Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095-1291

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Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095-1291

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Stephen J. Spencer 2019 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2019 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937077 ISBN 978–0–19–883336–9 ebook ISBN 978–0–19–256986–8 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A. Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford

Acknowledgements Without the support of several institutions and many people, this book would not exist. I am particularly grateful to the Past and Present Society and the Institute of Historical Research, University of London, for the award of a postdoctoral fellowship, without which this book might never have been finished; and were it not for a bursary from Queen Mary University of London, I might never have started. The generous financial assistance of the latter institution, the Royal Historical Society, and the ARC Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions allowed me to test my ideas and findings at various conferences, including a memorable and intellectually rewarding trip to Australia. Nobody has had a greater impact on my approach to historical research, and this book, than my PhD supervisor, Thomas Asbridge, to whom I owe an incalculable debt. It was during his special subject some years ago that I was properly introduced to the history of the crusades and their sources; his inspirational teaching and willingness to engage in long conversations about all things crusading did much to fire my enthusiasm for the subject. Since then, he has guided me through life as a postgraduate, taught me the principles of historical research, always been extremely generous with his time, and has offered sage guidance and feedback at every juncture. It has been a privilege to work with him for quite so long. Andrew Buck, the very finest of friends and the most industrious academic I know, has acted as a sounding board, read countless drafts, saved me from more errors than I care to admit, afforded me open access to his impressive library, and has helped to drag this book across the finish line. His many suggestions litter the pages that follow, and I will no doubt come to regret the few I chose to ignore. I am also grateful to Susan Edgington, whose shrewd counsel I have benefited from for many years, not least for her advice on many of the translations from Latin; to John Arnold and Marcus Bull, who offered constructive criticism and recommendations for development at a key stage, and encouraged me to approach Oxford University Press; to Susanna Throop, for responding to my queries, supporting this project from the outset, and commenting on substantial portions of the manuscript as part of the peer review process; and to the two anonymous readers, whose feedback provided a clearer sense of how to improve this study. Any errors are mine alone. Numerous other people have offered advice and help, in one way or another, over the years. My thanks to Marianne Ailes, Phil Baldwin, Richard Barton, David Bates, Stephen Bennett, Steven Biddlecombe, Megan Cassidy-Welch, Lindsay Diggelmann, James Ellison, Ann Faggetter, Jo Fox, Belinda Guthrie, Martin Hall, Jonathan Harris, Rhodri Hayward, Natasha Hodgson, Kerrie Holloway, Hetta Howes, Marlo James, Simon John, Colin Jones, Maureen Jones, Ella Kilgallon, Conor Kostick, James Laine, Philippa Maddern, Katy Mortimer, Nicholas Morton, Lauren Mulholland, Hilary and David

North, Hans Orning, Jack Parini, Joanna Phillips, Jonathan Phillips, Eyal Poleg, James Poole, William Purkis, Yossi Rapoport, Dan Roach, Catherine Rose, Jay Rubenstein, Miri Rubin, Beth Spacey, Michael Staunton, Carol Sweetenham, Miikka Tamminen, and Angela Warner. I thank the series editors, especially Thomas Dixon, for their patience and support. The diligence of the team at Oxford University Press has made the experience of bringing this book to fruition both smooth and enjoyable; particular thanks are owed to Christina Wipf Perry and Cathryn Steele, who steered me through the publication process. Above all, I must thank my family: Kristýna, for enriching my life and for putting up with me and this book for so long; Natalie, Daniel, Chloe, and Ethan, for reminding me that there is more to life than academia; and my parents, Cheryl and David, who have steadfastly stood by me through the highs and the lows. I count myself very fortunate to have such wonderfully understanding and encouraging parents, and I will never truly be able to repay them for all their support—financial, emotional, and otherwise. This book is dedicated to them. SJS January 2019

Contents List of Abbreviations Introduction The ‘Affective Turn’ The ‘Linguistic Turn’ Emotions in a Crusading Context The Core Sources Part I. Fear 1. To Fear Death or Trust in God? Fear and Humility Fear and Sin Fearlessly Imitating Christ The Passions of a Martyr The Undaunted Templar Fear in Other Crusading Theatres The Impact of Authorship The Impact of Genre The Scriptural Foundations Conclusion 2. The Multifaceted Nature of Fear

The Impact of Chivalry Manly Courage and Effeminate Fear Fear and Deception Fear and Power Conclusion Part II. Tears and Grief 3. The Lachrymose Crusader Instruments to Petition God Compunctio Cordis, Contrition, and the Theology of Tears Joy-Bearing Grief and Tears Shed over Jerusalem A Gift of Gratitude The Absence of Religious Weeping Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis and Hagiographical Traditions Conclusion 4. Discourses of Tears and Sorrow Tears, Brotherhood, and Fraternal Love Noble Tears ‘Manful and Tearful’ The Power of Grief Conclusion Part III. Anger and its Management 5. Zealous Wrath for the Holy Land Zelus and Crusading as an Act of Vengeance

The Legitimacy of Anger in Preaching Documents and Lyrics The Legitimacy of Anger in Narratives Ira Regis on the Third Crusade Conclusion 6. Restraining Rage Uncontrollable Rage and the Violence of Anger Passions of Discord Anger Management: Mansuetudo and Self-Control Anger Management: The Intervention of the Wise Ira and Furor: A Semantic Distinction Reappraised Conclusion Conclusion Bibliography Index

List of Abbreviations AA Albert of Aachen, Historia Iherosolimitana, ed. and trans. Susan Edgington (Oxford, 2007). Ambroise Ambroise, Estoire de la guerre sainte, ed. and trans. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber, 2 vols (Woodbridge, 2003). Ansbert Ansbert, Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris, ed. Anton Chroust, Quellen zur Geschichte des Kreuzzuges Kaiser Friedrichs I, MGH SRG n.s. v (Berlin, 1928), 1–115. Antioche The Chanson d’Antioche: An Old French Account of the First Crusade, trans. Susan Edgington and Carol Sweetenham (Farnham, 2011). BB Baldric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana of Baldric of Bourgueil, ed. Steven Biddlecombe (Woodbridge, 2014). BC, Liber Bernard of Clairvaux, Liber ad milites Templi de laude novae militiae, in Sancti Bernardi opera, ed. Jean Leclercq, Henri-Marie Rochais, and Charles Talbot, 8 vols (Rome, 1957–77), iii. 205–39. BN Bartolf of Nangis, Gesta Francorum expugnantium Iherusalem, in RHC Occ., iii. 489– 543. Brevis ordinacio [Brevis] ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis in Anglia, ed. Reinhold Röhricht, Quinti belli sacri scriptores minores (Geneva, 1879), 3–26. CA La Chanson d’Antioche, ed. Suzanne Duparc-Quioc, 2 vols (Paris, 1977–8). All references to vol. 1 unless stated. CCCJ The Chanson des Chétifs and Chanson de Jérusalem: Completing the Central Trilogy of the Old French Crusade Cycle, trans. Carol Sweetenham (Farnham, 2016). Charansonnet, ‘L’université’ Alexis Charansonnet, ‘L’université, l’Eglise et l’Etat dans les sermons duCharansonnet, ‘L’université’ cardinal Eudes de Châteauroux (1190?–1273)’, 2 vols (PhD dissertation, Université Lumière Lyon 2, 2001). All references to vol. 2 unless

stated. CJ La Chanson de Jérusalem, ed. Nigel Thorp (Tuscaloosa, AL, 1992). Clari Robert of Clari, La conquête de Constantinople, ed. Philippe Lauer (Paris, 1924). Coggeshall Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. Joseph Stevenson, RS 66 (London, 1875). Cole, Preaching Penny Cole, The Preaching of the Crusades to the Holy Land, 1095–1270 (Cambridge, MA, 1991). CPI Christoph Maier, Crusade Propaganda and Ideology: Model Sermons for the Preaching of the Cross (Cambridge, 2000). DeL De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, ed. and trans. Charles David, with a new foreword and bibliography by Jonathan Phillips (New York, 2001). Devizes Richard of Devizes, Cronicon Richardi Divisensis de tempore regis Richardi primi, ed. and trans. John Appleby (London, 1963). Diceto Ralph of Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, ed. William Stubbs, Radulfi de Diceto decani Lundoniensis opera historica, RS 68, 2 vols (London, 1876). All references to vol. 2 unless stated. DRI Die Register Innocenz’ III, ed. Othmar Hageneder et al., 12 vols (Graz, 1964–). EA Ekkehard of Aura, Hierosolymita, in RHC Occ., v. 11–40. EHR English Historical Review. FC Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana, ed. Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913). FP Fidence of Padua, Liber recuperationis Terre Sancte, ed. Jacques Paviot, Projets de croisade (v.1290–v.1330) (Paris, 2008), 53–169. GD Gesta obsidionis Damiate, ed. Reinhold Röhricht, Quinti belli sacri scriptores minores (Geneva, 1879), 73–115. GF Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum, ed. and trans. Rosalind Hill (London, 1962).

GN Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, ed. Robert Huygens (Turnhout, 1996). GP Gilo of Paris, Historia vie Hierosolimitane, ed. and trans. Christopher Grocock and Elizabeth Siberry (Oxford, 1997). GW Gerald of Wales, Itinerarium Kambriae, ed. James Dimock, Giraldi Cambrensis opera, RS 21, 8 vols (1861–91), vi. 1–152. Hagenmeyer, Epistulae Epistulae et chartae ad historiam primi belli sacri spectantes: Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100, ed. Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Innsbruck, 1901). HL Henry of Livonia, Chronicon Livoniae, in MGH SRG, xxxi. Howden, Chronica Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs, RS 51, 4 vols (London, 1868–71). Howden, Gesta Roger of Howden, Gesta regis Henrici secundi, ed. William Stubbs, RS 49, 2 vols (London, 1867). HP Historia peregrinorum, ed. Anton Chroust, Quellen zur Geschichte des Kreuzzuges Kaiser Friedrichs I, MGH SRG n.s. v (Berlin, 1928), 116–72. HR, Liber Humbert of Romans, Liber de predicatione sct. crucis, ed. Kurt Villads Jensen (2007), available at http://www.jggj.dk/saracenos.htm. HR, Opusculum Humbert of Romans, Opusculum tripartitum, ed. Edward Brown, Appendix ad fasciculum rerum expetendarum et fugiendarum (London, 1690), 185–229. HSJ The Haskins Society Journal. IP Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi, ed. William Stubbs, Chronicles and Memorials of the Reign of Richard I, RS 38, 2 vols (London, 1864). All references to vol. 1 unless stated. JMH Journal of Medieval History. Joinville John of Joinville, Vie de Saint Louis, ed. and trans. Jacques Monfrin, 2nd edn (Paris, 1998). JV, HOr Jacques de Vitry, Historia Orientalis, ed. and trans. Jean Donnadieu (Turnhout, 2008).

JV, Lettres Jacques de Vitry, Lettres de Jacques de Vitry, ed. Robert Huygens (Leiden, 1960). LCL The Loeb Classical Library. LRC Lyric Responses to the Crusades in Medieval France and Occitania, available at https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/arts/modernlanguages/research/french/crusades/. McEntire, Doctrine Sandra McEntire, The Doctrine of Compunction in Medieval England: Holy Tears (Lewiston, NY, 1990). MGH SS Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores in folio et quarto, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz et al. (Hanover, 1826–). MGH SRG Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz et al. (Hanover, 1871–1995). MGH SRG n.s. Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, nova series, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz et al. (Hanover, 1922–). MP Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, ed. Henry Luard, RS 57, 7 vols (London, 1872–83). Nagy, Larmes Piroska Nagy, Le don des larmes au Moyen Âge: Un instrument spirituel en quête d’institution (Ve–XIIIe siècle) (Paris, 2000). OD Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici VII in Orientem, ed. and trans. Virginia Berry (New York, 1948). OP Oliver of Paderborn, Historia Damiatina, ed. Hermann Hoogeweg, Die Schriften des Kölner Domscholasters, spätern Bischofs von Paderborn und Kardinal-Bischofs von S. Sabina (Tübingen, 1894), 161–280. OV Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall, 6 vols (Oxford, 1969–80). Pairis Gunther of Pairis, Hystoria Constantinopolitana, ed. Peter Orth (Hildesheim, 1994). PB Peter of Blois, Passio Raginaldi principis Antiochie, ed. Robert Huygens, Petri Blesensis tractus duo (Turnhout, 2002), 31–73. PL Patrologia cursus completus: Series Latina, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64).

PLVC Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay, Hystoria Albigensis, ed. Pascal Guébin and Ernest Lyon, 3 vols (Paris, 1926–39). PT Peter Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano itinere, ed. John Hill and Laurita Hill (Paris, 1977). QBSSM Reinhold Röhricht, Quinti belli sacri scriptores minores (Geneva, 1879). RA Raymond of Aguilers, Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers, ed. John Hill and Laurita Hill (Paris, 1969). RC Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana, in RHC Occ., iii. 587– 716. RHC Arm. Recueil des historiens des croisades: Documents arméniens, ed. Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 2 vols (Paris, 1869–1906). RHC Occ. Recueil des historiens des croisades: Historiens occidentaux, ed. Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 5 vols (Paris, 1844–95). RHGF Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, ed. Martin Bouquet et al., 24 vols (Paris, 1737–1904). Rigord Rigord, Gesta Philippi Augusti, ed. and trans. Elisabeth Carpentier, Georges Pon, and Yves Chauvin, Rigord: Histoire de Philippe Auguste (Paris, 2006). RM Robert the Monk, The Historia Iherosolimitana of Robert the Monk, ed. Damien Kempf and Marcus Bull (Woodbridge, 2013). RS Rolls Series (London, 1858–91). RW Roger of Wendover, Flores historiarum, ed. Henry Coxe, 4 vols (London, 1842). SBO Sancti Bernardi opera, ed. Jean Leclercq, Henri-Marie Rochais, and Charles Talbot, 8 vols (Rome, 1957–77). SCH Studies in Church History. Throop, Act of Vengeance Susanna Throop, Crusading as an Act of Vengeance, 1095–1216 (Farnham, 2011). Villehardouin Geoffrey of Villehardouin, La conquête de Constantinople, ed. Edmond Faral,

2 vols (Paris, 1938–9). WM William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum, ed. and trans. Roger Mynors, Rodney Thomson, and Michael Winterbottom, 2 vols (Oxford, 1998–9). All references to vol. 1 unless stated. WN William of Newburgh, Historia rerum Anglicarum, ed. Richard Howlett, RS 82, 4 vols (London, 1884–9). All references to vol. 1 unless stated. WP William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ed. and trans. R. H. C. Davis and Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford, 1998).

Introduction On 15 July 1099, the participants of the First Crusade prosecuted a bloody conquest of Jerusalem and then visited the site they had longed to see: the church of the Holy Sepulchre, thought to be the site of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. Many contemporary accounts detail their emotional responses. With ‘abounding passions’, wrote one chronicler, they wept and embraced Christ, as if he were still suspended from the cross, while another insisted that the Sepulchre’s floor was flooded ‘by the shower of tears’.1 Such emotions and emotional gestures pervade the many western narratives (composed by both participants and non-participants) of not only that initial expedition, but also the wider crusading movement. How, though, should modern historians interpret these emotional descriptions? There is a tendency within crusader studies to treat them, or at least those encountered in ‘eyewitness’ chronicles, as accurate and unambiguous evidence of protagonists’ lived feelings—an approach which dovetails with, and owes much to, the growth of scholarship on the experience of crusading. This book, the first in-depth study of the emotional rhetoric of crusading, calls for such an approach to be cast aside, and in so doing challenges the related historiographical tradition of using these texts to reconstruct the crusaders’ beliefs and spirituality. It seeks to understand the emotions and affective performances that Latin Christians were expected to embrace and relinquish in a crusading context; how medieval chroniclers represented and utilized certain passions (and why they did so); the degree to which the emotional index of crusading changed during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; and whether the crusades manifested new, distinctive conceptions of the emotions.

The ‘Affective Turn’ In 1941, Lucien Febvre, a founding member of the Annales school and, for many, the father of emotions history, implored scholars not only to start historicizing the feelings of the past, but to place emotions at the very centre of their work.2 Until there were histories of love, fear, pity, and joy, Febvre maintained, ‘there will be no real history possible’.3 With the steady increase of book series, specialist journals, and international research centres dedicated to the history of emotions, it is hardly surprising that some are starting to talk of an ‘affective turn’.4

In another article, Febvre claimed that it was impossible to study the customs and behavioural patterns of medieval people ‘without being struck by the astonishing changeability of the men of that time: quick to anger, quick to show enthusiasm, always ready to draw their swords, but no less ready to embrace’.5 This cynical view of the Middle Ages was inherited from the Dutch historian Johan Huizinga, who in 1924 insisted that the medieval ‘facility of emotions, of tears and spiritual upheavals, must be borne in mind in order to conceive fully how violent and high-strung was life in that period’.6 This mentality dominated historiography for most of the twentieth century, in part because it found an outlet in the work of the sociologist Norbert Elias, who maintained that medieval people were prone to ‘embarrassing or at least unattractive’ fits of emotion, in contrast to their emotionally restrained modern counterparts.7 While the influence of Huizinga and Elias has undoubtedly been profound, this condemnatory view also gained traction in medieval studies because it was forcefully espoused in Marc Bloch’s popular (albeit now widely discredited) La société féodale, first published in 1939–40.8 According to Bloch, the constant threat of violence, epidemic, and famine created a ‘perpetual insecurity’ or ‘nervous sensibility’, which was ‘probably one of the principal reasons for the emotional instability so characteristic of the feudal era’.9 Characterizations of the Middle Ages as a period of emotional turmoil have now been convincingly refuted, most notably by Barbara Rosenwein, Gerd Althoff, Piroska Nagy, and Damien Boquet.10 Besides drawing attention to instances of emotional control, these scholars have elucidated many of the political, social, and religious functions of medieval passions.11 The displacement of the traditional stance has been facilitated, above all, by the creation of a number of alternative methodologies. Before turning to these, it is worth outlining the methodological approaches which have been rejected for this study. The first of these is the universalism of emotions: the idea that emotions possess a ‘basic’ quality which transcends specific historical contexts and cultures.12 The increasing willingness of historians to engage with the life sciences has injected fresh impetus into this approach, with Daniel Smail having explored the ways in which history, including emotions history, might be informed by neuropsychology and neurophysiology.13 ‘The existence of brain structures and body chemicals’, Smail wrote, ‘means that predispositions and behavioral patterns have a universal biological substrate that simply cannot be ignored.’14 Yet he was also alive to the fact that, owing to the plasticity and cultural specificity of emotions (discussed further below), ‘the interaction between universal cognitive or physiological traits and particular historical cultures is never simple’.15 William Reddy and Jan Plamper have highlighted a further problem, one which lies squarely with the historian: neuroscience is such a conceptual leap for most historians that they are unlikely to do it well.16 Despite these cautionary remarks, recent years have seen an increase in attempts to apply modern neuroscience, at times in conjunction with a culturalhistorical approach, to study the affective lives of people in the Middle Ages.17 In addition, no attempt is made here to psychoanalyse either the crusaders or the texts’ authors. Even

if we accept that historical documents are ‘the typical constructions of human minds’, psychoanalysis poses significant obstacles to the medievalist, for it leads us ‘inwards to the unconscious mind, into places where historians cannot follow the path of evidence’.18 For instance, psychoanalytical interrogations of the Monodiae by the twelfth-century chronicler and theologian Guibert, abbot of Nogent, have proved notoriously difficult, despite the fact that he demonstrated a clear affinity for his mother and contempt for his father, reminiscent (some have argued) of the Oedipal complex.19 It has even been suggested that the violence perpetrated by the First Crusade veteran Thomas of Marle in northern France between 1100 and 1130 emanated from his traumatic experiences during the expedition, and that William FitzOsbert displayed symptoms akin to post-traumatic stress disorder on his return from the Third Crusade.20 However, Aislinn Melchior has correctly urged for caution in projecting modern understandings of combat trauma onto the past; thus, Febvre’s call to ‘give up psychological anachronism, the worst kind of anachronism’ still rings true.21 Whereas neuro-historical and psychoanalytical approaches have been rejected, developments in the field of anthropology lie at the heart of the methodology employed here. The main barrier to the historical universalism of emotions is ‘social constructionism’—the idea that, rather than simply being ‘hardwired’, emotions and the valuations a person or society attaches to them are conditioned by social and cultural factors.22 Catherine Lutz, one of the main exponents of this view, has argued that ‘emotional meaning is fundamentally structured by particular cultural systems and particular social and material environments’; as such, ‘emotional experience is not precultural but preeminently cultural’.23 More specifically, my position is that of the ‘weak’ social constructionist: there can be little doubt that emotions possess an important neurobiological dimension, but this is just one thread in a diverse tapestry.24 To my mind, Rosenwein has come closest to a workable definition of emotions, which I have modified slightly (in italics) to align with my own views: ‘there is a biological and universal aptitude for feeling and expressing what we now call “emotions”. But what those emotions are, what they are called, how they are evaluated and felt, and how they are expressed (or not)’—all are dependent on time and place and can vary considerably.25 The social constructionist approach is not without its critics. For instance, Reddy denounced the cultural relativism of ‘strong’ social constructionism and attempted to reconcile it with universalism through the concept of ‘emotives’: emotion statements, such as ‘I am angry’, which ‘are similar to performatives … in that emotives do things to the world’ and are thus ‘themselves instruments for directly changing, building, hiding, intensifying emotions’.26 Nevertheless, as this book seeks to demonstrate, social constructionism remains the most viable and fruitful methodology for exploring premodern passions. A fundamental reason for this is that Reddy’s own interpretive framework of the ‘emotional regime’ does not lend itself to studying the medieval period.27 Inextricably tied to state formation, Reddy’s scheme has a strong political dimension, and thus fails to accommodate a central aspect of medieval life: religion. Its emphasis on the need for ‘emotional suffering’ to jettison a new

‘emotional regime’ does not fit comfortably with positive attitudes towards suffering in the Middle Ages, especially in the context of imitatio Christi. Nor does Reddy’s framework allow for the co-existence of multiple emotional styles; and, by his own admission, the concept of emotives is ‘better suited to the field than to dusty archives and libraries’.28 Cultural anthropology cannot, however, solve all the methodological problems one encounters when examining the emotional standards of the distant past. Most agree that the psychological category of ‘the emotions’, and the very word ‘emotion’, only truly gained currency in the nineteenth century; and that there has been a general, if incomplete, secularization of theories of emotions over the centuries.29 Consequently, there is disagreement as to whether ‘emotion’ should be a shorthand or meta-concept at all.30 I have chosen to use it—and ‘passion’, ‘feeling’, and ‘sentiment’ interchangeably with it—for convenience. This decision also reflects a conviction that categories of feeling, if not analogous with, then at least related to, what we today call ‘emotions’ did exist in (and before) the Middle Ages, and were described using a varied nomenclature, including the Latin terms perturbationes, passiones, motus animi, and affectus.31 It has even been contended, with some conviction, that the ‘psychology of emotions’ is not a modern invention at all, but rather should be backdated to the period under study here: ‘the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, due partly to the assimilation of ancient, Aristotelian knowledge, fostered the emergence of a scientific psychology of emotions—that is, methodical study of the ways by which affective movements and states operate in human life’.32 During this period, Boquet and Nagy argue, affective movements became naturalized—accepted as integral aspects of human nature—in scholastic and monastic discussions. Formerly described in terms of the vices and virtues (a moral dimension that lingered on), they became increasingly related to the powers of the soul (anima) and thus bound up with questions of the senses, bodily manifestations, and cognition/rationality.33 Furthermore, my use of ‘emotion’ and related terms is partly necessitated by the nature of the sources: it is rarely clear whether chroniclers—who were not writing major syntheses of the passiones animae—thought of, say, timor as an affectus, passio, or motus animi; whether they clearly differentiated between those categories; or whether they adhered to a specific pre-existing theory of emotions. Yet, since medieval and modern taxonomies do not always align, it is imperative to decide what constituted an emotion in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Fear and anger, two passions at the core of this study, are uncontroversial in this respect: both consistently featured in contemporary philosophical and theological treatises.34 A more immediate problem is that of ‘false friends’—emotion words whose semantic meanings do not necessarily match their equivalents in the English language.35 For example, the Old French dol could indicate grief or anger—or a combination of both, a sort of angry sorrow—and, at times, it is virtually impossible to discern whether the Latin term furor designated ‘bestial rage’ or simply ‘madness’.36 This problem is compounded by the fact that modern languages bring their own cultural baggage. The meanings attached to angst, for example, are peculiar to German culture, and the English lexicon for fear is equally complex.37

Therefore, an analysis of twelfth- and thirteenth-century emotions must be attended by the disclaimer that since the Latin and Old French terms frequently lack precise modern counterparts in the English language, a degree of ambiguity and inference cannot be entirely eliminated. Despite these challenges, a close analysis of Latin and Old French semantics remains the most fruitful line of enquiry. As Anna Wierzbicka has demonstrated, language is a fundamental component of emotion, and we should seek ‘conceptual primitives such as good or bad … [which] are not cultural artefacts of the English language’ in order to avoid superimposing our own cultural assumptions onto the sources.38 In the absence of any clear theoretical framework—such as the Stoic, Aristotelian, or Augustinian models— underpinning the author’s conception of emotions (as is often the case), a two-pronged approach has been implemented.39 This involves conducting a lexical analysis of the emotion words contained within the text, before considering the contexts in which such terms appear.40 Following Robert Kaster’s lead, emotions are also treated in terms of ‘narrative processes or scripts’, for this allows us to ‘more directly get at what a given form of emotion is about without becoming embroiled in the tedious regress of defining emotion-terms’.41 At times, Rosenwein’s concept of ‘emotional communities’, ‘groups in which people adhere to the same norms of emotional expression and value—or devalue—the same or related emotions’, has proved a helpful theoretical tool.42 However, this framework, which is partly based on social constructionism, is only employed intermittently, for three main reasons.43 By casting her net of sources as wide as possible, Rosenwein successfully circumvented potential accusations that the emotional patterns she was examining were little more than reflections of a particular genre’s conventions.44 One consequence of this, however, was that she only offered sporadic analysis of variations between source types. Beyond this, too strong an adherence to Rosenwein’s framework can overlay instances of individuality within the texts: as we shall see, there was room for emotional variation and nonconformity even among members of the same religious order. The third reason concerns the definite goals of this study. The crusades attracted the attention of a diverse array of chroniclers who, like the crusaders themselves, were drawn from many corners of Europe; they were trained in different places and often wrote quite differently in Latin and the vernacular. While an analysis of each author’s specific background, training, regional identity, and ‘emotional community’ could (where known) explain certain emotional characteristics of their work, this study consciously adopts a panoramic perspective, at times combined with a deeper interrogation of a particularly revealing or representative text, to trace broader trends, continuities, and developments in emotional discourses across nearly two centuries.

The ‘Linguistic Turn’ This book does not seek to reconstruct the actual feelings experienced by crusade participants; rather, it analyses the representations and functions of emotions in historical narratives of the crusades in order to evaluate contemporary emotional standards. There is good reason for this. Since the ‘linguistic turn’ took hold in the 1970s, scholars have become increasingly attuned to the value of treating medieval narratives as literary artefacts, rather than straightforward repositories of ‘facts’. The process of deconstructing narrative texts—exemplified by the work of Nancy Partner, Gabrielle Spiegel, Monika Otter, and Jean Blacker—has not only blurred the apocryphal history/fiction binary; it has also yielded greater sensitivity to issues of authorial artifice, story formation, audience, genre, and, perhaps most importantly, the ‘social logic of the text’—the social environment to which the text bears witness and, in turn, helps to shape.45 Rather than simply mining the narratives to empirically reconstruct the course of crusading enterprises, many within crusader studies have now embraced these theoretical principles. In recent years, crusade narratives—particularly those relating to the First Crusade—have been subjected to an unprecedented degree of literary scrutiny, and we now have a better grasp of the ways in which the crusading past was transmitted, retold, and memorialized in the Middle Ages.46 This has been facilitated, in part, by growing scholarly disenchantment with the critical method first espoused by Leopold von Ranke and applied to the sources for the First Crusade by his student Heinrich von Sybel—an approach which argued for the primacy of ‘eyewitness’ testimonies in reconstructing the past.47 Yet medieval and modern understandings of ‘eyewitness’ do not necessarily coincide: as Elizabeth Lapina has persuasively argued, twelfth-century approaches to witness testimony involved a symbiotic relationship between history and theology, and even contemporary chroniclers of the First Crusade did not consider first-hand accounts infallible.48 Whereas the ‘linguistic turn’ has had something of a delayed reaction in crusader studies, these principles were rapidly absorbed by some scholars investigating the emotional codes of the Middle Ages. Discussing medieval approaches to anger in 1998, Stephen White commented: when writers imputed anger to specific people, they did so, not because they had direct knowledge of their feelings (if there is such a thing), but rather because they considered this emotion to be appropriate to a particular situation. In other cases, writers represented emotions whose inappropriateness was supposed to be evident to all.49 Not all have agreed, however. Paul Hyams has advocated that chroniclers often used emotion words ‘in a genuine attempt to convey feelings that the characters would naturally experience in the situations they met’; as such, the historian ‘can, and should, mine the topic of medieval emotions and describe their

impact on actual politics’.50 Rosenwein, too, concluded that we can get to the feelings behind the rhetoric.51 A major aim of this book is to shed light on this issue of the representation versus the reality of emotional experience in historical narratives.

Emotions in a Crusading Context The cumulative effect of the methodological developments outlined above is that the emotional rhetoric of crusading is now ripe for consideration, or rather reconsideration. Crusade historians have long been engaged in emotions history, albeit usually unintentionally. Echoes of the Huizinga-Elias paradigm are certainly discernible in older studies. In 1974, James Brundage wrote of King Richard I of England’s ‘emotional instability and immaturity’, and five years later William Chester Jordan offered a similar emotional portrait of King Louis IX of France: despite being thirty years old when he took the cross in 1244, ‘emotionally he was still an adolescent’.52 While accusations of emotional immaturity rarely feature in more recent scholarship, two assumptions remain deeply entrenched within crusader studies: first, that emotions are biologically predetermined, and thus transmutable over space and time; and, second, that the narrative histories allow us to access the genuine passions of crusaders.53 The latter is symptomatic of a broader trend within the field of using historical narratives as an entry point into crusader ideology. Since the groundbreaking work of Jonathan Riley-Smith and Marcus Bull in the 1990s, it has become customary to view personal piety as the foremost crusader motivation, even if materialistic aspirations operated on an individual level.54 This consensus has stemmed, in large part, from the revolutionary impact of charter evidence, but there is a long historiographical tradition of using the narrative texts to identify the various strands of crusader spirituality. In 1978, Bernard McGinn drew attention to a penitential ritual—the cycle of sin– repentance–providential confirmation—in chronicles of the First Crusade.55 A fuller analysis of ‘les caractères de la croisade’ had been undertaken by Paul Rousset in 1945, and this in turn was built upon by Riley-Smith in his magisterial The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading (1986), much of which was dedicated to reconstructing the ideas held by the crusaders themselves: their desire to liberate Jerusalem; the belief that God was aiding them as they achieved victory against seemingly insurmountable odds; the significance they attached to natural phenomena, visions, and relics; and the growing conviction that their dead received the martyr’s crown.56 An entire generation of scholars has followed Riley-Smith’s lead. For example, David Bachrach devoted a chapter of his Religion and the Conduct of War, c.300–c.1215 (2003) to examining ‘the

religious behavior and beliefs of both the combatants and their supporters during the long century of crusading warfare’ from 1095 to 1215; and, in 2008, William Purkis examined the assimilation of contemporary ideals of imitatio Christi and vita apostolica into crusader spirituality.57 For Purkis, ‘the fact that most of the evidence for the association of these ideas with crusading comes from ecclesiastics rather than the crusaders themselves should not be seen as especially problematic for assessing their wider importance to crusader motivation’.58 A recent proponent of this view is Cecilia Gaposchkin. In the third chapter of Invisible Weapons (2017), the most detailed study of the intersections between liturgy and crusading to date, Gaposchkin put the liturgical texts to one side and mobilized the narrative accounts to ‘appreciate the devotional and religious texture that the rites of prayer and intercession brought to the crusading experience’.59 Though conscious that the liturgical quality of the First Crusade might be little more than ‘a product of the nature of our sources and the larger intellectual project of the clerical writers in emphasizing the divine and thus religious aspects of holy war’, she nonetheless set about reconstructing the liturgical practices performed during that and later expeditions.60 In addition, there is a recent trend—albeit one not universally accepted—of emphasizing the eschatological tones of the narratives and the apocalyptic ideas of the crusaders, a view championed by Jay Rubenstein.61 All the aforementioned works were reliant upon the crusaders’ letters and the ‘eyewitness’ chronicles of ecclesiastics to access participants’ mindsets.62 An analysis of the emotional rhetoric embedded within those well-trodden texts, it will be argued, encourages us to abandon such an approach. When the emotional language of crusade sources has been subjected to more rigorous scrutiny, such studies have tended to focus on a single sentiment. As early as 1980, Riley-Smith demonstrated that contemporary writers applied two strands of the Christian theology of caritas (charity) to crusading—the love of God and love of neighbour—but excluded the third: the love of one’s enemy.63 Since RileySmith’s seminal article, love has continued to attract scholarly attention, but by far the most detailed study of an emotions-related concept in a crusade setting is Susanna Throop’s 2011 monograph, which traced the evolution of the relationship between crusading and vengeance from 1095 to 1216.64 In her final chapter and a related article, Throop also drew attention to the myriad connotations of the Latin emotion word zelus, ‘a composite of passionate love, jealous protectiveness, and angry hostility’.65 Zelus’ ties to anger are at least partly responsible for the notion—frequently articulated by modern historians, but not, it should be noted, by Throop—that crusading provided a fertile environment for the germination of the concept of zealous wrath against sinners, ira per zelum.66 Few scholars have widened their scope to encompass a broader spectrum of passions or a longer timeframe.67 This book seeks to address this deficiency by analysing the emotional language embedded in twelfth- and thirteenth-century western narratives of crusading expeditions to the Holy Land, focusing particularly on two emotions (fear and anger) and one affective display (weeping), although identifying emotional sequences invariably necessitates considering a number of other passions. These case studies have not been selected at random. The sheer ubiquity of fear and weeping in the sources make them

obvious candidates for closer analysis. Fear is the dominant emotion in most crusade narratives and is commonly (but misleadingly) regarded as a static, universal battlefield emotion. Weeping offers an opportunity to consider the performative nature of emotions—something which is imperative in light of the importance of gestures in the Middle Ages and the growing scholarly awareness of the body’s centrality to both medieval and modern approaches to emotions, with Monique Scheer having persuasively argued that emotions are themselves a form of practice.68 Accordingly, a whole range of affective displays—bodily gestures and behaviours bearing witness to, and resulting from, internal emotional states—appear throughout this book, such as facial expressions, laughing, trembling, kissing, embracing, swooning, self-mutilation, and the lifting of hands and eyes skyward.69 Anger was selected in part because it is often considered a fundamental emotion of crusading—an assumption I refute—but also because it has generated a rich historiography outside a crusade setting and thus facilitates an examination of whether crusading modified pre-existing contemporary discourses. This interrogation of medieval emotions and affective displays has four main aims: first, to better understand the ways in which emotions were represented in the histories, the textual functions they performed, and how emotional language interacted with themes more commonly associated with crusading; second, to explain why such rhetoric was used by identifying a range of influences which conditioned authors’ approaches; third, to determine whether and how the emotional registers associated with crusading changed over time; and, fourth, to assess the distinctiveness or normativity of the emotional landscape which contemporary writers applied to the crusades.70 Part I directly challenges the historiographical tradition of treating the emotional rhetoric of crusade narratives as uncomplicated reflections of the lived affective experiences of participants by analysing representations of fear. Focusing on the fear of death (timor mortis), Chapter 1 argues that, rather than unmediated evidence of the crusaders’ feelings, a highly theological interpretation of timor mortis is encountered in many of the narratives, whereby fear was primarily cast as a passion to be rejected—a discourse firmly rooted in scripture. Chapter 2 seeks to demonstrate that current scholarship also fails to do justice to the variegated nature and complexity of fear’s representation by exploring its intersection with four themes: chivalry, gender, deception, and power. Part II considers an external marker of emotion: weeping. Chapter 3 argues that chroniclers regarded the secretion of tears as an important external manifestation of Latin protagonists’ internal piety, and that such descriptions of lachrymose performances ought to be viewed within the context of the gratia lacrimarum—the western Christian theology of weeping. A number of ‘non-religious’ social functions ascribed to tears are identified and analysed in Chapter 4, which also assesses whether crying was thought to have impacted negatively on the crusaders’ masculine identities and the role of descriptions of mass mourning in expressing power and status. Structurally, both Parts I and II adopt a religious/non-religious binary. This is purely for analytical purposes and does not necessarily reflect contemporary views; indeed, a key argument of Chapter 4 is that medieval writers often failed to distinguish between religious and non-religious weeping.

Part III turns to portrayals of anger, with Chapters 5 and 6 challenging the scholarly consensus that crusading created a climate in which registers of righteous wrath thrived. Chapter 5 firstly extends Throop’s study of crusading as an act of vengeance to 1291, and highlights some of the methodological problems encountered when analysing the Latin term zelus. It then draws attention to the relative absence of anger terminology in preaching documents, before examining representations of righteous wrath in the chronicles. Chapter 6 turns to dysfunctional forms of anger and contends that, for crusade propagandists and chroniclers alike, anger was principally considered a socially dangerous sentiment which ought to be banished or controlled. Reduced to a statement, this study argues that the Latin and Old French narratives of the crusades offer a valuable window onto the emotional codes and values prevalent among the aristocratic and especially ecclesiastic elites of western Europe—primarily France, England, and Germany—during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; and that a close reading of the emotional content of these texts both enhances our understanding of the social, cultural, and intellectual environments in which they were created and, in turn, exposes the flaws inherent in mobilizing them to access the crusaders’ actual feelings. While the crusaders’ ‘real’ affective experiences are lost to us, the emotional language embedded in these texts can facilitate the identification of wider socio-cultural conceptions of emotions. Moreover, given that literature both mirrors and creates scripts for reality, we should not discount the possibility that the emotional experiences described in even monastic texts, which were primarily aimed at professed religious audiences, could have served as ‘intimate scripts’, to borrow Sarah McNamer’s concept, which encouraged similar patterns of feeling and conduct by future crusaders—a possibility made all the more likely by ongoing contacts between the laity and religious communities during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.71 In this way, the texts may have played a part in the broader process of emotional diffusion proposed by Boquet and Nagy, whereby the affective models first formulated in ‘monastic laboratories’ of the patristic era, and refined through Gregorian reform, ‘spread throughout the medieval West’ and gradually penetrated lay society.72 Several further overarching arguments will be advanced. It will firstly be suggested that emotions articulated and interacted with much broader ideas, and they should, therefore, be considered fundamental ingredients in the textual architecture of the narratives. Secondly, major developments in the emotional rhetoric of crusading appear to have occurred within the first decade of the twelfth century, with relatively minor shifts occurring thereafter. Thirdly, the way in which chroniclers conceived of and represented emotions was determined by a multiplicity of factors, including the influence of the Bible, theological models, genre conventions, textual relationships, and authorship. This, in turn, leads to a fourth point: that the emotional rhetoric of crusading was situated in pre-existing contemporary frameworks, and the formation of the ‘crusade idea’ cannot, therefore, be said to have created a radically new western economy of emotions.73 On the basis of these findings, this book calls for far greater sensitivity in using the narratives to identify the component parts of crusader spirituality and the ideas held by the crusaders themselves, since

the content and concepts expressed in the vast majority of these texts were profoundly shaped by biblical precedents, contemporary theological doctrines, and often by the need to satisfy professed religious audiences. At the same time, it acts as an affirmation of social constructionism, demonstrating that, despite the ongoing drive to develop new methodologies for the history of emotions, typified by experiments in ‘neurohistory’, cultural-historical approaches can still cast valuable light on medieval emotional standards.

The Core Sources The following overview is primarily intended for readers who are unfamiliar with crusades-related sources. It introduces a set of core sources—necessary to avoid the accusation of cherry-picking—which form the backbone of this study and is not a holistic survey of the texts pertaining to the crusades or even all those utilized here: the core sources are frequently supplemented with others. Western narrative histories, most of which were written by churchmen, represent our largest corpus of source material for the Levantine crusades, and thus form the basis of this investigation into emotional ideals and standards. Perhaps the earliest of these was the anonymous Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum, an account of the First Crusade (1095–9) composed c.1101 by a southern Italian in Bohemond of Taranto’s contingent.74 Once believed to be the work of a literate knight, it now seems more likely that the Gesta was created by a clerical author (or compiler).75 The Gesta was consulted by an array of chroniclers, even other participants, such as Peter Tudebode, Fulcher of Chartres, and Raymond of Aguilers.76 The latter became Raymond of Toulouse’s chaplain during the expedition and finished his account, coauthored by a knight called Pons of Balazun, in c.1101.77 Fulcher of Chartres completed the initial version of his narrative of the First Crusade—book 1 of the Historia Hierosolymitana—in c.1106, although it was extensively revised in the 1120s and the narrative eventually extended to 1127.78 The Gesta Francorum (or versions of it) also served as the foundation text for numerous secondgeneration histories, written by non-participants. Chief among these are the accounts by a trio of northern French Benedictine monks: Guibert of Nogent, Baldric of Bourgueil, and Robert the Monk.79 Each wrote within the first decade of the twelfth century, emphasized the expedition’s ‘Frankish’ character, and sought to improve the Gesta’s style and theological content.80 Robert’s Historia Iherosolimitana was seemingly used by another Benedictine commentator, Gilo of Paris, who wrote his verse account before 1120; and a manuscript of Gilo’s work was later augmented by an anonymous author, known as the ‘Charleville poet’.81 A useful counterweight to these ‘Frankish’ texts is the Historia Ierosolimitana by

Albert of Aachen, a non-participant who appears to have written independently from the textual tradition centred on the Gesta Francorum. Probably a canon at the cathedral church of Aachen, Albert provided a distinctive Lotharingian perspective, focusing on the activities of Godfrey of Bouillon and Baldwin of Boulogne during the expedition and then as rulers of Jerusalem. Internal evidence suggests that the Historia’s first six books, those dealing with the First Crusade, may have been completed by 1103, whereas books 7–12 were added later, perhaps in c.1119.82 A number of less examined narratives of the First Crusade are also considered, including Ekkehard of Aura’s Hierosolymita, composed before 1117, and the Gesta Francorum expugnantium Iherusalem, commonly attributed to Bartolf of Nangis.83 It has recently been demonstrated that Bartolf probably wrote in northern France in c.1109, where he had access to an early recension of Fulcher of Chartres’ Historia.84 In addition, Ralph of Caen seems to have worked on the Gesta Tancredi, a panegyric of Tancred of Hauteville, between 1112 and 1118; and parts of Ralph’s text were reproduced in the Historia belli sacri, although the latter’s author—based in Monte Cassino—was more reliant on a copy of Peter Tudebode’s history.85 Robert the Monk’s Historia provided most of the plot architecture for the anonymous Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, written c.1146–7, whereas Caffaro of Caschifelone—a Genoese secular historian who spent time in the Latin East—composed his De liberatione civitatum Orientis in c.1155. The First Crusade also inspired Caffaro to write his Annales, which were begun in 1101, officially endorsed by the consuls of Genoa in 1152, and eventually continued up to 1163.86 Two further under-studied accounts are those by the Anglo-Norman chroniclers William of Malmesbury and Orderic Vitalis, both of whom incorporated narratives of the expedition into larger historiographical projects.87 The First Crusade also drew the attention of Archbishop William of Tyre, one of the foremost historians of the crusades and the Latin East. Born in Jerusalem and trained in the West, William wrote his Chronicon during the 1170s and 1180s, although an inherent Jerusalemite bias runs throughout his work.88 He only offered brief coverage of the disastrous Second Crusade (1145–9), an expedition which received fuller treatment from Odo of Deuil. A monk (and later abbot) of St-Denis, Odo was chaplain to King Louis VII of France during the enterprise and probably wrote his account, which took the form of an extended letter to Abbot Suger of St-Denis, in 1148 or 1150.89 Odo’s text remains the most detailed account of the Levantine branch of the Second Crusade, but the journey of the Anglo-Norman contingent that captured Lisbon in 1147 was attested in an equally vivid narrative: the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, believed to be the work of a priest called Raol.90 The Third Crusade (1187–92) was the stimulus for the creation of a far greater corpus of literature in western Europe. Gerald of Wales, archdeacon of Brecon, accompanied Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury on a preaching tour of Wales and described his experiences in the Itinerarium Kambriae, the first version of which was completed in 1191.91 The earliest narrative of the crusade itself, the Estoire de la guerre sainte, was composed by a cleric in Richard the Lionheart’s army called Ambroise.92 There

exists a complex textual relationship between Ambroise’s Estoire, completed sometime between 1194 and 1199, and the Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi.93 In light of the ambiguities surrounding the Itinerarium’s composition, it is treated here as a thirteenth-century reflection on the Third Crusade.94 Another author traditionally afforded ‘eyewitness’ status is the royal clerk Roger of Howden, who accompanied King Richard’s fleet to the East but returned with Philip II Augustus, king of France, in August 1191, after which he wrote the crusading portions of his Gesta regis Henrici secundi and Chronica.95 Numerous other Anglo-Norman commentators likewise set about memorializing Richard the Lionheart’s crusading exploits during the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries.96 Richard of Devizes, a monk at St Swithun’s who wrote between 1192 and 1198, has been criticized for his ‘love of dramatic effect’ and emotionally charged scenes, but this makes his chronicle all the more interesting for the present study.97 One of Richard of Devizes’ contemporaries, William of Newburgh, similarly discussed the Third Crusade (as well as the failure of the Second Crusade) in his Historia rerum Anglicarum, completed between 1196 and 1198.98 Ralph of Diceto’s Ymagines historiarum was also written before 1200, and the Third Crusade found a further chronicler in Ralph, abbot of the Cistercian house of Coggeshall, who composed the Chronicon Anglicanum at various intervals during the 1190s and 1200s.99 As a counterpoint to the Anglo-Norman texts, attention is also given to accounts of the Third Crusade composed in France, Germany, and the Latin East. These include the Gesta Philippi Augusti, written by a monk of St-Denis called Rigord, and one of the Old French continuations of William of Tyre, known as the Lyon Eracles.100 The Third Crusade was also discussed in Jacques de Vitry’s Historia Orientalis, now thought to have been completed between 1216 and 1224, although the bishop of Acre (1216–27) undoubtedly regarded the First Crusade as the crusade par excellence.101 The source base is more extensive for Emperor Frederick Barbarossa’s expedition to the Holy Land. The Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris—usually attributed to a certain ‘Ansbert’—only survives in composite form, created before c.1200, and an early recension of this text was used by the author of the contemporaneous Historia peregrinorum.102 One of the distinctive features of the Fourth Crusade (1198–1204) is that two first-hand accounts composed by laymen survive. The most comprehensive of these is Geoffrey of Villehardouin’s La conquête de Constantinople.103 The marshal of Champagne had followed his overlord, Thibaut, on crusade, though the reliability of his chronicle is disputed: while some have treated Villehardouin as a credible witness, others—most notably Paul Archambault—have accused the marshal of deliberately distorting and suppressing information.104 The Old French prose account by Robert of Clari, a Picard knight, serves as a valuable counterbalance to Villehardouin’s focus on the high-ranking aristocracy, even if it does not necessarily provide ‘a view from the crusade’s rank and file’.105 As ever, the expedition

also attracted monastic chroniclers, the most notable being the Cistercian monk Gunther of Pairis, who wrote the Hystoria Constantinopolitana in c.1205, based on the reminiscences of his abbot, Martin.106 The clerical inbalance returns in the written record for the Fifth Crusade (1217–21). Oliver of Paderborn, scholasticus of the cathedral school at Cologne, was involved in the preaching of the Fifth Crusade and by 1222 had likely finished his Historia Damiatina—the fullest first-hand testimony of the expedition.107 There is less of a precedent for my use of a group of neglected thirteenth-century narratives, the most important being the Gesta obsidionis Damiate, whose anonymous author probably wrote before the crusade ended in defeat.108 The Gesta obsidionis is textually related to two similar accounts: John of Tulbia’s De domino Iohanne rege Ierusalem and the Liber duellii Christiani in obsidione Damiate exacti.109 There exists a potential stemma between these three texts, Oliver of Paderborn’s Historia, and the letters of Jacques de Vitry; yet, like the so-called ‘derivatives’ of the Gesta Francorum, they too deserve to be treated as literary artefacts in their own right.110 John of Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis is our principal source for King Louis IX of France’s first expedition to the Holy Land, the ill-fated Seventh Crusade (1248–54).111 Joinville, seneschal of Champagne, accompanied Louis to the East in 1248 and completed his Vie in 1309. Significant debate surrounds the text’s composition and dating, though the most likely scenario is that the crusading portion was based on a pre-existing account Joinville had written in the 1270s, to which the opening and closing sections were later added.112 The Seventh Crusade was also discussed at length in Matthew Paris’ Chronica majora. Matthew relied heavily on the Flores historiarum by Roger of Wendover, another St Albans monk, but his Chronica can be considered an independent source from 1236.113 A broad range of comparative material is deployed to assess whether the emotional rhetoric found in the narratives was unique or normative, both within and outside a crusading context. While accounts of expeditions to the Holy Land are the primary focus of this study, in accordance with the ‘pluralist’ definition of crusading—the school of thought to which I most closely adhere—consideration is also given to crusading enterprises in other theatres of conflict, especially southern France and the Baltic.114 Two texts in particular are utilized: Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay’s Hystoria Albigensis, our main Latin source for the first stage of the Albigensian Crusade (1209–29) directed against the Cathar heretics of southern France; and Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae, completed c.1227, which detailed the conquest and conversion of Livonia and Estonia.115 Various twelfth- and thirteenth-century letters written by and for crusaders are surveyed, as well as appeals for assistance sent from the Latin polities in the East, known collectively as the ‘crusader states’. Whether epistolary evidence can offer direct access to an individual’s lived emotions is debatable. For Rosenwein, ‘letters best reveal how a person “really” feels’, although I would argue that they ought to be treated on a case-by-case basis.116 An examination of two letters sent by the First Crusader Stephen of Blois led John Pryor to conclude that the count had ‘a close emotional relationship’ with his wife, Adela,

and their children.117 Yet, as Pryor was well aware, the personal tones of Stephen’s missives are unusual within the broader corpus of crusader letters.118 With regard to most of these letters, Rosenwein’s position is untenable, for they are neither uncontaminated portals into crusader psychology nor automatically ‘accurate’ or totalizing reflections of the crusading experience. Like the narrative histories, the letters represent products of hindsight, often composed in the aftermath of major military successes (or failures) by authors whose own literary programmes bred selectivity; and, like the histories, they too were usually written by clerical scribes.119 Another type of documentary source—charter evidence—is excluded from this study, primarily because, in comparison to the narratives, charters are a rather unemotional genre, though they are not entirely devoid of affective charge.120 Charters have enormous prosopographical potential, but they cannot necessarily tell us about the emotional responses of crusade participants.121 Since they were often written by the ecclesiastical beneficiaries, these documents were not isolated from clerical contamination either; and by the turn of the thirteenth century, the narratio clause of charters, which detailed the purpose of the transaction, was more formulaic than it had been at the start of the twelfth century.122 Despite their limitations, however, charters undoubtedly deserve a place in the history of emotions, as Rosenwein’s examination of the charters of the Raimondin counts of Toulouse certifies, and may well prove an interesting avenue for future research.123 A large corpus of sources relating to crusade preaching is examined. Given the prescriptive nature of encyclicals, sermons, and treatises for preaching the cross—collectively referred to as crusade ‘propaganda’—these documents offer insight into the emotions the papacy and other propagandists believed crusaders should possess.124 For the First Crusade, these include Pope Urban II’s letters, circulated after his Clermont address of 27 November 1095, and the spurious encyclical of Pope Sergius IV, which was probably designed to aid recruitment for that venture.125 The source base for the preaching of the Second Crusade is significantly richer: besides Pope Eugenius III’s call to arms, Quantum praedecessores, we have Bernard of Clairvaux’s recruitment letters, as well as the abbot’s treatise on the Templars, De laude novae militiae.126 Thereafter, we possess papal encyclicals for major crusading enterprises, including: multiple crusade appeals issued during Alexander III’s pontificate; Gregory VIII’s Audita tremendi, which launched the Third Crusade; a variety of Innocent III’s letters, such as his encyclicals for the Fourth Crusade (Post miserabile) and Fifth Crusade (Quia maior); Rachel suum videns and Pium et sanctum, issued by Gregory IX; Innocent IV’s letters pertaining to the Seventh Crusade; and Gregory X’s Zelus fidei.127 This material is supplemented by thirteenth-century model sermons for preaching the cross and a number of preaching manuals and treatises for the recovery of the Holy Land.128 Foremost among these are the Brevis ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis, which probably originated from England, and two treatises by Humbert of Romans: the De predicatione sancte crucis, composed c.1266–8; and the Opusculum tripartitum, written in response to Pope Gregory X’s request for

advice on the eve of the Second Council of Lyons (1274).129 Gregory’s appeal may also have inspired Fidence of Padua’s Liber recuperationis Terre Sancte, which was only completed shortly before Acre’s fall in 1291.130 Furthermore, since the links between crusade histories and hagiographical literature remain relatively under-explored, saints’ lives feature regularly in the following pages, and a range of pilgrimage narratives are similarly employed for contextualization purposes.131 Use is also made of chansons de geste, especially the trilogy of poems set during the First Crusade that were brought together c.1200 by Graindor of Douai: the Chanson d’Antioche, Chanson des Chétifs, and Chanson de Jérusalem.132 Long neglected by historians due to their seeming lack of empirical value, there is nothing controversial about using these texts today: chansons are now part of the mainstream of crusader studies. A number of scholars, such as Matthew Bennett, Simon Parsons, and Carol Sweetenham, have elucidated the many connections between chansons and Latin narratives of the First Crusade, thereby subverting any suggestion that they represent discrete genres.133 The fact that chansons were performed—sometimes even before battle, as in the case of the recital of the Chanson de Roland in the Norman army prior to the battle of Hastings—means that they had the capacity to mould crusader opinion, offer models for emulation, and potentially influence actual conduct. Chansons de geste therefore represent a valuable resource for understanding the emotional ideals that became associated with crusading and those to which the laity was likely receptive. This is also true of crusade lyrics composed in Old French by trouvères and Occitan by troubadours—a group of sources recently made more accessible by the Lyric Responses to the Crusades in Medieval France and Occitania project, led by Linda Paterson.134 The survival of such a broad swathe of sources, many of which had a didactic function, thus offers an opportunity to discern the emotional standards expected of crusaders, and whether or how they changed over time. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

GN, 282, ‘uberrimis … affectibus’; RM, 100, ‘imbre lacrimarum’.

2

Lucien Febvre, ‘La sensibilité et l’histoire: Comment reconstituer la vie affective d’autrefois?’,

Annales d’histoire sociale 3 (1941): 5–20. 3

Febvre, ‘La sensibilité’, 18.

4

Jan Plamper, ‘The History of Emotions: An Interview with William Reddy, Barbara Rosenwein,

and Peter Stearns’, History and Theory 49 (2010): 237, 248, 259; Rob Boddice, ‘The Affective Turn: Historicizing the Emotions’, in Psychology and History: Interdisciplinary Explorations, ed. Christian Tileagă and Jovan Byford (Cambridge, 2014), 147–65. 5

Lucien Febvre, ‘History and Psychology’, in A New Kind of History: From the Writings of Febvre,

ed. Peter Burke, trans. K. Folca (London, 1973), 7. The following discussion focuses on developments in the study of medieval emotions and the methodological apparatus available to historians. More generally, see Peter Stearns, ‘History of Emotions: Issues of Change and Impact’, in Handbook of Emotions, ed. Michael Lewis, Jeannette Haviland-Jones, and Lisa Barrett, 3rd edn (New York, 2008), 17–31; Susan Matt and Peter Stearns, eds., Doing Emotions History (Chicago, IL, 2014); Jan Plamper, The History of Emotions: An Introduction, trans. Keith Tribe (Oxford, 2015), 40–74, 251–96; Rob Boddice, The History of Emotions (Manchester, 2018). 6 7

Johan Huizinga, The Waning of the Middle Ages, trans. Fritz Hopman (New York, 1924), 6. Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process: Sociogenetic and Psychogenetic Investigations, trans.

Edmund Jephcott, rev. edn (Oxford, 2000), 60. 8

Marc Bloch, Feudal Society, trans. L. A. Manyon, with a new foreword by T. S. Brown, 2 vols

(London, 1993), i. 72–87. 9 10

Bloch, Feudal Society, i. 73.

Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions in History’, American Historical Review 107

(2002): 834–7; Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 2006), 5–15; Gerd Althoff, ‘Aufgeführte Gefühle: Die Rolle der Emotionen in den öffentlichen Ritualen des Mittelalters’, Passions in Context 1 (2010): 1–21; Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, ‘Émotions historiques, émotions historiennes’, Écrire l’histoire 2 (2008): 15–26. 11

See esp. Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, eds., Le sujet de l’émotion au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2008);

Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, eds., Politiques des émotions au Moyen Âge (Florence, 2010); Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, Sensible Moyen Âge: Une histoire des émotions dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris, 2015); Daniel Smail, The Consumption of Justice: Emotions, Publicity and Legal Culture in Marseille, 1263–1423 (Ithaca, NY, 2003), 89–132; Susan Broomhall, ed., Gender and Emotions in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Destroying Order, Structuring Disorder (Farnham, 2015); Susan Broomhall, ed., Ordering Emotions in Europe, 1100–1800 (Leiden, 2015); Michael Champion and Andrew Lynch, eds., Understanding Emotions in Early Europe (Turnhout, 2015). 12

Paul Ekman, Wallace Friesen, and Phoebe Ellsworth, Emotion in the Human Face: Guidelines for

Research and an Integration of Findings (New York, 1972). For criticism of Paul Ekman’s approach, see Ruth Leys, ‘How Did Fear Become a Scientific Object and What Kind of Object Is It?’, Representations 110 (2010): 66–104. 13

Daniel Smail, On Deep History and the Brain (Berkeley, CA, 2008), 112–56.

14

Smail, Deep History, 114.

15

Smail, Deep History, 114.

16

William Reddy, ‘Neuroscience and the Fallacies of Functionalism’, History and Theory 49 (2010):

412–25; Plamper, History of Emotions, 270–6. 17

Roland Ganze, ‘The Neurological and Physiological Effects of Emotional Duress on Memory in

Two Old English Elegies’, in Anglo-Saxon Emotions: Reading the Heart in Old English Language, Literature and Culture, ed. Alice Jorgensen, Frances McCormack, and Jonathan Wilcox (Farnham, 2015), 211–26; Julia Bourke, ‘An Experiment in “Neurohistory”: Reading Emotions in Aelred’s De Institutione Inclusarum (Rule for a Recluse)’, Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures 42 (2016): 124–42; Keagan Brewer, Wonder and Skepticism in the Middle Ages (Abingdon, 2016), 26–45. The most recent proponent of ‘neurohistory’ is Boddice, History of Emotions, 154–67, 212–13. 18

Nancy Partner, ‘The Hidden Self: Psychoanalysis and the Textual Unconscious’, in Writing

Medieval History, ed. Nancy Partner (London, 2005), 47. 19

See Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. Edmond-René Labande (Paris, 1981), 242–6; Jay

Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York, 2002), 13–82. The emotional rhetoric of Guibert’s Monodiae is analysed in Jeroen Deploige, ‘Meurtre politique, guerre civile et catharsis littéraire au XIIe siècle: Les émotions dans l’oeuvre de Guibert de Nogent et de Galbert de Bruges’, in Politiques des émotions au Moyen Âge, ed. Boquet and Nagy, 225–54. See also the attempt to psychoanalyse Bernard of Clairvaux in Jean Leclercq, Monks and Love in Twelfth-Century France: Psycho-Historical Essays (Oxford, 1979), 8–26, 86–108. 20

Thomas Heebøll-Holm, ‘Apocalypse Then? The First Crusade, Traumas of War and Thomas de

Marle’, in Denmark and Europe in the Middle Ages, c.1000–1525: Essays in Honour of Professor Michael H. Gelting, ed. Kerstin Hundahl, Lars Kjaer, and Niels Lund (Farnham, 2014), 237–54; Alan Cooper, ‘1190, William Longbeard and the Crisis of Angevin England’, in Christians and Jews in Angevin England: The York Massacre of 1190, Narratives and Contexts, ed. Sarah Jones and Sethina Watson (Woodbridge, 2013), 91–2; Jay Rubenstein, ‘Poetry and History: Baudry of Bourgueil, the Architecture of Chivalry, and the First Crusade’, HSJ 23 (2011): 91 n. 14. For similar comments on the ‘trauma’ experienced by crusaders, see Jay Rubenstein, ‘Cannibals and Crusaders’, French Historical Studies 31 (2008): 528–9, 549. 21

Aislinn Melchior, ‘Caesar in Vietnam: Did Roman Soldiers Suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress

Disorder?’, Greece and Rome 58 (2011): 209–23; Febvre, ‘History and Psychology’, 9. See also Megan Cassidy-Welch, ‘Before Trauma: The Crusades, Medieval Memory and Violence’, Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies 31 (2017): 619–27. 22

Rom Harré, ‘An Outline of the Social Constructionist Viewpoint’, in The Social Construction of

Emotions, ed. Rom Harré (Oxford, 1986), 2–14; Catherine Lutz and Geoffrey White, ‘The Anthropology of Emotions’, Annual Review of Anthropology 15 (1986): 405–36; Catherine Lutz, Unnatural Emotions: Everyday Sentiments on a Micronesian Atoll and their Challenge to Western Theory (Chicago, IL, 1988), 3–13; Lila Abu-Loghod, Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society, 2nd edn (Berkeley, CA, 1999), 233–60. See also Peter Stearns and Carol Stearns, ‘Emotionology: Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards’, American Historical Review 90 (1985): 813–36. 23

Lutz, Unnatural Emotions, 5.

24

Rosenwein, ‘Worrying about Emotions’, 837.

25

Barbara Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling: A History of Emotions, 600–1700 (Cambridge, 2016),

3. Rosenwein’s definition ended with the clause ‘all these are shaped by “emotional communities”’ (discussed below). 26

William Reddy, ‘Against Constructionism: The Historical Ethnography of Emotions’, Current

Anthropology 38 (1997): 327–51, at 331. 27

For a definition, see William Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of

Emotions (Cambridge, 2001), 124–6, 129. 28

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 20–3; Plamper, History of Emotions, 261–5; Reddy, ‘Against

Constructionism’, 346. However, see the use of ‘emotives’ in Angela Warner, ‘“Doel” in Situ: The Contextual and Corporeal Landscape of Grief in La Chanson de Roland’, in Affective and Emotional Economies in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Andreea Marculescu and Charles-Louis Métivier (Basingstoke, 2018), 211–26. 29

Thomas Dixon, From Passions to Emotions: The Creation of a Secular Psychological Category

(Cambridge, 2003). 30

Plamper, History of Emotions, 10–12; Boddice, History of Emotions, 41–6.

31

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 3–5, 191; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, 6–8; Damien

Boquet, L’ordre de l’affect au Moyen Âge: Autour de l’anthropologie affective d’Aelred de Rievaulx (Caen, 2005), 34–40; Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, ‘Medieval Sciences of Emotions during the Eleventh to Thirteenth Centuries: An Intellectual History’, Osiris 31 (2016): 23–4. 32

Boquet and Nagy, ‘Medieval Sciences’, 23.

33

Boquet and Nagy, ‘Medieval Sciences’, 21–45; Boquet and Nagy, Sensible Moyen Âge, 187–224.

34

Boquet, L’ordre de l’affect, 165–71; Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Emotion Words’, in Le sujet de l’émotion

au Moyen Âge, ed. Boquet and Nagy, 99, 104–5; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 40, 52–3, 74. 35

Robert White, ‘“False Friends”: Affective Semantics in Shakespeare’, Shakespeare 8 (2012): 286–

99. 36

Fredric Cheyette and Howell Chickering, ‘Love, Anger, and Peace: Social Practice and Poetic Play

in the Ending of Yvain’, Speculum 80 (2005): 105; Paul Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation in Medieval England (Ithaca, NY, 2003), 36; Stephen White, ‘The Politics of Anger’, in Anger’s Past: The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages, ed. Barbara Rosenwein (Ithaca, NY, 1998), 135. 37

Anna Wierzbicka, Emotions across Languages and Cultures: Diversity and Universals (Cambridge,

1999), 166–7, 138–9; Jean Delumeau, La peur en Occident, XIVe–XVIIIe siècles: Une cite assiégée (Paris, 1978), 15; Arne Öhman, ‘Fear and Anxiety: Overlaps and Dissociations’, in Handbook of Emotions, ed. Lewis, Haviland-Jones, and Barrett, 709–29; Robert Roberts, Emotions: An Essay in Aid of Moral Psychology (Cambridge, 2003), 199–202.

38

Anna Wierzbicka, ‘Emotion, Language, and Cultural Scripts’, in Emotion and Culture: Empirical

Studies of Mutual Influence, ed. Shinobu Kitayama and Hazel Markus (Washington, DC, 1994), 139. 39

For overviews of the Stoic, Aristotelian, and Augustinian discourses, see Simo Knuuttila, Emotions

in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy (Oxford, 2004); Peter King, ‘Dispassionate Passions’, in Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval and Early Modern Philosophy, ed. Martin Pickavé and Lisa Shapiro (Oxford, 2012), 9–29; Boquet, L’ordre de l’affect, 77–91; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 32–56; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, 16–34. 40

Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods in the History of Emotions’, Passions in Context 1

(2010): 1–32; Rosenwein, ‘Emotion Words’, 93–106. 41

Robert Kaster, Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome (Oxford, 2005), 7–9. On

‘scripts’, and some of the challenges they pose, see David Herman, Story Logic: Problems and Possibilities of Narrative (Lincoln, 2002), 85–113. 42

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 2. For assessments of Rosenwein’s framework, see Plamper,

History of Emotions, 67–71; Boddice, History of Emotions, 77–83. 43

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 14–15.

44

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 27–8, 195–6.

45

Nancy Partner, Serious Entertainments: The Writing of History in Twelfth-Century England

(Chicago, IL, 1977), 7; Gabrielle Spiegel, The Past as Text: The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography (London, 1997), 24; Monika Otter, Inventiones: Fiction and Referentiality in TwelfthCentury English Historical Writing (Chapel Hill, NC, 1996), 5–18; Jean Blacker, The Faces of Time: Portrayal of the Past in Old French and Latin Historical Narratives of the Anglo-Norman Regnum (Austin, TX, 1994), 196. 46

Important works in this direction include: Jean Flori, Chroniqueurs et propagandistes: Introduction

critique aux sources de la première croisade (Geneva, 2010), esp. 15–19, 23–63; Nicholas Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps: The Crusades and Family Memory in the High Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 2012); Marcus Bull and Damien Kempf, eds., Writing the Early Crusades: Text, Transmission and Memory (Woodbridge, 2014); Marcus Bull, ‘Narratological Readings of Crusade Texts’, in The Crusader World, ed. Adrian Boas (Abingdon, 2016), 646–60; Megan Cassidy-Welch, ed., Remembering the Crusades and Crusading (Abingdon, 2017). 47

See the damning critique of Albert of Aachen’s Historia in Heinrich von Sybel, The History and

Literature of the Crusades, trans. Lucie Duff Gordon (London, 1861), 206–54. 48

Elizabeth Lapina, ‘“Nec signis nec testis creditor …”: The Problem of Eyewitnesses in the

Chronicles of the First Crusade’, Viator 38 (2007): 117–39. See also the fullest, and most recent, interrogation of chroniclers’ ‘eyewitness’ status: Marcus Bull, Eyewitness and Crusade Narrative: Perception and Narration in Accounts of the Second, Third and Fourth Crusades (Woodbridge, 2018). 49

White, ‘Politics of Anger’, 137. See also Sarah McNamer, ‘The Literariness of Literature and the

History of Emotion’, PMLA 130 (2015): 1433–42. 50

Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation, 63, 66.

51

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 193–6; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, 8–9.

52

James Brundage, Richard Lion Heart (New York, 1974), 260–1; William Chester Jordan, Louis IX

and the Challenge of the Crusade: A Study in Rulership (Princeton, NJ, 1979), 9. 53

For example, see Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading (London,

1986), 71, 120; John France, Victory in the East: A Military History of the First Crusade (Cambridge, 1994), 240, 270, 317, 365; Jean Richard, The Crusades, c.1071–c.1291, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge, 1999), 42, 248–9; Jonathan Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven, CT, 2007), 152, 165. 54

Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and

Gascony, c.970–c.1130 (Oxford, 1993), 250–81; Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge, 1997). For alternative assessments of crusader motivation, see John France, ‘Patronage and the Appeal of the First Crusade’, in The First Crusade: Origins and Impact, ed. Jonathan Phillips (Manchester, 1997), 5–20; Jean Flori, ‘Ideology and Motivations in the First Crusade’, in Palgrave Advances in the Crusades, ed. Helen Nicholson (Basingstoke, 2005), 15–36; Conor Kostick, The Social Structure of the First Crusade (Leiden, 2008), 187–212, 291–9; Stefan Vander Elst, The Knight, the Cross, and the Song: Crusade Propaganda and Chivalric Literature, 1100–1400 (Philadelphia, PA, 2017). 55

Bernard McGinn, ‘Iter Sancti Sepulchri: The Piety of the First Crusaders’, in Essays on Medieval

Civilization, ed. Bede Lackner and Kenneth Philp (Austin, TX, 1978), 50–2. 56

Paul Rousset, Les origines et les caractères de la première croisade (Neuchâtel, 1945), 68–109;

Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 91–119. 57

David Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, c.300–c.1215 (Woodbridge, 2003), 108–50, at

109; William Purkis, Crusading Spirituality in the Holy Land and Iberia, c.1095–c.1187 (Woodbridge, 2008), 12–119. 58

Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 57. For Purkis’ reasoning, see Crusading Spirituality, 57–8, but see

also Christopher Tyerman, ‘Review of Crusading Spirituality in the Holy Land and Iberia, c.1095– c.1187 by William J. Purkis’, Church History 78 (2009): 392–4. 59

M. Cecilia Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons: Liturgy and the Making of Crusade Ideology (Ithaca,

NY, 2017), 93–129, at 95. 60

Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, 122.

61

Jay Rubenstein, ‘Godfrey of Bouillon versus Raymond of Saint-Gilles: How Carolingian Kingship Trumped Millenarianism at the End of the First Crusade’, in The Legend of Charlemagne in the Middle Ages: Power, Faith, and Crusade, ed. Matthew Gabriele and Jace Stuckey (New York, 2008), 59–75; Jay Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven: The First Crusade and the Quest for Apocalypse (New York, 2011).

62

Some, it should be noted, have been more cautious in their approach; see Elizabeth Lapina, Warfare

and the Miraculous in the Chronicles of the First Crusade (University Park, PA, 2015). 63

Jonathan Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, History 65 (1980): 177–92.

64

Throop, Act of Vengeance.

65

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 145–71, at 170; Susanna Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance: The

Emotional Rhetoric of Crusading’, in Vengeance in the Middle Ages: Emotion, Religion and Feud, ed. Susanna Throop and Paul Hyams (Farnham, 2010), 177–201. 66

See, for example, Miikka Tamminen, ‘Ad crucesignatos et crucesignandos: Crusade Preaching and

the Construction of the “True” Crusader in the 13th Century’ (PhD dissertation, University of Tampere, Finland, 2013), 73–9; Marcel Elias, ‘The Case of Anger in The Siege of Milan and The King of Tars’, Comitatus 43 (2012): 45. 67

However, see Sophia Menache, ‘Emotions in the Service of Politics: Another Perspective on the Experience of Crusading (1095–1187)’, in Jerusalem the Golden: The Origins and Impact of the First Crusade, ed. Susan Edgington and Luis García-Guijarro (Turnhout, 2014), 235–54; Megan CassidyWelch, ‘Order, Emotion, and Gender in the Crusade Letters of Jacques de Vitry’, in Gender and Emotions in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Broomhall, 35–49. Attitudes towards warriors’ emotions, particularly in relation to violence, in the pre-crusading period have been examined by Jilana Ordman, ‘Feeling like a Holy Warrior: Western Authors’ Attributions of Emotion as Proof of Motives for Violence among Christian Actors in Military Conflicts, Tenth through Early Twelfth Centuries’ (PhD dissertation, Loyola University Chicago, 2013). Ordman devoted a chapter (278–355) to the participant narratives and letters pertaining to the First Crusade and one non-participant account (Albert of Aachen), but she was primarily interested in establishing whether the ideals expressed in Pope Urban II’s Clermont sermon were reflected in these texts. 68

Monique Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and Is That What Makes Them Have a

History)? A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding Emotion’, History and Theory 51 (2012): 193–220; John Arnold, ‘Inside and Outside the Medieval Laity: Some Reflections on the History of Emotions’, in European Religious Cultures: Essays Offered to Christopher Brooke on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday, ed. Miri Rubin (London, 2008), 110, 118–21, 123; Boddice, History of Emotions, 106–31. On the importance of gestures, see Jean-Claude Schmitt, La raison des gestes dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris, 1990); Geoffrey Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor: Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, NY, 1992). 69

On medieval facial expressions, see Philippa Maddern, ‘Reading Faces: How Did Late Medieval

Europeans Interpret Emotions in Faces?’, Postmedieval: A Journal of Medieval Cultural Studies 8 (2017): 12–34. 70

For calls to address change over time, see Peter Stearns, ‘Modern Patterns in Emotions History’, in

Doing Emotions History, ed. Matt and Stearns, 17–40; Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Theories of Change in the

History of Emotions’, in A History of Emotions, 1200–1800, ed. Jonas Liliequist (London, 2012), 7–20, 207–12. 71

Sarah McNamer, Affective Meditation and the Invention of Medieval Compassion (Philadelphia, PA,

2010), 11–14; Bull, Knightly Piety, 115–203; Natasha Hodgson, Women, Crusading and the Holy Land in Historical Narrative (Woodbridge, 2007), 15–25. 72

Boquet and Nagy, Sensible Moyen Âge, 350–1.

73

Ernest Blake, ‘The Formation of the “Crusade Idea”’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 21 (1970):

11–31. 74

GF.

75

Colin Morris, ‘The Gesta Francorum as Narrative History’, Reading Medieval Studies 19 (1993):

55–71; Jay Rubenstein, ‘What Is the Gesta Francorum, and Who Was Peter Tudebode?’, Revue Mabillon 16 (2005): 179–204. 76 77

PT; FC; RA. John France, ‘The Anonymous Gesta Francorum and the Historia Francorum qui ceperunt

Iherusalem of Raymond of Aguilers and the Historia de Hierosolymitano Itinere of Peter Tudebode: An Analysis of the Textual Relationship between Primary Sources for the First Crusade’, in The Crusades and their Sources: Essays Presented to Bernard Hamilton, ed. John France and William Zajac (Aldershot, 1998), 39–69. 78

Flori, Chroniqueurs et propagandistes, 219–26.

79

GN; BB; RM.

80

Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 135–52; Marcus Bull, ‘The Historiographical Construction of a

Northern French First Crusade’, HSJ 25 (2013): 35–55. 81

GP; Marcus Bull, ‘Robert the Monk and His Sources’, in Writing the Early Crusades, ed. Bull and

Kempf, 127–39. 82

AA, xxiv–xxv; Susan Edgington, ‘Albert of Aachen Reappraised’, in From Clermont to Jerusalem:

The Crusades and Crusader Societies, 1095–1500, ed. Alan Murray (Turnhout, 1998), 55–67. 83

EA; BN. On Ekkehard’s Hierosolymita, see Thomas McCarthy, Chronicles of the Investiture

Contest: Frutolf of Michelsberg and His Continuators (Manchester, 2014), 66–74. 84

Susan Edgington, ‘The Gesta Francorum Iherusalem Expugnantium of “Bartolf of Nangis”’,

Crusades 13 (2014): 21–35. 85

RC; Natasha Hodgson, ‘Reinventing Normans as Crusaders? Ralph of Caen’s Gesta Tancredi’, Anglo-Norman Studies 30 (2008): 117; Historia belli sacri, in RHC Occ., iii. 169–229. 86

Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, in RHC Occ., v. 133–85; Caffaro of Caschifelone, De liberatione civitatum Orientis, ed. Luigi Belgrano, Annali genovesi di Caffaro e de’ suoi continuatori (Genoa, 1890), i. 95–124; Caffaro of Caschifelone, Annales, ed. Belgrano, Annali genovesi di Caffaro e de’ suoi

continuatori, i. 3–75; ‘Preface’, in RHC Occ., v. xxxi; Deborah Gerish, ‘Remembering Kings in Jerusalem: The Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena and Royal Identity around the Time of the Second Crusade’, in The Second Crusade: Holy War on the Periphery of Latin Christendom, ed. Jason Roche and Janus Møller Jensen (Turnhout, 2015), 51–89; Martin Hall and Jonathan Phillips, Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth-Century Crusades (Farnham, 2013), 2–36. 87

WM; OV; Rodney Thomson, William of Malmesbury, 2nd edn (Woodbridge, 2003), 178–88; Daniel

Roach, ‘Orderic Vitalis and the First Crusade’, JMH 42 (2016): 177–201. 88

WT; Peter Edbury and John Rowe, William of Tyre: Historian of the Latin East (Cambridge, 1988),

23–31. 89

OD, xxiii; Henry Mayr-Harting, ‘Odo of Deuil, the Second Crusade and the Monastery of Saint-

Denis’, in The Culture of Christendom: Essays in Medieval History in Commemoration of Denis L. T. Bethell, ed. Marc Meyer (London, 1993), 225–41; Jonathan Phillips, ‘Odo of Deuil’s De Profectione Ludovici VII in Orientem as a Source for the Second Crusade’, in The Experience of Crusading, Volume 1, ed. Bull and Housley, 80–95. 90

DeL.

91

GW; Peter Edbury, ‘Preaching the Crusade in Wales’, in England and Germany in the High Middle

Ages: In Honour of Karl J. Leyser, ed. Alfred Haverkamp and Hanna Vollrath (Oxford, 1996), 221. 92

Ambroise, ii. 1–2.

93

Ambroise, ii. 3; IP.

94

See Helen Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium

Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi (Aldershot, 1997), 6–14. 95

Howden, Gesta; Howden, Chronica; David Corner, ‘The Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi and Chronica

of Roger, Parson of Howden’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research 56 (1983): 126–44; John Gillingham, ‘Roger of Howden on Crusade’, in John Gillingham, Richard Coeur de Lion: Kingship, Chivalry and War in the Twelfth Century (London, 1994), 141–53; Michael Staunton, The Historians of Angevin England (Oxford, 2017), 51–66. 96

More generally on the texts below, see Staunton, Historians of Angevin England, 67–94, 117–34.

97

Devizes; Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England, c.550 to c.1307 (London, 1974), 247,

249; Partner, Serious Entertainments, 168. 98

WN; Gransden, Historical Writing, 263.

99

Diceto; Coggeshall; Gransden, Historical Writing, 231; David Carpenter, ‘Abbot Ralph of Coggeshall’s Account of the Last Years of King Richard and the First Years of King John’, EHR 113 (1998): 1213–14. 100

Rigord; La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. Margaret Morgan (Paris, 1982).

101

JV, HOr, 10–12.

102

Ansbert; HP; Graham Loud, The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa: A History of the Expedition of

the Emperor Frederick and Related Texts (Farnham, 2010), 1–3, 7–8. 103

Villehardouin.

104

Paul Archambault, Seven French Chroniclers: Witnesses to History (Syracuse, NY, 1974), 25–39.

105

Clari; Alfred Andrea, ‘Essay on Primary Sources’, in Donald Queller and Thomas Madden, The

Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, 2nd edn (Philadelphia, PA, 1997), 303; Peter Noble, ‘Villehardouin, Robert de Clari and Henri de Valenciennes: Their Different Approaches to the Fourth Crusade’, in The Medieval Chronicle, ed. Erik Kooper (Amsterdam, 1999), 205–7; Bull, Eyewitness and Crusade Narrative, 295–305. 106

Pairis; Andrea, ‘Essay on Primary Sources’, 304.

107

OP.

108

GD; Benjamin Kedar, Crusade and Mission: European Approaches towards the Muslims

(Princeton, NJ, 1984), 72. 109

John of Tulbia, De domino Iohanne rege Ierusalem, in QBSSM, 119–40; Liber duellii Christiani in

obsidione Damiate exacti, in QBSSM, 143–66. 110

Reinhold Röhricht, ‘Praefatio’, in QBSSM, xvii–xxvi.

111

Joinville.

112

Gaston Paris, ‘La composition du livre de Joinville sur Saint Louis’, Romania 23 (1894): 508–24;

Caroline Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville (Aldershot, 2006), 58; M. Cecilia Gaposchkin, The Making of Saint Louis: Kingship, Sanctity, and Crusade in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 2008), 182–96. 113

MP; RW; Gransden, Historical Writing, 359–60.

114

For approaches to defining a crusade, see Norman Housley, Contesting the Crusades (Oxford,

2006), 1–23. 115

PLVC; HL; James Brundage, ‘Introduction: Henry of Livonia, the Writer and His Chronicle’, in

Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier: A Companion to the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, ed. Marek Tamm, Linda Kaljundi, and Carsten Selch Jensen (Farnham, 2011), 1–19. 116

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 28.

117

John Pryor, ‘Stephen of Blois: Sensitive New-Age Crusader or Victim of History?’, Arts: The

Journal of the Sydney University Arts Association 20 (1998): 57. 118

Pryor, ‘Stephen of Blois’, 57.

119

Susan Edgington, ‘Romance and Reality in the Sources for the Siege of Antioch, 1097–1098’, in

Porphyrogenita: Essays on the History and Literature of Byzantium and the Latin East in Honour of Julian Chrysostomides, ed. Charalambos Dendrinos et al. (Aldershot, 2003), 33–46. 120

Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 171–2.

121

Giles Constable, ‘Medieval Charters as a Source for the History of the Crusades’, in Crusade and

Settlement, ed. Peter Edbury (Cardiff, 1985), 73–89; Marcus Bull, ‘The Diplomatic of the First Crusade’, in The First Crusade: Origins and Impact, ed. Phillips, 35–54; Bull, Knightly Piety; Riley-Smith, First Crusaders; Phillips, Second Crusade, 102–5; James Powell, Anatomy of a Crusade, 1213–1221 (Philadelphia, PA, 1986), 67–87. 122

Flori, ‘Ideology and Motivations’, 18–19, 23; Daniel Power, ‘Who Went on the Albigensian

Crusade?’, EHR 128 (2013): 1053; Daniel Power, ‘The Preparations of Count John I of Sées for the Third Crusade’, in Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, ed. Simon John and Nicholas Morton (Farnham, 2014), 150. 123

Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, 125–9.

124

‘Propaganda’ is used only for convenience. On this problematic term, see Nicholas Paul, ‘A

Warlord’s Wisdom: Literacy and Propaganda at the Time of the First Crusade’, Speculum 85 (2010): 534–66. 125

Hans Martin Schaller, ‘Zur Kreuzzugsenzyklika Papst Sergius IV’, in Papsttum, Kirche und Recht

im Mittelalter: Festschrift für Horst Fuhrmann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Mordek (Tübingen, 1991), 150–3; Alexander Gieysztor, ‘The Genesis of the Crusades: The Encyclical of Sergius IV (1009– 12)’, Medievalia et Humanistica 5 (1948): 3–23; and 6 (1948): 3–34; Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 45– 7. The authenticity of Sergius IV’s encyclical, which purports to be a request for westerners to punish the Muslims for the destruction of the Holy Sepulchre in 1009, is disputed. For an alternative reading of this document, see Matthew Gabriele, An Empire of Memory: The Legend of Charlemagne, the Franks, and Jerusalem before the First Crusade (Oxford, 2011), 141–3. 126

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, ed. Rolf Grosse, ‘Überlegungen zum Kreuzzugsaufruf

Eugens III. von 1145/46 mit einer Neuedition von JL8876’, Francia 18 (1991): 85–92; SBO, vii–viii; BC, Liber. 127

Alexander III, Quantum praedecessores, in PL, cc, cols 384–6; Alexander III, In quantis pressuris,

ed. Rudolf Hiestand, Papsturkunden für Templer und Johanniter: Archivberichte und Texte (Göttingen, 1972), 251–3; Alexander III, Inter omnia, in PL, cc, cols 599–601; Alexander III, Cor nostrum, in PL, cc, cols 1294–6; Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, in Ansbert, 6–10; DRI, i–viii; Innocent III, Quia maior, in PL, ccxvi, cols 817–22; Innocent III, Ad liberandam, in Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, ed. Joseph Alberigo et al., 3rd edn (Bologna, 1972), 267–71; Gregory IX, Rachel suum videns, ed. Carl Rodenberg, MGH: Epistolae saeculi XIII e regestis pontificum Romanorum selectae per G. H. Pertz, 3 vols (Berlin, 1883–94), i. 491–5; Gregory IX, Pium et sanctum, ed. Rodenberg, MGH: Epistolae saeculi XIII e regestis pontificum Romanorum, i. 495–6; Innocent IV, Terra Sancta, ed. Thomas Rymer, Foedera, conventiones, literae et cuiscunque generis acta publica, 3rd edn, 10 vols (The Hague, 1739–45), i/i. 148–9; Innocent IV, Planxit hactenus, ed. Théodose Bonnin, Regestrum visitationum archiepiscopi Rothomagensis:

Journal

des

visites

pastorales

d’Eude

Rigaud,

archevêque

de

Rouen,

MCCXLVII–MCCLXIX (Rouen, 1852), Appendix, 737–40; Gregory X, Zelus fidei, in Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, ed. Alberigo et al., 309–14. 128

For a selection of sermons, see CPI; Charansonnet, ‘L’université’.

129

Brevis ordinacio; HR, Liber; HR, Opusculum. On the Brevis ordinacio, see Cole, Preaching, 117–

26. On Humbert’s works, see Palmer Throop, Criticism of the Crusade: A Study of Public Opinion and Crusade Propaganda (Amsterdam, 1940), 151–83; Sylvia Schein, Fideles Crucis: The Papacy, the West, and the Recovery of the Holy Land, 1274–1314 (Oxford, 1991), 28–35. 130

FP; Schein, Fideles Crucis, 93–102.

131

However, see Simon John, ‘Historical Truth and the Miraculous Past: The Use of Oral Evidence in

Twelfth-Century Latin Historical Writing on the First Crusade’, EHR 130 (2015): 289–94, 300–1. 132

CA; Les Chétifs, ed. Geoffrey Myers (Tuscaloosa, AL, 1981); CJ. All three are now available in

English translation: Antioche; CCCJ. 133

Matthew Bennett, ‘First Crusaders’ Images of Muslims’, Forum for Modern Language Studies 22

(1986): 101–22; Simon Parsons, ‘The Use of Chanson de Geste Motifs in the Latin Texts of the First Crusade, c.1095–1145’ (PhD dissertation, Royal Holloway, University of London, 2015); Carol Sweetenham, ‘Reflecting and Refracting Reality: The Use of Poetic Sources in Latin Accounts of the First Crusade’, in Literature of the Crusades, ed. Simon Parsons and Linda Paterson (Cambridge, 2018), 25–40. 134

The

fruits

of

this

project

are

available

online

at

https://warwick.ac.uk/fac/arts/modernlanguages/research/french/crusades/. See also David Trotter, Medieval French Literature and the Crusades (1100–1300) (Geneva, 1988), 177–8; Linda Paterson, Singing the Crusades: French and Occitan Lyric Responses to the Crusading Movements, 1137–1336 (Cambridge, 2018).

Part I Fear

1 To Fear Death or Trust in God? In 2010, Peter Stearns, a leading authority on the history of emotions, bemoaned that ‘we don’t have an adequate handle on whether or how modern fears differ from earlier historical patterns’. This situation, he contended, could only be redressed by ‘more work on chronological or periodization models’, situating contemporary emotional patterns more clearly in terms of continuity and change.1 Two recent anthologies have attempted to rectify this deficiency, though unfortunately neither extended their scope to the medieval period.2 In fact, in comparison to the wealth of literature dedicated to exploring modern appraisals of fear, there is a relative paucity of research which directly discusses fear as a historical phenomenon in the Middle Ages. The publication of Fear and its Representations in the Middle Ages and Renaissance in 2002 has gone some way to filling this lacuna, yet, even in this seminal collection of essays, the representation of fear in a medieval military setting received only cursory treatment.3 It is regrettable that the two most detailed and ambitious studies of medieval fear—Jean Delumeau’s Le péché et la peur and Peter Dinzelbacher’s Angst im Mittelalter—primarily focused on religiously orientated manifestations of the passion and, consequently, only offered piecemeal observations vis-à-vis fear in a martial context.4 Given that the fear of God, sin, and damnation—all of which featured in crusade sources—have already received extensive attention from Delumeau and Dinzelbacher, this chapter focuses squarely on the dominant expression of fear in crusade narratives: the fear of death (timor mortis).5 In his seminal study of medieval western warfare, Jan Verbruggen rejected unrealistic vernacular accounts of knights launching themselves into battle with almost superhuman courage, insisting that: ‘the knights were still human beings who feared for their lives in the presence of danger, and who behaved as men have always done in battle—in fear of death, mutilation, wounds and captivity’.6 Verbruggen catalogued examples where warriors were recognized as experiencing dread in historical narratives, including those pertaining to the crusades, thereby establishing a dichotomy between epic portrayals of knightly valour and admissions of fear in chronicles.7 Verbruggen’s conclusion—that all soldiers fear death—is often repeated, and has frequently been applied to the crusades.8 In the most expansive discussion of knightly fear since Verbruggen, Richard

Kaeuper recently noted that while crusade chronicles sometimes depict militant saints intervening in conflicts against Muslim armies, ‘they can also frankly record sheer panic among the merely worldly warriors’.9 There can be little doubt that crusading was indeed a frightening business, even if some chroniclers believed that regular confrontations caused participants to fear their opponents less.10 Nonetheless, few historians have hitherto advanced beyond merely listing the myriad fears experienced by crusade participants. Caroline Smith has posited that fear of sea travel became noticeably more prominent in thirteenth-century crusade sources—a development which undoubtedly reflected the increased preference for maritime transportation to the Holy Land, although this theme also punctuated earlier accounts.11 Furthermore, Nicholas Paul has interpreted evocations of fear in the context of aristocratic identity and the remoteness associated with crusading, arguing that noblemen especially feared a ‘bad death’ in an alien land or at sea, which robbed them of the usual rituals of death and burial, the ability to transmit wishes to their families, and the chance of being commemorated in prayer.12 Thus, Peter Tudebode recorded that he buried his brother, Arvedus, inside Antioch in 1098, ‘having the greatest fear, as it were, of losing his head’ (and thus his identity), and immediately requested his audience to give alms and say prays for Arvedus’ soul and the souls of all who died on the expedition.13 Beyond this, when fear has received more detailed treatment, such studies have focused almost exclusively on the First Crusade. Conor Kostick’s analysis of courage and cowardice during this expedition discovered that, in the earliest narratives, hostility directed towards deserters ‘did not arise in regard to the other circumstances in which crusaders showed signs of fear’.14 Notwithstanding the originality of Kostick’s central argument, his analysis of fear fits comfortably within the Verbruggenian school of thought, as does William Aird’s more recent discussion of Norman courage and cowardice in First Crusade chronicles.15 There are two fundamental problems with current historiography, which this chapter seeks to redress. Firstly, the views of Verbruggen and his followers were predicated upon the assumption that the affective experience of war was unchanging across space and time. That fear is biologically preconfigured, at least in part, cannot be denied; neuroscientists have located the amygdala, a small region in the forebrain, as the site of many negative emotional reactions and one of special importance in conditioning fear responses.16 Far from being historically universal, however, evaluations of the fear of death are shaped by socio-cultural stimuli.17 Secondly, scholars have taken the descriptions of crusader terror which punctuate historical narratives, above all those by so-called ‘eyewitnesses’, as straightforward reflections of the crusading experience, and as unmediated evidence that participants actually felt fear in those instances. Thus, Verbruggen juxtaposed the ‘lyrical outpourings’ of chansons with the narratives by supposedly ‘honest witnesses’, who ‘testify that these feelings existed’.18 Following Verbruggen’s lead, John Bliese advocated that chroniclers’ accounts of battlefield orations offer a ‘realistic, detailed picture of the mentality of average knights’.19 As will become increasingly evident throughout this chapter (and, indeed, throughout the entire book), the approach adopted by

Verbruggen, Bliese, Kostick, Aird, and others is fundamentally flawed. For a start, it fails to explain the regular attribution of fear, and other passions, to actors whose feelings the chroniclers simply could not have known. Nor does such an approach adequately account for the influences and literary traditions which may have underpinned even seemingly unambiguous descriptions of crusader dread. This chapter challenges the established scholarship by exploring the relationship between faith and the fear of death—henceforth referred to as the ‘fear–faith paradigm’—in twelfth- and thirteenth-century narratives of the crusades, focusing particularly on those written by ecclesiastics.20 There are five overlapping parts. The first two sections explore the relationship between fear, humility, and sin, whereas the third turns to the ways in which the fear of death intersected with contemporary ideas of imitatio Christi and martyrdom. It will then be demonstrated that these ideas frequently surfaced in relation to the Templars, before identifying a set of influences which likely conditioned chroniclers’ attitudes towards the fear of death. Rather than accurate evidence of participants’ lived feelings, these ecclesiastical texts proffer a highly theological interpretation of the fear of death as an emotion which ought to be relinquished by crusaders. For many of these chroniclers, rather than fearing death, crusade participants were expected to unswervingly trust in God and undauntedly embrace martyrdom—a discourse which, it will be suggested, was deeply rooted in scripture. At the same time, this chapter seeks to map how the relationship between timor mortis and crusader spirituality evolved over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

Fear and Humility The virtue of humility was integral to the conception of the fear of death discernible in Latin crusade histories. The need for participants to journey with humility rather than pride—the root of all sin —was expressed in a wide range of sources. As Gilbert of Tournai remarked in the thirteenth century, ‘real crusaders … are truly contrite’, and this opinion was also voiced in the narrative texts.21 For example, William of Tyre promoted Godfrey of Bouillon as the perfect imitator Christi because he humbly (humiliter) declined to be invested with a crown of gold in the city where Christ had worn a crown of thorns, while Ekkehard of Aura considered the duke an ‘example of humility and charity’.22 It will be argued here that the dynamic between fear and humility represents the dominant interpretation of timor mortis in a crusading context and was continuously espoused in Latin crusade histories during the High Middle Ages. The fear–faith paradigm peppered both the ‘eyewitness’ narratives of the First Crusade and the second wave of accounts by non-participants, composed within the first decade of the twelfth century. This idea was often communicated through a series of recurring

tropes and rhetorical devices, including: the use of direct speech, usually in the form of pre-battle orations, visionary assurances, and fictitious dialogues; insinuations that combatants’ fearlessness and courage stemmed directly from God; and suggestions that confidence in divine assistance rendered participants unafraid. The uniformity between first- and second-generation narratives of the enterprise, and the literary function of direct speech, is epitomized by accounts of the battle of Antioch, fought between the crusaders and a Muslim force commanded by Kerbogha, atabeg of Mosul, on 28 June 1098. The Latin chroniclers unanimously portrayed the crusaders as being intrepid and as dedicating themselves to God’s protection before and during the engagement. Raymond of Aguilers recorded that they surrendered themselves to God’s will, derived strength from a miraculous shower, and manfully repulsed their enemies, who resorted to kindling fire because the foot soldiers were not frightened by swords.23 According to Baldric of Bourgueil, the crusaders strayed in neither direction as if frightened when they left Antioch, whereas Robert the Monk employed one of his formulaic phrases to describe the battle itself: ‘not one of our men was sluggish there, not one was fearful’.24 For several chroniclers, the discovery of the relic of the Holy Lance (the spear thought to have pierced Christ’s side) on 14 June 1098 was responsible for manifesting such fearlessness.25 In the Gesta Francorum and textually related histories, St Andrew instructed the peasant visionary Peter Bartholomew to ‘tell the people of God to have no fear, but to trust steadfastly with their whole heart in the One True God’, for the Lord would send them a ‘thing’ (rem)—the Lance—within five days.26 That the crusaders should relinquish their fear and trust in God likewise marked Raymond of Aguilers’ account of a vision experienced by Stephen of Valence in June 1098, in which Christ asked: ‘If they are Christians, why do they fear the multitude of pagans?’27 The overriding message of these visions was that the crusaders should not dread confronting their opponents since they could expect divine assistance, and, in several accounts, the crusaders achieved this fearless state following the unearthing of the Holy Lance. According to Raymond of Aguilers, through St Andrew’s communications with Peter Bartholomew, God strengthened the Christians’ hearts with faith and hope, so much so that those previously ‘consumed by poverty and fear’ now complained about the postponement of battle.28 Fulcher of Chartres also portrayed the crusaders as ‘hesitating over nothing, but placing their hope completely in God’, prior to the battle of Antioch, yet his version was developed differently.29 Revising his work in the 1120s, Fulcher collated his information concerning the Holy Lance—its inventio and later rejection—into a single chapter of the Historia Hierosolymitana.30 Fulcher recorded two alternative visions, disassociated from the Lance’s memory in the 1127 redaction, which occurred during Kerbogha’s investment of Antioch. In the first, Christ beseeched a cleric, ‘fleeing on behalf of fear of death’, to inform his comrades that they could expect celestial assistance in battle, providing they placed their hope in Him.31 In the second premonition, as a deserter fled from the city, his deceased brother appeared and queried: ‘Why, brother, do you flee? Stand firm, do not be afraid, for the Lord will be with you in your battle.’32 In Fulcher’s Historia, these two visions performed the same narrative function as

the finding of the Holy Lance and the premonitions connected to that discovery in other texts: they acted as confirmation that the crusaders would receive divine assistance and, therefore, need not be fearful. Did Fulcher deliberately insert, or even fabricate, these alternative visions when he extensively reworked his text in the 1120s, thereby circumventing the narrative void left by the reorganization of material pertaining to the Holy Lance into a single chapter? The problem, of course, is that we do not possess any extant manuscripts representing the first stage of the Historia’s composition, which ended in c.1106. Nevertheless, the reception of Fulcher’s text demonstrates that the alternative visions were not necessarily incompatible with the story of the Lance’s discovery. The two visions featured alongside the relic’s inventio in the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, which was likely written at the behest of King Baldwin III of Jerusalem in 1146–7.33 They were seemingly lifted from Fulcher’s Historia—probably the 1127 redaction, which it follows almost verbatim—and inserted into an abridged version of Robert the Monk’s account of the finding of the Lance.34 Surprisingly, the additional visions reappeared in Humbert of Romans’ thirteenth-century preaching manual, De predicatione sancte crucis, after a brief summary of the Lance’s discovery.35 It remains unclear which recension of Fulcher’s Historia Humbert consulted. He alluded to a Historia Antiochena by Fulcher of Chartres—a work which was popular among thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Dominicans, although Humbert was unique in identifying Fulcher as its author.36 It has even been hypothesized that the Historia Antiochena was the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, but this seems improbable.37 More likely is that Humbert used a now lost ‘History of Antioch’—a composite text, available in the 1260s, which closely followed a copy of Fulcher’s Historia (probably a truncated version that ended with events at Antioch), but also incorporated material from other texts, such as Raymond of Aguilers’ history.38 Whatever the case, Humbert of Romans and the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena attest that, for at least two nearcontemporaries, the alternative visions were entirely compatible with the discovery of the Holy Lance. In fact, it seems likely that the two alternative visions operated in conjunction with the story of the Lance’s unearthing in the earliest recension of Fulcher’s Historia, even if the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena’s author and Humbert of Romans consulted later redactions. Internal evidence reveals that, like Guibert of Nogent, Bartolf of Nangis extracted information from the first recension of Fulcher’s Historia which was circulating in northern France in c.1109.39 Both of the alternative visions featured in Bartolf’s Gesta Francorum expugnantium Iherusalem and were immediately followed by an account of the Lance’s finding, which occurred during the same period (inter haec). In response to the relic’s discovery, an embassy led by Peter the Hermit was sent to Kerbogha, after which Bartolf included a lengthy passage detailing the crusaders’ reaction to the news that the atabeg of Mosul had refused their terms: the Franks prepared themselves for battle, hesitating over nothing, fearing nothing with regard to the great number and endless quantity of enemies; but, as if one man, all unanimously went at the same time to overthrow the enemies of Christ. And they went to

fight boldly not only for the freedom of themselves but also for Christ, and, in truth, if it were required, they would not have hesitated to meet and undergo death in a cheerful spirit.40 The phrase ‘nihil haesitantes’ was retained in the later recension of Fulcher’s Historia, but this extended version, attested by Bartolf, afforded far greater attention to the Latins’ intrepidity and depicted their feelings in Christo-mimetic terms. In other words, according to Bartolf, the crusaders’ fearlessness derived from a combination of the visions and the Holy Lance’s discovery. Furthermore, the two visions, the unearthing of the relic, Peter the Hermit’s embassy, and the crusaders’ undaunted preparations for combat appear in a single chapter. The most likely scenario is that Bartolf faithfully reproduced this chapter from the first recension of Fulcher’s Historia. The characterization of Christian combatants in the battle of Antioch is indicative of a broader perception in the Latin narratives, whereby the crusaders attained a fearless disposition when they trusted in divine intervention. As we have seen, this conception marked not only the second-hand accounts, but even the earliest, so-called ‘eyewitness’ testimonies, many of which attested that the crusaders’ intrepidity stemmed from the inventio of the Holy Lance and the visions which legitimized it. However, there existed an alternative historiographical tradition, probably emanating from the 1106 recension of Fulcher’s account, which afforded the relic’s discovery less significance. Crucially, the various reports of visionary occurrences which took place at Antioch in June 1098—those experienced by Peter Bartholomew and Stephen of Valence, as well as the two additional premonitions reported by Fulcher— all communicated the same message: there was no reason for participants to fear, providing they trusted unerringly in God. The renunciation of the fear of death by humbly trusting in God remained a familiar motif in Latin crusade chronicles composed after 1110. William of Malmesbury praised those who settled in the East following the capture of Jerusalem in 1099, for they willingly endured ‘fear of barbarian attacks’ and set ‘a memorable example of faith in God’.41 According to William of Tyre, Tancred of Hauteville stood ‘undaunted, having trust in the Lord’, as a seemingly hostile force approached Tarsus in 1097, and when Christian-held Jaffa was besieged in 1115, ‘relying on divine help, [the inhabitants] were not afraid’.42 Odo of Deuil remarked that Louis VII feared nothing when he dined with Emperor Manuel Komnenos at Constantinople in October 1147, since he had entrusted himself to God’s care, and the fear–faith paradigm pervaded the contemporary De expugnatione Lyxbonensi.43 By the thirteenth century, this theme was firmly established. According to Arnold, abbot of St John’s in Lübeck, who completed his Chronica Slavorum in c.1209–10, Conrad of Montferrat’s trust in Christ allowed him to raise the siege of Tyre in early January 1188: ‘confident of the assistance of Christ, who never abandoned those who hope in Him’, the marquis boldly (audacter) exited Tyre and put Saladin to flight.44 Likewise, on one occasion, Oliver of Paderborn described how, ‘calling out to heaven’, the Fifth Crusaders ‘were not afraid to [enter] into battle but manfully resisted’, until their enemies were compelled to withdraw ‘by the

strength of Him who saves [those] who trust in Him’.45 The continuity between Latin crusade histories written before and after 1110 was also reflected in the use of visionary assurance to communicate the idea that, as recipients of divine aid, there was no reason for participants to fear death. Take, for example, William of Tyre’s account of Peter the Hermit’s visit to Jerusalem before the First Crusade. Reticent about returning to the West to spread news of the atrocities enacted against the eastern Christians, Peter allegedly sank to the ground in the Holy Sepulchre, at which point Christ appeared and declared: ‘Rise, Peter, hurry and fearlessly carry out [the task] which has been entrusted to you, for I will be with you.’46 Though William’s engagement with the tradition which afforded Peter the Hermit a central role in the expedition’s genesis derived from his reliance on Albert of Aachen’s Historia, the words attributed to Christ appear to be the archbishop’s own.47 Even the secular clerk Roger of Howden included a similar scene, in which the Virgin Mary comforted terror-stricken crusaders besieging Acre in July 1191 by announcing that they need not be afraid, as the Lord would grant them the city within four days.48 Three points deserve emphasis. Firstly, crusade participants were repeatedly depicted as humbly placing their trust in God, rather than themselves. Secondly, one consequence of such humility was that they rejected fear in the face of death, and this represents the dominant attitude towards timor mortis in narrative texts composed by ecclesiastics. Thirdly, the relationship between humility and intrepidity was consistently evoked in Latin crusade histories of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and thus does not appear to have developed significantly over time.

Fear and Sin Fear and sin were inextricably intertwined in Christian doctrine. The normative discourse, of course, was that the Latin Christian faithful ought to fear sin intensely, for it led to damnation. This view was lucidly articulated in Humbert of Romans’ influential treatise, De dono timoris, which survives in eightyfour manuscripts.49 Among the seven things Humbert believed it was correct to fear, we find sin, hell, purgatory, Judgement Day, and the devil.50 For Humbert, fear was thus a beneficial emotion, capable of bringing individuals closer to God, and a valuable tool through which preachers could provide theological edification to their flock.51 However, the crusade narratives reveal an important additional dimension to this dynamic, whereby fear was itself closely associated with sinfulness. Indeed, the relationship between fear and humble obedience to God is further suggested by the frequent imputation of fear to Latin protagonists in sinful

contexts. In his account of the battle of Dorylaeum, which saw the First Crusaders eventually triumph over a Seljuk Turkish army on 1 July 1097, Fulcher of Chartres stated that the Turks mistook the Christians’ great fear (pavorem grandem) for boldness (audaciam). ‘Trembling and frightened’, the crusaders were completely surrounded—a situation Fulcher believed had arisen because of their sins.52 Fulcher was working within an established tradition of attributing setbacks to sin, and it is therefore unsurprising that other commentators echoed this connection between fear and sinfulness. For example, in the Itinerarium peregrinorum, the Latins defeated on 4 October 1189 were susceptible to fear because they trusted in human, rather than divine, agency, in the same way that Jacques de Vitry claimed that the forces of the kingdom of Jerusalem placed too much confidence in their numbers during the battle of Hattin in 1187 and, consequently, ‘the Lord humbled them with fear and faintheartedness’.53 There is even strong evidence to suggest that, for at least some chroniclers, fear itself was innately sinful and deserved to be categorized with vices like sloth and pride. Raymond of Aguilers bemoaned how on 13 June 1099 an assault on Jerusalem was broken off by ‘sloth and fear’, whereas Albert of Aachen reported that Lombard participants who fled from the Turks in 1101 due to fear of death (terrore mortis) were chided by their leaders for permitting the army’s destruction through softness and sloth (mollicie et pigricia).54 The Norman historian Ralph of Caen went so far as to include fear (formido) in a list of vices—encompassing sloth, pride, and luxury—that were inapplicable to his hero, Tancred of Hauteville; and the interconnectivity of fear and sin was likewise emphasized by the author of the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, for whom timor could aptly be coupled with envy (invidia vel timore).55 The nexus between fear and sin is further indicated by repeated assertions that acts of spiritual purification, such as confession and communion, imbued crusaders with courage and intrepidity. Fear operated as part of a narrative sequence in Fulcher of Chartres’ aforementioned account of the battle of Doryaleum: the Christians’ dread was symptomatic of their sinfulness, and it was only after appeasing God through acts of spiritual cleansing that they became ‘fortified with divine strength’.56 According to Guibert of Nogent and William of Tyre, the crusaders also acquired security from penitential activities undertaken prior to the battle of Antioch.57 Similarly, during the Fourth Crusade, Abbot Martin of Pairis allegedly reassured sick participants that a pure confession (pura confessione) meant they need not fear a brief and momentary death.58 An associated idea was that the crusade indulgence and reward of salvation entailed that there was no reason to fear death.59 A passage from the Brevis ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis typifies this perception: Anyone who fights is in fear of death, and ought not to be burdened, but should have the burden removed from him so that he might be active. Therefore, the Church ought rightly to disburden her warrior, who fights for her, and to bear his burden; and, for this reason, the lord pope justly remits the penalty of sins for crusaders …60 The internal security which the prospect of salvation afforded participants was implied a century

earlier in Peter Tudebode’s account of a speech—absent from the Gesta Francorum, but reproduced in the Historia belli sacri—in which ecclesiastics instructed crusaders besieged within the fortification of ‘Xerigordo’ in 1096 to: ‘Be strong anywhere in the faith of Christ, and do not be afraid of those who persecute you. As the Lord says: Fear ye not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul (Matthew 10.28).’61 In light of its apparent connections to sinful behaviour, the imputation of the fear of death simultaneously served as a marker of faithlessness. The author of the Itinerarium peregrinorum used the exploits of the Norman knight Ivo of Vipont to articulate this idea. Shortly after arriving at the siege of Acre in August/September 1190, Ivo was escorted by three sailors to Tyre. When their ship was intercepted by a Muslim vessel, the Latin sailors became ‘petrified with great fear’, prompting Ivo to reprimand them: ‘Why do you fear, ye of little faith (Matthew 8.26), [when] without delay you will see them dead?’62 The sailors’ terror was thus symptomatic of their deficient faith. Ivo then leapt onto the Muslim galley and started beheading his enemies, inspiring the Latin sailors to participate in the slaughter. Tellingly, the author left no doubt that the Christians’ courage and victory had stemmed from their ‘unfeigned faith’.63 Chroniclers’ treatment of deserters who succumbed to their fear points in a similar direction. The interconnectivity of fear and shame is considered at length in Chapter 2, but it is worth drawing attention here to the fact that deserters were not only accused of incurring dishonour, but also of lacking faith. Perhaps owing to the level of success enjoyed by the Latins during the First Crusade, such accusations abound in chronicles of that expedition. For example, the continuator of Gilo of Paris recorded that, motivated either by ‘hope or fear’, Stephen of Blois and his companions left the siege of Antioch on 2 June 1098, ‘despairing that the Lord was all-powerful’.64 Guibert of Nogent offered a particularly scathing assessment of participants—famously lampooned by other writers as furtivi funambuli (secret ropedancers)—who fled the city in 1098. ‘Death alone stood waiting under the gaze of the fearful’, whose frightened minds (trepida … mente) imagined that the Turks were already at hand, prompting them to take flight through Antioch’s sewers.65 In Guibert’s assessment, they had ‘disregarded the hope of God’ and were accordingly derided as ‘degenerates, even most repulsively fleeing from heavenly help’.66 Implicit in each case is that, in contrast to timorous deserters, participants ought to fearlessly confront death, steadfastly placing their hope in God. In sum, many twelfth- and thirteenth-century writers conceptually linked spiritual cleansing (specifically through confession and communion), the offer of the indulgence, and the eradication of fear in crusade participants. The majority of Latin chroniclers represented the emergence of the fear of death as hinging on combatants’ spiritual welfare and their relationship with God, whilst some seemingly believed that fear had sinful connotations in certain contexts. Whereas sinners were incapacitated by dread, the idealized crusader overcame timor mortis by humbly trusting in God, undertaking repentance, or by meditating on the remissio peccatorum.

Fearlessly Imitating Christ If the relationship between humility and intrepidity was a hallmark of the crusader ideology represented in even the earliest Latin narratives, an associated concept appears to have been introduced later: the incompatibility of fearing death with undergoing martyrdom. William Purkis has demonstrated that numerous twelfth-century chroniclers depicted the crusaders as imitatores Christi, fulfilling Matthew 19.29 by abandoning their homelands, possessions, and relatives in order to follow Christ.67 In this context, death was the ultimate act of self-sacrifice and warranted the martyr’s crown. It is unlikely that Pope Urban II offered the reward of martyrdom at the Council of Clermont in November 1095, and the crusaders may only have started to view their dead as martyrs during the enterprise.68 The matter is disputed, however, with Jean Flori arguing that the First Crusade merely refined a pre-existing tradition.69 In any case, references to deceased participants attaining martyrdom punctuated the early First Crusade narratives and abounded with greater frequency in accounts by non-participant commentators like Robert the Monk, Baldric of Bourgueil, and Guibert of Nogent, who imposed theological coherence on the inchoate ideas found in the Gesta Francorum.70 Martyr and martyrium continued to be used in narratives of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, although the development of this idea in crusading culture after 1110 still requires systematic examination, not least because, as Caroline Smith has made clear, deceased crusaders’ status as martyrs remained controversial well into the thirteenth century. The Latin Church never officially recognized any crusaders as martyrs, and the sources for the Seventh Crusade, both lay and clerical, are decidedly ambiguous on the topic, frequently hinting at the possibility of martyrdom but rarely emphatically stating that the martyr’s crown was attained.71 In light of this persistent equivocation, it is all the more interesting that the imitatio Christi ideal (and the related reward of martyrdom) had significant bearing on how chroniclers envisaged fear, though this conception was only truly introduced in the second-generation, theologically rounded accounts of the First Crusade that were completed by c.1110. Thereafter, an interpretation of timor mortis based on contemporary ideas of imitatio Christi and martyrdom was firmly established and continued to be evoked, to varying degrees, in a broad repertoire of twelfth- and thirteenth-century histories; however, few writers—most notably Peter of Blois—emphasized this theme to the same extent as the early twelfth-century Benedictines. Fear language only intersected with imitatio Christi and martyrdom sporadically in the ‘eyewitness’ narratives of the First Crusade. According to the Gesta Francorum, Urban II announced that participants should ‘not hesitate to humbly undertake the way of the Lord’, but at no point did the author represent the reward of martyrdom as manifesting fearlessness in crusaders.72 Peter Tudebode and Fulcher of Chartres engaged with this idea just as rarely. Of the earliest chroniclers, the notion that death ought to be

approached fearlessly as an act of imitatio Christi was most clearly articulated by Raymond of Aguilers, according to whom on 5 April 1099 Christ appeared to Peter Bartholomew and compared the five wounds of his Passion to orders within the crusader host besieging Arqa: The first order is not afraid of darts, or swords, or any kind of torment. This order is like me. For when I came to Jerusalem, I did not hesitate over swords and lances, clubs and sticks, and finally the cross. They die for me, as I died for them. And I am in them, and they are in me. In truth, when they meet such a death, they are placed on the right side of God, where I sat after my resurrection and ascension into heaven.73 Whereas the fearless character of the first ordo was evidence that they were imitating Christ, those who hid in houses were criticized for believing victory derived from human strength, and Christ was equally damning of the fifth order, who ‘present to the others examples of faintheartedness, not of courage’.74 The doubters were to be executed, reaffirming their status as ‘brothers of Judas Iscariot’—a common marker of faithlessness in crusade texts.75 In short, Raymond of Aguilers represented fear and fearlessness as indicators of the extent of participants’ faith: the fearless imitated Christ, whereas the fearful emulated Judas. While the association between fearlessness and martyrdom was current in at least one ‘eyewitness’ testimony, it was markedly more pronounced in the aforementioned second-generation accounts. The insistence that participants ought to embrace martyrdom with an undaunted spirit pervaded Robert the Monk’s Historia: the crusaders besieged Nicaea in 1097 ‘not at all fearing death in return for life’; and, in an earlier passage, a fearful warrior (meticulosus miles) called Rainald was denounced for having ‘recoiled in terror from undergoing martyrdom’.76 Robert’s fellow Benedictines adopted a similar approach to the fear of death. An oration Guibert of Nogent ascribed to the leaders during the battle of Dorylaeum included the exhortation to accept martyrdom undauntedly, while Gilo of Paris told of a certain Apulian who, seeking to die for Christ, fearlessly engaged Antioch’s defenders.77 The shared interpretation of timor mortis in the works of Guibert, Robert, and Gilo—which centred on the ideal of imitating Christ and the reward of martyrdom—is indicative of a common, Benedictine ‘emotional community’. Admittedly, not all Benedictine commentators on the First Crusade engaged with this theme: Baldric of Bourgueil rarely did so, and there is only a single, isolated instance in Ekkehard of Aura’s Hierosolymita.78 Nevertheless, the relationship between fear and martyrdom enjoyed particular favour among Benedictine chroniclers, and by c.1110 had become an important element in assessments of fear. The second-generation ecclesiastical narratives of the First Crusade represent not only the moment at which the relationship between fear and martyrdom gained traction in a crusading context, but also the high point of such rhetoric in crusade narratives over a wider chronological arc. A number of later twelfth-century Latin chroniclers conceived of fear in relation to martyrdom, although such rhetoric was

utilized more sparingly. Ralph of Caen, who exhibited minimal interest in the supernatural, once noted that ‘this fearless people … hurry to works of death in the hope of life’, while William of Tyre rarely connected intrepidity and martyrdom, despite repeatedly casting the crusaders as imitatores Christi.79 The relationship between fear and martyrdom continued to be espoused by Benedictine monks who turned their attention to crusading after 1110; indeed, it was an integral aspect of Urban II’s Clermont sermon in William of Malmesbury’s Gesta regum Anglorum. In this text, composed between 1118 and c.1125–6, Urban explicitly referred to the reward of ‘blessed martyrdom’, before asking his audience: Do you fear death, bravest men, outstanding in boldness and courage? Surely nothing human wickedness will be able to devise for you can outweigh heavenly glory; for the sufferings of this time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us (Romans 8.18). Can it be, you do not know that, for men, to live is loss [and] to die is happiness?80 The pope then asked why they feared death, for it was madness to refuse everlasting life in favour of such a short temporal life.81 Overcoming fear of death by meditating on the acquisition of the martyr’s crown was thus a central theme of Urban’s exhortation in this account, which also suggests that William of Malmesbury displayed a greater interest in crusading spirituality than Rodney Thomson appreciated.82 Similar passages punctuated narratives of the Second and Third Crusades, albeit again less regularly than the Benedictine chronicles of the First Crusade. In the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, the Second Crusaders were described as exiles for Christ and their dead as martyrs, but it was only once suggested that participants should not abandon their brethren due to ‘fear of a glorious death’.83 The anonymous Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum recorded that during the battle at the Springs of Cresson on 1 May 1187, the master of the Hospitallers: pressed on undauntedly, lest he might lose the present crown or somewhat lessen the recompense of eternal reward; and since perfect charity casts out fear, the victorious athlete did not fear the thousands of people surrounding him, for he saw in mind and spirit the remunerator of his labour in heaven.84 The author of the Historia peregrinorum likewise believed that eternal life and happiness awaited the faithful who suffered intrepidly for Christ; and, in the Itinerarium, the crossbowmen gave way in fear of death (metu … mortis) during the battle of Arsuf in September 1191, whereas those who were bolder (audaciores) steadfastly persevered, strengthened by their ‘conscious intention of [winning] the crown’.85 The underlying message of these episodes—that holy warriors should not fear to sacrifice their lives in return for the martyr’s crown—also marked the thirteenth-century histories by Gunther of Pairis and Thadeus of Naples.86 In a chapter describing the flight of Acre’s Christian citizens to the city’s Templar compound, Thadeus, writing just months after the city’s fall on 18 May 1291, related how, happy to exchange earthly life for everlasting life, ‘all unanimously were mutually strengthening each

other to die for the faith and were not fearing the ruin of the flesh, and indeed were boldly scorning mortal life and cheerfully enduring the torture of a voluntary death for the name of Christ’.87 These examples, drawn from a wide repertoire of chronicles, demonstrate that fear continued to be assessed in relation to martyrdom throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, though some commentators utilized such rhetoric more than others. Odo of Deuil, Roger of Howden, and Oliver of Paderborn do not appear to have interpreted fear in this way. The absence of the fear–martyrdom connection in certain Cistercian texts might be explained by the fact that Cistercian crusade ideology placed greater emphasis on emulating earlier crusaders than imitating Christ, although the evidence provided by Gunther of Pairis indicates that these ideas were not necessarily mutually exclusive.88 One of the few writers to utilize fear–martyrdom imagery as extensively as the Benedictine chroniclers of the First Crusade was the secular clerk Peter of Blois, who depicted Reynald of Châtillon as an intrepid military martyr in the Passio Raginaldi, composed in 1187, following the Latin defeat in the battle of Hattin.89 The Christian combatants at Hattin were described as ‘strong and entirely fearless’ as they sustained the enemy’s malice for Christ, while reflecting upon his Passion and eternal life.90 The text’s hero, Reynald, was then introduced and explicitly identified as a martyr.91 In anticipation of the battle, Reynald’s ‘body did not tremble, nor was his mind disturbed’; rather, he remained undaunted (intrepidus) and entirely secure (securior).92 Indeed, Reynald exhorted the Christians to love death and labour for Christ, since they would reside among his holy martyrs; consequently, none of the nobles feared to enter the fray.93 It is clear that Peter considered this ‘most courageous athlete of the Lord’ a model for future generations; indeed, the second part of the Passio assumed the form of a letter to Peter’s patron, Baldwin of Ford, archbishop of Canterbury, encouraging him to preach the cross.94 With this recruitment agenda in mind, the opening of this section of the tract, in which Peter addresses the timorous, is particularly significant: Explain you fainthearted, explain you fearful and unwarlike: why do you fear a momentary death, which reveals the way to life and was made a doorkeeper for the kingdom of the sons of God? Why do you fear, ye of little faith? (Matthew 8.26).95 The positioning of this exhortation, and its accord with the portrayal of Reynald of Châtillon as an undaunted martyr, suggests that the renunciation of fear in light of martyrdom was a core theme of the Passio. Tellingly, Peter associated fear with a lack of faith—an accusation he later repeated—and he demanded that Christians should not fear to take up Christ’s cross.96 Appraisals of timor mortis in relation to emulating Christ and enduring martyrdom, therefore, marked a broad array of crusade narratives, but few writers engaged with this concept to the same extent as the early twelfth-century Benedictines. Peter of Blois’ Passio Raginaldi was the exception, rather than the norm.

The Passions of a Martyr Fear was merely one element in the emotional rhetoric of martyrdom. In fact, fear often intersected with several other passions that were closely tied to the attainment of eternal life, such as love, longing, and joy. As Jonathan Riley-Smith argued nearly forty years ago, and Miikka Tamminen and Susanna Throop have since reiterated, love was a fundamental aspect of the imitatio Christi precept: the affection Christians felt towards their families, friends, and material possessions was expected to be superseded by their love of Christ; and, in this context, death was regarded as an act of love.97 Death itself could be loved: Arnold of Lübeck recorded that the Latins at Hattin in 1187 were ‘inspired by the love of death’ to boldly (audacter) charge their opponents.98 Unsurprisingly, love and fear frequently interact in descriptions of crusaders facing death. To give just one representative example, both passions marked the Gesta obsidionis Damiate’s account of a confrontation between the Fifth Crusaders and Damietta’s defenders in 1218, in which the Christians were ‘not at all fearing the enemies’ weapons or death for the love of Christ, but, with desire and a happy mind, were eager to fight against [and] to test the enemies of Christianity for Christ’s love’.99 As this passage suggests, joy was bound to the imitatio Christi ideal in much the same way as fearlessness. The crusaders were said to have rejoiced in suffering hardships, and even death, for Christ’s sake. According to Ekkehard of Aura, the First Crusaders exhibited great joy (magno gaudio) in dangers, and this idea might explain why Gilo of Paris repeatedly referred to the crusader army as ‘leta cohors’, ‘consortia leta’, and ‘agmina leta’—the joyful band, fellowship, and flock.100 Another twelfth-century commentator suggested that participants in the Second Crusade presented a cheerful face to hardships and pain, a view which was later echoed by Gunther of Pairis in relation to the army of the Fourth Crusade.101 Abbot Martin supposedly urged his audience to join ‘the happy ranks’ and to receive the sign of the cross ‘with happy minds, so that by faithfully carrying out the cause of Him who was crucified, you will gain great and eternal wages for short and trivial work’.102 Crusade chroniclers presented martyrdom as a joyous experience: future delights awaited the deceased in heaven and thus death ought to be approached in a cheerful spirit.103 Unlike the perceived relationship between fear and martyrdom, this concept can be traced back to the earliest crusade narratives and continued to feature prominently throughout the crusading era. Italian and German crusaders slain by the Turks in 1096 were deemed ‘the first to happily receive martyrdom for the name of Christ’, while those who suffered martyrdom during the siege of Nicaea in 1097 were said to have relinquished their souls to God ‘with joy and gladness’.104 Some even went so far as to suggest that crusade participants longed for eternal life.105 A range of terms were used to express this idea, sometimes even within a single text. Fulcher of Chartres variously wrote that his comrades ‘willingly’ (voluntarie) ran the course of martyrdom, ‘chose’ (optantes) to sacrifice their lives, and ‘strove’ (studuerunt) to meet a blessed end.106 Albert of Aachen favoured spes (hope)—the Latins were

motivated by the ‘hope of eternal life’—whereas others wrote of a desire (desiderium) to die.107 Thus, describing the martyrdom of Berthold, the second bishop of Livonia, who met his death in 1198 while leading a campaign against the pagans of Livonia, Arnold of Lübeck stated that he was ‘crowned with honour and glory; indeed, he was burning with the desire of death’.108 That is not to say that these writers expected crusaders to adopt suicidal impulses, but rather that sacrificing their lives for Christ was considered the ultimate expression of devotion. Given their association with imitating Christ, it is hardly surprising that love, fear, longing, and joy often intersect in descriptions of crusaders facing death. For example, Robert the Monk linked the vocabulary of fear and longing when he had Kerbogha of Mosul inform his men before the battle of Antioch that their adversaries were unafraid (nec … expaverunt) and sought death (mori volunt).109 Fear and joy feature alongside each other more frequently and, at times, appear almost synonymous. Albert of Aachen’s account of the battle of Ascalon, fought on 12 August 1099, is a useful case in point. Preparing to confront the approaching Fatimid army, the Latins were overwhelmed with joy, with Albert insisting— no less than three times—that they proceeded ‘as happy as if they were going to a feast’.110 This seems to have been a common analogy for communicating joy in crusade texts; Albert used it elsewhere in his Historia, as did Guibert of Nogent and Jacques de Vitry.111 Having stressed the First Crusaders’ jubilation, Albert then included a dialogue which apparently took place before the battle, whereby Godfrey of Bouillon explained to a Muslim envoy from Ramla that, despite the prospect of death, the crusaders’ hearts were filled with joy because paradise and eternal life awaited them. For the same reason, they feared neither death nor the charge of the enemy.112 This combination of fearlessness and joyfulness in the face of death was repeatedly attested in Latin crusade texts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Similar passages can be found, for example, in Peter of Blois’ Passio, according to which Reynald of Châtillon displayed an undaunted and happy disposition as he contemplated death for Christ and the recompense of eternal life; indeed, the former Antiochene prince supposedly instructed his fellow Christians to rejoice for the same reason.113 Likewise, Abbot Martin of Pairis reportedly departed for the Fourth Crusade ‘with a happy expression and a fearless mind’.114 In certain narratives, all four emotions —fear, love, longing, and joy—can be discerned in a single episode, such as Fulcher of Chartres’ account of the 1101 battle of Ramla.115 Therefore, fear was just one passion in the broader emotional spectrum associated with martyrdom. In the passages analysed above we encounter a vision of martyrdom to which emotions were integral, rather than peripheral. To varying degrees, Latin crusade chroniclers suggested that participants renounced their possessions and families out of love for Christ; and that, assured of eternal life, they experienced a range of emotional responses to the prospect of undergoing death, from the dissipation of fear to the emergence of joy and longing.

The Undaunted Templar Collectively, the evidence surveyed thus far suggests that, for many ecclesiastical commentators, the idealized holy warrior did not fear death, but instead relied on God’s assistance and, from c.1110, willingly accepted the martyr’s crown. Whereas love, desire, and joy were all regarded as appropriate emotional reactions to the prospect of everlasting life, fear was not. This characterization of the ideal miles Christi is confirmed by the repeated appearance of these traits in connection to the Templars: a military-religious order founded by the French knight Hugh de Payns in c.1119 (although formal recognition from the Latin Church was only forthcoming ten years later), initially with the aim of protecting Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem.116 An obvious starting point is Bernard of Clairvaux’s De laude novae militia, written in c.1129–36 to legitimize the Templars’ vocation and to offer the Order spiritual direction. The letter’s function and intention—to instruct and educate—entails that it offers a window into Bernard’s idealized conception of the Order.117 While Bernard’s appraisal of the Templars—including their status as exemplary imitatores Christi and their distinction from secular knights (derisively branded ‘malitia’)—has elicited a great deal of historiographical attention, the abbot’s commentary on the fear of death has been largely overlooked, even within the context of his so-called ‘vision of chivalry’.118 In fact, fear constituted an integral aspect of the treatise, receiving detailed attention in the first four chapters, and—significantly—Bernard’s appraisal of the fear of death mirrored the views expressed in narratives of the First Crusade. In the first chapter, Bernard exhorted the Templars to intrepidly undergo death in order to attain the martyr’s crown: Certainly, the knight is fearless and free from all anxieties created when he has clothed the body with the breastplate of iron [and], in another way, the mind with the breastplate of faith. And without doubt fortified by both arms, he fears neither demon nor man. Nor indeed does he fear death, for he longs to die. For what might he fear, either living or dying, when to live is Christ and to die is gain (Philippians 1.21)? He stands firm confidently and willingly for Christ but to a greater extent he wishes to die and to be with Christ (Philippians 1.23), for this is better. Therefore, knights, proceed securely, and with an undaunted mind drive out the enemies of the cross of Christ …119 In associating the eradication of combatants’ fear with martyrdom, the Bernardine conception of the fear of death echoed the imagery replete in the crusade narratives analysed above. Furthermore, like the crusade chroniclers, Bernard maintained that the martyr’s crown ought to stimulate feelings of happiness and longing, as suggested by the use of ‘desiderat’ (longs) and ‘cupit’ (wishes) in the above-mentioned exhortation, and ‘exoptatur’ (longed for) in a later passage.120 The clear and deliberate juxtaposition established between the malitia (secular knighthood) and

militia (new knighthood) was also partly achieved through Bernard’s deployment of fear terminology. For Bernard, it was the righteousness of the combatant’s task and the ‘emotion of the heart’, rather than the outcome of war, which determined his spiritual fate.121 The tract then contrasted the fearful secular warrior and the undaunted Templar, with the righteousness of their war proving the decisive factor. Discussing the malitia, Bernard advocated that if the cause for war was frivolous, then the soldier’s conscience was more frightened (conscientiam magis terret).122 Immediately following this, he opened the third chapter of his tract by affirming that the Templars need not possess such fear: But, on the other hand, the knights of Christ fight the battles of their Lord securely, by no means fearing either to sin from the slaughter of the enemy or the danger of their own death, since death for Christ (either inflicted or received) both bears no charge of sin and merits the greatest amount of glory.123 The contrast between the Templars and secular knights continued in the next chapter, concerning the behaviour of the Order’s members, in which Bernard explicitly indicated his intention of delimiting the differences separating Dei militia from secular knights.124 Having earlier vilified the secular knighthood for their pride and timidity in battle, Bernard now praised the Templars’ humility, which had the effect of manifesting intrepidity in combat: they charge into antagonists, as if they thought enemies were sheep, not at all fearing either [the enemies’] savage barbarity or great number, even if they [the Templars] are few in number. In fact, they know that the hoped-for victory comes not from presuming in their own strength, but from the strength of the Lord of Hosts …125 Significantly, Bernard employed similar rhetoric in a correspondence (possibly written in 1153) to his uncle Andrew of Montbard, a knight of the Temple, whom he reminded that courage was divinely ordained.126 Despite envisaging the Templars as distinct from crusaders, traces of the imagery associating fearlessness with either trust in God or the prospect of martyrdom which pervaded Bernard’s De laude can be discerned in the abbot’s crusading letters.127 Thus, writing to the faithful of eastern France and Bavaria in 1146, Bernard again made the militia/malitia division and, complaining of Christian internecine warfare, declared: ‘this mad crisis is not courage, nor boldness, but rather will be ascribed to madness. You have now, brave soldier, you have, warlike man, [a military service] in which it is both a glory to conquer and a gain to die (Philippians 1.22).’128 The implication is that the just and holy nature of the war, as well as the anticipated spiritual reward following death, ought to manifest courage in participants. For Bernard, the Templars were imbued with a fearless disposition in combat due to the

righteousness and holy nature of their warfare, their humble obedience to God, and, above all, because the martyr’s crown awaited them—a reward to be actively desired, and one which also necessitated joy in the face of death. In all these respects, Bernard’s vision of the Templars resonates with earlier characterizations of the First Crusaders. The most likely reason for this accord—the influence of scripture—will be examined in greater depth below. However, it is not inconceivable that the abbot of Clairvaux may also have inherited such rhetoric from Latin histories of the First Crusade. Bernard’s 1146–7 preaching tour of the Rhineland area appears to have been the catalyst for the creation of three codices of Albert of Aachen’s Historia—a text which was loaded with such imagery—and the abbot himself may have consulted a copy of Albert’s history at an earlier date.129 Furthermore, the manuscript transmission of Robert the Monk’s Historia reveals that his retelling of the First Crusade gained notable popularity in Cistercian scriptoria from around the mid-twelfth century, and Bernard may have played a role in introducing the text to the Cistercians through his connections with Abbot Odo of St-Remi.130 It is therefore feasible, albeit necessarily speculative, that Bernard had access to histories of the First Crusade in the 1130s, which potentially shaped his views on the fear of death. Helen Nicholson has recently demonstrated that, although there is no evidence that the Order’s members ever promoted themselves as military martyrs, contemporaries certainly viewed them in such a way.131 It is to be expected, then, that the image of the Templars evidenced in Bernard of Clairvaux’s De laude—that of fearless imitators of Christ, whose undaunted disposition stemmed from a combination of their trust in God and desire to be united with Christ—was more widely reflected in papal privileges, sermons, and narrative accounts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Two crucial twelfth-century papal decrees focused on a particular aspect of the imitatio Christi ideal: the Templars’ lack of fear in sacrificing their lives for their Christian brethren, which fulfilled Christ’s injunction in John 15.13.132 In Omne datum optimum, issued by Innocent II on 29 March 1139, the pope praised the Templars’ undaunted (intrepide) warfare in defence of the Church and directly associated their fearlessness with Christ’s commandments: ‘like the voice of the highest Shepherd, you do not fear to lay down your lives for your brothers and to guard them from the assaults of the pagans’.133 Milites Templi, circulated in January 1144, recognized that the knights had renounced earthly pleasures and personal possessions in order to follow Christ, and, like his predecessor, Pope Celestine II announced that ‘they do not fear to lay down their lives for their brothers’.134 Contemporary chroniclers likewise interpreted Templar fearlessness in Christo-mimetic terms. In the Itinerarium peregrinorum, the Templar knight Jakelin de Mailly was singled out for his courage in the battle of the Springs of Cresson: ignoring his compatriots’ suggestions to surrender, Jakelin ‘was not afraid to die for Christ’ and ‘happily passed to heaven with the palm of martyrdom’.135 Others emphasized the Templars’ humility and intrepidity. Oliver of Paderborn repeatedly described the Templars as acting manfully (viriliter), on one occasion juxtaposing their divinely inspired courage with the timidity of the rest of the Fifth Crusaders.136 William of Tyre focused on the Templars’ humility in

his account of the Order’s origins, but later accused them of having ‘disregarded humility’ in light of their increasing wealth.137 William also appears restrained in his praise of Templar prowess, which he failed to connect to their humility. This omission was likely a consequence of the archbishop’s literary agenda: a comparison with other European sources has revealed that William sought to convey a particular image of the military orders, purposefully denouncing the Templars and Hospitallers as a hindrance to the kingdom of Jerusalem so that these orders would receive fewer donations.138 Bernard’s De laude, created in the form of an open letter, may well have exerted an influence on later descriptions of the Templars. It is perhaps no coincidence that Jacques de Vitry, who appears to have been aware of Bernard’s work, portrayed the Order’s knights in almost exactly the same fashion as De laude.139 In the Historia Orientalis, the Templars were uniformly represented as imitators of Christ.140 They gave up everything for his sake and their insignia of red crosses symbolized martyrdom, for their rule stipulated that they should shed their blood in defence of the Holy Land and fight the enemies of the cross with manly courage.141 The parallels between Bernard’s and Jacques’ representations of the Templars are even clearer in one of the latter’s sermons to the Order. Much like Bernard, Jacques maintained that ‘those who have a pure conscience and a just cause ought to be very bold and secure’, citing Proverbs 28.1 and 30.30 to validate his point.142 Purity of conscience and righteousness of cause were core features of Bernard’s commentary on fear and, seemingly echoing the abbot’s defamation of secular knights, Jacques advocated that sinners—‘false religious, who have a bad conscience’—were afflicted by fear, as attested in Isaiah 33.4: ‘trembling hath seized upon the hypocrites’.143 These similarities suggest that the ideas expressed in Bernard’s De laude probably had a formative influence on Jacques de Vitry’s characterization of the Templars. In all likelihood, Bernard’s tract was only one entry point for such rhetoric: both Bernard’s and Jacques’ interpretations of the Order were rooted in scripture (a theme discussed further below); Jacques is known to have consulted earlier crusade narratives, including Fulcher of Chartres’ Historia; and exhortations to reject fear by trusting in divine agency and meditating upon future spiritual rewards also pervaded his sermones ad peregrinos. In one such sermon, which was likely pitched to crusaders, he utilized the same rhetoric which marked his sermon to the Templars, urging the audience not to fear fighting the enemies of the cross ‘because you have a just war and a good conscience’.144 In light of the connection between timor mortis and sin outlined above, it is feasible that Bernard and Jacques were drawing upon a wider socio-cultural conception of fear. Others similarly believed that fear of death and conscientia were interrelated, such as the secular canon Ralph Niger, who wrote that ‘a sound conscience fears not the enemy’s weapons’.145 Even if we reject the idea that Bernard’s treatise directly impinged upon Jacques’ perspective, it is nevertheless notable that they provided near identical characterizations of the Templars vis-à-vis the fear of death. The Templars were thus perceived by their contemporaries as undaunted warriors, who relied on

God, imitated Christ, and sacrificed their lives to win the martyr’s crown. The fact that these milites Christi were represented in precisely the same fashion as crusaders in the Latin narratives is highly significant, for it suggests that there existed a widespread conception of the fear of death as an inappropriate passion for holy warriors. Theoretically, Abbot Bernard’s thinking on fear could have been shaped by histories of the First Crusade, which were laden with such imagery, and, in turn, his treatise seemingly played a part in popularizing such perceptions of the Order.

Fear in Other Crusading Theatres It is a sign of the currency these ideas gained during the thirteenth century that they were also applied to crusade campaigns in other geographic settings. Wojtek Jezierski has recently demonstrated that, for Henry of Livonia, fear was a collective emotion, one which helped to demarcate who was inside and outside the Christian community by, for example, compelling pagans to baptize.146 Fear does seem more acceptable in a Livonian context, with Jezierski persuasively arguing that we encounter ‘quite pragmatic approaches to fear as a necessary, if manageable, element of missionary and crusading activity’.147 Thus, Henry acknowledged missionaries’ fear of unconverted pagans.148 It is all the more important to note, then, that assessments of fear in relation to faith, and especially trust in God, still found a place in the Chronicon Livoniae. Bishop Albert of Livonia was described as not fearing (non formidans) to endure prosperity or adversity for God, while the Christians, facing the pagan Lithuanians in 1207, were depicted as not dreading (non verentes) their shrieks or multitude and as ‘in Deo confidentes’.149 On another occasion, a vastly outnumbered army of Germans and Letts was recognized as dreading (formidantes) the multitude of pagan enemies; but they successfully overcame such fear by placing all their hope in the Lord and boldly (audacter) approached the pagans.150 Henry came closest to intimating that fear was inappropriate for a crusader when describing the reaction to Bishop Albert’s sermon at Dünamünde in 1208, in which he promised ‘a greater indulgence and eternal life’ to those who went to Riga: ‘After hearing these things, almost 3,000 of the better ones did not fear to return to Riga and, by again taking up the cross, to set themselves up as a wall for the house of the Lord.’151 Thus, those who took the cross, ‘the better ones’, were characteristically fearless. The same idea, linking intrepidity to the remissio peccatorum, a clear indication of Henry’s engagement with crusade ideology, appears earlier in the chronicle.152 In 1203, a group of German pilgrims requested permission from Bishop Albert to fight the Estonian pagans. The bishop apparently agreed, enjoining them to enter battle manfully (viriliter) for the remission of their sins, and the Germans then prepared to fight boldly

(audacter) for the name of Christ.153 It is nonetheless striking that, for all his repeated claims that crusaders and clerics (and even some local neophytes) who died gained the palm of martyrdom, Henry very rarely presented that reward as an incentive for fearlessness.154 The same cannot be said of Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay, for whom fear, as Simon of Montfort allegedly declared, was unbecoming of a miles Christi: ‘Do you think that I am afraid? We carry out the work of Christ.’155 Both the indulgence and the opportunity for martyrdom apparently rendered participants intrepid during the Albigensian Crusade. Assured that they would ‘obtain remission of all sins and be instantly crowned with honour and glory’, the crusaders ‘opposed the enemy cheerfully and fearlessly’.156 Later in the Hystoria Albigensis, they were described as setting out to combat the heretics ‘with wonderful ardour of spirit and courage’, prepared to sacrifice their possessions and lives in the service of Christ.157 Folquet of Marseille, bishop of Toulouse, was presented as a model of fearlessness in the face of death. When Count Raymond VI exiled him from Toulouse under the pain of death in March 1211, ‘with a fearless mind [and] most cheerful expression’ the bishop supposedly announced that he stood ready to embrace the tyrant’s sword for it would see him attain glory, before uttering the words of Psalms 55.11 and 117.6: ‘I will not fear what man can do to me’.158 Expecting the tyrant’s sword each day, Peter accordingly described him as ‘that undaunted servant of God’.159 Furthermore, the crusaders’ fears and anxieties were repeatedly soothed by faith in God and confession.160 Of one encounter, Peter wrote that the Latins, ‘cleansed by contrition of heart and confession of speech’, formed three lines in the name of the Trinity and proceeded fearlessly (intrepidi) against the enemy.161 Evidently, the theological assessments of fear encountered in narratives of the Levantine crusades were transmutable to other frontiers. Both Henry of Livonia and Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay utilized arguments of trust in God and remission of sin as antidotes to the fear of death, although the latter more closely echoed the theology of fearlessness expressed in accounts of expeditions to the Holy Land. The ideal of fearlessness still penetrated Henry of Livonia’s chronicle, yet he did not dwell on the role of martyrdom in manifesting that emotional state and the specific context of the Baltic—recently branded terra horroris, the ‘land of horror’, by one historian—appears to have demanded a degree of fear acceptance.162

The Impact of Authorship The overarching parity discernible in the representation of timor mortis in Latin crusade chronicles over a wide chronological span and in different crusading theatres can, in part, be ascribed to

ecclesiastical authorship. Tellingly, the dynamic between fear, trust in God, and martyrdom was noticeably less pronounced in texts composed by lay writers, such as Caffaro of Caschifelone, Geoffrey of Villehardouin, Robert of Clari, and the author known as the ‘Templar of Tyre’. Thus, there is only one clear instance in Caffaro’s De liberatione civitatum Orientis: since the arrival of Kerbogha of Mosul’s army had left the crusaders at Antioch ‘frightened and shaken by fear’, Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy, Pope Urban II’s legate, gave a sermon urging them to ‘refuse to become alarmed or afraid, because God does not cease to fulfil what He promises to His faithful’.163 Even John of Joinville rarely engaged with the fear–faith paradigm, despite portraying the crusaders’ sufferings in Christo-mimetic terms and recording that deceased participants entered into paradise.164 Joinville perhaps came closest to mirroring the sentiments expressed in the clerical accounts when he reported the reassurance offered by an old Saracen, who visited tormented crusaders held in captivity in 1250: ‘Then he told us that we should not be disheartened if we had suffered these persecutions for Him. “Because”, he said, “you have not yet died for Him as He died for you.”’165 But this was an exceptional instance; in Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis, it was the crusaders’ physical protection, rather than their hope in God or the anticipated reward of martyrdom, which enabled them to overcome fear.166 At first glance, the letters of the crusaders themselves appear to undermine this conclusion. A handful of such missives included fear–faith imagery, yet the connection between fear, imitatio Christi, and martyrdom was significantly less pervasive than in the ecclesiastical histories. Thus, as in the First Crusade narratives, fear terminology was employed to communicate the rejuvenation of morale following the finding of the Holy Lance in the princes’ letter to Urban II of 11 September 1098: ‘We were so comforted and strengthened by this discovery and many other divine revelations that those who had formerly been stricken and fearful then became most courageous and most eager to fight.’167 Likewise, the leaders of the Fourth Crusade informed Innocent III that, during the siege of Constantinople in 1204, they had obtained ‘a certain inspired security from heaven’, and similar comments are found in letters detailing the Seventh Crusaders’ arrival at Damietta in June 1249.168 Count Robert of Artois wrote that the Christian army neared land, deriving ‘joy and strength from God’, while the royal chamberlain Jean de Beaumont reported that they waded through the water ‘without any sound of fear and with a glad heart … and, like strong athletes of the Lord, manfully attacked the enemies of the cross’.169 However, it would be misleading to believe that these sources offer a transparent window onto the crusaders’ own feelings—one uncontaminated by clerical glosses. In reality, most of the letters were composed by clerical scribes, and this helps to explain their accord with the ecclesiastical narratives in the portrayal of timor mortis. Stephen of Blois’ missives to his wife Adela, for example, were written by his chaplain Alexander. In a letter addressed to Paschal II, several of the First Crusade’s leaders explained that God had administered them with such boldness at Ascalon in 1099 that it seemed as if they were falling on sluggish deer. Yet this letter was almost certainly penned by Raymond of Aguilers, who provided an extremely similar account of the crusaders’ divinely inspired

security (securitas) at this moment, including the deer analogy, in his Historia.170 Perhaps tellingly, the relationship between fear and faith was especially overt in missives from senior churchmen, such as that sent by the Greek patriarch of Jerusalem, Simeon, in January 1098, which announced that, under Christ’s protection, the First Crusaders had penetrated the enemies’ ranks without fear (securi).171 Thus, the epistolary material is far from unproblematic, for the inclusion of fear–faith rhetoric in a number of crusader letters could simply reflect the influence of clerical scribes. In stark contrast to texts by lay authors, the connection between fearlessness and participants’ spirituality was expressed far more regularly in ecclesiastical documents related to crusade preaching. The relationship between fear and martyrdom serves as a useful case study. Pope Urban II did not exhort participants to act fearlessly in anticipation of the reward of martyrdom in his First Crusade letters, although the spurious encyclical of Pope Sergius IV suggests that the idea was current at the time. The inclusion of Christo-mimetic language in this document has already been highlighted by Purkis.172 Of significance for our purposes, however, is Pseudo-Sergius’ proclamation that readers need not be afraid: ‘Sons, do not let the commotion of the sea frighten you or let the fury of the warlike terrify you, for it is divinely promised: Anyone who shall lose his present life for Christ, and will not falter now, shall discover it [again] in the future.’173 Similar statements are found in Quantum praedecessores and Audita tremendi, and instructions to relinquish fear in order to follow Christ and earn eternal life became a standardized feature of Innocent III’s crusade encyclicals.174 Attempting to induce Waldemar II of Denmark to participate in the Baltic Crusade in late October 1209, Innocent urged the king to ‘not fear the sufferings of this time, which are not worthy to be compared with the glory to come’ (Romans 8.18), for by fighting ‘like an active soldier of Christ’ he would deservedly be crowned in eternal glory.175 Innocent used similar language in Post miserabile and Quia maior, but his Christo-mimetic conception of the fear of death was most clearly articulated in a correspondence of March 1208, designed to recruit for the Albigensian Crusade.176 The conduct of Christ, who died ‘so as to take away the fear of death from His faithful [servants]’, was pitched as a model for participants to emulate: ‘[follow] the example of Him, who happily bought eternal life through temporal death, so that they do not fear to lay down their lives in so glorious a struggle’.177 Innocent III was unusually fond of such rhetoric—his successors, such as Gregory IX, Innocent IV, and Gregory X, do not appear to have emphasized this theme to the same degree. Yet the fear–martyrdom connection continued to find favour with at least some crusade preachers during the mid- to late thirteenth century. A model sermo by Gilbert of Tournai included the command, ‘do not be afraid of the hardship of this journey when you consider the heavenly reward’, whilst Humbert of Romans displayed a tangible concern with fear throughout his De predicatione.178 Indeed, ‘excessive fear of physical suffering’ was identified as one of the eight principal reasons people abstained from taking the cross, and he set out several arguments for mitigating such fear.179 One was that the righteousness of the warfare conducted by crusaders meant they need not ‘fear a damned death’, but rather could hope for eternal

life.180 Consequently, crusaders ought not to fear temporal suffering, and should even be willing to die like Christ, on the cross: ‘Nobody should show concern to physical suffering, but, rejecting all fear of bodily torment, should be prepared to come to the cross, with the cross, and, if necessary, even to die on the cross for Christ.’181 Those who overcame fear in this manner, Humbert insisted, would be joyous on the Day of Judgement, for they would be able to say to Christ: ‘Lord, you were on the cross one day for my sake, and I have been on it for your sake for many days and have suffered many torments.’182 Rather than falling prey to fear, then, Humbert expected crucesignati to endure adversities in imitation of Christ. This notion was also expressed in the Brevis ordinacio, which affirmed that those who took the cross would be ‘secure on the terrifying day [of Judgement]’, for they would be able to say: ‘Lord, you were on the cross for me and I am on the cross for you, you died for me and I for you!’183 Both passages, it should be noted, bear striking resemblance to the words attributed to Christ in Raymond of Aguilers’ account of Peter Bartholomew’s vision at Arqa in April 1099.184 The representation of fear in the Latin narratives closely resembles that found in crusade encyclicals issued by the papacy, with both source types witnessing the incorporation of imagery which connected fear and the prospect of eternal life. For the most part, the fear–faith paradigm was poorly represented in histories composed by secular writers, and while such rhetoric featured to a greater degree in participants’ letters, even these were not entirely free from scribal influence. Comparison with lay texts, the crusaders’ letters, and preaching documents thus reveals that the representation of fear in relation to participants’ faith in Latin crusade narratives was largely dependent on monastic authorship.

The Impact of Genre Besides authorship, the demands of genre also influenced the ways in which chroniclers portrayed the fear of death. Thus, the conventions of genre and the influence of vernacular culture might account for the relative paucity of fear–faith imagery in Old French prose texts, although lay authorship likely remains the decisive factor. Fear was rarely depicted in relation to faith in contemporaneous chansons de geste, such as the Chanson de Roland and the Chanson de Guillaume, and there are only traces of this connection in chansons de croisade.185 One of the few examples comes from the Chanson d’Antioche, in which Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy addressed the crusaders during the battle of Antioch thus: Do not go in fear of death: on the contrary, go and seek it. Remember God and His holy command. He willingly humbled Himself and suffered death for our sake. Anyone who will die for Him defending His body will, I believe, be rewarded by going with Him to His

eternal kingdom.186 This passage from the Antioche could be explained by the text’s complex relationship with Albert of Aachen’s history. Albert attributed similar sermons to the papal legate, and the latest thinking holds that content from Albert’s Historia was assimilated, perhaps in abstracted form, into the Antioche.187 For the most part, however, imagery of this kind did not find a significant outlet in crusade chansons. That is not to suggest that there was no cross-fertilization between vernacular literature and Latin narratives. Counteracting the fear of death was a major concern of trouvères and troubadours, who relied on similar arguments of divine assistance and spiritual recompense as Latin chroniclers and papal propagandists. The use of such imagery in crusade lyrics could, in fact, reflect links with ecclesiastical texts and sermons.188 Aimeric de Pegulhan’s Ara parra qual seran enveyos hints at the possibility of contact with the papacy’s message. Aimeric assured those who took the cross that Pope Innocent would guide them, which has led to the suggestion that this lyric was composed in the spring of 1213, when announcements about the Fourth Lateran Council—to which the recovery of the Holy Land was central —were being disseminated. This may explain the distinction Aimeric made between the fear of spiritual death and temporal death, with the former deemed more appropriate than the latter: A man should not fear to suffer death in God’s service, for He suffered it in ours so that those who follow him over there to Mount Tabor will be saved along with Saint Andrew. No one should be afraid of this carnal death on the journey; he ought more to fear spiritual death where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, for Saint Matthew shows this and guarantees it to be true.189 Another, related explanation is that the inclusion of fear–faith rhetoric was facilitated by the recurring motifs of imitatio Christi and Christ’s torment in lyrics, as the above passage from Aimeric de Pegulhan suggests. In Seigneurs, sachiez, qui or ne s’en ira, Thibaut IV of Champagne presented Christ as an undaunted exemplar, having been placed upon the cross without fear, and in another crusade song Thibaut played on the theme of abandoning loved ones out of love for God: ‘I render myself to you, good Father of Jesus Christ! … He who serves you is immune to fear.’190 The anonymous author of the Old French lyric Oiés, seigneur, pereceus par oiseuses directly addressed the fearful, urging them to remember Christ’s painful death and the spiritual reward on offer: Ah, faint-hearts, shameful wicked creatures, do you then feel great fear of death? Call to mind the painful death which will be everlasting and will be ever worse! Let us be reconciled with our Creator who will come and seek us, most joyfully welcoming us and saying: ‘Come here, all you good and best people, there is plenty of free space in Paradise!’191

Those who refused to take the cross faced the daunting prospect of being struck with terror on the Day of Judgement, when they would regret their reticence. In the 1230s, Aimeric de Belenoi insisted that participants should be fearless, confident, and warlike, as God would be with them and the martyr’s crown undoubtedly awaited those who died.192 Indeed, trust in divine support was depicted as another antidote to fear in a variety of lyrics, including those by Guillem Figueira and Giraut de Borneil.193 In the Latin narratives, it is significant that the relationship between fear and crusader spirituality was often communicated through direct speech, typical of the historia genre. In fact, the notion that warriors should relinquish fear and wholeheartedly trust in God was a prominent theme of battlefield exhortations outside a crusading context, and this literary tradition might account for the rhetoric used in reports of speeches and visions in crusade histories.194 Before the battle of Soissons in June 929, for example, Charles the Simple was said to have harangued his men, telling them to invoke God’s assistance and to remember that there was nothing to fear.195 Yet the influence of this rhetorical tradition should not be overstated; to do so would be to underestimate not only the sheer pervasiveness of the fear–faith paradigm in crusade histories, but also the creativity of the chroniclers. For example, the passions Albert of Aachen expected participants to embrace (love, joy, and longing) and to reject (fear) in light of the prospect of martyrdom appear so consistently in speeches throughout his Historia that the content of these orations can be considered Albert’s authorial voice, reflecting his own understanding of crusading spirituality.196 Significantly, Steven Biddlecombe has posited that a similar narrative strategy was adopted by Baldric of Bourgueil, who communicated his view of crusading through orations imputed to individuals such as the text’s hero, Bohemond of Taranto.197 Overall, crusade chroniclers may well have been adhering to this ‘rhetorical tradition of plausibility’, but the fact that the connection between intrepidity and humility pervaded the crusade narratives, and was not restricted to accounts of battlefield speeches, suggests that this idea acquired particular relevance in the context of holy war.198 Nor can this literary tradition fully account for the connection writers established between fear and martyrdom; a mere thirty-six of the 360 battlefield orations examined by Bliese included the promise of martyrdom, almost all of which derived from crusade histories.199 Several further possible influences must also be considered. Classical literature exerted minimal impact, at least with regard to fear–faith imagery.200 Though William of Malmesbury claimed that Urban II drew upon Lucan—‘equal labour and fear are sought for a greater reward’—his Gesta regum Anglorum is not representative of a larger source grouping, as William demonstrated an affinity for classical tradition which surpassed that of most twelfth-century chroniclers.201 Hagiographical literature represents a more feasible entry point for such language. According to one letter, many of the crusaders at Mansurah in 1250 surrendered to the enemy, ‘for fear of death, which even perfect saints are said to have dreaded’.202 On the whole, however, admissions of timor mortis were rare in saints’ lives. Thus, the sight of demons passing before his eyes did not cause St Dunstan to ‘flee in helpless fear’, and when the devil attempted to interrupt St Wulfstan’s prayer, the latter repelled his adversary by reciting Psalm

117.6: ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not fear what man can do to me.’203 Moreover, on his deathbed Wulfstan reportedly reassured mourners that ‘none of those you fear will be able to harm you, if you are willing to faithfully serve God’.204 As Vito Fumagalli has correctly observed, ‘[hagiographical] accounts of model deaths are of course intended to be edifying, but the complete absence of any fear of death itself is none the less telling’.205 It is to be expected, then, that an anonymous vita of Louis IX depicted the king as ‘not at all fearing to endure danger for Lord Jesus Christ’.206 In addition, the consolation of the fearful through visionary assurance was a topos of hagiographical literature. Certainly, the reassurance Christina of Markyate, a twelfth-century recluse, reportedly received in a vision of Christ, bearing a golden cross, would not look out of place in one of the Latin crusade narratives: ‘Do not be afraid … for I have not come to increase your fear, but to give you security. Take this cross, therefore, and hold it firmly … and remember that I myself was the first to bear it.’207

The Scriptural Foundations It is impossible to determine the extent to which genre conventions and hagiographical traditions governed crusade chroniclers’ attitudes towards the fear of death, not least because the overarching accord between source types could simply be explained by a common influence—the Bible. In line with the tendency of medieval authors to locate precedents for events in the Old and New Testaments, biblical glosses were appropriated by chroniclers to describe most aspects of crusading, including the topography the Latins encountered and the opponents they faced, although the fundamental importance of scripture in shaping the emotional landscape applied to accounts of crusading enterprises has largely escaped scholarly attention.208 Indeed, the conception of the fear of death as an emotion to be rejected, either by humbly trusting in God or by meditating on the attainment of everlasting life, was firmly rooted in scripture. There can be little doubt that chroniclers’ concern for participants’ humility derived from the Bible, which provided ample exemplars of humble conduct—above all, that of Christ. As one twelfth-century commentator noted, the devil offered himself for the imitation of his pride, Christ for the emulation of his humility; and another maintained that Jesus ‘taught humility against pride’.209 For Jacques de Vitry, Christ was an ‘example of humility’, and he denounced the immorality of Christians in the East who needed to ‘learn to be humble with Christ’.210 The Old and New Testaments offered numerous passages with which the authors of crusade texts drew parallels, such as 1 Peter 5.5 and James 4.6: ‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.’ This versatile phrase was used to explain the crusaders’

successes and setbacks. Henry of Huntingdon and William of Newburgh employed it to account for the failure of the Second Crusade.211 William of Tyre directly quoted 1 Peter 5.5/James 4.6 at least once, although its influence can be detected elsewhere in his chronicle, and, in another text, the Fifth Crusaders apparently accepted that the slaughter of their comrades was warranted ‘because God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble’.212 The same passage was also frequently taken up by crusade propagandists; Innocent III even used it to justify the 1204 conquest of Constantinople.213 The relationship between humble trust in God and fearlessness was likewise grounded in scripture. The ‘fear not’ formula pervaded the Vulgate and, at times, crusade chroniclers directly quoted passages encompassing this command.214 For example, Peter Tudebode used Matthew 10.28, ‘fear ye not them that kill the body, and are not able to kill the soul’; Albert of Aachen alluded to John 14.27, ‘let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be afraid’; and Robert the Monk interpreted the departure of the Provençal contingent on the First Crusade as the fulfilment of Isaiah 43.5: ‘Fear not, for I am with thee: I will bring thy seed from the north, and gather thee from the west.’215 In addition, the question Peter of Blois posed to the fainthearted—‘Quid timetis, modice fidei?’—was clearly based on Matthew 8.26, as were the words attributed to Ivo of Vipont in the Itinerarium.216 In fact, Matthew 8.26 was probably a foundation text for the idea that the emergence of fear symbolized a deficiency of faith. An analysis of Humbert of Romans’ De predicatione reveals the range of biblical passages underpinning the fear–faith paradigm. In chapter 27, Humbert listed various biblical themes for preaching the cross, deriving from twenty-seven books of the Old Testament and eighteen of the New Testament. Included in the list of Old Testament themata was Numbers 14.9: ‘fear ye not the people of this land, for we are able to eat them up as bread. All aid is gone from them: the Lord is with us, fear ye not.’217 Several other verses encompassing this theme were also cited, such as 2 Paralipomenon 32.7–8 and Psalm 77.52–4, whilst in the previous chapter Humbert alluded to Jeremiah 30.10–11: ‘there shall be none whom he may fear: For I am with thee, saith the Lord, to save thee’.218 All of these Old Testament verses communicated the same fundamental idea: that the Christian faithful ought not to fear, since God was on their side. The Book of Deuteronomy was especially influential in this regard. In support of his instruction that the cross should be taken voluntarily, Humbert referred to Deuteronomy 20.8: ‘What man is there that is fearful, and fainthearted? Let him go, and return to his house, lest he make the hearts of his brethren to fear, as he himself is possessed with fear.’219 This passage established fear as an undesirable sentiment and chimes with Humbert’s repeated insistence that there was no place for the fearful on crusade. In chapter 45, Humbert again drew upon Deuteronomy 20, this time verses 3–4, which preachers could use to stimulate crusaders to fight manfully (viriliter) against the Saracens; and in an earlier chapter, he highlighted the importance of Deuteronomy 31.6.220 In fact, many of the abovementioned examples from twelfth- and thirteenth-century ecclesiastical narratives echoed passages like Deuteronomy 20.1: ‘If you go out to war against your enemies, and see horsemen and chariots, and the numbers of the enemy’s army greater than yours, you shall not fear them: because the Lord your God is

with you.’ This verse was directly quoted by Jacques de Vitry, and in the fourteenth century the Franciscan Bertrand de la Tour adopted it as the protheme for one of his model sermons for preaching the cross.221 Furthermore, Raymond of Aguilers’ comment that the fearful hid in houses at Arqa in 1099 was reminiscent of Deuteronomy 20.8, while the words uttered to a reticent crusader in Fulcher of Chartres’ Historia resembled Deuteronomy 3.22.222 The stories of one group of Old Testament warriors particularly resonated with crusade commentators: namely, the Maccabees. In the second century bc, the Maccabees are said to have led the Jews of Judea in a rebellion and series of battles against the Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV, who was attempting to impose paganism on his subjects. During the revolt’s early phases, Antiochus had seven brothers, their mother, and a priest called Eleazar tortured and killed for refusing to renounce their faith —a group that became known as the Maccabean martyrs. The memory of the Maccabees was appropriated to describe Christian military activities in the tenth and eleventh centuries but witnessed something of a boom in the twelfth century, no doubt owing to the advent of crusading.223 The Maccabees’ status as both Levantine warriors and Old Testament martyrs made them particularly suitable models for a crusading context. While the crusaders naturally bore closer resemblance to the Maccabean warriors than the Maccabean martyrs, Elizabeth Lapina has identified signs of ‘an intentional confusion’ in crusade texts, which blurred the distinction between the two types.224 In all likelihood, the chroniclers probably considered both of these connections fitting.225 Thus, from the early twelfth century onwards, the Maccabees were primarily interpreted as proto-crusaders, or even archetypal crusaders, although some writers—most notably Guibert of Nogent—considered them inadequate exemplars.226 There were, after all, inherent theological tensions in comparing crusaders to these Jewish warriors. Nonetheless, the Maccabees continued to be evoked as positive role models in narrative texts and preaching documents throughout the crusading era. Despite growing scholarly interest in crusade commentators’ use of Maccabean imagery, the importance of the Maccabees as exemplary undaunted warriors has not yet received the attention it deserves. The Maccabees’ fearlessness was highlighted in Quantum praedecessores, which drew attention to the behaviour of Mattathias, Judas Maccabeus’ father. Much like the crusaders in contemporary chronicles, Mattathias did not hesitate (nullatenus dubitauit) to expose himself to death and, as the recipient of heavenly assistance, was characteristically courageous (viriliter) against his adversaries.227 The same point was made even more forcefully in Audita tremendi, in which Pope Gregory VIII instructed the Christians to fearlessly emulate the Maccabees: Pay attention to the way that the Maccabees, inflamed with zeal for the divine law, exposed themselves to extreme dangers to free their brothers … And what [the Maccabees] did, set in order under the law [of Moses] alone, you should do without fear, led to the light of truth through the incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ and instructed by the examples of many saints. And you should not fear to surrender earthly and few things that will last for a short

time in exchange for those good things which have been promised and reserved [i.e. eternal life] …228 Humbert of Romans used Maccabean imagery in precisely the same way, advocating that boni crucisignati (‘good crusaders’) ought to be courageous and ‘strong in the Lord’s war’, following ‘the example of the sons of Mattathias’.229 Indeed, in a later chapter of the De predicatione, Humbert pointed to the consolation offered by Judas Maccabeus in 2 Maccabees 15.7–8: ‘But Judas Maccabeus ever trusted with all hope that God would help them. And he exhorted his people not to fear, but to remember the help they had before received from heaven, and now to hope for victory from the Almighty.’230 Beyond this, there is evidence that the Maccabees’ reputation as fearless warrior-martyrs also inspired Latin crusade chroniclers. A good example is provided by Ansbert, who reported that, with the appearance of a celestial army resembling ‘the legion of Theban martyrs’, German participants in the Third Crusade were ‘one in desire, eager to shed their blood for Christ, and so stood undauntedly’.231 Frederick Barbarossa reportedly declared his willingness to suffer death ‘for love of the heavenly father’, and then asked: ‘why are we afraid? Christ rules, Christ conquers, Christ commands.’232 Ansbert’s portrayal of this scene was possibly inspired by Maccabean precedents, for he then announced that, though these efforts had tired Frederick, ‘in nobility of heart he was equal to Judas Maccabeus’.233 Maccabean intrepidity was similarly evoked by Bernard of Clairvaux and Jacques de Vitry to characterize the Templars.234 This all suggests that 1 and 2 Maccabees provided a model of fearless holy warriors, whose strength and intrepidity stemmed directly from their trust in God, which could be aptly applied to the crusaders by chroniclers and propagandists. Moreover, at least some authors were likely setting the crusaders within a Judaeo-Christian tradition of fearless martyrs, hence Guibert of Nogent’s assertion that the simile ‘as brave as martyrs’ was especially fitting to describe the crusaders at Dorylaeum in 1097.235 Finally, it is worth exploring a biblical allegory which, quite remarkably, seems to have been almost universally overlooked—or more likely rejected—by crusade commentators. As has been established above, Christ’s own fearlessness acted as a crucial reference point for crusade preachers and chroniclers, who anchored their accounts of the crusaders’ rejection of timor mortis within sacred history. The insistence that Christ approached death undauntedly was certainly not without precedent: patristic authorities like Jerome maintained that those who believed that Christ had feared death should blush with shame, and a similarly hard-line stance was adopted by Hilary of Poitiers.236 However, theologically speaking, this was something of a thorny issue, not least because, according to the Gospel of Mark (14.33–4), Christ ‘began to fear and to be heavy’ (coepit pavere et taedere) at the prospect of his impending death while in the Garden of Gethsemane, and announced to the Apostles Peter, James, and John, ‘My soul is sorrowful even unto death’ (tristis est anima mea usque ad mortem), before praying to his father. Given the growing interest in Christ’s humanity and suffering during the twelfth and thirteenth

centuries, there is good reason to imagine that Mark 14.33–4 afforded crusade commentators an opportunity to justify moments of crusader fear.237 If Christ had dreaded death, then surely mortals could too? The fact remains, however, that the vast majority chose not to adopt this stance. A likely reason for this is that the timorous Christ analogy conflicted with theological developments that were occurring during the High Middle Ages, surrounding the very issue of Christ’s passions at Gethsemane. The powerless, fragile, and distinctly human image of Christ in Mark 14.32–42 and associated biblical verses of his Agony in the Garden (Matthew 26.36–46; Luke 22.40–6) was awkward for patristic and medieval thinkers. In response to this Christological problem, Jerome had devised the category of propassiones, ‘half-passions’, which was later adopted and refined by medieval scholastics, such as Peter Lombard, Bonaventure, and Thomas Aquinas.238 Kevin Madigan has summarized the approach of these thinkers: ‘they argue that Christ experienced a sort of “half-passion” (propassio) of fear and sorrow rather than a full-blown passion (passio). Fear and sorrow of this variety never threatened to swamp the capacities of Christ’s reason and to throw his soul into disorder and confusion.’239 In short, Christ experienced fear and sorrow differently from humans, thus rendering any direct parallel with the crusaders’ terror redundant.

Conclusion The twelfth- and thirteenth-century narratives of the crusades yield a far more complex attitude towards the fear of death than has hitherto been recognized. Far from unmediated reflections of the affective experience of crusading—or, in Bliese’s words, ‘good evidence for the psychology of war’—in most texts, even those by so-called ‘eyewitnesses’, we encounter a monastic vision of fear which was, to a large degree, centred on faith.240 Fear of death was primarily considered an undesirable sentiment, which participants ought to renounce. Rather than succumbing to fear, the crusaders were consistently represented as humbly trusting in God, having confidence that divine aid would be forthcoming, and, at times, as being imbued with heavenly sent fortitude. Accordingly, the attribution of the fear of death to protagonists, most notably deserters, often served to indicate a deficiency of faith, and some chroniclers even appear to have set fear on a par with traditional vices. This interpretation of timor mortis, hinging on the crusaders’ relationship with God, represents the dominant attitude towards fear articulated in the Latin narratives and underwent remarkably little refinement during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. On the other hand, the associated idea that fearing death was incompatible with imitating Christ and accepting martyrdom appears to have developed over time. Largely absent from the earliest narratives of the First Crusade, this discourse gained credence in the first decade of the twelfth century—especially

among non-participant, Benedictine chroniclers—and featured intermittently, and to varying degrees, thereafter. Several commentators expected the reward of everlasting life to stimulate feelings of love, joy, and longing in participants, rather than fear. The overarching conformity in the representation of timor mortis over a broad chronological span means we can validly conceive of an idealized, ecclesiastical conception of Christian holy warriors vis-à-vis the fear of death. The ideal miles Christi represented in many of these texts rejected or overcame fear in the face of death by trusting in God, remembering Christ’s example, or by meditating on the prospect of eternal life—a hypothesis supported by the fact that these traits were also frequently used to characterize the Templars and were transmutable to crusading campaigns in other settings, such as southern France and the Baltic. The accord between the histories and other ecclesiastical sources, especially documents designed for preaching the cross, is suggestive of a common set of influences. Textual relationships, monastic authorship, and the conventions of genre all appear to have contributed, in one way or another, to fear’s representation in the narratives, but scripture was at the epicentre of this elite discourse between fear and faith. The Bible offered numerous passages which seemingly shaped ecclesiastical chroniclers’ attitudes towards the fear of death. The need to embrace the virtue of humility was evidently based on passages like 1 Peter 5.5/James 4.6, and the Vulgate was littered with verses enjoining Christians to relinquish fear by trusting in divine, rather than human, agency. The Books of Deuteronomy and 1 and 2 Maccabees appear to have been especially influential, with the crusaders often cast in the Maccabean mould—as undaunted warrior-martyrs, who trusted unreservedly in God. The centrality of the Bible in conditioning chroniclers’ attitudes towards fear points to a broader argument of this book: that the emotional landscape churchmen attributed to the crusaders was founded, first and foremost, on the Latin Vulgate. Above all, the traditional approach of mining crusade histories to access the lived fears of participants must be supplanted by a methodological framework which remains alive to the clerical prism through which the fear of death was viewed and the myriad influences which governed its representation. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

Peter Stearns, ‘Dare to Compare: The Next Challenge in Assessing Emotional Cultures’, Emotion

Review 2 (2010): 262. 2

Michael Laffan and Max Weiss, eds., Facing Fear: The History of an Emotion in Global

Perspective (Princeton, NJ, 2012); Jan Plamper and Benjamin Lazier, eds., Fear: Across the Disciplines (Pittsburgh, PA, 2012). 3

Anne Scott and Cynthia Kosso, eds., Fear and its Representations in the Middle Ages and

Renaissance (Turnhout, 2002). Fear also receives little attention in Stephanie Downes, Andrew Lynch, and Katrina O’Loughlin, eds., Emotions and War: Medieval to Romantic Literature (Basingstoke, 2015). 4

Jean Delumeau, Le péché et la peur: La culpabilisation en Occident, XIIIe–XVIIIe siècles (Paris,

1983); Jean Delumeau, Sin and Fear: The Emergence of a Western Guilt Culture, 13th–18th Centuries, trans. Eric Nicholson (New York, 1990); Peter Dinzelbacher, Angst im Mittelalter: Teufels-, Todes- und Gotteserfahrung: Mentalitätsgeschichte und Ikonographie (Paderborn, 1996). 5

Besides timor/timere, the Latin lexicon for fear includes: metus/metuere, formido/formidare,

pavor/pavere,

tremor/tremere,

terror/terrere,

horror/horrere,

anxietas/angere,

dubium/dubitare,

trepidus/trepidare, pertimescere, perterrere, exterrere, absterrere, haesitare, and timidus. All are taken into consideration here, as is a rich vocabulary of fearlessness and courage, including: virtus, viriliter, fortitudo, audacia, securitas, imperterritus, intrepidus, impavidus, and securus. 6

Jan Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare in Western Europe during the Middle Ages: From the Eighth

Century to 1340, trans. Sumner Willard and R. W. Southern, 2nd edn (Woodbridge, 1997), 38. 7

Verbruggen, Art of Warfare, 37–49, esp. 40–2.

8

John Bliese, ‘Rhetoric and Morale: A Study of Battle Orations from the Central Middle Ages’,

JMH 15 (1989): 218; Richard Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford, 1999), 165; Richard Kaeuper, Holy Warriors: The Religious Ideology of Chivalry (Philadelphia, PA, 2009), 18; Richard, Crusades, 284–5; Christopher Tyerman, God’s War: A New History of the Crusades (London, 2006), 398; Norman Housley, Fighting for the Cross: Crusading to the Holy Land (New Haven, CT, 2008), 93–4; Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 71. 9

Richard Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry (Cambridge, 2016), 374. Since Kaeuper focused on fear as a

chivalric emotion, his arguments are addressed in Chapter 2. 10

IP, 295.

11

Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville, 94–5; FC, 171; IP, 175; Howden, Chronica, iii. 39, 119;

Howden, Gesta, ii. 116; JV, Lettres, 82; De itinere Frisonum, in QBSSM, 65; Joinville, 306, 312; Caroline Smith, ‘Saints and Sinners at Sea on the First Crusade of Saint Louis’, in Crusades: Medieval Worlds in Conflict, ed. Thomas Madden, James Naus, and Vincent Ryan (Farnham, 2010), 162. 12

Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps, 134–70.

13

PT, 97, ‘habens maximum timorem sicuti amittendi caput’; Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps, 136.

14

Conor Kostick, ‘Courage and Cowardice on the First Crusade, 1096–1099’, War in History 20

(2013): 40. 15

Kostick, ‘Courage and Cowardice’, 40, 45; William Aird, ‘“Many Others, Whose Names I Do Not

Know, Fled with Them”: Norman Courage and Cowardice on the First Crusade’, in Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, ed. Kathryn Hurlock and Paul Oldfield (Woodbridge, 2015), 18–19, 21. 16

Joseph LeDoux, The Emotional Brain: The Mysterious Underpinnings of Emotional Life (New York, 1996), 157–78; Öhman, ‘Fear and Anxiety’, 718–21. 17

Calvin Moore and John Williamson, ‘The Universal Fear of Death and the Cultural Response’, in

Handbook of Death and Dying, Volume 1: The Presence of Death, ed. Clifton Bryant (London, 2003), 3–

13. 18

Verbruggen, Art of Warfare, 37, 109.

19

Bliese, ‘Rhetoric and Morale’, 219.

20

Narratives by lay authors receive greater attention in Chapter 2.

21

Gilbert of Tournai, Sermo I, in CPI, 188, ‘veri crucesignati … vere contriti’.

22

WT, 431–2; Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 66–7; EA, 21, ‘humilitatis atque caritatis exemplo’.

23

RA, 79, 82, 81.

24

BB, 80; RM, 75, ‘Nullus nostrorum ibi iners fuit, nullus timidus.’

25

The impact of the Lance’s discovery is debated; see Colin Morris, ‘Policy and Visions: The Case of

the Holy Lance at Antioch’, in War and Government in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honour of J. O. Prestwich, ed. John Gillingham and James Holt (Woodbridge, 1984), 33–45; Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, 111–17; Thomas Asbridge, ‘The Holy Lance of Antioch: Power, Devotion and Memory on the First Crusade’, Reading Medieval Studies 33 (2007): 3–36. 26

GF, 60, ‘dic populo Dei ne timeat, sed firmiter toto corde credat in unum uerum Deum’. See also

RM, 68. 27

RA, 73, ‘si christiani sunt cur paganorum multitudinem verentur?’ On this vision, and those of Peter

Bartholomew, see John France, ‘Two Types of Vision on the First Crusade: Stephen of Valence and Peter Bartholomew’, Crusades 5 (2006): 1–20. 28

RA, 78–9, ‘inopia atque formidine consumptum esse’.

29

FC, 249, ‘nihil haesitantes, sed in Deo spem suam penitus ponentes’.

30

FC, 235–41.

31

FC, 245–6, ‘pro timore mortis aufugienti’.

32

FC, 246, ‘Quo, frater, fugis? Resta, ne timeas; Dominus enim in proelio vestro vobiscum erit.’

33

Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, 167.

34

On the anonymous author’s use of the histories by Fulcher and Robert, see ‘Preface’, in RHC Occ.,

v. xxxi. 35

HR, Liber, ch. 40.

36

HR, Liber, ch. 16, 26, 40; James MacGregor, ‘The First Crusade in Late Medieval Exempla’, The

Historian 68 (2006): 29–48. 37

Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda aurea, ed. Giovanni Maggioni, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Florence, 1998), i.

xlviii, 398 n. 139; MacGregor, ‘First Crusade’, 45. 38

MacGregor, ‘First Crusade’, 47.

39

Edgington, ‘The Gesta Francorum Iherusalem Expugnantium’, 21–35. Guibert of Nogent did not

refer to either of the visions reported by Fulcher, in all likelihood because he only came across the latter’s text while in the process of writing book 7 and had already dealt with the relic’s discovery in the

preceding book. GN, 329, 233–4. 40

BN, 503, ‘Franci ad bellum se praeparaverunt, nihil haesitantes, nihil de multitudine et infinita copia

hostium formidantes; sed quasi vir unus omnes simul ad prosternendos inimicos Christi unanimes facti sunt, et pro Christo et eorum libertate non solummodo audacter pugnare, verum etiam, si oporteret, occumbere et mortem subire hilari animo non dubitarent.’ 41

WM, 654, ‘metum barbaricorum incursuum’, ‘memorabili fidutiae Dei exemplo’.

42

WT, 223, 531, ‘inperterritus, fiduciam habens in domino’, ‘divino freti auxilio, non formidarent’.

See also AA, 148. 43

OD, 66; DeL, 146, 154.

44

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica Slavorum, in MGH SS, xxi. 176, ‘confidens de adiutorio Christi, qui

numquam deseruit sperantes in se’. 45

OP, 219, ‘nos clamantes in celum nec trepidantes ad prelium, sed viriliter resistentes interfectos, sauciatos et confusos ab insultu triduano recedere coegimus ipsius virtute, qui salvat sperantes in se’. 46

WT, 127, ‘Surge, Petre, propera et que tibi sunt iniuncta intrepidus perage: ego enim tecum ero.’

47

On this tradition, see Ernest Blake and Colin Morris, ‘A Hermit Goes to War: Peter and the Origins

of the First Crusade’, SCH 22 (1985): 79–107; M. D. Coupe, ‘Peter the Hermit: A Reassessment’, Nottingham Medieval Studies 31 (1987): 37–45; Jean Flori, ‘Faut-il réhabiliter Pierre l’Ermite? (Une réévalutation des sources de la première croisade)’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 38 (1995): 35–54. 48

Howden, Gesta, iii. 177; Howden, Chronica, iii. 119–20.

49

Humbert of Romans, De dono timoris, ed. Christine Boyer (Turnhout, 2008), xxv.

50

Humbert of Romans, De dono timoris, 8–29.

51

Brewer, Wonder and Skepticism, 46–7.

52

FC, 195–6, ‘trepidi et pavefacti’.

53

JV, HOr, 434, ‘formidine et pusillanimitate humiliavit eos Dominus’.

54

RA, 139, ‘desidia et timore’; AA, 598.

55

RC, 610; DeL, 140. See also DeL, 150, 152.

56

FC, 197, ‘virtutibus divinis munitae’.

57

GN, 236; WT, 329. These accounts are based on GF, 67–8.

58

Pairis, 132.

59

On the development of the crusade indulgence, see Ane Bysted, The Crusade Indulgence: Spiritual

Rewards and the Theology of the Crusades, c.1095–1216 (Leiden, 2015). 60

Brevis ordinacio, 8–9, ‘Qui pugnat, est in metu mortis, nec debet onerari, sed debet onus ab eo tolli,

ut ipse sit agilis. Merito ergo debet ecclesia exonerare suum pugilem, qui pro ipsa pugnat, & sustinere pondus ipsius, & ideo cruce signatis iuste remittit dominus papa penam peccatorum.’ 61

PT, 35, ‘Estote ubique fortes in Christi fide, et nolite timere illos qui vos persecuntur. Sicuti

Dominus dicit: Nolite timere eos qui occidunt corpus; animam vero non possunt occidere’; Historia belli sacri, 175. 62

IP, 104, ‘nimio exterriti timore’, ‘Quid, modicae fidei, timetis, quos sine mora mortuos videbitis?’

63

IP, 104, ‘fides non ficta’.

64

GP, 16, ‘spe siue metu’, ‘desperans Dominum fore cunctipotentem’.

65

GN, 217, ‘sub obtutu mors sola paventibus astat’.

66

GN, 217, 218, ‘contempsere dei spem’, ‘degeneres et superni iuvaminis refugae per obscenissma’.

For similar examples, see FC, 171; AA, 436–8. 67

Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 12–119, argued that, though widely attested in First Crusade

narratives, the ideal of imitating Christ was less characteristic of sources for the Second Crusade. Nevertheless, Christo-mimesis became a fundamental component of crusade ideology in the thirteenth century: C. Matthew Phillips, ‘Crucified with Christ: The Imitation of the Crucified Christ and Crusading Spirituality’, in Crusades: Medieval Worlds in Conflict, ed. Madden, Naus, and Ryan, 25–33; Bysted, Crusade Indulgence, 215–35. More generally, see Giles Constable, Three Studies in Medieval Religious and Social Thought (Cambridge, 1995), 143–248. 68

Riley-Smith, First Crusaders, 72–4; Jonathan Riley-Smith, ‘Death on the First Crusade’, in The

End of Strife, ed. David Loades (Edinburgh, 1984), 14–31; Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 114–18. 69

Jean Flori, ‘Mort et martyre des guerriers vers 1100: L’exemple de la première croisade’, Cahiers de

civilisation médiévale 34 (1991): 121–39; Flori, ‘Ideology and Motivations’, 22–3; John Cowdrey, ‘Martyrdom and the First Crusade’, in Crusade and Settlement, ed. Edbury, 46–56. 70

Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 151–2.

71

Caroline Smith, ‘Martyrdom and Crusading in the Thirteenth Century: Remembering the Dead of

Louis IX’s Crusades’, Al-Masāq 15 (2003): 189–96; Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville, 98–103, 139–49. See also Marek Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles: Depicting Death in the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia’, in Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier, ed. Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen, 149–54; Miikka Tamminen, ‘Who Deserves the Crown of Martyrdom? Martyrs in the Crusade Ideology of Jacques de Vitry (1160/70–1240)’, in On Old Age: Approaching Death in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Christian Krötzl and Katariina Mustakallio (Turnhout, 2011), 293–313. 72

GF, 1, ‘non dubitaret humiliter uiam incipere Domini’. See also GF, 4, 17, 65, 85.

73

RA, 113–14, ‘Primus ordo est non formidancium tela, vel gladios, nec aliquid genus tormenti. Ordo

iste michi similis est. Ego enim veni in Ierusalem, gladios et lanceas, fustes, et baculos, demum et crucem non dubitavi. Moriuntur pro me, egoque pro eis mortuus sum. Et ego sum in eis, et ipsi sunt in me. Cum vero hi tales obeunt, a dextris Dei collocantur, ubi post resurrectionem in celum ascendens, consedi.’ 74

RA, 114, ‘ignavie non virtutis exempla aliis tribuunt’; Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 43.

75

RA, 115, ‘fratres Iude Scarioth’; OP, 247.

76

RM, 23, 10–11, ‘pro vita mori minime formidantes’, ‘martirium subire perhorruit’.

77

GN, 156; GP, 172.

78

EA, 33; based on FC, 411–12.

79

RC, 663, ‘gens imperterrita … / In spem vivendi currunt ad opes moriendi’; WT, 204.

80

WM, 602, 604, ‘felicis martirii’, ‘Mortemne timetis, uiri fortissimi, fortitudine et audacia

prestantes? Nichil certe in uos poterit comminisci humana nequitia quo superna pensetur gloria; non enim sunt condignae passiones huius temporis ad futuram gloriam quae reuelabitur in nobis. An nescitis quod uiuere hominibus est calamitas, mori felicitas?’ 81

WM, 604.

82

Thomson, William of Malmesbury, 183.

83

DeL, 152, 156, 106, ‘Gloriose mortis metu’.

84

Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, in Coggeshall, 214, ‘ne coronam

praesentem perderet, nec aliquid de mercede aeternae retributionis minueret, instabat intrepidus; et quoniam perfecta caritas foris timorem mittit, athleta victoriosus millia populi se circumdantis non timuit, quia laboris sui remuneratorem mente et spiritu in coelo vidit’; Helen Nicholson, ‘“Martyrum collegio sociandus haberet”: Depictions of the Military Orders’ Martyrs in the Holy Land, 1187–1291’, in Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages, ed. John and Morton, 107. 85

HP, 117; IP, 263–4, ‘mens conscia coronae roboravit’. See also IP, 416–17; Coggeshall, 44–5.

86

Pairis, 132; Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione et conculcatione civitatis Acconensis et

tocius Terre Sancte, ed. Robert Huygens, Excidii Aconis gestorum collectio (Turnhout, 2004), 127–8. 87

Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 109–10, ‘unanimiter omnes pro fide mori se invicem

confortantes et carnis interitum non timentes, quinimmo et mortalem vitam pro Christi nomine magnanimiter aspernantes et voluntarie mortis supplicium ylariter perferentes’. 88

Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 86–119. For Gunther of Pairis (113, 132), both the reward of

martyrdom and the accomplishments of crusading predecessors could assuage the Fourth Crusaders’ terror. 89

PB; Michael Markowski, ‘Peter of Blois and the Conception of the Third Crusade’, in The Horns of

Hattin, ed. Benjamin Kedar (London, 1992), 263–5; Richard Southern, ‘Peter of Blois and the Third Crusade’, in Studies in Medieval History Presented to R. H. C. Davis, ed. Henry Mayr-Harting and Robert Moore (London, 1985), 207–18; John Cotts, The Clerical Dilemma: Peter of Blois and Literate Culture in the Twelfth Century (Washington, DC, 2009), 226–30. 90

PB, 40–1, ‘fortes quidem et omnino intrepidi’.

91

PB, 41.

92

PB, 52, ‘non tremuit corpus nec mens eius turbata est’.

93

PB, 51–2.

94

PB, 53, ‘athleta domini fortissimus’, 64–73.

95

PB, 64, ‘Dicite, pusillanimes, dicite, pavidi et imbelles: quid timetis mortem momentaneam, que

viam vite aperit et hostiaria facta est in regnum filiorum dei? Quid timetis, modice fidei?’ 96

PB, 71, 67.

97

Riley-Smith, ‘Crusading as an Act of Love’, 177–92; Miikka Tamminen, ‘A Test of Friendship:

Amicitia in the Crusade Ideology of the Thirteenth Century’, in De Amicitia: Friendship and Social Networks in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Christian Krötzl and Katariina Mustakallio (Rome, 2009), 213–29; Susanna Throop, ‘Acts of Vengeance, Acts of Love: Crusading Violence in the Twelfth Century’, in Essays and Studies 2014: War and Literature, ed. Laura Ashe and Ian Patterson (Cambridge, 2014), 3–20. 98

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 167, ‘amore mortis animati’.

99

GD, 78, ‘iacula inimicorum, nec mortem pro Christi amore minime timentes, sed voluntate & leto animo pro Christi amore bellum contra Christianorum inimicos temptare cupientes’. 100

EA, 34; GP, 204, 212, 226, 232.

101

DeL, 72.

102

Pairis, 113, 114, ‘felicibus castris’, ‘letis mentibus … ut et causam crucifixi fideliter exsequentes

pro labore brevi et modico magna et eterna percipere valeatis stipendia’. 103 104

GP, 200; JV, Lettres, 105, 114, 116, 130. PT, 36, ‘primi acceperunt feliciter martyrium pro Christi nomine’; GF, 4, 17, ‘letantes

gaudentesque’. 105

On the desire for martyrdom, particularly within Franciscan thought, see Gaposchkin, Making of

Saint Louis, 172–3; E. Randolph Daniel, ‘The Desire for Martyrdom: A Leitmotiv of St Bonaventure’, Franciscan Studies 32 (1972): 74–87. 106

FC, 226–7, 476.

107

AA, 582, ‘spe eterne uite’.

108

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 212, ‘gloria et honore coronatur; erat enim flagrans mortis desiderio’.

109

RM, 71.

110

AA, 458, ‘tamquam ad conuiuium pergentes letati’.

111

AA, 132; GN, 155; JV, Lettres, 114.

112

AA, 458, 460.

113

PB, 54, 51.

114

Pairis, 116, ‘leto vultu et mente impavida’.

115

FC, 409–12.

116

For literary representations of the Templars, see Helen Nicholson, Templars, Hospitallers and

Teutonic Knights: Images of the Military Orders, 1128–1291 (Leicester, 1993); Helen Nicholson, ‘Knights and Lovers: The Military Orders in the Romantic Literature of the Thirteenth Century’, in The Military Orders: Fighting for the Faith and Caring for the Sick, ed. Malcolm Barber (Aldershot, 1994), 340–5; Helen Nicholson, Love, War and the Grail: Templars, Hospitallers and Teutonic Knights in Medieval Epic and Romance, 1150–1500 (Leiden, 2000). 117

Malcolm Barber, The New Knighthood: A History of the Order of the Temple (Cambridge, 1994),

44. 118

Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 101–11; Jean Leclereq, ‘Saint Bernard’s Attitude towards War’,

Studies in Medieval Cistercian History 2 (1976): 22–5; Aryeh Grabois, ‘Militia and Malitia: The Bernardine Vision of Chivalry’, in The Second Crusade and the Cistercians, ed. Michael Gervers (New York, 1992), 49–56. Bernard’s attitude towards fear receives passing comment in Barber, New Knighthood, 45; Tim Rayborn, The Violent Pilgrimage: Christians, Muslims and Holy Conflicts, 850– 1150 (Jefferson, NC, 2013), 66–7. 119

BC, Liber, 214, ‘Impavidus profecto miles, et omni ex parte securus, qui ut corpus ferri, sic

animum fidei lorica induitur. Utrisque nimirum munitus armis, nec daemonem timet, nec hominem. Nec vero mortem formidat, qui mori desiderat. Quid enim vel vivens, vel moriens metuat, cui vivere Christus est, et mori lucrum? Stat quidem fidenter libenterque pro Christo; sed magis cupit dissolvi et esse cum Christo: hoc enim melius. Securi ergo procedite, milites, et intrepido animo inimicos crucis Christi propellite.’ 120

BC, Liber, 214, 215.

121

BC, Liber, 215, ‘cordis … affectu’.

122

BC, Liber, 216.

123

BC, Liber, 217, ‘At vero Christi milites securi praeliantur praelia Domini sui, nequaquam

metuentes aut de hostium caede peccatum, aut de sua nece periculum, quandoquidem mors pro Christo vel ferenda, vel inferenda, et nihil habeat criminis, et plurimum gloriae mereatur.’ 124

BC, Liber, 219.

125

BC, Liber, 221, ‘irruunt in adversarios, hostes velut oves reputant, nequaquam, etsi paucissimi, vel

saevam barbariem, vel numerosam multitudinem formidantes. Noverunt siquidem non de suis praesumere viribus, sed de virtute Domini Sabaoth sperare victoriam.’ 126

SBO, viii. 203.

127

On Bernard’s distinction between Templars and crusaders, see Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 100–

11. 128

SBO, viii. 315, ‘Huic sese dare discrimini insaniae est, non virtutis, nec audaciae, sed amentiae potius ascribendum. Habes nunc, fortis miles, habes, vir bellicose, ubi dimices absque periculo, ubi et vincere gloria, et mori lucrum.’ See also Bernard of Clairvaux, ‘Letter to the English People’, trans. Bruno Scott James, The Letters of St Bernard of Clairvaux (Sutton, 1998), 462.

129

Susan Edgington, ‘Albert of Aachen, St Bernard and the Second Crusade’, in The Second Crusade:

Scope and Consequences, ed. Jonathan Phillips and Martin Hoch (Manchester, 2001), 59–60; AA, 106, 232–4, 236, 276, 306–8, 312–14. 130

RM, xi n. 7, xliii; Damien Kempf, ‘Towards a Textual Archaeology of the First Crusade’, in

Writing the Early Crusades, ed. Bull and Kempf, 122–3. 131

Nicholson, ‘“Martyrum”’, 101–18; Nicholson, Love, War and the Grail, 49–52.

132

John 15.13, ‘Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’

133

Innocent II, Omne datum optimum, ed. Hiestand, Papsturkunden für Templer und Johanniter:

Archivberichte und Texte, 206, ‘iuxta summi pastoris uocem animas uestras pro fratribus ponere eosque ad incursibus paganorum defensare minime formidatis’. 134

Celestine II, Milites Templi, ed. Hiestand, Papsturkunden für Templer und Johanniter:

Archivberichte und Texte, 215, ‘Ipsi pro fratribus animas ponere non formidant.’ 135

IP, 7, ‘mori pro Christo non timuit’, ‘ad coelos feliciter cum palma martyrii … migravit’. See also

Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, 215–16. 136

OP, 210.

137

WT, 553, 555, ‘neglecta humilitate’.

138

Helen Nicholson, ‘Before William of Tyre: European Reports on the Military Orders’ Deeds in the

East, 1150–1185’, in The Military Orders, Volume 2: Welfare and Warfare, ed. Helen Nicholson (Aldershot, 1998), 116–17. 139

Jacques referred to Bernard several times in his works; see Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII ad

fratres ordinis militaris, insignitos charactere militiae Christi, ed. Jean Baptiste Pitra, Analecta novissima spicilegii Solesmensis: Altera continuatio, 2 vols (Paris, 1885–8), ii. 405, where he employed Bernard’s famous ‘two swords’ doctrine. 140

For example, JV, HOr, 262.

141

JV, HOr, 264.

142

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 406, ‘Valde enim audaces esse debent et securi, qui puram habent

conscientiam et causam justam.’ Proverbs 28.1, ‘the just, bold as a lion, shall be without dread’; Proverbs 30.30, ‘a lion, the strongest of beasts, who hath no fear of anything he meeteth’. 143

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 406, ‘E contra de falsis religiosis, qui malam habent

conscientiam, Isaias aith XXXIII: Possedit timor hypocritas.’ 144

Jacques de Vitry, [Sermo] ad peregrinos. Thema sumpta ex Zach[arias] [capitulo] ultimo, ed.

Jessalynn Bird, ‘James of Vitry’s Sermons to Pilgrims’, Essays in Medieval Studies 25 (2008): 98–9, ‘quia iustum bellum habetis et … bonam habetis conscientiam’. On the probable use of this sermon to inspire crusaders, see Bird, ‘James of Vitry’s Sermons to Pilgrims’, 82. 145

Ralph Niger, De re militari et triplici via peregrinationis Ierosolimitane (1187/88), ed. Ludwig

Schmugge (Berlin, 1977), 104, ‘conscientia vero integra nulla timet inimici iacula’. See also RA, 76–7; HR, Liber, ch. 48. 146

Wojtek Jezierski, ‘Risk Societies on the Frontier: Missionary Emotional Communities in the

Southern Baltic, 11th–13th Centuries’, in Imagined Communities on the Baltic Rim, from the Eleventh to Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Wojtek Jezierski and Lars Hermanson (Amsterdam, 2016), 155–90; Wojtek Jezierski, ‘Fears, Sights and Slaughter: Expressions of Fright and Disgust in the Baltic Missionary Historiography (11th–13th Centuries)’, in Tears, Sighs and Laughter: Expressions of Emotions in the Middle Ages, ed. Per Förnegård et al. (Stockholm, 2017), 125–9. 147

Jezierski, ‘Risk Societies’, 177.

148

Jezierski, ‘Risk Societies’, 176.

149

HL, 19, 53.

150

HL, 183.

151

HL, 57, ‘maiorem indulgenciam et vitam promittit eternam. Hiis auditis accedentes fere trecenti de

melioribus resumpta cruce Rigam redire et murum se pro domo Domini ponere non formidant.’ 152

On Henry’s understanding of crusade ideology, see Christopher Tyerman, ‘Henry of Livonia and

the Ideology of Crusading’, in Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier, ed. Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen, 23–44; Marek Tamm, ‘How to Justify a Crusade? The Conquest of Livonia and New Crusade Rhetoric in the Early Thirteenth Century’, JMH 39 (2013): 431–55. 153

HL, 20.

154

See HL, 51; Tamm, ‘Martyrs and Miracles’, 149–54.

155

PLVC, i. 252–3, ‘Putatis … quod timeam? Christi geritur negotium.’

156

PLVC, i. 269, ‘remissionem adepti omnium peccatorum, statim gloria et honore coronati’, ‘hilares

et intrepidi hostibus occurrebant’. 157

PLVC, ii. 115, ‘in miro fervore spiritus et virtute’.

158

PLVC, i. 221–2, ‘mente intrepida, hilarissimo vultu’, ‘Non timebo quid faciat michi homo’.

159

PLVC, i. 222, ‘intrepidus ille Dei famulus’.

160

PLVC, i. 140, 252–3; ii. 281, 303–4, 307.

161

PLVC, ii. 152–3, ‘per cordis contricionem et oris confessionem mundati’.

162

Jezierski, ‘Risk Societies’, 178–83.

163

Caffaro of Caschifelone, De liberatione civitatum Orientis, 106, ‘territi et timore commoti’, ‘nolite

spauescere uel timere, quia quod Deus promittit fidelibus suis, complere non desinit’. 164

Joinville, 138, 156; Smith, ‘Martyrdom and Crusading’, 189–96; Smith, Crusading in the Age of

Joinville, 98–103, 139–49; Jean-Pierre Perrot, ‘Le “péché” de Joinville: Écriture du souvenir et imaginaire hagiographique’, in Le prince et son historien: La Vie de Saint Louis de Joinville, ed. Jean Dufournet and Laurence Harf (Paris, 1997), 196–8; Kaeuper, Holy Warriors, 88–90.

165

Joinville, 166, ‘Et lors nous dit que nous ne nous devions pas desconforter se nous avions soufertes

ces persecucions pour li, “car encore, dit il, n’estes vous pas mort pour li ainsi comme il fu mort pour vous.”’ 166

Joinville, 124, 226.

167

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 163, ‘cuius inuentione aliisque multis diuinis reuelationibus ita confortati

et corroborati fuimus, ut qui antea adflicti et timidi fueramus, tunc ad proeliandum audacissimi promptissimique’. 168

DRI, vi. 360, ‘inspirata quadam securitate divinitus’.

169

MP, vi. 153, ‘laeti et confortati de Deo’; ‘Six lettres relatives aux croisades’, ed. Paul Riant,

Archives de l’Orient latin, 2 vols (Paris, 1881–4), i. 389, ‘absque timoris strepitu, leto animo … et Crucis inimicos, tamquam fortes athlete Domini, viriliter invadentes’. 170

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 171–2; RA, 157.

171

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 147–8.

172

Purkis, Crusading Spirituality, 45–7.

173

Shaller, ‘Zur Kreuzzugsenzyklika Papst Sergius IV’, 151, ‘Non vos, filii, marinus terreat tumor aut

bellicosus expavescat furor, nam divinitus promissum est: Qui presentem pro Christo perdiderit vitam, que iam non deficiet, inveniet futuram.’ 174

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, 91; Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 9–10; John Gilchrist,

‘The Lord’s War as the Proving Ground of Faith: Pope Innocent III and the Propagation of Violence (1198–1216)’, in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden, 1993), 79–80. 175

Innocent III, Suggestor scelerum, in PL, ccxvi, col. 117, ‘neque timeas passiones hujus saeculi,

quae condignae non sunt ad futuram gloriam’, ‘tanquam strenuus miles Christi’. 176

Innocent III, Post miserabile, in DRI, i. 501; Innocent III, Quia maior, col. 818.

177

Innocent III, Rem crudelem audivimus, in PLVC, i. 62, 63, ‘ut a fidelibus Suis timorem mortis

auferret’, ‘ut ejus exemplo, qui vitam eternam temporali morte feliciter est mercatus, animas suas in tam glorioso certamine … pro Christo ponere non formident’. 178

Gilbert of Tournai, Sermo I, 188, ‘considerantes premia celestia non terreamini a laboribus

itineris’. See also Jacques de Vitry, [Sermo] ad peregrinos, thema sumpta ex epistola ad Galath[as] iii, ed. Bird, ‘James of Vitry’s Sermons to Pilgrims’, 91, 94. 179

HR, Liber, ch. 18, 19, ‘nimius timor pene corporis’; Cole, Preaching, 209.

180

HR, Liber, ch. 2, ‘nec timeas … mortem inferni’.

181

HR, Liber, ch. 19, invitatio 22, ‘Nemo ergo nunc parcat corpori sed repulsa omni corporalis grauaminis timore veniat ad crucem paratus etiam mori in cruce et cum cruce si necesse fuerit propter Christum.’

182

HR, Liber, ch. 19, invitatio 22, ‘Domine tu pro me fuisti in cruce una die, et ego pro te in cruce et

cruciatibus multis propter te multis diebus’; Cole, Preaching, 210. 183

Brevis ordinacio, 21, ‘securus in die tremendo’, ‘Domine, pro me fuisti in cruce, & ego in cruce

pro Te, Tu fuisti mortuus pro me, & ego pro Te!’ 184

RA, 113–14.

185

See Les Chétifs, 58; CJ, 39, 61, 87–8, 190; CCCJ, 115, 177, 196, 219, 301.

186

CA, 439–40, ‘Ne redoutés le mort mais alés le querant, / Soviegne vos de Diu et de son saint

commant. / Le mort soufri por nos, humles par bon talant, / Et ki morra por lui sor son cors desfendant, / Tel loier en ara par le mien esciant, / Avoec lui en ira el regne permanant’; Antioche, 310–11. 187

AA, 106, 236; Antioche, 18.

188

Trotter, Medieval French Literature, 175–6.

189

Aimeric de Pegulhan, Ara parra qual seran enveyos, ed. Gilda Caïti-Russo and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 21–30, ‘Non deuria esser hom temeros / de suffrir mort el servizi de Dieu, / qu’elh la suffri el servezi de nos / don seran salf essems ab Sant Andrieu / selhs que·l segran lai vas Monti-Tabor; / per que negus non deu aver paor / el viatge d’aquesta mort carnal; / plus deu temer la mort esperital / on seran plors ez estridors de dens, / que sans Matieus o mostr’e n’es guirens.’ 190

Thibaut of Champagne, Seigneurs, sachiez, qui or ne s’en ira, ed. and trans. Kathleen Brahney,

The Lyrics of Thibaut de Champagne (New York, 1989), 226; Thibaut of Champagne, Dame, ensi est qu’il m’en couvient aler, ed. and trans. Brahney, The Lyrics of Thibaut de Champagne, 232, ‘a vous me rent, biax Peres Jhesu Criz! / … / cil qui vous sert ne puet estre esbahiz’. 191

Oiés, seigneur, pereceus par oiseuses, ed. Anna Radaelli and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 9–16,

‘Hé, cuers faillis, mauvaise chars honteuse, / avés vous dont de morir grant paour? / Souviegne vous de la mort dolereuse / ki ert sans fins et tous jours iert poiours! / Racordons nous a nostre Creator / qui nous vient qerre a grant ciere joiouse, / et dit: “Ça, tuit li boin et li meillour / k’en paradis a mout grant place oiseuse!”’ 192

Aimeric de Belenoi, Consiros, cum partitz d’amor, ed. Caterina Menichetti and trans. Linda

Paterson, LRC, ll. 46–54. 193

Guillem Figueira, Totz hom qui ben comens’ e ben fenis, ed. and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 41–

8; Giraut de Borneil, Jois sia comensamens, ed. Ruth Sharman, The Cansos and Sirventes of the Troubadour Giraut de Borneil: A Critical Edition (Cambridge, 1989), 422; Giraut de Borneil, Si soutils senz, ed. Sharman, The Cansos and Sirventes of the Troubadour Giraut de Borneil, 295–6. 194

Bliese, ‘Rhetoric and Morale’, 206–7; John Bliese, ‘When Knightly Courage May Fail: Battle

Orations in Medieval Europe’, The Historian 53 (1991): 489–504; Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, 85–90. 195

Richer, Histoire de France (888–995), ed. and trans. Robert Latouche, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Paris,

1969), ii. 88; Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, 85.

196

Stephen Spencer, ‘Piety, Brotherhood and Power: The Role and Significance of Emotions in Albert

of Aachen’s Historia Ierosolimitana’, Literature Compass 13 (2016): 425–6. 197

Steven Biddlecombe, ‘Baldric of Bourgueil and the Flawed Hero’, Anglo-Norman Studies 35

(2013): 79–93; Steven Biddlecombe, ‘Baldric of Bourgueil and the Familia Christi’, in Writing the Early Crusades, ed. Bull and Kempf, 17–18. 198

David Bachrach, ‘Conforming with the Rhetorical Tradition of Plausibility: Clerical

Representations of Battlefield Orations against Muslims, 1080–1170’, International History Review 26 (2004): 1–19. 199

Bliese, ‘Rhetoric and Morale’, 202, 220.

200

Classical literature did influence the representation of fear in other ways; see Chapter 2.

201

WM, 598, ‘par labor atque metus pretio meliore petuntur’; Lucan, De bello civili, LCL (London,

1962), 24; Thomson, William of Malmesbury, 48–62; Blacker, Faces of Time, 58–66; Sigbjørn Sønnesyn, William of Malmesbury and the Ethics of History (Woodbridge, 2012), 21–41. 202 203

MP, vi. 194, ‘pro necis horrore, quam etiam perfecti sancti dicuntur formidasse’. William of Malmesbury, Vita Dunstani, ed. and trans. Michael Winterbottom and Rodney

Thomson, William of Malmesbury, Saints’ Lives (Oxford, 2002), 232, ‘nec … inerti pauore refugit’; William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, ed. and trans. Winterbottom and Thomson, William of Malmesbury, Saints’ Lives, 28, ‘Dominus michi adiutor; non timebo quid fatiat michi homo.’ 204

William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 142, ‘nec aliquis ex eis quos timetis uobis poterit nocere,

si Deo uelitis fideliter seruire’. 205

Vito Fumagalli, Landscapes of Fear: Perceptions of Nature and the City in the Middle Ages, trans.

Shayne Mitchell (Cambridge, 1994), 26. For other topoi associated with a ‘good’ death in hagiographies, see David Crouch, ‘The Culture of Death in the Anglo-Norman World’, in Anglo-Norman Political Culture and the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, ed. C. Warren Hollister (Woodbridge, 1997), 158–62. 206

Gesta sancti Ludovici noni, in RHGF, xx. 55, ‘nullum subire timens periculum pro domino Jesu

Christo’. 207

The Life of Christina of Markyate: A Twelfth Century Recluse, ed. and trans. Charles Talbot

(Toronto, 1998), 106, ‘Ne timeas … non enim veni quo tibi metum augerem: sed ut securitatem ingererem. Tolle igitur crucem istam, ac tenens firmiter … et memento quoniam ego ipse tuli eandem primitus.’ 208

Paul Alphandéry, ‘Les citations bibliques chez les historiens de la première croisade’, Revue de l’histoire des religions 99 (1929): 139–57; Rousset, Les origins et les caractères, 89–100; Katherine Allen Smith, ‘Glossing the Holy War: Exegetical Constructions of the First Crusade, c.1099–c.1146’, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 10 (2013): 1–39; Alan Murray, ‘Biblical Quotations and Formulaic Language in the Chronicle of William of Tyre’, in Deeds Done beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders Presented to Peter Edbury, ed. Susan Edgington and

Helen Nicholson (Farnham, 2014), 25–34; Elizabeth Lapina and Nicholas Morton, eds., The Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources (Leiden, 2017). 209

DeL, 150; Roger of Salisbury, Ascendente Ihesu in naviculum, ed. Cole, Preaching, Appendix B,

229–30, ‘contra superbiam docuit humilitatem’. 210

JV, HOr, 244, 288, ‘exemplum humilitatis’, ‘discant humiliati cum Christo’.

211

Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 1996), 752;

WN, 66; Peter Edbury, ‘Looking Back on the Second Crusade: Some Late Twelfth-Century English Perspectives’, in The Second Crusade and the Cistercians, ed. Gervers, 166. William of Newburgh interpreted events in the Latin East in light of this passage on two further occasions: WN, 68, 243. 212

WT, 985, 460; GD, 103. For another example, see MP, v. 308.

213

Innocent III, Litteras imperatorie dignitatis, in DRI, vii. 262. See also FP, 116.

214

Paul-Eugene Dion, ‘The “Fear Not” Formula and the Holy War’, The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 32 (1970): 565–70. 215

PT, 35; AA, 312; RM, 13, ‘Noli timere, quia ego tecum sum. Ab aquilone adducam semen tuum, et

ab occidente congregabo te.’ 216

PB, 64; IP, 104. Matthew 8.26, ‘Why are you fearful, O ye of little faith?’

217

HR, Liber, ch. 27.

218

HR, Liber, ch. 27, 26.

219

HR, Liber, ch. 9.

220

HR, Liber, ch. 45, 27. Deuteronomy 20.3–4, ‘you join battle this day against your enemies, let not

your heart be dismayed, be not afraid, do not give back, fear ye them not: Because the Lord your God is in the midst of you and will fight for you against your enemies, to deliver you from danger’; Deuteronomy 31.6, ‘Do manfully and be of good heart: fear not, nor be dismayed at their sight: for the Lord thy God he himself is thy leader, and will not leave thee nor forsake thee.’ 221

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 406; Bertrand de la Tour, Sermo I, in CPI, 231–5.

222

RA, 114; FC, 246, ‘ne timeas; Dominus enim in proelio vestro vobiscum erit’; Deuteronomy 3.22,

‘Ne timeas eos: Dominus enim Deus vester pugnabit pro vobis.’ 223

Jean Dunbabin, ‘The Maccabees as Exemplars in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries’, in The Bible

in the Medieval World: Essays in Memory of Beryl Smalley, ed. Katherine Walsh and Diana Wood (Oxford, 1985), 31–41; Sylvain Gouguenheim, ‘Les Maccabées, modèles des guerriers chrétiens des origines au XIIe siècle’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 54 (2011): 3–20; Nicholas Morton, ‘The Defence of the Holy Land and the Memory of the Maccabees’, JMH 36 (2010): 275–93; Elizabeth Lapina, ‘Anti-Jewish Rhetoric in Guibert of Nogent’s Dei Gesta per Francos’, JMH 35 (2009): 239–53; Elizabeth Lapina, ‘The Maccabees and the Battle of Antioch’, in Dying for the Faith, Killing for the Faith: Old-Testament Faith-Warriors (1 and 2 Maccabees) in Historical Perspective, ed. Gabriela

Signori (Leiden, 2012), 147–59. 224

Lapina, ‘Maccabees’, 149, 152–3.

225

Morton, ‘Defence of the Holy Land’, 278 n. 26.

226

Gilchrist, ‘Lord’s War’, 74–5; Lapina, ‘Anti-Jewish Rhetoric’, 239–53; Lapina, ‘Maccabees’, 153–

227

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, 91.

228

Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 9–10, ‘Attendite, qualiter Macchabaei zelo divine legis accensi pro

5.

fratribus liberandis extrema queque pericula sunt experti … Et quod illi sub una lege constituti fecerunt, vos per incarnationem domini nostri Iesu Christi ad lucem veritatis adducti et multorum instructi exemplis sanctorum sine trepidatione aliqua faciatis et non timeatis dare terrena et pauca et breviter duratura, quibus illa bona promissa sunt et reposita.’ 229

HR, Liber, ch. 6, ‘fortes in bello Domini’, ‘exemplo filiorum Mathathie’; James Brundage, ‘Humbert of Romans and the Legitimacy of Crusader Conquests’, in The Horns of Hattin, ed. Kedar, 305; Penny Cole, ‘Humbert of Romans and the Crusade’, in The Experience of Crusading, Volume 1, ed. Bull and Housley, 165. 230

HR, Liber, ch. 26, ‘Judas Machabeus autem confidebat semper cum omni spe auxilium de celo

affuturum, et hortabatur suos ne formidarent, sed in mente haberent adiutoria sibi facta de cele et nunc sperarent ab omnipotenti sibi affuturam victoriam.’ See also HR, Liber, ch. 27. 231

Ansbert, 85, ‘unaque voluntate sanguinem suum cupientes pro Christo fundere, ita stabant

intrepidi’. The Theban legion was reputed for their martyrdom at the hands of Emperor Maximian (286– 305). 232

Ansbert, 86, ‘ob amorem celestis patrie’, ‘quid trepidamus? Christus regnat, Christus vincit,

Christus imperat.’ 233

Ansbert, 86, ‘animi … nobilitate par Iude Machabeo’.

234

BC, Liber, 221; JV, HOr, 264.

235

GN, 157, ‘martirum animositate’. For martyrs in the pre-crusade period, see Cowdrey, ‘Martyrdom

and the First Crusade’, 46–9; John Cowdrey, ‘Pope Gregory VII and Martyrdom’, in Dei Gesta per Francos: Crusade Studies in Honour of Jean Richard, ed. Michel Balard, Benjamin Kedar, and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Aldershot, 2001), 3–11; Colin Morris, ‘Martyrs on the Field of Battle before and during the First Crusade’, SCH 30 (1993): 93–8. 236

Kevin Madigan, The Passions of Christ in High-Medieval Thought: An Essay on Christological Development (Oxford, 2007), 67. 237

On the growing interest in Christ’s humanity and Passion, see Rachel Fulton, From Judgment to Passion: Devotion to Christ and the Virgin Mary, 800–1200 (New York, 2002); McNamer, Affective Meditation; Carol Lansing, Passion and Order: Restraint of Grief in the Medieval Italian Communes (Ithaca, NY, 2008), 136–48.

238

Madigan, Passions of Christ, 63–71.

239

Madigan, Passions of Christ, 57.

240

John Bliese, ‘Courage and Honor, Cowardice and Shame: A Motive Appeal in Battle Orations in

the Song of Roland and in Chronicles of the Central Middle Ages’, Olifant 20 (1996): 204.

2 The Multifaceted Nature of Fear It was established in Chapter 1 that the current historiographical consensus regarding fear in a crusading context—that the narrative texts offer an unmediated window onto participants’ lived fears—is no longer tenable. The biblical prism through which ecclesiastical chroniclers interpreted timor mortis meant that it was primarily considered an undesirable passion. Instead of fearing death, crusade combatants were expected to embrace humility, wholeheartedly placing their trust in God, and to undauntedly undergo martyrdom in an act of imitatio Christi. The fear–faith paradigm was the dominant appraisal of fear in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade histories, though not the only one. Fear communicated and intersected with several broader themes in the texts, four of which will be discussed here: chivalry, masculinity, deception, and discourses of power. The first section seeks to gauge the potential influence of chivalric culture in conditioning crusade chroniclers’ attitudes to fear by mapping how the relationship between fear, shame, and cowardice evolved over time. The nexus between fear and gender receives attention in the second section, where it will firstly be established that a number of writers viewed crusading in gendered terms, before assessing the compatibility of fear and masculinity. Taking characterizations of the Byzantines as a case study, the third section examines the relationship between fear and deception, whereas the fourth considers a specific literary function of fear terminology: the embodiment and communication of power. By exploring these four themes, this chapter seeks to demonstrate that the ways in which fear was represented in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade narratives were far more complex and multifaceted than historians have appreciated. This, in turn, necessitates that we reject the scholarly approach of treating chroniclers’ accounts of crusader trepidation as straightforward, representative evidence of participants’ actual feelings, for such an approach overlooks the variegated interpretations of fear discernible in the texts, which were largely dependent upon context. Gender- and shame-centred appraisals of fear, it will be contended, add further weight to the argument set forth in the previous chapter: that fear was an emotion which Latin combatants ought to relinquish. However, as shall be demonstrated below, in alternative contexts it was simultaneously considered an understandable— perhaps even praiseworthy—sentiment for crusaders to possess and openly display.

The Impact of Chivalry In his recent book, Medieval Chivalry, Richard Kaeuper devoted a significant proportion of his analysis of ‘chivalric emotions’ to fear.1 Whereas Kaeuper was primarily concerned with constructing ‘a skeletal affective framework of the chivalric ordo’—with considering how the history of emotions can inform our understanding of chivalry, and fear’s place within that framework—my aim here is to answer a different question: what impact, if any, did a nascent chivalric ethos have on chroniclers’ attitudes towards fear?2 Like the idea of crusading itself, chivalry eludes precise definition. Fundamentally, it was an aristocratic ethos influencing the behaviour of knights, and most agree that chivalric culture emerged in the period c.1170–c.1220, not least because the word chevalerie only acquired connotations of a homogeneous social class by c.1200, before which it merely designated a professional mounted warrior.3 Once thought to have evolved under the direction of the Church, chivalry is now generally considered a predominantly lay ideal, albeit one which occasionally carried ethical or religious tones. The importance of crusading as a stimulus for the development of chivalric ideals, as well as the bearing those ideals had on the practice of crusading in the thirteenth century, has long been appreciated by historians.4 However, a note of caution was recently sounded by Laura Ashe, whose survey of vernacular literature from France and Anglo-Norman England revealed that ‘early crusading ideology, as written about by theologians and clerics, had surprisingly little to offer the warrior aristocracy in their quest to establish a working ideal for their own class and status’.5 In light of the ambiguities surrounding chivalry, the following discussion focuses squarely on two interlocking and undisputed components of chivalric culture: honour and shame. Even in the prechivalric aristocratic habitus, ‘the feeling of being honourable was a defining emotion, as it was desire for honour and fear of shame that policed the whole system’.6 Thus, from the mid-twelfth century we witness an ever-growing preoccupation with the pursuit of honour and, by the same token, with the avoidance of shame. By this point, shame was not just perceived as a personal blemish on a warrior’s reputation, but also as a lasting stain inherited by his kin.7 Consequently, by the thirteenth century considerations of honour and dishonour exerted significant bearing on knightly conduct, with John of Joinville explaining that the advice of his cousin, the lord of Bourlémont, had prevented him from leaving Outremer: ‘Take care of how you return, since no knight, whether rich or poor, can come back without shame if he leaves those of Our Lord’s humbler people with whom he set out in Saracen hands.’8 This concern for incurring dishonour appears to have directly impinged on the seneschal’s behaviour: in accordance with his cousin’s advice, Joinville later resolved that if Louis IX returned to France, he would await the arrival of another expedition.9 The rise of chivalry undoubtedly broadened the spectrum of what was considered cowardly behaviour, although—as Natasha Hodgson has recently argued—even in

the thirteenth century, concepts of honour and shame ‘were not fixed, immutable notions, but relied on the author’s interpretation’.10 Before turning to the crusade narratives, attitudes towards fear in literature representative of chivalry in its ‘mature’ stage must first be clarified. As others have demonstrated, vernacular treatises intended for the instruction of knights represent our ‘best’ evidence for analysing aristocratic chivalric identity.11 While Constance Bouchard was undoubtedly correct in urging for greater sensitivity in attempting to trace the various components of chivalry back into the pre-chivalric era, these didactic texts nevertheless provide a valid exemplar against which the crusade histories can be assessed.12 Unsurprisingly, the chivalric manuals offer an idealized vision of knighthood, whereby complete immunity to fear was prescribed to noblemen; the knight Geoffrey de Charny advocated that bons chevaliers should ‘commit themselves eagerly, boldly and gladly to such deeds of arms and adventures, fearing nothing’.13 The assessment of fear in de Charny’s Livre de chevalerie and Ramon Llull’s Libre que es de l’ordre de cavalleria was principally founded on notions of honour and shame. Writing between 1274 and 1276, Llull emphatically stated that ‘the malfeasant knight who fears more desperately for the strength of his body when he flees and forsakes his lord, does not practise the office of the knight because of the villainy and weakness of his courage, nor does he serve or obey the honoured Order of Chivalry’.14 If the fearful, malfeasant knight—an example of ‘lesser nobility of courage’—was acting in accordance with the ‘Order of Chivalry’, Llull went on to explain, then weakness and cowardice would be prized more than hardiness and courage—a view with which he clearly disagreed.15 Similarly, Geoffrey de Charny devoted a chapter of his Livre de chevalerie, written in the early 1350s, to denouncing ‘wretched people [who] are so afraid of dying that they cannot overcome their fear’.16 The schema of honour and shame was fundamental to de Charny’s assessment of fear: whereas cowards (chaitis) feared death, ‘good men-at-arms’ were unaffected by ‘such pathetic fears’ and sought to die with honour (honorablement).17 Elsewhere, the same principle was articulated more succinctly: ‘one does not and should not fear to die in order to avoid all shame’.18 On this evidence, chivalry allowed little room for fear—a disreputable passion, which was inextricably tied to shame and incompatible with honourable conduct. Did echoes of this honour/shame-centred appraisal of fear, so characteristic of these vernacular manuals, also reverberate in Latin and Old French histories of the crusades? The answer to this question may seem obvious, but it is nevertheless worth exploring, not least because fear-based discourses of cowardice cannot be considered culturally universal; Richard Abels has demonstrated that the AngloSaxon model was based more on the inability of a combatant to show sufficient loyalty to his lord than on the effects of fear.19 In addition, it has sometimes been assumed that the connection between fear and cowardice was unchanging throughout the central Middle Ages, and that fear and cowardice were essentially synonymous.20 Crusade chronicles yield a more complicated evidential picture. In these, fear, shame, and cowardice terms frequently interacted with each other, forming a narrative sequence whereby

fear was interpreted as a catalyst for shameful actions, although a significant shift—in emphasis, rather than nature—can be detected in the thirteenth-century vernacular histories by Geoffrey of Villehardouin and John of Joinville. Both of these lay chroniclers established a stronger and more direct connection between fear and shameful behaviour, yet their texts remain distinct from the above-mentioned chivalric treatises in one important respect: the closer intersection of fear and shame did not necessitate that all displays of fear were fundamentally dishonourable. There is a demonstrable link between fear, shame, and cowardice in even the earliest Latin crusade narratives.21 Panic-stricken participants who fled from battle were regularly lampooned for acting dishonourably, although the greatest opprobrium was reserved for those who deserted crusading enterprises.22 This stemmed in part from the fact that such individuals were believed not only to have deceived their brethren, but also to have broken their vows to God.23 Stephen of Blois’ infamous flight from the siege of Antioch during the First Crusade serves as a useful case study.24 According to the Gesta Francorum, feigning illness, Stephen shamefully (turpiterque) left the army on 2 June 1098, the day before Antioch fell to the crusaders. When he later observed that his comrades were trapped within the city by a Muslim relief force, Stephen was ‘seized by severe fear’ and fled with his army.25 Thereafter, the Gesta repeatedly drew attention to the count’s shame, with Bohemond’s brother-in-law, Guy, allegedly announcing that Stephen had ‘retreated shamefully and disgracefully, like a worthless and wretched man’.26 The core elements of this story, including the connection between fear and shameful flight, were retained in several of the so-called ‘Gesta-derivatives’, although some writers placed even greater emphasis on the magnitude of the count’s terror; thus, he was ‘terrified with fear’ in Robert the Monk’s Historia and ‘terrified with exceeding fear’ in Orderic Vitalis’.27 Fear and shame terminology again converged in William of Tyre’s retelling of this episode. Describing the count’s participation in the 1101 expedition, William recalled how: when the capture of Antioch was about to occur, [Stephen] dreaded battle, and with shame and disgrace deserted his comrades and acquired lasting infamy by shameful flight. Here, eager to atone for his former failure and to abolish his previous disgrace, he attached a company to himself and prepared to [make] the journey …28 The repetition of shame words is striking. Though fear terminology is absent from William’s initial account of this episode, his version stands apart from earlier accounts in terms of the sheer barrage of criticism levelled at the count.29 Examples of this ilk can be found in most twelfth- and thirteenthcentury crusade narratives; the basic point is that, through its ability to manifest dishonourable actions, fear was associated with cowardice.30 The interconnectivity of fear and cowardice is also implied by the differentiation some commentators made between fear-induced desertion, which was almost universally derided as shameful, and flight motivated by mitigating factors, such as starvation or illness. Betraying his regional loyalties,

Robert the Monk hoped that the attempted desertion of William of Melun, a participant from the Ile-deFrance, had been inspired ‘not by fear of battle’, but rather by the severity of the famine experienced during the siege of Antioch.31 The implication is that this would have lessened, if not eradicated, the shame attached to William’s name. Other chroniclers seem to have concurred that accusations of cowardice might be avoided if one’s departure was motivated by the appalling conditions or sickness, rather than fear of combat. Illness formed a pillar in Guibert of Nogent’s enthusiastic attempt to save Stephen of Blois’ reputation from his ‘unbecoming deed’, with the abbot insisting that Stephen— characterized as an ‘avoider of cowardice’—was undoubtedly ill, and thus thought that no shame would be incurred by his departure.32 Perhaps owing to his acquaintance with the Blois family, a similarly sympathetic line was taken by Baldric of Bourgueil.33 Despite recording that the count was ‘terrified by not a little fear’, Baldric also suggested that he was genuinely ill.34 Tellingly, a manuscript of Baldric’s Historia, which was augmented in the mid-twelfth century to create a narrative more favourable to the seigneurial family of Amboise, reconciled Baldric’s version of Stephen’s flight with that in the Gesta Francorum. In this variant manuscript, Stephen was again accused of faking sickness due to fear of the Turks (timore … Turcorum), enabling the count’s cowardice to serve as a counterpoint to the heroism of the lord of Amboise, Hugh of Chaumont.35 The reconfiguration of Baldric’s narrative to create a more antagonistic portrayal implies that illness provided a legitimate pretext for Stephen’s departure in the original version. Similarly, in Roger of Howden’s Chronica, Richard I warned Philip Augustus that he would incur ‘shame and disgrace’ by leaving Acre on 31 July 1191, but the Lionheart then added that he would consent to Philip’s departure if the latter felt ‘ill or frail, and feared to die here’.36 Again, it seems that fear of death from sickness, as opposed to fear of death in combat, would have been less disgraceful, though not all chroniclers held this view; in Ambroise’s opinion, infirmity was an invalid excuse for Philip’s departure.37 An important caveat must be added at this point: the examples analysed thus far suggest that the likely responses to fear—flight from the field and desertion—were considered shameful and cowardly, rather than the emotion itself. There are a handful of suggestions that the external display of fear was a marker of cowardice. However, hindsight proves a formidable barrier to interpreting such evidence, since most of these inferences pertain to individuals who fled or acted dishonourably. As such, foreknowledge of a protagonist’s shameful reaction to fear may have coloured the way in which the chronicler chose to depict his fear. According to William of Tyre, in light of the troubles afflicting the First Crusaders during the siege of Antioch, the Byzantine representative in the Latin army, Tatikios, started to ‘fear, just like the timid man he was’.38 Yet William was plainly aware that Tatikios abandoned the army. No doubt hindsight likewise accounts for Guibert of Nogent’s dismissal of the ‘shameful timidity’ exhibited by deserters from Antioch in 1098.39 Consider also the judgement passed on Aubrey of Reims in the Itinerarium peregrinorum: ‘For shame! Excessive fear proved he was base; his associates who had remained behind criticized his cowardice.’40 Aubrey’s fear may have been interpreted as a sign of

baseness simply because it was excessive, but even this seemingly straightforward remark cannot be divorced from its context: it features in the Itinerarium’s account of Aubrey’s attempted flight from Jaffa in 1192, which was only prevented because his comrades forced him into the citadel.41 In short, these examples cannot sustain the idea that to possess or openly show fear was considered cowardly, but they do suggest that knowledge of fear’s undesirable effects on combatants probably influenced chroniclers’ attitudes towards the emotion. This is further suggested by the fact that fear and cowardice terms often appear in close textual proximity. Raymond of Aguilers and his co-author stated that their chief aim was to refute falsehoods disseminated by ‘unwarlike and fearful deserters’, and they later suggested that the princes’ decision to send knights against Ridwan of Aleppo’s army was based on the assumption that the ‘unwarlike and fearful’ in the infantry’s ranks would show more fear than courage.42 Fulcher of Chartres recorded that many withdrew from the First Crusaders’ investment of Antioch, ‘some on account of cowardice, others because of fear of death’, while the Itinerarium’s author wrote of ‘fear or cowardice’ in the context of the Third Crusade.43 In both cases, the authors appear to have appreciated that fear and cowardice were interlinked, but ultimately distinct.44 Throughout the crusading period, then, fear was loosely tied to concepts of dishonour and cowardice in the Latin narratives, and while an awareness of the anticipated effects of fear on warriors likely contributed to value-negative assessments of that emotion, few writers went so far as to suggest that feeling or externally expressing fear was inherently shameful. ‘Proto-chivalric’ impulses can indeed be detected in the twelfth- and thirteenth-century ecclesiastical texts, but shame-centred appraisals were certainly not the dominant interpretation of fear: as was demonstrated in Chapter 1, these monastic authors primarily conceived of fear in relation to faith and biblical testimony. Chivalric mores only truly seem to have encroached on the representation of fear in thirteenthcentury vernacular narratives composed by laymen. We find a clearer and more direct connection between fear and shameful behaviour in two vernacular histories traditionally seen to reflect chivalric values, those by Villehardouin and Joinville.45 Both authors demonstrated a deep-seated obsession with concepts of honour and shame, and it is therefore understandable (but nonetheless significant) that the attitudes towards fear reflected in their works bear closer resemblance to the treatises of Ramon Llull and Geoffrey de Charny. The clearest example of the relationship between fear and shame in Villehardouin’s chronicle concerns the desertion of participants who secretly sailed from Constantinople in 1205, after the city’s subjugation. According to Villehardouin, they incurred great reproach (grant blasme) for this act—Peter of Frouville, a knight who was ‘highly respected and from a great name’, more than others.46 Villehardouin’s judgement was emphatic: ‘And it is because of this that they say that a man behaves most wickedly who through fear of death does something for which he is ever after reproved.’47 The marshal was evidently aware that ‘paor de mort’ had the capacity to inspire actions which incurred lasting shame —a view which can be detected elsewhere in his text.48

Furthermore, participants who failed to rendezvous at Venice, even those who travelled to the East via different ports, were essentially deserters in Villehardouin’s eyes; he consistently imputed shame to such individuals and roundly blamed them, along with a cluster of dissenters in the army’s ranks, for the misfortunes the expedition encountered.49 In contrast, Robert of Clari only mentioned in passing that some went to other ports.50 Having played a key role in negotiating the terms of the treaty with the Venetians in 1201 (a treaty which essentially hamstrung the enterprise), Villehardouin’s defamation of these ‘deserters’ was probably ‘a way of distracting attention from his own overestimation of the numbers of crusaders who would gather at Venice and of trying to convince posterity that he was not at fault for this error’.51 With this agenda in mind, Villehardouin’s account of a fleet of Flemish crusaders, who had vowed to meet Count Baldwin of Flanders at Venice, is particularly significant; he charged them with breaking their promise to Baldwin and the other pilgrims, ‘because these men (like many others) were afraid of the great danger that the army gathered at Venice had undertaken to face’.52 As such, they were ‘greatly blamed’ for letting the army down.53 Fear was depicted as an impediment to the expedition’s progress, preventing the Flemish crusaders from travelling to Venice and resulting in disgrace. A similar accusation was levelled at crusaders who went to Marseille on account of the peril awaiting them at Venice, for which they were ‘greatly dishonoured and heavily blamed’.54 Even if these comments were primarily motivated by Villehardouin’s desire to exonerate himself, the rhetoric used to denounce those who failed to arrive at Venice indicates that he conceptually linked fear and shame. A strong affiliation between fear and shameful behaviour can, therefore, be discerned in Villehardouin’s chronicle. This shame-centred appraisal of fear tallies with that found in Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis, epitomized by his defamation of participants who fled from the battle of Mansurah in February 1250: In this battle there were many supposed men of worth and of great boasting, who shamefully fled … They took flight in fear, and we could not get any of them to stay with us. I could name several of them, but I will refrain from doing so because they are dead.55 Tellingly, the deserters were contrasted to Guy Mauvoisin, who won great praise and ‘came out of Mansurah honourably’.56 Both chroniclers were thus aware that fear had the potential to motivate acts of disgrace and that, at times, it was a disruptive passion: Villehardouin attested that great fear (granz esfroiz) could herald unnecessary catastrophes, while Joinville allegedly threatened to have frightened (effreer) sergeants thrown out of Louis IX’s army in order to dissuade them from fleeing.57 Nevertheless, neither necessarily regarded fear, or its outward display, as inherently shameful. One of the striking features of both texts is the authors’ willingness to recognize moments when crusade participants had supposedly experienced fear, usually without any opprobrium. Thus, in Villehardouin’s chronicle, we encounter what appears to be a stark admission of crusader terror: ‘And know that there was no man there so bold that his flesh did

not tremble; and this should come as no surprise, for never was such a great project undertaken by as many men since the creation of the world.’58 However, this should not be treated as unambiguous evidence of the crusaders’ actual feelings; for a start, it resonates with Villehardouin’s repeated insistence that the magnitude of the perils endured by the Fourth Crusaders was unprecedented.59 In fact, this passage represents a literary trope—similar interjections can be found regarding the Third Crusade in Ambroise’s Estoire and the Itinerarium peregrinorum—and was probably incorporated to dramatize the narrative.60 Thus, the author of the Chanson de Jérusalem used the same narrative technique for dramatic effect: ‘No cleric could tell you or any jongleur’s song do justice to the violence of the pagans as the Christians tried to defend themselves. There was no knight or prince, powerful as he might be, who was not terrified of losing his head.’61 Nonetheless, admissions of crusader dread punctuate Villehardouin’s text, often without censure or any inference that the expression of fear was disgraceful, and at times a sympathetic, understanding tone was adopted towards the fearful.62 Describing Renier of Trit’s fear at the sight of an army nearing Stenimaka, Villehardouin remarked that ‘it was no wonder that this sight frightened him’, since he had not received any news from his compatriots and thus believed it to be a hostile Greek force.63 In a similar vein, Joinville had no scruples in acknowledging episodic flashes of terror among Louis IX’s troops, or even admitting his own fear.64 To give just one example, Joinville described how, in early 1250, great unease (grant messaise) and fear (pour) penetrated his heart and those of his men, as they were due to guard one of the ‘cat-houses’, earlier targeted by Ayyubid attacks, along the banks of the Tanis River.65 Whether such personal anecdotes, which were interwoven throughout the text, can be accepted as prima facie reflections of the author’s emotional experiences is questionable. Jan Verbruggen believed that ‘Joinville … confessed quite sincerely what fear he felt’, yet it is conceivable that the seneschal assumed the role of ‘narrator’ in order to entertain or ‘to create a sense of intimacy between author and reader or audience’.66 The fact that Joinville portrayed himself as experiencing fear is nonetheless telling: inferences of reproach and cowardice are noticeably absent from all such passages, indicating that fear itself was not dishonourable. Rather, as in Villehardouin’s work and the Latin narratives, the individual’s response to fear was pivotal in determining whether he was shamed.67 It is worth briefly considering a third vernacular prose chronicle, that by the Fourth Crusader Robert of Clari. A lowly knight from Picardy, Clari provided a very different perspective to Villehardouin; he was not privy to the leadership councils and betrayed little interest in the role of the Venetians. His chronicle is sometimes thought to preserve the voice of the ‘ordinary crusader’, but Clari was not entirely insulated from chivalric ideals—he frequently drew attention to participants’ deeds of prowess, a core chivalric value.68 Despite this, his representation of fear is markedly different from that of Villehardouin and Joinville. On no occasion did Clari represent fear as the root cause of shameful desertion from the expedition. He was largely unconcerned with reproaching deserters, and while there can be little doubt that he believed that retreat from battle warranted ‘great shame’, this was never connected to fear.69

Robert of Clari’s chronicle thus suggests that the stronger connection between fear and shame in the works of Villehardouin and Joinville was not simply a by-product of lay authorship. Notwithstanding the potential impact of specific literary aims, such as Villehardouin’s determination to distance himself from blame over the Fourth Crusade’s failure, this trait was probably reflective of greater engagement with the chivalric culture of the aristocracy.

Manly Courage and Effeminate Fear Since crusading was often depicted as a manly exercise in contemporary chronicles, it is worth considering the gendered implications of fear.70 Women were not entirely excluded from crusade texts, but they were often depicted as displaying fragilitas sexus, the ‘fragility of their sex’, with male characters taking centre stage.71 Nevertheless, Rasa Mazeika has shown that in chronicles of the Baltic crusades, women were portrayed as relinquishing their femininity, with God’s help, to fight in a manly fashion.72 The same perception marked William of Tyre’s Chronicon: the archbishop praised certain female characters who were able to ‘transcend the strength of women’, such as female participants in the 1099 siege of Jerusalem who fought ‘manfully beyond their strength’, ‘forgetful of sex and natural weakness’.73 That crusading was often perceived in gendered terms is suggested, above all, by the constant imputation of virtus and terms deriving from the same stem—particularly viriliter (manfully)—to crusade combatants. The Latin chroniclers inherited a complex etymology of virtus from the writers of late antiquity, for whom it possessed a dual meaning, designating both virtue—the pinnacle of moral excellence—and the martial qualities of courage, strength, and manliness.74 The vir–virtus connection meant that, for twelfth- and thirteenth-century Latin writers, virtus had strong connotations of ideal masculine behaviour, although recent research has revealed that the term was frequently used to describe the masculine identities of lay and religious men alike.75 To varying degrees, virtus and, more commonly, viriliter marked nearly all Latin narratives of the crusades, usually appearing in relation to courageous acts prosecuted by Christian combatants. The Gesta Francorum and Peter Tudebode had Bohemond of Taranto appeal to the other leaders’ masculinity when he urged them to come manfully (viriliter) to fight at Dorylaeum, and Raymond of Aguilers lauded the boldness of several soldiers who ‘manfully and fearlessly’ met a Muslim attack during the siege of Antioch.76 Virtus and viriliter regularly featured in non-participant accounts of the enterprise; for example, in his short De liberatione civitatum Orientis, Caffaro of Caschifelone attributed viriliter to

participants on seven occasions, whereas Gilo of Paris preferred virtus.77 William of Tyre attributed viriliter to Latin warriors throughout his Chronicon, as did chroniclers of the Second Crusade.78 Even a passing reference to the expedition in the Gesta Stephani noted that ‘the whole globe manfully girded itself to avenge the dishonour of a common injury’.79 The Itinerarium peregrinorum’s author and Ralph of Coggeshall consistently used viriliter to characterize the Third Crusaders’ bravery; so too did Roger of Howden and Ralph of Diceto, albeit less frequently.80 The same term punctuated accounts of the Fifth Crusade; Oliver of Paderborn’s Historia Damiatina is replete with instances when the crusaders fought viriliter.81 As this brief survey attests, the belief that the crusaders possessed manly courage was widely documented in Latin narratives of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, even if some chroniclers perceived crusading in gendered terms to a greater extent than others. Two twelfth-century chroniclers stand out for their gendered presentations of crusading expeditions: William of Malmesbury and Gerald of Wales, both of whom appear to have held a common attitude towards fear. In a recent study, Kirsten Fenton convincingly argued that William of Malmesbury defined the First Crusade as a ‘Christian masculine space’ in book 4 of his Gesta regum Anglorum.82 This conclusion was based on two main observations. Firstly, through the distribution of virtus, William emphasized the crusaders’ masculinity and simultaneously differentiated between the virile Christians and cowardly Turks.83 In fact, virtus was used (in various grammatical forms) a total of forty times in his account of the First Crusade and the early years of settlement in the East, almost always to communicate Latin protagonists’ manly courage, and he justified the inclusion of a history of the First Crusade by remarking that it was ‘an incentive to deeds of valour’.84 Secondly, the uniformly antagonistic portrayal of women, both Turkish and Christian, revealed that William attached greater importance to gender distinctions than ethnic divisions, at least regarding the dangers posed by female sexuality.85 William’s literary aim of pitching the First Crusade as a model of male fortitude for future generations appears to have encroached on the narrative in another significant way. One of the striking features of his account is the almost complete absence of crusader fear. Whereas other commentators recognized moments when Latin combatants experienced terror—even if, for the most part, they considered it an inappropriate passion—William did so very rarely.86 Fear was seemingly incompatible with the male space that he was seeking to construct. There are several moments when this gendercentred appraisal of fear came to the fore, but by far the most revealing is his assessment of King Baldwin I of Jerusalem’s career. According to William, Baldwin never retreated from the field, except at Ramla in 1102 and Acre in 1103, yet both routs were followed by resounding victories, ‘because they sprang more from reckless courage than from fear’.87 In other words, even inconsiderata virtus was preferable to timor. In Baldwin’s endeavours, William found—or rather created—‘a model of valour to the whole world’.88 Though both retreats had initially incurred shame, the king’s ability to rectify these setbacks made his ‘astonishing and almost superhuman courage an inspiration to his contemporaries, just

as it will be the admiration of posterity’.89 William’s manipulation and transformation of the 1102 defeat at Ramla into a celebrated triumph and an exposition of Latin virility is further suggested by the fact that his version stands in marked opposition to the accounts by Fulcher of Chartres and Albert of Aachen, both of whom alluded to Baldwin’s panic-stricken flight.90 Another twelfth-century chronicler, Gerald of Wales, matched William of Malmesbury in perceiving crusading through a gendered lens. There can be little doubt that Gerald considered crusading a male pursuit: in the Itinerarium Kambriae, he twice referred to women impeding men from receiving the cross by clinging to their cloaks.91 Gerald’s perception of crusading as a male space is epitomized by his account of a conversation between a nobleman from Abergavenny called Arthenus and Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury. Having heard the latter’s sermon, Arthenus explained that he could not take the cross without consulting his friends, who, we can safely assume, were all male. For when the archbishop asked whether he would discuss the matter with his wife, ‘with a downcast face, he answered ashamedly: “We are about to undertake manly work, there is no need to ask for a woman’s advice.”’92 By focusing on individual exemplars like this, Gerald appears to have articulated his own conception of the Third Crusade and the attributes expected of participants. Thus, he claimed that, during a discussion of Archbishop Baldwin’s sermon at Radnor, a would-be crusader called Gruffydd declared: ‘Who of manly spirit might shudder at the journey of this pilgrimage?’93 This speech, which contains the only reference to fear (abhorreat) in Gerald’s account of Baldwin’s preaching campaign, effectively established that there was no place for the fearful in the forthcoming expedition; instead, brave recruits of virile character were required. It seems that, for Gerald, one social group in particular met his criteria: the iuvenes, undaunted warriors who were young in terms of military experience, if not always in age.94 The absence of fear terminology in the crusade accounts of William of Malmesbury and Gerald of Wales hints at a broader conception: that fear was contrary to the ideal of manhood.95 Fear was frequently associated with effeminacy in Baldric of Bourgueil’s Historia. At Dorylaeum, Bohemond reportedly commanded his men to ‘cast aside all fear, which certainly weakens men’, and to defend themselves manfully (viriliter), whilst the funambuli who deserted Antioch—those in whom ‘fear exceeded right and duty’—were condemned as individuals whose ‘manly strength became shamefully effeminate’.96 Ralph of Caen had Everard III of Le Puiset voice similar sentiments in a speech delivered to the First Crusaders during the fall of Jerusalem, in which the timorous were denounced as unworthy to be called French women and instructed to lay aside their fear.97 William of Tyre clearly associated fear with femininity. When the First Crusaders forced entry into Nicaea, Kilij Arslan’s wife was ‘terrified by the fall of the tower, in the female manner’, and the archbishop later praised a contingent of holy widows who, ‘forgetful of feminine fear’, did not dread the dangers encountered during a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.98 The emasculating effect of fear was also articulated in the Itinerarium peregrinorum, according to which the Third Crusaders who prevented a terror-stricken Aubrey of Reims from leaving Jaffa in 1192 ‘roused him to constancy of courage, [and]

told him to be a man’; and when King Richard arrived to rescue the city, he urged his men to ‘steadfastness, condemning as base those whose spirits became weak, softened from fear or cowardice’.99 Rather, they ought to oppose their enemies ‘with the firmness of a fearless mind’, since all adversities would be tolerable to those of manly spirit (animo virili).100 This point was made even more forcefully in Ralph of Coggeshall’s account of another speech, in which King Richard told his men that their Muslim opponents in the battle of Jaffa expected them to withdraw ‘like women, from fear alone’.101 Jacques de Vitry consistently interpreted events in the East in gendered terms, and he too considered fear an integral aspect of feminine nature, bemoaning, for example, that the Christians were ‘made fearful like women’ after the Latin defeat at Hattin in 1187.102 Thus, the relationship between fear and effeminacy represents a further dimension to the largely value-negative assessment of fear found in crusade narratives and appears to have stimulated a variety of literary responses. For some chroniclers, fear’s ability to weaken men necessitated that it was an emotion to be rejected—a view which crusade leaders, such as Bohemond of Taranto and Richard I, were made to champion in battlefield speeches. For others, most notably William of Malmesbury and Gerald of Wales, fear was fundamentally incompatible with their gendered interpretations of crusading and, consequently, rarely featured in their accounts.

Fear and Deception Due to its association with a lack of virility, fear functioned as a ‘symbol of weakness’.103 This is particularly apparent in portrayals of the Byzantines.104 To date, historians have tended to interpret Latin accounts of Byzantine terror as straightforward evidence that the chroniclers were aware of the motives underpinning Greek treatment of the crusaders. Jonathan Phillips’ appraisal of Odo of Deuil’s De profectione epitomizes this approach. ‘Notwithstanding his heavy criticisms of the Greeks’, Phillips remarked, ‘Odo did discern the essential reason why they followed certain courses of action’—the ‘essential reason’ being fear.105 In a similar vein, Peter Edbury and John Rowe identified two authorial voices vis-à-vis the Byzantines in William of Tyre’s account of the First Crusade: the first emphasized Greek perfidy, whereas the second, more positive voice ‘recalled that in his anxiety for the security of his empire the emperor feared the coming of the crusaders but did, within limits, aid the expedition as far as he was able’.106 This view has seemingly been fostered by the fact that, on a superficial level, the evidence of nearcontemporary Greek writers appears to corroborate the Latin accounts. In the Alexiad of Anna Komnene,

Alexios I Komnenos’ fear was represented as the expected affective response to the arrival of the Latin ‘barbarians’, who were characteristically arrogant, emotionally unstable, and conniving: ‘He dreaded their arrival, knowing as he did their uncontrollable passion, their erratic character and their unpredictability.’107 Alexios’ fear of dealing with such ‘an exceptionally hotheaded race’ was entirely founded, especially since the expedition’s leaders were supposedly intent on seizing Constantinople.108 The same impression is gleaned from non-Latin sources pertaining to the Second Crusade. According to Niketas Choniates, whose chronicle was composed between 1195 and the 1210s, Manuel Komnenos was ‘naturally thrown into a state of confusion’ when the German contingent reached Constantinople, and while John Kinnamos, writing in the 1180s, did not emphasize the emperor’s fear, an anonymous Syriac writer recorded that ‘the Greek Emperor and his forces were afraid of them’.109 In light of this overarching accord, the question needs to be asked: when Latin chroniclers attributed fear to the Byzantines, were they truly attempting to explain their actions? The arguments espoused by Phillips and Edbury and Rowe have as their starting point the assumption that Odo of Deuil and William of Tyre possessed a genuine interest in Greek motivation. An alternative explanation will be offered here: that through the consistent imputation of fear, Latin authors were probably seeking to cast Byzantine rulers, especially Alexios and Manuel Komnenos, as characteristically weak and effeminate. Moreover, it will be contended that, far from displaying an interest in Greek inspiration, the authors inextricably linked the Greeks’ fearfulness to their treacherous behaviour. Both of these interlocking themes formed a cornerstone of western characterizations of the Greeks in contemporary accounts of the First, Second, and Third Crusades, although they appear to have dissipated thereafter.110 Owing to its connotations of effeminacy, fear was seemingly regarded as an apt emotion with which to communicate Byzantine weakness. For numerous Latin chroniclers, the Greeks were ‘soft and effeminate’—a stereotype resurrected from Roman literature.111 This view can be traced back to the Gesta Francorum, but several chroniclers who utilized this text amplified the connection between Alexios’ fear and lack of virility, most notably Guibert of Nogent. According to Guibert, fear had motivated Alexios’ appeals to the West which prompted the First Crusade. Frightened by relentless Turkish raids, the emperor allegedly sent a letter to Robert I of Flanders expressing his dread about a siege of Constantinople.112 Despite having requested Latin aid, Guibert insisted that grave fear (gravis … metus) was instilled in the emperor when the crusaders arrived at Constantinople, and with the successful capture of Jerusalem, Alexios again feared they would turn their arms against him.113 Guibert’s magnification of the terror afflicting Alexios, whom he twice derided as ‘timidus princeps’, accords with his characterization of the Greeks as the ‘weakest of all men’ and ‘a nation scarcely better than women’.114 Alexios emerges from the Dei gesta as a weak ruler, constantly driven by fear. Manuel Komnenos was depicted in the same way in Odo of Deuil’s De profectione; thus, a group of Frankish barons allegedly alluded to Manuel’s fear four times when debating the legitimacy of paying homage to the

emperor.115 Given that the repetition of words with similar meanings was typical of Odo’s literary style and a means of achieving strong emphasis, it is likely that he was here seeking to cast Manuel as a weak ruler and to assert Latin supremacy; indeed, the repeated use of fear terms chimes with an earlier comment, in which Odo described how, in their negotiations with the crusaders, ‘the Greeks degenerated entirely into women’ and laid aside ‘all manly vigour, both of words and of spirit’.116 Accordingly, Louis VII twice took pity on Manuel’s fear, and a similar emphasis on Byzantine trepidation marked chronicles of the Third Crusade, especially in connection to Frederick Barbarossa’s dealings with Emperor Isaac II Angelos.117 Far from seeking to explain Greek actions, then, Latin chroniclers like Odo of Deuil were probably attempting to symbolize Byzantine weakness through their distribution of fear terms. In addition, throughout antiquity there existed a binary opposition between masculinity and effeminacy: while the manful were characteristically courageous warriors, if sometimes lacking intelligence, the effeminate tended to be cast as cowardly combatants, but clever and crafty.118 Latin chroniclers of the crusades applied a similar framework to the Byzantines. Whereas the virile crusaders were usually represented as military adept, fearless warriors, the Greeks were considered unwarlike, unmanly, and susceptible to fear—traits which necessitated resorting to deception and trickery. In several Latin narratives, especially those pertaining to the First Crusade, a connection was established between Greek fearfulness and their treacherous conduct towards participants. For example, the Gesta Francorum’s author presented Alexios’ deceit as proceeding from his dread. Learning of Bohemond’s proximity to Constantinople, ‘anxious and boiling with anger, [the emperor] was considering how he might seize these soldiers of Christ by cunning and deceit’, and it was from such fear that the ‘clever plan’ of binding the expedition’s leaders to oaths apparently originated.119 Furthermore, Alexios later failed to relieve the crusaders besieged within Antioch because he had retreated, ‘petrified with fear’.120 Many of these points were rehearsed in the so-called ‘Gesta-derivatives’, although some chroniclers, like Robert the Monk, expanded upon this theme. Robert had captured imperial troops explain that Alexios plotted against Bohemond chiefly because he dreaded (perhorrescit) the latter’s army more than storms in heaven, and in later passages the emperor’s trepidation was directly associated with his treacherous practices.121 With Constantinople surrounded by crusader forces, Alexios reportedly ‘started to become very anxious and to mull over plans for treachery in his heart’.122 In Robert’s account, the emperor’s fear and deceitful impulses formed a sort of symbiotic relationship, whereby his treacherous mind was both inspired by fear and a source of fear itself: ‘he was afraid lest an army so great and of such size might rise up in the midst of him. For a mind filled with deceit is always anxious and worried, and because it sets traps for others, it always fears plots to itself.’123 William of Tyre made a similar assessment, recording that Alexios’ liberality towards the princes was born ‘neither of kindness nor goodwill, but of desperate fear and deceitful cunning’.124 While not all chroniclers of the First Crusade directly linked the Greeks’ treacherous behaviour to fear, this theme nevertheless continued to mark twelfth-century narratives of the Second and Third Crusades.125 I would argue that passages

pertaining to Manuel’s fearfulness in Odo of Deuil’s De profectione should be interpreted in light of an earlier comment, in which the Byzantines’ fear was represented as motivating their deceit: ‘For whoever has known the Greeks will, if asked, admit that when they are frightened they become vile in their excessive debasement.’126 Fear was identified as the root of Greek treachery on several further occasions, such as when Byzantine officials at Antalya colluded with the Turks out of fear—a decision which heralded the slaughter of a group of infirm crusaders.127 It is feasible that Odo inherited this characterization of the Byzantines from the Gesta Francorum or a related work. According to the Dialogus apologeticus, composed c.1153 by William, a former librarian of the abbey of St-Denis, Odo consulted histories of the First Crusade before departure and even took one on crusade.128 The Gesta Francorum was probably among those works, for two episodes related in Suger of St-Denis’ Vita Ludovici Grossi—Guy Trousseau’s desertion from Antioch and the city’s surrender to Bohemond of Taranto alone—conform to the Gesta’s presentation of these events, indicating that a text within that tradition was available at St-Denis.129 To fully comprehend its function as a marker of weakness and its ties to deception, fear must be set within the broader emotional framework western writers applied to the Byzantines. Chroniclers drew upon a wide spectrum of emotions to condemn the Greeks, especially for their deception. Some emphasized their elation in response to Latin setbacks. The Gesta recorded that Alexios was overjoyed (gauisus est ualde) when he received news of the destruction of the first wave of crusaders, and, once again, Guibert of Nogent substantially magnified this trait.130 Odo of Deuil similarly drew attention to the Greeks’ delight in acting against Latin Christians; in fact, this was a common plot-centred strategy for vilifying adversaries in twelfth-century crusade narratives.131 Several commentators claimed that Alexios frequently lost his temper with the crusaders, dissolving into unrestrained bouts of rage, or that he was filled with envy.132 Both were clear signs of weakness. The emphasis on Alexios’ jealousy—of the crusaders’ martial abilities, multitude, and wisdom—in Guibert’s Dei gesta represents a significant departure from the Gesta Francorum; naturally, his envy increased proportionately after the capture of Jerusalem.133 William of Tyre also attributed envy to the emperor, and the Itinerarium peregrinorum recorded that the Greeks’ unwarlike nature caused them to pine away in jealousy at the qualities they saw in others.134 Other passions were inextricably tied to the Byzantines’ deceitful tendencies. Some chroniclers evidently thought that the Greeks ought to have welcomed the crusaders with heartfelt, fraternal love, rather than suspicion and dread. According to one chronicler of the Third Crusade, the Byzantine citizens of Philippopolis fled ‘trembling where no fear was due’ (Psalms 13.5, 52.6) as Frederick Barbarossa approached.135 For this author, the cause of their terror-stricken flight was simple: ‘they feared them because they did not love them’.136 Several writers insisted that the Greeks merely offered the pretence of affection, which masked their true feelings and duplicitous intentions. If fear drove the Byzantines’ desire for deception, it was achieved through simulated emotional performances. William of Tyre

claimed that Alexios ‘pretended goodwill’ to the First Crusade’s princes, just as Odo of Deuil repeatedly charged Manuel with repressing his true feelings and generating false impressions of love.137 Much the same is found in the Historia peregrinorum, whose anonymous author insisted that, ‘beneath the appearance of love’, the duke of Branchevo and the powerful men of the region held evil in their hearts towards Frederick Barbarossa’s army.138 Moreover, Isaac II Angelos’ deception and imprisonment of Frederick’s envoys was allegedly achieved through a false display of joy. Taking inspiration from Claudian’s In Rufinum, the Historia peregrinorum’s author reported that when the German ambassadors were presented to the Byzantine emperor, he: exhibited a cheerful expression, as if not a little gladdened by the arrival of the pilgrims. Oh unheard-of wickedness, oh monstrous treachery! Actually, it was on a par with that of Claudian; he learned the arts of injury and deceit, how to conceal the intended menace and cover his treachery with a smile.139 Certainly, the repression of emotion was not always a negative characteristic—the sources are peppered with examples of crusade leaders suppressing their passions in order to maintain morale or to safeguard the expedition’s progress. Nonetheless, insincere emotional performances were usually treated with suspicion in the Middle Ages, and this was duly reflected in crusade narratives, usually in connection to the Latins’ opponents.140 On one occasion, the continuator of Gilo of Paris recorded that the Egyptian vizier al-Afdal ‘concealed his fear, smiling with a false expression’.141 According to Albert of Aachen, Tughtegin of Damascus hid his involvement in the murder of Mawdud, the atabeg of Mosul, in 1113 by lamenting ‘with false tears and the greatest wailing, without the feeling of his heart’.142 Nor were false affective demonstrations the preserve of Greeks and Muslims. By November 1190, it seemed that, following an earlier fracas at Messina, friendship had been restored between the French and English monarchs on the Third Crusade; however, in reality, King Philip was ‘outwardly cloaked with the appearance of feigned love’, hiding the jealousy (aemulatio) in his heart.143 The feigning of emotions to deceive was likewise a characteristic of enemies in other crusading theatres. When Count Raymond VI of Toulouse pretended to seek reconciliation with the Church in the summer of 1210 during the Albigensian Crusade, it was apparently evident to onlookers ‘that his tears were not tears of devotion and repentance, but of wickedness and grief’.144 Henry of Livonia recorded a similar episode of false weeping by the pagans of Livonia, who were repeatedly accused of treachery. The Livonians dreaded the arrival of a Christian army when Meinhard, the first bishop of Livonia, resolved to sail to Gothland in Easter 1195/6, and they thus falsely (ficte) strove to recall the bishop ‘with deceits and tears and in many other ways’.145 Therefore, the portrayal of the Greeks as adopting feigned emotional countenances is representative of a wider concern for the sincerity and manipulation of emotion in the High Middle Ages, whereby the concealment of inner feelings through simulated emotional displays was often associated with a desire to deceive.

Fear intersected with the theme of deception in another significant way: crusade participants were frequently represented as fearing the Greeks’ deceitful wiles. Surprisingly, traces of this theme can be detected in Albert of Aachen’s Historia. Although Albert was generally more sympathetic towards the Byzantines than his contemporaries, he too occasionally included anti-Alexian vitriol.146 Thus, from Albert we learn that Godfrey of Bouillon sent messengers to Alexios, announcing his fear of evil rumours about the emperor, and that even after reassurances that he should not be afraid, the duke still refused to believe the emperor’s honeyed promises.147 Moreover, Bohemond of Taranto apparently refused to enter Alexios’ palace, claiming to be ‘extremely frightened of the emperor because he was regarded as a crafty and sly man’.148 In Odo of Deuil’s De profectione, fear was the sentiment most frequently attributed to the Second Crusaders in their dealings with the Byzantines. A significant shift in the representation of the crusaders’ passions is discernible at the beginning of book 3. In the two previous books, Odo had concentrated on the joy which marked the expedition’s early phases, but when the Franks entered Byzantine territory, their feelings changed dramatically: Thus far we were engaged in play, because we neither suffered injuries from the malice of men nor feared dangers from the cunning of deceitful men. However, from [the moment] when we entered Bulgaria, the land of the Greeks, our valour endured hardship and our senses were on the alert.149 Raymond of Aguilers included an extremely similar passage—albeit an emotional transformation from joy to grief—in his account of Raymond of Toulouse’s arrival at Constantinople in 1097.150 It is possible that Odo was influenced by Raymond’s Historia: the latter text was one of three works presented to Louis VII early in his reign; and the crusading window at St-Denis bore the same spelling of Kerbogha (Corboras) as that found in Raymond’s history.151 The potential influence of Raymond’s Historia aside, Odo was clearly of the opinion that Greek treachery should be feared: the Frankish army twice feared for Louis VII’s safety when he was in the presence of Manuel; and, in a scathing denunciation of the Byzantine capital, Odo explicitly stated that Constantinople ‘is to be feared by all on account of her treachery and faithlessness’.152 Crusader fear of Greek deception was also a prominent theme in texts pertaining to later crusading expeditions. Anglo-Norman crusaders shipwrecked on Cyprus in 1191 reportedly ‘dreaded the cruelty and also the treachery’ of the island’s Byzantine ruler, whereas another chronicler recorded that upon entering ‘the land of scorpions’, Frederick Barbarossa had nothing to fear in the Greeks’ presence, because they struck when one’s back was turned.153 In Robert of Clari’s account of the Fourth Crusade, following the crowning of Prince Alexios Angelos, son of Isaac II Angelos, as emperor, the Latin barons dared not lodge in the city, for they feared the treacherous Greeks might turn against them; and an isolated instance was also reported by Geoffrey of Villehardouin.154

How, then, can we explain the apparent contradiction between chroniclers’ open acknowledgement of the crusaders’ fear (at least in relation to treachery) and their belief that, when exhibited by the Byzantines, that same emotion symbolized their weakness and effeminacy? Put simply, medieval writers distinguished between different types of fear, usually governed by context. Whereas fear of confronting the enemy in combat was lampooned as inappropriate—associated, as it was, with faithlessness, effeminacy, and cowardice—there are strong indications that crusade chroniclers considered fear of deceit entirely legitimate. For Orderic Vitalis, Godfrey of Bouillon was ‘the most perceptive duke’ in fearing Alexios’ cunning.155 Ambroise stated that the wise feared the machinations of Conrad of Montferrat; and, writing of Richard I’s imprisonment by Leopold V of Austria, the Itinerarium’s author declared: ‘Oh truly, how much more should hidden plots be feared than open disputes, as it is written, it is easier to evade dispute than it is to avoid deceit.’156 Likewise, setting out for the Holy Land in 1248, Louis IX was said to have feared treachery while he was absent from France.157 This distinction is supported by the fact that, while admissions of the crusaders’ fear of engaging their opponents in combat are relatively rare, they were regularly presented as fearing Muslim deceitfulness. In his account of the fall of Antioch, Albert of Aachen recorded that the crusaders became frightened, believing that the betrayer’s promises were the machinations of deceit (machinamenta doli), and when one of the city’s ramparts crumbled, they again shuddered with horror (inhorruit) at the prospect of Turkish trickery.158 William of Tyre suggested guards were assigned to each of Jerusalem’s towers following the city’s capture in 1099, since the Christians ‘not unwisely feared’ the treachery of the surrounding enemy.159 In the Gesta obsidionis Damiate, the Fifth Crusade’s leaders were depicted as ‘greatly fearing the perfidy of [the Egyptians]’, whilst Oliver of Paderborn recorded that ‘a sign of betrayal was feared by wise men’ in the army during the protracted negotiations for returning Damietta to the Muslims.160 The legitimacy of fearing underhand tactics is suggested, above all, by the willingness of chroniclers to recognize moments when their central protagonists experienced such fear. After all, ‘it is the hero or “chief male personage” of such texts who normally embodies the author’s ideal’.161 Bohemond and Tancred feared Alexios’ trickery in Ralph of Caen’s Gesta Tancredi, as did Godfrey of Bouillon in Albert of Aachen’s history.162 Although Anglo-Norman writers rarely drew attention to Richard I’s fear in combat, they nevertheless acknowledged his trepidation over Philip Augustus’ perfidy.163 Once again, Odo of Deuil’s De profectione offers an excellent case study. The only things Louis VII feared in Odo’s text were God, natural phenomena, and Greek cunning.164 During the council at Étampes on 16 February 1147, men acquainted with the Byzantines warned of their treachery, prompting Odo to remark: ‘Would that the king and his men, who rightly feared the strength of no nation, feared deceitful wiles!’165 Likewise, one of Louis’ final actions in the East—his command that the count of Flanders and Archibald of Bourbon should stay behind to guard weak participants at Antalya— apparently materialized because ‘he feared deceit where he had so often found it’.166 In other words,

even Louis, that undaunted warrior-king who feared engaging ‘no nation’ in combat, felt some trepidation over Greek deceitfulness. This idea was also applied to crusading and missionary activity in the Baltic, with Henry of Livonia consistently depicting the Christians—including Bishop Albert, the central character of books 3 and 4— as rightly fearing the treachery of the Livonians, Estonians, and other ‘pagans’. In 1204, Albert returned to Germany to recruit pilgrims, fearing (timens) that Riga might be endangered by the pagans’ plots (paganorum insidiis).167 The same emotional reaction was ascribed to the bishop and his companions, among them Bishop Philip of Ratzeburg, in the entry for 1212, since they were unconvinced that certain of the Livonians had genuinely accepted Christianity in their hearts: ‘And that speech [by the Livonians] was so displeasing in the eyes of the bishops and the other wise men, for they feared that their promise was full of every deceit and the artifice of tricks.’168 Albert’s association with the ‘other wise men’ is a clear indication that this was a positive emotional state; indeed, the following year, the Christians were apparently threatened daily by fears (timores) emanating ‘from the deceitful artifices of the evil-thinking Livonians and Estonians’.169 This sympathetic attitude towards the fear of treachery could be ascribed to the fact that guile and trickery were normative features of medieval warfare, as well as the princely courts of western Europe.170 Clerical fears of the feigned friendships found at court offer a useful parallel to the dread which crusade participants reportedly harboured towards Greek wiles, often revolving around Byzantine ceremonial practices.171 To borrow C. Stephen Jaeger’s words: ‘The court is slippery, treacherous ground, like the ocean or the infernal regions. Dangers and fears are unavoidable.’172 Indeed, a biographer of Thomas Becket, Herbert of Bosham, advocated that it was necessary to leave the court if one feared the venom of courtier snakes.173 Yet the omnipresence of this theme in crusade histories also points in another direction: the influence of classical literature. Crusade chroniclers’ knowledge and use of Graeco-Roman texts, and the likely contents of contemporary florilegia, remains a surprisingly neglected avenue of enquiry, perhaps owing to the persistent (and undoubtedly apocryphal) belief that the role of monasteries in providing classical training had started to wane by the turn of the twelfth century.174 While the appraisal of timor mortis in relation to faith was principally founded on biblical, rather than classical precedents, in other contexts the role of classical models in conditioning crusade commentators’ attitudes to fear are plain. In his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle clearly differentiated between negative and positive types of fear: Now we fear all evils, e.g. disgrace, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death, but the brave man is not thought to be concerned with all; for to fear some things is even right and noble, and it is base not to fear them—e.g. disgrace; he who fears this is good and modest, and he who does not is shameless.175 The resurgence of Aristotle’s work in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries may have played a role in

popularizing such distinctions; in any case, fear of shame and other appropriate manifestations of fear, such as timor Dei, punctuated crusade narratives.176 In all likelihood, the notion that treachery should be feared was also based on classical authorities.177 A passage from Virgil’s Aeneid—‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ (I fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts)—appears to have been especially influential in this regard.178 While it remains unclear whether this phrase directly shaped chroniclers’ attitudes towards fear of deception, it would likely have encouraged their audiences to formulate a particular view of the Greeks, whose treachery ought to be feared. Odo of Deuil expected his readers to be familiar with ‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’, which he included in his discussion of the overweening flattery heaped on Louis VII by Greek envoys. According to Odo, this ‘proverbium’ was well known, even among the laity, and it is almost certain that he had access to the Aeneid, as well as a wealth of other classical authorities, at the monastery library of St-Denis.179 Furthermore, given that Odo emphasized the crusaders’ fear of Greek perfidy to an unprecedented degree, it is possible that Virgil’s ‘proverb’ underpinned this rhetorical strategy. William of Tyre directly quoted the same passage from the Aeneid on two occasions to denounce Byzantine treachery.180 In the first instance, he used it to justify Bohemond’s 1107–8 campaign against Dyrrachium. Summarizing Alexios’ previous maltreatment of crusaders, William stated that the emperor gave the Latins affable answers (benigna … responsa) and showered them with gifts so that ‘he might thereby more conveniently deceive, observing the custom of the Greeks, of whom it is said: I fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts’.181 The archbishop of Tyre cited this passage again in book 20, this time to vilify Andronikos, Manuel Komnenos’ cousin, for his alleged abduction of King Baldwin III’s widow, Theodora. Since Andronikos had earlier visited the Latins on friendly pretences, William scathingly remarked that ‘in the manner of a snake in the bosom and a mouse in the satchel, he wickedly rewarded his hosts, showing to be true that which had been said by Maro [i.e. Virgil]: I fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts’.182 On both occasions, this phrase would likely have acted as a conceptual cue, encouraging a certain assessment of the treacherous Byzantines. This also seems to be the case in the Historia peregrinorum. Describing the duke of Branchevo’s perfidy in implementing Emperor Isaac’s instructions to escort Frederick Barbarossa’s army through a difficult route, the Historia’s author interjected: ‘Oh the wicked and inborn treachery of the Greeks, of whose actions is it not read: you should fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts.’183 The assimilation of Virgil’s ‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ into crusade histories thus suggests that twelfth-century chroniclers primarily employed it to highlight the deceitful tendencies of the Byzantines. In fact, other passages pertaining to fear in Virgil’s Aeneid, a text which enjoyed a relatively widespread diffusion in the twelfth century, were evoked by crusade commentators.184 For example, Virgil’s statement ‘pedibus timor addidit alas’ (fear gave wings to the feet) helped to reinforce the notion that flight was a common response to fear.185 Gerald of Wales alluded to this passage when describing his

own terror during the preaching tour through Wales, and it featured twice in the Itinerarium peregrinorum, on both occasions to describe the flight of the crusaders’ Muslim enemies.186 The impact of classical models in conditioning views of fear was by no means restricted to Virgil. The anonymous author of the Historia peregrinorum was steeped in classical tradition, accurately citing Lucan, Statius, Silius Italicus, Claudian, and, more frequently, Virgil and Ovid.187 The idea that fear could manifest boldness was inherited from Ovid and, as we have seen, he claimed that Emperor Isaac Angelos’ simulation of joy surpassed that recorded in Claudian’s In Rufinum.188 Moreover, the Historia’s author included a famous line from Statius’ Thebaïs in his account of the Latin Christians’ reaction to the news that Saladin was besieging Tiberias in 1187: ‘the hearts of all who heard and understood [this] were suddenly overcome by fear, because as that poet said: fear [is] the worst augur in doubt’.189 The same passage was quoted in book 1 of the Itinerarium peregrinorum, and it appears to have exercised a significant bearing on the author’s negative appraisal of fear.190 Echoes of ‘pessimus in dubiis augur timor’ can be detected throughout the text. Thus, Saladin had sent few warriors against the crusaders besieging Acre in late August 1189, ‘but terror had declared the arrival of countless: in fact, this was not unusual, because fear always falsely magnifies things’.191 After the first abortive advance on Jerusalem in January 1191, the crusaders’ ‘breasts were plagued by the goads of anxiety, than which nothing is more oppressive’; and elsewhere the author remarked that when bad news arrives, even if of dubious validity, ‘anxious fear has a foreboding that it is more likely true’.192 None of these statements followed Statius’ Thebaïs verbatim, but they captured the essence of that passage—fear had the capacity to exaggerate troubles. Interestingly, all of these passages, including the direct quote from the Thebaïs, are absent from Ambroise’s textually related Estoire, from which it can be deduced that the Itinerarium’s author was responsible for their inclusion. On this basis, it is plausible to suggest that knowledge of Statius’ Thebaïs conditioned the negative attitude towards fear which marked the Itinerarium, and this, in turn, means that we should reject the idea of an author who ‘seems to have encountered enough fear to muse about it abstractly’.193

Fear and Power If fear was intimately associated with a lack of virility, indicative of weakness, and motivated underhand tactics, it could simultaneously express the power of Christian actors. This is most overt in chroniclers’ personifications of their principal protagonists, who were almost universally represented as conducting themselves fearlessly in combat. In Ralph of Caen’s assessment, Tancred of Hauteville was a

man who ‘fears nothing’ and who scorned any ‘recognition of fear’.194 Ralph of Diceto afforded Richard I the honorific ‘rex imperterritus’, whilst Ralph of Coggeshall suggested that, preparing for battle at Jaffa in 1192, the king ‘laid aside all dread of death’, as if rendered bolder by the multitude of enemies.195 This fearless characteristic was occasionally a reflection of an individual’s power. In line with his overarching portrayal of Louis VII as a brave warrior who ‘disdained fear of the Turks’, Odo of Deuil had Conrad III of Germany—in reality the more powerful ruler—proclaim that the French monarch did ‘not fear the power of any people’.196 Similarly, Ambroise included a mise-en-abyme recounting Richard I’s achievements, in which the king was urged to remember that God had brought him such renown that he feared neither king nor baron.197 In both passages, intrepidity was a marker of power and status. Yet there is another dimension to the representation of central characters vis-à-vis fear which has received significantly less historiographical attention: an array of twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade commentators seemingly attempted to communicate the power of their principal protagonists by emphasizing the fear they inspired.198 Traces of this idea can be detected in the Gesta Francorum’s presentation of Bohemond of Taranto. Though the Gesta cannot be considered a straightforward panegyric of Bohemond, there are signs that the author deliberately intended to cast the southern Italian Norman as an individual who was feared by his enemies.199 Due to his great fear of Bohemond, Alexios I supposedly offered the leader a unique deal consisting of lands around Antioch, and the dread Bohemond cultivated in others was allegedly stressed by his half-brother, Guy: ‘Woe to me, my lord Bohemond, honour and glory of the entire world, whom the whole world feared and loved!’200 The consistent embodiment of power through fear terminology over a wide chronological span is epitomized by representations of Richard I. In Anglo-Norman narratives of the Third Crusade, Richard was constantly depicted as frightening his opponents. He ‘struck dread into the enemy’ at Messina in 1190, and with his arrival at Acre on 8 June 1191, the city’s garrison was reportedly terrified.201 According to Roger of Howden, they were so afraid that they contemplated surrendering the city, while Ralph of Diceto recorded that the presence of ‘the great prince’ was announced in order ‘to strike most burdensome terror into the besieged Saracens’.202 For Ambroise and the Itinerarium’s author, Richard was unprecedented in this regard; he left his opponents totally immobilized by fear, and the mere sight of his banner caused them to become ‘terrified with fear’.203 Little wonder, then, that Jerusalem’s defenders were supposedly so frightened by the king’s approach in June 1192 that, had he advanced further, the city would have been abandoned.204 There is little sense that the city’s inhabitants were prostrated by fear at this point in the testimony of Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, an advisor to Saladin, perhaps suggesting that this was a deliberate rhetorical strategy designed to glorify King Richard; although another well-placed contemporary, Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, the sultan’s secretary, does report that Saladin successfully quelled the citizens’ fear by remaining in Jerusalem and handing over the defence of its towers and walls to his emirs and skilful regiments.205 Several of Richard’s partisans imagined Saladin specifically being tormented by fear of the

Lionheart. When Richard defeated Saladin’s army outside Jaffa in 1192, the sultan grew ‘feverish with fear’ and, according to the Itinerarium, resembled the ‘most timid creature’.206 The use of fear rhetoric to symbolize Richard’s power is even more apparent in a seemingly fictitious scene described by Richard of Devizes. Lamenting Richard’s illness at Jaffa in 1192, Saladin’s brother al-Adil announced that while the Muslims had formerly dreaded Henry II, their fear of Richard was a thousand times greater.207 Indeed, as al-Adil supposedly highlighted, when Richard became duke of Aquitaine, he overcame dissenters with such speed ‘that he became [a source of] fear, both to the king of France himself and to all the rulers of the lands around his borders’.208 Saladin’s brother then proclaimed that if Richard, whom he loved yet feared, were removed from their midst, the Muslims would possess moderate fear of John, who remained at home sleeping.209 In effect, the eulogy set out a tripartite hierarchy of Angevin power, whereby Richard’s ability to cultivate terror surpassed that of his father and brother. The Lionheart’s reputation for striking fear into his enemies persisted during the thirteenth century. Drawing upon a ‘livre de la Terre sainte’—almost certainly one of the Old French continuations of William of Tyre—Joinville twice remarked that Richard ‘performed so many great deeds that the Saracens greatly feared him’, so much so that the mere mention of his name petrified crying Saracen children into silence.210 The same technique was used to represent Joinville’s hero, Louis IX; God’s love for the king ‘struck fear into the hearts of our enemies’, and the French monarch also instilled terror in his subjects.211 Significantly, Louis reportedly instructed his son to rule through love and fear, mirroring the combination of these passions in the Gesta Francorum and Richard of Devizes’ chronicle.212 These examples are undoubtedly representative of a much larger source grouping. Godfrey of Bouillon and Baldwin of Boulogne were cast as men to be feared in Albert of Aachen’s Historia, as were Bohemond of Taranto and Tancred of Hauteville in Ralph of Caen’s Gesta Tancredi.213 In addition, the frequency with which Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay recorded that the Cathars surrendered or abandoned castles due to fear of Count Simon of Montfort suggests that this was a conscious literary strategy.214 This overarching accord in the representation of principal protagonists as undaunted warriors who inspired fear is suggestive of a common rhetorical tradition. One potential influence was the vernacular culture of the chansons de geste. That there was a degree of cross-contamination between crusade histories and chansons has long been appreciated; the prosimetric style adopted by Fulcher of Chartres, Guibert of Nogent, Ralph of Caen, and Gunther of Pairis is itself illustrative of the fluid boundaries that existed between these genres.215 It is almost superfluous to note that the undaunted hero—the epitome of martial prowess, who called upon superhuman courage—was a staple of chansons; and when fear did feature in these texts, it was primarily as an ‘epic counter-value’ to emphasize the importance of courageous behaviour.216 In the Chanson de Roland, Charlemagne ‘fears no man alive’, just as William Hooknose’s nephew, Vivien, constantly reiterated that he had vowed to ‘never flee for fear of death’ in the Chanson de Guillaume.217 The fearless central character who instils fear in others was also common

in romance literature.218 This accord between ‘imaginative’ vernacular texts and ‘historical’ narratives of the crusades is significant, for it bears witness to the idealized image of fear that we encounter in the latter. Notwithstanding the influence of vernacular culture, crusade chroniclers were likely adhering to a discourse between emotions and power which was current in contemporaneous historical narratives. The fearless central protagonist was a common trope of the historia genre and, more importantly, such individuals were regularly depicted as striking terror into their opponents. Richard Barton has argued that in Orderic Vitalis’ Historia ecclesiastica fear was an appropriate emotion felt by aristocrats towards those with the power to encroach on their lives negatively.219 As such, Robert Curthose was denounced as a ‘weak duke’ because ‘he feared the vassals in his own duchy more than they feared him’.220 In stark contrast, the magnates of Henry I—one of Orderic’s heroes—were frightened to rebel against the king because they feared his justice.221 Significantly, Orderic applied the same emotional index of power when describing events in the Levant; thus, Baldwin of Boulogne’s many victories against the Turks ‘made the duke of Edessa feared by all his neighbours’.222 Orderic’s conception of emotions, especially fear, as vectors for the expression of power was certainly held by other chroniclers. Consider, for example, one of Orderic’s sources: the Gesta Guillelmi, composed by the secular clerk William of Poitiers in c.1073–4. This text serves as an excellent comparator because the author’s literary agenda of aggrandizing William of Normandy is so overt; indeed, Orderic chose to substantially modify its portrait of the duke.223 As in the crusade histories, the trepidation Duke William instilled in his subjects and adversaries was symbolic of his power in the Gesta Guillelmi. His coming of age to rule inspired dread throughout France—a comment which closely resembles Richard of Devizes’ account of the terror heralded by Richard the Lionheart’s advancement to duke of Aquitaine.224 On several occasions, William of Poitiers established a direct connection between fear terminology and potens. Even ‘the most powerful counts and dukes feared [William] like a terrible thunderbolt’ when he constructed the castle of Ambrières in c.1054.225 Moreover, with the death of their lord, several of Herbert II Bacon’s men transferred allegiance to the duke of Normandy, for they knew of William’s power (potentiam) and that by ‘living under his rule, they would strike terror into all their neighbours’.226 Crucially, William was loved as well as feared: he returned to Normandy after subjugating Alençon in c.1052, inspiring even greater ‘love and fear’.227 Suger of St-Denis, writing in the 1130s and 1140s, recorded that Louis VI of France instilled love and fear in the French magnates, and the same chronicler criticized Hugh of Le Puiset because ‘he was more feared than loved’.228 Love and fear were the appropriate reactions of the less powerful to the more powerful, and it is in this context that the use of the love–fear couplet by the Gesta Francorum’s author, Richard of Devizes, and John of Joinville should be read. Therefore, in using fear to communicate the power of central characters, crusade commentators were working within a pre-existing literary tradition. Sometimes we can trace potential connections between texts. It has long been suspected that a copy of the Gesta Guillelmi was

available at St-Denis in the twelfth century.229 This may account for Suger of St-Denis’ occasional suggestions that Louis VI terrified his adversaries—even the Saracens abroad—and, in turn, the Vita Ludovici Grossi possibly influenced Odo of Deuil’s portrayal of Louis VII.230 Fear also contributed to the broader power dynamics of crusade texts. The consistent imputation of fear to the crusaders’ Muslim adversaries not only highlighted the achievements of crusading enterprises but simultaneously had the effect of creating a power balance centred on faith: as recipients of divine favour, the crusaders collectively appear powerful, whereas their Muslim counterparts feature as fearful and powerless in acting against God. Given the successful nature of the First Crusade, it is hardly surprising that the use of fear to communicate crusader accomplishments found greatest expression in narratives of that expedition. Each of the major Latin successes—the capture of Nicaea, Antioch, and Jerusalem, as well as victories in the battles of Dorylaeum, Antioch, and Ascalon—were said to have engendered trepidation in their opponents.231 At times, this power dynamic was seemingly reflected in the terminology attributed to Muslim characters, highlighting the enormity of their terror. In the Gesta Francorum, for instance, the construction ‘timore perterriti’ appears to be reserved for Muslims and the unwarlike. It features a total of nine times: once in relation to Alexios; three times to deserters or reticent crusaders; and five times to Muslim protagonists, usually in the context of Latin victories.232 Fulcher of Chartres imputed perterrere and exterrere exclusively to Muslims in book 1 of his Historia; thereafter, these terms appear interchangeably in connection to Muslims and Christians alike.233 Moreover, some chroniclers included passages clearly signposting the terror instilled in the Muslims by the crusader force in toto, mirroring the comments used to signal the power of central protagonists. Baldric of Bourgueil recorded that the news of the crusaders’ victory at Dorylaeum in July 1097 was not only disseminated to nearby cities, ‘but also began to terrify remote and foreign nations, and the fame of Christianity reached the ears of distant peoples. Each and all feared the news of the Christians’ splendid deeds and the arrival of their campaign.’234 An original section of the Historia belli sacri appears to perform a similar function: returning Latin envoys explained that the sultan of Egypt sought to ally himself with the crusaders because, hearing that they had already progressed as far as Antioch, he feared they might capture Jerusalem.235 Though especially pronounced in the First Crusade chronicles, the imputation of fear to articulate the successes and collective power of the crusaders also marked texts pertaining to other expeditions. The De expugnatione Lyxbonensi described how in the wake of the capture of Lisbon in 1147, ‘the name of the Franks was extolled through all regions of Spain, and fear rushed upon the Moors, who spread word of this act’.236 Many of Acre’s inhabitants received baptism ‘on account of fear of death’ when the city fell to the Third Crusaders, whereas Robert of Clari’s emphasis on Greek trepidation during the 1204 siege of Constantinople, with repeated use of the formulaic phrase ‘grant peur’, suggests that he was seeking to highlight the Fourth Crusaders’ accomplishments.237 Frequent references to God terrorizing the crusaders’ adversaries reinforced this power balance

centred on faith. In Raymond of Aguilers’ Historia, the First Crusaders’ opponents were repeatedly struck by heavenly sent fear following the battle of Antioch.238 A later chronicler directly stated that the Muslims were ‘terrified by the power of God’ in that engagement, and again during the battle of Ascalon.239 According to Baldric of Bourgueil, the fierceness of the Franks at Arqa in 1099 ‘terrified all both neighbouring and far off places, since in this way God worked through them’.240 For Robert the Monk, this process commenced at Clermont in 1095; he imagined Muslim nations being paralysed by ‘alarm and dullness of mind’ in the immediate aftermath of Urban II’s sermon, for ‘the heavenly trumpet resounded, and all people hostile to the name of Christ everywhere began to tremble’.241 One twelfthcentury chronicler of the Third Crusade, Roger of Howden, recorded that Acre’s capitulation was sparked by a divinely ordained earthquake which terrified the citizens, whilst a thirteenth-century commentator, Jacques de Vitry, believed that during the siege the citizens were ‘shaken and petrified by the just, although hidden, judgement of God’.242 Jacques returned to this idea in a letter of September 1218, in which he explained to Pope Honorius III that the Saracens had destroyed the city of Gibelet and five other fortifications since ‘the Lord sent fear to them’; and Oliver of Paderborn consistently suggested that the Fifth Crusaders’ Egyptian opponents were afflicted by ‘terrore divino’.243 The divinely induced nature of the Muslims’ fear conforms to an ecclesiastical thought world which maintained that human emotions were governed by God; as such, the idea was applicable to the inimici Dei more broadly.244 In Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae, the Christians often appear as instruments through which God struck fear into the unconverted. God put greater fear (maiorem …timorem) into the Germans’ Estonian enemies in 1204, and again in 1205 when ‘the Lithuanians were so thoroughly frightened through the mercy of God’.245 Later in this work, Henry made an explicit connection between the biblical precedent of the Philistines’ flight from David (1 Samuel 17.51) and that of the Estonians from the Germans in 1223: ‘But He who formerly terrified the Philistines so that they fled before David, terrified them.’246 The concept of God terrorizing his enemies therefore overlaps with the idea, analysed in Chapter 1, that sinners were inflicted with fear. Accordingly, the crusaders were also said to have fallen prey to heavenly sent fear when they embraced pride, rather than humility. The pride of the crusaders’ enemies was frequently rehearsed in the narratives, symbolizing their opposition to God and Christianity—a view typified by the regular attribution of the words from Psalm 78.10 to Muslim protagonists: ‘Where is their God?’247 Chroniclers communicated the humiliation of Muslim arrogance by portraying the crusaders’ opponents as experiencing dramatic emotional transformations, usually from pride to fear. This is exemplified by the emotional metamorphosis which many First Crusade chroniclers claimed Kerbogha of Mosul experienced during the battle of Antioch. In the Gesta Francorum, Kerbogha’s pride was communicated through a series of incidents, including his laughter at the poor quality of the Christians’ weapons, his arrogant rejection of a Latin embassy led by Peter the Hermit, and, above all, a fictitious conversation the Muslim commander allegedly had with his mother.248 In this dialogue, which was reproduced in the so-called ‘Gesta-derivatives’ and has been

scrutinized by Natasha Hodgson, Kerbogha’s mother operated as a propagandist mouthpiece, championing the Christians’ cause, extolling their martial prowess, and begging her son to reconsider entering into battle.249 However, sound advice fell on deaf ears, and his mother’s prophecy that he would flee in ‘great panic’ was realized when, catching sight of the crusaders leaving Antioch, Kerbogha became ‘very afraid’ and started to retreat.250 Those authors who consulted the Gesta echoed this emotional transformation, albeit often in modified form. According to Fulcher of Chartres, a Muslim emir advised Kerbogha to fear defeat at the hands of those whom he presumed to conquer, whereas Guibert of Nogent recorded that he initially laughed at the small size of the crusader force but ‘finally began to tremble’ when he witnessed the entire army assembled.251 William of Tyre made two significant changes to the Gesta’s version of these events. After detailing Kerbogha’s boastful speech regarding the deficiency of the crusaders’ weapons, William signposted the emotional reversal that was to come: the Muslim general’s pride would be his undoing, causing him to flee in confusion and incur great ignominy.252 The archbishop’s account of Kerbogha’s panic-stricken flight was more developed too, with William claiming that he was ‘seized by such great fear’ that he still felt unsafe after crossing the Euphrates.253 Albert of Aachen, who is generally thought to have written independently from the Gesta Francorum tradition, appears to have employed the same plot-centred strategy. In fact, there are several parallels with the Gesta’s account. Albert also included an imaginary conversation, in which Kilij Arslan informed Kerbogha of the Christians’ fearlessness and warned him not to face them in combat.254 As in the Gesta, Kerbogha ignored this advice, as befitted ‘a stubborn man full of fierce arrogance’, and his proud nature again came to the fore in Albert’s account of Peter the Hermit’s embassy shortly before the battle.255 In the ensuing engagement, arrogant Kerbogha was supposedly immobilized by the sight of the relic of the Holy Lance, held by Adhémar of Le Puy, and stricken with the fear of God.256 Kerbogha was a powerful individual, ‘a man to be feared’, but even he was fearful and powerless against God’s agents; indeed, his terror was divinely ordained.257 The overarching conformity between Albert’s account and works textually related to the Gesta Francorum is suggestive of a common tradition, if not textual then oral. Jay Rubenstein has explained other points of accord on such grounds and, interestingly, the story of Kerbogha’s emotional reversal, sparked by the sight of Adhémar wielding the Lance, also featured in the Chanson d’Antioche.258 The repeated acknowledgement of Muslim fearfulness in crusade histories was not necessarily designed to represent the Latins’ adversaries as inherently weak; praise for Turkish martial capabilities speaks against such a conclusion.259 Rather, this trait should be considered a narrative strategy which created, to varying degrees, a ‘storyworld’ in which the crusaders collectively appear powerful, whilst their Muslim enemies were rendered fearful in acting against God.260

Conclusion The simplistic approach adopted by Jan Verbruggen, John Bliese, William Aird, and others, which holds that protagonists’ lived feelings can be garnered from the descriptions of fear in crusade histories, fails to adequately account for the complexity and multivalence of fear’s representation in the texts. A close reading of crusade narratives reveals that contemporary conceptions of chivalry, gender, deception, and power all intersected with, and impacted upon, the ways in which fear was depicted and utilized by chroniclers. Comparison between twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade narratives and later treatises for the instruction of knights reveals that a nascent chivalric ethos had at least some bearing on how crusade chroniclers represented fear. Throughout the crusading period, fear was principally tied to conceptions of cowardice through its ability to inspire shameful actions—above all, flight from battle and desertion— and this connection became especially pronounced in the thirteenth-century vernacular narratives of Geoffrey of Villehardouin and John of Joinville, likely owing to their exposure to chivalric ideology. Yet the closer intersection of fear and shame did not lead even these authors to condemn the external expression of fear as intrinsically shameful or cowardly. In both Latin and Old French crusade texts, an individual’s response to fear was key to determining whether he was dishonoured, not the emotion itself. The gendered nature of fear appears less ambiguous and more consistent: fear was intimately associated with effeminacy. While this attitude does not appear to have developed significantly over time, it seemingly engendered several approaches from chroniclers. Some writers explicitly acknowledged the emasculating effect fear might have on crusaders, whereas others—most notably William of Malmesbury and Gerald of Wales—refrained from attributing fear to crusade participants, in all likelihood because it conflicted with their perception of crusading as a manly exercise. Fear’s association with a lack of virility also meant that it could symbolize the weakness of certain protagonists, such as the Byzantines, whose fearfulness and effeminacy entailed that they resorted to underhand tactics and deceitful wiles. Furthermore, in casting their principal protagonists as intrepid warriors who were capable of inspiring terror, several chroniclers conceptually linked emotions and power; and the emphasis on the fearful reactions of Muslim protagonists effectively communicated the accomplishments and collective power of the crusaders. The multifaceted nature of fear is indicated, above all, by the distinction chroniclers made between various types of fear. Taken together with its opposition to humbly trusting in God and imitating Christ, fear’s connections to effeminacy and ability to manifest shameful behaviour suggest that, for the most part, it was considered a value-negative passion. Even so, in certain contexts, such as when faced with duplicity, fear was an appropriate emotion for Latin protagonists to experience. Finally, while the relationship between fear and faith was primarily founded on biblical testimony, this chapter has identified a number of additional influences which governed representations of fear.

Chivalric culture appears to have exerted a particular bearing on Villehardouin’s and Joinville’s conceptions of fear, and classical literature had a marked impact on other chroniclers, whose accounts of participants fearing Greek deception were seemingly inspired by Virgil’s Aeneid. Beyond this, the use of fear in relation to the chroniclers’ central protagonists likely reflects the influence of vernacular culture, as well as the need to conform to established narrative conventions—tellingly, the fearless central character who struck fear into his enemies was also attested in contemporaneous historical narratives outside a crusade setting. Overall, the multiplicity of ways in which fear was conceived, represented, and deployed in crusade narratives suggests that attempting to excavate the actual feelings of protagonists from these texts is an oversimplification and methodologically flawed, not least because it ignores the myriad social, cultural, and literary influences which shaped medieval attitudes towards, and representations of, fear. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 366–82.

2

Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 319.

3

Maurice Keen, Chivalry (London, 1984), 2; David Crouch, The Birth of Nobility: Constructing

Aristocracy in England and France, 900–1300 (Harlow, 2005), 80–6; Jean Flori, ‘La notion de chevalerie dans le chansons de geste de XIIe siècle: Étude historique de vocabulaire’, Le Moyen Âge 81 (1975): 211–44, 407–45; Linda Paterson, ‘Knights and the Concepts of Knighthood in the TwelfthCentury Occitan Epic’, Forum for Modern Language Studies 17 (1981): 115–30. On the challenges of defining chivalry, see Constance Bouchard, Strong of Body, Brave and Noble: Chivalry and Society in Medieval France (Ithaca, NY, 1998), 103–44. 4

Nigel Saul, Chivalry in Medieval England (Cambridge, MA, 2011), 219–38; Bouchard, Strong of

Body, 81–5, 122–3; Thomas Asbridge, The Crusades: The War for the Holy Land (London, 2010), 579– 80; Rubenstein, ‘Poetry and History’, 87–101. By the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, crusading ideology and chivalric culture were more fully integrated; see Timothy Guard, Chivalry, Kingship and Crusade: The English Experience in the Fourteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2013). 5

Laura Ashe, ‘The Ideal of Knighthood in English and French Writing, 1100–1230: Crusade, Piety,

Chivalry and Patriotism’, in Writing the Early Crusades, ed. Bull and Kempf, 167. 6

Crouch, Birth of Nobility, 79. See also Matthew Strickland, War and Chivalry: The Conduct and

Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217 (Cambridge, 1996), 98–131. 7

Strickland, War and Chivalry, 123–4.

8

Joinville, 206, ‘Or vous prenés garde au revenir, car nulz chevaliers, ne povres ne richez, ne peut

revenir que il ne soit honni se il lesse en la main des Sarrazins le peuple menu Nostre Seigneur en la quel compaingnie il est alé.’

9

Joinville, 212.

10

Natasha Hodgson, ‘Honour, Shame and the Fourth Crusade’, JMH 39 (2013): 239.

11

Keen, Chivalry, 6; Crouch, Birth of Nobility, 80–6.

12

Bouchard, Strong of Body, 104. For chivalry’s roots in the pre-chivalric habitus, see David Crouch,

‘Chivalry and Courtliness: Colliding Constructs’, in Soldiers, Nobles and Gentlemen: Essays in Honour of Maurice Keen, ed. Peter Coss and Christopher Tyerman (Woodbridge, 2009), 41–4; Crouch, Birth of Nobility, 29–86. 13

Geoffrey de Charny, The Book of Chivalry of Geoffroi de Charny: Text, Context, and Translation,

ed. and trans. Richard Kaeuper and Elspeth Kennedy (Philadelphia, PA, 1996), 176–7, ‘il mettre baudemant, hardiement et liement leurs corps en telx faiz d’armes et en teles aventures sanz y redoubter rienz’. More broadly, see Andrew Taylor, ‘Chivalric Conversation and the Denial of Male Fear’, in Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities: Men in the Medieval West, ed. Jacqueline Murray (London, 1999), 169–88. 14

Ramon Llull, The Book of the Order of Chivalry, trans. Noel Fallows (Woodbridge, 2013), 48–9.

15

Ramon Llull, Book of the Order of Chivalry, 49.

16

Geoffrey de Charny, Book of Chivalry, 126–7, ‘chaitiz corps si tres grant doubte de mourir qu’il ne

se peuent asseurer’. 17

Geoffrey de Charny, Book of Chivalry, 126–7, ‘bonnes gens d’armes’, ‘teles chaitives paours’.

18

Geoffrey de Charny, Book of Chivalry, 164–5, ‘l’on ne doubte point ne doie doubter a mourir pour

toutes hontes eschever’. 19

Richard Abels, ‘“Cowardice” and Duty in Anglo-Saxon England’, Journal of Medieval Military

History 4 (2006): 29–49. 20

Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 369.

21

Latin writers drew upon a wide vocabulary to designate shame and cowardice, including: pudor,

opprobrium, ignominia, verecundia, dedecus, probrum, rubor, ignavia, pusillanimitas, turpis, indignus, inhonorus, degener, vilis, inbelles, and timidus. Shame and cowardice were interconnected, with such terms often used interchangeably; for example, JV, HOr, 446. 22

Kostick, ‘Courage and Cowardice’, 32–49; Hodgson, ‘Honour’, 231; Housley, Fighting for the

Cross, 105–9. 23

WT, 319; IP, 236.

24

Stephen’s desertion has received extensive scholarly attention, although fear has rarely been at the

heart of such discussions: James Brundage, ‘An Errant Crusader: Stephen of Blois’, Traditio 16 (1960): 380–95; Pryor, ‘Stephen of Blois’, 26–74; Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps, 81–3; Aird, ‘“Many Others”’, 13–30. 25

GF, 63, ‘uehementique captus timore’.

26

GF, 65, ‘turpiter et inhoneste recedit, sicut nequissimus et infelix’.

27

RM, 65, ‘perterritus timore’; OV, v. 106, ‘nimio … metu … perterritus’.

28

WT, 465–6, ‘qui capta Antiochia futurum prelium reformidans cum probro et ignominia consortes

deseruit et turpi fuga perpetuam emit infamiam: hic priorem querens defectum redimere et abolere meritam prius infamiam ad iter se preparat, honestum sibi asciscens comitatum’. 29

WT, 284–5, 319, 477. However, William did have Bohemond’s half-brother, Guy, acknowledge that

Stephen’s flight was motivated by fear: WT, 321. For an equally hostile account, peppered with fear and shame terms, see GP, 16. 30

For example, IP, 71; Coggeshall, 48.

31

RM, 40, ‘non metu preliorum’.

32

GN, 228, ‘indecens factum’, ‘fugax ignaviae’.

33

Nicholas Paul, ‘Crusade, Memory and Regional Politics in Twelfth-Century Amboise’, JMH 31 (2005): 136 n. 36. 34

BB, 74, ‘timore non modico perterritus’.

35

Paul, ‘Crusade, Memory and Regional Politics’, 135–6.

36

Howden, Chronica, iii. 123–4, ‘dedecus … et opprobrium’, ‘infirmum aut debilem, et timuerit hic

mori’; Howden, Gesta, ii. 182. 37

Ambroise, i. 85 (ii. 105); IP, 236–7. For modern attempts to explain Philip’s departure, see Jim

Bradbury, Philip Augustus, King of France, 1180–1223 (London, 1998), 92–7; James Naus, Constructing Kingship: The Capetian Monarchs of France and the Early Crusades (Manchester, 2016), 124–8. 38

WT, 262, ‘timensque, sicuti et timidus erat’.

39

GN, 179, ‘criminosa timiditas’.

40

IP, 402, ‘Proh pudor! Degenerem nimius timor arguebat; cujus socii qui restiterant redarguentes

ignaviam.’ 41

IP, 402.

42

RA, 35, 56, ‘inbelles et pavidi recedentes’, ‘inbelles et pavidi’.

43

FC, 228, ‘alii propter ignaviam, alii propter mortis timorem’; IP, 416, ‘formidine vel ignavia’.

44

See also PB, 64; JV, HOr, 434; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo II, in CPI, 124.

45

Keen, Chivalry, 55; Archambault, Seven French Chroniclers, 46–57.

46

Villehardouin, ii. 186–8, ‘ere prisiez et de grant nom’.

47

Villehardouin, ii. 188, ‘Et por ce dit on que mult fait mal qui par paor de mort fait chose qui li est

reprovee a toz jorz.’ 48

Villehardouin, ii. 156.

49

Villehardouin, i. 56, 58, 118, 124; ii. 28, 32; Archambault, Seven French Chroniclers, 31; Hodgson,

‘Honour’, 232. 50

Clari, 9–10.

51

Jonathan Phillips, The Fourth Crusade and the Sack of Constantinople (London, 2005), 103.

52

Villehardouin, i. 52, ‘por ce que cist et maint autre douterent le grant peril que cil de Venise avoient

enpris’. 53

Villehardouin, i. 52, ‘mult … blasmez’.

54

Villehardouin, i. 54, ‘grant honte et mult en furent blasmé’.

55

Joinville, 122, ‘En celle bataille ot moult de gent, et de grant bobant, qui s’en vindrent moult

honteusement fuiant … et s’enfuirent effreement ne onques n’en peumes nul arester delez nous, dont je en nommeroie bien, des quiex je me soufferré, car mort sont.’ 56

Joinville, 122, ‘en vint de la Massourre honorablement’.

57

Villehardouin, ii. 228; Joinville, 286.

58

Villehardouin, i. 130, ‘Et sachiez que il n’i ot si hardi cui la car ne fremist; et ce ne fu mie

mervoille, que onques si grant affaires ne fu empris de tant de gent puis que li monz fu estorez.’ See also Villehardouin, i. 182. 59

Villehardouin, i. 52, 116, 130–2, 152.

60

Ambroise, i. 102 (ii. 118); IP, 264.

61

CJ, 38, ‘Nus clers ne poroit dire, ne jongleres qui cant, / L’angoisse des paie[n]s sor son cors

desfendant. / N’i avoit chevalier ne prince tant poissant / Ki n’eüst grant paor de le teste perdant’; CCCJ, 176. See also Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 372–3. 62

Villehardouin, ii. 18, 152, 172.

63

Villehardouin, ii. 250, ‘ce ne fu mie merveille se il dota’. For a similar example, see Villehardouin,

ii. 176. 64

For instances of crusader fear: Joinville, 104, 306, 312.

65

Joinville, 102. See also Joinville, 60, 104, 158–60.

66

Verbruggen, Art of Warfare, 41; Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville, 66; Michel Zink, The

Invention of Literary Subjectivity, trans. David Sices (Baltimore, MD, 1999), 212. 67

Thus, Joinville, 100, stated that crusaders who abandoned their defensive posts incurred shame.

68

Peter Noble, ‘The Importance of Old French Chronicles as Historical Sources of the Fourth Crusade

and the Early Latin Empire of Constantinople’, JMH 27 (2001): 413; Clari, 4, 75–6, 96. For the chivalric quality of prowess, see Strickland, War and Chivalry, 98–104; Jean Flori, Richard the Lionheart: King and Knight, trans. Jean Birrell (Edinburgh, 2006), 287–92; Sally North, ‘The Ideal Knight as Presented in Some French Narrative Poems, c.1090–c.1240: An Outline Sketch’, in The Ideals and Practice of Medieval Knighthood: Papers from the First and Second Strawberry Hill Conferences, ed. Christopher Harper-Bill and Ruth Harvey (Woodbridge, 1986), 112–22.

69

Hodgson, ‘Honour’, 235; Clari, 48, ‘grant honte’.

70

See, for example, Susan Edgington and Sarah Lambert, eds., Gendering the Crusades (Cardiff,

2001); Andrew Holt, ‘Between Warrior and Priest: The Creation of a New Masculine Identity during the Crusades’, in Negotiating Clerical Identities: Priests, Monks and Masculinity in the Middle Ages, ed. Jennifer Thibodeaux (Basingstoke, 2010), 185–203; Natasha Hodgson, ‘Normans and Competing Masculinities on Crusade’, in Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, ed. Hurlock and Oldfield, 195–214. 71

IP, 33, 102, 121; Sarah Lambert, ‘Crusading or Spinning’, in Gendering the Crusades, ed.

Edgington and Lambert, 3–4. 72

Rasa Mazeika, ‘“Nowhere was the Fragility of their Sex Apparent”: Women Warriors in the Baltic

Crusade Chronicles’, in From Clermont to Jerusalem, ed. Murray, 229–48. 73

WT, 775, 777, 956, ‘vires transcendens femineas’, 403, ‘virilia supra vires’, ‘oblite sexus et inolite

fragilitatis inmemores’. More generally, see Kimberly LoPrete, ‘Gendering Viragos: Medieval Perceptions of Powerful Women’, in Studies on Medieval and Early Modern Women 4: Victims or Viragos?, ed. Christine Meek and Catherine Lawless (Dublin, 2005), 17–38. 74

Mathew Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in

Late Antiquity (Chicago, IL, 2001), 20, 31, 171–2, 207–8. 75

Kirsten Fenton, ‘The Question of Masculinity in William of Malmesbury’s Presentation of Wulfstan

of Worcester’, Anglo-Norman Studies 28 (2005): 129–31; Kirsten Fenton, Gender, Nation and Conquest in the Works of William of Malmesbury (Woodbridge, 2008), 43–55. 76

GF, 19; PT, 52; RA, 63, ‘viriliter et imperterriti’.

77

Caffaro of Caschifelone, De liberatione civitatum Orientis, 102, 103–4, 106, 108, 110, 112; GP,

176, 181, 186, 228. See also RM, 6, 13; GN, 109; BB, 117. 78 79

For example, WT, 329, 558; OD, 52, 118, 124; DeL, 162. Gesta Stephani, ed. and trans. Kenneth Potter (Oxford, 1976), 192, ‘ad communis iniuriae

ulciscendam infamiam totus sese orbis uiriliter accinxit’. 80

IP, 66, 163, 269, 291, 293, 337, 354, 363, 376, 387; Coggeshall, 21, 22, 31, 32, 43, 45, 46, 48;

Howden, Chronica, iii. 106, 129, 133; Howden, Gesta, ii. 26, 55, 129, 173, 191; Diceto, 95, 96, 105. 81

OP, 166, 168, 173, 184, 190, 210, 219, 240, 245, 251, 261; GD, 87, 100.

82

Kirsten Fenton, ‘Gendering the First Crusade in William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum’,

in Intersections of Gender, Religion and Ethnicity in the Middle Ages, ed. Cordelia Beattie and Kirsten Fenton (Basingstoke, 2011), 134. 83

Fenton, ‘Gendering the First Crusade’, 128–31.

84

WM, 542, ‘operae … uirtutis incitamentum’.

85

Fenton, ‘Gendering the First Crusade’, 131–4.

86

WM, 628, 664, 668.

87

WM, 680, ‘quod magis inconsiderata uirtute quam timore prouenerint’.

88

WM, 684, ‘omni seculo … uirtutis spectaculum’.

89

WM, 688, ‘ammirabilis et pene diuina uirtus eius fuerit presentibus stimulo, futura posteris

miraculo’. 90

FC, 439, 444–5; AA, 642.

91

GW, 20, 113; Hodgson, Women, Crusading and the Holy Land, 109–10.

92

GW, 49, ‘At ille vultu demisso verecunde respondit: “Ad aggrediendum”, inquit, “opus virile, non

est expetendum consilium muliebre.”’ See also Edbury, ‘Preaching the Crusade in Wales’, 227–8. 93

GW, 15, ‘Quis … animi virilis peregrinationis hujus iter abhorreat.’

94

GW, 15, 16; Kostick, Social Structure, 187–212; Conor Kostick, ‘Iuvenes and the First Crusade

(1096–99): Knights in Search of Glory?’, The Journal of Military History 73 (2009): 369–92. 95

Anne Scott and Cynthia Kosso, ‘Introduction’, in Fear and its Representations in the Middle Ages

and Renaissance, ed. Scott and Kosso, xxv. 96

BB, 31, 66, ‘Metum omnem, qui etiam uiros effeminat, abiicite’, ‘ultra ius et fas meticulosiores’,

‘uirile robur turpiter effeminari’. 97

RC, 698.

98

WT, 209, 815, ‘turris casu femineo more perterrita’, ‘timoris oblite feminei’.

99

IP, 402, 416, ‘ad virtutis constantiam animantes, virum revocaverunt’, ‘constantiam, damnans

languescere degeneres animos, formidine vel ignavia flecti’. 100

IP, 416–17, ‘Adversis … mentis imperterritae rigorem opponite.’

101

Coggeshall, 48, ‘ex sola formidine … muliebriter’.

102

JV, HOr, 436, ‘velut mulieres meticulosi facti sunt’. See also JV, HOr, 288–90, where the brave

First Crusaders were contrasted with their timid and effeminate successors, the Pullani. 103

Lambert, ‘Crusading or Spinning?’, 6.

104

The most detailed analysis of Latin chroniclers’ representations of the Greeks is Marc Carrier,

‘L’image des Byzantins et les systèmes de représentation selon les chroniqueurs occidentaux des croisades 1096–1291’ (PhD dissertation, Université Paris I, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 2006). 105

Phillips, ‘Odo of Deuil’s De Profectione’, 86, 88–9, at 89.

106

Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 136. William of Tyre’s attitude towards the Byzantines was complex; he denounced the Greeks as effeminate, but simultaneously praised several of their emperors. See Bernard Hamilton, ‘William of Tyre and the Byzantine Empire’, in Porphyrogenita, ed. Dendrinos et al., 219–33; Luka Špoljarić, ‘Rhetoricizing Effeminacy in Twelfth-Century Outremer: William of Tyre and the Byzantine Empire’, Annual of Medieval Studies at CEU 15 (2009): 9–21. 107

Anna Komnene, The Alexiad, trans. E. R. A. Sewter, rev. Peter Frankopan (London, 2009), 274.

108

Anna Komnene, Alexiad, 277, 285; Jonathan Harris, Byzantium and the Crusades (London, 2003),

56. See also Anna Komnene, Alexiad, 280–1, 289, 296. 109

Niketas Choniates, O City of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniatēs, trans. Harry Magoulias

(Detroit, MI, 1984), 36; John Kinnamos, Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus, trans. Charles Brand (New York, 1976), 58–73, esp. 69; W. R. Taylor, ‘A New Syriac Fragment Dealing with Incidents in the Second Crusade’, The Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 11 (1929–30): 123. 110

This can be explained by the preference for maritime travel to the Holy Land from the late twelfth

century. The absence of these themes in narratives of the Fourth Crusade likely stemmed from the need to present the Greeks as a worthy enemy; as such, references to their fear primarily appear in relation to Latin victories. 111

AA, 254, ‘mollis et effeminata’; GF, 67; RM, 48; WT, 782, 1020, 1021; OD, 56; IP, 45; Pairis,

154; JV, HOr, 420; Benjamin Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton, NJ, 2004), 405; Carrier, ‘L’image des Byzantins’, 77–93, 164–74; Matthew Bennett, ‘Virile Latins, Effeminate Greeks and Strong Women: Gender Definitions on Crusade?’, in Gendering the Crusades, ed. Edgington and Lambert, 18, 28. 112

GN, 100–1, 102–3.

113

GN, 142, 105. See also GN, 129–30, 230, 231.

114

GN, 130, 135, 142, 235, ‘omnium inertissimos’, ‘presertim cum eam nationi vix feminas’.

115

OD, 78–80.

116

OD, xxvii, 56, ‘Graeci penitus frangebantur in feminas; omne virile robur et verborum et animi

deponentes.’ 117

OD, 58, 82; Ansbert, 15, 38–9; HP, 148; Otto of St Blasien, Chronica, in MGH SRG, xlvii. 47.

118

Isaac, Invention of Racism, 512.

119

GF, 11, ‘Tunc imperator anxians et bulliens ira, cogitabat quemadmodum callide fraudulenterque

comprehenderet hos Christi milites’, ‘ingeniosis scematibus’. 120

GF, 63, ‘timore perterritus’.

121

RM, 18.

122

RM, 18, ‘exestuans animo cepit admodum anxiari, et fraudulente cogitationes in corde suo

versari’. 123

RM, 19, ‘timebat namque ne tantus et tantorum exercitus in se insurgeret. Mens enim fraude plena

semper anxiatur et est sollicita, et quod machinatur alteri, pertimescit semper sibi machinari.’ Bull and Kempf suggest that this description is reminiscent of a passage in Gregory the Great’s Moralia in Iob: RM, lxii. 124

WT, 187, ‘nec liberalitatis erat nec gratie, sed timoris desperati et fraudulente versutie’.

125

Neither Fulcher of Chartres nor Raymond of Aguilers emphasized Alexios’ fearfulness: FC, 175–6;

RA, 41. 126

OD, 56–8, ‘Requisitus enim quicumque Graecos noverit fatebitur quia quando timent nimia sua

deiectione vilescunt.’ 127

OD, 136.

128

André Wilmart, ‘Le dialogue apologétique de moine Guillaume, biographe de Suger’, Revue

Mabillon 32 (1942): 103; Phillips, ‘Odo of Deuil’s De Profectione’, 83–4. 129

Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI le Gros, ed. and trans. Henri Waquet (Paris, 1929), 36, 44; GF,

44–7, 56. 130

GF, 5; GN, 128, 230, 314.

131

OD, 116, 122; Stephen Spencer, ‘Emotions and the “Other”: Emotional Characterizations of

Muslim Protagonists in Narratives of the Crusades (1095–1192)’, in Literature of the Crusades, ed. Parsons and Paterson, 48–9. 132

GF, 3, 6, 11; RM, 9, 16, 18, 19; RC, 613–14, 618, 619–20; AA, 74.

133

GN, 105.

134

WT, 190; IP, 45.

135

IP, 45, ‘trepidantes ubi non erat timor’.

136

IP, 45, ‘quod quos non amabant, timebant’.

137

WT, 187, ‘simulata gratia’; OD, 26, 60, 68.

138

HP, 132, ‘sub specie dilectionis’.

139

HP, 129, ‘hilarem vultum exhibuit, acsi de ipsorum peregrinorum adventu non modicum letaretur.

O scelus inauditum, o immanis perfidia. Revera iuxta illud Claudiani: Edidicit simulare fidem sensusque minaces protegere et blando fraudem pretexere risu’; Claudian, In Rufinum, LCL, 2 vols (London, 1990), i. 32. 140

On the sincerity of affective demonstrations like weeping, see Lyn Blanchfield, ‘The Sincere Body:

The Performance of Weeping and Emotion in Late Medieval Italian Sermons’, Quidditas 20 (1999): 117– 35; Lyn Blanchfield, ‘Prolegomenon: Considerations of Weeping and Sincerity in the Middle Ages’, in Crying in the Middle Ages: Tears of History, ed. Elina Gertsman (London, 2012), xxi–xxx; KimberleyJoy Knight, ‘Lachrymose Holiness and the Problem of Doubt in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century Hagiographies’, SCH 52 (2016): 118–34; Maddern, ‘Reading Faces’, 28–31. 141

GP, 156, ‘Ille metum celans, uultu fictoque renidens.’

142

AA, 852, ‘fictis lacrimis et planctu maximo sine cordis affectione’.

143

IP, 170, ‘palliata superficie tenus simulatoria dilectione’.

144

PLVC, i. 169, ‘quod lacrime ille non erant lacrime devotionis et penitencie, sed nequicie et

doloris’. 145

HL, 5, ‘dolis et lacrimis et aliis multis modis’.

146

Susan Edgington, ‘From Aachen: A New Perspective on Relations between the Crusaders and

Byzantium, 1095–1120’, Medieval History 4 (1994): 156–69; Marc Carrier, ‘L’image d’Alexis Ier Comnène selon le chroniqueur Albert d’Aix’, Byzantion 78 (2008): 34–65; Marc Carrier, ‘Pour en finir avec les Gesta Francorum: Une réflexion historiographique sur l’état des rapports entre Grecs et Latins au début du XIIe siècle et sur l’apport nouveau d’Albert d’Aix’, Crusades 7 (2008): 33–4. 147

AA, 78.

148

AA, 88, ‘nimium imperatorem pertimescere, eo quod uir callidus et subdolus haberetur’.

149

OD, 40, ‘Hucusque lusimus, quia nec damna pertulimus ex malitia hominum nec pericula

timuimus de astutia subdolorum. Ex quo autem intravimus Bulgariam terram Graecorum, et virtus laborem pertulit et sensus exercitium.’ 150

RA, 40–1.

151

Jay Rubenstein, ‘Putting History to Use: Three Crusade Chronicles in Context’, Viator 35 (2004): 131–68; Fernand de Mély, ‘La croix des premiers croisés’, Revue de l’art chrétien n.s. 1 (1890): 298–9; Elizabeth Brown and Michael Cothren, ‘The Twelfth-Century Crusading Window of the Abbey of SaintDenis: Praeteritorum enim recordatio futurorum est exhibitio’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 49 (1986): 18. 152

OD, 66, 82, 86, ‘est dolis et infidelitate omnibus metuenda’.

153

IP, 186, ‘imperatoris formidabant saevitiam simul et perfidiam’; HP, 151, ‘terram scorpionum’.

154

Clari, 56; Villehardouin, ii. 150.

155

OV, v. 42, ‘sagacissimus dux’. This represents a modification of BB, 17–18.

156

Ambroise, i. 67 (ii. 89); IP, 443–4, ‘O quam vere timendae sunt occultae magis insidiae quam

manifestae discordiae, juxta illud, facilius est vitare discordem quam declinare fallacem.’ The quotation is from Jerome, Regula monachorum ex scriptis Hieronymi collecta, in PL, xxx, col. 368. 157

MP, v. 23.

158

AA, 276, 278.

159

WT, 413, ‘non inprudenter formidabant’.

160

GD, 101, ‘perfidiam eorum valde timentes’; OP, 274, ‘proditionis nota timebatur a prudentibus’.

161

North, ‘Ideal Knight’, 111.

162

RC, 606, 612; AA, 78, 88.

163

IP, 238, 296–7.

164

OD, 14, 108.

165

OD, 12, ‘Rex autem et sui qui merito nullarum gentium vires timebant fraudes utinam timuissent!’

166

OD, 138, ‘fraudemque timens ubi saepius illam invenerat’.

167

HL, 23.

168

HL, 111, ‘Et displicuit sermo iste tam in oculis episcoporum quam aliorum discretorum virorum,

timentium ipsorum promissionem plenam esse omni fallacia et dolorum machinatione.’ 169

HL, 112–13, ‘de Lyvonum et Estonum dolosis malarum cogitationum machinationibus’.

170

Strickland, War and Chivalry, 129–31; Nicholas Vincent, ‘The Court of Henry II’, in Henry II:

New Interpretations, ed. Christopher Harper-Bill and Nicholas Vincent (Woodbridge, 2007), 315; Walter Map, De nugis curialium, ed. and trans. Montague James, rev. Christopher Brooke and Roger Mynors (Oxford, 1983), 510–12. 171

On Byzantine diplomatic style, see Carrier, ‘L’image des Byzantins’, 148–74; Harris, Byzantium

and the Crusades, 28, 64–5; Jonathan Shepard, ‘When Greek Meets Greek: Alexius Comnenus and Bohemond in 1097–98’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 12 (1988): 185–277. 172

C. Stephen Jaeger, ‘The Barons’ Intrigue in Gottfried’s Tristan: Notes towards a Sociology of Fear

in Court Society’, The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 83 (1984): 57. 173

Herbert of Bosham, Vita sancti Thomae, ed. James Robertson, Materials for the History of Thomas

Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, RS 67, 6 vols (London, 1875–85), iii. 177; Jaeger, ‘Barons’ Intrigue’, 58. 174

James Clark, ‘Ovid in the Monasteries: The Evidence from Late Medieval England’, in Ovid in the

Middle Ages, ed. James Clark, Frank Coulson, and Kathryn McKinley (Cambridge, 2011), 179–80. 175

Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, ed. Jonathan Barnes, The Complete Works of Aristotle: The Revised

Oxford Translation, 2 vols (Princeton, NJ, 1991), ii. 40. 176

For fear of dishonour: GN, 243; OD, 92; IP, 47; Villehardouin, ii. 156. For fear of God, sin, and

damnation: RA, 103; AA, 28; OD, 14; DeL, 184; WT, 325, 421, 422, 426, 547, 550, 551, 553, 624, 921, 936, 969, 1002; Howden, Chronica, iii. 79; JV, HOr, 182, 286; JV, Lettres, 87, 100; Joinville, 6, 14, 218, 278, 348. 177

Andrew Lynch, ‘Beyond Shame: Chivalric Cowardice and Arthurian Narrative’, Arthurian

Literature 23 (2006): 13–14. 178

Virgil, Aeneid, LCL, 2 vols (London, 1916–18), i. 296.

179

OD, 26, xxx–xxxi.

180

On William’s knowledge of the Aeneid, see Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 33–4.

181

WT, 503, ‘ut eo falleret commodius, Grecorum observans morem, de quibus dicitur: timeo Danaos

et dona ferentes’. 182

WT, 914, ‘more serpentis in gremio et muris in pera male remuneravit hospites suos, verum esse docens quod a Marone dictum fuerat: timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’. 183

HP, 132, ‘O nefanda et innata Grecorum perfidia, de quibus non ab re legitur: timeas Danaos et dona ferentes.’ 184

Birger Munk Olsen, ‘Virgile et la renaissance du XIIe siècle’, in Lectures médiévales de Virgile:

Actes du colloque organisé par l’École française de Rome (Rome, 25–28 octobre 1982), ed. Jean-Yves Tilliette (Rome, 1985), 31–48; Jean-Yves Tilliette, ‘Insula me genuit: L’influence de l’Énéide sur l’épopée latine du XIIe siècle’, in Lectures médiévales de Virgile, ed. Tilliette, 121–42; Carrier, ‘L’image des Byzantins’, 105–6. 185

Virgil, Aeneid, ii. 74.

186

GW, 72; IP, 102, 272.

187

HP, 117 (Lucan), 119 (Statius), 169 (Silius), 129 (Claudian), 118, 132, 141, 143, 163 (Virgil), 121,

130, 136, 137, 142, 148 (Ovid). 188

HP, 136, 129; Ovid, Fasti, LCL (London, 1959), 166.

189

HP, 119, ‘Unde nimirum cunctorum audientium et intelligentium corda metu subito percelluntur,

quia iuxta illud poeticum pessimus in dubiis augur timor’; Statius, Thebaïs, LCL, 2 vols (London, 1928), i. 450. 190

IP, 28.

191

IP, 63, ‘at innumeros adesse terror edixerat: non enim praeter solitum evenit quod majora semper

formido mentitur’. 192

IP, 310, 334, ‘exulcerantur praecordia stimulis sollicitudinis, quibus nihil est gravius’, ‘sollicitus

vera potius augurat esse timor’. 193

Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 374.

194

RC, 630, 609, ‘nil metuit’, ‘cognata timori’.

195

Diceto, 95; Coggeshall, 44, ‘omnique mortis horrore deposito’.

196

OD, 108, 104, ‘Turcorum metum … contempsisset’, ‘non timetis gentis alicuius potestatem’.

197

Ambroise, i. 156 (ii. 162).

198

On the use of fear as a method of affirming power, see Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish,

trans. Alan Sheridan (New York, 1979), 3–72; Thomas Bisson, ‘Hallucinations of Power: Climates of Fright in the Early Twelfth Century’, HSJ 16 (2006): 1–11. 199

On the portrayal of Bohemond in the Gesta, see Kenneth Wolf, ‘Crusade and Narrative: Bohemond

and the Gesta Francorum’, JMH 17 (1991): 207–16; Rubenstein, ‘What Is the Gesta Francorum’, 187; Emily Albu, ‘Probing the Passions of a Norman on Crusade’, Anglo-Norman Studies 27 (2005): 1–15. 200

GF, 12, 64, ‘Heu mihi domine mi Boamunde honor et decus totius mundi, quem omnis mundus

timebat et amabat!’ 201

IP, 163, ‘hostibus incussit horrorem’, 211; Ambroise, i. 38 (ii. 65); Howden, Chronica, iii. 55; Howden, Gesta, ii. 125–6; Devizes, 77–8. 202

Howden, Chronica, iii. 113; Howden, Gesta, ii. 169; Diceto, 94, ‘magnum principem’, ‘Saracenis obsessis gravissimum terrorem incussit’. 203

IP, 343, 353, 319, ‘timore perterriti’; Ambroise, i. 145, 131 (ii. 153, 141).

204

Ambroise, i. 159 (ii. 164); IP, 370.

205

Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, trans. Donald Richards

(Aldershot, 2002), 204–5; Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin, trans. Henri Massé (Paris, 1972), 379. 206

Ambroise, i. 181 (ii. 180), ‘de peur fevereus’; IP, 410, ‘animal timidissimum’.

207

Devizes, 75–6.

208

Devizes, 76, ‘quam metuendus et ipsi regi Francie et omnibus circa fines suos extiterit terrarium

rectoribus’. 209

Devizes, 76–7.

210

Joinville, 38, ‘fist tant de grans faiz que les Sarrazins le doutoient trop’. See also Joinville, 276.

211

Joinville, 6, ‘la poour metoit ou cuer a nos ennemis’, 242, 364.

212

Joinville, 370.

213

Spencer, ‘Piety, Brotherhood and Power’, 430–1; RC, 609, 618, 652, 714.

214

PLVC, i. 131, 153–4, 170, 194, 213–14, 232; ii. 11, 181–2, 210, 223, 224–5, 278, 287, 290.

215

Jan Ziolkowski, ‘The Prosimetrum in the Classical Tradition’, in Prosimetrum: Cross-Cultural

Perspectives on Narrative in Prose and Verse, ed. Joseph Harris and Karl Reichl (Cambridge, 1997), 57; Armelle Leclercq, ‘Vers et prose, le jeu de la forme mêlèe dans les Dei Gesta per Francos de Guibert de Nogent (XIIe siécle)’, in The Medieval Chronicle III, ed. Erik Kooper (Amsterdam, 2004), 101–15. 216

Bernard Ribémont, ‘La “peur épique”: Le sentiment de peur en tant qu’objet littéraire dans la

chanson de geste française’, Le Moyen Âge 114 (2008): 557–87. 217

The Song of Roland: An Analytical Edition, ed. and trans. Gerard Brault, 2 vols (Pennsylvania, PA,

1978), ii. 36, ‘ne crent hume vivant’; La Chanson de Guillaume, ed. and trans. Philip Bennett (London, 2000), 48, ‘ne fuierai pur pour de morir’. Charlemagne was afforded a central role in the Chanson de Roland, which at least equalled that of Roland: Bernard Huppé, ‘The Concept of the Hero in the Early Middle Ages’, in Concepts of the Hero in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Norman Burns and Christopher Reagan (Albany, NY, 1975), 13–18. 218

Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, 367–9, 375–8.

219

Richard Barton, ‘Emotions and Power in Orderic Vitalis’, Anglo-Norman Studies 33 (2011): 54.

220

OV, v. 26, ‘mollis dux’, ‘plus prouinciales subditos timens quam ab illis timebatur’.

221

OV, vi. 444.

222

OV, v. 118–20, ‘formidabilemque cunctis affinibus suis Edessenum ducem sic faciebat’.

223

Roger Ray, ‘Orderic Vitalis and William of Poitiers’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 50 (1972): 1116–27. 224

WP, 6.

225

WP, 50, ‘uti fulmen terribile, comites atque duces potentissimi tremerent’.

226

WP, 60, ‘Sub eo praeside agentes formidini fore quibusque confinibus.’

227

WP, 28, ‘amorem atque terrorem’. The date of the capture of Alençon is unclear; see David Bates,

William the Conqueror (New Haven, CT, 2016), 122–3. 228 229

Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI, 32, 132, ‘magis … timebatur quam amabatur’. Lindy Grant, Abbot Suger of St-Denis: Church and State in Early Twelfth-Century France

(Harlow, 1998), 40–1. 230

Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI, 48; OD, 34, 74.

231

For example, see the accounts of Nicaea’s capitulation: Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 140; GF, 16; RA,

44; FC, 188; AA, 124; BB, 27; GN, 152; RM, 24. 232

GF, 63 (Alexios), 56, 57, 79 (unwarlike), 43, 79, 84, 85, 89 (Muslims).

233

FC, 234, 299, 317, 463, 502, 790, 793 (Muslims), 419, 439, 517 (Christians). Other chroniclers

likewise primarily attributed these and similar terms to Muslims: BB, 27, 47, 50, 53, 82, 97, 99 (Muslims), 43, 66, 74, 76 (Christians, often deserters); RM, 10, 24, 78, 90, 92, 106, 108 (Muslims), 64, 65 (Christians, often deserters). However, this observation is not universally applicable. Albert of Aachen imputed exterrere and perterrere as frequently to Latin Christians as he did to Muslims: AA, 178, 124, 182, 234, 284, 466 (Muslims), 214, 268, 278, 314, 352, 354, 368 (Christians). 234

BB, 34, ‘sed longinquas et exteras nationes cepit deterrere, et titulum Christianitatis remotorum

populorum auribus infundere. Diuulgabantur Christianorum praeclara facinora sibique superuenturam eorum miliciam, omnes et singuli formidabant.’ 235

Historia belli sacri, 212.

236

DeL, 178, ‘magnificatum est Francorum nomen per universas Hyspanie partes, irruitque timor

super Mauros quibus verbum huius actionis divulgabatur’. 237

Howden, Chronica, iii. 121, ‘propter metum mortis’; Clari, 74, 77, 79. For a similar example, see

Villehardouin, ii. 202. 238

RA, 106, 108, 125. See also RA, 67; GF, 96; FC, 256; RM, 40, 51; BB, 118; AA, 390, 474.

239

Narratio Floriacensis de captis Antiochia et Hierosolyma et obsesso Dyrrachio, in RHC Occ., v.

358, ‘Dei perterriti virtute’, 360. 240

BB, 97, ‘finitimos et procul positos omnes deterrebat. Deus etenim sic operabatur in illis.’

241

RM, 8, ‘pavor et mentis hebitudo’, ‘Adeo celestis tuba percrepuit, quod ubique gens omnis infesta

Christiano nomini intremuerit.’ 242

Howden, Chronica, iii. 120; Howden, Gesta, ii. 177; JV, HOr, 448, ‘iusto licet occulto Dei iudicio, commoti et perterriti’. 243

JV, Lettres, 108, ‘domino timorem eis immittente’; OP, 171, 198, 200.

244

IP, 394.

245

HL, 25, 28, ‘Lethones de Dei misericordia ita conterritos’.

246

HL, 194, ‘Sed exterrebat eos, qui quondam exterruit Philisteos, ut fugerent coram David.’

247

GD, 84; John of Tulbia, De domino Iohanne rege Ierusalem, 125; Liber duellii, 150; BC, Liber,

218; JV, Lettres, 106–7; Peter of Blois, Conquestio de dilatione vie Ierosolimitane, ed. Robert Huygens, Petri Blesensis tractus duo (Turnhout, 2002), 79; Gregory X, Zelus fidei, 309. See also Psalm 113.10, Judith 7.21, Joel 2.17. 248

GF, 51–6, 66–7.

249

Natasha Hodgson, ‘The Role of Kerbogha’s Mother in the Gesta Francorum and Selected

Chronicles of the First Crusade’, in Gendering the Crusades, ed. Edgington and Lambert, 163–76. 250

GF, 54, 68, ‘nimio pauore’, ‘ualde timuit’.

251

FC, 254; GN, 238, ‘demum intremuit’. See also RA, 80; BB, 80; OV, v. 112; RM, 61, 73; RC, 664–

5, 667. 252

WT, 314–15.

253

WT, 337, ‘tanta correptus formidine’.

254

AA, 254–8.

255

AA, 254, ‘uir contumax et plenus superba feritate’, 320.

256

AA, 330.

257

AA, 266, ‘homo metuendus’.

258

Jay Rubenstein, ‘Guibert of Nogent, Albert of Aachen and Fulcher of Chartres: Three Crusade

Chronicles Intersect’, in Writing the Early Crusades, ed. Bull and Kempf, 36; CA, 403–4; Antioche, 292– 3. 259

Rosalind Hill, ‘The Christian View of the Muslims at the Time of the First Crusade’, in The

Eastern Mediterranean Lands in the Period of the Crusades, ed. Peter Holt (Warminster, 1977), 1–8. 260

On the concept of ‘storyworld’, see David Herman, Basic Elements of Narrative (Oxford, 2009),

105–36.

Part II Tears and Grief

3 The Lachrymose Crusader Despite the increasing amount of scholarship dedicated to exploring various aspects of crusader spirituality, there has not yet been a detailed assessment of the religious and social roles of weeping in crusade texts; indeed, it has recently been suggested that ‘tears were relatively unusual among crusaders’ due to ‘the narratives’ heroic genre’—a conclusion which this chapter and the next demonstrate to be incorrect.1 This omission is surprising because medieval tears have been the subject of numerous studies outside a crusading context, with Piroska Nagy and Sandra McEntire having written extensively on the ‘gift of tears’, the western Christian theology of weeping.2 Nagy traced its development from the fifth to the thirteenth century in the works of theologians and concluded that the doctrine reached its zenith in the period 1000–1200, although Kimberley-Joy Knight has offered a compelling case for its persistence beyond this.3 Furthermore, Gerd Althoff, Albrecht Classen, and others have highlighted the social and political functions of crying, which receive attention in Chapter 4. This chapter examines the religious significance of, and functions assigned to, the crusaders’ tears in twelfth- and thirteenth-century sources, charting continuities and changes over time as well as similarities and differences between source types. It will be argued that in the ecclesiastical texts, weeping featured as a legitimate form of affective piety, and that the crusaders’ tears were chiefly understood to be mediators between temporal and heavenly worlds—devices that allowed for the petitioning and thanking of God. As such, they were important for maintaining the crusaders’ relationship with God, upon whose mercy, for many writers, the fortunes of crusading expeditions hinged. The representation of weeping in these works, it will be suggested, not only reflected the influence of scripture, but also the Christian theology of tears, against which monastic writers and their audiences would have interpreted their own tears.

Instruments to Petition God

The most widely reported spiritual function of crusaders’ tears in clerical texts was the petitioning of divine assistance. In the Gesta Francorum, having been misinformed about the supposed destruction of the crusaders at Antioch in 1098, Bohemond of Taranto’s half-brother, Guy, ‘with everybody immediately began to cry, and to lament with most emphatic wailing; and with one voice all said: “Oh true God, three and one, why have you allowed this to happen?”’4 Contemporaries who described this scene certainly interpreted Guy’s tears as communicating with God. The scribe responsible for the marginalia in a manuscript of Robert the Monk’s Historia summarized the chapter on Guy’s lament thus: ‘Guy cries exceedingly, [and] begs the Lord with tears not to let His people be displeasing to Him, nor to let them die.’5 According to Peter Tudebode, when Christ appeared to Stephen of Valence in 1098, the priest fell at his feet and tearfully asked for divine aid.6 Among the earliest chroniclers of the First Crusade, the idea of calling on God through weeping found greatest expression in Raymond of Aguilers’ Historia. From the outset, he demanded that critics undertake penitential weeping (penitentie lamenta) for wrongly denying God’s support for the expedition.7 ‘So great was the grief and calling out to God in the camp’ during the siege of Antioch, Raymond insisted, ‘that by the flow of tears you might have thought God’s pity would descend’; and just days before the discovery of the relic of the Holy Lance, the army walked through Antioch’s streets ‘calling upon the assistance of God, weeping and beating their breasts they were so sorrowful’.8 The crusaders allegedly engaged in similar acts before the battle of Ascalon on 12 August 1099: ‘our leaders and the clergy came together and, marching with bare feet before the Sepulchre of the Lord, with many prayers and tears they begged mercy from the Lord, so that He might free His people whom He had caused to triumph over all up to this time’.9 The ability of tears to secure divine favour gained greater currency in the works of second-generation monastic authors of the expedition. Thus, in one such testimony, the betrayal of Muslim-held Antioch was a direct consequence of God being moved by the crusaders’ prayers and tears; other non-participant chroniclers reported that the Christians wept as they processed around Jerusalem in 1099; and, on another occasion, their inner grief reached God through heartfelt groans since their eyes were too dry to cry.10 The spiritual function of tears as mechanisms to communicate with God continued to feature prominently in ecclesiastical texts throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The representation of religious practices in the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, an account of the conquest of Lisbon by contingents of the Second Crusade in 1147, has received attention from David Bachrach and Susanna Throop, yet neither commented directly on the significance of weeping.11 In this text, weeping performed the same role of entreating God as in the First Crusade narratives, although, given the author’s concern with the contaminating effects of vices, we find a greater focus on the internal contrition which the crusaders’ tears symbolized. Thus, the author recounted how, during a storm at sea, the Christians were ‘doing penance, confessing many sins and acts of negligence with grief and groaning, washing off the conversion (conversionem) of their pilgrimage—however begun—in a flood of tears, [and] were making sacrifices to God in the refuge of a contrite heart’.12 The entire passage was essentially a description of

the crusaders’ conversio—their turning towards God by cleansing themselves of sin through tears, groans, and sorrow—and in the wake of their supplications they received heavenly assistance.13 The morally cleansing effect of tears, and their ability to secure God’s favour, featured prominently in the De expugnatione’s description of a sermon delivered to the crusaders before Lisbon by a priest, probably the author himself. The priest commanded each to ‘pray with tears and groaning’ in remembrance of their sins so that divine compassion would be obtained.14 Accordingly, ‘all fell forward on their faces with groaning and tears’, and their acts of repentance were deemed to have contributed to the city’s fall.15 The role of tears as mediators between temporal and heavenly worlds also marked accounts of the capture of Damietta’s Chain Tower by the Fifth Crusaders in August 1218. Oliver of Paderborn related that, in response to an assault on the tower, which failed due to the burning of their ladder, the Christians prostrated themselves, ‘their faces moistened by grief’.16 Their tears and supplications were represented as having a direct impact on the course of the siege: as a consequence of their devotion, divine mercy lifted the ladder, ‘the tears of the faithful extinguished the fire’, and they renewed combat with the Egyptians.17 Oliver’s account is corroborated by other contemporary sources. That the crusaders’ displays of grief were responsible for the tower’s subjugation was even more pointedly expressed in the Gesta obsidionis Damiate, which may be textually related to Oliver of Paderborn’s Historia: ‘on bended knees and with bare feet [the Christians] lay low on the ground, pouring rivers of tears forth from their eyes, for they were thus so gravely distressed that they were even devoid of speech and barely able to say: “Lord, have mercy! Help us!”’18 After remaining sorrowful for one hour, however, suddenly the fire was extinguished and the banner of the cross was seen on the tower, causing the Christians to recover their voices.19 In Jacques de Vitry’s letter of September 1218 to Pope Honorius III, these lachrymose performances were only attributed to the Frisian pilgrims, who served as pious exemplars for the onlooking crusaders. ‘Throwing themselves onto the sand and sprinkling the dust over their heads’, Jacques wrote, ‘with tears and groaning they cried out to the Lord to have mercy on His people.’20 The crusaders were ‘invigorated by the tears and prayers of the pilgrims’ and renewed the assault with what remained of the burnt ladder.21 Similar examples can be found in a much larger corpus of narratives created during the crusading era. The communicative potential of tears (and other genuflections) was clearly appreciated by Arnold of Lübeck, who described the lamentation over the desolation of the Holy Land in 1187 thus: ‘tears are flowing, sighs are drawn, and a voice of weeping and wailing is raised on high’.22 Ambroise’s Estoire and the Itinerarium peregrinorum recorded that it became customary for the Third Crusaders to implore God by chanting ‘Holy Sepulchre, help us!’, while shedding copious tears and holding their hands towards heaven; one anonymous author, probably a canon of Soissons cathedral, claimed that the Fourth Crusaders purged their consciences through tears and confession; and the ability of the tears shed by Christian captives in Jerusalem to induce the miracle of the Holy Fire was widely reported.23 Collectively, these passages demonstrate that, in the ecclesiastical texts at least, the conception of tears as

instruments through which crusaders could spark divine intercession was consistently evoked during the crusading period, and the rhetoric used by Christian authors to describe the intermediary role of tears was equally homogeneous. One of the striking features of these texts is the collective nature of participants’ sobbing. Some writers regularly imputed religiously orientated tears, particularly those designed to implore God, to ecclesiastical members of crusader armies. Thus, the phrase ‘plorando cantabant, cantando plorabant’ (weeping they sang, singing they wept) was used by Fulcher of Chartres to characterize the prayers offered to God by the bishops and priests during the battle of Dorylaeum in July 1097, and the same author claimed that the priests wept on behalf of the entire army before the battle of Antioch in June 1098.24 Papal legates, responsible for the spiritual welfare of participants, were frequently represented as engaging in religious weeping. Both Robert the Monk and Guibert of Nogent envisaged Adhémar of Le Puy crying, armed with the Holy Lance, during the battle of Antioch; according to the latter, he ‘tearfully called on the assistance of omnipotent Jesus’.25 In much the same way, Pelagius, cardinal bishop of Albano, was assigned the role of tearfully entreating God in texts pertaining to the Fifth Crusade.26 In the Gesta obsidionis Damiate and other works, Pelagius repeatedly pleaded with God and Christ to assist the crusaders, usually ‘shedding tears from his eyes’ and ‘stretching his hands to heaven’.27 Nor is it particularly surprising to find that the anonymous author of the Excidium Aconis and Thadeus of Naples both praised the lachrymose piety of the former patriarch of Jerusalem, Nicolas de Hanapes, in their accounts of Acre’s loss in 1291. In the Excidium Aconis, Nicolas addressed the Lord ‘with the most devout and tearful sighs’, while Thadeus recorded that he prayed ‘with rivers of pious tears bursting from his eyes’ and making the shape of the cross with his arms.28 Nevertheless, in most of the narratives, religious weeping of this kind was not the sole preserve of ecclesiastics but was also attributed to combatants or the crusader army collectively. In the examples considered above, the leaders and clergy (principes et clerus) wept to God before the battle of Ascalon in Raymond of Aguilers’ Historia; all (omnes) tearfully solicited divine pity during the siege of Lisbon; and the repeated use of Christiani in the Gesta obsidionis Damiate’s account of the tears shed before the Chain Tower articulated the collective nature of their crying.29 The significance and potential purpose of this lack of social distinction is considered at greater length in Chapter 4, but here it is worth noting that this trait probably stemmed from monastic authorship. In fact, in many of these texts, there are strong echoes of scriptural passages, like 2 Maccabees 11.6, in which Judas Maccabeus and his men ‘besought the Lord with lamentations and tears’, or Judith 7.18: ‘there was great weeping and lamentation of all in the assembly, and for many hours with one voice they cried to God’. The imputation of tears capable of triggering divine compassion to ecclesiastics and combatants alike appears to be a by-product of the broader process whereby monastic ideals became assimilated into crusade histories. Put simply, the crusaders effectively inherited the kind of tears which were traditionally associated with monks. Tears were one of the most esteemed qualities of professed religious, whose duty it was, according to Jacques

de Vitry, ‘to mourn and pray’.30 For example, like many medieval bishops, Wulfstan of Worcester had a reputation for his lachrymose performances: he was said to have wept daily at each verse of Psalm 7, frequently engaged in tearful prayer, and heard confession in a torrent of tears. His planctus, we are told, could even cure the sick.31 Perhaps owing to the incorporation of martial rhetoric into monastic texts, tears were often described as part of the arsenal which monks could direct against spiritual enemies.32 Writing to a recluse called Reynald, the twelfth-century Carthusian monk Bernard of Portes designated prayer with tears as the ‘spiritual equipment’ needed to combat invisible enemies in ‘knightly contests’.33 This clerical perception of tears as weapons was echoed in crusade narratives. According to William of Tyre, the First Crusaders were ‘bearing spiritual weapons’—prayers, tears, and groans—during the battle of Ascalon, whilst Robert the Monk vividly compared the crusaders’ tears to military arms when he wrote of their reaction to finally seeing Jerusalem on 7 June 1099: Oh good Jesus, when your army saw the walls of this earthly Jerusalem, their eyes streamed out such great outlets of rivers! … And they were fighting better with their tears than they would by throwing darts, because although [their tears] flowed copiously into the ground, they were nevertheless ascending into heaven before you, their defender.34 The suggestion that tears were more effective weapons than material arms is a startling reminder that, in Robert’s Historia, victory was entirely dependent upon divine will. Though not explicitly stated, it is perhaps also implied that their tears, in securing heavenly aid and bringing about the conquest of the earthly Jerusalem, forecasted access to the heavenly Jerusalem. As Sylvia Schein has noted, the capture of the holy city in 1099 resulted in a revolutionary perception in second-generation histories like Robert’s, whereby the earthly Jerusalem effectively merged with the celestial one.35 In spite of the parallels between the crusaders’ tears and those of professed religious, Robert’s description of this episode also illustrates an important distinction. Rather than weapons to combat spiritual enemies, crusade participants’ tears procured divine support and thus enabled victory over their temporal adversaries.

Compunctio Cordis, Contrition, and the Theology of Tears

Central to the idea of calling upon God through tears was the relationship between weeping and humility. It was demonstrated in Chapter 1 that humilitas formed a cornerstone of contemporary understandings of crusader spirituality and found expression in a broad repertoire of source types. It is against this backdrop that the value of tears, and their role in beseeching God, becomes clear. Some writers explicitly recognized that tears were the external symptoms of internal humility and contrition. William of Tyre consistently condemned individuals who acted arrogantly and applauded those who displayed humility, often employing stock phrases like ‘in spiritu humilitatis et in animo contrito’ (in a spirit of humility and with a contrite heart).36 In William’s account of the First Crusade, he presented such humility and contrition as manifesting itself outwardly through tears, particularly on occasions when participants sought God’s favour. Conducting a bare-footed procession around Jerusalem on 8 July 1099, the Latins ‘invoked assistance from above with groaning and tears, in a spirit of humility and with a contrite heart’, and such tearful performances were later re-enacted before the battle of Ascalon.37 Although William’s portrayal of the crusaders’ spiritual preparations before the latter confrontation was based on Raymond of Aguilers’ account, he made the significant addition of drawing attention to participants’ contrition: ‘prostrated before the Sepulchre of the Lord, with a contrite and humbled heart they prayed with groaning and tears, beseeching the Lord to mercifully free His people from the imminent dangers’.38 It is possible that William’s conception of tears as mechanisms for invoking divine aid stemmed directly from his use of Raymond’s Historia, for this type of religious weeping—to petition God—is entirely absent from the archbishop’s chronicle after book 11, where his account of the First Crusade ends. William was certainly not unique in perceiving tears in this way. Jacques de Vitry ascribed the defeat of the Fifth Crusaders on 29 August 1219 to the fact that the knights and footsoldiers trusted in their own strength, and he accordingly established a juxtaposition between pride and tears: they set off ‘not with tears and piety, but with ostentation and pomp’.39 Humbert of Romans made the same connection between humility and tears in chapter 44 of the De predicatione sancte crucis, which stressed that crusaders should have ‘true contrition of the heart’, with ‘perceptible weeping or sorrow for sins’, for they would not gain the indulgence unless truly contrite.40 He went on to suggest that they ought to practice works of humility, like those undertaken by the Maccabees, who had ‘craved the mercy of the Lord with weeping and fasting’ (2 Maccabees 13.12).41 The focus on crusader humility in the sources is understandable: broadly speaking, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries witnessed a greater concern with the internal disposition and contrition of penitents, with less significance attached to external manifestations of piety.42 The seminal decree Omnis utriusque sexus of the Fourth Lateran Council stipulated that all Christians were expected to attend annual confession, although the work of Alexander Murray, Mary Mansfield, and Sarah Hamilton has persuasively refuted the notion of a sharp transition from a system of ‘public’ penance to one of ‘secret’ or ‘private’ penance after 1215.43 That is not to suggest, however, that the performance of weeping

became redundant or obsolete after 1215, but rather that the internal contrition of penitents became integral.44 Indeed, the shedding of tears was considered an indication of genuine contrition, and the sincerity of a protagonist’s tears was usually only questioned in relation to the crusaders’ adversaries. A concern for the homo interior (the ‘inner person’) is well attested in crusade texts. William of Tyre wrote of ‘the perfect joy of the inner man’, while Guibert of Nogent accepted that the intentions (intentionibus) of his contemporaries remained inaccessible, to the extent that they could hardly be discerned by the shrewdness of the inner man (interioris hominis) himself.45 One of the terms used in a significant number of cases to relate the internal feelings of crusade participants was compunctio. Inspired by God, compunctio was a sort of piercing of the heart—the moment at which a penitent reflected on his or her previous sins and resolved to rectify them, which was usually, though not always, accompanied by the external symptom of tears.46 Compunction was one of three elements or stages in the Christian theology of tears: whereas tears were the visible manifestation and contrition was the spiritual part, compunctio was the emotional component.47 All three stages can be observed in the thirteenth-century preaching manual Brevis ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis, in which the ability of tears stemming from compunction and contrition to purify the soul was compared to the washing of a garment: Just as cloth is cleansed by bitter lye and afterwards by sweet and warm water, thus the soul is first cleansed by bitter tribulation and afterwards by tears, which follow tribulation, and which are made warm by contrition and recollection of past [sins]. Indeed, the warmth is naturally stirred up through the normal movement in an embrace, but the tears flowing from true compunction of the heart will be sweet and delightful in the sight of God …48 In other words, whereas the warm tears required to purge the soul could be produced naturally, the most beneficial tears, and the most pleasing to God, were those cultivated through compunction. This experience—known as the gratia lacrimarum or donum lacrimarum (the ‘gift of tears’)—had a clear scriptural foundation, yet the encapsulation of salvific mourning in the phrase compunctio cordis was absent in the West until the early fifth century.49 The first major western theologian of compunction was Gregory the Great, whose ideas, although later refined and adapted, formed the basis of the doctrine from the sixth century onwards. For our purposes, it is important to note that Gregory was the first author to distinguish between two types of tears: those of sorrow in remorse for past sins; and those of love or joy, which stemmed from a longing for salvation and superseded the former in their spiritual efficacy.50 The doctrine of compunction provided a theological model against which monastic authors appear to have interpreted the crusaders’ tears. Whereas the term compunctio is absent from the so-called ‘eyewitness’ narratives of the First Crusade, there are signs that later commentators, above all Benedictine monks like Baldric of Bourgueil and Guibert of Nogent, contextualized the crusaders’ weeping within the doctrine.51 Tellingly, Baldric used compunctio a total of four times, a small but

significant departure from the Gesta Francorum, whereas Guibert interrupted his description of the battle of Dorylaeum by drawing attention to the great number of tears the crusaders poured forth to God and the ‘piety of compunction and confession’ which emerged from their hearts.52 The idea of remorseful weeping through compunctio cordis had, in fact, already infiltrated the sixthcentury Regula of St Benedict, which instructed monks to beseech God ‘in the purity of heart and the remorse of tears’, and to give themselves over to ‘prayer with tears, reading, compunction of the heart, and moderation’ during Lent.53 Yet the application of the theology of the grace of tears was certainly not restricted to Benedictine authors of crusade texts. Bartolf of Nangis, William of Tyre, and Jacques de Vitry—to name just a few—all attributed compunctio to crusade participants.54 Thus, William of Tyre reported the arrival of a fleet of pilgrims from Flanders, Holland, and Frisia at Tarsus in 1097 who, ‘with compunction of the heart and repenting of their sins’, desired to pray at Jerusalem; and, believing death was approaching in 1118, King Baldwin I of Jerusalem was allegedly ‘pricked in the heart’.55 Even less theologically minded writers, such as Albert of Aachen, associated tears of repentance with compunction; on his deathbed Godfrey of Bouillon apparently confessed his sins ‘in true compunction of heart and with tears’.56 An awareness that tears which proceeded from compunctio were regarded as the outward manifestations of true contrition and humility before God can shed light on a key episode in many of the chronicles: the taking of the cross.57 Numerous chroniclers claimed that such scenes were characterized by tearful outpourings. Thus, there was allegedly great weeping when Herbert II of Thouars took the cross in 1101, for neither Herbert nor those present were able to contain their tears, and news of the defeat at Hattin and the loss of Jerusalem in 1187 reportedly stirred some to tears and others to revenge.58 On 24 June 1190, Philip Augustus, who had earlier taken the cross at Gisors, undertook prayer with tears before receiving the purse and staff from Archbishop William of Reims at St-Denis.59 Tears were also frequently imputed to those present when an individual took the cross or announced his decision to participate in a crusade. When Louis VII requested the Oriflame and permission to depart on the Second Crusade, he was said to have ‘incited great lamentation from all’, whereas Frederick Barbarossa reportedly received the cross, ‘not without the abundant tears of many people’.60 While these reports do not offer an insight into the nature of such tears, probably because the writers believed that their meaning would be immediately apparent to contemporaries, they do at least testify that the taking of the cross was expected to be accompanied by lachrymose scenes. However, some chroniclers indicated that the weeping of those who took the cross was symptomatic of internal contrition, deriving from an awareness of previous sins and from compunction of the heart. These tearful episodes usually revolved around the offer of spiritual rewards, above all the remission of sins. Ekkehard of Aura recorded that thousands broke into tears when Urban II offered the remissio peccatorum at Clermont in November 1095, and in a later comment he explained that compunction (compunctis) inspired some to dedicate themselves to the enterprise.61 In similar fashion, the Cronica

Reinhardsbrunnensis recorded that Frederick Barbarossa tearfully received the sign of the cross at the general court convened at Mainz on 27 March 1188. When Pope Gregory VIII’s representative outlined the spiritual rewards on offer, the indulgence of their sins and eternal life, the emperor wept and professed himself to the expedition, encouraging onlookers to likewise be signed.62 The anonymous author of the Historia peregrinorum went even further, clearly conceiving the tears shed at the Mainz assembly as originating from compunction of the heart. In this version, Bishop Henry of Strassburg ended a rousing speech by extolling that participants would earn the ‘peccatorum remissio’, at which point ‘the devotion of all, as if earlier dormant, was stirred up, [and] tears of piety burst forth from their pierced hearts’, causing thousands to take the cross.63 The most explicit statement that tears were regarded as markers of internal compunction was Gunther of Pairis’ description of the weeping which followed a sermon delivered by Abbot Martin of Pairis as part of his preaching for the Fourth Crusade. The abbot was said to have highlighted the ‘great and eternal rewards’ on offer, leaving both speaker and audience with tears streaming down their faces: ‘you might have seen tears most copiously running both down his face and down the faces of all; you might have heard groans and sobs and sighs, and other signs of this kind, which gave proof of internal compunction’.64 Crucially, Gunther certified that their groans, sobs, and sighs, along with similar signs, were visible evidence of internal compunction, and there can be little doubt that he considered this a praiseworthy type of sorrow, for he noted that the audience was ‘stung by happy grief’.65 The doctrine’s influence can likewise be seen in Gerald of Wales’ accounts of his preaching to the Welsh at Haverfordwest in 1188. In the Itinerarium Kambriae, he recorded that many found it miraculous that, despite delivering a sermon in Latin and then French, those who understood neither language were moved to tears and rushed in swarms to receive the sign of the cross.66 In the third book of his unfinished autobiography, De rebus a se gestis, Gerald described the emotional reaction his sermon inspired, reporting that a similar thing had happened when Bernard of Clairvaux preached to the Germans in the French tongue and ‘instilled in them such devotion and compunction that he both induced a profusion of tears from their eyes and with the greatest ease softened the hardness of their hearts’.67 Historians have, understandably, taken Gerald’s comparison between his own sermon and that of Bernard in preaching the Second Crusade as evidence of the latter’s talent as an orator.68 Of significance for our purposes, however, is that the compunction of Bernard’s audience was presented as a gift from God: ‘From this’, Gerald affirmed, ‘it is clear that the power of the Divine Spirit works within and traverses hearts.’69 On both occasions, the audiences’ compunction and tears originated from neither Gerald nor Bernard, but from God. The divinely inspired nature of compunctio was appreciated by other contemporaries. The Gesta Francorum’s statement that Bohemond of Taranto was ‘stirred by the Holy Spirit’ to have his best cloak torn into crosses was subtly transformed by Guibert of Nogent into the comment, ‘inspired by God, he was roused to remorse (compungitur) from the bottom of the heart’.70 Writing in the 1120s, Cosmas, a

canon of the cathedral of Prague, recorded that in 1096 ‘a divine compunction’ occurred in the people setting out to Jerusalem, while Ralph of Coggeshall believed that Fulk of Neuilly’s words were like ‘sharp arrows of the mighty’, capable of piercing the hearts of men and softening them to tears and repentance.71 Likewise, according to Jacques de Vitry, one of the benefits of preaching the cross was that many were stung (compuncti) when they became aware of their sins. He gave the exemplum of a man who, albeit locked in the loft by his domineering wife, secretly listened to Jacques’ sermon. Hearing that participants would have all penance remitted, ‘he was intensely stung (compunctus) and inspired by God’ to take the cross.72 The doctrine of compunction enabled ecclesiastical authors to set the crusaders’ tears within a framework that would have been familiar to monastic audiences. Thus, descriptions of westerners experiencing divinely ordained compunction and shedding tears of repentance when they took the cross closely resemble accounts of conversion to the monastic life.73 Other historians have demonstrated that the rhetoric of religious conversion was frequently adopted to describe the assumption of the cross.74 The presentation of weeping and compunction, therefore, offers a further parallel. The vita of Robert of Molesme tells of two brothers, both knights, who were intent on killing each other for monetary gain. However, passing the dwelling place of a holy hermit, they suddenly experienced their conversion (conversionem), being ‘stung by divine inspiration’ and ‘pierced in heart’ to return to the hermit.75 When the twelfth-century knight Pons of Léras chose a life of monasticism, he apparently wept rivers of tears to purify himself.76 Similarly, Bertrand of Grandselve was said to have shed torrents of tears at the start of his conversio, and in his Monodiae, Guibert of Nogent reported that a recent convert, a nobleman of Beauvais, gained the respect of his peers by weeping unceasingly.77 While accounts of individuals tearfully taking the cross may not ‘tell us all we would like to know about the ideas of laymen who were capable of their own deep emotional responses’, they nevertheless offer an insight into the ‘deep emotional responses’ monastic writers and their audiences expected of the laity.78 As far as many of these authors were concerned, the term compunctio—outwardly manifested by tears and other signs—encapsulated the inner feelings and remorse for past sins which Christians ought to have experienced when offered the crusade indulgence.

Joy-Bearing Grief and Tears Shed over Jerusalem

As noted earlier, according to the doctrine of compunction, tears of sorrow in remorse for one’s sins were often followed and superseded by tears of joy, which symbolized the individual’s longing for God’s realm and union with Christ. In short, compunction was ‘joy-making sorrow’.79 This concept was modelled, first and foremost, on the scriptures, which promised joy and salvation to those who wept and grieved. This notion of joy-bearing grief, based on scriptural passages like those in Table 3.1, was taken up by crusading popes (or their curias) and contemporary chroniclers alike. Ralph of Caen wrote that by the time the First Crusaders reached Arqa in 1099, they had grown accustomed to ‘rise high from the vale of tears (Psalm 83.7) to the mountain of joy’.80 Oliver of Paderborn similarly employed the formula of joybearing grief when he reflected on the capture of Damietta’s Chain Tower in August 1218, which was ascribed to God’s pity: ‘After lamentation and sorrow, after weeping and groaning, we saw joy and victory.’81 The meritorious nature of joyous tears, and their association with salvation, was seemingly alluded to by Ansbert, who depicted German participants in the Third Crusade as ‘shedding tears for joy and the desire of eternal reward’.82 There are indications elsewhere in the Historia that Ansbert was aware of the doctrine: he only once referred to compunctio cordis, though in that instance it was clearly associated with repentance.83 Table 3.1 Joy-bearing grief in the Bible Old Testament Isaiah And I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and joy in my people, and the voice of weeping shall no more 65.19 be heard in her, nor the voice of crying. Psalm They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Going they went and wept, casting their seeds. But 125.5–7 coming they shall come with joyfulness, carrying their sheaves. Baruch For I sent you forth with mourning and weeping: but the Lord will bring you back to me with 4.23 joy and gladness forever. New Testament Luke Blessed are ye that weep now: for you shall laugh. 6.21 John Amen, amen I say to you, that you shall lament and weep, but the world shall rejoice; and you 16.20 shall be made sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. With regard to crusade preaching, Audita tremendi represents a seminal proclamation. Before this point, the need for Christians to undertake penitential weeping for their sins had not been a prominent component of the crusade ideology espoused by the papacy: Urban II had not urged recourse to weeping in his letters, nor had Eugenius III in Quantum praedecessores. The formulaic explanation for Christian setbacks peccatis exigentibus hominum, though in circulation before 1187, became widespread in the aftermath of the battle of Hattin and the loss of Jerusalem.84 In Audita tremendi, Gregory VIII identified the sins of Latin Christendom at large as the cause of the catastrophic defeat at Hattin and encouraged the western faithful to reject the idea that ‘[God] might not through His mercy be quickly placated, and after

tears and weeping bring joy’.85 Gregory’s proclamation that westerners could expect joy after rectifying their sins through penitential sobbing was reminiscent of Tobit 3.22—‘after tears and weeping, thou pour out joy’—and became a recurring theme of crusade encyclicals thereafter.86 For example, in Post miserabile, Innocent III assured participants that ‘after tears and weeping, [God] brings joy and exultation’.87 He returned to this rhetoric in a letter to the leaders of the Fourth Crusade, in which he bemoaned the capture of Zara from fellow Christians, and in a correspondence of 10 September 1213, Innocent directly quoted Psalm 125.6, reminding Bishop Conrad of Regensburg that ‘you will gather sheaves of joy with those who going, went and wept, casting their seeds’.88 The influence of the doctrine of compunction, with its concept of joy-bearing grief, is clearly observable in accounts of the tears shed over Jerusalem by the First Crusaders. Several twelfth-century chroniclers envisaged participants weeping copiously when they first caught a glimpse of Jerusalem from Montjoie on 7 June 1099. Though some modern historians have dwelt on this episode, incorporating it into their reconstructions of the enterprise, none of the ‘eyewitness’ testimonies alluded to the crusaders’ crying at this point.89 Raymond of Aguilers failed to mention the Latins’ tears, and the Gesta Francorum merely stated that they arrived at Jerusalem ‘rejoicing and exulting’.90 The Gesta’s statement was transformed by later writers like Robert the Monk and Baldric of Bourgueil, who included lengthy theological commentaries on the crusaders’ lachrymose performances.91 The version in Baldric’s Historia reads: When indeed they came to this place, from which they were able to admire Jerusalem itself, crowned with towers, who could worthily reckon how many tears they shed? Who could fittingly express their feelings? Joy forced gasps and boundless happiness produced sobs. Having seen Jerusalem, all halted and worshipped, and on bended knee affectionately kissed the holy land … They went and wept (Psalm 125.6); and those who had assembled there for the sake of prayer, being about to fight, first laid aside their weapons in a hurry.92 Despite questioning whether the crusaders’ sentiments could be accurately gauged—a comment which perhaps indicates that he was discussing the homo interior—Baldric explicitly stated that their tears and sobs were external expressions of their inner joy. Significantly, there is also a clue as to the inspiration behind this description—the text of Psalm 125.6, one of the passages upon which the idea of joy-making sorrow was founded. This process of contextualizing participants’ tears within the doctrine of compunction is also evident in William of Tyre’s account of the same episode, almost certainly adapted from Albert of Aachen’s Historia. Albert recorded that in early June 1099 Tancred of Hauteville and Gaston of Béziers (possibly identifiable as Gaston of Béarn) went ahead of the Christian army and seized plunder near Jerusalem.93 Upon their return, they informed their comrades that they had acquired the supplies from ‘the plain of Jerusalem’, at which point all the pilgrims ‘burst into floods of tears of happiness’, and soon 60,000 of

them stood before the city’s walls, crying for joy.94 In Albert’s version, distinctly lacking the theological overtones which marked the accounts by Robert and Baldric, the crusaders’ joyous tears were a demonstration of their longing to reach Jerusalem, with desiderium and amor used to describe their feelings.95 William of Tyre modified this passage, highlighting the spiritual nature of their happiness. At the mention of Jerusalem, ‘they were not strong [enough] to hold back tears and sighs on account of the ardour of devotion’, and, edging ever closer to the holy city, the pilgrims gave vent to their ‘spiritual joy’ through groans and sighs.96 This may only be a minor revision, yet it epitomizes William’s greater concern for the homo interior and is entirely in line with the doctrine of compunction. The doctrine’s influence is even more apparent in William’s lengthy description of the crusaders’ tearful worshipping at Jerusalem’s holy sites on 15 July 1099. He noted that the pilgrims proceeded with groans and tears, ‘in a spirit of humility and with a truly contrite heart’, before describing how: the people came to the holy places of the faith with such great ardour of pious longing, affectionately kissing [them] with great exultation of mind and with spiritual joy in recollection of the Lord’s stewardship: everywhere tears, everywhere sighs, not of the sort that sorrow and worry are accustomed to wrench out, but of the sort that burning devotion and the perfect joy of the inner man are accustomed to inflame for an offering to the Lord.97 William’s decision to clarify that their tears and sighs derived from ‘the perfect joy of the inner man’ almost certainly reflects an awareness of the doctrine of compunction; indeed, he believed it was a source of spiritual joy just to witness such devotion.98 He went on to relate that while some tearfully confessed past crimes, others did rounds of the holy places, sprinkling them with tears and directing the words of Psalm 118.136 to the Lord: ‘My eyes have sent forth rivers of water.’99 Like other commentators, William admitted that he struggled ‘to express in word the immeasurable and sacred devotion of the faithful people’, but it seems that his knowledge of scripture and the doctrine of compunction were of assistance.100 Other clerical writers explained the spiritual value of the crusaders’ tearful demonstrations before Christ’s tomb in similar terms. Raymond of Aguilers hinted at the idea of joy-bearing grief when he wrote that ‘all our sorrows and toils were turned into joy and exultation’, although this probably reflects his biblical training, for it appears alongside a selection of quotations from scripture.101 According to Bartolf of Nangis, the Latins ‘burst into tears of joy’ and ‘touched the holy places of [Christ’s] Passion … sending forth tears of compunction’.102 Once again, comparison between the Gesta Francorum and the so-called ‘Gesta-derivatives’ is illustrative of this process of ‘theological refinement’.103 The Gesta reported that the crusaders ‘came rejoicing and weeping from great joy to worship at the Sepulchre’.104 Baldric of Bourgueil theologically embellished this statement by adding that all poured out tears of joy, vowing to spend the entire day ‘with the sacrifice of compunction’.105 Guibert of Nogent went even

further, portraying the crusaders’ experience as tantamount to a spiritual rebirth: nobody is able to understand how blessed were the tears they poured forth. Omnipotent God, what of the inner turmoil, what of the joy, what of the sorrow in that place, when, after torments like those of childbirth, unheard-of and entirely untried by temporal armies, like newborn sons they saw they had truly attained the fresh joys of the longed-for vision! Therefore, they were grieving, and yet they shed tears sweeter than any bread, and rejoicing, with abounding passions they embraced most pious Jesus, the cause of their long toils and sufferings, as if suspended on the cross …106 This is a particularly complex passage, and most of its resonances for a twelfth-century audience are surely lost to us. Perhaps the most striking feature is the personification of the crusaders as both happy and sad—two emotions which appear contradictory to the modern observer. In fact, this combination marked Guibert’s entire narrative of the siege and fall of Jerusalem.107 Through the use of emotion words, it seems Guibert was attempting to present the crusaders as having undergone a spiritual transformation. After enduring unparalleled torments, like those of childbirth, they now resembled ‘newborn sons’ and attained ‘the fresh joys of the longed-for vision’. There is a strong case for arguing that Guibert was alluding to participants’ spiritual joy, not least because, in accordance with the doctrine of compunction, the crusaders then tearfully embraced Christ, still suspended from the cross. It is clear that chroniclers struggled to articulate the emotions of participants before Christ’s tomb. Some maintained that the blessed nature of the crusaders’ tears could not be truly comprehended, while others, like William of Malmesbury, simply stated that this scene should be imagined rather than described.108 Ironically, the ‘eyewitnesses’ were far less concerned with reporting the sentiments they had experienced in that moment, whereas later monastic writers, seemingly influenced by the doctrine of compunction, offered theological commentaries in which the crusaders acquired the most sought-after tears—those of spiritual joy, which symbolized their attainment of God’s realm. Accounts of crusade participants weeping over Jerusalem were not restricted to the First Crusade narratives; for instance, members of the Third Crusade reportedly kissed and wept over Jerusalem’s holy places when they visited the city after the ratification of the Treaty of Jaffa in September 1192.109 Besides contemporary thinking on the grace of tears, accounts of the crusaders’ tearful worshipping at Jerusalem may also reflect the influence of pilgrimage tradition, although its relative impact is difficult to assess.110 While a proliferation of contemporaneous pilgrim accounts and guides survive, most were more interested in providing physical descriptions of Jerusalem’s holy sites than offering records of the authors’ experiences.111 Nevertheless, the extant evidence suggests that the crusade chroniclers were working within, and contributing to, a tradition whereby Jerusalem pilgrims were expected to engage in lachrymose demonstrations when visiting the city’s holy places. In the fourth century, St Jerome wrote of the nun Paula’s tears and lamentations as she prayed in the

Holy Sepulchre, whilst Sophronius of Jerusalem was similarly ‘oppressed by tears’ in c.614, when he venerated the spot where Christ had heard his sentence.112 The eleventh-century historian Ralph Glaber recorded that a Burgundian pilgrim called Lethbaud exulted in the Lord with tears and indescribable joy on the Mount of Olives, whilst Fulk Nerra, count of Anjou, undertook a third pilgrimage to Jerusalem and wept at the Holy Sepulchre, before meeting his death in 1040.113 Hugh of Flavigny’s account of the effect Jerusalem’s holy sites had on Richard of Saint-Vanne and his associates in 1027 encompassed many of the traits which later marked descriptions of the First Crusaders’ veneration: contrition and humility, great rejoicing, and the soaking of the ground with tears. Indeed, the Aquitanian pilgrims were also said to have experienced compunction—‘all were in tears, all in remorse of heart’—when they saw Christ’s tomb.114 These precursors to the First Crusaders’ genuflections at the Holy Sepulchre in 1099 suggest that crusade commentators made use of pre-existing ideas regarding the affective responses expected of Jerusalem pilgrims. Similar accounts of tearful performances featured in pilgrimage itineraries of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and it is therefore likely that the crusade narratives played a part in popularizing such emotional patterns, perhaps even influencing the actual conduct of future pilgrims. The Russian abbot Daniel, who travelled to the Holy Land in c.1106–8, claimed that it was impossible not to cry when first viewing Jerusalem, and that he too had tearfully kissed the Lord’s tomb.115 The German monk Theoderic similarly reported that pilgrims experienced great joy and engaged in acts of humility when they saw the city; indeed, this was apparently an established custom by the time of the Third Crusade.116 In the thirteenth century, Burchard of Mount Sion recorded that all manner of monks and nuns roamed the sacred sites, beating their breasts and emitting tears, groans, and sighs as outward expressions of their inner piety.117 According to Riccoldo of Monte Croce, who toured the Levant’s holy places in 1288–9, if Calvary, the site of Christ’s crucifixion, did not cause one to weep out of compassion for Christ dying on the cross, one would weep out of compassion for Mary, crying at his feet.118 Jacques de Vitry included a similar account of the mindset and sentiments expected of pilgrims at Calvary, describing it as the place which had the greatest power to inspire compunction (conpunctionis) from pilgrims, for the memory of Christ’s Passion, including his tears, stung (compungitur) their contrite hearts and squeezed tears of compassion from them.119 Evidently, accounts of the crusaders’ tearful demonstrations at Jerusalem fit within a long literary tradition pertaining to Jerusalem pilgrimages, and it is feasible that the crusade histories, in turn, helped to popularize the rhetoric used to describe the affective experiences of later pilgrims, and may even have shaped their actual behaviour. However, given the growing interest in Christ’s humanity from the twelfth century onwards, it is surprising that few crusade commentators presented participants as being moved to tears by meditating on Christ’s suffering. Guibert’s suggestion that the First Crusaders tearfully embraced Christ on the cross has strong overtones of this idea, and he also stated that they ‘heaped on the memory of the Lord’s Passion and burial endless thanks and thousands of tears’ when they returned to Jerusalem

after the battle of Ascalon.120 Weeping in adoration of the cross may have been loaded with similar symbolism; when the Third Crusaders found what was believed to be a relic of the True Cross in June 1192, they apparently worshipped it with the greatest devotion, eagerly kissing it and shedding many pious tears.121 Similar imagery marked the early thirteenth-century Chanson de Jérusalem, which had Godfrey of Bouillon weep with emotion as he passed in front of the relic of the True Cross before the battle of Ascalon.122 Furthermore, the crusaders’ tears were occasionally represented as imitating those shed by Christ. Baldric of Bourgueil interpreted the First Crusaders’ tearful approach to Jerusalem as mirroring that of Christ, as described in Luke 19.41; ‘they wept over [Jerusalem]’, Baldric wrote, ‘over which their Christ had also wept’.123 Ansbert appears to have alluded to either Luke 19.41 or John 11.35, ‘And Jesus wept’, to achieve a rather different literary effect. He believed that God was challenging Christians to weep over Jerusalem following its loss in 1187, but since ‘Jesus wept over the ruins of this same city and had pity on it’, there was hope that divine wrath would once again be appeased.124 Lamenting the same event, Arnold of Lübeck similarly evoked Christ’s tears for Jerusalem, ‘[over] whose ruin the Lord had formerly wept bitterly’.125 Though Jerusalem—and the Holy Sepulchre in particular—undoubtedly emerges from the chronicles as a site of tears and intense emotional responses, remarkably few contemporary writers explicitly delineated the Christo-mimetic connotations of the crusaders’ weeping.

A Gift of Gratitude Thus far it has been argued that the crusaders’ tears were conceived as valuable mechanisms for petitioning God, and as weapons which could be directed against their enemies. Essential to this phenomenon was the fact that tears were understood to be visible expressions of participants’ humility and contrition, a divine gift first manifested internally through the experience of compunctio cordis, which were capable of washing away sin and satisfying God. The doctrine’s influence, it has been contended, is particularly palpable in accounts of the taking of the cross and the First Crusaders’ crying at the Holy Sepulchre in 1099, and descriptions of the latter scene simultaneously appear to conform to the established emotional standards expected of Jerusalem pilgrims. Rather surprisingly, however, the focus on tears shed over Jerusalem, especially in First Crusade narratives, did not stimulate a proliferation of direct parallels between Christ’s tears and those shed by the crusaders. The crusaders’ tears were not only represented as a gift from God, but also as a gift to God—a way of offering thanks. For example, according to Albert of Aachen, when Peter the Hermit received the

forgiveness of the Byzantine emperor, Alexios I Komnenos, for the unruly conduct of his contingent, he gave thanks to God by weeping with joy.126 The same author claimed that Godfrey of Bouillon presented himself before the Holy Sepulchre ‘persisting in tears, prayers, and divine praises, and giving thanks to God’, whilst other commentators depicted the crusaders shedding tears of thanks en masse as they worshipped at Christ’s tomb.127 Lachrymose performances of gratitude usually followed major military achievements, which were attributed to God’s mercy. In Rigord’s account of the surrender of Acre in July 1191, the Third Crusaders entered the city ‘crying for joy and shedding tears, and lifting both hands to heaven they said in a loud voice: “Blessed be the Lord our God, who gazed upon our work and sweat, and who humbled under our feet the enemies of the holy cross, presuming in their strength and might.”’128 As this comment attests, tears were one of a number of somatic gestures, including the raising of hands and eyes to heaven, associated with thanking God. Robert the Monk imagined Bohemond of Taranto raising his hands to heaven before shedding copious tears of joy when he witnessed so many noblemen arriving at Constantinople, a performance he apparently later repeated after negotiating the betrayal of Antioch, and Joscelin I of Edessa ended his life, as William of Tyre put it, ‘in the act of thanksgiving’: he raised his eyes to heaven, ‘giving thanks to the Lord in a devout spirit, with sighs and tears’.129 In addition, tears of thanksgiving and those intended to implore God often interacted in the texts as a form of ritualized behaviour, whereby the crusaders initially requested divine support via tears and, after experiencing that aid, then wept in thanks to God. The tearful petitioning of God by the Second Crusaders at Lisbon in 1147 and the Fifth Crusaders during an assault on the Chain Tower of Damietta in 1218 have already been discussed. On both occasions, the Christians were said to have tearfully chanted the Te Deum laudamus following their respective conquests.130 Furthermore, on 5 November 1219 the Fifth Crusaders entered Damietta itself, reciting the Te Deum with tears.131 The narrative sequence of invoking divine aid through tears, followed by weeping in gratitude, can be seen in the Liber duellii Christiani in obsidione Damiate’s account of Damietta’s fall. Initially, suspecting the city had surrendered, the crusaders tearfully addressed God, begging him (along with the Virgin Mary and all the saints) to transform Damietta from ‘a harlot and a house of sodomites’ into a house of God and Christians.132 At that very moment, they saw the Christian banner erected over the city and paid ‘immeasurable thanks’ to God by crying, lifting their eyes to heaven, and chanting the Te Deum laudamus and Gloria in excelsis Deo.133 It is significant that in these examples the crusaders’ tears appear alongside traditional hymns in praise of God, especially the Te Deum, providing a clue to their nature.134 Thus, when Damietta was captured by the forces of the Seventh Crusade in 1249, the Christians apparently emulated the behaviour of the Fifth Crusaders: ‘with delightful and devout tears breaking forth from joy, the faithful sang … the hymn of Angels, that is Te Deum laudamus’.135 The role of tears in offering gratitude to God confirms their importance as mediators between earthly and spiritual worlds, and as external symptoms of participants’ inner piety.

The Absence of Religious Weeping As Barbara Rosenwein and others have noted, the absence of emotion words and emotion markers, like tears, is just as significant as their presence.136 Religious weeping was noticeably less characteristic of crusade texts composed by laymen. For example, despite his concern for crusader humility, religious weeping is entirely absent from Caffaro of Caschifelone’s crusade-related works; even his account of the Latins’ devotional activities to induce the miracle of the Holy Fire in 1101 is devoid of tears, as are his descriptions of crusaders giving thanks to God.137 Another secular writer, Geoffrey of Villehardouin, frequently acknowledged moments when the Fourth Crusaders wept, but failed to assign any spiritual functions to their tears, whereas the knight Robert of Clari only once presented participants’ tears as possessing a religious character.138 Commenting on the crusaders’ joy as they departed from Venice to besiege Zara in early October 1202, Robert recorded that the priests and clerics chanted the Veni creator spiritus while ‘all, great and small, wept from emotion and from the great joy which they had’.139 Since these tears were inspired by the Veni creator spiritus, a traditional prayer requesting the grace of the Holy Spirit, they may well have been considered by Robert, and his audience, as the kind of tears which served to petition God.140 Elsewhere in his text, however, devout sobbing is noticeably absent, in spite of the author’s palpable interest in the miraculous—he included a lengthy description of Constantinople’s relics and holy places—and his willingness to acknowledge moments when the crusaders confessed and called upon God’s mercy.141 It was suggested above that the representation of the crusaders’ tears as performing a series of religious functions likely stemmed from the monastic authorship of most of the source material pertaining to the crusades. Yet it does not follow automatically that all clerical writers imputed such religiously orientated tears to participants. There are some notable anomalies. The omission of religious weeping from Richard of Devizes’ Cronicon is consistent with the work’s generally secular tone, even though it was seemingly aimed at a monastic audience.142 Indeed, the text’s distinct lack of theological reflections has even led one scholar to suggest that Richard adopted ‘a narrative voice that seems to be self-consciously and deliberately different from contemporary literary norms’.143 It is particularly interesting that Bernard of Clairvaux, who elsewhere wrote extensively on the grace of tears, rarely emphasized the need for weeping or compunction in his works pertaining to the crusades.144 The omission of tears in Bernard’s recruitment letters for the Second Crusade could, of course, reflect the influence of Quantum praedecessores, the encyclical around which Bernard structured his crusading appeals and which similarly failed to emphasize the need for tears of repentance.145 A more likely explanation, however, is that Bernard regarded religious weeping the duty of professed religious and thus appears not to have blurred the distinction between bellatores and oratores. As he explained to Pope Calixtus II in December 1124/January 1125, the defence of Jerusalem required warlike soldiers, rather

than monks who ‘sing or weep’.146 The geographic setting of crusading probably played a part in either encouraging or discouraging allusions to religious weeping. As we have seen, the sacred topography of Jerusalem was a stimulus for the inclusion of weeping, not least because it enabled writers to draw upon the interrelated traditions of biblical tears and those of Jerusalem pilgrims. By the same token, the lack of such a sacred geography could explain the paucity of religious weeping in accounts of crusading expeditions in alternative theatres of holy war, such as Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay’s Hystoria Albigensis. This omission is surprising because Peter claimed the crusaders sang the Veni creator spiritus to implore divine help and the Te Deum to offer thanks.147 Instead of tears, the prayers of the bishops and clergy were accompanied by a deep bellow (mugitum), more akin to howling (ululantes) than praying.148 Peter imputed tears to his central protagonist, Simon of Montfort, but it was only once inferred that his lamentation possessed a devotional significance: the planctus of the ‘most devout count’ (piissimus … comes) over the corpse of King Peter II of Aragon resembled that of a second David over a second Saul.149 Likewise, for all Henry of Livonia’s attempts to present crusading in the Baltic as on a par with expeditions to the Holy Land, Livonia did not possess the spiritual significance, and thus the lachrymose appeal, of Jerusalem. Tellingly, a rare moment of devout sobbing in this text appears in connection to Christ’s Passion. On Palm Sunday 1214, the Cistercian priest Frederick of Selle, whom Bishop Albert of Livonia had brought for missionary work, ‘celebrated the mysteries of the Lord’s Passion with many tears’.150 Beyond this, there are a handful of passages in which the spiritual implications of tears remain unclear. Hearing of the German defeat to the Lithuanians in 1208, ‘the city [of Riga] grieved, and suddenly the harp of the Rigans turned to mourning and their song into the voice of those that weep’ (Job 30.31).151 The possible spiritual function of these tears is suggested by the next sentence, which commences by asserting that the city’s elders and wise men directed prayers to heaven. Elsewhere, Henry engaged with the concept of joy-bearing grief, writing that ‘after sadness God gave joy’, and, towards the end of the chronicle, he noted that the priests wept with joy because they were converting so many thousands.152 These examples aside, religious weeping does not feature a great deal, even though much of the chronicle is centred on the actions of Bishop Albert of Livonia, who was described as constantly devoting himself to prayer and performing the pious gestures one would expect of a bishop—such as raising his hands and eyes to heaven—but very rarely as weeping.153 The Christians were consistently depicted as calling upon, blessing, and offering thanks to God, the true architect of their triumphs, but never—with the possible exception of the above-mentioned episode—through tears; and even the many descriptions of individuals taking the cross are tearless.154 In fact, Kurt Villads Jensen has recently drawn attention to the lack of crusader weeping in other accounts of the Baltic crusades, such as those by Saxo Grammaticus, Helmold of Bosau, and Arnold of Lübeck.155 With regard to two of these chroniclers, however, this trait is to be expected: Helmold’s coverage of the crusades is notably unemotional, although he did comment that the Second Crusade was such a great calamity ‘that, among those who took part, it is still bewailed with tears

today’; and, save for his lament over the fall of Jerusalem in 1187, religious crying is not a prominent feature of Arnold’s accounts of crusading in the Holy Land either.156 Yet how might we explain the omission of religious weeping in crusade texts composed by clerical writers like Roger of Howden, who did focus on the Levantine crusades? A potential answer lies in the conventions of genre. Admittedly, the issue of genre is a particularly vexed one. The tendency of historians to compartmentalize crusade sources into distinct, rigid genres is somewhat misleading, for there was a degree of fluidity between source types. Nevertheless, some broad observations are possible. It seems that religious weeping was less prevalent in the crusade portions of ‘universal chronicles’— accounts of crusading expeditions set within histories which adopted broader chronological and geographical parameters—than in ‘stand-alone’ crusade narratives. Indeed, the lack of religious weeping in Roger of Howden’s Gesta regis Henrici secundi and Chronica might be symptomatic of the annalistic approach to history.157 That is not to suggest that Roger was totally unaware of the spiritual value of tears. On one occasion, he described how the pagans of Silves incited divine anger by amputating the limbs of an idol of the Virgin Mary. Consequently, they were afflicted by a divinely ordained famine until, after ‘weeping day and night’, they acknowledged their sinfulness in a speech to God.158 From this we can deduce that Roger was aware that tears functioned as devices for entreating God in recognition of sinful behaviour, yet he did not apply this concept to the Third Crusaders. Significantly, penitential sobbing was rarely imputed to crusaders in other annalistic chronicles, including those by Ralph of Diceto, William of Newburgh, Henry of Huntingdon, and Ralph of Coggeshall. The latter recorded that the Third Crusaders called upon God with supplicant prayers as they stood before Jaffa in 1192, but made no mention of tears.159 Religious weeping is similarly missing from the text known as the ‘Templar of Tyre’, a chronological treatment of events more akin to the Annales de Terre Sainte tradition than the continuations of William of Tyre. In that text, the Seventh Crusaders offered thanks to God after the capture of Damietta in 1249, but apparently did not cry, and although the author stressed the profound weeping of Acre’s inhabitants when the city fell in 1291, there is no suggestion that their tears implored God’s aid or performed any other spiritual function.160 In this regard, the ‘Templar of Tyre’ differs from the Excidium Aconis and Thadeus of Naples’ history, both of which alluded to pious tears. The former’s anonymous author declared that the faithful should not stop mourning, ‘but their jaws might become wet with rivers of abundant tears streaming and their hearts might tear with the pain of sighs and pious compassion’.161 He also criticized those in the West for sleeping ‘not in the vale of tears’ (Psalm 83.7) but in the delights of sin, thus betraying an awareness of the role of tears in repentance.162 So too did Thadeus, who deployed the common explanation for Acre’s loss, ‘peccatis nostris exigentibus’, and then suggested that a voice of lamentation would draw ‘tears of devotion and piety from stony hearts’.163 Genre might also account for the absence—or at least the infrequency—of religious sobbing in most Old French narratives, though certainly not all. In one of the earliest examples of this genre, the chaplain Ambroise reported that, undertaking tearful confession in the face of death, the tears shed by the Latins

trapped within Jaffa in 1192 pleased God because they derived from the depths of their hearts which yearned for him.164 Yet other authors of vernacular accounts did not place such an emphasis on religious weeping. The lack of concern for the spiritual functions of crusader tears in the works of Geoffrey of Villehardouin and Robert of Clari may, as has been suggested, be a by-product of secular authorship, but it is equally plausible that this omission reflects the conventions of genre. This trait could denote the influence of the chansons de geste, a genre which was closely tied to Old French prose narratives. It would be misleading to suggest that religious crying was wholly absent from vernacular poetry; there is at least one instance in the Chanson d’Antioche where the crusaders tearfully beseech God, yet this is not a prominent theme.165 For all the emphasis on the remembrance of Christ’s Passion and the divine protection afforded to the captive crusaders (or chétifs) in the Chanson des Chétifs, tears are rarely presented as having spiritual significance in that text, although the crusaders do, at times, engage in similar acts of repentance, such as kissing the ground and beating their breasts, and call out to God with their hands raised and making the sign of the cross.166 Even when the freed chétifs announce their intention to proceed to Jerusalem, in part out of a desire to see the city’s holy sites, there is no mention of tears.167 In marked contrast to the Antioche and Chétifs, there is an abundance of religious weeping in the Chanson de Jérusalem, the third in the trilogy, which opens dramatically with the crusaders setting their sights on the holy city for the first time: Overcome with emotion, they bowed down at the sight of Jerusalem. You can imagine the storm of weeping, tears flowing down faces and chins. By God! Just picture all those noble lords biting and kissing the stones and earth around them, talking to each other and saying: ‘Jesus, who suffered for us, passed this way with his apostles and all his companions. It has been our fortune to have suffered so much from attacks, hunger, thirst and misery, wind and storms, snow and ice—at last we can see the city where God suffered and died for our salvation.’168 There are clear parallels with earlier Latin accounts of this episode, especially those by Robert the Monk and Baldric of Bourgueil. The Christians were said to have experienced a deep, involuntary emotional reaction, being ‘overcome’ by their passions. The outpouring of tears was extensive, with the ‘storm of weeping’ echoing the ‘great outlets of rivers’ in Robert’s account, and was accompanied by gestures of humility and affection. Particularly interesting, however, is the emphasis on imitatio Christi. As in Baldric’s Historia, the crusaders were emulating Christ’s approach to Jerusalem (although no mention is made of his tears here), and they appropriately endured many hardships to reach the city where Christ had suffered. This reflection on the crusaders’ tribulations is comparable to Albert of Aachen’s description of their joyous weeping when they discovered that they were near the holy city, ‘for which they had suffered so many hardships, so many dangers, so many kinds of death and famine’.169 Despite these points of accord, there is little evidence that the author of the Jérusalem extracted

information from historical narratives of the First Crusade; rather, the text’s overarching plot structure likely derived from common knowledge about the siege and capture of Jerusalem.170 As I have demonstrated above, the crusaders’ weeping atop Montjoie was passed over by the ‘eyewitness’ chroniclers of the First Crusade, but became an established part of the expedition’s memory in western Europe during the twelfth century. In all likelihood, the Chanson de Jérusalem’s composer was influenced by, and perhaps consciously drew upon, this collective memory. Indeed, the significance attached to the Montjoie scene is indicated by its repetition later in the text, and the crusaders were depicted as performing similar submissive gestures during the siege itself.171 On one occasion, Robert II of Flanders observed Jerusalem and bowed down repeatedly.172 In a series of laisses similaires, seven of the ten squadrons preparing to assault the city were described as staring up at Jerusalem, prostrating themselves on the ground (often amid tears), and lamenting her defilement at the hands of the ‘pagans’.173 Furthermore, during the city’s sack, Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert of Flanders, and Thomas of Marle apparently ran to the Holy Sepulchre, kissing it, ‘weeping for the pity of it, [and] flinging themselves on it to embrace it’, thus realizing the crusaders’ (constantly reiterated) desire to kiss Christ’s tomb; and the author later wrote more generally of the great joy and many tears shed that day.174 Such imagery is, again, highly reminiscent of the Latin histories. It is telling that, in this chanson, religious weeping primarily featured as an expression of the crusaders’ devotion towards Jerusalem. The setting of Jerusalem made such imagery far more relevant than it had been for the Antioche or Chétifs, since it almost inevitably necessitated a focus on Christ’s Passion. Indeed, the text consistently referred to Christ’s suffering and death in Jerusalem, with the ordeals experienced by the crusaders pitched as an integral aspect of their imitation of Christ.175 It was appropriate, then, that when Thomas of Marle looked upon Jerusalem, he reflected on the endless hard days he had endured; that the sight of the relic of the Holy Lance, explicitly identified as the spear which wounded Christ, provoked torrents of tears from the Latins; and that a squadron of Bretons and Normans fell to the ground outside the city, ‘tears streaming from their eyes, each thinking to himself and muttering under his breath: “Alas, Jerusalem! How we suffer for your sake.”’176 Taken in isolation, however, the Chanson de Jérusalem gives a false impression of the pervasiveness of religious weeping in vernacular poetry. Analysis of a broader corpus of epic material suggests that religious weeping was less characteristic of chansons than of Latin narratives. For example, there is little sense that tears were important markers of crusader spirituality in the Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise: when weeping terms featured in this text, they were typically in relation to mourning the dead.177 Devout sobbing was not a major theme of crusade lyrics either, despite the fact that numerous troubadours and trouvères dwelt on Christ’s pain and suffering on the cross.178 An outlier is Bernart Alanhan de Narbona’s thirteenth-century Occitan lyric, No puesc mudar qu’ieu non diga, in which the troubadour praised ‘the man who waters his eyes with tears for his sins’, but bemoaned that ‘we see little sign of anyone tearfully kissing the cross where God gave vent to tears’.179

Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis and Hagiographical Traditions There is a notable exception to the broad trends outlined above: John of Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis. In contrast to other Old French crusade narratives, religious weeping featured prominently in the crusade portion of Joinville’s Vie, in which participants’ tears were represented in much the same way as in the Latin texts: as mechanisms for petitioning and thanking God. Thus, Joinville famously recorded that during the Third Crusade Richard I refused to gaze upon Jerusalem; he pulled his surcote over his eyes and wept, begging God not to let him see the holy city since he was unable to deliver it from enemy hands.180 Moreover, there are several passages relating to Louis IX’s first crusade in which Joinville’s awareness of the importance of tears for petitioning and thanking God was clearly reflected. Believing they faced certain death, Christian captives shed many tears until, according to God’s will, they were released; and the legate Louis had sent to request Joinville’s presence while at Sidon reportedly ‘began to weep most heavily’ and gave thanks to God (rent graces a Dieu) that the king, Joinville, and the other pilgrims had survived the many tribulations encountered in the East.181 Perhaps the clearest instance, however, relates to Joinville’s own sobbing. The seneschal recalled how, hearing the daily recital of Libera me, Domine for the Christian dead while bedridden with a fever at Acre, he tearfully thanked God for allowing him to suffer but simultaneously requested that he be freed from the illness: So I cried and gave thanks to God, and said to Him: ‘My Lord, may you be praised for this misery you are sending me, for I have been proud in my waking and in my sleeping, and I beg you, Lord, to help me and release me from this illness.’ And He did this for me, and for all my people.182 Significantly, the two functions of tears discernible in this passage—the beseeching and thanking of God—also figured in Joinville’s descriptions of Louis IX’s weeping. Although the two-stage composition and patchwork nature of Joinville’s text make any attempt to identify an overarching literary agenda futile, the author’s concern for articulating the piety of his central protagonist is a recurring theme throughout the text.183 In fact, weeping constituted a relatively modest, but nonetheless significant, component of Joinville’s presentation of Louis’ spirituality.184 Relating the Muslim harassment of the crusaders along the Rexi River in December 1249/January 1250, for example, Joinville claimed that Louis tearfully addressed God: ‘Each time our saintly king heard that they had launched Greek fire at us, he sat up in his bed, reached out his hands to Our Lord, and said as he wept: “Sweet Lord God, protect my people for me!”’185 This passage, with its presentation of tears and the raising of hands as gestures

for petitioning God, closely resembles the Latin accounts of crusaders’ crying. Further, the appellation ‘nostre saint roy’ suggests that the king’s crying was considered an indication of his piety, as well as his concern for his men—another prominent theme of the text.186 Consider also the French monarch’s reaction to the news that his brother, Robert of Artois, had been killed in the battle of Mansurah on 8 February 1250. According to Joinville, Henry of Ronnay, provost of the Hospital, attempted to soften the blow by reminding the king of the victory he had achieved, at which point ‘the king replied that God should be praised for what he had given him, and great tears then fell from his eyes’.187 There is a degree of ambiguity as to whether these were tears of joy over the victory or tears of sorrow over his brother’s demise.188 However, given the association between weeping and thanking God elsewhere in Joinville’s text, I would argue that it is equally plausible that Louis’ crying was understood as an act of thanksgiving to God. Indeed, there are hints of this in Matthew Paris’ account of the very same scene. Told of the demise of his brother and the other crusaders, the king was unable to hold back his abundant tears and, with clasped hands and lifting his eyes to heaven, he declared: ‘It has happened as God pleased; blessed be the name of the Lord.’189 In the case of Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis, then, we have an Old French prose narrative composed by a secular author, in which not only were crusaders frequently depicted as engaging in penitential weeping, but their tears were also represented as performing the same functions as in the twelfth- and thirteenth-century Latin narratives of ecclesiastics. How might we explain such conformity? As is often the case with Joinville’s text, there is no single, definitive answer, but rather a number of possible explanations. Given that Joinville was an ‘eyewitness’ to events in the East, there may be a factual basis to his descriptions.190 Louis was renowned for his weeping, so much so that Jacques Le Goff described him as the ‘king of tears’, and other ‘eyewitnesses’ besides Joinville similarly acknowledged moments when the king wept during his first crusade.191 Thus, the correspondence of Guy of Burcey reported that, arriving at Damietta on 5 June 1249, Louis ‘fell forward on his face, and most devoutly prayed with tears that God might direct their way and acts’.192 Yet Joinville’s ‘eyewitness’ credentials do not necessarily account for the rhetoric employed to relate the king’s crying. Far more likely is that, even if Louis did indeed weep (as is probable), Joinville’s descriptions of such scenes were influenced by established literary conventions. In fact, the accord between Joinville’s Vie and Latin crusade texts, at least in terms of their presentation of religious weeping, suggests a degree of cross-fertilization between genres. Hagiographical literature probably also accounts for the use of such imagery in Joinville’s text. Two of the earliest vitae of Louis IX, those by William of Chartres and Geoffrey of Beaulieu, depicted the king’s crying in much the same way as Joinville. Geoffrey, who began his libellus in 1272, recorded that when Louis was told of his mother’s death, he ‘broke down in tears’ and, on bended knee, thanked God for granting her such a delight.193 Joinville’s adherence to hagiographical conventions, especially in the opening and closing sections of the Vie, has been noted elsewhere, although it is probable that such conventions also contaminated the crusading portion of his text, especially if we accept that Joinville

later reworked his crusade account when incorporating the framing material.194 There are strong grounds for arguing that the above-mentioned passage in which Louis tearfully petitioned God to save his troops from Greek fire represents one such later interpolation, not least because the king was described as saint (saintly)—an appellation which appears just three times in the crusading segment but on twenty-six occasions in the sections that frame it.195 Furthermore, as Cecilia Gaposchkin has pointed out, this episode became one of the approved miracles of St Louis and fits uncomfortably with the surrounding material detailing the crusaders’ military operations.196 In fact, the influence of hagiographical literature in directing crusade chroniclers’ representations of weeping probably extended beyond Joinville. An analysis of twelfth-century saints’ lives is suggestive of some form of connection between hagiographical texts and Latin crusade narratives—either that or, at the very least, the authors of both genres were drawing upon a common rhetorical tradition. According to William of Malmesbury, Wulfstan of Worcester used to ‘beat at [the door of] heaven with tears [and] burden the sky with laments’ to call upon Christ, and another vita by the same author described how St Dunstan ‘poured forth a rich fountain of tears from his eyes, a pleasing sacrifice to God and a sweet offering’, which rose to heaven like incense.197 William’s familiarity with such rhetoric perhaps explains his comment, included in the Gesta regum Anglorum, that the First Crusaders called on God to renew his favour via their tears.198 Similarly, in Abbot Geoffrey of Burton’s twelfth-century Vita sancta Moduenne uirginis, St Modwenna was visited by a heavenly angel, who informed her that Bishop Kevin (the future St Kevin) had been tempted by the devil. In response, Modwenna fell to the ground and raised her hands to heaven; ‘flooded in tears, pricked by piety … she cried out to the Lord with a contrite heart’.199 With this humble supplication, she requested God’s merciful assistance and forgiveness for sinful behaviour.200 Apparently, Modwenna then instructed Kevin to renounce the devil, at which point the bishop and his companions threw themselves on the ground ‘with compunction of the heart’ and, crying and beating their breasts, asked Modwenna to secure the Lord’s pardon for their sins.201 The vita’s description of these lachrymose performances bears striking resemblance to those found in crusade narratives. It was clearly situated within the western Christian theology of tears: Modwenna’s genuflections had originated from ‘compuncta pietate’, while Kevin and his accomplices likewise experienced ‘compuncti corde’. In this scene, tears were represented as the external markers of humility, contrition, and repentance, and they therefore operated as mechanisms for soliciting God’s mercy. It is also worth noting that Modwenna’s tearful petitioning was accompanied by the raising of her hands; in fact, this submissive gesture (and the raising of eyes to heaven) was common in hagiographical texts and crusade narratives alike.202 The same somatic gestures—tears and the lifting of hands—can be seen, for example, in the first book of the Vita prima sancti Bernardi, written by William of Saint-Thierry, which recorded that Bernard of Clairvaux ‘began to pray with a great shower of tears, stretching his hands to heaven, and poured out his heart, like water, before the sight of his Lord God’.203 From this brief survey we can

conclude that hagiographical literature was a likely entry point for the rhetoric used to describe religious weeping not only in Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis, but also in the wider corpus of Latin crusade narratives.

Conclusion For many twelfth- and thirteenth-century ecclesiastical writers, weeping was an important religious practice which crusaders were expected to perform. Chroniclers assigned a range of meanings and functions to the Christians’ tears: they could symbolize their dedication to Jerusalem, indicate an awareness of personal sin, serve as a gift to God, and even imitate the tears of Christ. At the same time, contemporary writers regarded the crusaders’ tears as visible manifestations of their inner humility and contrition, and as instruments for petitioning God. There exists an overarching conformity in the representation of religious weeping in ecclesiastical crusade texts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This is perhaps to be expected, given that, outside a crusade setting, historians have identified the eleventh to early thirteenth centuries as a period in which penitential sobbing thrived in monastic circles.204 Nevertheless, some developments over time can be discerned: there are few traces of the doctrine of compunction in first-hand testimonies of the First Crusade, although the theology of weeping appears to have contaminated second-hand monastic accounts composed within the first decade of the twelfth century; and Audita tremendi marks the point at which the rhetoric of penitential weeping became incorporated into the ‘official’ crusade ideology disseminated by the papacy. An examination of weeping in crusade sources also enhances our understanding of the intellectual and cultural milieux which the chroniclers inhabited. Other historians have demonstrated that many of these works echoed, and in certain cases helped to shape, contemporary views of Christian spirituality. The portrayal of religious weeping, often grounded in the doctrine of compunction, therefore represents a further way in which the spirituality of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries manifested itself in ecclesiastical crusade texts. I have suggested that the process of couching participants’ weeping within the Christian theology of tears was probably predicated upon the need to appeal to monastic audiences, although in some instances these ideas were undoubtedly applied subconsciously. Just as converts to the monastic life were expected to experience heavenly sent compunction of the heart and to shed tears, so too were the crusaders when they took the cross, and the attribution of the spiritually efficacious tears of joy to the First Crusaders at Christ’s tomb would likely have resonated with professed religious audiences, for these were the tears to which they themselves aspired. Indeed, in these clerical texts, the

crusaders’ tears bear a striking resemblance to those of monks—as weapons which could be taken up to combat God’s enemies, even if they enabled victory in the physical, rather than the spiritual, battle. This conclusion—that the crusaders’ tears were reconfigured to satisfy men of the cloister—is supported by the fact that many of the spiritual functions of tears analysed here, above all the entreating and thanking of God, tended to be less characteristic of works by secular writers, with the notable exception of Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis. Overall, the presentation of weeping in material pertaining to the crusades reflects a multiplicity of influences, including scripture, contemporary thinking on the grace of tears, pilgrimage tradition, and the conventions of genre. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

Kurt Villads Jensen, ‘Crying Crusaders’, in Tears, Sighs and Laughter, ed. Förnegård et al., 105.

Jensen’s conclusion stems from a narrow focus on the word lacrimae, which he admits ‘is not a comprehensive or methodologically fully satisfying way of proceeding’. Consequently, his assertion that tears feature just four times in the Gesta Francorum is misleading, for there are a further four instances of ploratus/plorare and two of fletus/flere, taking the total number of weeping references to ten. Lacrimae, fletus/flere, ploratus/plorare, and compunctio/compungere, as well as relevant sorrow terms (such as dolor/dolere, tristitia, luctus/lugere, lamentum/lamentatio/lamentare, maeror/maerere, planctus/plangere, gemitus/gemere, and suspirium/suspirare), are taken into account here. 2

Nagy, Larmes; Piroska Nagy, ‘Religious Weeping as Ritual in the Medieval West’, Social Analysis

48 (2004): 119–37; McEntire, Doctrine; Sandra McEntire, ‘The Doctrine of Compunction from Bede to Margery Kempe’, in The Medieval Mystical Tradition in England, Exeter Symposium IV, ed. Marion Glasscoe (Woodbridge, 1987), 77–90. Other important works include: Pierre Adnès, ‘Larmes’, Dictionnaire de spiritualité 9 (1976): 287–303; Matthias Becher, ‘“Cum lacrimis et gemitu”: Vom Weinen der Sieger und Besiegtem im frühen und hohen Mittelalter’, in Formen und Funktionen öffentlicher Kommunikation im Mittelalter, ed. Gerd Althoff (Stuttgart, 2001), 25–52; Kimberley Patton and John Hawley, eds., Holy Tears: Weeping in the Religious Imagination (Princeton, NJ, 2005); Gertsman, ed., Crying in the Middle Ages. The most wide-ranging analysis of weeping to date is Ad Vingerhoets, Why Only Humans Weep: Unravelling the Mysteries of Tears (Oxford, 2013). 3

Kimberley-Joy Knight, ‘Si puose calcina a’ propi occhi: The Importance of the Gift of Tears for

Thirteenth-Century Religious Women and their Hagiographers’, in Crying in the Middle Ages, ed. Gertsman, 136–55; Knight, ‘Lachrymose Holiness and the Problem of Doubt’, 118–34. See also Geneviève Hasenohr, ‘Lacrimae pondera vocis habent: Typologie des larmes dans la littérature de spiritualité française des XIIIe–XVe siècles’, Moyen Français 37 (1997): 45–63. 4

GF, 64, ‘cum omnibus statim coepit plorare, atque uehementissimo ululatu plangere; unaque uoce

omnes dicebant: “O Deus uerus, trinus et unus, quamobrem haec fieri permisisti?”’; PT, 106; Historia

belli sacri, 203. 5

Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana, in RHC Occ., iii. 816, ‘Guido nimis plorat, Dominum

cum fletibus orat ne sibi displiceat gens sua, ne pereat.’ 6

PT, 99.

7

RA, 56.

8

RA, 60, 80, ‘Tantus vero luctus et clamor in castris ad Deum erat, ut affluentia lacrimarum Dei

pietatem descendendam putares’, ‘Dei auxilium appellants … lacrimantes, et pectora percutientes adeo tristes’. 9

RA, 155, ‘congregati sunt nostri principes et clerus et nudis pedibus incedentes ante sepulchrum

Domini cum multis orationibus et lacrimis, misericordiam a Domino deprecabantur ut populum suum modo liberaret quem actenus victorem de omnibus fecerat’. 10

BN, 499; BB, 109; GP, 244; GN, 276–7, 238.

11

Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, 129–35; Susanna Throop, ‘Christian Community and

the Crusades: Religious and Social Practices in the De Expugnatione Lyxbonensi’, HSJ 24 (2012): 95– 126. 12

DeL, 60, ‘penitentes, quanti peccata et neggligentias cum luctu confitentes et gemitu,

peregrinationis sue conversionem utcumque inceptam, inundatione lacrimarum diluentes, in ara cordis contriti Deo sacrificabant’. 13

Throop, ‘Christian Community’, 102, 112.

14

DeL, 152, ‘cum lacrimis et gemitu oret’.

15

DeL, 158, ‘ceciderunt omnes proni cum gemitu et lacrimis in facies suas’.

16

OP, 184, ‘rigatis vultibus dolorem’.

17

OP, 184, ‘extinxerunt ignem fidelium lacrime’.

18

GD, 76, ‘flexis genibus & nudis pedibus ad terram prostrati, ex oculis fluvium lachrymarum

effundentes, pre nimio luctu ita gravissime erant angustiati, quod loquela etiam carebant & vix dicere poterant: “Domine, miserere! Adiuva nos!”’ 19

GD, 76. See also John of Tulbia, De domino Iohanne rege Ierusalem, 120.

20

JV, Lettres, 106, ‘in sabulo sese proicientes et pulverem super caput suum aspergentes cum lacrimis

et gemitu clamabant ad dominum ut misereretur populi sui’. 21

JV, Lettres, 107, ‘lacrimis et orationibus peregrinorum vegetati’.

22

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 162–3, ‘fluunt lacrime, trahuntur suspiria, et vox ploratus et ululatus

in excelso levatur’. 23

Ambroise, i. 95 (ii. 113); IP, 253; Anonymous of Soissons, De terra Iherosolimitana et quomodo ab

urbe Constantinopolitana ad hanc ecclesiam allate sunt reliquie, ed. Alfred Andrea, Contemporary Sources for the Fourth Crusade, rev. edn (Leiden, 2008), 341. On the Holy Fire, see Jerusalem

Pilgrimage, 1099–1185, trans. John Wilkinson, Joyce Hill, and William Ryan (London, 1988), 166–70; Ambroise, i. 135–6 (ii. 144); IP, 328. 24 25

FC, 197, 252–3. RM, 77; GN, 333, ‘Iesu omnipotentis flebiliter evocavit auxilium’; Historia Nicaena vel

Antiochena, 172. 26

Historians have blamed Pelagius’ poor decision-making for the expedition’s failure, but see the

partial reassessment in James Powell, ‘Honorius III and the Leadership of the Crusade’, Catholic Historical Review 63 (1977): 521–36; Powell, Anatomy of a Crusade, 107–20. 27 28

GD, 81, ‘effundens ex oculis lachrymas’, ‘tendens manus suas ad celum’. Excidium Aconis, ed. Huygens, Excidii Aconis gestorum collectio, 59, ‘cum devotissimis ac

flebilibus suspiriis’; Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 112, ‘erumpentibus ex eius oculis piarum rivulis lacrimarum’. 29

RA, 155; DeL, 158; GD, 75–6.

30

Giles Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1996), 273; JV, HOr, 288,

‘plangere et orare’. 31

William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 24, 54, 68, 116. For further examples of episcopal tears, see

William Aird, ‘The Tears of Bishop Gundulf: Gender, Religion, and Emotion in the Late Eleventh Century’, in Intersections of Gender, Religion and Ethnicity in the Middle Ages, ed. Beattie and Fenton, 62–84; Katherine Harvey, ‘Episcopal Emotions: Tears in the Life of the Medieval Bishop’, Historical Research 87 (2014): 591–610. 32

Katherine Allen Smith, War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture (Woodbridge, 2011),

113–55; Katherine Allen Smith, ‘Spiritual Warriors in Citadels of Faith: Martial Rhetoric and Monastic Masculinity in the Long Twelfth Century’, in Negotiating Clerical Identities, ed. Thibodeaux, 86–110; Harvey, ‘Episcopal Emotions’, 597. 33

Lettres des premiers chartreux, 2 vols (Paris, 1962–80), ii. 71, ‘spiritualia instrumenta’, ‘certamina

militiae’; Smith, War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture, 135. 34

WT, 433, ‘arma baiulantes spiritualia’; RM, 96, ‘O bone Ihesu, ut castra tua viderunt huius terrene

Ierusalem muros, quantos exitus aquarum oculi eorum deduxerunt … et melius lacrimis quam iacula intorquendo pugnabant, quoniam licet ubertim in terram defluerent, in celum tamen ante te propugnatorem suum conscendebant.’ 35

Sylvia Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City: Crusader Jerusalem and the Catholic West (1099–

1187) (Aldershot, 2005), 27. 36

WT, 329, 440, 547, 559, 860.

37

WT, 401, ‘in spiritu humilitatis et in animo contrito implorato cum gemitu et lacrimis de supernis

auxilio’.

38

WT, 433, ‘ante sepulchrum domini cum gemitu et lacrimis, corde contrito et humiliato prostrati

orabant, postulantes a domino ut populum suum clementer ab imminentibus liberaret periculis’; RA, 155. On William’s use of Raymond’s history, see Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 45–8. 39

JV, Lettres, 129, ‘non cum lacrimis et devotione, sed cum pompa et elatione’.

40

HR, Liber, ch. 44, ‘vera cordis contritio’, ‘fletum vel dolorem sensibilem pre delictis’.

41

HR, Liber, ch. 44.

42

Colin Morris, The Papal Monarchy: The Western Church from 1050 to 1250 (Oxford, 1989), 358–

86, 489–504; Asbridge, Crusades, 520. 43

Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils I, ed. Norman Tanner (London, 1990), 245; Alexander Murray,

‘Confession before 1215’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 6th ser. 3 (1993): 51–81; Mary Mansfield, The Humiliation of Sinners: Public Penance in Thirteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY, 1995), 18–91; Sarah Hamilton, The Practice of Penance, 900–1050 (Woodbridge, 2001), esp. 2–24, 209. 44

Murray, ‘Confession before 1215’, 62; Nagy, Larmes, 267–78.

45

WT, 414, ‘interioris hominis consummata leticia’; GN, 82.

46

Nagy, Larmes, 88–94, 421–30; McEntire, Doctrine, 32–80.

47

Nagy, Larmes, 25; McEntire, Doctrine, 39.

48

Brevis ordinacio, 14, ‘Sicut pannus abluitur amara lexiva & postea aqua dulci & calida, sic anima

prius abluitur per tribulacionem amaram & postea per lacrimam, que sequitur tribulacionem, que etiam calida effecta est per contricionem & recordacionem preteritorum. Per motum enim in complexu natum excitatur calor naturaliter, lacrime autem per veram cordis compunccionem effluentes dulces & delectabiles erunt in conspectu Dei.’ 49

Nagy, Larmes, 41–54; McEntire, Doctrine, 11–16, 22. The Latin term compunctio derived from

penthos, the Greek for ‘mourning’ which, after Origen, became interchangeable with katanyxis. See Nagy, Larmes, 92, 425–30; Irénée Hausherr, Penthos: The Doctrine of Compunction in the Christian East, trans. Anselm Hufstader (Kalamazoo, MI, 1982), esp. 17–25; Hannah Hunt, Joy-Bearing Grief: Tears of Contrition in the Writings of the Early Syrian and Byzantine Fathers (Leiden, 2004); Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Tears of Pathos, Repentance and Bliss: Crying and Salvation in Origen and Gregory of Nyssa’, in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin, 2009), 367–96. 50

Strictly speaking, Gregory identified four kinds of tears, but he frequently reduced them to the two

types. See Carole Straw, Gregory the Great: Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley, CA, 1988), 214–27; Jean Leclercq, The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catharine Misrahi (New York, 1982), 29–31; Nagy, Larmes, 124–33; McEntire, Doctrine, 22–4, 50–7. 51

Interestingly, though Fulcher of Chartres did not use compunctio in his narrative of the First Crusade (book 1), he did recognize (in the prologue) that his account could inspire others to be ‘pricked’ (‘compuncti’) to love God more ardently; and (in book 2) he employed ‘cordibus compuncti puris’ to describe Baldwin of Boulogne’s troops before the battle of Nahr al-Kalb in October 1100. FC, 116, 359.

52

BB, 14, 43, 95, 111; GN, 156–7, ‘piae compunctionis ac confessionis’.

53

The Rule of Saint Benedict, ed. and trans. Bruce Venarde (London, 2011), 92, 164, ‘in puritate

cordis et conpunctione lacrimarum’, ‘orationi cum fletibus, lectioni, et conpunctioni cordis atque abstinentiae’; McEntire, Doctrine, 20–1. 54

BN, 515; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo II, 120; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVIII ad fratres ordinis

militaris, ed. Pitra, Analecta novissima spicilegii Solesmensis, ii. 415. 55

WT, 227, 542, ‘compuncti corde et delictorum suorum penitentes’, ‘corde compunctus’.

56

AA, 514, ‘in uera cordis conpunctione et lacrimis’.

57

On the practice of taking the cross, see James Brundage, ‘“Cruce signari”: The Rite for Taking the

Cross in England’, Traditio 22 (1966): 289–310; Kenneth Pennington, ‘The Rite for Taking the Cross in the Twelfth Century’, Traditio 30 (1974): 429–35; Lucy Pick, ‘Signaculum caritatis et fortitudinis: Blessing the Crusader’s Cross in France’, Revue Bénédictine 105 (1995): 381–416. 58

Cartae et chronica prioratus de Casa vicecomitis, ed. Paul Marchegay and Émile Mabille,

Chroniques des églises d’Anjou (Paris, 1869), 341; IP, 32. 59

Rigord, 272–4.

60

OD, 16, ‘ab omnibus planctum maximum excitavit’; Ansbert, 14, ‘non sine multorum uberrimis

lacrimis’. 61

EA, 15, 19.

62

Cronica Reinhardsbrunnensis, in MGH SS, xxx. 543.

63

HP, 124, ‘cunctorum quasi prius dormitans excitatur devotio, de cordibus conpunctis erumpunt

lacrime pietatis’. 64

Pairis, 114, ‘magna et eterna … stipendia’, ‘videres lacrimas tam per eius faciem quam per ora

omnium largissime defluentes, audires gemitus et singultus atque suspiria et alia huiusmodi signa, que interne compunctionis faciebant indicium’. 65

Pairis, 115, ‘leto compuncta dolore’.

66

GW, 83.

67

Gerald of Wales, De rebus a se gestis, ed. John Brewer, Giraldi Cambrensis opera, RS 21, 8 vols

(1861–91), i. 76, ‘tantum eis devotionem incussit et compunctionem, ut et ab oculis eorum lacrimarum affluentiam, et … facillime cordium eorum duritiam emolliret’. 68

Phillips, Second Crusade, 94; Constable, Reformation of the Twelfth Century, 126.

69

Gerald of Wales, De rebus a se gestis, 76, ‘ex quo patet virtute divina Spiritu interius operante et

corda perlustrante’. 70

GF, 7, ‘Sancto commotus Spiritu’; GN, 136, ‘cordis excitatus a fundo, deo inspirante compungitur’.

71

Cosmas of Prague, Chronica Boemorum, in MGH SRG n.s. ii. 164, ‘divina compunctio’; Lisa

Wolverton, Cosmas of Prague: Narrative, Classicism, Politics (Washington, DC, 2015), 4–17;

Coggeshall, 81, ‘sagittae potentis acutae’. On Fulk’s preaching, see Milton Gutsch, ‘A Twelfth-Century Preacher: Fulk of Neuilly’, in The Crusades and Other Historical Essays Presented to Dana C. Munro by His Former Students, ed. Louis Paetow (New York, 1928), 183–206. 72

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo II, 120, ‘ipse valde compunctus et a Deo inspiratus’.

73

For tearful conversion, particularly in relation to future saints, see Nagy, Larmes, 283–5.

74

Bull, Knightly Piety, 3–4, 125–46; Giles Constable, ‘The Cross of the Crusaders’, in Giles

Constable, Crusaders and Crusading in the Twelfth Century (Farnham, 2008), 89–90; Giles Constable, ‘The Ceremonies and Symbolism of Entering Religious Life and Taking the Monastic Habit, from the Fourth to the Twelfth Century’, in Segni e riti nella chiesa altomedioevale occidentale, 11–17 aprile 1985, 2 vols (Spoleto, 1987), ii. 771–834. 75

Vita s. Roberti abbatis Molesmensis, in PL, clvii, cols 1272–3, ‘divina inspiratione compuncti’,

‘compuncti corde’; Smith, War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture, 169. 76

Constable, Reformation of the Twelfth Century, 81.

77

Constable, Reformation of the Twelfth Century, 155; Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, 254.

78

Marcus Bull, ‘The Roots of Lay Enthusiasm for the First Crusade’, History 78 (1993): 356.

79

McEntire, Doctrine, 76.

80

RC, 657, ‘de valle lacrymarum ad montem gaudii excelsum surgere’.

81

OP, 185, ‘Post planctum et luctum, post fletum et gemitum gaudium vidimus et triumphum.’

82

Ansbert, 86, ‘pre gaudio et eterne retributionis desiderio lacrimantibus’.

83

Ansbert, 75.

84

Elizabeth Siberry, Criticism of Crusading, 1095–1274 (Oxford, 1985), 72. For a pre-1187 example,

see Alexander III, In quantis pressuris, 251. 85

Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 7, ‘non cito per misericordiam penitentia placatus alleviet et post

lacrimationem et fletum exultationem inducat’. 86 87

Tobit 3.22, ‘et post lacrimationem et fletum, exultationem infundis’. Innocent III, Post miserabile, 504, ‘post lacrimationem et fletum gaudium et exultationem

inducens’. 88

Innocent III, Cum in manu valida, in DRI, vi. 163–4; Innocent III, Gaudemus in Domino, in PL,

ccxvi, col. 906, ‘cum illis qui euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua exsultationis manipulos valeas reportare’. However, such rhetoric was not used in Innocent III, Quia maior, cols 817–22. 89

Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven, 278–9.

90

GF, 87, ‘letantes et exultantes’; PT, 134.

91

RM, 96.

92

BB, 103, ‘Ubi uero ad locum uentum est, unde ipsam turritam Iherusalem possent admirari, quis

quam multas ediderint lacrimas digne recenseat? Quis affectus illos conuenienter experimat? Extorquebat

gaudium suspiria, et singultus generabat inmensa leticia. Omnes, uisa Iherusalem, substiterunt et adorauerunt, et flexo poplite terram sanctam deosculati sunt … Ibant et flebant; et qui orandi gratia conuenerant, pugnaturi prius properis arma deferebant.’ 93

Riley-Smith, First Crusaders, 234.

94

AA, 402, ‘pre leticia in fletum lacrimarum fluxerunt’.

95

AA, 402.

96

WT, 378, ‘pre fervore devotionis lacrimas et suspiria cohibere non valentes’, ‘gaudio … spirituali’.

97

WT, 413–14, ‘in spiritu humilitatis et in animo vere contrito’, ‘quanto pii fervore desiderii ad loca

sancta fidelis accederet populus, quanta mentis exultatione et spirituali gaudio dominice dispensationis deosculabantur memoriam: ubique lacrime, ubique suspiria, non qualia meror et anxietas solet extorquere, sed qualia fervens devotio et interioris hominis consummata leticia solet domino in holocaustum incendere’. 98

WT, 413.

99

WT, 414.

100

WT, 414, ‘comprehendatur sermone quanta in plebe fideli sancte devotionis esset inmensitas’. It is

worth noting that William received theological training in western Europe: Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 15. 101

RA, 151, ‘omnes dolores atque labores nostros gaudium et exultationem fecit’; Schein, Gateway to

the Heavenly City, 28. 102

BN, 515, ‘in gaudii lacrymas erumpunt’, ‘loca sancta passionis … tetigerunt, compunctionis

lacrymas … emiserunt’. 103

‘Theological refinement’ is borrowed from Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 133–52, but see now Jay

Rubenstein, ‘Miracles and the Crusading Mind: Monastic Meditations on Jerusalem’s Conquest’, in Prayer and Thought in Monastic Tradition: Essays in Honour of Benedicta Ward SLG, ed. Santha Bhattacharji, Rowan Williams, and Dominic Mattos (London, 2014), 197–210. 104

GF, 92, ‘gaudentes et prae nimio gaudio plorantes ad … sepulchrum adorandum’.

105

BB, 111, ‘cum incenso compunctionis’.

106

GN, 282, ‘comprehendi a nemine valet fletus emiserint quam beatos. Deus omnipotens, quid ibi

viscerum, quid letitiae, quid dolorum fuit, dum post inauditas et cunctis a seculo exercitibus inexpertas quasi partuum tortiones ad nova visionis adeo desideratae gaudia acsi nati filii sese pervenisse conspiciunt! Merent igitur, et tamen fusis lacrimis omni sibi dulcioribus pane coniubilant Iesumque piissimum, suorum diutinorum laborum ac cruciatuum causam, acsi cruci appensum … uberrimis complectuntur affectibus.’ 107

GN, 270, 282.

108

GN, 282; WT, 414; WM, 650.

109

Ambroise, i. 193–5 (ii. 189–90): IP, 436.

110

On the importance of pilgrimage tradition in the formation of the ‘crusade idea’, see Bull, Knightly

Piety, 204–17. 111

Donald Howard, Writers and Pilgrims: Medieval Pilgrimage Narratives and their Posterity

(London, 1980), 17–27. 112

Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades, trans. John Wilkinson (Oxford, 2002), 83, 160.

113

Ralph Glaber, Historiarum libri quinque, ed. and trans. John France (Oxford, 1989), 200, 214.

114

Hugh of Flavigny, Chronicon, in MGH SS, viii. 395, ‘Totus in lacrimis, totus in cordis

compunctione’. For further examples from the pre-crusading period, see Fulton, From Judgment to Passion, 64–141. 115

Jerusalem Pilgrimage, trans. Wilkinson, Hill, and Ryan, 127, 170.

116

Jerusalem Pilgrimage, trans. Wilkinson, Hill, and Ryan, 310; Ambroise, i. 194 (ii. 189); IP, 435.

117

Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291, trans. Denys Pringle (Farnham, 2012),

242. 118

Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, trans. Pringle, 373.

119

JV, HOr, 244.

120

GN, 300, ‘infinitis gratiarum lacrimarumque milibus cumulantes dominicae passionis ac sepulturae

memoriam’. 121

Ambroise, i. 163 (ii. 167); IP, 378.

122

CJ, 211; CCCJ, 317. See also the crusaders’ lachrymose reaction to the relic’s discovery: CJ, 210;

CCCJ, 316. 123

BB, 103, ‘Fleuerunt igitur super illam, super quam et Christus illorum fleuerat.’ Surprisingly,

Orderic Vitalis abbreviated this passage considerably, removing the explicit parallel with Christ’s tears: OV, v. 156. 124

Ansbert, 1, ‘flevisse Iesum eiusdem iam sepedicte civitatis ruinas et sibi conpassum esse’.

125

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 164, ‘Cuius excidium olim Dominus defleverat.’

126

AA, 28.

127

AA, 436, ‘in lacrimis, orationibus et diuinis laudibus persistens, et Deo gratias agens’; WT, 414;

GP, 248; OV, v. 174. 128

Rigord, 304, ‘flentes pre gaudio et lacrimantes et manus utrasque ad celum levantes clara voce

dicebant: “Benedictus sit Dominus Deus noster qui respexit labores et sudores nostros et inimicos crucis sancte de sua virtute et viribus presumentes sub pedibus nostris humiliavit.”’ 129

RM, 19, 53; WT, 634–5, ‘in gratiarum actionibus’, ‘devoto spiritu domino cum suspiriis et fletu

gratias agens’. See also Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, 154, 161, 169. 130

DeL, 174; OP, 185. Jacques de Vitry merely noted that the Fifth Crusaders thanked God, without

specifying tears: JV, Lettres, 114. 131

JV, Lettres, 127; John of Tulbia, De domino Iohanne rege Ierusalem, 140.

132

Liber duellii, 163, ‘scortum & domus Sodomorum’.

133

Liber duellii, 163, ‘gracias inmensas’.

134

On the Te Deum, see John Caldwell, ‘The “Te Deum” in Late Medieval England’, Early Music 6

(1978): 188–94. For references to its use in Christian armies, see PT, 108; RM, 69; Caffaro of Caschifelone, Annales, 9; CJ, 141, 145, 153, 210; CCCJ, 262, 266, 272, 316; Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, 81 n. 87; Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, 110. 135

MP, vi. 160, ‘prorumpentibus prae gaudio jocundis et devotis lacrimis, cecinerunt fideles …

hymnum Angelorum, videlicet Te Deum laudamus’. 136

Rosenwein, ‘Problems and Methods’, 17; Paul Heelas, ‘Emotion Talk across Cultures’, in The

Emotions: Social, Cultural and Biological Dimensions, ed. Rom Harré and W. Gerrod Parrott (London, 1996), 191. 137

Caffaro of Caschifelone, Annales, 8–9; Caffaro of Caschifelone, Ystoria captionis Almarie et

Turtuose, ed. Belgrano, Annali genovesi di Caffaro e de’ suoi continuatori, i. 83. 138

Villehardouin, i. 28, 32, 44, 68, 120; ii. 68, 144, 180, 184–6.

139

Clari, 12–13, ‘trestout et grant et petit plorerent de pec et de le grant goie qu’i eurent’.

140

On the Veni creator spiritus, see Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, 124–5.

141

Clari, 81–93, 41–2.

142

Partner, Serious Entertainments, 149, 151–2, 162, 172–5.

143

Nancy Partner, ‘Richard of Devizes: The Monk Who Forgot to Be Medieval’, in The Middle Ages

in Texts and Texture: Reflections on Medieval Sources, ed. Jason Glenn (Toronto, 2011), 235. 144

Brian McGuire, The Difficult Saint: Bernard of Clairvaux and His Tradition (Kalamazoo, MI,

1991), 133–51; Nagy, Larmes, 297, 308–22. Bernard distinguished between tears of contrition, devotion, and compassion: Bernard of Clairavux, Sermones in Cantica Canticorum, in PL, clxxxiii, cols 821, 828; Hasenohr, ‘Lacrimae pondera vocis habent’, 52. 145

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, 90–2; Phillips, Second Crusade, 70.

146

SBO, viii. 305, ‘cantantes vel plorantes’. On Bernard’s distinction between the roles of warriors

and professed religious, see Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, 128–30; Peter Raedts, ‘St Bernard of Clairvaux and Jerusalem’, SCH 10 (1994): 171–4. 147

PLVC, ii. 47; i. 159, 272.

148

PLVC, ii. 153.

149

PLVC, ii. 157.

150

HL, 121, ‘Dominice passionis mysteria multus lacrimis celebrans’.

151

HL, 60, ‘condoluit civitas et subito versa est in luctum cythara Rigensium et cantus eorum in

vocem flencium’. The same verse from Job appears in PLVC, ii. 113. 152

HL, 81, ‘post tristiciam dedit Deus leticiam’, 221.

153

HL, 112, 128. For a rare example of Bishop Albert weeping, see HL, 57.

154

HL, 28, 37, 38, 41, 43, 53, 61, 62, 77, 90, 119, 121, 124, 128, 129, 130, 141, 144, 146, 150, 156,

166, 176, 192, 193, 194–5, 196. 155

Jensen, ‘Crying Crusaders’, 103–4.

156

Helmold of Bosau, Chronica Slavorum, ed. and trans. Heinz Stoob, 5th edn (Darmstadt, 1990),

128–30, 186–7, 214–28, at 220, ‘ut eorum qui interfuerunt adhuc hodie lacrimis deplangatur’; Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 162–80, 210–13, 223–30; Jilana Ordman, ‘Crusading without Affect or Effect: Emotion in Helmold of Bosau’s Chronica Slavorum’, in Emotions, Communities, and Difference in Medieval Europe: Essays in Honor of Barbara H. Rosenwein, ed. Maureen Miller and Edward Wheatley (Abingdon, 2017), 77–103. Arnold’s chronicle was a continuation of Helmold’s; therefore, he may have been influenced by Helmold’s omission of religious weeping. 157

On annales, which were not considered distinct from chronicae, see David Dumville, ‘What Is a

Chronicle?’, in The Medieval Chronicle II, ed. Erik Kooper (Amsterdam, 2002), 2, 4; Sarah Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of Form: Narrative in Annals and Chronicles’, in Writing Medieval History, ed. Partner, 89–90. 158

Howden, Gesta, ii. 121, ‘die ac nocte plorantes’.

159

Coggeshall, 47.

160

Templar of Tyre, Cronaca del Templare di Tiro (1243–1314): La caduta degli Stati Crociati nel

racconto di un testimone oculare, ed. and trans. Laura Minervini (Naples, 2000), 60, 220–2, 224. 161

Excidium Aconis, 93, ‘sed crebrarum rivulis lacrimarum fluentibus maxille madescant pieque

compassionis in dolore suspiriorum corda scindantur’. 162

Excidium Aconis, 93, ‘in valle non lacrimarum’.

163

Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 154, ‘a lapideis cordibus pie devotionis lacrimas’.

164

Ambroise, i. 178 (ii. 178).

165

CA, 149–51; Antioche, 169.

166

Les Chétifs, 21, 59; CCCJ, 84, 116. For pious weeping, see Les Chétifs, 10, 71; CCCJ, 73, 126.

167

Les Chétifs, 89–90; CCCJ, 141.

168

CJ, 35, ‘Jerusalem enclinent par grant affliction. / La veïssiés de larmes tant grande plor[i]son: /

Cascuns en ot moilliet le face et le menton. / La peüssiés veïr, Deux! Tant rice baron / Mordre et baisier la piere et la terre environ. / L’uns le disoit a l’autre et traioit son sermon, / “Par ci passa Jhesus qui soufri passion, / Si beneoit apostele et tot si compaignon. / Buer avonmes soufert tant persecution / Et tant fain et tant soit et tant destravison, / Les vens et les orages, le noif et le glaçon, / Quant or veons le vile u Dex prist passion, / U il recoilli mort por no redemption”’; CCCJ, 173.

169

AA, 402, ‘pro qua tot labores, tot pericula, tot genera mortis et famis passi sunt’.

170

CCCJ, 27–30.

171

CJ, 55–6; CCCJ, 191.

172

CJ, 76; CCCJ, 209.

173

CJ, 102–8; CCCJ, 231–6.

174

CJ, 143, ‘Et plorer de pitié, estraindre et enbracier’, 145; CCCJ, 264, 266.

175

See, for example, CJ, 57–8, 94; CCCJ, 192–3, 224.

176

CJ, 105–6, 81, 103, ‘des iex vont larmoiant. / Cascuns pense en son cuer et vait söef disant, / “Ahi!

Jerusalem! Tant nos vas travellant!”’; CCCJ, 233–4, 214, 231. 177

La Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise, ed. and trans. Eugène Martin-Chabot, 3 vols (Paris, 1931),

ii. 226–8; iii. 102, 208. For a rare example of tearfully petitioning Christ in this text, see La Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise, ii. 96. 178

For examples, all of which are available on LRC, see Huon de Saint-Quentin, Jerusalem se plaint

et le païs, ed. Luca Barbieri and trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 6–7; Maistres Renas, Pour lou pueple resconforteir, ed. Anna Radaelli and trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 43–6; Oiés, seigneur, pereceus par oiseuses, ed. Anna Radaelli and trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 3–4, 19–21; Falquet de Romans, Quan lo dous temps ven e vay la freydors, ed. Raymond Arveiller and Gérard Gouiran, trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 17–22; Falquet de Romans, Qan cuit chantar, eu plaing e plor, ed. Raymond Arveiller and Gérard Gouiran, trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 46–50; Guillem Figueira, Del preveire maior, ed. and trans. Linda Paterson, ll. 11–14, 51–5; Pons de Capdoill, Ar nos sia capdels e garentia, ed. and trans. Lauren Mulholland, ll. 25–6, 52–3; Pons de Capdoill, So c’om plus vol e plus es voluntos, ed. and trans. Lauren Mulholland, ll. 9–12; Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, Ara pot hom conoisser e proar, ed. and trans. Ruth Harvey, ll. 34–40. However, imagery of Jerusalem herself weeping does feature; see Chapter 4. 179

Bernart Alanhan de Narbona, No puesc mudar qu’ieu non diga, ed. and trans. Linda Paterson,

LRC, ll. 31–2, 35–6, ‘Selh que per sos peccatz riga / sos huelhs ploran’, ‘mas pauc vezem que negus bays / la crotz ploran on Dieus plors frays’. 180

Joinville, 276.

181

Joinville, 184, 302, ‘commensa a plorer molt durement’.

182

Joinville, 204, ‘Lors je plorai et rendi graces a Dieu, et li dis ainsi: “Sire, aouré soies tu de ceste

soufraite que tu me fez, car mains bobans ai eulz a moy couchier et a moy lever; et te pri, Sire, que tu m’aides et me delivre de ceste maladie”, et aussi fist il et tous mes gens.’ 183

Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville, 73–4.

184

For broader assessments of Louis’ piety, see Gaposchkin, Making of Saint Louis, 187–8; EdmondRené Labande, ‘Saint Louis pèlerin’, Revue d’histoire de l’Église de France 57 (1971): 5–18; Jordan, Louis IX, 8, 12, 182–213; Jean Richard, Saint Louis: Crusader King of France, trans. Jean Birrell

(Cambridge, 1992), 78–9, 111, 151–2; Jacques Le Goff, Saint Louis (Paris, 1996), esp. 744–80, 858–86. Louis’ propensity to tears outside a crusade setting receives comment in Le Goff, Saint Louis, 381, 875– 6; Peter Dinzelbacher, Warum weint der König? Eine Kritik des mediävistischen Panritualismus (Badenweiler, 2009), 62–3. 185

Joinville, 100, ‘Toutes les foiz que nostre saint roy ooit que il nous getoient le feu grejois, il s’en

estoit en son lit et tendoit ses mains vers Nostre Seigneur et disoit en plourant: “Biau Sire Diex, gardez moy ma gent!”’ 186

For example, Joinville, 150.

187

Joinville, 120, ‘le roy respondi que Dieu en feust aouré de ce que il li donnoit, et lors li cheoient les

lermes des yex moult grosses’. 188

For Michel Zink, the latter was the case, and he also suggested that this scene was reminiscent of

Bernard of Clairvaux’s lament over the death of his brother: Zink, Invention of Literary Subjectivity, 202–4, 182–3; Smith, Crusading in the Age of Joinville, 72. 189

MP, v. 154, ‘Ut Deo placuit factum est; sit nomen Domini benedictum.’

190

Historians have usually approached Joinville’s descriptions of the king’s crying in this way; see

Richard, Saint Louis, 124. 191

Le Goff, Saint Louis, 381.

192

MP, vi. 163, ‘cecidit pronus in faciem suam, et oravit cum lacrimis devotissime ut Deus viam et

actus suos dirigeret’. 193

Geoffrey of Beaulieu, Vita et sancta conversatio piae memoriae Ludovici quondam regis

Francorum, in RHGF, xx. 17, ‘in lacrymis resolutus’. See also William of Chartres, De vita et actibus inclytae recordationis regis Francorum Ludovici, in RHGF, xx. 30. On these hagiographers, see Gaposchkin, Making of Saint Louis, 33–6. 194

Christopher Lucken, ‘L’Évangile du roi: Joinville, témoin et auteur de la Vie de Saint Louis’,

Annales: Histoire, sciences sociales 56 (2001): 451–7. 195

Elisabeth Gaucher, ‘Joinville et l’écriture biographique’, in Le prince et son historien, ed.

Dufournet and Harf, 116 n. 26. 196

Gaposchkin, Making of Saint Louis, 187.

197

William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 24, ‘lacrimis pulsare caelum, aethera onerare planctubus’;

William of Malmesbury, Vita Dunstani, 232, ‘profudit uberem fontem lacrimarum ab oculis, gratum Deo sacrifitium et suaue holocaustum’. 198

WM, 650.

199

Geoffrey of Burton, Life and Miracles of St Modwenna, ed. and trans. Robert Bartlett (Oxford, 2002), 54, ‘perfusa lacrimis, compuncta pietate … contrito corde clamauit ad Dominum’. 200

Geoffrey of Burton, Life and Miracles, 54.

201

Geoffrey of Burton, Life and Miracles, 56, ‘compuncti corde’.

202

For example, see William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 54, 72, 118, 136.

203

William of Saint-Thierry, Vita prima sancti Bernardi, in PL, clxxxv, col. 232, ‘ingressus oravit cum

multo imbre lacrymarum, expandens manus in coelum, et effundens sicut aquam cor suum ante conspectum Domini Dei sui’. For further examples from hagiographies, see Nagy, Larmes, 280–93. 204

Nagy, ‘Religious Weeping as Ritual’, 131; Jean-Charles Payen, Le motif du repentir dans la

littérature française médiévale: Des origines à 1230 (Geneva, 1967), 30–8.

4 Discourses of Tears and Sorrow Weeping was not just a religious act in the Middle Ages: it performed a number of important social and political functions, several of which have been examined by Gerd Althoff, Albrecht Classen, and Laurent Smagghe.1 For Althoff, tears and other demonstrations of emotion were part of the ‘rules of the game’ (Spielregeln).2 In a society that placed as much emphasis on gestures as words, emotional performances had communicative value, although their ritualized nature has been contested—if unconvincingly—by Peter Dinzelbacher.3 For example, weeping could facilitate conflict resolution and the restructuring of power relationships; according to Althoff, ‘the received commitment [of an individual] was considered more binding when it was certified through tears of repentance for previous behaviour’, while a king’s tears in granting mercy to political opponents were considered outward manifestations of his piety.4 This chapter extends from Chapter 3 by exploring the interplay between ‘religious’ and ‘nonreligious’ weeping, and then broadens the scope of enquiry to consider discourses of grief in crusade texts. It starts with a discussion of the social value of the crusaders’ tears, principally as expressions of the fraternal love which supposedly bound participants together in a Christian community and as devices for rousing the mercy of co-religionists. An analysis of these interrelated themes, it will be argued, reveals that the boundaries between ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’ modes of weeping were frequently blurred, especially in ecclesiastical texts. The remainder of the chapter treats tears as part of the broader rhetoric of lamentation and sorrow to assess their implications in terms of the texts’ gendered presentation of crusading and power dynamics.

Tears, Brotherhood, and Fraternal Love As was suggested in Chapter 3, the lack of social distinction in accounts of crusaders undertaking

religious weeping can be ascribed to ecclesiastical authorship; yet such descriptions probably have a further significance, for recent studies have highlighted contemporaries’ concern with emphasizing the collectivized nature of crusading. Marcus Bull has argued that, while the earliest crusade chroniclers occasionally included heroic idioms, they were chiefly concerned with the army as a collective unit, and Susanna Throop has drawn attention to the communal representation of religious practices and social structures in the De expugnantione Lyxbonensi.5 Thus, the unanimity of the crusaders’ weeping after Lisbon’s conquest in 1147 was expressed by the listing of ecclesiastical members, followed by the key term ‘omnibus’: the victory was celebrated by ‘the archbishop and the bishops together with the clergy and all the people, not without tears’.6 This trait is discernible in other texts too. For instance, in Guibert of Nogent’s account of the battle of Dorylaeum, the cleansing of the Latins’ sins through the secretion of tears was presented as a shared experience, undertaken by ‘each and all’, and as fostering singularity of purpose: after performing acts of repentance, they united because of a common trait—the emblem of the cross on their fronts.7 Therefore, the downplaying of traditional social distinctions in accounts of the crusaders’ performance of weeping probably also articulated the communal nature of crusading and the common purpose of participants. Weeping interacted with the theme of Christian community in several further ways: participants were expected to shed tears of compassion over their deceased brethren, and crying was also depicted as a gesture expressing the affection that apparently existed between co-religionists. Tears of love undoubtedly had spiritual value, and they thus epitomize the lack of distinction contemporary ecclesiastical writers made between ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’ sobbing. The concept of weeping as an act of charity and compassion has its origins in scripture: to ‘rejoice with them that rejoice, weep with them that weep’ (Romans 12.15) was one of the Christian virtues St Paul extolled to the Romans, and this imagery was repeatedly taken up by crusade propagandists and commentators. Audita tremendi stated that anyone who did ‘not mourn … in such a great occasion for mourning’ would seem to have forgotten their Christian faith, ‘which teaches that one ought to grieve with all who are grieving’.8 If the Historia peregrinorum is to be believed, Bishop Henry of Strassburg reminded his audience at the Mainz assembly of March 1188 that ‘it is [a matter] of piety to weep with them that weep’, yet the sorrow and desolation (dolor et desolatio) of the land of Jerusalem had not moved them to tears.9 Indeed, some chroniclers used Romans 12.15 to denounce Christians who fell short of St Paul’s injunction. William of Tyre complained that the Hospitallers rang their church bells loudly when silence was imposed on all churches or those of a particular city, so that they alone would gain revenue. Accordingly, he charged them with rejoicing while others were grieving, thereby neglecting ‘the words of that distinguished preacher: rejoice with them that rejoice, weep with them that weep’.10 Jacques de Vitry levelled the same charge at the regular clergy in the Latin East: ‘They who ought to rejoice with them that rejoice and weep with them that weep rejoiced alone while others grieved.’11 By the thirteenth century, in the wake of continuous failures, Christian unity and charity were expounded as essential prerequisites for crusading

armies. In his Liber recuperationis Terre Sancte, Fidence of Padua included chapters on ‘unity between Christians’ and ‘mutual compassion’, in which he presented the words of Job as a model of compassion for Christians to emulate: ‘I wept for him that was afflicted, and my heart had compassion on the poor’ (Job 30.25).12 The language of brotherhood—above all, frater and confrater—regularly figured in descriptions of lachrymose scenes, especially those by authors, like Albert of Aachen and Baldric of Bourgueil, who held an ecumenical vision of Christianity and displayed an acute interest in Christian fraternity.13 In Albert’s Historia, as a group of nobles departed for the West after the conquest of Jerusalem, they ‘poured out tears for their brothers left in exile’, whereas Baldric had Urban II advise his audience at Clermont that ‘we should grieve with and have compassion for our brothers, at least with tears’.14 Fulfilling this command, when the pope finished speaking, ‘the faces of some were covered in tears’.15 In Orderic Vitalis’ abridgement of this scene, Urban’s tearful delivery created a community of weepers, united in Christian love: the pope ‘compelled many of his listeners to weep with him from the exceeding affection and pious compassion of brothers’.16 The connection between weeping and Christian fraternity is particularly prevalent in the histories by Albert and Baldric, but the same idea can be seen in virtually all crusade narratives; thus, Ralph of Caen interpreted Tancred of Hauteville’s entry into Antioch following the city’s capture in June 1098 in light of Romans 12.15, remarking that ‘he who was recently weeping with the weepers now rejoices with those rejoicing’.17 Moreover, weeping over dead co-religionists found expression in Latin and Old French texts alike, although, as I suggest below, these scenes often did more than simply reference participants’ compassion. The pity of the First Crusaders often manifested itself in the form of many tears in Fulcher of Chartres’ Historia; Tancred supposedly shed pious tears (lacrimari pie) over Baldwin I’s death; and members of the Frisian contingent of the Fifth Crusade, who travelled to Portugal before continuing to the Holy Land, wept out of pity for their deceased brethren.18 Similarly, Geoffrey of Villehardouin reported that there were ‘many tears shed and many hands wrung in sorrow and pity’ over the deaths of Baldwin of Flanders and Louis of Blois, and, according to Joinville, Louis IX’s army wept over their imprisoned friends (amis), and again when they heard that the king had resolved to remain in the East.19 There are also signs that authors intended to provoke tears of compassion from their audiences. Gilo of Paris dramatized his descriptions of the First Crusaders’ suffering by consistently drawing attention to their tears, and some writers appear to have invited their audiences to share in the Christians’ tribulations through weeping.20 In his account of the crossing of a mountainous path by Frederick Barbarossa’s army in June 1190, Ansbert queried: For who could be of such a stony heart and stiff neck that he would not be totally softened to tears when he saw bishops and most distinguished knights being carried in horses’ litters,

troubled on account of lengthy sicknesses … and one’s death threatened by a wretched fall? 21

Another chronicler of the Third Crusade remarked that anyone who saw Jaffa’s Latin defenders rushing up and down the city’s battlements in late July 1192 ‘might have softened to tears in great pity’.22 It is important to note, however, that by the mid-thirteenth century, following the failure of the Seventh Crusade, some contemporaries were insisting that there was no need to mourn their dead brethren, since they had acquired the martyr’s crown. In a sermon commemorating those who died at Mansurah in 1250, Eudes of Châteauroux advocated that his audience should not lament for the deceased nobles, but rather for themselves, as they had not been deemed worthy to experience the same fate; and Louis IX similarly urged his French subjects to rejoice, rather than grieve, for his brother Robert of Artois, who had attained the crown of martyrdom.23 For others, both emotions were relevant: in or soon after 1270, one troubadour sang in sorrow and joy over Louis IX’s death because God deigned that the king should be with him.24 Weeping often featured alongside other gestures of affection, such as kissing and embracing, in descriptions of the ‘cooperative bonds’ between crusaders.25 The language and gestures of love and friendship in medieval chronicles have been misinterpreted by some historians, most notably John Boswell, as evidence of homoeroticism.26 The situation is further complicated by the fact that it was during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries that the concept of courtly love—what William Reddy has called the ‘longing for association’, upon which European ideas of romantic love are based—began to be disseminated by French poets.27 Nevertheless, as C. Stephen Jaeger, Marianne Ailes, and Rebecca Slitt have shown, gestures like kissing, weeping, and gift-giving were the normative performances of homosociality and amicitia in the medieval West.28 These expressions of affection—especially embracing, kissing, and crying—punctuated crusade narratives like Odo of Deuil’s De profectione. Odo recorded a scene loaded with affective charge in which Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany embraced and exchanged kisses, made moist by tears of pity (or piety, lacrimae pietatis), and by telling of the German defeat in Anatolia, Conrad later ‘stirred the hearts of all to tears’.29 Similarly, in the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, tears and kisses indicated that the Syrians, Greeks, and crusaders were brethren (confratribus); and Albert of Aachen reported that Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin of Boulogne, and Bohemond of Toranto kissed with tears as they departed from a meeting in January 1100.30 The same set of gestures was common in chansons de geste. In the Chanson des Chétifs, for example, one of the Christian captives held at Oliferne, Richard of Chaumont, was given a rapturous reception following his triumph over two Turks in a judicial duel: all the chétifs burst into tears and smothered his hands and face with kisses.31

Noble Tears The crusaders’ tears were often represented as performing a further social function linked to the theme of community: they served as mechanisms for soliciting the mercy of co-religionists. Geoffrey of Villehardouin recorded numerous tearful demonstrations of humility, often enacted by high-ranking crusaders. Those present at Soissons in 1201 implored Boniface of Montferrat to assume leadership of the Fourth Crusade by falling at his feet and crying heavily, inducing a similar display from the marquis.32 Villehardouin also described several lachrymose scenes surrounding attempts to acquire Venetian support for the enterprise. The six envoys, including Villehardouin himself, charged with securing Venetian assistance ‘knelt at their feet, weeping copiously’—an act which met with the approval of the doge of Venice, Enrico Dandolo, and stimulated ‘great pity’ from onlookers.33 Later, when Enrico announced that he would personally participate in the expedition, there was another outpouring of ‘great pity’ from the Venetians and crusaders, again accompanied by numerous tears.34 Weeping was consistently depicted in this way throughout the remainder of the text, usually arising in connection to noblemen. Villehardouin reported two further emotionally charged scenes in which high-ranking crusaders tearfully implored comrades, intent on returning to the West, to remain with the army. In the first, the expedition’s leaders and barons sought to persuade a dissenting group of crusaders on Corfu not to abandon the enterprise by falling at their feet, weeping heavily.35 Significantly, this tearful performance was deemed successful at rousing the would-be deserters’ pity, externally manifested by tears: ‘they felt great compassion and wept bitterly to see their lords, their relations, and their friends fall at their feet’, and so agreed to remain with the army until the feast of St Michael (29 September 1203).36 A similar, albeit unsuccessful, attempt to dissuade members of the Christian army from returning home occurred following Constantinople’s capture in 1204. Innocent III’s legate, Peter Capuano, alongside Conon of Béthune and other ‘good people’, ‘tearfully begged those about to leave to have mercy and compassion for Christendom’, and Villehardouin claimed that he too had pleaded with them in this way.37 There are two points to note thus far. Firstly, while these descriptions may have been included for dramatic effect, Villehardouin consistently represented weeping—usually on bended knee—as a legitimate method of imploring the mercy of individuals.38 Secondly, given that almost all the abovementioned episodes concern members of the aristocratic elite, including the author himself, it appears that Villehardouin considered crying an expected characteristic of the preudomme—a valiant, experienced warrior of worthy and virtuous character.39 Perhaps tellingly, such tearful episodes are absent from Robert of Clari’s account, which afforded less attention to the actions and behaviour of the high-ranking aristocracy, whereas Joinville, like Villehardouin, acknowledged moments when noblemen, himself included, wept to invite the mercy of Louis IX.40

Notwithstanding Villehardouin’s preoccupation with proper aristocratic conduct, it is important to recognize that the exact same function of weeping—as a way of begging mercy—was widely attested in even the earliest Latin crusade narratives. Just as Raymond of Aguilers recorded that members of the crusader host knelt before Raymond of Toulouse at Ma’arrat an-Nu’man in 1098, tearfully urging him to continue the journey to Jerusalem, another twelfth-century chronicler insisted that the expedition was triggered by eastern Christians who had sent messengers to Urban II, ‘begging [him] with tearful complaints to come to their aid’.41 This theme continued to punctuate Latin crusade chronicles throughout the twelfth century. In fact, the tearful petitioning of comrades to not abandon crusading expeditions was a common trope, which might explain Villehardouin’s inclusion of such scenes. After the capture of Jerusalem in 1099, a group of nobles seeking to head home encountered a tearful Godfrey of Bouillon, who unsuccessfully beseeched them to remain in the East; Harvey of Glanvill tried to convince a reticent group of Normans to persist with the siege of Lisbon in 1147 by delivering a speech, mingled with tears, before throwing himself at the feet of their leader, William Viel; and a lachrymose Richard the Lionheart implored 700 French knights not to leave the army at Ascalon in April 1192.42 Similarly, Ambroise and the Itinerarium peregrinorum’s author recorded that Philip Augustus, intent on departing from Acre in 1191, refused to give way to his people’s groans and tearful entreaties; indeed, according to Roger of Howden, leading members of the French army ‘begged [the king] with tears not to unwisely withdraw himself from the service of God’.43 In the Gesta regis Henrici secundi, Roger even had the French crusaders tearfully request Richard I’s advice regarding their monarch’s imminent departure: when they stood in the presence of the king and greeted him on behalf of the king of France, they broke out in tears so that they were unable to utter one word. The others [Richard’s men] were provoked to tears because of the disturbed spirit that they had seen in them. And when they persisted in their weeping, the king of England turned to them [and] said: ‘Do not cry, I know what you are going to ask. Certainly, your lord, the king of France, wants to return home; and you have come on his behalf so that he may have advice from me …’44 Roger’s description is significant because it indicates an awareness of the communicative function of crying: the tears of the French signalled to Richard, before any verbal communication, that they were going to make a request. As might be expected, the French monarch’s biographer, Rigord, provided a very different (and much more favourable) account; having consulted the leading men of his household, ‘with sobs and tears’ Philip ordered his army to prepare for the return journey.45 Whereas the inclusion and representation of religious weeping was, as we saw in Chapter 3, often dependent on authorship (and perhaps genre), the importance of crying as a way of securing a protagonist’s mercy was almost universally attested, even appearing in texts which failed to assign spiritual significance to the crusaders’ tears.46 This common understanding, transcending source genres,

is confirmed by the numerous letters sent by Latin inhabitants of the East to solicit the assistance of their western co-religionists. A notable feature of these missives is that the authors felt the need to draw attention to their tears, even in written communications. Thus, following the Christian defeat in the battle of the Field of Blood in 1119, the patriarch of Jerusalem and prior of the Holy Sepulchre included the following emotive plea in a letter to Diego Gelmírez, archbishop of Compostela: Most illustrious archbishop, prostrated at your knees, alas with so many tears poured forth, we implore you to come to help us! Oh most glorious athlete of God, may our prayers move you, may the doleful cry of monks [and] canons move you, may the tears of widows and orphans move you; hear the groans of the shackled, may the insufferable laments of the poor lying through the streets of Jerusalem come to you …47 Passages like this, marked by tears, pervaded letters sent from the East in the wake of military setbacks, especially the battle of Hattin. Patriarch Eraclius of Jerusalem started his letter of September 1187 by sending greetings in sadness and with many tears (miserabilis et valde flebilis), imploring the princes of the West to have pity and mercy in their hearts, and he went on to command that they be moved by ‘the tearful sighs of the faithful’.48 Such rhetoric also featured in Eraclius’ contemporaneous letter to Pope Urban III, and Frederick Barbarossa received a similar letter in which the princes and ecclesiastics of the East tearfully entreated him to aid the Holy Land.49 There is, of course, obvious overlap between tears intended to implore the mercy of individuals and those designed to spark God’s compassion. The two themes have been treated separately here for analytical purposes, yet the distinction was sometimes more ambiguous. For example, after relating the loss of Jerusalem in 1187, Conrad of Montferrat told Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury that ‘I do not cease to lament to God and to you with tears’; and in 1188 Aimery of Limoges, patriarch of Antioch, informed Henry II of England that by ‘lamenting greatly and beating our guilty breasts’, the Antiochenes would ask God to endow the king with the will to save them.50 The intersection of these two themes is typified by the imagery of the Church or, more pointedly, Jerusalem as tearfully begging western Christians for help. Though current in twelfth-century texts like the Lamentum lacrymabile, a verse lament for the dead of the Second Crusade which opens with the words ‘Jerusalem, luge’ (Jerusalem, mourn!), such imagery was more frequently taken up in the thirteenth century, especially by papal propagandists.51 In Post miserabile, the Apostolic See was depicted as crying out and weeping (clamans et plorans) to such a degree that its throat was made hoarse and its eyes almost failed.52 This theme received particular emphasis in the letters of Innocent IV. Writing to Henry III of England in January 1245, the pope explained that the Holy Land ‘now mourns more bitterly and sets forth the sharpness of inward grief with the voice of still higher wailing’; indeed, the papacy had been ‘pricked by her bitter tears’.53 The pope returned to this rhetoric when he sought to convince Henry, who had already taken the cross, to assist Louis IX in 1251, describing how the region of Jerusalem was violently afflicted and

lamenting unceasingly, before asking a series of questions which were undoubtedly designed to pressure the monarch into departing: And where will her sighs and sobs not be felt? Where will her shrieks and groans not be heard? In fact, her grief is known to everyone, and her strong shouts have been heard by the whole world. Therefore, who of the faithful, who love her, cannot bewail that voice, so sad and tearful? Who, I say, is not able to feel pity over her harsh suffering? Whose heart is not stirred to rescue her by her shedding of so many tears?54 Interestingly, the use of such imagery represents a point of correlation between the papacy’s message and that of thirteenth-century trouvères. Huon de Saint-Quentin commenced his Old French lyric, written at the time of the Fifth Crusade, with the declaration ‘Jerusalem laments, and the land where the Lord God suffered death most willingly, because this side of the sea it has few friends who offer it the slightest help.’55 Another trouvère from the same period used the verse ‘Jerusalem weeps and laments for the long delay in help!’, while an anonymous lyric, probably composed in 1256, claimed that the lament of Jeremiah had been fulfilled, with Jerusalem left ‘bitterly weeping’.56 It is therefore clear that tears were conceived as devices for petitioning, either other protagonists or God. While the inclusion of tears designed to procure divine mercy was, as discussed in the previous chapter, often dependent on authorship and genre, tearful performances intended to arouse the pity of individuals were widely reported in clerical and secular sources. Indeed, the evidence provided by Geoffrey of Villehardouin suggests that weeping to beg mercy was an established and expected aristocratic gesture by the thirteenth century.

‘Manful and Tearful’ It might be assumed that instances of crusaders weeping would be irreconcilable with the image of the manful crusader discussed in Chapter 2. After all, medieval medical writers and philosophers considered bodily moisture, like tears, the humoral characteristic of women, whose constitution made them cold, wet, and emotionally volatile.57 This view was seemingly reinforced by biblical precedent, like that of Mary Magdalene’s lamentation over Christ’s death, which was the subject of intense interest in the twelfth century.58 Despite becoming an exemplar of spiritually efficacious tears, when Innocent III alluded to Mary Magdalene’s weeping and wailing as part of a complex exegesis in his letter, dated 13 November 1204, to the clerics in the army of the Fourth Crusade, he added: ‘On account of this, they call

her “woman”, as one who thinks not with manly intellect but with feminine feeling.’59 This intellectual discourse probably explains why women often appear prone to crying in crusade texts. Sarah Lambert has argued that the inclusion of emotionally charged departure scenes helped to establish crusading as a manly activity—the implication being that the men went on crusade while the women remained at home and wept.60 For instance, William of Tyre juxtaposed the men who left for the First Crusade and the weeping women who were unable to participate: ‘with tears and wailing, mother accompanied departing son, daughter father, sister brother, wife husband, carrying suckling infants in their arms, and saying goodbye to those who they were not able to follow, they pursued them with fixed gazes’.61 In such scenes, women were frequently depicted as being ruled by their passions and as indulging in unrestrained weeping. One of the most famous examples is Fulcher of Chartres’ account of a departing crusader who promised his return to a tearful wife. Whereas the unnamed wife was presented as being overcome by her emotions—she fell lifelessly to the ground, mourning as if he were already dead—her husband left with a stern, steadfast mind, seemingly unmoved by her tears.62 Unlike her spouse, she was incapable of controlling her feelings, a trait which is similarly apparent in other departure scenes.63 Take, for example, Louis VII’s wife and mother, ‘who, between tears and the heat, were almost dying’ because of the king’s delayed departure.64 Odo of Deuil maintained that it was impossible to describe the grief and lamentation on that occasion.65 Likewise, when Louis IX’s mother was told that her son had taken the cross, ‘she demonstrated grief as profound as if she had seen him dead’.66 The imagery of the woman lamenting her lover’s departure on crusade was also taken up by poets. In A la fontana del vergier, likely composed in 1147 and thus the earliest extant crusade lyric to use a female voice, the troubadour Marcabru claimed to encounter a young woman crying over the departure of her beloved on the Second Crusade: Beside the spring she wept and sighed from the bottom of her heart; ‘Jesus’, she said, ‘king of the world, because of you my great sorrow is increasing … My love, the handsome, courtly, brave and noble, departs with you; great distress, frequent longing and tears stay here with me. Oh! Cursed be King Louis [VII], who orders the call to arms and the preaching which are the cause of this grief entering my heart!’67 The woman’s grief was depicted as overweening, for Marcabru warned that too much crying would spoil her looks and advised her to seek out God’s mercy. Similar rhetoric appears in the anonymous Jherusalem, grant damage me fais. The poet, adopting a female persona, sighed in anguish to the point of railing against God, who had deprived her of joy, and declared that her great grief was indescribable.68 Perhaps influenced by Marcabru’s A la fontana del vergier, the Middle High German Minnesänger Albrecht von Johansdorf likewise utilized scenes of female lamentation over departing crusaders.69

Whereas earlier scholars have either interpreted these scenes as representative of the actual feelings associated with separation or dismissed the significance of crusading as ‘simply a pretext for the lament’, Lisa Perfetti has recently argued that they performed the ideological function of inviting ‘the audience to imagine the crusader as not only valorous and righteous but potently masculine, a man who fills women with sighs and longing, women who faithfully wait to welcome their returning lovers with open arms’.70 In other words, a desire to masculinize crusading has been seen as a key reason for the inclusion of emotional departure scenes in both chronicles and lyrics. The personification of women as susceptible to uncontrollable outbursts of tears was not restricted to accounts of the crusaders’ departure. Viewing Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, Tancred of Hauteville apparently saw the people rushing about, ‘the men to arms, the women to tears’, and, according to Gilo of Paris, during the battle of Dorylaeum the clergy sang, the brave fought, while the ‘women wept together’.71 The same author, along with Robert the Monk, included a dramatic account of Humberge of Le Puiset’s lament over the death of her husband, Gualo II of Chaumont-en-Vexin, during the siege of Antioch in 1098.72 As in the example from Fulcher’s Historia, her behaviour was characteristically excessive: bewailing her inability to wash Gualo’s wounds with tears, ‘she wallowed on the ground, cutting her cheeks with her nails and pulling apart her golden hair’.73 William of Tyre attributed the same set of gestures to Queen Melisende of Jerusalem, who grieved over her husband’s unexpected death in 1143.74 There is another reason why we might expect the crusaders’ tears to have encroached upon their gendered identities in ecclesiastical texts. In his examination of weeping in the vita of Bishop Gundulf of Rochester (1077–1108), William Aird identified the bishop’s incessant crying as a component of the feminine persona he acquired in the text. In this ‘decidedly feminine representation of the bishop’s spirituality’, Aird saw a precursor to the somatic piety usually associated with later female mystics, such as Margery Kempe.75 If, as I suggested in Chapter 3, the crusaders’ tears resembled those of professed religious, does it follow that their weeping was believed to have compromised their masculine identity? Firstly, it should be noted that Aird’s conclusion is not universally applicable to descriptions of monastic weeping. Katherine Harvey has suggested that, as spiritual weapons, episcopal tears were more often considered expressions of clerical masculinity than femininity.76 There is some evidence in crusade sources that excessive performances of weeping were considered unmanly: Albert of Aachen, for one, had Baldwin I of Jerusalem deliver a deathbed speech, rebuking his troops for their repeated tears, which made them soft, frail, and effeminate.77 Concern about the gendered implications of such lachrymose displays may also explain William of Malmesbury’s description of a stoic Godfrey of Bouillon restraining sobbing bystanders at his deathbed in 1100.78 A similar episode was reported by Joinville when Louis IX learnt of his mother’s death and ‘displayed such profound grief that for two days no one could speak to him’.79 Joinville proceeded to criticize the king for his demonstration of sorrow with the following words:

I am surprised that you, a man of good sense, have demonstrated such great sadness. For you know that the wise man says that a man should not allow whatever distress he has in his heart to appear on his face, because he who does so makes his enemies happy and his friends upset.80 The king’s display of emotion was excessive and therefore needed to be concealed. This is also indicated by the author’s remark that he had tried to comfort Louis’ wife, Margaret, who was ‘in the depths of grief’, but when Joinville enquired as to why she was weeping, given her apparent dislike of Blanche, Margaret replied that ‘she was not crying for the queen but for the king, who was overwrought by his displays of grief’.81 We can also infer from Joinville’s presentation of this scene that the propriety of tearful displays was sometimes dependent on social status. For Joinville, the king’s profound grief was a sign of weakness—a view to which other chroniclers subscribed. For example, the capture of Gervase, lord of Tiberias, in 1108 caused the Latins of Jerusalem to lament ‘in violent grief with weeping and great wailing for many days’; Baldwin I was also dismayed, but he appropriately disguised this with a cheerful expression.82 Outside a crusading context, Orderic Vitalis recalled that Henry I’s lachrymose bereavement over the death of his son, William Atheling, was so extensive that he was escorted into a private room, away from his onlooking subjects.83 The impropriety and gendered implications of this scene are even clearer in Wace’s later vernacular account, for he added: ‘Women should lament and weep, women should express sorrow, but you should take comfort and advise us all.’84 Likewise, when Matthew Paris described Frederick II’s lamentation—he ‘started to grieve inconsolably and to weep most abundantly and bitterly’—following a failed attempt to poison him in 1249, the chronicler noted that such a display ‘was pitiable to see in a person of such great authority and age’.85 Nonetheless, condemnation of highly emotional, tearful displays rarely appears in crusade narratives. As Leslie Callahan has persuasively argued, twelfth-century expressions of grief were not automatically gender-specific.86 Ruth Karras has made a similar observation regarding the practice of late medieval knighthood: ‘Public emotion on the part of knights and great lords was not frowned upon, but indeed admired. Even tears were not unmanly; it was manly to have deeply held feelings, and important to display them.’87 Crucially, in certain departure scenes, male figures were presented as weeping alongside women. Louis VII departed amid the tears and prayers of all (orationibus et lacrimis omnium), while Robert of Clari recorded that many fathers and brothers, as well as mothers and sisters, lamented over loved ones who went on the Fourth Crusade.88 Some writers even suggested that crusade participants wept as they left; in fact, the image of the crusader shedding tears and embracing his wife as he abandoned his homeland was a recurring trope of such scenes. Thus, despite emphasizing the lachrymose performances of women who were unable to participate in the First Crusade, William of Tyre also acknowledged the tears of departing crusaders, who separated from the embraces of loved ones ‘with sobs and sighs’.89 The universal nature of such tearful demonstrations was also emphasized in the

Itinerarium peregrinorum, which stated that those leaving for the Third Crusade mingled ‘affectionate tears with their households, relatives, or friends’, and Geoffrey of Villehardouin recorded that many tears of pity were shed by members of the Fourth Crusade as they relinquished their lands, people, and friends.90 Significantly, the male crusaders’ tears and sorrow were common traits of the separation motif in trouvère lyrics. To give just a few examples from the many available, Conon of Béthune, who wrote his Ahi! Amors, com dure departie in the lead up to the Third Crusade, apparently set out for Syria sighing for his beloved, and ended the lyric with the declaration: ‘Alas, I leave with tears in my eyes to the place where God desires to purify my heart.’91 Châtelain de Coucy, probably Guy IV of Coucy, who participated in both the Third and Fourth Crusades, declared ‘it is right that I express my grief’, since he was leaving his faithful companion, while in Li departirs de la douce contree, composed c.1239, Chardon de Croisilles remarked that no one should marvel if he wept at parting from his beloved.92 Other poets described crusaders as feeling a mixture of sorrow and joy prior to departure: sorrow at leaving their loved ones; joy at serving God.93 In short, the departure scenes are more complex than the straightforward, flat notion that the ‘women wept and stayed at home’ while the men went crusading, not least because male crusade participants were also said to have shed tears as they left their homelands, albeit usually in a controlled manner.94 Moreover, some chroniclers, like Albert of Aachen, explicitly stated that both sexes wept, and depictions of men mourning and lamenting in crusade narratives are often just as violent as those relating to women.95 Thus, in the Gesta Francorum (and other textually related narratives) Bohemond’s halfbrother, Guy, bewailed the supposed death of the southern Italian Norman leader in the same way as Humberge cried over Gualo in the works of Gilo and Robert.96 ‘Weeping and striking his hands and crushing his fingers’, Guy was apparently inconsolable, and it was only after everyone rushed to comfort him that he finally controlled himself.97 Passages like this conform to an established literary tradition, known as the planctus, and it is therefore questionable whether they would have had clear gendered implications to a medieval audience.98 Certainly, the self-violent display of grief—the smashing of fists, fainting, and the tearing of hair, beards, and clothes—was a familiar motif of vernacular poetry; in fact, the story of Guy’s lament was later incorporated into the Chanson d’Antioche, in which he fainted from grief, wrung his hands, and ripped his hair.99 Somatic gestures are a key feature of Baldwin of Beauvais’ lamentation for his brother, Ernoul, who had been devoured by a dragon, in the Chanson des Chétifs. After slaying the dragon, Baldwin caught sight of his brother’s severed head, at which point he flung himself beside it, burst into tears, tore at his beard and moustache, declared his grief verbally, and finally cradled the head in his arms, showering it with kisses and tears.100 In the Chanson de Roland, Charlemagne was unable to hold back his tears, fainted repeatedly, and tore out fistfuls of hair when he beheld Roland’s dead body, with similar demonstrations of grief attributed to Vivien in the Chanson de Guillaume.101 The inclusion of these gestures of despair in crusade narratives, such as those by Guibert of Nogent and John of Joinville, is thus evidence of cross-pollination with chanson culture.102

Finally, the willingness of chroniclers to acknowledge moments when their principal protagonists broke into tears warns against interpreting such scenes as evidence of a lack of virility. Godfrey of Bouillon and Baldwin I cried in Albert of Aachen’s Historia; William of Tyre repeatedly attested to the Jerusalemite kings’ weeping; and Odo of Deuil even characterized Louis VII as ‘virilis et flebilis’—‘manful and tearful’.103 Taken together with the fact that weeping regularly features in the sources as performing a number of socio-religious functions without eliciting condemnation from the authors, this all suggests that crying was not widely perceived as detrimental to the crusaders’ manhood.

The Power of Grief In Chapter 2, we saw that fear was a fundamental component of the emotional index of power in crusade narratives—a passion which communicated both the power of the writers’ central protagonists and the Latins’ collective triumphs over their Muslim enemies. The rhetoric of tears and grief was equally important to this dynamic, for an individual’s worth, status, and power could be expressed by dwelling on the lamentation and sorrow inspired by his or her demise. Thus, Joinville insisted that it was a pious and fitting thing to weep over the passing of the ‘saint prince’, Louis IX, while Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay posed the following questions when writing of Simon of Montfort’s demise in 1218: ‘Who, I say, will be able to write about it without grief? Who will be able to recite it without tears? Who will be able to hear it without sobbing?’104 The many accounts of Frederick Barbarossa’s death on 10 June 1190 typify this process. Ansbert recorded that some were so grief-stricken that they chose to end their lives with the emperor.105 Intense grief and wailing, he maintained, were ‘not unmerited given the death of so great a prince’—a powerful individual like Frederick deserved such mourning—and all should fittingly recite Lamentations 5.16–17: ‘the crown is fallen from our head; woe to us, because we have sinned; therefore is our heart sorrowful’.106 The universality of grief in Frederick’s army was a key feature of Ansbert’s account and those of other chroniclers. The Augustinian canon Magnus of Reichersberg wrote that the emperor died ‘with all the pilgrims who were following him mourning and weeping inconsolably’, and he stressed the magnitude of their sorrow by pointing to a series of emotional reversals: joy turned to grief, music to mourning, and singing to weeping.107 Otto of St Blasien clearly signalled Frederick’s power through the rhetoric of grief and fear, recording that ‘the entire army of Christians was irrevocably wounded by his death and mourned with insufferable lamentation’, for, had the emperor lived, he would have struck fear into the entire East.108 The unanimity of sorrow was also a feature of Arnold of Lübeck’s account, in which ‘the grief of all’ became a single voice of lamentation and ‘the people were wasting away in

weeping and wailing’.109 Even authors who were not partisans of Frederick described the reaction to his passing in similar terms. The death of ‘such a great and powerful lord’, wrote the author of the Lyon Eracles, was a great loss for Christendom; the sadness and weeping were apparently indescribable.110 The account by the Itinerarium peregrinorum’s author is particularly interesting. He too emphasized the universality of sorrow, which affected everyone and created such a community of mourners, united in grief, that the emperor’s followers were unidentifiable among the wailing throng.111 Going further still, the author claimed that the demonstrations of sorrow were unprecedented: Through doleful noise the rumour [of Frederick’s death] was brought to the ears of the army; all shake. But if we examine the annals of the ancients, the traditions of history, the inventions of fables about the sorrow of mothers, the groaning of brides, [or] the wailing of anyone, that grief, unexampled and unknown to any age, exceeds the tears and laments of all.112 These descriptions of universal grief, it should be noted, fit with the growing scholarly awareness of the important contribution Frederick made to the Third Crusade, primarily in distracting Saladin from the siege of Acre, and the impact of his untimely death in reducing the expedition’s chances of success.113 In any case, the rhetoric of grief and lamentation proved useful for aggrandizing powerful men like Frederick, just as suggestions that individuals were undeserving of tears had the opposite effect, hence Matthew Paris’ comment that nobody wept over Robert of Artois’ death at Mansurah, since he was roundly blamed for the defeat in battle.114 Interestingly, similar rhetoric was used to convey the importance of certain ecclesiastical members of crusade armies, exemplified by the coverage of the reactions to Adhémar of Le Puy’s death at Antioch on 1 August 1098. The papal legate’s contribution to the First Crusade has long been debated, but there can be little doubt that, as the expedition’s memory began to coalesce in the early twelfth century, he emerged as a key protagonist—a spiritual father, cohesive force, and a man who deserved to be mourned extensively by the entire Christian army.115 Raymond of Aguilers, who tended to present the bishop in a sympathetic light, recorded that ‘so great was the sorrow of all the Christians’ that even eyewitnesses attempting to narrativize events could not describe it.116 The unanimity and extremity of grief is likewise discernible in the non-participant reworkings of the Gesta Francorum. Whereas the Gesta briefly noted ‘the great anguish and distress and the immense grief’ over Adhémar’s passing, several chroniclers, dissatisfied with the bishop’s marginal role in that text, dwelt on the crusaders’ lamentation and emphasized the universality of sorrow.117 This is particularly clear in Guibert of Nogent’s account: Bitterest grief and exceeding sadness immediately arose in the whole army of Christ, and when each, of whatever rank, sex, or age, recalled the frequent kindnesses of the most compassionate man, they grieved inconsolably, awaiting no remedies. At his funeral, the

heartfelt cries of the princes themselves were so great [it was] as if they had been notified of the general army’s destruction …118 The magnitude and unanimity of grief here, and especially the leaders’ recognition of the bishop’s worth, tallies with Guibert’s presentation of this event as a pivotal moment: while alive, Adhémar united the princes in love and harmony, but after his death they erupted into arguments and insolent behaviour.119 Similar dynamics are at play in Robert the Monk’s comment that the level of sorrow and misery surpassed that of earlier tribulations, and that, appreciative of the bishop’s many qualities, ‘all rightfully wept’.120 Albert of Aachen, like Guibert, specified that the expressions of grief transcended social status: ‘Nobles and lesser people wept over him with overwhelming lamentation’.121 So did William of Tyre, according to whom the mass mourning was a reflection of Adhémar’s leadership qualities. He was buried ‘amidst the groaning and tears and the innermost sighs of all, as the especial father and master of the entire common people’, which the Old French translator of William’s Chronicon simply rendered as: ‘Then there was very great grief in the whole city.’122 Again, the emphasis is on the mourning of the whole city. In c.1250, this scene was visually represented in the decorated initial, ‘C’, at the start of book 7 in a manuscript of the Old French translation: British Library, London, Yates Thompson MS 12. The artist, perhaps working in England, vividly depicts the Latins sharing in their sorrow.123 Twelve individuals, reminiscent of the apostles (which explains why the outline for a thirteenth mourner in the background was abandoned), stand over the bishop on his deathbed, his arms clutching a crosier and a chalice on his chest. Three ecclesiastics in the foreground perform the funeral rites: one bearing a cross and another an aspersorium (for extreme unction), while the third, central figure—larger and in more lavish garb—holds a book inscribed ‘dominus vobiscum’. Behind these three figures stand nine laymen, one of which (and presumably the others too) has clasped hands. All, lay and ecclesiastic, have their heads tilted and eyes downcast, while one has his hand raised to his face—the typical pictorial representations of grief.124 The illustration’s message—of shared, universal sorrow—matches that in the above-mentioned narrative accounts, but, to my mind, its inclusion was far from coincidental. The imagery could be dismissed as conventional, even within this manuscript: the same features and combination of ecclesiastic and lay observers (though only eleven this time) appear in the portrayal of Godfrey of Bouillon’s funeral (book 10, fol. 51v). Yet Adhémar’s death was not related in the opening lines of book 7 and was not, therefore, the obvious subject matter for the decorated initial. More likely is that the artist sought to convey the bishop’s importance; indeed, Adhémar features prominently in the previous decorated initial (book 6, fol. 29r), bearing the relic of the Holy Lance in the battle of Antioch, and thus emerges as the central actor of this section of the manuscript’s crusades panorama.125 Some chroniclers even suggested that the death of a Latin protagonist aroused mourning not only in their co-religionists, but also in those of different creeds. By far the clearest example of this is William of

Tyre’s lengthy account of the transference of Baldwin III’s body to Jerusalem in 1163: Then, amid the groaning and tears of all, [Baldwin’s body] was carried with the greatest reverence and with royal funeral ceremonies to Jerusalem … There is no record in any Historia, nor does any living man remember displays of such great grief and such deep sorrow in our or any other kingdom for the passing of a particular prince. For, in addition to the mourning and sorrow, without precedent, that was displayed by the citizens of the cities through which the royal funeral train passed, a multitude of infidels descended from the mountains, following the funeral processions before them with wailing. And so, for about eight successive days, [as they moved] from the city of Beirut all the way to Jerusalem, continual weeping was not lacking and lamentation was renewed almost every hour. His enemies are said to have grieved over his death no less; thus, when somebody suggested to Nur al-Din that, while we were paying attention to the funeral ceremonies, he might enter our borders and sack the land, he is said to have answered: ‘We should feel pity for their just grief, and humanely spare them, because they have lost a prince the like of which the rest of the world does not have today.’126 Here too we find the claim that the level of grief was unprecedented; in fact, this was a common trope for communicating an individual’s importance and value.127 Yet William went even further by having the ‘infidels’ participate in the mourning and by having Nur al-Din, the king’s chief adversary, recognize the correctness of the Christians’ sorrow and Baldwin’s unrivalled worth. William made similar remarks elsewhere in his Chronicon—‘their wretched situation’, he wrote on one occasion, ‘might even have roused the tears of the enemy’—and al-Adil’s lament over Richard the Lionheart in Richard of Devizes’ chronicle is of the same ilk.128 Albert of Aachen suggested that ‘many gentiles’— Saracens, Arabs, and Turks—participated in the five days of ‘great lamentation and bitter weeping’ over Godfrey of Bouillon’s death in 1100, and of Baldwin I’s demise in 1118, Fulcher of Chartres remarked: ‘The Franks wept; the Syrians and Saracens who saw it grieved [too].’129 A truly powerful ruler, then, ought to be mourned by all, regardless of faith. A popular method of highlighting Latin successes, either by an individual or a collective force, was to focus on the sorrow that their actions manifested in the Muslim enemy. Norman Housley has already noted that defeated Muslim opponents were frequently cast as lamenting their losses in western crusade chronicles, but there are signs that the inclusion of these highly emotional scenes was, at least sometimes, a deliberate ploy to drive home the crusaders’ accomplishments.130 The positioning of laments at the end of books is more than mere coincidence. In the Gesta Francorum, the Turks ‘grieved exceedingly, and were sorrowful almost to death’, near the end of book 7; and both Robert the Monk and Baldric of Bourgueil ended their histories with extended versions of the Gesta’s account of al-Afdal’s lament at Ascalon in 1099.131 Albert of Aachen closed book 2 of his Historia by drawing attention to Kilij

Arslan’s great grief (nimium luctum) over the loss of Nicaea, and a similar scene, concerning the wailing and groaning (planctus et gemitus) inside Muslim-held Antioch, appears at the end of book 3.132 The latter seems to act as the connective tissue between books 3 and 4, as book 4 opens with Yaghi Siyan, who formerly slept soundly through the fighting, showing the first signs of distress.133 Similarly, book 2 of the Itinerarium peregrinorum ends with a long account of Saladin’s fury and the grief of his troops over the sinking of a Muslim ship in early June 1191—an event which is presented as integral to Acre’s fall on 12 July.134 The inclusion and positioning of such hyperbolic scenes left no doubt as to the magnitude of the Latins’ victories. The representation of Muslim emotional displays as characteristically excessive probably had a similar effect, even if the authors drew upon established topoi. In two of the abovementioned examples the Muslims were said to have expressed their grief through acts of self-violence. Albert of Aachen related that, defeated by the First Crusaders, the perturbed Yaghi Siyan sent Kilij Arslan and other envoys to the ‘king of Khurasan’. Presenting themselves to the king, the envoys: followed the custom of the Turks when they are lamenting misfortune and injuries, and in full view of that same great and all-powerful king and in the presence of his men they took off their hats and threw them to the ground, they savagely plucked out their beards with their nails, they pulled at their hair and tore it out by the roots with their fingers, and they heaved sighs of great lamentations.135 Likewise, Saladin reportedly tore his hair and beard when told of the sinking of the Muslim vessel in June 1191, and Robert of Clari imputed the same gestures of despair to the sultan, who was overcome with grief at the sight of his men being slaughtered at Tyre in late 1187/early 1188.136 Exaggeration was a ‘mode of humour’ in both chronicles and chansons, hence Muslim characters repeatedly faint from grief in the latter, but that should not blind us to the possibility that these bombastic emotional performances served a purpose beyond mere entertainment.137 In addition to emotional transformations from pride to fear (examined in Chapter 2), Latin chroniclers had Muslim protagonists undergo dramatic internal shifts from joy to sorrow. Guibert of Nogent was particularly fond of such imagery: in December 1097, Duqaq of Damascus’ forces moved to intercept a Christian army, led by Bohemond of Taranto and Robert II of Flanders, ‘with an eagerness that will soon be turned into sadness’; and elsewhere the abbot summarized the impact of a Latin triumph on Muslim morale with the comment, ‘that day their lasting joy changed to sorrow’.138 Robert the Monk used the same narrative technique to describe al-Afdal’s downfall in the battle of Ascalon. Despite being based on the Gesta Francorum, Robert developed his account of the engagement by having al-Afdal experience a profound emotional metamorphosis. The Egyptian vizier, Robert tells us, ‘always preferred to be in joy’, and anyone who delivered unwanted news fell permanently out of favour.139 As his troops fought the crusaders on 12 August 1099, however, al-Afdal fled to Ascalon, where ‘he unhappily

watched the unhappy defeat of his men from afar’.140 Robert went on to state that the happiness of the Egyptian rearguard was turned to sadness when they realized that the day was lost, and—in case there was any doubt—the vanquished al-Afdal was made to recognize the Muslims’ emotional reversal, announcing that ‘we have constantly lived in happiness of heart, and are now afflicted with grief’.141

Conclusion In a crusading context, the distinction between ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’ weeping was not always clear-cut: many chroniclers, especially the ecclesiastics, failed to explicitly differentiate between tears which possessed spiritual value and those which did not. This is yet another indication of the degree to which the thought worlds of ecclesiastical commentators were imposed on, and reflected in, their accounts of crusading ventures. For these writers, the secretion of tears was an expression of love, uniting participants in a sort of Christian fraternity on crusade and fulfilling St Paul’s injunction to ‘weep with them that weep’. Accordingly, they were said to have wept bitterly over their dead, although some thirteenth-century writers, convinced that deceased participants received the palm of martyrdom, came to see joy as a more appropriate emotional response than grief. Furthermore, tears intended to beg mercy from other protagonists, which continuously appear in the narratives (and indeed most source types) throughout the crusading epoch, operated along the same lines as, and were sometimes inseparable from, tears shed to procure divine favour. Both functions—as expressions of sorrow for the passing of comrades and as invitations for personal mercy—also appear in lay texts; Villehardouin, for one, expected high-ranking noblemen to petition with tears. But, with a few exceptions (most notably thirteenth-century trouvères’ references to Jerusalem herself requesting aid though weeping and wailing, a motif similarly utilized by papal propagandists), lay authors tended not to dwell on the possible spiritual connotations of these tearful outpourings. What is clear, however, is that, in their many varieties, tears had social value. In this respect, it is crucial to recognize that tearful displays, and other demonstrations of sorrow, were not seen as particularly problematic to the crusaders’ masculine identities. The chroniclers appear to have engaged with the longstanding philosophical and theological traditions which taught that tears, and other outpourings of fluid, were typically female attributes. Women do cry in the texts, indeed they often proclaim their grief through acts of self-violence, but this does not mean that all tears and sorrowful performances were emasculating. The role of departure scenes in encouraging a gendered perception of crusading, one which saw the woman’s place as at home weeping while the man demonstrated his virility on crusade, has been overstated, without acknowledging the fact that men—even departing crusaders—

frequently shed tears in such scenes. In fact, portrayals of male grief could be just as bombastic and violent as those pertaining to women, accompanied by the normal somatic gestures of planctus. When censure does appear, it is usually in relation to leading figures whose sorrow was either excessive or displayed in an inappropriate setting. The quasi-monastic depiction of crusaders in many ecclesiastical texts undoubtedly complicates matters, but even monastic tears, with which the crusaders’ tears bear a striking resemblance, enabled professed religious to express their masculinity and were not automatically effeminizing. There is no reason to believe that the crusaders’ crying was regarded as inherently different; participants could be both ‘manful and tearful’, as Odo of Deuil succinctly put it. The universality of grief was also a feature of accounts of the mass mourning that allegedly transpired when a ruler or high-profile person died, and this adds another layer to our understanding of the texts’ power dynamics. Powerful men, like Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin I, and Baldwin III, warranted the tears of all, even the Muslim enemy, while the positioning and hyperbolic nature of Muslim laments suggest that their purpose extended beyond entertainment: they probably acted as conceptual cues for medieval audiences, leaving no doubt as to the magnitude of Latin victories. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

Gerd Althoff, ‘Empörung, Tränen, Zerknirschung: “Emotionen” in der öffentlichen

Kommunikation des Mittelalters’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien 30 (1996): 60–79; Albrecht Classen, ‘Crying in Public and in Private: Tears and Crying in Medieval German Literature’, in Crying in the Middle Ages, ed. Gertsman, 230–48; Laurent Smagghe, Les émotions du prince: Émotion et discours politique dans l’espace bourguignon (Paris, 2012), 295–407, esp. 378–95. See also the comments on ritualized weeping in Elke Koch, Trauer und Identität: Inszenierungen von Emotionen in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters (Berlin, 2006), 48–68. 2

Gerd Althoff, ‘Demonstration und Inszenierung: Spielregeln der Kommunikation in

mittelalterlicher Öffentlichkeit’, in Gerd Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter: Kommunikation in Frieden und Fehde, 2nd edn (Darmstadt, 2014), 229–57. 3

Dinzelbacher, Warum weint der König?, esp. 65–78; but see the rebuttal in Althoff, ‘Aufgeführte

Gefühle’, 2 n. 1. Reservations over the applicability of modern understandings of ritualized behaviour to the Middle Ages are raised in Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton, NJ, 2001). 4

Gerd Althoff, ‘Tränen und Freude: Was interessiert Mittelalter-Historiker an Emotionen?’,

Frühmittelalterliche Studien 40 (2006): 11; Gerd Althoff, ‘Der könig weint: Rituelle Tränen in öffentlicher Kommunikation’, in ‘Aufführung’ und ‘Schrift’ in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, ed. JanDirk Müller (Stuttgart, 1996), 239–52; Gerd Althoff, Otto III, trans. Phyllis Jestice (Pennsylvania, PA, 2003), 137; Nira Pancer, ‘Entre lapus corporis et performance: Fonctions des gestes somatiques dans

l’expression des émotions dans la littérature altimédiévale’, in La chair des émotions, ed. Damien Boquet and Piroska Nagy, Médiévales 61 (2011): 39–53. 5

Marcus Bull, ‘The Eyewitness Accounts of the First Crusade as Political Scripts’, Reading

Medieval Studies 36 (2010): 33; Bull, ‘Historiographical Construction’, 49–52; Throop, ‘Christian Community’, 95–126; Jonathan Phillips, ‘Ideas of Crusade and Holy War in De Expugnatione Lyxbonensi (The Conquest of Lisbon)’, SCH 36 (2000): 134. 6

DeL, 174, ‘archyepiscopo et episcopis cum clero et omnibus, non sine lacrimis’.

7

GN, 157, ‘singulorum quorumque’.

8

Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 7, ‘in tanta lugendi materia … non luget’, ‘que cum omnibus

dolentibus docet esse dolendum’. 9

HP, 124, ‘Pietatis est flere cum flentibus’.

10

WT, 812, ‘illius verbi egregii predicatoris: gaudere cum gaudentibus, flere cum flentibus’.

11

JV, HOr, 286, ‘Et qui cum gaudentibus gaudere et cum flentibus flere debuerunt, aliis lugentibus soli

letabantur.’ 12

FP, 116–18, ‘unitate … inter Cristianos’, ‘[com]passione mutua’.

13

Colin Morris, ‘The Aims and Spirituality of the First Crusade as Seen through the Eyes of Albert of

Aachen’, Reading Medieval Studies 16 (1990): 108–10; Biddlecombe, ‘Baldric of Bourgueil and the Familia Christi’, 9–23. 14

AA, 474, ‘lacrimis effluentes super fratribus in exilio relictis’; BB, 8, ‘condoleamus et compatiamur

fratribus nostris, saltem in lacrimis’. 15

BB, 10, ‘alii suffundebantur lacrimis ora’.

16

OV, v. 14, ‘multos auditorium ex affectu nimio piaque fratrum compassione secum flere coegit’.

17

RC, 657, ‘ipse qui modo flebat cum flentibus, jam cum gaudentibus gaudet’.

18

FC, 180, 187, 423; De itinere Frisonum, 69. On the Rhenish-Frisian contingent in Portugal, see

Gesta crucigerorum Rhenanorum, in QBSSM, 29–56; Powell, Anatomy of a Crusade, 123–36. 19

Villehardouin, ii. 180, ‘mainte lerme plorer et mainte palme batre de duel et de pitié’; Joinville, 210,

214. 20

GP, 86, 102, 104, 116.

21

Ansbert, 90, ‘Quis enim tam saxei cordis esset tamque inurbane cervicis qui non ad lacrimas totus

flecteretur, quando episcopos, milites electissimos, propter longas egritudinum molestias videret in grabbatis equorum deferri … et suimet mortem per miserabilem ruinam minaretur.’ 22

IP, 401, ‘nimia pietate flecteretur in lacrymas’.

23

Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo de eodem anniversario, ed. Cole, Preaching, Appendix D, 243; Louis

IX, Epistola sancti Ludovici regis de captione et liberatione sua, ed. André Duchesne, Historiae Francorum scriptores, 5 vols (Paris, 1636–49), v. 429. On Eudes’ sermon, see Penny Cole, David

d’Avray, and Jonathan Riley-Smith, ‘Application of Theology to Current Affairs: Memorial Sermons on the Dead of Mansurah and on Innocent IV’, Historical Research 63 (1990): 227–47. 24

Daspol, Fortz tristors es e salvaj’a retraire, ed. and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 5–7.

25

On ‘cooperative bonds’, see Gerd Althoff, Family, Friends, and Followers: Political and Social

Bonds in Early Medieval Europe, trans. Christopher Carroll (Cambridge, 2004), 65–90. 26

John Boswell, Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe

from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century (Chicago, IL, 1980), 188–91, 222–6, 231. 27

William Reddy, The Making of Romantic Love: Longing and Sexuality in Europe, South Asia, and

Japan, 900–1200 CE (Chicago, IL, 2012), 6–9, 41–220; Peter Dronke, Medieval Latin and the Rise of the European Love-Lyric (Oxford, 1968), esp. 32–8; Bouchard, Strong of Body, 129–41. 28

C. Stephen Jaeger, Ennobling Love: In Search of a Lost Sensibility (Philadelphia, PA, 1999), 11–26;

Marianne Ailes, ‘The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality’, in Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. Dawn Hadley (London, 1999), 214–37; Rebecca Slitt, ‘Acting out Friendship: Signs and Gestures of Aristocratic Male Friendship in the Twelfth Century’, HSJ 21 (2010): 147–64. 29

OD, 96, 100, ‘ad fletum viscera omnium commovisset’. Compare with WT, 748.

30

Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, 174; AA, 496–8.

31

Les Chétifs, 29; CCCJ, 90–1.

32

Villehardouin, i. 44.

33

Villehardouin, i. 28, ‘s’agenoillent a lor piez mult plorant’, ‘grant pitié’.

34

Villehardouin, i. 68, ‘grant pitié’.

35

Villehardouin, i. 118–20.

36

Villehardouin, i. 120, ‘si orent mult grant pitié et plorerent mult durement, quant il virent lor

seignors et lor parenz et lor amis chaoir a lor piez’. 37

Villehardouin, ii. 184–6, ‘bones genz’, ‘lor prioient o plaintes et o plors que il aüssent merci et pitié

de la crestienté’. 38

Villehardouin’s use of weeping rhetoric to dramatize events was noted by Archambault, Seven

French Chroniclers, 33–4. 39

On preudomme, see Joinville, 278; Crouch, Birth of Nobility, 30–7.

40

Joinville, 230, 320.

41

RA, 99; Narratio Floriacensis de captis Antiochia et Hierosolyma et obsesso Dyrrachio, 356,

‘orantes lachrymosis questibus, ut eis subveniretur’. 42

AA, 474; DeL, 108–10; Hodgson, ‘Honour’, 234; IP, 326.

43

Ambroise, i. 85 (ii. 105); IP, 237; Howden, Chronica, iii. 124, ‘cum lacrymis petierunt, ne ipse a

servitio Dei ita impudenter recessisset’.

44

Howden, Gesta, ii. 182, ‘cum steterunt coram rege et salutassent ex parte regis Franciae,

proruperunt in fletum ita quod unum solum verbum proferre non potuerunt. Quibus flentibus caeteri provocabantur in fletum propter motum animi quem viderant in eis. Cumque perstarent in fletum rex Angliae conversus ad eos dixit, “Nolite flere, scio quod petituri estis. Dominus quidem vester, rex Franciae, desiderat repatriare; et venistis ex parte ejus ut habeat inde consilium a me.”’ 45

Rigord, 306, ‘cum fletu et lacrimis’.

46

For example, WN, 272.

47

Historia Compostellana, ed. Emma Falque Rey (Turnhout, 1988), 271, ‘Clarissime archiepiscope,

uestris prostrati genibus, effusis lacrimis, heu quantis!, uos efflagitamus, nobis subuenite. O gloriosissime athleta Dei, moueant uos preces nostre, moueat uos lamentabilis clamor monachorum, canonicorum, moueant uos lacrime uiduarum et orfanorum, audite gemitus compeditorum, perueniat ad uos intolerabilis planctus pauperum per plateas Iherusalem iacentium.’ 48

Nicholas Jaspert, ‘Zwei unbekannte Hilfsersuchen des Patriarchen Eraclius vor dem Fall Jerusalems

(1187)’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004): 512, 515, ‘lacrimosa fidelium suspiria’. 49

Benjamin Kedar, ‘Ein Hilferuf aus Jerusalem vom September 1187’, Deutsches Archiv für

Erforschung des Mittelalters 35 (1982): 121; E continuatione chronici Hugonis a Sancto Victore, in MGH SS, xxi. 476. 50

Diceto, 61, ‘Deo et vobis conqueri cum lacrimis non desisto’; Howden, Chronica, ii. 341–2,

‘quantum … lugentes, et rea pectora nostra percutientes’. 51

Lamentum lacrymabile super his qui in expeditione Jerosolimitana diversis mortibus, in PL, clv,

col. 1095; Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps, 138. 52

Innocent III, Post miserabile, 499.

53

Innocent IV, Terra Sancta, 148–9, ‘nunc luget amarius, & interni doloris acumen altioris voce

lamentationis exponit’, ‘acribus ejus compuncti lacrimis’. In another letter, Innocent wrote that the Mother Church, calling upon her neighbours, ‘hurls out grief, constantly weeps, and between sobs and sighs barely draws breath’: Innocent IV, Planxit hactenus, 737, ‘emittit luctus, multiplicat fletus, et inter singultus et suspiria vix respirans’. 54

Innocent IV, Clamat instanter, in Annales monasterii de Burtonensis, ed. Henry Luard, Annales

monastici, RS 36, 5 vols (London, 1864–9), i. 293, ‘Et ubi non sentiuntur ipsius suspiria et singultus? Ubi ululatus et gemitus ejus non audiuntur? Innotuit siquidem omnibus dolor suus, et totius orbis auditum protulit validus clamor ejus. Quis ergo fidelis ad vocem illius tam tristem et flebilem plangere non potest, qui amet? Quis inquam non potest compati ejus passionibus tam acerbis? Cujus animum ad subveniendum non commovet tantarum illius effusio lacrymarum?’ 55

Huon de Saint-Quentin, Jerusalem se plaint et le païs, ll. 1–4, ‘Jerusalem se plaint et li païs / u

Dameldiex souffri mort bonement, / que deça mer a poi de ses amis / ki de secors li facent mais nïent.’

56

Maistres Renas, Pour lou pueple resconforteir, ll. 9–10, ‘Jerusalem plaint et ploure / le secors ke

trop demoure’; Ore est acumplie / par [le] myen escïent, ed. Luca Barbieri and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, l. 7, ‘plurant amerement’. 57

Brenda Gardenour, ‘Gender in Medicine and Natural History’, in Medieval Science, Technology,

and Medicine: An Encyclopaedia, ed. Thomas Glick, Steven Livesey, and Faith Wallis (London, 2005), 182–4; Lisa Perfetti, ‘Introduction’, in The Representation of Women’s Emotions in Medieval and Early Modern Culture, ed. Lisa Perfetti (Gainesville, FL, 2005), 4–5; Joan Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture (New York, 1993), 170–7, 183–8. However, see also Naama Cohen-Hanegbi, ‘The Emotional Body of Women: Medical Practice between the 13th and 15th Centuries’, in Le sujet de l’émotion au Moyen Âge, ed. Boquet and Nagy, 465–82. 58

Nagy, Larmes, 257–67; Vibeke Olson, ‘“Woman, Why Weepest Thou?” Mary Magdalene, the

Virgin Mary and the Transformative Power of Holy Tears in Late Medieval Devotional Painting’, in Mary Magdalene: Iconographic Studies from the Middle Ages to the Baroque, ed. Michelle Erhardt and Amy Morris (Leiden, 2012), 361–82, esp. 367; Diane Apostolos-Cappadona, ‘“Pray with Tears and Your Request Will Find a Hearing”: On the Iconology of the Magdalene’s Tears’, in Holy Tears, ed. Patton and Hawley, 201–28. 59

Innocent III, Legimus in Daniele, in DRI, vii. 269, ‘Quocirca mulierem illam appellant, que non

intellectu virili sed sensu femineo meditatur.’ 60

Lambert, ‘Crusading or Spinning?’, 7–8. See also Christoph Maier, ‘The Role of Women in the

Crusade Movement: A Survey’, JMH 30 (2004): 77–8; Hodgson, Women, Crusading and the Holy Land, 113–14. 61

WT, 140, ‘mater filium, parentem filia, soror fratrem, uxor maritum, in ulnis deportantes parvulos et

sugentes ubera, cum lacrimis et eiulatu comitabantur abeuntes et dicto vale quos gressu non poterant, defixis prosequebantur obtutibus’. 62

FC, 163.

63

For a similar example, see Ambroise, i. 6 (ii. 34–5).

64

OD, 18, ‘quae inter lacrimas et calorem paene spiritum exhalabant’.

65

OD, 18.

66

Joinville, 54, ‘elle mena aussi grand deul comme se elle le veist mort’. See also MP, iv. 397.

67

Marcabru, A la fontana del vergier, ed. and trans. Simon Gaunt, Ruth Harvey, and Linda Paterson,

Marcabru: A Critical Edition (Cambridge, 2000), 42–3, ‘Dels huelhs ploret josta la fon / e del cor sospiret preon. / “Jhesus”, dis elha, “reys del mon, / per vos mi creys ma gran dolors, /…/ Ab vos s’en vai lo mieus amicx, / lo belhs e·l gens e·l pros e·l ricx; / sai m’en reman lo grans destrix, / lo deziriers soven e·ls plors. / Ay! mala fos reys Lozoïcx, / que fai los mans e los prezicx / per que·l dols m’es el cor intratz!”’ See also Elizabeth Siberry, ‘Troubadours, Trouvères, Minnesingers and the Crusades’, Studi Medievali 3rd ser. 29 (1988): 23–4; Lisa Perfetti, ‘Crusader as Lover: The Eroticized Poetics of

Crusading in Medieval France’, Speculum 88 (2013): 941–2. 68

Jherusalem, grant damage me fais, ed. Anna Radaelii and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 5–7, 10–

11. 69

William Jackson, ‘Poet, Woman, and Crusade in Songs of Marcabru, Guiot de Dijon, and Albrecht

von Johansdorf’, Mediaevalia 22 (1999): 273–6. 70

Trotter, Medieval French Literature, 183; William Jackson, Ardent Complaints and Equivocal

Piety: The Portrayal of the Crusader in Medieval German Poetry (Lanham, MD, 2003), 79–91; Perfetti, ‘Crusader as Lover’, 944. 71

RC, 685, ‘viros ad arma, nurus ad lacrymas’; GP, 84, ‘mulieres collacrimabant’.

72

GP, 126–8; RM, 50–1. The two accounts are textually related. Gilo’s version was perhaps modelled

on Ovid’s Heroides: Christopher Grocock, ‘Ovid the Crusader’, in Ovid Renewed, ed. Charles Martindale (Cambridge, 1988), 65–8. 73

RM, 50, ‘se in terram volutabat, genas unguibus secans, aureos crines disrumpebat’.

74

WT, 710–11.

75

Aird, ‘Tears of Bishop Gundulf’, 63, 71, 76; Santha Bhattacharji, ‘Tears and Screaming: Weeping in

the Spirituality of Margery Kempe’, in Holy Tears, ed. Patton and Hawley, 229–41; Ellen Ross, ‘“She Wept and Cried Right Loud for Sorrow and for Pain”: Suffering, the Spiritual Journey, and Women’s Experience in Late Medieval Mysticism’, in Maps of Flesh and Light: The Religious Experience of Medieval Women Mystics, ed. Ulrike Wiethaus (Syracuse, NY, 1993), 45–59; Niklaus Largier, ‘Inner Sense—Outer Senses: The Practice of Emotions in Medieval Mysticism’, in Codierungen von Emotionen im Mitteralter, ed. C. Stephen Jaeger and Ingrid Kasten (Berlin, 2003), 3–14; Thomas Dixon, Weeping Britannia: Portrait of a Nation in Tears (Oxford, 2015), 15–26; Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, 193–210. 76

Harvey, ‘Episcopal Emotions’, 598–604.

77

AA, 864–6.

78

WM, 658–60.

79

Joinville, 298–300, ‘grant deul en mena que de II jours en ne pot onques parler a li’.

80

Joinville, 300, ‘je me merveille que vous, qui estes un sage home, avez mené si grant deul. Car vous

savez que le Sage dit que mesaise que l’omme ait ou cuer ne li doit paroir ou visage; car cil qui le fet en fet liez ses ennemis et en mesaise ses amis’. This passage is also discussed in William Chester Jordan, ‘The Case of Saint Louis’, Viator 19 (1988): 210–12; Gowaart Van Den Bossche, ‘Narrative Construction, Ideal Rule, and Emotional Discourse in the Biographies of Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn and Louis IX by Bahā’ al-Dīn b. Shaddād and Jean Sire de Joinville’, Al-Masāq 30 (2018): 133–47. 81

Joinville, 300, ‘menoit moult grant deul’, ‘ce n’estoit pas pour li que elle ploroit, mes pour la

mesaise que le roy avoit du deul que il menoit’.

82

AA, 770, ‘uehementi dolore cum fletu et eiulatu magno planxerunt diebus multis’.

83

OV, vi. 300–1; Aird, ‘Tears of Bishop Gundulf’, 69–70.

84

Wace, Le Roman de Rou, ed. Anthony Holden, 3 vols (Paris, 1970–3), ii. 314–15, ‘Femes deivent

plaindre a plorer, / fems se deivent dementer, / mais vos vos devez conforter / e toz nos devez assenser’; Wace, The History of the Norman People: Wace’s Roman de Rou, trans. Glyn Burgess (Woodbridge, 2004), 207. 85

MP, v. 69, ‘coepit inconsolabiliter dolere et uberrime atque amarissime lacrimari’, ‘erat miserabile

videre in homine tantae auctoritatis et aetatis’. 86

Leslie Callahan, ‘The Widow’s Tears: The Pedagogy of Grief in Medieval France and the Image of

the Grieving Widow’, in Constructions of Widowhood and Virginity in the Middle Ages, ed. Cindy Carlson and Angela Weisl (New York, 1999), 254. See also Jennifer Vaught, ed., Grief and Gender: 700– 1700 (New York, 2003); Jennifer Vaught, ‘Men Who Weep and Wail: Masculinity and Emotion in Sidney’s New Arcadia’, Literature Compass 2 (2005): 1–16. 87

Ruth Karras, From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe (Philadelphia,

PA, 2003), 65. 88

OD, 18; Clari, 8.

89

WT, 140, ‘cum singultibus et suspiriis’.

90

IP, 147, ‘pias lacrymas commiscentibus iis qui progrediebantur cum suis familiaribus, cognatis vel

amicis’; Villehardouin, i. 50. 91

Conon of Béthune, Ahi! Amors, com dure departie, ed. Luca Barbieri and trans. Linda Paterson,

LRC, ll. 9, 49–50, ‘Lais! je m’en voix plorant des eulz del front / lai ou Deus veult amendeir mon coraige.’ 92

Châtelain de Coucy, A vous amant, plus k’a nul’autre gent, ed. Luca Barbieri and trans. Linda

Paterson, LRC, l. 2, ‘est bien raisons ke ma dolor complaigne’; Chardon de Croisilles, Li departirs de la douce contree, ed. Luca Barbieri and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, l. 13. 93

Thibaut of Champagne, Dame, ensi est qu’il m’en couvient aler, 232.

94

Lambert, ‘Crusading or Spinning’, 8.

95

AA, 660, 766.

96

GF, 64–5; GN, 230–1; RM, 65–6; BB, 76; OV, v. 106–8. See the analysis of similar scenes in

Classen, ‘Crying in Public and in Private’, 230–48. 97

GF, 64, ‘plorantem et ferientem se manibus suosque frangentem digitos’.

98

On this tradition, see Caroline Cohen, ‘Les éléments constitutifs de quelques planctus des Xe et XIe

siècles’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 1 (1958): 83–6; S. C. Aston, ‘The Provençal Planh: I. The Lament for a Prince’, in Mélanges de philologie romane dédiées à la mémoire de Jean Boutière, ed. Irénée Cluzel and François Pirot, 2 vols (Liège, 1971), i. 23–30; Ernesto de Martino, Morte e pianto

rituale: Dal lamento funebre antico al pianto di Maria (Turin, 1975), 108–15; Patricia Stäblein, ‘New Views on an Old Problem: The Dynamics of Death in the “Planh”’, Romance Philology 35 (1981): 223– 34. 99

CA, 350–2; Antioche, 268–9; Hatem Akkari, ‘“Moult grant duel demener” ou le rituel de la mort’,

in Le geste et les gestes au Moyen Âge, ed. Margaret Bertrand and Christian Hory (Aix-en-Provence, 1998), 11–24; Paul Zumthor, ‘Étude typologique des planctus contenus dans la Chanson de Roland’, in La technique littéraire des chansons de geste: Actes du colloque de Liège (septembre 1957), ed. Maurice Delbouille (Paris, 1959), 219–35. 100

Les Chétifs, 66–7; CCCJ, 122.

101

The Song of Roland, ii. 176–8; La Chanson de Guillaume, 57.

102

GN, 168–9; Joinville, 306.

103

AA, 310, 528, 716; WT, 787; OD, 98.

104

Joinville, 372; PLVC, ii. 314–15, ‘Quis, inquam, istud sine dolore scribere poterit? Quis sine

lacrimis recitare? Quis sine singultibus audire?’ 105

Ansbert, 92.

106

Ansbert, 92, ‘Planctus itaque inmoderatus dolor non inmerito in tanti principis interitu.’

107

Magnus of Reichersberg, Chronicon, in MGH SS, xvii. 516, ‘omnibus peregrinis qui eum

sequebantur, inconsolabiliter lugentibus et flentibus’. 108

Otto of St Blasien, Chronica, 52, ‘Cuis morte totus Christianorum exercitus irremediabiliter

sauciatus planctu intolerabili … luxit.’ 109

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 175, ‘Fit igitur meror omnium una voce plangentium …

Huiuscemodi ploratu et ululatu populus tabescebat.’ 110

La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 97, ‘si grant et puissant seignor’.

111

IP, 56.

112

IP, 56, ‘Rumor ad aures exercitus, lamentabili fragore perlatus, omnes concutit. Quod si veterum

annales inquirimus, quid historiae tradant, quid fabulae confingant, de luctu matrum, nuptarum gemitu, quorumcunque planctus, dolor iste Exemploque carens, et nulli cognitus aevo, cunctorum lacrymas et lamenta transcendit.’ The quotation is from Lucan, De bello civili, 516. 113

Tyerman, God’s War, 417–30; Asbridge, Crusades, 420–2; John Freed, Frederick Barbarossa: The

Prince and the Myth (New Haven, CT, 2016), 483–513. 114

MP, v. 153.

115

John Hill and Laurita Hill, ‘Contemporary Accounts and the Later Reputation of Adhémar, Bishop

of Le Puy’, Mediaevalia et Humanistica 9 (1955): 30–8; James Brundage, ‘Adhémar of Le Puy: The Bishop and His Critics’, Speculum 34 (1959): 201–12; Conor Kostick, ‘The Afterlife of Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy’, SCH 45 (2009): 120–9; Robert Somerville, ‘Adhemar of Le Puy, Papal Legate on the First

Crusade’, in Law as Profession and Practice in Medieval Europe: Essays in Honour of James A. Brundage, ed. Kenneth Pennington and Melodie Eichbauer (Farnham, 2011), 371–85; Matthew Mesley, ‘Episcopal Authority and Gender in the Narratives of the First Crusade’, in Religious Men and Masculine Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. P. H. Cullum and Katherine Lewis (Woodbridge, 2013), 94–111. 116

RA, 84, ‘Tantusque luctus omnium christianorum … fuit’.

117

GF, 74, ‘magna angustia et tribulatio immensusque dolor’.

118

GN, 246, ‘Oboritur ilico in Christi universo exercitu acerbissimi doloris tristiciaeque nimietas et

dum frequentes misericordissimi hominis beneficientias cuiuslibet ordinis, sexus et etatis quisque recenset, inconsolabiliter, dum nulla prestolatur remedia, meret. Tanta ad eius funus tamque precordialis ipsorum principum conclamatio fuit, acsi generalis interitus denuntiaretur illis.’ 119

GN, 262.

120

RM, 81, ‘omnes iure debito lacrimabantur’.

121

AA, 342, ‘Quem nimia lamentatione nobiles et ignobiles deflentes’.

122

WT, 344, ‘cum gemitu et lacrimis et intimis omnium suspiriis, tanquam pater et precipuus plebis

universe moderator’; L’estoire de Eracles empereur et la conqueste de la terre d’Outremer, ed. Paulin Paris, Guillaume de Tyr et ses continuateurs, 2 vols (Paris, 1879–80), i. 227, ‘Lors ot trop grand duel en toute la ville.’ 123

British Library, London, Yates Thompson MS 12, fol. 34v. The manuscript’s entire crusades

panorama, including this illustration, can be viewed online via the British Library’s Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts: www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/welcome.htm. For its dating and connection to England, see Jaroslav Folda, ‘The Panorama of the Crusades, 1096 to 1218, as Seen in Yates Thompson MS. 12 in the British Library’, in The Study of Medieval Manuscripts of England: Festschrift in Honor of Richard W. Pfaff, ed. George Brown and Linda Voigts (Turnhout, 2010), 253–80. 124

Moshe Barasch, Gestures of Despair in Medieval and Early Renaissance Art (New York, 1976);

Maddern, ‘Reading Faces’, 21–4. 125

On the artist’s tendency to focus on ‘major historical figures’, see Folda, ‘Panorama of the

Crusades’, 258; and for Adhémar’s association with the Lance, see Asbridge, ‘Holy Lance of Antioch’, 22–5. 126

WT, 860–1, ‘Inde Ierosolimam cum summa reverentia et regalibus exequiis, cum universorum

gemitu et lacrimis deportatus … Tantam autem mesticiam et tot intimi doloris argumenta in nostro vel in alio regno pro defectu alicuius principis extitisse nulla tradit Historia, nulla presentium hominum tenet memoria. Nam exceptis civibus, in quorum urbes funus introducebatur regium, quorum luctus et dolor sine exemplo videbatur, descendebat de montibus infidelium multitudo, cum eiulatu prosequens precedentes exequias, sicque a Beritensi urbe usque Ierosolimam quasi diebus octo continuis non defuit lamentum iuge et luctus horis pene singulis renovatus. Dicuntur nichilominus et hostes de eius morte doluisse, ita ut quibusdam suggerentibus Noradino quod fines nostros ingrediens interim, dum exequiis

operam daremus, terram depopularetur, dicatur respondisse: “Compatiendum est et humane indulgendum iusto eorum dolori, eo quod principem amiserint qualem reliquus hodie non habet orbis.”’ 127

See, for example, Villehardouin’s account of the grief displayed over the death of his lord, Thibaut

III of Champagne: Villehardouin, i. 38. 128

WT, 396, ‘etiam hostium eorum misera conditio posset lacrimas excitare’; Devizes, 75–9.

129

AA, 514–16, ‘maxima lamenta et nimius ploratus’; FC, 613, ‘Plorant Franci, lugent Syri et qui hoc

videbant Saraceni.’ 130

Housley, Fighting for the Cross, 223.

131

GF, 42, ‘doluerunt nimis, fueruntque tristes usque ad necem’; RM, 106–8; BB, 118–19.

132

AA, 136, 246.

133

AA, 248.

134

IP, 209.

135

AA, 250, ‘sicut mos est Turcorum de infortunio et iniuriis conquerentium in conspectu eiusdem

magni ac potentissimi regis et presentia suorum pilleos a capite humi iacientes barbas ungulis seuissime discerpunt, crines digitis distrahunt et euellunt, et in magnis lamentationibus suspiria trahunt’. 136

IP, 209; Clari, 39.

137

Norman Daniel, Heroes and Saracens: An Interpretation of the Chansons de Geste (Edinburgh,

1984), 96–100; Les Chétifs, 3, 5; CJ, 142; CCCJ, 67, 69, 263. 138

GN, 174, 193, ‘cum alacritate, in tristiciam mox vertenda’, ‘dies ista diuturnum illorum gaudium

merore mutavit’. 139

RM, 104, ‘in gaudio semper esse volebat’.

140

RM, 105, ‘miser miserrimam suorum cladem a longe prospexit’.

141

RM, 106, 107, ‘in letitia cordis assidue versari, et nunc merore afficimur’.

Part III Anger and Its Management

5 Zealous Wrath for the Holy Land By the turn of the twelfth century, anger was perceived in at least two ways: on the one hand, as a dangerous vice; and, on the other, as a righteous sentiment. Traditionally, Christianity dismissed ira as a deadly sin, a view evidenced by Alcuin of York (c.730–804) in his treatise De virtutibus et vitiis liber ad Widonem comitem: ‘Anger is one of the eight principal vices. If it is not controlled by reason, it is turned into raging fury, such that a man has no power over his own soul and does unseemly things.’1 In philosophical and theological works, anger’s association with a lack of control and its opposition to reason endured throughout the Middle Ages.2 For the eleventh-century reformer Peter Damian, anger made man insane and therefore needed to be restrained.3 Such views were largely inherited from the Stoic tradition—epitomized by Seneca’s De ira—which established anger as an irrational disturbance to be eschewed and, in turn, informed important Christian thinkers, including Prudentius and Isidore of Seville.4 Anger was thus a vice to be either eliminated or controlled.5 On this point, classical authorities and biblical testimony aligned, with Matthew 5.21–2 warning: ‘Thou shalt not kill. And whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment. But I say to you, that whosoever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the judgment. And whosoever shall say to his brother, “Raca”, shall be in danger of the council.’ As Marc Cels has noted, this passage—the locus classicus for Christian teachings on anger —‘provides a triple gradation of anger from feelings, to utterances, to harmful acts’.6 Drawing upon Romans 12.19, thirteenth-century mendicant preachers likewise encouraged their audiences to reject the vice of anger, and instead to rely on God’s wrath and emulate his forbearance.7 During the early Middle Ages, however, models of beneficial wrath were emerging, whereby anger directed internally at one’s own sins, but not externally against others, became theologically approved.8 Initially, Christian theologians begrudgingly started to differentiate between types of anger, albeit tending to delineate shades of its soteriological dangers. In his Moralia in Job, Gregory the Great warned to ‘take great care lest this same anger, which is taken up as an instrument of virtue, rules over the mind’.9 Nevertheless, even Gregory distinguished between ira per vitium (anger through vice) and ira per zelum (anger through zeal), with the latter deemed the lesser of two evils.10 Anger’s usefulness in combating internal sin was more firmly established by the twelfth century; thus, Hugh of Saint Victor wrote that

‘anger is good when through it you refuse to do evil; truly it is bad when through it you refuse to suffer evil’.11 This rehabilitation process culminated in the development of a virtuous species of anger, ira per zelum (anger through zeal), which could not only be legitimately harnessed internally to rectify one’s own faults, but also externally to redress evildoers.12 In fact, Augustine of Hippo came close to this idea in the fifth century. Despite judging anger to be a destructive passion which, being inextricably tied to revenge, corroded religious communities, Augustine countered the Stoic position that all perturbations were innately sinful by pointing to anger’s usefulness in the correction of wrongdoers.13 While the concept of righteous, zealous wrath against sinners was undoubtedly circulating in the twelfth century, it was most pointedly expressed in Thomas of Chobham’s Summa confessorum, completed in the early thirteenth century: ‘Anger through zeal is when we are angry against vice and against the vicious, and we can desire that this anger increases, because it is a virtue.’14 Thus, some theologians believed that ira per zelum possessed a social value, and this view was echoed by the great thirteenth-century theologian Thomas Aquinas. Synthesizing the views of earlier writers, most notably Gregory the Great and Augustine, Aquinas maintained that ira per zelum could lawfully motivate acts of vengeance, providing it was governed by reason: Whence, if one strives for vengeance to be done in accordance with the order of reason, the desire of anger is praiseworthy, and is called anger through zeal. However, if one strives for vengeance to be done in whatever manner contrary to the order of reason—thus, if he seeks to punish one who has not deserved it, or beyond that deserved …—the desire of anger will be sinful, and is called anger through vice.15 The formulation of such ideas can be explained, in part, by the need to account for the righteous wrath of God, Christ, and the Old Testament kings; indeed, biblical verses such as Psalm 4.5, ‘Be angry, and sin not’, were frequently taken up by Christian commentators on anger.16 The Aristotelian discourse probably also encouraged positive approaches to anger, for the rediscovery of Aristotle in the twelfth century directly influenced Aquinas’ taxonomy of emotions and typology of anger.17 Unlike the Stoics, Aristotle maintained that wrath was appropriate under certain conditions: ‘the man who is angry at the right things and with the right people, and, further, as he ought, when he ought, and as long as he ought, is praised’.18 Significantly, this conception of ira bona, or ‘good anger’, extended beyond the realms of philosophy and theology, for a string of studies has highlighted its presence in twelfth-century historical narratives, primarily in descriptions of royal and aristocratic anger. Ira regis (the ‘anger of the king’) was closely connected to the righteous wrath of God and operated as an official weapon for bringing dissenters under royal authority.19 A monarch’s anger might publicly signal his determination to go to war or the alteration of a social relationship, but it was often unpredictable.20 Consequently, not all

ecclesiastical writers approved of ira regis: in his twelfth-century political treatise, Policraticus, John of Salisbury maintained that ‘a prince most rightly punishes transgressors, not in accordance with some stirring of irascibility, but by the mild arbitration of the law’.21 Richard Barton and Kate McGrath have shown that lordly anger operated along similar lines: angry displays regularly facilitated the restructuring of social and political relationships between aristocrats.22 Iniuria was an essential principle in determining the righteousness of a protagonist’s wrath, with Stephen White and others having identified a widely attested emotional script in twelfth-century historical narratives, whereby the receipt of injuries elicited feelings of shame and anger in noblemen, which in turn motivated acts of vengeance.23 An important consequence of these studies has been the identification of a semantic distinction in the Latin terminology of anger, between ira (righteous wrath) and furor (insensate fury).24 The principal anger words analysed in this chapter and the next are the Latin terms ira, iracundia, indignatio, zelus, furor, rabies, and the Old French terms ire, coroz, rage (and their derivatives).25 However, anger cannot be analysed as an isolated emotion, for it often blended and intersected with other passions, especially sorrow, shame, envy, hatred, and the desire for vengeance.26 The scant attention anger has received in a crusading context has focused almost exclusively on positive manifestations of that emotion. In her 2011 study, Susanna Throop persuasively argued that the idea of crusading as an act of vengeance became increasingly prominent during the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries.27 As we have seen, zelus was linked to the concept of virtuous wrath at sin and sinners (ira per zelum), and thus had connotations of righteous anger.28 Throop demonstrated that this complex term—‘a composite of passionate love, jealous protectiveness, and angry hostility’, which lacks a precise equivalent in modern English—was tied to the concept of crusading as vengeance and featured in a broad array of sources relating to the crusades.29 Drawing upon Throop’s work, Miikka Tamminen has posited that zelus enabled thirteenth-century crusade preachers to bypass the contradictions inherent in seeking to arouse feelings of anger and love in crucesignati, ‘since both of these emotions could be justly expressed by the “true” crusaders in their zeal for God’.30 Some scholars have gone further, establishing a direct connection between the advent of crusading and the formulation of positive approaches to anger. For example, in 2012, Marcel Elias remarked: It is no coincidence that an acceptable version of royal and aristocratic anger, although conditioned by certain criteria, appeared during the twelfth century within ecclesiastical and biographical chronicles, a period in which the Church was seeking theological justifications for the Crusades, for violence and the use of force in the service of Christ.31 A similar view was espoused by Sophia Menache, for whom anger was a defining emotion of crusading. Commenting on the First Crusade, she stated that ‘hatred, aversion, despair, fear, and, above all, anger, were integral to the Christian enterprise’.32 In fact, she went further still, insisting that ‘anger

and hatred joined to leave their mark on the Christian approach to Muslims and Islam throughout the whole crusader period’.33 This sense of longevity can also be detected in Paul Hyams’ remark that, as late as Henry III of England’s reign (1216–72), churchmen who were sympathetic to the ira regis concept ‘expected their kings to unleash their anger on crusade’, while McGrath has asserted that: ‘The rhetoric of anger and vengeance lies at the heart of every medieval Crusade chronicle.’34 The following two chapters have a dual aim: to assess whether crusading did indeed provide a setting in which it was legitimate, or perhaps even praiseworthy, for participants to direct their wrath against the enemies of Christendom; and thus to determine whether the formation of the ‘crusade idea’ spawned a particularly novel or distinctive set of approaches to anger. While dysfunctional forms of anger and the emphasis chroniclers placed on restraining disruptive outbreaks of that emotion are addressed in Chapter 6, this chapter focuses on legitimate expressions of wrath. It firstly seeks to build upon Throop’s work by establishing whether the interlocking ideas of zelus and crusading as an act of vengeance continued to find favour after 1216. The second section considers material relating to crusade preaching, whereas the third discusses the frequency and nature of ‘anger incidents’ in the narrative texts. The chapter ends with a comparative case study, unpicking descriptions of royal wrath on the Third Crusade to ascertain their distinctiveness or normativity. It will be argued that the imbalance in current historiography, which has principally centred on zealous wrath against unbelievers, is misleading—that the importance of crusading in providing a context for the legitimate outpouring of anger against non-Latins has been overstated. While zelus and the idea of crusading as vengeance continued to intersect and to be espoused after 1216, it will be demonstrated that zelus proves to be an ambiguous term, and one which was relatively poorly attested in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade narratives. Moreover, when the semantic field is broadened to encompass anger words other than zelus, such as ira, indignatio, and furor, it becomes clear that anger was not an integral component of crusading ideology: anger terms rarely marked sources pertaining to the preaching of the crusades; and it was only in the late twelfth century that such terms truly gained currency in crusade histories. Beyond this, a close reading of the portrayal of anger suggests that contemporary western chroniclers did not necessarily consider it automatically permissible for crusaders to direct their anger against Muslim adversaries, despite the latter’s status as the enemies of God. On this basis, it will be suggested that the idea of crusading appears to have done little to popularize, extend, or modify pre-existing attitudes towards anger in western Europe.

Zelus and Crusading as an Act of Vengeance

Given the centrality of zelus to medieval conceptions of righteous wrath and its ties to the theme of crusading as vengeance, it is necessary to determine whether these interrelated ideas persisted beyond 1216, the terminus date of Throop’s study. In his survey of thirteenth-century model sermons for preaching the cross, Tamminen concluded that while zelus continued to figure prominently, preachers were ‘cautious in the matter of vengeance. There are only a few, incidental, direct references to the theme of revenge in the thirteenth-century crusade sermons.’35 A broader survey of thirteenth-century material reveals a rather different picture; in fact, the idea of crusading as vengeance continued to flourish from 1216 to 1291 and was promoted to an unprecedented degree by crusade propagandists like Humbert of Romans. The rhetoric of ‘zeal’ and vengeance pervaded Humbert of Romans’ works, including his thirteenthcentury preaching manual, De predicatione sancte crucis. According to Humbert, while the Lord could exact revenge on the Saracens, he was giving the faithful an opportunity to gain heavenly rewards; indeed, the sign of the cross indicated that its wearer, out of love for God, had determined to avenge Christ’s injuries.36 If secular men worried about avenging friends killed by co-religionists, Humbert queried in another treatise, ‘why do they not attend to vengeance for the effusion of blood by the Saracens?’37 It is worth noting that, although Humbert certainly promoted crusading as an act of vengeance, he was nevertheless aware of the tradition which rejected vengeance as a disreputable act; in the Opusculum tripartitum, Humbert followed Augustine in advocating that actions should not be performed ‘with a heart bent on revenge or with any other evil intention or in any other irregular manner’.38 Zelus features on thirty-four occasions in the De predicatione. In a chapter concerning ‘the zeal of divine love’ which ought to stir people to take the cross, he encouraged preachers to draw attention to the zeal (zelum) of past heroes, such as Moses, who avenged injuries done to God.39 In the next chapter, Humbert moved on to the related concept of ‘zeal for the law of Christ’, and urged western Christians to ‘let your zeal be inflamed to defend our most sacred law from that of the worthless Saracens’.40 Humbert again instructed preachers to introduce past exemplars into their sermons, such as the Jews who were inflamed with zeal (accensi sunt zelo) when Antiochus the Illustrious tried to abolish their law, and the zealous conduct of the Maccabees.41 Zelus similarly punctuated his model sermons for preaching the cross, and responding to Gregory X’s request for advice on how to recapture the Holy Land in 1274, Humbert favoured the establishment of a permanent army in the East, comprising men with ‘zeal of faith’, over the recruitment of mercenaries.42 Humbert of Romans was not exceptional among thirteenth-century crusade commentators in his emphasis on ‘zeal’ and vengeance. According to Jacques de Vitry, Urban II had inspired would-be crusaders at Clermont ‘to avenge the injuries of the Crucified’.43 The same writer characterized Peter the Hermit as ‘inflamed with the zeal of charity’ when he received a divine missive instructing him to rouse westerners to liberate Jerusalem, and Jacques also told of a knight, ‘set on fire by the zeal of faith’, who

willingly accepted martyrdom.44 Eudes of Châteauroux ended one of his sermons by calling for revenge against the Saracens of Lucera, and in another maintained that God would exact vengeance on his enemies.45 Moreover, thirteenth-century pontiffs promulgated crusading as an act of vengeance to a degree that at least matched—and in the case of Innocent IV, perhaps even surpassed—Innocent III’s enthusiastic propagation of the idea. In Rachel suum videns, circulated in 1234, Gregory IX extolled that vengeance against the Saracens was part of a divinely ordained plan; God would not have permitted the impious to be strengthened against the pious, ‘unless He also made provision to avenge His own injury by our confounding’.46 Vengeance and zelus were also central themes of Pium et sanctum, in which Gregory instructed the mendicant orders thus: ‘inflamed by the zeal of the Christian faith, carry the word of the cross in humility of heart and body, and induce His faithful to avenge the injury of the Crucified’.47 The rhetoric of vengeance and ‘zeal’ had seemingly been fully incorporated into papal crusade ideology by the time of Innocent IV’s pontificate (1243–54). Having outlined the supposed injuries the Muslims had committed against Christ in a letter to King Henry III of England in January 1245, Innocent IV asked: ‘Is not the mind of any Christian inflamed by the zeal of devotion against them, the heart fortified with the shield of steadfastness, and the right hand armed with the sword of vengeance?’48 He returned to this idea in a correspondence of February 1250, in which the faithful were urged to assist Christ by ‘seizing arms and shield to avenge the injury of Him who washed away our shame’; and, desperate to send assistance to King Louis IX in October 1251, the pope repeated his request for Henry III ‘to avenge the injuries of Christ’.49 The crusading as vengeance concept was repeatedly utilized by crusading popes thereafter; for example, in his 1274 call to recover the Holy Land, Zelus fidei, Gregory X stated that he intended ‘to avenge the injury of the Crucified, with the intervening help of those whom the zeal of faith and devotion shall inflame’.50 The idea of crusading as vengeance had, therefore, become an integral component of papal crusade policy after Innocent III’s pontificate. More specifically, crusading popes usually demanded vengeance for injuries inflicted on Christ—a development which, as Throop has shown, evolved over the course of the twelfth century, but truly came to the fore under Innocent III.51 Like many aspects of crusade ideology, the post-1216 focus on avenging Christ’s injuries probably reflects Innocent III’s influence, although it should be noted that he did not allude to the idea in Ad liberandam—the document on which future crusading decrees, like those issued by Gregory IX and Gregory X, were founded.52 There is strong evidence that the idea of crusading as vengeance extended beyond papal directives, for thirteenth-century chroniclers and poets continued to perceive crusading in this way. One chronicler recorded that many were preparing ‘to inflict vengeance on the sons of unbelief’ in response to the preaching of Gregory IX’s legates.53 In Matthew Paris’ account of the Seventh Crusade, included in his Chronica majora, prelates were ‘provoked by a similar zeal [as the nobles]’ to assume the cross, and Louis IX reportedly announced to his men that he sought to avenge Christ’s injuries, rather than his

own.54 According to one of Louis’ biographers, Geoffrey of Beaulieu, the king was ‘fired with the zeal of faith’ and inspired many to take the cross for his second crusading expedition in 1270 by commanding them ‘to avenge the injury of the Saviour’.55 Furthermore, some writers—such as Salimbene de Adam and William of Nangis—thought participants in the 1251 ‘Crusade of the Shepherds’ had been ‘sent by God to avenge King Louis of France’, even though the expedition quickly descended into anti-clerical violence in western Europe.56 Chroniclers’ appeals for vengeance in the wake of the fall of Acre in May 1291 epitomize both the persistence of this concept and its lack of significant development after 1216. Even by the late thirteenth century, the focus remained firmly on avenging injuries done to Christ and the cross. The anonymous author of the Excidium Aconis started his account of Acre’s ruin by stating that he aimed to inspire the faithful to avenge the shame and many injuries of Christ in the Holy Land, just as his contemporary, Thadeus of Naples, called on Christians to ‘unanimously rush to avenge the injury of the cross, nay more your injury’.57 Thadeus also included an ‘Exclamation to the Christian kings’ near the end of his account, in which he demanded that each of the kings and princes ‘powerfully take vengeance on the persecutors of the king of kings … and the injury of the cross … hastening with the zeal of devotion and the fervour of faith to exact vengeance with all their strength’.58 As this example makes plain, zelus and vengeance remained deeply intertwined. Furthermore, Kurt Villads Jensen has recently shown that the crusading as vengeance concept was adopted by chroniclers of the Baltic crusades.59 The idea had been applied to crusade activity in the Baltic before 1216 by Saxo Grammaticus, probably a canon of Lund cathedral, who wrote his Gesta Danorum between c.1188 and c.1208.60 He recorded that in 1147, as part of the Second Crusade, two rival Danish kings made peace and turned their swords ‘to avenging the sacred’ through a joint expedition against the Wends.61 Henry of Livonia’s chronicle, completed c.1227, is replete with vengeance terminology, and on multiple occasions presents crusading as an act of vengeance. Henry described the cross being taken up in 1206 ‘to take vengeance on the heathens and to subjugate the gentiles to the Christian faith’, and later in the chronicle, under the year 1223, he wrote that while some of the Christian army returned to Riga, exhausted by the labour of tracking the pagans day and night, ‘those who were constant in heart to take vengeance against the heathens and to set themselves up as a wall for the house of the Lord did not go back’.62 The allusion to Ezekiel 13.5, ‘nor have you set up a wall for the house of Israel’, is significant because Henry often used this verse to describe the crusaders’ duty.63 Inflicting vengeance on the pagans in defence of the Livonian Church was a related duty, hence the Christians were frequently depicted as thanking God for allowing them to exact revenge.64 Numerous poets also advocated the idea of vengeful crusading. The thirteenth-century crusader and lyricist Thibaut IV of Champagne wrote that anyone who was mindful of the Lord ‘ought to seek vengeance and deliver His land’, and demands for Louis IX to pursue vengeance were current in lyrics circulating after the defeat at Mansurah in 1250.65 One poet begged Louis ‘to avenge his own and God’s

shame’, whereas another, Austore d’Aurillac, remarked that if the king possessed the greatness of Alexander, he would seek revenge for the humiliation suffered.66 The crusading as vengeance paradigm even surfaced in letters written by participants—perhaps an indication of the extent to which the concept became ingrained in crusade ideology. Richard of Cornwall, who travelled to the East in 1240, stated that he hoped to avenge the dishonour done to the cross, and Louis IX similarly engaged with this theme in a letter to his French subjects, written in August 1250.67 The king insisted that all Christians ought to have zeal (zelum) for Christ’s business, and instructed the milites Christi who remained in the West to ‘be powerful men and avenge the aforementioned injuries and reproaches’.68 The crusading as vengeance idea and the rhetoric of ‘zeal’ were thus established components of crusade ideology after 1216, with many of the themes identified by Throop persisting throughout the thirteenth century. Nevertheless, three caveats should be borne in mind when analysing zelus. Firstly, while zelus lacks an equivalent in modern English, there are signs that it was associated with courageous and manly behaviour.69 This is implied by its frequent appearance alongside viriliter. For instance, in several letters relating to the Second Crusade, Bernard of Clairvaux instructed Christians to ‘gird yourselves manfully and seize your happy arms with zeal for the Christian name’; and Peter of Blois offered similar encouragement to his audience in the Passio Raginaldi: ‘if they are fired with the zeal of charity, they manfully attack them who reproach Christ’.70 Secondly, while zelus was commonly used in documents relating to crusade preaching, it was rarely a dominant emotion word in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade chronicles. Zelus was not closely associated with crusading from the outset: it was absent from the Gesta Francorum and made a solitary appearance in both Raymond of Aguilers’ narrative and Fulcher of Chartres’ entire Historia. A similar picture emerges from a survey of other crusade narratives. Neither Guibert of Nogent nor Albert of Aachen used zelus, and it is likewise absent from book 4 of William of Malmesbury’s Gesta regum Anglorum. Zelus figured just once in Gilo of Paris’ Historia and Roger of Howden’s account of the Third Crusade (in his Gesta regis Henrici secundi). Robert the Monk referred to zelus twice, as did Baldric of Bourgueil, Ralph of Caen, Odo of Deuil, and Oliver of Paderborn. The same term appears three times in the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi and five times in Ekkehard of Aura’s Hierosolymita. Only very rarely do we find zelus used more frequently. It featured on twenty-five occasions in William of Tyre’s Chronicon, although he used it much less than other emotion words, such as ira, timor, dolor, and gaudium. In contrast, William of Newburgh seems to have favoured the term, mentioning it seven times in his significantly shorter account of crusading ventures. So too did the author of the Itinerarium peregrinorum, who employed zelus almost as frequently as ira—some eighteen times. Although zelus punctuated a wide range of crusade sources created between 1095 and 1291, most chroniclers only utilized the term sporadically, and we should therefore be careful not to overstate its significance. Thirdly, given that zelus was a composite term, capable of assuming multiple meanings, it is incredibly difficult—at times impossible—to identify instances where the term possessed unambiguous

connotations of anger. Typical of this ambiguity are references to zelus Dei or to crusaders possessing zelus fidei, for zelus expressed intense piety in a religious context.71 Even in 1291, when Thadeus of Naples wrote his Ystoria de desolatione et conculcatione civitatis Acconensis et tocius Terre Sancte, the term zelus still possessed multiple meanings and continued to be applied to a variety of contexts. When writing of God’s anger at the sinful Christians, Thadeus did associate zelus with righteous wrath—the Lord, having been provoked so often, ‘justly became zealous with zeal and angry at His people’—and, as noted above, Thadeus did link zelus and vengeance.72 But he also used the term to communicate religious devotion, describing Nicolas de Hanapes as ‘afire with the zeal of the Christian faith’, and on another occasion clearly considered it a negative passion, with zelus appearing in a list of terms associated with discord and quarrelling (lis, fraus, cupiditas, ambicio, and dissensio).73 More broadly, I have found only a handful of instances where zelus appears alongside anger words, such as ira and indignatio, in crusade narratives. According to the Itinerarium peregrinorum, Anglo-Norman crusaders ‘seethed with anger and zeal for revenge’ at the sight of their comrades being butchered as they attempted to board a Muslim vessel near Acre on 7 June 1191.74 Oliver of Paderborn certainly associated zelus with anger: German and Frisian members of the Fifth Crusade assaulted Damietta ‘fired with the zeal of just indignation’; and he used similar terminology in his Historia regum Terre Sancte, remarking that Joscelin I of Edessa was ‘manfully fired with the zeal of indignation’.75 Given the tendency of chroniclers to couple emotion words with similar meanings—hence Albert of Aachen’s frequent use of the construction ‘ira et indignatione’—the paucity of references to zelus in conjunction with anger terminology is both surprising and problematic, for it curtails the identification of instances where zelus communicated righteous wrath.76 It is true that zelus, like other anger terms, was often described using the imagery of fire—‘crusaders were zelo accensi, zelo succensi, zelo inflammati, and zelo incensi’, to borrow Throop’s words—but these verbs were just as frequently used to describe the arousal of other passions.77 For example, participants in the 1101–2 expeditions were reportedly ‘fired with one and the same desire’ (uno eodemque desiderio accensi); Jacques de Vitry wrote of being ‘set on fire with charity’ (charitate succensus); and Eudes of Châteauroux insisted that crusaders should not merely love God, but ‘must be set on fire and burn with His love’ (immo amore eius ardere et inflammari).78 Moreover, it is debatable whether verbs like accendere, succendere, and inflammare had immediate connotations of anger for medieval audiences, since they were often used to describe general emotional responses or the arousal of unspecified feelings. One chronicler stated that westerners were ‘violently inflamed’ (vehementer accenderet) to fight for the love of God on the Second Crusade, whereas another, Robert of Auxerre, recorded that enthusiasm for the Third Crusade boiled up (effervescunt) throughout the German empire.79 These points need not detract from Throop’s findings—zelus was a composite term which, at times, exemplified a righteous form of anger—but they do suggest that any discussion of this term and its implications must be duly cautious.

Overall, this analysis confirms the upward trajectory charted by Throop, whereby vengeance became increasingly associated with crusading during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Some writers, like John of Joinville, failed to engage with the concept of crusading as an act of vengeance, but the examples considered above attest that it was well-established by the mid-thirteenth century and continued to feature prominently thereafter.80 The idea seems to have infected many source types, appearing not only in papal documents, but also in chronicles, lyrics, and participants’ letters. Zelus remained closely tied to notions of revenge, and the need to avenge injuries done to Christ specifically remained the standardized rhetoric, particularly within ecclesiastical circles. Despite this consistency, the relative paucity of references to zelus in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade chronicles in comparison to other emotion words, coupled with the ambiguities surrounding its connotations, entails that this term alone cannot sustain the idea that crusading played a fundamental role in legitimizing the use of anger against sinners. To test this idea, we must consider other terms—such as ira, indignatio, and furor— whose anger connotations are not in doubt.

The Legitimacy of Anger in Preaching Documents and Lyrics Turning to the source material for crusade preaching, it is surprising to find that, while participants were often urged to exact vengeance and to act zealously, they were rarely encouraged to direct anger against their Muslim foes. In fact, a semantic distinction is discernible in these documents, between zelus, a term which (at least occasionally) encapsulated the positive type of wrath that crusaders should possess, and other anger words—even ira—which are largely absent. McGrath has argued that ‘the main purpose of [Urban II’s speech at Clermont] was to persuade lay nobles to undertake a Crusade out of anger at God’s enemies’, yet her analysis of the accounts of Urban’s preaching relied on inference, rather than an examination of the specific Latin terminology, and she did not take into consideration the pope’s own letters, sent in the aftermath of his Clermont address.81 Anger rhetoric is missing from Urban’s letters to Flanders, Bologna, and Vallombrosa—disseminated between December 1095 and October 1096 —in which the pope wrote in more general terms of God having inspired (inspirauerit) people to take the vow, their desire (desiderium) to go to Jerusalem, and of ‘stimulating the minds of knights’ (militum animos instigauimus).82 Contemporary chroniclers who witnessed Urban’s Clermont sermon did not have him call for anger either, though none of their accounts can be considered accurate reports of the pope’s actual words.83 Even Robert the Monk, who had the pope dwell on the gruesome acts supposedly

committed by the Muslims, failed to use anger rhetoric; instead, Urban simply instructed his audience to be ‘moved’ (moveat) by the Holy Sepulchre and the defilement of Jerusalem’s holy sites, as well as by the deeds of their Frankish ancestors.84 There was no exhortation for anger in Quantum praedecessores, Pope Eugenius III’s proclamation of the Second Crusade, nor, for that matter, was there in Bernard of Clairvaux’s recruitment letters for the same venture.85 In Cor nostrum, issued in 1181, Pope Alexander III referred to the First Crusaders as zealous for the law of God (zelantes legem Domini) and instructed listeners to be moved by the zeal of the Lord (moveat … vos zelus Domini), but he did not go so far as to demand anger—an emotion which is similarly missing from Audita tremendi and Pope Innocent III’s numerous calls to arms, including Post miserabile and Quia maior.86 Anger against God’s enemies only gained currency in preaching documents from the mid- to late thirteenth century. Significantly, explicit demands for Christians to unleash their anger on Muslims remained uncommon; instead, we find the inclusion of various biblical passages highlighting the Lord’s righteous wrath, which westerners were probably expected to emulate. In chapter 27 of the De predicatione, Humbert of Romans alluded to 1 Kings 11.6 (‘And the spirit of the Lord came upon Saul, when he had heard these words, and his anger was exceedingly kindled’) as well as to Jeremiah 10.25: ‘Pour out thy indignation upon the nations that have not known thee, and upon the provinces that have not called upon thy name.’87 In one thirteenth-century model sermon, Eudes of Châteauroux quoted Judges 2.20—‘And the wrath of the Lord was kindled against Israel’—whilst in another Gilbert of Tournai referred to the authority of Ecclesiasticus 36.8, ‘rouse your fury and pour out your rage’, which, he explained, related ‘to those who are the rebels of the cross and crucify Christ in his limbs’.88 However, such examples are few and far between, as most crusade propagandists actually refrained from instructing western Christians to grow angry at the alleged crimes of their Muslim opponents. The emotion which pervaded these documents was not anger, but sorrow. That western Christians should lament reverses in the East was not a static concept; rather, the available evidence suggests that it evolved during the twelfth century. In his letter to the people of Flanders in December 1095, Urban II wrote of ‘grieving with pious contemplation at this disaster [in the East]’.89 According to Baldric of Bourgueil, the need for sorrow was a major theme of Urban’s Clermont sermon, with the pope supposedly declaring: we are struck by tears and groans, struck by sighs and sobs. We weep, brothers, how we wail. And with the Psalmist, from the depths of the heart, we are crying and groaning. We are miserable, we are unhappy … let us empathize and have compassion for our brothers, at least with tears. We who have become the scorn of all people, and the worst of all, let us lament the most monstrous devastation of the Holy Land.90 Though Baldric was present at Clermont in November 1095, his account is not necessarily representative of Urban’s message: the emphasis on the grief of eastern Christians and that of westerners

over the affliction of their co-religionists is unique to Baldric’s account and chimes with his overarching concern for Christian brotherhood.91 Had this been a central theme of Urban’s appeal, we might expect to find a similarly strong emphasis on sorrow in Quantum praedecessores; but Eugenius III only alluded to the great sadness and lamentation over Edessa’s loss in passing.92 Adrian IV failed to advance beyond this in his letter of November 1157, Quantum strennui et egregii, which included a very similar clause to that in Quantum praedecessores, announcing that recent misfortunes in Outremer could not be related without great grief and exasperation.93 The formulation of more elaborate meditations on the western Church’s lamentation and explicit calls for Latin Christians to feel sorrow over events in the East occurred during Alexander III’s pontificate (1159–81). Initially, Alexander followed his predecessors by only sparingly using sorrow in his first crusade appeal—an adaptation of Quantum praedecessores, issued in July 1165.94 His next crusade call, In quantis pressuris, addressed to the whole faithful on 29 June 1166, dwelt on the ‘many torments and miseries’ inflicted by the enemies of the cross and offered a precis of recent calamities in the Latin East, but again did not stress the need for grief.95 Sorrow imagery is equally sparse in Alexander’s crusade encyclical of July 1169, Inter omnia, although Cum gemitus, a companion letter to that encyclical, constitutes a highly emotive appeal to Archbishop Henry of Reims.96 It stated that the groans and cries of the eastern Church ought to reach the ears of the western Church, and that the latter should listen attentively to her sorrows, diligently share in her grief, and feel compassion.97 A similar opening was used in another letter to Henry, sent in 1173.98 By January 1181, the Alexandrine curia had refined this concept. Cor nostrum, the most original crusade appeal of Alexander’s pontificate, began with what would become the conventional rhetoric for future calls to arms, passionately declaring the papacy’s own grief over news received from the East and insisting that all Christians should be similarly downcast: Inauspicious rumours, which have come to us from the regions of Jerusalem through common narration, are confounding our heart and that of all our brothers with exceeding grief, since hardly anyone who calls himself a Christian might be strong enough to hear without tears or sighs what is said about the wretched condition of that land.99 Alexander had lucidly prescribed an expected emotional state to western audiences, and with the defeat at Hattin and the fall of Jerusalem in 1187, calls for sorrow became more pronounced. Audita tremendi stated that individuals who did not mourn over such a cause for mourning would seem to have forgotten not only their Christian faith but even their humanity.100 This remained a familiar motif in papal encyclicals thereafter and was constantly expounded by crusade propagandists. Peter of Blois’ Conquestio de dilatione vie Ierosolimitane, created in 1188–9 to encourage the departure of those who had taken the cross, opened with the words of Jeremiah 9.1: ‘Who will give water to my head, and a fountain of tears to my eyes? And I will weep day and night for the slain of my people.’101 The same

verse had been used in Audita tremendi.102 Similarly, Jacques de Vitry placed far greater emphasis on sorrow, rather than anger, in his model sermons for preaching the cross. Such rhetoric permeated his Sermo ad crucesignatos vel–signandos, in which he declared that only Christians who groaned and grieved (gementes et dolentes) over Jerusalem would be protected, whereas those who had a breast of iron (pectus ferreum) were unworthy of the Lord’s pity.103 ‘So what about those’, Jacques disdainfully asked, ‘who hear that the Holy Land is overthrown by the enemies of Christ and are neither moved by sorrow nor seem to care?’104 A notable variation of this theme in thirteenth-century papal encyclicals was the use of Rachel’s lamentation over her children, detailed in Jeremiah 31.15 and Matthew 2.18, to symbolize the grief of the Mother Church and to stimulate mourning in audiences. Gregory IX referred to this biblical exemplar in three crusade encyclicals (and not just those for expeditions to the Holy Land): Vox in Rama (1233), Rachel suum videns (1234), and Vocem in excelso (1241).105 Representing the western Church, Rachel was a model for Latin Christians to emulate: the pious mother Rachel, the holy Roman Church, whose dismay over the slaughter of her offspring is as vast as the sea, let out and lets out to this day a voice of lamentation, of mourning and weeping (Jeremiah 31.15), which we wish to make heard on high, so that the eyes of the faithful might not be silent but shed tears of sorrow by day and night, and shall not rest until the Lord shows mercy.106 It is true that dolor was not entirely devoid of anger connotations; even so, it occupied a position on the fringes of the lexical set of anger, and the more overt and explicit anger terms, like ira and indignatio, rarely featured.107 The emphasis on the need for lamentation and grief, especially post-1187, is in line with the broader perception, examined in Chapter 3, that the root cause of setbacks in the East was internal, rather than external, to Christendom. Since the sins of the Christian people were deemed responsible, sorrow was far more relevant to the papacy’s message than anger; when anger does figure in papal letters, it is usually in the context of God’s ire at Christian sinners, which could be alleviated via penitential lamentation.108 Given the intended aristocratic audience and propagandist function of crusade lyrics, as well as the poets’ frequent presentation of crusading as an act of vengeance, we might expect these sources to be littered with references to anger as an incentive for crusade participation. Conon of Béthune explicitly called for both wrath and revenge in Ahi! Amors, com dure departie: ‘now it will be clear who really is valiant, if we go off to avenge the painful humiliation at which each one of us should feel anger and shame; for in our times the holy place where God suffered agonizing death on our account has been lost’.109 But Conon seems to be something of a lone voice. Rather than an anticipated emotional response to Muslim crimes, anger more often appears in alternative contexts, such as the departing crusader’s feelings at abandoning his beloved and even as an expression of opposition to crusading. For

instance, the thirteenth-century poet Audefroi le Bastart wrote that a crusader called Gerald took the cross ‘driven by sorrow and anger’, yet it is clear that these emotions stemmed from his lady Isabel having been bequeathed to a lord.110 In another lyric, written in the 1260s by a Templar knight in the East, anger and sorrow rhetoric expressed discontent with crusading: ‘Anger and grief have lodged themselves in my heart so that I am tempted to kill myself forthwith, or lay down the cross I had taken up in the honour of Him who was set upon the cross.’111 In fact, like the papal propagandists, several poets advocated sorrow and lamentation as the correct emotional responses to the desolation of the Holy Land. Using imagery strikingly reminiscent of Audita tremendi, in c.1201 the troubadour Raimbaut de Vaqueiras deemed hard-hearted anyone who did not lament (non plaingna) the Turks’ possession of the Holy Land.112

The Legitimacy of Anger in Narratives In contrast to Menache’s belief that anger was a mainstay of the crusading era, a lexical analysis of ira and indignatio—two of the most common anger words—reveals that anger became increasingly linked to crusading in narrative texts during the twelfth century. Anger was poorly represented in letters pertaining to the First Crusade, as well as the participant chronicles.113 Ira features twelve times in the Gesta Francorum, seven times in Raymond of Aguilers’ Historia, and is absent from the first book of Fulcher of Chartres’ history; indignatio is less prevalent than ira in both the Gesta and Raymond’s account and, again, is missing from book 1 of Fulcher’s Historia. The Gesta Francorum’s author clearly favoured a number of alternative emotion terms: timor appears forty-two times, gaudium twenty-five, dolor sixteen, and letitia fourteen times. Anger terminology became slightly more prominent, but by no means dominant, in second-generation accounts of the enterprise. Ira was used sixteen times by Robert the Monk and thirteen times by Baldric of Bourgueil, though neither favoured indignatio—a term utilized twice by Robert and four times by Baldric. Guibert of Nogent used ira just five times and indignatio on even fewer occasions, yet he employed a richer vocabulary of anger than most chroniclers. Guibert utilized furor (ten times) and rabies (eighteen times) significantly more than other contemporary writers, and the Dei gesta’s semantic field of anger encompassed numerous additional terms, including rancor, accendere, irritare, vexare, fervere, efferare, effervescere, desaevire, bacchari, debacchari, infensus, and effrenus. When these are also taken into account, it is clear that anger was more pronounced in the Dei gesta than in Guibert’s foundation text, the Gesta Francorum. This upward trajectory is confirmed by Albert of Aachen’s Historia, the first six books of which include twenty-two occurrences of ira and seventeen of indignatio. Even when we account for Albert’s greater length, the gulf with the

earliest narratives is obvious. In fact, these figures are effectively doubled when books 7–12 are also taken into consideration: ira was used a total of forty-three times and indignatio thirty-six times in the Historia as a whole. It should be noted, however, that despite this increase, ira and indignatio were not the dominant emotion words in Albert’s text: gaudium (seventy-two occurrences), letitia (forty-seven), dolor (sixty-one), timor (sixty), and metus (fifty-six) all appear more frequently. The late twelfth- and early thirteenth-century Latin narratives of the Third Crusade mark a watershed in terms of the incorporation of anger terminology into crusade texts. Thus, although indignatio features just eight times in the Itinerarium peregrinorum, ira appears in nineteen instances, a figure which increases to twenty-six when the related term iracundia is included. This development probably reflects the centrality of monarchs as the principal actors in narratives of the expedition; as we shall see, these accounts are loaded with flashes of royal wrath. Though not all agree, the twelfth century has been identified as the high point of ira regis, with Gerd Althoff going so far as to speak of ‘the renaissance of royal anger in the twelfth century’.114 Admittedly, the participation of Conrad III and Louis VII in the Second Crusade did not have a similar effect, yet this could simply reflect the dearth of source material for that expedition. In our most detailed account of the enterprise, Odo of Deuil used ira just five times, furor on as many occasions, and debacchari twice. Louis VII was only once ‘inflamed with anger’, although it is significant that this appears in the context of administering justice—a key facet of the ira regis ideal.115 Odo had good reason not to portray his central character as rex iratus: it would have conflicted with his image of Louis as ‘the peaceful prince’, which served as a counterpoise to the furious Germans.116 In comparison to the Third Crusade texts, anger terminology was less common in most thirteenthcentury narratives, such as those by Oliver of Paderborn, Robert of Clari, and Geoffrey of Villehardouin; the most frequent anger term in the latter’s chronicle, iriez, featured just nine times. There are, of course, exceptions to this broad trend, most notably Matthew Paris’ Chronica majora and John of Joinville’s Vie de Saint Louis, with Joinville using his favoured anger term, courroucié, on at least twenty occasions. Broadly speaking, this all suggests that, while anger was not a dominant emotion in the earliest crusade narratives, it became more closely associated with crusading as the twelfth-century progressed, before tailing off during the thirteenth century. The fact that anger rhetoric figured very rarely in the early First Crusade narratives, and seemingly only flourished for a brief period in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, not only counters assertions that it was a core emotional component of crusade ideology from the outset, but also suggests that crusading did little to popularize or legitimize the notion that the arms-bearers of Christendom ought to direct their wrath against unbelievers. Nor does the idea of crusading appear to have modified pre-existing models of beneficial wrath. One of the striking features of the texts is the infrequency with which the anger of participants was presented as possessing a religious dimension. Menache has pointed to the First Crusaders’ sack of Jerusalem in July 1099 as an episode which was ‘depicted in the category of a reasonable, just, useful anger that was directed at extirpating sin or punishing evil doers; it pertained, therefore, to that kind of anger possessing

a moral dimension’.117 It is important to note, however, that anger terminology is absent from the earliest accounts of the massacre—those in the Gesta Francorum and the histories by Peter Tudebode, Raymond of Aguilers, and Fulcher of Chartres—and it was only in later non-participant testimonies that such terminology was used with a noticeable religious edge. For example, Ralph of Caen suggested that the crusaders seethed with ‘equal anger’ and were ablaze with ‘holy fury’.118 William of Malmesbury wrote that ‘the burning anger of the victors was insatiable’ as the city was ‘purified by the massacre of the infidels’.119 Albert of Aachen, too, referred to the Christians ‘raving and seething’ on a third day of slaughter, although, given his sympathetic tone towards the victims, he did not necessarily approve of their fury.120 Indeed, Albert appears at pains to distance his principal protagonist, Godfrey of Bouillon, from the massacre, insisting that the duke abstained from the slaughter and instead made a procession around the city, before visiting the Holy Sepulchre.121 A rather different picture was offered by Humbert of Romans, who, chronologically removed from events, envisaged the massacre as a violent frenzy: ‘the Christians raged so uncontrollably in the midst of the Saracens that the blood of those killed in Soloman’s porch rose up to the knees of the horses’.122 However, Humbert’s literary agenda must be borne in mind: he was responding to criticism that crusading resulted in unnecessary Christian deaths, and consequently used this episode to demonstrate the successful nature of past ventures. Critics were urged to consult the various chronicles about the wars fought between Christians and Saracens, in which they would learn that ‘many more Saracens were killed by the Christians than vice versa’.123 It thus suited his literary aim to depict the First Crusaders as raging relentlessly at Jerusalem, in contrast to other thirteenth-century writers, such as Jacques de Vitry and Roger of Wendover, who did not attribute anger to the crusaders at this point.124 Admittedly, chroniclers at times depicted participants as venting anger over Muslim sacrilege. The ‘Charleville poet’, who augmented Gilo of Paris’ verse account of the First Crusade, wrote that in 1097 the crusaders were roused to anger (irritantur) and grieved (dolent) that the Nicaeans mocked their religious practices, and thus demanded Turkish blood.125 According to Raymond of Aguilers, the citizens of Ma’arrat an-Nu’man attempted to provoke (provocarent) the crusaders by vandalizing crosses in late 1098, while William of Tyre twice remarked that in response to the Muslim desecration of crosses, the Latins were ‘fired with the anger [that] the pain of such sacrilege can supply’.126 William also had Urban II present Christ’s zeal (zelans) in cleansing the Temple as a model for imitation in his Clermont address.127 Bernard of Clairvaux went even further, drawing an explicit parallel between Christ’s anger and that utilized by the Templars against polluting unbelievers: they were ‘inflamed with the same zeal for the house of God as that shown by the Leader of knights [i.e. Christ]’, who was ‘most violently kindled’ and entered the Temple bearing arms against the moneychangers.128 In this instance, zelus undoubtedly had strong connotations of righteous wrath directed against sinners, and served to promote the Templars as imitatores Christi. Occasionally, crusaders were also portrayed as exacting God’s anger against unbelievers. This is epitomized by Robert the Monk’s interpretation of a flaming comet which

landed in the Muslim camp outside Antioch as a manifestation of ira Dei: ‘because truly it had come from the West, it designated the armies of the Franks, through whom He exercised His anger’.129 Similarly, the ‘Charleville poet’ explained the response to the preaching of the First Crusade by affirming that God had caused westerners to be ‘fired to just anger’ and to seek vengeance for Muslim outrages.130 Arnold of Lübeck directly stated that anger was an incentive for participation in the Third Crusade, recording that in response to papal appeals following the events of 1187, all the people of the land—the noble and obscure, the rich and the poor—unanimously aspired to undertake the expedition to Jerusalem, ‘for fear and indignation had fallen upon them’.131 Care should be taken not to draw too sharp a distinction between religiously motivated demonstrations of anger and those lacking spiritual overtones, as even accounts of crusader indignation which lacked overt religious symbolism may have possessed some religious connotations for twelfthand thirteenth-century audiences in the context of holy war. An analysis of the relationship between anger, vengeance, and Christian brotherhood in Albert of Aachen’s Historia illustrates this point. More than any other contemporary writer, Albert stressed the fraternal bonds that existed between crusaders. This is especially apparent in his frequent use of frater and confrater—a term with stronger connotations than mere ‘brother’.132 We encounter a variety of emotions and emotional gestures expressing and interacting with Christian fraternity in the text. It was underpinned by love and charity; as Albert put it, the crusaders were ‘most beloved brothers and sons’, and dissensions within their ranks could be ‘soothed by harmonious love’.133 One of the most interesting features of Albert’s work is that anger and vengeance terms appear far more regularly than in other narratives of the First Crusade. The prominence of ultio and vindicta—the former appearing twenty-four times and the latter eleven times in the first six books—supports Throop’s observation that non-participant chroniclers of the expedition emphasized the theme of vengeance more than the ‘eyewitnesses’.134 But even in comparison to other second-generation writers, Albert’s emphasis on avenging injustices is distinct. Anger and vengeance, along with sorrow, were usually used to relate the crusaders’ reaction to injuries inflicted on the Christian host. During the siege of Nicaea in 1097, for example, the First Crusaders’ ‘anger [became] more and more inflamed’ against the enemy due to the massacre of their comrades.135 Such incidents punctuated his account of the siege of Antioch: on one occasion, troubled (conturbati) by incessant Muslim sorties, the leaders’ wrath grew sharper (acuuntur ira ampliori); and the death of Louis, archdeacon of the church of Toul, reportedly engendered feelings of sorrow (spiritu meroris consternati) and indignation (indignati).136 The regular use of anger and vengeance terms in the Historia likely stemmed from Albert’s concern for Christian brotherhood, which is supported by the fact that these emotions repeatedly appear in connection to frater and confrater. Thus, having witnessed the slaughter of 300 ‘Christian brethren’ (Christiani confratres) from Bohemond’s contingent, the crusaders inside Tarsus in 1097 sought ‘revenge for the blood of their brothers (confratrum) who had been killed in deceit’.137 Significantly, anger, grief,

and vengeance often form a script and, while this emotional sequence is also identifiable in other crusade texts, it frequently intersects with the language of brotherhood in Albert’s Historia. Following Kilij Arslan’s slaughter of crusaders from Peter the Hermit’s band, ‘the souls and hearts of all were violently overwhelmed by grief for the destruction of their brethren (confratrum)’ and they demanded that their leaders ‘rise against the insolence of the Turks to avenge their brothers (fratrum)’.138 Although the leaders initially refused, encountering pressure from Godfrey Burel, ‘master of the foot soldiers’, they were ‘greatly stirred by anger and indignation’ and joined battle to avenge their brethren (in ultionem confratrum).139 These examples could be multiplied many times over; indeed, the same emotional sequence can be observed in books 7–12.140 Collectively, they demonstrate that Albert regarded anger, sorrow, and a yearning for vengeance as legitimate emotional responses to injuries inflicted on Christian brethren. The intersection of these emotions with the theme of Christian fellowship is a reminder that, in a crusading context, even seemingly ‘secular’ displays of wrath, ignited by assaults on the Latins’ compatriots, could have possessed religious symbolism for medieval audiences. Even so, the overarching omission of overt religious imagery in most accounts of the crusaders’ anger is striking. In the vast majority of cases, it was neither the religious errors nor the supposed polluting presence of the Muslims which was presented as rousing crusader indignation, but rather the physical injuries they inflicted on Christian armies. Take, for example, accounts of the First Crusaders’ feelings when they learned of the Turkish decimation of their compatriots who had been escorting craftsmen to the siege of Antioch in March 1098. The Gesta Francorum recorded that, ‘inflamed by the murder of our men’, the crusaders prepared to engage the enemy.141 Both Guibert of Nogent and Baldric of Bourgueil adapted the Gesta’s account. Guibert claimed that they were inspired by a combination of anger (efferatis) and sorrow (dolore), perhaps in an attempt to magnify the wrongs committed by the Turks.142 In Baldric’s Historia, this incident took the form of a more developed emotional sequence, with the introduction of vengeance: the Christians were ‘more inflamed to wrath than they were frightened’ and sought to avenge their brethren’s blood.143 The accounts of this episode are indicative of a wider attitude discernible in many crusade narratives, whereby participants justly felt anger in reaction to insults and injuries inflicted on the Christian host, often leading to acts of vengeance. Thus, when Arnold of Lübeck remarked that ‘grief and indignation and some confusion seized the soldiers of Christ concerning the enemies’ mocking gestures’, after three of their towers were consumed by Greek fire during the siege of Acre, he did not specify if such derision was religiously orientated.144 It is important to note that crusader anger was represented in the same way in vernacular poetry, typified by the Chanson d’Antioche’s remark that the barons ‘felt nothing but anger’ over the injuries the Antiochene Turks inflicted on their compatriot, Rainalt Porcet.145 Elsewhere in the Antioche, the following emotional reaction was ascribed to Godfrey of Bouillon when he witnessed the decapitation of a Christian by the Muslim emir ‘Calet of Mecca’: ‘The duke was enraged at the sight: he gnashed his teeth in rage and swore, “You made a mistake when you killed him,

you coward! You will pay with your life!”’146 Such irate demonstrations, sparked by injustices and slights to honour, were a normative feature of chansons de geste. After Roland suffered a fatal injury in combat, Charlemagne rode furiously (ireement) in the Chanson de Roland, and the poem closed with the stark declaration that the emperor’s great wrath (grant ire) had been appeased through vengeance on the Saracens.147 Similarly, following the death of Vivien in the Chanson de Guillaume, William Hooknose turned on the Saracens like a man in anger (cum hom qui est irrez); and the noble Bernier apparently had ‘good reason to be angry’ when his advice to sue for peace was ignored in Raoul de Cambrai.148 One might expect to find a significantly different picture in narratives of the Albigensian and Baltic crusades, for some scholars have characterized these wars as exceptionally brutal, even ‘total’, or have highlighted the chroniclers’ tendency to present them as such.149 Indeed, it has been suggested that ‘a theology of strong emotions’—encompassing ‘zeal for God, lust for vengeance, and an aim to avert divine wrath’—underpinned accounts of crusade campaigns in the Baltic.150 Nevertheless, it is notable that Henry of Livonia’s chronicle, our most detailed source for these missionary wars, includes surprisingly few descriptions of Christian wrath, and when anger is recognized as a motive, it is almost always in response to an injury.151 For example, in 1212 the Lithuanians were granted peace to take the road to Estonia, but ‘the Germans were indignant with them, since they despoiled Saccalia, which was now subject to the bishop [Albert of Livonia]’.152 Henry also engaged with the anger–vengeance script, albeit only occasionally. A clear instance of this emotional sequence appears in his account of the reaction of Thalibald of Beverin’s sons to their father’s murder in 1215: ‘Then the sons of Thalibald, Rameke and Drivinalde, seeing that their father was dead, were greatly angered at the Estonians.’153 A legitimate reason for anger, and thus a pretext for vengeance, was given, and the brothers proceeded to pillage Estonian villages and burn alive all the men they captured ‘in revenge for Thalibald’.154 Apparently, over 100 men were killed ‘in revenge for their father’.155 Despite such instances of vengeful wrath, the emotion that dominates the Chronicon Livoniae is joy, not anger. Whereas ira appears six times and indignatio ten times, gaudium alone features 102 times.156 Joy rhetoric was used in various contexts. Henry stressed the joy with which the unbaptized heard the Word of God; the priests’ happiness in converting the pagans; Bishop Albert’s delight over the conversion of all the Livonians; the Christian combatants’ joy in killing and inflicting vengeance on their enemies; and, above all, the Christians’ rejoicing as they returned victorious to Livonia.157 The latter was communicated through the formulaic phrases ‘cum gaudio in Lyvoniam redierunt’ and ‘cum gaudio magno reversi sunt in Lyvoniam’.158 For all Henry’s emphasis on the theme of vengeance, the Chronicon Livoniae does not really support the idea of ‘a theology of strong emotions’ and accords with the Holy Land crusade narratives in terms of both the relative paucity of anger and its portrayal as a retaliatory passion. This is also true of Peter of Les Vauxde-Cernay’s account of the Albigensian Crusade. Though rife with blood imagery, anger was only sporadically recognized as a motive; Simon of Montfort and the crusaders occasionally grew angry— again, usually inspired by affronts—but Peter primarily associated anger with their heretical opponents,

the counts of Toulouse and Foix, who were frequently depicted as raging madly.159

Ira Regis on the Third Crusade The evidence examined thus far suggests that the cultural impact of crusading on attitudes towards anger was marginal, at best. The ‘crusade idea’ neither popularized nor substantially altered pre-existing concepts of righteous wrath. The relative paucity of anger references in the earliest crusade narratives, as well as those of the thirteenth century, indicates that crusading was not necessarily perceived as an arena for the legitimate expression of anger against sinners. Anger was a valid emotional response to injuries, but one which usually lacked religious tones. Albert of Aachen’s Historia reminds us that the distinction between secular and religiously orientated manifestations of anger may not have been entirely clear-cut in a crusading context, but there is little evidence that the crusades had a marked influence on twelfthand thirteenth-century conceptions of anger: iniuria remained an essential criterion in determining the righteousness of an individual’s wrath. Even the extension of crusading to other theatres, such as southern France and the Baltic, seemingly did little to change or popularize concepts of righteous anger. Given that the Third Crusade narratives include an unprecedented number of ‘anger incidents’, many of which pertain to royal wrath, they offer an opportunity to test this conclusion through an analysis of ira regis. Did crusading modify contemporary views of royal anger? Richard I of England’s decision to execute approximately 2,600 Muslim prisoners at Acre on 20 August 1191 has been instrumental in shaping modern assessments of the king as possessing an ‘ardent and immoderate temperament’.160 However, historians have tended to misinterpret contemporary accounts of this episode, treating them on modern, rather than medieval, terms.161 In contrast to the German chronicler Ansbert and the French biographer Rigord, both of whom were generally unsympathetic towards the Lionheart, the vast majority of Anglo-Norman commentators depicted the king’s anger as a legitimate response to Saladin’s failure to fulfil the terms agreed when Acre fell to the crusaders on 12 July 1191.162 Ambroise described Richard as being ‘aggrieved and displeased’ at Saladin’s prevarication, and stressed that the execution was an act of vengeance.163 The retaliatory nature of Richard’s actions was also a feature of Roger of Howden’s Gesta regis Henrici secundi, in which the king ‘grieved violently’ at the news, received on 19 August, that Saladin had killed Christian captives, and the next day ordered the execution of Muslim prisoners.164 Another Anglo-Norman chronicler, William of Newburgh, used zelus to describe Richard’s emotional state and to legitimize the massacre—the English monarch was ‘ignited with just zeal’—and even William the Breton, a French biographer of Philip Augustus, acknowledged the

righteousness of Richard’s wrath.165 Jacques de Vitry’s account of this event is particularly interesting, because he juxtaposed Richard’s treatment of the Muslim prisoners with that of Philip (who had, in reality, already embarked for western Europe): whereas the king of England, ‘angry and indignant’, slaughtered all those in his share of the captives, the king of France acted ‘more temperately and more gently’, sparing his share for the exchange of prisoners.166 Jacques explicitly stated that Richard’s ire was more beneficial to the crusaders’ cause, since he killed many thousands who might have harmed the Christians in the future.167 In these accounts, Richard’s wrath stemmed from Saladin’s failure to fulfil the agreed-upon terms, and there is a notable lack of religious imagery; Ambroise was unique in suggesting that Richard aimed to ‘bring down the pride of the Turks, disgrace their religion, and avenge Christianity’.168 Other instances of Richard’s anger during the Third Crusade were represented in the same way—as the correct response to injuries. Crucially, the king’s wrath was not reserved for Muslims: his indignation at the detainment and maltreatment of shipwrecked crusaders by the Byzantine ruler of Cyprus was widely reported; and reticent crusaders, including King Philip and members of the French army, were also said to have felt his ire.169 On Cyprus in 1191, for example, Richard was apparently insulted by French envoys who nagged him so much about proceeding to Acre that ‘the king became angry, raising his eyebrows’; and, according to Roger of Howden, upon learning of Philip’s treacherous dealings with the Muslims, ‘the king of England was moved to anger against the king of France, offering him neither a cheerful expression nor the promise of peace’.170 The evidential picture surrounding Richard’s wrath is complicated by his emerging reputation as ‘the Lionheart’, which led several near-contemporaries to compare him to a raging lion; but even when this complexity is taken into consideration, descriptions of his anger do not differ substantially from other accounts of ira regis.171 Indeed, Richard I is not the only leader reported to have met injustices with ire during the Third Crusade. According to the Itinerarium peregrinorum, Frederick Barbarossa ‘conceived the anger worthy of a prince’ upon receiving a defiant letter from Saladin, and flashes of righteous wrath also marked Ansbert’s Historia, in which the German emperor and princes were ‘justly annoyed’ at Byzantine objections to a peace proposal.172 Later in the text, the perfidious sultan of Iconium, Kilij Arslan II, sought to assuage Frederick’s indignation (indignatio), while Otto of St Blasien recorded that, since the sultan of Iconium had reneged on their treaty, Frederick became angry (iratus) and allowed his army to take revenge.173 The anonymous author of the Historia peregrinorum claimed that the emperor also ‘poured out his anger’ to maintain discipline in the army.174 There is nothing exceptional or unusual about these accounts of Richard’s and Frederick’s anger, which constitute little more than conventional portrayals of ira regis. Similar rhetoric was used to describe their ire in other settings. Otto of Freising’s Gesta Friderici I imperatoris, the first two books of which were completed before the author’s death in 1158, is replete with references to Frederick’s ira and indignatio; to give just one example, relating how Frederick was ‘stirred to indignation’ against the

people of Milan in 1154, Otto listed no less than three reasons for his ire, which the Milanese endeavoured to assuage.175 Frederick’s anger here (and elsewhere in the Gesta Friderici) is consistent with Otto’s overarching aim of presenting his hero as rex iustus.176 Much like Richard and Frederick, other medieval rulers were represented as displaying anger to rectify injustices and express their power. A good comparator is Rigord’s depiction of Philip Augustus, although the portrayal of William the Conqueror in William of Poitiers’ Gesta Guillelmi or Louis VI of France in Suger of St-Denis’ Vita Ludovici Grossi would also serve.177 Some historians have juxtaposed Philip Augustus’ emotional restraint with the supposed ‘emotional instability’ of Richard I; however, Rigord represented anger as a valuable political weapon in the French king’s arsenal.178 When the Frankish princes, incited by the devil, conspired against their monarch and laid waste to his lands in 1180, ‘the most Christian king, Philip, was inflamed with great fury’ and, assembling a vast army, ‘made them all obedient to him and most powerfully compelled them to perform his every wish’.179 Rigord undoubtedly considered this a righteous display of wrath: Philip received the honorific christianissimus rex, and victory was achieved ‘by the Lord’s miraculous work’.180 In 1187, when Henry II of England and Richard, then count of Poitou, had the audacity to bring a large force to Châteauroux against ‘their lord’ the king of France, Philip was indignant (indignatus) and assembled his men into battle formation; in response, Henry and his son agreed to ‘make full amends in all things’ concerning the dispute, which eventually led to the ratification of a two-year truce.181 On another occasion, the count of Flanders reportedly asked Philip to lay aside his indignatio; after taking counsel, the king consented to peace and saw Vermandois restored to his power.182 In each instance, Philip’s anger—always retaliatory—signalled a desire to bend dissenters to his will and resulted in the restructuring of political relationships in his favour. In fact, Rigord’s Gesta Philippi Augusti typifies the minimal impact crusading had on medieval conceptions of anger: despite several allusions to Philip’s wrath in other settings, Rigord never suggested that the king grew angry on crusade. Thus, the presentation of royal anger in chronicles of the Third Crusade was normative, rather than distinctive.

Conclusion Within certain contexts it was legitimate for crusaders to grow angry against their Muslim adversaries, yet it would be misleading to conclude that contemporaries deemed anger directed against God’s enemies as automatically permissible, or that crusading made a significant contribution to the emergence (and validation) of ira bona against sinners. The presence of zelus in the sources has led some

scholars to place undue emphasis on the righteousness of anger in a crusading context. The idea of crusading as an act of vengeance did continue to gain momentum in the period 1216–91, and zelus remained tied to that concept. However, zelus was never a dominant passion in crusade narratives, and the infrequency with which it featured in conjunction with anger terms means that it is often impossible to identify moments when zelus had clear connotations of righteous wrath. Pre-existing concepts of righteous anger do not appear to have been either popularized or substantially modified by the crusading movement. Zelus aside, the vocabulary of anger was absent from most documents relating to crusade preaching, which were instead dominated by the rhetoric of sorrow and lamentation, and few lyrics presented anger as an appropriate emotion for crusade participants. Anger was likewise poorly represented in the earliest crusade narratives, and only became more closely associated with crusading in chronicles of the Third Crusade. Consequently, Menache’s assertion that anger was a defining emotion of the entire crusading period should be rejected. Furthermore, in the narrative texts we witness a reluctance to justify moments of crusader wrath in terms of the religious errors of their Muslim opponents, their contamination of Christian holy sites, or the injuries they had allegedly inflicted on God or Christ. When participants were depicted as becoming righteously angry, it was usually in response to injuries of a physical nature (above all, the slaughter of their comrades) and, in this context, anger had the effect of justifying acts of brutality prosecuted by combatants. An exanimation of ira regis during the Third Crusade typifies the conventional portrayal of anger in crusade texts. Despite his enduring historiographical reputation as an irrational hothead, Richard I features in the Anglo-Norman chronicles as a monarch well-versed in using wrath to achieve his objectives. His anger was rarely represented as being motivated by religious considerations: it was directed as much at the Byzantines and fellow crusaders as at Muslims, and it was usually in response to physical injuries or slights to his honour. Frederick Barbarossa’s anger during the expedition was depicted in much the same way, whilst a comparison with Otto of Freising’s Gesta Friderici and the portrayal of Philip Augustus in Rigord’s Gesta Philippi Augusti reveals that chroniclers applied the conventional language of ira regis to a crusading context, with little or no modification. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

Alcuin of York, De virtutibus et vitiis liber ad Widonem comitem, in PL, ci, col. 634, ‘Ira una est

de octo vitiis principalibus, quae si ratione non regitur, in furorem vertitur: ita ut homo sui animi impotens erit, faciens quae non convenit’; Geneviève Bührer-Thierry, ‘“Just Anger” or “Vengeful Anger”? The Punishment of Blinding in the Early Medieval West’, in Anger’s Past, ed. Rosenwein, 75. 2

Albrecht Classen, ‘Anger and Anger Management in the Middle Ages: Mental-Historical

Perspectives’, Mediaevistik 19 (2006): 26–31. 3

Peter Damian, De frenanda ira et simultatibus extirpandis, in PL, cxlv, cols 654–6.

4

Lucius Annaeus Seneca, De ira, ed. and trans. John Cooper and J. F. Procopé, Moral and Political

Essays (Cambridge, 1995), 1–116; Martha Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics (Princeton, NJ, 1994), 402–38; Knuuttila, Emotions in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, 47–80; Katja Vogt, ‘Anger, Present Injustice and Future Revenge in Seneca’s De Ira’, in Seeing Seneca Whole: Perspectives on Philosophy, Poetry and Politics, ed. Katharina Volk and Gareth Williams (Leiden, 2006), 57–74; Gertrude Gillette, Four Faces of Anger: Seneca, Evagrius Ponticus, Cassian, and Augustine (Lanham, MD, 2010), 1–19. 5

William Harris, Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity

(Cambridge, MA, 2001); Simon Kemp and K. T. Strongman, ‘Anger Theory and Management: A Historical Analysis’, The American Journal of Psychology 108 (1995): 397–405. 6

Marc Cels, ‘Interrogating Anger in the New Penitential Literature of the Thirteenth Century’,

Viator 45 (2014): 208. 7

Marc Cels, ‘God’s Wrath against the Wrathful in Medieval Mendicant Preaching’, Canadian Journal of History 43 (2008): 217–26. Romans 12.19, ‘Revenge not yourselves, my dearly beloved; but give place unto wrath, for it is written: Revenge is mine, I will repay, said the Lord.’ 8

See Alcuin of York, De virtutibus et vitiis liber, col. 631; Hincmar of Reims, De cavendis vitiis et

virtutibus exercendis ad Carolum Calvum regem, in PL, cxxv, col. 880; Richard Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger” and the Renegotiation of Aristocratic Relationships in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century France’, in Anger’s Past, ed. Rosenwein, 156–7. 9

Gregory the Great, Moralium libri, sive expositio in librum B. Job, in PL, lxxv, col. 727,

‘curandum summopere est ne haec eadem, quae instrumento virtutis assumitur, menti ira dominetur’. 10

Gregory the Great, Moralium, col. 726.

11

Hugh of Saint Victor, Allegoriae in Novum Testamentum, in PL, clxxv, col. 775, ‘Est autem bona

ira, qua dedignaris malum facere; mala vero, qua dedignaris malum pati’; Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 157. 12

See Silvana Vecchio, ‘“Ira mala/ira bona”: Storia di un vizio che qualche volta è una virtù’, Doctor

Seraphicus 45 (1998): 41–62. 13

Augustine, De civitate Dei, in PL, xli, col. 260. On the connection between anger and vengeance,

see Augustine, De civitate Dei, col. 424; Augustine, Confessiones, LCL, 2 vols (London, 1631), i. 86. For anger’s detrimental impact on community, see Gillette, Four Faces of Anger, 98–116. 14

Thomas of Chobham, Summa confessorum, ed. F. Broomfield (Louvain, 1968), 414, ‘Ira autem per zelum est quando irascimur contra vitia et contra vitiosos, et possumus optare quod talis ira crescat, quia virtus est’; Throop, Act of Vengeance, 159. 15

Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, Volume 44: Well-Tempered Passion (2a2ae. 155–170), ed.

and trans. Thomas Gilby (London, 1972), 56, ‘Unde si aliquis appetat quod secundum ordinem rationis fiat vindicta, est laudabilis irae appetitus; et vocatur ira per zelum. Si autem aliquis appetat quod fiat

vindicta qualitercumque contra ordinem rationis, puta si appetat puniri eum qui non meruit, vel ultra quam meruit … erit appetitus irae vitiosus; et nominatur ira per vitium.’ For detailed discussions of Aquinas’ views on anger, see Judith Barad, ‘Aquinas and the Role of Anger in Social Reform’, Logos: A Journal of Catholic Thought and Culture 3 (2000): 124–44; Robert Miner, Thomas Aquinas on the Passions: A Study of Summa Theologiae 1a2ae 22–48 (Cambridge, 2009), 268–86; Knuuttila, Emotions in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, 239–55. 16

Hincmar of Reims, De cavendis vitiis et virtutibus, col. 880; Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae,

Volume 44, 56; Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 157–9; Ron Newbold, ‘The Nature of Anger in Gregory of Tours’ Libri Historiarum’, Nottingham Medieval Studies 51 (2007): 30–2. 17

Cels, ‘God’s Wrath’, 221; Cels, ‘Interrogating Anger’, 212–13; Knuuttila, Emotions in Ancient and

Medieval Philosophy, 254. 18

Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 60. See also Aristotle, Rhetoric, ed. Barnes, The Complete Works of

Aristotle, ii. 54–8; David Konstan, ‘Aristotle on Anger and the Emotions: The Strategies of Status’, in Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen, ed. Susanna Braund and Glenn Most (Cambridge, 2003), 117–20; David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Greek Literature (Toronto, 2006), 41–76. 19 20

John Jolliffe, Angevin Kingship, 2nd edn (London, 1963), 87–109, esp. 96–8. Gerd Althoff, ‘Ira Regis: Prolegomena to a History of Royal Anger’, in Anger’s Past, ed.

Rosenwein, 59–74; Jolliffe, Angevin Kingship, 106; Hans Orning, ‘Royal Anger between Christian Doctrine and Practical Exigencies’, Collegium Medievale 22 (2009): 46–9; Hans Orning, Unpredictability and Presence: Norwegian Kingship in the High Middle Ages, trans. Alan Crozier (Leiden, 2008), 168–94, 316; Kate McGrath, ‘Royal Madness and the Law: The Role of Anger in Representations of Royal Authority in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Anglo-Norman Texts’, in Madness in Medieval Law and Custom, ed. Wendy Turner (Leiden, 2010), 123–45. See also Smagghe, Les émotions du prince, 167–292; Boquet and Nagy, Sensible Moyen Âge, 240–8; Penelope Nash, ‘Reality and Ritual in the Medieval King’s Emotions of Ira and Clementia’, in Understanding Emotions in Early Europe, ed. Champion and Lynch, 251–71. 21

John of Salisbury, Policraticus, ed. Clement Webb, 2 vols (Oxford, 1909), i. 239, ‘princeps

delinquentes rectissime punit, non aliquo iracundiae motu sed mansuetae legis arbitrio’. 22

Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 153–70; Richard Barton, ‘Gendering Anger: Ira, Furor, and Discourses

of Power and Masculinity in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, in In the Garden of Evil: The Vices and Culture in the Middle Ages, ed. Richard Newhauser (Toronto, 2005), 371–92; Barton, ‘Emotions and Power’, 50–3; Kate McGrath, ‘The Politics of Chivalry: The Function of Anger and Shame in Eleventhand Twelfth-Century Anglo-Norman Historical Narratives’, in Feud, Violence and Practice: Essays in Medieval Studies in Honor of Stephen D. White, ed. Belle Tuten and Tracey Billado (Farnham, 2010), 55–69.

23

White, ‘Politics of Anger’, 142–5; Newbold, ‘Nature of Anger’, 26–30, 33–4; Throop, Act of

Vengeance, 21–2, 161–5. 24

Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 387, 389.

25

A broad spectrum of emotion markers that were frequently associated with anger in the texts—

including succendere, accendere, inflammare, and fervere—are also taken into consideration, along with terms which occupied the fringes of anger’s lexical field, such as vexare, efferare, effervescere, saevire, desaevire, bacchari, debacchari, commotus/commovere, irritare, infensus, and effrenus. On the Latin and Old French vocabularies of anger, see White, ‘Politics of Anger’, 132–3; Harris, Restraining Rage, 68– 70. 26

Consequently, the Latin terms rancor, invidia, odium, inimicitia, dolor, ultio, ulciscor, and vindicta

are also considered. On the meanings of vindicta, ultio, and vengance, see Throop, Act of Vengeance, 11– 41. 27

Throop, Act of Vengeance; Susanna Throop, ‘Vengeance and the Crusades’, Crusades 5 (2006): 21–

38. See also Rousset, Les origines et les caractères, 105–6; Philippe Buc, ‘La vengeance de Dieu: De l’exégèse patristique à la réforme ecclésiastique de la première croisade’, in La Vengeance, 400–1200, ed. Dominique Barthélemy, François Bougard, and Régine Le Jan (Rome, 2006), 451–86. 28

Damien Boquet, ‘Amours, castration et miracle au couvent de Watton: Évaluation émotionnelle

d’un crime d’honneur monastique (v.1165)’, in La chair des émotions, ed. Boquet and Nagy, 89–90. 29

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 145–71, at 170; Throop, ‘Zeal, Anger and Vengeance’, 177–201.

30

Tamminen, ‘Ad crucesignatos et crucesignandos’, 79.

31

Elias, ‘Case of Anger’, 45.

32

Menache, ‘Emotions in the Service of Politics’, 246; Sophia Menache, ‘Love of God or Hatred of

Your Enemy? The Emotional Voices of the Crusades’, Mirabilia 10 (2010): 11. 33

Menache, ‘Emotions in the Service of Politics’, 241; Menache, ‘Love of God’, 7.

34

Paul Hyams, ‘What Did Henry III of England Think in Bed and in French about Kingship and

Anger?’, in Anger’s Past, ed. Rosenwein, 103; Kate McGrath, ‘The “Zeal of God”: The Representation of Anger in the Latin Crusade Accounts of the 1096 Rhineland Massacres’, in Jews in Medieval Christendom: ‘Slay Them Not’, ed. Kristine Utterback and Merrall Price (Leiden, 2013), 28. 35

Tamminen, ‘Ad crucesignatos et crucesignandos’, 73–6, at 75.

36

HR, Liber, ch. 3, 4, 11.

37

HR, Opusculum, 198, ‘de vindicta sanguinis effusi a Saracenis, non curant?’

38

HR, Opusculum, 192, ‘animo vindicando, vel alia mala intentione, vel alias inordinate non sunt ista

facienda’. 39

HR, Liber, ch. 11, ‘zelo diuini amoris’.

40

HR, Liber, ch. 12, ‘zelo christiane legis’, ‘accenditur zelus vester ad defensionem legis nostre

sanctissime ab istis vilibus saracenis’. See also HR, Opusculum, 190, 199. 41

HR, Liber, ch. 12. Elsewhere in the De predicatione, Humbert highlighted further zealous

predecessors, like Peter the Hermit and Constantine the Great: HR, Liber, ch. 10, 31. 42

Humbert of Romans, Sermo II, in CPI, 216, 220; Humbert of Romans, Sermo III, in CPI, 226;

Humbert of Romans, Sermo IV, in CPI, 228; HR, Opusculum, 205, ‘fidei zelum’. 43 44

JV, HOr, 162, ‘ad ultionem iniuriarum Crucifixi’. JV, HOr, 162, ‘zelo charitatis succensus’; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 413, ‘zelo fidei

succensus’. See also Jacques de Vitry, Sermo I, in CPI, 92, 94; JV, Lettres, 132–3. 45

Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo 1: Sermo de rebellione Sarracenorum Lucherie in Apulia, transcr.

Christoph Maier, ‘Crusade and Rhetoric against the Muslim Colony of Lucera: Eudes of Châteauroux’s Sermones de Rebellione Sarracenorum Lucherie in Apulia’, JMH 21 (1995): 379; Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo 9: [Sermo] in festo reliquiarum [sancte capelle regis Francie], transcr. Charansonnet, ‘L’université’, 751. 46

Gregory IX, Rachel suum videns, 493, ‘nisi et suam vindicari de nostra confusione providisset

iniuriam’. 47

Gregory IX, Pium et sanctum, 495, ‘quatinus accensi zelo fidei Christiane portetis in humilitate

cordis et corpore verbum crucis et ad vindicandam iniuriam Crucifixi fideles ipsius … inducatis’. 48

Innocent IV, Terra Sancta, 149, ‘Nonne contra ipsam devotionis zelo mens Christiani cujuslibet

accendetur, cor munietur constantiae clypeo, & dextera gladio armabitur ultionis?’ See also Innocent IV, Gaudemus in Domino ed. Rymer, Foedera, conventiones, literae et cuiscunque generis acta publica, i/i. 159. 49

Innocent IV, Planxit hactenus, 738, ‘apprehendentes arma et scutum ad ulciscendum illius iniuriam

qui probra nostra diluit’; Innocent IV, Clamat instanter, 295, ‘ad ultionem injuriarum Christi’. 50

Gregory X, Zelus fidei, 309, ‘ad vindicandam iniuriam crucifixi, illorum interveniente auxilio, quos

ad hoc zelus fidei et devotionis accendet’. 51

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 79–80, 124–6, 143.

52

Innocent III, Ad liberandam, 267–71.

53

Continuatio Sancrucensis secunda, in MGH SS, ix. 640, ‘parabant vindictam facere in filios

diffidentie’. 54

MP, iv. 490, ‘simili zelo provocati’; v. 24, 155.

55

Geoffrey of Beaulieu, Vita, 4, 21, ‘zelo fidei accensus’, ‘ad ulciscendam injuriam salvatoris’.

56

Salimbene de Adam, Chronica, in MGH SS, xxxii. 444, ‘ad ulciscendum regem Franciae

Ludovicum a Deo esse missos’; William of Nangis, Gesta sanctae memoriae Ludovici regis Franciae, in RHGF, xx. 382; Malcolm Barber, ‘The Crusade of the Shepherds in 1251’, in Proceedings of the Tenth Annual Meeting of the Western Society for French History, 14–16 October 1982, Winnipeg, ed. John

Sweets (Lawrence, KS, 1984), 1–23. 57

Excidium Aconis, 47; Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 132, ‘ad vindicandam crucis,

immo verius vestram, iniuriam … unanimes properate’. 58

Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 163, ‘ultionem potenter de persecutoribus regis regum

… et crucis iniuriam … festinent in devotionis zelo fideique fervore tota fortitudine vindicare’. 59

Kurt Villads Jensen, ‘Holy War—Holy Wrath! Baltic Wars between Regulated Warfare and Total

Annihilation around 1200’, in Church and Belief in the Middle Ages: Popes, Saints, and Crusaders, ed. Kirsi Salonen and Sari Katajala-Peltomaa (Amsterdam, 2016), 243–6. 60

Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, ed. Karsten Friis-Jensen and trans. Peter Fisher, 2 vols

(Oxford, 2015), i. xxxiii–xxxv. 61

Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, ii. 1000, ‘ad sacrorum vindictam’; Jensen, ‘Holy War—Holy

Wrath!’, 244. 62

HL, 43, 194, ‘ad faciendam vindictam in nationibus et ad subiugandas gentes fidei christiane’, ‘qui

erant constantes corde ad faciendam vindictam contra nationes et ad ponendum se murum pro domo Domini, non abierunt retrorsum’. 63

Nicholas Morton, ‘Walls of Defence for the House of Israel: Ezekiel 13.5 and the Crusading

Movement’, in The Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources, ed. Lapina and Morton, 416. 64

HL, 82, 90, 119, 164.

65

Thibaut of Champagne, Seigneurs, sachiez, qui or ne s’en ira, 226, ‘doit querre sa venjance / et

delivrer sa terre’. 66

Nus ne porroit de mauvese reson, ed. Joseph Bédier and Pierre Aubry, Les chansons de croisade

(Paris, 1909), 264, ‘De sa honte ne de la Dieu vengier’; Austore d’Aurillac, Sirventés, ed. Alfred Jeanroy, ‘Le troubadour Austore d’Aurillac et son sirventés sue la septième croisade’, Romanische Forschungen 23 (1908): 83. 67

MP, iv. 140.

68

Louis IX, Epistola sancti Ludovici regis de captione et liberatione sua, 431, 432, ‘estote viri

potentes ad vindicandas iniurias & opprobria supradicta’. 69

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 145–71, 177.

70

SBO, viii. 314, ‘accingimini et vos viriliter et felicia arma corripite christiani nominis zelo’; PB, 70,

‘si zelo caritatis accensi eos impugnant viriliter qui Christum blasphemant’. 71

FC, 476; EA, 21; Annales Herbipolenses, in MGH SS, xvi. 3; Coggeshall, 24; GP, 216; Howden, Gesta, ii. 20; Boquet, ‘Amours, castration et miracle’, 89. 72

Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 104, ‘iuste in suum zelo zelatus iratusque populum’, 131, 143, 163. 73

Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 112, ‘calens zelo fidei christiane’, 136.

74

IP, 208, ‘ira fervente et zelo ultionis’.

75

OP, 195, ‘zelo iuste indignationis accensi’; Oliver of Paderborn, Historia regum Terre Sancte, ed.

Hermann Hoogeweg, Die Schriften des Kölner Domscholasters, spätern Bischofs von Paderborn und Kardinal-Bischofs von S. Sabina (Tübingen, 1894), 105, ‘indignationis zelo viriliter accensus’. See also RW, iv. 47. 76

AA, 38, 150, 204, 590, 688.

77

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 156.

78

RW, ii. 173; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 413; Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo I, in CPI, 132,

134; Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo III, in CPI, 153; Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo 12: [Sermo] in festo sanctarum reliquiarum, transcr. Charansonnet, ‘L’université’, 765. 79

Annales Herbipolenses, 3; Robert of Auxerre, Chronicon, in MGH SS, xxvi. 253. For similar

examples, see DRI, vii. 260; HR, Opusculum, 200. 80

Joinville (52, 208, 266, 304) did use vengeance terminology, but did not engage with the crusading

as vengeance concept. 81

McGrath, ‘“Zeal of God”’, 28–31, at 28.

82

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 137; Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, ed. Rudolf Hiestand

(Göttingen, 1985), 89. 83

BB, 6–10; RM, 5–8; FC, 132–8.

84

RM, 6.

85

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, 90–2; SBO, vii–viii.

86

Alexander III, Cor nostrum, cols 1294, 1295; Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 6–10; Innocent III,

Post miserabile, 498–505; Innocent III, Quia maior, cols 817–22. 87

HR, Liber, ch. 27.

88

Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo 1: Sermo de rebellione Sarracenorum Lucherie in Apulia, 377;

Gilbert of Tournai, Sermo III, in CPI, 206, ‘ad eos, qui sunt cruci rebelles et Christum crucifigunt in membris suis’. 89

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 136, ‘cui calamitati pio contuitu condolentes’.

90

BB, 8, ‘instant lacrime et gemitus, instant suspiria et singultus. Ploremus, fratres, eia ploremus et

cum psalmista medullitus plorantes ingemiscamus. Nos miseri, nos infelices … condoleamus et compatiamur fratribus nostris, saltem in lacrimis. Nos abiectio plebis facti, et omnium deteriores, immanissimam sanctissime terre plangamus deuastationem.’ 91

BB, 7, 8; RM, 5; FC, 132–3, 137.

92

Eugenius III, Quantum praedecessores, 90.

93

Adrian IV, Quantum strennui et egregii, in PL, clxxxviii, col. 1537.

94

Alexander III, Quantum praedecessores, cols 384–6. On Alexander’s crusade letters, see John

Rowe, ‘Alexander III and the Jerusalem Crusade: An Overview of Problems and Failures’, in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Shatzmiller, 112–32; Jonathan Phillips, Defenders of the Holy Land: Relations between the Latin East and the West, 1119–1187 (Oxford, 1996), 149–54, 186–90, 245– 50; Iben Fonnesberg-Schmidt, ‘Alexander III and the Crusades’, in Pope Alexander III (1159–81): The Art of Survival, ed. Peter Clarke and Anne Duggan (Farnham, 2012), 341–63. 95

Alexander III, In quantis pressuris, 251–3, at 251, ‘quantas … afflictiones et miserias’.

96

Alexander III, Inter omnia, cols 599–601.

97

Alexander III, Cum gemitus, in PL, cc, col. 601; Rowe, ‘Alexander III’, 125. See also Alexander III,

Cum Orientalis terra, in PL, cc, col. 1296. 98

Alexander III, Non sine gravi, in PL, cc, col. 927. But see also Alexander III, Cum de discordia, in

PL, cc, cols 962–3. 99

Alexander III, Cor nostrum, col. 1294, ‘Cor nostrum et omnium fratrum nostrorum sinistri rumores,

qui Hierosolymitanis partibus ad nos communi transeuntium relatione pervenerunt, nimio dolore conturbant: cum vix unquam aliquis, qui Christiano nomine censeatur, sine lacrymis et suspiriis audire valeat, quae de statu illius terrae miserabili recitantur.’ 100

Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 7.

101

Peter of Blois, Conquestio de dilatione vie Ierosolimitane, 75.

102

Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 7.

103

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo I, 92.

104

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo I, 92, ‘Quid igitur de illis qui audiunt Terram Sanctam ab inimicis Christi

conculcari et nec dolore moventur nec curare videntur.’ 105

Thomas Smith, ‘The Use of the Bible in the Arengae of Pope Gregory IX’s Crusade Calls’, in The

Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources, ed. Lapina and Morton, 214, 216–18, 224, 226. Rachel’s lament was also mentioned by thirteenth-century chroniclers; for example, Thadeus of Naples, Ystoria de desolatione, 130. 106

Gregory IX, Rachel suum videns, 492, ‘Rachel … pia mater, sancta Romana ecclesia, cuius magna

est quasi mare de sue prolis internecione contritio, voce lamentationis, fletus et luctus emisit hactenus et emittit, quam audiri cupimus in excelso, ut per diem et noctem fidelium oculi doloris lacrimam deducentes non taceant, et donec misereatur Dominus, non quiescent.’ 107

Harris, Restraining Rage, 68; William Anderson, Essays on Roman Satire (Princeton, NJ, 1982),

316–17; Susanna Braund, ‘A Passion Unconsoled? Grief and Anger in Juvenal Satire 13’, in The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature, ed. Susanna Braund and Christopher Gill (Cambridge, 1997), 80. 108

See, for example, Gregory VIII, Audita tremendi, 7, 8; Innocent III, Post miserabile, 504.

109

Conon of Béthune, Ahi! Amors, com dure departie, ll. 42–6, ‘or i parra ki a certes iert prex; /

s’irons vengier la honte dolereuse / dont chascuns doit estre iriés et hontex; / car a no tans est perdus li sains lieus / ou Diex soffri por nos mort angoisseuse’; Throop, Act of Vengeance, 119–20. 110

Audefroi le Bastart, Bele Yzabeaus, pucele bien aprise, ed. Anna Radaelli and trans. Linda

Paterson, LRC, l. 45, ‘de doel et d’ire esprise’. 111

Ricaut Bonomel, Ir’e dolors s’es e mon cor assiza, ed. and trans. Linda Paterson, LRC, ll. 1–4,

‘Ir’e dolors s’es e mon cor assiza, / si c’ab un pauc no m’ausi demanes, / o meta jus la cros c’avia preza, / a la honor d’aqel q’en cros fo mes.’ 112

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, Ara pot hom conoisser e proar, ll. 41–3.

113

This was also noticed by Ordman, ‘Feeling like a Holy Warrior’, 289–90.

114

Althoff, ‘Ira Regis’, 74; Orning, ‘Royal Anger’, 34–54. But see also Hyams, ‘What Did Henry III

of England Think in Bed’, 103–5. 115

OD, 74, ‘succensusque ira’.

116

OD, 50, ‘pacifici principis’, 44.

117

Menache, ‘Love of God’, 10–11; Menache, ‘Emotions in the Service of Politics’, 245. On the

Jerusalem massacre, see Benjamin Kedar, ‘The Jerusalem Massacre of July 1099 in the Western Historiography of the Crusades’, Crusades 3 (2004): 15–75; 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. 118

RC, 697–8, ‘par ira’, ‘sancte furor’.

119

WM, 650, ‘insatiabilis ira uictorum consumebat’, ‘cede infidelium expiata’. On the motif of

Muslim pollution, see Penny Cole, ‘“O God, the Heathen Have Come into Your Inheritance” (Ps. 78.1): The Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusade Documents, 1095–1188’, in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Shatzmiller, 84–111. 120

AA, 442, ‘bachantes ac seuientes’; Kedar, ‘Jerusalem Massacre’, 22–3.

121

AA, 436.

122

HR, Opusculum, 193, ‘ita debacchaverunt Christiani in Saracenos, quod in porticu Salomonis

sanguis occisorum ascendebat usque ad genua equorum’. Internal evidence suggests that Humbert used debacchari to signify an uncontrollable kind of anger: HR, Opusculum, 196. On the Muslim blood rising to the horses’ knees, see RA, 150. 123

HR, Opusculum, 193, ‘multo plures Saraceni a Christianis interfecti sunt quam econverso’.

124

JV, HOr, 170; RW, ii. 141–3.

125

GP, 74.

126

RA, 94; WT, 354, ‘ira succensus qualem sacrilegii dolor poterat ministrare’, 401. See also RW, ii. 127; iii. 269. 127

WT, 132. See Matthew 21.12–13, Mark 11.15–18, Luke 19.45–6, John 2.15.

128

BC, Liber, 222, ‘eodem pro domo Dei fervere milites zelo, quo ipse quondam militum Dux’,

‘vehementissime inflammatus’. See also Katherine Allen Smith, ‘The Crusader Conquest of Jerusalem and Christ’s Cleansing of the Temple’, in The Uses of the Bible in Crusader Sources, ed. Lapina and Morton, 35–6, 38–40. 129

RM, 69, ‘quia vero ab occidente venerat, Francorum agmina designabat, per quos ire sue

animadversionem exercebat’. 130

GP, 6, ‘iustas inflammarentur in iras’.

131

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 170, ‘ceciderat enim super eos timor et indignatio’.

132

Morris, ‘Aims and Spirituality’, 108–10.

133

AA, 196, 414, ‘fratres et filii dilectissimi’, ‘concordi amore placauerunt’.

134

Throop, Act of Vengeance, 49–52.

135

AA, 114, ‘accensa magis ac magis ira’.

136

AA, 224, 222.

137

AA, 156–8, ‘in ultionem sanguinis confratrum in fraude mortificatorum’.

138

AA, 36, 38, ‘animi et corda cunctorum uehementi consternata sunt dolore, super interitu

confratrum suorum’, ‘quatenus ad uindictam fratrum consurgerent, aduersus Turcorum audaciam’. 139

AA, 38, ‘ira et indignatione grauiter moti’.

140

AA, 156–8, 212, 362–4, 408, 546, 668, 734, 878–80.

141

GF, 40, ‘accensi occisione nostrorum’.

142

GN, 191.

143

BB, 50, ‘magis in iram excitati quam exterriti’, 51.

144

Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica, 178, ‘milites Christi meror occupavit et indignatio et quedam de

hostium subsannatione confusio’. 145

CA, 232, ‘n’i ot que courecier’; Antioche, 208.

146

CA, 201–2, ‘Quant li dus l’a veü, forment li desagree, / Il a estrains les dens, s’a sa teste juree: /

“Cuivert, mar le touçastes! Vostre vie est finne”’; Antioche, 192. 147

The Song of Roland, ii. 112, 242.

148

La Chanson de Guillaume, 132; Raoul de Cambrai, ed. and trans. Sarah Kay (Oxford, 1992), 188,

‘bien … doi corecier’. 149

Malcolm Barber, ‘The Albigensian Crusades: Wars Like Any Other?’, in Dei Gesta per Francos,

ed. Balard, Kedar, and Riley-Smith, 45–55; Megan Cassidy-Welch, ‘Images of Blood in the Historia Albigensis of Pierre des Vaux-de-Cernay’, Journal of Religious History 35 (2011): 478–91; Jensen, ‘Holy War—Holy Wrath!’, 227–50. 150

Jensen, ‘Holy War—Holy Wrath!’, 238–48, at 246, 247.

151

For an isolated instance of unprovoked anger, see HL, 119.

152

HL, 112, ‘indignati sunt eis Theuthonici, eo quod Saccalam episcopo iam subditam spoliaverunt’.

153

HL, 125, ‘Tunc filii Thalibaldi, Rameko et Drivinalde, videntes, quia mortuus est pater eorum, irati

sunt contra Estones valde.’ 154

HL, 125, ‘in ultionem Thalibaldi’.

155

HL, 126, ‘in ultionem patris sui’.

156

See also Jezierski, ‘Risk Societies’, 175, who proposed a ‘gradual transition from the age of horror

to the age of joy in just over 45 years’ in the Chronicon Livoniae. 157

HL, 45, 48, 55, 111, 132, 133, 185, 200, 205, 210, 221.

158

HL, 65, 82, 95, 98, 104, 119, 120, 136, 153, 196, 199, 205.

159

PLVC, i. 91, 172, 200–1, 217, 221, 231; ii. 108, 181, 183, 190, 278.

160

Flori, Richard the Lionheart, 348. For Richard’s alleged ‘fit of rage’ at Acre, see Brundage, Richard Lion Heart, 135; Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A Short History (London, 1987), 116; Hans Mayer, The Crusades, trans. John Gillingham, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1988), 146. In contrast, see John Gillingham, Richard I (New Haven, CT, 1999), 169. 161

See Stephen Spencer, ‘“Like a Raging Lion”: Richard the Lionheart’s Anger during the Third

Crusade in Medieval and Modern Historiography’, EHR 132 (2017): 503–11. 162

Ansbert, 99; Rigord, 306–8.

163

Ambroise, i. 89 (ii. 108), ‘grevoit et despleisoit’.

164

Howden, Gesta, ii. 189, ‘doluit vehementer’.

165

WN, 359, ‘justo ignitus zelo’; William the Breton, Philippidos, ed. Henri-François Delaborde,

Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, historiens de Philippe-Auguste, 2 vols (Paris, 1882–5), ii. 105. 166

JV, HOr, 456, ‘iratus et indignatus’, ‘temperantius et mitius’.

167

JV, HOr, 456.

168

Ambroise, i. 89 (ii. 108), ‘Mais por l’orgoil des Turs / abatre, / Et por lor lei desaëngier, / Et por

cristïenté vengier.’ 169

Howden, Chronica, iii. 106, 126; Howden, Gesta, ii. 186–7; Ambroise, i. 189 (ii. 186); IP, 189,

242, 360. 170

Ambroise, i. 31 (ii. 58), ‘Tant que li reis se coreça / E les surcilz amont dresça’; Howden,

Chronica, iii. 98, ‘Rex vero Angliae in iram commotus adversus regem Franciae, nec faciem hilarem nec pacem spondentem ei praetendebat.’ 171

Spencer, ‘“Like a Raging Lion”’, 523–31.

172

IP, 42, ‘dignas principe concipit iras’; Ansbert, 58, ‘iuste conmotis’.

173

Ansbert, 87; Otto of St Blasien, Chronica, 50.

174

HP, 148, ‘iram suam effudit’.

175

Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici I imperatoris, in MGH SRG, xlvi. 119, ‘indignatione motus’;

Althoff, ‘Ira Regis’, 70–3. Otto was probably influenced by Frederick’s 1157 letter, which alluded to his just anger: Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 2. 176

Sverre Bagge, ‘Ideas and Narrative in Otto of Freising’s Gesta Frederici’, JMH 22 (1996): 345–77.

177

WP, 38, 60–2, 134; David Bates, ‘Anger, Emotion and a Biography of William the Conqueror’, in

Gender and Historiography: Studies in the Earlier Middle Ages in Honour of Pauline Stafford, ed. Janet Nelson, Susan Reynolds, and Susan Johns (London, 2012), 21–33; Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI, 16, 80, 142–4. 178

Steven Runciman, A History of the Crusades, 3 vols (Cambridge, 1951–4), iii. 35; Brundage,

Richard Lion Heart, 129, 255, 260–1. 179

Rigord, 136, ‘christianissimus rex Philippus nimio furore succensus’, ‘omnes sibi subpeditavit et

ad omnem voluntatem ejus faciendam potentissime coegit’. 180

Rigord, 136, ‘Domino miraculose operante’.

181

Rigord, 236, ‘dominum suum’, ‘in omnibus plene satisfacerent’. See also the accounts of Philip’s

rancorous hewing of the elm at Gisors in 1188, analysed in Lindsay Diggelmann, ‘Hewing the Ancient Elm: Anger, Arboricide, and Medieval Kingship’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 40 (2010): 249–72. 182

Rigord, 174.

6 Restraining Rage In the previous chapter it was established that crusading had minimal impact on contemporary conceptions of just anger: the formation of the ‘crusade idea’ neither heralded a proliferation of references to ira per zelum against unbelievers in the narrative texts nor significantly altered the ways in which chroniclers wrote about beneficial wrath. The historiographical emphasis on righteous displays of anger is therefore unfounded. This chapter sets out to further this line of argument by considering representations of dysfunctional anger—ire that was considered undesirable and socially unacceptable. A set of recurring tropes which commentators utilized to signal uncontrollable rage will be identified and analysed, before demonstrating that all anger—even if righteous—was primarily considered fundamentally dangerous. The remainder of the chapter seeks to draw attention to crusade chroniclers’ emphasis on the need to restrain potentially threatening outbreaks of wrath, and, on this basis, it will be suggested that current thinking on the conceptual distinction between ira and furor needs to be revisited. It is the primary contention of this chapter that crusade propagandists and chroniclers were less concerned with the validity of channelling anger towards the Christians’ Muslim opponents, and far more interested in flashes of anger between the crusaders themselves. It is in this context that we encounter the dominant interpretation of anger in the sources: as a violent passion, capable of manifesting inter-Latin rivalries and inhibiting expeditions to the Holy Land, and one which ultimately needed to be controlled. This deep-seated ideology of anger control, it will be suggested, points in an entirely different direction to the prevailing scholarly focus on ira per zelum: that crusading did not fundamentally change western attitudes towards anger.

Uncontrollable Rage and the Violence of Anger While the display of wrath was represented as the appropriate response to an injury in crusade texts,

proneness to anger was usually derided. As Kate McGrath has demonstrated outside a crusade setting, representations of nobles who raged uncontrollably offer the clearest indicators of ideal aristocratic conduct in relation to anger.1 Sometimes writers explicitly condemned individuals who were unable to harness their wrath. In a list of Prince Raymond of Antioch’s ‘defects’ (defectus), William of Tyre included ‘incapable of moderation in anger’ and ‘lack of reason’.2 Alberic of Trois Fontaines, writing between 1227 and 1251, reported that similar accusations were made against the charismatic preacher Fulk of Neuilly, ‘because he was angry beyond measure’.3 In the absence of any explicit accusation of lack of restraint, I suggest, chroniclers utilized a range of rhetorical devices—with which their audiences would presumably have been familiar—to indicate the extent, uncontrollable nature, and impropriety of a protagonist’s wrath. Characteristically dysfunctional anger could be indicated, above all, by the choice of terminology. Two Latin anger terms were repeatedly used by crusade chroniclers to designate disproportionate rage: furor and rabies. Both possessed strong connotations of irrationality and madness, and both were considered bestial qualities.4 Thus, Godfrey of Bouillon’s leg was bitten by a bear’s raging (rabido) mouth, as befitted a mad beast (insana fera); and, in a similar episode, one Third Crusade commentator characterized a boar encountered by Richard the Lionheart as ‘growing hot with fury’.5 Some chroniclers explicitly juxtaposed furor with reason (ratio), in the manner of Isidore of Seville: the Teutons were described with furor because they bore arms even in peacetime; and the slaughter of fellow Christians was frequently ascribed to ‘mad rage’.6 Bestial fury tended to be attributed to crusaders who were accused of lacking control, exemplified by accounts of the unruly conduct of the earliest crusaders—known to posterity as the ‘People’s Crusade’—as they passed through Hungary in 1096. It is now well-established that these contingents contained nobles as well as peasants; yet, for most twelfth-century chroniclers, they were characteristically disorderly and lacked effective leadership.7 Several authors depicted these crusaders as possessing a boundless, unmediated rage, which verged on insanity: Guibert of Nogent, Albert of Aachen, William of Tyre, and the continuator of Gilo of Paris all utilized the terminology of fury and madness in their descriptions. Albert repeatedly used furor and insania to describe such irrational men, ‘a wild and unrestrained people with neither cause nor reason’.8 William of Tyre, who consulted Albert’s Historia, also employed furor and insania to personify these ‘sons of Belial’ (filii Belial), whose madness knew no bounds (cepit insanire vehementius).9 Guibert of Nogent offered a particularly damning critique of these crusaders, employing a wide range of rage and madness terms—debacchari, rabies, dementia, vecordia, vesania—and charging them with lacking restraint (mira lascivia) and control (moderatique nichil).10 He recorded that the contingent led by Peter the Hermit, of whom the author was highly critical, ‘began to revel wildly in unnatural excesses against the mildness of the natives’.11 ‘Debachari’ was juxtaposed with ‘mansuetudinem’—a praiseworthy quality which, as we shall see, was expected of crusaders. Indeed, Guibert considered it a kind of ‘remarkable madness’ that, not content with the Hungarians’ decency, in a mad rage (rabie) the

crusaders razed public granaries, violated virgins, and burned the beards of their hosts.12 A clear juxtaposition was also established between the indiscipline and fury of Peter’s band and the supposed restraint and mildness of Godfrey of Bouillon’s contingent: Godfrey followed the same route as Peter, but achieved greater success due to restraint (modestia).13 A similar narrative strategy was employed by the ‘Charleville poet’. To avoid the same fate as those before him, Godfrey decided to conduct himself ‘not with bloodshed but with reason’ in his negotiations with the Hungarians.14 The benefit of such an approach, as opposed to the rage of the earlier participants, was indicated by the contrasting fortunes of the two armies: Godfrey’s band experienced the value of ‘self-control and counsel’, rather than the harm caused by ‘rashness and fury’, for the Hungarians became subjected under their authority.15 These accounts of the early crusaders point to a broader theme discernible in a number of texts throughout the crusading period: the relationship between rage—usually designated as furor or rabies— and indiscipline. Participants in the 1101–2 expeditions were similarly represented as raging madly, as were those in the ‘Crusade of the Shepherds’ of 1251.16 Odo of Deuil consistently deployed furor to criticize the unruly behaviour of German participants in the Second Crusade, whom he blamed for problems the Franks encountered. Reporting a juggler’s pranks on some Germans in a settlement near Philippopolis, Odo described how the latter ‘immediately rose up with fury as if they had seen a portent, seized the juggler, and tore him to bits’.17 With the arrival of Philippopolis’ governor and troops, unarmed to diffuse the mêlée, the outnumbered Germans were ‘agitated by wine and rage’ and, consequently, misinterpreted the situation, believing that they were seeking revenge for the juggler’s murder.18 This account of German fury possibly reflects the influence of Lucan’s De bello civili, from which the furor Teutonicus stereotype originates, but Odo may have encountered it second-hand via Suger of St-Denis’ Vita Ludovici Grossi, which includes a very similar description of German rage.19 In any case, through the imputation of furor here and elsewhere in his De profectione, Odo enhanced his presentation of the undisciplined German march. Given their association with madness and irrational behaviour, rabies and furor thus functioned as effective vehicles for discrediting individuals, and the distribution of these terms often reflected an author’s allegiances. Unsurprisingly, both terms were regularly imputed to the crusaders’ Muslim enemies. Writing to Flanders in December 1095, Urban II referred to the ‘barbaric fury’ of the First Crusade’s opponents, and similar terminology punctuated narratives of that expedition.20 Guibert of Nogent, Baldric of Bourgueil, Orderic Vitalis, and Ralph of Caen all used rabies or furor to characterize the Turkish opponents faced at Dorylaeum in 1097.21 Likewise, furor was imputed to the Third Crusaders’ adversaries four times in the Itinerarium peregrinorum’s account of the battle of Arsuf, during which the Muslims were supposedly ‘raging with violent fury’, and the same writer frequently alluded to Saladin’s uncontrollable rage.22 In addition, given ira’s status as a deadly vice, several crusade commentators ascribed inappropriate outbreaks of anger to demonic possession. This association usually formed part of a broader perception

whereby the devil, envious of Christian successes, was accused of stirring up disagreements within crusader armies.23 According to Gilo of Paris, Raymond of Toulouse and Bohemond of Taranto were unable to reach an agreement over possession of Antioch because ‘the awful deceit of the devil took hold, and anger knew no end’.24 William of Tyre used similar rhetoric to condemn the Hospitallers who, ‘consumed by diabolic daring and a spirit of fury’, showered the Holy Sepulchre with arrows in 1153/4; and Matthew Paris claimed that Louis IX’s alliance with the Mamluks in 1252 caused some Franks, incited by the devil, to conceive anger in their hearts.25 Similarly, in the Brevis ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis, whose author displayed an incessant concern for original sin, iracundia was listed as one of the devil’s snares (retia diaboli), along with luxury, pride, avarice, perjury, false testimony, and the lying tongue.26 The author returned to this idea in a later passage, which warned that the angry (iracundos) were liable to be dragged to hell by the devil.27 Only taking the cross with true contrition and devotion would enable Christians to evade such demonic snares. Unrestrained bouts of crusader anger were often represented as motivating derogatory speeches and violent actions. As noted in Chapter 5, this perception can be traced back to Matthew 5.21–2, a passage which seemingly influenced several crusade chroniclers. For example, Matthew Paris reported that, at Caesarea in 1253, a Frankish knight seeking honour asked Louis IX if he could attack the Saracens. With the king’s permission, the knight collected forces, defeated a band of Saracens, and returned rejoicing with booty. Upon his return, however, the knight was summoned to the king, whose envious counsellors demanded that most of the spoils be handed over.28 In defiance, the knight defamed Louis’ counsellors as lazy and fearful, inspiring one of the reproached advisors, ‘boiling with great anger’, to denounce him as a coward.29 Hearing this, the knight’s son, ‘fired with great anger, leapt into the middle, and not controlling himself because of anger, said with a resounding voice: “Oh, for God’s brain, you base and unwarlike wretch, you dared to utter such words with my father present and listening!”’30 ‘Bursting forth in his fury’, the youth removed a dagger and rushed to eviscerate the counsellor.31 Matthew Paris’ telling of this incident reflects, if only unconsciously, the aforementioned tripartite model in Matthew 5.21–2: the youngster’s rage was not controlled—a point underlined by the imputation of furor—and his unrelenting fury resulted in mutinous words and violence. Anger’s ability to motivate acts of brutality was a recurring theme throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The violence of an individual’s wrath was frequently expressed through vehemens; thus, Frederick II apparently ‘blazed into most violent anger’ following his excommunication at the Council of Lyons in 1245.32 Describing an individual’s physiological symptoms—including a savage expression, threatening eyes, or a terrifying voice—communicated the violence of his ire.33 Albeit outside a crusade setting, one of the clearest examples of this is Richard of Devizes’ description of the symptoms exhibited by John, count of Mortain, who raged against Richard I’s chancellor, William Longchamp, in the summer of 1191. John was ‘more than angry’ and ‘became unrecognizable in his entire body: anger furrowed his forehead into creases, his burning eyes sent out sparks, spite corrupted

the rosy colour of his face’.34 Importantly, the chronicler inferred from these physiological signs that John’s anger would have resulted in violent actions.35 Once again, the nexus between anger and violence comes sharply into focus in descriptions of Muslim ire, with several authors suggesting that the Latins’ enemies possessed an unquenchable rage which resulted in marked brutality.36 However, such accusations were not levelled exclusively at Muslim protagonists: ‘bad’ Christians could also commit acts of extensive and unjust violence in anger, as William of Tyre’s portrayal of Reynald of Châtillon testifies. Reynald was a political adversary of the archbishop of Tyre and, in all likelihood, had been partly responsible for the appointment of Eraclius, instead of William, as patriarch of Jerusalem in 1180. As such, William offered a generally antagonistic account of Reynald’s career, overlooking many of his accomplishments.37 Anger featured as a defect of Reynald’s character on two occasions in William’s Chronicon. The first concerns the prince of Antioch’s infamous maltreatment of the city’s Latin patriarch, Aimery of Limoges. On a summer’s day in c.1153, the patriarch was placed atop Antioch’s citadel, his head smeared with honey to attract flies. Aimery had allegedly spoken out against Reynald’s marriage to Princess Constance of Antioch, and consequently incurred the prince’s wrath: ‘stirred to indignation and inexorable anger, the prince laid violent hands upon the lord patriarch and with diabolic daring caused him to be seized and led disgracefully to the citadel’.38 There can be little doubt that William disapproved of Reynald’s wrath: ‘inexorabilem’ communicated its relentless nature; and his anger, or at least the violence it inspired, was associated with the devil (ausu diabolico). These traits give the impression that Reynald’s anger was out of control, and such a reading is in tune with the suggestion that Baldwin III of Jerusalem was shocked at the ‘madness of the demented man’.39 The Old French translator of William of Tyre’s chronicle certainly appears to have interpreted the Latin in this way, denouncing the disproportionate violence manifested by Reynald’s rage: ‘The prince, a new man, was very angry and disconcerted, to a point where his anger reached a pitch which led him to act beyond all reasonable bounds.’40 Here, the impression of anger controlling Reynald, rather than the other way around, is particularly pronounced. The portrayal of Reynald’s unrestrained rage, verging on insanity, which resulted in illegitimate acts of violence, is even more palpable in William’s account of the prince’s 1156 attack on Byzantine Cyprus. According to William, Reynald feared the arrival of Manuel Komnenos at Antioch in 1158 because he had earlier ‘raged with great madness upon the innocent and undeserving Cypriots’, inflicting injuries that were ‘detestable to both God and men’.41 In both instances, Reynald was depicted as harbouring mad fury which manifested characteristically unjust brutality. It is highly likely that this represents a conscious literary ploy by William; no other source for these events alluded to Reynald’s anger.42 Furthermore, other portions of William’s Chronicon show clear signs of the deliberate distortion and manipulation of events to defame particular individuals, such as Alice of Antioch.43 Emphasizing the duration of an angry outburst also articulated the immoderate nature of a protagonist’s rage. In line with his generally antagonistic portrayal of the German contingent of the

Second Crusade, Odo of Deuil recorded that their rage was so extensive that it could not be placated by nightfall, whereas the Itinerarium peregrinorum gave the following account of Philip Augustus’ reaction to the destruction of his siege machinery by Greek fire during the siege of Acre: Then the king of France, disturbed by immoderate fury, began to abuse all men bound to his authority with awful cursing, and to disgrace them with shameful insults, because they were not demanding worthy revenge from the Saracens for inflicting such things on them. He was still in the heat of his anger with the coming of evening …44 This description was probably based on Ambroise’s Estoire, although—importantly—the statement that the king’s anger persisted into the evening appears to be an addition by the Itinerarium’s author, leaving no doubt as to the impropriety of his fury.45 As this passage testifies, several of the abovementioned traits could be employed simultaneously to signal disproportionate anger. Furor, in conjunction with the qualifying term ‘immoderato’, indicated the uncontrollable nature of Philip’s rage, which also resulted in slanderous words against his troops. In representing dysfunctional rage through these textual markers, crusade commentators were probably adhering to established literary conventions. Richard Barton’s analysis of twelfth-century historical narratives revealed that furor was often used to denounce political adversaries, and McGrath has discussed anger’s association with the devil and violence in many of the same texts.46 For example, William of Poitiers described Harold Godwinson as a ‘mad Englishman’ and the ‘furious king’, no doubt in an attempt to emphasize the illegitimacy of his claim to the English throne.47 Likewise, Orderic Vitalis consistently depicted Robert of Bellême—the antihero to Henry I—as raging insanely.48 As in the examples from crusade texts, Robert’s rage was associated with unmediated brutality: at one point, ‘Robert crossed to Normandy, bursting with anger and grief, and savagely attacked those of his compatriots who had attempted to help their weak lord, leaving a trail of fire and slaughter behind him.’49 Tellingly, Orderic added that in this way Robert vented his bestial fury (rabiem), just as Waleran of Meulan was ‘raging like a boar frothing at the mouth’ when he rebelled against Henry I.50 The same connection—between rage, madness, and illegitimate violence—punctuated numerous other historical narratives. In Suger of St-Denis’ Vita Ludovici Grossi, such insinuations of violent, bestial rage usually appear in relation to Louis VI’s rebellious enemies. Thus, ‘with the fury of a wolf’, Thomas of Marle laid waste to the countryside around Laon, Reims, and Amiens, without showing any feeling of humanity (aliqua humanitate); and those who murdered Count Charles of Flanders on 2 March 1127 were said to have been ‘thirsting for his blood like mad dogs raging over abandoned bodies’.51 The Gesta Stephani recorded how in 1146 Philip, son of Earl Robert of Gloucester, ‘raged unendurably with arms and pillage, and savage and full of indignation he determined to ravage the whole province’.52 Richard of Devizes wrote of the ‘natural fury’ and destructive impulses of the Normans; and, according to Roger of Howden, the ‘wicked rage’ of Philip Augustus and Richard I in 1198 manifested a new kind

of violence, with each resorting to plucking the eyes from prisoners.53 The link between unchecked anger and acts of brutality was thus firmly established in the twelfth century.54 Furthermore, the fact that Albert of Aachen, Odo of Deuil, William of Tyre, the author of the Itinerarium peregrinorum, and Matthew Paris all engaged with the furor Teutonicus stereotype, which gained new currency in the twelfth century, only epitomizes the willingness with which authors would apply established tropes to crusading.55 Therefore, twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade commentators appear to have drawn upon a set of conventional traits and topoi, many of which also featured in texts not directly concerned with crusading, to articulate dysfunctional forms of anger. These include: the selection of specific anger terminology, such as furor or rabies, which implied bestial madness or lack of reason; association with the devil; emphasizing the violence of anger and the brutality it inspired; and commenting on the duration of a protagonist’s rage. This list is by no means exhaustive, but each trait would likely have signalled to medieval audiences the impropriety and uncontrollable nature of the character’s wrath, thus making them valuable rhetorical devices for vilifying protagonists.

Passions of Discord We should not imagine that disproportionate rage was the only socially dangerous type of anger—in fact, all species of anger seemingly had the potential to be harmful, even if justly motivated. There remains a fundamental problem with the idea that crusading created an atmosphere in which ira per zelum against unbelievers thrived: while anger could, under certain conditions, be legitimately directed against the crusaders’ Muslim opponents, crusade propagandists and chroniclers were far more concerned with the emergence of angry feelings within crusader armies. Unless properly harnessed, anger was a dangerous passion which could sow discord and breed violence between Latin Christians. This inward-looking focus is the dominant interpretation of anger in crusade sources. By the thirteenth century, internal dissensions were identified as a fundamental reason for the failure of crusading expeditions—an opinion voiced by Gilbert of Tournai, Fidence of Padua, and Humbert of Romans.56 Gregory IX appreciated that disagreements and quarrels amongst crusade participants needed to be transformed into peace and love, in the same way that the author of the Gesta obsidionis Damiate reported that the sign of the cross turned discordia into ‘good harmony’.57 The root of such discord was often anger, hatred, and envy—three emotions medieval philosophers and crusade chroniclers believed were interrelated, and which modern anthropologists continue to conglomerate under the label of ‘nasty

emotions’.58 Bartolf of Nangis coupled ‘odium et iram’, as did Albert of Aachen.59 The latter also repeatedly employed the construction ‘inuidia et indignatio’ and, at times, used ira and invidia interchangeably.60 Another author maintained that envy (invidia), hatred (odium), and rage (furor) were intertwined.61 William of Tyre linked odium and indignatio, such as when a serious enmity (graves inimicitie), marked by hatred and indignation (odium … et indignationem), arose between Bohemond II of Antioch and Joscelin I of Edessa in 1127.62 A flash of anger was a temporary emotional response, but over time it could develop into hatred, signalling a prolonged hostility and the long-term disintegration of a social relationship.63 Thus, the anger Frederick II conceived against the Italians in 1236 was fuelled by additional injuries, until ‘wrath turned into relentless hatred’.64 Given their potential for creating internal dissentions and jeopardizing crusading enterprises, anger, hatred, and envy were frequently depicted as passions crusaders should reject. This perception marked a wide range of twelfth- and thirteenth-century sources. In his De laude novae militiae, Bernard of Clairvaux advocated that only a wretched victory (infelix victoria) could be achieved by those who succumbed to vices like ira or superbia, and ‘feelings of irrational anger’ were deemed one of the fundamental causes of internecine warfare.65 Pope Innocent III’s legislation at the Fourth Lateran Council in November 1215, Ad liberandam, stipulated that participants in the Fifth Crusade ought ‘to entirely avoid disagreements and rivalries, [and] to banish rancour and envy from deep within oneself’, while Humbert of Romans insisted that there was no place for envy in the Christian fellowship on crusade.66 This view was regularly articulated in the narrative histories too. Albert of Aachen evidently appreciated that anger could cause fatal divisions amongst Latin Christians; in a message to Bohemond of Taranto, Tancred of Hauteville reportedly acknowledged that sloth (pigritari) or traces of indignation (indignationis) might make them neglectful in assisting their brethren.67 William of Tyre likewise interpreted irascible passions as detrimental to Christian fraternity. On one occasion, he juxtaposed rancor with Christian charity: before the battle of Antioch in June 1098, the First Crusaders laid aside the rancour (rancore deposito) which existed between them and were consequently transformed with charity (reformata … caritate), thereby fulfilling John 13.35.68 In fact, the archbishop of Tyre repeatedly employed anger and hatred to describe the deterioration of social relationships between Latin Christians in the East.69 For William, such rancorous dissensions gifted opportunities to the Christians’ enemies, as prophesized in Luke 11.17: ‘Every kingdom divided against itself shall be brought to desolation, and house upon house shall fall.’70 Indeed, Zengi’s conquest of Edessa in December 1144 was apparently facilitated by the fact that the enmity (inimicitie) between Prince Raymond of Antioch and Joscelin II of Edessa was ‘no longer concealed, but had now advanced all the way to open hatred’.71 Perhaps reflecting William’s concern over the internal factionalism which plagued the kingdom of Jerusalem during his own time, the archbishop ended his account of Edessa’s loss with the following message: ‘personal

hatred ought not to overflow into common harm’.72 Chroniclers continued to denounce these ‘nasty emotions’ throughout the entire crusading period. For the author of the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, crusaders ought to engage in a just war ‘with the zeal of justice, not with the poison of anger’.73 This view probably accounts for Ambroise’s decision to twice affirm that the Third Crusaders journeyed ‘without anger’, whilst Geoffrey of Villehardouin reported that the divisive effect of envy featured in discussions over the best candidate to elect as Latin emperor of Constantinople in 1204.74 There can be little doubt that Jacques de Vitry considered anger a destructive vice, which ought to be rejected by crusade participants. Like other commentators, Jacques railed against the rancor, invidia, and discordia which separated Philip Augustus and Richard the Lionheart during the Third Crusade.75 In an earlier passage of the Historia Orientalis, he passionately denounced the eastern Franks for ‘vexing one another, sowing discord between brothers’, and for being ‘angry and unjust’.76 The same approach to anger can be found in Jacques’ sermons to pilgrims, crusaders, and the military orders. In one sermo ad peregrinos, which was probably also pitched to crusaders, Jacques quoted Ecclesiasticus 28.11, ‘an angry man kindleth strife, and a sinful man will trouble his friends, and bring in debate in the midst of them that are at peace’, from which he deduced that anger ‘sows discord between brothers and between friends, destroying friendships’.77 He referred to a similar biblical passage— Proverbs 29.22: ‘An angry man provoketh quarrels, and he that is easily stirred up to indignation shall be more prone to sin’—in a sermon to the Templars, from which a more developed attitude towards anger can be gleaned.78 Ira was established as an evil which the miles Christi needed to guard against: ‘the knight of Christ ought to keep himself safe from arrogance and self-glorification and boasting and empty pride, from anger and jealousy, from idleness and laziness, from greed and carnal pleasure, and from every other evil thing’.79 The formulation ‘ira et aemulatione’ is significant, for throughout the sermon Jacques inextricably linked anger to envy, and especially pride, from which it stemmed: ‘It is characteristic of the proud to easily get angry and to waste away with envy.’80

Anger Management: Mansuetudo and SelfControl In light of anger’s fragmentary impact on crusader cohesion, it is unsurprising to find concern for restraining potentially disruptive instances of rage within the sources. Put simply, anger was an emotion to be controlled. This is particularly discernible in portrayals of crusade leaders, who were frequently

represented as controlling their tempers and possessing the virtue of mansuetudo, ‘mildness’ or ‘gentleness of spirit’. Mansuetudo was considered a virtuous quality for a ruler in antiquity and the Middle Ages; it was ‘one of the dominant themes of medieval ethical writings: be slow to anger, tolerate wrongs for the sake of a more distant goal, do not seek revenge’.81 Thus, though unacknowledged in the modern editions, the authors of the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi and Historia peregrinorum both followed Gregory the Great in advocating that ‘to hate is not the virtue of mildness, but the cover of fury’.82 The requisite of mansuetudo for a crusader, especially a leader, is a recurring theme in the sources. Frederick Barbarossa was regularly praised for his ‘customary mildness’ in German narratives of the Third Crusade, and in one Anglo-Norman text, he was characterized as ‘never tense with anger’.83 William of Newburgh juxtaposed mansuetudo and anger when he related how, following the battle of Arsuf in 1191, Richard I tried to unite dissenting French nobles with the rest of the army, but ‘the king exasperated by the impulses of his angry mind those whom perhaps he could have united with him by mildness’.84 Outlining the attributes required of a crusade commander, Fidence of Padua explained that ‘the leader of the Christian people should be mild … neither prone to anger nor quarrelsome, because as the Apostle says (2 Timothy 2.24): But the servant of the Lord must not wrangle, but be mild towards all men.’85 Closely associated with mansuetudo were the virtues humilitas (humility), patientia (patience), temperantia (self-control), and modestia (restraint).86 Fidence of Padua regarded humilitas and patientia two moral qualities required of Christians to fight their adversaries, and echoed St Paul’s instructions to act ‘with all humility and mildness, with patience, supporting one another in charity’ (Ephesians 4.2).87 Many chroniclers portrayed crusaders in the same way. According to William of Tyre, when Tancred of Hauteville realized he had unintentionally offended Baldwin of Boulogne’s army by erecting his banner over Tarsus in 1097, he sought ‘to soothe their indignation’ because he was modestus.88 On one occasion, the Historia peregrinorum recorded that, while many of the German Third Crusaders ‘seethed vehemently with anger’ against the Greeks, Frederick Barbarossa exhibited his ‘usual temperance’.89 For Ralph Niger, a critic of the Third Crusade, ‘anger snatches away restraint’.90 Jacques de Vitry expected members of an unspecified military order, possibly the Templars, to embrace patience (patientia) and goodwill (benevolentia), in much the same way that, according to Salimbene de Adam, Louis IX was ‘not prone to anger, but patient’.91 One further Latin term appears closely tied to meekness—serenus (serene, tranquil). In addition to mansuetudo, Frederick Barbarossa was repeatedly described as ‘the most serene emperor’ in Ansbert’s history and the Historia peregrinorum.92 Richard of Devizes articulated the cooling of Richard I’s wrath at Messina in 1190 by imputing a serene expression (oris serenitate) to the king.93 Among the qualities Peter of Blois attributed to Reynald of Châtillon, we find ‘the most serene appearance’, whereas Ralph

Niger advocated serenity (serenissime) and patience (patientiam) in the nobility.94 An awareness of serenus’ connotations also exposes a new dimension in the Gesta Francorum’s portrait of Bohemond of Taranto. In a notoriously ambiguous passage, the Gesta recorded that, certain he would be able to engineer Antioch’s fall, Bohemond ‘et gauisus serenaque mente, placido uultu uenit ad omnes seniores eisque iocunda uerba intulit, dicens’, which Rosalind Hill translated as: ‘was glad, and came coolly, looking pleased with himself, to the council of leaders, and said to them jokingly’.95 However, it appears that the author may have been highlighting Bohemond’s tranquil mood, as well as his delight, through the phrase ‘gauisus serenaque mente’ (rejoiced and was in a tranquil frame of mind)—an interpretation which is consistent with the suggestion that he approached the other princes ‘with a calm expression’ (placido uultu). In fact, the Gesta attributed a ‘serene expression’ (sereno uultu) to Bohemond elsewhere in the text, and the leader was, on the whole, rarely depicted as growing angry.96 The need to control wrath should be viewed as a by-product of chroniclers’ broader concern for restraint—of behaviour, vices, and emotional performances. Restraint was a defining characteristic of chivalry, a view championed above all by John Gillingham, and the associated ideal of courtesie demanded a degree of impassivity and emotional control from noblemen.97 Thus, in Cortesamen vuoill comensar, composed in 1148, Marcabru wrote that a man who observed moderation could pride himself on possessing courtliness.98 Similarly, in Giraut de Borneil’s planh for Aimar V of Limoges, whom he accompanied to the Holy Land in 1179–80, Aimar’s ability to respond light-heartedly when somebody spoke to him angrily (iradamen) was promoted as a sign of his worth, ‘although anger and quarrelling often make a wise man act like a child’.99 In addition, Gregorian reform heralded a greater preoccupation with self-control in the twelfth century; within that framework, an emotional display might be apt to a particular situation, but it should not be excessive. This perception is particularly apparent in Guibert of Nogent’s Dei gesta, which told of a knight whose unbridled grief and desire to avenge his brother’s death saw him seduced by the devil.100 Moreover, having recorded that the Muslims collectively wept (collacrimant) and the crusaders rejoiced together (coniubilant) during the fall of Antioch, Guibert complained that no control (nichil moderati) was shown by either side.101 He also consistently emphasized the restraint of the First Crusade’s princes, whose modestia was envied by Alexios Komnenos.102 In the abbot of Nogent’s assessment, Hugh of Vermandois practised both humility (humilitas) and self-control (temperantia), whilst Stephen of Blois had modestia.103 Self-control also formed an integral aspect of Guibert’s characterizations of Godfrey of Bouillon and Baldwin of Boulogne: the former possessed ‘wonderful humility and restraint’, and the latter was no less temperate (temperantia) than his brother.104 The restraint of anger was thus an important component within Guibert’s general preoccupation with self-control. His juxtaposition of the modestia exhibited by Godfrey’s contingent and the earlier crusaders’ rage has already been noted; and, relating the ravaging of Byzantine lands by Bohemond of Taranto’s army, Guibert emphatically stated that their modestia had turned into furor.105 Not all chroniclers emphasized the crusaders’ emotional restraint through these

terms; for example, Guibert’s contemporary, Robert the Monk, used mansuetudo, patientia, temperantia, and modestia sparingly, if at all.106 Nevertheless, as the evidence considered above attests, many authors used these terms to communicate the self-control—often in relation to wrath—of participants and, more frequently, crusade leaders. One contemporary churchman even went so far as to suggest that the sign of the cross enabled victory over ‘all bodily feelings’.107 Beyond such specific terminology, some writers insisted that crusade leaders were indeed fully capable of controlling their tempers. Baldric of Bourgueil presented Bohemond of Taranto as an individual in control of his wrath. Despite being indignant at Emperor Alexios for impeding the journey of the southern Italian Norman contingent, Bohemond ‘silently contained the anger of his mind’.108 This characterization appears to have appealed to Orderic Vitalis and William of Tyre, for both reproduced it.109 In a similar vein, for Ralph of Caen Tancred of Hauteville’s judgement was never clouded by wrath: in a quarrel with Raymond of Toulouse, ‘Tancred was hardly able to curb his feelings and restrain himself from assuaging his anger with the slaughter of the Provençals; but reason came to the man, which forbids him from shedding Christian blood.’110 Crusade leaders and other aristocrats were, therefore, expected to practise self-control when they conceived anger against co-religionists. It was perfectly legitimate for high-ranking individuals to show anger in response to injustices and slights to their honour, but such angry demonstrations ought to be proportionate and controlled; indeed, it was often preferable to exhibit virtuous mildness and selfrestraint. Taken together with the earlier analysis of disproportionate and dysfunctional displays of rage, the ability to restrain anger was evidently a reflection upon one’s moral character. Whereas suggestions of unmitigated irascibility served to devalue or condemn protagonists, the imputation of controlled wrath or gentleness of spirit could aggrandize a character. For instance, the betrayer of Antioch, Firuz, was commended by some writers for his willingness to curb his anger and not seek revenge, despite having witnessed the slaughter of his Muslim brethren during the city’s fall.111 Insisting that an individual was free from the vice of anger could have a similar aggrandizing effect, as suggested by Gunther of Pairis’ emotional characterization of Abbot Martin of Pairis. Gunther imputed anger to his principal protagonist on just one occasion, and in that instance certified that it was feigned anger. Following Constantinople’s capture, in a terrifying voice (voce … terribili) Abbot Martin demanded a Greek priest show him the relics he guarded. Yet Gunther was keen to indicate that the abbot did not really feel anger, but rather possessed a gentle spirit (placido … animo), and so the priest attempted ‘to soothe his anger, which did not exist’.112 Joinville appears to have employed a rather different narrative strategy in his depiction of Louis IX: he claimed to have personally accused the king of having a short temper, only for such accusations to be met with laughter. Renegotiating the terms of his service, Joinville apparently rejected the king’s offer of greater payment and instead requested that the monarch, who apparently tended to get angry (couroucies) when asked for something, would not be annoyed (courroucerai) when Joinville made a future

request.113 At this, Louis began to laugh aloud and agreed to Joinville’s terms. When the king later irately refused to fulfil the said request—to grant a horse to an impoverished crusader—Joinville berated him: ‘Why have you broken our agreement by getting angry about the request I made of you?’114 However, laughing once again, Louis replied: ‘Say whatever you like, I am not getting angry.’115 Rather than representing the king as a hothead, it seems Joinville actually intended the opposite. Irony was certainly not beyond medieval chroniclers. Having Louis repeatedly laugh at suggestions that he was irate, coupled with the king’s own denial of anger, probably served to communicate the monarch’s mildness. Furthermore, Joinville was at pains to present himself as Louis’ confidante, and in purporting to have witnessed such emotional performances, the author may have been seeking to highlight his closeness to the king; indeed, Joinville apparently had a knack for making Louis laugh.116 There may be an additional dimension to such characterizations, albeit one which rarely received direct comment in crusade texts: the gendered nature of anger. It is difficult to gauge the extent to which chroniclers’ views of anger were informed by contemporary medical theories, which maintained that heat, anger, and maleness were interconnected.117 A tantalizing piece of evidence from Ambroise suggests that such ideas may not have been beyond some crusade commentators. In his account of the burning of French siege engines at Acre in 1191, the chaplain reported that ‘this brought such anger to [Philip Augustus’] heart … that he fell ill and could not ride’—a comment seemingly underpinned by basic knowledge of humoral theory.118 In any case, Barton has posited that the choice of anger terminology was pivotal in delineating various shades of aristocratic masculinity: ‘Ira was a component of the archetypal manly man of the Middle Ages: forthright, active, potent, and unwilling to tolerate injustice. Furor, however, suggested a different kind of man: the schemer, and the impotent, irrational, and unjust man.’119 Leaving aside the validity of this semantic division for the moment, it is true that uncontained rage was often associated with female emotional explosiveness, whereas controlled wrath, mildness, and self-restraint were seen as masculine qualities.120 Perhaps because he was steeped in classical tradition, William of Malmesbury extolled the restraint of anger as a marker of manliness, which may account for the lack of references to crusader indignation in his Gesta regum Anglorum.121 One of the few crusade commentators to make an explicit connection between anger and gender was Gerald of Wales. As noted in Chapter 2, Gerald viewed crusading through a gendered lens, and this perhaps explains why, in the only episode relating to crusade preaching which featured anger terminology in the Itinerarium Kambriae, it was established as a disreputable sentiment. He told of a young man who refused to take the cross until he had avenged his master’s death. However, ‘boiling with anger and desire for revenge’, the spear he brandished miraculously shattered in his hands—an omen which inspired him to take the cross.122 Tellingly, Gerald’s principal protagonist, Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury, was personified as ‘a mild and sober man’, who was characteristically ‘slow to anger, temperate in almost all his feelings and emotions; by all means, he was swift to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger’ (James 1.19).123 There are strong indications that Gerald perceived the restraint of anger

as having gendered implications. Elsewhere in the Itinerarium Kambriae, he wrote of a mother who— seeking revenge against the man responsible for mutilating her son—lied to King Henry I, which caused many men to be disinherited. For Gerald, her affective response was typically feminine: ‘thus this woman, not deviating from her womanly nature, [did this] to satisfy her vengeful anger’.124 The author’s perception of women’s emotional volatility and unrestrained anger was founded on the Old Testament and Juvenal’s Satires, with Gerald quoting Ecclesiasticus 25.23, ‘there is no anger above the anger of a woman’, and two passages from Juvenal, one asserting that women conceive anger from their guilt (iram atque animos a crimine sumunt) and another that ‘no one enjoys revenge more than a woman’, to qualify his emotional portrait of the dishonest mother.125 Archbishop Baldwin’s temperateness may, therefore, have contributed to his masculine identity.

Anger Management: The Intervention of the Wise Although, ideally, crusaders were expected to practise self-control, chroniclers recorded numerous episodes when participants succumbed to surges of anger, frequently directed against fellow Christians and even other crusaders. In such instances, the leaders were sometimes cast as responsible for defusing irascible quarrels and carrying out, in modern parlance, a form of ‘anger management’. According to Roger of Howden, a quarrel (discordia), spawned from indignatio, erupted between Anglo-Norman crusaders and the citizens of Messina in early October 1190, at which point King Richard attempted to curb their wrath by riding through the army, striking his men with a stick.126 Elsewhere, the same author recorded that the hatred (odio) Richard felt towards Conrad of Montferrat was placated by Philip Augustus, and another Anglo-Norman commentator noted that Richard successfully restrained the malice (malitiam) of the Genoese and Pisans who attacked men guarding his fleet at Messina.127 Matthew Paris detailed several occasions when the intercession of Louis IX was required to calm his troops during the Seventh Crusade. As the king’s army set out in 1248, they were attacked by the citizens of Avignon. In response, the crusaders exhorted the king to exact ‘just and powerful vengeance’ on Avignon for the death of his father, who had been poisoned there, but Louis managed to restrain their furor.128 The army reportedly suffered further losses at Marseille, prompting the king’s intervention once again. The French nobles were provoked (provocati), Matthew wrote, and ‘if they had not been held back by the wise and holy temperateness of the king, they would have besieged the city itself with great urgency and indignation’.129 Matthew Paris undoubtedly regarded the king’s intervention as a positive

reflection on his character: he showed wise and holy modestia, as befitted the ‘most Christian king of the Franks’ (Christianissimus rex Francorum). Furthermore, Louis allegedly attempted to mitigate the scorn (spernebant) and envy (invisio) that French crusaders felt towards William II Longespée, the commander of an English contingent which probably arrived in the East in the summer of 1249, by addressing them thus: ‘Oh Franks, what fury harasses you? Why do you attack this man, who came here from far off parts to assist me and yourselves, who is a pilgrim and fights faithfully for God in the same manner as you?’130 On this occasion, however, Louis was unable to pacify their furor with reasoning, although the intervention of ‘the most devout king of the Franks’ was seemingly still considered a praiseworthy act.131 It is in this context of anger as a passion capable of manifesting disunity, and one which needed to be managed, that we encounter a literary topos: the intervention of ‘wiser men’.132 As Mary Garrison and Barbara Rosenwein have noted, prefabricated expressions are valuable for interrogating medieval passions, since they ‘may have been chosen precisely because of their communicative power’.133 Indeed, it will be demonstrated here that the intercession of the wise trope—a form of ‘anger management’ traceable across two centuries, in a variety of source types—can serve as a diagnostic tool for historians, allowing us to gain further insights into contemporary attitudes towards anger. In many of the texts, when an individual’s wrath threatened to provoke inter-Christian violence or to jeopardize the enterprise’s fortunes, prudent men interceded. Above all, the consistent use of the ‘wiser men’ formulation in descriptions of angry quarrels between crusaders throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries is indicative of the importance writers attached to controlling rage. In his account of the ‘People’s Crusade’, Albert of Aachen regularly had wiser men mitigate the fury of their comrades. He reported that, following a dispute with a certain Bulgar, one hundred Swabians satisfied their rage (furor) by destroying seven mills and numerous houses, resulting in the slaughter of many pilgrims in retaliation.134 Albert’s attitude towards this incident is indicated by his decision to distance Peter the Hermit, whom he promoted as the First Crusade’s instigator, from the Swabians’ behaviour by associating him with the army’s ‘more prudent and intelligent men’ and by having him complain of the threatening situation which arose ‘from the rage of the senseless Germans’.135 A few lines later Albert made a similar juxtaposition, noting that an assault on Niš by 1,000 ‘frivolous youths’—again driven by furor—was contrary to the instructions of Peter and ‘all sensible men’.136 Albert’s presentation of the early crusaders’ rage ought to be considered a reflection of his broader concern for the potentially destructive consequences of anger between Christians, especially members of the crusader army. Indeed, he portrayed wise counsel as an effective method of managing anger in later sections of his Historia, such as when Tancred of Hauteville was incensed that a group of Muslims, who had been granted his banner as a sign of protection, were killed during the 1099 sack of Jerusalem. The ‘glorious knight’ was ‘fired with violent anger about this insult to him, and his rage would not have quietened down without discord and great vengeance, except for the advice and opinion of greater and wiser men, who soothed his feeling’.137 It is unclear whether Albert approved of Tancred’s

anger: on the one hand, it was in response to an iniuria and would have manifested vengeance; on the other, it was seemingly excessive—characterized as ira and then, tellingly, as furor—and the appellation ‘miles gloriosus’ could be a reference to Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus, the tale of a vainglorious soldier who constantly boasted of his achievements.138 Nevertheless, it is clear that his anger, even if justly motivated, had the capacity to create discordia and therefore required the calming influence of ‘greater and wiser men’. Other twelfth-century chroniclers employed the wise men topos to similar effect, such as William of Tyre, whose distribution of prudentia and imprudentia has already been examined by Miriam Tessera.139 Many examples from William’s account of the First Crusade can be traced back to his source material. Thus, he followed Albert of Aachen in reporting the repeated intercession of Peter the Hermit and ‘sensible men of great authority’, who had greater control over their feelings (qui secum erant sensus habentes magis exercitatos), to soothe the rage (furor) of German crusaders, even if the two accounts differ in matters of minutiae.140 However, William frequently reinterpreted and developed information garnered from his sources, and in such instances often betrayed his own awareness of the importance of noble intervention in calming rancorous disputes. Typical of this reconfiguration process is his account of Raymond of Toulouse’s desire for revenge against Alexios Komnenos in 1097. Raymond was presented as experiencing a deep emotional reaction to news of imperial assaults on his army: he reportedly felt ‘agitation of mind’ and, ‘if the count’s means had been equal to his passions and will to avenge the injury of his men’, he could have been halted ‘by neither threats, nor terrors, nor the intervention of the rest of the leaders’.141 This comment alone reveals William’s appreciation that anger and vengeful emotions could be restrained by the intercession of high-ranking men. By remarking on the futility of counsel on this occasion, it seems that William was highlighting the extent of Raymond’s emotional response. Yet this also created internal inconsistency in his account, for in the next chapter he explained that Raymond was pacified by Godfrey of Bouillon, Bohemond of Taranto, and Robert of Flanders: ‘Finally, by the pious intervention of the leaders, like a distinguished man the count alleviated his enraged feelings, yielded to the counsel of the leaders, [and] committed himself to their arrangement.’142 The reason for the princes’ intervention is crucial: they feared that Raymond’s pursuit of vengeance ‘might undermine the work of many days and serve as a hindrance to those wishing to proceed on the way of the Lord’.143 Thus, the count’s anger was fundamentally dangerous, even though William seems to have considered it righteous. This is suggested by his emphasis on the unity of feeling amongst the princes: they unanimously (unanimiter) expressed their indignation (indignationem) to the emperor about the injury done to Raymond, which was universally reflected upon, although the fact that they went to Alexios on friendly terms (familiariter) perhaps implies that this was a more controlled, less threatening display of wrath than Raymond’s.144 The archbishop’s sources, most notably the histories by Raymond of Aguilers and Baldric of Bourgueil, attested that the count had kindled feelings of revenge and that the dispute was resolved by the intercession of the other leaders, but the explicit connection between restraint of emotion

and princely counsel appears to be William’s own.145 It is also significant that, upon submitting to the leaders’ entreaties, Raymond of Toulouse received the appellation ‘vir discretus’ (distinguished man). William’s reworking of another passage, this time from Albert of Aachen’s Historia, reveals that, just as the representation of anger functioned as a method of evaluating protagonists, so too did the ability (or inability) to accede to wise counsel in the heat of anger. The episode in question is the dispute between Baldwin of Boulogne and Tancred of Hauteville at Tarsus in 1097. Having recorded that Baldwin and his troops became ‘inflamed with great indignation and anger’ at the sight of Tancred’s banner raised over Tarsus, Albert added that the affair almost came to blows, until ‘peaceful and wiser men intervened’.146 Notwithstanding his tendency to criticize Tancred, Albert offered a relatively balanced report of this episode. The archbishop of Tyre appears to have been dissatisfied with Albert’s account, perhaps because it conflicted with his broader narrative agenda. Despite his Jerusalemite perspective, William did not always describe Baldwin in honorific terms, instead depicting him as one of the more flawed Jerusalemite kings.147 Tancred fared far better in William’s estimation, emerging as a hero of the First Crusade and the magnanimous second ruler of the principality of Antioch.148 Both of these considerations seem to have led William to rework Albert’s version of the dispute, shifting the blame squarely onto Baldwin. This was partly achieved through William’s presentation of Baldwin as giving free reign to his passions, in contrast to Tancred, who restrained his anger and acknowledged wise counsel. Baldwin, along with his men, was said to have been stirred by the goads of envy (invidie stimulis agitati) and indignant (indignati), so much so that he was unable to recognize the validity of Tancred’s claim that he had not intended any dishonour by planting his banner: ‘not distinguishing the merit of [Tancred’s] position but prolonging his feeling beyond that owed, [Baldwin] irritated lord Tancred by his frivolous words’.149 Yet Tancred’s wrath was unlike Baldwin’s, both in its righteousness and its controlled nature: the lord Tancred, dismayed by so great an injury, conceived righteous indignation, but by more sensible counsel and devout forbearance his agitation of mind was tempered. Fearing greatly that a dangerous dissension might arise between the ranks of the faithful, he left camp and retired to a nearby city whose name is Adana.150 Tancred’s ability to mitigate his anger through wise counsel and virtuous forbearance chimes with William’s earlier description of the Norman as modestus and was undoubtedly a positive reflection on his character, not least because it enabled him to anticipate the emergence of ‘a dangerous dissension’ amongst the crusader forces. However, this was not only a tale of controlled and uncontrolled passions, but also one of sound and unsound counsel: whereas Tancred was calmed by prudent advice, Baldwin was incited and urged on by his associates.151 William’s presentation of this event also reveals an important subtlety in his (and other crusade chroniclers’) attitude to anger: that even righteously motivated wrath—like Tancred’s ‘righteous indignation’—was inherently dangerous when directed

against co-religionists. That William of Tyre saw noble counsel as an effective way of managing anger and other irascible passions is confirmed by an examination of books 10–23—the most original portions of his chronicle. In recounting events in the Latin East, William continued to present noble counsel as a legitimate way of nullifying angry outbursts which threatened the disintegration of Latin unity in the East.152 However, this role was not limited to inter-Latin disagreements, but also extended to the Franks’ political relationships with neighbouring powers, especially Byzantium.153 William often employed the same formulaic expressions he had used in the first nine books, most notably ‘qui sensus habebant magis exercitatos’ (who had greater control of their feelings), to characterize intervening nobles.154 As Tessera has noted, this set-piece phrase—taken from the Epistle of St Paul to the Hebrews—was used thirteen times by William to signify prominent men capable of distinguishing between good and evil.155 Its repeated inclusion in emotionally charged episodes suggests that, in the archbishop of Tyre’s eyes, these individuals were also capable of controlling their passions. The persistence of such scenes throughout William’s chronicle, coupled with his use of formulaic language, indicates that the archbishop envisaged the intercession of high-ranking individuals—characteristically in control of their feelings—as an effective way of nullifying outbreaks of anger and other destructive passions which had the potential to derail crusading enterprises, destabilize Christian unity in the East, or to inhibit the Latins’ relationships with surrounding polities. Prudent individuals were assigned the same role in an array of twelfth-century Latin chronicles pertaining to the crusades and events in Outremer. Gilo of Paris reported that Bohemond of Taranto was irate when Raymond of Toulouse refused to grant him possession of Antioch. ‘Lest the angry duke’s grief should by chance cause general harm’, Gilo wrote, ‘the nobles in their great wisdom took his counsel.’156 Like other commentators, Gilo was conscious that anger between crusade participants inhibited the enterprise’s progress, asserting that Bohemond’s ira pushed concern for the journey into the background, delaying the army, when his claim to Antioch was considered for a second time.157 Similarly, Odo of Deuil described a dispute between some French and German participants during the Second Crusade, whereby the latter furiously attacked (furiose invadunt) the Franks. Although nightfall brought a temporary respite, the next day their insatiable rage persisted, forcing wise men (sapientes) to intercede.158 The same idea was expressed in texts pertaining to the Third Crusade. According to William of Newburgh, King Philip publicly blamed Richard I for the death of Conrad of Montferrat in 1192 and sought to exact vengeance while he was preoccupied in the East. Yet the reasoning of prudent men (viri cordati) curbed Philip’s raging fury and dissuaded him from attacking Richard’s lands.159 Roger of Howden reported several occasions when noblemen were needed to mitigate angry hostilities between Anglo-Norman and French participants during the Third Crusade. A disagreement unfolded between King Richard and the French noble William des Barres during a mock tournament at Messina in

February 1191.160 The ‘angry king’ (rex iratus) charged William but was himself unhorsed. Frustrated, Richard banished William from the crusader army, and so the latter left ‘grieving and confused on account of the king’s indignation’.161 While Roger of Howden was not overtly critical of Richard’s anger here, he was seemingly aware that such a dissension was detrimental to the crusaders’ cause, for he went on to report several attempts to assuage the king’s wrath.162 This chronicler presented noble counsel as being of even greater importance for resolving flashes of anger between the English and French monarchs. Thus, King Philip’s demands for a share of Cyprus manifested great discord (discordia magna) between the two kings at Acre, ‘yet the indignation was calmed through the counsel of wise men from both sides, and they became friends’.163 Despite not overtly using the ‘wiser men’ topos, the Itinerarium peregrinorum reported two occasions when arbiters interceded to calm the anger of the monarchs. Describing the resolution of their quarrel over possession of Messina in 1190, for example, the author remarked: ‘However, when mediators intervened, the indignation of King Richard at last subsided, and the insulting words ceased.’164 The significance of prudent counsel for nullifying anger between crusaders continued to feature prominently in thirteenth-century texts like Matthew Paris’ Chronica majora. Matthew reported that an angry dispute erupted when the ‘wise and prudent’ (discretus et circumspectus) master of the Templars instructed Robert of Artois not to pursue the enemy at Mansurah in 1250. Robert grew ‘violently indignant and, swollen with anger and inflated with pride’, accused the Templars and Hospitallers of sedition.165 Accordingly, the master of the Templars, along with his brethren and the Hospitallers, became violently angry (iratus vehementer), compelling William Longespée to act as peacemaker: ‘very much fearing a schism was now stirred up in the army, [and] eager to calm the count of Artois’ impetuous agitation of mind and to soften the master of the Templars’ wrath, [William] replied, saying: “From such a schism and division, according to the Lord’s word, follows desolation.”’166 The words attributed to William, reminiscent of Matthew 12.25, and his stated desire to avoid a schism underline the potential for angry emotions to divide crusader forces—a point the chronicler had the sultan of Egypt reiterate.167 It is therefore clear that, throughout the crusading period, Latin chroniclers saw noble counsel as the primary method available to crusaders for defusing potentially damaging outbreaks of inter-Latin anger. Significantly, this opinion appears to have transcended source genres, for the ‘wiser men’ trope can also be seen in Old French texts, such as the Lyon Eracles. A good example is the description of another incident which occurred between the French and English kings during the siege of Acre. When Philip discovered that Richard was assaulting the city, despite the safe conduct the French monarch had granted its inhabitants, he was ‘so angry that he even ordered his men to arm themselves to go and attack the king of England’. But as Philip donned his leg armour, ‘the wise men in the host intervened and calmed him down’, prompting the author to add: ‘There would have been great harm done that day for Christendom.’168 The destructive power of Philip’s fury was clearly acknowledged here, regardless of

whether it was inspired by a legitimate grievance: it would have resulted in conflict between the crusaders, thereby harming the enterprise’s prospects. A similar appreciation is detectable in Robert of Clari’s account of the Fourth Crusade, according to which, in the aftermath of Constantinople’s capture in 1204, Baldwin of Flanders set about besieging Thessaloniki. During the investment, Baldwin received four envoys from those who remained at Constantinople, informing him that they had divided up the booty attained during the city’s conquest. The news sparked anger in the emperor’s forces: ‘they were so greatly enraged that they wanted to cut all the envoys to pieces’, but Baldwin and ‘the high men of the army’ took counsel and reasoned with them.169 Once again, we encounter the same narrative sequence: recognition of the Christians’ anger, followed by the suggestion that their rage, even if righteous, would lead to bloodshed between coreligionists and, therefore, required noble intervention. Similarly, John of Joinville claimed to have regularly interceded to cool frayed tempers between his troops during the Seventh Crusade. On one occasion, he reconciled two of his men, Villain of Versy and William of Dammartin, by instructing them to forgive each other’s anger (maltalent); and, in another episode, he prevented an enraged (tout effraez) knight from inflicting harm on another in Joinville’s service.170 This trope also found expression in vernacular poetry, both within and outside a crusading climate.171 In the Chanson d’Antioche, Count Robert II of Flanders attempted to enter Antioch in ‘a towering rage’, until persuaded by a certain Fulcher not to lose his temper; and in the second part of the Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise, the villain of the piece, Count Simon of Montfort, was repeatedly rebuked by his advisors for his unrelenting rage.172 The persistence of this idea throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and across source types, suggests that although the intervention of the wise was a literary trope, it was one which, in all likelihood, reflected the reality of dispute resolution in the Middle Ages.173 Indeed, as early as 1970, Fredric Cheyette highlighted the importance of arbiters, who needed to ‘assuage anger, soothe wounded pride, find the solution that will bring peace’ between disputing parties in southern France before c.1250.174 By way of a final comment on modes of ‘anger management’, it is worth considering an interesting, though not altogether surprising, extension of this theme in crusade literature: the mitigation of wrath through divine intervention. This theme found greatest currency in the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi, according to which iracundia could be cured by Christ’s patientia, and when discord caused the expedition’s leaders ‘to lose control of their tempers’, harmony was restored by ‘the breath of the Holy Spirit’.175 In the contemporaneous De profectione Ludovici VII in Orientem, Odo of Deuil interpreted nightfall, which temporarily ended an angry quarrel between French and German crusaders, as a sign of God’s direct intervention, although the dispute reignited the next morning.176 A similar occurrence was recorded by William of Tyre. The armies of Baldwin of Boulogne and Tancred of Hauteville were burning with hatred (ardentibus odiis) at Mamistra in 1097, until the coming of night put an end to the fighting. At dawn the following day, ‘with hatred subsiding and indignation somewhat alleviated’, peace

was re-established due to divine clemency.177 Likewise, commenting on the ceaseless anger between the Templars and Hospitallers, Matthew Paris maintained that, were it not for the soothing effects of divine intervention, ‘the peace and harmony of the Christians would have been destroyed, in great part, on account of their intolerable fury’.178 This was at least implied by Geoffrey of Villehardouin, who recorded that Baldwin of Flanders was enraged (iriez) by Boniface of Montferrat’s investment of Adrianople, and then remarked: ‘Oh God! What great harm might have been done by this conflict: if God had not imposed his will, Christendom would have been destroyed.’179 In short, divine will nullified the violent effects of Baldwin’s anger, even if it was legitimately inspired.

Ira and Furor: A Semantic Distinction Reappraised The foregoing analysis attests that anger was widely perceived as an emotion which inspired violence between Christians and threatened the disintegration of crusading expeditions. As such, it was a passion which needed to be controlled, either by the irate protagonists themselves or by intermediaries— crusade leaders, noblemen, and even God. This tangible concern for restraining rage suggests that the current historiography regarding the semantic distinction between ira and furor needs to be revised. This view has been championed, above all, by Barton, who concluded that: ‘Whereas furor carried strongly negative connotations of irrationality, madness, and even bestiality, ira was almost universally described by narrative texts in value-neutral or positive terms as the proper response to an unjust challenge to legitimate authority.’180 The polarization of these terms, I would argue, is only applicable on the level of individual texts. For example, it can be observed in both William of Poitiers’ Gesta Guillelmi and the Itinerarium peregrinorum, whose author regularly imputed furor to Muslims, Greeks, and Philip Augustus, but tended to describe Richard I’s wrath using ira and indignatio.181 It is true that furor usually symbolized a wild type of rage, but this was not always the case. At times, it was used interchangeably or in conjunction with ira and indignatio, as in the example of God’s just ira et furor. Righteous furor was not reserved for God alone: in his 1157 letter to Otto of Freising, Frederick Barbarossa wrote of his men’s ‘appropriate and just fury’ (furore debito et justo); and, as we saw in Chapter 5, Philip Augustus could be ‘nimio furore succensus’ and still ‘christianissimus rex’ in Rigord’s estimation.182 Likewise, despite twice using furor to defame the Germans, Odo of Deuil also characterized Louis VII’s envoys in Constantinople as ‘raging with exceeding agitation’ (nimia commotione furentes) when they learnt of an

imperial attack on a group of Franks, which inspired them to protest to Emperor Manuel Komnenos. There is no hint of criticism here; on the contrary, their irate complaints seem entirely legitimate in response to that ‘cunning crime’.183 In this example, and others, furor appears to simply communicate the extent of the protagonists’ wrath. Writing to his wife in March 1098, Stephen of Blois explained that, hearing of an assault on their comrades, ‘our men were so inflamed with rage against the sacrilegious Turks that they were prepared to die for Christ’.184 It is extremely unlikely that Stephen was criticizing his co-religionists for their irate retaliation; rather, furor probably articulated the degree of the crusaders’ ire. In fact, an analysis of furor’s functionality suggests that socially acceptable and socially unacceptable furor may not have seemed contradictory to medieval authors or their audiences. Thus, in a single sentence, Ralph of Caen could pass the following judgement on his central protagonist, Tancred: ‘You burn to be called a fearless warrior, and for that reason you are prudent to rage (prudens furis), even if you might be called imprudent to rage (imprudens furere).’185 We can detect a degree of sensitivity here: Ralph was evidently aware of furor’s negative connotations, and yet he still believed that Tancred’s fury was necessary to establish his reputation. In any case, this sentence alone suggests that the full range of semantic variables attached to furor has not yet been fully cultivated. That the conceptual gap between ira and furor has been exaggerated is further suggested by the fact that crusade authors conceived of both furor and ira as dangerous types of anger, especially when directed internally within Latin armies. Both needed to be controlled. As we have seen, Gilo of Paris, Albert of Aachen, William of Tyre, Roger of Howden, the author of the Itinerarium peregrinorum, and Matthew Paris all recorded that the intercession of noblemen was required to calm protagonists whose wrath was related using either ira or indignatio. This suggests that, while ira could, within certain criteria, signify a righteous form of anger, it nevertheless retained its traditional status as a soteriologically and socially dangerous vice which needed to be managed. In other words, ira was not necessarily the polar opposite of furor. Specific terminology aside, when the strikingly similar scenes in the Old French chronicles are also taken into account, we arrive at an unexpected conclusion: that even justly motivated anger, especially between co-religionists, was considered fundamentally dangerous.

Conclusion In a recent article, it was noted that: ‘In moral literature, the opposite of hatred was love, while anger was balanced with patience. Still, it is rather doubtful if such differentiations were respected in the narrative sources [of the crusades].’186 In fact, the opposite seems to be the case: crusade chroniclers’

thinking on anger was primarily informed by the longstanding theological tradition which denounced ira as a deadly vice and pitted it against virtuous meekness and patientia, rather than newer ideas of anger’s usefulness in extirpating sin and eradicating sinners. Crusade preachers and chroniclers focused more on internal outbreaks of anger within crusader armies than its efficacy in combating external enemies. The dominant interpretation of anger in a crusading context was of a socially dangerous sentiment which could lead to inter-Christian confrontations, fragment crusader armies, and impede their progress. The deep-seated nature of this view is indicated, above all, by writers’ concern for restraining outbreaks of rage between crusaders. Ideally, participants would control their wrath, exhibiting mildness rather than anger. But when they fell short of this ideal, the intercession of leaders and prominent noblemen was considered a legitimate way of defusing disruptive instances of wrath between co-religionists throughout the crusading era, and at times the direct intervention of God was apparently required. All this suggests that even in the context of holy war—a setting in which we might expect registers of righteous wrath against sinners to come to the fore—anger was primarily interpreted as a sentiment to be rejected or restrained. Representations of anger and its management also served as ways of evaluating protagonists. The rejection of anger in favour of virtuous mansuetudo, and the ability to display wrath in a controlled manner, show self-restraint, or to accede to wise counsel were considered praiseworthy qualities. By the same token, twelfth- and thirteenth-century writers derided disproportionate performances of rage through recourse to a set of conventional topoi—the imputation of furor and rabies, accusations of demonic possession, or emphasis on the violent ramifications of fury—and the inability to control ire or heed sound advice were perceived as inherent character flaws. For some (though seemingly not many) chroniclers, these ideas probably also contributed to a gendered discourse, whereby those who exercised restraint in anger were considered more manly than those who did not. It is also possible to chart continuities and developments over time and between genres. In Chapter 5 it was demonstrated that anger was poorly represented in the early crusade narratives, became more closely connected to crusading in accounts of the Third Crusade, but seemingly dissipated thereafter. Notwithstanding these broad patterns, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were primarily marked by continuity in terms of anger’s representation, and there are few discernible differences between source types. The intervention of ‘wiser men’ topos was consistently depicted as a way of restraining anger in crusader armies throughout the period, appearing in Latin and Old French prose narratives, as well as chansons de geste, and the legitimacy of wrath designed to remedy injustices featured in these same source types. This overarching conformity is suggestive of a degree of cross-contamination between genres, which historians and literary scholars are gradually starting to unlock. Two broader points are in order. Firstly, the material analysed here supports the argument outlined in Chapters 1 and 3, that the emotional framework which churchmen applied to the crusades was informed, above all, by scripture. Occasionally, biblical passages elucidating the righteous wrath of God and Christ, such as Jeremiah 10.25 and 1 Kings 8.23, influenced representations of the crusaders’ just

anger, whereas others—including Proverbs 29.22, 2 Timothy 2.24, James 1.19, and Matthew 5.21–2— underpinned conceptions of anger’s divisive effects and the need for self-control; the latter seem to have had a greater bearing on chroniclers’ appraisals of anger. Secondly, given that an array of Latin chroniclers introduced the ‘wiser men’ clause in relation to ira and indignatio, the established historiographical consensus which maintains that ira was semantically opposed to furor needs to be reassessed. Furor usually (though not always) signified a wild form of rage, but it would be misleading to regard ira as its unequivocal polar opposite. Even righteously motivated ira was inherently dangerous and needed to be displayed in a proportionate and controlled manner. Ultimately, when considered in conjunction with the central finding of the previous chapter—that, as far as contemporary writers were concerned, crusading did not create a climate in which ira per zelum flourished—it becomes clear that the formation of the ‘crusade idea’ did not engender a distinct or particularly novel set of approaches to anger. Rather, anger operated in precisely the same ways in contemporaneous texts outside a crusading context: as the legitimate reaction to injuries and as a passion to be controlled. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

McGrath, ‘Politics of Chivalry’, 64.

2

WT, 659, ‘in ira modi nescius’, ‘rationis expers’.

3

Alberic of Trois Fontaines, Chronica, in MGH SS, xxiii. 876, ‘quod erat ultra mensuram

iracundus’. 4

Catherine Peyroux, ‘Gertrude’s Furor: Reading Anger in an Early Medieval Saint’s Life’, in

Anger’s Past, ed. Rosenwein, 44–5; Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 383–7. 5

AA, 144; GN, 286; IP, 344, ‘furore fervescere’.

6

Isidore of Seville, Isidori Hispalensis episcopi Etymologiarum sive originum libri XX, ed. Wallace

Martin Lindsay, 2 vols (Oxford, 1911), i. XVIII, ch. 1, ‘Iniustum bellum est quod de furore, non de legitima ratione initur’; GP, 156; WM, 620; IP, 36, ‘insano furore’. 7

Frederic Duncalf, ‘The Peasants’ Crusade’, American Historical Review 26 (1921): 441–2; Riley-

Smith, First Crusade, 51–2.

10

8

AA, 20, 24, 28, 22, ‘gens indomita et effrenis, sine causa, sine ratione’.

9

WT, 144–5, 146, 150. See also RW, ii. 67.

GN, 121, 122–3, 126–7.

11

GN, 121, ‘ceperunt luxuriis enormibus contra indigenarum mansuetudinem debachari’. On Guibert’s defamation of Peter the Hermit’s character, see Colin Morris, ‘Peter the Hermit and the Chroniclers’, in The First Crusade: Origins and Impact, ed. Phillips, 24–5, 30–1; Jay Rubenstein, ‘How,

or How Much, to Reevaluate Peter the Hermit’, in The Medieval Crusade, ed. Susan Ridyard (Woodbridge, 2004), 61–2. 12

GN, 122, ‘mira dementia’.

13

GN, 128, 129.

14

GP, 46, ‘non sanguine sed ratione’.

15

GP, 52, ‘moderatio consiliumque’, ‘temeraria … furorque’.

16

WM, 682; Salimbene de Adam, Chronica, 445.

17

OD, 42, ‘quasi viso prodigio, ilico cum furore consurgunt, mimum rapiunt, et in frusta discerpunt’.

18

OD, 42, ‘Turbatus … a vino et furore’.

19

Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI, 64; Florin Curta, ‘Furor Teutonicus: A Note on Ethnic

Stereotypes in Suger’s Deeds of Louis the Fat’, HSJ 16 (2005): 62–76. 20

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 136, ‘barbaricam rabiem’. On furor barbaricus, see William Jones, ‘The

Image of the Barbarian in Medieval Europe’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 13 (1971): 377–8; Svetlana Luchitskaja, ‘Barbarae nationes: Les peuples musulmans dans les chroniques de la première croisade’, in Autour de la première croisade, ed. Michel Balard (Paris, 1996), 99–107. 21 22

GN, 154; BB, 31; OV, v. 58; RC, 622, 624. IP, 266, 267, 273, ‘furore debacchantes vehementi’. For Saladin’s fury, see IP, 12, 16, 209;

Ambroise, i. 109, 110, 111 (ii. 123, 124, 125). 23

For example, Pairis, 129; PLVC, i. 113–14.

24

GP, 214, ‘fraus ibi dira / Demonis insedit, nec finem repperit ira’.

25

WT, 813, ‘ausu diabolico et spiritu furoris concepto’; MP, v. 307.

26

Brevis ordinacio, 17.

27

Brevis ordinacio, 22.

28

MP, v. 385–6.

29

MP, v. 386, ‘ebulliens in ira magna’.

30

MP, v. 386, ‘ira accensus nimia prosiliit in medium, et non se capiens prae ira, ore reboante ait, “O

pro cerebro Dei, et tu degener et imbellis talia ausus es verba patri meo me praesente et audiente proferre!”’ 31

MP, v. 386, ‘in ipso furore exiliens’.

32

MP, iv. 474, ‘in vehementissimam iram excanduit’. See also MP, iii. 536.

33

These symptoms are from MP, iv. 474, though they were commonly associated with wrath. See John

of Salisbury, Policraticus, i. 266; Classen, ‘Anger and Anger Management’, 28–9. 34

Devizes, 32, ‘Comes, ad mandatorum indecentiam plus quam iratus, toto corpore fiebat

incognoscibilis. Rancor frontem sulcauit in rugas, scintillabant ardentes oculi, rosam faciei liuor infecit.’

35

Devizes, 32.

36

See Spencer, ‘Emotions and the “Other”’, 44–6.

37

Bernard Hamilton, ‘The Elephant of Christ: Reynald of Châtillon’, SCH 15 (1978): 97, 101; Edbury

and Rowe, William of Tyre, 90, 142; Philip Handyside, ‘Differing Views of Renaud de Châtillon’, in Deeds Done beyond the Sea, ed. Edgington and Nicholson, 43–52. 38

WT, 809, ‘motus in indignationem et iram inexorabilem princeps domino patriarche violentas

iniecit manus et ausu diabolico captum in castellum … ignominiose deduci fecit’. 39

WT, 809, ‘viri dementis … insaniam’.

40

L’estoire de Eracles empereur et la conqueste de la terre d’Outremer, ii. 191, ‘Li Princes qui estoit

noviaus hom en fu trop corociez et mout troublez; si que à ce le mena li granz corrouz, que il fist oevre d’ome hors du sen’; Handyside, ‘Differing Views’, 47–8. 41

WT, 845, ‘in Cyprios innocentes et inmeritos tanta desevisset insania’, ‘deo et hominibus

abhominabilem’. On these events, see Andrew Buck, ‘Between Byzantium and Jerusalem? The Principality of Antioch, Renaud of Châtillon, and the Penance of Mamistra in 1158’, Mediterranean Historical Review 30 (2015): 107–24. 42

Reynald’s torture of Aimery was reported by the Byzantine chronicler John Kinnamos, yet he

claimed that it was the patriarch who was enraged: John Kinnamos, Deeds, 139. For the attack on Cyprus, see John Kinnamos, Deeds, 136–7; Michael the Syrian, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and trans. Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris, 1916– 20), iii. 315; Sempad the Constable, Chronique du royaume de la Petite Armenie, in RHC Arm., i. 621. 43

Thomas Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch: A Case Study of Female Power in the Twelfth Century’, in

The Experience of Crusading, Volume 2: Defining the Crusader Kingdom, ed. Peter Edbury and Jonathan Phillips (Cambridge, 2003), 33–4. 44

OD, 44; IP, 221, ‘Unde rex Franciae, immoderato turbatus furore, in universos suae ditioni

addictos, coepit horrifica imprecatione maledicere, et probrosis dehonestare conviciis, quod non expeterent condignam ultionem a Saracenis in se talia perpetrantibus. In ipsius iracundiae fervore, eadem die jam advesperascente.’ 45

Ambroise, i. 78 (ii. 99).

46

Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 371–92; McGrath, ‘Politics of Chivalry’, 65–6; Smail, Consumption of

Justice, 100. 47

WP, 100, 122–4, ‘uesanus Anglus’, ‘rex furibundus’.

48

Kathleen Thompson, ‘Orderic Vitalis and Robert of Bellême’, JMH 20 (1994): 133–41.

49

OV, vi. 30, ‘Rodbertus autem ira et dolore plenus in Neustriam transfretauit, et compatriotas suos qui mollem dominum adiuuare suum nisi fuerant crudeliter inuasit, caedibus et incendiis uehementer aggrauauit.’

50

OV, vi. 30, 348, ‘furibundus ut spumans aper’; Barton, ‘Emotions and Power’, 50.

51

Suger of St-Denis, Vie de Louis VI, 174, 242–4, ‘furore lupino’, ‘sanguinem ejus sitientes, tanquam

canes in relicta cadavera debachantes’. 52

Gesta Stephani, 190, ‘armis et depraedatione intolerabiliter desaeuit, ferusque et indignatione

plenus totam depopulari prouinciam … proposuit’. 53

Devizes, 59, ‘naturalis furoris’; Howden, Chronica, iv. 54, ‘nefanda rabies’.

54

GP, 156; WM, 620; Pierre Levron, ‘Mélancolie, émotion et vocabulaire: Enquête sur le réseau

lexical de l’émotivité atrabilaire dans quelques textes littéraires du XIIe et du XIIIe siècle’, in Le sujet de l’émotion au Moyen Âge, ed. Boquet and Nagy, 240–9. The ability of unrestrained anger to inspire verbal abuse was also a current theme in contemporary literature; see William of Malmesbury, Vita Dunstani, 198; William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 70–2; Fenton, Gender, Nation and Conquest, 40–1. 55

AA, 22; OD, 42–4; WT, 146; IP, 36; MP, iv. 118; Len Scales, ‘Germen Militiae: War and German Identity in the Later Middle Ages’, Past and Present 180 (2003): 68–71. 56

Gilbert of Tournai, Collectio de scandalis ecclesiae, ed. P. Autbertus Stroick, ‘Collectio de scandalis

ecclesiae: Nova editio’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum 24 (1931): 39; FP, 68–9, 117–18; HR, Liber, ch. 26. 57 58

Gregory IX, Rachel suum videns, 495; GD, 115, ‘bonam concordiam’. Richard Lazarus and Bernice Lazarus, Passion and Reason: Making Sense of Our Emotions

(Oxford, 1994), 13–40; Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation, 50–4; Carolyne Larrington, ‘The Psychology of Emotion and Study of the Medieval Period’, Early Medieval Europe 10 (2001): 253. 59

BN, 498; AA, 588.

60

AA, 370, 350, 734, 850, 516.

61

DeL, 74.

62

WT, 614. Other authors made the same connection: Eudes of Châteauroux, Sermo 3: De sancto

Georgio, transcr. Charansonnet, ‘L’université’, 722; Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 40. 63

Daniel Smail, ‘Hatred as a Social Institution in Late-Medieval Society’, Speculum 76 (2001): 90–2.

64

MP, iii. 361, ‘ira in odium versa est inexorabile’.

65

BC, Liber, 215, 216, ‘irrationabilis iracundiae motus’.

66

Innocent III, Ad liberandam, 267, ‘dissensiones et aemulationes omnino vitando, rancore ac livore a

se penitus relegatis’; HR, Liber, ch. 26. See also Innocent III, Post miserabile, 500; Innocent III, Graves Orientalis, in DRI, ii. 492; Innocent III, Quia maior, col. 818. 67

AA, 696.

68

WT, 329. John 13.35, ‘By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love one

for another.’ 69

WT, 484, 655, 1062.

70

WT, 653–4.

71

WT, 719, ‘non iam occulte, sed que iam usque ad odium processerant manifestum’.

72

WT, 720, ‘personale odium in publicam non debet redundare lesionem’.

73

DeL, 80, ‘Zelo iusticie, non felle ire’.

74

Ambroise, i. 7, 124 (ii. 35, 135), ‘sanz coruz’; Villehardouin, ii. 62.

75

JV, HOr, 456; WN, 355; Coggeshall, 33; RW, iii. 106, 434–5.

76

JV, HOr, 280–2, ‘invicem mordentes, inter fratres discordiam seminantes’, ‘iracundi et iniqui’.

77

Jacques de Vitry, [Sermo] ad peregrinos. Thema sumpta ex Zach[arias] [capitulo] ultimo, 98,

‘seminat discordiam inter fratres et inter amicos dissoluit amicitias’. 78

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 408.

79

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 406, ‘Patet igitur quod a superbia et elatione et jactantia et

vanitate, ab ira et aemulatione, a desidia et torpore, ab avaritia et carnali voluptate, et ab omni alia re mala Christi miles se debet conservare.’ 80

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVII, 408, ‘Proprium est autem superborum facile irasci, et invidia

tabescere.’ 81

C. Stephen Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness: Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly

Ideals, 939–1210 (Philadelphia, PA, 1985), 37. 82

Gregory the Great, Homiliarum in Ezechielem prophetam, in PL, lxxvi, col. 846, ‘odisse, non est

virtus mansuetudinis, sed velamentum furoris’; DeL, 74; HP, 163. 83

Ansbert, 83, ‘consuetudinem mansuetudinis’; IP, 54, ‘nec ira contractus’.

84

WN, 363, ‘Rex … quos forte per mansuetudinem unire sibi poterat, indignantis animi motibus

exasperabat.’ 85

FP, 136, ‘Sit ergo dux populi cristiani mansuetus … non iracundus, non litigiosus, quia, sicut dicit

Apostolus, ij. Thim. ij. [24]: Servum [autem] Domini non opportet littigare, sed mansuetum esse ad omnes.’ 86

Jaeger, Origins of Courtliness, 36–40.

87

FP, 112, 115–16, 121–2.

88

WT, 223, ‘indignationem mitigare’.

89

HP, 140–1, ‘ira vehementer efferebuit’, ‘solitam modestiam’.

90

Ralph Niger, De re militari, 112, ‘eripit … ira modestiam’.

91

Jacques de Vitry, Sermo XXXVIII, 414, 419; Salimbene de Adam, Chronica, 445, ‘non irascebatur,

sed patiens’. See also MP, v. 203. 92

Ansbert, 46, 57, 73, ‘serenissimus imperator’; HP, 125, 126, 130, 135, 149.

93

Devizes, 22.

94

PB, 42, ‘serenissimus facie’; Ralph Niger, De re militari, 199.

95

GF, 44.

96

GF, 34. For Bohemond’s anger, see GF, 10, 61, 80.

97

John Gillingham, ‘1066 and the Introduction of Chivalry into England’, in Law and Government in

Medieval England and Normandy: Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, ed. George Garnett and John Hudson (Cambridge, 1994), 31–55; John Gillingham, ‘Conquering the Barbarians: War and Chivalry in Twelfth-Century Britain’, HSJ 4 (1993): 57–84; Strickland, War and Chivalry, 19–30; Matthew Strickland, ‘Killing or Clemency? Ransom, Chivalry and Changing Attitudes to Defeated Opponents in Britain and Northern France, 7–12th Centuries’, in Krieg im Mittelalter, ed. Hans-Henning Kortum (Berlin, 2001), 93–122; Hyams, ‘What Did Henry III of England Think in Bed’, 105–16; Antonella Scorpo, ‘Emotional Memory and Medieval Autobiography: King James I of Aragon (r.1213–76)’s Llibre dels fets’, Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 10 (2018): 11–15. 98

Marcabru, Cortesamen vuoill comensar, ed. and trans. Gaunt, Harvey, and Paterson, Marcabru: A

Critical Edition, 202–3. 99

Giraut de Borneil, Plaing e sospir, ed. Sharman, The Cansos and Sirventes of the Troubadour

Giraut de Borneil, 410, ‘Si tot si torn’ir’e tenzars / Saber en sen d’enfanza’. 100

GN, 323–5.

101

GN, 205.

102

GN, 105.

103

GN, 131, 227.

104

GN, 317, ‘mira humilitas et … modestia’, 318. See also Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, 176.

105

GN, 139.

106

RM, 69, 77, 81.

107

Gilbert of Tournai, Sermo III, 200, ‘omnem carnalem affectum’.

108

BB, 20, ‘iram animi tacitus continuit’; Biddlecombe, ‘Baldric of Bourgueil and the Flawed Hero’,

87–8. 109

OV, v. 46; WT, 179–80.

110

RC, 675, ‘Vix compescit Tancredus animos quin Provincialium strage iram leniat; sed occurrit viro

ratio, quae sanguinem vetat fundi Christianum.’ 111

GP, 168.

112

Pairis, 159, ‘mitigare … iram eius que nulla erat’.

113

Joinville, 246–8.

114

Joinville, 250, ‘Comment m’avés vous les couvenances rompues, quant vous vous courouciés de

ce que vous ai requis?’ 115

Joinville, 250, ‘Dites quant que vous vourrez, je ne me courouce pas.’

116

Joinville, 280, 336, 376. See also Boquet and Nagy, Sensible Moyen Âge, 235–40.

117

Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 378–82; Elena Carrera, ‘Anger and the Mind–Body Connection in

Medieval and Early Modern Medicine’, in Emotions and Health, 1200–1700, ed. Elena Carrera (Leiden, 2013), 95–146. 118

Ambroise, i. 76 (ii. 96), ‘Dont il li prist al quor tel ire / … / Qu’il en chaï en maladie / Issi qu’il ne

chevalchot mie.’ 119 120

Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 392. Kristi Gourlay, ‘A Pugnacious Pagan Princess: Aggressive Female Anger and Violence in

Fierabras’, in The Representation of Women’s Emotions in Medieval and Early Modern Culture, ed. Perfetti, 137–9. 121

See William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, 36, 96; Fenton, Gender, Nation and Conquest, 35–43.

122

GW, 143, ‘cum ira vindice defervens’. Other passages in the Itinerarium Kambriae reveal that

Gerald was aware of anger’s ability to inspire violent acts: GW, 84–5. 123

GW, 148, ‘vir modestus ac sobrius’, ‘iracundia serus, cunctis propemodum naturae motibus [vel

dotibus] temperatus. Erat quippe Velox ad audiendum, tardus ad loquendum, et tardus ad iram.’ 124

GW, 30, ‘Sic igitur haec mulier, muliebri non degenerans a natura, ut vindici satisfaceret

iracundiae.’ 125

GW, 30; Juvenal, Satires, LCL (London, 1928), 106, 260, ‘uindicta nemo magis gaudet quam

femina’. 126

Howden, Chronica, iii. 56; Howden, Gesta, ii. 127–8.

127

Howden, Gesta, ii. 183; IP, 174.

128

MP, v. 23–4, ‘juste ac potenter vindicaret’.

129

MP, v. 24, ‘nisi discreta ac sancta regis modestia retardarentur, ipsam civitatem cum magna

instantia et indignatione obsedissent’. 130

MP, v. 131, ‘Quis furor vos, O Franci, exagitat? Quid ipsum persequimini, qui ad meum et vestrum

huc de remotis partibus advenit patrocinium, qui Deo sicut et vos fideliter militat peregrinus?’ For William Longespée’s crusading career, see Simon Lloyd, ‘William Longespee II: The Making of an English Crusading Hero’, Nottingham Medieval Studies 35 (1991): 41–69; and 36 (1992): 79–125. 131

MP, v. 131, ‘rex Francorum piissimus’.

132

The ‘wise men’ trope resembles the ‘good men’ in charters and the ‘men of good will’ in Icelandic

sagas: Cheyette and Chickering, ‘Love, Anger, and Peace’, 97; William Ian Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland (Chicago, IL, 1990), 264. 133

Mary Garrison, ‘The Study of Emotions in Early Medieval History’, Early Medieval History 10 (2001): 246; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 27–9. 134

AA, 20.

135

AA, 22, ‘sapientiores et magis sensatos’, ‘ex furore insipientium Theutonicorum’.

136

AA, 22, ‘leuitatis iuuentus’, ‘omnibus sensatis’.

137

AA, 440, ‘Tancradus uero miles gloriosus super hac sibi illata iniuria ira uehementi accensus est,

nec sine discordia et grandi ultione furor illius quieuisset, nisi consilium et sententia maiorum ac prudentium illius animum in hiis uerbis temperasset.’ 138

Titus Maccius Plautus, The Miles Gloriosus of T. Maccius Plautus: A Revised Text with Notes, ed.

Robert Tyrrell (London, 1881). 139

Miriam Tessera, ‘“Prudentes homines … qui sensus habebant magis exercitatos”: A Preliminary

Inquiry into William of Tyre’s Vocabulary of Power’, Crusades 1 (2002): 63–71. 140 141

WT, 146, ‘prudentibus et magne auctoritatis hominibus’. WT, 188, ‘motu animi’, ‘Quod si comiti par affectibus et voluntati esset suorum iniuriam

ulciscendi facultas, procul omni dubio a motu animi, quem conceperat, nec minis nec terroribus nec reliquorum interventu principum potuisset convelli.’ 142

WT, 189, ‘Factumque est tandem ut ad piam principum intercessionem comes, tanquam vir

discretus exacerbatum mitigans animum, principum cessit consilio, eorum dispositioni se committens.’ 143

WT, 188–9, ‘ne vindictam prosequens multorum dierum operam aggrediatur et volentibus in via

domini procedere ministret impedimentum’. 144

WT, 189.

145

RA, 42; BB, 22; GF, 13.

146

AA, 150, ‘nimia indignatione et ira accensi’, ‘uiri pacifici et prudentiores … interuenissent’.

147

Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 71, 73–4, 77–8.

148

Thomas Asbridge, ‘William of Tyre and the First Rulers of the Latin Principality of Antioch’, in

Deeds Done beyond the Sea, ed. Edgington and Nicholson, 35–42. 149

WT, 223–4, ‘cause merita non distinguens sed preter debitum suo ductus spiritu, verbis procacibus

dominum exacerbans Tancredum’. 150

WT, 224, ‘dominus Tancredus, tanta confusus iniuria meritam concepit indignationem, sed saniore

consilio et pia longanimitate motum animi temperans, timens ne periculosa nimis inter fidelium acies oriretur dissensio, solutis castris ad urbem vicinam, cui nomen Adana, se contulit’. 151

WT, 224.

152

WT, 507, 566, 624.

153

WT, 670, 680–1.

154

WT, 507, 680.

155

Tessera, ‘“Prudentes homines”’, 66.

156

GP, 202–4, ‘Ne dolor irati ducis ad communia dampna / Forte redundaret, procerum discretio

magna / Consulit’; based on GF, 80.

157

GP, 214.

158

OD, 44.

159

WN, 367.

160

Howden, Chronica, iii. 93–4; Howden, Gesta, ii. 155–7.

161

Howden, Chronica, iii. 94, ‘dolens et confusus propter indignationem regis’.

162

Howden, Chronica, iii. 94.

163

Howden, Gesta, ii. 183, ‘tamen per consilium sapientum virorum utriusque quievit indignatio, et

facti sunt amici’. 164

IP, 165, ‘Mediantibus vero intercessoribus, regis Ricardi tandem indignatio deferbuit, et

quieverunt verba contumeliosa.’ See also IP, 168. 165

MP, v. 149, ‘indignatus vehementer, iraque et superbia turgidus et inflatus’.

166

MP, v. 150, ‘scisma in exercitu jam suscitatum vehementer formidans, impetuosum motum animi comitis Atrabatensis sedare cupiens et magistri Templi iram mitigare, respondit dicens: “Talem scissuram et divisionem secundum verbum Dominicum sequitur desolatio.”’ 167

MP, v. 151. Matthew 12.25, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself shall be made desolate.’

168

La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 125, ‘Et le rei meismes, dou coros que il ot, comanda a ses

homes que il se deussent armer por aler assaillir le roi d’Engleterre. Et il meismes avoit ja laciees ses chauces, se les proudeshomes de l’ost nen i fussent survenus, qui le rapaisserent de sa ire. Grant damage y eust le jor de la crestienté.’ 169

Clari, 101, ‘si que il furent si iré durement qu’il vaurrent les messages tous decauper … et tant que

li empereres et li haut homme de l’ost i misent consel et plus bele concorde que il peurent’. 170

Joinville, 76, 280.

171

Fredric Cheyette, Ermengard of Narbonne and the World of the Troubadours (Ithaca, NY, 2001),

199–206; Cheyette and Chickering, ‘Love, Anger, and Peace’, 75–117; Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 167– 9. 172

CA, 304, ‘molt de grant aïr’; Antioche, 247; La Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise, ii. 198–204;

iii. 62–6, 188. 173

On dispute resolution, see Stephen White, ‘Pactum … legem vincit et amor judicium: The

Settlement of Disputes by Compromise in Eleventh-Century Western France’, American Journal of Legal History 22 (1978): 281–308; Stephen White, ‘Feuding and Peace-Making in the Touraine around the Year 1100’, Traditio 42 (1986): 195–263; Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation; Jenny Benham, Peacemaking in the Middle Ages: Principles and Practice (Manchester, 2011). 174

Fredric Cheyette, ‘Suum cuique tribuere’, French Historical Studies 6 (1970): 295. See also White, ‘Politics of Anger’, 149; Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 162–3. 175

DeL, 152, 166, ‘moderaminis sui gubernacula … relinquerent’, ‘Spiritus Sancti … favonius’.

176

OD, 44.

177

WT, 229, ‘detumescentibus odiis et indignatione aliquantulum mitigata’.

178

MP, v. 746, ‘Christianorum pax et stabilitas magna ex parte ob eorundem furorem intollerabilem

deperisset’. 179

Villehardouin, ii. 98, ‘Ha! Diex! quel domage dut estre per cele discorde: que, se Diex n’i eüst mis

conseil, destruite fust la crestïentez.’ 180

Barton, ‘Gendering Anger’, 387. See also Barton, ‘“Zealous Anger”’, 159 n. 28; Barton,

‘Emotions and Power’, 50; Curta, ‘Furor Teutonicus’, 68–9. 181

WP, 100, 122–4, 140; IP, 6, 16, 209, 266, 267, 273 (Muslims), 201 (Greeks), 217, 221 (Philip),

165–6, 200, 242, 360 (Richard). 182

Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 2; Rigord, 136.

183

OD, 52, ‘doloso scelere’.

184

Hagenmeyer, Epistulae, 151, ‘nostri furore accensi in sacrilegos Turcos pro Christo mori parati’.

See also Peyroux, ‘Gertrude’s Furor’, 36–55; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 185–6. 185

RC, 631, ‘Miles flagras intrepidus appellari, eoque prudens furis, ut imprudens furere dicaris.’

186

Menache, ‘Love of God’, 12.

Conclusion This book has aimed to offer a systematic analysis of the ways in which two emotions (fear and anger) and one affective display (weeping) were represented in twelfth- and thirteenth-century narratives of the crusades, although this has also necessitated an examination of a broader spectrum of passions, including love, joy, grief, hatred, and envy. Part I challenged the idea, first espoused by Jan Verbruggen and taken up by numerous scholars since, that crusade narratives allow the historian to recover moments when Latin participants actually experienced fear. In most texts, even so-called ‘eyewitness’ testimonies, we find a monastic vision of the fear of death, which was primarily appraised in relation to faith. The virtue of humility was central to this conception, with the crusaders regularly represented as rejecting or overcoming fear by renouncing the sin of pride and placing their trust in God. Within this dynamic, fear was often imputed to protagonists in sinful contexts; indeed, some writers even considered it a sinful passion, which could be justifiably categorized with vices. Timor mortis was also frequently interpreted in Christo-mimetic terms: to fear death was incompatible with undergoing martyrdom, a core component of the imitatio Christi ideal. Whereas the appraisal of fear in relation to humility pervaded even the earliest narratives, and was evoked throughout the crusading era, the relationship between fear, martyrdom, and the imitation of Christ only truly came to the fore in second-generation narratives of the First Crusade. This interpretation of the fear of death continued to mark a broad array of twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade histories after c.1110, but only a handful of writers—most notably Peter of Blois—emphasized this concept to the same degree as the early twelfth-century Benedictines. But fear was just one of many emotions tied to martyrdom. To varying degrees, Latin chroniclers believed that the crusaders had abandoned their families and possessions in an act of love and, assured of eternal life, they not only approached death with a fearless demeanour, but simultaneously experienced feelings of joy and longing. The same emotional lexicon was applied to the Templars in Bernard of Claivaux’s De laude and a wide range of narratives, and these ideas proved transmutable to other arenas of crusading warfare. On the basis of this overarching accord, we can validly speak of an idealized, monastic vision of fear in relation to milites Christi. By comparing the ecclesiastical narratives with lay texts, chansons de geste, lyrics, participants’ letters, and preaching documents, it was established that the appraisal of fear in relation to faith was largely dependent on monastic authorship. Scriptural texts were at the epicentre of the fear–faith paradigm: not only did the Bible contain numerous passages promising fearlessness to those who trusted in God, it also offered exemplars of intrepid warriors, like the Maccabees, whose humility and desire for salvation rendered them unafraid. The ways in which fear was represented and utilized in crusade narratives were significantly more

diverse and complex than previous scholarship has assumed; and this undermines the historiographical tradition of simply taking textual ‘fear incidents’ as clear reflections of the crusading experience. For a start, fear was frequently assessed in relation to the anticipated shameful behaviour it might inspire, and the development of chivalry appears to have solidified this view; yet, even in the thirteenth century, the outward expression of fear was not always deemed a sign of cowardice. Fear also had gendered connotations. The constant use of virtus and viriliter to communicate Latin combatants’ manly courage attests that crusading was often perceived as an unambiguously male space. In light of its strong connotations of effeminacy, fear was irreconcilable with this image of the archetypal virile crusader, although this consideration appears to have elicited a number of literary responses. For some, it cemented fear’s status as a value-negative passion which ought to be relinquished; for others, it seemingly had a more dramatic impact, inspiring both William of Malmesbury and Gerald of Wales to avoid imputing that passion to crusaders. On the other hand, the nexus between fear and effeminacy meant that it served as a valuable rhetorical device for symbolizing weakness. Whereas western descriptions of Greek fearfulness have sometimes been read as evidence of a genuine interest in the underlying motives behind Byzantine policy, it is more likely that the Latin chroniclers sought to depict the Greeks, especially Alexios I and Manuel Komnenos, as characteristically feeble and ineffectual rulers. Several writers conceptually linked the effeminate fearfulness of the Byzantines to their perfidious treatment of the crusaders, with such acts of treachery being accomplished through false emotional displays. While fear was, for the most part, considered a value-negative emotion, in certain circumstances it was almost certainly an acceptable passion for crusaders to display. Besides timor Dei and fear of sin, participants were frequently portrayed as fearing acts of deception, particularly those prosecuted by the Byzantines and Muslims. The frequency with which chroniclers acknowledged moments when crusaders, even their central protagonists, feared underhand tactics strongly suggests that this was a legitimate context in which to experience fear. Furthermore, in casting their principal protagonists as men capable of inspiring terror, numerous twelfth- and thirteenth-century chroniclers appear to have regarded fear a marker of power. From a broader perspective, the constant attribution of fear to the crusaders’ Muslim adversaries, especially in histories of the First Crusade, created a power discourse whereby the Latin Christians were depicted as the powerful prosecutors of divine will, while their enemies were rendered fearful and powerless, often incapacitated by a terror stemming directly from God. Focusing on the religious and social functions assigned to crusaders’ tears, Part II explored the interplay between internal feelings and their external expression. Weeping features in the texts as a legitimate form of affective piety, with ecclesiastical chroniclers assigning a variety of roles to the crusaders’ tears: they served as instruments for petitioning and thanking God, symbolized an awareness of personal sin, exemplified participants’ devotion to Jerusalem, and even emulated the tears of Christ. In order to understand the complex evidential picture surrounding these and many other lachrymose scenes, we need to remain attuned to the gratia lacrimarum, the theological doctrine which likely shaped chroniclers’ interpretations of the Latins’ tears. Many monastic writers claimed that would-be crusaders

were moved to take the cross by compunctio cordis: a process initiated by God, which was seen as the correct emotional response to the offer of the remissio peccatorum, and one which was often manifested externally by torrents of tears. Whereas tears of sorrow and remorse were thus applicable to, and expected of, those who took the cross, several non-participant commentators—including Baldric of Bourgueil, Guibert of Nogent, Bartolf of Nangis, and William of Tyre—seemingly imputed the most spiritually meritorious type of tears to the First Crusaders who wept at Christ’s tomb in 1099: tears of joy, which welled up in anticipation of salvation and union with Christ. Care should be taken not to overstate the dichotomy between ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’ weeping in a crusading context, for this distinction would probably have seemed artificial to medieval audiences. Accounts of tearful demonstrations enacted en masse by participants articulated the communal nature of crusading, and crying was a typical gesture of affection—a visible manifestation of the fraternal love which supposedly existed between co-religionists and the compassion participants felt towards their deceased comrades. Beyond this, weeping was a legitimate mode of eliciting an individual’s mercy, and there are signs that some thirteenth-century writers, such as Geoffrey of Villehardouin, regarded the tearful begging of favour as an emotional behaviour expected of the aristocratic elite. In spite of William Aird’s belief that weeping was a marker of femininity in a monastic setting, there is little evidence that tearful displays were judged to have encroached negatively on the crusaders’ masculinity. Both male and female protagonists were cast as shedding tears in departure scenes, the lachrymose performances of men were often represented as being just as extensive as those attributed to women, and a plethora of writers willingly acknowledged moments when their central characters wept. All of these characteristics belie suggestions that tearful demonstrations were considered unmanly. Indeed, by stressing the universality of grief that accompanied the passing of a leading figure, chroniclers effectively signposted their worth and power, with some even going so far as to claim that their enemies participated in such mourning. Part III scrutinized the scholarly consensus that the crusades created a climate for the legitimate expression of anger against unbelievers and simultaneously questioned whether crusading had a discernible impact on contemporary attitudes towards that emotion. Although zelus and the idea of crusading as an act of vengeance continued to feature in crusade sources after Innocent III’s pontificate, the significance and omnipresence of zealous wrath against sinners (or ira per zelum) has been overstated. Owing to the composite nature of zelus, it is extremely difficult to isolate specific instances where this term possessed unambiguous connotations of righteous anger, and while it figured in a relatively wide corpus of source material, a lexical analysis reveals that zelus was poorly attested in twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade narratives. Moreover, when other Latin anger terms, especially ira and indignatio, are taken into consideration, it becomes clear that anger was not a core emotional component of crusade preaching: far greater emphasis was placed on encouraging western Christians to grieve over territorial losses and the oppression of their co-religionists in the East; and even the authors of crusade lyrics failed to draw heavily on anger rhetoric. Nor was anger a dominant passion in the

narrative histories. There are few references to this emotion in the participant narratives of the First Crusade, and anger rhetoric was only incorporated to a greater extent in certain second-generation accounts, most notably Albert of Aachen’s Historia. Anger terminology was particularly prominent in chronicles of the Third Crusade, but it was less frequently attested in thirteenth-century narratives of the crusades. This ebb and flow warns against viewing anger as consistently forming a cornerstone of the emotional index of crusading. The crusades did little to either popularize notions of ira per zelum or modify pre-existing models of just anger. Even in the context of holy war, contemporary chroniclers did not necessarily regard anger channelled towards the crusaders’ Muslim adversaries as automatically permissible, and religious imagery is surprisingly missing from most descriptions of Latin wrath: in the majority of cases, their anger was represented as a legitimate reaction to injuries of a non-religious nature, particularly the slaughter of their comrades, which in turn motivated (and justified) acts of revenge. If the propriety and pervasiveness of righteous wrath in a crusading context has been exaggerated, the opposite is the case with regard to dysfunctional forms of ire. Anger was primarily conceived as a dangerous passion by contemporary commentators, and this interpretation endured throughout the crusading epoch. Chroniclers used a common set of formulae, many of which can also be tracked in texts disassociated with crusading, in order to communicate instances of disproportionate, unrestrained rage. Uncontrollable fury was indicated, above all, by the terms furor and rabies, both of which had overtones of insanity; but writers also associated uncontained and dysfunctional rage with demonic possession, slanderous speech, and acts of extensive (and often illegitimate) violence. Even anger that was not necessarily disproportionate was still considered inherently dangerous. Twelfth- and thirteenth-century crusade preachers and chroniclers were less concerned with the legitimacy of directing anger against the crusaders’ opponents, and far more interested in potentially destructive outbreaks of ire within crusader armies. As many commentators were plainly aware, anger had the potential to fuel inter-Latin rivalries between crusaders, as well as between settlers in the East; consequently, we encounter a deep-seated concern for controlling outbreaks of anger between fellow Christians. Crusaders, and especially crusade commanders, were expected to reject anger by embracing virtuous mildness or practising self-control. Both self-restraint and the arbitration of crusade leaders and prudent noblemen were considered effective modes of ‘anger management’, and when these methods failed, some writers insisted that the direct intervention of God was required to soothe frayed tempers. In light of this fascination with restraining anger, the semantic distinction Latin chroniclers supposedly made between ira, with its righteous tones, and furor—a term delineating a vicious, boundless type of rage—stands in need of revision. A handful of writers did indeed adhere to this convention, but the boundaries between these two supposedly polarized terms appear much less clear-cut in most chronicles. Not only were ira and furor frequently used together, on occasion furor merely expressed the extent of an individual’s anger, without any sign of criticism, and the intercession of arbiters was not reserved exclusively for ‘anger incidents’ marked by furor: wise men were just as frequently represented as cooling flashes of ira, even meritus ira. Righteous

or not, ira had the capacity to spawn undesirable ramifications, and so, like furor, needed to be contained. The Latin lexicon of anger was thus far more complex and opaque than the neat and transparent ira/furor division allows. This book cannot claim to offer a holistic analysis of the entire repertoire of emotions that were associated (and disassociated) with crusading in the diverse array of sources pertaining to those medieval phenomena. Indeed, it is hoped that this study will serve as a springboard for future research. Three lines of enquiry strike me as particularly fruitful. Detailed surveys of the passions and emotional performances which were not the central focus of this book—especially happiness, smiling, and laughter—would be beneficial, as would in-depth studies of the emotional content of sources that were either omitted, such as charters, or primarily mobilized to assess the distinctiveness of the narrative texts, such as lyrics. Whether or how the emotional rhetoric of crusading evolved after 1291 is also ripe for investigation.1 Nevertheless, several overarching points can be gleaned from this book. Emotions communicated and intersected with a number of broader, overlapping themes in the narratives, and I am therefore in agreement with John Arnold that examining the ways in which emotions expressed macro-level ideas is just as valuable as scrutinizing specific emotion words.2 There can be little doubt that emotions were a fundamental ingredient in contemporary conceptions of crusader spirituality, and that they also played a part, albeit a relatively small part, in gendering crusade texts. While gendered considerations did have an impact on how contemporaries perceived and described fear, other emotions and affective demonstrations—such as anger, grief, and weeping—were rarely viewed through a gendered lens. Furthermore, there was often an emotional dimension to the power dynamics of the narratives; and, linked to this, emotions operated as effective rhetorical devices for aggrandizing and vilifying protagonists. That is not to suggest that the emotional reactions ascribed to the crusaders’ opponents were designed to present a Muslim enemy of unprecedented barbarity—an alien ‘other’. Furor and rabies could symbolize the Muslims’ opposition to Christianity, but the same terms were also imputed to Greeks and even crusaders. For the most part, the chroniclers appear far more interested in the crusaders than their adversaries, and most of the emotional experiences attributed to Muslim protagonists—their fear, violent grief, and emotional transformations from pride to fear or joy to sorrow—should be read accordingly. Collectively, the above-mentioned functions strongly suggest that, rather than mere ‘reality effects’ introduced to dramatize or enliven the story, emotions had genuine communicative potential. Beyond this, it is possible to chart continuities and changes over time. The first decade of the twelfth century represents a crucial phase in the evolution and reconfiguration of the emotional rhetoric of crusading. It was during this period, especially in the second-generation narratives of the First Crusade, that fear became increasingly assessed in relation to the interconnected ideals of imitatio Christi and martyrdom; that the crusaders’ tears were contextualized within the western Christian theology of weeping; and that anger began to be incorporated into at least some second-hand texts. In all these regards, the second wave of narratives differed from the earlier histories by so-called ‘eyewitnesses’. Only relatively minor shifts appear to have occurred after c.1110, some of which can be ascribed to

changes in the concept and practice of crusading. The widespread participation of monarchs in the Third Crusade stimulated an unprecedented emphasis on anger in western chronicles, in large part because contemporary ideals of ira regis became applicable to a crusading environment. Similarly, the popularity of travelling to the Levant by sea in the thirteenth century meant that certain themes became more relevant—for example, the fear of seafaring—while others lost their potency, including the perceived connection between Byzantine fearfulness, effeminacy, and perfidy. These modifications should not, however, distract us from the overarching continuity which characterized the use of emotional language in crusade narratives created during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. We are now in a better position to gauge the various influences which account for the representation and function of emotions in crusade histories and, in turn, the social and intellectual environments in which the texts were created. In the ecclesiastical narratives, we find a highly theological framework of emotions, one which was not only influenced by contemporary theological doctrines, such as those pertaining to anger and weeping, but was simultaneously anchored in the Bible. The fearlessness which stemmed from total obedience to God, the promise of joy in the wake of tears, the need to ‘weep with them that weep’ in the performance of Christian charity, the divisive effects of anger between Christian brethren—all were rooted in scripture. In certain instances, chroniclers may have consciously attempted to evoke parallels with specific biblical passages or stories, but we should shy away from assuming that they always sought to do so. It is far more likely that the emotional thought patterns of ecclesiastical writers were founded upon their biblical learning, and that these ideas were usually assimilated automatically into a crusading context. At times, textual relationships can explain similar emotional patterns. Even if we exclude the vast textual tradition centred on the Gesta Francorum, it is nevertheless clear that the narratives of the First Crusade affected the ways in which later writers approached crusading emotions. William of Tyre’s presentation of the crusaders’ tears as devices for invoking God’s compassion may have stemmed from his use of Raymond of Aguilers’ Historia, whilst Odo of Deuil’s account of the emotional metamorphosis experienced by Louis VII’s army upon entering Byzantine territory was perhaps inspired by the same text. Bernard of Clairvaux’s vision of fear, voiced most forcefully in his De laude, was possibly shaped by Albert of Aachen’s and Robert the Monk’s historiae; and Bernard’s De laude probably directed the interpretations of later writers, such as Jacques de Vitry. These are just a few of the connections which likely existed between the texts. Aside from scripture, theological models, and textual relationships, various forms of literature shaped chroniclers’ approaches to emotions. Some crusade commentators directly borrowed from classical authorities like Virgil, whose statement ‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ was especially pertinent to describing the crusaders’ fear of Greek treachery, or Statius, whose Thebaïs underpinned the negative appraisal of fear in the Itinerarium peregrinorium. Moreover, though the authors of crusade histories and saints’ lives were likely exposed to a common set of influences, the similarities between these source types, particularly in the representation of fear and weeping, suggest that hagiographical literature was an

important entry point for the emotional rhetoric found in crusade narratives. Nor should we discount the potential impact of vernacular culture: moments of accord between the Latin histories, Old French prose narratives, chansons de geste, and Occitan and Old French lyrics are suggestive of a degree of crossfertilization between these genres. At times, crusade chroniclers also adhered to the conventions of the historia genre; for instance, furor and rabies were also used to discredit political actors in the works of William of Poitiers, Suger of St-Denis, and Orderic Vitalis, while the ability to inspire love and fear were indicators of power both inside and outside a crusading context. The geographic setting in which a crusading expedition took place could also have an impact. The specific context of Livonia seemingly resulted in a degree of fear acceptance in Henry of Livonia’s Chronicon Livoniae, and the lack of the Holy Land’s sacred geography, especially Jerusalem, goes some way in explaining the paucity of references to pious weeping in both that text and Peter of Les Vaux-deCernay’s Hystoria Albigensis. In other ways, however, the emotional discourses of these accounts mirror those encountered in Latin narratives of the Holy Land crusades. Theological interpretations of fear were applicable to crusading in southern France and the Baltic; Henry of Livonia repeatedly engaged with the crusading as vengeance concept; and neither Henry nor Peter placed particular emphasis on anger. Authorship was a determining, if not decisive, factor in the presentation and utilization of emotions. An author’s social status could have a dramatic effect on the text’s emotional content. In terms of their emotion talk, the Latin chronicles by churchmen closely resemble papal crusade encyclicals. For Menache, the similar approaches to emotions in these two source types indicated that ‘the papal message was widely accepted by contemporary authors’.3 Possibly; but I would argue that this parity was more likely the by-product of a shared emotional framework. It is also worth noting that few major differences can be detected in the emotional rhetoric used by crusade commentators from different religious orders. In other contexts, historians have emphasized the ‘emotional heightening’ and ‘new affectivity’ of the Cistercians in comparison to other professed religious, including the Benedictines.4 Nonetheless, this heightened emotionalism or affective intensity does not appear to have infected Cistercian sources for the crusades; Benedictine and Cistercian authors adopted similar approaches to fear, weeping, and anger. In many respects, the emotional landscape found in lay texts differed markedly from that in ecclesiastical narratives: thus, fear–faith imagery and religious weeping were generally less characteristic of secular accounts and chansons than clerical works. However, these broad trends do not negate authorial artifice. In the vast majority of instances, emotional language was undoubtedly assimilated subconsciously into crusade texts, yet moments of individuality and conscious construction can also be discerned. A few examples: the most distinctive feature of Albert of Aachen’s use of emotions—his frequent imputation of anger and vengeance terms to crusaders—was probably symptomatic of his vision of the First Crusade as a sort of Christian fellowship; a comparison with non-Latin sources suggests that William of Tyre’s presentation of Reynald of Châtillon as raging madly was a deliberate ploy to blacken the latter’s name; and William of Malmesbury appears to have purposefully crafted his narrative of events in the East to provide an exemplary tale of male fortitude and fearlessness. The history of emotions is not just,

therefore, about uncovering past emotional standards; it can also facilitate a deeper, more enriched understanding of medieval sources. These findings lead to three major conclusions. Firstly, the traditional approach of simply accepting the emotional language found in crusade narratives as straightforward evidence of protagonists’ lived feelings needs to be supplanted by a methodological framework which deals primarily with textual representation and function. The former approach fails to do justice to the variegated ways in which emotions were represented, the diverse textual functions they performed, and, above all, the range of influences and factors which underpinned emotion talk in the narratives. If, as I have suggested, the crusaders’ actual passions cannot be cultivated from the texts, then we need to reject the enduring scholarly tradition of mobilizing these same texts to understand and reconstruct the crusaders’ beliefs, especially in light of the degree to which the thought worlds of ecclesiastical authors, conditioned by their biblical education and knowledge of theological doctrines, contaminated their accounts. But all is not lost: focusing on representations does not necessitate restricting our scope of enquiry to a hermeneutic reading of the narratives, the ramifications of which fail to extend beyond the texts themselves. While the narratives cannot tell us about the emotional responses of individual crusaders, the authors did not operate in a vacuum, and the emotional discourses encountered in their works were not entirely disconnected from reality. Not only were crusade histories reflective of wider socio-cultural conceptions of emotions (albeit restricted to those of the ecclesiastical and aristocratic elite), they probably also provided moral instruction for future generations of crusaders. Numerous ‘intimate scripts’ embedded within the narratives could have translated into reality and influenced actual crusader practice: that fear ought to be relinquished in the face of death by trusting in God, remembering the example of the Maccabees, or by striving to emulate Christ; that a ‘good’ crusader should shed tears of remorse when he took the cross and weep with joy when Jerusalem came into view; and that anger needed to be restrained in order to avoid irate disputes that were detrimental to the Latins’ cause. Thus, despite the ongoing drive to develop new methodological frameworks for studying the emotional standards of the distant past, epitomized by recent attempts at ‘neurohistory’, the social constructionist (or cultural-historical) approach still has much to offer the historian of medieval emotions. Secondly, the emotional landscape that contemporaries applied to crusading was not unique. Crusading did not spawn a profoundly new set of approaches to the emotions: certainly, those who wrote about the crusades could amplify or demote certain themes, but, at a fundamental level, they were tapping into pre-existing ideas. This is especially apparent in attitudes to anger. Accounts of the ire of Richard I and Frederick Barbarossa during the Third Crusade do not differ markedly from descriptions of ira regis in other settings; and rather than presenting the crusaders as unleashing a tirade of righteous wrath against their enemies, the chroniclers clung to the longstanding theological tradition which denounced anger as a dangerous vice. Furthermore, in terms of their spiritual significance and functions, the crusaders’ tears are essentially the same as those attributed to religious men and women in medieval hagiographies; descriptions of grief-stricken crusaders conform to the established tradition of planctus;

and the use of fear as a marker of power is attested in a broad corpus of material pertaining to other contexts. Perhaps the most original development was the assessment of fear in relation to martyrdom, but even this idea harked back to biblical precedents like the intrepid Maccabean warrior-martyrs. Finally, the various religious, social, and political functions that emotions performed in the texts undermine any notion that the crusades took place in an era of emotional immaturity. The attitudes towards fear reflected in crusade narratives involved a complex dynamic between discourses of faith, gender, deception, and power which run counter to charges of primitive emotionalism. Rather than spontaneous, unprovoked outbursts, surges of anger were often represented as following the contours of a widely attested cultural script, whereby anger was considered the correct emotional response to certain stimuli; and a deeply engrained ideology of anger control pervaded many of these same texts. In addition, far from irrational, childlike outpourings, the crusaders’ tears were frequently depicted as originating from heavenly sent compunctio cordis, and as performing a series of prescribed socioreligious functions. These findings corroborate the revisionist arguments of Barbara Rosenwein, Gerd Althoff, Piroska Nagy, and Damien Boquet, although the case of weeping suggests that the current historiography needs to be nuanced slightly. While overwrought displays of grief by crusade leaders were sometimes condemned, on other occasions the crusaders were clearly expected to weep extensively—or, figuratively speaking, to pour forth rivers of tears. A number of chroniclers claimed that the tears shed by the First Crusaders at Jerusalem were incalculable; according to Robert the Monk, they flooded the Sepulchre’s floor.5 Likewise, some writers were keen to emphasize the unprecedented nature of the grief surrounding the death of a particular individual. Of course, these comments should not be taken at face value, but they do suggest that extensive emotional displays were entirely appropriate—perhaps even encouraged—in certain contexts. Although the condemnatory readings of medieval emotions by traditionalists like Johan Huizinga and Norbert Elias have largely been cast aside in recent years, some scholars continue to engage in historical parallelism between the medieval and modern periods.6 To my mind, any comparison with the emotionality of the post-Darwinist era is counterproductive. When turning to the twelfth- and thirteenthcentury texts, it is imperative that we temporally suspend, as far as possible, our own conceptions of ‘the emotions’, and instead treat medieval passions on their own terms by endeavouring to understand contemporary evaluations of emotions, the range of factors underpinning those perceptions, and how they evolved or codified over time. Emotions in a Crusading Context, 1095–1291. Stephen J. Spencer, Oxford University Press (2019). © Stephen J. Spencer. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198833369.001.0001 1

See Marcel Elias, ‘Mixed Feelings in the Middle English Charlemagne Romances: Emotional

Reconfiguration and the Failures of Crusading Practices in the Otuel Texts’, in New Medieval Literatures 16, ed. Laura Ashe, Wendy Scase, and David Lawton (Cambridge, 2016), 172–212; Marcel Elias,

‘Violence, Excess, and the Composite Emotional Rhetoric of Richard Coeur de Lion’, Studies in Philology 114 (2017): 1–38. 2

Arnold, ‘Inside and Outside the Medieval Laity’, 111, 123–4.

3

Menache, ‘Love of God’, 19. A similar view was espoused in Ordman, ‘Feeling like a Holy

Warrior’, 344. 4

Caroline Walker Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages

(Berkeley, CA, 1982), 78, 80, 81. 5

RM, 100.

6

For example, see Angela Weisl, ‘Confession, Contrition, and the Rhetoric of Tears: Medievalism

and Reality Television’, in Medieval Afterlives in Popular Culture, ed. Gail Ashton and Daniel Kline (New York, 2012), 140.

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Index Abels, Richard 74–5 Acre 84, 143 1189–91 siege and capture of 35, 37–8, 76–7, 97–9, 100, 104–5, 134–5, 155–6, 167, 170–1, 188–9, 201–2, 204–5, 215–16, 225, 232–4 1291 fall of 22–3, 42–3, 117–18, 139–40, 186 Adhémar, bishop of Le Puy 55–6, 59, 107, 117–18, 167–9 Adrian IV, pope 193 Adrianople 235 Ailes, Marianne 153–4 Aimar V, viscount of Limoges 222–3 Aimeric de Belenoi 61 Aimeric de Pegulhan 59–60 Aimery of Limoges, patriarch of Antioch 157–8, 214–15 Aird, William 28–30, 107–8, 161–2, 242–3 al-Adil ibn Ayyub 100–1, 170 al-Afdal, Egyptian vizier 91–2, 170–1, 172 Alberic of Trois Fontaines 209–10 Albrecht von Johansdorf 160–1 Alençon 102–3

Albert, bishop of Livonia 53–4, 95, 137–8, 202–3 Albert of Aachen 16–17, 35, 36, 45–7, 50, 59, 61–2, 64, 84, 91–5, 101–2, 104n.233, 107, 122–3, 129, 134–5, 141, 151–2, 153–4, 162, 164–5, 168, 170–1, 188–9, 196–7, 198, 200–1, 203–4, 210–11, 217–19, 228–30, 237, 243, 246, 247–8 Alcuin of York 177–8 Alexander III, pope 22–3, 190–1, 193 Alexander the Great 187 Alexios I Komnenos, emperor of Byzantium 87, 88, 89–95, 97, 99–100, 103–4, 134–5, 222–4, 229–30, 241–2 Alexios IV Angelos, emperor of Byzantium 93–4 Alice, princess of Antioch 214–15 Althoff, Gerd 2–3, 113, 149, 197, 249–50 Ambroise 18, 76–7, 80, 94, 97–9, 100, 116–17, 140, 155–6, 204–5, 215–16, 219–20, 225 Ambrières 102–3 amygdala 29–30 Andrew of Montbard 49 Andrew, St 31–2, 60 Andronikos I Komnenos, emperor of Byzantium 97 anger bestial nature of 210, 216–17, 236 demonic possession and 212–15, 216, 217, 238, 243–4 divisive effect of 217–20, 227–35, 237–8, 243–4, 246, 248–9 duration of 215–16, 217 gendered implications of 225–6, 238, 244–5

of God and Christ 177–8, 179, 180, 188–9, 191–2, 195, 199–200, 236, 238–9 indiscipline and 210–12 inspired by physical injuries 200–3, 207–8, 243 links to envy and hatred 217–20, 230–1, 235 madness and 6–7, 210–12, 214–17, 236, 243–4 physiological symptoms of 213–14 religious character of 198–201, 207–8, 243 righteous nature of 177–82, 183, 188–90, 198–208, 209, 229–30, 231, 234, 236–9, 243–4, 249–50 see also ira per zelum slanderous speech inspired by 213, 215–16, 232–3, 243–4 vice of 177–8, 179, 212–13, 218, 219–20, 224, 237–8, 249 violence of and manifested by 213–17, 238, 243–4 vocabulary of 180–1, 196–7, 210–12, 216, 236–9, 243–4 anger management intervention of God 235, 237–8, 243–4 intervention of leaders 226–7, 237–8, 243–4 noble counsel 227–35, 237–9, 243–4 self-control 220–6, 237–9, 243–4 Anna Komnene 87 ‘Ansbert’, see Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris Antalya 89–90, 94–5

Antioch 212–15, 230–1 1097–8 siege and capture of 28–9, 38, 41, 55–6, 75–8, 82–3, 85, 89–90, 94, 103–4, 114–15, 134–5, 152, 161, 167–8, 170–1, 199–200, 201, 221–3, 224, 232, 234–5 battle of 30–4, 37, 46–7, 59, 105, 106–7, 117–18, 168–9, 219 Antiochus IV (the Illustrious) 65–6, 183–4 Archambault, Paul 19–20 Archibald of Bourbon 94–5 Aristotle 5–6, 7, 96, 179 Arnold, John 244–5 Arnold of Lübeck 34–5, 44–6, 116–17, 133–4, 137–8, 166–7, 199–202 Arqa 40, 58, 64–5, 105, 126–7 Arsuf, battle of 42–3, 212, 221 Arvedus Tudebode 28–9 Ascalon 155–6 battle of 46–7, 56–7, 103–4, 105, 114–15, 118–20, 133, 170–1, 172 Ashe, Laura 72 Aubrey of Reims 77, 85–6 Audefroi le Bastart 195–6 Augustine of Hippo, St 7, 178–9, 183 Austore d’Aurillac 187 Avignon 227 Bachrach, David 11–12, 115–16

Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad 100 Baldric of Bourgueil 16–17, 30–1, 39, 41, 61–2, 76–7, 85, 103–4, 105, 122, 128–9, 130, 133–4, 141, 151–2, 170–1, 188, 192, 196–7, 201, 212, 223–4, 229–30, 242 Baldwin I, king of Jerusalem (Baldwin of Boulogne) 16–17, 84, 101–2, 122n.51, 122–3, 152, 153–4, 162–3, 165, 170, 173, 221, 222–3, 230–1, 235 Baldwin III, king of Jerusalem 32–3, 97, 169–70, 173, 214–15 Baldwin IX, count of Flanders, Latin emperor of Constantinople 78–9, 152, 234, 235 Baldwin of Ford, archbishop of Canterbury 18, 43–4, 84–5, 157–8, 225–6 Bartolf of Nangis 17, 33–4, 122–3, 130, 217–18, 242 Barton, Richard 102, 180, 216, 225, 236 battlefield speeches and sermons 29–31, 37, 41, 43–4, 54–6, 59, 61–2, 67, 82–3, 85–6, 115–16, 155–6, 185–6 Beirut 169–70 Benedictines 16–17, 41–2, 44, 69, 122–3, 240–1, 247–8 Bennett, Matthew 23–4 Bernard of Clairvaux 22–3, 47–53, 67, 124–5, 136–7, 146–7, 188, 190–1, 199–200, 218, 240–1, 246 Bernard of Portes 118–19 Bernart Alanhan de Narbona 142–3 Berthold, bishop of Livonia 45–6 Bertrand de la Tour 64–5 Bertrand of Grandselve 125–6 Bible, see scripture Biddlecombe, Steven 61–2

Blacker, Jean 8 Blanche of Castile 145–6, 159–60, 162–3 Bliese, John 29–30, 61–2, 69, 107–8 Bloch, Marc 2 Bohemond of Taranto 16, 61–2, 82–3, 85, 86, 89–90, 92–5, 99–102, 125, 134–5, 153–4, 164–5, 172, 200–1, 212–13, 219, 221–4, 229–30, 232 1107–8 campaign of 97 Bohemond II, prince of Antioch 217–18 Bonaventure of Bagnoregio 68 Boniface, marquis of Montferrat 154, 235 Boquet, Damien 2–3, 5–6, 14–15, 249–50 Boswell, John 153–4 Bouchard, Constance 73–4 Brevis ordinacio de predicacione s. crucis 22–3, 37, 58, 121–2, 212–13 brotherhood 50–1, 151–4, 172–3, 192, 200–1, 219 Brundage, James 10 Burchard of Mount Sion 132–3 Bull, Marcus 10–11, 89n.123, 150 Byzantines 80, 92–7, 108–9, 134–5, 153–4, 205–6, 208, 214–15, 221, 222–3, 224, 236, 241–2, 246–7 emotional characterizations of 77, 86–92, 104–5, 108, 241–2, 244–6 see also Alexios I Komnenos; Isaac II Angelos; Manuel Komnenos; Tatikios Caesarea 213

Caffaro of Caschifelone 17, 55–6, 82–3, 136 Calixtus II, pope 136–7 Callahan, Leslie 163–4 Celestine II, pope 50–1 Cels, Marc 177–8 Chanson d’Antioche 23–4, 59, 140, 142–3, 164–5, 201–2, 234–5 Chanson de Guillaume 59, 101–2, 164–5, 201–2 Chanson de Jérusalem 23–4, 80, 133, 140–3 Chanson de la Croisade Albigeoise 142–3, 234–5 Chanson de Roland 23–4, 59, 101–2, 164–5, 201–2 Chanson des Chétifs 23–4, 140, 142–3, 153–4, 164–5 chansons de geste 23–4, 29–30, 59, 101–2, 108–9, 140–3, 153–4, 164–5, 171, 201–2, 234–5, 238, 240–1, 246–8 Chardon de Croisilles 163–4 charity 12, 30, 42, 150–1, 184, 188, 189–90, 200, 219, 221, 246 see also love Charlemagne, emperor 101–2, 164–5, 201–2 Charles III, king of France (the Simple) 61–2 Charles, count of Flanders 216–17 ‘Charleville poet’ (continuator of Gilo of Paris) 16–17, 38, 91–2, 199–200, 210–11 charters 10–11, 21–2, 227n.132, 244–5 Châteauroux 206–7 Châtelain de Coucy (probably Guy IV of Coucy) 163–4

Cheyette, Fredric 234–5 chivalry 72–81, 108–9, 222–3, 241–2 Christ cleansing of the Temple and 199–200 fear and sorrow of 68 fearlessness of 40–1, 60, 68 Garden of Gethsemane and 68 humanity and suffering of 60, 68, 133, 141, 142–3 humility of 59, 63–4 imitation of 5, 11–12, 39–45, 50–1, 55–8, 60, 63–4, 68, 69, 133–4, 141, 142–3, 147, 199–200, 240–1, 242, 245–6, 248–9 Passion of 1, 40–1, 43–4, 58, 60, 130–3, 137–8, 140, 142–3, 159, 195–6 patience of 235 tears of 132–4, 141, 142–3, 147, 242 see also anger, of God and Christ; fear, imitatio Christi and; vengeance, for injuries to Christ Christina of Markyate 62–3 Cistercians 42–3, 50, 137–8, 247–8 Classen, Albrecht 113, 149 classical tradition 62–3, 82, 88, 89, 95–9, 108–9, 177–8, 225, 246–7 Claudian 91, 97–9 Clermont, council of 12n.67, 22–3, 39, 41–2, 105, 123–4, 151–2, 184, 190–1, 192, 199–200 compassion 132–3, 137n.144, 139–40, 150–9, 163–4, 169–70, 192, 193, 242–3

compunction, doctrine of 113, 121–33, 134, 136–7, 146–8, 157–8, 242, 249–50 confession 37, 38, 54–5, 115–17, 118, 120–1, 122–3, 130, 136, 140 Conon of Béthune 154–5, 163–4, 195–6 Conrad III, king of Germany 99, 153–4, 197 Conrad, bishop of Regensburg 127–8 Conrad, marquis of Montferrat 34–5, 94, 157–8, 226–7, 232–3 Constance, princess of Antioch 214–15 Constantinople 34–5, 78, 87, 88, 89–90, 93, 134–5, 136, 236 1204 conquest of 56–7, 63–4, 78, 104–5, 154–5, 224, 234 contrition 30, 54–5, 115–16, 119–21, 121, 123–4, 129, 132–3, 134, 137n.144, 146–7, 212–13 conversion 115–16, 125–6, 202–3 cooperative bonds 153–4 Cosmas of Prague 125 courage 27–31, 33, 34–5, 36, 37–8, 40–5, 49–57, 64–5, 66, 67, 73–4, 77–8, 82–4, 85–6, 97–9, 101–2, 188–9, 195–6, 241–2 vocabulary of 27n.5 see also virtus courtesie 222–3 courtly love 153–4 cowardice, see fear, links to shame and cowardice Cresson, battle of the Springs of 42, 51 Cronica Reinhardsbrunnensis 123–4

cross, the relic of 133 sign of 51–2, 150, 183, 217–18, 222–3 taking of 10, 44–5, 53–4, 58, 59–60, 61, 64–5, 84–5, 123–6, 134, 137–8, 148, 157–60, 183–7, 194, 195–6, 212–13, 225–6, 242, 248–9 see also Christ, Passion of; gestures, making the shape of the cross; vengeance, for injuries to the cross crusade definition of 21 preaching of 22–3, 30, 52, 57–8, 63–7, 69–70, 121, 125, 127–8, 136–7, 147, 157–8, 181, 183–5, 189–95, 198–9, 207–8, 212, 217–20, 221, 240–1, 243–4, 247–8 crusader motivation and spirituality 10–12, 15, 244–5, 248–9 see also fear; weeping crusader states, see Latin East crusading expeditions First Crusade 1, 28–35, 36, 37, 38, 40–2, 44–7, 50, 55–7, 58, 59, 64–5, 75–8, 82–95, 97, 99–104, 105, 106–7, 114–15, 117–20, 121, 122, 126–7, 128–31, 133–5, 140–3, 146, 148, 150, 152, 153–6, 159–60, 161, 163–5, 167–71, 172, 188, 196–202, 210–13, 219, 221–4, 228–31, 232, 235, 236–7, 242, 249–50 1101–2 expeditions 36, 75, 123, 189–90, 211–12 Second Crusade 34–5, 42, 44–5, 49–50, 63–4, 82–3, 87, 89–91, 93, 94–7, 99, 104–5, 115–16, 118, 123, 135–8, 150, 153–61, 163–4, 165, 186–7, 188, 189–90, 197, 211–12, 215, 219–20, 232, 235, 236, 246 Third Crusade 35, 37–8, 42–3, 67, 76–8, 80, 82–6, 88, 90–5, 97–9, 100–1, 104–5, 116–17, 126–7, 131–5, 139–40, 143, 152–3, 155–6, 163–4, 166–7, 170–1, 188–90, 197, 199–202, 204–6, 210, 212, 215–16, 219–22, 225, 226–7, 232–4

Fourth Crusade 37, 44–7, 56–7, 63–4, 78–9, 80, 81, 87n.110, 93–4, 104–5, 116–17, 127–8, 136, 152, 154–5, 159, 163–4, 219–20, 224, 234, 235 Fifth Crusade 34–5, 44–5, 51, 63–4, 82–3, 94, 105, 116, 117–18, 120, 126–7, 135–6, 152, 158, 188–9, 217–18 Seventh Crusade 39, 55–7, 62–3, 79–81, 94, 135–6, 139–40, 143–6, 152, 153, 159–60, 162–3, 185–6, 212–13, 224–5, 227, 233, 234 Eighth Crusade 185–6 Albigensian Crusade 54–5, 91–2, 101–2, 137–8, 142–3, 165–6, 202–3, 247 Baltic crusades 45–6, 53–4, 55, 82, 91–2, 95, 105–6, 137–8, 186–7, 202–3, 247 Crusade of the Shepherds 185–6, 211–12 Cyprus 93–4, 205, 214–15, 232–3 Damietta 1218–19 siege and capture of 44–5, 135–6, 188–9 1249 siege and capture of 56–7, 94, 135–6, 139–40, 145 Chain Tower of 116, 126–7, 135–6 Daniel, Russian abbot and pilgrim 132 De expugnatione Lyxbonensi 18, 34–5, 36, 42, 104–5, 115–16, 188, 219–20, 235 deception 86–99, 108, 241–2, 246–7, 249–50 Delumeau, Jean 27–8 departure scenes 159–61, 163–4, 173, 195–6, 242–3 desertion 28–9, 32, 38, 69, 75–81, 85, 89–90, 103–4, 108 desire 44–7, 48, 50, 61–2, 67, 69, 126–7, 129, 130–1, 160–1, 189–91, 240–1 Diego Gelmírez, archbishop of Compostela 156–7 Dinzelbacher, Peter 27–8, 149

donum lacrimarum, see compunction, doctrine of Dorylaeum, battle of 36, 41, 67, 82–3, 85, 103–4, 117–18, 122, 150, 161, 212 Drivinalde, son of Thalibald of Beverin 202–3 Dunstan, abbot of Glastonbury, bishop of Worcester, archbishop of Canterbury, St 62–3, 146 Duqaq, ruler of Damascus 172 Edbury, Peter 86–7 Edessa, 1144 conquest of 192, 219 Ekkehard of Aura 17, 30, 41, 44–5, 123–4, 188 Elias, Marcel 181 Elias, Norbert 2, 10, 250 emotional communities 7–8, 41 emotional regimes 5 emotional scripts 7, 44–7, 74–5, 135–6, 180, 200–3, 217–20, 249–50 see also intimate scripts emotions definition of 4–5 history of 1–8 medieval nomenclature of 5–6 meta-concept of 5–6 performative nature of 12–13 psychology of 5–6 simulation of 91–2, 97–9 see also neurohistory; psychoanalysis; social constructionism; universalism

emotives 5 encyclicals Ad liberandam (1215) 184–5, 218 Audita tremendi (1187) 22–3, 57, 66, 127–8, 147, 150–1, 190–1, 194, 195–6 Cor nostrum (1181) 190–1, 193 Cum gemitus (1169) 193 In quantis pressuris (1166) 193 Inter omnia (1169) 193 Milites Templi (1144) 50–1 Omne datum optimum (1139) 50–1 Pium et sanctum (1213) 22–3, 184–5 Post miserabile (1198) 22–3, 57, 127–8, 157–8, 190–1 Quantum praedecessores (1145) 22–3, 57, 66, 127–8, 136–7, 190–3 Quantum strennui et egregii (1157) 193 Quia maior (1213) 22–3, 57, 190–1 Rachel suum videns (1234) 22–3, 184–5, 194 Vocem in excelso (1241) 194 Vox in Rama (1233) 194 Zelus fidei (1274) 22–3, 184–5 Enrico Dandolo, doge of Venice 154 envy 12, 36, 90–2, 180–1, 217–20, 227, 230–1 Eraclius, patriarch of Jerusalem 157, 214–15

Estonia 21, 53–4, 95, 105–6, 202–3 Étampes, council of 94–5 Eudes of Châteauroux 153, 184, 189–92 Eugenius III, pope 22–3, 127–8, 190–1, 192 Everard III of Le Puiset 85 Excidium Aconis 117–18, 139–40, 186 eyewitness testimony 9, 145 false friends 6–7 fear conscience and 48–9, 51–2 of death 27–70, 240–1 deceit inspired by 89–90, 108, 241–2, 245–6 of deception 92–7, 108, 241–2 desertion and 28–9, 38, 69, 75–81, 85, 103–4, 108 effeminacy and 83–7, 88, 94, 108, 241–2, 245–6 of God 27–8, 96, 241–2 humility and 30–5, 36, 49–51, 53–4, 61–3, 66–7, 69, 71, 105–6, 240–1, 248–9 imitatio Christi and 39–44, 50–1, 55–8, 68, 69, 71, 240–1, 245–6, 248–9 as a marker of faithlessness 37–8, 40–1, 44, 69, 94, 105–6 martyrdom and 39–44, 48, 49–51, 53–62, 67, 69–70, 71, 240–1, 245–6, 249 omission of 241–2

power and 99–107, 108, 241–2, 246–7, 249 righteousness of war and 48–52, 58 of seafaring 28–9, 57, 245–6 of sin and damnation 27–8, 35–6, 96n.176, 241–2 sinful connotations of 36–7, 38, 69, 240–1 links to shame and cowardice 72–81, 108, 241–2 ubiquity of 12–13 vocabulary of 27n.5, 103–4 Febvre, Lucien 1–4 Fidence of Padua 22–3, 150–1, 217–18, 221 Field of Blood, battle of the 156–7 Firuz, betrayer of Antioch 94, 224 Flori, Jean 39 Folquet of Marseille, bishop of Toulouse 54–5 Fourth Lateran Council 59–60, 120–1, 218 Frederick I Barbarossa, Holy Roman emperor 19, 67, 88, 91, 93–4, 97, 123–4, 152, 157, 166–7, 205–7, 208, 221–2, 236, 249 Frederick II, Holy Roman emperor 162–3, 213–14, 217–18 Frederick of Selle 137–8 friendship 44–5, 91–2, 95–6, 152, 153–5, 163–4, 219–20, 232–3 Fulcher of Chartres 16, 17, 32–4, 36, 37, 40, 45–7, 52, 64–5, 77–8, 84, 90n.125, 101–4, 106–7, 117–18, 122n.51, 152, 159–60, 161, 170, 188, 196–7, 198 Fulk III Nerra, count of Anjou 132

Fulk of Neuilly 125, 209–10 Fumagalli, Vito 62–3 furor Teutonicus 210, 211–12, 216–17 Gaposchkin, Cecilia 11–12, 145–6 Garrison, Mary 227–8 Gaston of Béziers (possibly Gaston of Béarn) 129 gender 82–6, 108, 159–65, 173, 188, 225–6, 238, 241–5 genre 7–8, 15, 23–4, 59–63, 69–70, 101–2, 108–9, 113, 139–40, 145, 146, 148, 156–9, 190, 233–5, 238, 246–8 Geoffrey de Charny 73–4, 78 Geoffrey of Beaulieu 145–6, 185–6 Geoffrey of Burton 146–7 Geoffrey of Villehardouin 19–20, 55–6, 74–5, 78–81, 93–4, 108–9, 136, 140, 152, 154–6, 158–9, 163–4, 172–3, 197, 219–20, 235, 242–3 Gerald of Wales 18, 83–5, 86, 97–9, 108, 124–5, 225–6, 241–2 Gervase, lord of Tiberias 162–3 Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum 16–17, 20, 31–2, 37, 39, 40, 75, 76–7, 82–3, 88, 89–91, 99–100, 101, 102–4, 106–7, 113n.1, 114–15, 122, 125, 128, 130, 164–5, 167–8, 170–1, 172, 188, 196–7, 198, 201, 221–2, 246 Gesta obsidionis Damiate 20, 44–5, 94, 116, 117–18, 217–18 Gesta Stephani 82–3, 216–17 gestures 12–13, 134–5, 149, 153–4, 164–5, 171 beating breasts 114–15, 132–3, 140, 146–7, 157–8 bowing down/falling to the ground 35, 116, 119–20, 141–3, 146–7, 157, 159–60, 161

embracing 1, 2, 12–13, 121, 130–1, 133, 141–2, 153–4, 163–4 facial expressions (including smiling) 12–13, 44–7, 54–5, 84–5, 91–2, 162–3, 205, 213–14, 221–2, 244–5 fainting 164–5, 171 gift-giving 97, 153–4 gnashing of teeth 60, 201–2 kissing 12–13, 128, 129, 131–3, 140, 141–3, 153–4, 164–5 kneeling 116, 128, 145–6, 154–5, 157 laughter 12–13, 106–7, 224–5, 244–5 making the shape of the cross 117–18, 140 raising of hands and eyes skyward 12–13, 116–18, 134–8, 140, 144–7 self-violence (including wringing hands, smashing fists, and tearing cheeks, hair, beards, and clothes) 152, 161, 164–5, 171, 173 Gilbert of Tournai 30, 58, 191–2, 217–18 Gillingham, John 222–3 Gilo of Paris 16–17, 41, 44–5, 82–3, 152, 161, 164–5, 188, 212–13, 232, 237 Giraut de Borneil 61, 222–3 Gloria in excelsis Deo 135–6 Godfrey Burel 200–1 Godfrey of Bouillon 16–17, 30, 46–7, 92–5, 101–2, 122–3, 133, 134–5, 141–2, 153–6, 162, 165, 168–9, 170, 173, 198, 201–2, 210, 211, 222–3, 229–30 Graindor of Douai 23–4 Greek fire 144–6, 201–2, 215 Greeks, see Byzantines

Gregorian reform 14–15, 222–3 Gregory VIII, pope 22–3, 66, 123–4, 127–8 Gregory IX, pope 22–3, 58, 184–6, 194, 217–18 Gregory X, pope 22–3, 58, 183–5 Gregory the Great, pope 89n.123, 122, 178–9, 220 grief 6–7, 68, 91–2, 93, 114–17, 120, 122, 123–4, 130–1, 137–8, 144–5, 150–2, 153, 157–8, 180–1, 199–202, 204–5, 207–8, 216, 222–3, 232, 242, 244–5, 249 gendered implications of 159–65, 173, 242–5, 249–50 pictorial representations of 168–9 power and 165–72, 173, 242–3 reverses in the East and 192–6, 243 vocabulary of 6–7, 113n.1, 195 see also joy-bearing grief; planctus; weeping groaning 114–16, 118–20, 123–4, 126–7, 129, 132–3, 155–6, 157, 158, 167, 168, 169–71, 192, 193, 194 Gualo II of Chaumont-en-Vexin 161, 164–5 Guibert of Nogent 3–4, 16–17, 33, 37, 38, 39, 41, 46–7, 65–6, 67, 76–7, 88, 90–1, 101–2, 106–7, 117–18, 121, 122, 125–6, 130–1, 133, 150, 164–5, 168, 172, 188, 196–7, 201, 210–11, 212, 222–3, 242 Guillem Figueira 61 Gundulf, bishop of Rochester 161–2 Gunther of Pairis 19–20, 42–5, 101–2, 123–4 Guy, brother-in-law of Bohemond of Taranto 75, 76n.29, 99–100, 114–15, 164–5 Guy Mauvoisin 79

Guy of Burcey 145 Guy Trousseau 89–90 hagiography 23–4, 62–3, 125–6, 145–7, 161–2, 246–7, 249 Hamilton, Sarah 120–1 happiness, see joy Harold II, king of England (Harold Godwinson) 216 Harvey, Katherine 162 Harvey of Glanvill 155–6 hatred 180–2, 217–20, 226–7, 235, 237–8 Hattin, battle of 36, 43–5, 85–6, 123, 127–8, 157, 194 Helmold of Bosau 137–8 Henry I, king of England 102, 162–3, 216, 225–6 Henry II, king of England 100–1, 157–8, 206–7 Henry III, king of England 157–8, 181–2, 184–5 Henry, archbishop of Reims 193 Henry of Huntingdon 63–4, 139–40 Henry of Livonia 21, 53–4, 55, 91–2, 95, 105–6, 137–8, 186–7, 202–3, 247 Henry of Ronnay 144–5 Henry, bishop of Strassburg 123–4, 150–1 Herbert II Bacon, count of Maine 102–3 Herbert II, viscount of Thouars 123 Herbert of Bosham 95–6 Hilary of Poitiers 68

Hill, Rosalind 221–2 Historia belli sacri 17, 37, 103–4 Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris (‘Ansbert’) 19, 67, 126–7, 133–4, 152, 166–7, 204–6, 221–2 Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena 17, 32–3, 153–4 Historia peregrinorum 19, 42–3, 91, 97–9, 123–4, 150–1, 206–7, 220, 221–2 Hodgson, Natasha 72–3, 106–7 Holy Fire 116–17, 136 Holy Lance 31–4, 56–7, 107, 114–15, 117–18, 142–3, 168–9 homo interior 121, 129–30 Honorius III, pope 105, 116 honour 45–6, 54–5, 72–4, 78, 79, 99–100, 195–6, 201–2, 208, 213, 224 hope 31–2, 34–5, 38, 41–2, 45–6, 49, 67 Hospitallers 42, 51, 144–5, 150–1, 212–13, 233, 235 Housley, Norman 170–1 Hugh, count of Vermandois 222–3 Hugh de Payns 47 Hugh of Chaumont 76–7 Hugh of Flavigny 132 Hugh of Le Puiset 102–3 Huizinga, Johan 2, 10, 250 Humberge of Le Puiset 161, 164–5 Humbert of Romans 22–3, 32–3, 35–6, 58, 64–5, 67, 120, 183–4, 191–2, 198–9, 217–18

humility 30–5, 59, 63–4, 69–70, 119–20, 123, 129, 132–3, 134, 146–7, 154, 184–5, 221, 222–3, 240–1 Huon de Saint-Quentin 158 Hyams, Paul 9–10, 181–2 Imad al-Din al-Isfahani 100 imitatio Christi, see Christ, imitation of indulgence 37, 38, 53–5, 120, 123–4, 126, 242 Innocent II, pope 50–1 Innocent III, pope 22–3, 56–7, 59–60, 63–4, 127–8, 154–5, 159, 184–5, 190–1, 218, 243 Innocent IV, pope 22–3, 58, 157–8, 184–5 intimate scripts 14–15, 248–9 ira per zelum 12, 178–9, 181, 209, 217, 239, 243 ira regis 180, 181–2, 197, 203–7, 208, 245–6, 249 Isaac II Angelos, emperor of Byzantium 88, 91, 93–4, 97 Isidore of Seville 177–8, 210 Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi 18, 36, 37–8, 42–3, 51, 64, 77–8, 80, 82–3, 85–6, 90–1, 94, 97–101, 116–17, 155–6, 163–4, 166–7, 170–1, 188–9, 197, 205–6, 212, 215–17, 232–3, 236, 237, 246–7 iuvenes 84–5 Ivo of Vipont 37–8, 64 Jacques de Vitry, bishop of Acre 19, 20, 36, 46–7, 51–2, 63–5, 67, 85–6, 105, 116, 118, 120, 122–3, 125, 132–3, 135n.130, 150–1, 184, 189–90, 194, 198–9, 204–5, 219–20, 221, 246 Jaeger, C. Stephen 95–6, 153–4 Jakelin de Mailly 51

Jaffa 1192 siege and battle of 34–5, 77, 85–6, 99, 100–1, 139–40, 153 Treaty of 131–2 jealousy, see envy Jean de Beaumont 56–7 Jensen, Kurt Villads 113n.1, 137–8, 186–7 Jerome, St 68, 94n.156, 132 Jerusalem 1099 siege and conquest of 1, 34–5, 36, 82, 85, 88, 90–1, 94, 103–4, 114–15, 119–20, 129–31, 141–3, 151–2, 155–6, 161, 198–9, 228–9, 249–50 1187 fall of 123, 127–8, 133–4, 137–8, 150–1, 157–8, 194 kingdom of, see Latin East laments of 157–8, 172–3 Third Crusaders’ advances on 97–9, 100, 143 see also Holy Fire; pilgrimage; weeping, over Jerusalem, at the Holy Sepulchre Jezierski, Wojtek 53–4 Jherusalem, grant damage me fais 160–1 John, count of Mortain 100–1, 213–14 John Kinnamos 87, 215n.42 John of Joinville 20, 55–6, 72–5, 78, 79–81, 101, 102–3, 108–9, 143–7, 148, 152, 155, 162–6, 190, 197, 224–5, 234 John of Salisbury 180

John of Tulbia 20 Jordan, William Chester 10 Joscelin I, count of Edessa 134–5, 188–9, 217–18 Joscelin II, count of Edessa 219 joy 42–7, 48, 50, 51, 56–7, 58, 60, 61–2, 69, 90–1, 93, 97–9, 121, 122, 126–31, 132–8, 141–2, 144–5, 148, 153, 160–1, 163–4, 166–7, 172–3, 188, 196–7, 202–3, 240–1, 242, 244–5, 246, 248–9 joy-bearing grief 126–31, 137–8 see also compunction, doctrine of Judas Iscariot 40–1 Judas Maccabeus, see Maccabees Juvenal 225–6 Kaeuper, Richard 28–9, 72 Karras, Ruth 163–4 Kaster, Robert 7 Kerbogha, atabeg of Mosul 30–1, 32, 33, 46–7, 55–6, 93, 106–7 Kevin, St 146–7 Kilij Arslan I, sultan of Iconium 85–6, 107, 170–1, 200–1 Kilij Arslan II, sultan of Iconium 205–6 Kostick, Conor 28–30 Lambert, Sarah 159–60 Lamentum lacrymabile 157–8 Lapina, Elizabeth 9, 65–6 Latin East 34–5, 42–4, 46–7, 51, 63–4, 83–6, 91–2, 97–9, 116–18, 122–3, 134–5, 136, 139–40, 150–1, 152, 153–4, 156–8, 161–3, 165, 168–70, 171, 186, 188–9, 209–10,

212–15, 217–20, 230–2 Le Goff, Jacques 145 Leopold V, duke of Austria 94 Lethbaud, Burgundian pilgrim 132 letters from crusaders 21, 56–9, 62–3, 105, 116, 145, 157–8, 187, 190, 196–7, 236–7, 240–1 from inhabitants of the Latin East 156–7 Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum 42 Liber duellii Christiani in obsidione Damiate exacti 20, 135–6 Libera me, Domine 143 linguistic turn 8–10 Lisbon, siege and capture of 18, 104–5, 115–16, 118, 135–6, 150, 155–6 Livonia 21, 45–6, 53–4, 91–2, 95, 137–8, 186–7, 202–3, 247 Louis VI, king of France 102–3, 206–7, 216–17 Louis VII, king of France 18, 34–5, 88, 93, 94–7, 99, 102–3, 123, 153–4, 159–60, 163–4, 165, 197, 236, 246 Louis IX, king of France 10, 20, 62–3, 72–3, 80–1, 94, 101, 143–6, 152, 153, 155, 157–60, 162–3, 165–6, 184–6, 187, 212–13, 221, 224–5, 227 Louis, archdeacon of Toul 200 Louis, count of Blois 152 longing, see desire love 12, 43–7, 60, 61–2, 67, 69, 91–2, 101, 122, 122n.51, 129, 150–2, 153–4, 158, 163–4, 168, 172–3, 181, 183–4, 189–90, 200, 217–18, 237–8, 240–3

crusading as an act of 12, 44–5 power and 99–103, 246–7 see also brotherhood; gestures, embracing, kissing Lucan 62–3, 97–9, 167n.112, 211–12 Lucius Annaeus Seneca 177–8 Lutz, Catherine 4–5 Lyon Eracles 19, 166–7, 233–4 Lyons, Second Council of 22–3, 213–14 lyrics 23–4, 59–61, 142–3, 153, 158, 160–1, 163–4, 187, 190, 195–6, 207–8, 222–3, 240–1, 243, 244–7 Ma’arrat an-Nu’man 155–6, 199–200 Maccabees 65–7, 69–70, 118, 120, 183–4, 240–1, 248–9 Madigan, Kevin 68 Magnus of Reichersberg 166–7 Mainz 123–4, 150–1 Mamistra 235 Mamluks 212–13 Mansfield, Mary 120–1 mansuetudo 211, 220–3, 238 Mansurah, battle of 62–3, 79, 144–5, 153, 167, 187, 233 Manuel Komnenos, emperor of Byzantium 34–5, 87, 88, 89–90, 91, 93, 97, 214–15, 236, 241–2 Marcabru 160–1, 222–3

Margaret of Provence, queen of France 162–3 Marseille 78–9, 227 Margery Kempe 161–2 Martin, abbot of Pairis 19–20, 37, 44–7, 123–4 martyrdom 10–11, 39–47, 48, 49–62, 65–6, 67, 69–70, 71, 153, 172–3, 184, 240–1, 245–6, 249 Mary Magdalene 159 masculinity, see gender Mattathias, see Maccabees Matthew Paris 20, 144–5, 162–3, 167, 185–6, 197, 212–13, 216–17, 227, 233, 235, 237 Mawdud, atabeg of Mosul 91–2 Mazeika, Rasa 82 McEntire, Sandra 113 McGinn, Bernard 10–11 McGrath, Kate 180, 181–2, 190–1, 209–10, 216 McNamer, Sarah 14–15 Meinhard, bishop of Livonia 91–2 Melchior, Aislinn 3–4 Melisende, queen of Jerusalem 161 Menache, Sophia 181–2, 196–7, 198, 207–8, 247–8 Messina 91–2, 100, 221–2, 226–7, 232–3 modestia 211, 221, 222–3, 227, 231 Modwenna, St 146–7

Montjoie 128–9, 133–4, 141–2 Moses 183–4 Mount of Olives 132, 161 Murray, Alexander 120–1 Muslims, emotional characterizations of 83–4, 91–2, 99–107, 108, 169–72, 173, 212, 214–15, 241–2, 244–5 Nagy, Piroska 2–3, 5–6, 14–15, 113, 249–50 nasty emotions 217–20 neurohistory 2–3 Nicaea, siege and capture of 41, 45–6, 85–6, 103–4, 170–1, 199–200 Nicolas de Hanapes, patriarch of Jerusalem 117–18, 188–9 Nicholson, Helen 50–1 Niketas Choniates 87 Niš 228–9 Normandy 102–3, 216 Nur al-Din, ruler of Aleppo and Damascus 169–70 Odo, abbot of St-Remi 50 Odo of Deuil 18, 34–5, 42–3, 86–7, 88, 89–91, 93, 94–7, 99, 102–3, 153–4, 159–60, 165, 173, 188, 197, 211–12, 215, 216–17, 232, 235, 236, 246 Oiés, seigneur, pereceus par oiseuses 60 Oliver of Paderborn 20, 34–5, 42–3, 51, 82–3, 94, 105, 116, 126–7, 188–9, 197 Orderic Vitalis 17, 75, 94, 102–3, 133n.123, 151–2, 162–3, 212, 216, 223–4, 246–7 Ordman, Jilana 12n.67

Oriflame 123 Otter, Monika 8 Otto of Freising 206–7, 208, 236 Otto of St Blasien 166–7, 205–6 Ovid 97–9, 161n.72 Parsons, Simon 23–4 Partner, Nancy 8 Paschal II, pope 56–7 patience 221–3, 235, 237–8 Paul, Nicholas 28–9 Paul, St 150–1, 172–3, 221, 231–2 Paula, nun and pilgrim 132 Pelagius, cardinal bishop of Albano 117–18 Perfetti, Lisa 160–1 Peter II, king of Aragon 137–8 Peter Bartholomew 31–2, 34, 40, 58 Peter Capuano 154–5 Peter Damian 177–8 Peter Lombard 68 Peter of Blois 40, 43–4, 46–7, 64, 188, 194, 221–2, 240–1 Peter of Frouville 78 Peter of Les Vaux-de-Cernay 21, 54–5, 101–2, 137–8, 165–6, 202–3, 247 Peter the Hermit 33, 34, 35, 106–7, 134–5, 184n.41, 184, 200–1, 211, 228–30

Peter Tudebode 16, 17, 28–9, 37, 40, 64, 82–3, 114–15, 198 Philip II Augustus, king of France 18, 76–7, 91–2, 94–5, 100–1, 123, 155–6, 204–7, 208, 215–17, 219–20, 225, 226–7, 232–4, 236 Philip, bishop of Ratzeburg 95 Philip, son of Robert of Gloucester 216–17 Philippopolis 91, 211–12 Phillips, Jonathan 86–7 pilgrimage 23–4, 35, 47, 53–4, 85–6, 122–3, 131–3, 134, 137–8, 148 Plamper, Jan 2–3 planctus, tradition of 164–5, 173, 249 post-traumatic stress disorder 3–4 power 99–107, 108, 149, 157–8, 165–72, 173, 180, 206–7, 241–7, 249 preudomme 155 pride 30, 36, 49, 63–4, 87, 105–7, 119–20, 143, 200–1, 204–5, 212–13, 218, 219–20, 228–9, 233, 240–1, 244–5 propassiones 68 prowess 81, 101–2 Prudentius 177–8 Pryor, John 21 psychoanalysis 3–4 Purkis, William 11–12, 39, 57 Rachel, lament of 194 rage, see anger

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras 195–6 Rainalt Porcet 201–2 Ralph Glaber 132 Ralph Niger 52, 221–2 Ralph of Caen 17, 36, 41–2, 85, 94–5, 99, 101–2, 126–7, 152, 188, 198, 212, 223–4, 236–7 Ralph of Coggeshall 19, 82–3, 85–6, 99, 125, 139–40 Ralph of Diceto 19, 82–3, 99, 100, 139–40 Rameke, son of Thalibald of Beverin 202–3 Ramla 1101 battle of 46–7 1102 battle of 84 Ramon Llull 73–4, 78 Raoul de Cambrai 201–2 Raymond IV, count of Toulouse 16, 93, 155–6, 212–13, 223–4, 229–31, 232 Raymond VI, count of Toulouse 54–5, 91–2 Raymond of Aguilers 16, 30–3, 36, 40–1, 56–7, 58, 64–5, 77–8, 82–3, 90n.125, 93, 105, 114–15, 118, 119–20, 128, 130, 155–6, 167–8, 188, 196–7, 198, 199–200, 229–30, 246 Raymond of Poitiers, prince of Antioch 209–10, 219 Reddy, William 2–3, 5, 153–4 Renier of Trit 80 Rexi River 144–5 Reynald of Châtillon, prince of Antioch, lord of Transjordan 43–4, 46–7, 214–15, 221–2, 247–8

Riccoldo of Monte Croce 132–3 Richard I, king of England 10, 18–19, 76–7, 85–6, 94–5, 99, 100–3, 143, 155–6, 170, 204–7, 208, 210, 213–14, 216–17, 219–22, 226–7, 232–4, 236, 249 Richard of Chaumont 153–4 Richard of Cornwall 187 Richard of Devizes 19, 100–3, 136–7, 170, 213–14, 216–17, 221–2 Richard of Saint-Vanne 132 Ridwan, ruler of Aleppo 77–8 Riga 53–4, 95, 137–8, 186–7 Rigord 19, 134–5, 156, 204–7, 208, 236 Riley-Smith, Jonathan 10–11, 12, 44–5 ritual 10–11, 135–6, 149 Robert I, count of Flanders 88 Robert II, count of Flanders 141–2, 172, 229–30, 234–5 Robert, count of Artois 56–7, 144–5, 153, 167, 233 Robert Curthose, duke of Normandy 102 Robert of Auxerre 189–90 Robert of Bellême 216 Robert of Clari 19–20, 55–6, 78–9, 81, 93–4, 104–5, 136, 140, 155, 163–4, 171, 197, 234 Robert of Molesme 125–6 Robert the Monk 16–17, 30–3, 39, 41, 46–7, 50, 64, 75, 76–7, 89–90, 105, 114–15, 117–18, 119, 128, 129, 134–5, 141, 161, 164–5, 168, 170–1, 172, 188, 190–1, 196–7, 199–200, 222–3, 246, 249–50 Roger of Howden 18, 35, 42–3, 76–7, 82–3, 100, 105, 139–40, 155–6, 188, 204–5, 216–17,

226–7, 232–3, 237 Roger of Wendover 20, 198–9 Rosenwein, Barbara 2–5, 7–10, 21–2, 136, 227–8, 249–50 Rousset, Paul 10–11 Rowe, John 86–7 Rubenstein, Jay 11–12, 107 saints’ lives, see hagiography Saladin, sultan of Egypt and Syria 34–5, 97–9, 100–1, 167, 170–1, 204–6, 212 Salimbene de Adam 185–6, 221 Saxo Grammaticus 137–8, 186–7 Scheer, Monique 12–13 Schein, Sylvia 119 scripture 50, 52, 63–70, 71, 78, 105–6, 118, 126, 130, 137–8, 148, 150–1, 159, 177–8, 179, 191–2, 194, 199–200, 219–20, 238–41, 246, 248–9 Baruch 4.23 127 Deuteronomy 3.22 64–5 Deuteronomy 20.1 64–5 Deuteronomy 20.3–4 64–5 Deuteronomy 20.8 64–5 Deuteronomy 31.6 64–5 Ecclesiasticus 25.23 225–6 Ecclesiasticus 28.11 219–20 Ecclesiasticus 36.8 191–2

Ephesians 4.2 221 Ezekiel 13.5 186–7 Isaiah 33.4 51–2 Isaiah 43.5 64 Isaiah 65.19 127 James 1.19 225–6, 238–9 James 4.6 63–4, 69–70 Jeremiah 9.1 194 Jeremiah 10.25 191–2, 238–9 Jeremiah 30.10–11 64–5 Jeremiah 31.15 194 Job 30.25 150–1 Job 30.31 137–8 John 11.35 133–4 John 13.35 219 John 14.27 64 John 15.13 50–1 John 16.20 127 Judges 2.20 191–2 Judith, 7.18 118 1 Kings 11.6 191–2, 238–9 Lamentations 5.16–17 166–7 Luke 6.21 127

Luke 11.17 219 Luke 19.41 133–4 Luke 22.40–6 68 2 Maccabees 11.6 118 2 Maccabees 13.12 120 2 Maccabees 15.7–8 67 Mark 14.32–42 68 Mark 14.33–4 68 Matthew 2.18 194 Matthew 5.21–2 177–8, 213, 238–9 Matthew 8.26 37–8, 44, 64 Matthew 10.28 37, 64 Matthew 12.25 233 Matthew 19.29 39 Matthew 26.36–46 68 Numbers 14.9 64–5 2 Paralipomenon 32.7–8 64–5 1 Peter 5.5 63–4, 69–70 Philippians 1.21 48 Philippians 1.22 49–50 Philippians 1.23 48 Proverbs 29.22 219–20, 238–9 Psalm 4.5 179

Psalm 7 118 Psalm 13.5 91 Psalm 52.6 91 Psalm 55.11 54–5 Psalm 77.52–4 64–5 Psalm 78.10 106–7 Psalm 83.7 126–7, 139–40 Psalm 117.6 54–5, 62–3 Psalm 118.136 130 Psalm 125.5–7 127 Romans 8.18 42, 57 Romans 12.15 150–1, 152 Romans, 12.19 177–8 1 Samuel 17.51 105–6 2 Timothy 2.24 221, 238–9 Tobit 3.22 127–8 Smagghe, Laurent 149 Sergius IV, pope 22–3, 57 shame 60, 68, 72–81, 84, 85, 96, 108, 180–1, 184–5, 186, 187, 195–6, 204–5, 214–15, 241–2 Sidon 143 sighing 116–18, 123–4, 129–30, 132–5, 139–40, 157, 158n.53, 158, 160–1, 163–4, 168, 171, 192, 193

Silius Italicus 97–9 Simeon, Greek patriarch of Jerusalem 56–7 Simon V, count of Montfort 54–5, 101–2, 137–8, 165–6, 202–3, 234–5 Slitt, Rebecca 153–4 sloth 36, 219 Smail, Daniel 2–3 Smith, Caroline 28–9, 39 social constructionism 4–5, 7–8, 15, 248–9 Soissons 154 anonymous author of 116–17 battle of 61–2 Sophronius of Jerusalem 132 sorrow, see grief Spiegel, Gabrielle 8 Spielregeln 149 Statius 97–9, 246–7 St-Denis 89–90, 93, 96–7, 102–3, 123 see also Odo of Deuil; Rigord; Suger of St-Denis; William of St-Denis Stearns, Peter 27 Stenimaka 80 Stephen, count of Blois 21, 38, 56–7, 75–7, 222–3, 236–7 Stephen of Valence 31–2, 34, 114–15 Stoics 7, 177–9

Suger of St-Denis 18, 89–90, 102–3, 206–7, 211–12, 216–17, 246–7 Sweetenham, Carol 23–4 Tamminen, Miikka 44–5, 181, 183 Tancred of Hauteville 17, 34–5, 36, 94–5, 99, 101–2, 129, 152, 161, 219, 221, 223–4, 228–31, 235, 236–7 Tanis River 80–1 Tarsus 34–5, 122–3, 200–1, 221, 230–1 Tatikios 77 tears, see weeping Te Deum laudamus 135–8 ‘Templar of Tyre’ 55–6, 139–40 Templars 22–3, 42–3, 47–53, 67, 69, 195–6, 199–200, 219–20, 221, 233, 235, 240–1 Tessera, Miriam 229–30, 231–2 Thadeus of Naples 42–3, 117–18, 139–40, 186, 188–9 Thalibald of Beverin 202–3 Theodora Komnena, wife of Baldwin III 97 Theoderic, German monk and pilgrim 132–3 theological refinement 130 theology of strong emotions 202–3 Thessaloniki 234 Thibaut III, count of Champagne 19–20, 170n.127 Thibaut IV, count of Champagne 60, 187 Thomas Aquinas 68, 178–9

Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury 95–6 Thomas of Chobham 178–9 Thomas of Marle 3–4, 141–3, 216–17 Thomson, Rodney 42 Throop, Susanna 12, 14, 44–5, 115–16, 150, 181, 182, 183, 184–5, 188, 189–90, 200 Tiberias 97–9 Titus Maccius Plautus 228–9 treachery, see deception trembling 12–13, 36, 43–4, 51–2, 80, 91, 105, 106–7 troubadours, see lyrics trouvères, see lyrics Tughtegin, atabeg of Damascus 91–2 Tyre 34–5, 37–8, 171 universalism 2–5, 12–13, 29–30, 74–5 Urban II, pope 22–3, 39, 40, 41–2, 55–7, 62–3, 105, 123–4, 127–8, 151–2, 155–6, 184, 190–1, 192, 199–200, 212 Urban III, pope 157 Veni creator spiritus 136–8 Venice 78–9, 81, 136, 154 vengeance crusading as an act of 12, 14, 82–3, 123, 181, 183–90, 195–6, 199–200, 202–3, 207, 243, 247 of God 184–5

for injuries to Christ 183, 184–6, 190 for injuries to the cross 186, 187 negative effects of 178–9, 183, 220, 222–3, 225–6, 229–30 for physical injuries (usually to comrades) and slights to honour 180, 200–6, 215, 222–3, 225–6, 227, 228–30, 243, 247–8 vocabulary of 181n.26 Verbruggen, Jan 27–30, 80–1, 107–8, 240–1 Villain of Versy 234 Virgil 96–9, 108–9, 246–7 Virgin Mary 35, 132–3, 135–6, 139–40 virtus 82–4, 188, 241–2 visions 10–11, 30–4, 35, 40–1, 58, 61–3, 114–15 von Ranke, Leopold 9 von Sybel, Heinrich 9 Wace 162–3 Waldemar II, king of Denmark 57 Waleran, count of Meulan 216 weeping absence of 113, 136–43 as an act of thanksgiving 134–6, 143–5, 147, 148, 242 as an aristocratic gesture 154–5, 158–9, 172–3, 242–3 collective nature of 117–18, 150, 242–3 gendered implications of 159–65, 173, 242–5

at the Holy Sepulchre 1, 114–15, 119–20, 129–35, 141, 148, 242, 249–50 over Jerusalem 119, 128–34, 140–3, 147, 242, 248–9 to petition God 114–19, 135–6, 143–7, 148, 157–9, 172–3, 242 to petition individuals 154–9, 172–3, 242–3 of professed religious 117–18, 125–6, 136–8, 148, 161–2, 173, 242–3, 249 as a sign of affection and compassion 150–4, 172–3, 192, 242–3 as a sign of contrition 115–16, 119–24, 132, 134, 146–7 ubiquity of 12–13 vocabulary of 113n.1 as a weapon 118–19, 148 White, Stephen 9, 180 Wierzbicka, Anna 7 William I, duke of Normandy, king of England 102–3, 206–7 William II Longespée 227, 233 William, archbishop of Reims 123 William Atheling, son of Henry I 162–3 William des Barres 232–3 William Longchamp, bishop of Ely, royal justiciar 213–14 William of Chartres 145–6 William of Dammartin 234 William of Malmesbury 17, 34–5, 41–2, 62–3, 83–4, 85, 86, 108, 131, 146, 162, 188, 198, 225, 241–2, 247–8 William of Nangis 185–6

William of Newburgh 19, 63–4, 139–40, 188, 204–5, 221, 232–3 William of Poitiers 102–3, 206–7, 216, 236, 246–7 William of St-Denis 89–90 William of Saint-Thierry 146–7 William of Tyre 18, 30, 34–5, 37, 41–2, 51, 63–4, 75–6, 77, 82–3, 85–7, 89–91, 94, 97, 106–7, 118–20, 121, 122–3, 129–30, 134–5, 150–1, 159–60, 161, 163–4, 165, 168, 169–70, 188, 199–200, 209–18, 219, 221, 223–4, 229–32, 235, 237, 242, 246, 247–8 Old French translation of 168–9, 214–15 see also Lyon Eracles William the Breton 204–5 William Viel 155–6 William, viscount of Melun 76–7 women, emotional characterizations of 82, 83–6, 88, 159–61, 162–5, 173, 225–6, 242–3 Wulfstan, bishop of Worcester, St 62–3, 118, 146 Yaghi Siyan, governor of Antioch 170–1 Zara, siege of 127–8, 136 zelus 12, 181, 183–90, 199–200, 204–5, 207, 243 Zengi, atabeg of Mosul and Aleppo 219