was a fraught one. For over a decade, the two had been allies against a common foe, David b. Daniʾel b. ʿAzarya, who 42  We know ʿAmram was with the Palestinian Academy, likely in Tripoli, in 1102. See Gil, Palestine, sec. 916. The document Gil cites as being in ʿAmram’s handwriting is T-S 8J4.18C, published in Palestine, 3:530–32 (doc. 606). The writer of T-S 20.145 is unnamed, but his hand is the same as that of Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Museum, Library of the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies MS E16516 and T-S 20.171 (Goitein made the connection between these documents in Mediterranean Society, 5:545–46 n. 90). The latter document is also an undated, Hebrew-script chancery style petition that bears many similarities to T-S 20.145. Gil identified ʿAmram’s hand in University of Pennsylvania Museum E16516 in Palestine, 3:367–70 (doc. 552). The text was first edited and translated in Goitein, “Parents and Children: A Geniza Study on the Medieval Jewish Family,” Gratz College Annual 4 (1975): 50–55. See also Mordechai Akiva Friedman’s discussion of a document (T-S 28.5) that ʿAmram signed: Friedman, “A Kohen Divorces his Wife in Eleventh Century Egypt: A Geniza Study,” Diné Israel 5 (1974), 216 [in Hebrew]. 43  See the verso of T-S 20.145. This ghost text suggests that the document was folded recto-to-recto between lines 11–12. While there are other fold marks on the manuscript, the ghost text reflects only the above-mentioned fold. This suggests that the ink was still wet when the letter was folded; it bled through the paper. 44  Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 219–21.



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had tried to usurp both men’s leadership prerogatives and succeeded in wresting the headship of the Jews from Mevorakh for a twelve-year period (1082–94).45 Evyatar had, in fact, bestowed the Hebrew title of nagid – “leader (of the Jews of Egypt)” – on Mevorakh, signifying the Palestinian Academy’s official sanction of Mevorakh’s leadership. But Mevorakh’s real power came not from the title Evyatar bestowed on him but from the Fatimid state. In time, Mevorakh came to eclipse Evyatar in his influence over the Jews of the Fatimid realm.46 The language of the petition makes clear that Evyatar, or at least his son-in-law and scribe, ʿAmram, recognized this new balance of power.47 But just because Evyatar conceded his subordinate political position does not mean that he conceived of himself as powerless in the face of the crusader conquests. He knew that Mevorakh had access to the highest echelons of power in the Fatimid court. This is evident in the long list of titles that his scribe piles on the Egyptian leader at the end of the extant petition. The five lines of Hebrew titles allude to Mevorakh’s state-centric, martial power. Mevorakh is called the head of Egyptian Jews, “the notable of notables” (sar ha-sarim), “the commander of the ranks of Israel” (rosh maʿarkhot yisra ʾel), “the chariot of Israel and its horsemen” (rekhev yisra ʾel ve-parashav) and “the Mordechai of his age” (Mordekhai ha-zeman).48 Read in conjunction, these titles are more than mere boilerplate: the reference to the “Mordechai of his age” and the invocation of military force suggest that to defeat the threat facing the Jews required a great leader with state power at his disposal. Only a figure like Mordechai, a courtier in the Book of Esther who had used his ties to the king to save Persia’s Jews, could exercise the power necessary to save Tripoli’s Jews (or at least Evyatar and his children) from annihilation at the hands of their enemies.49 Mevorakh, like Mordechai, gave his community access to state power and state protection. Evyatar’s deployment of Mevorakh’s ties to the Fatimid court and military likely followed the pattern of his alliances with Jewish merchants and rebel 45 

Ibid., 178–212; Rustow, Heresy, 323–39. Cohen, Jewish Self-Government, 222–32. 47  The very act of petitioning the nagid – even if done via a subordinate – marked Evyatar’s recognition of Mevorakh’s superior position. 48  T-S 20.145, ll. 15–18. Rosh maʿarkhot yisra ʾel only appears in one other document in the digitized Geniza corpus, T-S Misc 35.40, but the other honorifics appear in at least a dozen such documents, though not in conjunction with one another. 49  Mordechai is the hero of the Jewish holiday of Purim. Second Purims were relatively common in the pre-modern Jewish world. These holidays (usually) celebrated a local historical event during which a Jewish community had been saved from destruction. These events were often recorded in a scroll and had their own heroic figures (Mordechais). It is not surprising, then, that Mordechai proved a compelling figure to invoke here. See Rustow, Heresy, 331 and 200 n. 1; as well as Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, 2nd ed. (Seattle, 1996 [1982]), 46–48. See also, Mordechai Akiva Friedman, Maimonides, the Yemenite Messiah and Apostasy (Jerusalem, 2002), 195 [in Hebrew]. The “scroll of Evyatar” that celebrates Evyatar’s victory over his Egyptian rival, Daniʾel b. ʿAzarya, was also likely intended to commemorate a second Purim. In that case, the holiday marked an institutional victory (that of the Palestinian Academy), rather than the Jews’ triumph over a genocidal foe. 46 

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qāḍīs in Tyre and Tripoli. Evyatar’s belief that this system would serve him again was founded in historical precedent: his father had escaped Jerusalem; he had fled Tyre; he now hoped to abscond from Tripoli. Unfortunately for Evyatar, Tripoli proved more difficult to escape. His efforts almost certainly failed: the Fatimid fleet arrived eight days after Tripoli had surrendered to the Franks.50 But Evyatar did not abandon his reliance on political ties to the state. Instead, the evidence suggests that when the Franks finally secured Tripoli’s surrender on 11 July 1109, he may have fallen back on relationships with Tripolitan notables with ties to local Muslim political elites who could protect him and his family. ʿAmram’s Letter: Getting to Damascus What happened to Evyatar and his Academy after the fall of Tripoli? How did members of his Academy eventually make it to Damascus? How did they manage to get their institution up and running again in a new city only a few years later? The earliest subsequent letter from the Geniza related to the Palestinian Academy dates from 1116 – when the Academy was already in Damascus. But an undated letter from ʿAmram, Evyatar’s scribe and son-in-law, which was previously ascribed to c.1093–94, actually dates from the late fall or early winter of 1110 – a little over a year after the fall of Tripoli.51 ʿAmram writes to Ṣadoq b. Yeshaʿyahu, the third ranking member of the Palestinian Academy, to whom he also addressed the petition of 1109. The letter begins: 50 

Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq, 164/89. University of Pennsylvania Museum E161516. Gil believed the document described the conflict between David b. Daniʾel b. ʿAzaryah and Evyatar ha-Kohen. This argument was accepted in subsequent literature. Gil argues that the conflict mentioned here was an intra-Jewish controversy in Tyre and that the refugees were from Tyre (due to the internal discord there). This argument is problematic because: a) there is no basis to assume an intra-Jewish intellectual dispute could have collapsed Tyre’s economy; b) Tyre is clearly mentioned separately from the events that precipitated the captives coming to Damascus (hence why the news of what happened to Tyre arrived subsequent to their being in Damascus), implying the refugees were not from there; c) as far as I am aware, there were no major Seljuq campaigns in the vicinity of Damascus in 1093–94 that could explain such a large influx of refugees into the city. There was a civil war among the Seljuqs of Syria in 1095, after the controversy between Evyatar and David was over. See Songul Mecit, The Rum Seljuqs: Evolution of a Dynasty (New York, 2014), 26–27; d) if I am correct about the identity of the lord as Evyatar (see below, n. 56), then the only time when we know that a head of the Palestinian Academy would have been in Damascus was when the Academy’s elite was resettled there in the second decade of the twelfth century; e) The argument for the dating presented here aligns with what we know of ʿAmram’s travels and provides a compelling explanation for why he was in Damascus. Also, the circumstances described reflect contemporary events from 1110. The refugees referred to as burdening the people of Damascus are the survivors of the siege of Tripoli. The cause of the troubles in Tyre is the Franks’ extended siege of that city (29 Nov. 1111–10 April 1112). ʿAmram tells us that at the time of this letter’s composition he had been in Damascus for approximately fifteen months – almost exactly the length of time between the Frankish conquest of Tripoli and the beginning of their siege of Tyre (12 July 1109–29 Nov. 1110; i.e. a little more than fourteen months, a discrepancy that can be explained by the time it took for the news to reach Tripoli). 51 



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 13

I resolved to reside in Damascus only for the short time necessary for me to receive sufficient funds from the [Jewish] community … but the community was preoccupied with [liberating] the many captives [from Tripoli] … And then the news reached us about the situation in Tyre – the slashing of prices and the great need (qarḍ al-siʿr wa-kathrat al-ṣorekh) of our companions there, and this controversy52 preoccupied the majesty of our lord, may his glory be exalted (hadrat adoneynu yarum hodo), until everybody expended what they received, around 12 dinars.53

Here, ʿAmram makes it clear that he was not among the captives (shevuyim) from Tripoli then in Damascus. He presents them as a separate group responsible for draining the coffers of his potential patrons.54 He later notes that when he first arrived in Damascus he possessed holy books, clothing and household goods, suggesting that the Franks had not seized his property when they took Tripoli.55 Evyatar (“our lord”) also appears to be in relatively good stead, ready and able to organize a modest charity drive on behalf of the besieged Jews of Tyre.56 Both ʿAmram and Evyatar, then, appear to have escaped the Franks’ sack of Tripoli relatively unscathed. However, we know from a court deposition preserved in the Geniza that the Franks captured other Jewish residents of Tripoli and that they seized their possessions.57 What explains the discrepancy between Evyatar’s and Amram’s experience of conquest and those of their less fortunate coreligionists? To attempt to answer this question, it is necessary to consult the Latin and Arabic accounts of the Franks’ sack of the city for context. The chroniclers offer divergent reports on what happened when Tripoli fell. Either the Franks killed many or most of the city’s people (Fulcher of Chartres); or they enslaved them (Ibn al-Qalānisī ); 52  The word the writer uses, “maḥaloqet” or “controversy,” most often refers in Geniza correspondence to intra-Jewish disputes. However, it also could refer to a generic conflict among gentiles, which is why Geniza writers would specify that an intra-Jewish conflict was a “maḥaloqet fī Yisra ʾel,” i.e. “a controversy among Jews.” See T-S 13J25.16, l. 10; T-S 20.102, l. 33. In other words, the conflict here is clearly affecting Jews, but that does not mean it originated among them. 53  University of Pennsylvania Museum E161516, r. ll.1–6. 54  University of Pennsylvania Museum E161516, r. ll.1–4; 5–6. 55  Ibid., ll.13–14. We only learn about these goods when ʿAmram tells Ṣadoq that he had been compelled to sell them to keep himself alive since he could not find work to sustain himself. 56  Since ʿAmram does not mention our lord’s name when corresponding with Ṣadoq (despite the fact that Ṣadoq did not live in Damascus), it is logical to deduce that the figure both men, as prominent members of the Palestinian Academy, would have immediately recognized as their shared “lord” would have been Evyatar, the head of their Academy. Also, “our lord” (sayyidunā) is commonly used in JudeoArabic to refer to the head of the Academy. Furthermore, since ʿAmram was his father-in-law’s scribe it would make sense that he would have stayed with Evyatar – though apparently the Academy was struggling to provide for its own people at this period. The head of the Academy is not named and it is also possible that “our lord” is Evyatar’s brother, Shelomo. However, this seems unlikely since ʿAmram does not mention Evyatar’s death when he reviews his activities over the last few months, and that would have been important news for the ga ʾon’s son-in-law. 57  See T-S 18.116 ll. 3–6, ed. Mordechai Akiva Friedman, “Polygamy in the Geniza Documents,” Tarbiz 40/3 (1971): 327–32 [in Hebrew]. The case concerns a certain Abū al-Faḍl Ṣadoq, a refugee from Tripoli whom the Franks had taken captive when they sacked the port. Abū al-Faḍl had lost his marriage contract (ketubbah), and likely other possessions, during this affair.

14

BRENDAN GOLDMAN

or they expelled them (Albert of Aachen); or they let them choose whether to stay or leave (William of Tyre).58 But there is also a fourth option embedded in these chroniclers’ narratives: two of them tell us that at least some of Tripoli’s elites escaped the port and Ibn al-Qalānisī names the elites’ destination as his home city, Damascus. He writes: The governor (al-wālī) and a group of his troops who had asked for assurances of safeconduct (amān) before the city’s capture remained safe and sound. When the city was taken they were set free and arrived at Damascus a few days after the city’s fall.59

In this account, a group of Tripoli’s ruling elite escape the city unharmed. The Latin chronicler, Fulcher of Chartres, presents a scenario that seems to complement Ibn al-Qalānisī ’s rendition. He writes that the king negotiated terms of surrender with Tripoli’s leaders that would have allowed them to leave the city in peace. However, the Genoese violated this agreement and massacred all the Tripolitans except that “those in the vicinity of the king were protected according to the terms of the agreement.”60 This passage may refer to a grant of royal protection to a group of elite Tripolitans who were allowed to seek refuge in Damascus.61 These Tripolitan elites were the people whom the king would have been most invested in protecting. Neither the Latin nor the Arabic chroniclers mention a Syrian Jewish notable named Evyatar or whether he made it out of Tripoli to Damascus with the governor and his companions. However, in an analogous situation, when Jerusalem fell to the crusaders in 1099, a Geniza document tells us that a small number of the city’s Jews – most likely, its notable elites – “escaped with [Jerusalem’s] governor under an agreement of safe-conduct” (kharajū maʿa al-wālī kana bi-amān).62 ʿAmram’s letter above suggests that Evyatar and his colleagues pulled off a similar feat in Tripoli. It would be no surprise if Evyatar had developed the ties to the Fatimid

58 

FC, 531–33; AA, 11.13, pp. 782–84; WT, 11.10, pp. 509–10; Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq, 163/89; and Ibn al-Athī r, al-Kāmil, 10:137. 59  Ibn al-Qalānisī , Ta ʾrīkh Dimashq, 164/89. 60  Qui autem in circo regis fuerunt, iuxta pactionem inde factam ab eo defensi sunt: FC, 532–33; Fulcher of Chartres, A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem, 1095–1127, trans. Francis Rita Ryan, ed. Harold S. Fink (Knoxville, 1969), 194–95. 61  Fulcher, the chaplain of Baldwin I, had every reason to suggest that his master was not responsible for this breach of diplomacy. The Genoese Caffaro, on the other hand, does not mention the massacre and insists that it was Raymond who violated his oaths to the Genoese. On Fulcher, see Marcus Bull, Christian-Muslim Relations, 1050–1200: A Bibliographical History, vol. 3, ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett (Leiden, 2011), 401–2; and Caffaro, De liberatione civitatum Orientis, in: Annali Genovesi di Caffaro e de’ suoi continuatori, ed. L. T. Belgrano, Fonti per la storia d’Italia 11 (Rome, 1890), 122–24; translation by Martin Hall and Jonathan Phillips, Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth-Century Crusades (Farnham, 2013), 123–25. 62  The leaders of the Jewish community of Ascalon note in the letter that the majority (al-akthar) of the city’s Jews had to be ransomed; see T-S 20.113, r. ll. 26–28, ed. in Goitein, Palestinian Jewry, 241– 48; translated to English in idem, “Contemporary Letters on the Capture of Jerusalem by the Crusaders,” Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952): 162–77, here 171–75.



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 15

governor necessary to escape Frankish siege. Indeed, based on his astute grasp of local politics, it would be surprising if he had not. Conclusions These events demonstrate the importance of viewing the Frankish conquests of the Levant in their proper context. Before the First Crusade ever reached the region, Syrian notables like Evyatar had already endured decades of war, regime change and forced emigration. They had learned to cultivate ties to coreligionists close to the local and imperial Islamic authorities who could protect them from invaders. Evyatar put these lessons into practice when the Franks emerged as yet another power eager to take its place among the long list of peoples who had set out to conquer the ports of the Levant. These two documents concern the activities of the leader of one of the most important Jewish institutions in the medieval Islamic world. But there is no reason to assume that Evyatar’s experience of conquest was a product of his religious communal affiliation. In fact, there is very little about the thirty-year course of Evyatar’s and his father’s use of local and trans-regional political connections that would have been foreign to an Armenian or Coptic priest, or a Sunni or Shiʿi ʿālim.63 For notables like Evyatar and Eliyyahu, the politics of survival in medieval Syria required sustaining relationships with coreligionists who had ties to Islamic state authorities – prominent merchants in Tyre and Tripoli and well-connected physicians and courtiers in Fustat. It demanded an appreciation of the nuances of the relationships that structured the affairs of both qāḍī-run city-states and the caliph’s court. It entailed being able to flatter and cajole a political rival to intervene on their behalf when that rival had access to the halls of state power. Finally, it necessitated recognizing when the balance of power in a city had shifted against their interests, so that they could know to leave one place of refuge for another. The cornerstone of these politics was networks of Mediterranean notables bound by shared commercial ventures, political interests and family relations. The resilience of these notables’ social and professional networks continued into the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, across periods of conquest and regime change, including among Arabophone peoples residing under both Frankish and Islamic rule. Parallel Geniza documents that I have examined illustrate how these notables 63  Riḥlah fī ṭalab al-ʿilm, or “a journey in search of knowledge,” was a common practice for prominent Islamic scholars (“ulamā ”). This itinerant lifestyle helped these scholars form inter- and intraregional networks. See Daphna Ephrat, A Learned Society in a Period of Transition: The Sunni “Ulama” of Eleventh-Century Baghdad (Albany, NY, 2000), 33–74. On the “ulamā” and their relationships with political authorities, see Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190– 1350 (Cambridge, 1994); and Omid Safi, The Politics of Knowledge in Premodern Islam: Negotiating Ideology and Religious Inquiry (Chapel Hill, NC, 2006). Concerning similar phenomena among Syria’s Christians and their ties to Islamic states and distant coreligionists, see Gil, Palestine, secs. 702–13; and MacEvitt, The Crusades, 29–43.

16

BRENDAN GOLDMAN

continued to use these networks to protect their lives, livelihood and freedom – much as Evyatar and his father, Eliyyahu, had done before them.64 The life or death of a Syrian notable like Evyatar would not have merited the attention of a chronicler like Ibn al-Qalānisī , tasked with recording the most significant events for his city and region for years long past. But for modern historians of the crusades, documentary sources relating to the experiences of otherwise faceless notables like Evyatar and his contemporaries reveal how subjects outside the state elite recognized and planned for the multiple contingencies of invasions and conquest: victory or defeat; enslavement, slaughter, expulsion or death. These notables’ compatriots knew that their intervention would not shape the fate of empires, but they also knew that their actions could make all the difference for one man and his family trying to escape a port under siege.

64  For instance, Maimonides used these networks to delegate to Jews in the Latin ports the responsibility of redeeming Egyptian Jewish captives from the Franks. Also, a taxman from northern Palestine used his ties to foreign Jews to flee to Egypt, escaping the wrath of the Lady of Tiberias to whom he owed money. Moreover, David Maimonides, Moses Maimonides’ grandson, used his relationships with Jews in the Latin Kingdom to escape his political enemies in Cairo and seek refuge in Latin Acre; see Brendan Goldman, “Jews in the Latin Levant: Conquest, Continuity and Adaptation” (PhD diss., Johns Hopkins University, forthcoming).



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 17

Appendix Edition and Translation of Evyatar’s Petition: University of Cambridge Library, Taylor-Schechter Collection 20.145 Paper, 10 cm × 45 cm, torn at top and bottom, trimmed at right and left bottoms, torn in middle but then rejoined by conservator (see Fig. 1). Verso blank except bleed through from recto ink. I have used the following symbols in the transcription and translation: [ ] Obliterated text, tears, and lacunae. Letters between brackets comprise my reconstruction of the text. ( ) Phrases I have inserted into the translation to facilitate comprehension.

‫‪BRENDAN GOLDMAN‬‬

‫‪Edition‬‬ ‫‪1‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫מא ]‬ ‫]אתר[   ]ה אשרח יסיר ממא‬ ‫שרחה סיידנא ראס אלמתיבה יסתירו‬

‫‪ 4‬אלהינו בסתר ת (!)נפיו‪ 1‬פי כתאבה ממא‬ ‫‪ 5‬קד בלגת אליה חאלתה ואנה קד‬ ‫‪ 6‬בקי לקא מא לה מלתגא אלא אללה‬ ‫‪ 7‬תעאלי וקד כתבת אלי הדרת הנגידות‬ ‫‪ 8‬תכון לעולם סאלתהא אד̇א כרג אל‬ ‫‪ 9‬אסטול אלסעיד יסאל מקדמה פי‬ ‫‪ 10‬כ̇לאץ סיידנא גאון נטרוהי מן שמיא‬ ‫‪ 11‬וכ̇לאץ אטפאלה מן טראבלס אן כאן‬ ‫‪ 12‬לה נזול אליהא ואריד מן הדרת רבנו‬ ‫‪ 13‬השלישי תשוגב לעד אדא מתלת‬ ‫‪14‬‬ ‫‪15‬‬ ‫‪16‬‬ ‫‪17‬‬ ‫‪18‬‬ ‫‪19‬‬ ‫‪20‬‬ ‫‪21‬‬ ‫‪22‬‬

‫בהדרת אדונינו הנגיד נגיד עם יי‘‬ ‫שר השרים עוז בית ישראל דגל‬ ‫הרבנים נר המערבי מרדכי הזמן‬ ‫ראש מערכות ישראל נזר סגולה‬ ‫וכתר הגולה רכב ישראל ופרשיו‬ ‫יתמיד אלהינו ימיו ושנותיו ושררותו‬ ‫כימי השמים על הארץ תגאריהא‬ ‫פי הדא אלמעני ותדכרהא איאה פי‬ ‫]לאנהא כתירה אלאשגאל‬ ‫…‬

‫‪Fig. 1 University of Cambridge Library,‬‬ ‫‪Taylor-Schechter Collection 20.145.‬‬

‫‪Reproduced by kind permission of the Syndics of‬‬ ‫‪Cambridge University Library.‬‬

‫ ‪1‬‬

‫‪Scribal error, should read kenafav; cf. T-S 13J16.21‬‬ ‫‪r. l. 2; T-S AS 147.2 r. l. 25; T-S 8J18.28 r. l. 4.‬‬

‫ ‪18‬‬



TWO GENIZA DOCUMENTS ON THE SIEGE OF TRIPOLI 19

Translation  1 ] what  2 ] I am detailing a little of what  3 our lord, the head of the academy – may God shelter him in the refuge of His wings – detailed  4 in his letter,2 concerning how  5 his situation has become and that  6 he is still suffering. He has no place of refuge other than God,  7 the exalted. I have written to his excellency the nagid –  8 may his reign last forever – and I requested (that) whenever  9 the government3 fleet sets out he ask the head of (the fleet) to 10 rescue our lord the head of the Palestinian Academy (ga ʾon) – may he be protected from heaven – 11 and to rescue his young children from Tripoli if (the commander) 12 embarks there. And I would like his honor, our lord the 13 Third (ranking member of the Palestinian Academy), may you be exalted forever, whenever you present yourself before 14 his honor our lord the nagid – prince of the people of God, 15 minister of ministers, glory of the house of Israel, standard 16 of the scholars, light of the west, Mordechai of the age, 17 head of the ranks of Israel, diadem of virtue, 18 crown of the diaspora, and chariot of Israel and its legions, 19 may God lengthen his days, and his years, and his rule 20 as the days of the heavens over the earth – to enter into conversation with him 21 regarding this matter and to remind him about it in 22 ] because he is very preoccupied

2  The phrase could also be rendered in the passive voice, i.e. “the ga’on’s situation reached him” (bullighat ilayhi ḥālatuhu). 3  See above, n. 39.

A New Document Concerning the Bishopric of Sebastea G. A. Loud University of Leeds [email protected] Abstract This article discusses, and prints the text of, a recently-discovered charter from Salerno in southern Italy, dated July 1140, relating to the crusader bishopric of Sebastea. While there are a number of unresolved (and probably unresolvable) problems connected with this document, which are examined below, it shows that Bishop Rainerius of Sebastea made a hitherto unnoticed visit to Italy in 1140. It may also antedate the start of the campaign to raise money for the new cathedral at Sebastea.

Relatively little evidence survives concerning the crusader bishopric of Sebastea. It was founded shortly before March 1128, when the first bishop, Baldwin, witnessed a charter of King Baldwin II for the Holy Sepulchre.1 It was intended as the episcopal see for Samaria, and as the first (and, as it turned out, only) suffragan of the archbishopric of Caesarea. Like the other bishoprics of the crusader states, Sebastea had been a Late-Antique see, but the decision to refound the bishopric for Samaria here, rather than for example at Nablus, was because it was believed to be the birthplace of St. John the Baptist.2 Its population was, however, much less than that of Nablus, which was the administrative centre of the region, and western travellers who visited Sebastea mainly remarked upon the site of the Baptist’s martyrdom and the ancient ruins there (still surviving and mainly dating from c.180–230).3 Otherwise they said very little about the town. Abbot Daniel, for example, in the early years of Frankish settlement, wrote “the town of Samaria [Nablus] is very large and abounds in all good things,” whereas of Sebastea he noted only that “there is a small enclosed place here which is the prison of Saint I am grateful to Dr Alan Murray and Hervin Fernández y Aceves for their help in preparing this article, and to the anonymous reader who made several very helpful suggestions about the transcription of the charter below. 1  Mayer, Urkunden, 1:263, no. 105 [also in Cart. St. Sép., no. 30]. 2  Bernard Hamilton, The Latin Church in the Crusader States. The Secular Church (London, 1980), 68. 3  John W. Crowfoot, Kathleen M. Kenyon, and E. L. Sukenik, The Buildings at Samaria (London, 1942), 35–37, and for detailed descriptions, ibid., 39–81. This described the detailed investigations carried out by the British School at Jerusalem in 1931–35, which remains the major archaeological investigation of the site. 21

22

G. A. LOUD

John the Baptiser of Christ.”4 Ironically, the most detailed description of religious observance at Sebastea came from a Muslim, Usāmah ibn Munqidh, who visited the town probably in the early 1140s.5 Nablus, however, remained part of the diocese of Jerusalem, and additionally during the 1160s some of the eastern parts of the Sebastea diocese were granted to, or paid tithes to, the Augustinian house of the Templum Domini.6 Although in the late-twelfth-century fief list contained within the Livre de Jean d’Ibelin it was assessed for the service of 100 sergeants, Sebastea was not seemingly a wealthy see.7 In contrast to some of the other Holy Land churches associated with the Gospel story, which gained numerous lands and churches in other parts of Christendom, it does not appear to have profited much from its role as a shrine. Indeed, it has been suggested that Sebastea never acquired any property in western Europe, although as we shall see this was not entirely true.8 But it is hardly surprising that, with no, or very few, external sources of funding, as opposed to income from its lands and tithes in the diocese and offerings at the shrine itself, the bishopric was allowed to lapse after Saladin’s conquests, rather than its prelates living in exile in the hope of an eventual return. A brief revival in the mid-thirteenth century was short-lived, and was only possible then because the titular bishop was also prior of the Holy Sepulchre.9 The see is poorly documented, and we know of its bishops primarily through a small number of charter attestations. The second bishop, Rainerius, who first appears when witnessing the charter of King Fulk which defined the status of the nunnery of St. Lazarus of Bethany in February 1138, subsequently witnessed three more royal charters, all issued in favour of the Holy Sepulchre, in the summer of 1144, early in 1155, and on 26 July 1160 respectively.10 He also witnessed a number of patriarchal documents, notably the sentence ending a dispute between the Holy Sepulchre and Mount Tabor in August 1145, that ending another dispute between the Holy Sepulchre and the monks of the Mount of Olives in summer 1156, and two further charters of Patriarch Amaury in 1168; as well as an agreement about tithes involving the bishop of Nazareth in 1161 and a charter of Hugh of Caesarea 4  Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185, ed. John Wilkinson, with Joyce Hill and W. F. Ryan (London, 1988), 155–56; cf. Theodoric, in ibid., 311 [Latin text in Peregrinationes Tres. Saewulf, John of Würzburg, Theodoricus, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCCM 139 (Turnhout, 1994), 188–89, and Itinera Hierosolymitana Crucesignatorum (saec. XII–XIII), ed. Sabino de Sandoli, 4 vols. (Jerusalem, 1978– 84), 2:374]: “the ruins show that it was a great city.” Nevertheless, Theodoric otherwise limited his description to a single sentence about the tomb of John the Baptist. 5  Usama ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation. Islam and the Crusades, trans. Paul M. Cobb (London, 2008), 253–54, from the Kītab al-Asa [“Book of the Staff”]. 6  Hans E. Mayer, Bistümer, Klöster und Stifte im Königreich Jerusalem, MGH Schriften 26 (Stuttgart, 1977), 184, 194–95. 7  John of Ibelin, Le Livre des Assises, ed. Peter W. Edbury (Leiden, 2003), 615. 8  Hamilton, Latin Church, 143. 9  Hamilton, Latin Church, 250, 275. 10  Mayer, Urkunden, 1:320 no. 138, 1:373 no. 188, 1:393 no. 210, 1:474 no. 258 [Also in Cart. St. Sép., nos. 34, 37, 38, 45].



THE BISHOPRIC OF SEBASTEA 23

in autumn 1166.11 Otherwise, all that has hitherto been known about his career is that he was one of the bishops who accompanied Patriarch Fulcher to visit the papal court in 1155.12 His successor, Radulfus, is first definitively attested on 17 October 117513 – it seems probable that he was the cathedral prior of that name who had also attested the two patriarchal charters of 1168, and he would seem to have succeeded Rainerius soon after that date, as we shall see. He was one of the Holy Land bishops who attended the Third Lateran Council in 1179.14 He may also have been the bishop who succeeded in preventing an attack on the town by Saladin in 1184, through the release of some eighty Muslim prisoners.15 Three years later neither bishop nor town was so lucky, when the latter fell to the troops of Saladin’s nephew Husām al-Dīn and the bishop was (allegedly) savagely flogged to make him reveal where the church’s treasures were hidden.16 The document from the cathedral archive at Salerno which is printed below has been known to the present author for some years, but was published for the first time only last year by the Italian palaeographer Anna Giordano.17 It sheds a little more light on the career of Bishop Rainerius and on the early history of the bishopric of Sebastea. It is a charter issued by Archbishop William of Salerno in July 1140, in which he granted a church in the territory of Eboli in his diocese to Bishop Rainerius and his see. The grant was made at the bishop’s request and to help him in his poverty. To this end the archbishop added to the church and its property another plot of land, sufficient to be ploughed by two pairs of oxen. This was on condition that the bishop and his representatives did not intrude on the rights of other churches of the archbishopric, that tithe (or a proportion of the tithes) be paid to the archbishop, that the lands not be sublet, and in return for an annual census of 2 pounds of incense and 2 pounds of wax. The archbishop prudently added that, should the church be allowed to deteriorate or the divine office cease to be celebrated, then the bishop would have to take steps to reform this situation within eighteen months, on pain of forfeiture. (The lengthy period of grace was, of

11 

Cart. St. Sép., 83–85 no. 24, 143–45 no. 54, 271–72 no. 139, 288–91 nos. 147–48. Chartes de la Terre Sainte provenant de l’abbaye de Notre Dame de Josaphat, ed. H. F. Delaborde (Paris, 1880), 82–83 no. 35 (the 1161 tithe dispute). 12  WT 18.6, p. 818. 13  Cart. St. Sép., 310–11 no. 159. 14  WT 21.25, p. 996. 15  Reported in a letter of the Patriarch and the Masters of the Military Orders, copied in Ralph of Diceto, Opera Omnia, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols., RS (London, 1876), 2:28. 16  De Expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, in Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. J. Stevenson, RS (London, 1875), 233; The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l Ta’rikh, Part 2: The Years 541–589/1146–1193; The Age of Nur al-Din and Saladin, trans. D. S. Richards (Farnham, 2007), 326. 17  Le Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno (841–1193), ed. Anna Giordano (Battipaglia, 2014), 190–93 no. 100. Although this edition is dated 2014, a note at the front reveals that it was only printed in January 2015. For previous discussion of this charter, see G. A. Loud, The Latin Church in Norman Italy (Cambridge, 2007), 386.

24

G. A. LOUD

course, to allow time, for news to pass to the Holy Land, and for instructions and perhaps personnel to be despatched back to southern Italy). One presumes that the bishop’s request (postulatio) was made in person, and indeed the charter expressly says that Bishop Rainerius and some of his canons had come to southern Italy in the hope of attracting benefactions for their see. His subsequent visit in 1155 was thus his second to the Italian peninsula. Rainerius would no doubt have been aware that several Holy Land churches, notably the monasteries of St. Mary of the Latins and St. Mary in the Valley of Josaphat, and to a lesser extent the Holy Sepulchre and the Hospital of St. John, had already attracted donations and acquired property in southern Italy.18 Furthermore, the abbot of Josaphat was also in Italy in the summer of 1140.19 The moment for such a visit may also have seemed propitious since, exactly a year before the archbishop of Salerno’s charter was issued, King Roger of Sicily had made peace with Pope Innocent II, who had formally recognized the rightful existence of the kingdom of Sicily. Through this agreement a long period of conflict had been brought to an end, both within southern Italy, and between the king and the generally-recognized pope. The new kingdom of Sicily, created during the papal schism, and originally sanctioned by the anti-pope Anacletus, was now respectable.20 Furthermore, although relations between the former Count Roger II of Sicily and the Holy Land had previously been poor (as a consequence of Baldwin I’s repudiation of his mother Adelaide), as king he had shown himself to be more amenable. In October 1136, Roger had granted a privilege to the Hospitallers, taking them under his protection and granting exemption from various dues and the right to establish dependencies wherever they wished within his kingdom.21 It may, therefore, have seemed that southern Italy now offered a potentially sympathetic environment for a Holy Land bishop seeking endowment for his poorly-resourced church. William, archbishop of Salerno (1137–52), was certainly a king’s man. Originally from Ravenna in north Italy, he had been elected as archbishop of Capua in 1135 and had been one of the two royal justiciars in the principality of Capua in that year.22 He seems, however, not to have received consecration, which facilitated his transfer under royal auspices to the see of Salerno in the autumn of 1137. He was

18 

Geneviève Bresc-Bautier, “Les possessions des églises de Terre-Sainte en Italie du sud (Pouille, Calabre, Sicile),” in Roberto il Guiscardo e il suo tempo. Relazioni e communicazioni nelle prime giornate normanno-sveve (Bari, maggio 1973) (Rome, 1975), 13–34; G. A. Loud, “Norman Italy and the Holy Land,” in Horns, 49–62. 19  Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, ed. Rudolf Hiestand, Abhandlung der Akademie der Wissenschaften (Göttingen, 1985), 156–60 nos. 44–45. 20  Hubert Houben, Roger II of Sicily: A Ruler between East and West, trans. G. A. Loud and Diane Milburn (Cambridge, 2002), 70–71; Loud, The Latin Church in Norman Italy, 154–56. 21  Rogerii II. Regis Diplomata Latina, ed. Carl-Richard Brühl, Codex Diplomaticus Regni Siciliae, Ser. I.ii(1) (Cologne, 1987), 119–23 no. 43 [also in Cart Hosp, 1:103–4 no. 124]. 22  Alexandrini Telesini Abbatis Ystoria Rogerii Regis Sicilie, Calabrie atque Apulie, ed. Ludovica de Nava, Fonti per la storia d’Italia (Rome, 1991), lib. III cc. 31–32, pp. 76–77.



THE BISHOPRIC OF SEBASTEA 25

first recorded as (consecrated) archbishop of Salerno in February 1140.23 During that decade he functioned also as a justiciar in the principality of Salerno – one of only two prelates known to have served as a justiciar in the twelfth-century kingdom of Sicily. He died on 7 July 1152.24 Unfortunately, although written in a very clear transitional semi-minuscule, almost a book hand, the 1140 charter is now in a poor condition, with substantial parts of the text, especially in the upper left side, obscured by damp marks. Sections of the text are entirely illegible, most significantly the name of the church in question, although the word virginis can be discerned here, so the dedicatee was certainly a female saint, and it is also clear that the church lay in the district of Eboli (in ebulense pertinentia), rather than in the town of Eboli itself. In his catalogue of the archiepiscopal archive at Salerno, canon Antonio Balducci suggested that this document refers to the church of S. Lucia near Eboli, but how he arrived at this conclusion is uncertain.25 It may simply have been intelligent guesswork, given the few churches dedicated to female virgin saints in the locality.26 It is interesting that although this charter was known to the nineteenth-century historian of the archbishopric, Giuseppe Paesano, who gave a summary of its provisions and quoted brief extracts, he did not give any name for this church – which suggests that the relevant passage was already illegible.27 The church of S. Lucia was located in the plain south-west of Eboli, near the River Tusciano. However, a problem in the identification of this church with that given to the bishop of Sebastea is that, in a lengthy document listing the agrarian properties of the see of Salerno in 1164, the church of S. Lucia is described as belonging to the archbishopric.28 So unless the bishop of Sebastea’s tenure of the church had speedily proved negligent, and the reversion right in the charter had thus been invoked, there must remain some doubt as to whether the church he was given was in fact that of S. Lucia. Unfortunately, this church is not well-documented either. It was definitively listed among the possessions of the archbishopric in the

23 

Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 45; ed. Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 188–90 no. 99. For his transfer: Romualdi Salernitani Chronicon, ed. C. A. Garufi, RIS (Città di Castello, 1935), 225. 24  Necrologio del Liber Confratrum di S. Matteo di Salerno, ed. C. A Garufi, Fonti per la storia d’Italia (Rome, 1922), 92. For his career, Loud, Latin Church in Norman Italy, 271–72, 295–96, 534–35. 25  Antonio Balducci, Archivio della curia arcivescovile di Salerno i Regesto delle pergamene (Salerno, 1945), 19. See here also the comments by Carmine Carlone, Documenti per la storia di Eboli, 1: (799–1264) (Salerno, 1998), 73 no. 151. 26  Nevertheless, one should note, for example, the presence of a church dedicated to St. Catherine in the territory of Eboli: Rationes Decimarum Italiae – Campania, ed. P. Sella, M. Inguanez and L. MatteiCerasoli (Vatican City, 1942), 405 no. 6006. 27  Giuseppe Paesano, Memorie per servire alla storia della chiesa salernitana, 4 vols. (Naples, 1846–57), 2:111–14. 28  Pergamene salernitane (1008–1784), ed. Luigi Enrico Pennaccini (Salerno, 1941), 72–110, at 91: “res ecclesie sancte lucie ipsi archiepiscopo pertinentis.” The church itself is described as being “subtus ipso casilluzu” (Castellucio, near modern Battipaglia).

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confirmation of the see’s property by Frederick II in February 1221, but by then the bishopric of Sebastea was no more.29 A further complication, or perhaps confirmation for the hypothesis tentatively suggested above, is introduced by the only surviving papal privilege for the bishopric of Sebastea, issued in April 1179 while Bishop Radulfus was in Rome. This does in fact mention some European property belonging to the see, but this property was in France, the product of benefactions by King Louis VII, Archbishop William of Sens and other relatives of theirs, all which were made from 1168 onwards. However, neither the church at Eboli nor any other possession in southern Italy was listed.30 Nevertheless, this bull does provide some indirect corroboration of the 1140 charter, for it refers to an earlier privilege in favour of the bishopric issued by Innocent II – which has not survived. The most probable moment for the granting of such a privilege would be during the visit to Italy by Bishop Rainerius in 1140. In addition, another bull of Alexander III, for the monastery of Mount Sion, granted in March 1179 when the abbot, like Bishop Radulfus, was in Rome for the Lateran Council, inter alia confirmed an earlier decree of Patriarch William decreeing a union of the property of various Holy Land churches in southern Italy, including that of St. John of Sebastea. The text of this bull, which survives only in a fourteenth-century copy, has probably been interpolated, but it may still provide indirect confirmation that the bishopric of Sebastea did, at some stage before September 1145 when William died, possess property in southern Italy.31 Why was Bishop Rainerius in southern Italy, and seemingly trying to raise funds for his church at this time? The archiepiscopal charter refers, as said, only to the poverty of his see, and this rather obliquely: “for its needs in which they are lacking” (pro suis oportunitatibus quibus indigent). The explanation as to what these particular needs were is provided by a document of Patriarch William of Jerusalem (1130–45), in which he announced the discovery of relics of John the Baptist and of other saints at Sebastea, apparently early in 1145, and granted forty days’ indulgence to those visiting the church and assisting in its restoration,

29 

Die Urkunden Friedrichs II. 1220–1222, ed. Walter Koch, MGH Diplomata Regum et Imperatorum Germaniae, xiv(4) (Wiesbaden, 2014), 315–20 no. 785, at p. 318. 30  Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, 290–92 no. 117. For these donations, Benjamin Z. Kedar, “Raising Funds for a Frankish Cathedral: The Appeal of Bishop Radulph of Sebaste,” in Entrepreneurship and the Transformation of the Economy (10th–20th centuries). Essays in Honour of Herman Van der Wee, ed. P. Klep and E. Van Cauwenberghe (Louvain, 1994), 443–55, at 450–52 [reprinted in Benjamin Z. Kedar, Franks, Muslims and Oriental Christians in the Frankish Levant: Studies in Frontier Acculturation (Aldershot, 2006), no. XI]. 31  Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, 280–87 no. 113; also in Papsturkunden in Frankreich, 6: Orléanois, ed. J. Ramackers (Göttingen, 1958), 212–17 no. 149 [RRH no. 576]. The bull confirms “unionemque ecclesiarum Ierosolimorum vobiscum factam Sancte Marie videlicet Montis Oliveti, Sancti Iohannis de Sebastea, Sancti Helye et Sancti Abraam existentium in Sicilia, Apulia et Calabria cum bonae memoriae W(illelmi) quondam patriarcha Ierosolimorum, consilio et assensu capituli sancti Sepulchri.” Röhricht’s version of this passage is seriously deficient.



THE BISHOPRIC OF SEBASTEA 27

for which he begged the charity of the faithful.32 Building a suitable cathedral was of course a sine qua non of the refoundation of the see, and the surviving archaeological remains of the cathedral do indeed suggest that the rebuilding began in the mid-twelfth century, although the cathedral may still have been unfinished when Sebastea fell to the Muslims in 1187.33 While the visit to Italy revealed by this charter predates the 1145 appeal, it would still seem quite likely that the visit of Bishop Rainerius to Italy in 1140 was intended specifically to raise funds for the building of his new church, and that the fortunate discovery of the relics and subsequent appeal perhaps represented a second, rather than an initial, stage of this process. A third stage in the fundraising, perhaps made necessary by the increasingly elaborate scale of the rebuilding, was marked by a renewed appeal for funds by Bishop Radulfus, which Benjamin Kedar suggests dates from 1169/70. In this Radulfus announced that some of his canons would be touring the West with relics from Sebestea and that the patriarch had agreed to a renewed and expanded indulgence for those who contributed to the costs of building.34 Finally, one should note that the 1140 document is almost certainly a contemporary, or slightly later, copy rather than an original. The clue here is the identity of the writer, John notary and advocate. He is attested as the scribe of a large number of contemporary Salernitan documents, during the period 1127– 46. But the other documents from his pen were written in the local Beneventan script (still very much the norm at Salerno in this period),35 which is significantly 32 

Antoine Le Roulx de Lincy and Alexandre Bruel, “Notice historique et critique sur Dom Jacques du Breul, Prieur de Saint-Germain-des-Près,” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 29 (1868): 492–93 no. 1 [RRH no. 235]. The key passage reads: “Monemus autem, charissimi, et obsecramus in Domino, quatinus restaurandae praecursoris Domini ecclesiae, vestrae charitatis abundantia subveniat.” 33  Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, “The Cathedral of Sebaste: Its Western Donors and Models,” in Horns, 99–121, points to the similarities with the cathedral of Sens, rebuilding of which began in the 1140s. Cf. Pringle, Churches, 2:283–96, esp. 288–96. 34  The text of this appeal is printed by Kedar, “Raising Funds for a Frankish Cathedral,” 454–55. 35  The following list is by no means exhaustive: Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 40, ed. Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 168–70 no. 87 (March 1127); Cava dei Tirreni, Badia di S. Trinità [henceforth Cava], Arca xxiii.8 (Aug. 1131), unpublished; Cava, Arca xxiii.20 (Feb. 1132 or 1133), unpublished; Cava, Arca xxiii.52 (April 1133), unpublished; Cava, Arm. Mag. G.34 (Oct. 1134), unpublished; Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 43 (Feb. 1137), ed. M. Galante, Nuove pergamene del monastero femminile di S. Giorgio di Salerno i (993–1256) (Altavilla Silentina, 1984), 26–28 no. 12, and by Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 179–81 no. 94; Cava, Arca xxiv.39 and 41 (both Jan. 1139), unpublished; Arca xxiv.63 (July 1138), unpublished; Arca xxiv.69 (Nov. 1138), unpublished; Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 45 (Feb. 1140), ed. Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 188–90 no. 99; Cava, Arca xxiv.108 (June 1140), ed. F. Cerone, “Sei documenti inediti sugli ebrei di Salerno dal 1125 al 1269,” in Studi di storia napoletana in onore di Michelangelo Schipa (Naples, 1926), 59–61 no. 1; Cava, Arca xxv.29 (Oct. 1141), unpublished; Cava, Arm. Mag. G.42 (Dec. 1143), ed. F. Ughelli, Italia Sacra, 2nd. ed. by N. Colletti, 10 vols. (Venice, 1717–21), 6:255–57. Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 55 (Jan. 1146), ed. B. Ruggiero, Potere, istituzioni, chiese locali: aspetti e motivi del Mezzogiorno medioevale dai longobardo agli Angioini, 2nd ed. (Spoleto, 1991), 90–103, and by Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 236–55 no. 114; Cava, Arca xxv.115 (Feb. 1146), unpublished.

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different from the transitional semi-minuscule of this document – the absence of the characteristic Beneventan “t” is the most obvious among other morphological distinctions. While it is not absolutely impossible that a notary would have used different hands, it is still most unlikely.36 In such circumstances there is, of course, the suspicion of forgery, which was so prevalent in twelfth- and thirteenth-century southern Italy. Anna Giordano has indeed dismissed this charter as a forgery, largely because of its script, and also because of the lack of any sign of the wax seal which is mentioned; and she suggests that it may have been confected towards the end of the twelfth century, when the archbishop was facing considerable unrest among his tenants and clergy in the plain to the south of Salerno.37 In particular, the priests of Eboli tried to escape the obligation to pay a share of their tithes to the archbishop – this issue in fact came to a head in 1218, when Honorius III commissioned the archbishop of Amalfi and the bishop of Sarno as judges-delegate to investigate the issue (which was resolved in favour of the archbishop).38 But it is hard to see this document, issued in favour of a Holy Land bishopric, even though it does have some mention of tithes, as serving as effective evidence in such a dispute. Surely a far more relevant and effective forgery could have been confected? Furthermore, how probable is it that a south Italian forger towards the end of the twelfth century – or perhaps more likely not long before 1218 – would have known the correct name of a bishop who had died forty or fifty years earlier, and the correct dedication of the cathedral, from a Holy Land see that no longer existed? There is indeed a dangerous tendency among Italian editors automatically to assume forgery when there are palaeographical inconsistencies in a document, without providing a plausible context for this, or considering the very great range of alterations and inventions that the term “forgery” might embody – from minor interpolations to an otherwise genuine document through to outright invention. It is of course possible that a forgery was confected c.1200 on the basis of a genuine original. But in this case one would want some suggestions as to how such an original might have been altered and interpolated, and for what purpose. I would prefer to conclude, therefore, by suggesting that the context for this charter provided above is sufficiently plausible to argue that it is indeed a genuine document, albeit 36  See the comments here, in another (but still south Italian) context, of Paul Meyvaert, “The Autographs of Peter the Deacon,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 38 (1955–56): 114–38, at 137. He was, however, discussing scribes in a monastic scriptorium, not public notaries. That Frederick II in 1230, Liber Augustalis, I.80, should order that notaries from the duchies of Naples and Amalfi should henceforth abandon their distinctive (and very difficult) curial script and write in “common and legible letters” (presumably minuscule) is not proof that notaries habitually used both scripts – it is probable that significant retraining was needed, hence a two-years’ grace period was given in which older documents were to be recopied in the new script: Die Konstitutionen Friedrichs II. für das Königreich Sizilien, ed. Wolfgang Stürner, MGH Constitutiones et acta imperatorum et regum, 2, supplementum (Hanover, 1996), 254. 37  Giordano, Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno, 190–91. 38  Pergamene salernitane, ed. Pennacchini [above, n. 28], 151 no. 25; Codice diplomatico salernitane del secolo XIII, ed. Carlo Carucci, 3 vols. (Subiaco, 1931–46), 1:114–17 no. 48.



THE BISHOPRIC OF SEBASTEA 29

preserved as a copy, not an original. One would, anyway, assume that the bishop would have taken the original away with him – although why the notary did not himself make another copy at the time is unclear. That the surviving parchment is a copy would also explain why there are no traces of the seal.

Fig. 1 Detail from the charter of July 1140, showing the script. Photo by Hervin Fernández y Aceves.

Fig. 2 Detail from a charter in Beneventan script written by John notary and advocate, Cava, Arca xxiii.52 (April 1133). Reproduced by permission of the Archivio della Badia di S. Trinità.

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Text of the July 1140 Charter Salerno, Archivio diocesano, Mensa Archiepiscopalis, Arca I, no. 48. Previous edition: Le Pergamene dell’archivio diocesano di Salerno (841–1193), ed. Anna Giordano (Battipaglia, 2014), 190–93, no. 100. I have attempted here as full a diplomatic edition as possible, preserving the original capitalization and punctuation, with contractions indicated by round brackets (thus), and editorial insertions, where the notary’s phraseology appears probable, but the text is illegible, in square brackets [thus]. This follows the practice of the “Codex Diplomaticus Regni Siciliae” (the series publishing the charters of the kings of Sicily). While this may seem fussy, the poor state of the original justifies such care. The transcription here was made before I had access to Dr. Giordano’s edition, but has subsequently been checked against it. Those who prefer an edition without the contractions being shown, may prefer to use her publication. IN NO(MINE) S(AN)C(T)E ET INDIVIDUE TRINITATIS. W. divina gra(tia) s(an)c(t)e saler(n)ita(ne) sedis archiep(iscopu)s. Iustis universorum precibus; set eorum p(re)cipii / …. ….. …… communione socie[tate] (?) favore(m) et audientia(m) condecet imp(er)tiri. Ut du(m) ceteros tuba n(ost)re predicationis oriat(ur) operationis exemplu(m) .. col...cere un ... eius / …. …. cu(m) … eius … et vest ….. facere1 qua(m) docere suggessit. Cu(m) fr(atr)is igit(ur) Rainerii viri religiosi sebastensis ecclesie sancti ioh(ann)is babtiste venerabilis ep(iscop)i postulatio[nibus] ... / ad ...eius eccl(esi)e de facultatibus nostri pontificatus in his regionibus suffragium preberemus. cleri nostri compluribus sanioris c(on)silii c(on)vocatis. eor(um) consilio et assensu / predic[ti] .... episcopi votu(m) co(m)plevimus. ut tam ipse quam f(rat)res eius ad par(te)s nostras p(ro) suis oportunitatibus q(ui)bus indigent applicantes liberalit(at)e n(ost)ra refectionis. et / ... locu(m) repererent .... p(er) huius nostre concessionis pagina(m) concedimus tibi predicto Rainerio tuisq(ue) successo(ri)bus eccl(esi)am iuri n(ost)ri pontificatus subdita(m)2 i(n) ebulense p(er)tinen/(tia) in [honore] … …… virginis ….. ….. constructa(m) cum vineis et reliquo [bene]ficio ipsius eccl(esi)e. In sup(er) et de t(er)ris nostris laboratoriis eidem beneficio p(ro)pe positis et coherentibus / tantum nobis concedendo largim(us) ut cum eodem beneficio coniunctu(m) ad duo bovum paria p(ro) seminatione iuste sufficiat. Non tam(en) in hoc ipsis vineis eiusde(m) eccl(esi)e ... nume/ ... cu(m) universis pertinentiis eiusdem eccl(esi)e et vice de viis suis. Ea deniq(ue) ratione ut tu predicte Raineri. tuiq(ue) successores et quos de ve(st)ra parte v(e)l iussione / …tas (?) et stabilire decernitis. eande(m) ecclesia(m) cum ipsis ei(us) rebus ac p(er)tinentiis pro v(est)ris usibus i(n) subscribendo tenore semp(er) securit(er) habeatis. et de redditib(us) ei(us)de(m) siquid/ ultra quaru(m)cu(m)q(ue) largitate illic acq(ui)sieritis. quod volueritis faciatis. Nulla tam(en) vob(is) facultate p(er)missa. reliquarum n(ost)rarum ecclesiarum circu(m) stantiu(m) iura v(e)l elemosinas / .... pe dare de quibus etia(m) redditibus decimatione(m) integra(m) nostro pontificatui tribuatis. nec easde(m) terras liceat vobis quib(us)libet extraneis laborandas tradere; ut n(ost)re / decimationis portio3 minuat(ur). pro cognitione quoq(ue) speciali censu n(ost)ra eccl(esi)a sing(u)lis annis a vob(is) visitet(ur) duar(um) scilicet librar(um) pondere 1 

Giordano suggests faciendo. Giordano, subdictam, which appears to be in error, since for once the reading is clear. 3  Giordano, portu. 2 



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incensus olibani et / totidem cere in translatione beati mathei deferendo. custodes seu rectores loci tam de officio qua(m) de ceteris quibus decet; debita(m) nob(is) exhibeant obedient[iam] / adempta a vobis etia(m) potestate. possessionu(m) eiusde(m) eccl(esi)e quolibet titulo alien[are] p(er)ficere. Et si quolibet tempore a vob(is) v(e)l successoribus v(est)ris predicta concessa vobis destrua/tur ecclesia. ut divina in ea non peragant(ur) officia; et infra unum et dimidium annu(m) a vobis in conveniente(m) forma(m) et essentia(m) non reformetur; ab ipso anno et dim/idio transacto. cu(m) suis possessionibus universis ad manus et potestate(m) n(ost)re ecclesie revertat(ur). Et ut hec n(ost)ra concessio firmiori semp(er) stabilitate p(er)duret; viola/tores eius excommunicationis vinculo alligamus. quo ad usq(ue) condigna culpe satisfactione resipueri(n)t. unius etia(m) auri librae puriss(im)i pena corporalit(er) punie(n)/dos. Et huic n(ost)re concessioni ioh(ann)em iudicem Salernitanis iudicibus regia prelatu(m) providentia rogavimus interesse qui eius testificatione firmata plenius semp(er) / robur obtineat. Anno d(omi)nice incarnationis millesi(mo) centesimo quadragesi(mo). anno vero regni d(o)m(in)i Roge(rii) glo(rio)sissimi regis decimo mense iulio indic(tione) / tertia concurren(te). Testu(m) v(er)o huius nostre concessionis tibi ioh(ann)i not(ario) et advocato scribere iussimus. et n(ost)ro sigillo cereo iussimus sigillari. Mem[orans] q[uod] superius dist[urbatum est] / legit(ur) obedientia(m).

A Ridge Too Far: The Siege of Saone/Sahyun in 1188 and Contemporary Trebuchet Technology Michael S. Fulton Zinman Institute of Archaeology, University of Haifa [email protected] Abstract In 1188, Saladin successfully took Sahyun (Frankish Saone) after a siege lasting three days. Although two (and possibly even three) eyewitness accounts of the siege have survived, it is still unclear how exactly the castle was taken. An aspect of this siege that has attracted scholarly attention is the Muslims’ use of artillery. Recent interpretations of the siege have judged contemporary artillery to have been a powerful and decisive weapon, used to breach a section of the castle’s walls. However, although all three sources clearly mention that artillery damaged the defences of Saone, they appear to exaggerate its impact. When the siege is placed in a broader context, by examining the sieges of Bourzey and Shughr-Bakas in the month following the siege of Saone, as well as certain others that took place a few years before and after, it becomes apparent that even the heaviest counterweight trebuchets were not breaching weapons at this point in their development. By understanding the limited power of artillery at the end of the twelfth century, the tactics employed by Saladin in 1188 can be reassessed. Furthermore, a possible explanation for the exaggerations found in the sources is offered here.

The Frankish castle of Saone (Muslim Sahyun and modern Qal’at Salah al-Din) was one of the strongest castles in Syria in the late twelfth century. But despite its scale and inaccessibility, Saladin’s forces took the stronghold in late July 1188 after a siege lasting only three days. At least two, and possibly three, eyewitness accounts of the siege have survived, all from the besiegers’ perspective, but it is still unclear exactly how the assailing forces captured the castle. Different theories have been put forward by historians and archaeologists; however, none of these has accurately appreciated the power of contemporary artillery. This is significant as, according to many recent scholarly interpretations, Saladin’s artillery opened a breach, leading to the castle’s fall. This article will assess the capabilities and Abbreviated versions of this article have been delivered as conference papers in 2015, entitled “Saladin’s Siege of Sahyun (Qal’at Salah al-Din) in July 1188,” at the Cardiff Centre for the Crusades, and “Prostrating Walls and Artillery Balls,” at the International Medieval Congress, Leeds. I would like to thank Rabei Khamisy who sat down with me and provided additional translations of the Arabic source material with an eye to the aims of this study. I would also like to thank Jean Mesqui and Denys Pringle for providing some very constructive comments after reading this paper. 33

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limitations of contemporary artillery, exposing the weakness of some previous analyses of the siege, and suggest a new interpretation of events. The Siege of Saone, 1188 Following his victory at Hattin in early July 1187, Saladin spent the remainder of the year mopping up remaining Frankish resistance in most of Palestine. In 1188 he turned his attention northwards and, after gathering his army near Crac des Chevaliers, launched a three-month campaign through Frankish Syria. After driving up the coast from Tortosa to Latakia, he turned inland towards Saone (see Table 1 and Fig. 1). Saone was one of a number of Byzantine outposts in the Syrian hills that had been developed by the Franks during the twelfth century.1 The castle can be said to consist of three baileys: one in the centre, surrounding the Byzantine citadel; one to the east, securing the castle’s most approachable front; and one to the west, enclosing the extreme of the spur upon which the castle sits (see Fig. 2). But presenting the castle in this way risks oversimplifying its plan, as various lines of walls were built by the Byzantines and Franks over time. To the east, the castle was separated from the remainder of the spur by a fosse, roughly 27 m deep, over 100 m long and about 20 m wide.2

1  Paul Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés en Terre-Sainte, 3 vols. (Paris, 1934‒73), 3:127‒31; Matthew of Edessa, Patmowt’iwn, trans. Ara Edmond Dostourian, The Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa (Lanham, 1993), 32; Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, al-Rawd al-Zahir fi sirat al-Malik al-Zahir, trans. Abdul Aziz al-Khowayter, “A Critical Edition of an Unknown Arabic Source for the Life of al-Malik al-Zahir Baibars, with Introduction, Translation, and Notes,” 3 vols. (unpublished PhD thesis, S.O.A.S., 1960), 2:708‒9; A. W. Lawrence, “A Skeletal History of Byzantine Fortification,” The Annual of the British School at Athens 78 (1983): 171‒227, at 218‒19; Gabriel Saadé, “Histoire du Château de Saladin,” Studi medievali 3/9 (1968): 980‒1016, at 983‒87. For the Frankish lordship of Saone, see Saadé, “Histoire du Château de Saladin,” 987‒91; Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés, 3:227‒28; Benjamin Michaudel, “Étude historique de Qal’at Salah al-Din (Sahyun ‒ Château de Saône)” [autumn 2002], in (www.castellorient.fr/71-Sahyoun/pdf/Etude%20historique%20de%20Qal___’at%20 Salah%20al-Din.pdf – last accessed 15 Feb. 2017), 6‒9. 2  For studies and descriptions of Saone, see E. G. Rey, Étude sur les monuments de l’architecture militaire des croisés en Syrie et dans l’île de Chypre (Paris, 1871), 105‒13; Max Van Berchem and Edmond Fatio, Voyages en Syrie, 2 vols. (Cairo, 1914‒15), 1:267‒83, 2: pls. 59‒62; T. E. Lawrence, Crusader Castles, ed. Denys Pringle (Oxford, 1988), 42‒49; Wolfgang Müller-Wiener, Burgen der Kreuzritter (Munich, 1966), trans. J. Maxwell Brownjohn, Castles of the Crusaders (London, 1966), 44‒45; Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés, 3:217‒47; T. S. R. Boase, “Military Architecture in the Crusader States in Palestine,” in Setton, Crusades, 4:145‒49; Hugh Kennedy, Crusader Castles (Cambridge, 1994), 84‒95; Jean Mesqui, “Saône / Sahyoun / Qalaat Salah ad-Din: Rapport préliminaire de la mission effectuée du 15 au 20 mai 2002” [15/2/2004], in (www. castellorient.fr/71-Sahyoun/pdf/rapport%20preliminaire.pdf – last accessed 15 Feb. 2017); Benjamin Michaudel, “Le château de Saône / Qal’at Salah al-Din,” (unpublished paper, 2007) [made available on academia.edu]; Jean Mesqui, “Die Burg Saône (Sahyun, Qal’at Salah ad-Din),” in Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit, ed. Mathias Piana (Petersburg, 2008), 356‒66.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 35

Table 1 Saladin’s Syrian campaign, 1188* Departure Crac des Chevaliers (1 July) Tortosa (11 July) Jabala (20 July) Latakia (24 July) Saone (30 July) Shughr-Bakas (>13 Aug.) Bourzey (>23 Aug.) Iron Bridge (?) Trepessac (17 Sep.)

Arrival Tortosa (3 July) Jabala (15 July) Latakia (21 July) Saone (26 July) Shughr-Bakas (2 Aug.) Bourzey (20 Aug.) Iron Bridge (?) Trapessac (2 Sep.) Baghras (17 Sep.)

Siege Tortosa (3 July–11 July) Jabala (15 July–16 July) Latakia (21 July– 22 July) Saone (27 July– 29 July) Shughr-Bakas (2 Aug?– 12 Aug) Bourzey (21 Aug.–23 Aug.) Pause at the Iron Bridge Trapessac (2 Sep.– 16 Sep.) Baghras (17 Sep.–26 Sep.)

* 

For a detailed account of these movements, see Paul Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés en Terre-Sainte, 3 vols. (Paris, 1934‒73), 3:127‒31.

Fig. 1 Saladin’s Syrian campaign, 1188. Map created by the author.

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Fig. 2 Saone and surrounding topography.

Plan created by the author, topographical contouring based on UNESCO’s survey.

The design of the castle’s eastern front indicates that this was regarded its most vulnerable part. The outer wall rises from the scarp of the fosse. Near its northern end, a small gate was accessed by a bridge from a needle-like pier that was left standing when the fosse was excavated around it. In the centre of the wall, the Franks constructed a quadrangular tower, about 25 m square. Three round towers protrude from the southern portion of the wall, which, like the pier to the north, appear to have been planned when the fosse was first developed. Thirty-two embrasures pierce the outer eastern wall along the ground-floor level alone, suggesting that the wall’s designers regarded a massed assault more threatening than the percussive force of any artillery: structural strength was traded for added defensive firepower. As all but one of these embrasures appear to be in masonry that predates the siege, Saladin would have encountered these defences in 1188. We are reliant on three sources, all of which appear to have been eyewitnesses, to discern the course of events during the siege.3 3 

‘Imad al-Din and Baha’ al-Din joined Saladin’s service in 1175 and 1188 respectively: D. S. Richards, “A Consideration of Two Sources for the Life of Saladin,” Journal of Semitic Studies 25/1 (1980): 46‒65, at 48, 50. Ibn al-Athir appears to have accompanied the army after visiting Jerusalem, following its liberation in 1187. Although his presence is less certain, at certain points he speaks in the first person when describing events of Saladin’s Syrian campaign and appears to contribute original information about the siege of Bourzey: Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, trans. D. S. Richards, The



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 37

Baha’ al-Din Yusuf ibn Shaddad, al-Nawadir al-Sultaniyya wa’l-Mahasin al-Yusufiyya: The sultan left Latakia at midday on Sunday to go to Sahyun, where he arrived on Tuesday 29 Jumada I [26 July 1188]. Early on Wednesday [27 July] the army encompassed the place on all sides and erected six trebuchets. It is a well-fortified and strong castle on the spur of a hill. Awful, wide and deep valleys serve as its moats and on one side only does it have an excavated moat, which is sixty cubits deep [32.4 m according to the standard Egyptian measure], unassailable for it is dug out of the rock. It has three walls, a wall around its bailey, a wall around the castle and the wall around the keep … From all sides the assault was fierce and the trebuchet of his son, al-Zahir, the lord of Aleppo, hurled its missiles against the castle. He had joined the sultan a little before Jabala with his full forces and was present at its fall. He set up a trebuchet to attack Sahyun opposite an angle of its wall across the valley. The stones were on target and he kept up the blows until he had demolished a large section of the wall, through which it was possible for those scaling the wall to gain access. On Friday morning, 2 Jumada II [29 July], the sultan decided on a general assault. He mounted up, advanced and ordered trebuchets to maintain a constant hail of missiles. Loud rose the cries and great was the clamour of “God is great” and “There is no god but God”. Within an hour the Muslims had scaled the walls of the bailey. The fight was hard, the struggle great and the Muslims broke into the bailey. I was watching our men seize the cooking pots, in which food had just been prepared, and eat while battling against the castle. The defenders of the bailey joined those in the castle and took whatever property they could carry. The rest was plundered. Our soldiers surrounded the castle walls and the enemy, when they stared destruction in the face, sought relief by asking for terms.4 Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh: Saladin left Latakia on 27 Jumada I [24 July 1188] and made for the castle of Sahyun, which is a strong castle, towering high in the air and difficult to ascend to, situated on the spur of a hill and encompassed by a deep valley which at one point is narrow, so that from there a stone from a trebuchet may reach the fortress. However, on the north [sic] side the hill is joined to the castle and there they have constructed a deep ditch, the bottom of which is out of sight, and five strong walls. Saladin made camp on this hill which is alongside the castle [beyond the eastern fosse] and there set up trebuchets and bombarded it. On his orders his son, al-Zahir, lord of Aleppo, positioned himself at the narrow point of the valley and set up trebuchets there too and bombarded the fortress. He had with him many infantry from Aleppo, who are famously well-regarded for their bravery. Their discharge of arrows from hand bows, crossbows, zanburaks and ziyars was continuous. The Muslims made an assault on 2 Jumada II [29 July]. They clung to a corner of that hill which the Franks had neglected to secure and from there climbed up between the rocks until they gained the outer wall. They engaged the men on it and seized it. They fought the Franks on the remaining walls and gained three of them, seizing the Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, 3 vols. (Aldershot, 2008), 2:350. See also Saadé, “Histoire du Château de Saladin,” 996. 4  Baha’ al-Din Yusuf ibn Shaddad, al-Nawadir al-Sultaniyya wa’l-Mahasin al-Yusufiyya, trans. D. S. Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin (Aldershot, 2001), 84‒85. For the Arabic, see Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, al-Nawādir al-sulṭāniyya wa’l maḥāsin al-yūsufiyya: sīrat Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn, ed. Jamāl al-Dīn al-Shayyāl, 2nd ed. (Cairo, 1994), 146‒74.

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cattle, horses, stores and other things there. The Franks sought refuge in the castle keep, where the Muslims attacked them. They cried out and asked for safe-conduct.5 ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, al-Fath al-Qussi fi’l-Fath al-Qudsi [and sections of Kitab al-Barq al-Shami, as quoted by Abu Shama]: We left on Sunday 27 Jumada [24 July 1188] at noon ... The Muslims stopped before Sahyun on Tuesday 29 Jumada I [26 July]. [The castle stands on top of a mountain between two deep valleys that join around it. The part of the castle that faces the mountain is defended by a large and deep fosse and a [strong] wall, where fate decreed by God alone can penetrate. The castle has five walls or rather five dens filled with hungry wolves and ferocious lions. On Wednesday, our army surrounded the castle’s four sides, well defended by its solid walls and elevated position out of reach.] The sultan began to besiege the enemy. Bows were set to go about the price of death, parts of arrows grew from eyes [that they penetrated], the daughters of quivers dressed in red from blood; pregnant siege engines miscarried their stone foetuses; the anterior parts of the arrows penetrated into the breast. [While the sultan established his camp to the side of the mountain,] al-Malik al-Zahir Ghazi, prince of Aleppo, established two trebuchets with which he cleared with the death of the enemy two roads on the side of the valley, he showed great zeal and every effort to take this castle... He had rejoined us before our arrival at Jubala, traveling along the road from Hama, accompanied by valiant warriors, bringing with him men from Aleppo, machines, [men who throw with mangonels,] crossbows, bodyguards, Khorassaniens, [and a company of masons, smiths and carpenters]. Against Sahyun, he showed similar miracles to the white hand of Moses, he gained fame and praise, he shone resplendent in all extents of merit. Fighting passed there, on the side of al-Zahir, as on the side of the sultan. [He took a position on the side of the valley that faced the fortress. The wall was not slow to threaten ruin, on Thursday morning large blocks detached, the rampart inclined and prostrated.] Without ceasing, for his part and ours, mangonels threw their projectiles and bows their fatal arrows. Almost all of the castle’s defenders were massacred, the discouragement that had slipped in made it easy to take. At dawn on Friday, 2 Jumada II [29 July], the ocean of our troops burst into tumultuous waves and our men pressed the attack as if they were assembled in the plain of the last judgement ... At the corner of the fosse, where it opened onto the valley, was a place that the enemy had not completed [digging] nor finished fortifying. From this corner, our forces could ascend and climbing up, clinging to the wall, they took possession of the top, [occupied the three enceintes, taking possession of all the provisions, grain and animals. The Franks rushed into the citadel; weakened more by fear than their small numbers, they offered their submission.]6

5  Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:347‒48. For the Arabic, see Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī al-ta ʾrīkh, ed. Muḥammad al-Daqqāq, 11 vols. (Beirut, 2003), 10:469‒70. 6  ‘Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, al-Fath al-Qussi fi’l-Fath al-Qudsi, trans. Henri Massé, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin (Paris, 1972), 131‒33; Abu Shama, Kitab al-Raudatain, ed. and trans. as Livre des deux Jardins, RHC Or, 4:365‒67. This is not a perfect melding of the two accounts but it conveys all pertinent parts of each description. For the Arabic, see ʿImād al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī, al-Fatḥ al-qussī fī al-fatḥ al-qudsī, ed. Suhayl Zakkār, in al-Mawsūʿa al-shāmiyya fī ta ʾrīkh al-ḥurūb al-ṣalībiyya, 40 vols. (Damascus, 1995), 13:5942‒44; Abū Shāma, Kitāb al-rawḍatain fī akhbār al-dawlatain al-nūriyya wa’l ṣalāḥiyya, ed. Ibrāḥīm Shams al-Dīn, 5 vols. (Beirut, 2002), 4:16‒17.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 39

Although they differ, the three accounts do not appear to contradict each other. Saladin’s army arrived at Saone on Tuesday 26 July 1188. The sultan established his camp on the plateau east of the castle (as stated by ‘Imad al-Din and Ibn al-Athir), while his son, al-Zahir Ghazi, took up a position across one of the valleys (wadis). Baha’ al-Din claims that six stone-throwers (trebuchets) were erected and that one (two according to ‘Imad al-Din and more than one according to Ibn al-Athir) was directed by al-Zahir Ghazi. The effect of these engines varies by account: in Baha’ al-Din’s version of events and ‘Imad al-Din’s al-Barq al-Shami, as quoted by Abu Shama, al-Zahir Ghazi’s artillery opened a considerable breach; however, this breach is not found in Ibn al-Athir’s account nor does it appear to have been included in ‘Imad al-Din’s earlier al-Fath. In the general assault of Friday 29 July, ‘Imad al-Din and Ibn al-Athir claim that the Muslims scaled a weak corner of the castle, where the fosse was incomplete, while Baha’ al-Din states more generally that the Muslims climbed up to and then over the wall. Although each version appears lucid on its own, historians have struggled to reconcile the three. Interpretations Emmanuel-Guillaume Rey, who visited the castle in 1864, simply provided a translation of Ibn al-Athir’s account to explain the siege.7 Max Van Berchem, who also visited the castle before the end of the nineteenth century, took a closer look at the siege, adding the accounts of Baha’ al-Din and ‘Imad al-Din to his analysis. Acknowledging that it was unclear where the reported breach was made, Van Berchem suggested that the main thrust of the attack came from the east, equating the first bailey (or faubourg), where the Franks’ provisions were seized, with the plateau to the east of the castle. In his interpretation, it was Saladin’s forces that ultimately scaled a certain section of the castle’s walls, while al-Zahir Ghazi, positioned across the northern wadi, diverted Frankish attentions (cf. Fig. 3).8 Compared to later scholars, Van Berchem assigned little importance to the Muslims’ artillery. In 1968, Gabriel Saadé suggested a different theory in his discussion of Saone, drawing greater attention towards al-Zahir Ghazi.9 According to Saadé, Saladin positioned himself on the plateau to the east of the castle (B on Figure 2) while al-Zahir Ghazi took up a position on the far side of the northern wadi (either A on Figure 2), as had been suggested by Van Berchem. Using Baha’ al-Din’s account and sections of al-Barq al-Shami, Saadé suggests that al-Zahir Ghazi’s artillery created a breach in the north wall of the western bailey, through which the castle was stormed on 29 July. As Muslim forces entered the castle, moving from west to east, the ditch that was subsequently overcome was not the great fosse to the east of the castle, but rather that between the western and central baileys. This ditch, 7 

Rey, Étude sur les monuments, 112‒13. Van Berchem and Fatio, Voyages en Syrie, 1:274‒77. 9  Saadé, “Histoire du Château de Saladin,” 999‒1002. 8 

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Fig. 3 The castle viewed from across the valley to the north. Photo courtesy of Denys Pringle.

which is more a rock-cut scarp below the west wall of the central bailey, does not extend to the north and south extremes of the ridge; while it could be interpreted as incomplete in this light, it is certainly not the single artificial fosse identified by each source in his description of the castle. Despite this shortcoming, Saadé’s explanation of events remained largely unchallenged through the remainder of the twentieth century and was embraced in the influential studies of Deschamps and Kennedy.10 In the early twenty-first century, a new theory was proposed by a group of French and Syrian scholars, notably Benjamin Michaudel and Jean Mesqui, following a series of light excavations at the castle.11 According to their interpretation, Saladin and al-Zahir Ghazi were situated in the same places as suggested by Saadé but the focus of the attack on 29 July was from the east: al-Zahir Ghazi provided a distraction while Saladin’s forces entered through a breach created by their artillery. At its very north end, a significant section of the outer eastern wall reveals evidence of rebuilding. Michaudel and Mesqui suggest that it was here that Saladin’s artillery breached the wall and his forces entered the castle, having climbed up the corner of the fosse (see Fig. 4). With the eastern bailey compromised, the Franks withdrew to the Byzantine citadel, rather than the Frankish donjon as suggested by Saadé – the elevation of the citadel more accurately reflects the term qal’a provided by the sources. The north-east corner of the castle fits much more closely with the descriptions provided by Ibn al-Athir and ‘Imad al-Din than does any salient of the western bailey. Unlike at the south end of the fosse, the rock-cut of the scarp at the northern end does not wrap around the corner of the castle and continue to the west, making this the more assailable end of the ditch. Furthermore, there do not appear to have been machicolations along the battlements, allowing forces to gather in the fosse and then climb up the steep slope in relative safety. Perhaps these minor 10 

Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés, 3:228‒30; Kennedy, Crusader Castles, 95‒96. This theory is best articulated in Michaudel, “Étude historique,” 15‒16. See also Mesqui, “Saône,” 14, 18; Michaudel, “Le château de Saône,” 3. 11 



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 41

Fig. 4 North-east corner of the castle from the base of the fosse. Photo courtesy of Denys Pringle.

disadvantages were enough for the sources to judge this section of the castle as insufficiently secured. Michaudel and Mesqui have also pointed out the possibility that the fosse may not have been dug to its present depth at the time of the siege. It is not unreasonable to suggest that the fosse may have been dug in more than one phase, especially when considering the numerous building phases evident in the eastern wall; however, any notion that the fosse was completed after the siege of 1188 appears to contradict Baha’ al-Din’s quite accurate measurement of its depth. Alternatively, the north end of the fosse may have been deemed incomplete because the rock-cut scarp had not been continued around this corner of the castle, as had been done at the south end of the fosse.

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While the position of Saladin’s force appears fairly certain, determining where al-Zahir Ghazi was located is more difficult. The sources unanimously place him on the far side of a wadi. Baha’ al-Din’s claim that he faced a qarn (horn), rather than a qurna (corner), may indicate that al-Zahir Ghazi opposed the western bailey in general, which resembles an elongated horn, rather than any particular spot along its trace. Each interpretation since that of Van Berchem has placed al-Zahir Ghazi on the far side of the northern wadi; although this seems logical, there is nothing in the accounts that definitively ties him to this specific position. The fundamental problem with Saadé‘s theory, as well as that of Michaudel and Mesqui, is that it takes no account of the likely power of contemporary artillery. Saadé’s interpretation requires artillery to have breached the north wall of the western bailey from a range of at least 200 m in only two days, while Michaudel and Mesqui suggest that such engines completely destroyed the north end of the much stronger eastern wall in the same period. In their defence, many recent studies of artillery would encourage such an interpretation of its destructive capabilities.12 The authors of both studies may have been tempted to associate the large projectiles, reportedly 50–300 kg,13 that can still be found in the castle with the events of 1188; however, comparative evidence suggests that projectiles weighing more than 50 kg were very rarely employed before the second quarter of the thirteenth century.14 The siege of Saone also appears to be one of relatively few occasions when Baha’ al-Din drastically exaggerates events. Other aspects of these theories are less easy to explain. On one hand, Saadé’s belief that late-twelfth-century artillery could shoot up to 1 km is completely unfounded. On the other, it is unclear why Michaudel and Mesqui associate the rebuilding at the north end of the fosse with the siege of 1188 rather than the Mamluk siege in 1287, by which point projectiles weighing around 100 kg were used, or more simply with an earthquake.15 The latter would appear to 12  For the most influential, see Paul E. Chevedden, “The Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet: A Study in Cultural Diffusion,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000): 71‒116; idem, “The Artillery of King James I the Conqueror,” in Iberia and the Mediterranean World of the Middle Ages: Essays in Honor of Robert I. Burns S.J., ed. Paul E. Chevedden, Donald J. Kagay and Paul G. Padilla, vol. 2 (Leiden, 1996), 47‒94. See also Carroll Gillmor, “The Introduction of the Traction Trebuchet into the Latin West,” Viator 12 (1981): 1‒8; Donald R. Hill, “Trebuchets,” Viator 4 (1973): 99‒114. 13  Rey, Étude sur les monuments, 110; Saadé, “Histoire du Château de Saladin,” 998‒99 and pl. 4. 14  See Michael S. Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades: Siege Warfare and the Development of Trebuchet Technology (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming), based on idem, “Artillery in and around the Latin East” (unpublished PhD thesis, Cardiff University, 2015). 15  For the siege of 1287, see Abu al-Fida’, al-Mukhtasar fi Akhbar al-Bashar, ed. and trans. as Résumé des Histoire des Croisades tiré des Annales d’Abou’l-Feda, RHC Or, 1:162; trans. P. M. Holt, The Memoirs of a Syrian Prince: Abu’l-Fida’, Sultan of Hamah (672‒732/1273‒1331) (Wiesbaden, 1983), 13; Templar of Tyre, Gestes des Chiprois 461‒62, ed. Laura Minervini, Cronaca del Templare di Tiro (1243‒1314) (Naples, 2000), 186; trans. Paul Crawford, The “Templar of Tyre”: Part III of the Deeds of the Cypriots (Aldershot, 2003), 94‒95. For examples of such projectiles, see Bashford Dean, “The Exploration of a Crusaders’ Fortress (Montfort) in Palestine,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 22/9 (Sep. 1927): 5‒46, at 23, 38; Kate Raphael and Yotam Tepper, “The Archaeological Evidence from the Mamluk Siege of Arsuf,” Mamluk Studies Review 9/1 (2005): 85‒100; Laure Barthet,



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 43

be the most likely possibility given the homogenous nature of the rebuilding and its scope: a single building phase from almost the lowest courses of masonry to the highest surviving courses, wrapping around the corner of the castle. Contrary to Baha’ al-Din’s account, it would have been impossible for a handful of twelfth-century trebuchets to breach a section of fortified masonry completely in less than 48 hours. This holds true when considering Saladin’s push against the castle from the east, where he could have placed his artillery as close as 25 m from the wall, let alone any suggestion that al-Zahir Ghazi was shooting at the western bailey from across one of the wadis at an implicit range of 200 m. To appreciate better the power and range of contemporary artillery, a number of examples can be cited. Evidence of Artillery Power In the autumn of 1177, Philip of Flanders, Raymond III of Tripoli and Bohemond III of Antioch besieged Harim. The topography of the site rendered the use of a siege tower impractical, so the Franks resorted to a blockade and erected artillery.16 William of Tyre claims that Frankish artillery projectiles reached the castle but that they inflicted no real damage, as appears to have been the case when Nur al-Din besieged the castle in 1164.17 Given the determinant topography, certain minimums can be established (see Fig. 5 and Table 2). If an engine were placed at the base of the tell (40 m horizontally from the plane of the wall), a release velocity of 34 m/s would have been required to clear the battlements of a hypothetically 10 m high wall, as William of Tyre claims was possible. A projectile thrown at 34 m/s has a theoretical maximum range of 118 m if released at 45° and air resistance is negated,18 a not unreasonable range for a “La prise de la barbacane de Montségur (Ariège) en février 1244: une introduction a l’archéologie de la poliorcétique,” in Artillerie et fortification, 1200‒1600, ed. Nicolas Prouteau, Emmanuel de CrouyChanel and Nicolas Faucherre (Rennes, 2011), 41‒48. For an introduction to the development of artillery in the Levant during the period of the crusades, see Michael S. Fulton, “Development of Prefabricated Artillery during the Crusades,” Journal of Medieval Military History 13 (2015): 51‒72. 16  The siege lasted as long as four months before they were bought off: WT 21.18, 24, pp. 986–87, 994–96; trans. Emily Babcock and A. C. Krey, A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea, 2 vols. (New York, 1976), 2:425‒26, 434‒35; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:254‒56; Abu Shama, Kitab al-Raudatain, RHC Or, 4:191‒93. For the defences of Harim, see Sauro Gelichi, “The Citadel of Harim,” in Muslim Military Architecture in Greater Syria: From the Coming of Islam to the Ottoman Period, ed. Hugh Kennedy (Leiden, 2006), 184‒200; Gelichi, “Die Burg Harim,” in Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit, ed. Mathias Piana (Petersburg, 2008), 211‒20. 17  WT 21.24, p. 995; trans. Babcock and Krey, 2:434‒35. For Nur al-Din’s siege of Harim, see WT 19.9, pp. 874–75; trans. Babcock and Krey, 2:306‒08; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:146‒48; Anonymous Syriac Chronicle, trans. Arthur S. Tritton with notes by H. A. R. Gibb, “The First and Second Crusade from an Anonymous Syriac Chronicle,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 65 (1933): 69‒101, 273‒305, at 303‒04. 18  If the release angle (α, expressed in radians) and release velocity (V) are known, or hypothetically determined, the maximum elevation (Remax) of a projectile during flight can be determined by

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Fig. 5 Hypothetical trajectories at Harim.

Table 2 Hypothetical trajectories at Harim Release angle Velocity Horizontal velocity Max. horizontal range Max. vertical range

45° 40 m/s 28.28 m/s 163.27 m 40.82 m

55° 40 m/s 22.94 m/s 153.42 m 54.78 m

69° 34 m/s 12.18 m/s 78.93 m 51.40 m

traction trebuchet. The traction trebuchet built by W. T. S. Tarver, using al-Tarsusi’s descriptions and illustrations, a work composed in the 1180s and one which Saladin quite possibly consulted,19 was capable of maximum ranges slightly greater than this, using projectiles of 2–3 kg.20 If the responsible engine was backed up an

incorporating the rate of acceleration due to gravity (g): The elevation (Re) of a projectile at any horizontal distance (Rh) during its flight can also be determined:

or The latter equations have been used to generate the graphs depicting the hypothetical trajectories at Harim and Bourzey. For a closer examination of the mathematics, see Mark Denny, “Siege Engine Dynamics,” European Journal of Physics 26 (2005): 561‒77. 19  A translation of the relevant section of al-Tarsusi’s treatise can be found in Paul E. Chevedden, Zvi Schiller, Samuel R. Gilbert and Donald J. Kagay, “The Traction Trebuchet: A Triumph of Four Civilizations,” Viator 31 (2000), 433-86, at 460-61. Images in the mid-thirteenth century Morgan Bible were also consulted: Morgan Bible, New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, MS M.638, fols. 23v, 43v. 20  W. T. S. Tarver, “The Traction Trebuchet: A Reconstruction of an Early Medieval Siege Engine,” Technology and Culture 36/1 (Jan., 1995): 136‒67.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 45

Table 3 Reconstructed counterweight trebuchets Beam length 10.3 m

Axle height

Nykobing, 19892

6.5 m

3.5 m

2,000 kg

Caerphilly & Cardiff

6.5 m

4.2 m

Urquhart Castle, 1998 (fixed cw)3

8m

Urquhart Castle, 1998 (hung cw)4

Vincennes, 18501

Helfstyn, 19865 Warwick, 20056

Counterweight mass 4,500 kg (1,500 fixed, 3,000 hung)

Projectile mass 10.88 kg

175 m

Release velocity >42 m/s

 15 kg 47 kg

168 m 85 m

>41 m/s >29 m/s

2,000 kg

10–15 kg

45 m/s

5,500 kg

15 kg

~210 m

>45 m/s

{

Range

Notes

1  Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, Études sur le passé et l’avenir d’artillerie, 6 vols. (Paris, 1848‒71), 2:38 n. 2. 2  Peter Vemming Hanson, “Experimental Reconstruction of a Medieval Trébuchet,” Acta Archaeologica 63 (1992): 189‒208. 3  Renaud Beffeyte, Les machines de guerre au Moyen Age (Rennes, 2008), 16‒17. 4  Ibid. 5  Leonid Krizek, “Trebuchet Reconstructions in Czechoslovakia,” Military Illustrated 47 (1992): 19‒20. 6  Personal correspondence with Adam Busiakiewicz, Head of Historical Interpretations, Warwick Castle (Sep. 2012).

additional 40 m, a release velocity of 40 m/s would have been necessary to clear the wall, possibly requiring the engine to be a counterweight trebuchet. Unfortunately, popular perception holds that fairly large counterweight trebuchets were employed at the end of the twelfth century, perhaps influenced by reconstructed engines inspired by late-thirteenth-, fourteenth- and even fifteenthcentury illustrations (see Table 3). Al-Tarsusi’s illustration of a counterweight trebuchet suggests that these were still fairly primitive engines in the 1180s, while the earliest surviving drawing of such an engine from Europe, that in Honnecourt’s sketchbook, dates to the mid-thirteenth century and only the plan of the base has survived.21 While the siege of Harim provides an important minimum, exaggerated notions of artillery power can be checked when considering other sieges. 21 

Al-Tarsusi, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Hunt. 264, fols. 134v‒135r; Villard of Honnecourt, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr. 19093, fol. 30r.

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Fig. 6 Bourzey and surrounding topography.

Plan created by the author, topographical contouring based on survey of Mesqui et al. (2001): www.castellorient.fr/5-Bourzey/imagesBourzey/plans_de_bourzey.pdf ; see also n. 23.

Less than a month after besieging Saone, Saladin invested Bourzey. Situated on a conical hill overlooking the Orontes, there were few places from which Bourzey could be assaulted. Saladin encamped his army along the banks of the Orontes River and moved a secondary assault force up to a plateau to the southwest of the castle (see Fig. 6). This plateau, situated on the col between the castle hill and the rising slope to the west, was occupied by a small village during the Ottoman period and is the only area of level ground relatively close to the castle. The plateau’s eastern edge is as close as 30 m horizontally from the castle’s western walls and it extends back to the west and southwest. The walls of the castle’s western face begin at an elevation of about 35 m above the plateau, at the extreme south end, and rise as they run northwards. The foundations of the Byzantine citadel, which crowns the highest point of the castle hill, are about 75 m above the plateau.22 22  Jean Mesqui and Benjamin Michaudel, “Bourzey ‒ Hisn Burzaih / Burzuih / Qal’at Mirze: rapport de la mission effectuée du 27/05/2001 au 02/06/2001” [19/06/03], in (www.castellorient.fr/5-Bourzey/pdf/BOURZEYdfcorrige3.pdf – last accessed 15 Feb. 2017), 11. The Franco-Syrian expedition concluded that the elevation disparity between the point at which they suspected that Saladin planted his engines and the foundations of the walls which they assailed was about 60 m. See also Benjamin Michaudel, “Burzaih,” in Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit, ed. Mathias Piana (Petersburg, 2008), 178‒87.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 47

a. b. Fig. 7 Hypothetical trajectories at Bourzey.

Table 4 Hypothetical trajectories at Bourzey Release angle Velocity Horizontal velocity Max. horizontal range Max. vertical range Vertical range at 60 m

72° 32 m/s 9.9 m/s 61.42 m 47.26 m 47.23 m

60° 35 m/s 17.5 m/s 108.25 m 46.87 m 46.32 m

41° 44 m/s 33.21 m/s 195.63 m 42.51 m 36.16 m

80° 42 m/s 7.3 m/s 61.56 m 87.29 m 87.23 m

70° 44 m/s 15.05 m/s 126.98 m 87.22 m 86.96 m

Baha’ al-Din states that Saladin’s artillery shot at the castle day and night from 21 July 1188. He appears to imply that the besieging engines had no trouble reaching the castle but does not mention them inflicting any damage. His account differs from ‘Imad al-Din’s, which states that the besieging artillery was insufficiently powerful to reach the castle, compelling Saladin to launch the frontal attacks on 23 July that carried the castle. Ibn al-Athir claims to have watched Saladin’s artillery attack the castle, implying that it was within range, until the engines were destroyed by a defensive trebuchet on 22 July, leading to the frontal assault the following day.23 Given the elevations and distances involved, and precedent established at Harim, Saladin’s artillery was probably able to assail the southern end of Bourzey’s western walls, but the citadel might have been out of range (see Figs. 7a and b and Table 4). From the edge of the plateau, a minimum release velocity of 32 m/s is necessary to hit the lowest battlements of the western wall; however, a release velocity of 23 

Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 86; ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 136; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:350. See also Abu al-Fida, al-Mukhtasar, RHC Or, 1:59.

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35 m/s, similar to that at Harim, would allow the engine to be backed up 30 m and shoot at the lowest battlements from the centre of the plateau. Although thrown only 3 m/s faster, the latter projectiles would reach the wall travelling nearly twice the speed due to a release angle of 60° rather than 72°. To attack the battlements of the Byzantine citadel, a release velocity of at least 42 m/s is necessary, or 44 m/s if the engine was 30 m back from the edge of the plateau. If projectiles could be cast at 44 m/s, they could be thrown against the bottom of the lowest wall at a horizontal velocity of 33 m/s. Although no datable projectiles have been identified at Bourzey, Baha’ al-Din’s omission of any description of damage, and ‘Imad al-Din’s claim that the castle was out of range, suggest that the projectiles thrown by Saladin’s engines were quite small. Accordingly, little energy would have been transferred upon impact (kinetic energy = 1–2 mass ∙ velocity 2). The sources’ accounts of Saladin’s siege of the double castle of Shurghr-Bakas, which took place between the sieges of Saone and Bourzey, are similar to their respective accounts of the siege of Bourzey. Baha’ al-Din again claims that Saladin’s artillery was capable of reaching al-Shughr, while ‘Imad al-Din asserts that it was out of range. Neither mentions any damage but when placed next to Ibn al-Athir’s observation, that Saladin’s artillery could reach the castle but that it was beyond any measure of effective range, matters become clearer.24 In other words, although the engines were powerful enough to assail the castles with quite small projectiles, these posed little threat to the defences of al-Shughr and Bourzey. The descriptions of artillery at Bourzey and Shughr-Bakas would appear sufficient to bring into question whether al-Zahir Ghazi’s artillery could have reached Saone from across one of the surrounding wadis, let alone create a breach. If ‘Imad al-Din is correct and Saladin’s artillery struggled to reach the walls of Bourzey, it is almost certain that the Muslims were employing traction trebuchets. This essentially rules out the possibility that the projectiles thrown by al-Zahir Ghazi’s artillery were able to reach Saone from across the northern wadi – a release velocity of 45 m/s would have been necessary to carry the 200 m. If Baha’ al-Din is correct and the Muslims’ artillery was strong enough to reach the walls of Bourzey and al-Shughr, its inability to inflict any damage implies that these engines were insufficiently strong to breach the eastern wall of Saone, even from close range. Had Saladin possessed trebuchets powerful enough to do so, why were they not employed at any other siege during this campaign? It is noteworthy that Saladin does not appear to have employed artillery during his push up the Syrian coast earlier in July, even during the week-long pause at Tortosa, during which he failed to take the Templars’ tower.25 24 

For the siege of Shughr-Bakas, see Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 85; ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 133‒35; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:348‒49. For the castle of Shughr-Bakas, see Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés, 3:349‒50; Boase, “Military Architecture,” 162. See also Abu al-Fida, al-Mukhtasar, RHC Or, 1:59. 25  For these sieges, see Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 82‒83; ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 124‒31; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:345‒47; Abu al-Fida’, al-Mukhtasar,



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 49

Saladin’s ability to rapidly deploy his artillery, when it is mentioned, suggests that the engines used during this campaign may have been prefabricated. If so, the ease with which he seems to have been able to move them is another indicator that they were quite light. ‘Imad al-Din asserts that the terrain between Latakia and Saone was rough, but there is no indication of any difficulties transporting heavy machines through this region. Around a century later, Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir emphasizes the difficulties that Baybars faced when moving his large trebuchets through the hills of Lebanon and western Syria. Similar struggles were reportedly faced by Edward I of England when moving a particularly large engine through Wales in 1287.26 While descriptions of Saladin’s engines and their movement suggest that he employed quite light trebuchets, so too does an examination of contemporary fortifications. Broader Evidence from Saladin’s Reign The castle of Montreal (Shawbak) in Transjordan occupies another conical hill and, like Bourzey, is only really assailable from one place. To the northwest of the castle is a plateau, now occupied by the visitors’ centre, about 100 m from the castle but at a lower elevation. No artillery appears to have been used by Ayyubid forces when the castle was besieged after the battle of Hattin; instead, the castle was blockaded and it was not until the spring of 1189 that the garrison surrendered.27 Notably, the exposed north-western front of the castle was not significantly developed until the very end of the thirteenth century.28 Perhaps the clearest indication that late-twelfth-century artillery was not a breaching weapon is given by accounts of Saladin’s sieges of Kerak in 1183 and RHC Or, 1:59; Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta Regis Ricardi 1.13, ed. William Stubbs, RS 38, vol. 1 (London, 1864), 26‒27; trans. Helen Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi (Aldershot, 1997), 43; letter from Hermenger to Leopold of Austria, in Ansbert, Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris, ed. Anton Chroust, in Quellen zur Geschichte des Kreuzzuges Kaiser Friedrichs I, MGH SRG N.S. 5 (Berlin, 1928), 4; trans. Malcolm Barber and Keith Bate, Letters from the East: Crusaders, Pilgrims and Settlers in the 12th‒13th Centuries (Farnham, 2010), no. 48, p. 86. 26  Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, al-Rawd, trans. al-Khowayter, 2:749‒51; John E. Morris, The Welsh Wars of Edward I: A Contribution to Medieval History, Based on Original Documents (Oxford, 1901), 212‒13, 216‒17; Anne Solomon, The Last Siege of Dryslwyn Castle (Carmarthen, 1982), 36‒37. 27  ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 104‒7; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:333; Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 88, 91; Abu Shama, Kitab al-Raudatain, RHC Or, 4:381‒82; al-Maqrizi, al-Suluk, trans. R. J. C. Broadhurst, A History of the Ayyubid Sultans of Egypt (Boston, 1980), 87‒88; Itinerarium 1.15, ed. Stubbs, 29‒30; trans. Nicholson, 45‒46; Eracles Continuation of William of Tyre 26.9, ed. as L’Estoire de Eracles Empereur et la Conqueste de la Terre d’Outremer, RHC Oc, 2:104‒5 (lower text), 188. 28  See Nicolas Faucherre, with Christian Corvisier, Phillippe Dangles and Benjamin Michaudel, “La forteresse de Shawbak (Crac de Montréal), une des premières forteresses franques sous son corset mamelouk,” in La fortification au temps de croisades, ed. Nicolas Faucherre, Jean Mesqui and Nicolas Prouteau (Rennes, 2004), 62‒64.

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1184. On both occasions, Saladin’s artillery operated against the north wall of the castle for weeks from as close as 20 m.29 Although the rough masonry has hidden any impact signatures, the lack of any significant damage, and subsequent rebuilding, is clearly evident (see Fig. 8). Similarly, it was mining rather than artillery that posed the greatest threat to the besieged during the Frankish siege of Acre. Artillery was employed fairly continuously between the spring of 1190 and the city’s surrender in the summer of 1191, and although it appears to have inflicted a certain degree of damage, it was never able to breach the city’s fortifications.30 Accordingly, no matter where it was positioned, artillery would not have been able to breach the walls of Saone in only forty-eight hours. Tactical Considerations at Saone Regardless of whether the main attack came from the east or the west, the recent theories concerning the siege of Saone both rely on artillery being used as a breaching weapon at one end of the castle and as part of a distraction at the other. But, as has been shown, artillery was not an effective breaching weapon in the late twelfth century; instead, it was still predominantly employed in an antipersonnel capacity. As such, it would have been the threat of an assault posed by the forces around these engines that would have been far more effective at dividing the defenders’ attentions. The plateau east of the fosse was a sensible place for Saladin to position a large portion of his forces and the castle’s outer east wall appears to display small impact signatures, the result of light artillery shooting at the castle from the other side of the fosse.31 These may have been inflicted by Saladin’s engines during the siege of 1188 or during the Mamluk siege of 1287, during which the battlements above seem to have been damaged and subsequently rebuilt. On both occasions, light artillery 29 

WT 22.29, 31, pp. 1055-57, 1059-60; trans. Babcock and Krey, 2:498‒501, 503‒04; Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 62, 64‒65; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:297‒98, 299‒300; Abu Shama, Kitab al-Raudatain, RHC Or, 4:248, 254‒55; letter from Baldwin IV to the Frankish delegation in Europe, in Ralph of Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, ed. William Stubbs, Opera Historica: The Historical Works of Ralph of Diceto, Dean of London, RS 68, vol. 2 (London, 1876), 27‒28. 30  Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 110‒11, 122, 124‒25, 147, 148‒50, 156; ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 217‒19, 245, 293‒94, 295‒97, 306‒8, 310‒11, 314‒15; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:373, 378, 387; Itinerarium 1.36, 54, 2.28, 3.4, 7, ed. Stubbs, 84‒85, 105, 181, 214, 218‒20; trans. Nicholson, 90‒91, 109, 177‒78, 204, 208‒09; Ambroise, Estoire de la Guerre Sainte ll. 1341‒45, 3191‒222, 3529‒34, 4749‒800, ed. Gaston Paris, L’Estoire de la Guerre Sainte (Paris, 1897), 36, 86, 95, 127‒28; trans. Marianne Ailes, with Malcolm Barber, The History of the Holy War: Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte (Woodbridge, 2003), 50, 77‒78, 82, 98‒99; Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs, RS 51, 4 vols. (London, 1868‒71), 3:22, 111, 113, 116‒17; trans. Henry T. Riley, The Annals of Roger de Hoveden: Comprising the History of England and of Other Countries of Europe, from A.D. 732 to A.D. 1201, 2 vols. (London, 1853), 2:128, 205, 207, 210‒11; Bar Hebraeus, Makhtebhanuth Zabhne, trans. Ernest A. Wallis Budge, The Chronography of Gregory Abu’l Faraj, vol. 2 (London, 1932, reprinted Amsterdam, 1976), 334. 31  See Deschamps, Les Châteaux des Croisés, 3:230. Cf. Mesqui, “Saône,” 14.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 51

Fig. 8 Northern wall of Kerak castle. Photo by the author.

would have been ideal to harass any defenders along the parapet. While Saladin’s position is fairly clear, it is more difficult to discern where al-Zahir Ghazi’s force was located ahead of the general assault on 29 July. The eyewitness accounts place him on the far side of one of the wadis, identified as that to the north of the castle in all previous studies. Van Berchem may have been influenced by the modern road, which runs past this position on its way to the coast: having approached the castle from the far side of the northern wadi, al-Zahir Ghazi remained there while Saladin travelled down the path which leads into and then out of the wadi and then through the eastern fosse to a point where he could climb up onto the eastern plateau from the south. Saadé suggested that, from this position, al-Zahir would have enjoyed the easiest approach to the western bailey. Ultimately, the placement of al-Zahir’s engines is of minimal significance as it has already been ruled out that they were responsible for breaching a section of the castle’s walls. Saladin’s positioning of al-Zahir Ghazi appears to reflect his ultimate intention of launching a frontal attack, using his artillery to the east of the castle much as he would his archers to support this. While Saladin occupied the most advantageous position to assail the castle, he sent al-Zahir Ghazi to the far end of the castle to face the qarn formed by the western bailey (see Fig. 9). After a day of preparations and softening the garrison, an attack was ordered. Saladin’s forces appear to have scaled

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MICHAEL S. FULTON

Fig. 9 Saone from the west.

Library of Congress, LC-DIG-matpc–03341. Photo in the public domain.

the northern corner of the eastern fosse (the weak qurna), while al-Zahir Ghazi’s forces attacked from the west. The similarities between the sieges of Saone and Bourzey are revealing. At each, artillery was erected and siege efforts were initiated the day after the army arrived, it shot throughout the second day of the siege while other preparations were made, and the castle was taken in a frontal attack on the third day. While Saladin appears to have planned to attack Saone on two fronts from the outset, the reserve forces that climbed up the hill and over the east wall of Bourzey, just as Saladin’s forces were breaking in from the west, might not have been as closely coordinated. Perhaps the initiative shown by these troops was inspired by the success of this tactic at Saone less than a month earlier. In both instances, the Frankish defenders withdrew to their Byzantine citadel as forces of the main attack gained the outer wall, ultimately seeking terms from this last point of refuge.32

32 

Baha’ al-Din, al-Nawadir, trans. Richards, 86; ‘Imad al-Din, al-Fath, trans. Massé, 136‒39; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, trans. Richards, 2:350‒52. Cf. the account of Ibn Wasil, trans. in Mesqui and Michaudel, “Bourzey,” 8. Ibn al-Athir describes the gradient beyond the outer eastern walls as climbable but too steep to fight from.



THE SIEGE OF SAONE/SAHYUN IN 1188 53

Source Considerations An avenue of analysis that has not yet been explored is the relationship between the accounts of the three sources. Although ‘Imad al-Din and Baha’ al-Din were certainly present and there is strong circumstantial evidence that Ibn al-Athir also accompanied the army,33 the three accounts overlap closely on a number of important points. It appears as though both Baha’ al-Din and Ibn al-Athir would have had a copy of ‘Imad al-Din’s al-Fath, and probably even his later al-Barq al-Shami, in hand when they wrote down their own accounts.34 Events such as the seizing of the Frankish provisions as the first bailey was taken highlight the connection between the accounts: Baha’ al-Din may have adopted the information of this episode directly from ‘Imad al-Din’s description, inserting the first person to reinforce that he also witnessed these events. Furthermore, Baha’ al-Din’s notice of the damage inflicted by al-Zahir Ghazi’s artillery may be due to a literal rendering of that part of ‘Imad al-Din’s more artistic verse account. He may have knowingly repeated the embellishment to emphasize the role of al-Zahir Ghazi, who was his patron by the time he was composing his account.35 While Baha’ al-Din may have used ‘Imad al-Din’s account to distinguish his current benefactor, Ibn al-Athir, who had no reason to praise al-Zahir Ghazi, provides a somewhat more sober version of events. It is unfortunate that, despite what appear to be three relatively lucid, likely eyewitness accounts of the siege of Saone in 1188, the exact course of events is not entirely clear. But what can be said with certainty is that artillery was not responsible for opening a breach in the castle’s defences, whether erected 200 m or 20 m away. This siege is yet another warning of the risks of interpreting descriptions of artillery damage without considering the broader historical context and the likely mechanical capabilities of the machines concerned.

33 

See n. 3 above. Richards, “A Consideration of Two Sources,” 58‒61. 35  This is not the only point in his narrative history where Baha’ al-Din praises the role of al-Zahir Ghazi; see ibid., 57. 34 

“The Sins of the Sons of Men”: A New Letter of Pope Celestine III Concerning the 1195 Crusade of Alarcos Miguel Gómez (University of Dayton; [email protected]) and Kyle C. Lincoln (Kalamazoo College; [email protected]) Abstract The discovery of a previously unknown and unedited letter sent by Celestine III to the bishops of the Iberian Peninsula in March 1195 reveals the efforts Rome made to organize a collaborative crusade against the Almohad Empire. The letter illuminates the mechanisms that the pope could deploy to encourage and coerce the kings of Christian Spain into cooperation and pursuit of goals endorsed by the Church. In addition to enhancing our understanding of the campaign that culminated in the Almohad victory over the Castilians at the battle of Alarcos in July of that same year, the letter provides another example of the peace-making efforts that the papacy undertook in the promotion of crusading.

Of all the impediments to crusading in the Iberian Peninsula, no foreign obstacle posed as much difficulty as the internecine wars between the Christian monarchs. The sapping of so much military strength – on full display in the mid-thirteenth century – during the wars between the kingdoms vexed the Roman Curia for much of the second half of the twelfth century. In this vein, a previously unknown and unedited letter from the Archivo Capitular of Toledo sheds significant light onto these conflicts, and the strenuous diplomatic efforts undertaken by the papacy to overcome them. The content of this letter changes much of our understanding of the papal strategy in Iberia that defines the period leading up to the Crusade of Alarcos, and colors our interpretation of the Alarcos campaign as a result. The letter, Si peccata fililorum, is marked ACT. I.6.G.1.5A. It is well-preserved in a chancery hand and style consistent with Celestine III’s curia. Although both the threading and the lead seal are lost, the datum clause dates the text precisely to March 13, 1195. The letter is addressed to the archbishop of Toledo and his suffragans, and notes that a peace treaty (the Treaty of Tordehumos), a copy of which Celestine had in his possession, had been made between the kings of León and Castile (with some additional provisions made for Portuguese involvement) for the purpose of making war on the Almohads. The peace began on Easter of 1194, and was about to reach (three Sundays after the issuing of the letter) its first full year, allowing the king of 55

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Castile to lead his men against the Almohads.1 The letter advised Martín Lopez de Pisuerga, archbishop of Toledo, that he and his suffragans – the bishops of Palencia, Segovia, Osma, Sigüenza, Segorbe-Albarracín and Cuenca – were empowered to excommunicate anyone who violated the treaty.2 The letter also notes that a similar provision had been made for the archbishop of Tarragona to ensure the cooperation or non-aggression of the Navarrese and Aragonese monarchs as well, but extends to the archbishop of Toledo the duty to excommunicate any violators of the treaty.3 The text is explicit in its presentation of the papacy’s strenuous desire for peace amongst the Christian monarchs of the kingdom. The significance of Si peccata filiorum lies in its ability to help us better understand both the strategic vision which the papacy, largely in the person of Cardinal Giacinto Bobone / Pope Celestine III, was attempting to enact in the Iberian Peninsula during the second half of the twelfth century, as well as the more immediate steps which the pope took in preparation for the campaign of 1195. In spite of Celestine’s efforts, the campaign resulted in a major defeat on July 19 for the Castilians under Alfonso VIII and a major victory for the Almohad caliph Ya’qūb ibn Yūsuf, known afterward as al-Manṣūr (the Victorious). The letter also makes clear one of the central pastoral aspects of the crusade: by directing the military efforts of the warrior aristocracy outward, mostly towards the Islamic regions of the Mediterranean, the papacy achieved a double goal of bringing internal peace and security to Christendom, and replacing the sinful warfare fought amongst Christians with a new salvific opportunity. The long-term strategic vision that Rome pursued in Spain was largely shaped by the Second Crusade. Despite the setbacks in the Holy Land and a faltering attempt at conquering Jaén, the Second Crusade produced great success in the Iberian Peninsula: Lisbon was captured by the combined forces of Afonso I of Portugal and a fleet of Northern European crusaders; Lleida and Tortosa were taken by a combined force under Ramon Berenguer IV of the crown of Aragón; and the 1  The Treaty of Tordehumos was negotiated under the aegis of Celestine III’s nephew, Cardinal Gregory of Sant’Angelo, and involved a scheme of ransomed towns, which were kept under guard by the Masters of two separate Military Orders, and which would be handed over to whichever party kept the peace longer. The king of Portugal was involved as a guarantor of cooperation from the two parties. Kyle Lincoln, “‘Holding the Place of the Lord Pope Celestine’: Legations of Gregory, Cardinal-Deacon of Sant’Angelo (1192–4 and 1196–7),” Anuario de Historia de la Iglesia 24 (2014): 471–500. It was one of many such treaties in the long history of peace-brokering in the Iberian Christian kingdoms: Demetrio Mansilla Reoyo, “Inocencio III y los reinos hispanos,” Anthologica Annua 2 (1954): 13 n. 16. 2  The ecclesiastical province of Toledo included these sees and occasionally was able to induce cooperation from Burgos which, though exempt, belonged to the territory covered by the ancient province of Toledo: Andreas Holndonner, Kommunikation-Jurisdiktion-Integration. Das Papsttum und das Erzbistum Toledo im 12. Jahrhundert (ca. 1085–ca. 1185) (Berlin, 2014). 3  The ecclesiastical geography of the peninsula was such that, while Toledo – de iure “Primas Hispaniarum” – could theoretically command the suffragans of Santiago and Braga, Tarragona belonged to a different province, and thus Aragon and Navarra were out of Toledo’s direct jurisdiction: Demetrio Mansilla Reoyo, Geografía eclesiástica de España: estudio histórico-geográfico de las diócesis (Rome, 1994), 2:92–135.



A NEW LETTER OF POPE CELESTINE III 57

port of Almería was taken by the combined forces of Alfonso VII of Castile-León, García Ramírez of Navarre, Ramon Berenguer IV and a Genoese fleet.4 The lesson drawn from these successes, and particularly that of Almería, was the need for cooperation and collective action amongst the Christian rulers of the peninsula if the crusade was to enjoy any success. However, despite the positive examples of the 1140s, cooperation was in short supply. In the face of growing Almohad power in al-Andalus, the kings of the north entered into one of the most politically fractious periods in Spanish history. After the death of Alfonso VII in 1157 and the division of Castile and León amongst his sons, there were five Christian kingdoms, whose rulers were all determined to jockey with one another for supremacy, and could only rarely muster enough cooperation to face their Almohad foes. Despite these political challenges, however, the Church leadership, and in particular Cardinal Giacinto Bobone, never lost site of the formula for successful crusading in Spain.5 From the time of his first legation in Spain in 1154–55, when he issued a general call for crusade at the Council of Valladolid, the cardinal-legate worked steadily to bring about peace and cooperative military action. He was almost certainly the architect of Alexander’s 1175 bull Merore pariter, a broad call for crusade in Spain which, in particular, emphasized the need to annul treaties with the Almohads in favor of alliances amongst the Christians, and threatened the use of excommunication and interdict to bring this about.6 He was likely behind Urban III’s letter Quanto ex unitate, issued in 1186 or 1187, which attempted to engage the ecclesiastical hierarchy of Castile and León in the peacemaking process.7 Similarly, Giacinto worked very closely with Clement III, and probably helped draft the bull Cum pro peccatis in 1188, which again insisted on a cooperative effort to crusade

4 

Bernard Reilly, The Kingdom of León-Castilla under Alfonso VII, 1124–1158 (Philadelphia, 1998), 90–134; Carlos de Ayala Martínez, “Alfonso VII y la Cruzada. Participación de los obispos en la ofensiva reconquistadora,” in Castilla y el mundo feudal. Homenaje al profesor Julio Valdeón, ed. María Isabel del Val Valdivieso and Pascual Martínez Sopena (Valladolid, 2009), 2:513–30; Jonathan Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven, 2007), 244–68; Simon Barton, “A Forgotten Crusade: Alfonso VII of León-Castile and the Campaign for Jaén (1148),” Historical Research 73/182 (Oct. 2000), 312–20. 5  Because of this, Smith called the cardinal “the driving force behind papal efforts in the restoration of the Church in the peninsula for 50 years, and it could be argued even longer.” Damian J. Smith, “The Iberian Legations of Cardinal Hyacinth Bobone,” in Pope Celestine III (1191–8): Diplomat and Pastor, ed. John Doran and Damian J. Smith (Aldershot, 2008), 98. 6  Juan Francisco Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo en el siglo xii, 2 vols. (Rome, 1966) 1:218; Damian J. Smith, “Alexander III in Spain,” in Pope Alexander III (1159–1181): The Art of Survival, ed. Peter D. Clarke and Anne J. Duggan (Farnham, 2012), 220; Iben Fonnesberg-Schmidt, “Alexander III and the Crusades,” in ibid., 360–61. 7  Archivo Capitular de la Catedral de Toledo, ms. ACT E.7.C.2.8; partially edited by Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo, 1:220, and cited by Holndonner, Kommunikation – Jurisdiktion – Integration, 453 n. 3. Cardinal Giacinto’s influence is made clear by the inclusion of the very specific reference that the wars between the two kings surrounded the important territory of the Infantazgo (infantaticum) – a region with particular and peculiar legal conditions unique within Latin Europe.

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against the Almohads.8 When the bull did not immediately have the desired effect, the indefatigable cardinal prepared for a third legation to the Iberian Peninsula in early 1191.9 However, the death of Clement III in March of that year kept Giacinto in Rome, where he was subsequently elected Celestine III. As pope, Celestine wasted no time in pursuing his Iberian agenda. He sent a terse letter (Non sine causa) to Martín López de Pisuerga, archbishop of Toledo, noting that Clement’s call for peace and collective action had been ignored, and that the Christian monarchs continued to fight amongst themselves and, worse, ally with the Almohads.10 The following May (1192), Celestine dispatched Cardinal Gregory of Sant’Angelo to Spain as legate. The principal charge of the new legate was to work to promote peace amongst the Christians, but Gregory would remain in the Iberian Peninsula for two years, trying to settle affairs both great and small.11 The diplomatic effort bore some fruit, as hostilities between the Christian kingdoms cooled. Aragon and Navarre began discussing collective action against the Almohads, and made peace with Castile.12 In the meantime, the pope continued to issue a series of letters exhorting the Iberian Christians to take up the crusade: he wrote to the archbishop of Toledo in October of 1192 (Cum propositum nostrum), again stressing his plan for peace and collective action.13 In a moment of frustration at the slow progress of the diplomatic efforts, he attempted to induce the military orders, and anyone who wished to join them, to unilaterally attack al-Andalus, despite royal treaties.14 However, at some point the constant papal pressure began to have an effect. In April 1194, on the Wednesday after Easter, Cardinal Gregory oversaw the completion of the Treaty of Tordehumos, which attempted to settle the conflict between Alfonso IX of León and Alfonso VIII of Castile.15 Alfonso VIII at least seemed ready to make war on his southern neighbors, as he dispatched the archbishop of Toledo, Martín López de Pisuegra, on a potent raid of al-Andalus – most likely, in the wealthy part of the Guadalquivir valley around Seville, the 8 

Smith, “The Iberian Legations of Cardinal Hyacinth,” 82; Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo, 1:221–22. 9  Smith, “The Iberian Legations of Cardinal Hyacinth,” 82. 10  Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo, 1:228–29. 11  On the cardinal’s itinerary and activities, see Lincoln, “‘Holding the Place of the Lord Pope Celestine’,” 471–500. 12  Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo, 1:231; Julio González, El Reino de Castilla en la época de Alfonso VIII (Madrid, 1960), 1:832–34. 13  Rivera Recio, La Iglesia de Toledo, 1:229. 14  Joseph F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia, 2003), 60. The letter is direct in its language: “Quocirca eis per scripta nostra mandauimus et in uirtute obedientie districte precepimus, quatinus omnes illos, quo treuguas habent cum Sarracenis, diligenter et sedul[o] moneant, ut omni occasione dilatione et contradictione seposita ipsas abrumpant…Eapropter uniuersitati uestre per apostolica scripta mandamus et in uirtute obedientie districte precepimus, quatinus propeter treuguas inter reges christianorum et Sarracenos initas nullatenus omittatis, quin arma contra Saracenos iugiter moneatis et illos hostiliter persequamini.” Paul Fridolin Kehr, Papsturkunden in Spanien (Göttingen, 1970), 2:554–55. 15  González, Alfonso VIII, 1:712–15, 3:105–8.



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capital in the peninsula – later that same year.16 The raid provoked hostilities with the Almohads in the next year, and the kings of León and Castile met in Toledo in November to plan the following year’s campaign.17 At last, the circumstances seemed to be aligning for Celestine’s long sought-after crusade. It was at this juncture that Celestine issued the letter Si peccata filiorum. Dated to March of 1195, the letter explicitly makes reference to the Treaty of Tordehumos, completed the year before, referencing the fact that the arranged ten-year truce began with the coming Easter. The pope mentions specifically that he has letters from the kings (Alfonso VIII and Alfonso IX) which “we had copied in our registers,” that they would uphold the terms of the treaty, which “they swore together in the hand of the Cardinal” and “sealed with the sacrament.” They had also sworn, presumably in these letters, though not in the treaty itself, to “strenuously fight against the Saracens.” Celestine’s language, and the details he references, makes clear the importance and gravity that he placed upon this project. Since the letter is addressed to the archbishop of Toledo, it is chiefly concerned with ensuring that Alfonso VIII, Alfonso IX and their barons uphold their obligations. He instructed the archbishop and his suffragans to enforce the terms of the treaty and the commitment to launch the expected crusade, “setting aside all objections and excuses,” with the threat of excommunication and interdict. But it is clear from the details of the letter that Celestine did not trust the episcopal leaders of the kingdom of Castile, or indeed of any other kingdom in Spain, to set aside their local interests and pursue these papal goals. In order to ensure the obedience of the bishops, and through them the obedience of the kings, Celestine created a clever system of mutually enforceable canonical penalties. The first half of this passage is worth quoting in full:

16 

Both Islamic and Christian sources comment on the grand scale of the raid, with most of the Muslim sources placing the impetus on King Alfonso, but this may be a conflation of the king of Toledo, as Arabic sources referred to Alfonso, with the archbishop: Juan of Osma, “Chronica Latina Regum Castellae,” in Chronica Hispana Saeculi XIII, ed. L. Charlo Brea, CCCM 73 (Turnhout, 1997), 44; Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada, Historia de Rebus Hispaniae sive Historia Gothicorum, in Roderici Ximenii de Rada opera omnia, ed. Juan Fernández Valverde, CCCM 72 (Turnhout, 1987), book VII, ch. 28, 11–24; Primera Crónica General. Estoria de España, ed. Ramón Menéndez Pidal (Madrid, 1907), 1:680–81; Ibn ‘Iḍārī al-Marrākušī, Al-Bayān al-Mugrb fi Ijtiṣār ajbār muluk al-Andalus wa al-Magrib, ed. and trans. Ambrosio Huici-Miranda, vol. 2, Colección de Crónicas Árabes de la Reconquista (Tetuán, 1953), 235; Ibn al-Athir, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh, trans. D. S. Richards, 3 vols., Crusade Texts in Translation (Aldershot, 2010), 3:19–20; Sharīf al-Gharnaṭi, “Comentario a la Qasīda maqṣūra de Ḥazim al-Qarṭājanī,” in Las grandes batallas de la reconquista durante las invasiones africanas, ed. Ambrosio Huici Miranda (Granada, 2000), 202. For an examination of this raid in the context of warrior clergy in Castile during the period, see: Kyle C. Lincoln, “Beating Swords into Croziers: A Case Study of Warrior Bishops in the Kingdom of Castile, c.1158–1214,” Journal of Medieval History 44/1 (2018), [forthcoming]. 17  We have no details of the meeting but the diplomatic evidence places the two monarchs together in Toledo in November 1194: Alfonso IX granted a substantial financial concession to the Order of Santiago on Nov. 29, “facta carta apud Toletum.” Julio González, Alfonso XI (Madrid, 1944), 2:133–34; González, Alfonso VIII, 3:117–22.

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Indeed, if by chance, which we cannot believe, you were to appear negligent or remiss in the execution of our orders, you should know that we have ordered our venerable brother [Ramon] the archbishop of Tarragona, under the same stricture, that he himself should execute what is contained above with no-one’s appeal whatsoever hindering, and that he should inflict the canonical penalty upon you, because of [your] contempt for our precept, relying on apostolic authority and without any appeal.

Celestine added that he had conferred upon the archbishop of Tarragona the same privileges, under the same instructions, so that Toledo would be equally cooperative. Granting to two of Spain’s archbishops the power to excommunicate or interdict one another and their suffragans – depending on how the peace might be broken – was a rather drastic step for the pope to take, remarkably so in that it directly challenged the status of the archbishop of Toledo as Primate of All of Spain, a privilege that was closely tied to Toledo’s dignitas.18 But in 1195, Celestine had been working for more than forty years to bring about a cooperative crusade against the Almohads, with very limited success. Sensing his goal was close, the aged pontiff was not afraid to use creative and aggressive measures to achieve it. As spring gave way to summer, Celestine took one more step to ensure the success of the coming campaign. In early July, he dispatched another letter to the peninsula, this time addressed to all the kings and princes of Spain. The pope again congratulated Alfonso VIII for choosing to fight the Almohads, but noted: “Truly there is one thing which greatly bothers us, which is, as we have heard, whenever one of you proposes to attack the pagans, the others conspire against him with hostility.”19 He references the letter Si peccata filiorum, noting that the bishops have been instructed to excommunicate anyone breaking the peace. This letter, Exultavit spiritus noster, was a relatively optimistic attempt to shore up the massive efforts that had gone into ensuring a successful crusade in 1195.20 Unfortunately for Celestine and the Castilians, all the effort proved fruitless. The Almohad Caliph, Ya’qūb ibn Yūsuf, responding to the raid of the previous year, moved his forces across the Straits of Gibraltar in June, and advanced quickly into La Mancha. Alfonso VIII rushed to defend his new castle at Alarcos, without waiting for the arrival of his cousin, Alfonso IX of León, or the young king of

18  In fact, we strongly suspect that this letter remained unknown for so long because it undermined the primatial authority of Toledo, and was therefore probably buried in the archives by a dutiful canon. Just a few decades later, the Cathedral of Toledo compiled an impressive codex (now, BNE MS Vit. 15–5) to collect all of their documents promoting the primacy, and one can imagine that the letter may have proven less than useful and thus found its way to a dusty caja. That manuscript is briefly described by Peter Linehan, History and the Historians of Medieval Spain (Oxford, 1993), 330–32, 359–60. 19  “Verumtamen unum est quod nos valde molestat, quia, sicut auribus nostris insonuit, quotienscunque aliquis vestrum paganos infestare proponit, alii contra eum hostili conspiratione insurgent”: Piero Zerbi, Papato, impero e “respublica christiana” dal 1187 al 1198, 2nd ed. (Milan, 1980), 179, app. 1. 20  Ibid.



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Navarre, Sancho VII, who was also en route to assist in the campaign.21 As a result, the Castilians fought alone, and were soundly defeated. In the aftermath of the disaster, the fragile peace for which Celestine had struggled collapsed, and within a year the kingdoms of León and Navarra were attacking Castile in coordination with the Almohads. Rather than overseeing a successful joint crusade, the pope was soon compelled to declare a crusade against Alfonso IX himself for his egregious violations of the papacy’s diplomatic ideals.22 However, the vision that Celestine had worked so long to enact was not dead. A few years later, conditions aligned to allow a new pope, Innocent III, to employ his predecessor’s strategy and oversee a coordinated crusading effort in Spain. The resulting victory over the Almohads, won in July of 1212 at Las Navas de Tolosa, would usher in a new era of Christian ascendancy over al-Andalus, and validate Celestine’s strategy for the Spanish crusade.23

21 

Chronica latina regum Castellae, ch. 12, 45; Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada, Historia, book VII, ch. 30, 252. Lucas of Tuy, Chronicon Mundi, ed. Emma Falque, CCCM 74 (Turnhout, 2003), book IV. 22  The bull for this crusade is edited and published by Carl Erdmann, Papsturkunden in Portugal (Berlin, 1927), doc. 154, 376–77. Damian Smith has also translated the text of this bull: Smith, “The Iberian Legations of Cardinal Hyacinth Bobone,” 110. 23  For the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, see Martín Alvira Cabrer, Las Navas de Tolosa 1212: Idea, liturgia y memoria de la batalla (Madrid, 2012); Francisco García Fitz, Las Navas de Tolosa (Barcelona, 2005); Miguel Gómez, “The Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa: The Culture and Practice of Crusading in Medieval Iberia” (Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Tennessee, 2011). See also the series of essays published as a special edition of the Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 4.1 (March 2012).

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Appendix: Edition and Translation of Si peccata filiorum Si peccata filiorum (ACT I.6.G.1.5a) 13 March 1195. Parchment. 225 × 265 mm. Both lead bulla and threads lost. No chancery marks present. Celestinus episcopus seruus seruorum dei. Venerabilibus fratribus [blank] Toletano archiepiscopo et suffraganeis suis salutem et apostolicam benedictionem. Si peccata filiorum hominum impedimento non essent, et reges ac principes Hispaniarum continuam inter se pacem habentes inimicos crucis Xristi unanimiter infestarent, in cismarina terra Hispaniarum nec unus angulus remaneret, qui non esset Xristianorum subditus potestati. Verum usque adeo refrigescente caritate, non iam multorum sed pene omnium iniquitas super terram dinoscitur excrevisse, quod membra Xristi contra se ipsa consurgunt et ad invicem bella indesinenter exercent. Sane meminimus karissimo in Xristo filio nostro illustri regi Castelle scripta nostra sepe misisse, ut cum aliis regibus Hispanie pacem perpetuam curaret vel treugas inire[t], et in Sarracenos viriliter et unanimiter arma convertere[t]. Ad ultimum quoque misimus super his specialiter dilectum filium G. Sancti Angeli diaconum cardinalem, nepotem nostrum, tunc apostolice sedis legatum, ad eundem regem Castelle et alios reges Hispanie, qui cum eis de pace ipsorum et Sarracenorum guerra tractaret. Quia igitur habetur in scriptis eiusdem regis et aliorum regum Hispanie que in libro regestorum nostrum conscribi fecimus, quod inter se firmiter pacem observent et insuper in manu eiusdem cardinalis communiter iuraverunt, quod a pasca proxime futuro per decem annos viriliter Sarracenos impugnent. Eundem regem Castelle in Domino rogandum duximus, eique mandavimus et districte precepimus, ut cum aliis regibus et principibus, sicut conventum est et sacramento firmatum, pacem custodiat illibatam, et omni contradictione et excusatione seposita guerram Sarracenis infligat. Quod si forte que prodiximus idem rex iuxta conventionem predictam et preceptum nostrum observare et adimplere distulerit, fraternitati vestre per apostolica scripta in virtute obedientie districte precipimus, ut tam ipsum regem quam eius barones ad utrumque ipsorum per sententiam excommunicationis et interdicta, nostra freti auctoritate, omni appellatione et excusatione postposita, compellatis. Verum si forte quod non credimus in huius precepti nostri executione negligentes apparueritis vel remissi, noveritis nos venerabili fratri nostro [blank] Terrachonensi archiepiscopo sub eadem districtione precipere, ut ipse que superius continentur non obstante appellatione cuiuslibet exequatur, et de huius precepti nostri contemptu, auctoritate apostolica fretus, remota appellatione canonicam vobis penam infligat. Preterea si idem archiepiscopus et suffraganei sui, quibus contra karissimos in Xristo filios nostros illustres Ildefonsum regem Aragonum et [blank] ducem Navarrorum et barones eorum simile preceptum per scripta nostra transmisimus, ipsum preceptum nostrum neglexerit adimplere, tibi frater archiepiscope in obedientie virtute districte precipimus, quatenus ipsos regem Aragonum et ducem Navarrorum ac barones ipsorum ad observationem eorum que superius sunt expressa, sine appellationis impedimento, compellas et eisdem archiepiscopo Terrachonensi et suffraganeis eius de contemptu precepti nostri, auctoritate nostra munitus, penam infligere canonicam non omittas. Datum Laterani iii idus marcii, pontificatus nostri anno quarto.



A NEW LETTER OF POPE CELESTINE III 63

Translation Bishop Celestine [III], servant of the servants of God, to his venerable brothers [Martín López de Pisuegra] the archbishop of Toledo and his suffragans, salutation and apostolic blessing. If the sins of the sons of men were not an impediment, and the kings and princes of the lands of Spain continually held the peace amongst themselves and unanimously besieged the enemies of the Cross of Christ, there would not remain in the land of Spain this side of the sea a single corner unsubdued by the power of Christians. But to such an extent that the charity no longer of many but of virtually everybody is growing cool, iniquity is perceived to have broken out over the earth to the point that the limbs of Christ are rising against each other, and making war on each other incessantly. We remember well that we have often sent our letters to our beloved son in Christ, King [Alfonso VIII] of Castile, to the effect that with the other kings of Spain he should either cultivate perpetual peace or enter into truces, and then turn arms manfully and unanimously against the Saracens. For this last purpose, specifically, we sent our most beloved son, G[regory] cardinal-deacon of Sant’Angelo, our own nephew, then apostolic legate, to this same king of Castile and to the other kings of Spain that he might negotiate about peace among them and war against the Saracens. It is stipulated in the letters of this same king and the other kings of Spain, which we ordered recorded in the book of our registers, that they should steadfastly observe the peace among themselves, and that furthermore they had sworn together in the hands of the same cardinal, that from the coming Easter for ten years they would strenuously fight against the Saracens. Therefore, we request this king in the name of the Lord, we order and we strictly instruct him that, with the other kings and princes, just as was agreed and affirmed by oath, he keep the peace unimpaired and, having set aside all objections and excuses, he inflict war upon the Saracens. But if by any chance this same king should delay observing or implementing what we have said above, according to the agreement and our orders, we order, you by apostolic script, in the virtue of strict obedience, that you compel both that same king and his barons, by the sentence of excommunication and interdict, relying on our authority, and having set aside all appeal and excuse. Indeed, if by chance, which we cannot believe, you were to appear negligent or remiss in the execution of our orders, you should know that we have ordered our venerable brother [Ramon] the archbishop of Tarragona, under the same stricture, that he himself should execute what is contained above with no-one’s appeal whatsoever hindering, and that he should inflict the canonical penalty upon you, because of [your] contempt for our precept, relying on apostolic authority and without any appeal. Moreover, we confer through our script a similar precept, that if the same archbishop and his suffragans should neglect to implement our same instruction against our dearest sons in Christ, Alfonso, king of Aragon, and [Sancho VII], duke of Navarra, and their barons, we strictly order you, our brother archbishop, by virtue of obedience, that you compel the same king of Aragon and duke of Navarra and their barons, to the observation of those things expressed above, without the impediment of appeal, and that you should not omit to inflict the canonical penalty with our authority on that same archbishop of Tarragona and his suffragans because of contempt of our authority. Given at the Lateran on the third day before the Ides of March in the fourth year of our pontificate.

A Crusader Manuscript from Antioch? Reappraising the Provenance of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963 Philip D. Handyside Stetson University [email protected] Abstract Of all the Old French manuscripts of William of Tyre, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. Lat. 1963 is probably the one discussed most by scholars. The investigation of this manuscript has, so far, mainly been taken up by art historians regarding the provenance of the manuscript. The consensus has been that it incorporates several different styles but the tentative theory put forward by Jaroslav Folda that it was produced in Antioch during the 1260s has become accepted. However, this ignores the textual evidence in the manuscript. This article explores the variations in this manuscript from the standard text of the Old French William of Tyre to establish its links with Antioch, or lack thereof, and determine whether anything within the text allows us to firmly establish a provenance for this manuscript. The discussion includes an analysis of the relationship with the other William of Tyre manuscripts which were mainly produced in France or the Latin East. It also explores unique readings in the manuscript relating to the geography of the lands around Cilicia, the capture of Sidon by Baldwin I in 1110, the Arian heresy and the nature of Christ, and the links to Scotland and Isabella Bruce.

The manuscript tradition of the Old French William of Tyre, also known as L’Estoire d’Eracles, is not simple. While it is possible to construct a basic stemma or family tree for the manuscripts, there are very few clear linear correlations between manuscripts. This can be attributed to the sheer number of manuscripts (there are fifty-one surviving copies from before 1500), but also to the fact that often copies were not made as a simple commission with one person requesting a direct copy of a single manuscript that he or she had supplied. Instead the majority of manuscripts seem to have been made in scriptoria that held several unbound copies of the text that made it possible for scribes to switch between different exemplars of the text. As a result the relationships between the extant manuscripts can be very fluid: for example, with two manuscripts being extremely close for most of the text, diverging suddenly for a few chapters, and then becoming close again.1 The situation is made more complex by the fact that these manuscripts were not produced in a single location. Most appear to have been created in France or Flanders, but a significant 1 

F74 is a prime example (see the lists of manuscripts below).

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number were produced in the Latin East, along with a few with English and Italian provenances. The present article is not intended to detail all of the permutations of the manuscript stemma, though some discussion will be necessary. Instead I would like to focus upon one manuscript that is the most enigmatic of the French William of Tyre manuscripts. This is the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963, but I shall henceforth refer to it as F06 as this is its numbering in Jaroslav Folda’s listing of the Old French William of Tyre manuscripts.2 Folda argued that this manuscript originated from Antioch and dated it to c.1260–68 on art historical grounds. He considered it to be a very eclectic manuscript with influence from France and Italy in the artwork, but his attribution to Antioch is ultimately based upon a realistic image of the walls of Antioch on folio 49r of the manuscript.3 This paper will examine the text of the manuscript in order to determine its probable place in the stemma and whether its provenance is indeed Antiochene. Manuscript Groupings The categorization of the Old French William of Tyre manuscripts has generally been based upon where the manuscript, in its present state, ends. The problem here is that the large majority of the manuscripts contain some form of continuation, with the result that the organization is useful for classifying the continuations but of little use to a study of the translation since it circulated before the continuations were added, with similar continuations being added to different redactions of the translation, or vice versa. In this listing F06 is associated with five other manuscripts based upon the fact that they are the only manuscripts not to contain a continuation. These manuscripts are: F01 – Cambridge, Sidney Sussex College, ms. 93 (England: late 13th century) F02 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2627 (N. France: 15th century) F03 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2632 (Latin East or France: 1st half of 13th century) F04 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2826 (Latin East of France: 1st half of 13th century) F05 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9081 (Paris: c.1245–48) F06 – Rome. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963 (Antioch: c.1260–68)

Instead of this approach Peter Edbury analysed the chapter divisions within the manuscripts to produce groupings of the manuscripts that are more useful in understanding the place of F06. In the tables below the α manuscripts are those that have chapter divisions similar to those of the Latin text and are textually closer to 2 

Jaroslav Folda, “Manuscripts of the History of Outremer by William of Tyre : A Handlist,” Revue internationale des études relatives aux manuscrits / International Review of Manuscript Studies 27/1 (1973): 92. 3  Jaroslav Folda, “A Crusader Manuscript from Antioch,” Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia, ser. 3, Rendiconti 42 (1969–70): 283–98; idem, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, from the Third Crusade to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291 (Cambridge, 2005), 218, 347–50.



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the Latin as well: they presumably, therefore, represent readings that are nearer to the ur-text of the translation. The β manuscripts contain different chapter divisions and include F06: Group α F01 – Cambridge, Sidney Sussex College, ms. 93 (England: late 13th century) F02 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2627 (N. France: 15th century) F03 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2632 (Latin East or France: 1st half of 13th century) F04 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2826 (Latin East or France: 1st half of 13th century) F05 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9081 (Paris: c.1245–48) F31 – Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, ms. 137 (Paris: c.1295–1300) F35 – Epinal, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 45 (Paris: c.1295–1300) F38 – London, BL, Henry Yates Thompson ms. 12 (England: mid–13th century) F41 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 67 (N. France: 2nd half of 13th century) F49 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9085 (Acre: c.1277–80) F52 – Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, ms. 142 (Paris: c.1300 and c.1340) F57 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2634 (Ile de France: 1st quarter of 14th century F68 – Bern, Bürgerbibliothek, ms. 25 (N. France: 1st half of 15th century) F69 – Boulogne-sur-Mer, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 142 (Acre: c.1287) F70 – Florence, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana, ms. Plu. LXI. 10 (Acre: c.1290, and Italy: 1st half of 14th century) F71 – St. Petersburg, National Library of Russia, ms. fr. fo v. IV.5 (Acre: c.1280) F72 – Lyon, Bibliothèque de la Ville, ms. 828 (Acre: c.1280) F73 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2628 (Acre: late 1250’s/early 1260s and late 1270s) F74 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2631 (Lombardy: c.1291–95) F77 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9082 (Rome: 1295) F78 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9084 (Acre: c.1286) Group β F06 – Rome. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Pal. lat. 1963 (Antioch: c.1260–68) F30 – Arras, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 651 (N. France: early 14th century) F32 – Bern, Bürgerbibliothek, ms. 112 (N. France: c.1270) F33 – Bern, Bürgerbibliothek, ms. 163 (N. France: 3rd quarter of 13th century) F34 – Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 856 (N. France: c.1300) F36 – Geneva, Bibliothèque Publique et Universitaire, ms. 85 (Artois: 3rd quarter of 15th century) F37 – London, BL, Royal ms. 15 E. 1 (Flanders: late 15th century) F39 – Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, ms. 5220 (N. France: 3rd quarter of 13th century) F40 – Paris, Bibliothèque du Ministère des Affaires Etrangères, Memoires et Documents 230bis (S. France: 3rd quarter of 13th century) F42 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 68 (Flanders: c.1450) F43 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 779 (N. France: c.1275) F44 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2629 (Flanders: c.1460) F45 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2630 (N. France: c.1250–75) F47 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2824 (N. France: c.1300) F48 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2827 (N. France: c.1250–75) F51 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 24208 (N. France: c,1250–75)

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F53 – Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale, ms. 9045 (Flanders: c.1462) F54 – Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale, ms. 9492–3 (Paris: c.1291–95) F55 – Lyon, Bibliothèque de la Ville, ms. Palais des Arts 29 (Paris: c.1295–96) [= RHC OC., 2, ms. E] F58 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2825 (Paris: early 14th century) F60 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9083 (Ile de France: 2nd quarter of 14th century) F61 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 22495 (Paris: 1337) F62 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 22496–7 (Paris: ca. 1350) F63 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 24209 (Ile de France: 3rd quarter of 14th century) F64 – Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms. Reg. Suec. lat. 737 (Paris: early 14th century) F65 – Turin, Biblioteca Nazionale, ms. L. I. 5 (N. France: 15th century)4

Based upon textual analysis I would break up Edbury’s α group into two different groups that I have termed α and λ. This is based primarily upon significant variations and errors found in these manuscripts and it is interesting that λ manuscripts represent all of the manuscripts that have been attributed to an Acre atelier by Folda, or those derived from them. Group α F01 – Cambridge, Sidney Sussex College, ms. 93 (England: late 13th century) F02 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2627 (N. France: 15th century) F03 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2632 (Latin East or France: 1st half of 13th century) F04 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2826 (Latin East or France: 1st half of 13th century) F05 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9081 (Paris: c.1245–48) F31 – Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, ms. 137 (Paris: c.1295–1300) F35 – Epinal, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 45 (Paris: c.1295–1300) F38 – London, BL, Henry Yates Thompson ms. 12 (England: mid–13th century) F41 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 67 (N. France: 2nd half of 13th century) F52 – Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, ms. 142 (Paris: c.1300 and c.1340) Group λ F49 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9085 (Acre: c.1277–80) F57 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2634 (Ile de France: 1st quarter of 14th century) F68 – Bern, Bürgerbibliothek, ms. 25 (N. France: 1st half of 15th century) F69 – Boulogne-sur-Mer, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 142 (Acre: c.1287) F70 – Florence, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana, ms. Plu. LXI. 10 (Acre: c.1290, and Italy: 1st half of 14th century) F71 – St. Petersburg, National Library of Russia, ms. fr. fo v. IV.5 (Acre: c.1280) F72 – Lyon, Bibliothèque de la Ville, ms. 828 (Acre: c.1280) F73 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2628 (Acre: late 1250s/early 1260s and late 1270s) F74 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 2631 (Lombardy: c.1291–95) F77 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9082 (Rome: 1295) F78 – Paris, BnF, ms. fr. 9084 (Acre: c.1286) 4 

Peter Edbury, “The French Translation of William of Tyre’s Historia: The Manuscript Tradition,” Crusades 6 (2007), 69–105.



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This would seem to indicate that various readings entered the tradition at Acre which would become characteristic of these eastern-tradition manuscripts.5 The only possibly eastern manuscript that is not in this group is F06. Instead it is a part of the western β group in which my findings coincide with Edbury’s: not only do the chapter divisions match, but there are key readings that link these manuscripts. One particular case is book 15 chapter 22, the chapter which describes the death of the Byzantine emperor, John II Komnenos. In this chapter the α and λ manuscripts follow William’s Latin fairly closely in relating the hunting accident near Antioch that resulted in the emperor’s death, but all of the β manuscripts, including F06, include additional material in this chapter. Below is a transcription of the chapter from F06 with the additional material in bold. [157vb2] Lors ne demora mie que l’enpereres| vit le tens asouagier. mes encores| ne trovoit l’en pas par les chans herbes| au chevaux porce ne voloit encore pas es|movoir ses oz. seur toz autres deduiz il| amoit archoier en bois. un jor avint que| il fu alez a pou de compaignie de chevaliers eu bois|. Il se fu afustez et tint une saete tout tendue| en son arc. li veneur et li vaillet orent en|ceint un buisson ou il avoit grant plante| de bestes si les comencierent a adrecier tot droit| la ou li empereres estoit. uns sanglers san| issi premiers trop granz et sen passa par de|vant l’enpereor Quant il le vit si grant volente| ot de lui doner grant cop qu’il entesa la saete| jusquau fer au descouchier se navra en la| main. la saete estoit entouchiee; tantost| li venins li comanca a corre par le braz si que| li enfla. Quant l’empereres santi qu’il estoit ainsint| bleciez tantost se parti et vint en ses tantes| lors envoia querre les mires dont il i avoit| asez hues de pierre fonz et danz gauti|ers et tant des autres que ge ne vous sauroie| mie nomer que chascuns menoit volen|tiers por si haut home come li empereres ert| il en i ot un qui li dist l’achoison de sa ma|ladie Cil prisrent triacle et toutes les cho|ses par quoi il quiderent le venin oster| asez en parlerent et pou en firent Car par|mi le braz sestoit ja li venins espanduz| eu cors. lors se comenca plus asentir plus a|grever. li mire pristrent conseill et virent| bien que toute la force de l’antouchemant| li movoit do braz et de la main dont li cos| avoit este; si sacorderent que les autre par|tie do cors fu corrumpue que l’en li coupast| la main car en autre maniere n’achaoit| point de garisson. quant l’empereres oi ce qui| estoit hom de bon cuer bien dist que il sentoit| la force do venin devers ses entrailles| [158ra] et granz angoises soufroit; por garir mes il| ne se leroit pas couper la main ce disoit| et certenement savoit que la ne li auroit mes|tier en seur que honte seroit que li| empereres de costantinoble fust gouvernez| a une main. meesmemant qui ne seroit| pas droiz ne ressons a lui ne au pueple| qu’il avoit agouverner trop avoit afere| quant cele novele fu ainsint seue par l’ost| que leur sires estoit ainsint plaiez et| qu’il estoit si bleciez et entouchiez de ve|nin qu’il se moroit lors firent grant duel| petite et grant et riche et povre maintes prie|res firent a nostre seignor que sante li en|voiast se il les volsist oir.6

The presence of the names of the doctors is clearly the most distinctive part of the additional material in this chapter. They are found only in the β group manuscripts and are not recorded elsewhere. Thus, Piers Mitchell did not include them in 5  6 

Philip Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre (Leiden, 2015), 322–25. F06, fols. 157v–158r.

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his listing of known medical practitioners during the Crusades.7 The rest of the additional material is stylistic and serves to emphasize the nobility of John, though it may also serve as a statement that a disabled ruler would be unfit to rule, possibly a biting comment on the last days of the kingdom of Jerusalem under the leper Baldwin IV. In either case, the question arises of how authentic is this addition. Did these doctors really exist and does this redaction provide new information for historians? Since the names of these doctors cannot be verified elsewhere, the only other option is to look within the text to see if these β manuscripts can be shown to provide other additional material that is verifiable. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The β manuscripts, including F06, are generally characterized by numerous errors and instances in which they lack material found in the Latin text and the better α manuscripts. One interesting example of this occurs in book 12 chapter 1. This chapter recounts Baldwin II ascending the throne in 1118 and includes the largest addition made by the translator, a comparison of Baldwin with Xerxes, king of Persia.8 The best manuscripts, notably F38, F05 and F02,9 all read “Xerxés fu uns puissans rois de la terre qui a non Asia et avoit grant contenz au roiaume de Grece.”10 This statement is factually correct. On the other hand, F06 reads: “Xerses fu uns puissanz rois de| la terre qui a non aise et avoit mout| grant contenz eu reaume d’esgypte.”11 This alteration from Grece to Esgypte is a distinctive feature of all of the β manuscripts. The only non-β manuscript to contain this reading is F04, which also contains a few other features that are common to all the β manuscripts, and I believe that F04 should be viewed as being a sort of halfway house in the manuscript tradition that constituted the β group, with the additional material about the doctors being its key feature. Interestingly, several of the Acre manuscripts contain a different error at this point and read: “Xerses fu un puissant roi de la terre qui a nom ayse et avoit grant contens ou roiaume de France et a celui de grece.”12 This is precisely the sort of reading that shows that F06 belongs with the β manuscripts and not with the manuscripts associated with Acre. However, Folda’s contention was not that F06 was produced in Acre but that it was produced in Antioch. The manuscript is clearly not linked with Acre but it is still certainly possible that there was an independent atelier operating in Antioch or that this manuscript, unlike most of the others, may have been a one-off production. The problem with this argument is that Folda has attributed all of the 7 

Piers Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades: Warfare, Wounds and the Medieval Surgeon (Cambridge, 2004), 11–45. 8  Mireille Issa, La version latine et l’adaptation française de l’Historia Rerum in Partibus Transmarinis Gestarum de Guillaume de Tyr, Livres XI–XVIII (Turnhout, 2010), 34–36; Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre, 52–54, 246–50. 9  Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre, 320–21. 10  F38, fol. 67v. In the absence of an adequate critical edition I am using F38 as representing a text close to the original form of the translation. 11  F06, fol. 115r. 12  F70, fol. 125v.



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other β manuscripts with a western provenance, particularly to northern France or Flanders from the mid-thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries. If we include F04 in this list we may have a few more possibilities as Folda has given this manuscript a provenance of the Latin East or northern France in the first half of the thirteenth century, although I think that the latter option is the more likely. F06 is thus a part of a group that, otherwise, is geographically limited to northern France. It is certainly possible that F06 is the sole surviving β manuscript copied in the East, a version of the α manuscripts made it to Acre to form the λ group fairly early on in the manuscript tradition. The main way to determine this would be to try and identify some additional material specifically in F06 that would perhaps show an eastern provenance. There are very few instances within any of the manuscripts of the translation in which scribes can be shown to have added material to the text. The naming of John II Komnenos’ doctors is the prime example, though F45 does also have the name of Huitace, dean of Charmentré, inserted into the text twice. This latter addition has caused some debate over the identity of the author, but as it is unique to this manuscript it cannot be attributed to the translator.13 F06 generally follows this trend in following the β redaction of the text with no large additions and a number of minor scribal variations and errors. However, there are a few points that make F06 a unique and particularly interesting manuscript. Alterations Perhaps the most important variant that may reflect the provenance of F06 occurs in book 11 chapter 14. This chapter relates the capture of the city of Sidon by the Christians under Baldwin I in 1110. The translation generally follows William’s narrative of the arrival of Norwegian crusaders who agree to help Baldwin besiege the city with land forces marching from Jerusalem along with a fleet that sailed from Acre so that the city could be completely surrounded.14 However, when referring to the fleet, the translator remarks “une granz navie de Turs estoit meue de la cité d’Acre por venir aidier a leur gent de Saaite si que près que tout ensemble vindrent cil dui ost, celé part.”15 The concern here is that the Christians, not the Turks, held Acre at this point and this seems to have been a rare instance in which the translator has lost the sense of William’s text during the translation.16 13  Franz Ost, Die altfranzösische Übersetzung der Geschichte der Kreuzzüge Wilhelms v. Tyrus (Halle, 1899), 14; John Pryor, ‘The Eracles and William of Tyre: An Interim Report’, in Horns, 281; Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre, 136, 137, 281 n. 127, 283–85, 293 n. 44, 295, 296. 14  WT, 11.14, lines 1–46, pp. 517–18. 15  F38, fol. 62v. [A great fleet of Turks had come from Acre in order to aid their men in Sidon, so that there gathered these two hosts in the region.] 16  Paulin Paris, Guillaume de Tyr et ses continuateurs, 2 vols. (Paris, 1879–80), 1:403 n. 6: “Cette phrase est omise dans plusieurs bons manuscrits. Ici elle donne une traduction opposée au sens. La ville d’Acre était déjà au pouvoir des Chrétiens, et les ‘navies’ qu’elle envoya vers Saiete arrivaient en même

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Most scribes seem to have been unaware of the lack of accuracy in this passage and it is present in the large majority of the manuscripts, however, a couple of scribes did attempt to correct this reading. The interesting point is that it seems to have been eastern scribes who have recognized the incorrect reading and attempted to correct it with four of the λ manuscripts containing a variant. Two of the manuscripts, F70 and F72, share a reading of “une grant navie de crestiens restoit meu|e de la cite d’accre por venir aidier a leur genz a saiete si que pres que tuit ensemble vindrent cil dui ost celle part.”17 In general these two manuscripts are closely related textually and it is likely that the scribe of an antecedent manuscript introduced this change rather than that it was the result of two separate scribes. On first glance, this seems to be a rather neat correction, with “Turks” simply replaced with “Christians,” and the fact that it was made in Acre would seem to suggest that the eastern scribes had a better understanding of events in the Latin East. However, this is complicated by the fact that another Acre manuscript, F73, provides a different correction: “Une grant navie de Turs re estoit meue de la cite de Sur por venir aidier a lor gent de Saete si que pres que tuit vindrent ensemble cil dui ost cele part.”18 The fourteenth-century French F57 shares the same reading and is also textually very close to F73, so again we have a historically plausible correction introduced by a single scribe that has survived in two extant manuscripts. In this case the fleet is coming from Tyre, which remained in Muslim control until 1124.19 The problem now is that we are left with two different attempts at correcting the text; ostensibly both corrections occurred separately in Acre if the provenances given by Folda are correct. In each case the scribes seem to have realized the error in the original text but were working independently. The reading of F06 regarding the fleet sailing to Sidon further complicates matters. F06 also contains a correction to this reading but contains: “une granz| navie restoit meue d’escalone por venir| aidier a leur gent de saete si que pres| vindrent tuit ensamble cil dui ost cele| part.”20 The name of the city is now changed to Ascalon, which was under Muslim control until 1153, and so again the change may be historically plausible, especially if, as was likely, the Fatimid authorities in Egypt sent the fleet.21 However, unlike all of the other manuscripts, F06 does not identify the fleet as being either Muslim or Christian. While it is possible that F06 gives the most authentic reading at this point, I think it is unlikely, and it certainly cannot be claimed with any certainty. The reading in F70 and F72 seems to come closer to the Latin but none of these manuscripts elsewhere show any attempt to correct the text and the veracity of this isolated section cannot be checked. The temps que l’ost de Baudouin. Classis a portu Acconensi egressa illuc directe properaverat, ita ut, pene eodem momento, uterque exercitus ante urbem conveniret.” 17  F70, fol. 117r. 18  F73, fol. 95v. 19  WT, 13.13, p. 602. 20  F06, fol. 106v. 21  WT, 17.30, pp. 804–5.



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fact that there are three different corrections does, however, indicate that various different scribes realized the error in the text and attempted to fix it; they must, therefore, have had some understanding of events in the Latin East. Since the other two corrections have been made in the East, it is certainly tempting to say that the scribe of F06 was also working in the East and, consequently, had a better insight of the events described in the text. However, there is nothing to say particularly that the correction found in F06 is in fact accurate and that the scribe had a good understanding of these episodes. It seems more likely that the scribes had a basic understanding of events and realized that there was a mistake and attempted to correct it, but they did not have any actual basis on how to make the correction and as a result simply guessed at what the correct reading should be. As a result F06 could have been made in the East, even Antioch, but it could have just as easily been by a scribe in the West with a basic understanding of the history of the kingdom of Jerusalem – the information that Ascalon remained in Muslim hands until 1153 was readily available if the scribe had read on in the text – but without any specific knowledge. Another significant variant occurs in book 3 chapter 20 regarding the geographical location of Cilicia (see Table 1 below). William related: “Est autem Cilicia una de provinciis que in Oriente continentur. Orientem autem Antiochenam iuxta veterum auctoritatem vocamus diocesim, habetque Cilicia ab oriente Celessyriam, ab occidente vero Ysauriam, a septentrione montis Tauri iuga, ab austro vero Mare Cypricum sive Mirtoum.”22 Both the RHC and Paulin Paris editions read: “Icele terre de Cilice est uns des païs qui est en orient. Devers solaus levant si li est Celesurie; devers ocident a une autre terre qui a non Ysaure; devers bise est la montaigne dut Tor; devers midi la mer.”23 F06 has a slightly different and selfevidently blundered reading of: “Cilice icele terre est uns des pais qui est devers solau couchant et Surie, devers orient et une autre terre qui a non Ysaure, devers bisse est la montaignes del Tor, devers midi la mer.”24 The original reading for this seems to have been: “Cilice icele terre est uns des pais qui est en orient. Devers solau couchant si li est Celessurie. Devers orient une autre terre qui a non Isaure. Devers bise est la montaigne du Tor. Devers midi la mer.”25 The upshot of this is that the translation (most manuscripts, including those generally closest to the Latin) incorrectly places Isauria to the east of Cilicia and Coelesyria to the west, whereas William had related the opposite and noted that Antioch was also to the east. The only manuscript that seems to have a slightly better reading at this point is F45, which has “devers souleill levant si li est Celesurie, devers orient a une autre terre qui a non Ysaure.”26 But we now have both lands to the east of Cilicia. The editors of the RHC edition, who used F45 as a base, appear to have corrected the 22 

WT, 3.20(19), pp. 221–22. RHC Oc 1:139; Paris, Guillaume de Tyre et ses continuateurs, 1:111. 24  F06, fol. 29r. 25  F38, fol. 17r. 26  F45, fol. 28r. 23 

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Table 1 Book 3 Chapter 20 WT

Est autem Cilicia una de provinciis que in Oriente continentur. Orientem autem Antiochenam iuxta veterum auctoritatem vocamus diocesim, habetque Cilicia ab oriente Celessyriam, ab occidente vero Ysauriam, a septentrione montis Tauri iuga, ab austro vero Mare Cypricum sive Mirtoum.

Icele terre de Cilice est uns des païs qui est en orient. Devers solaus RHC & Paulin Paris levant si li est Celesurie; devers ocident a une autre terre qui a non Ysaure; devers bise est la montaigne dut Tor; devers midi la mer. F38

Cilice icele terre est uns des pais qui est en orient. Devers solau couchant si li est Celessurie. Devers orient une autre terre qui a non Isaure. Devers bise est la montaigne du Tor. Devers midi la mer.

F06

Cilice icele terre est uns des pais qui est devers solau couchant et Surie, devers orient et une autre terre qui a non Ysaure, devers bisse est la montaignes del Tor, devers midi la mer.

F45

Cilice icele terre est uns des pais ge est en oriant devers souleill levant si li est Celesurie, devers oriant a une terre qui a non Ysaure, devers bise est la monteeigne de Tor, devers midi la mer.

F73

Silice icele terre est un des pais devers orient, a soleil cochant si li est pres Celesurie et devers bise li est la montaigne deu Tor et devers midi la mer.

text at this point to bring it into line with the Latin, with Paris following suit, but neither added a note in the apparatus to indicate the alteration. F06, if it was copied in the Latin East, particularly in Antioch, might be expected to correct this error in local geography. It does not. Instead it is alone in giving a vague and nonsensical description of the lands around Cilicia, though it seems to be more of a scribal error in reading a bad exemplar than a purposeful alteration. This variant is not shared with other manuscripts from Acre,27 which follow the base reading, and does not seem to indicate any familiarity with the principality of Antioch and its neighbouring lands. Another unique feature of F06 concerns Raymond of Saint-Gilles, count of Toulouse. When William introduces Raymond in his text he is “Raimundus comes Tolosanus et Sancti Egidii”28 but afterwards he is only referred to as count of Toulouse with the reference to Saint-Gilles being dropped.29 In the Old French 27 

F73, fol. 27v. WT, 1.17, p. 138. 29  WT, pp. 182, 252, 254, 259, 275, 340, 486, 496, 507. 28 



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manuscripts, Raymond is simply introduced with “Reymonz li cuens de Toulouse”30 with either the same designation or “cuens reymonz” afterwards.31 F06 is alone in not introducing Raymond with a reference to Toulouse and instead gives “Raimons li cuens de Saint Gile.”32 Afterwards, he is Count Raymond or “Raimons li cuens de Tolosse,” the same as the translation.33 While Saint-Gilles is mentioned in the Latin, it is fairly certain that the translation simply contained Toulouse and this is not a case of Saint-Gilles only surviving in this manuscript. Instead this scribe seems to have replaced Toulouse with Saint-Gilles, though only in this instance. This alteration may show that the scribe wanted to stress the association of Raymond with SaintGilles, to the east of Toulouse towards the Italian peninsula, and may just possibly indicate that the scribe was from, or working in, this area, though there are no other instances of additions relating to this area that might tie down the location of the scribe more firmly. On its own, this point is not a strong argument for locating the scribe of F06 but it does serve to highlight another unique feature of this manuscript. A final unique variant in F06 to be considered may also shed some light upon the scribe of this manuscript. This occurs during the discussion of Chalcedon, where William noted the heresy of Eutyches in stressing one nature of Christ.34 Following this, the translator, who showed interest in discussions of heresy, added: “mes la foiz crestienne en ceste que il fu veroiment dex et hom.”35 In F06 this reads: “mes la foiz crestiene est qu’il fu veraiemant hom.”36 The omission of the divine nature of Christ gives this manuscript a heretical feel and raises the question of why it is lacking in this manuscript. Could it be a purposeful heretical statement by the scribe? I think that this is unlikely as the tone is still critical of heretics and it is more than likely simply an error. As noted earlier, F06 contains many scribal errors and lacks occasional phrases that generally do not alter the sense of the text. This instance is different, because the sense of the text is radically altered, but it still appears to be a mistake rather than being purposeful. Of course, one could ask how could a scribe miss such a significant alteration. However, it is very possible that the scribe was simply copying without any understanding of the text and, as such, did not realize the error. The fact that the scribe did attempt to alter the incorrect reading regarding the fleet at Sidon is an argument against a lack of understanding of the text, but it may be that it simply shows which areas of the text this scribe took a greater interest in. He was concerned more with events in the Latin East than with theology and heresy. This may indicate a secular scribe, though a cleric who was not particularly attentive in his transcription at this point may also have produced this manuscript. 30 

F38, fol. 5v. F38, fols. 16v, 17r, 21r, 34v, 54r, 57v, 59r, 61r. 32  F06, fol. 9r. 33  F06, fols. 27v, 29r, 36r, 58v, 92v, 98r, 100v, 104r. 34  WT, 16.19, p. 742. 35  F38, fol. 106r. 36  F06, fol. 168v. 31 

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Marginalia In general, the Eracles manuscripts contain few instances of marginalia; what is present in the extant manuscripts is generally in a much later hand that generally serves as a marker to a passage in the text. Notes indicating Godfrey of Bouillon are common,37 but generally are of little interest to scholars and are usually in a fifteenth century hand. There are also some cases of correction by the scribe. Usually this tends to be in the same hand and looks as though it was a simple mistake corrected by the scribe in person, although there do seem to be some instances of correction by others. A good example occurs in F05 where the principal scribe’s usual method of adding missing text was to insert two forward slashes in the text and use the same marker in the margin along with the text to be inserted (generally a single missing word). However, on folio 64r a section of text is missing, likely an instance of a homeoteleuton, but the missing text is inserted in the margin in a slightly different hand, which however seems to be contemporary and uses a different marker of a circle with a diagonal line through it instead of the slashes.38 This may indicate that someone else, perhaps a supervisor, has checked the text.39 F06 contains a fair amount of marginalia, but most of them appear to be sixteenth-century Italian notes from when the manuscript entered the collection of the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.40 Most of this is fairly standard, though a note about the scarce diet of the crusaders during the siege of Antioch in 1098 shows an interest in the text.41 However, there are some marginalia that are very unusual and may shed some light on the history of the manuscript. At the end of the description of the capture of Jerusalem in 1099 is a list of rulers at the time; the translation follows William in listing: Pope Urban II, Emperor Henry IV in Germany, Philip I in France, and Emperor Alexios I in Constantinople.42 F06 is unique in having the name of another ruler added next to this in the margin: “et en Escoce le bon Roi David le premier de ce nom.”43 Though David I was not king of Scotland until 1124, this interest in Scotland is still potentially important. The ink is of a fainter colour than that found in the main text but does appear to be in a thirteenth-century hand. The connection with Scotland also continues with a heading of the first folio indicating that it was owned by Isabella, queen of Norway, and is corroborated by the colophon.44 This Isabella was Isabella Bruce,

37 

F06, fol. 80r. F05, fol. 64r. 39  I am grateful to Massimiliano Gaggero for discussions on this point. 40  F06, fol. 78v: marginalia note the year 1395 and the number of years that had passed since the capture of Jerusalem in 1099. 41  F06, fol. 59v. 42  WT, 8.24, p. 418. 43  F06, fol. 78v. 44  F06, fol. 1r; fol. 259r. 38 



A CRUSADER MANUSCRIPT FROM ANTIOCH? 77

queen consort of Norway from 1293 to 1299, and sister of Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland (1309–26), who died c.1358.45 Conclusion In short, F06 is a unique and particularly enigmatic manuscript. Folda tentatively attributed it to a scribe in Antioch based upon a miniature showing the walls of the city but found that the artwork contained a blend of styles and the text of this manuscript maintains this unusual character. In returning to the main question, we must ask if the text tells us anything about the provenance of the manuscript. The one thing that might link this manuscript to the East, either Antioch or Acre, would be the attempted correction regarding the fleet at Sidon, as a better understanding of events in the Latin East might indicate the scribe was familiar with this area. However, the change made by the scribe does not seem to indicate any additional knowledge about the Latin East, though he was aware of its history. Instead, there appears to be more to link F06 with the western manuscripts. It does not contain any features that would link it with the Acre manuscripts but contains the key readings that place it in the β group, all the other manuscripts of which were produced in northern France. That is not to say, though, that F06 was also made in the same region. It is possible that F06 is the sole survivor of a branch of the β manuscripts that made it to the East, circulated independently of the manuscripts attributed to Acre, if it was in Antioch instead, and then returned to the West to end up in the possession of Isabella Bruce. This, however, seems unlikely. I think that it is more probable that this is a western manuscript but should be separated from the majority of the manuscripts. The unique characteristics of the manuscript indicate that it was not produced in the same atelier as the other manuscripts. Folda noted the mixing of styles from France, Italy and the Latin East. Taking this, along with the emphasis on Raymond as count of Saint-Gilles rather than his role in Toulouse, and the apparent general knowledge of events in the kingdom of Jerusalem, I would be tempted to suggest that an Italian or southern French provenance is more likely. It would be interesting if we could determine when Isabella Bruce acquired the manuscript and how; was it simply bought off the shelf or was it specially commissioned? It is fairly well illuminated and could have been commissioned for her. This manuscript does contain numerous variants and it could be said that the transcription was not particularly well done, though the exemplar manuscript from which F06 was produced may also have contained these errors. What is certain is that, while F06

45  Randi Bjørshol Waerdahl, “Dronning Isabella Bruce,” in Eufenia: Oslos middelalderdronning, ed. Bjørn Bandlien (Oslo, 2012), 99–108; Karl Christ, Die altfranzösischen Handschriften der Palatina (Leipzig, 1916), 57–58. For a discussion on the possible routes that the manuscript took to Norway and its links to Isabella Bruce, see Bjørn Bandlien, “A Manuscript of the Old French William of Tyre (Pal. Lat. 1963) in Norway,” Studi Mediolatini e Volgari 62 (2016): 21–80.

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is certainly a part of the β group, it is unlikely that it was produced in the same scriptoria as the other manuscripts. It is possibly a one-off, and certainly unique, manuscript.

Otto of Grandson and the Holy Land, Cyprus and Armenia Alan Forey University of Durham [email protected] Abstract This article seeks to reassess Otto of Grandson’s crusading activities and his links with the Templars. Little is known about his participation in Prince Edward’s crusade in the early 1270s, but he went out to the East again in 1290, though not – as is frequently asserted – as the delegate of Edward I. He assisted in the defence of Acre before sailing to Cyprus. That he had a major role there in the election of James of Molay as Templar master is questionable. He also visited Armenia, but it is doubtful whether he went to Jerusalem during his stay in the East. His relations with the Templars after he had returned to the West also merit reexamination. He did not, as has sometimes been suggested, return to Armenia in the late 1290s, but he was on several occasions planning to return to the East in the early fourteenth century. On one occasion he set out, but was robbed in France. It was only in 1319, when he was over eighty, that he finally abandoned his intention of going again on crusade. He has sometimes been suggested as the author of the crusading treatises Via ad Terram Sanctam and Memoria Terre Sancte, but a close examination of the texts gives little support to this contention.

The life of Otto of Grandson (1238–1328) has been surveyed on several occasions, and his origins in the district of Neuchâtel and his long career in the service of King Edward I in England, Wales, Gascony and elsewhere on the Continent, where he was frequently employed as a royal envoy, are well known; so too is his wardenship of the Channel Islands.1 Yet he also went out to the Holy Land on two occasions, and spent some time in Cyprus and Armenia, besides having links with the Templars and Hospitallers; and two related crusading treatises have been attributed to him. It is this involvement in crusading and the eastern Mediterranean which perhaps merits some further consideration.

1 

The fullest accounts are C. L. Kingsford, “Sir Otho de Grandison (1238?–1328),” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 3rd series, 3 (1909): 125–95, and Esther Rowland Clifford, A Knight of Great Renown: The Life and Times of Othon de Grandson (Chicago, 1961). A brief summary of Otto’s career by J. R. Maddicott has been included in The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, 60 vols. (Oxford, 2004), 23:269–70. I am very grateful to Xavier Hélary for allowing me to see his paper “Othon de Grandson au siège d’Acre (avril–mai 1291),” which is to be published in the proceedings of the conference on Otto of Grandson held at Lausanne in 2011: Othon Ier de Grandson (1228–1328), un siècle d’histoire vaudoise et européenne, ed. Bernard Andenmatten (forthcoming). 79

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Otto’s participation in the crusade of Edward, then heir to the English throne, in the early 1270s marked his first contact with the eastern Mediterranean, although little is known of his activities during that expedition. On the way out, he witnessed a charter drawn up in the middle of January 1271 in Sicily, where Edward was spending the winter.2 After they had reached the Holy Land, Otto, like many other crusaders, is known to have incurred debts and to have borrowed 2,500 livres tournois from merchants there;3 and in June 1272 he was named as an executor in Edward’s will, drawn up at Acre.4 The only other reference to Otto in the Holy Land at this time is a report in the Chronica S. Bertini, written by John of Ypres in the second half of the fourteenth century, that Otto sucked poison from Edward’s wound when an assassination attempt was made on the prince.5 Although this tale has at times been considered plausible,6 Otto’s action is not mentioned in any contemporary source. The first writer to relate the sucking of poison from the wound was Ptolemy of Lucca, writing some forty years after the crusade, and he attributed the deed to Edward’s wife Eleanor.7 He reports the story as merely a rumour, and the St. Bertin chronicler himself similarly referred to Otto’s supposed action as something said by Savoyards: he even expressed his own doubts, as he added: “Hec non assero nisi, ut dictum est, ex relatu.” It would therefore appear unlikely that there was any substance in the claim. Otto accompanied Edward back to the West at least as far as Savoy, where they both were in June 1273.8 In the following years he served the king in various capacities, and, when in the later 1280s Edward was preparing for a further crusade, Otto acted as an envoy to the pope on crusading issues. In 1286 he was in Rome presenting petitions to Honorius IV relating to Edward’s proposed expedition,9 and he was again sent to the papal court in May 1289, partly to conduct negotiations about the king’s crusade.10

2 

Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1292–1301 (London, 1895), 58. Francis Palgrave, ed., The Antient Kalendars and Inventories of the Treasury of his Majesty’s Exchequer, 3 vols. (London, 1836), 1:80. For loans to crusaders on Louis IX’s first crusade, see A. Teulet et al., eds., Layettes du trésor des chartes, 5 vols. (Paris, 1869–1909), 3:68–69, 81, 84–85, docs. 3769–71, 3811, 3821, 3823. 4  Thomas Rymer, ed., Foedera, conventiones, litterae et cujuscumque acta publica, 4 vols. (London, 1816–69), 1.1:495. 5  Iohannis Longi Chronica S. Bertini, ed. O. Holder-Egger, MGH SS 25:856. 6  Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 31. 7  Historia ecclesiastica nova, 23.6, ed. Ottavio Clavout, MGH SS 39:587; John Carmi Parsons, “Eleanor of Castile (1241–1290): Legend and Reality through Seven Centuries,” in Eleanor of Castile 1290–1990. Essays to Commemorate the 700th Anniversary of her Death: 28 November 1290, ed. David Parsons (Stamford, 1991), 42–43. Bernard Hamilton, “Eleanor of Castile and the Crusading Movement,” Mediterranean Historical Review 10 (1995): 103, and Michael Prestwich, Edward I (London, 1988), 78, erroneously place this report a century after Edward’s crusade. 8  Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:504. 9  Ibid., 1.2:666. 10  Ibid., 1.2:708–9, 714–15. 3 



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In 1290, however, it was Otto who returned to the East after receiving the cross in July from Archbishop Peckham,11 and not Edward. It has often been stated that in 1290 Otto was sent to the Holy Land at the head of a contingent of troops by Edward I and that he was to prepare the way for the king’s planned crusade.12 Such statements are based on narrative sources. According to the Excidium Aconis Otto was “ex parte regis Anglie cum quibusdam aliis in subsidium terre sancte destinatus,”13 and Walter of Guisborough, copying a continuation of Martinus Polonus’s Chronicon pontificum et imperatorum, wrote that Otto was sent “cum thesauris Regis Anglie … ut viam pararet ante faciem eius.”14 Yet these narratives find little support in contemporary royal records. Although in June 1290 William of Henley, prior of the Hospitallers in England, was reported to be going to the Holy Land on the king’s orders as Edward’s envoy, and Robert le Mareschal of Mallinges was said to have been travelling in the king’s service with William,15 none of the royal documents which refer to Otto’s expedition and to the journeys of those accompanying him asserts that he was going to the East on the king’s behalf. In fact, several royal documents issued when Otto was preparing to leave and after he had departed state that he went “de licencia regis,” “de licencia nostra [Edwardi]” or “de nostra licencia et voluntate” and that his expedition was “in Dei obsequio.”16 This wording suggests that the initiative for the expedition was Otto’s and not the king’s. It is, of course, true that Edward made various financial concessions to Otto at this time, including a grant of 3,000 marks,17 but he would be expected to give assistance to a man who had long been in his employment, and the king was not the only person from whom Otto received financial aid before setting out for the Holy Land.18 If Edward wanted to prepare the way for his own crusade, diplomatic 11  Bartholomew Cotton, Historia Anglicana, ed. Henry Richards Luard, Rolls Series 16 (London, 1859), 177. 12  Kingsford, “Otho de Grandison,” 138; Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 108–9; Christopher Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 1095–1588 (Chicago, 1988), 235; Prestwich, Edward I, 329; Sylvia Schein, Fideles crucis: The Papacy, the West, and the Recovery of the Holy Land, 1274–1314 (Oxford, 1991), 71; Norman Housley, The Later Crusades, 1274–1580: From Lyons to Alcazar (Oxford, 1992), 16. 13  Excidium Aconis, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCCM 202 (Turnhout, 2004), 57. 14  The Chronicle of Walter of Guisborough, ed. Harry Rothwell, Camden Society, 3rd series, 89 (London, 1957), 229. According to the Annales Londonienses, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols., Rolls Series 76 (London, 1882–83), 1:98–99, Otto went to the Holy Land “ad providentiam domini Edwardi regis Angliae faciendam.” 15  London, National Archives, C 66/109 membranes 22–23; Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292 (London, 1893), 367, 368; Cart Hosp, 3:568, doc. 4104. 16  Rôles gascons, ed. Charles Bémont, Francisque-Michel and Yves Renouard, 4 vols. (Paris, 1885– 1962), 3:21, no. 1924; Placita de Quo Warranto (London, 1818), 354; National Archives, C 66/109 mem. 25; C 66/110 mem. 8 (this document is summarized accurately in Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292, 440, but it is stated erroneously in Calendar of Documents relating to Scotland, 1272–1307 [Edinburgh, 1884], 131, no. 535, that Otto was on the king’s service). 17  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292, 373; Calendar of Close Rolls, 1288–1296 (London, 1904), 78, 80, 85–86, 88. 18  W. H. Dixon, Fasti Eboracenses: Lives of the Archbishops of York, ed. James Raine (London, 1863), 337; Register of John le Romeyn, Lord Archbishop of York, 1286–1296, ed. William Brown, 2

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and administrative measures – rather than a force of troops – were needed, and this may have been the purpose of William of Henley’s journey to the East. But, if it was known that Edward was planning a crusade and that Otto often acted as a royal envoy, it could easily have been assumed by contemporaries that Otto’s expedition was linked with the king’s plans. Yet, if Otto was not going to the Holy Land on behalf of Edward I, he could have been going either as a crusader or as a pilgrim. In this context, it could be pointed out that, while some documents about the planned journey of Otto and his companions refer to their going to the Holy Land,19 others allude to Jerusalem.20 However, little should be read into references to the latter, for the two terms were used interchangeably.21 Nor should significance be attached to the presence of several clerics in Otto’s following, for military expeditions normally included some ecclesiastics.22 On the other hand, in May 1290 the archbishop of York gave Otto the first-fruits of the archdeaconry of Richmond “in dicte Terre [Sancte] subsidium,”23 and later in the year Nicholas IV instructed the patriarch of Jerusalem to seek advice about the command of ships sent out to the East at the pope’s expense not only from Amaury, brother of the king of Cyprus, and the masters of the Temple and Hospital but also from several others, including Otto of Grandson: the pope was obviously expecting Otto to be involved in the defence of the Holy Land.24 It might, of course, be asked why, if Otto was going on crusade rather than pilgrimage, he did not wait until he could accompany Edward I on the planned royal expedition. But he may have been mindful of the fact that rulers did not always fulfil their crusading vows. Although in 1282 Edward had suggested that his brother Edmund should go on crusade in his place,25 two years later the king expressed a willingness to take the cross himself. Yet his plans were marked by delays and postponements. Martin IV wanted him to take the cross by Christmas 1284.26 This did not happen and in April 1285 Honorius IV accepted Edward’s proposal that he should do so by the next feast of St. John the Baptist in June, with a departure within five years from the following Michaelmas.27 The date for Edward’s vow

vols., Surtees Society 123, 128 (Durham, 1913–16), 1:344–45; John Carmi Parsons, Eleanor of Castile: Queen and Society in Thirteenth-Century England (Basingstoke, 1995), 85, 182. 19  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292, 362, 363, 364, 365, 375, 376, 462. 20  Ibid., 356, 371, 372. 21  In one document, William of Henley, who went to the Holy Land as the king’s envoy, was said to be at Jerusalem: Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292, 403. 22  Ibid., 364–65. It is an exaggeration to claim, as some have, that Otto’s following was clerical rather than secular: Kingsford, “Otho de Grandison,” 138. 23  Register of John le Romeyn, 1:344–45. 24  Bullarium Cyprium: Volume II. Papal Letters concerning Cyprus, 1261–1314, ed. Christopher Schabel (Nicosia, 2010), 163–64; Les registres de Nicolas IV, ed. Ernest Langlois (Paris, 1886–93), 640, no. 4387; cf. Schein, Fideles Crucis, 69. 25  Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:607. Martin IV rejected this suggestion: ibid., 1.2:624. 26  Ibid., 1.2:642. 27  Ibid., 1.2:652–53.



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was, however, postponed first until Christmas 1285 and then to Pentecost 1287.28 In April 1287 a further delay until St. John in June was granted by the pope.29 Edward did take the cross in that year,30 and in October 1289 Nicholas IV named 24 June 1292 as a date for the start of a general passage.31 Yet in February 1290 Edward opted for 1293.32 Otto may have been anxious not to delay too long. A crusade to the East was a major undertaking and he was already in his early fifties: he could hardly have foreseen that he would live until 1328. The Holy Land was, moreover, in urgent need of assistance. He appears, however, not to have been accompanied by a large force. The number of his companions who received royal protection while they were away did not reach double figures, and two of these were clerics. No doubt those named in royal documents had their own followers, but the total numbers could not have been very large. Otto set out in the summer of 1290, and was apparently at the papal court at Orvieto in mid-September.33 He presumably took the autumn passage to the East.34 Inevitably he soon became involved in the defence of Acre, the siege of which began in the first week of April 1291. At an early stage he took part in a nighttime sortie, together with the master of the Temple and others, from the Templar sector in Montmusard, which – although some became entangled in Muslim tent ropes – achieved a certain success.35 His main task, however, was to undertake with John of Grailly, the commander of the French regiment created by Louis IX,36 the defence of the Tower of the Legate, which was near the south-east end of the city walls. The Tower was, however, eventually abandoned and Otto escaped, like many others, to Cyprus.37 His flight was criticized by some commentators. According to the Excidium Aconis, he and John of Grailly left their posts and fled: 28  Les registres d’Honorius IV, ed. Maurice Prou (Paris, 1886–88), 340, doc. 478. Because of the situation in the Holy Land, in 1286 Honorius IV wanted Edward to set out within three years of Pentecost 1287: ibid., 625, doc. 943; Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:666, 674–75. 29  Registres d’Honorius IV, 633, doc. 973; Rymer, Foedera, 1.2.663. 30  The sources on this are discussed by William E. Lunt, Financial Relations of the Papacy with England to 1327 (Cambridge, MA, 1939), 338 n. 9. 31  Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:714–15. 32  Ibid., 1.2:705, where the date is given wrongly. 33  Registres de Nicolas IV, 521, doc. 3279. On his journey through Europe, see Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 113–15. 34  On 8 Oct. 1290 Nicholas IV mentioned Otto “qui ad partes easdem [transmarinas] dicitur accessisse,” and in the middle of that month the pope wrote to Otto “commoranti in partibus Terre Sancte”: Bullarium Cyprium, 163–64; Registres de Nicolas IV, 640, doc. 4391. But he could scarcely by then have known of Otto’s whereabouts. 35  Cronaca del Templare di Tiro (1243–1314), cap. 255, ed. Laura Minervini (Naples, 2000), 208– 10; Les Gestes des Chiprois, cap. 491, ed. Gaston Raynaud (Geneva, 1887), 245. 36  Christopher Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 1192–1291 (Cambridge, 1992), 77–83. 37  Cronaca del Templare, cap. 263, ed. Minervini, 218–20; Gestes des Chiprois, cap. 499, ed. Raynaud, 251–52; Chroniques d’Amadi et de Strambaldi, ed. René de Mas Latrie (Paris, 1891), 224; Chronique de l’île de Chypre par Florio Bustron, ed. René de Mas Latrie, Mélanges historiques, 5 vols. (Paris, 1873–86), 5:123; Excidium Aconis, 61–62; cf. Marie-Luise Favreau-Lilie, “The Military Orders and the Escape of the Christian Population from the Holy Land in 1291,” Journal of Medieval History 19 (1993): 201–27.

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“actus militares turpiter abnegantes caritatisque terminos inhumaniter exeundo naviculam concenderunt”;38 while Walter of Guisborough claimed that Otto fled from the siege of Acre with the treasure which Edward I had entrusted to him.39 It is apparently true that Otto did not stay to participate in the last defence of the city, which centred on the Templar stronghold in the south-west of the city.40 Yet, the city walls had already been breached when he left, and there was little hope of further prolonged resistance. And although in the circumstances recriminations might be expected, the chronicler known as the “Templar of Tyre” claimed that Otto and John of Grailly put up a stout defence and retired only when they could no longer hold out.41 Nor is Walter of Guisborough’s claim about treasure very plausible. For one, it rests on the assumption that Otto was acting on behalf of Edward I: furthermore Otto clearly experienced financial difficulties even at an early stage of his sojourn in the East. In June 1291 Edward informed the bailiff of Jersey and Guernsey that Otto was in urgent need of money to pay off debts; and that Otto took very little with him from Acre is also apparent from the dispatch of clothes and other items to him by friends in England at the beginning of 1292.42 In 1295, moreover, Boniface VIII stated that Otto had lost almost all his possessions in 1291 and had incurred large debts: the pope therefore assigned him 4,000 marks from the crusading tenth collected in Germany, and in 1302 he granted a further 3,000 marks for the same reason.43 Admittedly, while he was in Cyprus, Otto had commissioned an altar frontal or antependium embroidered in gold, silver and silk threads, which was no doubt expensive;44 but the wording of the papal grants suggests that he may have resorted to loans in order to meet the cost.

38 

Excidium Aconis, 90. Chronicle of Walter of Guisborough, 229. 40  Bartholomew Cotton, Historia Anglicana, 432, states that Otto was present when negotiations were being conducted for the surrender of the Templar building; but this is not borne out by other sources: see, for example, Cronaca del Templare, cap. 224, ed. Minervini, 269; Gestes des Chiprois, cap. 505, ed. Raynaud, 255. 41  Cronaca del Templare, cap. 263, ed. Minervini, 218–20; Gestes des Chiprois, cap. 499, ed. Raynaud, 251–52. The author had apparently been in the employment of the Templars, with whom Otto of Grandson had close links. But he was ready to criticize the conduct of Theobald Gaudin, Templar master after the fall of Acre. 42  Rôles gascons, 3:21, no. 1924; Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1281–1292, 465. 43  Les registres de Boniface VIII, ed. Georges Digard, Maurice Faucon, Antoine Thomas and Robert Fawtier, 4 vols. (Paris, 1884–1939), 1:277–80, docs. 826, 830; 3:388–89, doc. 4490. On the poverty of many refugees from the Holy Land at this time, see: Norman Housley, “Charles II of Naples and the Kingdom of Jerusalem,” Byzantion 54 (1984): 530–31, 533–35; Favreau-Lilie, “The Military Orders and the Escape of the Christian Population,” 218–19, 225–26. 44  David Jacoby, “Cypriot Gold Thread in Late Medieval Silk Weaving and Embroidery,” in Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Helen J. Nicholson (Farnham, 2014), 106–7; Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident, IVe–XVIe siècle, ed. Jannic Durand and Dorota Giovannoni (Paris, 2012), 269–70; Michele Bacci, “Tra Pisa e Cipro: la committenza artistica di Giovanni Conti († 1332),” Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, 4th series, 5/2 (2000): 373–74. 39 



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After the fall of Acre Otto spent some time in Cyprus, and is said to have been involved in the election of James of Molay as Templar master, which took place before 20 April 1292.45 A Templar called Hugh of Fauro, who was interrogated in Paris in 1311 during the Templar trial, claimed that there had been disagreement in the order’s central convent, with the majority favouring Hugh of Peraud and only a minority supporting James of Molay, and that James had sworn before the master of the Hospital and Otto of Grandson and others that he would accept Hugh of Peraud’s election and that he himself did not wish to be master. James was said then to have reneged on his undertaking and had himself elected.46 This claim was made some twenty years after the event, and objections can be raised to some points in Hugh of Fauro’s testimony.47 But even if the report about Otto of Grandson were to be accepted, it does not assign him a major role in securing the election of James of Molay: the decision had to be made by the Templars themselves. It has admittedly also been asserted that Otto was acting on behalf of the French King Philip IV, who wanted Hugh of Peraud to be elected, but the only evidence put forward is that in 1308 the French king assigned Otto 2,000 livres annually on certain Templar possessions.48 This was, however, merely a confirmation of an existing Templar obligation.49 It has further been claimed that, at some stage during his stay in the East, Otto did visit Jerusalem as a pilgrim.50 The basis for this claim is a painting on the tomb in Westminster Abbey of Edward’s wife Eleanor of Castile, who died in November 1290. It is now almost completely obliterated, but it depicted a tomb at the foot of which were four figures, and at the head a knight and a woman and child. The knight has been identified from his heraldic surcoat as Otto of Grandson, and he is kneeling in prayer before Mary.51 The inclusion of Otto obviously needs explanation, and it has been suggested that he was charged with praying “at the holy places” for Eleanor, who was already ill when he set out.52 Yet, although this is a plausible assertion, the painting gives no indication that Otto actually visited 45 

Alan J. Forey, The Templars in the Corona de Aragón (Oxford, 1973), 405–6, doc. 36. Procès des Templiers, ed. Jules Michelet, 2 vols. (Paris, 1841–51), 2:224–25. 47  Alain Demurger, Jacques de Molay. Le crépuscule des Templiers (Paris, 2002), 101–9; Alan Forey, “Notes on Templar Personnel and Government at the Turn of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries,” Journal of Medieval History 35 (2009): 168. 48  Barbara Frale, L’ultima battaglia dei Templari. Dal codice ombra d’obbedienza militare alla costruzione del processo per eresia (Rome, 2007), 22–23; on this claim, see Demurger, Jacques de Molay, 106–7. 49  See below, p. 89. 50  Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 125; Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 237. 51  The painting was described by John Dart, Westmonasterium or the History and Antiquities of the Abbey Church of St Peters Westminster, 2 vols. (London, [1723]), 2:35; see also W. R. Lethaby, “Medieval Paintings at Westminster,” Proceedings of the British Academy 13 (1927): 140. For illustrations, see E. W. Tristram, English Medieval Wall Paintings: The Thirteenth Century (Oxford, 1950), Plates, Supplementary Plate 7a; Paul Binski, The Painted Chamber at Westminster (London, 1986), Plates lviii–lix. 52  W. R. Lethaby, “English Primitives VIII,” Burlington Magazine 33 (1918): 8; idem, “Medieval Paintings at Westminster,” 14. 46 

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Jerusalem, and it may be pointed out that it was completed in 1293, before Otto returned to England.53 Otto did, however, travel to Armenia during his stay in the East. According to the chronicler Hayton, who was a member of the Armenian royal family, the ruler Thoros summoned him and others from Cyprus before restoring the kingdom to the former monarch, Het’um.54 It is difficult to establish the exact chronology of the royal succession in Armenia at this time,55 but the “Templar of Tyre” reports that Otto was on his way back to Cyprus from Armenia when he sought to mediate between the Genoese and Venetians shortly before the battle of Ayas, which took place on 28 May 1294.56 Otto was making arrangements for his journey back to the West later in that year, for in December Charles II of Naples issued a safe-conduct for him prior to his arrival in Southern Italy.57 Once he was back in the West, Otto’s links with the Templars continued, and they assigned him 2,000 livres tournois a year for life. This grant is recorded in a confirmation issued by Clement V in 1308.58 The copy of the donation which is included in the pope’s concession states that the grant was made by the Templar master James of Molay at Paris in July 1287.59 Molay was not, of course, master in 1287, and Demurger has argued that the original gift was made by an earlier master, William of Beaujeu, who died defending Acre in 1291, and that James of Molay later issued a confirmation of William’s grant: in the latter the scribe forgot to amend the date.60 Yet Molay’s document contains no reference to an earlier grant, and when confirmations were issued they were commonly either appended to the text of the original document, or a new document was drawn up into which the text of the original concession was incorporated, as happened in Clement V’s confirmation in 1308. It seems, therefore more likely that the grant was made by James of Molay 53 

H. M. Colvin, ed., The History of the King’s Works, 6 vols. (London, 1963–82), 1:481; Binski, Painted Chamber, 21, 78. For a payment to the painter Walter of Durham for work on the tomb in the early part of 1293, see B. Botfield, ed., Manners and Household Expenses of England in the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries (London, 1841), 121. 54  Flos historiarum terre orientis, 3.44, in RHC Darm, 2 vols. (Paris, 1869–1906), 2:327. I have called the chronicler Hayton, as this is the most commonly used form of his name. 55  Angus Donal Stewart, The Armenian Kingdom and the Mamluks: War and Diplomacy during the Reigns of Het’um II (1289–1307) (Leiden, 2001), 96–97. 56  Cronaca del Templare, cap. 306, ed. Minervini, 262; Gestes des Chiprois, cap. 542, ed. Raynaud, 279; Giorgio Stella, Annales Genuenses, ed. Giovanna Petti Balbi, RIS, NS, 17.2: 35; La chronique de Damas d’al-Jazari (Années 689–698H.), ed. J. Sauvaget (Paris, 1949), 36. 57  Georges Digard, Philippe le Bel et le Saint-Siège, 2 vols. (Paris, 1936), 1:206 n. 2. 58  Regestum Clementis papae V, 8 vols. (Paris, 1885–92), 3:137–38, doc. 2938. 59  The printed version gives “1277,” but Demurger, Jacques de Molay, 108, 122, has pointed out that the manuscript gives “1287.” 60  Demurger, Jacques de Molay, 122–23. Anthony Luttrell, “The Election of the Templar Master Jacques de Molay,” in The Debate on the Trial of the Templars (1307–1314), ed. Jochen Burgtorf, Paul F. Crawford and Helen J. Nicholson (Farnham, 2010), 30, points out that William of Beaujeu is not known to have been in the West in 1287, but if Demurger’s argument were to be accepted, the original charter would not necessarily have been issued in western Europe.



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and that the date was wrongly copied either in an authenticated version presented to the pope for confirmation or in Clement V’s letter. As the itineraries of Otto of Grandson and James of Molay, who had journeyed to the West in 1293, are not fully known, the dating of James’s grant cannot be determined beyond doubt, but the most likely year is 1296, when Otto was certainly in Paris in July.61 Various explanations have been advanced for the Templar grant to Otto. It has been suggested that it was recompense for his support of James of Molay at the time of the latter’s election as master.62 Yet, as has been seen, even if Hugh of Fauro’s account of the election is accepted as it stands, it hardly gives Otto a significant role in determining the choice; and the Templar grant was made several years later. The argument has also been advanced that the Temple was taking over some papal debts to Otto.63 Yet the only known financial commitment of the papacy to Otto at the time consisted of the donation in September 1295 of 4,000 marks from the crusading tenth to help cover the debts incurred by Otto while he had been in the East;64 and this obviously differed from the Templar grant in that it consisted of a single cash payment, not a rent for life. A further suggestion is that it was given in return for a rent of 200 livres at Salins which Otto assigned to the Templars in July 1296: Otto was purchasing a pension.65 Yet when arrangements for a corrody or pension were made in return for a payment, the obligations of both sides were normally set out at the same time in a single document. But, if the Templar grant was made in 1296, it was on 1 July (the Sunday after the feast of St. Peter and St. Paul), whereas Otto’s deed was drawn up on 14 July of that year; and neither document contains any obvious reference to the other. An arrangement of the kind suggested would also have involved a financial risk for the Templars: in 1296 Otto was probably in his later fifties but still obviously very active. If he lived another ten years, it would have taken the order a century to recover its outlay. In fact he lived over thirty more years. The Templar document states that the grant was being made in recompense for the “grandia bona et profectus” which Otto had provided for the Temple in the past and would continue to do in the future.66 The comment is vague, but Otto was well-known at the papal curia and in various royal and princely courts through his activity as an envoy for Edward I, and it would seem likely that he was valued because through his contacts he could further the order’s interests. In 61 

Luttrell, “The Election of Jacques de Molay,” 29–30 n. 58; G. P. Cuttino, “Bishop Langton’s Mission for Edward I, 1296–1297,” in Studies in British History, ed. Cornelius William de Kiewiet (Iowa, 1941), 156; see also Demurger, Jacques de Molay, 121–23. 62  Marie Luise Bulst-Thiele, Sacrae domus militiae Templi Hierosolymitani magistri. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des Templerordens 1118/19–1314 (Göttingen, 1974), 301. 63  Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, La commanderie d’Epailly et sa chapelle templière durant la période médiévale (Paris, 2005), 39, n. 183. 64  Registres de Boniface VIII, 1:277–80, docs. 826, 830. 65  Luttrell, “The Election of Jacques de Molay,” 29–30, n. 58; idem, “Observations on the Fall of the Temple,” in Elites et ordres militaires au moyen âge, ed. Philippe Josserand, Luís F. Oliveira and Damien Carraz (Madrid, 2015), 366. 66  Regestum Clementis V, 3:137–38, doc. 2938.

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the same way, and probably for the same reasons, in 1308 the Hospitallers granted a favour to Otto, referring to the “grata et accepta comoda, munera et obsequia” which they had received from him in the past and hoped to receive in the future.67 When Otto made his gift to the Temple, he likewise referred to the benefits which both he and his ancestors had received from the Temple, not only in the West but also in the Holy Land.68 The concessions appear to have been mutual expressions of gratitude, rather than the purchase of an annuity. It has sometimes been suggested that Otto was again out in the East towards the end of the last decade of the thirteenth century. Hayton’s chronicle Flos historiarum terre orientis reports that the author, after returning from a two-year stay in the West, found Armenia in a troubled state and that he laboured to improve the situation. The comment is then added: “Super his testem mihi invoco Deum celi, et virum nobilem et prudentem dominum Odonem de Grandisono, et magistros domus Templi et Hospitalis, et fratres eorum conventus, qui tunc temporis in partibus illis erant.” 69 The editor of this work in 1906 concluded that Otto was in Armenia at some time between 1299 and 1302.70 Yet the comment appears in only a few late manuscripts of the chronicle, and in 1909 Kingsford pointed out that Otto could not have been in the East at that time.71 Several recent writers have, however, again claimed that Otto was in Armenia in 1298–99.72 Otto in fact spent much of these years on diplomatic missions in Europe, and his itinerary can be followed fairly closely for most of this period. The only considerable gap is between the end of June 1298, when he had an audience with Boniface VIII and the pope pronounced on the dispute between France and England,73 and 17 February 1299, when Otto was acting as an envoy during further peace negotiations with France.74 But given the slowness of communications and the normal sailing times across the Mediterranean, it can hardly be claimed that in those months Otto had time to prepare for a journey, travel out to Armenia, observe Hayton’s efforts and return to the West.75 67  Cart Hosp, 4:169–70, doc. 4792; Regestum Clementis V, 5:328, doc. 6092. When the German ruler Henry VII granted Otto 1,500 marks in 1310 he referred to the “grandia, grata et accepta servicia” given by Otto in the past and to be given in the future: Fontes rerum Bernensium. Berns Geschichtsquellen, 10 vols. (Bern, 1877–1956), 4:431–32, doc. 402. 68  Luttrell, “The Election of Jacques de Molay,” 29–30 n. 58; idem, “Observations on the Fall of the Temple,” 366. 69  Flos historiarum, 3.44, in RHC Darm, 2:330. 70  Ibid., 2:327, note a; see also ibid., 2: xxx–xxxi, xxxiii. 71  Kingsford, “Otho de Grandison,” 151, n. 2. 72  Anthony Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land: The Crusade Proposals of the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries (Aldershot, 2000), 29; Demurger, Jacques de Molay, 116, 118, 142; Pierre-Vincent Claverie, L’ordre du Temple en Terre Sainte et à Chypre au XIIIe siècle, 3 vols. (Nicosia, 2005), 2:244. 73  Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 167–69; [J. M. B. C.] Kervyn de Lettenhove, “Etudes sur l’histoire du XIIIe siècle,” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale de Belgique 28 (1854): 37–43, 45, 49. 74  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1292–1301 (London, 1895), 394. 75  Claverie, Ordre du Temple, 2:244, does point out that in 1299 Otto was represented by attorneys in the Channel Islands: see Julien Havet, “Série chronologique des gardiens et seigneurs des îles normandes (1198–1461),” Bibliothèque de l’Ecole des Chartes 37 (1876): 204, 226–27. Yet this is to be



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In the opening years of the fourteenth century, Otto continued to act as an envoy for Edward I on various issues, including crusading matters. In June 1300 Edward ordered that the draft of a letter, which had been written in response to a papal communication of April 1300 about the situation in the East, should be sent immediately to him at Durham, so that he could take advice on it before Otto left the royal court.76 In September Edward announced that he was sending Otto to Boniface VIII to discuss both the Holy Land and peace with France.77 Otto was also dispatched in October 1305 to Clement V for further negotiations on the same subjects.78 Two years later, proceedings against the Templars began and, following the seizure of Templar property, Otto was anxious to ensure that his allowance from the Temple continued to be paid. At the end of July 1308 Philip IV accepted Clement V’s ruling that the money should be given to Otto from the revenues of the Templar commanderies of Epailly, Coulours and Thors, and in the following year Otto obtained a confirmation from the pope himself.79 By the summer of 1308 Otto had made known his intention of setting off again in aid of the Holy Land.80 Edward I, who had died in the previous year, had willed not only that 100 knights should serve in the East for a year but also that his heart should be buried there, and it has been suggested that Otto may have been intending to carry out his former master’s wishes.81 Yet he did not set out at that time. It is not surprising, however, that Edward II named Otto as an envoy to the Council of Vienne, which began in October 1311, for it had been summoned not only to consider the fate of the Templars but also to discuss measures for the recovery of the Holy Land.82 The king’s envoys did not in fact set out until November, but Otto was in Vienne at Christmas;83 and in the following spring he was again preparing for an expedition to the East. A papal letter of July 1312 reports that he was planning to set out in aid of the Holy Land in August of that year and had been on his way down the Rhône to secure the pope’s permission and blessing when he had been attacked and held captive for some days. The sum of 20,500 florins

explained by his diplomatic activities on the Continent. Luttrell, “The Election of Jacques de Molay,” 28, has noted that the Hospitaller master was also in the West in 1298–99. 76  Calendar of Chancery Warrants, A.D. 1244–1326 (London, 1927), 110–11; for Boniface’s letter, see Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:919–20. 77  Ibid., 1.2:922–23. 78  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1301–1307 (London, 1898), 387; Rymer, Foedera, 1.2:974; Calendar of Close Rolls, 1302–1307 (London, 1908), 351; Sophia Menache, Clement V (Cambridge, 1998), 70. 79  Registres du Trésor des Chartes, ed. Robert Fawtier, 3 vols. (Paris, 1958–99), 1:64–65, no. 406; Regestum Clementis V, 3:137–38, doc. 2938; 4:213–16, doc. 4404. 80  Ibid., 3:103, doc. 2785. 81  Simon Lloyd, English Society and the Crusade 1216–1307 (Oxford, 1988), 242. 82  Calendar of Chancery Warrants, 367; Rymer, Foedera, 2.1:136; Treaty Rolls, 1234–1325, ed. Pierre Chaplais (London, 1955), 197, no. 493. 83  Rymer, Foedera, 2.1:145; Fontes rerum bernensium, 4:480–81, doc. 455; see also Ewald Müller, Das Konzil von Vienne, 1311–1312. Seine Quellen und seine Geschichte (Münster, 1934), 65–67.

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and other possessions had been seized.84 Otto was clearly not accompanied by a large following and, despite the wording of Clement V’s letter, his objective at this time was presumably pilgrimage rather than a military expedition. This would in turn strengthen the suggestion that he had not visited Jerusalem when he was in the East in the early 1290s. Although Clement stated that Otto still intended to depart in August, he clearly did not do so; and in 1319, when Otto was some eighty years old, he finally received absolution from a crusading vow which he had earlier taken.85 He had been intending to participate in a generale passagium, but the pope agreed that Otto should be released from his obligation, both because of his age and the state of his health and because a large-scale expedition was not likely to be launched in the near future. Otto in recompense gave 10,000 florins in aid of the Holy Land.86 Although Otto never went to the East again, his name has commonly been suggested as the author of the related crusading treatises known as the Via ad Terram Sanctam, which was written in French, and the Memoria Terre Sancte, which is in Latin.87 These two works contain a common element, which discusses timing and routes to be adopted by a crusading expedition and includes an itinerary from Gaza to Cairo: the existing Latin version has been shown to have been translated from the French.88 The French work also has a brief introduction, while the Latin text has a longer preliminary section which offers advice on the financing of an expedition, the future government of Jerusalem and the troops needed for its defence. The common section was written in the East, as it refers to westerners as “ceaus d’outremer” and refers to their coming (vienent, veniunt) to the East.89 Kohler has argued that the author was a westerner because he twice refers to crusaders as “nos gens”;90 yet the phrase could be a synonym for Christians, especially as in one instance he is writing about co-operation with the Mongols. It was apparently written before the fall of Tripoli in 1289, as the wording seems to imply that that city and Acre were still in Christian hands when it was composed. This conclusion 84 

Regestum Clementis V, 7:139–40, doc. 8205. It is not known exactly when this vow was taken. 86  Jean XXII (1316–1334): Lettres communes analysées d’après les registres dits d’Avignon et du Vatican, ed. G. Mollat, 16 vols. (Paris, 1904–46), 2:392, no. 9566. Norman Housley, The Avignon Papacy and the Crusades, 1305–1378 (Oxford, 1986), 154, states that the size of Otto’s payment indicates his commitment to crusading; but he also writes that redemption payments depended on the status and wealth of the crusader. 87  Ch. Kohler, “Deux projets de croisade en Terre-Sainte composés a la fin du XIIIe siècle et au début du XIVe,” ROL 10 (1903–4): 425–57; Jacques Paviot, Projets de croisade (v. 1290-v. 1330) (Paris, 2008), 171–81, 236–79. Kohler’s suggestion (418–20) of Otto as the author has been repeated by Clifford, Knight of Great Renown, 129–33; Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 238; Prestwich, Edward I, 75; Marie-Anna Chevalier, Les ordres religieux-militaires en Arménie cilicienne (Paris, 2009), 357, 584–86; it is rejected by Paviot, Projets, 19–21. 88  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 408. 89  Ibid., 426, 449; Paviot, Projets, 173, 262. The Latin text gives “peregrini” instead of “ceaus d’outremer.” 90  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 409, 431; Paviot, Projets, 178–79. 85 



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has admittedly been recently challenged on the grounds that the author does not refer to assistance coming to crusaders from the crusader states or to the need to defend existing possessions.91 Yet the writer was primarily concerned with the routes to be taken by an expedition and, as he was rejecting Acre as a point of disembarkation, he was not likely to allude to its advantages. It may also be pointed out that, while he rejected Damietta as a landing point because it was uninhabited and derelict, he did not make a similar comment about Tripoli or Acre,92 which were destroyed after they had fallen to the Muslims; and the author’s statement that it would be difficult to forage for supplies because of Muslim castles in the neighbourhood of Tripoli and Acre is similar to a comment made about Acre by Fidentius of Padua, who wrote before the fall of that city.93 If this dating is accepted and if Otto were the author of the common section, it would have had to have been written in the period when he was in the East with Prince Edward in 1271–72. Yet in this common section the author displays a considerable knowledge of various parts of the East, including Armenia, which he favoured as a base, and Muslim territories in Syria, besides providing the itinerary for Egypt. The latter could, of course, have been derived from an existing source: Marino Sanudo later provided almost exactly the same itinerary in his Liber secretorum fidelium crucis,94 and a similar, though not identical, one was included in the Hospitaller Devise des chemins de Babiloine.95 In the early 1270s, however, Otto could have had only a limited knowledge of the East and would scarcely have been in a position to offer advice about the advantages of Armenia or about the lands in Syria through which crusaders would pass. Edward’s expedition, which landed at Acre, did launch an attack on Qaqun, southeast of Caesarea, and went to Nazareth, but its activities were very limited in range. The preference for Armenia could suggest an author of Armenian origin,96 and the work has sometimes been attributed to Hayton.97 Yet, although there are some similarities between the treatise in question and book four of Hayton’s later Flos historiarum terre orientis, the two works differ considerably in the range of topics covered, and the advice tendered is sometimes conflicting: 91 

Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land, 18. Kohler, “Deux projets,” 427–28, 450–51; Paviot, Projets, 174–75, 264–66. 93  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 427–28, 451; Paviot, Projets, 154, 174–75, 266; Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente Francescano, 5 vols. (Quaracchi, 1906– 27), 2:54. 94  Marino Sanudo Torsello, Liber secretorum fidelium crucis super Terrae Sanctae recuperatione et conservatione, 3.14.12, in Gesta Dei per Francos, ed. Jacques Bongars, vol. 2 (Hanau, 1611; repr. Toronto, 1972), 259–62. 95  Henri Michelant and Gaston Raynaud, eds., Itinéraires à Jérusalem et descriptions de la Terre Sainte, rédigés en français aux XIe, XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Geneva, 1882), 239–52; Paviot, Projets, 201–20. 96  This has been suggested by Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land, 155. It was unusual for theorists to suggest Armenia as a base. 97  Paulin Paris, “Hayton, prince d’Arménie, historien,” Histoire littéraire de la France, 25 (Paris, 1869): 499–500; J. Delaville Le Roulx, La France en Orient au XIVe siècle. Expéditions du Maréchal Boucicaut, 2 vols. (Paris, 1886), 1:66, n. 1. 92 

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although Hayton envisages the possibility of using Cyprus as a staging post for a general crusade, the earlier work stresses the disadvantages of landing there.98 But crusading theorists might, of course, over time change their views, as is apparent in the writings of Raymond Lull. The brief introduction to the French text was similarly written in the East, as it refers to western princes as “seigneurs d’outre mer,” and alludes to the possibility of western kings (“rois dou Ponent”) coming to conquer the Holy Land.99 It was written after the crusader states had collapsed but apparently when the sultan was al-Ashraf Khalil, who ruled until late 1293.100 Otto was in the East at that time, but it is difficult to understand why he would have added a very brief introduction to a treatise composed by someone else. The longer introduction to the Latin text was written in the West, as it includes a comment about the troops who should be maintained “overseas” (ultra mare), and states with regard to financial arrangements that “pro una prebenda quam citra mare ecclesia daret, recuperaret duas ultra mare.” 101 It appears to have been composed after the arrest of the Templars in 1307, for, whereas in the common section the French text alludes to Hospitallers and Templars, the Latin version mentions only Hospitallers.102 Yet, it was presumably not written much later, for the author says that he had heard a sermon preached in Acre by Gregory X at the time when the latter was elected pope in 1271.103 Gregory was elected on 1 September, and Otto was certainly there when the news reached the Holy Land. But there were no doubt other westerners who had been in the East in 1271 and who were still alive in the West shortly after 1307. It may also be pointed out that the author asserted that, if the pope made due financial arrangements, western rulers would be prepared to go on crusade, “et hoc esset causa et motivum maximum pacis et concordie in Christianitate”: those who were in dispute would agree to make peace.104 This view, which conflicts with the opinion of most theorists who saw the necessity of securing peace in the West before a crusade could be contemplated,105 would hardly be expected of an experienced diplomat who had witnessed Edward I’s failure to undertake a second expedition to the East and who had seen the English king repeatedly give precedence to other issues.106 The writer’s belief that anyone 98  Flos historiarum, 4.25, in RHC Darm, 2:359; Kohler, “Deux projets,” 428, 450; Paviot, Projets, 175, 265–66. On Cyprus as a base, see Alan Forey, “Cyprus as a Base for Crusading Expeditions from the West,” in Cyprus and the Crusades, ed. Nicholas Coureas and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Nicosia, 1995), 69–79; Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land, 152–54. 99  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 425; Paviot, Projets, 172. 100  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 425–26; Paviot, Projets, 172. 101  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 440, 442; Paviot, Projets, 245, 250. 102  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 430, 453; Paviot, Projets, 177, 271. 103  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 435–36; Paviot, Projets, 237. 104  Kohler, “Deux projets,” 440–41; Paviot, Projets, 246. 105  For a discussion of theorists’ views on the question of peace, see Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land, 52–59. 106  On Edward’s stance, see Lloyd, English Society and the Crusade, 232–39; Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 230–40.



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with claims to the kingdom of Jerusalem would easily be persuaded to cede them to the Church is again an unlikely comment from an experienced diplomat.107 It might, of course, be pointed out that Otto had close links with the military orders and that the author of the Latin text assigned a significant role to a military order in the reconquest, government and future defence of the kingdom of Jerusalem; yet, although these orders were widely criticized in the later thirteenth century, this treatise was by no means alone in attaching importance to the institution of the military order.108 The attitude displayed in the Memoria Terre Sancte on this point gives little indication of authorship. It has, on the other hand, been suggested that the author was a cleric.109 He certainly displays a knowledge of ecclesiastical finances, and assigns a leading role to the papacy in the recovery of the Holy Land, but his readiness to place the burden of financing an expedition mainly on the Church hardly reflects the normal clerical attitude to crusading taxation. The evidence is thus insufficient to indicate a likely author. Yet, although there is little justification for attributing any part of the two treatises to Otto, he had been on two expeditions to the Holy Land at a time when fewer and fewer were participating in crusades to the East; and it was not until he was some eighty years old that he abandoned his intention of undertaking a third journey. His life is remarkable not only for his constant journeying over many decades and his surviving the rigours which travel entailed: it also reveals an active devotion to the cause of the Holy Land which was becoming increasingly rare in the later thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.

107 

Kohler, “Deux projets,” 440–41; Paviot, Projets, 247. Alan J. Forey, “The Military Orders in the Crusading Proposals of the Late-Thirteenth and Early-Fourteenth Centuries,” Traditio 36 (1980): 333–41. 109  Claverie, Ordre du Temple, 2:221–23. 108 

A Crusader Lineage from Spain to the Throne of Jerusalem: The Lusignans Clément de Vasselot de Régné Université de Nantes [email protected] Abstract Lusignan is a well-known name in crusades history for it is associated with the fall of Jerusalem and the loss of a major part of the kingdom. Nevertheless, the presence of the Lusignans in the history of the crusades cannot be reduced to the part played by Guy and by the dynasty born of his brother Aimery who succeeded him on the throne of Cyprus. To understand why Guy became king of Jerusalem, it is important to recognize the roots of his family’s engagement in the crusades two, and perhaps four, generations before him. We can see their participation in expeditions to Spain, in the First and Second Crusades and an involvement in the county of Tripoli where the family was linked to the comital house and could stake a claim to the inheritance. These elements help to shed new light on the baronial struggle at Baldwin IV’s court and on the conflict between Guy and Count Raymond of Tripoli. Besides, during the few months Guy was king, he made use of his family to strengthen his position therein. After the Battle of Hattin, the Lusignans tried to recover from this disaster, in part through the writings of Peter of Blois, but mainly through the heroic actions of a further member of the family, the newly arrived Geoffrey. This article will also showcase the involvement of other Lusignan generations of France and England during the crusades and set out why they deserve to be called “a crusader lineage.”

Introduction The Lusignans were a minor family of Poitevin landowners who stepped into the limelight with the wedding in 1180 between Guy of Lusignan and Sibylla, sister of King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem. By 1186 this had brought Guy the crown of Jerusalem, but eight months later, with the disaster of Hattin, he lost his liberty, his capital, the bulk of his military forces and his kingdom. The vast majority of earlier historians have explained this failure by the rivalry between two parties at the court of Jerusalem. The first would have been the “poulains,” the local nobles, supposedly possessed of a better understanding of the situation and open to negotiation with Saladin. The other group was the “crusader” party, with recent The present research was carried out in the context of my PhD at the Centre de Recherches en Histoire Internationale et Atlantique, Université de Nantes, PRES Université Nantes, Angers, Le Mans. 95

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arrivals from the West seeking to fight at all cost against “the pagans” and whose impetuous nature was primarily responsible for the catastrophe. By this line of reasoning Guy of Lusignan, as a Poitevin, would have been more susceptible to the aggressive arguments of the crusading party as against the skilful diplomacy of the Poulains. This very Manichean vision was imposed upon us by the dominant primary sources, although Edbury has skilfully broken down this simple binary and provided us with a much more nuanced picture of the situation.1 The best historian of the kingdom of Jerusalem, and the most widely-read and used by scholars, was William of Tyre, who died in 1186. Another chronicle goes by the name of Ernoul, who was the squire of Balian of Ibelin, a staunch opponent of Guy of Lusignan. Ernoul’s work is therefore a vituperative condemnation of Guy’s politics and a powerful charge against him. That said, many points of analysis that scholars have made on the basis of Ernoul do not match other elements we can find by studying less well-known sources, including the family history of the Lusignans. This study begins by considering who the Lusignans were and reviewing their relationship with the crusades before Guy of Lusignan. This will better inform our understanding of Guy’s actions and the way he tried to redeem himself and his kingdom after his defeat. The Roots of Lusignan Involvement in Jerusalem Supporting the Gregorian Reform At the beginning of the eleventh century, the Lusignans were a castellan family in Poitou and perhaps Saintonge. Their strength allowed one of them, Hugh IV, to fight his lord, Duke William V of Aquitaine.2 Despite their limited importance, they engaged successfully with the Holy See. Between 1025 and 1031, Bishop Isembert I of Poitiers obtained from Pope John XIX a papal bull confirming the privileges of Hugh IV’s foundation, Our Lady of Lusignan. Hugh was called spirituali filio in summo Domino.3 This is the only known occurrence of this appellation but the expression spirituali filio is used in earlier papal documents addressed to some Carolingian kings and Ottonian emperors, such as Louis II, Charles the Bald, Carloman, Otto I, and Henry II.4 So, why did the pope use this appellation when addressing the relatively minor lord of Lusignan? Could the influence of the bishop 1  Peter W. Edbury, “Propaganda and Faction in the Kingdom of Jerusalem: The Background to Hattin,” in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden, 1993), 173–89. 2  Le “Conventum” (vers 1030): un précurseur aquitain des premières épopées, ed. and trans. George Beech, Yves Chauvin and Georges Pon (Geneva, 1995). 3  Chartes de l´abbaye de Nouaillé de 678 à 1200, ed. Pierre de Montsabert (Poitiers, 1936), 174–76. 4  Caesar Baronius, Annales Ecclesiastici, 14:146; Epistolae Karolini aevi, ed. Erich Caspar, MGH Ep, 42–43, 145, 318; Pontificum Romanorum Vitae II, ed. Johann M. Watterich (Leipzig, 1862), 681–83; Oberösterreichisches Urkundenbuch, weltlicher Teil (540–1399), 2 vols. (Vienna, 1856), 2:77–78.



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of Poitiers and of the king of France have been so strong that it resulted in a very close relationship between the papacy and the House of Lusignan as the appellation implies? In 1032–33, one year after Hugh IV’s death, in his letter to the Poitevin nobility, Pope John XIX addressed Hugh IV’s sons, Hugh and Rorgon, who were living in the castle of Lusignan.5 No family of this region and this rank could pride itself on similar attention. The new lord, Hugh V, was given the epithet “the Pious” by the Chronicle of Saint-Maixent which stresses the point that he agreed to be separated from his wife, Almodis of La Marche, on the grounds of consanguinity.6 There are some suggestions that he consented to this not with a view to divorce but rather to be obedient to the Church’s precepts.7 In 1079, when Hugh VI of Lusignan evicted his cousin, the canon Hugh, from his estate of Couhé, Pope Gregory VII took this to heart and wrote to the bishop of Poitiers. We learn that, although the castrum of Couhé was under the protection of the Holy See, Hugh of Couhé was considered by the pope as nostri fidelis et filii. While Hugh VI was threatened with excommunication, he was nevertheless regarded as a special servant of the papacy.8 In 1110, a letter from Pope Paschal II to Hugh VI called him fidelis beati Petri.9 As Riley-Smith has shown, this wording was used by the papal chancellery to designate strong supporters of the Gregorian Reform in southern Aquitaine, Languedoc and Burgundy.10 Hugh VI was the most northerly lord of this network in Aquitaine and he was probably drawn into it for three reasons: first, because of the involvement of his father, Hugh the Pious; secondly, thanks to the close links between the family and the papacy, unique in Poitou at the time; and thirdly, since his mother, Almodis of La Marche later married Pons, count of Toulouse and then Ramon-Berenguer I, count of Barcelona, Hugh VI was linked to the southern French nobility by his half-brother Raymond IV of Toulouse, another fidelis beati Petri.11 The Lusignans were, therefore, a well-known family with long-established connections with the papacy which helps to explain their involvement in the fight against Christendom’s enemies.

5 

Cartulaire de l’abbaye royale de Saint-Jean d’Angély, ed. Georges Musset, Archives historiques de la Saintonge et de l’Aunis 30 (Saintes, 1901), 32–33. 6  La Chronique de Saint-Maixent (751–1140), trans. Jean Verdon (Paris, 1979), 133–35. 7  See: Clément de Vasselot, “La famille de Lusignan de Hugues le Veneur à Hugues VIII (Xe siècle–1164), Domination châtelaine, hiérarchisation et ascension des lignages” (Postgraduate dissertation [M2], ENS de Lyon & Université de Poitiers, 2014), 147–49. Summed up also in Clément de Vasselot, “L’Ascension des Lusignan: les réseaux d’une famille seigneuriale,” Cahiers de Civilisation médiévale 230 (2015): 134–35. 8  PL 148:537. 9  Chartes et documents pour servir à l’histoire de l’abbaye de Saint-Maixent, ed. Alfred Richard, 2 vols. (Poitiers, 1886), 1:260. 10  Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge, 1997), 43–46. 11  About the networks created by the numerous marriages and children of Almodis, see de Vasselot “L’Ascension des Lusignan,” 132–33.

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Fighting against Christendom’s Enemies: The Lusignans’ Iberian Campaigns The first Lusignan who fought Muslims would have also been the first linked with the papacy. In his Dictionary of the Families of Poitou, Beauchet-Filleau mentioned an expedition to Iberia by Hugh IV around 1020 but the primary source for this information has disappeared.12 It is possible that Hugh was part of the 1018 campaign led by the Norman lord Roger of Tosny who reached Barcelona to help the countess Ermessinde of Carcassonne against the emir of Dénia.13 In 1087, Hugh VI of Lusignan was an important member of an expedition that was aiming to rescue King Alfonso VI of Castile who had been crushed at the Battle of Sagrajas by the Almoravid sultan Yusuf. Before departure, Hugh made an important donation to the abbey of Nouaillé which was a propitiatory gift confirmed by the bishop of Poitiers and the duke of Aquitaine.14 Hugh was the most obvious person to be in charge of a force from Aquitaine, so it is very probable that he was the commander.15 The other leaders were Hugh’s half-brother, Count Raymond IV of Toulouse, and Duke Odo I of Burgundy who later took part in the First Crusade.16 All of them are called fideles beati Petri by the pope and took part in this network.17 During the campaign, however, they failed to rescue Alfonso VI and only took a small castle in the vicinity of Tudela.18 So, in fact, these fideles beati Petri did not help the king of Castile but instead the king of Navarre, Sancho Ramírez. The latter became the papacy’s main supporter in the Iberian peninsula when he replaced the Visigothic rite with the Roman one and promoted Cluniac reform in the monasteries of Navarre.19 The Lusignans’ next major involvement in Iberia came after 1211 when Muhammad al-Nasir, the fourth Almohad caliph, crossed the Straits of Gibraltar, stormed the castle of Salvatierra and gathered troops to fight against the kings of Castile and Aragon. Aware of the threat, Archbishop Rodrigo Jiménez obtained a crusade bull from Pope Innocent III. He preached the crusade in France, Italy and Germany and gathered around 50,000 crusaders who met at Toledo in May 1212. Amongst them, accompanied by a Poitevin force, was Hugh IX of Lusignan who 12 

Henri Beauchet-Filleau and Christian de Chergé, Dictionnaire historique et généalogique des familles du Poitou, 2 vols. (Poitiers, 1840–54), 2:321. 13  Adhémar de Chabannes, Chronique, trans. Yves Chauvin and Georges Pon (Turnhout, 2003), 270; and Martin Aurell, Les Noces du comte: mariage et pouvoir en Catalogne (785–1213) (Paris, 1995), 56. 14  Chartes de l´abbaye de Nouaillé de 678 à 1200, ed. de Montsabert, 248–50. 15  Prosper Boissonnade, “Les Relations des ducs d’Aquitaine, comtes de Poitiers avec les États chrétiens d’Aragon et de Navarre,” Bulletin de la Société des Antiquaires de l’Ouest, ser. 3, 10 (1934– 35): 282. 16  Marcelin Defourneaux, Les Français en Espagne au XIe et XIIe siècles (Paris, 1949), 144. 17  Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 46. 18  La Chronique de Saint-Maixent (751–1140), trans. Verdon, 149. 19  Philippe Sénac, La frontière et les hommes, VIIIe–XIIe siècle: le peuplement musulman au nord de l’Èbre et les débuts de la reconquête aragonaise (Paris, 2000).



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had already fought in the Holy Land during the Third Crusade.20 He took part in the siege and capture of the castles of Malagón and Calatrava but there was conflict between the Iberians and the French crusaders who wanted to slaughter the Moors. Soon after the fall of Calatrava the French crusaders decided they had fulfilled their crusading vows and returned home; in consequence they did not take part in the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa.21 Going to Jerusalem In addition to the episodes outlined above, there may have been a family tradition of pilgrimage. Hugh, son of Albuin, cousin of Hugh IV of Lusignan and guardian of his sons Hugh V and Rorgon during their minority, was probably a pilgrim to the Holy Land as he was called Hugh of Jerusalem in charters from 1031.22 We know that Hugh VI of Lusignan was part of William of Aquitaine’s crusade expedition of 1101–3, but some scholars such as Riley-Smith think he embarked upon the First Crusade.23 On reviewing the evidence this article supports this idea. Between 1096 and 1103, Hugh VI disappears from the ducal charters and the Poitevin sources although he was usually present in ducal charters before and after these dates. Moreover, in 1099, at the consecration of the church of La Chaise by the viscount of Thouars, all of the Poitevin nobility were present, including Hugh’s wife Aldearde of Thouars (the viscount’s sister), with the exception of the lord of Lusignan himself.24 Furthermore, two sources actually place Hugh VI of Lusignan on the First Crusade: the Provençal Canso d’Antioca noted his presence at the siege of Antioch – but the same source also mentioned the viscount of Thouars who was, of course, in Poitou so we cannot consider this very reliable.25 The other testimony is from the Historia de Hierosolimitano itinere, by Civray’s priest, Peter Tudebode, who should have known the Lusignan house well. He wrote that Reynald, seneschal of Hugh VI, died during the siege of Jerusalem.26 If his seneschal were present, it 20 

52–53.

Béatrice Leroy, La bataille de Las Navas de Tolosa, 16 juillet 1212 (Clermont-Ferrand, 2012),

21  Javier Gorosterratzu, Don Rodrigo Jímenez de Rada, gran estadista, escritor y prelado (Pamplona, 1925), 93; and Rodrigo Jímenez de Rada, Historia de rebus Hispanie sive Historia gothica, trans. Juan Fernandez Valverde (Madrid, 1989), 8:6. 22  Chartes de l´abbaye de Nouaillé de 678 à 1200, ed. de Montsabert, 291–92. On Hugh of Jerusalem and the confusion between him and Hugh VI of Lusignan, see Clément de Vasselot, “Un réseau seigneurial salin: implantation et arborescence des Saint-Maixent de l’Aunis à Lusignan (Xe–XIIe siècle),” Aux Sources du pouvoir, ed. Sylvain Gouguenheim (Paris, 2017), 252. 23  Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 95–96. 24  Cartulaires du Bas-Poitou (département de la Vendée), ed. Paul Marchegay (Les RochesBaritaud, 1877), 20–23. 25  The Canso d’Antioca: An Occitan Epic Chronicle of the First Crusade, ed. and trans. Carol Sweetenham and Linda M. Paterson (Aldershot, 2003), 230–31 and 358. Also mentioned in the Historia et Gesta Ducis Godefridi, ed. Paul Riant, RHC Oc, 5:483, but this text was compiled in the fifteenth century and is not very reliable. 26  Peter Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano itinere, ed. John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill (Paris, 1977), 135.

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seems very plausible that his lord was there also. Moreover, one of the principal figures on the crusade was Raymond IV of Toulouse, Hugh’s half-brother, and a man who had fought alongside Hugh in Navarre. Raymond’s army included the children of eleven fideles beati Petri from across the fideles families of southern France.27 It would be logical that Hugh VI took part in the crusade as a fidelis and as Raymond’s brother. Hugh VI reappears in the sources after the Battle of Heraclea on 5 September 1101, when the army constituted by the forces of his suzerain Duke William IX and his brother Raymond IV, who had linked up with him at Constantinople, was defeated by the Turks. The two commanders decided to separate and Hugh VI followed his brother, which could well confirm his presence in his brother’s army since the beginning of the expedition.28 On the way, there was another attack and Hugh was separated from his brother. They reached Tarsus and went to Antioch where they met up with Count Raymond again.29 Their force then captured Tortosa with the help of the Genoese but Raymond decided to halt.30 Hugh and the rest of the army, now with King Baldwin I of Jerusalem, Duke William IX, and the counts of Blois and of Burgundy went on to Jerusalem to celebrate Easter. After that, William IX, Herbert of Thouars and the Poitevins sailed home.31 Hugh VI, however, remained in Jerusalem with King Baldwin.32 He was next in Jaffa with Stephen of Blois, probably prior to returning to Poitou, when Baldwin gathered troops to fight an Egyptian army at Ramla. The two lords decided to help the king but the battle was a terrible defeat.33 According to Bartolf of Nangis, Stephen and Hugh were beheaded.34 This, however, cannot be true in the case of Hugh because he reappears in Poitevin charters from 13 June 1104, and lived until 1110.35 A Stranglehold on a Kingdom A Crusader Lineage The Second Crusade was preached before the king of France and French nobility at Vézelay on 31 March 1146. Louis VII was duke of Aquitaine by right of his 27 

Jonathan Riley-Smith, “The Crusading Heritage of Guy and Aimery of Lusignan,” Cyprus and the Crusades, ed. Nicholas Coureas and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Nicosia, 1995), 31–45. 28  Bartolf de Nangis, Gesta Francorum Iherusalem expugnantium, RHC Oc, 3:531–532. 29  Ibid., 532. 30  William of Tyre, Historia rerum in partibus transmarinis gestarum. L’estoire de Eracles empereur et la conqueste de la terre d’Outremer, ed. Arthur Beugnot and A. Langlois, RHC Oc, 1:428–29. 31  FC, 428–37. 32  AA, 591. 33  FC, 437–44. 34  Bartolf de Nangis, Gesta Francorum Iherusalem expugnantium, RHC Oc, 3:532–34. 35  Chartes de l´abbaye de Nouaillé de 678 à 1200, ed. de Montsabert, 292–94; La Chronique de Saint-Maixent (751–1140), trans. Verdon, 183.



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wife, Eleanor, so the Poitevin barons were also at Vézelay.36 There is some doubt about the identity of the Lusignan who was here, took the cross and participated in the crusade.37 Some scholars wrote that it was Hugh VII.38 But, on the one hand, Hugh VII was always nicknamed “the Brown” and his last appearance is in a charter from 1144.39 On the other hand, his son Hugh VIII had appeared in his father’s charters since 1112 but began to appear alone from 1147 onwards, and he was always called “Hugh of Lusignan,” which is how Suger listed the one who took the cross at Vézelay.40 It seems that Hugh VII died around 1145 and that the Lusignan who took part in the Second Crusade was Hugh VIII, grandson of the crusader Hugh VI. Moreover, Hugh VIII had married Bourgogne of Rancon, daughter of Geoffrey of Rancon who was the commander of the vanguard of Louis VII’s crusading army at the battle of Mont Cadmus on 6 January 1148.41 Fourteen years later, in 1163, Hugh VIII of Lusignan and the count of Angoulême’s brother, Geoffrey Martel, made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. They went with the first important English contingent to the Holy Land. On the way back, they helped the count of Tripoli to defeat Nur ad-Din at the Battle of the Bocquée, an event probably represented on the paintings at Cressac’s Templar commandery in the county of Angoulême.42 The following year, Nur ad-Din struck back by besieging the castle of Harim. Hugh VIII, who was still in Antioch, joined Prince Bohemond III, Raymond of Tripoli, and Byzantine and Armenian commanders to attack the Muslims. The Battle of Harim proved a disastrous defeat for the Christian coalition and Hugh VIII was taken captive and sent to Aleppo.43 Two letters from the patriarch of Antioch and the master of the Knights Hospitaller in Jerusalem related the defeat to King Louis and explained that Hugh was held prisoner in Aleppo.44 It is frequently written that he died in captivity.45 On the contrary, he seems to have married again in the county of Tripoli where, in a charter from 1168, he, his wife Dulcia, and their daughter Almodis confirmed a gift made by the lord Bertrand Milon, Dulcia’s brother, to the Hospitallers at Montpelerin.46 Hugh became a figure

36  Suger, Histoire du roi Louis VII, ed. Auguste Molinier, Vie de Louis le Gros par Suger suivie de l’Histoire du roi Louis VII (Paris, 1887), 158–59. 37  Ibid., 159. 38  Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 191. 39  Paris, Archives Nationales, T110, 216–1. 40  Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Saint-Cybard, ed. Paul Lefrancq (Angoulême, 1930), 127–28. 41  Ibid., 128; Virginia G. Berry, “The Second Crusade,” in Setton, Crusades, 1:499. 42  WT 19.8, p. 873; Nikita Elisséeff, Nur ad-Din: un grand prince musulman de Syrie au temps des croisades (511–569h./1118–1174), 3 vols. (Damascus, 1967) 2:574. 43  WT 19.9, p. 875. 44  RHGF, 16:61–62; PL 155:13. 45  Sidney Painter, “The Lords of Lusignan in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries,” Speculum 32 (1957): 41; Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 191; Jacques Duguet, Familles et châteaux dans le comté de Poitiers (Poitou, Aunis, Saintonge) du XIe siècle au XIIIe siècle (Rochefort, 2009), 130; Philip D. Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre (Leiden, 2015), 72. 46  Cart Hosp, 4:249.

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of some fame in the Holy Land as even Ernoul, not exactly a Lusignan supporter, wrote “Don on parla de se prouece par toute Crestiienté, qui si boins chevaliers fu.”47 Poitevin Rebellion and Overseas Fortune In 1168, there was a Poitevin rebellion against King Henry II in which Geoffrey, Aimery and Guy of Lusignan took part. In the course of this uprising the king destroyed the castle of Lusignan.48 In retaliation, the royal commander, Count Patrick of Salisbury was killed by Guy in a Poitevin ambush.49 This was an act of treason, aggravated by the fact that Patrick was on his way home from a pilgrimage, unarmed and stabbed in the back.50 The following year, Hugh the Brown (who is not given a number),51 Hugh VIII’s eldest child and father of Hugh IX, died. He was also the older brother of Geoffrey, Guy and Aimery. However, at his burial, only his mother, Bourgogne, and his cousins, Simon and William of Lezay, and Geoffrey were present.52 Two years later, in 1171, Hugh VIII came back to Poitou and made a gift to the abbey of the Châtelliers.53 But all his sons except Geoffrey disappear from the sources record only to surface again in the Holy Land during the next decade (Aimery, Guy and two other brothers, as we will see).54 It was usual for murderers and important rebels to go to Jerusalem on pilgrimage to expiate their crimes.55 Roger of Howden states that on account of the aforementioned murder Guy was banished from Aquitaine and took the cross.56 In the case of the Lusignan brothers, it is possible that they were sent to manage their father’s lands in Tripoli after he returned to Poitou. The return of Hugh VIII, who was always faithful to Henry II, may well explain both the quick rebuilding of the castle and, from this period, the faithfulness of the main Lusignan branch (Hugh IX and Ralph) compared to the turbulent behaviour of the younger branches (Geoffrey, house of Lezay).57 47 

Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. Louis de Mas-Latrie (Paris, 1871), 60. Robert de Torigny, Chronique, ed. Léopold Delisle, 2 vols. (Rouen, 1873), 2:4; John of Salisbury, The Letters of John of Salisbury: The Later Letters (1163–1180), ed. W. J. Millor and Christopher N. L. Brooke (Oxford, 1979), 602. 49  Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols., RS 51 (London, 1868), 1:274. 50  Marie-Aline de Mascureau, “Les Lusignan ou l’insurrection des grands féodaux du duché d’Aquitaine entre 1154 et 1242” (Postgraduate dissertation [M2], Université de Poitiers, 2000), 45–46. 51  Several members of the Lusignan family were called “Hugh the Brown” (see Fig. 4). 52  Cartulaire et chartes de l’abbaye de l’Absie, ed. Bélisaire Ledain (Poitiers, 1895), 132. 53  Cartulaire de l´abbaye royale de Notre-Dame des Châtelliers, ed. Louis Duval (Niort, 1872), 80–81. 54  A charter from Count Richard is witnessed by Guy of Lusignan but there are very serious doubts about its authenticity. See Layettes du trésor des chartes, ed. Alexandre Teulet, 5 vols. (Paris, 1863), 1:114–15. Furthermore, Guy of Lusignan is named along with Geoffrey in a list of rebel barons against Henry II in 1173 in the Gesta regis Henrici secundi, ed. William Stubbs, RS, 2 vols. (London, 1867), 1:46. This testimony is not very reliable because logically, if Guy had stayed in Poitou, Henry would have taken vengeance against him. 55  de Mascureau, “Les Lusignan,” 45–47. 56  Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. Stubbs, 1:274. 57  de Mascureau, “Les Lusignan,” 142. 48 



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Fig. 1 The lawful heirs of the count of Tripoli.

In the Holy Land, Aimery of Lusignan was captured and redeemed in 1174 by the king of Jerusalem. According to John of Ibelin, he was a poor varlet at this time.58 But John of Ibelin is not a reliable source because he wrote a century after the facts and he belonged to a family hostile to the Lusignans. In fact, we should think that the Lusignans had very good reasons to seek their fortune in the Near East, notably because they had, as we already said, lands belonging to their father. They were a well-known crusading family and, in his contemporary History, William of Tyre described Hugh VI and Hugh VIII’s endeavours to defend the Holy Land.59 Furthermore, they were cousins of Count Raymond III of Tripoli and, as long as he had no child, they were also among his lawful heirs as the princes of Antioch, because both lineages descended through Almodis de la Marche (see Fig. 1). This was well-known in the kingdom of Jerusalem at this time and William of Tyre takes care to mention that the grandfather of Aimery and Guy, Hugh VI, and the founding count of Tripoli, Raymond IV, were brothers.60 Yet Raymond III was captured at Harim and remained a prisoner until early 1174. At this point it is interesting to note that Hugh VIII named the daughter he had in the Holy Land 58 

John of Ibelin, Le Livre des Assises, ed. Peter W. Edbury (Leiden, 2003), 684. WT 10.19, 19.8, pp. 477, 873. 60  WT 10.19, p. 477. 59 

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Fig. 2 Hugh VIII, his descendants and the county of Tripoli.

Almodis, an unusual choice for the Lusignan family but a decision that could show Hugh VIII contemplated taking over the county if Raymond died in captivity or without an heir (see Fig. 2).61 Ransomed in 1174, Aimery of Lusignan appears in a royal charter dated 13 December.62 At the same time, another brother, Peter, who probably travelled out alongside him, was with the count of Tripoli.63 It seems plausible that the ransom paid by the king of Jerusalem attracted Aimery to his service, not least because his other brothers remained in the county of Tripoli. Indeed, the following year, King Baldwin had Aimery marry Eschiva, daughter of Baldwin of Ibelin, lord of Ramla.64 Ernoul repeats a rumour that Aimery also became the lover of Agnes of Courtenay, mother of King Baldwin IV and because of this influence he was appointed constable of Jerusalem.65 Yet, in 1177, William of Montferrat, husband of Sibylla, heiress of the kingdom, died. Baldwin tried to marry his sister to the duke of Burgundy. According to Ernoul, she fell in love with Baldwin of Ramla and would have married him had he not been taken prisoner. While poor Baldwin was trying to gather his ransom, Aimery used his intimate relationship with Agnes

61 

Cart Hosp, 4:249. Ibid., 321. 63  Ibid., 319–20. 64  Ibid., 336. 65  Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. de Mas-Latrie, 59. 62 



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to praise his brother Guy, to collect him from Poitou and to get him married to Sibylla.66 There are some major problems with this account. First, we saw that Guy left Poitou because of Patrick of Salisbury’s murder so he was probably already in the county of Tripoli at this time. This is more logical because Aimery would not have had the time to praise his brother, go to Poitou and back and marry him off before Baldwin of Ramla returned from a diplomatic mission in Constantinople (1180). Moreover, William of Tyre provides a different explanation for the rapidity of the marriage. According to him, it was because Baldwin IV was afraid of being dethroned by the prince of Antioch and the count of Tripoli who came to Jerusalem on pilgrimage.67 This needs some analysis: first, there was no time to go to Poitou if the decision of the king came so suddenly although there were ongoing negotiations with the duke of Burgundy; this also means that Guy was already in Outremer. Secondly, even though Aimery had certainly helped to encourage the decision, it was quite logical to choose Guy. As we saw, he was a kinsmen of the prince and the count. He could aspire to their inheritance so he had the rank to marry Sibylla. He also had prestige thanks to his crusader ancestors and because of his interests in Tripoli’s inheritance; he was concerned to protect King Baldwin against Count Raymond. But William of Tyre, who favoured the count, disapproved of Sibylla’s choice. He hated the Courtenays, Agnes and Joscelin, he was contemptuous of their ally Guy, and had the greatest admiration for their opponent Raymond. Smail has shown how reading William of Tyre and Ernoul without considering their respective political stances has influenced scholars’ vision of the loss of Jerusalem.68 Guy’s appointment further divided the kingdom between the two parties. As noted earlier, scholars have usually set up a “poulain” party with Count Raymond, Prince Bohemond and the Ibelins, who strove to remain close to the throne by marriage ties. They opposed the party of crusaders and recent arrivals in Jerusalem with Joscelin of Courtenay, seneschal of Jerusalem, his sister, Agnes, the mother of King Baldwin, the constable Aimery, Patriarch Eraclius, the master of the Templars, Gerard of Ridefort and Reynald, the prince of Antioch.69 In reality, however, this binary does not work; it is more accurate to describe it as division between those who had the power in Jerusalem and the barons separate from the king, against whom Baldwin feared losing his crown.70

66 

Ibid., 57–60. WT 22.1, p. 1007. 68  Raymond C. Smail, “The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan, 1183–87,” in Outremer, 159–76, at 162–64. Peter W. Edbury and John G. Rowe, William of Tyre, Historian of the Latin East (Cambridge, 1988), 17–18. Edbury, “Propaganda and Faction,” 174–76. 69  Marshall W. Baldwin, Raymond III of Tripolis and the Fall of Jerusalem (1140–1187) (Princeton, 1936), 35–45. His interpretation has been heavily criticized by Smail, “The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan,” 160–61, and Edbury, “Propaganda and Faction,” 173–76. 70  WT 22.1, p. 1007. 67 

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Guy married Sibylla on 20 April 1180.71 He became count of Jaffa and Ascalon, which was the title used by the heirs of Jerusalem’s crown.72 From 1 March 1181 to 1183, Guy witnessed five charters of King Baldwin with his brother Aimery. In 1183, the king’s illness meant that Guy became the regent of the kingdom. William of Tyre stated that Baldwin took a lot of precautions to avoid the loss of his crown and that the kingdom’s barons were discontented with this choice.73 When Guy later become king of Jerusalem, his only known charter before the Battle of Hattin was a confirmation of the marriage between William of Valence, another very little-known Lusignan brother, and Beatrice of Courtenay, daughter of the seneschal Joscelin. William became lord of the castles of Toron, Châteauneuf and Cabor, which Joscelin had acquired, thanks to Guy, from Humphrey of Toron.74 Thus, the brother of the king became the guardian of several important castles on the northern frontier of the kingdom. But these were also castles which separated the county of Tripoli from the lordship of Tiberias which comprised the two main estates of Count Raymond. Guy was reinforcing his position in his kingdom which, through carefully constructed marriage ties and family connections, was becoming a Lusignan kingdom (see Fig. 3). Guy’s Misfortune Unfortunately for Guy, the Battle of Hattin quickly brought his reign to an end, but the roots of this disaster can be traced back to the beginning of his authority over the kingdom. When he was named regent, the first challenge he had to face was an immediate invasion by Saladin in 1183. The strategy adopted was quite traditional: namely, gathering troops near the enemy, maintaining control over the water sources and remaining on the defensive. William of Tyre echoes the critical attitude of the barons and the army.75 Smail, however, points to the way that al-Qādi al-Fāḏil, Imād al-Dīn and Bahāʼ al-Dīn all suggest that Saladin wanted to trigger a battle with the Franks, but was unable to do so because of their strong defensive position. It is probable that the decision not to engage Saladin was made by Guy and the nobility, but it was the former who bore the brunt of subsequent discontent.76 Because of this decision he became very unpopular and was seen as an incompetent man. The prince, the count, Reynald of Sidon, Baldwin of Ramla and Balian of Ibelin exploited this unpopularity to engineer Guy’s dismissal from the regency and exclusion from the throne by King Baldwin IV thanks to the coronation of 71 

Ibid. Benedict of Peterborough [= Roger of Howden], Gesta regis Henrici secundi Benedicti abbatis, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols., RS 49 (London, 1867), 1:343. See also S. Tibble, Monarchy and Lordships in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1099–1291 (Oxford, 1991), 38–40, 50–51. 73  WT 22.26, p. 1049. See also Bernard Hamilton, The Leper King and His Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge, 2000), 189. 74  Mayer, Urkunden, 2:801–3, no. 475. 75  WT 22.30, p. 1057. 76  Smail, “The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan,” 165–71. 72 



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Fig. 3 The integration of the Lusignans in the family network of the Latin East.

his nephew, Baldwin V.77 A number of political checks were imposed on Guy around this time in spite of his heading up a successful strategy.78 According to the Christian writers he was responsible for a failure to engage with Saladin and the barons used this scenario to outmanoeuvre Guy.79 The winner of the situation was Count Raymond who replaced Guy as regent.80 Nevertheless, when Baldwin IV and then Baldwin V died, Sibylla and his party succeeded in crowning Guy as king of Jerusalem, and Raymond of Tripoli rebelled and allied himself with Saladin against the new king until they made peace.81 It is almost certain that this experience affected Guy when he came to decide on a course of action in 1187. Scholars have noticed very similar beginnings in the campaigns of 1183 and 1187.82 In 1183, Guy took the correct decision but paid a high political price for this. Four years later, he was the king and he could not afford to make another mistake so he decided to ignore Count Raymond’s advice. Indeed, Raymond was the main challenger to his crown, a rebel until a few months earlier and an ally of Saladin, and he counselled the king to adopt the same strategy 77 

WT 22.30, p. 1058; Hamilton, The Leper King, 205-10. Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. de Mas-Latrie, 116–17. 79  Edbury, “Propaganda and Faction,” 178. 80  Smail, “The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan,” 172–73. 81  Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. de Mas-Latrie, 131–35. 82  René Grousset, Histoire des croisades, tome II: l’équilibre (Paris, 1935; repr. 1991), 728. 78 

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that had nearly caused his ruin.83 On the one hand, it was normal that the new king needed to assert himself given the political divisions in the kingdom and on the other hand, it was quite understandable that some accused Raymond of giving deliberately misleading advice and that King Guy believed them.84 The Loss of a Crown and Failure of a Dream Redemption for the Disaster at Hattin After the disaster of Hattin the image of an incompetent Guy is less sustainable. At first, because a majority of the barons had been killed or captured at Hattin, and Raymond of Tripoli died soon afterwards, there was no opposition in the kingdom and everybody recognized Guy and Sibylla as king and queen of Jerusalem.85 The Continuation of William of Tyre stated that Conrad of Montferrat was recognized as lord of that city to defend it while the king was in prison.86 Indeed, while Ernoul and other of William of Tyre’s continuators give us the baronial explanation for the fall of the kingdom, we can discern the Lusignan point of view through a text from the cleric Peter of Blois. Emissary of Henry II of England, he was sent to Rome to talk with the pope. He was profoundly shocked by the fall of Jerusalem and wrote various texts that discussed conversion, personal spirituality, as well as a call for a new crusade.87 Around 1188, he wrote the Passio Reginaldi which is the story of Reynald of Châtillon, former prince of Antioch, beheaded by Saladin after Hattin.88 At first, this text was followed by a call to a bishop to preach the crusade and it was intended to help the archbishop of Canterbury on Peter of Blois’s return to England.89 Soon afterwards though, Peter went on crusade with the English army and he modified his text mainly because he met Aimery of Lusignan who had been captured with Reynald and Guy, and from whom Peter was able to affirm that his Passio was a faithful account of the events.90 As a consequence, we should consider the text of the Passio as the Lusignan point of view on the disaster 83  On the battle of Hattin, see Benjamin Z. Kedar, “The Battle of Hattin Revisited,” in Horns, 190–207; Zvi Gal, “Saladin’s Dome of Victory at the Horns of Hattin,” ibid., 213–15. 84  Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. de Mas-Latrie, 158–61. 85  The Chronicle of the Third Crusade: The Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, trans. Helen J. Nicholson (Aldershot, 1997), 69. 86  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. Margaret Ruth Morgan (Paris, 1982), 89. 87  Egbert Türk, Pierre de Blois, ambitions et remords sous les Plantagenêts (Turnhout, 2006), 210–12. 88  Peter of Blois, Petri Blesensis tractatus duo, Passio Raginaldi principis Antiochie, Conquestio de dilatione vie Ierosolimitane, ed. R. B. C. Huygens (Turnhout, 2002). 89  Türk, Pierre de Blois, 212–13. 90  Peter of Blois, Petri Blesensis tractatus duo, ed. Huygens, 51. R. W. Southern, “Peter of Blois and the Third Crusade,” in Studies in Medieval History presented to R. H. C. Davis, ed. H. Mayr-Harting and R. I. Moore (London, 1985), 215–17. John D. Cotts, The Clerical Dilemma: Peter of Blois and Literate Culture in the Twelfth Century (Washington, 2009), 228–30.



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of Hattin and as a way found by Aimery to spread a favourable version of the event across Christendom. Peter of Blois’s account was a huge compilation of biblical quotations which aimed to identify Reynald of Châtillon with the Biblical Jonathan in his fighting and with Jesus Christ in his passion. He shows how Reynald underwent a progressive conversion that made him a real Soldier of Christ and later a Martyr of Christ by exalting his purity of heart, his humility, his voluntary poverty, and his attachment to penitence. Reynald was an intrepid hero who sacrificed his life with an extraordinary confession of faith which led to his death at the hands of Saladin. He was, therefore, the opposite of the indifferent barons of Europe who do not care about Holy Land.91 For true crusaders, material concerns should have no importance compared to those of a spiritual nature.92 From the perspective of this text, Hattin becomes something different from a simple military disaster. It was an act of divine grace which showed the way forward for Christians through the example of the new saints, the new martyrs. Christendom is summoned to gather itself against Saladin who is called the Antichrist, a tyrant and a minister of Satan. People were urged to follow in the footsteps of the martyrs of Hattin to recover Jerusalem and defeat Saladin’s army. This text could be interpreted as a Lusignan manifesto after Guy and Aimery’s liberation because it was consistent with what they did. In Antioch and later in Tripoli, Guy and Aimery gathered forces (around 600 knights) to attempt to reconquer the kingdom.93 When they came to Tyre, Conrad of Montferrat refused them entrance. All chroniclers except for Ernoul, who abstains from comment, stressed the treacherous behaviour of the marquis and accused him of greed.94 Ambroise and the Itinerarium report that, because the Pisans in Tyre refused to betray the king and rebelled against Conrad, they were thrown out of the city by his men.95 Rather than fight against Conrad and thereby further divide the feeble forces of the kingdom, Guy choose to leave Tyre and besiege Acre.96 This was the expected behaviour from a Christian soldier ready to die as Peter of Blois depicts him in his Passio. Conrad of Montferrat appears in those chronicles as a treacherous, selfish man who wanted only to be the master of his city. By contrast, Guy had become humble thanks to his defeat, as well as courageous, and he had not hesitated to 91 

Peter of Blois, Petri Blesensis tractatus duo, ed. Huygens, 64. Michel Markowski, “Peter of Blois and the conception of the Third Crusade,” in Horns, 264. 93  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, ed. Morgan, 88–89; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 69. 94  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, ed. Morgan, 89; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 69; Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte: The History of the Holy War, ed. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber (Woodbridge, 2003), vv. 2706–7, 2718, 2723. 95  Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 2732–35; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 69–70. 96  Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 2737–81; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 70. 92 

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besiege Acre which was a very strong place. His only thought was to recover the Holy Land.97 A New Hero: Geoffrey of Lusignan At Antioch, Guy and Aimery found their brother Geoffrey whom they had left behind in Poitou. He seems to have had problems similar to those experienced by his brothers. In 1188, during a revolt, Geoffrey of Lusignan killed a close friend of Count Richard of Poitou. To keep his life, he had to take the cross and go to the Holy Land.98 He arrived in time to bring support to his brother and to the kingdom. This good timing immediately gained him the favour of Guy’s army.99 He came perhaps with his younger nephew, Ralph of Exoudun, Hugh the Brown’s son, who is mentioned by Ralph of Diceto as taking part in the siege of Acre.100 Geoffrey is presented in contemporary sources like a real hero, behaving with skill and bravery in the Holy Land.101 According to the chroniclers of the Third Crusade, he became very popular and was seen as burning to avenge his brother’s defeat and to fight for the Christian cause.102 From the first engagement of the siege of Acre, he won fame in defending the army.103 On 4 October 1190, King Guy attacked the Saracens but was defeated. When Geoffrey, who was in charge of defending the crusader camp, saw this he came to fight and save his brother. His arrival triggered a change of momentum and the crusaders eventually triumphed.104 On 11 November, the besieged made a sortie but Geoffrey, with the Knights Templar and other knights, succeeded in repulsing them and killing forty men.105 On 15 November, a part of the crusader army who were bringing back supplies became separated from the crusader camp as the Muslims took position on the bridge of Da’uq. Geoffrey and five other knights charged onto the bridge, killed

97 

La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, ed. Morgan, 89. For the siege of Acre, see J. D. Hosler, The Siege of Acre, 1189–91 (London, 2017). 98  Ralph of Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, ed. William Stubbs, Radulfi de Diceto decani Lundoniensis opera historica: The Historical Works of Master Ralph de Diceto, Dean of London, 2 vols., RS 68 (London, 1876), 2:54–55. 99  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, ed. Morgan, 88. 100  Ralph of Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, 2:80. 101  Geoffrey’s strength had already been noticed in France as is reported by Guillaume le Breton, Philippide, Oeuvres, ed. Henri-François Delaborde, 2 vols. (Paris, 1885), 73, and by Jean le Long, Ex Joannis Iperii chronico Sythiensi Sancti-Bertin, ed. Léopold Delisle, RHGF 23:596. 102  Jacques de Vitry, Histoire orientale, ed. and trans. Jean Donnadieu (Turnhout, 2008), 446; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 69. 103  Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 2830–33; Alberic of TroisFontaines, Ex chronico Alberici Trium-Fontium monachi, ed. Léopold Delisle, RHGF 18:751. 104  Jacques de Vitry, Histoire orientale, ed. and trans. Donnadieu, 450; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 81. 105  Roger of Howden, Gesta regis Henrici secundi, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols., RS 49 (London, 1867), 2:144.



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more than thirty men and opened the way to the other troops.106 On 1 July 1191, Geoffrey halted an assault on the camp killing more than ten Saracens with his axe and took numerous prisoners; his actions were compared to the heroes of old, Roland and his friend Oliver.107 After Sibylla and her children died at the end of August 1190, Guy’s position became quite ambiguous.108 He was the crowned king of Jerusalem but henceforth his claim was weakened because Conrad of Montferrat, who had secured the support of King Philip of France during the latter’s stay in the East, married Isabella, the sister of Sibylla, on 24 November 1190.109 Guy appealed to Richard the Lionheart who decided to back his formerly rebellious vassal. It is plausible that Richard had experienced so many problems with the Lusignan brothers in Poitou that he preferred they should stay in the Holy Land, especially as he had good relationships with the new lords of Lusignan, Guy and Geoffrey’s nephews: Hugh IX, who came on crusade with him, and Ralph, whom he made count of Eu in 1191.110 Finally an agreement was reached between Conrad and Guy, although in some senses, the winner in all this was Geoffrey. He became count of Jaffa and Ascalon, the customary title of the heirs of the kingdom. The agreement of 27 July 1190 stated that Conrad would keep Tyre, Sidon and Beirut and that he would became king if Guy died before him. Guy, however, remained king for the present and the devolution of the counties to Geoffrey allowed him to use his brother’s popularity in the army.111 The heroic image of Geoffrey was the best argument to keep the kingdom under a Lusignan king. Aimery, however, was less prominent, although still a powerful office-holder. Between 31 January 1191 and 13 October 1192, Geoffrey, titled count of Jaffa, and Aimery, as constable, witnessed three charters of their brother Guy.112 The Crown is Lost but the Crusade Continues Nevertheless, in April 1192 King Richard received such bad news from England regarding the administration of the kingdom by his brother John that he decided to go home. Given the strong baronial opposition to Guy’s power, he appointed Conrad of Montferrat as king. Before arriving in Holy Land, Richard had conquered

106  De Expugnatione terrae sanctae per Saladinum, libellus, ed. Joseph Stevenson (London, 1875), 255–56; Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 4061–79; The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 120. 107  The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 206. 108  Ibid., 102; Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 3891–902. 109  Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 1701–31. 110  Ibid., v. 4989–95; Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Saint-Michel du Tréport, ed. Pierre Lafleur de Kermaingant (Paris, 1880), 88–90. 111  The Chronicle of the Third Crusade, trans. Nicholson, 22; Ambroise, L’Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. Ailes and Barber, vv. 5033–59. 112  Mayer, Urkunden, 2.825–35, nos. 485–86, 488.

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Cyprus, and Guy played a part in this conquest.113 Richard sold the island to the Knights Templar for 100,000 bezants but, on the one hand, they paid only 40,000 bezants and, on the other hand, they had serious difficulties in administrating it, which led to an uprising on 4 April 1192.114 As compensation for the loss of the kingdom of Jerusalem, Guy repaid the 40,000 bezants to the Templars and took possession of Cyprus. There is no evidence that he paid the remaining 60,000 bezants to Richard – something which led John Gillingham to the conclusion that Richard gave the island to Guy.115 It was the end of the Lusignan dream in Palestine. Geoffrey was not interested in keeping his counties without remaining heir to the kingdom and he chose to return to Poitou.116 Aimery had to give up his office of constable and went to join Guy who gave him the office of constable of Cyprus while he also succeeded Geoffrey in the counties.117 When Guy died on Cyprus, in April 1194, the lordship of the island was offered to Geoffrey but as he had returned to Poitou, he did not want to come back to the East.118 Thus we can see that Geoffrey’s heroic image gave him preference over his brother Aimery and it was only thanks to the former’s refusal that Aimery became ruler of Cyprus (and the ancestor of the Lusignan kings who ruled this island down to 1489). That said, Guy, who had been considered a weak and incompetent man, succeeded in establishing a strong government on Cyprus, an achievement cast in even better light by recent failures to rule the island on the part of English and then Templar administrators.119 We saw at the start of this article how the Lusignans had been engaged in the crusading movement from its earliest days. This involvement would continue beyond Guy, Geoffrey and Aimery’s generation; indeed, Hugh IX and his brother Ralph of Exoudun were in Richard the Lionheart’s army on the Third Crusade. We also saw that Hugh IX took part in the crusade against the Almohads in 1212. He returned to the East for the Fifth Crusade and died in 1219 at Damietta.120 His son, Hugh X, took the cross in 1245.121 Like his father, he would die in Damietta, 113 

Peter W. Edbury, “Crusaders and Pilgrims: The Conquest of Cyprus in 1191,” in Byzantine Medieval Cyprus, ed. Demetria Papanikola-Bakirtzis (Nicosia, 1998), 27–34. 114  Peter W. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191–1374 (Cambridge, 1991), 28. 115  John Gillingham, Richard I (London, 1999), 196–97. 116  Wipertus Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, Les Lusignan de Chypre (Nicosia, 1980), 94; Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 29; Gilles Grivaud, “Les Lusignan et leur gouvernance du royaume de Chypre (XIIe–XIVe siècles),” in Europäische Governance im Spätmittelalter, Heinrich VII von Luxemburg und die großen Dynastien Europas, ed. Michel Pauly (Luxembourg, 2010), 361–62. 117  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, ed. Morgan, 159. 118  Ibid., 161. 119  Smail, “The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan,” 164; Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 29; Jean Richard, “Les révoltes chypriotes de 1191–1192 et les inféodations de Guy de Lusignan,” Montjoie, 123–28. 120  Chartes et documents pour servir à l’histoire de l’abbaye de Saint-Maixent, ed. Richard, 2:38–39; and Bernard Itier, Chronique, ed. Jean-Loup Lemaître (Paris, 1998), 59. 121  Jean de Joinville, Vie de saint Louis, trans. Jacques Monfrin (Paris, 2010), 54–55; Les registres d’Innocent IV, ed. Elie Berger, 4 vols. (Paris, 1897), 1:564; Recueil des documents de l’abbaye de Fontaine-le-comte (XIIe–XIIIe siècles), ed. Georges Pon (Poitiers, 1982), 82–86.



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thirty years later, on 5 June 1249.122 In 1247, his son, Guy of Lusignan, lord of Cognac, took the cross.123 His elder brother, Hugh XI, also took part in the Seventh Crusade, in the contingent of Alphonse of Poitiers.124 He died on the crusade and his service was taken up by his brother Guy.125 In 1250, William of Valence took the cross with the king of England and other English lords.126 He finally went on crusade with Prince Edward in 1270.127 His nephew, Hugh XII, took the cross in 1267, also participated in the Eighth Crusade in the French contingent and died in Tunis.128 William of Valence perhaps wanted to crusade in the 1290s but as he was too old, it was probably his son, Aymer of Valence, who went (see Fig. 4).129 Most astonishing of all is that there is no mention in the sources of any contacts between the members of the two branches of the Lusignan family after Guy’s death. The Lusignans of Poitou continued to involve themselves in crusading expeditions but without any apparent link to their cousins on Cyprus. Conclusion To conclude, the Lusignans were not weak foreign knights ignorant of the realities of Palestine when Aimery and Guy became important personalities in the politics of the Latin kingdom. The participation of this family in the crusades was evident since the beginning of the movement and was preceded by familial involvement in warfare against Muslims in the Iberian peninsula. Aimery and Guy are seen as the heirs of a glorious name in the Latin chronicles of William of Tyre and Ernoul. They are linked to the most powerful families of the Latin East, and they could aspire to be heirs of the count of Tripoli and the prince of Antioch. They pursued a policy which relied on using familial connections, especially through their brothers, to strengthen their position in the kingdom. By these means, they tried to reproduce in Palestine the way they had built up their family’s power in Poitou. In the event, political opposition in the kingdom and Guy’s traumatic experiences towards the end of King Baldwin IV’s reign led quickly to the disaster of Hattin. Then Guy and the whole family tried to redeem themselves by creating an image as crusading Christians, motivated primarily by spiritual ideals, determined to fight 122 

Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. Henry R. Luard, 7 vols., RS 57 (London, 1880), 5:88. Les registres d’Innocent IV, ed. Berger, 1:616. 124  Cartulaire des comtes de la Marche et d’Angoulême, ed. Georges Thomas (Angoulême, 1934), 33–36. 125  Gaël Chenard, “L’Administration d’Alphonse de Poitiers en Poitou et en Saintonge (1241– 1271),” 4 vols. (PhD thesis, Université de Poitiers, 2014), 2:76–77. 126  Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. Luard, 5:101. 127  Huw Ridgeway, “William de Valence and his ‘familiares’, 1247–72,” Historical Research 158 (1992): 245. 128  Chenard, “L’Administration d’Alphonse de Poitiers,” 1:100; Les olim ou registres des arrêts rendus par la cour du roi, ed. Jacques C. Beugnot, 4 vols. (Paris, 1839), 1:854–55. 129  Nobility and Kingship in Medieval England: The Earls and Edward I, 1272–1307, ed. Andrew M. Spencer (Cambridge, 2013), 225. 123 

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Fig. 4 The Lusignans, a major crusading dynasty.

to reconquer Christian lands, and as heroic fighters, most notably, in the case of Geoffrey of Lusignan. Although they tried to exploit this iconic figure by giving him the position of heir to the kingdom, they failed to maintain their power. This triggered a major family break-up. One branch went to Cyprus with Guy, and after him Aimery, effectively ruling the island to the point where it could later take again the crown of Jerusalem. The other branch became important in Poitou and in England but without ceasing to be participants in the crusades. Guy’s misfortunes should not obscure the efforts of others in the family. We should recognize the role played by the wider Lusignan family during the age of the crusades, a commitment that spanned over two centuries – and one that means they should be acknowledged as a major crusading dynasty.

Ending and Starting Crusades at the Council of Basel Norman Housley University of Leicester [email protected] Abstract Two major items relating to crusading dominated much of the work of the council of Basel (1431‒49). In the first place, the conciliar fathers succeeded in bringing to an end the disastrous sequence of crusades against the Hussites (1420‒31). This was a remarkable success, and the extensive and tortuous negotiations which brought it about are instructive on how fundamental disagreements about religious belief and practice were discussed, and compromises eventually worked out. Secondly, the council engaged with the issue of Church Union with the Greeks, and the closely associated topic of a crusade against the Turks. On both it failed, and the decision by Cardinal Giuliano Cesarini to abandon the council in January 1438 signalled not just the start of the council’s own decline, but also its effective withdrawal from the debate about Union and crusade. The initiative was seized by Pope Eugenius IV, whose achievement of Union in July 1439 was followed by an intensive programme of crusading activity. The relationship between the defeat of reforming aspirations and the papal strategy of redirecting energy towards Union and crusade is discussed. So too is Basel’s claim, under Cesarini’s forceful leadership, that it could authorize and manage crusading measures without reference to papal authority. Cesarini’s contribution is emphasized, and his service to the council is viewed as no less significant than his service to the papal court, bolstering the argument that he was one of the key figures in fifteenth-century crusading.

Few scholars would associate the council of Basel (1431‒49) with crusading. Johannes Helmrath, who did so much to establish a contemporary research agenda for this great assembly, dismissed the topic with a few lines and a footnote.1 It is not hard to see why. In conciliar history Basel falls between Constance, which witnessed the dramatic collision between the Poles and Teutonic Knights over the history and future of the Baltic crusade, and Ferrara/Florence, which brought about the Union of the estranged Churches of East and West, and paved the way for the disastrous Varna crusade. But this is unfair to the thousands of churchmen2 who met and debated at Basel for so many years. For it was the council of Basel that brought 1  Johannes Helmrath, Das Basler Konzil, 1431‒1449: Forschungsstand und Probleme (Cologne, 1987), 183 inc. n. 10. 2  3,500 according to Helmrath’s estimate in “Diffusion des Humanismus und Antikerezeption auf den Konzilien von Konstanz, Basel und Ferrara/Florenz,” in Die Präsenz der Antike im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Ludger Grenzmann et al. (Göttingen, 2004), 9‒54, at 13.

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to a close the sequence of Hussite crusades and refocused attention on the East. The wealth of surviving documentation bequeathed by “this brilliant essay in republican government”3 allows us to view the detailed discussion which accompanied this major development in strategic thinking. How and why did it come about? What issues, theoretical and practical, lay behind it? What was the interaction between the council’s views on the crusade and its tortuous relationship with Eugenius IV? And what role was played by Cardinal Giuliano Cesarini, who preached the last Hussite crusade, presided for several years over Basel’s deliberations as legate and president, and lost his life on the Varna expedition? The Hussite “turn,” 1431‒32 After the humiliating rout of Cesarini’s crusaders at Domažlice (Taus) in August 1431, the failure of the coercive response to the utraquist coalition was crystal clear and so too was the alternative: a settlement on the points at issue, to be negotiated by the recently convened council acting through its envoys, under the authority of Cesarini. This is the usual interpretation of what happened between 1431 and the ratification of the “Compactata (compacts) of Prague” at Jihlava (Iglau) in 1436. The ratification enabled Sigismund, who sixteen years previously had commanded the first crusade, to enter Prague and be crowned as king of Bohemia. In essence it is correct: force had failed so compromise must be pursued. But it is possible to oversimplify the Hussite “turn,” and in so doing underestimate both the extraordinary character of the compacts which followed, and the achievement of the men who brought them about. The five Hussite crusades were not surgical military ventures, but rather the most dramatic instances in over a decade of fighting between the Catholics and utraquists, the so-called bellum cotidianum (daily war), which had been accompanied by brutality, devastation and damaging trade sanctions. Not only was the negotiation of the compactata a theological and diplomatic Everest, but there were alternative approaches which could have been taken and which to some contemporaries seemed preferable to reaching a modus vivendi with heresy. This becomes apparent when we follow the development of Cesarini’s own thinking, and the best guide to this is John of Segovia, whose massive history of the council is one of our most revealing sources.4 The author leaves his readers in no doubt at the start of his Historia that one of the key reasons why Martin V yielded to demands for a council was the unresolved crisis in central Europe: indeed his summary of the painful sequence of events since the first crusade in 1420 is incisive 3 

Antony Black, “What was Conciliarism? Conciliar Theory in Historical Perspective,” in Authority and Power: Studies on Medieval Law and Government, ed. Brian Tierney and Peter Linehan (Cambridge, 1980), 213‒24, at 218, echoing Guarini’s “quasi christianae reipublicae senatus,” cited by Helmrath, “Diffusion,” 9. 4  Monumenta conciliorum generalium saeculi decimi quinti [hereafter MC], 4 vols. (Vienna, 1857‒1935), vols. 2‒4, reaching a total of 2,926 densely typeset pages.



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as well as brutally succinct. Crusade after crusade, legate after legate, supplied with money demanded from the entire Catholic world; a total, so it was said, of 100,000 fighting men sent into action, and all either defeated or shamefully routed.5 John referenced the embargo imposed at Martin’s council of Siena, the atrocities committed by both sides over the years, and, intriguingly, the discovery of an anonymous placard fixed to the door of the papal palace at Rome in November 1430 demanding the calling of a council in March 1431 to deal with the crisis. Historically, it was general councils that locked horns with heresy: if the pope and his cardinals refused to hold one, they would be judged as “assisting heresy” (fautores heresis).6 Whether this incident was indicative of genuine feeling or amounted to leverage from a particularly frustrated and bold conciliarist, it revealed the dilemma that Martin faced. At the end of 1428 the University of Paris had issued a strongly worded exhortation for a general council to meet “as soon as possible” because it was the indispensable forum for the mobilization of Catholic efforts against an expanding Hussite heresy.7 The next general council was already scheduled to meet at Basel,8 and such a meeting would be beyond rapid intervention let alone control by the pope, who had largely steered events at Pavia/Siena. So to maintain influence over it Martin chose Cesarini, a talented man in his early forties. He was a reliable and experienced curialist with a genuine interest in reform, who knew Germany well having accompanied Branda da Castiglione there in 1422‒25. At the same time the legate’s double brief – crusade and council – reflected Martin’s hope that the run of military disasters in Bohemia might finally be broken, in which case the insistent call for council and reform could be circumvented.9 Then came Domažlice and its aftermath of panic and recrimination.10 Cesarini lost no time familiarizing himself with the situation in Germany, not just in terms of the Hussite threat but also more broadly, registering the discontent of the laity with the German Church, which, to give Martin credit, the pope had done his best to reform, given the constraints arising from other priorities.11 On 18 December 1431, 5 

MC, 2:3‒4. MC, 2:4‒5. 7  Dušan Coufal, “Pařížská Univerzita a Husité v letech 1428–1429,” Mediaevalia Historica Bohemica 18 (2015): 205–35, text at 225–33. 8  Urkundenbuch der Stadt Basel, vol. 6, ed. August Huber (Basel, 1902), 176‒77, trans. C. M. D. Crowder in his Unity, Heresy and Reform 1378‒1460: The Conciliar Response to the Great Schism (London, 1977), no. 24, pp. 146‒47; Das Konzil von Pavia-Siena, Band 1: Darstellung, Band 2: Quellen, ed. Walter Brandmüller, 2 vols. (Münster, 1968‒74), 2:84‒85. 9  See Gerald Christianson, Cesarini: The Conciliar Cardinal: The Basel Years, 1431‒1438 (St. Ottilien, 1979), 10‒17; Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, vol. 24 (Rome, 1980), 188‒95. 10  František Šmahel, Die hussitische Revolution, MGH Schriften Band 43, 3 vols. (Hanover, 2002), 3:1497‒521. For updated bibliography and reassessment of the campaign, see Hartmut Spengler, “Der Nürnberger Tag von 1431 und der Beschluss des letzten Hussitenfeldzuges,” Mitteilungen des Vereins fur Geschichte der Stadt Nürnberg 101 (2014): 39–78; Mark Whelan, “Walter von Schwarzenberg and the Fifth Hussite Crusade Reconsidered (1431),” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 122 (2014): 322‒35. 11  Birgit Studt, Papst Martin V. (1417‒1431) und die Kirchenreform in Deutschland (Cologne, 2004). 6 

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the new pope, Eugenius IV, dissolved the council, including among his reasons the fact that it had taken the wholly inexcusable step of inviting condemned heretics to come to talk at Basel. Instead there would be a meeting at Bologna in eighteen months’ time, and its emphasis would be on Union with the Greeks. Already the issue of Union was complicating the situation, alongside the Hussite crisis, the unresolved question of conciliar authority, and the pressing demand for reform. Most of this would have been familiar to churchmen in the thirteenth century who had met at the councils convened at the Lateran and in Lyon: Union and crusade, heresy and reform, had constituted their staple diet. What was new in 1431 was the relationship between pope and council, and this weighed heavily on the shoulders of Cesarini. He was not foolish enough to address it head on, choosing instead to focus on the regional consequences of Eugenius’s high-handed approach towards the council. In addition to being impressed by the uproar the papal dissolution caused amongst the delegates still gathering at Basel, Cesarini viewed Eugenius’s move as disastrous for the health of the faith in central Europe. His concerns found expression in a letter which he sent Eugenius on 13 January 1432, a text which ranks among the most incisive and powerful critiques ever penned by a legate.12 Cesarini took issue with the either/or stance Eugenius adopted in his December letter to the effect that the utraquists were heretics, condemned by Basel’s predecessors at Constance and Siena, who must submit or be crushed. Instead the legate set out a reasoned case which led inexorably in the direction of discussions, and these could only take place at Basel. Cesarini’s letter is effectively presented in three sections. In the first he reviewed the options for coercion. Amidst the uproar which followed Domažlice at Nürnberg, Cesarini had been lobbied by nobles and knights who had been in the army to promote another, larger expedition the following summer; they blamed the humiliation on their princes and would avoid relying on them next time, choosing their own captain instead. But they would need up to 30,000 florins from the Church, and Cesarini had undertaken to try to secure this specie from pope or council. He had assumed that Eugenius would sell liturgical treasures like crosses and chalices to raise the money but in fact he had not even received an answer from Rome. An alternative crusading proposal came from the archbishop of Cologne, Thierry de Mœrs, who referred to Philip of Burgundy’s eagerness to lead a crusade against the heretics.13 A tenth or an even higher tax on the whole Church would be required, but a general council could levy this: the problem with Martin V’s tax for the Hussite crusades was that only the Italians had consented to pay it. Dissolving the council would clearly destroy this possibility.

12 

MC, 2:95‒117. Cesarini had visited Philip while preparing his crusade: MC, 1:72‒74, cited by Christianson, Cesarini, 18‒19. For further details, see Jacques Paviot, Les ducs de Bourgogne, la croisade et l’Orient (fin XIV siècle–XVe siècle) (Paris, 2003), 71. 13 



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In the second part of his critique Cesarini engaged with the problem of the German Church.14 If another crusade was problematic, doing nothing was not an alternative. The “deformed and dissolute condition of Germany’s clergy” was driving the laity to rebel; unless reform was initiated by a general council, or by a provincial council (one covering all Germany) presided over by a legate, bringing an end to the utraquist heresy was pointless because it would quickly be followed by another one. In recent days the Hussites had flooded Germany with pamphlets listing no fewer than thirty articles against Catholic practice, in particular the behaviour of the clergy. Their message found an eager audience, and significantly it was both urban and rural. News had arrived of an uprising against the archbishop and clergy at Magdeburg, and of the expulsion of the bishop of Passau and the siege of his castle. A popular movement in the countryside around Worms – whose peasant followers carried a banner showing the crucified Christ – had narrowly been denied access to the city to despoil its clergy. Within eighteen months the German clergy could be rendered desolate. In the third place, in the absence of military action the way out of the impasse could only be discussions. In this respect both Hussite taunts and Greek démarche powerfully strengthened the argument which Cesarini was constructing. On the one hand, the author of the Hussite propaganda pamphlet was able to taunt that the Catholic hierarchy was afraid to engage in debate. The dissolution of the council would be grist to their mill. “Look, so often armies have fled when faced by [the utraquists], and now the entire Church is doing the same thing. Just see, neither by arms nor by argument can they be overcome.”15 On the other hand, if the Greeks, who had been in schism for 300 years, could be granted a hearing, then why not the utraquists? Why should Christ’s followers in Germany, “now as always faithful,” suffer “on account of the uncertain possibility of the Greeks being reunited?” Why should the burgeoning crisis north of the Alps play second fiddle to “this ballad [cantilena] about the Greeks [which] has been going on for 300 years now, and gets renewed every year?”16 Such rhetorical questions were reported views (item dicunt): ever the pragmatist, willing to apply himself fully to whatever task was entrusted to him, Cesarini was not wedded to the idea of discussion, he simply saw no alternative modus operandi unless there was a strong financial commitment to military action on the part of either pope or council. This could lead him into inconsistency. In a letter to Eugenius on 8 February 1432, when he returned to the case for discussion, and 14  For Cesarini’s grasp of the dangerous situation in Germany, see Birgit Studt, “… Den boesen Unglauben gantz ertilgen? Zur Verknüpfung der causa fidei und der causa reformationis in der antihussitischen Propaganda von Papsttum und Konzil,” in Propaganda, Kommunikation und Öffentlichkeit (11.‒16. Jahrhundert), ed. Karel Hruza (Vienna, 2002), 153‒65, esp. 164. 15  MC, 2:105. See Dušan Coufal’s new edition of the Prague manifesto Gens Boemica (June 1431), with its demand that the utraquists be given an audiencia publica, “Ludus calamorum. Husité, Cesarini a Zikmund před bitvou u Domažlic v novém svĕlte zapadlého pražského manifestu,” Studia Mediaevalia Bohemica 5 (2013): 39–73, at 68–70. 16  MC, 2:105, and cf. 111.

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hence against dissolution, the legate again touched on the sore topic of the Greeks being favoured by the pope with his Bologna proposal: nobody was going to be infected with heresy by the Greeks, as opposed to the utraquists, “whose errors are much more dangerous and infectious.”17 A critic might well have responded that this was the logic behind Eugenius’s approach towards the two groups. The Greeks could be persuaded by their own military plight to see sense, and in this way the strategically crucial city of Constantinople as well as countless Greek souls would be saved; whereas the powerful and insidious threat of utraquism could only be met by force. Cesarini viewed the situation in terms of the task in hand, for which any argument was grist to the mill. This could include the broader perspective which, he knew full well, was driving the papal court’s focus on the East. So, when welcoming the Hussite delegates at Basel on 10 January 1433, the legate included the plight of the Christians in the East at the hands of Turks, Saracens and Tatars. If only the delegates could hear the cries of the captives as wife was divided from husband, father from son; it would propel them towards unity so that the whole of western Christendom could respond.18 These long and spirited letters of 13 January and 8 February 1432 constitute core texts for Cesarini’s thinking, their arguments tailored to the concerns and perspectives which he knew prevailed at the curia. No less important are public texts emanating from Basel which Cesarini either wrote or shaped. Compulit nos caritas, the invitation to the Hussites dated 15 October 1431, was clearly a breakthrough moment,19 but equally significant was a treatise written to justify the invitation, the Tractatus de iustificatione vocationis Bohemorum. In the past this has been attributed to Gilles Charlier, but Olivier Marin has recently put forward a strong case for crediting it to Cesarini.20 In his trenchant analysis of the Tractatus, Marin stressed that the text contains both “questions de principe et considérations pratiques.” Marin points out that the medieval Church never wholly turned its back on discussion with heretics; the Tractatus author could cite jurists and theologians (including Aquinas) on this point. As the pope had written in his dissolution letter, the block on discussion was juridical: if the condemnation of the utraquists at Constance and Siena were overturned, it could be argued that the whole corpus of legislation decreed at the two councils would be at risk. To this the Tractatus opposed what Marin tactfully terms “le principe de réalité,” advancing the same argument that Cesarini used in his letters: there was no alternative. Since condemnation had not worked, another means had to be found to save the imperilled souls of the heretics, “because God does not wish for the death of a sinner” (Ezekiel 33:11).21 Nor was 17 

Ibid., 2:109‒17, at 111. Ibid., 2:299‒316, at 315. 19  Cesarini’s authorship was stated by John of Palomar, reported by Gilles Charlier, MC, 1:404, cited by Olivier Marin, “Pourquoi débattre avec les Hussites: le tournant stratégique Bâlois à la lumière du Tractatus de iustificatione vocationis Bohemorum (1432),” in La Coexistence confessionnelle en France et dans les mondes germaniques du Moyen Âge à nos jours (Lyon, 2014), n. 17. 20  “tout milite en faveur de la candidature de Cesarini”: ibid., at n. 29. 21  Cited by Marin, “Pourquoi débattre,” n. 48. 18 



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Basel doing anything new, for the text listed no fewer than twelve instances of past invitations to condemned heretics, including one major discovery, an invitation to the Donatists in 403 from the bishops of north Africa, at the prompting of no less a figure than St. Augustine.22 Even if both Compulit nos caritas and the Tractatus are indeed Cesarini texts, informed by one man’s experience, diplomatic judgement and resolve to make progress, their significance for the entire assembly at Basel remains unquestionable. In the simplest terms, the council would have been a historical non-event had the papal dissolution of December 1431 succeeded. By riding out this first crisis, the conciliar delegates gained self-confidence, one framed by a confirmation of existing suspicions – inevitable in the light of past events – that the pope was at best an unreliable ally and at worst a potential foe. A further frame for the delegates’ view of their work at Basel was an association with the pressing religious needs of the lands north of the Alps. Cesarini made clever tactical use of this in his letters to Eugenius but that does not mean that the sentiments behind his reported rhetorical questions were not genuine.23 Is it also possible to see in the “turn” of 1431‒32 a rejection of confrontation in favour of discussion, essentially the same belief in the inherent virtue of debate which, it was hoped, would generate the longed-for reform of the Church? In other words, was the council of Basel predisposed to reject the crusade option? This is a more complex issue. By 1431 there was undoubtedly a stronglyfelt revulsion at the atrocities perpetrated by crusaders as well as heretics, and a concomitant yearning for peace and unity.24 Basel’s envoys put the case at its bluntest to the Moravian Catholics at Brno in June 1435, as discussions approached their problematic climax: “[he explained that] by God’s will it proved impossible to destroy this heresy through the material sword. He expatiated on the expeditions which had been carried out, how little or no benefit had resulted, but rather scandal for the Church and its faithful.”25 The associated ideals of peace and unity were constant themes in the discussions between the two sides, and emphasizing Christian peace inevitably dampened bellicosity. It also accorded with the council’s preoccupation with peace-making, which it tried to pursue with a number of secular disputes, above all the Anglo-French war.26 People marvelled at the gentle persuasion used by Cesarini to lure the Hussites to Basel: some declared that his “most sweet letters” were composed by God himself, others that they were penned 22 

Ibid., 12. Cf. Helmrath, Konzil, 51. 24  Even before the council convened, the abbot of Vézelay, an early arrival, argued for “modus reducendi Hussitas ad gremium ecclesie per viam amicabilem, si fieri possit, quae via foret magis Deo grata et animabus ipsorum utilis, si spiritui sancto, qui concilia generalia consuevit dirigere in eis, que sunt fidei, de quo est confidendum, reperiretur”: MC, 1:69, cited by Marin, “Pourquoi débattre,” n. 13. See Šmahel, Revolution, 3:1522‒23, for the utraquists’ hopes that their victory at Domažlice would finally bring peace. 25  MC, 1:570. 26  Helmrath, Konzil, 181‒85. 23 

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in the blood of Christ.27 On the other hand, we shall see that Basel was not turning its back on coercion as a tactical instrument; and we have already viewed Cesarini pondering a renewal of the crusade option in the case of the utraquists, drawing on Basel’s representative authority to levy the hefty tax which would be essential if it was to work.28 Nor was the issue necessarily an either/or one. John of Ragusa reported a suggestion made by some Basel delegates to Cesarini in May 1431 – some weeks before the council actually opened – that the council’s aim should be “the destruction of their [sc. the utraquists’] errors both by spiritual weapons and by material ones,” and that in the event of the legate’s crusade failing, the council should raise an international force, “from every region of Christendom,” so that fear as well as the inspiration of the holy spirit would induce the utraquists to take part in talks.29 In the light of these ideas, it is frustrating that we know so little about the discussions which preceded the issue of Compulit nos caritas, much less than about the discussions on the Greeks to which we shall come later. John of Ragusa draws a discreet veil over the proceedings, mentioning only debate (disceptatio)30 and deliberation (deliberatio) – which is unsurprising – and the circulation of tracts.31 Marin credits the pro-discussion delegation from the University of Paris with influence, though it was surely Cesarini’s personal volte face which counted for most.32 From “turn” to “compactata,” 1432‒36 The texts which we have looked at so far viewed discussion in terms of the utraquists being convinced of the error of their ways. The compactata in contrast granted concessions which amounted to a privileged and unprecedented position within the Catholic community. Given that this went beyond what Cesarini had envisaged in 1431‒32, the question must be asked why the council assented to it, and how far crusade shaped what happened, in terms of the legacy of the warfare of 1420‒31, and the difficulties attaching to the renewed use of armed force. We shall first consider the momentous weeks of January‒April 1433, when a Hussite delegation led by the Taborite field commander Prokop the Great or Bald visited Basel and conducted preliminary negotiations. Then we shall move on to the series of conciliar delegations which visited the Czech and Austrian lands between 1433 and 1436, and from whose labours the compactata finally emerged. We are well 27 

MC, 1:570. In his 8 February 1432 letter to Eugenius, Cesarini also held out the possibility of Sigismund being asked to take military action again if discussions failed: MC, 2:111‒12. 29  MC, 1:76‒77. 30  Disceptatio could imply fierce debate, but it would be wrong to read too much into John of Ragusa’s description, which is bland. 31  MC, 1:113, 135, cited by Marin, “Pourquoi débattre,” n. 15. 32  Ibid., n. 18. 28 



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informed about this entire arc of events; for the Catholic delegations in particular, the diaries kept by participants afford outstanding eyewitness testimony. That the Hussite delegation came to Basel at all was of course a tribute to Cesarini’s success in persuading Eugenius to backtrack on the council’s dissolution, a grudging concession made following the support shown for the council by the major European powers. By January 1433 the papal and conciliar camps were divided by more than just the willingness of the latter to receive the utraquists on terms other than submission: the Cheb (Eger) compacts of May 1432, which were the sine qua non for the Hussites to agree to send delegates, included two clauses which it would have been very difficult for any pope to concede. The first, the judex compactatus, specified that the only criteria for judging the validity of the Four Articles, the central tenets of the utraquists, would be “the law of God, the practice of Christ, the apostles and the primitive Church, with the councils and doctors truly established in it.”33 The implication was that canon law was set aside, just as it was in the safe conduct accorded the delegates. Secondly, the city hosting the debate would be free of mortal sin, not an easy thing to guarantee given the way Church councils attracted prostitutes, wine merchants and people who ran gambling dens.34 If applied to Rome, this demand would have been insulting both to the city and to the papal curia. These features of the Basel talks were significant, but of equal importance for the movement towards peace were two other considerations. The first was the “fresh start factor,” the simple fact that the council had not proclaimed five crusades against the Hussites.35 And the second was the council’s mission of furthering reform. As Charlier put it in his oration at Prague in June 1433, “the council of Basel has sent its angels of peace, including myself, to proclaim the reformation (reformacionem) of the bride of the Lamb in the unity of the spirit, to proclaim unity and peace.”36 This was especially useful for bridge-builders like Heinrich Toker, whose contribution Šmahel emphasized. Toker, a professor of theology at Rostock and canon of Magdeburg, was the probable author of an anonymous memorandum which reiterated in strong terms Cesarini’s insistence on the connection between utraquism and the condition of the Church: “it is impossible to destroy this schism unless the Church of Christ is first reformed, because if the cause remains so too will the effect.” Toker gave a very fine oration at Prague on 20 May 1433 in which he lavished praise on the council, on Prague and on Bohemia. This was a golden opportunity which must not be wasted: “Behold, this is the acceptable time, this is the day of salvation” (2 Cor. 6:2).37 Like Johannes Nider the Dominican prior 33 

The Crusade against Heretics in Bohemia, 1418‒1437, ed. and trans. Thomas A. Fudge (Aldershot, 2002), 346, no. 180. 34  MC, 1:219‒20, and cf. Christianson, Cesarini, 73‒75. 35  Though, as the Hussites pointed out, there were men at Basel who had both been at Constance and were complicit in the launching of the crusades: MC, 1:416. 36  MC, 1:382 37  MC, 1:390‒95, with quote at 394, and cf. ibid., 1:476‒84, with hopes for the spread of the faith “as far as India” at 480.

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of Basel, and Johannes of Gelnhausen the abbot of Maulbronn, Toker grasped the importance of semantic shifts: the neutral term Bohemi should be used, Hussitae avoided, and the term apostasy was preferred to heresy.38 Such linguistic softenings were the essential preliminary to the creation of human relationships which could border on friendship, notably the one that developed between Cesarini and Prokop the Great.39 Much praise was been awarded to Cesarini for the way he conducted the initial Basel negotiations of 1433.40 His opening speech on 10 January 1433 was masterly, his handling of the irascible Prokop tactful, his probing of divisions among the Hussites skilful. All of this is apparent: what is less so is what he was hoping to achieve. An exchange with Prokop when things were at a low ebb, in mid-February, is revealing. “The first thing we need to do,” the Hussite said, “is to agree on essentials.” “Yes indeed,” was the legate’s reply, “otherwise our work will all be in vain.” 41 But it was already clear that such agreement was impossible because even though the Catholics did not resort to canon law, their view of the Church was organic, historicized as we would term it, an approach which the utraquists roundly rejected. Failure was Cesarini’s nightmare, because he could see no money and little appetite for a fresh round of military action. There was a brief revival of the hope that Philip the Good might intervene, encouraged by his envoys at the council, but this came to nothing,42 and the march of the Orphans to the Black Sea in the summer of 1433 was a dramatic reminder of Hussite military prowess.43 The legate had to come up with some way of carrying forward the momentum he had created despite the yawning theological chasm that the Basel discussions revealed. A classic compromise – incorporation, to be followed by further talks creating union – was perceived by the radical wing of the utraquists as a tactical device to muddy the waters. But the moderate Hussites, led by Archbishop Jan Rokycana of Prague, saw that to break off the discussions without any outcome 38  František Šmahel, “Pax externa et interna: Vom Heiligen Krieg zur Erzwungenen Toleranz im hussitischen Böhmen (1419–1485),” in Toleranz im Mittelalter, ed. Alexander Patschovsky and Harald Zimmermann (Sigmaringen, 1998), 221‒73, at 248‒50. 39  Ibid., 252‒53 (noting the warning of the radical New Town preacher Jakob Vlk about people with honey in their mouths and poison in their hearts); Ernest F. Jacob, “The Bohemians at the Council of Basel, 1433,” in Prague Essays, ed. R. W. Seton-Watson (Oxford, 1949), 81‒123, at 90‒92; Christianson, Cesarini, 84‒85. 40  Like Pius II at Mantua in 1459, Cesarini realized that if plenary sessions became bogged down, the way forward was through one-to-one talks: Christianson, Cesarini, 84‒85. Ernest Jacob’s “The Bohemians” remains a classic. 41  MC, 2:312. 42  The envoys renewed the duke’s promises on 3 April 1433 and a Burgundian expedition may be the (unstated) topic of a curious project described in a text dated 31 May: The Crusade against Heretics in Bohemia, trans. Fudge, no. 186, and Paviot, Les ducs, 71. For the circumstances see F. M. Bartoš, The Hussite Revolution 1424‒1437, English edition prepared by John M. Klassen (Boulder, CO, 1986), 96‒97. In Oct. 1432 the council had requested the German princes and cities for advice on what military action might be followed “should it transpire that the Bohemians cannot be brought back into the faith”: Helmrath, Konzil, 356 n. 15. 43  The Crusade against Heretics in Bohemia, trans. Fudge, nos. 187‒89.



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would be disastrous. So it was agreed that a proposal originating with Nicholas of Cusa, conceding the lay chalice but subjecting the other Hussite articles to further debate, should be taken back to Prague.44 Developments within Bohemia now dramatically intervened. The Taborite siege of Plzeň (Pilsen) in 1433‒34 proved to be a major mistake by the radicals, aggravating the country’s war-weariness and inducing in conservative utraquists and Catholics alike the fear that the brotherhoods’ bellicosity and evangelical fervour would derail the movement towards peace.45 John of Palomar in particular perceived the opening for the council to wage a proxy war on the radicals and started to channel money to the Plzeň garrison and Catholic lords like Oldřich (Ulrich) of Rožmberk whose estates had been impoverished. The battle of Lipany on 30 May 1434, when the conservative utraquists crushed the radical brotherhoods, finally ended prospects of another Hussite crusade, at least one that would be directed against the entire utraquist community.46 The radicals’ defeat meant that their modification of the Cusa proposal – that the chalice should be not just permitted but compulsory in Bohemia, with a view to evangelization elsewhere – was abandoned. The diaries of the council’s delegates reveal that in so far as armed force was to be mobilized in Bohemia with the support – above all financial – of the council of Basel, it would be directed against the radicals alone. In his account of the fourth legation (1435) Charlier included an intriguing series of Taborite texts which applied to the defeat the same soul-searching with which Catholics like Andreas of Regensburg had earlier become familiar. God had turned against the brotherhood because of its “sins and disorderliness”; it had abandoned the purity and military discipline practised in the days of Žižka. The radicals must rediscover those ideals because Basel was intent on their destruction. Simon “Fabri vel Kowarz,” one of the iurati, advised his fellows not to trust Sigismund or the antichrists of Basel; “all of Christendom hates us, and is arming itself against us, above all the council of Basel which is assembling a pile of money, constantly striving by all means and with all its will to destroy us.”47 Simon counselled the adoption of delaying tactics until the council had been dissolved and the aged Emperor Sigismund had died, when they could once more engage in holy war, remorseless and effective. “Don’t be afraid of shedding the blood of your enemies, because Judith used prudence and fair words to shed that of Holofernes, freeing the people of God from the clutches of its foes.”48 44 

Christianson, Cesarini, 89‒90. See MC, 1:459‒60, for the perception in Dec. 1433 that, unless the soldiers engaged at Plzeň were demobilized, they would continue to disturb the peace; also ibid., 464, for the log-jam in the negotiating process. 46  Bartoš, Hussite Revolution, 107, 113, 119, for the subsidies: “Palomar … had provided the money which had won the battle on Czech soil with Czech weapons against the armies which had once been led by Žižka and had wrecked five crusades” (119). 47  MC, 1:530. 48  MC, 1:529‒37. 45 

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Reading such advice feels like stepping back a decade, to the time of Martin V’s stream of crusades and Tabor’s holy war. But as Charlier stressed, the texts originated with the veteran warlord Rožmberk, Tabor’s arch-foe: authentic or not, they look like an attempt to flag up the danger of a Taborite revival and so place pressure on the Basel envoys to open their purse strings in exactly the way the iuratus Simon claimed they were already doing.49 Although Tabor did regroup after Lipany,50 it was the Catholics who saw the battle as offering a chance to finish off the radicals. Sigismund himself played with the idea. At the end of August 1434, during a session at Regensburg, he spoke to the council’s envoys about reopening hostilities with the aid of a clerical twentieth (half-tenth). He himself would work for a lay fiftieth in Germany. Rožmberk assured the envoys that “if he was given a subsidy he was willing to do such things that the unbelievers of the kingdom of Bohemia would mend their ways, willy-nilly.”51 The envoys showed interest in the proposal but Sigismund stalled.52 In the spring of 1435 at Vienna, the envoys again came under pressure to guarantee the German twentieth, but they avoided making the commitment.53 Rožmberk specified the need for 3,000 Hungarian florins to carry on the war, “because without it he did not see how he could persist with what he had started.”54 By this point the envoys were aware that the conciliar fathers were engaged in complex discussions about how to raise the funds for Union talks with the Greeks. This presumably influenced their cautious responses, though small sums were found for the anti-Tabor war effort, including 800 ducats which enabled Rožmberk to defeat the radicals at Křeč in August 1435.55 And a twentieth was granted covering some areas, because in May 1436 Nicolas Gramis, recently appointed to administer the Union indulgence, was also given the task of chasing up the negligent collector of this tax, a canon of the Hungarian see of Vác, in the kingdom of Poland and elsewhere.56 It is fair to assume that, both among the conciliar envoys and the Catholics whom they encountered on their travels, opinions about making concessions were varied and evolved over time. Charlier did not conceal the strong opposition to the 49 

Cf. Bartoš, Hussite Revolution, 122. The argument against these texts being a simple anti-Taborite “plant” is the inclusion of a lengthy reply to the hawks by Prokop of Plzeň, a preacher from Prague’s New Town, powerfully urging the continuation of negotiations, among other reasons, because “before we can prevail over the whole of Christendom, we shall all be dead”: MC, 1:533‒36, inc. n. on 533. 50  E.g. The Crusade against Heretics in Bohemia, trans. Fudge, no. 195. 51  MC, 1:519. For Rožmberk see John Klassen, “The Public and Domestic Faces of Ulrich of Rožmberk,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 31 (2000): 699‒718. 52  MC, 1:522. 53  Ibid., 1:539. 54  MC, 1:544 and see too 527. 55  Šmahel, Revolution, 3:1668‒69; Bartoš, Hussite Revolution, 130 with details on 194 n. 31 (total of 1,900 ducats). 56  Acta Nicolai Gramis: Urkunden und Aktenstücke betreffend die Beziehungen Schlesiens zum Baseler Konzile, ed. Wilhelm Altmann, Codex diplomaticus Silesiae 15 (Breslau, 1890), 19‒20, no. 15. By the spring of 1436 the collection of the twentieth was seen as disappointing: Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, ed. J. D. Mansi, 55 vols. (Florence et al., 1759‒1962), 30:1038.



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lay chalice which he and his colleagues initially encountered when they arrived at Brno in May 1435.57 Once the Moravian clergy had a better grasp of what was proposed they withdrew their objections, indeed they expressed delight with the overall programme of peace and reform that the council was pursuing.58 Basel was garnering kudos and credibility from its intervention at the congress of Arras – deployed by Cesarini to counter accusations of conciliar inactivity59 – and its active engagement with both Church Union and reform.60 In an interesting exchange at Vienna, just a few weeks previously, a doctor of theology at the university heaped praise on the council for its open-mindedness: in relation to Jews, Greeks and utraquists alike, it was ready to make concessions to bring about progress. The council’s reform agenda was also commended but the envoys were beseeched on no account (nullatenus) to allow the laity communion in both kinds. In his reply Charlier affirmed Basel’s commitment to reform – “thus far the holy synod has lost no time in pressing on with greater matters” – while assuring the anxious academics that nothing would be done “to the prejudice of the faith or the honour of the Church.”61 Given the complexity of the issues, rumour and counter-rumour were bound to be rife. But another Vienna academic, who was present on this occasion and as an envoy of the council was well acquainted with the ins and outs of the discussions, shared his colleagues’ misgivings.62 This was Thomas Ebendorfer, who in two bleak texts prepared for the council following the first Prague mission in 1433 viewed concessions as perilous in the extreme. In a telling list of the reasons for denying the utraquists the chalice, Ebendorfer referred to the scandal it would cause to Bohemian Catholics (like Rožmberk?) who had suffered so much for their faith, “and how will they ever take up arms in future when the cross is preached?”63 The Church was contemplating a “perpetual division” on the part of Bohemia and utraquists living in neighbouring Moravia and Poland, a schism greater than that of the Greeks, more dangerous because it was in Christendom’s heartland, and giving rise to endless quarrels about which rite was the proper one.64 Ebendorfer’s views are particularly interesting. In a sermon which he prepared for Prague’s New Town during the 1433 summer legation he picked up Cesarini’s theme of Christendom being driven into a corner and facing extinction by the Saracens. And in a speech 57 

MC, 1:549‒50. MC, 1:570‒71. 59  Sacrorum conciliorum, 30:1038, cited by Christianson, Cesarini, 125. 60  E.g. MC, 1:573. 61  MC, 1:525, 578 (Rokycana calls for “the reformation of the Church in its life, behaviour and faith”), 581 (the reply: reformacio is in hand). 62  For Ebendorfer’s service on the Hussite legations, see Alphons Lhotsky, Thomas Ebendorfer: ein österreichischer Geschichtschreiber, Theologe und Diplomat des 15. Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart, 1957), 21‒25. 63  Thomas Ebendorfer, Diarium sive Tractatus cum Boemis (1433‒1436), ed. Harald Zimmermann, MGH SRG n.s. 25 (Hanover, 2010), 82‒93, with quote at 90. 64  Ebendorfer, Diarium, 88. 58 

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given a week later he reminded his audience that a divided Christian flock was a gift to the heretics, Jews and Saracens.65 This had become something of a topos, the irresistible corollary to the peace/unity motif: in a speech delivered in May 1433 the Paris master and dean of Tours Martin Berruer described union as “a defeat for Satan, the unbelievers, pagans and Saracens.”66 But as the question previously quoted indicates, Ebendorfer was just as worried about killing enthusiasm for the crusading cause, including that against the Muslims, in which he showed a good deal of interest: during Pius II’s pontificate he wrote a history of the crusades as an exemplum for that pope’s ambitious project.67 One of the interesting features of Ebendorfer’s position is that, as a convinced conciliarist, he saw clearly the danger that Basel faced. Failure in the discussions, he wrote in his Deliberacio for the council, would perpetuate the crisis, but success might lead the council’s enemies to shout from the rooftops that Basel was tolerating heresy.68 In fact he was being too pessimistic. Success brought great kudos for Basel, so much so that even Eugenius, when he transferred the council’s business to Ferrara in September 1437, acknowledged the significance of the breakthrough on utraquism.69 The problem of the disillusioned Czech Catholics remained but it was a price worth paying. The series of lengthy missions brought about peace despite the terrible sequence of crusades and Hussite raids: the heartfelt injunction of the envoys in June 1433 to “let us draw a veil over all the injuries and wrongdoing, drive them from our memories and replace them with peace and unity,” though vigorously resisted at first, appears to have won grudging acceptance.70 The problem, as recent commentators like Winfried Eberhard and František Šmahel have emphasized, was the essentially political origins and underpinning of the compactata. This was most evident in the frustrating Brno talks of July 1435, when Sigismund gave his assent to an established Hussite Church, with utraquism practised wherever the people wanted it. With the radicals emasculated, the king was able to reach an agreement with the Bohemian estates that was as much constitutional as religious,71 and the envoys were unhappy with wording that prioritized the legal privileges of the Bohemian crown lands, thereby posing a threat to the religious tenets in the

65 

Ibid., 1‒7 (sermon), 7‒18 (oration), with quote at 5. MC, 1.398, and cf. the themes of division/destruction, unity/peace on which John of Palomar expatiated at length in June, ibid., 399‒414. 67  Thomas Ebendorfer, Historia Jerusalemitana, ed. Harald Zimmermann, MGH SRG n.s. 21 (Hanover, 2006); Lhotsky, Ebendorfer. 68  Ebendorfer, Diarium, 98. 69  MC, 2:1033‒40, trans. Crowder in Unity, Heresy and Reform, no. 29, pp. 159‒63. Eugenius invited the utraquists to Ferrara but allowed 30 days for discussions to be concluded at Basel if they preferred to remain there. 70  MC, 1:427; though this came at the end of lengthy expositions in which the envoys painstakingly set the record straight, ibid., 420‒30. 71  John Klassen, “Hus, the Hussites and Bohemia,” in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 7 c. 1415‒c. 1500, ed. Christopher Allmand (Cambridge, 1998), 367‒91, at 381. 66 



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compactata.72 Sigismund lost his temper with the envoys and treated them to a classic rant. The council may be happy with his losing his kingdom, but he was not. He had been let down over Bohemia by two councils of the Church, and the fathers at Basel were intent on shrinking papal and imperial power: the threat to side with Eugenius was implied but unmistakable.73 Later, when he had got his way, Sigismund showed them the more congenial side of his nature: “[he said that] he had to pretend a lot with the Bohemians, in order to get into the kingdom, but once he was inside, all these innovations could be set aside in favour of things as they had been.”74 The council thus achieved unity – alongside peace, its central goal – at the price of turning a blind eye to Sigismund’s dissimulation. This clumsy solution could only produce a de facto coexistence, though it achieved the emperor’s own dual agenda, his coronation at Prague and the mobilization of the force required to destroy the last remnants of the radicals.75 This places in a different light Pius II’s annulment of the compactata in 1462 and Paul II’s subsequent renewal of the crusade. It would be mistaken to view the first wave of anti-utraquist crusading as doctrinal and the second as political. It is undeniable that Matthias Corvinus accepted the invitation to lead the venture for dynastic reasons, but they had been dominant too in the case of Sigismund: what else did his hijacking of the process in 1435 imply? It was simply not possible, even for a Church council like Basel which pursued a radical reforming brief, to answer the doctrinal challenge posed by utraquism with tolerance. This issue went back to the Cheb compacts of May 1432. They made discussions possible but doomed them from the start because of the unacceptably narrow criteria for debate: as Nicholas of Cusa was to point out, the judex compactatus even excluded the Apostles’ Creed!76 What was achieved at Jihlava in 1436 was extraordinary and brought thirty years of peace, but it could not alter the fundamental nature of the medieval Church. From this perspective, pessimists like Ebendorfer had been correct and Pius II’s annulment was logical: the compactata had achieved Cesarini’s goals in restoring peace and unity, but the generation that created them had passed away and they could now be set aside.77 72  Winfried Eberhard, “Der Weg zur Koexistenz: Kaiser Sigmund und das Ende der hussitischen Revolution,” Bohemia 33 (1992): 1‒43, at 32‒33. 73  MC, 1:598‒99 (Charlier practised self-censorship: “Dixit coram aliquibuis de consilio suo mirabilia, que non sunt scribenda … [aside from these outbursts] reliqua honestatis causa obmittuntur”); Šmahel, Revolution, 3:1662‒68. 74  MC, 1:689; Eberhard, “Der Weg,” 34. 75  Eberhard, “Der Weg,” esp. 28‒41 and cf. Bartoš, Hussite Revolution, 131, 135 (the compactata as “an outstanding specimen of diplomatic cunning”). Bartoš emphasized the financial difficulties Sigismund faced once Basel’s subsidies dried up (ibid., 137‒38). 76  Jacob, “The Bohemians,” 84‒85. 77  Otakar Odložilík, The Hussite King: Bohemia in European Affairs, 1440‒1471 (New Brunswick, NJ, 1965), 130‒34; Frederick G. Heymann, George of Bohemia: King of Heretics (Princeton, NJ, 1965), 258‒92; Pii II Commentariii rerum memorabilium que temporibus suis contigerunt, bk 10, ch. 1, ed. Adrian Van Heck, 2 vols., Studi e testi 312‒13 (Città del Vaticano, 1984), 2:559‒60 for Poděbrad’s response.

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This had been Basel’s response to the Jihlava accord when it eventually considered it in December 1437: not the right of utraquists to receive communion but a concession; and what was conceded could be revoked.78 In bringing one crusade to an end Basel had sown the seeds of the next. Basel and Church Union: The Salient Features There is general agreement that the council of Basel was more at home in dealing with the utraquist crisis while the papal court, together with the rival council which it called at Ferrara and subsequently moved to Florence, was more comfortable with the negotiations which led in 1439 to Church Union with the Greeks. The popes had blackened their name with the Hussites by preaching five crusades against them; the injured sense of shock may still be felt when reading the Hussite manifestos.79 By contrast the papal curia was familiar with the history, personnel and procedures of the Eastern Church and the rump Palaeologan government. On the other hand, the conciliar fathers and the utraquists, while irredeemably opposed on the eucharist, agreed on the need for reform, and both were suspicious of Rome; as Helmrath put it, ecclesiologically they were feindliche Brüder.80 We have seen that the Hussite crisis was the reason for the council’s existence, and everybody who assembled at Basel accepted the urgent need for peace and unity. But for a variety of reasons the fathers found it hard to engage with the Greeks. Few individuals at the council were as well informed on the causes of division as Nicholas of Cusa and John of Segovia. There was a scarcity of literature at Basel to help them remedy their lack of knowledge. Ignorance about Basel, and consequently unease about travelling there, were deeply rooted at Constantinople. The Greeks did not want to travel north of the Alps, they had difficulty understanding the council in terms of their conception of the Church, and they were unclear about the status of any agreement reached with the council as opposed to the pope.81 Even more than in the case of the Hussites, it was Cesarini who perceived the importance of not allowing discussions with the Greeks to be monopolized by Eugenius, and who provided the leadership necessary for Basel to engage with the process. As an Italian cardinal Cesarini naturally shared the papal world-view, which looked towards the Mediterranean and the western Balkans, where the Turks were already beginning to pose a threat. He appreciated the problems, and even asked Ambrogio Traversari, one of the best Hellenists of the day, to teach him Greek 78 

Christianson, Cesarini, 174‒76. See the studies by Karel Hruza, esp. “‘Audite et cum speciali diligencia attendite verba litere huius.’ Hussitische Manifeste: Objekt – Methode – Definition,” in Text – Schrift – Codex. Quellenkundliche Arbeiten aus dem Institut für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, ed. Christoph Egger and Herwig Weigl (Munich, 2000), 345‒84. 80  Helmrath, Konzil, 372. 81  See Helmrath, Konzil, 372‒83, for these general considerations. Gill, Florence, 46‒84, surveys Basel’s engagement with the issue of Union, but with a prejudice towards Eugenius. 79 



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so that he could avoid using interpreters.82 He clearly saw the potential for a clash of objectives, not just in terms of attention but also in financial demands: nobody in the early 1430s was considering a full-scale crusade against the Turks (Union must come first), but Palomar’s need for subsidies for anti-radical action in the Czech lands was bound to conflict with the requirement to finance a Greek legation coming to the West and help defend Constantinople in their absence.83 Funding was always Basel’s Achilles heel,84 and the concurrence of Bohemian and Greek affairs posed a strain: envoys left Basel for Constantinople on 2 January 1433, just two days before the Hussite envoys arrived in response to Cesarini’s invitation. This twofold financial pressure was managed by resorting to indulgences, which some saw as a breach of the council’s reform mission, others as an encroachment on papal authority. The resulting debates were recorded, and these texts allow us, to a degree far beyond any previous council’s deliberations, to observe the arguments used and the clash of forceful opinions. Whereas Eugenius made no attempt to interfere with Basel’s negotiations with the Hussites after his early failure to nip them in the bud, the discussions with the Greeks were throughout shaped by the growing animosity between council and curia. This was true even of the “cold war” period between February 1434, when the pope grudgingly recognized the council’s legitimacy, and September 1437, when Eugenius convoked a council to meet at Ferrara with the main task of negotiating Union with the Greek envoys. The milestones in these years, which proved so crucial for the history of the Church both in the West and the East, were the conciliar decree Sicut pia mater of September 1434, when the council set out its negotiating position; the debates held in 1435‒36 about the issuing of indulgences to finance Union talks; and the organization in 1437 of a conciliar flotilla to bring Greek envoys to the West. By the end of 1437 Basel’s position on Union and crusade was clear: the council had gathered into its hands the preaching of indulgences, the bestowal of crusader crosses, and the promotion of military activity, albeit on a preliminary and limited scale. This was the point at which the council gave its verdict on the compactata, and disappointing though that verdict was, it did clear the deck for focusing commitment on eastern affairs. But it proved to be too late. In January 1438, Cesarini, judging the council impossible to work with, left Basel and the momentum he had promoted dissolved. The council offered no alternative of note to the negotiations at Florence, which in July 1439 led to Union. A few weeks later Eugenius capitalized on this high-water mark in his reign with Moyses vir dei, a fierce attack on the council, and its inexorable ten-year decline began.85 82 

Christianson, Cesarini, 142. E.g. Epistolae pontificiae ad concilium florentinum spectantes [hereafter EP], ed. Georgius Hofmann, 3 vols. (Rome, 1940‒46), 1:20, no. 26 (the need for galleys, mercenaries and travel expenses anticipated in 1430); translated by Gill, Florence, 43‒44. 84  Helmrath, Konzil, 52‒54. 85  Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, ed. Joseph Alberigo et al., 3rd ed. (Bologna, 1973), 529‒34 = EP, 2:101‒6, no. 210. 83 

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Indulgences, Flotilla and Crosses In sustaining the conciliar momentum on Union Cesarini faced two problems which were fundamentally different from those he confronted on utraquism. The first was the sting in the tail which the pope attached to his recognition of the council’s legitimacy in the spring of 1434. Eugenius transformed the presidency into a five-man commission of which Cesarini was one member, with the others clearly holding the brief of constraining the cardinal’s philo-conciliar stance. Secondly, aspects of reform were increasingly posing an obstacle to the effective funding of a programme aimed at achieving Church Union.86 Picking up on a reform goal pursued at Constance, in November 1433 Cesarini himself drafted a decree condemning the sale of indulgences amongst other instances of simony. Had it been accepted this might have proved disastrous for crusade funding, which had come to depend heavily on indulgence sales, but the decree was opposed and the council did not again engage closely with the issue; the way was therefore left open for the deployment of indulgences to assist Union and, in consequence, crusade.87 Potentially more serious was the council’s most radical reforming measure, its veto on annates in June 1435. Cesarini stood firm on this: the exaction of annates was open and egregious simony, though he was open to the idea of compensation for the papal curia through a more acceptable route.88 Did the cardinal grasp the implications for crusade if the camera were to switch from entry taxes on benefices (annates) to income taxes (tenths), which alongside indulgences had come to form the staple of crusade funding? Presumably not, since it was a matter of weeks since he had reflected on the need for an anti-Turkish crusade, during the three-week sabbatical which he took to read about and reflect on reform.89 In September 1434, some months before the annates decree, the council issued the decree Sicut pia mater, its formal entry into the competition to host the Union talks. Understandably, the decree began with a note of triumph about progress with the Hussites. It had made sense for the council to begin its work with them because they were closer. The conciliar invitation to the utraquists had achieved more than “many of the most powerful armies” which time after time had invaded Bohemia to no avail. Sceptics had voiced their doubts (a glance at Eugenius?) but success gave hope that Union with the Greeks too might be achieved, and that in its wake many Muslims would convert. It was a wonderful prospect which every believer should welcome, indeed surrender not just belongings but life and soul to promote. 86  Gerald Christianson, “Annates and Reform at the Council of Basel,” in Reform, Representation and Theology in Nicholas of Cusa and his Age, ed. H. Lawrence Bond and Gerald Christianson (Farnham, 2011), 73‒89, and Gill, Council, 62‒63, make telling points on this. For the overall relationship between reform and crusade, see Norman Housley, “Crusade and Reform, 1414–1449: Allies or Rivals?”, in Reconfiguring the Fifteenth-Century Crusade, ed. Norman Housley (London, 2017), 45−83. 87  Christianson, Cesarini, 136‒37. 88  Concilium Basiliense. Studien und Quellen zur Geschichte des Concils von Basel, 8 vols. (Basel, 1896‒1936), 1:387‒92, no. 48, at 388. 89  Christianson, Cesarini, 132.



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It is hard not to see Cesarini’s hand in these and similarly theatrical phrases. He had chaired the commission to work on Sicut pia mater and in its optimism and generosity it resembles his approach towards the utraquists in 1432. He knew that he was fighting a two-front war, against those who were sceptical about chances of ending the schism, and those who regarded the task of negotiation as a matter for the pope and his curia. It is likely that this drove the legate to offer terms which would be as attractive as possible. Every effort was to be made to persuade the Greeks of the viability of Basel as the location for talks, but should they remain unconvinced, the council was willing to relocate south of the Alps, to an Italian city, Vienna, Buda or – as the last resort – a town in Savoy. The financial costs would be substantial, reaching 33,000 ducats in addition to the transportation costs of the Greeks plus the outlay for a small naval force (two galleys and 300 crossbowmen) which would help defend Constantinople while John VIII was in the West.90 This formed the background to the heated debate about the council’s grant of indulgences.91 It took place in two stages, in 1435 and 1436, and both stages bequeathed substantial evidence in John of Segovia’s great history of the council. In April 1435, John wrote, the council engaged in “a heated dispute about whether indulgences should be granted by the council or by the pope.” The fathers raised 12,000 ducats from their own ranks, of which 9,000 were allocated “to facilitate an assembly of the Eastern Church, the rest for the expenses of envoys to go to Greece on the council’s behalf and those of the Greek ambassadors returning to Constantinople.” The question remained of how to raise the “massive amount” needed beyond that, and John made the bone of contention quite clear: After a review of the various options on how to bring this about, the majority opinion was that the most appropriate way would be for the holy synod to grant plenary as well as partial indulgences. But some among the fathers resisted, arguing that the pope alone could grant a plenary indulgence. So heated did the discussion become – whether for spiritual or material reasons is hard to say – that it rocked the council’s mighty pillars, threatening to bring the council itself to ruin.92

The issue of authority was crucial, but there was also a practical question that weighed on some delegates. This was their fear that support for Greeks would become an ongoing commitment for the Church and that the council itself would have to become permanent to deal with it. This was prescient: Basel’s clash with Eugenius did indeed drive it to create a full-scale bureaucracy which tarnished its reputation for reform.93 Referring the indulgence issue to the deputations which were the council’s deliberative workhorses did not help. Faith, Peace and Common 90 

MC, 2:752‒56, summarized by Christianson, Cesarini, 153, inc. n. 19. For its course, see Pascal Ladner, “Der Ablaß-Traktat des Heymericus de Campo: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Basler Konzils,” Zeitschrift für Schweizerische Kirchengeschichte 71 (1977): 93‒140, at 97‒103. 92  MC, 2:784. 93  Helmrath, Konzil, 35‒46. 91 

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Matters all agreed on the core point that the council could grant indulgences which would then be ratified (prebiturus assensum) by the pope. But Peace wanted the details of the indulgence to be managed by the pope, and Reform wanted the council only to give its approval to a papal grant of indulgences. Fault lines were national as well as deputational. The bishop of Lübeck headed up a German protest against the proposal to issue indulgences, reflecting the growing suspicion in that country that indulgences were a means of draining Germany of its specie by stealth.94 John of Segovia also provides rich detail on the debate which led up to the indulgence decree, which was issued on 14 April 1436. The burden of persuasion was carried by Cesarini, who applied to this question the same passionate conviction which he had expressed in his letters to the pope in 1432 about the Hussites. The legate had sent a conciliatory and respectful letter to Eugenius in October 1435 including the draft of a papal grant of the indulgence which the council would implement.95 But Eugenius, well aware that he was in a strong position, was not disposed to compromise.96 Cesarini had to grasp the nettle of a conciliar indulgence.97 Much as in his February 1432 letter to the pope, he dealt with three issues. The first one was conciliar authority. Looking back over the deeds of eight councils referred to by the pope and others, Cesarini argued that it was evident that a general council could act of its own authority and that the phrase “with the agreement (approbante) of the holy council,” which appeared to indicate that a council possessed no more than the right to approve papal decisions, was just a courtesy. Councils could issue indulgences independently of the pope. Constance’s 17th session had granted indulgences, and Siena had renewed the crusade against the Hussites in the absence of Martin V. As for whether this was an appropriate use of indulgences, Cesarini hazarded an extreme comparison: Union with the Greeks was more important even than the recovery of the Holy Land, because it affected so many thousands of souls. He referred to the sequence of crusades against the Hussites and – without apparent irony – to the curia’s willingness to give an indulgence to anybody who paid for it. Indulgences had been granted in the past for such causes as the repair of bridges, buildings and monasteries, and surely this counted for much more? Granting indulgences was preferable to levying a tenth because of their voluntary nature (we shall witness him backtrack on this). Thirdly, Cesarini engaged with the anxiety expressed by the Germans and others about abuse. Provided confession and penance – taking the form of fasting and prayer – were both practised, indulgences were salutary. This reflected the legate’s belief in the positive link between indulgences and lay devotion which had characterized the Hussite crusades.98 Indulgences may not be sufficient for the costs 94 

MC, 2:785. Concilium Basiliense, 1:387‒92, no. 48, at 390. 96  EP, 1:47‒49, no. 54, and see too 44‒46, no. 50. 97  A surviving treatise on the indulgence question by Heymericus de Campo supported this decision, though without any great enthusiasm: Ladner, “Der Ablaß-Traktat,” 118‒40. 98  Studt, Papst Martin V., 682‒704. 95 



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incurred but they were a good start. “So to conclude,” what was being proposed was both “convenient and accords with the Church’s rite and observances.”99 There was opposition. The bishop of Padua took issue with Cesarini’s interpretation of what had happened at the council of Siena. He had been president there and could state with authority that indulgences had not been issued “except … in the pope’s name.” The papalist archbishop of Taranto, Giovanni Berardi da Tagliacozzo, commented drily that one instance was in any case not enough, citing Aristotle’s proverb that one swallow does not make a summer. Cesarini astutely put him right on this point: in this case it did, because the Church could not err. The sums involved were daunting: the bishop of Padua referred to a total of 100,000 ducats. Was it not better, Berardi suggested, to relocate the council to the lands of the Church, where it would enjoy access to papal funding? The German protest on the trend towards abusing indulgences was affirmed; cleverly, Eugenius had encouraged their anxiety.100 But, as with the Hussites, Cesarini pushed the matter through, and again he did so not by overcoming the biggest obstacle but by circumventing it. In 1433 this had been how tenets of faith were to be decided between Catholics and utraquists. In 1436 it was his own authority in relation to pope and council. In answer to three questions about his status from the bishop of Nevers he answered that he was acting in accordance with his original brief, “as the pope’s president and legate, as a cardinal, and in every other way open to him.” The indulgence decree was passed, and the various arguments advanced by Cesarini in its defence were reiterated in the council’s formal reply to Eugenius’s earlier disappointing response. Even at this late stage, it was stressed, the council would welcome papal support for the move, “so that nobody can point to discord in the Latin (sc. Catholic) Church.”101 The indulgence decree itself, which was to last for two years (1436‒38) was straightforward. Interestingly, Cesarini’s argument that even the Holy Land passagium was less important than saving souls found a place in it, but in association with the claim that once Union had been achieved the Christian cause everywhere would flourish, because no earthly power could resist that of the reunified Church.102 Indulgence terms were not calculated to dampen the fears of the Germans, for a single week’s household food costs for the recipient and their family (if they had one) were deemed sufficient to earn the full indulgence, once in life and once at the point of death; a seven-year indulgence was granted for a single day’s expenses. The usual collection procedure was followed, that of chests placed in cathedrals and major places of worship.103 99 

MC, 2:867‒69. EP, 1:44‒46, no. 50, at 46: “ex questu proveniat, qui in similibus superiori tempore multa mala attulit exempla christiano populo.” 101  MC, 2:869‒71, 885‒90. 102  Cf. his oration at the arrival of the Greek envoys in 1434: Sacrorum conciliorum, 29:1235‒44, at 1243. 103  MC, 2:879‒81; Acta Nicolai Gramis, 15‒17, 26‒39, nos. 11‒12, 22, 24‒5, 28, 30 (covering the procedure, and all standard for the period). 100 

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In an article on the costs of the council of Florence, that council’s leading historian, Joseph Gill, commented on a lengthy memorandum written by “an unknown member of the council of Basel some time before the controversy about Avignon as the future seat of the Council.” In fact this text, the Avisamenta pro facto Graecorum, can be dated to a point immediately after the indulgence decree, in the second half of April 1436,104 and almost certainly it was the work of Cesarini; the case for his authorship, on the grounds of argument, detail and style, is as strong as it is with the Tractatus de iustificatione vocationis Bohemorum.105 The text is a vigorous and challenging exposition of what needs to be done and above all the urgency of reaching a decision on the central question of location, which was already starting to make the recent debate about granting an indulgence look straightforward. The second of no fewer than nine issues or sets of issues, all set out with admirable but daunting clarity, is a list of anticipated costs, and the third the question of how these expenses can be met. The grand total came to 200,000 ducats, comprising the expenses of the Greeks and the outlay for a small force to help guard Constantinople during the absence of Emperor and patriarch. How could that substantial sum be raised? Given the potential gain from successful negotiations and the loss and disgrace of failure, no question facing the council was more important. The author advocated a meeting that would last for several days and be exclusively devoted to the question of how to raise the money. He did not beat about the bush: the indulgence would not raise enough money, and in any case there was not enough time to collect it. A tenth would be impeded by the simultaneous task of preaching indulgences, while the experience of the Hussite twentieth showed that clerics would resist a tax, sheltering behind the discord between pope and council. The town to which the council relocated – in the highly likely event that the Greeks refused to come to Basel – would be informed that it must come up with a deposit of 70,000 ducats, but that only deferred the issue of where to source the money. The remedy, the author suggested in a coda to his memorandum, lay in mending the council’s fences with Eugenius. There would have to be a complex quid pro quo. The pope would accept Basel’s decrees, provide a text for the Union indulgence, smooth its path with Christendom’s rulers, support the council in the levy of a tenth or another form of benefice tax, and guarantee that the council site (implicitly, one in Italy) would consider simply Union. He would also provide 60,000 ducats (in lieu of the adopted town doing so) and the four galleys that were to be sent to Constantinople. In exchange, the council would agree not to encroach on papal authority, and consent to the site for relocation being chosen by Eugenius. 104 

1437.

105 

Sacrorum conciliorum, 30:1041, “non habemus nisi decem menses” until the start of March

Sacrorum conciliorum, 30:1034‒44; Joseph Gill, “The Cost of the Council of Florence,” in idem, Personalities of the Council of Florence and Other Essays (Oxford, 1964), 186‒203, at 186‒87. Gerald Christianson seems to have missed this text, even though he used the one which immediately follows it.



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This was a clumsy formula and, if Cesarini was indeed the author of the Avisamenta, the text reveals that no sooner had he got his way on the indulgence than he perceived it as a pyrrhic victory. The conciliar fathers suspected, quite rightly, that relocation to a site in Italy would amount to emasculation; and Eugenius would find some way of reneging on his pledge to respect their reform decrees. Would even the peace with the utraquists hold fast? But the summer of 1436 confirmed Cesarini in his view that indulgences alone would not be enough, and this led him in November 1436 to encourage (or again encourage) the council to work closely with the pope on Union. The indulgence would only cover a fifth of the expenses involved, which he reminded his audience were likely to reach 200,000 ducats.106 Cesarini concluded that contrary to his earlier hopes there would have to be a tenth, “from which nothing can be raised without the pope’s agreement”: benefice-holders could be relied on to use the absence of papal backing as an excuse to withhold payment. In addition to which, Union could not be achieved without the realistic prospect of military help against the Turks.107 So while he had been prepared to face down papal opposition on the indulgence, just as he had on the Hussites, Cesarini was convinced that in the larger perspective a united Catholic front was indispensable. It was not a question of conciliar authority per se but of the reception of its decrees by the laity and clergy. There was also the issue of the Greek response, for as Cesarini put it, how could they be expected to take seriously talks with a Church that was not just divided, but powerless to help them on a large scale against the Turks?108 Cesarini’s letter of November 1436 reflected the growing difficulties he was experiencing in his relations with the council. By this point the all-consuming question was that of the council’s future location. We have seen that, to raise advance cash for its Union programme, Basel tried to make use of the advantages which any city hosting the council could expect to garner in terms of income and prestige, by inviting bids based on a deposit of 70,000 ducats; the host city would also have to provide a guarantee of meeting the accommodation costs of visiting dignitaries.109 This generated a remarkable bidding process, the excitement of which may still be felt in the series of letters Piccolomini wrote in the last months of 1436 to persuade Siena to make an offer. He assured his fellow-countrymen that it was an excellent investment: the deposit would be scrupulously reimbursed from the indulgence, and from the tenth that was now being planned. As it turned out Siena could not compete with Medicean Florence, but the conciliar fathers had

106  He had been less optimistic in a letter to Eugenius in Oct. 1435, where he reckoned on an eighth: Concilium Basiliense, 1:387‒92, no. 48, at p. 387. The recurrence of the figure of 200,000 ducats is one argument for Cesarini’s authorship of the Avisamenta. 107  As Eugenius put it in a letter to Charles VII in September 1436, “oportebat ex tunc [i.e. following Union] provideri de succursu contra infideles”: EP, 1:52‒54, no. 57. 108  MC, 2:912‒13. 109  Ibid., 2:902‒05.

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in any case set their faces against an Italian city.110 The stumbling block was the emergence of a lobby favouring Avignon, which Cesarini thought would prove no more acceptable to the Greeks than Basel itself. It was also very ill-omened in terms of papal history, and could lead to a French domination of the agenda.111 The legate preferred Florence, where money was no problem and the vitally important rapprochement with Eugenius could best be advanced, but for all his eloquence he was unable to convince the council at large. They refused to consider an Italian city and opted for Basel, Avignon or Savoy (in practice this would be Geneva, though it was never a serious option).112 The chance of Eugenius attending any of these was minimal. This drawn-out and exhausting dispute contrasted with the relative ease with which the conciliar flotilla envisaged in Sicut pia mater was organized in the final weeks of 1436. This could well have proved problematic, given that the major Mediterranean sea powers –Venice, Genoa and Aragon – were for different reasons either aligned with Eugenius or neutral in the burgeoning dispute between pope and council. But Basel had a staunch ally in Amedeo of Savoy; and one of Amedeo’s courtiers, an experienced soldier and diplomat called Nicod de Menthon, volunteered his services as commander of the flotilla. As governor of Savoyard Nice, Menthon would clearly have little difficulty in locating suitable ships and crews. Following a fortnight of negotiations, on 19 November the council’s standard, which displayed the arms of the Church – white keys against a red field – was blessed after a solemn mass by the archbishop of Bourges and the terms of the agreement with Menthon were publicly read out.113 He would sail from Nice on 1 March 1437 with four sound galleys fully fitted and armed, each carrying 45 crossbowmen in addition to its crew. A separate force of 300 crossbowmen would be recruited at Constantinople and remain there with the two lighter (subtiles) galleys, while the other two, reinforced with two additional heavy (grossae) galleys, transported John VIII, the patriarch and 700 Greeks to the West. Payment details were precise. Menthon received his staff of office and the standard in a solemn ceremony held in Cesarini’s presence, which ended with a flourish of music.114 So the council saw itself as fully entitled to contract a flotilla, to bestow a banner and to make a military appointment. Menthon’s flotilla suffered misadventures 110 

Der Briefwechsel des Eneas Silvius Piccolomini, I. Abteilung: Briefe aus der Laienzeit (1431– 1445), I Band: Privatbriefe, ed. Rudolf Wolkan (Vienna, 1909), 44‒57, nos. 21‒23. 111  Avignon was one of three towns in the south of France proposed by Charles VII. The king’s foreign policy was becoming more vigorous in the wake of his success at the congress of Arras, and the French lobby at Basel was capably led by the archbishops of Arles and Lyons, whose seniority gave them much influence: Gill, Florence, 67, 69. 112  Christianson, Cesarini, 162‒66. 113  The banner served to establish the flotilla’s identity twice during its voyage to the East: see Willy Cohn, “Die Basler Konzilsflotte des Jahres 1437,” repr. in his Die Geschichte der sizilischen Flotte 1060−1266. Die Basler Konzilsflotte des Jahres 1437. Die Bedeutung der Seemacht in der Geschichte (Aalen, 1978), 9‒45, at 23‒24, 28. 114  MC, 2:916; Der Briefwechsel, 53, no. 22, has Piccolomini’s version.



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during its service in the Mediterranean in 1437 but they were no different from those that afflicted papal squadrons both beforehand and later.115 Texts relating to the mission to Constantinople reveal that the council also believed itself to possess the right to bestow the crusader’s cross. John of Segovia makes this clear in book ten, chapter 32, which is headed “The taking of the cross by the council’s envoys going to the Greeks, their return and the sealed letters which they carried, so that the council at Avignon would be ecumenical.” Again John provided interesting detail: On the 25th day [of February 1437] in a general congregation held specifically for the occasion, after the archbishop of Lyons had celebrated Mass and solemnly blessed the cross, as specified in the pontifical, the four bishops of Lübeck, Viseu, Parma and Lausanne, the envoys appointed by the council to go to Greece, kneeled before the altar. The archbishop placed in the hands of each of them a cross with a suitable blessing.

A number of bulls relating to their mission were then read out, together with an indemnification of the citizens of Avignon.116According to a relation delivered at Ferrara by Bishop Pierre of Digne on his return from Constantinople in March 1438, Basel had offered John VIII “a cruciata, that is to say, the sign of the cross with indulgences for everybody expressing the wish to drive away the Turks” in the event of Union.117 Did the Greeks believe this? Joseph Gill thought not, and it is true that secular rulers in the West, whose assistance was indispensable, would probably have paid more heed to Rome than to Basel.118 But these texts reveal that the council was prepared to try it. There are no signs that such initiatives provoked criticism or debate, though we should not read too much into that: it could be that the discussion of conciliar authority had simply run out of steam in the lengthy debates about the indulgence. Attention was in any case now focused on the debilitating disagreement over the choice of Avignon as the new location for the council. In a statement on 3 April 1437, Cesarini gave voice to his growing alienation from the council. In dealing with the Hussites they had kept the needs of the faith before their eyes, but on Union they were allowing themselves to be led by anti-papalism.119 The Avignonese could not produce the 70,000 ducats deposit for hosting the council, and there ensued the infamous 25th session on 7 May, a scene of chaos which contributed so much to the council’s later reputation for incompetence.120 In the meantime Bishop Johannes Schele of Lübeck again registered the protest of the German nation against the 115 

See Cohn’s thorough study, “Konzilsflotte.” MC, 2:937. 117  Fragmenta protocolli, diaria privata, sermones, ed. Georgius Hofmann, Concilium florentinum documenta et scriptores, Series A (Rome, 1951), 50‒60, at 58. 118  Joseph Gill, “Pope Eugenius IV,” in idem, Personalities, 35‒44, at 38: “A crusade could be set on foot only by the pope.” 119  MC, 2:946‒47, cited by Christianson, Cesarini, 167. 120  Piccolomini would later immortalize the scene: Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini, De gestis concilii basiliensis commentariorum libri II, ed. and trans. Denys Hay and W. K. Smith (Oxford, 1967), 148; Der Briefwechsel, 58‒76, no. 24, at 72. 116 

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indulgence and the associated tenth, laying down strict conditions on the collection of the latter. It was to be collected only to cover any shortfall in the 70,000 ducats due from Avignon; collection was to start only once the Greeks had disembarked; and the procedure adopted on the Hussite twentieth was to be followed, that is collectors would be picked by the German clergy.121 Although seven months would pass before Cesarini left Basel, the conciliar programme on Union negotiations was dead in the water.122 In September 1437 Eugenius transferred the council to Ferrara, one of the cities envisaged in Sicut pia mater, at the same time taking care to validate the progress made with the Hussites. Both measures were patently conciliatory towards Cesarini and those like him who were losing confidence in Basel (the self-proclaimed sanior pars of the 7 May vote). The pope wrote to the city authorities of Basel assuring them that simple geography lay behind the change.123 This was true enough: nobody could have foreseen in 1424, when the council’s location was decided, that the prospect of Union would materialize at the very point that the Hussite crisis was over. There remained no reason for Cesarini to prolong his stay with a council which was both discordant and increasingly anti-papal, and after steering through Basel’s response to the compactata he left the city on 9 January 1438. Just a few weeks later Menthon returned the Church’s banner at the end of his fruitless command of the council’s flotilla.124 All that remained of the council’s Union programme after Cesarini’s departure was the indulgence. In 1437 the German clergy had made their views clear on what should happen if the Greeks did not appear: “so that the populace is not deceived by the clergy under the pretence of Union with the Greeks,” the specie assembled should be spent “for pious, productive and necessary public uses in the nations and locations where it is collected.”125 Continuing uncertainty over whether it was canonical must have affected collection. In October 1436 Piccolomini wrote that a question mark still hung over the council’s right to decree indulgences and to levy a tenth.126 In England the indulgence failed to get off the ground because the collector there, Pietro del Monte, took the view that the pope alone could grant plenary indulgences and Henry VI’s government agreed with him.127 Where collection did proceed it was the interaction of political factors, at the local and international levels, which shaped the destiny of the money donated. After the German princes declared their neutrality between pope and council in March 1438, much of the 121 

Acta Nicolai Gramis, 23‒24, no. 20. See Gill, Florence, 74‒84, with summary at 83‒84, for events at Constantinople in 1437 culminating in the Greek decision to work with Eugenius rather than with Basel. 123  EP, 1.91‒101, 103‒4, nos. 88‒90, 95. 124  Cohn, “Konzilsflotte,” 42. 125  Acta Nicolai Gramis, 24, no. 20, from Sacrorum conciliorum, 30:903. 126  Der Briefwechsel, 53, no. 22. 127  William E. Lunt, Financial Relations of the Papacy with England 1327‒1534 (Cambridge, MA, 1962), 570. Del Monte did collect Eugenius’s indulgences some years later. 122 



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cash fell victim to force majeure, sanctioned by either Eugenius or Basel. In the well-documented case of Silesia, where Nicholas Gramis was collector, the proceeds at Wrocław (Breslau) became subject to an unsavoury tug of war between Bishop Conrad and his chapter. The council backed the canons so Conrad turned to Eugenius who gave him permission to make Gramis release the collected money. Gramis tried to make off with the money, but Conrad caught him and locked him up, and gave some of the cash to the canons to keep them quiet. Gramis was sacked by the council and went over to Eugenius.128 The pope did his best to preserve the money for the cause of Union. In December 1437, with his own council announced and the breach with Basel overt, Eugenius placed a hold on all money raised for Union “through the pious generosity of the faithful and deposited in certain places,” forbidding its diversion to other uses.129 In July 1438 he praised the archbishop of Rouen for seizing the proceeds of Basel’s indulgence and asked him to forward them to a merchant.130 But the pope’s actions were as usual heavily influenced by the need to accommodate the secular powers. Albrecht (Albert) II, Sigismund’s successor in Hungary and as king of the Romans, was asked to help prevent its misuse.131 At the end of 1437 the pope sent an envoy to Albrecht proposing an alliance which would centre on securing Albrecht’s succession to Sigismund in Bohemia and promising action against the Turks, the quid pro quo being Albrecht’s desertion of Basel and his assistance in persuading the university of Vienna to come over to Eugenius’s side.132 In February 1438 Eugenius, now informed of Cesarini’s departure, once more placed a hold on the collected money, just three days before strongly condemning the council.133 In September 1438 the pope imposed his own tenth and indulgence to raise money for the transport costs of the Greeks.134 The cost of the council was by that point weighing heavily on papal finances.135 The pressure continued into 1439.136 The pope’s approach had consistently been that funding must follow certainty about location, but one suspects that a strategy of wrong-footing Basel played at least some part, not least the hope that the council would take the criticism for levying taxes which the pope would then collect.137 Even the levy of a tenth for the upcoming 128 

Acta Nicolai Gramis, pp. vii–viii. EP, 1:108, no. 103. 130  EP, 2:43‒44, no. 147. 131  EP, 1:110, no. 107. 132  EP, 1:114‒16, no. 112. 133  EP, 2:6‒10, nos. 120‒21. 134  Annales ecclesiastici, ed. C. Baronio et al., 37 vols. (Paris etc, 1864–87), vol. 29, ad annum 1438, no. 16; EP, 2:47‒53, nos. 150‒52, and cf. ibid., 2:36‒38, 53‒54, nos. 143, 154. 135  E.g. EP, 2:32‒33, 41‒44, nos. 138, 145‒46, Supplementum, 153‒54, no. 142bis, and see Gill, “The Cost of the Council,” in idem, Personalities, 186‒203. 136  E.g. EP, 2:67‒68, 86, 96‒97, nos. 174‒75, 194, 205. Benjamin Weber, Lutter contre les Turcs: Les formes nouvelles de la croisade pontificale au XVe siècle (Rome, 2013), 270‒73 provides an overview based on the archival sources. 137  EP, 1:44‒46, 56‒58, nos. 50, 60. 129 

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crusade in Postquam ad apicem, dated 1 January 1443, was referred to as having its origins in the council’s Union planning.138 In his instructions for his envoy to Albrecht II in 1437 Eugenius referred to the sequestration of the indulgence funds in a way that implied their division between the two men, and this seems to have occurred elsewhere. In March 1439 the bishopelect of Arras was sent a very elusive letter which directed him to divide the money collected in the churches of his diocese between Duke Philip and a Medici factor at Bruges.139 In his Pentalogus, written in the spring of 1443, Piccolomini cited as one reason for Frederick to summon a new council to resolve the schism between Eugenius and Basel the fact that the Basel indulgence money still lay in its collection chests. Frederick would have a claim to lay hands on the cash, which after all had been donated to end a schism – albeit a different one!140 The scattered nature of the sources, and the overlap with Eugenius’s own indulgences and tenths, render any detailed reconstruction of what happened to the fruits of Basel’s approach towards funding Union a Sisyphean undertaking, but it is unlikely that German hopes that they would escape diversion and fraud were realized. Conclusion The easiest way to draw together the various threads of this essay is to consider its three protagonists. The most difficult to engage with is the council of Basel itself. Earlier we encountered the praise accorded to the council early in 1435 for being ready to see things from the point of view of Jews, Greeks and utraquists, and considered the possibility that as a reforming council Basel may have been agnostic or cool towards crusading. But there is very little evidence for this. During the course of the repeated preaching of the Hussite crusades, between 1420 and 1431, a strong link had been forged between crusade and reform and it does not appear to have been broken or even questioned at Basel. There was a vociferous German lobby critiquing indulgences which may have lain at the root of the strident objection towards the export of specie which Pius II would later find very troublesome. In a set of reform proposals drawn up in 1433 at Cesarini’s request Johannes Schele, the bishop of Lübeck, complained about “delusive and dangerous indulgences, which are pronounced without documentation in search of money, [and release the beneficiary] from pain and guilt (a pena et a culpa).” But this questionable type of indulgence was very different from the properly referenced and official – though strikingly liberal – indulgence issued in 1436. And Schele himself wanted to see a

138 

Ibid., 2:68‒75, no. 261 (from Annales ecclesiastici, vol. 29, ad annum 1443, nos. 13‒19). EP, 2:65‒67, no. 172. 140  Eneas Silvius Piccolomini, Pentalogus, ed. Christoph Schingnitz, MGH, Staatsschriften des späteren Mittelalters, VIII. Band (Hanover, 2009), 126 and n. 275. 139 



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crusade, though rather eccentrically he focused on the recovery of the Holy Land.141 We have witnessed German fears about misuse of funds but this was quite different from fundamental questioning. That said, there is limited profit in seeking a single point of view at Basel about anything, with the possible exception, throughout its final decade, of the entrenched malice of the papal curia.142 Its interventions on crusading matters after Cesarini’s departure were few, and if its major impact on crusading during the 1440s was negative this was not intentional. On the one hand, one of its most loyal supporters, the Polish Church, was unwilling to support Eugenius’s Balkan programme;143 on the other, the council became, willy-nilly, a tactical weapon with which the Habsburg court found it useful to threaten the curia, as a means of leveraging better concordat terms.144 We have moved on from the dismissal of Basel as a sterile talking shop. But the growing appreciation of the council’s qualities that has characterized recent scholarship has concentrated on its role as a lively forum for the exchange for information, ideas and techniques.145 The predominantly negative verdict on the council’s track record in terms of activity remains unchallenged.146 This has the effect of underscoring the importance of Cesarini, who successfully steered the council’s handling of the utraquist crisis and did his utmost to replicate that feat with the Greeks. Of course he had weaknesses, including the pragmatist’s willingness to ignore serious issues if they stood in the way of making progress. But this sprang from his commitment to achievement. In 1979 Gerald Christianson was deeply impressed by Cesarini’s work for the council of Basel, writing of “the seriousness of purpose in the cardinal-president,”147 and providing an authoritative summing up of his skills: “his sometimes ingenious suggestions for freeing the council from lesser matters, his capacity for guiding a proposal through thorny fields of debate, and – most important – his master plan provided the council with a recurring call to concentration, a sense of direction, and a platform.”148 This master plan was a united and reformed Church, which would be achieved by pope and council working in harmony, maximizing and synergizing their respective 141 

Quellen zur Kirchenreform im Zeitalter der grossen Konzilien des 15. Jahrhunderts, ed. Jürgen Miethke and Lorenz Weinrich, 2 vols. (Darmstadt, 1995, 2002), 2:202‒36, quote at 234. Schele is an intriguing figure and his attitude towards the crusade deserves further study; cf. Cohn, “Konzilsflotte,” 13‒14. 142  Helmrath, Konzil, 493 143  Domenico Caccamo, “Eugenio IV e la crociata di Varna,” Archivio della Società romana di storia patria 78 (1955): 35‒87, at 49, 73; Helmrath, Konzil, 264‒67; Joachim W. Stieber, Pope Eugenius I, the Council of Basel and the Secular and Ecclesiastical Authorities in the Empire (Leiden, 1978), 200‒202. 144  Stieber, Pope Eugenius I, analyses this at length. 145  Jürgen Miethke, “Die Konzilien als Forum der öffentlichen Meinung im 15. Jahrhundert,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 37 (1981): 736‒73; Helmrath, “Diffusion.” 146  Miethke in Quellen, 2:51‒61, and Helmrath, Konzil, 341‒48, review the issues. 147  Christianson, Cesarini, p. vii (preface). 148  Ibid., 148; Joseph Gill, “Cardinal Giuliano Cesarini,” in idem Personalities, 95‒103, also offers a positive verdict, noting (at 100) the important role he played at Ferrara.

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strengths. Devotion to unity propelled Cesarini to crusade against the Hussites in 1431, to strive to bring the heretics back into the Church in the years that followed, and to pursue the cause of Union. At the same time he worked for reform, though it was a secondary objective to unity.149 Cesarini probably perceived that Eugenius IV was less committed to reform than Martin V had been, the compensation being that he was more committed to Union. By the end of 1437 the cardinal seems to have concluded that Eugenius’s programme for Union was capable of bringing the Greeks back into the fold, while Basel’s was not; nor could the council be persuaded to cooperate with the pope. If the Avisamenta of April 1436 were indeed Cesarini’s work, I would argue that a full twenty months before departing he was already clutching at straws, trying to safeguard Basel’s reform decrees while achieving Union. Piccolomini would later claim that Cesarini regretted the years he spent at Basel.150 Whether this was true or not, it seems inaccurate to interpret his quitting Basel in 1438 as a “conversion,” because the cardinal’s core value, an overarching belief in unity, remained the same.151 The significance which he vested in crusade as an instrument to serve the cause of unity, overtly in 1431 and 1444, and by implication during his attempt to construct a conciliar Union programme in the mid–1430s, is undeniable. He saw crusade as a key instrument to realize the goals of the Church while saving souls, and in whatever capacity he was operating, he devoted his talents and energy to making it work. As he himself put it in a letter to Piccolomini in February 1443, he was eager (anhelo ac ferveo) to bring peace to Hungary and pursue a crusade against the Turks, “the same eagerness which, in times past, you observed me exhibiting in the affairs of Bohemia.” Crucially, he added that this was his official brief, “the office of papal legate which was placed on me.”152 In this respect for office Cesarini bears comparison with such leading enthusiasts and exponents of crusade as Pius II,153 Giovanni da Capistrano and Raymond Pérault; but in all four instances the dictates of office converged with personal dedication.154 Eugenius IV should not be overlooked. When he died in 1447 the crusade had been refashioned by the pope and his curia as one of the most imposing features of the restored papal office. The crusade was firmly located at Rome, in the curia, and in the pope’s person, as a centrifugal operation. This applied to funding, preaching, liaison with vulnerable secular powers in the western Balkans, and the attention devoted to the rapidly changing strategic outlook.155 Without doubt this refashioning 149 

MC, 2:915 is a telling passage on reform. Gerald Christianson, “Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini and the Historiography of the Council of Basel,” in Reform, Representation and Theology in Nicholas of Cusa and his Age, ed. H. Lawrence Bond and Gerald Christianson (Farnham, 2011), 49‒72, at 65‒66. 151  Christianson, Cesarini, 181‒85, is sound on this issue. 152  Der Briefwechsel, 127‒28, no. 45. 153  Christianson, “Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini,” 64, suggested that “Aeneas’s fascination with the cardinal’s crusade against the Turks may have served as an inspiration for his later passion as Pius II.” 154  See Norman Housley, Crusading and the Ottoman Threat, 1453‒1505 (Oxford, 2012). 155  See Weber, Lutter contre les Turcs. 150 



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was a remarkable triumph, second only to Eugenius’s achievement of Church Union; the Varna disaster does not alter this fact. There is also little question that one consequence was the marginalization of the pope’s opponents at Basel. After Florence, Basel was constantly on the back foot in its polemical exchanges with Eugenius.156 The big question that then arises is whether Union and its bedfellow crusade constituted a substitute for reforming programmes implemented by general councils like Basel.157 Interestingly, a similar question hangs over Christendom’s other universal authority. Heinrich Koller suggested that the constitutional reform of the Holy Roman Empire was abandoned by first Albrecht II and then Frederick III in favour of defending the Habsburg Austrian lands against the Turks.158 Such questions are intriguing but whether posed in relation to Papacy or Empire, they are too sweeping to be answered with confidence. Pius II’s 1460 condemnation of appeals to general councils, Execrabilis, was issued the day after his crusade decree at the congress of Mantua. The timing is certainly striking, but it could be no more than a pre-emptive strike against opponents of his crusade plans; Pius suspected that they would come forward with demands for another council. For this the pope’s predictive skills did not need to be outstanding: in the 1440s he had played a leading role in orchestrating Habsburg opposition to Eugenius’s favouring of the Hungarians.159 Eugenius’s success in laying hold on the crusade should not disguise the fact that in different circumstances Basel might well have enjoyed a crusading profile just as imposing as those of earlier general councils. And what it did achieve deserves recognition.

156  E.g. Nicholas of Cusa’s response to Basel’s charges at the diet of Nürnberg in 1444: Deutsche Reichstagsakten unter Kaiser Friedrich III., dritte Abteilung, 1442–1445, DRTA 17, ed. Walter Kaemmerer (Stuttgart/Göttingen, 1939, 1963), 379‒88, at 380. Helmrath pointed out that 310 copies of the bull of Union (Laetentur coeli) have been located: Konzil, 382. 157  Union, reform and peace were the official goals of the council of Ferrara/Florence: EP, 1:103‒4, no. 95. For an exploration of the synergy and tensions between reform and crusade see Housley, “Crusade and Reform.” 158  Heinrich Koller, “Kaiserliche Politik und die Reformpläne des 15. Jahrhunderts,” in Festschrift für Hermann Heimpel, vol. 2 (Göttingen, 1972), 61‒79. 159  Examples are numerous in Der Briefwechsel des Eneas Silvius Piccolomini, I. Abteilung: Briefe aus der Laienzeit (1431‒1445), II Band: Amtliche Briefe, ed. Rudolf Wolkan (Vienna, 1909).

Research Output in Medieval and Crusade Studies 1981–2011: A Bibliometric Survey Torben Kjersgaard Nielsen Aalborg University [email protected] Abstract This article investigates the numerical research output of crusade studies over the past thirty years. The article compares its findings to the output of medieval studies in general in the same period. It shows in detail how the applied bibliometric statistics are generated and elaborates on some of the methodological considerations necessary in carrying out this kind of quantitative research. On the basis of bibliometric statistics generated from the International Medieval Bibliography (IMB) and Bibliographie de Civilisation Médiévale (BCM), the article identifies a numeric decrease in research output both in crusade studies in particular and in medieval studies in general. The article proposes further discussion on the “why” and “how” of this somewhat surprising result.

Crusade studies have changed remarkably. With the “inclusivist,” “pluralist” and/or “generalist” turn, the crusades have in fact expanded in both numbers and geography since the late 1970s.1 This expansion – obviously, to the readers of this journal a very well-known historiographical development – is intimately connected to (and is in fact itself a part of) the immense extension of themes and subjects worthy of historical investigation that has been the result of wider and larger processes in most of the world since the end of the Second World War.2 In almost the same period a particular regime has been ruling state affairs, in the West at least, for more than two decades. The modern state wants to know where and to what purpose its money is spent. It also wants to get the most out of its money, to increase productivity and to heighten cost-efficiency. The state is prepared to use the governmental and administrative means and mechanisms available to achieve these goals. The mechanisms preferred over the past decades in nearly all Western states have mainly been meant to expose large parts of the 1  See Giles Constable, “The Historiography of the Crusades,” in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, ed. Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz Mottahedeh (Washington DC, 2001), 1–22. Norman Housley, Contesting the Crusades (Oxford, 2006). A problematization of Constable’s schema is found in Christopher Tyerman, The Debate on the Crusades, 1099–2010 (Manchester, 2011). 2  The struggles for independence, decolonization and civil rights, as well the massive upheavals in the universities brought on by the large generation of baby boomers during the late 1960s, all made way for changes that also affected research. In the humanities, a plethora of new disciplines, methodologies and theories would now be put to use on a vastly expanded corpus of inquiry.

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public sector to an allegedly competition-driven “free” market, see how they perform, and have participants in the sector carefully monitor and document their achievements in this process. With a catchall phrase this is called New Public Management – NPM, and it is a mode of government which has had obvious effects on the world of universities and learning. Nowadays ranking and benchmarking are commonplace terms in university parlance. This, it is argued, may boost research output. Counterarguments suggest that it will do nothing to improve the quality of the research performed.3 What both sides in this discussion, however, seem to agree on – while obviously judging the value of this very differently – is exactly that NPM has increased research output. All parties seem to maintain that research production for all scientific areas has risen over the last thirty years or so. In fact, it seems almost a platitude today to note the almost exponential growth in research production worldwide. With the expansion of crusade studies in mind and considering a presumed broader rise in research production brought on by NPM, this article poses two simple questions: How did research output from crusade studies actually progress numerically over the last thirty years? And how did the ratio of crusade studies to medieval studies in general actually develop in the same period? Method and Methodology According to a now classic definition from 1969, bibliometry is “the application of mathematics and statistical methods to books and other media of communication.”4 According to a more recent definition (1989): “Bibliometrics is the quantitative study of literatures as they are reflected in bibliographies. Its task, immodestly enough, is to provide evolutionary models of science, technology, and scholarship.”5 This last definition touches on the fact that the field of bibliometric research has indeed worked towards highlighting apparent scientific “laws” that seemingly govern the structure, organization and distribution of (scholarly) works.6 This paper does 3  In the UK, the system is known as the Research Excellence Framework (formerly the Research Assessment Exercise), ordered by Margaret Thatcher in 1986. When discussing the status and quality of universities and scholarship at large, it is sometimes argued that the governmental NPM-focus on productivity and cost-efficiency have led to a system of forever ongoing evaluations and constant supervisions and – ultimately – strict control over research originally understood to be absolutely free. 4  Established by Alan Pritchard, “Statistical Bibliography or Bibliometrics,” Journal of Documentation 25/4 (1969): 348–49, at 348. 5  H. D. White and K. W. McCain, “Bibliometrics,” Annual Review of Information Science and Technology 24 (1989): 119–86, at 119. See also William H. Wood and Concepción S. Wilson, “The Literature of Bibliometrics, Scientometrics, and Informetrics,” Scientometrics 52/2 (2001): 291–314; itself a bibliometric analysis of the distribution of bibliometric terms themselves, the article (perhaps undeservedly) reveals a slightly parasitic or self-feeding element in (parts of) these research traditions. I hope this present article does not evoke the same feelings. 6  Most notable – and determining for the development of the scientific field of bibliometrics – is Bradford’s law on the distribution of journals in a specific field, Lotka’s law on the frequency of author



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Fig. 1 Screenshot from Brepolis on 6 July 2015: general search for “Crusades”.

not in any sense aim to establish models or laws. On the contrary, the following investigation is simply an attempt to generate some numbers and statistics that might be helpful when discussing the current state of crusade studies. Numbers and figures below are all collated and generated with the use of the electronic versions of International Medieval Bibliography (IMB) and the Bibliographie de Civilisation Médiévale (BCM). The electronic versions of these important research resources – called “Brepolis Medieval Bibliographies” – allow for an advanced search in their bibliographical content, and, from late autumn 2012, also a (specific, but still somewhat limited) bibliometric analysis of medieval studies on the basis of bibliographical data. The databases supply information on the content of both BCM and IMB from their beginnings in 1958 and 1967 respectively. The present investigation used both the “Advanced search” function and the “Metrics” function at the Brepolis homepage containing the electronic version of the IMB and the BCM (accessed through Aalborg University Library). Figure 1 is a screenshot of how this “Advanced Search” looks like. Among a number of pre-set research “Disciplines” (under the rubric of “Thematic search – general”), I chose “Crusades.” By ticking this box, it was possible to collate the numbers of contributions registered in the IMB/BCM that deal with the crusades. publications in a given field of study, and Zipf’s law dealing with word frequencies. Short definitions of these laws may be found in the (online) Dictionary of Algorithms and Data Structures, which is developed and published under the auspices of the National Institute of Standards and Technology with the U.S. Department of Commerce. See https://xlinux.nist.gov/dads/

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Fig. 2 Screenshot from Brepolis on 6 July 2015: search for “Crusades”, sample year 1990.

It is of course possible to refine this very simple first step. The search function offers the possibility to conduct a search for “Crusades” output for every single year of my designated period of investigation by simply activating the boxes for “Year of publication.” Further, it is possible to un-tick either one of the IMB or BCM resources respectively, thus generating the numbers for articles or monographs alone, should one wish to do so. Figure 2 is a screenshot using the year 1990 as an example. As the illustration shows, this thematic search for crusade-related output within a particular publication year (in this case 1990) will also offer the total number of contributions from this year. Thus, a search conducted in July 2015 revealed the number of all medieval-studies contributions published in 1990 and listed in the bibliographies to be 10,712; the total number of “Crusades” contributions listed (since the beginning of the IMB/BCM) was 4,621 and the specific sought-for number, namely of “Crusades” contributions from 1990, was 48. By using these very simple search functions, it is possible to break down the numbers of research outputs in crusading studies as represented in the IMB/BCM in order to show how this has developed over the years. This bibliometric investigation started in the early summer of 2012.7 The autumn of 2012, however, saw the launch of a new feature on the Brepolis website. As 7 

The present investigation had its beginning as a short contribution to a round table discussion at the International Medieval Congress in Leeds, in July 2012. The theme for the round table discussion



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is visible in Figures 1 and 2, the function is called “Metrics” and it is placed to the right in the upper line of menus.8 With this function it is possible to generate different bibliometric statistics such as author or journal profiles. The “Metrics” function also contains a so-called “Subject analyzer.”9 A further word on methodological awareness and caution before showing the search results: when considering the collation of contributions for running bibliographies such as the IMB and the BCM, pertinent questions are obviously the level and the range of coverage. On the Brepolis home page it is possible to find a number of so-called “contributors” listed by country. The home page does not reveal the specific tasks of these “national contributors,” but given the epithet they may be (at least partly) responsible for collating contributions from their own countries to the bibliographies. They might also have an advisory function to the editors of the bibliographies. What is perhaps alarming for my investigation – not knowing the contributors’ precise functions, of course – is that some European countries with a strong medieval past and also a modern academic contribution to the understanding of this medieval era, are in fact not represented. Denmark and Portugal, for example, are missing from the list of contributors. This raises – unanswerable – questions of representativity when dealing with the IMB/BCM. Specific issues of representativity may appear in any one year, perhaps caused by a change in national contributors or other incidents. Such issues would, of course, be crucial if the goal of this investigation was to establish the completely exact and total publication numbers from crusade studies and medieval studies. The present intention, however, is more modest – namely to establish a credible bibliometric oversight from which it is possible to point to tendencies revealed by the level of research output over the years. Operating with a fairly long time frame (from 1981 to 2011), it is apparent that any such specific issues “ease themselves out” over time. A basic premise is that the representativity of the IMB/BCM is on the same overall level throughout the years investigated here. Thus, the fluctuations in the results below should mirror changes that would be found if it was actually possible to establish the total and precise numbers.10 was “Crusading Studies in the New Millennium.” The round table was organized by Dr. Kurt Villads Jensen and sponsored by the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East (SSCLE). Participants were Professors Carole Hillenbrand of Edinburgh University, Thomas Madden of Saint Louis University, Bernard Hamilton of the University of Nottingham and then president of the SSCLE, and myself. 8  This is a fairly new addition to the Brepolis website. Email correspondance with Brepolis reveals that the function was launched only in the fall of 2012. A tutorial video to this feature was released on YouTube on 20 Nov. 2012. I wish to thank Chris VandenBorre from Brepols Publishers for his kind replies to my queries about the workings of the Brepolis website and the electronic bibliographies. 9  See n. 23 below on some discrepancies between the “Advanced search” method applied here and the “Metrics” function on Brepolis. 10  As a general note, I find it important to state that the methodological and critical issues I raise here are not to be understood as a criticism of the IMB/BCM. Questions of representativity and coverage remain of principal importance to all bibliographies.

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The benefits of the electronic over the printed versions of bibliographies are considerable. Besides the evident advantage that the electronic versions make searching the content far easier, they also allow for contributions to be included in the bibliographies even years after the publication of bi-annual printed volumes of the IMB/BCM; in this way contribution numbers may in fact increase considerably over time. To illustrate: On 1 August 2013, the total number of crusade contributions in the IMB and the BCM together was 4,230. When this search was repeated almost two years later, in July 2015, the total number of crusade contributions had risen to 4,621, as is indicated to the lower right in Figure 1. This increase of nearly 400 crusade contributions consists not only of the new crusades research published from 2013 to 2015. The four annual updates performed by the editors of the IMB/BCM continuously add older, hitherto unregistered, contributions to the bibliographies.11 For our exemplary year of 1990 the numbers also changed: on 1 August 2013, the total number of contributions from 1990 clicked in at 10,691. This means that from August 2013 to July 2015 (when Figs. 1 and 2 were established), 21 hitherto unregistered contributions found their way into the bibliographies. By July 2015, the number of crusade contributions, however, had not changed from the 48 registered in August 2013, indicating that none of the 21 newly detected contributions from 1990 dealt with the crusades.12 The addition of previously unregistered contributions is obviously more extensive across the most recent years of publication. The addition from August 2012 to August 2013 of 899 (from 8,212 to 9,111) “new” contributions, all published in 2008, amounts to an 11 per cent increase. In the same period, additional contributions with the publication year of 2010 numbered 2,620 (from 3,267 to 5,887), an 80 per cent increase.13 By the time of the preparation of this article in July 2015, further contributions published in 2010 were added in and the number had risen to 9,605. Such “time lapse” in collating publications is of course very common with running bibliographies. Far from all publications get indexed and registered straight away. These last examples demonstrate that the figures from the most recent years are potentially “unreliable” for the calculation of statistics. What this further illustrates is that the route for a research contribution from publication to getting indexed 11 

Thus, if someone were to conduct the same search upon reading this article, the numbers will have risen even more. This is due to the quarterly updates conducted by the IMB/BCM editors. As is also clear from the screenshots (Figs. 1 and 2), the most recent (to the writing of this article) update was conducted on 4 June 2015. 12  In even earlier updates, the additions naturally are more significant. From Aug. 2012 to July 2013 the total number of contributions published in our sample year of 1990 rose from 10,645 to 10,691: This means that 46 “new” contributions to medieval studies – all of which were published way back in 1990 – had been added to the database in one year. The addition of publications from 1991 in the same period (Aug. 2012–July 2013) numbered 50 (from 11,029 to 11,079). 13  The “Advanced search” function was used to generate the numbers of the additions made to the bibliographies between Aug. 2012 and July 2013. Please see n. 23 below for information on the discrepancies between the “Advanced search” and the “Metrics” functions respectively.



MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 153

and registered in a bibliography may take several years. With future updates, the numbers of older contributions will surely continue to rise slightly, while for more recent contributions this may be substantial. This investigation indicates that to establish reasonably stable publication totals, we must go back at least five years, perhaps even further. However, as shown above for the contributions published in 1990, 1991 and – obviously less surprisingly – 2008, even then we cannot be quite sure. What this means is perhaps slightly disappointing: we will never be able to establish a solid number of contributions. These are quite common uncertainties with the use of running bibliographies and this banal fact clearly does not diminish the enormous benefit we as researchers have from resources like the IMB and the BCM. Since no running bibliography will ever be able to list all contributions at the right time, what is offered below can never be the total, once-and-for-all-undisputed numbers; they may, however, still be of use. Thus, the figures below can reveal important tendencies even when generated from numbers that are open to change. Before this, however, an even more pertinent methodological issue must be addressed. This concerns the use of the pre-set “Crusades” option in the “Discipline” box (cf. Figs. 1 and 2). What does this discipline in fact cover? How are the scholarly contributions tagged for the IMB/BCM, and how can we be sure that contributions, which deal with the topic of the medieval crusades in all their complex and manifold appearance, will always end up being labelled with the tag “Crusades” in the bibliographies? As stated in the introduction, our understanding of “what were the crusades” has broadened considerably since at least the late 1970s. This is true both in a thematic perspective and with regard to a time-space delineation of the phenomenon. Recognizably, this could easily cause troubles for the editorbibliographers of the IMB/BCM in deciding whether a specific contribution should be considered a research contribution relating to the disciplines of “Crusades,” “Military History,” “Hagiography” or, for example, “Women’s Studies.” The wise solution chosen by the bibliographers has often been to connect more than one discipline to each contribution.14 This obviously diminishes the “problems” caused by the vast expansion of the field of crusade studies. However, the basic problem for an investigation of the research output of crusade studies remains: can we be sure that all relevant contributions actually are tagged “Crusades” (and perhaps something else)? To evaluate this matter a small, supplementary investigation was conducted, using three very well-known scholars and looking at how their contributions are actually labelled in the IMB/BCM. The scholars chosen were John France, Kelly DeVries and Helen Nicholson. From the outset it was assumed that some of their work would be clearly labelled as “Crusades,” while other studies would perhaps be identified as “Military History” or “Women’s Studies” and that the bulk of their research would border on several 14 

Contributions are tagged with only one to three pre-set “Disciplines” (out of 62), according to email correspondence with Chris VandenBorre from Brepolis, in August 2013.

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of the listed “disciplines.” In the event, nearly all of the relevant contributions from these three scholars were in fact tagged “Crusades.” Only three contributions that could also have been labelled “Crusades,” but which were not, could be found. Helen Nicholson’s 2005 article “Saints venerated in the Military Orders” will serve as an example. This article is labelled in the IMB with the tags of “Hagiography” and “Monasticism,” but not “Crusades.”15 This should raise more doubts against the numbers and figures presented below. It might be that other crusades contributions are listed with the tags of “Military history” or “Women’s Studies” and not “Crusades.” The total number of crusade contributions should, therefore, be slightly higher than the figures below. Nonetheless, for the purpose of this investigation, the figures presented below will suffice to show some interesting tendencies for the development of output in the field of crusade studies during the last thirty years. This article employs the time frame 1981 to 2011 partly because of the methodological issues raised above; 1981 acts as the starting point in order to create a worthwhile duration for the study (31 years). This timespan is also intended to recognize the scholarly community’s assimilation of the thematic, chronological and spatial expansion of 1970s crusade studies. This, in turn, may have generated a considerable increase in research production during the period we are concerned with. The investigation ends in 2011; even if the numbers from that year still rise slightly with the regular updates of the IMB/BCM, it is reasonable to end with the 2011 numbers, since they have in fact by the time of this investigation – i.e. more than five years on – reached a level of stability necessary to point to trends in the material. Research Output in Medieval Studies from 1981 to 2011 The investigation begins by looking into medieval studies in general. Figure 3 offers the total number of contributions in medieval studies from every year in the period 1981–2011 as these were collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.16 As mentioned, given the political focus on research production and the workings of NPM throughout Western academia a steady rise in scholarly contributions throughout the entire period was expected. In fact, as is clear in the figure, a steady increase in research production is detectable from 1989 (perhaps even 1986). However, this increase seems to have peaked with 1997. Judging from the IMB/ BCM, 1997 with its 13,485 contributions was the highest yielding year in medieval 15 

Helen Nicholson: “Saints Venerated in the Military Orders,” in Selbstbild und Selbstverständnis der geistlichen Ritterorden: Die Rezeption der Idee und die Wirklichkeit, ed. Roman Czaja and Jürgen Sarnowsky, Ordines Militares: Colloquia Torunensia Historica 13 (Torun, 2005), 91–113. By comparison, Helen Nicholson, “The Head of St. Euphemia: Templar Devotion to Female Saints,” in Gendering the Crusades, ed. Susan Edgington and Sarah Lambert (Cardiff, 2001), 108–20, is in fact labelled as belonging to the discipline of “Crusades” in the IMB. 16  Since the “Metrics” function in the Brepolis website does not (yet?) allow for the collation of totals, the “Advanced search” has been used, as explained above.



MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 155 Medieval total 16,000 14,000 12,000 10,000 Number of contributions

8,000 6,000 4,000 2,000 0 1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 3 Total contributions to medieval studies 1981–2011, generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

studies ever. With the results from 1998 and on to the year 2001, research output actually decreased.17 From 2002 to 2005 there is a slight increase, but with 2006 a further decrease. From approximately 2009 onwards the numbers become subject to considerable change, as discussed above. However, even given this unreliability and the likelihood that numbers from recent years may still rise considerably with future updates of the bibliographies, it is fair to note that the output levels from 2007–10 will probably never reach the level apparently attained in the second half of the 1990s.18

17 

In numerals, the high point of medieval research output in 1997 counted 13,485 contributions, while the low points of 1985, 1987 and 2001 could “only” sport totals of 9,081, 9,939 and 10,362 respectively. Going beyond the time limits for this investigations, 1976 is the most recent year with output numbers below 10,000. In that year the yield was 9,889 and in general the numbers of research output were on a definite rise. From 1981 to 1986 there was a decrease (and this went on to 1986). This is in fact the first period of decrease in research output that I came across. 18  For the numbers of research output from 2005 (which with its 12,033 contributions presents the highest yield from recent years) to rise to the level of ten years earlier in 1995 (12,920 contributions), an addition of a further 887 contributions is needed in the coming years. When considering the likelihood for this to happen, one has to bear in mind that the total number of additions to any given publication year will be likely to drop with every new update, making the total publication numbers more and more stable the farther forward in time one gets from the publication year in question.

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Consequently, if the numbers from c.2009 to 2015 do not rise significantly (and we cannot know yet if they will), what we may see is a decrease in medieval research output that has lasted for almost two decades. Since the decrease seems to have set off from a relatively high point in both 1997 and in 2000, perhaps the decrease is not that alarming. However, we must still ask ourselves why. We might perhaps see some ramifications of the financial crisis in the output numbers from 2008 onwards. But the numbers from 2008 onwards are still somewhat unreliable in a statistical sense, and how are we to explain the decrease before that? Obviously, whereas these output numbers may answer questions of research production and output, they do not answer questions regarding research productivity. For them to do this, they would at least have to be compared against the total number of scholars working in medieval studies. It might well be that in fact there are fewer people doing research, thus still keeping the productivity of the 1990s. An informative figure to such investigation would of course be the number of authors represented in the IMB/BCM. This aspect has not been investigated, since this would be a very time-consuming inquiry that would necessitate a count of authors in every annual printed edition of the IMB/BCM, since only the print editions are arranged in the way necessary to make such calculations. Evidently, the indices of authors in the electronic IMB/ BCM display more names with every new update – new authors are added and older authors remain, even those no longer productive. It is precisely because of this accumulation that the electronic author indices cannot be used for such investigation. Thus, we cannot use the electronic version of the IMB/BCM to investigate productivity. Research Output in Crusade Studies from 1981 to 2011 The ups and downs noted above relate to medieval studies in general. Let us now have a closer look at the output of crusade studies in particular. A search for output numbers on “Crusades” studies listed in the IMB/BCM for the period 1981–2011 generated the results shown in Figure 4. This figure presents a somewhat more complex picture than Figure 3. It is immediately obvious that the output numbers are much smaller than in Figure 1: the highest output year here is 2001, which boasts 218 contributions in crusade studies; the lowest output was the meagre 42 for 1981. We must immediately recognize that such small numbers make it much harder to spot tendencies. A sudden rise or fall in output numbers can easily be caused by the chance publication of, for instance, a collected volume in that specific year – or the belated publication of the same. Thus, only a few publications more or less will affect the output numbers of each year and in effect make particular years stand out. This steers one to look for long-term trends rather than examining specific annual outputs.



MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 157

Crusades total 250

200

Number of contributions

150

100

50

0 1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 4 Total contributions to crusades studies 1981–2011, generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

Given these considerations, it still seems fair to point to three features in this figure: a period with a fairly steady rise in research output during the 1980s19 is followed by a significant increase during the second half of the 1990s, the peak of which was reached in 1998 with 176 contributions. Output then drops again in 1999 to 144 contributions before a new peak in 2001 with 218 contributions. This streak of nearly twenty years of increased output seems to stop with 2001. From this high point, output drops right to the end of the period under consideration. This period of decrease is – perhaps – broken only with the numbers from 2011. Thus, it is a reasonable observation that an overall decrease in output is detectable from 2004/2005 onwards, even given the obvious uncertainties of the numbers from these years. The output numbers drop drastically from 185 in 2005 to 162 in 2006,20 a 12.5 per cent decrease. It is obviously important to note that in spite of a decrease in the decade following 2001, the annual numbers of crusades contributions are still considerably higher than they seemingly were in the 1980s. Currently, the 104 contributions from 2009 bring this year above the level of 1986 with its 94 contributions. Future updates will presumably make this number rise somewhat over the coming years. 19 

However, 1986 does seem to offer an exception with its 94 contributions. On either side of this, 1985 and 1987 only produced approximately two-thirds of this, i.e. 63 and 62 respectively. 20  What makes this period so difficult to explain is, of course, also the fact that the decrease from the 218 contributions of 2001 to the 137 contributions of 2002 (37 per cent drop) seems just as dramatic as the rise from the 128 contributions in 2003 to the 195 in 2004 (52 per cent rise) or the increase from 90 contributions in 1994 to the 152 in 1995 (69 per cent rise).

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Looking at the recent low productivity for 2009 and 2010, a fair question would be this: bearing in mind that output numbers from most recent years will always be statistically unreliable and subject to the most considerable change, should we actually worry about this? In short, we should. The relatively low output of recent years cannot be explained solely by statistical unreliability. Between the different searches conducted in August 2013 and July 2015, the output number for contributions published in 2011 increased by only 58 (from 73 to 131). The output number for 2010 increased by 53 (from 48 to 101) during the same period, whereas the output number for 2009 increased by 33 (from 70 to 103). The number for 2008 increased by 14 (from 131 to 145). Additions to the publication numbers for the years 2001–7 were only slight in this period, with the years 2006 and 2007 sporting the largest additions of 21 and 11 (from 141 to 162 and 116 to 127, respectively). This means that future updates will have to generate considerable numbers merely to reach the fairly low output number from 2007. In fact, for the output level of e.g. 2010 to attain the level of 2007, a further 27 new contributions are needed; and for 2010 to reach the level of the peak year of 2001, the towering number of 117 hitherto unregistered crusades contributions must turn up – that is, more than twice the number of additions made in the two years between 2013 and 2015. This is not likely.21 What we are left with, then, is a decrease in research output in crusade studies in the decade from 2001 to 2010. The pertinent question is, of course – why? This is the same period that saw a huge public interest in crusade studies, perhaps partly brought about by the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States, the ensuing “War on Terror”22 and the American-led military campaign “Enduring Freedom” in 2001 against the Taliban in Afghanistan and later in 2003 the invasion of Iraq. University courses in crusade history also seemed to be more and more in demand by students in this period. A further good ten years on, medieval and crusade studies in no way seem to lack public interest. How do these features then go together with the drop in research output? An immediate answer would, of course, be that it is exactly because of the public interest and the demand for courses and teaching that research output levels drop. We are not able simultaneously to accommodate a rising demand for lectures and teaching as well as producing more new research. Yet, this rather commonsensical explanation does not seem entirely convincing. From another viewpoint, the drop from the relatively high yields of the second half of the 1990s may simply be an adjustment to a more “normal” production rate in crusade studies: Slightly higher output than in the 1980s, but slightly lower than in the 1990s would then be the modern production level. 21 

The high number of contributions from 2011 (increased with 52 additions – from 79 to 131 – from Aug. 2013 to July 2015) could of course be the beginning of an increase in crusade research output. However, it is still too early to say anything meaningful about this. 22  So named by U.S. President George W. Bush on 20 September 2001.



MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 159

Research Output Ratio of Medieval Studies to Crusade Studies Figure 5 below brings the research output of medieval studies together with the output from crusade studies. This figure allows one to ascertain whether the decreases in research output identified in both medieval studies in general and crusade studies in particular are of the same magnitude. If, however, we for a moment stay with Figures 3 and 4, it is striking to note that, whereas in 2001 the output of medieval scholarship in general was at its lowest (with the exception of 1985), it was at its all time highest in crusade studies. The low point/high point of 2001 is clearly visible in Figure 5, which shows the crusade studies publication in relation to medieval studies in general. At a quick glance, the number of crusade studies contributions (the light grey area) may seem to be quite impressive. However, note that this figure is in fact heavily reduced: the vertical y-axis shows only the upper 3 percent, from 97 to 100. Figure 5 seems to show – and this might be of some importance for further discussions – that the decrease in crusade studies is not as significant as the broader decrease in medieval studies; the decrease in medieval studies output is bigger than the decrease in crusade studies. In other words, crusade scholars may be producing numerically less research in recent years, but they are gaining market shares in the overall business of medieval studies. One might note, however, that – to stay within this corporate terminology – there is still ample “room for improvement.” Medieval total

Crusades total

100%

99%

98%

97%

1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 5 Ratio of crusades contributions to total contributions 1981–2011, generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

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As the percentage indications in Figure 5 reveal, crusade studies take up only a very small share of medieval studies. At the high point of crusade studies output, the discipline only generated a little more than 2 per cent of the total medieval research contributions.23 Looking into the peaks of 2001 and 2011 (the only years in which crusade studies reached 2 per cent of the total amount of contributions to medieval studies), two short remarks should be made. Regarding 2001, it would of course be tempting to establish – as noted above – a correlation between the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and a sudden rise in crusade studies. However, the “logistics” of research contributions on their way from personal computer to publication firmly deny such correlation. Most of the 218 contributions to crusade studies from 2001 must in reality have been written and submitted for publication well before 9/11. Regarding the drastic rise in numbers of publications from 2011, it must again be remembered that the most recent publication years will always offer figures most exposed to change with coming updates. Hence, this result must await further discussion simply on account of its statistical uncertainty – it is still too early to say anything substantial at this point. “National” Contributions? Breaking down Numbers As a scholar based in Denmark, figures or tables are not needed to assert that in this country at least, research output of crusade studies has clearly been on the rise since the late 1990s. Is it possible, however, to conduct a search in the IMB/BCM bibliographies that may offer us some information on the output of crusade studies in different regions and larger (national or regional) research milieus? What follows below may be open to criticism from a methodological point of view, especially since for some of the regions investigated with Figures 6, 7 and 8 below, the output figures are quite small and thus of course particularly vulnerable. With such limited numbers, a chance publication in one year of only a single collected volume will significantly influence the calculations and possibly cloud longer-term 23 

Exactly when it comes to establishing the ratio of medieval studies/crusade studies, the “Metrics” function on the Brepolis web site offers itself as a possibility. Chris VandenBorre from Brepolis states in an email correspondence that using the “Advanced search” method will yield a slight number of redundant data, and the “Metrics” function would therefore be more precise for my purpose. Accordingly, a test run of the “Metrics” function for the ratio of medieval studies to crusade studies was made. This showed all of the numbers for crusades publications from 1981 to 2011 to be slightly lower than numbers generated by the “Advanced search” method. However, the “Metrics” function only gives the annual numbers for crusades contribution and not the numbers of total annual contributions. Instead the “Metrics” function offers a percentage to indicate the ratio. After placing the numbers from the “Metrics” function into a diagram like the one above, the result was the exact same fluctuations and almost the same ratio percentages, showing of course that the slight discrepancy between the two methods of data harvesting is of no real importance when dealing with such small numbers after all. In order to keep the various yearly output numbers the same throughout this article, this paper continues to work with the numbers generated by the “Advanced search” method.

70 60

50

MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 161

40

Baltic/Scandinavia/Russia

30 20 10 0 1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 6 Crusade contributions on the Baltic, Scandinavia and Russia, generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

tendencies.24 Nevertheless, this section is still included in order to see how far we can go in breaking down the numbers and ascertaining some outline trends. An advanced search in the IMB/BCM bibliography for contributions with the specifics of Discipline: “Crusades,” and Area: “Russia,” “Baltic” and “Scandinavia” reveals a drastic rise in contributions in 2001 to 31 contributions (these numbers were generated in July 2015). However, the real change seems to occur with the year before, in that from 2000 a more steady development seems to take off. From here on – with 2007, 2008 and 2010 as the only exceptions so far25 – the annual output number stays above 10. By comparison, the average annual number of crusade studies contributions in the period of 1981–99 on these geographic areas was 3 or 4. Apparently, from 2000 a development begun, which more than doubled the annual number of crusade studies focusing on the Baltic, Scandinavia and/or Russia. Obviously, this search generates only numbers for the geographical focus in the contributions. The figures do not point directly to the nationalities or the research milieus of the contributors. Thus, this search may only speak of the research output from national research milieus very circumstantially and only under the (admittedly dubious) presupposition that crusade contributions touching on the regions of the Baltic, Scandinavia and Russia will tend to be written largely by scholars coming from these regions.26 Linking researchers’ provenances or affiliations to the regions 24  An example of this is given by the publication of Alan Murray, ed., Crusade and Conversion on the Medieval Baltic Frontier, 1150–1500 (Farnham, 2001). With its 15 contributions, this publication is clearly visible in Figure 6. 25  It is possible that later updates to the bibliographies will bring the output numbers for these three years also over 10. 26  The unfeasibility of this may be exemplified by using the contributions of Alan V. Murray. Based in the University of Leeds, and thus outside the regions in question here, he is represented in the bibliographies with 68 entries (in July 2015). The “Metrics” function mentioned above allows for a so-called “Author profile.” For Murray this shows that of his contributions 34 per cent deal with the Middle East (22 contributions), while 24 per cent deal with the Baltic and Scandinavia (15 contributions). It should be noted that Alan V. Murray is also the Editorial Director of the IMB/BCM.

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TORBEN KJERSGAARD NIELSEN Baltic/Scandinavia/Russia

East Central/South Eastern Europe

British Isles

Eastern Mediterranean/Middle East/Africa

80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0 1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 7 Crusade contributions 1981–2011 on specific areas (1), generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

to which their research is focused works only towards very well-defined and smallyielding regions such as those used above, and then not without difficulties (as shown in n. 26). Linking the numbers of contributions that deal with the “classic” crusading region of the Holy Land for instance (i.e. searching the IMB/BCM with the Area Code: “Eastern Mediterranean”) with contributors’ provenances, is surely meaningless because of the highly international character and nature of this area of study. The search possibilities for the IMB/BCM bibliographies do not allow an investigation of authors’ provenances or their institutional affiliations. Such work will only be possible by examining each author individually. The insight that might be gained by breaking down the research output numbers into geographical categories is of a different kind than the provenance of authors. By forming the crusade research output numbers into regional clusters, we might get a picture of which geographic regions have been targeted by crusades scholars over the years and thus which geographies of crusade studies may be said to carry the ebb and flow of crusades research. Or, to put this in another way: we might be able to identify the numerical effects – if any – of the “inclusivist” broadening of crusade studies since the 1970s. For the sake of such geographical comparison, see Figures 7 and 8. They both show the development in research output in the period 1981–2011, but as in Figure 6, I have organized the data according to the area codes used by the IMB/BCM. The Brepolis search engine of the bibliographies offers fifteen different regions. For this purpose, fourteen of these regions have been rearranged into eight groups.27 For the sake of clarity, these eight regional groups are presented in two figures. 27 

The fifteenth area code is “Americas.” For the years 1981–2011 no contributions to crusade studies were given this area code; hence, it is omitted from Figures 7 and 8.



MEDIEVAL AND CRUSADE STUDIES 1981–2011 163 France

Germany/Low Countries

Iberia

Italy

60 50 40 30 20 10 0 1981

1986

1991

1996

2001

2006

2011

Fig. 8 Crusade contributions 1981–2011 on specific areas (2), generated with numbers collated from the IMB/BCM in July 2015.

What is striking in these figures is that the abovementioned peak in crusade contributions in 2001 (218) is identifiable in all of the eight regional groupings except Iberia, which peaked the year before, in 2000, and Italy, which peaked in 2002. What is more interesting, is that the drop in crusade contributions from 2001 onwards is also identifiable in these curves. It is clear that the short-lived increase from 2004/2005 (196 and 186 contributions respectively) is carried almost exclusively by a rise in crusade contributions focusing on the regions most important to the crusades to the Holy Land: the Eastern Mediterranean, the Middle East and Africa with 60 contributions (Fig. 7), and France with 54 (Fig. 8). Correspondingly, since the contributions focusing on these regions are by far the most numerous, it is not surprising that the decrease in contribution looks the most dramatic in the graphs for exactly these regions. Why the Decrease in Crusade-Studies Research Output since 2001? It is very hard to explain why research outputs in either medieval studies in general or in crusade studies in particular have been on a decrease from 2006 and 2001 respectively. Insinuations of the unintended productivity-lowering effects of the NPM-regime remain just that – insinuations and guesswork. But they could of course still be right ... As is clear from Figures 7 and 8, the decrease in crusade research is carried by all of the regions involved in this investigation (although not apparently beginning

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the exact same years), even if the decrease obviously seems the most impactful for the core regions of “classic” crusade studies. On the other hand, it may be that the decrease took off from an all-time high and that in fact the output in 2001 should be regarded as quite extraordinary. For the highest-yielding region, the Eastern Mediterranean/Middle East/Africa, the output numbers seem to stabilize themselves on a level slightly above the output levels of the late 1990s, whereas for the second highest-yielding region of France, the output levels seem to go only down: the output number for 2006 was the same as in 1986 (17) and this year shows a drop from the all-time-high of 2004 (54) and 2005 (43). In fact, if we take 2004 to be extraordinary, crusade research production with a focus on France may be said to have been on a downward slope ever since 1997. This study can have no real insight in changes in research conditions or environments (in France or elsewhere) that might have impacted upon these results. That is not the case for Scandinavia. As stated above, the paper has not examined specific contributions to see how the contributors are distributed nationally, but were such an analysis to support the, admittedly shaky, assumption above about the correlation between the contributors’ nationality and the contributions’ regional focus (at least regarding regions that were in a sense “peripheral” to the crusades to the Holy Land), we might have some elements leading to an answer as to why crusade studies output seems to drop from 2001 onwards. Bearing in mind that the source material available for the Nordic and Baltic crusades is not nearly as rich as the material related to the crusades “classic” areas, it is worth asking whether it could be that the Danish, Estonian and other small research milieus have already exhausted the source material available for specific crusade studies in these regions. And whether they are now moving on in new directions, perhaps not labelled as crusade studies.28 Further discussion seems necessary. Further suggestions to explain the development of our mutual research production would be most welcome.

28  Two (new) directions taken by scholars who also work within crusade studies in the North seem apparent. One would be a heightened interest in texts and manuscripts: sermons, theological treatises, chronicles. The texts under scrutiny might be crusade texts by content, only they are not used to do crusade studies alone. Rather, the focus lies on the circumstances surrounding the production of such texts, their keeping and collecting, and their uses by their readers and audiences. The recent volume by Marek Tamm, Linda Kaljundi and Carsten Selch Jensen, Crusade and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier: A Companion to Henry of Livonia (Farnham, 2011), may point in this direction. We may perhaps (also) talk of a material turn here, since the interest in these texts is not limited to the actual content of the manuscript, but also to manuscripts and texts in and of themselves as a representation of symbolic and material value. Another avenue of research seems to pose more generalized questions. This direction may question, for instance, the relationship between crusade expansion and its target countries, and it will often strive to attribute historical agency to all the parties in this relationship. Hence, this research will not focus on (crusading) confrontation alone, but also study the day-to-day administration in hybrid societies, that could be considered the results of former crusading activity. Thus, such research in the intersections of medieval culture and society may consider crusades merely a specific subspecies to a more generalized concept of cultural encounters in the shaping and modelling of the medieval societies at large.

REVIEWS Niall Christie, Muslims and Crusaders: Christianity’s Wars in the Middle East, 1095–1382, from the Islamic Sources. Pp. 186. London: Routledge, 2014. ISBN 978 1 138 02274 4. In the last few years a number of books have been published that have sought to go some way towards redressing the generally Euro-centric focus of crusading historiography. While there were a few studies examining the subject previously, this trend seems primarily to have been kick-started by Carole Hillenbrand’s The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh, 1999). Since then, there have been a number of studies on various aspects of the “counter-crusade” published in English, especially in the last three years: Paul Cobb’s Usama Ibn Munqidh: Warrior-Poet of the Age of Crusades (Oxford, 2006) and The Race for Paradise (Oxford, 2014), Michael Köhler’s Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East (Leiden, 2013), and my own Popular Muslim Reactions to the Franks in the Levant, 1097–1291 (Farnham, 2014), as well as a number of translations of Arabic source material into English. Each of these studies has forged its own specific path, exploring a particular aspect of or approach to the counter-crusade, and Niall Christie’s book is no different in that respect. To be clear from the outset: this is not a research monograph, so there is very little in the way of “new” material or ideas here, but that is not the author’s intention anyway. Instead, this book is meant as an introduction for students studying events in the Muslim world during the period of the crusades in the Eastern Mediterranean, with a particular focus on the “counter-crusade.” It forms part of Routledge’s Seminar Studies series of books, which aim to provide “a concise and reliable introduction to complex events and debates,” according to the back-cover. This is made clear in the book’s opening pages, which provide a very useful series of introductory apparatuses, including a glossary of Islamic terms, a “who’s who” of the characters in the book, maps, and a fairly detailed chronology of the period. Then, there follows Chapter 1, a short introduction that discusses previous works on Muslim responses to the crusades, the limits of the book, and the sources available for reconstructing events. Following this, the book recounts Muslim reactions, doing so by dividing the period chronologically in a way that is fast becoming normative. Chapter 2 relates the Islamic world before the crusades, including its history, Muslim beliefs, practices, and factions, pre-crusade images of the Franks in Muslim writings, and the Muslim Levant immediately before the First Crusade. Chapter 3 examines the period of the First Crusade itself and initial Muslim responses up to 1146, including their assessments of why the Franks came and Zengi’s role in the resistance, while Chapter 4 relates the period of Nur al-Din 165

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and Saladin up to 1174, and Chapter 5 covers Saladin’s rule from 1174 until his death in 1193, including the period of the Third Crusade. The next chapter breaks from political history to examine aspects of life in the Levant for Muslims during the crusading period, covering topics as diverse as how war was conducted, the conditions of Muslims living under Frankish rule, and cross-cultural perspectives. Chapters 7 and 8 return the reader to political history, dealing with the Ayyubid and Mamluk periods respectively, while the conclusion, Chapter 9, considers the impact of the crusades in the post-crusading period. Each of these chapters is rather short but, given the aims of the book, this is a positive. Students reading this will be able to quickly gain a good idea of the main events of each of the temporal periods; further information on a specific one can then be retrieved from more detailed studies. Not only that, but there is also an extremely useful discussion of the main historiographical debates surrounding the events, and as such the book goes some way to providing for the Islamic side what Norman Housley’s Contesting the Crusades does for the European. Another useful feature of this book for students not used to the Islamic terms is a running glossary; when a specifically Islamic term is mentioned in the main body of the text, there is a gloss on the outer margin of the text, immediately next to it. Finally, perhaps as important as the main text is the huge range of documents in translation that follows it. In a total of 44 pages, they cover a wide variety of related Islamic texts, including the Quran, Muslim views of the Franks, Merits of Jerusalem literature, a statement from Usama bin Laden, as well as some more familiar chronicle evidence. There is very little about this book that I feel I can criticize, though there are a couple of points that could have been improved. Foremost amongst these is the length. The book, as a whole, comes in at only 186 pages, but the section on the historical narrative itself is a mere 119 pages. While generally this is an advantage, some sections are too short, such as that on the Third Crusade, which covers only two pages. While Christie makes an attempt to explain this as being necessary due to “page limits” in the introduction (p. 3), to me, at least, this is rather unconvincing. The other, very slight, complaint is that, while the title suggests the book goes up to the year 1382, in reality it seems not to; although there are brief references to events in the fourteenth century, such as the 1365 raid on Alexandria, it essentially finishes in 1291 with the Fall of Acre. 1382 seems to have simply been a convenient year to finish the book as it was the year the rule of the Bahri Mamluks ended. These are, however, extremely minor issues. Overall, the book is a superb example of what it sets out to be: an undergraduate-level introductory textbook to events in the Muslim world during the period of the crusades in the Eastern Mediterranean. It may be short in length, but for students that is an advantage. It is to Christie’s great credit that he has managed to condense not only around two hundred years of history into a short but very accessible and entertaining read, but he has also clearly explained the main historiographical debates and provided documentary evidence



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for students to engage with. This book should, I believe, be the main basic teaching tool for Muslim responses to the crusades for the foreseeable future. Alex Mallett University of Exeter Kristin Skottki, Christen, Muslime und der Erste Kreuzzug: Die Macht der Beschreibung in der mittelalterlichen und modernen Historiographie (Cultural Encounters and the Discourses of Scholarship, 7). Münster/New York: Waxmann, 2015. Pp. 554. ISBN 978 3 83092 682 5. Having just completed a research project on the First Crusade myself, the thought of ever tackling it again sends a shudder down my spine. The topic is so heavily researched. The historiography is so densely packed. The sources are so complex, intertwined and convoluted (and seem to become increasingly so, the more you engage with them) that the mere effort of reading – let alone mastering – the huge volume of contemporary and modern texts (in multiple languages) is an intensely intimidating thought. Moreover, the theme of inter-faith relations/representations at the time of the crusade is perhaps the most emotive and heavily debated theme of all, siting at the crossroads of multiple schools of thought and historiographical approaches. On these grounds, Skottki’s decision to embark upon a study which essentially seeks to synthesize, engage and respond to the full historiography surrounding the key sources and debates connected to the theme of Christian-Islamic relations demands praise prima facie for its sheer ambition. More importantly, it carries out this task extremely well. Structurally, this work consists of five chapters. The first three of these work through key contested issues pertinent to this topic. Chapter 1 discusses core contextual concepts/constructs such as “Orient,” “Occident” and “Medievalism,” considering how these terms have been used and applied to the First Crusade. Here, as elsewhere, Skottki offers a detailed discussion on how authors such as Edward Said and Bernard Lewis have used such terminology whilst also offering her own critique. She makes the point – quite rightly – that in many ways medieval Europe has become the subaltern of modern academic discourse: frequently “othered” and unable to write back. Skottki also breaks down the notion that clear-cut divisions such as “east/west” or “orient/occident” can be meaningfully invoked in such a way as to understand medieval mentalities. Chapter 2 focuses more squarely on the way in which the First Crusade has been invoked within modern discourses. It considers occasions when historians have attempted to link, or draw parallels between, this eleventh-century campaign and modern events. These include colonialism, the Holocaust, and the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. This is an interesting discussion because historians, even those performing historiographical analyses, have tended to shy away from topics with a

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strong emotive dimension (colonialism arguably being the exception). Even so, it is interesting to see how different academics have used these events to build broader conceptual models incorporating the crusade. As with many of Skottki’s analyses, she does not herself come down vehemently on one side or another and her main contribution is to demonstrate the complexities and tensions inherent in such debates. Skottki then goes on to look at medieval Christendom’s broader stance towards the Muslim world, questioning the extent to which contemporaries were actually interested in their Muslim neighbours. The second half of the chapter considers key historians who have engaged with the theme of macro-relations between Western Christendom and Islam, specifically Richard Southern, Norman Daniel and John Tolan. She then tackles a particular point of contention among many scholars – the famous history of Archbishop William of Tyre – and she ponders the various attempts made by modern scholars to deduce his stance towards the Muslim world. The chapter finishes with a strongly argued conclusion stressing the extent to which modern events have shaped historians’ representations of the First Crusade and Christendom’s broader stance towards Islam. The third chapter turns to the key debates surrounding the surviving sources for the First Crusade, exploring how they have been approached by scholars from different disciplines while engaging with some specific questions surrounding core texts – such as the search for the original text and author of the Gesta Francorum. She then reflects upon the utility of the surviving sources and the way in which they have been shaped by their authors’ lived experiences as well as by longstanding philosophical/ textual/biblical discourses. Further discussion concerns the way in which these texts should be classified: travelogue? chronicle? pilgrim account? and so on. Chapter 4 is in many way the heart of the book, offering a detailed source-bysource analysis of seven key primary sources dealing with the First Crusade or its aftermath (Gesta Francorum, Peter Tudebode, Raymond of Aguilers, Fulcher of Chartres, Robert the Monk, Albert of Aachen, and Walter the Chancellor). Again Skottki performs a forensic analysis of the historiography surrounding each of these works before considering how they deal with the issue of alterity – specifically the way they present non-Christians. The final chapter explores the ways in which the surviving sources cover moments of inter-cultural exchange, including events such as Herluin and Peter the Hermit’s embassy to the Turkish commander Kerbogha, or the famous conversation described as taking place between Kerbogha and his mother prior to his attempt to lift the siege of Antioch. Skottki observes that in such instances it is notable that these tales –whilst either partially or wholly fictive – reflect a contemporary interest in non-Christian viewpoints, granting them both a voice and recognizing that they formed their own judgements. She goes on to discuss how historians have dealt with other moments of interaction including the famous tale in the Gesta which makes the claim that the Franks and Turks have common Trojan forebears. Within this chapter, and indeed throughout the work, Skottki stresses that the full complexity of the First Crusade and its textual representations need to



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be understood and, by extension, that simplistic notions of them/us impoverish the rich and varied selection of viewpoints manifested in the surviving texts. This is of course an important and entirely reasonable conclusion. Overall, this is an exceptionally brave and challenging piece of work in which Skottki handles a whole range of complex and often sensitive topics. It is thorough and incisive. I can only conclude by joining with a fellow reviewer in wishing that this work be translated into other languages so that it can become accessible to a broader academic audience. Nicholas Morton Nottingham Trent University Les ordres militaires dans la ville médiévale (1100–1350). Actes du colloque international de Clermont-Ferrand, 26–28 May 2010, ed. Damien Carraz. Clermont-Ferrand: Presses Universitaires Blaise Pascal, 2013. Pp. 312. ISBN 978 2 84516 558 8. Les Ordres militaires dans la ville médiévale is a collection of essays presented at a conference held in Clermont-Ferrand in May 2010. The volume deals with what Damien Carraz, its editor, called “malentendu historiographique” (p. 9), the fact that the military orders have been considered as institutions established mainly in the countryside and associated with a rural economy, despite the origins of many of the orders being urban. This connection between the orders and the cities has been studied in the past, including by contributors to this volume, but no attempt has been made until now to give a comprehensive view of these topics. This is the purpose and the strength of this engaging collection of essays. The articles study the orders’ evolution in the context of the urbanization process and the social and spiritual changes in the High Middle Ages, covering the diverse geographical areas in which the military orders were involved. The articles, grouped into four categories, are well illustrated including numerous pictures, tables, maps and city plans. The three introductory papers of Nikolas Jaspert, Damien Carraz and Ludovic Viallet give significant insights into the connection between the orders and the cities, setting this study in a wider religious and socio-economic context and offering a framework for the rest of the volume. Jaspert points to a number of criteria for examining the relationship between the orders and the towns: changing spiritual and factual perceptions of the town, in particular – but not only – Jerusalem; changes connected to monastic life in the context of urbanization and reform; the role of the orders as urban agents and their contribution to the expansion of existing cities and the creation of new ones; and social networking and levels of integration into the socio-economic life of the cities. Although these criteria, as Jaspert shows, point to an integration of the orders in the urban setting, Jaspert stresses that in their economic existence the orders remained more rural than urban. Furthermore, he

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adds that this link between rural and urban should be a subject of further study not only in respect of the military orders, but also the mendicants, who are considered urban in nature, but were very much connected with the countryside. This point is further considered by Viallet in his historiographical re-evaluation of the link between town and countryside as regards the mendicant orders. These references to the mendicants in a book dedicated to the military orders is justified, because the military orders, as shown by Carraz, should be considered a significant link between traditional and new monasticism. Their charitable and military missions led the military orders to break away from stabilitas and fuga mundi, and, like the mendicants later on, to get deeply involved in the religious and social life of the cities. Another criterion stressed by Carraz in the study of the orders’ integration in the cities is their unique role in supporting the Holy Land and defending Christendom; these characteristics defined to a great extent the ways in which these orders evolved and functioned in the urban environment. The second part of this volume is dedicated to regional studies. Denys Pringle examines the effects of the establishment of the orders’ headquarters, first in Jerusalem and later in Acre, on their urban topography, politics and societies. Pringle further surveys other commanderies established as administrative centres by the military orders in cities, castles and rural areas, emphasizing that the differentiation between urban and rural in the Latin East was not always clear cut. The next five articles move the discussion into Europe. Valérie Bessey shows the involvement of the aristocracy and the Church in the establishment of the orders in the cities in the north of France, as was the case in Laon and Reims. She stresses, however, that although the orders were involved in important towns, their main presence was in the countryside. This, as Helen Nicholson shows, was also the case in the British Isles. This detailed study of the establishment and development of Templar and Hospitaller urban centres points to the different financial and religious services performed in the orders’ houses in the New Temple and Clerkenwell in London, as well as in other towns, such as Dublin, Hereford and York. The article examines the impact these activities had on the orders’ relationship with royalty, aristocracy and townspeople. Zsolt Hunyadi gives a historiographical survey of the process of urban development in Hungary and within it the establishment of the orders’ houses. The reasons for the attraction of the military orders to cities included royal patronage, strategic location and the fact that they were important stations on the inland pilgrim route to the Holy Land. The importance of the location of the orders’ urban houses in Europe for the connection with the Holy Land is examined in the two articles, by Elena Bellomo and Kristjan Toomaspoeg, dealing with the presence of the military orders in the Italian peninsula. Bellomo also examines their role in the development of urban life in north and central Italy. The orders’ houses, many of which were established on the outskirts of the cities by ecclesiastical and lay patronage, contributed to the growth of suburban areas. They invigorated pre-existing charitable institutions and influenced the development of local cults. The establishment of the orders’ urban houses in the Mezzogiorno, studied by



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Toomaspoeg, describes a quite different experience, as they encountered a strong opposition from the local bishops. Yet, the orders enjoyed a great popularity in the urban centres in the south and attracted a great number of affiliates from the most prominent and dynamic strata of society. While the regional studies mentioned so far focus on the orders’ contribution to existing cities, Sylvain Gouguenheim explores the unique situation in Prussia, where the Teutonic Order was the founder of a great number of cities, as part of their process of conquest, Christianization and domination of the land. The third part of the volume considers particular case studies, examining the orders’ integration in different types of cities. The first three articles examine “regional capitals.” Nicolas Buchheit shows the relatively late arrival of the Hospitallers in the city of Strasbourg, where, by the beginning of the fourteenth century, they had developed a close relationship with the nobility and the burgesses. The rich documentation and material evidence which survives allows Laurent Macé and Rodrigue Tréton to reconstruct the orders’ successful social and economic infiltration in Toulouse and in Perpignan respectively. Two articles are dedicated to the Iberian Peninsula: Joan Fuguet Sans and Carme Plaza Arqué explore the different conditions, socio-political but also topographical and architectural, which influenced the creation and expansion of Templar commanderies in the Crown of Aragon. The authors compare the order’s integration into established and predominantly Christian cities, such as Barcelona, with its integration into newly conquered towns, such as Tortosa. The implications of the Reconquest to the orders’ role in the creation and expansion of urban centres in the Iberian Peninsula is also examined by Isabel Cristina Ferreira Fernandes who demonstrates the central role that the castles of the military orders had in the development of urban life in Portugal. This study, as well as Sandrine Claude’s, which examines the Hospitallers in Manosque, a smaller city which resembled a rural settlement, exemplify the point raised by Daniel Le Blevec in the concluding remarks of this volume, about the need to consider different types of towns. In their concluding reflections, the round table’s participants, Daniel Le Blevec, Nicole Beriou, Alain Demurger and Jean Luc Frey, emphasize the significance of the subjects presented in this volume. The establishment of the military orders in the cities was interwoven with the process of urbanization and spiritual revival. The orders were integrated in the social, religious and economic life of the cities. This dynamic is of great significance for the understanding of the orders’ function in the urban, as well as rural, space, and it is also of key importance for illuminating the orders’ capability to fulfil their main role, that of subsidium Terrae sanctae. The articles presented in this important collection of essays give us a deeper understanding of the orders’ involvement in the urbanization process in the High Middle Ages. Judith Bronstein University of Haifa

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Élites et ordres militaires au moyen âge. Rencontre autour d’Alain Demurger, ed. Philippe Josserand, Luis F. Oliveira and Damien Carraz (Collection de la Casa de Velázquez, 145). Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2015. Pp. ix, 465. ISBN 978 84 15636 88 5. Alain Demurger is certainly one of the best-known French specialists on the military-religious orders. Focusing on the Templars, he is also one of the few international scholars who venture into comparative histories of these peculiar institutions that came into being from the twelfth century onwards for the promotion of crusades and warfare against enemies of the faith. See for example his Moines et guerriers: les ordres religieux-militaires au Moyen Âge (2010) and his Chevaliers du Christ: les ordres religieux-militaires au Moyen Âge (XIe–XVIe siècle) (2002). On the occasion of Demurger’s 70th birthday, the 2009 meeting of the group preparing the encyclopaedia Prier et combattre: Dictionnaire européen des ordres militaires au Moyen Âge (2009) resulted in a festschrift with twenty-three authors from France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Britain, Germany and Hungary. The state of the art and Demurger’s contribution are succinctly pointed out in an introduction by Philippe Josserand (pp. 1–8), a personal assessment of Demurger’s achievements by Michel Balard (pp. 11–15), and a conclusion by Damien Carraz and Nicole Bériou (pp. 373–80). Then Alain Demurger himself (“Éléments pour une prosopographie du «peuple templier». La comparution des Templiers devant la commission pontificale de Paris, février–mai 1310,” pp. 17– 36) presents his plan for a comprehensive study of the known data about the last French Templars, more than 600 persons, who were mentioned in records of their trial edited by Jules Michelet in 1841/51. This permits a detailed study of the social background not only for commanders and other officers but also for the rank-and-file of the ordinary members who are scarcely documented elsewhere. The following papers form three groups: I. “Les ordres militaires et les élites sociales”; II. “Hiérarchies et élites au sein des ordres militaires”; and III. “Les ordres militaires et les élites du pouvoir.” The first section opens with a masterful survey on all parts of Europe by Damien Carraz (“Le monachisme militaire, un laboratoire de la sociogénèse des élites laïques dans l’Occident médiéval?”, pp. 39–64), a fundamental contribution which establishes an enlightening framework for future research. The following six studies of the first part exemplify the problems of recruitment and of social background as case studies: Gérard Dédéyan (pp. 65–78) on Armenian knights and barons as milites Christi; Sylvain Gouguenheim (pp. 79–99) on lesser nobles, Ritteradelige, in the Teutonic Order serving in Prussia between 1230 and 1309; Zsolt Hunyadi (pp. 101–10) on the Hospitaller priors of Hungary and their social advancement during the fifteenth century; Carlos de Ayala Martínez (pp. 111–24) on lay fraternities affiliated to military-religious orders in Castile and León during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; Philippe Contamine (pp. 125–34) on the new military-religious order of Christ’s Passion planned by Philippe de Mézières between 1367 and 1396;



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and Jean-Philippe Genet (pp. 135–52) on the Order of the Garter founded by Edward III in 1348. Parts II and III also open with more or less comprehensive surveys, by Luís Filipe Oliveira (“La sociologie des ordres militaires. Une enquête à poursuivre,” pp. 155–68), focusing on Iberia, and by Helen J. Nicholson (“Nolite confidere in principibus. The Military Orders’ Relations with the Rulers of Christendom,” pp. 261–76), focusing on England. Nicholson’s topic is also taken up by Kristjan Toomaspoeg (“Les ordres militaires au service des pouvoirs monarchiques occidentaux,” pp. 321–32). Members of the military-religious orders swore to be obedient to their superiors but not to kings, princes or even the pope. Serving other lords was therefore a problem. On the other hand, the orders needed protection and aid from popes, kings and princes. Moreover, their members were inevitably part of various political and social networks whose aims they had to respect. (For the ensuing problems, see now the papers of the 17th Toruń conference, “The Military Orders in the Social, Political and Religious Networks in Middle Ages and Early Modern Times,” in Ordines Militares 19 and 20 (2014 and 2015).) In Part II of the present volume one can read: Simonetta Cerrini (pp. 169–87) on the ranking of Templar officers according to their rule; Luis Rafael Villegas Díaz (pp. 189–99) on the same problem in the Order of Calatrava; and Alan J. Forey (pp. 201–14) on regional officers of the Templars and Hospitallers in Europe, citra mare, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Jürgen Sarnowsky compares the status of priests as members in the three great military-religious orders: Templars, Hospitallers and Teutonic Knights (pp. 215–24). The following two contributions deal with the military orders’ castles as lieux du pouvoir: Isabel Cristina Ferreira Fernandes (pp. 225–39) in Portugal, and Joan Fuguet Sans and Carme Plaza Arqué (pp. 241–57) for the Templars in the Crown of Aragón. Part III includes five specialized papers: Pierre-Vincent Claverie (pp. 277–92) deals with Pope Honorius III (1216–27) and the military-religious orders, and Francesco Tommasi (pp. 293–319) with Hospitallers as papal servants during the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Tommasi also edits four charters: on Fr. Johannes de Sambuco in 1209, who is taking monies from Italy to the Holy Land; on Fr. Jacobus, a papal hostiarius in 1258; on Fr. Franco, a papal chaplain in 1296; and on Fr. Bonifacio da Calamandrana in 1297. [Fr. Franco is missing from the index of the volume; furthermore, there is no discussion whether he might be the same person as the famous music theorist Fr. Franco, a Hospitaller from Cologne, author of the widely copied Ars cantus mensurabilis (see Michel Huglo, “La notation franconienne: antécédents et devenir,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 31/2, 1988, pp. 123–32).] Marie-Anna Chevalier (pp. 333–45) describes the military-religious orders in Cilician Armenia, while Pierre Bonneaud (pp. 347–63) looks at the Catalan Hospitallers at home, in Italy and on Rhodes between 1420 and 1480. Finally, Anthony Luttrell (pp. 365–72) points out that, despite ample documentation, it is by no means easy and perhaps even impossible to figure out how much money the Hospitallers had to pay to the French crown for obtaining former Templar possessions after 1312. The scholarly usefulness of the volume

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is enhanced not only by the usual bibliography (pp. 401–55) and index of proper names (pp. 457–65) but also by a separate list of sources (pp. 383–99). Karl Borchardt Universität Würzburg/ Monumenta Germaniae Historica, München Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, ed. Kathryn Hurlock and Paul Oldfield. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015. Pp. xiii + 234. ISBN 978 1 78327 025 5. Studies of the Norman diaspora, Norman historical writing and Norman identities have proliferated in recent years. This volume is the first explicitly to couple crusading and pilgrimage – perhaps surprisingly, given the centrality of both to Norman expansion and the fact that they were often activities indistinguishable from each other. Just over half of the eleven essays, by a mixture of established and younger scholars, all working in the UK or the USA, were first given at a symposium held at Manchester Metropolitan University in 2012, and organized by the co-editors. A review of this brevity has insufficient space to give full credit to all the essays, so only a few points are picked out here for comment. William Aird (in “‘Many others, whose names I do not know, fled with them’: Norman Courage and Cowardice on the First Crusade”) uses the familiar episode of the “secret rope-dancers,” as Orderic Vitalis called the Normans who deserted from the besieged city of Antioch, to explore one of the supposed characteristics of Norman identity, i.e. courage, and its antithesis, cowardice. He shows that even a renowned warrior such as William the Carpenter, count of Meulan, might find the attritional siege of Antioch more than his battle-hardened nerve could bear, but that Norman chroniclers were inclined to view such lapses as indicators of a wider lack of integrity. David Spear’s essay, on “The Secular Clergy of Normandy and the Crusades,” breaks new ground with a survey of the involvement of Norman priests and bishops on crusades from 1099 to the late thirteenth century. His demonstration of the continuing commitment to the crusade of bishops of Norman dioceses such as Arnulf of Lisieux, John of Evreux and Robert of Bayeux redresses a view that after the First Crusade Norman clergy showed little interest in crusading. Norman participation in the Reconquista is addressed in a valuable essay by Lucas Villegas-Aristizábal. Andrew Abram presents the evidence for pilgrimage and crusading by the earls of Chester and their vassals from the late eleventh to the mid-thirteenth century, tracing the networks of great lords, knightly families and local religious houses that made crusading possible. On a larger scale, Kathryn Hurlock provides a useful and succinct survey of Norman influences on crusading from England and Wales. In other essays in the volume, Alan Murray argues that Bohemond’s contribution to the First Crusade was at odds with the policy pursued by the leader of the Norman contingent from Normandy, Duke Robert; Joanna Drell explores attitudes to crusading as reflected in writings from Norman Italy; and Paul Oldfield surveys the same topography



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in relation to pilgrimage activity, in the process pointing to links between the mezzogiorno and the Holy Land as pilgrimage destinations. Emily Albu, following her extensive studies of Norman identities in southern Italy, examines the Norman cultural character of Antioch. Leonie Hicks, in “The Landscape of Pilgrimage and Miracles in Norman Narrative Sources,” turns our attention back to Normandy to examine the role of topography and landscape in Norman miracle stories and to compare these with crusade narratives. Finally, Natasha Hodgson, in an essay that might have been coupled with Aird’s, studies the depiction of Norman masculinity, deploying the well-known description of Bohemond by Anna Komnena as a counterpoint to depictions of other crusaders, knightly and clerical. In all, this volume makes a strong contribution to Norman studies by examining all parts of the Norman diaspora through the lenses of pilgrimage and holy war. Andrew Jotischky Royal Holloway, University of London Jean Donnadieu, Jacques de Vitry (1175/1180–1240) entre l’Orient et l’Occident. L’évêque aux trois visages. Turnhout: Brepols, 2014. Pp. 283. ISBN 978 2 503 55418 1. As Jean Donnadieu’s biography aptly portrays, Jacques de Vitry was a fascinating individual possessed of at least three “faces.” Educated at the University of Paris among members of the circle of Peter the Chanter, Jacques chose to join one of the new religious orders he lauded in his Historia Occidentalis as potent forces for the renewal of the Church: a pastorally-minded community of canons regular at Oignies. Throughout his career, he remained attracted to, and a patron of, the mulieres sanctae in the diocese of Liège, including his correspondent Lutgard, abbess of Aywières and Mary of Oignies, whose Life he wrote at the urging of Fulk, bishop of Toulouse as an antidote to the heresy believed to be ravaging the diocese of Toulouse. By this point, Jacques had already become engaged in promoting the Albigensian Crusade, and would shortly, through his contacts with an old compatriot, Robert Courçon, be drawn into recruiting for the eastern crusade as well. Despite being mooted as Robert’s potential replacement as legate for the crusade in France, Jacques was instead encouraged to accept an appointment as bishop of Acre, and promptly took ship to the East to prepare for the arrival of the crusaders there. After embarking on a preaching tour which he described in great detail to correspondents in the diocese of Liège and Paris, he accompanied the crusading army during campaigns in Syria and Egypt. He continued his correspondence with fellow reformers and Honorius III in the West, preached to the troops, disseminated prophecies which circulated in the crusader camp, and, like his compatriot Oliver of Paderborn, wrote numerous histories. In Jacques’ case, he began an ambitious trilogy intended to promote the agenda of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215): the reform of society in the West and the

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promotion of the crusade in the East. He completed his eastern and western histories shortly after the disastrous denouement of the Fifth Crusade. However, the proposed third book, which was to cover the campaign of the Fifth Crusade, remained unfinished, although an anonymous author soon cobbled together an alternative narrative which circulated under Jacques’ name. Despite a temporary depression, Jacques soon reappeared in the West, and with Oliver of Paderborn, became involved in negotiations for the planned imperial crusade of Frederick II. Jacques also served as vicar-bishop for Hugh Pierrepont of Liège, appears to have become temporarily drawn into recruiting for the Albigensian Crusade in 1228, and mediated between the pope and emperor before and after Frederick’s failure to depart from Otranto in 1227. After his election as cardinal-bishop of Tusculum (1229–40), Jacques served in various capacities in the curia of Gregory IX, as attested by numerous signatures on papal bulls and his continued sponsorship of the new mendicant orders. It would seem to be during this period that Jacques redacted the final versions of his four surviving sermon collections (the sermones dominicales, sermones de sanctis, sermones feriales, and sermones ad status). Jacques was valued enough by Gregory IX for the pope to quash his election as patriarch of Jerusalem, although he died shortly thereafter and was buried in the Dominican house in Rome. Donnadieu disarmingly admits that, given certain lacunae in evidence, we will never be able to write a precise biography of Jacques. His strengths lie in his attempts to sound, in typical French fashion, Jacques’ multiple, occasionally conflicting mentalités and métiers (the three visages of the title: preacher, prelate and author), based on a close reading of Jacques’ many surviving works. The reader is treated to vignettes of Jacques’ life and times, often through entertaining quotations from Jacques’ own writings. Donnadieu also occasionally opens up the scope of his treatment of Jacques’ life to point to the networks of friendships within which Jacques operated and to which Jacques largely owed his influence. Author of an edition of Jacques’ Historia Orientalis, Donnadieu is well-versed in this work as well as Jacques’ letters, his life of Mary of Oignies, the Historia Occidentalis, those sermones ad status edited by Longère and Pitra, and the published exempla or illustrative stories from Jacques’ sermones ad status and sermones feriales. However, the as yet unedited sermones dominicales, sermones de sanctis and the bulk of the sermones feriales remain largely neglected. Because Donnadieu’s focus stays largely on Jacques, the reader sometimes feels a lack of connection between the events of Jacques’ career and larger developments in Latin Christendom and the East. A similar disengagement with recent scholarship on Jacques de Vitry manifests itself throughout this otherwise fascinating biography. Although the bibliography is strongest in works written in French, even in this language there are serious omissions of references to important articles by André Vauchez on the vita of Mary of Oignies (1987), as well as numerous other articles which situate the works of Jacques de Vitry within the intellectual milieu of his time. These include articles



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by this reviewer (including critical transcriptions of Jacques’ sermons to pilgrims and Hospitallers), by luminaries such as Brenda Bolton (with the exception of one article), and a spate of articles and the soon-to-be-published dissertation work of Thomas. W. Smith on Honorius III and Jan Vandeburie on Jacques de Vitry’s Historia Orientalis. Then there is the recent monograph on the career of Honorius III by Pierre Claverie (2013) and the – at the time of Donnadieu’s writing – forthcoming edition of Honorius III’s letters by Christopher Schabel and William O. Duba (2015). Other omitted works include books and articles on the Albigensian Crusade and recruiting by Gary Dickson (2008), Nicole M. Schulman (2001), Beverly Kienzle (2001), Laurence Marvin (2008), Mark Pegg (2007), and Daniel Powers (2013). Similarly, ongoing work by Carolyn Muessig and George Ferzoco on the sermones de sanctis and sermones feriales of Jacques de Vitry – including Muessig’s dissertation and preliminary edition of the sermones feriales and her The Faces of Women in the Sermons of Jacques de Vitry (1999) – are also omitted. Likewise, although Donnadieu cites the editions of Jacques’ sermons on the crusade by C. T. Maier, he does so as “C. A. Maier.” Footnotes are laconic at best, often leaving the impression that the opinions cited are the sole conclusion of the author, even when they are based on earlier pioneering biographical research such as Phillip Funk’s seminal Jakob von Vitry (1909). This is unfortunate, because there is a positive boom, over the last twenty years, of scholars involved in research on Jacques de Vitry and his compatriots. Engagement with this living intellectual community would have added other perspectives and layers to this sensitively rendered portrait of a fascinating and influential medieval reformer, preacher, and author. Jessalynn Bird Dominican University Legati, delegati e l’impresa d’Oltremare (secoli XII–XIII). Papal Legates, Delegates and the Crusades (12th and 13th century). Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Milano, Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, 9–11 marzo 2011, ed. Maria Pia Alberzoni and Pascal Montaubin (Ecclesia Militans, 3). Turnhout: Brepols, 2014. Pp. 494. ISBN 978 2503 5 5441 9. This publication gathers thirteen papers originally delivered at a conference in Milan in 2011 on the role of papal legates in promoting and organizing crusades during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This is an as yet under-researched topic which is of paramount importance for our understanding of the medieval crusade movement. Prominent legates such as Peter of Capua or Eudes of Châteauroux are well-known figures and feature in standard narratives of the crusades, but the papacy relied on an extensive network of papal legates and delegates for organizing crusade campaigns. Not all the papers in this volume are, strictly speaking, about papal legates and crusading. Ute-Renate Blumenthal’s contribution concerns Innocent III’s constitution Ad liberandam and its reception and integration into

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canon law collections, and Marco Rainini explores Innocent III’s attempt to enlist Joachim of Fiore as crusade propagandist. The thirteen papers are prefaced by an introduction by the editors and there is a concluding chapter summarizing the conference by Franco Cardini. Seven papers are in Italian, four in German and one each in English and French. Short English abstracts for all the papers are included at the end, but unfortunately they are poorly copy-edited. The volume also features a very useful index of the names of historical figures and modern scholars mentioned in the contributions. Klaus Herbers offers a short summary introduction to recent research into the roles of papal envoys and explores the papacy’s attempts to develop communicative structures commensurate with its universalist ambitions in Europe and the East. As an example Herbers chooses Gregory VIII’s reaction to the Battle of Hattin in 1187, also explaining how the documentary evidence presents itself today. Jochen Johrendt concentrates on the members of the papal chapel under Innocent III, mainly chaplains and subdeacons, and the roles they played in promoting the Fourth Crusade. Johrendt also adds a long list of sources which mention members of the papal chapel, including not only references to their activities as promoters of the business of the cross but also covering other papal affairs. Miriam Rita Tessera follows the career of Cardinal Bishop Cuno of Praeneste, Pope Paschal II’s legate to the Latin East, and his later involvement in defending the pope against his rivals and establishing the cult of the True Cross in Paris. Cristina Andenna concerns herself with the activities of Patriarch Albert of Jerusalem, Innocent III’s legate in the East, who was involved in the mediation of the conflicts over the succession to the thrones of Jerusalem and Cyprus at the beginning of the thirteenth century. Werner Maleczek explores the role of Peter of Capua and Soffredo of Santa Prassede, legates on the Fourth Crusade, while Barbara Bombi investigates the role of papal legates as crusade preachers in England in the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries. Cristiano Grasso follows up this topic by looking at papal legates who preached the cross for the Fifth Crusade. Focussing on the same crusade, Maria Pia Alberzoni scrutinizes Cardinal Ugo of Ostia’s legatine missions in northern Italy between 1217 and 1221, during which the later Pope Gregory IX aimed to establish peace and rally the bishops behind the papal cause, thus paving the way for the crusade to the East. The final two contributions in this collection concern the latter half of the thirteenth century. Pascal Montaubin analyses the activities of Cardinal Raoul Grosparmi, papal legate in southern Italy and later on Louis IX’s second crusade. Pietro Silano investigates the connections between the promotion of the crusade to the East and the negotiations for union between the Eastern and the Western churches, which were the main objectives of a legatine mission to Constantinople in 1272, highlighting the role of Jerome of Ascoli, who later became general minister of the Franciscans in 1274 and was elected Pope Nicholas IV in 1288. The papers in this collection are of varying quality. While some of them are largely descriptive and narrative, others are predominately analytical and make



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important contributions to existing scholarly debates. Even though Uta-Renate Blumenthal’s paper does not fit in with the general theme of the volume, her findings are important. As Blumenthal points out, it is surprising that the crusade does not feature very prominently in the canon law collections of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, with the exception of Ad Liberandam, constitution 71 of the Fourth Lateran Council. Hostiensis was the only canonist to incorporate and comment on this constitution at any length in his Lectura. Given the importance of Ad liberandam for the definition and promotion of crusading throughout the thirteenth century, Blumenthal’s article challenges us to think more closely about the question of why canon lawyers largely ignored the crusade. Another contribution which calls for further debate is Barbara Bombi’s questioning of Christopher Tyerman’s hypothesis that papal legates played no great part in promoting the crusade in England during most of the twelfth century. She argues that as early as the late eleventh century, in the context of the First Crusade, papal legates sent to England were involved amongst other matters in various tasks relating to the promotion of the business of the cross. Overall the volume as a whole provides ample evidence for illustrating the central importance of papal legates in promoting and organizing crusades. But our picture of how exactly this was done, how effective papal legates’ missions were, and how their roles changed between the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries is still largely fragmentary. Looking ahead, there is a need for more systematic studies of papal legates’ involvement in crusading ventures, not only as part of the command structures of crusading armies, but even more so as papal envoys and propagandists during the often arduous attempts to motivate and recruit crusaders and to finance their crusades. Christoph T. Maier University of Zurich Jean-Bernard de Vaivre et Laurent Vissière, “Tous les deables d’Enfer.” Relations du siège de Rhodes par les Ottomans en 1480 (Travaux d’Humanisme et Renaissance, 79). Genève: Droz, 2014. Pp. 878. ISBN 978 2 600 01768 8. Principale île de l’archipel du Dodécanèse, au large de l’Anatolie, Rhodes forme une escale autant qu’un verrou majeur entre la mer Égée et la Méditerranée, un enjeu stratégique élargi lors de l’affrontement entre l’Orient et l’Occident à la fin du Moyen Âge, face à l’expansion turque. Son histoire est donc ponctuée par des sièges, dont la récurrence structurelle a été récemment abordée sur la longue durée (Les sièges de Rhodes de l’Antiquité à la période moderne, dir. N. Faucherre et I. PimouguetPédarros, Rennes, 2010). Devenue en 1306 base centrale des Hospitaliers de SaintJean de Jérusalem après le repli de Terre sainte, Rhodes pouvait être considérée par la papauté et par les princes chrétiens comme la tête de pont pour de futures croisades autant qu’un bouclier face aux agressions mameloukes et ottomanes

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redoublées dès avant la chute de Constantinople en 1453. C’est dire l’importance du siège mené du 23 mai au 18 août 1480 par l’armée du sultan Mehmet II, et l’écho de son échec; ou plutôt, inversement: la résistance héroïque des chevaliers de l’ordre des Hospitaliers et des Rhodiens, leur victoire sous la conduite du grand maître Pierre d’Aubusson au terme d’un siège de 76 jours apocalyptiques et leur célébration auxquelles participent au premier chef les sources documentaires ellesmêmes produites par l’évènement et dont la diffusion n’est pas le moindre de ses aspects historiques, comme le souligne Philippe Contamine dans sa préface. Après les écrits des premiers historiens de l’ordre (Bosio, de Vertot), des travaux plus récents ont tenté de retracer les péripéties de ce siège (Eric Brockman, The Two Sieges of Rhodes, 1969; Marios Philippides, Mehmet II the Conqueror and the Fall of the Franco-Byzantine Levant to the Ottoman Turks, 2007; Theresa Vann, Hospitaller Piety and Crusader Propaganda, 2009; Kelly de Vries, Robert Douglas, Besieged Rhodes 2011), ou de le mettre en perspective politique et religieuse (Kenneth M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant, 1978) ou encore militaire (Maurice Keen, Medieval Warfare, 1999). Toutefois, une approche plus directe de la documentation, pour laquelle aucune édition scientifique n’existait, restait nécessaire. C’est donc un retour aux sources salutaire qu’offrent ici les deux auteurs, éditeurs et traducteurs chevronnés, particulièrement bien placés pour envisager l’histoire de Rhodes: le premier, spécialiste de son architecture, de ses fortifications et de leur iconographie; le second, expert des grandes figures guerrières et du phénomène des sièges de la fin du Moyen Âge, chacun présidant aux destinées de la Société de l’Histoire et du Patrimoine de l’ordre de Malte dont le Bulletin bisannuel fait référence en la matière. Offrant de surcroît de façon systématique une traduction française aux textes latins, ils se sont adjoint le concours de Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont pour les traductions turques, Andrea Martignoni pour l’italien, Élisabeth Baumé-Leijzer pour les documents en allemand et néerlandais, Katerina Pytlova pour le tchèque et les éclaircissements de Nicole Hochner et de Benjamin Kedar pour l’hébreu. Le volume présenté est impressionnant. Il est à la mesure de la collecte des documents retrouvés et de la richesse du dossier iconographique reproduit en couleur. Ces sources écrites se répartissent ainsi en dix sections suivantes: i. Lettres émises durant le siège de Rhodes par des acteurs et témoins; ii. Une extraordinaire Histoire journalière, d’un témoin du siège, restée méconnue et inédite à partir des 126 folios copiés en 1494 dans un manuscrit unique (255 du fonds Dupuy de la Bibliothèque nationale de France); il comble les lacunes du récit de Guillaume Caoursin (ci-après); iii. Les deux versions de l’Oratio ou De urbis Colossensis obsidione a. 1480 a Turcis tentata de Giacomo della Corte (c. 1430-c. 1501), augustin de Rhodes; iv. Guillaume Caoursin (v. 1430–1501), secrétaire personnel du grand maître Pierre d’Aubusson et vice-chancelier de l’Ordre, deux Récits du siège, source richement enluminée par le Maître du Cardinal de Bourbon, manuscrit BnF lat. 6067 qui magnifie la résistance des Hospitaliers (32 miniatures



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de la dédicace à Pierre d’Aubusson, l’édition d’Ulm en 1496 elle-même ornée de 10 bois gravés); v. Mary du Puis, Le siège de Rhodes; vi. Récits brefs et Miracula; vii. La guerre du Turc contre Rhodes, dans ses deux versions italiennes anonymes; viii. Échos occidentaux: lettres de Louis XI, un acte de Philippe de Commynes alors sénéchal de Poitou, campagne d’indulgence dont font état les délibérations du chapitre cathédral de Rouen entre décembre 1480 et mars 1481 (en particulier l’extraordinaire campagne menée par Sixte IV), actes de René II, duc de Lorraine; ix. Deux témoignages ottomans: Sa’dü-ddîn Efendî et Pîrî Re’îs; x. 22 récits de pèlerins de diverses nationalités ayant fait escale à Rhodes avant, pendant et après le siège, de 1479 à 1497: sans prétention exhaustive, ce florilège transmet ici l’écho d’une rare oralité sur les impressions des voyageurs. Cette ample «manne documentaire» change radicalement l’idée que l’on pouvait se faire du siège. Elle autorise d’abord, avec une extrême précision, une approche des faits concrets, au jour le jour, lieu par lieu et quasiment homme par homme. Réhabilitant l’histoire-bataille dans toute sa profondeur, elle ouvre à une lecture globale à partir de la diversité des points de vue (ceux des protagonistes, entre autres) et invite à reconsidérer le statut de chaque pièce de cet épais dossier: la place de l’information et de la propagande mise en œuvre, sa médiatisation face à un ennemi réputé invincible. Elle permet d’envisager la pluralité des aspects militaires, politiques, diplomatiques, économiques, religieux, psychologiques (l’angoisse obsidionale et ses leviers sciemment employés), sensitifs, matériels (subsistance, approvisionnement, morts), géographiques, techniques, littéraires et artistiques. C’est là accéder à un paroxysme exemplaire de la poliorcétique pour lesquels les Hospitaliers, compensant leur manque d’effectifs, étaient devenus experts: la construction castrale ainsi que le recours aux armes les plus modernes, à toute la gamme de l’artillerie et des machines alors les plus en pointe, l’usage du renseignement, des espions, des traîtres et d’experts soldés, détournés, démasqués avant d’être châtiés. Le corpus couvre un large horizon documentaire: lettres, poème, journal, légendes, miracles, récits, ordonnances, privilèges, délibérations ecclésiastiques, peintures, enluminures, gravures, médailles, cartes, etc. Il est précédé d’une introduction de 120 pages qui retrace les origines et les aspects de la présence hospitalière à Rhodes, dépeint les sites et la population de l’île au XVe siècle, les enjeux et les phases du siège. L’ouvrage dresse également un état historiographique, et, outre une analyse rigoureuse de chaque type de source, il est complété d’annexes indispensables (cartes, listes des sources, bibliographie, index). Ainsi, à la sidération psychologique qui a pu gagner un temps la population assiégée au point qu’il «semblait que tous les deables d’Enfer y fussent» (Histoire journalière) succède aujourd’hui un dernier avatar jusque-là impensé de ce siège: l’admiration scientifique suscitée par un si bel outil de travail. François-Olivier Touati Université de Tours

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Sarah Kate Raphael, Climate and Political Climate: Environmental Disasters in the Medieval Levant. Leiden: Brill, 2013. Pp xvii, 211. ISBN 978 90 04 21656 3 (hardback), 978 90 04 24473 3 (e-book). This study, which evolved out of a postdoctoral project, is the third volume of Brill’s Series in the History of the Environment. At a time when climatic change is very much a topic of interest and relevance it is not surprising to find a growing number of investigations into how historical environmental-related events influenced society. This work examines the region of the Levantine littoral during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and takes a look at the devastation caused by droughts, earthquakes, and plagues of locusts, mice and rats. The author’s stated aim is to “determine the long and short-term repercussions of environmental disasters on the political, military and social affairs in the medieval Levant.” (p. 6). It is the first such examination for this particularly volatile period of regional conflict and political and social upheaval. It does not attempt to paint as broad a canvas as Ronnie Ellenblum’s The Collapse of the Eastern Mediterranean: Climate Change and the Decline of the East, 950–1072 (Cambridge University Press, 2012), and has, wisely perhaps, steered clear of many of the more controversial aspects of that important work, but it covers on a more limited scale, a number of similar issues. The book is divided into four sections, the first dealing with droughts and famines, the second with earthquakes, the third with the destructive effects of plagues of insects and rodents, and the final section examining the effects of climatic fluctuations on political and military developments. Raphael relies for much of her evidence on contemporary sources. She notes that “the assessment of droughts relies solely on the descriptions of chronicles” (p. 26) and this evidence is sometimes accepted without question – “his [Nāṣer Khosraw’s] statement should be taken at face value” (p. 26). This uncritical approach is repeated elsewhere: “There is a tendency among modern scholars to treat medieval historical evidence as biased, exaggerated and unreliable. This criticism is often inappropriate” (p. 118). But clearly, medieval accounts are often exaggerated in order to achieve emotional responses from the readers. This is as true in the description of natural disasters as it is regarding accounts of warfare. An – albeit later – description of an earthquake off the Mediterranean coast in 1546, refers to flames and blood flowing from a fountain for four days and the sea at Jaffa receding “a full day’s walk,” and records that when the water returned about 10,000 people were drowned (N. Ambraseys and I. Karcz, “Terra Motae: The Earthquake of 1546 in the Holy Land,” Terra Nova 4, 2007, 255). While these accounts are an essential source of information and of considerable value, they still need to be approached with prudence and to be supplemented, as to a degree they are here, with other forms of evidence including modern scientific data. This work is somewhat marred by numerous lapses in the editing – “conroled” (p. 5), “differnt” (p. 60), “Muslims rulers” (p. 62), “treaety” (p. 86), “uderstood” (p. 110), accept for except (p. 116), Jesrael for Jezreel (p. 180); occasional factual



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errors – the Ayyubid conquest of Jerusalem is dated 1188 (p. 139); and unfounded statements – “the vast majority of the Frankish population settled in villages and lived off the land, combining their European agricultural knowledge with local farming practices” (p. 32), “Vadum Jacob was to be the finest and largest concentric castle in the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem” (p. 161). A twelfth-century drought is variously dated 1178–81 and 1179–81 (p. 76) and 1178–79 and 1178–80 (p. 77). The illustrations include an inverted photograph on the cover and a problematic caption (map 2.3). A substantial part of the book (over 40 pages) discusses earthquakes which are not, of course, climatic events. They are certainly justifiably part of the discussion but should have necessitated a different title (the subtitle, Environmental Disasters in the Medieval Levant, would have done the trick). In discussing the famines that follow droughts, Raphael states that “In most cases information gathered from the sources is sufficient to define the type of drought and its severity” (p. 27). One wonders if the sources referred to actually contain data on the rate of death among domestic and wild animals which she refers to as one of the keys to assessing the severity of a drought. If so, it is a pity no such examples were quoted. One might argue with the statement that “In contrast to other natural disasters such as earthquakes or plagues which are not class conscious, the victims of famines are almost always the poor sections of society” (p. 73). In fact, it is generally the poor that suffer the most from earthquakes and plagues as well, living as they often do in poorly built houses with poor sanitation. However, my main criticism of this work is that it very largely consists of a collection of examples of catastrophic events, brief comments on their immediate impact and sometimes informative but often rudimentary explanations of the nature of these events, but is rather weak in attempting to contend with its stated purpose – to determine the repercussions of natural disasters on society. Agrarian reforms including land redistributions and irrigation projects carried out in thirteenth-century Egypt (pp. 97–99) are here only very loosely connected to the droughts that preceded them. Another briefly discussed reaction to natural disaster is the series of military actions taken against Nūr al-Dīn following the earthquake of 1157 (including the invasions into Egypt by Amaury in the 1160s) as well as the pact between the Franks and Muslims following the earthquake of 1170. The most substantial discussion of the response to natural disaster regards the strengthening of fortifications that followed major earthquakes (Chapter 6). The only apparent reaction to plagues of locusts was that they became a supplement of people’s diet, and the reaction to a plague of rodents in 1120 was the lifting of taxes by Baldwin II and an admonitory sermon by the patriarch of Jerusalem. It would appear that in many of the cases cited here there simply were no repercussions. Adrian Boas University of Haifa

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The Chronicle of Amadi, translated from the Italian by Nicholas Coureas and Peter Edbury (Cyprus Research Centre: Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, 74). Nicosia, 2015. Pp. 580. ISBN 978 9963 0 8137 0. The source known as Amadi takes its name from the owner of the only surviving manuscript, Francesco Amadi, who died in 1566. It is translated here for the first time into English by two scholars who are ideally suited to the job because of their extensive expertise on Cyprus and the eastern Mediterranean: Nicholas Coureas, who dealt mostly with the translation of the Italian text, and Peter Edbury, who was largely responsible for the introduction, annotations and index. The author of the original text is in fact unknown, as is the title, but the source has become known today as the Chronicle of Amadi largely thanks to its publication by René de Mas Latrie in his two-volume Chroniques d’Amadi et de Strambaldi in 1891, which this translation is based on. The translators provide a useful introduction to their book, which gives information on the possible identity of the author, his sources, and the value of his work to historians (pp. xiii–xxvi), followed by a full translation of the text (pp. 1–466), four helpful appendices (pp. 467–89), and a detailed index. As the translators argue, it is best to consider Amadi not as a history as such, but more as a compilation of several narrative sources. These were originally written in Greek or French, but were translated into Italian by the author as he wrote his text, which was probably undertaken on Cyprus sometime between the 1470s and 1560, possibly around the year 1520. The author translated his material with little alteration or literary embellishment, instead choosing to jump from source to source in a rather clumsy manner. As a result, it is fair to say that Amadi is not a particularly engaging read in itself. As the translators remark, the author “wins no prizes for literary quality, historical imagination or intellectual sophistication.” The real value of Amadi, however, lies in the very fact that the author chose to translate his sources with few modifications. Consequently, what has been passed down to us is a fascinating compilation of sources relating to Cyprus and the Levant that were available to the author at the time of writing, some of which have not survived to this day. Amadi covers the period from Heraclius until 1442, with particular emphasis placed on the crusades to Holy Land and affairs on Cyprus from the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries. It is a long text, of almost 200,000 words. For the period until 1219 the author mostly relies on the Old French translation of William of Tyre and its continuation (Eracles), with the exception of an intriguing section on the siege of Jerusalem during the First Crusade, where he utilizes an unknown text that gives a Genoese slant on events (§§31–35). From 1225, the author mainly uses Les Gestes des Chiprois, copied on Cyprus in 1343, which is itself a compilation of three sources: a version of the Annales de Terre Sainte up to 1224; Philip of Novara’s history from 1218–42; and the account of the so-called “Templar of Tyre” from 1240s–1309. From the 1290s, however, the author draws on sources



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which cannot be identified now. Using these sources he provides a great deal of information on the period between the 1290s until the 1310s, but is relatively sparse from the 1310s to the accession of Peter I in 1359. From the 1340s the author begins to employ the chronicle of Leontios Makhairas which is relied on for the remainder of the work. Most of the French texts that the author uses have survived, as has the work of Makhairas, meaning that Edbury and Coureas have been able to compare the texts used in Amadi to those that exist today. They provide a detailed analysis of these texts and highlight the importance of Amadi in preserving elements that have not survived in the extant versions, such as the concluding paragraph of Philip of Novara’s history (§351), several unique entries relating to Cyprus from the “Templar of Tyre” (§382, §415) and occasional pieces of information not found in the Greek text of Leontios Makhairas. Moreover, the identification of the author’s sources allows the editors to identify which manuscripts were available on Cyprus at the time, such as the so-called “Colbert-Fontainebleau Continuation” of William of Tyre that was relatively rare in the West. The translators rightly emphasize that Amadi is most valuable for the period from c.1290 to 1310 when the author relies on sources which cannot now be identified. It is particularly useful for the political crisis on Cyprus between 1306 and 1310 (§§508–769), for much of which Amadi is the only primary extant account. This takes up about one-third of the entire text and contains a detailed narrative of events as well as a vast amount of information about the nobility at that time, most of which is summarized in Appendix 2. In addition, this section of Amadi provides valuable information on other important events in these years, such as the Hospitaller conquest of Rhodes and the arrest of the Templars on Cyprus. The negotiations between Master Fulk de Villaret and the Genoese corsair Vignolo di Vignoli which preceded the attack on Rhodes are recounted in detail, as are the sieges of the castles of Kos, Philerimos and Rhodes Town (§§523–29). For the Templars, Amadi tells us far more about how the Templars were taken into custody than any western account (§§563–77). Overall this translation is very welcome. Although Amadi might not be the most accomplished of medieval literary works, when treated purely as a historical account it is extremely valuable for events on Cyprus and the eastern Mediterranean in the early fourteenth century, for which it is in many ways the only extant primary source. Moreover, when treated as a compilation of translated sources, Amadi tells us a great deal about what materials were available on Cyprus at the time, and it also preserves valuable alternatives to the extant versions of famous texts, such as Philip of Novara and Leontios Makhairas. Coureas and Edbury have produced a very useful translated source which will be of interest to scholars and students. The source will be especially useful for teaching courses on the fourteenth-century eastern Mediterranean, where translated primary sources are quite scarce. My only complaint – and this is a very trivial one – is about the size and quality of the published book. The large font and margins make the book a lot more sizeable and

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weighty than it needs to be and the maps are poorly reproduced. Still, this is a very minor gripe about what is a very welcome translation. Mike Carr University of Edinburgh The Crusades: A Reader. Second Edition, ed. S. J. Allen and Emilie Amt (Readings in Medieval Civilizations and Cultures, 8). Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014. Pp. xxii, 437, ISBN 978 1 4426 0623 4. The present collection of translated sources for the history of the crusades is a new edition of a reader from 2003 with added material, especially on modern perceptions of crusades in the eighteenth through the twenty-first century, including reactions to 9/11/2001. The selection is very broad as regards chronology, geography, topics, and perspectives. It includes crusading in the Holy Land, the Iberian Peninsula, and the Baltic region, as well as the Children’s Crusade of 1212 and the Albigensian Crusade. What many teachers (and students) will probably find particularly useful is the inclusion of a number of translations of Arabic sources since these can be hard to find for non-specialists. Clearly the editors have sought to strike a balance of different experiences of the crusades – from the participants to the victims, and from Western Christian to Byzantine, Jewish, and Muslim authors – and, in many respects, they have been successful. Most of the selections are excerpts from previous source-collections or older translated editions. However, many of the older translations have been revised by the editors, and some sections contain newly translated material (in docs. 27, 49, 50, 52, 55, 56, 66, 67). The excerpts of sources have been grouped in 110 units (called documents) and divided into ten chapters. Chapter 1, “Background and Origins,” takes us from a fourth-century pilgrimage account to Gregory VII via theories of just war in Augustine of Hippo and the Qur’an, Christian-Muslim encounters in Spain, and the Truce of God. Chapter 2 deals with the First Crusade, Chapter 3 with the crusader states, and Chapter 4 with the Second and Third Crusades. The remaining chapters take a more thematic approach, thus Chapter 5, on “Setting Out and Returning Home,” deals with preaching, privileges, and various practicalities as well as the experiences of crusaders. Chapter 6 is devoted to the developments of crusading during the pontificate of Innocent III. Chapter 7 is – somewhat misleadingly – called “Crusades of the Holy Roman Empire” and comprises the settlements and campaigns in Wendish territory, the mission among the Livonians, the Prussian Crusades of the Teutonic Knights, as well as Frederick II’s crusade to the Holy Land. I suspect that the Danish kings and prelates involved in these northernEuropean crusades (mentioned on pp. 260–62) would have been a little surprised to learn that their efforts were “of the Holy Roman Empire.” Chapter 8 provides different perspectives on “Conflict and Coexistence in Spain,” while Chapter 9, “Crusades at the Crossroads,” deals with developments in the thirteenth to fifteenth



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centuries, from Louis IX to the arrest of the Templars, and from reactions to the fall of Acre in 1291, to the fall of Constantinople in 1453. The last crusade mentioned is the Nicopolis Crusade in 1396, and while the first edition of the reader ended with three accounts of the European explorations of Africa and the Americas, these have been omitted in the second edition in order to give room for a new Chapter 10 on “Modern Perceptions,” from David Hume to George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden. The last text, by Ambassador Umej Bhatia, strikes a more positive note. No doubt these additions are welcomed by most teachers and students, but it should be noted that further documents have been omitted (these are numbered 32, 53, 54, 75, 89, 100, 101, and 104 in the first edition), while others have been moved to new chapters, making the two editions more different than a first glance would suggest. The intended readership is not stated explicitly, but the helpful introductions and the highly didactical study questions to each reading suggest a use primarily among undergraduates, even though others may benefit from it too. I have not yet used the reader for teaching myself, but I have no doubt that the juxtaposition of viewpoints and the study questions will be very useful in courses and classes where the aim is to make the students reflect on and discuss various perceptions, ideologies, and experiences of crusading. It will probably be less suited, however, if the aim is to teach students about primary sources from the Middle Ages, or as a starting point for further studies and more independent student papers. This brings me to my only objection to the volume: that it is often difficult to gain an impression of the original context and character of the excerpted sources. Many of the “documents” are actually made up of excerpts of several sources, making the term document misleading. While it is, of course, in the nature of a reader to be eclectic, it seems that more could have been done to provide or highlight such basic information as dates of the individual sources. Sometimes, but not always, a year or a century is mentioned in the introduction to the document, but it would be helpful to have printed a (precise or probable) date in the headline of each excerpt. This also applies to the papal letters in the collection. These have actually been marked with the year of their publication, but not a more exact date, even though this is known. Furthermore, only Alexander III’s Cor nostrum is marked with its incipit (p. 185), but it is not mentioned that Eugenius III’s letter from 1146 (p. 183) is usually called Quantum praedecessores, or that Innocent III’s letter from 1199 (p. 216) is called Graves orientalis terrae, and so on. Dates and incipits would help the students link the sources with the information they gain from other textbooks and editions. This being said, I gladly recommend this comprehensive collection which I am certain will be useful and inspiring for teachers and students alike. Ane L. Bysted Aarhus Universitet

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Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Helen J. Nicholson (Crusades Subsidia 6). Farnham: Ashgate, 2014. Pp. xvii + 240. ISBN 978 1 47241 783 1. Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, ed. Simon John and Nicholas Morton (Crusades Subsidia 7). Farnham: Ashgate, 2014. Pp. xxv + 231. ISBN 978 1 40946 103 6. These festschriften for the two doyens of crusading studies in Wales, Peter Edbury and John France, are delights for crusading connoisseurs. Edbury and France are rightly celebrated for having virtually founded crusading studies in Wales, and a number of the contributions to both volumes are from former students or colleagues at the Universities of Swansea and Cardiff respectively. These contributions amply demonstrate the strength of crusading studies (and of medieval history in general) in Wales. Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury is divided into three main sections, each covering one of the fields of crusading history to which Peter Edbury has contributed so much: William of Tyre (essays by Benjamin Kedar, Nicholas Morton, Alan Murray, Thomas Asbridge, Philip Handyside, Helen Nicholson, John France and Norman Housley), Cyprus (David Jacoby, Angel Nicolaou-Konnari, Nicholas Coureas, Michalis Olympios and Chris Schabel) and the Military Orders (Paul Crawford, Denys Pringle, Anthony Luttrell and Paula Pinto Costa). The volume includes two affectionate tributes to Peter Edbury, in the shape of a short Foreword by his former teacher at St. Andrews, Jonathan Riley-Smith, and a concluding essay on his place as a historian by his former Oxford colleague Christopher Tyerman. Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, likewise, begins with an appreciation of John France’s contribution to crusading studies and military history more generally by the editors, both of whom have benefitted from studying and working with him at Swansea. The essays reflect the important contribution France has made to the military conduct of crusading and to the culture and representation of warfare. Beginning in the Carolingian period and concluding chronologically with the Mongols, there are essays by Clifford J. Rogers, Richard Abels, Denys Pringle, Nicholas Morton, Benjamin Kedar, Susan Edgington, Bernard and David Bachrach, Helen Nicholson, Alan Murray, Simon John, Daniel Power, Bernard Hamilton, Peter Edbury, Malcolm Barber and Kelly DeVries. It is particularly good to see both historians honoured here contributing to each other’s festschrift, a testimony to the warmth of the scholarly community in Wales. Both of these volumes contain new research by eminent scholars, and both should



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become fixtures on the shelves of all those with interests in crusading, warfare and the Latin East. Andrew Jotischky Royal Holloway University of London

Short Notices Alan V. Murray, The Franks in Outremer: Studies in the Latin Principalities of Palestine and Syria, 1099–1187 (Variorum Collected Studies Series, CS1056). Farnham and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015. Pp. xii, 344. ISBN 978 1 47246 885 7. This collection unites twenty articles by Alan V. Murray previously published elsewhere between 1986 and 2014. The collection is divided into four thematic sections. The first of these, titled “The Frankish Nobility,” offers six articles: “The Origins of the Frankish Nobility of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1100–1118” (from 1989), “A Note on the Origin of Eustace Grenier” (1986), “A Little-known Member of the Royal Family of Crusader Jerusalem in William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum” (1996), “Norman Settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1099– 1131” (2009), “The Prosopography and Onomastics of the Franks in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1099–1187” (2000), “How Norman was the Principality of Antioch? Prologomena to a Study of the Origins of the Nobility of a Crusader State” (1997). The second section is titled “Kingship in Frankish Jerusalem” and includes the following five articles: “The Title of Godfrey of Bouillon as Ruler of Jerusalem” (1990), “Daimbert of Pisa, the Domus Godefridi and the Accession of Baldwin I of Jerusalem” (1998), “Dynastic Continuity or Dynastic Change? The Accession of Baldwin II and the Nobility of the Kingdom of the Jerusalem” (1992), “Baldwin II and his Nobles: Baronial Factionalism and Dissent in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1118–1134” (1994) and “Kingship, Identity and Name-giving in the Family of Baldwin of Bourcq” (2007). The third section, “Sacred Space and the Defence of the Holy Land,” offers four articles: “Sacred Space and Strategic Geography in Twelfth-century Palestine” (2013), “Constructing Jerusalem as a Christian Capital: Topography and Population of the Holy City under Frankish Rule in the Twelfth Century” (2010), “The Origin of Money-fiefs in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem” (2008), “‘Mighty against the Enemies of God’: The Relic of the True Cross in the Armies of the Kingdom of Jerusalem” (1998). The final section, “Ideologies of Confrontation: Franks, Native Christians and Muslims,” contains five articles: “Ethnic Identity in the Crusader States: The Frankish Race and the Settlement of Outremer” (1995), “Coroscane: Homeland of the Saracens in the Chansons de geste and the Historiography of the Crusades” (1995), “William of Tyre and the Origin of the Turks: Observations on Possible Sources of the Gesta orientalium

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principum” (2001), “Biblical Quotations and Formulaic Language in the Chronicle of William of Tyre” (2014) and, finally, “Franks and Indigenous Communities in Palestine and Syria (1099–1187): A Hierarchical Model of Social Interaction in the Principalities of Outremer” (2013). Benjamin Z. Kedar, Crusaders and Franks: Studies in the History of the Crusades and the Frankish Levant (Variorum Collected Studies Series, CS 1059). Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2016. Pp. xii, 354. ISBN 978 1 472 47696 8. This collection brings together twenty-two articles by Benjamin Z. Kedar written between 1997 and 2014. Four of these studies were co-written with colleagues. Ten of the articles deal with crusades and crusaders, while ten others discuss various issues of Levantine history during the period of the Franks. The remaining two articles point to Frankish pre-crusading activities in the eastern Mediterranean. The articles are as follows: “Franks in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1047” (co-written with Reuven Amitai, 2007); “A Note on Jerusalem’s Bimaristan and Jerusalem’s Hospital” (2007); “L’appel de Clermont vu de Jérusalem” (1997); “The Forcible Baptisms of 1096: History and Historiography” (1998); “Crusade Historians and the Massacres of 1096” (1998); “Emicho of Flonheim and the Apocalyptic Motif in the 1096 Massacres: Between Paul Alphandéry and Alphonse Dupont” (2014), “Reflections on Maps, Crusading and Logistics” (2002); “The Jerusalem Massacre of July 1099 in the Western Historiography of the Crusades” (2004); “Did Muslim Survivors of the 1099 Massacre of Jerusalem Settle in Damascus? The True Origins of the al-Ṣāliḥiyya Suburb” (co-written with Danielle Talmon-Heller, 2005); “An Early Muslim Reaction to the First Crusade?” (2014); “Again: Genoa’s Golden Inscription and King Baldwin I’s Privilege of 1104” (2004); “The Voyages of Giuàn-Ovadiah in Syria and Iraq and the Enigma of his Conversion” (2005); “The Significance of a Twelfth-century Sculptural Group: Le Retour du Croisé” (cowritten with Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, 2001); “Some New Light on the Composition Process of William of Tyre’s Historia” (2014); “The Fourth Crusade’s Second Front” (2005); “The Outer Walls of Frankish Jaffa” (2006); “Civitas and Castellum in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: Contemporary Frankish Perceptions” (2009); “The Latin Hermits of the Frankish Levant Revisited” (2010); “On Books and Hermits in Nazareth’s Short Twelfth Century” (2012); “The Eastern Christians in the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem: An Overview” (2011); “Convergences of Oriental Christian, Muslim and Frankish Worshippers: The Case of Saydnaya and the Knights Templar” (2001) and “Problems in the Study of Trans-cultural Borrowing in the Frankish Levant” (co-written with Cyril Aslanov, 2010).

Guidelines for the Submission of Papers The editors ask contributors to adhere to the following guidelines. Failure to do so will result in the article being returned to the author for amendment, or may result in its having to be excluded from the volume. 1. Submissions. Submissions should be sent as email attachments to one of the editors (contact details below). Papers should be formatted using MS Word, double-spaced and with wide margins. Times New Roman (12 pt) is preferred. Remember to include your name and contact details (both postal and email addresses) on your paper. 2. Peer Review. All submissions will be peer reviewed. They will be scrutinized by the editors and sent to at least one outside reader before a decision on acceptance is made. 3. Length. Normally, the maximum length of articles should not exceed 6,000 words, not including notes. The editors reserve the right to edit papers that exceed these limits. 4. Notes. Normally, notes should be REFERENCE ONLY and placed at the end of the paper. Number continuously. 5. Style sheet. Please use the most recent Speculum style sheet (see: http://www. medievalacademy.org/?page=stylesheet). This sets out the format to be used for notes. Please note that this is not necessarily the same format as has been used by other edited volumes on the crusades and/or the Military Orders. Failure to follow the Speculum format will result in accepted articles being returned to the author for amendment. In the main body of the paper you may adhere to either British or American spelling, but it must be consistent throughout the article. 6. Language. Papers will be published in English, French, German, Italian and Spanish. 7. Abbreviations. Please use the abbreviation list on pp. ix–xi of this journal. 8. Diagrams and Maps should be referred to as figures and photographs as plates. Please keep illustrations to the essential minimum, since it will be possible to include only a limited number. All illustrations must be supplied by the contributor in camera-ready copy, and free from all copyright restrictions. 9. Italics. Words to be printed in italics should be italicized if possible. Failing this they should be underlined. 10. Capitals. Please take every care to ensure consistency in your use of capitals and lower case letters. Use initial capitals to distinguish the general from the specific (for example, “the count of Flanders” but “Count Philip of Flanders”). 11. Summary of Article. Contributors will be required to provide a 250 words summary of their paper at the start of each article. This will be accompanied by the author’s email address. The summary of the paper is to be in English, regardless of the language of the main article.

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Editors Professor Jonathan Phillips Professor Benjamin Z. Kedar Department of History Department of History, Royal Holloway  The Hebrew University of Jerusalem University of London, Egham Jerusalem 91905, Israel Surrey, TW20 0EX, England, UK [email protected] [email protected]



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SOCIETY FOR THE STUDY OF THE CRUSADES AND THE LATIN EAST MEMBERSHIP INFORMATION The primary function of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East is to enable members to learn about current work being done in the field of crusading history, and to contact members who share research interests through the information in the Society’s Bulletin. There are more than 300 members from 41 countries. The Society also organizes a major international conference every four years, as well as sections on crusading history at other conferences where appropriate. The committee of the SSCLE consists of: Prof. Adrian J. Boas, President Prof. Jean Richard, Prof. Benjamin Z. Kedar, Prof. Michel Balard, and Prof. Bernard Hamilton, Honorary Presidents Prof. François-Olivier Touati, Secretary  Dr Michael Carr, Treasurer Dr Danielle Park, Assistant Treasurer Prof. Jonathan Phillips, Officer for Postgraduate Members and Conference Secretary Dr Nikolaos G. Chrissis, Bulletin Editor Prof. Thomas F. Madden, Website Current subscription fees are as follows: • Membership and Bulletin of the Society: Single £10, $12 or €12; • Student £6, $7 or €7; • Joint membership £15, $19 or €18 (for two members sharing the same household); • Membership and the journal Crusades, including the Bulletin: please add to your subscription fees: £25, $31 or €29 for a hard copy, OR £15, $19 or €18 for an electronic copy of the journal; • If a member wishes to purchase back issues of Crusades, each back issue costs £35, $43 or €41. The cost of the journal to institutions and non-members is £105, US$144.95.